head in the clouds, feet off the floor

Sure, it’s not like it’s baseless. You were a total bitch in high school—not the worst of the worst by any means, but you’d be the first to admit that your teenage self clung desperately onto the rigid social hierarchy, and happily took the opportunity to beat anyone below you over the head with it to secure your hard-fought placement. 

In other words, you were never very nice to Eddie. In the cutthroat halls of Hawkins High, you saw no sensible reason to be.

Obviously, nowadays, you’re more than aware that it was petty, needlessly cruel, and became largely meaningless from the moment you got your diploma and went on your way, but, most importantly, it was seven goddamn years ago. You’ve apologized repeatedly, admitted that it was wrong and he (along with all your other recurrent victims) didn’t deserve it more than once, and still, every single time he sees you, Eddie treats you like some hideous, wicked witch that purely and solely exists to ruin his day.   

And the worst part is, you wouldn’t remotely give a shit if you weren’t forced into proximity on such a regular basis. Nearly a year ago, a good friend of yours started dating a good friend of his, and because of it, your circles inevitably began to overlap. At any sizeable social gathering, you’re liable to run into each other, and no amount of casual friendliness or careful olive branches extended on your part has stopped him from glaring and grumbling, disrespecting you to your face, and sometimes, when the mood strikes him, making a fucking scene about it.

Just like tonight. It’s Jeff’s birthday—one of Eddie’s best friends, and your best friend’s boyfriend—and within moments of arriving, you’re locked in a stare with your reluctant enemy; looming in the kitchen doorway, eyes as dark and icy as ever. You make a point of smiling at him, and all Eddie does is roll the fuck out of his eyes and tip his beer back, downing the rest of it in one go. 

It almost makes you snort. At least no one can ever accuse you of not having an effect on men.

At first, you think it’s going unusually well. Eddie spends most of the night avoiding you entirely—the only other glances you catch find him, once again, glaring at you from across the room with another drink in hand—and you’re reassured to know he isn’t so shamelessly self-obsessed that he’d use his stupid grudge as an excuse to throw a fit and ruin Jeff’s night. 

Later on, when you try to use the restroom, it's occupied. Someone nearby and familiar enough with the layout directs you to the upstairs bathroom, and there, you find relief.

But as soon as you try to leave, you startle terribly to find Eddie fucking Munson waiting just outside the door. He doesn't say anything—just glowers—so with a breath of recovery, you close the door behind you and let a baffled smile pull at your lips. 

“Hey, Eddie,” you say, looking him over head to toe as best you can while he’s standing so close. He seems a little off—not that you’d really know. “...Enjoying the party?”

He stares down at you with those big, hateful eyes, and almost sneers. “You're…so fucking full of shit.”

The scent of beer wafts out with his scathing accusation, and you wonder just how many he's gotten through tonight to have unhinged himself to the point of ambushing you like this. You only stare back at him, blank-faced and unimpressed, and Eddie’s shoulders tense up like that alone is more than enough to grind his gears.

His lips stretch into an awkward, caustic grin. “I don't know who keeps…inviting you to these things—”

“You know exactly who keeps inviting me.”

“—but it makes me…so goddamn sick to have to see your fuckin’ face everywhere I go.”

“Even in your dreams?” you joke, batting your eyelashes.

His eyes go dim and narrow; about as daunting as a butter knife. “You're not funny.”

“Neither are you,” you drone back with a shrug. “...What is this, Munson? Are you trying to intimidate me?”

The outright mocking tone of your voice makes his face twitch; his jaw twinges as his teeth grind together. Everything about this is fucking ridiculous. You haven’t done or said a thing to him all night, barely even looked at him, and still, he’s close to bursting a vein at the mere thought of you. Even worse, he seems to think you should actually give a shit about how upset you make him by merely existing; living your own life parallel to his.

“...You're not even sorry,” he says.

“Come again?”

He leans in even closer, speaking low and scornful, like the words won’t mean anything if he doesn’t spit them right in your face. “All the shit you did, you said—to me, and to Jeff, and now you're…in his fuckin’ house, acting like nothing ever happened.” He shakes his head with contempt, assured as always of your deliberate malice. “...You don't care at all. But I do.”

If he’s gonna act like a total child, you figure can have a little fun, too. You briefly check your nails, adjust your top over your chest, giving off every impression of pure apathy. “What makes you think I don't care, Eddie?”

Then, he surprises you. A hot, callused hand wraps around the offending wrist and yanks it aside. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s much bolder than anything he’s done in previous confrontations. Normally, he’d probably rather cut his own hand off than lay it on you. 

“If you did care,” he insists, eyes flaring, “you'd fucking— you wouldn't— you'd fuck off!”

You tear your hand out of his sweaty grasp. “Don't shout at me.”

“You'd…leave us the hell alone,” he goes on. “But you always show up. You show up, and you take, and you—fuckin’ smirk at me, like you know exactly what you're doing.”

A scoff jumps out of you automatically—as if you do anything with him in mind. “You're delusional.”

His eyebrows jump up, tight jaw falling slack. “...I'm delusional?”

“Mhm.” He’s a lot more than that, too—following you up here to get you alone, cornering and lording over you like a creep; he’s lucky you don’t just scream—but it’s a testament to your growth that you can hold yourself back from laying it on him.

Eddie huffs out a cold laugh and nods. “...Yeah, okay,” he mutters; deep and scathing, gravelly in his throat. “Sure. I'm delusional…and you’re a fucking bi—”

The crack of your palm across his cheek is gratifyingly sharp, and wipes the expression clean off his face. Returning his head center, cupping the affected cheek with one jittery hand, Eddie stares at you with the biggest eyes you’ve ever seen, every ounce of bitter animosity replaced with almost childlike shock.

“...What the fuck are you gawking at?” you scoff, chest held high, beaming with satisfaction. “...You really thought I would just stand here and let you insult me to my face?”

His brow twitches, his bottom lip quivers, but he doesn’t say anything. Between the alcohol and the unexpected slap, his brain is probably spinning around like a rotor ride blown off its hinges. 

“...I’m not like you,” you go on. “I didn’t have to wallow around and soul-search and make a gigantic fucking fool of myself every day of my life in order to scrounge up the slightest pinch of self-respect.

“Some of us just have it, Eddie,” you tell him, derisively sympathetic, “and you don’t. I’m pretty sure you only hate me so much because you’re jealous.”

Eddie breaks loose from his stupor and scoffs like it’s the most outrageous thing he’s heard in his life. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he insists. “...You're the last fucking person I'd ever—”

“I bet you can’t stand it,” you cut him off. As you do, you take a bold step forward into what little space exists between you, and much to your delight, Eddie stumbles back with clumsy feet and wide eyes, like any collision between you might crumble him to dust. “...That you’re still hung up on everything, stuck feeling so goddamn sorry for yourself, and I’m not. Only one of us has changed at all since high school, Munson, and it sure as shit isn’t you.”

Again, you step forward and Eddie cowers back, and a thrill you haven’t felt in ages surges up your spine, tingling from your fingers to your toes. Your body moves on instinct; one itching hand smacks into his chest, scrunching up a fistful of his shirt collar, and a clipped, disbelieving cry slips out between his lips as you yank him closer—just as easy to push around as you remember.

“Let me tell you a secret,” you say, staring straight into his giant, dumbstruck brown eyes—dark, blown-out pupils reflecting your image right back at you. “…You aren’t special. I promise you that if you had just sucked it up and played the part like I did, you could’ve been somebody worth respecting. You might’ve even figured out how to like yourself. You can blame me and every other bitch who did you wrong if it makes you feel better, but the only person you have to thank for making you into this washed up, bitter, self-hating fucking freak is yourself.”

Eddie’s face strains further and further as you speak, taut and furious at every word out of your mouth, but he doesn’t push you off of him, or make any move whatsoever to escape the mistreatment. He just stares back at you, beer-flushed and smoldering, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath your fist as his muddled brain fights to summon anything at all in self-defense.

“That isn’t… That’s— None of that is… I would never fucking—” 

He slurs and sputters so helplessly, you aren’t sure why he bothers trying. With a sudden, harsh shove, you release his shirt and knock him entirely off balance. Eddie shuts himself up to curse as he flails and stumbles backwards, catching himself awkwardly against the wall with a painful thud that makes you snicker.

“You’re pathetic, Munson,” you taunt without passion, proud eyes boring into his pitiful, sullen glare. Whatever he thought would happen here, it sure as hell wasn’t this. “...Always have been.”

With that, you really should just take the rush of having put him back in his place and go on your way—return to the party that surely someone has already noticed your disappearance from—but now that you’ve put more than a foot or two of space between you, something catches your eye. 

Something that draws your vicious gaze between his thighs and drops your jaw to the floor with dizzy incredulity.

“...Are you fucking hard?”

Eddie glances down and goes rigid, like the fact had escaped his own awareness as well until you pointed it out. He doesn't seem capable of doing anything more than staring at it in his state of violent disbelief, so you take the opportunity to do the same. It's bulging at the front of his pants, curving a thick, obvious imprint, dipping slightly down one pant leg. His jeans aren't excessively tight, but the strain of it looks more than uncomfortable, and the thought of doing him an unearned favor and letting it out to breathe ushers your body onto the same page as your mind—a sharp, aching stab of arousal plummets between your legs.

“...Jesus Christ,” you breathe with a chuckle. “I should've known this would be the kinda shit you get off on.”

Eddie can’t look you in the face, downcast eyes flickering around thoughtlessly, bright red in the cheeks and apparently mortified. He tenses up from head to toe as you close the distance once again, pressing himself flat against the wall on instinct, and when you reach out to cup your hand against him, feeling the bulge for yourself, he chokes on air. 

You stifle a moan at the feel of it, warm beneath your hand and practically throbbing through the denim. You give his swollen length a rough squeeze, and Eddie jerks and gasps at the feeling.

“What the—fuck are you doing?” he tries to spit out—mildly slurred in his alarm—but it’s quieter and weaker than anything else he’s said to you this evening. He looks at you like you’re completely insane, but within seconds of uttering his outraged question, his hips are twitching forward; subtly grinding into your palm, seeking more friction. You can’t even tell if he realizes what he’s doing, and that fact alone makes up your mind for you.

…You’ve spent eight fucking months trying to be civil with him. If none of that got through his thick skull, maybe this will. 

For all of his alleged hatred of you, he sure lets you drag him down the hall without a fuss. Pulling him along by a fistful of his vest collar, Eddie stumbles and nearly trips over his feet behind you, inelegantly cursing and questioning you until you get to the first door that seems likely to be a bedroom. 

You’re right. Queen sized bed, family photos on top of the dresser—it’s probably Jeff’s parents’ room. You yank Eddie inside, close the door behind you, and then advance on him again, pushing and tugging until you’ve positioned him at the side of the bed, and then dropping him onto it with another hard shove. He starts to wriggle backwards automatically as you climb on with him, gaping at you like he’s worried you’re going to eat him alive, but you sit yourself on his thighs to keep him still as you start wrestling with his corny fucking handcuff belt buckle.

“Whuh— what the fuck are you—? Why are you doing this?” His sputtering isn’t any more useful than before, but his ruddy face burns even darker. 

“Shut up,” you mutter distractedly, yanking at the stubborn belt in annoyance. “I'm gonna ride your dick.”

He goes stock still beneath you, and his cock twitches so hard you can see it through his pants. “...What?”

“Figure it might calm you down,” you go on, smirking to yourself. “Get you—off my ass for a month or two. Christ, this fucking belt.”

Eddie just keeps on staring, wide-eyed and frozen. “You're…sick,” he accuses weakly. “You’re… You can’t just— Jesus fucking—!”

The belt finally falls loose and you sigh in relief, making quick work of his fly and zipper. He isn’t wearing anything underneath, putting his wild, untamed bush on full display. The alcohol and agitation have probably had him overheating for a while now—freeing him releases a puff of sweat and musk as well, but thankfully, you’re already too turned on to find it revolting. Digging your fingers beneath his waistband, you give his jeans a useless tug.

“Lift your ass,” you say.

He blinks at you, stubborn and vaguely disoriented, and your eyes roll back into your skull.

“Are you really gonna sit here and act like you don’t want me to touch your dick?” you snap, giving another tug. “Lift your fucking ass, freak.”

Clenching his jaw tight, Eddie’s eyes flick deliberately away from you. A few more pigheaded seconds and he does as you ask, shifting his weight so you can yank his jeans down to his mid-thighs. His cock springs free, bobbing over his stomach, and the sight of it makes you click your tongue.

“Oh, fuck you.”

It’s nothing mind-blowing, but it's definitely more than this little shithead deserves. Uncut and webbed with soft veins, thicker than any guy you’ve gone steady with, curving slightly upwards like he was custom made to hit that gorgeous spot inside of you. Somehow, it feels unjust.

Wrapping your hand around him, you give his burning shaft a few languid strokes, tugging his silky foreskin back and forth, hiding and revealing the purplish head of his cock. Eddie grits his teeth and seems to clench up every muscle in his body as you do so, like he's trying desperately not to reward your behavior with any reaction. 

“Christ, you’re fucking hard,” you say with a laugh. You can see and feel him pulsing in your hand. 

Eddie squints his eyes closed. “Shut up,” he begs through his teeth.

“You shut up.”

You only climb off of him for as long as it takes you to shimmy out of your shorts. You hesitate before dropping your underwear too, not really feeling like he deserves to see that much of you, but ultimately, you decide it’ll be too awkward trying to keep them on. The seat of them sticks between your thighs, and a clear, sticky string of arousal stretches and breaks as you drag them down. The brief retreat made Eddie’s eyes pop back open, and he tries and massively fails to pretend he wasn’t watching you strip down as you climb back on top of him.

It’ll probably hurt to take him without working yourself up to it, but you really can’t be assed to. You’ve both been gone for a while now, anyway, so you don’t wanna drag this out any longer than it needs to be. With flippant urgency, you gather up as much saliva as you can and spit directly onto his cock. An odd, strangled noise gets caught in the back of Eddie’s throat, his hips bucking at the feeling, and you hardly even bother to spread it around before positioning yourself above him, but as soon as you notch his tip against your entrance, he jolts beneath you.

“Fuck—wait!” he cries, and you freeze, glancing up at his half-panicked face. “...M’not fucking you without a condom.”

It puts a wide smile on your face. “That’s funny. I didn’t think you wanted to fuck me at all, Munson.”

He has nothing to say to that, poorly deflecting his embarrassment with a scowl so weak you’d almost call it adorable. 

“...Relax, freak,” you tell him with an eye-roll. “I take the pill, obviously. You really think I would risk one of your little hellspawn growing inside me? Are you fucking crazy?”

The way he raises his hackles at you is so wholly unintimidating, it almost makes you laugh. “Stop—fucking calling me that.”

“Why?” you drone, cocking your head aside. “Gonna blow your load too fast?”

He curses something violent in an incoherent mumble as you start to lower yourself, pushing harder and harder until his fat tip bursts through your unprepared resistance. The sting of being stretched too wide makes you suck in a breath through your teeth, and Eddie stifles a ridiculous groan, gawking comically down at where his cockhead rests inside of you.

“Fucking hell,” you grunt, rolling your hips around, trying to adjust. Gritting your teeth to bear it, you start moving much sooner than you probably should, leaning back to prop your hands above his knees as you push your hips downwards, taking him a little deeper with each thrust. What’s a mildly painful ride for you must be an excruciatingly tight grip for him—Eddie writhes and twitches like he can hardly bear it, brow wrinkling and tense hands balling up in the duvet, and he breathes harshly through his teeth as he fights like hell not to make a sound.

He’s already sweating down his face and neck, but when you finally take him to the hilt and stay seated on his cock for a breather, the lack of movement seems to relieve him. He tilts his head back and lets out a deep, shuddering breath. The painful stretch is mostly gone now, replaced with satisfying pressure and a luscious, mind-melting fullness that’s a little hard to wrap your head around. It makes sense, you suppose, that he’d have to have at least one redeeming quality hidden away somewhere, but you never would’ve guessed you’d find it in his pants.

You don’t give him much of a break. Driven by your own need, you start riding him in earnest, alternating between deep thrusts and shallow grinding, letting soft moans escape whenever you smack yourself down on him just right. Eddie looks fucked out already, biting down hard on his lip as he stares up at the ceiling in a daze, like watching what you’re doing to him is more than he can handle right now; but you don’t like being ignored at the best of times, and certainly not by him.

“...God, look at you,” you decide to goad with a breathy laugh. “It’s…Jeff’s birthday, and you’re in here fucking some bitch you don’t even like on his parents’ bed. I can’t believe you actually think you’re better than me.”

His eyes snap down from the ceiling, just as present and incensed as you hoped for. “You’re fucking me!” he practically snarls. “I didn’t—shit—fuckin’ ask you to—!”

“Oh, give me a break,” you groan, lolling your head back in pleasure. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. Always the goddamn victim, aren’t you?” 

His hateful glare isn’t very effective when each wet stroke of your pussy along his cock squeezes a muffled whine out of him, his chest rising and falling erratically as he struggles to keep a hold on his breathing. You push yourself forward, resting your hands on his chest instead to give him no choice but to face exactly who he’s letting use him like a toy right now, but Eddie still turns his head away in defiance. With a click of your tongue, you grab him by the jaw and yank him back to face you.

“What’s the story gonna be if someone finds us like this, huh?” you say, a little stilted with exertion. “I just…held you down and forced you? Poor little Eddie didn’t have a choice? …No, you’re enjoying every second of this, you goddamn freak. I bet you’ve been stroking your cock dreaming of shit like this since high school.”

Stifled grunts and smothered groans are all you get in response, and it’s starting to piss you off. You rock your hips faster, moaning out at the endless, creamy squelch of wet arousal, desperate to break his resolve, and the glower he tries to keep pointing at you falters, contorting as the pleasure begins to overwhelm his spite.

“This is…the last apology you’re ever gonna get from me, Munson.” The smile you beam down at his stupid, splotchy face is sharp-toothed and bloodthirsty, your nails digging into the skin of his jaw hard enough to make him gasp. “So either grow some fucking balls and stop me, or just lay there and keep taking it like the pathetic—fucking loser we both know you are.”

Eddie’s eyes screw shut as a tortured groan very nearly bursts out of him unsuppressed; you’re so close you can taste it.

One more time you pull yourself all the way up, your cunt strangling the ridge of his tip, and you bounce shallowly over it as a tease; savoring his helpless squirming, the way his fists clench tighter in the duvet. One of his ring-littered hands moves to clutch at your thigh instead; neither helping nor hindering, just grasping on for dear life. 

Then, instead of pushing yourself back down, you drop your weight on him completely. He bottoms out in one brutal, unforgiving thrust, gratifying enough to make your cunt squeeze around him even tighter, and the dam finally breaks. He doesn't just give you the moan that you were looking for—he cries out in a loud, pitiful, voice-cracking whimper and seizes up beneath you, his balls clenching against your ass and cock twitching erratically as he paints your insides white. 

Your face lights up at the sight of him falling apart so suddenly—the humiliation he must be feeling for it. “Shit, Munson, I didn't think you were that close.”

He doesn’t respond, practically gasping for breath with his eyes screwed shut as he tries to recover. Merciless as ever, you start up again immediately, pounding down on his spent cock with even more enthusiasm. One of your old boyfriends could go for two rounds back to back so long as you didn’t let him stop, and you have no intentions of letting Eddie off the hook until you’re satisfied. 

“What was that, a minute?” you mock breathlessly. “Fifty seconds? You really are pathetic.”

Eddie squirms beneath you twice as bad, gasping and whining at the overstimulation, still clutching weakly at your thigh, but expectedly, he doesn’t utter any complaints. Focused more on your own pleasure, you stick mostly to short, shallow thrusts, grinding your clit against his bush, keeping his thick length stuffed deep inside. 

Eddie must be getting off on this much, much more than he’d ever admit—in part because it doesn’t take much effort to keep his dick hard inside of you—and now that he’s lost his muzzle, he can’t keep his mouth shut. Whines and whimpers, grunts and groans, and stiff, babbled curses pour out of him endlessly, and as pleasing as it feels to have broken him down like this, it’s also kind of fucking annoying.

You’re starting to feel close, the toe-curling stretch and electrifying friction steadily building up to something devastating, but not as quickly as you would’ve hoped. He probably won’t last more than another minute.

Eddie’s other hand joins the first on your thighs, and they both travel up to grab your hips instead, scalding hot and sticky with sweat. You don’t really like him touching you this much, but the way he tries to force you down harder on his cock, moaning shamelessly and desperately rutting his hips into you from below with the rhythmic, noisy clapping of wet skin together is worth the distasteful sacrifice.

Still, it’s more than obvious that he’s getting there much faster than you are. His head bobs around like the room might be spinning for him, pink lips slung open dumbly as his lazy, heavy-lidded eyes stare up at you in a pitiful stupor—drunk on more than just beer.

“Oh, fuck,” he whimpers, voice straining higher and higher; filling your stomach with dread. “Fuck, fuck, so fuckin’—tight, shit!”

“You better not,” you warn, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, stiffening up with anticipatory wrath. “Munson, if you cum again already, I swear to fucking God—!”

Out of pure desperation, you slap him across the face a second time, hoping the shock of it might reel him back in long enough for you to reach the end so close in sight, but naturally, it has the opposite effect. The abuse drives him instantly over the edge. With a groan so loud you’re forced to smack your hand over his mouth to muffle it, Eddie’s eyes roll back, his body arching and shuddering and his hands squeezing your hips with bruising force as he fills you up a second time. 

“God—fucking damnit, Eddie,” you hiss, grinding your hips down in frustration as he throbs inside of you. There’s no fucking point to any of this if you don’t get to cum on this stupid, undeserved cock. You try to force it—rubbing vicious circles on your clit, grinding your hips back and forth while he’s still hard—but it’s no use.

This time, you can’t keep it up for him, either. The tight seal of your walls around his thick length kept most of his first load plugged up inside of you, but the second quickly overflows, excess cum seeping out between you, leaking even faster as he softens. 

Gritting your teeth in frustration, you lift yourself off of him, grimacing at the way his spend seems to gush out of you, making a wet, sticky mess of his crotch.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” you say, whipping your hand off of his mouth with disgust and wiping it on his shirt—somehow, he managed to drool on you.

Despite the state he’s in, the sweaty, twitching ruination, the little shit has the gall to quirk the corner of his mouth in a weak smirk; and why shouldn’t he, when he’s the only one getting anything worthwhile out of this? Your teeth grit even harder.

You had no intentions whatsoever of finding out what his rancid fucking semen tastes like, but at this point, he’s given you no choice. Like hell you’re walking away from all of this empty-handed.

With a sharp breath in preparation, you scoot down his body, frowning harder as your face falls level with his cum-soaked groin. Eddie’s brow furrows as he watches you, utterly clueless. Deciding to just bite the revolting bullet, you take his floppy, drenched, and irritated cock in your mouth and suck on it like you’re trying to pump the blood back into it by force, and Eddie starts damn near thrashing beneath you.

“No, no, fuck!” he cries. One of his hands grabs a clumsy handful of your hair, trying to tug you off, but you dig your nails into the back of it until he stops. “...Shit, it hurts! I can’t— can’t— fuck!” 

“Don’t whine at me,” you take him out of your mouth to spit without sympathy, squeezing harshly at his balls in the meantime—ripping another pained cry out of him. “It’s not my fault you’re a fucking wimp that can barely last a minute.”

Huge, weepy eyes flicker pitifully over your face. “M’sorry.”

You roll your eyes at him. “No, you’re not,” you scoff. “...Christ, look at you. Are you gonna cry?”

Wrapping your lips back around him, you suck on his flaccid cock as hard as you can, bullying your tongue against him as you do, and slowly but surely, he starts to stiffen once again. Eddie mewls and gasps and jerks around beneath you like you’re killing him all the while, and by the time he’s hard enough to ride, as you lift yourself up and prepare to take him in again, you find his big, bleary eyes just short of overflowing. 

The feeling of your cunt enveloping him once again with one slick thrust does him in—brow furrowing tighter, Eddie nearly sobs as the first shimmering tears begin to fall. 

Wasting no time, you start grinding with a vengeance, chasing your pleasure and soaking up his beautiful, pornographic misery in equal measure.

“...Think you can get in my face and call me a bitch,” you hiss. On impulse, you grab a handful of his ratty hair and yank, and Eddie winces, voice cracking in a whimper. “Who's the fucking bitch now, Munson?”

He sniffles and blubbers even louder, looking up at you with all the glassy-eyed, terror-stricken awe of a man caught staring his own creator in the eye, and God, it fucking does it for you. Your pussy spasms around him, throttling him mercilessly with each perfect brush, and it isn’t gonna take much more to get you there. Possessed by manic bloodlust, you curl yourself over him, giving his hair another cruel tug.

“Bet you thought this'd go differently, huh, Eddie?” you jeer, power-high and painfully aroused. “S’that why you followed me up here? God, I bet you…fantasize about it. Getting your…worthless fucking revenge. Shoving my face down into the mattress, pounding this thick fucking cock into me until I scream.”

You know it’s true, or at least close enough to the truth, by the piercing look in his eyes, the last smoldering embers of a flame snuffed out; the way that he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and bites down on it almost as hard as you would.

“But it was never gonna be like that,” you go on. “You don't have it in you. All bark, no fucking bite.” 

To prove your point, you grab an even tighter fist of his hair and jerk it, hard enough to make him cry out, quivery and tortured—singing for you on command.

“Ow, fuck!”

“…No, what you really need is this. Getting smacked around and degraded like a cheap fucking whore. You love this shit, don't you?”

All he does is snivel at you, big, wet eyes dancing over your awful, grinning face. 

“...Say it,” you repeat with a warning tug at his hair, but he remains stubbornly mute. “Admit you fucking love it, Munson, or I swear to God, I'll ride this wimpy cock until it falls off!”

The flash of pure dread that passes over his face nearly pushes you over the edge on its own. “I love it!” he whimpers. “Shit, I fuckin’ love it!”

“Yeah, you do.” You slap your hips down even faster, your voice pitching higher in strain as you close in on your peak. “You’re a fuckin’ toy. This is all you’ll—ever be good for, you stupid—fucking—fuck!” 

Your voice cuts out with a silent scream as your climax overtakes you, and you release his hair to rub tight, frantic circles against your clit, trying to elongate it. Your pussy clenches into a vice around his thick cock, every bit as blissful as you knew it would be, and Eddie’s anguished whining beneath you only heightens the feeling. A few dribbles of your own release squirt out of you during the brunt of it, making his messy crotch even messier, soaking a little bit into the bottom of his t-shirt.

Once the orgasm passes, Eddie still hasn’t cum yet—most likely the pain of overstimulation making him last longer than he should. You debate just ending it here and letting his abused dick soften naturally, but then you remember once again the series of idiotic fucking events that lead up to this situation and think better of it. With wobbling thighs, you lift yourself up and start riding him again in long, vertical strokes, meant for his pleasure more than yours. Eddie seems distressed, letting a frail, warbling little sound out as he realizes you aren’t finished with him, but he reacts the same as he has to everything else you’ve done to him this evening—by doing absolutely fucking nothing to help himself.

Your climax tightened you up somehow. The pain of his wide stretch returns and makes you grit your teeth, but it’s probably for the best in terms of forcing another orgasm out of him as fast as possible. It’s hard to tell how close he is when all he’s really doing is crying and whimpering, so you might as well experiment a little. One of your hands stretches around his throat, only lightly squeezing, and Eddie’s puffy, pink-tinged eyes bug out of his head with a strangled peep.

“Open your mouth,” you say.

He doesn’t want to. Threading your other hand into his fucked up hair for one more mean yank, your fingers squeeze around his throat, and soon, his jaw falls wide open. You award his obedience by spitting directly on his tongue—letting it roll lewdly off of yours, stretching wet and gooey down his throat—and it doesn’t take much more than that. Eddie gags and shudders at the feeling, teary eyes rolling back into his head, and then groans so loudly that you have to rip your hand off of his throat to cover his mouth again.

As soon as he starts cumming, eyes screwed shut and leaking fresh tears as he convulses with the force of it, you pull yourself off of him and scramble to the side, watching his swollen, deep-flushed cock pulsate over his stomach, spurting thin, pearly strings across his abdomen.

Releasing him completely, you sit on your knees and bask at how you’ve left him; his chest rising and falling with laboured breaths, dripping everywhere with sweat, red-faced and puffy-eyed; his stupid hair tousled to hell and back, frizzy and sticking up all over the place; crumpled and drained with his limp, chafed, angry-red dick on full display, and doused in three loads of his own cum. Ruined and thoroughly humbled. It’s enough to make your spine tingle—you smirk down at him like the devil. 

“...Want a kiss?” you tease after a minute, mockingly sweet.

Eddie’s eyes snap open to point a tired glare at you through dewy eyelashes. “Fuck off.”

“Christ, you’re like a fire hydrant, Munson,” you say with a disbelieving laugh. “Never seen a guy cum so much in one sitting. …Maybe you don’t hate me so much after all.”

“...I…promise you,” he mutters, still catching his breath. “...I still fuckin’ hate you.”

You care even less now than you did before, if that’s possible—his “hate” isn’t worth shit if he’ll sit there and let you treat him this badly. “All over your ugly t-shirt, too. What a pity.”

Eddie lets his eyes fall shut again with a deep breath, apparently deciding to ignore you, and you roll your eyes heavily as you climb off the bed on wobbly legs and gather up your discarded clothing.

Thankfully, Jeff’s parents’ room has an en suite bathroom. You take the time to pee (cause lord knows this geek would give you a UTI otherwise) and wipe up the mess he left between your thighs, redress yourself and freshen up a little—dabbing the sweat off of you, fixing up your hair and makeup as much as you can. When you return, Eddie’s almost exactly how you left him; the only difference is his hands covering his face, wiping back and forth, either in stress or to wipe away the evidence of all his blubbering.

“Here you go, freak,” you call, tossing your spoiled panties at him. 

They land on his stomach. Eddie drops his hands, picks them up with two fingers and frowns. “...Why?”

You decided you’d rather not sit in cold, stale arousal for the rest of the night, and it’s a pair you aren’t overly attached to, anyway. “Figured it’s only fair, since I’ve gone and ruined you for any other cunt in town.” 

He rolls his eyes and tosses them aside, but you don’t give a shit. You rise to your toes and stretch your back with a gleaming smile.

“Fuck, I feel so much better now,” you say. Eddie’s dull, exasperated stare only makes you smile wider. “...That was actually pretty fun. Maybe we should hang out more often.”

“You still aren’t fucking funny.”

“I’m not joking,” you insist. “...I’ve been in the market for a new dildo for a while now.”

He doesn’t react at all to the evil wink you throw at him, just glaring as per usual, and you sigh—the fun really is over. Unbothered and wholly guiltless, you turn your back on his sorry state and make for the door, debating how best to explain this extended disappearance as you go. 

“See you downstairs,” you call back with boredom, and the door shuts behind you with a click.

…

From then on, Eddie doesn’t bother you much anymore, but neither does he tend to make eye contact for long—more than a couple seconds, and his cheeks betray where his mind’s gone with an abrupt, unmistakable flush. He avoids you in a different sort of way now, cautious of a memory that burns too bright in his mind, unwilling to contend with it when anyone else is around, but from an outsider perspective, it really does seem as though Eddie’s finally softened his grudge. At least, that’s what you’ve heard from his friends.

It takes an entire month before Eddie gets you alone again. Someone else’s party, someone else’s house; you excuse yourself to the kitchen, intending to put your dish in the sink, and find it close to overflowing. Most of it seems to have been used in preparation for tonight, so you take it upon yourself to quickly wash a few plates and cups to keep the clutter manageable, and after no more than a minute, someone else enters the kitchen behind you.

You assume it must be your friend—or maybe one of the hosts come to stop you—until Eddie fucking Munson leans his ass against the counter beside you with crossed arms, watching you impassively. Once again, it makes you jump out of your skin, and you blink at him in disbelief.

“...Can I help you?” you ask, turning the water off, looking him up and down.

“Probably not,” he spits back.

A moment passes; you refuse to take the bait. If he wants to say something, he’ll have to come out with it on his own, because you truly, sincerely do not give a fuck. Eddie sighs.

“...Or, I dunno,” he corrects with a half-assed shrug that raises one of your eyebrows. “Maybe you can.”

Turning to face you entirely, his dark eyes fall lazy, and the corner of his mouth twitches, winking one dimple at you with the vaguest hint of a smirk.

“...If you’re not gonna be a bitch about it.”

-