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a total eclipse of the heart | chapter 4

vampire!eddie munson x sinclair!reader, minor/unrequited steve harrington x reader.

summary: you and steve regroup and recuperate after eddie's escape. later, he decides to let you know how he really feels. 15.8k i think. jesus christ.

warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! this is the chapter with the optional smut scene, it is delineated with bolded, red [START] and [END] markers if you'd like to skip it. the tags for the explicit content are as follows: very enthusiastic consent, a bit of body/scar worship, biting/grabbing/scratching/hair pulling + mild pain, no power dynamic in play but eddie definitely leans subby, piv unprotected sex (with discussion + agreement), oral (f receiving), blood play/drinking (obviously), fingering, kind of praise kink-y, just some lovey dovey shit, i kind of stole the whole "vampire bodily fluids become blood-based" thing from vtm lore, overstim, crying/dacryphilia, eddie struggles with control a couple times, he also briefly uses the psychic bond for evil, men begging and whimpering, aaand coming untouched.

a/n: i wrote/posted this before i paid much attention to word counts so i had nooooooo idea this chapter was so long 😭 also ngl this is the first smut scene i ever actually posted anywhere and i still kind of love it..... like ughhhh y'all are so in love fr 😭💞

fic directory

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Standing in front of the mirror in Steve’s bathroom, you barely recognize the face staring back at you.

Tired, bloodshot eyes, puffy face, smeared, drying blood dirtying your neck and chest. The emotions that consumed you in the last couple hours (and days, and weeks) have left you drained to your core, close to numb and too tired to feel, to think.

You hear him from afar, buzzing around, opening and closing drawers. When he rejoins you in the bathroom, Steve reaches around you to turn on the sink and run a blue washcloth under the water, wringing it out with tense hands, tendons stretching under warm skin. As he raises it, your eyes follow him in the mirror, and when he hesitates, you meet his careful stare.

“...I'm gonna clean it up, alright?”

You nod.

Given permission, he moves with confidence, scrubbing your skin clean, firm and patient. If you had it in you at the moment, you might be surprised at how readily he pulls your shirt collar aside as he goes, cleaning the hidden stains underneath, but the diligent focus in his eyes proves his innocence—single-minded responsibility, the routine of wounded aftermaths, puts any other incentives on hold.

When he's cleaned all he can reach, his reflection finds your eyes again. “Is it okay, if I…?”

With a deep exhale, your hand finally slips free, the last of your stubbornness melting away. In the mirror, two ragged little puncture marks stare back at you.

“Thanks,” Steve mutters.

He cleans around the wound with such painstaking, attentive softness that it could probably make you cry. His face pulls into a sympathetic grimace as he works.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “Tell me if it hurts.”

It doesn't. As he finishes, he sets the cloth on the counter and crouches for a moment, retrieving a first aid kit from under the sink. Rifling through it, he pulls out a tube of neosporin, squirting some onto his finger.

“This'll sting,” he warns you, finding your eyes again before gingerly dabbing it into each wound.

Finally, he pulls out a bandage large enough to cover the whole area and presses it into your skin, running his thumb around it to firmly seal the edges. Even as he finishes, his hand lingers on your shoulder, tickling your skin as it travels lightly upwards, his palm cupping the side of your neck. You turn to look at him directly, a little stunned.

“...I'm sorry,” he sighs, his eyes dimming as he stares at you. “I…had one job, and I kinda blew it.”

You scoff lightly, baffled as always by Steve Harrington. “I snuck out on you,” you say. Your voice is half-gone, thin and abrasive. “And I'm grown enough to make my own decisions.”

“I know,” he says. “...Yeah, I know. But I also knew you'd…probably want to check on him. At least, if I offered to take you, I could've—”

“I let him out, Steve,” you say, frustration returning some life to your face and voice. “On purpose.”

He just stares at you, sad and unsurprised—he must have gathered that at some point.

“...It's not your fault,” you sullenly insist.

His eyebrows pinch together, and then he's pulling you into him, his arms wrapping loosely around your back. You accept it mindlessly, letting yourself rest against him, too exhausted to worry about what he might think it means later on. He always seems to radiate heat, and with your anemic limbs, you finally have it in you to admire it.

“It's not your fault, either,” he mutters. Then, with disdain: “...Scheming asshole.”

After a moment longer, Steve pulls back, his hand returning to your neck. He stares at you for a moment before taking a quick, preparatory breath.

“I…really want you to stay in my room tonight.”

You blink at him.

“I won't touch you,” he hurries to explain, “it's not— I'll sleep on the floor. Shit, I probably won’t sleep at all. I just…don't like the idea of you, alone, on the other side of the house, when he could be…anywhere.”

…This is, pretty much to a T, your nightmare scenario of what staying with Steve would entail.

Under the circumstances, however, you don’t find it particularly intimidating.

“...Okay,” you agree.

“And I—” Steve freezes, dumbfounded. “...What?”

“I said, okay,” you repeat, laughing weakly at the look on his face. “Honestly, I…don’t really want to be alone tonight, either.”

“Okay, yeah,” Steve says, nodding at you as if he isn’t the one who suggested this. “...Do you wanna stay up for a while? We could watch something, or—”

You shake your head, staring up at him with tired eyes. “I just wanna sleep.”

Glancing at your bandage again, Steve’s eyes darken as he nods in agreement.

…

Once you’ve readied yourself for bed as much as your leaden body allows you to, it’s a little embarrassing to make your way back across the hall to Steve’s room.

For one, he’s never seen you with your hair up before—the amount of comments you’ve gotten at past sleepovers, ranging from awkward to insulting, spin through your mind like a rolodex. For another, innocent or otherwise, you can’t help but wonder exactly which number you come in at on the storied list of girls who’ve been invited into Steve Harrington’s bedroom.

When you hesitantly push his door open, you catch him right in the middle of pulling a shirt over his head.

“Sorry,” you mutter, starting to close it again.

“No, it’s fine,” he assures you, a little smile on his lips. His eyes flicker over you, but don't catch on anything in particular.

As you enter the room properly, you’re assaulted first by the sight of his obnoxious, black and white checkered wallpaper. Once you’ve recovered from that, you notice that a pillow from the bed and a spare blanket have been set up on the carpet, and you shake your head.

“I’m not gonna make you sleep on the floor, Steve.”

“Don't worry about it,” he insists. “Like I said, I'm probably not gonna sleep much, anyway.”

“Then don't-sleep in your own bed,” you huff. “...I trust you.”

It comes out easily because, ultimately, you do, but Steve’s face instantly falls serious, and you can tell by his eyes that your words hit him with a little more weight than you intended. When he nods, you sigh, doing your best to push your mind elsewhere as you pull back the covers and slip into his bed, keeping as far to your side as you comfortably can while he puts away his makeshift bed.

“I'll be right back,” Steve mutters, half distracted, and you watch as he leaves the room and disappears down the stairs.

He's gone for long enough that it makes you nervous, for some reason—or maybe it's just that you won't be able to relax until you get the weird part over with, so you can adapt to and eventually tune out whatever the hell it feels like to share a bed with him.

When he eventually comes back upstairs, you do your best to look like you haven't just been laying there blankly, waiting for him. He turns the wrong way, though, walking down the far side of the hallway, and you realize what he's been doing—checking each room, shutting and maybe locking all the windows, closing every door. Obviously he knows that none of his precautions would really deter a potential break-and-enterer as strong and fast as Eddie, but you suspect it's for his own peace of mind more than anything else.

Satisfied with the rest of the house, Steve returns to the room, closing the door behind him. He checks his own window, shutting it tight, and then feels around in his closet for something, eventually pulling out a grotesque looking baseball bat, haphazardly strewn with nails. Propping it up next to his bedside, he answers your bewildered stare with a shrug as he goes to turn off the light.

“Just to be safe,” he mutters.

Then, with much more ease than you did, he slips into bed beside you. Laying flat on his back, he takes a long, deep breath, expelling the tension of what, for him, has probably been an incredibly frantic past couple hours.

“Goodnight,” he says.

“‘Night,” you mumble in response.

Pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, you turn on your side, facing away from him. At first, the idea of actually falling asleep after all of this seems kind of ridiculous. You must lay there for at least thirty minutes with your eyes open, your tired brain buzzing with white static, but eventually, (thanks, most likely, to the blood loss,) a wave of fatigue hits you so hard that, if you're lucky, it might just knock you out.

It isn't until you finally close your eyes and do your best to surrender to the oppressive weight of it that you recognize what you're lacking.

Exhaustion wasn't the only thing making you feel numb and empty. The part of your consciousness that has, for over a month now, been occupied by your fluctuating awareness of Eddie is now hollow, leaving a gaping, empty void in its place.

It should probably be a welcome return to normal, to wholeness—the loss of a mental parasite weighing you down, keeping you perpetually on edge. Instead, you just feel…incomplete, unable to hold on to your own thoughts and feelings for long before they slip away into nothing. It's like he bit straight through your flesh and into your soul, leaving a wound in both, slowly bleeding out in his absence. As this sinks in, it crushes you, and you slump over onto your back, limp and heartbroken.

“...He’s gone,” you say, a choked up whisper.

Steve startles beside you, snapping his head to the side. “What?”

“...Eddie.” His name feels like gravel in your throat. “I can’t…feel him anymore.”

He doesn’t need you anymore. Your body finds a few more tears to give you, seeping into the corners of your eyes.

Steve turns towards you entirely, processing, his mind clearly drawing him towards apprehension.

“...You mean, you won't feel him coming?”

“I won't feel anything.”

Steve doesn't know what to say. His jaw sets as he watches you raise trembling hands to cover your eyes, just starting to overflow, and he reaches over, encouraging you to turn further and enter the heat of his space.

“It's alright,” he tries to tell you, a warm, firm hand running over your arm, along your back. “...He won't get to you. He's probably hiding.”

It just makes you cry harder, shuddering in Steve's awkward comfort. He still doesn't get it, but…you doubt anyone could, not except you and Eddie.

Though, if he could cut himself off from you so easily, maybe it's only you.

…

For the first time in weeks, you dream of utterly nothing. No odd snippets or teasing voices, no indication whatsoever that Eddie's still on earth, let alone still in Hawkins, and not even whatever strange imagery your mind alone could conjure up to give you the benefit of the doubt. You simply close your eyes, and a few hours later, they open.

Steve, the liar that he is, is snoring carelessly beside you, a little close for comfort. It doesn't embarrass you as much as you thought it would—you sort of needed him that close to counteract the disturbing aloneness of your mind—but the stark morning reality of it does make you grimace a little, wincing at a puff of morning breath that hits you in the face as you carefully extract yourself from under his arm.

When Steve eventually does wake up, it takes a full hour for you to convince him that he should go to work, and that yes, you'll be fine on your own until he gets back. About half of that hour was spent denying his insistence that you come with him and spend the day hanging out in the video store while he works.

Even if the concept did appeal to you at all, which it doesn't—being seen by Steve in the state you're in is bad enough, but adding to that both Robin and any number of random Hawkinsites who may recognize you is completely out of the question—your fatigue from last night remains largely in place. Thankfully, Steve's reluctance to exert you is enough to outweigh his newfound desire to keep you glued to his hip. After all, as you remind him, so long as the sun's out, you can't be in any danger.

(The only danger you're really in is of the mortifying heartbreak of having your feelings used against you again, but given what you've put Steve through lately, you figure it's best to keep that one to yourself.)

So, for the majority of the day, it's you, alone, in this big-ass house.

What's worse is, you don't even have it in you to snoop. Sure, you give Steve's room a little once-over, but your heart isn't in it enough to do much more than examine his economically impressive yet fairly plain wardrobe—though, a note hidden in the back of his sock drawer, written in the unmistakable handwriting of Nancy Wheeler, does pique your interest somewhat. As sensitive as you are to—well, private forms of communication these days, you can't bring yourself to actually read it.

Most of your time is spent laying down. First in Steve's bed—it smells like whatever body wash he uses, a scent that has become very (reluctantly) familiar lately—and then, when the concern of him deciding to leave work early comes to mind, back in your own. It's difficult not to slip back into the depressive haze that colored your days after the earthquake. Unlike previous roadblocks on the path to save Eddie, the complete and utter darkness you've been left in is gradually snuffing out what remaining faith you've been clinging onto.

Before, when all else failed, at least you could feel him—you knew that he was alive, somewhere out there, and that he knew the same for you. Now, you know nothing at all, least of all whether you'll ever even see him again.

It almost feels silly how much that, in particular, upsets you. That after everything he did—including, as the others surely believe, using his presence in your head to mess with your head, in more ways than one—you're only scared of the idea that the “kiss” he left on your shoulder is the only one you'll ever get from him.

But as much as the more grounded concerns have entered your mind, like Steve's fear that he'll be back to finish the job, Robin's concern for the interpersonal chaos he could cause, or Nancy's clear suspicion that his mere presence heralds the return of Vecna, it's hard for you to take any of them very seriously. Not after what you saw of him, terrified, barely alive, and so tragically himself. You can't truly believe that he could turn around after all of that and betray you so horribly, that it doesn't mean something to him like it does to you.

Maybe you're delusional—maybe he really did fuck with your mind, but until you hear it from his own mouth, you're never going to believe it.

And, at least, if he does rip your heart out like that, he'll have to come find you one last time to do it.

By the time Steve gets back, all you’ve really managed to do is take a shower and forage a half-hearted snack for yourself. You do your best to act at least marginally more animated than you feel, if anything to prevent Steve from hovering any more than he already is, but you aren’t sure it’s doing much to fool him. Besides, it occurs to you, it isn’t just concern for your wellbeing that has him orbiting around you as much as you’ll let him—this has been, by far, the most time you’ve ever spent alone together, and likely the most you ever will.

It’s not too difficult to humor him. You’ve always been somewhat of a space cadet at the best of times, so now, with everything going on, he clearly doesn’t expect much from you beyond your quiet presence, and he at least knows better than to explicitly try and cheer you up. He even manages to rope you into staying in his room for a second night; still more consoling than you’d care to admit, but definitely more awkward than the first time.

The next day is such a blatant echo of the last that it gives you deja vu. From re-convincing Steve to actually show up at his job to moping listlessly in his absence, you might as well be stuck in a time loop. You feel better physically, a lot of the fatigue having lifted from your shoulders, but the mental weight of monotonous gloom keeps you just as handicapped, waiting endlessly for something that may never come.

There must be some plan of how to proceed, some steps being taken or ideas developed outside of your knowledge, but either Steve himself is minimally involved, or he's been convinced to keep you in the dark about it. Especially now that the asset of your connection has been severed, you wouldn't be surprised if they saw you more as a liability than anything else at the moment, painfully susceptible and not even guaranteed bait anymore. If they somehow do manage to catch Eddie a second time, you’ll probably be the last to know.

Something like an hour after Steve eventually returns, you hear the phone ringing in the distance from where you lay in bed. A couple minutes later, Steve comes upstairs, clearly headed in your direction. With a quick knock, the door inches open, revealing his apprehensive face.

“Um…there's a call for you,” he tells you.

You frown at him. “...For me?”

Steve just nods, shrugging helplessly.

You follow him back downstairs, and as you come up to the phone, he wanders off to give you some privacy—or, at least, to look like he is.

“Hello…?”

“Hey,” comes your brother's voice. “It's me.”

“Lucas?”

“Yep.”

You blink, shaking your head in disbelief. “...How the hell did you know I'd be here?”

“Well… Dustin told me he saw you with Steve downtown the other day, and you were acting pretty suspicious. And then I heard from Erica that she helped you sneak past Dad when Steve was here to pick you up. So, uh…I kind of figured. Seemed weird that you'd be so tight with Robin Buckley all of the sudden, anyway.”

You just sigh, resigned—it was a bad excuse, anyway. Lucas clears his throat.

“...Y'know, when I said you ‘might like’ Steve these days, I didn't mean—”

“I'm not seeing him,” you insist, with probably the most passion that has entered your voice all day. The thought of keeping your voice down in case Steve is still in earshot doesn't occur to you until after the fact.

“Uh… If you aren't seeing him, why the hell are you sneaking around and sleeping over at his house?”

Damn. You really don't wanna lie—a part of you worries that he'll be able to tell—but, admittedly, there's nothing else you can think of that would make sense without giving him something to worry about.

With a reluctant huff, you glance around and quiet your voice, mumbling into the receiver. “I mean, it's just…casual, okay?”

After a long, aching pause, Lucas makes an exaggerated yuck sound. You bristle at it, feeling your face burn hot.

“Is that all, Lucas?”

“No, wait, hold on,” he says, as if worried you might actually hang up on him. “Sorry. I just wanted to…make sure you were doing alright, that nothing weird is going on, or something. …Well, weirder than you and Steve, uh…nevermind.”

“You're sweet for that,” you tell him, ignoring the near-jab, “but I'm alright.”

“You sure?”

“One hundred percent,” you say. “We’re just…hanging out.”

“Cool,” Lucas says with a sigh. “...Erica's mad as hell, by the way.”

“At me?”

“Yeah.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “She said something like, ‘what good is a chauffeur on the other side of town?’”

You scoff, but Lucas’ shrill imitation of your sister's voice puts a grin on your face. “You tell her that she failed to specify a starting date in our negotiations. I'll be back in a day or two, anyway.”

“No way! You know she always shoots the messenger.”

“Only when it's you, Luke.”

“The point still stands,” he grumbles.

“Fine,” you say, laughing once or twice. “I'll tell her myself when I get back.”

“Alright, then,” he says, and then lowers his voice, teasing you. “I guess I won't keep you from Steve any longer.”

You grit your teeth to hold back a groan. “I'll assume you know better than to go telling anybody,” you soft-threaten. “That includes your little friends.”

Lucas snorts. “Tragically, sis, I don't think I have to,” he says. “Dustin's all over it.”

“Of course he is,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. “...Whatever. I'll see you soon, then.”

“See you soon,” he says, very obviously grinning. “...Tell Steve I said—”

You hang up before he can finish the sentiment. Suddenly, you’re exhausted all over again.

Driven largely by suspicion, you find Steve again in the TV room, staring between two VHS tapes in his hands. He glances at you over his shoulder as you enter the room.

“Hey,” he says. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Just checking in.”

“...For the record, I didn’t tell anyone that you were—”

“I know,” you say. “...I should’ve known Dustin would spread the word.”

“Right,” he says, smiling sympathetically. “...Sorry.”

You just shrug.

Steve clears his throat. “...Uh, I was thinking about watching something.”

The unspoken invitation isn't lost on you.

…Sure. At least, with some background noise, you might be slightly distracted from the hole in your head, and Steve is kinda funny when he doesn’t mean to be.

“Alright,” you say.

Steve holds up the tapes; Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Brief Encounter. “Got a preference?”

Your brow furrows at the choices, mildly baffled but too spaced out to really think about it. “...Not really, no.”

As Steve starts up the movie, you take the spot you've grown accustomed to at the right end of the couch.

Rather than the corner on the opposite end, where Steve has always put himself, this time, he sits on the cushion beside you. After a fierce wave of pure confusion, it finally clicks into place. You fell into a trap.

There are only a couple days until his parents are back, after all—he had to take a shot at some point. You've just been so caught up in your own mind that you forgot to remain vigilant.

For fifteen or so minutes of the film—Brief Encounter, he decided on—it's fine, but the ambient dread of wondering when he'll eventually say or do something builds in the room like atmospheric pressure. The first time he glances at you, his head twitching just slightly in your direction, your stomach nearly drops. It’s another minute or so before he makes his move.

“...Do you remember, uh, sophomore year?” Steve asks, apparently finished pretending that his mind is remotely on the film. “That Halloween party at Vicki Carmichael's house?”

Clenching your jaw, you recognize instantly where he's headed. “...Yeah, I remember it.”

“You were a…” He trails off, thinking.

“A cat.”

“Right, yeah,” he says, turning to smile at you, gesturing one hand towards his head. “With the little ears, I remember.”

Steve, if you recall, was dressed as Kurt Russel in Escape from New York. When you say nothing else, hoping he notices your reluctance and drops the subject, he just stares at you and goes on.

“...Something reminded me of it earlier,” he says. “I…don't know how I forgot.”

He isn't talking about the goddamn party—he's talking about when you got shoved into a closet together.

“We had English that year,” he continues to reminisce. “...I think I probably would've failed without you.”

He damn near failed even with you. If he keeps beating around the bush like this, you might have to strangle him.

“...Is there something you wanna say, Steve?” you decide to ask.

Steve's mouth falls open as you put him on the spot, but he quickly twists it into a coy grin. “...It was just fun,” he says with half a shrug. “The party.”

Not quite how you'd describe it. “It was a prank,” you say, your irritation flaring a little.

“What?”

“It wasn't supposed to be you,” you explain, digging your nails into the armrest. “Tommy switched yours when you weren't looking cause he thought it'd be funny.”

Steve blinks, processing that with a furrow in his brow, and his cluelessness seems to be genuine. Somehow, even after the fact, with Tommy teasing him about it all night long, he never realized.

You didn't even want to play, but everyone else was, and the only thing more humiliating than being the only one that no one wanted to get stuck with would've been voluntarily sitting out cause you knew no one wanted to be stuck with you. At the time, even though it made your stomach turn, you were actually relieved that Tommy switched with Steve—at least you two were friendly with each other. You aren't sure you could've been convinced to squeeze into a closet with Tommy H. at gunpoint.

“...Tommy's an asshole,” Steve says as he blinks himself back down to earth. “All of them were assholes.”

“Yourself included?”

He balks for a couple seconds. “...I mean, yeah, I guess I was,” he says. “But…it wasn't a ‘prank’ to me. I was glad I got you.”

Yeah, you're sure he was—the other female participants were made up of either awkward ex-girlfriends or interested girls that he notoriously wasn't interested in. He wasn't interested in you, either, but no matter what, you were probably saving him from a considerably more uncomfortable 7 minutes.

You spent most of the time just whispering and snickering about how lame the party was, and whatever recent gossip was going around about the kids on the other side of the door. At some point near the end, though, it must've finally occurred to him that you were, in fact, a girl—he asked, so, driven by awkward impulse more than any real desire, you let him have your first kiss (not that he will ever know that,) and a little more on top. You aren't sure you ever regretted it, exactly, but the whole ordeal is far from a fond memory in your mind. Steve never mentioned it afterwards, and you're sure he never thought about it either, at least until recent events.

Steve says your name, pulling you out of your recollection, and that's when your stomach drops properly—you can tell from the tone in his voice that something’s coming.

“...I know we've spent a lot of time together lately, because of, well…” He clears his throat, and you realize that this is probably the most nervous you've ever seen him. “But I was thinking that…maybe, even once this is over, we could…keep spending time together.”

His eyes run over your face a couple times before he continues, maybe checking for something.

“...I'd really like to take you out,” he says. “Dinner, or a movie, or…whatever you want.”

Somehow, you didn't think he'd actually ask you on a date—you kinda figured he'd just try to make out with you on this couch. It makes your brain stall for a moment, and he stares at you, tentative and expectant.

“Steve…” you say, a little dumbfounded, but it takes you too long to figure out what else to say.

“...You don't have to answer now,” he assures you, eyeing you carefully. “If you wanna…think about it for a while, that's fine. I know this is…kind of out of left field.”

If you weren't so overwrought at the moment, you'd definitely have it in you to laugh at that.

“I just…couldn’t stop thinking about you today, at work. Robin had to stop me from clocking out early like, three times.” He chuckles a little, smiling shyly, and then leans in closer, conspiratorial. “...Plus, I mean, everyone already thinks we’re dating, now, so…”

“So, why not?” you fill in, a little sharp.

He blinks at you, taken off guard by your tone. “I mean… it’s not just—”

“I know it isn’t,” you interrupt, taking a deep breath. It’s also, most likely, that he enjoys feeling like you need him. “But…I don’t—”

Suddenly going rigid, you cut yourself off. Something…odd is just on the horizon, almost like when you can feel a sneeze coming, and you silence yourself to focus on it.

“...You don’t what?” Steve prompts quietly. You barely even process that he’s spoken.

It gets just slightly stronger, a distant tickle, and your brow furrows. You can feel Steve’s burning eyes on you, stuck in the anticipation of whatever you were going to say, but at this point, you can’t even remember. A few more seconds pass, and, like an arrow hitting a target, it finds you, landing square in your chest. A static shock travels down each of your limbs, raising every hair on your body with an almost painful chill, and your back straightens automatically, making your body jolt.

All at once, he’s back.

You don’t know where, or how far, but he’s there. Your heart starts pounding instantly, a surge of adrenaline going through you that makes you feel like jumping out of your seat and screaming.

“...Hey, are you alright?”

Steve is staring at you with wide eyes. Your head finally snaps back towards him.

“Yeah, I’m—” Your mouth stumbles over itself. “Sorry, I just got—kind of dizzy.”

“Shit,” Steve says, shifting effortlessly back into caretaker mode, and you almost feel guilty about it. “Did you eat enough today? I can—”

“I’m alright,” you insist, standing up from the couch. “...Just tired, I think. I’m gonna go to bed.”

“Wha— Are you sure?” He stands up with you, alarmed. “Do you want me to—?”

“Steve,” you say. “I’m fine. I promise. I’m just tired.”

He stares at you for a moment, his concern fading to acceptance. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he looks aside and gives you a weak nod.

Hesitating despite your urgency, you open your mouth, snap it shut again, and then open it once more, accepting the wave of shame that rolls over you. “...I’ll think about it,” you assure him simply.

Steve’s eyes lock back on to you, a little stunned. After a moment, he nods more firmly, not smiling, but looking less like he just suffered the world's most unsubtle indirect rejection.

“...Just call if you need anything,” he says.

With that, you turn around, taking great care to not trip over yourself in your urgency to get to your room, leaving Steve alone with the movie that neither of you were watching. As soon as you've locked the door behind you, your mouth pulls into an almost painful smile, your hands covering your face in ecstatic disbelief.

What the hell should you do? Should you fall asleep and see if he speaks to you again? Sneak out again and try to find him, or wait somewhere and let him come to you? The sun is almost down, but you kind of doubt that Steve will be turning in anytime soon, and there's no way he'd let you go out alone in the dark. If you wait a couple days, you won't have your babysitter to worry about anymore, but with how explosive you feel at the moment, the thought of waiting even that long is unbearable.

Eddie wouldn’t have reconnected you for no reason. Maybe he just needs your mind; he wants information on what you've been doing, whether you've been looking for him, any details he can glean about your plan, but if that was the case, wouldn't it be easier to wait until you're sleeping? The only reason you can see that he would reach out to you now is if he's trying to find you, and he wants you to know that he's coming.

And he sure as hell takes his sweet time. Over the course of the next hour, you get yourself about halfway ready for bed—taking a shower, lotioning up, putting on some clean pajamas, brushing your teeth—and you do it all while practically vibrating with energy. As excited as you are, it’s also nerve-wracking, and your force yourself to dig out your journal, jotting down your recollection of the past couple days to try and calm yourself, but it might just make it worse; tangled emotions rise back to the surface, concern and affection, your deep trust turned on its head, torn into frightened resignation—and, of course, abandonment.

Steve, naturally, checks on you at one point, and you do your best to seem fatigued and assure him that you’re alright. He doesn’t press the issue of you sleeping alone tonight—it lost its simplicity when he decided to broach the topic of his feelings—so, hopefully, it’s the last you’ll see of him tonight.

After about two hours of excruciating patience, slowly and surely feeling the distance lessen, you hear a quiet, rhythmic tapping at one of your windows. Your heart jumps into your throat, and you nearly throw your journal across the room in your urgency to stand up.

With artificial composure, you force yourself to grudgingly approach the window, gently pulling the curtain aside, and there he is. Two wide, vaguely panicked brown eyes stare dubiously back at you, as if you're the one that might take a bite out of him. If you didn't already have a game plan in mind, it'd probably make you laugh.

Giving him the most unimpressed stare you possibly can, you simply stand there, letting him squirm for as long as you can stand before finally cracking the window open.

“...You're pretty brave,” you drone. “Steve sees you out here, he’ll probably bash your head in.”

“Yeah, well, Stevie's a piece of work,” he mutters. The hopeful look in his eyes isn't remotely subtle. “...What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you feeling like bashing my head in, too, or can I come in and grovel for forgiveness like I was planning to?”

You scoff at him, resting your hand on your hip, and he looks you over. Hopefully, he doesn't notice the way it makes you shiver.

“...Okay, I'll start now,” he amends. Clearing his throat, he starts with your full government name. “...I am so, incredibly, deeply sorry for being a terrible, piece of shit asshole.”

“Mhm.”

“I'm not gonna make excuses,” he continues. “That was fucked up. And if you decide you can never trust me ever again for the rest of your life, that’s fair. I…earned that. I probably don’t even deserve to be talking to you right now.”

You nod, remaining unamused, pretending to check your nails.

“But… I really, really want to. I want to apologize, and I want to explain myself, if you’ll let me. And after that, if you never want to speak to me again, I…promise, I’ll leave you alone.”

You blink at him.

He glances to the side, a little awkward. “...That’s all.”

With a sigh, you reluctantly decide to humor him (he had you at “sorry”), carefully and quietly sliding the window open. He gives you a wicked smile as he climbs through, and you pretend it doesn’t make you feel something. Concerned about noise traveling, you close it after him and then walk past him to sit at the end of the bed, crossing your legs. He watches you, definitely sporting a bigger smile than he should be, given the circumstances.

He looks…clean, mostly. Gone are the tattered rags and residual Upside Down scum, replaced with a simple black shirt and a pair of acid wash jeans. He seems to be wearing the same leather jacket and white sneakers as always, though scrubbed of most of their grime. The horror of his appearance is much more subtle when he's no longer dressed like something that crawled out from the grave.

(You, on the other hand, feel very underdressed in your tank top and sleep shorts, but it’s not like you can claim that wasn’t a deliberate choice.)

“Take your shoes off,” you tell him. Clean-looking or not, God knows where he's been, and if he tracks anything onto this nice carpet, you'll be the one to answer for it.

He kicks his sneakers off without hesitation, and waits for further instruction.

You jut your chin at him. “Go on, then.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, glancing down at the carpet. “...Did you want me to actually grovel? ‘Cause I absolutely will.”

Curbing a smile, you bite down hard on your cheek, pretending to think it over. If he'll really do it, that's not a sight you'd ever deprive yourself of. You curl your finger at him, then point it to the floor. “Let's see it.”

He has to fight to stop his smile from widening as well, pursing his lips as he attempts a formal nod. Stepping over to stand in front of you, he lowers himself to his knees, sitting back on his heels. He hesitates there for a moment, staring up at you, and you feel your stomach do a flip. Then, with a growing smirk, he curls over to prostrate himself, hands flat on the carpet, his forehead hovering just above it.

“I beg of thee forgiveness, my lady of infinite grace and compassion,” he proceeds to supplicate, “though I know that I am but a rotten scoundrel, unbefitting of thy mercy.”

Indulging in a private smirk, you shake your head at him, a little mad at how well this goofy shit is working on you, but you wipe it off your face before you speak again.

“That'll do,” you acquiesce.

He springs back up abruptly, fluffing his hair, a wide, proud smile on his lips. “You sure? ‘Cause I could stay down here all night, if you want.”

“Really?” you say, raising your eyebrows at him.

“Mhm,” he says proudly. “...I know some tricks, too.” He looks up, pretending to think about it, his smile growing even wider. “Sit, stay, roll over…”

“Get up,” you tell him, fighting back a laugh with a roll of your eyes. He does as he's told, standing up to his full height again, and part of you wishes you had kept him on his knees a little longer. “You said you had an explanation for me?”

“...Right,” he says, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“What, you don't want to share?”

“No, I do,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “I just…don't think you're gonna believe me.”

You shrug. “Try me.”

“Alright,” he sighs. “...First of all, I want you to know that I meant everything I said to you back there. And I know it's probably hard to believe that, but—”

“How about you just say what you wanna say, and I'll decide what I do or don't believe, okay?”

He pauses, staring at you for a moment before he gives you a nod.

“...I meant everything,” he repeats with intention, hard, earnest eyes and a set jaw. “Nothing I said was to…trick you, or manipulate you so you'd let me go. I promise you that none of it was an act.”

After that, he hesitates, clears his throat, and starts slowly pacing back and forth.

“...Now, did I omit some information I definitely should've told you? Like, maybe the fact that…I could feel the hunger pulsating inside of me like a fucking heartbeat as soon as you stepped in the room, and you smelled so agonizingly good that it was making my head spin, and that I knew… I knew that if you freed me, I wouldn't be able to stop myself? …Yeah, I did. And I'm sorry for that.”

“So, why didn't you tell me, then?”

He takes a breath, running a hand through his hair, a difficult expression on his face. “...Because I knew you wouldn't let me go if I did.”

You furrow your brow, tilting your head as you add that up, but he continues before you can say anything.

“I know what that sounds like,” he assures you. “It sounds fucking terrible. But…I don't know how to explain to you what it feels like. It's not…just hunger, not like any I ever felt when I was alive. It's…so much deeper, and more visceral than that, like it’s eating away at my fucking soul. And, God, it's terrifying, feeling it get worse and worse, knowing that I could turn into that…mindless fucking thing again.”

“You were scared,” you repeat in understanding. Furrowing his brow, he nods, and you sigh at him. “...Why didn't you just ask, Eddie?”

“I was worried you wouldn't trust me, or that you'd get scared and leave,” he says. “You were already so scared, I could hear your heart pounding like crazy, and…” Then, a little quieter. “...Even if you didn't let me go, I didn't want you to leave.”

You let that sit for a moment, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“...And you thought, what? That acting all innocent and then jumping on me as soon as I turned my back to you would make me trust you more?”

“I didn't think,” he explains. “It was just…need. I couldn't believe you trusted me so much, like a goddamn angel, and I knew I was going to fuck it up completely, and I hated that, but…I just couldn't help myself.”

It almost makes you snort. “See, now that does not inspire confidence.”

“I know,” he says, giving you an egregious kicked puppy expression. “I’m sorry.”

As much as you intend to give him a hard time, on the inside, you can’t say you aren’t sympathetic. If that…gaping hole of whatever you felt when you were in his mind is even in the realm of what he was feeling, you think you can understand why he did what he did.

“...You seem to be ‘helping yourself’ just fine right now,” you note eventually, looking him up and down.

He shrugs. “Yeah, well, I guess that's what happens when I'm fed at regular intervals.”

Your brow furrows. “You mean, you've…bitten other people since then?”

An odd smile pulls at his lips. “...Why? Are you jealous?” When you blink at him in shock, the expression melts away—not quite guilty, but definitely sheepish. “Sorry, that was a…shitty joke.”

Shaking your head, you let your face fall into your hands, rubbing at your temples, thinking. Not about forgiving him—again, he mostly had you at the first sorry, unfortunately—but about what the hell to do now. Should you tell him the others are planning something, some other way to hold him hostage for the time being? You could suggest that he return and cooperate willingly, earn a bit of trust from the others, but who are you kidding? Either way, he’d definitely end up starving again—you have trouble imagining any of them willingly offering their wrist on the regular to keep him fed—and the cycle would just repeat itself.

Eddie, understandably, thinks you’re deliberating about something else.

“...I really am sorry,” he tells you again, filling the empty air, and you sigh.

“I know you are,” you relent, lifting your head to address him again. “...And I mostly forgive you.”

His face alights immediately, his lips pulling into a wide grin, those annoying doe eyes of his twinkling at you. “You do?”

“Mostly,” you repeat, very deliberately not looking at him. “But next time, you’re going to ask before you put your hands on me like that.”

Eddie stays quiet for long enough that you have no choice but to glance at him, and you find his eyes open very wide, eyebrows raised in disbelief. Alarmed, you basically mirror his expression.

“...Next time?” he says.

You snap your head away from him, rolling your eyes dramatically to counteract the mortified heat that rises to your face.

“Don’t give me that look. I assume you’re still gonna need blood to survive for the time being?”

“Well…yeah, but—”

“Then that’s all there is to it,” you continue, crossing your arms over your chest and pretending his eyes aren't burning a hole right through you. “I knew there could be…a risk when I let you go, which is why I didn’t just push your ass right back out of that window. I'd rather you take mine than scare the life out of some poor stranger whenever you get thirsty.”

Again, Eddie doesn't say anything. After a while, you see him take a cautious step towards you in your peripheral vision.

“...Did you feel it, too?” he asks in a quiet voice.

You frown, but don't risk looking at him again. “Feel what?”

He hesitates again before speaking. “...The first time, I was just…so fucking hungry that it felt like that was all that I was. And the last one, it was fine—I was in control, it made me feel better, but… With you, it was…different. It felt…”

“...Intimate?” you reluctantly suggest, hot in the face.

Eddie lets out an exhale. “Yeah. And I was fighting so hard to be gentle with you, and to control myself, but I swear, it felt like…” Slowly, you drag your gaze to him and meet his eyes, staring down towards you with a soft, uncertain intensity. “It felt like you were enjoying it, too, I guess.”

The heat in your face burns brighter, and plummets directly between your legs. After a beat, Eddie starts, taking a few steps away, a step and a half back, the picture of nervous energy.

“And, alright, if I'm way off base, I will gladly let you shove me back out of the window, like you said, but I really had to ask.” Stilling again, he stares at you for long enough that it becomes hypnotic, and he swallows. “I…can't stop thinking about it. About you.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, you know you're fucked. You already would've been fucked before any of this happened, most likely, but now, in this nice, private bedroom, in the middle of the night, with the way he made you feel pressed up against that wall seared into your memory? It was over for you the second you decided to let his sorry ass in here.

“Eddie,” you say, taking a pause, pretending you're still thinking it over. You bite down hard on your bottom lip, sucking on it for a second before letting it spring back out of your mouth, and his eyes flicker down to watch. “...C'mere.”

His first step is slow, unsure, but as you continue to meet his stare unflinchingly, he closes the space with confidence, shrugging the jacket off of his shoulders and tossing it mindlessly aside. Your back straightens, your heart skipping a beat as you scoot yourself further back on the bed, and with mutual desperation, you collide. He all but throws himself on top of you, and you grab him by his shirt, pulling him closer.

No one has ever kissed you like Eddie does. There's a restrained desperation, slow and sensual, like every taste he gets of you is heaven on earth. He devours you with just as much hunger as he did the other day, and it sends shivers down your spine.

“God, you taste so fucking good, you have no idea,” he tells you when he finally breaks away, gasping against your mouth. “Just a drop, and I could’ve died happy.”

You wince a little, knocking your fist against his shoulder in complaint. “Don’t talk about dying, asshole.”

Eddie laughs in surprise, a bright, full-fanged smile on his lips, tiptoeing the line between sincere and smug. “Aw, baby, did you miss me?”

With a monumental eyeroll, you yank him back down to shut him up, and he moans his gratitude against your lips. Part of you has some complaints about letting him crawl all over your bed (and you, for that matter) in his day clothes, but the exhilaration of this little tryst flushes the concern from your mind just as quickly.

You let yourself get drunk on Eddie Munson, running your fingers through his wild hair, inviting his tongue between your lips, even wrapping your legs around him, keeping him snug against you. It feels amazing to let go like this, to get messy, to want him so shamelessly and feel the same need from him. His hands run over you, firm, twitching with energy and shockingly cold, sending chills down your spine.

Eventually, the passion makes you both careless, and his fang nicks your tongue. You gasp, both from the unexpected pain and the intensity of Eddie's reaction—driven wild by the taste, he pushes further into your mouth, trying to steal every drop for himself, moaning with desperation. The harsh iron of your blood as well as his deep intrusion make you gag a little, and Eddie pulls back, hovering over you and panting.

“...Sorry,” he breathes, coming down from his little frenzy. His eyes are darker than they were before, his lips tinted slightly red.

“I don't mind,” you say, somewhat out of breath yourself, and he grins.

Cradling the back of his head, you start to guide him back down, not quite to your lips. At the same time, you tilt your head back, baring your neck to him, and the sight makes him curse, a groan rumbling in his throat as he kisses along your jaw.

“Too fucking good to me,” he rasps, pressing kisses down the side of your throat. He stops to press his nose into your skin, inhaling your scent like he could get high off of it before licking a heavy trail back up to your jaw. When he gets there, he laughs in disbelief. “...Jesus, babe, I wouldn't even trust me this much.”

“Who said I trust you?” you joke, a tremble in your voice from excitement, pulling at him insistently. A little thrill goes through you as he moans lowly in the back of his throat, almost like a purr.

“You really must be an angel,” he mutters, pressing one more kiss beneath your ear.

One of his hands comes up to hold your jaw in place, tilting it slightly aside, keeping you still and exposed, and he stares down at you in his grasp with dark eyes, almost in a daze. As gentle as the touch is, you know you couldn’t get out of it if he didn’t want you to.

“...You sure as hell make me feel like the fucking devil.”

Then, as a shiver runs down your spine, he dips his head down again, and you feel the familiar pressure of his fangs against the side of your neck. Your heart jumps into your throat and you gasp, balling one hand in his shirt, the other still trembling at the back of his neck.

You squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for him to pierce your skin, but it never comes. Instead, he drags his teeth against you with unbearable patience, not hard enough to break skin, but letting you feel how easily he could. He travels down your throat, along your shoulder, but pauses when he reaches your bandage, sucking his teeth in annoyance. A moment later, he's carefully peeling it off of you, revealing the evidence of his last bite and pressing a kiss against it.

Returning to your neck, he tilts your head and gives the other side the same treatment, edging you with his teeth, hesitating every now and then, pressing slightly harder to make you think he's finally going to bite down, only to continue on with the torment. It has you squirming beneath him, tugging at him desperately, and he grips your jaw tighter, making your body still itself on instinct—submitting without your permission.

“Eddie,” you whine.

“Mhm?” he hums innocently, still dragging his teeth on you.

“Stop teasing.”

Rather than respond to the request, he nips at your skin, just the slightest bit painful, and a shameful whimper leaves your lips. Pulling back enough to grin at you like the devil he is, he presses his ear to your chest, rumbling with a mean little laugh.

“Sounds like a hummingbird in here,” he says, lifting his head again. “You aren't gonna pass out on me, are you, babe?”

You just frown at him, simmering with an embarrassed flush. Finally releasing your jaw, he pinches your chin and captures you in another kiss. Humming his content, he goes right on back to making out with you as if he didn’t just drive you out of your mind with the threat of what you really wanted.

“Eddie, please,” you sigh again the next time he breaks away from you.

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Please, what?”

It’s hard to get yourself to actually say it—you didn’t think you’d be the one having to ask. Your conflicted hesitation makes a knowing smile grow on his lips.

“You really did like it,” he mutters, somewhere between awe and hunger. “...Is that it? You want me to sink my teeth in, baby?”

You nod, breathless in anticipation. “I wanna feel it again.”

Looking down at you, he hums in thought, digging his fangs into his bottom lip. “...I don’t know,” he says, playfully drawing out the words. “You sure you wanna make a mess all over Harrington’s sheets?”

You whine a little, the double meaning sending heat straight between your legs, and he flashes his teeth at you.

“...Honestly, sweetheart, I need it just as bad as you do,” he admits, speaking at the low, gravelly edge of his voice that sets off sparks in your stomach. “But, uh…” He stares down at you contentedly, shaking his head like he can barely believe what he's seeing. “...I'm in no rush.”

[[[START]]]

The sentiment makes your face warm, but you frown at him nonetheless.

“Fine,” you say, giving him a long, heated scan before grabbing a handful of his shirt and tugging at it. “...Get rid of this.”

Eddie follows your command mindlessly, immediately starting to pull it off with an excited smile, but he goes rigid suddenly, locking eyes with you.

“Is this, uh…” He swallows hard, wetting his lips with his tongue. “I mean, do you want to…?”

“I really want to,” you tell him.

He pauses again, processing that, grinning dumbly to himself. “...Me too,” he says.

“Eddie, take it off,” you whine, and that kicks him back into action.

“Yeah—fuck, okay,” he gasps, yanking the shirt over his head and throwing it aside.

Met with his bare torso, your eyes widen a little, first tracing the scratchy lines of ink at the top of his chest—a black widow spider and the head of something grotesque—then, with a chill, identifying the scar tissue littered around his torso, thin, warped skin stretched over dents and divots from missing tissue, and shiny, misshapen welts from deep tears.

“Eddie,” you breathe with sympathy, and he clears his throat, resting a hand over his stomach.

“...It's, uh—mostly healed,” he says, a little awkward. “Takes a while, but the blood…helps. It doesn't hurt anymore.”

Shaking your head, you bite your lip hard, willing yourself not to demolish the mood by tearing up. With gentle hands, you maneuver him until he's on his back, climbing on top while he stares up at you with wide, jittery eyes.

“It's—really alright, I—” He cuts himself off as you run your hands over his cold skin, rubbing soft, intentional little circles against the scars with your thumbs. When you lower down to press a firm, wet kiss to a jagged welt just above his navel, Eddie sighs deeply, his whole body relaxing into the mattress. “...Oh.”

You can see tiny hairs rise on his stomach from the attention, goosebumps pebbling his skin, and you smile, pressing your mouth to every little mark you can find. Eddie doesn't seem to react much, a sharp inhale or a little clench in his abdomen once in a while, but when you decide to push it, sinking deeper to suckle gently at a couple scars that threaten to dip beneath his belt, you finally pull a strangled little whine from him. Glancing a little lower, a flash of heat goes through you as you process how painfully tight his jeans look all of the sudden, and you look back at his face, biting down a smirk.

“...Are you sensitive, Eddie?” you tease, starting to crawl back up his body.

“Apparently,” he says, a little strained, and the embarrassment he's clearly trying to hide just makes you burn hotter.

When you sit your hips right on top of his, he curses through his teeth, and you quickly plant your mouth on his again, happy to help muffle his little moan. Very politely, he rests his hands on your hips as he eagerly meets your kiss, but you don't stay there long, kissing your way down to his throat as a lightbulb goes off in your mind.

Summoning your prior frustration, you press your teeth against his neck and bite. The sound that leaves him is higher than you expect, his fingers digging into your hips almost painfully hard, and he laughs.

“You wanna taste me, too?” he says, sighing in pleasure as you do it again, his hips starting to roll into yours from below. “Fuck… Harder, baby, I can take it.”

You hesitate for a moment, internally convincing yourself that he's right before you latch onto him again, biting down like you're actually trying to break skin. His groan spikes up into a whimper, the sound of it flooding you with heat, and he thrusts against you harder, almost too hard before he pulls it back, straining not to hurt you. The grind of his rough jeans into the thin fabric of your pajamas is intense, making you gasp against him, and you try to match his rhythm, but he's holding you so damn tight that all you can do is take what he gives you.

“Shit, that’s fucking hot,” he mutters gruffly, and it’s your turn to laugh at him.

“Look at you,” you tease, pulling back to see his face. “Getting off on a taste of your own medicine?”

He nods, eager and shameless, and it does something wicked to you.

“Well, I don’t have cute little fangs like you do,” you lament, planting your hands on his chest, just below his collarbones. “But I do have claws.”

Digging your nails into him, you drag them slowly down his chest. Eddie gasps, but it catches in his throat, turning into the most obscene noise he’s made all night, his back arching into the feeling.

“Fuck,” he grits, his voice cracking heinously. “Do that again.”

You tilt your head at him, seeing through him clear as day. “You want it harder, baby?”

“God, yes, please.”

Starting at the top again, you rake your nails over his skin, hard enough that it makes you feel a pinch of guilt, but it hardly even leaves a mark on him, and Eddie’s eyes practically roll back into his head. His hips grind into yours so erratically that he’ll buck you clean off of his lap if he’s not careful.

Grabbing him by the wrists, you carefully ease yourself out of his grip, scooting backwards until you sit on his thighs. You rest your hands on his hip bones, and…pause, staring down at the tent in his jeans, pressing your tongue into your cheek thoughtfully. Rising up onto his elbows, Eddie looks at you with wide-eyed apprehension.

“...Something wrong?” he asks, clearing his throat.

You shake your head, looking back at his face. “...No, I just…didn’t exactly pack a condom to bring to Steve Harrington’s house.”

“And thank fucking God for that,” Eddie says under his breath. You slap him on the stomach, and he giggles.

“And,” you continue, “if you brought a condom with you to come apologize to me, I’m gonna beat the fuck out of you.”

His smile grows a little wider, amused. “I’m not that crazy,” he assures you.

“Good,” you sigh. “...But that’s the problem.”

Eddie’s eyes flicker around in theatrical consideration. “...Well, um… If it helps, I, uh…kinda doubt that pregnancy is a concern, anymore,” he says, swallowing a little hard. “I mean, I’m…pretty fucking dead.”

All that does is make you sad, but you do your best to force it down. Humming in thought, you suddenly move your hand, firmly cupping his erection through his jeans, and Eddie sucks in a breath through his teeth, jerking beneath you.

“...Well, if you can still get a hard-on,” you reason.

He has to pant a couple times before he can struggle some more words out. “I, uh— Yeah, I know, but it's, um—different, now.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Different, how?”

He swallows again, glancing down at your hand, so you give him a little squeeze and he jolts, choking on an odd sound. “What, uh— what comes out, I mean,” he hurries to respond, a little quieter.

You stare at him, bemused, squinting your eyes a little. He doesn’t seem to be able to—at least not at the moment—but by the look on his face, you’re pretty sure he should be blushing.

“...And how do you know that already?” you ask.

He looks like a deer in headlights for a second, but then a wide, half-embarrassed grin spreads across his face, one fang digging into his bottom lip. “...Um,” he begins, glancing aside with more deliberate shyness. “...Been thinking about you.”

It gets you pretty badly, sinking straight between your legs—you can’t keep your smile modest like you usually can.

“...Okay,” you begin, starting to rub him in earnest, and Eddie lets out a long, shuddering exhale, struggling to snuff out a series of additional noises. “Assuming I believe that…what if I don’t wanna catch whatever you’ve got?”

You say it lightly, teasing him, and Eddie’s next difficult breath carries a laugh.

“...I’ve already been inside of you, if you wanna get technical,” he says, and it sends a little ripple through you. “...If there's anything to catch, you've already got it, babe.”

You snort at him, and curse yourself on the inside for knowing you want this too much to really care. It’s not like you’ve been able to claim you’re a responsible adult for a hot minute, anyway.

“You’re lucky I like you so much,” you sigh, taking your hands to his belt with playful reluctance. It wipes the expression clean off Eddie’s face, eyes wide and jaw slack like he didn’t actually think you were gonna go for that. You just stare right back at him, a little smug.

“W— What, really?”

“Mhm,” you hum, cocking your head to the side as his belt falls loose. “Need it too bad to wait.”

“Oh, fuck,” he curses under his breath.

When you get his fly undone, you pause, finding nothing but bush underneath. You cut your eyes at him.

“Commando?” you say, to the tune of, really?

He scoffs at you, but he clearly thinks it's a little funny. “I don’t know if you remember this, but all of my belongings were kind of annihilated, and everyone thinks I’m a satanic murderer. If I have to burglarize a new wardrobe, I’m gonna stick to the essentials.”

“Underwear is not an essential to you?”

He just shrugs. Shaking your head (at your own compromised taste in men more than at him, honestly), you rise up onto your knees, hooking your thumbs into the band of your shorts, and—

“Wait!” Eddie interjects urgently, and you freeze. “...Can I?”

Blinking at him, you nod, and no sooner than you do, he’s already switched your positions, half knocking the wind out of you.

“Jesus, Eddie.”

Your complaint is nearly cut off by an urgent kiss, slippery and over-excited, and he tugs your bottom lip with him as he retreats, careful not to pierce the delicate skin. A flurry of kisses paint a trail down your neck—pausing, of course, for a deep, luxurious inhale—and chest, his hands giving each of your breasts an appreciative squeeze as he passes between them, down to your navel, where he nips at your belly fat a few times, making your abdomen tense up.

When he arrives between your legs, he stops and stares, completely blank faced. His eyelids drop just a fraction lower, his jaw falling slack, but other than that, he doesn't move for long enough that it starts to freak you out.

“...What the hell are you looking at?” you ask, a little sharp with self consciousness.

His lips start to twitch into a smile, but he forces it back down.

“...Aw, sweetheart,” he says lowly, almost condescending. His eyes snap suddenly back up to yours, as dark and predatory as they've ever looked, and your heart skips a beat at the sudden shift. Eddie lets his grin out at the sound of it. “...You soaked right through your little shorts.”

Your face goes hot and your throat a little dry as he gently places a hand on top of your mound, rubbing a rough, slow circle with his thumb, right where the stain must be. When that doesn't get a sound out of you—your lips sore from how hard you bite them in stubbornness—he slips the shorts down your legs, and you raise your hips to help him. Once they're off, he holds them up, showing you the evidence with much too innocent of a smile.

“Having fun?” you mutter, trying to keep your pride.

“Mhm,” he hums sweetly, tossing your shorts behind him.

Faster than you can process, he's dipping his face between your legs and licking a fat, vulgar stripe up the sticky seat of your panties, his hair tickling the insides of your thighs. The sight alone could make you throb against his tongue—you have to slap a hand over your mouth for extra insurance, your hips automatically grinding against the pressure. A deep, pleased hum rumbles in his throat, reminding you of the one he accidentally let out while you were cleaning his face.

He does it again, and again, seemingly for his own enjoyment more than for yours. When you start to squirm, he keeps your hips still with no effort at all, and tries something else. Opening his mouth wide, he presses his lips into the sodden fabric and sucks you into his mouth straight through it, making you whine into your hand. His insistence on keeping that thin little barrier in place is starting to drive you crazy, but it takes everything in you just to keep yourself quiet.

Eventually, he pauses, hovering just above your mound.

“...Wanna see a magic trick?” he asks.

You just furrow your brow at him like he's crazy. With a little smirk, he leans back down, hooking his fangs under the band of your underwear and slowly inching it downwards until he's back to the seat, closing his teeth around the fabric. He pauses, looking up at you, and you have a terrible feeling about it for all of two seconds before he abruptly jerks his head to the side, tearing them apart in one fell swoop.

“Eddie—!” you spit in outrage, only barely managing to keep your voice down.

“Ta-da,” he sings with an evil little grin, spitting the fabric out of his mouth.

Your hand flies down to swat at him automatically, but he easily shirks away from the attack, muffling his giggles into the meat of your thigh. When you try harder, sitting further up to at least land one good smack on his senseless, frizzy-ass head, you freeze mid-swing as he digs his fangs into your skin, just at the precipice of piercing through. He hesitates like that, staring at you, and so do you, holding your breath on instinct, knowing damn well that he's just teasing you again, abusing a weakness to escape your fury, until—

He bites. It forces all the air out of you, and you have to gasp it back in.

Once the initial sting subsides, your heart rate spiking so hard it makes your head spin, you realize that it's much lighter than last time, two shallow little pinpricks. Eddie suckles at it contentedly for a moment and then withdraws, licking his lips, examining his handiwork. He raises your thigh up to let you see better, two lazy little streams slowly dribbling from the bite, and he watches them with dark, hazy eyes, waiting until they collect in the seam of your vulva before cleaning it all up with his tongue, tracing it back to the source with a rumbling groan.

“Fuck, Eddie,” you gasp, your thighs beginning to tremble. The hand that was meant to hit him ends up retracting, running up your body to grope at your own breast, trying to find some relief, and Eddie watches you do so with interest.

He laps and sucks at the little wound, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses all around it, essentially making out with your thigh, and the sight drives you crazy, whining helplessly in the back of your throat while your poor, neglected core pulses and flutters, dripping onto the sheets.

Eddie decides to have mercy on you. While one of his arms holds your thigh firmly in place, his other hand begins to stroke through your folds, and he hums in appreciation, his mouth detaching from your thigh with a pop.

“Sweet little angel, gushing all over yourself at such a tiny little bite,” he says, his voice rough, the taste of your blood adding something a little unstable to the look in his eyes. He pushes into you slowly, two fingers at once, moaning out with you at the feeling. “...God, you're fucking perfect.”

The squelch of it is so damn loud that your face burns, nearly horrified, but you forget about it just as quick when he starts moving, the delicious push and pull making your eyes begin to unfocus.

“...Look at you, sucking me in so tight,” he goes on, almost like it pains him. “Fuck. I'm not gonna last a minute.”

As he says it, you almost gasp, finally remembering where you were headed before he threw you off track.

“Eddie, I want you to fuck me.”

He curses under his breath, but then makes an unsure noise, tilting his head aside, getting distracted again by the sight of his fingers disappearing inside of you.

“Please,” you insist, doing your best to pout at him.

He breathes in shakily, clenching his jaw for a moment before finally looking you in the eye.

“Babe, I'm…really not gonna last,” he warns you severely.

You just roll your eyes at him, struggling to keep your voice stable. “Neither am I, bonehead, that's why I need you now.”

Eddie gawks at you, as if somehow unaware of the effect he has on you, even as he teases you about it. You squirm a little, trying to jumpstart his brain.

“Shit,” he says with a start. “...Okay, yeah.”

It takes him a minute to struggle out of his jeans, but as soon as he does, he's crawling over you, and you reach out to him instantly, pulling him into a kiss. He meets it happily, gaining confidence as you make him feel how bad you want him, pressing your chest into his, wrapping your arms and legs around him. When you part and he looks down at you with a big, dopey grin, you decide you don't even mind the taste of blood on his tongue.

You reach down between you, helping to guide him home, and when he pops inside of you, slick and tight, filling you to the brim in one gratifying thrust, you throw your head back and sigh at the feeling, and Eddie smothers a moan against your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispers harshly, not even moving yet. “...Fuck, you're gonna kill me.”

“It's perfect,” you breathe with an airy giggle, grinding your hips into his. “God, you fit perfectly, Eddie.”

You feel his whole body shudder against you, a gentle gasp against your skin.

“...You good?” you ask, a little smug.

He gives you a jerky little nod. “...Just…give me a second.”

You do. It isn't too hard to be patient when you've reduced him to this.

“...Want me to get on top?” you offer. Now, that would be a pretty view—and he couldn't even hide his face in your shoulder.

An odd noise comes out of his throat, but he shakes his head. “No,” he insists. “...Wanna make you come.”

He'd be making you come either way, you're compelled to point out, but you suppose you'll just let him have this.

When he finally pulls it together enough to move, he starts slow and shallow, rolling his hips into yours more than thrusting. It feels nice, so you hum, pulling him a little tighter against you, moving your own hips in sync, happy to just grind against him.

He mouths at your throat, little puffs of breath fanning over your skin as he starts panting, and you slip one hand into his hair, running your fingers over his scalp and lightly tugging. Your other hand curls around to his back, scraping your nails down his skin like he enjoyed before, and he chokes next to your ear.

You can't tell if it's for your sake or his own when he shifts, finding a little more leverage so he can pull back and snap his hips into yours with some force behind it, but the sudden change makes you gasp, and Eddie groans, cursing wantonly beside your ear. It makes you clench around him, setting him off all over again.

“Feel so fucking good,” he says, voice shaking like a leaf. “Jesus, I can't… So fucking…hot, and wet, I can't—”

He really, really isn't gonna last. The sound of it is music to your ears, and you slip a hand between you, rubbing tight circles against your clit, helping yourself along. With all the sounds he's making, you aren't that far behind him.

When he whimpers sweetly into your neck, you can't take it anymore, grabbing a handful of his hair and tugging him where you can see him. He looks about as far gone as he sounds.

“You sound so pretty, Eddie,” you tell him, and another little whine catches in his throat at the praise. “Look at you.”

“You're driving me crazy,” he says, puffy lips pulling into an incredulous smile, his face contorted with both effort and pleasure. “Can't believe you let me…touch you like this, you look so fucking perfect, I can't—”

You cut off his rambling as you pull him down into a lewd kiss, all tongue and drool and desperation. As yet another casualty, his fang breaks a little skin on your lip, and Eddie sucks on it with a broken moan, sending a thrill through you.

“Bite me,” you ask, suddenly feeling just as wrecked as he is. He doesn't seem to hear you. “Eddie, bite me.”

He freezes as it processes, then shakes his head. You furrow your brow, watching as his jaw clenches hard.

“No?” you ask, confused, and he just shakes his head more insistently.

“Don't trust myself,” he grits out, forcing a tight smile to lighten it, and you blink at him, a little surprised.

With a sharp breath, he starts up again, gripping your hips tightly so he can drive himself into you twice as hard, and you have to slam a hand over your mouth to muffle your cry.

“M’gonna come,” he warns you, staring down at you with wide, bleary eyes, looking almost on the verge of tears. His open, panting lips let a string of spit stretch out, breaking and landing on your collarbone, and he doesn't even seem to notice.

“Good,” you gasp, holding him even closer. “I wanna feel it. You're doing so well, Eddie, making me feel so good.”

“Shit.” It barely makes it out, his throat pulling tighter as he approaches the edge. “Wanna make you come, too.”

“You are,” you assure him, taking one of his hands and guiding it to where you connect, letting his clumsy fingers take over for your own. The shock of cold and the rougher texture of his fingertips is just what you need, sending you hurtling towards the same place he is. “Eddie, fuck, I'm so close.”

“Fuck.” His voice cracks again, his hips falling out of rhythm, entire body tensing up. “Fuck, I fucking love you.”

With a sharp gasp, he shatters, curling into you, gripping you painfully tight as he fills you up, twitching harshly inside of you. Tight, strangled little noises fall out of his open mouth as he rides it out, trembling against you, and it's so hot and raw and precious that it makes your own pressure snap, clenching around him like a vice, biting down hard on his shoulder to quiet yourself. The feeling of your orgasm brings Eddie's voice back, moaning out like you're killing him, and he remembers belatedly to attempt to muffle the sound, but you're well past the point of caring.

As each of you slowly recover, Eddie's limp body still trembling on top of you, you wrap your legs even tighter, making sure he stays snugly inside of you. You pant together in unison, slowly cooling down, and you press adoring kisses along his shoulder, lightly scratching at his scalp.

“...That was…intense,” he mutters as he recovers, his voice half-gone. “...I'm, uh..sorry, if I…”

He trails off, clears his throat, and you turn your head to him, bewildered.

“Sorry for what?”

It takes him a moment to speak again. “...I didn't mean to, uh… I mean, I know we aren't…”

When you realize what the hell he's talking about, you let out an exhale, feeling your heart ache.

“I love you, too, Eddie.”

He shifts a little to see you, looking at you warily, but you keep your face firm, sure. He doesn't seem to know what to say.

“Yeah, it's moving fast,” you sigh, laughing a little. “We don't exactly know each other. But…no one else could understand what it felt like, being…part of each other, like that. I…think I already loved you when you were only in my dreams. And I wouldn't have done all of this with you if I didn't feel that way.”

His eyebrows pull up as you speak, looking over your face with big, watery, puppy dog eyes, and you feel him twitch weakly inside of you. He doesn't even try to respond, instead cradling your face and kissing you tenderly, resolutely, with patient, loving desire. You mirror the sentiment happily, running your hands soothingly over all the skin you can reach. When Eddie eventually pulls back, slow and reluctant, he sits back, staring down at where you're still joined. You prop yourself up on your elbows to see for yourself.

With a nervous glance at you, Eddie slowly begins pulling himself out of you, and almost instantly, you gasp. His dick comes out slick and red, making you think for a moment that he somehow fucked you into your period a couple weeks early, until you remember what he said—it's different, now.

As he pulls out entirely, your mouth falls open, both out of realization and in reaction to the feeling of his release dribbling out of you. Eddie swallows, looking a little sheepish, but you can see the hunger taking over as his eyes lock between your legs.

“Don't worry,” he mutters, easing himself down, hypnotized by the sight. “...I'll clean you up.”

The arousal returns to you abruptly as you watch him, and you feel yourself throb, tightening around nothing. Eddie hesitates, watching as it pushes another little stream out of you, and then, too fast to see, he's all over you. He licks up the mess he made like he hasn't eaten in weeks, sucking your folds into his mouth and moaning his pleasure into them. It's almost overwhelming, making you bite down hard on your hand to keep quiet as he plunges his tongue inside of you, smearing the sticky, reddish combination of you both all over his face, shamelessly grinding into you like he's in heaven.

The first time you come on his mouth, you can't even warn him—it builds so abruptly and intensely that you're worried you might scream if you move your hand away. Instead, with a muffled whimper, your thighs snap around his head, your free hand grabbing a handful of his hair as you grind your high out on his face, and Eddie's pleased groan vibrates against you, his eyes fluttering shut, happy to be used.

When you go limp, catching your breath, Eddie gives you a moment, running his hands soothingly over your hips and thighs. You're still lightly pulsing with aftershocks by the time his patience runs out, and you jolt as you feel his tongue on you again, too riled up to be gentle.

“Eddie,” you whine, trying to close your legs, but he forces them open with no effort at all.

“Missed a couple spots,” he mutters, flashing you a smile as he gets back to work, and you pout.

You're almost too sensitive to take it; even his soft licks make you gasp, and when he sucks your clit into his mouth, you have to muffle a sob, your legs twitching uncontrollably. It's intense enough that a couple tears roll down your face, and you flush hot in embarrassment.

Finally giving you a break, Eddie takes his mouth off of you, licking his lips, and slipping two of his fingers into you instead, curling deep inside.

“Poor thing,” he says, his eyes wide, black, and frenetic, watching the tears roll down your face. It gives you a little pause—you finally notice the way he's panting, his hips grinding down into the mattress, tipping into desperation. “Just a little more, sweetheart, okay? You taste so good.”

The chill that goes down your spine makes you clench around his fingers. You nod at him weakly, sniffling a little, and his jaw falls open, slipping deeper into his trance. Pulling his fingers out of you, he examines them, drenched and red-tinged, before sucking them clean with a lecherous moan, every taste just making him hungrier.

His mouth returns to you with urgency, his tongue sinking into you again, seeking out every last drop. His hands dig into your hips hard enough to bruise and the sudden rough treatment makes you gasp, your hand slipping back into his hair, tugging hard in retaliation. A deep, rumbling groan sounds in his chest, his dark eyes piercing into your own, holding them hostage. He removes one hand from your hip, wrapping around to press his thumb into your clit, rubbing tight, vicious circles that almost make you scream.

A chill seems to run over your entire body, hairs standing on end, that prickling, static feeling suddenly overwhelming you. When you hear his voice, it isn't muffled into your flesh but loud and clear, directly in your mind, snuffing out every jumbled thought of your own.

Come.

Almost immediately, you do, shaking almost violently as you gush around his tongue, your back arching off the bed, tears streaming down your face. Once again, Eddie helps you ride it out, but he still doesn't let up, and it's more than you can handle. You try to shove his face away from you, whimpering in complaint, squirming weakly beneath him.

“Eddie, I can't,” you whine pitifully, and he finally detaches from you, but he hesitates there, staring at you, eerily still and hypnotic.

Furrowing your brow and blinking the tears out of your eyes, you're just about to ask if he's alright when he cuts you off.

“Please,” he says. It's a little difficult, the muscles in his jaw straining.

You blink at him again, confused, your head still reeling. His hands, already holding you tight, dig in a little harder, and you gasp.

“Baby, please,” he begs, starting to tremble, and it finally snaps into place—he's asking.

“It's alright,” you breathe with a nod, and Eddie almost cries out in relief.

The pain hits you a moment later than it should, ripping a gasp out of you as your mind catches up to the blur of frantic movement. His fangs are plunged into the opposite thigh from earlier, stinging at least as bad as his first bite, your heartbeat throbbing around his teeth. Eddie's eyes roll back at the taste, whimpering against your skin as he swallows, a vibrant little stream escaping from the corner of his mouth, and within seconds, he's coming as well, his cock pulsing as sticky red strings paint the bed between your legs.

Any concern you might've felt at his unexpected crisis of restraint is staved off at the unbelievable sight of him falling apart from just the taste of you, completely untouched, and you watch with wide, disbelieving, deeply wanting eyes.

[[[[[END]]]]]]

Thoroughly blissed out, Eddie still clutches your thigh painfully hard, moaning against your skin as he drinks with no clear signs of stopping, so you reach out, swatting at his head a few times until he snaps out of it.

“Shit,” he sputters against your thigh, spraying drops of blood across your skin as he detaches himself. Giving a couple harsh licks to the wound, he presses his palm into it to stop the flow and looks at you with bewildered eyes, panting lightly. “...Fuck, I'm sorry, I—”

“Couldn't help yourself?” you tease, raising an eyebrow at him.

“No, I just—didn't mean to bite that hard,” he explains, a little furrow in his brow. “...I wasn't trying to hurt you.”

He says it like, after all of this, he's still scared you won't believe him.

“Well,” you begin, sitting up and reaching out to clean some of the blood dripping down his face with your thumb. You smear a dark trail back up to the corner of his mouth and slip it inside, and Eddie's lips wrap around you cutely as he sucks it clean. “...That was probably the sexiest thing I've ever seen in my life, so…I probably won't hold a grudge.”

Bashful, he smiles around your thumb. When you pull it back, doing the same to the other side of his mouth, his tongue slips out to meet it before he dutifully takes it in again, and you give him a smirk.

“What's it gonna take to quench that thirst, hm?”

He eyes you, making an excessive show of sucking down every last drop before removing your thumb from his mouth with a pop.

“...It never goes away,” he tells you quietly, like it's a secret he's nervous to share. “Just gets…easier to ignore.”

“Never, huh?”

You gently take hold of his jaw, tilting his face side to side, examining his blood-smeared lips and chin, melding with the wetness still shining on his cheeks. He lets you do so easily, keeping his big brown eyes on yours, sparkly and a little uncertain. You raise your thumb to lift up his top lip, revealing a fang, and Eddie easily sates your curiosity, letting his mouth fall open for you. As his jaw widens, you notice with intrigue, his fangs extend just slightly longer—you run a careful fingertip over their points a couple times, flickering your stare between them and his sweet, timid gaze. With an adoring grin, you pinch his chin, letting his mouth close again.

“...Sounds pretty greedy to me,” you tease. Eddie pouts his lips at you, but his eyes twinkle with amusement.

Pulling him closer, you try to kiss him but he startles, twitching back.

“The blood,” he mutters, raising his free hand to try and wipe his mouth clean, but you swat it away.

“I don't care,” you assure him, pulling him in again. “...If you're gonna make a meal out of me, the least you could do is share.”

With a flustered giggle, Eddie meets your kiss, hesitant at first, but when you don't flinch away from the bitter taste, pushing into his mouth to lightly swipe your tongue against his, he can't help but follow your lead. Pulling away and grinning incurably, you sigh, finally bothering to look down at the mess you've made between you.

“We should probably clean up,” you say, grimacing a little at the bloody, sticky horrorshow. “...I don't know how the hell I'm gonna explain all this.”

Even still, you can't really say you regret it.

“I'm guessing Harrington has a first aid kit around here somewhere,” Eddie asks passively, eyes flickering around.

“Yeah, in his bathroom,” you say. “I can—”

Before you can finish, Eddie has snatched up your palm, pressing it into your leg to replace his own. In another blink, he stands beside the bed, tugging his jeans back up his legs.

“Don't you worry your pretty little head,” he says with a smirk.

“Eddie—”

But he's already gone. As brash and wild as he's known for being, a flash of nerves makes your spine straighten, but you take a breath, reminding yourself just how quick and quiet he can be these days. It hasn't even been a minute by the time he's back, first aid kit in hand, silently closing and locking the door behind him.

“Harrington’s deep asleep,” he reports. Apparently, he found the time to clean his face off, as well.

“You went in his room?” you ask, half outraged.

“Just a peek,” he insists guiltlessly. “...Does he always sleep naked?”

You gape at him until his smirk cracks even wider, and you give his arm a smack as he sits beside you on the bed, lightly snickering.

Eddie can't stop smiling as he tends to your wound, glancing up to meet your eyes excessively, happily playing doctor and teasing you with questions about your drug use and sexual activity in an exaggerated professional voice. Unlike the last time you got patched up, you spend the whole time giggling, batting at him lightly when he deliberately crosses “ethical” boundaries to get a rise out of you. When he's finished, he plants a big, obnoxious kiss on your bandage, patting your thigh gingerly and declaring you all better.

Taking further advantage of his stealth, you have him scavenge some supplies to try and spot treat the ruined duvet to the best of your ability, but it looks pretty grim. The pattern of the fabric prevents it from looking completely heinous, but there's very clearly a cluster of stains in the middle, and they're very clearly the remnants of blood.

As damning as it is, you're a little too exhausted to care, and Eddie's more than happy to take your mind off of it, pulling back the sheets to toss you back in bed, and ripping his jeans off again to jump in with you. Curled up beside him with his cool arms wrapped around you, it's pretty damn easy to forget about all the problems that future you will have to deal with. Before you can get too sleepy, Eddie breaks the silence with a whisper, and your eyes flutter open again to look at him.

“Y'know what I think?”

“What's that?” you mumble, blinking up at him.

He smiles at you languidly, bleary eyes slowly poring over your face, collecting every little detail, gleaming at you like you're the spark that ignited his soul.

“...I think it was worth it,” he says. “Every…awful, excruciating fucking second in that place was worth it, just to be here with you right now.”

It's hopeless—he knows you're a goddamn crybaby, and he still rips your heart out anyway. The tears well up in your eyes instantly, your chest tight and warm, and Eddie grins adoringly, leaning closer to press tiny kisses to them as they fall.

“Knew that'd getcha,” he teases, barely a whisper, drinking in your pouting face. “...I really mean it, though.”

He bumps his nose against yours, then darts towards another tear as it falls, catching it with his tongue instead. You gasp, weakly pushing him away in complaint, but he just giggles, and it's gravely infectious.

“You're so mean to me,” you whine, breathing shakily as you try to pull it together again, failing to suppress your own laugh.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart,” he says, pressing a proper kiss to your cheek…and then another, and then a few along your jaw, down your neck, as he murmurs against your skin. “...I'll make it up to you as many times as you want.”

“Eddie,” you warn, feeling his arms pull a little tighter around your waist. “I'm about to pass out.”

“I know,” he sighs with faux disappointment, but you feel his lips pull into a smile. “...You're just so goddamn pretty when you cry.”

He shifts around, guiding you until you're halfway on top of him, your cheek pressed into his chest, and you snuggle into him happily, letting your eyes fall closed again. One of your hands idly plays with his hair, twirling a little strand around your finger.

“...You're gonna have to leave before the sun comes up,” you mumble into him. It isn't a question.

Eddie takes a deep breath. “Unless you've got a spare coffin lying around that you can smuggle me out of here in,” he jokes, and you whine quietly into his skin. “...But I promise I won't move an inch until you're fast asleep.”

“Maybe I should leave with you.”

Eddie snorts at that. “...Well, babe, with the absolute crime scene we so lovingly created here, they'd probably start a statewide manhunt,” he laughs. “...Either that, or they'll throw poor Stevie in the hole for my crimes.”

You hum, pretending to consider it. “...I think I could live with that.”

Eddie snickers, tracing shapes into your back with his nails. “I don't know… I'd probably feel bad. I mean, he is pretty cute.”

“He's all yours, if you want him.”

He hums at that. “I've got everything I need right here,” he says. “...But we could always let him watch, or something.”

You groan against him in exaggerated disgust, and Eddie giggles, planting a kiss on the top of your head.

“Go to sleep,” he insists, beginning to rub a wide, calming circle over your back. “...I'll come see you again soon.”

You whine again in complaint, feeling yourself start to surrender to the heavy pull of unconsciousness.

“...Promise?” you mumble, the last word you can get out.

Eddie pretends to scoff.

“Sweetheart, you couldn't get rid of me if you tried.”

-

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