I feel like Eddie is the kind of guy to spit his gum into your mouth before he goes on stage, and tells you to hold onto it.
My jaw dropped reading this... Anon, your mind... This was so fun to write. God, I miss rockstar!Eddie
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, fluff, spitting? dirty talk because rockstar!Eddie's a menace, talk of cream pies because it's an addiction🫦
"Twenty seconds!"
You pass the techie, your hand securely in Eddie's as he drags you to the wing.
The crowd is deafening, roaring with excitement.
Nerves dance up your spine, and you're not even performing. As Eddie always says, "All you gotta do is stand here and look pretty. Gimme somethin' to look forward to after the show."
But one glance at the mass of bodies—ebbing and flowing like a single being running on pure anticipation—and you can't help the anxiety.
To his credit, Eddie notices immediately. He shakes his head at the hand trying to give him his guitar, and instead, opts to step in front of you, blocking your view of the packed stadium.
"Hey," he mutters, knowing his voice can find you anywhere, even deep in your own head, "What do you want for dinner? Wanna go out or order in?"
You blink as he smooths his thumb along your hairline, and you lean into the soft affection.
You know he's only trying to distract you, but the low timbre of his voice does wonders for your wired state.
"Um," you almost ask him to repeat the question when a frazzled-looking techie runs up to the both of you.
"Munson, ten seconds!"
His head slowly turns and you're shocked you don't hear a grating screech accenting the movement. You watch as his brows disappear into his bangs, and the young guy nods quickly, leaving with a hurried, "Right, they can wait."
"Good choice," Eddie responds, turning his attention back on you, his eyes softening.
"How 'bout we stay in, hm? Take a bath in that big ass tub, put on those fluffy robes you like, and order a fuck ton of room service. How's that sound, sweetheart?"
You sag under the weight of his hands, your body leaning towards him like sunflower to the brightest ray. "That sounds nice," you sigh. "Really nice."
He ducks down, letting his mouth hover over yours. He smells like smoke, mint, and the cologne you bought him last March. His scent. All softness and worn leather.
"Mm, I think so, too."
Bodies rush past you—his bandmates take the stage to thundering applause—but his gaze never leaves yours.
A chaste kiss—more a soft brush of lips than anything—then another. And he smiles, devious with that particular glint. The one that tells you his mind has travelled down stream, getting stuck in the gutter. Though, he would say, when it comes to you, his mind lives down there.
"Maybe after you have your fill o’ room service, you can have your fill o' me.” He tries the innocent look, but you smack him anyway.
"Eddie!"
"What? I meant, like, conversationally. Conversationally, you can have your fill o' me."
You level him with an unimpressed glare.
He grins, a wolfish kind of glee possessing his features. "And then after that, I’ll fuck you so hard you'll be beggin' me to really fill you up. And baby, I live to serve. Gonna cum so deep in your pretty little pussy, you’ll be feelin’ me for days.”
"Edward Munson!"
"Hey, Munson! Sometime this century would be great!" Jeff calls over Gareth's drum solo.
"'S that a yes?"
You scoff, wide eyes daring him to keep it up.
"Eh, we'll table it," he waves, and a single hand grips your cheeks, puckering your lips. He kisses you with an exaggerated, "Mwah!" Then, his eyes darken a single shade, turning his gaze murky. "Open up."
You lift your chin, following the raspy order as best you can.
"Good girl," he mumbles, before spitting his gum into your waiting mouth. "Hold that for me, will you?"
With one last kiss—all smoke and mint—he squeezes your cheeks, muttering a low, "Pretty baby," and turns, swiping his guitar from the anxious techie.
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A/N: I would actually just let him spit in my mouth, hold the gum.
P.S. I have two thoughts I almost forgot to mention. 1) He gets his gum back in a mind numbing kiss. The type where you don’t even feel his tongue slip into your mouth, you just realize you’re missing something the moment he breaks away. Of course, he spits it right into the garbage, all the flavor gone now🥀
2) I’m having an image of you sitting on an amp offstage, positioned just right so you can watch him dazzle the crowd.
Every now and then, he’ll glance back into the wings, his eyes always finding yours immediately. And you like to remind him what he’s got waiting for him, so you spread your legs, giving him a quick look up your skirt.
He’s fun to tease, especially when you manage to trip him up, making him stumble over his words or sing off-key. That only happens when you go panty-less, though.
And of course, that always comes with its own risks.
Not people seeing—you don’t care about that—but rather the punishment you’re practically begging for. At least, that’s what he says.
Come to think of it, maybe he’s mentioned something about exposure, or exposing yourself. Eh, something like that. Blah, blah, blah, your pretty pussy is his and for his eyes only, blah, blah, blah. Usually you stop listening the second he orders you to bend over the green room couch.
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Rock star eddie, you're his drummer. One of his songs requires moans in the background. He wants it live. Wear special panties during show, boom live moans or if that's too much maybe just has you in the sound booth since he doesn't want some random chick's moans, the grand finale is the sound of you coming during the climax of the song 👀
Glitter Girl
Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Reader
Summary: Corroded Coffin’s new song is missing a little oomf. Eddie knows exactly what it needs…
Word Count: 4.6k
Warnings: SMUT 18+ mdni!!! unprotected sex, PiV sex, masturbation (fem), voyeurism, ass slapping, cum eating, oral sex kinda (fem rec), cum swapping lol, kinda dirty talk, edging, talk of fingering, audio recording sex, some feelings
Song Rec: Glitter Girl by Dixie Dragster (Eddie's song in the fic)
A/N: I was editing this and I was like ugh this is ass, but then I got to the smut and I was like okay this is good actually lmao. This is my attempt at not answering a request with an overarching storyline like I did here, but this still ended up being about 4.6k Thank you for the request it was very slutty, perfect for rockstar!eddie.
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My asks are open, come talk to me about Eddie!!!
You came into the studio looking for Eddie, finding him next to the band’s producer, Jared, at the soundboard.
Gareth had left a message on your machine saying Eddie needed some more backing vocals for the new song. The song was a little different from what the band had done before—more eccentric, more glam-rock—but Eddie said it would be a blast to perform live so you didn’t mind, always up for making the shows more electric.
Eddie told you he wrote the song in two hours after the insane New Year’s Eve bash the band threw at a club. You remember bits and pieces of the party—glitter falling at midnight, spitting a shot of vodka into Eddie’s mouth, making Gareth give you a lap dance, watching Jeff motorboat a bottle girl. Definitely one for the books.
But as daybreak neared and guests began drunkenly shuffling home, the night became a little clearer in your memory—leaving you and Eddie covered in glitter and confetti, giggling about how he’d be finding that shit in his hair forever. Three days later, he played the song for you and the rest of the band.
You laid down the drums for the song last Friday and your vocals the following Monday. Eddie had told the band it was a wrap, but it seems he’s changed his mind—deciding something was missing, rendering the song incomplete in his eyes.
Music is the only thing he’s ever been picky about, the one area where his usual chaos shifts into precision. It’s like he develops a Type-A personality just for that.
When he hears the door open, Eddie looks up to see you walking in, tattered jean shorts and an old band tee hanging loose on your body. He waves you into the room, ushering you over to the soundboard with him and Jared.
“Hey! Glad you got my message, sorry about the game of telephone. Apparently there’s no landline in this fucking place.” He exclaims, throwing a pointed look at Jared—like the poor guy owns the building and has a say in its architectural decisions.
You huff at his attitude, tilting your head, giving him a reprimanding, deadpan stare. Eddie loves to give the guy a hard time, much to your chagrin. It’s only because Jared’s genuinely the nicest person all of you know, especially in the LA music scene.
“No problem, although I am confused because I thought we finished everything.”
You watch as Jared starts fiddling with some buttons, getting the sound booth ready.
“Yeah, okay. See, I thought it was good–great even!” He obfuscates, “But then I had this idea…and now I wanna see how it’ll sound, and you’re the only girl…”
Your brows furrow as a confused smile overtakes your face. It sounded like he said a whole lot of nothing just now, and what does being the only girl in the band have to do with anything?
“What are you talking about?”
“Okay, force my hand,” he groans dramatically. “I think some moans would sound really fucking cool on the R–O–C–K part.”
He says it so fast, you have to take a moment to replay what you heard in your head to understand. Nervous for what you’ll say, he’s shoving his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and eyeing you intently. You hesitate, gauging whether he’s serious or not, but he doesn’t back track.
“Alright, I mean–,” you gesture to him, deferring, “you’re the musical genius.”
It’ll be a little weird moaning in a sound booth by yourself, having poor, innocent Jared monitoring the levels and Eddie coaching you, but if it’ll make the song even cooler—you’re in.
Eddie appears shocked at your deference, he really thought he’d have to run down the list he made of why it would be sick as fuck. He’s suddenly feeling very thankful to not only have a talented female drummer, but one who appreciates his artistry as much as you.
“Really?”
Shrugging, you respond, “Yeah, if you think it’ll sound cool. I trust you.” The last part is so simple but it makes him grin, excited that you’re down for this.
“Yes! Thank you!” Rushing to hug you, he lifts you off your feet in a bone crushing embrace.
When he sets you back down, you’re laughing at the child-like giddiness written all over his face. Jared lets you know the booth is ready for you, heading in there you stand behind the microphone, placing the headphones over your ears so you can hear the backing track and cues.
Jared counts you in over the master microphone, hearing the metronome. you nod your head to the beat, keeping time. When the part approaches, you stand up straight, breathily moaning the letters, spelling out ‘ROCK.’
Once you’ve done it, Jared cuts the music, turning on the soundboard mic for Eddie to give notes. You watch through the glass window as he leans down, sounding less than satisfied. “Okay…that was good, um–let’s take it from the top, okay? Gimme a little more oomf.”
Nodding your head—only slightly understanding what he means—you begin keeping time with the metronome again. You do it about three more times for him before Eddie starts running his hands through the roots of his hair, clearly frustrated at your inability to portray the tone he’s looking for.
“Eddie, I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want me to do differently.” You don’t mean to be so difficult, honestly not comprehending what’s off about your performance. And he’s not being very helpful with his notes, you’re pretty sure you’re all out of ‘oomf.’ You’re certain the last two renditions are as oomf-y as he’s going to get from you.
He shakes his head, curling his lips into his mouth, “No, it’s–uh, hold on.”
The sound from outside the booth cuts out, you watch as Eddie leans down to Jared telling him something. The guy looks at him, appearing to ask him something before Eddie nods his head, then the guy stands up and leaves. You frown at the sudden exit, Eddie sits down into the command chair, clicking the microphone back on and leaning in.
“Okay, so I asked Jared to take five. We’re gonna try this again, but—hear me out—do you think you could–,” he hesitates, working through how to make his request. “How about this, what if you—okay, this is gonna sound insane–”
Losing your patience, you speak up, “Eddie, just spit it out!”
“What about if you touched yourself? While you–you know, did the vocals…,” his words come out stilted, eyes squinting like he’s expecting you to blow up at him for his outrageous request.
Instead, you just laugh. He’s got to be joking, that’d be insane! Your eyes widen when he doesn’t laugh with you—just curling his lips inward again.
“Eddie, you can’t be serious…,” you shake your head incredulously. “Just get a porn star, or something, if you want real moans.”
He clearly rejects that sentiment, shaking his head and holding his hands out in front of him like he’s presenting at a business meeting, “No, I don’t want just any girl on this track! Plus, there’s like legal shit I don’t even wanna touch with a ten foot pole.”
Scoffing, your jaw agape, “What, and I’m easier?”
Frantically shaking his head, placating hands held out in front of him, “No! Of course not!” His voice lowers to a nervous mutter, but it still comes through loud and clear in your headphones, “I just think the muse should be on the track, that’s all.”
Your brows draw together, jerking your head back in confusion. “You wrote this song–about me?” He’s never written a song about anybody other than random hookups. Most of his songwriting is inspired by life stuff anyway. Not even his best friends got songs written for them, but he wrote this for you—about you?
When you think about the lyrics, your face heats up—to be seen in that way, to be romanticized like that…You had no idea he felt…things…for you. But now the way he stuck to your side at the party makes sense.
Usually, he’s all over the groupies and the women throwing themselves at him, he’s a gluttonous guy—he likes to have them all. But that party was notably different, he even took you to breakfast after the wild night, making you laugh as he shook more glitter from his hair into the pancakes he ordered.
Eddie shrugs, very clearly trying to seem passive, “Well, yeah, you’re my glitter girl.” He voices the nickname like it’s obvious, like it’s an endearment—he did put ‘my’ in front of it.
Huffing out a fond laugh, smile growing on your soft lips, you nod, “Fine. But you can’t watch, okay, perv?”
You tease him, but the thought of him watching is far too overwhelming for you. You just found out he feels a certain way for you. Unsure if it’s just fondness, care, like—love, even? No, that’d be preposterous. He’s your friend! Lead singer of one of the top bands right now, and you’re his drummer! You’re just like one of the guys—at least that’s what Gareth always says.
Now you’re not sure what you are—to him, at least. But you know you couldn’t handle him watching you do something so intimate.
He nods his head vigorously, “Yeah, of course! How about this, I’ll turn around and you–do your thing.”
Nodding at his earnest face, you move to unbutton your shorts. Shaking your head in disbelief that this is happening, you watch as he turns around.
“Although, to be clear—I do still need to listen to make sure I–,” he pauses, unable to choose better wording, “like–what I hear, I guess. Sorry.”
You huff, rolling your eyes at his poor choice of wording. “Yes, Eddie, I know. Don’t look!”
Raising his hands in surrender as his back is turned, “Let me know when you want me to start the track.” He wants to give you enough time to work yourself up—for lack of better words.
Taking a deep breath, shaking the nerves out of your body, you reach into your panties. It isn’t the best angle with you standing so you quickly turn around, pulling the stool up to the mic, adjusting the equipment to your new height as you sit on the edge of the wooden seat. Propping your foot on the rung of the stool, you spread your thighs, reaching back into your panties to gather the wetness at your hole.
Thankfully, Eddie is hot enough to get you going any time you see him—his long, dark curly hair, obsidian eyes, the contrast of black tattoos on pale white skin. Today, he’s wearing an old Dio band tee he cut into a muscle shirt and a pair of ripped black jeans.
Every time he leaned over the soundboard—reaching to fiddle with some controls—the gaping armholes of his shirt gave you a perfect view of his biceps, his body. It had you pressing your thighs together. Yeah, you’re good to go just looking at him.
Spreading the wetness across your folds as much as you can in the confines of your shorts, you bring your soaked fingers to your clit, catching the little nub just right, making your breath hitch. When your breath turns shallow and you’re biting your lip to withhold moans, you look up to see a hunched over Eddie through the glass. He looks like he’s straining, turned around with clenched fists, gnawing on the white knuckles.
“I’m ready.” He jumps into action at your breathy comment, reaching behind him for the button, starting the metronome track.
His strained posture doesn’t unfurl, in fact it looks like he gets even more stiff as you do the part. Circling your clit for maximum pleasure, you moan out the letters, stopping completely with shallow breaths as you wait for his notes.
Leaving your shorts unbuttoned, you remove your fingers, resting your arm on your thighs as Eddie turns around with a hand over his eyes.
“I’m decent,” you breathe, letting him know he doesn’t have to feel around the soundboard blindly to shut the track off.
Letting his hand fall, blown eyes take you in as he clears his throat, pressing the ‘on’ button for the microphone. “T–That was–good, uh, yeah, good,” clearing his throat again. “I think–okay you’re gonna hate me for this—and I swear, I’m not doing it on purpose—but when I was blind, I accidentally pressed the wrong button, so I recorded none of that.”
He bares his teeth in nervous expectation for your anger, but you just let out a shaky sigh, rolling your eyes. Par for the course with Eddie.
“Okay, fine. Just–start recording, then close your eyes this time, okay?”
“Yes. Yeah, I’ll do that, I’m sorry!”
Since you’re already worked up, you tell him to go ahead and start the track right off the bat. Precisely following your directions, he starts the track, quickly hits record, and swivels his chair to face the couch against the wall.
You do exactly the same thing as last time—running your index and middle finger through your folds before bringing it to your throbbing clit. You’re working yourself close to the edge, but never surpassing it as you moan the lines.
The notes you receive from him make you want to strangle him, he looks awfully jumpy, continuously letting his hand fall into his lap below the soundboard where you can’t see it. “That was good,” he says lightly, like it’s a consolation compliment.
The frustration of touching yourself with no orgasm at the end is getting to you, you grit out an annoyed, “Eddie!”
“I’m sorry! There’s something off about it! You know? Like it’s too–I don’t know…,” he stops to think as you huff your chest, imagining exactly how you’d run out of this booth and strangle the singer. “It’s missing that oomf,” he repeats, as if that perfectly describes why your performance is not hitting.
Oh, you’re going to kill him. You’re going to skin the fucker alive. “You said that already!”
“Wait! I think I know what it is,” your eyes widen as he pauses, raising your eyebrows expectantly.
“Please, feel free to share with the class,” you bite, thoroughly annoyed at this point.
“How exactly are you touching yourself?” He asks the question so casually like he’s asking you which football team you’re supporting in this year’s Super Bowl, like he’s an engineer trying to figure out the faulty cog in the machine.
You throw your head back, eyes on a god you know isn’t watching, praying for enough strength to spare your bandmate from your fiery fury. You laugh—sharp, incredulous. “Oh, we’re doing this?” Resigning yourself to the present situation, you answer without shame—your frustration is far too overpowering. “Okay, I’m rubbing my clit.”
He shakes his head, unruly curls shimmying with the gesture, “No, see I want like–a thrusting oomf, you know?” He’s wagging his finger like he just cracked the case, grinning, “See, I knew something was missing!”
“Okay, well, I’m not gonna finger myself for you, Eddie.” You’ve given him enough, plus you know from experience—your own fingers are not going to give him the ‘oomf’ he’s looking for.
Eddie pouts at your rejection, jaw on the floor like an indignant child being told ‘no.’
“Why not?” He’s practically whining and you tilt your head at him in disbelief that this is the ‘man’ so many women drop their panties for.
“Because! Why don’t you do it,” you argue.
His pout is gone as he shrugs his shoulders, nodding his head, “Okay.”
“Wha–,” you’re thrown off by his response, but you watch him hit record and you hear the metronome start in your ears as he joins you in the booth, unbuttoning his jeans.
“I didn’t mean–what the hell are you doing?” You look at him like he’s lost his mind—because, honestly, he has. What exactly is he doing here? Freeing one ear from the headphones, you wait for his—sure to be interesting—explanation.
“You want me to do it,” it’s half–question, half him telling you what he got from that exchange.
Shaking your head, lips parted in awe at his absurdity, “No! I mean like–you do the moans yourself if you’re gonna be so picky about it!”
Disappointment clear on his face, he leaves his jeans unbuttoned, “Well, nobody wants that!”
Laughing at his absurd comment—you, you want that—you shake your head, “I don’t think me fingering myself is really gonna sound good–”
“I beg to differ,” he snorts, eyes shooting to your wet fingers.
Giving him a reprimanding look, you add, “You know what I mean.”
“Okay, but what if…I did help you,” he implores, it’s like he’s bargaining for your pussy.
“Eddie, you can’t be serious,” smiling at him, waiting for him to crack, but all you see is wide, earnest eyes. “You really want this?”
You’re mainly asking about how badly he wants the song to reflect his vision, but you realize the question takes on a whole new meaning with what’s on the table.
Nodding his head frantically, “Yes, it means a lot to me!”
Sighing at his genuine desire to make the song he wants, you let out a subtle nod. “Fine,” you pause as he pumps his fist in victory, “But don’t be weird about it.” He immediately collects himself, bringing his energy from ‘kid who just won a sweepstakes to Disney’ to ‘solemn mourner.’ It makes you crack a smile.
You can hear the metronome of the song repeating in your ear, you watch his quickly widening eyes as you shimmy your shorts down. A raised eyebrow alerts him he should be doing the same, you put the second pair of headphones onto his hair, flattening a line into his poofy hair. He starts removing his black jeans as you turn and adjust the microphone even lower, nearly at the level of the wooden stool.
When you turn back around, you see his hard cock, standing at attention, his shirt still on—same as you, not bothering to remove the article of clothing because that’d require removing the headphones, which was too much work at the moment. His eyes are lust blown as he looks down at your half-naked body, shallow breaths moving his chest.
“Cute,” you quip at his stiff cock, admiring the jump you get for the compliment. He’s not the first naked man you’ve seen and knowing him—his ego is already enormous. He doesn’t need to get another worshipping compliment on how pretty and big his dick is, he has the groupies for that. You always try to keep him in check, this’ll be no different.
Clearly, you had him remove his pants for more than just fingering, but he wants to make sure. “So you don’t want me to finger you?”
Snorting, you shake your head, “No, if you want this to sound good, it’s gotta be the real deal.” You’ve built up enough frustration that you’re giving him creative directions now, if he’s intertwining music and pleasure—he knows music, and you know your own pleasure. “And you get one take, got it, rockstar?”
Eddie sucks in a breath at the title, nodding his head, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. And it’s recording?”
Another nod.
You smirk at his uncharacteristic silence, turning around to rest your elbows on the seat of the stool, making sure the mic stand is right in front of your face.
“Fuck,” he mutters, the view of you bent over, chest down, ass up—presenting your pretty pussy to him—has his dick jumping, twitching with need. He moves forward, caressing the junction of your hip, squeezing the fat of your ass.
You can’t help but hum at the feel of cold metal rings on his large hands, you’re so worked up you’re practically dripping for him.
He gathers himself enough to remind you the metronome is repeating, meaning you need to pay attention for the cue to the letters.
“Just fuck me already,” you’re almost whine, rolling your hips to jut your pussy out more.
“Holy shit,” he groans, grasping his cock and rubbing it up and down your wet folds. He nearly curses at the way your lips almost suck him into your greedy hole, the way you’re pulsing, trying to lure him into your warm, wet heat.
He teases just a little more, gathering as much of your wetness onto his cock as he can. When you whine, wiggling your hips back, trying to catch the head and slide him in—he decides to put you out of your misery.
With a strong grip on your hips, Eddie thrusts in harshly, fully sinking his cock into your tight cunt. The sudden intrusion has a cross between a moan and squeal erupting from your throat, you thought he’d go slow—boy, were you wrong. He has to take a minute to steady his breathing, wishing away the impending orgasm. His body is curling over you, chest moving with stuttering breaths.
You’re so aware of his pelvis and thighs against your ass, how snug his cock is in your hole. Relishing the feeling of him balls deep inside you, you feel so full. He’s so thick, it’s driving you up the wall. Your pussy is gripping him like any moment he’ll pull out and leave you gaping.
“Oh, fuck, sweetheart,” he huffs. “Holy shit–best fucking pussy I’ve ever felt.” He’s babbling, gone completely out of his mind at the way your walls squeeze his poor cock in a vice grip. You mewl and whine at the compliment, so turned on from all the edging, you just want him to start moving already.
“Move–please, move! Fuck, Eddie,” you draw out his name, sounding pitiful and fucked out already.
He starts thrusting at a bruising pace, you feel every ridge and vein, you’re not even trying to temper your moans. Barely hearing yourself over the metronome anyway, you let him know just how good you feel.
Eddie reaches up, shoving one earphone off so he can hear your noises. All the moaning, mewling, and whining only spur him on. He’s breaking a sweat railing into your cunt, relishing the sound of skin slapping.
You hear the song start over again, knowing the cue is coming up, you try to draw your brain back from your needy pussy long enough to moan the letters. Apparently, you didn’t sound desperate enough because Eddie slaps your ass, eliciting a high-pitched yelp from your throat.
“Again,” he grits, reaching around to messily rub your clit through your shared juices.
The song is short so when it loops back around, you’re at the very precipice of an orgasm.
“Please–Eddie, please let me cum! Oh god, I need it, please!”
He groans when your walls suffocate his cock, needy and pulsing, on the very edge of the most mind blowing orgasm you’ve ever had.
“Be good, and I’ll let you,” he grunts, slapping your ass to cue you in. When you open your mouth to moan out the letters he starts vigorously yanking your body back onto his dick, meeting his already jarring thrusts. Ever the musician, he times each shove of his hips with the ticking metronome.
His hard cock knocks the air out of you as you moan every letter, sounding fucked out and desperate by the time you spell ‘ROCK’ fully.
Once you know you’ve done your part, you wail out in pleasure, “Oh god!”
Slapping your ass particularly hard, he urges you to cum, “Cum for me, baby. Lemme feel that fucking pussy choke my cock, give it to me, honey.”
The slap sent you over the edge and his words had you floating among the stars. You’re crying out in pleasure, absolutely beside yourself. Barely aware of the loss of rhythm, he shutters and jerks, drawing your attention with an urgent, “Where do you want me, baby?”
Feeling full and needy, you whine, “Inside! Please, Eddie, gimme your cum–I wan’ it so fuckin’ bad!”
He stutters out a string of curses, pumping rope after rope of warm cum into your greedy cunt. Slowing to a stop, he hunches over you. You can feel his hot breath against your shoulder blades, the softs wisps of his hair tickling your back.
Resting your chest on the stool, you let your mind come back down to earth. He moves to pull out but you reach behind to grab his hips, holding him to you.
“Holy shit,” he breathes out in disbelief, thanking whatever is out there that he got to experience what he’s dreamed about for so long. Not to mention, the way you don’t want his cock to leave your pulsing pussy. He shudders as your walls twitch with aftershocks.
Eventually, he has to pull out, his soft cock no longer able to stay in. His heart rams against his ribcage at the soft whine you let out as he pulls out, he’d keep you stuffed forever if he could.
You don’t move, even though you’re free to. Staying bent over the stool, your pussy still captivating him as he looks down to see his load slowly inching out of your hole. Admiring the way the cum moves like molasses in the hot summer, he thinks about how many songs he could write just about the view of your gaping hole—still spread open from his girthy cock.
Since you don’t seem to be moving anytime soon—just resting on the stool, relishing his attention—he kneels down, spreading your ass cheeks. Leaning in to lick up the cum dribbling out of your hole, he makes sure to thrust his languid tongue in, scooping out the delicious, tangy combination of juices. A loud moan escapes your scratchy throat, not expecting such raunchy affection after everything that just transpired.
Once he gathers the juices, letting them pool on his tongue, he stands up. Reaching around your neck to pull you up, your back to his front, feeling his now half-hard cock against your ass, he spreads his hand on your jaw, effectively pushing your head to the side. He wraps his free hand around your pelvis as he thrusts his tongues into your open, panting mouth. You moan at the feeling of him swapping spit and the mix of cum into your waiting mouth. Messily kissing you, his tongue dominates your mouth, not letting your head go as he grinds against your ass.
When he pulls away leaving you breathless, you eagerly lick your lips, swallowing all the swapped spit and cum, humming at the taste. He lets you turn around in his hold—facing him, moving both hands to rest on your cheeks, leaning in for another firm kiss. Your eyes are lust blown, he’s panting, bobbing his head closer for another kiss. The kiss you’re wanting doesn’t come, though. Instead, he plants a sweet, chaste, smooch to the corner of your mouth.
“Will you go on a date with me?”
You huff out a laugh, eyes squinting with giddy humor at the backwards order of events. “Yeah.”
He grins at your hazy eyes, kissing you again.
Pulling away, your eyebrows knit with concern, “I think we just accidentally made an audio sex tape.”
“A sex mixtape,” he quips, unworried.
“Poor Jared, he’s gonna have to isolate my vocals over all the ass clapping,” you giggle.
“Eh, that perv will love it.”
A/N: Please like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed it! Especially comments because they let me know I’m doing things right!!! Because right now I’m going a little coocoo crazy, judging my writing probably too harshly. Idk, y’all tell me what you think
Summary: You’ve grown weary of your virtue, and, unfortunately for Eddie, you’ve hatched a plan to lose it to a stranger tonight. But why are you telling him this if not to extend an open invitation to foil your plans?
Word Count: 15.9k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, angst, fluff, PiV unprotected sex, condom removal during sex, loss of virginity, virginity talk and shame around still having it, lots of yearning, teasing, cream pie, fingering, oral sex (fem rec), nicknames (sweetheart, sweets, pretty girl, etc.), dirty talk, arguing, best friends to lovers, jealousy, possessiveness, mention of vomit (not R or E), bad first time (not R), mention of a hypothetical junk-punch, one instance of R described to have breasts with a little weight to them, if I missed anything lmk!
Song Rec: Pavlov’s Bell by Aimee Mann
A/N: I herald his beginning. I herald your end. I herald…experienced!eddie. It’s been a while since I’ve posted a oneshot, and I tried something new with how I wrote this, so pls lemme know how you guys feel about it <33333 Born from this ask!
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“So, what do you think?” you eagerly ask.
Eddie’s sitting across from you in the small metal chair, his fingers threaded as they rest on the laminated wooden table in his trailer. His expression is still—frozen. He’s not too sure what to make of your plan.
Honestly, he’s waiting for you to laugh and tell him it was just a joke. A very unfunny, crass joke.
But you don’t, and after what feels like an eternity, he manages a response.
“That is the worst fucking idea I’ve ever heard, sweetheart, and I listen to every single one of Gareth’s ‘million-dollar-cashgrabs.’”
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.
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.
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.
oh my actual fucking god dude theres tears in my eyes LMFAO never in my life jn my many many many years of reading fanfic have i read something so perfect and beautiful snd oh my god. i actually dont know what to say right now oh my goodness i need to sit quietly for a minute and calm down
OMG hehehehe, what an amazing reaction, thank you🤭 Thank you for reading and thank you for sharing😚 I'm so glad it stuck with you, that's all I've ever wanted for my fics🤞
Lotus Eater (multi-chapter fic) 🔥🌹🥀- after a series of unfortunate events, eddie is your only way to school. months of riding in the car with him turns into an unlikely friendship between him, the town freak, and you, the overachieving loser.
Cotton Mouth - 🔥 🥀 🌹 you need a new dealer and you know a guy through the unfortunate grapevine you used to be wrapped up in. but I mean... the banter is great, and you cannot help but fall for him. but don't fret, he feels the same way.
Cherry Stems - 🔥 eddie rejects your advances because his friends are around. so you use them to your advantage. piss eddie off and maybe you'll get what you want. maybe.
You Really Got Me Now 🔥🌹- your best friend and roommate eddie is pissing you off, per usual. his way of making you feel heard is not very conventional.
Make Me Feel (ft. Gareth) 🔥🌹 - you fly out to reunite with your rockstar boyfriend eddie munson. after a long day, you decide to return to his bed on the tour bus, but it seems like it is already occupied by his bandmate, gareth.
Miss Possessive (in Make Me Feel universe)🔥🌹🥀 - you cannot help but be possessive over your boyfriends... wait no, boyfriend. just your boyfriend. not his best friend.
Lessons in Art History 🔥🌹 - eddie needs to graduate. a stupid summer art class is getting in his way. luckily for him, his neighbor and childhood crush is an art history major. and you're ready to make a deal.
Cut A Deal 🔥🌹 - the year before law school, you develop a small habit. eddie is your go-to guy. when it turns out he's giving some other girls better deals, you decide to confront him.
Caramel 🔥🌹🥀 - he's burned inside your memory after a summertime fling. now, after high school, he's everywhere you go. is it fate? or something even more devastating?
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Lotus Eater (multi-chapter fic) 🔥🌹🥀- after a series of unfortunate events, eddie is your only way to school. months of riding in the car with him turns into an unlikely friendship between him, the town freak, and you, the overachieving loser.
Cotton Mouth - 🔥 🥀 🌹 you need a new dealer and you know a guy through the unfortunate grapevine you used to be wrapped up in. but I mean... the banter is great, and you cannot help but fall for him. but don't fret, he feels the same way.
Cherry Stems - 🔥 eddie rejects your advances because his friends are around. so you use them to your advantage. piss eddie off and maybe you'll get what you want. maybe.
You Really Got Me Now 🔥🌹- your best friend and roommate eddie is pissing you off, per usual. his way of making you feel heard is not very conventional.
Make Me Feel (ft. Gareth) 🔥🌹 - you fly out to reunite with your rockstar boyfriend eddie munson. after a long day, you decide to return to his bed on the tour bus, but it seems like it is already occupied by his bandmate, gareth.
Miss Possessive (in Make Me Feel universe)🔥🌹🥀 - you cannot help but be possessive over your boyfriends... wait no, boyfriend. just your boyfriend. not his best friend.
Lessons in Art History 🔥🌹 - eddie needs to graduate. a stupid summer art class is getting in his way. luckily for him, his neighbor and childhood crush is an art history major. and you're ready to make a deal.
Cut A Deal 🔥🌹 - the year before law school, you develop a small habit. eddie is your go-to guy. when it turns out he's giving some other girls better deals, you decide to confront him.
Caramel 🔥🌹🥀 - he's burned inside your memory after a summertime fling. now, after high school, he's everywhere you go. is it fate? or something even more devastating?
Summary: You’re the most popular girl in school, a 4.0 student, a fantastic cheerleader, and a force to be reckoned with. Eddie is…well, Eddie. When you two mix, it’s like oil and water. Spewing hateful insults one minute and hooking up the next, you and Eddie navigate the thin line between love and hate. Part 1 of 2.
Enemies with benefits, or more aptly put: enemies to situationship to enemies to lovers. She’s a doozy. Inspired by imgonnagetyouback by Taylor Swift, give it a listen!
WC: 25.4k
Warnings: 18+ mdni!!! Angst with a happy ending, fat shaming (once and not to reader), no use of Y/N, bullying, sex, PiV, unprotected sex, teasing, degradation, humiliation kink, Reader is mean to Eddie, Eddie is mean to Reader, semi-public sex, Eddie is 20 R is 18, groping, fingering, oral (m receiving), ball play, ball worship (I love bawls), body worship, pussy slapping, rough sex, name calling (dirty whore, slut–kinda, cumdump, whore, nasty bitch, desperate whore, bitch, hole), begging, dumbification kinda, ass slapping, dirty talk, mentions of drugs, teasing, mentions of cheating (hypothetical), breeding kink, spitting, cum eating, cream pie, gagging on dick, like a little face fucking but not really, innocence kink kinda if you squint but not really, Eddie hates Jason Carver, slut shaming, malicious attempt at getting someone alone (Jason), weed smoking, brief mention of student-teacher relations (not R or E, student is 18), arguments, angry name calling, insinuation of sex for money, insecurity about living situation, stereotypes of trailer park living, mentions of a gun (no usage just in a literary sense), reader’s parents died in a drunk driver incident and she talks about it crassly at one point, metaphorical addiction a la Nicotine by PATD type beat, small mention of hypothetical weight gain (eddie), mention of “felony sexual assault” but nothing happens it’s just used as a snark against Jason, physical violence (not E to R), punching, kicking, fighitng, I’m making Eddie tall in this so however tall you are he’s taller
A/N: Here, damn. Tumblr is making me split this up, I'm gonna post part 2 immediately. BTW, I feel like the second half is better than the first half in terms of what we see from them, so if you’re not into it–hold out, at least until the second half. The first half is good we just gotta set things up, you get it
Edit: I just remembered, huge thanks and smooches to @keeryhours for helping me brainstorm some stuff mwah mwah mwah
Masterlist
Part 2
Eddie couldn’t remember a memory in the recent past that wasn’t perfumed by your sweet scent, you’ve been on his mind and in his bed for a while now. It felt like you subtly creeped into his orbit, like a world-ending meteor seen decades before it’s expected to hit. But looking back, you were already well-within range by the time he noticed you.
It was like he never thought of you until he randomly recognized your Audi Quattro outside a trailer two doors down from his. Then he started seeing you everywhere.
You were at school in your cheer uniform sitting with the other jocks and cheerleaders while they picked poor unsuspecting victims to be the muse for their shit talking entertainment during lunch. You were at Family Video browsing the rows of movies, hovering in the horror section, even going so far as to rent one. The film Eddie was after on that trip, matter of fact. You were at the 24-hour diner every Friday night after the basketball games–the same diner he goes to with the boys after every Hellfire meeting.
It was like a spotlight was suddenly on you. You did all these things before, certainly. He remembers talking over the loud hoots and hollers of the amped up jocks at their post-game dinner at his diner. He remembers rolling his eyes at the way your friend and fellow cheerleader, Holly Hannigan, made some poor sophomore girl run out of the lunch room crying because she compliment sandwich’d her.
“That’s such a cute top, I could never wear something like that if I weighed as much as you, you’re so brave for wearing it!”
He remembers seeing your Audi outside Family Video, the same one he recognized from the trailer park, but he never made the connection. Now it’s like the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon, but in every aspect of his life. You’re omnipresent to his world.
You were even at the Hideout behind the bar serving old, creepy men their usuals. Your car at Forest Hills made him wonder, but it was seeing you at the Hideout that really had him thrown. He first caught sight of you leaving what looked like a shift behind the bar when he showed up an hour early for his set at 10 PM. You were leaving Joe’s office looking pleased.
Joe’s the owner of the Hideout, he’s a decent enough guy. He lets Eddie’s band play on Tuesday nights in return for his barback labor at a half-rate. Seeing the older guy with you made him suspicious, though. Eddie couldn’t remember if he ever mentioned having a family, or a wife.
Usually Eddie shows up to his ‘gigs’—if one could even call performing for a handful of drunk guys a gig—with fifteen minutes to spare. All fifteen of those minutes are spent setting up the instruments and amps with Gareth, Jeff, and Doug, so he never ventured off the stage really.
But that day he had nothing better to do so he figured he’d go early and try to convince Joe to let him have a drink. He’s 20-years-old for christ’s sake, one more year isn’t gonna save any more brain cells. But instead of Joe at the bar, he saw you. You were wiping down the counter top and joking with one of the regulars.
He felt like he had been transported to an alternate universe because why was the most beautiful, popular girl in school at his bar. Well, not his, but it might as well be. He spends enough time there, just like the diner he goes to after Hellfire. He doesn’t show up randomly to your cheer practices acting like he’s been there the whole time, what gives?
He couldn’t hear what you were saying, the jukebox music playing throughout the bar was too loud. He was vaguely aware of Uptown Girl by Billy Joel playing which felt awfully on-the-nose for the situation at hand. He saw you playfully hit the old regular with your rag as if chastising him, but your face was lit up with a dazzling smile.
The same smile he sees at school. The one you always seemed to be wearing any time he saw you in passing, whether it was gossiping with your girlfriends, joking with Lucas Sinclair in between classes, or the few times he passed by the doors into the gym during basketball games. He’d see you shaking those stupid pom-poms and giving your best heartstopping smile to the crowd.
He was pulled from his thoughts of your intoxicating smile when he saw you heading to the door just left of the bar, the office Joe resides in when he’s not working up front serving drinks. You disappeared before he could make his presence known, he was almost in a trance-like state looking at the closed door.
Gareth walked up beside him, seemingly having just gotten there for their set, he bumped his shoulder with Eddie’s.
“What are you looking at?” He positioned himself to mimic Eddie’s stance as if that would help him understand why his friend was just standing like an idiot in the middle of the mostly empty bar.
Eddie considered telling Gareth who he just saw behind the bar. Seeing the most popular girl in school seemingly working at a rundown dive like the Hideout is not something one sees every day. Especially when that girl is the most rich, prissy, stuck-up, high-maintenance girl he’s ever seen in his life.
The girl who boasts about her summer vacations to Ibiza while simultaneously complaining that the room service was subpar—works in this shithole. The girl who drives a luxury German-made car to school everyday probably smells like smoke from the second hand puffs she gets right to the face as she pours refills every other night. The girl who has enough money and influence to marry rich and never have to work a day in her life is…working.
The dichotomy between the rich persona you always display and the fact that Eddie’s pretty sure you live in Forest Hills Trailer Park is throwing him for a loop. For all the nice clothes, yearly summer vacation stories, and the expensive car—you don’t appear to live wealthy, you just act like it. If you really were as rich as you acted, he doubts you’d live where you do.
The pure irony of it all lends the perfect opportunity to tear down that reputation you’ve built. If your friends knew where you were working, where you lived, everything would disappear. You’d be cast out like the dissenter they’d see you as. Not good enough to run with them, not wealthy enough to care about.
But for some reason–he’s not sure why–he doesn’t want Gareth to know what he saw. He doesn’t want Gareth to see you the way he just saw you. Why? He genuinely doesn’t know, it’s not like you were particularly nice. You were a bitch to him, laughing at the jokes your posse made about him, adding snide comments to get more laughs. He heard them all. But he still won’t tell.
Instead of answering Gareth’s question, he asked him to go get his songwriting notebook, it was just something to get Gareth out of the area for when you came back out.
And out you came, that same smile on your face, money in your hand. Joe murmured something to you before kissing your cheek and rubbing your back, something Eddie does everything in his power to refrain from blanching at. Are you…fucking the owner? What was that interaction just now?
He watched as Joe turned back to his office and closed the door, you stuffed the money into your bra before fixing your low-cut shirt. You made eye contact with him for the first time outside of school, his eyes widened at being caught, in a second you turned back to the bar and grabbed your jacket from under it. You breezed right past him as if you didn’t see him, but you made eye contact with him, just now. He’s sure of it, he couldn’t have imagined that. But you acted like he wasn’t there, zero reaction to seeing him.
-
That was the day he realized you work at the Hideout, every other day from 5 PM-9 PM. He also confirmed that you live in Forest Hills Trailer Park. That Audi parked two doors down from his trailer, the very same Audi you hurried into after breezing past him and out the door of the bar. He didn’t know what he thought before, as if you’d have a boyfriend who lives in Forest Hills, always visiting him—even overnight. No, that’s ridiculous, you wouldn’t be caught dead dating somebody from the trailer park. But apparently you could be caught living in it…
Even upon learning all of that about you, he still never told a soul. Maybe he thought he could use it to cash in a favor later or something, he didn’t know. You never asked him to keep the secret, in fact, you acted like he didn’t exist. The only time you ever acknowledged his existence was when you were talking shit about him, or to him.
Although it's not like he’s a saint either, he goes out of his way to pick fights with the jocks and the preps. Mainly he just openly talks shit about their useless hobbies and if they bite the hook, well, he’s going fishing. It’s truly his favorite pastime and it certainly doesn’t change when you and he start hooking up.
If he were questioned by the CIA as to the sequence of events that led up to the first time you and he made out in the men’s room at the Hideout, he wouldn’t be able to answer. They couldn’t waterboard that information out of him because he didn’t know it, everything was a blur.
His life went from drug dealing, school, Hellfire, Hideout, and picking on you to drug dealing, school, Hellfire, Hideout, picking on you, and then fucking you in the empty janitor’s closet.
You’ve had this unspoken arrangement for months now, sometimes you’d go to his place—never yours, sometimes it’d be in the drama room before Hellfire and your games, sometimes it’d be in his van during your free period. Anything goes, except there was one thing: nobody could know about you two. You’d die if anybody knew you and the freak were getting it on. It would be just another reason on the long list of faults of yours that could cast you from that high horse you and the rest of your friends lived on.
That didn’t mean Eddie didn’t love to tease you though. He thinks it’s funny when you freak out over anybody knowing just how good he fucks you, the freak and the cheerleader, oh the rumors that would fly.
All the fighting and the bitching at each other in public is like foreplay for your private endeavors. It’s a lot of ‘never again’s post-sex and answering his suggestive comments in front of your friends about needing some extra tutoring alone with you with ‘in your fucking dreams, Munson.’ But it all ends the same way, you moaning and him grunting in your ear like a man possessed.
-
Today is no different from all the rest, Eddie is yelling in the busy hallway during the passing period. Students weave around his droning sermon, something about conformity and the death of creativity—you can’t be bothered to listen. You’re at your locker with your best friend—another fellow cheerleader, Sherry. She’s talking about some house party happening at the end of the month when you feel Jason Carver’s looming presence over your shoulder, his overused cologne giving him away.
He and Andy crowd you and Sherry, Andy throwing his arm around the shy girl. The proximity of the jock makes her nervously giggle, she’s not used to guys giving her attention, usually all the attention goes to you or Holly.
You give her a reprimanding look, distinctly remembering telling her she’s allowed to push Andy away when he invades her space like this. You’ve told her countless times before that Jason and Andy are idiots who probably only want one thing so it’s okay to stomp on their feet. But alas, you can lead a horse to water, you just can’t make the horse grow a pair long enough to set boundaries.
“You should definitely come to the party, it’s gonna be a rager. It’ll be at my place and if you’re extra sweet, I’ll let you in the VIP room.” Jason’s lifting his eyebrows suggestively at you, his piercing blue eyes look the same as the creepy, gross, old guys you serve at the Hideout, you do your best to hold in a shiver.
You know exactly what a membership to the VIP room entails and you’ll have to enthusiastically pass on that one. “Yeah, I’ll think about it,” is all you manage to impassively say before Eddie turns your group into an example for his sermon to the Hellfire freshman.
“Exhibit A) Here you can see the female species of the cheerleading variety puffing her tissue-stuffed chest out to attract a mate. Now the mate will of course be none other than brain dead meatheads who are two years out from balding—,” he’s gesturing to you and Jason as if you’re a museum exhibit he’s explaining the history of. The freshmen he’s talking to are looking nervous and seemingly trying to pretend like they’re not there.
“You want something, freak?” Jason immediately maneuvers himself in front of you as if he’s protecting you from the meaningless barbs Eddie is throwing your way. You can’t help but roll your eyes. You know what Eddie’s doing, he’s goading you. But you won’t give in, not yet at least, he needs to work a little harder if he wants you.
“Excuse me, I was talking,” Eddie reprimands Jason for the interruption, holding up his hand to the blond in an effort to silence him. “As I was saying, the male species courts the female by drenching himself in per-fume and prancing around like a show girl on The Price Is Right, showing off his cool car and expensive clothing in the hopes that she’ll be distracted by all the shininess and she won’t realize how small his dick is. Now—,” he’s smugly holding up a finger as if he’s about to make another point when Jason goes to move towards him.
You quickly grab the jock’s arm before he can get physical with Eddie, afterall, you don’t wanna make out with a guy who has a black eye. “Get lost, loser,” you grit out, your face shows nothing but contempt for Eddie. But he knows different.
Eddie grins, he knows he’s got you now. He’s staring at you like he’s gonna eat you up, a smug smirk permanently etched across his face. The bell rings signaling everybody to get to their next class, his no longer captive freshman scramble away. Jason grumbles out a quiet, “Whatever,” and jerks his head for Andy to follow him away from the scene.
You’re staring at Eddie, your gaze not lifting since your comment to him. Sherry looks between you and the curly haired metalhead before breaking your trance with a timid, “I’ll see you at lunch, okay?” She’s off down the hall and by the time you turn back to Eddie, he’s gone. But you know where he is. You take your time, finishing putting your books away and closing your locker.
You use your free period to leisurely make your way into the empty drama room where he hosts Hellfire every Friday night. You walk in, arms crossed, shaking your head at his actions. He’s sitting on his stupid throne, his feet are crossed as they rest on the table in front of him, his hands are clasped together in his lap. He looks like he’s been waiting for you as if he wasn’t just in the hall two minutes ago.
“You’re seriously pathetic, you know that?” You chide, starting off swinging as you walk right up to him, standing beside his relaxed body, looking down at him. “What part of, ‘don’t talk to me on school property’ do you not understand? Also, I don’t stuff my bra.” You bristled at the last part, he’s so stupid, you hate him.
His smile creeps up one side of his face, he lifts his feet off the table bringing them to the ground in a thud, he spreads his knees, pulling you to stand in between them.
“I know, honey, you’re too proud. You already got the prettiest tits in school anyway.” He’s got you so close he’s looking directly up your body to make eye contact. His hands graze your bare thighs as they travel up your figure, catching your pleated cheer skirt as it lifts, showing your pretty pink panties. His hands continue their way up to your ‘HHS’-clad chest, causing the green skirt to fall back down, covering your modesty once again.
Your breathing picks up as he gropes your breasts while maintaining devious eye contact. You do your best to play off the effect he has on you, snorting at his comment, “Yeah, the only tits in school you’ve seen.”
He grins amusedly as his head comes off your body a bit, still looking at you with those damn eyes. “Hey, not true! I played hide the zucchini with Angela Sanders in Home Ec last year,” he boasts, proud of himself at the memory. His hands slide back down your body to inch up your skirt, palms resting on the tops of your thighs, his right thumb gently smoothing over your quickly dampening panties.
Your chest burns with jealousy at the thought of him with Angela, the now-graduated co-editor of the yearbook. So that’s why Hellfire had such a good spread last year, fuck her, you think.
“Whatever, you’re such a loser.” Strong words that would sound better if you weren’t A) jealous over said loser and B) letting him grope you as you speak.
“Oh, I know. I heard. I’m such a loser aren’t I, honey?” He’s toying with you now, he loves this little dance you two have. He loves when you act like you’re above it all, just for him to make your breath catch when he moves his thumb under the seamed edge of your underwear, grazing your clit.
“T-That’s what I said.” You’re trying to keep up the harsh front, but it’s quickly crumbling like a sandcastle on the beach, with the tide—Eddie Munson—demolishing it.
Eddie’s already hard and ready to go. He was hard the moment you walked in the room with a disapproving glare. You’re his favorite toy, he likes to wind you up and watch you go. He snickers at your last ditch effort to appear unaffected before he removes his right hand from your wet panties, sliding it across your pelvis and turning you to face the table with a push of his other hand at your back. He forces your chest down onto the wooden surface, the arm at your pelvis causing you to bend at the waist.
You let out a stuttered breath at his quick movements, addicted to how he manhandles you. He’s standing up behind you now, his body pushing you against the edge of the table.
“Did you feel all big and brave calling me a loser in front of your friends earlier? Huh, baby?” He’s taunting you, rapt attention on every hitching breath of yours, his hands are running up your thighs flipping the green skirt onto your back.
You can only moan at his touch, it’s intoxicating, he’s leaving molten lava just underneath the surface of every bit of skin he touches.
“Did it make you feel all warm and tingly inside?” He’s so smug you wish you had more self-restraint so you could push him off of you and chew him out for the unearned confidence he always seems to display around you. But alas, you have none. So you just let him work your underwear down your thighs, not even taking them all the way off before he swipes his fingers through your folds, spreading your wetness with impatience.
“Do you wanna say it now?” It’s a dare, a trick.
You’re moaning at his messy touch, his left hand planted on your back keeping you down, his right covered in your arousal.
“Go ahead and say it, honey. In fact, I want you to.” He’s grinning with evil in his eye, your head is propped to the side, you can only see a bit of him behind you, your hands are spread out on the table, surely messing up his Hellfire papers, knocking over the figurines.
You’re mewling at the attention he’s giving you, but he’s impatient for your next move. He smacks your wet pussy, the most lewd sound you’ve ever heard rings out around the room, it’s like the sound of slapping jello.
“Say it!”
“You’re such a loser,” you breathe out, trying to muster up confidence so it doesn’t come out sounding as needy as you feel.
In zero to sixty he’s undoing his belt and unbuttoning his pants with one hand, shoving them down his thighs. His other hand still planted on your back, he’s thrusting his hard, thick cock into your waiting hole. The sound you make is music to his ears, it’s the mix of a whiny moan and a sigh at finally being filled by him.
He’s pistoning his hips in and out of you so fast your moans are getting interrupted by the huffing breaths you’re trying to catch. He’s so deep inside you it has you clawing at the table, you’re incapable of shutting up at this point, the force of his thrusts pressing noises out of you every time.
“If I’m a loser then you’re the dirty whore taking this loser dick, how does that make you feel, baby?” His question comes out loud and clear, his breath control is insane, damn singers. You’re wondering how he’s even able to talk with the way he’s pounding your pussy. His hands settle at the junction of your thighs and pelvis, he’s pulling you back to meet his thrusts, the force eliciting an embarrassing “unh, unh, unh, unh” from your panting mouth.
You answer his question with whiny babbles of incoherency. But that’s apparently not a good enough answer for him. He grabs a fistful of hair at the base of your head, pulling you up so your back is pressed against his chest. His other arm slides across your lower stomach to hold you to him, his cock still gliding in and out of your greedy cunt. He mouths at your neck with wet, messy open-mouth kisses, letting his teeth graze against your delicate skin.
“I said—,” a particularly hard thrust has you jerking forward, but not far with his arm pressing so good into that special place above your pelvis that has you seeing stars, “how does that make you feel, baby?” He’s panting in your ear, you can feel the wet heat of his breath, he’s crowding your senses, it’s the best kind of torture.
“Good! So fucking good, please, Eddie!” It all comes out in a jumble of moans and squeals, you’re not even sure what you’re pleading for, he’s already overwhelming you.
He laughs ruthlessly at your pitiful begging. Letting go of your hair, his arm still firm against your stomach, he presses his free hand between your shoulder blades sending you back down to the table again with a thudding, “Unh!”
You’re pretty sure you’re drooling onto his D&D notes now, but he doesn’t seem to care. You can’t close your mouth no matter how hard you try, his cock is knocking the air out of you consistently.
“Oh, we’re begging now, huh? I think calling you a dirty whore was too nice. What do you think, sweetheart?”
When you don’t answer he pulls out, leaving your needy hole pulsing and wet with desire. You whimper at the loss of feeling full of him, the loss of his touch.
He rests his arms on top of his head, his hard cock twitching with need, but he wants you to hear him. He’s gonna make you hear him.
“Hmm, what’s a better name for you then? Hm?” He’s watching your back move up and down with your breath, he sees you roll your pelvis forward in an unconscious, desperate attempt to let him see even more of your dripping, empty cunt. He huffs out a quick laugh, grin spreading across his face. He knows you don’t even know you’re doing it, your body just needs his cock so bad you're presenting to him like a bitch in heat.
“Nothing too sweet for you, so ‘slut’ is out of the question.” He’s so mean the way he degrades you, it has your hole clenching around nothing, missing his cock.
This time it’s on purpose when you tilt your pelvis down as you remain strewn over the table, you even wiggle your hips a little. You hope that if you don’t respond to his questions, if you just show him the easy access, the warm, wet, velvety hole presented to him for his consideration, maybe he’ll just slip back in, wanting to finish more over his desire to lecture you.
You should’ve known better, that’s never the case. His desire to torture you greatly outweighs his desire to fuck you. He continues his search for an answer.
“What do you call the girl who likes to pretend the freak’s beneath her when she’s around her friends, but begs for his cock when she’s alone with him?” He smacks your ass, watching the fat jiggle with a bite of his lip.
Your body jumps at the assault, you’re unable to stop the moan from leaving your mouth, it’s mortifying. What has he done to you, you used to be a good girl–well, for the most part. You used to thrive in the light, but now all you wanna do is be in the dark with him.
You’d never tell him, but you’ve turned your friends down on more than one occasion just at the chance that he might call you. You’ve rejected more guys these past few months than you ever have in your entire life. All so you can end up here, with him, in the dark. A secret only you two know.
Another smack.
“I’m talkin’ to you, honey.” Eddie’s hungry gaze roams over your shaking body.
You whimper in response.
“I want you to come up with a name for yourself because I think we both agree that ‘dirty whore’ is too nice.” He speaks in the tone of a principal talking down to a delinquent student, as if he’s trying to steer you toward new ideas for better use of your time. He’s speaking to you as if he wasn’t just fucking you raw two minute ago, as if your pussy is not on clear display for him.
He runs his fingers through your slit, your body vibrating with need. His touch causes another desperate moan to escape your open mouth, your brows are pinched in anguish. You feel like you’ll die if he’s not inside you again in the next twenty seconds. The room feels like it’s on fire, his eyes are burning ownership into your body.
He slaps your pussy for the second time in three minutes, you’re almost certain you’re so wet there was splashback on that one. You jolt with another pitiful whine.
“We’re not continuing until you come up with a name.” It’s like he’s reprimanding you, he’s a teacher telling you he’s not moving on with the lesson until you obey.
“Please, Eddie, please, I just–I need you, I nee—please cum inside me, oh god,” you slur out the last part, feeling like you’re out of your mind. You’d do anything for him right now, just as long as it doesn’t require you to think or use your brain. He’s shut that off for you, it’s as good as gone now.
You’re so sweet when you beg for his cock, so sweet when you’re not bitching at him. It’s like a siren call he can’t resist, he wants to get lost in your pussy. He could spend days just buried inside you, gladly shutting your brain off for you. He’s never getting over abusing your needy cunt, he lives off of making you leave these empty rooms walking all funny, trying your very best to act like you didn’t just get fucked raw by the school freak and his monster cock.
Because you begged so sweetly—so desperately—he’ll let you off the hook. Just this once.
“I’ll give you a pass today, but only because I have a name for you and you’re too cock-dumb to come up with one yourself—aren’t you, my little cumdump?” He sneers, your body shivers, your face feels like it’s on fire, this is so embarrassing. You whimper at the name, a feeling of shame spreads through your heart and mind because he’s right—you are a whore, you are a slut, you are a cumdump for him to use and abuse. He was like a drug and you were a junkie, willingly seeking out another fix even when it wrecks your body and puts your relationships at risk.
Your shameful thoughts are interrupted when he breaches your pulsing hole, thrusting all the way in, you can feel his balls slap your clit, the impact elicits your loudest moan thus far. But you’re still in school, and classes are still happening, so he slaps your ass hard, gritting out a harsh, “Shut the fuck up, cumdump.”
You whimper again at the name, you hope it doesn’t stick, it’s far too embarrassing, and it’s even worse that it makes you gush every time he says it.
He’s thrusting in at a breakneck pace, his body dispels so much force that it has the soft spot just above your pelvis repeatedly pushing into the hard edge of the table. But it doesn’t hurt—no, just the opposite, in fact. It makes you feel like you’re about to burst, the pressure is so good it brings tears to your eyes as your mouth stays permanently locked in an ‘O’ position, just allowing any noises to reign free in the empty room.
“That’s what you are, right? Just a cumdump for me, huh?” He’s holding onto your hips, holding you in place to let him have his way with you. You feel so good wrapped around him, if he could—he would keep you on his cock forever.
You mewl at his question, nodding your head vigorously. You want him to make you cum so bad you’ll agree to anything at this point, you need it like air. The pressure from the table and the pressure from his fat cock is getting you there expeditiously.
“You want my cum all deep in your pussy, huh? Yeah, you’re so needy, baby. What a fuckin’ whore, you wanna go skip back to your little friends with the freak’s cum in your panties, don’t you?” He’s rambling at this point, but he means every word. He’s saying it both for you and for him, feeling you clench with every dirty thing he says. “You get off on that shit, huh? You nasty bitch, well lucky for you, I do too, baby.” He’s speaking to you with such malice, but it only makes you moan louder. The sound of skin slapping fills the room, it’s so lewd it would make a prostitute blush.
He’s half-lidded, high on your pussy, just going off, “Now, I’ll let you cum if you do just one thing for me…” He breathes out when he finishes the sentence, grunting at the feel of you clenching around him at the mention of cumming.
“Yes, god—I’ll do anything! Anything—please! Please cum inside me, Eddie,” you’re pathetically whining, mewling out the words between obscene, ‘unh, unh, unh, unh’s.
He pulls you up again by the hair, his hot breath in your ears and his large hands spread on that delicious pressure point below your tummy. He presses in with each thrust, using your body as leverage.
“Listen to me close, baby, okay?” His words sound so sweet, but his tone is so condescending, it makes your walls pulse around him, causing a little smile to grace his lips next to your ear.
You nod eagerly, prepared to do anything.
“I’m gonna cum in your pretty, fucked out pussy, okay?” You’re immediately mewling again, that’s everything you want, you want to be so full of him it drips out for hours to come. “Then I’m gonna pull your pretty pink panties back over your used up cunt, okay?” Okay by you, you’re not about to let his cum trail freely down your legs for the rest of the school day, even though that thought makes you clench around him.
“And then I want you to go sit on Carver’s lap and stay there all lunch, you hear me?” You’re suddenly a little less cock-drunk.What the hell does Jason have to do with this and why does he want you to do this? You must’ve unintentionally made a questioning sound because he elaborates.
“I see the way he looks at you, how he tried to be your knight in shining armor earlier,” the chuckle he lets out is riddled with contempt and condescension. “I know he wants you, and I know you see it too.” His thrusts never cease, making his low, dangerous sounding tone all the more electrifying.
“Do you want him, honey?” He asks the question as if you’re not literally begging to cum on his cock this very moment.
You shake your head earnestly, brows pinched in desperation. You don’t want to talk about Jason Carver while you’re trying to cum—not exactly a turn-on.
“No,” he interprets your silent answer, “he can’t fuck you like I can, can he, baby?” He’s loving how he can ask anything at this point and you’d answer it honestly—the perks of making you cock-drunk.
He’s having far too much fun teasing you because he dares to continue, pushing the line. “Are you sure you don’t want him, honey? I mean you’re squeezin’ me real tight right now. Maybe you do wanna go fuck Carver. Pop out a couple’a babies, live in a nice neighborhood with a white picket fence. Huh, would you like that?”
“Eddie,’ you grit out, managing to find words in between the heaviness of your body, the pressure in your pussy every time he presses his hand harder into your abdomen.
“No that could never be you, could it? You’d go stir crazy, I know you, baby. Bet you’d find your way back to me, let me fuck you behind his back.” He’s having a ball imagining a fucked up little life with you, maybe he could breed your greedy cunt, make Carver question why your baby looks a little too much like the town freak. He grins manically when he feels your pussy clench at the mention of fucking Eddie behind Carver’s back.
“You wanna cum don’t you?” The question brings you back to the task at hand, nodding your head with a pleading moan.
“Yes, god—please, yes!”
“Then you’ll do what the fuck I’m telling you, got it?” He’s back to reality. Making demands like he’s got a gun to your head, but no gun, just his fat cock inside you. You can feel every vein, every ridge, every pulse—it’s actively driving you clinically insane.
“Yes—I will pl—please! J—Just let me cum!” You’re beyond desperate, he’s insane for dragging this out as long as he has.
“I’m not done yet!” He scolds you for trying to speed things along, “God, you are a desperate whore.” All you can do is whine at that, he’s absolutely right, no denying it.
“I want you to sit on his lap, give those evil hips of yours a wiggle,” he swats at the side of your hip, “Really let my cum soak through your panties, got it? I better see a wet spot on that jackass’s leg by the time lunch is over or else we’re doing this all again tomorrow, you hear me?”
“Yes—please,” you draw out the word, whining, pleading, begging for him to release you from this horrible limbo between pleasure and climax.
“Good girl.” He slams you back down on the table, another soft, ‘unh,’ emphasizing your fall. His hips set a bruising pace, he slaps your ass before reaching around your front and speedily rubbing your clit, your dripping arousal is lubricant enough. You’re coming undone with a squeal, simultaneously pushing back into him for more and jerking forward to get away from him. He holds you steady while he empties his heavy balls into your greedy cunt, your velvety walls sucking him in over and over again, making a welcome home for his cum.
“S—So tight, yeah, fuckin’ take it, bitch.” His mouth is no longer attached to his brain at this point, his eyes are rolling back at the feel of your hot, wet pussy pulsing around him.
He pulls out of you slowly, wishing he didn’t have to. You’re heavy breathing on the table as he gingerly slides your panties up your thighs, making sure they cover your swollen, puffy folds. He firmly taps your used pussy three times for good measure, making sure to press the cloth inward so the cum seeps through the fabric faster.
Once he catches his breath after running his hand up and down your spine, soothingly, he reaches up to grab your hair again to stand you up. He slides his hand to your jaw, twisting your head towards him—your body following—as he practically shoves his tongue down your throat. The kiss is wet, sloppy, and needy. Just what you needed after he abused your cunt, it makes your heart flutter.
He pulls away suddenly, you’re panting for air after he stole every breath from you. He takes your open mouth as an opportunity and spits into it before shoving you down onto your knees and bullying his cock into your mouth. The abrupt entrance causes you to gag.
“Clean my cock off like a good hole,” he demands.
You do exactly as you’re told, bobbing up and down on his half-hard cock, tasting the combination of your juices and his cum. He's pulling out a cigarette and lighting it before taking a big inhale and blowing it down into your face. Your eyes wide and watering from his cock’s intrusion and the smoke in your eyes, you can feel the cum slowly inching out of you into your underwear—an uncomfortable feeling that adds to the humiliation of the situation.
Your constant gagging is like music to his ears, even half-hard he’s still too big for you. You pull off of him, breathing raggedly, your hands grabbing tightly onto his thighs, fingers groping the muscle there. He takes your head and forces your mouth back onto his cock saying, “You missed a spot,” obnoxiously. He doesn’t let go though, instead, he keeps his hand on the back crown of your head, helping you suck him off.
Suddenly he pulls you off with enough force that you’re rearing backwards, needing to put your arm down to stop yourself from falling off your knees. He adjusts his now–hard dick back into the waistband of his briefs and zips up his jeans.
“Good girl,” he praises, stubbing the cigarette out on the table, he pulls you up to your full height. He grabs your head to pull you into a gentle kiss, not fully soft—it’s still him and you’re still you—but much softer than the abuse from his tongue earlier. He pulls away, a string of spit connecting you before it breaks. You're stuck in a trance looking at him, all swollen lips and soft puffing breaths.
He takes the quiet moment between you–a rarity amidst the burning insults—to let his eyes roam over your face unabashedly. You stare at his pink lips, plump from ravishing yours. He wipes a leftover tear from your cheek with his thumb, a remembrance of the intense pleasure he gave to you. His heart stirs at how innocent and sweet you look, how kind you can be when you don’t open your mouth.
He pats your hair down and straightens your skirt, making you look as presentable as possible given all that just transpired. Your eyes have a glaze over them, both satiated and horny at the same time from the thorough fucking to the messy blowjob. He grabs your head on both sides, gentle, but firm. He guides your eyes to meet his, pausing to stare into your soul before he speaks, “You remember what I told you to do?”
His lips are in a firm line, an expectant look in his eyes. The spell is broken, your eyebrows furrow before questioning, “Do I really have to do it?” You didn’t think he was serious, you just thought it was weirdly specific dirty talk. Your pulse picks up at the thought of doing something like that so publicly, it’ll be humiliating when Jason notices the wet spot you’ll certainly leave on him.
Eddie gives you a look saying, ‘try me.’ You don’t.
“Fine, I’ll do it. But you owe me!” You point an accusing finger into his chest, your eyes looking up into his, not very convincing in their efforts to appear hardened.
His hands drop down your body and around your waist, “No, this is you owing me. I let you cum.” He says it simply with no room for argument.
Your attitude comes back fully now, “Ugh, god, you’re such an ass!”
In response, he smacks your ass so hard that it causes you to jerk forward into him, your hands landing on the expanse of his chest to catch yourself. You look up at him with narrowed eyes wanting to rip him a new one, but he speaks before you.
“Be sweet,” he scolds, the tone he uses has you fighting not to shrink into submission. “I did something nice for you, now you do something nice for me. Call it reciprocity.” He’s so condescending, tilting his head to the side, watching for your next move.
“Fine, whatever,” you sneer, pushing him away just in time for the bell to ring calling all students to lunch. You bend down to pick your backpack up off the floor—he watches you like a hunter watching its prey—tilting his head to the side to get a look up your skirt as you bend at the hips. He can see the wet spot on your underwear already, he grins, this’ll be good.
You leave without another word, heading to the bustling cafeteria.
-
You walk into the room, trying to move as inconspicuously as possible despite your ass hurting from Eddie’s rough hands and the cum currently pooling in your panties. The table you usually sit at is quickly filling up with all your friends. It consists of the cheerleaders and the basketball players, you usually sit on the end of the table that allows you to watch the whole cafeteria. Usually preferring to people-watch when listening to Sherry complain about whatever gross flirtation Andy sent her way that day.
You spot Jason at the table and make a beeline to him, luckily he’s sitting right next to your usual spot, most likely another attempt to get close to you. This stunt you’re about to pull is going to set you way back. You’ve been dodging his requests for dates and attempts at flirting for a year now. When you do this, his stupid boy brain is probably going to forget every ‘no’ you ever told him and rewire him to think he’s got a real chance. Damn you, Eddie.
Sherry has her bookbag on your seat, presumably saving it for you. You walk right up to Jason and the empty seat—no plan for what to say, just throwing yourself into the deep end. Flirting is your specialty; you just never wanted to use your powers on Carver, of all people.
“Is this seat taken,” you breathe out, batting your eyelashes. You’ve decided to go full Jessica Rabbit for this.
Jason’s eyes light up at your sultry gaze, “Go ahead,” he smirks.
Instead of sitting on the seat when Sherry takes her bag off—eyeing you, confused with your newfound affection towards Jason despite the many complaints about him she’s heard from you—you sit right on Jason’s lap. With your ass firmly planted on his thigh and legs between his, you face the side as you wrap your arms around his neck.
“This okay?” You pout your lips and furrow your brow, putting on a display of innocence. His eyes are wide and shocked, but he quickly recovers for fear of you getting off of him.
He puts on his best smolder, it makes you want to gag—and not in a good way, not in the way Eddie makes you gag. “It’s perfect.” His arm wraps around your waist, you pointedly ignore Sherry’s shocked eyes and questioning look.
He looks over your shoulder at Patrick and Andy who share the same shocked expression, they’re nodding in respect at him. Their best friend is finally pulling the most sought after girl in school, that’s a huge win.
You dodge any flirtations Jason sends your way, he eventually gives up and starts up a stilted conversation with his friends. He doesn’t want to cause you to leave his lap, not after waiting for you to come around.
You’re completely dissociating, your underwear feels incredibly wet and not from Jason. You’re sure a wet patch is already developing on his jeans beneath your cum soaked pussy. You’re thinking about how Eddie is insane for making you do this.
If he wasn’t such a perv who knows the amount of girls he could get—but you don’t like that thought as soon as it arises. Two reasons:
1) It reflects poorly on you because you’re the one sleeping with him, similar to his point earlier.
2) Your heart constricts with jealousy at the thought of him being able to pull another girl. You don’t even like knowing he saw Angela Sanders’s boobs, that bitch.
You hate him for what he’s done to you. You used to be so normal. Now you’re sitting on Jason Carver’s lap—arguably the most popular guy in school—with Edde ‘The Freak’ Munson’s cum in your underwear.
Eddie watches from across the lunch room, his eyes pinned to your form as he slowly munches on pretzels. He’s enthralled at his fantasy coming to fruition right before his very eyes. He’s completely ignoring Hellfire squabbling about something or other. The campaign? A new comic book release? He couldn’t care less, he’s watching his favorite, evil girl make his dreams come true.
He only bristles a little at Jason’s hand rubbing your back, but then he notices how stiff you are at the touch and he remembers it’s his cum in your panties right now. He feels better after that.
The lunch period goes smoothly, Jason is shooting the shit with his friends, an arm wrapped around you. Anytime he tries to flirt with you, you give him zero energy—just a smile, just enough to keep him on the hook. But even Eddie—from across the lunchroom—can tell it’s more of a grimace. It makes him feel a weird free falling feeling in his heart. You never grimace when he touches you. You only ever make pretty noises, always asking for more from him, never less.
Jason is relishing in the warmth of the girl he’s been wanting on his lap, smug like you’re a trophy to be shown off. When the bell rings you’re the first at the table to jump up and gather your things to leave.
“Catch ya later, guys,” and you’re off. You practically run out of the cafeteria, backpack haphazardly slung across one shoulder. Sherry gets up to follow you, attempting to find you at what she knows is your next class. Jason looks shocked at the speed with which you’re leaving, that is until he looks down and sees a big wet spot on his jeans about the size of your pussy.
“Holy shit! Guys, look!” He grabs the attention of Andy and Patrick, needing them to see the evidence you left on his jean clad thigh. They’re in awe, Andy is practically drooling when he says, “That’s so fucking hot.”
Eddie takes his time leisurely tossing a plastic bag into the garbage nearest the boys so he can hear what they’re saying.
Jason’s eyes are wide, eating up the sight of your wet imprint. “I fucking knew she wanted me, got all wet just from sitting on my lap, this is gonna be easy,” he sneers. He’s ready to go full-throttle in pursuing you now that he knows you’re hot for him.
Eddie is smirking to himself, he can’t believe how stupid Carver sounds. He can’t wait to watch you spit in his face the minute he tries anything with you, his girl. You may say you’re not his girl—often smacking his shoulder with a snide, ‘Don’t call me that,’ when he says it—but compared to Carver’s chances? You’re definitely his girl.
As Eddie turns around to leave the cafeteria, he catches a glimpse of Jason brushing his finger on the wet spot with desire burning in his eyes. He can’t help but laugh his ass off knowing Jason is getting all horny over a mix of your juices and his cum. He strolls through the hall on cloud nine over this whole thing when, suddenly, you come barreling out of the girls’ bathroom toward him. He doesn’t have a chance to react before you’re quickly shoving him into an empty classroom. You glance around the hall, making sure no students saw you with him, before closing and locking the door.
He leans against the teacher’s desk, arms crossed, looking smug as hell when you finally turn around.
“You’re a fucking pervert, you know that? You are in serious need of a psych evaluation,” you step towards him with an accusatory finger pointed at his chest.
His smirk only widens, looking even more wicked as he closes the little space between you. You back up, not wanting him near you. You know your limits, you recognize your weaknesses, and he’s one of them. He can so easily charm you with his doe eyes, his smoky scent, his deft, and large hands. The ones that are folded behind his back innocently as he follows your backstep until you hit the wall by the door. He looks like he’s got evil on his mind and you know you’re first in line to play the victim.
The long vertical window on the door shows students passing through the busy hall. The passing period is only a span of five minutes, just enough time for everybody to get to their classes.
Enough time for Eddie to commit the evil on his mind. You’re next to the window, back against the wall; you know some overachiever students will start arriving in a minute or so. You were just like them once, always early to your class, never dilly-dallying.
Your heart is beating out of your chest, the thump thump thump like a bass booming in your ears, your whole body warming up with his attention. You’re thankful you had half a mind to lock the door, it would all be over if anybody walked in and caught you against the wall with the freak, you’d never live it down.
He’s in your space, his whole being consuming you. His head moves with yours like a slithering snake as you try to avoid his rapt gaze. Suddenly, he grabs your jaw to secure your eyes on him, you’re expecting him to say something—you just called him a pervert, usually he has a retort to everything. Instead of words. he just uses his other hand to glide up your skirt with such learned ease. He knows your body like the back of his hand at this point.
Your breath quickens as his fingers maneuver into your underwear, you have the strangest case of deja vu as his hand pulls the wet cloth away, enough for two fingers to glide through your wet folds. He starts at your aching hole before moving to your clit, fingers lifting up quickly to catch it, making you yelp at the jolt of electricity he sends through your nervous system.
Your eyes are downcast as he pulls his fingers out of your panties, following them up as he holds them in front of you, glistening with your juices in the light. You let out a shaky breath at the heady sight, his hand still securely on your jaw—not letting you shy away. He wants you to see what you’ve done.
“What do you think this will taste like?” He’s toying with you, whether you answer or not, you know he’s going to continue talking.
He looks at his fingers, then at your face. Your mouth is slightly parted, huffing out desperate breaths by this point. You’re trying—and failing—to contain how much of a hold he has on you, waiting with excitement and fear for what he says next.
“See, I think it’ll taste like you, not me. You. What do you think?” He looks deep into your eyes as if trying to read your mind. You’re unsure why this is the thing he decided to talk about, you don’t care what your juices taste like. You have no idea where he’s going with this, but you know he always has a point to make.
You can hear people outside the door jiggling the handle to get in. He doesn’t take his eyes off you, not even when some kid outside the door says, “It’s locked, somebody get the janitor.”
Your non-answer is answer enough for him, he looks at his fingers again, spreading them into a ‘V’, watching the string of your arousal hold on for dear life as he continues. “My theory is that all my cum soaked into your cute little panties and onto Carver’s thigh, and now this is all you, baby.” Likely theory, though you’re still unsure why he’s doing this, why now, why here.
The view of your own wetness, sticky and stringy between his fingers, him holding it up to your face, his perverted words, and the pet names are all enough to have you suck in a stuttering breath. Your brows are pinched as if he just entered your tight little hole, he’s got you wrapped around his finger, and all over it too. He’s got you reacting in pleasure at just his words, no touch needed.
You’re so close to the door that if anybody tried to look in the thin strip of window at the correct angle, they’d see Eddie’s wet fingers covered in your arousal. That thought sends a shock wave down your spine.
“Because I don’t think this is all for Carver, unless of course, you have something to tell me. Do you, honey?” He looks down at you with a daring look, just hoping you’ll run your mouth like you’ve done so many times before.
But his eyes are like a muddy puddle on a rainy spring day—you’re enthralled, hoping to splash into his soul with your yellow rain boots. You simply shake your head, a dumb look on your face as you rake your eyes over his beautiful features.
You understand now, you called him a pervert for what he made you do. Now he’s showing you that you liked it just as much as he did. You’re just like him, you belong in the dark just like him. Two sides of the same coin.
“What’s going on here?” You hear the gruff voice of the overworked janitor outside the door. The students complain about the locked door, your eyes widen and the blood rushes into your ears. You’re once again reminded that a paper thin wall and a wooden door are the only things that separate you from mass scrutiny and exposure.
Eddie smirks slowly before stuffing his fingers in his mouth, closing his eyes and moaning, relishing in the flavor of you. You’re thankful the chatter of the students waiting outside is loud enough to cover his groans.
“Mmm, just as I suspected. That’s all you, baby. Wanna taste?” He’s looking at you like he could eat you up right then and there, class time be damned.
You would say yes to anything he asked at this point, if he asked you to go halfsies on a timeshare you’d be rummaging your bag for a pen.
He pulls your jaw into him, shoving his filthy tongue into your mouth—not waiting for your answer. You moan at the taste of yourself on his deft tongue. The key enters the lock and turns as Eddie lets you go.
“You did good, baby. I think you do deserve a treat for that,” he praises your performance earlier. You almost preen at the affection, something that is few and far between when you and him come together.
He let’s go of you, your body sways forward, an unconscious attempt to follow his warmth. He walks to the first desk at the front of the classroom, sitting down just as the door is opened and a bunch of kids file in.
Some are looking at Eddie confused at how he got in the classroom and why he didn’t open the door for them. Most of them miss you as you’re pressed against the wall by the door. They’re flooding in like fish from a net, one of the guys you recognize as Eddie’s Hellfire friend and band member speaks up.
“Munson, what the hell are you doing here? Why didn’t you let us in?” He’s hovering by Eddie’s chosen desk.
Before he can answer, a fellow cheerleader you recognize as Stacy Kramer walks right up to the desk he’s in, clearly waiting for him to get out of her seat. He smoothly stands up, stretching his arm out to the now-empty desk and bowing. She giggles at his overly-formal display before sliding into his—her—seat. He smiles at the reaction he got out of her.
You feel your hackles raise at the interaction, not liking that she giggled at him, not like that he did what he did. It’s not even like he’s yours—you don’t want him, you’ve told him that to his face.
-
One time you were at his trailer, post-sex. You were both riding the high of it as he was lighting up a joint.
Sitting on the side of the mattress holding the lighter to the end of the blunt, he peeks back at you lying unabashedly naked on his bed. Your breasts moving up and down with the breaths leaving your soft lips, one arm reached behind your head clutching the one pillow he had on his bed. You had scolded him earlier for being such a boy, only having sheets and a—one—pillow.
“Why, you planning on sleeping over?” He had said, an eyebrow raised expectantly.
“As if,” you sneered. Staying over was for boyfriends and girlfriends—and you two weren’t that, you told him as much.
He takes the time you seem spaced out to admire your place in his bed. The place he sleeps at night, the place where he dreams about you. The fire of your touch, the taste of your lips, the feel of your hair, the smell of your perfumed body. He’s thankful there are no witnesses to his behavior when you leave, when the night comes and his face is buried in the pillow doused with your scent, grabbing onto it like you were his to hold.
He has no idea why he says it—it’s like his mind is too busy living in a fantasy land to watch his mouth. A land where you don’t hate him and he doesn’t piss you off. It’s a land where you drop your walls and he puts down his verbal weapons. A land where you don’t care about status and the social stratification doesn’t put him at the bottom of the barrel. A land where he can figure out what these confusing feelings are, a land where you would know just how to help him with a chaste kiss and a bare heart.
But his mind should’ve been paying attention or else his heart wouldn’t hurt. “Isn’t it kind of weird how we’ve seen so much of each other, but we’ve never gone on like—a date or something?” He says it light heartedly like it’s just an observation he made, like it doesn’t require an answer, like he knows he wouldn’t like what you had to say.
You frown at his comment, looking over at him to read his body language. He hides his nerves well, all you see is him looking back at you. You chalk his strange question up to being high, surely he knows that would never happen. You and him aren’t a thing, nor will you ever be.
“Nah, it’s not weird. Dates are for people who like each other, and I don’t like you.” It’s matter-of-fact the way it comes out. You’re looking at him as if you could be looking through him, like you see nothing of substance, nothing worth seeing.
He snorts at your comment, thorns growing over his heart as he speaks. “You sure seemed to like me a whole lot earlier.”
It’s crass and vulgar—the type of comments that make you angry. He’s caught onto that with you. He’s noticed you seem to despise any comments or flirtations, outside of your sexual endeavors, that allude to those sexual endeavors. It’s like you're disgusted at yourself for being with him, wanting to draw a mental line in the sand. So, of course he has to cross it. He wants to remind you just who you were laying with before.
“Whatever,” your lip curls in contempt, “the point is I’ll never go on a date with you.” That’s that.
“Okay,” he says simply, fighting to conceal the pain of rejection, “and I believe you believe that.” His comment rubs you the wrong way. He looks at you like you’re a child who told him you can jump seven feet into the air. He believes you believe that.
-
You’re broken out of your thoughts as you hear his lie to his friend. “‘Scuse me for trying to do you a favor, I figured you’d get to skip if the teacher couldn’t get into the classroom.”
His friend chuckles, a quick, “Hey, worth a shot,” before he’s clapping Eddie on the shoulder and heading to his seat in the back.
Eddie eyes your body still against the wall, the teacher steps in and calls your last name, asking why you’re in her classroom. You know her, you realize, you had her last year. Your staring contest with Eddie is broken as you look at her, then around the classroom as you realize you’re in Mrs. Gonzalez’s Spanish class.
Some of the other kids have noticed you now, Stacy sends you a soft smile that you struggle to return. The playback of Eddie’s interaction with her running through your mind, creating sour feelings. You stammer out a lie about having a question as Eddie slips past you and out the door. You feel the soft brush of air as he passes so close to your body, your skin hums for him. You’re tempted to walk out with him, following him mindlessly. But you stay to hear Mrs. G’s answer to your bullshit question.
-
You’re generally a nice girl, a bit stuck-up, but nice all the same. You don’t go out of your way to antagonize people–not the way Eddie does—but you also don’t let people walk all over you. That usually leads to Eddie and you trading verbal lashings in front of your friends.
He loves it because it pushes the boundaries of your ‘relationship,’ he loves to see how scared you get behind the facade you display for your posse. Scared at the possibility of being tied to the town freak. Any other guy would probably take great offense to that, but he doesn’t care how you see him. You don’t pretend to understand him and he’ll continue to make assumptions about you. Neither of you will lower your walls enough to let the truth in.
He’ll often invade your personal space in school, just to get close to you, but more importantly, he knows it pisses you off. And who is he, if not put on this earth specifically to piss you off.
It’s been a few days since the lunchroom incident, you’ve been giving him death glares any chance you get. He only sends a toothy grin back, loving the attention you’re giving him. Any attention from you is good attention, that’s his motto.
He sees you in the hall talking to Sherry and some other cheerleaders. They’re surrounding you like you’re the second coming of Jesus Christ, latched onto your every word. It’s moments like these where he relishes in the thought of what you and him do in the shadows. Would your friends idolize you the way they do if they knew what you let the freak do to you? Your friends—a group of airhead girls drawing ambiguous lines to differentiate who they deem worthy of breathing from those they don’t.
You’re too busy going on about the unfairness of the Sadie Hawkins dance last month, the cruelty with which women were subjected to asking the guys to the dance, instead of the other way around. Too busy with your sermon to notice how much of the hallway your girlfriends are taking up—shoulder-checking poor students trying to squeeze by, how Holly takes the unopened Tootsie Pop right out of another girl’s hands, ripping the wrapper off and plopping it into her mouth.
There’s nothing Eddie hates more than entitled people—aka your entire friend group. That’s when he decides to have a little fun. He comes up behind you effectively breaking up the group when he throws his arms around your and Sherry’s shoulders, placing himself right in the middle of everything.
“Ugh, I know! Life is so awful for you! Doesn’t it just make you wanna run away, join a convent, and start anew? But of course, you can’t. There’s that pesky rule about purity,” he grins, leaning close to you, but still loud enough for the other girls to hear. “No,” he says dejectedly, “that won’t work for you, plus I heard they have a picture of you on the wall of every church. Right next to the snake that tricked Eve.”
Your lip curls in disgust at his proximity and his words. You shrug him off, noticing that Sherry doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to disavow the male’s attention. It makes you roll your eyes. You’re stopped in the middle of the hallway, turning on him ferociously. “All that talk about purity is rich coming from you, freak,” you sneer. “God, do you take pills to get this annoying? Are they even FDA approved?”
He finally releases Sherry from under his arm, straightening up to his full height to go toe-to-toe with you. “Nope! This is all natur–al,” he says as he runs his hands down his chest, giving you a salacious look.
Your fiery gaze falters for a moment as you watch his hands glide down his fit body, recalling what he looks like with his shirt off—his pretty black tattoos perfectly contrasting with his milky white skin. You hesitate too long in answering, only encouraging him further.
“You should know though, right? I mean we’re practically the same! You’re a bitch and I’m annoying! Hey, we could have the most unstoppable kids!” He’s having the time of his life doing this in front of your friends, his eyes are alight as he eats up every slight reaction you give to his words. “They could grow up to be lawyers or surgeons!”
In an unforeseen turn of events, despite his point being an insult, your heart skips a beat at the mention of you and him having kids. It throws you for such a loop that you’re knocked off the cliff of sanity, wondering why the idea of a life together with the guy you hate stirs such confusing feelings.
You hate him. He’s annoying, he’s vulgar, he’s rude, he chain smokes, he sells drugs for money, he’s a wannabe rockstar, he’s weird, he pushes your boundaries, and he’s mean to you. Those aren’t usually attributes people find attractive. And yet, the vague idea of creating life with a little bit of him and a little bit of you makes you feel all melty inside
You never hear couples answer the famous, ‘How’d you meet,’ question with, ‘Well it all started when he called me a stuck-up bitch senior year…” That’s not exactly rom-com material, and you know it. It’s like your brain is constantly fighting with your heart when you’re around him and you’re getting pretty sick of it.
You push the feelings into a small compact box, locking the key and throwing it over your shoulder. They’re better locked up, or else they’ll eat and eat at you until they need a bigger box–feelings too large to control, too wild to lasso.
“Ew! As if I would ever fuck you!” You say it with the utmost confidence of someone who wasn’t just begging for his cock a few days ago.
And he seems to have the same thought because the way his smile grows manic, his eyes dancing with delight at your amazing ability to separate parts of yourself at a whim. The power of your cognitive dissonance would make a congressman jealous.
He tilts his head to the side, eyes raking up and down your body, doing it just to watch you squirm in front of all your girlfriends—who, up to this point, have scoffed in disgust at his comments and nodded enthusiastically at yours.
He brings his lower lip between his teeth, grinning before letting it go. “Well, you don’t have to fuck me, I could just fuck you.” He says it like it’s an option you hadn’t considered yet.
Your eyes widen for a split second before masking your shock at his brazen words. Holly decides to butt in on your behalf, “News flash, brain-trust, it’s never gonna happen. Get lost before I call Jason over here, I’m sure he would love to have a talk with the freak who’s going all stalker-boy on his girl.”
You roll your eyes at the mention of Jason. Holly has been encouraging you to give Jason a chance since last year, saying, ‘Have you seen the car he drives? His dad is apparently some CEO for a huge company and his mom is literally assistant to the mayor!’ As if any of that could give him a crumb of personality.
Eddie eyes her—fire red hair, freckles covering her face, a permanent pinch to her over-plucked brows, as if she’s always smelling something awful. He throws his hands up in defeat, suddenly over this interaction when it’s no longer just you and him. “Ooo, wouldn’t want that.” His tone is facetious and mocking as he watches one of her thin eyebrows raise in a challenge.
He turns back to you—a much prettier face for his eyes to rest at. “Catch ya later, sweetheart.” He walks away, feeling your eyes trail his disappearing figure among the students hurrying to class.
You hear another friend speak up—your lab partner and one of the bases on the team, Jackie Davis. Her nasally voice rips you out of your trance, “Ugh, god! He’s such a freak!”
“Yeah and he’s like going full Friday the 13th on you,” Stacy snarks.
Your brows pinch as you remember the movie you watched with Eddie at his trailer. It was a rare moment of truce, where he heated up a shitty TV Dinner for you, a sheet from his bed covering you while you clung to the one lone pillow on the couch. A supposed ‘decorative’ pillow, flattened from decades of use, its pattern faded and colors distorted from years of smoking indoors.
You remember being so captured by the bathroom scene with the girl in the green raincoat. The lights out from the storm raging outside, her brushing her teeth, the ch-ch-ch-ch ah-ah-ah-ah of the background music as the camera closes in on her. You remember yelling, “Oh my god! Turn around,” as you saw the hand peek out from behind the shower curtain.
You remember jumping with a shriek when Eddie sat down beside you. You can hear his laugh echo in your mind, it wasn’t mean or malicious. He was sorry for scaring you, not realizing you were so enthralled in the film he forced you to watch. It was his challenge to you after you claimed to never get scared by horror movies—a conversation that came up, a weird type of pillow talk, but it felt so normal for you two.
You remember how he fed you a bite of the turkey pot pie–unfortunately, the only thing he could find in his and Wayne’s freezer—so you wouldn’t have to untangle your limbs from the blanket and let go of the pillow that was your lifeline. He watched you frown as you slowly chewed, eyes never straying from the small box-television. He took a spoonful to his mouth, the same frown on his face as he tasted the shitty excuse for a meal.
You remember the sound of disgust he made, you recall how you turned to look at his pouting face, a smile pulling at your lips. “I’m gonna order a pizza,” he said, shaking his head at the terrible taste still in his mouth.
You huffed a laugh in response to the clear distress on his face for subjecting you to that frozen dinner. “Yeah, that’d be good.”
You remember how he ended up holding you as you leaned into his chest, you recall ignoring the flutter in your heart at feeling him try to covertly sniff your hair. Instead of separating and calling him ‘weird’ or a ‘pervert’ like you usually would, you just smiled as you kept your gaze attached to the film.
You also remember how you two never spoke about that weird lapse in behavior, you just remember him flipping your skirt up during lunch the following Monday.
Everything goes back to normal again, leaving that memory where it belongs—twirling around in your head, safe in a snow globe of intimacy, placed reverently on a shelf in your mind. Something to pick up, shake, and watch as he pets your hair and nuzzles your neck when you jump at the scary movie.
Just a memory. Far away, in your mind, locked in a box down a hallway, through a door, on a mantle over the fireplace—a fire that always burns for him, a warmth you won’t allow yourself to stand near. The trek too far to reach, the risk too great to bear.
“Well, he’s no Voorhees…” It’s a half-hearted addition to the conversation between your friends. Your mind is elsewhere, too busy thinking about how to make the trek simpler, how to feel the warmth of the fire without getting burned.
“What?” Holly says it, a valley-girl lilt to her voice despite being born and raised in Hawkins, Indiana. She, Stacy, Sherry, and Jackie look at you like you just spoke another language, confused by what you just said. Clearly, they’ve never seen the film and are just using the first horror movie they could think of as an insult to Eddie.
Your eyes go wide, not meaning to let the comment slip. Girls like you don’t watch horror movies; girls like you have sleepovers and watch Footloose, dreaming about Kevin Bacon. Girls like you have posters of David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust, not posters of David Bowie as the Goblin King.
“N—Nothing, uh, yeah, I don’t know what his problem is.” Your answer seems to soothe them as Holly wraps her arms around you, motioning for the group to continue walking to the locker room to change for practice.
-
Eddie keeps you on your toes. One moment, he’s tormenting you in the hallway, goading you into a battle of wits. The next, he’s weirdly sweet—like the time you stormed into his trailer to yell at him for calling Holly a ‘half-wit,’ even though she called him a ‘freak’ first.
He can call you any name in the book, but he can’t harass Holly. She’s like a bloodhound— piss her off enough, and she’ll find whatever she can to ruin his life, turning every day into hell for him. One time, when she got a B- on her English report sophomore year, she snooped through Mr. Lloyd’s desk during lunch and found notes he’d been passing with a senior girl. That same day, she brought them to Principal Higgins and got him fired.
Granted, it was fucking creepy and horrible that Mr. Lloyd was getting it on with a student—legal adult or not, she was still a student. But the point is Holly will rain hellfire onto his life if provoked, and you are begrudgingly part of his life. So you showed up at his palace to lecture him on not poking the bear.
When you burst through the door and storm straight to his bedroom, your fury falters at the sight before you. He’s sitting on the bed, shirtless, an acoustic guitar resting in his lap as he tunes it. The pick necklace he never takes off dangles from his neck, catching the light.
He looks up with raised eyebrows, an amused expression on his face. “I didn’t know the strip club delivers. I’m all out of cash at the moment, but I can give you a different tip.” He’s grinning at you, looking you up and down, enjoying the sight of the offended huff you give him.
You’re wearing your high waisted denim shorts, rolled at the thighs, your white tank top is tucked into your shorts. Your waist is cinched with a thin brown belt through the loops of your bottoms, it’s the perfect outfit for the weather. The wet Springtime is fading into what will soon be an Indian Summer.
“Shut up, I came here to yell at you, not have sex with you.” Hands are on your hips, your ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude on full blast.
“Really? I thought you came here to profess your undying love for me and ask me to run away with you into the sunset. The yelling part is so unlike you,” he sasses, a smirk gracing his features, eyes twinkling with mirth.
“Ugh, you wish.” You fold your arms across your chest, guiding his eyes to one of his favorite things about you, your tits. That, and your gentle tone and ever-so charming personality, the same things you never use on him. Except the few times you have.
Those times sent him reeling, always catching him off-guard.
Times like the accidental movie night you had, or the time he caught you looking at his acoustic guitar when he was supposed to be in the shower.
You had looked at him with no animosity in that moment, seemingly lost in a memory as you softly said, “My dad used to play.”
The sweetest smile gracing your face as you looked from him to the guitar, softly strumming the un-tuned strings. “Every Sunday he’d pull it out to practice and I’d beg him to play Brand New Key by Melanie,” ruefully smiling at the memory.
“My mom and I would dance and sing along, she’d twirl me around,” a wet chuckle, “I’d try to twirl her, but I wasn’t tall enough so she’d have to bend like it was limbo.”
He remembers how he just watched you, listened to the memory you painted in his vision. He imagined a little you, laughing, crinkling your nose the same way you do to this day.
He doesn’t know what happened to your parents, you always speak about them in the past tense. He doesn’t ask, especially not when he sees the wetness disappear from your eyes as you right your face again, back to neutral, back to the mask. The walls around your heart sturdy as ever, the drawbridge lifted.
He stores that memory away, not dissecting why you shared that story with him, he couldn’t let it affect him the way it so badly wanted to. He lets the memory wash away in the sands of his mind.
“What can I do for you then?” Straight to the point—if you’re not here to use him, he’d rather you leave, lest you tangle his heart in more knots than you already have.
“I just came here to tell you to lay off Holly. She knows almost everything about everyone and isn’t afraid to use it. She could find out about us—about me.” You don’t look at him as you say the last part, suddenly finding the floor of his room far more interesting.
His thumb brushes against a taut string, the sound emanating around the empty trailer. “Ah, but you mistake me for someone who cares,” he says confidently.
That confidence soon falters as he watches your gaze still refuse to meet him, no response to his comment. His heart feels like it’s free falling, his brain feels like it took a ride on the Gravitron at the Hawkins Fourth of July carnival. “But you care…”
“You don’t understand how much I’ll lose. They’ll never look at me the same, they won’t wanna be my friends.” Your tone is one step away from pleading, not exactly that desperate yet. You’re looking at him, but he’s the one who refuses to meet your eyes now.
He bristles at your comment, his gaze resting on his guitar, fingers starting to pluck the strings as an unconscious outlet for his inner turmoil. “Yeah, well, maybe you should get better friends.” It’s harsh—it’s not the worst thing he’s ever said to you, but it weighs more in this earnest conversation.
“That’s easy for you to say. You don’t care what people say about you,” you bite back, he notes how your voice distinctly lacks its natural anger you reserve for him. It makes him feel a little more steady in this uneasy confrontation—an exploration of the things unspoken, the things neither of you brought up unless it was used to taunt the other.
Like how he reminds you constantly about what your friends would think if they knew how he touched you, but that was just dirty talk. Shame creeps up your spine at the thought of how you let him speak to you, the acknowledgement that you get off on the idea of dipping your toe into his world, hiding in the shadows with him.
But when he touches you so softly afterwards—fixing your hair and your clothes, it has you relishing in the feeling of pretending you, too, don’t care what the town thinks of you.
Not when he touches you like he does, not when he tells you how good you are for him. When he’s sweet to you, you feel like you could run the world. Like the possibility of never having what you have now—your friends, your popularity—could leave you unfazed.
You know he’d let you into his world—show you his favorite horror movies, the ones you haven’t already seen. He’d play you his music, run song lyrics by you, he’d take you out to see your favorite bands even if they’re not his speed.
Any motivation to continue the conversation melts. His nonresponse to your last comment taking the wind from beneath your wings. Your face softens as you tilt your head, recognizing the particular notes he’s strumming idly on his guitar.
You recognize the melody as a very choppy, rough version of the instrumental to Brand New Key. Your heart beats like the thump of a rabbit’s foot, you didn’t realize he remembered what you had said that one time your mask cracked.
You know he’s unaware of his stuttered strumming, unaware that it’s jackhammering the base of your tallest watchtower, a jagged crack travelling up the brick at the speed of light.
You move to sit down in front of him, your back to the door. His eyes lift at your closeness, finally meeting yours again—an observant gaze that sets your chest ablaze.
“I like your necklace.” It’s soft, not timid. You’re not nervous. You’re not lying.
He acknowledges the olive branch—something you’ve never dared to extend before. He doesn’t have any fight in him, too busy falling victim to your saccharine voice.
He nods, his strumming fingers falling still. He reaches for the guitar pick around his neck, holding the smooth plastic between his index finger and his thumb. “It was the only thing I brought from my home when Wayne got custody of me. The only thing that was actually mine.”
You know very little about his home life, but you’ve gathered it was not good and Wayne practically saved him. You met Wayne once when he was leaving for his night shift at the plant. He was sweet to you, and you pretended to ignore Eddie’s eyeroll at his uncle’s comment, “She’s pretty, don’t break her heart.”
Navigating a conversation with him without insults or being on guard is like learning to ice skate. You wobble, and sometimes you fall. But if you just go slow, it’s not that dangerous.
You decide to match his vulnerability—offering a glimpse inside your own walls.
“I used to have one like it, but it was a keychain,” you point out. “It was a gift from my dad, but I lost it freshman year.”
You’re not sure why you tell him the last part, the admission feels almost too personal, but it just came out. It makes you feel like your skin is made of a cellophane and he can see your heart beating in your chest.
He watches you quietly for a minute, not debating his next move, but rather letting your truth hang in the air with reverence.
What he does next, he does because he wants to. He does it because he thinks you should have it. He doesn’t do it to have any sort of claim over you. He’s not marking you as his, despite the flush of warmth he feels in his heart at the thought.
He lifts the pick necklace gently over his head and leans over to you. You’re admiring the glossy lacquer of his guitar, amused by the painted words—‘This machine slays dragons’—when you suddenly feel the cool metal settling around your neck. Startled, you look up to find him already easing back into his spot on the edge of the bed.
You reach up to feel the plastic dangling against your sternum, he watches your fingers daintily hold it. You’re looking down, admiring the small token from him. His body warms as he sees where the pick falls when you let it go, he averts his eyes as it disappears between your cleavage.
You hold back the intense desire to tell him, ‘You don’t have to do that.’ The gift is far too heartfelt, but you withhold that reaction. You know—god, you know—he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do.
All you allow yourself to say is a quiet, “Are you sure?”
He nods, “It looks better on you anyway.” He cracks a smile, finally letting the mood lighten.
“I don’t know…it does bring out your pecs,” you tease.
You truly always keep him guessing…he’s utterly baffled at your response. A compliment, a joke, and a smile. They’re all rarities. Oddities he’s dying to collect.
“Was that—? Did you just compliment me?”
He’s teasing you, eyes alight, shining bright like the summer sun. You find yourself wanting to bathe in it, let his sunshine warm your skin. You want his rays to leave their mark on you. Darken, freckle, or burn—you don’t care which.
“Yeah, well—don’t get used to it.” You try to gather any semblance of your usual snide tone—the one reserved for him—but it’s like water through the cracks between your fingers. You can’t be mean if you tried right now.
-
After that day when you barged into his trailer—eyes ablaze with fury and a single name on your hit list—after he was spared by emotional secrets and meaningful gifts, your interactions with him have been incredibly tame.
Both of your walls are crumbling, the jackhammer he took to your watchtower is doing its job. The lingering glances you steal when you think he’s not looking—the sight of you in nothing but his necklace…the curves of your body propose a contract for the demolition of his barriers.
A week after that moment in his bedroom, he’s searching for you in the halls—ready to ignite the TNT himself.
That’s when he hears your voice meshed with the grating atrocity that is Holly Hannigan’s voice.
He wasn’t able to get you alone during school hours, so he thought he’d wait for after school where he knew you’d be preparing for cheer practice.
The school is empty save for the other cheerleaders already warming up. He watches from the end of the hall as you and Holly exit the locker room just outside the gym.
He had strutted there from the drama room with such confidence, but it’s quickly leaving him now. He doesn’t bother to round the corner when he hears it.
“Are you sure? I mean, you’ve been looking at him weird lately—,” he immediately knows Holly’s talking about him, the disgruntled tone she speaks with gives her away.
“No—yeah! Of course, I’m sure,” you nervously laugh. “Are you kidding? You know I wouldn’t be caught dead with him.” There’s a smile on your face as you say it. It’s an earnest attempt at convincing Holly that her suspicions of fraternization between you and Eddie are ludicrous—a non-starter.
Eddie’s heart constricts. It feels like you just shoved your hand through his chest and squeezed the organ ‘til it popped with your perfectly manicured nails.
He doesn’t know why your comment affects him so much—it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before.
You’d say it to his face for crying out loud. But he thought he felt something change between you and him.
He thought you felt it too. No, he didn’t think—he was sure of it. That’s why he wanted to find you—needed to find you.
He came to find you to pour his heart out to you.
He woke up today realizing he can’t keep doing this. He can’t keep loving you in secret—pretending to have you in the shadows, pretending to go to sleep at night as yours.
He’s seen the best and the worst of you and he wants to walk into the light with you. He wants to show you off. Not because you’re his, but because he’s yours.
He wants to ask you if your feet are tired from running through his mind.
He wants to ask you to sit down and stay a while.
He wants to suggest maybe moving to his heart to put some roots down, maybe start a life there with him.
But he doesn’t get the chance to do any of that.
Instead, he’s too busy clutching the painted brick—the stupid school colors garish and tasteless. He doesn’t get to say any of that because he’s too busy having an out-of-body experience in the hallways of his high school.
Holly studies you for a moment, as if trying to read your mind. All the blood in your body is rushing in your ears like the Grand Rapids.
You wouldn’t be surprised if she could read your mind. She’s known you since freshman year, and you’ve known her long enough to know she can sniff out a lie from miles away.
“...Okay…,” she says slowly, her beady eyed gaze still watching you.
You discreetly exhale, the realization that you narrowly avoided your life being blown to bits sending your heart into a frenzy.
She perks back up, as if she was never questioning your loyalty to the upper social class she runs like the navy.
“Good! Because Lord knows you don’t need trailer trash like that mucking up your life.” She grabs your hand to pull you through the doors of the gym.
The last thing Eddie hears before the gym doors close is her nasally voice saying, “He’s probably gonna wind up dead or in jail in like five years anyway.”
He doesn’t get to see the way you frown at her words, your heart dropping at the idea of him going away—in any capacity.
Eddie’s eyes water as he turns around, storming back to the drama room.
He’s seething—hot tears running down his cheeks freely in the privacy of his D&D decorated space. He can’t stop pacing, harshly wiping the streams of wetness from his face. He’s pissed, he’s livid, he’s upset, he’s sad, he feels like he’s dying.
He’s angry at himself for thinking you felt anything—angry that he got his own hopes up.
He’s pissed at being confronted with who you are once again. He should’ve known you wouldn’t change, after all, a tiger can’t change its stripes.
He humorlessly laughs at the fact that he held out hope you’d tell Holly off for the way she spoke about him. No, of course you wouldn’t. Why would he think that? That wasn’t you, that had never been you.
You are famously the most stuck-up, backboneless, conformist he’s ever met. You are queen of the sheep-like cheerleaders who go out of their way to disparage everybody who isn’t rich and beautiful. And he felt something for you.
He fell for your disarming smile. You had him fooled that you could be anybody other than who you are. Who you’ve always been—for as long as he’s known you, at least.
He won’t let himself admit anything more than that. It’s easier to be angry—at you, at himself—than to grieve what could have been. What he thought you felt. He presses his head to his hands, fingers threading through his curls, sniffling. He’s remembering everything. It’s like his brain wants to torture him.
He remembers the way your eyes twinkled as you complimented how the pick laid on his chest, he remembers the weight of you in his arms as you pressed harder against him when you found out Jason Voorhees was at the bottom of Crystal Lake, he remembers the way you brought him extra food you had made one night.
A stern, “Don’t say anything, just accept it. You eat like shit, you have to have at least one normal meal a week,” while you shoved the tupperware full of lasagna into his hands. Your comments quickly halting any teasing he was planning to send your way.
He whips his head up quickly, hand swiping the papers and game pieces off the table. “FUCK!” He shouts the word as loud as he can, channeling all of his confusing feelings into it.
All of a sudden, he hears Gareth’s hesitant voice behind him. “Uhh, bad time?”
Eddie whips around, no anger falling from his face; he doesn’t care who sees him like this anymore.
A curt, “Yes,” is all he lets out before stomping past him, prepared to go home and get absolutely plastered. He hopes if he’s inebriated enough, his drunk brain won’t conjure you up, won’t make him think everything is fine.
“I–I actually came here to ask you something–,” Gareth calls after Eddie, following him out of the room. His eyes are wide with shock and worry, he’s never seen Eddie like this.
Eddie doesn’t stop at Gareth’s shout. He’s a man on a mission.
Gareth watches his retreating figure before turning around to pick up the mess Eddie made. He’s frozen in his spot, though, when he turns to see you five paces back. His eyebrows furrow at your presence, you’re in your workout clothes, sweaty and disheveled—clearly still in practice.
He’s wondering why you’re here; there’s a water fountain near the gym, so it can’t be that. He notices your eyes look stormy as you, too, watch Eddie’s retreating figure.
He looks between you and Eddie as the metalhead violently pushes open the school doors and heads to his van. In the end, Gareth decides it’s none of his business. Instead, he turns back into the drama room to pick up the pieces.
You heard Eddie shout all the way from the gym. You’ve listened to him speak for hours—probably more than anybody else in the school, including his Hellfire friends—you can pick his voice out of a crowd of a thousand people.
That being said, that was not the voice of a happy person. That was not the playful tone of one of his sermons.
None of the girls seem to hear the noise, though. You guess your ears are just tuned to his frequency after being with him for so long—well, not with him. The thought makes your heart skip a beat. Not the time.
You ask Coach Madison if you can go to the restroom. She waves you off, and you briskly walk toward the double doors, escaping the loud, humid gym. The moment they shut behind you, you break into a jog, heading straight to where you know he’d be—his sanctuary. But when you get there, you freeze, stopped in your tracks by the sheer rage radiating off him.
He doesn’t seem to notice you. Instead, making a beeline for the exit at the end of the hall. You’re breathing out huffs of air as you catch your breath. You feel something you haven’t felt with him before. Fear.
It’s not fear of him. It’s fear for him. You’ve never seen him so enraged.
You want to know what happened, you want to know if there’s anything you can do. When he’s finally out the doors, you turn to see the same Hellfire guy you saw that one day in the classroom. You watch him walk back into the drama room that you know doubles as Eddie’s Hellfire Club.
The boy doesn’t acknowledge your existence, just heading over to kneel down by the table. You look into the room and see a bunch of papers—and what looks to be little plastic toys—all over the ground.
You frown, hurrying in to help him pick up the mess. You wonder if Eddie made it. You don’t think he would, you’ve never seen him get particularly violent.
Eddie loves his belongings, he always treats them with reverence—almost to a humorous extent. You’ve caught him talking to his electric guitar—his Sweetheart—one too many times to believe he would do this. You smile softly at the memory of him ‘introducing’ you to ‘her.’
This didn’t seem like him, but everybody can be pushed to commit actions outside of their character, you suppose.
Kneeling down by Gareth, you choose to organize the papers into a neat pile. You work silently, shuffling on your knees to reach some that seemed to have caught air and floated further from the table. Gareth gathers the figurines the club uses for characters and villains, looking at you briefly. The two of you are working in silence to clean up Eddie’s mess.
Once you gather the last paper, you stand up with your hands on either side of the stack, tapping it on the table to get the papers to fall into place. It’s then that Gareth finally speaks.
“Thanks.” It’s a quiet, nervous mutter, like he’s concerned about your next move. “He can be a bit much sometimes.”
Your eyes are kind as they look at him, nothing but genuine interest in them. His comment confirms what you feared, Eddie did do this. And if he did this, then he must be far angrier than his already radioactive energy gave off.
“I’m Gareth,” he nods as he says it, feeling awkward that the most popular girl in school is in his space, picking up his ‘nerdy’ papers.
You tell him your name, extending your hand to shake his—something your dad taught you to do at a young age. ‘It’s proper. And no flimsy hand–no, it’s gotta be a firm shake. You gotta show people you respect them,’ he said.
Gareth stares at your hand with wide eyes. The queen–no, the ringleader of the highest social class—the students who have made his and his friend’s lives hell since middle school—is offering her hand to him.
He nods, uttering a soft, stilted, “I know who you are,” and shakes your hand. You feel your face heat at his comment, you’re ashamed at the way he probably knows you.
You know what your friends do. You don’t partake, though. Not feeling the need to criticize other people’s lives given how yours is going.
The place you live, the stories you retell about that trip to Ibiza in fourth grade—always tweaking a few details to keep it fresh. Summers out back behind your trailer, soaking up just enough sun to make it look like you really did spend your holiday in Europe, drifting on the water on a glorious yacht.
So no, you don’t throw the same barbs at the lower class students as your friends do, as Holly does—the worst offender of them all.
The only time you’re ever truly vile is when Eddie brings it out of you, something that has notably ceased in recent encounters.
The absence of your usual fights was what made Holly question you earlier—like you were on the stand, swearing under oath that you hate him. That you think he’s vulgar and gross, that you could never like somebody like him. If she only knew the truth, she’d hold you in contempt for the web of lies you’ve spun.
Speak of the devil and she doth appear.
You jump at her snide tone, “What are you doing in here? This is nerd domain.” With her hand on her hip, she’s got a look on her face like she’s sizing you up to send you flying out of the friend group with a swift kick to the ass.
Gareth sees her and practically shrinks. He backs up from you, choosing to focus on putting the characters back to their original spaces on the fantasy map.
“I-I was just–,” you could kick yourself for your lack of spine when it comes to her. You are fully aware of how awful she is, but for some reason she loves you and thinks you’re the best thing to happen since sliced bread.
“Looks like I was worried about the wrong freak,” she snickers at Gareth’s expense. “Is he the one you’ve been sneaking off to meet?”
Your heart drops, how does she know about your clandestine meetings? Has she been watching you longer than she’s let on?
In a flash, you’re running through every poor excuse you’ve given for canceling hangouts, every lame attempt to sneak away in school. You’re trying to find the leak in this quickly sinking ship.
You see Gareth’s reaction of genuine confusion—at least Eddie didn’t tell his friends.
But you can also see the hurt flicker in his eyes at her tasteless remark. You were already unsettled by his clear discomfort around you—even during something as mundane as helping him clean up. The sting fuels you, giving you a sliver of confidence; you grasp onto it, holding it tightly.
“Stop, Holly.” It’s more stern than you’ve been with her in months. You realize you’ve let her run her mouth far too much, distracted by your game of cat and mouse with Eddie. “Come on, let’s just go,” you’re walking out the door, grabbing her arm and pulling her along with you. You don’t bother looking back at Gareth—missing the relieved breath he lets out.
You and Holly return to practice. Your stern tone with her seems to have whipped her back into shape for the first time in months. You feel the confidence waning, though, as you think about how hurt Eddie seemed. You wish you knew why.
-
It’s 3:17 AM when you hear banging on your front door, the force shakes your whole trailer. It wakes you with a start, your heart beating out of your chest. Fight or flight kicks in as you grab the first thing you can swing. The makeshift weapon happens to be your dad’s old acoustic guitar, which you quickly set back down—not willing to risk it in a possible fight.
Instead, you opt for the heavy, corded landline on your night stand. Maybe not the smartest decision as you yank the machine from its tether to the wall, the power cord jumping at you with the force of your pull. It is your only way to call the police if need be, but you weren’t about to smash your dad’s guitar. It’s the only thing you have of his—besides the hand-me-down car.
The banging is sloppy and loud as you get closer. You wrench open the front door, the base of the machine held above your head in one hand—ready to come down on this creep’s head.
But all the fear drains from your body as you finally see who the creep is. It’s a very inebriated Eddie Munson, gripping the screen door for balance. As you pull the door open, he nearly topples over, barely catching himself against the outside of your trailer.
The fear is gone, but it’s replaced by simmering anger. You’re angry that he woke you up at three in the morning on a school night, his thunderous banging loud enough to rattle the thin trailer walls—loud enough to wake the neighbors if it had gone on any longer.
You’re angry at his obvious, sloppy drunkenness, the way he sways in the dim porch light. And most of all, you’re angry that he’s here, at your trailer.
You’ve spent your entire relationship dodging his self-invited visits. It’s bad enough he knows you live two doors down in a trailer park, you don’t need him seeing just how little you have, just how poor a home it really is.
You’re either at school, working, at practice, or at Friday night games. That schedule doesn’t leave a lot of room for upkeep, and unfortunately, you’re not exactly wealthy enough to have a maid service. Not like before, at least.
“What are you doing here,” you snap, your voice sharp. He sways slightly, seemingly ready to drop. His unsteady movements make you reach for his shoulders instinctively, a reflex you can’t quite control.
He quickly smacks your hands away at the first touch. You flinch back, shocked at his reaction.
“I came here to take my necklace back,” he slurs, brown eyes drunkenly trying to focus on you. Your eyebrows raise at his admission, you have no idea what’s driven him to this point.
First you saw him after school storming off, now he’s at your door—sloshed—in the middle of the night. You want to know so badly what happened, but you don’t want to draw any more of his ire your way.
“Wh–what?” Your tone is soft, if he was coherent, he would’ve seen the hurt flash across your eyes. You set the phone onto the table by the door.
“You heard me,” he leans forward through the doorway as he sneers, “Gimme my necklace back.”
“I thought it was a gift.” You’re trying so hard to read him, but his glazed eyes give nothing away.
“Yesterday it was a gift, today it’s trash on the next trip out to the Hawkins Landfill.”
He’s confident in his anger, looking at you like he doesn’t recognize you, but he knows he does. He sees you. The you from before. The Queen Bitch of Hawkins High, the one bragging about her fancy, rich vacations. The one constantly surrounded by mindless drones picking on students they deem less than.
“But it was yours first, why would you throw it out,” you ask. He’s not making any sense, you feel like you’re having a conversation in code.
His clear disdain for you has you quickly laying brick upon brick, building back your walls like you’re the overnight crew working on a billionaire’s new building—a promise of a huge bonus for how quickly you get the work done.
“I don’t want anything that’s touched you and since I can’t melt my skin off, the next best thing is sending everything to the trash heap,” he jeers, his eyes burning into you.
You feel so exposed. He’s being meaner than you’ve seen in a long time. it’s no longer teasing for your attention, poking you to get a rise. No, he really seems to hate you.
You don’t know what you did. You’re fighting tooth-and-nail to hold back tears at his comment about wanting to melt his skin off all because you touched him. You’ve never heard such vitriol, and you walk through the halls of Hawkins High next to your so-called-friends daily. You feel the stares, you’ve seen the bathroom graffiti.
“God, you’re pathetic. What’s next, are you gonna make me pay you back for that pizza you bought us?” You’re biting back—a lioness cornered, baring teeth to intimidate the threat.
He doesn’t answer so you continue. “It’s somewhere in my room,” you cross your arms over your chest, not making a move to look for it.
“I can wait,” he says, his tone defiant as he remains planted on the steps of your trailer—no attempt to come inside, no sign of leaving.
“Ugh fine!” You spin around, heading for your room down the hall. After your many stays at his trailer, you’ve noticed it’s almost identical to yours. Except it’s only you living here, so you freely get the singular bedroom and there’s much less furniture.
The door nearly swings shut with your absence against it, but he stops it with his hand. He doesn’t try to look into your place more than what he can see from the front steps.
He sees what’s supposed to be your living room, he thinks, but it’s just a singular lawn chair he presumes is facing a television set. If he were inside, though, he would see it’s just a radio with foil around the antennae—you couldn’t afford a TV.
He frowns at the sight, he thought your home would’ve at least looked like you lived there. There’s no pictures on the walls, no belongings strewn about, it honestly looks like you’ve been robbed. He still doesn’t know the deal with your parents, but he doesn’t think a high school student would be living alone…
When you arrive at your bedroom, you look back to make sure Eddie can’t see you. Luckily, his whole body is covered by the door that opens into the trailer, so you turn back around heading to the jewellery box on your crappily-built dresser. You really needed to get better tools, the Hawkins thrift store doesn’t exactly have the highest quality items.
You open the lid of the jewellery box—the one your mom owned. It has a mirror on the inside of the top, in the reflection you see yourself. You see the tear you feel running down your cheek.
Reaching under the collar of your sleep shirt, you pull the chain free, lifting it over your head. You look at the pick dangling in the combination of moonlight and the yellow-hued porch lights pouring in from your bedroom window. Quietly sniffling, you wipe the tear from your cheek. You’ll be damned if you let him see you cry.
You march back out to him, throwing the necklace at his chest, “Here!”
It falls to the ground with a metallic clatter, he reaches down to snatch it off your front steps. He hesitates for a moment, his eyes hold the same disgrace for you, but he doesn’t leave your front stoop.
You don’t know what he’s waiting for and you’d very much like to cry in peace. You shake your head, snarkily saying, “You didn’t give me anything else…”
Your front is holding strong, but his foundation cracks at your comment. “No…I didn’t.” He turns to leave, you don’t bother watching him go. Instead, you quickly slam the front door shut, leaning your forehead against the barrier as you let a sob loose.
You turn around, crying, looking at your practically empty home. The world is blurry as you shuffle back to your room, allowing yourself a well-deserved breakdown.
Eddie is walking back to his trailer when he looks down at the pick necklace in his hands, he feels like he’s sobered up from the pain of that interaction.
It felt awful, he just wants to go back and ask you why you are the way you are. He wants to ask you if you truly see nothing in him, if he’s truly just a loser to you. He wants to ask you if you genuinely believe he’s destined for nothing good—just like Holly said, just like when you didn’t come to his defense.
So he does. He turns around, suddenly feeling very talkative. He wants to cry and beg to know why you look at him like he’s nothing.
His feelings are so big, he’s having trouble remembering all the times—especially recently—when you looked at him like he was everything to you. All he hears is Holly’s voice in his head, trailer trash, dead or in jail, loser, freak. All he sees is your embarrassment every time he dared to speak to you in public. All he feels is how his heart stopped when you said you wouldn’t be ‘caught dead’ with the likes of him.
Yeah, he feels very talkative.
When he makes it back to your trailer, ready to bang his fist against the door, that’s when he hears you. It’s immediate, the way his heart breaks at the sound of your cries. He’s never heard you so despondent.
Now all he hears is the plucky tune of Brand New Key, all he sees is how he imagined you dancing, all he feels is the flooding warmth of your teasing gaze. He hears the way you complimented his Sweetheart, the way the smile in your voice could be heard for a country mile.
He sees you in his bed, wearing his pick necklace. He feels the rays of your smile, burning his skin with its light. He feels the cool coconut-y sunscreen he applies before going back in for seconds, bending over backwards just to get you to show it to him again. Your blazing grin, the light from your eyes could burn through SPF 100.
He’s not feeling very talkative anymore.
He can’t stand your cries anymore, their volume echoing softly through the park.
He retreats back to his trailer, deciding he would rather live to fight another day. Tomorrow will be better. He’s confused, hurt, and angry, but his heart yearns for you, nonetheless. And he’s nothing if not at its service.
-
When he gets to school the next day he hovers a few feet down from your locker, waiting for you, but you don’t show. Instead he sees the one person he’s never wanted to see ever.
“She’s not here today, stalker-boy.” Holly’s standing in front of him, arms crossed, a hip jutted out, obnoxiously smacking her gum. She’s flanked by who he recognizes as a nervous looking Sherry, and a pissed off Jackie.
He kicks off of the lockers he was leaning against, “Get bent, Holly.”
It pours like acid from his tongue, his best sneer screwing up his face. He really hates your ‘friends.’ They’re all so useless, Sherry follows you around like a shaking, wet chihuahua with the backbone of a chocolate éclair, Stacy worships you with zero personality from what he can tell, Jackie follows Holly around like she’s the second coming of Jesus Christ, and Holly Hannigan has the strangest obsession with you. She’s far meaner than he’s ever seen you be, yet she yields to your power—he doesn’t get it.
Holly gasps dramatically, a hand flying to her chest, faux offense written all over her face, “Now is that any way to talk to a lady, freak?”
He snorts, “You’re no lady, you haven’t been a lady since eighth grade.” She scoffs in indignation at his insinuation, it only fuels him.
“Yeah, guys talk, Holly. Tommy H. said you threw up all over him at the mere notion of going down on him,” he grins, his eyes narrowed daring her to prolong the interaction. She wasn’t exactly pious, he could name a few other stories he’s heard if she chooses to stick around.
Her eyes are wide, her face a bright red. She’s going to kill Tommy for sharing that story, already thinking about how she’s going to go to her daddy and complain about the freckle-faced boy spreading rumors. Maybe she’ll have him draw up some cease and desist papers.
At the revelation, Sherry looks nauseated, turning to see if it’s true. Based on the look of a mortified Holly, wishing the floor would swallow her up—it’s true. Jackie lets out a small, judgmental, “ew,” at the thought of her idol puking all over a guy’s dick.
Holly huffs, turning to Jackie, “It’s a very normal reaction!” Her high pitched shout garners attention from surrounding students, that only leads her to freak out more, pointing a red polished nail into Eddie’s chest, “This isn’t over, freak!”
She’s gone, heading straight for the girl’s restroom. Most likely to stare into the mirror and make Jackie tell her twenty positive things about her. Her exit is timed right as the bell rings, alerting students to get to first period.
Sherry watches them leave, before letting her gaze meander back to Eddie. She can feel his eyes on her, he’s waiting for her to leave with them.
When she meets his gaze, he’s uninterested, he quirks an expectant eyebrow—a challenge. He’s anticipating a similar interaction to what he had with Holly, there’s no other reason Sherry would stick around.
“She’s at home…,” she says quietly, seemingly not in a rush to get to class—a rarity with her kind. Usually you and your girlfriends end each school year in the top ten of your class.
He nods slowly, simply watching her, trying to decipher why she’s still here—why she’s talking to him, especially about you.
“You made her happy, I could tell.” It’s simple. Seven words that tilt his entire world on its axis. How did Sherry know? Why didn’t she tell anybody? What exactly does she know? He knows you wouldn’t have told her.
If she knows about him, does she know about you? About where you live? He knew you and Sherry were closer than the rest, but you made it seem like no one on this earth knew your ‘darkest secret.’
She saw it? Sherry—a complete outsider—saw it? She saw what he thought he saw? She saw how you felt for him? If at least one other person can confirm it, it can’t be a hallucination, can it?
He has so many more questions, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t know if she’s safe. She obviously hasn’t spread the word thus far, but he doesn’t know her. He wishes you were here to help him navigate this—hell, he just wishes you were here. He wishes he could take back what he said last night, he wishes he could give you the pick necklace back—the one around his neck right now.
He lied about throwing it away, he’d never do that, especially not now. He put it on this morning as a pitiful attempt to feel close to you, like he could carry you with him. Maybe he could carry the soft version of you with him—the one he gave the pick to in the first place—and it would give him enough confidence to talk to the other version of you. But you never showed.
At his nonresponse, Sherry continues. “When you weren’t fighting, you made her happy. The insults you two throw at each other recently aren’t as cutting as they were before, that’s when I figured,” she nods understandingly—no look of disgust, just laying out the facts, plain and simple.
Eddie can’t take his eyes off her, his mouth slightly parted in awe, he wants to know more. He wants to know everything. It’s invigorating to have someone finally validate him, he thought he had truly gone crazy.
What a preposterous notion, that you—a popular cheerleader, 4.0 student, bound for a life of leisure—fall for him. A broke, nerdy, metal loving, drug dealing, three-peat senior. A D- student bound to a life of gas station attendant work—or god forbid—jail.
A random student carrying a plunger as a hall pass passes the two of them, it draws Sherry’s attention. He can tell she’s nervous to be seen with him, it makes him roll his eyes, no backbone.
“She called me last night. She didn’t say much, but I know something happened,” she says quickly, probably wanting the interaction to wrap up before anybody else sees her with the school freak.
He furrows his brows at her comment, he didn’t think you would’ve done that. Not unless you were pushed to it. It makes him feel awful all over again, he pushed you. He upset you so much that you exposed yourself to one of the people you specifically told him could never know. He made you feel that alone.
“She hasn’t been happy for a long time,” the nervous girl mutters, unsure of how much he knows.
He doesn’t like the way she says that, a bleak tone to her voice. He's starting to feel like he should’ve asked you more questions about your life, even if you bit his head off. Maybe he could’ve worn you down for some answers.
He’s starting to realize that despite your curious living arrangement and the unorthodox sight of you working at the Hideout, he’s been navigating this ‘relationship’ like he’s the worst off. As he runs through all the interactions you’ve had with him in the past couple of months, he realizes you never complained about your situation. You didn’t talk about your situation. Whatever the situation was. In fact, you acted like it was nonexistent.
He knew nobody living in a trailer park, thrifting clothing, is going on European summer vacations. But he was too worried about himself—constantly ruminating on the differences between you and him, the class divide—he didn’t realize you and him have a lot more in common than he’s allowed himself to see.
He could kick himself for how deep he drew the line in the sand, how constant his need to emphasize the ‘social stratification’ was. You only pretend to be like the rest, like the jocks and the other cheerleaders. But at the end of the day, you’re living almost the same life as him. The realization makes him want to die. He’s been so stupid.
Sherry seems to recognize the look of anguish on his face and takes pity. “She might kill me for this but,” she takes her backpack off her shoulder, opening it and pulling out a spiral notebook. She rips out a page before scribbling something with a pink pen that has a fuzzy poof on the end of it, “this is her address, go fix whatever the hell it is that you did.”
He looks down at the paper, in pink glitter pen is your address.
A few thoughts fly through his head, the first one is: this girl really doesn’t know anything about me. She doesn’t know that Eddie lives literally two doors down from you. The second thought warms his cold, dead heart just a bit, maybe she does have a backbone.
Sherry doesn’t seem fond of Eddie, but she knows you are. So she risks your fury—which is not for the weak, he, of all people, knows that—and gives him your address so he can fix it. She’s earned a sliver of his respect for this bold move.
“Thanks,” is all he can say, gripping the paper like a lifeline. She nods and hurriedly walks to her class.
-
Eddie spends the day thinking up what he’s going to say to you. As much as he wants to run to his van and break every traffic law to get to your place, he can’t just bust in guns blazing. Especially after how he treated you last night, he needs to get his words right this time.
He doesn’t care if you meet him with animosity, he knows enough—he’s been validated enough—that he believes he can storm the walls of your kingdom. And if he treats the maiden fair, perhaps she’ll accept his token of devotion back. Perhaps she’ll invite him in and kiss him like she used to, maybe she’ll bestow upon him her most glorious smile, the one that lights his fire.
The day flies by and he’s getting nervous as the clock ticks closer to his freedom. When the bell rings, he’s moving with the sea of students bursting to be free of the prison that is Hawkins High.
As Eddie passes the drama room, Gareth spots him while he’s dropping off a new D&D Monster Manual he got for his birthday. He runs out, his hand gripping the side jamb of the door as he shouts at Eddie, “Hey, Ed! I have a question for you!”
Eddie continues walking, wishing the flood of students would get out of his way so he could get to you faster.
“Eddie,” Gareth calls again.
This time Eddie turns his head, still walking, “Not now, I gotta do something.”
He’s a man on a mission and Gareth is not going to stop him.
“Is this about her?” Gareth calls out, knowing this will get Eddie’s attention—plus he’s been meaning to ask him about what happened the other day.
Eddie whips around to face his friend, causing a mild traffic jam. Annoyed students hurry to dodge him before they run into him completely, he moves to the wall of lockers, salmoning his way back up to Gareth.
“How do you know about her,” he questions Gareth, eyes sharp and scrutinizing.
Gareth raises his hands in surrender, not knowing you were such a touchy subject to him. “I don't know anything about her, just–that she seemed…really worried about you the other day.”
“What the hell are you talking about,” Eddie’s losing his patience, he needs to get home to you, or home—and to you. His heart jumps at the thought of you and home in the same sentence.
“When you freaked out…And stormed off…I don’t know, she looked really wigged.” Gareth has no idea what this information does for Eddie. He doesn’t know what Eddie has to do with the most popular girl in school, so he’s having trouble talking about something he knows nothing about. He decides to stick to his observations.
“She even helped me pick up the mess you made, thanks for that, by the way,” he sasses.
Eddie is reeling, you were worried about him. How did you know he was still in school? Did you leave practice to come see him? You met Gareth?
The last thought makes him huff out an amused breath through his nose, he hopes Gareth didn’t scare you off by talking about the big breasted Tiefling character he’s in love with.
“Did she say anything about me,” Eddie eagerly asks. He feels like a teenage girl, wanting to know every single detail about his friend’s interaction with his crush.
“Not in so many words,” Gareth quips, “We just hit the introduction stage when Horrible Holly Hannigan walked in as bitchy as ever. You know, I wonder if she’s got like–a quota or something–of how many days she can ruin.”
Eddie ignores Gareth’s comment, deflating at the useless information the boy seems to have. At least he got to hear that you were worried about him. That’s a good sign. Another person to validate his non-craziness.
“It was really cool, though, you should’ve seen the way she shut Holly down when she went after me! I’ve never seen anything like it,” Gareth’s eyes light up at the memory, giddy to tell his friend all about how the most popular girl in school stood up for him—more or less. “I felt like a damsel in distress,” he chuckles. “Who knew the Queen B would be my knight,” he mocks.
Eddie’s chest puffs up at Gareth’s compliments, “Yeah, she’s pretty cool.” He feels proud. This development feels like it brings good fortune to what he’s about to do, he feels like he’s on top of the world, batting a thousand. His heart inflates at the feeling that a win for you is a win for him.
“I gotta go, dude. I’ll catch ya later,” he pats Gareth’s shoulder before running down the hall.
“Wait, but I actually had a question!” Gareth calls out, arms up before dropping in defeat. He’s never going to get to ask his question.
-
Eddie arrives at his trailer intact, he’s surprised he wasn’t tailed by five state troopers for the speed he was going.
He parks his van slamming the door, looking over at your trailer, he sees another car parked next to yours. He frowns, the car doesn’t look familiar, but he can tell it’s really nice. You must have company, he’ll wait. He can wait.
He runs into his trailer, ignoring Wayne’s shout to slow down. He gets to his room and looks at himself in the mirror. Long curls a frizzy mess, he feels nervous sweat under his arms, and he stinks of the seven cigarettes he chain smoked during lunch out of nerves .
He wants to give you ample time with your guest so he decides a shower will take care of his problems. However, out of pure adrenaline, the shower only takes him ten minutes. Running down the hall, he’s got nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist and hair dripping wet. He opens the front door, poking his head out to see if that fancy car is still at your place—it is.
Wayne yells at him from the couch, shaking his head at his crazy nephew. “Ed! Get your ass back inside! You don’t need a public indecency charge and Mrs. Moretti doesn’t wanna see your bare ass!”
Wayne already has to listen to their neighbor, Mrs. Moretti, complain every time he heads out for his shifts. He started making Eddie stand watch when he’s there, just so he can let Wayne know if he needs to call the plant and say he’ll be late—always leaving out the reason. He doesn’t think they’d understand the importance of avoiding his 82-year-old neighbor.
When Eddie sees that the car is still there, he waddles back to his room. He can wait. It’s no big deal. It’s no big deal. He’ll just take his time getting dressed. It’s. no. big. deal.
Far too quickly, Eddie is dressed. He squeezes out as much water as he can from his curls as he puts in the cream you bought him that one time. You had tossed him the bottle saying, ‘Make yourself decent, will you, I hate looking at frizzy hair.’
He smiles at the recent memory. It was one of your weakened insults, your tone cutting, but the action showed a tremendous amount of care.
He scrunches the product in just like you showed him, his body bent at the waist, head turned upside down. Once he perfects his hair, he reaches for the expensive cologne Wayne bought him for his birthday when he was fifteen.
Wayne had told him that every young man needs a good cologne, he said it would help him with the ladies. Eddie remembers smelling it and thinking it smelled far too rich, he thanked Wayne all the same, and quietly returned to using his cheap Old Spice body spray.
He spritzes it onto his wrists before rubbing it onto his neck, following the actions you performed when he watched you apply your bottle of Obsession by Calvin Klein after you and he got particularly wild in the janitor’s closet at school.
He smiles at the clean smell of the cologne, it’s the same one you found on his dresser behind a stack of comic books. You had gone snooping while he was lazily strumming his guitar—a post-sex curiosity. You picked it up, brushing the dust off of the pretty glass bottle, and lifted the atomizer to your nose.
“Mmm, this smells really good…,” you pulled the bottle back to look at it, it was practically full. “Why don’t you use this?” You turned to show him the bottle, he stopped strumming and looked to see what you were talking about.
“Eh,” he shrugged passively, “it’s too fancy for me. I hear a more rugged scent is in, anyway. Gets you more women.” He smirked, eyes glinting with mischief as he looked at you expectantly.
You snorted at that, “Yeah, like you get women.” You turned around to put the cologne back where you found it.
“I got you, didn’t it?” He was so smug when he said it, batting a thousand—like he did a lot with you recently.
“Shut up,” you rolled your eyes, fighting the smile off your face. Another biting comeback that wasn’t very…biting. You had certainly lost your edge recently.
He relishes the memory—the good times—and looks forward to more after he talks to you. He pulls the waistband of his jeans forward, stretching them as far as the rough material will go before he spritzes some cologne down there, letting the waistband fall back into place.
Just in case. You did say you liked the smell.
He’s been fighting so hard to be respectful this entire time, trying to dilly-dally to allow you and whoever is at your place enough time to catch up and be done. He’s quickly losing that respect, though.
He’s got his dirty Reeboks on, the chain wallet tucked into his pants, he’s prepared to take you out to the diner for a first date once he’s done professing his feelings for you. He jogs out of his room shouting a quick, “Don’t wait up,” to Wayne before heading out the front door. Pointedly ignoring Wayne’s dismissive, grumbled response, “I don’t even know where the hell you’re going.”
He sees the car is still there, but he’s waited long enough. It’s now or never.
He’s walking on the gravel leading up to the front door when it opens, a wide grin stretches across his face immediately, he’s beyond ready to see you.
What he doesn’t expect to see is you walking Jason Carver out of your trailer. His smile is wiped from his face, happiness far from his mind.
His first thought is, ‘Okay, seriously, who all knows about your situation, because he’s starting to think that was just something you said to him.’
The next thought is a poignant, ‘Fuck.’
Your gaze lifts from Jason’s body in front of you on the stairs of your trailer to Eddie’s. He sees the shock written deep in your eyes, you almost look both sorry and scared at the same time. It makes him feel utterly sick to his stomach.
He’s now kicking himself for all the time he wasted getting here. It feels like his insides are outside his body, he feels so bare under your sorry gaze. His face must give it away because it only makes your brows furrow in pity.
“Freak,” Jason greets, “what are you doing at my girlfriend’s place of residence?” It’s taunting, a mocking hand gesturing to your trailer. Eddie’s eye twitches at the way he says it, clearly making fun of where you live.
Then it hits him. Girlfriend? Since-fucking-when?
All of a sudden nothing means anything, left is right, up is down, out is in. He can’t decipher words, his ears feel like he’s holding an empty conch shell to them, hearing a roaring ocean sound in the middle of Indiana.
He was so sure, he was almost positive. Of course, there was always a little doubt, but Sherry and Gareth made that doubt almost nonexistent.
How is the you resting your hand on Jason-fucking-Carver’s back, walking him to his car, the same you he spoke to yesterday? Sure, he was drunk and too busy making you cry, but you seemed normal enough. And now you’re taken? What the fuck.
He realizes he hasn’t moved from his spot, just staring at his plan going up in flames right in front of him, watching his evening flush down the shitter. This was the worst thing he could’ve imagined happening. In fact, if someone had asked him, ‘What is the most preposterous way this could go awry,’ he would describe this exact scenario.
You lightly push Jason to his car, just hoping to avoid an all out brawl. You shiver at his icy eyes when he turns to kiss you on the cheek, donning a smirk on his chapped lips. He’s one smug bastard. His eyes are on Eddie’s seething body as he delicately kisses you.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you mutter, not meeting his eyes. You just want him gone and far away from you, far away from Eddie—who’s looking more radioactive by the second.
He grabs your cheek to direct your gaze to his, “You better be there on Friday, you hear me?”
He’s stern. Not the type of stern Eddie would be—the kind that made your insides melt. No, his kind of stern makes you nauseous, but you nod nonetheless. You’ll go to his stupid fucking party, just as long as he never touches you like that ever again.
Eddie is reeling, he’s positively livid at the display of affection—more like dominance. It makes him sick, he’s pretty sure he could single handedly take down a small army with the ire running through his veins.
Jason gets in his car, quickly pulling out of your ‘driveway.’ The vehicle kicks up dust in your face as he pulls away, not wanting to be in the trailer park longer than he has to be.
You cough, clearing your lungs before you turn around to face Eddie’s fury. He’s shaking his head repeatedly, a deep frown on his face, the pinnacle of vexation.
You’re beyond nervous. Your last interaction with him felt like shit, then you woke up earlier to Jason at your door with a list of demands, having no idea how he found where you live. You’re not having a good day.
“Let me explain–,” placating hands raise in front of your body, you know they’ll do nothing. Eddie’s always been quick to anger, his words shoot to kill when he’s mad, and you’re being held at gunpoint right now.
“No. No. No,” he’s shaking his head repeatedly, looking at you as if his declaration will make the last two minutes wipe from existence, as if he can turn back time and get here before Carver. “Fuck no! There’s no explanation for this,” he angrily gestures to the empty space where Jason’s car once was, the tracks in the gravel he left on his race out of there.
“Please, just let me ex–,” you feel like you’re going to be sick, you can feel a lump in your throat, the foreboding feeling of a breakdown.
“No–,” he physically can’t stop shaking his head, it’s like he’s trying to rid his mind of the image of Carver’s hands on you.
He’s suddenly remembering everything again, his mind conveniently leaving out the good stuff.
Trailer trash, dead or in jail, loser, freak, wouldn’t be caught dead.
He’s starting to wonder if he made some huge cosmic mistake that caused karma to hunt his ass down with a 12-gauge shotgun, or did his great great grandfather piss off a witch causing his bloodline to be damned for eternity. Why is this happening to him? What did he do?
He’s the first to admit he’s not a saint, but he doesn’t remember committing federal-level crimes that would garner such punishment as this.
“If you just listen to me–,” you’re desperate at this point, you don’t want it to end like this. Even though he ripped your heart out yesterday, you recognize that he was coming over to your place just now. The dim light of hope in your heart wants to believe it was to right his wrong, or at least tell you what you did wrong.
“What’s on Friday?” He cuts you off firmly, tone sharp as a knife, clearly not wanting to hear anything but his questions answered.
“What?”
“You better be there Friday,” he recites the words Jason said to you before leaving, “What’s happening Friday? What are you, getting married? I wouldn’t be surprised, I know you like to skip a few steps” he spits mockingly, venom saturating every word.
Your bad day has upgraded to qualifying as the worst day now. He’s belligerent, he won’t listen to you, and he ripped your heart out last night, then he shows up here again today to what—do a double tap? Make sure your heart is good and dead?
So you lose your cool. You’re only human. And it’s so easy to fall back into old habits, especially when anger is easier to feel than sorrow.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Your hackles are raised, teeth bared, you’re stuck in that corner again.
He chuckles humorlessly, “Well it may be too far back for you to recall,” he bites, “but you and I fucked before we ever—oh wait, we’ve never even gone on a date!” He stops mid-sentence to correct himself, his eyes grow even more manic.
“That’s right, yeah—it’s coming back to me now,” he waves his finger in a tight circle near his head like he’s manually jogging his own memory. “You don’t wanna date me, you couldn’t be caught dead with trailer trash like me, right? But Carver–”
You frown at his wording, the emphasis confuses you. He says it like that’s something you’ve called him before—you’ve never called him that, you know better than that. Pot calling the kettle black and all that.
“Eddie-,” you try again but he cuts you off before you can continue, he’s feeling very talkative now.
“But you forget, honey, look where we’re standing,” he stretches his arms out drawing your gaze to your surroundings, a maniacal glint in his eyes. “You’re trailer trash just like me!”
You flinch at the nickname, pain furrowing your brow, you take a stuttering breath in, waiting for his next comment. You lay barbed wire around your walls while he gears up to send more cannonballs your way.
“What do you think your little friends would say about you if they knew? Oh god,” he laughs out, “what do you think they’d say if they knew I fucked you? Not only that, but that you liked it!” He lurches forward at the last comment, like the comment was a physical weapon he could throw at your walls.
You’ve decided you have nothing to say to him right now, he won’t hear you out so you'll let him throw his barbs. You’ll wait until he tires himself out.
“What would they say if they knew how much of a whore you are,” he redundantly asks, his lip curled in disgust, you flinch at the slur. Maybe letting him talk isn’t a good idea, but he’s not letting you get a word in edgewise.
“I mean you’re fucking me, you’re fucking Carver, who else? You’re probably fucking Joe for extra cash,” you reel back in disgust at his accusation. “Yeah, that’s right, I saw you leave his office stuffing that wad of cash into your bra.” He says it with a mocking tone, you don’t even know when he’s talking about.
You’ve never felt so small. “Fuck you,” you grit out, no longer having the willpower to hide the tears falling.
“Oh, you’re gonna cry now? Poor princess,” he mocks, “she has to work so hard to act like she’s not bottom of the food chain. Lying about summer vacations, playing pretend like she’s got money, upcycling hand-me-downs, skipping meals, working at the seediest dive bar in town just for a pretty penny. I know what your friends would say…”
You sniffle, his eyes burn your very soul. The once warm muddy pools are now as icy as Jason Carver’s.
“They'd call you a freak. Just like me. You know, you love to pretend like being with me is beneath you, but I think we’re perfect for each other, baby,” he mocks, his arms spread out like he’s king of the world, shaking his head as he goads you.
Old habits die screaming, to be sure.
“You’re such a fucking loser and you always will be!” You’ve changed your mind, he’s not going to get the floor the whole time. You’ve got some things to say.
He laughs humorlessly, both his hands covering his heart, “Oh you wound me, honey. Is that the best you got? You’re going soft on me, why don’t you go hang out with your little boyfriend!” He turns to walk away, he’s too angry, too heartbroken to look at you anymore.
You don’t bother to correct him, it’s not like he’s in a very trusting mood right now. “What was I supposed to do? You took your fucking necklace back! You said you wanted nothing to do with me!” You’re shaking your head, calling out to him, you’re not done with him yet.
He rears back around, your words give him a second wind. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe don’t fuck the first guy that comes your way! They’re gonna start calling you easy at school, you know,” he sneers, all of his words coming from a place of black, thick, steaming contempt.
That’s it. He’s gotten his turn, now it’s yours.
“You don’t know shit about me,” you grit out, challenging his eye contact. “You will always be beneath me because at least I see my life as worth living.”
He flinches at your words, you always did know how to cut deep.
“I’m not sitting on my ass pitying myself, getting pissed off at everybody else around me who has it better. No, I work for a better life, I make it happen for myself–I will make it happen for myself,” you correct.
“And I know for a fact, you can’t say the same,” you shake your head at him, teary eyes looking him up and down with nothing but disdain.
“I know what people would say if they knew, god,” you chuckle humorlessly, feeling the thick saliva coating your mouth—the kind that only comes when you cry. “I think about it every time I walk into that fucking building. But if they found out and ran me out of town, at least I would still like myself at the end of the day. I could still make something of myself. Could you say the same?”
If you had a mic you would drop it right about now, you’re so sick of men talking at you, telling you what you will and won’t do.
Eddie just stares at you, open mouthed and furrowed brow. He doesn’t even know how to begin to think about everything you just said. You simultaneously insulted him to his core and gave him something to think about. Who needs to pay for therapy when he could just wind you up and let your razor mouth attack him right at the problem center.
You turn around to head inside, looking forward to a night of crying your eyes out, drinking, and possibly dialing a hotline of some kind if you’re feeling real nasty.
But then you remember the comment he made about Joe. Disgust enveloping your body leads you to turn around, needing to set the record straight on that one. You’ll let Eddie think what he wants, you won’t let him think that.
When you turn back around, his eyes are cast downward, if you squinted you could see the watery gaze he directed at the ground. At the sound of your feet turning in the gravel he looks back up, preparing himself for what felt like another well-deserved verbal lashing.
“Not that it’s any of your fucking business,” you scorn, the classic popular cheerleader sneer coming out in your voice, “or that it would even make a difference since you seem to enjoy making up fantastical tales—Joe is my uncle. He took me in when I was thirteen.”
You could hear a pin drop with how quiet Eddie was, his eyes hazy with tears, simply taking in the information—playing back every interaction he ever saw you and Joe have at the Hideout.
You’re tired, your tears dry up. Any fight you have left is quickly depleting as you're sharing the most traumatic experience of your life. “Drunk driver accident, mom and dad were on the sidewalk, guy popped the curb, bye-bye mom and dad,” you finish crassly.
Flinching at the way you say it, he feels beyond awful for everything he said, but more than anything, he just wants to get down on his knees and beg for your forgiveness. He’s forgotten the entire Jason debacle, too hung up on the things he’s said since, the tale you're telling now. He never meant to make you tell such a traumatic story at what is probably the worst time in the history of the world.
“When I turned eighteen, Joe got me this trailer and I inherited my dad’s car. I don’t know what you saw, but I work at the Hideout for the same rate as every other employee there.” You gesture to the trailer behind you, “This is all I can afford, I work every single day to pay Joe back for the kindness he showed me when I thought I was alone in the world. I’m sorry that I like to think I’m worthy of more. And I’m sorry that you don’t think the same about yourself.”
Your voice is small and more broken than he’s ever heard it before. It makes him wish he could just blip out of existence. The pain of causing pain is too great.
You turn around to head into your trailer, locking the door, sliding down the face of it as you shakily hold in the sob dying to break free.
The fire in your heart is out. The flicker of flame was already waning when he let out one last puff of air, effectively leaving your land barren and cold. Your kingdom walls never higher, he’s scorched the earth and salted the ground with his words, ensuring nothing good will ever grow there again.
Part 2
A/N: Like, reblog, and comment if you enjoyed this!! I worked so fucking hard on it lmao please comment. 1 week of planning, 2 weeks of writing, 1.5 weeks of editing.
Tags (people who asked and/or people who seemed interested): @nagaytoe @justalotoffanfiction @hereforshmut @melvin333 @savybabyyy @anukulee
description: the year before law school, you develop a small habit. eddie is your go-to guy. when it turns out he's giving some other girls better deals, you decide to confront him.
warnings: 18+ content, MDNI!!, no use of y/n, reader is in college (about 25), eddie is in his late 30s/early 40s, drug use, consumption of alcohol, drug dealing activities, eddie is a dirtbag, smut, lots of tension, no mention of specific body type, dubcon (both are under the influence, they are tipsy/high), titty play, big dick eddie confirmed, dom!eddie, oral (f recieving), squirting, cum eating, pussy pronouns, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, dirty talk, spanking, degrading, eddie finishes inside, there is aftercare <3
authors note: hey so this has been in my docs since the beginning of june and i've just been chipping away at it. it's unhinged and wild so stick with me <3. remember to like AND reblog, folks. support your fav writers and fics <3
how to help palestine ~ dividers by @cafekitsune
You had been buying from Eddie for 5 months.
And while you have intentionally strayed away from lingering too long in his trailer, he piqued your interest a little too much.
You were in your last year of college, aiming to go to law school next fall. Buying weed would be a thing of the past soon, so you had been going a bit overboard with consumption. You smoked every night, a routine you developed last summer when your boyfriend dumped you and dropped out of school. Loneliness required some sort of substance, so weed was your vice.
You got put in contact with Eddie’s friend first. A guy with long shiny black hair named Argyle. Typical surfer hippie dude who talked like he had a frog in his throat. When he told you that he had to stop selling, he had a kid on the way and needed to leave it in the past. So, he gave you Eddie’s contact.
And from then on, you were Eddie’s favorite customer.
Consistent. Polite. Always had the perfect amount of cash.
But much to Eddie’s dismay, it was always the same interaction.
“Hey, how’s it been?” You would ask with those beautiful eyes, your voice even and confident.
He would look down at you, your baggie already tied up and ready for you to tuck into your small tote bag. “Lots of the same. How’s school?”
“Annoying,” or “Fine,” or his new favorite, “Making me borderline suicidal.”
Your quick tongue was Eddie’s favorite thing. When the conversation strayed, which didn’t happen often, he would drop everything to watch your animated explanations of stupid topics. But he wanted more from you. You were only chatty when something annoyed you, and while watching you get riled up over something was hot, you never gave him much else.
At your last pick-up, you had to talk to someone about the party you were being forced to go to with your roommate. She was adamant that it was good for you to get out at least one more time before graduation. You could not say no to her.
So as soon as you handed Eddie his normal $35, you sprang into ranting about the party.
“I don’t even know anyone going! Except my roommate, and she has this guy she’s seeing. He’s a toolbag who acts like he’s better than anyone, all because he’s going to med school.” You grab the weed he has extended out to you, “So now I’m stuck rubbing elbows with a bunch of underclassmen. And on top of that, I know she’s probably going to try to get me drunk, and I don’t like drinking.”
Eddie’s smirk shifts to curiosity, “Why not?”
“Because alcohol makes me… angry? I guess. I don’t know, but last time I got drunk, I almost started a bar fight. Eva had to drag me out and throw me in a cab.”
He barks a laugh, slotting a cigarette between his plush pink lips. He cups the end with his hand and lights it up. “Well, please call me when that happens. I’d pay to see you fight someone.”
You watch his lips purse and blow out the smoke he inhaled. He wiggles his eyebrows playfully as you shake your head, trying to play innocent.
“I’ll keep you updated. See you in a few days.”
He gives you a polite nod, taking another drag, “See you later, sweetheart.”
-
You were extremely underdressed. Your roommate could only convince you into wearing a lower-cut top, but god forbid you put on anything but jeans.
You are held up in the corner, the music pounding against your eardrums. You had never been fond of house music, and the person in charge of the speakers was only pumping out techno beats and nonsensical lyrics. You are on your third cup of punch, trying to numb yourself to the environment.
You cannot help but eavesdrop on the people around you. One guy was talking about the girl he hooked up with last night to his obviously uninterested friend. One couple is arguing about who would be drinking more and who is driving home.
But one conversation towards the kitchen rings through your ears when the music quiets down.
“I have been buying from this guy… total fucking loser, but God, he’s hot.” The shrill of the voice catches your attention. You knew that voice. Karen Jacobs from your Sociology class. A sophomore who acted like she knew everyone. She was probably the most obnoxious and airheaded girl you knew from school. You turn around, your red solo cup loosely between your fingers.
She’s talking to another girl from class, but you cannot fathom caring what her name is. You walk a bit closer, trying to see if she’s talking about you-know-who. You act like you are grabbing more punch from the pitcher nearby.
“His name is Eddie. Apparently, he’s well-known amongst the frat guys. He gave me a good deal last week when I told him I was buying for a big party. So I did something I never do,” Your heart sinks to your ass. She did not.
“I gave him head.”
You slam your cup down dramatically, anger slowly bubbling up your throat. You want to grab her hair and yank her to the floor, but your rational mind clocks in for its shift.
You need to get into law school.
Why were you acting so defensive, anyway? Eddie was not your special little secret, you know he deals to a ton of people. But this small tidbit about him pisses you off more than you care to ponder for long.
Karen may be an idiot, but you know that Eddie simply took advantage of the situation. Of course, he would take some money off if a pretty girl were on her knees for him.
So instead of dealing with her in front of everyone and forcing information out of her, you decide to direct your attention to the real culprit of your anger.
You push your way through the house, spilling out onto Frat Row and storming down the street. Eddie’s trailer park was right outside of campus and was only about a 10-minute walk.
You are practically speed walking like those old ladies in the mall on Sunday mornings. The pent-up anger you had was only building when you had time to think.
Eddie was about 12 years older than you, give or take. Which means he was about 15 years older than Karen.
Was he doing this to other girls? Giving them discounts for sexual favors? It made your skin crawl, especially since you have established a sort of rapport with him. He was flirty, sure, but never acted like he was expecting something from you.
Were you not good enough for a discount? Were you just so ugly and annoying that he didn’t even think to give you a good deal? Were you paying too much for the weed?
When his trailer comes into view, you stop in your tracks. Were you actually going to confront him?
But then you get a flash of Karen between his legs, and suddenly you are enraged.
You stomp through his lawn, catching a glance inside. He and a couple of his friends seem to be smoking and drinking, with the lights pretty low. You pound on the door, announcing who it was, so you would not scare them too much. God forbid he thinks it’s the cops.
When the door opens, he looks good. Even better than your drunk mind could mock up. His long flowing hair on his shoulders, curly and a bit frizzy. He is tall and mostly always wearing some metal band’s merch. This time it’s a muscle t-shirt, showing off his inked skin. He’s not wearing jeans, though. Instead, he is sporting some baggy black sweatpants and house slippers. It almost makes you laugh.
“Hey pretty girl, everything g-”
You push him backward, weaseling your way inside his home. He is taken off guard for a moment, confused by your sudden intrusion. You look around the living room, spotting Argyle and two other dudes you have never seen before.
“Hey, dude! Been a while!” Argyle says excitedly, stumbling towards you to give you a hug. He is so drunk he doesn’t really catch on to the angry heat radiating off your body. You know you probably look like an insane person, having not said anything to anyone as you shove your way into your drug dealer’s house.
The horror of the situation settles when you realize that if these guys were evil and malicious, you are pretty outnumbered. A pretty college girl is probably all of their wet dreams. Especially Eddie’s, apparently.
You eye each one of them when Argyle pulls away and finds his way back to his seat, finally feeling a weird vibe off you.
“Can I talk to you?” You rumble, looking at Eddie’s conflicted eyes. He nods robotically, gesturing you to the nearby kitchen. His hand touches your arm, only slightly, but it practically sears your skin.
He goes to the fridge, pulling out two cans of cheap beer. He gestures one to you, almost like he’s making a peace offering.
But it’s just what you need. More alcohol.
You snatch it from him, cracking it quickly and taking a big swig.
You have never seen Eddie so concerned.
“Did something happen with what I gave you-”
You put your hand up, laughing like he told you a stupid joke. “Did you fuck Karen Jacobs?”
His eyes go wide, hiccuping up some of the beer he just took into his mouth. You have never seen him caught off guard, and somehow he’s even more painfully sexy.
“Who?” He rasps, shifting so he can lean against his kitchen island. You laugh again, the heat building up around your neck. His arms strain under his half-sleeved shirt, and it is making you insane.
“You gave her a good deal. She gives you head and you give her a big ole’ supply of weed.”
He waves the hand with the beer, placing it haphazardly on the counter. “Who told you this?”
“Karen Jacobs.”
He huffs, shaking his head. Eddie did not want you to find out about his escapades with random college girls who practically threw themselves at him. He assumed you would not associate with a bunch of bimbos like them. You were smarter and way more mature than any other girl he let jerk him off.
He would probably never see them again, and if he did, he would never offer them the infamous discount he gave them originally. But none of them came back, ever. So sure, he would fuck around with some of them to ease the tension he felt in his jeans sometimes.
Any pretty girl could wrap their lips around his cock and bring him to completion.
But with you, he worked up this whole scenario in his head that he would replay in his head every night as he jerked his cock. You looking so beautiful and ethereal under him, your soft skin practically malleable like clay as you bent to his every move. You would give him some snarky comment that he would retort to, and he would put you in your place.
He was a perv.
Formulating the perfect daydream to fist his cock to. And they always star you.
Silence fills the kitchen, and all you can hear is the movie playing in the living room. Eddie’s friends have grown silent. You take the rest of the beer in your mouth, swishing it around, trying to disassociate the disgusting taste.
“I knew she would go spouting shit off to people,” He mutters, his hand going behind his neck to scratch awkwardly, “Why does it matter to you, anyway?”
That’s your confirmation.
You scoff, crushing the can and tossing it in his sink. You stumble towards him, looking up at him with disdain. He stands up straighter, like he is sizing you up. But in actuality, he is preparing for you to fall over.
“You’re disgusting,” You emphasize the word by dragging it out, pushing his chest with your pointer finger. Your mind draws a blank when you realize how warm he is and how cold your hand is against his Metallica t-shirt.
The beer hits you all at once when you watch his face twist up into a smile. He got you right where he wanted you, and he did not even have to try. It was like those scenarios he mocks up at night.
You bring your other hand up, going to push him harder.
Instead of doing that, Eddie stops you and grabs your wrist, his grip tight. “You never answered me, sweetheart. Tell me why it bothers you that I’m fucking my customers, hm?”
By the look on his smug face, he’s insinuating something.
You clench your jaw, tilting your nose up at him. “I don’t like that you’re taking advantage of girls.”
He clicks his tongue, seeing right through your act. “I don’t think that’s why you stomped your way into my house at almost one in the morning. Tell me. Why. Does. It. Bother. You?”
You search his face, wanting nothing more than to slap the look off his face. He appears to be so proud, like he’s got you right under your thumb. Your eyelids are heavy, your crossfade suddenly making your body feel looser. You try to wiggle your arm out of his grip, and luckily, he just drops your wrist.
“I never got an offer like that.”
Your looseness must have found your lips. You did not anticipate or even second-guess those words; they simply just tumbled out.
He thought you looked so sweet. Feigning innocence when he knew exactly what you wanted out of coming here. The glint in your eye was making it too obvious.
His hands find your waist, backing you up against the counter again. The coldness of his rings on his left hand presses into your skin as your shirt rides up over your jeans. “You want me to make you an offer like that, sweets?”
You don’t know what to say, so you just shake your head ‘no’.
“No? Then why does it bother you that I give that deal to other girls? You insecure? Jealous?”
You hate the way he’s speaking to you. And he’s doing it on purpose. The teasing had you admitting what you desired from him. Because while Eddie was a dirtbag, he was dead set on hearing precisely what you wanted.
But for some sick reason, the tone of his voice makes your pussy throb.
“I just like having options.” You shake your head at your own statement, biting the inside of your mouth like it was going to stop your drunk honesty.
Eddie’s eyebrows fly up, covered by his messy bangs. “Options, huh? You want me to give you options? I deal to you and you hardly speak when you pick up.”
“You ever think it’s because you’re a bit intimidating?” You practically slur, leaning towards him a bit, “Your whole demeanor screams scary drug dealer.”
He laughs, cocking his head to the side like he is trying to get to the bottom of you. And he was.
You don’t expect him to lean towards your ear. You never had him this close to you. Your entire body buzzed with anticipation and a bit of fear.
“Maybe because I am, sweetheart,” He whispers, his fingers rubbing circles into your waist, “But it makes you feel better, I only keep around the ones I really like.”
You shake your head, trying to push down the moan that almost leaves your throat. “You say that to all the girls you deal to.”
He tuts, looking down between your bodies. He’s specifically scanning your body and the way your shirt is riding up a bit. “You’re the only girl who is consistently coming to me. The only woman.”
You know it is so wrong for him to make you feel this way. A man so much older. A man whose only job is selling young kids weed and who knows what else. But the attraction you felt for him initially has somehow morphed into something even more toxic. Possessive.
“So what you are saying,” You ponder, jutting your hips out towards him, pressing your stomach into his, “Is you like me?”
He looks down at you, his eyes even darker than the usual chocolate brown they always were.
Yep, right where he wanted you.
Up and down. His fingers trace the belt loops of your jeans, moving away from your waist down to your hips. He is taking his time, ensuring the break in conversation is long enough to melt your brain.
His hands reach your butt, his expansive palms grabbing a handful of your cheeks, “You are a perceptive one, huh?”
It’s becoming real the more he rubs his hands against you. The longing you had for him turning red hot and insatiable. You lock your hands around the back of his neck, pulling him down to you forcefully.
Eddie is not expecting how eager you are to kiss him, and it shakes him to his very core. You slot your lips against his, humming when he returns it for the briefest moment. But he pulls away before you can push your tongue into his mouth. Your heart sinks when you open your eyes. He has this unreadable expression.
“You aren’t running the program here, sweets,” He mumbles, his eyes practically glued to your shiny lips. “Now, I’m gonna go tell the guys the party is over, and you’re gonna go to my room and sit pretty on the bed for me. Can you do that?”
You do not even hesitate to agree with him. With a jerk of your head, he walks you to the hallway right off the kitchen, gesturing with his shoulder. “Last door on the right.”
-
His room is in disarray, but it’s not dirty. He just had a lot of tapes and records scattered about. One side of his room’s walls is decked out in posters from bands like Metallica and Dio. On the other side, only one thing hangs. A beautiful red and black electric guitar, practically collecting dust on its display hook. You stared at it while you listened to Eddie kick his friends out, not giving them an explanation as to why.
He was trying to fuck one of his customers, per usual, you thought in your excited but tipsy brain.
He’s trying to win over a younger woman he really likes with his dick, he thinks as he switches off his TV before jogging to his room.
When he walks in, you are silently seated on his unmade bed.
“You okay?” He mutters, his eyes scanning your figure, hoping to gauge your body language. You had simply been overthinking the fact that he pulled away from your kiss, even though his lips felt so perfect pressed against yours.
You suck in your cheeks, biting the edge of your lip. “You play guitar?”
He can tell you are a bit nervous about the prospect of being with him, but you seemed so sure of yourself in the kitchen. Surely five minutes of being alone did not give you a different take on the situation. No. That cannot be possible.
He tries to play into the conversation, hoping to bring you some ease.
He looks over his shoulder, looking at his Charvel Surfcaster. It had been years since he picked it up. He assumes he could still play. Muscle memory was a hard thing to forgo, even when you get old.
“Did. It’s been ages.”
He sits down next to you, taking up a bit of space next to you. You get a whiff of his deodorant, something that is sort of wearing off. He smelled like the beer you just chugged, weed, and a natural musk, which usually turned you off. But for some reason, with him, it made your mouth water. You look to him through your lashes, a small smirk creeping across your face.
God, you were too perfect to be in his bed.
Now, he was second-guessing this.
You pull him out of his thoughts immediately when you find your voice again, “You know what they say about guitarists and their fingers?”
His head snaps completely towards you, eyes wide and looking at you incredulously.
“You little minx,” His hands find your body once more, this time, on your clothed thigh. “Yeah, I know what they say.”
He drums his digits across your leg as you lull your head back. “Is it true, then?”
“‘Course it is.”
-
His fingers. God, his fingers.
You had observed the ring-clad hands plenty of times, but now they are real and tucking themselves behind your neck. When the coldness of the rings press against your collarbones, the moan that escapes your lips is unprompted.
“Mm, there she is,” He tuts, his trimmed nails suddenly scratching down your chest to your boobs, “I just have to touch you right and you melt.”
Eddie has been with countless women in his life. The last time he remembers being this thrilled and invigorated to fuck someone, it was the very first girl he ever slept with. A cheerleader from his high school, a girl who was a year younger than him. She was beautiful, he remembers. But she was rigid and inexperienced, just like him. So as soon as the jitters wore off, he realized how unimpressive the entirety of his first time was.
He spent the rest of his young adult life ensuring he never felt a come down like that again.
But in recent years, he had felt more insecure. His body is not being what it used to be. The pressing factor of time really affected how he saw sex. He would take whatever he could get, and honestly, it did not do much for his confidence.
When you came along, with your beautiful smile and quick wit, he did not expect to be so enamored with you. You were not desperate to impress anyone, and you took no shit from anyone, which was rare coming from a girl your age.
Plus, you were so fucking hot.
His fingers expand over your tits, kneading them carefully as if to gauge your reaction. Lucky for him, you were exceptionally reactive to guys playing with your boobs.
“Is this what you wanted?” He presses, his face tilting a bit towards you, “Me to touch you?”
His breath is hot over your face, and you practically melt looking into his darkened eyes.
“Yes,” you sigh as his hand trails down your shirt, slowly pulling up the hem.
He does not take his eyes off of you as he speaks, not even to watch your shirt ride up right above your tits, “Why didn’t you just say something, huh? I scare you that much?”
You truly cannot help but be snarky to him. “I don’t fuck drug dealers.”
The teasing tone is not lost on Eddie. He chuckles darkly, finally looking at your tits so perfectly pushed up in your bra. He cannot help be hiss at the sight, completely taken by the pretty lace that lines your cleavage.
“Mmm, that’s right. My pretty girl is gonna be a lawyer one day,” He hums. He leans towards your jaw, his lips pressing ever-so-softly there. His right hand scoops under your bra’s cups, getting a handful of your boobs. “You sure you don’t wanna get some of this tension out before you take that bar exam?”
You moan, your voice shaking so bad you cannot even mock up a response. He notes your trembling lip and continues to toy with you, rolling your hardened nipple between his pointer finger and thumb.
“I think fuckin’ this drug dealer would do you some good.”
Eddie is going to send you into cardiac arrest if he keeps talking like that. It makes you feel a bubbling in your stomach that you have never experienced with any other man in your life.
You needed to respond, distract yourself from how good he’s already making you feel, “I won’t take the bar for another couple years.”
He pulls away from your jaw, where he’s made the choice to smother you in long, drawn-out kisses. “Oh, so I can have you until then?”
You scoff, eyes flickering between his. You two are practically panting into each other’s mouths, unable to contain the unbridled desire any further.
You make the first move, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him down onto you. Your lips colliding in a passionate, hungry kiss. His hand slips out of your bra and instead cradles your back against the bed. As you slide your tongue into his mouth, you can taste the Marlboros he smokes. The shifting of your legs only hints that he’s painfully hard in his jeans. You can feel him against your thigh.
He pulls away first, making work at your clothing. First, it was the jeans, sliding them down your legs like he was trying to inspect you for a wire. His hands slide up and down your legs once you kick them off your ankles, trying to commit the look of them to memory. He needed this entire experience burned into his depraved brain.
Your shirt flies off on your own accord. The bra goes right after with his quick fingers aiding in unclasping the back.
You were only in your blush pink panties, sitting perfectly over your curves. As he sits up a bit on his crackling knees, he spots a small wet spot right where he imagines your pussy meets your asshole.
His cock has never been harder.
Eddie’s eyes cannot work over your body quickly enough. Every glance, there’s something new he notices. You were like a marble sculpture at the Louvre or some shit. He had no comparison.
A dream.
His lips capture yours in another bruising kiss as his hands return to your sensitive chest, humming into your mouth. He switches between tugging on your nipples and squeezing the fat of your boob itself as he slots one leg between your thighs.
You are a whimpering mess already, and he hasn’t even touched your pussy.
“Greedy little girl,” He says dryly, his lips drifting further down to your chest. He has never been with someone so reactive to his touch, and he’s borderline obsessed with the way you respond to him. The moment the hot air from him breathing touches your areola, your hips shift upward. “That’s all you are, huh? Greedy.”
“Please, Eddie,” You whimper, your hands finally reaching out to him, working your hand down to wear his pants are still constricting around the outline of his dick. You are getting even more impatient for him. But he’s not easily swayed. He brings one hand down to your wrist, squeezing it.
“You come into my house demanding an explanation on who I‘ve been fucking,” He laughs, pursing his lips a bit to blow on your peaked nipple. He tightens his grip on your wrist, pinning it beside your hip, “and now you want to dictate how this goes?”
You try to wiggle out of his grasp, but to no avail. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It wasn’t, huh?” He lowers himself, his lips brushing across your tit, “I told you who’s taking the reins here, didn’t I. And I don’t like liars.”
Eddie got his doctorate in dirty talk, knowing it’s something that drove the younger women he slept with insane. But usually they just moaned in return. Not you. No, you were returning the nonsense back to him, which made you even more special. You were fearless.
“Okay,” You manage a giggle, your pride slipping through the cracks. The alcohol was still pumping through your veins, and lying had not worked once in this entire interaction. “Maybe it was.”
“Yeah, maybe,” His lips land directly around your nipple, suckling at it and teasing it with his teeth. Your hips jut upward, your core rubbing against his stabilized leg. It’s maddening.
Eddie released your wrist finally, placing it on your waist to balance himself a bit more. He swung his leg inward so both his legs were between your thighs as he assaulted your titties with licks and bites.
You moan his name, your free hand now retreating into his long, dark curls.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to treat you,” He reassures as he comes up for air. You whine, grinding your clothed pussy against his legs. He presses his hand on your lower stomach, successfully preventing you from humping him any further. He uses his other hand to cup the heat between your legs, “Well, her, good.”
His fingers gather your slick with your underwear, the sound of it alone occupies the otherwise silent space around you two.
“She’s messy, ain’t she?”
He chuckles at that, completely removing himself from on top of you. He needed to feel you bare against his naked chest, so bad. His clothes felt like they were choking him and holding him back from having the real fun he wanted with you.
Seeing him shirtless sobered you up quite a bit. He has more tattoos than bare skin. His tummy is softer, hinting that he probably likes beer more than he likes water. He was a man with a lot of time on his hands. You're sure it gets tedious, drug dealing to the same crowd of people every day. And being drunk is more exciting than being sober.
You are lying on your back, elbows pushing you up as he strips down. He’s been dying to see you like this, sprawled out, practically drooling over him. He never thought he would see this day come to fruition, but here it is.
He shoves his pants down his legs, and his tented briefs give you a better idea of what kind of night you were about to have.
He’s so hard it almost hurts. If you dared to wrap those pretty hands around his length, he would bust immediately. When he pulls at the waistband of his underwear, his cock springs free. His red tip is leaking a bit, which only makes you gawk. He was gorgeous, long and girthy. Probably the prettiest dick you have ever seen.
“For fucks sake,” You lull your head back, pushing your naked chest up for him to eye, “Eddie, what the fuck?”
“What?” He asks, mockingly. His eyes never left your chest.
You tilt your head forward again, looking at him with brows raised. “I’m not ready for… that.”
He chuckles darkly as you gesture to his dick. Eddie knew exactly what you were referring to, but he could not help but enjoy the dazed look you gave his lower region. He shakes his head as he shoves his briefs down his legs completely. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you a bit warmed up. But once I feel like you’re ready, I’m gonna fuck you all night.”
You shift your hips to accommodate him again, but instead of getting between your legs, he drops to his knees beside the bed. You immediately know what he’s trying to do, and you start to stray away from him.
“I don’t like getting head.”
He had never had a woman reject him so bluntly. By the look on your face, he can tell the dislike is simply from not enjoying it in the past. He dips his head down, his lips close to your inner thigh. “Why’s that, sweetheart?”
Drunk honesty at it again. “Every guy who’s ever given me head sucked at it… and it just felt weird. They all complained before I could even cum.”
He shakes his head, leaving a wet kiss on your sensitive skin. “But… you haven’t gotten head from me.”
“Eddie-”
His face pressed into your pussy like it was magnetized to be there. He inhales your scent as his lips drag across your still-covered slit. You sit up further in your propped-up position, jaw unhinged as you watch his perfectly pink lips toy with you.
“Let me just give it a shot, yeah?”
He waits a moment, lingering teasingly over your panties. You have never felt a desire to watch a man eat you out, but you simply could not look away. He eventually pushes your panties out of the way, looking at your glistening cunt like it was a modern marvel.
His tongue sticks out as he presses forward into your slit. Like before, it feels odd at first, but Eddie’s eagerness to taste you changes the feeling. He is not just licking and hoping you feel something, no, he’s putting his entire being into devouring you.
Your essence is already making Eddie feel more intoxicated than he already is. The cries leaving your lips only egg him on further, shaking his head back and forth between your pussy lips.
His fingers join the mix, dividing your folds and exploring around your already pulsating hole.
“Gotta get this wet cunt all ready for me. You think she’ll be ready for me, hm?” He teases as your hips manage to shift closer to his face. His nose is bumping your clit as his fingers and tongue assault your cunt.
It does not feel like it felt when other guys touched you like this. Eddie's motions are meticulous and well thought out. It felt like he knew your anatomy better than even you.
“Need it now." Your voice cracks as he speeds his fingers up, curling them up towards the ceiling. The rush of heat spreads out amongst your body, but the fireworks in your stomach start to erupt as he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking and swirling around it.
His suction gives up for a moment, but his fingers don't let up, “Oh no, you’re gonna cum for me first. Need you to soak my hand, pretty.”
Your eyes lock onto his as you watch him return to work. Those sparks you felt earlier only burst into complete bliss the moment his slurping of your cunt intensifies.
Watching you fall apart is the most beautiful thing Eddie's ever seen in all his years. Your body glistening with a light sheen of sweat as your widened eyes tighten shut. Your head falls back against the bed as your mouth falls agape, his name slipping off your tongue over and over again.
You gush all around his fingers, the excess falling into his mouth like a sweet nectar he never wants to swallow. He just wants to have it take over his taste buds forever.
In your blissed out state, Eddie's fingers leave your raw hole and reach up to your lips. He leans over you, rubbing your cum all over your mouth like some sort of lip gloss.
He smiles at you as you wrap your mouth around his fingers, eyeing him as you suck his digits clean, “Knew she just needed the magic touch.”
You roll your eyes at that, disassociating from the fact that you are licking your own cum off his fingers. You had never done something so dirty, but you were under some sort of spell with Eddie. He made you feel like you could be your true, vulgar, unhinged self. The confidence you never could bring to the bed with any other man you knew.
He sits up from his spot, and you see his red tip leaking all over his own sheets. He sees you eyeing him up, which only makes him flinch. You sit up, reach out, and slowly take him into your hand.
He gasps at the slightest bit of friction against his cock. Your hand looked so small wrapped around him, and he swore to whatever God was there that if you continued those ministrations, he would cum in seconds. You just looked so innocent in that moment. It was short-circuiting his brain.
He finally locks in on the softness of your skin on your stomach, trying to ground himself a bit. “Do I need to use a uh.. condom?”
You pump him painfully slow. It's about to drive him insane, so he pushes your hand away before you can even answer the question. His ringed fingers lock around his length as you think about the logistics. You were too far gone to really care about the specifics, but your horny brain wanted to feel his long, uncut cock deep inside you. Every ridge.
“I just need to feel you in me.”
He pushes your legs back a bit as he settles between your thighs. “Raw it is then, sweetheart.”
He lines himself up with your leaking hole and plunges straight in. A moan rips from his throat as you practically scream at the way he opens you up. His grunts are guttural and severely hot.
The pressure as he presses into you is maddening. He fucks you slowly at first, his eyes laser-focused on your chest as your tits bounce when he fills you to the hilt.
You smile at his hands locked around your waist, like he is trying to anchor himself somewhere. You inhale and exhale unhurriedly, managing the intensity you feel as he splits you open.
"You can speed up a bit," You mumble, your hands pressing into his heavily tattooed shoulders. He looks between your bodies, and a groan bubbles up from his throat.
His pace picks up, and his eyes return to the way your tits jiggle under his force. He is hitting you so deeply that you cannot focus on anything else. He just feels so good.
He leans down while plowing into you, practically folding you in half. Your knees are practically at your shoulders, it feels like. He captures your right nipple in his mouth, sucking you as his hips slap against your ass. The overstimulation makes you clench around his cock, which only makes him sigh in pleasure.
"Feels good," You mewl as your hands search for the nape of his neck, under the mess of curls that surround him. He lets go of your tit with a pop and smiles wickedly at you.
"God, she’s so fuckin’ wet, sweetheart," He says with his teeth clenched. God, you felt so good, he thinks to himself. His hips snap faster, "Can you hear how sloppy your pussy is for me?”
You throw your head back at his obscene words. You never knew how much words could affect you until they spilled out from between Eddie's lips.
"You feel so good, oh my god!”
His head dips down, and he bites your jaw as his hips do not falter from their rapid tempo.
“Yeah? You’re just squeezing me so good,” He grumbles in your ear. The mixture of the sweetness of your perfume and the bitterness of your sweat infiltrates his nostrils, and he could bust at the mere fact that you still smell incredible. He slows down, even when he does not really want to, because he feels like his heart may burst from his chest. “Wanna try another position?”
He pulls out swiftly, throwing you onto your stomach like he was simply flipping a pillow to the colder side in the middle of the night. He helps you into doggy, pushing your back down so you are arching your back dramatically.
You, on display before him, is a sight that he wants to burn into the back of his eyelids.
His hand gropes your ass before slapping it roughly. You clench at nothing, which is very obvious from the way you shift your hips.
"You just do whatever I ask, huh?" He chuckles to himself, taking his dick in his hand and slotting it between your folds. You lay your arms out in front of you, like you are surrendering everything to this man.
"You said you were taking the reins," You mumble into his sheets, "Please."
He sinks into you, then pulls all the way out. "Mm, keep begging."
"Please, I want it."
Again. Pushes in, pulls out. This time, he slaps your ass again.
"Say what you want, sweetheart." He holds your hips taut, his fingers expanding over the very tops of your thighs. "Come on, say it.”
“Fuck me, please.”
You hear him chuckle at your plea, his hands tightening around your flesh. “Atta girl.”
He slams into you, slipping right into your hole without an ounce of friction. You do not even have time to think, only moan and feel everything he is offering you.
Every moment that passes, he swears he’s going to lose it and fill you to the brim. His cockhead is so sensitive as it is wedged so perfectly inside you. You felt nothing like he imagined, in the best way possible. His body falls over you slightly as his knees start to bear a bit too much of his weight. It gives him the perfect position to use his fingers again and play with your sensitive bud.
When his hand creeps down over your mound, you feel goosebumps spread throughout your practically on-fire body. Every nerve was ablaze in pure pleasure, so when his fingers graze your clit, it’s game over.
“Oh fuck, Eddie, yes!”
Hearing his name pour from your mouth, your voice trembling and raw, is enough to make him lose all sense. His only focus now is making you cum as quickly as possible, just so he can. “That’s right, scream my fuckin’ name. Tell everyone your drug dealer is bullying this pussy.”
“I’m close,” You cry, your muscles starting to tense and give out. You feel like your legs may slide out from under you. Your stomach practically drops to the mattress as your orgasm takes over.
“Yeah, cum for me. Good girl.”
His praises make you clench even harder, which pushes him over the edge. One final thrust forward and locking both hands onto your hips again is enough to have him empty himself deep with a choked-out moan. Even with the final thrust, he’s rocking his hips slightly to try to prolong the experience. The grip he has on you will leave marks, you know that for sure.
You two stay like that for what feels like 20 minutes, just basking in the afterglow of the experience. He takes his time backing out of you and falling to your side. Your entire body lies flat on his bed as your chest continues to heave.
You try to sit up, but Eddie does not allow it. His touch returns to your body, but this time, it’s your waist. He pulls you into his bare chest, kissing your shoulder blade as you become flush with him. It’s something so domestic and soft that you flinch.
You two lie there, not saying anything for a while.
When he finally does move, you immediately miss his hands. You peek your eye open to see him getting up and grabbing his pants from the floor. He pulls them up to right below his tummy and shoots you a grin.
“Let me get us some water.”
-
You decide the moment he leaves the room that you need to pee and get the hell out. There was no way he was going to allow you to stay anyway. This was not some hookup after a nice date; this was a hookup with your fucking dealer.
You knew better, and yet you still did it.
And it was so good that you wished you could forget it already. Coming back here to pick up was only going to become a huge issue because your body would long for this to happen all over again.
Now you knew why the girls had talked about him. Even if they were just sucking his dick, it was quite the sight, and he definitely knew how to use it and his words.
You made a mistake. A drunken mistake.
You slip out of his room and to his bathroom. It was surprisingly well-maintained. No piss stains in the grout.
You sit down on the toilet and plot how you thought this was all going to go. You just had to be honest with him.
“Yeah, Eddie, great dick and all, but I never meant for this to happen.”
Which was a lie, because you fully wanted this to happen. You had from the moment you saw his tattoo on his hipbone when he was grabbing something for you one day in his cabinet.
He was hot, and you could not deny that anymore.
What you really needed was a cold shower to try to muddle through these thoughts, but you could not just randomly start the shower and start using the man’s body wash. So you settled for splashing cold water on your face until you thought of something.
The moment you do the second splash, the door creaks open, and Eddie walks in, pushing his pants down his hips again. You freeze, the water clouding your vision through your soaked lashes.
He goes to the toilet, eyeing you curiously. “You good?”
He starts to pee, right beside you.
It’s his house. Plus… his cum was still dripping out of you.
That was his rationale behind taking a leak beside the hot girl he just plowed into.
You clear your throat, reaching for the tan hand towel that was haphazardly hung beside the sink. “I should probably get home.”
Eddie finishes his business before shaking his head. “Nah, you’re staying tonight.”
He had no intention of letting you leave his bed tonight. He was a bit offended that you left it before he could bring you back your ice water.
Girl’s gotta pee.
Your stomach flips. “What?”
You are not scared, or even intimidated. You are just confused. And a bit too tired to resist too much.
But to Eddie, he could not be clearer.
“Get back to bed. I left you a shirt to wear.”
-
You do not expect to sleep so well. His blankets are softer than any blanket you have ever owned. His pillows have a weirdly nostalgic smell, like cotton and cigarette smoke. And he is wrapped around you, his hands rested on your waist, right under the Metallica shirt he gave you to wear to bed. For your own dignity, you put your underwear back on, even when Eddie sighed, watching you pull them up your legs.
Eddie slept like the dead. He usually slept well enough, but it was like your presence gave him all the comfort he ever needed. You lie on your back when you sleep, and Eddie curls in next to you, slotting his face right in the crook of your neck. So all night he got to inhale your sweet natural scent.
He woke up before you. He could never sleep more than 5 hours, so when the sun peeked through his shredded curtains, his eyes lazily opened to stare at your side profile.
You were probably even more beautiful in this light than any other way he had ever seen you. He had to peel himself away from you, his fingertips buzzing as they swiped across the hem of your panties as he stood up.
He needed a cigarette.
-
You do not wake up until an hour or so later. Eddie’s side of the bed lies bare as you stretch your arms out and orient yourself.
You remember everything.
His touch is burned into your flesh, like a gaping wound you could not sew back together.
You get up, trying to find your pants. When you get half dressed, you open the door that leads to the hallway. You hear the TV on and smell the scent of freshly brewed coffee. As you peer into the kitchen, you see him standing there shirtless, his pajama pants hanging low over his hips.
For fuck’s sake.
“Mornin’,” you mutter, dropping your shoes by the front door. By the looks of it, you would be staying for a bit. Eddie turns to you, his entire body getting flushed at your dazed and sleepy expression.
“Good mornin’, sweetheart.”
He saunters over to you, his hand reaching out for your hip. You do not move an inch, letting his warmth spread across you like a second skin. He looks down at you, a smirk spreading across his chapped lips. He was so devastatingly handsome, especially in this role as a doting one-night stand.
He cocks his head to one side, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips without even a second thought. You cannot help but giggle as he swipes your bottom lip with his tongue.
“I made you a bagel,” He says, his eyes fluttering open to gauge your reaction. You look at him curiously, trying to rack your brain as to when you told him you liked bagels. They were the only breakfast item you could truly stand, and you were staunch about your hatred for breakfast. Had you mentioned that to him?
“Oh,” You sigh, your hands using his forearms for balance, “You did?”
“I don’t have cream cheese, but I have butter,” He explains, pulling you back with him to the same kitchen counter he was standing over when you came in.
The moment you step foot near the fridge, you get a flashback to the last time you were held up in here. His hands feel so different than they did last night as they grace your skin. While still charged, they were more delicate and kind to you.
Almost like he read your mind, he hands you the bagel wrapped in a paper towel. “You told me how it’s the only thing you can stomach in the morning. I picked some up a couple of days ago cause I started to crave one. But I like mine with peanut butter.”
You bark out a laugh at his statement, taking the bagel over to where a carton of butter is sitting out next to the stove. “Peanut butter?”
“I don’t like the judgment,” He states, walking up behind you and gently swatting your ass. It makes your heart leap out of your chest as you spread the butter out on your lightly toasted bagel.
“I was just questioning your choices.”
He leans down to your ear and whispers, “And judging me.”
“No, just questioning,” You hum, lifting the bagel up to your mouth and taking a bite. Surprisingly, not terrible with just butter.
He retreats to his coffee maker, pouring himself a mug full of the dark liquid. No cream. No sugar.
Your stomach starts to feel like a rock with the carb-heavy bread you are biting into. Maybe it was the anxiety you felt about being so domestic with Eddie. Everything just seemed so simple and laid out, but you felt his tension in the very core of your being. A tension you could not ignore.
You crunch another piece of your bagel off, as Eddie faces you again from across the kitchen.
“Now what?”
He furrows his brows under his curly mop of bangs, “What do you mean?”
Your stomach sinks, and so does his. You both are lost navigating this situation. You both want the same thing, to keep doing whatever this is, but you did not understand how that would work. Eddie was not confident enough to say how he thought about you every day. And you were too fearful to speak the truth about your bubbling emotions about him.
“Do we…”
He stops you with his hand, his mug pressed against his lips as he slurps up a sip of the steaming liquid. He swallows slowly, shaking his head at your fallen and unfinished question.
“How about we smoke and talk about?”
You take another bite of your bagel. Smoking sounds great. Perfect way to settle your nerves.
“Are you sure you have enough for me?”
“I reupped yesterday, beautiful,” He grumbles, putting his mug down and returning his hands to your waist, “Don’t be so needling.”
A smile creeps across your face as you reach up and pinch his cheek. “You aren’t so big and scary, are you?”
“Only when I need to be, sweetheart. Only when I need to be.”
np taglist (tagging folks who have asked or ppl i just love and want to share with <3): @mrsjellymunson @mediocredreams @amanitacowboy @thejordiverse @wdsara48 @emxxblog @abitchyouhate
Gif by the lovely @loveu2themoonandtosaturn, dividers by @/cursed-carmin
Eddie Munson x Cheerleader!Reader
Summary: It was a normal day for Eddie. Arriving at school late, getting to class late, leaving lunch late. But then an anonymous note, inked in glittery pink gel, fluttered from his locker. And he knew whose it was. No doubt about it. Because it was the same handwriting as the short message on the last page of his junior yearbook. Carved in glitter, color faded from the amount of times his thumb had traced every curved letter, every dotted ‘i’ and crossed ‘t’. It was yours. It was you. Calling him to the forest behind the school. And he had never been so early.
Or
You seek Eddie out, maybe for a little herbal relief, maybe for something more. And who is he to turn down such a pretty girl? But how will he fare having to skirt the edges of your loose-lipped truths?
Word Count: 11.1k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, PiV unprotected sex, semi-public sex, cream pie, virginity loss, dirty talk, nipple stim, fingering, oral (f rec), mention of masturbation (m), insinuated hypothetical pregnancy, virgin!Reader, semi-experienced!Eddie, fluff, mild angst, very mild dubcon (both R & E are high), Eddie’s POV, drug usage (weed), feelings, insecurity, fem pronouns, if I missed anything lmk!
Song Recs: Evie by Shoe, Palomino by FINNEAS, I Want Somebody Badly by Jeff Buckley
A/N: Everyone say thank you and kiss this anon’s forehead for the idea. Also, it’s been a minute since I’ve freshly written a full fic and not just posted a draft from the summer, so be nice to me.
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“You’re pretty.”
The words catch Eddie off guard. Especially since you haven’t spoken in two minutes, utterly transfixed by the sky above. Or maybe it was the falling leaves that stole your attention; scarlet and gold floating on the autumn breeze. Delicate. Pretty.
Either way, he hadn’t expected to hear such a sentiment from the Hawkins High cheer captain.
Although, he hadn’t expected to be here with you, at all, as a matter of fact.
Not in the woods behind the school.
And definitely not alone.
It’s unnatural.
You, laid out on top of the picnic table. Him, hunched on the seat below, straddling the old plank of wood. Too close.
Closer than he’s ever been.
It’s aberrant, really.
But maybe, just for today, everything is topsy-turvy.
Maybe it will go back to normal soon. You in your bubble, him in his. Two separate worlds. Two separate planets orbiting the same rust-bucket town. The same miserable high school. At least for a few more months.
Then he’ll get the hell out of this place. Just drive and drive and drive until the scent of manure no longer singes his nose hairs. Until the cornfields turn into beaches. Or mountains. Or shit, even swamp lands. He’s not picky.
And you’ll be off at some college, probably.
Find a braincell-deficient jock and pop out a couple of kids. He’s picturing a picket fence somewhere there, too. Possibly a station wagon with that dumb wooden interior. He hates that wooden interior.
And you’ll forget he ever existed.
And he’ll—
“So pretty.”
It’s lower this time. A whisper. Like it was only meant to stay inside your head. Like you weren’t even aware you said it.
And maybe you aren’t aware. Maybe the weed is hitting you hard. Too hard. It’s only your first time.
So maybe he should pretend like he didn’t hear. Just continue to act like the metal box in front of him needs reorganizing.
Re-reorganizing, even.
Whatever it takes to not notice the way your pleated skirt has ridden up, bunched at the tops of your thighs.
Because he hasn’t noticed.
No, he’s not aware of how smooth your skin looks, or how the cherry blossom scent of your lotion seems to intoxicate him more than the shared joint, now forgotten, smoldering between your fingers.
He has no idea what color panties you’re wearing, and absolutely no clue what powder blue fabric looks like when it darkens.
Baggies to the left. Try to prop them up against each other. Bottles to the right. Line them up. Shit, the baggies won’t sit upright. Maybe lay them flat? Then, if he moves the tin—
“Do you think I’m pretty, too?”
Fuck.
Your heavy-lidded gaze is directed at him now, and he finally feels the high. Or maybe it’s just your effect; the kind of haze that leaves him wondering what new strain has him seeing a real life angel. The kind of feeling that sends his heart away at a dead sprint and his mind swimming in a tank of molasses.
Everything is muffled. And there’s only you. And those eyes. Waiting.
“Y-Yeah,” he chokes, hoping you don’t see the heat blooming beneath his cheeks. “You’re pretty. ‘S kinda your thing.” He shrugs. “Popular and pretty.”
It’s a deflection. It’s bitter. It’s crashing through the bubble with an unceremonious pop.
Because yes, you’re pretty. Everyone knows it. Everyone.
Him noticing isn’t any different.
You blink. “But do you think I’m pretty? Just pretty.”
He pauses, wondering, for only a split second, if this was all some kind of elaborate rouse to incriminate him. If, any minute now, Andy and Jason are going to step out from behind one of these trees, itching for a fight. Because Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson is tainting the precious queen of Hawkins High. His no-good, low-life, burn-out presence might as well stain your skin like black tar.
But he nods, nonetheless. A calculated risk; it’s shaky, not insincere.
And that seems to be enough because your painted lips twitch into a small smile. It’s a breath of fresh air. If only his heart would stop pounding against his ribs like it’s trying to get out. To get to you.
“I told my friends, once, and they didn’t talk to me for a day and a half.”
Your smile is gone now. And your gaze is empty as you turn back to the tree tops.
Eddie shifts in his seat, feeling more and more like he’s fallen through the looking glass.
“T-Told them what?”
He’s not sure he wants the clarification. Not sure he wants to understand. Because it doesn’t seem like it’ll work. Like he’ll never truly understand if you say what he—
“That I think you’re pretty,” you mutter, turning to him again, a simple pout weighing your features down.
Fuck.
“We were talking about crushes, and they said theirs. And they were so…excited…. And Heather was trying to convince Jackie S. to tell Patrick how she felt. And I wanted to feel it too.”
He can barely breathe, so he stays silent, just letting you speak to no one in particular. Because he’s not here.
Not now.
Not on this planet.
Not in the same reality as the girl he’s pretended not to watch since the middle school talent show. The girl whose perfume somehow lives in his mind, though he’s never bathed in it longer than a shoulder brush through the halls. Not that girl, not in this reality.
Not you. Telling him he’s pretty. No way—
“—wanted to hear what they’d say. Like if they would tell me we’d look cute together, or they’d say they’ve seen you looking at me, or something, and maybe there’s a chance.”
Fuck, he’s low on E.
And these damn baggies don’t organize well—he should really label them. And Reefer Rick has probably laced this new, stupid supply with something because there’s simply no conceivable way—
“But they just looked at me like I said something insane. Asked me if I was joking. They didn’t believe me at first—”
He snorts, twisting the skull ring around his finger until the skin underneath starts to heat. You’re silent now, and he almost doesn’t want to look. But he has to. So he does.
Your polished nails, the lipstick stained joint, thousands of wool fibers bending and yielding to the curves of your body. Then that pout, your eyes. A frown.
The baggies of pills, the weathered wood; carved initials giving way to new grain.
“You don’t believe me, either?”
It’s so broken sounding, he has half a mind to lie and say of course he does. Of course he believes you, resident queen of Hawkins High—the girl who prances through school with five guys, minimum, trailing after her, lovesick and delusionally hormonal—are telling the God’s-honest truth. That you have somehow taken a liking to the town pariah.
The people’s princess has woken up this day and decided she’d like to bestow upon him, of all people, the greatest charity he could never repay, nor even begin to deserve.
And you’d say this exact thing stone-cold sober. Sure.
He could say that.
“Um—” he clears his throat, repeatedly dragging a dirty Reebok on the ground until a pile of curled leaves starts to grow, “I believe…uh, we’ve probably had enough.”
Before you can make a move to stop him, he plucks the joint from between your fingers, ignoring the shock of your touch.
The faint sizzle of embers being extinguished on old wood is the only sound that fills the air. That, and the rustle of wind through the trees.
He can feel your eyes on him as he licks his fingers and pinches the end of the roll. It may very well be laced, but he’s not the wasteful type.
And anyway, he’s got plans later. A date with his right hand and the well-loved porno mag he’s made some…changes…to. All while he pretends not to remember how your lips wrapped around the very same joint he hopes will last him long enough.
You sit up suddenly, swinging your legs over the edge of the picnic table. He nearly knocks his metal lunchbox off the seat, scrambling to avoid the brush of your skin.
“Do you not like me?”
The words are filled with accusation, woven by insecurity, and Eddie feels insane. Clinically. Terminally, even. That’s not a thing, but given his luck, he could be the first man, ever, to die from a hot chick coming onto him.
Because what the actual fuck? You’re looking at him like his very existence is a puzzle to you. As if you can’t imagine why in the world he’d be second-guessing your confession.
He clears his throat, again, but chokes on his breath the second you slide down next to him, your skirt creeping impossibly higher before settling properly. And he’s up in a flash, like only the heat of you near him is all it takes to burn. And God, does it burn.
“N-No! No, I, um, I—I just don’t know you.” He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “Basically just met you today, really.”
He could almost kick himself, the way his voice jumps an octave he’s certain only liars can reach. And you seem to hold the same belief, your eyes all but say as much as you stand to follow him.
Leaves crunch under his shuffling footsteps, and you pause, as if realizing the space between is carefully set.
It’s a choice he’s fighting to make, just as he’s fighting not to look at you. Though, one is admittedly easier than the other.
“I mean, not really. We’ve been going to the same school since, like, sixth grade—”
He shakes his head, correcting, “Your sixth; my eighth.”
Bewilderment overtakes your frown, and he understands the semantics appear meaningless to you, but they keep him up at night. When the hours tick by and delusion creeps into the edges of his foggy mind, thoughts of fate start to sound more and more sane.
“My mom even made you that casserole when your uncle was sick.”
Oh, yeah.
That.
He remembers that day. Thinks about it when the delusion turns sour and his conscience wants to remind him what an embarrassment he is.
He remembers perfectly how he heard your heels clicking from down the hall. How he took one look through the small hospital window, saw you in your Sunday best and booked it to the en suite bathroom.
How he left Wayne to fend for himself in a state of utter confusion, never having seen his nephew move so fast. How he hid in the small space, surrounded by porcelain and that chemical smell that still makes his skin crawl. Just so he wouldn’t have to face you.
So he wouldn’t have to watch you charm his uncle, lift his spirits like you do everyone.
No, he only had to listen and imagine what shade of lipstick you chose to match with your outfit. Because that was way easier than seeing the cruel fluorescent lights fail to hollow you out like it did everyone who entered that godforsaken room.
Yeah, hearing the raspy laugh of his uncle, followed by your airy giggles through the surprisingly thin walls was a cakewalk compared to what it would have been had he been forced to smile and nod along.
Act as if you and he lived the same kind of life. As if one wasn’t a plunder and the other a jaunt through the daisies.
Eddie paces, unable to let his twitching muscles rest. “Yeah, but what does it really mean to know someone, you know? Uh oh! I’m gettin’ philosophical now!” He chuckles, but it’s strained, and your frown comes back, unmovable this time. “Probably the weed.”
His words are stilted, and you seem too aware of this performance, but he will press on with forced amusement until you believe him. Or at least until you let him be; go on back to your bubble. Leave him to suffocate in his.
“Are you high? I’m high. I think we’re both really high. It’s so funny, it’s like I don’t even know what I’m saying— Blah!” He flails about, already planning on checking himself into Pennhurst after this. “This is so crazy! We probably make no sense right now.”
You cross your arms, trudging back to the picnic table. The breeze lifts your skirt as you plop down, and Eddie turns away. Because he has to.
“I’m not that high and neither are you.”
It’s that damn pout that’s going to do him in.
Curls twist around his fingers as he tries to hide behind his hair. “No…no, I’m pretty high.” He nods. “‘Miss Hawkins 1982’ is sitting here, tellin’ me she’s got, like, what—a crush on me?”
“‘S more than a crush,” you mumble petulantly, but for his sanity, he elects to ignore it.
“I mean, shit! I didn’t think weed had hallucinogenic properties, but you know.” His shoulders shrug in defeat, and he still can’t look at you. “Learn somethin’ new every day!”
Your head cocks to the side. “So you don’t believe me?”
Eyes wide as saucers, he wonders if this is what it would feel like to explain the sky to a mole.
“Of course I don’t believe you! You sound crazy! I mean you’re…” He searches for the words, but how does one sum up almost a decade of watching? Of wanting— “You. …And I’m me.”
It’s softer. Lower. Just where he should be. Because really, you’re the sky. And he’s just a burrower. Too afraid to leave the caverns he’s carved in his mind, even for warmth. For light. For a smile that doesn’t shine—
“Right…” Your mouth pulls, dim, and the huff of breath sounds derisive, like you can’t possibly pass it for a laugh, but still, you try. “You’re you, and I’m me—”
He nods along, internalizing the sound of his own words on your lips. If you believe it, that will be enough. It will be enough.
“Just boring…me—”
The sentence drips with resignation. As if it’s a truth you’ve cuddled up to long enough for the feelings to subside. Roommates with your own distaste. A years-long relationship molded into resentment. He feels sick.
“What?”
You resituate yourself, pulling inward, and if you could transform the atoms in the air, Eddie thinks there’d be a wall already reaching above the highest branches.
“No, I just— It makes sense.” You tug at your sweater until your hands are almost hidden, and regret nips at his bare skin, colder than the breeze. “It’s totally true; you’re so cool—”
He swallows the words, but they catch in his throat. Unusual and untrue. And despite his quiet, “Cool?” that slips out, coated in disbelief, you carry on, adding brick after brick.
“You’ve got your band, and that game you love to play—”
Now that’s just strange.
“D&D?” he mutters, blanching at the sentiment. Because, yeah, he thinks it’s cool. But he can count on one hand how many other Hawkins residents think the same.
You perk up a bit, and he feasts on the split-second of sunlight. “Yeah! That’s the one. And you literally run a club for it. That’s, like, the definition of cool.”
It’s the high. It’s the marijauna in your system. Either that, or you and he have vastly different definitions of cool—
“And your music taste! I hear you drive up to school all the time; you’re always blasting that metal stuff! It’s so…” your eyes wander, as if searching for the right word and his mind fills in the usual blanks: loud, shitty, annoying, satanic. “unique!”
You’re too good. He’s decided it. Not because of the popularity, like he had chalked it up to before. This is different. It’s pure.
And he’s tar.
“You know, if I had a nickel for every time someone told me my music taste was…unique, I’d be broke,” he huffs, crossing his arms like the act will protect against your budding smile, growing back like the first bloom of May flowers.
“Well, I’m sure they just haven’t tried it yet.” And you’re so sure. He can hear the optimism in your voice and it’s deafening.
But then, it’s like time reverses, and in comes the April shower to drown the delicate bud; you retreat into yourself, again. Smile fading, insecurity rearing.
“I’ve never… I mean— I’ve never really tried it before, either.”
Now you won’t look at him, and the insinuation of your words alone is enough to haunt him.
With a sigh, he closes the distance, sitting beside you on the bench. For a moment, he only listens to his own pulse. The rushing in his ears. He waits for the confidence to speak, unaware it’s a bus that will never come.
But impatience gets the best of him, and he decides to walk it.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel— It’s just— I just—” He groans, watching the thoughts pass him by while he fails to hang onto even one. His skin feels too tight and he’s certain the only solution is to peel it off his miserable bones. “I don’t know why I am the way that I am.”
The admission rings out like a shot in the autumn air, and the silence that follows lands like an atom bomb, breaking the sound barrier in a mushroom cloud of mortifying truth.
He doesn’t know why he said it.
Why he thought cutting himself down while you’re bleeding makes some sort of difference. How it could possibly count as some kind of balm to your wounds.
But you wear your wounds well. And truth leaks from you without loss. It pools without inhibition. Not yielding, but seeping. Filling the cracks in him—the tunnels that quake—with something malleable and pure. Not viscous and sticky. Not like tar.
His head hangs low, eyes following the way your thumb smooths over your wool skirt. Then his gaze tracks downward, and he wishes it wouldn’t. But your skin looks so soft, and he traces the curving terrain until he sees your pearly-white Keds digging into the dirt.
You could probably make it to China before he finds the right words to fix this.
“You know, I’ve never had to convince a girl not to like me.” The quirk of his lips doesn’t change the tone, despite his best efforts.
You cross your ankles, old wood creaking under you. “No?”
It’s simple. Gentle. You’re humoring him. And it’s a kindness he can’t afford, but you give it to him anyway, charity case that he is.
“No.” He huffs, something like a snicker but without the joke. “Usually, it’s the opposite.”
More atomic silence. And he starts to wonder if he ever actually learned how to behave properly. If he fundamentally misunderstands how to have a conversation.
Or maybe he was just swapped at birth with an alien whose sole purpose is to elicit discomfort. And maybe there’s a human version of him out there, travelling among the stars, charming and suave, dripping with bravado. Yeah, that’s probably it. That’s what he’ll—
“What’s the argument then?”
His brows furrow, and he swings his head to look at you. But the second his eyes meet yours, he has to force himself not to flee. Not to make a coward’s retreat.
“What?”
“The argument,” you respond coolly. “How are you gonna persuade me not to like you?”
God, he wishes you’d stop saying it. Maybe it’d be easier to hear if it didn’t sound so earnest. If it didn’t sound like it came from a well of truth.
His foot taps on the ground as he thinks, hands flexing restlessly. “Well…I guess I kind of thought the everything about me was argument enough.”
You stare silently, and his flesh might as well be made of a cellophane the way your gaze seems to expertly track the gears turning in his mind.
“But clearly not,” he murmurs.
Your lips quirk. “Nope.”
The glint in your eyes should scare him. Should shake him to his core. Because there’s something about this particular glimmer…
With the determination of a predator poised to attack, or a vulture itching to pick him apart, you watch. Quietly. Waiting. It’s the kind of look only the helpless are on the other side of. He should be terrified.
But he’s not. His hands aren’t shaking out of fear, and his stomach doesn’t flip out of nerves.
No, it’s something else entirely.
Your chin tips, and your smile curls around the words. “To ensure a fair hearing, the court must consider all evidence; Mr. Munson, you may proceed.”
His grin stretches, and he turns his body the slightest bit towards you.
“Okay,” he nods, pondering the laundry list of reasons he has locked and loaded, ready to go. Who’s the lucky winner? What’s the bare minimum he can share without mortally wounding his pride—well, more than it already is. “Alright, well, sometimes I forget to wear deodorant, and I end up smelling really bad.”
Before he has a chance to regret his choice, your laugh drowns out every doubt. It cracks through him with an unbearable weight, leaving behind splintered shards of bone instead of prison bars. His heartbeat sounds louder now.
And for a moment—only a moment—he forgets why he said anything at all. He forgets the point. He forgets that the melody floating from your lips doesn’t belong in his dysfunctional orchestra.
But the urge is there. To hear it again. To be the cause.
Your eyes squint from the size of your smile. “Shut up.”
Locked in your gravitational pull, he moves closer—minutely, and he wouldn’t if he could help it.
“No, I’m serious! It’s bad! That’s why I gotta leave school early sometimes, I start to smell like vegetable soup by 2 p.m.”
His grin is stuck as he watches your head fall back, the melody growing stronger, lodging somewhere deep in his brain. Between cobwebs and old, out-of-tune earworms. He imagines bottling the sound and building a shelf just to hold it.
“You’re an idiot,” you huff breathlessly, the word not carrying the same sting it usually would if it came from anyone else. Because there’s no bite to it. No teeth, even.
He leans in before he can stop himself. “Ah, see, that’s a good one, too! I’m an idiot!”
But the melody quiets, and the violins screech a nasty response as your smile starts to fall.
“No, you’re not.”
It’s firm and final, like you truly believed it even before it slipped from your lips.
“Yes, I am,” he says, soft yet steadfast. “I’m a three-time super senior army crawling my way to a ‘D’ in Mrs. O’Donnell’s class. And I’ve had two full tries at it.”
You cock your head, eyeing him closely. Then—
“Well, practice makes perfect. Plus, I think it’s totally your year.”
Your smile is back and so is the warmth in Eddie’s body. If he had any sense, he’d steer the conversation elsewhere, because somehow, you’ve managed to flirt with him over his tragic academic history. You’re too powerful. You and your honeyed words, so sweet and thick, he could choke if he’s not careful.
He shifts, but can’t bring himself to move away. “Okay…what about this—I wanna do music.”
Your brows raise and he can tell you see through his pitiful attempt.
“Well…you’re in a band,” you shrug. “I kind of already knew that—”
“No, like, professionally. That’s what I wanna do. I wanna go to L.A. and, I don’t know, like, get a record deal and shit, and just make music.” The light still shines in your eyes and he knows you’re not getting it. “No college for me, no office job, no suburbs—no picket fence kind of life.”
Your gaze never strays from his. “Eddie, that’s not a bad thing. That’s—that’s inspiring.”
God, you’re making this hard. Especially when you look at him like that—like he’s something to be enamored by. Something worth looking at. Something pretty…
“No,” he shakes his head, clinging to the reality where you aren’t leaning closer to him, where your soft, perfumed skin doesn’t brush against his rough, bargain-bin jeans. “No, it’s a pipedream. It’s basically me begging to live in a van for the rest of my life because you and I both know it will never—”
“Eddie,” you cut in, grabbing his hand, “let me save you the energy. There’s nothing you can say that will stop how I feel. This isn’t a new thing. I’m not going through a phase. It’s not just a blip or a crush— I like you, Eddie Munson.”
His heartbeat slows, skipping every third thud like an old record, and he now knows the weight of your hand in his.
And for the first time since his fingers brushed yours while passing the joint, he can’t look away. No amount of self-control or misplaced willpower can drag him up from the depths of your imploring gaze.
“I like you a lot. You’re sweet,” and his face must’ve twitched because you grin and add, “When you’re not trying to act all tough and broody.”
Cellophane. He’s complete cellophane around you. Weak and pliant and see-through. His posturing means nothing, and he wonders if you always knew that.
If every snide comment to the jocks came with a footnote in the smallest print only you could read: I’m jealous they get your time. They don’t deserve it.
If every breezy look elsewhere gave him away as you’d walk past his table in the lunchroom, swaying skirt billowing in the winds of his repression.
“—and you make me laugh, and you’re honest.” Your hand squeezes his and he can’t quite bring himself to hold it yet. To open up. To keel over and admit defeat. “I just feel like everyone here…pretends to live the life they think they should live. But you don’t do that. You just live. And I think that’s beautiful.”
Your chin tips low and he has a near physical reaction from losing the heat of your attention.
“I think you’re beautiful.”
His mind whirs, sirens blare, but they’re silent. Unhelpful. Useless. Exactly what he feels like in the wake of your confession. And the only thought he can hold onto long enough to realize it’s just as useless is: he should buy a lottery ticket, or something.
“I—”
He watches you shift, doesn’t hear you breathe.
“I…think you stole my line…”
The pitiful excuse for a chuckle comes too late. Too weak to sound genuine, but just strong enough to deflect. Because that’s what he’s good at, right? Deflecting? Distracting?
Rejecting, apparently. At least that’s how you seem to take it, the way your hand slips from his so easily. The way your shoulders hunch and your legs squeeze together.
Small. You’re making yourself small for him.
And he’s just too unsteady. He’s not firing on all cylinders, not since you clipped his wires a ways back. Somewhere around you’re pretty and I like you. Just left of I told my friends and down the street from you’re cool.
“Sorry. That was…a lot. God.” Your frown is back and you turn to say something, then give up before you even start. A beat. Then, “I—I’m sorry if I scared you off with all of that.”
You say it as if the moment’s done. As if he’s not still clinging to your words with a white-knuckled grip.
And you retreat.
Not in any real way.
No, you’re still sitting next to him, still closer than ever before, but now, chipping away at your nail polish seems to be far more interesting than anything he could offer.
“Well…I’m still here…” he tries, unsure.
“Yeah…. You’re still here,” you echo quietly.
Showing mercy to your manicure, you shove your hands into your lap, twisting your fingers up. He recognizes the movement. The attempt to banish the need. The need to touch. He’s felt it too. Feels it now.
The bricks stack higher as your wall grows; a structure never meant to be scaled.
But he’s a burrower.
“You know…” he ponders, forcing the humor from his tone. “I’m starting to think maybe it’s not the weed…”
That gets you.
He hears the melody again, sees your wry smile.
“Shut up,” you whine, shoving his chest.
He moves fast and with grace as he traps your hand with his, holding your palm just over where your first laugh torpedoed his ribcage. Where the prisoner waits.
“Your heart’s beating so fast,” you whisper, voice full of awe—the kind that quickly begins to carve away at his weakened flesh.
He huffs, low and earnest. “Yeah…. The prettiest girl in Hawkins just told me she likes me and there’s nothing I can do about it. You’re lucky I haven’t gone into cardiac arrest over this.”
You smirk, and he thinks it might just kill him. Like actually.
“Hm, well, now I feel like I’m kind of missing out on that…”
He snorts, his grin stretching wide. “Oh, yeah? You want me to keel over right here, right now?”
Your smile turns demure and he knows it’s a lie. Then, you give an innocent shrug that can’t even fool him.
“I mean, I’m not saying I wouldn’t be extremely flattered—”
He jolts suddenly, grunting and groaning, curling his fingers tighter around your hand as he falls back against the edge of the wooden picnic top.
You gasp, turning to prop a knee on the bench as you lean over his stiff body. “Oh my God, medic!” Your empty call echoes in the air, amusement bubbling just beneath the surface. Then, your voice falls to a low mutter. “Ohh, what do I do, what do I do? Damnit, I should’ve paid more attention in First Aid.”
Eddie convulses some, really driving the near Oscar-worthy performance home. Then he peeks an eye open, choking out, “M-Mmm-mouth.”
Your mask slips as you smirk, leaning closer. “Sorry, what was that? I didn’t quite catch it over all the dying.”
He slumps even more, the table digging beneath his shoulderblades as he sputters, “Mmm-mouth-to-mouth—”
You sit back, chewing the inside of your cheek and leveling him with an assessing stare as he twitches. “No…that can’t be it…”
Both eyes open as he brokenly utters, “No, it definitely is— With tongue! The tongue helps—”
You snicker, “Oh, yeah? It’s a necessity?”
He squeezes your hand. “Yeah, big—big necessity.”
You lean in, so close, and his mind turns to static as your perfume invades his senses.
This is it. It’s going to happen. Almost a decade of dreams that left him waking up in sticky discomfort, and he’s going to know the taste of—
“See, I just don’t remember that in the course,” you shrug, pulling away abruptly. “Mouth-to-mouth, sure, but adding tongue?”
One last shot, he reaches into the sky dramatically, convulses, then slackens in a lifeless heap, accented by his best death rattle.
He hears you call out, some half-assed plea that wouldn’t convince a soul, but then everything stops. Your lips slot against his, soft and plush and timid, and you might as well have used the paddles, the way his system shocks into action.
His hand finally releases yours, but you don’t move it, and he settles a gentle grip on the back of your head. Heavy enough to beg for more, soft enough to leave room for an escape, if you so choose.
But you don’t. Instead, your tongue glides along his top lip—a teasing kind of sweetness he accepts gladly, thankfully. He responds in kind—in hunger.
He can taste your cherry lip gloss, hear your surprised hum. It’s a tiny sort of sound he swallows with a groan of his own.
Then the pressure is gone. The taste, the noises—all gone. The music has stopped and the dizzying dance comes to an end with a blinding grin.
“Oh my God, it’s a miracle,” you pant, smoothing your palm up his chest until you reach skin.
He sits up, dazed, and you don’t move away, just letting him hover close like the proximity isn’t debilitating.
His next words slur out before he has a chance to think of a smoother line— “Have you ever considered becoming a doctor?”
And you laugh. And he’s learning that maybe you don’t want smooth. Because if you did, he certainly wouldn’t be your first call, and you wouldn’t be so quick to serenade every dumb comment of his.
So he thanks whoever rents the big house in the sky that you have a thing for burnouts and tries not to choke as you slide onto his lap, your pretty skirt splaying out across worn fabric.
Your lips find his again, your fingers get lost in his hair, you don’t bother hovering, and he starts writing a mental Last Will and Testament.
Jeff will get his Sweetheart, Mike will get his D&D manuals, Dustin will get his cassette tapes, and Gareth will finally get those twenty bucks he’s been whining about since last summer. He’ll leave it to Grant to dispose of his stash, and in payment, he can have the stack of porno mags under his bed.
Though, he might just give them away whether he dies or not, because he’s pretty sure, with the way you’re pressing down on him, they’ll soon be rendered useless.
Goosebumps rise along heated skin and something prickles up his spine as your nails rake through his curls. His mouth works against yours, a mind of its own as its aim widens, and he’s suddenly nipping down your jaw, tasting the tang of perfume on your neck.
Your chest racks with heavy, panting breaths and noises that sound like earnest attempts at his name. It’s intoxicating. His lips swell from struggling to keep up with his greed, but he can’t stop. There’s a burning kind of ache deep within him, and it’s growing.
His hands find their way to your hips, and he can’t tell if it’s you who moves freely, grinding down like you’re searching for something, or if it’s him and the ravenous need he’s not certain can be controlled.
“Fuck—”
“Eddie,” you call, tightening the grip on his hair until he groans. His cock flexes, straining against the oppressive zipper of his jeans and missing a kind of warmth he’s itching to know.
“Hm?” he grunts into your neck, barely aware. He’s pretty sure he could devour you whole. But then again, he’d much rather savor you, pick you apart and feast on your supple flesh for ages. The smallest little bites until your sweet noises grow louder and louder; scratchy and desperate like the mindless roll of your hips against denim.
“E-Eddie—”
Your voice pitches up, his name breaking on the crest of your movements, and you hunch toward him like the pleasure is a weight your shoulders can’t possibly bear.
And something twists in his gut then, something raw and hungry.
He wants to hear that again. Hear his name shatter on your tongue as his hands explore beneath your dainty skirt. He wants to feel the vibrations of your moans as he kisses every inch of you.
“Mm, yeah, baby?”
“I want— Want you,” you grit out, like the words take effort you can barely muster.
“Fuck— I know, I wan’ you, too. So bad. So fuckin’ bad.”
If it were any other time, he might feign control. Might deepen his voice with a confidence he doesn’t have. But this is not just any other time. It’s you, in his lap, whispering needy little pleas into the air like it’s obvious. Simple necessity. Like he’s not just a warm body and you’re not picturing someone else.
His fingers curl into the waistband of your skirt, and it’s as if you remembered there was more to be said because your hips stall and you press against his chest.
He swallows the disgruntled whine, and accepts your direction. Doubt creeps into the fog of his mind, but you don’t leave him time to get lost when your thumbs smooth over the stubble on his jaw, the worry in your eyes outweighing his.
“Eddie, I, um, I want—you,” you finish stiltedly, looking at him like you’re waiting for the penny to drop. “But, I, uh, I’ve ne—” It spins. “I don’t really—” And spins. “I mean, not that I’m, like—” And spins. “I’ve just never really—”
It drops, a metallic clang bouncing off the walls of his skull, and suddenly he feels like he shouldn’t touch you at all. His hands hover over your hips and the something-molten deep in his gut turns out to be much more familiar than he thought. Hot, bubbling, careless and incessant in its need to stain. To contaminate.
“Never?” His brows furrow, trying to decipher the discomfort on your face. If it’s him—if it’s the tar—he might just leave town now. Screw graduation. Screw a diploma— “Like never ever?”
Stupid question. At this rate, he should look into surgically removing his foot from his mouth before he tries to speak next—
“Guess I was just…waiting,” you shrug, thumbing the hem of his shirt. Then your movements become less innocent as your nails trail against his skin. So light, if he weren’t acutely aware of everything you do, if his stomach didn’t twitch in time with his restless cock, he wouldn’t have caught it.
“Sweetheart,” he almost warns, feeling like he misconstrued this moment for something serious, when clearly, you’re toying with him, spreading your palms along his waistband like you can’t see him shiver. Like you can’t feel his length straining beneath you, flexing against its jean prison, reaching for the warmth of your core.
“S-Sweetheart,” he repeats, the endearment sounding more and more like a plea as you rake your nails through the wiry curls just below his navel.
You go on, apparently undeterred by his fraying control. “I’ve been on dates—”
He doesn’t care. His eyes track yours and the glide of your tongue along kiss-bitten lips.
“Guys have tried—”
Okay, he cares. What?
“I’ve just never really—wanted to.”
Fuck.
You grind down, passing the motion off as adjusting your position, but Eddie doesn’t trust that gleam in your eyes. And you confirm it in the way your palms smooth down his arms until you press his hands to your hips. Making him touch you. Contaminate you. You encourage it, even. Wrapping your grip around his wrists as you guide his hands beneath your wool top.
“But it’s different with you.”
He shudders.
“Sweetheart.”
It’s certainly a plea, now. A cry for mercy as your fingers return to the sensitive skin just above his waistband, travelling up, up, up until he’s entirely covered in goosebumps, and he worries you can feel the pitiful call of the convict in his chest.
“I don’t want to. That’s not what it feels like—”
God damnit, he’s so confused and all the blood rushed from his brain long ago. There’s nothing up there anymore.
“‘S not like that. ‘S like,” you lean in close, letting him feel the words against his lips before he ever hears them, “a need. Like there’s something missing right now.” You roll your hips and he chokes on the breath he was holding. “And I think— No, I know, if I could just—feel you…inside me—I would be okay again. Better.”
“Oh, f-fuck,” he groans, thrusting up with the coordination of a muscle spasm. He lets his forehead fall against yours in an attempt to gather control. “You—you can’t just say shit like that.”
You peck his lips and he chases the small affection. “But it’s true. I don’t wan’ anyone else. Just want you. Inside me.”
“Jesus Christ,” he grits out, trapping you in a kiss that borders on consumption more than anything sweet.
He can feel you everywhere: on top of him, in his hair, under his shirt, sinking claws into his sides; your touch is kindling to the fire raging low inside him.
Suddenly, he’s reminded of the foiled condom he removed from his wallet just the other day. The old thing was practically useless, worn down and crumpled from years of sitting idle in between the folds of cracked leather. But something is better than nothing, and now he’s cursing his past-self for his terminal case of realism.
The clink of metal draws his attention back, and he hadn’t noticed your lips leave his or how your hands have grown eager, already past his belt and now fiddling with the button on his jeans.
“Wanna feel you, Eddie. I need to,” your honeyed whines wash over his body, sending a buzz through his veins. But then the purring sound of his zipper sliding open reminds him—
“Shit,” his hand wraps around your wrist. “Wait, I don’t— I don’t have anything,” he admits lowly, miserably.
You smile, kissing around his mouth like you’re drawing the shame out, and him in. “It’s okay…. I just want you,” you repeat, firmer this time. “All of you.”
And something inside him rumbles, something sick and starving. Once-weak, but now growing in strength. It’s mean and sharp, with teeth that can cut through steel and an appetite that can devour innocence whole.
It’s not unfamiliar, this beast. He’s known it for ages. It’s an old friend. A confidant. Something to speak to in the darkest moments, but never to trust. Something to surrender to during the sweatiest nights, when his hand cramps but the need still aches. Still hungers.
It’s got an imagination, too. Twisted as can be, it preens at the thought of possession, of staying. Of skin stretching and bones shifting, of curly-haired children that have your eyes and his smile. Soccer practice between label meetings, the sun beating down on hot sand as little feet kick at his back. A ring with weight and a necklace to match.
It’s like a plague on his thoughts. But it’s not. Not really. Because he doesn’t have to fear the lies anymore. The want. The bubbles are melding, his world is clashing with yours. And the beast tells the truth, now.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters against your lips, the words sounding more like a warning than anything.
“Mmm,” you hum, trailing your affection down his neck. “Been there, done that. I’d rather keep you alive for this.”
And you’ve crossed his wires so expertly, he’s practically sparking beneath your touch.
Imbued with a new kind of power, he slides you from his lap before shucking his leather jacket off and swinging it onto the table’s surface. His shirt follows with, finding a strategic home among the layers.
You seem to catch on because you climb onto the table, laying yourself out just like before. He grins, helping you out of your top, only to fold it up and leave it where your head can rest.
Both of you pause, taking just a moment to stare. Openly.
He tracks your gaze as it trails across his chest, noting each tattoo. Then his eyes widen as you distractedly remove your bra like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t fucked his fist to the thought of this very moment.
The material slides down your arms and you settle back, pretty as a picture, laid out all for him.
“Jesus…Christ, sweetheart, fuck.”
You smirk, and there’s that gleam again. Evil and conniving and he’s a willing victim, first in line, and hopefully last.
“See anything you like?”
He gulps, kneeling on the bench below, itching to touch you, but holding onto manners with a white-knuckled grip. “Yeah. See a whole lot.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” You grab his hand, guiding it to your breast with a squeeze. “This isn’t a museum, you can touch.”
“Oh, s-shit,” he stutters, losing all decorum as his other hand joins in, kneading the supple skin. Your sighs possess him, and before he can overthink it, his mouth closes around your nipple, tongue circling and laving at the tightening peak.
“E-Eddie!” Your hand flies to his curls and he groans, parting his lips wider, needing to feel more of you in his mouth.
You writhe beneath him, a victim of a fiendish kind of gluttony as he moves to your other breast, tweaking the wet peak he left behind.
He explores your body zealously, taking his time tasting and nipping every bit he can reach until you start tugging at the roots of his hair, forcing him up.
“Need you,” you huff breathlessly, yanking at his jeans. “Now.”
“W-Wait—” his hands land on yours, slowing your movements.
Your mouth parts as you look up at him, wide-eyed and completely desperate, and he feels his control unspooling like flimsy yarn.
“No, Eddie, I already told you—”
“It’s not that,” he shakes his head, kissing you quiet. “I just— We can’t just…”
You watch him patiently, clinging onto every half-thought he struggles to produce.
“I gotta— No, I—want to make this good for you…obviously,” he grunts, cringing at the lack of suavity. “And to do that, um, we can’t just…”
You nod, encouraging him as his face grows hot. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell he’ll be able to explain the concept of foreplay to you right now. Not when you’re looking at him like that, bare and ready for him.
So he sighs and kisses you once more, this time slow and careful. Full of things he can’t quite say, but he hopes you understand.
“You trust me, right?”
“Of course,” you respond instantly, eyes shining so bright.
He swallows, rubbing a thumb along your cheek. “And you’ll let me take care o’ you?”
You lean into his touch, almost shy as you nod. “Yeah. Yes…please.”
And a piece of him breaks off, then.
Splintered by your soft words, the plea that landed like a hammer on his scuffed lacquer.
One single chip in the barrier, and the beast rises in a crashing escape.
His lips find yours—messy, needy.
Wanton greed curls around every cracked rib, reaching out like smoke unfurling. Searching for something to envelop, to take. To take and take and take. Your breath, your taste, you. It wants it all.
He wants it all.
The words tumble out too easily. “Such pretty manners, huh?”
You shudder, hiding your face in the curve of his jaw.
“Pretty manners in a pretty girl,” he practically purrs, letting his hands slip down your body until his fingers invade the waistband of your pleated skirt. “Gonna let me take care o’ you, hm? Gonna let me get you all nice and ready?”
Your breathy sigh warms his neck as he shimmies the fabric down your legs, laying you back, gently.
You squirm beneath his gaze, squeezing your thighs together. “Eddie…”
“Shh, patience, pretty,” he murmurs, trailing a finger along your curving terrain until he’s toying with the powder blue fabric. “Gotta be good for me. Think you can do that?”
“Mhm,” you hum, choking on the note as he softly pushes your legs apart.
“Ohh, look at you…” His eyes darken and he thinks he could get used to this. To seeing you all laid out for him like a meal. A feast that could last him forty days and forty nights.
You shift, almost imperceptibly, as he drags your panties down, but he noticed. He always does with you. “Be good,” he warns lowly.
“I’m trying.”
Your whine falls to static as he watches a single string of arousal cling to the blue gusset with a fragile strength he aches to snap.
The trees rustle overhead and the sun peeks through, lending a perfect spotlight to your wet folds, and he groans, pocketing your underwear with little consideration.
“Fuck, you’re so god damn gorgeous, baby, think I’m losin’ my mind,” he mutters, kneading the fat of your thighs.
“Eddie,” you call, wiggling into his grip, and he’s never been more certain that you’re a temptress put on this earth to destroy him and everything that he tries to be. Controlled. Polite. Genetlemanly.
Every stuttering breath, every twitch of your hips, every slow blink—you’re chiseling away at the lacquer, unaware of all that lies beneath.
“Eddie, pl—ease!”
His middle and ring fingers glide through your folds while his opposite hand holds your hips down as you try to grind onto him.
“Knew you’d make the prettiest sounds. …Pretty sounds, pretty manners, pretty girl,” he chants the words like a mantra, entranced as he raises his fingers up to watch your arousal glisten in the evening light. “Pretty.”
You whimper, and suddenly it feels like he’s been pulled from the depths as he stares down at your face, pinched in pleasure. You’re waiting as patiently as you can and he has to reward that.
He spreads your folds once more, listening intently as he slips a finger inside. Your broken moan speaks almost directly to his cock, and he can feel a stream of precum soaking his boxers.
You call his name again, your chest moving in perfect time with the pulse of your warm walls. He responds to your plea for more with a second finger, and your nails sink into his wrist.
“Doin’ so good for me, baby. So good,” he utters restlessly, leaning closer to your soaked cunt. He glances up, notes your closed eyes, and decides to feed the beast.
With one stolen moment, he breathes deep, cataloguing the scent. Your perfume, your cherry lotion, and now you. The most intimate of all. And he can’t stop now.
He knows your touch, your heady scent; he wants to know your taste, too. The real thing. Not just your lip gloss or your languid tongue in his mouth. He needs to know you deeply, fervently.
His fingers drag inside you, a slight curl every time you buck your hips. He hears your whines, sees you dripping down his hand, shimmery and inviting.
Then he pulls out, much to your loud chagrin. And before he can scrounge up any last attempt at control, his fingers are in his mouth and he’s groaning at the taste—so sweet, he could choke.
“Oh, fuck,” he grumbles, mouth full as you stare at him. He almost feels the need to apologize. He robbed you of the friction you were so desperately seeking just so he could be selfish. Though, he feels like he might never stop being selfish around you, so maybe he’ll allow the precedent.
He’ll blame the beast. It’s not really him.
It’s not him who wants to drown in you, force you to ride his face until he passes out. It’s not him who wants to leave bite marks along your quivering thighs until salt coats your cheeks and you beg him just to fuck you.
It’s not him who wants to live in your sweltering heat, carve out a place for himself. Make your walls know the shape of his cock, feel you milk him dry until something takes and you’re his and a part of him is yours.
It’s not him, it’s the rotted want.
The need that grows hot, like a wound that has festered long enough. A gash you cut into him sometime ago.
Bleeding for years and he never even knew it.
The infection has driven him mad.
But he’s beginning to think maybe you’re suffering just the same. Fevered skin and heavy limbs, weak from the wait. Like him. Withered and hungry. So long watching the have’s, resolved to be a have not—
“Eddie, please, I need you.” Your hips search for him, for pleasure, for friction, and he drops lower, his breath spreading over your fluttering folds.
“I know, sweets, I know. But I gotta get you all ready, gotta make it good for you,” he whispers, staring as fresh arousal glints in the golden rays. It’s like you’re trying to entice, to coax.
“‘S already good,” you slur, and it sounds like the words are burning to ash on your tongue. He can feel you overheating. “‘S so good, please, just—”
“Said you trust me, right?” He smooths a hand up your body until he finds your breast, kneading it some more.
“Yes,” you huff, scooting closer to him.
He licks his lips, and the lie comes quicker than he’d like. “Just a little bit more. Wanna make sure you’re all re—”
His voice becomes muffled as he presses his face against your cunt like a starved, rabid thing. Your fingers thread deep through his curls—a knee-jerk reaction—and he laps at you with open-mouthed kisses and agonizingly precise flicks of his tongue.
You squeal and your thighs threaten to close around his head, but his fingers sink into the supple flesh, prying you open as his tongue breaches your slit with pointed thrusts.
Your back bows, arching high off the table and he pulls you closer to him, finally satisfying what has felt like an insatiable ache.
Because it’s different with you. He’s never felt this…full. Every pulse, every lewd slurp, fills him; he gorges himself on you. On your taste, on the way your moans crash over themselves like waves trying to drag you both under.
His fingers slip in once more and your body goes rigid—the perfect picture of marbleized ecstasy. His tongue circles your clit and pleasure carves into your every curve, sculpting a release that courses through you like rolling thunder.
His name dies a thousand times on your parted lips, and your hips begin to flee.
“O-Oh, God!”
He slows to a stop, smoothing a thumb over your twitching muscles. “Fuck, you taste so good— Knew you would,” he pants, sucking his fingers clean. He settles over you, whispering against your mouth. “Knew you would—”
“Tell me I’m yours.”
It’s sudden. An order.
Every syllable hammers into him, shattering something fragile. Shards of control—of disbelief, of belonging—bite at his skin. He’s paralyzed by it, a nerve punctured somewhere deep inside.
And you look worried, like that simple sentence wasn’t meant to land so heavy, but you don’t take it back. Instead, “Tell me I can be yours.”
He swallows hard, nearly choking on nothing.
He has wanted. Longer than you, he thinks.
But it’s all been in vain.
Then you show up, move mountains and shift worlds with only your audacious honesty and a quarter of a joint for courage. He could really learn a thing or two from you—
“Yeah,” he whispers, staring into eyes he never thought he’d see this close. “You’re mine.”
With a shuddering breath and a kiss so gentle, he’s almost certain reality falls away, his mind latches onto the moment your hands blindly find his jeans, urging the material down his thighs.
He helps you, watching intently as you take him in—all of him—his cock weeping and flexing, reaching for something he never imagined asking for.
You don’t speak, but he sees a reflection in the shine of your iris. It’s familiar. It commands. It guides as you drag your fingers along corded muscle with a level of reverence that leaves him dizzy.
Peering down, he holds back every sound, his chest heaving from the marathon of your touch.
You’re pacing yourself. Exploring—testing, in a way, like you’re figuring out what makes him tick.
Confidently kneading here, a delicate brush there.
Sinew twitching, his length jumping, stomach flipping.
Your nails rake through the dark curls at his navel and you follow the trail until it grows coarse, an observant hum at his body’s reaction.
“Pretty,” you mutter lowly.
His frame trembles, the single word falling from your lips like a ton of bricks.
As your hands wander, you don’t bother with permission and that almost makes him double over.
There’s no question of can I? There’s only the surety of being yours, like an apodictic artifact you’ve excavated from a shallow grave.
Because he did lay it to rest.
So many times.
Every morning his head lifted from his pillow, he buried it again. Every time your skirt caressed his desk, he threw roses. Every laugh he never caused, he said a prayer.
But he could not abide an eternity of peace.
Darkness would fall and he’d dig and dig and dig, the dirt already loose and the trees whispering their greetings. He’d drag up old ghosts—truths only meant for the moon—and dance with them all night.
Then, like clockwork, golden light would send him reaching for the shovel; the sun would rise and he was resolved to live without.
Now it’s you who has disturbed the holy ground and it’s freeing. To be exposed. To be known.
Your gaze settles on his face, and he wishes he could understand the thoughts in your mind, the ramblings behind your eyes.
For a second, he thinks he recognizes the quiet curve of your lips, but—
“So pretty.”
He chokes, his body jerking as your hand circles his cock, firm, yet gentle. Possessive.
Your unwavering attention and innocent smile turns the blood in his veins molten. His hips buck into your grip, unintentionally coating your soft palm in the sticky precum dribbling from his tip.
“S-Shit, sweetheart—”
He hunches over, weathered wood scratching against his knees as he tries to warn, to caution you on just how easy he is. How little effort it’d take him to lose it, to let himself fuck your hand like a poor, desperate slip of a thing.
“I’m ready,” you say, leading him down. “Please.”
He allows your thighs to hitch onto his hips, allows you to hold him, and he allows himself to be this close. To find purchase between your legs, to indulge in the heat of your core.
He memorizes your features—the determined furrow of your brow, the flutter of your lashes. The version of you before him.
He so badly wants to tell you what he sees.
“God, you’re— Fuck!”
Your breath hitches as you press his cock to your folds, and he tries for coherence, but it all falls away when he feels you. Soft and wet and so inviting; you’re killing him slowly.
“Please, Eddie,” you huff, your hips rolling like you mean to catch him. “Need to feel you, I swear to—”
The sentence shatters on a sharp moan the moment he takes control, letting his length glide against your slit. He’s coated in no time, practically drowning in you, but he doesn’t stop.
It’s like a trance, the way he moves, watching fresh drops of precum mix with your arousal. He wants to taste that, too. You and him, together. He wants to know.
You don’t seem to notice his paralysis, instead focusing on bucking your hips just right, and when his tip catches on your entrance, something shocks him into motion.
Your body wraps around him shallowly, sucking the blunt edge of him in. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t ignore your babbled pleas for more.
For once in his life, he allows himself to take. It’s not begrudging permission, not shameful resignation to his more selfish nature. It’s enthusiastic, it’s encouraged, it’s accepted.
He pushes into you slowly, meeting your parted lips with ragged breaths, and your walls cling to him in a joyous welcome. Your pulse drums against his length, squeezing him in a sudden clench; he thinks he mutters advice, something about relaxing, but he’s not sure.
Reality is bending and he’s thought about this so much, imagined this very moment countless times, and yet, nothing could have prepared him for how your nails take a chunk out of him, how you’re trying with all your might to pull his hips closer, huffing in impatience and cracking under the need.
You’re just like him.
He hadn’t realized it until now.
He saw shadows, heard the strain of your voice.
But he hadn’t looked in your eyes, hadn’t been near enough to hear the call.
The call of the hungry and withered. Of the wanton and greedy.
He hears it now. Loud and clear.
Responding in a bellowing groan, he sinks into you fully. His lips flutter over your face, savoring your once-delicate features as they warp in pleasure.
“F-Fuck! Ed— Eddie, more,” you cry, squirming for friction.
“More,” he echoes mindlessly, latching onto the order. A real kiss, sweet and loaded like a gun soon to go off, then, “More. The pretty girl wants more— Gets what she wants.”
The words fall from his tongue with little thought—little care. Static whirs in his brain, blocking out everything but you.
Drawing back steadily, he steals one more glance at you—checking in—then drops down in a sudden snap, guided by your fingers digging into the taut muscle of his ass.
Sweat beads at his spine as his skin sticks to yours on every impact. His arms hook under your knees, changing the angle just to hear that shrill whine he’s quickly growing addicted to.
All you manage to say is his name, over and over again like his thrusts are evicting every syllable from your chest.
The shadows rise, spreading rapidly, and it feels much like possession coursing through him.
He shudders, his stuttered breaths syncopating with the pulse of your cunt, choking him on every shove in. Your eyes have rolled back now, and your body moves with him, pliant, as if his to mold—to inflict upon, however he sees fit.
A malleable offering of sheer innocence, laid at his altar.
And it was your idea.
The lamb’s idea to come to slaughter.
“F-Feels good, huh?” he grits, watching you surrender to him so beautifully.
Your response catches, snagged halfway up your throat, clawed back by a resounding whimper as you nod.
“Yeah, it feels good,” he parrots, fighting back the raging fire deep in his gut—the one that threatens to engulf you, too. Because he’s not done yet. Not nearly.
His hips pound into you, cock dragging along your walls at a punishing pace. The beast hums and he smirks as you try to form sentences.
“S-So— Agh! I— Mmmph!”
He nods like he understands every unspoken word. “Now you see why I had to get you all ready? Hm? You were so cute, thinkin’ you could just take it. So brave, comin’ here, all sweet on the freak.”
“Eddie!”
You have the audacity to paw at him, to pull, to try to meet his strokes in crumbling desperation. He drops your legs, shoving your hands above your head as he presses down onto you, pinning you against the picnic table, the structure rocking with the movement.
His long, rhythmic thrusts dwindle to swift, sharp ruts, the action bordering on animalistic.
“But now look at you. All mine,” he huffs, dark eyes roving over your trembling body. Then his gaze travels lower, where his cock burrows into you—where you take him so easily, opening up like he said the magic word a thousand times over. “Practically made f’me, fuckin’ look at you. Stretched full and so damn pretty, too. We fit real nice together, don’t we, baby?”
You whine and he maneuvers your wrists into one hand, helping to prop your head up with the other.
“Look at you,” he repeats, firmer this time. “So wet, you’re drownin’ me, sweetheart.”
Something splinters on your face and he follows your eyeline, notices it fixed on the milky ring that circles the base of his thick shaft and the matted down curls you couldn’t stop admiring earlier.
“Oh,” he drawls, a wicked, wolfish grin stretching his lips. “You like that?”
You nod and he practically preens. You are just like him.
“Like seein’ me covered in you? Marked?”
Your response is nothing more than a brittle whimper and he can feel you clench around him, already so close to falling into the after—the space in time where you will know what it feels like to be thoroughly picked apart, to be undone. By him.
“You’re markin’ me,” he growls into your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses along your jugular, trying not to bite. “Think it’s only fair you let me do the same, hm? What do you say, pretty girl? Gonna let me really fill you up?”
“P-Please! Oh, God, please, Eddie—”
His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, practiced circles on the swollen bud and you freeze, arching into his chest, searing your sweat-soaked flesh to his. Your cries fall silent as you gape, convulsing at every third swipe he makes.
Your walls trap him in a vice grip, fluttering and milking rope after rope of cum from his flexing length. He shivers uncontrollably, feeling his warm spend flood the tight space until it leaks, shoveled out by his now-pitiful ruts.
He tries to prolong it. Tries to steal the moment from time itself and live in it; play house with the present. But then his body finally gives out, muscles slackening, and your arms are there to catch him, welcoming the iron hold he traps you in.
Raspy whispers are muttered into your neck, tattooed by the heat of his breath; quiet sentiments he’s not certain you hear over the noise of two settling souls. And maybe it’s better that way. Maybe they’re things to hoard—at least for a little while longer.
He trails kisses up your jaw, blindly searching for your lips, only to find them unresponsive. Worry fills him immediately.
Maybe he was too rough. He did notice the half-moon marks scattered along your thighs.
Maybe he was too mouthy. He can never think straight when it comes to you.
Maybe he was just too much—
“Eddie,” you call gently, pulling him from somewhere deep and dark.
He meets your eyes, surprised to see them wide and wanting, shining with that honest gleam that makes him feel so exposed.
“You are mine.”
So you heard.
He wasn’t cautious and he said the words meant for an empty bedroom out loud. And you heard.
Your fingers thread through his curls, dragging his wavering attention back to you.
“You are mine,” you repeat, softer but no less confident.
He wonders how something so delicate could detonate something so sturdy. Years and years of denial, blown to smithereens in three words.
And you make it look easy.
Make it sound plausible.
That he could be yours, just as much as you want to be his.
He nods, hanging onto you like a lifesaver as debris from the wreckage floats by. He swallows and his voice barely forms around the letters, breaking under the weight of it all.
“O-Okay.”
And he surrenders.
He believes you.
A/N: For the love of god, please be sweet and talk to me about this fic. I think I looked at it for too long and now I don’t know if it’s maybe the worst thing I’ve ever written or if I’m just too close to it rn, I’m being so for real.
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yknow ever since people realized tumblr isnt dead and have decided to flock here from twitter and tiktok ive seen a huge influx of people in fandom spaces who dont reblog anything. at all.
like, i used to have an art blog with 340 followers. not a ton but not a small amount either given how this website works with creators. and in my experience back then even the ones who only left likes still reblogged other things or at least posted their own stuff. literally the only empty blogs were clearly bots.
but on this New art blog, i've had so many people with fandom-specific headers and icons with actual usernames as urls and some kind of title or description, but have. Nothing. no posts. all they do is like things. and it's always public, too. their following list and their likes list.
and honestly all it makes me think is that these people are New and also don't know how tumblr works. how likes don't give exposure. not even in a "oh, i know it doesn't give exposure, but i'm still going to reblog anyways" way, but in a genuine honest to god straight up doesn't realize tumblr likes don't work like twitter's.
PLEASE please if you're from tiktok or twitter or whatever please reblog people's art both fandom and original if you like it!! and maybe actually pad out your blog's content in some way so people won't potentially see you as a bot and block you.
REBLOG ARTIST'S WORK. THIS IS THE ONLY WAY THEY GET ANY ATTENTION ON THIS WEBSITE OH MY GOD. PLEASE. I BEG of you
Reader is sitting at the hellfire club table in the cafeteria when Eddie approaches with the intentions to make reader flustered but it backfires.
Please and thank you 😊
Error 404: Smoothness Not Found
One-Shot Request: “Error 404: Smoothness Not Found”
Eddie Munson x Female Reader
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
💌 Author’s Note:
Huge thanks to @meankenna for sending in this funny and adorable prompt, I had fun imagining Eddie getting absolutely wrecked by a smooth, unbothered Reader. You’re keeping the Hellfire chaos alive and I love ya for it. 💖 Hope this flirty lil romp makes you smile! 💋
~Pinkie 🍒
Masterlist
Find me on AO3.
Read this story on AO3.
🎸 Summary:
Eddie Munson doesn’t get nervous. He’s a Dungeon Master, a guitar god, a champion of cafeteria theatrics.
But when he sets out to fluster a cool, calm outsider at the Hellfire table with one of his classic lines, he gets hit with something he didn’t expect: his own game, turned on him.
A one-shot full of sharp banter, unexpected sparks, and the kind of lunchroom showdown that might just lead to love.
Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘
“Error 404: Smoothness Not Found”
The cafeteria was its usual midday jungle, linoleum floors sticky with mystery stains, the air thick with teenage body spray and tater tots, and the low roar of adolescent chaos echoing off the walls. But over in the far-left corner, where the Hellfire Club had permanently claimed their domain, the chaos took on a distinctly nerdy flavor.
Dustin was in full meltdown mode.
“I’m telling you, Jeff, if my d20 mysteriously lands on a one again, I’m invoking dice tampering and demanding a re-roll.”
“On what grounds?” Jeff snorted, clutching his carton of chocolate milk like it was a rare artifact. “Your own bad luck isn’t a war crime, Henderson.”
Mike chimed in with a muttered, “You’re just mad your rogue keeps falling in love with NPCs,” while Gareth and Grant broke into a cackling duet, drumming out the Jaws theme on their trays.
Amid the storm of mockery and snacks, you sat calmly at the edge of the table, a quiet satellite in the Hellfire galaxy. You weren’t a member, but you’d been absorbed into the gravitational pull somehow, maybe through mutual classes, or shared disdain for cafeteria food. Either way, no one questioned your presence anymore. You didn’t play D&D, but you definitely watched it like a sociologist. Or a cat observing a very lively fish tank.
You balanced a crossword puzzle on one knee, methodically chewing through baby carrots and ignoring the shrieking over critical failures. Your pencil tapped a rhythm against the paper as you searched for a six-letter word meaning charming but doomed. You smirked to yourself. The answer was probably Munson.
Speak of the devil and he shall appear.
The cafeteria doors banged open like the prelude to a boss battle, and there he was, Eddie Munson, leather-jacketed menace, King of the Freaks, and current front-runner in your personal list of “People Who Flirt Like It’s a Performance Art.”
You didn’t even have to look up to know he’d clocked you. You could feel it, that strange static charge that always rolled in with him like thunder before a storm. Somewhere between his combat boots and his wild mop of curls, the man managed to manufacture drama like it was a bodily function.
And judging by the slow curl of his smirk, he was already planning an ambush.
Eddie didn’t walk. He made an entrance.
Combat boots hit tile like a drumline. His rings clicked with every exaggerated gesture, like punctuation marks to an invisible sentence. The cafeteria didn’t look up, most of them had learned to just let Eddie Munson exist in his own dimension, but the Hellfire table definitely noticed.
Grant leaned toward Gareth with a muttered, “He’s got that look again.”
“Uh-oh,” Gareth whispered, catching the target of Eddie’s laser-focused attention. “Incoming flirt assault.”
You didn’t flinch. Pencil still in hand, you marked another square on your crossword as Eddie approached like a lion on a catwalk.
He came to a dramatic halt just beside you, resting one hand on the back of your chair and the other over his heart like he was preparing to recite Shakespeare.
His voice dropped into that low, faux-sultry register he used when he was laying it on way too thick.
“So, how’s the prettiest person in the world doing today?”
You didn’t even blink.
From across the table, Dustin made a noise like someone stepping on a wet clarinet. “Oh god,” he groaned, slapping his forehead. “Here he goes again.”
Mike muttered, “Please crash and burn,” under his breath like a spell, while Jeff and Grant leaned forward in quiet anticipation.
The table was holding its collective breath. But you? You were still calm. Unbothered. Pencil still tapping gently against your knee.
Cool as a cucumber in the middle of a microwave, you finally glanced up, lazily. Sipped your drink. Eyebrows lifted just a touch. Expression unreadable, and said flatly-
“I don’t know. How are you?”
It hit him like a crit to the chest.
Record scratch. System failure. Reboot error.
Eddie.exe had stopped responding.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Mouth parted like a Windows update was about to install. His brain buffer wheel was visibly spinning behind those wide brown eyes. For one glorious moment, the man was entirely speechless.
And the table?
Dead silent.
Even Dustin was in awe.
Eddie’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
The confidence? Gone. Swagger? Missing in action. Leather jacket? Still fabulous, but definitely not helping him now.
He cleared his throat once, then again, like he could cough the embarrassment out of his lungs.
“I’m…”
He tried again. Voice pitched slightly higher, cracked on the last syllable like an untrained choirboy.
“I’m fine.”
And just like that, the illusion shattered.
Grant choked on his apple slice.
Gareth slapped both hands on the table like he was witnessing a miracle. “Oh my god. He short-circuited.”
Dustin leaned across the table with gleeful menace. “Are you blushing, dude? Did we just watch Eddie ‘Nothing Phases Me’ Munson malfunction over a one-liner?”
“Mark the date,” Mike added, eyes wide, like he was witnessing history. “We just witnessed the fall of a legend.”
Eddie raised both middle fingers without breaking eye contact with you, the picture of performative defiance… except for the faint pink flush creeping up his cheeks, giving him away entirely.
You just sipped your drink again, one eyebrow arching ever so slightly.
You were enjoying this. Too much.
And Eddie knew it.
He was in trouble.
You watched him flounder, savoring every second of it like the first sip of something fizzy and dangerous. Eddie Munson, master of theatrics, king of the underdogs, flirt extraordinaire, was currently melting like a record left too close to a heater.
And he knew it.
Finally, after dragging the silence out just long enough to make him squirm, you tilted your head and really looked at him, slow, deliberate, eyes scanning from his tangled curls to the panicked gleam in his eyes.
Then, you smiled.
Not wide. Not dramatic.
Just the faintest upward tug at the corner of your lips, small, sharp, smug.
“Gotcha,” that smirk said without needing a word.
Eddie visibly twitched. He’d been bested. Checkmated. Absolutely wrecked.
And the worst part?
He liked it.
Your pencil returned to your crossword, but before you started filling in the next clue, you shifted slightly, nudging your tray to the side with just enough space to make the invitation obvious.
“You gonna sit or just hover there short-circuiting?”
He blinked. You watched the moment his brain reconnected with his body.
“Y-Yeah,” he muttered, trying to inject some cool back into his voice and absolutely failing. “I can… yeah.”
He slid into the seat beside you like it was his idea, like he wasn’t internally screaming, like this wasn’t the first time someone had flipped his game upside down and laughed about it.
Grant gave him a slow clap. Dustin made the international L hand sign for “Loser.” Mike stage-whispered, “He’s already down bad.”
But Eddie barely heard them.
Because now he was sitting next to you, and you were still smirking.
And he had no idea what you were going to do next.
But suddenly…
He really, really wanted to find out.
The moment Eddie sat down, you went right back to your crossword like he hadn’t just face-planted into a flirt trap of his own making. But there was a smug, satisfied ease to your posture now, and it was driving him insane in the best way.
Eddie leaned in a little, elbows on the table, trying to recover some semblance of control. “So…” he started, flashing his signature grin, though it wobbled at the edges now, like his pride had a dent in it. “You always this dangerous during lunch?”
Without looking up, you replied dryly:
“Only when provoked.”
That grin faltered again. He pushed on anyway.
“Gotta say, sweetheart, you’ve got some serious nerve turning the tables on me.”
You circled a clue. “Was that your A-game just now? Because if it was…”
You finally met his eyes, head tilting.
“Should I be flattered or concerned?”
Grant wheezed. Dustin slammed his tray in approval. “SOMEONE GIVE HER A TROPHY.”
Eddie put a hand to his chest like he’d been struck. “Ouch. I come over here offering my heart, and maybe a little of my lunch money, and I get roasted like a damn marshmallow.”
“You came over here with a pickup line you’ve probably used on half the marching band.”
He gasped. “Now that’s just… okay, that’s fair.”
You turned to face him more fully, one leg crossing over the other. “Don’t take it too hard, Munson. You’re lucky you’re cute.”
For a moment, Eddie just stared. Like that one sentence had detonated whatever was left of his dignity.
“I… uh-”
He blinked rapidly. “See, now that’s just cruel. You can’t just casually say something like that. I’m emotionally fragile.”
You smirked again. “Yeah? You seem really delicate.”
“Emotionally, not physically!” he said, flailing slightly. “I’m tough. I headbang. I do mosh pits.”
“You cried during The Last Unicorn, Eddie.”
“Dustin promised he wouldn’t tell anyone that!”
“Oh, he didn’t,” you said, quirking a brow. “You did. Last week when you got drunk. Very dramatically.”
Dustin nodded solemnly. “You reenacted the scene with full narration.”
Eddie sagged into the table. “This is bullying.”
You nudged his elbow with yours. “No. This is flirting. Try to keep up.”
His head shot up, eyes wide.
Oh yeah, he was so down bad.
The banter didn’t stop, it just evolved. Sharper, brighter, like the two of you were passing jokes back and forth faster than the Hellfire boys could keep up. Eddie was grinning so hard it looked like it hurt. You were still smirking, but now there was a glint in your eyes, something softer, warmer.
It wasn’t a competition anymore.
It was a rhythm.
You reached for your juice box just as Eddie leaned over to grab a napkin, your fingers brushed.
Not full-on hand-holding. Just the tips. Just enough for his breath to catch.
And his heart? Yeah. That thing skipped like a scratched tape.
You didn’t flinch. But your eyes flicked up, met his. The faintest pulse, electric, unspoken.
He recovered fast, tossing you a wink. “Sorry, didn’t mean to cop a feel.”
“Eddie,” you said flatly, “your finger grazed mine. Settle down before you need a cigarette.”
“Oof. Brutal,” he grinned, tilting his head. “I’m just trying to build some romantic tension here. Let me live.”
“I’m still recovering from the Last Unicorn thing,” you teased, just as Eddie picked up Gareth’s half-finished can of grape soda for no reason at all.
He opened his mouth to respond, but he was laughing too hard.
It came out of him in a loud, sudden honk bark, surprised and delighted by you. He threw his head back and bumped the can with the edge of his palm, sending purple fizz skittering across the table and directly into Jeff’s lap.
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Jeff: “Dude.”
Eddie froze mid-cackle, still grinning like an idiot. “Oh my god. I swear that wasn’t planned.”
“I just washed these jeans!” Jeff wailed, jumping up.
But you were laughing now too.
Really laughing.
Head back, lips parted, one hand over your stomach. It hit you in a wave, sudden and genuine, the way good moments always do when you least expect them. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t cruel. It was just… joy.
And Eddie looked at you like someone had just turned the sun on.
For all the chaos, for all the fizzy embarrassment, he couldn’t stop staring.
“There it is,” he mumbled, almost to himself.
You glanced over, catching the look. “There what is?”
He blinked. Smile crooked. “Nothing. Just… I win.”
You rolled your eyes. “Sure you do, soda assassin.”
But your knee bumped against his under the table and neither of you moved away.
The table was still buzzing with secondhand embarrassment and grape soda residue, but Eddie had stopped noticing everything around him.
He was fully zeroed in on you now, watching the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, the way you kept nudging him like the two of you had done this a thousand times before. Like it was natural.
You teased him again about the soda, something about “friendly fire” and “reckless endangerment of cafeteria fashion,” and he just grinned, all teeth and dimples and overwhelmed brain cells.
And then-
“Oh my god,” Dustin groaned loudly. “You’re literally drooling. Just ask her out already.”
Eddie choked.
Mike, who hadn’t looked up from his peanut butter sandwich in minutes, casually added, “Seriously. You’re embarrassing yourself and the dice gods.”
Eddie whipped his head around, eyes wide, face flaming. “I am not drooling!”
Dustin raised his brows. “Your mouth’s open. You keep staring. You just spilled a drink because she laughed. That’s a rom-com trifecta, man.”
Eddie looked like he was about to start foaming at the mouth out of sheer panic.
You, meanwhile, turned toward him slowly, resting your chin in your hand, eyes twinkling with dangerous amusement.
“Is that true?” you asked, voice light. “You planning to ask me out?”
The whole table went still.
Gareth’s spoon halfway to his mouth. Jeff frozen mid-blotting his jeans. Even Grant paused mid-sip of whatever mystery fluid he’d found in the vending machine.
Eddie swallowed hard.
You tilted your head. Not pushing. Not teasing this time.
Just… curious.
And flirtatious as hell.
Eddie’s mouth opened. Then closed. Like he was loading a save file from deep within his soul.
He cleared his throat, sat up a little straighter, and, miraculously, dialed it down. Just a notch. Enough that the swagger melted into something real beneath the surface noise. Less Dungeon Master, more Eddie.
“So hey,” he said, rubbing his palms against his jeans like he wasn’t sweating bullets, “if you’re not busy Friday night…”
You raised a brow, waiting. Dangerous glint back in your eyes.
“Wanna grab a burger and shake with me or something? Nothing fancy. Just... you and me. Maybe I don’t trip over anything or knock drinks over this time.”
The table leaned in as one collective being, holding its breath.
You let the silence stretch, just long enough to make him squirm. Not cruelly. Just a moment of power. Of play.
And then, with the faintest smile tugging at your lips:
“Only if you promise not to start with another cheesy line.”
Eddie exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for days. Grin spreading again, lopsided and a little dazed.
“No promises,” he said, “but I’ll try my best.”
From across the table, Gareth let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “God, finally. I was about to start drawing hearts around your names on my character sheet.”
Dustin fist-pumped. “Hellfire matchmaking is real.”
You turned to Eddie one last time, eyes warm now, no teasing, just interested.
“Pick me up at seven, Munson.”
And just like that, you turned back to your crossword. Calm. Casual. Still in control.
Eddie sat there stunned for a second, watching you like you’d just cast a spell he didn’t know how to break.
“Holy shit,” he whispered to no one in particular.
“Did that just work?”
The moment you agreed to the date, all hell broke loose.
“WOOOOOO!” Dustin shot up from his seat like a firework. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
Gareth banged a plastic fork against his tray like it was a gong. “Get it, Munson!”
Mike, ever the realist, just shook his head with a smirk. “She’s way out of your league, man.”
Jeff added dryly, “I think she just asked you out, technically.”
Eddie threw his hands in the air. “Okay, okay, calm down, you gremlins! You’re embarrassing me in front of my date.”
Dustin grinned. “You embarrassed yourself, dude. We’re just the backup dancers.”
You stood up slowly, collecting your tray with easy grace, as if you hadn’t just turned Eddie Munson into a walking heart-eye emoji in front of half the cafeteria.
As you passed behind him, you casually reached out, fingers threading through a few curls at the back of his neck, tugging lightly, just enough to make him sit up straighter.
Your hand drifted forward, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw with the softest tease of a caress.
“See you at seven, Eddie.”
And just like that, you walked away, cool, unbothered, radiant.
Eddie was left blinking at the air you left behind, looking like he’d just astral projected. He turned slowly back to the table, eyes wide and slightly unfocused.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
“Did that really just happen?” He looked around. “You guys saw that, right?”
Dustin patted his shoulder solemnly. “We saw, buddy. We all saw.”
Gareth nodded. “You okay? You look like you got hit with a charm spell.”
Eddie just stared into the distance, a soft, stunned smile curling on his lips.
“I think I’m in love.”
Part Two Follow Up:
"Error 404: First Date Loading"
Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list!
@justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000, @totallysocially
The cafeteria doors banged open like the prelude to a boss battle, and there he was, Eddie Munson, leather-jacketed menace, King of the Freaks, and current front-runner in your personal list of “People Who Flirt Like It’s a Performance Art.”
💌 Author’s Note:
Another deliciously spicy request from @meankenna, thank you again, babe! 💕 I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into this one. You’ve got me hooked on this Bold Reader/Needy Eddie dynamic, and I had so much fun writing Eddie in this light. Hope you all enjoy the heat as much as I enjoyed creating it.
~Pinkie 🍒
Masterlist
Find me on AO3.
Read this story on AO3.
🗣️🍆 Summary:
Friends shouldn’t cross this line, but when a sharp tongue and a bolder move collide, the tension between you and Eddie finally snaps. What starts with a challenge quickly turns into something neither of you can walk away from.
Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘
“On Your Knees”
The hum of Eddie’s old box fan filled the small living room, rattling a little every time it shifted direction. A record spun on his turntable, something heavy and a little scratchy that he insisted “sounded better on vinyl,” though you weren’t convinced. The two of you had been camped out on his beat-up couch for hours, surrounded by empty soda cans and the remains of a half-collapsed bag of pretzels.
Eddie had his legs stretched out, socked feet propped up on the chipped coffee table, while you’d claimed the other corner of the couch, knees bent, one foot nudging at the cushion between you. He was twirling a guitar pick between his fingers like it was second nature, flicking it from knuckle to knuckle in a way that was equal parts impressive and infuriating.
“You’re not even watching the movie,” you pointed out, nodding toward the TV where some late-night rerun was playing.
“Sweetheart, I don’t need to watch Road House to know what happens,” he replied with a lazy grin. “Swayze punches someone, looks hot doing it, repeat. It’s basically a documentary about me.”
You snorted, reaching across to snag the pretzel bag before it slid entirely off the couch. “Right, because you’re the king of cool and mystery. You can barely keep your van running without a prayer circle.”
Eddie clutched at his chest in mock agony. “Low blow. She’s temperamental, okay? Just like me. It’s called character.”
“Character, sure,” you said, tossing a pretzel at him. He caught it in his mouth without missing a beat, then bowed dramatically from his seat like he’d just pulled off a Vegas act.
It was easy like this, the kind of rhythm you’d fallen into a hundred times before. Eddie’s trailer, the smell of his incense still lingering from earlier, laughter bouncing off the wood-paneled walls. Just another night, nothing out of the ordinary… except for the way the air seemed to hum a little heavier than usual, like the static right before a storm.
Eddie leaned forward, snatching the remote out of your hand before you could change the channel.
“Uh-uh,” he said, wagging a finger. “You don’t get to insult my taste in cinema and then steal the power of choice.”
You reached for it, but he held the remote high, grinning like he’d just won a championship. “You’re seriously telling me Road House is peak cinema?”
“It’s a masterpiece,” he declared, eyes wide with mock sincerity. “Patrick Swayze is philosophy incarnate. Pain don’t hurt, sweetheart. That’s Shakespeare-level.”
You rolled your eyes, stretching across the couch to grab the remote. “You’re so ridiculous.”
“And you’re jealous,” he shot back, tucking the remote under his arm like it was a football. “Admit it. You wish you had my refined taste.”
“Refined?” you scoffed. “You eat cereal out of a mixing bowl because you don’t want to do dishes.”
“That’s not lack of refinement,” Eddie argued, pointing the guitar pick at you like it was proof. “That’s efficiency. That’s genius.”
“Genius would be owning more than two spoons,” you said, leaning back with a smirk.
Eddie gasped like you’d slandered him on live TV. “I have three spoons, thank you very much. One just happens to live in the sink. Permanently.”
Your laughter spilled over before you could stop it, and Eddie’s grin cracked wider, smug and triumphant. He thrived on getting a rise out of you, always had, and you weren’t sure when it had started to feel less like teasing and more like a challenge.
The couch suddenly felt smaller, your knees brushing his as you both settled back into your corners. The banter lingered between you like smoke, warm and charged, daring one of you to push it just a little further.
Eddie's grin softened into something more knowing as he watched you, the flicker of the TV screen casting shadows across his face. He let the remote drop onto the couch between you, abandoning the pretense of the argument entirely.
"Alright, fine," he conceded, stretching his arms behind his head, the fabric of his t-shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above the waistband of his jeans. "You win. Road House is cinematic garbage, and I have a dishware problem."
His tone was light, but there was something underneath it, something slow and deliberate, like the way he'd drag his fingers over guitar strings before settling into a riff.
"But," he continued, leaning forward just slightly, elbows resting on his knees, "you still haven't answered the real question."
You arched a brow. "Which is?"
Eddie's grin returned, but it was different now, less teasing, more testing. "Why you're still here, sweetheart. If I'm so ridiculous, if my taste in movies is trash, if my van's a death trap and my spoons are a lost cause..." He tilted his head, dark eyes locked onto yours. "What's keeping you on this couch with me?"
The air between you thickened, the hum of the fan suddenly louder, the space between your knees and his suddenly smaller.
He didn't move, didn't reach for you, just waited, watching, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it.
You opened your mouth, then closed it again, the words sticking stubbornly in your throat. The easy answer, because we’re friends, because it’s what we do, sat heavy on your tongue, but it felt too thin, too flimsy against the weight of his gaze.
Your eyes darted to the pretzel bag, the remote, the crooked posters on his walls, anywhere but him. “Well,” you said finally, a touch too breezy, “somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t choke to death on your own ego.”
Eddie’s grin flickered, sharp at the edges. He leaned back into the couch cushions, eyes narrowing just enough to let you know he caught the dodge. “Cute,” he muttered, spinning the guitar pick across his knuckles again.
You grinned, emboldened by the tiny crack in his armor. “What? You mean you don’t like having a personal audience every time you butcher a solo?”
That got him, his head snapped toward you, curls falling across his face, brows raised high. “Butcher?” he echoed, scandalized.
You laughed, shrugging as if it were obvious. “That last run at practice? You sounded like a lawnmower eating gravel.”
“Unbelievable,” he said, dragging a hand over his face, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’ve got a lot of opinions for someone who can’t even play a chord.”
“And you’ve got a lot of ego for someone who can’t take a joke,” you fired back, grinning as you shifted against the couch arm.
That wiped the half-smile off his face. He let out a short huff of laughter, but it was tight, his jaw working as he looked at you. “You think you’re so funny, huh?” he said, voice low and lazy, but edged enough to cut. Then, like he couldn’t stop himself, the words spilled out, half a taunt, half a challenge. “Whatever, sweetheart, suck my dick if you’ve got so much to say.”
The silence that followed was deafening. The fan hummed. The TV flickered. Eddie’s own grin faltered as he realized exactly what had just left his mouth.
He expected you to laugh, to roll your eyes, to throw the nearest cushion at his head.
You didn’t.
Instead, you shifted slightly, letting your knees drop to the floor between his legs. The couch suddenly felt taller, the air around you heavier. You tilted your head up just enough to meet his eyes, steady and unflinching, the faintest smile tugging at your lips.
Eddie blinked. Once. Twice. His guitar pick fell forgotten onto the floor. “Wait…what-”
Your hands went to his belt, fingers brushing the fabric with deliberate calm. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t flinch. You simply worked the button and the zipper with ease, tugging just enough to show you knew exactly what you were doing.
Eddie’s eyes went wide, the usual confident smirk gone, replaced with that raw, stunned “holy shit” expression. His hands hovered midair, unsure if he should stop you or… something else entirely.
“Uh…” His voice cracked in that way that made your chest tighten, a mix of disbelief and warning. “You… what are you doing?”
You let your gaze linger on him, steady, teasing only just enough to make him squirm. No words. No apology. No hesitation.
He swallowed hard, his usual bravado flickering like a broken neon sign. One hand twitched toward you, the other gripping the couch edge, and for a second, he looked like a kid caught in a dare he wasn’t sure he was ready for.
The room was silent, except for the hum of the fan, the faint crackle of the record, and the unspoken charge that had just shifted between you.
Eddie had expected to provoke you. To tease. To argue. But this? This was…something else entirely.
Something dangerous. Something thrilling. Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to resist.
Eddie's breath stuttered as your fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, his hips jerking slightly at the first brush of your touch. His hands finally found purchase, one gripping the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, the other clenching the couch cushion so hard the fabric strained under his grip.
You eased him free, slow, deliberate, his cock heavy and flushed in your hand. The sharp inhale he dragged through his teeth told you more than words ever could, his eyes darting down to watch the way your fingers wrapped around him.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice hoarse, the bravado knocked clean out of him. His thighs tensed under your palms, a muscle in his jaw jumping as you stroked him once, twice into hardness, teasing, letting him feel the weight of your intention.
The air seemed to thicken between you, his breath loud in the quiet room. His gaze flicked from your hand to your eyes and back again, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to see or if it might actually kill him.
"Fuck-" he hissed, voice rough, his head falling back against the couch as you took him into your mouth.
The record skipped. The fan rattled. Eddie's breath came in short, sharp bursts, his chest rising and falling like he'd just sprinted across the trailer park.
"Sweetheart-" His voice was a broken thing, caught between a warning and a plea. His fingers tightened in your hair.
He was hot against your tongue, thick and heavy, the taste of salt and leather and Eddie flooding your senses. His hips twitched, his thighs trembling under your palms as you worked him slow, deliberate, savoring the way his breath stuttered every time you dragged your lips just a little lower.
"You… fuck… you're really-" He choked on the words, his free hand fumbling for your shoulder, squeezing like he needed to ground himself. "You're really doing this."
It wasn't a question. It was awe.
The Eddie Munson who never shut up, who had a comeback for everything, who could talk his way out of a police interrogation, he was speechless.
And when you hummed around him, when you glanced up through your lashes to watch his face twist in pleasure.
Eddie broke.
His grip on your hair tightened, his hips lifting off the couch in a shallow thrust, his voice a ragged moan as he muttered your name like a prayer.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck-" he mumbled as he came undone in your mouth.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips slick, chin damp, his thighs trembling beneath your touch. He was still panting, chest heaving, curls sticking to his damp forehead.
“This…” You swallowed, your voice low, edged with satisfaction. “This what you asked for, isn’t it?”
Eddie let out a short, disbelieving laugh, his head tipping back for a moment before he dragged his gaze down to you. His pupils were blown wide, but that familiar spark of cockiness clawed its way back into his grin.
“Yeah?” he rasped, hand tightening in your hair, forcing you to tilt your head back to look at him. His smile sharpened, teeth flashing. “Atta girl… knew you’d listen eventually.”
Your stomach flipped, heat rushing through you at the low drag of his voice.
He tugged your hair lightly, adjusting your angle, testing how far you’d let him push. “Eyes on me,” he ordered, voice steadier now, his confidence crawling back over him like armor. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t get shy now. You were real bold a second ago.”
You locked eyes with him, and his smile grew, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone in mock-affection before he shifted his grip.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his tone a wicked blend of praise and command. “Now… slow it down. Nice and easy. Wanna feel every second of it.”
You obeyed, dragging your mouth along him with torturous patience, and Eddie hissed through his teeth, his thighs twitching as he fought to hold still.
“That’s it,” he groaned, his free hand sliding down to brace against the couch, knuckles white. “Fuck, just like that… perfect little mouth, huh? Always running it, finally figured out a better use.”
The grin stayed, but his voice was already starting to fray at the edges, his bravado balancing on the razor’s edge of something more desperate.
His fingers flexed in your hair, guiding your pace with a rough sort of reverence. Every slow drag of your lips pulled another broken sound from him, his breath coming in ragged bursts between gritted teeth.
"Christ-" His hips jerked involuntarily, his cock twitching against your tongue as he fought to keep himself still. "Fuck, sweetheart, you-" The words dissolved into a groan as you hollowed your cheeks, his grip tightening almost painfully.
The record ended, leaving nothing but the hum of the fan and Eddie's ragged breathing filling the trailer. His usual swagger had crumbled entirely now, replaced by something raw and unfiltered, his lips parted, his brow furrowed, his entire body strung tight like a wire about to snap.
He tugged your hair, forcing you to pull back just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, his voice rough when he spoke.
"Look at you," he murmured, thumb dragging over your bottom lip, smearing the wetness there. "Fuckin' perfect like this. Shoulda shut you up like this ages ago."
The words were teasing, but his voice shook with the effort, his control slipping with every second. His hips rolled up into your touch, chasing the heat of your mouth, his breath hitching when you took him deeper.
You pulled off of him, "Eddie-" you started, but he cut you off with a sharp tug of your hair, his grin returning.
"Ah-ah," he chided, voice rough. "Didn't say you could talk, did I?"
His free hand slid down to grip your chin, tilting your head back just enough to hold your gaze. There was something dangerously close to awe in his expression, like he couldn't quite believe you were real, that this was happening.
"Just like that," he breathed, his thumb pressing against your lip. "Take it. All of it."
You did, and when you swallowed him down, when you let him fuck up into your mouth with shallow, desperate thrusts, Eddie shuddered.
The sound that tore out of his throat wasn’t the smooth, cocky drawl he’d been clinging to, it was ragged, guttural, the kind of noise that gave away just how close he was to unraveling. His fingers tightened almost painfully in your hair, like he was holding on for dear life.
“Fuck, sweetheart-” His voice broke, the syllables cracking sharp in the air. He tried to clear his throat, tried to drag himself back to the teasing lilt he’d had a moment ago, but the way your mouth worked over him made it impossible. His next words came out slurred, half-moan, half-command. “S-slow down… nah, faster, I… shit-”
His head thunked back against the couch, curls sticking to his damp skin. His chest heaved, every shallow breath whistling through his teeth as if the air itself burned him.
“Goddamn it, you’re-” He cut himself off with a strangled groan, eyes screwing shut as his hips rolled, chasing the slick heat of your mouth. His grip in your hair wasn’t controlled anymore, it was desperate, his knuckles white as he fought not to completely lose it.
You hummed around him, dragging your nails lightly along his thighs, and Eddie’s whole body jerked like you’d shocked him. His laugh came out broken, gasping, like he couldn’t believe what you were doing to him.
“Shit… fuckin’ you’re too good at this,” he panted, his bravado slipping with every word. “Thought I was in charge here… hah, f-fuck-”
His thighs trembled under your hands, his hips twitching despite himself, and the sharp little grin that had curled his lips earlier was gone, replaced by parted lips and bitten-back moans.
“Sweetheart, I-” His voice cracked again, a groan ripping through his chest. “You’re gonna… feels so good.”
The words left him in a broken groan, his head tipping back, throat working around the sounds he couldn’t bite down anymore. His grip on your hair softened for just a moment before clenching again, desperate, almost helpless.
“Oh fuck, baby-” The praise spilled out of him unfiltered, tumbling fast and uneven. “You’re perfect, fuck, that mouth… Jesus Christ, don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
His hips stuttered, chasing every drag of your lips, every flick of your tongue, his thighs trembling so hard you thought they might give out beneath your hands. The swagger, the cocky grin, the sharp-edged teasing, all of it had bled away, leaving him raw, needy, undone.
“Please,” he gasped, the word catching like it hurt to say, “please, sweetheart, I… fuck, I need it, I need you.”
Your lips curled into a sly smile around him, and you shifted your pace deliberately, easing up just enough to make him whine, then sinking down deeper until his hands spasmed in your hair, a strangled moan ripping from his chest.
“Like that?” you murmured against him, voice low and mocking, before swallowing him down again. His answering cry was so sharp, so desperate, it lit a spark of wicked satisfaction in your chest.
“Y-yeah, fuck, like that, oh my God-” His voice cracked, high and needy, every syllable dragged out of him like a confession. “Baby, I’ll… shit, I’ll do anything, just don’t stop, don’t-”
You pulled back slightly, lips slick, chin wet, meeting his wild eyes with a grin. “Thought you were in charge here, Munson.”
The sound he made was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, his hands clutching you like you were the only thing holding him together. “S-so did I,” he panted, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide. “You… fuck… you’ve got me, baby. You’ve got me.”
Eddie Munson, all ego and sharp teeth, was now a desperate, pleading mess under your control, every ounce of swagger replaced by whiny, praise-drunk surrender.
His breath hitched violently as you pulled away, his hips jerking forward instinctively to chase the warmth of your mouth. A strangled whine escaped his throat, raw and unfiltered, his fingers tightening in your hair like he was afraid you'd stop completely.
"Sweetheart-" His voice was raw, trembling, his usual confidence shattered into something breathless and pleading. His thighs quivered under your touch, his cock twitching against your lips, already slick with spit and his own desperation.
"You-" He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, his free hand fisting in the couch cushion like he needed to anchor himself. "You're killing me here, baby."
His laugh was shaky, uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallowed the brown, his lips parted around ragged breaths.
"Thought you were just gonna-" He cut himself off with a groan as you dragged your tongue along the underside of his cock, his hips bucking helplessly. "Fuck. Thought you were just gonna tease me, but-" His voice cracked. "But you're really gonna make me beg, huh?"
His grin was weak now, barely clinging to his usual bravado, his fingers flexing in your hair like he couldn't decide whether to push you down or pull you off.
"Please," he gasped, the word slipping out before he could stop it, his cheeks flushing darker. "Please, baby, c'mon… fuck, just let me-"
His breath stuttered as you took him deep again, his back arching off the couch, his entire body tensing.
"Oh my God-" His voice pitched higher, his fingers tightening in your hair, his thighs shaking under your palms. "Sweetheart, I'm… fuck, so close, I-"
His warning dissolved into a broken moan, his hips jerking shallowly as he spilled down your throat with a choked-off cry. His grip on you was almost painful, his whole body trembling as he rode out the aftershocks, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
For a long moment, he just sat there, dazed, his chest heaving, his fingers slowly loosening in your hair. His lips were parted, his eyelashes fluttering like he was caught between reality and whatever bliss you’d just dragged him through.
When his gaze finally focused on you, it was hazy, reverent. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, his voice roughened. His hand slipped from your hair to your cheek, thumb brushing clumsily at the wetness smeared there.
Then, with a groan, he tugged you up into his lap. His arms wrapped tight around you, his chest still shuddering against your back, like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance. He buried his face against your neck, pressing a line of shaky kisses there, soft, grateful, almost disbelieving.
“You can’t just-” he started, then cut himself off with a breathless laugh. His lips grazed your jaw, his nose brushing your cheek. “Fuck, sweetheart, you can’t just do that and expect me to-” Another laugh, softer this time, vulnerable in a way you’d never heard from him. “Expect me to keep it together.”
You shifted in his lap, your hand flattening over his damp chest, and he caught it, holding it against him like an anchor. His eyes met yours, wide and open, the cocky mask stripped away completely.
“I didn’t think you wanted me,” he admitted, voice low, hoarse. His thumb rubbed circles over your knuckles as if he needed the motion to steady himself. “Not like that. I’ve been-” He swallowed hard, the words rough in his throat. “I’ve been wanting you forever, but I thought if I pushed it, I’d lose you.”
Your heart clenched, heat rushing through you at the honesty in his tone. You’d seen Eddie Munson loud, brash, defiant, but this? This bare, trembling softness was something else entirely.
He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering, his breath shaky against your skin. “You’re not just my best friend, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You’re… fuck, you’re everything.”
His arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against him, his heartbeat thundering against your chest. His lips found yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle, it was desperate, hungry, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word into it.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark, intense, his fingers tracing your jaw.
"Tell me you want this," he murmured, voice low. "Tell me you want me."
There was no teasing left in his tone, no grin, just raw, aching need. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, his nostrils flaring when you nipped at it lightly.
"Because if you don't stop this now, sweetheart," he warned, his voice dropping to a low register, "I'm not letting you go. Not tonight. Not ever."
His hand slid down your side, fingers digging into your hip possessively, his gaze burning into yours.
"So tell me," he breathed. "Tell me I'm yours."
“You’re mine,” you say, breathless, the words raw and simple. “I want you. I’ve wanted you. Always.”
He stares at you for a moment, like he’s cataloguing the shape of your face, the way the light hits your cheek, the tremor in your voice. Then something in him that’s been holding tight for years, pride, fear, the whole ridiculous Eddie performance just melts. He laughs, small and unbelieving, and it’s the most beautiful sound.
“You-” He swallows. His thumb traces the line of your mouth, like he can’t get enough of the proof of you there. “You say that, and I feel like an idiot for not noticing.”
“Good,” you murmur, smiling into his hand. “Because you are.”
He huffs, then kisses you again, softer this time, like he’s trying to taste the curve of your lips. When he pulls back he’s grinning in that crooked, overwhelmed way you love. “Alright, fine. You can have me,” he says, mock-surrender loud enough to make you roll your eyes. “But only if you promise to help me find the other missing spoons. It’s a whole crisis.”
You laugh, the sound bubbling out of you easy and bright. “I’ll help you find the spoons. But you still have to fix the van.”
“Hey,” he protests, one brow lifting, already slipping back into his usual theatrical sarcasm. “The van has character. It’s not a-” He stops himself, shrugs, and his expression goes soft again. “Whatever. I’ll fix it. For you.”
You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, his pulse steady and warm beneath your cheek. He hums, stupidly content, and then mumbles, “I’m not losing you, okay? I’m not doing that.”
“You could never,” you answer. “You’re stuck with me.”
He goes still for a second, like the reality of that settles in deeper than the bravado ever did. Then he squeezes you, firm and possessive and gentle all at once. “Good,” he says. “’Cause I’m not sharing you with anyone. Not my band, not my van, not even my stupid cereal mixing-bowl.”
You poke his side and he jerks, laughing, then feigns indignation. “Hey, mixing bowls are efficient.”
“Efficiently gross,” you shoot back, grinning.
He kisses you again, shorter, playful. “Whatever. You keep me on my toes, sweetheart. Keeps life interesting.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Keeps me… whole.”
You drift into a comfortable quiet, limbs tangled, the trailer around you a small, lived-in world where everything feels right. Eddie’s breathing evens next to your ear; his hand idly fingers your hair, grounding you both. Outside, some distant car hums by, a dog barks, life doing its thing, and inside the trailer it’s just you, sweaty, sticky, hair now messy from his fondling, and him, all rough edges and soft underneath.
“Sleep?” he asks eventually, voice small and oddly shy.
“Yeah,” you answer. “But promise me something?”
“Name it.”
“Tomorrow, you let me beat you at that stupid video game. Then I’ll help you find your spoons.”
He pretends to groan. “Rigged, I tell ya. Rigged.”
“Not if you actually practice your solo instead of talking about how legendary you are.”
He pretends to be hurt. “Ouch. That one stings.”
You laugh, and he laughs with you, the sound easy and true. He tucks you closer, kisses the crown of your head, and murmurs, “Okay, alright. Tomorrow. But the spoons are nonnegotiable.”
“Deal,” you whisper, and let the night carry you both away, warm, safe, and impossibly, wonderfully together. Finally.
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description: the year before law school, you develop a small habit. eddie is your go-to guy. when it turns out he's giving some other girls better deals, you decide to confront him.
warnings: 18+ content, MDNI!!, no use of y/n, reader is in college (about 25), eddie is in his late 30s/early 40s, drug use, consumption of alcohol, drug dealing activities, eddie is a dirtbag, smut, lots of tension, no mention of specific body type, dubcon (both are under the influence, they are tipsy/high), titty play, big dick eddie confirmed, dom!eddie, oral (f recieving), squirting, cum eating, pussy pronouns, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, dirty talk, spanking, degrading, eddie finishes inside, there is aftercare <3
authors note: hey so this has been in my docs since the beginning of june and i've just been chipping away at it. it's unhinged and wild so stick with me <3. remember to like AND reblog, folks. support your fav writers and fics <3
how to help palestine ~ dividers by @cafekitsune
You had been buying from Eddie for 5 months.
And while you have intentionally strayed away from lingering too long in his trailer, he piqued your interest a little too much.
You were in your last year of college, aiming to go to law school next fall. Buying weed would be a thing of the past soon, so you had been going a bit overboard with consumption. You smoked every night, a routine you developed last summer when your boyfriend dumped you and dropped out of school. Loneliness required some sort of substance, so weed was your vice.
You got put in contact with Eddie’s friend first. A guy with long shiny black hair named Argyle. Typical surfer hippie dude who talked like he had a frog in his throat. When he told you that he had to stop selling, he had a kid on the way and needed to leave it in the past. So, he gave you Eddie’s contact.
And from then on, you were Eddie’s favorite customer.
Consistent. Polite. Always had the perfect amount of cash.
But much to Eddie’s dismay, it was always the same interaction.
“Hey, how’s it been?” You would ask with those beautiful eyes, your voice even and confident.
He would look down at you, your baggie already tied up and ready for you to tuck into your small tote bag. “Lots of the same. How’s school?”
“Annoying,” or “Fine,” or his new favorite, “Making me borderline suicidal.”
Your quick tongue was Eddie’s favorite thing. When the conversation strayed, which didn’t happen often, he would drop everything to watch your animated explanations of stupid topics. But he wanted more from you. You were only chatty when something annoyed you, and while watching you get riled up over something was hot, you never gave him much else.
At your last pick-up, you had to talk to someone about the party you were being forced to go to with your roommate. She was adamant that it was good for you to get out at least one more time before graduation. You could not say no to her.
So as soon as you handed Eddie his normal $35, you sprang into ranting about the party.
“I don’t even know anyone going! Except my roommate, and she has this guy she’s seeing. He’s a toolbag who acts like he’s better than anyone, all because he’s going to med school.” You grab the weed he has extended out to you, “So now I’m stuck rubbing elbows with a bunch of underclassmen. And on top of that, I know she’s probably going to try to get me drunk, and I don’t like drinking.”
Eddie’s smirk shifts to curiosity, “Why not?”
“Because alcohol makes me… angry? I guess. I don’t know, but last time I got drunk, I almost started a bar fight. Eva had to drag me out and throw me in a cab.”
He barks a laugh, slotting a cigarette between his plush pink lips. He cups the end with his hand and lights it up. “Well, please call me when that happens. I’d pay to see you fight someone.”
You watch his lips purse and blow out the smoke he inhaled. He wiggles his eyebrows playfully as you shake your head, trying to play innocent.
“I’ll keep you updated. See you in a few days.”
He gives you a polite nod, taking another drag, “See you later, sweetheart.”
-
You were extremely underdressed. Your roommate could only convince you into wearing a lower-cut top, but god forbid you put on anything but jeans.
You are held up in the corner, the music pounding against your eardrums. You had never been fond of house music, and the person in charge of the speakers was only pumping out techno beats and nonsensical lyrics. You are on your third cup of punch, trying to numb yourself to the environment.
You cannot help but eavesdrop on the people around you. One guy was talking about the girl he hooked up with last night to his obviously uninterested friend. One couple is arguing about who would be drinking more and who is driving home.
But one conversation towards the kitchen rings through your ears when the music quiets down.
“I have been buying from this guy… total fucking loser, but God, he’s hot.” The shrill of the voice catches your attention. You knew that voice. Karen Jacobs from your Sociology class. A sophomore who acted like she knew everyone. She was probably the most obnoxious and airheaded girl you knew from school. You turn around, your red solo cup loosely between your fingers.
She’s talking to another girl from class, but you cannot fathom caring what her name is. You walk a bit closer, trying to see if she’s talking about you-know-who. You act like you are grabbing more punch from the pitcher nearby.
“His name is Eddie. Apparently, he’s well-known amongst the frat guys. He gave me a good deal last week when I told him I was buying for a big party. So I did something I never do,” Your heart sinks to your ass. She did not.
“I gave him head.”
You slam your cup down dramatically, anger slowly bubbling up your throat. You want to grab her hair and yank her to the floor, but your rational mind clocks in for its shift.
You need to get into law school.
Why were you acting so defensive, anyway? Eddie was not your special little secret, you know he deals to a ton of people. But this small tidbit about him pisses you off more than you care to ponder for long.
Karen may be an idiot, but you know that Eddie simply took advantage of the situation. Of course, he would take some money off if a pretty girl were on her knees for him.
So instead of dealing with her in front of everyone and forcing information out of her, you decide to direct your attention to the real culprit of your anger.
You push your way through the house, spilling out onto Frat Row and storming down the street. Eddie’s trailer park was right outside of campus and was only about a 10-minute walk.
You are practically speed walking like those old ladies in the mall on Sunday mornings. The pent-up anger you had was only building when you had time to think.
Eddie was about 12 years older than you, give or take. Which means he was about 15 years older than Karen.
Was he doing this to other girls? Giving them discounts for sexual favors? It made your skin crawl, especially since you have established a sort of rapport with him. He was flirty, sure, but never acted like he was expecting something from you.
Were you not good enough for a discount? Were you just so ugly and annoying that he didn’t even think to give you a good deal? Were you paying too much for the weed?
When his trailer comes into view, you stop in your tracks. Were you actually going to confront him?
But then you get a flash of Karen between his legs, and suddenly you are enraged.
You stomp through his lawn, catching a glance inside. He and a couple of his friends seem to be smoking and drinking, with the lights pretty low. You pound on the door, announcing who it was, so you would not scare them too much. God forbid he thinks it’s the cops.
When the door opens, he looks good. Even better than your drunk mind could mock up. His long flowing hair on his shoulders, curly and a bit frizzy. He is tall and mostly always wearing some metal band’s merch. This time it’s a muscle t-shirt, showing off his inked skin. He’s not wearing jeans, though. Instead, he is sporting some baggy black sweatpants and house slippers. It almost makes you laugh.
“Hey pretty girl, everything g-”
You push him backward, weaseling your way inside his home. He is taken off guard for a moment, confused by your sudden intrusion. You look around the living room, spotting Argyle and two other dudes you have never seen before.
“Hey, dude! Been a while!” Argyle says excitedly, stumbling towards you to give you a hug. He is so drunk he doesn’t really catch on to the angry heat radiating off your body. You know you probably look like an insane person, having not said anything to anyone as you shove your way into your drug dealer’s house.
The horror of the situation settles when you realize that if these guys were evil and malicious, you are pretty outnumbered. A pretty college girl is probably all of their wet dreams. Especially Eddie’s, apparently.
You eye each one of them when Argyle pulls away and finds his way back to his seat, finally feeling a weird vibe off you.
“Can I talk to you?” You rumble, looking at Eddie’s conflicted eyes. He nods robotically, gesturing you to the nearby kitchen. His hand touches your arm, only slightly, but it practically sears your skin.
He goes to the fridge, pulling out two cans of cheap beer. He gestures one to you, almost like he’s making a peace offering.
But it’s just what you need. More alcohol.
You snatch it from him, cracking it quickly and taking a big swig.
You have never seen Eddie so concerned.
“Did something happen with what I gave you-”
You put your hand up, laughing like he told you a stupid joke. “Did you fuck Karen Jacobs?”
His eyes go wide, hiccuping up some of the beer he just took into his mouth. You have never seen him caught off guard, and somehow he’s even more painfully sexy.
“Who?” He rasps, shifting so he can lean against his kitchen island. You laugh again, the heat building up around your neck. His arms strain under his half-sleeved shirt, and it is making you insane.
“You gave her a good deal. She gives you head and you give her a big ole’ supply of weed.”
He waves the hand with the beer, placing it haphazardly on the counter. “Who told you this?”
“Karen Jacobs.”
He huffs, shaking his head. Eddie did not want you to find out about his escapades with random college girls who practically threw themselves at him. He assumed you would not associate with a bunch of bimbos like them. You were smarter and way more mature than any other girl he let jerk him off.
He would probably never see them again, and if he did, he would never offer them the infamous discount he gave them originally. But none of them came back, ever. So sure, he would fuck around with some of them to ease the tension he felt in his jeans sometimes.
Any pretty girl could wrap their lips around his cock and bring him to completion.
But with you, he worked up this whole scenario in his head that he would replay in his head every night as he jerked his cock. You looking so beautiful and ethereal under him, your soft skin practically malleable like clay as you bent to his every move. You would give him some snarky comment that he would retort to, and he would put you in your place.
He was a perv.
Formulating the perfect daydream to fist his cock to. And they always star you.
Silence fills the kitchen, and all you can hear is the movie playing in the living room. Eddie’s friends have grown silent. You take the rest of the beer in your mouth, swishing it around, trying to disassociate the disgusting taste.
“I knew she would go spouting shit off to people,” He mutters, his hand going behind his neck to scratch awkwardly, “Why does it matter to you, anyway?”
That’s your confirmation.
You scoff, crushing the can and tossing it in his sink. You stumble towards him, looking up at him with disdain. He stands up straighter, like he is sizing you up. But in actuality, he is preparing for you to fall over.
“You’re disgusting,” You emphasize the word by dragging it out, pushing his chest with your pointer finger. Your mind draws a blank when you realize how warm he is and how cold your hand is against his Metallica t-shirt.
The beer hits you all at once when you watch his face twist up into a smile. He got you right where he wanted you, and he did not even have to try. It was like those scenarios he mocks up at night.
You bring your other hand up, going to push him harder.
Instead of doing that, Eddie stops you and grabs your wrist, his grip tight. “You never answered me, sweetheart. Tell me why it bothers you that I’m fucking my customers, hm?”
By the look on his smug face, he’s insinuating something.
You clench your jaw, tilting your nose up at him. “I don’t like that you’re taking advantage of girls.”
He clicks his tongue, seeing right through your act. “I don’t think that’s why you stomped your way into my house at almost one in the morning. Tell me. Why. Does. It. Bother. You?”
You search his face, wanting nothing more than to slap the look off his face. He appears to be so proud, like he’s got you right under your thumb. Your eyelids are heavy, your crossfade suddenly making your body feel looser. You try to wiggle your arm out of his grip, and luckily, he just drops your wrist.
“I never got an offer like that.”
Your looseness must have found your lips. You did not anticipate or even second-guess those words; they simply just tumbled out.
He thought you looked so sweet. Feigning innocence when he knew exactly what you wanted out of coming here. The glint in your eye was making it too obvious.
His hands find your waist, backing you up against the counter again. The coldness of his rings on his left hand presses into your skin as your shirt rides up over your jeans. “You want me to make you an offer like that, sweets?”
You don’t know what to say, so you just shake your head ‘no’.
“No? Then why does it bother you that I give that deal to other girls? You insecure? Jealous?”
You hate the way he’s speaking to you. And he’s doing it on purpose. The teasing had you admitting what you desired from him. Because while Eddie was a dirtbag, he was dead set on hearing precisely what you wanted.
But for some sick reason, the tone of his voice makes your pussy throb.
“I just like having options.” You shake your head at your own statement, biting the inside of your mouth like it was going to stop your drunk honesty.
Eddie’s eyebrows fly up, covered by his messy bangs. “Options, huh? You want me to give you options? I deal to you and you hardly speak when you pick up.”
“You ever think it’s because you’re a bit intimidating?” You practically slur, leaning towards him a bit, “Your whole demeanor screams scary drug dealer.”
He laughs, cocking his head to the side like he is trying to get to the bottom of you. And he was.
You don’t expect him to lean towards your ear. You never had him this close to you. Your entire body buzzed with anticipation and a bit of fear.
“Maybe because I am, sweetheart,” He whispers, his fingers rubbing circles into your waist, “But it makes you feel better, I only keep around the ones I really like.”
You shake your head, trying to push down the moan that almost leaves your throat. “You say that to all the girls you deal to.”
He tuts, looking down between your bodies. He’s specifically scanning your body and the way your shirt is riding up a bit. “You’re the only girl who is consistently coming to me. The only woman.”
You know it is so wrong for him to make you feel this way. A man so much older. A man whose only job is selling young kids weed and who knows what else. But the attraction you felt for him initially has somehow morphed into something even more toxic. Possessive.
“So what you are saying,” You ponder, jutting your hips out towards him, pressing your stomach into his, “Is you like me?”
He looks down at you, his eyes even darker than the usual chocolate brown they always were.
Yep, right where he wanted you.
Up and down. His fingers trace the belt loops of your jeans, moving away from your waist down to your hips. He is taking his time, ensuring the break in conversation is long enough to melt your brain.
His hands reach your butt, his expansive palms grabbing a handful of your cheeks, “You are a perceptive one, huh?”
It’s becoming real the more he rubs his hands against you. The longing you had for him turning red hot and insatiable. You lock your hands around the back of his neck, pulling him down to you forcefully.
Eddie is not expecting how eager you are to kiss him, and it shakes him to his very core. You slot your lips against his, humming when he returns it for the briefest moment. But he pulls away before you can push your tongue into his mouth. Your heart sinks when you open your eyes. He has this unreadable expression.
“You aren’t running the program here, sweets,” He mumbles, his eyes practically glued to your shiny lips. “Now, I’m gonna go tell the guys the party is over, and you’re gonna go to my room and sit pretty on the bed for me. Can you do that?”
You do not even hesitate to agree with him. With a jerk of your head, he walks you to the hallway right off the kitchen, gesturing with his shoulder. “Last door on the right.”
-
His room is in disarray, but it’s not dirty. He just had a lot of tapes and records scattered about. One side of his room’s walls is decked out in posters from bands like Metallica and Dio. On the other side, only one thing hangs. A beautiful red and black electric guitar, practically collecting dust on its display hook. You stared at it while you listened to Eddie kick his friends out, not giving them an explanation as to why.
He was trying to fuck one of his customers, per usual, you thought in your excited but tipsy brain.
He’s trying to win over a younger woman he really likes with his dick, he thinks as he switches off his TV before jogging to his room.
When he walks in, you are silently seated on his unmade bed.
“You okay?” He mutters, his eyes scanning your figure, hoping to gauge your body language. You had simply been overthinking the fact that he pulled away from your kiss, even though his lips felt so perfect pressed against yours.
You suck in your cheeks, biting the edge of your lip. “You play guitar?”
He can tell you are a bit nervous about the prospect of being with him, but you seemed so sure of yourself in the kitchen. Surely five minutes of being alone did not give you a different take on the situation. No. That cannot be possible.
He tries to play into the conversation, hoping to bring you some ease.
He looks over his shoulder, looking at his Charvel Surfcaster. It had been years since he picked it up. He assumes he could still play. Muscle memory was a hard thing to forgo, even when you get old.
“Did. It’s been ages.”
He sits down next to you, taking up a bit of space next to you. You get a whiff of his deodorant, something that is sort of wearing off. He smelled like the beer you just chugged, weed, and a natural musk, which usually turned you off. But for some reason, with him, it made your mouth water. You look to him through your lashes, a small smirk creeping across your face.
God, you were too perfect to be in his bed.
Now, he was second-guessing this.
You pull him out of his thoughts immediately when you find your voice again, “You know what they say about guitarists and their fingers?”
His head snaps completely towards you, eyes wide and looking at you incredulously.
“You little minx,” His hands find your body once more, this time, on your clothed thigh. “Yeah, I know what they say.”
He drums his digits across your leg as you lull your head back. “Is it true, then?”
“‘Course it is.”
-
His fingers. God, his fingers.
You had observed the ring-clad hands plenty of times, but now they are real and tucking themselves behind your neck. When the coldness of the rings press against your collarbones, the moan that escapes your lips is unprompted.
“Mm, there she is,” He tuts, his trimmed nails suddenly scratching down your chest to your boobs, “I just have to touch you right and you melt.”
Eddie has been with countless women in his life. The last time he remembers being this thrilled and invigorated to fuck someone, it was the very first girl he ever slept with. A cheerleader from his high school, a girl who was a year younger than him. She was beautiful, he remembers. But she was rigid and inexperienced, just like him. So as soon as the jitters wore off, he realized how unimpressive the entirety of his first time was.
He spent the rest of his young adult life ensuring he never felt a come down like that again.
But in recent years, he had felt more insecure. His body is not being what it used to be. The pressing factor of time really affected how he saw sex. He would take whatever he could get, and honestly, it did not do much for his confidence.
When you came along, with your beautiful smile and quick wit, he did not expect to be so enamored with you. You were not desperate to impress anyone, and you took no shit from anyone, which was rare coming from a girl your age.
Plus, you were so fucking hot.
His fingers expand over your tits, kneading them carefully as if to gauge your reaction. Lucky for him, you were exceptionally reactive to guys playing with your boobs.
“Is this what you wanted?” He presses, his face tilting a bit towards you, “Me to touch you?”
His breath is hot over your face, and you practically melt looking into his darkened eyes.
“Yes,” you sigh as his hand trails down your shirt, slowly pulling up the hem.
He does not take his eyes off of you as he speaks, not even to watch your shirt ride up right above your tits, “Why didn’t you just say something, huh? I scare you that much?”
You truly cannot help but be snarky to him. “I don’t fuck drug dealers.”
The teasing tone is not lost on Eddie. He chuckles darkly, finally looking at your tits so perfectly pushed up in your bra. He cannot help be hiss at the sight, completely taken by the pretty lace that lines your cleavage.
“Mmm, that’s right. My pretty girl is gonna be a lawyer one day,” He hums. He leans towards your jaw, his lips pressing ever-so-softly there. His right hand scoops under your bra’s cups, getting a handful of your boobs. “You sure you don’t wanna get some of this tension out before you take that bar exam?”
You moan, your voice shaking so bad you cannot even mock up a response. He notes your trembling lip and continues to toy with you, rolling your hardened nipple between his pointer finger and thumb.
“I think fuckin’ this drug dealer would do you some good.”
Eddie is going to send you into cardiac arrest if he keeps talking like that. It makes you feel a bubbling in your stomach that you have never experienced with any other man in your life.
You needed to respond, distract yourself from how good he’s already making you feel, “I won’t take the bar for another couple years.”
He pulls away from your jaw, where he’s made the choice to smother you in long, drawn-out kisses. “Oh, so I can have you until then?”
You scoff, eyes flickering between his. You two are practically panting into each other’s mouths, unable to contain the unbridled desire any further.
You make the first move, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him down onto you. Your lips colliding in a passionate, hungry kiss. His hand slips out of your bra and instead cradles your back against the bed. As you slide your tongue into his mouth, you can taste the Marlboros he smokes. The shifting of your legs only hints that he’s painfully hard in his jeans. You can feel him against your thigh.
He pulls away first, making work at your clothing. First, it was the jeans, sliding them down your legs like he was trying to inspect you for a wire. His hands slide up and down your legs once you kick them off your ankles, trying to commit the look of them to memory. He needed this entire experience burned into his depraved brain.
Your shirt flies off on your own accord. The bra goes right after with his quick fingers aiding in unclasping the back.
You were only in your blush pink panties, sitting perfectly over your curves. As he sits up a bit on his crackling knees, he spots a small wet spot right where he imagines your pussy meets your asshole.
His cock has never been harder.
Eddie’s eyes cannot work over your body quickly enough. Every glance, there’s something new he notices. You were like a marble sculpture at the Louvre or some shit. He had no comparison.
A dream.
His lips capture yours in another bruising kiss as his hands return to your sensitive chest, humming into your mouth. He switches between tugging on your nipples and squeezing the fat of your boob itself as he slots one leg between your thighs.
You are a whimpering mess already, and he hasn’t even touched your pussy.
“Greedy little girl,” He says dryly, his lips drifting further down to your chest. He has never been with someone so reactive to his touch, and he’s borderline obsessed with the way you respond to him. The moment the hot air from him breathing touches your areola, your hips shift upward. “That’s all you are, huh? Greedy.”
“Please, Eddie,” You whimper, your hands finally reaching out to him, working your hand down to wear his pants are still constricting around the outline of his dick. You are getting even more impatient for him. But he’s not easily swayed. He brings one hand down to your wrist, squeezing it.
“You come into my house demanding an explanation on who I‘ve been fucking,” He laughs, pursing his lips a bit to blow on your peaked nipple. He tightens his grip on your wrist, pinning it beside your hip, “and now you want to dictate how this goes?”
You try to wiggle out of his grasp, but to no avail. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It wasn’t, huh?” He lowers himself, his lips brushing across your tit, “I told you who’s taking the reins here, didn’t I. And I don’t like liars.”
Eddie got his doctorate in dirty talk, knowing it’s something that drove the younger women he slept with insane. But usually they just moaned in return. Not you. No, you were returning the nonsense back to him, which made you even more special. You were fearless.
“Okay,” You manage a giggle, your pride slipping through the cracks. The alcohol was still pumping through your veins, and lying had not worked once in this entire interaction. “Maybe it was.”
“Yeah, maybe,” His lips land directly around your nipple, suckling at it and teasing it with his teeth. Your hips jut upward, your core rubbing against his stabilized leg. It’s maddening.
Eddie released your wrist finally, placing it on your waist to balance himself a bit more. He swung his leg inward so both his legs were between your thighs as he assaulted your titties with licks and bites.
You moan his name, your free hand now retreating into his long, dark curls.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to treat you,” He reassures as he comes up for air. You whine, grinding your clothed pussy against his legs. He presses his hand on your lower stomach, successfully preventing you from humping him any further. He uses his other hand to cup the heat between your legs, “Well, her, good.”
His fingers gather your slick with your underwear, the sound of it alone occupies the otherwise silent space around you two.
“She’s messy, ain’t she?”
He chuckles at that, completely removing himself from on top of you. He needed to feel you bare against his naked chest, so bad. His clothes felt like they were choking him and holding him back from having the real fun he wanted with you.
Seeing him shirtless sobered you up quite a bit. He has more tattoos than bare skin. His tummy is softer, hinting that he probably likes beer more than he likes water. He was a man with a lot of time on his hands. You're sure it gets tedious, drug dealing to the same crowd of people every day. And being drunk is more exciting than being sober.
You are lying on your back, elbows pushing you up as he strips down. He’s been dying to see you like this, sprawled out, practically drooling over him. He never thought he would see this day come to fruition, but here it is.
He shoves his pants down his legs, and his tented briefs give you a better idea of what kind of night you were about to have.
He’s so hard it almost hurts. If you dared to wrap those pretty hands around his length, he would bust immediately. When he pulls at the waistband of his underwear, his cock springs free. His red tip is leaking a bit, which only makes you gawk. He was gorgeous, long and girthy. Probably the prettiest dick you have ever seen.
“For fucks sake,” You lull your head back, pushing your naked chest up for him to eye, “Eddie, what the fuck?”
“What?” He asks, mockingly. His eyes never left your chest.
You tilt your head forward again, looking at him with brows raised. “I’m not ready for… that.”
He chuckles darkly as you gesture to his dick. Eddie knew exactly what you were referring to, but he could not help but enjoy the dazed look you gave his lower region. He shakes his head as he shoves his briefs down his legs completely. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you a bit warmed up. But once I feel like you’re ready, I’m gonna fuck you all night.”
You shift your hips to accommodate him again, but instead of getting between your legs, he drops to his knees beside the bed. You immediately know what he’s trying to do, and you start to stray away from him.
“I don’t like getting head.”
He had never had a woman reject him so bluntly. By the look on your face, he can tell the dislike is simply from not enjoying it in the past. He dips his head down, his lips close to your inner thigh. “Why’s that, sweetheart?”
Drunk honesty at it again. “Every guy who’s ever given me head sucked at it… and it just felt weird. They all complained before I could even cum.”
He shakes his head, leaving a wet kiss on your sensitive skin. “But… you haven’t gotten head from me.”
“Eddie-”
His face pressed into your pussy like it was magnetized to be there. He inhales your scent as his lips drag across your still-covered slit. You sit up further in your propped-up position, jaw unhinged as you watch his perfectly pink lips toy with you.
“Let me just give it a shot, yeah?”
He waits a moment, lingering teasingly over your panties. You have never felt a desire to watch a man eat you out, but you simply could not look away. He eventually pushes your panties out of the way, looking at your glistening cunt like it was a modern marvel.
His tongue sticks out as he presses forward into your slit. Like before, it feels odd at first, but Eddie’s eagerness to taste you changes the feeling. He is not just licking and hoping you feel something, no, he’s putting his entire being into devouring you.
Your essence is already making Eddie feel more intoxicated than he already is. The cries leaving your lips only egg him on further, shaking his head back and forth between your pussy lips.
His fingers join the mix, dividing your folds and exploring around your already pulsating hole.
“Gotta get this wet cunt all ready for me. You think she’ll be ready for me, hm?” He teases as your hips manage to shift closer to his face. His nose is bumping your clit as his fingers and tongue assault your cunt.
It does not feel like it felt when other guys touched you like this. Eddie's motions are meticulous and well thought out. It felt like he knew your anatomy better than even you.
“Need it now." Your voice cracks as he speeds his fingers up, curling them up towards the ceiling. The rush of heat spreads out amongst your body, but the fireworks in your stomach start to erupt as he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking and swirling around it.
His suction gives up for a moment, but his fingers don't let up, “Oh no, you’re gonna cum for me first. Need you to soak my hand, pretty.”
Your eyes lock onto his as you watch him return to work. Those sparks you felt earlier only burst into complete bliss the moment his slurping of your cunt intensifies.
Watching you fall apart is the most beautiful thing Eddie's ever seen in all his years. Your body glistening with a light sheen of sweat as your widened eyes tighten shut. Your head falls back against the bed as your mouth falls agape, his name slipping off your tongue over and over again.
You gush all around his fingers, the excess falling into his mouth like a sweet nectar he never wants to swallow. He just wants to have it take over his taste buds forever.
In your blissed out state, Eddie's fingers leave your raw hole and reach up to your lips. He leans over you, rubbing your cum all over your mouth like some sort of lip gloss.
He smiles at you as you wrap your mouth around his fingers, eyeing him as you suck his digits clean, “Knew she just needed the magic touch.”
You roll your eyes at that, disassociating from the fact that you are licking your own cum off his fingers. You had never done something so dirty, but you were under some sort of spell with Eddie. He made you feel like you could be your true, vulgar, unhinged self. The confidence you never could bring to the bed with any other man you knew.
He sits up from his spot, and you see his red tip leaking all over his own sheets. He sees you eyeing him up, which only makes him flinch. You sit up, reach out, and slowly take him into your hand.
He gasps at the slightest bit of friction against his cock. Your hand looked so small wrapped around him, and he swore to whatever God was there that if you continued those ministrations, he would cum in seconds. You just looked so innocent in that moment. It was short-circuiting his brain.
He finally locks in on the softness of your skin on your stomach, trying to ground himself a bit. “Do I need to use a uh.. condom?”
You pump him painfully slow. It's about to drive him insane, so he pushes your hand away before you can even answer the question. His ringed fingers lock around his length as you think about the logistics. You were too far gone to really care about the specifics, but your horny brain wanted to feel his long, uncut cock deep inside you. Every ridge.
“I just need to feel you in me.”
He pushes your legs back a bit as he settles between your thighs. “Raw it is then, sweetheart.”
He lines himself up with your leaking hole and plunges straight in. A moan rips from his throat as you practically scream at the way he opens you up. His grunts are guttural and severely hot.
The pressure as he presses into you is maddening. He fucks you slowly at first, his eyes laser-focused on your chest as your tits bounce when he fills you to the hilt.
You smile at his hands locked around your waist, like he is trying to anchor himself somewhere. You inhale and exhale unhurriedly, managing the intensity you feel as he splits you open.
"You can speed up a bit," You mumble, your hands pressing into his heavily tattooed shoulders. He looks between your bodies, and a groan bubbles up from his throat.
His pace picks up, and his eyes return to the way your tits jiggle under his force. He is hitting you so deeply that you cannot focus on anything else. He just feels so good.
He leans down while plowing into you, practically folding you in half. Your knees are practically at your shoulders, it feels like. He captures your right nipple in his mouth, sucking you as his hips slap against your ass. The overstimulation makes you clench around his cock, which only makes him sigh in pleasure.
"Feels good," You mewl as your hands search for the nape of his neck, under the mess of curls that surround him. He lets go of your tit with a pop and smiles wickedly at you.
"God, she’s so fuckin’ wet, sweetheart," He says with his teeth clenched. God, you felt so good, he thinks to himself. His hips snap faster, "Can you hear how sloppy your pussy is for me?”
You throw your head back at his obscene words. You never knew how much words could affect you until they spilled out from between Eddie's lips.
"You feel so good, oh my god!”
His head dips down, and he bites your jaw as his hips do not falter from their rapid tempo.
“Yeah? You’re just squeezing me so good,” He grumbles in your ear. The mixture of the sweetness of your perfume and the bitterness of your sweat infiltrates his nostrils, and he could bust at the mere fact that you still smell incredible. He slows down, even when he does not really want to, because he feels like his heart may burst from his chest. “Wanna try another position?”
He pulls out swiftly, throwing you onto your stomach like he was simply flipping a pillow to the colder side in the middle of the night. He helps you into doggy, pushing your back down so you are arching your back dramatically.
You, on display before him, is a sight that he wants to burn into the back of his eyelids.
His hand gropes your ass before slapping it roughly. You clench at nothing, which is very obvious from the way you shift your hips.
"You just do whatever I ask, huh?" He chuckles to himself, taking his dick in his hand and slotting it between your folds. You lay your arms out in front of you, like you are surrendering everything to this man.
"You said you were taking the reins," You mumble into his sheets, "Please."
He sinks into you, then pulls all the way out. "Mm, keep begging."
"Please, I want it."
Again. Pushes in, pulls out. This time, he slaps your ass again.
"Say what you want, sweetheart." He holds your hips taut, his fingers expanding over the very tops of your thighs. "Come on, say it.”
“Fuck me, please.”
You hear him chuckle at your plea, his hands tightening around your flesh. “Atta girl.”
He slams into you, slipping right into your hole without an ounce of friction. You do not even have time to think, only moan and feel everything he is offering you.
Every moment that passes, he swears he’s going to lose it and fill you to the brim. His cockhead is so sensitive as it is wedged so perfectly inside you. You felt nothing like he imagined, in the best way possible. His body falls over you slightly as his knees start to bear a bit too much of his weight. It gives him the perfect position to use his fingers again and play with your sensitive bud.
When his hand creeps down over your mound, you feel goosebumps spread throughout your practically on-fire body. Every nerve was ablaze in pure pleasure, so when his fingers graze your clit, it’s game over.
“Oh fuck, Eddie, yes!”
Hearing his name pour from your mouth, your voice trembling and raw, is enough to make him lose all sense. His only focus now is making you cum as quickly as possible, just so he can. “That’s right, scream my fuckin’ name. Tell everyone your drug dealer is bullying this pussy.”
“I’m close,” You cry, your muscles starting to tense and give out. You feel like your legs may slide out from under you. Your stomach practically drops to the mattress as your orgasm takes over.
“Yeah, cum for me. Good girl.”
His praises make you clench even harder, which pushes him over the edge. One final thrust forward and locking both hands onto your hips again is enough to have him empty himself deep with a choked-out moan. Even with the final thrust, he’s rocking his hips slightly to try to prolong the experience. The grip he has on you will leave marks, you know that for sure.
You two stay like that for what feels like 20 minutes, just basking in the afterglow of the experience. He takes his time backing out of you and falling to your side. Your entire body lies flat on his bed as your chest continues to heave.
You try to sit up, but Eddie does not allow it. His touch returns to your body, but this time, it’s your waist. He pulls you into his bare chest, kissing your shoulder blade as you become flush with him. It’s something so domestic and soft that you flinch.
You two lie there, not saying anything for a while.
When he finally does move, you immediately miss his hands. You peek your eye open to see him getting up and grabbing his pants from the floor. He pulls them up to right below his tummy and shoots you a grin.
“Let me get us some water.”
-
You decide the moment he leaves the room that you need to pee and get the hell out. There was no way he was going to allow you to stay anyway. This was not some hookup after a nice date; this was a hookup with your fucking dealer.
You knew better, and yet you still did it.
And it was so good that you wished you could forget it already. Coming back here to pick up was only going to become a huge issue because your body would long for this to happen all over again.
Now you knew why the girls had talked about him. Even if they were just sucking his dick, it was quite the sight, and he definitely knew how to use it and his words.
You made a mistake. A drunken mistake.
You slip out of his room and to his bathroom. It was surprisingly well-maintained. No piss stains in the grout.
You sit down on the toilet and plot how you thought this was all going to go. You just had to be honest with him.
“Yeah, Eddie, great dick and all, but I never meant for this to happen.”
Which was a lie, because you fully wanted this to happen. You had from the moment you saw his tattoo on his hipbone when he was grabbing something for you one day in his cabinet.
He was hot, and you could not deny that anymore.
What you really needed was a cold shower to try to muddle through these thoughts, but you could not just randomly start the shower and start using the man’s body wash. So you settled for splashing cold water on your face until you thought of something.
The moment you do the second splash, the door creaks open, and Eddie walks in, pushing his pants down his hips again. You freeze, the water clouding your vision through your soaked lashes.
He goes to the toilet, eyeing you curiously. “You good?”
He starts to pee, right beside you.
It’s his house. Plus… his cum was still dripping out of you.
That was his rationale behind taking a leak beside the hot girl he just plowed into.
You clear your throat, reaching for the tan hand towel that was haphazardly hung beside the sink. “I should probably get home.”
Eddie finishes his business before shaking his head. “Nah, you’re staying tonight.”
He had no intention of letting you leave his bed tonight. He was a bit offended that you left it before he could bring you back your ice water.
Girl’s gotta pee.
Your stomach flips. “What?”
You are not scared, or even intimidated. You are just confused. And a bit too tired to resist too much.
But to Eddie, he could not be clearer.
“Get back to bed. I left you a shirt to wear.”
-
You do not expect to sleep so well. His blankets are softer than any blanket you have ever owned. His pillows have a weirdly nostalgic smell, like cotton and cigarette smoke. And he is wrapped around you, his hands rested on your waist, right under the Metallica shirt he gave you to wear to bed. For your own dignity, you put your underwear back on, even when Eddie sighed, watching you pull them up your legs.
Eddie slept like the dead. He usually slept well enough, but it was like your presence gave him all the comfort he ever needed. You lie on your back when you sleep, and Eddie curls in next to you, slotting his face right in the crook of your neck. So all night he got to inhale your sweet natural scent.
He woke up before you. He could never sleep more than 5 hours, so when the sun peeked through his shredded curtains, his eyes lazily opened to stare at your side profile.
You were probably even more beautiful in this light than any other way he had ever seen you. He had to peel himself away from you, his fingertips buzzing as they swiped across the hem of your panties as he stood up.
He needed a cigarette.
-
You do not wake up until an hour or so later. Eddie’s side of the bed lies bare as you stretch your arms out and orient yourself.
You remember everything.
His touch is burned into your flesh, like a gaping wound you could not sew back together.
You get up, trying to find your pants. When you get half dressed, you open the door that leads to the hallway. You hear the TV on and smell the scent of freshly brewed coffee. As you peer into the kitchen, you see him standing there shirtless, his pajama pants hanging low over his hips.
For fuck’s sake.
“Mornin’,” you mutter, dropping your shoes by the front door. By the looks of it, you would be staying for a bit. Eddie turns to you, his entire body getting flushed at your dazed and sleepy expression.
“Good mornin’, sweetheart.”
He saunters over to you, his hand reaching out for your hip. You do not move an inch, letting his warmth spread across you like a second skin. He looks down at you, a smirk spreading across his chapped lips. He was so devastatingly handsome, especially in this role as a doting one-night stand.
He cocks his head to one side, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips without even a second thought. You cannot help but giggle as he swipes your bottom lip with his tongue.
“I made you a bagel,” He says, his eyes fluttering open to gauge your reaction. You look at him curiously, trying to rack your brain as to when you told him you liked bagels. They were the only breakfast item you could truly stand, and you were staunch about your hatred for breakfast. Had you mentioned that to him?
“Oh,” You sigh, your hands using his forearms for balance, “You did?”
“I don’t have cream cheese, but I have butter,” He explains, pulling you back with him to the same kitchen counter he was standing over when you came in.
The moment you step foot near the fridge, you get a flashback to the last time you were held up in here. His hands feel so different than they did last night as they grace your skin. While still charged, they were more delicate and kind to you.
Almost like he read your mind, he hands you the bagel wrapped in a paper towel. “You told me how it’s the only thing you can stomach in the morning. I picked some up a couple of days ago cause I started to crave one. But I like mine with peanut butter.”
You bark out a laugh at his statement, taking the bagel over to where a carton of butter is sitting out next to the stove. “Peanut butter?”
“I don’t like the judgment,” He states, walking up behind you and gently swatting your ass. It makes your heart leap out of your chest as you spread the butter out on your lightly toasted bagel.
“I was just questioning your choices.”
He leans down to your ear and whispers, “And judging me.”
“No, just questioning,” You hum, lifting the bagel up to your mouth and taking a bite. Surprisingly, not terrible with just butter.
He retreats to his coffee maker, pouring himself a mug full of the dark liquid. No cream. No sugar.
Your stomach starts to feel like a rock with the carb-heavy bread you are biting into. Maybe it was the anxiety you felt about being so domestic with Eddie. Everything just seemed so simple and laid out, but you felt his tension in the very core of your being. A tension you could not ignore.
You crunch another piece of your bagel off, as Eddie faces you again from across the kitchen.
“Now what?”
He furrows his brows under his curly mop of bangs, “What do you mean?”
Your stomach sinks, and so does his. You both are lost navigating this situation. You both want the same thing, to keep doing whatever this is, but you did not understand how that would work. Eddie was not confident enough to say how he thought about you every day. And you were too fearful to speak the truth about your bubbling emotions about him.
“Do we…”
He stops you with his hand, his mug pressed against his lips as he slurps up a sip of the steaming liquid. He swallows slowly, shaking his head at your fallen and unfinished question.
“How about we smoke and talk about?”
You take another bite of your bagel. Smoking sounds great. Perfect way to settle your nerves.
“Are you sure you have enough for me?”
“I reupped yesterday, beautiful,” He grumbles, putting his mug down and returning his hands to your waist, “Don’t be so needling.”
A smile creeps across your face as you reach up and pinch his cheek. “You aren’t so big and scary, are you?”
“Only when I need to be, sweetheart. Only when I need to be.”
np taglist (tagging folks who have asked or ppl i just love and want to share with <3): @mrsjellymunson @mediocredreams @amanitacowboy @thejordiverse @wdsara48 @emxxblog @abitchyouhate
okay i’m gonna say it: fandoms are kinda dying on tumblr, and they’re starving because nobody reblogs anymore.
like… i don’t wanna be that person but be for real?? likes are cute and all but they do nothing for creators. ZERO. NADA. a reblog is literally the oxygen mask keeping this blue hellsite alive. you say you “love” a fic, an edit, a gifset? then BABES… reblog it. boost it. let it breathe.
half the time creators are out here pouring their entire soul, spine, AND three vertebrae into something just for it to get 200 likes and 3 reblogs, two of which are their own. that’s why people stop posting. that’s why fandoms feel empty. content doesn’t magically fall from the sky — it comes from people who feel seen.
and i promise you: reblogging is free. it costs you like 0.2 seconds and suddenly you’re personally responsible for keeping a whole fandom alive. congrats!! so yeah. if you like something? reblog it. scream in the tags. yell. keyboard smash. put sparkles. do whatever. just don’t let creators feel like they’re shouting into a void.
reblogs feed creators. reblogs keep fandoms thriving. reblogs literally save lives (okay maybe not literally but u get it).
support the creators you love !!!!!! or else we’re all gonna be sitting in empty tags like clowns.
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