head in the clouds, feet off the floor

Tonight is decidedly warm, laid-back, and filled to the brim with laughter. Drinks abound, snacks even more so, the new Metallica record spinning in the background at a sensible purr. Jeff brought it, you think, or maybe Hal, or Allison—you’re a little too buzzed to remember. It’s a bit of a special occasion. This evening was Corroded Coffin’s last show of the year, and afterwards, the band and a handful of its supporters made their way to your apartment. Earlier this afternoon, you and Eddie went on a grocery run in preparation, stocking up on snack and drink and booze requests—going just a little overboard on the latter. 

It’s Eddie’s fault, really. He’s a total enabler. Liquor's always been your poison, but you know how to keep it classy. A glass of cheap wine with dinner now and then, no more than two drinks when you go out with the girls—usually. It’s only with Eddie and the promise he brings of safety and doting that you start to hear that little devil in your ear, convincing you to let your hair down and live a little. When he caught you sneaking another pack of those wine coolers you like so much into the cart, piled on top of what was already more than enough alcohol to accommodate the ten-odd people that would be in attendance, he dropped straight into Wayne-mode—an instinctive, ever-endearing mimic of his uncle’s gruff parenting that occasionally overcomes him when you're doing something naughty. 

He scolded “Hey!” and tried to slap you on the wrist. “Put that back.”

“I don’t wanna,” you argued, shedding your maturity accordingly. You like it when he gets all stern.

He raised his eyebrows pointedly, eyeing you with an unusual lack of humor. “We’ve got more than enough here already,” he insisted. “You act like I’m made of money.”

“Why else should I keep you around?”

By the look on his face, he was one more strike away from bending you over his knee. You smiled your brightest smile and wrapped both arms around one of his. 

“I'm kidding, Eddie, baby,” you assured him. He might’ve thought he was footing the bill entirely, but you’d find some way to force your half into his possession—even if it meant hiding it in one of his drawers or a pair of discarded pants to make him think he’d misplaced it himself. “I just want a few extra to keep in the fridge, is all.”

He tilted his head at you, exasperated—seeing right through your little act, your blinking, angelic eyes—but ultimately gave in. He’s weak for you and you both know it, and even when he pretends to be annoyed and inconvenienced (the mild concern is typically authentic), Eddie’s never shrunk away from babysitting duty. You can see right through him, too. He might enjoy it even more than you do.

And now, your master plan is pretty close to completion. As the dutiful co-host that you are, you waited until everyone was settled in—spread throughout kitchen and living room, drinks in hand and snacks on display—before even popping the lid on your first bottle. And the lovely, horrible influences that are Allison, Beth, and Scooter cheered you on tirelessly until the last drop of your fourth rolled easily down your throat and your inebriated mind began, as it usually does, to lust for the company of your favorite boy.

Eddie’s been planted on the couch for as long as he's been convinced to stop buzzing around like the hyperactive service worker that he is and take a load off.

You lean yourself against the wall just outside the kitchen, head tilted askew, watching him tell his cute little story with his cute little face. He goes on and you let him, chewing on your nail as you wait until he finishes, and his friends laugh, and he looks so comfortable and confident basking in the energy and taking a lazy swig from his beer that it makes you wanna squish the crap out of him.

“Eddie,” you call out to summon his attention, drawn out and fluctuating leisurely in pitch.

He glances in your direction and then breaks out in a gleaming smile, resettling himself on the couch, straightening his spine. “Oh, there she is,” he murmurs with affection, and he knows exactly what you’re looking for. He smacks both palms down on his wide-spread thighs a couple times and then opens his arms eagerly, flicking his fingers in encouragement. “Come to daddy!”

With a delirious giggle, you take off towards him, skirting precariously around the coffee table and, intentionally or otherwise, you crash-land straight into his lap.

“Jesus,” he breathes out with a laugh like you knocked the wind out of his lungs. He keeps his arms up as you awkwardly make yourself comfortable, waiting until you’re settled to drape them securely around you. “There you go. Nice and tipsy, now, aren’tcha?”

“I’m really tipsy, Eds.”

“Yeah, you are.” He gives you a crinkly smile and a nice little pat on the butt.  “Sure smells like it.”

Humming pleasedly, you wrap clumsy arms around his neck and rest your cheek against his head. “You’re so comfy, y’know that? I dunno why I don’t sit on you all the time.” On impulse, you smush a kiss into his hair, and then snuggle in even deeper, sniffing that nice conditioner you’ve bullied him into sharing with you. It’s a good thing you did, too—his hair is like velour against your cheek.

Eddie giggles at all the affection, tugging lightly to readjust your arms. “You’re kinda smothering me, sweet pea.”

“What the hell did he do to deserve this?” That was Gareth’s voice, you think, and it makes you giggle.

“It’s just what happens when you’re in a band,” Eddie explains to his bandmate, smug as can be. “Drives ‘em wild, y’know? Can’t beat her off me with a stick.”

To prove his point, you push back to grab his face and plant a big, wet kiss on his smiley cheek. You can tell that it startles him but he suppresses it, smiling even wider, the skin beneath your glossy lipstick print turning pink. He's so goddamn cute, you could eat him for dinner.

It builds up suddenly into a bout of violent affection and you can't resist the urge to wrap your arms around him even tighter and squeeze. Eddie's eyes blow open wide just before his face smashes into your chest, and the collision muffles his cry of alarm. Almost immediately, he starts to struggle cartoonishly—shaking and thrashing his limbs like you're suffocating him, his smothered grunts and groans buzzing ticklish against your skin and making you cackle, but eventually, with absolute instancy, he goes limp.

“...Uh oh,” you say as you release him, watching him slump back against the couch—eyes closed, mouth hung open. You poke him in the cheek a couple times to no response and throw a glance towards Jeff on the other end of the couch, stifling another giggle. “...I think he died.”

“Finally,” Jeff quips. “I got first dibs on Sweetheart.”

Before you can ask if he means you or the guitar, Eddie suddenly reanimates with a deep, booming roar that morphs into the words, “Over my dead body!” and it catches you so off guard that you jump out of your skin with a squeal.

“Eddie!” you shriek in outrage. You stretch your hand over his face and give it a vigorous shake in retaliation, and he accepts the punishment for a few seconds before gently tugging your wrist away.

“Sorry, babe,” he says, definitely not sorry at all and also totally laughing at you. “I had to safeguard my personal property.”

As the chatter goes on, a little beyond your faculties to really participate in, you busy yourself with bothering your chaperone. The problem is, Eddie adjusts to all of it seamlessly, keeping up with the conversation, telling entire stories unphased even as you climb all over him like a koala, playing with his hair, his ears; tugging and folding his shirt collar, poking and pinching all over his face, rubbing your cheek into him like a cat. He even has the presence of mind to sporadically tug your overly-tight skirt down to prevent any wardrobe malfunctions. It’s hilarious, but also sort of infuriating. You’re sitting pretty in his lap, slathering him with all the attention he practically begs you for most of the time, and he’s hardly giving you an ounce in exchange.

Thankfully, in this time of desperate need, your inebriated mind comes up with the perfect remedy. Giggling to yourself, you brush his hair out of the way, nuzzle your way into his warm, defenseless neck, and plant your mouth on him in a messy, feverish kiss. Eddie trips over his words at the feeling, and you giggle again at your own mischief before latching onto him, sucking on his pulse point like a hungry vampire. 

He stiffens beneath you from head to toe, choking out a series of undignified little noises punctuated by an awkward chuckle. “Oh-kay, alright, that’s— Sweetheart, we have company.” 

A couple others laugh too; someone does a wolf-whistle. Humming your delight, you only suck harder, and Eddie stifles an odd grunt. He tries to ease your mouth away from him, and the gentle pressure of his hands has you digging your teeth into his skin even harder.

At first, he tries to just do it again—adjust and adapt. But the feeling of it must be too distracting, all-consuming, and, just as you hoped, it forces him to withdraw from the conversation as well.

“Ow,” he complains, now well and truly squirming beneath you; trying to keep his voice down within your little bubble. “You're— That actually kinda hurts. Oh— Okay, I got it, message received. You're feeling— fuck— neglected, s’that right?” 

“Mhm,” you hum into his skin. 

“I'm sorry,” he says, pushing at you a little harder. “I swear, you have my full— Jesus, my full attention, now, honey, so if you would please just—”

Finally, you detach from him with a wet pop so loud that your chest swells with pride. You reel back to survey the damage and your eyes bug out of your head.

“Oh no.” You raise your hands to cover your mouth as you meet his questioning stare.

“Christ,” Eddie hisses, retracting one hand to poke at his wound. “What, is it bad?”

It really is. You've left a deep, dark splotch on his hopelessly pale neck—a perfect impression of your mouth, indented with teeth marks, already looking purplish. 

“You're gonna be so mad at me,” you say, shaking with laughter.

The glare on his face couldn’t even scare a toddler. “I'm already mad at you.”

“No, you're not,” you insist, chewing on your lip in mischief. And leaning in beside his ear, in your best whisper, you tease: “I think you’re…a little bit happy to see me.”

You aren't totally sure it's him you're feeling—that little hint of pressure beneath your thigh—but pulling back and watching Eddie's face go taut and authentically annoyed confirms it. Oh, yeah. You're gonna be in huge trouble this time.

“S'okay,” you assure him with a wide, self-satisfied smile, patting him consolingly on his chest. “...It's natural, Eddie, and I won't tell anybody.” Ignoring his red-cheeked scowl, you place your hand on his cheek and give it a light shove that makes him click his tongue. “Put your face over here.” 

“What now?”

“I gotta do the other side, so it's even.”

He can't get another word out before you dive right back in, pressing your mouth to the other side of his neck, feeling his pulse pound against your lips, and his fingers squeeze a dull ache into your hips.

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.”

-

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