A/N: We’ve been waiting all season for him and we finally got fed lol. Nothing big but just thought this would be a fun and fluff filled thing to ease back into after my little hiatus.
Synopsis: Jack makes jokes about his time in therapy…little do you know you’re a huge part of the process.
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“Jack Timothy Abbot,” you huff, throwing the curtain back just as he’s tying the strings to his dark scrubs.
He peers up at you, alert before relaxing his features, standing up straight, feet a part but clasped his hands together, ready to take you on.
Yanking the curtains behind you after taking a few seconds to trail your eyes all over his frame, you finally step towards him.
“I’m fine—
He starts, already knowing he’s been caught, (whether by Mohan, Robby, or Dana ratting him out was to later be determined) especially if you’re up here instead of being down at the lab but you only scowl at him.
Jack catches your hands shaking as they raise—he’s been trained to be observant even when it comes to you—before they grip onto his shoulders. You firmly squeeze as your hands go, warm fingertips greeting his bare freckled skin underneath the short sleeve t-shirt, as if you’re silently telling yourself that he’s still here, in your hands.
“Hey,” Jack tries to find your eyes, his head dipping, “I promise you, I’m okay.”
“You’re not,” you fire back, “You wouldn’t keep doing this on this particular day if you were.” You deeply exhale before flicking your gaze up to his, “I’m not here to hash out what we agree to disagree on. I’m here because I needed to see that you’re in one piece.”
Jack blinks, already knowing how you feel about the risks he always took on July fourth, how it always amounted out to a level of anxiety that you were convinced you would end up with respiratory issues down the line. He was putting himself in harm’s way to feel connected to what he once was on the field. Yes he put himself there to assist but he didn’t have to. It’s what he chose and you could be mad about it all you wanted but Jack Abbot always tended to find new duties in something.
This became his “hobby” you liked to call it, he remembers telling his therapist your words for how you viewed this act. You’ve only been together for two years yet it felt like you knew it all. Saw Jack in a way that he wasn’t sure he wanted to be seen—good or bad. Regardless…It rubbed him the wrong way at the time and resulted in you going back your condo for the weekend instead. The point was kinda proven since the both of you knew that, if he ever got the call that the military needed his medical expertise? Jack would jump in a heartbeat, without a second thought.
It scared you shitless.
He knew it.
Part of him didn’t want to have you worry, however the soldier in him took an oath and would always honor that in anyway that he could.
You both battled it out countless of times in your two-year relationship.
Jack Abbot was forever set in his ways.
You weren’t trying to change that.
This was bigger than you but that didn’t mean the weight wasn’t heavy to bear.
So Jack sneaks his hands around your waist, pulling you to his chest, where your head fits right underneath his jaw. Your hands clasp behind his frame as you close your eyes, breathing him in.
Jack rubs at your back, letting the silence settle as much as it can behind this curtain, then he leans over, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his scruff lightly scratching until he mutters, “I guess this means we gotta find something new to get into before summer’s up.”
You snort, knowing what he’s getting at.
It’s been your thing, trying to find anything else to occupy Jack’s mind that didn’t include listening to police scanners when he couldn’t sleep. You knew not to ask too much about his therapy sessions because you understood privacy and letting the floor be open with whatever Jack wanted to share. He did let it be known over a meatless burnt dinner, that his therapist suggested he find some hobbies that didn’t stem from his past or his profession.
“I’ve got an idea.”
Jack rasps, “Anything but pickleball.”
He was so convinced that he wouldn’t like that sport. Said it reminded him too much of ping pong and he had a great-uncle that always forced him to play every Christmas growing up.
You laugh against him, “Hey, at least it’s not the same as top golf or being on the golf course. It might even be better!”
Jack gives you a flat look while you peek up at him, holding back another laugh.
~ Jack’s rating for Top Golf: 3/10 ~
The setting was nice. Good enough music. Classic American bar style food options that he didn’t mind paying for. The egg rolls? Delicious. Lively crowd—too lively that it resulted in a club getting flung towards your eye as you stepped up to swing. It landed. The steam that poured out of Jack when he witnessed that, could make the drunk twenty-something year old sober up enough to dig his own grave. A butterfly bandage to your brow and ice to the shiner underneath your eye were the simple care instructions.
To Jack? It was as if you lost your eye.
You’re the only one that can laugh about it now.
Jack always vowed that activity as a horror show and wanted you to swear off it too.
You may or may not have secretly went again a month later with McKay.
What Jack doesn’t know won’t hurt him!
~ Jack’s rating for the golf course: 1/10 ~
The up keep for the golf course was…very green, very neat and full of slopes. After almost flipping the golf cart trying to race Shen and his long-distance girlfriend you weren’t convinced even existed, Jack wanted the keys. The game it’s self was very focused, steady, quiet. You went on this double date back in the spring, where the pollen wasn’t as bad but windy enough to send the golf balls rolling wherever they wanted, and because Shen wouldn’t shut up about it, wanting you both to meet his girlfriend who came to visit from South Africa.
Jack found the whole activity boring to be honest.
And learned to hate it even more once a group of snobby men made their way by. They were obnoxious before back at the country club and Jack couldn’t understand why on earth Shen would have a membership here.
He whispered to Jack, who pulled his attention away from staring at you while you chatted along with John’s shy girlfriend, “My ex doesn’t know I still have access to this place because of her or…she just doesn’t care.”
Jack blinks at him, “I would…keep that to myself.”
“Oh trust me, I will…but you asked.” The dark haired man shrugged before taking a sip of his infused water, like it’s not a big deal and just men socializing.
“Forget I did.”
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“Wait…are you gonna keep me in suspense here or give me a hint on this idea?” Jack asked, pulling you by your hand, so you don’t open the curtains just yet.
Tilting your head to the side you pretend to think about it, “How about…Sip and paint self portraits of one another underneath the stars? Preferably…naked since it’s been a pretty hot July or…we play it safe. Choice is yours.”
A wink is sent his way as Jack clears his throat before rubbing at the back of his neck.
He murmurs, “That’s…creative.”
You smirk.
“Isn’t it?” You squeeze his hand, “And now that I’ve got you thinking about it, I’m gonna crush that masterpiece of an image in that active brain of yours because now? It’s not happening. I’m gonna wear that mustard yellow dress instead that you like so much while we paint. You know the one.”
Jack lets out a deep exhale, he knows exactly the one you’re talking about. How you wore it to a birthday party of a family members of his out in Delaware. The one with the stylish but flirty neckline that nearly had him parched.
His eyes tighten, “You wouldn’t.”
Your brows raise and Jack throws his head back in thought. A challenge with you actually needed to be studied. You didn’t like being tested and Jack…when it came to certain situations…always took the initiative when times called for it.
Why else do you think he only chose fast paced careers?
“Listen…we don’t have to do tit for tat.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” You quizzed.
Jack scoffs, “You’re trying to give me a little bit of payback for taking a bullet to the shoulder. I had the vest on. It’s just a bruise. I’m still here, loving you even when you’re trying to teach me a cruel lesson mentioning that dress.”
He spots your expression softening even when you didn’t want it to.
Keeping eye contact you lift his hand that held yours, lips brushing over his knuckles, “…I love you too.”
Jack starts to stand taller at your words, a smidge of relief passing through his hues until you add:
“I stand by what I said.”
Jack puffs out a breath, “Wearing that dress is only going to make things difficult and not solve anything.”
“It’ll give me satisfaction.” You respond, “Plus it’s hot outside. It’s only right.”
Jack sighs as he steps closer to you, his free hand reaching out to lift your chin up, “This is starting to sound like you’re gonna be the one that’s the death of me, babe.”
A grin slowly starts to split over your lips.
“Then it’s a date.”
He could have kissed you right there if the curtains weren’t drawn back again. You step back first to see who the culprit is.
“Dr. Abbot.”
It’s Joy Kwon.
Her eyes flick between you two, “…Am I interrupting?”
“Yes.”
“No.” You whack Jack’s chest who drags a hand over his face before lifting his chin, silently ready to ask what the medical student wanted but her stare remains locked on you.
Jack can see the wheels turning in Kwon’s head but for a different reason this time as she asks, “Are you the one who quit Ortho?”
He immediately shakes his head at her bluntness right now.
A small laugh escapes from you as you shrug, “Depends who you got your info from and I have no doubts it was probably García. Some may call it quitting but no one can ever really quit bones in a place like this. Let’s just say: vacation with bones and building a relationship with blood instead.”
“Which is respectable.” Jack comments, making you turn to send him a reassuring smile, telling him that you’re not offended by her words.
Joy Kwon nods, no longer focusing on your shared close proximity with Jack, “Oh, I’m not judging. I totally get it. If something no longer fits your passion, you gotta cut ties and kick it to the curb like a terrible significant other. I’m actually strongly considering pathology myself.”
“Really?” You face her again, “I didn’t catch your name?”
Jack watches in minor amusement as you two introduce yourselves.
“Glad you two received the chance to have a social session but we’re here to work, aren’t we?” Jack intervenes as he watches multiple colleagues move around the main floor.
Kwon can’t help but to hold out a hand, “Give us a sec, Peepaw.”
Your eyes get wide, sucking in your cheeks as you dared a glance at the expression on Jack’s face.
“What did you just call me?”
Your hand goes to Jack’s chest, which Joy peeks at before she stares at the physician with widened eyes as you step in to smooth things over, “Relax, Dr. A. I’m sure it’s just a loving nickname.”
His dark jade eyes turn to yours, clearly seeing that you’re entertained by this as you hold back a snicker.
“Are you two screwing?” Joy suddenly questions, making Jack whip his eyes back to the glasses wearing woman.
“Inappropriate statement.”
Pointing behind Kwon, you ease yourself out of this conversation—oh so conveniently.
“Dana’s flagging me over,” You announce before Jack can confirm she’s not, “Great to meet you, Joy. And hope to see you down where the cool kids live. Later, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack scoffs at you while Kwon sends you a nod and small smile before cautiously turning back to the salt and pepper haired man.
He watches you with a sharp gaze, until you turn, walking backwards to meet his stare, kissing your lips at him, which makes him loosen up a bit, shaking his head at you before he crosses his arms, waiting until you’re no longer in his view.
Jack settles his eyes on Kwon, his brows raising as a way for her to finally reveal what’s being requested of him.
As Kwon goes into detail about what’s happening, Jack tries his best to focus.
He really does but the upcoming image of you in that dress in the backyard of your enclosed patio, skin glowing beneath the vibrant color, flowy above the knees, your laugh ringing through the air, ruined any chance of that.
Focus, Abbot.
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Continue with my spring anthology writings & prompts here.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: gator tillman x reader
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: when are you gonna fucking learn? doesn’t it ever cross your mind that somebody could be out here, watching? some creep. some sick bastard taking that invitation you keep leaving wide fucking open.
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: softdark!gator is it softdark if it’s just canon?, touch/love-starved!gator, heavy yearning, voyeurism, stalking, obsession, mutual (?) masturbation, sexual and domestic fantasies, single use of daddy kink
ᴀ/ɴ: happy belated valentine’s <3 here’s something aggressively anti-valentine’s instead. everyone say thank you to @rebelfell for inspiring this fic and so many other thoughts abt this absolute loser freak. also shoutout to this anon! if there’s one thing writing for gator has taught me, it’s that i can turn literally any man into a painfully love-starved yearner. i can’t help myself. men who have never been loved properly are very important to me. title by billie.
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On the corner of Deerborn and Maple, a police cruiser idles.
Lights off, engine long since gone cold. Parked half a house down with its nose angled toward the curb so the streetlight doesn’t hit the county seal on the door.
Routine neighborhood patrol, that’s what this is.
Has to be, what with all the break-ins and petty shit happening in this town lately. Low-life assholes sniffing around where they don’t belong.
A deputy’s gotta keep an eye out.
Protect and serve, or whatever the fuck.
Your light’s still on.
A soft, yellow glow spilling out from your living room window. He knows that window. Knows it the way you know a face you’ve seen a hundred times without ever really talking to it.
The curtains aren’t fully closed.
You never line them up right. Just that thin, careless seam where the panels don’t quite meet; it makes his jaw creak just thinking about it. He shifts his teeth, works them side to side until he can feel his molars grind.
When are you gonna fucking learn?
Doesn’t it ever cross your mind that somebody could be out here, watching?
Some creep. Some sick bastard taking that invitation you keep leaving wide fucking open.
He leans forward an inch.
Then another.
If he tilts his head just right, he can see inside.
That room’s as familiar to him as the weight of his sidearm.
He’s practiced the angle enough that it’s muscle memory. Knows exactly how far he can push it before the windshield glare screws him over.
It’s taught him a lot of things.
Like how long you leave the overhead light on before switching over to the lamp. How your soft, beige couch has got that permanent dip in the cushions where you always sit, knees tucked under you.
You’re there now, folded into that spot like usual.
You’re wearing your usual, too. Loose T-shirt and dark cotton shorts.
No lace or ribbons or nothing. It’s so unsexy. Not like those chatroom girls he messes around with some nights. Hell, he’d even take one of those skimpy little silk dresses—Karen’s got a whole closet full of ‘em.
You don’t even try.
And yet... there’s skin.
Lots of it, he can get a good eyeful of your thighs when you’re sitting there like that with your legs pulled up, the lamplight turning your skin all warm and honey-soft. When you reach sideways for the remote, your shirt rides up just enough to show a strip of stomach.
He swallows, throat clicking loudly in the quiet cruiser.
No bra.
He knows because he watched you take it off earlier.
Watched the straps slide down slow over your arms, one after the other. You tugged it out through your sleeve, tossed it over the back of the couch. Careless. Same way you always leave the curtains open.
Same way you forget to lock your door half the time.
Drives him fucking nuts.
He shifts in the seat, one elbow braced on the door, the other hand hanging loose over the wheel. His thumb rubs slow circles into the worn leather, mouth pulled tight.
If he squints, he can almost make out the shape of your tits underneath the shirt. Can imagine how your nipples would tighten if the room got colder.
Or if his hands were there instead.
Fuck.
He breathes hard through his nose, leather creaking under his fist.
The hand that’s been resting on his thigh starts inching inward. Toward that thick bulge trapped in his camos, chubbing up beneath the fabric. He drags a rough, heavy palm across the top, squeezing just once, eyes burning a hole through the glass.
You’re playing with your hair again.
You do that a lot when you’re distracted. Just lounging on the couch, remote loose in your hand while the TV screen flickers white and blue lights across your face.
Most nights go like this. Boring as shit, really.
Sometimes you’ll fold laundry. Sometimes you’ll read, those nerdy little glasses slipping down your nose until you push them back up with your finger. He’ll time it, if he’s really desperate for entertainment. Count how many minutes it takes before they slip again.
Sometimes you’ll sit there on your phone, thumbs tapping away. He’ll watch you smile at something that lights up your screen and wonder who the fuck is funny enough to make you laugh like that.
You don’t have a boyfriend.
He’d know.
He knows what time your shift ends at the diner. Knows what nights you close. Knows there’s never a second set of headlights behind you when you pull in, never a truck parked here overnight. Never some asshole walking you to your door, hand at the small of your back like he’s got some fucking right.
He would’ve seen it.
Would’ve remembered the plate.
He rubs his thumb across the steering wheel, thinking about that night with the music.
Some godawful, girly pop song blasting loud enough the whole block had to listen while you spun around in the middle of your living room, all alone, wine glass in hand.
You slammed into the couch, almost ate shit. Wine sloshing over the rim, streaking across your shirt, but you just stood there, staring at the mess, and started laughing. Head thrown back, twirling like you’re performing for an audience of none.
Well—one.
He’d laughed then, too. Shook his head alone in the dark like some goddamn idiot.
He catches himself smiling at the memory as he watches you now, eyes locked on your frame while you flip through the channels mindlessly.
Then he notices your hand.
At first, he thinks you’re just adjusting your shirt. Fingers drifting lazy and aimless, sliding over your stomach.
Your hand slips under the hem, like you’re chasing an itch.
Doesn’t come back out.
He squints, leaning forward until his chest presses against the steering wheel. His breath fogs the glass and he swears under his breath, wiping at it impatiently, smearing it worse before clearing a small circle with the heel of his palm.
And it’s with a well-angled tilt of his head, he’s holding his breath now, that he realizes your fingers are sliding down. Dragging a slow line across your hips, swirling patterns over the skin above the elastic.
Then they hook into the waistband of your shorts.
And disappear.
His cock jolts hard in his briefs.
“No...” he breathes, voice scraping low in his throat. “No fuckin’ way.”
Your wrist sinks deeper. Your shoulders move next, rising and falling in subtle, rhythmic rolls. The fabric between your thighs pulls tight, stretched over the shape of your gliding knuckles.
It takes him another second to catch up.
Then he moves all at once.
“Holy shit. Holy fuckin—”
He jerks upright, knees slamming into the wheel. The cruiser rocks a little and he freezes, eyes snapping to your window like you might’ve heard that through brick and drywall.
You don’t even look up.
You’re too busy.
His belt’s suddenly suffocating, biting into his stomach. He wrestles with it, hands clumsy, jerking and fumbling. The cab vibrates with frantic rustles, ragged breaths, the scrape of metal dragging against fabric, before—
“Shit! Fuckin’... c’mon!”
His zipper’s stuck; he has to glance down to wrench it free, practically ripping the fabric away from the teeth. The second it gives, he shoves his pants and briefs down in one rough yank. His cock springs free, tip angry red and slick under the dim glow of the dash.
He hisses through his teeth as cool air hits his balls, resting heavy on top of his waistband.
His gaze snaps back up.
You’re still there.
And—oh, fuck.
Your shorts are gone.
Sometime in his fumbling, you kicked them off. They’re pooled on the floor near the couch. You’re bare from the waist down now, shirt rucked up to just under your tits, cotton bunched high on your stomach.
Your thighs are spread wide across the couch. Knees angled open, feet planted at the edge.
Jesus.
It’s more of you than he’s ever seen.
Soft, plush, endless stretches of skin, the swell of your hips sinking deep into the coarse upholstery.
He wraps his hand around his cock. Tests the weight of it, the feel, thumbing over the head, smearing pre-cum until it strings between his fingers.
He narrows his eyes, lips parted in focus as he tries to grasp whatever detail he can.
It’s not much, but when you tilt your hips just right, letting the lamplight kiss your skin, he swears he sees something wet there.
Between your thighs.
Something that fucking glistens.
His vision blurs at the edges.
“Oh fuck me—"
He groans, thumping his head back against the seat once, hard enough to make the springs creak. Then he folds forward fast, spitting a thick glob into his palm. Smears it all over his length and plants his boots on the floorboard, knees splayed wide.
Starts stroking in earnest.
In the window, your arm picks up speed.
So does his.
Obedient as a mirror, precise as a metronome. Hips twitching in the seat as he strokes himself slow, forcing himself to stick to your rhythm, just itching to speed up.
His other hand grips the driver’s side door for purchase, wet schlicks filling the space between his grunts.
“Yeah,” he breathes, teeth flashing in the dark. “Yeah, there you go. That feel good?”
He’s not in the cruiser anymore.
He’s on your couch.
Spread out beneath you, big hands planted on your waist, thumbs digging into the soft give of your hips.
You’re straddling his lap, knees braced on either side. Shirt shoved up to your collarbones now, tits spilling free, bouncing every time you grind down on his cock.
He ruts up against his fist, makes a loose ‘o’ with his thumb and four fingers to form a makeshift sleeve. His other hand’s gripping the door so tight his knuckles are blanched.
You look like fucking heaven.
Head tipped back, lips parted, neck bare and slick with sweat. He wants to press his mouth to it, sink his teeth in and trace the salt around with his tongue. Sucking, kissing, tasting, leaving marks he won’t ever let fade.
“Fuck yes, ride me. Yeah, yeah—shit, just like that.”
He’s jerking faster now, free hand coming up to grasp at the empty air in front of him. Fingers flexing, curling, like they’re closing around your waist for real. He can feel it, the phantom weight of your hips. That hot, slick drag of your pussy, the squeeze when he bullies his way back inside.
His hips jolt off the seat in a sharp thrust, steering wheel digging into the tops of his thighs.
“Take it,” he pants at the glass, like you can hear him. “Fuckin’ take it. C’mon, baby.”
You sound like fucking heaven.
Fingers buried in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp while you rock yourself on him like you can’t get enough. Eyes rolling to the back of your skull while you drool and bounce on his cock, telling him it feels good, so good, yeah, don’t stop, fuck me harder daddy, oh my god, Gator, you’re so big—!
“Gonna fuck you so good,” he grunts, the sounds of his spit-drenched cock loud and obscene in the echoing silence of the car. He pretends they’re from your pussy instead. “This... this fat cock stretchin’ you out. Swear you won’t... won’t be walkin’ for a week.”
You smell like fucking heaven.
That sharp, sugar-sweet tang of pussy thick in the air, strangling his senses, mixed with the smell of your shampoo—that peachy scent he catches every time you lean over the counter at the diner.
Smiling at him in your tiny little apron, all bright and teasing as you top off his coffee.
Mornin’, deputy. Your usual?
He never knows what to say back. Just smiles, nods. Clears his throat and pretends to glance out the window, eyes landing on anything but you.
Like he won’t go right back to staring the second you turn your back.
He always leaves a bigger tip than he means to.
Then he sits in the parking lot afterward, watching you through the dusty glass while you tend to the breakfast rush, palming himself through his pants like some fucking animal, bricked up just from the way you smelled leaning over him. Peach and sugar and warm skin.
Conditioned. Like a goddamn K-9 catching a scent.
He thinks about that one time you brushed his fingers when you handed him his change.
An accident, probably.
He’d thought about that for a week.
Went home that night and stared at his hand like it meant something. Turning it over in the light, sat on the edge of his bed.
Now he drags that same hand over his cock and imagines it’s yours.
Your arm’s moving faster now. Hips bucking against the couch, one hand sliding up to squeeze your tits through your shirt, fingers digging in. He could do that for you. Do that and a whole lot more.
He groans low, hand flying over his cock, grip turned punishingly rough.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he pants, jaw slack, eyes burning. “C’mon. You gonna... gonna come, baby? Huh? Gonna come like that?”
He can’t look away from your face.
He just needs to know.
Needs to know what’s in your head right now.
Who’s in it.
Some faceless guy? Some cook from the diner? Some asshole texting you late at night?
The thought makes his jaw lock.
And then another one slips in, soft and pathetic:
What if it’s him?
What if, when you’re close, when you’re right there on the edge, you think about the way he looks at you across the counter? The way his voice drops low when he thanks you. The way he lingers at the door like he might’ve forgotten something, just to turn back and steal one more glance.
Do you ever think about him when you’re about to come?
Like he thinks about you?
Do you ever think about him when you’re bored at work, when you’re lonely or sad or restless?
Like he thinks about you?
Do you ever lie in bed after a long shift, wondering what it’d feel like to have someone warm there beside you?
Someone who’d remember to lock the doors for you. Fix the crooked curtain rod in your bathroom. Change that burnt-out porch light without being asked.
He thinks about it all the time.
About coming home to you, for real.
Boots kicked off by the door, badge tossed on the kitchen counter. The whole house smelling warm, like butter and garlic and whatever you’ve been stirring on the stove.
You’re standing there, in one of his old T-shirts.
“You’re late,” you call out in that half-teasing voice.
He steps up behind you, big hands sliding around your waist, chin dropping to your shoulder.
“Had shit to do,” he mumbles, nose brushing your neck. “Sorry, darlin’. Missed ya.”
He breathes in your scent, peaches and warm skin, nips at your jaw just to hear that soft, light chime of your laugh.
You pull back and give him a wide smile.
Same one you always give him at the diner.
But now, it’s only for him.
Nobody else ever gets that smile.
Only him.
He stares at your lit window, dragging his thumb over the head of his cock.
“You don’t even know,” he mutters, strokes turning uneven. “Don’t even... don’t even know how good I’d take care of ya.”
He imagines leaving the bedroom he’s slept in his whole life.
Same four walls, same faded photos and knuckle-shaped dents in the plaster.
He imagines building something that’s his.
A house.
A yard.
A woman waiting inside.
Someone who wants him. Wants to keep him.
Who loves hi—
“Shit, shit, shit, shit—fuck!”
Cum shoots hot and sudden over his fist, splattering across the steering wheel and down his knuckles. He jerks upright with a punched-out groan, boots scraping against the floorboard, the suspension creaking under the sudden shift of his weight. He grips his cock harder, aiming it at the wrong angle—thick, pearly streaks spray up high on his shirt, staining the dark fabric. It drips off the hem, pooling into the crease of his pants.
He groans low, too far gone to care as his hips stutter in time with each heavy spurt, his cock twitching weakly by the time he sinks back into the seat.
He keeps stroking himself through it, oversensitive, hissing at the sting while he ekes out the last few beads that glide slow and sticky down the side of his cock.
By the time he forces his eyes open, his vision is speckled and swimming. He blinks hard, straining to make out your silhouette across the street.
You’re still there.
On the couch. Head tipped back, spine arched, hips moving in that slow, restless rhythm. Your lips are parted around a sound he’ll never get to hear.
It kills him, the not knowing.
How he can see the shape of it, the parted ‘o’ of your lips, the exposed column of your throat and the heaving swell of your chest—but it's never enough to reach him.
It’d probably have to be something small, he thinks. Something quiet. Something that could hide away in plain sight—taped under the coffee table, maybe tucked behind the hem of the curtain. He'll have to look out for it on his next supply run.
He slumps back in his seat, boneless, absently rubbing his softening cock while he watches your body shudder through the tail end of your orgasm.
He sighs, lashes fluttering with a heavy blink as he glances down at the amount of volume he’s sprayed, spunk cooling all over his clothes, his stomach, the wheel. He shakes his hand off in vague disgust before leaning across to the glovebox, fumbling for tissues. It takes him fucking forever. He swears under his breath; he’s gotta start keeping a sock or some shit in here.
By the time he looks back up, you’re no longer on the couch.
You’re standing at the window.
Right there. Just behind the glass.
His breath locks in his chest.
The lamplight behind you turns your face into shadow, but the outline of you is unmistakable.
You stand there for a beat, real still.
Then the curtains snap shut.
“Fuck...” He sags back into the seat, crumpling the cum-soaked tissue in a tight fist. “Shit, that was close.”
He lets his eyes fall closed, pulse hammering in his ears.
Lights off, engine cold. Alone in an empty cruiser, the air thick with the stench of sweat and spunk, drying tacky on his skin.
He sits there for a long time.
Waiting.
He wonders how long it’ll take you to fall asleep tonight.
And whether you’ve learned to lock the back door since last time.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: touch-starved doesn’t even begin to cover it. steve harrington is affection-starved. love-starved. he’s been handing out pieces of his heart for years, getting nothing but scraps back. now, he clings like glue—always leaning, always touching, like his body craves closeness and he never learned how to pull back. and it would’ve all been fine… if this wasn't supposed to be just a casual thing. if he hadn’t said I love you, with his whole heart, mid-fuck.
warnings: 18+ mdni, fwb to lovers, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), touchstarved!steve, i'd call him subby in this but he's rlly just pathetically in love, unexpected L-bomb, domestic fluff, light angst, happy ending
a/n: everyone’s moved on from that s1 scene where steve asks nancy ‘you don’t love me?’ but I’m still there. anyway. here’s 5k words of painfully touch-starved steve.
So, like.
This isn’t a real thing.
That’s the important part. The crux. The root of it all.
The problem.
It’s the reason you haven’t slept in your own bed in over a week. The reason there’s a stupid little bruise on your neck (seriously, who even gives hickeys anymore?) and the reason you know exactly how Steve Harrington takes his coffee (three sugars, no cream, no shame).
It’s not real.
Because if it were real, then… that would be something.
And you don’t do “something.” You don’t like “something.”
Because “something” has weight. Teeth. Expectations.
And Steve? Well.
Steve is—
He’s lonely.
That’s what this is.
No, seriously. That’s the whole thing.
You didn’t clock it at first. Thought maybe he was just hot and bored. Smooth in that lazy, practiced way that makes everything feel like a dare. He flirts like he’s handing out candy. Smiles like it’s a reflex.
But it’s not boredom.
Steve Harrington is lonely.
The kind of lonely that clings to skin like summer sweat.
The kind that seeps in slow—after years of being everybody’s something and then, suddenly, nobody’s anything.
The kind that turns touch into a transaction. That turns you into a distraction.
He speaks in half-jokes and full smiles. Loose shoulders, quick grins. Charm so polished it starts to sound like an echo—hollow, if you know what to listen for.
But when he touches you—god, when he touches you—
It’s like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he’s scared he won’t get another chance.
And somehow, that’s what keeps bringing you back.
Not the sex. Though—yeah, okay. The sex is good. Annoyingly good.
The kind that makes you forget your name. That has you laughing one second and gasping the next. The kind where he holds your hand through it and whispers ridiculous, tender shit into your neck. Nonsense, really. Things no one should find hot, and yet… you do.
But that’s not why you stay.
It’s not the sex.
It’s what happens after.
It’s the way he presses a hand to your lower back when you shift beneath the covers, like he’s making sure you’re still there. It’s the way he gets up first, hair a mess, pulling on flannel pajama pants that hang low on his hips while he makes you scrambled eggs.
Burnt edges. Drenched in pepper.
You wrinkle your nose and grumble about having breakfast at 2 PM.
He slides the plate toward you with a smug little, “You’ll eat what I give you and you'll like it.”
You always grin.
“You’re lucky I’m easy,” you tell him, mouth full.
He shrugs, sips his coffee (three sugars, no shame), and says, “Yeah. I am.”
You think that’s a joke. Maybe. Hopefully.
You don’t ask.
You don’t ask a lot of things.
Like why he waits to kiss you until your hands are under his shirt. Or why he pulls you in like he wants to keep you there, and then lets you go as soon as the sun comes up. Why his eyes go distant when he thinks you’re not looking.
You tell yourself he just needs the connection. That you’re just a body. A placeholder. A habit.
But he gets so quiet sometimes. After.
That strange, suspended kind of quiet, when the sweat’s dried and the room’s gone still. When his arm is still slung over your waist and his gaze is locked on the ceiling like it's got answers he doesn’t.
Not asleep. Never asleep.
Just still.
Like he’s bracing for impact.
Once—just once—you asked, “You good?”
And he said, “Yeah.”
But he said it in that voice. The soft one. The one he uses when he’s lying.
You could’ve pressed. But you didn’t.
Because this isn’t a real thing.
It’s just comfort.
Borrowed heat. Mutual use. Skin and breath and the occasional earth-shattering orgasm.
That’s it.
Until one night, he says something.
And it changes everything.
…
Steve Harrington is a leaner.
You noticed that before anything ever happened between you.
Before the late nights. Before toothbrushes and t-shirts that weren’t yours. Back when he was just a name, a familiar face at parties with warm drinks and bad music. The guy with the hair and the reputation.
One night, you ended up on the same couch.
By accident. Well, mostly.
You’d had one too many drinks and slumped into the cushions like your bones had melted. Someone handed you a bottle of water and asked, “You okay?”
That someone was Steve.
He didn’t say much else. Just sat next to you, a respectful distance away, not even close enough for your knees to brush.
You said something dumb. He laughed. Asked a follow-up question.
And that’s when you noticed it.
The lean.
Steve Harrington leans like it’s instinct. Like gravity doesn’t pull him down, it pulls him toward. Like his body craves closeness and he never learned how to resist it.
But then when your hand brushed his thigh while reaching for a bowl of chips—
He froze.
Just for a second. A flicker. A sharp inhale. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of thing.
But you didn’t miss it.
You noticed.
…
It started stupid. You tell yourself that a lot.
Especially when you’re staring at yourself in his bathroom, brushing your teeth with the toothbrush he bought you, trying to figure out what the hell you’re doing.
It was stupid. An accident, really.
He called one night. Said, "I can’t sleep."
You said, "That sucks."
Then: "Can I come over?"
And: "Sure."
Just sex. That was the deal. No strings, no expectations.
There were rules, in the beginning.
No cuddling. No staying over.
No kissing unless clothes were already off.
That one lasted exactly one round.
Because on the second night, he kissed you first. Before either of you had taken off a single layer. Like kissing was the point, not the sex.
And afterward? He held you. Just an arm across your waist, skin warm, breath steady. Like you were his favorite teddy bear. Or a security blanket that talks back.
And he didn’t ask you to stay, but when you fell asleep there, he was already awake by the time you opened your eyes. Lying there. Watching you.
Like he hadn’t slept at all.
It was fine. Totally fine.
“Just friends,” you’d said.
And he nodded. “Yeah. Totally.”
But his fingers were laced through yours when he said it.
…
Sometimes he says things you don’t know how to hear.
Like that weekend after finals. Both of you a little drunk. Loose-limbed and grinning for no reason. Buzzed on cheap beer and end-of-term freedom, on the promise of summer stretching out like a dare. You were parked outside your place, engine off, windows fogging in the humidity. Music low, the kind of old-school ballad Steve pretends to hate but knows every word to.
You kissed him over the console of his Beemer. Messy, open-mouthed, like the world was ending and tongues were currency—a last-ditch effort to spend everything before it was too late. He laughed into your mouth, and you felt it everywhere.
Then, soft and slurred:
“Missed you this week.”
You smiled. Didn’t answer.
He kissed your neck like he could hide into it.
You didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t ask if he meant your mouth or your body or just the convenience of you.
You just climbed into his lap.
Straddled him.
Ground down on him like you were trying to forget how soft he’d sounded. How scared.
And he let you.
Because Steve Harrington always lets you.
…
Tonight, it’s raining.
You show up at his door soaked to the bone, hoodie dripping, pajama pants clinging to your legs. There’s water in your eyelashes, in your socks, probably in your dignity.
Steve opens the door like he’s been waiting. Like he knew.
“Jesus, get in here,” he mutters, tugging you inside by the wrist. “You’re soaked.”
He peels off your jacket, pushes your hood down. His knuckles brush your cheek.
His hands feel warm. Or maybe cold. You can’t tell anymore with him.
…
He makes soup.
Chicken noodle, way too much pepper.
You sit on the counter in dry clothes that smell like him while he stirs in silence; barefoot, bedhead, wearing sleep pants and an old Hawkins basketball tee with a hole in the collar.
He hands you the bowl and watches you blow on the steam.
Then he puts on a movie neither of you ends up watching.
He sits close, arms touching from shoulder to elbow.
It’s nothing.
Except, with Steve, nothing always feels like everything.
Because he doesn’t move away.
He leans.
…
Touch-starved doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Steve Harrington is affection-starved. Love-starved. He’s been handing his heart out to people for years and getting scraps in return.
He was the king of a kingdom that left him stranded in his own tower.
Now, he wields proximity like armor. Like glue. Stick close, so maybe they won’t leave.
You sit next to him, he leans. You stand near him, his fingers brush yours. You yawn, and suddenly he’s cradling your head, smoothing your hair like you’re going through something traumatic.
You’re not.
You’re yawning.
And it would be funny, if it wasn’t all so completely, irreparably fucked.
…
The rain's louder now.
Not quite a storm, but loud enough that it fills the room with its own kind of hush. Soft and constant, like white noise between thoughts.
Steve leans back against the couch, head tilted, throat exposed. The light from the TV paints him in soft blues and grays.
You look at him too long. Then say, quietly:
“You don’t let people touch you much.”
He blinks. “What?”
“I mean, you do,” you say, glancing at his hands. “But not really.”
He lets out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Okay, detective. What’s that mean?”
You shift, pulling your knees up.
“It means…” you pause. “That you act like it’s natural. Like touching’s easy for you. But it’s not.”
His eyes drift away. His throat bobs.
Then, a low chuckle. Pained and impressed in the same breath. “Jesus. You should be a therapist or something.”
“So I’m right?”
He goes quiet for a bit. Just tugs the blanket higher over your knees.
“People think I’m good at it,” he says eventually. “Being… I don’t know, flirty.”
“You are,” you say, like it's a fact. And it is.
He laughs, soft and empty. “Yeah. Well. I’ve had a lot of practice.”
He starts picking at a loose thread. Doesn’t look at you.
“But that’s all it is. Practice. I think… I think I just got good at pretending.”
A pause.
“My parents weren’t really... around. You know? And when they were, it was all rules. Appearances. Be polite. Be perfect. Don’t embarrass the family.”
You stare at your lap. “That sucks.”
He stiffens a little. “I’m not saying it for pity.”
“I know,” you bump your knee against his. “And don’t worry, you’re not getting any.”
He snorts, soft and real.
But then his hand stirs in his lap, tightening around the blanket, white-knuckled. It’s subtle. A detail most people wouldn’t notice.
But you do.
You always notice.
So you reach out. Slip your fingers between his like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Laced together, palm to palm, thumb brushing over the tense tendons in his wrist.
He freezes. Just for a second.
Then his hand twitches. Loosens. Curls back around yours.
He holds on.
…
Steve Harrington has always been golden.
Golden boy. Golden skin. Golden smile. The kind of person who walks into a room and soaks up all the oxygen without even trying. The kind people fall for in flashes, bright and fast and dizzying.
They love parts of him. The hair, the grin, the effortless charm. The storybook confidence that makes everyone else fade to grayscale. But if they looked closer—and most don’t—they might notice a flicker of something else. Something dimmer. Something tired.
You notice.
You always notice.
You see the way his smile stutters, the half-second where it slips before he wrestles it back into place. The way he shrugs off compliments like they sting. Laughs off praise like it doesn't fester in his chest long after it’s said. Like he doesn’t believe a word of it, even when it’s true.
He’s used to it, you think. Being loved for the surface. Wanted for being golden.
Never seen for what’s underneath.
But that’s not the Steve you want.
You want this Steve—sleepy-eyed, soft-voiced, weirdly-good-at-playing-with-your-hair Steve.
The one in faded sweatpants and mismatched socks, slurping soup too loudly and pretending your knee against his isn’t the most intimate thing that’s happened to him all week.
The one who sings along to bad radio ballads in the car and gets quiet when you ask him about childhood birthdays. The one who never learned how to ask for love—only how to give too much of it away.
You want the mess. The ache. The scared little boy behind the golden grin.
You want to know what song he hums when he’s doing his laundry. What memory makes him smile when no one’s watching.
The parts of him that aren’t polished, the cracks that run through the gold. The ones he tucks away because he's convinced no one could ever love them.
You want the parts he hides.
…
You don’t remember how your shirt came off.
One minute you were doubled over laughing—some dumb line from the movie, something even dumber from Steve—and then he’s just there.
Mouth hot on your neck. Hands everywhere. Greedy and reverent in the same stroke, in the way only Steve Harrington can be.
He kisses down your throat, mumbling something against your skin. Something that sounds like, “You’re so beautiful,” voice so full it cracks a little.
Your fingers sink into his hair.
“Steve,” you breathe. “You’re shaking.”
He lifts his head. Eyes wide and round and glassy.
“I just…” He swallows. “Wanna make you feel good. Let me?”
You nod, throat tight.
You’d let him do anything.
…
He eats you out like he missed you.
Like this is the only way he knows how to say it.
You’re sprawled across his couch, thighs over his shoulders, his arms hooked under your hips. Holding you open as he devours you. Sloppy, desperate, like he missed this, missed you, even though you were here just two nights ago. He groans into you like this is worship, and maybe it is. Maybe it always has been.
“Fuck,” he moans, voice wrecked. “You taste so good. So wet for me.”
Your fingers twist harder in his hair. He moans at that too; loves it when you tug him closer.
"Steve—"
“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles, mouth full. “I got you.”
You arch into him, thighs clamped tight around his head.
“I—fuck, I’m gonna—"
He groans like he’s the one coming. Eats you through it, grinding his hips into the carpet, riding it out with you. Stays through the twitching and the aftershocks, still licking, like he can’t bear to stop, can’t bear to let you go.
And even when you’re spent, legs trembling, chest heaving, he doesn’t move away.
Kisses your thighs. Your stomach. Your breasts.
Soft, wet little marks. Greedy, but not in the way that takes. In the way that keeps.
You breathe through the haze, arm flung over your eyes because it stings too much sometimes, looking at him.
“You wanna fuck me now?”
…
He fucks you like a confession.
Slow. Deep. Forehead to forehead. Breathing into your mouth. Nose bumping with each stroke, his breath hitching every time you moan.
Like he’s making love, even though that’s not what this is.
The room is quiet except for the slick sounds of skin on skin, and the soft hush of your name as he passes it from his lips over to yours.
“So good,” he breathes. “So fucking perfect.”
You curl your fingers around the back of his neck, pull him closer.
“I think about you all time,” he whispers, hips rolling into you. “All the time. Can't—can’t stop.”
You tense, just slightly. Barely a hitch in your breath.
He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and just barrels forward anyway, words spilling faster than he can catch them. He’s shaking again.
“Can’t get you out of my head. Fuck, you’re all I think about, I—”
And then—
He says it.
The thing.
The one thing you can’t undo.
“I love you.”
…
Everything stills.
Steve stills. You still.
He pulls back, blinking fast. Searching your face, fingers twitching against your waist.
You can’t breathe.
“Steve…”
You say it like it hurts. Like it’s an apology. Like you didn’t mean to hear it, and he didn’t mean to say it.
He sees it, whatever’s written on your face. Sees it and folds in on himself.
His mouth twists, words souring on his tongue.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean—”
You kiss him before he can finish.
Messy. Desperate. Mouth open, teeth clashing. Like you’re trying to shove the words back down his throat. Like if you just kiss him hard enough, they’ll sink back into him and never make it out.
He kisses you back, fast and clumsy. Picks up his pace again, thrusts turning erratic, rhythm gone. He comes like that—hands gripping too tight, teeth in your shoulder, breathing like he’s drowning.
He doesn’t say it again.
Not out loud.
…
You told him once, weeks ago—maybe during the eighth or ninth time, when things were still light enough to float. You were lying in his bed, naked on blue linen, post-coital and quiet. You were staring at the ceiling. He was tracing circles on your arm.
“I’ve never said it,” you murmured.
He turned, frowning. “What do you mean, never?”
“Like… out loud. To anyone.”
“Not even to, like, a boyfriend?”
You snorted. Gave him a look. He just frowned deeper.
“I mean, it’s just words, right?” you shrugged. “Doesn’t really mean shit. Not unless you show it.”
He was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded, like he was filing it away.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I guess.”
…
The scariest part isn’t that he said it.
It’s how little changes after.
He pulls out. Kisses your forehead. Disappears for a towel, water, wipes, the whole post-sex routine. He wraps you in a blanket, like always.
He sits on the edge of the couch, shirtless and quiet. Still catching his breath.
But he won’t look at you.
You’re staring at the ceiling now. Body still buzzing, your mind a blur. Your chest feels raw, like you’ve swallowed glass and it’s still cutting on the way down.
Finally, you speak.
“You’re an idiot.”
His head turns, brows knit. “What?”
You sit up a little. “You’re an idiot. You can’t just say that mid-fuck and expect me not to spiral.”
He laughs, caught off guard. It’s soft. A little broken.
“I didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… came out.”
“Yeah. I noticed.”
He starts fidgeting with the blanket again.
“I can take it back, if you want.”
You pause.
A long, slow beat.
Then you shake your head.
“No. Don’t.”
…
He’s sitting on the bed when you come out of the shower.
Hair damp, skin flushed from the heat, a line of steam following you out the bathroom. You’re toweling off the ends of your hair, not really expecting conversation. He’s quiet—bent forward, elbows on his knees, bare foot tapping a slow rhythm into the floorboards.
Then, without looking up, he says:
“Do you want to stay over?”
You almost drop the towel. Frozen mid-motion, terrycloth bunched in your hands.
It’s not the first time he’s asked that. Not really.
There was one night, early on, when you came over to his place, still a little nervous about the whole thing. He’d made you come three times, then followed you out of bed, shirtless and flushed, and said:
“You could, uh… stay. If you want. It’s late. I don’t—sleep great. And I just…” He’d swallowed it. “Forget it. Never mind.”
You’d made it exactly two steps before turning around.
But that was then.
Now, five months in, you’ve never needed the words. Your toothbrush is in his medicine cabinet. Your hoodie is slung over the back of his desk chair. You spend most nights here anyway—falling asleep during half-watched movies and waking up tangled in limbs you no longer bother to count.
So the fact that he asks—now, of all nights—makes you pause.
“Sure,” You say quietly, then walk past him to grab the lotion off his nightstand like it's nothing.
He doesn’t smile, not really. But his shoulders soften. His eyes go from holding tension to holding you.
He looks tired. Relieved in a way that makes your chest ache.
You slip under the covers, the way you always do. He follows. And for a beat, everything feels normal. Familiar. Easy.
He’s warm. He always is.
Your body knows the choreography—roll away, let him pull you in, slot your legs together until he’s all but spooning you. But tonight, for reasons you can’t name, you end up facing him instead. On your side. Eyes open. Nose to nose.
Close enough to feel the soft rise of his chest. To smell his shampoo. The expensive one you always make fun of, the one you pretend not to use.
Close enough to catch the exhale when he speaks.
“Can I—?” he stops.
You wait.
He licks his lips, gaze darting down to the space between you.
“Can I hold your hand?”
Your stomach drops, fluttering like a trapped bird.
Because what kind of person asks to hold your hand after they’ve had their hands everywhere else?
And why does that make you feel more vulnerable than anything he’s ever done?
You say, “Sure,” because you don’t know what else to say.
And then you do it. You reach out, he meets you halfway—fingers slotting between yours like they were made to be there.
His thumb skates slowly over your knuckles. His hand is warm, a little rough in places. Callused in a way that reminds you he’s probably fought for things—for people—before. Real things. Hard things. Love-shaped things.
Eventually, he shifts closer. Not pulling you into him. Just… aligning. Until your knees touch. Until your breaths sync.
He’s so close you can count the gold flecks in his eyes.
Then, quietly:
“I meant it. What I said.”
You don’t answer right away.
Because something in your chest lurches and twists and stretches like it’s never been moved before. Like it’s being made into something new.
“I know,” you say eventually, voice soft as worn cotton.
He swallows. Starts again, then stops. There’s a crack in his voice when he says:
“You don’t have to say it back. I know it’s not fair. That I said it like that. I just—” He looks down. Shrinks in on himself a little. “I couldn’t not.”
You reach out before he can spiral. Fingers to his jaw, steady and slow.
He flinches instinctively, then stills beneath your touch.
And god, he looks so young like this. Eyes glassy. Lips bitten raw. Desperate crease between his brows like he’s bracing for impact.
“Steve,” you whisper, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “I’m not mad.”
He searches your face like it might change mid-sentence.
“I just… I need time. That’s all.”
He nods. Once. Then again.
“Okay,” he says, and it sounds like breathing for the first time in days. “Okay.”
He squeezes your hand, like a question.
You squeeze back, like an answer.
…
You don’t plan it.
There’s no perfect moment. No grand confession. No string quartet swelling in the background, or a slow-motion kiss in the rain.
There’s just a Tuesday.
Or maybe a Wednesday.
One of those in-between days that doesn’t really exist. Gray sky. Light drizzle. Everything muted and quiet, just a little smudged around the edges.
When you open your door, Steve’s already there.
Curled into the corner of your couch in fuzzy socks, eating dry cereal out of the box and watching a rerun of something he’s already seen three times. His hair’s damp. Probably showered at your place again because its closer to the gym, or maybe he just likes your shampoo better than his.
You don’t even ask anymore.
He grins when he sees you. Tosses a Cheerio in his mouth and says, “How was hell?”
You toe off your shoes and shrug. “Corporate’s an absolute dream. Only cried twice in the break room today.”
He opens his arms without a word. “C’mere.”
You go.
He pulls you in without pretense, folding you into his chest like he’s been waiting all day just to do it. You melt into it, cheek pressed to his collarbone. He smells like your body wash. It does something to your ribs. Cracks them open. Lets the light in.
You sit like that for a while. Not talking. Not needing to.
Eventually, he gently nudges you off him.
“I’m making tea,” he says. “Don’t move.”
You do, of course. You follow him.
He's humming something tuneless, drumming his fingers on the counter while the kettle boils. And when it whistles, he moves automatically, like he’s done it a hundred times. Two mugs. Two tea bags. Your chipped dinosaur mug and his plain blue one. He insists it’s “just a mug” even though he always reaches for it first.
He doesn’t have to ask. He knows. Honey in both. Lemon in yours. He moves with the kind of ease that only comes from repetition. From caring.
He hands it to you without looking. You take it with both hands, the warmth of the ceramic bleeding into your palms.
And for some reason, that’s what does it.
Not the cuddling. Not the hand-holding. Not the sex, or the sleepovers, or the toothbrush he bought without asking
Just—this.
This moment. This man. This stupid kitchen and this cup of tea made exactly how you like it.
It hits you like a low tide: gentle, inevitable, impossible to ignore.
You’re still holding the mug when you say it. Still standing in the half-lit kitchen in your sad little apartment with the flickering stove light and the perpetually leaking faucet and the love of your life stirring a teabag like it’s the most serious task in the universe.
Soft. Barely above the whistle of the kettle.
“I love you.”
His spoon stops mid-stir.
He doesn’t move for a second. Doesn’t look up.
You think maybe he didn’t hear you. Maybe you should repeat it. Louder. Clearer.
But then—he smiles.
Not the charming one. Not the grin he uses when for baristas or strangers or people who don’t know any better.
This one’s smaller. Like it snuck up on him.
He sets the spoon down carefully.
“Yeah?” he asks, still not turning around.
You nod.
Then, braver: “Yeah.”
He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it in his lungs since February.
And without looking at you—like looking might make it collapse—he just says:
“Okay.”
Then, a beat later, with a kind of awe:
“I love you too.”
You step closer. Lean your head against his back, arms circling his waist just to feel him. He goes still under your touch, the way he does when something matters a little too much.
Then he relaxes. Covers your hands with his. Holds you there.
And the thing is, nothing else changes.
You still drink your tea. Still argue over who gets the remote. Still end up half-asleep on the couch with pretzel crumbs all over the upholstery and Steve mumbling nonsense into your shoulder.
But later, when he takes you to bed, he says it again.
Not in the heat of it. Not as a plea. Just a soft, quiet:
“I love you.”
You don’t panic.
You don’t question it.
You just say it back. Steadier, this time.
“I love you.”
He grins against your mouth. “About time.”
You roll your eyes.
He kisses your nose.
…
“I just—I’m sorry, but I really think this one tastes the same as the other one.
Steve’s in an argument with the beekeeper lady at the farmer’s market. About honey.
She gasps like he’s insulted her bloodline, then launches into a spiel about how wildflower honey tastes completely different from clover honey—something about the blossoms and the weather and the bees' mood.
You, standing ten feet away with an armful of Honeycrisps, don’t even try to save him. You just lean against a crate of pumpkins and watch the disaster unfold.
This is your Saturday now.
Groceries and small-town drama. Coffee stops and joint laundry loads and dumb little errands that somehow feel like sacred rituals because he’s there.
He jogs back to you a minute later, holding a jar of orange blossom honey.
He's grinning like an idiot. “She loved me.”
“She called you ‘boy.’”
“Exactly. Affectionate.”
You bump his hip. “You’re a menace.”
“And you love that about me.”
You glance at him, lips twitching.
You do.
You really do.
…
It’s been eight months.
Eight months of toothbrushes side-by-side. Of his socks in your drawer and your hair ties in his bathroom.
Of grocery lists that say things like “Steve’s weird granola” and “that cinnamon roll candle" you've been dying to try.
Of falling asleep on the couch and waking up in bed because he carried you. Of him saying “morning, baby" in that morning-after voice then smirking when yours is too hoarse to respond.
Of fights that don’t break things, just bend them. Of learning how to disagree without flinching. How to apologize without pride.
Of knowing it’s safe now. Not perfect, not painless, but safe.
…
One night, he’s reading beside you in bed.
Trying to, at least.
The book’s open in his lap, but he’s clearly dozing off mid-paragraph. Lips parted, breath steady.
You’re on your side, just watching him.
You don’t let yourself stare too often, but he’s so soft like this. Soft in a way he only is at home. With you.
There’s a scar on his collarbone you’ve never asked about.
You probably could. He’d tell you.
You think you will, someday.
But right now, you're happy just tracing it with your fingertip. He stirs, nuzzling your shoulder like he’s chasing warmth in his sleep.
And then, half-conscious, he murmurs:
“You’re it for me.”
You go still. Heart in your throat.
And then—just as simply, just as truthfully—you say:
“You are too.”
He hums at that. Smiles against your skin.
Wraps an arm around your waist and lets the world fade out.
…
In the morning, you’ll make him coffee the way he likes it: three sugars, no cream, no shame.
He’ll kiss your shoulder while you pour it, thank you with a sleepy voice and wandering hands.
You’ll sit on the couch, eat burnt toast, and laugh at some dumb segment on the morning news.
He’ll offer to fix your car. Again.
You’ll roll your eyes and say no. Again.
He’ll grin.
He'll drive you to work.
And just like that, the day will begin.
Like it did today.
Like it will tomorrow.
Like it will every day after.
a/n: when I tell you I took a super long nap yesterday and then stayed awake the whole night... this is what came crawling out of my brain at 4 am... wrote this in like 3 hrs so i'm sorry if this is all over the place 🥲
i always love hearing your thoughts abt my silly little stories! feel free to reblog/comment/come find me in my inbox :)
Summary: Childhood friends turned rebellious teens, you and Eddie Munson have always been thick as thieves — sneaking out, breaking into abandoned diners, and laughing at the world that doesn’t get them. Her parents disapprove, the school calls him a freak, but none of it matters when they’re together.
Tags: NSFW, smut (18+), fluff, friends to lovers, childhood friends, coming of age, mutual pining, rebellious teenagers, "us against the world", parents disapproval, impulsive getaways, eddie munson is a sweetheart, p-in-v, confessionnal sex. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N.
A/N: Save to say most of my fic inspiration for Eddie is from songs. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.
Word Count: 9.4k (oh wow)
masterlist
1979
You were going to snap.
The plastic spork bounced off your tray and skidded across the table. You didn’t even need to look to know who threw it—same kid who’d been messing with you all week. Earlier, it was a balled-up napkin. Yesterday, it was a grape. Today, it was everything short of a full-on food fight.
You kept your head down, picking at the sad excuse for macaroni on your tray, hoping he’d get bored. He didn’t.
“Hey,” the boy behind you whispered, yanking a lock of your hair just hard enough to make your eyes sting. “You put glue in it or something? Why’s it so crunchy?”
Your jaw clenched. You bit your cheek to keep from turning around and launching your milk carton at his face. The din of the lunchroom made it easy for teachers to ignore—unless someone got loud.
Which someone did.
“Cease your torment, cretin! Or I shall summon the Lord of the Underworld himself!”
Your head whipped up. The boy behind you froze.
Standing at the end of your lunch table was a skinny kid with a buzz cut, a tattered Black Sabbath patch safety-pinned to his denim vest, and a tray of untouched lunch balanced on one hand like a waiter. His other hand pointed accusingly, finger straight and eyes wide like a televangelist on TV.
“What the hell, Munson?” the boy behind you asked.
The new kid didn’t answer. Instead, he dropped to one knee in the middle of the cafeteria floor and raised both hands to the ceiling.
“Dominos. Ravioli. Infernum-malarkey!” he bellowed, deepening his voice into a theatrical growl. “Oh great horned one, curse this mortal with itchy skin and uncontrollable gas!”
Laughter burst out from nearby tables.
You blinked.
Then—you laughed too.
It started as a confused giggle and turned into a real, actual laugh. Loud enough to startle the kid behind you into silence. He slunk away without a word, disappearing into the crowd.
When you turned back around, the buzz cut boy had taken a dramatic bow.
“Eddie Munson,” he announced. “At your service.”
You stared at him for a beat, then smiled, “You’re weird.”
He beamed like you’d just handed him a trophy.
“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.”
And just like that, the empty seat across from you wasn’t empty anymore.
1984
The hallway erupted like someone had hit “play” on a fast-forward button—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, voices rising as students flooded toward freedom. But right in the middle of the chaos, you took your time.
Your locker was stuck again. You wiggled the handle with practiced irritation, muttering a quiet curse under your breath.
And then—
Slam!
A hand hit the locker next to yours with dramatic flair.
“Need a spell, m’lady?”
You didn’t even have to look. The smug tone, the scent of cheap cologne and cigarette smoke—it was unmistakable.
“You’re gonna bruise the metal if you keep doing that,” you said, lips tugging into a smile despite yourself.
Eddie Munson leaned against the lockers like he owned the hallway, grinning at you through his mess of curls. His denim vest was half-unbuttoned over his Hellfire Club tee, and he had a binder stuffed with loose papers under one arm. Somehow, he made chaos look cool.
“Maybe it’ll bruise back,” he quipped, giving your locker a gentle kick. It creaked open instantly. “See? You just have to speak its language.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he said, stepping back so you could grab your books, “you keep me around. Which says so much more about you than it does about me.”
You bumped his shoulder as you closed your locker, and he didn’t move an inch.
“Plans tonight?” he asked, falling into step beside you like he always did.
“Not unless you’re planning something.”
He grinned wider. “I may or may not have found a way into the old diner by the train tracks.”
You arched a brow. “Eddie.”
“It’s abandoned! Kinda. Mostly. Anyway, I hear the power still works.”
You stopped walking and turned to him, arms crossed. “If we get caught again—”
“We won’t.” He leaned in with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “We’re ghosts, remember? Shadows. Teenage legends.”
You stared at him for a beat, then let out a quiet laugh. “You’re full of shit.”
“And yet,” he echoed with a smirk, “you keep me around.”
You rolled your eyes again, but there was no hiding the fondness in it. You always rolled your eyes around Eddie. And he always stayed close anyway.
Like he had since the cafeteria, five years ago.
Later that night, the lock was rusted, the side door warped just enough to slip a crowbar through. Eddie grunted as he wedged it in, muscles tense, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. With one good shove and a metallic clank, the door creaked open.
“After you, partner in crime,” he whispered, bowing with a flourish.
You stepped inside, the soles of your sneakers crunching on old tile dust. The air smelled like mildew and grease that had long since congealed into memory.
A few rays of moonlight filtered through cracked windows, casting long, silvery shadows across the booths and checkered floor. The whole place looked like someone had locked up in ’64 and never came back. A half-burned “Daily Special” board still hung above the counter. A stack of chipped coffee cups waited behind the bar like someone might show up to pour a round.
“Holy shit,” you breathed. “This is so cool.”
“Told you.” Eddie’s voice was soft, reverent even. “Place is like a time capsule. All it needs is a jukebox and someone to roll by on skates.”
You wandered past the booths, running your fingers over the cracked vinyl cushions. The red had faded to dull maroon. He followed a few steps behind, glancing around with wide eyes like a kid in a haunted house—excited, cautious, thrilled.
“Bet there’s still silverware somewhere,” he said, hopping over the counter with a thud. He pulled open a drawer, rattling around. “Bingo.”
He held up a rusted spoon like it was buried treasure.
You chuckled, ducking behind the counter with him. “I’m stealing a salt shaker. This is too good not to commemorate.”
“Here,” he said, digging deeper into the drawer. “Comet-brand bottle opener. Still shiny.”
You pocketed it with a grin. “We should open a museum.”
Eddie stood up on the counter, arms spread wide. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Hall of Bad Decisions. Featuring cigarette burns, petty theft, and a distinct lack of adult supervision.”
You laughed louder this time, the sound echoing off the walls.
The truth was, no matter how dusty or broken the place, it always felt electric with Eddie around. Every forgotten building was a playground. Every half-dumb idea felt like genius. With him, even rusted cutlery felt like gold.
You leaned against the counter, smiling up at him.
“This place is gonna be ours for a while, huh?”
He looked down at you and nodded, his grin softening.
“Yeah,” he said. “Until the next one.”
Eddie’s van purred softly in the driveway, headlights off. The glow from the porch light was enough to see the curve of his grin as he leaned across the driver’s seat to look at you.
“You sure you don’t want me to summon Satan again?” he teased, voice low. “Might scare your mom into going easy on you.”
You laughed quietly, hand already on the door handle. “Pretty sure she’s more terrifying than Satan.”
He tilted his head, mock serious. “Valid.”
A beat of silence passed. You looked at him. He looked at you.
“Thanks for tonight,” you said. “That diner was… weirdly magical.”
He smirked. “Like I said—teenage legends.”
You leaned over and bumped his shoulder gently. “Call me when you get home.”
Eddie saluted you, then added, “I’ll keep an eye out for demon cops. You never know.”
You rolled your eyes, but it made you smile as you slipped out of the van and jogged up the front steps. You gave him one last wave before unlocking the door and slipping inside.
The smile dropped as soon as the door clicked shut.
The hallway was dim, the only light coming from the kitchen. Your mom was sitting at the table, elbows resting on a half-folded newspaper, her fingers pressed against her temple. She didn’t even look up when she spoke.
“You know what time it is?”
Her voice wasn’t angry—just tired. Drained in that way that made your chest twist a little.
“Yeah,” you said softly, stepping out of your shoes. “I lost track.”
Your mom finally looked up. Her eyes flicked to your jacket, your tangled hair, the faint whiff of dust and old grease you carried back from the diner.
“You were with him again.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.
She sighed and sat back in her chair, eyes heavy. “You can’t keep doing this, sweetheart.”
You stayed by the doorway, hands in your pockets, chewing the inside of your cheek.
“I’m not doing anything wrong,” you mumbled.
“Not yet,” she said. “But trouble follows that boy like a shadow.”
You didn’t say it aloud, but you thought it anyway.
Good. So do I.
Without another word, you walked down the hall and shut your bedroom door behind you.
The only light in your room came from the moon outside your window. You crossed the floor, dropped your jacket on the bed, and fished into your pocket.
The bottle opener from the diner caught the moonlight just right as you turned it over in your hand.
You smiled again—just a little this time.
The smell of questionable pizza and overcooked green beans lingered thick in the air, but it didn’t matter. You were already weaving through the tables with your tray in hand, heading toward your table—the one where noise, weirdness, and near-constant laughter were part of the deal.
“Okay, but we cannot open with ‘War Pigs’ again,” Gareth was saying, waving half a sandwich like it was a conductor’s baton. “We’re becoming predictable.”
Jeff leaned across the table, chewing thoughtfully. “People like predictable. It’s crowd control.”
Doug piped up with a mouthful of tater tots. “Predictable gets you heckled.”
“And heckled means notoriety,” Eddie added from the center of the chaos, his boots kicked up on an empty chair, half a Twinkie in hand. “Notoriety builds legacy.”
You dropped your tray across from him and plopped into your seat, arching an eyebrow. “You guys planning a set list or starting a revolution?”
Eddie pointed the Twinkie at you like a preacher. “Both, sweetheart. Both.”
“You’re late,” Doug said, nudging his tray your way. “We almost gave your seat to a freshman.”
“You touch my seat, I take your soul,” you deadpanned, snatching a tater tot off his tray.
He shrugged. “Fair.”
“Anyway,” Eddie said, pulling a notebook from beneath his jacket like it was classified intel, “we’re down to two opening tracks—‘The Trooper’ or ‘Symptom of the Universe.’”
You bit into your apple. “You’re seriously debating this like it’s the damn Super Bowl.”
“Because it is,” Gareth said, dead serious. “Thursday night. The Hideout. Four people in the audience max. Maybe five if Jeff’s mom shows up.”
Jeff raised his soda can. “She always does.”
“I’m just saying,” you said, setting your apple down, “no one in that bar cares what song you start with. They just want something loud, something angry, and maybe to get a free beer if they flirt with the bartender.”
Eddie beamed at you. “And that’s why you’re an honorary member of this band of degenerates.”
“Honorary?” Doug asked. “She literally helped us roll for loot two weeks ago.”
“I fell asleep halfway through,” you reminded him.
“And still somehow survived the ogre ambush,” Gareth muttered.
“Yeah, ‘cause Eddie kept rerolling behind the screen.”
Eddie gasped, hand on his chest. “Are you accusing your fearless Dungeon Master of cheating?”
You grinned. “Not accusing. Just observing.”
He tossed a crust of bread at you. You ducked. The others laughed.
The table was loud, obnoxious, and borderline unbearable to anyone sitting within a ten-foot radius. But to you? It was home. You didn’t care about the campaign schedule or the band drama half as much as they did, but it didn’t matter. You were part of it anyway.
Here, no one tried to change you. Or warn you away from being yourself. Or away from Eddie.
Which, judging by the way he was still looking at you over the rim of his soda can—with that crooked smile that always spelled trouble—you’d have to deal with later.
But for now, you kicked your feet up beside his, stole another tot from Doug’s tray, and settled into the noise.
Later that day, you were walking toward Eddie’s locker, planning to meet up before heading to the parking lot. But you knew something was wrong before you even saw it.
The crowd gave it away.
A couple of underclassmen lingered nearby, whispering and pretending not to look. A few seniors passed, snickering behind their hands. That knot in your stomach twisted tighter with every step.
And then you saw it.
FREAK
Spray-painted in jagged red letters across Eddie’s locker door. The paint still dripped, fresh and bold and proud.
Eddie was already there, standing in front of it like it wasn’t even his. He had one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the strap of his bag, eyes scanning the word like it was graffiti on a bathroom wall and not a personal attack.
You approached slowly. “Jesus…”
He looked over at you, then back at the locker. “Creative, huh?”
“Are you okay?”
He snorted. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
But you didn’t buy it. Not from the way his mouth pressed into a thin line. Not from the way he wouldn’t touch the door.
“It’s bullshit,” you said, voice low, sharp. “We should tell—”
“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “It’s not worth it.”
“Eddie—”
“It’s just a word.” He finally reached forward and popped the locker open like the paint wasn’t even there. “I’ve been called worse. Hell, I am worse. Freak’s kind of a promotion.”
You stared at him. He looked tired. Not angry. Not even hurt. Just used to it—like he’d seen this coming the day he first wore a Dio shirt to school and never looked back.
He pulled out a book, slammed the locker shut, and slung his arm around your shoulder like nothing happened.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go do something illegal.”
You tried to smile. Tried to match his energy.
But you kept glancing back at that word. And the way he didn’t even flinch.
You weren’t even in a bad mood until you heard the voice.
“…yeah, I did it. Told you I would,” some guy was bragging just outside the door. “Spray-painted it right on his locker. FREAK—like billboard size.”
A snort of laughter followed. “No way.”
“Swear to God. My cousin had that red paint in his garage. Took like three seconds. Guy’s a loser anyway—no one’s gonna do shit.”
Your jaw clenched. You peeked out through the cracked door just enough to see who was talking.
Ryan Garrison.
Smug. Stupid. Already walking away with two other guys, all of them laughing like they’d just pulled off a harmless prank and not openly vandalized someone else’s property.
Your hands curled into fists inside your sleeves.
You didn’t say anything then. Not yet.
But you had a name now.
And something about the way Eddie had looked at his locker yesterday—like it was a fact of life, not something he deserved to fight back against—stuck to your ribs like ash.
This wasn’t going to slide.
Not this time.
Behind the bleachers, Eddie was sitting on the concrete, knees pulled up, lazily plucking at the strings of his guitar. The smoke from his cigarette curled lazily into the air. He didn’t look up when you approached—he never had to.
You dropped beside him, legs stretched out, pulling your sleeves over your hands.
“I know who did it.”
He paused, just long enough to let the words settle. “Did what?”
You gave him a look.
He sighed through his nose, set the guitar down gently beside him. “Doesn’t matter. I already told you—”
“It was Ryan Garrison.”
Now he looked at you.
You could see it then—how his jaw tensed for just a second. Not surprised. Just… disappointed in the predictability of it all.
“He was bragging about it in the hallway,” you went on. “Didn’t even bother to whisper. Just loud and proud with his dumbass buddies like it was a joke.”
Eddie leaned back against the wall, looking up at the sky. “God, I’d love to be that stupid. You think life’s easier when you’re that full of yourself?”
“Probably,” you muttered, then nudged his knee with yours. “But also… I have an idea.”
Eddie turned to you slowly, brow arched, curiosity piqued. “Oh no.”
You grinned. “Oh yes.”
“What level of felony are we talking here?”
“No felonies,” you said sweetly. “Just… maybe some light vandalism. Minor property damage, at worst.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“I say we skip last period,” you continued, “grab a carton of eggs from the corner store, and redecorate Ryan Garrison’s shiny little Camaro.”
Eddie blinked. “You want to egg his car?”
“Don’t you?”
There was a long pause. Then:
“I do love performance art.”
You bumped shoulders. “Thought so.”
He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head like he was trying to be the voice of reason, but couldn’t quite resist. “You’re gonna get detention.”
“You’ll be right there with me.”
“Oh, I’m definitely not letting you do it alone,” he said. “If you go down, I’m going down with you.”
“Us against the world,” you said, holding out a pinky.
Eddie linked his pinky with yours. “Always.”
The lot was mostly empty, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the faded lines and scattered cigarette butts. Ryan Garrison’s Camaro—sleek, waxed, obnoxiously red—sat like a trophy near the back row.
You crouched behind a scraggly bush with Eddie, both of you gripping your smuggled plastic bag of ammo: a dozen slightly-warm eggs from the corner store fridge. You could barely contain your grin as you peered around the shrub like war criminals on a covert op.
Eddie whispered, “Okay, listen. We do this fast, like guerrilla warfare. You take the driver’s side, I’ll take the back. We launch, we leg it. Got it?”
“Got it,” you said, cracking your knuckles dramatically.
“One… two… go!”
You darted out from cover, pulling an egg from the carton mid-run. The first one hit the windshield with a glorious splat. The second one smacked the driver’s side door, dripping yolk down the shiny paint.
Eddie whooped from the rear bumper. “Eat poultry, you shiny bastard!”
He chucked two in rapid fire—one hitting the trunk, the other bouncing off the rearview mirror with a satisfying crack.
“Oh my God,” you gasped, breathless with laughter. “We’re going to hell.”
“We were already going to hell!” he shouted gleefully, winding up and letting one rip straight at the hood.
Then, “HEY! WHAT THE HELL?!”
You didn’t even turn around to confirm. You knew that voice.
“Run!” you yelled, grabbing Eddie by the sleeve.
You both took off, legs pumping, laughter bubbling out of your chests as Ryan’s furious footsteps pounded behind you.
Eddie tossed the empty bag over his shoulder as you rounded the edge of the lot, diving into the passenger seat of his van while he jumped behind the wheel.
He jammed the key into the ignition. “Come on, come on, come on—YES!”
The engine roared to life just as Ryan came into view, red-faced and livid, streaks of yolk still dripping down his car in the distance.
Eddie peeled out of the lot with a screech of tires, flipping him the bird out the open window. You slammed the door shut just in time and nearly doubled over with laughter.
“Holy shit!” you gasped, clutching your stomach. “We’re actually gonna die!”
Eddie was howling, one hand pounding the steering wheel. “Did you see his face?! He looked like his soul left his body!”
You were breathless, wild with adrenaline and glee, wind whipping through the open window as the town blurred past you.
“That felt so good.”
Eddie glanced at you as the wind whipped through the cracked windows, hair tousled, eyes gleaming.
And in that moment—in Eddie’s van, hair messy, heart racing—you felt more alive than you had in weeks.
Just two teenage dirtbags with egg-stained hands and nowhere else to be.
The van was parked at the edge of the woods, a spot you both stumbled on years ago—your unofficial hideout from everything. The trees opened into a clearing that caught the last light just right, turning everything gold and soft and quiet.
You and Eddie were lying side by side on the grass, backs pressed into the earth, heads tilted to the sky where the clouds burned orange and pink.
The adrenaline had long since faded, leaving a slow, syrupy warmth in your chest. One of your shoes was off. Eddie’s jacket was draped over both of you like a shared blanket.
He was playing with a blade of grass between his fingers, eyes half-lidded. “Do you think the eggs did any actual damage? Like, cosmetic damage. Paint-eating level.”
“I hope so,” you said softly.
He chuckled. “You’re terrifying.”
You turned your head toward him. “You’re just now realizing that?”
He gave you a lazy grin, and the world shifted just a little.
It was quiet for a moment. Not awkward. Not tense. Just quiet.
Then Eddie spoke again, voice lower. “You ever think about how long we’ve been doing this?”
You blinked. “Breaking and entering? Vandalism? Petty crimes in general?”
He snorted. “No—well, yes—but I meant… this. You and me.”
You swallowed, heart thudding. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
He plucked another blade of grass. “It’s weird, right? Everyone else seems to… grow out of their people. Switch friends like seasons. But you stuck.”
You smiled, looking up at the sky again. “Maybe I just like weirdos.”
“Lucky for me,” he muttered.
You didn’t say anything for a moment. You were too busy trying to memorize this version of Eddie: eyes soft, voice gentle, golden light kissing his cheekbones.
You could feel it again—that fluttery thing in your chest that always showed up when he got quiet like this. You’d buried it for years under jokes and reckless nights and pretending you were just partners in crime.
But it never really left.
And now, lying beside him like this, it itched behind your ribs.
You turned your head slightly, your voice barely above a whisper. “You know… if you ever decide to grow out of me, I’m locking you in that abandoned diner.”
He tilted his head toward you, smirking. “You’d have to catch me first.”
“Oh, I’d catch you.”
He chuckled, and the sound felt like home. Then, more seriously, “Not gonna happen. You’re stuck with me.”
Your chest ached in that soft, good way.
“Good,” you said, almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t really want anyone else.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.
It was full of something unspoken.
And you let it hang there, golden and quiet, in the space between your shoulders and his.
You should’ve known something was off the second you walked through the door.
Your mom was in the kitchen, humming. Humming. She hadn’t done that since... since she took your journal and called it "worrisome." And your dad was pretending to read the paper, though he hadn’t turned a page in five minutes.
Your stomach dropped.
“Sweetheart,” your mom called, too brightly. “We’re having dinner with the Darrows tonight. Come change, would you? Put on something… nicer.”
You blinked at her, halfway out of your shoes. “The Darrows?”
She smiled, the kind that never reached her eyes. “You remember their son, Nathan? He goes to the youth group at Trinity.”
There it was.
“You invited someone from church?” you asked flatly, incredulous. “Why?”
Your dad folded the paper like he’d been waiting to jump in. “He’s a good kid. Polite. Plays varsity basketball.”
“He wore loafers to gym class,” you muttered, arms crossing tightly. “He said Dungeons & Dragons was ‘satanic.’”
Your mom’s smile faltered just slightly. “Maybe it’s time you spent time with people who could be a good influence on you.”
You stared at her, chest slowly filling with heat. “This is about Eddie.”
“No,” your dad said—too quickly. “This is about your future.”
You laughed. A cold, stunned little sound. “You think I’m gonna marry Nathan Darrow?”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“You’re trying to fix me,” you snapped. “Like I’m broken. Like Eddie broke me.”
“He’s not—” Your mom stepped forward, her voice soft but sharp, “—the kind of person you should be around.”
That did it.
You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. You just turned around, walked calmly to your room, grabbed your bag, and climbed out the window like you had a hundred times before.
You didn’t knock.
You didn’t have to.
Eddie opened the door the second you reached the top step, like he already knew it was you.
He took one look at your face and stepped aside, wordless.
You dropped your bag on the floor with a dull thud, toeing off your shoes.
Then you just stood there, in the soft yellow light of his living room, swallowing back the lump in your throat.
Eddie watched you quietly. “They tried again, huh?”
You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. “Tried to sell me off to a Bible boy.”
He didn’t laugh. He just opened his arms.
You stepped into them without hesitation.
He held you tightly, chin resting on the crown of your head.
The trailer was quiet now. Wayne was working the night shift, and the TV buzzed low in the background, playing some late-night rerun no one was really watching.
You were both at the tiny kitchen table, a half-eaten bowl of cereal between you, cold by now. Eddie was lazily flipping through a tattered Hit Parader magazine while you stared at your hands, still a little wrung out from earlier.
Then, suddenly:
“Let’s get outta here.”
You blinked. “What?”
Eddie looked up, grinning like a spark had just caught in his brain. “Like—out. Just for a night. Let’s go somewhere.”
“Where?”
He shrugged, leaned back in his chair. “Chicago. Why not? It’s what, three, four hours from here?”
You stared at him.
He was serious. And maybe a little sleep-deprived. But also serious.
“You want to drive to Chicago tonight?”
He grinned. “Yeah.”
“Eddie, we don’t have money.”
“I have ten bucks and half a tank of gas.”
“I have eight,” you said slowly. “And a granola bar.”
“See? That’s a feast,” he said, mock offended. “We’ll live like kings.”
You snorted. “What would we even do there?”
He shrugged again, that boyish, chaotic light in his eyes. “Get lost. Walk around the city. Maybe sneak into a punk show. Or sit on a rooftop and scream at the skyline. Doesn’t matter.”
And the thing was… it didn’t.
Because he was looking at you like you were the point of it all. Not Chicago. Not the getaway. Just the idea of being free with you.
You looked at him for a long moment, then said softly, “Okay.”
His smile grew, slow and wide. “Yeah?”
“Let’s be stupid.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
You threw your bag into the back. He brought a couple of tapes, a hoodie, a few crumpled bills, and his lucky lighter. You didn’t even ask why.
As the van pulled out of the trailer park, the town faded behind you like static. Streetlights blurring. The stars overhead flickering faintly, and the open road stretching out in front of you like a promise.
“Freedom tastes like exhaust fumes and bad decisions,” Eddie declared, one hand out the window like he could catch the wind.
You laughed, head resting on the seat. “We’re gonna regret this.”
“Maybe,” he said, glancing at you with a crooked smile. “But not tonight.”
And for once, it felt like you could breathe.
Like running wasn’t running away—it was just running toward something.
Something that looked a lot like him.
They didn’t even check IDs.
Maybe it was the smeared eyeliner and scuffed boots. Maybe it was Eddie’s jacket with all the safety pins or the way you both walked in like you belonged.
Either way, you were in—bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, the ceiling dripping with condensation, someone screaming into a mic like the world was ending and it needed to be loud.
You and Eddie lost yourselves in it. No one from Hawkins here. No judgmental stares. Just noise and lights and sweat and freedom.
He grabbed your hand during a guitar solo and spun you in the crowd, his hair sticking to his forehead, laughing like he was seventeen and unstoppable. You grinned wide, your voice raw from yelling, from singing along even when you didn’t know the words.
Later, after the band finished their set and you’d slipped out a side door that led into an alleyway full of graffiti and old posters peeling off the bricks, Eddie fished out a joint from his pocket like it was treasure.
“You carried that through state lines?” you asked, eyes wide.
He just smirked. “You’re welcome.”
You both leaned against the alley wall, the buzz of leftover adrenaline in your chest, sharing slow, quiet puffs between bursts of laughter.
The world softened.
The city was asleep, or pretending to be. Traffic lights blinked for no one. Steam rose from the grates in the sidewalk. You and Eddie walked side by side, dazed and giddy, your fingertips tangled together without thinking about it too hard.
You were both too high to be cold, too happy to care.
You kicked a stray can down the street. He tried to hop on a newspaper box and nearly fell off. Everything was hilarious.
And then, in a lull between laughs, he said, “Y’know, this feels like a movie.”
You glanced at him, lips parted in a smile. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Like… the part right before the world gets all complicated again.”
You were quiet for a moment. The good kind of quiet.
Your hand tightened around his.
“I don’t care if it gets complicated,” you said softly, watching your steps on the sidewalk. “As long as you’re in it.”
He looked over at you—really looked—and for once, didn’t deflect with a joke.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. No dramatic tone, no grand promise. Just fact.
You nodded, a little dizzy. From the weed. From the night. From the boy beside you who made this whole goddamn city feel like home.
“I’m glad I have you,” you murmured, barely audible.
He squeezed your hand.
“Right back at you, trouble.”
The world was pale and still when you woke up.
Your head rested on Eddie’s chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing gently rocking you awake. One of his arms was curled around you, his other hand half-asleep against your hip. The old blanket he kept in the back was tangled around your legs, and the van windows were fogged from the inside.
You didn’t move. Neither did he.
There were no words.
Just the soft hum of morning settling in, the birds starting their songs, the ache in your limbs from a night lived hard and full.
Eventually, Eddie blinked awake, eyes squinting at the light filtering through the windshield. His gaze flicked down at you. He didn’t look surprised. Just… calm.
You gave him a sleepy smile.
He smiled back.
Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.
Eddie parked a few houses down from yours like usual. The sun had fully risen now, casting golden light over the familiar neighborhood. Lawn sprinklers clicked on. A dog barked somewhere nearby. Everything felt painfully normal.
You sat in the passenger seat for a moment, your bag in your lap, neither of you ready to break the spell completely.
“Well,” you sighed, hand on the door handle. “Back to pretending.”
Eddie leaned forward, resting his arms on the steering wheel. “We’ll make it out again. Next time—maybe even with money.”
You smiled, heart pinched in the best way.
You opened the door, swung one leg out—then paused.
Leaning back in, you reached across the console and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.
“Thanks for running away with me,” you whispered.
His eyes widened just a little—but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. He just smiled, slow and warm.
“Anytime, trouble.”
And with that, you slipped out of the van, hugging your bag close, and vanished up the side of your house just before the neighborhood fully woke up.
Eddie watched the spot you disappeared into for a few seconds longer, his fingers brushing the spot on his cheek where your lips had been.
School was out, and the Hellfire boys were all grouped near the back of the lot like always. Gareth leaned against Jeff’s car, drumsticks tapping lightly against his thigh. Doug was halfway through a story about a kid who fell asleep in math and drooled on his own worksheet. You were only half-listening, the zipper of your backpack clenched between your fingers.
Eddie was off to the side, scrawling something into his well-worn campaign binder, crouched on the curb. The sun caught in his hair. His chain hung loose. He looked ridiculous and perfect.
You smiled without meaning to.
“Alright, nerds, same time Thursday?” Eddie called out, shutting the binder with a dramatic snap.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jeff grinned, already sliding into the front seat.
The group started peeling away, shouting jokes and farewells, backpacks slung over shoulders.
You waved at Doug and Jeff as they piled into the car. “Later, losers.”
“Bye, honorary loser,” Doug called.
You turned back just in time to catch Eddie’s eyes. He grinned, and you shot him a mock salute.
“Drive safe, Munson.”
“I always do,” he lied, winking as he slid into the van.
You didn’t look away immediately.
And he didn’t either.
Then, with a little wave, he backed out and rolled off toward the main road.
You were still watching the van disappear when Gareth stepped up beside you, arms crossed.
“So,” he said casually. “When are you gonna tell him?”
You blinked. “Tell who what?”
He gave you a knowing side-eye. “C’mon.”
You tried to laugh it off. “You’re imagining things.”
“Sure,” he said, drawing the word out. “Totally. You just happened to stare at him like he personally invented sunlight.”
You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”
Gareth just smirked. “I’m just saying. The rest of us already know. It’s just you and Eddie who haven’t figured it out yet.”
You turned away before he could see the color rising to your cheeks.
“See you Thursday, Gareth.”
“You owe me five bucks when you finally kiss,” he called after you.
You flipped him off over your shoulder—but you were smiling.
His room was a mess of posters, records, and the distinct scent of weed curling through the air. The window was cracked just enough to let the smoke drift lazily outside, and the two of you were stretched out on the floor, backs propped against the edge of his bed.
Eddie held the joint between his fingers, gesturing with it as he recounted the latest Hellfire session like he was reading from a holy text.
“And then—this is the best part—Doug’s bard tries to seduce the necromancer’s skeleton minion, like full-on charisma roll, flowers, everything—”
You choked on a laugh, nearly dropping the soda can in your hand. “What did you do?”
“I made him roll with disadvantage for being a creep,” Eddie said proudly, eyes alight with glee. “And the skeleton punched him in the face.”
You snorted, nudging your socked foot against his leg. “God, you’re so mean to them.”
“I’m fair,” he corrected, passing you the joint with a grin. “It’s not my fault their stupidity knows no bounds.”
You took a hit and leaned your head back against the mattress, exhaling toward the ceiling, warm and light and a little dizzy in the best way.
Eddie kept talking, something about a cursed dagger and Jeff accidentally summoning a demonic goat, but you weren’t really listening anymore. Not fully.
You were watching him.
The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The way he moved his hands too much when he got excited. The little scratch in his voice when he’d smoked just enough.
Something in your face must’ve changed—softened, maybe—because he stopped mid-sentence and tilted his head at you.
“…Am I that interesting,” he asked, smirking slightly, “for you to stare at me like that?”
You blinked, startled.
Heat crept up your neck.
“Maybe,” you said, too slow, too honest.
He blinked, the smirk faltering for just a second—then he looked away with a quiet chuckle, scratching the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with the silence that followed.
You passed the joint back to him, your fingers brushing his. Neither of you commented on how long that touch lingered.
He cleared his throat, eyes flicking toward the window.
“You’re weird,” he said finally, voice a little softer now.
“You’re weirder,” you murmured back, your cheek tilted toward your shoulder as you watched him.
Then, after a beat, you blinked and looked away.
“…Sorry,” you said softly, the word slipping out like it was pulled from somewhere deeper than you expected. “For staring.”
Eddie didn’t answer right away.
You figured maybe he was trying to think of something funny to deflect with, like he always did. But then you heard the creak of the mattress as he shifted closer, and when you glanced back at him, he was already looking at you again.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. No smirk. No teasing.
You opened your mouth, but no words came.
Eddie leaned in just slightly, one elbow resting on the floor, hand curling near your knee but not touching.
“I like it,” he added, voice low.
Your breath caught.
“Like what?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
“The way you look at me,” he said. “Like I’m… something.”
You blinked. The joint burned slowly between his fingers. You didn’t even notice the smoke anymore.
“You are,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You’ve always been something.”
Eddie let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like a laugh, like he didn’t know what to do with the truth of that. “You’re really gonna kill me, aren’t you.”
You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”
He looked at you, his eyes tracing yours like he was trying to memorize the way you looked when you were this close. When the light was soft and low and you weren’t looking away.
“Because I’ve wanted to kiss you for, like, ever, and if you keep looking at me like that…”
You didn’t give him a chance to finish.
You leaned forward, slow but sure, giving him time to stop it—he didn’t.
Your lips brushed his in the softest, smallest movement, and then again, fuller this time, your hands finding the fabric of his shirt to hold onto.
Eddie let the joint fall into the ashtray. He kissed you back with both hands cradling your face, warm and a little clumsy like every nerve in him was firing at once. His thumb brushed your cheekbone as he pulled you closer, tasting like weed and soda and every shared laugh you’d ever had.
It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate.
It just was.
Something about kissing Eddie felt inevitable now — like you’d already been halfway doing it for years in every shared secret, every getaway, every “you okay?” and “come with me.”
The weed buzzed warm through your limbs, making everything feel hazy at the edges. Soft. Slower.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed against your lips, eyes flickering over your face like he wasn’t sure you were real. “You’re really doing this to me, huh?”
You smiled, fingertips tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Just shut up and keep kissing me, Munson.”
That got a breathless laugh from him, the kind that disappeared into your mouth as you pulled him into another kiss. Deeper this time. Messier. Less careful. His hands slid up under your hoodie, thumbs tracing the skin of your waist like he couldn’t believe you were letting him.
You rocked into him just slightly — enough to make his breath catch, enough to let him feel you weren’t playing around.
“Fuck,” he mumbled, mouth trailing down to your jaw, then under your ear. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
“You’ve been ruining me since seventh grade,” you whispered back, tilting your head to let him in.
You felt him smile against your neck, his hands tightening on your hips like he couldn’t help himself.
“Take me to your bed.”
Eddie’s eyes widened — pupils already blown out from the joint you shared earlier, but now they were all you could see. “You sure?” he asked, voice rough with restraint.
You nodded. “I’ve never been more sure.”
For a second, he didn’t move — just looked at you like he was trying to etch this moment into his soul. Then, carefully, he lifted you off his lap and helped you to your feet, tugging you gently by the hand toward the bed.
Once you were sitting at the edge, Eddie stepped between your knees, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Still with me?”
You answered by kissing him again, pulling him down with you until your back hit the mattress and he was leaning over you. You could feel him — his cock, hard and pressing into you through layers of clothes — and your cunt clenched in response.
Hands fumbled with zippers and fabric, laughter slipping between kisses as you both struggled with nerves and anticipation. You helped him pull off your hoodie and toss it somewhere on the floor, followed by your shorts. His shirt went next, then your bra, then your underwear — and suddenly you were bare beneath him, flushed and glowing.
Eddie’s eyes roamed every inch of you like he’d never seen anything so sacred.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Like… shit, I don’t even have words for you.”
Your face flushed deeper. “Then maybe just kiss me.”
And he did — from your lips to your neck, down your collarbone, teeth grazing gently as his hands explored you. When his fingers found your folds, he paused at how soaked you were.
“You’re really like this for me?” he murmured, running soft, slow circles that made your thighs twitch. “Goddamn…”
Your back arched, head falling back with a gasp. “Eddie…”
He took his time, working you open with gentle touches, one finger inside you, then two, curling and coaxing until you were clinging to his arm.
Only when you were writhing, panting, nearly coming undone from just his fingers, did he reach for a condom from the drawer.
You watched as he pulled his pants and boxers down, revealing his cock — flushed, thick, and hard. You swallowed at the sight, nerves and need colliding in your gut.
Eddie noticed. “Hey,” he whispered, leaning over you again. “We go slow, alright? You say the word, and I’ll stop.”
You nodded, hands trembling slightly as he rolled on the condom and settled between your legs, guiding himself to your entrance.
The stretch was slow — deeper than anything you’d felt, and you gasped, eyes fluttering shut. Eddie stilled, brushing your hair from your face.
“You okay?”
You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah… just full.”
He kissed your temple. “I got you, sweetheart.”
When he started moving, it was careful — slow thrusts, each one deeper than the last, his hands bracing on either side of your head. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting more.
Every drag of his cock against the walls of your cunt made heat bloom low in your belly. His name left your lips like a chant, and in return he whispered yours with quiet reverence.
“Feels so good… you’re so perfect,” he breathed, voice cracking slightly as his thrusts got a little faster, a little harder. “I’ve wanted this—God, I’ve wanted you for so long.”
Your fingers clawed into his back as the tension built in your core — a tight, spiraling burn. And when his hand slid down to circle your clit just right, it tipped you over.
You came with a cry, clenching around him, and that was all it took.
Eddie moaned your name as he buried himself deep one last time, spilling into the condom with a quiet, shuddering gasp. His body collapsed over yours, forehead pressed to your shoulder as your breaths mingled in the thick silence.
Neither of you spoke for a long moment.
Just breathing.
Just there.
Eventually, Eddie rolled to the side and pulled you with him, your limbs tangling as you lay together in the warmth of it all.
You stared at each other in the dim light, faces flushed, lips swollen. Then, shyly, you leaned in and kissed him — soft and slow.
“Still high?” he murmured.
You smiled. “Maybe. But also just… happy.”
He brushed his thumb over your cheek and grinned. “Me too.”
Your head rested on Eddie’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart as your fingers absentmindedly traced circles on his skin. The room had gone quiet except for the hum of the amp in the corner and the soft rustling of sheets every time either of you shifted.
His arm was wrapped around your shoulders, holding you like he never wanted to let go.
“You good?” he asked eventually, voice a little raspy from smoke and breathless moans.
You nodded against his skin. “Yeah. Really good.”
A beat.
Then his voice dropped quieter, more uncertain. “So… that wasn’t just a high thing, right?”
You tilted your head to look at him. His eyes met yours, softer than you'd ever seen them. There was no teasing in his face, no cocky smirk. Just Eddie — wide-eyed, open, vulnerable.
You shook your head. “No. It wasn’t.”
A long breath left him, like he’d been holding it since the second your lips first touched. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve had feelings for you since, like… forever. And if I just ruined everything by being a horny idiot, I’d probably walk into traffic.”
You laughed quietly, scooting up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You didn’t ruin anything. I like you too. You know I do.”
He let that sink in, blinking up at the ceiling for a second. Then he turned back to you, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “So what does that mean for us?”
You hesitated — not out of doubt, but the weight of saying it out loud.
Then you smiled, heart full. “I think it means you’re my boyfriend now.”
He blinked, a beat of silence… then lit up like someone plugged him straight into the power grid.
“Yeah?” he grinned. “Like officially? I get to tell people you’re mine and everything?”
You smirked, tucking your face into his neck. “Only if I get to tell people you’re mine too.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling you impossibly closer. “You’ve always had me.”
There wasn’t a formal declaration, no big gesture. Just the two of you tangled up in each other, whispering and laughing and exchanging quiet kisses until you both dozed off.
And when Eddie drifted to sleep with his arms still around you, he had the softest, dumbest smile on his face — like this was exactly where he was meant to be.
The cafeteria buzzed with noise, same as any other day — clattering trays, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, the occasional yell from the jocks’ table. But none of that mattered as you made your way toward your usual spot.
You slid onto the chair beside Eddie with a lazy grin, and without saying a word, you reached into your pocket and handed Gareth a crumpled five-dollar bill.
He blinked, then slowly smirked as he took it. “Knew it. Knew it.”
Eddie glanced between the two of you, confused. “Wait, what the hell is this?”
“She owed me five bucks,” Gareth said casually, tucking the bill into his jacket. “Told her the day you two finally kissed, she’d owe me.”
Eddie’s brows shot up. “There was a bet?”
You shrugged innocently, picking at your lunch. “It wasn’t a bet. It was a prediction.”
Gareth snorted. “Same difference.”
Doug leaned forward, frowning. “Wait, kissed?”
Jeff narrowed his eyes. “Are you two—?”
Gareth grinned smugly. “Oh yeah. They’re a thing now.”
Doug blinked. “Since when?!”
You leaned back with a smile. “Since Friday.”
Then, just to twist the knife, you added casually, “Might’ve been more than just a kiss.”
There was a beat of silence before all three of them — Gareth included — let out overlapping groans of “Ew!” and “Dude!” and “We did not need to know that!”
Eddie was laughing, head thrown back, clearly loving every second of it. “God, I love this table.”
Doug covered his ears. “There are things you keep to yourself, man!”
“I did!” you said through laughter. “I was just being honest!”
Jeff shook his head. “There’s honest, and then there’s traumatizing your friends at lunch.”
Eddie leaned in, dropping his arm behind you on the chair. “They’ll live. Let them suffer.”
You grinned and rested your head against his shoulder for a second, completely unbothered by the dramatic reactions surrounding you.
Gareth muttered, “If you guys start making out at the table, I swear I’m transferring schools.”
You winked at him. “Noted.”
In the weeks since that night, everything had shifted — but in the best way. You and Eddie were still you — still sneaking off, still laughing until your stomachs hurt, still thick as thieves — but now there were kisses between conversations and fingers laced under the lunch table. He left scribbled notes in your locker. You stole his flannels. Everyone in school knew, and honestly, neither of you cared.
Being with Eddie was easy, loud, chaotic, and soft in all the right places.
But even with how bold you both were, one line remained uncrossed: your parents.
Until one afternoon, completely unannounced, Eddie Munson showed up at your front door.
You were in your room when the knock came. Then the second knock. Then your mom calling your name, a note of confusion in her voice.
When you came down and rounded the corner into the living room, you nearly choked on your own breath.
Eddie was standing in front of your parents, hands folded politely in front of him, hair surprisingly tamed, black jeans swapped for clean, hole-free ones, and his usual graphic tee replaced with a collared shirt. A button-up, no less.
He looked like someone had dressed him for a church bake sale.
"Good afternoon, Ma'am. Sir," he said, with the most forced, dramatic smile you'd ever seen. “I hope I’m not intruding. I just wanted to formally introduce myself.”
Your mom was too stunned to speak. Your dad just blinked.
You, on the other hand, stood frozen behind them, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. You could practically see the effort Eddie was putting into this performance — the polite tone, the slightly bowed head, the complete absence of any skull rings or visible chains.
He even brought a Tupperware of cookies. Store-bought. But he tried.
Your mom finally said, “Well… that’s very thoughtful of you.”
“Oh, I do my best,” Eddie replied with a small chuckle, glancing briefly at you behind their backs — and the look he gave you was pure mischief.
You walked him out with the front door clicking shut behind you, silence stretching over the porch like a blanket. The evening air was warm, a slow breeze rustling the trees above as you both stepped down the driveway toward his van.
You were going to lose it.
Your dad finally broke the silence with a gruff, “Well, we weren’t expecting visitors.”
Eddie nodded solemnly. “Understandable, sir. I wouldn’t want to barge in, but I figured—” he held up the Tupperware like it was an offering to a god, “—it’d be rude not to say hello properly. Y’know, now that I’m… dating your daughter.”
Your mom gave you a sharp look. You stared back, eyes wide like I didn’t know he was coming either! And then you looked at Eddie, who just stood there, proudly holding his plastic box of cookies like it was a peace treaty.
“Anyway,” he continued, his voice syrupy sweet, “I just wanted to assure you both that I have the utmost respect for your daughter. She’s brilliant. And funny. And kind. Also, she's terrifying when she’s mad, so I know better than to screw it up.”
Your dad raised an eyebrow. Your mom tried to hide a smirk.
You were going to explode.
“I cleaned out my van this morning,” Eddie added helpfully. “Even vacuumed.”
Your mom blinked. “…Oh?”
“Just thought it might help my case,” he grinned.
And somehow, some way, it did.
Your parents weren’t charmed exactly — not yet — but Eddie’s sincerity was hard to deny. He wasn’t pretending to be someone else. He was just turning the volume down. Being presentable. Being brave.
After a few more awkward exchanges and a polite invitation to sit (which he accepted with way too much formality), you ended up next to him on the couch while your parents asked him safe, small-talk questions.
He answered everything — enthusiastically, but just shy of theatrical — and even managed to win a chuckle out of your dad with a well-timed joke about shop class.
When your mom stood to go grab drinks, Eddie leaned toward you slightly and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “I feel like I’m in an episode of Leave It to Beaver.”
You snorted.
“Don’t laugh, you’ll blow my cover.”
You stifled your smile behind your hand.
And when your mom returned with a tray of iced tea and Eddie accepted his glass with a “thank you kindly, ma’am,” you realized just how far he was willing to go — not to change who he was, but to show the people you lived with that he cared. That he wasn’t just your bad influence. That he was something steadier, something that could be good for you.
He caught your gaze while sipping politely from his glass, and his pinky stuck out just a little — just for you. Just to make you laugh.
God, you were in trouble.
Eddie was quiet for once, hands in his pockets, still wearing that ridiculous button-up. His curls had started to frizz a little from the heat, and the edges of his nerves were just starting to show again.
You didn’t say anything until you reached the passenger side.
“That was stupid,” you said, arms crossed, but your mouth was tugging into a smile.
Eddie turned to you, playing innocent. “Define stupid.”
“Showing up like that. The shirt, the cookies, the ‘yes ma’am, no sir’ routine—”
“Hey, that was sincere performance art,” he shot back with mock pride. “Do you know how hard it was not to swear for twenty minutes straight?”
You laughed, stepping closer until you were right in front of him, your fingers brushing the fabric of his cleaned-up façade. “It was so stupid.”
He gave you a crooked grin. “But did it work?”
You looked up at him, letting your eyes soften just enough to let the truth slip through. “Yeah.”
Eddie exhaled, just a little. “Good.”
You leaned in, pressing a hand to his chest, fingers curling against the collar of his shirt. “You didn’t have to prove anything to them.”
“I know,” he said softly, resting his forehead briefly against yours. “Wasn’t for them.”
Your heart fluttered.
You let that hang between you for a second before pulling back, smirking. “Still stupid.”
“Yeah,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “But you like stupid.”
You nodded. “I like you.”
He kissed you gently — not rushed, not greedy, just warm and sure and a little amused. When he pulled back, he whispered, “Same.”
Then he opened the driver’s door with a dramatic bow. “Until our next ridiculous adventure, m’lady.”
You rolled your eyes and pushed him lightly toward the seat. “Go before my dad changes his mind.”
He blew you a kiss and climbed in. As the van rumbled to life and pulled away, you stood there barefoot on the driveway, grinning like an idiot.
Yeah, you liked stupid.
Especially when stupid came with a heart like his.
Things didn’t change overnight.
Your parents didn’t suddenly love Eddie — they weren’t inviting him over for Sunday dinners or quoting Iron Maiden lyrics at the table — but they were trying. The edge in their voice softened when they said his name. The disapproving glances turned into skeptical ones. Your mom even smiled at him once, unprompted.
That was a big day.
Eddie kept being Eddie. He didn’t start tucking in his shirts or going to church — he just showed up with a little more patience and a lot less noise when it came to your parents. He didn’t mock the rules anymore (at least not out loud), and you made sure not to push every boundary just to prove a point.
You were figuring it out. Together.
And as for the two of you?
It was good. Stupidly good.
The dynamic hadn’t shifted much — you were still sneaking off in his van, still laughing until they wheezed, still lying side by side under open skies talking about nothing and everything — but the label gave it something extra. Something real.
Calling each other “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” didn’t change who you were. It just put a word to what you'd already been feeling for a long time. Like a puzzle that had been finished for months but was missing that one last piece.
Now, it was all there. In place. Whole.
Sometimes, you’d look over at him while he ranted about guitar solos or rolled a joint with theatrical flair and think — God, how did I ever live without this?
And sometimes, he’d catch you staring and smirk. “You’re doing it again,” he’d tease.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”
You'd smile, lean in, and say, “That’s because you are.”
And Eddie — blushing, grinning, stupid, hopeless Eddie — would mumble something like “Damn right,” and kiss you like he meant it.
Because he did.
And you never stopped letting him know you meant it, too.
Eddie comes to the rescue when you're upset at a party.
Contains: Eddie x Fem!Reader. Fluff, hurt/comfort. very slight AU, just in that there's a tiny bit of King!Steve lingering. Tommy H is a jerk but Eddie is a sweetheart. and seen in his underwear...twice. No description of reader's appearance, no use of y/n.
Word Count: ~2,400
Warnings: none!
hello i am trying to figure out how to write for Eddie again! not edited, apologies for any mistakes & the rushed ending. enjoy friends <3
Eddie, sitting on the kitchen counter in his boxers, bowl of cereal on his lap, rolls his eyes at Jeff and answers him around a mouthful of Cap’n Crunch.
“Dude, no way.”
“Aw, c’mon —”
“I said no.”
It’s been a busy day today. He had an early, miserable shift at work, dealing with the absolute shitstorm of a morning rush by himself because his coworker called off. Then he was flitting back and forth across town, running some errands that Wayne had requested he take care of, if he so happened to be out and about — which he had been, because he was also making the weekend rounds dealing to his usual clientele. And then he stopped by the Sinclairs’ residence for Erica’s weekly guitar lesson and God, he loves the kid, he really does, but sometimes the sass was just a little too biting, even for him.
So when he finally came home, he starting pulling off his clothes as soon as walked through the door — t-shirt strewn over the chair, jeans puddled on the carpet — and collapsed on the couch in his skivvies. He was out in seconds. Deep, guttural snores could be heard even when standing on the stoop outside.
He was less than pleased when Jeff and Gareth showed up, hammering their fists against the door. It took a few tries, but Eddie, cranky and disheveled, finally opened the door. And not only did they have the audacity to wake him from his nap, but they were here to convince him to attend a party.
At Steve Harrington’s, of all places.
Eddie takes another bite of cereal, eyeing his friends suspiciously. “Why is Harrington still throwing parties, anyway? He graduated.”
“Because he lives at home in that giant, empty house,” says Gareth, like it’s obvious. “What, you get your diploma, and all of a sudden you’re not allowed to have a good time anymore?”
A bit of sugary milk catches in the corner of Eddie’s mouth, and he licks it away. “Look, I’m tired. And it’s not really my idea of a fun night out.” He could picture it now: he would be scowling away in the corner the whole time, beer in hand, watching people who didn’t like him get obnoxiously drunk and dance to bad music.
Jeff crosses his arms over his chest, lips pursed. “Your girl’s gonna be there.”
Eddie sets his bowl down and hops off the counter. “I’ll get dressed.”
In the tasteful entryway of the Harrington house, Eddie bites the inside of his cheek nervously. Looking around, it’s more or less what he expected — a sea of faces belonging to people that mostly ignore him and his friends, although a few sneers from green-and-gold-clad partygoers are sent their way as they walk through the house. And all while some awful Bonnie Tyler song is blasting in the background.
And it’s awfully crowded. Eddie, Gareth, and Jeff squeeze their way through the throng of people in the living room, over to where Grant is seated on the couch next to Dustin, who grins and gives them a dopey wave as they approach.
“Heeey,” he cheers. “You guys came!” He lurches off of the couch and leans in for…a hug? A high five? No one can tell because the toe of his sneaker catches on the rug, and he stumbles forward into Eddie, who catches him by the shoulders to steady him.
Harrington, standing several feet away but watching his young friend keenly, makes a face. “Dustin, take it easy, man. Go slow.”
Oh, Harrington’s playing babysitter. Guess that explains it.
“Yesss, Mom,” Dustin snarks, reaching around to pat Eddie on the back, who returns the gesture while stifling a laugh.
“How many drinks have you had?” Jeff asks him.
“One,” he says proudly.
“And his next one’s gonna be a glass of water,” Steve chimes in, making his way over to the group. He smiles politely around at everyone, but only addresses Eddie, because truthfully, he doesn’t actually know any of the other boys' names.
“Munson.”
Eddie nods, and replies stiffly, “Harrington.”
He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s beer in the kitchen.”
“Cool, man. Thanks.”
There’s an awkward pause. Steve makes his exit before the silence can become too unbearable. Jeff flops down on the couch next to Dustin.
“Wow, Henderson,” Gareth teases, “I can’t believe our little freshman got us an invitation to King Steve’s house.”
Dustin shrugs nonchalantly, but his goofy smile remains. “I got friends in high places,” he says, slurring slightly on the last s.
The boys quickly strike up conversation, but Eddie can’t focus on it; everyone’s voices blend together into one monotonous buzz. He’s here for one person, and one person only.
His dark eyes scan the room impatiently, trying to figure out if you’re here yet — if you’re even planning on showing up at all. Where did Jeff get his intel from, anyway?
“Grant, do you know if —?”
“Out by the pool,” Dustin butts in, all-knowing even in his inebriated state.
“Got it.”
Without hesitating Eddie makes for the back door that leads out to the pool area. Outside, the cool evening air is a welcome reprieve from the stuffiness of the house; the lights from the in-ground pool casts a greenish glow over everything, adding to the more subdued atmosphere.
As though drawn to a magnet, Eddie’s gaze immediately lands on your form, huddled up on a pool chair, staring pensively at the water. He recognizes a few of your friends standing together a few feet away, chatting, but you don’t seem to be interested in joining the conversation.
Eddie clears his throat, walking over to you slowly.
You look up as he approaches. “Hey, you,” he says as casually as he can manage, plopping down on the seat across from you.
“Hi Eddie,” you return, with a small smile that doesn’t quite touch your eyes.
“How are you this fine evening?” He cringes inwardly at his dorky tone. God.
You shrug, unhappy but not really wanting to be a downer at what was supposed to be a fun party. “A little tired, if I’m being honest, but," you raise a fist in half-hearted perseverance, "I’m working on it!”
Eddie frowns, a wrinkle forming between his brows as he looks closer at your expression. “Not in a party mood? Well, me either. My buddies all but dragged me out here.” Not exactly what happened, but he digresses.
You suck air in through your teeth. “Oh, I know that feeling.”
He rolls his eyes. “Ugh, friends. They’re the worst, amiright?”
You groan. “Yes. When they wanna hang out with you and have a good time with you in a festive environment? Just awful. They love to torture us.”
Even in your moment of playful banter, it’s hard to keep the mild distress from clouding your features. Eddie, almost alarmingly perceptive, doesn’t miss it. He leans in, and lowers his voice.
“Did something happen?”
You shake your head, but he knows you’re lying.
Resting a large hand on your thigh, he asks, “Are you sure?” The weight of his calloused palm, warm even through the denim of your jeans, is a comforting presence.
“It’s silly,” you mumble, not meeting his eyes.
“It’s not,” he insists, firm but gentle. “Whatever it is.”
You hold your breath for a moment, before releasing it in a heavy sigh. “Tommy H is here.”
Eddie doesn’t even need to hear more before a grimace spreads across his face.
You hesitate before speaking again. “I was wearing a new bracelet, and I took it off to let Stacy try it on,” you quietly explain, rubbing your naked left wrist with the opposite hand, “and he just took it. Threw it in the deep end of the pool and it sunk to the bottom. I can’t get it out with the skimmer, and it’s too cold to jump in and get it…” you trail off, squirming, face feeling hot.
Relaying this to Eddie, you’re incredibly embarrassed. It feels very childish to let yourself be upset over something so trivial.
Calm down, Carol had said. It’s not like it’s gone forever…you’ll get it back in the summer!
Her snarky laugh echoes in your ears.
“He’s such a fucking tool.” Eddie breaks you out of your reverie, face scrunched in anger on your behalf. He twists his upper body so he can turn and stare at the water. “Where did he throw it?”
You rest an elbow on your knee, cupping your chin in your hand. “On the other end, by the diving board.”
Eddie rises to his feet, peeling his leather jacket off. He’s wearing only a black t-shirt underneath, worn and soft-looking; you don’t miss the sliver of soft white tummy that’s exposed as he tosses his jacket aside.
Your eyes widen. “What’re you doing?”
He kicks his shoes off, and then peels off his socks. “Getting your bracelet back.”
There’s a catch in your throat. “Oh, Eddie, no —”
“Shush. It’s no biggie.”
Eddie steels himself for what he’s about to do next. With his eyes closed, he shucks the rest of his clothing off until he’s standing in his checkered boxers. In front of you, and everybody else, and also God. Goosebumps break out over his exposed flesh.
“Ew, Munson, what the fuck are you doing?” Probably Carol, or Tina, or whoever — it doesn’t matter. They all might as well be the same person.
“Don’t mind me, folks,” he calls out, his voice determinedly light. He lets himself glance at you only once — one hand is clamped over your mouth in shock, but your eyes are shining.
Whatever that might mean.
He keeps his curly head high as he struts past the others standing around the Harrington’s pool area. There’s a chorus of jeers that follow him, and even one mocking wolf-whistle; someone else shouts, “Nobody wants to see that!”
He throws a middle finger in their general direction before jumping into the water.
It’s fucking freezing, Jesus, but he easily spies the chunky piece of jewelry laying against the tile. He quickly swims to the bottom, snags the bracelet in one hand, and uses his feet to propel himself back to the surface.
Both touched and horrified, you rush to the ledge of the pool and crouch by the water. Eddie paddles over to meet you, grinning triumphantly as he waves the bracelet above his head, a clunky thing made of pink and blue plastic.
“Got it!”
Half-laughing, half-frantic at the thought of him getting hypothermia, you grab at his slick forearms. “Get out of there!”
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’.”
Eddie climbs out of the pool with your help, and he starts trembling immediately upon exit. The cool air, once refreshing, now feels positively wintry on his wet skin, so it could just be that...or it could be the fact that you’re kind of holding him while he’s in his underwear.
Both, probably.
“Let’s get you inside,” you urge. “I don’t know if Steve has any towels out here.”
Clasping a hand around his bicep, you tug him back into the house and into the nearest bathroom, ignoring the second round of catcalls and confused stares sent your way.
You make him sit on the counter by the sink, and wrap a towel tightly around his torso, and then another. “You should not have done that, Eddie,” you chastise him, though you’re unable to keep the incredulous grin off your face. “You’re crazy!”
“Maybe I am,” he says nonchalantly, looking at you with a dreamy expression.
You grab a third towel, and drape it over Eddie’s head. “Hold still,” you order.
“Yes, ma’am.”
You scrub the towel through his soaked hair in an effort to dry the curls, though you suspect you’re fighting a losing battle. Still, you squeeze the terrycloth fabric gently around his locks, trying to stem the dripping.
Eddie lets himself revel in the feeling of your hands working over his hair — even if it is through a towel. He stares unabashedly at your face, pinched in concentration. You’re so close like this, just inches away from him, lips slightly parted and perfect…
Eventually, you give up and lay the towel aside. “Well, I think that’s as good as we’re gonna get. Unless you want me to steal Steve’s hairdryer,” you add slyly.
“M’good, babe. Don’t worry,” he reassures you. “Just gotta warm up, is all.”
Your hands come to rest on his shoulders and rub soothingly at the towel-wrapped skin.
“Thank you,” you murmur. “So much, Eddie, I can’t even tell you.”
“Please. I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” he replies.
A shy silence falls over the two of you. You notice for the first time that your middle is resting against the counter, right between Eddie’s legs.
Fiddling with a loose thread on the towel, you avoid his gaze, knowing that those dark irises will swallow you right up if you dare to meet them. “You’re really nice, you know that?”
“Only to you.”
You let out a quiet laugh. “That’s not true, and you know it.”
He shrugs. “Fine. I’m reluctantly nice to other people. But I’m only willingly nice to you.”
You risk a quick glance at his face. “Your…your lips are blue, Eddie.”
“Are they?” He smiles at you knowingly. A gentle hand comes to rest on your lower back, keeping you in place.
Your breath hitches. You feel like you could melt into a puddle. “Yes.”
“They’re pretty cold, I guess. Do you think…maybe, you could help me with that?”
“I…I think I can, yes.”
Eddie’s lips crash into yours. His hands come up to lovingly cradle your face, securing your mouth to his. He’s pleasantly surprised when your tongue slips into his mouth, and he eagerly deepens the kiss, trying not to smile when he feels you shiver.
“Okay, pretty girl?” he mumbles against your lips.
“Y-yes,” you stutter out, clutching at him, suddenly self-conscious. Sensing the tension, he strokes your cheekbone with his thumb soothingly, then pecks at your lips again, once, twice, a third time.
His expression is so soft when he pulls back to look at you. He doesn't let go of your face. “I’ve been wanting to do that for forever,” he admits.
Your heart leaps. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“Oh,” you breathe.
He smiles crookedly. “Wouldn’t jump in that pool for just anybody, y’know?”
You pat his chest in gratitude. “That’s very sweet of you Eddie, to risk hypothermia on my behalf.”
“Speaking of which, I’m still feeling a little chilled,” he complains. “Do me a favor. Come a little closer, would ya?”
cw: age difference (30s/40s), alcohol, smoking, light choking, softdom!Eddie, face fucking, light hair pulling, fingering, piv sex, finishing inside, and aftercare ‘cos we deserve it ♥️
I’ve been in a Mood and now you all have to suffer.
eddie edit by @eddiemunsons-missingnipple
Holy shit, was this guy boring.
Not terribly surprising, unfortunately. Your expectations weren’t all that high to begin with. Most of your recent forays into online dating had been yielding overwhelmingly middling results and this one was no exception.
He had seemed perfectly nice on the app, when he was nothing but a handful of generic pictures and a smattering of inoffensive text bubbles. But any appeal he held had been in steady decline the moment he took his seat next to you at the bar.
He looked more scared of you than anything—fumbling his words and constantly having to push up his glasses as they slid down the bridge of his sweaty nose. You did what you could to help him relax, coaxing him into the conversation, asking all of those tedious first date questions.
And every single one, he answered with nothing but curt, clipped responses. Making no attempt whatsoever to follow up or ask you literally one single thing about yourself.
Then you made the fatal mistake of asking about work, and suddenly longed for the wall of silence. As soon as he got the chance, he launched into a long and droning explanation of his research on the behavior of crickets.
Acheta Domesticus, not that you asked. And he didn’t so much as smirk at your gesundheit joke.
You might have called it quits entirely by now…if it wasn’t for the guy at the end of the bar.
He had arrived not fifteen minutes after your date did, and slid smoothly onto a stool directly in your eyeline. Which was good, considering you would have snapped your neck trying to get a look at him otherwise.
In a word, he was beautiful.
Slightly older, with long dark hair that was wavy and ruffled. A short and scruffy beard that only further accentuated the hard line of his jaw where it met the thick, muscular column of his neck.
He was quite literally littered with accessories—a silver hoop that glinted in his nose, leather cuff and chains on his wrists, chunky rings on his fingers that rapped rhythmically on the bar.
Then there were the more permanent accessories in the form of black ink tattoos that covered both his arms and scrawled upwards to peek out from underneath the collar of his t-shirt. A mix of all different styles and designs, ranging in quality from the kitchen scratcher bats on his elbow to the larger and more artful pieces clearly woven in later to complete the tapestry.
You’d certainly never seen him here before, and that was sort of a feat for this place.
West End was one of your favorite places for this sort of date. It was close enough to your place to be convenient, yet far enough that there was no chance of a guy trying to invite himself over to “use the bathroom” or “wait for an Uber” or whatever other excuses they dredged up.
It was actually two businesses in one, sharing the same name, running out of opposite sides of the same building. Causing only mild confusion.
To one side was a wine bar with cozy seating nooks furnished with plush loveseats, sofas and overstuffed armchairs, all a mishmash of vintage styles from thrift shops and flea markets.
But the other side was all modern and industrial—a billiards hall with high ceilings, exposed brick walls, and a large, glossy horseshoe bar that surveyed the tables from the center.
You tended to frequent the wine bar with your roommate Robin whenever you found yourselves in need of a moody atmosphere and some low, soft lighting, your evening scored by the crackle of some great vinyl record. But the other side was better for dates because it automatically gave you the out of an activity in case you found the conversation lacking.
And boy was it lacking tonight.
He regarded the pool tables more like they were live alligators and quickly dismissed your offer to play before launching right back into his overly-detailed explanation of the differences in the eating habits of crickets and grasshoppers. You sighed, no longer attempting to disguise your boredom as you propped your elbow on the bar and rested your chin on your hand.
It wasn’t just that his research was boring—though it was. Really, the problem was all of his technical explanations were so dry and devoid of any emotion that it made you wonder if he even enjoyed it. You had more stimulating interactions with the bartender, for crying out loud.
He was new to you too, but he moved behind the bar with such ease it seemed like he’d worked there for years. He’d introduced himself as Steve, a row of pearly white teeth winking at you as he flashed a smile you were sure had won him his fair share of superlatives in high-school.
His look read more upscale mixologist, sporting a dark gray vest over a crisp white button down. Sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms that flexed with the pour of every drink, and the collar left open to reveal the glint of a gold chain resting on the soft down of his plentiful chest hair.
The hair on his head was shorter and lighter than the other man’s, but it was long enough to curl slightly around his ears and along the nape of his neck. The ends of it were kissed with caramel highlights that shone in the light when he flipped his head back or ran his large hands through the feathered locks whenever a piece fell forward into his bright hazel eyes.
Most importantly, he also seemed to be friends with your current fixation.
They had greeted each other jovially, hands meeting in a tight clasp over the bar before Steve grabbed a bottle of whiskey and started to pour without the other man even having to order. You watched with morbid fascination as those plush lips wrapped around the rim of his glass and his eyes fluttered closed as he took his first sip, the tattoo on his neck bobbing with the swallow.
Jesus Christ on a cracker…
Suddenly, as though he could sense you watching, his eyes popped open and immediately locked on yours. You started at the sight of the deep brown, almost black, vortexes in the middle of his face, nearly choking on the sip you were taking of your own drink—an excellent Malbec Steve had recommended when you first arrived.
A rush of warmth exploded on your face and you looked away, doing your best to pretend like he hadn’t just caught you blatantly staring at him.
Or that you hadn’t felt that egregious burst of excitement when he did. Did he care that you were looking? Was he looking at you now?
Doesn’t matter, you reminded yourself, trying to return your attention to the man in front of you.
The one you had made an actual plan to come here and meet; the one who was…still talking.
The next bit of your date felt like it took an entire year. You mostly phoned it in, reluctant to admit defeat too quickly. But over and over again, you found your focus drifting either to the stranger at the end of the bar, or to the bartender. And often, those two went hand in hand.
Again, they were either very old friends or both of them were extremely friendly. They talked and joked back and forth in between Steve helping other customers, bouncing from end to end of the bar with ease, charming smile never faltering as he enchanted every person he served.
As for the other man, you’d caught his eye enough times by now that there was no mistaking he was watching you. Though, you suppose that meant he knew you were staring at him as well…
At the end of your first glass of wine, you excused yourself from the bar—needing a break from this guy’s droning voice more than anything.
He nodded, finally taking a sip of his beer he’d barely made any progress on he’d been so entrenched in his recent soliloquy.
The bathrooms at West End were towards the back, down a long hall that obscured them from view of the rest of the bar. It gave the impression of being in an alleyway with black beadboard paneling that came a little over halfway up the wall and an eclectic gallery of pictures.
There were two bathrooms side by side, just single-room stalls adorned with brass apartment numbers rather than gendered signs, and you slipped into the one with no light coming out from underneath the door. And maybe you took a little longer than you probably needed, milking your break for all it was worth. Not stalling, just…taking care of some things.
Things like touching up your lip gloss that needed no touching up since you hadn’t said more than two words in the past half hour. Or like pulling up Tinder on your phone and setting your location to the absolute minimum distance. You know…just on the off-chance someone in the immediate vicinity happened to also have the dating app installed.
No such luck, you found.
A bit more deflated than you had any right to be, you tucked your phone back into your bag and rolled your eyes at yourself as you reached for the doorknob. You didn’t look up until you were almost at the end of the hall and when you did, you found brown eyes looking back at you.
He was headed for the bathroom as you were coming back and he caught you at the start of the long, narrow hallway leading to them. Your eyes met his as you approached and you paused, already anticipating that awkward shuffle of both of you trying to get out of the other’s way.
There was no awkwardness, though.
Heat pooled low in your belly as he held your gaze, and rather than breezing right by when you came to a stop, he stopped as well and leaned against the wall to let you pass. He was close enough now that you could see his hair was streaked with slivers of silver and more grays tinged the edges of his beard, particularly under his ears behind the hinge of his jaw.
Your shoulder just barely brushed his chest as you passed, eye contact holding until you were looking back at him over your shoulder as you returned to the bar.
He stood there, watching until you’d rounded the corner and were out of sight before he moved. Pulse thrumming, you slid into your seat with his cologne still in your nose, tickling your brain.
By the end of your second glass of wine, you were more than ready to go. Frowning as you took your last sip, you gave Steve a regretful shake of your head when he asked if you wanted another.
And beside you, Dale just requested your checks as he pushed away his beer.
You didn’t bother with feeling annoyed he hadn’t offered to get even one of your drinks. To be fair, you had not been remotely good company as it was, and especially not once the guy at the far end of the bar decided to call it a night.
Your heart sank just a little as you watched him stand and pull on a creased and faded leather jacket. He then headed for the door, his eyes locking with yours one last time as he went.
Beside you, your date cleared his throat loudly to get your attention and your head jerked up as you realized Steve had placed your receipt in front of you to sign. If Dale—wait, was it Dale or Dave?—noticed your fixation, he was too polite (or too chicken) to mention anything about it.
Tabs closed and coats thrown back on, you followed Dale (Drew? Dirk?) outside. The wintry air cut through your tights and you hugged your coat a little tighter around you.
“So, which way are you headed?” you asked, rushing out the words before he could ask the same thing and float the idea of sharing a ride.
“Uptown?” he replied.
“Ahh, I’m the other way.”
A derisive snort made your head whip sideways and your eyes darted to the source, landing first on the glowing orange dot of a cigarette and then on the plush pink lips wrapped around the filter at the other end. The snide comment locked and loaded on your tongue abruptly stalled.
It was him.
He leaned against the brick facade, foot kicked up behind him, watching your whole interaction. It made your cheeks burn with indignation, but the hungry look in his dark eyes made your entire lower half throb. His lips curved like the blade of a knife into a smirk as he stubbed his cigarette out on the wall and dropped it in a planter filled with sand next to him. You stared at him, your mind sort of blank, and his eyes remained fixed on yours as he strode back inside the bar.
“Okay, well…I guess I’m gonna go,” Dale sighed, a little petulantly.
You brought your eyes back to him and plastered on your most professional smile, shaking his hand formally like this was the end of an interview for a job he was never gonna get.
“Sounds good,” you said. “Nice to meet you.”
He frowned as he turned away, but you felt relatively certain you’d navigated that fine.
Surely he hadn’t felt the date warranted any other sort of follow-up or lie about doing it again—you certainly hadn’t been on your A-game. And you shuddered to think that was his.
Once he’d gotten in his Uber, alone, and you had assured him the one you had yet to call was on its way, you tugged your phone out of your coat pocket and checked the time.
Right now, you had two choices. It was still early enough that Robin could probably come pick you up with minimal begging required.
Maybe you two could get fries and milkshakes and watch some garbage reality tv before falling asleep in a little cuddle pile on the couch.
It was the reasonable option.
The logical, safe choice.
But all your dates lately had been so painfully reasonable and logical and safe. There had been no horror stories to regale Robin with at Sunday brunch, nor any explosive sexual exploit the two of you could squeal and giggle over while curled up on your overstuffed sofa.
It was downright boring. And you were growing pretty weary of it.
You glanced down one more time at your phone, still thinking. Your thumb hovered over Robin’s contact info, needing only a single tap to dial, while your index rested on the lock button.
With a subtle flex of your hand, you clicked the screen off and headed back into the bar.
One more drink couldn’t hurt…right?
“Back so soon?”
Steve was already smiling smugly at you as you approached, his eyebrow cocked as you slid back into your original seat and returned his smile with one of your own.
“I decided I couldn’t live without another glass of that Malbec,” you sighed dreamily.
He nodded, amusement still tugging at his lips as he uncorked the bottle you’d been steadily draining all night and took down a clean glass from one of the wire racks suspended overhead. You pulled your card from your bag and held it out for him to reopen your tab, but Steve waved it off as he placed down the newly filled glass in front of you and slid it smoothly across the bar.
“It’s taken care of, honey,” he said.
“Oh, really?” you chuckled. “By who?”
Steve smirked at your incredulous tone, his muscled forearms flexing as he leaned on them.
You leaned forward as well, crossing your arms under your chest, knowing how nicely it propped up your cleavage. It made the bartender’s eyes flash as he lowered his voice to a leading hum.
“The dirtbag at the end of the bar.”
He nodded his head backwards, making those caramel-kissed locks of his flop across his brow. Your gaze followed Steve’s nod, landing on the wild head of hair and all-consuming brown eyes you’d been distracted by all night. The “dirtbag” in question was staring straight back at you, the corner of his mouth curled as he raised his rocks glass of brown liquor and tipped it to you.
“Is he really a dirtbag?” you asked him, your eyes never dropping the stranger’s gaze.
“Nah,” Steve shook his head. “Just looks like one.”
“Good to know.”
You hummed to yourself, feeling almost a little cocky as you brought your glass to your lips and took an excruciatingly slow sip. The eyes of the man across the bar watched you intently, a fire burning in them that ignited your very being.
As Steve moved on to another customer, you pulled your eyes from those of the handsome stranger and let them fall briefly to the empty stool beside you. It was about as bold as you were willing to be at the time, but it did the trick. He promptly swiveled in his seat to slide off it and you smirked to yourself as you looked down, pretending to be fascinated by the garnet liquid swirling in your glass as he came around the bar.
“That’s a great Malbec,” he said.
God, his voice.
It made your cheeks (among other things) tingle, smooth and smoky as the whiskey in his glass you could smell as he placed it down beside your wine. The scent of it mixed with his cologne that was dangerously close to becoming your new favorite aroma—something woodsy and heady with a tinge of lightness like a salty sea breeze.
“It is,” you agreed, brow arching as he took the seat beside you. “You’ve had it before?”
“Nah,” he smirked. “You made it look so good, I had Stevie give me a taste. I told him to put your next one on me.”
Both of your brows raised at that. “And how’d you know I was coming back?”
“I didn’t,” he said, taking a cheeky sip of his drink. “I just hoped.”
You felt a smile burgeoning on your lips and pulled your bottom one back with your teeth trying, unsuccessfully, to fight it. He watched it spreading, the tip of his tongue running over the edges of his teeth as he offered you his hand.
You slid your own into his, feeling the exquisite pressure of chunky silver rings pressing on your fingers as he gave them a gentle squeeze.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Eddie.”
“Nice to meet you, Eddie,” you purred right back, offering him your name after a beat.
He repeated it once, all low and rumbly, taking his time with the sound of it in his mouth like it was a piece of chocolate melting on his tongue. Holding your hand a bit longer than necessary.
“So I’m assuming Desperate Dan out there wasn’t your boyfriend?” Eddie asked, chuckling into his next sip. The sound of it spiraled down your back, electrifying your spine.
“Nope,” you sighed heavily. “Just another drop in the Tinder bucket.”
Eddie’s dark eyes gleamed with something like mischief and he made a tsking sound with his tongue. “Well, if that’s the case, I sincerely apologize, sweetheart.”
“Oh, yeah?” You smiled at him. “What for?”
His eyes flickered again, this time taking a long moment to do a sweep up and down your body. Landing on your knees in your tights, flitting back up to your face as she shook his head.
“If someone like you has had to resort to dating apps…we’ve clearly failed as a gender.”
You actually shivered at the words, forcing your shoulders still not to show it as you propped your elbow on the bar and swiped the tips of your nails across your chin and along your jaw to play with your earring. Deepening your voice to a sultry murmur he had to lean in close to hear.
“No argument there.”
You rushed into the bathroom, flapping both your hands back and forth to fan your face and then under your arms. Safely hidden behind the door, your air of detachment could fall away and you could finally let out all the patently un-cool reactions you had been fighting the last hour.
With trembling hands, you pulled your phone out of your bag and fired off a text to Robin.
hey, I’m gonna share my location with you the rest of the night.
wait WHAT? Losera Annoyingus is getting a bang pass?
no he left…
…about an hour ago.
A blue bubble with three blinking dots immediately popped up on the thread and you imagined Robin’s thumbs actually smoking she was typing so furiously fast. But she must decide to abandon her message, because within a split second, a picture of you and her with your faces smushed together came up on the screen as she called you instead.
“Hey,” you whispered, praying your voice didn’t echo too much off the tiled walls.
“Explain,” she demanded. “Now.”
The excitement in her voice only increases your own, your cheeks still impossibly hot as you stand over the sink and fan yourself some more before another layer of sweat can form on your face.
“It’s this guy I met at the bar. He was like, making eyes at me while I was on my date and we started talking after and I just—I don’t know for sure, but it feels like he’s gonna take me home.”
“Is he hot?”
“Yes,” you breathed out a heavy, lustful sigh. “He’s so hot I wanna rip his appendix out.”
“Holy shit,” Robin whistled. “What’s he look like?”
“He’s…I don’t know,” you laughed. “He kind of looks like a Harley that came to life.”
“Alright then, you better go ride him.”
Robin’s snorted laugh makes you cover your own face with your palm. It’s searing hot now, your blood pumping furiously beneath the surface of your skin.
“Well, I have to get back out there to make that happen.”
“Go, go, go—have fun, use protection! Wait, hang on, not in that order!”
You laughed at her warning coming through faintly over the receiver as you mashed the button to end your call. With one last steadying breath, you leaned on the sink and nodded decisively.
“Okay,” you exhaled. “Let’s do this.”
Sage and sea salt filled your nose as you yanked the door open and nearly ran straight into the source of the scent. Eddie leaned against the wall across from the bathroom doors, shoulders shifting subtly as he twisted one of the large rings on his fingers.
You stood face to face now, hands hovering at your sides as you edged into the hallway.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, tucking his chin to his chest as he looked up at you from under long lashes. “Someone’s in the other one.”
You glanced suspiciously at the second bathroom door, seeing no light coming from underneath it. Eddie winced, still smirking adorably as you turned the knob and pushed it open to reveal it was empty on the other side. He chuckled, holding up his hands in a mock surrender.
“Fine,” he sighed. “You caught me.”
“Thought I was making a break for it?” you asked, pulling the door shut. Eddie’s tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek, his eyes roving over you slowly.
“I’d hate to think I scared you off,” he said as he kicked off the wall to stand up straight.
You crossed your arms under your chest, giving him a smile. “I don’t scare so easy.”
He nodded at that, his eyes still taking you in, scanning you like he was reading invisible stats. They lingered a few places you expected, like the curve of your hips and the swell of your chest. But then they landed on other things too, things you weren’t used to people noticing.
Things like your shoulders, or your calves in your boots, even your fucking ears.
“So…everything alright?” he asked, his voice lowering as he took a step closer.
“Yeah, I was just letting my roommate know I might be gone a while.” You held up your phone and tucked it back inside your bag with another coy smile. He chuckled.
“A while, huh?” Step.
“Yeah, you know...it’s pretty late.” Step. “Might be tough to get an Uber.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Eddie shrugged. “I live close.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You were nose to nose now, barely a whisper of space between you, the air thick with the heat radiating off your bodies in the narrow space.
The well worn leather of his jacket sleeve creaked softly as his hand came up to rest on the wall, caging you in with his arm.
“How close?” you asked, breath shuddering as you leaned on the door for support.
“Up the street,” he sighed. “But it’s still too far.”
His warm breath ghosted over your lips as they parted, the smell of the liquor coating his tongue making you feel woozy. Or maybe that was just the effect he was having on you.
He was so close now you could hear the bristly sound his beard made as he scratched at it with blunt fingertips. He’d barely inhaled to ask if he could kiss you when you surged forward to press your lips to his—the roughness of his beard on your chin a welcome abrasion.
Scratching the itch that’s plagued you all night.
It’s a hungry, lawless sort of kiss. Quick and clashing and difficult to tell if it’s actually mean or not—like two dogs play-fighting, both trying to see how much they can get away with before light snarls and soft snaps of their jaws turn to whimpers and whines.
Eddie parried with you for control, his tongue darting in and out of your mouth as he plied you with teasing, playful kisses you fought to deepen, tugging at his shirt. He pushed off the wall and reached down to grab your wrists, pinning them over your head to keep them in place.
The thrill of him trying to restrain you only made you unravel further, straining impatiently against his grasp. Breathless, you stretched out your neck and pushed your face past all his hair to place your lips beside his ear and pant into it.
“Can we go back to—”
“You wanna come back to—”
The both of you chuckled and exhaled with relief as your words and his overlapped, and you felt a sudden rush between your legs from the way Eddie’s eyes blazed with intention.
He released his hold on your wrists and your arms fell limp at your sides. In an instant, he had your hand wrapped tightly in his and was pulling you along as he angled towards the exit.
As you hurried after him out of the hallway and across the bar, you distantly registered music playing, picking out the chugging guitar and bass riffs of some 80s dance song. From behind the bar, Steve caught Eddie’s eye and you saw him offer his friend a two finger salute as the two of you burst through the door, your departure narrated by Paul Stanley’s deep, silky croon.
And tonight, I want to lay at your feet. Cause girl, I was made for you, And girl, you were made for me…
Eddie wasn’t kidding about living close.
Your boots clacked on the sidewalk as he ushered you along under his arm, the quick pace of your walk driven both by the chill in the air and the desire to resume what you started at the bar.
“This is me,” he said, indicating a four-story brick building just a block away from West End.
His place was on the top floor. It was a large studio with high ceilings and many features similar to the bar you’d just left. Half of the space was raised like a platform with a steel wire railing running along the edge. He had his bed up there and what looked like an office, but he’d created a divider of sorts with cube shelves filled with sweats, hoodies and t-shirts.
Promptly, you recalled him telling you he owned a company that designed and distributed merch for independent artists, and how he was constantly receiving samples from suppliers.
The kitchen was simple, sleek cabinetry and stainless steel appliances without a single smudge. A massive butcher’s block with a wooden top and wire racks underneath serving as an island. And a steel rack hanging down from overhead laden with cast iron cookware.
You took a few more careful steps inside, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath from being kissed stupid in the elevator while Eddie flipped some switches that illuminated the space with recessed lighting. Large black-paned windows revealed a view of the city and the night sky outside, some amber light from the street filtering in and casting across the oak floors.
In his living area was a massive brown leather sectional with extra-deep cushions and a chaise at both ends. It faced a plain wall with a screen you assumed went with the projector hanging down from one of the exposed beams overhead.
Every inch of your skin crackled with excitement as he came up behind you and reached around to grip the lapels of your coat and help you out of it, letting his fingertips skim your bare arms as he did. It made you shiver in spite of the warm air you could feel pumping out of the vents.
He hung up your coat next to his on a hook by the front door and you turned to face him as he sauntered back over. His gait was relaxed and casual, like he had all the time in the world.
Like he wasn’t driving you up the wall with every second you went without his mouth on yours.
“Did you want another drink?”
He gestured in the direction of a liquor cabinet, glass shelves lined with a modest array of wines and spirits, but you shook your head at the offer.
“Not particularly,” you said with a coy grin.
Reaching out and hooking a finger in his belt loop, you whirled yourself into him and slotted your mouth against his, licking into it to taste the smoky remnants of whisky there. He breathed into it deeply, his broad chest expanding with it and chuckling when he felt your hands on his belt.
“Easy there, tiger,” he teased, your lips breaking apart and taking hold of your wrists to still their efforts. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”
“Hopefully the kind that knows how to fuck.”
You smirked, the tip of your tongue flicking out between your teeth as your face veered in again. Your hips pressed with his and you began to sway back and forth, gently grinding them on him, resuming the dance you’d begun. His face came close, his hands settling on your waist.
“C’mon, honey,” he drawled. “Haven’t you heard good things come to those who wait?”
His lips trailed along the column of your neck, sending a riot of shivers down your spine causing you to release a breathy sigh.
“Sorry, what? All I heard was come.”
Eddie chuckled at that and his breath rushed across your neck as he smiled into your jugular.
“You’re funny,” he sighed. “We’ll see how funny you are when I get done with you.”
It was a miracle your knees didn’t buckle on the spot. Your eyes rolled back in your head, almost seeing the inside of your skull as his hand came up and he placed it around your throat.
“You want this?” he asked, his tone cool and precise, his eyes wandering across your face.
“Yes,” you gasped, all desperate and panting now you were so eager for him to start.
His thumb and middle finger pressed the sides of your throat, slowing the flow of blood just enough to make your head go fuzzy and your body to go just barely limp in his arms.
“Yes, what?” he growled. You drew a shuddering breath, unrestricted by his expert hold.
“Yes, I want this,” you answered. “I want you.”
Eddie took his time undressing you, softly kissing the new expanse of skin he unveiled with the removal of each piece of clothing.
He nipped lightly at your collar bones as he shed your blouse, canines catching briefly on the chain around your neck. He dragged his lips torturously slow over your stomach as he undid your skirt and it fell to the floor with a soft plop. His breath rush across your thigh as he kneeled to drag down the zippers of your boots, kissing your inseam though your tights all the way down to your ankles.
Every second was a kind of exquisite torture. Your heart hammered behind your ribs, the bones almost rattling with the force of it. And as much as you were dying to grab him by the back of the head and take over, you let yourself slip steadily under the spell of his affections.
You believed what he seemed to be whispering with his eyes in between every indelible kiss he dropped to your buzzing skin. He had you. He would take care of you. You could trust him.
And once you were totally bare in front of him, he held out his hand for you to take and he spun you in a slow circle like a ballerina in a music box, his eyes feasting on every inch of you.
If it was anyone else, you might have shied away. You might have felt some level of shame or concern about being stark naked in front of him while he was still fully clothed. You might have worried he would see something he didn’t like, some flaw or defect you preferred hidden. But the look on his face was nothing short of rapturous.
He walked you over to the couch and kissed you deeply as he removed his clothes. Showing not an ounce of the kind of care and consideration for his own as he did for yours, he stripped them off hastily and discarded them, tossing them away like they were garbage.
Your naked bodies came together in a full press, his arms curling around your form and his hands stroking your skin like he was trying to make sure not a single part of it went untouched.
At last, he sank down onto the sofa and his knees spread apart, his hard cock standing stiff and ready for you. He took your hands in his like he was going to pull you forward onto his lap, but you dropped to your knees instead, tucking your feet under your ass.
You looked up at him expectantly, your eyes darting between his face and his cock, the corners of your mouth curling upwards in a smile as your brows raised with a silent question.
“You sure?” he asked, circling his base with his thumb and forefinger to give a gentle squeeze. “I can take care of you, you know? Fuckin’ love to.”
“Don’t worry,” you said cooly, lashes fluttering as you scooted closer. “You will.”
You placed your hands on his knees and pushed them further apart so you could lean forward to kiss up the inside of his leg. Trying to give him a taste of his own slow, teasing medicine, you worked your way all the way up to the crease of his thigh and turned your head inward.
Eddie’s breath stuttered as your lips met his shaft, poking your tongue out to run it up the length. His head tipped to the side, his ear touching his shoulder to get a better view of you licking at him, halting grunts and gasps tumbling past his lips as yours puckered to kiss it more.
When you were satisfied you’d gotten him sufficiently worked up, you reached out and wrapped your hands around him fully, your fists stacked and twisting gently.
You stroked him off slow and even, your hands squeezing tight around his shaft, mixing your spit and the beginning of his spend that leaked from his tip. He watched you reverently, eyes hooded as he enjoyed your show. And looking up at him, a gooey sort of warmth filled your entire body.
You felt yourself slipping further into that sort of headspace you craved—all pliant and willing, your knees digging into his plush area rug as your legs tingled with numbness.
Your heart raced as you imagined giving yourself up to him completely.
Letting him take whatever he wanted from you.
As though he sensed it, as though he could read the desperation in your eyes, he cradled your jaw in his large hand and dotingly stroked the side of your face as he tilted his head at you.
“What is it, baby?” he cooed encouragingly. “What do you want? You can tell me.”
“Want you to use me,” you pleaded, fingers still sliding around him. “Use my mouth.”
Eddie gazed at you where you kneeled in front of him, your eyes having gone all big and round and glassy, shining with the tears you were dying for him to make spill down your cheeks.
Begging for it.
“Of course, baby, of course,” he sighed, gripping your chin and swooping in to kiss you deeply.
His firm hold gave you permission to go limp and you let your hands fall from his cock to rest on his muscled thighs, palms coasting over his tattoos and sparse leg hair. He pulled back, keeping your chin grasped in his fingers, holding your face still as he instructed you.
“You slap me three times in a row if you want to stop, okay?” he ordered in a husky rasp. “Do it for me now, so I know you can.”
You obeyed instantly, delivering three strikes to his thigh. His lips curled in a devilish grin.
“That’s it, just like that,” he hummed in approval. “What a smart girl you are, huh?”
The praise rippled down your back, his words making you tingle all over, much like your calves that were starting to go numb from sitting back on them. He reached around the back of your neck, gently guiding you into position so his cock was pointed directly at your lips.
His large hands nearly covered your whole head, holding you in his firm grasp, his fingertips digging into your scalp and causing even more shivers. Eyes locked on his, you let your mouth hang open and your tongue loll out fully, reaching almost to your chin.
Eddie moaned loudly, mesmerized by the pool of spit you’d let collect in your mouth and the way it dribbled past your lips, running down your tongue and dripping onto your chest.
“Fuck, baby,” he chuckled, touching just the tip of his dick to your wet tongue. “You really want me dead, huh?”
Your eyes danced as you nodded, the motion causing your tongue to brush against his sensitive slit and spread his precum across the flat of it. A sharp gasp punched from his chest, not ready for the sensation, and his whole body shuddered with need. His eyes blazed and his nostrils flared as he gripped tighter around the back of your head and thrust fully into your mouth.
Lewd sounds filled the room as he pushed his cock past your lips, your mouth flooded with spit that poured out of you and pooled in the wiry thatch of hair at the base of his cock. You felt your body going lax and floppy as you gave yourself over to him, letting him hold your head up as you melted into little more than a puddle.
“That’s it, baby. Just let go, let me take what I need,” he drawled in that smoky voice, beginning a gentle thrust of his hips that pushed him deeper still into your mouth.
The salty tang of him covered your tongue as your jaw slackened to accommodate more of him, the sounds you were making coming out garbled.
“Christ, you sound so fucking sweet choking on my cock” he groaned. “What a good slut you are, huh? Giving me this mouth, letting me ruin it?”
You gagged loudly as his cock pushed in further until his tip met the back of your throat. He held the back of your head and your nose was nuzzling against the hair at his base, breathing in his thick and heady musk. Far earthier than his cologne, this was a smell that could only be him.
His eyes flitted to your hand clutching at him, your nails digging into the meat of his thigh.
But you made no move to tap out. Another tight spasm of your throat had him throwing his head back, his eyes pinching shut and his lips falling open in a desperate gasp.
“Shit, that feels so good,” he whined softly, his domineering mask slipping ever so slightly—the broken sound only making you go more feral.
Bracing yourself on his thighs, you started to push your head down to meet his thrusts, fucking your own face with his cock so hard that his grip on the back of your head was extraneous.
“Okay, okay—okay,” he gasped, chest heaving as he pulled you off him before he could blow.
His fingers held fast in your hair, firmly squeezing it at the roots. You drew in air in great heaving breaths, panting from the effort, your tongue still hanging out of your mouth and head bobbing as you tried to chase the cock he had to drag you off.
“You’re a greedy fucking girl, aren’t you?” he chuckled, yanking your head back sharply so you were staring at the ceiling, eyes straining to look at him over the curves of your cheeks.
“Yes,” you gasped, chest still heaving.
“You want my cum that bad?” he teased lowly, pushing his face against yours and smearing the wetness of your tears across your cheeks.
“Yes, please,” you whined pitifully. “I need it.”
“Oh, you’ll get it,” he assured you, reaching down with his free hand to rub between your legs. “But only if it goes in this needy little pussy.”
Your entire body writhed as his fingers toyed with your swollen clit and puffy folds, scalp stinging where he gripped your hair with his other hand.
A pleasurable wail burst out of you as his thick fingers thrust inside your warm, wet hole and started to scissor relentlessly.
“YES, fuck—please, come in me. Please, please, please…”
More tears spilled down your cheeks as you begged him, drip, drip, dripping off your chin and onto your heaving chest, rolling down your naked body, leaving wet trails in their wake.
Eddie had to fight the urge to lick them off your clavicle.
He hauled you up onto his lap, scooting down so he could plant his feet properly on the floor. Your knees sank into the worn leather of his cushions on either side of his hips and you used all of what little strength you had left to reach down and align yourself with him.
“Don’t you hold back—haaaa—alright?” he said, hissing softly as you sank down on his length. “I want that fucking loser from Tinder to be able to hear you from here. Understand?”
You nodded, your hips beginning to slide back and forth, relishing the way his thick cock prodded at your insides and stoked your desire. Eddie let you keep control for a moment, his hands squeezing at the softness of your middle, molding it with them. He watched, mesmerized by the undulations of your body, the way you let it writhe and rock and squirm on him until he thought you might come solely from your own movements.
A loud, exhilirated moan burst out of you as he suddenly thrust his hips upwards, causing your eyes to roll back in your head as he slammed into your g-spot on the first fucking stroke—like he could see straight through your flesh to aim for it.
The room filled with sound even more lewd than before—the wet clap of his thighs with your ass cheeks, his balls slapping your soaking pussy, your mound squishing into his pelvis.
Eddie threw his head back, completely overwhelmed by the sight of every part of you bouncing so prettily on him, and the sight of his exposed neck sent you reeling.
Everything else in the room went hazy except that thick, taught, muscled column.
You clawed at it desperately and drew hot, red streaks down it with your nails that trailed all the way to the middle of his tattooed chest.
“That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Mark me up.”
He moved his hands back to grip your ass, spreading the globes of it wide and stretching your holes further open as he continued to slam his length inside you. He let one side go and delivered a single stinging slap that reverberated throughout your whole body.
The burn made you keen, arching your back until your chest was flush with his. He reached up to grip the back of your neck, taking your earlobe between his teeth and raking them over it.
“Now that that mouth is free, I wanna hear how good you feel,” he growled.
And if you thought you were loud before, it was nothing compared to now. The combination of his words and the perfect fucking pace he set by his cock sends you instantly toppling over the edge, with Eddie following right behind.
In that moment, you vowed to send a fruit basket to every one of his neighbors—an apology for making them think a woman was getting murdered in the middle of the night two or three stories above their heads. The orgasm he brings you to makes you scream, practically sobbing as you cry out in immeasurable relief while searing hot pleasure ravages your body.
It’s an ascent you’ve never dreamt of reaching the peak of, the feeling spreading to the tip of every extremity, filling you with fire. It feels so good, it almost makes you sad to know you might never feel like this again. And if your brain hadn’t already turned to mush, you might have cared.
As you dwindled down from your high, you slumped forward—limp and spent, your body still rippling with the effects, Eddie’s arms coming up to hold you against him as he peppered your shoulder with soft, sweet kisses.
“That’s it,” he breathed in your ear. “That’s it, baby, just feel it.”
He ran his fingers slowly up and down the column of your spine, creating waves of shivers as he waited for your trembling to subside. His length grew soft inside of you, but he made no move to slide you off his lap or to rush you in the slightest. He let you cling on to him, your face buried in his sweaty neck, his long hair tickling your face, losing yourself in his touch.
Slowly, your breathing grew deep and even and your racing heart slowed in your chest. Eddie turned his head and spoke to you quietly with his warm breath fanning across your cheek.
“You ready to move?” he asked.
You gave a weak nod.
Wobbling on unsteady legs, you stood and his hands quickly moved to the curve of your waist to keep you steady. He took you to the bathroom which looked more like it belonged in a spa than someone’s house, sitting you on the toilet.
From a hook hanging on the back of the door, he produced two bright white waffle weave robes, offering one to you. And as you wrapped the soft material around your shoulders, he turned on one of the faucets and held his fingers underneath it to test the temperature.
Once he’d deemed it warm enough, he took a fluffy washcloth from a little pyramid of them that were rolled up next to the sink basin. He held it under the stream, saturating the cloth and then giving it a gentle twist. You watched his hands every step of the way, mesmerized by the way his veins bulged and the muscles in his arms flexed as he wrung out the excess water.
He rubbed the warm cloth gently across your face, wiping off the residue of tears and spit and what little was left of your make-up until your bare face shone in the soft lighting.
Once he had finished, he dropped the cloth in a hamper and cradled your face in his hands, his thumbs gliding easily over your slippery cheeks.
“So pretty,” he hummed, the words so soft you wondered if you were even meant to hear them.
From one of the drawers in the vanity, he brought out a pot of moisturizer and offered it to you with a smile. You frowned up at him, jutting out your bottom lip in a comical pout, not ready for him to stop taking care of you. It made him chuckle and a bemused smile spread across his lips as he tapped the tips of his fingers in the gel and started to smooth it over your cheeks.
“Come lay down with me?” he asked when he’d finished, head tilting back in the direction of the short set of stairs leading to where his bed sat.
You nodded and he held out his hand to lead you out of the bathroom. You curled up on top of his dark duvet, your head sinking into the softness of his down pillow that held the faint scent of what you guessed was his tea tree oil shampoo. The bed dipped as he climbed onto it with you and draped a beige knit blanket over the both of you before he sidled up against your body.
It was…nice. More than nice. Shit, it was as close to perfect as you’d felt in a long time.
The feel of his chest expanding and contracting against your back; his steady breath on the nape of your neck; the soft robe wrapped around your body and the comforting weight of the blanket on top of you. Not to mention Eddie’s arm curled securely around your waist.
Your eyes felt heavy, like your eyelashes suddenly weighed a thousand pounds, and you drifted fully into sleep, succumbing to the relief that had washed over you not twenty feet away.
When you woke, it was still dark out.
The street noise had lessened significantly and if you had to hazard a guess, it might have been close to one or two in the morning. Eddie’s place was darkened, lit only by orange street light that filtered through his windows and a half-dimmed reading light in the corner.
It was an arc lamp, suspended over a leather Eames chair where you could see that your coat and all of your previously discarded clothes were arranged in a neat little pile. But laid out at the foot of the bed right next to your feet were a pair of black fleece pants and hoodie, both about your size and emblazoned with the names of bands you didn’t recognize.
You sat up slowly, fingers hovering over the thick material as you debated. Were they for you? They looked a little big for Eddie, but maybe he had laid them out for himself?
Was it a sign he was getting ready to go to bed and you needed to get moving?
In the end, you slid out from underneath the blanket still draped over you and redressed in your clothes. After pulling your tights and skirt back on, stepping into your boots and zipping them up your calves, pulling your coat back on, you looked around the loft searching for Eddie.
From up here, you could see the bathroom door was open and the light was off…eliminating the only place he could actually be. And then your eyes fell on one of the windows that was cracked open and a short step-ladder built into the wall that had been pulled down in front of it.
You pulled your coat around you tighter the closer you got to the window and tentatively climbed the steps leading up to it. You pushed the large glass pane the rest of the way open and poked your head outside to find Eddie sitting on his terrace, resting with his back to the brick, head tipped back as he exhaled a cloud of smoke from his lips that drifted up towards the stars.
“Hey,” you said softly. His head turned at the sound and a smile spread across his lips.
“There she is,” he said in a gentle cheer.
You climbed through the window and a breeze carried the scent of the joint he was holding. You took a seat across from him, leaning back against the metal railing and letting your legs stretch out alongside his. He dropped his hand to rub your calf and he frowned at the realization you had redressed in your tights and boots. His brow furrowed adorably.
“Something wrong?” you asked.
He shook his head and took another drag of the joint before passing it into your waiting fingers.
“The clothes were for you,” he said. “Y’know, if you wanted something to sleep in.”
You paused, the joint just shy of touching your lips. “Like…if I was staying?”
“Would you stay?” he asked, a ribbon of smoke curling in the air as he exhaled.
Your mouth hung open, clouds of your breath escaping. “Oh, um…I mean, only if you—”
He cut you off with his lips, slipping his hand around the back of your neck and pulling you into a long kiss. Tiny embers fell from the joint, being taken by the wind that blew and made the ends of Eddie’s long hair tickle the sides of your face. You pulled apart and he answered solidly.
“I want you to,” he said.
wasn't expecting this to be so long (that's what she said), but I hoped you liked it if you made it this far 🩷 love you, mean it!
You sat in the dark, covering your ears in search for some reprieve from the wailing. You had been crying too, for hours it had been like this.
You felt guilty for just letting her cry but you were so exhausted. She had a fever, she spat out whatever medicine you tried to give her, you had the noise machine on, you shushed and hummed until your throat was dry but nothing worked.
She wouldn’t eat or sleep or stop crying and it was becoming too much for you alone.
You didn’t understand moments like this. You had done all of this alone. You found out you were pregnant in a rest stop bathroom alone, you had gone to doctors appointments alone, sat in the bathroom puking by yourself, you set up the nursery alone, you drove yourself to the hospital and gave birth alone, every single step of the way you’ve done this completely alone.
Aside from your landlord, an old Cuban lady who spoke with a thick accent and watched Winnie while you went to work.
But she was away visiting family this week, so you were utterly and completely alone.
You hadn’t meant to call him, you meant to call your upstairs neighbor to see if they had a thermometer because yours had crapped out when you needed it most. But instead when the ringing stopped it was his voice.
“Hello?” A deep groggy voice mumbles into the phone and you hiccup the sob you had been working on keeping down so your neighbor wouldn’t be too concerned, “hello?” He asked again, much more awake this time.
“Eddie I didn’t mean- I called the wrong number, just go back to sleep I didn’t mean-“
“Is everything alright sweetheart?”
He shouldn’t be so sweet to you.
Sure you ended things on good terms but this wasn’t anything he should be worried about.
“Yeah, yeah it’s fine.”
“Why are you crying?” He asks softly and you bite your lip to keep from crying more.
“She won’t take her medicine, and she won’t stop crying and I don’t know what to do.”
“Who? Teddy?” He asks, referring to the tabby cat that was likely hiding under your bed.
“No- no. Um, Winnie, my kid. She has a fever and I don’t have a thermometer and she won’t take her medicine and I called you accidentally.”
There’s rustling over the phone and the muffled sound of a girls voice. Dammit.
“Eddie if you’re busy-“
“No, I’m fine. I’ll be over soon,” the jingling sound of his belt rings over the phone, “you need me to grab anything from the store or do you want me to just come right over or..?”
“Eddie really you don’t have to-“
“I’ll grab some take out too, be there in a minute.” And then the phone clicks off.
You go back into the nursery where a still wailing Winnie is sat up in the middle of her crib, covered in puke.
You feel guilty for stepping out to make the call and you have to work to keep yourself calm as you go to the crib to pick her up, shushing and apologizing as you head towards the bathroom.
You go through the motions of giving her a bath despite her fussing.
Your thoughts drift to your embarrassment over calling Eddie. You didn’t even know how it happened, maybe you still had him on speed dial or something?
And explaining to him that you called him over your kid who he’s never met or heard of is in your top ten most awkward moments.
But for right now you need to focus on your daughter.
You wash the puke out of her hair and the little rolls of fat on her legs and the crack of her neck and you try to softly shush her.
Just as you’re drying her off there’s a knock at the front door. You essentially swaddle her in her towel as you go to get the front door.
Eddie is standing there with take out bags in one hand and a handful of random things in the other.
“Hey.” You haven’t seen him in about a year. You both promised to keep in touch but life got in the way.
“Hi.” He smiles sweetly and moves further into the apartment. He sets down the stuff in his hands and Winnie momentarily quiets down when she notices a new presence in the room, “hi Winnie,” Eddie coos, hand moving to smooth down her wet hair, “I’m Eddie.”
“You really didn’t have to come over here, Eddie. I meant to call my neighbor but I guess I forgot to take you off of the speed dial on my landline and-“
“Don’t worry about it. I told you I’m always here to help and I meant it.” He assures you, reaching out to the baby to see if she’d rather go to him, which to your surprise she does, “hey girlie.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thermometer. He takes her temp and grimaces.
“I know you just sounded busy.” You shrug, heading over to the laundry basket on the couch to grab a onesie for her. You pluck a diaper off of the coffee table and much to Winnie’s chagrin you take her away from Eddie to change her diaper and dress her.
“I really wasn’t.”
“I’m not sure your date would agree.” You comment, velcroing the diaper closed.
“I didn’t realize you could hear her.” He mumbled, scratching the back of his neck.
You just shrug.
“Can you just hold her for a second while I change the sheets in her crib?”
Eddie nods, reaching out for the baby who has stopped wailing but is still fairly fussy.
You busy yourself with her sheets, grabbing the extras from her drawer and taking off the soiled ones. You try and breathe and not dwell on the oddity of the situation.
When you make it back out to the living room Eddie is attempting to feed Winnie a cracker.
“She’s too small for that, Eds.” You inform him and he jumps, holding the cracker away from the baby and taking a bite for himself to hide what he was doing.
“I-I know I was just-“
“Feeding her a cracker?” You smile and he begrudgingly nods.
“She just seems hungry.” He shrugs.
“She probably is but she won’t take a bottle. I’ve been trying on and off for hours.”
You lean your head onto your hands and close your eyes.
“Well how about you eat something and I’ll see if she’ll take a bottle from me?” Eddie suggests, propping the baby on his hip and heading for the bag of takeout on the coffee table.
“Good luck with that.” You mumble, rubbing your face to wake yourself up. Eddie heads for the pantry and pulls out the baby formula and a bottle. He makes a bottle with Winnie on his hip, humming a Bowie song to her as he shakes her bottle, “since when do you know how to make a bottle?”
“Steve and his girl had a baby a couple months ago, I’ll babysit every now and then when he needs me to.” Eddie shrugs, offering the bottle to Winnie who gives him and dirty look and shoves the bottle away, “well you gotta tell me what you want, girlie.” He tells her, and then the pouting starts. Her little bottom lip juts out and she looks at him like he just cut off her teddy bears head and he panics, holding her close and begging her not to cry, “come on, Winnie, don’t cry. If you cry your mom won’t ever let me come back and then I’ll cry and cry and cr-“
He smacks his head on the cabinet he opened but forgot to close and curses.
Winnie giggles and reaches up to where he hit his head and she pats it, a little harshly. Eddie frowns at her and then lightly pats her back on the forehead.
She laughs again and you smile, relieved after not hearing the sound for an entire day.
“You little sadist.” Eddie grumbles and walks her over to the couch, bottle still in hand. This time when he offers it to her she takes it, leaning onto his arm a bit more.
Eddie looks at you with a grin that never fails to make your stomach flip and you smile back.
“Your turn.” He nods to the take out and you groan.
“You didn’t need to bring food Eddie, the fact that you came here at all is enough.” You try and convince him but he isn’t having it.
“Well I’ve gotta make sure you eat too.” He shrugs and you sigh, opening the bag to find the logo of a Chinese place y’all used to order from all the time.
You frown slightly and Eddie panics a little, “did I get your order wrong? I could have sworn-“
“No. You got it exactly right.” You assure him, a tight smile gracing you features and Eddie shakes his head in confusion, setting Winnie’s bottle on the table and burping her.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing I just- it’s weird I guess.” You shrug, opening the takeout container and a plastic fork.
“What do you mean?”
“Just us. It’s just- we haven’t spoken in a year, I have a kid you found out about an hour ago and yet the second I call you you’re here, with food you know I love, my exact order, and you’re feeding and burping my baby and-“ and it should have been like this all along.
Eddies quiet for a moment, like he heard what you almost said and is trying to figure out how to react, “I mean circumstances are different but we’re still us. This is how things were before… us. If you need me I’m here and if I had called you before this you would have been there as well.” A pause, “right?”
“Of course.”
“So how did she happen by the way?” Eddie asks, changing the subject.
“Well you see, when a man and woman meet and have a few too many drinks almost every time they’re together-“
“Okay, okay, I get the picture.” Eddie grimaces and you lightly giggle, “is he around?”
“Not really. I told him and he asked me if I wanted him there and he was really practically a stranger and I asked if he wanted to be there and he answered honestly. And I told him that was fine. I don’t expect anything from him, he sends money every now and then but other than that she’s never met him.” You explain, lightly combing the babies hair with your fingers.
“Shitbag.” Eddie mumbles.
“He knew he wouldn’t be much of a father and he was honest about it. Would rather that than he feel obligated to stick around and make her life hell.” You shrug and Eddie nods.
“So you’ve done all of this alone?” Eddie asks and you nod.
“Pretty much.”
“That is so wildly unfair.”
You raise your eyebrows, a grin growing on your lips despite yourself, “It's nice to hear someone else say it.”
Eddie nods, standing up and cradling Winnie, bouncing her in his arms and pacing in an effort to get her to sleep.
“I really hoped she was yours at first.” You confess and Eddie's eyes widen, “don’t get too freaked out, I just knew that if she was yours I wouldn’t have to do it alone. And that maybe she could have some kind of dad figure.”
“That makes sense. We could pretend she was mine.” He smiles and you shake your head.
“Whatever, Munson.”
“No, I’m serious. It doesn’t have to be a big thing I’m just saying that like, if you need me to take her for a weekend I could take her for a weekend. And I could help when she starts school or when she’s sick. I can teach her to ride a bike and I can scare her first boyfriend and beat his ass if he hurts her and I could teach her how to check her oil and change her tires. And when she gets caught drinking I can pretend to be disappointed and help give her a really stern talking to.”
You laugh and nod, “maybe. I’m gonna let you think about what that kind of commitment would entail first though.”
Eddie smiles and looks down at a now sleeping Winnie, “she looks just like you.” You nod, “she’s got my eyes though.” He quips and you shake your head.
“Oh whatever.”
Eddie grins and you have to try your best not to feel that familiar ache in your bones.
He goes to the nursery and leaves you in the living room by yourself with your food. After a moment you hear the sound of a noise machine and the click of a door closing and then he’s back.
“You made that look so easy.” You grumble as he sits next to you.
“I’ve just got that fatherly touch, yknow?” You laugh again and he smiles. Not a grin, not a cheeky, mischievous smile. a content, comfortable smile that warms you in a way you’ve longed for since you broke up, “how’ve you been?”
You shrug, “I’ve been. If I keep moving I don’t have to think about how I am.”
“Are you happy?” Eddie asks, moving to face you so his knee is touching yours.
“Sometimes,” you shrug, “every now and then it gets stressful but a good day is a really good day.” Eddie nods, “what about you?”
He gets really quiet, “I’m not happy.”
Your face falls and you instinctively start repeatedly smoothing his hair behind his ear in the way you know comforts him, “what’s up, hon?”
“I just don’t have much anymore I guess.” He shrugs, “I don’t have much purpose.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It is what it is. I work and I try to meet new people but I just don’t feel like it’s worth it.” He explains.
“Why not?”
He’s quiet again, mulling over whether or not to give an honest answer, “because none of them are you.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t- don’t think too much about it, like don’t read into it too much I just- you’re fulfilling for me. You held on and you helped and you gave me this sense of purpose that I haven’t really been able to get since…”
You stay quiet and wait for him to finish what he was saying but he doesn’t.
“Do you wanna stay here tonight? I mean, just in case Winnie wakes up and would rather have you get her than me?”
Eddie just about melts. He rests his forehead on your shoulder and nods.
“Yeah. I mean, I wouldn’t want to disappoint Winnie.”
it's been ages and literally can't get over how they massacred my boy like PLEASE tell me the long ass wait for more Teo days is because they're returning him to his gangly, vaguely sickly vanas days by rehauling every single picture and also implementing voice recognition and video chats tho that's wishful thinking fr
Summary | Reader is blind and Eddie is utterly obsessed with you, going out of his way to play you music and read to you. It’s simply a friendship, but he can’t stop himself from crossing the line.
Notes/tags | That’s correct, the reader is blind. I do not mean to write this in any way that would be insensitive; I just loved the idea of seeing Eddie care for someone who has a disability. The way he would be so sweet and go above and beyond. If this fic rubs anyone the wrong way or makes anyone uncomfortable, please let me know, and I’ll remove it. My intentions are pure. It’s a very sweet fic with the vibes of what it feels like to be young and in love. — No smut, but there is making out, and it feels very sensual. Also, cheesy AF.
I do switch back and forth with povs, don’t expect this to go by the writers rules.
— Oh, I listened to Ceilings by Lizzy McAlpine while writing this. But what’s new? I always write Eddie fics to that song, even years later.
Word count | 2.1k
Eddie always met you outside. He waits on his porch, finishing his cigarette, and the moment he sees you approaching, he gets up quickly to close the distance, taking your hand to guide you to his place. He loves the excuse to touch you. He’s not greedy either; just your hand in his makes him secretly giddy. He’s focused on it the whole way to his room, even though he’s talking your ear off about a new song he wrote.
Nothing about this is new or different. Eddie inviting you over to play music and talk well into the night has become normal. A friendship that never crosses the line, but Jesus Christ, he thinks of crossing the line all the time. He wonders if your touch would feel different if it was reaching out with love instead of friendship. He doesn’t dare feed into his thoughts of how your kiss would feel and if his name would sound different if you moaned it into his ear.
He admires you as he strums his guitar, only half-focused on the song. By now he’s memorized every curve of your face and has counted every lash on your eyes. It feels wrong to stare, knowing he can’t be caught. Can you feel his gaze?
You’re lying in your usual spot on his bed, surrounded by his scent in the sheets. You try to hide the deep inhales you take as if it were the last time you’d be here. But, it’s not. You’ll be back tomorrow, as you always are.
He plays beautifully, and you try not to smile because he plays softer for you than he does during his shows. Is he nervous to scare you off? He never could.
“I love it,” you say as he finishes the song.
He smiles, and you know because it’s laced with his voice, “You do?”
The sound of his guitar being placed on the wall mount is familiar, followed by the radio on his dresser being turned on. It’s only for background noise. Eddie hates silence, and you can’t help but wonder if he just doesn’t like to sit with his thoughts.
You both lie on his bed in deep conversation with no sense of time. Eddie lazily plays with small strands of your hair with the hand draped behind his head. Does he realize that you notice every time he does it? It makes your stomach flutter.
“Read to me?” you ask as you shift onto your stomach, feet rising up behind you.
Eddie takes a moment to speak, but you hear his breath hitch, and when he does speak, his breath is warm against your face. He shouldn’t be surprised by your question as he reads to you every night, but maybe it’s the way you’re closer to him than before.
Your bodies aren’t touching, but there is a sense of intimacy with the way he’s lying on his back, most likely looking up at you, and the way you’re on your stomach, nearly looming over him.
Unsure if he’s uncomfortable by the way his breathing becomes uneven, you reach over to the nightstand and grab your water, trying to make it seem like you’re giving him a little space. When you return to your position, you’re a few inches away from him.
You realize you were wrong about him feeling uncomfortable because when Eddie grabs The Return of the King off his dresser, he returns to the bed even closer than before.
His arm touches yours as he lies back on the bed, and you can’t take your mind off of it. It gently moves against yours as he turns the page.
“Now, where were we?” he says as the sound of pages turning fills the room. “Aha, here it is.” His smile is audible in his words. “You’ll like this part.”
Eddie begins to read. His voice is like honey, sweet and soothing to your ears. He makes you giggle occasionally with his exaggerated voices for certain characters. His laughter matches your own, and even though he’s read this book a hundred times, it feels like he’s experiencing it for the first time with you.
As he continues, there’s a subtle change in his tone that you can’t quite place until you listen closely to the words. Two characters in the book kiss, and the way Eddie reads the description makes your stomach flutter more than the romance he’s narrating. You feel your cheeks heat up and lower your head to your arms to hide it.
Eddie chuckles softly, saying your name, “Are you blushing?”
“No!”
You bury your face deeper into your arms, breathing in his scent from the sheets. You would give anything to sink into the mattress, completely enveloped by his smell.
He calls your name again, clearly amused by your reaction. His fingers find your sides and he starts tickling you, forcing you out of hiding. You burst into laughter, trying to grab his hands to push him away, but your laughter only encourages him.
“Look at you. You’re so red you might pop,” he teases, continuing to tickle you.
“Stop,” you manage to say between fits of laughter.
You struggle to fight back, and Eddie laughs at your attempts. Your stomach begins to hurt from the laughter, your breathing becomes ragged, and your hair covers your face from the tussle.
Both of you finally give up, gasping for air. Eddie plops down beside you, the weight of his body next to yours so familiar that you long for it when you’re alone in your own bed.
“I’ve never seen you blush that hard before,” he says, amused.
You can feel his stare, which only makes you blush more. “Can you stop?” you groan, playfully shoving his arm.
“Stop what?”
“Staring at me. I can feel it.”
He scoffs, “I’m not staring at you.”
You sit up and demand his bandana. He protests in confusion, but once he understands, he relents. Sitting up directly in front of you, you lift your chin with a sense of victory.
“Because I don’t believe you, this is what I must do.”
Eddie lets out a sigh, pretending to be exasperated though he’s smiling like a fool. “If this pleases you.”
You ignore the flutter in your stomach at his words. Reaching out, your fingertips touch the corner of his mouth, feeling it curve up against your touch. His face is smooth, and you take advantage of the moment to trace your fingers across it, finding their way to his hair. He remains silent, but his breathing is slightly heavier—something only you would notice.
His hair is soft, and you resist the urge to twirl his curls around your finger. Instead, you wrap the bandana around his eyes and tie it tightly behind his head.
“Oh,” he says with surprise, followed by a chuckle. “A little tight, huh?”
“Can’t have you peeking.”
“Don’t you trust me?” he asks.
Your hands drop into your lap as you smile. “Mm, I’m still deciding.”
But that was a lie. You trusted him more than you cared to admit. There were many people you trusted to be alone with, but as you’ve spent time with him, he’s proven that you’re safe with him. The best feeling is being completely vulnerable and knowing without a doubt that the person you count on with your vulnerability handles it with care.
“So, this is what it’s like for you?” he asks softly.
“Something like that.”
The room is silent, the radio off since before he started reading the book you’ve both abandoned. The only sounds are his breathing and the soft hum of the air conditioning. But you notice the parting of his lips and the sudden, yet soft, intake of breath as if he were going to say something but decided not to.
“What is it?” you ask.
He clears his throat as if caught and takes a breath. “Can you…touch me?” You’re nearly taken back by that until he speaks up in a rushed sentence. “Uh, sorry, I —uh, I mean, my arm or face. Show me how it feels for you.”
Your heart warms at his request. And you gladly give him what he wants. Your fingers meet his face again and you admire all the softness. You trace the lines and curves, imagining if he’s as beautiful as he feels. Eddie sits there still for a while, softly breathing.
Then his hands grasp your wrists and lower them to your lap. “My turn,” he says as his fingers begin to move up your arms. Goosebumps break out over your skin, and you try your best to control your breathing, knowing he can hear if it catches in your throat.
His calloused fingers brush against your soft skin, but you don’t mind. One hand drops from your arm and takes hold of one of your hands. You fight back a smile, knowing his fingers tracing your features are close enough to feel your reaction. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb gently brushing against your cheekbone. It feels incredibly intimate, just the sound of his breathing matching yours as time seems to slow.
He breaks the silence. “You’re so beautiful.”
A smile breaks out on your face. “You can’t even see me.”
“I don’t need to. I know exactly what you look like.” His tone is serious yet soft, almost as if he’s in deep thought.
He lets go of your hand and cups your other cheek. Your face fits perfectly between his warm hands.
“Eddie…” you say, wanting to ask what he’s doing, what he’s thinking. But your words fall short as you feel his thumb brush over your bottom lip.
“Tell me you feel this.”
He doesn’t mean his gentle touch on your lips, and you know that. The electrical current between you two could light up Hawkins. He grabs one of your hands and brings it to his chest. Your breath catches at the feeling of his heart thumping wildly against your palm. It’s so strong that you think it might burst out of his chest and right into your hands.
“Yes,” you answer him.
“Tell me I can kiss you.”
Your stomach flutters so fast that you feel like you could float away. “Yes.”
There is a moment of stillness in the room, time frozen. The sound of you both breathing dulls out and you lose feeling in your cheeks at his touch as you await his lips on yours.
He’s so gentle and slow. His lips meet yours and you welcome it, nearly melting into him. The kisses are soft and lazy, as if you both are drunk off each other. Your hands are in his hair and he moans at the feeling. Heat forms in your lower belly and you can’t help yourself when you crawl into his lap.
“Yes,” he breathes as he welcomes you into his embrace. His arms wrapping tightly around your back, rubbing his hands up and down your back while still kissing you.
His tongue brushes your lower lip and you open your mouth to taste him. He’s perfect. He’s all you feel and taste, nearly drowning in him. His bandana is still tightly secured around his eyes and you wonder if he’s consumed by you as well.
Eddie starts kissing your neck and your head drops to the side in pleasure. His hand wraps around your head, keeping you in place as he begins to suck softly in the right spot. You moan and you feel his smile against your skin.
“There it is,” he mumbles, before finding your lips again. “Everything about you is so fucking perfect.”
“Stop.” You mutter against his kiss, fighting back a smile. Your cheeks turn hot and you bury your face in the crook of his neck.
His arms tighten around you and you sink further into his arms. You both stay like that for a few minutes, resting in each other's arms. You feel him inhale you deeply before he starts stroking your hair.
“You may not realize how beautiful you are,” he says as he begins to play with your hair. “But, I don’t mind reminding you every day.”
“Would you?” You whisper.
“I’ll take your hand, tell you in great detail about the world around us while reminding you how it doesn’t even compare to you.” He kisses your shoulder. “Not even close.”
The smile that spreads across your face is almost painful. “You have such a way with words.”
He takes your face in his hands, “I do write songs, sweetheart.”
With that, he kisses you with such passion that you fall back onto the mattress, giggles spilling from your lips as Eddie turns your darkness into light.
