SOME NSFW CONTENT AHEAD 18+ ONLY (this is a side blog main :panicadjacenttopanko) Hello yes welcome! I’m Kit |30| Sometimes I feel creative, but most of the time I just PANIC
your first kiss with eddie happens when you’re painting his nails for him and he has to try to resist touching you because the polish is still wet.
wc: 1.6k+ | warnings: kissing, sensuality, sexual tension, friends to lovers, mention of marijuana use, no use of y/n, not explicit but mdni, reader is out of high school/an adult, eddie is repeating senior year again.
author’s note: would it really be so crazy if i said this little drabble is one of my favorite things i have ever written? also this is dedicated to @dearwalker for no reason other than she gets me.
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You’re supposed to be helping him study for a biology test.
It’s the whole reason you came over.
But then he suggested ordering a pizza. And then he rolled a joint for the two of you to share. Then the pizza was delivered, and he turned on a horror film that you’re sure he’s already seen at least a dozen times.
Now an hour has passed and his biology textbook is still open to the same page that it was when you first arrived.
The movie still plays as background noise as he focuses all of his concentration on painting his fingernails to match his raven curls.
Maybe it’s due to the fact that you’re a little buzzed, but you can’t stop staring at him.
Maybe you just think he’s pretty.
“It’s getting late,” you hum, transfixed by the way he bites his bottom lip in the endearing way that he always does when he’s hyper focused on a task. “If you wanna pass your test tomorrow, you need to study.”
He snorts. You know him well enough to know that he’s saying we could study for the next six fucking hours and I’m still not gonna pass that test without actually saying it.
“Quiz me,” he says without taking his eyes off the tips of his fingers. “This is going to take a while. I can paint my right hand pretty quickly, but the left…”
You stare at him for another moment when you get an idea. If he were to ask, you’d say it’s to speed up the process, but it’s not quite so easy to lie to yourself.
You just want to be closer to him.
You scoot to where he sits near the foot of his bed and hold out your hand for the tiny brush. He freezes and looks up at you with wide doe eyes.
“Let me help you,” you murmur. “And I’ll quiz you, too. Kill two birds with one stone.”
He smirks, passing you the brush. “You always have the best ideas.”
You take his left hand in yours and pull it closer to you, your eyes drawn to the details of his rings as if you haven’t stared at them a thousand times before. With your other hand, you dip the brush back into the nail polish bottle that he still holds in his right hand.
“I know. That’s why you keep me around.”
When you look up, he’s already watching you with a half-dazed expression. “Among other reasons.”
The air suddenly feels heavier. You force yourself to drop your gaze back down to his hand in yours, bringing the brush to the tip of his index finger and mentally willing your hand to stay steady.
You clear your throat. “First question. Define commensalism and give me an example.”
“Too easy,” he laughs lowly. You feel the faint vibration of it from where his hand rests in yours. “It’s a type of symbiotic relationship where one organism benefits but the other isn’t helped or harmed. Like…barnacles on a whale.”
You smile and nod, not taking your eyes off of his fingernail for fear that you’ll smear the black ink across his pale skin. “Good job,” you praise, moving onto his middle finger. “What about mutualism?”
“Also too easy. Mutualism is when both organisms benefit from the relationship. Like bees and flowers. Like coral and algae. And like me and you.”
You freeze, your heart hammering in your chest. “Me and you?” You muse, glancing up at him briefly through your lashes. Maybe it’s the chemicals in the nail polish affecting your ability to think clearly, but you swear his gaze lingers on your lips for a loaded second. “How so?”
He grins, highlighting the crinkles around his eyes. “You know,” he shrugs. “You help me study for a test, I buy you pizza. I let you smoke my weed, I get to stare at you while you paint my fingernails. Win-win situation if you ask me.”
Perhaps it’s not the chemicals making your imagination run wild, then. You’d think you were dreaming if it weren’t for how uncomfortably dry your mouth suddenly feels.
You do what you’re so naturally inclined to do - deflect.
Dropping your gaze again, you move onto the next finger. “Sounds to me like you’re getting the short end of the stick.”
You mentally curse the slight quiver in your voice.
“Pshhh,” he scoffs. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”
You shrug, moving onto his pinky nail. It takes every ounce of determination you possess to will your hands not to shake under the intensity of his stare.
“Hey,” he says softly when he realizes that you’re not going to give him a direct answer. Just as you’re finishing up the first coat of paint on his pinky, he takes the brush away from you. You feel you have no choice but to look him in the eye.
He’s looking at you with the same effortless softness as always. That’s what you find the most infuriating about it - he always looks at you just as fondly as he is right now. So why is it suddenly ripping the air from your lungs?
“I do not have the short end of the stick,” he says, almost defensively. “Not when I’ve got you in my room, sitting on my bed, holding my hand in yours. Anyone who isn’t me…that’s who has the short end of the stick.”
“Eddie,” you breathe, your brain short-circuiting. Suddenly, English is a foreign language. It may as well be your first day trying to string two words together.
You don’t have to worry about being speechless for long.
His eyes flicker to your lips again. He doesn’t even try to hide it. Then he shifts closer, his knees brushing against yours as he places the bottle of nail polish and the brush on his bedside table without ever looking away from you.
The Evil Dead playing on his television fades to static white noise as he starts to raise a hand to your face.
“Wait.”
He freezes when his lips are mere inches from yours. You grab his wrist in your hand right before it makes contact with your cheek.
The dejected look on his face is enough to make you wish you could go back in time by about five seconds and bite your stupid tongue.
“Shit,” he murmurs, pulling his hand away immediately. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I thought - I’m not sure what I thought.” He shakes his head, now looking anywhere but at you. “Can we please forget about—”
“No, no, no,” you say quickly, grabbing his wrist again. He tenses beneath your touch, an equal mix of confusion and disappointment on his face. “It’s not that. I want to kiss you. Of course I want to kiss you.”
He gulps. “You do? Then what—?”
“Your nails,” you explain, feeling silly. You just interrupted the kiss that you’ve envisioned more times than you can begin to recount over something as trivial as nail polish. “They’re still wet,” you huff a shaky laugh.
He stares at you with wide eyes. Blinks. Then, his shoulders drop in palpable relief and his lips quirk in amusement. “You really think I care more about my nails than I do kissing you?”
Your cheeks are burning. He’s too sweet. Always been too sweet. You shake your head, more at yourself than anything else. “Don’t want all my hard work to go to waste,” you murmur. “Just..let me. Okay?”
He nods, slow and dazed. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Okay.”
With his hands out of the question, he waits. Completely at your mercy.
You lift your other hand, just barely grazing the skin of his jaw before brushing a stray curl away from his face. His eyes flutter closed and he sucks in a sharp breath.
God, he’s pretty. Thick dark lashes against porcelain skin and plush lips that twitch in anticipation of you.
And you don’t intend on making him wait another moment.
The second your lips touch his, he all but sighs into you. His whole body shivers, shoulders trembling as he leans into you as much as he dares without moving his hands from where they hover at your sides.
His lips part under yours with a quiet gasp, and his head tilts just enough to deepen the kiss. You feel the tremor that runs through him when your fingers slide to the back of his neck, the way he tenses like he’s fighting the urge to sink his fingers into your waist, to pull you onto his lap, to touch you anywhere you’ll let him.
A soft whimper escapes him when your teeth scrap along the swell of his bottom lip.
“Jesus Christ,” he sighs against your lips, voice trembling with restraint. “Do you know how hard it is to not touch you right now?”
You huff a laugh, flustered and lightheaded. “Just a few more minutes,” you breathe. Then, because you want to touch him every bit as badly as he wants to touch you, you ease yourself onto his lap, steadying yourself with your palms against his chest. Through the fabric of his t-shirt, you feel his heart pounding. “Then you can touch me however you want.”
Another sharp inhale as you bracket your thighs around his waist. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he whispers, his breath fanning across your face. He swallows hard, his eyes even darker than usual with lust blown pupils as he gazes up at you. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
Your cheeks burn hot at the way he’s looking at you. Awestruck. “You’re dramatic,” you tease. “You know that?”
“Am not,” he huffs, though there’s nothing but fondness in his expression. “I’m being tortured. This is torture.”
Your thumb grazes his cheekbone and he nuzzles the side of his face against your palm.
“….Worth it, though.”
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thank you so much for reading <3 i love you forever if you comment/reblog
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