If you don't have your age in your bio or pinned post I will block u! Sorry not sorry but I reblog NSFW stuff and I'm not wanting minors on here or following me
Summary: Eddie meets his favorite actress. It's you. You’re his favorite adult film star.
Warnings: Adult themes | 🚫 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 🚫 | Smut 18+ (unprotected sex [risky business], vaginal penetration & fingering, jerk off instructions/mutual masturbation, oral [male receiving], size kink, riding, creampie [def risky], spit & cum play) - smut is thy trade, dirty talk and language.
Disclaimer: None of the spooky events of the Stranger Things (2016) series take place in this piece. Everything is just where it’s at because this is made up.
Title Inspiration: “Enjoy The Ride” by Night Riots
Pre A/N: The mania is mania-ing & I won’t complain because I finally finished this! Thank you to all who showed interest. I hope this delivers. There are many sexy ideas for this universe, just let me know if you want to read more. Enjoy!
mrwinterr masterlist || eddie munson masterlist
The Friday night rush had died down, leaving Family Video under the hum of sterile fluorescent lights. The closing duo, Steve, was killing time by mindlessly drawing shapes on the counter with loose candy, while Robin ran routine inventory reports on the computer next to him. Neither paid much attention to the old movie trailers looping on the TV in the corner nor the muffled ranting of their friend Eddie a few aisles over.
Eddie was on the hunt for a distraction – with no campaigns lined up, gigs booked or parties to deal at tonight. When Steve told him there were no new titles coming until next week, Eddie let out an exasperated groan. Not sure of what he could withstand to rewatch or just leave, he said, ‘fuck it’ and dragged himself to the adults only area. The night was a bust, might as well bust one too, right? He had no shame renting a dirty movie in front of his friends. It was Eddie, nothing was out of pocket. But as he rounded the corner, he froze. He wasn’t alone in this section.
A woman stood there, examining a box cover – the artwork then turning it over to read the synopsis on the back. He recognized the profile instantly. You. You don’t seem to notice him. He hadn’t seen you in years. You had been the "neutral" one in high school—not a popular kid like Steve, an outcast like Robin, or a "freak" like him. Just a ghost who graduated and presumably left Hawkins for good.
Every few months you’d return to your stomping ground to check in with family and visit old friends, keeping it on the low. Trying to entertain yourself during your stay, you decide to rent a movie for the night. So, to your surprise, when you stepped into Family Video, you weren’t expecting to see anyone familiar, much less Robin and Steve now employed there.
When you first walked in, Steve and Robin didn’t recognize you. You’d leaned into it, playing along with Steve’s clumsy flirting just to see how far you could go. The old you would have been too shy to look Steve Harrington in the eye, let alone make Robin Buckley blush with a single mischievous glance. You had the adult film industry to thank for your newfound armor of confidence.
You had cut Steve off mid-sentence, swiped a piece of candy from his hand, and strutted into the aisles, leaving them both intrigued and bewildered.
When you were out of their view, they debated trying to get a clear read on you. Who were you really flirting with? Who had a better shot? Him? Her? Both? All thoughts of trying to decipher your intentions ceased when the door chimed again signaling Eddie’s eventual arrival, leading them to abandon the argument, their focus shifting on catching up with their friend.
He couldn’t help but notice the slight transformations you’d undergone. You had seldom spoken to Eddie throughout the school years except for in passing or the occasional transactions in the woods behind the school, which had been mere business rather than personal. He thought you were cute back then, but with the passing of time, it had brought about significant growth and development, catching Eddie’s full attention once more.
His mind raced as he contemplated the possibilities that lay before him. The thought of reconnecting with you, a gateway to the possibility of exploring a potential deeper connection. Would he come up and say hi to you? Spit out something witty? Sell you more weed? Ask about what movie you’re looking at or how have you been since leaving him in the educational prison? Not that it was your fault he got held back. Caught in a whirlwind of emotions, his fight or flight mode was activated and he chose to flee.
As Eddie scrambled to make a hasty getaway, you caught his movements in your peripheral – the flash of brown, frizzy hair whipping past at the end of the aisle. You knew exactly who he was. His booming voice was still unmistakable, even after all this time, memories of his youth antics resurfacing.
He nearly knocks heads with Steve as he crashes into the counter, startling Robin at the register.
"Jesus, Munson! What's the rush? We still have half an hour before we close," Steve snapped.
"Did you guys know you have a fucking movie star in your store?" Eddie hissed, his eyes wide.
Robin and Steve exchanged blank stares. "Who are you talking about?" Steve asks, Robin turning her attention back to the computer.
Eddie sighed, his shoulders slumping. You were a big thing to him and the lack of shared enthusiasm only deflated his mood. The disconnect between their understanding of your presence and his own excitement weighed heavily on Eddie’s spirit as he quickly realized that they didn’t recognize you.
“Y’know…Hawkins High Class of ‘84,” Eddie hints and then pairs your name with the title Porn Star.
"Porn star?" Robin’s eyebrows shot up.
Steve says your name and shakes his head. "The cute, quiet, sweet girl? No way." He can’t get himself to believe it. “We’re talking about the same person?”
"Yes, her!" Eddie insisted.
“Wait, how do you know that?” Steve asks only to be met with Eddie’s widened eyes conveying a “how else do you think, idiot?” kind of way.
“Oh! Ew, dude!” Steve yells, expressing his disgust before backing away.
“You had to ask,” Robin chuckled, shaking her head, finding the situation now amusing.
“Come on, man. Grow up. It’s totally normal,” Eddie retorted, debunking Steve’s disgusted demeanor. Robin nodded in agreement.
“Still, I don’t want to think about it,” Steve insisted, slightly annoyed and crossed his arms.
“Whatever. Did you guys know she was even in here?” Eddie asked.
“No. I guess we forgot when you got here. She’s probably been here for a while,” said Steve.
“She got here a little before you did,” Robin suddenly recalls, “I remember now because Dingus flirted up a storm with her.”
“Don’t start with that,” Steve quickly defends himself, “I wasn’t the only one doing the flirting,” he added as the two revived their unsettled debate from earlier.
“Hey! Can I check out?” Your voice cut through their bickering like a blade.
Eddie spun around, his mouth hanging open. He took in your outfit—the cut-off shorts, the tight black tank top, and the oversized jacket.
The eye contact was heavy. Eddie was visibly flustered, caught between his teenage memories of you and his adult admiration of your work. You watched him, amused. Steve was gawking, and Robin was fighting a smirk. Steve was attractive, sure, but he didn't have the edge you were looking for. Eddie, however? He talked a big game. You wanted to see if he could back it up.
"Hi, Eddie," you said softly.
When he failed to find words, you stepped past him, placing a tape on the counter. You smiled at Robin as she processed the rental, ignoring the way Steve and Eddie were burning holes in your back.
"Good to see the selection has improved," you teased, taking the bag from Robin. You gave her and Steve a wave, but saved a lingering, finger-wiggling goodbye for Eddie.
The moment the door chimed behind you, Robin threw a Tootsie Roll at Eddie’s head. "Dude! She wants you!"
"You really think so?" Eddie asked, dazed.
"Duh! Go after her!" Steve urged, pointing at the door. "Because if you don't, I will."
“Oh please!” Robin scoffs at his empty threat.
“Don’t start with me again, Buckley-” Steve warns before the two begin insensibly arguing again.
Eddie rolled his eyes and bolted out the door to escape their quarreling. Outside, the night air was cool. He scanned the lot and found you leaning against the brick wall, a cigarette in hand. Smoke swirled past your lips as you looked at him, your rental bag dangling from your hand.
"You know my name?" He asked, the formal introductions clearly dead in the water.
"Of course I do," you replied, taking a slow hit of your cigarette. "Who doesn’t know Eddie Munson?"
He gave a small, self-deprecating nod. Who didn’t know the town freak? "It’s just... we never really talked back then."
"So, you remember me?"
"Of course I do," he mimicked, though he started fumbling the moment you raised a skeptical eyebrow. He shifted his weight, his usual bravado replaced by a restless, leg-to-leg shuffle. "I mean, we didn't hang out, but you were cool. From what I remember."
"And what about now?" you interjected, throwing the ball back into his court.
"What?"
"What am I like now?" You dropped the cigarette, extinguishing it with your foot as you stepped into his personal space.
"I-I mean, you're still cool," he stammered, his voice dropping as you closed the gap. "Cooler, actually."
"What did you think of my last movie?" You went straight for the jugular, your arm brushing against his. You felt him go rigid.
"You were phenomenal," he blurted out. The memory of your performance and your newfound flexibility flashed behind his eyes. He’d had no idea you could bend like that.
"Phenomenal, huh?" You tilted your head, savoring the way he was falling apart.
"Uh, yeah. You were... great." Eddie was a stuttering mess again, and you fought the urge to smirk.
"So, you're a fan," you concluded, finally backing off to let him breathe.
Eddie exhaled a breath he’d been holding since the store. He knew the cat was out of the bag; you’d obviously overheard him talking to Steve and Robin. He waited for the rejection – for you to be grossed out by watching your tapes. But you didn't flinch. You were a professional. As an adult film star, you were aware of the nature of the industry and the intent of your projects. None of the concepts, especially Eddie Munson jacking off, bothered you in the slightest.
"You know, I was a fan too," you revealed.
Eddie blinked, confused. "Oh, you...?" He tries to process why you would be having a conversation about watching porn.
"I used to watch you play at The Hideout on Tuesday nights," you clarified, enjoying the way his brain short-circuited.
"Oh! The band!" And like a light bulb…it went off. You nodded, smiling. He was sexy, sure, but he was also undeniably adorable.
You reminisce about the time a flier was hastily shoved at you and other select classmates in between the bells by Eddie and his band mates promoting the band’s weekly show. You had snuck into The Hideout in the middle of the week with your fake ID to watch Corroded Coffin and, in particular, Eddie, curiosity getting the best of you to learn more about him. He oozed confidence and unabashed authenticity on stage. With his guitar strapped around him, he was in his element, completely immersed in the music, transcended into another dimension. It was a high that you wished you could ride along with him and experience that same sense of freedom and passion.
"We still play there on Tuesdays," he said, trying to regain his cool.
"I'm only in town for the weekend," you pouted. You saw a flicker of genuine disappointment in his brown eyes. At that moment, you knew how you wanted to spend your last few days in Hawkins. "Do you want to watch this movie with me?" You shook the rental bag for effect.
Eddie, usually never at a loss for words, simply nodded, overwhelmed by the situation and his desire to spend the night with you.
Hell, he would be content watching whatever you picked even if it turned out to be some overrated John Hughes movie, but still the idea of engaging in other activities with you weren’t completely thrown out the window because God forbid, he’d be a lucky son of a bitch.
You hopped into his van, giving him the short directions to your apartment. It was a private, quiet space—a luxury your job afforded you. Inside, the atmosphere shifted. You kicked off your shoes and headed to the kitchen, leaving Eddie to admire the sanctuary you’d built.
The soft glow of the lamps and the mundaneness of a simple throw, trinkets, artwork and personal photos on the fridge made the "porn star" persona fade. To Eddie, it was a reminder that you were still the same person he’d grown up with.
You returned from the kitchen, hip-bumping the fridge shut and handing him a cold drink. As you settled onto the couch beside him, the playful teasing died down, replaced by something raw and unfiltered when you both started catching up.
"I wish we’d hung out back then," he confessed, finally able to look at you without faltering.
"I would’ve bored you," you dismissed.
"No, you wouldn’t have." He turned in his seat to face you fully. "You went to my shows. You have great taste in music... and beer." He raised his bottle with a grin. "You're fun, and you're..."
"I'm what?"
"...you're perfect."
You hummed, wondering if he meant you, or the version of you he’d seen on screen. If you’d had this confidence in high school, would you ever have left Hawkins? Would you be sitting here with Eddie for different reasons? You pushed the thoughts aside, reaching out to take his half-empty drink and setting it on the table.
"So," you whispered, your eyes locking onto his. "You still want to watch that movie?"
He catches the flicker of hesitation across your features, but you mask it before he can truly process it. You offer your hand and his larger one swallows yours, completely enveloping it.
He follows your lead into the bedroom, settling at the headboard of your bed. His eyes track your every move as you pull a tape from your bag and feed it into the VCR. The screen erupts in a burst of static before a familiar intro begins to roll. Eddie’s breath hitches, he knows this film. It’s one of his favorites, but the realization that you are the star hits him like a ton of bricks.
It’s one of your movies.
When you turn back to him, the soft, familiar girl from Hawkins is gone. In her place stands the woman from the screen—his favorite porn star, brought to life in the dim light of the room. As the audio fills the space, you begin to mirror your on-screen persona, silently mouthing the lines with a practiced, sultry precision. It’s a solo scene, and the heat in Eddie's gaze makes it clear he knows he’s just secured a front-row seat to the show.
The jacket hits the floor first. Between the sudden chill of the room and the adrenaline spiking through your veins, your nipples harden visibly against the thin fabric of your tank top. The flickering glow of the television acts like a spotlight, carving your body into a landscape of shifting shadows and curves.
He follows every inch of your silhouette as the layers fall - first the top, then with the rhythmic sway of your hips as you step out of your bottoms, leaving you in nothing but your lace set all while the muffled melody from the TV hums in the background.
Propping a knee on the edge of the mattress, you begin a slow, predatory crawl toward him, your gaze fixed. Eddie offering a silent prayer to gravity because from his reclined position, the view of your cleavage is devastating. His mouth goes dry at the sight of your breasts straining against the lace, and while he tries to maintain eye contact, he’s effectively paralyzed by the vision in front of him.
Balancing your weight on one palm, you use the other to trace a path up his denim-clad leg. You give the meat of his thigh a firm, lingering squeeze just enough to make his muscles twitch beneath your touch. After a playful tug on the silver chains looping from his belt, you shift, settling onto your shins directly between his parted thighs.
Your hands move upward, mapping the heat of his torso. You let your palms skim his skin, fingers grazing through the light hair of his happy trail before dragging your nails lightly over his nipples. The contact elicits a sharp, jagged hiss.
You pull yourself upward until his face is level with your chest. Any lingering sense of modesty has long since vanished, leaving him with nowhere to look but the soft curves right in front of him. The sharp snap of a clasp echoes in the quiet room, and then he’s watching, breathless, as your breasts spill free from the cups of your bra. You are so close that the heat of his staggered breathing ghosts across your skin.
You push back just enough to toss the lace aside, your hands returning to his thighs. You take a moment to admire the feeling of him, groping the sturdy muscle before your fingers hook into the waistband of his jeans. You tilt your head back, locking eyes with him in a silent, loaded question.
Eddie nods eagerly, desperate for you to keep going, but you go still. You wait, watching him, until the realization finally flickers in his blown-out pupils. You aren't going to do all the work. You’re waiting for him to aid you in the undressing process.
He wastes no time, popping the button and dragging the zipper down with frantic fingers. He arches his hips off the mattress, and you reward him with a smile as you grip the denim, sliding his pants down the length of his legs until he’s left in his boxers. The fabric is already straining, a prominent tent rising beneath the material. You’re tempted to strip him bare then and there, but you decide to draw out the agony of anticipation.
After tossing his jeans to the floor, you settle back between his legs, turning your own undressing into a choreographed show. With your knees bent—cruelly obstructing his view—you lift your hips and slide the thin silk of your panties down your legs. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you slowly spread your legs, baring yourself to him. His expression is a masterpiece of shock and adoration, frozen and utterly captivated.
“Watch the movie,” you command softly.
The cinematic version of you lies on a crisp white bed, hands kneading your own breasts. As the on-screen you whines and tugs at your nipples, your thighs rub together in a restless rhythm.
Eddie’s gaze flickers between the screen and the reality in front of him. In the flickering glow of the TV, he can see the glisten of saliva on your nipples as you mimic your on-screen self. What truly unnerves him, in the best way possible, is your stare. You keep your eyes locked on him throughout the performance. He knows this movie by heart; he knows exactly what comes next, but he isn't sure his heart can take the live rendition.
You bring your fingers to your lips, wetting them before sliding them down to circle your clit, mixing your heat with the slickness of your mouth. Eddie bolts upright, abandoning his slouch for a better vantage point just as your fingers sink into your own wetness. Your head falls back, a moan escaping your throat that harmonizes with the audio from the speakers. The wet, rhythmic sounds of your friction fill the room, drowning out everything else.
When you finally slow your pace, you glance at him, savoring the look of hunger on his face. He’s still wearing his shirt; a flicker of self-consciousness crosses his features as he likely compares himself to your co-star on the screen.
You cock your head, reading the room instantly. “I want to see you, Eddie,” you murmur, your voice a low as you run a hand over his ankle. “...all of you.”
Well, fuck it, he thinks. He pulls the shirt over his head and tosses it aside. Your eyes immediately map the landscape of his chest, the dark ink of his tattoos, the light dusting of hair, and the trail leading downward. He isn't a plastic movie star, and that’s exactly why he’s so delicious.
“You’re so hot, Eddie,” you praise him, the pace of your hand between your legs quickening. The faint blush on his cheeks tells you he doesn't hear that nearly enough.
The time for teasing is over. Your voice drops to a demanding edge. “Take your cock out.”
Shedding the last of his inhibitions along with his boxers, he finally reveals himself. He is thick, flushed, and perfectly at attention, the tip already weeping with a bead of pre-cum. You bite your lip, fighting the impulse to lean forward and taste him right then.
“Touch yourself,” you command, your eyes dark with intent. “Show me what you do when you watch me.”
Your gaze remains fixed on him, your fingers maintaining their steady, rhythmic friction as the digital version of yourself continues its performance over your shoulder. You watch with a voyeur’s curiosity, imagining the dark, frantic thoughts racing through his mind.
You’re mesmerized by the sight of him – the way his hand firmly grips his length, knuckles white as he works himself. Your own mind begins to wander, replaced by vivid images of his thick fingers replacing your own, plunging deep into your heat or using the right amount of pressure at the bundle of nerves. You can almost feel the weight of him, the slick, weeping head of his cock dragging against your slit, the promise of him splitting you open and throbbing within you.
He seems lost in the haze of his own fantasy, his movements becoming more urgent, so you decide to pull him back to the reality of the room.
“How does it feel, Eddie?” you ask, your voice thick with a low, fervor.
“S-so good,” he chokes out, his voice cracking under the strain of his arousal.
“Yeah?” you lean in, egging him on with a predatory smile. “Are you getting it nice and hard for me?”
A ragged string of curses falls from his lips in response. His eyes squeeze shut, his head falling back against the headboard as your words weaponize the pleasure, sending a fresh wave of overwhelming intensity crashing through his body.
You reach over and seize Eddie’s wrist, yanking his hand away. The sudden movement breaks his trance, his eyes snapping to yours as you bring his palm directly to your face.
On the screen, you do the same to your co-star. You stick your tongue out, running it flat and slow along the center of his palm, tasting the salt of his skin. Eddie lets out a choked sound, his fingers twitching. Without breaking eye contact, you lower his hand, guiding it down until his slick palm meets the rigid length of his cock. Once he finds his rhythm again, you go back to your earlier task of teasing yourself.
"Is that better?" you murmur, quoting the film with a wicked tilt of your head.
Eddie can only nod, his eyes darting frantically between your fingers, which are now disappearing into your own heat. The dual audio of your real-life whimpers and the recorded moans create a dizzying, erotic echo in the small room.
You watch him watch you. He’s completely captivated, his head rolling back as he witnesses you reach your first climax in person. As you pull your fingers back, glistening and trembling, you outstretch your arms toward him.
"Taste it," you command.
He doesn't hesitate. He’s on autopilot, leaning in to wrap his lips around your digits, sucking the arousal from your skin with a desperation that makes your own knees weak. You can feel his tongue against your fingertips, his eyes squeezed shut as he finally abandons the screen for the real thing.
The game is over. You’re done sharing him.
You pull your fingers from his mouth and lunge forward, crashing your lips into his in a messy, spit-slicked collision. You let him have dominance, giving him permission to explore your mouth while your hands snake down, wrapping around his thick length. You give it a light, deliberate squeeze, swallowing the delicious moan that erupts from his throat.
You reluctantly pull away, loving the sight of his kiss-swollen lips. You slide down the bed, meeting his throbbing cock face-to-flesh.
"Such a pretty cock," you whisper, gripping him and tapping the head against your cheek. "And so big."
On the TV, the "routine" continues, but Eddie isn't looking at the screen anymore. He’s looking at you, his chest heaving as you finally take him in.
"Open your eyes," you instruct, your voice dropping into a domineering purr. "Look at me."
You glide your tongue along the length of his shaft in a slow, deliberate motion that makes him jolt. You watch in awe as your spit cascades down his length, scooping it up to use as lube as you begin to stroke him.
"Holy shit," he gasps. Your half-lidded eyes never leave him.
You wrap your lips around the crown, sucking lightly and dipping your tongue into the slit to taste the salt of his pre-cum. Then, you take him in inch by inch. None of your past "performances" prepared you for Eddie. He’s nestled deep, triggering a mouth-watering ache in your throat. You hold the position for a few seconds, the muscles contracting around him as you gag, then pulling away to search for air, using the slick mess to aid you as you dive back in.
"Fuck. Do that—do that again," he grunts, rubbing his face in disbelief. "Please, please."
He doesn't have to beg. The wet, rhythmic sounds of your throat battle with the audio from the TV, but the real-time version is louder, hungrier. You drag him against the inside of your cheek, mimicking the screen one last time before releasing him with an audible pop.
Using the mixture of spit and heat at his base, you give him a few final, frantic pumps before letting go to straddle him. You lean down for a chaste kiss, bracing one palm on his stomach while the other holds him hostage right at the gate of your entrance.
You don’t rush as you sink down inch by inch, watching Eddie’s jaw drop, a long, breathless hiss escaping his teeth as you stretch to take all of him.
"God..." he groans out your name, his hands coming up to rest tentatively on your hips.
"Don't move," you say, leaning forward so your hair brushes his face. "I wanna feel you for a second." You really want to just bask in him inside you before you let loose.
As you begin to ride him, the friction creates a frothy, white lather where your bodies meet, a visceral sign of just how worked up you’ve made him. You aren't just riding him; you’re grinding down, using your weight to ensure he feels every bit of friction. You arch your back, your hands moving to your own breasts, mimicking the scene on the screen but with a raw intensity no camera could ever capture.
Eddie is a wreck beneath you, especially when you lean back to brace your palms on his thighs, feet planted on his sides, all so Eddie could have a bird’s eye view of his glistening cock disappearing inside you repeatedly. What a POV.
His hips hitch upward instinctively, trying to meet your rhythm, but you keep him pinned, your eyes locked onto him. You want him to watch you—to see exactly what he’s doing to you.
"You're... you're fucking unreal," he gasps, his fingers digging into the skin of your thighs. The bruising touch makes your thighs give up, and your legs reclaim their position trapping his hips.
You lean in, “Touch me” you demand, guiding his hands up to your chest, your voice a low, vibrating hum against his ear as the male co-star flickers onto the screen. “Do you imagine you’re him?” you ask seductively. “Do you imagine it’s your hands on my body?” Then bring his hand to your mouth, “Your fingers in my mouth?” Sucking his thick digits before asking one more question, “Your cock in my pussy?”
You pick up the speed, your pussy walls clenching around him with every stroke. You can feel Eddie vibrating, his breath coming in ragged, desperate hitches as he nears his limit.
"Please," he whimpers, his head thrashing back.
You snake a hand around his neck while the other grounds itself on his thigh for balance as you grind harder and faster against his cock. “You gonna cum?” you choke out. He nods frantically, his eyes wide and dark. “Good. Because I want you to cum inside me. I want it deep. Can you do that? Can you cum for me?”
Eddie doesn't need to be asked twice. Who was he to deny a goddess?
He reaches up, his hands tangling in your hair to pull you down for a deep, messy kiss as he finally snaps. He bucks upward one last time, his entire body jolting then still as he pours himself into you, each pump of hot cum filling your insides spreading warmth through your lower body, whereas the tight coil in your belly snaps, your walls repeatedly trigger aftershocks squeezing him tighter, driving you head first into the crook of his shoulder, your face buried in his messy locks and sweaty skin.
When your strength finally returns, you slowly lift your hips. His spent cock slips out with a wet sound, a trail of mixed fluids escaping you and staining his lower abdomen. You both whine at the sudden loss of connection.
Guided by the last bit of adrenaline, you maneuver down, greedily lapping up the spent heat that spilled onto his skin. You run your tongue down the length of him, cleaning the mess, causing his hips to jolt from the sensitivity. You moan around him one last time before releasing him with a soft, audible pop and plopping down to lie next to him.
Meanwhile, the credits roll in a silent, flickering crawl on the TV until the screen turns blue. Eddie looks like a man who has lost his grip on reality. The air in your room is stifling, thick with the scent of sex and the hum of the static coming from the speakers.
"You're...you're phenomenal,” he says breathlessly.
You let out a shaky laugh, turning your head to look at him. His hair is a wild, tangled mess across the pillows, and his dark eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them.
"Eddie," you whisper, your thumb stroking his cheekbone. "You are phenomenal. Always have been…on stage, back in the cafeteria, when you’d stand on tables and make a scene during lunch," His cheeks tint momentarily at his ridiculousness, only because he still does that to this very day, “…and especially in bed.” You put emphasis on this one as you turn to snuggle into the warmth of his chest.
He pulls the duvet up high around the two of you, creating a small, private world – just long enough for the weekend.
The following Monday at Family Video, Steve leans over the returns bin, picking and handing the next film to Robin, who clicks away on the computer.
The bell chimes, and Eddie Munson didn't just walk in, he swaggered. He looked delightfully wrecked; his hair is wilder and his eyes rimmed with the kind of exhaustion that only comes from a very successful weekend. In his hand, he gripped the plastic rental bag like a holy relic.
"No way," Steve said, dropping a VHS tape onto the counter with a heavy thud. "Munson? I thought you’d died of embarrassment after Friday night,” he adds with a little mockery of Eddie blubbering.
Eddie ignored him, sliding the bag across the laminate toward Robin with a slow, triumphant flourish. "Returning a rental for a friend," he said, his voice a low, smug rasp.
Robin’s eyes widened as she pulled the tape out. She recognized the title immediately—it was the adult film you had rented Friday night. She looked from the box to Eddie, then back to the tape.
"You're returning her movie?" Robin asked, her voice jumping an octave. "As in... you were with her? All weekend?"
"The cinematography was even better in person, Buckley," Eddie leaned over the counter, his voice dropping to a whisper that he knew Steve could hear. "High definition doesn't even begin to cover it."
Steve’s jaw practically hit the floor. He looked at the tape, then at Eddie, his brain struggling to bridge the gap between "Quiet Classmate" and "Porn Star." It’s always the quiet ones, he guessed.
"Wait, wait, wait. You’re telling me she spent the weekend with you? I gave her free candy! I used my best material!" Steve paced a small circle behind the register, his hands flying up in exasperation.
"Your material is a bit... 'G-rated' for a girl like her, Harrington," Eddie teased.
"I don't believe it," Steve muttered.
Eddie leaned over the counter, sliding a second movie toward Steve. "Oh, and I almost forgot. I’d like to return this one too."
Steve picked it up, flicking the case open to check the return date. He groaned, rubbing his temples. "Munson, this is three days late."
"Hey," Eddie said, spreading his hands and tilting his head with a look of mock innocence. "Better late than never, right?”
Steve looked at the tape, then at Robin. "I'm charging him double for the late fee."
“Whatever” Eddie says shrugging. It wasn’t the first late fee he received.
He could only think about your inevitable return to Hawkins. Ain’t nothing was going to break his stride, he was going to enjoy the ride with you.
Post A/N: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment/like. I'd totally appreciate it! <3
Summary: After a few too many drinks, secrets start to mean less and your skin starts to hum Eddie’s name, whether you feel it or not. He answers the call.
Word Count: 6.3k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, PiV unprotected semi-public sex, secret friends with benefits, cream pie, cum eating, little bit of oral (fem rec), dirty talk, drunk!Eddie POV, jealousy, possessiveness, panty stealing, begging, testosterone-off, small physical altercation (not R), desperation station, PDA, switch!Eddie, mild public embarrassment, dubcon (alcohol consumption; one-sided drunk sex), established relationship, Eddie is down horrendously, drunk!horny!Eddie abuses endearments, R wears a skirt (for easy access)
Song Rec: Drunk in Love by Beyoncé
A/N: Happy (almost) Valentine’s Day <3 Also, SURFBOAR— SURFBOAR—
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Eddie feels good.
Actually, he feels better than good—
He feels amazing.
The alcohol in his bloodstream is rushing, warming him from the inside out, leaving him flushed in the face.
The smoky bar is playing old Judas Priest tracks.
He’s drunk enough to not care how badly he’s losing the bet—the one he made thinking Steve would easily beat Robin at a billiards game. How was he supposed to know she was some kind of a whiz at Pool?
He’s got his girl to his right and the two bickering boneheads in front of him.
A couple of beers, some smooth vodka, great music, and friendly competition.
What’s not to love?
Although, you do keep inching away from him every time he gets close. He’s not loving that new development.
Somewhere in the back of his mind—before the three pints and the two shots—he recalls your hushed voice in his ear, outside the bar. It was low and sultry. Scratchy and strained, but not like how it gets after a long day of talking. No—
It was the type of strain that happens when you’ve spent too many hours screaming his name. When too many breaths have torn from your chest, ragged and pressed out by the strength of his hips.
That type of strain is his favorite…. But you had said something then—
You leaned close. The music from the bar was leaking out into the muggy, open air of the parking lot. There was noise from the road nearby. Fast cars, rubber peeling off of wet asphalt—
Wet asphalt emanating heat and earthy scents—
And there was you. He could smell you, too. His favorite scent. The perfume you always leave traces of, like love notes he finds well after you’re gone. Proof of your existence in his bed, near his clothes, on him.
You leaned close. Yes, because of the noise—the music, the cars.
And your mouth brushed the shell of his ear and he shuddered. You laughed. Sweet and teasing. You laughed.
He shuddered again, or maybe he was just vibrating with excitement—he could never tell around you. Then he felt what you were saying before you even said it. Your kiss-bitten lips curved so delicately around every syllable.
You called his name.
His favorite shape your mouth makes…
Well, that, and the stretch of—
No. No, you said something. His name. That’s what you said.
That and something else.
What was it?
He closes his eyes, trying to relive the moment— Your mouth against his ear, your hot breath on his skin, his name on your lips…
Fuck, he can’t remember. And damn it, you won’t let him touch you.
You just took yet another shuffle-step to the right. He didn’t even realize he was leaning into you until you did that
Come to think of it, what you said before probably had to do with why you’re not letting him touch you now.
Usually you love it. You welcome his zealous exploration. He knows that, you tell him through the prettiest sighs—
And what you said—well, it felt important at the time. You dropped his hand to say it, so it must’ve been.
But as the golden glow of the hanging light fixture shines down on you, your hair glinting with every movement, his patchy memory no longer seems all that significant.
The sound of dense resin knocking together draws his attention to the table, the green surface missing one less solid colored ball.
“Yes!” Robin calls out, pumping her fist victoriously.
“Shit!” Steve curses at the same time, stamping the butt of his wooden cue on the floor.
“Oof, rough go, Steve.” You smirk, pretty as a picture.
Eddie wishes you’d look at him like that.
Subtly, he brushes his arm against yours—the one that’s holding your beer. His eyes practically roll at the heat rippling across your soft skin.
But you move away at the first contact. That’s really starting to get on his nerves. Because what, is he radioactive or something? What’s so bad about him wanting to hold you?
You lean forward. “Maybe if you—”
“No speak from the opposition!” Steve shouts stiltedly, sending an accusatory finger your way. His eyes flit from you to the table as he strategizes his next shot. “I will not let your womanly wiles corrupt me—”
“Mm, I would,” Eddie purrs lowly, floating into your orbit. His leisurely efforts are abruptly halted, though, when you jab a knuckle into his side.
Steve paces, wearing a chasm into the chipped, creaky floorboards of the old dive bar. “If you had bet on me like you should’ve, then maybe I’d hear you out. But since you’ve left me scorned, I’d like to keep my dignity intact, thank you.”
“For now,” Robin simpers, sending you a side-long glance. “Or wait, do we think he had any to begin with?”
“Mmm, jury’s still out—” you shrug, lips curled like you’re trying not to laugh at the frazzled man’s brewing tantrum.
Eddie giggles, “Dignity…Steve.” The words feel heavy on his tongue, like he’s dragging each syllable out a second too long.
Steve grumbles—something about trading. Or maybe ‘trait-or’? Eddie doesn’t know, he’s too busy weathering the turn of the earth now that you’re looking at him again. It’s been forever since he’s held your attention, and he was nearly at the point of begging.
It’s not just your eyes on him, though. You’re smiling, too. It’s that knowing smirk he loves. The kind that makes his knees weak and his pants feel tight.
But then your lips twitch, smile faltering as you peer down at his finger hooked in the waistline of your skirt. And suddenly, you turn to him, shifting your hip out of reach. He opens his mouth, a complaint on the tip of his tongue when you force a half-drank bottle of beer into his outstretched hand with a terse, “Hold this.”
Straightening up, he gathers himself, prepared to shoulder any task for you—no matter how trivial. His responding, “Okay, baby,” is drowned out by Steve’s loud cheer after finally pocketing a ball.
You turn back to Robin and Steve, leaving Eddie chasing after your gaze. “I’ll get the next round.” And just like that, you’re gone.
He jogs after you, the floor feeling uneven as he stumbles through groups of people. You’re leaning against the bar, waiting for the drinks when he arrives, looming over you with heaving breaths.
“Oh, baby, y’look so pretty tonight,” he grunts, wrapping an arm around your waist, trailing his lips up your neck.
You whip around, hand shoving against his chest until he stumbles back a few paces. His eyes widen, stinging from the pain of rejection, and he feels minuscule under your cold glare.
When you swallow, glancing somewhere behind him, he has to stop himself from moving into your eyeline. Because damn it, if you’d just look at him longer than a second—
“You need to stop,” you hiss.
His head jerks back, the burn of nausea twisting low in his gut. “Wha—”
“You said you’d be good, Eddie.”
He is being good! He’s being so good! All he’s done tonight is stare at you and touch you—you love when he does that!
He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut in before he gets the chance to start.
“You said you’d behave! So you better start now, or we’ll have to leave,” you grit out, stepping back from him once more.
Following your movement, his overheating body crowds you against the bar. “No, please, don’t make us leave, baby,” he hurries, grabbing at your hips. “‘M havin’ so much fun, don’t wanna go—”
Your shoulders drop, you lean into him, and he almost closes his eyes, certain your lips will find his.
“Okay, then be-have,” you admonish, then turn to collect the drinks left behind by the busy bartender.
Eddie decides he’d much rather have gotten a kiss than a warning.
Sliding out of his embrace, you march back to your party, a grumbled, “Just friends, Eddie. You promised they wouldn’t know—” fading the further you flee.
And he feels like he just stepped into the Twilight Zone because what the hell? Why would he say that? That doesn’t sound like him at all—
“Thank God, gimme that,” Steve swipes a bottle from your arms, chugging it. He jabs a finger in Robin’s direction. “This woman wants me dead.”
She snorts, then looks at you with an unimpressed glint in her eyes.
“Missed another shot?” you ask, brow quirked.
“Multiple,” Robin confirms.
“It is just not your night, is it, Steve?”
Before the beleaguered man can answer, Robin cuts in, elbowing him. “It’s never his night. That’s basically his whole thing. He’s, like, the personification of a Monday.”
Steve snaps, “Okay, that’s enough outta you. Just take the damn shot.”
A loud clack, then a muffled thump into leather, and Robin laughs manically.
Eddie watches you lean over the table, passing the girl her drink. Inch by inch, your skirt rises the more you reach, and his head drops to the side, weighed down by curiosity.
He thinks of the black panties you shimmied on before coming here. He watched you then, just like he watches you now. Watched the way you wiggled the flimsy fabric over your ass, how the material covered your freshly fucked cunt so delicately.
The same black fabric peeks out from beneath the hem of your skirt, only now, there’s a wet splotch between your folds, and he knows exactly what soaked through.
You straighten up—too soon for his liking—but Eddie’s still staring. Still leering at that cursed skirt. It’s never done him any good—always hiding you away. Then again, maybe it’s done him a world of good. It’s been the catalyst to many a sweaty tryst, that’s for sure. But right now, it’s useless fabric obstructing his favorite view.
In the back of his mind, he vaguely registers the bickering going on around him, the music blaring. But his focus is divided between the sight of your upper thighs and the stirring in his pants.
He reaches down to adjust himself, then quickly remembers the beer in his hand. The condensation beading down the glass has seeped into his skin, pruning his fingers. He doesn’t remember why he’s even holding the thing to begin with.
Setting the bottle on a nearby table, he shuffles closer to you. You’re talking to Steve, and he’s not quite sure what you’re saying, but he hears you choke on your words the moment he presses against you. There’s a hiss of breath that sounds like his name, but his mind goes blank as tingling pleasure prickles up his spine, almost a relief of pressure. Or the temptation of relief.
The feeling is small, but it’s intoxicating. Even more than the alcohol in his bloodstream. Because now he’s drunk on you. On what could be if he just bent you over and—
You cough, clearing your throat as you take a step forward—right up to the Pool table. Eddie grunts, grabbing your hips and dragging you back against him, this time with a stronger, steadying grip.
“No, that doesn’t count as a mulligan— Hey! Ed, what the hell are you doing?”
Steve’s question falls on deaf ears, and your elbow digging into his ribs does nothing to deter his mission. Because the heat is building. In his flushed cheeks, in his muscles. Even lower. Incendiary friction sparks something dizzying and all-consuming.
“Dude, at least let her breathe. No need to hover—”
He’s laughing, but Eddie doesn’t think it’s funny. Not when you slip from his hold, yet again, now an arms-length away. Too far.
Your palms are planted on the glossy, oak edge of the table as you huff out something that sounds like it would’ve been a chuckle if it hadn’t collapsed halfway up your throat. “Think he just gets weirdly clingy when he’s drunk. Don’t know why I’m the victim, though—”
There’s a sharpness to your tone. It’s dulled by his inebriated ears. Undeterred, he closes in on you. “You’re so pretty, baby.”
The words slip out easily. Your shocked reaction only makes Steve laugh harder.
“Jesus Christ, you’re really three sheets to the wind, dude—”
Eddie ignores him, but then watches as he turns to you.
“Does he think you’re someone else?”
The question makes Eddie’s chest rumble. As if you could be anyone else. As if he could want anyone else this badly—
Wrapping his arms around your rigid frame, he can feel your ribs expand on the breath you draw in. Before a response tumbles past your lips, he squeezes you. Quick and firm. It’s the only warning he can manage without ripping fabric or leaving teeth marks on your delicate skin.
Because he knows what you’d say. He’s starting to catch onto the lies. And he’s not in the mood to play pretend anymore.
“How many has he had?”
Robin’s voice sounds distant as Eddie finds himself beside you again—not far, this time, but shucked off all the same—monitored under your eagle eyed gaze. When she calls your name, stealing your attention for…something about going home or taking a home, he can’t find it in him to care. Not about Robin’s itch for theft or Steve’s quiet, regarding stare.
He can smell your perfume. It calls to him, whispers of heat and closeness. Of the subtle change in the chemical makeup when you begin to warm beneath him, when his sweat mixes with yours. The evil scent pulls him in until his nose is running along your neck. You don’t jump nearly as much as you have been. He’s breaking you down. All he has to do is persist.
You reach across your body, finding his chest and he almost giggles at the half-hearted shove you give. Like it’s just for show. Like you don’t really want him gone. Then your fingers curl around the flimsy material of his shirt and he’s certain you don’t want him gone. How could you push him away if you’ve got a hold on him?
With a groan, he presses his straining length against the underside of your other wrist, your palm still planted firmly on the edge of the table. It’s a slow, focused grind; his knees nearly buckle. Pushing harder as his own hands slide down your arm, he keeps you in place.
“Fuck, Eddie, st—”
“Holy shit, he’s like a cat in heat,” Steve mutters, cutting you off in what Eddie deems a particularly grating tone. It does nothing to aid the coiling need he’s trying to sate.
Tension bleeds from your muscles in a slow-burning drip as your form sways just the slightest bit in his direction. He can feel you fighting the urge to melt into him. He’s waiting. Patiently. As patiently as he can without compromising his own desires.
Then, your chin tips and you whisper a lackluster, “Eds, seriously, not here—” over your shoulder.
“Okay, what the fuck, man.”
A large hand lands on his bicep, pulling him away from you. His heartrate spikes.
A calamitous anger rages inside, catching like a wildfire through his veins. It feels like integrity but tastes like possession.
Whipping around, he smacks the arm away, blindly knocking the culprit back.
“Dude! Actually get the fuck off her—”
“Steve, it’s fine!”
Your sharp tone slices through the fog in his mind; it settles the devastation inside, canning it for another time. He stares at your back as you move between him and a very angry-looking Steve. Chest all puffed out, the ex-jock is the picture of chivalrous defense, and he can’t help but grin.
If the good knight only knew the things you’ve let Eddie do to you…
“Yeah, Steve,” he drawls, his heavy-lidded gaze sliding from the incensed man to you, the one-woman garrison emboldened by altruism and bolstered by sweetness. He inches closer; a shadow encroaching on the light, a predator going in for the kill. “She said it’s fine.”
His palms hover over your skin, consuming and reveling in the heat. Up your arms, around your shoulders, and back, he maps out your body, admiring the winding curves he’s traversed many times before. The simmering rage of the man in front of you only encourages his quiet appreciation.
Slowly, delicately, he leaves a chaste kiss where your neck meets your shoulder.
You tremble, blinking like you mean to steel yourself.
And his grin widens. “See? She likes it—”
Steve snaps into action, but Robin is quicker, throwing her arm out in front of him. At the same time, you grab Eddie’s wrist, yanking him after you.
“That’s it, I’m taking you home.”
He lets you drag him away, tossing a smirk over his shoulder. Steve tries to ask if you’re sure and you only let out a clipped, “See you guys later,” in response.
Eddie can’t help but congratulate himself on yet another successful victory. You’re his. You’re choosing him, again. A room full of people and you’re taking him home.
He somehow feels both stone-cold sober and wasted beyond belief, all from your fingers digging into his pulse. And the alcohol. There’s that, too.
Weaving through meandering patrons, the exit sign comes into view. You’re talking, but he can’t hear you. The words float ahead, jostled and spliced by the whining guitar riff peeling from the surrounding speakers. He hears the anger, though. It doesn’t bother him.
Once the door closes behind him, the stuffy bar now in his rearview and the night air filling his lungs, he drops his weight back, no longer moving so willingly.
You grunt, but otherwise seem unfazed. Only tightening your grip and continuing your lecture—
“—at fault. I mean, seriously, we fucking agreed! It was mutual! We said we didn’t want the dynamic to change, then you down a few too many, and now all of a sudden, you’re measuring dicks with Steve. I mean, you might as well’ve just pissed on me—it was too fucking obv—”
Pebbles kick up beneath his skidding shoes as he finds his balance.
“Oh, sure, make this harder than it has to be. You’re great at that—”
The last word catches in your throat as he pulls you the opposite way, back to the bar. You stumble, trying your best to resist, but he’s moving you easily.
“Eddie, what the fuck did I say? If you can’t behave, we’re leaving. We’re not going back— Agh—”
Pressed against the brick wall of the building, hidden in the alley beside it, your complaints fall to unintelligible nonsense as Eddie attacks your neck, lips ravaging any sliver of skin he can find. His body envelops yours, keeping you still with a force he can’t find it in him to tame, especially for the sake of propriety. Not now. Not after waiting so dreadfully long.
“E-Eddie, slow d-down, Jesus—”
“Can’t,” he grunts, finding his way to your mouth, mumbling like a wanton man. “I need you, baby. Need you so fuckin’ bad—” His hips jut forward, searching for reprieve from the miserable strain of his jeans.
When your back arches, he sinks his talons in, blunt nails biting and fingers digging as he clings onto you. Because in this moment, you’re the only thing keeping him from falling off the face of the earth; he feels it racing beneath his feet. Your eyes on his, the taste of your lips—it slows everything down.
“Shit, you’re so pretty. So, so pretty—”
Every word is mindless, slurred, but true. Inhibition has long-since died a silent, restful death inside him, buried somewhere low, near the hearth that never stops burning for you.
His hands grope and grab at anything they can reach—your ass, your thighs, your arms, your breasts. Anything. All of it keeps him here for one second more. Grounded in your softness. Steady on your terrain.
“Eds, we—we have to go,” you gasp, pliant beneath his roving touch. He closes the gap, tongue tangling with yours in a sloppy, searing kiss that makes his mind whir and his ears fill with a fizzing sound.
“Nuh-unh, wanna stay,” he pants, nipping at your pulse point, feeling your blood rush. “Wanna stay with you.”
His hands slip beneath your skirt as you hold onto his shoulders. You give a weak push when his fingers pull at the gusset of your panties, but it’s not nearly enough to deter him.
“We can’t st—ay, fuck— You’re drunk, Eddie. I don’t even know how you’re hard right now.”
He hums, straightening to his full height and pressing you harder against the wall. His breath comes fast; he can’t seem to catch it as he watches you.
How is it not obvious?
“‘S you,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your temple. “‘S all you. Makin’ me burn…. Makin’ me want you so damn bad it hurts.”
You swallow, lashes fluttering as you lean into his gentle touch. “I’m sorry I hurt you…but we can’t do this. Not he—”
“You don’t want me?” His voice is brittle. Breaking.
A night full of small rejections comes to a head as the weight of your words—sincerity and conviction threaded through every syllable—crashes into him, a frenzied tidal wave leaving wreckage in its wake.
He only manages to retreat half a step before you’re pulling him back, arms wrapping around his neck.
“I do want you,” you rush, pressing imploring kisses onto his rosy cheeks, tiny promises sealed with sticky lipgloss. “I always want you.”
His vision blurs as he peers down, frizzy curls hanging low in his eyeline. Confusion is a bitter thing as he finds the hem of your skirt. There’s mercy in the feeling of the grooved stitch beneath the rough pads of his fingers.
“Even now?” he asks, low and timid for the first time tonight.
Your arms release him, trailing down the sinewy plane of his chest. You lift his shirt only an inch—just enough for your nails to find his flushed skin, enough to feel him twitch as you explore so freely.
“Always.”
He pauses, searching for something in your gaze. Or, maybe something in the silence. And it’s the silence that answers.
With a hurried breath, he tears at your panties. It’s a quick, controlled rip, and he stuffs the fabric into his back pocket.
You gasp, but he drops before you get the chance to scold him. His jeans do little to mitigate the sting of gravel as his knees hit the ground. He hikes your thigh over his shoulder, disappearing under your skirt.
“Ed— Oh, God!”
His face drags through your folds, nose catching on your clit as his tongue sinks into you, plunging as deep as it’ll go. But the thundering ecstasy of finally tasting you—and himself—is cut short when you tug at his hair with a force far too sharp to be pleasurable. He groans, missing your heat as you haul him up to his feet.
“Eddie! We can’t do that here,” you bite out, glancing behind him. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
The worry in your brow catches on something inside him, and if he had the right words, he’d make it go away. But there are no right words, only burrowing panic and gnawing desire so deep, it’s almost torture.
“Please, baby, I’ll be good,” he pants, pawing restlessly at your body. “I swear to God, I’ll be good. Just— Just let me— Ah, Jesus!” His forehead falls to your shoulder and he hangs onto you, a firm grip on your ass as he pulls you into him. The movement is meant to alleviate, to save his sanity, but all it does is remind him of your denial, of the space he can’t close, and the release he can’t reach.
Your fingers begin to soothe his scalp. He matches his breathing to yours; in and out, in and out, in and out.
Curious and tender, you mutter, “It’s really that bad?”
He shakes his head, lifting it to meet your concerned gaze.
You don’t understand. You can’t possibly know what it feels like. This dull ache. Persistent, like a gnat in his ear, it’s been with him all night, made worse by you. Your perfume, your soft touch, the glimmer in your eyes. The distance, the act, the canyon between words and truth.
It’s all a great pain. An infection that’s been festering for hours. You have the medicine and you won’t give it to him.
His voice cracks, “So bad. I’m achin’ for you, can’t you feel it?” His hips jerk forward as he waits for your response, but the silence is too loud. He can’t stand it.
“You’re just so pretty…” Dazed, his eyes rove over your wrinkled top, fabric askew and showing more skin than you started the night showing. “‘N so soft.” Ducking closer, he rumbles out a drawling, “Mm, you smell so good.”
Again, you look behind him, somewhere just over his right shoulder and he sways, chasing your gaze.
“And you can’t wait ten minutes to get to your apartment?” you ask, eyes narrowed.
He sags against you, a whine crawling up from deep within his throat. “No…. No more. I’ve been waiting all night. I can’t— I—”
“Okay, okay, I get it. I hear you. Just— Hey, Eds, look at me—”
Your palms cradle his head and he can smell the lavender hand soap he put in his apartment just for you.
“Be quick,” you whisper, tipping your chin to hold his attention.
He perks up, swallowing harshly as he stares at you, trying to decode the two simple words. But you might as well have spoken another language because his mind is running circles around the meaning, never through.
“Hey—” Your eyes dart downward, stall there, then you close the distance.
It’s messy and wet and he can still taste you on his tongue—smell you smeared on his skin—but you don’t seem to mind as you deepen the kiss, your mouth parting around a moan. It’s over too soon, though.
A delicate string of spit connects him to you as you pull back. “Take what you need, ba—”
He’s moving before you even finish the endearment, hands racing across your body, tugging at fabric, kneading skin—anything he can touch. His jacket is around your shoulders in no time, protecting you from the rough brick. The cuffs on his belt clang as he unfastens the homemade contraption, the button of his jeans next.
“Oh, thank you, baby,” he breathes into your mouth, using his full weight to trap you against the wall. “Thank you, thank you—shit! You’re so good to me,” he whimpers, bucking his hips as he frees his length, wrapping a hand around the base until it throbs beneath his unyielding grip. “So fuckin’ good to me. Wanna be good to you, too.”
He fumbles a bit, struggling to move while still trying to maintain every point of contact he can. Once he manages to pick up your thigh, hitching it onto his hip, he guides the blunt tip of his cock through your slick folds. A soft mewl escapes you and the sound only makes him twitch, a stream of sticky precum dribbling from his slit.
“Wanna be inside you. God, I always wanna be inside you—”
Your voice cuts him off, strained with a familiar need as your forehead falls to his. “Please, Eddie— Please just fuck me already, I can’t—”
His body responds before his mind even registers the plea, jerking forward until he’s buried deep inside you. A resounding groan echoes through the empty alleyway, drowning out your shrill cry. Though, you have enough sense to slam a hand over your open mouth, muffling the lewd noise
He, however, is too drunk to care. Drunk on the alcohol humming in his bloodstream. Drunk on the feeling of your walls squeezing him so tight, he could count your heart rate just from the pulse of your pussy alone.
“Ohh, my—fuck! Jesus, fuck—you’re tryin’ to kill me, you’re tryin’ to kill me,” he babbles incessantly, squirming from the pressure.
Your hand drops to his shoulder, holding onto him so tightly, your fingers pinch. “E—ddie, shh—ah!”
Torturously slow, he pulls out. Your cunt clings to him, contracting—almost a proper plea to stay—and yet, you seem to revel in the drag of his length. He knows you feel it. The thrum of his veins, the curve that stretches you, the thick ridge that catches on your entrance.
With just the tip inside, he shudders, his head hanging as he stares downward. The bright neon sign on the corner of the building beams, making his cock shine with your arousal.
He pauses.
Then, his hips snap forward, marking the start of a suffocating rhythm as he forces the breath from your body with every thrust. He moves wildly, a frenzied pace with one intention, and one intention only.
“Oh, God, oh, shit, baby! You feel s’good.… Takin’ such good care o’ me—thank you! Thank you— S’sweet to me—” he pants, slipping a large, heavy hand behind your neck until your gaze drops, joining him as he watches himself disappear inside of you. “Ah, look at that— Mmm, so pretty when you’re full o’ me.”
The wiry hair at the base of his shaft begins to stick to his skin, weighed down by the mess he’s making out of you. Glimmering slick forming a milky ring, droplets splashing from the strength of his thrusts. A giddy chuckle rumbles through his chest, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he admires just how wet you are. How wet he makes you.
The sound of his leather jacket scratching against the brick fills his ears as he falls against you, muscles straining. Your eyelids droop low, but your gaze hasn’t moved from where he’s fucking into you. His mouth finds yours, lips gliding as he hungrily swallows your every moan.
Sweat beads at his hairline, and his nails sink into your thigh, drawing you impossibly closer. Because he needs more. He needs all of you. Your walls are pried apart by his thick length and it’s still not enough.
He lets go of your neck, pushing two fingers into your mouth. “Suck.”
His breath turns ragged and you finally look at him, your eyes dark and glossy as your lips reach his knuckles, your cheeks hollowing out in that way that always makes his knees buckle. His hips jerk, rhythm shifting at the memory.
He can feel the flames spreading, overtaking the hearth, but he’s not ready yet. He’s not done with you.
His fingers fall from between your lips as he reaches below, pressing tight circles into your clit. You choke on your breath and the sharp sound makes him grin.
“Yeah, there you go, sweetheart. Fuck—you’re so tight! Squeezin’ the life outta me— God, I know you wan’ it—cum for me. Soak my fucking cock,” he grits out, watching your eyes roll with rapt attention. “Mark me, baby, drown me—”
“F-Fu— Eddie!”
Your back arches and you go rigid; he knows you’re on the very edge. He knows you. He knows the exact high your voice reaches before you come undone, and even though you’re trying not to, he knows you’re losing yourself.
“Give it to me,” he drawls, practically purring at you. “Give in, baby. Please, I know you need it—”
“Shh, shh, we have to—b—e quiet! You have t—o keep it d— Oh, God!”
Your cunt clenches around him, tighter than he can handle after suffering from your denial for so long. You're moving against him now, convulsing and chasing after the pleasure like an ebbing wave. His body starts to curl inward, but he tries his best to keep a good enough pace. Your moans ring in his ear as he drives into you, shivering at the obscenely wet sounds.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck! F-Feels so— God, ‘m g-gonna fill you up, baby. Hm? You wan’ it? Wanna feel full o’ me? Wanna hold it for me? You’re always so good at it—”
His breathless words seem to have no effect on you as you settle limply, held up by his frame and the wall at your back. You give no indication that you heard him, there’s only the flutter of your lashes and the lull of your head against the brick. His palm presses against your neck, just enough to keep you still, to hold your far-out gaze.
“You listenin’? Hm?” he pants, landing a firm kiss on your slackened mouth. “Y’gonna empty my balls for me, baby? Know you love to feel me drippin’ outta you.”
Your cunt responds with a weak pulse. He chuckles, only to be cut off by his own sputtering groan as a particularly deep stroke shoots right through him. You whimper, and he knows he’s the only thing keeping you from buckling to the ground as your arms struggle to wrap around him.
“E-Eddie…”
Static buzzes in his mind as you mewl, soft gasps hiccuping in time with his pounding thrusts. His hand drops low, splaying just beneath your navel. Then, he presses, relishing the catch in your breath.
“Ah, there I am,” he mutters, going dizzy at the feeling of his cock-head nudging his palm. “Here, right? Y’gonna keep me here, baby?”
You nod, letting out a frail, broken sound that tells him all he needs to hear. You want it. Need it, even.
His eyes roll, balls pulling taut as his rhythm falters. “Oh, f-fuck! Jesus Christ, you’re made f’me—you are,” he grunts, nosing against your neck. “Fit together so nicely. Hmm, made f’me, made to be full o’ me—”
Your face crumbles as you clench around him once more, another orgasm rolling in, quiet as a tide, and this time it’s softer. He can still feel you shake, but there’s a dragging sense of freedom. Of letting go.
And you drag him with you. Under the tide. Under the surface where everything sounds fuzzy and he feels weightless.
“Jesus—fuck! Ah, shit!”
He gives one final, deep thrust, burying himself inside your heat as he spills into you. Waves of pleasure crash through him, so overwhelming, his hips stall. He shivers, almost violently, and his words tumble out, barely loud enough to be a whisper. “God, baby, thank you. T-Thank you. Shit—you’re so good to me.”
He stays like that—arms wrapped around you, your fingers in his hair—for a while. It’s only when you shift, repositioning yourself against the wall, that he picks his head up. Indulging himself in your gentle kiss. His languid lips speak a sweetness far greater than his words could manage at the moment.
“I feel better now,” he mumbles, letting himself explore along your jaw, lazy and sated, but needing to taste you all the same.
“Yeah, I bet,” you snort, tucking his hair behind his ear, then twisting a damp curl around your finger.
With much reluctance, he finally pulls out, both of you wincing at the loss. He fixes himself quietly, buttoning his pants again and hiding his smile as he notices you squirm. You adjust his jacket over your shoulders and smooth your skirt. His eyes follow the movement and all he can think about is how much he wishes he could just sit on the ground beneath you and watch himself leak out of your pretty pussy.
But then you clear your throat, motioning to the end of the alley and he offers his arm. You smirk, shaking your head as you accept his offer. As he passes under the neon sign that says, “Bar,” he stares at the entrance to the building.
“Mm, I wan’ a beer,” he hums wistfully, starting to veer off course.
“Unh-unh!” Both of your hands circle his bicep, yanking him back. “No, we’re leaving. I’m taking you home.”
“But—”
“No ‘but’s.” You continue to drag him further away from the bar, heading toward his van. “You’re going home, then you’re going to sleep. And tomorrow, you’re gonna call up Steve and apologize for trying to fight him.”
Eddie’s face twists up, a sharp scoff falling from his lips. “‘M not apologizing. He was trying to touch you—”
“No,” you utter pointedly, digging into his back pocket—ignoring his quiet, “Hey, buy me dinner first”—and pulling out his keys. “He was not, that was you. He was trying to stop you because he thought you were being a perv.”
“I was being a perv,” he grins, watching you unlock the van. You shove him into the passenger side and he gracefully complies, settling in a haphazard huff. His eyes follow you through the windshield as you speedwalk around to the driver side door, which he reaches across the console to open for you.
“An unwelcome perv,” you amend, climbing into the seat. You check the mirrors first, then turn the key in the ignition. Eddie sighs contentedly as the van rumbles to life, the tape he mixed for you already filtering through the stereo.
He leans close, looming over you. With exaggerated slowness—a test, a toeing of boundaries—he drags two fingers up your thigh, beneath your skirt, until he feels the sticky combination of his cum and your slick smeared against your skin. “Knew you liked it,” he purrs lowly, sucking the digits clean.
Your breath comes quicker and shakier as you give him a sidelong glance. “You’re disgusting.”
His grin stretches into something wolfish, something predatory and ostensibly clear-headed, despite the glossy look in his eyes and the sway in his body. Quickly, he makes another swipe between your legs, this time relishing the hitch in your throat as he grazes your warm, puffy folds. He shrugs, admiring the milky gleam on his fingers before taking them into his mouth once more. “Chef’s gotta taste his own food.”
With that, your trembling hand lands on the gear shift and the van jolts into reverse.
A/ N: Guys, is this anything? Let me know🧎♂️It’s been in the drafts since October🥀
Also, it's the one year anniversary of me writing fics :) One year ago (almost to the day), I posted this rambling drabble. Since then, my work has improved so much, and I’ve gotten to talk to so many of you about your Eddie thoughts which is all I ever wanted from this.
Thank you for reading my silly, not-so-little ramblings. Thank you for making this an enjoyable space to create in. Thank you for always showing up to my ‘Is anyone interested in…’ posts with 110% enthusiasm. And thank you for talking to me about my writing.
I think that’s what I appreciate the most—how much I get to connect with y’all over what I’ve worked so hard on. I love reading your reactions to my fics, I cherish them so deeply. I’m also glad you feel comfortable with me and enjoy my writing enough to want to hear my thoughts on your Eddie ideas. I love this space and I’m glad you guys are always down for a little chitty-chat.
Thank you for sticking around and taking an interest in my work and especially me as a person <3 Love you guys <3
you and eddie have agreed to take things slow, but you're so hot he’s finding it hard to be patient.
cw: smut • age gap (reader 20s/eddie late 30s-40s) • waitress!reader • nipple play • dry humping • oral f!receiving • jealousy • possessiveness • dirty talk • m!masturbation • pining • swearing • corruption kink • mention of piv sex • mention of virginity loss • eddie cums untouched • lil angst • reader has "curves" • mostly eddie's pov • secret relationship • workplace relationship • diner au • (word count: 3k) 18+ mdni
note: happy early valentine’s day - inspired by this ask ♥︎
He had you right where he wanted.
All to himself and far from the prying eyes of the diner. Away from the gossiping waitresses and the worn leather booths filled with customers who whispered and stared when they saw you together.
He liked you better like this—on your back in his bed, warm body spread out for him like an invitation. Like a delectable treat on the soft cotton sheets that were twisted in a messy tangle beneath you.
A faint sheen of sweat glistened on your skin, smooth as silk to the touch and stripped bare of your clothing, nothing remaining other than the tiny pair of panties you had opted to leave on.
Because that was the whole deal between the two of you lately—taking it slow, and Eddie respected that you didn’t want to rush into anything. Told himself he’d waited long enough to have you that he could stand to wait a little while more.
But that didn’t make it any easier. Didn’t lessen the torment of being so close yet so far, holding you there in his arms but still not able to have you in all of the filthy ways he imagined.
And he imagined having you in so many ways.
Eddie knew he was too old for puppy love and silly crushes but your arrival in the diner had rendered him helpless. Bound him up in that magic you could so effortlessly weave and turned his whole life upside down with only a smile.
All it had taken was one flash of those pretty eyes. A pout of those lips. One glance at your body as you moved through his world, filling out your uniform just right—the starched material hugging tight to curves that traced the outlines of his dreams.
Every day he watched you flaunt your perfection from his spot back in the kitchen, cook’s whites stained with grease and sweat. Biding his time.
Over the years he’d made it a rule not to chase after the waitresses, but for you he was willing to make an exception.
It didn’t take long for you to get wise to his growing affliction, to catch his big brown eyes watching you from afar. To notice the warm rush of pink to his cheeks when your fingers accidentally brushed against his while he was handing you a plate.
So you started to tease him.
Small things at first that were easy enough to disguise. Fleeting touches that lingered just a little too long and playful glances through fluttering lashes that were meant only for him.
Fanning yourself with your notepad, you’d tell the other waitresses that you needed to step outside for a breath of fresh air whenever you saw him set down his work and get ready to head out for a smoke.
You weren’t intimidated by him like all the rest.
Due to the older line cook’s sometimes tempestuous nature, some of the other staff were wary of him. Their voices would be low and timid when they addressed him, but you said his name like a revelation. Afterwards Eddie would spend the rest of his shift playing it over and over in his head, the memory of your voice like an angel ringing in his ears—but you weren’t innocent.
Everyone else at the diner seemed to think your intentions were as pure as the driven snow—but Eddie knew better than that every time you bent over in front of him in that tight little uniform dress. You’d have him bricked up in his old black and whites like he was a goddamn teenager all over again. Sweating. Rushing outside for a smoke so he could cool down and catch his breath.
He spent most of his shifts watching from the corner of his eye as you moved, glowering at anyone you happened to grace with your smile—like those younger college guys who always came in late on Friday nights, brash and loud, openly looking you up and down.
Their brazen eyes would dance over your form like you were nothing but a prize for them to take; seeing you laugh at their jokes made his chest get tight. You belonged to him—at least in his mind.
“It’s just for the tips,” you’d soothe him later when you spotted the crease in his brow, sneaking a peck onto his cheek before anyone else could notice. “You know I like older guys.”
Teasing, always teasing. Wielding that power over him that brought him to his knees and softened his jagged edges—ones he hadn’t known existed until he saw you smiling for someone else.
Sometimes it got to be too much and he’d throw down his apron and stomp outside for a break to keep from losing his cool at those arrogant assholes—the ones who thought the world owed them everything they wanted, including you.
And there he would ponder, a slow hand rubbed down his face as he exhaled a cloud of smoke into the cool night air.
He couldn’t say anything or kick them out on their asses, nobody else was supposed to know that the two of you were sneaking around.
Feeling like an old fool, he would wonder if he should end things with you. Stop chasing after something that was always just out of his reach and save himself the world of grief that would swallow him whole when you inevitably changed your mind.
But fuck. You were an angel.
He was stripped down to his boxers, breath hot on your skin as his tongue traced the dips and curves of your breasts, one big hand traveling up and down your side caressing the smooth swell of your hips.
Every so often he would pause to toy with the waistband of your panties when they got in the way of his path, twisting the tiny strip of fabric between his fingers and tugging on them ever so slightly before letting go.
Despite his impatience, he could’ve stayed like that forever. Teasing your nipples on his tongue made you gasp in the sweetest way. It also made you wet—so fucking wet.
He hadn’t touched you yet but he could tell. Could see the damp patch on the tiny strip of fabric nestled deliciously between your thighs. The thought of sucking those panties clean of your juices made him so hard he had to grind himself against the mattress for relief. But it was never quite enough.
Most nights when he left your place he could barely make it home, his balls still full and aching with the sting of denial. As soon as he walked through the front door of his place, his keys were tossed—shoes kicked off, belt buckle undone, zipper already pulled down.
Then it was straight to the shower—one big hand braced on the wall, thick thighs flexing with each thrust of his fist as he stroked himself under the spray of the hot water. Soft grunts filling the air while he pictured your face and your tits and your ass, growling in relief when ropes of his cum painted the steamy tile wall.
You were going to be the death of him. Taking it slow to an early grave.
Eddie could be patient but the situation with you was getting desperate. He would have been lying if he said the idea of being the only one to have you didn’t consume his every waking thought. Sometimes he imagined how you would feel around him when the time finally came and you let him in—so wet. So warm and tight.
You’d be so fucking good for him.
He started pushing the envelope a little more every time he got you alone. Chaste closed-mouthed kisses soon becoming a tangle of tongues. Shy caresses over clothing turning into sucking on your tits while you rubbed your barely-covered pussy along the stiff seam of his jeans.
Eddie may not have been an angel, nobody in Hawkins would ever have made that mistake, but he had been trying his best to resist temptation; you weren’t making things easy for him.
In the heat of the bedroom his brow glistened with sweat, only a tiny pair of panties left between him and what he wanted. Feeling brave, he released your nipple with hum and started to kiss a slow trail down your stomach, his gold chain tickling you where it hovered. Each deliberate smack of his lips, sloppy and loud, made you giggle as he left wet marks on your skin.
Body wedged between your thighs, he could feel the heat of your pussy flush against him as he spread you open wider. Swore he could smell you, a scent so soft and sweet that just the fleeting hint made his mouth water in anticipation.
His kisses moved a little lower until he reached the band your underwear, smirking as each press of his pillowy lips made you shiver, leaving a trail of goosebumps on the flesh. You buried your fingers in his hair, tugging gently at the roots while his mouth skirted the top edge of your panties.
“Eddie,” you whispered a soft warning.
His cock was already hard and heavy, digging into the mattress. He didn’t say anything in response, just answered with a smooth roll of his hips, biting the thin elastic band between his teeth before letting it snap back into place. Then his gaze tilted up to meet yours as he rested his chin on your covered mound, eyes dark and pleading.
“Eddie,” you repeated, giggling as you played with his hair, those dark curls kissed with flecks of silver that ran through your fingers.
Teasing. Always teasing.
Humming again, he knew he should stop but he could smell you through the fabric and it was driving him crazy. Eyes on yours, he let the tip of his tongue dip under the band, for just a second, the faint saltiness of your perspiration making him groan.
“Baby, please.”
You shook your head against the pillows, looking down at him with an amused smirk curling your lips. “I thought we were taking things slow?”
He’d been so good, trying to impress you with his restraint but he couldn’t bear it any longer. In the moment he was pretty sure he would die if you didn’t let him have a taste.
“Can’t do it anymore—” his voice broke, verging on desperation, the tip of his tongue still tracing a trail along your skin while he tried to wear you down. “—just let me make you feel good.”
You appeared to consider his plea for a moment, biting your lip while you gazed into his pathetic glassy eyes. He stroked his long fingers along your upper thigh then chased them with his mouth.
When you finally answered, your voice was a soft and sultry tease. “Well I guess, since you’ve been so good…”
As soon as the words met his ears he started to work your underwear down over your hips, both of you holding your breath as he pulled them away, shiny strings of your arousal clinging to the fabric.
A strangled sound escaped his throat. You were perfect. Dripping and glistening. An untouched jewel that was his for the taking.
He’d never been harder in his entire life.
Using his fingers, he spread your puffy lips open then nudged the thick end of his nose along the sticky seam of your pussy. Inhaling your scent, he coated the tip in your slick arousal, rubbing it back and forth to prolong his own anticipation of your taste.
You writhed under him with each pass of his nose over your clit and he held you open with his fingers, the soft skin of your thighs indented beneath them as he pressed into the flesh.
Glancing up at you, his eyes were dark and blown wide.
“—so fuckin’ pretty.”
He was nearly shaking with the effort of holding himself back and could only manage to mumble a soft reassurance, warm breath teasing your core. “Gonna take it real slow, honey. Just try to relax.”
His tattooed biceps wrapped around your thighs as he lapped at you eagerly, barely able to contain his need. Thick tongue slick and wet, swirling to gather your juices as it dived through your folds. Greedy to taste you and with no sense to his urgency, just taking what he wanted.
Mouth attached to your swollen clit, so shiny and sweet, he suckled while it pulsed between his lips causing you to cry out, each gasp and whimper coming from above only urging him on.
In the moment everything else was forgotten—his only goal in life to make you cum.
He rolled his hips against the bed, chest rumbling with each thrust. Face buried in your pussy, losing himself in your taste and your smell while the friction of his cock against the sheets started to build up to something.
And fuck, the sounds you were making—soft whimpers punched out with each dive of his tongue inside you, deeper and deeper as it swirled. It was almost too much.
You were drowning in the pleasure, sinking beneath the surface, ears met only with the slick sounds of him devouring your pussy and the echo of your own breathy sighs and moans.
One of your hands tugged at his curls, the other on your breast, pinching and squeezing your nipple. “Please—more.”
And it was all you can say. It was all you were asking of him. More.
And he gave it to you, growling into your heat with an animalistic need that vibrated against your core, panting, never stopping for even a moment to catch his breath.
And why would he stop? He didn’t need air anymore. He was breathing you in and it was all he’d ever wanted. Couldn’t believe there had ever been a time in life when he hadn’t known the way you tasted on his tongue.
Meeting his urgency, you reached down with both hands, holding onto him tight as you lifted your hips off the bed to grind against his face.
“—want you to fuck me, Eddie.”
He pulled back in shock, earnest face shiny with your juices and still out of the breath as he struggled to understand. “W-what? You sure?”
When you nodded there was an eruption in his chest, joy exploding like the first pale blossoms of spring. Rolling a nipple between your forefinger and thumb you sighed, “—need you inside me now.”
And he needed you too, more than anything that had ever come before or ever would again. But he was also a greedy man—so desperate to make you cum on his tongue that he was reluctant to quit while he was ahead.
He was so close, with your thighs framing his face; he couldn’t give up before he got you there. First he needed to feel your walls pulse in a rush around his tongue and taste your release as it drowned him in a flood.
After that he would fuck you—all night if that’s what you wanted. His stamina may not have been what it was in his twenties but he’d stuff his fat cock in that tight little pussy till the break of dawn if that was what you needed from him.
But first he was going to finish what he’d started.
He kissed your inner thigh and gave you a teasing smirk that transformed his face into that of a younger man, eyes still twinkling and full of mischief. “Just let me make you cum first, ok? Then I promise I’ll give you my cock.”
When he reattached his mouth to your clit and hummed, you let out a long lingering moan that travelled straight between his legs.
“Right there—” you urged, soft voice breaking with need as you approached your high. He ground his hips into the mattress, sucking on your clit and shaking his head side to side while two of his big fingers slowly scissored inside you, stretching you open. Getting you ready for him.
He knew just how to be good for you.
“Oh—Eddie…”
He loved hearing you call out his name, knowing you were losing control because of how he was making you feel. After so many months of being careful and sneaking around, he wanted you to scream it out loud. Stop hiding and tell the whole world you were his.
“I’m gonna cum,” you whimpered, breathless as you finally tipped over the edge. “Oh god Eddie—I love you.”
And that was too much. The declaration did him in. His hips jerked against the bed as he came, pearly spurts painting the inside of his boxers and soaking through to the sheets as he growled in a mix of pleasure and frustration.
Tugging at his hair, you held him to you, feeling him whimper against your heat as you rode his face with abandon. He didn’t struggle to come up for air until you finally released him.
Once he resurfaced, he looked up at you in awe from between your thighs, panting to catch his breath. Something he knew he may never again fully accomplish in your presence.
Then without hesitation he smiled, a warm goofy thing filled with a boyish charm that brightened his face. “Well shit—I guess I love you too.”
It was the first time he’d ever said it to anyone and really meant it. He was almost surprised at how easily the words had just rolled off his tongue; it was like they’d been waiting there for you all along. He just hadn’t known it.
His chest heaved with the weight of emotion. You loved him and now he was going to spend the rest of his days giving you everything your heart desired. Start by making your first time special, everything you had ever dreamed it could be.
But then his brow wrinkled, remembering his predicament. He couldn’t give you anything as it was in his current state—at least, not yet.
Tucking a frizzy flyaway curl behind his ear, he licked his lips, eyes apologetic as they flicked up to yours. “Just give me like twenty minutes, ok? Then I’m gonna rock your fuckin’ world. I promise.”
And you nodded only seconds before bursting into a fit of giggles at the silly, wonderful man you loved as he crawled up your body then took you into his arms.
You could be patient too.
thanks for reading, would love to hear your thoughts! ♥︎
18+
Eddie Munson x f! reader, thigh fucking, lil bit of nipple play, public, established relationship, new relationship
WC:2.3K
A/N: Dug deep into my drafts to find this one again. I wanted to write about them going through that phase in new relationship where things are still a bit awkward and our dear reader is trying her best to pry out of her shell when it comes to initiating sex.
Enjoy!
Divider credit: @/cursed-carmine
You told Eddie you'd meet him in the woods after he was done dealing, softening your tone into something extra sweet when he offered to come pick you up instead. A few dulcet words more over the phone was all it took to convince him that it would be more convenient to meet him there than what he'd kindly suggested.
It was a lie. A harmless one, you rationalized
Resorting to it was preferable. A much easier alternative than admitting that the lonely setting of the quiet woods served you perfectly in order to feed your new obsession — making your boyfriend cum.
Things were still fresh in your relationship. Years of knowing each other should have assured you that you could always be straight forward with Eddie, never needing to skirt around what you really meant or have to choose your words carefully but things were different now.
And in the best way.
Only two months into being a couple, you kept feeling that rush. A pleasant sweet and sour mix of excitement and bashfulness whenever you wanted to be intimate with him. You weren't a shy person by nature. You had that and more in common with Eddie but this dynamic was new to you. Both of you. So much so that you found yourself having to rebuild your confidence when it came to initiating sex. And god, was it rewarding when you did.
You had liked him in secret for so long but now that he was yours, Eddie instilled a hunger in you that you'd never known before. A wild, almost rabid urge you had to rein in for fear you might wear the poor boy out given how often you wanted him.
You wanted to spoil him rotten. But you also wanted to get it right.
It wasn't the easiest thing stumbling through all the endearing hiccups and moments of awkwardness that inevitably follow when best friends become lovers, but you persisted if that meant learning what he liked. Even if there had been more of those moments than you would have liked.
Many times you'd bumped foreheads and chins when you went in for a kiss. Sometimes with bruising force, tender plum purple swelling blooming the next day. Other times you'd lost your footing, having slipped some stray item of clothing on his bedroom floor, pulling him down with you to crash in a heap. One time you'd even kneed him in the groin on accident when you attempted to straddle him in his van, fat tears wetting his eyes.
You cringed and apologized every time it happened and every time he laughed through the pain, completely undeterred and kissing you back harder. Kissing the insecurity away until you started to discover parts of a rhythm that seemed to be working. All you had to figure out now was how to put them in the right order so that your touches had time to linger. Until you could find out exactly how he liked to be touched and where. Without inflicting injury.
You haven't yet confessed to him about how much you like making him cum.
Up to now, you'd done it with your hands, your mouth, your cunt — most times while bumping around in the back of his van.
But now you had something new in mind.
****
You stopped taking notice of the muffled crunching of dry leaves underneath your shoes and the chittering of squirrels scurrying along bark and branch when you found Eddie, everything else fading into the background as he lit up at the sight of you.
It was impossible not to grow warm all over when you sat down next to him on that worn wooden bench, a quick press of his lips against yours in greeting making the back of your neck prickle with goosebumps.
This part felt easy. Shoulders grazing, fingers intertwined as he held your hand in his while you spoke, trying to decide what movie you'd like to go see together. All part of your plan to stall things.
That swirling rush didn't make itself known until the sight of his lips mere inches from your own becomes too tempting and breathing in his scent was no longer enough to tide you over. Your throat turns scratchy and dry as you forced out a giggle that wavers, trying to disguise your unsettled nerves. The feeling only intensifies when you restlessly begin to push back stray strands of hair that weren't really there to distract from the way Eddie's gaze is making you feel.
As weird as it was to feel like this with someone whose known you at your worst and best, you liked it. The anticipation, the fluttering butterfly wings inside your ribcage, even the way your palms would sometimes sweat when he leaned in close and his eyes trailed down to your lips. Because it meant it was okay to do all those things now. No more having to lie about the feelings you had for each other. No more having to bite back disappointment whenever you went home unkissed.
You couldn't wait any longer, raising you free hand to gather the front of his shirt, knee bumping clumsily against his as you shift closer but you don't care about that, pulling him closer until your kissing him again.
It's no quick peck this time, lips slanting over his, lazy but hungry, teeth playfully nipping at his bottom lip, tongue gliding against his when he delves a little deeper into your mouth.
You grow more confident when you find that his heartbeat matches the rapid thumping of your own, flattening the hand you tugged him by the shirt with against his chest to feel it beneath your palm before pulling away.
"Maybe...", you trail, breath short and eyes lost in Eddie's heady deep brown stare. "Maybe we skip the movie tonight?, you suggest with a whisper, so sweet you could wrap a dainty bow around your tone.
"Y-yeah that sounds- we could- yeah", your boyfriend sputters back, nodding quickly and more times than necessary, making his frizzy fringe flutter against his forehead.
It didn't take long to settle in Eddie's lap after that, happily reveling in the way he mouthed eagerly at your neck, his hands smoothing up and down your bare thighs, teasing the edge of your skirt.
"Y' like it?", you manage to sigh out dreamily, casting your gaze down at your skirt so that he knows what you're referring to. You'd started wearing them more often once you starting going out, liking how you felt in them and liking how he made you feel in them even more.
"Isn't that obvious?", he flashed you an effortless, megawatt smile, the kind that made you soften and melt even on your worst days as he ground his bulge up against your core.
"Love it when you show these off", he added with a groan, fingers splaying over your thighs, squeezing the plush flesh appreciatively. Like there was no better place his hands could be than on your body.
The nerves have receded now. No awkward self consciousness holding you back like chains. Nothing but want and desire taking over completely.
"Good, because I wanna try something", you lift yourself up from his lap, his hands slipping up to your waist as you reached underneath your skirt to hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties.
Eddie watches attentively, big bambi brown eyes trained on the way your skirt bunches up around your wrists, riding up dangerously high, enough to catch a few fleeting glimpses of your bare pussy underneath.
Rouge pink lace slips down your thighs, soft and girly, spying the wetness lying in the pretty cotton gusset before you get your underwear over your shoes and off.
"Hold these for me?", you winked, tucking them into the front pocket of his jeans.
You're never going to see those panties in a decent state ever again. If anything, you're only making the collection of your dirty panties hidden under his mattress even bigger. Not that you minded.
Leaning in, you're able to distract him with another kiss, sucking and biting on his plump lower lip while you pop open the button on his jeans, zip easing down slowly as you reach inside.
Hand slipping down the front of his boxers, you're able to gently pull his cock out into view, stiff and hot as your fingers wrap around it and give him a few tugs.
"Okay...just...let me..."
It was all so clear in your head, a little less sure about it all in reality as you begin to position yourself on Eddie.
Sitting sideways in his lap, you manage to carefully guide his cock, slipping the twitching appendage between your thighs before pulling your skirt up high enough for the glistening pink head to peek into view.
From afar it probably looks innocent enough.
Well, it doesn't look obscene. Just a handsy couple at most, the naughty truth mostly concealed so long as no one gets too close.
"Eddie?"
"Yeah, baby?", he asks following a thick gulp, his eyes darting between your lap and your face.
"I wanna make you feel good."
It's easier this way. Better than if you had him snake his cock between your thighs from behind. This way your eyes weren't hidden from each other, allowing you to admire the way his cheeks turn a pretty peachy pink. You rest your own cheek against his shoulder too, savoring every grunt and moan that tumbles from his lips every time you undulate your hips, your inner thighs growing hot and sticky.
The excitement makes your own arousal flow in stringy, slippery slick, coating your thighs to lube you, Eddie's drippy precum helping too.
"Y' know, you d-don't have to overthink it every time you want to get physical", he whispers into your hair between deep breaths.
Your eyes go from half lidded to wide and alert.
"You knew?"
"Yeah", he admits, pressing a tender kiss on your temple.
"Why didn't you say anything?", you ask between your own shallow breaths.
He shrugs, hips still thrusting up into your thighs, not a falter in his pace. "Didn't want to spook you. I like it when you want to take charge...I love it when you show how much you want me".
The most adoring smile takes over your lips.
"You're sure? cus it's like...all the time. I think about us together like this...a lot."
"Yeah? me too. I keep trying to be a gentleman and all but you've been working me up for years, sweetheart. Wanna make you feel good all the time too."
Eddie's earnestness always had an effect on you that never seemed to dim with the way it makes you feel like you're lighting up from the inside out.
"So, you gonna let me, pretty girl? no more holding back?"
You nod, "no more holding back, Eddie."
With one hand firm on your waist, he uses the other to pull up the front of your top, the thin lacy bra underneath pulled up with it so that he can get to your breasts, nipples peaked and begging for his touch.
Your lips fall open for the two fingers he gently pushes into your mouth, dutifully sucking and wetting them well because you know what he means to do, releasing them so that he can tease your nipples.
The wet pads of his fingers circle a sensitive nipple, both of you watching closely as it pulls tight all the way, perky little bud at the mercy of his touch.
"Shit- Eddie, that's feels really nice"
"Yeah?"
He makes sure to switch to the other one too, smearing your saliva along your peaks, pinching them hard enough to make you whine and pout.
"Fuck, baby look at you- don't think I'm going to last much longer with you in my lap like this."
This close, you can smell your shampoo in his hair from the night before, his cologne on his neck and the subtle musk of his sweat as it beads on his skin. It makes you want to lean in closer if such a thing was possible, breathe it in deeper, wrap your teeth around him and make him whine.
"Please- want to watch you cum", you gasp.
Eddie squeezes your breast, bouncing you in his lap while you keep working your hips, thighs stating to burn from from tensing your muscles but you don't dare stop.
"Tell me it feels good", you spit out urgently.
"Feels too fucking good- having my girl's thighs wrapped around my cock like this."
"My girl". Of course it makes your heart swell to hear it, especially in that desperate tone.
"Never going to get enough of this- of you."
"Eddie..."
Curling your fingers into his collar, you hold on tight, so damn tight as your clit begins to tingle and throb on the edge of your orgasm.
It's messy when Eddie's hits at the same time — opaque spurts shooting high enough to hit the underside of your tits, trailing down your belly to join the most of his cum pooling between your thighs. So much more than you thought you could wring out of him that it fills you with a sort of pride knowing you'd made him do it without any penetration.
"Spread your legs, babe", is the first thing he says to you when he's caught his breath, already starting to shift beneath you.
You whine as if to protest and say, 'why so soon?' when words fall short, reluctantly letting him pull your sticky legs apart to tuck himself back inside. It's when his hand slips back between your thighs to tease your clit that you yelp delightedly, his tacky fingers flirting with your entrance.
"We're going to be here for a while. Once isn't enough for me either. Need to watch my pretty girl cum again...and again...and again...."
A/N: Ok I'm trying a thing! I hope this came out good. Like I said I've been reading alot of subby Steve lately and I just can't get him out of head so I needed to write this out.
Enjoy!
Warnings: Daddy Soft Dom Eddie X Subby Steve, SMUT, daddy kink (obvs), praise kink, BDSM dynamics, oral (m receiving), handjob (m receiving), bondage play, slapping, dirty talk, protected sex, mentions of playing with toys like dildos and plugs (just mentioned not utilized here), I think that's it.
FLUFF near the end and slightly through out the story
ANGST, Eddie is technically an escort, it's mentioned that he he's a camboy that people pay to have him dominate them i.e enter subby Steve. It is mentioned that they knew each other in school but its been about 10 years. Um, Eddie has a protective wall due to his line of work that makes him be slightly mean near the end but its a happy ending I swear. Steve mentions being married but its not a happy one.
No use of Y/N, just totally Eddie and Steve.
Word Count: 4857
“Are you fucking with me?”, Eddie asked the moment Steve Harrington entered the hotel room that had been booked for the evening.
“Why would you think that?”
“Oh, um, I don’t know, maybe, because the last time I saw you, you were the king of Hawkins High—”
“That was ten years ago—”
“—with a girl on your arm every weekend. Why would you book a session with me?”
“Because I like your content and when I saw you were offering…this here…I wanted to try it for myself. Which, by the way, is really dangerous. What if someone did show up who wanted to hurt you?”, Steve inquired, genuinely concerned.
“Yeah, I’m realizing that now.”, the long-haired boy sassed, placing his hands on his hips before glancing towards the man in front of him to take in his seemingly calm demeanor.
When Eddie signed up to jerk off on a porn website, he was surprised how much money he raked in on the first evening and learned fairly quickly how to utilize his particular set of skills to get more eyes on him thus more funds in his pocket.
When men and women started asking to meet with him privately, he didn’t think twice asking for what he considered was an obscene amount of money that he couldn’t fathom this former popular boy paying to see him.
Steve looked like all the other people in his expensive, sleek black suit and long coat that he hung off the back of the chair nearby. The gold wedding ring and watch shined every time he shuffled his feet or ran his fingers through his still perfectly styled head of hair.
“Does your wife know you watch me?”, Eddie asks, gesturing towards his ring.
“Oh, uh, no. She spends most of her time running around town shopping or off in the Bahamas with a man who’s half her age.”, he chuckles nervously. “What about you? Are, uh, you married or…?” The metalhead tilts his head to the side eliciting another laugh from the man in front of him. “Sorry, I’m usually better at introductions and small talk but…”
The long-haired boy grins, showing off all his teeth as his own demeanor softens.
“Well, then let’s skip the small talk. Only real talk in here, alright?”, he inquires gently, nodding when the former jock does the same.
“Yeah, I mean yes, Sir. Sorry. I’m not sure what you prefer.”
Eddie gestures towards the bed and the other boy gets the message taking a seat on the end along the edge. Placing himself between Steve’s long legs, he reaches out to run his fingers along the other man’s shoulders lightly, dragging his suit jacket along with him before fully removing it and stepping back to place it with his other coat.
“I think the real question is what do you prefer?”, Eddie ask salaciously, removing his own shirt in one sift motion, smirking when the other man’s honey irises trace along his muscular chest and over his tattoos with a stuttered sigh. “Which title gets you hard, Steve, when you watch me play with my cock online.”
“I, um…”
“Real talk, sweetheart. Be honest with me.” At the term, Eddie watches as Steve shuffles in his seat, the bulge in his pants beginning to press against his slacks. “What was it? It just passed through your mind, Stevie. Say it.”
“I, um, I really like…Daddy…if that’s ok…”
The metalhead continues to smirk, his hand reaching out to delicately caress his face and Steve’s eyes close at the action, thankful at being touched.
“It’s ok, baby.” Again, Steve visibly reacts, his eyes opening and his mouth falling open. “Oh, King Steve Harrington likes to be praised. Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“When it’s real, I like it. Most people just tell me what I want to here. I hate it.” At his last sentence, his head falls, cracking the other man’s wall and hardened demeanor.
Lifting his chin, Eddie runs his thumb along the man’s bottom lip.
“I’m not the kind to lie, pretty boy.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Daddy.”, he answers breathlessly, whining slightly when the long-haired boy pulls his hand away and steps back to lean against the dresser behind him.
“Good boy. Now, I have to ask you some questions so I need you to pay attention, alright?”
“Yes, sir.”
Eddie can’t help the grin that lingers as he watches the former jock in front of him sit up straighter as he waits.
“First and most important, the safe word is ‘red’. If at any point you feel uncomfortable or want to stop just say that and we stop immediately.”
“Say ‘red’ if I want to stop. I understand…Daddy.”, he quickly follows up and the other boy allows it. “Will we be using the stop light system?”
Again, Eddie’s head slants, impressed.
“We can. How do you know about that? Have you played like this before, Stevie?”
“No, sir. I, um, I did some research after I watched you the first time. I had never heard of that before…or aftercare.”
The metalhead’s eyes widen, doing everything he can to control the unexpected anger that rises in his chest.
“No one’s taken care of you after?”
“No, sir. To be fair, I’m usually the one taking care of my wife or partners. I’ve never done…this…”
“Steve, you can’t scare me like that. I was about to leave this room and go find these fuckers who didn’t take care of you after playing with you!”, he growls, his jaw tightening before he realizes the man in front of him shifts again, this time adjusting himself slightly. “I’m sorry, baby. I don’t mean to yell—”
“No, no, Daddy, it’s ok. It’s nice having someone worry about me like that…like you just did…”
“Of course.”, he grins and the pretty boy sighs at the sight. “You said you’ve never done this but have you ever been with a man before?”
“No, sir, but I have been…practicing…preparing…” When Eddie’s eyes narrow in confusion and slight amusement, Steve blushes. “I bought some toys and use them when I watch you.”
“Mhmm…come here.”, the metalhead beckons with his finger and the other man immediately listens, rising to his feet to place himself in front of him. “Go on.”
While Steve speaks, Eddie circles him slowly, gradually removing one piece of the former jock’s clothes at a time.
“I’ve been using plugs and a dildo I got that was your size…from what I can tell…the screen and angle make it hard.”
“Hm, I’ll have to correct that.”, he muses, leaning against the dresser once more to take in the admittedly handsome naked man in front of him. Eddie never got the pleasure of seeing him ten years ago, not even an accidental glance in the locker room but what he was viewing now could only be described as perfect.
Freckles kissed his entire body, even under his hairy chest that the metalhead couldn’t wait to run his hands through. He definitely had a little bit of a tummy but his arms and thighs were incredibly muscular telling him his body could most likely take anything Eddie threw his way.
Oh, he couldn’t wait to play.
“Look at you. So hard and I haven’t even really touched you yet.”, he mocked lightly. “Go on.”
“I-I-I ride it while I watch you touch yourself. Fuck…it took some time…getting it to fit but I heard your voice encouraging me and I think I can take all of you now, Daddy.”
“Fuck me, Steve.”, Eddie mewled, coming around to rest his chin on his shoulder while pulling his back to his chest. “Do you feel how hard you made Daddy, baby?”, he whispered, lightly rolling his jean covered cock against his bare ass.
“Yes, sir, Jesus.”
“Last question, sweetheart.”, he murmured, palm coming around to rest against Steve’s throat, tilting his head back. “Is there anything I shouldn’t do? How rough do you like it?”
“I’ve never tried any slapping or spanking or anything but I’m willing to try. W-What about you, honey?”
The term throws Eddie off slightly causing him to blink out of the headspace for a moment as that heavy warmth washes over him. No one had ever called him that and usually he was the one using terms of endearment.
He allowed that warmth to fully fill his chest before it hardened once more, fully understanding the scenario he was in. Steve was paying to be fucked by him just like all the others and when the night ended, he’d leave just like they did.
“Sit back down for me, baby.”
The boy nods, hastily doing what he was told and even opening his legs a bit to allow Eddie to stand between them like he had before. The metalhead takes the opportunity, resting one of his palms on Steve’s shoulder while lightly grasping his jaw with the other.
“When you address me, you call me by my title. What’s my title?”
“Daddy.”
“Good boy. I’ll even accept sir but those are the only two things you refer to me as when we are together. No ‘honey’ or ‘baby’. Am I being clear?”, he scolds, stern chocolate eyes boring into the other man’s.
“Yes, sir.”, Steve whispers, head beginning to fall. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”
Eddie lifted the boy’s head, thumb running along his lip.
“You didn’t upset me. The boundaries just need to be clear, Steve.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
A light but firm slap echoes through the room making the former jock gasp as his head rears back to meet the metalhead’s inquisitive gaze.
“Color, sweetheart?”
“Green, Daddy.”
Eddie smirks as he continues to stroke Steve’s cheek and chin, massaging the sting before delivering another slap that has the pretty boy groaning loudly.
“Fuck, that feels good.”
Another slap reverberates, followed by the long-haired boy’s fingers around Steve’s throat.
“Watch your mouth, little boy.”, he growls, pressing his forehead to his own.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean…mmph…can I kiss you, please?”, he begs and Eddie would be lying if said the sound didn’t make his cock twitch.
“You want to kiss Daddy, baby, you have to earn it.”
“Yes—yes, please. I’ll do anything.”, he pants, whining when the metalhead pulls away slightly earning him another smack across the face.
Eager eyes watched as Eddie slowly unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants before placing his hands at his sides.
“Pull them down; just my jeans.” Steve does what he’s instructed, finding himself face to face with the bulge in Eddie’s boxers. Threading his fingers through his soft hair, the metalhead guides the boy’s forehead to his lower belly, licking his lips when his feels the warmth of Steve’s breath against him. “Have you ever sucked a dick before?”
“No, Daddy.”
“That’s ok, baby, Daddy’s gonna teach you. Go ahead and pull them down.”, Eddie whispers, praying in his head that this wasn’t a dream. That King Steve Harrington was actually looking up at him with those big needy eyes while he pulled down his boxers.
That his cock actually sprung out and hit the pretty boy in the face with his girth.
Fuck, he looked timid and innocent and Eddie couldn’t wait to ruin him.
“Go ahead, sweetheart, wrap your hand around it and kiss the tip.”
Steve does what he’s told, closing his eyes as he takes hold of the metalhead’s base and delicately kisses his mushroom head. Gripping his chin, Eddie lightly squeezed, murmuring, “Keep your eyes open and on me, little boy, no matter what.”
“Yes, Daddy.”, the pretty boy whispered against him, his tongue darting out to run along the other man’s slit eliciting a groan that had Steve’s own cock twitching.
Taking a hold of the wrist gripping his shaft, he pulled slightly signaling for Steve to let go which he does.
“Lick your fingers for me and remember keep your eyes on me.” Extending his long, wide tongue Steve licked his palm before placing them around Eddie once more, stroking him again as he continued to kiss his leaking tip. “Good boy. Fuck…Go ahead and put my dick in your mouth.”
When his lips closed around him, Eddie felt like he was on the fucking moon. Using his fingers in his hair to ground himself, his jaw went slack as he watched his cock gradually disappear between the parted lips of the man in front of him.
“Goddamn it. Good boy, baby. H-Hollow out your cheeks and keep your tongue flat.”, he moaned, doing everything he could to control his hips so he didn’t just violently thrust himself down this man’s throat. “N-Naughty boy, lying to Daddy. There’s no way you’ve never done this before.”
Steve shook his head, pulling back while continuing to pump the boy in front of him.
“I swear, Daddy. I’ve never…”
“Then you’re a fucking natural, baby.”, he praised with a smile, seeing the giddiness in Steve’s lust blown eyes as he eagerly continues to please him. As soon as his lips circle around him once more, he allows Eddie’s cock to hit the back of his throat, gagging slightly before pulling back to bob his head. “Fuck! Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart.”
Drool and spit leaked out of his mouth as Eddie began to thrust his hips slightly enjoying the mess.
“God, that’s it. Your mouth feels so fucking good. That’s my—fuck—that’s a good boy…so good for Daddy, baby. Come here.”
Grabbing Steve’s throat, he brought his lips to his, reveling in his delicious taste of mint and man. The pretty boy moaned at the sensation, thankfully to be kissed with so much passion and want.
He was being rewarded and the prize was perfect.
“Back against the pillows, arms up against the headboard.”
Steve nodded, bouncing further up the bed and observing the metalhead’s body maneuver about the room before producing some black scarfs he had seen Eddie mention previously on his streams.
He moved about almost nonchalantly while the former jock mewled in anticipation, desperate to feel the other boy’s body against his again. The moment his fingers touched his skin to restrain him to the wood above him, Steve’s eyes rolled back as his head lulled to the side.
“You ok there, pretty boy?”
“Yeah…yes, Daddy. I just…I miss you being so close.”
Eddie grins, hoping the low lighting obscures the blush that rises in his cheeks. Straddling the man’s waist, he extended his arm up towards the other side to tie him down, all the while with Steve pressing his lips against the man’s chest.
“I’ve always liked your tattoos. You have no idea how many times I dreamed about being able to kiss them…trace them with my fingers…”
The man on top of him cupped his cheeks and tilted his head to softly kiss his lips.
“Were you always this sweet, Harrington?”
It was Steve’s turn to smirk, craning his neck to peck at him once more.
“No. I was definitely a douchebag back then.” Eddie’s eyebrows raise as he chuckles, silently agreeing with him before pressing kisses to his neck and trailing them along his chest down to his stomach. “I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t. Still kind of am, I guess.”
“How so? I mean besides the obvious.”
“When my dad offered me to work with him, I wanted to say no. I wanted to be a teacher but I was too afraid of what he’d say.” While he spoke, Eddie placed his hands on the man’s knees and opened his legs wider. “I worked for him for five years before he gave me the company. When he called me into his office, I told myself I was going to quit…”
“But you didn’t?”
Steve shook his head and in return the metalhead roughly slapped his inner thigh making him jump with a little whine.
“Verbally answer me.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy, no I didn’t. No…”, he sighed.
A long line of spit dripped from Eddie’s lips, landing on Steve’s cock; not that he needed it since the boy hadn’t quite stopped leaking precum since they began. Slowly, the long-haired boy stroked him, watching his face carefully as it twitched with pleasure.
“Anywhere else you play pretend, Stevie?”
“Mmm—yes, sir. P-People think I’m dominate and I can be, I really can but…”
“But what, baby?”, Eddie coos, sliding his fingers on his opposite hand into his mouth, lathering them with his tongue.
“I want to BE dominated.”
“You want to submit.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“I can help with that, sweetheart.” As the metalhead gradually slid one of his fingers into the man’s entrance, Steve couldn’t help but pull on the scarfs restraining him. “How does that feel?”
“S-So…good.”
“Yeah? Fuck, are you sure you didn’t lie to me? You’re so fucking tight; can barely take one here.”
“No…no, Daddy, I’d never lie to you.” At his little whine, Steve’s eyes closed as his head fell back but Eddie’s palm slapping his thigh had him focusing once again.
“You’d never lie but it seems you have trouble listening. I said keep your eyes on me.”, he growled, pumping his index at a fast pace.
“I’m sorry…I…fuck that feels so fucking good.”
Crawling up his frame, the metalhead smacked his cheek much harder than before.
“Watch your goddamn mouth. If I have to tell you again I’ll jerk myself off and then leave you here for maintenance to find.”
Steve’s eyes widened, believing his threat to be true.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be a good boy, Daddy, I promise.”
Eddie couldn’t help himself as he leaned down to press his mouth to his. Seeing this particular boy being a moaning mess, begging to HIM, wanting to please HIM…
He could barely stand it; how perfect this beautiful man was.
“You are my good boy.”, Eddie whispers against Steve’s lips, gently petting his head. “So handsome, sweetheart. I’m going to give you what you want.”
Honey irises watch behind heavy lids as the metalhead climbs off him and reaches into his jeans on the floor to produce a condom. The former jock’s breath hitches slightly just as he rolls it along his cock and jumps back between his legs.
“Color, Steve?”
“G-Green, Daddy. I’m just a little…a little nervous.”
Eddie softly smiles, tilting towards him to kiss him, allowing his tongue to linger and dance with the man’s beneath him.
“I’ll go slow at first, ok, and if you need me to stop or go slower just use the system.”, he instructs, chocolate eyes scanning over his face as his nods before reaching out to grip his chin and caress his face. “Don’t forget, baby, eyes open and on Daddy.”
Reaching for the lube nearby he gave himself a generous amount, giving his dick a few cursory flicks of the wrist and lining himself up with Steve’s entrance.
With just his tip alone, Eddie knew it was going to be difficult not to blow his load early. He wasn’t anywhere near prepared for how good this particular man would feel.
“Fuck, Steve, are you—are you kidding me?”, the metalhead murmured under his breath, gradually pushing in another inch as he clings to the boy’s legs. Steve’s stomach flexed causing Eddie’s lust driven hues to shift to his scrunched features. “Color, honey?”
When he didn’t answer, Eddie forgoes his normal dominate tone to offer a softer touch.
“Steve, baby, I need to know i-if I’m hurting you.”
“N-No, sorry, um, please…one sec.”
Running his tongue along his palm, the long-haired man languidly stroked the former jock’s firm cock eliciting a slight whimper that had him twitching inside him.
“No rush at all, pretty boy. You’re doing so good, Steve. Just let me know when you’re ready for me to move.”
A couple moments pass before he gives permission and as Eddie glides further inside of him they both let out a loud mewl that the other rooms around them had to have heard. Grabbing the bottle, the metalhead pulls back till it’s just his tip, dropping more lubrication along his length and thrusting into him again, this time a bit easier than before.
“Jesus, baby, you’re so tight. Just choking my dick…I don’t—fuck—I don’t think that dildo was big enough.”
Steve chuckles breaking some of the tension in the room and Eddie leans over his chest, placing his palms on either side of his head as he gives him a tender kiss.
“Tell me how it feels, Stevie.”, he hummed, slowly rolling his waist allowing his cock to press deeper within. “You’ve been fantasizing about this. Is it everything you imagined?”
“M-More…Ohmagod…it’s more.” Smirking, Eddie felt himself bottom out, stalling his movements to allow him to get accustomed to the feeling. “I was so scared you’d hate me.”
At Steve’s whispered words, the metalhead blinked in confusion as his chest swelled with that protective longing he felt before especially when a subtle tear fell down his cheek.
“Sweetheart, keep looking at me.”, he instructed.
“I’m sorry, I’m just—”
“You’re feeling a lot, baby, I know. Trust me, Daddy knows.”
Eddie’s smile calms him, wishing desperately that he could run his nails down the boy’s back, an action he tries to do but the scarfs pull him back.
“There’s no reason to be afraid, honey. Daddy’s got you.”
Eddie thrusts his hips at a steady pace, the sound of skin slapping skin hitting his ears as his jaw goes slack, eyes locked on the boy beneath him who was looking up at him with nothing but pleasure and admiration.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, Steve, fuck. I got you.” The pretty boy’s opening clenched around him while his cock twitched against his tummy giving Eddie this sense of pride as a low growl left lips and he pushed up onto his knees to give him more mobility. “Yeah, baby, I got you. No one’s going to fucking hurt you anymore. I’m gonna take care of you.”
Steve’s mouth fell open as little whiney ahs emit from his throat and he forces his eyes to stay open. His orgasm was rapidly approaching and he couldn’t get over how perfect Eddie looked above him. The tattoos he fantasized about were now glistening with sweat and slightly blocked by his long curly hair as his head hung in focus.
His muscular abs and arms flexed with every thrust and all he wanted to do was touch every inch of him but he couldn’t.
He wouldn’t have even if he wasn’t attached to the headboard; not unless he told him it was ok.
Steve was a good boy.
Maybe after tonight he would be able to…
Tell his wife to fuck off back to the man she said made her cum harder than he ever could or had. He’d finally give her those divorce papers he drew up with his lawyer and have Eddie come live with him or hell, he’ll move in with him if that makes him more comfortable.
Whatever Eddie wanted; he’d work to make it happen because for the first time in almost ten years…he felt safe.
A ringed palm slapped his cheek, forcing him to focus on the metalhead who gripped his chin.
“Stay with me, little boy. Don’t let that—mmph—little brain wonder.”
“I’m gonna cum, Daddy.”
Circling his hand around Steve’s cock, Eddie stroked him at a pace that matched his own. After a few more sloppy thrusts the metalhead curled into himself slightly, spilling into the condom just as he felt the other boy’s release warm his hand.
“Fuck…fuck me. Good boy…baby…good boy.”, Eddie pants, continuing his praise as he carefully pulls out. “I know, I know. There we are. Let me get you untied and into a bath.”
The moment his arms are free, Steve wraps them around the metalhead’s neck, startling him slightly as his limbs raise in surprise.
“Whoa, shit!”
“Thank you…thank you, Daddy.”
Eddie tried to contain his smile, tenderly running his fingers through his hair as he hugged him back.
“Everything’s alright, sweetheart. Come on, let’s get you into the warm water.”
Steve watched and waited as the other boy got his bath ready, taking his hand when offered and slowly descending into the water. After sticking a cigarette between his teeth and lighting the end, Eddie got to work cleaning the former jock, murmuring instructions occasionally that Steve silently followed.
Once he was finished, he leaned against the tile wall and blew smoke towards the ceiling.
“You can sit with me if you want.”
Eddie’s gaze shifted his way, taking note of how Steve even bent his knees towards his chest to make room.
“I’m, um, I’m alright, Steve, thank you. I’ll just sit with you here till you’re ready and then I can walk you out.”
“Walk me out?”
The metalhead’s eyebrows furrowed as if Steve had just asked the oddest question.
“Yeah, I mean, unless you want me to hang back. Everyone’s different. I don’t mind waiting here since the room is booked till 6am. Definitely more comfortable than my studio apartment.”, he laughed before glancing towards the other man again to see his face had fallen.
“So that’s all this was…”
“That’s what you paid for.” Steve nodded, breaking Eddie’s heart as he bit his bottom lip to keep it from trembling. “Look, honey, don’t think about that now, alright. You’re still coming down from the headspace and if you want we can lay back down for a bit—”
“But then you’ll leave. They always leave.”, he growled, surprising the metalhead at his tone. “I understand…like you said this what I paid for. I came in here telling myself this was a one-time thing but I got caught up in everything and…I’m a fucking idiot.”
“Steve…”
“Get out, please.”
“Look, I—”
“I SAID GET OUT!”
At his outburst, he glared into Eddie’s eyes, neither of them backing down for a few seconds before the long-haired boy is the one to relent, stomping out of the bathroom and slamming the door behind him.
The moment it closed, he leaned his back against the wood, hanging his head when he hears the sound of Steve’s hiccup breathes and steady tears.
Twenty minutes later, the former jock emerges with a towel around his waist to find Eddie in his jeans and shirt sitting on the edge or the mattress with his leather jacket across his legs.
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to leave the room entirely or…”
“No, it’s ok.”, he whispers, feet scooting across the carpet as he heads for his suit.
Eddie’s leg jumps anxiously as he watches him reach for his boxers before that protective urge takes over again and he aggressively rises to his feet to yank his slacks from his grasp.
“Listen, if you still want to leave or you want me to leave that’s fine but as Daddy and the aftercare I provide it’s my job to dress you and walk you to your car—”
“Do you do that for everyone?”
“No.”, he answers sharply making Steve smirk even while Eddie keeps avoiding any eye contact as he continues. “But I would like to ask you to stay so I can hold you the way you deserve!”
“Why are you shouting?”
“I’m NOT…shouting…” Eddie rolls his eyes as the other man chuckles. “Fuck me. I’m not good at THIS and I haven’t seen you since high school when you were a fucking asshole and I know that you’re married but I can’t deny that I feel this weird protectiveness over you—”
Large palms cup his face as Steve surges forward to kiss his lips.
“I was a fucking asshole.”, he teases, his grin growing when the metalhead finally does the same.
“I didn’t like hearing you cry.” Taking his cheeks in his hands as well, Eddie uses his thumbs to caress the skin under his eyes. “I’m so sorry I hurt you. I may be a dominate guy but it still kind of hurts me to when the sessions are over and they don’t even bother with a goodbye. Just a absent thank you and some cash.”
“You were protecting yourself.”
“Yeah, yeah, baby, I was.” Steve reaches between them and unbuttons the boy’s jeans, pushing them down his legs. “What do you think you’re doing?”, Eddie teases, intertwining his hands with the other man’s when he reaches for it.
Without answering, Steve guides him back into the bed and exhales softly when he places his head on the metalhead’s chest as he tugs him closer. Circling his arm around him, Eddie absently plays with his hair while the pretty boy’s fingers run along his tattoos.
“Can I take you to breakfast tomorrow?”, Steve murmurs, his heavy eye lids struggling to remain open as he listens to the thrum of Eddie’s heartbeat.
“Only if you let me take you dinner tomorrow night.” Eddie tenderly kisses his forehead as he nods, smirking at the steady feeling of his breath warming his skin. “Sweet dreams, baby. I got you.”
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader x eddie munson
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.7k
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ mdni, poly!steddie, established relationship, dom!steve, soft!servicedom!eddie, sub!reader, piv sex, degradation, edging, orgasm control, hair-pulling, praise kink, also a little brat-taming i guess, check-ins (traffic light system), mean!steve but he loves u both, fluff, they’re all just sickeningly in love, eddie's pov
series masterlist
Six months.
That’s how long it’s been since Eddie Munson’s learned what it means to be loved.
Relentless in the way rain smooths stone, this love is patient and deep and thorough.
Six months since that night, when you and Steve kissed him, one on either side, lips gentle as you whispered: We can be more, if you want.
That night you said, Come home with us, and meant it.
He hadn’t known what home was until then. Now, he knows it in his bones.
He knows it in the lines of your face in the morning, soft with sleep. In the heat of Steve’s palm against the small of his back. In the smell of lavender soap and coconut sunscreen and bitter coffee grounds.
He knows it in the way Steve collects all your scribbled notes on the fridge like scripture:
don’t forget milk!
back by 9
love you ◡̈
In the way you collect pieces of time, too.
Movie stubs. A wrinkled matchbook from the Hideout where Eddie first whispered I love you. The guitar pick he gave you as an anniversary present, his initials etched on the back in a shaky scrawl.
You tuck love into the corners of your lives. You make a home out of the moments.
Eddie’s learned all the soft, tender things.
But he knows about all the filthy things, too. He’s no saint.
He knows the exact way your head tips when you’re close. That the tender patch behind your ear, where your perfume fades, is a straight line to the prettiest sound he’s ever heard.
He knows you cry a little when edged too long. That you beg so sweet when you’re made to wait. That your favorite toy is still that very first lavender vibrator; you come harder with it than anything else.
He knows Steve’s thighs twitch when he’s seconds from the edge. That he likes getting head with someone holding his hands. That there’s a small mole right at the base of his cock that makes him squirm every time Eddie kisses it.
He knows Steve gets possessive when he watches you and Eddie together, jaw tightening, eyes going dark.
She’s fucking ours, Munson.
Eddie lives for it. Needs it.
And he knows you love it, too. Being the center of their orbit, shared and indulged.
He’s addicted to all of it.
But more than all that, he’s learned himself.
He’s learned he can sit still. That he can sit on the floor between your legs, your fingers carding through his hair while Steve flips lazily through some worn issue of Cosmo, reading the dumb quizzes aloud just to make you both laugh. He can sit there for hours and not feel the itch to move or talk or fill the silence.
Because it’s not empty anymore. It’s full.
He’s learned that crying doesn’t make him weak. That he can have a nightmare and wake up with someone already there, rubbing his back, telling him he’s safe.
He knows how it feels to have both of you around him at once—your thighs around his head, Steve’s hand around his cock. Knows the heady rush of being stretched open while one of you holds him down and the other tells him he’s beautiful.
He’s learned he likes the marks. Likes the scratches down his back from your nails. The bruises on his hips where Steve grips tight. Likes waking up sore and smiling, knowing exactly where the ache came from.
He’s learned that being loved isn’t just about sex.
But god, the sex—it’s reverent and filthy and everything he never let himself want before now.
And above all else, he loves getting to feel you fall apart in his arms.
Loves even more that you let him piece you back together.
So tonight, when you pull him down onto the couch with a hushed little come here, whispering dirty promises with that half-lidded, love-drunk grin, he follows without a word.
You're laughing as you climb into his lap, fingers diving into his hair, greedy in the way he secretly adores. The TV glows soft in the corner, a rerun that’s been on since Steve left a couple hours ago for his evening shift.
He should be home by now.
The thought passes through him distantly until your thighs tighten around his hips, until your hips start to roll against his own, dragging heat through the front of his sweats. He shudders, hands slipping under your shirt on instinct.
“Baby, you—fuck—you’re gonna get yourself in trouble doing that.”
Your lips hover over his, eyes gleaming with something wicked and sweet. “What if I want to get in trouble?”
He huffs a helpless laugh, head thudding back against the couch. “Damn menace…”
“You know it.” You hum before dragging him into a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue.
Impatient fingers start to tug at his curls, gentle and then not. The rhythm of your hips becomes insistent, the couch squeaking softly beneath you, each movement punctuated by shared breaths and the quiet, hungry smacks of mouths finding each other again and again.
And then:
“I’m home!”
The soft jangle of keys hits the dish by the door, followed by the muted thud of shoes kicked off onto linoleum.
“In here, baby!” You chirp, still smiling, still perched on his lap.
Eddie, breathless, doesn’t know whether to laugh or brace himself.
“Coming!” Steve’s voice calls back, happy and sing-song.
The faint clink of the fridge door. Running water. The familiar shuffle of socked feet across hardwood.
Then Steve appears in the doorway.
Shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed and bulging in a tight blue and white polo. Glass of water held loose in one hand, he lets his gaze drift lazily across the room, drinking in every detail.
You in Eddie’s lap. Eddie’s red mouth. His rumpled shirt. The slow, not-so-innocent grind of your hips where you haven’t quite stopped moving.
Steve grins.
You lift your chin and smile back, shameless. One arm loops around Eddie’s neck, staking claim, before you lean down to press a soft kiss to his jaw—punctuation.
Steve quirks a brow, strolls in. Sets the glass on the side table and lets his eyes linger on both of you.
“Well,” he drawls, lips curling. “This looks cozy.”
He leans down to kiss you first, quick and familiar. Then he turns, giving one to Eddie too, lips brushing his temple, fingers grazing his nape.
And Eddie—god, he still flinches a little. Not because it’s unwelcome, but because it never stops surprising him. That Steve can touch like that, can give away affection so freely. Like it costs him nothing. Like it means everything.
That it can be this easy.
It burns, sometimes. In the terrifying way. In the good way.
Steve drops onto the couch beside him in a slow sprawl, legs open, hand already resting on your thigh.
There, sitting hip to hip with Eddie, he turns his head and just... looks at you. Holds your gaze for a long, quiet beat. Like your face is a blackboard and he’s solving some wild, unspeakable equation. His eyes glow dark amber under the lamplight, edged with a curious thought.
Not math, Eddie thinks. Chemistry. Combustion.
Eventually, Steve seems to decide on a tone.
“Hi, gorgeous,” he croons, all brassy and honey-warm.
The sound of it swims through the room, thick as syrup. Steve’s fingers trail slowly up your neck, the backs of his knuckles brushing along your jaw in a gesture so gentle it makes your breath catch. They slip into your hair, threading through with the same care one might use to untangle a silk ribbon.
Until...
His grip tightens.
Hard enough to tip your chin back.
Tilt the spotlight. Isolate you.
When Steve speaks again, his voice has changed.
No more honey. It’s steel wrapped in silk.
“Were you a good girl for Eddie tonight, baby?”
Eddie blinks, heart jolting, thoughts stuttering.
That tone. A clean, whipcrack switch that cuts straight through the room.
He feels it like a shift in barometric pressure, the electric promise of a storm.
Your lashes flutter, lips parting as you try to nod, but Steve’s fingers tighten just enough to keep you still.
“Mhm,” you breathe.
From beside Eddie, Steve makes this sound. A low, guttural hum, almost a growl caught in his chest.
“I don’t know,” he starts, voice rumbling deep.
His gaze stays locked on you, the grip in your hair pinning you in place.
“What do you think, Eds? Has she been good?”
Then, even lower: “Or was she a desperate little slut, like she always is?”
Oh.
Oh, shit.
It’s about to be that kind of night.
Your jaw falls slack. Your thighs twitch around Eddie’s. He feels it, the way your body answers first, ahead of thought. That soft, desperate whimper that gets trapped in your throat when you try to swallow it down.
What if I want to get in trouble?
Eddie almost laughs. Almost.
You fucking menace.
Instead, he adjusts his grip around your waist, fingers skimming up your ribs, dragging just high enough to make your breath hitch.
He tilts his head, playing it casual. Lethal with it.
“I mean… she did start it.”
Steve huffs through his nose—a clipped, amused little exhale—and his expression hardens.
You look wrecked already: lips parted, chest heaving, eyes flicking between them like you can’t decide who you want first.
You're waiting.
You like the waiting.
Steve’s thumb brushes along your jaw, deceptively soft. “You did start it, huh?”
“Hmm,” you breathe, trying for sweet, but your voice trembles. Your lips twitch, the excitement underneath stretching taut like a wire about to snap. “Baby, I was good. Promise…”
It’s almost convincing. Almost.
Steve laughs. It’s a quiet, cruel sound. Dragged up from his chest like he’s letting you in on a joke you’re not quite smart enough to get. The hand in your hair tightens again, tugging you back a little further, baring your throat to the ceiling.
“Good, huh?” He tilts your head a fraction, studying your face like he’s remembering the exact shape of your mouth when you lie. “You sure about that?”
You make a high, helpless noise, fingers knotting in the front of Eddie’s shirt.
“Couldn’t even wait for me to get home, grinding all over Eddie.” Steve sinks deeper into the couch, thigh pressing against Eddie’s in a slow, deliberate push that sends a jolt up Eddie’s spine. “It’s kind of pathetic, you know that?”
Eddie watches, burning with awe, as you come apart in his lap.
Loved and ruined in equal measure.
This is what Steve does.
One moment, he’s light: hands like balm, lips like sunrise. And the next, he’s fire: no warmth, just heat.
Steve Harrington is the sun, radiant and merciless.
He’ll offer you his heart on a silver platter, then burn you to ash. Split you wide open, make you sob with nothing but his voice in your ear and his gaze pinning you like a blade between the ribs.
And right now? With that hunger in his eyes, with the way his tongue’s dragging over his lip like he’s savoring the taste of your ruin?
You’d be lucky to make it out of this one alive.
You whimper again, throat bobbing with a swallow. Steve’s grip is merciless now, his hand a vice, keeping your head tipped uncomfortably far back.
And then—because you’re you, because you never fold easy, because you’re wild and stubborn in the most beautiful ways—
You smile.
That wicked, glorious thing that tears Eddie in two every single time.
“We were just warming up the couch for you, Stevie,” you breathe. “Swear.”
You seal your fate with a demonstrative roll of your hips, bearing down against the bulge in Eddie’s pants.
Oh, god have mercy on you.
Steve’s eyes narrow, amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb brushing softly across your cheek. “You think that’s clever?”
Then the hand in your hair tugs hard. Eddie sees it in the way you wince for real this time, breath hitching, eyes squeezing shut.
Immediately, Steve murmurs: “Color, baby.”
Your answer comes faster than Eddie can blink, breathless but sure:
“Green. So green.”
Eddie watches you both, enthralled.
Another lesson. One of a thousand he’s learned from the two of you.
What once felt awkward and uncertain, he gets now. Understands what it means when Steve color-checks in that tone, low and anchored, like a lifeline.
A reminder that no matter how rough it gets, no matter how far they take you apart, the center always holds.
Eddie swallows hard, brushing his thumb low on your waist, right where your skin is warmest. He feels the shiver ripple through you, delicate and involuntary.
God, he loves you. Loves Steve. So fucking much it fills him right to the top, threatens to spill over and crack him open.
Steve exhales through his nose, pressing a kiss into your temple with steadying warmth.
“Good girl.”
And just like that, you melt.
It’s magic, the way you do. Such a precious treat to see it like this, so up close. Watching you go liquid from two little words, eyes glazing over, lashes drooping like you’re drifting someplace sweet and far away. You’re hovering in that delicious space he knows you love most: half in penance, half in worship, trembling with the need to give more, to be better, to be theirs.
Steve dips closer, voice sliding back into that velvet-edged steel.
“You were good, huh?” He mocks. “Grinding on him like a desperate slut. That counts as good behavior now?”
Eddie almost chokes at the whiplash of it all.
But you? You only moan louder, hips bucking, thighs squeezing around him as you chase friction like it might save your life.
“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, hands tightening on your waist. His thumbs keep tracing slow, loving circles over your belly, far too gentle for how desperately you’re moving against him. “Look at you, gorgeous…”
Steve hums at that. “You love it when he talks like that, don’t you?” His eyes cut to Eddie, sharp and knowing. “Gets you all wet and needy while I’m gone.”
Your breath hitches when you try to protest. “I—”
“No.” Steve’s voice slices clean through the air. “You don’t speak unless I say.”
You swallow back the words with a small, obedient whimper.
Steve’s fingers slip from your hair, tracing the column of your throat. They settle there. Just a little weight, not hard enough to choke, but Eddie knows it’s a promise.
“You wanna show us?” Steve murmurs, leaning in until his breath fans your cheek. “Show us how good you can be?”
You nod once, pupils blown so wide your irises are nothing but a whisper of color.
“That’s my girl.” He kisses the side of your jaw. “Stay right here, baby. On Eddie.”
Steve sinks behind you onto the floor, knees against the carpet, chest pressed flush to your spine. His hands slip under Eddie’s, cupping your ribs. Four hands move as one as they lift and peel your shirt away, baring you inch by inch.
“Fuck, baby…” Eddie breathes, hands roaming your skin. “So fucking pretty.”
Steve crowds closer, lips brushing your shoulder. His touches are less careful: callused palms cupping your breasts, thumbs rolling your nipples into stiff peaks before pinching them with a sharp tug.
You whine, lashes fluttering.
“Please,” you whisper. “Want…”
“What do you want, sweetheart?” Steve croons, teeth grazing your ear. “Use your words.”
“Wanna… wanna come. Please.”
Steve snorts softly, like he’s barely impressed. “Already?”
Eddie smiles too, eyes glued to the way your body arches, the way your nipples are pebbling under Steve’s clever fingers. “So needy, aren’t you, gorgeous?”
“Greedy, more like,” Steve mutters, pinching again so hard you gasp. “Always so full of it. Mouth, cunt, attitude…”
You whimper at the words; Eddie knows how a little cruelty lights up your veins, praise and degradation mixing the same way in your blood.
You turn toward Steve, mouth parted, seeking his kiss with helpless instinct. He catches your chin, amused, before pulling you in. The kiss is filthy, hungry, his tongue sliding into your mouth in one smooth stroke to claim.
Eddie watches, struck stupid at the sight—your moans muffled against Steve’s lips, body rocking mindlessly against Eddie’s dick. He’s practically leaking under his sweats, the heat from your cunt soaking straight through the fabric.
“Can I touch you, baby?” Eddie whispers against your jaw where Steve’s still holding you in place. He knows the answer, but he needs it anyway.
You nod frantically, a slick string of spit stretching between you and Steve when he lets you pull away.
“Yes, Eddie, please, need you—”
Eddie doesn’t waste a second. He tugs your shorts aside, fingers sliding through your slick—
“Jesus christ.” He stares up at you. “Baby, you’re dripping.”
“Always is,” Steve mutters, lips against the side of your throat, sucking a mark hard enough to bruise. “Pretty slut loves to show off.”
You whine, arching back into his chest as Eddie sinks two fingers into you, slow and deep until his knuckles kiss your skin.
Your entire body bows.
“Fuck, fuck—Eds—”
He curls his fingers, rubbing against that perfect spot like he’s been practicing for months (he has). His thumb circles your clit with steady precision, and your whimpers turn into breathless little cries.
Between your moans and the wet squelch of your arousal, Eddie almost misses your next words.
“Please... wannit, want you inside...”
He pulls his fingers out slowly, watching your hips chase nothing. His cock is throbbing painfully as he pushes his sweats down.
Steve’s voice cuts in, merciless.
“Ask him nicely, slut.”
“Please,” you sob. “Please fuck me, Eddie—need your cock, wanna feel you—please—”
Eddie’s answering smile is pure warmth. “I got you, sweet girl. C’mere.”
He guides you down with both palms cupping your hips. His fingers glisten with your arousal, smearing across your skin.
Inch by careful inch, the slow sink inside you is hot and tight and buttery-smooth.
“Fuuuck…” Eddie groans, completely, devastatingly in love.“You feel so good. Take it so fucking well.”
Steve wraps his arms around you, palm splaying over your stomach.
“What do you say?”
“T-thank you,” you gasp. “Thank you, thank you—”
Every slow thrust rocks a sob out of you. A particularly well-placed grind has you mewling, clawing at Steve’s arms.
Steve cups your jaw, forcing your head back against his shoulder. “You close, sweetheart?”
You nod, frantic.
“Words.”
“Yes, yes, please—can I—”
“Not yet.”
Your cry is sharp enough to cut straight through Eddie’s heart.
“Steve,” he grunts, strained. “She’s—”
“I know.” Steve hums, maddeningly calm. His hand slides down to feel your cunt, fingers obscenely framing the place where Eddie’s stretching you open. “She can wait. Can’t you, honey?”
You shake your head in frantic, tiny motions. “P-please, can’t…”
“Breathe through it,” he says softly. “You’re not coming until I say.”
“N-no, please, I....”
“Where are your manners, baby? Eddie’s being so good to your greedy little pussy right now.”
“I’m sorry,” you sob instantly. “Sorry—thank you, Eddie, thank you—Steve, please—”
Eddie doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this. This raw honesty in you. How you become this soft, pleading, open thing in their hands. It’s beautiful, it’s mesmerizing, the way you allow yourself to beg. To come apart for them so helplessly.
And when he lifts his head, meeting Steve’s gaze over your shoulder, he knows exactly what that look means.
Steve leans in close to your ear, voice dropping to a purr, eyes still locked on Eddie’s.
“You gonna come for him? Make a mess all over his lap?”
“Yes—need to... so close...”
Eddie feels you squeeze around him, tight then tighter, knows it won’t take much more to get you to break. He’s fucking you proper now, thighs lifting off the couch, hammering against that spot until you’re choking on your own breaths.
“That’s it,” he grunts. “Good girl.”
“Please, please, I need to—I can’t—”
Steve’s fists your hair again, grounding you with a sharp tug. “Not yet.”
You nearly scream, nails digging into Steve’s forearms. “No—please! Steve, I can’t—”
“You can. You will. You’re our good girl, aren’t you?”
Even sobbing, your nod is immediate. “Yes. Yours, yours, always—good for you both, please—”
Eddie shudders, the word both hitting him in a place so deep he nearly loses his rhythm.
Steve smiles, hums a satisfied little note.
And then, finally, he nods.
“Let go, baby,” he breathes. “Come.”
And you break.
The orgasm rips through you in a violent shudder. You sob, convulsing, collapsing forward into Eddie’s chest as every muscle seizes and trembles. You’re shaking so hard he’d be worried if he didn’t know you love it like this.
Eddie cradles your head, lets his movements slow, helping you come down with shallow, gentle thrusts. “That’s it,” he whispers, voice trembling under the weight of everything he feels for you. “Ride it out, there you go, baby. So good. So fucking good. We got you.”
Steve’s lips move in a slow drag along your cheek, murmuring praises soft enough to make you cry harder.
And though you’re too far gone to notice it, Eddie sees the look on Steve’s face.
Adoration, vivid and sparkling, like sunlight fracturing through stained glass.
It lives in his gaze, his smile, the gentle crease at the corner of his eyes and the quiet strength in the set of his jaw—every warm, golden inch of the man Eddie loves.
When your shaking finally slows, your breath tapering down into little broken huffs against Eddie’s collarbone, you lift your head.
And the sight that meets him just about takes his breath away.
Eyes wide and glassy, lashes jeweled with tears. Lips parted in small, shaky breaths, swollen from bruising kisses. You look like you’re trying to speak, words catching before they form.
But you don’t need to say anything at all.
Not when that look—god, that look—says everything.
This awful, beautiful softness in your expression, gratitude and devotion and something deeper still. Something Eddie feels unworthy of, even as he’s desperate to hold onto it.
Trust.
Bare and luminous.
It wraps around Eddie’s ribs like a pair of warm hands, squeezing until he’s breathless with the weight of it.
Stripped down to nothing but faith in the people you love most, it’s a kind of vulnerability you don’t give lightly.
Eddie’s heart lurches with something too full to keep inside.
He surges forward to cup your cheek, calloused thumb grazing your skin, and brushes his lips against yours. Barely a kiss, more breath than touch.
You melt into it with a quiet, content sound.
Behind you, Steve’s voice cracks for the first time all night: the first break in his dom voice.
“Fuck me.” he whispers. “You okay? Color?”
You mumble “green” into Eddie’s mouth, smiling.
Steve’s laugh comes out shaky, relief washing over him in a visible wave. His shoulders drop, whole body softening like he’s finally allowed himself to breathe again.
And when you turn in Eddie’s lap, still wobbly, still glowing, Steve’s already there. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, thumb stroking the soft place beneath your ear as he draws you in for a kiss that’s nothing like earlier. Slow, gentle, built entirely from affection and no less passionate.
He keeps you close for a moment longer, thumb tracing the back of your neck. When he pulls away, it’s only so he can grab the glass of water waiting on the table. He brings it to your lips with careful hands.
“Small sips, baby. Good girl.”
You drink obediently, eyes half-lidded and lashes heavy.
When you’re done, Steve lifts the glass toward Eddie without a word. Eddie rolls his eyes for form’s sake but still leans forward, cheeks warm, letting Steve tilt the glass for him. Steve makes him drain the whole thing, eyes on him the entire time.
Only when all three of you have caught your breath does Steve straighten with a grunt, knees popping loudly.
He looks deliciously wrecked: hair wild, cheeks red, shirt crooked and rucked up on one side. His Levi’s are unbuttoned, clinging hopelessly to a very obvious problem he’s ignoring.
“Alright, you little menaces,” he sighs, planting his hands on his hips. “I’ve got ice cream in the freezer.”
You blink down at the obvious situation in his jeans. “But Stevie—”
“Ah-ah.” He points toward the kitchen. “Recharge first. C’mon.”
Your face scrunches into that bratty little frown Eddie knows too well, the one that means you’re already plotting a way around this.
But he also knows you.
And he knows there’s only one thing powerful enough to override your stubborn streak:
Ice cream.
You deflate with a huff, defeated but not really. “Fine.”
Eddie bites back a grin.
You brighten a second later, eyes going big and sparkly. “Wait, did you get—?”
“Yep.” Steve smirks.
He leans down to press a fond kiss to the crown of your head. Then his gaze shifts to Eddie, softening even more.
“Got your favorite too, Eds.”
Your laugh bubbles out, breathless and sweet. You lean back against Eddie’s chest and whisper into his hair with a conspiratorial grin:
“Hey, Eds. I think he might love us or something.”
Steve snorts, shakes his head, but his eyes crinkle at the corners with a smile too wide to deny.
“I love Eddie. You? Not so sure.”
Eddie’s heart stumbles. He has to squeeze your hip the moment he hears it, has to ground himself before he launches straight off the couch.
“Yeah, he’s uh…” He clears his throat, tries to hide the wobble in it. “One big softie, huh?”
He says it to you, but his eyes never leave Steve’s.
And Steve holds that gaze, eyes steady and warm, answering a question Eddie doesn’t say out loud.
Eddie smiles, looks away first.
You continue teasing Steve from your spot in Eddie’s lap, trying to coax him back onto the couch. “...I’m just saying babe, we could eat later. You’ll be, like, the main course before dessert!”
Steve snorts and rolls his eyes, already headed for the kitchen.
“I’m gonna start without you two if you don’t hurry up!”
“What? No fair!” you shout, scrambling upright. Eddie laughs as you drag him along by the wrist.
In the kitchen, Steve scoops out meticulous portions of ice cream while still sporting a semi. You pester him about his scooping technique—this was literally your job, babe—while perched up on the counter in Eddie’s Judas Priest shirt, legs swinging off the edge. Eddie leans next to you, arms crossed, throwing in teasing quips purely to watch Steve’s ears turn pink while he tries to defend himself.
You both last exactly ten seconds before boredom takes over.
You toss a marshmallow at Eddie's open mouth, missing so catastrophically that Steve stops scooping to interject.
The bag is confiscated before you can attempt a third throw.
Not that it stops you.
Sprinkles rain across the counter like confetti. Syrup streaks in glossy trails across the marble.
Eddie gets chocolate on his chin somehow, and Steve doesn’t even hesitate—he wipes it away with his thumb, slides it between his own lips, and sucks it clean without breaking eye contact.
Eddie chokes on his own spit. You gasp, delighted.
And if things start to unravel—as they usually do—with a smear of whipped cream on your cheek, a cold spoon pressed to Steve’s stomach, and then shirts being dragged up and over heads because “you’re all sticky, babe, just take it off."
If a moment later, Eddie finds himself pinned between two warm bodies, one in front, one behind, syrup-sweet kisses trailing across his neck, sticky fingers tracing up his ribs until he can’t tell who’s gasping and who he’s gasping for…
Well.
That part’s for Eddie to keep to himself.
series masterlist
a/n: thank you to everyone who's been waiting for the series finale :) this is the last chapter, BUT if there are headcanons/ideas you’d want to see w/ these three, you can send them my way! who knows where inspiration might strike?
summary: Steve pining over Nancy is driving you crazy, so you offer to help him make her jealous.
pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader
word count: 2.4k
warnings: Explicit smut, fake dating, mutual pining, dirty talk, brief handjob, p in v sex, light choking
You notice it before anyone else does.
The way Steve keeps drifting… his body planted at the sqwak with the rest of you, but his attention constantly snagging on Nancy. It happens in little flickers, tiny tells.
Nancy leans over the map with Jonathan? Steve’s knee bounces.
She brushes hair behind her ear? His jaw flexes.
She laughs at Jonathan? Steve’s entire expression dims like someone turned a dial down.
It makes your chest tighten.
Because you know Steve… his bravado, his posturing, the way he jokes when he’s hurting.
You’ve seen the version he hides from everyone else. And right now, he’s trying so hard not to look like he cares that he might as well have a flashing neon sign over his head.
No one else notices at first…. But you do.
You watch him from your seat, pretending to study a sketch of the plan Mike came up with.
Really, you’re watching the way he keeps shifting his weight like he wants to go stand next to Nancy but can’t make himself do it. The way he swallows every time Jonathan gently touches her shoulder while pointing at the map.
He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He looks… lost. And you hate how much that gets to you.
After a few minutes, you push yourself up and wander toward him, pretending like you’re just stretching your legs.
He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, staring at nothing. Definitely not listening to whatever Robin is rambling about. His eyes flick to Nancy and Jonathan again—and that’s when you speak.
“You’re gonna burn holes in the back of Jonathan’s head,” you murmur.
Steve startles, blinking down at you. “I… what? No, I’m not!”
“You’re glaring.”
“I’m not glaring,” he mutters defensively, straightening. “I’m… observing.”
“You look constipated.”
He snorts despite himself, shoulders loosening a little. “Wow. Thanks.”
You shrug. “Just being honest.”
You look up at him, really look, and the vulnerable tightness in his expression is impossible to ignore.
“You okay?” you ask quietly.
He hesitates, then gestures vaguely toward Nancy nonchalantly. “She just… used to look at me like that.”
“And now she looks at Jonathan.”
He doesn’t respond and your stomach twists in sympathy—and something else you don’t want to examine too closely.
You nudge him gently with your elbow. “You know… there are ways to make someone remember you.”
He gives a humorless laugh. “What, walk over there and give a dramatic speech?”
“No,” you say, amuse, “something that actually works.”
His brows lift slightly. “…Like what?”
You look away for a moment, gathering the courage, because saying this out loud feels surprisingly intimate.
Then you turn back to him.
“You could make her jealous.”
Steve goes very still.
You keep your voice light, “It works. People don’t usually realize what they’re missing until they think someone else has it.”
He studies your face for a long moment, something soft and uncertain flickering behind his eyes.
“And… how would I do that?” he asks, slow, cautious. “Hypothetically.”
The question sends a pulse of warmth through your chest.
“Hypothetically?” you echo. “You’d need someone to… pretend with you.”
His throat bobs. “Pretend.”
“Fake date,” you clarify, shrugging lightly like your heart isn’t pounding. “Hold your hand. Lean into you a little. Maybe let you put your arm around them so Nancy sees it.”
He keeps staring at you and it makes your skin heat.
“You’d do that?” he asks softly.
You try for a casual tone, even though your pulse is everywhere. “I mean… unless kissing me is some terrible burden.”
A breath of a laugh escapes him, his mouth curving. “No. I wouldn’t call it a burden.”
Something shifts between you.
“So?” you murmur. “If you want the help… I’m offering.”
He looks at you like he’s weighing the whole world.
Like he’s finally seeing something he should’ve seen sooner.
Then, quietly, almost gratefully…
“Yeah. Okay,” he shoots you a faint smile, “let’s try it.”
And just like that, the pretending begins.
Pretending turns into its own sort of torture, because Steve commits.
Hand on your lower back when you walk into a room.
Thumb hooked into your belt loop when he stands behind you.
His palm resting casually on your knee when you sit together.
Little touches that are supposed to be for show.
Supposed to mean nothing.
Except they aren’t nothing.
Not when your body reacts every single time.
He looks at you differently, too.
Like he’s studying your face when he thinks you’re not looking.
Like he’s memorizing your laugh.
Like he’s trying not to cross invisible lines he desperately wants to cross.
And sometimes, when the fake dating act requires a quick kiss to your cheek or your temple, you feel his breath stall. Feel him linger just half a second too long.
You don’t bring it up and he doesn’t either.
But the tension builds, slow and relentless, like water pressing against glass.
And then the crawl happens.
The group is buzzing with nervous energy as plans are finalized. Supplies are checked, flashlights tested, weapons distributed.
Joyce is talking too fast, Robin keeps pacing, Nancy and Jonathan are coordinating routes.
But Steve keeps you close. A gentle touch at your back, a quiet glance to make sure you’re near. The kind of protectiveness that never feels like an act.
Nancy doesn’t say a word when she spots you and Steve standing a little too close near the van, but the shift in her expression is unmistakable. Her eyes flick down to where Steve’s hand rests on the small of your back, casual, but not that casual—then back up to your face, lingering just long enough to read a truth you hadn’t meant to show. It’s not the first time this has occurred, and you hope Steve notices your plan has worked
When the crawl site is declared ready, your stomach tightens.
You’ve been through it before. You know the dark, the vines, the suffocating air. The way the Upside Down swallows sound.
You try to steady your breathing, but Steve sees it immediately. He always sees you.
“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing your arm. “We’re riding in the van. Dustin’s a no-show, come with me.”
You nod, not trusting your voice.
Inside, it’s dim and quiet. A temporary bubble away from the chaos. Steve closes the door behind you, and suddenly it’s just the two of you in the muted half-dark.
He sits across from you at first, elbows resting on his knees.
“You’re nervous,” he says softly. Not accusing. Not teasing. Just noticing.
You swallow. “A little.”
He shakes his head gently. “No. More than a little.”
Your eyes sting, not because of fear, but because he sounds like he cares too much for it to be pretend. He scoots closer, still giving you space to pull away. “Come here.”
You go without hesitation.
He pulls you in, slow and carefully, one arm around your back, the other hand warm at the nape of your neck. Your forehead rests against his collarbone, his chin brushing your hair.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Everything’s gonna be fine.”
You clench your fist in his shirt. “Steve…”
His hand slides up your spine, soothing… except soothing is the wrong word. Because every stroke of his fingers sends a shiver down your skin.
He breathes against your ear, voice low and soft:
“I’d get between you and anything. You know that, right?”
You pull back to look at him, and everything changes.
His hands stay on you. Your knees touch.
You’re close enough to feel his breath on your lips.
His gaze drops to your mouth. You see it, no.. you feel it.
The exact second the dam cracks.
“Steve,” you whisper, trying to steady yourself. “This is… pretend.”
His thumb brushes your cheek, featherlight.
“Not right now,” he says, “not for me.”
Your heart stutters.
“And not for you either,” he adds quietly.
Your pulse answers him before you do… and you kiss him.
It’s soft for half a second, just the barest brush of lips, before he exhales sharply and pulls you in like he’s been denied this for weeks.
His hand cups your jaw, the other sliding around your waist, pulling you into his lap. The kiss deepens. Hungry, desperate, starved.
Every tiny piece of restraint he’s shown shatters the moment you open your mouth to him.
He groans into the kiss, low and rough, like he’s been holding it back.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips. “I knew it. I knew the second I said yes to this fake dating thing I was screwed.”
Steve kisses you like he’s already fucked you a hundred times in his head.
Your back hits the bench seat and he follows, mouth devouring yours, hands everywhere at once—your waist, your ribs, the underside of your thighs. His fingers tremble with adrenaline and want, but his touch is deliberate, hungry, carving you into memory.
When he pulls back, both of you are breathing hard.
“Take this off,” he pants, tugging at your shirt.
You lift your arms, and he strips it off like he’s starving for what’s underneath. His eyes drag over your chest, slow and reverent, then wrecked.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he murmurs, palms sliding up to cup your breasts. “How the hell am I supposed to pretend after this?”
You grab his wrist and guide his hand lower. “You don’t.”
That breaks him and he kisses down your throat, your sternum, then lower.
Nipping lightly, sucking harder, leaving a trail of open mouthed heat over your skin until you’re arching into him. He mouths your nipple, tongue dragging lazily before he sucks, deep and firm. You gasp, threading your fingers into his hair.
“That good?” he asks against your skin, voice smug and breathless.
“More.”
He groans, an animal sound erupts from his chest and his hand slides between your legs over your pants, pressing right where you need him. You cry out and he bites your shoulder gently in response.
“Fuck yeah,” he pants. “Let me hear you. No one else is close enough to hear us.”
That thought alone makes your stomach flip.
He unbuttons your pants with frantic fingers, and you help shove them down. He drags your underwear aside and his jaw drops when he sees how wet you already are.
“Holy shit.” His thumb sweeps across you, slow and claiming, “you’re soaked.”
“Been waiting,” you breathe.
His pupils dilate, “for me?”
You nod, and he curses viciously.
“Get over here,” he growls, tugging you up and onto his lap.
You straddle him, and his hands slide under your thighs, squeezing, positioning you exactly how he wants. His mouth returns to yours. Hot, urgent, wet—and he grinds up into you through his jeans, making your breath catch.
You tug at his belt.
“Get these off.”
“Bossy,” he teases, undoing it with shaking hands. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
You help shove his jeans down, his boxers following. His cock springs free, thick, flushed, already leaking.
Your eyes widen and he smirks., “yeah? You like what you see?”
You wrap your hand around him and stroke once, slow.
Steve’s head drops back. “Oh—fuck—”
You lean in and kiss his throat while your hand works him, dragging your thumb through the slick at the tip.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the first time you pulled me against you for show,” you whisper. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”
His grip on your hips tightens. “I did… but I didn’t know you wanted me back.”
You line him up, hovering over him.
“Find out.”
He sucks in a breath so sharp it sounds like pain.
Then you sink down onto him.
Slow. Stretching. Inch by inch.
Steve’s entire body locks. His hands seize your hips. He swears—low and broken—eyes squeezing shut like he’s trying not to explode right there.
“Oh my fucking god,” he groans. “You’re—fuck—you’re so tight I can’t—”
You take him until your hips meet, both of you shaking.
You lean forward, lips brushing his ear. “You can move.”
He exhales shakily. “Baby… if I move right now, I’m gonna ruin you.”
“Do it anyway.”
He snaps.
His hands grip your ass and he guides you up his length, then slams you back down. The van rocks hard. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
“That—Steve—oh my god—”
“That’s it,” he pants. “Ride me just like that.”
You start moving to the best of your ability in the small space. Lifting, dropping, grinding—using him, taking everything he gives you. Steve’s eyes are glued to where your bodies meet, watching himself disappear into you again and again.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, thrusting up to meet you, “taking all of me like you were made for it.”
Your pace stutters. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”
He grabs your face and kisses you, filthy and wet. “I’m not stopping until you’re shaking.”
He flips you onto your back so fast you gasp. He mounts you, driving into you deeper than before. Hard, relentless, your thighs shaking around his hips.
Your moans echo in the van. His breath is hot and ragged against your neck. Skin slapping, bodies slick with sweat, the air thick with sex and desperation.
He presses a hand lightly around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, pinning you in place while he fucks into you.
“You feel so good,” you choke out.
“You’re gonna cum for me,” he pants. “Cum on my cock. Want to feel you clench around me.”
His fingers drop to your clit, rubbing fast, perfect, ruthless. Your hips lift off the seat, back arching.
“Steve—Steve—I’m close—”
“I know,” he growls, “C’mon babydoll, it to me.”
You break apart, screaming his name, body trembling violently as pleasure crashes through you. Your walls clamp around him so hard he swears, thrusting fast and sloppy, chasing his own release.
“Shit—shit—baby—” He pulls out just in time, stroking himself once before he comes all over your stomach, your hips, your thighs—hot, messy, thick.
He collapses down onto his hands above you, panting like he just ran a mile.
You’re both shaking.
He looks down, taking in the sight of you: legs spread, panting, covered in him, and groans again like he might get hard all over.
He leans down and kisses you slow, messy, devoted.
“I wasn’t pretending,” he murmurs against your lips. “Not once.”
In dire need of some Eddie being a total boob guy 🤤
hope you like it :D — even at the end of the world, eddie can't help but be turned on by you (established relationship, set during st4, hints of sub!eddie, cw for very brief mentions of injuries, smut 18+, premature ejaculation, slight voyeurism bc there are ppl in the other room lol | 1.5k)
bug's three year celebration ♡
“There’s absolutely no way you’re hard right now.”
It takes Eddie a long moment to realize you’d even spoken. The end of the world has been fogging his mind for the past two days, to be fair — the whole tale of wizards sucking eyeballs out of skulls and the like.
He can barely function these days, too haunted by the memories of Chrissy and Patrick dying right in front of him. The sound of their bones snapping replays constantly in his head. The thought of Vecna taking you the way it took both of them chills him to the bone.
His mind was certain he’d never be quite so human again after all this, but all the rest of him doesn’t seem to be in agreement — he’s as hard as ever for you now, dark wizards be damned. The subtle tint straining in his jeans doesn’t go unnoticed by you.
“It’s your fault…” Eddie murmurs, half-distant, with his heavy eyes still zeroed in on your chest.
The neck of your t-shirt droops low from where you’re bent before him, tending to the weeping cut on his temple. He got it from crossing dimensions; a wild sentence in its own right. His hand slipped from the rope of tied bedsheets, and he missed the makeshift landing pad (a palette of couch cushions) by an inch or more.
The zipper snagged him when he hit the ground and ripped a gash just above his brow — barely enough to bleed, but still enough to warrant the Star Wars Band-Aid you drag from the opened first-aid kit on the unmade bed beside him. You stand between his spread thighs from where he sits on the edge of the mattress, alone in the sanctuary of his bedroom.
You can hear the muffled conversation from the others in the living room from here, taking a much-needed break after the brutal few days.
“The world might be ending, and all you can think about is sex?” you laugh and bend slightly at the waist, smoothing the curly brown bangs from his brow to press the lightsaber-patterned bandage to the pale skin there. Your hands against him are the gentlest he’s ever known.
“Hey, I can focus on multiple things at once,” Eddie defends weakly, flashing you a playful, brown-eyed glare before his gaze drifts down once more. “Case in point…”
Your baggy band-tee, which used to belong to him some light-years ago, hangs low to reveal your bare chest. A thin, black lace bra cradles your soft breasts — admittedly not the best attire to get stuck fighting the end of the world in, but a sight for sore eyes still. The plush skin spills gently over the delicate cups, and his mouth waters to take a bite out of you.
“Ow!” Eddie grimaces when your thumb digs harder into the cut on his temple, not enough to truly hurt, but enough to bring him back to reality.
You laugh at the puppy-like pout that screws his face. “You’re such a boy,” you scold, bracing your hands on the shoulders of his tattered Hellfire tee.
His chocolate-colored eyes narrow into thin slits as his pink lips curl into a lopsided grin. “Yeah, but… You love me, though…” he mutters and leans in close, filling your lungs with the scent of musky cologne, stale hairspray, and interdimensional muck.
You hold him in place when he tries to kiss you. His heavy eyes open wide again, darting wildly between your squinted ones. “We don’t have time for this, Munson,” you tell him. “The others are still waiting for us out there, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I can be quick,” he assures you.
“Oh, trust me,” you scoff. “I know.”
Eddie frowns when you laugh, a sunshine sort of giggle that makes him momentarily forget about the imminent doom awaiting the group of you.
“You know… If I die fighting this Vecna asshole,” Eddie croons, only halfway playful, as he tilts his wild head to his shoulder. “You’re gonna be real sorry for not giving me one last blowjob to say goodbye— Ow!”
He winces again when you shove him hard by the shoulder.
“Nobody is dying,” you argue with a stern glare that makes his stomach do a backflip. “And I am not giving you a blowjob in here.”
He only gets a second or more to pout over your rejection before your hand falls from his shoulder and drops into his lap.
Your palm is warm over the zipper of his baggy, black jeans when you cradle his stiff cock over the thick fabric. Your delicate fingers squeeze him gently there, and you smile when you feel his half-hard length twitching in the confines of his boxers.
Eddie’s chocolate eyes go heavy-lidded. His pink mouth falls open as his chest inflates with an inhaled breath. “Oh, fuck…” he mumbles into the quiet of his sunlit bedroom.
“Happy now?” you tease quietly.
He nods slowly, wild curls swaying around his jaw. “Very…”
“So, I guess if you really wanna cum…” you lilt with a feigned air of innocence. “Then you’re gonna have to do it in your pants, baby.”
Eddie’s mouth parts in a moan that gets caught in his throat when you squeeze his sensitive cock harder.
He quickly loses the ability to tell you that it won’t take him very long to get there — that the stress of the world ending and the sight of you alone, all smug and dominant before him, is enough to have wound him up tight. He thinks he could probably cum now if you commanded him to, that’s how badly he’s looking for a release.
“You should hurry, Munson,” you tell him through the merciless massaging of his crotch, grinning to yourself when his clothed cock jerks faintly in the brutal confines of his jeans — wanting you closer but still aching for a quick release all the same, which you fully plan to give him now. “The others are gonna start wondering where we are.”
“Those losers can wait,” Eddie slurs through panted breaths that fill the quiet bedroom, blinking at your gently swaying breasts through the haze of honey in his lidded eyes. “‘Cause I really wanna taste you after this…”
Your lips curl into a mischievous grin.
“How about that be your reward when you kill this Vecna freak for me, huh?” you murmur in sinful whispers, fighting back the distant arousal that swells in the pit of your stomach as you cup Eddie’s sensitive cock harder in your relentless hand. “Maybe I’ll ride your face, like you’re always askin’ me to—”
“Shit…”
Your promise, along with the visual it brings — of him lying flat on the mattress, with your thighs on either side of his head, and your pussy suffocating his mouth — makes him cum far quicker than he thought.
His orgasm hits him out of nowhere, makes his ringed fists ball in the sheets as his face screws to choke back the moan that wells suddenly in his throat. The swiftness of its arrival takes both of you equally by surprise, as his jerking cock spits ropes of warm cum in the unforgiving confines of his jeans. Eddie’s pleasured face pinches at the sticky feeling of his damp boxers clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
“Fuck…” he sighs, equal parts content and annoyed.
“What was that, you think?” you tease when his high starts to ebb, only pulling your hand away when he starts to twitch beneath you. “Thirty seconds? Forty-five?”
“Told you I’d be quick,” the boy mutters with a delirious smirk and a pair of glassy button eyes. “What can I say? I’m a man of my word.”
His ringed hands dart for your waist, tugging you closer by your belt loops. Your giggling fills the bedroom as you brace yourself once more on his broad shoulders, watching with a glimmering gaze as his fingers dart for the silver buttons of your jeans.
“What are you doing?”
“Returning the favor,” he shrugs. “Like a gentleman.”
“Uh-uh. After we save the world, Munson,” you shake your head, pushing him away with two fingers pressed to his forehead. “The others are gonna start looking for us soon, and you still need to get changed.”
Eddie leans back on his hands when you turn on your heel to walk away.
“Did you mean what you said?” he wonders aloud.
You pause with your hand curled around the rusted knob of his bedroom door. “About what?”
“About what I get in return? You know, after all this is over with?” he lilts with a crooked pink smirk.
You roll your eyes in response, pretending not to be as fazed by the thought of riding his face as you really are. The notion alone is enough to make you want to win this war.
“I think it’s more of a reward for me than for you, Munson,” you quip as you walk past the threshold and down the hall.
oh my god I ADORED Juno!!! Could we perhaps get a scene from their honeymoon???
Who Knows?
find juno here!
summary: steve can't keep his hands off his pretty little wife.
pairing: husband!steve harrington x wife!f!reader
warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, oral sex (both f! and m! receiving), car sex, body worship, breeding kink, creampies galore, praise, bigdick!steve, possessiveness, some fluff mixed in, spoiler free, pregnancy discussion, sorta insecure steve for a second cause ik that mf has abandonment issues, no beta
wc: 2.1k
note: yeah this is a husband steve fuckfest that's all i can say (seriously though, thank you all for so much support it means so much and i'm so glad you're here hanging out with me <3)
[masterlist] [AO3]
you don't go far. a cabin up on lake michigan out in the middle of the woods.
there's a small podunk town just a fifteen minute drive away. there's cutesy restaurants there that don't require reservations and a hometown bar. the locals are kind enough, congratulating the both of you the moment they see the glass paint on the back of steve's beamer that reads, just married!
you don't get much time to explore the town though, truth be told. not because you don't like it or because there aren't sights to see.
it's because you can't seem to keep your hands off each other.
honestly, it starts to become a little absurd.
even on the way to the cabin the morning after the wedding, steve had to pull off to the side of the road just to get a taste of you. and it wasn't even his fault, truly.
you'd just looked so goddamn pretty, sitting there in the passenger seat in that tiny dress. the sun was shining on your face and the wind was in your hair and christ. he was weak for you. he'd always been, but now?
now that you were his, undoubtedly, with his ring and his last name—steve couldn't help himself. he'd parked under a shady tree, took you by the back of the neck, and pressed his mouth hungrily to yours. kissed you like tomorrow wasn't promised, kissed you like his only source of oxygen lived behind your tongue, kissed you like he'd die without the taste of you.
and when he pulled away, lips swollen and glistening, it was only long enough to say, "climb into the backseat for me, baby."
you'd done as asked without question, and by the time steve followed you'd already had your panties halfway down your legs.
he'd had you leaning against the door, legs spread wide with his tongue on your clit in a matter of moments. and good fucking god was it perfect. the way you tasted, the way you felt, the sounds you made.
steve slid his tongue through your seam not for your pleasure but for his. he took from you every inch you were willing to give, slipping two fingers into your entrance and scissoring you open until you were a writhing, mess of a girl beneath him.
he knew you were close the moment you fisted your hands in his hair, tugging hard. you didn't even need to tell him. didn't need to say through gasping moans, "i'm gonna come, i'm gonna—oh, god. steve."
he presses his face harder against your cunt and and lets your wiggle your hips, chasing release on his tongue. he groans low when he feels that pretty clit pulse between his lips.
and when you're finished, steve moves up your body and kisses you deep. swirls his tongue around yours and says, "see how fucking good you taste? that's all mine now, baby."
he watches your eyes flare as he eases his fingers out of you.
"my pussy," he mutters. steve slides his tongue against yours. "my mouth." and then, far gentler, he kisses your forehead. "my wife."
you giggle and he watches that pretty flush crawl up your cheeks in response to his brazen possessiveness.
when you make it to the cabin, steve hauls your bags inside. it's small but cozy. one room, a tiny kitchen, a shelf full of dusty books and a television with a stack of VHS tapes beside it.
it's sat right on the lakeside. you can see the water from the back door. outside, there's a patio area with a grill that steve fully intends on using every night if you'll let him. there's a fancy clawfoot tub in the bathroom and the king-sized bed is dressed in satin sheets.
he takes you in the kitchen first.
bends you over the countertop and shoves your dress up over your hips. his cock aches by the time he presses it into you. slow and easy, nice and steady. steve knows he's big. knows it hurts.
but you take him so fucking well.
he drags the collar of your sundress down over your breasts, palming them and gently squeezing the supple flesh between his fingers. he circles your clit with his free hand and kisses the back of your neck in worship, whispering sweet words all the while.
"you're so beautiful, sweetheart. you know that? got any idea how pretty you are? the most gorgeous girl i've ever seen. our kids are gonna look just like you. i—shit. i just know it."
steve finds release the moment you do, velvety walls hugging his cock like it was made to fit him. he twitches inside you and presses the head of his cock right up against your cervix to make sure it takes.
you christen every goddamn flat surface of that cabin.
the couch, the shower, the floor in the hallway. the only time steve's not inside you in some capacity is when you're cooking or eating, and even then you can't seem to keep your hands to yourself. he once accidentally drips chocolate sauce onto his bare abdomen while the two of you are watching a movie and you're quick to rise to your feet, saying, "oops. don't worry, i got it."
and then you lick him clean, sundae long forgotten. the wetness of your tongue against his skin is so heavenly that his cock grows stiff behind his sweatpants in only a second.
but you take good care of that, too. pulling at his waistband until his cock springs free, licking from base to tip with a desperate tongue. you wrap your lips around the head of him and inch him further down your throat until you choke, and the sigh is so beautiful that steve wishes he could take a photo to keep it forever.
you take as much of him into your mouth as you can. and you wrap your delicate hand around what's left, stroking him and sucking hard until him comes at the back of your throat.
it takes three days before the two of you relax enough to breathe.
steve takes you out to dinner. you both dress up real nice and steal bites off each other's plates. he orders champagne that tastes terrible and two cocktails to make up for it.
there's a handful of shops in the downtown area that you decide to peruse after dinner, bellies full and brain a little fuzzy from the alcohol.
one of the shops is a clothing store. they have little bits of everything. basics for men and women, colorful overalls for kids and handwoven scarves.
but you both drift towards the infant section.
and he knows it's too soon, but steve can't help himself. never can. not when it comes to you, anyway.
you pick up a crocheted baby blanket, soft and made from a warm brown color with an image of a cuddly looking bear stitched into it's center.
when you show it to him, your eyes are all soft and pleading and steve swears his heart stops.
because even now, he still can't believe it. can't believe that you're looking at him like he put the stars in the sky, all but begging for a blanket to keep your baby warm. the baby you want to have with him.
steve doesn't deserve you. doesn't deserve all your softness or your grace. but he knows he's a lucky man for it, and makes another silent vow right in the back of that textile shop.
though he doesn't deserve you, steve promises to never stop trying to.
the blanket is overpriced, truthfully.
he buys it anyway.
and when you return to the cabin, he's so goddamn desperate to be inside of you that he accidentally pulls the silver button of your jeans clean off.
it clatters to the hardwood floor and makes an obnoxious, metallic sound that sends you both into fits of uncontained laughter. it makes steve feel full of youth in a way he hasn't felt in some time.
it makes him feel his age and not like he's lived enough for two lifetimes.
you insist on swimming in the lake halfway through the honeymoon. steve had been so preoccupied with you that he hadn't even thought about swimming, despite the lake being the main attraction of your vacation suite.
he ties the back of bikini you'd bought specifically for the occasion—white and glittering, similar to your dress.
and only moments after you both dive in to the blue waters and let your body adjust to the coldness, steve unties it with his teeth.
he kisses your collarbones and sucks soft bruises into the skin of your neck, soothing each ache with the flat of his tongue.
you lean back against him and press the curve of your ass to the steadily growing bulge behind his swim trunks, hips wiggling until he's hard as stone beneath your touch.
when you turn to face him, steve kisses the tip of your nose. he tells you he loves you but wishes he had the words to explain that it's more than that. more than love. more than devotion. more than worship.
you are...everything.
his brows pinch together, trying to navigate his jumbled thoughts that are both overwhelming and undeniable.
you see him, though. like you always do.
"steve," you say, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, your water-slick body sliding against his, successfully putting a stop to those self-deprecating thoughts that threaten at the edges of his mind. "i know."
of course you do. of course.
this time, when he slides your bikini bottoms to the side and sinks in deep, it's not about making a baby.
it's just about loving you.
his fingers press firm against the swell of your hips, holding on tight, holding you close and wishing he could get impossibly closer.
he thrusts his hips up into you, hitting that spot deep inside that makes you cry out for more, that makes you cry out for god. your moans echo in the open air, and steve cements the sight of you to memory.
backlit by the orange hues of the sun, pretty lips parted and kissed swollen, eyes all bleary but focused only on him.
steve has to put in a considerable amount of effort to fight off release because the sounds you make are nothing short of pornographic.
he only lets himself go when you do. when your syrupy walls squeeze tight around his throbbing cock, when you press your mouth to his and say, "i'm yours."
on the final night of your honeymoon, you take advantage of the clawfoot tub. steve fills it with water and too many soap bubbles, and it's one of his very favorite moments of your honeymoon.
he lets you make a soapy mohawk in his hair and you let him wash the sweat from your skin, massaging in gentle circles. you confess that while you've had the best time out here alone with him, that you miss your friends.
you miss nancy and robin and most of all, you miss the kids.
steve understands, because he does, too.
they were not born of you and him yet you love them as if they were.
yours in the way that they confide in you their secrets. yours when they come to your doorstep late at night with tears in their eyes, making claims of nightmares that you know are just memories.
yours when they laugh and joke and say "gross!" whenever steve kisses you out in the open. yours to protect, yours to love, yours to cherish.
which is why when you're laying in satin sheets that night, head on steve's chest, his answer comes fast when you timidly look up at him and ask, "do you think i'll be a good mom?"
"i know you will be," he says.
your smile reaches your eyes, reflecting his own. steve presses a kiss into your hair and strokes his fingers lazily up and down your spine.
"do you think it worked? do you think i'm actually pregnant?"
steve shrugs. "who knows? hard to say yet, right? i mean, does it ever work on the first try?"
"joyce said it did for her. so, maybe?"
steve moves the hand that was propped up behind his head and places it on your belly. "hm," he says, sliding down lower on the mattress. "can't tell."
you giggle when he tugs the blanket down and pushes his borrowed sweater up your torso.
he presses a kiss just below your navel. "i think we should try again," he says. "you know, just in case."
summary: Steve catches a glimpse of his future while at your wedding reception and doesn't want to waste another second without putting his baby inside of you.
pairing: husband!Steve Harrington x wife!f!Reader
warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, unprotected piv, breeding kink (obv), use of the word 'daddy' but like...not the way you're thinking, oral f!receiving, semi-public sex, praise, big dick!steve, riding, lots of kissing, fluff, traditional gender roles, set between seasons four and five so spoiler free, but canon divergent because max isn't in a coma but i would literally never have a wedding without my ginger baby there with me, no beta
wc: 4.6k
note: i've only read over this once so sorry for any mistakes! i wanted to get this out into the world. i hope you enjoy, let me know what you think!! <3
[masterlist] [AO3]
Sometimes, Steve thinks that loving you is an integral part of his DNA.
He’s never been happier than he was this afternoon, standing up there at the altar in the church beneath stained glass windows. He’d chosen to recite the vows he’d written for you in the back of his biology notebook in tenth grade. You were so beautiful and so strong, even back then, that he’d known no matter what happened, you were going to be the absolute love of his life.
Steve proposed with a plastic ring in Mike Wheeler’s basement that he’s pretty sure had teeth marks in it. Everyone was there, and Steve knows he should’ve planned better. Waited for a time that was more romantic, waited until he had an actual ring.
But he’d seen you fold your arms around Will and Lucas at the same time and promise them pizza next weekend and all Steve could see was the future mother of his children.
And so much had been taken from the two of you already; innocence, peace, time. He didn’t want to waste another second.
So he’d picked up the ring from the sienna colored carpet and got down on one knee and spilled his guts in front of everyone.
And when you’d said yes, it had felt like a breath of fresh air. Felt like reclaiming what had been stolen.
Dustin had screeched in excitement like a wild animal and Max and El started jumping on the couch and started planning the party before the tears had even dried from the corners of your eyes.
There’s a lot of things that went wrong from then until now. The caterer had bailed at the last minute and Mrs. Wheeler had borrowed every roaster on the block to make enough roasted chicken to feed everyone.
Steve couldn’t do his hair like he wanted that morning, could never do it quite the way you could, so he’d sat with his eyes closed tightly while you used that Farrah Fawcett hairspray and styled his hair in your wedding dress.
He hadn’t peeked, though he wanted to. But Steve had felt the brush of both silk and lace and knew the smell of your perfume from memory.
The strap of your heel broke, so Joyce had glued it to the side of your ankle with liquid bandage and after the church ceremony, you’d spent the rest of your time in those beat up sneakers you always wore.
And on top of everything else, there was still the looming question about Vecna’s unconfirmed death that hung like a dark cloud in your mind.
But still. Even with all that had gone wrong, the Harrington wedding had turned out perfectly.
There isn’t a single thing about it that Steve would change.
Not when everything leads him here. Standing off to the side of the dance floor, finding a moment of quiet to himself for the first time all day.
There’s a glass bottle of beer in his hand and he clinks his ring finger against the side of it, hearing the ting it makes and reveling in it.
He watches you and sees the rest of his life.
You’re in the middle of the dance floor. The glittering pins in your hair sit a little askew now, and the bottom seam of your white dress has grown dusty. But Steve thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful than you do at this precise moment.
You’re dancing with Max and El. Swaying your hips and twirling them in circles. They’re smiling hard with exertion-reddened cheeks and giggling so loud that Steve can hear them over the steady thrum of music.
A widespread grin stretches across your pretty mouth. Finding just as much joy in the moment as the two girls who idolize you.
There’s this light behind your eyes when you look at them. A soft adoration, a maternal instinct deeply ingrained.
It only serves to reassure Steve impossibly more that you’re perfect for him.
He feels giddy with excitement, thinking of what’s to come. Thinking about how ten years from now he’ll be coming home from a long day at work to see you dancing just like this, except you won’t be on a dance floor.
Instead, you’ll be in the middle of the kitchen in the home you share with him. There will be soft music on the radio and food on the stove and you’ll be spinning two little toddlers that hopefully have your eyes and your nose and your smile.
He wants to fill the house with your children, truthfully. Wants to lay awake at night hearing giggles from boys who are up well past their bedtime and trip over princess dresses in the hallway and spend Saturday afternoons at the ice cream parlor. He wants to argue about bath time and eating peas with dinner and why the pink cup is no better than the green one.
Steve wants it all. And he wants it with you—his beautiful, sweet girl.
His wife.
Something shifts inside him. Something equal parts desire and devotion.
He sets the bottle in his hands on the nearest table, and makes his way to you. His suit jacket is long gone, and he’s got the sleeves of his dress shirt pushed up to his elbows.
You have your back turned to him as you and Max try to demonstrate a terrible example of salsa dancing to El. But as he nears, you smile at him over your shoulder. As if you’d known he was coming, as if you could feel him like a secondary part of yourself.
Steve holds his hand out to you, palm up and open. “You guys mind if I steal my bride back for a little bit?”
Both Max and El make sounds of irritation. “But we just got her!”
He laughs, unable to control his mirth. “I know, I know. She’s a wanted woman, what can I say? I’ll bring her back, alright? I promise.”
Max places your hand into Steve’s with a glare on her face. “Don’t hog her, Harrington. You got that?”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he says, pulling you away from the dance floor. Steve conveniently waits until Max is out of earshot before he grumbles, “Monopolizing my own wife. God. Ridiculous. And did you hear that? Her tone?”
Your giggles are music to his ears. “She was just having fun, that’s all.”
Steve pauses. Slides one hand around your waist and uses the other to gently cradle your cheek. He smiles softly when you lean into his touch, the bustling crowd around you fading into nothing but background noise. “She loves you,” Steve says. “Believe me, I get it. I know exactly how she feels. And you wanna know what else I know?”
“Hm?”
“I know that you’re the most beautiful woman on Earth.”
You scoff and roll your eyes playfully, but Steve just pulls you closer.
“What? It’s true. And I mean, like—every version of it. In every alternate dimension that exists, you're just as perfect as you are right here and now.” Steve’s voice lowers. Just a fraction, almost undetectable. “My perfect, beautiful girl.”
The flush that crawls up your cheeks is nothing short of breathtaking. He loves seeing you like this. All soft and bashful because of him. “God—Steve. There are people around, you know.”
Your words make him laugh. “Sweetheart, they just watched us get married. Like, literally—all of them. I don’t think anyone will be very surprised if they overhear me calling my wife beautiful, Mrs. Harrington.”
“Yeah, I know. But you’re talking like…you know…”
“Like what? Am I–I’m talking weird?”
“No, not weird. Just…” Your face flames as you lean in close, voice lowered. “Kinda like you do when we’re alone. Like we’re about to…”
You don’t have to finish for Steve to hear your unsaid words. “Oh, I see,” he said, feigning innocence. “You mean the bedroom voice?”
With a turn of your head, you sweep your eyes across the space around you. But no one’s listening, all too caught up in their own joy. “Yeah. That.”
Steve just laughs and wraps his arms around you fully now, pulling you close and kissing the top of your head. There’s a teasing tone to his voice as he says, “Aw, babe. I’m sorry. C’mere.”
He’s certain you can feel the stiffness between his legs, even through all those layers of tulle and silk. Your eyes widen just a fraction as you look up at him with your lips parted, likely to chastise him in that spirited way he loves.
But Steve doesn’t give you the chance. He just leans down, presses his mouth to your ear, and whispers an admission. “Seeing you with the girls just…” Steve sighs all dreamily and shakes his head. “I dunno—it’s just got me thinking about the future, you know? About our kids. About how great a mom you’ll be. How pretty you’ll look with my baby in your belly.”
You hide your face in the crook of his neck, but Steve can feel the wide grin that stretches across your face.
“And I was also thinking about how I…I don’t wanna wait anymore,” he confesses.
When you tilt your head back to look at him, you’re still smiling but there’s something else in your eyes now, too. Hesitation, almost. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what’s the point? Tomorrow isn’t promised, we both know that. And I know we’re not really prepared but we could be by the time it’s…you know—time. And who’s ever really ready to become parents, anyway?”
“Steve,” you say, voice quiet.
“I just can’t stop seeing it in my head, you know? I even dream about it. They’re the only good dreams I have anymore. And I just…I don’t know. I want that. I want it with you. And I don’t want to wait for a day to come that isn’t promised.”
Your stare is heavy, really listening to his words even though he’s stumbling over them. It makes him feel seen in a way that only you have ever given him. Makes him feel understood.
“What I’m trying to say is that I’m ready. I mean…if–if you are, too.”
He pauses. The words are out now and there’s no taking them back. And Steve tries to tell himself that he’ll be happy with any answer you give him. Whether you want to start now or a year from now or five—as long as it’s with you, he’ll be happy.
But he can’t deny the relief that floods through his veins when you giggle and nod your head and say, “Okay. I’m ready, too.”
Steve smiles so hard the apples of his cheeks tinge pink. “Yeah?” He holds your face delicately in his hands and presses his forehead to yours.
“Mmhm. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us, don’t we? Might as well start now, right?”
Desire swirls low in his abdomen at the idea alone. Steve thinks you're right—you should start now. “C’mon,” he says, lacing his fingers through yours and tugging you through the crowd of people.
He heads for the room at the back of the venue where you’d been tucked away to get ready for the ceremony. You pass the boys all laughing together at some solo cup-stacking competition they’re having, making a big mess and being rowdy as usual.
Steve claps Dustin on the shoulder as he walks by and says, “You better clean that up when you’re done, Henderson,” he says. And then he points his index finger at him and says, “You hear me?”
Dustin just nods through his laughter, too wound up for a proper response as Will’s tower clatters to the floor.
The moment he pulls you down the back hallway, everything becomes much quieter. The sounds of the reception can still be heard but it’s muffled, especially once he ushers you into the small room and closes the door behind you.
There’s makeup products and hair brushes and your casual clothes from this morning strewn across every viable surface. Opened duffel bags and unzipped backpacks sit propped up against the vanity in the corner, and the sofa in the center of the room is made from crushed velvet.
Steve’s shoulders drop and he smiles wide the moment he looks at you.
“They’re going to notice we’re gone, you know,” you say, the sound of your voice much clearer now that you’re alone. “What’re we doing all the way back here?”
He smiles wide and crowds you against the door, using one hand to lift your chin. His mouth is less than an inch from yours, his eyes all starry when he looks at you. When he speaks, you can taste the heat of his breath. “I want you,” he explains. And then even clearer, voice low, “Want you to make me a daddy.”
Your lips part, and Steve reaches behind you and clicks the lock on the door into place. “Now?”
“Why not? You said it yourself. Got a lot of work ahead of us.”
“I hadn’t meant it literally,” you say lightheartedly. “People will come looking for us.”
“Let them,” he says, and means it. He only cares about you and him and this exact moment.
Steve waits for you to respond. Tries to find hesitance in your eyes or apprehension in your body language. But he comes up empty, and when you sink your teeth gently into your bottom lip, he knows you want him just as badly.
And then you lean forward, pressing your mouth to his hungrily. You taste like mint and ambrosia and home. Steve slides his tongue into your mouth and drinks you in, his cock already painfully hard in his dress pants.
He slides one hand to the nape of your neck and the other to the small of your back, hauling you impossibly closer.
Your hands are faster than his, tugging his dress shirt out of his slacks and working at the buttons. You whimper into his mouth and Steve sighs at the beautiful sound.
He pulls away only long enough for you to push his shirt off his shoulders, and you use the opportunity to say, “You’re going to be such a good daddy, Steve.”
And Christ, he’s fucking done for. Just like that. His cock throbs painfully, his pupils dilate, and suddenly the urge to be inside of you is absolutely unbearable. His voice trembles, but he’s smiling wide as he asks, “Oh, yeah?”
Steve drops to his knees before you and slips his greedy hands beneath your fluffy white dress, wrapping desperate fingers around each of your ankles.
“Mhm.” You grant him some reprieve by gathering the fabric in your hands and pulling it up.
He climbs beneath your dress and lets out a slow, shaky breath when he sees the pretty lace you’ve chosen to wear all for him. White, matching your dress and the garter around your thigh. Steve leans forward and presses a kiss to your pubic bone, an affectionate caress that’s more appreciation than lust.
“I know you will be,” you continue. “Can see it in the way you treat the kids in our lives now. Can even see it in the way you treat me. Always taking such good care of everyone around you. Always一”
You inhale sharply as he parts your thighs and runs his flattened tongue against your seam, over the lace that still covers you. Steve licks you again, relishing in the faintest hint of your taste, breathing in deep. “Keep going, baby,” he mutters.
“Always…God, Steve.” Your hips tilt, giving him more access, asking for more without asking. But it’s okay, because you’re right. Steve knows just what you need, and he’ll always take care of you.
He hooks his fingers at the edge of your panties and carefully pulls them down your legs and over your sneakers, slipping the soft fabric right into the pocket of his dress pants.
“You’re such a hard worker,” you say. “And I know you’ll always make sure our little family will never want for anything. I think about一”
Steve spreads your knees wide and places a wet, open mouthed kiss on your clit, groaning low in his chest at the taste of you. You’re so warm and wet already. “What do you think about, pretty girl?”
You hike your dress further up so you can grasp his shoulder for support, eyes fluttering closed. “About you taking care of scraped knees and signing homework assignments and—”
He sucks your clit into his mouth and flicks his tongue. It pulls a moan from deep in your chest and has your head thudding back against the door.
Steve reaches between your thighs and gently strokes his fingers over your entrance. Once, twice—teasing in the way he always is, before finally pushing them inside.
“Steve—”
He hums against your cunt, the vibration rocking inside you, reverberating all the way down to your curled toes. He releases your clit from his mouth only long enough to say, “Don’t stop, baby. M’takin’ mental notes. Keep talking.”
It takes a minute before you speak up again. Because once he hooks his fingers inside of you and kisses your clit all wet and sloppy, all sense of rational thought empties from your brain.
Still, you try. You try because it’s Steve and you want to make him happy. Want to make him proud. Want to be as good for him as he is for you.
“Piggyback rides in—in the kitchen, and ice cream on the weekends and—fuck—that feels so good. You’re so good, I—”
He can feel you getting close. Can feel your velvety walls clamping down tight around his fingers, squeezing him desperately, all but begging for more.
Steve resists. Lets you get close enough to taste the edge, and then he pulls back. Slides his slick-soaked fingers out of you and licks them clean. His breath is shallow and filled with need, but he goes back for just one more taste of you. Flattening his tongue and sliding it through your syrupy folds, savoring it.
When he climbs out from under your dress and stands up to face you, there’s a flush on your cheeks and a big smile on your face. Steve’s not sure he’s ever seen you look this happy.
And he doesn’t need to ask why, because he feels it, too.
In all the chaos, in all the uncertainty, you have become home to him. His lone place of solace.
And now you’re his, undoubtedly, with his ring on your finger and his last name and a big smile, and Steve’s heart pinches tight.
It feels like something out of his wildest fantasies. Something he’s only conjured in a dream until today.
There’s only a single dream that would ever compare to this one. One he knows you want just as badly.
And Steve’s about to give it to you.
He cradles your face in his hands and kisses you softly, every movement filled with devotion. He takes your hand in his. “C’mere,” he says, leading you to the couch.
Steve takes a seat right in the center and pulls you down onto his lap. The tulle of your dress makes the position a little awkward, fluffing up between you. You and Steve both laugh, but it’s manageable with only a little maneuvering.
You press your hips against his and Steve groans low, feeling the heat of you even through his dress pants. He kisses you hard, drinking in the taste of you, his hand holding firm at your jaw.
“All mine now,” he murmurs against your lips. “My sweet girl.” He reaches beneath your dress and finds the buckle of his leather belt. It clinks as he undoes it and shoves his slacks down just enough to pull his cock out, already so hard for you it throbs in his hand. “Tell me you want it,” he says.
Your answer comes quick and desperate. “I do. Please, Steve. I want it. Want you.”
He lines himself up at your entrance, but doesn’t push inside. When he speaks, it’s with that voice again. Low, intentional, dark. “Yeah? S’that right?”
“Yes一!”
“Then take it, baby.”
You lower yourself onto his cock, rolling your hips in a way that has his breath stuttering on an exhale. A pained sound comes from someplace at the back of your throat, but Steve knows you’ll be okay. Knows it's big but knows, too, that you’ll work through it. “Oh, god.”
“I know. S’okay. Breathe, sweetheart.” Steve leans in close, brushing his nose against yours affectionately. “Yeah, there you go. Good job, baby. Doing so good for me.”
He kisses you softly this time, lips moving gently against yours. Encouraging you to take all of him. And when you do, Steve lets himself sink deep into the feel of you around him. Soft and warm and so fucking wet your arousal drips down onto the dark hair at the base of his cock. “Feels…”
“Does it feel good, baby? All full?”
You nod and a whimper leaves your mouth when he shifts beneath you, angling his hips so he’s just a little bit deeper. Touching parts of you that only he ever has, that only he ever will.
Steve reaches beneath your dress and splays his palms wide on the sides of your thighs. “Gonna look so fuckin’ pretty with a baby in your belly,” he mutters.
His words spur you on enough to roll your hips against his. Careful at first, testing the feeling. But it doesn’t take long for you to find a good rhythm.
You feel like heaven around him. Perfect friction that has his toes curling inside his shoes. He fits so perfectly inside you he thinks he could fucking live here, just like this, with your pussy wrapped tight around his cock like it’s where it belongs. “Fuck, baby. Yeah. Just like that.”
You ride him with your hands braced against his broad shoulders, fingernails leaving crescent moon shaped indentations in his freckled skin. Your whimpers quickly turn to moans and the thought crosses Steve’s mind that someone could hear, but he doesn’t care. Not when you say, “You’re so big. Want you to fill me up ‘til一hmm一’til it sticks.”
Steve slides his hand further up your thigh, his thumb finding your swollen clit, still slick, coated in his saliva. “Kiss me, baby. Wanna taste you.”
You press your mouth to his and it’s like heaven to him. Steve can’t think or see or feel beyond his perfect, pretty wife and the way you beg so fucking prettily for him to give you his baby. To fill you up with his cum until it’s spilling out of you and sliding down your thighs.
He licks into your mouth and sucks on your tongue, unraveled by you completely. “So fucking beautiful,” he muses.
Your walls pulse around him, and Steve circles your clit with his thumb a little faster, ratcheting your pleasure higher and higher.
“Did some research a little while ago,” he says between kisses, lips red and spit-soaked. “Better chances if you cum first.” He’s breathing fast, his own release coiling tight at the base of his spine the longer he’s inside you. Steve knows he won’t last.
Not like this. Not with you in this fucking dress and with his last name. Christ.
“So you gotta cum for me, baby,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours. “Cum for me so I can make you a mama. Hm?”
Your hands on his shoulders tighten, and a wide grin spreads across his face as he feels you twitch around his cock, clit pulsing beneath his thumb.
“Yeah, that’s it. There you go. S’fucking…so good for me, baby. Jesus fucking一squeezing me so tight. M'gonna be the best daddy, okay? I promise.”
He thinks he can hold off long enough for you. Thinks he can fight release until you’re all twitching and sensitive in his arms. Thinks he can do what the textbooks say to give you the best chances, thinks he can do this right.
But then you look him right in the eye and say, “Cum with me, cum with me. Please, Steve, please.”
And Christ, he’s weak for you. Putty in your hands. And you sound so pretty, begging for him like that. What on Earth is he supposed to do except exactly what you ask?
His release hits him hard, darkness clouding his vision, his skin tingling in every place he can feel your warmth. “Love you so much, baby.”
You slide your hands up the back of his neck and thread your fingers through his hair, kissing him in that way you do. The way that makes him feel like the most cherished man on the planet, leaving him aching to be impossibly closer.
His orgasm fizzles out, but Steve stays buried deep inside you until his cock softens. And even then, he lifts his hips a couple more times, thrusting up into you, making sure his seed reaches your cervix.
You take a second to catch your breath before slowly easing off of him, wincing in the process.
Steve sort of feels bad…but there’s another part of him, too, that likes seeing it. Likes when you walk a little funny because of him, likes knowing you can feel him even when he’s gone.
He helps you right your dress and tucks a stray piece of your hair behind your ear. Steve buckles his belt and the two of you laugh as you try to help him with the buttons on his dress shirt.
The party still thrums loudly on the other side of the door. “Max is definitely going to kill you,” you say, reaching for the door.
Steve chuckles and lets you take his hand and lead him back towards the rowdy crowd in the front of the reception hall. “Oh, for sure,” he agrees.
Just before you make it out of the shaded hallway, Steve pulls you back. Spinning you into his arms, delighting in the sweet sound of surprise you make. “Wait,” he says. “One more for the road.”
You smile and press your lips to his. Softer now, but no less heated. “I love you,” you tell him, and Steve wonders if that nervous, giddy feeling he gets hearing those words from you will ever go away.
“I love you, too, baby. Gonna love it even more when there’s two of you.”
Dustin calls his name from the other end of the room, louder even than the music, and there’s a massive pile of paper towels on the floor between him and Mike as they scramble to clean up some mystery green liquid.
He turns his head to find Max behind the DJ booth now, playing some Madonna song and giving the actual DJ a hard time.
Steve shakes his head. “We were gone for ten minutes. Ten minutes!”
You laugh, and the sound brings him so much happiness of his own that he can’t help but smile even with his frustration. “I’ll see you on the way to the honeymoon, husband,” you say.
The word sends a tingle down his spine. “Double the attempts mean double the luck,” Steve teases. “I’ll be seeing you later, wife.”
You both begin to back away in opposite directions. Steve towards Dustin while you move towards the soundbooth. But your fingers stay intertwined until the very last second. And only when your hands drop fully do either of you turn away.
Steve knows then, no matter what happens, that he’ll be okay.
As long as you linger with him for the rest of his life.
summary: its eddie’s birthday! what could possibly happen?
cw: smut, unprotected piv, drunk reader, smoking
a/n: i already have the whole next part of this planned so stay tuned lol
“You sure you’re okay to watch her?” Eddie asks, watching his 18 month old daughter run around his uncle's trailer.
“Eddie, she’s gonna be fine. Now go have fun with your friends!” The older man waves his nephew off and picks up his granddaughter as she runs by with a squeal. He hugs her tightly and Eddie melts at the sight.
“Awe, she loves her Pop Pop,” you say sweetly, rubbing Eddie’s arm. His hand lands on yours as he looks at your daughter with a tenderness in his eyes. He can’t believe the two of you made such a perfect human being together. And he can’t think of a better person to have made her with.
“Alright, we better get going,” you say, stepping forward to where Wayne and Autumn were. “I love you so much, sweetie.” Autumn giggles as you kiss all over her face, laughing when you go in to tickle under her chin. “Call Gareth’s if you need anything, okay?”
“You two are a couple of worry warts. Go and have a much needed break. We’ve got plenty to keep us entertained.” Wayne walks over with Autumn and grabs some VHS tapes from atop the TV.
“Oooooh, Pop pop got you Muppet Babies!” Eddie says as he goes in to give Autumn a kiss. Autumn responds with some nonsense babbling and Eddie just nods his head like whatever she said made perfect sense to him. “I’ve been saying that this whole time!” Eddie responds, making you laugh.
“C’mon daddio, we got places to be,” you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the door.
“No, don’t make me go! I changed my mind!” Eddie cries with extra dramatics as he pretends you’re dragging him away against his will. It makes your daughter laugh, only egging him on more.
“Goodbye, sweet pea!” You call as you pull Eddie out of the trailer. Eddie yells “no!!” the entire way to the car, only to jump into the passenger seat excitedly when you reach the door.
Wayne and Autumn stand at the front door of his trailer and Eddie yells, “Love you, baby!” as the two of you drive off down the dirt road.
“Do you feel guilty at all?” He asks, sticking his hand out the window to feel the little breeze this hot August day has to offer.
“Of course I do,” you say, turning out of the trailer park onto the main road. “But I also understand that Wayne is perfectly capable of taking care of her, which helps.”
Eddie nods, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. He offers you one and you decline, so he puts the pack away. “Still, I can’t help feeling like we’re doing something bad,” he says after a long drag.
“Eddie, it’s literally your birthday,” you say, giving him a look. “You deserve a break from dad duties to hang out with your friends.
Eddie’s head thunks against the headrest of your car. He knows you’re right, but he can’t help but feel like he’s doing something wrong. When he became a dad, he vowed he would do everything his father didn’t do, which started with putting his daughter before him.
But seeing how you were handling it was making him feel better. He really didn’t need to impress anyone besides you and his daughter, and the both of you seemed just fine with the situation, so really what was there to worry about? Wayne knew Gareth’s parents number, so if he needed anything he knew how to get ahold of him. Really there was no need to worry.
So Eddie finished the last of his cigarette and flicked the butt out the window as the smoke billowed from his lips. Reaching forward, he turned up the radio and thrummed against the headboard to the Metallica song playing. You shake your head at him, but Eddie sees the way you smile out of the corner of his eye.
After a short drive to Gareth’s, the two of you park in front of his house behind the other guys' cars. Grabbing your chairs from the trunk, you make your way to the backyard where everyone is already sitting around the fire pit. The boys all rise from their seats and gather around Eddie, giving hugs and slaps on the back as they welcome him.
Eddie watches as you follow behind them, waving to the girls from their seats. Jeff’s girlfriend, Michelle, waves back at you excitedly, while Tina, Grant’s girlfriend, gives you a small, shy wave back. Eddie watches the way you light up as you sit your chair between them. He’s a little sad you don’t want to sit by him, but you only get to see the girls in person during the summer so he wasn’t going to complain.
You were one of the only girls while you were in Hellfire, besides his best friend, Ronnie, who was in Eddie’s original graduating class, so you only got to know her for two years before she left for college. When Jeff and Grant brought their girlfriends around that they’d met at college, you had told Eddie you were a little nervous at first that they would judge you for having a kid so young and not going to school with all of them. Eddie understood your fears, but the boys couldn’t have found more amazing girlfriends, both of them treating you like they’ve known you your whole life right off the bat when they’d brought them around for the first time last summer.
As the party went on, Eddie watched you all night, loving to see you let loose and drink with your friends. Even though you had driven, you were slamming back drinks like you weren’t even paying attention to how much you were consuming. Eddie came to the conclusion early on that you were, in fact, no longer driving them home tonight, so he decided to keep his drinking on the conservative side.
”So, how’s married life?” Gareth asks, pulling Eddie’s attention away from you.
”What are you talking about, man?” Eddie asks, taking a drink of his beer.
“Well, it’s been a couple months now since the missus has moved in,” Gareth says, leaning towards Eddie in his chair. “I’m just checking to see if it’s been a dream come true or a total nightmare.”
”It’s been…” Amazing. Wonderful. The best thing to ever happen to Eddie.
It’s been 3 months since you and Autumn officially moved in with Eddie, and Eddie has been on cloud nine ever since. Getting to come home most days to a home cooked meal and his two favorite people in the world made him feel richer than the Harringtons and the Turnbows combined. There wasn’t a single thing Eddie could complain about.
Well, sure, there were things he wished were different. But he wasn’t going to let his desires bring him down. It was almost perfect, better than anything Eddie had gone through in his miserable life growing up, so why wish for anything more?
”…pretty good,” Eddie says with a shrug.
“Must be nice to have someone around to cook and clean for you,” Jeff says, raising his beer bottle to Eddie. Eddie knows he’s teasing him, but he didn’t want the guys to think it was like that.
”She works, too,” Eddie says, instantly regretting it, because it definitely didn’t come out right.
“Damn, what do you do then?” Grant says with a laugh. “Sounds like she does it all.”
”No, it’s not—ugh,” Eddie wipes his hand over his face and the boys start cracking up at his woes.
”We’re just fucking with you, dude,” Jeff assures him, slapping him on the knee.
”I know, I know, I just—Trust me, I don’t want her to do all that stuff. But she insists on it!”
”Well, I wouldn’t complain, as long as you’re giving her…you know…proper compensation,” Jeff says, wiggling his brows. Eddie’s eyes shoot over to you, hoping that you didn’t hear what Jeff had said. But you and the girls were too preoccupied with each other to be paying attention to anything him and the boys were saying.
”It’s not like that…” Eddie says, eyes downcast as he picked at the label of his beer.
The boys all give Eddie bug eyes, not believing their ears. “What do you mean ‘it’s not like that?’” Gareth asks with air quotes.
”Yeah, you mean you’re not giving her the Munson special for all that work she does?” Grant asks, and Eddie gets up to swat at him. You and the girls look over at them puzzled, but the boyta just wave at you like nothing is going on, prompting you three to get back to your conversation.
”We’re just friends,” Eddie says with emphasis, and the boys all groan.
”You guys have a kid together,” Gareth whisper-yells, and the other two boys nod in agreement. “There would have been a wedding and a second Munson monster by now if you weren’t being such a pussy.”
”Shut up,” Eddie grumbles, taking a swig of his beer. His eyes land on you again, roaming over your beautiful face, and then your smoking hot body, one that he thinks he loves even more after having his kid.
You were wearing a low cut tank top and a pair of short jean shorts that had Eddie having to adjust himself in his jeans when you came out of the bathroom earlier. It was like a gift to his eyes to see you all prettied up like this. Not that he didn’t think you were beautiful all the time, but he loved the confidence you had when you got dolled up.
Eddie wondered if there was any truth to Gareth’s words. If Eddie had just come out from the jump and told you how he feels would things be that different? The idea of marrying you, giving you his cursed last name, and maybe even having another kid…
Eddie shifted in his seat, not liking the way the idea of getting you pregnant again was making him feel all the sudden. It’s not like he’s not thought about it, especially when he was spirallying after the last time you hooked up.
At the time, the thought of having another kid made him want to puke. But this was before you moved in and he was alone in a trailer he was renting that was only big enough to fit the two people living in it at the time. He didn’t know how he would handle taking care of two kids by himself, especially starting over with a new baby. Not that he wouldn’t do his damndest to make it work, it would just be a struggle.
But now…now that you’re all living together under one roof, essentially functioning like an established family on a daily basis…
The image of you round with his child again was enough to make Eddie half hard sitting at that fire. Thank god it was dark out by now so no one could see him getting stiff in his jeans.
Eddie pulled his eyes away from you, refocusing on his friends to keep his wondering thoughts in check. “What about you guys?” Eddie asks, his friends all looking at him with confusion. “When are you all going to join me in this domestic life?”
Gareth audibly gagged, making Eddie slap him upside the head. Gareth let out a “hey!” while Jeff and Grant laugh.
Then, Jeff leans in, looking over to you and the girls before talking low to the guys. “I, uh, actually wanted to tell you guys something…”
”Oh my god, she’s pregnant!” Gareth hollers, causing the three of them to shush him.
”Who’s pregnant?” Michelle asks, looking excitedly at you. You give her a theatrical shake of the head and her face drops in disappointment.
”No one, dear,” Jeff says, slapping Gareth’s arm. “Gareth is just an idiot.”
”Sorry, sorry,” Gareth says, mimicking zipping his lips.
”Anyway,” Jeff says, looking to make sure you girls were distracted once again. “What I was gonna say is…I have a ring.”
Eddie’s jaw drops. “Like a ring ring?” He asks, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth from how dry it went. Jeff nods, and Eddie feels a mix of excitement for his friends and a bit of despair. Maybe…envy?
His other two friends grab Jeff and shake him excitedly. Eddie can only watch them celebrate as he starts to sink in on himself.
”….if you weren’t being such a pussy.” Gareth’s voice rings in his ears.
“You good, Ed?” Gareth’s voice and snapping of his fingers bring him back before he slips into a place he doesn’t need to go right now.
”Yeah, yeah, sorry. Congrats man, that’s awesome,” Eddie whispers to Jeff, making the other boy smile.
”Edddiieeeeeeee!”
Eddie looks over and sees you sauntering over to him, your hips swaying as you drunkenly walk around the fire. He would be mesmerized if he wasn’t so concerned about you tripping and falling in. You say his name again and Eddie says your name back, making you giggle.
”Can I have…” you start to slur, plopping yourself down in his lap.
Oh god, this was not good.
”What is it, sweetheart?” Eddie swallows, holding you carefully.
”Can I have just one, teensie little cigarette, pretty pleaseeeeee?” Eddie chuckles, finding you so cute in this drunken state.
”How can I deny you when you asked so nicely?” Eddie says, grabbing his pack out of his pocket. You squeal and wait patiently as Eddie fishes a cigarette out for you. Once he gets it, you place it in between your lips and jump up from his lap just as quickly as you sat. Eddie already misses you, but enjoys the view of your ass in those shorts as you walk away.
”Oh, wait,” you say, stopping suddenly and turning around. “I need a light.”
Eddie raises his hand with the lighter in it, and you hurriedly rush back to his side. You lean over him, sticking your cigarette out cutely as you wait for him to light it for you. Eddie obliges, watching the way your lips are wrapped around the filter and sucking in the smoke as the end lights.
”Thanks, Eds!” You say before making your way back to your seat.
Eddie can feel eyes on him, not just from the boys, but from across the fire, too. He stands up from his seat, declaring that he needs to piss before walking away from the fire.
”Hey man,” Jeff calls from behind him as he walks into Gareth’s kitchen. Eddie turns to face his friend who closes the door behind him. “Listen, I, um,” Jeff starts, wiping his hands nervously on his pants. “I just…wanted to know if you would…if you would be my best man?”
Eddie blinks until his eyes crinkle from how wide he was smiling. “For real?” He asks, and Jeff nods his head. “Dude, of course! I would be offended if you hadn’t asked!”
Jeff sighs in relief. “This is only if she says yes, though. I’m gonna ask her on Christmas.”
”She’ll love that. We all know how into Christmas she is,” Eddie teases.
”Yeah, I think she’ll be exstatic.” Jeff takes a deep breath in and out, and Eddie can see how nervous he is.
”Can I tell you something?” Eddie asks suddenly.
”Yeah, of course.”
”I, um,” Eddie lets out a nervous chuckle, “I’m actually a little jealous.”
Jeff gives Eddie a soft smile and puts a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—“
”No! No!” Eddie starts, waving his hands. “I’m not saying it to make you feel bad. I’m just…”
”I get it,” Jeff nods, “Maybe you should consider telling her how you feel.”
Eddie closes his eyes and takes a sharp breath. “Jeff, you have no idea how bad I want to. I just…I can’t risk what I have already.”
“Your whole world isn’t going to end if you tell her,” Jeff tries to reason, but Eddie shakes his head.
“I’m happy, Jeff, really.” But Jeff isn’t convinced.
”Think about it, Eddie.”
Jeff gives Eddie a pat on the shoulder before heading back out to the backyard. He can hear you and Michelle hooting and hollering about lord knows what when Jeff opens the door, Eddie getting a quick glimpse of you before the door closes again.
“Do you ever want to get married?” Michelle asks as she mixes another drink for the two of you. You look at her quizzically, not sure why she asked.
”Huh?”
”I think Jeff is going to propose.” Your head spins, feeling too drunk to keep up with her words.
“Why do you think that?” You ask, taking the cup from her as she hands it to you.
”He’s not been very subtle,” she starts, eyes looking down at her cup. “He asked my mom my ring size, and my mom can’t keep anything to herself so she told me. And I caught him looking in a jewelry store window last time we went to the mall.”
”Oh my gosh, that’s—ah!!!” You jump up and down, but quickly notice she’s not doing the same, so you stop and give her a concerned look. “What’s wrong? Are we not excited?”
”No, I am! I’m just…” She turns to look at you and you can feel how serious the conversation is about to get. “How did you know Eddie was the one?”
You blink at her, your brain short circuiting at her question. “What?”
”You know, you guys are best friends, you have a kid together, live together now. He’s obviously the one for you.” Her words rock your world, because, shit, when she says it like that, she sounds like she’s right.
“This is news to me,” you say, but she just pshes you.
“I just, I guess I’m scared. I love Jeff, like a lot. So much it scares me.” She chews on her lip for a moment like she’s deep in thought.
“But?” You ask, waiting for her to continue.
”But…we’re just so young. What if we’re doing this too quickly?”
”Well, I don’t have much room to talk on that subject,” you say with a laugh, and she smiles with you. “But, you know you can be engaged for a long time. There’s no reason to rush anything. Let Jeff propose and just tell him you want to wait until you both get your degrees to get married or something.”
Michelle nods her head with your words, her face lighting up at the idea. “Yeah…yeah I could do that. That way if we still feel the same in a few years, we can go ahead with it.”
”Exactly!”
You watch as Michelle tips back her drink, downing the whole thing in one go. “What about you?” She says, placing the empty cup on the counter. “You never answered my question.”
”Oh,” you say, remembering what she had originally asked you. “Well, I guess I want to get married, right? Isn’t that what everyone wants?”
”So if Eddie asked you to marry you…?”
What would you do if Eddie asked you to marry him?
Suddenly, Eddie walks in the room, stopping like a deer caught in headlights when the two of you look at him.
”What?”
“Nothing,” Michelle says, giving you a knowing look.
He shrugs, and you watch him as he walks out the door, leaving the two of you in the kitchen. Michelle says your name with a laugh. “What?” You ask, and she just shakes her head.
”You’re so in love.”
Eddie watches curiously as you and Michelle walk back outside. The two of you were in there for a long time, and for some reason it made Eddie nervous.
Michelle took her seat, but Eddie’s eyes were on you as you made your way to his side. “What’s up?” He asks, and you look down at him like you’re looking for something on his face. You place your hand on his cheek, and Eddie leans into it.
“I’m ready to go,” you suddenly say, and it catches Eddie off guard.
“Oh, okay,” he says, standing from his seat and starting to fold it back up.
“You guys leaving already?” Jeff asks as Eddie grabs your chair, too.
”Yeah, it’s getting late.” Eddie looks at his new watch that you got him and sees that it’s nearly 2 am.
“Way past mom and dad’s bedtime, right?” Gareth says, and Eddie shoots him a look.
“Shut up, Gare,” you say, grabbing a hand full of his hair and shaking his head around.
”Hey, don’t mess with the do,” Gareth whines, swatting at your hands.
“Alright, losers, bring it in one last time since I’m not gonna see your educated asses for a while,” Eddie says, setting the chairs down and opening his arms wide.
The boys all get up to say their goodbyes, while you and the girls do the same. “We’ll miss you guys,” you call back to them as you and Eddie head out. Eddie watches you pop the trunk open so he can place the chairs inside before rounding to the drivers side.
”Um, what do you think you’re doing?” He asks, making you stop in your tracks.
”Getting in the car?” You say as if you’re in any shape to drive. Eddie shakes his head and approaches you, taking the keys from your hands.
”I don’t think so, sweetheart,” he says with a grin.
”Eddie, haven’t you been drinking?” You ask, watching him get in the driver's seat.
”I stopped a long time ago when I noticed how much you were putting back.” You scoff at him, looking genuinely upset at his words.
”Eddie, I’m sorry. It’s your birthday, you should be the one drunk, not me,” you say solemnly.
“Baby, I don’t need to get drunk to have fun anymore, trust me,” Eddie says, motioning for you to get in the car. You round the front and climb in the passenger seat, a little pout sitting on your lips. ”Don’t be upset,” he says. “I’m glad we both had fun.”
”We can still drink more when we get home,” you say, looking at him hopefully. “We have beers in the fridge.”
”Mmm, as tempting as that sounds, I think I’m just about ready for bed,” Eddie says as he starts the car and takes off. Eddie watches you yawn out of the corner of his eye, “And it looks like you are, too.”
”Yeah, I can’t say I’m not tired…but…” You trail off and Eddie waits to see what you’re going to say next.
But nothing comes. In fact, the rest of the car ride is silent, except for the low hum of the radio. Eddie looks at his uncle’s trailer as he passes it, thinking about his little girl inside. Then his eyes shift to you, seeing that you’re doing the same thing as him.
Eddie pulls into the dirt parking spot and cuts the engine. He was going to open your door for you, but you jumped out of the car and rushed inside like you left the oven on. Eddie follows behind you, barely catching a glimpse of you before you disappear into the hallway.
Maybe you needed to piss Eddie reasons. He takes his time kicking his shoes off, leisurely walking down the hall to your bedroom. He pulls his shirt over his head as he walks in the room, tossing it into the laundry hamper.
That’s when something catches his eye.
You, to be exact.
His eyes go wide as he takes in the site before him. You’re leaning back on your shared bed, wearing nothing but a matching set of red lacey bra and underwear. The look you were giving him was sinful, eyes lidded and a smirk on your face that had Eddie’s cock hardening immediately in his pants.
He felt like he needed to pinch himself, because there’s no way this was real.
”Sweetheart—“
”Shhhh,” you hush him, leaning forward on the bed until you were on your knees. You reach out for him, taking his hands in yours as you pull him closer until your chests are touching. His eyes immediately went to your breasts, sitting so nicely in the bra that he wanted to tear off of you.
You take his hands and place them on either side of your chest, wordlessly giving him permission to touch you. Eddie hesitates for a moment before giving in and cupping your breasts, kneading and squeezing them in his hands.
The sound you make goes into Eddie’s ears and travels straight to his cock, making him painfully aware of how hard he is. “You don’t have to do this,” he breathes, but you take his face in your hands and pull him down into a kiss. It’s passionate right off the bat, and Eddie melts into it, giving into his growing desire.
One of your hands leaves his face and Eddie jumps when it lands right on his crotch. You palm him through his jeans, making him moan into your mouth. He feels you smiling against his lips, satisfied with his reaction to your touch.
When you pull away, Eddie feels like he needs to catch his breath. He’s sure it’s partly because of the little bit of alcohol still left in his system, but also because it’s you initiating this. Not that you haven’t initiated the other times, but this just feels different. There’s something palpable between you right now that Eddie can’t ignore, and frankly, he doesn’t want to.
Eddie watches as you undo his belt and jeans, pulling them down until they fell around his ankles. The tent in his boxers was prominent, his cock aching to be touched. And you obliged, your delicate hand gripping his clothed length. The feeling made Eddie gasp, and you looked up at Eddie while on all fours with a devilish smile on your face.
“Does it feel good when I touch you?” You ask, and Eddie’s eyes feel like they’re going to pop out of his head.
“Y-yeah, s-so good,” Eddie stutters, eyes screwing shut as you start to work him through his boxers.
”Look at me, Eddie,” you say with a soft demand. Eddie opens one of his eyes, looking down just as you pull his boxers down, releasing his cock into the open. It smacks your cheek as it springs out and your mouth immediately chases after it, making Eddie almost fall over from the sight.
You take his cock in your hand and open your mouth wide, letting his tip slap against your flattened tongue before enveloping it in your warm mouth. Eddie hisses, hands flying to your head as you start to move your mouth on him. The way you look up at him as you begin to bob your head up and down his length is enough to put Eddie into cardiac arrest, his heart not able to handle what his brain is trying to comprehend.
”Oh, shit, that’s—“ Eddie’s head tilts back as you take him all the way to the back of your throat, your nose buried in the patch of hair at the base of his cock. Eddie feels the vibrations of your voice as you moan around him, making him double over you. “Hah, fuck!” He lets out, and you pull off him swiftly.
“Don’t cum yet!” You say quickly and with a hint of concern.
“I’m not, I’m not,” he groans, straightening himself back up.
”Okay, good,” you say with a smile, kissing his tip affectionately.
”Jesus Christ,” Eddie sighs, running a hand through his hair.
You sit up now, grabbing Eddie by his shoulders and turning him until his legs are against the bed, pushing him down until he’s laying back on in. Eddie watches as you stand at the foot of the bed in front of him, arms reaching around behind you and undoing your bra. He watches as it loosens from your chest until you’re sliding it off of you and letting it fall to the floor beside you. Eddie feels his mouth water at the sight of your perfect tits on display for him to see.
Then, you’re looping your fingers in your panties, and Eddie feels like he’s on the edge of his seat as he watches you pull them down so, so slowly, until they pool at your feet. You step out of them and immediately lean forward, the bed dipping as you begin to crawl your way over top of Eddie’s body.
His breath hitches when you're hovering over him, your pussy so close he can feel the heat coming off of you. “Holy shit,” Eddie groans, still not able to grasp that this is happening.
”You ready, Eddie?” You ask so sweetly that Eddie feels like he could combust.
“I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life,” Eddie laughs, and the smile you give him makes him melt into a puddle under you.
Eddie’s eyes are locked in as he watches you grab his cock, lining his tip up with your entrance. He takes a breath in, holding it until he feels you lower yourself on him, the tight embrace of your cunt enveloping him. “Oh my god,” you moan out, mouth hung open as you take more of Eddie into your heat.
Once he’s fully inside of you, Eddie feels like he can finally let that breath out. He doesn’t know when he does it, but his hands are gripping your hips, holding you in place, as if you would fly away if he let you go.
“Mmm, fuck, Eddie, you’re so big,” you say with a roll of your hips. And Eddie is sure he’s died. He doesn’t know when or how, but there’s just no way this is real. You give another roll and Eddie bites his lip between his teeth with a whimper.
”Don’t be shy, Eddie,” you say, leaning forward, until your chests are flush once again. Eddie looks up at you, your face just barely above his, so he has no place to look but at you. “I want to hear you. Wanna hear how good it feels.”
“O-okay,” he says, looking at you with wide eyes.
Eddie feels you raise your hips, his cock slowly sliding out of you until only the tip is remaining, before you slam your hips back down into him. Eddie gasps at the feeling, but you don’t give him any time to recover before you’re doing it again, and again.
You brace your arms on either side of his head, and set a steady pace on him, bouncing yourself over and over. ”Oh, god, Eddie,” you say his name with a sigh.
”Mmm, fuck, baby. You feel so good,” Eddie moans. He uses his grip on your hips and takes over your movements, guiding you on his cock the way he likes it.
But, as much as Eddie enjoys you being on top, with the way your tits bounce in his face and all that, something inside Eddie tells him he needs to switch it up.
Wrapping his arms around you, your face goes from pleasure to surprise in an instant as he man handles you until your back is the one against the bed. You blink up at him, clearly not expecting this move from him at all.
”I’ll take over from here, sweetheart,” he says with a pointed roll of his hips, making your mouth drop open at the feeling. He takes your hands in one of his and pins them into the bed above your head, using the other hand to lift your leg forward a bit to get a better angle.
“Oh fuck,” you gasp as Eddie thrusts into you again, telling Eddie that he’s got the angle right that he wants you in.
Eddie sets a quick pace, wet slaps filling the room as he fucks you into the mattress. You start to chant his name like it’s the only word you know, and it sounds like music to Eddie’s ears. Eddie chances looking down, watching the way he disappears inside of your tight cunt. “So perfect,” he says, and he can feel you flutter around him.
”It’s yours,” you moan in response, and Eddie’s eyes shoot up to your face.
Eddie can’t believe his ears. “W-what?” He says, his movements slowing slightly.
“It’s all yours, Eddie. Mmm, don’t stop,” you say, bucking your hips into his. Eddie snaps out of it a bit, picking his pace back up as he tries to grasp the meaning of your words.
”What’s all mine?” He asks, “Tell me, baby.”
”Me,” you say, looking at him with lidded eyes, “All of me.”
Your words hit Eddie like a train, and he suddenly feels like he’s going to cum. “Shit!” he shouts, letting go of your hands as he starts to pull out.
”No, don’t stop!” You shout, grabbing him and pulling him down until all of his body weight is on top of you, pushing himself all the way inside of you.
“Baby, I’m gonna—“ He starts, but it’s too late. He couldn’t stop himself if he tried, his hot spend filling you up. He lets out a groan and his body shudders at the euphoric feeling.
It takes a minute for Eddie to come back down to earth, his vision blurry when he finally opens his eyes again. He suddenly realizes he’s crushing you under him and tries to push himself off, but the way you’re holding onto him for dear life makes it difficult for him to move.
He says your name like a question, and he feels your grip on him loosen. He lifts himself up a bit, looking down at you under him to make sure you’re alright.
“You okay?” He asks when you don’t say anything to him. You nod, looking up at him slightly with a satisfied look on your face.
“I’m really sorry,” he says as he sits all the way up. “I tried to tell you—I even have condoms this time—I just wasn’t thinking—“
”I love you.”
Eddie stops mid ramble and looks down at you with wide eyes.
summary: “Can’t believe you’ll finally let me do dinner service,” you let out with a laugh, and guilt blooms in his chest. Over how selfish he’s been, over how unfair he is to you, that have committed no sin besides being what he can’t have. Fuck, the wine is making his head spin. “Have I been promoted to the good list?” You joke.
Maybe the best way to rid himself of how feverishly he wants you is to keep you around. Not avoid you.
“I think I just need to stop being selfish,” he mutters. And that’s it. That’s all it takes for Eddie to realize that all he wants at this moment is to put his goddamn cigarette out and hold you with both hands.
cw: no y/n, eddie calls reader 'kid', age gap (r is 26, e is 46), language, smoking, moral angst, dual pov (in the sense that you get to see what both eddie and r are thinking), yearning and pining on steroids, smut (minors DNI), oral (f receiving), eddie cums in his pants (what's new), food as a love language, fwb status achieved, the last dialogue is heavily influenced by heated rivalry because they've plagued my existence
word count: 6k
series masterlist | chef! eddie moodboard | pt. 1 | pt. 2| pt. 4 coming soon!
song inspo- hunger by florence + the machine
divider by @saradika-graphics
all my works are 18+ pls minors dni
The sound is deafening. It’s like watching a wine chalice fall from your tray, and being unable to do anything to stop it.
It’s the silence right before. The anticipation. Expecting the mess it will make on the floor. It all bubbles in your gut, right as you see him walk towards you. He’s holding a glass of Chablis full to the brim, accompanied by its half-finished bottle. “Figured I’d come out for a smoke, too,” he blurts out, muffled by the cigarette between his lips. The spark wheel makes its sound, and the cigarette between his lips rims with golden embers. The air feels trapped in Eddie’s lungs, a weak cough escapes him. What now?
“‘S cold out here for an old man like you,” you point out, chuckling at him, but your tone is uncertain. As you speak, you see him walk over, and lean on the banister. Right next to you. His suede-clad shoulder bumps into yours, and the proximity makes you shiver. He takes a sip of his wine and places the glass on the rickety metal table right next to him.
“Watch that tone,” he jests. “I’m a big boy, I can take a little snow,” his voice slightly charred by the alcohol, mirrors your amused tone. His spiritedness slices a sympathetic smile through your lips.
“I never got to thank you for the food,” you change the subject. Suddenly, the air around Eddie feels thick. He must be a real thick-brained motherfucker if he thought you wouldn’t have put two and two together. Maybe he did want you to figure it out, to know that he wasn’t avoiding you because of anything that you did– he just had to care from a distance.
“What food?”
“The one you’d leave in my locker. I figured it was you because of your handwriting on the notes. The same one as the note you left on the bacon, egg, and cheese after I got drunk,” you explain, taking another hit of your cigarette. Again, there’s no shame behind your admission of what happened that night. Yet, every mention of that night it’s like a gunshot wound to Eddie’s chest.
“You’re too fuckin’ smart, kid,” he grumbles, followed by a fat swig of wine, and the compliment makes you fluster. “After the eggs and fries I assumed you don’t eat a whole lot with all the runnin’ you do around the restaurant, so–” he trails off, shrugging like it’s not a big deal. Except it is.
“I really liked that brie and fig preserve sandwich. You used that good ham we have in the fridge, didn’t you?” you ask, a bit embarrassed that he’d use the good stuff on you. He emits an affirmative hum, and if possible, he sees your smile get bigger. Fuck. Stop looking at me like that. “Will you make it for me again some time?” You bat your eyes at him in a joking manner, but all Eddie can think about is how twinkly your eyes look reflecting the lights brightening your street.
“Tell ya what, kid– if you come after lunch and do dinner service with me, I will,” his tone is soft, as he turns around and nudges you with his shoulder. You look at the curve of his nose and lips pointing at the moon. At his fingers, tightly wrapped around his cigarette, while the smoke of it surrounds you like a wall. He’s looking at you, now. He keeps himself there, right against you, hoping you can’t feel how badly he wants to touch more than your shoulder. More than your arms. That he wants to wrap his arms around you, grip your waist, take off– no, not yet– as much as he would like to. He wants you to want it first, just so he won’t feel like a complete pervert.
Your eyes turn into half-moons, which make the real thing pale in comparison, squinted by a smile. Then his eyes travel down your lips, wrapping around the cigarette, which has turned into a stump, and he’s done for.
All he thinks about is to kiss you until you’re so dizzy you can’t stand, and he’ll be there to hold you up. To feel the taste of your smile against his lips. To cup your face, shield you from the cold. Fuck, he needs more wine.
“Can’t believe you’ll finally let me do dinner service,” you let out with a laugh, and guilt blooms in his chest. Over how selfish he’s been, over how unfair he is to you, that have committed no sin besides being what he can’t have. Fuck, the wine is making his head spin. “Have I been promoted to the good list?” You joke.
Maybe the best way to rid himself of how feverishly he wants you is to keep you around. Not avoid you.
“I think I just need to stop being selfish,” he mutters. And that’s it. That’s all it takes for Eddie to realize that all he wants at this moment is to put his goddamn cigarette out and hold you with both hands.
He looks at you with the eyes of a man who’s starving, hands inching up the length of your arms, he’s now a palm’s length away from you. “You’re so beautiful,” it comes out choked, like a breath he’s been holding underwater.
“Chef–”
“Just Eddie, please,” he corrects with a murmur right against your face. He’s pervaded by the tobacco smell of your mouth, the smell of your hair in which snowflakes have deposited themselves to become droplets. There’s no more restraint, no more control. “Let me kiss you,” he whispers, as he looks into your eyes. “I can’t do this anymore,” his voice is feeble. He’s begging. He’s so desperate with it, you see it in the flush of his cheeks.
“But– but you’re drunk?” You counter, pushing back the crawling feeling in your body. The one that wants to push you closer, until you’re basically inside his jacket.
“‘M sober enough to know I want to kiss you. That– that I’ve wanted to kiss you since that one night I gave you my cigarette,” he breathes, stutters, blubbers. The proximity to you, to your lips, makes his brain short circuit as his breath warms your face with the smell of wine and cigarettes.
You don’t answer, and in return, you just press your lips to his.
He sears with the heat of you despite your cold lips. Your hands on his cheeks, your body right against his, as you let the cigarette fall down the balcony. Feverish, dizzy. He can’t fucking think.
“Three months–” he mutters against the softness of your lips, “ever since that fucking interview, I’ve wanted you so much it made me stupid, selfish–” his hands travel up and down your arms, to your waist, to your back.
“Shut up and keep kissing me, Eddie,” and hearing his name begged out of your lips is enough for him to stop rambling his pleas for forgiveness. There’s a sheen of sweat that’s coating both of your foreheads, your upper lips, as you open his coat.
He’s offering himself to you in the barest way he can think of. It’s not love, no. Just a carnal need to show you his bones, blood, flesh. Not literally, but in the way that he ebbs and flows with the rhythm of your own body. He doesn’t force anything. He lets you part your mouth of your own volition, to caress his tongue over yours.
It’s all he’s been wanting. It’s everything he’s waited three months for. He’s not subtle with how hungry he is for you.
“Tell me you don’t want this, sweetheart. Please, stop me,” he says, another, final, attempt at a trace of goodness left in him. His breath ragged, tortured, because he can’t stop it himself. He can’t.
“I want– want it so much, Eddie,” you pant inside his mouth. You’re way past forming a rational thought, not when the fullness of his lips makes you dizzy enough to stumble where you stand.
He’s surprised with the eagerness of your own dormant hunger. The one that led you to sleepless nights, pushing away your duvet because of the heat that took over your body whenever you thought about him. Whenever your hands slipped ever so slightly under the waistband of your underwear, letting yourself indulge in the thought of him. Unlike him, you didn’t even make an attempt at goodness.
It was something private, something that you could keep a secret. You would’ve come apart at the seams otherwise.
His hand is placed behind your head, cushioning, as he holds you against the glass window. His mouth makes his way down your jaw, your ear, your neck. Like he wants to memorize all of you with his lips. Drawing outlines in the cold-pricked skin, like he’s keeping the image of your kiss-bitten lips for a rainy day.
“You smell so fucking good,” he almost growls against the softness of your skin. “It’s been making me crazy, to even– even be in the same room with you,” he stutters, and that’s all the explanation you need as to why he’s been avoiding you. Yet, you don’t say anything besides sighing against his hairline, smelling the pine scent of his shampoo.
“Can you say my name, please, sweetheart?” he sobs. Not chef, not anything else. He just wants to be himself. He bites at the column of your neck, and like he’s pushed a button, you comply.
“Eddie–” it’s a sigh, a plea, a prayer. It rings into his ears like a dog whistle. It makes him stupid. “In–side, please,” you grit out, pushing through the feeling of his hands sneaking their way under your coat and pyjama shirt. You grab the collar of his coat to drag him past the sliding door, back in the warmth of your home.
Your coats come off with heavy thuds against the hardwood floor, forgotten in a pool of brown and white. You’re immediately pushed over the couch, watching him kneel between your parted legs.
“I’ve wanted you so bad,” he whispers, nudging your nose with his, “I don’t know how– I don’t–” It makes him stupid, delirious. Drunk on your smell, and the little gasps that escape you whenever he places a kiss right down the sliver of skin the first button of your pyjamas makes available to him. His hands travel up and down your hips and stomach, like a gentle caress.
“It’s– it’s okay,” you pant against his ear. “Please, don’t make me wait,” you demand, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt, trying to get him to take it off. Clothes feel offending, oppressive. Not when you’ve both been so patient. Once his shirt is off and you can see him, he becomes a smatter of tattoos, spidery lines in black ink that litter his arms, his chest, his upper back. You hear him chuckle at your stunned pause, which makes you burn with embarrassment.
“I won’t make you wait, sweetheart, but please don’t stop staring at me like that,” he gives you a skewed smile, reaching for the buttons of your pyjama top. He could’ve easily lifted it over your head, he’s aware, but he likes this. This self torture, this proof that even at the eleventh hour, when you’re panting right under him, begging to undress you, he can still exercise restraint.
For someone who’s always running, always in a hurry, every second feels like an eternity as he peels every layer of you with careful attentiveness. Almost afraid to miss anything that’s laying dormant under the pink flannel.
He’s soft beneath your hands, with pearly scars that bump his skin close to his wrists and forearms. You measure the length of them with soft strokes of your hands, up and down. You want to make sure he’s real, that this is real. That every muscle, bump, and hair that you feel in the wake of your hands exists because he’s letting himself exist in front of you– naked, and beautiful.
When he takes off your pyjama top you can hear him suck a breath through his teeth. He’s so hungry for skin he’s yet to explore, smells he’s yet to sense, ones that make his dick twitch in his black sweatpants at the mere thought. His hands travel up your stomach, reaching up to your chest, squeezing the skin of your breasts with such gentleness, it makes you keen for more.
“You’re so, so pretty,” he exhales it like it’s a secret he doesn’t want you to find out. “Look at these–” he marvels with a firmer squeeze that elicits a squirm from you. “Can’t believe I made you wait this long, sweetheart, look at you,” he whines in return at the sight of you, arched into his touch, like you’re going to die without it.
He grabs your face with one hand, keeping your chin in place, as he trails kisses down your stomach, never breaking contact with your stunned eyes.
Your skin is stained with wet kisses, while you look at him press his free hand on your legs, inhale the smell that is pervading his nostrils in a way that’s making him dizzy.
“You been thinking about this, sweets?” And his smugness makes you want to scream from every pore. “Because I have, so many times,” he pants against the dampening crotch of your pyjamas. “I’ve thought about you like this, looking at me with your pretty eyes– God, your eyes–” he groans, “and I never did anything about it,” he confesses. “It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair to you, sweets. Because I didn’t know you wanted me just as bad as I wanted you.” His last confession comes out lamentful, strained. Like he can’t believe he tortured himself this much over you.
“You… you didn’t–”
“Did you?” he asks like it’s a challenge, staring straight into your waiting eyes. It makes you feel embarrassed of the many nights spent moaning his name into the void of your room. So you nod, quietly, and you can feel the wicked smile bloom on his lips, right against your inner thigh, “God, you’re sweet,” he chuckles, mirth dripping from his voice.
“I didn’t– didn’t know,” you correct in between gasps, while his tattooed fingers hook on the elastic of your Christmas pyjamas.
“How could you have known?” He whispers against the skin of your stomach, mouthing his own secret language like prayer, like he wants to inhale the scent of your skin and bottle it for him to keep. He looks at you– eyes twinkling in the dim orange light of your living room. Dark and wanting, but an underlying twinge of adoration he’ll never bring himself to admit.
His hand that’s holding your chin in place sneaks up to your lips, and there’s a silent pause. A moment where he looks into your eyes, a silent declaration that yes, this is okay. It’s barely perceptible when you nod around his hand, and he wastes no time pushing his way past your lips with his thumb, eliciting a moan from you, while his other hand pushes your legs back, and he inhales.
“This okay?” he mumbles, out loud this time, against the smooth skin of your thigh, followed by a nip of his teeth that makes you cry out around his finger. You nod again. “Rest your legs on my shoulders, sweets, it’s okay,” he invites, and you comply. There’s nothing he could ask of you you wouldn’t do at this moment. If anything, it only adds more matches to the pool of flaming gasoline at the bottom of your stomach.
Another deep inhale, a hitching breath. He can’t believe he’s there. Right between your legs, as his hand is about to push your panties to the side, and his heart is beating so hard right against his chest, that he thinks it might poke out of him. You smell so good it makes him feel stupid.
He looks at you again, eyes glazed over, impatiently waiting for him to do something, anything. Yet you wait. You don’t push, or press, or demand. You’re just there.
You who are always so composed, so polite, so witty. Rendered wordless by his hovering mouth and ragged breath right where you need him most. And yet you just wait.
So he goes in, and the sound that comes out of you is like music ringing in his ears. A sacred collapse of resolve.
“Fuck– shit– Ed–” like you’re trying to begin new sentences, and the thread snaps right then and there, rendering you useless under his ministrations.
“Don’t have to speak,” he mouths right against the wet skin of your pussy. He explores, he takes his time. It’s the sweet torture he’s been wanting to inflict on himself all along. “You’re doing good,” he affirms before going in again. Lapping at as much surface he can cover with his tongue. He slurps and sucks like he’s never eaten a meal in his life. His free hand, the one that’s holding you open for him, moves down the length of your thigh, so close to where his chin is resting, waterfalled by the blissful pooling of your arousal. He crooks one of his fingers inside you, and you’re so responsive it makes his cock twitch in his sweats at every noise and whine that escapes your lips.
And he groans. At the smell of you, the taste, the way you clench around his finger like you’re trying to keep him there forever. The vibrations make you shiver.
“You always this messy, or just for me?” He murmurs amused, watching your eyes roll back at the additional stimulation.“Another one? Or are you good?” He asks, in a teasing whisper. He curls his finger deeper, and watches with resolute satisfaction at the way you arch your back off the couch, blubbering around his thumb.
“‘Nother one, please,” you mumble, and he obediently obliges, coaxing another whine out of you.
“Woulda done this sooner if I knew how– fuck, how wet you got for me,” he stands up and curls over you like a cat, while he pumps his fingers inside you. You can feel him grind on your thigh, heavy breathing in your ear. He’s embarrassed at the knowledge that he’s not going to last, but at this moment, he really doesn’t care about anything except coaxing more sweet sounds out of you. “Gimme kiss,” he mumbles against your swollen lips, as he takes his thumb out of your mouth, and replaces it with his searing tongue. You can smell yourself all over his mouth, chin, and nose, and you want nothing more than to lick it off of him. To take back the proof of how much you wanted it.
“Go on,” he says, like he can read it in your mind. “Lick me clean,” and so you do. The flat of your tongue swirls on his chin, under his nose, the side of his lips, and each roll of his hips against your soft thigh elicits more groans, more whines, right inside your mouth.
He can feel it. The way your breath is hitching, the pitch of your whines becoming higher, more desperate. The unabashed moaning, right in his mouth, the sweat that pools at your hairline, the way you’re squeezing his fingers like they’re keeping you alive.
“Eddie I’m g– please, please let me–” he shushes you, hot hair fanning your face.
“I got it, baby, don’t worry,” he soothes your desperate plea. He keeps his pace, he doesn’t speed up, or change the way his fingers are pumping inside you. Rather, his mouth leaves a trail of kisses down your jaw, to the soft lobe of your ear, and bites. “You gonna cum for me, sweets? Please lemme hear you cum in my ear,” he begs through broken huffs and labored breaths.
“The– there, plea–” you ramble, and with a final curl of his fingers, you come undone. There’s a silent scream, a whine, a jolt, as you bite down on his shoulder, and ride out your high. He feels it, you don’t want him to let go just yet, so he cups your head, placing another searing kiss on your lips.
“Shh, I got you,” he whispers, following the whine that comes out of you once he takes out his fingers, and the sight that’s in front of him is past any of his wildest fantasies of you. His hips twitch in turn, and a groaned-out sound that seems similar to your name escapes him, but you can barely hear it. You’re spent, head hung back on the headrest of your couch. Eyes half-lidded, sleepy.
“Holy shit,” you slur, still trying to steady your breath, looking at him. His thumb draws invisible straight lines against your thigh, soothing you through the aftershocks that still shoot through you.
“So much for being good,” he chuckles at himself, placing a kiss on your temple, and you’re not totally sure what it means. There’s a sourness in his expression that you can’t quite decipher. Like he’s disappointed in himself.
Maybe he wants you to return the favor? A weak hand reaching for the waistband of his sweats. He stops you.
“No more for tonight,” he soothes, soft, yet firm.
His reaction confuses you. You thought he wanted this, all of it. Did you make him feel forced to do this?
He sees the disappointment in your eyes “You don’t need to return the favor,” he intimates, his tone weak and cold. Then you look down. The stain that darkens his sweats, the one that he’s trying to cover with his hand as much as possible while he slips his shirt back on. It makes him feel pathetic, embarrassed, and if possible, even more of a pervert.
“Eddie, it’s fine. If anything’s kind of endearing–”
“It’s late. I should go home.”
And the wall’s erected in between you once again.
As confused as you are, you sit up and follow him with your eyes. “There’s no more trains, it’s like four in the morning. You can sleep on the cou–” you try to intervene, but he stops you.
“I’ll walk,” he grunts, walking off to grab his coat from the floor. He feels disgusted with himself. “‘M not far.”
“Stay, please,” you extend his hand towards him, voice thin, and you see him stop in his tracks.
There’s an uncomfortable sense of hurt that spreads through your chest, but you’re too tired to entertain it.
You sound so hurt, and it feels like a stake through his chest. He was about to be that asshole that walks away without giving any type of aftercare. The thought of it makes him sick.
Instead, he walks back to the couch, sighing a pained “Alright,” standing behind the headrest, his hand caressing the crown of your head. Only then you realize how heavy your lids feel. You’re not sure whether he’ll leave once you’re asleep, and it concerns you– how much you care about whether he’ll be there in the morning.
“I’ll stay,” he whispers, while his heart sinks.
He walks around the couch, reaching for your discarded clothes on the floor. You’re quiet, looking at him through your lashes as let yourself be dressed by him– sleeve by sleeve, button by button, while his mind steeps into an uncomfortable place, a scary place. Your silence deafens him. Now what?
“Don’t be gone when I wake up,” you slur, fully laying down.
“I won’t, promise,” he whispers.
“Mhh– thanks, Eddie,” you whisper in a sleep-daze, closing your eyes for good.
He thinks about the talk he’s gonna need to have with you when you’ll wake up in the morning. You’ll expect a continuation of what happened. Breakfast, getting to know each other, all that morning-after bullshit. Expecting things he won’t be able to give to you. He can’t be a boyfriend. He’s too tainted for something so beautiful.
Guilt suffocates him as he picks up your limp body off the couch to take you to bed, and he feels the weight of it against his arms. Yet, it’s not the weight of you. Just the weight of what he did.
The feeling of deja-vu that overtakes him makes him dizzy. He’s awake, in your apartment, and it’s five in the morning. Head in his hands, he sits right where you did, in his wet spot of shame.
Maybe he should have asked you for a spare pair of sweats. And a shower.
When you wake up, he’s asleep, mouth breathing on your couch. It makes you chuckle.
The wine bottle’s finished, and the Chinese food leftover has been put in the fridge. Dishes still piled up in the sink. You sigh.
You walk over to the sink trying to keep as quiet as possible as you soap up the pans and utensils, washing them one by one. Eddie’s awoken by an especially loud clank from a soapy pan that slips out of your hands.
“Jee-sus,” he curses, heart thumping. He rubs his eyes, heavy with sleep. Fuck, you’re awake.
“‘Morning,” you greet. Your tone is flat, and Eddie can’t tell if it’s whether you’re mad or just focused on the task at hand.
“Hey, kid,” he yawns. He’s back to ‘kid’. Like his head wasn’t between your legs last night. The thought makes your stomach sink for a second. There’s a glimpse of his mouth, of his drawled-out words against your skin, it muffles your ears for a second.
“Sleep good?” You try to make your tone as detached as possible, while you scrub another dish and put it away on the drying rack. Eddie stands up to walk over to the kitchen island, sitting on one of the stools.
“Yeah, your couch is comfy,” he lies, the small talk making him feel uneasy. “Sorry for leaving all those dishes in your sink and hittin’ the road last time, kid. Should’ve woken up earlier, I could’ve had the time, but–” he lets the sentence hang in an exhausted sigh. It’s like he’s trying to scold himself. Like he let his steely control slip for just a moment, and because of it, his resolve crumbles once more. Another bout of silence.
“Never had a man apologize for not doing the dishes,” you emit a dry laugh that makes Eddie’s stomach twist. “Guess you’re not used to it when you have a line of dishwashers to do it for you, chef,” you shrug, marking the end of your last word with a sibilated sound. If he’s putting up walls, you can do the same.
“I started as a dishwasher, kid. At Salt, just like you,” he mutters the end of that sentence like he’s afraid of it.
“You didn’t tell me you worked at Salt,” you point out, a scheptical smile on your face.
“I was a scrawny kid getting yelled at by one of the nation’s top chefs because I broke a plate. Not exactly one of my proudest moments,” he sniffs, while you stare attentively at him. He’s playing with a hangnail on his finger, like he’s trying to avoid your gaze.
“Hey, I followed a piece of shit ex here,” you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “If there’s anyone who should be ashamed is me,” you shrug, putting down the last of the dishes.
The air turns thick for a second. Like you keep dancing around the elephant in the room. You exhale, Eddie’s still looking at his hands.
You turn away from him, grabbing two mugs– a silly snowman-shaped mug, and one shaped like a stack of cookies– and pour some coffee from a keurig. “Coffee?” You ask without looking at him.
“Please,” he answers, lifting his eyes from the offending hangnail to watch you pour milk into both mugs, and beeline to the chair right in front of him.
He gets the silly snowman mug, which is a bit inconvenient to drink from, but after the night he’s had, he’ll drink coffee out of a shoe if he needs to.
After a few sips of coffee, he stands up off his chair and heads towards your cabinet.
“What are you doing, chef?” Every reaction from you is deliberate, calculated. You want to coax what you want out of him.
“Pancakes? Go shower in the meantime.”
You just can’t help but oblige.
The shower is scalding, but it doesn’t cleanse you of any sin. You can still feel Eddie’s head burrowed in between your thighs, and his firm grip on your chin. When you woke up, you weren’t even too sure if what happened the night before was a sick and twisted dream your mind had thought up.
Yet, with every memory of his words, drawls, commands, you seem to keen into your own touch as you lather yourself with as much soap as you can to clean up your mess. Both physical and mental, that is.
If there’s one thing that Eddie can bury his own emotions in, it’s cooking. He can be angry or frustrated and make a mean carbonara– the Italian way, with the whipped yolk and cheese, relaxed, happy, stressed, he can make dessert.
The issue is, that it feels unnatural now, like he’s forgotten how to.
His hands feel like two huge cutting boards as he ventures into your cabinets for flour, sugar, baking powder, while he debates on the topping. It can’t be normal pancakes, no. Only when he reaches into your fridge for the butter, he nudges a white container that reads ‘ricotta’, and he’s got it: Whipped ricotta and lemon pancakes. A smile slices through his face as he gets to work.
His struggle is short-lived. When it comes to pancakes, it feels like muscle memory at that point. It reminds him of slow Sunday mornings after Wayne came back from church. He’ll find a little Eddie running around the kitchen with a scalding mug of coffee in one hand, a stack of maple butter blueberry pancakes and bacon in the other.
The stain in his sweats is long forgotten, even though he curses himself for not asking for a change of clothes and a shower before he got to work on breakfast. He warms the butter on the stove, slightly charring it, letting it turn a warm shade of brown, dividing it between the dough and the whipped lemon ricotta. What comes out of it is something almost visually sinful– stacked high, four warm, spongy pancakes, topped with chilled sweet lemon ricotta and chopped mint at which he makes a mental note to make them again for Wayne when he goes back to visit.
When you come out of your shower, hair wet, in an old t-shirt and sweats, you’re enamored by the sweet-acidic smell that surrounds your kitchen. Two stacks of pancakes at the table, accompanied by fresh mugs of coffee, your stomach betrays you before words do.
“Sit down and eat, kid, sounds like you’re starving,” he snickers, pulling your chair back.
“What–uh, what are these?” You were expecting regular pancakes, maybe even the frozen ones sitting in the back of your freezer, or something. Not whatever this masterpiece is.
“Well, they’re pancakes,” he explains with an amused smile, coaxing one out of you in turn.
“Yeah, no shit. I mean the flavor.”
“Lemon and sweet ricotta, and mint, and… other bullshit,” he points at each ingredient with a voice full of pride as you sit down and take a bite. Needless to say the flavors– so delicate, yet so specific to each ingredient– makes this the best stack of pancakes you’ve ever had.
“I don’t even like pancakes that much, but these–” he’s ashamed to admit that he prepared himself for this moment. For the way your mouth curls in a smile, and your eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Wait, back up. You don’t like pancakes?”
“Well– maybe I don’t dislike them, but there’s better breakfast food out there,” you shrug, chucking a mouthful of pancakes in your mouth. In the blink of an eye, Eddie reaches your side of the table and snatches the plate from under you. “Wha–”
“Maybe you don’t deserve my pancakes,” he says, holding your plate above his head. A wicked smile slices his face.
“Come on, I didn’t mean it like that. Your pancakes are lovely, I promise,” you whine at him, standing up and walking over to his side to make an attempt at recovering your plate.
“After everything we’ve shared,” he laments, mock-clutching his heart, dodging your grabby hands, “can’t believe you would betray me like this.” It makes a smile bloom on your face, despite how annoying Eddie’s being.
He’s laughing, and it’s a sound you didn’t know you needed to hear until now. It’s boyish, full of feeling, unlike his gruff appearance– higher-pitched than his own voice. It settles in your bones and rings, it makes you shiver.
You don’t want the pancakes anymore.
“What, you’re just going to admit defeat?” He snickers, putting down the plate, and sliding it over to where you were just sitting. Yet, you stand there, staring back at his face, watching the amusement wash off. It leaves room for expressions you can’t quite place. Confusion, apprehension, fear.
Upon further inspection, there’s a smudge of flour on Eddie’s face, which you quickly swipe without thinking. You can see his eyes close at the immediate contact with your thumb. Betrayed, again, by his own body.
“Are we not going to talk about last night?” You whisper it like a secret, reaching for your mug, taking a swig from it, and then cradling it with both hands.
“What do you want from me, kid?” He’s back to the gruff tone. Eddie hangs his head, staring into the circling bubbles of his coffee. Tired and maybe a bit scared, he sounds enticingly pathetic. It makes your skin burn.
You place your mug down and settle into his lap, letting his eyes inspect you. You can hear his breathing quicken, becoming heavier and dysregulated. The effect you have on him gives you a satisfying pleasure, you smirk at his reaction.
“I had fun,” you mumble against his skin.
“Sweetheart–” there it is again. One thing about him, he knows how to keep a boundary. He’s trying to decipher what you mean by that. Do you want to do it again? Is it a one-time thing? Do you want a relationship? He quivers at the latter.
“I’m saying that we could do this more often. Casually, of course,” you detach, looking at his blown-out eyes. Desperate for a kiss. “Say,” your tone is pointed, unlike anything he’s heard come out of your mouth. “I casually gave you my number for when, y’know, you, casually, feel lonely after dinner service, or on your day off,” you ghost your nose on his cheek, right by the shell of his ear. The slightest hitch of his breath that makes you smirk. “And say, I’m casually all by myself at home,” you continue.
“And I casually were to grab my phone and call you,” he exhales, mocking your tone. He notices the way your fingers play with the edge of one of his burn scars, how your pupils are wide, eyes full of mischief. He can see you through the curtain of his loose hair, making your way at the lobe of his ear. You mouth at it, and you can hear him whine, his hands conveniently finding a solid place to keep him aground on the curve of your hips. He feels your heart thrum against his chest as you press light kisses on his jawline.
“I casually might answer,” you breathe into his ear.
“... And I asked you to come over, casually.”
A smile creeps up your lips as you finally look at him: “I casually might come.”
a/n: suprise! as always, feedback is appreciated and thank you for reading! :)
summary: "He looks at the half-done cigarette in his hands and sighs. The glowing embers, the dripping, grey ash. What’s another burn if it absolves him from the sin of wanting? Wanting what he can’t have, what he shouldn’t touch, feeling the things he must not feel."
cw: no y/n, eddie calls reader 'kid', age gap (r is 26, e is 46), restaurant lingo, language, smoking, allusive scenarios directly picked from the perverted mind of an 8th grader, moral angst, dual pov (in the sense that you get to see what both eddie and r are thinking), allusions to sex and masturbation, yearning and pining on steroids, they're both idiots, there's a good 500 words of just eddie cooking
word count: 6k
masterlist | chef! eddie moodboard | pt. 1 | pt. 3 coming soon!
song inspo- paper bag by fiona apple
divider by @cursed-carmine
The first time Eddie stands in front of a stove, he’s eight years old.
His dad teaches him how to make Kraft mac n’ cheese, warm up his milk for cereal, heat up the popcorn in the microwave. Canned beans, ravioli, noodles. Stuff that he can make while alone at home, for days on end, while his dad is off doing God knows what.
He’s ten when he finds his mom’s old recipe book, burrowed somewhere in the dusty shelves of his empty house.
He goes around the neighborhood, asking whoever will give him the time of day for whatever ingredients he’s missing. A cup of flour, sugar, butter.
The first thing he makes is pancakes. He climbs on top of the counters, in a desperate search for maple syrup. Probably expired, with sugar crystals rimming the glass mouth of the bottle. He drizzles it all over the delicious stack of pancakes. They taste like his mom, like home.
Over the week where his dad is nowhere to be found, all Eddie eats is pancakes. Tries them with every topping he can scrounge in his pantry. Lemon and sugar, peanut butter, grape jelly, even with ketchup. And when Uncle Wayne comes over on his day off to check in on his nephew, that becomes their dinner.
These are really good, kid.
And after that moment, Wayne spends every second he can scrounge up with Eddie, encouraging this passion of his. With all his money can possibly buy, he brings home paper bags full of ingredients, baking and cooking instruments, takes Eddie to the library to check out a new cookbook every month.
Eddie’s never been good at school. Abysmal grades, teachers who didn’t care whether he lived or died. Getting past high school was never even an option for him, especially considering he didn’t have the money for it.
Then lady luck seems to shine on him on a random Thursday in the guidance counselor’s office. Detention. Again.
Gleaming in the white neons of the waiting room, placed in a plastic organizer: Institute of Culinary Education. Decorated with pictures of people in toques, whisking nothing in a bowl. And he realizes that maybe, while all his friends ditch their freak uniforms to go study medicine, law, whatever shit their mommies and daddies want them to do. He has the freedom of choice, because there’s no one that has pushed responsibility down Eddie Munson’s throat since his mother’s ashes have been placed on the fireplace mantle.
He thinks of the dinners with Wayne. The discounted filet mignon with carrots, mashed potatoes and gravy he made for his uncle’s birthday. The jujed up Kraft mac n’ cheese with toasted breadcrumbs and the chili peppers he stole from some asshole’s front yard. Stacks, on stacks of pancakes. The Thanksgiving feast he whipped up by himself, following Betty Crocker’s recipe book. And he realizes what he wants to do. Cook.
He takes up two jobs for all of his junior and senior year. Keeps the money hidden from his vagabond dad in a Superman lunchbox under his bed, while Wayne gets his neighbor, and former middle school teacher, Mrs. Fields, to help him write up his applications.
He applies for scholarships, grants, practically begs his way into the Institute.
It’s an inconspicuous lukewarm day in March when he comes back from his Dnd club to find a thick, white envelope on the kitchen table. He can still feel it, twenty years later. The prickling anxiety along the length of his arms, the trembling of his fingers, the heat that rises into his cheeks from the fear. Eddie can hardly believe it.
In September, he leaves Hawkins for the first time since he was six, and finds out that there’s a whole world out there that doesn't seem to be out to get him.
New York is big, and he’s not afraid to take up that space. He spends three years learning how to cut, chop, clean, gut, sear, with the booming voice of his mentor harassing his ears. He learns about ingredients he’s never seen before in his life, like fresh fish, soy sauce, and curry. He finds communities that welcome him with open arms, instead of shunning him. He gets hired by his mentor’s restaurant part-time to do catering work. He finds Steve, at one of those parties he’s working at. Slicked-back hair, crisp tux, the picture of the perfect heir to the Harrington real estate empire. But he looks like he wants to be anywhere but there.
“I heard the oysters are especially good at this establishment,” he whispers in his poshiest English accent. “Champagne?”
Later that night, on the balcony of the Manhattan venue, they strike up a conversation over a joint Eddie had stored for later that evening. Eddie talks about his dreams, to open his own restaurant, in honor of his mom. Steve expresses his inadequacies in taking over his father’s business.
Steve invites Eddie to a party a few weeks later, because he’s the only one that might not make him feel lonely in a crowd of thousands. More parties, gym sessions, breaking into the campus swimming pool at night. Once Eddie’s lease is up, he packs his bags, and leaves his shitty roommate. A new Brooklyn apartment and Steve wait for him. Along with a new crowd of friends to share movie nights at his and Steve’s. Their laps filled with candy and popcorn as Wheeler– Nancy, and Byers– Jonathan, friends from culinary school, loudly sob at My Girl. His eyes are a little wet, too, but he refuses to acknowledge that.
And when he finally graduates, with a job lined up at Salt, an up-and-coming Manhattan restaurant, he finally feels like he’s made it. That for the first time in his life, he doesn’t have to be known as ‘freak’, or any iteration of a name that persecuted him throughout high school. Just ‘chef’.
Eddie’s jaw hurts by the end of dinner service. His mouth is shut, focusing on leaves, salt crystals, balsamic dots on the corner of the plate. Everything looks so stupid. He sighs.
By last call, he’s unbuttoning his jacket and reaching into his locker for his pack of Pall Malls and the green lighter. He feels feverish, pinpricked by the endless guilt of leaving you that morning. He’s also so, so tired.
His lower back hurts from the couch he laid for hours on, from bending over dishes at expo, from picking up heavy things instead of asking for help. He spent the whole train ride to the restaurant that morning calling every one of his front of house staff, just to get them to cover your shifts for the rest of the week. He needed to make sure you got enough rest, and maybe not run the risk of seeing you. Not when his hands were already contaminated by the way your skin felt on his.
He wonders if you spent the whole day curled up in bed. Bent over the toilet to eliminate any evidence from last night. It makes him ache, deep in his stomach, to think of you in your empty apartment. Alone. Without him, that is. He looks at the half-done cigarette in his hands and sighs. The glowing embers, the dripping, grey ash. What’s another burn if it absolves him from the sin of wanting? Wanting what he can’t have, what he shouldn’t touch, feeling the things he must not feel.
‘The Girl’ is a success. One of the top items on the menu among countless items. It’s a fucking salad. Yet he wonders if you know. If the blackberry balsamic reduction is for you, for the light purple hue that glazed your lips and his cigarette that fateful night. That night where he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about you. And every night after that. Leaving himself painfully hard in his sweatpants, but not allowing himself to indulge. Not even a second. Because it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.
Are we having sex? Maybe, in your drunken state, you expressed you wanted him. He thinks about your question a lot in the span of the days he doesn’t see you. The malicious giggling fits, the way your body fit under the weight of his hands. It all echoes in the most perverted mind palaces of his brain.
He wonders when he’s become a dirty old man, as he ashes the cigarette on a random wall, and drowns his thoughts of unending shame in prep.
The marinated pork shank, the miso-coated cod, the vodka sauce. That fucking blackberry balsamic. He runs around like a maniac, to the point that Byers probably thinks he’s gone insane as he focuses on the squash soup and his bechamel.
“You good, chef?” And there it is. “You’re, like, all red in the face.”
Christ, his eyes burn. “All good, chef. Just trying to get this prep done at a decent hour. Haven’t slept much these days.” Which isn’t a total lie. But he can’t say that he’s haunted by the guilt of crushing on one of his lunch service waitresses. It even sounds insane saying it in his head.
“Well, if you wanna go home, I can finish with the marinades and the sauces. There isn’t much left to do, anyway. I can open up shop for you tomorrow morning, too. I think I’ve done it enough times to take care of it on my own, chef. Just come in whenever.” Byers offers, and Eddie could just kiss him. Truly the sous chef of dreams.
“Alright, chef. Thanks. I’ll finish this sous vide and head out, then.”
He’s out the door in the span of ten minutes, and it’s almost two in the morning when he gets home. He munches on a bag of chips while he toes off his shoes and takes off his jeans. Maybe he should make himself something for the morning, since for the first time in weeks he’ll have lunch service off.
He ditches the cigarette for tonight. It’s too cold, and his bed calls to him like a siren song. He grabs a gummy, a stronger one, crawls into it like a lazy cat and plops under the duvet. And yet, even in that thin line between awake and dreaming, there’s you, and the way you had asked him to stay the night before. He traces the edge of your smile, your nose, your half-lidded eyes as he removed your makeup.
He should probably make a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich in the morning.
You’re in front of his office when he swaggers into the restaurant at ten in the morning. He’s well-rested and there’s a faint glow to his cheeks from the cold bite of Indiana winter.
He doesn’t see you right away. Rather, he walks past you with a pink box of donuts as he sheds off his puffer coat, scarf, and hat. He toes off his boots, and bites the top of his gloved finger, slipping his hand out of the woolen material, and does the same with his other hand. Slips on his clogs and his white jacket, leaving it open to show a ratty Black Sabbath shirt underneath.
You’re practically boring holes into his back while he turns around towards the locker room mirror and ties his hair up in a low bun, showing the same grey tinsel from that night. Only after he turns around to head towards his office does he see you. In a thick coat that engulfs you, a scarf, and a chunky grey hat. He barely recognized you.
Wait. You’re not supposed to be there.
“Yeah, chef, I know. I just wanted to thank you for the other night,” you whisper, looking around to make sure no one’s heard you. Fuck, did he say that out loud? There’s a baking tin sitting in your lap, bouncing up and down with your nervous knees.
“Shit– sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to say that you shouldn’t be here. ‘S just that–” that what? That he spent a whole three hours yesterday trying to selfishly erase you from the schedule so that he didn’t have to run into you in the morning?
“All good, chef. As a thank you, I know it seems silly, bringing food to a nationally-recognized chef, but banana bread’s kinda my thing,” you extend your arms to show him the tin. It’s still steaming, with a golden crust and a drizzle of candied pecans on top. He smiles. “Came here early to use the oven, so that it would be warm when you arrived. Except chef Byers told me that he wasn’t sure when that was gonna be? You had the morning off?”
And there’s the eyes again. Knit at the eyebrows, laced with wet concern. No amount of avoiding you could ever stop his heart from picking up once you looked at him like that. Shit. He needs to answer you.
“Aw, shit, kid. What– what kind of asshole doesn’t love banana bread? Chef or not,” he stammers out. He feels like a fucking teenager. “And yeah, I did take the morning off. Chef Eddie needed some sleep, and I brought donuts.” Chef Eddie needed some sleep? What the fuck was wrong with him?
“I hope it wasn’t because of me,” there’s an amused giggle buried deep in your voice. At least you thought he was joking. “I saw you spent the night on the couch. Thanks, by the way. For– for that, of course, and the bacon, egg, and cheese. Warmed it up, had it with some hot sauce, took me right back home.” You smirk at him, and something, way deep within Eddie, tightens like a bolt screwed on impossibly tight.
“Heh, glad– glad you liked it,” what is it about you and your ability to make him lose his words? Focus. “Don’t worry about the sleep thing, kid. I’m not really the sleeping type, anyway,” that’s a lie. He sees you nodding, but you don’t buy it. He knows you’re a smart kid. “I… I should go into– mhm, yeah,” and he swears he’s about to kick himself as he walks past you and into his office.
“Should I change, then? Since I’m here? I’m fine, chef, I don’t need the whole week off for a hangover,” you state, and you’re right. He can’t believe how royally fucked he is.
“No, ‘s fine, kid. Take today off, come back tomorrow,” he says, sitting down in front of the computer, “take a donut, too, while you’re at it.” He grabs the pink container, and offers it to you with a tight enough smile you might think he’s trying to get rid of you.
“Well, you have a slice of my banana bread, then,” you counter, fully entering the office. He forgot to take it. You probably think he hates you by now.
“Leave it here, I’ll have some later,” he waves off. He doesn’t want to eat your banana bread. He wants to, so bad, actually.
“Won’t leave unless you try it. Bragging rights, you know,” you snicker, setting the tin down on his desk.
There’s the tough girl with the cigarettes. He lets out an amused snort, “alright, fine, go grab a knife. But seriously, take a donut, I bought enough to feed the staff for three days.”
He hears you laugh. Crystalline, lovely, like bell chimes to his ears.
Stepping out of the office and into the kitchen to grab a knife, you notice it’s oddly empty.
“You allergic to anything, chef?” You call from where the knives are.
You. Your perfume. Your voice. “No food allergies, but I am deathly allergic to penicillin,” he counters. There’s an odd sense of comfort that suddenly pervades him once he’s managed to make you laugh. Like he might try to do it again, and again, until he gets drunk on that sound alone.
You grab a bread knife and some butter from the fridge, while Eddie pulls up a rolling chair next to him, and you sit down. Inadvertently, your knees brush.
“What flavor donuts did you get?” You sit, digging the knife into the banana bread, ignoring the shudder that spreads through your bones at the contact. A wall of steam erupts from the gash, and his mouth nearly waters.
“Well, I got regular glazed, chocolate glazed, pink glaze with sprinkles, jam, and Boston Cream Pie,” why the fuck did he say cream pie? He’s 46, for fuck’s sake.
“Do you think I could do half jam, and half Boston Cream, please, chef?” And an incredibly childish side of him is disappointed he missed out on you saying cream pie. The more mature side of him is glad it didn’t happen.
The thought of you uttering those words shouldn’t elicit the visceral reaction it does. And yet, he still feels it. The stirring right at the bottom of his stomach, a semi hard-on he’s glad it’s decently concealed by his houndstooth pants. He takes the same knife you used to cut the banana bread to cleave the donuts in half, making a sticky mess of them. Red berry jam glazes his hands, eliciting a laugh from you. And he’d get his hands dirty a million times over just to hear you laugh like that again.
“Sorry, they got a bit…mushed,” he apologizes, grabbing a napkin and placing the two halves in front of you. He sucks at his fingers, in an attempt to clean his hands from the delicious raspberry confiture that’s coating his hands. And the image strikes you.
He’s busy buttering a slice of banana bread with one hand, and casually licking his fingers with the other, and you can’t help but eagerly watch. Watch the saliva pool at the corners of his mouth, his tongue curl at the base of his wet fingers, the raspberry jam tinging his lips the slightest shade of red.
You’re too busy staring. The lines of his mouth, the creases of his fingers, the straight-line scar that curls from the top of his hand into the palm. His tattoos peek out again, and you can make out a swarm of bats circling his forearm, also littered with sunspots, and salt-and-pepper hair, pearly scars. The latter, a kind courtesy from his line of work.
It’s enthralling, maybe a bit sinful. You’re so focused on staring at whatever exposed skin his chef uniform shows, that when you open your mouth to take a bite of that jam donut, a bit dribbles onto the side of your mouth. And he fucking notices.
“You, uh, have a bit of jam. Right there,” he points at the corner of his mouth. And you can feel it, throbbing in the depths of your belly, hot and devastating. Like when he wiped the makeup off of you. The alcohol burning on his breath, his voice sweet and careful.
Don’t squeeze your eyes, sweets.
Yeah, yeah I can stay, sweetheart.
Less harsh than his typical ‘kid’. Like a kind balm for your hangover, and a tank of gasoline for the sticky, fiery mess you woke up with in between your thighs.
Then you see it. The pad of his thumb aiming directly for the corner of your mouth. Closer, you can see the ridges of his skin, and you can’t bear it– the thought of his thumb so close to your mouth. So you look around, fighting against your own will. You grab a napkin nozzled under the pink donut box, and wipe the corner of your mouth before Eddie can get to it.
“Got it!” You let out a forced giggle, and that’s his final nail in the coffin. Whatever that Are we having sex? Meant was just a stupid drunken ramble. He might as well just put the restaurant’s closing date on the front window, as you’ll rightfully accuse him of workplace harassment. He’s convinced that the only thing that can save him from you putting in your two weeks on the spot, is taking a bite of your banana bread.
And holy fuck.
“Brown butter?” He mumbles in between greedy bites. You nod. “How’d you think of candied pecans? That’s the perfect crunch,” and he can see a fluster pervading your eyes. The caramel-sticky taste of the banana truly does sick, and twisted things to him. Along with the thought of you hunching over the counter, furiously baking, because you wanted to thank him. “I need about five batches of this, like every week. I’ll eat a whole loaf in a day if I’m not careful,” he sputters out with his mouth still full, and it makes you giggle, because it feels like there’s a boy in front of you.
“Just for you, Eddie,” you mutter, and you see him stiff. Not his name on your lips.
He becomes oddly aware of how drunk he was, at the bar, when he heard you utter the two syllables for the first time. Hell, he doesn’t even remember how it sounded the first time. It’s like he’s listening to the sound of your voice for the first time again. Because now that he’s fully sober, it hits him like a stake to the heart. Too close to the fire. Too hungry, too desperate for something he can’t have.
And you’re so close. Smiling at him, all teeth, flustered by the attention he gave the warm banana bread that now lays in crumbles in his lap. They fall to the ground once he shoots up off the chair like it grew spikes.
“I should, uh, start firing up,” and he’s suddenly cold again. And when he passes you, smelling like coffee, you shiver.
Only when you’re already on the train back home, you realize that you didn’t ask him if he was the artificer of the mysterious food that had been left in your locker.
Home is cold. Home is terrifying to be in after your encounter with Eddie. After his hand was so close to your mouth, you could practically taste the traces of onion and garlic right on his fingertips. How do you atone for the sin of wanting him so badly you haven’t sat on the couch he slept in, afraid to delete the proof that he was there. That for a brief moment he cared for you.
Don’t squeeze your eyes, sweets.
Yeah, I can stay, sweetheart.
You can see it in his eyes, too. The way that they soften around you, his tone of voice. The way his hands gripped your waist when you tripped at the bar. When he held your hair while you retched all over your toilet. You should’ve been embarrassed that he saw you like that, but no matter how hard you look within yourself, there’s not an ounce of shame tied to that night.
It’s muddled, confused, and you can’t seem to make sense of it, no matter how hard you sit and stare at his empty spot. The folded Christmas blanket, the dishes that still sit in the sink. There’s no use.
Sticky Toffee Banana Bread Pudding one of his notes reads, as he scribbles into his journal. There’s no prep tonight, because the restaurant is closed tomorrow, but he decides to stay. Stay and stew in the consequences of his actions. He does expect it, your two-weeks notice. He’s been a creep to you, after all. Or at least, he thinks so.
He swivels back and forth on his desk chair like a madman, colored pencils scattered around his journal like a mystical halo of stained glass. He’s on his third or fourth banana bread slice of the evening, which he’s discovered also has chocolate chips. He’s kept it jealously hidden in his office, tucked in a drawer like one of his latest sins.
Byers has long gone home, and the only noise in the back of house is the buzzing of the white neons. He likes it like this– quiet, stagnant. The scratching noise of the colored pencils against the brown paper of his journal.
– caramel toffee sauce
– vanilla bean milk-soaked brioche bread
– caramelized banana on top (crunchy? Maybe a crumble?)
– DEFINITELY pecans !!!
And he underlines ‘pecans’ twice, because it infuriates him, to not have thought about that before.
He steals a glance at the tin, your tin. There’s a bit over half a loaf left, and he has an idea. An idea for which he’ll hate himself in the morning.
He should’ve kept his hands to himself. He mulls over your encounter from earlier, as he takes out a couple bananas, and cuts them into disks. Your panicked eyes as Eddie’s finger approached your face, the way you never even took a bite of your donut. That expression was new.
He never saw you terrified. Sad, or maybe tired, sure, but never afraid. The thought makes his chest burn as he sautees the bananas with some sugar and vanilla extract, sprinkling some more sugar once ready, and melting it with a blowtorch– creating a crunchy, sugary layer.
It hurts his heart to do so, but he crumbles some of the banana bread into your baking tin, mixes it with sticky dates, and vanilla-drenched brioche bread. He’ll make a crumble with whatever banana bread is left over.
You’ll probably want your tin back.
Maybe that can be his excuse to see you again, to apologize. To atone for being a creep. He probably should. It’s one in the morning when he sticks the tray in the oven, and begins taking care of the toffee and the caramelized pecans to mix with the banana bread crumble. In no time, the empty kitchen is invaded by warm cinnamon and banana smells that make him wish you were there. That maybe he could be making this for you only, so that he can hear you make those blissed noises again. Fuck. Again. So he can earn back your forgiveness.
He runs hot, pouring the toffee sauce on top, and sprinkling the pecan crumble right on top of the bread pudding. Sweat coats his upper lip, and his scruff makes a scratchy sound as he wipes the wetness with his sleeve.
What if you’re sleeping? You probably are. Maybe he should wait. No, he’ll just leave it at your door if you are. He’s overthinking it.
Alright, fuck it.
***
You’re awake, and on your second glass of wine, when you hear a dull knock at your door. A twang of annoyance crosses your eyes, pausing your movie to pad to the front door. Through the peep hole, a mop of brown and grey hair.
“Huh?”
Bangs matted to his forehead, beanie sticking out of his brown sherpa coat. Without the bandana and with his hair down he looks softer, younger. He sports the same Black Sabbath shirt he had under his chef’s jacket, albeit with a couple stains right on the top. Has he been at the restaurant the whole night?
Does he ever catch a break?
When the doorknob clicks, Eddie tries his best to steady his racing breath. The door opens, and you’re wearing comfy Christmas pyjamas– with pink candy cane hearts, fuzzy socks, and a glass of wine in hand– you look so pretty, it makes his stomach churn.
“Chef? What are you doing here?” you question, and he can hear the sleepiness in your voice, along with a twinge of surprise. Maybe he should’ve just left the tin and ran.
He presents the bread pudding to you, like an offering. “I figured…uh… you might have wanted your baking tin back? Also, a peace offering?”
The decadent display in front of you is something out of your wildest culinary dreams. Doused in caramel, nuts, sugary banana slices. “Wh-what’s that?”
“Sticky Toffee Banana Bread Pudding,” he states proudly. “I made it with the half of your banana bread I didn’t eat,” and he feels a bit bashful in admitting it.
“You didn’t like it?” Your eyebrows knit in concern. Fucking idiot.
“No, no, no. The opposite, actually. It, uh, gave me the idea for it. The pecans, and the chocolate chips,” he gushes. You find it… flattering?
“Oh, well, that’s very nice, chef, thank you,” you take the tray from his hands. “Did you, uh, wanna come in? Maybe we can try that delicious bread pudding.” You invite, stepping aside, once again granting him access to your home. He gives you a taut smile.
“Yeah, sure. I’d like that,” he tucks his hands into his pockets and steps in. Pervaded by the same smell as that one night you were drunk. You’ve got takeout on the coffee table, accompanied by a half-finished bottle of Chablis. He cringes at the pairing.
“Let me take your coat,” you offer, hands splayed upwards, towards the ceiling. The most beautiful hostess.
“It’s alright, kid. I won’t be long, anyway. ‘S late,” he remarks, and it’s more an admonishment to himself. For not being strong enough to wait until the morning.
“It’s okay,” you mutter, in a way that almost comforts him. Your living room feels a lot more lively than it did a few mornings ago. “Wine, chef?” You offer, setting aside the empty takeout boxes and placing down the bread pudding on the coffee table. He picks up the Chablis bottle and examines it.
“For someone who’s undergone wine education, this is abysmal,” he chuckles. “You can’t have white wine and Chinese takeout. Too dry.” His tone is boastful, mocking, and even from behind you, you can hear the smile behind his words. It makes you nervous, the way that he pleasantly invades your space, like a bubble you can’t seem to pop quite yet.
You turn to him, knife in hand. “I wasn’t really looking for a culinary experience, chef,” you bite back, holding a bubbling laughter in your chest. “Just whatever got me drunk faster,” you smile at him, and his stomach does the thing again. The scary feeling.
You don’t seem mad, or put off by his presence as he anticipated. Rather, you’re playing back into him, into his remarks, his attempts at making himself bigger than his feelings, so that when his tongue, swollen with confessions for you, might say the thing out of turn, he’ll distract you with a charming smile and a witty joke.
“You said earlier you came here to apologize? Apologize for what, chef?” You’re turned away from him again, busying yourself with cutting a slice of bread pudding. You can hear the cushions dip under the weight of him as he sits down, staring at whatever garbage the TV was showing.
He feels stupid. For coming all the way to your apartment at two in the morning, just to apologize for something you don’t even hold a grudge over.
“Well, I, uh…just wanted to apologize for the jam thing. I didn’t want you thinking I was a creep, y’know, with the thumb thing…” he trails off, and there’s a twinkle in your eyes that looks like you’re about to burst into laughter. There’s nothing you’d rather do than confess that you wanted it. You wanted it so bad it made you dizzy. You wanted him without the weight of knowing the power it might have had over you if you had given in.
If you had just reached into his touch.
“Don’t– don’t worry, chef. I just got a bit freaked out because I uh, wasn’t expecting it. No hard feelings at all,” you mumble, suddenly feeling a sense of exposure that leaves you shivering. What else were you supposed to tell him? That if you had given into it there would’ve been no return for you? That your days would’ve just been plagued by that image of his thumb between your lips? While, in the dark of your room, your hand was between your legs like the thought of it kept you alive? No. Not when he explicitly showed you he didn’t want you. He’s just here to return the tin, no?
You offer him a slice of that decadent-looking bread pudding, and you do the same for yourself. You unceremoniously dig into the sticky mess, and his eyes bear into you. Your mouth parting, your teeth biting into the toffee sponge. The banana slice, the crunch of the pecan crumble.
“Holy shit, chef. I mean– wow. This is delicious,” there’s the glint in your eye again. The self-satisfied smile. Like you know that him being inspired by a dessert you brought moves you into another plane of existence in his orbit. He wonders if you know about the salad. His blackberry-flavored muse.
He tastes it too. Like he baked it with the thought of you in mind.
He’s never been self-serving about his dishes. There’s doubt, fear. That he’s never good enough for what he actually does. He feels like a fraud, an impostor. But not when it comes to you. With ‘The Girl’, and with this bread pudding, he feels the goodness in them. Almost as if he were reaching for it himself, a goodness to anchor himself to. Something to ground him to the Earth.
“Can’t believe this was my banana bread,” you mutter between mouthfuls. You don’t care about politeness, about manners. Not when this bread pudding, which you inspired him to make, you think, is as good as it is.
“You inspired me. A lot.” He lets his words dribble out like a stream. A plea to notice him behind the ‘chef’ title. That he’s just a stupid, bumbling mess when it comes to you. No. He can’t– you can’t know. “I mean– the banana bread did. Inspire me,” he corrects himself and clears his throat, pervaded by sudden regret.
“Yeah, right,” you exhale. You feel it in your chest, a thrum that you’ve only become aware of just then. “I’m glad it was such a great source of inspiration for you,” he notices the tone shift. It makes his stomach turn. “Maybe I should bring you more desserts,” you smile at him, placing down the empty plate on the table. Not a crumb left. It’s like he’s suffocating.
“I’d like that, yeah,” he says in one breath. He can’t eat any more of this, or he might do something he regrets. He watches your figure as you stand up off the couch, and the cuffs of your pyjamas drop to your ankles.
“Gonna go for a smoke. Be right back,” you hum, grabbing a coat, your packet, and a pink lighter from a black bag hanging from a coat hanger at the entrance. He should leave, he thinks, as he watches you sway towards the balcony door, opening it, and leaning onto the railing.
He looks around, instead. The pans he used that morning are still in your sink, the blanket is in the same spot he folded it in. The cup he drank from, with the creases of his lips imprinted on the rim, the yellow post-it with the shaggy handwriting. You can't have just forgotten to wash your dishes, or put your blanket away, he resolves. Everything he sees are like place holders, a reminder that he was there. That his presence in your home wasn't a product of a dream. That maybe you might be just as intoxicated by him as he is with you. That you can’t think around him like he can’t.
That he’s so dizzied by the smell of you, by your smile, your laugh, you can’t help but notice and be dizzied in return.
Before he can stop himself, he’s already closing the balcony door behind him.
a/n: suprise! merry christmas from keeksngigz! as always, feedback is appreciated :)
summary: “Care to give me a light?” you explain, pointing at the cigarette between his fingers with your chin, as you tuck it, unlit, between your lips. He rolls his eyes.
“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor? Y’know, taking orders and shit?” He scolds, but you don’t really buy it.
“Last table just left,” you reach your arm out to him, with your fingers splayed. “So, that light?”
“‘S not good for you.”
cw: no y/n, eddie calls reader ‘kid’ but not in a weird way, age gap (r is 26, eddie is 46) restaurant-typical lingo, language, drinking, smoking, allusions to sex/masturbation but nothing’s actually there, vomiting (r gets drunk), eddie’s kind of an asshole, moral angst D:
word count: 6.3k
masterlist | chef! eddie moodboard | pt. 2
song inspo- father figure by george michael
“Can’t believe that dickhead sent his lamb chops back.”
“That motherfucker always sends his shit back, don’t act so surprised, Wheeler”
Eddie curses the first time he stood in front of a stove when he was eight years old. He curses struggling through high school just to get a culinary school scholarship. He curses the asshole chef that groomed him into the self-disciplined machine he is, twenty years later. He’s disgusted with himself, yet he can’t stop.
Lamb chops, mint sauce
Miso cod, roasted bok choy
Glazed carrots, sesame seeds
Tortellini, vodka sauce
His ears ring with sounds of clanging pans, breaking plates, stoves burning, tickets printing. His shoes step on a wet spot right under his station– vodka sauce with pesto reduction. Saturday nights are always the worst.
The Arum might as well be his, with the way he runs it like a navy ship. The menu, the layout, the furniture. It was all his idea. It was only thanks to his buddy Steve and his money that he was even able to open the place.
“I don’t know, go ask Eddie,” the caller huffs, clearly exhausted. And you have to hold back tears to go talk to the head chef. Who you haven’t seen since your interview. Tail between your legs, you pad through the dirty kitchen floor, emitting a barely audible “Behind!” at every chef you pass.
He’s at expo, when you find him. Bent over the counter, adding dill sprigs to the creme fraiche puffs on the branzino. He squints when the puffs become blurred. Maybe it’s time for him to get glasses, he decides, making a mental note. That’s when your finger taps his shoulder. “Sorry to bother Eddi–”
“Chef,” he grunts, without caring to check who the interrupting voice belongs to.
That’s the first time he speaks to you. And you’re reminded of how gravelly his voice is. You always work the lunch shift, with Chef Byers, and he’s always in the office doing admin work, or off doing the produce runs.
“Sorry to bother, chef, but I really need those lamb chops that were sent back,” you mutter, just loud enough for him to hear you.
“How the fuck did that not hit expo already?” he almost yells. Almost. You’re the pretty waitress from the interview. The one that served at Salt. The one he’d hired almost on the spot. Why is she here? He put you on lunch rush for a reason.
You’re staring up at him. Fuck. “Can someone get those fucking lamb chops to expo within the next two minutes before I shut this shit down?” Eddie yells, but not at you.
“Heard!” Someone yells in some remote corner of the kitchen, and he sees your shoulders relax. Shapiro always sends back his lamb chops. And everyone knows he does it just for the sake of being a dick, because nobody ever does anything different to those damn chops. And yet, he always claims that they’re better the second time around.
After last call, Eddie always disappears for ten minutes, like a ritual. He grabs a beer from the office fridge, and steps outside in the freezing Indiana cold just to feel something that’s not a scrape or a burn against his skin.
He unbuttons the soiled white jacket, and reaches into his back pocket. The flame from the lighter glows warm on the tip of his nose, right as he feels the taste of tobacco on his lips. Rich against his tongue, he scolds himself for being so dependent on it. But then, again, it could be worse.
He could resort to alcoholism, or drugs, just to ease the sting that never really goes away with this line of work.
“Oh, there you are, chef,” your huffy voice drags him kicking and screaming from his reverie. “Pastry chef’s looking for you.”
“Oh, yeah. Be there in a bit,” he mumbles, not fully back from his wide-eyed pondering. You stare at the cigarette between his fingers, reaching for the packet of Marlboro Golds in your back pocket. “What’re you doing here, anyway? Thought you did lunch service with Byers.”
“Tina called out, I did double service tonight. Care to give me a light?” you explain, pointing at the cigarette between his fingers with your chin, as you tuck it, unlit, between your lips. He rolls his eyes.
“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor? Y’know, taking orders and shit?” He scolds, but you don’t really buy it.
“Last table just left,” you reach your arm out to him, with your fingers splayed. “So, that light?”
“”S not good for you,” he gruffs around his cigarette, “where’s your jacket? Damn near freezing out here,” knowing he’s a full hypocrite, as he runs his hand up and down his left arm.
“It’s like a furnace in there. Just came to get you and get some fresh air before cleanup duty,” you sit down on a rickety chair outside, like you’re waiting for something.
“For sure been a night, huh?”
Against the dark night sky, all rough edges and sharp lines, he fits right in. His tattoo sleeve that peeks out of his chef’s jacket, where the sleeves have been folded at the forearms, riding up with every swig of his Miller Lite. You’d expect a chef to at least have good taste in beer, but it seems your judgment is overshadowed by the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, as he takes another swig. The grey streaks of his long hair, like silver tinsel under the flickering light of the lamppost, tied back in a low bun and a bandana. You can hear the salt and pepper of his stubble scratch against his skin, as he rubs there, on the jaw. His tension point. You’ve seen him do that a lot in the two months you’ve been at the restaurant.
“Oh– uh, yeah. Shapiro was up my ass tonight,” you stammer out, hoping he didn’t notice you staring.
“I can change your section if you’d like,” and you’re surprised at the sudden kindness. “Or you just come to me. Don’t gotta cry in the staff bathroom.” He exhales it like a secret.
You feel embarrassed that he heard you. In a moment of weakness, on a hard day. Not when the rest of the staff seems so on top of it, and you still forget about adding modifications to a customer’s order.
“No need to be embarrassed. We’ve all been there, kid. You just gotta have someone in your corner,” he adds.
“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks chef.” You respond, while looking at the rubber sole of your shoes, toying with the unlit cigarette between your teeth. Dragging your feet up and down the black asphalt, playing with the gravel.
There’s something sweet about the way that he addresses you, almost like he wants to take you under his wing. The soft tone, like spun sugar, that you can imagine him using while flirting with especially grateful customers. Then he taps your shoulder, and you look up at him again.
“Here, you deserved it.” He’s closer to you, extending the plastic green lighter to you. You can smell the oil and mirepoix off of his clothes, as he cups a hand around the end of your cigarette to guard the flame from the wind. Finally, the smell of cigarette smoke pervades your nostrils. “First two months are always the hardest.” He cheerses his cigarette with yours, right in front of you. Half-smoked, and dripping with ash. You smile up at him in acknowledgement.
“Thank you,” you exhale the smoke, examining his fingers, wrapped around the quickly burning ember. Calloused, rough, inked.
“Gotta work on the ‘chef’thing, though,” he muses, like he’s holding back a laugh. “Can’t call me ‘Eddie’ like I’m you goddamn classmate, kid.” He says it again, snorting. That word. Kid. Like he’s trying to set down an invisible line in the sand. I’m the adult here. But you’re also an adult. Why does the word make you feel so small?
“Wanna try mine?” He asks, extending a hand. You take the cigarette out of your lips, and without thinking, you reach out to grab his. The contact makes you shiver, yet you hesitate. Like your brain knows his lips have been wrapped against that same filter. That the cigarette has tasted the wet of his tongue.
Against your better judgment, you press the cigarette to your lips, and you swear that you can taste him.
“Good?” He asks, like he’s getting you to try a dish for the first time.
“Weird. Different,” you mutter, while yours goes forgotten, snowing ash on the grimy asphalt.
“Yeah, they’re Pall Malls,” he clarifies, extending his hand to take the cigarette back.
“Who even smokes Pall Malls anymore?” you snicker, handing it.
“Old men like me, I s’pose,” he tightens his shoulders, ashing out the cigarette on the sole of his boot. You smile up at him.“Go inside, you still got cleaning to do, ‘n I got prep to get started on.”
And that was that. His tone goes back to chef Munson, waiting for you to finish your cigarette, and escorts you back into the front. Like you didn’t just feel his saliva along the border of your lips, and found out what his mouth tastes like.
After that night, you need to go back to lunch hour, as Eddie beelines for his office, and makes sure your schedules never align again.
No, he can’t. Not when his heart felt something of a spark, like a lighter on its last breath. At the pulled smiles you gave him, the way you’d expectantly looked up at him when he lit your cigarette. His thoughts bordered on rude, staring at him with that twinkling look in your eyes, giving way to an image of you that could’ve put him in enough trouble to close up shop.
It’s one in the morning when he opens the door to his apartment, and quietly makes sure he knows how you’re gonna get home.
Drops the canvas tote with his uniform on the floor– he’ll wash it later– and heads to the kitchen. In a near-empty cabinet, there’s a cup of noodles somewhere, which he fills up with water, then places it in the microwave.
He’s sick of food, sick of eating. Yet, it’s almost two, and he’s slurping noodles with a plastic fork, and he wonders when did food get so insipid, flavorless. He winces at the thought of when he used to go home, after late restaurant shifts, and still managed to find the strength to make himself a nutritious meal. He makes a mental note to get groceries, changes into a pair of black sweats, then heads out into the balcony for his last cigarette of the night.
He barely steps out, standing on the threshold of the door, wrapped in a hoodie to battle the cold. He fiddles with the dying green lighter, yet, his thoughts can’t seem to linger away from earlier. How soft your fingers were, how you got some of your lipgloss on the filter, as you wrapped your lips around it, and made a face. What the actual fuck was he thinking, offering you his cigarette, like that?
Your lipgloss tasted like blackberries. How pathetic, the way he had licked his lips raw, back in his office, in hope to retain the flavor of you in his mouth, just for a little longer.
He’s fully hard under his sweatpants by the time he's finished his smoke.
Ashing out his cig in the ashtray just outside, he crawls into his unmade bed, and tucks a cold hand down the waistband of his sweats.
He could.
He could try and picture you, the way you looked at him during the interview, when he accidentally brushed your shoulder as he walked past you. Looking up at him, with those pretty eyes. Picture you in a completely different setting. On your knees, in front of him, maybe.
No. No. He can’t.
He snatches his hand out of his sweatpants like it bit him, feeling himself throb at the loss. There’s a strangled noise that escapes his mouth, something between frustration, and a secret, tortuous feeling he can’t bring himself to even think about.
So he tortures himself, instead. He ignores the way his dick is throbbing for his attention, and instead, takes a gummy, and places a pillow over his head. He won’t kill himself, no, but it puts him under the false control that he could, if he wanted to.
Chef Eddie Munson is an idiot.
He could’ve left you alone. He could’ve let you show up to dinner service whenever you had to pick up someone’s shift. Maybe even watch you from afar, from behind towers of crates. Watch you go outside at night, shivering in your light dress shirt, and watch you smoke a cigarette. Solely to keep an eye on you.
Instead, he’s gone to drastic measures that have backfired on him, because each morning, you stop inside his office to say hi. Like sharing a cigarette has automatically unlocked that right, that privilege, to see him outside of the expo counter.
He sees you enter every morning, shaking off the cold from your bones. Reluctantly shedding your comfortable coat, your sweater, just to put on your shirt, tie, and vest. Tying your hair back in front of the small mirror in the locker area. Changing your shoes from sneakers to dress shoes. He wonders what music you listen to, which part of town you live in, how you get to work.
And it shakes him, how morbid each feeling about you is. So he starts doing produce runs. He does produce runs until there’s too much produce in the fridge, and the lettuce is going bad, because the crate is simply overflowing.
He starts going to catering events. Driving around town on mindless errands like ‘getting toilet paper for the staff bathroom’. Taking doctors appointments, and then heading back to the restaurant at exactly three in the afternoon. Right when you get off.
Eddie doesn’t see you for a month, and he thinks he can finally let go of this nonsense. He won’t feel bad for avoiding you. Your schedule’s simply… like that. Except when he comes back slightly earlier, and you’re not gone. Not just yet.
You’re slipping on your sneakers when you see him. Cold-bitten, with his hair sticking to his forehead and neck because of his ridiculous green and blue knit hat.
“Oh, hey, chef!” You greet, sweet as ever. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” And he hopes he can ignore you, or give you a dismissive wave of his hand. Head back to his office. Lock the door. Pine so hard he can exhaust himself into forgetting about you.
But then he hears it. Right as he walks past you– the slightest grumble coming from your stomach. Fuck.
And you know he’s heard you, from the way he turns around and says:“I hope that’s not your stomach, kid,” that word again. You roll your eyes.
“Yeah, sorry, chef. I didn’t have time to take a lunch break. Got busy ‘n stuff,” you trail off, grabbing your bag. “Gonna go home anyways, have some lunch,” you justify.
“No, stay,” the words escape him before he has time to even think about it. “I’ll make you something.”
And now you’re here. Under the white neon lights, wrapped in your big coat to stave off the cold that pervades the kitchen outside of service hours.
“You like eggs, kid? Fries?” He opens the walk-in fridge to grab his ingredients.
“But we don’t do fries here,” you quip, bent over the expo counter, resting your chin in your hands.
“But we like fries here, don’t we? That’s why we gotta have a secret stash,” Eddie explains, fishing out an opened bag of fries from the freezer.
“Gosh, no, I don’t wanna make you fire up the fryer for, like, a handful of those,” you try to stop him, fully standing away from the counter.
“Go sit down, I’ll be done soon,” he interrupts, and you can’t help but not fight the smile creeping up your lips as you watch him through the opening in the wall. He hums a song you’ve never heard of before, as he gets the fryer started, and cracks one egg, in a glass bowl, then a second one. “Over easy, scrambled, or sunny side up?”
“Scrambled is good. With siracha, if you have it, please, chef.”
“A true city girl. What’re you doing in Indiana, kid?”
You raise your shoulders, like they plucked you from the streets of New York and dropped you in Indy while you were sleeping. “Dunno. Followed an ex here a couple years ago for, like, a budding sports career. I waited tables to scrounge up some money, and guess I never stopped.”
It feels like a crack has formed. Right into the exterior of who you are.
Whisk the eggs until they’re nice ‘n runny, while the oil heats up.
“Hm, this ex still around?” He asks without thinking, and he’s annoyed at the pang of jealousy in his words.
Salt and pepper before throwing the eggs in the pan.
“Nah,” he looks behind him just enough to see you play around with the light reflecting off the metal counter, like a cat. “He cheated on me with some girl. One of his teammates’ wife, or somethin’. Had two kids and everything. Truly evil stuff,” you conclude, with a sour expression on your face.
Frequently fold the eggs, to keep them fluffy.
“Last I heard he was in some D-list hockey team that just ended up getting one relegation after the other. I like to think that’s karma,” you shrug, amused, as the smell of eggs invades the spotless kitchen.
Don’t gotta keep ‘em long. You want to keep them a bit runny. Then, plate the eggs.
He throws a handful of fries in the hot oil, eliciting a bubbling sound. Wondering if someone keeps you fed during your shifts. If you’re someone who forgets to eat, like him, and goes home with a rumbling stomach without even realizing it.
“His teammate’s wife? Wow. That’s low. Remind me to ask you for his name so he’s blacklisted from the restaurant,” too much. He hears you chuckle, as he squirts siracha on top of the eggs, sprinkled with green onions.
The fries are next up, hot and golden, making a tinkling sound when they hit the plate.
“The lady’s served,” he presents the plate to you with a reverential bow. It makes you giggle.
“Thanks, chef. It looks amazing,” you say, and you feel like you’re growling and drooling at the same time.
“Ketchup? For the fries?” He presents the red bottle to you.
“Yes, please,” as you take a bite. And Eddie’s done for.
You moan out an Oh my God that almost sounds pornographic to his oversensitive ears. In no time, the blood from his brain rushes to his dick.
Your mouth is open, and your face is blissed out. He suddenly wishes he was the artificer of those faces. “These are the best eggs I’ve ever tasted,” you sigh. He’s still holding on to that damn ketchup bottle, afraid that if he lets go, he could do something he might regret.
So he watches you, his grip tightening on the bottle with every little sound and sigh. Tighter, and tighter. And without realizing it, he’s squirted ketchup all over himself.
The sound startles you. It’s on his chin, and all over his white coat. “Oh, fuck, chef—” you stand up from the stool to help, but he stops you.
“Fuck. Ah, shit, sorry, kid. I gotta- gotta get cleaned up for, you know, dinner service ‘n stuff,” he stammers, in a gravelly voice, almost like he’s in pain, and disappears into the locker room. You’re left alone with your eggs and ketchup-less fries.
Later in the evening, as Eddie’s placing dots of pesto reduction, and chive sprigs on a tartare, your voice echoes through the walls of his head like it’s made of mirrored glass. The way that you had moaned in delight at his stupid eggs. Your body, bent over the expo counter, with your ass so casually jutted out.
His hands are trembling around the tweezers as he places candied fruit on a piece of dessert, and his eyes feel more strained than usual. He’s gonna skip on prep tonight, have his nightly cigarette, and head home. He might ask Byers to come over earlier in the morning to help him prep whatever needs to be done, and 86 the things that have to be prepped at night.
He can’t do this. He can’t.
Eddie’s plans to avoid you have finally fruited to success.
He hasn’t seen you in nearly a month, and he’s finally gone to enough pretend medical appointments, he might as well go to a real one to get glasses.
He wonders if you ever go hungry during your shifts. If you have Byers fire up an egg with fries for you. If you eat off of dead plates cast off on the side while you pass by to collect orders. If you go home on the train, with your stomach grumbling.
Against his better judgment, he starts leaving small dishes in your locker. A foil-wrapped ciabatta bread sandwich with rocket, fig butter, prosciutto, and brie. On top of the foil, in messy sharpie, there’s a note that says EAT ME
A protein bar he picked up from a cafe on his way to work. A warm cappuccino in a paper cup, accompanied by a chocolate croissant.
He always makes sure you never go hungry, even in his avoidance. Yet, you still haunt him. At night. When he thinks about the first time you spoke. About the cigarettes. About the blackberry lipgloss.
The following morning, he’s in the kitchen way earlier than he should be. He drinks water out of a plastic container, like he’s possessed by a fever he can’t sweat off. With his tweezers, he places the greens, then the honey butter squash squares. He dips his fingers in the pan, then brings them to his mouth. The balsamic reduction is just perfect.
He takes a picture of it and sends it to Steve, whom he still has to run his ideas by:
To: Steve
What do you think?
To: Eddie
What’s that?
To: Steve
A glorified salad, essentially.
I wanna call it ‘The Girl’
To: Eddie
Loves it. Send me the ingredient list, I’m gonna make prints to put at the tables.
He gets convinced by Steve that he needs a night out. Some of the front and back of house staff were planning to hit the bars after a long, exhausting weekend, and Steve never says no to a party.
You’re casually slung over the bar, holding what looks like a regular coke in your hands. You almost pass off as normal, collected. But Eddie sees it. In your eyes, the slight haze that clouds them like headlights on a foggy morning. He knows there’s some sort of alcohol in there.
He watches you all night, like you don’t know he’s there. It makes him sick, the way you look outside of your comfy sweaters and restaurant attire. There’s guilt eating at him, that he shouldn’t have treated you like that. Just because he could. He’s glad the rest of the staff is nice to you, at least. He sees Tina drag you with her by the hand, hips swaying and arms bumping in the air to Alanis Morrisette.
Your drink spills out of its cup as you move, dribbling all over your hand. It’s gonna get sticky once it dries, but your smile tells him you don’t seem to care. After Alanis Morrisette screeches out her last notes, you emit a celebratory hoot, and in the torturous restraint he insists on exercising on himself, he catches himself smiling.
Once you reclaim your place at the bar, you snack on a basket of garlic fries, and he hopes they’re not as good, or as crunchy, as the ones he made you that one time you were hungry.
“You want a drink, bud?” Steve startles him from his thoughts.
“Uh– yeah, please. Just a whiskey coke, or somethin’,” Eddie mutters, sitting down at a booth close to him. That way he can still look at you. Without Steve knowing, of course.
The drinks are piss-poor at the bar, but you don’t seem to be bothered by it. You’re on your third alcohol and coke concoction, and your step has become wobbly, your speech slurred. Then you see him.
“Eddie! I mean…chef!” You’re right in front of him, and you’re wearing perfume. He might as well put his head in the kitchen oven tomorrow morning.
“He-Hey ladies!” Steve greets you and Tina, and he hates where this whole situation seems to be going. Good thing he’s already tipsy.
And that’s how he finds himself playing pool at a dingy bar down the strip of land that’s supposed to be pulsing with life. On a Tuesday night, there’s just a total of ten drunks.
He’s three or four drinks in, and Steve just ordered a round of shots for the group. He doesn’t really feel like keeping his distance anymore. Not when you’re bent over the pool table, stick in hand, asking him for the third time whether you’re stripes or solids. It’s cute, the way your speech is slightly slurred, and the way your wonky smile lights up when he says “Stripes, kid.”
Eddie’s brain is fuzzy with the weight of you, and when your arm brushes against his utility jacket-clad side, he feels like a dumbass, stuttering a sorry.
“I never see you anymore— do I call you Eddie or ‘chef’?” He knows exactly what you’re gonna say next.
“Eddie’s fine,” he mutters out, bracing himself for the pitiful way you’re looking at him.
“Never see you anymore, Eddie. Not even in your office.” Your tone makes him crumble. Sad, disappointed. It’s drunk, honest, and whiny. It’s breaking his heart.
“I should go—” but you emit a drunken no! and lunge for him, losing your balance. He grabs you by the arm, preventing you from hitting the dirty wooden floor. He lifts you up, and you’re staring into his eyes. The same way you did that night, with the cigarettes.
“I got you, don’t worry,” he says, running his hand up and down your arms. He should stop. He doesn’t.
“Thanks che-Eddie, I mean,” you slur. And your thoughts don’t feel yours anymore. Not with the way he’s staring down at you like he’s holding back the strength of an army. “Gonna go bathroom,” you wiggle out of his grasp, and Eddie has exactly five minutes to decide what to do.
He could leave, and forget he ever felt your weight in his arms, the alcohol on your breath, that stupid blackberry lipgloss. Keep avoiding you until you eventually find a better paying restaurant to take you. About two or three years, give or take.
And yet, he betrays himself. He tries to make himself not look, not wait to see your figure stumble out of the bathroom like your bones are made of lead. But his eye twitches, his head cocks, and when you come out, there’s something to you that wasn’t before.
He sees it before you say it, right in the corner of your mouth. Wet, the makeup around it smudged.
“I threw up,” you slur, and he’s at least a bit glad you made the decision for him.
The Uber ride home is quiet, tense. “Africa”, is humming its gentle tones through the driver’s speakers, and none of you dares to utter a word. Not like you could, anyway, until your drunken brain realizes you have no idea where Eddie’s taking you.
“Whe– wher’re we goin’?” you break the sacred silence, your voice pasted with alcohol, and what Eddie can only assume to be a tinge of sleepiness. You swear you can hear the glass dome sheltering the both of you shatter in the hollow of your ears.
“You gave me your address, kid. You couldn’t stop slurring it on the way out of the bar. Don’t you remember that?” You shake your head ‘no’with those big, wet eyes again. Fuck.
“‘S okay. We’ll get you home, get some food in you, or somethin’. Keep you hydrated with something that’s not alcohol, good as new tomorrow.” The alcohol seems to have taken a hold on him too, because he can feel his arm move towards you, to the crown of your head. A comforting pat that has you keen into his touch like a cat in front of a fireplace.
Then you hum. You fucking hum. Pressing the top of your head right into his palm, and he chalks it up to you being too drunk to function properly, but the bliss on your face lights something warm within him. Something familiar. Something scary.
He has to physically walk you up the stairs, as you giggle way too loudly for two AM on a Tuesday.
“Are we having sex?” You giggle like a maniac, batting your lashes up at him in a failed attempt at seduction.
“I don’t have sex with drunk girls, kid,” he gruffs. With one last bit of effort, he ignores the way your skin feels on his hands, reaches for your purse, and takes out your keys. He places the distance between you like it burns.
“Think ‘m gonna be si-hi-ck,” you whisper, pushing past him and the door, to run for the bathroom.
Don’t think about how beautiful her hair is. Don’t think about pulling her hair. Don’t think about her hair. Not right now.
It’s so soft it makes him stupid. You’re retching into the toilet, and all he can think about is the perfume of your shampoo, the open-back scoop of your shirt. He should put you to bed and leave.
You’re whining in discomfort, laying your head against the seat of the toilet. He winces. You might fall asleep on the bathroom floor.
Alright. Fine.
“C’mon, kid, get up,” he groans, placing his hands under your armpits to aid you. Your full weight is on him, as he tries to flush and close the toilet to sit you down. You’re quiet, through no fault of your own, except you’re not sure whether this is a dream or Eddie’s actually in your bathroom.
He rummages through the drawers of your vanity, looking for makeup wipes, or something. You wanna tell him that it’s there– the micellar water with the cotton pads, but you can only raise your arm and point with a strangled noise.
“Yeah, yeah, I got you. Lemme clean you up ‘n I’ll take you to bed, don’t worry,” he puts an arm in front of your shoulder, almost as if to tell you to quit it, but your hand knocks over the clear water bottle that says, in big, bold letters: Makeup Remover. Bingo.
He wets a cotton pad with the content of the bottle, and wipes your face with it. It’s gentle, blissful, like a caress. “Don’t squeeze your eyes, sweets. Gotta get all that gunk out,” he mutters, and he’s so close you can smell the whiskey on his breath. So you do what you’re told. You close your eyes, stand still, until your face is the same blank canvas you wake up with every morning.
“Can you stay?” It escapes your mouth like a church confession. Your voice trembles, hoarse from the vomiting. You sound so soft, like his rejection might leave you breaking.
Shit. Now it’s his turn to be nauseous. He’s trying to be good, because you’re so intoxicated you don’t know what you’re asking. If you look at him like he’s hanging the moon for you one more time, he might not be responsible for his actions.
“Yeah, yeah I can stay, sweetheart. Let’s get you ready for bed, ‘n I’ll make you something to eat to soak up all that alcohol, huh?” He’s holding you by the waist as he gets you up and off the toilet. His voice like spun sugar to your ringing ears. You just nod, wide-eyed. “Can you brush your teeth, or do I have to do that for you?” he asks, and thankfully, you reach for your toothbrush and toothpaste, not letting his eyes stray from you.
He stares at you, under the feeble light of the bathroom. Tripping over your feet as you try to stay standing up. He almost finds it endearing. Where’s the tough girl with the cigarettes now? After about two minutes of you haphazardly brushing your teeth, you look at him again. Staring at you like a loyal, watchful dog.
“You got pyjamas or somethin’? I don’t wanna have to take off your clothes.” You nod, reaching for the hem of your shirt, and his cheeks heat at the thought. He has to get out of there.
He gets out of your room, lets you take your time undressing, putting on your sleep clothes. He’s still there, still outside. He can’t bring himself to leave. Not when you’re drunk by yourself. He has to help, he tells himself.
Eddie lets ten minutes pass. The wood of the floor is digging into his ass, and the alcohol has started to dissipate. He’s more aware, more awake.
He looks at the hallway of your apartment, littered with pictures from college, with your parents. Pictures from when you were a little kid. Frames of pictures from concerts, trips.
There’s a picture of you, of what he assumes it’s your birthday. A chocolate cake, a ‘26’ birthday candle, and your eyes are closed, lit by the overhead light of your dining table, right as you go for the blow. He finds the corners of his mouth pulled outwardly in an involuntary smile.
Only then he realizes, from the deadly silence in your room, that you might have fallen asleep.
The wood creaks under his step, tip-toeing towards the door. It makes a squeaky noise, and he’s pervaded by the smell of your perfume. Of you.
He finds you at the foot of the bed, softly snoring, in the same clothes he left you in. He thinks of how uncomfortable you might be, sleeping in those jeans. That by changing you he might be doing good by you. Only for you to wake up in the morning and be horrified by the thought of him seeing you naked and sleeping. No.
He wants to be good. He has to. It’s enough that he has given himself the privilege of cradling your face, of holding your body weight against his. Of seeing you so unguarded, so soft.
So he moves you under the soft duvet, jeans and all, and you don’t even notice that he does. Your soft snores fill up the room, too blissed out by sleep to even be privy to the hell Eddie’s life has become since you came in it.
But he pushes it down. Like he does most things. Like the picture of you in your bed doesn’t tug at his heart, just a bit. Doesn’t make him flare up with wonder at the thought of what you look like waking up, voice full of sleep, hair mussed by the pillow. Seeing the softened creases of your face, as your chest rises and falls with every well-paced breath.
He needs to stop looking at you sleeping.
He heads to the kitchen, then, rummaging through your cabinets for a glass, filling it up with water. In the same cabinet, he finds some aspirin, and takes that too. He places them gingerly on your nightstand, along with plugging your phone on its charger. Because it’s the right thing to do.
Can you stay?
His job is done, but your words float in his head like rain-soaked clouds. He can’t stay. Because the smell of your apartment is making him drunk, dizzy. More than those shitty rum and cokes did. He can burrow a place into your sofa, like it’s your heart, sleep there, and suffer the bludgeoning back-ache in the morning. After all, you might wake up to throw up again. You might look for him. He hopes you call him, full of sleep, to help you.
But none of that happens, no.
As good as he wants to be, he’s weak to your voice in his head asking him to stay. So he’ll bear the back-ache, and head to the living room. He’ll find a blanket in a wicker basket on the side of the couch, and plop down on it. Burrow himself in blankets, and tremble in the freezing cold of your apartment. He won’t sleep.
He’ll toss and turn all night, in your soft green couch that’s too small to house all of him. He’ll stay awake, waiting for your call that never comes. And when his phone— almost dead— signals 5 AM, he’ll get up and tremble in the early morning cold.
He’ll sift through your fridge, and find eggs, bacon, and cheese. He’ll find bread in your pantry. Nice bread, brioche.
He’ll scramble the egg, fry the bacon, and melt the cheese on the egg. He’ll do all of that, for you. He’ll make coffee, and wrap the sandwich in foil, for you to find when you finally decide to wake up.
And when you do wake up, thrumming headache in your temples, he’s long gone. You take the aspirin, drink the water, delight in the fact that you remembered to charge your phone.
You’ll see the folded blanket on your couch. The dent in the cushions. All that’s left of him— a reminder that he was there— is his bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich. It wasn’t a dream.
And with it, a note. Simple, in the same messy handwriting as the mysterious entity that leaves food in your locker.
Sorry, kid. Feel better.
thanks for reading !! as always, feedback is appreciated :)
steve harrington x reader
ever since the Upside Down collapsed, Steve's been dealing with a performance problem. his overactive sex drive begs the question- will you be the one to help him out of this maddening dry spell?
foreword: this Steve is post-ST5 battle but pre-epilogue/career, and as such there may be minor plot spoilers. I’ve done research into PTSD-related erectile dysfunction for writing this fic, but in no way claim to be an expert or to have written the experience perfectly! thanks so much to my cheerleader @rebelfell for plotting via dms with me on this one <3
cw: shifting POVs, Steve has trauma-induced erectile dysfunction, slight angst, sexual shame, former sexual dysfunction (R), wet dream, mentions of PTSD + migraines, Reader has breasts + a vagina, Reader has hair (no other description), allusions to former hookups, oral (both receiving), Big Dick Harrington, deepthroating, the healing power of blowjobs, mdni
wc: 4.4k
steve harrington mlist
Steve’s got a problem.
Of the performance variety.
Ever since the world almost ended two months ago, Steve and his dick have been at odds.
There’s been a general lack of stiffness, for the first time since his pre-pubescent years, and Steve’s starting to go a little insane. He hasn’t had a dry spell this long since he had to don that stupid nylon Scoops uniform, for fuck’s sake- and even then, at least Steve had a right hand and a Playboy to see him through the lonely nights.
Not even Baywatch gets him hard anymore. And that’s a national shame Steve’s taking on himself.
The self-doubt is probably not helping the whole situation, either, but Steve kind of can’t help it. It’s too embarrassing to talk about with his buddies so he’s just sort of stewing in the emotion by himself.
And he’s tried it all- switching up his spank bank material, different music, different positions, more lube, less, a meditation tape for christ’s sake-
Steve’s rope is starting to fray at the edges. It’s maddening. He feels wound tight, jumpy, hot under the collar at the drop of a hat but unable to do anything about it.
And then, you come into his life.
Steve finds his purpose pretty quickly.
The first time he comes over to your place, he doesn’t overthink it at all when you plop yourself into his lap halfway through a Cheers rerun- he lets his mind quiet and his body do what comes naturally.
Kissing you breathless, sucking bites into your neck, following you down onto the couch. It all flows so smoothly, muscle memory engaged as Steve helps you out of your shirt and dips to take your breast in his mouth and you moan so sweetly he feels his cheeks heat.
Though there’s a dull connection with anything south of his belt, Steve really enjoys himself with you. Takes his time with it. Gets to know your pussy. He’s always loved this part of sex, making his partner feel good with just his mouth and fingers, getting to see and feel and taste close up the evidence of their arousal.
Steve eats you out like he’s been starved for your cunt alone. Grinding his hips into the cushion mindlessly as your own hips jerk towards his mouth; his tongue does all the talking. Buried all the way inside of you, nose brushing your clit, he shakes his head gently back and forth.
Your thighs tremble something fierce around his ears, and Steve is sort of obsessed with how responsive you are. Some girls he’s been with were real shy about getting eaten out, but here you are, fingers buried in his hair and no sign of letting up.
Steve’s focused solely on your pleasure so he only distantly registers the tingling feeling of bloodflow, warm behind his zipper; when you come with the next pass of his wet thumb over your clit, he moans into the spasm of your walls and realizes this has him half-hard.
For the first time in two months, Steve Harrington has a beautiful person in his lap and a cock at half mast, but there’s still something that lingers like a shadow over his self-confidence.
Your hand trails down his chest, a smile coy and wanting to match.
Steve’s heart deflates, along with his partially formed erection, balking at the idea of having to maintain it in front of you.
He keeps his groan of frustration inward and instead plays it off, giving you one of his most winning, charming grins- “Don’t worry about me, honey, already came. Y’tasted so good.”
Then he’s back to kissing you, the lie sitting bitter at the back of his throat.
It’s not like he hasn’t blown a load in his jeans from eating someone out before. A totally plausible explanation. One that Steve is desperate for you to take at face-value- if there’s even the slightest bit of pushback, he’s sure he’ll cave.
You’re too pretty to keep secrets from. He’s barely hanging on as is.
Lucky for him you’d just laughed against his lips, and said, “Well I suppose I’m not one to talk. You had me going in less than three minutes, that’s a new personal best.”
Steve had flushed with pride under your praise. He spends the rest of the night cuddling you to the drone of the TV, and goes home with the taste of you still hidden in the soft contours of his cheeks.
When Steve wakes in the same twin mattress of his parent’s empty house, he feels a little off. More breathy than usual, too warm-
and then he feels the tacky dampness in his briefs. Evidence of a wet dream that he wasn’t even conscious for, the phantom ghost of your lips around his cock wavering in and out of the recesses of his sleepy vision.
Steve sighs, more whiny than he’s used to. He snakes a hand underneath the band of his underwear and strokes a palm over his softened length, giving a couple tugs with the added lubrication.
There’s no response, like a sex wire has been snipped somewhere deep in his psyche.
Well. At least he knows now that he’s not totally broken. Just in need of a mysterious tune up.
___
You’re pretty sure Steve’s not attracted to you.
Sure, the guy goes down on you like a world class champion of pussy eating, and his head game is far superior to any other hookup you’ve had in recent memory.
But that’s all he’s willing to do with you.
Three times, now, he’s brushed you off afterwards with a weak excuse for why he isn’t aroused (if he’s going for the came too soon angle there would really be more evidence of that).
It’s really too bad. You’d love to keep his mouth around, but don’t quite feel it’s fair to Steve if you continue seeing him, as the guy just seems too sweet to say aloud the awkward truth of the matter.
So the next time you’re over at his place, and he leans across the couch cushions to kiss you, your hand plants itself against the front of his polo and you let him down. Easy.
“Listen- it’s okay if you’re not into this.”
Steve looks bewildered, doe eyes flicking between yours like he’s trying to read your mind. “Not… into this?”
“Not into me, I mean.” You shrug, even though the words sting a bit. Better to get it all out into the open. “I just- I’d prefer to cut you loose now, rather than later down the line when feelings might tangle us up.”
“Hold on.” Steve is genuinely baffled, blinking fast, his heart rate under your palm quickening. “What makes you think I’m not into you? Am I not- was it not good? The- when I ate you out?”
“No,” you shake your head, a dry chuckle forming before you can stop it. “That’s definitely not the issue here. You’re great at oral. It’s just… you don’t seem like you- like you’re enjoying it. For yourself. Y’know?”
It’s a slightly clumsy way to bring up the topic but it seems to land with Steve, who withdraws, sinking into the couchback and scrubbing an open hand through his chestnut strands.
He looks so embarrassed and dismayed that it ripples through you like a physical ache. You scooch closer, aligning your thigh to the outside of his, letting your arm sling around his nearest shoulder and patting at his chest again in soothing rhythm.
“It’s really okay, Steve.” And you mean it. Steve is a great guy, and he’s made you feel so good- he deserves to be with someone who makes him feel the same. “No hard feelings on my end. I want you to-”
“Hang on.” Steve interrupts. There’s a flush of pink at his cheeks. “I need to tell you something. You gotta know, it’s not you.”
You wait for him to continue, patient and quiet. Hand still sweeping comfort at the inside of his shoulder.
Steve blows out a breath, sounding strained and uncomfortable. “After the attacks, all the- the Upside Down bullshit. I started having problems with my- with…” He gestures vaguely to his lap, like even the words might be too much to say. “I can’t keep it up. Which is, uh- very much a new problem for me.”
He chuckles dryly, a mirror of your own from earlier. He still won’t look at you as he admits- “And ‘cuz it was so new, and so stupid, I didn’t know how to tell you. Not without fucking things up, which. I guess I already have.”
Everything clicks into place regarding his strange behavior the past few weeks. Honestly, it’s a relief to know the real issue.
“Hey.” You squeeze his trapezius, molding the strung-tight muscle under your thumb. Steve leans into your touch as you say carefully, “Thank you for telling me. Really. I appreciate it. And also, it’s so not stupid.”
Steve’s eyes flick to yours. Questioning and hopeful. “...yeah?”
“Yeah. I had similar- ah- finishing issues. After the earthquakes, especially. It was like my mind and my body were living in two separate spaces.”
Steve can’t seem to look anywhere but at you now, as he drinks this information in. His wide, warm palm smooths over the thigh of your jeans. “Shit. No kidding. How’d you… fix it?”
Even though there’s a shared thread of post-trauma intimacy between the two of you, it feels a bit sticky to talk about, still. You steel your nerves, staring at the perfect cluster of moles on the side of Steve’s neck instead of his face.
“I’m not sure it is totally fixed. But, I just- I took my time. Learned to be kind to myself through the dry season. And then-”
Here, you lift your eyes to meet Steve’s intense gaze. “-I met a guy who should get a gold medal in pussy easting. And that kind of lifted the spell for me.”
You have the pleasure of watching Steve's face break open in a grin so wide, it might as well be a sunbeam. He lifts your hand from his shoulder to kiss over your knuckles, one by one. “Wow. No kiddin’.”
And then Steve’s kissing you again, and fuck is he ever so good at it.
Tongue twining with yours, exploring along the roof of your mouth, lips slotted and reforming into new shapes that pull you closer in. Steve always kisses you like it’s his last chance, like it’s a Hail Mary before the end.
Maybe that’s part of the problem.
You allow him to lead as usual, but take it slower than you normally would- letting your touches trail everywhere, across the width of his shoulders, down his back, under his shirt. Steve’s panting by the time you pull the fabric over his head, as you stare unabashed at his torso.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” you murmur, sliding your fingers through the thatch of hair at his chest, watching with fascination when his abs clench in response to your fingertips.
He exhales into the side of your neck. Plants another kiss there and lets himself be touched. “Says you.”
There’s a tantalizing treasure trail disappearing behind the button of his jeans that you’d love nothing more than to follow but for now you swing yourself into Steve’s lap, grinding your hips down and forward with a slow rock.
“This okay?” You ask, and giggle when Steve nods so quickly you hear his neck creak.
His hands roam the length of your body, slipping under your shirt, groaning as he takes two handfuls of your tits that are beginning to spill from your bra cups with all the movement. “Jesus. Can I see you?”
You nod. Slow and steady. Grin turning sultry as he helps you out of the shirt.
“Fuck.” Steve’s pupils are two huge, glittering pools of lust as he tips forward, hands slipping to your low back to hold your torso to his and burying his face into the soft landing of your cleavage.
“Fuck,” he says again, the word muffled as he mouths over each of your breasts in turn. “So pretty. God.”
Your pelvis is aligned with Steve’s, and the next time you rotate down, grinding into him, there’s the suggestion of a bulge forming beneath the V of his legs. You feel it again on the next rock forwards, as your arms slide to Steve’s freckled shoulders, as your teeth catch at his earlobe and you can feel the helpless jolt forward of his hips.
“What if we just tried,” you whisper at his ear, another distracting roll of your hips, his lashes sweeping at your cheek. “What if you let me try sucking you off, hm?”
His breath kicks up again, hands tightening around your waist, even as you continue in a low, soothing voice- “I know it takes a lot of trust for something like this. But I promise I won’t be upset, whatever happens, however your body feels- we can always take a break, you just say when and I’ll-”
Steve raises a hand to the side of your neck and pulls you in for another kiss. It’s sloppy and there’s a clash of teeth, which makes you whimper, Steve making one of his own in response; his voice is choked with emotion and raw constraint as he agrees.
“Yeah, sweetheart, yes- okay. I trust you. That’d be- let’s try. I wanna try.”
You kiss down the line of his neck, his collarbone, chest hair pleasantly scratchy at the soft press of your lips as you keep working your way south, eventually sliding from his lap to kneel on the carpet between the split of his legs.
“I really mean it.” You run your hands along the tops of his thighs, a path repeated with new motions each time- a thumb digging into the ditch of his knee, fingers trailing just that much higher towards his zipper on the return. “I don’t care what happens. I don’t mind if you can’t stay hard or if you don’t come- I just really want to feel you in my mouth.”
Steve is watching you through half-lidded eyes, mesmerized, the flush at his cheeks creeping up to his ears, to the hollow of his throat, splotchy at the skin of his chest as it heaves and stutters with breath. “Jesus, angel. Can do whatever you want to me.”
Your wicked grin is back as you pull the zipper of Steve’s jeans down. It’s loud in the otherwise quiet living room, and Steve swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he lifts his hips to help you shove the waistband of his jeans down and off.
Then there’s just the black fabric of his briefs, stretched tight over the generous width of his upper thighs and the bulge between them.
Even now, you take your time- pressing kisses to the inside of his thighs, grazing your teeth against the hair under his navel, teasing your touch beneath the band of his underwear.
Steve is letting small whines escape, punctuating every touch of your hands and mouth. His hands lift from their death grip on the cushion towards your face and then hover, helplessly, before snapping back to the couch as you rub your cheek against the outline of his cock.
You’re pretty sure he’s about halfway to fully hard, which is heartening, but you still want to keep the emotional pressure from entering his head.
So you say nothing about it and instead let your mouth do the talking.
Your lips press a steady line over his clothed length, exploring, getting to know the feel of him with your touch before your eyes get to fill in the blanks.
When you suck at the head of his cock with learned precision, Steve’s thighs tighten and tremble under your palms. He hisses, then whines, then swears- “Oh, jesus. Fuck. That feels so good.”
“Good,” you murmur, using the outline of him to map your way back down, nosing into the soft space between his cock and sac. “Tell me if anything doesn’t, okay?”
Your mouth closes over one of his balls, and there’s a thunk above you- Steve’s head hitting the wall. You’re careful with the tender skin behind the fabric, running your tongue along the round shape before letting him pop free of your mouth.
When you pull back to ease his briefs off, Steve is watching you down the line of that beautiful Roman nose. His brows are knotted together, eyes hazy with pleasure. His right hand lifts, this time to cup your cheek.
Your suspicions were correct- even partially erect, Steve’s cock is huge. Easily packing more girth and length than any person you’ve ever been with, by far.
“Holy shit, Steve.” Your first reaction is an honest, shocked gasp, hands slipping to his inner thighs as you take him in for the first time. “This is- the biggest cock I’ve ever seen.”
“Charmer,” Steve accuses, but it’s made less casual by the fact that he sounds completely wrecked. “I’m usually- usually harder, by now, it’s-”
“Shhh.” A shake of your head quiets him, but your eyes stay focused on his ever-growing length. There’s a dark green vein along the underside, and he’s filling out slightly to the left, cock nearly weighed down by its own fat head. “Knew you were gonna be perfect. I was right.”
Steve wants to laugh it off but chokes when you lean in to take the bare skin of his cockhead into your mouth. You lap at the fat rim separated from his shaft and suck, the tip of your tongue tracing his slit.
Steve’s panting again, abdomen lurching under your palm. His hand hasn’t left your cheek, so you reach for his wrist, encouraging his fingers to slide to the roots of your hair.
“I don’t mind if you get a bit rough,” you pull off his cock to say, with a wink.
Steve’s jaw drops, momentarily, and when you dip back down to take him again there’s a long moan loosened from his chest, crawling out of his throat with a force of sound that makes your clit pulse.
Steve’s babbling, head thunking backwards again while your head bobs to fit more of him in. Your tongue flattens to accommodate the thickness of his next few inches, and already- even though he’s not at full stiffness- he’s a stretch to take.
The sides of your tongue dig into your molars with the sheer heft of Steve in your mouth, sinking further back, tip leaking salty precum at the back of your throat. You purr around the mouthful and hear Steve grunt in response, his fingers in your hair snagging and tightening.
“You’re so- so good at that- holy fuck, honey-”
Your jaw hinges open far enough to welcome more of him in, cockhead now nestled at the very back of your throat. You take a breath through your nose, then swallow.
Steve’s reaction is immediate and intense- a slew of curses, thighs shaking so hard you wonder if he’s about to come without warning, nails stinging at your scalp; then he’s panting again, like he’s trying to tamp down the wave of pleasure hitting from all sides.
“Oh, fuck. Fuck. You keep that up and- I don’t think I can- hold-”
If your mouth wasn’t full you’d tell him that’s the idea.
___
Steve’s so hard he thinks he might pass out.
Every drop of blood in his system is singing, apparently intent on making up for the lack of stiffies in the past few months by rushing and congregating on a direct path to his crotch.
Steve feels like a part of his soul is leaking steadily out, right into the clutch of your throat.
Nostrils flaring, eyes rolling back in his head, he probably looks fit for a seance. There’s certainly something supernatural about the way he’s filling out in your mouth, soft velvet encasing the hard-as-diamond interior in a way that he simply hasn’t ever felt before.
There’s a throbbing behind his temples, sort of like the beginnings of a migraine, except this time Steve knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’ll go away the second he comes.
An animal, base instinct is swelling, flaring like a bad temper, making hips hips jerk forward despite himself; Steve begins to unwind his fingers from your hair, worried about hurting you- but you hum around his length again, this time in encouragement, vibrations carrying throughout the entirety of Steve’s body.
So he keeps one hand in your hair. The other clutching desperately at your bare shoulder, just to feel the warmth of your skin under his hand as you begin to unravel him.
Steve’s fully hard now, which feels like a triumph in itself. If a stormcloud of interdimensional trauma tried to roll in, Steve is pretty sure he’d simply tip his head back to the sky and let the rain fall.
It’s hard to care about anything other than your soft palette cradling his length, or the feeling of your fingertips against the rippling scar tissue at his side. There’s no room for much else.
Steve’s toes curl into the carpet. The crown of your head dips again, fitting him further in with a new angle that pulls a strangled gasp straight from his lungs. It’s happening so quickly, this time, the edge approaching with a rapidity that truly seems to want to make up for all the grief of the recent months.
You slide him from your mouth just to kiss up the underside of his shaft, your lips wet with his pre as you kiss over the tip, grinning with your tongue out as you catch him watching.
“S’okay,” you assure him, hand sliding slick to the base of his cock, forming a tight ring of perfect pressure that makes Steve’s cock visibly jolt in your grasp. “Don’t think about it. Lemme think for you.”
Steve really, honestly wants to laugh, in a frenzied sort of way that denotes how insane he feels- but then your mouth is engulfing him in that sumptuous heat again, all the way down to meet at your fingers, and suddenly the only sound he’s capable of making is a hoarse cry-
“Jesus- fucking- christ-!”
Another swallow, another twist of your fingers, and Steve feels it- that hook behind his belly button, pulling him in, about to catapult him over the edge.
Everything is so wet, hot and tight, his abs and glutes and quads and every other fucking muscle in his body clenching in time with your rhythm.
He doesn’t have time for a warning, hoping that the sudden hunch forwards of his shoulders and frantic spasming of his fingers against your skull will clue you in.
His cock throbs, jerks, sac drawing up towards your chin, hair flopping over his forehead as he grits his teeth with the overwhelm about to happen.
“Oh, fuck.”
The orgasm hits so sudden and so hard that Steve doesn’t even recognize it, at first, cock pulsing out ropes of cum before the feeling even registers.
When it finally does, it’s like touching a live wire, his entire body thrumming with the energy of it, spilling load after load in steady successions down your throat.
Steve’s lashes flutter, jaw dropping open to loose a wall of noise, incoherent babbling and drunken praise and your name thrown into the mix, sweat beading at his hairline and prickling at his arms.
The pleasure lasts for so long, just keeps unspooling and zipping through every limb, wringing him dry; your mouth slides up along with your hand, still suctioning and dragging him through the tail end of it.
Finally, Steve lets his hands drop to the couch, palms up like an offered prayer, sinking back into the cushions, thoroughly wiped. There’s a high-pitched ringing in his right ear, stars dancing behind his eyelids.
He feels like he’s underwater, but not in a scary Lover’s Lake Hell Gate way- more like a womb. Surrounded by the fizzling ends of an orgasm so good there might’ve been a brief flatline to his heartbeat.
Steve sucks in ragged breaths, tingling everywhere, eyes still closed with the rapture of it all. Distantly, he feels a comforting weight over his thighs, then the rest of his body; he reaches up blindly and finds your back, your waist, wrapping his arms around the settled feeling of you in his lap.
You’re giggling at him, soft and bright and sweet in his ear. Steve tugs one corner of his mouth upwards in response, but that’s about all the energy he has to offer.
You don’t seem to mind, cuddling into his chest, head tucking to fit under his chin, hand smoothing a path down his ribs as he floats slowly back down to earth.
“Wow.” Steve’s surprised he still has a grasp on the English language, but his voice works fine. Maybe even better than before, as if this world-shattering blowjob had healed more than simply his lacking sex track record. “That was. Truly fucking great. Y’got it in one. Fixed me.”
He feels you shudder with laughter in his arms, turning the side of your face towards his neck to plant some gentle kisses there before you say, “You were never broken to begin with. But I’m glad I could help.”
Steve blinks up at the ceiling. He has to hug you tighter in order to stave off tears, which he’ll save for later- after he’s eaten you out so good that you’ll be the one crying next.
I have a request. Bare with me new at this request bit.
Eddie wakes up hands cuffed to his bed with reader blowing him. Then has sex with him.
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader
word count: 2.2k
content warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI: explicit and mature themes, smut, established relationship, cnc, somno, oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, use of toys, adult language / dirty talk, use of pet names, a little pervy, more plot than porn tbh ‘cause i don’t know how else to write smutty content, slightly possessive!reader, jealousy, slightly dom!eddie but also slightly dom!reader - unedited - pls let me know if i missed any!
a/n: pls have your age / age range stated in your bio when requesting 18+ content. cleared here in the dm’s, but it saves a lot of back and forth when it’s in the bio - for any future requests.
He’s flustered. Stumbling over his words, cheeks a deep red. He’s avoiding your gaze. Staring instead at his beat up sneakers as he rolls a twig around with the sole of his shoe.
You can’t help the smirk that circles your lips as he stammers through the pros and cons of his proposition as if it’s a thesis and he’s aiming for top marks; or a close equivalent. If only he put this much care in his homework, you think to say but bite your tongue since he’s clearly nervous enough.
“What do you think?” He asks, finally meeting your eyes.
The look behind the brown is hopeful, eager. Like a little boy waiting in line for a shiny new comic. Only, he’s not wanting a superhero book. No.
Eddie Munson has a request of a far different variety and you’d be lying if it didn’t excite you as well.
“You want me to suck you off while you’re sleeping?”
Eddie nods.
“If you think it’s too much, you can obviously say no and we can forget I-I even suggested it.” He’s stammering again. “I-I just thought it’d be a cool thing to try—”
“I’m not opposed to it,” you say, interrupting, and shrug your shoulders to showcase indifference although you’re feeling anything other than that.
You’ve been not-so-casually hooking up with Eddie for a little over a year.
One would say — Robin — this situationship you have with the curly-haired metal-head is the reason you haven’t been able to find a real boyfriend, but what does she know about relationships anyway? Okay, harsh. She actually knows a lot considering she’s in one. Point being, it’s Eddie. And you’d forgo any connection just to hear him moan your name every single night: even if it means absolutely nothing the next morning.
“Are you putting a timeline on this, or do you want it to be a surprise?” You ask.
“Definitely a surprise.”
A week goes by.
You think about his proposition often. Sheer excitement mixed with a fuck ton of nerves. You’ve blown him before, numerous times. He says he loves when you do. Thinks about it afterwards. Jacks off to the memory of your lips around his dick.
This is different, however. He won’t talk to you. Won’t tell you how pretty you look on your knees for him. And you get off on his words.
You sleep over at the trailer twice during the week.
The first night, you don’t want to seem too eager and make point to show Eddie how tired you are after he’s fucked you raw. He knows not to expect it then. Instead, he opens his arms and lets you cuddle him until dreams take over.
The second night, you sort of psych yourself out. His light snores ripple through the bedroom. It’s all you can hear, aside from the thumping of your heart. You think about this situation you have found yourself in with Eddie, and wonder if perhaps Robin is right about this whole thing between you and the metal-head. Maybe you should reserve the more kinky stuff for an actual boyfriend. Especially because there’s a lot of trust required to act on deviance when the other person is asleep and trust is often reserved for more traditional relationships, you think. What you and Eddie have is lust.
Then, one afternoon the following week, Eddie surprises you.
Unfortunately, not in a nice way. He’s talking to a girl. Flirting, actually. You can see them at the bar. He says something, which must be funny because the girl places a hand on his leather-clad shoulder and pushes him gently while throwing her head back in giggles. Eddie’s not funny. Okay, he’s hilarious but he’s not a make-a-girl-flirty-laugh funny. And your blood boils.
“A vicious thing, jealousy.” Steve mumbles next to you.
“Can you even be jealous if you’re not actually with the other person?” Robin asks.
You tell them both to shut up then force yourself to look away from the bar. From the guy that’s not your boyfriend, but rather the best hookup of your life, and the pretty girl he’s flirting with, who may one day very well become his real girlfriend. One could call this thing you’re doing now spiraling. Your friends do, they say it simultaneously because they see the look in your eyes.
Wanting to save yourself from further embarrassment, you grab your handbag and your jacket, and tell your friends goodbye. They plead with you not to go, but only for a moment because Nancy is back with the next round of drinks and they forget all about your problems of the heart (and vagina).
You push past the sweaty bodies of Hideout goers and slip out the front door, into the cool breeze. The sound of your heels against the pavement grows louder the further you get away from the dingy bar. Eddie was your ride home. He drew the short straw on being everyone’s designated driver for the night. He’ll have one stop less to make, you think, can spend that extra time with this girl he met.
Twenty minutes on foot and you’re home. You shed the night off your back. A quick shower, a fresh set of pyjama shorts. You down a cold glass of water, then another for good measure. And just like that, you’re feeling sober and ready for bed. Ready to forget the sight of Eddie and that girl.
The night however, has other plans.
There’s a knock on your door. Metal on wood. With a sigh, you cross the living room towards it and press down on the handle. Eddie’s standing in the corridor. His head snaps up as you open to reveal the inside of your apartment.
“What are you doing here?” You ask, crossing your arms.
“I came to see if you were okay,” he answers. “You left so abruptly. Didn’t even say goodbye.”
You shrug. “You seemed busy. I assumed you wouldn’t notice I left.”
Eddie’s brows string together.
“Why wouldn’t I notice?” He sounds genuinely confused, then recognition feigns on his features. “Is this because of the girl?”
You shrug again, because what else is there for you to do without completely spilling your guts.
Eddie rolls his eyes.
“You know there’s only you for me, right?” He says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Dollface, I’m not interested in anyone else. That was just harmless flirting.”
You drop your arms and step aside, letting him pass. You shut the door behind him before turning to face him once more.
“Eddie, I’m not an idiot, okay?” You begin, “I know what we’re doing is casual and that one day it might end.”
“Who says anything about wanting anything to end?” He counters with a smirk and walks away, down the hallway, towards your bedroom.
By the time you join him, the metal-head has stripped down to a T-shirt and boxers. Wordlessly, he gets into your bed and lifts the covers up, waiting for you to join him. You drop your arms with an exaggerated sigh and he laughs. Smooth, music to your ears.
Once you do, Eddie’s asleep in minutes. But not before he murmurs, “You’re the only girl I’d let anywhere near my dick and heart.”.
You giggle. “Aren’t they one and the same?”
He snorts. “Exactly, dollface.” And proceeds to place a kiss to the top of your head before sleep takes over.
Satisfied with how the night ended up — Eddie in your bed; the usual — you get comfortable in his embrace. Feeling safe and content, it doesn’t take long for you to also fall asleep.
When you wake, it’s still dark, aside from the bedside lamp you left switched on. Eddie’s snoring next to you, but that’s not what your sleepy self is paying attention to. Your focus is on something hard pressing into your thigh and call it possessiveness or whatever, but suddenly you think to act on his offer from a few weeks ago. Make it that much more difficult for him to leave you for ‘the real deal’.
There’s a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs locked to your iron-rod headboard (from the last time Eddie stayed over). Tentatively, you reach for it and click the loose ring around Eddie’s wrist — the hand that’s so perfectly placed above his head, since he fell asleep resting on it.
Satisfied, a smirk circling your still sleepy expression, you run your hand down his chest, stomach, until you reach the band of his boxers. You glance at the metal-head, still sleeping, his erection now in your gentle grasp. So you sit up fully, pushing the covers aside.
Without further hesitation, you first circle your tongue around the tip of his cock, lick down his shaft, and then slowly drag it up along the underside. Lightly, you flick your tongue across the vein, just under the head. Eddie shivers underneath you, but makes no further indication that he’s awake, so you let your lips envelop around his head, taking him into your mouth.
Cheeks hollow, you suck, then swirl your tongue around and lick his shaft again. He moans in his sleep, shifts under you and the handcuff rattles. You glance at him from under your lashes and wet your lips before continuing.
You slide his cock across your mouth, once, twice, then wrap your mouth around it once more. A moment passes as you hold him, erect. His cock fills your cheeks, nudges at the back of your throat, throbbing with need. Sucking, you slide your lips upwards, licking around the tip.
A groan escapes his lips. The sound is magical and it fuels your own desires further. You feel a little bit pervy, a pool of wetness pouring between your own thighs as your lips work on his release. You pick up speed, hands cradling his balls as you take him as deep into your mouth as you can.
“Mhmmm…” Eddie moans awake, “Baby, baby, baby…”
“Let me take care of you,” you say in a sweet tone, batting your lashes for good measure, although you know he can’t see, face buried into your pillows.
You take him back into your mouth, one hand now holding him in place. You slide up and down every inch of him, again taking him as far as you can into your throat while letting your hand do the rest. At the top of the stroke, you swirl your tongue around his head.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re making my wildest dreams come true, dollface.”
Flicking your eyes up to Eddie’s face, you find him watching, his own mouth open, his eyes glassy. He tries to reach for you, but the handcuff is keeping him in place and he groans — a mix of frustration and pleasure. As you work your magic, he braces his body on the bed, so he can jerk his hips up towards your face and you smile into his crotch, his eagerness fuelling your own.
“Mhm fuck, you’re going to make me cum,” he grits.
“Please do, baby. I need your cum in my mouth.”
And you increase your speed as he drops his lock of hair back onto the pillow below. You bop your head up and down his rock-hard length, encouraging him to give in and let go. Face a sticky mess of saliva and precum, you can feel him pulsing and throbbing in your mouth. Suddenly, his hips still and his cock swells between your lips.
He gasps. Chanting your name like a prayer, the metal-head shoots his load into your mouth, feeling more awake than ever. Rhythmically, you squeeze him and press your tongue against the back of his cockhead, drawing every drop out of him. Hot, thick, liquid splatters against the inside of your cheeks and runs down your throat as you straighten, satisfied.
Eddie sits up too, or tries to at least with the fluffy cuff around his wrist. On the elbow he can rest on, he does, looking at you as if you’re an angel sent from above, just for him.
“God,” he grounds out, “You’re unbelievable, dollface.”
A smile circles your lips while you lick them clean. You shuffle closer, hovering over his chest until your mouth finds him, capturing it in a deep kiss.
“I hope this is what you had in mind when you asked me?” You ask in a soft whisper.
He huffs out a laugh. “You exceeded any expectations. You always do.”
“Good.”
And you kiss him again, but not before freeing his wrist. He shakes it, cracks it, and reaches for your face. When his lips find yours for a third time, his dominant side takes over. The moment blooms. His hands work your body, over then under your skimpy pyjama set. Breathless, sweaty. Perfect.
Unable to contain himself much longer, Eddie pulls you on top of him, one set of fingers digging into your hip bone as the other pulls your shorts aside. He’s smooth with his motions and settles you on his, once again, fully erect dick with ease.
“It’s only you for me, baby.” He says with conviction. “Never doubt that.”
His hand on your throat, squeezing gently as you roll your hips and moan his name until you see stars.
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