#stff updates

Now all he had to do was build up the courage to call you.

Invite you on a date, or that aforementioned study session that you'd offered. Something, anything. Mainly, all he wanted to do was talk to you some more; how many times had he stared at the television, wishing just for that? Now he had the opportunity and he was afraid of picking up the phone.

“Just do it, don’t be a chicken.” He shook out his limbs and muttered to himself. “Just pick up the phone and call. She’s not gonna answer. Just leave a message. How bad could it be?”

He grabbed the receiver and dialed.

His heart rattled in his chest with every ring.

Leave a message after the beep.

He took a breath just as it sounded and he started talking.

“Hey, sweetheart, thanks for your number. I, uh, figured maybe if you were free on Thursday night you could come over and we could hang out. I’ll grab some soda’s, and maybe we order pizza? I'll even take up that offer for you to help with my history homework? We can listen to some music too? I dunno. Or…or whatever you wanna do. It’s fine by me. Anyways, just lemme know. I’ll see you around.”

He slammed the receiver on the cradle and then winced. It sounded terrible. It was one long breath, he was barely able to talk by the end of it. And, shit, had he even said his name? Or left a number?

“Fuck,” he groaned.

No, it was gonna be ok. Who else would call? Obviously you would know it was him.

...But what if you didn’t?

He grabbed the receiver and dialed again.

Leave a message after the beep.

He took it easier this time, slower. “Hey, sorry, I realized I didn’t even tell you who I was. Or leave my number, in case you wanted to call back. Guess I was nervous.” He laughed lightly. “Is that embarrassing to admit? That you make me nervous? God, I’m fumbling this again, aren’t I? I guess…I dunno, you’re the most interesting person who’s rolled into town in a while. Wanna make a good impression. Anyway, uh, talk to you later.”

He hung up again, a satisfied smile on his lips.

And then he realized he’d done it again.

“DAMN IT, MUNSON!”

Third time’s a charm.

“Pick up the phone, dial, leave your name and number, hang up,” he said through gritted teeth.

Leave a message after the beep.

“It’s Eddie Munson!” He shouted into the receiver, then recited his number. And hung up.

Simple.

Until he realized he sounded like an absolute nut..

“Fuck!”

Leave a message after the beep.

"Sorry that must make me sound insane. It's Eddie Munson, and if you wanna call me back, that's cool. Or you don't have to, that's cool too. If you want nothing to do with me. Maybe...maybe you should just stay away from me. You know, you'd probably be better off."

He slammed his hand against the hook switch and dialed again.

"What are you even doing anymore?!"

Leave a message after the beep.

“Hey it’s Eddie again, Eddie Munson. Sorry. I realize I’m really fucking this all up, and if you don’t wanna talk to me ever again you don’t have to. Shit, except I don't really mean that and could you possibly find it in your heart to not think I’m insane.”

There was a knock on the front door of the trailer and he groaned. He put the receiver between his shoulder and his head and yanked the cord so it would stretch as he went to see who it was.

“I’m just trying to leave a nice message and I keep messing it up and now I’m getting interrupted. Fuck! Can’t a guy just have a telephone call in peace?!”

He shouted the last bit and threw the door open, only to go slack jawed when he saw you standing there. Your lips were pressed together, as you clearly tried to hold back your laughter.

Eddie took the receiver and threw it back towards the transmitter, wincing as he heard a crash.

“Uh, hey, sweetheart,” he greeted with as much nonchalance as he could muster. “What’s...uh...up?” He shot double finger guns your way, and then winced and crossed his arms over his chest.

“You wanna hang out on Thursday?” You asked, biting your lip to keep your smile controlled.

“Sure,” he nodded.

“Great!” You leaned forward and said the next bit sotto voce. "See how easy that is?"

He sighed and leaned against the doorjamb. “So you heard all of that.”

“Absolutely.”

“Sat there and just let me keep calling?”

“Well, I would’ve just picked up but…” You shrugged. “I don’t have a TV yet. A girl needs to find entertainment where she can.”

Censored by clothes.

No. Not censored. Written that way. Created that way. Not meant to be perceived that way and by way of said creation, that aspect of you simply didn't exist.

Now, under the creative endeavor of some other Writer and not the one that created you, you became...complete. Not just face and personality and sense of style. But also body and pleasure and sexuality in all of its many facets.

A new sort of freedom...but also forced freedom. Freedom to do, not what you were created for, but to bend under the additional creativity of others. You had some control too, within reason, you just...didn't know what to do with that control sometimes.

How odd.

Creation vs creativity vs creator.

All engaged in conditional liberation.

You would've gotten philosophical with the thought if hands hadn't slid over your arms. Instead, you shivered at the unexpected touch, all contemplative thought gone in favor of sensation.

"Are you just staring at yourself?" Helen whispered into your ear. "Come back to bed."

You turned so you could look at her through eye to eye, instead of through the mirror, and she took the opportunity to cut off any of your words and kiss you instead.

For all the silly loverboys that you had been written with and fallen for, nobody kissed quite as good as Helen Magnus did, with her 200+ years of experience.

That was a new revelation too, but not an unwelcome one. To someone, it made all the sense in the world to put you, a seemingly-small town girl looking for the adventure of a lifetime, in the world of Abnormals and the Sanctuary Network with Helen. Little did they know, that beneath the words they had scribed on a page, you had your own decades of life experience to rival Helen's. But none like this.

It felt even more special to you because of it.

Would you have ever slept with a woman on your own? Not if you'd stayed in the safety of your primetime 1980's sitcom. But, beyond that...it was simply a fact of existence that you got to experience. Beyond the sexual. Beyond the physical. Because you didn't exist.

Had you not been written into these stories, you would have ceased to exist the moment the final episode of Port Geneva had ended. It had been something you'd come to terms with ages ago, an explanation for this series of events. You weren't real...so you would never get a real life, a real future.

So, you decided as you and Helen tumbled back into the sheets, giggling between kisses and moans, that you would enjoy this life, make the most of this life.

Because however bad it got sometimes, to live these moments was better than the alternative.

November 1985

Eddie woke up from a deep sleep feeling pretty damn good, if he did say so himself. It was a peaceful morning, one of many that he had with you in his arms. Snuggling, sleepy smooches, maybe some fooling around without a care in the world. He was always loath to peel himself away on mornings like these.

But, like all of those other mornings, nature called and he had to answer.

Actually, it seemed like nature was screaming at him.

There was an almost unnatural heaviness and pressure in his abdomen. Not necessarily uncomfortable but certainly not normal. He'd felt this way before, after a night of chugging a whole case of Mountain Dew as he tried to rewrite his plans for a Hellfire session at the last minute. Too much weed and too much soda, and then practically passing out on the couch had his bladder shouting at him come morning.

That hadn't happened last night, though. It was as normal a night as any other. So this was a bit concerning.

He carefully extracted his arm from your waist and shifted to the edge of the mattress; as he stood, he felt his equilibrium shift, center of gravity lower. Was this what it felt like to get older? God, he was gonna have to ask Wayne, wasn't he?

He tip-toed to the bathroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes all the while; he closed the door behind him and lifted the seat of the toilet. Then, as he made to pull down his sweats so he could relieve himself, he was in for a shock.

"What the fuck is this?" he whispered. It was his dick.

Well, obviously it was his dick. His dick was always there. Trusty as ever. Old reliable. Except, the thing he was currently holding in his hand, was not his dick. Well it was a dick. But...it was...an absolute...sausage, for lack of a better word.

No wonder he felt so heavy.

He blinked twice. Two long, exaggerated blinks. Just in case he had a floater in his eye or something. He took a deep, cleansing breath, and finally opened his eyes as he exhaled.

Only for nothing to change.

"What the fuck is this?" He repeated, still sotto voce.

On a normal day, Eddie was pretty proud of his package. He would consider himself a grower, not a shower, and for a second he thought, surely, he had an erection. But his dick was just about as flaccid as you could get...and about twice the size it usually was when he was hard.

If he was in the right state of mind, he would have realized that there was a bit of cosmic interference in the Writer variety. However, panic had fully taken hold of him and logic was out the window.

What was a guy like Eddie Munson to do when he had an unexplained, magic, monster cock and was panicking about how to get rid of it? Well, he did what he always did.

Cranking the hog. Charming the cobra. Shaking hands with the milkman. Taking the self-guided tour.

Weird that he would typically be an expert guide on this tour. But he might as well be a first timer, given that the cock he suddenly found himself with was surely not his.

Except that it kind of was.

Same foreskin, same veins, same little thing that made him harder when he twisted his wrist just so.

"Yeah," he groaned slightly as he felt the shock of arousal go through him. "Just like that."

Soon all coherent thought was out the window.

If he didn't think it was big before, he really lived up to the "grower" name now too, as it hardened and thickened and became...inconceivable in his grasp. And the pleasure? The pleasure was immeasurable, he didn't think he'd ever felt so good servicing himself. He practically doubled over as he hunched and focused on, what he was sure was, the most epic jerk off session of his life. One hand placed against the tiled bathroom wall, the other pumping back and forth, his eyes wrenched shut and he threw his head back as he moaned. Electric sensations travelled up the shaft, through his body, making his toes curl.

Shit, sex wasn't even this good, was it? Imagine how it would feel with this new cock. Imagine how good this new cock would feel with you...

"Eddie?" There was a knock on the door and he actually jumped. Speak of the devil. "You ok? You've been in there for a while."

Whatever orgasmic trance he had been in was gone, and he suddenly realized the predicament that he was in. Huge, unexplainable, erect dong-in-hand, jerking off when he really should've just peed and went back to explain the situation to you.

There was another knock.

Maybe, if he just stayed quiet, you would go back to bed.

"I know you're in there, Eddie."

Damn it, you knew him too well.

"Uh..." Eddie took a breath and looked around for something to help him out of this predicament. Bottle of mouthwash? Washcloth? Plunger? No, none of that could help. It was really true what they said about all the blood exiting the brain when you were hard, wasn't it? "Yeah...I'm in here."

"Shocking." You deadpanned.

He took a breath to build some courage, and then carefully approached the door. He opened it just a crack and peered out at you.

"I have a problem," he confessed.

"Did you clog the toilet again?" you asked.

He let out the most diabolically sarcastic laughter. "I fucking wish it was the toilet, sweetheart. I'm going to open the door and let you in here. But you need to be normal about this."

"We live in a fanfiction, Eddie," you laughed at him. "I don't think anything is normal."

That's when it finally clicked for him.

Fanfiction. The Writer. They must've done this, either to give him the most embarrassing morning of his life. Or, and more probable still, they probably thought a penis of this magnitude--

God, he really needed to write this down for Hellfire. A potion for vitality that doubles the size of your dick.

--was normal. Appealing. Desirable.

All thought of his attempt at self-care aside though, it was pretty horrifying.

"Well?" you stared at him expectantly. "You gonna let me in?"

"You're gonna laugh," he prefaced, and then quickly pulled the door open, ducking behind it to shield you from the shocking view.

You quickly scurried inside and turned as he shut the door behind you.

Then, there you were, and there he was. Staring at each other. You, clothes mussed from sleep and eyes wide in shock. And Eddie, red-faced, sweaty, sweatpants still pulled beneath his balls, with his rapidly softening impossible-cock still in his grasp.

"What the fuck?"

"So lemme get this straight."

"Mmkay."

"The Writer can just...change my body however they want."

You took a thoughtful pause. "They're writing you the way that they believe you are--"

"Because I'm not real," Eddie interjected spitefully. He slammed his coffee cup onto the table a little too forcefully, causing the hot liquid to splash over the rim.

"--because you are just another outlet of their expression."

Eddie let out a judgmental hum and turned to look out the window, wanting to be done with this whole conversation.

After the incident in the bathroom, you had suggested going to Benny's--pancakes and coffee always made things better, after all. Once the food was served, you had regaled him with your own experiences in body alterations. You listed off unexpected changes to your hair and eye color, how you spent a whole summer with glasses because a Writer was sure you were far-sighted, and finally--the cherry on top, and most relevant to the conversation--the two years you spent with breasts about three-times your natural size as you experienced life as a cartoon high-schooler.

He let his eyes travel down to your cleavage for what was the 10th time that morning, but they snapped back up to your face as you cleared your throat.

"Listen, if the Writer is thinking about your dick in such a flattering light," you began. "It can only mean that they're probably inspired to write something a little...romantic."

"Bringing someone flowers is romantic," Eddie scoffed. "Reciting a poem is romantic."

You suddenly reached across the table and grabbed the lapel of his jacket to pull him closer. With your noses practically touching, you hissed at him. "Eddie, we're in public. I'm trying to be a little considerate of the families around us and not say that the Writer wants us to fuck each others brains out."

You pushed him away and he fell back in the booth with an audible oomph. You grabbed your coffee and raised it to your lips, shooting an innocent smile to the waitress as she walked by. As soon as she was gone, you leveled him with an intense stare, brow raised expectantly.

Eddie felt his cheeks heat up and he cleared his throat. "You're telling me that the same Writer who had trouble getting us into bed for the first time is suddenly going to have us go on some kind of...smutty bacchanalia?"

"You never know where the inspiration is going to come from."

He snorted.

"Are you objecting?" you questioned.

"Absolutely not! Listen any chance I get to--" The waitress walked by again and shot the two of you a suspicious glare. Eddie immediately lowered his voice. "Any chance I get to be inside you, I'm gonna take it."

Now it was your turn to act flustered. You stumbled over your words, agreeing with him in an adorably bashful way. He grabbed your hand and pressed a quick kiss to the back of it, then gave you a playful little nibble before he moved to take a sip from his coffee cup.

"Anyway," you tried to redirect the subject. "This is the fun part of this existence. Getting to explore aspects of yourself that wouldn't have existed outside of a screen or a page. I barely had my first kiss back in Port Geneva. Fanfiction opens a whole world you might never have had before."

"So far, it's been traumatizing at best," Eddie deadpanned.

"It'll get better," you promised. "Honestly, I'm shocked that you haven't noticed other signs yet."

"And what would those be, sweetheart?" He waved dismissively.

"Well, whenever I've been...subjected...to more desirous inclinations, I've had wet dreams, feel myself getting hot around the collar with whoever I'm paired with. It wouldn't take a lot to get my motor running."

It was Eddie's turn to shoot an intense stare your way.

"Look at who you're talking to, honey. Not only am I your local pervert, but I've been having wet dreams about you specifically since before you even had clips on the opening credits of Port Geneva."

You got bashful again and shrank on your side of the booth.

"Shut up, Eddie," you muttered.

He just winked as he finished off his coffee.

Eddie looked out for the signs. Anything out of the normal.

Unfortunately, as he mentioned, sex dreams were nothing new for him. Nor was him getting hard at the mere sight of you. However, he was a lot more aware of his body's reactions to you now.

Well, the fact that his upgraded package barely fit in his jeans in the first place certainly helped with awareness. As soon as he got the slightest stiffy, it was inescapably noticeable.

The real sign came one day as he sat down to lunch, threw open the lid of his lunchbox, and instead of finding his usual sandwich and ziploc baggie of trail mix, he found a box of condoms that he definitely hadn't packed.

It was like a death knell tolling for him. A sex knell. His eyes darted around the cafeteria, around the various tables, as though you would stand up from one of them and close the distance to mount him right then and there.

As crazy as that seemed, could he really discount the Writer from doing something like that?

He needed to call you. Warn you.

He immediately shut the lid and stood up; his friends shot him curious looks.

"I think there's pizza on the menu today." He thumbed over to the lunch line. "Gotta get in line before they run out."

"You hate cafeteria pizza." Gareth frowned.

"No, I hate cafeteria meatloaf." Eddie reached out and flicked his ear. "I love cafeteria pizza. Get your lore right, Emerson."

"Can you get me a chocolate milk?" Jeff called as Eddie walked away.

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

He made it seem like he was getting in the lunch line, but he quickly ducked out of the double doors and strode out towards the pay phones. He shoved his hands into his pockets to try and fish some spare change.

"Come on, come on," he muttered. "Just one fucking quarter."

Just as his fingers found the rigid edge of the coin amidst the pocket lint, he was yanked right off course. He fumbled as he was pulled into a dark classroom and his lips met the pliant planes of yours.

Had he called it or what?

His hands found your waist and he pulled you close; the heat of your body permeated the combined layers of your clothing and seemed to sink right into him, igniting his fire. Especially as your own roaming hands snaked around him to grab his ass and squeeze.

He yelped and pulled away from you, panting. "Hey sweetheart. What, uh, what are you doing here?"

There was amusement roiling in your eyes as you licked over the seam of your lips enticingly. "I think you know exactly why I'm here Eddie." You winked.

"But I have class," he said dumbly, "and you have work."

"I don't have work til 4." Your hands moved from his backside to his front, playing with his belt buckle. "Besides, I figured you wouldn't be opposed to skipping the rest of the day. Gives us, what, an extra 3 hours to have a little fun together?"

He was about to object, protest that this was too risky, that you shouldn't be at the school, let alone to have sex with him. Hell, he wouldn't even be opposed to a romp behind the Hideout on your break, Bev be damned. But he felt the tug of puppet strings on his limbs, the Writer taking charge of the situation against his will, and he knew that this was gonna happen whether he wanted it to or not.

Better play the part.

It's not like this hadn't been a fantasy of his at one point. Somewhere in the back of his mind, when you had still been a character inside of his television set.

Taking his silence as agreement, you started unbuckling his belt, but the shrill sound of the bell made him grab your hands and stop you.

"Not here," he whispered. "This is too risky, anyone could walk in at any time."

"So?" You grinned wickedly. "Live on the edge."

"The edge of expulsion," he laughed, and took a second to think. "My van!"

You bit your lip and considered it before nodding. "It'll have to do."

He grasped your hand with his and was about to pull you out of the classroom and into the throngs of students going to their next class. Then he paused and looked over his shoulder at you.

Standing there, spit-slick lips glistening in the low light, eagerly bouncing on your toes. But there was also some hesitation in your eyes. Nerves, maybe? Worry for him? Or for yourself?

"You good?" he whispered, fighting against the tug of the puppet strings that urged him forward. "You want this, right?"

You blinked and the worry softened; you squeezed his hand.

"With you?" you asked. "Always."

He'd really never thought of his van as the sex van.

Of course, when he and Paige had been back here once upon a time, that had changed. Now that you were currently dragging your lips down the planes of his body, he was setting a precedent.

Wait, was that a faux pas? To think of your...was she his ex? While you were about to fuck your new girlfriend?

He shook his head as you scratched your fingers along his happy trail and took one of his nipples into your mouth. He was immediately brought right back into the moment.

"Sex van it is," he muttered. You pulled your head away to throw your head back in laughter.

"Oh my god. Please don't call it a sex van." He took the opportunity to pull your shirt over your head, leaving you in a pretty purple bra that he didn't realize you owned. You worked the button of your jeans open and he spotted matching panties peek through.

Were they a gift from the Writer? He would have to send a thank you card.

"It's totally a sex van now." He couldn't hide the pride in his voice.

"You're insufferable." You leaned forward and placed a kiss against his spider tattoo. "A perv." Then another against his clavicle. You pushed him backwards into the pile of blankets he kept in the back of the van, then dove after him, and ran your nose along the length of his neck. "But you're my insufferable perv."

"Yeah?" He laughed. "You love m--ah!" Your lips brushed his pulse and then you were on him, suction pulling his flesh into your mouth, teeth grazing skin. It was a sharp, punishing sensation, but immediately had pleasure shooting through him, and his pants got exponentially tighter. In record time, too.

You worked with precision, pushing his jeans and his boxers down his hips, freeing him from their confines. Your hand was around him immediately, stroking him and squeezing. Lubrication be damned, there was a very unnatural smoothness to your touch, letting you glide over him easily, with just enough friction that made it delicious.

"C'mon," he huffed as you worked him faster. "Yeah, that's it."

He felt a molten heat spark beneath his skin and burn so acutely. It was a sensation he was unaccustomed to, this all-consuming fire. Usually, the buildup to an orgasm was electric. Adrenaline sparking, heart rate pounding, trying to outpace himself. Get there, get to the edge, and then rocket into oblivion. Not necessarily a sprint, but still quick. The blink and you miss it flash of lightning during a summer storm.

This? This was a slow, concentrated burn--the kind that came with seismic activity, and inevitably led to volcanic explosion--and he felt like he was about to melt through the floor of his van. Temperature rising, labored breathing, spirit blistering from the pressure and intensity the longer he was under your control.

He bucked into your hand, and you sucked at his pulse point harder.

He briefly wondered how the resulting hickey would look--if it would resemble something more of a burn than a bruise--and resolved to give you a matching one when it was your turn.

Your hand stopped at the base of his cock and squeezed, and that was enough to drive him to erupt. His eyes popped open just in time to see the impressive arc of his cum as it rocketed from him and splashed onto the door of the van; he moaned at the sight, at the way it dripped down the metal. In fact, you seemed eager to watch too, as your mouth detached from his neck with a wet pop and you sat up a little to watch as you continued stroking him through his completion.

The van was silent except for the sound of breathing and the barely-audible drag of your skin against his. When the spectacle was over and his release simply dribbled down his shaft and over your fingers, you turned your attention back to him.

You immediately went for his earlobe; there was one brief nibble before you whispered, "You liked that?" He let his head fall back and he wrenched his eyes shut.

"Uh huh."

You chuckled softly.

"This is the first time I've rendered you speechless, Ed. Guess I know how to shut you up from now on."

"That's cheating," he practically slurred his words, drunk on pleasure.

You pecked his earlobe a few more times as he came down from his high. Eventually, he looked at you with a little more clarity. You were still mostly-clothed, looking at him with a glimmer of mischief in your eyes as your head rested on his shoulder. Your hand was still around his shaft, and he reached down to pull it loose.

"You didn't...I didn't...take care of you."

You shrugged and teased. "Didn't we already establish that the Writer has been thinking about your dick? I think this was the top of the smutty checklist."

"Still..." He felt his cheeks get warm. "I like to make you cum too."

You leaned forward and pecked his lips.

"We have all afternoon for you to rectify that," you whispered against his mouth. "We have all the time in the world, actually. I think the Writer really wants us to take our time with this."

You then sat up and made quick work of your bra so he was staring eye to eye with your tits.

Wow. Eddie loved fanfiction.

"Bev's gonna fire me."

"She wouldn't dare. I'll protect you."

"She fired you, remember?"

You panted against his mouth but kept up the rhythm as you rolled your hips and Eddie bucked his.

A quickie, that's all this was supposed to be.

Actually, it was just supposed to be a "good luck, knock em dead" smooch in the green room before Corroded Coffin's set at the Hideout. But one thing led to another, and Eddie had sent his friends out into the bar to keep Bev occupied while the two of you engaged in a little TCB.

It started against the wall, with your skirt--the skirt, Rosemary Glass's skirt from the TV Guide feature--rucked up and your panties pushed to the side. His own pants were unzipped and halfway open, but forgotten as your mouths slanted against one another and his fingers pushed into your wet heat. He played you as well as he played his guitar, making sweet sounds come out of you as he fingered your frets.

Of course, as soon as the joke left his mouth, you decided enough was enough. You pushed him across the room, climbed onto his lap, and started riding him. As soon as you sunk onto his length, he moaned beautifully, and you joked about your own musical prowess.

"You can play me any time baby," he panted, hands on your hips. Not to guide you, just to touch you, to feel you there. The muscles of your thighs and your ass shifting beneath your skin as you used him. Shifting, squeezing. Just as you shifted and squeezed around him too. "Oh god, yeah."

You mashed your mouth to his to shut him up, but the kiss quickly turned soft and deep. Romantic. The two of you lost yourselves in it, all thought of fucking forgotten as the intimacy of the moment took over. You basked in the mingling of breaths, the prolonged skin-to-skin contact, the way you consumed him and he happily pushed himself deeper into you.

The world around you disappeared. All thought of the Writer forgotten, all strings leading you through this loosened. The predicament that you found yourselves in was a distant memory.

Until there was a frantic knock against the door.

You and Eddie pulled away from each other and turned towards the intruding sound.

"You guys gotta hurry up," Jeff's muffled voice came through the door. "Bev's getting suspicious. You've got 5 minutes before she comes to see where you're at. We've gotta start."

You waited to hear his footsteps retreating from the green room before Eddie snorted.

"5 minutes?" He scoffed smugly. "I'll do it in 3.''

You turned back to him, brow furrowed, but then the world went sideways as Eddie heaved you into his arms and laid you back along the couch. Your shirt slid against the leather as he started thrusting into you with reckless abandon. One hand held onto your waist while the other traveled downwards to play with your clit. Your own hand went to your mouth, covering it so you didn't moan too loudly.

It was a beautiful sight to see, and he made himself keep his eyes on you as he focused on the task at hand. Was it the most romantic? Was it the most practical? No. But he felt the puppet strings of the Writer guide him onwards and he knew if he didn't do this on his own terms, he wouldn't have the choice but to do it on theirs.

He felt your body tightening, around him, beneath him, as you got closer to your completion.

Then he noticed something wrong, something that made his heart stutter in his chest. You held the hand to your mouth tighter and wrenched your eyes shut. He still felt your hips buck upwards, meeting him as he pushed into you, but you were fighting it. Fighting something.

"What's wrong?" he panted. "Come on sweetheart, I need you with me here. Look at me. We were just having fun."

You simply shook your head.

"Talk to me," he hissed, slowing his pace just so. "I'll stop if you don't. I'll bring this whole story to a halt, I'll break the walls between universes for you if you don't. Am I hurting you?"

Your eyes shot open and you shook your head.

"Does it feel good?"

You nodded and he snapped his hips forward, somewhat dramatically, earning a moan from you.

"Then what?"

You hesitated, but peeled your hand away from your mouth and said, "I have to say it." You shook your head again. "The Writer wants me to say it. I hate it."

Eddie briefly thought back to the day he'd been jerking off to the picture of you, the intrusive fantasy that he'd been given, and the way he'd realized why he'd had it after the fact. He cursed the Writer for doing something similar to you now. Ruining this moment for you.

"What is it?" He asked. He stilled and hunched over you, pressing his forehead to yours. "Come on, tell me. Whisper it. I'm sure it's not that bad."

After some hesitation, you did. Your words were soft, barely audible, but he heard them.

That? The Writer wanted you to say that? What? Why?

But then he had an idea. A terrible awful idea.

He started moving his hips again, started picking up the pace, started driving the two of you back to the precipice of your pleasure. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, cupped your face with one hand and circled your clit with the other.

"You trust me?" he panted.

"Yeah."

"I've got you." With one particular swivel of his hips, and a complementary swirl of his fingers, you wrenched your eyes shut and whined. "That's it. Oh yeah. You feel that?"

"I feel it."

He drove you further, higher. Drove himself higher. Waiting for just the right moment before he could let go.

"I feel it too. Sweetheart, you feel so good. You're so good to me."

"Eddie!" There was an edge to his voice and he knew the two of you were almost there. Right there.

He pulled away from you and bucked into you once, twice, before he felt himself break.

"Oh fuck yeah, Daddy!" Eddie whined. He threw his head back and moaned it out loud. Putting the word out into the universe. So you didn't have to. "You fuck me so fucking good."

You squeaked in shock, but reached your own peak, spasming around him as he released into you. He beamed with pride and you held your arms open wide so he collapsed into your embrace.

Then you burst into laughter.

The blinds were drawn, the rising sun peeking around the edges, gently reminding you that it was a new day and whatever you were enduring would be over soon.

And enduring was certainly the right word.

No good deeds happened here.

Eddie’s bedroom was humid. Sweaty. The air was thick and stale with the smell of sex. Your bodies were sore, you were dehydrated, and above all, you were exhausted.

“Right there, yes.”

“Fuck. It feels so good.”

“Yes! Yes! Fuck!”

Your voices were hoarse, but you were forced to keep moaning and shouting at the Writer's will. You’d been at this all night, ever since you got home from your trip to the movie theater. Date night turned to fooling around turned into a never-ending fuck fest.

Eddie’s lips were chapped from too many kisses, you had stubble burn on your boobs, the both of you had fallen off the bed several times from a charley horse, only to keep fucking on the floor, and there was cum everywhere. Dried on skin, in both of your hair, leaking out of you, staining the sheets, abandoned condoms—which you ran out of quite early in the night—haphazardly littered on the floor.

There was even some on Eddie’s guitar. He wasn’t too jazzed about that but he could barely focus on anything but the task at hand.

Sex on a normal night was great. This was getting out of hand though. The Writer—or whatever cosmic powers that be—could’ve stretched this out over several nights in Eddie’s opinion. As wonderful as the orgasms were, the two of you were suffering.

Hadn't you said this was meant to be fun? Up to round 3 it had been. God, the Writer better have an epic novel full of the two of you fucking if they were making you go through this.

The only benefit to all this was that you were in it together. Each time you came, you would hold each other and take comfort in the proximity. Until the next wave of arousal plagued you. Then you would be at it again, like rabbits.

“Please. Please!”

“You’re so tight. Fuck. It’s like you were made for me.”

“Harder, Eddie. Yes! Harder!”

Eddie’s hands gripped your hips, clenching desperately as he pistoned into you. He felt the tightness in his balls as he got closer and closer to the edge.

How was he still going? How was there anything left to give?

He leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of your spine. Wrapped his arms around you. He felt the way your own arms were about to give out, having held your position on your hands and knees for as long as you had.

“It’s ok,” he whispered. He gently maneuvered you so you were on your sides, and you shifted your leg so it was draped over his. “I’ve gotcha.”

You hummed, then moaned as he thrust into you harder, the angle giving him better leverage.

“You still with me?” He asked.

You leaned into him. “Always.”

He could see the light of day getting brighter just outside the window and knew in his heart that this was it.

“Alright baby, grand finale,” he muttered. “Let’s make it a good one. Scream for me ok? Let’s give ‘em a show.”

He was a performer, after all.

He ran his hands over you reverently, he moaned exaggeratedly and you followed suit. He shouted “yes” with every thrust and in the end, as he buried himself deep inside of you and exploded, you let out the most earth-shattering scream.

“EDDIE!”

And then it was over.

The two of you collapsed in your heap of limbs, weak and limp, breathing heavily. You shivered, sweat on your skin rapidly cooling, but were too tired to grab the comforter from the foot of the bed.

Eddie pressed a kiss to the back of your head and you lifted his hand and did the same to it. Once again clinging to one another in this impossible scenario. You whispered words of love to each other, and vowed not to touch each other for a solid week.

Well, you told him he wasn’t allowed to touch you and Eddie, who was sure the skin on his cock had been rubbed off but was too afraid to check, happily obliged.

There was the rumble of a car pulling up outside of the trailer, then a door closing, and distantly, the sound of Wayne’s footsteps out in the living room.

“He better not come in here,” you muttered. “I swear to god.”

Eddie was sure that he wouldn’t, but he begged the Gods, the Writer, and any powers that be to keep his uncle as far from the room as possible.

He pulled himself out of you and you shivered again, undoubtedly feeling his spend follow suit.

“We should shower,” he suggested.

“Mmmm, too tired.”

“I thought I was the gross one.”

“Ugh…fine.”

Eddie whispered words of reassurance, then lifted his head and surveyed the mess of his room. He flopped back down and groaned.

“It would be cool of the Writer to clean this up for us, though.”

You huffed a laugh and then moaned at the soreness that permeated your body.

“Don’t…don’t make jokes.”

“It is pretty funny though.”

“Eddie.”

“Sorry.”

Next Chapter: 5 Times COMING SOON

"I think that's exactly what I'm hoping it does," you told him honestly before taking a swig.

"Well if you find out," he laid back with his arms folded behind his head. "Be sure to share with the class."

You rolled your eyes at him and then kept up with your pity party.

To add to the list of things you didn't know: Sawyer was also one of them.

He was a shithead of the first degree, dangerous, shifty, rude, selfish, suspicious...and somehow the only person you consistently talked to here on the island.

You'd actually been sitting next to him on Flight 815; he'd been a little salty but nice enough to let you have the arm rests, even asked if you were alright when the turbulence began and you began panicking.

For all the years that you'd been driving around the states, you'd never been on a plane before; you thought it was karma that some Writer would not only put you on the longest flight in existence for your first go, and then a plane crash for your second.

But you appreciated Sawyer's compassion, and the subsequent companionship that he shared with you. The care. The protection. The no-strings-attached, no-questions-asked nature of your relationship.

"You have a boyfriend back home kid?" he asked abruptly.

Spoke too soon.

"Loaded question," you snorted, thinking back to the many loves you'd had throughout this strange life you lived.

"Always the bridesmaid?"

"Something like that." You kicked his leg. "What about you?"

"Married to my work, sweet pea," he grinned, eyes still closed. He must've heard you roll your eyes at him. "I'm sure you're curious about why I'm asking."

"The question crossed my mind, if you'd like to share with the class," you parroted his words.

"Might've heard through the grapevine that someone has a little crush on you."

"Hmmm." You hoped the judgment and distaste was clear.

"Figure it was my duty as your unofficial big brother to scare them away before they started sniffing too close. 'specially if you had someone back home waiting for you."

"Well, no one's waiting," you huffed a breath. "But that doesn't mean I'm interested in a weird beach hookup either."

"I figured. I'll tell 'em to scram."

"Please don't be rude about it."

His eyes popped open and he pressed a hand to his chest.

"Now when have I ever been rude?" You kicked him again. "Alright, I'll be nice."

"Thank you."

There were a few beats of silence, filled with the crackle of the fire and the roar of waves just a few yards away.

"What are you looking for then?" Sawyer's voice broke through. "If it's not sex or love or whatever. What's got you looking so deep into that fire for?"

"I think..." You took a second, because all of those things were nice. But what did you want? What did you really want?

You inhaled deeply and then turned your gaze back to him with the hint of a smile.

"I think I just need a friend."

October 1985

You know what really sucked for Eddie about this whole fanfiction predicament?

The absolute unpredictability of it.

Just as you'd explained to him, he actually felt like he was playing a constant game of DnD. The only problem--well, one of many problems, actually--was that the Dungeon Master had no plans, didn't know what they were doing, and was making it all up as they went.

Which is why he suddenly found himself back in time once again, practically at the beginning of the school year, after a shitty, hot October day where everything that could've gone wrong did.

"It's almost like this Writer hates my guts or something," he grumbled as he sifted through the disarray in his locker. "Making me repeat my repeat-repeat-senior year over and over again."

He let the irritation fester within him all day until the end of the day so he could complain to you--and you'd hopefully agree to some under-the-shirt-over-the-bra action on his couch as consolation--only to find your trailer dark and your car missing by the time he got home.

"Great, just great," he grumbled and trudged inside.

For the rest of the night, he did what he always did when he was looking for comfort.

Pizza, Television, Recorded Reruns of Port Geneva.

He sat on the floor, worked on his homework, and munched on his large extra-pepperoni for hours, as you and Sam and Bonnie had your misadventures. A little voice in the back of his head urged him to just get up and try calling you whenever he hit the pause button to complain, but he ignored it and instead kept on complaining.

About school, about life, about himself. About never amounting to anything. It was very reminiscent of all the other "talks" he had with you...both the you on the screen and eventually the you in real life.

What he wouldn't give to just have you here right now to talk to, instead of this old habit that he thought he'd outgrown upon your appearance in Hawkins and the beginning of this unending hellscape.

He looked down at himself, at the homework and the pizza, and stopped to ask, "what the fuck am I doing?"

Was he really so pathetic that he couldn't control himself until you could be there? Or Wayne? Or any of his other friends? Had the turning back of the calendar just regressed him into the pathetic person he was before all of this started? Before you set foot into Hawkins?

Eddie got to his feet and hit the eject button on the VCR, fully intending to call it a night, when there was a crash outside.

Crashes in Forest Hills weren't abnormal--someone backing into trash cans, losing traction on the icy roads in the winter, and the one time Mrs. Dawson kicked her husband out and threw all of his things out the window--but it was something he'd just gotten used to.

This crash, however, started a ruckus. Again.

"Weird," he scoffed at the yelling and the dog across the way barking.

But who was he to pass up some good old Midwestern entertainment? Especially after the most lackluster night?

He grabbed his cigarettes from the bowl of junk on the coffee table, slid the box of leftover pizza into the fridge, and stepped outside to get a prime spot on the old couch on the porch to smoke and watch the scene unfold.

He'd just gotten that first drag of his cigarette and really took in the sights when it all made sense.

Or rather, it actually didn't make any sense.

Because he remembered the Mayfields on their porch yelling at the driver and Mrs. Mayfield threatening to call the police. He recognized that powder blue Volkswagen Beetle and the accompanying license plate. He knew, on instinct, exactly when the driver's door opened and the sneakered foot stepped out.

And then there you were. Looking around and begging the Mayfields not to call the cops, making a deal to pay for the damages.

The weirdest thing was that, even though his mind raced to put the pieces together, his heart ached with all of the emotions that he'd been through the first time he'd lived this night when you'd crashed into Hawkins from your adventures across the fictional universe.

But instead of muttering that it was all a dream like he remembered himself saying, he repeated "what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck" over again until you glanced over at him with an apologetic gaze that he recognized even from that distance.

All at once, he felt the calm wash over him. That's all he needed from you, one look, and everything began to feel worlds better.

"Jesus H. Christ," he sighed and ran a hand through his hair in relief.

Eddie watched for a few moments longer as you wrapped up your conversation with the Mayfields, and he would've made the attempt to approach you once you wandered back to your car, if he didn't feel the puppet strings of the Writer and their words rest on the tip of his tongue, waiting for him to speak them.

So he played the part, as he had gotten used to doing, and jumped to his feet.

"Hey!" He called out to you. "Uh...I...know my way around cars, I can take a look at it in the morning. I-if you want. Bang out any dents."

"Seriously? Can you?" you scrunched your nose in the way that made his knees shake. The Writer didn't need to make him do that; even after a few months, he was still pathetic for you. "That'd be nice, thanks."

"Yeah no problem," he smiled the friendliest and most welcoming smile he could muster, and then went back inside as your car trudged across the trailer park.

Your door was unlocked when he ventured to your place in the middle of the night.

The Writer, unfortunately--or maybe thankfully--still gave him as many nerves and as much restlessness as he had the first night you were in Hawkins. Or maybe he was just nervous and restless wondering just what new hell there was in store for the two of you? Still he couldn't sleep, so instead of wait for the morning, he just made his way over to discuss it with you now.

He found you sitting atop your bedroll on the blue plaid sofa in your living room.

"Hey Cigarette Porch guy," you greeted him tiredly, reciting the words you originally greeted him with.

"Cigarette porch guy is my father," he didn't hesitate to recall, the moment the two of you officially met fondly etched into his memory forever. "You can just call me Eddie."

You share a smile and then pat the spot beside you on the couch.

"I'd offer you a drink, but uh...seems like I'm starting over again," you sighed. "Unless I can interest you in some good old Indiana tap water."

He shook his head, then closed the distance and dropped beside you.

"So what are we in for this time?" he asked. "I thought I was just in for another shitty day."

"Well," you paused and held your breath, then you grabbed his hand and squeezed. "I woke up in a motel room I didn't recognize and then felt the urge to get in my car and just drive. I felt...excited to go to a new place; I think I even said it out loud. 'I'm so excited.' But inside I was worried that I'd moved onto another world and left you behind."

It was like a pit opened in his stomach; he'd considered it before, your eventual departure. He'd come to believe that you would move onto your next life after some event--a death, a breakup, maybe some happily ever after after 50 years together, if he was lucky. But to lose you without any kind of warning?

"Shit," he pulled you into his arms and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. For your comfort and his own. "I'm sorry sweetheart."

"It's ok," came the weak chuckle as you leaned into his embrace and nuzzled your nose into his t-shirt. "It's ok, we're just...starting over. The Writer is starting the story over; starting over is good sometimes. Maybe they figured out what they were going to do with us, instead of just play with us like little dolls in a dollhouse."

"Well, I'm an expert in starting over so..." he cracked a joke. "I was just thinking that earlier today, actually."

"Oh yeah?"

"Well, if it's October again, it means I'm doing senior year for the...what is it...third-and-a-half time?"

You snorted and weakly slapped a hand to his chest, "well how dare they make you experience that fresh hell one more time."

"I guess if we're starting over, that means you can help me figure out how to pass my Civics quiz again," he recalled your first date. Study date.

You shot out of his embrace and grabbed his face in your hands, smushing his cheeks as you grinned, the somber tone in the living room finally dissipating.

"But that's the best part of rewrites," you explained. "You get to live all the best memories with people over again."

You told him about rewrites that you'd been through; stories that generally didn't change and some that changed drastically. He liked hearing the fondness of your voice when you talked about getting to meet so-and-so for the first time again, holding someone's hand, first dates.

"First kisses?" he asked through his still-smooshed lips.

"That's one of the best parts of rewrites," you winked and pecked a kiss against his mouth. Then again and again, until the two of you were smooching all over each other comically like Gomez and Morticia, giggling all the while.

And when it was time to say goodbye, both of you ready to say "hello" for the second first time.

"Hey," you greeted, somewhat out of breath when Eddie opened the door. It was a familiar sight: backpack slung over your shoulder, 6-pack of sodas dangling from your fingers, looking as gorgeous as you always did or at least he thought so. "Sorry if I'm late."

"No," he shook his head quickly and shifted to the side to let you pass into the trailer. "Right on time sweetheart. Hope you like pepperoni."

Of course you did. It was your favorite.

"It's my favorite."

He still felt the strong sense of triumph from knowing what your favorites were, even though the nerves of being around you for the first time had dissipated.

There was another kind of excitement now as you bit your lip and winked at him stealthily and made your way inside to get settled in the living room. Of course you knew he knew that pepperoni was your favorite. What the Writer didn't know was that pepperoni wasn't your only favorite, and they didn't know that he'd gotten half-pep, half-mushroom to surprise you.

How would they? He hadn't felt them as he'd called Pizzeria Uno, just those lurking strings leading him to the door once the pizza arrived.

The past few days had gone like this, where the Writer would control some aspect of your lives, and the two of you would test what the boundaries of this fanfiction were. It was a trick of yours, to feel some semblance of control in an uncontrollable situation, especially as things became out of character or too drawn out.

When the Writer seemed to be writing too much exposition about one thing or another, the two of you sat frozen in time. No talking, no movement as the world around you seemed to shift and morph at the will of your would-be-deity.

You'd silently challenged him to a staring contest over breakfast at Benny's as a water stain in the corner of the ceiling got bigger and dingier and became more of an eyesore.

Had Eddie really never noticed it or was the Writer just obsessed with it?

It was happening right now as his attention was drawn to the enticing softness of the sweater you had on...each piece of yarn knitted and woven together with such care, his hand twitched as though he wanted to reach out and...

"So..." you cleared your throat. "Homework?"

"Yeah," he agreed, shaking himself out of his story-induced stupor. "Lemme put those pops in the fridge so they get cold first. Dr. Pep--Mr. Pibb?" He scoffed at the unexpected label, a laugh dead in his throat.

"Wh...do you...I thought you liked Dr. Pepper," he questioned.

"Why would you think that?"

"Be...because you got Dr. Pepper at Benny's!"

"If I don't have a choice, yeah Dr. Pepper is fine. But Mr. Pibb is my favorite," you laughed and shook your head in amused disbelief. "There's nothing like a slice of pepperoni and an ice cold Mr. Pibb."

Eddie was sure that there were no strings pulling him this way or that, and based on your body language, it didn't seem like the Writer was doing anything to you either. He racked his brain for a moment, trying to come up with any little tidbit that could prove some outside interference.

But then he realized...had The Writer noticed something about you that he hadn't?

Had he, Eddie Munson, number one fan of Port Geneva's--and you--not noticed that your favorite soda was Mr. Pibb?

Then a thought that didn’t really seem to be his echoed in his head.

What if he actually didn’t know anything about you?

No.

That was impossible.

He refused to believe it. It had to be the Writer who was manipulating things. Right?

He looked at the Mr. Pibb for a moment, then back up at you.

"So, uh," he hesitantly backed out of the living room to head to the kitchen. "Anything else shocking and unbelievable that I need to know about you? If we're gonna be neighbors...or friends...or whatever."

"Or whatever," you giggled, scrunching your nose, then pulled his notebook off the coffee table to distract yourself as you continued nervously. "Uh, ok let's see...I don't think there's anything too shocking and unbelievable that I hadn't told you at breakfast the other day. I'm from Port Geneva, I've been driving around for a while, I like to draw."

You flipped through a few pages in his notebook and then paused and pointed to the doodles in the margins of the page.

"And by the looks of this, so do you," you grinned. "These are cool."

"Cool?" he scoffed. "That...I was supposed to take notes for class and I ended up doodling for Hellfire Club the whole time. Ahem...Hellfire Club...my Dungeons and Dragons club at school."

"Oh yeah?"

"Planning a one-shot for my buddy Jeff's birthday in a world where Theodred doesn't die and goes on to become...well...it's just nerd stuff. You're not interested in any of that. Besides, we're supposed to be talking about you."

"Actually," you looked at him expectantly, "we're supposed to talk about your history quiz. But while we're on the topic of me, and history, and these nerd things in your notebook, I guess one shocking and unbelievable thing about me is that I'm actually a nerd too. I happen to like Tolkien."

It was his turn to shoot you a mocking "oh yeah?"

You rolled your eyes at him and then put his notebook down on the table, then held out your hand as though you desired a handshake. As soon as his palm touched yours, you introduced yourself.

"I actually like Tolkien. My mom got me a copy of the Silmarillion for my sixteenth birthday and if I could go anywhere in any universe, I'd like to see Middle Earth from the tippy top of Erebor. And I used to say that I'd settle for the grand canyon, but I've already been there. So I will accept nothing less than Erebor itself. Now you."

You continued to shake his hand as he spoke.

"I'm Eddie Munson. The first time I read the Hobbit, my dad had dropped me off at the library and someone had misplaced it in the Kids section. And I've tried to get my band to play a rendition of Misty Mountains before, but we can't agree on whether or not there should be a harp in it. If we could even find a harp in Indiana like Thorin's."

There was a sparkle in your eye as you began to say "actually I have a funny story about Thorin and his harp," when you froze.

Eddie watched you and got increasingly worried as you fought some kind of internal battle just behind your eyes. He could see the little changes in your expression, from joyful to nervous to angry, and he reached out to rest his hand on yours and let you know that he was right there.

That it would be alright.

"Why don't," you finally spat out forcefully, slightly out of breath, "why don't we try this? We study a little bit at a time, and as we go, we share a new fact about each other? That way by the end of the night, you'll be ready for the quiz, and we'll be good...friends?"

There was something biting about the word friends, almost like you didn't want to say it.

Honestly, it stung him a little to hear it.

Friends.

Weren't you two supposed to fall in love? Hadn't that been what this fanfiction was in the first place? That this Writer shipped you two together? And shit, even though he knew that he could kiss you once the Writer relinquished control, he was kind of looking forward to having this first date all over again, just like you'd discussed.

But now everything was turning out differently.

Not bad, just different.

It was your turn to turn your hand in his and squeeze, then you asked "how does that sound Eddie? Friends?"

His eyes darted between yours, and he felt the pressure build, the pressure to agree and say yes, as thoughts that the Writer put into his head flew through him at light speed.

"Yeah," he finally spoke. "Friends sounds good."

And friends it was...until it wasn't anymore.

You and Eddie seemed to do all of the things that you did before. Study sessions and Saturdays spent together watching movies and putzing around town until it was time for you to go to work.

Only instead of holding hands and smooching and all of the things that really punctuated the romance in a relationship...there were just awkward, forlorn glances and tingles along your skin when your fingers happened to touch.

God damn, he hadn't had this kind of crush since he was in middle school. The last serious crush he had besides that...was on you.

And it was weird to physically feel all of the effects of a crush on you, thanks to the Writer, while mentally being frustrated knowing that dates and kisses and everything were just around the corner. If only the two of you would be allowed to get over that hurdle.

"It's called a slow burn," you laughed one night when he complained to you on the phone, away from the watchful eye of the Writer. You seemed to be taking the glass-half-full approach, where Eddie just missed you so goddamn much. "And I guess the Writer is really letting us simmer."

"I'm gonna melt if they don't let us be together soon." Eddie complained, semi-seriously, basking in your laughter. "Call me Eddie Mun-stew."

"They've got us in a crock pot," you entertained his joke.

"8 chapters on low," he grinned. "Like Uncle Wayne's famous chili. I just want to kiss you, is that such a crime?"

"Apparently it is."

"What if I've forgotten how to kiss?"

"I sincerely doubt that you have. I'm more worried that the Writer will make it a bad first kiss."

"Like if we bonk heads and I break your nose or something?"

"Oh god, let's not give them any ideas," you groaned. "Look, whenever they decide it'll happen, it will. And it's gonna be great."

"Maybe they won't let me make you think I'm a virgin this time."

"You have to admit, that was hilarious."

"It was not!"

Your only response, which caused him to hang up on you, was to cackle loudly into the receiver.

But the Writer must've sensed the antsy energy between the two of you because it happened.

A first kiss. A second first kiss.

You were actually at the movies this time, instead of on Eddie's couch.

The Writer had given Eddie an incredibly long sequence where he and his pals from Hellfire practiced all of the moves he could have finally made on you now to let you know he might be interested.

First, there was the raising of the armrest between the two of you--exaggeratedly performed by Jeff, who played Eddie, and Eddie, who played you.

Next, there was the meeting of the fingers in the popcorn bucket. Gareth was able to do an uncanny impression of Eddie's "don't take all the milk duds" and the awkward laugh he made as the blush dusted his cheeks.

Then there was the old yawn and stretch, which wasn't awkward at all to have Dave do to him.

"Have you ever done this to someone before?" Eddie snarked, as Dave practically squeezed him against his side. It had been more of a grab than a casual drape of his arm around Eddie's back.

Needless to say, his own execution of the move was a lot smoother.

"And then you just kiss her," his friends said in tandem.

"Gee thanks," Eddie scoffed at them, "I know how to kiss a girl, you shitheads."

Except when it came down to it, he was nervous. Hadn't you told him that the best part of rewrites was having those firsts again? What if it was terrible? What if he actually did break your nose?

"Eddie, are you shaking?" you leaned away from him and looked at him worriedly. "What's wrong?"

Shit, had he been shaking?

"This movie is just," he cleared his throat and glanced up at the screen; thank god he chose something spooky for Halloween. "Really scary."

"Oh...kay," you narrowed your eyes in suspicion, but sat back in your seat.

Then you leaned into him a little more.

And glanced up at him from beneath your lashes.

And he couldn't help but lean a little closer, and duck his head, until his breath was fanning against your cheeks.

Until you inched closer and closer.

And your lips brushed.

Damn, this Writer must've been a hopeless romantic because the kiss was everything they said a first kiss should be. Sunshine and rainbows and birds singing and rockets red glare fireworks at the soft press of your lips on his.

It was here that Eddie realized how much he'd missed kissing you, like...really missed kissing you. You'd taken the task of this rewrite a little too seriously, worried that in some way it might inspire the Writer...or possibly even mess with their inspiration.

The two of you were here now, though, and finally all of that waiting had paid off.

So of course you took advantage of it.

Actually, you were a little more eager than Eddie even was, because your hands were on him immediately. One hand found his waist and the other on his jaw, thumb softly caressing his stubbly skin as your lips pressed together. He liked the firmness of your lips, he liked the way you'd waited for him to make the move before taking what you both eagerly wanted.

Writer be damned.

Eddie pulled you closer, using the arm hooked around your shoulders as leverage, and then tried to use the other hand to hike one of your legs over his--you couldn't be close enough--but the damned popcorn bucket got in the way.

He pulled his lips away from yours for a moment to glance down at the obstacle, basking in the little whine you made at the loss of contact.

In fact, you both looked down at the popcorn, and then at the screen, then at each other.

And you both must've decided that "fuck it" was the correct response, because soon the popcorn bucket was on the floor and you were giggling into each other's mouths as you melded back into one writing mass of limbs and kisses and caresses.

It was a joy to be reunited like this; there were some moments that Eddie was eager to move his hand this way or that way, but he felt the strings of the Writer pull him some other way. His own signature moves foregone in favor of something that they thought would be better. Fingers inched under clothing and into hair, lips chased down the column of a neck, and a leg was hitched over a hip until you were practically grinding on each other for all the world to see.

Suddenly a light was shined on you and you both froze, then jumped apart in shock. Your shoulders heaved and you turned towards the source of the light.

"Hey!" An usher shouted from the end of the row, getting the attention of the whole theater as they turned in their seats to stare at the two of you with your kiss-bruised lips and disheveled clothes. "Knock it off."

"Sorry," you apologized in tandem and shrunk back into your seats.

In fact, the usher waited until the armrest was securely back in place between the two of you before he left.

Once he was gone, though, you snickered and slyly lifted the armrest so you could cuddle back together.

"It's good to be back," Eddie whispered and pressed a kiss to the side of your head.

"Ok," you took a breath in and stared at the bed. "So...how do we start?"

Eddie looked at you incredulously and then scoffed.

"You're asking me?" He chuckled and ran a hand into his hair.

"Yeah, I'm asking you," you nodded sincerely and then you gestured up towards the ceiling. "Because clearly they don't know."

You'd been making out on the couch when you'd both decided to take it to the bedroom. But when you got there, things seemed to fizzle out, and now you were just waiting for the Writer's next move.

Actually, the two of you had been waiting for that to happen for a little while. Not that either of you could complain. All of the little scenes that had been written developed your relationship into something worth a story being told about it--dates and cuddling and kissing.

Better than some of the bullshit that the Writer had previously pulled. No bouts of interference or jealousy from Steve Harrington or Chrissy Cunningham. It seemed like a normal relationship, and everything the two of you wanted.

There was still the underlying disbelief and mystery that surrounded you, Eddie's favorite character from Port Geneva, actually being in Hawkins, but in reality the two of you knew that whatever the Writer had planned would truly be a drop in the water when it came to what was actually happening to you.

You'd take this love story while you could get it.

However, the one hurdle that you couldn't seem to get over...was sex.

Well, the two of you could certainly get over it.

It was the Writer that couldn't.

And the cockblocking was getting old.

Making out on the couch, Wayne walked in unexpectedly and ruined the mood. Someone knocked on the back of the van when the two of you were getting hot and heavy parked up at the quarry.

Shit, even phone sex was ruined.

The Writer seemed to be attuned to the two of you now and anytime there was any hint of an arousal to be had, they would be there to effectively crush it.

"Maybe they're just a bad writer?" Eddie shouted upwards, throwing two middle fingers into the air, as though The Writer would know.

"Alright, let's not get too heated," you chuckled and grabbed his arms to pull them back down. "It's probably not as easy as we think it is."

"The dick goes in," Eddie pouted. You stared at him with some sense of disbelief. He was quick to recover it with "and other things happen. I know how to warm a girl up. They should just let us get to it, then it would be easy to put it on paper."

There was a spark of inspiration in your eye at that.

"Alright then, Mister know-it-all," you challenged him, "maybe we should put that logic to the test."

"W-what do you mean?" he questioned. "How?"

"Well, what would you do? How would we start?" you asked in return. "Actually...you admitted to writing a few little stories; have you ever written a sex scene about me?"

Eddie felt the heat build up in his cheeks and you grinned wickedly.

"Oh my god, you have."

"Shut up, ok?" He inhaled deeply, held, and then exhaled his response. "Ok yes but it was once and can you blame me?"

You cackled and did a little shimmy.

"You're smart and funny and gorgeous and I'm in love with you," he explained and then caught himself in shock. "Er, I mean, I..."

He fumbled over his words but your gaze got soft, and you leaned in to press your mouth to his.

It was all the reassurance he needed.

Then he got lost in you. Your lips, your taste, the feel of your hands on him, the feel of you beneath his hands. It was a sensory overload but it was a welcome one. To be surrounded by all of you? He couldn't have written it as well as it was to simply experience it.

That's how he felt about everything he'd experienced with you so far, though. Why should this be any different?

You tugged on his clothes and he tugged on yours. You fumbled to get onto the bed, chasing each other as you scrambled up towards the pillows; you refused to let each other's mouths stray too far though.

"You know," Eddie panted as he pulled away from you to pull his t-shirt over his head. "Maybe the Writer was onto something, though; I really like kissing you."

"Uh huh," you scoffed, your own shirt gone, and you fumbled with the buttons of your jeans. "Do you wanna stop then?"

"Fuck no," he responded and ducked his head to your bare stomach.

His fingers fought with yours on your waistband as he kissed up the softness of your belly, then the dip between your breasts, then up to your neck.

"You know I'm really good at giving hickeys," he muttered into the corner of your jaw. The words tumbled out of his mouth, almost like they weren't his. It took him to realize that they weren't actually his. They were The Writer's. Maybe this was working after all. "Like, really good."

"Put your money where your mouth is Munson," came your reply as your hand slipped into his waistband.

And it was such a strange sensation, maybe just for Eddie, maybe the both of you, when your hand wrapped around his cock and squeezed and he sucked on your pulse like his life depended on it.

Pleasure definitely, and maybe pain; a little mortification and a lot of confusion.

The crescendo of moans from the two of you that your brains said sounded like music but all your ears heard was utter filth. The difference between what the Writer demanded--what they wrote--and what the two of you experience.

And then you released each other, and looked into one another's eyes, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"What is this?" Eddie chuckled into your neck. "What are we doing?"

"I don't know," you mirrored him. Your free hand reached up and caressed his face, fingers brushing into his bangs. "But I wouldn't do this with anyone but you."

The rest of your clothes were shed, then, and more kisses were shared. You explored each other's bodies with hands and eyes and tongues. He liked the sounds you made when he licked his way down your body and finally got to taste you when he reached your core.

He vaguely wondered what it was the Writer was describing as he found the spots that made you moan and scream and shatter. Was it the heady taste of you? Or the weight of your thigh hiked over his shoulder? The feeling of your fingers in his hair? And then when things were reversed, when he sunk into you? What did you feel? Did you feel the weight of him on your body, the sweet affirmations he whispered into you, or the way your thighs pulled him closer? The need to have him in you and around you?

Did they write about the slow build of pleasure between you? The chase of it as he bucked into you and you pulled him deeper? Did they know the exact moment that your hands reached down to press into the spot where you connected?

What was it that a Writer experienced when the characters they wrote about shared those intimate moments together? Did they feel their own sense of lust at the thought of bodies melding into one another? Did they feel a sense of shame or intrusion?

Or maybe they felt left out? That this love, this experience, would never really happen to them? Maybe it was just some facsimile with their own partner? Or could this only ever experienced secondhand through words written on a page, never to truly be had on their own?

Eddie paused and looked down at you--at the scrunch of your eyes as you touched yourself, as you touched him, and moaned his name--and he did his best to banish the Writer from his mind.

From this room.

Because this truly was something that should only belong to you and Eddie.

Before everything faded to darkness, before whatever "scene" came to a close, you reached your peaks together.

Because strings or no strings, whether the writer existed or not, whether this was real or fanfiction, it was just the two of you.

You and Eddie.

Together.

"I love you."

Next Chapter: Lemon

He'd intended to find you after the show, but you had the guts to come and find them first. To tell them you'd been a fan of theirs after seeing them at the state fair last year.

Then one thing led to another...

It was wild, what coincidences and experiences his rising fame brought to him, especially in a dinky town like Port Geneva.

"It's not that dinky," you laughed. You were curled on your side, hand tucked under your head, staring at him like he’d just hung the stars. Maybe he had; he’d made you scream, after all.

A feat he was pretty proud of, actually.

“I’d never even heard of this place before coming here,” he scoffed in return. "Couldn't even tell you what state we're in."

You hummed, “it's funny how you'd never heard of this town but you recognized me.”

You'd brought it up more than once downstairs at the hotel bar. Disbelief that he knew your face when the whiskey had loosened his tongue enough to admit it. Almost to the point of self-deprecation.

“It’s just a job,” you explained. “It pays the bills. Makes relationships hard. But I have a little trinket shop in town. M'sure it’d be closed by now if I didn’t get those checks.”

And whatever stories he'd made up about you in his head before to convince himself it was ok to sort of be hopelessly in love with someone on the other side of his television screen were soon replaced with facts about the real you.

The reality of this situation made him, in contrast, feel almost too embarrassed by himself and his so-called fame. You, happy to stay here unknown, and him, riding his rising star all the way to the top if he could.

There was a long way to go.

”Well I’m surprised you’d heard of us,” Eddie scoffed. “We’ve only had one or two singles on the radio. We don’t even sell out our shows.”

“You will.”

“You have a lot of faith in us.”

“You don’t?”

“I feel like we’d do better if I still sold weed at the merch table before our gigs.” He smiled as you laughed, genuine joy radiating in his heart to see it.

“That’d get people in the door,” you agreed. You poked his cheek. "I forgot to get a t-shirt, by the way. Was too busy chasing after you like some hopeless fangirl to stop."

This was how it’d been all night. Nothing like he expected.

None of it was, actually.

It had been a whirlwind and he knew he wasn't the only one who felt like that. One day they were managing their own shit, going from state fair to state fair on their real first "tour." Then they had music on the radio and a manager and were on their way to making their first album...eventually.

Albums don't make money, Phil had said, shocking them all when Eddie had asked about it. Touring does.

They'd been offered uppers when they were tired, downers when they got too riled up. There was more money thrown around than any of them had seen their whole lives. And then there was a stern discussion where they had to decide what their future looked like and if they were in it for the long run.

They were just a bunch of guys in their 20s...and they had to decide their whole future right now.

But tonight's show was the first where he actually felt in command of the stage and not just like he was playing pretend.

He and his friends finally got their dream.

People knew them, knew their music, some people even sang along.

You hadn't even been the only one to approach them after the show.

Did they even deserve it?

"I'm just a guy from Hawkins," he whispered to you. "Waiting to wake up from this dream or for them to send me back."

Or something else. There was a lingering feeling that there was just something else waiting for the penny to drop.

Eddie continued spilling his soul to you, in hushed whispers across the pillows, about his hopes and fears, and before he could get to a point where he was certain he was about to cry...you crossed the distance and pressed a kiss to his lips.

It could have been a shut up, you talk too much kind of kiss, but there was something so soothing about it, about the way you caressed his cheek and dropped tiny pecks against his mouth when all was said and done. Two kindred spirits, finding their way to each other in a mess of uncertainty.

"The future is scary," you told him. "But you have to be ok with the choices that you make."

"Do you have any regrets?" he asked.

"Maybe. But then I wouldn't have gotten to meet you." You looked bashful for a second and then rubbed a hand over your face. "Yeah. The rockstar and the pornstar...definitely power couple material."

"We could be. They could write stories about us one day."

"Eddie, it's a one-night stand."

"Doesn't have to be."

"And who is this they you speak of."

"Our adoring fans."

"Uh huh." You snorted. "You have to buy me dinner first before we have some epic love story worthy of stories written about us."

Eddie just smiled.

"It's a little weird," you admitted. "Thinking of your life like a story, instead of things that just happened to you."

"So I shouldn't plan a date night for us where we watch a few episodes of Port Geneva..."

You looked at him like he'd grown a second head and then threw your hands up in the air.

There was another knock and he turned on his heel and rushed for the door.

He paused at the last second--glanced around, ran his hands over the front of his t-shirt, and put the most casual smile on his face--before he opened the door.

And then there you were.

A backpack slung over your shoulder, 6-pack of Dr. Pepper hanging from your fingers, looking...hot effortlessly gorgeous...or at least he thought so.

"Hey," you greeted. "Sorry if I'm late."

"No," he shook his head quickly and shifted to the side to let you pass into the trailer. "Right on time sweetheart. Hope you like pepperoni."

Of course you did. It was your favorite.

"It's my favorite."

Eddie clenched his fist in victory as he shut the door and then stood back and watched indulgently as you took in the wonders of the place he called home. He committed it all to memory; the way your eyes lingered on Wayne's collection of mugs and hats from over the years, or your nose scrunched up cutely at the sight of family pictures on a shelf--

Please god, don't see the picture of him missing his two front teeth.

--or the way it scrunched further, more in annoyance than fondness, and your eyebrow quirked at the stack of video tapes beside the television.

Shit.

"Uh," he cleared his throat and swooped in, arm hovering around your shoulders as he led you to the couch where the pizza and his history homework waited. His hand drifted to yours so he could grab the sodas. "Lemme put this in the fridge so it gets cold. I have Mountain Dew...or beer, if you want one."

"Mountain Dew's fine."

"As you wish," he bowed and you giggled. He cursed himself as he headed to the kitchen.

What a fucking nerd--

"So you read the Princess Bride?" you called out to him.

"Y-yes."

"It's one of my favorite books! A story within a story and all of that. And it can be critical of itself. It's perfect!"

Eddie's heart soared.

The two of you went back and forth for a few minutes discussing the merits of the book and the way it provided so much suspense and adventure and escapism; something it seemed, and Eddie wasn't surprised to find, you both had needed throughout your relatively-young lives.

Before long, he shuffled out of the kitchen with two cans and two solo cups to find you comfortably settled on the couch with your legs criss-crossed and a throw pillow settled in your lap. You looked right at home, at ease with him, and he had to say...he liked that sight quite a bit.

"I ran out of like, nice cups," he changed the subject so he wouldn't focus too much on how much he enjoyed the sight. "Hope this is okay."

"Ok, well what are the nice cups?" you narrowed your eyes at him playfully. "Because I see plenty of nice cups right in front of us, Mister."

You gestured at the shelves lined with mugs and Eddie couldn't help but roll his eyes at you.

"Those aren't nice cups Madam," he scoffed. "Those are family heirlooms. The nice cups are the Star Wars: Return of the Jedi glasses I got from Burger King. Obviously."

"Well excuse me," you straightened in your seat and rocked your shoulders back and forth haughtily. "The fine crystal."

"And don't you forget it."

"And here you are, presenting me with...plastic. Like a peasant."

"If you don't stop, we're gonna have a problem."

He held out the red solo cup filled with fluorescent green liquid and you snatched it from him with a quick flash of your tongue.

Then the two of you got right down to business: homework.

You pulled a small notebook from your backpack and then asked to see his notes from class so you could help him get a better idea of what was important for an upcoming quiz that he'd mentioned the day prior. He was ashamed to say he wasn't the best notetaker, but you pivoted easily as you flipped through a few pages and went from sparse notes about Civics and the US Constitution to long drawn out paragraphs about the Riders of Rohan and graphic descriptions of the Meduseld.

"Don't be like that," you scolded him. "That's not even true. What is this?"

"This?" He waved dismissively. "It's just...notes for Hellfire. Ahem...Hellfire Club...my Dungeons and Dragons club at school."

"Oh yeah?"

"Planning a one-shot for my buddy Jeff's birthday in a world where Theodred doesn't die and goes on to become...well...it's just nerd stuff."

Eddie sniffed and thought back to the many times that he'd been cut short trying to explain his ideas to others; even Ronnie got on his case when he got too into it.

How many times had she heard him get into an argument with himself over the benefits of Mithril vs. Adamantium?

"Excuse me," you looked at him expectantly, breaking through his thoughts. "Nerd stuff?"

"Yeah," he shrugged and let out a self-deprecating laugh. "Nerd stuff. We're supposed to be focusing on History."

"Ok, yes but..." you reached out and poked him in the the dimple in his cheek. "You didn't say in a 'we should just focus on history instead' way. You said it in a 'you don't want to hear about this' way."

"Well do you? Do you actually like that?""

"Did I not just tell you that Inigo Montoya is the real hero of Princess Bride and not Westley or Buttercup not five minutes ago?"

Eddie stared at you like a deer in the headlights.

Ok. You got him there.

But...but...God...old habits died hard.

How many times had people not given him the time of day when it came to silly little stories and make believe worlds? How many times had the people closest to him not even taken the time to listen?

He'd already been sold on the fact that you weren't just a dream; how could you be real and actually be his dream girl too?

God, it was too good to be true.

Eddie swallowed hard and centered himself back in reality. He was gonna have to salvage this moment before he made a real fool out of himself and asked you to marry him or something. That would be a little too strong for a first date...and a study date, at that.

He grumbled something under his breath.

"'Scuse me? What was that?" you leaned in closer to him.

"It was 10 minutes ago," he spoke up, staring at you matter-of-factly, a fiery challenge in his eyes to hide the fact that he was actively falling for you. "Actually."

You threw your head back in a laugh and slapped the back of your hand against his shoulder.

"You shithead," you cackled. "Ok fine. 10 minutes. Now. How about we actually study for 10 more minutes, and then you can tell me about this...Dungeons and Dragons while we eat ok?"

He happily agreed.

Towards the end of the night, pizza and sodas had been devoured, homework demolished, and Eddie actually felt like he had a shot at getting a decent grade on his next History quiz.

"Alright," he sighed and leaned against the back of the couch. "I think we're done here. A success if I do say so myself. I guess I'll keep you around."

"Keep me?" you quirked an eyebrow at him. "Uh huh, more like, will you please come back and help me study again?"

"Are..." Eddie scoffed. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

"You volunteered!"

"I volunteered for one study date."

"What, so a second one is out of the question?" he asked as he leaned forward and edged into your space.

"Well," you began with an expression that oozed contemplation in an exaggerated fashion. God, you were almost as dramatic as he was.

You were perfect.

"Well, if you're asking me for a second date, Edward? Then the answer is yes."

He clapped his hands together and laughed.

"Haha, see I knew that you couldn't get enough of--"

"But," you stopped him, and he stared, open-mouthed with words half-falling from his lips. "If you're asking me to come back to study? Well, then the second session is gonna cost you."

And he fell for it for a second. Just a split second. He thought that yeah it made sense if he wanted your help, he was gonna have to give something in return.

But then he saw the sly little smile that you were fighting to keep off your lips, saw the adorable little scrunch in your nose that he'd memorized earlier in the night, and the way your fingers fiddled on the couch cushion, as you slowly inched closer to him.

And he understood.

Oh...

"Oh yeah?" He narrowed his eyes at you in faux-suspicion. "Alright...name your price."

"It's not gonna be cheap," you insisted.

"I can pay anything."

"You sure about that?"

"Oh," he leaned closer to you now, volume and timber getting lower the closer he got. "I'm absolutely sure sweetheart."

You bit your lip slyly.

"I think fair market price...is a kiss."

"Just one?" he teased, lips absolutely within smooching distance from yours now.

"Maybe two."

You bit your lip to keep your smile at bay and Eddie had to stop himself from kissing you right then and there.

"Two?! Well," he sighed. "You drive a hard bargain. And who am I to pass up such a once-in-a-lifetime deal?"

"Just a nerd," you whispered against his lips.

"Just a nerd," he repeated, and then slotted his lips right against yours, ending your perfect first date with the perfect first kiss.