lovingly haunted

F.35

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

may all your favorite fanfic writers never lose their hyperfixation and love for your blorbos so they keep writing fanfics about your blorbos forever

Yea I want to rearrange your guts but first how was your day? Did you eat?

[madeofmunson]

[harleyquillao3]

I’m in this photo and I don’t like it 😂😭

[flowersforbucky]

your self lingers

eddie munson x reader

trapped in a coma after nearly dying in the upside down, eddie’s brain replays his best memories. as his body fights to stay alive, he watches past versions of himself fall in love with you, not knowing if he’ll ever have the chance to tell you how he feels now.

word count: 5.4k+

warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, angst with a happy ending i swear, best friends to lovers, near death experience, season 4 fix it fic, brief marijuana use, hospital setting, kissing, hurt/comfort, hardcore mutual pining, eddie is a level 848389292 yearner, no use of y/n, reader has she/her pronouns, all flashbacks/memories are in italics!

author’s note: this was inspired by this request from @highlandhour! i’m so sorry this got away from me. huge thanks to @fru1t4fr0gs for reading over this and assuring me it isn’t hot garbage ily <3

˖⁺｡˚⋆˙✧⋆｡°⋆࿓ ˖⁺｡˚⋆˙✧⋆｡°⋆࿓

At first, Eddie thinks that he’s dead. He’s still not entirely convinced otherwise.

But that wouldn’t make sense. Because what he’s looking at right now looks too much like heaven, and Eddie never saw himself getting into a place like heaven. He thought the closest he’d ever get was you accidentally falling asleep with your head on his shoulder while watching Return of the Jedi in his living room.

There’s got to be some other explanation for the way he’s hovering outside of his own body, watching a past version of himself blush beet fucking red because you complimented his guitar playing.

God, had he really looked that giddy? Had he truly been that obviously down bad for you since the very first interaction? Had you really not ever noticed?

Standing before himself right now, even in this dreamlike haze that makes the whole room a little bit blurry, he can see his feelings for you plain as day on his face.

More importantly, he can see you. Every bit as beautiful as you’ve always been. In hindsight, he should have told you right then and there.

What if he never has the chance now?

He can’t stop himself. He says your name - loudly enough that you should’ve been able to hear him over The Hideout’s rowdy late night crowd.

But his voice sounds muffled. Like he’s trying to speak underwater. You don’t hear him - not him him, anyway. Your attention stays focused on the younger version of him with slightly shorter hair and a few less tattoos.

That’s when he remembers something you’d told him what feels like ages ago. He didn’t put too much stock in it at the time, but now he wonders if it’s true - that after death, a person’s brain can cycle through their best memories.

So maybe this isn’t heaven. But if he is in fact dead, he may as well enjoy this for however long it lasts before you fade away.

Before he fades away.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Eddie blinks and he’s no longer in The Hideout watching his past self blush and stutter his way through his first conversation with you.

When he opens his eyes, he’s in your kitchen. He recognizes the memory instantly.

The first time he ever came to your house - and also his first haircut in years.

“I’ve got a shit load of split ends right now,” Eddie observes, a lock of his dark curls pinched between two fingers. He sighs. “My own fault, I guess. It’s been over a year since I’ve had it trimmed.”

You’re focused on combining various cheeses in a mixing bowl. Yesterday, he’d let it slip that his mom used to make the best lasagna, and that he hasn’t eaten even a single bite of the dish since she passed away over a decade ago. He misses it, but he’s not much of a cook himself and his uncle is rarely home for dinner since he works night shifts.

Your response had been to go buy all of the ingredients for homemade lasagna from the grocery store and invite him over for dinner the very next day. Now he sits on a barstool at your kitchen island, watching you assemble the dish. He’d offered to help, of course, but you had insisted that he “sit there and look pretty”.

“I’ve heard good things about the barber in town,” you muse, cracking an egg into the bowl. “I can’t remember his name. Sam or something.”

“Sal?” He scoffs. “Not a chance. Wayne took me to Sal once - right before school started back. He told him to trim my hair and he gave me a buzz cut. I looked like a damn egg for the first half of third grade. Safe to say that Sal will never get my business again.”

You snort a laugh, your nose crinkling in the way that Eddie has come to adore in such a short amount of time. Adores it so much that he takes every opportunity he gets to make you laugh.

“I’m sure you were a cute little egghead,” you coo. “I’ll have to ask Wayne if he has any pictures.” You’re too focused on layering all of the ingredients in a casserole dish to notice the way it makes him blush.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he feigns indignation. You glance up with a look that very clearly says try me.

“Your uncle loves me. I’m sure if I asked sweetly, he wouldn’t hesitate to dig out any and all childhood photos he has of you.”

Eddie hums. He doesn’t even try to deny it, because you’re right. Wayne does love you. He thinks you’re good for Eddie, and reminds him of it often. If you go even a few days without coming by, Wayne asks where you’ve been.

Eddie tries to assure him that the two of you are just friends, but it doesn’t seem to do much good. Wayne never seems fully convinced.

After sliding the lasagna in the oven and setting a timer, you turn to face him. Your bravado from just moments ago seems to falter, a more hesitant expression taking its place.

“Well, we’ve got a whole hour to kill before the lasagna is ready…” You trail off with a shrug. “If you want, I could trim your hair for you.”

He says yes. Of course he says yes. Even though you’ve never cut another person’s hair before, even though there’s a chance you could completely botch it, he says yes.

If there’s an opportunity for you to touch him in any capacity, he’s going to take it.

It’s not like it could possibly turn out any worse than when Sal practically shaved him bald.

So that’s how he ends up sitting on a stool in front of your bathroom mirror, you behind him with a pair of scissors that definitely aren’t intended for cutting hair and look of concentration that Eddie wishes he could snap a picture of.

You take your time, working in small sections. It takes a while - he has a lot of hair, after all - but he doesn’t mind. He stares at you in the reflection of the vanity mirror the entire time, not really caring if his hair ends up a dozen different lengths, because he gets to sit here and look at you while you dote on him.

“There,” you say with a final snip. You back up a few inches, taking a look at your work. “I think I got all of the dead ends. What do you think? Does it look okay?”

But he’s still too busy looking at you. You look so concerned, like every individual strand of hair has to be perfect or he’ll be disappointed in you.

Fuck, how did he get lucky enough to end up here? How did he play his cards so right? With your fingers gently fluffing his hair and the smell of the lasagna that you’re making specially for him wafting from down the hallway—

The timer goes off in the next room, startling all three of you. You, his past self, and the ghost of him that observes the interaction from the bathroom doorway.

He watches as you brush your hands off against your pants before turning around and walking right through him, back to the kitchen where the timer buzzes incessantly. You, of course, remain completely unaware of his presence - calling back to past Eddie to tidy up and come eat.

He tries to follow you. He can’t stop himself - he catches a whiff of your perfume and his feet act of their own accord, following you down the short hallway towards your kitchen. He hasn’t even taken three steps when the room starts to waver.

He freezes. He knows he’s powerless to stop it. So he chooses to stand still and look at you for as long as he can, until the scene around him glitches like someone’s unplugging the memory one cord at a time.

Then there’s nothing but darkness and the faint hum of machinery from somewhere far out of his reach.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“Do you think you’ll stay here after graduation?”

The question takes him by surprise. He hasn’t really given it much thought. The last few years of his life have been spent trying to get to graduation, only to disappoint himself yet again each time. He had yet to let himself dwell on what comes after.

“Here?” He repeats, accepting the half-smoked joint that you pass back to him from where you sit in the passenger seat of his van. “Like in Hawkins?” He brings the tail to his lips and inhales.

“Yeah,” you laugh lightly. “Like in Hawkins.”

He holds the smoke in for longer than necessary as he thinks of his answer. When his lungs start to burn, he exhales. “For a while, probably. Not really sure where else I’d go.”

Not really sure I’d want to go anywhere without you, he thinks to himself. He passes the joint back to you. “What makes you ask?”

You shrug. “When I was watching you play tonight, I couldn’t help but picture you…somewhere else. Some big city, where more people have the chance to hear you. People with connections and opportunities. Connections and opportunities that The Hideout probably won’t ever give you.”

He can’t help but freeze and glance over at you. It’s a typical Tuesday night - Corroded Coffin had just wrapped up their weekly gig at The Hideout and, as always, you’d been watching from the corner booth that you always do. The same corner booth that you’d sat in the night he first met you months ago.

“Don’t underestimate The Hideout,” he teases. “I did meet you there, after all.”

“I’m serious,” you hum.

He knows you are. You wouldn’t say something that you don’t mean. Not something like this. Not to him.

You take another slow drag before speaking. “I just…think you deserve to be heard. By more than just the same small crowd of regular drunks every Tuesday night.”

He swallows. Hawkins is all he knows. He tries to picture anything else - some apartment of his own in a city that never sleeps, crowded sidewalks, bright lights. But he can’t. Can’t see himself anywhere that isn’t his trailer, his van, The Hideout, Hawkins. Can’t see himself anywhere you aren’t right next to him.

He’s always been a creature of habit. Since he was fourteen years old, he’s started every morning with a cup of black coffee and a cigarette. He falls asleep each night to one of the same five movies - he’s replayed them so many times that he can’t believe they still work. Every Tuesday night, he plays at The Hideout, and every Friday night is Hellfire Club.

And for the last few months, you’ve been at the very center of it all. Now when he wakes up and drinks his coffee on the front porch step of his trailer every morning, he thinks of you and wonders if you’re awake yet. When he drifts to sleep with Raiders of the Lost Ark playing for the fourth night in a row, he sees you when he closes his eyes. And when he looks out into the crowd of regulars that frequent The Hideout every week, your face is always the one he searches for.

You nudge him lightly with your elbow when he doesn’t respond. He glances up and you’re giving him a soft grin that would bring him to his knees if he weren’t already sitting down. “I’m not saying you have to leave,” you murmur. “I’m just saying don’t sell yourself short, okay? You’re allowed to want more than this place has to offer.”

The words hit him square in the chest. He doesn’t know if anyone has ever believed him that much, let alone so vocally. Definitely not his teachers or his dad. The most supportive person in his life - until you came along - had always been his uncle. But Wayne is a man of few words, and his support comes in the form of not complaining too much about loud music coming from Eddie’s room.

But you think he deserves more. You think he could actually make it as a musician. You believe in him.

He clears his throat, forcing a laugh to break the tension that had settled throughout the confined space of his van. “Well, if I did leave, you’d have to come with me. Who else is going to remind me to eat more than one meal a day?”

You laugh. He can’t help but think he hears a hint of relief. “That goes without saying. You’d slowly wither away without me.”

He doesn’t dare argue with that.

“Fuck!” Eddie curses from the back of his van. He’d watched the entire interaction in silence, drinking in the way that you sounded nervous to broach the subject of leaving Hawkins to him. He hadn’t picked up on the honesty, the emotion, the sheer adoration in your voice at the time, but he hears it now.

“Fuck, you idiot,” Eddie curses to no one but himself. His past self is blissfully unaware of how he watches from the backseat, focused only on you beside him. “Leave Hawkins now! Take her and get the fuck out of this town right now!”

It’s useless. He knows it’s a waste of what very little, very precious time he has left to bask in your presence, but he yells anyway. At the past version of himself sitting in front of him, at the version of himself that didn’t run away from those godforsaken bats, at you, at this entire surreal situation he’s in.

“I’m going to find my way out of here,” he swears to you. “I’m gonna find my way out of this place. I’m gonna find my way back to you, and we’ll get out of Hawkins. We’ll go wherever the hell you want to go. You hear me?”

But he knows that you can’t. You’re already gone again.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Eddie’s about to do the most cliche thing he’s ever done.

He’s giving you a mixtape for your birthday.

Not just any mixtape. A mixtape that he spent hours making last night, just for you. A mixtape with songs that reminds him of you, songs that he doesn’t necessarily like but knows that you do, songs that he loves and wants you to love, too. You name it, it’s on there.

Tucked inside the cassette tape is a piece of paper that lists all of the song titles along with the reasons why he selected each one, written in his borderline illegible chicken scratch that you like to tease him about.

It’s not much. He knows you deserve far more than a homemade mixtape for your birthday, and he wishes he could give you the world. You deserve it for just being his friend and making his days as happy as you do. But he also doubts that anyone else giving you a gift this year put as much thought into your presents as he did, so that gives him a small amount of comfort.

His hands are so sweaty that he nearly drops the tape from his clutches as he walks up your front porch steps. You open the door for him before he has a chance to knock.

How are you somehow even prettier on your birthday than you are the other 364 days of the year?

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he greets you. The smile that appears on your face is enough to make him nearly melt on the spot.

“You remembered,” you laugh, a lilt of surprise in your voice. You motion for him to come inside.

“Well, duh,” he snorts. “Of course I remembered your birthday. It’s kind of a huge deal.”

You close the door behind him, rolling your eyes. “It’s really not.”

“Disagree,” he says instantly, heart pounding at the prospect of handing you the mixtape still in his hand. “Strongly disagree, actually. The day you were born is very important. And that’s why I come bearing gifts…well, gift. Singular.”

You turn towards him with raised brows, your eyes trailing down and then back up in search of the gift he could be referring to.

He swallows and holds it out to you in offering. “I, uh - here.”

Smooth. Really fucking smooth.

You blink, then gingerly take it from his hand like it’s something fragile. The handwritten label catches your attention first. Your face softens. “You made this?”

He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes suddenly glued to a random speck on your floor. “I mean, yeah. Nothing fancy or anything - just some songs that I know you like. And some that I like that I hope you’ll like, too.” He exhales. “I dunno. It’s not much—”

“Eddie.”

You run your thumb along the edge of the cassette tape. “This is the sweetest gift that anyone’s given me in a very long time. Possibly ever.”

You pull the folded paper out, skimming the first few lines of his messy handwriting. You say his name again, softer this time. “You wrote why you picked each song?”

He clears his throat nervously. “I just…didn’t want you to be confused or anything. It’s a lot of songs.”

You smile at him and he swears it’s like looking at the sun. Before he can register what’s happening, you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, just a few inches from the corner of his mouth. His entire body goes still.

It’s quick. Warm. And so, so soft. The imprint of your lips linger even after you pull away.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your gaze settling on the tape again like you can’t believe your eyes. “Really. You have no idea how much it means to me.”

He knows he’s staring, but he can’t help it. His hand twitches awkwardly at his side, forming a fist to resist the urge to bring the tips of his fingers to where your lips had touched his cheek.

Before the tension has a chance to suffocate him entirely, he forces an exhale and claps his hands together. “Alright, birthday girl. What’s the plan for today?” He aims to sound casual, but it comes out breathless. “We can do anything you want. The sky’s the limit.”

“Hm,” you hum, tapping your chin in contemplation but it’s just for show - he can tell by the smirk on your face and the twinkle in your eyes that you already know exactly what you want to do today.

“I want to go to the bookstore. And then the arcade. Then tonight, I want to go to the drive-in.”

He grins, not the least bit surprised by your answer. “Like I said - anything you want. I’m all yours today.”

And god, he means it. In more ways than you probably realize. Today and every day.

When the scene around him fades to black, Eddie’s cheek burns with the memory of your kiss.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

When he opens his eyes again, it feels like déjà vu.

This memory is more recent than any of the others.

All of the other memories have had one major thing in common - they’ve all been some of the happiest memories of his life. Because of you.

But if someone asked Eddie to list off all of his happiest memories, this memory wouldn’t make the cut. It probably wouldn’t even make the top thousand happiest memories.

No, it isn’t exactly happy. But it is one of his most recent memories with you. One of the most uncertain and hopeless days of his life, brightened only by you being by his side.

“You don’t have to stay here, you know,” he tells you for the third time in the last hour. “This place sucks. The expired Spaghettios suck. The godawful draft sucks. This scratchy couch sucks. I’m pretty sure there’s a dead animal somewhere in the walls because it smells rancid in here. You should be home. Where you’d be warm, and safe—”

“And where I wouldn’t be able to rest,” you interrupt his rambling. You’re lounging on Reefer Rick’s aforementioned sucky, scratchy couch with your feet resting in Eddie’s lap. You peer at him from over the edge of a random book that you’d found in Rick’s bedroom. Eddie doesn’t think it looks like something you’d normally read, but he supposes you can’t be too picky right now. It’s not like either of you are here for entertainment.

You sigh, closing the book. You sit up, removing your feet from his lap. At first, he hates the sudden loss of physical contact, but then you scoot closer to him, resting your arm on the back of the couch behind his head. “We’ve been over this, Eddie. I’m not going anywhere. If you’re here, I’m here. I’ll go home when you can go home, too.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” He feels your fingers thread through the thick curls at the base of his skull and he shuts his mouth. “If I went home right now, I wouldn’t be able to function. I’d stew in my own anxiety until I’m sick. I wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep without knowing you’re okay. I’d spend every second worrying about you.”

Your fingers move gently through his curls again and his eyes flutter shut.

He hates how much he needs it - your touch. Your comfort. Your presence.

He knows you simply being here puts you in danger. Yet when you run your fingers through his hair like that, he can’t bring himself to continue attempting to convince you to leave.

“Breathe,” you murmur.

For you, he tries. Even though his thoughts are racing with all of the unknowns, all of the ways this could end with you getting hurt because of him. With his eyes still closed, he breathes in, then out, focusing on the way your nails gently graze the skin of his neck.

“Thank you,” he breathes in a shaky voice. “For just…being there for me. Through all of this bullshit.”

You shake your head, shushing him softly. “You would do the same for me.”

And he would. Without a doubt, in a heartbeat, he would. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you. He’d face every nightmare that the Upside Down could possibly conjure. He’d run, hide, bleed. He’d sacrifice himself to hundreds of bloodthirsty demo-bats so that you have a chance of getting away.

But most importantly, he’ll fight tooth and nail to hold on. He’ll drift through his memories for what feels like an eternity if it means he’ll eventually wake up for you.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“Brought you another coffee.”

You glance up from resting your head in your hands at the gruff, familiar voice.

“Oh. Thank you, Wayne.”

He grunts in response, taking a seat in one of the old, worn seats in the corner of the room. You take a sip of the gas station coffee he’d brought you from across the street. Over the last five days, Wayne has learned that you take your coffee with two cream, two sugars. It tastes burnt and a little too bitter, but at least it’s hot.

He looks as tired as you feel. The man has been surviving off of nothing but caffeine, nicotine, and unwavering hope for nearly a week.

At least one of you has been by Eddie’s bedside at any given moment. Oftentimes both, but only Wayne is allowed to stay overnight. Family only - hospital policy.

And there has not been a night that he hasn’t stayed. Every morning, when you arrive as soon as visiting hours allow, you find Wayne in the exact same chair that he’d been in when you’d left twelve hours prior.

For the most part, the two of you sit in silence during the day. It isn’t uncomfortable. Your shared love for Eddie makes it all a little more bearable. When you have to leave, you take comfort in knowing that Wayne is still with him. And Wayne only ever agrees to leave for short periods of time during the day if you’re there to be with Eddie in his temporary absence.

He normally only leaves for long enough to grab another coffee, a vending machine snack, and smoke a cigarette or two. His trailer had been destroyed in what news reports are referring to as an earthquake - so he’s in a motel for the time being, but he only goes to the room for long enough to take a quick shower every other day.

You’ve yet to hear him complain a single time. But as soon as you arrived this morning, you could tell that it’s all starting to get to him - the lack of sleep. The worry and uncertainty. The stress. The depressing and sterile environment of the same four hospital walls, day after day. Today, the dark circles under his eyes and the way he winces when he sits down in his chair are hard for you to ignore.

“You need to sleep, Wayne,” you say delicately. “Not here. In an actual bed. For more than a couple hours. And you need to eat an actual meal that consists of more than just Doritos and beef jerky.”

He looks at you like he wants to argue, but he’s too tired. Instead, he turns his gaze to his nephew in the bed a few feet away from him. “I have a good feeling about today. I gotta be here when he wakes up.”

He’d said the exact same thing yesterday, but you don’t remind him of that.

“I hope you’re right,” you sigh. “But you still need to sleep. I know that chair is killing your back.” You pause. To your surprise, he doesn’t deny it.

“I’ll be here,” you murmur. “I’ll be right here with him. If he wakes up, I’ll make sure he knows that I forced you to go take a nap.”

He continues to stare at Eddie’s sleeping form for a few more moments before he reluctantly nods, and pushes himself out of the creaky chair. He hesitates next to Eddie’s bed, giving his nephew’s hand a tight squeeze before forcing one foot in front of the other.

He pauses beside you before he reaches the door. “Boy’s lucky,” he grunts, not looking you in the eye. “He’s got someone that loves him as much as he loves them.”

The words knock the air from your lungs. A golf ball sized lump forms in your throat. You force yourself to swallow it down. At least until you’re alone.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”

He leaves without saying another word. When the door behind him clicks shut, you let tears fall freely for the first time in five days.

“You hear that?” You half laugh, half sob. You drag your chair across the linoleum floor, closer to the side of his bed. Then, you take the same hand that Wayne had just held moments prior in your own and bring it to your lips. “I love you, Eddie. I never imagined that this would be the time or place that I’d be telling you that for the first time, but it’s true. I’m in love with you.”

You wipe your nose with the back of your hand, simultaneously relieved that Eddie can’t see you in this state and also wishing more than anything that he’d open his eyes and tease you about being such a snotty, blubbering mess.

“There were so many times that I almost told you. I always bit my tongue out of fear that it would ruin our friendship. And ever since me met, our friendship has always been the most precious thing to me. But I should’ve said it, Eddie. I should’ve told you that I love you. And if you wake up, I promise that I will.”

To no surprise, the only response is the steady, continuous beeping of a monitor that lets you know his heart is beating.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

He’s got someone that loves him as much as he loves them.

Yeah. I do.

You hear that? I love you, Eddie. It’s true.

I’m in love with you.

He chases the words. He sprints after the sound of your voice without knowing where the fuck he’s going.

He just knows you’re close. He can hear you, feel you. His left hand feels like pins and needles and something deep in his gut tells him it’s you. It has to be you. He’d recognize the feeling of your hand holding his anywhere.

I always bit my tongue.

Our friendship has always been the most precious thing to me.

I should’ve said it.

If you wake up, I promise I will.

When his eyes shoot open, the fluorescence nearly blinds him.

“Eddie?”

Your voice. His vision hasn’t come into focus, but he knows you’re here before he sees you. His fingers twitch, the tingling sensation gone because you’re here. Not a memory, not a dream, not a hallucination. You’re really here, holding his hand.

The room around him slowly settles, his eyes briefly darting around until they find the only thing he cares to see right now.

You. Eyes wide and wet with tear-stained cheeks, he would think that he’s seeing an angel if he didn’t know any better.

“Hey,” he rasps, throat so dry that he doesn’t recognize his own voice.

You gasp, a sharp inhale of disbelief. “Eddie,” you whisper again, but this time it’s a sob. You shoot up out of your chair, all but throwing yourself onto the edge of his bed. “You’re awake. Oh my god, you’re awake. I didn’t - I didn’t know if you’d wake up. You scared me so bad, Eddie.”

He wants to wipe your tears but his arms feel heavy and foreign. Tubes trail from the back of his hands and his whole body feels like it’s been taken apart and put back together. The only thing that he knows is working is his heart, because he can feel it swell inside his chest at the way you’re looking at him.

“Sorry for scaring you, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice still scratchy. “I’m here now.”

You sob in relief, leaning over to rest your head against his chest, careful not to brush against the stitches across his abdomen that he’s becoming more aware of by the second.

He nuzzles his face against your hair, inhaling your scent. Neither of you speak for a moment. He somehow gathers up the strength to lift a weak hand to the small of your back.

You’re real. Tangible. And he never wants to let you go again.

“There’s something I’ve gotta tell you,” he whispers.

You pull back enough to look him in the eye. “Me too. There’s something I need to tell you, too—”

“I know,” he stops you. “I know. I heard. I’m in love with you, too.”

You jerk back as if he electrocuted you. “You… heard me?”

He exhales a shaky laugh. “I don’t know how. But I did. I think it… I think it saved me. You saved me.” Tears well in your eyes again and your lips visibly tremble. “And I love you, too. More than anything, baby. I should have told you a long time ago.”

A dozen different emotions flicker across your face. Disbelief, bewilderment, joy. Beneath the tears, a smile forms. The smile that Eddie has fallen in love with.

“C’mere,” he whispers, voice still strained but certain. “Please, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate. Doesn’t need to tell you what he wants. You lean down, bringing your lips to his without a hint of hesitation.

Your hand cups his jaw, your thumb grazing along the scruff of his cheek. He’s sure that his breath is stagnant, but you don’t seem to care. You kiss him - the kind of kiss that he swears could have woken him up days ago, if you’d only pressed your lips to his.

And he lets himself melt into it. A quiet sound escapes him - half sigh, half moan. His fingers tighten at your hip and he has to resist pulling you on top of him entirely, the only thing stopping him being the sharp pains that radiate from his abdomen.

He tastes salt from your tears and the slight tang of coffee, but beneath that, there’s a flavor that’s uniquely you that he knows he’ll never have enough of.

You pull away with a shaky laugh when the beeping of his heart monitor spikes. You rest his forehead against his, both of you breathless. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that again. Promise me.”

“I promise.” He lifts a shaky hand to your face, brushing a stray tear away from your cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere ever again. Not without you.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

thank you so much for reading. ily forever if you comment/reblog.

[blackwidownat2814]

This is definitely what happened post-season 4 and I will not be taking questions.

[flowersforbucky]

i’m so happy that we are all in agreement about that <3

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[electrickellie]

Literally

[bebx]

Squid Game season 2 and Squid Game season 3

[mcrdvcks]

an unhealthy obsession

summary: You try running away from the house but Henry catches you before you enter the cave. Now he has to punish you. word count: 3.0k+ pairing: henry creel x fem!reader notes: i do have to give inspo credit to @wireddless and this drabble she did. because of that drabble i realized i needed more and this happened, lol. hope it's okay! warnings/tags: no use of y/n, slight dub-con, smut, manipulation, guilt tripping, edging, orgasm denial, fingering, dacryphilia, unprotected piv, creampie, aftercare?

The screen door slapped hard against its frame as Henry’s hand yanked you backwards through it, your heels scraping desperately over the warped floorboards. His grip was absolute—each finger a vice around your wrist, indifferent to your pleas and squirming, nails digging crescent-moons into your skin when you twisted in one last, futile bid to wrench free.

He didn’t look at you. His eyes were set straight ahead, face carved with anger, jaw sharp and silent. You tried to plant your feet—he barely slowed, just lifted you off-balance and hauled you up the staircase, your shoulder slamming the wall as you tried, half-panicked, to find purchase on the banister. The house rang with the noise, an ugly, echoing thud. He still didn’t pause. “Henry—please—” It was a gasp, half-sob, breathless from the run and the terror.

He cut you off with a hard shake. “You almost made it to the cave,” he muttered, voice dark, almost impressed in its coldness. “Almost.” He shouldered open the bedroom door and flung you inside, letting you stumble and sprawl across the thick rug. As you scrambled to your knees, breath rattling in your chest, you didn’t look back at him—you didn’t dare.

The door boomed closed. Henry was on you before you could stand, grabbing your upper arm, forcing you around to face him. You tried to twist away, shoving at his chest. He didn’t budge. The movement only seemed to amuse him, the corners of his lips curling in something dangerously close to a smirk.

“Fighting me?” he asked, voice soft and curious as if he were observing a wild animal, not a person. His hand slid up to your jaw, thumb digging into your cheek until your eyes watered. “You think that’s going to save you?”

You couldn’t help the shake in your voice. “Let me go. Please, I wasn’t—I was just—”

“Just what?” He pushed you gently backwards until your knees hit the edge of the bed and you collapsed onto it. His body loomed over you, all broad shoulders and cold, blue eyes. “You weren’t thinking. You don’t think. You react. You run.”

His hands were hot on your skin, one at your throat, not squeezing, just holding you down—reminding you how easy it would be if he decided to. The other traced your hairline, almost tender, fingers grabbing onto the back of your neck. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you out there?” His voice dropped, suddenly rough. “You could have tripped in the dark, broken your neck. Or maybe someone else would have found you—someone who doesn’t care what happens to you at all. Not like I do.”

You closed your eyes, blinking back tears, trying to turn away. He tsked, gripping your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “No. Look at me. You need to understand this. I am the only reason you’re alive. The only reason you haven’t been hurt. I protect you—every day. And this is how you thank me?”

You squirmed again, pulling at his wrist, but he held you fast, his strength unyielding. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of crying, but your eyes burned, vision blurring.

He leaned closer, nose brushing yours, breath warm and steady, a sick intimacy in the way he hovered just above your lips. “You’re lucky I found you first,” he murmured, his voice suddenly honey-sweet, full of dangerous, false comfort. “You don’t realize how cruel the world can be. I do. I see what you’re too naïve to understand. You’d be dead without me.”

A tremor shook through you. You hated how your body reacted to his touch—how heat bloomed low in your belly even as your mind screamed to get away. Henry’s hand slid from your chin down to your throat, his thumb stroking over your pulse. “Do you want to be safe?” he whispered, tone coaxing, seductive. “Or do you want to risk everything, again and again, just to spite me?”

“I—I don’t—” Your voice failed you. The humiliation of being caught, the ache of his grip, the fear—it all twisted inside, making you dizzy.

Henry’s expression softened, but it wasn’t kind; it was predatory, almost pleased. “You can’t help yourself, can you?” He brushed his lips against your ear, voice barely more than a breath. “You need me. You don’t even know how much yet.”

Your body shivered beneath him, thighs pressed together, trying to make yourself smaller. He pressed you flat against the bed, his thigh between yours, forcing you open. “You’re so stubborn,” he said, almost fondly. “Always testing me. I have to teach you. Again and again. And you never learn.”

He paused, taking in the tears slipping down your cheeks, the defiance still burning in your gaze. His eyes flashed, something wicked behind the icy calm. “Maybe I haven’t been strict enough,” he murmured, thumb smearing a tear away with agonizing slowness. “Maybe you need to be reminded what happens when you forget who you belong to.”

You shook your head, words caught behind your teeth, but he only laughed, soft and cruel. “You want to run? Go ahead. See how far you get next time. But for now—” He shifted, pinning you harder, his weight a promise. “I guess I’ll just have to teach you properly.”

His voice was low, menacing, yet almost gentle. His grip never loosened, even as you writhed—just enough to show you still had some fire left. You tried to twist out from beneath him, but he used his weight, his presence, to force you down, breath coming fast and shallow against your ear.

He smiled, slow and cold. “Keep fighting, if you want. See how far it gets you. All you do is prove how much you need me.”

The mattress dipped under his knees, the world narrowed to his hands on your body, the sick pulse of arousal and dread mixing in your veins, his breath hot at your jaw, teeth grazing skin, voice a velvet threat:

“Let’s see if you learn this time.”

Henry’s hands moved with an infuriating slowness, heavy palms skating down your trembling body, mapping every inch as if memorizing the contours of your fear and stubbornness. His fingertips hooked under the elastic of your panties, dragging the thin fabric down your thighs. The backs of his knuckles grazed your skin, a touch both deliberate and dismissive—he wasn’t in a hurry, he wanted you to feel how casual this was for him, how completely in control.

The air was thick, hot with anticipation and the humiliation of being laid bare under his gaze. You tried to close your legs, but his knee wedged itself between them, forcing you open, exposing you to the cool air and his hungry, assessing stare. He sat back just enough to admire his handiwork, one hand braced by your hip, the other lazy and taunting, cupping the heat between your legs. He brushed his thumb idly over your clit, featherlight, barely there, making your whole body jerk involuntarily, a choked gasp slipping from your lips before you could stop it.

“Oh, look at you,” Henry murmured, voice syrupy with condescension. “Always so defiant until I’ve got you like this. You don’t even know what you want, do you?” He circled your clit again, almost a tease, watching the flush creep up your chest, the way your hips tried to arch up for more, desperate for any real friction.

Your hands fisted in the sheets, nails digging in, breath coming in tiny, ragged shivers. “Stop—please, Henry, just—”

He cut you off with a tut, bending over to press his mouth hot and close against your ear. “You want me to stop?” His fingers slid down, parting your folds, slicking themselves with your arousal as if to prove a point. “That’s not what your body says.” He rubbed slow, lazy circles over your clit, two fingers dipping down to tease your entrance, pressing in just enough to make your muscles clench around nothing. Every movement was calculated, designed to drive you mad with need while keeping you just out of reach.

He pressed a little harder, making you whimper, your hips rolling in spite of yourself, seeking more, begging for it. He grinned, voice low and pleased. “Look at you. I barely touch you and you’re already soaking. That’s what happens when you disobey—you make a mess and I have to clean it up.”

You tried to turn away, mortified, but he caught your chin, forcing you to face him, eyes sharp and demanding. “You want to come, don’t you?” His fingers stilled, just barely inside you, refusing to move until you answered.

You hesitated, shame warring with need, but your body answered for you—a needy buck of your hips, a strangled whine in your throat. Henry laughed, the sound dark and knowing. “I knew it. But you don’t get to come yet. Not until you mean it. Not until you’re sorry. Not until I believe you.”

He dragged his fingers back up, circling your clit with maddening patience, teasing but never giving enough. You squirmed beneath him, the pleasure too much and not enough, a sharp ache building inside you, heat pooling deep and urgent in your belly.

“Say it,” he commanded, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Tell me you’re sorry. Like you mean it.”

You shook your head, biting your lip, the words stuck in your throat. He pressed a little harder, the pads of his fingers slipping over your clit in slow, lazy circles that made your thighs tremble. He leaned down, lips brushing your jaw, breath hot and ragged. “Don’t make me wait all night,” he warned, a mock patience in his voice that sent a cold thrill down your spine.

He pressed two fingers inside you without warning, knuckles deep, stretching you slow and deliberate, curling up to stroke that sensitive spot that made your whole body arch off the bed. Your mouth dropped open, a helpless moan pouring out, raw and desperate, your hips bucking up to meet his hand.

“Say it,” he repeated, thrusting his fingers slowly, almost carelessly, as if he could do this forever, as if your pleasure—or your torment—meant nothing to him except as a lesson. “Or I’ll stop. Right now. I’ll leave you like this, aching, desperate, until you learn to be good for me.”

Your pride fought back, stubborn, tears prickling at your eyes, but the pleasure was overwhelming, impossible to ignore. He shifted, pressing his thumb against your clit while his fingers fucked you slow and deep, pushing you closer and closer to the edge but never letting you fall.

“Please,” you gasped, voice breaking, body shaking with the effort to hold back, to not give him the satisfaction.

He tsked, shaking his head. “Not good enough. I want to hear you beg. I want to hear you mean it.”

You broke, the shame and need twisting together until you couldn’t tell them apart. “I’m sorry,” you choked out, voice raw, tears streaming down your cheeks. “I’m sorry, Henry, please, I’m sorry—”

He smiled, wicked and triumphant, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “That’s my girl.” His fingers sped up, thumb circling your clit with perfect pressure, drawing desperate, needy sounds from your lips. “Now come for me. Show me how sorry you are.”

The orgasm crashed over you, violent and overwhelming, your whole body seizing beneath him, cries echoing in the room, every nerve ending aflame with relief and humiliation. He held you through it, fingers milking every last tremor from your body, watching with dark, satisfied eyes as you fell apart for him.

He didn’t stop until you were boneless and gasping, the lesson burned into your skin. His hand finally left you, sliding up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing away the tears, his voice low and almost gentle.

“Maybe now you’ll think twice before running,” he murmured, a threat and a promise tangled together, as he leaned in to claim your mouth with his.

Henry’s hands slid from your jaw down to your collarbone, rough and unhurried, fingertips ghosting over sensitive skin as he pushed the straps of your dress from your shoulders. The fabric slipped down your arms, pooling at your waist, exposing trembling skin to the dim light. He caught your gaze, the ice in his blue eyes thawing into something heavier, more wounded than angry.

His palm flattened over your heart, thumb tracing a circle just above your breast. “You really wanted to leave me that badly?” he murmured, voice low, not harsh but laden with an ache that twisted in your gut. “You were going to run from me? After everything I do for you?”

You opened your mouth, but the words tangled with a shaky breath. Henry’s fingers found the clasp of your bra and undid it with a deft flick, letting the final scrap of modesty fall away. He nudged the dress the rest of the way off, his knuckles grazing your thighs, making your breath stutter.

He held you there, stripped bare and shivering, under the weight of his stare. “I’m not angry, darling. Not really.” He dipped his head, brushing his lips over the line of your jaw, warm breath feathering down your neck. “But it hurts. It hurts, knowing you’d rather risk yourself out there than stay with me. Am I really that awful?”

His question crawled beneath your skin. Tears welled up, blurring the world around his face, your throat tight. “No, Henry—no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I just—” Your voice cracked, and you buried your face in the hard muscle of his shoulder, shame burning your cheeks.

He shushed you softly, hands soothing over your ribs. His body pressed into yours, heat and need and ownership all wrapped up in the way he handled you—unyielding, but never hurried. He sat back just enough to undo his own pants, pushing them down over his hips, cock heavy and flushed, the sight of it making your insides twist with nervous anticipation. He didn’t bother to take his shirt off, just let it hang open as he guided your legs apart, body slotted perfectly between them.

He leaned over you, chest brushing your nipples, the scratch of fabric against your bare skin sending a shiver up your spine. His hands framed your face, forcing you to look up at him. “You’re mine,” he said, soft and final, a statement of fact that demanded no answer. “Say it.”

You swallowed hard, tears spilling over, voice small and raw. “I’m yours, Henry. I’m sorry. I’m yours.”

He kissed you, slow and punishing, teeth scraping your bottom lip as his hips pressed forward. The thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance, slick and aching, your body already yielding from the rough tease he’d given you before. He slid into you in one long, deliberate thrust, filling you completely, stretching you open until your mouth dropped open on a shuddering gasp.

Henry’s breath was hot against your ear as he bottomed out, holding himself deep inside. “You feel that?” he whispered, moving his hips just enough to make you clench helplessly around him. “No one else will ever have you like this. No one else gets to see you fall apart. You’re mine, and you’ll never run from me again.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, shame and relief warring inside you, body clinging to him as he started to move—slow, possessive thrusts, each one claiming you again and again. His hands roamed everywhere: cupping your breasts, gripping your waist, pinning your wrists above your head only to let go and cradle your face while he fucked you.

He kissed along your jaw, and you pressed your lips to his skin in a desperate apology, peppering kisses along his neck, across his throat, up to his cheek, whispering broken pleas between every gasp. “I’m sorry, Henry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, please don’t let me go, please—” Your words were muffled against his throat, voice shaking with every thrust, every wet, needy moan.

He grunted softly, thrusts deepening, fucking you harder but never rough—just insistent, relentless, coaxing you toward the edge again. “That’s it,” he murmured, letting you sob into his neck, “say it again.”

Your lips brushed his jaw, his mouth, salty with your tears. “I’m sorry, Henry, I’m yours, I promise, I’m yours—” The words spilled out between kisses, each one more desperate as your body tightened around him, every muscle trembling, the pressure building again, impossibly sharp.

“Good girl,” he breathed, voice ragged. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes searching your face, needing to see every quiver, every tear. “Come for me. Show me you mean it.”

You shattered for him, your whole body arching up, walls clenching tight around him as you cried out his name, sobbing into his mouth, legs trembling as the orgasm tore through you. Henry groaned, hips snapping forward, thrusts growing frantic as he spilled inside you, holding you so tight you couldn’t have run even if you wanted to.

He stayed like that, locked together, letting your bodies ride out every aftershock, his lips gentle on your damp cheeks. His hands softened, stroking your sides and kissing away the tears.

Slowly, carefully, he eased out of you and gathered you up, pulling you onto his lap, your face pressed into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you secure and safe, rocking you gently while your breathing evened out. He pressed soft kisses onto your temple, voice a low rumble against your skin.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, thumb wiping the last tears from your cheeks. “I forgive you. You’re safe with me, always. I’m not letting you go. Never again.” He held you close, bodies tangled, the sharp edge of the lesson fading into a quiet, possessive warmth, his forgiveness settling over you as heavy and inescapable as his love.

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes

extra notes: i am going to be making an actual fic with henry - technically i'm gonna make it a two parter, the first one being henry x reader and the second being a steve x reader. if you're interested/want to be tagged, let me know!

[flowersforbucky]

everyone say thank you abby

[cptsmallass]

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[elegantpaperoperatormaker]

Prescribed Burn

Ex-Husband!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Your ex-husband won't stop crashing your dates, leaving you sexually frustrated and alone with him. He wouldn't be such a thorn in your side if you'd just take him back. Maybe one more hookup will do the trick...

Word Count: 8.7k

Warnings: 18+ mdni!!! Smut, PiV unprotected, jealousy, perv!eddie is a panty thief, kinda angst w a happy ending, mention of masturbation, maybe considered coercion because Eddie doesn't wanna wear a condom and you don’t want another kid while divorced but it’s chill bc you really just wanna fuck, cream pie, kissingggg, tensionnn, cryinggg, breeding kink, nicknames (mama, daddy), Hopper is a county judge now, teasing, a little biting, Eddie has two sons with you but he wants to be a girl dad so bad, feelings, I think that's it lmk if I missed anything.

A/N: I've been working on this for a few weeks and it's finally done. I decided to combine the submission with another ask I got because I think they mesh well together.

“A controlled burn or prescribed burn (Rx burn) is the practice of intentionally setting a fire to change the assemblage of vegetation and decaying material in a landscape.” — Wiki

“Low to moderate-intensity fire reduces competition from invasive species and encourages the growth of fire-adapted native vegetation…” — nationalforests.org

Prequel

Masterlist

Submission Guidelines

Your date is practically slobbering on you as you fiddle with the lock on the front door. When the damn thing finally gives way, you walk in, throwing your purse on the nearby hook, your date stumbling in after you—still trying to leech blood from your veins, apparently. 

“Damn–useless–,” you mutter, cursing at your door, voice trailing off. “Shoulda had Eddie fix the stupid thing.”

Blane releases your neck to throw you a confused look, “What was that?”

“Nothing. Let’s–take this into the living room.” You try to herd him into the wider space, struggling to withhold an eye roll at his desperate, uncoordinated hands groping your body. Feeling around for the lightswitch, you flick it on and jump at the sight before you.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Holy shit!”

You and your date shout at the same time, both startled by the curly haired man lounging in the arm chair like he owns the place—jackass.

“Oh, please, don’t stop on my account,” he waves you on before threading his fingers, elbows on each arm of the chair as he rests his chin on clasped hands, an expectant smile plastered over his face. 

“What the hell are you doing here,” you groan, crossing your arms, closing yourself off to him. 

Blane’s eyes widen even more, darting from your rigid body to the stranger leisurely eyeing you in your living room. “Do you know this man?” 

Restraining another eye roll at the idiot’s reaction, you don’t get the chance to speak before Eddie runs his mouth. 

“Does she know me? Oh, her and I go way back! What was it, ‘77? ‘78?” His grin never leaves his stupid face, a wicked glint in his obsidian eyes.

This time you allow yourself to eyeroll. Eddie will take every chance to remind any male that comes within a hundred feet of you that he got there first. And not only was he there first, but he was your everything. Until he wasn’t. 

The genius you agreed to go on a date with looks back at you, still confused. “So, you do know this man?”

The blond’s cluelessness makes Eddie snort, you sure know how to pick ‘em. He likes to think he was your magnum opus, your big kahuna, your white whale. “I’m her husband.”

“Ex,” you grit out, knowing Eddie gets a sick little thrill any time he runs into you with a guy and gets to drop the bomb that you were married once before—to him, no less. 

Blane looks at you shocked, you pointedly ignore his burning gaze on the side of your face. It’s not your fault you didn’t get the chance to disclose that information between his non stop yammering about his management position at RadioShack—proud to lord over a bunch of seventeen-year-olds. 

“And I’m also the father of her children.” The curly haired man stands up with an exaggerated groan, pretending to dust off his tattered jeans. “Yup, everybody around here calls me ‘daddy,’ you can too if ya like.” 

Head jerking back at the brash statement, the blond looks at you again. Apparently, there’s no other way the man can turn his damn neck.

“Don’t–call him–I don’t call him ‘daddy’,” You shake your head, looking at Blane sharply. 

Eddie steps forward, hand outstretched to your date, “Sorry–did you say your name was ‘Flavor of the Week’?” 

“Eddie!” 

“Uh, no, it’s Blane,” the blond shakes Eddie’s ringed hands, cringing at the harsh squeeze the metalhead gives. 

He can’t help the way his eyebrows disappear into his bangs, eyes lighting up like he just heard the best thing all day. “B–uh–lane?” His jaw is dropped in awe of the new low you’ve stooped—hooking up with a ‘Blane’. Why don’t you go ahead and get a ‘Chad’ or ‘Brad’ in there while you’re at it. 

“Well, it’s actually pronounced, ‘Blane,’ but yeah.” 

You stomp over, separating their hands, positioning yourself between the single-sided pissing contest. “What are you doing here, Eddie?” 

Shrugging, he gives you an innocent smile, “I just came to pick up the kids.” 

He knows damn well you don’t have them, he actually ran into the little rugrats at the park with Robin on his drive home. He pulled over, asking what she was doing with his children, and Robin was spineless enough to let slip that you had a date tonight. So here he is. 

He didn’t have anything better to do, anyway. Got tired of the chick he was trying to see—keyword: trying. But she wasn’t anything like you, so he had to ditch her after a short lived affair. He’s thankful he’s here right now, god forbid you sleep with a ‘Blane.’

You narrow your eyes at him—this wasn’t his night to take the boys. The asshole probably just wanted to crash your date. It’s like he’s torturing you for something he did. Anytime you try to go on a date—get back out there, as Robin says—he magically shows up, ruining the whole affair. 

The lack of successful hookups have left you to make some poor mistakes—like sleeping with your ex, for one. It’s like this is his huge, master plan to get you back. He’ll fuck up any chance you have at moving on and just when you’re at your wits end, he’ll swoop in on his best behavior—acting like the saint he’s not. 

“Well, they’re not here,” you deadpan, eager to see what excuse he can come up with next. 

Eddie snorts, looking at Blane for support, “Woah, absentee mother alert! It’s ten o’clock, do you know where your children are?” 

“Okay, that’s it! Get out!” You grab his leather clad arm, dragging him to the door.

You only get to the threshold of the family room before he weasels his arm out of your clawing grasp. 

“Aht, aht! Not so fast! It’s my house, too.” Walking back to a stunned Blane, he throws his arm over the awkward guy, leaning into his face. “My name is on the deed,” he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at the cringing blond. 

“Yeah, and I’ve been meaning to change that. Got a judge’s approval and everything.” Crossing your arms, jutting a hip out, you give him a smug look. 

“Hop, right? Oh, yeah, no,” he waves you off. “That’s no good. Turns out the guy’s got a soft spot for me. All it took was a few tears, a couple of sad pictures of a broken family, and a promise to make it right—he folded like an omelet. That guy should really get his attorney license revoked,” he muses, frowning at how easy Hopper was to manipulate despite all of Eddie’s less than savory run-ins with the ex-chief of police in his youth. 

“What? The Fuck? Eddie?” Steam could be blowing out of your ears for all you know, you’ve never felt so enraged. Eddie’s overstepped your boundaries a lot since you two separated—ruining dates, buying the boys things you specifically said ‘no’ to, introducing the boys to his flings, purposefully neglecting to bring your kids back until you come over to take them back just so he can see you—but this takes the cake. 

You’ve been waiting five months for the paperwork to go through. In fact, you only just got the approval this past Monday. Now he’s in your house—without your consent—rubbing it in your face that he got the change expunged only four days later.

Blane slips away from Eddie, looking like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he sheepishly mutters, “I can see you two have a lot to work through, so I’m just gonna–” He motions to the door, stepping toward you and then back, unsure whether he should approach you with how irate you look. Deciding to risk it, he lays a hand on your stiff shoulders, giving a hesitant kiss to your cheek. “Call me when you figure this stuff out.” 

Eddie snorts at the bold move. ‘Alright, Blane, you dog,’ he thinks. Even he wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole right now—you’d probably melt it—and he’s known you since he was eleven and you were nine. He’s surprised the guy didn’t liquefy from your magmatic fury, leaving nothing but his shitty veneers and obvious toupée.

The front door shuts leaving the two of you alone, the only thing that can be heard is the huffing breaths of your ire. You’re staring daggers at Eddie, wishing on every star that you secretly have laser eyes you never knew about—so you can smite your awful ex-husband, zapping him off the face of the earth like a moth in an electric bug zapper.

“Can you believe that guy?” Eddie throws his hand out to the door Blane just left out of. “Like, ‘Okay, drama queen, way to make an exit,’” he mocks, looking at you for support. “Thought he’d never leave.” 

“Eddie…”

 It’s his first and only warning, but he doesn’t heed it. 

“And, hey, what’s with you and men who have the personality of a wet paper bag? I mean seriously, who’s a grown man and blond?”

Steadily stalking towards him with sharp, unyielding eyes, you’re imagining every way you’re about to throw him out of your house. He’s slowly backing up, the smug smile never leaving his face.

“By the way, I felt his hands—that man has never worked a day in his life. His hands are so soft and supple—like a woman’s. If you wanted to feel a woman’s hands, I’m sure Robin’s just been waiting on your call,” he laughs, getting off on shit talking your choice of date. 

Your movements stop, halting a few inches in front of him. Looking up into his twinkling eyes—mirth to your anger. 

“Well, it’s kind of hard to find somebody willing to date a single mother, and anybody who is, you open your big mouth to,” you bite out, trying your hardest to restrain yourself from grabbing him by the hair and dragging him out the front door. 

A closed-mouth smile spreads up one side of his face, his head ducks to gaze into your eyes, admiring. “You know, I actually know someone who really goes for that type of thing.” 

“Oh, my ex-husband is gonna set me up now?”

He shrugs.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Who?” 

“Me.” 

You snort—that’s the funniest thing you’ve heard in a while. Eddie always did make you laugh. 

His smile falters a bit, but he catches himself before you can see it. “Oh, come on! The boys would be ecstatic to see their daddy home.” 

“Well, their daddy should’ve thought about that before he was an awful husband.” 

That comment takes the wind right out of his sails, the light in his eyes tempering at the reminder of the fuck up he’ll regret for the rest of his life. 

“Also, don’t ever call me an absentee mother,” you threaten, anger flaring up again at the memory of his comment—in front of your date, too. 

Being the king of deflecting feelings, a smile quirks up on his lips again. He prowls the short distance to you, head dipped to read your body language as he reaches for your hips, pulling you to his chest. “Aw, you know I didn’t mean it, sweetheart,” he pouts. “Just wanted old B–uh–lane to leave us alone…” 

Head tentatively moving to your neck, his lips graze the column of your throat. The featherlight sensation against your delicate skin has your shoulders relaxing, a stuttering breath leaving glossed lips. 

“I know you’re the best mother the boys could ever ask for. Best mama and a great wife. S’too bad I wasn’t a great husband,” he mutters against your skin, hot, languid tongue mouthing at the flesh. 

Predictable. This is what you were afraid of. It’s like clock work. He ruins your dates, acts like a saint, plays the part of the man you fell in love with, and takes you to bed. Every. Time. There’s not a hint of remorse in his comment, he’s saying what you want to hear. 

Doesn’t mean he doesn’t believe he was a bad husband. He’s just on a mission right now, and pondering the shortcomings of his vows to you is not a big turn on. 

Pulse spiking at his attention, the intoxicating smell of his familiar cologne melts your brain into mush. “S–Stop,” you try to push him off, but he just takes the hands you splay on his chest and slides them around his back—making you hold him. 

His hands slide up your body, settling on either side of your cheeks. Half-lidded, hungry eyes rove over your face. Swollen lips pant soft breaths against your skin; the sensation has you closing your eyes, trying to scrounge up some sense of self-worth. 

Leaving slow, delicate, open-mouthed kisses around your face, he mumbles lowly, “You know we don’t have to stop sleeping together just because we’re separated, right?” 

“Divorced,” you correct—separated sounds temporary, this was supposed to be forever. 

“Semantics.” 

You almost preen at the little pecks he gives to your closed eyelids. You haven’t felt this kind of intimate affection in so long. It feels like a sisyphean task to gather your willpower; you can’t let him continue to do this. It’s not healthy. For either of you. 

He doesn’t let you have a boyfriend and he can’t hold down a girlfriend. They all either walk out because he won’t ever stop talking about you or he dumps them because they’re not enough like you. 

Eddie’s wandering mouth inches to yours with each delicate kiss. Finally hovering over your parted lips, he gives a tentative lick to your cherry lip gloss—the flavor he dreams about every night in the cold bed in his empty apartment, fist squeezing his cock, mind convincing him it’s your velvety walls surrounding him.

“You don’t have to keep telling me ‘no.’ Don’t gotta waste your breath.” 

Giving a purposeful lick into your mouth, he draws waiting lips to his in a tight, wet kiss. A moan works its way up your throat, fingers digging across his back as he caresses your tongue with his. 

Pulling away panting, he leaves you breathless—eyes still closed and head mindlessly leaning in for more. But it doesn’t come.

“I’ll always be here, baby.” His confidence is other worldly, you’ll never understand what you do to make him so ballsy. All he gets from you is denigration and cold stares. “I’m the father of your children.” 

That’s the nail in the coffin—the epitome of why you still allow him into your life. He’s the father of your children—a damn good one at that: loving, kind, and a good role model for the boys. You will never be rid of him. You couldn’t do that to the boys. No matter how badly you might want to never speak to him again sometimes. 

Before this goes any further—and you know it will—you have to know…

“Why’d you go behind my back with Hopper?” Opening your eyes, you catch a small look of shock passing over his features before he corrects himself—deflecting again, just like he always does. 

“This house is the first thing we ever bought together. Wasn’t ready for that history to be erased,” he answers earnestly, hands never leaving your face. 

That’s the first time in a long time he’s been genuine with you. It makes you frown, though. The house is what upset him? Not you divorcing him?

“What, I was easier to let go of than a house?” 

His eyebrows knit together for a split second, eyes narrowing just as quick. Do you not get it? He’s been pretty clear.

“I didn’t let you go. I haven’t let you go,” he amends, shaking his head, eyes studying you closely. “I just can’t make you stay.” 

The words he carefully chose have a strange feeling washing over you as you take them in. You’re trying so hard to read his mind through his expressive eyes, but he’s always been good about showing you only what he wants you to see. 

Right now, the muddy pools you used to fall asleep gazing into every night only show empty depth. His words aren’t empty—you trust him in that. But he’s not imploring you to believe him—not begging you to look into his eyes and decide for yourself whether he means what he says. He’s speaking as plainly as possible, his dark irises reflecting that. 

You don’t need to guess what he feels. He’s telling you. 

A rueful smile appears, “At least a house doesn’t know it deserves better. Better than what I gave.” 

He specifically doesn’t say, ‘Better than what I could give,’ because he’s sure now—he could be who he should’ve been from the start. He’s felt the hole you left, tried to fill it with other women. All he’s learned is you were it for him. And he was stupid enough to let you go. No, he didn’t let you go. He made you leave. It was his actions—he knows that now. But he can be the man you need. He’s certain. 

All of a sudden the subject is too heavy for you. His kiss—the quiet affection—messed with your mind. You feel your grasp on certainty slipping. Why did you divorce him? No. You know why…

He’s suffocating you—his charm, his scent, his presence, his hands on your body. The hands you remember like it was yesterday—sliding a ring on, caressing your bump, holding your babies. 

You need to change the subject. Quick. He’s breaking you down, rocking inhibitions like a barge at sea. 

“You need to get rid of that damn key,” you utter, attempting to regain a firmness in your voice—the one he took, along with your breath. 

He accepts your subject change gracefully, a smile spreading across his lips, thumbs smoothing over your hairline. “But what if there’s an emergency,” he goads, eyes alight with twinkling affection. 

“Crashing my date doesn’t count as an emergency,” you chide, looking up at him with an indignant tilt to your head. 

“It does if his name is ‘B–uh–lane.’ Where’d you meet ‘im anyway? Did’ya see his picture on the back of a milk carton?” 

You can’t help but snort at his comment. Blane wouldn’t have been your first choice for a date, but you were desperate for connection. It’s been so long since you were properly wined and dined. You were hoping he’d talk less in bed. 

A blinding grin breaks out across Eddie’s face, he’s always loved making you laugh—it’s his favorite sound in the entire world. Pecking your lips, he pulls back, “I mean seriously, that guy is like those jockstraps we went to high school with! That’s not your type, sweetheart.” 

Fighting the smile off your face, you run your tongue over your teeth behind your lips, “Yeah? And what is my type?” 

He bites his lip, relishing in the banter he’s sorely missed since you kicked him out. This is the lightest you’ve been with him since everything went down. It’s like he and you are in high school all over again—flirting, teasing each other, dancing around big feelings, unsure of your place in the other’s heart. 

“Oh, I don’t know…” he shrugs, playing coy before leaning into your lips again. “Gorgeous…tall…brown button eyes…voluminous curls…father of your children…” He leaves a quick peck on your lips between each attribute he lists, leaving a longer kiss after the last descriptor. 

Shaking your head, you try to disavow him, but the fondness in your eyes betrays you. “That was my old type. I’m not into that anymore.” 

He had hoped you’d say that…

“Really? Because I actually came to return your panties.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a ball of black lace, letting it hang from his index finger in front of you. 

The spell is broken, you blanch, snatching the intimate scrap of fabric from his greedy hands—more like sticky fingers, how the hell did he get those? 

“I didn’t leave these with you,” you hiss, stuffing the underwear in the front pocket of your jeans. He’s not allowed to see your intimates anymore—or at least he won’t be once you stop sleeping with him. 

Shrugging, he dismisses your attitude with a passive tilt to his head, “Yeah, well, I got a hankering during work.” 

His shit eating grin makes you scoff. Not only did he use his old house key to break in and ruin your date, but he also snuck in earlier—while you were at work and the boys were at school—just to rifle through your drawers. At least, you hope to god it was your drawers and not your dirty laundry basket.

“You’re a pig.” 

His grin only widens at your derision. Leaning in, he shakes his head as he says, “Oink oink, baby. Whatever you say, now can we please fuck?” 

“No.” You’re not about to enable his behavior by sleeping with him after this shit show of a night. 

Eddie’s eyebrows raise, amused at your attempt to turn him down, “No?”

“Correct. I’m setting a boundary and I’m putting an embargo on my panties.” You reach around his body, plucking the pair he has haphazardly shoved into his back pocket. You’re sure he nicked this pair while he was waiting for you to get home from your date. 

When he realizes what you’re doing—watches as you hold the red lacy fabric he painstakingly picked out—he’s beside himself. “Hey, hey, hey, that’s mine! You can’t have both! I need at least one for later if we’re not gonna fuck.” 

Ignoring his comment, you notice the fabric has a stiffness to it, immediately dropping it, you wipe your hand against your jeans—a useless reaction as the underwear is completely dry. He didn’t get this out of your drawers…

“Oh, you’re disgusting! Seriously deranged.” You cannot believe this is what he’s doing with his old house key. This is a new low, even for him. 

“Oh, like you didn’t take my Dio shirt last time,” He argues, remembering the way you sent him home shirtless—like a real walk of shame. He’d never felt more turned on. The image of you in his shirt—just like old times—became his masturbation material for a whole week after that. 

You guffaw, throwing your head back at the insanity he’s trying to dress up as logic. “That’s a shirt, dumbass! Not underwear!”

He throws his arms up like he’s exasperated by your ‘logic.’ “Fine, you can have my underwear if you want! Here, I’ll give ‘em to you right now!” 

You watch in horror as he starts unbuckling his belt. He gets as far unbuttoning his pants and pulling down his fly before you’re able to stop him. “No, I touch enough male undergarments, thank you,” you sass, holding up a hand to halt his movements. 

All of a sudden, he looks miffed. You don’t know why, but you feel the need to correct yourself. “The boys,” you specify.

His face relaxes, shoulders dropping—you can almost see his hackles go back down. “Oh! Well, they don’t count.” 

With nothing else to say, you shake your head, trying to fend a smile off, “You’re such a perv. Always have been.” 

“You used to love that about me.” He tilts his head, studying you intently. You feel like you’re under a magnifying glass—his gaze is piercing. 

“Yeah, well, I grew up,” you mutter, no longer smiling. 

He closes the space between your bodies, wandering fingers inching their way back around your waist. His head ducks as he catches your eyes, face drifting to yours, “Well, grow back down then.” 

Before you get the chance to respond, his lips are on yours. It feels like all the air in the room has been sucked out to fuel Eddie’s greedy endeavors. His hands slide up each side of your body, leaving you shuddering at the caress he gives the very edge of your breasts. 

Eddie’s the first to pull away, heavy lidded eyes filled with desire watch as your lips fall after his—looking for the lost connection. The ghost of a smile covers his lips at the sight of your trance, your eyes still closed, longing for him to come back. He grants you one more sweet kiss before you open your eyes, chest huffing as you try to slow your heart rate. 

“We can’t keep doing this…”

“Who says?” Every time you’ve claimed an end to this—you and Eddie—it’s been an empty threat. Hollow words from a broken heart. 

“Me.” Looking up at him, you try to sound firm in your decision, but you can’t help the way your chin juts out—head almost leaning in again, desire defying your brain. 

Watching every single minute movement you make, he’s confident in the way this night will go. That famous grin spreads across his face. Cocking his head, unconvinced, he argues, “Well, you’re unreliable. I bet you $100 you’re wet right now.” 

A sigh leaves you swollen lips, your willpower leaving you like rushing water from a broken dam. “Eddie…” It’s one last attempt at trying to abstain—a weak attempt, but an attempt nonetheless.

He licks his lips, letting go of your face to grab your hand and force it into a handshake deal. “Show me or pay up, sweetheart.” 

Another sigh leaves you, trying to fight off a smile at his dirty ploy. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugs, smirking, “You married me.”

“And divorced you.”

“Semantics,” he repeats his sentiment from earlier, fingers creeping under the hem of your top.

Shivering at the feeling of his ringed fingers, you try again, “You should leave. I–I’ll make you leave.” 

Another empty threat. 

He pulls off your top, not waiting for any protest as he drags you in for a messy kiss. Undoing your jeans and working them down your legs, he crouches as you put your hands on his shoulders, using his body to steady yourself. He looks up at you while removing your shoes and freeing your feet from the bunched-up pant legs. It looks like you could dive headfirst into the muddy pools of his eyes, swim for miles, and still never reach the bottom. Heat flushes through your body like a fever preparing to put you out for weeks on end. The desire in his twinkling irises has you huffing out desperate breaths.

“And yet…I’m still here,” he murmurs, standing up chest-to-chest with you. 

In a flash, he’s ripped off his own clothes, dragging you to the couch, his naked body covering yours. Puffs of breath rush across your panting lips, he smells like cigarettes and Listerine—an indication that the bastard knew he’d get you one way or another. 

“Tell me this is the last time.” 

“Eddie, please,” you whine, trying to pull his hips to your core, aching to feel the hard weight of his cock against your wet and waiting heat. 

“You wan’ me, sweetheart?” Halting his hips from going any further, he gazes down at your face, screwed up in desperation.

Frustrated at the change of pace—he wanted you so badly earlier and now he’s acting like he’s got all the time in the world—you groan. “Are you gonna fuck me or not, jackass?”

“Are you gonna do what I tell you?”

“Oh please, if this is how you wanna play, I can get off just fine with a vibrator upstairs. I don’t need you,” you grit out, pushing his shoulders, trying to put space between your heated bodies. 

A low chuckle leaves his throat as he lets you push him—only slightly. Taking the space you force, he picks up one hand, reaching for your wet folds. The frustration leaves your voice, face, and body as he runs deft fingers along your slit, gathering slick arousal. A broken moan leaves your lips, the new sensation between your legs has you rolling your hips for more—needing him inside of you now. 

“Baby, you’re so wet you’re gonna short circuit the damn vibrator. You know you need me, so just tell me what I wanna hear.” 

“Fuck you.” He’s toying with you and you hate that he wields any kind of power over you. 

“I’m tryin’ to, honey,” he grins, watching between panting bodies as his fingers lift, a string of cyprine hanging on for dear life. Sucking wet fingers into his mouth, he moans at the taste of you—his favorite flavor. If you’d only have him back, he could be down feasting on your delicious cunt morning, noon, and night. 

Watching his eyes roll back with a slack jaw, tears almost fill your waterline—you need him so fucking bad. It doesn’t matter if it’s his mouth, his cock, or his fingers—you need to feel him.

“This is the last time,” you mutter, saying what he so desperately needs to hear—you don’t know why. Not a particularly fond sentiment—the phrase is something he’s complained about before. 

“Promise?” Placing his hand back down beside your head, his face tilts as he watches you with rapt, hungry attention. 

Your eyebrows furrow, with a shake of your head you indulge him, “Yeah, sure.” 

Air huffs out of his nose in amusement at your willingness to comply after he spent so long breaking you down. Grasping his hard cock, he runs the leaking tip through your swollen folds. A relieved moan leaves you as he notches the head into your hole, lining up for a straight shot into your warmth. 

Sanity crawls back into your mind for a split second causing you to pause his hips. “Wait–Eddie, condom.” 

Pressing lightly inside of you, only centimeters of his tip breaching your hungry walls, he shakes his head at your words. “No. No condom, baby. Wanna feel you.”

Struggling to make your brain think logically, you whine out again. “Eddie, we can’t–if we don’t–”

With the tip safely in your cunt, he reaches his hand back up to you, grasping the side of your face, petting your hair with a soothing thumb. “You gonna stop me, sweetheart? Gonna throw me out?” 

If he hadn’t said the words so softly, desperate panting breath accenting every syllable, you would have thought he was mocking you—teasing you for your earlier threats. A mewl leaves your throat, your hips roll against his cock, aching for more with a mind of their own. You shake your head at his questions—no, you won’t throw him out. You need him too bad and the shithead knows that. 

A mocking grin pulls his lips up, leaning down, he gives you a condescending peck on the nose. “No, you won’t do that, sweetheart. I know you…I love you.”

Closing your eyes, you breathily let out a weak, “S–Stop.” You don’t need to hear that right now, not when you’re still trying to force yourself to reject him and his constant advances. 

You moan as his tip finally pushes all the way in, the thick ledge of sensitive skin hugged by your greedy walls. “I love you,” he repeats, breathing against your open mouth, inching in a little more. “Wanna have another baby with you, mama.”

Your nails claw down his chest as you shake your head, trying to hold in the mewling whine threatening to escape your lips. Your traitorous hips give another desperate roll, wanting him fully inside you despite your mind screaming at you to tell him to go to hell. 

Ravenous, dark eyes take in the continuous shake of your head—the rejection to his admission. It only makes him hungrier. “Wan’ another baby, sweetheart. Wan’ a little girl. She’ll be as pretty as her mama.”

His words bring you back to your body, the feel of his hard, bare cock inches away from full envelopment. “Shut up, Eddie. We can’t have another baby, we’re divorced.”

Never one to follow authority, he only smiles sweetly at your perturbed eyes. “Yeah, for now.” 

“Forever,” you grit out, pinching his nipple in retaliation. That was a mistake because it only makes him grunt and jerk his hips, pushing his cock one bit closer to where you need him. 

Muffling another groan at the feeling of your wet heat, he messily murmurs, “You can’t raise another baby on your own, sweetheart.”

“I’m not having one.”

Ducking down to give you a searing kiss, he meets your blown eyes. “Well, I’m not fucking you if I have to wear a condom,” he argues, a wicked glint to those brown irises. 

“Eddie!” 

“It’s your choice, but I’m setting a boundary, honey,” he mocks your earlier words.

Huffing out a frustrated breath, your pussy is getting wetter by the second and it’s been so long. Doing quick mental math, you don’t think you’re ovulating. His cock is already so warm inside your cunt and it would only take one buck of his hips to sink all the way in—your sanity is slipping away again. If you miraculously conceive, you’ll jump off that bridge when you get to it, you decide. 

“Oh, just fuck me you jackass.”

Victoriously grinning, he gives you another kiss—this time softer. “As the lady wishes.” 

A loud moan emanates from deep within your chest, travelling up your throat and out of panting lips as he fucks all the way in. You’re practically whining as you feel every ridge, every bump, every pulsing vein on his large, thick cock. 

“Eddie, please move, fuck–please!”

Hanging his head over your writhing body, he bites his lip harshly—trying not to blow his load so early. “Shit, honey, you feel s’fucking good, fuck me.”

“Eddie,” you whine, repeating yourself like a broken record, “Please, I need you to fuck me–just move!” 

Pulling out shakily, he thrusts in with another loud groan wracking his body, weakening his ability to hold himself up. Dropping his weight onto you, he spreads his knees as much as he can on the couch, hooking his arms under yours and grasping your shoulders. He begins a messy pace, pulling your body to his grinding hips, cock tunneling into your tight hole with jerking thrusts. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, wan’ you to have my baby again. Pretty mama wanna have daddy’s baby, huh?” He mumbles the words through bared teeth and sharp breaths, pistoning his hips into you. He’s revelling in your surrender to the odds.

His vigorous movements, the desperate grip pulling your limp body to meet each thrust has you huffing out whines in time with the jarring intrusion of his cock. “Said it’s the last time, now she’s gonna have my baby. Gonna fuck you so full, sweetheart. Y’gonna look so sexy carrying my baby again.” He’s babbling out incoherent thoughts—wishes and desires to see you pregnant and his again. 

Every groan and grunt from him pushes you closer to the edge. In a moment of such intense pleasure, you find yourself believing his words—getting off on his desires. “Eddie, please, wan–” But you can’t bring yourself to admit it.

And he knows. 

“I know, I know, sweetheart. You wanna have my baby, I know you fuckin’ do. Wan’ daddy’s cum in this pretty little pussy? Shit–you gonna cook me up a baby in that tummy o’ yours, pretty mama?” Reaching between sweaty bodies, he presses a hand down on your lower stomach, reveling in the way he can feel the thick tip of his cock hitting his rough palm from inside you. The pressure has you near screaming, he dips his head to give an adoring bite to your neck—a soft acknowledgement of the pleasure he’s providing you. “Y’gonna gimme my little girl, honey?” 

If you weren’t on cloud ten thousand right now, you’d hate the mental position you’re in. The only logical one out of the two of you, you’re thinking another baby is the last thing this fraught relationship needs. But he feels so good inside you, so you can only moan out, desperately nodding. “Y–Yeah, please–please gimme your cum–need it so fucking bad!” 

His large palm rushes down the rest of the way, your stomach clenches as you feel his fingers rubbing haphazard circles around your clit. “Oh fuck–fuck, fuck fuck me–god, unh!” 

Eddie feels the vice grip your cunt has around his cock and it has his balls pulling taut to his body. Hunching over you and mixing panting breaths, he prattles into your mouth. “Fuck, sweetheart. Wan’ another baby with you, shit. I love you, fuck, I love you–love you.” 

The affectionate promise is the only thing he can manage to say as he shakily orgasms, his spend spurting messily onto velvety walls as you squeeze every last drop from him. 

Breathing like he just ran a marathon, he drops his head into your neck, adorning the sweaty skin with soft, open-mouthed kisses. Your heart and mind are at war as you thread your hands through his wet curls. The oxytocin conjures up pretty dreams of reconciliation, new beginnings, addicting baby smell, and a happy family. The hormone doesn’t need to create a picture of a loving husband—that’s already laying in your arms right now, shivering from the aftershocks of the biggest orgasm he’s had in a while. 

“I love you, sweetheart,” he mumbles into your neck. Your heart drops. You thought you’d be able to chalk it up to the heat of the moment—that he wasn’t truly telling you so plainly that his feelings never changed. 

Syncopated heartbeats and calming breaths are the only sounds in the quiet room before he speaks again, nuzzling his nose against your throat. “Wanna be good for you. Let me come home. Let me take care of you, let me be with you and the boys again.”

Tears flood wide eyes as you stare up at the ceiling, struggling to feel normal from his dangerous words and your shallow breaths. He’s saying exactly what you wished you could hear for three years straight—leading up to the divorce and after. The melancholy soaked pleas are different from his usual song and dance. For one, he’s saying all of this after he got his fill of you. 

Feeling the weight of him lift off your chest, you slowly tilt your chin down, meeting his big, wet eyes as they reminisce on the contours of your face—noting every change he’s so sorely missed in his absence. Licking your dry lips, you don’t mean to draw his yearning gaze to your mouth—it only seems to make him more desperate. 

“I wasn’t the man you needed, but I wanna be now–I can be–I–I am,” he struggles to correct himself, those words feel like the most important sounds he ever has and will utter in his entire life. 

Everything is too much—his pleas, his honesty, those eyes, the weight of his softening cock still inside you, his seed just waiting to ooze out at the first sign of the blockade’s retreat. You can’t do this, not now. Avoiding his attention, your eyes dart to the side. “Eddie–”

The tone of your voice—fretful and solemn—tells him exactly where your mind is going. You’re going to push him away again. But he doesn’t want to spend another minute without you if he can help it. Always being held at arm's length by the woman he loves is changing him fundamentally. He can’t do it anymore. His twin sized mattress is too cold, his apartment too empty. 

Panic displayed clearly in muddy irises, he hurries a rough hand to your cheek, guiding you back to him—as if one look from you will grant every last wish his heart desires. “No, please–I–” 

A frustrated sigh leaves his lips, you feel the soft wind of it across your face. Words are failing him when he needs them most—he knows actions would be a better show of commitment, but he’s never been good at behaving when it comes to you. You just do something to him. It’s like there’s an inherent weakness sewed into his chemical makeup that makes you the kryptonite to his Man of Steel. You make every neuron in his brain fire, awakening facets of his mind that have laid dormant his whole life. 

Actions are better, but words are all he has in this moment and he can’t afford to squander it. 

Making sure to hold your attention, he throws caution to the wind. “Sweetheart, when I look at you, I don’t see my ex-wife or a co-parent. I see the girl I met at eleven in the trailer park—the one who told me to get bent for flipping her skirt up,” he lets out a rueful laugh, forever embarrassed at that being your first impression of him, but never regretting what a beautiful mess it turned into. 

The memory draws a wet chuckle from your throat before you have a chance to catch it. Your brows pull tight over sad, wet eyes as you think of that day—how your young heart never stood a chance when the pretty older boy showed you such attention.

Allowing himself to hope at the sound of your laugh, he continues with a small smile. “I see my first love—the girl I dreamed about every night for nine years until I finally figured out you’re not supposed to think about friends that way.” Another wry chuckle, followed by a mumbled confession—the adolescent misunderstanding of relationships: “I just thought every guy pictured forever with their girl friends—white picket fences and little babies.”

A warm tear glides down soft skin, heading for your hairline across your temple, but Eddie intercepts it—rubbing it away. “I’ve been dreaming of you longer than I’ve been alive, honey. I can’t–I wanna be with you. I’m supposed to be with you. If it takes another nine years for you to feel the same, I’ll be here. I’ll be yours and nine years older. But I’ll be yours.” 

Trying to stop your face from crumpling into overwhelmed sobs, you let out a stuttering breath. “Eddie, you hurt me–”

“I know,” he fervently assures, wiping away more tears, his naked body feeling restless with desperation. 

“I deserved better.”

“You did,” he affirms, confident in his fuck ups and your innocence in the ordeal. 

Unable to think of what else to say—no argument to be had from his end—you let out a deep sigh. This is more than one person should have to deal with. There’s been so many emotions whirling around your heart tonight, enough to make you dizzy and sick to your stomach. 

You’ve had dreams of scenarios exactly like this—Eddie comes crawling back, admitting every wrong, assuring you he’ll be a better man. But he was supposed to be a good man from the start. You shouldn’t have to give second chances to a man you legally wed—a man you’ve known since you were nine years old.

Second chances. Is it insanity? Allowing him in again, risking the same result. Deep in your heart, you can tell he’d never do you wrong again. But so much fear covers that truth. He’s left you with enough baggage to start a bellhop service, carrying every trauma to its designated hideaway, where it can quietly corrode your mind and heart.

He acts like he knows what his actions did, but can he still see the ripples his pebble made on smooth, unsuspecting waters? It will never be as easy as it once was—he must know that. 

“You can’t just–be with me, again,” you shake your head at him, imploring him to understand. 

Wet eyes dart between yours—a nervous twitch in his eyelid, a stuttering nod. He accepts your response. He made his grand argument, and you’ve declined. That’s that. Trying desperately to hide the deflation of his heart—the fire charring his hope like a prescribed burn on old, spent crops—he resigns himself to his place in your life: an ex, a co-parent, an old friend, a bad memory.

Pulling out and off of you, he sits up, prepared to gather his belongings before you can see him cry. How pitiful to cry now after everything he’s done to you—you shouldn’t have to see that. 

Shivering from the loss of his body heat and the weight of him inside of you, you watch with worried eyes as he quietly sniffles, pulling one of the legs of his jeans outside in. “It won’t be that easy.” 

Your words halt his movements, the insinuation sending his heart plummeting to his stomach. It won’t be that easy. But will it be something? Slowly, he turns his head back to look at you, afraid that one wrong move might make you change your mind.

Pulling your knees to your chest, you cross your arms as a barrier, hiding your naked body. Ignoring the way your movements cause his cum to leak out of you with gravity on its side, you squint at the tears in his waterline. Battling the small quirk of your lips, you try to stay resolute despite the contentment of giving a sad man hope. 

“I’m not that easy.” 

If he wasn’t so convinced you’re working him up just to let him down—which he’d deserve—he’d think you’re teasing him like you used to. 

“No, you’re not,” he agrees seriously, needing to hear more. 

“And you have years of making up to do…”

His mouth parts slightly in awe as he cocks his head, questioning whether he heard you correctly. After what feels like forever studying your face, the hint of light in your eyes fills his body with optimism—like an injection of sunshine straight into his veins. Letting himself hope again, he turns fully toward you. His shining eyes regard you like an idol, and he is your lowly devotee.

“Already got your name written all over the next nine years of my datebook," he says with a slow grin, feeling light as a feather—more alive than he has in ages—all because you're looking at him with those pretty eyes of yours.

“And probably months of groveling before you can even think about coming home,” you argue, scrutinizing his elated face. It’s getting harder and harder not to match his smile.

Nodding, Eddie takes your proposed penance in stride. “That’s doable.” He hesitates, curious to know how long his punishment will last before he can hold you at night again. “How many months?”

Pressing your lips together to stop the smile threatening to break free, you narrow your eyes at him. “Five.” 

“Three,” he negotiates, trying to melt your icy barriers with his best puppy dog eyes. 

“Don’t push your luck. Four.”

Accepting your counter offer, he nods. “I can do four. Do I get to see you?” 

He already legally gets the boys every other weekend, but unfortunately, divorce court doesn’t rule on ex-wife visitations, so he’s had to resort to holding the children captive just to see your angelic face—anger aside. 

Ignoring the flutter of your heart, you suck your teeth, cocking your head to the side. “How else are you gonna beg for my forgiveness? Over the phone? That’s not nearly as enjoyable.” 

Huffing out a laugh, his dazzling grin tempers as he broaches more sensitive subject matter. Gesturing between your still nude bodies, he nervously mutters, “And, what about…this?”

Understanding he’s referencing the tempestuous ongoing affair neither of you have the willpower to end, you smirk, not letting the mood dip again. “Well, I expect to be fully wined and dined now.” 

Thankful you’re not blocking him from all acts of intimacy during his atonement, Eddie chuckles. “Sweetheart, if you wanted to date me, you could’ve kicked the jockstrap to the curb and called me up.”

Now is not the time for his cocky attitude or for him to feel smug about crashing your date. “You are on the thinnest of ice,” you warn. 

Raising his hands in surrender, he bites his lip to temper his grin. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Feeling the way his cum is pooling under your ass on the couch—a mess you'll be scrubbing off the leather later—you consider him for a quiet moment. 

Relishing your attention on him, Eddie readjusts his body to sit on the other end of the couch, mirroring your position. He waits for what you have to say, knowing your thinking face when he sees it—it’s the same one you’ve had since he met you. 

“Do you really want another baby?” 

The question catches him off guard, he didn’t think you’d bring that up. He knew the odds that you’d ever agree to have another baby—let alone take him back—were slim, but he brought it up nonetheless. Although, he was feeling far more brazen with his desires while he was inside of you. 

Trying not to ogle at the trail of his seed leaving your hole—the view clear between your ankles from planted feet and pulled up knees—he nods. “Do you really not?” 

Scoffing, you rest your cheek against your palm. “Well, up until two hours ago, I thought divorce was forever and that I was done having kids. Didn’t really want anybody else fathering my children,” you mutter out the last part, the words feeling far too intimate of an admission. 

Eddie’s heart jumps at the sentiment. He’s glad you didn’t let another man give you kids, but what makes his pulse race is your lack of a rejection. You didn’t say no to another kid. He won’t push the matter, though. He’s flying by the seat of his pants with you right now, he can’t risk upsetting the pleasant equilibrium he did nothing to earn. 

Catching sight of the time on the microwave in the kitchen behind you, he realizes how late it is—how greedy he’s been with your indulgences. If he’s going to get back in your good graces, he needs to be on his best behavior and give you space when you deserve it. 

Sucking in a deep breath, he lightly smacks his knees, moving to put his underwear back on. “I should probably go. It’s pretty late and you’ve gotta get the boys in the morning.” 

Pensive expression dropping at his sudden need to escape, you sit up, grabbing the Metallica shirt he was wearing earlier and pulling it over your head—swiping it right from in front of his reaching hands. He watches your movements with barely contained fondness, happy to drive home shirtless if it means you’re sleeping in his scent again. 

“You can stay…if you want.”

Your quiet words bring shock to his features—he really doesn’t think he did anything to deserve the concessions you’ve made tonight, but he selfishly won’t turn you down. As he’s about to accept, you quickly amend your offer.

“On the couch…” you specify, “And we can pick up the boys together in the morning…”

Letting a hopeful smile light up his face once more, he gives a small nod. “Okay.” 

Eddie’s pretty sure no man on earth has ever felt as happy as he does in this moment—just watching the way you hesitantly eye him while gathering up strewn-about clothes. He feels like he’s walking on sunshine when you make up the couch for him, even giving him blankets, a pillow, and everything. You want him here. You want to pick up the boys together. As a family.

He has never felt so invigorated. It’s that night, lying on his old couch, staring at the ceiling of the first home you and he bought together, that he makes a vow. He will be the man you deserve for the next nine years—and every set of nine after that. He’ll be yours, always. And soon, you’ll be his again.

A/N: Like, reblog, and comment if you enjoyed it! I'd love to hear what y'all think about this! I really like it and it's definitely gonna be a work I re-read lol.

Tags: @defututus @ratsematary @american-idiot-jpg @glassbxttless @justalotoffanfiction @savybabyyy @thepinkpanther83 @sorayasworld @slaytheusurper @dangerousnbeautiful @hellmastereddie @ali-r3n @lilithera0 @tlclick73 @joonbread @jesterghuleh @bellalillyrose @bigboymoozz @am0iur @pastelpoppies @lionkingshiddenmessage

[ghost-proofbaby]

sit next to me (please) [eddie munson x fem!reader]

you've always hated touch, avoided it ardently - until he came along.

warnings: use of she/her pronouns for reader, touch-avoidant reader, lots of yearning, talk of personal boundaries, readers becomes touch-starved for one (1) man, consumption of alcohol and weed, very slow burn.

word count: 11.2k+

a/n: this was originally titled "would that i" and i believe that i wrote it while listening to the hozier song, craving some super soft eddie all those moons ago. sorry that i tried to bury this one in the graveyard, y'all. i self-projected like all hell onto this reader as well lmao

dividers by @saradika-graphics

How one person can be such a walking contradiction, no one knows.

There is a softness to you. It bleeds out of you, endless and endearing to all those around you. The way you’ll converse with friends with shining eyes, the way you close doors with care, the way you treat your favorite novel like a newborn babe. With both all the inanimate and animate objects around you, your touch is ever warm, ever tender. Like the sweep of a thin curtain sheet in a summer's breeze, or plush grass beneath calves in a verdant spring. Your touch is something to experience, and that was where the dichotomy came into play.

Your touch was deeply sought after, and was a rarity all on its own.

You were amongst the softest people in your friend group, and yet, rarely did you find yourself to be particularly physical. Your petal affections were usually restricted to affirmative words and acts of kindness. Your friends knew that if they needed words of encouragement, you should be the first person they ran to. If they needed a hug, however, you were not. 

It’s not because you were cruel or against the displays of physicality. You were just awkward with them. You would turn frigid over the brush of another’s skin against your own. You’d tried to change over the years, offering more goodbye hugs, more spontaneous playing with Nancy’s hair or high fives exchanged with Steve when you kicked one of the younger boys’ asses at the arcade. You tried. But it was hard — something had rooted itself in you long ago that continued to choke you and limit just how much you could handle when it came to another’s touch. 

When Robin joined the group, she tried to warm you up more to it. Despite warnings from the group, whispers of she doesn’t like that, she’d continued to offer you her friendly physical affections as long as you reassured her it was fine. It worked, to an extent. You would now at least return the hugs received (even if it took you a few moments to do so), and you wouldn’t hold your breath at a friend’s head on your shoulder or lap. It was all baby steps — timid movements in the right direction, an accomplishment of letting your softness flow through your fingertips as you tried to adjust. 

Argyle also tried to wear you down. A casual arm around your shoulder in greeting, frequently sitting close enough to you on movie nights that your side would press into his as you both enjoyed the pizza he’d brought. You still froze, still struggled to thaw, but you never shooed him away. You’d only exchange a secret smile with him, a private acknowledgement between you two that you knew what he was trying to do, and it was okay. Maybe it would work. Robin had, after all, made some baby steps. Maybe Argyle could help you take fuller strides. Maybe, just maybe, this could propel you. 

The night you drunkenly braided Argyle’s hair had been a memorable success, but it never progressed past that. The roots remained, the timid natured reigned, and so your friend group simply celebrated what little victories they’d earned and moved on.

They’d accepted you may never be a touchy person. And that was fine — all that you lacked in physical touch, you more than made up for in every other avenue in expression of your fondness. 

Until Eddie.

The moment he’d joined your circle, Argyle and Robin were already exchanging knowing looks. Eddie was touchy; the boy was practically starved for it. Overexcited hugs as greetings and the way his hand would reach for the nearest shoulder when he was overcome with joy for the small things. He couldn’t sit alone during movie nights, he’d often lounge with his legs stretched out over the nearest laps, he’d jokingly cuddle into people without a second thought.

And even more than that, his touch was wild and burning. Embers never to be contained. He was overwhelming, they all knew this and so did he, and they feared that if he attempted to embark on the same journey that they had that he may scare you away. That all the baby steps in the right direction would become leaps backward, sending you right back to where you started. 

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

You’d first noticed that Eddie treated you differently, more restrained, during a movie night. Argyle on one side, a small empty space on the other. You’d witness everyone endure Eddie’s cinematic cuddles on multiple occasions, and amongst your roots had bloomed buds of wistfulness. A strange yearning every time he’d tuck his face into the neck of whichever friend was nearest, jokingly squealing how he needed them to protect him. They saw him as a pest (a lovable one, but still) — and you’d never wanted to be pestered more in your life. 

That small space beside you was the last open seat. You thought surely, he’ll sit here. You were optimistic at the likelihood of Eddie sharing your space, of feeling his curls tickle your cheek and neck, at his breath on your shoulder. For the first time in your life, you were painfully giddy at the prospect of someone touching you. When he entered the room with Jonathan, carrying bowls of popcorn and loudly telling everyone to turn on the horror movie chosen for the night, your entire body had buzzed. You would have leapt off that couch and crawled inside his chest right then and there if it wouldn’t have been so startling to not only him, but your entire circle.

He took one look at the empty seat, a pitiful excuse for space, and had paled.

Please sit next to me. Please, please, ple-

“Spread your legs, Harrington,” Eddie had suddenly bursted out, throwing himself on the floor in front of Steve at the opposite end of the couch, “I’m using your knees as collateral from Krueger.” 

He chose the floor over sitting at your side. And it ached. 

You were unaware of the spiel that Robin and Argyle gave him, the staunch warnings from Nancy, the (sort of) joking threats from Steve and Jonathan. Eddie Munson had been warned off from touching you, was obeying those warnings, and it just left you miserable. 

You didn’t get it. You didn’t understand — his choices nor your feelings. 

But that night, the burn of Argyle’s arm brushing your shoulder from where it laid along the back of the couch became overwhelming. Until you’d scooted yourself into that space you’d carved out for Eddie, and pouted, like a goddamn child.

Argyle assumed it was just a bad day for touch.

No one realized the yearning blooming within you. You’d never wanted to take a baseball bat to Steve Harrington’s shins more than when you watched Eddie Munson wrap his fingers around them and bury his cheek against them. 

The second time, it stung even more.

Months passed and the yearning never faded. You told yourself, over and over, this will pass. This is temporary, and it will pass. 

But it didn’t. The more time you spent with Eddie amongst your friend group, the more you craved the same casual touch from him that he extended to everyone else. He wouldn’t even brush past you in enclosed spaces — he treated you like a traumatized dog, bound to snap and bite him if he made the wrong move.

You fucking hated it. You hated that you hated it.

You’d gone years without needing touch, so you cursed that unexpected sting in your chest that night at the bowling alley. When Eddie rolled his first strike (and reported it was his first ever), he’d hugged everyone.

Everyone but you.

When it came to what should have been your turn for a bear hug, your mind was buzzing with adrenaline. This was it. You pictured him wrapping his tattooed arms around your chest, lifting you at least a little bit, swinging you a little due to the force of his affection. You were convinced his high off of the strike was going to make him forget his mission to never touch you. Maybe he’d be embarrassed after. Maybe you could finally offer a small smile that said it’s okay, I’m okay with it.

He only stopped dead in his tracks, arms freezing for a second before they dropped, his lips pressing tightly together before he let them spread back into a smile, and only lifted his brows at you excitedly. 

That’s it. That’s all.

Fuck. 

“That was pretty metal, Eddie,” you tried to egg him on, bouncing on the soles of your shoes a little, practically begging him with your eyes to just hug you. 

He’d been bashful, grinning and hiding his face behind a random curl, nodding, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was.” 

If you’d known of the talks behind your back then that had ruined that moment, you would have wrecked absolute havoc on your friends. The need, the yearning, the want became impossible to handle. You used his strike as an excuse for him to cover your turn, saying he was on a roll right after exclaiming that if you didn’t go to the bathroom right that second, you’d piss yourself.

When you were alone in the stall, you’d silently screamed and tugged at the roots of your hair. 

You wanted him to touch you. You wanted him to catch you off guard in larger than life hugs. You wanted to feel every emotion that thrummed beneath his skin and you wanted to breathe in his cologne, to finally know how sturdy his chest felt beneath his shirt and if his rings really were as cold as Nancy always complained. 

You’d finally returned to the group, not able to have a full breakdown in the bathroom without worrying your friends with your absence. Subtly, you’d tried to tuck yourself into Robin’s side when you returned, sitting down a bit closer than you normally would have, just to fill the void. It was almost as if you were encouraging her to reach an arm around you, to let you curl up and press a cheek to her collarbone. Try to alleviate the need for human touch clawing its way through you.

“You okay, babe?” she questioned suspiciously when she felt you squished entirely up against her. There was plenty of space on the bench, there was no reason for your proximity.

No, you wanted to scream, I’m not okay. There is an itch beneath my skin right now that can only be scratched by the affectionate touches of the metalhead sitting across from us who’s joking with our friends, completely unaffected and unaware. He won’t even look me in the eye. And so now I’m trying to get you to just touch me, to just put a goddamn arm around me, to do anything to fill the gaping hole inside of me. But you can’t. 

It was an unfair situation to every single party and bystander involved.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied. 

You can’t, because the only person who can fill this gaping void inside of me is Eddie.

You were the farthest from fine. You were in flames. And no one would understand it, least of all you, because this wasn’t like you.

You didn’t crave touch. You didn’t need it to survive. So, what the hell was this that you were feeling? 

The craving for Eddie’s touch evolved into something more, and that’s when you knew that you were surely in trouble. 

Audible denial only worked for so long. Festering, longing, and yearning could only be withheld for so long until suddenly, with your mind on fire and your bones aching to the core, you realized that it was more than wanting Eddie to reach out for you. The want became a two way street. More often than not, you find your hands to be fists at your side, shaking with the effort to not bridge the gap. 

After a year of friendship, he had had no choice but to occasionally brush past you. Touches that must have been fleeting to him, but lingered for you. They’d settle into your skin, tender like a fresh bruise, ghosting over you at night when you couldn’t sleep. It was more than just touch, at this point. You wanted everything from Eddie. The denial of his touch had led to you missing out on more than just hugs and movie night cuddles — Eddie didn’t joke with you as much as he did the others, didn’t always turn to you in crowded rooms for comfort, wouldn’t call you up if he was up late and bored like he would Nancy, Steve, Robin, Argyle, fucking everyone in Hawkins except you. The distance was unbearable.

Because you did. You did look for him at every quaint hang out. You did seek him out in every room you entered and you did resist the urge to call him when sleep evaded you. You could imagine his voice over the line, a lullaby over the receiver as he’d ramble about his day. It was like a poison, infecting those roots you’d long since made friends with rather than try to dig up. 

You were fucked. Plain and simple. You had a big, fat crush on Eddie, and for once in your life, you’d learned of the panging hunger to be touched. 

“Does Eddie have a girlfriend?” you asked as you sat with Robin at a diner, having completely zoned out with the conversation between her and Steve, lost in your daydreams, “Or boyfriend? Just- Is he single?” 

Both of your friends went dead silent, staring at you in awe.

Robin cleared her throat, but remained choked up until Steve spoke, “Uh, yeah. He’s single. Why?” 

The way your eyes darted down to the table of the booth you three occupy gave it away.

Robin suddenly squealed, “Oh my gosh! You have a crush on him!” 

“Do not!”

“Oh, you so do!” she grinned wildly, leaning in close, “Tell us everything — now.” 

“Eddie?” Steve’s nose scrunched up, “Really?” 

“I don’t have a crush on him!” you uselessly defended yourself, “I just- Look, no, I know that look. You can’t tell him or meddle, Robin.” 

“How would I tell him or meddle if you don’t have a crush on him?” 

Steve was still confused, and Robin’s eyes glittered with mischief. You would have been better off keeping your mouth shut. 

You noticed the way Steve had gone silent, pointedly sipping on his coke rather than looking you in the eyes. As if he had something to say.

“What is it?” you asked him, furrowing your brows, already defensive. A stark contrast to the light-heartedness you usually treat your friends with, “You’ve got something to say. Say it.” 

“I just…” Steve sighed, looking off into the distance, “I don’t know. It’s a weird pairing, y’know?”

Your stomach threatened to sink. “What does that mean?”

“You two are just… different,” he continued on, and your stomach really did sink. Right along with your heart, “I mean, he’s really big on physical touch — it’s definitely his love language. And you…”

You don’t like being touched. You actually hate it. Avoid it ardently.

The unspoken ending to that sentence could have shattered your bones that day. You knew. You knew.

You stayed silent, unsure of what else to say. You couldn’t find the words to explain the yearning that invaded your chest all those moons ago, you couldn’t physically bring their hands to your chest and force them to feel the hunger that had begun to eat you alive. You couldn’t scream at your friends, I can change! I can change! I can change!

“I think they’d make a cute couple,” Robin finally broke the tense silence. Steve looked a bit regretful, but you both knew he was right, “Besides, touching is overrated.” 

To emphasize her point, she scooted away from Steve until she sat on the very edge of the vinyl seat they shared, a narrow air of separation between them. 

You smiled and laughed, and so did Steve, but the fact of the matter still remained.

Your roots have been there since the beginning of time. And maybe, they ran so deeply that you were a fool for thinking you could ever excavate them. 

“I need your help.” 

Robin looks up at you shocked. You’d never looked quite so determined, so one-track minded as you did in this moment, right in Steve Harrington’s kitchen. 

“You need my help?” she nearly yells, fumbling with the empty bowl she was about to fill with chips, “Are you sure you need my-“

“Positive,” you cut her off, “I need your help because you didn’t laugh in my face when I said I liked Eddie.” 

Her shock fades, an awful trace of pity in her eyes as she looks at you, “Oh, hon — Steve wasn’t laughing at you. He’s just a dingus, y’know? Doesn’t always think before he speaks, but he has the best of intentions-“

You wave a hand, physically dispersing her words into the air. That conversation at the diner last week didn’t phase you anymore. In fact, it fuels you the more you think about it.

“I know, I know,” you reassure her, walking closer so you can lower your voice, “But he was right. And I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”

“That sounds dangerous. Whatcha’ been thinkin’ about?” 

This is it. Now or never. Once you say it outloud, even to just Robin, it was cemented in fact.

“It’s not that I don’t like being touched,” you blurt out, heart racing at the admission, “I just… I don’t know. I’m not used to it. It wasn’t something normal growing up. And… okay, no, this is not meant to be a depressing deep dive into my childhood,” you pause and scowl at the way her face contorts with even more pity, “I’m fine. There’s nothing to be done to change what’s already passed. My point is, I don’t want to stay this way. I don’t want people treating me delicately. I’m tired of you guys not feeling like you can just- fuck, I don’t know, hug me. Like you can throw an arm around me while we joke around like you do Jonathan. Like you can’t take the seat beside me at the booth instead of Steve. Like you can’t be clingy and beg me to play with your hair like you do Argyle when everyone’s smoking.”

Throughout your speech, the pity transforms. With each word, you only grow more passionate, because it dawns on you just how much you miss out on. Your friends love you, you love them — that’s not up for debate. But sometimes, you see those small touches between them, and you feel like an outsider looking in. 

“I know I freeze up and I know I get awkward,” your voice finally chokes up, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to silently curse yourself for finally letting all these larger than life emotions wrap around you, “I know you guys think I’m better off if you leave it be. But I’m not. I’ll never get over it if you guys don’t push me. I’ll never get used to it if no one ever touches me.” 

“We know!” Robin starts enthusiastically, reassuredly, “We know that! And me and Gyle really do try, but we just don’t want to make you uncomfortable-“

“Do it,” you stop her in her tracks, eyes not wavering from hers, “Make me uncomfortable. Put your head on my shoulder, even if it makes my breathing stop for a couple seconds. Grab my hand when we cross a street, even if my palm’s clammy. I can’t grow without a little discomfort, Robs.”

There’s a standstill in the air. A realization settles deep in your bones — growth. That’s what you were craving. Eddie had opened up something entirely new for you, cracked open an age old wound in your chest you’d been unaware of. It left behind a hole, and you’d been so preoccupied with yearning to fill it, you hadn’t seen that the solution was the most obvious one: you had to outgrow the hole. Not fill it with others, but with yourself. You couldn’t live forever as nothing more than roots, buried deep beneath soil and always hiding in their solitude. Eventually, you had to bloom. 

“Okay,” Robin nods slowly, taking in your words and the deep breaths that are following. It’s obvious how much this means to you, how much it’s been bothering you, “You’re right. But… you’ve just gotta promise us, if we get overbearing, that you tell us-“

“Not just you and Argyle,” your mouth goes dry. Because this is where the road was leading the entire time, this was the end destination in mind for the entire drive of this conversation, “I want… everyone to do it. I know Nance, Jon, and Steve aren’t as big on the whole touchy thing as you and him but…” your voice finally breaks, and you can’t look her in the eyes now as you whisper, “Eddie is.” 

There’s a light behind Robin’s eyes that you’ve never seen before, but you can’t even bear witness to it, eyes zeroed in on the shiny packaging of the chips on the counter, “So this really is about Eddie?” 

You could keep denying it. Pretend like the boy hadn’t watered the first sprout that caused this entire revelation, like he hadn’t been the first to shine a light on all the things you’d ignored for years. But he was. He had built a fire inside of you without even realizing it, just by tending his own embers. 

You take a deep breath, “It’s like it burns him to touch me. Even just shuffling past me. I don’t think he’s ever sat beside me when we all hang out. I don’t… I don’t even know what he really smells like, Rob. Besides the weed and cigarettes when he smokes with you guys. How fucked is that? I’ve known him for a year and I couldn’t even tell you what kind of cologne he wears. Isn’t that… that’s weird, right?” 

“You know the things that matter, though, don’t you?” 

It hadn’t occurred to you, that perspective on the matter. “I… guess?”

“Tell me about him. Tell me about Eddie.” 

The others will be worrying about how long you two are taking in here soon. Eddie will probably be arriving with Argyle soon. But Robin waits patiently until your eyes finally find hers again, and she lifts her brows, encouraging you to tell her about your mutual friend as if she’s never met him. 

And so you do.

Once you start rattling off the minute things you noticed, they pour out of you, watering away at that once withered crush. You tell her about his favorite music, an easy thing to know about Eddie when he’s so loud and passionate about it. You tell her the first song he ever learned on guitar, Little Things by Willie Nelson. It had been encouraged by how much his Uncle Wayne enjoyed the singer. And he’d learned it on a worn acoustic guitar from his uncle. He’d never even performed it in front of the man, always either too choked up or too embarrassed for an audience. You tell her how his favorite subject in school was history, because it always gave him ideas for his DnD campaigns. His favorite color is red, deep and pulsing and eye-catching. The same shade of his electric guitar, lovingly nicknamed Sweetheart, but actually named Elvira. He’s a picky eater, probably the pickiest of your group, and yet also will eat just about anything the moment you propose it as a dare. He knows what he should do to take care of his curls, he just doesn’t, probably due to preferring to take his showers at night. He’s complained of falling asleep with wet hair more times than you can count. He had a lisp as a little kid. He buys a new mug for Wayne every Christmas, and the man acts surprised every year, as if he never saw it coming. He likes sour candy best. He hates movies where the dog dies. He loves musicals, and he would sooner die than admit that to the rest of the group. 

All devilish details that Eddie had revealed to you at some point or another, over drinks and over quick cigarettes. Over random bursts of trust and rare moments alone.

By the time you’re done with your rant, Robin is just smiling.

“God, you really like him,” she murmurs, looking across your forlorn face, as if each piece of him that you’d handed over willingly had actually been forcibly torn from you. As if it hurt to share him. 

You take another deep breath, and you can breathe a little bit easier, but you still feel the wisps of your roots still dug stubbornly into surrounding ground, “Yeah. I really like him.” 

A plan is devised. It turns out Robin was the perfect person to approach about this, because she has no shame — she’s willing to seem like a ‘bad friend’ for the sake of helping you reach your goal.

The first step is to guarantee that no matter what, Eddie sits next to you during the movie. 

The best way to accomplish this is to not make it a seat only beside you as you had that first time he’d rejected you, but between you and another person. Because then, if Eddie was still adamant on not indulging you, he’d have someone else to cling to. For now.

The second step would be for you to leave for the bathroom right before you all started the movie. Leave the room, leave all your friends to be gathered without you so that Robin could make an executive call with them all. She would bring up the fact that they all should try to push you a bit more with the entire notion of physical touch, that it’d be good for you, that you’d brought it up casually rather than as dramatically as you really had. 

During her explaining of this part of the plan, you discovered the conversations already had behind closed doors about this topic and you. 

You couldn’t even blame your friends. You were irritated, but it would pass. They couldn’t change it now, but Robin could help undo what those seemingly beneficial conversations had done. The distance it had created between you and Eddie.

“Who should be on the other side of Eddie?” you ask once you two have your plan and full bowls of snacks. 

“Me,” Robin declares, “I have a plan there, too. We’ll sit side by side at first, take up enough space on the couch so that Eddie thinks he doesn’t have a seat. Just trust me and play along when the time comes, yeah?” 

You nod.

There’s a knock at the door, perfect timing as you and Robin sat down the bowls of snacks on the table, ignoring Steve’s expected complaint of how long you two took. He runs off, going to let Eddie and Argyle in, as Robin takes her seat on the couch. 

Nancy and Jonathan are curled up on the loveseat. Steve had been sitting at the end of the couch that normally could easily seat four. Argyle’s favorite recliner was wide open, and you both knew he’d be jumping into it once he came to the basement. Everything was set perfectly.

Robin manspreads, an entertaining sight but one that forces you to try and do the same, lounging across the remaining space of the couch as casually as possible to make it seem as though another person could absolutely not fit.

You pray to God her plan works.

“Hello, brochachos!” Argyle yells as a greeting when he bounds down the stairs, immediately tossing a box of snow caps in Nancy and Jonathan’s directions before doing exactly as you and Robin had predicted, “Oh, fuck yeah! You guys saved my favorite chair for me!”

He specifically winks your way, as if you had been the one to do so. And you had, technically, but you appreciated that small effort to greet you specifically. 

You smile at him, shaking your head lightly as he throws himself down roughly. You can only imagine how on board he’ll be with Robin’s suggestion.

Argyle’s energy had you wondering if the boys had even smoked as they usually did before arriving, his eyes hardly pink rimmed and his smile not quite as dopey as usual. It became clear that they had smoked, but one of them had likely babysat their shared joints, when Eddie descends into the doorway behind Steve.

He’s all half-lidded eyes, lazy grin, comfort wrapped up in a worn band shirt and sweats. 

Yes, you wanted to break this stubborn boundary of yours with all your friends, but as you earned your first glance from Eddie, you knew that he would be the greatest reward. You don’t even care if the crush aspect of the entire ordeal never comes to fruition; you’d just like to imagine burying your face into his warm chest like you are now, and not feel weird about it. Not worry if he’ll push you away or be uncomfortable, or taken off guard, by it.

“Hey, losers,” he greets in a rough voice, no doubt gravelly from how much he might have smoked. 

You share a quick look with Robin, worried. High Eddie was always extra affectionate, but wouldn’t it be wrong to use that against him? Maybe you two should try another night, postpone the plan for another movie nigh-

You hadn’t even noticed that Steve had taken his original seat back and Eddie was glancing around the seating arrangement, seemingly lost, until Robin was suddenly shoving at you, “Babe, I love you, but scooch. C’mere, Eds. I’m in a cuddly mood.” 

And oh, that hurt. Which is why you suppose she didn’t tell you what exactly this part of the plan was. That hurt needed to break through your face, even if only for a moment, so that when you left the room, it made sense to discuss. 

Argyle catches that micro-expression the moment it graces your features. Even furrows his brows in response. Eddie even opens his mouth to argue, but you move too quickly for anyone else to comment.

You fumble with pulling up your body, scooting over as she requested until there was an Eddie-sized space left between the two of you. When Robin opens her arms wide, Eddie has no room to argue. 

“Well, if you insist, Buckley,” he teases, stepping carefully, hesitating for a second as he glances back down at you. Even through pink tinged eyes, you catch a flash of concern. “I’m always down for some cuddles with my favorite girl.”

And that also stings, reverberates like a slap to the face that had landed just a little too harshly. 

Robin scoffs, muttering a stern correction of, “Platonic cuddles, dipshit,” just as Nancy also laughs from where she’s tangled with Jonathan.

“Didn’t you say I was your favorite when I bought you a coke last week?” 

He probably did. He constantly made those jokes with Robin and Nancy. He never made those jokes with you. 

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t about respecting boundaries for Eddie. Maybe he just didn’t like you-

“You both wound me,” he sighs out as his body lands directly in that space you and Robin had organized, clearly favoring being close to Robin so that his thigh wouldn’t rub against yours, “I’ve officially changed my mind.” 

It almost happens in slow motion. Slowly, carefully, he lazily turns his head towards you, lips half lilted as his eyes sparkle in your direction, tongue darting out between his teeth before he drawls, “You’re my favorite, now.” 

For the first time in a year, you’re very clearly smelling his cologne, and the look in his eyes is setting you ablaze. The softness you are so used to bargaining out is being returned, an expression so delicate being aimed at you that you don’t know what to do with it. Senses overwhelmed with something woodsy, something musky, and something yearning. 

“How charming,” Nancy muses, leveling you with a soft and amused look. Not nearly as gooey as the look Eddie had given you, but still adoring, “Don’t listen to him. Clearly, he says that to everyone.”

“Yeah, but I mean it this time,” he argues. 

“Sure, you do,” Steve laughs from his end of the couch, “She’s not gonna go grab you a soda just because you’re kissing ass.” 

“Hey, you know what?” Argyle sits up in his chair, leaning towards you and pointing his finger in your direction, “You really are my favorite, and I’m a man of my word.” 

“I’m not getting you a soda, either, Gyle,” you flatly joke, narrowing your eyes.

He pours briefly, but shrugs, “Fair enough. I meant it, but fair enough.” 

On a limb, you stretch out a hand, and deliver a gentle smack at his hand still hanging limply in the air between you two. Robin is watching on proudly as Argyle looks taken back.

“Shut up,” you giggle, shimmying in your seat to get more comfortable. 

Eddie looks wildly around the room, completely stunned, wearing a look of betrayal, “What, you guys don’t believe me? She really is my favorite!” 

Lord only knows you were melting into the cushion of that couch. You weren’t used to this amount of attention, certainly not from Eddie, and certainly not so clearly in front of your friends.

If you could hardly handle his words of affection, how would you handle his touches of affection? 

“I believe you,” you finally say. Something in your mind screams at you, tells you now is your chance. All you’d have to do is shift your knee, and you could bump it to his in a joking manner. The perfect excuse. The perfect guise. You stare at your two knees for an eternity, though, and before you know it, the moment has passed. 

The ache echoes out across the hollow of every bone inside your body as he smiles, satisfied with your response before everyone moves forward with conversation.

You hate yourself. You should have bumped your knee to his. 

You don’t hear a single word exchanged amongst your friends. All you can hear is the roar in your ears that scorns you for another missed opportunity. 

Now is as good as ever to enact the second phase of the plan. 

“I’m gonna head to the bathroom before we start the movie,” you announce, standing a bit suddenly but trying to keep your voice even so it doesn’t seem to Eddie that his words had made you uncomfortable. They didn’t. They’d only fed that hunger, making you suddenly need more. It was your own stupid indecisiveness, what you didn’t do, that was upsetting you. 

Robin looks up knowingly, “Sounds good. Don’t miss me too much, babe.” 

Babe. Another thing your friends sometimes didn’t include you in — all the pet names, all the terms of endearment. It makes you smile. 

If anyone thought you might be rushing out due to the entire conversation that had just taken place, that smile would erase all their fears.

“I always miss you, baby,” you cockily reply, making a joking kissy face in her direction to seal the flirtatious manner of the interaction. 

Steve looks pleasantly surprised, Argyle is clearly mentally cheering you on, and Nancy looks plainly proud. 

But Eddie is looking up at you, doe eyes almost… sad. 

You try not to think of it too hard. 

You try to take your time once you reach the top of the stairs, rushing up but slowing as you walk to the bathroom.

You didn’t really need it, obviously, and you highly doubt anyone will be listening in on your footsteps above once Robin proposes the entire debate of it treating you so fragile anymore. In the middle of the hallway, your mind is made up. Instead of continuing on to that bathroom, instead of hiding away and feeding into the panic attack currently brewing despite your full faith in Robin, you retract to the kitchen.

This is what you wanted. You want more than to just offer soft words and soft motivation, you want more than to be seen as the friend with a heart of gold, as the pedestal Argyle constantly puts you up on so eloquently. You want to be felt as it, too. 

To give Nancy well-deserved hugs when another one of her publications receive recognition, to give Steve’s hand a firm squeeze when he’s confiding in you about his home situation and the loneliness that follows. You want Robin to hide her face in your shoulder for safety during jumpscares and you want to occupy that recliner with Argyle when you both decide to succumb to snacking while your friends endlessly debate where you should all have dinner, making whispers of commentary jokes before Jonathan would decide to sit on the arm and join you two in the audience as he gave up the battle for Nancy’s sake.

You want Eddie to touch you. You don’t even care how at this point. You want brushing shoulders and knocking knees, you want knuckles bumping into each other on the street and you want him to cling to you when it gets late and he’s tired, but not too tired to keep himself surrounded with his favorite people. You want to truly be his favorite. Favorite person, favorite hug, favorite conversation. 

God, you want it so bad that your seams nearly burst. Your composure nearly breaks. 

What if he doesn’t want that? 

The moment your footsteps on the stairs have vanished, Robin springs into action.

“Okay, group meeting,” she says, clapping to garner everyone’s attention. Eddie jumps slightly at her side, Steve offers her a side-eye, and Nancy shifts her entire body in Jonathan’s arms to look at her fully, “We need to talk about her.” 

She doesn’t even have to say your name.

Unfortunately, Argyle takes it the wrong way, nearly leaping out of his chair, “Her? Nah, dude, we need to talk about you. Why would you shove her around like that? I bet if you had just asked politely, she would have cuddled yo-“ 

“Oh, I know she would have.” 

Everyone’s attention is now sharper on Robin.

“Yeah? Then why did you just toss her to the side for Ed-“ Argyle starts up again, and once more, Robin is quick to interject.

“Because she needs the push,” a slight lie, but small enough in the grand scheme of things, “We’ve gotta stop treating her like she’ll shatter if we touch her.”

Nancy finally moves to full sit up, face full of concern, “Robin, I get what you’re saying, but she’s never been the touchy type. And that’s okay. We’ve never minded.”

“What if she minds?” Robin persists. She hasn’t failed to notice Eddie’s silence, and turns to him, focusing her attack and determination, “Have you ever even sat beside her before tonight?” 

Eddie’s eyes widen, “You guys told me to take it easy at first! And I did, but I- it would just be weird now to change, wouldn’t it?” 

It’s in the way he says it. Not just as if he’s keeping your best interests in mind, but as if it pains him to say it. As if the worst possible thing would be to admit that things should stay the same.

It’s Robin’s in. A falter in his cool guy exterior he only seems to care about maintaining for you.

“She wants it to change,” Robin quietly confesses. Another half-truth, “Me and Argyle never fully got through to it, but we also… we just gave up on it. Like he was saying, if I pushed tonight, she would have said yes. But Eddie has never pushed her.”

“Where are you going with this, Robs?” the one person who could blow this speaks up. Steve, the man who had been there at the diner and heard your practical confession to liking Eddie.

Don’t blow this, Dingus.

“I think we take the leash off of wolf boy, here,” she jabs a thumb in Eddie’s direction, “Lay him on her.”

“I don’t want to make her uncomf-“

“You won’t. And if you do,” Robin remembers your speech from earlier. Those wet eyes and the way your voice cracked at the prospect of growth, “It’ll be good for her.”

He’s not convinced.

So Robin pushes, because she made a promise to you to aid in this self-gardening journey, and damn it she was going to keep her promise, “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. You being the dog in this metaphor might be the wrong choice, considering how she looks like a kicked puppy every time you don’t sit next to her.” 

A bit harsh, but the truth. You were always brimming with such hope when Eddie entered the room, only to wilt when he kept up the same exhausting routine of avoiding you. 

“She does?” he’s clueless, a goddamn blinded fool, “I- Gyle, does she really?” 

Eddie looks to his friend for backup, but Argyle only shrugs from his seat, “If you don’t give the poor dudette a hug tonight, I am. If Birdie here is being honest, and she wants it, then I’m first in line. She’s way gentler on my scalp than all of you.” 

“You just want your hair braided by her again,” Jonathan pipes up finally.

“So?” Argyle defends, “That shit stayed. My little skittish friend does not come to play when it has to do with hair.” 

They all fall silent, holding their breaths and listening for a moment if you’re heading back down to them. 

The house is a ghost town from above.

“I’m just saying,” Robin finally whispers, keeping her tone low and gentle, almost defeated, “We can’t put her in a box. She told me she’d like the change, so I’m changing. She’s a big girl. She can handle it. Besides, she smells really good.” 

Robin gives Eddie a pointed look at that, and sees the pink that rushes over the bridge of his nose and up his neck.

You had no idea. No fucking idea. But she did. She’d watched Eddie withhold himself, she’d caught the longing glances, and she’d listened to his endless rambles about you. 

“Okay,” is his quiet reply just before your footsteps sound on the stairs. 

When you appear in the doorway, you’re holding three cans of coke.

“I bring gifts for taking so long,” you offer, holding up one of the cans as you cradle the other two in the ditch of your arm, extending it to Argyle as you pass by him.

He takes it greedily, appreciation loud and unfiltered, “Thank you dudette! At least someone here loves me.” 

You turn your eyes wide as moons, almost comical, fighting back a smile, “Oh? Were they being jerks while I was gone?” 

“You have no clue.”

A warning glare comes from Robin.

Even if you were in on the plan, it was dangerous territory. 

When you approach the couch, Robin sees the first sign of the plan working when Eddie doesn’t shift out of the comfortable position he’d sunk into. He isn’t jumping to leave an entire cavern for you. He’s leaving just enough space for you, enough that when you sit, you’re closer to him than you were before the bathroom.

Baby steps. Silently, she is screaming at him to keep it up, all while your brain bursts into flames.

He didn’t flinch away. He didn’t shift to be further from me.

Whatever Robin had said was working.

“Movie time?” you ask as you settle into that comfortable space, the unfamiliar yet indulgent warmth of Eddie’s body heat now wrapping around you. 

Your roots stretch, apprehensive, but desperate for that sunlight. 

It’s one of your group’s usual scary movies. You enjoyed horror, and could handle your own pretty well. If you ever got too scared, you’d usually cling to pillows or blankets that you were left with rather than another person as the rest of the group would. But there were no pillows, no blankets, no security cushions aside from the boy sitting between you and Robin. 

When you hand him his coke, his fingers brush yours, and you don’t pull back immediately. Baby steps.

When the first tense moment appears on screen, Eddie mutters a soft “shit” and jumps a little, leaning more into your space rather than Robin’s, lifting some of his curls to curtain his eyes.

You glance at him rather than the screen, narrowing your eyes in the dark, “Does that really work?” 

Eddie looks at you quickly at your whisper. Normally, everyone scolded him to be quiet during movies, never entertaining his small comments.

You weren’t the only one taking baby steps tonight.

Tentatively, he drops the curl blocking his vision, before grabbing a thicker one, boyish grin as he offers it to you shyly, “Wanna find out?” 

“She’s here!” Argyle shouts as he opens the front door to you, hardly giving you warning before he’s leaping forward and gathering you into his arms, nearly crushing you into a hug.

Warmth. Tender. Softness.

Argyle’s hugs are always bone-crushing, and always welcome. And they always linger as he leaves his arm around your shoulder to guide you into the foyer and shut the door behind you two.

“She is?” another voice shouts as she comes barreling out into the entryway, greeting you with an excited squeal as she rushes forward to pull you out of Argyle’s arm.

Robin. 

She’s dressed up for the night — an impressively well put together Robin outfit, complete with yellow spanx and a black mask across her eyes.

“Jesus, Robs,” you laugh as she tightens her arms around you, almost as if she was trying to crush any bones that survived Argyle, “I can’t breathe.” 

“Don’t care,” she mumbles into your shoulder before pulling back, “Nice costume.” 

A bat onesie. Cheesy, but comfortable, and warm enough to battle against Hawkin’s autumn chill. It’s even complete with a headband that has two small, perky ears attached to it, peeking out between tufts of your hair atop the crown of your head. 

“Thanks. Wait till you see the killer fake teeth I packed.” 

“Eds will be pissed if your fangs are better than his,” Argyle notes as he starts to walk into the living room. You follow, Robin close behind, to find the rest of your friends all waiting.

A scary movie is already on the TV, a classic slasher revealed by the high pitched scream that rings out into the room from it. There’s a few indoor decorations about — plastic jack-o-laterns and fake webs that will no doubt give Steve hell when he tries to take them back down — and you can see a punch bowl on the counter by where Nancy and Jonathan reside. 

And the man of the hour is lounging on the couch, a high mountain of pile already in front of him on the table as he munches on a family pack of candy corn. 

“Eddie, isn’t the candy supposed to be for trick or treaters?” you question teasingly as you make a beeline for him. His previous focus on the movie vanishes, full attention now on you.

He’s dressed like a vampire. If the cape didn’t give it away, that small blood line marked from his lower lip in a shade of lipstick you would guess he borrowed from Nancy does.

“I am a trick or treater, sweetheart,” he retorts, popping more candy into his mouth for emphasis, “Besides, Harrington has full-sized candy bars.” 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

He snaps his jaw closed jokingly, the clicking of his teeth making you huff out a laugh as you collapse next to him. 

That woodsy cologne is there, one you’re so happily familiar with these days. 

Unlike Argyle and Robin, he doesn’t greet you with an overwhelming hug, or palpable excitement. His way of greeting is more subtle. His arm slowly lifts, going to rest on the back of the couch behind you, but quickly falling to your shoulders when you waste no time scooting closer into the space he’s opened up in his side.

You fit kind of perfectly. Like a void always meant to be filled. 

“So, Dracula,” you hum, warning your beating heart to slow from its racing when his palm cradles your shoulder farthest from him, “What are we watching?” 

Baby steps were a thing of the past for most of the group. They had become great leaps of faith after that fateful movie night. The way Argyle and Robin had crushed you was normal now. Passing touches and flirtatious jokes were regular between you and your friends. They had seen your boundary for what it really was, a roadblock, and bit by bit, they had broken it down. 

Eddie’s hesitation isn’t because he can no longer touch you. His hesitation whispered of something more, something different, something still delicate. Just as delicate as the fragile wings of the butterflies in his stomach that fluttered to life every time you entered a room. 

They weren’t new. And you still didn’t know they existed — that they had always existed. From the first moment he’d met you.

“One of the Halloween movies,” he tells you, leaning down to keep the conversation more private.

You felt his breath on your ear.  A new touch that happened more frequently now. One you sought after almost as vehemently as you had those first few points of contact. 

“Oh?” you play along, staying hushed, “How fitting.” 

“Very.” 

“I’m surprised you didn’t make them put on a vampire movie. You know,” you cut off, and motion to his costume. You bump your knee to his as you do it, “Given your attire.” 

“Zee night iz ztill young,” he puts on an obnoxious accent meant to mimic Dracula himself, pronouncing all his ‘s’s as ‘z’s.

You only smile, wide and generous and soft and tender, before you lift a hand to punch at the flared collar of his cape. You don’t even hesitate, not even when your knuckles brush the side of his neck.

“Pretty killer, right?” he jokes, trying to ignore the warmth flooding his cheeks.

“Very,” you hum in approval, hand dropping as you lean back into the heavy warmth of his arm around you. You almost reach the hand up to his bottom lip to trace that makeup there, slightly smeared and edges rugged already from his snacking, but you do withhold yourself at that line, “I like the makeup.” 

“Yeah?” he lights up with pride, “You know, I did the eyeliner all by myself.” 

You squint pointedly, leaning in just an inch closer to inspect the feathered charcoal on his waterline, “Really? Very impressive, Eds.” 

“Stop flirting,” Steve demands as he leaves the kitchen, “You’re going to give him a bigger head than he needs.” 

You both break apart slowly, letting space settle between you two and slowly fading back into the real world and out of that little bubble between you two. Eddie’s arm remains — his palm never leaves you, going so far as to give you a playful squeeze as his finger trails down your bicep.

A pathway of spring roses feels as though they bloom along that trail. Vibrant, full of life, open to possibility. When it came to you, Eddie had one Hell of a green thumb. 

“Stop ruining the fun, big boy,” Eddie looks up at your friend, poking his tongue out as his nose scrunches. Adorable. Painfully so.

Steve is dressed as Batman. His mask is discarded somewhere on the counter beside the punch bowl.

“We have plenty of time for fun,” Steve waves off the comment, coming to stand in front of the TV with his hands on his hips, “Am I forgetting anything? I have candy for any kids that come knocking, we’ve got punch thanks to Nance, I ordered our pizza-“

“You better have ordered one with pineapple,” Eddie interrupts, tilting his head sideways in your direction, temple brushing against one of your fake ears, signaling how it was your favorite. You burrow yourself deeper into his touch.

Steve subtly ignores him, “-I have the big speakers set up if we wanna listen to any music in the backyard. Am I missing anything?”

Predictably, he wasn’t. Steve always thought of everything.

The last few months had been nice. Finally getting to enjoy Eddie’s touch had been more than you ever planned for, reveling in the way the boy was so gentle with you even as he finally gave in. Once he started, it was as if you both could finally breathe. A weight had lifted from Eddie’s shoulders just from the simple adjustment of now getting to sit beside you at every function, his bouncing knee always pressing into yours. It had become a silly tradition for him to offer to share that wild head of hair during scary movies, demanding if someone else tried to sit beside you during horror movies in particular that you needed him and his curls to protect you. 

You had gone from yearning for touches, yearning for that contact, to your friends arguing over who would be indulged that night. 

They had taken it slower than you thought you wanted (save for Robin), but in the end, it had all worked out. You didn’t freeze anymore. Your aversion to touch had slowly, slowly, withered away with each hug, with each clasp of their hands on you, with each casual cuddle session they pulled from you. You no longer felt like an anomaly. And it wasn’t that your friends had ever meant to make you feel like an outsider, but it felt like finally being let into a club you’d mourned being left out of for years.

The day that Eddie had grabbed your hand during a casual conversation amongst everyone while out for lunch, letting his thumb trail back and forth over your knuckles in a soothing motion, you’d nearly cried.

Something so delicate yet so telling. A quiet action of affection you’d spent so long telling yourself you couldn’t have. Back rubs during hugs, letting Argyle braid your hair in return, resting your head onto Robin’s shoulder instead of only vice versa. They were all things you’d denied yourself of for so long. You regret it, but you couldn’t change anything in the past, only the now.

And now, you had the boy who had first sprouted such affectionate want within you wrapped up against you, leaning into you for comfort as he started to ignore Steve again.

“Wanna go out back and smoke while he mother hens?” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. 

You both slip away out the back door unnoticed, a new banter sparking up between Robin and Steve being enough distraction to allow it. Eddie wastes no time digging into his jean pockets once he’s outside, throwing the cape out widely before he pulls out his pack of cigarettes. 

“Want one?” he offers, flipping it open in your direction.

You just smile, shaking your head, “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.” 

You’d never really said that before to anyone in your group, only politely declining up until now. A small detail, but Eddie looks pleased to learn it all the same.

“Huh,” he curiously hums, pulling his own cigarette from the carton before tucking it back away, “I never knew that.” 

“I’ve never really told anyone,” you shrug.

“It is some big secret?”

“Nope.”

“Hmph.” 

This hum is muffled by the tip of the filter in his mouth, his hands now busy patting down his body for his lighter. 

“What?” 

His lips struggle to stretch around the tip of the cigarette without dropping it, solely from how wide his smile is, “I like learning new things about you.” 

For every thing you had once spewed at Robin that night, Eddie had learned of you tenfold. 

It was far past learning how your fingers fit between his or the smell of your perfume. He’d wanted it all; to know the inside workings of your mind, to be privy to all of your beautiful thoughts. The softness set in stone inside of you bled far past what could be felt in your fingertips or the care that shook your hand when you’d brush back stray curls out of his eyes. It fed deeper into you, into parts of you that Eddie could spend hours exploring without once growing bored. 

“You say that like I’m interesting,” you murmur half-heartedly, suddenly reaching out beneath his cape and tucking into his back pocket he could have sworn he already checked. His breath is the one that catches at your arm brushing against his waist from the reach, his body is the one that freezes up entirely just from proximity. A change of roles that you had never seen coming, but he’d always figured existed. You never understood the effect you had on him, and that was in part his fault. 

You produce his lighter like magic.

“You are interesting,” he insists as he plucks the lighter from you, flicking it three times to get a steady flame to burn the tip of his cigarette to life, “Don’t sell yourself so short, batty.” 

“Batty?” you snort, not moving away from him, even as he blows a thin and ghostly stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

He can only shrug, wrinkling his nose, “Yeah, I didn’t like it either. Had to give it a chance, though.” 

In the quiet solitude of Eddie nursing his cigarette and you watching the trees rustle with the last remnants of daylight, something sharper invades the soft space you two seem to brew whenever together. Between your innards that are gentle by nature, and Eddie’s silken attitude not only in actions but attitude towards you, the spaces occasionally left between you two were always something dulcet. Calm. Welcoming. You’d come to discover that maybe, that’s why you’d always yearned to burrow yourself so deeply into those spaces. It was a feeling of comfort and a feeling of home that you had always seemed out, but never found that fit quite as right as these moments.

“Hey Eddie?” you ask aloud as he finishes off the cigarette, stomping it out on the ground with his boot.

“What’s up?” he answers, making no move to go back inside.

You always liked these moments alone best. From the very beginning. Even before he felt comfortable enough to step closer to you, shoulder to shoulder with you now. He’s trying to squint and see what you’re finding so interesting in the array of colorful leaves in the distance, slowly being covered in blue shadows rather than golden light, without asking. 

You liked that. You liked it a lot; the way he always seemed to seek out your perspective on things. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did-“

“Fuck off,” your hand flies up, and smacks his shoulder. You never would have done that before. But you do now, relishing that contact even in the briefest of moments. The freedom to reach out and touch.

Once he stops laughing, clearly amused with himself, he turns to face you. Whatever he had been searching for in the trees is long gone, and your focus has moved onto him now, so it’s futile.

“Ask away, sweetheart.”

A deep breath for bravery, and you’re blurting out, “Did you really only avoid touching me when we met because... the others… they told you not to?” 

He wasn’t expecting that question. The crease between his brows makes that clear. You almost take your thumb to it, try to smooth out the worry. But you’re not quite there yet. Maybe one day you would be. 

It’s not as loaded of a question as he thinks it is. It’s cute to watch him assume it is, though. 

“I mean,” he starts his words slowly, carefully, “I guess.”

“You guess?” 

“I guess,” he repeats.

Your smile is sending him into a tornado of emotion. He almost curls his hands into fist, just as you used to do. 

When you broke down your boundary, it had split a crack through his dam. He knows he can reach out and touch you. He knows you’ll accept his physicality without complaint now. It doesn’t make it any less scary. 

For the same reason you don’t press your thumb into his eyebrow crease — having a crush just makes you hesitate like that. 

“I’m obviously a touchy guy,” he throws his arms out, aimlessly, and when they return his side, they almost nick yours. You wish they would brush yours, “But… between you and me, I always get nervous around pretty girls.”

The world slows. It doesn’t stop, it can’t stop for two youths who are trying to explore new and giddy feelings — but my God, can it slow to an absolute crawl, if only for the two of you.

“You think I’m pretty?” you tease, swallowing down just how much those words mean. You always have to remind yourself it’s worth it; being just friends is worth it now that you’ve learned the exact brand of cologne he wears and recognize the weight of his arm around you. 

“The absolute prettiest,” he breathes out, “I always have. Even if they hadn’t told me to hold back, I would have- Hell, I still do,” the Autumn air makes him honest, makes him brave, “I am- I would be- I just- It’s terrifying, the thought of fucking it up because you turn my brain to… mush.” 

Your eyes lift up to his forehead blanketed in his bangs, squinty and entertained, “You’re telling me it’s all just soup in there right now?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

Your friends are inside. There is candy to eat until your stomachs ache, and hugs to partake in until your bones have been crushed and pieced back together by threads of platonic affection.

Right now is anything but platonic. And it is time for something else to break, not your bones and not your boundaries. Something more. 

“I’m pretty sure your hand on my shoulder when we first met would have ended my entire world,” he confesses, starting the first crack.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. If you had hugged me every time you saw me, I don’t know if I would have ever found the nerve to leave my house.”

Another crack.

“And if I sat next to you every time we went out for dinner?”

“Wouldn’t have been able to eat a bite, I’m afraid.”

A spiderweb of cracks, all widening.

“And if I had laid my head on your shoulder during movie nights?”

“What the Hell is a movie?” he jokes, chuckling a bit nervously now, “Who knows? Certainly not me, certainly not when my favorite girl is curled up next to me.” 

One more crack, and the entire thing will finally shatter. You’re begging it to shatter. 

You bite your tongue on any remark about still being his favorite, because since that goddamn night, he’d never said Robin or Nancy were his favorites again. Never. He’d meant it. You were his favorite. 

“And if I just…” you pause as you step forward, leaning in slowly, and it takes everything in Eddie not to turn and run as your lips brush over his cheek as you whisper, “Kissed your cheek? Right here, right now?” 

He doesn’t respond, your lips press together and then press down. 

It shatters with a resounding snap that must be heard across Hawkins. Across Indiana. 

One moment, your lips are on his cheek, and the next, they’re on his lips. He turns his head quickly before any doubt or nerves or roots can interrupt the moment. 

Endless. Endearing. Warmth. Tenderness. Soft.

His lips are soft. So goddamn soft.

His hands are foreign things for a second, as if he’s in shock that he’d actually done it and kissed you. But they come back to life when your own lift to his neck, wrapping behind his neck and beneath the collar of that cape, pulling him in even closer to you. 

He kisses you. And kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Till you’re both dizzy and it doesn’t matter that the earth won’t stop spinning long enough for you two to live in this moment. 

It should be unfamiliar, especially to you, but it isn’t. It’s as if the two of you have done this dance before. In another life, in another world, on another Earth far away from here. Your lips know his in this lifetime, and they will know his in the next — this first meeting only allows for a sigh of relief in the Universe, and in you. 

He paused the kisses briefly, palms cradling your face with care and intention, “Do you know,” he places his lips onto yours one more time, as if fearful that spending too much time apart will let you vanish, “how often,” another kiss, deeper this time, “I’ve wanted to do this?” 

A final peck. A period to the end of a sentence that the two of you had taken your time writing.

“No,” you laugh earnestly, fingers digging into the soft skin at his nape, reveling in the slip of his curls between your knuckles, “Maybe you should tell me about it.” 

“Tell you about all the times?” he’s leaning back in, lips brushing against yours. Just a touch, but it shakes you to your core, “All the times I wanted to touch you, hold you, kiss you?” 

You capture his lips in yours, unable to resist anymore. You’ve spent months resisting — his lips and kisses, his touches and brushes, his warmth and sunshine. You’re done resisting.

“Every,” you pull back and catch the glint in his eyes. He’s done, too, the rubble of the shatter, “Single,” you peck one cheek, “Last,” you peck the other, now rosey, “One.” 

You finally kiss his lips again. Your fingers tug harshly on his curls, and his mouth falls open at the unexpected sensation. Instead of taking this any further and starting something you’d never want to end, you do the adult thing — you nip at his bottom lip, a bite of adoration that leaves him with a sting to remember. 

“Fuck,” he sighs out, chasing after you, but your hands press into his chest to keep him into place, “I- Sorry, was that too much?” 

“Too much?” you laugh breathlessly, shaking your head immediately. Once upon a time, it might have been too much. But now, it wasn’t enough. “No such thing, not with you.” 

“Careful,” his hands came up to cover your fists balled into the front of his shirt, moving so that his cape brushes against your sides now, “I’m known to be quite a handful, sweetheart.” 

You snort and grip his shirt even harder. “God, I sure hope so. You’ve been holding out on me, dracula.” 

“Oh, have I?”

His smirk and your smirk are perfect mirror images of each other. 

“You have.”

[natti-ice]

[towanda-is-writing]

Chapter 01

Christina Cunningham has grown up living in the shadow of her parents’ social ambitions and financial interests. Lord Edward Munson, a reserved and austere man, bears the weight of the debts his father left behind.

When an unexpected discovery threatens to alter Christina’s future forever, a daring proposal emerges—one that could secure her fate and offer salvation to Lord Edward: a marriage of convenience.

Bound by a pact forged out of necessity, they must face not only the expectations of society, but also the lingering shadows of the past. What begins as an agreement may become something far more dangerous—and far more powerful. Will love find its way between them, or will old secrets and unhealed wounds tear them apart?

[dearwalker]

I think he knows

Pairing: Eddie Munson x reader x Steve Harrington Wc: 10.3k

Description: Eddie accidentally walks in on Steve fucking you in a WSQK storage closet. He thinks he’s doomed to a life of fantasizing over you with the only company of his right hand, until…Steve himself offers him a golden ticket straight to your bed: a threesome.

Inspired on the song ‘I think he knows’ by Taylor Swift <3

Warnings/tags: threesome smut, all are adults, fem!reader, established relationship with S5!Steve, no spoilers, Eddie survives S4 bc I say so, mentions of his scars, voyeurism, eddie fantasizes a lot, he jerks off a lot more, porn with plot, oral male rec, fingering, piv sex, both men are whipped for you.

Note: Surprise, new boy in the harem✨ No I don’t know how this happened, or how it ended up being so long but all I can say is merry early christmas my dears, enjoy the filth!! 🫦

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he’s so obsessed with me and boy I understand

Eddie Munson had never hated the sun before.

Not until he saw it in your smile.

You were standing in front of him at the crawl meeting, giggling at something Robin had said, soft and golden in the way that only you could be, wearing Steve’s stupid jacket that by this point was pretty much your own. 

Because he was. 

Steve Harrington, Mr. Perfect Hair himself, asshole turned part time hero, was the guy who got to hold your hand in public. Eddie didn’t hate him. Not really. He wanted to, wanted it bad sometimes, when the jealousy itched too deep to scratch. 

He’d hated him at some point, when Dustin wouldn't shut up about how incredible his friend was. But alas, after everything they’d been through last year and Steve being the one who got him out of that hellhole, he really couldn’t hate him anymore. 

So, he hated the sun. Because he couldn't have it.

Eddie also hated himself for not speaking up sooner. For watching you fall in love with someone else while he sat in the background. And maybe that was his punishment. Maybe that was the price for every time he chickened out, every time he saw you in the hallway in that little cherry red jacket and panicked, ducking behind his locker like a coward.

Maybe if he hadn’t been, you would be wearing his jacket now. 

“Dude, wipe your face. You’re one drool away from filling the bucket,” came a voice from beside him, and undoubtedly by the tone–it had to be Henderson’s. 

Eddie snapped out of his trance by the sharp nudge of Dustin’s elbow. Shit. He hadn’t even realized he was watching. 

“I’m not,” he lied, even as he tilted his head just enough to catch another glimpse of you, this time laughing as Steve tried to sneak a kiss and Robin dramatically fake gagged next to you.

Jesus, Eddie was about to gag for real. 

“You’re staring again,” Dustin chuckled, walking away after patting him condescendingly on the back. 

Eddie shot him a glare but didn’t argue back. Because what was the point? 

All he could do was fantasize when it came to you. You would never look at him the same way you look at Steve. 

You just looked at him like he was funny. Your metalhead friend. And Eddie? Eddie looked at you like you hung the goddamn stars.

Things were finally looking up for Eddie. For once. 

Aside from his not so little crush situation, everything else seemed to be getting better. 

After almost dying being devoured by supernatural creatures–which, in his opinion would’ve been a very metal death–his uncle’s trailer had gotten split in half, and he’d gotten piles and piles of medical bills from his long recovery. Which led to him having to find a part time job as a mechanic besides his little dealing business. 

Oh! And how could he forget? The police department was still investigating him about the murders from last year. 

Between that, his job, the incessant crawls every week, and his therapy–both physical and psychological–he had absolutely no time to host hellfire anymore. Dustin had tried to keep it alive, but bless his soul, no one compares to Eddie Munson when it comes to being DM. 

But last week, by some miracle, he’d finally, finally been cleared as “innocent” due to lack of evidence and was able to start living a normal life again. His therapy sessions had been reduced to once every two weeks, and he’d also repaired a few fancy cars that earned him a pretty juicy commission. 

So yeah. Things were finally looking up for him after whatever the hell ‘86 was. 

So, with a pep in his step, he walked through the doors of the WSQK headquarters holding a cardboard box with all his stuff for that day’s campaign. Robin had told him they had a spare room on the back, and Steve said he could go earlier to set everything up. He even whistled as he strolled through the empty hallways of the radio station.

He saw two doors at the end, figuring he’d open both and find out which one he was supposed to settle in. 

But as all Munsons tend to run out of luck at some point, it seems like the curse finally hit him again when he opened the wrong one and changed the course of his entire fucking life. 

Because what he didn’t expect, what absolutely no one warned him about, was that you and Steve liked to use the storage closet to fuck like bunnies before anyone arrived at the station. 

He froze at the door, the box in his hand hanging on for dear life as he took in the scene in front of him. 

There you were. 

Propped up on a stack of cardboard boxes with Steve between your legs, your skirt was bunched around your hips, and your knees high on his waist. Your face was flushed, hair a mess and you were letting out choked little gasps because you couldn’t form words anymore.

Eddie’s heart stopped. He might’ve as well died for real this time. 

You let out a startled sound, grabbing Steve’s shoulders to hide yourself the second you saw Eddie standing there. Steve just glanced back over his shoulder, not even bothering to stop. 

“Dude. Do you mind?” 

Eddie slammed the door shut.

He walked out of WSQK like he’d seen a ghost. Didn’t even say a word to Dustin, who was just pulling up on his bike. 

He just got in his van, and drove straight into the woods far enough to be alone. And for the next ten minutes, the only sound in that van was the furious pumping of his hard cock into his hand and his broken, desperate moans repeating something.

Your name. Again. And again.

And again.

Then, after going back and giving a poor excuse to his boys as to why he couldn’t host that day and had to leave immediately (one that actually meant sorry guys! Gotta jerk off like 10 more times!) He went to repeat the same routine back at the small place Wayne managed to rent after the “earthquakes” had destroyed his trailer. 

He turned off the lights of the room he called his now. Lit a blunt just for something to do with his free hand. Threw on a loud tape to drown out the grunts and the pathetic moaning, and his fist went to town–again–to the memory of you.

The way you looked in that closet.

The arch of your back against the boxes. The sound of your voice breaking as you moaned his name–not Eddie’s, no, the one you belonged to. Steve. The way your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, as if he wasn’t deep enough. And your face…

God. Your fucking face.

Blissed out and flushed, swollen lips parted, eyes half-lidded and completely lost in it. No cheap porn film he’d ever watched compared to that. No–you were the most obscene thing Eddie had ever seen in his life and it was burned into him now. Engraved into the insides of his lids. No amount of blinking could unsee it. 

No amount of jerking off could erase it. 

(He tried. Many times.)

People had sex all the time. This shouldn’t be on his head 24/7. But…Eddie couldn’t believe that was you. 

He’d always seen you as soft. As the sweet girl giggling at Steve’s dumb jokes while playing with his stupid perfect hair. As the one who would mediate when a crawl meeting got too heated when someone didn’t agree with the plan. As the one who always listened to everyone…even him. 

You even called him Eds once, so softly, that he’d walked around with chest pain for a full day like a goddamn lovesick teenager. 

But now?

Now he couldn’t stop imagining how your voice sounded when it wasn't innocent. Couldn’t stop remembering how your legs looked parted open, how your thighs shook as Steve thrusted harshly into you. 

He should’ve known better though, that was on him. He should’ve known that someone who once held the title of “King Steve” would be the one to corrupt a girl like you. 

Who wouldn’t want to? 

He couldn’t stop wondering what it’d feel like to be the one between your legs. To have you whimpering like that. To see you fall apart and know he did that. That he got you that high, that far gone…that wrecked.

He was fucking haunted by the fantasy. And it wasn’t lust, it was worse than that. It was curiosity, obsession, need.

The need to be the one who fucks the sweetness out of you. 

But now you were probably curled up in Steve’s bed, fast asleep on his hairy chest, wearing one of his shirts and dreaming about getting fucked by him, while Eddie dreamt of you after he didn’t have anything left to milk out.

He dreamt of your hand in his curls. Your thighs around his waist. Your voice in his ear breaking with his name over and over and…over. 

Eddie tried to be normal after that. God, he tried. 

At least you seemed to be normal. You walked into Thursday movie night at Nancy’s like nothing had happened, dropping onto the couch next to Steve with a bag of popcorn, listening to whatever Robin said, still sweet and smiley and wearing one of Steve’s jackets. 

He told himself not to stare. Repeated it like a goddamn mantra.

Don’t look, Munson. Don’t fucking look. You’ll just embarrass yourself. You’ll make it weird. 

But then your eyes met, and you smiled at him, and…Eddie forgot his own name.

His mouth opened, but words came out. Just a squeak that could’ve been the start of a sentence, or a heart attack. He pretended to cough into his fist and buried himself deeper into the armchair. 

And Steve? Oh he noticed. 

Not just Eddie’s reaction, but all of it. The way Eddie’s eyes had locked onto you from the moment you walked in. The way they dropped lower every time you shifted. The way his fingers gripped the armrest. 

And the weird part? Steve didn’t get mad. He just smirked, knowingly, even amused by the whole thing. 

The next time something altered Eddie’s brain chemistry, was at the diner. 

He’d arrived late, mainly because he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to go in the first place, but the thought of seeing your smile was enough to convince him to walk through that door, and soon it was just him, Robin, and the perfect couple. 

Eddie looked at you from across the booth, wearing a cute outfit that he was sure would ruin his life later when he was alone back in his room. You were sipping from your milkshake, the pink straw pressed between your lips, as you let out a hum of contempt at the sweet taste. All Eddie could think was that could be something else.

Thank God for Robin’s need to ramble about everything that happened on her date with Vicky that weekend, that you and Steve were focused on her and not on Eddie’s anxious leg bouncing under the table. 

Or at least that’s what he thought. 

“Eds, take some fries,” you offered sweetly when Robin ran out of air, pushing the plate you’d been eating from with Steve toward him. 

Eddie hadn’t ordered anything, he wasn’t hungry–at least not for actual food–and of course you’d noticed and offered him some of your own. 

“Yeah man, go ahead,” Steve chimed in with a smile that was enough to freak him out. “I don’t mind sharing,” he added with a shrug, placing an arm around your shoulders, hazel eyes piercing into Eddie’s with a devilish glint. 

The implication left Eddie frozen in place, hand hovering over the fries as you began talking with Robin again, unaware of the way your boyfriend’s comment had left Eddie stunned. 

Steve didn’t say anything else. Just kept looking at him, head tilted, like he knew something. Like he felt it now. 

The shift. 

Eddie almost got up and left, but then he caught Steve’s eyes, and the bastard just winked.

Jesus Christ. 

You’re still breathless when Steve flips you onto your back again, mind stuck somewhere between heaven and passing out as your sore body still feels every inch of him buried deep inside you. 

He drapes you across his hairy chest knowing you can’t hold yourself up anymore, bare skin sticky with sweat, your cheek pressed over his heartbeat. Steve's hand goes to your thigh, fingers brushing softly where he’d held you down minutes ago. 

You don’t want to move. You never want to after he’s done with you. So you just cling tightly to him, letting out a dreamy sigh and nuzzling closer, planting a soft kiss over his racing heart.

Steve smiles, shifting just enough to see your blissed out face. “You okay over there?”

“Mmhm,” you hum. “Can’t feel my soul. Congratulations, Harrington.”

That makes him chuckle. He kisses the top of your head. “Anytime, baby.” 

As his room settles into silence and you begin drifting off in his arms before he can drag you into taking a shower, Steve’s chest vibrates against your skin when he speaks again. 

“Hey,” he whispers, absentmindedly playing with your hair which doesn’t help your heavy eyelids closing. 

“Hmm?” 

“Do you ever notice the way Eddie looks at you?”

Your eyes blink open immediately. 

You don’t say anything at first. Just start tracing lazy little circles on a particular scar on his ribs, pretending to think about it, but you already know the answer. 

“Yeah,” you smile, “I’ve noticed.”

Steve hums, hand still resting on your thigh.

“It’s probably just a silly little crush,” you add, as if you didn’t know how Eddie’s voice breaks every time you spare a glance at him. Or the way his hands shake when you ask him to hand you a drink on movie night. “He’s just… traumatized from the time he caught us back at the station,” you chuckle. 

“Oh, baby. You should’ve seen his face in that closet.” Steve snorts. “You were extra loud that day, you really put on a show for him–the lucky bastard.” 

“What?” You ask, straightening up on his chest. “You knew he was going to get there earlier?”

“I was hoping he got there earlier."

You smack his arm with your mouth wide open, but a smile tugs at your lips. He grins like the devil is, shifting to ease you again into his embrace. 

“Don’t worry baby, I might have a way to fix him right back up,” he says smugly, those impossible hazel eyes glinting with mischief. “…Remember that talk we had a while back? Couple months ago. About maybe…bringing in a third?”

Your heart thumps so fast against your chest that you’re sure Steve can feel it on his. 

“…Yeah,” you say. “I remember.”

“What if…it was him?” He shrugs, like he’s discussing what movie to watch. “I’m just saying, we’ve both noticed. And maybe…” His hand drifts lower down your thigh, finding that place where you’re still sensitive. “Maybe it’s fun to imagine what he’d do if we invited him.”

His fingers press against your wet folds, easily sliding in and drawing a gasp out of you. His eyebrows shoot up, like he’d managed exactly what he wanted. 

“See? Don't you want to show him again how pretty you sound?”

Maybe it’s the overstimulation of Steve fingers pumping in and out of your pussy like he hadn’t absolutely wrecked it minutes prior, that the word comes out of your mouth before you can stop it. 

“Yes,” you exhale in a shaky moan. 

The thought alone thrills you. Because the truth is, you’ve been feeling it as much as Steve has. You've been wanting it as much as Steve has. 

The forbidden. 

Because it is fun to imagine. You guiding Eddie’s hand. Steve watching and telling you what to do. You crying out between the two of them.

God. 

“So…Eddie?” You pant, unsure if you’re asking or you're moaning out his name just to try it out on your lips. 

Steve just smirks. 

“Yeah,” he says, pumping faster. “Eddie.”

The moment that sealed Eddie’s fate was a random Thursday. 

He should’ve known better. 

The second you said movie night was at your place, he should’ve backed out. Should’ve faked a headache or a gig or even a freak accident involving his uncle. Anything.

But–like the fucking idiot he was–he’d walked right through your front door that night. 

You’d picked a shitty movie on purpose. Something slow without any action scenes, full of long silences and artistic shots that made Robin snore into the couch cushion, with Nancy and Jonathan falling right behind. 

Steve sat beside you the whole time, like always, hand on your thigh, like always. Looking casual, almost innocent.

Eddie was on the floor, sitting too close to the TV just so he wouldn’t look at you. 

He’d been too busy picking at the skin of his thumb and lost into the mazes of his head, that he didn’t notice you’d disappeared with Steve until he glanced over to the couches and only found the girls and Jonathan dead to the world. 

He sat there for a few more minutes pretending to care about the stupid movie, but then–like a fucking idiot–he decided to get up, quietly leaving the room like he was going to the kitchen.

He took a hard left to the stairs instead. 

Eddie knew where your bedroom was. He’d been there before when you’d asked him to bring more blankets on movie night a few months ago. He still remembers the cute little nightlight plugged into the wall. 

As he tiptoed to the top of the stairs like a freak, the hall was dark, but a sliver of light came out of your room through the slightly open door. 

Eddie dragged his feet on the carpet, guided by shushing voices and a noise of what he was sure was the creak of a bed. Once he reached, he braced himself for the scene he was about to encounter as he peeked through the door, but no amount of breathing techniques could have ever prepared him for the image before his eyes. 

Oh, fuck.

You were on your stomach, face pressed into the mattress, Steve standing behind you with both hands gripping your hips. Your ass–god, your ass–lifted high to meet every thrust. 

Your dress was bunched around your waist, panties pushed to the side, but nothing really hid you from the pervert on the door. Not even Steve’s body blocked the view of him disappearing into your dripping pussy, filling you so deep Eddie could see it, see the way your walls opened for him. 

The nightlight glowed behind you, casting just enough light to make it worse. 

Pink and soft and obscene.

Eddie’s eyes went over the curve of your spine. The shake of your thighs. Your fingers twisting in the floral sheets, holding on for dear life as your body kept being pushed forward. 

And the sounds. Jesus Christ, the sounds.

“Steve,” you gasped, “please–more–don’t stop.”

“Shhh baby, I know,” Steve cooed behind you, doing the exact opposite of what you asked and stopped. “But you gotta keep it down, don’t want to wake up your guests do you?” 

The fucking hypocrite then slammed back into you so hard the headboard bumped the wall. You moaned–no, cried out, trying to muffle it against the sheets as Eddie bit down his fist just to keep himself from making a sound. 

“Oh baby, you wanna be loud?” Steve chuckled, as he kept thrusting hard. “Go on then, I want to hear you.” 

“I–fuck–I love your cock, Steve” you choked the words out. “‘S–s’ so deep.”

Eddie froze at the crack of the door, heart pounding out of his chest as he watched you getting fucked within an inch of your life. 

The sweet girl. The sun. The angel he thought he knew. Gripping her sheets like a sinner. Moaning filth like she wanted the guests to hear.

Maybe you wanted him to hear. 

Eddie’s hand slipped inside his jeans, he couldn't stop himself. Not after that. He stroked himself fast and hard and desperate, watching your body take it, and your mouth beg for it. 

It didn’t take long for Eddie to come harder than he’d ever had in his life. He made a mess in his hand, his pants, and he was sure some of his cum dripped onto the carpet below, but he was too high and too far gone to care. 

He nearly collapsed against the stairs wall as he rushed back down, panting, already half hard again within seconds. 

The movie was still rolling, the guys were still fast asleep, but he had been changed forever–once again. 

Seriously, who the hell leaves the door open? Or unlocked? For two people who seemed to fuck like bunnies none of it made sense. 

Unless…you’d wanted him to watch. 

Eddie was in the middle of jerking off when someone started pounding on his front door. 

Of course.

He’d found his rhythm, music blasting, hips grinding into his palm, eyes squeezed shut and in his head, his filthy, freaky little head, you kept running your dirty mouth over and over. 

He’d been at it for twenty minutes. Maybe more. His dick was red and raw but he didn’t care because the only thing worse than jerking off to the memory of you was not jerking off to it.

Bang, bang, bang.

“Jesus–fuck,” he curses, pulling up his briefs with a groan, finding a pair of jeans from the floor as the knocking continues.

“EDDIE!!” A familiar voice calls over the music. 

Oh no. 

Eddie walks out of his room shirtless, crosses the hall in three large strides, and opens the door wide enough to peek out, and yeah, there he is.

Steve fucking Harrington.

The absolute last person on earth he wanted to catch him red handed with his dick in his hand fantasizing about his girlfriend.

“Hey, man,” Eddie manages, clearing his throat when his voice cracks a little. “Uh…what’s up?” 

“Hey!” Steve beams, that preppy boy smile spreading wide on his face. “Mind if I come in?”

Eddie hesitates only for a second, then opens the door wider and steps back. Steve walks in, glances around, his gaze landing on Eddie’s bedroom. More specifically, on the bottle of lotion on his nightstand and the constellation of crumpled paper tissues on the floor next to his bed. 

Steve chuckles. “Sorry man, didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

“Wh–what?”

“You know. That thing you were doing.” Steve smirks, nodding his head toward the room. “Thinking about my girl?”

Eddie’s whole face goes red. “Dude, what the fuck–”

“You like her,” Steve says plainly, not as a question, not mad, not teasing. Just a matter of fact. “I know you’ve always liked her. But now you’ve seen her like I have. And now you can’t stop thinking about her.”

Eddie stands frozen in the middle of the living room, unsure of what he’s supposed to say to save his case. Although, given the evidence, there isn’t much to hope for. 

“Is this the part where you punch me?” Eddie asks, almost bracing for the impact. 

But Steve just laughs in his face. 

“No, man. No punches.” He shakes his head, amused. “You know…she likes it when you stare.”

You like it when he stares? You know he stares? 

“Alright Harrington, if you wanna hit me, just do it. Don’t fuck with me.” Eddie chuckles bitterly, already wishing he could just go back to his little twisted fantasies instead of hearing this bullshit. 

“Don’t you get what I’m saying Eddie?”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “No…?”

Steve sighs, then steps closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m saying…she wants you to fuck her.”

There’s a moment of deafening silence where Eddie questions if he actually speaks the English language, because there’s no fucking way in the world he heard that right. 

“...What??” 

“She does,” Steve repeats, then chuckles again, “Hell, even I want you to fuck her.”

“You’re not being serious,” Eddie accuses, backing off from Steve’s grasp to pace in circles with his hands on his hips. 

“Fucking hell man,” Steve groans. “Look–I’ve seen the way you look at her. And I get it, okay? She’s a dream, I know.” He laughs, but Eddie keeps pacing like a madman, shaking his head. “Dude–you ever wonder what she tastes like when she’s already come twice?”

That makes him stop right in his tracks. He turns to Steve in disbelief, but once again he doesn’t see anger, or teasing. He’s genuinely asking him if he fantasizes about his girlfriend. 

“Man, I wonder about everything,” Eddie finally blurts out, exhaling like he just lifted a weight off his chest that’s been dragging him down for weeks. 

Steve grins. 

“I wouldn’t offer you this if I didn’t trust you with her.” 

He walks closer to Eddie–again–but this time he doesn’t place his hand on his shoulder, just looks at him dead in the eye as his grin turns darker. 

“You’d be gentle with her, wouldn’t you, Eddie?” He asks, pupils taking over the hazel of his eyes. “You wouldn’t fuck her too hard the first time, right? She’s too sensitive after–and trust me, you’re gonna want her to keep going.”

Eddie is speechless for the 124378th time in that month. Which should be an achievement, considering he likes to talk as much as Robin does. 

“I’m not gonna say it twice, Munson.” Steve lifts a hand to clap him on the shoulder. “But she really wants it. So are you in?”

Eddie doesn’t even think anymore. He just nods frantically. 

Oh, he’s so in.

Oh, he’s so having a full blown existential crisis. 

He hadn’t slept the night before. Who could sleep after that conversation? Steve, poster boy for everything Eddie is not, just casually walked into his place, dropping that line like it was no big deal: 

She wants you to fuck her.

Which is how he ended up now, standing outside your goddamn house, sweating through his jacket and wondering if he’d actually never woken up from the demobats attack and this was all a coma dream. 

Because now you apparently wanted him.

In your house. In your bed.

On those stupidly adorable floral sheets he couldn’t stop thinking about. That’s what he came thinking about. That’s what he dreamed about every night. 

Steve’d said to just “roll by tonight.” Well, tonight is here, and Eddie stands outside the door contemplating his options. 

Does he knock? Does he just open it and walk into a fucking orgy?

Jesus. 

He adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his curly hair, and tells himself it’s going to be fine. He’s already been through things someone his age should never have to in their entire lifetime. Strange things. He can handle a little threesome.

Right?

He rings the doorbell before he chickens out like he’s done his whole life. 

Eddie hears footsteps approaching the front door. He expects you, for some reason, but instead it’s Steve who opens it, shirtless, barefoot, only wearing some sweatpants, and smiling bright as if he’d just invited Eddie over to watch some sports game.

“Hey, dude! Glad you made it,” he beams, stepping aside.

Eddie walks through the threshold, and stops in the middle of the entrance hall pressing his lips tight. 

“You want water or something?” Steve offers casually, noticing Eddie’s looking around nervously. “She’s upstairs. All ready.”

“She’s what?”

“All ready,” Steve repeats with a grin. “You know, for you.”

Steve laughs at Eddie’s loss for words, claps him reassuringly on the back, and gestures toward the stairs.

 “Come on, man. Don’t leave her waiting.”

He walks up the stairs with Steve trailing behind. Eddie’s already hard under his ripped jeans, stopping right outside your door thinking what on earth does ready for me mean?

Are you naked? Are you touching yourself? Do you know how hard he is? Can you feel him on the other side of the door?

He can even see the damn nightlight is on behind it. His hand hovers over the doorknob, but for one second, the doubt comes crawling back in.

What if this is a joke? What if he opens the door and all your friends are inside pointing at him and laughing like “Look who actually believed it! You’re a pervert, Eddie!”

Wouldn’t be the first time someone pulls a cruel prank on him–or calls him that. Wouldn’t even be the worst. But–

“You gonna open it, Eddie? Or are you too scared of my girl?” Steve’s teasing voice cuts off his spiraling thoughts. 

Eddie takes a deep breath, finally twists the knob, and he swears time slows down when he sees you there. 

You’re sitting–no, half kneeling on the bed in the center of the room. Those floral sheets are bunched under your knees. And you’re wearing a little dainty lace set. The fabric is barely there, but the little bows on the straps make it sweet enough for Eddie’s mouth to go dry. Your exposed skin looks soft under the warm pink glow the nightlight casts against the walls. 

You’re all ready for him. 

Eddie nearly fucking dies. Again. 

You smile when you see him. It’s soft and warm and welcoming, like always. Except–nearly naked. Not like he hadn’t seen your guts getting rearranged about two times too much these past weeks anyways. 

“Hi, Eds,” you say, waving your hand as if you aren’t currently rewiring his entire nervous system.

He stands frozen in the doorway as Steve brushes past him, casual as hell. He walks straight up to you, bends down just enough to pet your chin with two fingers, making you laugh softly. 

“Hi again, baby,” Steve whispers sweetly. “Let’s give him a warm welcome, hm?”

You hum in agreement, watching Steve walk away and drop onto the puff in the corner of the room, manspreading like a king waiting for his entertainment to start. 

But Eddie…Eddie’s still standing by the door like 🧍🏻

“So uh…what–what are the rules?” He stammers. “Or, like boundaries? Or–fuck, I don’t know, a safe word?”

He means it for him, of course. 

You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh my god. Eddie, you're adorable.”

Steve is not as delicate as you, “Dude,” he snorts. “You can’t be serious. Relax. No one's handing out instructions.” 

Eddie shifts anxiously on his feet. “I–there should be instructions.”

When the hell has ever cared about those? 

“You’re here to make her feel good, that’s it.” Steve says quite harshly, crossing his arms over his chest, then looks at you and everything in him softens. “You decide how far he goes, baby.” 

You melt. Right there on the bed. Blow him a kiss and then turn your full attention to the very shy boy at your doorstep. 

“It’s okay, Eddie. Can you come closer?” You ask, extending your arm and gesturing toward the bed. 

Eddie gives one step, that’s all he manages.

You smile wider, just enough to coax him. “Closer, Eddie. Please.”

Fuck.

He takes another step, then another, until he’s right by the edge of the bed, so close he can see the pattern of the fine lace of your lingerie, the way your chest rises when you breathe, the way you’re giving him the most deadly case of bedroom eyes he’s ever seen in his entire life. 

You don’t look shy, or unsure, you look…eager. 

Before he can overthink it, you slide off the bed to round him, and gently push his chest to sit down. Eddie falls easily, his body already knowing it’s not in charge anymore. The mattress dips under his weight, bouncing softly along with the curls in his head. 

“Kick those shoes off,” you say. 

He obeys. Oh–he obeys. A little clumsily, but they’re off in less than three seconds.

Only then you climb onto his lap. Eddie’s breath comes out in a shaky exhale when your ass lands on his thighs. His hands hover uselessly at his sides. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t really dare yet. He doesn’t even know where to look. His eyes dart from your shoulder to the wall to Steve, who has now thrown his arms behind his head like he’s watching his favorite movie.

“Well, don’t mind me,” he says. “Just enjoying the show.”

You cradle Eddie’s face to get his attention back to you. All he can think is your hands are warm, and too soft for his own good. Your thumbs brush his cheeks in such a normal, easy way, that still feels deeply intimate. 

“Pretty boy,” you whisper, smiling at him. “Such pretty eyes.”

Eddie’s heart does an entire somersault routine. He can feel the little feet of the people inside his head running around to process the compliment. 

We’re starting already???

He doesn’t even finish that line of thought when you lean in and kiss him. The kiss is slow and unrushed, but so so passionate. Your soft lips move against his, showing him you know exactly what you’re doing. Eddie melts into it instantly. He kisses you back desperately, starving, because he’d been feeling withdrawal for something he never had, and now–holy shit now he’s finally getting his fix.

Still, he doesn’t touch. Not until you take his wrists and guide them yourself, first on your waist, but then trailing down, lower, to where the lace sits and barely covers anything. His hands pinch your skin when he realizes what he’s touching. 

You.

“Oh,” he breathes in to the kiss, and had you known Eddie let out those pretty little sounds, you'd have brought him in sooner. 

You smile against his mouth and roll your hips, just a little, just to get more out. Grabbing him by the collar of his jacket, you grind down on him. Slow at first, just gentle little moves that made Eddie’s head tip back, and a symphony of broken sounds left his throat. Every grind of your body made his cock throb harder against his jeans. His eyes went between your chest, your mouth and the way your lashes fluttered when you finally found the spot. 

“Jesus–fuck yes, use me angel.” 

He didn’t even realize he’d said it out loud until you let out a little whimper at the pet name, and picked up the pace. 

You are used to terms of endearment from Steve, he’s the sweetest with you, but never in the years of your relationship has he ever called you something so divine as angel.  

Alas, your boyfriend still knows you better than anyone. You keep moving on top of Eddie, and even though his hard cock under the jeans is already making you see stars, there’s something…missing. By this point Steve’s fingers would already be deep inside you without even having to ask. 

Across the room, he watches your frantic moves and hears your moans getting needier. Eddie doesn't notice at first, but he does.

“Hey man,” he calls casually. “Play with her.”

Eddie, too lost in the way you keep rolling your hips, blinks like he misheard. “–What?”

Steve chuckles, “She’s used to it. Go on, don’t make her wait.”

Eddie turns back to you, but you don’t say anything, just look at him, chest rising faster, lips parted, a thin sheen of sweat starting to gather at your temples. And when his eyes search yours for permission, you nod.

That’s all it takes. Eddie’s hand slides down your stomach, dipping lower and lower, until he finds the paradise between your legs.

Oh fuck. 

“Baby–you’re soaking through my jeans,” he groans, trailing the wet patch seeping through your panties. 

You giggle, but the second his fingers go past the lace and brush over your clit, you let out the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. A little gasp of surprise, hips bucking slightly since you've been waiting for him to touch you right there all night.

Eddie almost comes in his pants. “Jesus–you’re perfect.”

He doesn't slide his fingers in yet, he doesn't need to, your slick is already dripping onto his jeans, smearing over his rings. You just grind into his hand, chasing your high. Every sound you make goes straight to his dick, every breath, every flutter of your lashes, every soft whimper of his name. He’s about to put a finger in when–

“Stop.”

Eddie freezes at your firm voice, his hand stills as panic takes over his chest. “Did I–did I do something wrong?”

Steve’s already standing from the couch, ready to lift you off Eddie’s lap if you need him to. But you just let out a sweet little laugh and shake your head. 

“No, you’re perfect. I want you to take your shirt off first,” you shrug, as if you hadn't caused both men a near heart attack. 

Steve exhales, muttering something about “always testing him” as he plops back onto the puff. You smile at him apologetically, he just shakes his head pretending to be annoyed but you see the smile tugging at his lips. 

“Oh,” Eddie says, blinking a few times before actually breathing again. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that, sweetheart.”

He fumbles a little, taking off his vest first, then his jacket, then–he hesitates for a second. It’s not that he’s insecure about his chest, but his tattoos now have fresh new roommates in the shape of multiple scars scattered across his skin from where he’d been attacked. And he doesn’t know how you’ll react to them.

You notice the doubt flashing across his eyes as his hands stop reaching for the shirt. “Are you okay, Eddie?” You ask, and now you’re the one wondering if you did something wrong.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, trying to not sound too pathetic. “It’s just–my…my scars,” he says, avoiding your gaze. 

You hum softly, “Steve has them too.”

Eddie’s head perks up at that, and his eyes go to the shirtless man on the couch. 

“Yeah man,” Steve breathes, straightening up, pointing at the lovely little bite marks the bats had left on his skin. 

Eddie squints and sees them washed in the glow of the nightlamp. He’d been so busy freaking the hell out when he arrived that he hadn’t even noticed that Steve’s chest indeed had marks. But not as many as him, and at least the hair around it makes up for it, he’s not sure his pale chest–

“Eddie…” You cup his face to gently guide it towards you. “You can keep your shirt on if you feel more comfortable that way, but know that I don’t care about what’s under there. I just want to feel your skin closer,” you reassure.

Eddie almost proposes right there and then. 

Okay–maybe he’s getting ahead of himself. But shit. He decides it’s wiser to just nod, and peels off his shirt in one rough pull. You look him in the eyes before looking down, and he nods again. Your eyes go down his bare chest, pale as you expected, not as filled out as Steve’s, and not nearly as hairy–but the tattoos and the scars make him the most badass rockstar you’d ever seen.

Eddie’s breath stills as you look at him like you like what you see. Like he’s the prettiest thing in the room. And then you make sure he hears it. 

“You’re so pretty, Eddie,” you smile, pulling him in for another kiss. Your hands smooth over his skin, fingers tracing the tattoos on his chest, the scars down his sides, the happy trail leading to a happier place. “So hot.”

You whine into the kiss, hips rolling again making him forget about the fact that he’s shirtless in front of you and instead he remembers–right. His fingers.

Eddie reaches for you, pulling your panties to the side again. He slides two fingers between your folds, slow enough to drink every second of the way your jaw drops when you feel his rings deep inside you, the way your eyes flutter shut, how you let out a desperate little sound that goes straight to his cock.

“Eds…” you moan, walls clenching around fingers and metal.

“You feel–fuck, baby, you feel so good…so tight…” 

He finds his rhythm easily, all insecurities set aside by how fast you’re falling apart on his fingers.  

Eddie knows what he’s doing. Those hands–those guitarist fingers don’t play. They move with instinct, with intention. His fingers curl, dragging quickly through your walls before pressing back in. The rings are a plus, cold metal against heat, and you gasp when one of them hits the spot. 

“Oh–Eddie–”

“That’s it angel, keep dripping all over me,” he coos, pumping harder. “Can feel you clenching when I talk like this. You like being a good girl for me?”

You nod, it’s all you can do. Steve just watches. Watches the way your body moves. The way your face twists with pleasure. The way your mouth drops open with every stroke. 

But he catches something else. He always does. 

Your head tips forward, forehead pressing into Eddie’s shoulder, breaths coming out in little broken sounds against Eddie’s skin as he works every inch of you. You keep grinding your hips, chasing more even as it starts to overwhelm you. A sudden wave makes your moan turn into a whimper, and your nails dig on his shoulder instinctively pushing him away. 

You cry out, that’s when Steve speaks.

“Hey–easy, Munson,” he calls out, not angry, but still firm enough that it makes Eddie slow down. “Remember what I said about going easy the first time? You go too rough too soon and she’s gonna be shaking for the rest of the night.”

“Sorry–” Eddie says immediately, but you cut him off. 

“It’s okay, Eds. We’re still learning each other,” you reassure, still giving him that dazed, happy look. He exhales in relief. “Just…a little slower, that’s all. I’m not really used to the rings.” You say it so sweetly, that he just nods like a little puppy eager to please. 

“You’ll get used to them soon, sweetheart. Promise.”

He pulls his fingers back in slower, watching your face the whole time, memorizing every reaction. It doesn't take long before you’re grinding his hand again and letting out soft moans of pleasure as you find a more comfortable rhythm. 

“There you go,,” Steve chuckles, approving. “She’s squeezing you, isn’t she?”

Eddie chuckles back, because he can feel how close you are. Your forehead presses into his shoulder again, mouth brushing his skin as you let out a sound that’s half gasp, half moan. 

“Hmm, that sound,” Steve hums, leaning further into the puff, stroking over his crotch. “She sounds like that when she’s about to come.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, curling his fingers just right. “Are you close, angel?”

You whimper, hiding your face knowing exactly what they are talking about, but it only makes it hotter for both men to see you like that. 

“Don’t you wanna tell him, baby?” Steve asks from his spot, but all that comes out of your mouth is another moan against Eddie’s shoulder. “Hey–eyes on me.”

You obey, turning to meet those wide, hazel eyes. You’re barely holding it together, already breathless. A literal mess on Eddie’s fingers.

But Steve just smiles, wide and bright when you look at him. “Now tell him what you need, sweetheart.”

Your eyes keep locked on your boyfriend as you whisper, “I–I wanna come, Eds…please.”

“Then come, baby. Drench my fucking rings,” he groans in your ear. His raw voice and another curl of his fingers is what gets you there. 

Your whole body tenses when the orgasm hits. You let out a broken moan that vibrates in Eddie’s chest and your walls clench around his fingers so tight he thinks you might break them. Your wetness coats his rings, soaks into your panties, his jeans, everywhere. 

You collapse, arms flailing to hold on to him, but before Eddie can catch you, you’re already falling back.

“Whoa, hey–” Eddie’s arms scramble to hold you, but Steve is faster.

He’s behind you instantly, steadying you with one hand on your back, the other cupping the back of your head easing you back into Eddie’s lap. 

“She goes all soft after,” Steve says, with that fondness he always uses when referring to you. “You gotta hold her up for a second.”

Eddie’s arms wrap around you immediately, as you curl into him still trying to catch your breath. Steve leans to see you, brushing your hair back. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead that makes you smile. 

“Hey,” he whispers, eyes scanning your flushed face. “You okay?”

You nod against Eddie’s chest.

“You wanna keep going?” 

You nod again.

“Words, baby,” Steve coaxes, and you let out a little breathless giggle when he pinches your side.

“I do,” you whisper, loud enough for both to hear. Then you turn to him. “Thank you.”

For catching me. For checking on me. For letting another man fuck me while you watch.

You don’t even have to say it out loud for Steve to know what you’re thinking. He just brushes your cheek, with an amused smile on his face. “Anytime, baby.”

You shift on Eddie’s lap, turning back to him, lips brushing his cheek before placing your hands on his chest to look at those pretty brown eyes. “Thank you too, Eds. You made me feel so good.”

“Y-Yeah?”

You hum, patting the spider tattoo on his left peck. Once you feel like you regained your strength back again, you slide off his lap and drop to your knees in front of him.

“That’s my girl.” Steve praises. So pretty on her knees.” 

He rounds the bed to grab a small pillow, then drops it to the floor next to your knees, nudging it with his foot until you shift just enough to be on top of it. You lean to kiss the back of his hand as a silent thank you. 

Eddie is too busy remembering how to breathe for the 100th time to say anything. 

You settle between Eddie’s legs, hands resting on his thighs, your lashes fluttering as you look up with all your attention back on him. “I wanna thank you properly.”

Eddie laughs nervously, then whistles low. “Shit–then go ahead, sweetheart.”

Your fingers go to his belt–because of course he wore a fucking belt–and Steve chuckles from your side, one judging eyebrow raised. “Why did you even wear a belt, dude?”

“I thought I was coming over to watch, not to get fucking blessed,” Eddie shakes his head in disbelief, pushing himself up to help you lower his pants. 

His ass barely touches the mattress when your hands are already tugging his briefs. He laughs, out of sheer nerves and excitement, lifting again to take off the last piece covering him. 

He springs out.

And just as you thought. Just as you dreamed, he’s big. Eddie fucking Munson is packing a thick, flushed pink, already leaking cock just inches away from your face. 

Pretty boy with pretty eyes and an even prettier dick. 

You let out a sweet, pleased little dreamy sigh, when you feel his heaviness in your hand. “So pretty,” you praise, then lean in and press a soft kiss to the tip of his cock.

You reach out, eager, hand wrapping around him to guide him toward your mouth like a lollipop. Eddie makes a noise no one in that room knew he was capable of.

Eddie sees heaven. Sees the clouds, hears all the symphonies and shit. 

“Jesus fuck–”

Steve steps behind you again, crouching down. He runs his fingers over your spine, drawing delicate circles that don’t match the words that come out of his mouth. 

“You think you can take another, baby?” He asks, kissing the back of your neck. “Getting bored of just watching…”

You glance back at him, hand still wrapped around Eddie’s cock, and look down to see the fabric of his pants barely containing his. 

“Let me take care of you too, babe,” you chuckle, lifting your free hand to reach sideways, tugging Steve’s sweats and briefs down in one pull. He steps forward, letting you take him in your hand like you’ve done a hundred times. 

Now you have two, very hard, very beautiful, very yours, dicks in your hands. 

You give Steve one long, wet stroke with your tongue that makes him drop his head back and groan. Then, with a little giggle, you turn and give Eddie the same treatment. 

“Fucking hell, Harrington,” he gasps.

Steve smiles, watching you go from one the other, teasing both. “Oh, I know.” He cups the back of your head, stroking your hair. “Show him, baby. Show him how good you are.”

You hum with Eddie in your mouth, the sound vibrating just enough to make him curse under his breath.

You begin taking turns. Your lips are glossy and warm and full, as you switch between them. 

Steve. Then back to Eddie. Then back to Steve again.

Your hand stroking one while your lips wrap around the other. Back and forth. Eddie’s thighs start shaking with the effort of not coming in the first thirty seconds of this glorious torture. 

He’d never seen anything like it. 

He has both hands fisted in the floral sheets, barely keeping himself together as you take him halfway down and then pull away with a soft, wet pop that makes his vision go white, only to switch to the one who’s supposed to be your man. 

And if it wasn’t enough, Steve hands reach behind your back when you put him in your mouth, bending over you with his cock so going deep it makes you gag, to unclasp your bra, freeing your titties for both of them. 

He’s fighting for his soul at this point. 

You split apart from Steve, taking a deep breath to recover from his dick touching the back of your throat, and wipe your mouth before looking up at Eddie with a smile. 

“Hey Steve?” You call, eyes fixed on Eddie’s to catch his reaction. “Why don’t you get the camera?”

The…camera???

“Wait–what?”

“Don’t you want a little souvenir?” You tease, titling your head. 

“What the fuck–what–do I want a–?”

“Steve likes it,” you shrug. 

“Oh yeah,” Steve chuckles, already crossing to the bookshelf in the corner of your room. “I like it–but she loves it, man,” he adds smugly, 

“You have photos…doing it?”

“Whooole collection.” Steve drawls, finding what he was looking for. “You’d go crazy.” 

He is going crazy. 

Steve walks back over holding a black Polaroid camera, and hands it directly to Eddie, who’s still gripping onto the sheets for dear life. 

“I–” He stammers, looking at you. 

You shrug. “My hands are busy,” you smile apologetically, too damn sweet for the situation. 

Eddie finally takes the camera after a deep exhale, and leans back to lift it. He frames your pretty face between his thighs, lips parted open, spit shining on his cock. Then your mouth wraps around his tip again, and Eddie moans, loud and shaky, nearly dropping the camera.

He captures the grip of your lips, the way your tongue flicks over his slit, the stretch of your mouth when you sink deeper. Then you pull away and take Steve into your mouth instead, and Eddie moves the camera closer, watching your throat move, your hand still stroking him at the base.

It’s a miracle you are alternating, because if it had been just him, he would’ve busted in your mouth in under a minute.

You feel flash after flash after flash. Picture falling one after another, scattering on Eddie’s thighs. 

“Holy shit,” Eddie chuckles. “This is filthy. God, you look so fucking good like that.” 

Another flash. Another picture falling next to his balls. 

You pop off of him with a messy sound and a smile at the compliment, licking your lips as you turn to Steve.

“Your turn, baby,” you whisper.

Steve steps closer, and you feel the way he starts twitching in your mouth. It doesn’t take long before he grabs your hair, and starts thrusting to get himself off.

Eddie’s eyes widen, pulling the camera aside to enjoy the view. The way Steve holds you there. The way he fucks into your mouth, chasing his release, his fist tangled in your hair, his chest rising hard and fast as you take all of him. 

Steve finally comes in a few strangled moans, making sure he stays inside until you swallow every drop of his cum. He strokes your cheek with one hand, pulling out, reaching down to wipe the corner of your mouth. “There you go, baby,” he praises, still breathless. “So good for us.”

You don’t take more than a few seconds when you turn to Eddie, chest heaving, but before you can lean down again his hand comes up, stopping you. 

“Wait!” He says, coming off a little louder than he means to.

Your brows furrow. “Are you–are you not enjoying it?” 

“No no, Jesus–no,” he rushes, “You’re–you’re perfect. You’re actually heaven. I swear. It’s just…if you keep going like that…I won’t last.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, immediately understanding where he’s coming from. 

Eddie wants to save his cum for when he gets lucky to actually fuck you. 

Steve steps forward, helping you get to your feet. “Well,” he says, amused, “you’re a lucky bastard, Munson. I’m a man of my word, so I’m gonna let you fuck her properly now.”  

Eddie gulps. Your eyes light up. 

“That’ll get you going just fine.” Steve adds. 

He takes the camera from Eddie’s side, then walks back to settle onto the puff in the corner again, naked, angling the Polaroid camera like a professional. 

You take a moment to get rid of your panties, before pushing Eddie back onto the bed, making him crawl back until he’s in the center on the mattress, his curly hair draping over your multiple pillows. You climb over the pictures and his body until you’re hovering over him. 

Eddie doesn’t expect you to turn around, but there you are, moving away to straddle him in reverse, giving him a perfect view of your ass. His heart is racing so hard he can hear it in his ears, yet a devilish chuckle still comes out before he can stop it. 

“You want Steve to see your face while you bounce on my cock, sweetheart?” 

You nod, biting your lip even if he can’t see you–because Steve sure can–lifting yourself up with your hands on his thighs. “God, yes.”

You reach to line him up beneath you, teasing the tip only for a second because you can’t wait any longer than that to feel him inside. 

You sink down without giving him any warning. 

“Holy–fuck,” Eddie groans, throwing his head back onto the pillows. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re so tight–”

He only shuts up when he hears the moans you let out as he stretches your walls so painfully good. He feels as huge as he looks, he fills you as well as you thought he would. He’s balls deep inside you. Your knees are on either side of his hips, ass to his stomach, fingers digging into his thighs as you begin to fuck yourself on him. 

From the corner, Steve lets out a low hum of approval as you bounce harder on Eddie’s cock, chasing your second orgasm. He strokes himself with one hand, the other snapping shots of the way your tits bounce, the way your face twists every time you sink down, the way you never stop looking at him.

Flash. Flash. Flash. Tug. Tug. Tug. 

“Fuck yes, baby–look at you. You look like a fucking porn star.”

You smile at him, then turn over your shoulder, just a little to see how your other boy is doing. 

Eddie’s falling apart. 

His eyes are glued to where your bodies meet. To his cock disappearing inside your folds. And if the sounds were obscene before–they’re so much worse now. Between Eddie’s grunts, your moans as you ride him, and the clicking sound of Steve’s camera, this was a full blown production. 

A priceless one. 

And then you make that sound again. 

The same sound you made the second time Eddie saw you fall apart on Steve’s cock. The sound you made with his fingers deep inside you. The sound that haunted his fucking dreams.

“You’re getting her there, man,” Steve says, stroking himself faster to the next series of whimpers you let out. “Make her feel good, then cum inside her. She loves that shit.”

Eddie nods. “That okay, angel? Want me to fill you up?” 

You can't even speak. You just nod frantically, gasping as your rhythm begins to falter, and your thighs start shaking.

“You gotta come again first, sweetheart,” Eddie says through gritted teeth, grabbing your hips to push himself up into you. He can feel you pulsing around him. 

“Steve–fuck–I’m gonna–”

“Then do it, baby,” he growls. “Come on his cock.”

You come harder than the first time. Your mouth drops open in a choked moan as your orgasm tears through you. Eddie nearly comes from how tight you clench around him.

But no. He still wants more from you. Needs it like he needs oxygen. 

This time he does catch you when you slump forward, sitting up still buried inside you, placing a kiss on your shoulder as you both catch your breath. But the quiet doesn’t last long. He’s still hard inside you, and the devil on his shoulder tells him to finish what he started. 

He earns a sudden yelp from you when he flips you, pushing you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back, and lining himself up again from behind…just like he’d seen you that day. Face in the sheets. Ass up. Wet pussy glowing under the nightlight. Floral sheets wrinkled under your body. 

Deja vu.

But this time, it’s not Steve–no, he’s just watching. Eddie is the one pushing his cock deep inside you with a harsh thrust that makes your whole body rock forward. 

He’s not that gentle anymore. Not in a mean way. Never in a mean way, but in a I-need-to-come-inside-you-now way. His hands are gripping your skin, knuckles going pale, holding you down as you become a mess under him. 

He looks up to the couch, and he expects to see at least an ounce of the jealousy he’d felt the day he saw you with him, but all he sees is Steve’s fist going up and down furiously on his cock. The camera had been dropped as soon as your cheek had hit the mattress.

He wanted to see it. See you fall apart. 

“…Holy shit, dude, go for it,” Steve whistles low in approval, chuckling when he hears your strangled gasps every time Eddie slammed into you. “Let him, baby,” he coos. “Be a good girl and take all of it.”

He really gives you all of it. 

Eddie’s sure he only survived ‘86 just to see the way your tight little asshole contracts with every thrust he drills into your swollen pussy. 

“Eds–Eddie–”

“I know I know. Almost there, angel. Gonna fill you up real good,” he coaxes over your small whines, “wanna see you dripping with my cum.”

Eddie slams into you once more, then groans so loud it echoes across the wallpaper walls, and finally spills inside you with a cry. 

Steve comes in his own hand as Eddie pulls out of you, slapping your ass a few times with his cock before you collapse onto the bedsheets. Eddie falls right behind you, blinking up at the ceiling, coming down from his high.

In the middle of all the panting, your chests rising up and down, he doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do next. Part of him expects to be handed his clothes and a polite “thanks for coming.” But instead, you instinctively roll over to him, wrapping your arms around his body and burying your face against his chest. 

Steve just chuckles, finding his briefs on the floor and throwing them on, then finally walking over to where you’re cuddling Eddie, running his hand through your hair with a little smile.

“She gets kinda clingy after.”

You don’t even lift your head. “Don’t be rude.”

Steve grins wider. “Sorry, baby. Cute is the word. She gets cute after.”

You hum again, approving this time. Then, you let out a sigh of exhaustion, voice muffled in Eddie’s chest, “you guys are fucking crazy.”

Steve snorts. “We are crazy?”

“I didn’t exactly suggest a threesome, sweetheart,” Eddie chuckles, hugging you tighter. 

“Whatever,” you giggle. “Just…don’t let me fall asleep like this.”

Steve kneels beside the bed and rubs your back gently. “Want a shower, baby?”

You shake your head. “Bath.”

“Bath it is.”

He places a kiss on your shoulder, then stands and walks to your bathroom. A few moments later, Eddie hears the water running.

He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With you curled into his arms, naked with his seed still inside you, surrounded by the filthy pictures he’d taken of you. His hand comes up hesitantly, brushing your hair back with the same tenderness he always sees Steve do it. 

Where does this leave him though? Is this a one time thing? A hit and run? How can he go back to his normal life after this? 

He’d already been losing his mind over you for weeks. He’s never getting over this.

“Are you okay?” You ask, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

“Me?” 

“Yeah, your heart is beating really fast,” you say, hand resting lightly on his chest, right over it.

Eddie laughs under his breath. “Uh. Yeah. I’m just…kinda expecting for someone to tell me to get up and leave?”

You hum softly, nuzzling closer to him. “I don’t want you to leave, Eds…” 

He doesn’t get to say anything before Steve returns, a pink towel slung over his bare shoulder as he stands on the bathroom door. 

“Well, dude,” he says. “You bringing her or what?”

Eddie looks down at you, all cozied up in his arms. You don’t say anything, but you smile, soft and sweet and welcoming as always. 

The sun in his arms. 

He's not sure what the hell is next for him now. But at least for tonight, he’s staying. 

And I ain't gotta tell him, I think he knows

Thank you so much for reading! hope you enjoyed 👀🤭

Feedback is always appreciated 🤍

[elegantpaperoperatormaker]

Ringing Pavlov's Bell

Gif by @/aanakin, dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Experienced!Eddie Munson x Virgin!Reader

Summary: You’ve grown weary of your virtue, and, unfortunately for Eddie, you’ve hatched a plan to lose it to a stranger tonight. But why are you telling him this if not to extend an open invitation to foil your plans?

Word Count: 15.9k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, angst, fluff, PiV unprotected sex, condom removal during sex, loss of virginity, virginity talk and shame around still having it, lots of yearning, teasing, cream pie, fingering, oral sex (fem rec), nicknames (sweetheart, sweets, pretty girl, etc.), dirty talk, arguing, best friends to lovers, jealousy, possessiveness, mention of vomit (not R or E), bad first time (not R), mention of a hypothetical junk-punch, one instance of R described to have breasts with a little weight to them, if I missed anything lmk!

Song Rec: Pavlov’s Bell by Aimee Mann

A/N: I herald his beginning. I herald your end. I herald…experienced!eddie. It’s been a while since I’ve posted a oneshot, and I tried something new with how I wrote this, so pls lemme know how you guys feel about it <33333 Born from this ask!

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“So, what do you think?” you eagerly ask. 

Eddie’s sitting across from you in the small metal chair, his fingers threaded as they rest on the laminated wooden table in his trailer. His expression is still—frozen. He’s not too sure what to make of your plan. 

Honestly, he’s waiting for you to laugh and tell him it was just a joke. A very unfunny, crass joke.

But you don’t, and after what feels like an eternity, he manages a response.

“That is the worst fucking idea I’ve ever heard, sweetheart, and I listen to every single one of Gareth’s ‘million-dollar-cashgrabs.’” 

He shakes his head with careful subtlty—like any sudden movement will scare you into actually committing to this plan. 

Disbelief clouds his features, heavy and foreboding like the sky before a summer squall— 

The nerve. The gumption. The audacity so potent on such an unassuming young woman. 

You want to lose your virginity to a stranger and you’re, what, warning him first? 

It’s like you want him to disrupt your plans. 

He watches you roll your eyes, all pursed lips and impudence. 

“Oh, seriously?” you sass. “Calm down. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

Eddie practically chokes on his scoff, and the strangled sound ripples over your body, drawing out the look he knows well. Annoyance—it forces you to sit up straight. 

You squirm in your seat for a moment, like a million tiny ants are marching up your spine, dancing over the tension in your shoulders. And he knows…the argument is imminent, but not before he speaks his piece—

“Not that big of a deal? Sweetheart, stubbing your toe is not that big of a deal. Forgetting to check the mail is not that big of a deal,” his voice raises as he gestures wildly, feeling like a Bible Belt preacher wailing about temptation of the flesh. “Losing your virginity? To a stranger? That’s a pretty big-fuckin’-deal!”

Again, you roll your eyes—blatantly disregarding the way his head cocks and his own eyes narrow in warning. He hates when you do that. When you brush him off so easily, like he’s dust on your pristine shoulder—

A quiet chuckle leaves your lips as you avert your gaze, suddenly finding the speckled laminate far more interesting. 

Like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar noise, Eddie’s head cocks back the other way, trying to figure out what exactly he said that has you laughing. Usually he loves the sound, but he doesn’t like the tone of this one. There’s something deeply derisive buried beneath the nonchalant surface. 

“I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the joke there, sweets. Care to clue me in?” he rasps, goading you.

A jeering smirk pulls at your lips, like you’re finding his simmering temper and deepening voice increasingly amusing. 

After another soft huff—a sound that could almost be mistaken for a scoff—you level him with a penetrating look, your smirk slowly splitting into an incredulous grin. 

“Sorry,” you start, but a chuckle bubbles up your throat, catching on the clearly insincere apology. “Sorry, I just find this whole thing very funny.”

Eddie sucks his teeth as he watches you shrug dismissively—no longer backing down, no longer avoiding his darkening gaze. He lets your words sit in the air, hoping their stuffy bitterness will suffocate you into surrender, but instead, they seem to brandish your skin like armor. 

And just like that, out comes your most dangerous weapon: your self-satisfaction. 

From all his years with you, he knows, when your complacency reaches an all-time high, there’s almost no way to change your mind. You’ve already doubled down once, and you’re about to batten down the hatches. Because more than anything, he knows you hate being wrong and hate it even more when you’re told you’re wrong. 

And through festering nerves and itchy discomfort, Eddie realizes he just shot your idea down and danced on its grave. 

Of course, he wouldn’t have had such a strong reaction if it weren’t such a sensitive topic. But you don’t know that. All you’ve heard so far is you’re wrong, and I know more than you. 

It’s moments like these where Eddie curses his motormouth—his almost comical inability to shut up, or, god forbid, consider what he means before he opens his trap. And until he finally learns his lesson, he figures he’s doomed to live with his foot in his mouth for all eternity.

With you shifting in your seat, and time ticking against him, he knows this bomb is going to need an extra delicate defusal. But he’s not certain he can remain level-headed about this subject matter. 

Not when it’s you. 

Not when damned images of a faceless man caressing you plays in technicolor through his mind. Because sometime ago, somewhere along the night drives and the lazy days, his wires got crossed. And now those wires are sparking, threatening to burn him through and through.

Maybe you’re not the bomb, after all. 

“Oh, you find it funny, do you?” he questions, nodding his head. 

“Well, yeah. You’re sitting here trying to tell me that, what, losing your virginity is supposed to be special?” you mockingly ask, your features alight with mirth. It’s like you’re a bloodhound catching a scent—the scent of sweet, sweet hypocrisy. 

Eddie opens his mouth to answer your rhetorical question, because…yes. 

For you? 

Yes, it should be special—

“You know what? I want you to go look in a mirror and say what you just said to me, and see if you don’t laugh too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he argues, jerking his head back. Your words might as well have physically manifested themselves into a slap because that’s how they feel, acidic and seeping into his skin with a sting.

“Please! You remember telling me about your first time? You came to school the next day bragging to me and the Hellfire guys about hooking up with some older chick in the bathroom at the Hideout! Remember that? You wore it like a badge of honor!”

He had taken you in as a freshman, just like he did every lost soul. Battling off the stifling monotony of high school together, it was no surprise you developed a crush on him. He was—is—so sweet. So funny. So unlike anyone you had ever met. 

He would play the fool just to make you laugh, but he’d defend your honor in an instant. Your very own protection against the venomous cheerleaders and mouth-breathing jocks.

When he would get himself going about something or other, marching along the tops of the lunch tables, it was like staring straight into the sun. You bloomed under his gleaming rays, flowering and reaching toward his warmth with every wild grin, every silly headshake, every teasing joke.

He was addicting, and you would come bounding into lunch every day itching for a fix. 

Then you were a sophomore and Eddie was a senior—for the first time. 

One day, he came in with a new story to tell, and no amount of sunshine could restore your wilting leaves, your shriveling flowers. No amount of water could satisfy the buds that never got to grow and now never would—

Every prideful sentence—every dirty detail boasting the changed man he had become—acted like a rain of pesticide on your delicate ecosystem.

It was a level of desecration you couldn’t undo if you wanted to. 

And you weren’t sure you were even strong enough to try.

Because it became clear that day, he wasn’t yours. He wouldn’t be yours. 

You couldn’t see him the same after that. The chemicals contaminated the image, degrading and defacing the likeness. 

He wasn’t the man you used to dream about every night. 

He didn’t look like he once had—so soft, so sweet. A man able to rot your teeth right out of your skull if you allowed him the honor.

A man so saccharine and delicate, like candy floss. 

But maybe it was the image of him that was delicate—not truly him. 

After all, your tears melted the wisps pretty easily. 

All that was left was piles of sugar—too wet for consumption, and not in the right form—and a crash unrivaled by any confectionery you’d ever had. 

White, hot anger seeps from every pore in Eddie’s skin, replaced by the shocking chill of a memory he’s tried very hard to forget.

He feels like throwing up—

This. This, right here, is why he’s vehemently opposing your plan. This feeling constricting his chest, like not enough fresh air in the world could inflate his lungs—

He thought the experience was cool at first. He thought he was being totally “metal.” 

But he was just being used. 

The woman never asked his name, and when he tried to talk to her, she crudely told him to focus less on talking and more on fucking. It was a mortifying experience. He almost wasn’t able to finish from the sheer embarrassment of it all, but eighteen year old hormones were a thing to behold.

And despite what he would have everyone around him believe, he still cared way too much about what people thought of him. So he strutted into lunch the next day, hopping up on his soapbox to spread the good word of his monumental conquest. High from the excitement of the boys, he embellished most of the story. 

And now, here you are, sitting in front of him, smug as can be, thinking you’re proving your point with his own hypocrisy. 

But he’s not a hypocrite. 

He’s just a liar. 

He has lied to you about a lot of things and, funnily enough, all those things seem to be crawling out of their grassy graves, hungry to take a chunk out of him. 

Because as much as you may think you’ve cornered him with a “gotcha” moment, your reminder of his past transgressions only makes him all the more passionate about how you should spend your first time. 

He can’t let you feel how he felt. 

Not you. 

You deserve better than empty touches and unfeeling words. 

“You wore it like a badge of honor!”

Your voice echoing in his mind has a sentiment never meant to be revealed tumbling past his lips with frightening ease—

“Yeah, and I lied!” 

Slowly, your self-satisfied smile falls off your face. Confusion overtakes your confidence. 

Capitalizing on your stunned silence, Eddie continues—

“That first time was fucking awful! I felt like shit. I only acted like it was good because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do…. Because I was stupid and young.” He utters the words with disdain, mortification and frustration mixing low in his gut until he feels more flammable than ever.

“It wasn’t good,” he repeats, a frown etched tightly into his features. “It just made me feel…empty.”

Your silence weighs heavy on his shoulders; selfishly, he steals a glance at you, at the crease in your brows and the way you seem to be reflecting. He can almost see you reliving that day in your head, searching for any twitch of an eye, any too-quick-to-fall smiles. 

But he’s a good liar. Always has been. Even when it comes to you.

The idle hum of electricity coursing into the yellow bulb above him acts as the soundtrack to your response.

“Well, I don’t plan on doing it in the Hideout bathroom, so I think we’re good there,” you shrug.

Eddie purses his lips; he knows it’s deliberate. What you’re doing, it’s purposeful, and you’re doing it to piss him off. Because you’re pissed off. 

Your eyes narrow at his, challenging him in the silence of the trailer.

A huff of air escapes through flared nostrils—he’s refraining.

But you’re killing him. 

Sometimes you can be so difficult, but he wouldn’t stick around if he wasn’t addicted to the agony of trying to figure you out.

That’s half the fun of every conversation he’s had with you. 

You push his buttons more than any woman he’s ever met, but you’ve twisted him up so bad, the only time he feels normal is when you’re looking at him. Doesn’t matter if it’s with anger or fondness or humor. 

You’re a paradox he can’t sort out because you’ve made him like this—wires crossed and incendiary feelings—but you also have a way of fixing him. Though, it’s usually just to mangle him all over again.

And he’d like to be your only victim. He’d like to burn in only your pyre, if given the chance. 

If given the chance.

If given the chance, he’d like to put a stop to this. And with the quasi-warning you’ve granted him, he feels this is as good a time as any to poke as many holes in your plan as he can—

“What’s the rush? Why now?”

He can see in your eyes, you’re taken aback by his question as your challenging gaze turns suspicious. “What do you mean, ‘Why now?’ Because I want to, that’s why.” 

Your argument is slipping; petulance curls off you in plumes as thick as smoke. And the scent is sweet to him.

Eddie settles back in his chair, sliding his hips down—looking the epitome of leisure and apathy, he hopes. Though, unable to fully transform while walking the repressive tightrope, his left hand fiddles with the rings on his right—a nervous tick he hopes you’re too annoyed to notice. 

“Well, yeah, but why not yesterday? Why not a month from now?” He shrugs, feeling flinty resentment sharpen his edges as he continues the onslaught of questions, now bordering on antagonistic. “Why not prom night a few years ago? Isn’t that where all the girls go to lose it? You went, you had a date. You could’ve.”

Your eye twitches.

“Because I didn’t want to, jackass. I’m ready now. I want to now…”

Instead of responding, Eddie just raises his brows, feeling unimpressed. Your words sit in the air, floating in between you both as they grow stale. 

The soft whistle of the A/C unit and the ticking of the old clock on the wall make him feel like he’s trapped in this liminal space where conversations never truly end because nobody’s point ever actually gets made. Like he’s just meant to sit here, staring at you, both waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing comes. Because that’s not how the game is played. 

Unfettered, Eddie continues to look at you, as though you’re something to be watched—consumed. A separate entity he can’t touch, but he can play the part of an onlooker, waiting for disaster to hit. 

You squirm and shuffle in your seat. He observes. Waits. Gives you the space to tell on yourself because he knows you’re not strong enough to resist it.

Your eyes sporadically flit from his to random places in the trailer as you avoid his patient gaze. 

After a few seconds, it appears the opened cereal box and empty beer cans across the room become a bore to you. 

Slowly, your far-out gaze drops down the kitchen counter, landing on the floor, sliding to the side, and back up the table until it rests on his joined hands, fingers threaded, rings bulky and glinting in the dull glow of the humming bulb. 

He sees the exact moment you buckle under his unyielding attention—the moment you give up. Your shoulders deflate the smallest amount, free of tension and low from submission. Your chest collapses under the expression of a deep, silent sigh. 

 “I’m tired of being a virgin,” you mutter, shame darkening every syllable. “I just want it over with, I don’t care anymore.”

Eddie purses his lips again, nodding, because he understands the feeling. He remembers the pressure. “And you don’t wanna wait to lose it to someone you love?” 

You don’t respond. Don’t look at him. All you do is laugh. Just a quiet, humorless chuckle. A few notes of melody that tell him you’ve got a well of emotions, thoughts, and opinions on the subject that you’ll have to spare him for time’s sake. 

But Eddie’s not in the business of letting you off easy. As much as you can be difficult sometimes, he can be far worse. 

He can talk, and talk, and talk for hours. Stall forever if he needs to.

Suddenly, he sits up, hunching his shoulders forward, determined. “I think you should wait…. For someone you love,” he implores.

You roll your eyes again, as though he’s spinning you an opulent fantasy and swearing it’s true.

He crosses his arms, mirroring your own movement—

“Thank you for your input, I’ll take it into consideration.” You shoot him an insincere smile before looking up at the ceiling of the trailer, as if thinking, only to return your gaze to him seconds later. “Okay. I’ve considered it. And I’m choosing to ignore it.” 

Eddie bristles, sucking in a quick breath to bolster his impending rebuttal, but you don’t even let him—

“I don’t know if you've noticed, Eddie, but there’s a distinct lack of guys lining down the block, waiting to woo me. And that’s fine, it’s whatever,” you shrug, shaking your head like you couldn’t be less bothered. “I can’t make someone love me. But this, I can control…” 

You snort, mordacious words spewing from your perfect lips. “One thing I know about men is they may not be quick to love, but they’re certainly easy to seduce.” 

Eddie shifts angrily in his seat. Not quick to love? 

As if that could be true. Who in their right mind—

Part of him wants to yell at any guy who’s ever rejected you, but the other part—the dark, untamable ego—wants to jump up in celebration, in smug satisfaction that he’s not having to duel for your devotion. 

But he doesn’t do either because love is awful. 

It’s like staring into a mirror and all his worst flaws are staring back. 

Right now, his selfishness is glaring at him, and yet, he can’t seem to care. That’s the worst part. 

He should be good. He should be better for you. Should want to be better for you. It’s what you deserve. But you’ve done something irreversible to him. 

And love is fickle. 

Because, unfortunately, he can relate to you on one thing—the woes of not being able to make someone love you. 

The pain of wanting it and not getting it. 

If he could…. 

If he could get it… 

If he could make someone love him—if it were possible—he wouldn’t be stuck here listening to you plot how you’re going to lose your virginity to some guy. Instead, he’d be half-way to the bedroom by now, your hand in his, and a million sweet kisses waiting for you. 

But love is fickle. 

“Okay, fine. Yeah, guys are easy, but you can’t lose it to a stranger. That’s probably the worst way to go about it,” he complains, regarding you with almost-pleading eyes.

You pause for a moment, your eyes narrow at the earnest display of caution on his face. But then you must remember this is the face of a liar, because—

“I mean…people hook up with people all the time. Some even after they’ve just met at a bar,” you pointedly argue, pinning Eddie to the spot with a time-hardened gaze. 

His lip curls as he regrets ever opening his mouth that day in ‘84.

If he had known it would give you the perfect shield, allowing every argument he lobs at you to bounce off and hit him square in the chest, he would have never said a word. In fact, he has half a mind to create time travel just to go back and kick eighteen year old Eddie’s ass—

“And besides, I’m not doing it with a stranger. I was thinking of asking Jimmy Royston,” you shrug, focusing on the chipped nail polish you can’t seem to stop picking at. “I sat next to him in Chemistry, like, all of junior year.” 

For the first time in what feels like forever—well, at least since you told him your plans for later—Eddie laughs. A boisterous, belly laugh that echoes around the trailer, the sound bouncing off the smoke-stained wallpaper and hitting every surface in sight. 

Too busy wiping tears from his eyes, Eddie misses the way your face sours, your lips curling into a dangerous sneer.

He starts a few sentences that immediately devolve into gibberish and giggles when he pictures you and Jimmy Royston so much as speaking. God, his stomach hurts— He always did sat you were the funnier one out of you and him. 

A terse ahem draws his attention back, and he tries to stop his body from shaking with heaving laughter.

“Oh, sorry. Phew! I needed that, I needed that.” He wipes some escaped tears off his cheeks. “Ohh, thank you, sweetheart, that was very funny. Thank you,” he says with a breathless grin, smoothing his shirt and rubbing his sore abdomen. 

Staring at him with a heavy brow, your expression remains still—

When your facade doesn’t crack—when you don’t smirk and revel in how hard you made him break, like you usually do—Eddie’s smile drops off his face, replaced by unabashed incredulity. 

You’re serious. You truly mean to tell him…Jimmy Royston is your man of choice? The guy who vomited all over himself in ninth grade when he had to dissect a frog in biology is the one you want to lose your virginity to? Jimmy ‘Puke-y’ Royston?  

What’s more, your choice is based on a year of being lab partners? Really? Eddie has known you since freshman year—known of you since elementary school—and you’re choosing an acquaintance over him? 

Not even an acquaintance—an obligatory desk-mate. How romantic. Touching, really—

He can’t help but imagine how that conversation would go. “Hey, Jimmy, remember me from Chem? Stoichiometry, am I right? That shit sucked. Anyway, do you wanna fuck me?”

All of a sudden, he starts considering whether he could win in a fight against the short, slim guy. 

Who knows? It may come to that if he fucks this up and fails to convince you never to leave his trailer—especially not for Jimmy Royston. 

“Sorry, you wanna have your first time with your eleventh grade chem partner? Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Eddie wails, a crazed, bemused look in his eyes as he leans forward over the table that separates you two. 

You groan loudly, rolling your eyes so hard your head lolls back. “Oh, what now? You don’t want it to be a stranger, I said it’s not gonna be. Now you don’t want it to be someone I know? Seriously, Eddie, you’re grasping at straws here.”

“Someone you know? Jimmy is someone you know?” he scoffs, his brows lift so high they disappear into the messy curls of his bangs. 

When you don’t say anything else, only pursing your lips and avoiding his fiery gaze, he nods fervently, his frizzy locks swaying softly with the movement. 

“Yeah, well, of course. You guys go way back,” he mocks. “You know what, while you’re at it, why don’t you call up Chris Trilcek? You were paired up for that final presentation in world history freshman year. Bet he’d be a hoot-and-a-half in the sack, and I’m sure he’s free!” 

“Oh, do you think I should?” you ask, staring off to the side of his frazzled face like you’re actually considering his teasing suggestion. “I mean it’d be nice to have options in case Jimmy isn’t up for it…”

Before Eddie has a chance to figure out if you’re being deliberately obtuse again, you’re up, leaving him to stare at the empty space across the table as you rifle through the junk-drawer in his kitchen. 

Inside the deep drawer, stray batteries and an impressive rubber band ball roll about as you dig through a shocking amount of take-out menus. Once you find what you’re looking for, you make your way back to Eddie, plopping onto your chair, letting the item drop from your hands and onto the table with a loud thump. 

Quickly, you split the phone book open, flipping through the flimsy pages to get to the ‘R’ section. 

“What the f—” 

Eddie shakes his head wildly, slamming his hand down on the binding of the book before he drags it to him and away from you—away from your deft, searching fingers. 

“Hey!” 

You reach across the table to pull the White Pages back, but before you can get your hands on it, he shoves the book off the surface like an attention-seeking cat. It goes flying, falling to the floor of the trailer with a loud, hollow thud. 

“Hey! I need that, asshole!” you yell, vexation turning your tone shrill.

You stare into his eyes for a moment, annoyance cooking your insides like a stew as you’re met with utter indifference and what looks to be a hint of smugness. You’re going to kill him. 

Stuck in another stand-off, neither of you move until you make the mistake of glancing at the ground, noting the landing spot of the heavy book, splayed out—frail pages folding under the weight of itself in haphazard creases. Eddie follows your gaze and that’s all it took to give away your next move.

In a flash, you turn, bending down, and reaching to the floor. Eddie matches your hasty movements as you both tumble out of your seats, trying to beat the other to the book. The very tips of your fingers brush the laminated cover when he lurches forward, pushing the book out of your grasp once more. 

“Ugh!” you shriek as you scramble toward it, at an advantage because, though he got it away from you in that split-second, he still pushed it to your side of the room—further away from him. You feel a brush of wind against your bare skin as he swipes at your ankle, trying to catch the limb to drag you back to him, but you’re too quick. You get a hold of the book and stand up, rushing over to the yellow landline by the door.

“Fuck!” he shouts, clambering after you. The noises of you vigorously flipping through the pages and the click of the phone coming off the hook only seem to add to his panicked fervor. 

Eddie comes to an abrupt stop behind you, his body nudging you closer to the wall with his nearly-uncontrolled speed. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, his chest warms your back as he breathes heavy. 

Right as you’re about to start typing in the number you found for the Roystons, the phone lodged between your ear and shoulder disappears—yanked free, and slammed back onto the hook by a large, ringed hand. 

Another annoyed groan tears from your throat as you feel his body loom ever-closer behind you. Hunching your shoulders, you turn away from his right hand—the one that guards the phone—to protect your precious White Pages. But it doesn’t work— 

His left hand—the one you hadn’t noticed was resting on your hip—ambushes you from the other side. 

Quickly, Eddie firmly presses the pads of his spread fingers onto the thin page you were reading from, and balls his hand into a tight fist, effectively ripping the delicate paper from the book, trapping it beneath his iron grip. In a fit of rage, you whirl around, leveling him with a sharp glare.

He backs away from you, fist still closed around the paper, shielding it from your inevitable reach. Slamming the book onto the side table beneath the phone, you march toward him. 

“Eddie, what the fuck?” you yell, matching his retreating steps with your confident stride. When he runs out of space, you corner him against the far wall and the couch, zeroing in on his fist. 

Eddie lifts his hand high above his head, fully aware of how silly this game of life-or-death keep-away is. But he’ll be damned if you get that fucking phone number. 

As you reach for the crumpled paper, he uses his body to block you—leaning back when you lean forward, stretching and giving you more of his body to reach over. You grunt and mutter obscenities at him, balancing on your tip-toes, but nothing helps. You can’t reach it. He’s never been more overjoyed at his lanky stature than in this moment—

Giggles freely escape his grinning mouth while he watches laser-sharp focus and irritation mar your face as you shove him, trying to get him to break and finally give you the page. He’d never admit it to you because you’d probably junk-punch him—especially right now—but he’s loving the way you’re all over him. 

Your touch is everywhere as you reach and pry for the bane of his existence. Not to mention you smell amazing. He has to stop himself from curling into your roving hands, but he must remain sturdy. For both of your sakes. 

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’re tall enough to ride this ride,” he goads, utterly drunk on you.

You let out the loudest groan he’s ever heard from you, leading him to snicker some more. But he soon regrets his overconfident teasing when you give up on aiming directly for his hand and instead start pawing at his arm. 

A sharp chop to the inside of his elbow sends shockwaves of dull pain through his nervous system as you use your full body weight to pull down on his raised arm, now partially crumpled from your assault to his joint. 

In a moment of desperation—your body hanging from his flexing bicep, slowly but surely bringing it to your level—Eddie shoves the ball of paper into his mouth and releases the tension in his arm, dropping it to his side. The sudden slack causes you to nearly fall over, but before you do, he wraps his arms around your waist, catching you. 

Your irate features melt into a look of disgust as you squirm out of his arms. 

“Ew! Egh! That’s so gross, Eddie!” 

“Mmm, phone book,” he taunts through a mouthful of White Pages. 

“You know, that was your phone book, right? You just lost yourself a whole two pages of R’s,” you say, raising a brow. 

“Don’t care.” 

His petulance is muffled by the crumpled paper in his mouth, and he can’t help but cringe at the taste. Paper. It just tastes like paper. But old. 

Suddenly, he sidesteps your body and crosses the room, heading back to the kitchen to throw the page away. He can feel the thin material softening from his saliva and it’s making him want to scrub his mouth out. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you watching him as he spits the wet slop into the garbage, sees the way you carefully step toward the phone again. 

“Ugh, you’re a child.” 

He pauses from scrubbing a towel over his tongue—attempting to clean any remaining pieces of paper from his mouth. “And you’re a brat.” 

You huff at his declaration. “Am not!” 

“Are too!” he rebuts, dropping the towel and coming out from around the counter. 

“I’m just trying to tell you you’re gonna regret it! I’m on board with the ‘virginity is a concept’ train—hell, I’m the conductor! My point is, sure, it’s a concept, but it’s a concept with feelings attached to it. And feelings get all confusing and…feelings-y,” he rushes out, frustrated at how he can never find the right words when you’re around. “You might not believe it now, but if you go through with this, you’re gonna feel pretty shitty afterwards.” 

He ends his spiel by crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter, staring at you. He’s said his piece.

You watch him for a moment, then—

“Great. Thank you for the wisdom, Gandalf. But how ‘bout you go share that with someone who cares? I’ve got a ‘T’ name to call.” 

You turn around, pick up the phonebook once more, and flip through a few chunks of pages to get to the right section. 

Eddie lets out a loud, defeated sigh as he lets his arms drop to his sides. “You’re really not gonna give this up?” 

Scoffing, you shoot him a glare from across the room before looking back down at the list of names. “Exactly which part of ‘I’m gonna lose my virginity tonight’ did you not understand?”

He sucks his teeth as he watches your finger find Chris’s last name, your hand already reaching for the phone. 

Fuck it—

“Fine. If you really wanna lose it to someone, and you don’t care who, then lose it to me,” he shrugs, crossing his arms again. 

He glances away from your now-still figure, your shoulders so high, they’re nearly up to your ears. 

Forcing a level of indifference he’s never quite been capable of—especially not when it comes to you—he stares downward, as if the well-worn carpet beneath his feet could ever be more interesting than the woman whose second home is his subconscious.

You’re pretty sure you can hear the fibers unfurling beneath his shifting feet. Or maybe it’s your feet. Maybe it’s your heartbeat in your ears, not his. Everything is a little confusing and you can’t seem to look away from the wall. It feels like a safe place to rest your unseeing eyes. 

Your arm aches and you retract it from where you were reaching for the phone—you hadn’t made it, you were half-way there when he said it. 

Carefully, you turn your head to him, trying to figure out if this is some shitty joke he’s spouting just to piss you off or if he has well and truly lost it. But his face is devoid of any humor and he looks as sane as he ever did—which was never a lot, but no different to now. 

More than anything, he looks almost vulnerable as he avoids your shocked gaze. 

“What? Eddie—” you start, already exasperated because you’ve decided that, even though he appears to be completely serious, he must be joking, “if this is another way for you to try and–”

“It’s not.” He shrugs his shoulders again, finally meeting your eyes while shoving his hands into the back pockets of his ripped jeans. “You win. I capitulate to her majesty.” 

You raise a brow at the medieval lilt and his waving bow to you, but before you get to reprimand him for the joke, he continues— 

“If you’re gonna go have sex with someone you feel nothing for, then why not feel nothing for me?”

You almost want to laugh at his “foolproof” logic, but the familiar pain in your chest is accompanied by something else. Something almost warm. Like rays of sun fighting through cumulonimbus clouds.

Damp dirt, new leaves, and fertilizer.

He’s offering something you only ever dreamed of like it never crossed your mind. 

Like it would mean nothing.

An agreement. A one-time deal. No strings attached; an easy fix to your problem.

But what if you want strings? 

Does he want strings? 

Strings do get messy when left untied. All the criss-cross feelings and knotted touches. 

But it’s him—

“Eds—”

Like he’s been burned by your solemn tone, Eddie cuts you off in a hurry. “At least it’d be with someone you know. Like really know…. Someone who cares about you—about your experience.”

The fragility in his eyes makes you want to console him. To tell him you believe every word. That you’re sure he would be good to you. 

Because he looks like him—

The soft, sweet man you saw all those years ago. The one you prayed to at night like a deity, asking for a few more seconds of his hand on your lower back, or more moments of just you and him. More laughter, more affection, more time. More, more, more. 

All the little things that molded you into a reverent devotee in the first place. 

Asking for every small thing to bolster your faith.

And now, he’s finally offering something much larger. 

Reaching for you with a divine gift.

How could you possibly say no?

Criss-cross feelings, you remind yourself.

Strings to tie your heart down, could be useful—

Fuck it. 

Slowly, you set the phone book down and make your way over to his spot against the kitchen counter. Stopping right in front of him, you look up with hesitant curiosity. 

You’ve never really been this close to him. Not with this much on the table. 

Mindlessly—shamelessly—you glance at his lips before succumbing to the cloudy glint in his eyes, the darkness that falls like a veil over his once-lively irises. 

There’s something there, you find. 

Something else that swirls deep in the molten shade of brown. 

Something you want to know more about. 

Your hands hang uselessly below you, resting against your body as you nervously fiddle with your fingers. The pointed tip of your tongue glides along the soft skin of your lips, leaving your mouth parted—like a siren call to his. 

You couldn’t be any closer to him. Butterflies flutter in your stomach as you feel the soft puffs of air from his wanton mouth. But you won’t move anymore. 

You leave yourself for him. He can have you if he wants. 

A sacrifice.

Eddie’s eyes rove over your face, looking down at the way you’re almost reaching for him, but it’s as if you won’t allow the touch. Won’t allow the crossing of some imaginary barrier you’ve built. 

Steadily, he lifts his hands—crosses the line—trailing his fingers up your neck like a ghost of a touch, until he settles his gentle grip on either side of your head. Stealing a moment from Time itself—just a second, a blip, like he’s plucking a ripe berry to savor in the thousand milliseconds he’s stolen—he smooths his thumbs over your temples, granting himself the selfish gift of feeling you.

His eyes consume all, admiring the dainty flutter of your mascara-blackened lashes, the softness of your skin—he marvels at the feeling.

Simmering from the heat of your body, he tries to memorize all your prettiest features, seen through an advantage he’s never had before. To be this close. To never be again. 

He’s going to make it worth his while. He has to.

A lowly victim to your gravitational pull, he finds himself leaning toward you, like light toward a collapsing star. And there’s no escaping you, not when you so easily warp the fabric of his being with frightening ease.

Loud in his straining ears, he hears the slight hitch in your breath when he nearly brushes his lips with yours, but he loses himself before he can truly feel you. Instead, he plants a cowardly, chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Simply not enough, but more than he could have ever dreamed of getting. Another bittersweet paradox.

“D’you want this?”

He’s so quiet, but he can feel the way you shudder against him. The way you feel him, his words mumbled devoutly into your skin.

“I wanna lose my virginity,” you whisper confidently, like it’s the only thing you're absolutely certain of.

Eddie tries to fight the way his face falls, but he can’t seem to manage it when your words serve as a reminder of how little this all matters to you. Or, at least, how little you care who you lose it to. 

But, ever-observant, you notice, and he catches the worry as soon as it draws your brows together. 

“T-To you…” you amend. “Can I?”

The frail uncertainty in your voice feeds the fire deep in Eddie’s gut, like bone-dry wood being thrown into the hearth on a years-long winter night. 

The flames, once dim and hopeless, time-weathered and starving, roar back to life. 

Subtly, he nods, relishing the way you relax. Bound to your request, he allows his palms to glide down your form, taking his time to explore the new terrain until he grabs ahold of your soft hands. 

Side stepping your body, he gently pulls you to his room. His backwards strides are confident—a sign of comfortability in the home he’d call yours, just the same as he’d call it his. After all, these walls have seen nearly every iteration of his care for you. From acquaintances to friends to—

Neither of you speak as he guides you around his frame—you, now in front of him, and him, leaning his weight against the bedroom door until it clicks shut. 

Wayne is on a fishing trip for the weekend with some buddies from the plant, but he’s not particularly known for remembering to pack everything, and Eddie is keen on protecting your modesty and ensuring your comfort. Like you deserve. Like he knows he can—better than anyone.

He drops one hand from yours only to lock the door. Once he’s certain there will be no interruptions, he walks you back toward the bed until you’re standing right in front of it. 

Dropping your other hand, he reaches up and gently smooths the hair near your temple again, addicted to the way your eyes flutter. His hands slide down your figure until he’s toying with the hem of your t-shirt—his t-shirt, the one you stole in tenth grade and never gave back. 

His selfishness befriends the possessive fiend he fights back daily, because you’re moving through the world marked by him. And in this moment, Eddie wonders if you really could have let another man touch you in the shirt that whispers his name against your soft skin.

Heat thrums just below your surface, boiling and bubbling, nearly spilling over when you feel him tugging at your shirt, silently asking for permission. His hands wait patiently.

You don’t respond. Don’t know how to speak. Nerves rattle against your ribcage. Or maybe it’s your heart testing its prison, looking for a way out as it pounds and pounds and pounds—

“Can I take this off?” 

His low mutter—almost a monosyllabic slur of sound—registers a second later in your hazy brain. You nod, forcing your lungs to expand, but nearly choke at the faint scent of his cologne. 

It’s familiar. Piercing, clean, and rich—

You remember the day he got it. When he dragged you to the mall, forcing you to smell every option. He bought the one you liked the most. Even when he wasn’t too sure about it. You remember warning him about the price tag, about how he should pick one he really likes if he’s going to splurge on it. But he wouldn’t hear it—

“Words.”

A confused hum creeps up your throat as you greedily bask in his scent, feeling the world move in slow motion around you. His unending touch carves canyon-like ripples into the tissue of your mind.

When you manage to focus on his eyes, there’s a level of fondness in them that has you grabbing onto his wrist for support.

“Wanna hear your words, sweetheart. Y’gotta tell me what you want.”

Understanding washes over you like cool hose water on a hot summer day. Quickly, you open your mouth to ask him—no, beg him—to undress you, but before a single word can crawl out from between your parted lips, you feel his warm fingers dancing along the delicate skin of your waist, leaving a wave of goosebumps in their wake. 

Your breath catches, and you shudder because he’s both hot and cold—

His attention warms you; his touch leaves you shivering from a chill that is so frigid it begins to manipulate your frayed nerves, tricking you into feeling the burn as if it were born from the bluest flame and not the calloused hands of your best friend—

“I— I, um…”

You shake your head as you try to remember what you were about to say before the words ran away from you and into his arms, stealing whatever desperate sentiment you meant to express. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to figure it out, to fill in the blanks—like a cipher missing its key. 

His thumbs are drawing little shapes into the soft skin beneath your shirt, aiding and abetting the thieving words. The unfamiliar affection makes your abdomen twitch and your core pulse with need.

Before you get the chance to draw up some semblance of sanity, Eddie leans into you, effectively shrinking your entire world to just him. He’s everything you feel, everything you smell, everything you see, everything you touch, everything you…want to taste.

You so desperately want to know what flavor his kisses are—

Bitter smoke from the habit he can never quite kick? Malt sweetness from the beer he loves to drink? Cool mint from the gum he always carries around?

Would you grow ravenous at the first hint of Marlboro Reds? Would you crumble under the eager pressure of his lager-soaked tongue? Would your mouth water at the lingering scent of menthol on his breath?

You’re trapped in his thrall the second he closes in on your space. His head tips to the side, running his lips along your warm cheeks, your jaw. You shiver at the soft brush of his mouth—an action you’re painfully aware is not meant to be shared among friends. No, this kind of touch is reserved for lovers only— 

“What do you want, sweetheart? Want me to touch you? Want me to hold you?” he murmurs, heavy gaze locked on the way your lips part, and you quietly pant. Your head bobs toward his mouth, body leaning into his arms, drawn to the heat of him. 

You hear the sharp intake of breath, feel his nose nuzzling your hair. Then, as if fighting for control, his hands flex, only to grab onto your hips and drag you tight against him, like he lost the battle. Or maybe he surrendered. The way he hangs over you, almost relieved at the closeness leads you to believe it’s the latter.

Emboldened by his body against yours—all growing hardness and twitching muscles—your hands paw at his abdomen, his waist, kneading and pulling him impossibly closer.

“What do you want, baby?” 

You bite back a whimper at the new endearment. 

Because that’s reserved for lovers too—

“I want…W-Wan’ you. I wanna be…be with you,” you mumble breathlessly, mindlessly.

In a huff of impatience, he pulls your top over your head. You hear the way he swallows back a groan and you wish he wouldn’t have. 

With expert dexterity, he removes your bra, and this time, he doesn’t hold back. You practically bloom under his attention—his wide, hungry eyes, his almost pained rasp of humming appreciation. 

His hands slide up the sides of your body, featherlight fingers following the length of your ribs, brushing inward as he traces the skin just below the curve of your breasts. 

Your wandering hands fiddle with the hem of his shirt before slipping under the material, flexing and groping at his toned abdomen. You pull at his narrow waist, a wordless plea for him to touch you more. 

But he seems uninterested in your needy silence and you remember his instructions—

“Eddie, please. Please, touch me. I need you…. Wanna feel you.”

“Whatever you want,” he agrees, nodding.

Electricity prickles and dances across your skin like invisible lightning as he finally slides his hands over your sensitive breasts. Gently kneading the weight, he smooths his thumbs over your pebbled nipples. You gasp at the sensation, the way it directly triggers the heat twisting and turning low in your core with a quickness you’re not accustomed to. 

Leaning down, Eddie attacks your jaw and neck with greedy, open-mouthed kisses. His nose nudges you zealously, like he’s devouring your delicate flesh and still aching for more, so you tilt your head away, eager to provide. 

You tug his shirt up his body, but quickly realize you’ll need him to break away from your neck to get the material over his head. You lightly push on his abdomen, and he begrudgingly stops his assault, understanding what you’re looking for.

With a level of speed you’ve never once seen him use, he peels his shirt off, balls it up, and blindly tosses it somewhere in the corner of the room. 

Unabashedly, you ogle his body in a way you’ve never allowed yourself before. Your heavy-lidded gaze is first drawn to the pick hanging just below his collarbones, sitting perfectly against his pale skin. Then, your eyes drop, admiring the tattoos that litter the expanse of his chest. 

You’ve only ever seen them a few times—mostly at the Hawkins pool on hot summer days, and once when you walked in on him changing. You remember how you couldn’t get the image out of your mind. The contrast, the searing visage of inky-black against milky-white, pressed into skin like a pretty decoration meant to be admired. 

And like a set path guided by nothing but desire, your eyes track down, down, down his body—all heat and hardness. Your mouth waters when you catch sight of the tuft of coarse hair trailing from his navel to whatever lies beyond the waistband of his jeans. 

Whatever lies—

But you already have an idea; you feel him pulsing against your stomach, you felt him twitch when you whimpered moments ago.

All heat and hardness.

Drawing you from your trance, Eddie’s deft fingers fiddle with the button on your jean shorts, making quick work of the fastenings and dragging the material down your legs. He drops to his knees, peering up at you with something in his eyes so…raw that it has you grabbing onto him, your balance escaping you. 

With your hands on his strong shoulders, you watch with rapt attention as he removes your shoes and socks, then he gently cups one ankle, lifting it and helping you out of the leg of your shorts before doing the same to the other. His touch is so soft—so gentle—you think you might cry.

Barely anything has happened yet and he’s taking such good care of you. You shudder to think how this would have gone had you called up Jimmy or Chris. 

Nobody could compare to Eddie. 

Feeling weightless, heavy, high, and stone-cold sober all at once, you meet his eyes. 

“You look…” he pauses, swallowing harshly, “you’re so beautiful.”

Your ears ring at the hidden sentiment between those three words. A million extra meanings you can’t catch, but you heard them like a whisper in the wind—real and slipping through your fingers the moment his hungry lips grace your skin once more.

Large hands squeeze the backs of your thighs, and you feel the tickling brush of his frizzy curls against your bare legs. 

Wet, searing kisses travel upward, his hands slide in tandem with the needy affection. He holds you with a type of reverence you couldn’t have foreseen—as if you could have ever foreseen this. He moves along your body like you’re allowing him, not like he’s the one doing you a favor. 

You sigh when you feel the heat of his breath over the place you need him most. He’s stopped at the apex of your thighs, panting like a desperate man, blocked by a flimsy slip of fabric that you’re certain he could shred to pieces with the way his eyes have darkened. 

“C-Can I?” His strained voice breaks through the music in the room, disrupting the melody of syncopating gasps and pants. 

It feels like the world is moving as you stay perfectly still, staring down at him, his arms wrapped around your legs, fingers greedily curling in the waistband of your panties. You find yourself thankful for his steady, obedient grip. 

Underneath his wanton gaze, you feel the weight of roles reversed. It’s like it’s his first time, the way he’s looking up at you like your permission will fix him. Your touch will mend something broken. 

With wide eyes and parted lips, you nod. “Y-Yes. Please, Eddie.”

A sound torn from deep within his chest rumbles out, reverberating around the room, bouncing off of every wall and hitting you like a spell. Low, where his breaths warm you, a fiery enchantment unfurls in volant tendrils like ink in water.

Suddenly, Eddie drags the thin material down from around your hips, another appreciative groan rips from his throat as he watches the gusset of your panties fall last, stuck to your wet folds. A delicate string of arousal clings to the fabric, unable to part from it. 

You watch his efforts slow, his lids grow heavy like he can’t control the need. Then, he presses his face between your thighs, the very faint graze of his tongue leaves you trembling. 

With one targeted swipe, Eddie’s tongue snaps the silky string, catching what he can with overwhelming zeal.

“Want more,” he mumbles into your heat. “Sweets…”

“Yes,” you interrupt, already drowning in desperation. “Need you—”

He growls and pulls your panties the rest of the way down your legs before his large hand lifts one of your thighs to sit on his shoulder, allowing him easier access to your soaked core. He hums brokenly—a lewd sound of appreciation. 

The second he drags the flat of his tongue through your dripping folds, your gasps devolve into messy moans, but the sound only seems to encourage him more. With foreign ferocity, he devours you. 

“Oh, god, Eddie,” you mewl, hips twitching against his face, hands threading through his fluffy hair for balance. 

Vibrations from his responding groan move through you, tearing you apart until you’re nothing but wanton shreds. Your knees almost buckle beneath you, but he presses into you. Harder. More persistent. The force sends you falling backward onto the bed, your hands hurry to break your soft descent.

Your hips hang off the edge of the mattress—one foot still planted on the ground, the other dangling over Eddie’s right shoulder. His hands grope and knead the fat of your thighs as his tongue eagerly laps up your arousal like a man starved. Your arms give out from under you, sending your back barreling down to the untucked sheets on his mattress. 

You’re panting and burning up; the heat of his breath meets the warmth of your folds, creating a smoldering furnace where his mouth dances over you. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, and one you think no other man could ever replicate. 

Your hips react ardently to every twist and flick of his tongue, the talented muscle toying with you until you’re shaking and whining and bucking against his mouth for more. 

The moment you feel the tip of his tongue draw tight circles around your swollen clit, your head flies back in ecstasy. Your hands wander the space around you for something to grab, first, trailing over your breasts with a teasing squeeze before reaching for the sheets beside you. But it’s not enough. The material is so thin, you can’t get the grip you need. 

Like he can sense the desperate energy rolling off of you in tidal waves—like he knows the feeling—Eddie grabs your hands, momentarily sacrificing his fragile skin to your clawing, pressing, sinking, crushing—

Your thoughts are plucked from somewhere high in the ether and placed back into your head the moment you feel his dragging touch, then, softness. Peering down the winding, curving terrain of your body, you meet his dark eyes, see the way he’s moved your restless hands into his hair.

The whine falling past your lips is drowned out by his aching growl deep within your wet folds. He tightens his grip around your hands before letting go, encouraging you to hold onto him—to use him.

And you do.

You tug him closer, grinding your core against his mouth until you arch at the dull pressure of his tongue breaching your entrance, pressing into you powerfully, exploring untouched territory you wish could be marred by his ministrations. Like a token to memorialize this moment in time. Something that says you’re his—

Quickly, your hips start to lose their rhythm against his face, recklessly twitching and squirming with every break he takes from fucking you to flicking your clit with searing precision. 

“Eddie, Eddie, I’m gonna— Please, Eds, I—”

Not even bothering to pull away, he moans his pleas right into your pussy. “Give it to me, baby. Mmmph, give it to me, sweets. Taste so fuckin’ good—” 

The tone he’s using, the way he pauses after every other word to slurp and lap at your quivering folds, almost makes it feel like he’s not even talking to you. Or maybe not just you. But it’s like he’s speaking directly to your weeping cunt, pleading for more—more arousal to devour, more fluttering pulses to tickle his tongue.

Your brows contort in pleasure as tears prick at your waterline—almost there, almost there.

Suddenly, you miss the pressure of his mouth for a split-second while you hear a sucking sound, then your chest wracks with desperate sobs as you feel him slip a single finger inside you. 

“Oh, god! Oh, fuck!”

His other hand holds your hips down, blunt nails sinking deeper into the surface of your skin as electricity speeds along a high-strung coil—crackling and tight—just below his large palm. But the coil soon snaps when he starts to drag his long, thick finger against your velvety walls, thrusting in and out—gentle yet firm in his actions. 

“Eddie, Eddie, oh, fuck!” 

Unmade and raw, all you can do is babble incoherent whines and pleas as he teases you even past your orgasm, his tongue working your clit until it throbs to the beat of your racing heart.

When your legs start shaking from overstimulation, you finally gather enough strength to push on his head—appealing for mercy.

Like he’s not ready to part from you just yet, Eddie doesn’t yield to your push, though he does begrudgingly grant you reprieve. But he stays between your legs, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s not just breathing deeply to catch his breath. The way he inches infinitesimally closer, the way he won’t let your thighs close—it’s like he’s reveling in your heady scent—

“Fuck, you’re so pretty when you cum. Squeezin’ my finger so hard. God, this was just one, baby,” he boasts, utter glee defiling his already dirty words.

You whimper. One finger, and you felt so full.

In response, he garnishes your twitching pelvis with wet, sloppy kisses, like he’s searing a promise into your skin—

His hands do their best to hold your hips down, allowing him to take a tour of the tops of your thighs, the divot where your folds meet your legs, your mound—soaked and slobbered on by his overzealous mouth. 

Peering down your body, open-mouthed and desperate, you nearly mewl at the way his eyes are glazed over. He looks drunk on the taste of you. Completely and utterly wasted. What’s more, his face is covered in you. 

All the way up to his nose, his skin shimmers in the light, glistening with your juices. But he doesn’t seem ashamed of the indecent display. Instead, he seems proud. Proud to wear you on him—like a badge of honor.

“Eddie, please. I want more,” you whine, breathless from the come-down. 

“Pretty girl,” he purrs, nuzzling your thigh, “so desperate. Am I turning you to the dark side already?”

You shudder at his smug grin, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about his overly-inflated ego. Your mind is mush, and all you can think is his name prefaced by the dangerous word “my.”

“Please,” you mewl. 

His grin widens, and you note the hunger no longer hidden in the dark brown of his irises. Because he’s not aiming for decency anymore. Not in the way he’s eyeing you like you’re a meal and he’s famished, and not in the way his words are rife with untapped desire. 

“Alright, pretty.” He pats your thigh before backing away from you. “Up on the bed.”

It’s a soft order. A gentle command as he grabs your forearms and helps you scoot your hips all the way onto the mattress before letting go, allowing you to shuffle to the top of the bed. 

Once your head hits the pillow, he watches you settle into place, shoving the untucked sheets out from beneath you and off to the side. Without taking his eyes off of your movements, he works to remove his jeans, shoving them down his legs, along with his boxers. 

Now that your moans have ceased, the room is so quiet, he can hear your sharp intake of breath when his hard cock bobs free from its constraints. He bites his lip at the subtle shock shifting across your face. It’s flattering, but more than anything, he’s leaking at the thought of fitting inside you. 

“That’s— You’re—” 

Every one of your sentences seems to die on the first word, and he watches your thighs clench as your focus stays on his thick length. 

Heat warms Eddie’s cheeks as he tries to stop the smile from overtaking his face. He shouldn’t be like this—he should be calm, cool, and collected, but clearly exceeding your expectations has him feeling a myriad of things. Giddy, confident, smug…eager. 

Mindlessly, he wipes a hand down the lower half of his face, gathering your slick arousal on his palm, then collects the precum pouring from his ruddy tip, and spreads the combination of juices over the expanse of his thick cock. He grants himself a firm, teasing squeeze as he steps toward you, but quickly detours to the bedside table to rifle through the top drawer. 

“I’ll make sure it feels good, don’t worry. You’re gonna help me with that,” he says lowly, then stills his searching hands as he looks to you for a nod of agreement. When you give it to him, he smiles fondly. “Good girl.”

A quiet huff of amusement escapes him when he hears your strained whimper—the way you so obviously try to keep yourself quiet, but can’t help it. 

He’s starting to catch onto what you like. How you like to be spoken to. And your responses are addicting. The clench of your thighs, the pulse of your walls. The need that crawls up your throat like it’s fighting its way out of you.

He desperately wants to know what else his words can elicit. Or maybe even try something more than his words—

His body warms as he wonders what you’ll sound like when you’re wrapped around him. His mind conjures its best guess at the noises you’ll make when his thrusts knock the air out of you, like sweet rasping melodies meant to torture him. 

He wants to know just how shrill your cries will get when you’re nearly there, searching for just a little bit more. 

But most of all he wants to hear the sweet words that will slip past your loose lips, your mind too cockdrunk to stop the affection you’ll share. The secrets you’ll spill. God, he’s aching to hear you.

If he could, he’d lock you in his room and run experiments on you for a week straight—just to find out what makes you tick. He’d take you apart piece-by-pretty-piece, just to put you back together again. He’d hold you tight and play with you passionately, like you were his favorite toy. 

His.

Drawn from his thoughts by your shifting body, his attention diverts to the box of condoms he manages to find deep in his bedside drawer. He tears at the paperboard and pulls one out, showing you the foil packet before ripping it open—

“Safe sex,” he declares, sliding the oily-feeling latex out of the wrapper. 

His wry smile widens to a goofy grin when you giggle at his words, easing the tension. 

“Stupid,” you mutter, knocking your shin against the side of his thigh as he hovers near the head of the bed, putting the condom on. 

Once he’s done, he crumples the wrapper in his hand, glancing over at you before throwing it on the cluttered surface of the nightstand. “You sure you wanna do this?”

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Yes, Eddie. You already ate me out.”

That leaves him frowning—

“Sweetheart, just because we did that doesn’t mean you have to continue. We can be done. Nothing more needs to happen if you don’t want it to.”

You remain silent, only staring up at him with so much…something…in your gaze, it makes him want to fold in on himself like the discarded foil. And he thought the ease with which you crossed his wires was bad— 

“I know,” you mutter softly. “But I want to. With you. Will you…. Will you take care of me?”

Eddie’s breath hitches, and there’s a stinging feeling behind his eyes—one he knows all too well. 

You sound so small, so nervous. As if he could ever deny you something that was meant to be yours. His care. His devotion. 

“‘Course I will.” 

He nods one too many times, entranced by the way you seem so delicate under his watchful eyes. 

Delicate because you’re asking him to take care. In the way he’ll touch you. The way he’ll guide you. The way he’ll—

Slowly, he steps closer. You scoot to the side, making room for him to knee his way onto the bed. 

His hands brush your ankles, featherlight affection smoothing up your legs, stopping at your knees. With the utmost reverence, he gently parts them, settling between your thighs. 

“You look so pretty like this. I mean…you look— Well, you look…pretty all the time,” he nervously amends, eyes flitting over your face, but never any lower. 

He wants you to know he means you. You’re pretty. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Not because you have a gorgeous body, but because you are gorgeous. 

You shift beneath him, avoiding his gaze and, instead, focusing on pulling him to you. Softly. Needily.

He follows your guidance, leaning over you until his hands land beside your head. And just like before, he’s memorizing the moment. Every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every quiet breath from your pleasure-bitten lips. 

Below, you glance to the side, find his wrists, and wrap your hands around each one, as if grounding yourself in his touch. Only then—when his pulse beats wildly against your fingers—do you meet his eyes.

Wandering palms—soft and unfamiliar in their affection—travel the length of his arms, pausing over black ink, then continuing up until they reach his biceps. He shivers as you hum, squeezing the corded muscles that lay twitching restlessly beneath heated flesh. 

“You’re pretty, too,” you murmur, sliding your palms back down and rubbing at his wrists. 

Eddie chuckles, then swallows. “No, I’m not.”

The subtle twitch of your brows, the split-second peek at the budding frown that says you disagree has him beating you to your rebuttal—

“Not like you.”

His heart leaps in his chest as your hands suddenly drag his face to yours, like you’re about to kiss him with overwhelming need. But you don’t complete the motion.

And neither does he.

Because he’s not sure he can come back from all of this if he kisses you. 

If you allow him to have you in that way—

He’s not sure he’s strong enough. Not enough to feel you like that, to close his eyes and claim your lips like they belong to him, and then go about his life like he never felt it. The beat of your heart against his, pounding in nerves and want. The truthful desire dancing from your mouth to his. 

He couldn’t go back to living a lie. To live like he doesn’t think about you every single day. Like he doesn’t wonder what you’re doing when you’re not with him. Like he doesn’t do the most mundane shit and spends the whole time thinking about how much better it would be to do it with you. 

So he doesn’t kiss you. He can’t. Not when you’re not his to keep. 

Instead, he leaves a delicate, chaste brush of an almost-kiss to the corner of your mouth. Again.

Another cop-out from a coward. 

You struggle to contain your disappointment, resigning yourself to the fantasy in your head. The imagined taste of his tongue tangling with yours. And with wanton hands, you reach for his hips, subtly pulling him closer. 

“Need you,” you mutter, hearing the hitch of his breath as you whisper the plea against his mouth. 

“Fuck— Okay.” 

You watch as he reaches for his length. Taking a strong grip, he guides the thick tip along your slick folds, gathering your wetness. 

The raw combination of moan and a sigh leaves your lips—an accidental slip portraying just how much you’re aching for him. 

“It’s gonna feel a little weird, like…pressure. Okay? But you gotta let me know if it hurts, sweets, you hear me?” 

Your fluttering eyes, panting mouth, and rolling hips aren’t enough of a response, apparently, because his voice grows firm. 

“Hey, pretty girl, you with me?” 

“Mhm,” you whine, nodding your head. 

“What did I tell you?” he asks, smoothing a thumb down your temple before tapping three times. 

“Um, you— you said, um, if it hurts, I'll tell you.” 

“Good girl.” 

His muttered praise leaves you mewling, inching your hips closer to him, looking for more—yearning for it. 

Your mind devolves into pure static as he presses his thick tip into you slowly. Through bleary eyes, you see his teeth sinking deep into his lower lip, like he’s fighting to maintain his composure. For a moment, you wonder what it must look like from his point of view—the way your folds open up to him, welcoming the intrusion, ready to wrap around him in a vice grip.

“Oh, god. Mmm.” 

Your features crumble at the sensation of dull pressure—exactly what he warned you about. It doesn’t hurt, it just leaves you wanting more, like you’ll find reprieve once he’s fully inside you. 

“How you doin’, baby? Need a break?” he rasps, kneading your thigh gently.

“Need more.”

“Fuck, y’want more? Wanna feel more o’ me?” 

You whimper and nod, your heart racing as his slurred words drag you down into the flaming pit of desire.

Your mouth parts in a silent gasp when you feel him press deeper inside of you, his stiff length sliding past your walls. Your ribs contract and expand in raucous breaths the moment you see just how much of him is left. He’s just barely got the tip in—

As your gaze creeps up his body, you realize Eddie hasn’t looked down once, not to where you’re connected. You wonder if it’s self-preservation or if maybe it’s part of his care for you. The way he watches your face intently, like he’s monitoring every slight change in expression leads you to believe it’s the latter. Probably both, really.

But you’re thankful he’s looking, because he immediately notices when the pinch in your brows shifts from pleasure to a wince of discomfort. 

His hand is on your face in a second, smoothing the crease between your brows and petting your hair soothingly.

“Baby, you okay? Is it too much? You feelin’ pain?” 

You shake your head stubbornly, sucking in a deep breath, leaving your mouth open and panting as your gaze stays glued to the sight of him inside of you. You notice it’s not just the tip, he also gets impossibly thicker through the middle of his length, and you’re sure that’s what you’re feeling now—

“Hey, look at me.” His thumb catches your chin, guiding your eyes to meet his. “I can make you feel good, but I need you to help me out. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

Something flashes in the molten color of his irises and he leans down, brushing his lips against your cheek. You practically preen as he grants you a sweet kiss, and part of you—the rotted, selfish part—wonders if feigning pain would allow you to finally taste him properly, all smoky mint and dancing tongues—

“Let me make you feel good, baby,” he implores.

“‘S just a pinch, ‘s just— It’s fine,” you placate, rubbing your hands gingerly down his sides. 

“Alright, we’re gonna wait here, and you tell me when I can move, or if you wanna stop. But in the meantime, try to relax all your muscles. Sometimes we get all tense, even when we don’t mean to.”

You nod hesitantly, taking a few more deep breaths, making a conscious effort to drop your shoulders and let your muscles rest. After a full minute of breathing, resting, and leaning into his soft palm on your warm cheek, you nod again. 

“Okay, you…you can move now.” 

But he doesn’t. Not yet. As if trying to discern the truth, Eddie just studies you for a moment. Then he moves, inching further into you.

When your jaw goes slack at the feeling of fullness, you hear a rumble of sound, like a groan that’s been cut off too early, and you have half a mind to ask him if he needs a break. But before you get the chance, your words catch in your throat as he rests lower on you.

“Pretty girl,” he coos, his hot breath tickling your ear, leaving your cunt pulsing with need.

Then a hiss—the kind that sounds like it’s bordering on pain, but is only one degree away from pleasure—escapes his lips, and you realize just how tightly you were squeezing him.

Then, suddenly, he bottoms out, the firm, jolting movement forcing all air from your lungs. 

“Oh, good girl,” he huffs out, voice strained. “You’re doin’ so good for me, taking me so well. How’s it feel, sweets? Think you like it? Wan’ more?”

Struggling to turn pitiful mewls into actual words, you nod your head fervently, reaching down to press your palms against his hips. “Mmm, wan’ more. Please, Eddie.” 

For the first time, he glances down, and you hear him choke at the sight. Electricity prickles across your delicate skin, and the sting of your teeth sinking into your lip does nothing to disrupt your giddy hum as you try to push him away.

In the dark shade of his eyes, you can tell he recognizes your movement as a very desperate, unsuccessful attempt at getting him to pull out—to chamber a thrust. And he seems utterly amused—

“Oh, baby, did you want something? You wanna do the work? Help me out like a good girl?” 

Something deeply raw and needy peels from your throat in response, and you silently rejoice when he pulls back, aiding your efforts. Unfortunately, it’s only a couple inches because—to your burgeoning frustration—he’s following your guidance, and your arms don’t reach nearly as far as you need. 

But you’ll take anything right now; desperation is cooking your nerves and boiling your insides. 

So you sink your nails into his hips and pull him back to you with a sudden yank.

Your mouth drops open at his shallow thrust, unintelligible noises of debauched need tumble past your parted lips. 

Clawing at his soft skin, you struggle to set up another thrust. “Please, please— I need more.”

“More? But you’re doin’ so well all by yourself,” he condescends, eyes twinkling with hunger as he lets you push and pull him. “Look at you go, pretty girl. Makin’ yourself feel so good. What an independent little woman.”

His teasing shakes you to your core because it’s so him. It’s your best friend, just in a new scenario with unfettered access to your body and pleasure. God, you’ve allowed him too much power— 

“Eddie! Please! I’m— I need it. I need you…”

Amusement washes from his face and you pout as he pauses, as if admiring a view. Then he ducks down.

“Whatever the princess wishes,” he murmurs lowly, lips brushing against the heated skin of your cheek, syrupy sweet affection dripping from every word. Gently, he pulls out, nearly all the way. 

The mewl that was halfway out of your mouth catches like a lock clicking into place. A loud, desperate cry comes out in its stead—a reckless, candid response to the deep gut-punching thrusts barreling into you. They’re not hard, not rough, but firm. Controlled. Resolute. 

Like he wants you to feel it. Feel him.

You chase your breath in his rutting hips, surrendering to the affection he’s searing into you with every pass of his stiff length against your pulsing walls.

Red streaks paint his milky-white skin, blooming beneath your hurried hands like a casualty of your desire. Curses, groans, and harsh gasps fall from his slackened jaw. Heat bubbles deep in your core, rivaling the warmth of the salacious words he whispers into your flesh. 

“Shit, you feel so good, sweets— Oh, god, wan’ you to be— Fuck!”

Tears flood your waterline as you stare at the ceiling, features permanently fixed in shattered pleasure. Your mind struggles to hold onto the hitch in his breath, the unfinished sentence you’re dying to hear. But the sensations are overwhelming. Every nerve in your body is sparking—all livewires itching to explode.

All you can say is his name, all you can feel is him, and yet, it’s still not enough—

“Eddie, n-need m-more, ple—aseee!”

“Ah, fuck, baby, I know. I got you—”

Eddie glides his tongue over the pad of his thumb before reaching between your legs and circling your swollen clit. 

And suddenly, it’s like lightning has struck the furnace deep in your core, shooting high voltage shocks up your body until you grow so hot you’re almost cold. A sensation of fullness takes over, like you’re mere seconds from bursting. 

Delirious with passion, your hand flies down to stop his movements—to stop what you know is coming.

“H-Hold on, I— Eddie, I need to— I wanna feel you! Please, please, let me—”

Your needy sobs have him slowing down until he stills inside of you, chest heaving and damp with sweat.

“What— You can feel me. Aren’t you feelin’ me, sweets?” He reaches his hand up to the space just below your navel, pressing in only slightly.

You whine from the pressure, and your cunt flutters around him in rhythmic pulses like it’s trying to entice him back into movement. 

And, God, you can feel him— 

He’s burrowed his way deep inside you, but it’s still not enough—

“No— Yes, I— Oh, god, I c-can feel you. I just—” Your words melt into a whimper as you squeeze your eyes shut. The feeling of warm wetness slides down your cheek.

You’re vaguely aware of a dip in the bed on either side of your head, and as you blink away the blur, you realize Eddie has dropped to his elbows over you, caging you in. 

His lips trace the track of the tear in reverse, starting first beneath your jaw, then up the expanse of your face. But his mouth doesn’t open—it’s not a trail of kisses. Just a soothing glide of soft pink, collecting salt water. 

“What do you wanna feel?” he asks patiently, like he’s ready to bring your deepest desires to fruition. 

When you don’t respond, he brushes his lips against the thin skin of your eyelids in short, delicate kisses. 

“I’ll do anything for you, baby. Just tell me what you want—”

The raw truth of his statement rings in your ears along with a prayer in the shape of your name—reverent, impassioned, desperate. The tone has you questioning when the god became the devotee. 

Your eyes flutter open as you peer up at him. 

“Wanna feel you. All of you. I don’t want— I don’t want anything in between,” you whisper, your gaze flitting between his earnest attention and his glistening lips, wet with your tears.

Eddie’s mouth parts slightly, a look of quiet shock mixing with curious disbelief as he tilts his head, like he’s observing you for any lapse in conviction. But there’s none to be found. You’re certain you want this. So he gives a single nod, yielding to you.

Before he can even shift his weight, you’re already pushing at his hips again. He lets you move him until he slips out, then your eager hands reach for his hard cock, sheathed in thin latex. 

The calm Eddie found since ceasing his thrusts starts to dissipate as he watches your movements with rapt attention. 

Acutely aware of the expansion of his ribs on every breath in, the scent of sex and your perfume permeating his olfactory receptors has any semblance of control quickly leaving his body. 

The sensation is like a loss of inhibitions. Like he’s gorged himself on you and now he’s utterly wasted. And he knows from personal experience, he doesn’t make the best decisions when inebriated—

The reminder that he’s here for you—that he’s supposed to be the one guiding you—is hard to hold onto when you’re expertly drawing him back into you, teasing yourself with the thick, ruddy tip of his cock, painting your folds with dribbling precum. 

He shudders at your wrecked moan, your eyes smoked out with hunger and desire and nothing else as you leer at his flexing length.

“F-Fuck, sweetheart, are you sure about this?”

You only hum in response, deep in focus.

“Unh, unh, look at me.”

Eddie’s thumb catches just beneath your chin, drawing your attention to his hardened features. The moment your far-out gaze focuses on him, he struggles to ignore the way your pupils have almost eclipsed any trace of color in the iris. 

But then your attention falters, your eyes slowly glide down to his mouth, your lips parting like a call to him—

He adjusts his grip, his thumb and fingers digging into your cheeks.

“No, up here, pretty girl.”

Tipping your chin up, he manually fixes your gaze to his.

“Are you sure you want this?”

As if words are too difficult to drum up, you whimper imploringly. 

And all it takes is one warning tilt to his head and you’re righting yourself. Forcing the words to come— 

“Yes! God, please. I need you…”

Satisfied, Eddie nods, taking a moment to revel in just how gone you are for him. 

“Okay.”

Another pitiful whimper escapes your closed mouth as you push harder into his grip—wanting, asking.

Knowing exactly what you’re missing—a quick learner in the language of your desperation—a smirk curls at his lips. “Good girl—”

Then he sinks into you in one quick, deep thrust that carves a half-scream, half-gasp from your chest. 

His shoulders drop at the feeling of your wet heat, your greedy walls, hugging every square inch of his cock, gripping onto him like a lifeline.

“Oh, fuck, baby. Shit, y’gotta stop squeezin’ me like that. You’re not gonna give me enough time to pull out,” he mutters, dragging his hips back and slamming into you, starting a brutal pace. 

Tears flood your waterline once more as you cry out for him, your hands touching, groping, and grabbing every bit of muscle you can get ahold of. 

“P-Please, please, E-Eddie! Oh, god, oh—oh god! Feels s-so g-good!” 

Your knees drop open as your hands blindly reach for his hips, pulling him in for impossibly deeper strokes. 

“I’m— E-Eddie, I—”

“I know, baby. I know,” he chants, holding on desperately to the last shred of his sanity.

Ducking lower onto you, he shifts his weight to reach between your thighs and circle your clit. With an open-mouthed pant, he watches as your eyes roll back, your loud moans drowning out the vulgar sound of skin slapping. 

His gaze flits across your face, memorizing your pleasure-shocked features like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to see this particular crease in your brows, this heavy-lidded trance. Panic fills his bloodstream as he realizes it might very well be the last time—

And if it’s the last time, maybe he’s allowed to be selfish. One time. Just this once—

“Fuck it,” he breathes out, dipping down until his mouth capture yours, swallowing every last moan.

Your palms fly to the sides of his head, dragging him further onto you until the range of motion in his hand severely shrinks under his own rutting hips. You lick into his mouth like you’re trying to taste yourself. Overwhelmed with desire, he begins to lav his tongue into you the same way he devoured your cunt earlier. 

Your responding mewls leave him trembling, and he worries over the tightening in his abdomen, the coiling heat deep in his gut. He starts to pull away, but he feels pressure at his hips. You’ve wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles, leaving him no way of escaping your hold. Fuck, you’re going to be the death of him—

“Baby, we can’t— I gotta— I need’ta pull out,” he slurs against your mouth. 

“Please don’t,” you whine, spit-slick lips haphazardly forming around the pitiful plea.

Eddie feels his chest crack open with raw, tortuous longing. Hips faltering to a grinding rhythm, he lets his shoulders sag under the pressure of wanting—the weight of possession. All it would take to claim you, all it would take… is just to let go. To make you his.

He’s not strong enough—

“Please don’t,” you repeat, gliding your hands down his damp skin until you still at his lower back. With a foggy mind driven by the most basic desire to claim—or rather, be claimed—you muster all your strength and press your palms hard into his spine, dragging him to you. 

Following a groan that sounds suspiciously like a surrendering cry, Eddie pulls his hips back just enough to shallowly thrust into you. They’re firm, breathtaking strokes that feel like he’s trying to permanently burrow beneath your flesh, and his mouth glides over yours in a messy, blind display of drunken need. It’s a thorough loss of all space and you revel in it.

“Fuck, sweets. I— I—”

“E-Eddie! Ed—die, I’m— I’m c-cl— Please, don’t— Don’t—”

Eddie’s thumb starts circling your clit with renewed vigor, sending spasms shooting down your legs so strong that your ankles unhook. Like two magnets repelling each other, they go flying to the bed, twitching and convulsing. 

Deep in your core, you feel a magmatic pressure that just builds, and builds, and builds, until something snaps—

Arching into him, you cry out as your body goes weightless, and your mind floats into the ether once more. 

His groans, his grunts, the smacking of skin on skin—every sound echoes as you move further away from your mind. Vaguely, you’re aware of his faltering thrusts, his hungry lips devouring. Your mouth might be moving in tandem with his, or maybe you’re babbling incoherently, it’s unclear—all your senses are fried.

All you’re certain of is the sinking of your body. Deeper than the mattress, deeper than the floor. Down, down, down—you’re dragged into the pit of sated desire while your soul soars high above you. 

“Ah, s-shit, baby— I—”

By the time you find your way out of the depths—crawling back to him—you register the tail end of shivers wracking his entire being. His arms haven’t loosened around you and his softening cock is still twitching and flexing inside of you, goaded by every pulsing constriction of your warm walls. 

Nosing into your cheek, Eddie pulls back for a second, just to get a look at you—to memorize. 

What he sees is exactly what he expected—

Something he could never forget.

Something he could never be normal about.

In your eyes, in soft pants, in the flutter of lashes over mascara smudged skin—he sees you.

Just you.

A glutton for punishment, he licks his lips, savoring the taste of you before dipping down for more. One more.

Like he’ll never live long enough to see you walk out of his room—his sweat staining your skin, his spend safe inside you—he kisses you, slow and rottingly sweet. Swallowing every sigh, stealing every breath—he prays to you with selfishness in his heart. 

“I felt something,” you mumble against his mouth, pressing your hands to his shoulders.

Ignoring the ache in his chest—the kind that blooms when space starts to grow between his body and yours, like a weed whose roots never truly die—he forces a laugh that crumbles to dust in his throat. 

“Well, yeah…. God, I hope so,” he huffs, all strained amusement and bitter jokes.

A small smile pulls at your lips. “No, I mean.… I mean— You said, um, earlier, you said…”

While you struggle to find the words, his touch seems to act as a hindrance to your search. Your breath hitches and your eyes flutter as he smooths his thumb over your sweat-soaked hairline. 

“You said if I was gonna sleep with— If I was gonna f-feel nothing with a stranger, then I should…feel nothing with you.”

Realization dawns on him, almost at the same time he decides this conversation shouldn’t take place with him inside of you—

“Maybe we should—”

“No!” You stop his movements, pressing your fingers into his hips before he can slip away. “Please, don’t! Don’t— Don’t go.”

Eddie watches your features soften from panic into an amalgamation of nerves and reserved urgency. The mess of emotions darkening your once-twinkling eyes are enough to stop his movements, but he still wishes every square inch of him could liquify and seep through the floor of the trailer until he reaches the earth. Maybe then he could be free of your dominance over his heart—

“Okay. Okay.” He nods, placating. 

Shifting above you, his attention oscillates between your wide-eyed stare and the space on your neck he kissed like he owned it. Then, as if he suddenly forgot how to behave like a human, he sucks his teeth and fumbles to respond—

 “What, uh, what did you feel?”

Your nails sink into him with a pinch, but by the way you seem lost in your own head, he doesn’t think you’re aware. Then—

“W-What— Um, did you…feel…anything?”

He stares for a moment, considering your evasion of the question, but then he looks to your neck once more.

A million thoughts zoom through his mind like advertisements on big city buses. He can’t discern all of them, but one has YOU written in what he’s certain is your handwriting. Another says everything in posh, looping cursive. A third one is void of any advertisements, and unfortunately, that’s the one that stops for him—

“I don’t think it matters,” he mutters, avoiding your frown. “It’s— I’m not the one who lost their virginity.”

You cock your head to the side, the kind of movement he knows means you’re not letting him slip by. “Yes, it does.” 

Your tone bites at him, scrambling the illusion until he’s a clear picture of vulnerability, bare under your hardened gaze. 

“I just mean, it matters more how you felt. If you— If I made you comfortable. Doesn’t matter how I felt,” he tries, wondering how likely it is that he could be struck by lightning indoors, on a sunny day—

Because you’re looking at him like he’s eighteen again. Like he’s stupid and boyish and easily breakable. But there’s something else in your eyes—

Something that makes him feel almost mendable. 

“No, but it does matter how you felt. How you feel. It matters. I care how you feel. I wanna hear what you think,” you implore, holding onto his wrists beside your head. You press the pads of your fingers into his pulse and he worries you’ll feel it before he says it—

“But did you—”

“Yes, I felt good. Yes, you did a good job taking care of me. Yes, I felt safe. Now how did you feel?”

“I feel like— I don’t want you…to…” He closes his eyes, hanging his head. “I feel like I wish you were mine,” he says, letting a humorless chuckle float out of his mouth and electrocute the air with tension. “And I feel like calling up Jimmy and Chris just to curse them out for being the ones you thought of first.”

In the loll of his admission, something shifts in your features, and every molecule of air leaves his chest like you just rolled a grenade at his feet, unpinned and already three seconds deep into the fuse delay. 

As if you have nothing better to say, you pluck the lowest hanging fruit—

“Well, technically you suggested Chris,” you half shrug.

Charged silence fills the room like rushing water until he blinks at you.

“Okay.” He begins to back away, ignoring your grasping hands.

Your face falls. “No, I’m sorry! I— That was a joke! ‘M sorry, it was stupid—”

“Okay,” he repeats flatly, peeling your fingers from his bicep. He pulls out of you smoothly, pretending not to hear the low whine deep in your throat—

“Eddie, no! Don’t— I love you!” you utter quickly, as if the words will act as a balm upon his burning skin—the skin that broils under your touch. And for a moment, he almost accepts it. He’s so selfish with you—

But when your eyes grow wide, like you hadn’t meant to let something so damning slip past your lips, he realizes the truth—

He was right.

He doesn’t leave you to explain yourself—doesn’t wait for you to quantify the secret.

“It’s okay,” he answers your worried gaze. “I told you, sex has weird feelings attached to it. Things get said in the heat of the moment, it’s all good.” 

Hopefully, if he repeats the sentiment enough, he’ll start to believe it too.

But instead of appreciation, he sees indignation warp your face. 

“I’m sorry, where have you been? The heat of the moment was five minutes ago,” you huff, eyeing him like you can’t even begin to comprehend his level of delusion. “True, I didn’t mean to say it just then. But I felt it. I have felt it. For…” you laugh, a humorless sound that grates Eddie’s heart, “years.” 

And suddenly, he feels like he got his wish—

Every muscle in his body has turned to mush, every nerve is frayed, every wire is uncrossed—

“I’ve—” you pause, then scoff. “Like, Jesus Christ, Eddie! Do you know how long—” 

He melts into you, his lips on yours, his hands on your face, holding you right where he needs you most—

Swallowing your surprised moan, he takes your needy grip in stride—every bite of painted nails against pale burning flesh, every tug and drag, seeking a closeness he craves to sate.

“I don’t care,” he slurs against your mouth, too intoxicated to hear how much time he’s missed out on. Then he pulls back a fraction of an inch, instead deciding he wants to know every single detail—even the painful bits—

Even if just to hear you talk—

“Well, I do care,” he amends. “I just—”

You peer up at him through heavy lids and a teasing grin, and he feels too far from you.

“Not right now,” he drawls, unable to think past ‘I love you, too.’

A/N: Please say nice things about this, it took so fucking long lmao. 

Want more emotional smut? 😈

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[dearwalker]

I think he knows

Pairing: Eddie Munson x reader x Steve Harrington Wc: 10.3k

Description: Eddie accidentally walks in on Steve fucking you in a WSQK storage closet. He thinks he’s doomed to a life of fantasizing over you with the only company of his right hand, until…Steve himself offers him a golden ticket straight to your bed: a threesome.

Inspired on the song ‘I think he knows’ by Taylor Swift <3

Warnings/tags: threesome smut, all are adults, fem!reader, established relationship with S5!Steve, no spoilers, Eddie survives S4 bc I say so, mentions of his scars, voyeurism, eddie fantasizes a lot, he jerks off a lot more, porn with plot, oral male rec, fingering, piv sex, both men are whipped for you.

Note: Surprise, new boy in the harem✨ No I don’t know how this happened, or how it ended up being so long but all I can say is merry early christmas my dears, enjoy the filth!! 🫦

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he’s so obsessed with me and boy I understand

Eddie Munson had never hated the sun before.

Not until he saw it in your smile.

You were standing in front of him at the crawl meeting, giggling at something Robin had said, soft and golden in the way that only you could be, wearing Steve’s stupid jacket that by this point was pretty much your own. 

Because he was. 

Steve Harrington, Mr. Perfect Hair himself, asshole turned part time hero, was the guy who got to hold your hand in public. Eddie didn’t hate him. Not really. He wanted to, wanted it bad sometimes, when the jealousy itched too deep to scratch. 

He’d hated him at some point, when Dustin wouldn't shut up about how incredible his friend was. But alas, after everything they’d been through last year and Steve being the one who got him out of that hellhole, he really couldn’t hate him anymore. 

So, he hated the sun. Because he couldn't have it.

Eddie also hated himself for not speaking up sooner. For watching you fall in love with someone else while he sat in the background. And maybe that was his punishment. Maybe that was the price for every time he chickened out, every time he saw you in the hallway in that little cherry red jacket and panicked, ducking behind his locker like a coward.

Maybe if he hadn’t been, you would be wearing his jacket now. 

“Dude, wipe your face. You’re one drool away from filling the bucket,” came a voice from beside him, and undoubtedly by the tone–it had to be Henderson’s. 

Eddie snapped out of his trance by the sharp nudge of Dustin’s elbow. Shit. He hadn’t even realized he was watching. 

“I’m not,” he lied, even as he tilted his head just enough to catch another glimpse of you, this time laughing as Steve tried to sneak a kiss and Robin dramatically fake gagged next to you.

Jesus, Eddie was about to gag for real. 

“You’re staring again,” Dustin chuckled, walking away after patting him condescendingly on the back. 

Eddie shot him a glare but didn’t argue back. Because what was the point? 

All he could do was fantasize when it came to you. You would never look at him the same way you look at Steve. 

You just looked at him like he was funny. Your metalhead friend. And Eddie? Eddie looked at you like you hung the goddamn stars.

Things were finally looking up for Eddie. For once. 

Aside from his not so little crush situation, everything else seemed to be getting better. 

After almost dying being devoured by supernatural creatures–which, in his opinion would’ve been a very metal death–his uncle’s trailer had gotten split in half, and he’d gotten piles and piles of medical bills from his long recovery. Which led to him having to find a part time job as a mechanic besides his little dealing business. 

Oh! And how could he forget? The police department was still investigating him about the murders from last year. 

Between that, his job, the incessant crawls every week, and his therapy–both physical and psychological–he had absolutely no time to host hellfire anymore. Dustin had tried to keep it alive, but bless his soul, no one compares to Eddie Munson when it comes to being DM. 

But last week, by some miracle, he’d finally, finally been cleared as “innocent” due to lack of evidence and was able to start living a normal life again. His therapy sessions had been reduced to once every two weeks, and he’d also repaired a few fancy cars that earned him a pretty juicy commission. 

So yeah. Things were finally looking up for him after whatever the hell ‘86 was. 

So, with a pep in his step, he walked through the doors of the WSQK headquarters holding a cardboard box with all his stuff for that day’s campaign. Robin had told him they had a spare room on the back, and Steve said he could go earlier to set everything up. He even whistled as he strolled through the empty hallways of the radio station.

He saw two doors at the end, figuring he’d open both and find out which one he was supposed to settle in. 

But as all Munsons tend to run out of luck at some point, it seems like the curse finally hit him again when he opened the wrong one and changed the course of his entire fucking life. 

Because what he didn’t expect, what absolutely no one warned him about, was that you and Steve liked to use the storage closet to fuck like bunnies before anyone arrived at the station. 

He froze at the door, the box in his hand hanging on for dear life as he took in the scene in front of him. 

There you were. 

Propped up on a stack of cardboard boxes with Steve between your legs, your skirt was bunched around your hips, and your knees high on his waist. Your face was flushed, hair a mess and you were letting out choked little gasps because you couldn’t form words anymore.

Eddie’s heart stopped. He might’ve as well died for real this time. 

You let out a startled sound, grabbing Steve’s shoulders to hide yourself the second you saw Eddie standing there. Steve just glanced back over his shoulder, not even bothering to stop. 

“Dude. Do you mind?” 

Eddie slammed the door shut.

He walked out of WSQK like he’d seen a ghost. Didn’t even say a word to Dustin, who was just pulling up on his bike. 

He just got in his van, and drove straight into the woods far enough to be alone. And for the next ten minutes, the only sound in that van was the furious pumping of his hard cock into his hand and his broken, desperate moans repeating something.

Your name. Again. And again.

And again.

Then, after going back and giving a poor excuse to his boys as to why he couldn’t host that day and had to leave immediately (one that actually meant sorry guys! Gotta jerk off like 10 more times!) He went to repeat the same routine back at the small place Wayne managed to rent after the “earthquakes” had destroyed his trailer. 

He turned off the lights of the room he called his now. Lit a blunt just for something to do with his free hand. Threw on a loud tape to drown out the grunts and the pathetic moaning, and his fist went to town–again–to the memory of you.

The way you looked in that closet.

The arch of your back against the boxes. The sound of your voice breaking as you moaned his name–not Eddie’s, no, the one you belonged to. Steve. The way your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, as if he wasn’t deep enough. And your face…

God. Your fucking face.

Blissed out and flushed, swollen lips parted, eyes half-lidded and completely lost in it. No cheap porn film he’d ever watched compared to that. No–you were the most obscene thing Eddie had ever seen in his life and it was burned into him now. Engraved into the insides of his lids. No amount of blinking could unsee it. 

No amount of jerking off could erase it. 

(He tried. Many times.)

People had sex all the time. This shouldn’t be on his head 24/7. But…Eddie couldn’t believe that was you. 

He’d always seen you as soft. As the sweet girl giggling at Steve’s dumb jokes while playing with his stupid perfect hair. As the one who would mediate when a crawl meeting got too heated when someone didn’t agree with the plan. As the one who always listened to everyone…even him. 

You even called him Eds once, so softly, that he’d walked around with chest pain for a full day like a goddamn lovesick teenager. 

But now?

Now he couldn’t stop imagining how your voice sounded when it wasn't innocent. Couldn’t stop remembering how your legs looked parted open, how your thighs shook as Steve thrusted harshly into you. 

He should’ve known better though, that was on him. He should’ve known that someone who once held the title of “King Steve” would be the one to corrupt a girl like you. 

Who wouldn’t want to? 

He couldn’t stop wondering what it’d feel like to be the one between your legs. To have you whimpering like that. To see you fall apart and know he did that. That he got you that high, that far gone…that wrecked.

He was fucking haunted by the fantasy. And it wasn’t lust, it was worse than that. It was curiosity, obsession, need.

The need to be the one who fucks the sweetness out of you. 

But now you were probably curled up in Steve’s bed, fast asleep on his hairy chest, wearing one of his shirts and dreaming about getting fucked by him, while Eddie dreamt of you after he didn’t have anything left to milk out.

He dreamt of your hand in his curls. Your thighs around his waist. Your voice in his ear breaking with his name over and over and…over. 

Eddie tried to be normal after that. God, he tried. 

At least you seemed to be normal. You walked into Thursday movie night at Nancy’s like nothing had happened, dropping onto the couch next to Steve with a bag of popcorn, listening to whatever Robin said, still sweet and smiley and wearing one of Steve’s jackets. 

He told himself not to stare. Repeated it like a goddamn mantra.

Don’t look, Munson. Don’t fucking look. You’ll just embarrass yourself. You’ll make it weird. 

But then your eyes met, and you smiled at him, and…Eddie forgot his own name.

His mouth opened, but words came out. Just a squeak that could’ve been the start of a sentence, or a heart attack. He pretended to cough into his fist and buried himself deeper into the armchair. 

And Steve? Oh he noticed. 

Not just Eddie’s reaction, but all of it. The way Eddie’s eyes had locked onto you from the moment you walked in. The way they dropped lower every time you shifted. The way his fingers gripped the armrest. 

And the weird part? Steve didn’t get mad. He just smirked, knowingly, even amused by the whole thing. 

The next time something altered Eddie’s brain chemistry, was at the diner. 

He’d arrived late, mainly because he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to go in the first place, but the thought of seeing your smile was enough to convince him to walk through that door, and soon it was just him, Robin, and the perfect couple. 

Eddie looked at you from across the booth, wearing a cute outfit that he was sure would ruin his life later when he was alone back in his room. You were sipping from your milkshake, the pink straw pressed between your lips, as you let out a hum of contempt at the sweet taste. All Eddie could think was that could be something else.

Thank God for Robin’s need to ramble about everything that happened on her date with Vicky that weekend, that you and Steve were focused on her and not on Eddie’s anxious leg bouncing under the table. 

Or at least that’s what he thought. 

“Eds, take some fries,” you offered sweetly when Robin ran out of air, pushing the plate you’d been eating from with Steve toward him. 

Eddie hadn’t ordered anything, he wasn’t hungry–at least not for actual food–and of course you’d noticed and offered him some of your own. 

“Yeah man, go ahead,” Steve chimed in with a smile that was enough to freak him out. “I don’t mind sharing,” he added with a shrug, placing an arm around your shoulders, hazel eyes piercing into Eddie’s with a devilish glint. 

The implication left Eddie frozen in place, hand hovering over the fries as you began talking with Robin again, unaware of the way your boyfriend’s comment had left Eddie stunned. 

Steve didn’t say anything else. Just kept looking at him, head tilted, like he knew something. Like he felt it now. 

The shift. 

Eddie almost got up and left, but then he caught Steve’s eyes, and the bastard just winked.

Jesus Christ. 

You’re still breathless when Steve flips you onto your back again, mind stuck somewhere between heaven and passing out as your sore body still feels every inch of him buried deep inside you. 

He drapes you across his hairy chest knowing you can’t hold yourself up anymore, bare skin sticky with sweat, your cheek pressed over his heartbeat. Steve's hand goes to your thigh, fingers brushing softly where he’d held you down minutes ago. 

You don’t want to move. You never want to after he’s done with you. So you just cling tightly to him, letting out a dreamy sigh and nuzzling closer, planting a soft kiss over his racing heart.

Steve smiles, shifting just enough to see your blissed out face. “You okay over there?”

“Mmhm,” you hum. “Can’t feel my soul. Congratulations, Harrington.”

That makes him chuckle. He kisses the top of your head. “Anytime, baby.” 

As his room settles into silence and you begin drifting off in his arms before he can drag you into taking a shower, Steve’s chest vibrates against your skin when he speaks again. 

“Hey,” he whispers, absentmindedly playing with your hair which doesn’t help your heavy eyelids closing. 

“Hmm?” 

“Do you ever notice the way Eddie looks at you?”

Your eyes blink open immediately. 

You don’t say anything at first. Just start tracing lazy little circles on a particular scar on his ribs, pretending to think about it, but you already know the answer. 

“Yeah,” you smile, “I’ve noticed.”

Steve hums, hand still resting on your thigh.

“It’s probably just a silly little crush,” you add, as if you didn’t know how Eddie’s voice breaks every time you spare a glance at him. Or the way his hands shake when you ask him to hand you a drink on movie night. “He’s just… traumatized from the time he caught us back at the station,” you chuckle. 

“Oh, baby. You should’ve seen his face in that closet.” Steve snorts. “You were extra loud that day, you really put on a show for him–the lucky bastard.” 

“What?” You ask, straightening up on his chest. “You knew he was going to get there earlier?”

“I was hoping he got there earlier."

You smack his arm with your mouth wide open, but a smile tugs at your lips. He grins like the devil is, shifting to ease you again into his embrace. 

“Don’t worry baby, I might have a way to fix him right back up,” he says smugly, those impossible hazel eyes glinting with mischief. “…Remember that talk we had a while back? Couple months ago. About maybe…bringing in a third?”

Your heart thumps so fast against your chest that you’re sure Steve can feel it on his. 

“…Yeah,” you say. “I remember.”

“What if…it was him?” He shrugs, like he’s discussing what movie to watch. “I’m just saying, we’ve both noticed. And maybe…” His hand drifts lower down your thigh, finding that place where you’re still sensitive. “Maybe it’s fun to imagine what he’d do if we invited him.”

His fingers press against your wet folds, easily sliding in and drawing a gasp out of you. His eyebrows shoot up, like he’d managed exactly what he wanted. 

“See? Don't you want to show him again how pretty you sound?”

Maybe it’s the overstimulation of Steve fingers pumping in and out of your pussy like he hadn’t absolutely wrecked it minutes prior, that the word comes out of your mouth before you can stop it. 

“Yes,” you exhale in a shaky moan. 

The thought alone thrills you. Because the truth is, you’ve been feeling it as much as Steve has. You've been wanting it as much as Steve has. 

The forbidden. 

Because it is fun to imagine. You guiding Eddie’s hand. Steve watching and telling you what to do. You crying out between the two of them.

God. 

“So…Eddie?” You pant, unsure if you’re asking or you're moaning out his name just to try it out on your lips. 

Steve just smirks. 

“Yeah,” he says, pumping faster. “Eddie.”

The moment that sealed Eddie’s fate was a random Thursday. 

He should’ve known better. 

The second you said movie night was at your place, he should’ve backed out. Should’ve faked a headache or a gig or even a freak accident involving his uncle. Anything.

But–like the fucking idiot he was–he’d walked right through your front door that night. 

You’d picked a shitty movie on purpose. Something slow without any action scenes, full of long silences and artistic shots that made Robin snore into the couch cushion, with Nancy and Jonathan falling right behind. 

Steve sat beside you the whole time, like always, hand on your thigh, like always. Looking casual, almost innocent.

Eddie was on the floor, sitting too close to the TV just so he wouldn’t look at you. 

He’d been too busy picking at the skin of his thumb and lost into the mazes of his head, that he didn’t notice you’d disappeared with Steve until he glanced over to the couches and only found the girls and Jonathan dead to the world. 

He sat there for a few more minutes pretending to care about the stupid movie, but then–like a fucking idiot–he decided to get up, quietly leaving the room like he was going to the kitchen.

He took a hard left to the stairs instead. 

Eddie knew where your bedroom was. He’d been there before when you’d asked him to bring more blankets on movie night a few months ago. He still remembers the cute little nightlight plugged into the wall. 

As he tiptoed to the top of the stairs like a freak, the hall was dark, but a sliver of light came out of your room through the slightly open door. 

Eddie dragged his feet on the carpet, guided by shushing voices and a noise of what he was sure was the creak of a bed. Once he reached, he braced himself for the scene he was about to encounter as he peeked through the door, but no amount of breathing techniques could have ever prepared him for the image before his eyes. 

Oh, fuck.

You were on your stomach, face pressed into the mattress, Steve standing behind you with both hands gripping your hips. Your ass–god, your ass–lifted high to meet every thrust. 

Your dress was bunched around your waist, panties pushed to the side, but nothing really hid you from the pervert on the door. Not even Steve’s body blocked the view of him disappearing into your dripping pussy, filling you so deep Eddie could see it, see the way your walls opened for him. 

The nightlight glowed behind you, casting just enough light to make it worse. 

Pink and soft and obscene.

Eddie’s eyes went over the curve of your spine. The shake of your thighs. Your fingers twisting in the floral sheets, holding on for dear life as your body kept being pushed forward. 

And the sounds. Jesus Christ, the sounds.

“Steve,” you gasped, “please–more–don’t stop.”

“Shhh baby, I know,” Steve cooed behind you, doing the exact opposite of what you asked and stopped. “But you gotta keep it down, don’t want to wake up your guests do you?” 

The fucking hypocrite then slammed back into you so hard the headboard bumped the wall. You moaned–no, cried out, trying to muffle it against the sheets as Eddie bit down his fist just to keep himself from making a sound. 

“Oh baby, you wanna be loud?” Steve chuckled, as he kept thrusting hard. “Go on then, I want to hear you.” 

“I–fuck–I love your cock, Steve” you choked the words out. “‘S–s’ so deep.”

Eddie froze at the crack of the door, heart pounding out of his chest as he watched you getting fucked within an inch of your life. 

The sweet girl. The sun. The angel he thought he knew. Gripping her sheets like a sinner. Moaning filth like she wanted the guests to hear.

Maybe you wanted him to hear. 

Eddie’s hand slipped inside his jeans, he couldn't stop himself. Not after that. He stroked himself fast and hard and desperate, watching your body take it, and your mouth beg for it. 

It didn’t take long for Eddie to come harder than he’d ever had in his life. He made a mess in his hand, his pants, and he was sure some of his cum dripped onto the carpet below, but he was too high and too far gone to care. 

He nearly collapsed against the stairs wall as he rushed back down, panting, already half hard again within seconds. 

The movie was still rolling, the guys were still fast asleep, but he had been changed forever–once again. 

Seriously, who the hell leaves the door open? Or unlocked? For two people who seemed to fuck like bunnies none of it made sense. 

Unless…you’d wanted him to watch. 

Eddie was in the middle of jerking off when someone started pounding on his front door. 

Of course.

He’d found his rhythm, music blasting, hips grinding into his palm, eyes squeezed shut and in his head, his filthy, freaky little head, you kept running your dirty mouth over and over. 

He’d been at it for twenty minutes. Maybe more. His dick was red and raw but he didn’t care because the only thing worse than jerking off to the memory of you was not jerking off to it.

Bang, bang, bang.

“Jesus–fuck,” he curses, pulling up his briefs with a groan, finding a pair of jeans from the floor as the knocking continues.

“EDDIE!!” A familiar voice calls over the music. 

Oh no. 

Eddie walks out of his room shirtless, crosses the hall in three large strides, and opens the door wide enough to peek out, and yeah, there he is.

Steve fucking Harrington.

The absolute last person on earth he wanted to catch him red handed with his dick in his hand fantasizing about his girlfriend.

“Hey, man,” Eddie manages, clearing his throat when his voice cracks a little. “Uh…what’s up?” 

“Hey!” Steve beams, that preppy boy smile spreading wide on his face. “Mind if I come in?”

Eddie hesitates only for a second, then opens the door wider and steps back. Steve walks in, glances around, his gaze landing on Eddie’s bedroom. More specifically, on the bottle of lotion on his nightstand and the constellation of crumpled paper tissues on the floor next to his bed. 

Steve chuckles. “Sorry man, didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

“Wh–what?”

“You know. That thing you were doing.” Steve smirks, nodding his head toward the room. “Thinking about my girl?”

Eddie’s whole face goes red. “Dude, what the fuck–”

“You like her,” Steve says plainly, not as a question, not mad, not teasing. Just a matter of fact. “I know you’ve always liked her. But now you’ve seen her like I have. And now you can’t stop thinking about her.”

Eddie stands frozen in the middle of the living room, unsure of what he’s supposed to say to save his case. Although, given the evidence, there isn’t much to hope for. 

“Is this the part where you punch me?” Eddie asks, almost bracing for the impact. 

But Steve just laughs in his face. 

“No, man. No punches.” He shakes his head, amused. “You know…she likes it when you stare.”

You like it when he stares? You know he stares? 

“Alright Harrington, if you wanna hit me, just do it. Don’t fuck with me.” Eddie chuckles bitterly, already wishing he could just go back to his little twisted fantasies instead of hearing this bullshit. 

“Don’t you get what I’m saying Eddie?”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “No…?”

Steve sighs, then steps closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m saying…she wants you to fuck her.”

There’s a moment of deafening silence where Eddie questions if he actually speaks the English language, because there’s no fucking way in the world he heard that right. 

“...What??” 

“She does,” Steve repeats, then chuckles again, “Hell, even I want you to fuck her.”

“You’re not being serious,” Eddie accuses, backing off from Steve’s grasp to pace in circles with his hands on his hips. 

“Fucking hell man,” Steve groans. “Look–I’ve seen the way you look at her. And I get it, okay? She’s a dream, I know.” He laughs, but Eddie keeps pacing like a madman, shaking his head. “Dude–you ever wonder what she tastes like when she’s already come twice?”

That makes him stop right in his tracks. He turns to Steve in disbelief, but once again he doesn’t see anger, or teasing. He’s genuinely asking him if he fantasizes about his girlfriend. 

“Man, I wonder about everything,” Eddie finally blurts out, exhaling like he just lifted a weight off his chest that’s been dragging him down for weeks. 

Steve grins. 

“I wouldn’t offer you this if I didn’t trust you with her.” 

He walks closer to Eddie–again–but this time he doesn’t place his hand on his shoulder, just looks at him dead in the eye as his grin turns darker. 

“You’d be gentle with her, wouldn’t you, Eddie?” He asks, pupils taking over the hazel of his eyes. “You wouldn’t fuck her too hard the first time, right? She’s too sensitive after–and trust me, you’re gonna want her to keep going.”

Eddie is speechless for the 124378th time in that month. Which should be an achievement, considering he likes to talk as much as Robin does. 

“I’m not gonna say it twice, Munson.” Steve lifts a hand to clap him on the shoulder. “But she really wants it. So are you in?”

Eddie doesn’t even think anymore. He just nods frantically. 

Oh, he’s so in.

Oh, he’s so having a full blown existential crisis. 

He hadn’t slept the night before. Who could sleep after that conversation? Steve, poster boy for everything Eddie is not, just casually walked into his place, dropping that line like it was no big deal: 

She wants you to fuck her.

Which is how he ended up now, standing outside your goddamn house, sweating through his jacket and wondering if he’d actually never woken up from the demobats attack and this was all a coma dream. 

Because now you apparently wanted him.

In your house. In your bed.

On those stupidly adorable floral sheets he couldn’t stop thinking about. That’s what he came thinking about. That’s what he dreamed about every night. 

Steve’d said to just “roll by tonight.” Well, tonight is here, and Eddie stands outside the door contemplating his options. 

Does he knock? Does he just open it and walk into a fucking orgy?

Jesus. 

He adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his curly hair, and tells himself it’s going to be fine. He’s already been through things someone his age should never have to in their entire lifetime. Strange things. He can handle a little threesome.

Right?

He rings the doorbell before he chickens out like he’s done his whole life. 

Eddie hears footsteps approaching the front door. He expects you, for some reason, but instead it’s Steve who opens it, shirtless, barefoot, only wearing some sweatpants, and smiling bright as if he’d just invited Eddie over to watch some sports game.

“Hey, dude! Glad you made it,” he beams, stepping aside.

Eddie walks through the threshold, and stops in the middle of the entrance hall pressing his lips tight. 

“You want water or something?” Steve offers casually, noticing Eddie’s looking around nervously. “She’s upstairs. All ready.”

“She’s what?”

“All ready,” Steve repeats with a grin. “You know, for you.”

Steve laughs at Eddie’s loss for words, claps him reassuringly on the back, and gestures toward the stairs.

 “Come on, man. Don’t leave her waiting.”

He walks up the stairs with Steve trailing behind. Eddie’s already hard under his ripped jeans, stopping right outside your door thinking what on earth does ready for me mean?

Are you naked? Are you touching yourself? Do you know how hard he is? Can you feel him on the other side of the door?

He can even see the damn nightlight is on behind it. His hand hovers over the doorknob, but for one second, the doubt comes crawling back in.

What if this is a joke? What if he opens the door and all your friends are inside pointing at him and laughing like “Look who actually believed it! You’re a pervert, Eddie!”

Wouldn’t be the first time someone pulls a cruel prank on him–or calls him that. Wouldn’t even be the worst. But–

“You gonna open it, Eddie? Or are you too scared of my girl?” Steve’s teasing voice cuts off his spiraling thoughts. 

Eddie takes a deep breath, finally twists the knob, and he swears time slows down when he sees you there. 

You’re sitting–no, half kneeling on the bed in the center of the room. Those floral sheets are bunched under your knees. And you’re wearing a little dainty lace set. The fabric is barely there, but the little bows on the straps make it sweet enough for Eddie’s mouth to go dry. Your exposed skin looks soft under the warm pink glow the nightlight casts against the walls. 

You’re all ready for him. 

Eddie nearly fucking dies. Again. 

You smile when you see him. It’s soft and warm and welcoming, like always. Except–nearly naked. Not like he hadn’t seen your guts getting rearranged about two times too much these past weeks anyways. 

“Hi, Eds,” you say, waving your hand as if you aren’t currently rewiring his entire nervous system.

He stands frozen in the doorway as Steve brushes past him, casual as hell. He walks straight up to you, bends down just enough to pet your chin with two fingers, making you laugh softly. 

“Hi again, baby,” Steve whispers sweetly. “Let’s give him a warm welcome, hm?”

You hum in agreement, watching Steve walk away and drop onto the puff in the corner of the room, manspreading like a king waiting for his entertainment to start. 

But Eddie…Eddie’s still standing by the door like 🧍🏻

“So uh…what–what are the rules?” He stammers. “Or, like boundaries? Or–fuck, I don’t know, a safe word?”

He means it for him, of course. 

You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh my god. Eddie, you're adorable.”

Steve is not as delicate as you, “Dude,” he snorts. “You can’t be serious. Relax. No one's handing out instructions.” 

Eddie shifts anxiously on his feet. “I–there should be instructions.”

When the hell has ever cared about those? 

“You’re here to make her feel good, that’s it.” Steve says quite harshly, crossing his arms over his chest, then looks at you and everything in him softens. “You decide how far he goes, baby.” 

You melt. Right there on the bed. Blow him a kiss and then turn your full attention to the very shy boy at your doorstep. 

“It’s okay, Eddie. Can you come closer?” You ask, extending your arm and gesturing toward the bed. 

Eddie gives one step, that’s all he manages.

You smile wider, just enough to coax him. “Closer, Eddie. Please.”

Fuck.

He takes another step, then another, until he’s right by the edge of the bed, so close he can see the pattern of the fine lace of your lingerie, the way your chest rises when you breathe, the way you’re giving him the most deadly case of bedroom eyes he’s ever seen in his entire life. 

You don’t look shy, or unsure, you look…eager. 

Before he can overthink it, you slide off the bed to round him, and gently push his chest to sit down. Eddie falls easily, his body already knowing it’s not in charge anymore. The mattress dips under his weight, bouncing softly along with the curls in his head. 

“Kick those shoes off,” you say. 

He obeys. Oh–he obeys. A little clumsily, but they’re off in less than three seconds.

Only then you climb onto his lap. Eddie’s breath comes out in a shaky exhale when your ass lands on his thighs. His hands hover uselessly at his sides. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t really dare yet. He doesn’t even know where to look. His eyes dart from your shoulder to the wall to Steve, who has now thrown his arms behind his head like he’s watching his favorite movie.

“Well, don’t mind me,” he says. “Just enjoying the show.”

You cradle Eddie’s face to get his attention back to you. All he can think is your hands are warm, and too soft for his own good. Your thumbs brush his cheeks in such a normal, easy way, that still feels deeply intimate. 

“Pretty boy,” you whisper, smiling at him. “Such pretty eyes.”

Eddie’s heart does an entire somersault routine. He can feel the little feet of the people inside his head running around to process the compliment. 

We’re starting already???

He doesn’t even finish that line of thought when you lean in and kiss him. The kiss is slow and unrushed, but so so passionate. Your soft lips move against his, showing him you know exactly what you’re doing. Eddie melts into it instantly. He kisses you back desperately, starving, because he’d been feeling withdrawal for something he never had, and now–holy shit now he’s finally getting his fix.

Still, he doesn’t touch. Not until you take his wrists and guide them yourself, first on your waist, but then trailing down, lower, to where the lace sits and barely covers anything. His hands pinch your skin when he realizes what he’s touching. 

You.

“Oh,” he breathes in to the kiss, and had you known Eddie let out those pretty little sounds, you'd have brought him in sooner. 

You smile against his mouth and roll your hips, just a little, just to get more out. Grabbing him by the collar of his jacket, you grind down on him. Slow at first, just gentle little moves that made Eddie’s head tip back, and a symphony of broken sounds left his throat. Every grind of your body made his cock throb harder against his jeans. His eyes went between your chest, your mouth and the way your lashes fluttered when you finally found the spot. 

“Jesus–fuck yes, use me angel.” 

He didn’t even realize he’d said it out loud until you let out a little whimper at the pet name, and picked up the pace. 

You are used to terms of endearment from Steve, he’s the sweetest with you, but never in the years of your relationship has he ever called you something so divine as angel.  

Alas, your boyfriend still knows you better than anyone. You keep moving on top of Eddie, and even though his hard cock under the jeans is already making you see stars, there’s something…missing. By this point Steve’s fingers would already be deep inside you without even having to ask. 

Across the room, he watches your frantic moves and hears your moans getting needier. Eddie doesn't notice at first, but he does.

“Hey man,” he calls casually. “Play with her.”

Eddie, too lost in the way you keep rolling your hips, blinks like he misheard. “–What?”

Steve chuckles, “She’s used to it. Go on, don’t make her wait.”

Eddie turns back to you, but you don’t say anything, just look at him, chest rising faster, lips parted, a thin sheen of sweat starting to gather at your temples. And when his eyes search yours for permission, you nod.

That’s all it takes. Eddie’s hand slides down your stomach, dipping lower and lower, until he finds the paradise between your legs.

Oh fuck. 

“Baby–you’re soaking through my jeans,” he groans, trailing the wet patch seeping through your panties. 

You giggle, but the second his fingers go past the lace and brush over your clit, you let out the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. A little gasp of surprise, hips bucking slightly since you've been waiting for him to touch you right there all night.

Eddie almost comes in his pants. “Jesus–you’re perfect.”

He doesn't slide his fingers in yet, he doesn't need to, your slick is already dripping onto his jeans, smearing over his rings. You just grind into his hand, chasing your high. Every sound you make goes straight to his dick, every breath, every flutter of your lashes, every soft whimper of his name. He’s about to put a finger in when–

“Stop.”

Eddie freezes at your firm voice, his hand stills as panic takes over his chest. “Did I–did I do something wrong?”

Steve’s already standing from the couch, ready to lift you off Eddie’s lap if you need him to. But you just let out a sweet little laugh and shake your head. 

“No, you’re perfect. I want you to take your shirt off first,” you shrug, as if you hadn't caused both men a near heart attack. 

Steve exhales, muttering something about “always testing him” as he plops back onto the puff. You smile at him apologetically, he just shakes his head pretending to be annoyed but you see the smile tugging at his lips. 

“Oh,” Eddie says, blinking a few times before actually breathing again. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that, sweetheart.”

He fumbles a little, taking off his vest first, then his jacket, then–he hesitates for a second. It’s not that he’s insecure about his chest, but his tattoos now have fresh new roommates in the shape of multiple scars scattered across his skin from where he’d been attacked. And he doesn’t know how you’ll react to them.

You notice the doubt flashing across his eyes as his hands stop reaching for the shirt. “Are you okay, Eddie?” You ask, and now you’re the one wondering if you did something wrong.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, trying to not sound too pathetic. “It’s just–my…my scars,” he says, avoiding your gaze. 

You hum softly, “Steve has them too.”

Eddie’s head perks up at that, and his eyes go to the shirtless man on the couch. 

“Yeah man,” Steve breathes, straightening up, pointing at the lovely little bite marks the bats had left on his skin. 

Eddie squints and sees them washed in the glow of the nightlamp. He’d been so busy freaking the hell out when he arrived that he hadn’t even noticed that Steve’s chest indeed had marks. But not as many as him, and at least the hair around it makes up for it, he’s not sure his pale chest–

“Eddie…” You cup his face to gently guide it towards you. “You can keep your shirt on if you feel more comfortable that way, but know that I don’t care about what’s under there. I just want to feel your skin closer,” you reassure.

Eddie almost proposes right there and then. 

Okay–maybe he’s getting ahead of himself. But shit. He decides it’s wiser to just nod, and peels off his shirt in one rough pull. You look him in the eyes before looking down, and he nods again. Your eyes go down his bare chest, pale as you expected, not as filled out as Steve’s, and not nearly as hairy–but the tattoos and the scars make him the most badass rockstar you’d ever seen.

Eddie’s breath stills as you look at him like you like what you see. Like he’s the prettiest thing in the room. And then you make sure he hears it. 

“You’re so pretty, Eddie,” you smile, pulling him in for another kiss. Your hands smooth over his skin, fingers tracing the tattoos on his chest, the scars down his sides, the happy trail leading to a happier place. “So hot.”

You whine into the kiss, hips rolling again making him forget about the fact that he’s shirtless in front of you and instead he remembers–right. His fingers.

Eddie reaches for you, pulling your panties to the side again. He slides two fingers between your folds, slow enough to drink every second of the way your jaw drops when you feel his rings deep inside you, the way your eyes flutter shut, how you let out a desperate little sound that goes straight to his cock.

“Eds…” you moan, walls clenching around fingers and metal.

“You feel–fuck, baby, you feel so good…so tight…” 

He finds his rhythm easily, all insecurities set aside by how fast you’re falling apart on his fingers.  

Eddie knows what he’s doing. Those hands–those guitarist fingers don’t play. They move with instinct, with intention. His fingers curl, dragging quickly through your walls before pressing back in. The rings are a plus, cold metal against heat, and you gasp when one of them hits the spot. 

“Oh–Eddie–”

“That’s it angel, keep dripping all over me,” he coos, pumping harder. “Can feel you clenching when I talk like this. You like being a good girl for me?”

You nod, it’s all you can do. Steve just watches. Watches the way your body moves. The way your face twists with pleasure. The way your mouth drops open with every stroke. 

But he catches something else. He always does. 

Your head tips forward, forehead pressing into Eddie’s shoulder, breaths coming out in little broken sounds against Eddie’s skin as he works every inch of you. You keep grinding your hips, chasing more even as it starts to overwhelm you. A sudden wave makes your moan turn into a whimper, and your nails dig on his shoulder instinctively pushing him away. 

You cry out, that’s when Steve speaks.

“Hey–easy, Munson,” he calls out, not angry, but still firm enough that it makes Eddie slow down. “Remember what I said about going easy the first time? You go too rough too soon and she’s gonna be shaking for the rest of the night.”

“Sorry–” Eddie says immediately, but you cut him off. 

“It’s okay, Eds. We’re still learning each other,” you reassure, still giving him that dazed, happy look. He exhales in relief. “Just…a little slower, that’s all. I’m not really used to the rings.” You say it so sweetly, that he just nods like a little puppy eager to please. 

“You’ll get used to them soon, sweetheart. Promise.”

He pulls his fingers back in slower, watching your face the whole time, memorizing every reaction. It doesn't take long before you’re grinding his hand again and letting out soft moans of pleasure as you find a more comfortable rhythm. 

“There you go,,” Steve chuckles, approving. “She’s squeezing you, isn’t she?”

Eddie chuckles back, because he can feel how close you are. Your forehead presses into his shoulder again, mouth brushing his skin as you let out a sound that’s half gasp, half moan. 

“Hmm, that sound,” Steve hums, leaning further into the puff, stroking over his crotch. “She sounds like that when she’s about to come.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, curling his fingers just right. “Are you close, angel?”

You whimper, hiding your face knowing exactly what they are talking about, but it only makes it hotter for both men to see you like that. 

“Don’t you wanna tell him, baby?” Steve asks from his spot, but all that comes out of your mouth is another moan against Eddie’s shoulder. “Hey–eyes on me.”

You obey, turning to meet those wide, hazel eyes. You’re barely holding it together, already breathless. A literal mess on Eddie’s fingers.

But Steve just smiles, wide and bright when you look at him. “Now tell him what you need, sweetheart.”

Your eyes keep locked on your boyfriend as you whisper, “I–I wanna come, Eds…please.”

“Then come, baby. Drench my fucking rings,” he groans in your ear. His raw voice and another curl of his fingers is what gets you there. 

Your whole body tenses when the orgasm hits. You let out a broken moan that vibrates in Eddie’s chest and your walls clench around his fingers so tight he thinks you might break them. Your wetness coats his rings, soaks into your panties, his jeans, everywhere. 

You collapse, arms flailing to hold on to him, but before Eddie can catch you, you’re already falling back.

“Whoa, hey–” Eddie’s arms scramble to hold you, but Steve is faster.

He’s behind you instantly, steadying you with one hand on your back, the other cupping the back of your head easing you back into Eddie’s lap. 

“She goes all soft after,” Steve says, with that fondness he always uses when referring to you. “You gotta hold her up for a second.”

Eddie’s arms wrap around you immediately, as you curl into him still trying to catch your breath. Steve leans to see you, brushing your hair back. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead that makes you smile. 

“Hey,” he whispers, eyes scanning your flushed face. “You okay?”

You nod against Eddie’s chest.

“You wanna keep going?” 

You nod again.

“Words, baby,” Steve coaxes, and you let out a little breathless giggle when he pinches your side.

“I do,” you whisper, loud enough for both to hear. Then you turn to him. “Thank you.”

For catching me. For checking on me. For letting another man fuck me while you watch.

You don’t even have to say it out loud for Steve to know what you’re thinking. He just brushes your cheek, with an amused smile on his face. “Anytime, baby.”

You shift on Eddie’s lap, turning back to him, lips brushing his cheek before placing your hands on his chest to look at those pretty brown eyes. “Thank you too, Eds. You made me feel so good.”

“Y-Yeah?”

You hum, patting the spider tattoo on his left peck. Once you feel like you regained your strength back again, you slide off his lap and drop to your knees in front of him.

“That’s my girl.” Steve praises. So pretty on her knees.” 

He rounds the bed to grab a small pillow, then drops it to the floor next to your knees, nudging it with his foot until you shift just enough to be on top of it. You lean to kiss the back of his hand as a silent thank you. 

Eddie is too busy remembering how to breathe for the 100th time to say anything. 

You settle between Eddie’s legs, hands resting on his thighs, your lashes fluttering as you look up with all your attention back on him. “I wanna thank you properly.”

Eddie laughs nervously, then whistles low. “Shit–then go ahead, sweetheart.”

Your fingers go to his belt–because of course he wore a fucking belt–and Steve chuckles from your side, one judging eyebrow raised. “Why did you even wear a belt, dude?”

“I thought I was coming over to watch, not to get fucking blessed,” Eddie shakes his head in disbelief, pushing himself up to help you lower his pants. 

His ass barely touches the mattress when your hands are already tugging his briefs. He laughs, out of sheer nerves and excitement, lifting again to take off the last piece covering him. 

He springs out.

And just as you thought. Just as you dreamed, he’s big. Eddie fucking Munson is packing a thick, flushed pink, already leaking cock just inches away from your face. 

Pretty boy with pretty eyes and an even prettier dick. 

You let out a sweet, pleased little dreamy sigh, when you feel his heaviness in your hand. “So pretty,” you praise, then lean in and press a soft kiss to the tip of his cock.

You reach out, eager, hand wrapping around him to guide him toward your mouth like a lollipop. Eddie makes a noise no one in that room knew he was capable of.

Eddie sees heaven. Sees the clouds, hears all the symphonies and shit. 

“Jesus fuck–”

Steve steps behind you again, crouching down. He runs his fingers over your spine, drawing delicate circles that don’t match the words that come out of his mouth. 

“You think you can take another, baby?” He asks, kissing the back of your neck. “Getting bored of just watching…”

You glance back at him, hand still wrapped around Eddie’s cock, and look down to see the fabric of his pants barely containing his. 

“Let me take care of you too, babe,” you chuckle, lifting your free hand to reach sideways, tugging Steve’s sweats and briefs down in one pull. He steps forward, letting you take him in your hand like you’ve done a hundred times. 

Now you have two, very hard, very beautiful, very yours, dicks in your hands. 

You give Steve one long, wet stroke with your tongue that makes him drop his head back and groan. Then, with a little giggle, you turn and give Eddie the same treatment. 

“Fucking hell, Harrington,” he gasps.

Steve smiles, watching you go from one the other, teasing both. “Oh, I know.” He cups the back of your head, stroking your hair. “Show him, baby. Show him how good you are.”

You hum with Eddie in your mouth, the sound vibrating just enough to make him curse under his breath.

You begin taking turns. Your lips are glossy and warm and full, as you switch between them. 

Steve. Then back to Eddie. Then back to Steve again.

Your hand stroking one while your lips wrap around the other. Back and forth. Eddie’s thighs start shaking with the effort of not coming in the first thirty seconds of this glorious torture. 

He’d never seen anything like it. 

He has both hands fisted in the floral sheets, barely keeping himself together as you take him halfway down and then pull away with a soft, wet pop that makes his vision go white, only to switch to the one who’s supposed to be your man. 

And if it wasn’t enough, Steve hands reach behind your back when you put him in your mouth, bending over you with his cock so going deep it makes you gag, to unclasp your bra, freeing your titties for both of them. 

He’s fighting for his soul at this point. 

You split apart from Steve, taking a deep breath to recover from his dick touching the back of your throat, and wipe your mouth before looking up at Eddie with a smile. 

“Hey Steve?” You call, eyes fixed on Eddie’s to catch his reaction. “Why don’t you get the camera?”

The…camera???

“Wait–what?”

“Don’t you want a little souvenir?” You tease, titling your head. 

“What the fuck–what–do I want a–?”

“Steve likes it,” you shrug. 

“Oh yeah,” Steve chuckles, already crossing to the bookshelf in the corner of your room. “I like it–but she loves it, man,” he adds smugly, 

“You have photos…doing it?”

“Whooole collection.” Steve drawls, finding what he was looking for. “You’d go crazy.” 

He is going crazy. 

Steve walks back over holding a black Polaroid camera, and hands it directly to Eddie, who’s still gripping onto the sheets for dear life. 

“I–” He stammers, looking at you. 

You shrug. “My hands are busy,” you smile apologetically, too damn sweet for the situation. 

Eddie finally takes the camera after a deep exhale, and leans back to lift it. He frames your pretty face between his thighs, lips parted open, spit shining on his cock. Then your mouth wraps around his tip again, and Eddie moans, loud and shaky, nearly dropping the camera.

He captures the grip of your lips, the way your tongue flicks over his slit, the stretch of your mouth when you sink deeper. Then you pull away and take Steve into your mouth instead, and Eddie moves the camera closer, watching your throat move, your hand still stroking him at the base.

It’s a miracle you are alternating, because if it had been just him, he would’ve busted in your mouth in under a minute.

You feel flash after flash after flash. Picture falling one after another, scattering on Eddie’s thighs. 

“Holy shit,” Eddie chuckles. “This is filthy. God, you look so fucking good like that.” 

Another flash. Another picture falling next to his balls. 

You pop off of him with a messy sound and a smile at the compliment, licking your lips as you turn to Steve.

“Your turn, baby,” you whisper.

Steve steps closer, and you feel the way he starts twitching in your mouth. It doesn’t take long before he grabs your hair, and starts thrusting to get himself off.

Eddie’s eyes widen, pulling the camera aside to enjoy the view. The way Steve holds you there. The way he fucks into your mouth, chasing his release, his fist tangled in your hair, his chest rising hard and fast as you take all of him. 

Steve finally comes in a few strangled moans, making sure he stays inside until you swallow every drop of his cum. He strokes your cheek with one hand, pulling out, reaching down to wipe the corner of your mouth. “There you go, baby,” he praises, still breathless. “So good for us.”

You don’t take more than a few seconds when you turn to Eddie, chest heaving, but before you can lean down again his hand comes up, stopping you. 

“Wait!” He says, coming off a little louder than he means to.

Your brows furrow. “Are you–are you not enjoying it?” 

“No no, Jesus–no,” he rushes, “You’re–you’re perfect. You’re actually heaven. I swear. It’s just…if you keep going like that…I won’t last.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, immediately understanding where he’s coming from. 

Eddie wants to save his cum for when he gets lucky to actually fuck you. 

Steve steps forward, helping you get to your feet. “Well,” he says, amused, “you’re a lucky bastard, Munson. I’m a man of my word, so I’m gonna let you fuck her properly now.”  

Eddie gulps. Your eyes light up. 

“That’ll get you going just fine.” Steve adds. 

He takes the camera from Eddie’s side, then walks back to settle onto the puff in the corner again, naked, angling the Polaroid camera like a professional. 

You take a moment to get rid of your panties, before pushing Eddie back onto the bed, making him crawl back until he’s in the center on the mattress, his curly hair draping over your multiple pillows. You climb over the pictures and his body until you’re hovering over him. 

Eddie doesn’t expect you to turn around, but there you are, moving away to straddle him in reverse, giving him a perfect view of your ass. His heart is racing so hard he can hear it in his ears, yet a devilish chuckle still comes out before he can stop it. 

“You want Steve to see your face while you bounce on my cock, sweetheart?” 

You nod, biting your lip even if he can’t see you–because Steve sure can–lifting yourself up with your hands on his thighs. “God, yes.”

You reach to line him up beneath you, teasing the tip only for a second because you can’t wait any longer than that to feel him inside. 

You sink down without giving him any warning. 

“Holy–fuck,” Eddie groans, throwing his head back onto the pillows. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re so tight–”

He only shuts up when he hears the moans you let out as he stretches your walls so painfully good. He feels as huge as he looks, he fills you as well as you thought he would. He’s balls deep inside you. Your knees are on either side of his hips, ass to his stomach, fingers digging into his thighs as you begin to fuck yourself on him. 

From the corner, Steve lets out a low hum of approval as you bounce harder on Eddie’s cock, chasing your second orgasm. He strokes himself with one hand, the other snapping shots of the way your tits bounce, the way your face twists every time you sink down, the way you never stop looking at him.

Flash. Flash. Flash. Tug. Tug. Tug. 

“Fuck yes, baby–look at you. You look like a fucking porn star.”

You smile at him, then turn over your shoulder, just a little to see how your other boy is doing. 

Eddie’s falling apart. 

His eyes are glued to where your bodies meet. To his cock disappearing inside your folds. And if the sounds were obscene before–they’re so much worse now. Between Eddie’s grunts, your moans as you ride him, and the clicking sound of Steve’s camera, this was a full blown production. 

A priceless one. 

And then you make that sound again. 

The same sound you made the second time Eddie saw you fall apart on Steve’s cock. The sound you made with his fingers deep inside you. The sound that haunted his fucking dreams.

“You’re getting her there, man,” Steve says, stroking himself faster to the next series of whimpers you let out. “Make her feel good, then cum inside her. She loves that shit.”

Eddie nods. “That okay, angel? Want me to fill you up?” 

You can't even speak. You just nod frantically, gasping as your rhythm begins to falter, and your thighs start shaking.

“You gotta come again first, sweetheart,” Eddie says through gritted teeth, grabbing your hips to push himself up into you. He can feel you pulsing around him. 

“Steve–fuck–I’m gonna–”

“Then do it, baby,” he growls. “Come on his cock.”

You come harder than the first time. Your mouth drops open in a choked moan as your orgasm tears through you. Eddie nearly comes from how tight you clench around him.

But no. He still wants more from you. Needs it like he needs oxygen. 

This time he does catch you when you slump forward, sitting up still buried inside you, placing a kiss on your shoulder as you both catch your breath. But the quiet doesn’t last long. He’s still hard inside you, and the devil on his shoulder tells him to finish what he started. 

He earns a sudden yelp from you when he flips you, pushing you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back, and lining himself up again from behind…just like he’d seen you that day. Face in the sheets. Ass up. Wet pussy glowing under the nightlight. Floral sheets wrinkled under your body. 

Deja vu.

But this time, it’s not Steve–no, he’s just watching. Eddie is the one pushing his cock deep inside you with a harsh thrust that makes your whole body rock forward. 

He’s not that gentle anymore. Not in a mean way. Never in a mean way, but in a I-need-to-come-inside-you-now way. His hands are gripping your skin, knuckles going pale, holding you down as you become a mess under him. 

He looks up to the couch, and he expects to see at least an ounce of the jealousy he’d felt the day he saw you with him, but all he sees is Steve’s fist going up and down furiously on his cock. The camera had been dropped as soon as your cheek had hit the mattress.

He wanted to see it. See you fall apart. 

“…Holy shit, dude, go for it,” Steve whistles low in approval, chuckling when he hears your strangled gasps every time Eddie slammed into you. “Let him, baby,” he coos. “Be a good girl and take all of it.”

He really gives you all of it. 

Eddie’s sure he only survived ‘86 just to see the way your tight little asshole contracts with every thrust he drills into your swollen pussy. 

“Eds–Eddie–”

“I know I know. Almost there, angel. Gonna fill you up real good,” he coaxes over your small whines, “wanna see you dripping with my cum.”

Eddie slams into you once more, then groans so loud it echoes across the wallpaper walls, and finally spills inside you with a cry. 

Steve comes in his own hand as Eddie pulls out of you, slapping your ass a few times with his cock before you collapse onto the bedsheets. Eddie falls right behind you, blinking up at the ceiling, coming down from his high.

In the middle of all the panting, your chests rising up and down, he doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do next. Part of him expects to be handed his clothes and a polite “thanks for coming.” But instead, you instinctively roll over to him, wrapping your arms around his body and burying your face against his chest. 

Steve just chuckles, finding his briefs on the floor and throwing them on, then finally walking over to where you’re cuddling Eddie, running his hand through your hair with a little smile.

“She gets kinda clingy after.”

You don’t even lift your head. “Don’t be rude.”

Steve grins wider. “Sorry, baby. Cute is the word. She gets cute after.”

You hum again, approving this time. Then, you let out a sigh of exhaustion, voice muffled in Eddie’s chest, “you guys are fucking crazy.”

Steve snorts. “We are crazy?”

“I didn’t exactly suggest a threesome, sweetheart,” Eddie chuckles, hugging you tighter. 

“Whatever,” you giggle. “Just…don’t let me fall asleep like this.”

Steve kneels beside the bed and rubs your back gently. “Want a shower, baby?”

You shake your head. “Bath.”

“Bath it is.”

He places a kiss on your shoulder, then stands and walks to your bathroom. A few moments later, Eddie hears the water running.

He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With you curled into his arms, naked with his seed still inside you, surrounded by the filthy pictures he’d taken of you. His hand comes up hesitantly, brushing your hair back with the same tenderness he always sees Steve do it. 

Where does this leave him though? Is this a one time thing? A hit and run? How can he go back to his normal life after this? 

He’d already been losing his mind over you for weeks. He’s never getting over this.

“Are you okay?” You ask, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

“Me?” 

“Yeah, your heart is beating really fast,” you say, hand resting lightly on his chest, right over it.

Eddie laughs under his breath. “Uh. Yeah. I’m just…kinda expecting for someone to tell me to get up and leave?”

You hum softly, nuzzling closer to him. “I don’t want you to leave, Eds…” 

He doesn’t get to say anything before Steve returns, a pink towel slung over his bare shoulder as he stands on the bathroom door. 

“Well, dude,” he says. “You bringing her or what?”

Eddie looks down at you, all cozied up in his arms. You don’t say anything, but you smile, soft and sweet and welcoming as always. 

The sun in his arms. 

He's not sure what the hell is next for him now. But at least for tonight, he’s staying. 

And I ain't gotta tell him, I think he knows

Thank you so much for reading! hope you enjoyed 👀🤭

Feedback is always appreciated 🤍

[missmemorielle]

when i saw this shot i also immediately knew i had to draw this scene as well! <3 (it's a big drawing so zoom in for details <: )

[foolish-mother-ive-already-falln]

STOP SCROLLING!!!

THAT WAS NOT A SCREENSHOT YOU JUST SAW!

THAT WAS A PAINTING!!!

LOOK AGAIN!!!