Masterlist My name is Kellie and this blog contains things I like, what I find interesting, what pisses me off about society, etc. My blog can look like a mess at times. ;)
Pairing: Eddie Munson x female! Henderson reader (No use of y/n)
Summary: A steamy first time in the back of a van. It's exactly what it looks like folks.
Series Warnings: Explicit sexual intercourse, dirty talk, praise play, first-time sex, tobacco use, semi-public sex (in a vehicle), size/power dynamics between characters, sort of corruption kink if you SQUINT (Eddie is sweet I swear), mentions of reading porn, oral sex (female receiving).
Rating: NSFW (18+) no minors allowed!
Word Count: 14k
Author's note: This was inspired by THIS post from @starrieststarrystarrystar! I had a some time and figured why the hell not. Not quite a “quickie” but ya girl can’t keep things short if I wanted to. I've missed our boy while I've been working on Sam. So here's a small return to Hawkins. Not properly edited because I’m on a road trip. Peace and love folks ~ Mae
Masterlist
Dustin Henderson had long realized that his social equity was largely comprised of a revolving door of sudo babysitters, self-appointed mentors, and siblings. Growing list ranging from his sister, an unlikely friend in Steve, and Mr. Clark. With the daunting, jagged horizon of Hawkins High looming over him, Dustin’s nerves weren't just frayed; they were unspooling.
He had heard the gospel of high school survival from his older sister for years. She’d described the transition from the familiar halls of Hawkins Middle to the asphalt expanse of the high school parking lot as a brutal demotion. For the socially unranked or the academically obsessed, the shift was less of a walk and more of a gauntlet. Previously, Dustin hadn't paid much heed to her cynical warnings. His sister was an anomaly in the social ecosystem of Hawkins: smart enough to be dangerous, friendly enough to avoid being a target, but possessing a ghost-like ability to inhabit the periphery. She was the girl with her nose buried in a paperback, tucked into the back corner of the library, wearing flared jeans and a quiet armor of indifference. People didn't shove her into lockers because they barely realized she was there.
But the "Summer of ‘85" had changed the weight of her words. After surviving interdimensional horrors, navigating a secret Russian subterranean base, and enduring traumas that should have been reserved for war veterans, Dustin had stopped viewing her advice as "big sister nagging" and started viewing it as actual insight. Then there was Steve Harrington. Steve had become the pseudo-older brother Dustin had never asked for but desperately needed in the absence of their father. Naturally, Dustin’s first instinct had been to play matchmaker. He’d told them both, with the bluntness only a thirteen-year-old can muster, that since Nancy Wheeler was out of the picture, his sister was the next logical choice. Neither had bitten. Steve was still nursing a bruised heart and a shattered ego over Nancy, and his sister? Well, Steve Harrington simply wasn't her type. She’d had enough run-ins with Tommy H. and Carol over the years to know that the "King Steve" era carried a stench she wasn't interested in, and no amount of Steve taking hits from Russians or swinging a nail-studded bat was enough to bridge that aesthetic gap.
The BMW pulled up to the curb of the Henderson house, its engine purring with a domesticity that felt at odds with the tension in the air. Their mother was out of town, tending to a sick aunt in Kersey, leaving Dustin to rely on Steve to skirt the edges of his curfew.
"Where’s your sister?" Steve asked, his brow furrowing as he scanned the darkened house. There was no warm glow from the living room lamp, and the window to her bedroom was a void of shadows. The typical reading light extinguished.
"Probably out," Dustin sighed, adjusting his hat.
"Out? Out where?" Steve asked incredulously. To Steve, she was a constant, fixed point in the Hawkins map. She was the girl who sought sanctuary in the back of the library or the furthest table in the lunchroom, safely cocooned by her Walkman. "Your sister is always home. I’ve seen her leave the house for exactly three things: school, the library, and occasionally to save our lives from certain death."
"Not since July," Dustin replied, his voice dropping an octave. The events at Starcourt Mall hadn't just shaken her; they had cracked the shell she’d lived in for years. In the wake of that trauma, something entirely unexpected had bloomed.
"Is she... okay? Like I know she cracked some ribs and all but, is she lonely, or...?"
"I’d say she’s more than okay," Dustin replied, casting a side-eye at Steve, a humored, almost smug expression crossing his face.
"Then why isn't she home?"
"Date," Dustin said. He looked bored, genuinely confused as to why Steve was treating this like a front-page headline. In the last month, he’d grown accustomed to the shift. There had been no clandestine sneaking around. Just a week after the Fourth, she had walked through the front door on a Saturday afternoon, hand intertwined with a stranger's. Their mother had been ecstatic, thrilled to see her daughter finally engaging with the world of the living. Especially given the suitor's theatrical, albeit genuine, promise to have her home by the stroke of midnight before her glass slippers faded away.
Even Dustin found he didn't mind the guy. He was a refreshing change of pace. Someone who didn't talk down to him, who understood the intricacies of a D20 roll, and who could actually debate the merits of high-fantasy lore. During a three-person outing for ice cream and a stint at the arcade, Dustin realized the guy wasn't just tolerating him for the sake of it. He actually seemed to like hanging around. He wasn't just putting in time to get under his sister’s skirt.
"A date?" Steve repeated, his voice climbing an octave. "Your sister? The notorious 'do not touch me with a ten-foot pole, I find boys tedious' Henderson? She’s on a date?"
"Yes, Steve. Keep up."
"With who?"
Steve didn't have to wait for the answer. The silence of the suburban street was shattered by the rhythmic, heavy thrum of a dying muffler and the screech of old brakes. A beat-up GMC van, more rust than paint, came rattling around the corner, its headlights cutting through the dark like twin spotlights. It pulled up to the curb with a dramatic jerk, idling aggressively adjacent to Steve’s pristine BMW. Steve stared at the van and then at the silhouette visible through the driver's side window. His jaw tightened as the realization hit him like a freight train.
"You are shitting me." Steve deadpanned.
Dustin didn’t even look at Steve. He just leaned back against the headrest, his eyes fixed on the rusted GMC as the engine gave one final, hacking cough before falling silent. "Not shitting you, Steve. It’s been three weeks. Get with the program."
Steve’s hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned a ghostly white. "Munson? Eddie Freak Munson? Dustin, tell me you’re joking. Tell me she’s doing some kind of rebellious social experiment."
"You sound jealous," Dustin remarked casually, reaching for the door handle. "It’s a bad look, Steve. Makes your forehead do that weird crinkle thing."
"I am absolutely not jealous!" Steve hissed, whipping his head around to glare at Dustin. "I am concerned! There is a massive, gaping chasm between 'being protective' and 'watching your friend’s sister climb into a van that definitely smells like the set of a Cheech and Chong film.' She needs to be careful. She’s smart, usually anyways, so why is she hanging out with a guy who can’t graduate high school?"
Dustin let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Steve, relax. Eddie’s a good guy."
"A good guy?" Steve bristled, his voice rising an octave. "I’m sure your mom doesn’t know, otherwise she’d be reeling."
"He’s nice to my mom," Dustin countered, his tone turning uncharacteristically firm. "He actually listens when she talks about her garden. He’s kind to her. And he’s kind to my sister. Do you know how rare that is? Most guys in this town look at her like she’s a piece of furniture or a puzzle they can’t be bothered to solve. You included."
Steve slumped back, his bravado momentarily deflated, but he wasn't ready to let it go. "Dustin, he’s a stoner. He sells drugs behind the wheel of that rolling tetanus shot. And he’s repeating his senior year for the second time. Pretty sure he’s got a criminal record. He’s a dead-beat."
Dustin paused with his hand on the door, his expression softening into something more serious. "It’s her business, Steve. Not mine, and definitely not yours. And for the record? He makes her laugh. Like, actually laugh. Not that polite little 'huff' she does when she’s being nice, but that loud, messy sound she hasn't made since before the mall. Since before everything went to hell."
Steve opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. He looked back at the van, seeing the faint, flickering orange glow of a lighter through the windshield. He remembered the haunted look in her eyes after they’d climbed out of the wreckage of Starcourt. The way she’d retreated so far into herself he wasn't sure she’d ever come back.
"Look," Dustin said, breaking the silence as he pushed the door open. "I’d like to get inside before I have to witness my sister necking with her boyfriend in the front seat of a GMC. I’ve seen enough trauma for one year. See ya, Steve."
Dustin hopped out, slamming the door and jogging toward the house without a backward glance. Steve sat in the idling BMW, the engine purring in stark contrast to the rattling beast parked twenty feet away. He watched the van for a long beat, his eyes narrowing as he caught a glimpse of a wild mane of dark hair leaning toward the passenger side. "Unbelievable," Steve muttered under his breath, a mix of genuine confusion as he peeled off the curb, headed home.
๋࣭ ⭑🎸⊹ ࣪ ˖
Inside the van, the air was thick with the scent of cheap tobacco, old upholstery, and the lingering musk of teenage boy. The dashboard was a chaotic graveyard of cassette tapes, crumpled gum wrappers, and dice that rattled with every vibration of the engine. She leaned back against the worn vinyl seat, the metal of the door cold against her shoulder, watching the way the streetlights caught the rings on Eddie’s fingers as he drummed them against the steering wheel. He wasn't looking at the road anymore; he was looking at her, a lopsided, mischievous grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" She asked, voice barely a whisper.
"Like what?" he countered, his eyebrows shooting up toward his chaotic fringe.
"Like you’re waiting for me to do something impressive. Or like you’re trying to memorize my face for a police sketch."
Eddie chuckled, the sound deep. He reached out, his hand hovering before he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his rings cool against her skin. "Neither. I’m just looking at you because you’re really pretty. Is that a crime now, Henderson? Am I going to be hauled off to Hawkins’ jail for being an appreciator of beauty?"
She felt that familiar heat rise to her cheeks. It was still so strange, the way he said things like that without a hint of irony. For years, Eddie Munson had been a fixture of the Hawkins background. A loud, abrasive blur of denim and hair who occupied the same social strata as the ghost she pretended to be. He’d been in Steve’s grade originally, but after two failed attempts at graduation, he was set to be a second-time repeat senior just as she was starting her own final year. Before July, she had effectively ignored him. She’d seen the boy who barked at people in the hallway and lived for the theatricality of being an outcast. Yet now she felt like an idiot, realizing how much she’d had let the noise of his reputation drown out the man beneath.
Everything had changed a few days after the mall. She had been a shell of a person, her body aching and mind fractured by the memory of the Starcourt shadows and the cold sterile walls of that Russian elevator. Needing to escape the suffocating concern of her mother and the frantic energy of Dustin, she hiked out to Skull Rock. At night, it was a den for wandering hands and cheap beer, but in the harsh light of a humid afternoon, it was a sanctuary.
Or, it was supposed to be.
She found Eddie there, tucked into a jagged crevice with an acoustic guitar and a pack of Marlboros. He’d looked up, ready to snap a witty remark at whoever was invading his territory, but the words had died on his tongue when he saw her. Her face was a map of the week’s horrors. A fading purple-and-yellow bruise blossomed across the cheekbone, a gift from a Russian soldier's fist. She had prepared a lie about a bike accident or a fall, the same one her and Dustin told their mother, but Eddie hadn't pressed. He’d simply moved his guitar to make room on the stone.
"Rough week?" he’d asked, his tone surprisingly gentle.
"Rough year," she replied, clutching the copy of The Hobbit to her chest like a shield.
He’d spent the afternoon with her, playing soft, meandering chords while she read. He didn't ask for the story behind the black eye, though his gaze lingered on it with a sort of quiet, protective anger. At one point, he’d looked at her and sighed exasperatedly. "You know, it’s really unfair," he’d murmured. "Most people look horrible when they get beat up. You? You manage to look even prettier, Henderson. Very distracting for a man trying to practice his scales."
That was the moment the wall started to crumble. They bonded over Tolkien when she told him how her dad used to read The Hobbit to her and Dustin before he walked out. And Eddie had listened with an intensity that made her feel like the only person in the world. He was roguishly handsome in a way that felt somehow safe. He was sweet. Not the performative sweetness of guys like Steve, but a raw, honest kindness that didn't expect anything in return. And when he’d tentatively asked her on a date a week later, stuttering over the words, she hadn't even hesitated. And the rest, as they say, was history.
The silence of the van felt electric with the memory of the night. A greasy pizza shared under the flickering fluorescent lights of a booth, and the feeling of his hand constantly finding hers. A movie complete with the warmth of each other pressed close after throwing up the bar between their seats. Eddie’s fingers tracing mindless patterns on her shoulder from where it sat.
"Earth to Henderson," Eddie said softly, snapping his fingers. "You’re doing that thing where you go somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Want a map back to the present?"
"I'm here," she smiled, leaning across the center console. Then she reached out, her fingers disappearing into the wild, dark thicket of his hair. It was soft, despite the chaotic appearance, and smelled faintly of the rain that had started to mist outside. She found a stubborn knot near the nape of his neck and began to gently work it through with her thumb. Eddie let out a low, contented hum that vibrated through the small space, his eyes fluttering shut for a second before he caught himself. "Careful there, Princess," he rasped, though he didn't pull away. "You really shouldn't go poking around in that rat’s nest. You might lose a finger. Or find a guitar pick I lost in '84."
She scoffed, tugging playfully on a frizzy curl. "It wouldn't be a rat's nest if you actually brushed it once in a while. Or used conditioner. I’ve seen your shower, Eddie. One bar of soap for everything? It’s a miracle you have hair at all."
"Brushing? Proper maintenance?" He gave her a look of mock horror. "That wouldn't be very rock and roll of me, would it? The aesthetic requires a certain level of... let's call it unrefined grit. Besides, I’m just glad your mom isn't one of those pearl clutching parents who thinks long hair is a sign of moral decay. I half-expected her to demand I put a pair of scissors to it before I was allowed to take you out."
"She likes you," she reminded him, finally smoothing out the knot and running her fingers down the length of his hair until she found his upper back. "She thinks you’re charming. Probably because you pull that 'polite young man' act out of your pocket whenever she’s around."
"It’s not an act. Well entirely," he insisted, though his grin suggested otherwise. He shifted, his leather jacket creaking as he turned more fully toward her in the cramped space. His expression grew a bit more focused, his dark eyes searching her own."So," he began, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial rasp. He leaned back against the driver’s side door, watching her intently. "Since the Henderson matriarch is away and the curfew is... shall we say, more of a suggestion tonight... How do you want the rest of this evening to go? I am at your service, oh captain, my captain." He turned back to the road, his voice dropping into a lower, more deliberate register. "We could go back to the trailer, and just put on a record or I could just sit here and let you keep de-tangling me until I fall asleep behind the wheel."
She felt a surge of boldness, fueled by the lingering adrenaline of the date and the way his leather jacket smelled like cheap cologne. She leaned in further, her lips hovering just inches from his jawline, voice dropping into a low, deliberate purr. "I don't know, Eddie. It’s a nice night. Maybe we could drive back out toward the woods? I hear Skull Rock is particularly... scenic this time of night."
Eddie blinked, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "Scenic? Princess, it’s pitch black. You can’t see the rock, let alone the view. The only reason anyone goes out there at this hour is to make out in the back of a car or–" He stopped mid-sentence. The gears shifted visibly behind his eyes, his mouth falling open slightly as the implication finally landed. He looked at her, his usual bravado momentarily eclipsed by a flicker of uncertainty.
"Wait," he stammered, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "Are you... are you saying what I think you’re saying? Because, look, I’ve done that... once. And it wasn't exactly a cinematic masterpiece if you catch my drift." He looked at her with an earnestness that made her heart ache. "I just... I didn't think you’d be ready for that yet. I didn't want to be the guy who pushed."
She reached out, cupping his face and forcing him to look her in the eye, silencing his spiraling thoughts as he pulled to a crawl outside her house, "Eddie," she said, voice firm and warm. "I want to. I trust you."
Eddie didn’t move immediately. He just stared at her, his chest rising and falling in a quick, shallow rhythm that betrayed the nerves beneath his cool exterior. He looked like he wanted to say something profound, something poetic and Tolkien-esque, but instead, he just let out a shaky, breathless laugh. "Okay," he whispered, the word more of a promise than an acknowledgement. "Okay, Henderson."
He reached into the pocket of his denim vest, pulling out a crumpled pack of Marlboros. His hands, usually so steady when shredding a guitar solo, had a slight, endearing tremor as he flicked his lighter. The flame cast a sharp, amber glow across his features. Th high cheekbones, the dark intensity of his eyes, and the way his lips pulled back as he took a deep drag. He held the smoke for a second, then exhaled it in a long, slow plume that joined the mist curling against the windshield.
He leaned over the center console, his body casting a shadow over hers. He pressed his lips to hers, tasting of tobacco and the cherry Icee they’d shared earlier. It wasn't the chaste, sweet kiss of their earlier dates; it was hungry, desperate, and laden with the "three weeks of holding back" that was finally snapping.
As he pulled away, he pressed the cigarette to her lips, letting her take a drag while his other hand found the ignition. The van roared to life with a violent bang, vibrating with a raw energy that seemed to mirror the heat in the cabin. Eddie threw the GMC into gear and floored it, the tires chirping against the asphalt as he tore away from the curb. The suburban houses became blurred streaks of grey and white through the thickening fog. Inside, the atmosphere was thick and heady. Eddie reached over, taking the cigarette back from her, his fingers lingering against her chin.
"You have no idea," he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that made her toes curl. He glanced at her, eyes dark and predatory, before snapping them back to the mist-shrouded road. "How many times I’ve sat in this van after dropping you off, just... staring at your front door like a total loser, wondering if you were gonna stop being so polite and start being this dangerous."
"Dangerous?" she echoed, a small, daring smile playing on her lips.
"Fucking lethal," he corrected. He passed the cigarette back, his thumb grazing her lower lip. "You’re sitting there looking all soft and quiet, and then you say something like that? Makes me want to do such horrible things to you Henderson."
He shifted gears, his movements fluid and aggressive. The engine groaned as they hit the incline leading toward the outskirts of town. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic thump-thump of the tires and the crackle of the radio playing a, distorted hair-metal ballad.
"You know what I’m gonna do when we get there?" Eddie asked. He didn't wait for an answer. One hand stayed on the wheel, while the other moved to her thigh, his fingers digging into the denim of her jeans. "I’m gonna find out if you taste as good as you smell. Because right now, Henderson, you smell like vanilla and trouble, and it’s driving me absolutely insane."
He squeezed her leg, the heat of his palm seeping through the fabric, and for a second, the only sound was the rumble of the GMC. The fog was a wall now, turning the world into a claustrophobic, private chamber.
"Tell me something," he said, his tone shifting. It was still low, still heavy, but a flicker of that gentle, inquisitive Eddie who sat with her at Skull Rock rept back in. He glanced at her, his eyes searching hers with a soft intensity. "What’s the tally, Princess? And don't give me the polite version. I mean... what have you actually done? How far have the boys of Hawkins gotten before they hit the 'no entry' sign?"
She bit her lip, the ghost of the cigarette smoke still on her tongue. "Not... far. Nowhere, really. Just some fumbling at a party once that I ended before it even started."
Eddie let out a breathy, knowing laugh, his thumb tracing a slow circle on her knee. "Yeah. I figured. I’d bet my last guitar string that you’re a virgin." He didn't say it like a judgment. "But," he added, his voice dropping into a playful, seductive rasp, "I also bet you’ve got the most active imagination in this entire zip code. All that reading, all those hours tucked away in the library... you’re not just reading about hobbits and dragons, are you?"
He leaned a little closer, the scent of his leather jacket filling her lungs. "Come on. Tell me. What does that brilliant, beautiful brain of yours do when the lights are out and you’re all alone? I want to know the things you think about. The things you’re too shy to even whisper to your pillow."
He looked at her with such genuine, wholesome wonder, like she was a mystery he was honored to solve. "I bet you read it, don't you? The smut. The stuff the librarians keep behind the counter. The paperbacks with the embossed gold letters and the shirtless guys on the cover. I bet you’re too scared to actually watch it but you read it."
She felt the heat flare in her neck, a deep, tell-tale crimson. She gave a small, jerky nod, suddenly finding the dashboard very interesting. Eddie’s grin softened into something incredibly sweet, his fingers moving up an inch, his touch reassuring and light. "Hey, look at me. It’s okay. It’s actually... it’s hot, Henderson. It’s really hot that you have this whole secret world inside your head." He tilted his head, his dark curls spilling over his brow. "So, be brave for me. Tell me one thing you read. Something that made your heart race. Something you’ve read on a page and thought, 'I wonder if that feels as good as it looks.' What’s something you’ve always wanted to try out?"
He waited, his expression a perfect, dizzying blur of a boy who wanted to take care of her and a man who wanted to ruin her, his hand staying perfectly still on her thigh to let her know the choice was entirely hers. She took a shaky breath, her gaze flickering from the fog-slicked windshield to the rings on his hand, still resting heavy and warm against her thigh. The vulnerability of the moment felt sharper than any physical threat she’d faced that summer.
"I remember reading about a guy," she started, her voice barely audible over the rattling of the van's loose muffler. "He didn't just... it wasn't just about him. He went down on her. And the way the author wrote it, it wasn't like a chore. It was described like he really got off on doing it. Like her pleasure was the thing that made him lose his mind."
Eddie’s hand jerked slightly, a silent, physical reaction to her words. He let out a low, whistling breath, his eyes darkening as he processed the image. "Why that, Henderson?" he pressed, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a thick, velvet sandpaper. "Of all the things in those dusty books, why does that one stick in your brain?"
"Because," she whispered, finally finding the courage to look at him. "Everything in this town feels so one-sided. Guys want to score, so they can brag. But in that story, it was like he was worshipping her. It felt... deliberate. And intense."
Eddie’s lopsided grin returned, but it was softer now, devoid of its usual mockery. He looked at her with a quiet awe. "Deliberate. I like that word," he murmured. He shifted the van into fourth gear as the road began to wind upward, the trees closing in like a canopy. "Okay. Message received. Loud and clear. What else? Don't stop now, Princess. You’re on a roll."
She twisted a loose thread on her blouse, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I like the dialogue," she admitted, her voice gaining a tiny bit of strength. "I like when they talk. Not just moaning. I like how it is when the guy guides the girl. Especially if she hasn't, you know, done it before. I like when he’s caring, but he’s still in charge. Like he’s teaching her a language only the two of them speak."
Eddie pulled the van toward the shoulder of the road for a brief second, his eyes never leaving hers even as he steered with practiced ease. He reached out, his thumb catching her chin and tilting her head up. "You like a guide, huh?" he asked, his voice a soothing, seductive hum. "Someone to show you the map so you don't get lost in the dark?" He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers for a fleeting, tender second. "I can do caring, Henderson. I can be the sweetest guy you’ve ever met. But you have to know, if I’m the one guiding you, I’m not gonna stop until you’re shaking. I’m gonna talk to you the whole time. I’m gonna tell you exactly how beautiful you look when you’re coming apart, and I’m gonna make sure you know that every sound you make is better than any song I’ve ever heard."
He pulled back just enough to see her pupils blown wide, mirroring the darkness of the woods outside. "Is that what you want? You want me to talk you through it? To tell you where to put your hands and how to breathe while I’m taking my time with you?"
His hand slid a little higher on her thigh, the heat of his palm a searing brand. "Because I’ve been thinking about this since the day at Skull Rock. I’ve been imagining what it would be like to be the first one to see you like that. To be the one who gets to be careful with you, but also the one who gets to... well, let's just say I’m not just interested in the 'worship' part, though there’s gonna be plenty of that." He shifted back into gear, the van lurching forward as they neared the turn-off for the lookout. "I’m gonna guide you, Princess. Every step of the way. And I promise you, by the time we’re done, you’re not gonna need those books anymore."
The mist swallowed the GMC as they turned onto the gravel path, the crunch of the stones beneath the tires sounding like a countdown. "Tell me one more thing," he said, his voice a low, commanding purr as the van slowed. "When you read those stories... do you imagine the guy looks like me?”
She didn't hesitate this time. The bashfulness was still there, a soft glow beneath her skin, but it was being overtaken by a raw, quiet honesty. She reached out, her fingers grazing the back of his hand where it gripped the gear shift, tracing the prominent veins and the silver rings that felt like ice against her feverish skin.
"It’s always been you. Since that day at the rock, Eddie," she whispered, her voice steadying as she found the words. Eddie’s grip on the wheel tightened, his knuckles straining, but he stayed silent, hanging on her every word.
"I think about your hands," she admitted, her touch traveling up to his wrist, feeling the frantic skip of his pulse. "I think about how they look when you’re playing guitar. How fast they move, how strong they are. I’ve spent so many nights wondering how they’d feel if they weren't on a guitar, but on me instead. If you’d be just as… precise."
Eddie let out a jagged, shaky breath, his chest heaving under the layers of denim and leather. "Precise," he choked out, the word sounding like a prayer. "Jesus, Henderson."
"And your hair," she continued, her voice growing more rhythmic, almost hypnotic as the van slowed to a crawl at the edge of the clearing. "I think about losing my hands in it. I think about how it would feel falling over my face, or how I could pull on it to bring you closer when you're... doing those things I read about. I like that you’re messy. I like that you’re loud and that you don't fit into the boxes this town built for us. When I'm alone, I don't think about a hero in a book. I think about the way you look at me like I’m the only thing that matters in this entire world."
Eddie cut the engine. The sudden silence was deafening, filled only by the tink-tink-tink of the cooling metal and the heavy, synchronized breathing of two people who had run out of road. He turned toward her, unbuckling his seatbelt with a violent click. He didn't move to touch her yet; he just sat there, looking at her with an expression that was so painfully sweet it made her throat ache, yet so predatory it made her stomach flip.
"You have a very dangerous way with words, you know that?" he said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. He reached out, his hand finally leaving the wheel to cup the back of her neck, his thumb sliding behind her ear to tangle in her hair. "You like my hands? You like the way I look at you?"
He leaned in until their noses brushed, the heat radiating off him in waves.
"I’m gonna go slow, just like your books, and I’m gonna talk you through every single bit of what I’m doing to you. And if you want to pull my hair? You go right ahead."
He slid his hand from her neck down to the first button of her blouse, his rings clicking softly against the plastic. "But first," he rasped, his eyes locking onto hers with a burning, protective intensity, "I want you to tell me you’re sure. Because once I start, I’m not gonna want to stop until I’ve worshipped every part of you that you’ve been keeping hidden."
She didn't speak; she simply nodded, a sharp, decisive movement that broke the last of his restraint. Eddie’s hand slid from her button to her jaw, his thumb hooking under her chin to pull her into one last, kiss before he scrambled over the center console. She followed him, limbs tangling in the cramped space between the seats, the friction of denim on vinyl squeaking as they tumbled into the cavernous, darkened rear of the GMC.
The back of the van was a den of shadows, smelling of stale patchouli, motor oil, and the dampness of the fog clinging to the exterior metal. There was a mattress of sorts. A thin, lumpy thing covered in a heavy, scratchy wool blanket. The moment she settled against it, Eddie was over her, his weight a sudden, grounding reality that pinned her to the floorboards.
He didn't start with words. He started with the devastating, physical press of his mouth against hers.
It wasn't a soft landing. It was the collision of two people who had been vibrating at a high frequency for miles. His lips were chapped and hot, molding against hers with force. He tasted of the acrid tang of the Marlboro and the lingering, synthetic sugar of the cherry Icee, a combination that felt illicit and intoxicating. When he tilted his head, his teeth grazed her lower lip. A sharp, accidental spark of pain that immediately dissolved into a surge of heat.
Eddie groaned, a low, tectonic sound that she felt in her own chest as he pried her mouth open with his. His tongue was a restless, rhythmic intruder, slick and heavy as it swept past her teeth to claim hers. The kiss became a messy, uncoordinated battle of suction and friction. She could feel the damp slide of saliva coating her lips, the wetness blurring the line where his mouth ended and hers began. The air in the van grew stifling, humid with their shared breath. Every time he pulled back for a fraction of a second, a thin, glistening string of spit stretched between them before he crashed back down, more desperate than before. His hair was a wild, static-charged curtain falling around her face, the coarse strands tickling her cheeks and forehead, creating a private, lightless tent.
His hands were exactly as she had described: precise and unrelenting. One was buried deep in the hair at the base of her skull, his fingers knotting into the strands to hold her steady for the onslaught, while the other was splayed flat against the small of her back, pulling her hips upward to meet the hard, heavy line of his thighs.
The intensity escalated until the "sweetness" he had promised was buried under the raw mechanics of desire. There was the audible, wet slap of their mouths meeting, the occasional jarring clink of his rings against her teeth when he reached up to cup her face, and the rhythmic, frantic panting that filled the small space. He sucked at her tongue, pulling it into his mouth with a strength that made her head swim, his own tongue darting deep to explore the roof of her mouth with a feverish intensity. He broke the kiss for a second, his face hovering barely an inch from hers, both of them gasping for the oxygen that had been sucked out of the van. His lips were swollen, slick and shining in the dim light filtering through the foggy glass.
"God, Henderson," he rasped, the sound torn from the back of his throat. He didn't look sweet anymore; he looked wrecked, his dark eyes blown out until the irises were just thin rings of mahogany. He let his head drop into the crook of her neck, his hot breath blooming against her collarbone. "You move like that again, and I'm gonna forget all about being a gentleman. You're fucking ruining me."
Eddie didn’t give her time to catch her breath. He shifted his weight, sitting back on his heels with a fluid grace that made the van’s suspension groan. "Come here, gorgeous," he rumbled, his voice dropping into that low, chest-vibrating register. He reached out, his large hands spanning the entire width of her waist, and hauled her forward until she was straddled across his lap.
The heat of his thighs through both their denim was a shock, but before she could process the friction, he was reaching for the hem of his black Megadeath shirt. In one jagged, impatient motion, he whipped the fabric over his head and tossed it into the front seat. The air hit his bare skin, and she froze, her breath hitching in a sharp, audible gasp. In the dim, milky light filtering through the fogged-up windows, Eddie’s torso looked like a map of another world. The ink was dark and aggressive against his pale skin. The swarm of bats trailing up his forearm, the demonic imagery, and the jagged lines of the spider. It was a chaotic, beautiful mess of art and rebellion.
Eddie caught the look on her face and a low, melodic chuckle vibrated through his chest. He leaned back slightly, bracing himself on his elbows, the muscles in his stomach rippling with the movement. "Relax, Princess," he teased, his eyes dancing with a mix of pride and affection. "I promise they don’t bite. I don’t either, unless of course you ask me to."
Seeing her still rooted in place, he reached up and took her wrists. His touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the heavy-metal aesthetic of his skin. He guided her hands toward his chest, pressing her palms flat against the ink. "It’s okay," he murmured, his voice softening into something deeply endearing. "You can touch them. I’m not made of glass, Henderson. Go on, explore the gallery."
She let her fingers roam, her tips tracing the raised, slightly scarred texture of the black lines. She followed the curve of a bat’s wing, the dip of his collarbone, and the hard, flat planes of his pectorals. The skin was hot and she could feel the steady, heavy thrum of his heart beneath her right palm. Eddie watched her with his head tilted back against the side of the van as he let her take him in.
"I’d really love to see you too," he whispered, the playfulness in his voice replaced by a thick, heavy sincerity. "If you'll let me." She nodded, a quick, nervous jerk of her chin. Her heart was a trapped bird in her chest, but when she looked into his eyes, she found nothing but a steady, grounding heat.
Eddie reached for the first button of her blouse. He didn't rush. He made a point of maintaining eye contact, his dark pupils blown wide, capturing the faint light.The first button slipped through the hole. He watched her reaction, his thumb grazing the hollow of her throat. The second gave way, revealing the pale curve where her neck met her shoulder. His movements were methodical, deliberate, turning the simple act of undressing into a ritual. When the last button was undone, he gripped the collar and slid the fabric down her arms, letting it pool on the wool blanket behind her. The cool air hit her skin, causing a shiver to race down her spine, but Eddie was already there to warm her.
He didn't grab. Instead, he extended a single finger, and began to trace a slow, agonizingly light line from her collarbone down toward the center of her chest. The physicality of it was electric. The scrape of his nail against her soft skin creating a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "You're so beautiful," he rasped, his voice sounding like it was being pulled through gravel. His gaze dropped to the lace of her bra, his breath hitching. He leaned in, his nose brushing against the swell of her breast, the scent of her skin making his head swim.
"Please," he whispered against her skin, the word a ragged plea. "Let me take this off too. I want to see all of you. I want to feel you against me, no barriers. Can I, Princess?"
His hand moved to the clasp at her back, his fingers fumbling slightly with the metal hooks. A humanizing, sweet break in his seductive armor as he waited for her silent permission to finally close the distance between them. She didn't speak, her voice lost to the thick, humid air of the van, but she arched her back slightly, a silent surrender that gave him the access he craved. Eddie didn't need another hint. With a deft, practiced flick of his fingers, the tension of the clasp gave way. The moment the barrier was gone, he didn't immediately move to touch her. He just looked, his chest heaving. Then, he leaned forward, closing the final inch of space.
The sensation of their bare chests meeting was a physical jolt. The contrast was staggering: his skin was hot, slightly damp, and textured with faint hair on his sternum; hers was smooth, cool from the night air, and soft as silk. As they pressed together, the friction of skin on skin created a static-like heat that seemed to radiate through her entire body. She could feel the hard, solid muscle of his pectorals crushing against the yielding softness of her breasts, their heartbeats slamming against one another in a frantic, syncopated rhythm.
Eddie let out a long, shuddering groan into the crook of her neck, his hands sliding down her back to grip her waist, pulling her even tighter into his lap. He stayed there for a moment, just breathing her in, before he pulled back, his dark eyes fixated on her chest. "I told you," he whispered, his voice a jagged ghost of a sound. "Fucking lethal."
He lowered his head, his dark curls spilling over her skin. He started with the lightest of touches, his tongue darting out to lick a slow, wet stripe across the swell of her breast, the moisture cooling instantly in the drafty van. Then, he opened his mouth. His lips, hot and swollen from their kissing, encircling her nipple. The sensation was overwhelming. The wet, high-pressure heat of his mouth was a sharp contrast to the cool air. He didn't just bite or suck; he used his tongue with a deliberate movement. He swirled it around the sensitive peak, the texture of his tongue sending sharp, electric jolts straight to her core.
He began to suckle, pulling her deep into the heat of his mouth. She felt the distinct, pulsing suction as he used his lips to create a vacuum, his tongue flicking rapidly against the hardening tip. It was a heavy, concentrated sensation, the tugging causing a deep, low ache to bloom in her hips. Every time his teeth grazed her in just a hint of a sharp edge, she gasped, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, her nails scraping against the ink of the bats on his arms.
He was relentless, his breath hot and damp against her skin as he shifted his focus, his lips sliding over the sensitive underside before returning to the center. The sound of the wet, rhythmic noise of his mouth on her filled the quiet of the van. He looked up at her through his lashes, his eyes dark and glazed with a terrifying level of hunger, watching her face crumble as he continued to worship her exactly the way she had read about, but with a physical intensity no book could ever truly capture.
The friction of her shifting hips against the rough denim of his thighs sent a jolt of clarity through her that was almost as sharp as the pleasure he was grounding into her chest. As she moved, the slick, heavy heat between her legs made itself known, a dampness that had saturated the thin lace of her underwear. She let out a broken, jagged gasp, her back arching instinctively away from the sensation, her hands flying to his shoulders to steady herself. Eddie felt the hitch in her breath, the way her body suddenly stiffened and then melted in a different, more desperate direction. He pulled back, his lips wet and glistening, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face as he watched the realization dawn in her eyes. He didn't have to ask; the way she was trembling, the way she couldn't quite meet his gaze, told him everything.
"Henderson," he rumbled, his voice a low, vibrating purr that seemed to echo in the very floorboards of the van. "You're shaking. And I think I know why."
He reached down, his large, ringed hand sliding between their bodies, his palm flattening against the denim of her jeans right over the apex of her thighs. He didn't move it; he just let the heat of his hand sink in, feeling the unmistakable dampness that had already begun to seep through the heavy fabric. His eyes darkened, the mahogany turning to a scorched earth black.
"Look at me," he commanded softly. When she finally lifted her gaze, his expression was a dizzying mix of that "guide" authority and a raw, primal hunger. "Remember that story you told me? The one about the guy who really got off on doing it for her? The one who wanted to taste her more than he wanted to breathe?" He leaned in, his nose brushing against hers, his breath a hot, humid cloud. "Will you let me do that? Will you let me eat you out, Princess? I want to see if you taste as sweet as you smell."
She couldn't find her voice, so she simply nodded, her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. Eddie didn't waste a second. He shifted her weight, guiding her back onto the scratchy wool blanket while he moved to the foot of the mattress. He reached for the button of her jeans, his fingers surprisingly steady as he worked the metal through the hole. The sound of the zipper was deafening in the quiet of the foggy woods. He didn't just pull them off; he dragged them down slowly, his eyes never leaving the map of her legs as they were revealed. When he got to her underwear, his breath hitched. The lace was translucent with her own heat, a dark, damp patch marking the center.
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband, sliding them down her legs with a slow, agonizing deliberation. Once they were off, he didn't toss them aside. He held the small, damp scrap of fabric in his hands, his fingers tracing the lace. He brought it to his face, closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat.
"You mind if I keep these?" he asked, his voice a thready whisper. He looked up at her, his expression stripping away the bravado, leaving only a raw, honest want. "I’d love to revisit this later. When I’m stuck in that trailer alone, thinking about the way you looked right now..."
He folded the lace and tucked it into the pocket of his discarded vest, his eyes softening as she buried her face in her hands, a deep, flustered crimson staining her cheeks. "Hey," he murmured, crawling back up the mattress until he was hovering over her again, his bare chest a wall of heat. He gently pried her hands away from her face, his touch as light as a feather. "Don't hide. You're fucking precious, you know that? Every single part of you."
He kissed her forehead, a sweet, lingering gesture that felt like a promise, before his gaze drifted back down. His hands found her inner thighs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive, pale skin there, moving upward in slow, rhythmic circles. "Now," he whispered, his voice dropping back into that seductive, authoritative rasp. "Let's see if I can't make you forget how to speak entirely."
Eddie didn’t hesitate. He moved with a focused, hungry intent, sliding down the length of her body until he was kneeling between her spread knees. The cool air of the van rushed over her exposed skin for only a second before the heat of him replaced it. He draped her legs over his shoulders as he leaned in. When his mouth finally made contact, it was a revelation of pure, wet heat.
He started slow, the tip of his tongue tracing the very outer edges of her, testing the waters. He was incredibly thorough, his tongue flicking and swirling with a rhythmic pressure that mimicked the way he played his guitar: calculated, fast, and devastatingly accurate. The texture was a contrast of slickness: the soft, velvet glide of his tongue against the sensitive, swollen folds that were already weeping for him.
She let out a high, thin wail, her head tossing back against the lumpy mattress. As if on cue, the light mist outside finally broke, and a sudden, heavy downpour began to lash against the metal roof of the GMC. The sound was a frantic, metallic drumming, a chaotic percussion that seemed to sync up with the wet, rhythmic sounds Eddie was making between her thighs. He grew bolder, his mouth opening wider to draw her in. He used his lips to tug at her, his tongue working a frantic, fluttering pace against her clitoris. The physicality was all-consuming: the scrape of his stubble against the inside of her thighs, the hot, humid clouds of his breath hitting her skin, and the way his fingers dug into her hips to hold her still against the onslaught.
"Eddie," she choked out, her fingers tangling in the wild, damp mess of his hair, pulling him closer.
He didn't stop. If anything, the rain hammering on the roof seemed to drive him harder. He delved deeper, his tongue long and insistent, exploring every inch of her. She could feel the dampness of his own saliva mixing with hers, a slick, hot slurry that coated everything. The pressure was constant, a building tension that felt like a wire being pulled taut.
Every time she thought she couldn't take any more, he would shift his angle, his tongue flat and heavy one moment, then sharp and precise the next. He was drinking her in, his throat working as he swallowed, making good on his promise to worship her. The van rocked slightly with his movements, the sound of the storm outside muffling her cries as he drove her toward a ledge she had only ever read about in the quiet of the library, now made terrifyingly, beautifully real by the man who refused to let her go.
The tension inside her was a bowstring pulled to the snapping point, her heels digging into his shoulders as her hips began to stutter in a frantic, involuntary rhythm. The hammering of the rain on the van’s roof reached a deafening crescendo, a wall of white noise that made the space feel like a tiny, vibrating island in the middle of a storm. Just as she reached the precipice, her breath catching in a jagged, suspended sob, Eddie suddenly pulled back just an inch. The loss of that direct, searing contact made her whimper, her hands clutching at his hair to pull him back down.
"No, no," he rasped, his voice a thick, dark command that cut through the sound of the rain. He looked up at her, his face a mess of slick moisture and blown-out pupils, his jaw set with a hard, focused intensity. "Look at me. Don't fight it, Henderson. Don't you dare hold back."
He slid his hands under her, lifting her hips higher, his thumbs pinning her open as he leaned back in. He didn't go back to the slow swirls; he used his tongue in a flat, heavy, relentless stroking motion, firm and rhythmic. "Let go," he groaned against her skin, the vibration of his voice buzzing through her. "Right now. I've got you."
The command was the final push. The wire snapped. Her entire body convulsed, a violent, beautiful shiver that started in her toes and crashed through her spine. Her vision whited out, the sound of the rain turning into a dull roar in her ears. She felt the heavy, wet heat of his mouth stay pinned to her through every internal pulse, catching every drop, refusing to let the sensation fade until she was completely spent. Her muscles turned to water, her legs sliding off his shoulders to thud limply against the mattress.
The silence that followed, save for the rhythmic drumming of the storm, was heavy and thick. Eddie didn't move for a long minute. He stayed there, his forehead resting against the inside of her thigh, his breathing coming in ragged, labored hitches. Finally, he crawled back up the length of her body, the movement slow and deliberate. He looked wrecked, his hair a tangled curtain around his face, but as he settled beside her, the predatory edge had vanished, replaced by a soft, glowing warmth.
He pulled the scratchy wool blanket over both of them, shielding them from the drafty air of the van, and hauled her into his side. Her head landed on the hard, tattooed plane of his chest, her ear pressed right over his heart, which was still hammering like a trapped bird. "Jesus," he whispered, his hand shaking slightly as he smoothed her hair back from her sweaty forehead. He kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering there. "You taste so good, Princess. You hear me? So fucking good."
His voice was a low, soothing hum, a complete departure from the gravelly seduction of minutes before. He reached down, taking her hand and lacing his fingers through hers, his rings cold but his palm searing.
The wool blanket was a rough, warm cocoon against the cool air of the van, but beneath it, the air was still charged with a residual, static electricity. She shifted against his side, her movements slow and languid, like someone waking from a heavy dream. While her ear tracked the thudding rhythm of his heart, her free hand began to wander. She let her fingertips graze the line of his stomach, feeling the way his abdominal muscles instinctively rippled and tightened at her touch. Slowly, almost tentatively, she reached lower. Her fingers found the heavy brass buckle of his belt, the metal cold against her knuckles.
Eddie’s breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that hitched in his throat. He didn't pull away, but he did go still, his hand pausing its gentle stroking of her hair. "Hey," he murmured, his voice dropping into a soft, gravelly register that was more protective than provocative. He looked down at her, his dark eyes searching her face in the gloom. "Henderson... look at me. You don't have to do that. Tonight isn't about some fair-trade agreement, okay? I’m perfectly happy just holding you until the sun comes up."
The rain outside seemed to underscore his sincerity, a steady, rhythmic wash against the GMC’s metal skin. She looked up at him, her eyes clear despite the flush still lingering on her cheeks. "I know," she whispered, her fingers curling more firmly around the leather of the belt. "But I want to, Eddie."
Eddie stared at her for a long beat, his expression a complex map of uncertainty, heat, and a profound sort of gratitude. He wanted to make sure she wasn't acting out of a sense of obligation. He searched for any flicker of hesitation, any shadow of doubt, but found only the same quiet resolve that had carried her through the summer’s horrors. "You're sure?" he pressed, his voice barely a breath. "We can stop right here. We can just listen to the rain. I'm not going anywhere."
"I'm sure," she said, her voice small but unwavering.
A slow, breathless smile broke across his face. The kind of lopsided, genuine grin that made him look like the boy she’d first met at Skull Rock. "Okay," he breathed. He sat up slightly, the movement causing the van to rock on its old springs. With a fluid, practiced motion, he unbuckled the belt and began to shimmy out of his heavy denim jeans. The friction of the fabric against the mattress made a dry, rasping sound that filled the small space. He kicked them off his ankles, leaving him in nothing but his plaid boxers.
He paused then, his knees framing her hips as he hovered over her. He reached down, his hands trembling just a fraction as he gripped the waistband of the boxers. But instead of pulling them down, he stopped, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her heart skip. "Actually," he rasped, his voice thick. He took her hands and guided them to the elastic waistband, letting her fingers feel the fabric. "I want you to be the one to do it."
She didn't hesitate. With her heart drumming a frantic rhythm against her ribs, she hooked her fingers under the elastic of his plaid boxers and slowly slid them down the long, lean line of his legs. As the fabric fell away, the air in the van seemed to vanish. Eddie sat back on his heels, his hands braced behind him on the lumpy mattress, exposing himself to her with a raw, vulnerable honesty that felt louder than the rain. In the dim, shadowed light, his manhood was a stark, imposing reality. He seemed impressive even if she didn’t have anything to compare it to. A coarse, dark thicket of hair grew at the base, curling upward toward his navel in a thin, enticing line.
Tentatively, she reached out. Her fingertips grazed the very tip of him before sliding down the smooth, velvet length. Eddie let out a sharp, jagged gasp that was almost a cry. His head snapped back, his throat working as he swallowed hard, and the muscles in his arms corded with the effort of staying still. "Jesus, Henderson," he choked out, his voice a broken whisper. "Your hands... you have no idea what that feels like."
She grew bolder, her palm cupping the weight of him, feeling the way he pulsed and jumped against her touch. He was searingly hot, the blood thrumming through him with a life of its own. Every time her thumb swiped over the sensitive tip, a low, guttural vibration started in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated friction.
He watched her for a moment, his eyes glazed and dark, watching her small hand against his skin. The physicality of watching her stroke him seemed to be the thing that finally pushed him over the edge of his restraint. "Wait," he rasped, gently catching her wrist to stop the movement. He leaned forward, his forehead briefly dropping to her shoulder as he tried to catch his breath. "I want you. God, I want you so bad. But I need to be a responsible 'guide' for a second." He let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh, his rings clicking as he ran a hand through his hair. "Don't go anywhere. I’ve got a stash in the glovebox."
He scrambled over the center console, his bare back rippling in the shadows. The van rocked as he leaned far forward, the glovebox clicking open with a plastic snap. There was the frantic sound of him rummaging through cassette tapes and loose change before he let out a triumphant "Aha!"
Eddie scrambled back into the dark cavern of the van, the small foil packet clutched in his hand like a prized treasure. But as he knelt before her, the cool, collected "Dungeon Master" persona was fraying at the edges. His fingers, usually so nimble when dancing across the fretboard of his guitar, were visibly trembling. The foil crinkled and slipped in his grip as he fumbled to tear the notched edge, his breath coming in short, erratic hitches that betrayed just how much the sight of her had unmoored him. He let out a frustrated, self-deprecating huff, his face flushing a deep, embarrassed red. "Okay, so maybe the 'cool and collected' act is a bit of a stretch right now," he muttered, his rings clinking as his hands shook.
She reached out, her fingers steady as she gently pried the packet from his grasp. "Give it here, Munson," she whispered.
Eddie let out a long, shaky exhale, sinking back onto his heels and watching her with wide, reverent eyes. A flicker of his usual mischief returned, though it was softened by the vulnerability of the moment. "Oh? Does the Princess know her way around a prophylactic?" he joked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Or are we just winging it like a first-level rogue?"
She didn't look up, her focus entirely on the careful task at hand. "You aren’t the only one who had to sit through Coach Higgins’ health class, Eddie. I remember the banana demonstration perfectly well. Though, for the record, this is a significant upgrade from a piece of fruit."
Eddie let out a jagged, genuine laugh that vibrated through the floorboards. "You flatter me fair maiden," Once the barrier was in place, Eddie didn't rush. He moved forward, his bare, tattooed chest a wall of heat as he guided her back onto the scratchy wool blanket. He hovered over her, his arms braced on either side of her head, his dark hair falling like a curtain to seal the world away. The rain outside was relentless now, a heavy, rhythmic thrumming against the metal roof that felt like the heartbeat of the forest itself.
"Okay," he whispered, his voice dropping into that seductive, authoritative register. "I want you to listen to me. Close your eyes for a second."
When she complied, the world narrowed down to the tactile and the auditory.
"Focus on the details, Princess," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "Listen to the rain. Hear how it hits the roof? It’s loud, and it’s messy, and it’s exactly like us right now. Feel the weight of me. Feel how my skin is sticking to yours because of the heat in here. Smell the old upholstery and the smoke. Feel how hard I am? This is all for you." He shifted, his lower body pressing against hers, the physical reality of him finally closing the distance. He moved with an agonizingly slow deliberation, his hands sliding down to lace through hers, pinning her palms against the mattress.
"I’m gonna go slow," he promised. "I’m gonna guide you through every second of it. You just keep listening to the rain and feeling the way I move. If it's too much, you tell me. If it's not enough, you pull on my hair. You’re the boss tonight, Henderson."
He nudged her knees further apart with his own, his eyes locked onto hers with a burning, protective intensity as he prepared to finally bridge the gap, the sound of the storm outside providing the only soundtrack to the moment they had both been waiting for.
"Eyes on me," he commanded, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel from his throat directly into her bones. The first contact was a shocking contrast of textures: the latex barrier, the slickness of her own readiness, and the heavy, blunt pressure of him finally finding his mark.
As he began to slide in, the world narrowed to a singular, piercing point of physical awareness. It was a slow, stretching invasion. The feeling of being filled, inch by painstaking inch. She felt the internal friction of him, the way her muscles tensed and then yielded to the sheer, solid bulk of him. A sharp, gasping sound escaped her, her head falling back as her fingers dug into the wool blanket, the fibers coarse and scratchy beneath her nails.
"Deep breaths," Eddie urged, his own voice sounding wrecked. He caught her mouth in a wide, open kiss, his tongue sweeping deep to catch her moan. He tasted like the dying embers of a cigarette and the iron-sweet tang of desire. The sound of their mouths was muffled by the violent rat-tat-tatof the rain hammering the metal roof just inches above them. The air in the van was thick with the scent of rain-damp leather, the metallic tang of the old GMC, and the musky, salt-sweet aroma of their joined bodies. Eddie’s hair fell forward, a wild, dark thicket, brushing against her cheeks and neck.
He paused when he was halfway, his body trembling with the Herculean effort of restraint. His forehead pressed against hers, and she could see the erratic pulse jumping in his neck, the way his jaw was locked tight. "You okay?" he rasped, the word barely a breath. "Talk to me, Princess. Tell me what you feel."
"Full," she managed to choke out, her voice a thready whisper. "I feel... everything."
"Good," he groaned. He began to move again, finishing the distance until they were flush, hip-to-hip, his pelvic bone a hard. The sensation of being completely occupied by him was overwhelming, a heavy, pulsing ache that felt like it was radiating through her entire nervous system. He stayed still for a moment, letting her body adjust to the new, staggering reality of him. Then, he began to pull back before sliding back in with a slow, rhythmic grind. The sound was unmistakable: the wet, sliding friction of skin on skin, the creak of the van’s old springs, and the heavy, synchronized panting of their breathing.
He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear as he picked up the pace, his voice a dark, encouraging hum. "That's it. Focus on the rain, Henderson. Focus on how I feel inside you. Just you and me in a tin box in the woods. Nobody else exists."
Every thrust was a deliberate lesson in physicality. She could feel the way his thighs bracketed hers; the way his rings felt cold against her shoulders when he reached up to brace himself; the way the humid air seemed to vibrate with every sound they made. He was a force of nature, guiding her through the dark with a steady, unyielding hand.
The rhythm of the rain on the roof intensified, shifting from a rhythmic drumming to a chaotic, deafening roar that seemed to wall them off from the rest of Hawkins. Inside, the air was a thick, sweltering soup of oxygen and salt. Eddie increased the pace, his movements losing their initial hesitance and gaining a raw, driving power. Each thrust was a heavy, sliding thud of contact, the sound of their bodies meeting becoming the only thing she could hear over the storm.
"Look at me, Henderson," he gasped, his voice straining under the weight of his own pleasure. He braced his weight on his forearms, muscles quivering with the effort of maintaining his rhythm while hovering over her. "Tell me you can feel that. Tell me exactly how I’m stretching you out right now."
He didn't wait for her to answer, his hips rolling into hers with a slow, agonizing grind that made her toes curl into the scratchy wool. "You’re so tight," he groaned, the words vibrating against her lips as he leaned down to capture them in another messy, saliva-slicked kiss. "Like you were made just to hold me like this. You hear that sound? That’s you, Princess. That’s what you do to me."
The physicality was staggering. She could feel the hard, corded ridges of his abs pressing against her stomach with every downward stroke. The sensations of him were everywhere. An intoxicating mix of his cheap cologne, the metallic scent of his rings, and the primal, musky heat of their shared exertion. When he moved, she could feel the slide of his sweat-slicked skin against her own, a frictionless glide that made the friction inside her feel all the more intense. "Focus," he whispered, his voice a dark, encouraging rasp in her ear. "Right here. Just the rain and the way I’m taking you. I want you to remember the weight of me. I want you to remember the way my heart is trying to kick its way out of my chest because of you."
He began to drive harder, his thrusts becoming shorter, sharper, and more urgent. The van rocked violently on its tired suspension, the old metal groaning in protest, but Eddie was oblivious to anything but the woman beneath him. He reached down, his fingers lacing through hers and pinning her hands back against the mattress again, his rings biting slightly into her skin. "You're doing so good," he panted, his eyes blown wide, watching the way her face fractured with every hit. "Talk to me. Make some noise for me, Henderson. Let the whole woods know you’re mine tonight. Tell me you want more."
"I want more," she finally broke, the words torn from her throat in a jagged, breathless sob that was instantly swallowed by a particularly violent roll of thunder. "Eddie, please, more."
The request was the final match in the powder keg. Eddie’s eyes went feral, a low, guttural growl vibrating deep in his chest as he shifted his grip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips to anchor her for the final, desperate sprint. The pace turned frantic, a blurring sequence of heavy, sliding friction and blunt impact that made the van’s frame shudder. "That's it," he choked out, his voice a broken, rhythmic chant against her neck. "Take it. Take all of it, Henderson."
She could feel the exact moment the tide turned. Her internal muscles began to pulse in involuntary, frantic waves, clamping down on him with a fierce, rhythmic suction that sent Eddie’s head snapping back. His movements became staccato, his breath hitching into short, sharp gasps as the friction inside her became a searing, white-hot localized sun.
Then, the world simply ceased to exist.
She felt the first wave of her climax crash over her. A physical, tensing jolt that started in her core and radiated outward until her fingers were clawing blindly at the skin of his back. She screamed into the humid air, the sound raw and unpolished, her back arching so sharply that only her heels and shoulders touched the blanket.
Seeing her break was the final trigger for Eddie. His body went rigid, his muscles locking into hard, straining cords under his ink-stained skin. He delivered one last, deep, agonizingly slow thrust, bottoming out with a heavy thud of pelvic bone against pelvic bone. A loud, visceral groan was ripped from his lungs. He held himself there, pinned deep inside her, his entire frame vibrating with the force of his own internal earthquake.
The sensation was total sensory overload: the slick, hot dampness where their bodies were fused; the stinging scrape of his chest hair against her breasts; the taste of salt on her lips as she kissed the sweat from his shoulder. They stayed locked together as the pulses slowly ebbed, the silence of the van rushing back in to replace the noise, save for the frantic, wet sound of their struggling breath. Eddie finally collapsed forward, his strength spent, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He was a dead weight, heavy and hot, his sweat soaking into her skin as they both trembled in the aftershock. The rain continued its relentless assault on the roof, but inside, the air had gone still and heavy.
He didn't pull away. He stayed merged with her, his heart hammering a frantic, muffled code against her ribs, his breath hot and damp against her collarbone. Slowly, he reached up, his shaking hand finding hers and lacing their fingers together, pressing her palm into the scratchy wool. "Holy... shit," he whispered into her skin, the words vibrating through her entire body. He let out a wet, breathless laugh.
The violent intensity of the last few minutes ebbed away, leaving behind a heavy, syrupy bliss that felt like being submerged in warm honey. The van grew quiet, the frantic drumming of the rain softening into a steady, rhythmic patter that hummed against the metal shell. Eddie shifted, his movements slow and ginger, as if he were afraid he might break the spell if he moved too fast. He let out a long, shuddering sigh and rolled onto his side, reaching for the discarded denim vest crumpled near the mattress. With a slight tremble still lingering in his fingers, he fished out the crumpled pack of Marlboros and a lighter.
As he sat up, the cool air hit his sweat-slicked back, causing the dark ink of the wyvern on his arm to ripple. He flicked the lighter, the small flame casting a sharp, amber glow across his sharp features and the messy, wild halo of his hair. He took a deep drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing like a lonely star in the dark, and exhaled a plume of smoke that swirled into the misted interior.
While he sat there, grounded and quiet, she shifted on the wool blanket. The back window of the van was completely opaque, a thick wall of white steam from their shared heat. Reaching out a hand, she pressed her fingertip to the glass. The condensation gave way easily, leaving a clear, dark streak. With slow, deliberate movements, she traced the curve of a heart into the steam, the moisture beading and rolling down the pane like a silver tear. Eddie turned his head, catching the movement. A slow, lopsided smile tugged at his mouth. He didn't say anything; he didn't need to. He just reached back with his free hand, squeezing her knee in a silent, affectionate pulse.
She sat up behind him and moved closer until her chest was pressed against his warm back. She began to reach into the tangled mess of his hair. It was a disaster. Matted from the humidity and the way he’d been throwing his head back, full of knots and static. She began to work through the tangles with her fingers. Eddie’s head tilted back instinctively, a low, contented hum vibrating through his shoulder blades and into her. He took another drag of his cigarette, his eyes fluttering shut as she gently unpicked a stubborn knot near the nape of his neck.
"You're a mess, Munson," she whispered, her voice a soft, raspy thread in the dark.
"Yeah," he murmured, the smoke curling around his head as he leaned back into her touch, his voice thick with a drowsy, post-climax warmth. "But I'm your mess tonight, Henderson. Don't go fixing me too much."
She smiled against his skin, her fingers continuing their rhythmic, soothing work, finding peace in the quiet aftermath of the storm.
๋࣭ ⭑🎸⊹ ࣪ ˖
The drive back through the winding veins of Hawkins was a blur of silver and grey. The GMC rattled along the lightless roads, its headlights cutting weak, yellow tunnels through a fog so thick it felt like the world had been erased, leaving only the two of them in their metal sanctuary. The rain had settled into a steady, rhythmic drizzle that hissed against the asphalt. Eddie drove with one hand draped over the wheel and the other locked firmly with hers on the center console, his thumb tracing mindless, possessive circles over her knuckles. He looked different in the dashboard’s faint green glow. Softer with the sharp edges of his theatricality worn down by the weight of the night.
When the van finally groaned to a halt in front of the Henderson house, the silence of the suburban street felt heavy and expectant. The house was still dark, a silent witness to their return. Eddie killed the engine, and the sudden absence of the muffler’s roar made the sound of the rain against the roof seem deafening. "Back to reality," Eddie murmured, though he didn't let go of her hand. He turned to her, his eyes dark and searching. "You still with me, Henderson?"
"I'm here," she whispered, though her body felt heavy, her limbs humming with a dull, pleasant ache that made the prospect of moving feel like a monumental task.
Eddie reached into the back, grabbing his oversized leather jacket. It was heavy, smelling of the night and the unmistakable musk of him. "Come here," he said, and as she leaned over, he draped the jacket over her shoulders. It was far too big, the sleeves hanging limp, but the warmth of his body heat still trapped in the lining felt like a second skin. He hopped out first, the cool, damp air rushing into the van, and rounded the front to open her door. When she stepped out, her knees buckled. A sudden reminder of the intensity of the hours prior. Her legs felt like jelly, the muscles uncooperative and weak.
Eddie caught her instantly, his hands firm on her waist, pulling her flush against his side to steady her. He let out a low, playful chuckle, his breath ghosting against her temple. "Whoa there, easy. Legs a little shaky, Princess?" He looked down at her, his grin lopsided and brimming with a mix of pride and genuine concern. "What’s the matter? Do I gotta carry you the rest of the way, or can you manage the twenty feet to the porch?"
"I can walk, Eddie," she huffed, though she leaned into him heavily, letting him take most of her weight as they navigated the slick grass.
"I don't know," he teased, his arm tightening around her shoulders, pulling the leather jacket closer around her. "I think I might’ve broken you just a little bit. I should probably just sling you over my shoulder to be safe. Very 'caveman' of me, I know, but it gets the job done."
They reached the shelter of the porch, the overhang providing a brief respite from the drizzle. He turned her to face him, his back to the street, shielding her from the misty wind. He reached up, his rings cold against her cheeks as he cupped her face. The sweet Eddie was back, the one who looked at her like she was the only fixed point in a chaotic universe. He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers for a long, quiet beat.
"Tonight was..." He paused, struggling for a word that wasn't too goofy for the moment. "It was everything, Henderson. I hope you know that."
He kissed her then. A slow, deep, and lingering goodbye that tasted of the rain and the remnants of the night. It wasn't the hungry, desperate clash of the van; it was tender, a promise of more to come, a seal on the secret they now shared. When he pulled away, his eyes were soft, his thumb grazing her lower lip one last time.
"Get inside. Get warm," he whispered, his voice a low rumble. "I'll call you," Eddie promised, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried over the steady hiss of the rain. He stayed on the top step of the porch for a moment longer than necessary, his eyes tracing the line of her jaw as if he were trying to burn the image of her into his permanent memory. "First thing in the morning. Or, well, afternoon, since I’m probably going to sleep like the dead."
He took a slow step backward into the encroaching mist, the darkness of the yard beginning to swallow the lower half of his silhouette. She turned the key in the lock, the heavy click echoing in the quiet foyer, and pushed the door open. The warm, stagnant air of the house rushed out to meet her, smelling of floor wax and the mundane reality she had left behind hours ago. She paused in the threshold, one hand on the brass knob, and looked back. Eddie was standing at the edge of the porch’s yellow light, his damp hair clinging to his neck in dark, chaotic coils. He caught her eye and offered a sharp, theatrical two-finger salute before turning to disappear into the fog toward the idling van.
She eased the door shut, the latch catching with a finality that felt like the end of a long, feverish chapter. The house was silent, but her internal world was a riot of noise. Leaning her back against the wood, she let out a long, shaky exhale that puffed out in the cool hallway. It was only then, as the silence settled around her, that she realized the weight on her shoulders. She looked down and saw the cracked, heavy leather of his jacket still draped over her, the sleeves dangling past her fingertips. She hadn't even thought to give it back, and he hadn't asked for it.
She pulled the lapels closer, burying her nose in the collar. The smell hit her. It was the pure, concentrated essence of the last few hours. It was the sharp tang of Marlboros, the musk of his skin, and the damp, earthy aroma of the rain-soaked woods. It was a sensory map of Eddie Munson, and it was wrapped entirely around her. She walked toward the stairs, her movements still heavy and uncoordinated. Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else, a lingering, pleasant weakness that made her climb the steps with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Passing the hallway mirror, she caught a glimpse of a stranger: her hair was a wild, damp disaster, matted at the nape where his fingers had spent so much time, and her blouse was haphazardly buttoned, the fabric wrinkled and clinging to her skin.
She reached her bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, refusing to turn on the light. The darkness was better; it allowed the memories to play back against her eyelids in vivid, high-definition flashes. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his lips against her nipple, the slick, hot friction of him between her thighs, and the way the van had rocked in time with the storm.
She reached into the pocket of the leather jacket, her fingers brushing against a loose guitar pick and a crumpled receipt, before she simply curled up on top of her blankets, still wearing the jacket, still covered in him. Outside, the rain continued to weep against her window, but for the first time since the mall, the shadows in the corner of the room didn't feel like monsters. They felt like the dark, wild curls of a boy who had promised to call, and for the first time in her life, she didn't need a book to tell her how the story ended. She fell asleep with a lopsided smile, the taste of salt and smoke still lingering on her tongue.
Tag list? Just ask babes
(Tagging those who used to be on my Eddie story tag list)
9:35 AM PT -- We just found out Chris and Alba had a baby girl, and named her Alma Grace. She's taking both Mom and Dad's last names ... Baptista Evans, and she arrived at 1:27 PM.
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