"âŚWho is that," Curt muttered, the curtain rods creaking as he leaned forward, squinting through the window glass. "Tell me that is not who I think it is."
There was a lazy shuffle from the sun-warmed ledge, where Rod was curled. He cracked one eye open, lifted the curtain with two fingers, and blinked slowly.
"Who we peepinâ?"
Curtâs arms folded tight. "That dude."
Rod didnât even lift his head. "What dude."
"Him!" Curt flailed a hand toward the street. "Tall, dark, emotionally constipated. That one."
Rod tilted his head, squinted. "ManâŚNah. Noooope."
Curt thumped the windowsill with his palm. "Ainât no way. That ainât him⌠Oh, hell no! Not the motorcycle. He still riding that loud-ass tin can like it donât got three recalls and a damn parking ticket?"
Rod finally leaned in, catching sight of the figure. A wheezy laugh escaped as he shook his head. "And look! He still got them damn glasses!"
Curt frowned, leaning closer for confirmation. "Them glasses ainât even prescription. Man out here choosing to see blurry. Blind to red flags, blind to closure, blind to everything but his own bullshit."
Rod kept watching, head tilted. "I still donât get how he pulled them."
"I know, right?" Curt threw his hands up. "Our baby. Sweet, hot, emotionally competent baby. And him ?"
Rod snorted. "Still managed to score. Got more game than you, apparently."
Curt turned with mock offense. "Wow. So Iâm catching strays now?"
Rod raised both brows. "If the shoe fits, Casanova."
Curt glared at him, then looked back out the window with narrowed eyes. "But come on. You think itâs the cheekbones?"
Rod huffed. "Fuck no."
âYeah, me neither.â Curtâs grin spread slow, mischievous. He gave his turquoise drapes a flick. âThink if I whip these open fast enough, I could smack him with âem? Likeâshmack! Right across the nose?â
Rod grinned tooâlazy, mean. "You try it, Iâll drop the curtain rod. Straight to the dome. He wonât even know what hit him. Weâll blame it on Hector. Say it was a gust of fall air, tragic freak accident."
Curt opened his mouth to replyâthen yelped.
"OWâhey! Buddy, off!"
Curt glanced down, already wincing, just in time to catch the culprit red-pawedâSprite. Mateoâs little wire-made cat was pawing mercilessly at the hem of his beloved drapes, one thread already snagged and dangling loose.
Rod barked out a laugh and bent down, scooping up the wiry little menace like it weighed nothing. Spriteâs legs wiggled in the air, metal paws still swiping at the fabric like it had unfinished business.
Holding the squirming cat midair, Rod called over his shoulder, âHey, Mat! One of your little goblins is acting up again!â
In the living room, Mateo didnât look up. He was still kneeling by the couch, a folded blanket resting across his arms.
"Sorry, guys! Iâll come get her in a bit. Sheâs just exploring."
Mateo stayed focused, quiet in that way he always was when he was being careful. He folded the softest blanket twice over, smoothing it across the couch, checking the corners and tugging it gently into place.
He didnât say much, but it was obvious what he was doing. He was getting the space ready, just in case your ex ended up coming inside.
Because if that happened, if you were going to feel even a little shaken, or small, or cold, Mateo wanted comfort to be waiting for you.
So he placed the blanket exactly where he wanted you to sit, right between Dante and Hector.Â
Dante was busy flickering softly behind the grate, nudging at his logs with gentle warmth. Hector hummed low from the vent in the wall, sending out soft, warm air. Together, they made a quiet pocket of comfort at the edge of fall.
He wasnât the only one moving around the house. It didnât take long after that. With your hurried footsteps and rushed breathing echoing through the house, the others caught on quickly.
Needless to say, news of your exâs impending arrival spread fast. And they were worried.
You hadnât told them everything. You didnât need to. They saw it in the way your voice dipped when you said his name, in the way your shoulders flinched at sudden footsteps, in the tension that never really left your body.Â
Of course they noticed! They were made for you, after all.
That was the thing about being objects, they werenât just things. They were yours. Your comfort, your routines, your love made real in whatever shape they could take.
Strange, not-quite-human companions tucked into the bones of your home. Theyâd long since adapted to their in-between state; Half here, half not, bound to objects. Not human, no. But still able to do things for you.Â
They could still offer what they were made for.
Mateoâs blanket is never far, always finding its way over your knees the moment the room begins to chill.
Daisukeâs cup seems to know when you're reaching for it, the handle quietly turning to meet your hand, like itâs been waiting all morning.
Timothyâs alarm softens on the mornings after a hard night, letting you wake slow and safe instead of startled.Â
Dorian opens a little wider when you come home late. He once told you that he canât sleep until youâre inside.
Cabrizzio never lets you eat alone if he can help it. Even leftovers end up plated like fine dining.
Skips draws shadows across your room when itâs time for bed, like hands pulling sleep around your shoulders.
Volt and Eddie give the faintest zaps to your fingers when you get too close to the fuse box. Just enough to make you stop and think twice before you hurt yourself.Â
Cam rarely moves through the house, but he always manages to tidy up after you. Wrappers, receipts, stray socks, all scooped away before you even notice theyâre gone.
Hector leaves notes near every vent, tiny curls of paper with scrawled affirmations or half-written love stories just for you.
They all move with the houseâs old bones, like ghosts with warm hands.Â
Theyâd been shaped by you. By your routines, your comfort, your heart. Everything you needed, they became. And right now, what you needed was someone watching your back.Â
They couldnât touch your ex. Couldnât throw him out or bar the door, (though Dorian wouldâve loved to try), but they were there.Â
You open the door slower than you mean to.
That early morning hush hangs thick in the air, the sky behind is still washed in that gray-blue blur just before the day begins. Itâs the kind of hour where everything feels half-formed.Â
And Iseul is standing exactly where you hoped he wouldnât be.
You look up, and for a breathless second, the sight of his face catches you off guard.
Heâs too tall for your porch. Too sharply dressed for the quiet of your street. Too much, always too much.Â
And for a moment, all you can do is stare.
GodâHeâs still beautiful. Devastatingly so. Dark hair, darker eyes, and a jaw cut from diamond.Â
He hasnât changed much. Or maybe thatâs the problem. That same impossible elegance, untouched by time, untouched by your heartbreak.
Iseul smiles. Like your stunned silence is something heâd been waiting to hear.
"Oh," he says softly, like your appearance surprises him, even though it obviously doesnât. "There you are. Finally, I was beginning to think I hallucinated the whole agreement."
You blink, voice dry in your throat. "Youâre the one who scheduled this. For seven."
He grimaces in mock offense, placing a hand lightly over his chest like youâve said something terribly cruel. "And already, Iâm being punished. Deservedly, of course. Donât worry. Iâm not here to fight." A beat. "Well. Not with you, anyway."
You donât respond to his joke. Just shift slightly, the weight of the box in your arms suddenly awkward.
He watches you, eyes dragging slowly across your face, over your hair, your clothes, your bare feet in the doorway. Thereâs nothing lewd in it, not exactly, but the weight of it lingers.
Then he exhales, soft and low. "You didnât even get a chance to wake up properly. God, look at me, barging in like this. Iâm such an ass."
You shake your head before you even mean to. "No, itâs⌠really, itâs fine."
He doesnât say anything right away. Just shifts his weight, adjusts the set of his shoulders like heâs trying to make himself look smaller, even though his presence is anything but.Â
â"I didnât sleep either," he says, almost thoughtful. "Kept thinking about how I left things. How I left you. WhichâŚ" He trails off, glancing down at the wood beneath his feet. A bitter little laugh escapes him. "Yeah. Not exactly my proudest exit."
You press your lips together, not trusting your voice. Because heâs right, and you hate how your chest tightens in response. How the ache of it feels familiar.Â
He looks back up, and his expression is so gentle itâs almost cruel. "Iâll be quick. You donât even have to let me in. I justâŚ" He hesitates. "God⌠Baby, I wanted to see you. Thatâs selfish. I know."
He reaches for the box, hands brushing against yours as he takes it from you. His fingers are ice-cold, visibly raw at the knuckles, skin flushed deep red from the cold and chapped enough to crack.Â
His hands, gloveless, tremble just faintly as he shifts the box under his arm. He says nothing about it. But he watches your face as you notice, his eyes catching the flicker of concern that passes through you like wind through a curtain.
A part of you wonders, not for the first time, if he did it on purpose.
Thatâs all he needs.
"âŚUnless youâd rather I wait out here," he says, adjusting the box slightly. Iseul makes sure to exaggerate the shaking of his hands. "Iâd understand. Honestly. I meanâLook at me. Such a fucking mess."
He smiles, and itâs perfect. Crooked and bashful. His box of things is tucked neatly beneath one arm, but he makes no move to leave.
From the edge of your vision, you catch the faintest movement. Dorianâs hand settles slowly on the back of the door, his brows drawn in tight concern. Everything in him pleads for you not to let your ex in.
But then your gaze falls again to Iseulâs hands.
Skin too pale in the joints where circulationâs gone slack. He hadnât even worn gloves. The sight of it hits you in the gut. That familiar, terrible pang, sharp and hot and blooming just beneath your ribs.
You know itâs a trap. You know how this goes. But guilt is already slipping past your guard, whispering that you canât just leave him like this, not in the cold.
"âŚOkay," you murmur. "Iâll make you some coffee. But thenâŚ" your voice falters. "Then you have to go."
For a split second, Iseulâs mask slips. You catch the flicker of something triumphant just beneath the surface, just behind his eyes.
Then his smile spreads, slow and easy, all teeth and charm like a wolf who knows exactly where your throat is.
"Of course," he says brightly, as though your offer were the most natural thing in the world. "Lead the way."
You step back, and he follows, footsteps soundless. The second Iseul crosses the threshold, the front door slams shut behind him with a sharp, echoing crack that rings through the house like a warning.
You flinch, the sound jolting straight through your spine, but you donât turn around. You can feel the heat of Dorianâs anger behind you.
Iseul glances over his shoulder at the door, his expression soft with confusion that doesnât quite reach his eyes, lips curving into something light, almost amused, as if none of it touches him at all.
 "Huh," he says, the laugh he lets out thin and breathy. "Strong winds around here, I guess."
"Yeah," you say quickly, the words tumbling out as you turn on your heel and head for the kitchen. "Iâll, umâIâll make you something to drink. You can warm up by Dan âby the fireplace!"
You nearly fumble, the syllables wobbling on your tongue before you smother them in motion, moving too fast and speaking too brightly. "Wonât be long!"
As your footsteps vanish down the hall, Iseul lets the act go.
The pleasant curve of his mouth disappears like mist in the cold. His shoulders settle, not from exhaustion, but from relief.Â
That mask, the careful arrangement of charm and softness, the version of himself that you could still stomach, takes effort to maintain. Even now, after all the wreckage he left in his wake, you still need him to be palatable.
He exhales through his nose and drops the box of old things to the floor with a dull thud, not sparing it a glance. His gaze drifts across the room, slow and feline. He doesnât expect to find much. You were never good at hiding the things that mattered.
His gaze lands on the blanket that Mateo draped across the back of the couch, something heavy and hand-knit, worn soft with use. He steps closer and lets his fingers trail across the weave, the faintest grimace tugging at his mouth.Â
The fabric is wrong. The texture, the color, the way it slumps, this wasnât chosen with him in mind.
From the far end of the room, just past the curve of the armchair, Mateo stands still as stone, cradling Davi against his chest.
You told Mateo once, in the lull between conversations, when you still couldnât quite meet your own eyes in the mirror, that Iseul had hated soft things. Fuzzy blankets, plush rugs, anything that looked too lived-in or too comforting. He said they made your apartment feel cheap. Youâd stopped buying soft things after that. Stopped keeping anything cozy within reach. Curated your home to keep him calm, polished it smooth so nothing could catch and spark.
That blanket, the one in Iseulâs hands now, doesnât belong to that past. You bought it the week after the breakup. You wrapped yourself in it that first night alone and wept into its threads until the shape of you pressed into the fibers.Â
And thatâs why Mateo loves it. Because it loves you back.Â
Davi shifts faintly in his arms as if the little creature can already sense the air turning heavier. Mateo sighs and soothes a hand along the top of his head.Â
"Stay calm, cariĂąo," he whispers, voice warm with love and low with knowing. "Donât worry. Theyâve been through worse than this⌠and theyâre not alone anymore."
Iseul continues to drift through the space, his gaze sweeping lazily over the familiar angles of the room. When he reaches the coffee table, he pauses.Â
A tea set rests there, simple and carefully arranged. Two handmade teacups sit side by side, slightly uneven, imperfect in shape. Theyâre not expensive, not delicate bone china, but they carry a quiet kind of care.
He lifts one cup between his fingers, turning it toward the light. The surface is smooth with no cracks and no chips. Itâs beautiful, he canât deny that. And maybe thatâs why it irritates him.
His grip tightens, just slightly.
CRACK.
A hairline fracture splits along the handle. A satisfied smile creeps on his lips and he sets it back down too gently, like nothing happened.
From across the room, Daisuke flinches. His hand lifts to his upper arm, where a thin line now splits the surface of his form. He draws in a sharp breath but doesnât cry out. Instead, his eyes snap to Iseul, dark with something quieter than fury. It isnât the pain that gets to him. Itâs the intent.Â
The cups hadnât been expensive. They werenât part of some matching set. Just a pair of handmade pieces from a pottery class you took during one of the rougher months. One handle sat crooked, the glaze had pooled too thick at the base. But Daisuke had loved it from the moment you handed it to him.
On the mantle, Dante watches closely as Daisuke retreats into the kitchen, his posture rigid, every movement clipped with restrained anger. The faint clink of a glass being set down echoes from beyond the doorway.
Iseul shifts a step closer to the fire and Danteâs eyes narrow. A low, warning scoff crackles in his chest, the sound dry and sharp as ember-crushed charcoal. No warmth rises to meet the man. The flames in the hearth flicker once, then shrink, curling in on themselves.Â
Iseul pauses in front of the fireplace, head tilted slightly. His eyes narrow as he watches the way the flames flicker and pull away from him, guttering low. For a moment, one flame flares sharp and fast. It looked almost like a face, twisted and bared.
Dante feels the heat surge, that old instinct to lunge, to reach out and scorch the skin clean off the man who once hollowed you out. But he pulls it back, swallows it down, chains it to the pit of his fire.Â
The flames gutter. Iseul blinks, and the snarling flare is gone.
"Right," he mutters to no one. "Losing it already."
He assumes the fireplace simply hasnât been stocked and turns to look for a heater, anything that might explain the biting chill still hanging in the air. His gaze catches on a vent tucked high near the ceiling, and just below it, three sticky notes cling to the wall. The edges are curled, the paper yellowing slightly, as if theyâve been left there long enough to become part of the room.
Without thinking, he reaches out and peels one free. The handwriting is careful, pressed deep into the paper like the words had weight.
"If I am to haunt this world, let it be only in your shadow. Let me linger on your skin, let me rot behind your walls so long as I am near you still."
âH.
Iseulâs jaw tightens. He doesnât mean to pick up the next one, but his fingers move before the thought can catch up.
"I loved you before I had the words for it. I will love you long after language or the air I give you to breathe fails me."
âH.
His lips curl, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.Â
Of course. You already had someone else.
You always were starved for affection. The kind of person whoâd fall in love with anything that looked at you too long. A sad little sponge, he thinks, soaking up the first drop of attention like it was holy.
Another note waits beneath the vent, edges folded inward, like it wanted to stay hidden. He unfolds it anyway.
"You are my first thought. The one I bleed into morning, still tasting you on the cusp of sleep. And my final sin at night, when the vents groan and the air turns too still with the silence thick with the ghost of your warmth. I ache where you once pressed your name into me. A lie I forgive with trembling hands, because I cannot bear the truth of a house where even the air refuses to forget you."
âH.
This one, Iseul crumples.
Behind him, unseen, HĂŠctor grips the edge of the vent with both hands. His knuckles bleach bone-white from fury held tight beneath his skin. The metal groans in protest like it might tear away from Wallace just to mirror the rage building in him.
Frost begins to spread across the grille in delicate, violent veins, blooming outward like rot in reverse. A sudden current tears through the room and hits Iseul square in the back.
The man shudders at the sudden drop in temperature but doesnât turn around. Instead, his eyes fall to the space beside the armrest of the couch. An open book lies face down, its spine creased with use.Â
A romance novel. Its title in Italian, the cover soft and worn at the edges. He picks it up slowly, brows drawing together in mild confusion. You never liked this genre.
But as he flips through the pages, he finds margin notes scribbled in looping cursive. Passages are underlined. Tiny hearts, faintly highlighted, bloom in the corners of certain lines. The handwriting isnât yours. The language isnât one you speak.
His lips twitch into a humorless smile. "Some European lover boy, huh?"
He lingers on the page, thumb digging into the spine. âYou always did bend yourself into whatever shape someone else found beautiful. Guess it only took the loudest voice to drown out the rest of you.â
Before he can read any further, a cabinet door slams somewhere in the kitchen. Iseul lifts a brow, head tilting just slightly as he sees you shuffle past the doorway, heading toward the sound. You disappear from view, but your voice carries low. It sounds like you're comforting someone.
Interesting.
With a hum, he slides the book back into place, just slightly off-center from the pillow beside it. Then he straightens his coat, adjusts the lay of his collar, and exhales through his nose.
So your new boyfriend is hiding in the kitchen.Â
Noted.Â
Heâll be sure to pay a visit later.
Cabrizzio was still buzzing, tight and coiled like a kettle seconds from screaming. His hip slammed against the counter as he helped Daisuke ease into the chair.
âChe bastardo,â he spat, teeth clenched. âBreaks you like youâre nothing.â
Cam rolled in from the sink, arms folded like steel. âPlease. You know him. Give that guy anything good, and he ruins itâjust to see what crawls out of the wreckage.â
Daisuke said nothing at first. He sat motionless, the fine crack down his arm gleaming like a scar etched in porcelain. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm as ever yet edged.
âHe has not changed. Still rot beneath a fresh coat of paint. Still, I am⌠displeased he laid a hand on me.â
âDispleased?â Camâs brow shot up. âDispleased is what you say when someone scuffs your finish. This?â He scoffed. âIf I had fists, Iâd be swinging.â
Cabrizzio circled behind Daisuke, movements gentler now. âCoward with a poetâs mouth and a spine made of string. Twists words into honey, then watches you choke on it. Thatâs why they stayed. Thatâs why they still tremble.â
The soft scuff of feet drew their attention. You stood at the threshold, teetering. Red-eyed, hollowed, holding yourself like something fragile. And tucked just behind you, Tony, carrying a repair kit in one hand, a bottle of ceramic-safe glue in the other.
"Donâ you worry, baby," Tony said, one gloved hand running firm and slow down your back. "Iâm gonna get him fixed up real nice. Betta than new, eh? Youâll see. Like he never even chipped."
You opened your mouth, but no words came. Just that look. That quiet guilt spilling out of your posture, pooling in the space between you and Daisuke.
Cam clocked it instantly and made a sharp, disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Oh, for fuckâs sake. Donât. Whatever youâre about to say, donât. If you apologize for that shitstainâs tantrum, I swear."
"I shouldâveâ" you tried, voice cracking.
"No."
Daisukeâs tone was soft but absolute. "You should not have had to."
Tony pressed a kiss to your head as he passed, then knelt beside Daisuke with the ease of someone whoâd done it a hundred times before. He set the repair kit down and began sorting through his tools.
" Hey. This ainât on you, alright ? You didnât break nothinâ. You justâ" he gave a sharp sniff, working the cap off the glue, "âgot stuck cleaninâ up after a stronzo who ainât got the balls to own what he ruins."
Daisuke inclined his chipped side slightly toward you. "I am fine. Please. Let us not make too much of a fuss about this. You are already shaken as it is. There is no need to add to the pile."
You opened your mouth to protest, but Cabrizzio was already stepping in, holding a tray in both hands. His eyes found yours gently, earnest and sure.
"Here," he said. "Vai, amore. You have what it takes to get him out of here. Of this, we are certain."
"The blue mug, it is yours," he continued, gesturing lightly. "The otherâŚ" He gave a little, almost theatrical shrug. "That one is for him . Itâs one of Kopiâsâhow you sayâspecial blends. Very strong. Very⌠unique."
You arched a brow, glancing over his shoulder to see Kopi stifling a laugh, steam coiling up around her like a mischievous spirit.
"What?" she said, grinning. "You think I wouldnât doctor the brew? Please. That man needs something stronger than coffee."
Cam muttered from the corner, dry as ever. "And maybe a boot to the head."
Tony, still crouched by Daisukeâs side, didnât look up. "Save the boot. I need both hands for the glue."
The tension, brittle just moments ago, had begun to thaw. Cabrizzio shifted closer and gently set the tray into your hands. His voice dropped, sincere beneath all its velvet.
"Va bene," he said. "We hold the line here. But you⌠you go face your ghost, tesoro."
By the time you return, the tray balanced carefully in your hands and the mugs of coffee cradled in both palms, your expression is already betraying you. Thereâs guilt in your eyes poorly hidden beneath the thin mask of a smile.
"Sorry," you say, voice too light, too rushed, as you set the mugs down on the coffee table. "The coffee machine was acting up. Took forever to heat."
Iseul nods, faintly, but his attention isnât on your words. Heâs watching you. The twitch in your fingers. The way your shoulders wonât quite relax. The way you avoid his eyes.
He hums like heâs listening, but heâs not.
His gaze drifts, catches on the mark just beneath your jaw. A bruise, dark and fresh, blooming where someone else had their mouth on you. It lingers there a moment, unreadable, but too still to be nothing.
Last night. Maybe this morning. Someone else got close. Close enough to touch, to make you laugh. The way you used to laugh for him.
Then his eyes land on the jacket draped around your shoulders. Oversized, deep green, a bold stitched H on the chest.
His jaw shifts.
In his pocket, his fingers close around the crumpled love note he swiped earlier. He doesnât need to unfold itâhe remembers the signature.
H.
His eyes narrow. He feels it now, that familiar heat building in the back of his throat. A greedy kind of ache. The sick, sour taste of something being taken from him.Â
"Iseul�"
He blinks slowly, shoulders rolling back as he forces out a breath and smooths over his reaction with something charming, almost bashful.
"Trouble with the machine, huh?" he says, eyes still locked on the bruise like itâs the only thing in the room. "That happens. You always did have a complicated relationship with appliances."
You canât see many of them right now â the dateables. Not fully. Some seem to be giving you space, hiding just outside your field of vision, not wanting to crowd you. But their presence is still here.Â
You laugh, awkward and light, trying to fill the space. "Yeah⌠never really did get along with them."Â
You hear the soft rustle of a curtain shifting in offense, the faint clink of a teacup being set a little too hard on wood. You catch low murmurs, indistinct but annoyed, a collective grumble of affectionate protest.
You bite back a smile. They heard that. They didnât like your little self-drag. And as always, theyâve got your back.
After handing Iseul his mug, you sink into the spot Mateo so clearly prepared for you, the cushion still warm, the blanket tucked and draped just right, soft as breath against your skin.Â
Kopiâs coffee steams gently in your hands. You take a slow sip and exhale through your nose. Itâs perfect, of course. She always knows exactly how you take it.
Isuel takes a sip of his own drink, eyes still fastened to your throat like heâs trying to memorize the bruised skin. His expression twitches, the blend clearly not to his taste. The bitterness punches through first, and his lips pull into a faint grimace.
You giggle at the look on his face, and almost on cue, the room begins to warm.
A quiet hum stirs from above, followed by the low, comforting sigh of heat drifting from the vents â HĂŠctor. At the same time, the fireplace flickers to life, a lazy, gentle flame rising without fanfare. Dante, as always, never needing to be asked.
Only then do you realize how cold the room had been when you first came in.
You glance toward the hearth, searching for answers, but Dante pointedly avoids your gaze. You hide a small smile behind your mug.
Yeah. They donât like him. Not one bit.
Itâs been thirty whole damn minutes.
Youâre tense, shoulders tight, knees drawn close, as you watch Iseul take his goddamn time with the coffee. He swirls it like a food critic, savoring it as if itâs aged wine and not a rushed brew from a coffee machine.
He glances over the rim of his mug at you.
"So," he starts, voice low and falsely casual, like this is just any other day. "Still living on your own?"Â
He takes another sip before setting the cup down with deliberate slowness. Shifts on the couch. Something about it clearly doesnât sit right with him. After a beat, he stands.
A slow step forward.
âYou always said you liked the quiet,â he murmurs.
You donât answer. Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. Your grip on your mug tightens.
He steps even closer, and the heat of him creeps into your space. "But too much quiet? That starts to feel lonely."
Your body pulls back before you even realize it. Your spine presses deeper into the couch, legs curling tighter, breath caught in your throat. The momentâs too close, too familiar. His words feel like fingers trying to pick a lock in your chest. You wrap the blanket tighter around your shoulders, wishing you could disappear into the fabric.
Then the window slams open.
BANG.
A gust of wind bursts through the room like a thrown punch. Curtâs turquoise curtains fly up, sharp and sudden, catching the draft like sails in a storm. They whip straight into Iseulâs face with the kind of precision that feels personal.
"Owâwhat the hell?" He stumbles back, arm flailing, mug sloshing dangerously. The curtains wrap and slap around his head like theyâve got a score to settle.
You jolt upright, clutching your own mug as you watch the scene unfold. Just as Iseul manages to peel one curtain away, the rod above gives up entirely. It tears loose from the wall and crashes down with a sharp, metallic thunk.
Right on his head.
He yelps again, the sound half-muffled by fabric, as the rod bounces off his shoulder and clatters to the floor.Â
Silence follows.Â
You glance over at Curt and Rod. Rod was still sprawled out on the floor, and Curt was still draped over Iseul, both of them laughing like idiots. Clearly proud of what they just caused.
And even with the knot still tight in your chest, their laughter is infectious. You feel it bubbling up before you can stop it. You duck your head behind your mug, trying to swallow it down. But itâs there, warm and bright at the back of your throat. You laugh. Loudly.
Iseul hears it.
âFor fuckâs sake, Iâve had it!â
His mug slams down on the table, coffee sloshing out in a sharp arc. The crack of ceramic on wood snaps. Then heâs moving, crossing the space with all the weight of a storm breaking loose.
You barely set your cup aside before heâs on you.
Strong fingers twist into the front of your tank top. He yanks hard, dragging you upright. Your spine jars against the couch. Your breath catches. And suddenly, heâs right there. Face contorted, jaw clenched, eyes no longer pretending.
âYou think youâre better than me now?â he snarls, voice rising. âThat what this is? One taste of someone giving a damn and suddenly Iâm beneath you?â
âIseulââ Your voice trembles. âYouâre hurting me.â
He leans in. Sneering.
Your hands push against his chest, trying to create space, but he doesnât budge. His grip only tightens.
"Only thing you were ever good for was serving someone else . Smiling real nice, keeping quiet, doing what you were told. Thatâs what he likes, right?" His gaze drops to your neck, to the bruise there. His mouth curls. "Bet you make it easy for him. Real easy."
His grip tightens again, and you cry out, short and sharp.
"You think youâve got power now? You think this is yours ? You think this quiet little house makes you strong?"
The light above flickers once. Then again. Then again.
The air shifts. Thickens. The hairs along your arms stand up. The room hums in energy. But Iseul doesnât notice.
"I fucking built you!" he shouts, spit flying. "I was the only one who saw you when you were nothing! Youâre useful. Thatâs all you are. And when heâs done using you, youâll come crawling back just like you always doâ"
SNAP.
The lamp beside you explodes in a shower of sparks.
A searing bolt of electricity arcs from the socket and strikes Iseul directly in the shoulder. The sound is blinding, a sizzling pop followed by the sharp smell of burning fabric and ozone.
Iseul screams, a real scream this time as his body jerks from the force. His hand rips from your shirt and he stumbles backward.
Smoke curls from the seams of his jacket. His fingers twitch, convulsing slightly. His mouth works soundlessly for a second before breath finally claws its way out of him.
You're frozen, heartbeat hammering in your ears, until you feel a hand, Mateoâs, press gently against your back. A blanket falls over your shoulders, warm and grounding, as he eases you away from the couch. His voice is quiet in your ear, his hands snaking up to cover your eyes.
He guides you out of the living room just as Curt and Rod snap the blinds shut, one after the other. A moment later, Dorian turns the lock on the front door with a click.
Iseulâs head snaps upward.
His eyes flick wildly across the room, darting from shadow to shadow, searching for something that makes sense of what just happened. But nothing answers.Â
From the corners of the room, shadowed tendrils begin to unfurl along the walls, crawling slowly. Electricity crackles wildly through the air, lightbulbs pulsing in rapid flickers. The vents scream to life, spewing blasts of blistering heat. At the same time, the fireplace surges upward, flames roaring with such intensity they seem desperate to claw their way free from the stone.
Then the voice comes. One thAT does not belong in any human throat.
It is low and massive as if spoken through bone and ash. The sound slithers through the room with a crushing weight that makes the walls creak.
"You dare lay hands on my penumbra?"
The words strike Iseul like a blow. His chest seizes. His breath falters. His feet scramble for purchase, slipping on his spilled coffee and the mess of his own panic.
From the darkest stretch of shadow near the hearth, something begins to rise.
Claws drag against the floorboards as the figure pulls itself upright. It straightens slowly, body is nothing but thick, writhing shadow, built like smoke given mass, trembling at the edges where reality tries and fails to reject it.
Horns curve back from its head, the bone chipped and darkened with time. The creatureâs jaw hangs open in a twisted grin, and beyond it lies nothing but blackness, cavernous and unnatural, rimmed with glinting teeth that donât belong to any animal that ever walked this earth.
It steps forward once.
Iseul stumbles backward, mouth open, lips shaping a scream that never comes. It dies somewhere in his throat, strangled by fear.Â
The voice returns, softer now.
"You think this house is yours to haunt?" it rasps, almost gently, though the fury hasnât left. "You think they are yours to hurt?"
Then, from somewhere else, a second voice cuts in. âOh, dear⌠youâve really done it now.â
A crack of blue light splits the ceiling, blinding as a camera flash. Electricity tears through the air, hissing like a live wire. It strikes without warning, snapping at Iseulâs feet, then coiling up his limbs in spiraling arcs of white-blue light.
Then the shadows come. They pour in fast, fluid and wrong, slithering out from corners, crawling from beneath furniture. One clamps tight around his ankle. Another coils around his wrist, then his throat, then his chestâIseul is yanked upward an inch from the floor.Â
Then, everything goes black.
Youâre nestled in Mateoâs arms, wrapped in the soft cocoon of blankets and his warmth. He holds you close, his chest rising and falling against your back, and every now and then he leans down to press gentle kisses to your cheek.
Betty and Dirk are curled up beside you, equally content. Betty snores lightly at your other side, her arm twitching every so often in some lazy dream, while Dirk is sprawled across your stomach. He lets out a little grunt when you shift but doesnât move.
The Hanks have claimed every inch of your room that isnât bed. The boys are stretched across the floor, perched on chairs, hanging off the dresser. At least two of them are attempting to build a fort using your laundry.Â
Theyâre loud and ridiculous and refuse to let the heaviness settle too deep. Jokes fly across the room. Laughter spills over itself.
Downstairs, the sounds change. You hear Voltâs low, crackling growl, Eddieâs deeper rumble, Skipâs voice cutting through every now and then, and under it all, Dorianâs voice echoes.
A sudden shout erupts and you flinch before you can stop yourself. Mateo notices and pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he presses a kiss to your temple.Â
His voice is soft in your ear. "Donât worry, mi vida. Theyâve got it."
You just nod and let your head rest back against Mateoâs shoulder, the warmth of him grounding you in a way that nothing else can right now.
"Babe, watch this!" one of the Hanks calls out and when you glance over, you see Hank 4 trying to do a handstand in the narrow space between the dresser and the door.
He manages to hold it for maybe two seconds before toppling over in a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter, knocking into Hank 2 on the way down.
"Bro!"
You shake your head with a quiet smile, the corner of your mouth tugging up despite everything. Absolute idiots.
You must have drifted off at some point, but when you wake, thereâs a stillness to the house. There are no more raised voices echoing from downstairs. No snarls. No low growls vibrating through the floorboards.Â
Then, the door creaks open, quiet and cautious.
You lift your head from Mateoâs shoulder to see Curt and Rod stepping in. They hover in the doorway for a moment like theyâre not sure if theyâre allowed. Curt offers a small, tentative smile as he approaches.
"Hey, baby," he murmurs. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than usual.
Rod trails behind him, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. His shoulders are hunched, his jaw set tight.
âWe just came to say that we screwed up,â Curt says at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. âWe never meant for it to get that far.â
Rod nods, stepping forward slowly. "We thought pissing him off would throw him. Knock him off balance so he wouldnât try anything. But it backfired. He zeroed in on you." His voice wavers. "And you got hurt. Because of us."
Curt sits on the edge of the bed beside you and gently brushes his knuckles across the back of your hand. "We love you, okay? We were trying to protect you â in our own dumb way. We didnât think heâd snap like that."
You shake your head, not in anger but in exhaustion. "Guys, itâs okay. Really. Iâm just glad itâs over. Iseul has a temper â you didnât make him like that."
"Youâre too good to us, baby," Rod says quietly, a guilty smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lets out a slow breath, then tilts his head toward the hallway, listening.Â
"Um. So... whatâs going on down there?" you ask, hesitant, a twist of anxiety in your stomach.
Rodâs lips twitch into a smirk. "Oh, theyâre jumping him."
â Were jumping him,â Curt mutters, elbowing Rod sharply before glancing at you with a flash of guilt.
âItâs fine now, though!â he adds quickly, trying to sound reassuring. âTheyâre just doing cleanup. Hoove, Kopi, Wyndolynâeveryoneâs on it. Theyâve got it handled.â
âAnd he is not coming back here again, baby,â Curt says firmly as he strides across the room. With a little flourish, he yanks open the bedroom curtain. âSee for yourself.â
You twist in Mateoâs arms and peer out the window. Down on the street, Iseul is scrambling across the lawn, blood on his collar and panic in his step. He throws one last look over his shoulder before kicking his motorcycle into gear. The engine screams as he peels away, tires skidding across the pavement before disappearing into the night.
Behind you, Curt mutters, "Thatâs what I thought," under his breath.
You exhale, slowly, like the last of the tension is finally allowed to leave your body.
Rod flops down onto the foot of the bed with a familiar, lazy grin. "Anyway, thereâs a lot of people asking for you."
You groan, burying your face deeper into Mateoâs arms. "Let me guess. House meeting?"
"You bet," Rod says. "Mayor Celiaâs already planning it. Full agenda and everything."
You sigh again. "Everyoneâs going to treat me like Iâm made of glass."
"Well, duh, babe," Hank 5 says, raising his eyebrows like itâs obvious. "You almost got hit by your nerd ex. Weâre not just gonna not worry."
"Facts," Hank 1 calls from the closet, digging through a pile of hoodies. "You're the house baby now. Minimum of five check-ins a day from us!"
"Theyâre  already our baby," Hank 3 grins, popping his head up from behind the couch. "Iâve just been waiting for everyone else to catch up."
You roll your eyes. "Youâre all idiots."
Curt smirks, flopping beside Rod. "Certified, baby. But weâre your idiots."
Mateo chuckles and nuzzles your cheek. "I swear this is all coming from a place of love. Youâre not alone in this. Not for a second."
From your stomach, Dirk snores loudly.
"See? Even he agrees, babe."Â
thanks so much for the love you all showed! sorry i couldn't include everyone :( next chapter will, however, be full on comfort! each datable will have their own little scene with you! i will try my best to add a lotta them!
Description: Eddie loves watching you getting ready. His full undivided attention is on youâŚuntil he finds a little Rubikâs cube on one of your shelves. Naturally, he just has to prove he can get it done under a minute.
Tags/warnings: just eddie being the fluffiest and coolest boyfriend ever, gets kinda suggestive.
Note: The moment they said he could do this I knew I had to write a little something about it <3 and Iâm never letting this go!! he really is the coolest person ever and I'd kiss him stupid too if he did this in front of me đ¤ enjoy!!
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Eddie has priorities when heâs allowed in the sacred walls of your bedroom.Â
Heâs leaning against the window heâd climbed through an hour ago. He came earlier just to âhang outâ, but the truth is he just likes watching you with heart eyes as you stroll around the room getting ready, looking all happy and absolutely gorgeous in your date night outfit.
So, naturally, his eyes are fixed on you. Checking you out every time you turn around from your vanity to tell him something.Â
âEds, does this sweater look good for where weâre going? I donât wanna get cold,â you ask, brushing off some pieces of lint from the sleeves.Â
To be fair, Eddie thinks even a sack of potatoes would look hot as hell on you, but he settles for just nodding and smiling at you with all his adoration.Â
âItâs lovely, sweetheart,â he says, delighting in the way you beam at the compliment. âNot like I wouldnât keep you warm if you need it, you know, boyfriend privileges and allâŚâ he adds, shrugging nonchalantly but already wearing that smug grin that drives you mad.Â
âImagine my relief,â you laugh, shaking your head, turning your back to him again to spritz some perfume.Â
Heâs about to say something else, when something on your bookshelf catches his attention. A Rubikâs cube. Unsolved. Just sitting pretty on the shelf and practically calling for his name.Â
Eddie brushes past you to grab it. âDidnât know you had one of these, babe,â he says, lifting it up in the air like he finally found something more interesting than the way your hair looks tonight.Â
You glance at him sideways. âOh, yeah, Iâve been trying to practice with it, butâŚmy brother wonât share his secrets. Guess Iâve given up on it,â you chuckle, more focused on choosing your accessories than the cheeky grin growing on his face.Â
Ah, a challenge.
âJust give me a few seconds, angel,â he drawls giddily, walking away and plopping onto your bed dramatically, fingers already working the color blocks.Â
The confidence in his voice makes you stop only for a moment from adjusting your necklace, but you donât turn around as you shrug with a chuckle, âSure. Knock yourself out, rockstar.âÂ
The teasing tone and the way you donât even look at him as you keep focused on your reflection only makes it better. God, it makes it so much better.Â
Oh, sweetheart. Do you not know who youâre talking to? He thinks. A Rubik's cube? Please.Â
Eddieâs been doing this for long enoughâbefore he even picked up a guitarâthat heâs already halfway through and his fingers practically vibrate from anticipation. He canât wait to see your face.Â
Twist. Solved another color. Twist.Â
And when he clicks the final move that finishes the cubeâ30 seconds in mind you, but whoâs counting?âhe rises from the bed, quietly but triumphant, and places it on top of your vanity when you turn around to grab a bracelet.Â
You almost crash onto him, as he leans all smug against the wood. But this time is not his smile that knocks the air out of your chest, but the solved stupid little cube between you.Â
âEddieâŚHowâwhat??â You stammer in disbelief, as your eyes dart from the cube to his face multiple times, and he has to keep himself from laughing.Â
âThe secret, sweetheart, is when people underestimate you,â he says, leaning closer to you. âNow would you close that pretty mouth so we can go?â
He expects a giggle. Maybe a playful shove to the shoulder. A âGod, youâre annoyingâ or even a âTeach me, baby.â Which, he wouldâve delighted to do of course.
But what he doesnât expect is the way your eyes darken, and the flirty little smile that takes over your dumbfounded expression.Â
You drop the bracelet you were holding next to the cube, and Eddie barely has time to register anything before youâre dragging him by the collar of his leather jacket toward your bed. He lets out a surprised, cocky little laugh as you guide him to sit on the mattress.
âThatâs all it takes, sweetheart?â He teases, already clocking your intentions as you climb onto his lap with enthusiasm. âA little plastic toy and youâre all worked up?â
You hum, unashamed. âLetâs say I have a thing for skilled hands,â you whisper, dragging your palms up his chest, batting your eyelashes at him. âWe might be a little late...âÂ
His grin widens when you roll your hips teasingly, feeling heâs just as worked up as you under his jeans. âYou say that like itâs a bad thing,â he chuckles, hands landing tightly on your hips, anchoring you to his lap.Â
You shrug playfully, already melting under his touch. âI just want to know what else you are secretly amazing atâŚâÂ
âOh, angelâŚâÂ
Thump. One second you are straddling him. The next, your back hits the bed as he flips you over before you can blink. Eddie hovers over you, his curly hair tickling your chin as he drags his fingers up your thigh teasingly.Â
âWe wonât be late at all,â Eddie grins, oh he grins like the little devil he is. âI can get you there under a minute too.â
Wink.
Thank you so much for reading đ¤ feedback is always appreciated â¨
đŠđđ˘đŤđ˘đ§đ : eddie munson x fem!reader
đ°đ¨đŤđ đđ¨đŽđ§đ: 4.7k
đđđ đŹ: fluff
đŹđŽđŚđŚđđŤđ˛: Eddie Munson's crush on you was manageable from a distance. But now that he's friends with your brother Dustin, you're suddenly, terrifyingly close. His mission: be cool. The result: a spectacular failure that just might be the key to your heart.
đ/đ§: split this up into multiple parts cause it was getting wayyyy too long
It wasnât a secret, not really. Secrets were for things you actively hid, things that festered in the dark with the bitter taste of shame or fear. What existed between you and Dustin was something else entirely: a quiet, mutual understanding, a natural consequence of orbiting different suns in the chaotic, small-town galaxy of Hawkins High.
He was Dustin Henderson, a supernova of unapologetic weirdness, proudly branded by the Hellfire Club. His world smelled of old paper and the electric tang of a soldering iron. It was a universe mapped in the clatter of twenty-sided dice on a wooden table, in the frantic crackle of a walkie-talkie cutting through static with life-or-death urgency. His language was built on theories so wild they could unravel the very laws of physics, a future pioneer in some scientific field nobody else in these hallways could even pronounce.
You were his half-sister, a celestial body of a different sort: a varsity cheerleader with a smile that could halt traffic and a reputation so spotless it practically gleamed under the judgmental fluorescent lights. Your world was built on the sharp, clean scent of gymnasium polish and the saccharine cloud of cheap hairspray. You knew the comforting weight of a borrowed letterman's jacket on your shoulders and found solace in the crisp, certain pages of textbooks you aced without breaking a sweat. Your kingdom was the sun-drenched bleachers and the roaring Friday night crowd, a world of clear rules and tangible victories.
Yet, your gravitational pulls were inextricably linked. The same silence that fell in the Henderson household after a bad day held space for both of you. A shared glance across the cafeteria could communicate a universe of supportâa raised eyebrow from him when a jock said something particularly dumb, a subtle, encouraging nod from you when he walked into a room full of snickers.Â
You existed within the same four walls, bound by the same history of shared Christmases and silent, understanding looks across the dinner table when your mom got that tone in her voice.Â
It was a conscious, carefully maintained orbit. Easier this way. Safer. A silent pact, signed not with a handshake but with a thousand averted gazes in the school hallway, to let the other survive in their own habitat, untouched by the particular predators that stalked the other's world.
The different last names were the first line of defence, a bureaucratic blessing that drew a clear, public line in the sand. The only partial, faintly visible shared geneticsâa similar, mischievous curve at the corner of a smile, perhaps, or the same habit of raising an eyebrow in sceptical unisonâwere subtle enough to be dismissed as coincidence. They were ghosts of a relation, nothing the casual observer would ever think to trace back to its source.
It was a convenient truth, one that required no effort to conceal because no one in your respective orbits ever thought to look for it. Their attention spans were too short, their worlds too self-contained. The jocks, scanning the bleachers for a flicker of your approval, their vision clouded by the sheen of your varsity jacket, never once glanced toward the dim, chaotic sanctuary of the drama room where he held court with a twenty-sided die and a grand plan. Conversely, his fellow dungeon crawlers, locked in fervent debate over a demogorgonâs tactical weaknesses or the arcane politics of the Upside Down, would never think to seek a cheerleaderâs opinion. Why would they? You were a resident of a different planet entirely, one where the only monsters were social ones, and the only battles fought for a spot on the homecoming court.
Mike and Lucas knew the full story, of course. Having been officially adopted into the Henderson fold years agoâtheir DNA practically rewritten by shared trauma and a thousand sleepoversâthey were the keepers of the file. They treated the knowledge not with gossipy excitement, but with the grim, procedural gravity of a top-secret government dossier. It was a need-to-know truth, and they, as senior operatives in the chaotic landscape that was their adolescence, needed to know.
To them, your familial connection was not a piece of salacious trivia; it was a strategic datum. They understood its importance to the delicate ecosystem of their own lives, a key piece of intelligence that explained certain logistical realities. They saw no tactical advantage in disseminating it to the wider population. In the high school warzone, some intel was best kept compartmentalised.
To Mike and Lucas, it was just another feature on the strange, complicated map of Hawkinsâa faded, familial ley line that connected the gleaming, alien territory of the gym to the familiar, sacred ground of the basement game room. They were content, diligent cartographers that they were, to let that particular line remain faint, unmarked, and undrawn for everyone else. It wasn't a secret to be kept, but a boundary to be respectedâone of the many silent, unspoken rules that kept their small, fiercely protected world turning.
And at the heart of it all, your bond with Dustin was the one thing that felt unshakably, undeniably real. In a world of performative friendships and shifting alliances, it was your bedrock. While your cheer squad smiled with gritted teeth through whispered rivalries, and your study partners were temporary allies of convenience, Dustin was your anchor. He was your constant in a universe of variables.
You were the first, slightly hysterical call after a disastrous, stammering attempt to talk to Suzie, listening without judgment to the replay of every fumbled word. You were his designated driver to the arcade, your payment rendered in a palmful of stale Skittles and a running commentary of scientific trivia that you only half-understood but wholly adored because it was his. When the storms of teenage angst or high school hierarchy grew too wild, you were the safe harbour he could always sail into, no questions asked.
The two of you were a sealed system, a closed circuit of unconditional support. In the carefully partitioned worlds you both navigatedâyou in your kingdom of pom-poms and pep rallies, him in his empire of dice and demodogsâyour relationship was the one place where you could both stand down. You didn't have to be the perfect cheerleader or the formidable nerd. You could just be. He was more than a brother; he was home base. And in a game where the rules were always changing, that was everything.
But now, a different kind of storm was brewing on the horizonâone that smelled of worn leather, damp weed, and the electric ozone of cheap thrash metal. It had a physical form: a whirlwind of restless energy contained within a wiry frame, a symphony of silver rings on every finger, and warm, knowing brown eyes that seemed to see past every carefully constructed façade to the raw wiring beneath. It had a voice, tooâa low, compelling rasp that could command a room of misfits with a single dramatic flourish or shred a guitar solo that felt like bottled lightning, dangerous and brilliant.
As Eddie "The Freak" Munson sank his claws into your brother's life with the fervor of a prophet finding a new disciple, he didn't just bring a new friend. He brought a whole new religion of chaos, a doctrine of unapologetic rebellion preached from the pulpit of a beaten-up lunchroom table. He was the untamable variable in your brother's once-predictable scientific equations, the glitch in the system. He was a living, breathing monster manual entry that broke all the established rules, and Dustin was studying him with rapt, unwavering fascination.
And with every late-night D&D session that ran past curfew, with every cursed cassette tape of screeching guitars that filtered under Dustin's bedroom door and into the fabric of your quiet home, you felt it. The careful, quiet peace youâd built togetherâthe delicate equilibrium of your separate orbitsâbegan to tremble on its very foundations.Â
Eddie had always nursed a grudging, privately entertained soft spot for you from afar, a fact heâd readilyâand theatricallyâlament after a few beers in the sanctuary of his trailer. "It's a classic tragedy, man!" he'd proclaim, gesturing wildly with a bottle. "The king of the freaks, laid low by the most predictable clichĂŠ in the book!" And who could blame him? Who didn't harbor some distant, starlit admiration for you? You were the holy trifecta of high school divinity: smoking hot, disgustingly popular, andâmost bafflingly of allâseemingly, genuinely nice.
You didn't sneer at the freaks and losers from your gleaming throne atop the social food chain. You didn't deploy your squad like mean-girl infantry to carve up the school's underbelly for sport. No, you were far more subversive. You just offered a benign, traffic-stopping smile that never quite reached the eyes of the people who didn't matter, and moved on with your charmed life, utterly unbothered. It was a quiet, effortless power that was the complete antithesis of his own loud, performative existence. You weren't playing the game; you were so far above it, you didn't even know there was a game. And that, to Eddie Munson, was the most infuriatingly, intriguingly charming thing heâd ever witnessed.
Lately, however, that dormant soft spot had begun to itch, a persistent, distracting sensation under his skin, like a corrupted track on a well-worn cassette that kept skipping back to the same maddening riff. It was a glitch in his own carefully curated persona. And suddenly, his perception had shifted, his vision attuned to your frequency. He was seeing you everywhere, your golden, sun-bleached presence a stark and polluting contrast to the grim, familiar corners of his world.
There you were, a vision of pristine varsity wool and effortless cool leaning against the scuffed, graffiti-marred lockers outside the science lab. But the real anomaly wasn't your locationâit was the fact you were actually listening, head tilted, a real, unguarded laugh bursting from your lips at something Henderson said. The sound was a clean, sharp note that cut through the hallway's dull roar, and it hooked itself directly into his brain.
There you were again, parked in your obnoxiously shiny, parent-approved car right outside Family Video. You were drumming your perfectly manicured fingers on the steering wheel to a beat he couldn't hearâhis beat, he irrationally hoped, something fast and violentâwhile you waited for Dustin to run his nerd errands. You were a splash of vibrant color on his monochrome map of Hawkins, a siren's call from the deck of a ship he was supposed to be torpedoing. And he was utterly, infuriatingly captivated.
Each sighting was a new, confounding data point that refused to fit into any of his pre-existing theories. You weren't just a flat, one-dimensional poster girl on the wall of high school hierarchy; you were a living, breathing person, with a laugh that disarmed him and a taste in music he was suddenly, irrationally dying to identify. The mystery, much to his own horror, was deepening from a casual curiosity into a full-blown fixation. And Eddie Munson, self-proclaimed connoisseur of chaos and the arcane, had never been able to resist a good puzzle, especially one that looked so damn good.
And so, cornering Dustin Henderson became Eddieâs new, and most frustrating, extracurricular activity. He was a man possessed, a hunter on a singular, maddening quest for intel. He transformed into a shadow in the crowded halls, a lurking predator lying in wait by his locker with a too-casual lean. He became an "unexpected" companion who fell into step on the walk to the parking lot after Hellfire, his questions veiled in a cloak of feigned nonchalance that was as subtle as a hammer to glass. "So, the cheerleader," he'd start, clapping a hand on Dustin's shoulder, his voice a studied casual drawl that fooled no one. "She, uh... she always your chauffeur, Henderson, or are you just that lucky?"
Each encounter was a carefully orchestrated ambush disguised as casual conversation, a verbal chess game where all roads, no matter how winding, were ruthlessly designed to lead to a single, burning topic: You.Â
He was a grandmaster of subterfuge, laying traps for a prodigy, and the school hallways were their board.
"Hey, Henderson," he'd start, slinging a comradely arm around his shoulders that was just a little too tight to be friendly. The scent of leather, clove cigarettes, and weed descending like a palpable warning cloud. "Saw you getting a personal audience with Her Royal Shininess again. What's the deal? You, uh⌠hire her for a morale campaign? Gotta say, man, the psychological warfare is top-tier."
Dustin, to his immense credit, was a veritable fortress of evasion, a master of misdirection who had, after all, helped save the world by lying to panicked government agents and his own mother. "Something like that," he'd say with an infuriatingly nonchalant shrug, never breaking stride. He wouldn't just denyâhe'd counter-attack, expertly parrying every thrust with a strategically deployed question about the next campaign's monster roster or a technical debate on a new module's rule set. It was like trying to grab smoke with his bare hands.
Each failed interrogation, each expertly deflected question, only cemented a maddening truth in Eddie's mind: Henderson wasn't just being private; he was actively protecting something. He had classified information, and he was following a protocol Eddie wasn't cleared for. And Eddie Munson, connoisseur of secrets and the forbidden, had never encountered a lock he didn't immediately, obsessively need to pick until it gave up all its treasures.
Eddie's attempts grew increasingly desperate, his subtlety evaporating like cheap beer in the July sun. His interrogations became so transparent that even the wide-eyed freshmen, who usually scurried out of his path like frightened beetles, would pause to watch the spectacle.Â
"So, Henderson," he'd begin, materialising at his side with a jolt of manic energy that made Dustin visibly brace himself, his shoulders creeping toward his ears. "A theoretical question for the group's head of logistics. Does our resident solar deity ever, I don't know, express any opinions on local counter-culture? Inquire about the band's seminal demo? Maybe... feel a sudden, profound need to probe the tortured, creative vision of the lead guitarist?" He wiggled his ring-clad fingers for emphasis, the picture of artistic anguish.
Dustin, the unflappable stone wall in Eddie's hurricane of neediness, didn't even look up from the complex chemical equation in his textbook. "She asked if you actually passed any of your classes," he replied, his tone flat as a week-old pancake. "I told her it was a coin toss on a good day and that she should probably pray for your immortal soul." The verbal pin landed with sniper-like precision, popping the inflated balloon of Eddie's ego with a sad, quiet fizzle.
The problem, the true, moustache-twirling villain of this entire farce, was the clock. The three-minute passing period was a cruel and unforgiving master, its final bell a death knell to his progress, severing his interrogations with the brutal finality of a guillotine. He was trying to walk a razor-thin line between casually curious and full-blown stalker, and he was failing so miserably he might as well have been face-down on the linoleum, tasting the wax and his own humiliation. Every time he felt he was on the verge of a breakthroughâa single, unguarded word, a hint of a crack in the fortress wallsâDustin would deflect with the preternatural skill of a CIA operative, offering a crumb of meaningless gossip about Steve Harrington's latest hair crisis before slipping into a classroom and vanishing. The slamming door was a brutal, full-stop punctuation mark on his failure, leaving Eddie standing alone in the suddenly silent hallway, more bewildered and hopelessly intrigued than before, the ghost of your name dying on his lips.
The mystery of you and Dustin Henderson was no longer a casual side-quest. It was escalating, mutating in the petri dish of his mind into the greatest, most compelling unsolved campaign of his life. The whiteboard in his trailer was now a chaotic web of questions and theories, connected by red string and pure, unadulterated fixation. He was done playing by the rules of polite inquiry. Eddie Munson was fully prepared to burn the whole damn rulebook, shred the map, and roll a natural twenty on a shot in the dark if it meant finally uncovering the truth.
The roar of the Friday night crowd is a distant, ghostly echo, a world away from his sanctuaryâa rickety picnic table shrouded in the woods behind the football field. This is his kingdom of shadows and silence, the one place where Eddie "The Freak" Munson could let his guard down.
Right now, his guard is in tatters.
He is supposed to be plotting his next campaign, a strategic masterstroke to finally, finally talk to you. But his mental playbook, once filled with clever subterfuge and silver-tongued gambits, is now just a collection of pathetic, crumpled failures. Just ask her about Dustin, the logical part of his brain pleads. Itâs the perfect in! But the rest of him, the part that turns to a puddle of incoherent mush whenever he sees you, rebels. What if he sounds like a stalker? What if his voice cracks? What if he, in a moment of peak Munson misfortune, spontaneously combusts at your feet?
Heâs so deep in this cycle of self-flagellation that he doesn't hear a thingânot a footfall, not a snapped twig, not a single rustle of leaves. Which is why the voice, smooth and clear as polished glass, slices through the quiet from directly behind him and nearly sends his soul launching into orbit.
"I heard you've been asking about me."
Eddie jolts so hard the table shudders in sympathy. His heart isn't just pounding; itâs performing a frantic, double-kick-drum solo against his ribs, a frantic rhythm for the panic coursing through him. He spins around, his rings scraping against the weathered wood.
And there you are.
It was as if youâve materialised from the shadows themselves, a phantom made flesh, bathed in the dappled moonlight filtering through the canopy. His mind, usually a whirlwind of witty retorts and theatrical flair, goes utterly, completely blank. All that remained is a single, screaming thought:Â Abort mission. System failure. Total, catastrophic, and humiliating system failure.
A soft, melodic laugh escapes you as he fumbles, his limbs turning to tangled marionette strings. He practically falls off the bench in a clatter of silver rings and frayed denim, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Before he can even attempt to reclaim a shred of dignity, youâre moving.
Completely uninvited, you smoothly take a seat on the bench opposite him, folding your hands primly on the weather-beaten wood as if you were holding court in a kingâs hall, not some shady clearing. The move is so audaciously calm, so utterly self-possessed, that it leaves him mentally reeling, grasping for a handhold in a world that has suddenly tilted off its axis.
His brain, desperate for any port in this storm of your presence, latches onto the first ridiculous lie it can find. âWho, me? Asking aboutâ? Pfft. No, I was just⌠conducting a sociological survey on the migratory patterns of the common jock,â he deflects, the words tumbling out in a rushed, defensive jumble. A sociological survey? He sounds like a complete dork. A poser. A fool.
The panic is a neon sign plastered all over his face, heâs sure of it. And the way your smile widens, just a fraction at the corners of your mouth, tells him it only amuses you more. Itâs not a mocking smile, but something far more dangerous: a genuinely entertained one.
His gaze follows yours as you nod your head towards his contraband scattered across the graffiti-scarred tableâthe worn leather pouch, the rolling papers, the bag of mid-grade schlock. And a sudden, piercing regret lances through him, so sharp and specific itâs almost comical. He wishes, more than anything, that heâd brought the good weed. The sacred, top-shelf stash he reserved for solo nights contemplating the cosmos and his own magnificent failures. Not this dry, pedestrian schlock he palmed off to desperate freshmen for gas money. The thought is utterly, pathetically vain, but itâs there: he wants to impress you, even with his weed, and he has already, catastrophically, failed.
âHow much?â you ask, your voice slicing clean through his internal lament.
His mouth moves on pure, unadulterated instinct, completely bypassing the shred of his brain that runs a business. âFor you? First oneâs on the house,â he says, his voice cracking on the word âhouse,â pitching a humiliating notch too high. He fumbles through his leather pouch, fingers finally closing around what he deems a relatively respectable joint. The moment his fingers brush against yours as he hands it over, a jolt shoots up his armâstatic-sharp and disconcertingly warm. The thought flashes, unbidden and terrifyingly sincere:Â Heâd hand you his whole damn stash for free. His van keys. The master copy of Corroded Coffinâs demo tape. Possibly his still-beating heart, if you kept looking at him with that unreadable, captivating glint in your eyes.
Then, you shift the entire universe.
Without a word, you produce a sleek, silver lighter from your skirt pocket. Itâs a mundane object, but seeing it on your person, knowing you carry this small tool of controlled arson, feels impossibly intimate. He watches, utterly mesmerised, as you bring the neatly rolled joint to your lips. The act is practised, effortless, and it steals the air from his lungs.
You take a slow, deep inhale. The tip glows a fierce, brilliant orange in the dimming light, and for a surreal second, he feels like heâs witnessing a sacred ritual. You hold it for a beat, your eyes fluttering slightly, before you tilt your head back and blow a smooth, grey plume into the dappled forest air. Itâs not a cough or a sputter, but a perfect, controlled stream that dances with the motes of dust in the sunbeams.
A soft, content sigh leaves you, and itâs the most relaxed, unguarded sound heâs ever heard you make. Itâs a sound that wraps around him, and he knows, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that he is in deep, deep trouble.
âYouâre staring again, Munson.â
Your voice is a low hum, laced with amusement. Your eyes flutter open to catch him in the act, and theyâre clearer now, more focused, piercing through the hazy air and seeing right through the fragile fortress of his cool. He quickly looks away, feigning a sudden, intense interest in the gnarled bark of a nearby oak tree as if it holds the secrets of the universe. His cheeks burn with a tell-tale heat heâs desperately grateful you canât feel.
âJust didnât know you smoked,â he counters, the words a weak, transparent defence against the gentle accusation in your tone. He knows itâs a pathetic excuse, knows itâs about so much more than tobacco or weed. Itâs about the fact that heâs been quietly building a shrine to you in the dusty, hidden corners of his mind, and you just walked in and casually rearranged all the furniture, leaving him disoriented and in awe.
A slow, knowing smile plays on your lips, a silent testament to the fact that you see right through him, and you don't seem to mind. âThereâs plenty you donât know about me yet.â
Yet.
The word doesn't just hang in the air; it detonates. A single, three-letter promise that throws a gallon of gasoline directly onto the already raging fire of his curiosity. Itâs an invitation that makes his pulse stutter. A challenge that his entire being itches to accept. A future tense that sends his mind spiralling into a dozen different, thrilling possibilitiesâshared mixtapes, late-night drives in his van, the secret sound of your laugh when it's meant just for him. Itâs the most terrifying and beautiful word heâs ever heard.
Panicking under the weight of that single, terrifyingly beautiful promise, heâs rambling again before his brain can even think to engage the clutch. âIâve, uhâIâve got some better stuff. Back at the trailer. The good shit, you know? The kind that⌠unlocks the secrets of the universe. Or, you know, just makes Deep Purple sound even more fucking epic.â Heâs babbling, digging the hole deeper with every word. âIf youâd ever be⌠interested.â
The invitation hangs in the air between you, as clumsy and transparent as a sheet of Saran Wrap. He might as well have just handed you a poorly photocopied flyer that read, in Comic Sans, âPlease Come To My Sad Trailer So I Can Stare At You More Efficiently.â
You cock a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow at him, a silent masterpiece of judgment and amusement. The gesture is a physical thing, driving the sheer, unadulterated stupidity of his words like a hot spike directly into his already fragile ego. He can feel itâa full-body cringe that starts at the soles of his boots and vibrates up to the tips of his hair. He can practically feel his soul trying to vacate his body, peeling itself away from this mortifying reality out of pure, unbridled shame, desperately seeking refuge in the Upside Down where the social stakes are, frankly, less terrifying.
You actually seem to contemplate the offer, your gaze drifting past him into the shadow-dappled woods as if mentally consulting some invisible, infinitely more interesting social calendar. The pause stretches, a taut, excruciating silence filled only by the frantic thrum of his own pulse in his ears. It lasts just long enough for him to fully register the monumental, soul-crushing magnitude of his own idiocy. Heâs already scripting his retreat, the mumbled apology, the vow to never speak again.
Then, your answer nearly knocks him clean off his seat and into next week.
âSure. Why not.â
Itâs so casual, so utterly, devastatingly nonchalant, that his brain simply short-circuits. The words donât compute. Theyâre a syntax error in the carefully constructed code of his social anxiety. He swears youâre giving him psychological whiplash; he canât keep up with the violent, nauseating shifts between his own spiraling panic and your preternatural calm. Itâs like being caught in a hurricane that has the manners to sip a cup of tea at its very centre.
âWait⌠really?â The words escape him in a stunned, breathy rush, all his usual theatrical bravado stripped away, leaving only the raw, disbelieving shock of a man who just hit the jackpot he never dared to buy a ticket for.
A ghost of a smirk, there and gone in a heartbeat, touches your lips. âDonât have any plans tonight,â you shrug, the picture of nonchalance, as if agreeing to hang out in his shabby trailer was the most mundane decision in the world, like choosing what to watch on TV. But your eyes tell a different storyâthey glint with a sharp, knowing challenge. âUnless you donât actually want me to come over?â
The banter feels familiar, a verbal volley he recognizes from a hundred lunchroom skirmishes and hallway arguments. Itâs a rhythm he knows how to dance to. And yet, heâs completely disarmed. Heâs a swordsman who has not only forgotten his blade but has forgotten which end is the hilt. All his usual sarcastic comebacks, the clever retorts that usually stream so effortlessly to form a protective, witty moat around the fortress of his insecurities, have deserted him, leaving the gates wide open and him utterly exposed on your shores.
You stand up, brushing a stray leaf from your skirt with a grace that feels utterly alien in this muddy, Munson-domain clearing. Itâs a gesture that belongs in a catalog or a ballet, not here amongst the discarded beer cans and gnarled roots. You look at him expectantly, a single, perfect eyebrow arched in a silent question that feels louder than any Corroded Coffin solo.
âWell? You gonna give me a ride, or what?â
The question, so direct and laced with a challenge he desperately wants to prove himself worthy of, finally jump-starts his frozen motor functions. âRight. Yeah. The van. Itâs, uh⌠this way,â he manages, his voice still rough with shock.
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).
Disclaimer: In an effort to be a better neighbor to all my readers, I am working to keep my descriptions sensation-based. As I navigate this learning curve, some white-coded/specific language may still be present. Iâm sharing this so you can curate your reading experience with that in mind!
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 âquickieâ but ya girl canât 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 Iâm 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, Dustinâs nerves weren't just frayed; they were unspooling.
He had heard the gospel of high school survival from his older sister for years. Sheâd 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 â85" 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, Dustinâs first instinct had been to play matchmaker. Heâd 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. Sheâd 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.
"Whereâs 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. Iâve 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 sheâd 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...?"
"Iâd say sheâs 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, heâd 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 sisterâs 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? Sheâs 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 Steveâs 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 didnât 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. Itâs been three weeks. Get with the program."
Steveâs hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned a ghostly white. "Munson? Eddie Freak Munson? Dustin, tell me youâre joking. Tell me sheâs doing some kind of rebellious social experiment."
"You sound jealous," Dustin remarked casually, reaching for the door handle. "Itâs 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 friendâs sister climb into a van that definitely smells like the set of a Cheech and Chong film.' She needs to be careful. Sheâs smart, usually anyways, so why is she hanging out with a guy who canât graduate high school?"
Dustin let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Steve, relax. Eddieâs a good guy."
"A good guy?" Steve bristled, his voice rising an octave. "Iâm sure your mom doesnât know, otherwise sheâd be reeling."
"Heâs nice to my mom," Dustin countered, his tone turning uncharacteristically firm. "He actually listens when she talks about her garden. Heâs kind to her. And heâs kind to my sister. Do you know how rare that is? Most guys in this town look at her like sheâs a piece of furniture or a puzzle they canât be bothered to solve. You included."
Steve slumped back, his bravado momentarily deflated, but he wasn't ready to let it go. "Dustin, heâs a stoner. He sells drugs behind the wheel of that rolling tetanus shot. And heâs repeating his senior year for the second time. Pretty sure heâs got a criminal record. Heâs a dead-beat."
Dustin paused with his hand on the door, his expression softening into something more serious. "Itâs 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 sheâs 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 theyâd climbed out of the wreckage of Starcourt. The way sheâd retreated so far into herself he wasn't sure sheâd ever come back.
"Look," Dustin said, breaking the silence as he pushed the door open. "Iâd like to get inside before I have to witness my sister necking with her boyfriend in the front seat of a GMC. Iâve 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.
ŕšŕŁ âđ¸âš ࣪ Ë
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 Eddieâs 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 youâre waiting for me to do something impressive. Or like youâre 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. Iâm just looking at you because youâre really pretty. Is that a crime now, Henderson? Am I going to be hauled off to Hawkinsâ jail for being an appreciator of beauty?"
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. Heâd been in Steveâs 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. Sheâd 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 sheâd 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. Heâd 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 weekâs 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. Heâd simply moved his guitar to make room on the stone.
"Rough week?" heâd asked, his tone surprisingly gentle.
"Rough year," she replied, clutching the copy of The Hobbit to her chest like a shield.
Heâd 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, heâd looked at her and sighed exasperatedly. "You know, itâs really unfair," heâd 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 heâd 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. Eddieâs fingers tracing mindless patterns on her shoulder from where it sat.
"Earth to Henderson," Eddie said softly, snapping his fingers. "Youâre 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 ratâs 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. Iâve seen your shower, Eddie. One bar of soap for everything? Itâs 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, Iâm 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 youâre charming. Probably because you pull that 'polite young man' act out of your pocket whenever sheâs around."
"Itâs 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 driverâs 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. Itâs 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, itâs pitch black. You canât 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 orâ" 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 youâre saying? Because, look, Iâve 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 youâd 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 didnât 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 theyâd 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 Iâve 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. "Youâre 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 Iâm 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. "Iâm gonna find out if you taste as good as you smell. Because right now, Henderson, you smell like vanilla and trouble, and itâs 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. "Whatâs 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. Iâd bet my last guitar string that youâre a virgin." He didn't say it like a judgment. "But," he added, his voice dropping into a playful, seductive rasp, "I also bet youâve got the most active imagination in this entire zip code. All that reading, all those hours tucked away in the library... youâre 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 youâre all alone? I want to know the things you think about. The things youâre 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 youâre 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. Eddieâs grin softened into something incredibly sweet, his fingers moving up an inch, his touch reassuring and light. "Hey, look at me. Itâs okay. Itâs actually... itâs hot, Henderson. Itâs 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 youâve read on a page and thought, 'I wonder if that feels as good as it looks.' Whatâs something youâve 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 sheâd 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."
Eddieâs 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."
Eddieâs 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. Youâre 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 heâs caring, but heâs still in charge. Like heâs 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 youâve ever met. But you have to know, if Iâm the one guiding you, Iâm not gonna stop until youâre shaking. Iâm gonna talk to you the whole time. Iâm gonna tell you exactly how beautiful you look when youâre coming apart, and Iâm gonna make sure you know that every sound you make is better than any song Iâve 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 Iâm taking my time with you?"
His hand slid a little higher on her thigh, the heat of his palm a searing brand. "Because Iâve been thinking about this since the day at Skull Rock. Iâve 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 Iâm not just interested in the 'worship' part, though thereâs gonna be plenty of that." He shifted back into gear, the van lurching forward as they neared the turn-off for the lookout. "Iâm gonna guide you, Princess. Every step of the way. And I promise you, by the time weâre done, youâre 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?â
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.
"Itâs always been you. Since that day at the rock, Eddie," she whispered, her voice steadying as she found the words. Eddieâs 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 youâre playing guitar. How fast they move, how strong they are. Iâve spent so many nights wondering how theyâd feel if they weren't on a guitar, but on me instead. If youâd 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 youâre messy. I like that youâre 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 Iâm 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.
"Iâm gonna go slow, just like your books, and Iâm gonna talk you through every single bit of what Iâm 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 youâre sure. Because once I start, Iâm not gonna want to stop until Iâve worshipped every part of you that youâve been keeping hidden."
She didn't speak; she simply nodded, a sharp, decisive movement that broke the last of his restraint. Eddieâs 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 didnât give her time to catch her breath. He shifted his weight, sitting back on his heels with a fluid grace that made the vanâs 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, Eddieâs 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 donât bite. I donât 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. "Itâs okay," he murmured, his voice softening into something deeply endearing. "You can touch them. Iâm 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 batâs 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.
"Iâd 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. "Iâd love to revisit this later. When Iâm 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. "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 didnât 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 vanâs 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.
Eddieâs 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? Iâm perfectly happy just holding you until the sun comes up."
The rain outside seemed to underscore his sincerity, a steady, rhythmic wash against the GMCâs metal skin. She looked up at him, her eyes clear . "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 summerâs 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 sheâd 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 didnât 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. Iâve 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 arenât the only one who had to sit through Coach Higginsâ 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? Itâs loud, and itâs messy, and itâs 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.
"Iâm gonna go slow," he promised. "Iâm 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. Youâre 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. Eddieâs 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 vanâs 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 Iâm 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. "Youâre 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? Thatâs you, Princess. Thatâs 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 Iâm 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 youâre 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. Eddieâs 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 vanâs 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 Eddieâs 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 heâd been throwing his head back, full of knots and static. She began to work through the tangles with her fingers. Eddieâs 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.
ŕšŕŁ âđ¸âš ࣪ Ë
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 dashboardâs 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 mufflerâs 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. "Whatâs 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 mightâve 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 Iâm 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 porchâs 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)
Summary: You and Eddie had been best friends since the start of your high school career. When suddenly one night he asks you to be casual, friends with benefits. How could you say no when the man you love is offering you to be with him? Even if itâs temporary.
Warnings: 18+ content, MDNI, no use of y/n, reader is AFAB, vague descriptions of reader, reader and eddie are bestfriends, friends with benefits, tons of yearning, eddie being toxic (briefly), jealousy, drinking alcohol, smoking pot, smut, pussy eating, brief dirty talk, unprotected p in v, reader on birth control(not mentioned though) happy ending.
Authors note: So honestly, Iâm just obsessed. Listening to Casual by Chappel Roan had me wanting an Eddie one shot. This is my first one shot. (Iâm a multi-chapter type of person) Also, formatting is alittle weird cause tumblr wouldnât let me use as many lines as I needed when posting.
âââââ-
Your fingers tightened around his knotted curls, feeling the sweat and heat radiate off of his scalp. The new mixtape he made and wanted to show you, was long forgotten, getting drowned out by lewd noises.
A moan or maybe a scream caught in your throat as his head was deep between your legs, his tongue exploring every intimate inch with a skill that left you breathless and almost begging for more. Each stroke was deliberate, designed just to drive you closer and closer to your orgasm. The noises you were making had him smiling and almost laughing into you.
One hand gripped your hips, holding you firmly in place as if he knew exactly what you needed, his fingers digging into your plush flesh with a possessive urgency. The other hand? Both middle and ring finger deep inside, making your toes curl behind his head. The world around you dissolved, leaving only the sensation of his mouth and the sound of your own ragged breathing.
You could feel the pressure building. That rubber band stretched so thin, it was only a matter of seconds before it snapped. Your body arched against him. The room spun with a dizzying intensity, and you were on the brink, teetering on the edge of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
âââââ-
âHellooooo.â
Garethâs hand drifted into your line of sight, fingers wagging dramatically, dragging you back to reality like someone yanking open a blackout curtain at high noon.
âEarth toââ
âWhat do you want?â You cut him off, a little sharper than you meant to, blinking hard as the cafeteria snapped back into focus. Plastic chairs, the smell of fried potatoes, the hum of a hundred conversation. Not the close quarters of his dingy Chevy van.
Gareth raised his brows but didnât flinch. âI asked if I could have your fries. Youâre not eating them anyway. Why let them go to waste?â
âOh.â You felt heat creep up your neck. Embarrassment making itself known. âYeah. Sorry. I spaced out. Sure. Have them.â
You nudged your tray toward him, letting it scrape across the table until it settled in front of his hoodie-clad chest. He shot you a quick, grateful grin before shoving a handful of fries into his mouth like heâd been dying of starvation.
You tried to let the noise of the cafeteria sweep you back into the present. The metallic clang of trays, the squeak of sneakers and chair legs on linoleum, bursts of laughter bouncing off the cinderblock walls. It was so loud sometimes. So overwhelming.
To your right, the freshmen discussed loudly about their girlfriends and what plans they had for spring break, like any of them were actually gonna do more than the typical D&D one shot in Mike's basement or go to the arcade.
To your left, the upperclassmen were half-shouting over each other about their late-night gigs, already basking in the imagined glow of being past curfew and untouchable.
âOh! And donât forget! Tomorrow we have that bonfire party at Loverâs Lake. So, thatâll be fun too.â
Your head gave a dull, traitorous throb, and you pushed your chair back with a sigh, slinging your backpack over one shoulder as you stood.
âHey! Where you going?â Gareth called out through a mouthful of fries, watching you weave between tables like he expected you to sit back down.
âI forgot I had a test today,â you lied without hesitation. âGonna cram a little. Library.â
You didnât wait for a reply. Didnât want one.
You hit the hallway and the silence swallowed you whole. Lockers stretched in both directions, the overhead lights humming quietly, and you finally let the truth youâd been dodging crawl up your spine.
The guy who sat at the head of the table, the one running the show with his loud voice and louder laugh, Heâs the one you called your best friend.
Or at least, you used to.
You wanted to call him something more. But lately you werenât even sure you could even claim best friend anymore.
He was like whiplash. One day, things are normal. Youâre in his van, windows down, screaming along to music. Making a pit stop at the convenient store for slurpees and snacks before you start to bullshit the day away together. Whether itâs watching movies, playing guitar, finding local music shows to see, going out to the roller rinkâwhich he definitely hates but still does just for you.
Then the next heâs distant, you touch his shoulder and he shrugs you off. Makes plans with your friends right in front of you and doesnât think to invite you along, keeps things short. Heâs not necessarily cruel about it, but it still makes your heart feel like itâs in pieces around your feet.
Until suddenly, heâs banging on your door while your parents are at work. As soon as you open it, his hands are on your face and heâs kissing you. So aggressively that you wouldâve definitely fallen back, had he not been holding you upright.
You brought that on yourself. You knew that.Smoked too much. Drank too much. Let things blur too far.Climbed into his lap like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing. And you had let that happen again and again.
All you had to do was tell him no. Maybe even been honest with him.
You had pushed all your feelings for him to the side just to be with him any way that heâd have you. And he doesnât even care that every time you guys finish, he takes another piece of you when he walks out that door.
He doesnât care that when he smiles at you, your heartbeat slows down and somehow beats faster at the same time. He doesnât care about the flowers that bloom behind your ribs when he touches you. Doesnât care about the way his kisses shoot electricity through your body, leaving you buzzing and breathless
And you hate it. How he could continue on like nothing is wrong. Like his friendship with you wasnât worth fucking up. How could he not know how you feel?
Or worse, what if he knew and just didnât think it was worth the effort? Or just using it to his advantage?
How could you mean so little to him? After all this time?
âââââ-
The two little clear glasses slammed on the counter, the clink echoing in the cramped kitchen. You and Eddie grinned at each other, loose and warm. The kind of smile youâd only ever let him pull out of you. All walls down. Not having to put on a show for anyone.
He grabbed your hand and raised it above your head, beginning to slowly dance in front of you. You laughed, trying to hear the soft music above your heartbeat.
Lita Ford and Ozzy.
You joined in for a moment before he twirled you. His smile was so wide, dimples and sharp canines on display.
He didnât even realize what it did to you, the way he smiled like that. He never did.
You stayed like that for the rest of the song, easily dancing with him. It was second nature. You both donât care if you step on each other, or fumble and end up bumping shoulders. You just laugh and continue.
Finally, he turned away, disappearing down the hall toward his room. A few seconds later, he reappeared, shoulder braced casually against the doorway, a joint pinched between his fingers.
âCare to join?â he asked, lifting it slightly.
âAlways.â
He jerked his head toward the front door. You followed him out onto the tiny porch, really just a concrete slab with an ashtray overflowing with half-smoked cigarettes. The night air was cooler outside, brushing against your warm skin, sobering you just enough to feel the tension stretch thin between you.
Eddie flicked the lighter, cupping his hand from the wind. The flame caught, illuminating his face, the curve of his nose, the lazy concentration in his eyes as he took the first hit. Smoke curled from his mouth and back into his nose before he passed the joint to you, fingers brushing yours longer than necessary.
You inhaled, slow, heart beating somewhere too loud, the joint shaking almost imperceptibly between your fingertips.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
âYouâre thinkinâ too hard.â He said softly.
âSays the guy staring at me like heâs waiting for me to do something other than hit this joint.â
He didnât deny it. Didnât look away. He just stepped closer, close enough that your feet were now touching, close enough that you could smell the mix of smoke and whiskey on his breath. You took another hit.
âMaybe I am.â He whispered.
The joint dangled forgotten between your fingers. Your pulse was too loud, too frantic. You exhaled shakily and he leaned in, dipping his head like he was about to kiss you, breathing in the smoke deeply. He smiled and slightly angled his lips to the side to blow out his impromptu shotgun hit. Eyes never leaving yours.
But then he leaned in again, close enough that your lips parted on instinct, close enough his breath warmed your cheek. Your heart tripped over itself. This is it. You felt it like a spark in your chest. Hope rising too fast, too bright.
You couldnât help it. A smile tugged at your mouth, equal parts disbelief and relief. For a split second, you let yourself think he was finally admitting itâfinally seeing you the way youâd always seen him.
Then his lips touched yours. Immediate sparks.
The kiss was slow. Trembling. A hesitant brush that deepened just enough to make your knees weaken so violently you had to grab onto his sides for stability. His mouth tasted like the shared whiskey and smoke, warm and soft and devastating. His fingers curled around your jaw like you were something breakable, his thumb brushing your cheek in a way that felt intimate, purposeful, and dangerously close to tender.
You melted into him without meaning to. God, he kissed like heâd been waiting for this. Like heâd thought about it. Like he liked the taste of you more than he expected to.
Your stomach flipped, everything inside you tightening at once, and you kissed him back because youâd replayed this moment in your head so many times you couldâve sworn you dreamed it into existence.
He pulled back a breath too soon, eyes still half-lidded, lips slightly parted.
And you smiled, because now? You finally had him. Your best friend is finally admitting to being on the same page as you. So stupidly in love, but always too scared to admit.
But this was it, he was finally choosing you.
Then his expression shifted as he leaned away, something softer becoming something guarded. Calculated. He dragged a thumb across his bottom lip, trying to look casual even though his chest rose and fell a little too quickly.
âFuckâ you whispered, almost in disbelief he finally made the first move.
âYeah,â he agreed, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks tinged pink beneath the porch light.
âThat, uh⌠probably shouldnâtâve happened.â He continued.
The words hit you like a slap you never saw coming. Small. Quiet. Almost gentle. But still a slap. Silence. Awkward. Thick. Hot.
Shouldnât have? But God, you wanted it to.
Your heart, which had been buoyant and stupidly soaring just seconds ago, plummeted so fast it made you dizzy. You felt itâfelt the crack form right down the center of it, delicate and sharp like thin glass splitting under pressure.
You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came. Every word dying before it made its way to your throat. All that spilled through you was a familiar ache, the one youâd been drowning in since the first night you realized you loved him in a way he would never return.
Eddie cleared his throat as he took a step back to lean on the railing.
âLook⌠it doesnât have to be weird.â
You blinked. Hard. âHuh?â
âIâm just saying,â he continued, shrugging like this meant nothing to him. âWhy canât friends help friends out? Yâknow.â He gestured vaguely, eyes sliding to your lips again. âBlow off some steam. Relieve some stress.â
He said it lightly, like it wasnât the biggest deal ever. But there was something hungry behind it. Something he didnât want to name.
Your chest tightened. He had no idea he was offering the exact thing you wanted. Just stripped of everything you needed. A hollow gift wrapped in the exact shape of your longing.
âIt doesnât have to mean anything,â he said, voice dipping, like he was doing both of you some kind of favor. Like he wasnât twisting the knife with a smile.
Your stomach droppedâhope plummeting straight through the floor. He didnât even notice. Or maybe he did and didnât want to.
You swallowed, the motion thick and unsteady, your heart battering itself against your ribs like it wanted out, wanted him, wanted something you couldnât even name without breaking in half.
Eddie watched you patiently. Too patiently. Pretending he wasnât waiting for your answer like it mattered. Pretending he wasnât hoping for the version of you that didnât feel things, the version he thought you were. Pretending you werenât already his, and hadnt been for longer than youâd ever admit out loud.
âWhat do you mean?â you managed, though your voice sounded small, scraped thin and hollow.
He smiled that easy, oblivious smile, taking the joint from your hand and shaking his hair out of his face. He inhaled slow, cheeks hollowing, smoke curling up between you before he blew it in your direction, playful and soft and completely unaware of how close you were to shattering.
âI mean letâs be friends with benefits.â he said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. âYouâve been my best friend for the last four years. Why not?â
You froze. There it was. The twist.
The part where your perfect, knee-buckling kiss wasâto himâjust convenience.
Your lips still tingled from him. Your heart still thudded out of rhythm. And all he wanted⌠was casual? But the way he had kissed you? The way his hand trembled against your jaw? That had not felt casual at all.
Why not?
Fuck. Because you loved him. Because it meant everything to you and would mean nothing to him.
Because being close to him without actually having him was the exact kind of pain youâd spent pretending didnât gut you.
But the alcohol in your veins was warm and stupid and reckless. The weed rolling in your lungs made everything feel a little softer around the edges, a little less sharp.
And then there was the fact that you had wanted him for so long that the idea of being with him in any way heâd allow felt like stepping to the edge of a cliff and willingly stepping off into that free fall.
A part of you hurt. That deep, quiet, bone-deep hurt. Because he didnât want more. Didnât even think to want more. Didnât think to ask.
But another part, that louder, hazier, selfish part, jumped at the chance to touch him again. To kiss him again. To pretend, even for a night, that he was yours in some temporary, fragile, doomed way.
You felt the sadness settle in you. In your heart, in your bones, filling every inch. Heavy and familiar. But it didnât stop the heat that coiled right next to it.
âSoâŚâ he said, watching you closely now.
âWhat do you say? No strings attached. Just casual?â
âââââ-
You scrubbed a hand through your hair, your fingers catching in a knot as you reached your locker.
âFuck it.â
You changed directions and headed to the parking lot. Right past that stupid beat-up Chevy van, straight to your black â77 Ford Pinto.
You tossed your bag through the open passenger-side window, the strap catching for a second before dropping onto the ripped vinyl seat, and rounded the hood toward the driverâs side.
âYou cutting class, Bean?â
You didnât even have to look to know who it was. You rolled your eyes at the stupid nickname.
âYou really have to come up with something better than that, Munson.â
âYouâre the one driving a pinto bean, soooâŚâ He drew the word out, grinning around it. âGet a cooler car and youâll get a cooler name.â
He pushed off from where heâd been lingering near the Chevy, sauntering over like he had all the time in the world. Eddie leaned his hip against your passenger door, the metal of his chains clanking against it. His rings clicked softly as he dug into the front pocket of his jeans for his pack of Marlboro Reds.
He looked annoyingly good doing it, too. Messy curls spilling around his neck and over his shoulders, dark strands escaping to brush his cheekbones. His bangs were too long again, skimming his lashes every time he blinked. He wore that battered leather jacket, the one with the stressed seams and the cigarette burn near the pocket, a few chains to keep the cuff from flying wide open, over a faded MotĂśrhead tee.
He pulled a cigarette free with a practiced flick, held it between his lips, and cupped his hand around the lighter as he sparked it. When he inhaled, his cheeks hollowed just enough to make your stomach flutter in a way you refused to acknowledge.
He exhaled a line of smoke, then turned his head to look at you fully.
âSo,â he said, voice dropping into that low, curious drawl he used when he actually cared what the answer was. âWhatâs up?â
You yanked open the Pintoâs door, the metal protesting with a loud squealing groan.
âIâm going home, Eds. I feel like shit, okay?â
He stepped around the car, eyebrows lifting. âI wouldnât mind skipping and following you back to yours. I know your parents arenât home untilââ
âNo. Thanks.â
He blinked, big brown eyes going wide as his smile faltered like someone had flicked a switch inside him.
âWhy not?â
You swallowed, jaw tightening, already regretting how sharp youâd sounded.
âSorry, Eds. Iâm just⌠not feeling up for it today. Iâm probably gonna go home and sleep it off.â
He stared at you for a beat, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. Then his face softened, the tension slipping away.
âThatâs fine,â he said simply, shrugging one shoulder as he finally took another hit. âIâm still coming home with you. Weâll throw on a movie, maybe smoke, and just lay around until you feel better.â
It was so him. That stubborn, casual devotion he didnât even seem aware of, that you couldnât help the small smile tugging at your mouth.
âOkay,â you sighed, giving in. âBut Iâm picking the movie.â
âPlease,â he scoffed, flicking ash onto the pavement. âLike I ever win that battle.â
You rolled your eyes, but your smile grew. âYou never do.â
He smiled, bright and boyish and ridiculously Eddie.
âCâmon then, Bean,â he teased, nudging your shoulder with his. âRace you home.â
âYouâll lose.â you declared, sliding into the Pinto.
âOnly cause I let you win.â he yelled over his shoulder, heading toward his van.
You laughed and it felt good. Felt like something inside you loosened.
You pulled out of the lot first, Eddieâs van rumbling behind you. He honked in rapid bursts, which made you shake your head and grin like an idiot.
Every time you hit a stoplight, he pulled up next to you, revving his engine dramatically until the old van wheezed in protest. You snorted, holding up your middle finger.
He flipped you off with both hands. You yelled, grow up. He retorted with a make me, before turning the knob and blaring whatever tape was shoved in his radio, obnoxiously headbanging until the light turned green. Despite everythingâeverything messy and confusing and unspokenâthis part was easy. This part was home. This is why you loved him.
You parked in your driveway, Eddie pulling in right behind you like he lived there.
The minute you climbed out of your car, he was already walking over, hands shoved in his pockets, curls bouncing as he moved.
âAlright,â he announced, âget inside, change into something comfy, and Iâll start setting up the movie.â
âWhat movie?â you challenged.
âWhatever you tell me to put on,â he said with a dramatic sigh. âBecause Iâm spineless and at your mercy, Sweetheart.â
You laughed out a âthatâs how I like itâ as you shoved his shoulder before unlocking the door.
He stumbled exaggeratedly, arms flailing.
âAbuse!â he shouted.
âDrama queen.â you shot back.
Inside, it was simple. Warm. Familiar. You dropped your keys on the small table by the door. He kicked off his shoes without being asked.
Both of you made a beeline to your room, tossing your bags to the floor and grabbing whatever soft, mismatched clothes your hands first touched from your closet. Eddie grabbed one of his many shirts youâve stolen, along with his sweat pants he leaves here just in case.
You changed with your backs turned to each other, like you always had. It was a habit, natural. No one called attention to how silly it seemed now that youâve both laid yourself bare to each other. Then you wasted the rest of the evening exactly the way the two of you always did. Half-watching shitty movies youâd both memorized, trading commentary, quoting lines, laughing as you both laid comfortably against one another.
The room was quiet except for the sound coming from the TVâsome scene you werenât even pretending to follow anymore. Eddieâs fingers kept tracing slow, absentminded shapes on your arm, drifting up to your shoulder, then back down again like he was memorizing you by touch. The soft and warm pads of his fingers were leaving blazing trails in their wake, your nerve endings reacting dramatically to such a casual touch.
Every so often, his thumb would sweep over a spot that made your breath catch. He leaned in and you felt him smile against your neck like he heard it, like he liked it.
His lips brushed your skin again, barely there. A question, almost.
When you didnât pull away, when you tilted your head just enough, he took that as an answer enough with another soft kiss, then another, each one lingering a little longer, a little warmer. Your pulse jumped under his mouth.
You didnât mean to make a sound, but a quiet, involuntary moan slipped outâand that was it. You felt the shift in him instantly. The way his hand slid from your arm to your waist, pulling you fractionally closer. The way his breath warmed your skin before he pressed another slow, deliberate kiss just under your jaw.
This time it was a slow open mouth kiss, that his teeth lightly nipped in before his tongue soothed away any type of pain it couldâve caused.
You turned toward him, your nose brushing his cheek. And suddenly everything felt electric, suspended.
His pulled away from a moment, eyes flicked down to your mouth, then up to your eyes, checking, waiting, swallowing hard like he wasnât sure if he should cross that tiny space between you. As if he hadnât done it already. Plenty of times.
You closed it for him. Your lips met his in a soft, searching kiss, the kind that started tentative but deepened fast. Eddieâs hand slid up to your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone with surprising gentleness as he kissed you againâslower, deeper, like heâd been wanting to do that for longer than heâd ever admit.
You could only hopeâŚ
You felt his heartbeat through his chest where it pressed to yours, steady at first⌠then stumbling in a way that strangely mirrored your own. Beating a little too fast. He pushed again, laying you completely on your back with him practically ontop of you.
He pulled back just a fraction, foreheads nearly touching, breaths mingling in the dim light.
âHey,â he whispered, voice low, warm, full of confidence. Just like he always was.
You brushed your nose against his. âHey.â
His hand trailed down to your waist again, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt just enough to feel your warmth but not enough to push boundaries. Not yet.
âYou sure?â he murmured, his lips hovering over yours, his voice so gentle it made your chest ache. He always asked this, as if you were ever going to change your mind about him.
And your truth rose up like a tide you couldnât fight. You werenât sure about a lot of things. But you were painfully, undeniably sure about the way you felt when he touched you like this.
You nodded, small but certain.
His breath hitched, just barely but still noticeable, and the way he kissed you then was different. As if this suddenly meant something to him too⌠even if neither of you dared to say it out loud.
His hands moved with a newfound confidence, exploring your body with a tenderness that made you feel cherished. You could feel the heat building between you, a slow, sensual burn that pooled low and left you breathless, wanting more.
You pulled him closer, your body arching against his, and he responded with a low, approving moan that vibrated through you. His kisses trailed down your neck, his teeth nipping gently at your collarbone, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine.
Your hands found their way under his shirt, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the warmth of his skin. He shivered under your touch as you explored him with a boldness that surprised even you before you pulled it over his head.
When his eyes met yours again, his pupils were blown wide. He slowly trailed his hands up your sides, bunching your shirt up with them until he slowly pulled it off of you and tossed it to the side.
His hands roamed over your body. You arched toward him without thinking, your body answering him even while your mind spun with a dizzy mixture of want and fear and longing. He made quick work of the clasp behind your back, his fingers steady while yours trembled, and when the fabric slipped away, his breath caught.
There was so much hunger in his eyes. That alone nearly broke you. Almost did every time.
Then he leaned down, his mouth finding your breast, his tongue circling your nipple with a skill that left you gasping.
You fumbled with his waistband, your hands shaking with anticipation, and he helped you. His pants fell to the floor, and he kicked them aside, leaving him in just his boxers.
He settled between your thighs, slowly grinding himself against your clothed heat, his eyes never leaving yours. It only served to heighten your arousal. You gasped as he lifted you slightly, allowing him to grind against you more intimately. You couldn't help but arch into him, wanting more friction.
âYou okay?â he whispered, voice rough at the edges.
You nodded, but the truth pulsed louder beneath your ribs. Iâm not okay. Iâm in love with you, and you donât even know youâre breaking me.
But your body leaned up anyway, your hands sliding over his shoulders, pulling him down until your foreheads touched. He exhaled shakily, his nose brushing yours.
âTell me if you need me to stop,â he murmured, thumb stroking your hip with a tenderness that didnât match the casual arrangement that you both had agreed on.
You swallowed hard. âDonât stop.â you breathed.
Something flickered across his expression. Maybe surprise, relief, maybe something deeper you didn't let yourself examine. And then he kissed you again, slower this time, like he needed the reassurance as much as you did.
He slowly pulled down your panties, his fingers brushing against your skin, making you shiver. You helped him remove his boxers, your hands trembling slightly. You werenât sure if it was nerves or anticipation. His cock sprung free, the pink tip already leaking a bead of precum. He lifted you effortlessly, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, feeling his length against you.
He looked down between the two of you and wrapped his hand around his cock before running it up and down your wet folds. Your mouth fell open with a loud moan as it grazed your clit. Only for a moment before he lined himself up and entered you slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to the stretch before filling you completely. You both moaned at the sensation, your bodies fitting together perfectly. He began to move, not pulling out, just rolling his hips against you.
âYou take my cock so perfectly, baby.â
You couldnât respond with anything more than a moan as you threw your head back on the pillow. He started his slow thrusts in a steady rhythm that sent waves of pleasure coursing through you. You clung to him, your nails digging into his back as you met his every thrust.
His lips found yours again, and you kissed deeply, your tongues dancing with each other, moaning into each other's mouths. The room spun around you, and all you could focus on was the feel of him inside you, the taste of him on your lips, and the sound of your combined moans filling the air.
He increased his pace, his body slamming into yours with a force that had you crying out his name. You could feel the pressure building inside you, the coiled tension ready to explode. He reached between you, his fingers finding your clit.
âThatâs right, baby. This pussy is all mine.â
âFuck! Yes! Itâs all yours, Eddie!â
He continued to circle your clit, thrusting relentlessly into you. Watching you as your jaw went slack and you squeezed your eyes shut. Focusing on the sensation of your orgasm building. His free hand suddenly came up to your face, grabbed it and angled it towards him.
âNo, donât do that. You look at me when Iâm fucking you.â
You couldnât help but listen. Your eyes meeting his, the iris almost completely gone with how wide his pupils were. Youâd never thought Eddie would be like this in the bedroom, not that you hadnât thought about it before, late at night with your hand shoved in your panties. It practically had you like putty in his hands.
But there were times heâd be inside of you, whispering absolute filth, it had you blushing the next day when your mind would drift back. Sometimes you questioned how he was able to look at you the same after the things heâd say to you. The things heâd done to you.
âYouâre mine. You got that? You and this pussy.â
The words hit you like heat, sharp and overwhelming. Something inside your chest ached, your breath catching in your throat. You couldnât look away from him, couldnât even think past the rush of electricity running through your veins.
The possessiveness in his voiceâraw, unfiltered, unguardedâtore through every boundary you tried to believe you had set with him. He didnât say it lightly. He didnât say it playfully. He meant it. At least, in this moment.
Your lips parted, a small, helpless sound slipping out before you could stop it. Your whole body reacted before your mind caught upâlegs shaking, stomach tight, heart pounding so hard you felt it in your fingertips.
His thumb stroked your cheek in a way that contradicted the rough edge in his voice, as if he knew exactly what that moment was doing to you.
âBaby,â he murmured, eyes flicking down to your mouth. âAnswer me.â
Heat rushed through your chest, your face, everywhere. You tried to nod, tried to breathe, tried not to fall apart under the weight of how badly you wanted those words to mean more than he intended.
âYes,â you whispered, voice unsteady. You tried to nod as best you could with him still holding your face in place. âIâm yours.â
He smiled at that answer and slowed down his thrusts, making sure to focus on the force of them, turning it to a slow hard pace. Thumb never leaving your clit.
Then suddenly, you shattered, he had finally pushed you over that edge. Your orgasm ripping through you with a force that left you screaming out his name.
âFuuuuck. Such a good girl and cumming for me.â
He gave a few more sloppy thrust before following soon after, his body tensing as he spilled into you, your name a whispered plea on his lips. You held each other tightly, your bodies slick with sweat, your breaths coming in ragged gasps.
âââââ-
You slowly blinked your eyes open. Welcoming the morning sun rays in. You tried to roll over and stretch, but something held you in place. Eddieâs arm.
It was slung lazily around your waist. His fingers were curled into the plush of your stomach like heâd fallen asleep holding on. His breath warmed the back of your neck in slow, even waves. Somewhere after the sex, between the third bad movie and the few joints he insisted on rolling, the two of you had knocked out. Him flat on his stomach, you curled on your side, your legs tangled together like youâd forgotten where you ended and he began.
You blinked blearily at the soft morning light coming through your curtains. The room smelled like weed, deodorant, and Eddieâs cologne he sprayed, swearing it would get rid of the skunky smell. His hair was sprawled across your pillow, curls tickling your cheek.
Carefully, you lifted his arm and slid out from under him. He made a low soundâhalf-groan, half-whineâbut didnât wake, just flopped onto his back and spread out like a starfish.
âIdiot.â you whispered, not sure if it sounded annoyed or fond.
Probably both. You quickly got dressed then made your way downstairs.
Your mom was in the kitchen already dressed for work, hair done, coffee mug in hand. She looked up as soon as she heard you on the stairs.
âMorning, sweetheart,â she said brightly. âEddie awake yet?â
You cocked an eyebrow, silently asking how she knew.
âHis van was in my spot.â
You nodded, mumbling out a still asleep, grabbing a mug from the cabinet and pouring yourself a cup of coffee, flavoring it to your liking with milk and sugar.
Your mom sighed happily. âI like having him around. Heâs sweet. And he makes you laugh.â She paused, giving you a pointed look. âYou should keep him.â
You almost choked on your coffee.
âMom.â
âWhat? Iâm just saying.â She shrugged, stirring her own with way too much enthusiasm for the hour.
âHeâs adorable. And polite. And he says âthank youâ every time I hand him a plate like Iâm giving him a bar of gold.â
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.
âHeâs just⌠Eddie.â
She leaned against the counter. âIs just Eddie staying for breakfast?â
You shrugged. âIâll wake him in a minute. You know he doesnât like turning down free food.â
Your mom beamed. âGood. Tell him I made muffins. Iâll pack you guys some to take to school.â
You snorted. âYouâre spoiling him.â
âIâm spoiling you,â she corrected. âHeâs just a bonus.â
You shook your head, unable to stop the small laugh that escaped. âAlright, alright. Iâm pretty sure you love him more than me at this point.â
âYou said it, not me.â She laughed.
You turned to head upstairs again, already knowing Eddie would still be spread across your mattress, snoring softly, dead to the world.
Your mom called after you, teasing. âTell him to brush his hair this time!â
âIâm not his mother!â
âDoesnât mean he doesnât do exactly what you tell him to!â She called after you.
You froze for half a second, heat rushing to your cheeks. Then you fled up the stairs before she could see you blush, heart thumping way too fast for seven in the morning.
You padded back up the stairs, the old wood creaking under your feet. Your room was dim minus the one single sun ray that found its way between your half-closed curtains. The soft orange glow of morning settling over everything Eddie had left scattered around. His socks, his rings on your nightstand, his shirt lazily thrown over your desk chair like he lived here.
He was exactly where youâd left him, exactly how you knew youâd find him. On his back, sprawled diagonally across your bed like a menace, mouth slightly open, hair a wild halo.
He always told you his best night's rest was in your bed. His mattress could never compare. You climbed onto your mattress gently, knee sinking into the sheets beside him.
âEds,â you whispered, rubbing a gentle hand on his chest.
A groan.
You leaned closer. âWake up. My mom made muffins.â
His eyes cracked openâjust barely, then shut again dramatically. âFive more minutes.â He mumbled.
âNo,â you said, stretching out beside him. âWe have school.â
He made a sound that was definitely a complaint and definitely not a word. Then before you could react, his arms looped around your waist and he yanked you down against him.
You squeaked as you toppled into his chest, your face pressed into his warm body.
âEddie!â
He grinned sleepily, eyes still half-closed. âWhy doesnât this alarm clock have a snooze button?â
That drew a small giggle out of you, but before you had a chance to retort, he rolled. Suddenly you were pinned beneath him, and he started kissing youâeverywhere except the mouth. Your forehead, your cheek, the side of your nose, your jaw, your collarbone. Quick, playful, affectionate little pecks, each one punctuated with a muffled âmwah.â
You burst into laughter, wriggling under him. âStop! Eddie!â
âNope,â he said, kissing your cheek again. âIâm awake now. This is your fault.â
You shoved at him, giggling, but he only flopped more of his weight onto you, warm and heavy and annoyingly comfortable.
âCome on,â he murmured into your neck. âLetâs skip today. Again. One more wonât kill us.â
âWe skipped yesterday.â
âBarely.â He kissed under your ear. âCâmon. Letâs just stay here. Sleep. Eat muffins. Watch movies. Smoke a little. Nap some more. You love napping with me.â
You did. Too much.
But if you stayed here with him warm and lazy and kissing you like this, you were going to do something reckless. Or stupid. Or both. And at this point, you werenât sure how much more your heart could take.
Eddie was an affectionate person. No matter who it was, he liked hugging, throwing his arms around his friends, holding hands. Get him drunk enough and heâs trying to give everyone pecks on the lips. He craved the physical touch. But he had never been this physical with you. Up until you agreed to his stupid request.
You put your hands on his cheeks then ran them down his body until they landed on his waist. With all of your tired strength, you pushed him to the side, rolling you both over until you were on top.
He cocked an eyebrow, definitely thinking he had won as he hands moved to lazily rest on your thighs that straddled him.
âNope. No. We are going to school.â
His eyes were wide as he frowned at you dramatically like youâd betrayed him. âYouâre cruel.â
âIâm realistic. Buuut,â you drug the word out as you pushed off of his chest and stood up. âWe have that bonfire. Get through today and itâs like a reward.â
He rolled his eyes then watched as you made your way around the room. You grabbed the pair of jeans heâd left on your floor yesterday and tossed them at his face. He caught them with one hand, barely.
âNow, get dressed.â
He sat up, hair a mess, smirking at you like you didnât just manhandle him. Like he didnât enjoy every second of it.
âYes, maâam,â he said, voice low and teasing.
You huffed, trying not to smile. âShut up and put your pants on.â
âââââ-
You stood in front of the mirror, leaning in close as you dragged the last sweep of liner across your upper lash line. The bedroom was warm from the late-afternoon sun, your stereo playing low in the background, something upbeat to keep your nerves from chewing holes in your stomach.
You told yourself you were getting dolled up because all of your friends were going to be at the Loverâs Lake bonfire tonight.
Not because Eddie would be there.
Definitely not because youâd picked out your nicest outfitâthe one that made you feel confident and soft and just a little dangerous. Definitely not because you wanted him to notice.
You fluffed your hair, tugged your shirt into place allowing for more cleavage to be shown, and brushed a thumb across your lips to clean up a smudge of color.
A honk blared from outside. Short, sharp, impatient. You felt your stomach drop and flutter at the same time.
âShow time.â you muttered to your reflection, like you hadnât been listening for that exact sound for the last ten minutes. You grabbed your jacket, spritzed perfume on your neck, and headed downstairs.
Outside, Eddieâs van was crooked in your driveway. He slouched behind the wheel, hair wild, one ringed hand hanging out the window as he drummed his fingers against the metal. When he saw you, he sat up a little straighter.
âHello, Miss lady.â he called, before eyeing you as you made your way to the passenger side. âLook at you.â
Your face warmed, but you rolled your eyes so he wouldnât see just how much that one look affected you.
âShut up.â you said lightly as you climbed in.
âNot a chance,â Eddie said, eyes sweeping over you once more, quick but too meaningful to be accidental. âYou look good.â
He put the van in gear before you could decide whether to thank him or shove him.
The drive to Lovers Lake was loud windows-down music, lots of breeze, and Eddie drumming the beat against the steering wheel. Every time he glanced at you, your chest tightened.
When you pulled onto the dirt clearing near the lake, the sky was already tinted orange. A big bonfire roared at the center, people gathered around it, laughing, drinking, leaning against cars.
Eddie parked and hopped out, stretching his arms like heâd been crammed in the van for hours.
His shirt lifted just enough to expose a thin strip of stomachâpale skin marked faintly by the waistband of his black jeans. His rings caught the dying sunlight, glinting as he ran both hands through his messy curls. They fell right back into that wild, chaotic halo he always wore, soft around his jaw and brushing his collarbones.
His red and black flannel shirt was completely unbuttoned, the edges frayed from years of wear, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A chain hung from his belt loop, clinking lightly as he shifted his weight. There was a smudge of grease on his forearmâprobably from messing with the van again. Damn thing is always giving him problems.
He grinned when he saw you looking, dimples flashing, eyes warm beneath dark lashes.
âCome on,â he said, nodding for you to follow, the corners of his mouth tugging higher. âWe drink first, socialize later.â
He made a beeline toward a cooler by the fire. The moment he reached it, he dug inside and handed you something cold.
He clinked his own can lightly against yours.
âTo bad decisions.â he announced proudly as he leaned forward to open your can for you.
You laughed. âTo the worst.â
But secretly? You hoped tonight brought something you could keep.
âââââ-
The night drifted on in that lazy, buzzing way only bonfires, teenagers and cheap liquor could create. Music thumped from someoneâs boombox, beer cans clattered, people laughed too loud. You and Eddie slipped into your usual rhythmâshoulders bumping, inside jokes, him stealing sips from your drink like he didnât have one in his own hand, dancing with each other until your legs felt like theyâd give out at any second.
But the more alcohol that slid down your throat, the more unsteady everything became.
At some point, your head warm and your body pleasantly loose from the alcohol in your system, you lost track of him. One minute he was beside you, rolling his eyes at a guys-vs-girls argument happening nearby⌠and the next, he was on the other side of the fire, leaning in close to some girl whose name you didnât care enough about to remember. She laughed at something he said, tossing her hair, fingers slipping down his arm before he wrapped it around her.
Your stomach dropped. Hard. You stared, you told yourself not to, and then you stared harder.
You knew he was an attractive guy. Attractive enough that other people noticed. You knew when certain girls got enough of anything in their system, they didnât care that he was the freak of Hawkins. They just saw a metalhead who played guitar, smoked pot, and would definitely piss off their parents if they were to bring him home. He was a way for people to rebel.
It made your insides twist into knots that almost had bile rising in your throat.
âYikes,â someone said as they plopped down beside you.
You blinked and turned. Steve Harrington. Perfect hair, perfectly relaxed expression, beer in hand. He followed your line of sight, then whistled low.
âDamn. Didnât expect to see Munson with anyone other than you.â
You said nothing, jaw tight. Steveâs eyes shifted back to you, softening like he already knew more than you wanted him to.
âYou want to make him jealous?â he asked casually, taking a sip from his drink. ââCause Iâm game.â
You snorted. âPlease. Thatâs dumb.â
âSo⌠is that a no?â
You hesitated. Just a second. Just enough for the ache in your chest to pulse through you.
âWell, letâs play then.â you muttered.
Steve grinned like heâd been waiting for that. He slid his arm over your shoulderâwarm, confident, not subtle at allâand tugged you in against him.
âAtta girl,â he murmured.
You laughed, even if it sounded a little uneven. It was easy with Steve. It had always been easy.
Youâd known him practically your whole life. Not through school, not through Eddie or Robin or the party scene, but because your parents had worked together for years. Youâd spent half your childhood in the Harringtonsâ backyard pool, throwing water balloons at him until Mrs. Harrington yelled from the kitchen window.
He was the first boy you ever practiced slow dancing with, both of you standing on his parentsâ polished floors at age thirteen, his hands awkwardly on your waist while you tried not to step on his toes. A year later, he was your first kiss. Both of you immediately agreed it was weird and awkward, like kissing a sibling.
Heâd always been there. Birthday parties, holidays when your parents were working late, crappy middle school dances where the two of you hid in the corner and mocked everyone elseâs outfits.
He wasnât the version of himself everyone at school liked to talk about. The king of Hawkins High, the flirt, the heartbreaker. You knew the other parts. The softer ones. The loyal ones. The ones that made him show up at your front door with milkshakes after your worst days, or call you at midnight asking which sweater to wear because he âneeded an opinion that didnât suckâ for his date tomorrow.
And even though you ran in different crowds, minus a few mutual friends, you guys never let that impact the way you loved each other. Robin likes to say âPlatonic with a capital Pâ when referring to friendships like this.
Which made him the perfect shield tonight.
You leaned into his side just a little more, enough to sell the act, not enough to mean anything, and he squeezed your shoulder in silent understanding.
Across the fire, Eddieâs stare sharpened like a blade catching firelight. And Steve, without looking, smirked like he could feel it. Eddie wasnât laughing anymore. He wasnât talking. He wasnât even pretending. He was staring. Directly at Steveâs arm around you.
His expression was dark with his mouth set in a hard line. He looked like he wanted to rip Steveâs arm off and throw it into the flames. You looked away first, heart hammering, pretending you didnât notice.
But the heat of his gaze stayed on you long after, each glance from him hitting you like sparks from the fire, hot and impossible to ignore.
Steve kept talking, something about how someone from chemistry had already fallen into the lake twice. He kept selling the act. As he spoke, heâd lean close, brushing your hair away from your face. Glancing at your lips a few times. But his voice faded into background noise. Because Eddie was still staring.
The fire cracked loudly between you, flames curling upward like they were trying to swallow the tension whole. People laughed, music thumped, someone shouted about needing more woodâbut all you could see was Eddieâs eyes locked on you, lips pressed into something that wasnât quite a scowl but definitely wasnât a smile.
Finally, he pushed off the log heâd been sitting on, muttered something to the girl beside him, and stalked toward you. Steveâs hand on your shoulder tightened.
âOh boy,â he murmured, then leaned in to whisper in your ear, as if to sell the scene one final time. âGet ready.â
Eddie didnât slow, boots crunching over gravel until he stood right in front of youâclose enough that you could smell the cigarette smoke in his clothes and the faint bite of beer on his breath.
His gaze flicked to Steveâs arm still draped around you, then back to your face.
âYou look cozy.â Eddie said, voice light. Too light. Like a joke he couldnât quite land.
âYeah,â you replied, matching the tone even though your pulse jumped. âSteveâs great company.â
Steve gave Eddie a sunny, borderline antagonistic smile. âMunson, take a picture. Itâll last longer.â
Eddie didnât even look at him. He kept his eyes on you, expression unreadable except for that spark, burning through every defense you had.
âYou gonna come talk to me,â he asked softly, âor you sticking with Harrington all night?â
Steve shrugged. âDonât mind me. I can share.â
You slapped Steveâs thigh, but he only grinned. Eddieâs nostrils flared, just barely. Then he leaned closer, speaking low enough that only you could hear.
âLetâs go for a walk.â
Your breath hitched. Steve heard it, apparently, because he let his arm fall away from your shoulders and patted your knee.
âGo on,â he said with a wink. âbefore he combusts. Iâll be here when you get back, babe.â
You heard Eddie scoff as you stood. Eddie stepped back to give you space, but not much. His fingers brushing yours as you passed him, a fleeting touch that felt intentional.
You walked with him toward the tree line, the fire lighting his silhouette in flickering orange. His curls blew in the faint breeze, and every few steps he glanced at you like he couldnât help it, like he needed to make sure you were still beside him.
When the noise of the party finally faded enough to think, he stopped, turned, and looked at you fully.
âWhat the hell was that?â he asked, voice low, breath uneven.
And you realizedâhe wasnât angry. He was jealous. Jealous and confused and maybe a little hurt? Which mightâve been worse.
âYou tell me.â you said quietly.
His eyes searched yours, wide and vulnerable for just a second before he blinked it away.
âWhy him?â Eddie asked. âWhyâd you go to him?â
You swallowed, heart thudding loud enough you were sure he could hear it.
âWhy do you care?â you murmured.
Eddie stared at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. Then he stepped closer. Close enough that your shoulders grazed. Close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him.
âI donât know,â he whispered, âbut I do.â
You crossed your arms, partly because the night air had cooled and you were no longer warmed by the blazing fire, mostly because his sudden possessiveness was stirring up every emotion youâd been trying to drown in cheap beer.
âEddie,â you said, trying to keep your voice steady, âweâre casual. Remember?â
He blinked, thrown.
âWe never said we couldnât see other people. You made that part pretty damn clear.â
His jaw flexed. âThatâs notâ I wasnâtââ
You huffed a laugh, sharp and humorless, and looked away toward the fire, where Steve was talking with Robin, perfectly unbothered.
âDonât act like you get to be jealous,â you said. âYou were flirting with someone.â
âI wasnât flirting.â
You shot him a look.
He winced. âOkay, maybe I was a little. But thatâs different.â
âHow?â you demanded, heat rising in your chest. âBecause you were doing it?â
He opened his mouth, then closed it, looking genuinely frustratedâlike the words were there but tangled up.
âYou and Harrington just lookedââ He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. âToo close.â
âOkay, and?â
âAnd he had his arm around you.â
âSo what? You say that like you werenât doing the exact same thing.â
Eddie froze. Like he hadnât expected you to have seen him. Like he didnât know how to handle the weight of it.
The wind rustled the trees around you. A distant laugh echoed from the main group. And Eddie stared at you, something fierce and conflicted twisting through his expression.
âYouâre right,â he said quietly, voice rougher now. âWe are casual.â
You felt something in your chest restrict. You shouldâve known this wouldâve gotten messy. Friends with benefits never works out. Especially when someone is already head over heels for the person propositioning it.
âBut that doesnât mean I donât care who touches you,â he went on, taking a step closer. âOr who puts their hands on you. Or who looks at you like they have any right to.â
Your breath stuttered. âEddieâŚâ
âAnd for the record?â he said, eyes darkening as they flicked over your face. âThat whole casual thing? That was supposed to make this easier, not make me feel like Iâm losing my mind watching you with someone else.â
Your heart thudded painfully. âI thought you didnât want more.â You whispered.
He exhaled, slow and shaky. Eddie dragged a hand across his mouth, eyes darting everywhere but your face nowâlike looking at you made the whole thing worse.
âForget it,â he muttered, backing up a step. âI shouldnât have said all that.â
âEddieââ
âNo.â He shook his head, curls falling forward. âIâm gonna go home. Itâs fine. I just⌠need air or space orâwhatever.â
The words stung more than you expected. Especially when he forced a crooked, fake smile.
âYou should stay. Have fun. Seriously.â He pointed vaguely toward the fire. âHarringtonâs here, Robin too. The hellfire gang. Youâll be fine.â
You took a step toward him, reaching out to grab his hand. He took a step back to dodge it.
âReally,â he said, softer, but firm. âStay.â
And then he turned and walked away. No dramatic exit. Just Eddie, hands in his pockets, shoulders tight as he disappeared into the line of parked cars and then out of sight down the dirt road.
You stood there for a moment, fire crackling behind you, stomach twisting like youâd swallowed a stone.
Fine. If he wanted you to stay, you would stay.
You forced your legs to move and wandered back toward the crowd. Steve spotted you first, raising an eyebrow like he already knew the answer and didnât need to ask the question.
âEverything cool?â he said lightly.
âTotally,â you lied.
He didnât buy it, but he didnât push. Instead, he nudged your shoulder and pointed you toward Robin, who was ranting loudly about her part time job and the stupid customers.
You slipped into her orbit easily. Laughing. Chatting. Pretending your heart wasnât in the pocket of Eddie's leather jacket as he drove home.
Steve kept an eye on youânot hovering, but close enough that you felt grounded. The theatrics of him pretending to hit on you ended as soon as Eddie left. Robin tried to pull you into a ridiculous dance circle, offering you a beer you hesitantly took. Someone offered you another drink after that, you took that one too. You chatted and joked with Jeff and Gareth. Tried to sing with them when Jeff pulled his guitar from Garethâs momâs station wagon.
You tried. You really did.
But every time someone laughed, you glanced in their direction. Every time a car door slammed, your pulse jumped. Every time someone with long curls walked by, your breath caughtâonly to fall when it wasnât him.
By the end of the night, it wasnât fun anymore.
Steve noticed your silence, your staring, your sudden inability to pretend this wasnât killing you.
âYou ready to go?â he asked gently.
You nodded.
The drive back was quiet, headlights cutting through the dark trees as you twisted your fingers in your lap. Steve didnât comment when you directed him past your house.
He didnât comment when you told him to turn left. Then right. Then down a familiar gravel drive. He parked outside Eddieâs trailer and let the engine idle.
âYou sure you wanna talk to him drunk?â he asked softly.
You nodded again.
âIâm not that drunk.â
Steve sighed, but not in a judgmental wayâmore like he was rooting for you, even if he didnât know what the hell was happening.
Steve wasnât stupid. He knew you like the back of his hand. Knew within the first few months when you wouldnât stop talking about the stupid metalhead, that you were too gone.
âCall me if you need a ride home,â he said. âOr if you need to escape. Or if Munsonâs being Munson.â
You managed a small smile. âWhen is he not? But thanks, Steve.â
You stepped out into the cool night air, closing the door gently behind you. His car pulled away, tires crunching over gravel, until the sound and headlights faded.
The trailer was dark except for the faint glow of the living-room lamp through the blinds.
You swallowed hard, nerves and alcohol buzzing like electricity under your skin.
Then you walked up the steps and knocked. You stood on the small porch, arms wrapped around yourself as the cool night air lifted the hairs on the back of your neck. The porch light flickered and every second he didnât answer made your heart pound harder.
Just when you were sure he was either asleep or ignoring you, the deadbolt scraped, then the door cracked open. Eddie blinked out at you, squinting like the porch light was too bright.
His hair was a complete disaster. Tangled, flattened on one side, sticking up wildly on the other like heâd been tossing in bed. A soft, faded pair of gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, drawstring untied, the trail of hair down his stomach disappearing into the waistband.
He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, voice rough with sleep when he finally spoke.
ââŚYou okay?â
You swallowed. âYeah. I- did I wake you?â
He stepped aside, motioning you in without answering the question. âCâmere. Itâs chilly out.â
You walked past him, your shoulder brushing his bare arm. He shut the door quietly, leaning back against it once it clicked. When he looked at you properly, confusion and something softer flickered across his face.
âWhatâre you doing here?â he asked, voice quieter now. âShouldnât you be at the party? With-â His jaw tensed briefly. âeveryone else?â
You looked down at your shoes. âTheyâre probably still there.â
âYeah,â he said, shifting his weight. âSo why arenât you?â
You lifted your eyes to meet his. His hair fell across his cheek, his breathing still a little uneven from being woken up.
âI didnât want to be there anymore, wasnât having any fun.â you said honestly.
His brow softened, the line between his eyebrows easing. âSo you came here?â
âYeah.â
A slow exhale left him, like heâd been holding his breath without realizing it. He raked a hand through his chaotic curls, making them even worse.
âYou shouldnât have walked alone.â he murmured.
âI didnât. Steve drove me.â
He blinked, caught off guard but not angryâjust startled.
ââŚOh.â
Silence settled between you. Eddie finally pushed off the door and stepped closer, stopping just a foot in front of you. You could feel the warmth radiating off his skin.
He swallowed, Adamâs apple bobbing, and his voice dropped even lower
âIâm, uhâŚâ His eyes trailed over your outfitâthe one youâd picked with him in mind. âglad you came.â
You let out a small chuckle. âI didnât want to go home alone.â
Eddie nodded, like he understood exactly what you meant and all the things you werenât saying. âYeah,â he murmured. âMe neither.â
And then he reached out, fingers brushing yours, hesitant but hopeful, waiting to see if youâd pull away. Eddieâs fingers barely ghosted over yours before he pulled in a shaky breath and stepped backânot far, just enough to brace a hand on the counter behind him like he needed something solid to hold onto.
His eyes stayed on the floor for a moment, curls falling forward. He looked younger like thisâunguarded, tired, still carrying the leftover heat of irritation and jealousy.
âI should say somethingâŚâ he murmured.
You waited, heart tightening. This was the moment you wantedâthe moment you hoped heâd finally admit something real. But when he looked up, his expression made your stomach drop.
He lifted his hands before falling uselessly at his sides. âIâm sorry.â
âFor what?â you asked, even though you already knew.
He sighed, shoulders slumping. âFor tonight. For getting jealous like an idiot. For-â His mouth twisted. âfor flirting in front of you. It was shitty.â
âOh.â You swallowed, nodding once. âRight.â
Not the right kind of sorry. Not the one you needed. He didnât notice the way your chest caved, too busy shaking his head like he was scolding himself.
âI wonât⌠do that again,â he continued, voice low and earnest. âNot in front of you. Not like that.â
There it was. The apology that fixed absolutely nothing.
You forced air into your lungs and nodded slowly. âOkay.â
He stepped closer again, just enough that his bare chest brushed your sleeve. His voice softened, like he thought he was giving you reassurance.
âIt wonât happen anymore.â
For a moment, you almost broke. Told him he was apologizing for the wrong thing. Told him you werenât hurt because he flirtedâyou were hurt because he cared only when he saw you with someone else. Because he wanted ownership without wanting you. But you couldnât. Not while he was looking at you like this. Not while the smell of his skin and the warmth of the trailer made your feelings too loud to control.
âOkay,â you repeated quietly.
Eddie let out a breath of relief, stepping even closer, his knuckles brushing your hip.
âI just⌠I donât want to mess things up with you,â he said. âI like what we have.â
Your heart cracked because what we have was the exact problem. Not enough. Never enough. But he was looking at you with those wide, soft brown eyes, hair a mess, chest bare, voice hoarse from sleep, and god, it hurt how much you loved him.
So you smiled. Small. Careful. A lie he needed.
âYeah, Eds,â you whispered. âWeâre fine.â
His shoulders relaxed instantly. And that killed you most of all. You took a slow step back, needing distance before the ache in your chest swallowed you whole.
âI should probably⌠get going,â you said, forcing your voice to stay steady.
Eddieâs face fell instantly. So fast that you had to look away before it broke you.
âWhat? Why?â he asked, already stepping toward you again. âItâs late. You can crash here. You always crash here.â
âI know,â you said gently. âbut Iâm just⌠tired. I think I should go home.â
He blinked at you, confused and a little hurt. âSweetheart, you didnât walk all the way over here just to leave.â
âI had Steve drive me,â you corrected quietly.
He winced. âRight, yeah. Still. You donât have to go.â
He moved in, instinctively reaching for you. His hands settling at your waist like muscle memory. The warmth of him hit you all at once. His bare chest, the faint heat of sleep still clinging to his skin, the smell of him, that soft mix of bonfire and cigarette smoke, detergent, and Eddie.
âStay,â he murmured, leaning in, forehead nearly brushing yours. âJust⌠stay here tonight.â
Your breath stuttered. God, you wanted to. Your whole body leaned toward him like gravity was pulling you in.
His arms tightened, pulling you against him, his lips brushing your cheek before trailing toward your mouth. And that was exactly why you had to stop.
âEddie,â you whispered, hands pressing lightly to his chest. âStop.â
He froze. Right thereâlips inches from yours, arms warm around youâhe froze. You eased out of his hold, every inch you stepped back feeling like ripping Velcro off your own heart. His brows knitted, hurt and confusion twisting through his expression.
âDid I⌠do something wrong?â
âNo.â You shook your head. âItâs not that.â
âThen what-?â
âEdsâŚâ Your voice cracked. You cleared your throat. âI just need to go home. Okay?â
He swallowed, jaw working like he was trying to understand something he didnât have the pieces for.
âYeah,â he said quietly. âOkay. I can drive-â
âNo. Itâs not that far anyway. Itâll give me time to sober up before having to sneak in.â
He moved toward you like he couldnât help it, stopping just shy of touching. âWill I-â He swallowed again. âWill I see you tomorrow?â
You looked up at him and somehow managed to nod âYeah,â you said softly. âYouâll see me later.â
He nodded once, slow, like he wasnât sure if that was a promise or a goodbye.
You opened the door, the cool night air spilling in. Before you stepped out, you heard him sayâquiet, vulnerable, not meant to reach you.
âGoodnight, sweetheart.â
You closed the door gently behind you. And carried the crack in your chest all the way home.
âââââ-
The moment you got home, you barely made it to your room before the first sob hit. Ugly and way too honest. You shut the door with shaking hands, stumbled to your bed, and collapsed face-first into your pillow.
You cried like something inside you had snapped. Because something had. All this time, you thought you were being subtle. You thought you could be close to him without being close to him.
You thought you could handle the little pieces he offered, even if they didnât add up to anything real. You tried to be what he wanted. Letting him get away with whatever bullshit, giving him space when needed.
Friends with benefits. God, how stupid. How fucking stupid.
You dragged your palms over your face, trying to muffle the next sob, but it still tore out of you.
You didnât get to love him. Not like that. Not out loud. You didnât get to want the future he didnât want. But you let him hold you like he did. You let him kiss you like he meant it.
You let yourself believe, even for a second, that maybeâjust maybeâyour heart wasnât delusional.
And tonight proved exactly how wrong you were.
You curled onto your side, knees to your chest, breath breaking in uneven gasps as tears soaked the fabric beneath you.
You replayed it all in brutal detail. The flirting. The way he lit up when someone else touched his arm. The way he looked at you across the fire. He was jealous, but not jealous enough to choose you.His apology that wasnât an apology. The way he tried to kiss you like it meant nothing. The way you almost let him.
You pressed a fist to your sternum, as if you could physically hold your heart together.
You couldnât do this anymore. You couldnât keep letting him halfway love you. You couldnât keep letting him act like you were his only when it was convenient. You couldnât keep pretending your feelings werenât swallowing you whole.
You sniffed hard, wiping your face with your sleeve.
You had to distance yourself. You had to stop the friends-with-benefits thing before it killed you from the inside out. You had to protect the tiny piece of your heart that wasnât already bruised purple from his grip
He would get over it. Heâd be upset for a day, maybe two. Heâd pout, heâd complain, heâd sulkâand then heâd go back to being fine.
And you?
You let out another shaky breath, fresh tears burning. Youâd lie awake like this. Trying to pry your heart out of a place it had never been wanted.
You sobbed again until there was nothing left but the ache. One thing was clear now, clearer than it had ever been.
You couldnât keep doing this. No matter how much you loved him. Because love shouldnât be this messy. Love shouldnât hurt this bad.
âââââ-
The first day back after spring break felt heavier than it shouldâve.
The halls buzzed with everyone comparing their time off, hookups, where they went, what they did, stupid stories about stupid things. All of it slid right past you, muted under the steady thrum of anxiety sitting at the base of your spine.
Your backpack was too heavy. Your clothes felt wrong.
And every time you turned a corner you expected to see him. Expected to bump square into the middle of his chest.
Youâd gotten good at avoiding Eddie over breakâstaying in your room, telling your mom you were âstill sick,â cracking your door open just enough to tell him you werenât up for visitors when he came by.
Heâd frowned, offered to drop off movies or soup, lingered on your porch like he could will you into changing your mind.
But you held your ground. It hurt. But seeing him wouldâve hurt more.
It wouldâve led to stupid decision. Meaningless kisses. Meaningless touches.
More meaningless Youâre mineâs.
That always seemed to be his go to when he had you wrapped around him. And you always felt so stupid in the wake of the aftermath how easily you let those two stupid words go straight to your heart.
Now you walked into the cafeteria with Robin chattering beside you, Steve trailing close behind, balancing a tray loaded with two extra juice boxes he insisted you drink because "They're your favorite and itâll make you feel better.â
You forced a laugh.
âItâs just school, Harrington. Iâll get better when we graduate.â
âUh-huh,â he said, giving you a once-over. âHumor me.â
Again, he wasnât stupid. He knew what had been going on. Going to hang out with Eddie then the next day showing up with hickeys barely hidden by your poor makeup skills.
Robin nudged you toward your usual seatâwell, your new usual seat. Away from the Hellfire table. Away from the boys arguing loudly over campaigns and dice rolls.
Away from him.
You slid into the spot between Robin and Steve, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. Trying to pretend your heart wasnât kicking at your ribs every time someone with long dark curls crossed your peripheral vision.
Steve watched you for a moment before leaning on his elbow on the table.
âYou okay?â
You nodded quickly. Too quickly.
Robin snorted. âThatâs the Iâm-fine-but-Iâm-not-fine nod. Very iconic. Very suspicious.â
You opened your mouth to fire back some sarcastic retortâwhen the cafeteria noise dimmed in your ears, just for a second.
Because he walked in. Eddie.
Hair a little messier than usual, like heâd rushed out of bed. Eyes scanning the room in that casual, effortless way he always scanned for you. His graphic tee stretched over his chest, rings glinting as he shoved his hands in his pockets.
He looked tired.
He looked like heâd been looking for you.
Your stomach twisted painfully as you turned away, trying to hide yourself from him.
He hadnât seen you yetâuntil Gareth nudged him and nodded toward your table.
When you turned just a little to catch a quick peak, you saw Eddieâs head turn, saw his eyes land on the three of youâ
Saw the moment he realized you werenât coming to him today. His expression flickered. Almost too fast to catch. But you caught it.
He tried to play it cool, tried to smile when Jeff said something beside him, but his gaze drifted back to you. You bit down on the inside of your cheek and forced your attention onto your tray.
Steve leaned closer, his voice low. âHe keeps staring.â
You didnât look up. âI donât care.â
Robin raised a brow. âUh-huh. And Iâm the Queen of England.â
You rolled your eyes. Everything inside you felt too full and too empty at the same time.
Across the room, you felt his gaze again, waiting for you to look back. To smile. To motion him over.
You didnât.
For the first time since youâd met him, you didnât give in. And when he realized thatâwhen he realized you werenât coming to him, werenât going to let him pretend everything was normalâhis shoulders tensed. His jaw tightened.
He turned back to the Hellfire table, dropping into his usual seat in a way that was too stiff, too deliberate.
Robin gave you a gentle nudge. âYou gonna tell me whatâs going on there?â
You swallowed, eyes on your untouched food.
âNo,â you whispered. âNot today.â
Because if you started talking about Eddie Munson right nowâ in this loud fluorescent cafeteria with him sitting twenty feet awayâ you werenât sure youâd be able to stop and no one needed to see you have a full blown mental breakdown over him.
âââââ-
The days blurred together. Robin and Steve finally got the full story of what was going on. They did their best to be a distraction for you. Inviting you out after school. Stopping by the house on their way to work. Taking you to the mall for retail therapy.
It only worked sometimes. Once you were alone though, you couldnât stop yourself from thinking about him.
You avoided him in the halls. You avoided the Hellfire table. You avoided any path that might cross his.
And at first, Eddie tried. He really tried. Heâd wave when he caught your eye. Call out your name when you pretended you didnât hear him. Lean against your locker like he always used toâeven when you hurried past without stopping.
But after a while, the light in his face dimmed. The calls turned into glances. The glances turned into nothing. And then came the irritation. The hurt he pretended not to feel. It started small.
Youâd dropped a worksheet outside English class, papers scattering, and heâd been passing by. Normally he wouldâve crouched down beside you, teasing you for being âa helpless little disaster.â
This time?
He just stepped over them. Didnât look at you. Didnât slow down. Just muttered, âMaybe pay attention,â under his breath.
It stung. But you let him go.
You tried to slip past unnoticed, but Gareth spotted you and waved enthusiastically.
âHey! We havenât seen you all week!â
Eddie turned at the sound of Garethâs voiceâturning just in time to see Gareth reaching for you, smiling.
And Eddieâs face changed. His expression shuttered. Jaw set. Something dark flickering behind his eyes.
You swallowed. âHey, Gare. Iâve just beenâbusy.â
Eddie scoffed. Loud enough to make you flinch.
âOh yeah? Too busy to even say hi now?â
You stiffened, heat crawling up your neck. âI said, Iâve been busy, Eddie.â
âRight,â he said flatly. âBecause youâve suddenly got this brand-new life that doesnât involve any of us.â
You opened your mouth, but he lifted a hand.
âWhatever. Doesnât matter. Not like Iâm your fucking babysitter.â
Gareth looked between you two, confused and uncomfortable.
You took a breath, tried to stay calm. âIâm going to class. Iâll give you a call later today if you want, Gare.â
He smiled and nodded.
âShocker,â Eddie muttered as you walked away. âShe remembers we exist when itâs convenient.â
Your stomach twisted painfully. But you didnât turn back.
By the end of the week, the tension was thick enough to choke on.
Whenever you were near him, even by accident, he went rigid. Short answers. Cold tone. Like he was punishing you for hurting him. It almost made you want to laugh.
And then came the moment that broke you a little more.
You were at your locker between periods when he passed by with Jeff. He wasnât even talkingâjust walking, tired and quiet.
You almost didnât notice him. Almost.
Then Jeff said something that made him huff a laugh, and his eyes flicked toward you.
Just for a fraction of a second. Enough to acknowledge you. Enough to see you. But instead of looking away like he normally did⌠Eddie shot you a glare. Cold. Sharp. Done.
âYou got a problem?â he snapped when he realized you were staring.
You jerked back, startled. âThe fuck, Munson?â
âStop looking at me like that.â
It hit harder than you expected. You opened your mouth, stunned, but nothing came out.
He didnât wait. Didnât apologize. Didnât soften.
He just walked off with Jeff, shaking his head as though you were the one being unreasonable.
And for the first time since this whole mess started⌠you felt something inside you break. Completely shattered with no pieces left to try to pick up.
Because this wasnât the Eddie whoâd held you through the night. Wasnât the Eddie who kissed your forehead when you were falling asleep. Wasnât the Eddie who once told you that you were his favorite person in the world.
This Eddie was tired. Frustrated. Wounded. And taking it out on you.
And stillâsome pathetic, traitorous part of you missed him.
âââââ-
The Hellfire boys had finally had enough. You didnât know it but theyâd been watching this slow-motion disaster unfold from both sides. Eddie moping and snapping at everyone. You avoiding them like they carried the plague.
And Hellfire, for all its chaos, was a family. A meddling one.
It happened on a Thursday after school. You were heading toward the parking lot, hoping to escape another day without bumping into Eddie, when Gareth caught your wrist.
âHey-can you help us with something real quick?â
You blinked. âUm⌠help you with what?â
Dustin and Jeff appeared behind him, too quickly. Too smiley. Suspiciously smiley.
âItâsâŚuhâŚd&d.â
âCharacters and whatnot!â Jeff added.
âWe need your opinion.â Gareth said at the same time.
You raised a brow. âSince when do you need my opinion on your campaign?â
They ignored that, herding you down the hall like some awkward sheepdogs with an agenda.
âGuys, what is going on?â
Gareth opened the drama room door and pushed you gently inside. You stumbled forward, catching yourself. Just as the door clicked shut behind you. You spun around.
âSeriously? What-â
Locked.
You jiggled the knob. âAre you kidding me?! Guys, come on!!â
Silence. Then hurried footsteps. Then nothing.
âOh my god,â you muttered. âUnbelievable.â
But before you could fully process the level of stupid youâd just been subjected toâ A voice came from the back of the room.
âWell, fuck.â
Your heart lurched.
Eddie sat on the edge of the stage platform, hands braced behind him, expression caught between annoyance and disbelief.
âThey locked me in, too,â he said, glaring toward the door. âSaid they needed help painting a new Corroded Coffin banner. Said Jeff wanted one to hang in his room.â
You stared at him. He stared back. Both of you tense. Wounded. Waiting.
The silence stretched until he exhaled harshly and pushed off the stage.
âSo what,â Eddie muttered, hopping off the stage and pacing a few steps, âthis is some messed-up intervention?â
âI guess,â you said quietly. âTheyâre worried.â
He scoffed. âYeah, well. They shouldnât be.â
But there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion.
You crossed your arms, jaw tight. âYou havenât exactly been fun to be around lately. Heard all about it when I called Gareth.â
He stopped pacing. Slowly turned to you.
âOh, I havenât been fun?â he repeated, voice sharp. âYouâve been avoiding me for weeks. You wonât talk to me, wonât look at me-what was I supposed to do, just smile and wave?â
âThat doesnât mean you get to be an asshole to everyone around you.â you snapped.
âOh, trust me, I know,â he shot back. âIâm painfully aware that Iâm screwing up everything. That I already screwed shit up long ago.â
His voice cracked, barely there. That shut you up.
He raked a hand through his hair, pacing again, agitated. âYou think I donât notice when youâre gone? You think I donât see you with Harrington and Buckley at lunch, pretending we never mattered? Pretending I never mattered?â
Your throat tightened. âEddie, thatâs not-â
âI miss you,â he blurted.
You froze. He froze. The words trembled in the air between you.
He swallowed hard, shaking his head. âShit. I didnât mean to- well, I did, but not like-â He groaned and dragged both hands down his face. âLook, Iâve been an asshole. A huge one. The biggest. I know that. But I-I miss my best friend.â
Something inside you cracked, painfully and softly at the same time. You stared at him, heartbeat loud in your ears.
âI miss you too.â you whispered.
His eyes lifted. Hope flickered. Small and careful and afraid.
âBut,â you continued, voice wavering, âI needed space.â
âI know,â he said immediately, stepping closer. âI get it now. I wasnât giving you any. I was pushing. And I got jealous like a fucking child andâŚyeah-I deserve the silent treatment.â
He let out a breath, shaky and sincere.
âBut Iâm begging you- just talk to me. Yell at me. Hit me with a shoe. Anything. Just⌠donât disappear on me again.â
You blinked fast, overwhelmed by the crack in his voice.
This wasnât angry Eddie. Or defensive Eddie. Or casually cruel Eddie. This was your Eddie. Slowly, you stepped toward him. He stayed still, watching you like you were something fragile.
You swallowed. âItâs not that you got jealous, Eds. It was everything else.â
His brows pinched, the smallest shift, but you saw itâ that flinch he tried to hide, like he was bracing for impact. âWhat do you mean?â he asked quietly.
You let out a shaky breath, fingers twisting together.
âIt wasnât the jealousy that hurt. It was how you treated me. The things you said. Then the way you made it seem like I was⌠disposable.â
Eddieâs face crumpled, the bravado slipping right off him.
âI didnât⌠shit.â He dragged a hand through his hair. âI didnât mean that. I swear to god, sweetheart, I never meant it like that.â
âStop with the sweetheart shit, pleaseâŚâ you whispered.
âIt felt like once we started⌠whatever we started⌠I stopped being your friend unless you wanted something.â
He closed his eyes like the words physically hit him. You kept going, because stopping meant chickening out.
âYouâd pull me close one night, then ignore me the next morning. Youâd tell me I was your favorite person but flirt with other girls in front of me. Youâd kiss me and then act like I was some chore the next day.â
âJesus⌠fuck,â Eddie muttered, shaking his head as if trying to shake the memories loose. âI know. I know. I was an idiot. I was scared and-and defensive and⌠I handled everything like a complete jackass.â
You swallowed, throat tight.
He hesitated before stepping a little closerânot touching, just close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.
âWhen you started avoiding me,â Eddie said softly, âI panicked. I didnât know what I did wrong. And instead of asking you, I got pissed.â
A humorless laugh escaped him. âReally mature, right?â
You didnât respond. You werenât ready to let him off the hook. Not yet.
He looked at you, really lookedâeyes soft and wrecked in the way they got when he was telling the truth.
âYouâre not disposable,â he said.
His voice was rough, low, like it hurt him to say it out loud.
âYouâre⌠youâre the one person I care about more than I know how to explain. And I fucked everything up because I didnât know how to deal with that.â
He took one tiny step closerâgiving you every chance to step back.
You didnât.
âEdsâŚâ you whispered, unsure of where to go from here.
His jaw tightened, eyes shining with something like desperation.
âI miss you,â he said again, voice cracking on the last word. âNot because of the sex. Not because you make everything fun.â
His chest rose and fell, uneven.
âI miss you because youâre my best friend,â he finished, softer than a whisper.
âAnd because losing you, like actually losing you, felt worse than anything Iâve been through.â
Your Eddie. Right there. Heart in his hands, terrified you wouldnât take it.
He swallowed hard, gaze dropping to the floor.
âIf I ruined us and thereâs no going back, tell me,â he said. âTell me and Iâll let you go. Itâll hurt like hell, but- iâll do it.â
Your heart squeezed so tight it hurt.
He looked up at you again, eyes wide and scared and full of hope he wouldnât dare admit to.
âBut if thereâs a chance⌠even a small one⌠that we can fix thisâŚâ
He took a breath that shook.
âJust say the word.â
You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself, because thisâthis was the part youâd been terrified to touch.
The part that would change everything.
âEds,â you said softly, âI need to ask you something.â
He straightened, shoulders tense. âYeah?â
You hesitated, then forced it out.
âHow do you feel about me?â
For a heartbeat, he froze.
Then Eddie Munson did what Eddie Munson always did when backed into an emotional corner.
He deflected.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocked on his heels like this was all casual, all easy. Like your futures didnât hang on his next sentence.
âWell,â he said with a shrug, âyouâre my best friend.â
You stared at him, unblinking.
âAnd?â you pushed.
He huffed a nervous laugh. âAnd you-uhâŚyou feel like home, I guess. My safe place. The person I go to when shit sucks.â He gestured vaguely. âThe person I wanna talk to when something cool happens or when I have a shitty day. Thatâs⌠thatâs how I feel.â
You blinked. That was it?
He mustâve seen the disappointment cross your face, because he rushed on.
But you just shook your head, the hurt creeping back into your chest.
âThatâs not what I meant,â you whispered. âThatâs not what Iâve been asking.â
You turned away, the burn behind your eyes making everything blur. âForget it.â
âHey-no,â he said quickly, stepping forward. âDonât do that. Donât walk away from me again. Talk to me. Help me understand.â
âYouâre still not answering me,â you said, voice shaking. âYouâre dodging. Like always.â
âIâm not dodging.â
âYou just said Iâm your best friend,â you snapped, spinning around to face him. âYou described a pet. Or a comfort blanket. You didnât answer what I asked.â
Eddieâs mouth opened then closed. His eyes darted away, jaw clenching hard.
Your heart sank.
âRight,â you whispered, stepping back. âThatâs what I thought.â
And when you turned toward the door, everything changed.
Because Eddie surged forward, grabbing your wristânot hard, not enough to hurt, just enough to stop you from leaving and make you look at him.
His voice cracked and his eyes had started to get watery. âIâm in love with you.â
You froze. Every part of you. Every breath. Every heartbeat.
He swallowed hard, eyes locked on yours, desperate and terrified and done pretending.
âI am so goddamn in love with you it scares the shit out of me,â he said, words spilling out like heâd been holding them back for far too long. âThatâs why I screwed everything up. Thatâs why I acted like a fucking idiot. Because every time I looked at you, I feltâŚmore than I knew what to do with.â
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He stepped closer, still holding your wrist, lightly brushing his thumb against it.
âYou wanted the truth?â he said, voice quiet but fierce. âThatâs the truth.â
Your heart pounded in your ears.
âI freaked out,â he whispered. âI panicked. I wanted you so bad I couldnât think straight. And instead of dealing with it like a normal fucking human, I ruined everything.â
His voice dropped to barely more than a breath. âIâm in love with you.â
His eyes shone, soft and pleading. âIâm so in love with you it hurts.â
Silence fell between youâthick, powerful, fragile. Your wrist still in his hand. Your heart still pounding like it was trying to break free and crawl into his ribcage, trying to make a home next to his own heart.
And Eddie. he was bare, terrified, hopeful. Just waiting for you to speak.
You stared at him, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.
His confession echoed in your head, too big, too impossible, too⌠everything.
Your voice came out small. Shaken.
âAre youâŚare you fucking with me?â
Eddieâs eyes widened immediately, almost offended. âWhat? No. No, I- why would I joke about that?â
âBecause this doesnât make sense,â you whispered. âBecause you never said anything. Because you acted like-like everything but that.â
He let go of your wrist only to cup your face gently, palms warm against your cheeks.
âI know,â he murmured. âI know I handled everything wrong. But Iâm not fucking with you.â
You held his gaze, searching for any sign of a lie, any hint of the old defensive Eddie.
Eddieâs expression softenedânot nervous, not frantic anymore, but tender.
Almost painfully so.
âYou remember that blackout?â he asked quietly.
âWhat?ââThe first night you ever stayed at my house. The blackout.â
Your eyebrows drew together in confusion and you slowly nodded.
The storm.
The thunder that rattled the windows. Had you both worried it would tear down Wayneâs mug collection with how much the trailer shook from the wind.
The power going out mid-movie night.
You crawling into his bed because you were scaredâand him pretending not to notice how tightly you clung to him.
âYou fell asleep on me,â he said, eyes softening at the memory.
âRight here.â He touched his chest lightly. âCurled up like you belonged there.â
Your eyes quickly flashed to his balled up fist that rested on his chest before looking back into his gaze.
âAnd the storm kept getting worse,â he continued, voice warm, low, honest. âEvery time thunder hit, you squeezed my shirt and mumbled something I couldnât make out. And I just⌠I held you. Because it felt natural. It felt right.â
Your throat tightened.
He smiled faintly, shaking his head like he still couldnât believe it.
âYou were scared and all I wanted to do was protect you and make you feel safe. And you tucked your cold feet between my ankles, like you always do, like it was the most normal thing in the world.â
You blinked, lips parting.
You hadnât even realized youâd done that.
âAnd I remember lying there,â he said, voice dropping to something more vulnerable, âin the dark, with your heartbeat against me, thinking⌠oh, shit.â
A soft, stunned laugh escaped you. âOh shit?â
âOh shit,â he repeated with a crooked, self-deprecating smile.
âBecause I realized I didnât want to fall asleep alone anymore. I realized I wanted you there every night. I wanted to be the person you came to when you were scared. Or sad. Or excited. Or bored. I just wanted to be your person.â
He exhaled, the confession pouring out of him like heâd been holding it back for far too long.
âAnd I realized I wasnât just attracted to you. I wasnât just⌠into the physical stuff. I wanted everything with you.â
Your chest ached but this type of ache was new. It had all those cracks he had created in you suddenly filling with warmth.
Eddie swallowed, eyes locked on yours.
âBut it terrified me,â he said. âBecause Iâm me. And youâŚâ
His voice cracked.
âYouâre the best thing Iâve ever had. And the idea of losing you scared me so bad I messed everything up trying to ignore how I felt. So I slapped the casual label on it, âcause if itâs casual, you wouldnât have to break my heart by rejecting me.â
You loosened, the tight coil of hurt and anger inside you unwinding. It wasnât fully gone, not magically fixed, but softening. Like it was starting to fray and dissolve at the edges.
Dissolving because this was real. Because he meant it. Because he wasnât just saying what you wanted to hear.
Your voice shook. âEdsâŚâ
He stepped closer, forehead brushing yours, breath warm against your lips.
âIâm not messing with you,â he whispered.
âNot now. Not ever. But ever since that night, I used to pray for thunderstorms to happen while you were at my house.â
You stared at himâreally staredâat the flushed cheeks, the trembling hands, the way he was trying so hard not to touch you unless you gave him permission.
And something inside you finally, finally snapped. Not in anger. In relief.
Before he could say anything else, you gave a light laugh at his last confession before you surged forward and grabbed the sides of his face, pulling his mouth to yours.
Eddie inhaled sharply against your lips, like he hadnât dared dream youâd actually kiss him outside the confines of your homes. Then he melted into you, the way you had done with him so many times. His hands sliding to your waist as if heâd been holding himself back.
The kiss wasnât gentle.
It was weeks of hurting.
Months of wanting.
Years of being stupidly, hopelessly in love with each other.
When you finally broke away, both of you were breathlessâyour nose brushing his, your fingers still tangled in his hair.
His voice was wrecked. âSweetheartâŚâ
âYou idiot,â you whispered, a tear slipping down even though you were smiling. âYou never had to worry about me rejecting you.â
Eddie blinked, stunned. âW-what?â
âIâve been in love with you too,â you admitted, cheeks burning, heart pounding. âFor a long time. Longer than I shouldâve let myself.â
He stared at you like the world had just tilted under his feet.
Then a shaky disbelieving laugh escaped him. His forehead dropped to your shoulder.
You laughed, wiping your cheeks. âEdsââ
But he pulled back, cupping your face as if he needed to see the truth written there. His brown eyes were glassy, wide, and so full of emotion it almost hurt to look at them.
âYou mean it?â he breathed. âYouâre in love with me?â
âI mean it.â you whispered.
A slow, awestruck smile spread across his faceâsoft at first, then growing into something radiant. Something he couldnât have held back even if heâd tried. It was his best kind of smile. The one you always wanted him to wear.
âHoly shit,â he said, and before you could tease him for it, he kissed you again like heâd been starving for this. Like heâd been waiting forever.
You realized neither of you were worried anymore. Not about jealousy. Not about rejection. Not about ruining anything. Because youâd finally stopped running from the truth.
Youâd been his. And heâd been yours. Long before either of you were brave enough to say it.
When you finally parted, he leaned his forehead against yours. Eyes still closed, dropping his arms between the two of your and finding your own.
âI didnât have an ah-ha moment like you.â You admitted. Your voice was quiet, but it didnât shake.
âI didnât suddenly realize I was in love with you all at once.â
Eddie pulled back, finally opening his eyes to look at you, watching you like he was afraid whatever this spell was would suddenly break.
âIt just⌠built,â you continued. âLittle things. The way youâd make everything feel lighter, even when my whole world was going to shit. How youâd look at me during campaigns like you were making sure I was still having fun. How you always saved me the last cigarette. Or the middle seat on the couch. Or the warmest blanket.â
He swallowed hard, jaw tensing.
âAnd it didnât feel dramatic or shocking,â you said, shaking your head. âIt felt normal. It felt⌠like breathing. Like something Iâd been doing forever without realizing it.â
Your laugh came out uneven.
âHonestly, Steve was the one that pointed it out to me. Asked if I was in love with you. By the time I actually stopped and thought about it, it was already true. So true it scared the hell out of me too.â
One of his hands rose slowly, cupping your cheek.
You leaned into the warmth before you could stop yourself.
âI kept waiting for you to figure it out first,â you whispered. âBecause if you didnât, that meant Iâd ruin everything by saying it first.â
His thumb grazed your lower lip, and his eyes flicked down to your mouth like he couldnât help it.
âI wish you wouldâve. Just taken that leap. Or maybe me have enough balls to do it the proper way. So, I guess, million dollar question. Do you want to be my girlfriend? Officially. Fuck this casual shit.â
You shook your head lightly, overwhelmed, giddy, breathless in a way you hadnât felt since the first time he ever smiled just for you.
âEddieâŚâ you said, but your voice was already cracking around the edges of a laugh.
He looked panicked for half a secondâeyes widening, shoulders tensing like he thought you were about to turn him down.
âHeyâno, no, donât laugh,â he rushed out as more panic built in his chest. âIâm being serious. Dead serious. I want you. I want us. No more pretending weâre just⌠whatever the hell we thought we were doing.â
You laid your head against his chest, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist. His moved to wrap around your shoulders, holding you tight against him.
âIâm not laughing at you,â you said, smiling into him. âIâm laughing because⌠Iâve wanted you to ask me that for so god damn long, Eds.â
The relief that washed over his face was instant and obviousâlike his whole body exhaled at once. His grip on you tightened, steadying himself like you were the one holding all the power now.
âJesus Christ,â he breathed, half a laugh, half a disbelieving groan. âYouâre gonna take years off my life, you know that? Make my hair go grey early.â
You rolled your eyes playfully, but your heart was beating too hard, too fast.
He looked so happy. So open. So yours.
âSoâŚâ he tried again, lifting your face up to look at him, leaning in, noses brushing, âis that a yes? Before I keel over from suspense?â
You pretended to think for half a second, just to tease him, and he dropped his head and let out a dramatic whine into the curve of your neck.
âYes, you idiot,â you finally said, looping your arms around his shoulders. âOf course Iâll be your girlfriend.â
He froze.
Then he scooped you upâliterally lifted you off the groundâlaughing into your neck like he couldnât help himself.
You squealed, arms tightening around him as he spun you once before setting you back down, hands framing your face like he was making sure you were real.
âHoly shit,â he whispered, grinning wide and a little wild. âYouâre mine. Likeâfor real.â
You nudged your forehead against his, smiling so big it almost hurt.
âAnd youâre mine.â You murmured.
He kissed you then. It was messy, eager, but this time, full of so much love. Every feeling you guys had swallowed for so long poured out all at once.
No hesitation. No pretending. Just Eddie. Your Eddie.
đđđđđđđ: Getting high with your guy best friend and he starts listing reasons you should let him put his cock inside you. Based on this post.
đđđđđđđđ: +18 MDNI, little bit of handjob, smut, unprotected sex, smoking weed, hint of size kink. I think that's all, lmk if i missed something.
đđđđ đđđđđ: 4,5K
đđđđđđ'đ đđđđ: Yes, i'm still on hiatus but i'm still writing some ideas and requests that you guys sent me. I didn't really like how this went because i had something different in mind for this oneshot, but i was listening to ethel cain and maybe it got to my head so i wrote more...no, less sexy than i intended. But i hope you guys like it!! My requests are still open (and the anon option is back yay!!) so send me some ideas to write. Love you all, thank u for being patient with me. đŠˇ
The apartment's living room was shrouded in a whitish haze, filled with distorted guitar riffs and vocals indistinguishable amidst a symphony of screams and guttural growls. Eddie was currently sprawled across the vintage red velvet sofa, legs dangling over the armrest and head tilted back against the cushions; he looked like a marionette that had gotten too close to the fire â melted and then discarded.
His limbs lay heavy and loose, sprawled across the sofa almost like the exaggerated pose of a body at a crime scene, while his eyes were half-closed and his mouth twisted into a scowl that looked like disgust as he gave his head a subtle, minimal shake â it was just his own peculiar way of showing he was enjoying good music â specifically, the guitar riff that made the floorboards vibrate and would almost certainly earn him a complaint from the downstairs neighbor within minutes.
The weed had hit both of you harder than usual, turning the apartment into an almost slow-motion sanctuary where the only things that mattered were the rhythmic pulse of the bass and the way the sun filtered through the loosely closed blinds in irregular golden bands.
"Pass the lighter, please?" Eddie murmured, his voice hoarse and drawling. He didn't move his head; he simply extended a tattooed hand, the ink snaking up his forearm in sharp, geometric patterns. He had a way of moving that was always slightly dramatic, even when he was practically unconscious from a joint.
He smiled, the dimples beside his mouth deepening as he met your gaze, while dark brown curls tumbled over his shoulders in a chaotic tangle. You leaned forward, sliding the lighter across the coffee table, feeling your limbs as if they were made of hot, softened wax on the verge of turning to liquid.
You had spent the last three hours in exactly that state â talking about everything and nothing, arguing about vinyl records, and sinking deeper into the cushions until you almost merged with the furniture. There was a comfortable weight to the silence between you, the kind that exists only between two people who have seen each other at their worst and decided they still liked the view.
"Have you ever thought about how weâre basically just ghosts inhabiting flesh suits? No⌠aliens in a robot suit made of flesh, just like in the movie MIB," Eddie asked, his voice drifting as if he were narrating a documentary only he could hear.
He shifted his position, turning onto his side to face you in a slow, languid movement; the light caught his ear gauges, the silver rings glinting as he propped himself up on his elbow. The metal music shifted to something slower, a dense, hypnotic rhythm that seemed to sync with the pulsating heat beginning to coil in the pit of your stomach.
He didnât pull away when you stepped closer, your shoulder brushing against his. Instead, he reached out, sliding his hand along your shoulder with a tenderness that anchored you amidst that haze of smoke and metal. His fingertips were calloused from guitar strings, yet they grazed the curve of your breast with a light, teasing precision that made your breath hitch.
"Speaking of 'meat suits'âŚ" he murmured, his brown eyes darkening, "Iâve been thinking of a few reasons why you should finally let me put this meat inside you."
You let out a low, breathless laugh, but the sound died away when you felt movement against his jeans. Eddie wasn't just talking; he was touching himself, his other hand sliding down to stroke his length right over the fabric.
He was in no rush, moving at a slow, deliberate pace that accentuated the thick, heavy outline of his cock. He pressed lightly against you; the friction of the denim created a low, thumping in your chest that competed with the bass of the music.
"Reason number one," he whispered, dimples appearing in a predatory, playful smile, "weâre already halfway there. The vibe is perfect. Reason number twoâŚ" He paused, his hand squeezing tighter, shifting the angle so you could see exactly how much space he took up. "You know Iâm huge, right? Like, pornstar big."
"Shut up," you managed to say, though the protest lacked any real conviction. Your voice came out low, swallowed by the music's heavy distortion and the rising heat of the room.
Eddie didnât blink, his gaze was fixed on yours with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. He was no longer laughing, the playfulness had given way to something hungrier, though the warmth remained.
He shifted his weight, pressing his thigh firmly against yours, the heat of his skin radiated through his jeans. His hand continued that slow, rhythmic motion, the denim stretching taut over his thickness.
"I'm serious," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave and vibrating in the small space between you. "I'm massive. Touch it and see."
The challenge hung in the air, drifting languidly like smoke. You hesitated for a moment, your pulse pounding in your throat, before reaching out.
The instant your fingers grazed the rough denim, Eddie didn't wait for you to find your rhythm; with a fluid, practiced motion, he hooked his thumbs into his waistband and pushed his jeans â along with his underwear â down, freeing himself with a heavy, sudden thud against his navel.
You froze, the air escaping you in a sharp exhale as you looked down. It was magnificent â pulsing with a raised vein that ran along the base to the tip, the head swollen and leaking, flushed a deep reddish hue that contrasted sharply with the pale skin of the shaft. It was far larger than you had imagined; heavy, imposing, and of a length that seemed to defy the very definition of the word.
"Holy shit," you whispered, eyes wide as you darted your gaze between his impressive size and his face. "This is going to break me."
Eddieâs expression was one of pure, triumphant satisfaction; he arched his hips slightly, showing himself off with intense confidence. "God, I hope so," he groaned, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.
He reached out, his hand finding the back of your neck and pulling you just a few inches closer, close enough for the heat radiating from him to envelop your skin.
You didn't wait for him to urge you on again, your fingers closed around him, and the first thing you noticed was the searing, pulsing heat that seemed to vibrate in time with your own heart. He was solid â his skin smooth yet stretched taut over the sturdy structure of his length.
As your hand slid upward, feeling how he filled your palm â your fingers unable to fully wrap around him â Eddie let out a sharp, hissing gasp, his head hit the back of the sofa with a dull thud, and his eyes closed as he surrendered to the contact.
"Shit," he murmured, his voice strained. "Youâve got quite a grip, sweetheart."
You didn't answer, too occupied with what was right in front of you; you slid your hand down, feeling the weight of his balls and the way he pulsed against your palm. You squeezed his dick lightly with the other hand, testing his firmness, and Eddieâs hips jerked instinctively upward as a low, guttural sound escaped from deep in his throat.
"Careful," he gasped, though his eyes were open now, half-lidded and dark, revealing a mix of pride and desperation. "If you keep doing that, I won't be able to wait until the list is finished."
You let out a shaky laugh as your thumb caressed the head of his cock, noticing how he jerked at the touch. The weed had softened the outlines of the room; the velvet of the sofa felt like moss beneath your touch, and the air seemed thick, almost like liquid goo.
You moved closer, and his scent â spicy, woody vanilla, tobacco, and a faint hint of sweat â overwhelmed your senses. As you shifted, your knee brushed against his thigh; the contact sent a jolt through you that made your toes curl against the sofa.
Eddieâs hand, which had been resting at the nape of your neck, slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him to claim the space, his solid frame enveloping you completely. He lowered his gaze to where your small hand could barely grasp his thickness, and a slight smile appeared on his lips; his dimples appeared one last time before his expression turned serious.
âReason number three,â Eddie whispered, his voice nothing more than a breath against your ear. "Chemistry. We have plenty of that, don't we?" He didn't wait for an answer; his hips surged forward, pressing his hot, velvet-smooth length against the seam of your jeans.
The contact was electric â a sudden, intense flare of heat that made your breath hitch. You felt the tremor in his thighs, the tension of muscles coiled like a spring, holding back a surge of urgency that threatened to spill over. He wasn't trembling from the effects of the weed, but from the immense effort of staying still while you explored his impressive size.
You shifted your grip, sliding your hand to the base of his member and pulling upward in a slow, firm motion; the friction of your palm against his skin created a wet, sliding sound that seemed to amplify as the musicâs volume suddenly dropped.
Eddieâs eyes flew open, his pupils dilated to the point of swallowing the brown of his irises, turning them almost black; he let out a sound that was half-moan, half-gasp as his fingers dug into the small of your back.
"You're killing me," he said in a hoarse voice, his head lolling to the side as he struggled to breathe. "You're really killing me."
You didn't let up; you slid your hand back down to the base and closed your fingers around him again, this time squeezing with slow, deliberate pressure. The sound that escaped Eddie didn't even seem human â a low, guttural rumble that started in his chest and ended in a sharp intake of breath, making his entire torso shudder.
"You're talking too much, Munson," you whispered, your voice sounding distant and hazy to your own ears. You leaned forward, your chest brushing against his arm, the lust between the two of you was now a physical force that seemed to distort the hazy air.
Eddieâs eyes locked onto yours, the hunger there was almost predatory, yet softened by the warm, familiar affection that had defined your friendship for years. He made no move to push you away, nor did he pull back.
His breath came in short, ragged gasps; he shifted his hips, his weight and girth sliding against your palm. The friction created a searing sensation that made your head spin and your senses blur â like an addictive drug youâd discovered and had no intention of giving up.
âIâve got plenty of reasons,â he managed to say, though his voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper. âThe fourth reason⌠the way youâre looking at me right now, like you want to see if I really fit inside you.â
âYouâre dangerousâŚâ you whispered, but you didnât pull your hand away. You shifted your weight, moving off the velvet cushion to kneel between his legs, which were spread wide across the sofa.
The change in perspective made him look even more irresistible: his chest rising and falling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, his long hair fanned out against the sofa, creating a dark, wild aura. From that angle, his imposing presence was even more overwhelming; the room seemed to shrink, the walls receding until nothing remained but the distorted sound of the speakers and his scent â intense, masculine, and intoxicatingly warm.
Eddie let out a long, shaky breath, his head falling back against the sofa once more; his eyes were closed and his jaw was set, yet he remained completely attuned to the sensation of your touch. His hand, still resting on your shoulder, gave a light squeeze, his thumb grazing the line of your collarbone.
âThe fifth reasonâŚâ He groaned, the words barely escaping his lips. âI⌠God, I thought about this every time we hung out these past few months. Every time you laughed at my jokes, every time you touched my arm⌠I just wanted to feel you all around me.â
The sincerity in those words hit you harder than the weed. The air in the room was heavy, thick with the mounting tension of months of pent-up desire and unfinished sentences.
You looked up at him, seeing the vulnerability beneath his tough guy act, the way his chest rose and fell in ragged, breathless movements. He was laying himself bare â raw and exposed â waiting for you to decide if the risk posed by his size was worth the reward of his touch.
You didnât answer with words; you simply leaned forward, your lips grazing the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Eddie let out a sharp, stifled sound â something between a gasp and a plea â and his fingers dug into the fabric of your top, pulling you closer.
You could feel the heat radiating from him in waves â a furnace of anticipation that made goosebumps rise across your skin. With a slow, deliberate movement, you slid your hand back along the length of his body; your palm molded to his imposing thickness, feeling him shudder and pulse beneath your touch.
"Six," Eddie whispered, his eyes half-lidded and heavy with dark desire. "Reason number six⌠because I know exactly how to take care of you. Once Iâm inside, Iâm not letting you go anytime soon."
You reached for the button of your jeans; as you lowered the zipper, the cool air of the apartment brushed against your skin for a split second before you felt his searing heat pressing against your thigh. He was so large he seemed like a physical barrier â a wall of heat and muscle that demanded your full attention and took up nearly all the space on the furniture.
As you pushed your jeans and panties down, the sudden absence of fabric felt like a release; you shifted, sliding back until you were stretched out on the velvet cushions, your legs parting instinctively to make room for him.
Eddie didnât move immediately; he just watched you, his chest heaving and his eyes tracing your face as if searching for any sign of hesitation. Seeing you open to him seemed to break something loose inside him, and he let out a low, guttural sound, more of a growl than a word.
He moved with agonizing, deliberate slowness, kneeling on the couch as he settled between your thighs. It was impossible to ignore his approach; the heavy, throbbing head of his cock brushed against your entrance, and the friction made you arch your back. He let out a ragged breath, his forehead resting against yours, his dark curls forming a curtain that shut out the rest of the apartment.
âDo you still think itâs too much?â he murmured, his voice a vibration you could feel in your very bones.
âJust do it,â you whispered, your fingers digging into his biceps and pulling him closer.
Eddie didnât rush. He couldnât. The size and thickness of his cock demanded a patience that contrasted with the desperate hunger in his eyes; he shifted his weight, bracing himself on his forearms with his chest hovering just inches above yours. He took a deep breath â a shaky, audible intake that rumbled in his throat â and then pushed forward a little.
He was so thick that the sensation wasn't one of sliding, but rather of a slow, insistent expansion; you felt his blunt head stretching you open, breaking through the initial resistance with a heavy, relentless force.
A small, involuntary gasp escaped you as your fingers dug into his biceps, feeling the rock-hard muscle tense beneath your touch. Eddie froze and waited, his eyes locked on yours, searching for any sign that it was too much.
âAre you okay?â he asked, his voice hoarse, as if it had been dragged over gravel.
âIâ Fuck, donât stopâŚâ you pleaded, arching your hips upward, unconsciously seeking that blend of pleasure, pain and being completely filled.
Eddie let out a low, distorted groan and shifted his hands; one slid from your shoulder to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to maintain eye contact as he pushed deeper.
The sensation was overwhelming, a forceful, pulsing power that made the air escape your lungs in a sharp, ragged hiss. You could feel every vein and ridge of him as he slowly navigated the tight space; his thickness left no room for anything but him; a collision of wet friction and wild desire, the feeling of being completely filled. As he drove in another inch, your hips lifted instinctively, your body trying to make room for his colossal size.
âHoly⌠shit,â Eddie groaned, his voice breaking. He had stopped moving, his forehead pressed against yours, his chest heaving in violent, ragged breaths.
He was trembling, muscles taut, fighting the urge to simply thrust with full force; the pleasure of that tight, snug fit was clearly pushing him to the limit.
The look on his face was one of absolute, agonizing ecstasy, a religious epiphany and a physical breakdown all at once.
He shifted his grip, his large, tattooed hands slid beneath your thighs to lift your hips higher, positioning you so he could thrust even deeper.
The change in position allowed him to go to the absolute limit, his weight pressing you into the cushions as he let out a long, shuddering breath.
He looked down at you â his brown eyes wide and glazed â and his dimples flashed briefly as a wild, hungry smile touched his lips.
"Youâre really taking it all," he murmured, his voice hoarse and broken. "God, youâre so tight⌠itâs like youâre trying to squeeze the soul right out of me."
"Maybe I am," you managed to stammer, your voice sounding distant even to your own ears. You wrapped your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles to anchor yourself against his overwhelming force.
The sensation of being stretched to the limit was dizzying, a heavy, throbbing pressure that made the room spin faster than any high from the weed ever could. With every thrust, it felt as though he were rearranging your internal organs, opening up a space that had never existed before.
Eddieâs breathing came in a series of ragged, desperate gasps. He began to move again, but the rhythm shifted from a steady cadence to something more primal and erratic, his movements grew shorter, sharper, and more frenzied.
The friction of his thick length against the walls of your cunt was almost unbearable, making you arch your back and throw your head back against the sofa cushions. You could feel the bass vibrations from the speakers echoing through his chest and directly into yours, syncing with the heavy pounding of his heart.
"I can'tâ" Eddie groaned, his voice thick with emotion. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that made you shiver. "I can't believe you actually fit⌠God, you're so hot."
He shifted his body, placing all his weight on you and pressing you against the soft fabric of the sofa. The added pressure only drove him deeper, pushing past every limit until you felt his tip against your cervix that sent a wave of white-hot pleasure radiating through your lower belly.
"Reason seven," Eddie managed to say, his voice a hoarse, ragged sound; his eyes were squeezed shut, his head tossing from side to side as he struggled for breath. "Reason seven⌠is that I can't⌠God, I can't breatheâ fuck, when I'm inside you." He let out a guttural roar, the sound vibrating deep within his chest.
"Eddie," you whispered softly, his name barely more than a breath. You weren't sure if you were asking him to stop or begging him never to let go.
"God, you're like⌠a vice," Eddie groaned, his voice cracking as he gripped your hips, tattooed fingers sinking into your skin to hold you steady, breathing as if heâd just run a marathon, his chest heaving against yours.
"I can feel every⌠every inch of you squeezing me. Itâs unfair. Thatâs cheating."
You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, your legs locked tight around his waist, pulling him even deeper into that heat.
"Who's cheating? It's you⌠you practically have a whole tree trunk attached to you."
"And yet you let me plant that trunk in your soil," he shot back, a manic, dimpled grin breaking through the ecstasy.
He shifted the angle, hoisting one of your legs over his shoulder to spread you wide open, the change in position allowed him to thrust with agonizing depth, his weight pressing you into the fabric as he drove all the way in.
You let out a sharp, stifled moan, your toes curling as his thick head hit that same white-hot spot, sending a fresh jolt of electricity racing through your hips.
His movements had turned heavy and relentless, every thrust was a slow, overwhelming slide that made it feel as though your skin were fusing with his, forcing your opening wide with a searing, slick heat that made your breath come in short, ragged gasps.
An intense, vibrant pressure spread through you, turning your muscles to liquid lava, you arched your back, your hips instinctively tilting to meet him, seeking that overwhelming impact again and again.
The friction was immense, a wet, slapping sound echoing the musicâs deep bass, creating a sensory loop that drove you closer and closer to the edge.
"Eddie, please," you moaned softly, though you didn't even know exactly what you were asking for, you only knew that the sensation of being completely filled by him was the only thing in the world that mattered right then.
"Please what, sweetheart? Be specific," Eddie panted, his voice a hoarse, ragged whisper.
He didn't slow down, digging his heels into the sofa for leverage and driving into you with sudden, sharp intensity, hitting the same spot over and over.
You couldn't find the words, so you simply wrapped your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles and squeezing with all your might.
He began moving in shorter, frenzied thrusts, each withdrawal was a teasing, agonizingly slow release of pressure, immediately followed by a devastatingly deep thrust that seemed to rearrange your insides.
The sensation was overwhelming, a total occupation of your body that made the rest of the world â the music, the smell of weed, the mess of his apartment â fade into a distant, irrelevant blur. Nothing existed but his heavy, sliding weight and the way he filled every available millimeter of you.
"Right there," you moaned, your voice a fragile thread of desire and pleading. "Eddie, right there."
"Almost⌠right there," he gasped, his voice a shattered shadow of who he used to be.
The friction was turning into an overwhelming blaze, a searing heat that dissolved the boundaries between where your body ended and his began.
His movements shifted from rhythmic to desperate, his breath escaped in ragged, guttural sounds. He drove into you with absolute, focused intensity, bracing his heavy thighs against the velvet cushions as he sought the deepest connection possible. With every full thrust, he let out a low, trembling groan that made your entire body vibrate with raw, visceral desire.
"Holy⌠shit," Eddie moaned, his voice wavering.
He let out a long, guttural sound â half-groan, half-cry â as he slammed his hips against yours and buried himself deep, his entire body shuddering from the force of a release that seemed to make even the floorboards vibrate. He froze, his whole body locked in a rigid line of tension, muscles taut and trembling.
You felt his sudden, hot surge pulsing deep against your cervix and moaned a long, high-pitched sound of absolute surrender as his forehead dropped onto your shoulder and you finally gave in to the overwhelming pleasure of climax, your breath coming in ragged, shaky gasps.
He didn't pull away immediately, he remained there, lost in the intense, pulsing heat of your body as your heartbeats synchronized in the sudden silence, before collapsing onto you with his forehead resting on your shoulder and his chest heaving in ragged, panting spasms.
He shifted and slid out of you, dropping onto the sofa beside you, a slow, reluctant withdrawal that seemed to last an eternity. As he slid out, a sense of emptiness took hold, his sudden absence was almost as impactful as the penetration itself, making you shiver despite the warmth of the apartment.
He let out a long, shaky breath, letting his head fall back against the velvet as he stared at the ceiling, dark curls plastered to his forehead with sweat.
"Holy⌠God," he breathed, his voice returning to that husky charm, though stripped of all pretense. He looked at you, a hint of a smile returning to his lips. "Did I⌠you know⌠break you? Be honest. On a scale of one to ten, how much of a wreck are you right now?"
"Eleven," you managed to say, your voice hoarse and fragile. "I think you actually shifted my organs, I can feel my liver in a different place."
Eddie let out a loud, rich laugh, the sound echoing through the room.
"You know," Eddie murmured, traces of laughter still in his voice, "the list had twelve reasons. I only managed to say seven."
You let out a low, weary laugh, turning your face to look at him. "Seven reasons seems like more than enough to me."
Eddie let out a deep, resonant laugh that vibrated through his entire body and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you so close that there wasn't a breath of air between you.
The room was dark, the late afternoon light had taken on a purplish hue, matching the languid, lazy atmosphere that had settled over you both.
SYNOPSIS: You were the beloved, helpful houseowner full of objects who were head over heels in love with you. Which wouldâve been great if you werenât completely dense to their flirting.
TAGS: GN!Reader, VERY suggestive, Everyone Falling for the Same Idiot, Mentions of alcohol / drinking (itâs a party), not proofread bc i lazy eheh...
Your entire house was deeply in love with you. Hopelessly and pathetically in love with you.
Which was⌠a bit of a problem.
Not for them, of course! For them, every brush of your hand, every conversation, every time you offered to help was another arrow through the heart! Proof that their feelings were mutual.
But for you? Well... you were just being nice.Â
You always had been funny, patient, and warm.Â
You gave everyone birthdays, even if they didnât have one, just so they could feel celebrated. You mended them when they cracked, chipped, or broke. And you always handled them like they were something precious.
You were, quite literally, the glue that held the whole household together. So naturally, they fell for you.Â
No one was entirely sure when it started. It was less like a singular lightning strike and more like a slow flood, realization blooming like ivy around the chest, subtle and soft and then suddenly everywhere. You would walk into a room, hair messy from sleep, holding a mug half-filled with tea youâd forgotten you made, and every eye would turn to you with the same expression of love.
But there was just one problem for them...
Their human was so, so, so horribly, painfully, devastatingly dense.
Dorian liked to think of himself as a door with standards. A gentleman of structure and duty. He had withstood years of rough treatmentâslams, kicks, storms, and the occasional toddler with a marker.
But despite everything heâd already endured, nothing could have prepared him for you.
You padded barefoot out of the bathroom, damp from your shower, skin dewy, and towel hanging dangerously low.Â
The hallway was quiet, sun slanting in through the skylight in lazy golden beams, warming the floor under your toes as you hummed something off-key. You smelled like soap and warmth and innocence, and it was driving Dorian absolutely mad.
He tried to avert his gaze, to maintain his usual composure, when a thump caught his attention.
"Oh shoot!" you gasped, chasing after something.
A hairbrush, Dorian registered distantly, just before it slipped from your hand again and clattered against the hardwood. It bounced once, twice, then came to a rest, pressed right up against the base of his frame.
Before he could even attempt to register what was happening, let alone help, you were already by him, reaching for it. You bent forward, and your towel, already scandalously low, hitched down just a little.
Then, suddenly, the backs of your thighs pressed warmly against his front, your ass making full, unintentional contact with his crotch.
Dorian froze. His entire frame locked in place. His hinges seized with a creak so soft it was barely more than a breath.
"Oops!" you said lightly, still crouched. "Sorry, big guy."
Big guy.
"Didnât mean to bump into you," you added, voice bright and oblivious.
Brush in hand, you stood up and glanced back at him, one hand settling against his side. Your fingers trailed along his suit like it was nothing.
Something inside Dorian snapped. In one fluid, startlingly effortless motion, he reached around your waist, his arm wrapping across your stomach as he hauled you back against him.
You gasped, startled, as your spine collided with his chest. He completely dwarfed you, the breadth of his body enveloping yours, his height casting you in shadow even in the golden hallway light.
One of his hands slid upward, settling over your ribs. His palm alone spanned nearly the entire width of your torso, his fingers grazing the edge of your sternum.
"I do wish," Dorian muttered, his voice low and gravelly near your ear, "youâd stop calling me that."
You blinked up at him, that same unfazed, sunny smile creeping back up on your face.Â
"What? Big guy?"
Dorian let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a grumble, low and rough in his throat. "You're doin' it on purpose now."
"But you are big!" you said sweetly, as if you werenât driving a stake directly through his wooden heart. "And to be fair, you were in my way."
He just stared down at you, jaw clenched, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. For a long, loaded moment, he just stood there, trying to decide whether you were messing with him or were really this much of an idiot.
Then finally, after what felt like minutes, he exhaled sharply, muttering a low curse under his breath as he let go of you.Â
You giggled, entirely unbothered, and gave his arm a light squeeze, right over the solid curve of his bicep.
"Guess Iâll just have to squeeze past you next time," you teased, nudging a hip against his side before walking away, towel swaying with every step.
Dorian huffed, pink creeping up his neck.Â
"Hate to see you go," he muttered under his breath as his eyes followed you, "but love to watch you leave."
House - 0 | Homeowner - 1
Hector was overheating.
Literally, yes... his filter was long overdue for cleaning and his internal systems were running hot, but also in the other, far more inconvenient way. The emotional one. The one caused by you sitting on your knees beside him, pulling his panel open like you were undressing a lover kind of way.
It wasnât good for his circuits. It wasnât good for his systems. And it was absolutely catastrophic for whatever vaguely heart-shaped piece of him had decided it was a good idea to fall in love with you.
"Iâm so sorry, Hector," you murmured, your brow furrowed in soft concern as you wiped delicately at the filter casing with the edge of your cloth. "I shouldâve cleaned you days ago! I kept meaning to, but everythingâs been so hectic lately. You mustâve been so uncomfortable."
He wanted to respond. Really, he did. But he was fairly certain that if he tried, his voice wouldn't work.
Instead, Hector emitted a soft, strangled click-hiss, his cooling fan sputtering to life.
You, of course, mistook it for a glitch.
"Oh no, that sounds awful!" you murmured, your voice full of guilt as you leaned in closer to inspect the exposed panel.
One hand of yours braced lightly against the edge of his casing for balance as you peered into the tangle of metal and heat. Your breath warmed the inside of his frame. Your fingers skimmed the edge of his vent. Your hair, damp from your shower, fell forward and brushed against his shoulder.
That was the moment Hector ceased to function as a coherent being.
His fans rattled audibly, and he briefly considered whether it would be more dignified to combust on the spot or simply roll back into the vents.Â
"A-Ahm," he choked, voice static-cracked and strained as his systems tried and failed to recalibrate. "Youâre... v-very close."
You didnât move away. Instead, you looked up with wide, apologetic eyes and that same devastating softness in your expression.
"I know! Sorryâ! Iâm totally crowding your space, arenât I?" you said, voice sheepish. "But your filterâs delicate, and I didnât want to tug anything wrong. Iâll be quick, I promise."
Hector was going to die right here on the attic floor.
You resumed brushing the filter with small, circular motions. Flecks of lint came free like snowflakes, and every time you leaned in to inspect your work, Hector buzzed faintly in the chest.
"I donât deserve this kind of attention," he said finally, voice quieter now, but more intentional. "N-Not unless you... mean it."
You looked up, soft and earnest, your eyes wide and full of the exact kind of kindness that had ruined his life.
"Of course I mean it! You take such good care of the house. Of me. I just want to return the favor."
"I wasnât talking about the maintenance," he tried again, more firmly this time. "I meant your hands. The way you touch me... The way you speak to me."
You blinked slowly. Then lit up like youâd solved a puzzle.
"Oh! Iâve been watching a ton of HVAC maintenance tutorials on YouTube," you said proudly. "Is it working?"
Hector made a sound like he'd been punched in the chest.
"Yes," he said, flatly. "Youâre very good at... modulation."
"Thank you!" you chirped, beaming at him as you resumed your gentle work. "Your filterâs almost totally clear, by the way. Youâre going to feel so much better when this is done."
"I already feel better around you," he muttered.
You glanced up. "Hmm? Did you say something?"
"Nope... Mustâve been... one of my ventsâŚ"
House - 0 | Homeowner - 2
"Ah, ahâno, no, no, my dear," Keyes said, clicking her tongue and stopping you mid-chord with a firm press of her hand over yours. "That is not D. I donât know what that one was, but it certainly wasnât D."
You blinked up at her. "Oops! Sorry. My fingers have a mind of their own."
"Hmph," she muttered under her breath. "They should ask for directions, then."
With a sigh, she straightened beside you, every inch the proud, long-suffering teacher. You were not the composer sheâd imagined when you first started tinkering at her keys. But still, you were⌠something. Despite being a hand-me-down, sheâd become yours. You had carved out space for her and shown a stubborn eagerness to learn.
She guided you patiently, though her eyebrows betrayed her irritation. You were clumsy, untrained. And yet there was something undeniably charming, infuriatingly so, about the way you kept trying. The way you beamed every time a half-correct note rang out from her keys.
Keyes then heard three notes in a row, clear and clean, ringing out like an actual chord. You gasped, delight blooming across your face as you turned to her.
"Wow! I almost got that chord right. Iâm totally getting better at fingering you!"
There was a pause.
There was a very long pause before the piano lid slammed shut with a violent clang, the strings inside shrieking in protest like sheâd just tried to swallow a metal pipe. You flinched hard, yanking your hands back before the lid could slice your fingers clean off.
"What was that?!"
"Nothing!" she barked, voice jumping half an octave. "Justâa tuning fault! Environmental conditions. Hector! I do not like how he has set the temperature of this room."
You gave her the softest, most earnest look imaginable. A small frown, all concern and kindness. It nearly destroyed her.
"Aww, sorry about that. I bet youâd sound amazing if you were properly tuned. I already cleaned Hectorâs filter, but Iâll take care of you soon, I promise!"
Keyes was burning. She could not deal with that kind of tenderness. Not from you. Not from the person who just said "fingering" her like it meant nothing. Like it was lunch talk.Â
Then, as if that werenât enough, you giggled and reached over to lift the piano lid again. Only to dramatically slam one of her lowest keys in a perfect imitation of her earlier screech.
"NAIIIIIIL on a chalkboard," you said, grinning wide. "Just like that, right?"
Keyes dropped her head into her hands.
House - 0 | Homeowner - 3
You were sitting cross-legged on the rug in the living room, surrounded by a battlefield of tangled laundry, a knotted-up clothesline, scattered socks, and five very stuck Hanks.
"You guys really need to stop trying to Hank-glide near the drying line," you said, exasperated but patient, gently working a stubborn knot off Hank 2. "This thingâs practically a choking hazard."
"Heh. You know what else is a choking hazardâ" Hank 3 started, grinning from where he was half-hogtied in last weekâs laundry.
His face was scarlet, practically steaming. Hank 2 wasnât even breathing at this point. He was just desperately pretending this wasnât happening, not like this. Not with you this close, crouched over him, touching him like he hadnât had dreams about this exact scenario.
"Hold still," you said softly, slipping your fingers under the clothesline tangled around his waist. "Iâm gonna try to ease it offâ"
You pulled hard, and the knot cinched immediately. It went down low, squeezing snug around Hank 2âs hips.
The poor hangerâs soul evacuated his body. The noise that came out of him started as a gasp but ended up as a breathless whimper.
"Oops!" you winced. "Sorry! Iâm just trying to get you out without, like⌠yanking your frame clean off."
âIâIâm gucci,â Hank 2 managed to croak, not nearly as convincing as he thought. âStraight chillinâ, homie.â
You tilted your head, frowning as you inspected the knot wrapped tight around his leg. âBut⌠youâre really red. Is it cutting off your circulation? I can try wiggling it loose. Itâs just⌠tight in here.â
That earned you a chorus of wheezing and muffled laughter from all around the room.
Hank 1, already freed and standing off to the side, cleared his throat a little too sharply. âYeah. Tight. Needs gentle handling. Real finesse job, dawg.â
You glanced over your shoulder and grinned at him like heâd just handed you a compliment. âMhm! Ohâhey, Iâm gonna try to get Hank 5 loose first, but donât worry! Iâve got magic hands.â
You wiggled your fingers proudly, flashing that sweet, innocent smile that had absolutely no business being as dangerous as it was.
âAnd you know, Iâm super good with ropes,â you added casually, crouching down again to inspect the tangle near Hank 5âs thigh. âSometimes you just gotta work it slowâback and forthâtill it gives.â
âBack and forth,â Hank 3 echoed faintly, eyes fully glazed. âRight on, babyâŚâ
The Hanks werenât exactly the sharpest objects in the house, but with how dense you were acting, they were starting to think your head might actually be emptier than theirs. How were you going to say stuff like that, all sweet and serious, crouched between someoneâs legs, and not realize what you were doing?
Hank 5 watched as you stepped over with that focused little frown you always got when you were being gentle. His head tilted slightly, eyes following every movement of your hands.
"You take care of us so much," he murmured before he could stop himself. It came out lower than he meant, rough around the edges, too honest.
You glanced up at him, beaming like it was the simplest truth in the world. "Of course! I love caring for people."
He flushed, hard. Something inside him flipped like a switch. He had no business thinking what he was thinking, but it was already there, thudding behind his ribs like a heartbeat.
Bet youâd love to take care of a baby, too, his mind supplied hazily. My baby. Ours.
He swallowed hard, biting the inside of his cheek before anything worse could slip out.
When the final knot slipped free and the line fell away from his leg, Hank 5 let out a shaky breath he hadnât realized heâd been holding.
The movement tugged the rest of the line taut, and with a soft snap, the section that had pinned Hank 2 finally gave way, freeing them both.
You lit up instantly. âYes! Okay, thatâs two down!â
You turned your attention to Hank 4, who was somehow tangled in both the clothesline and your pajama pants.
"Hmm. This oneâs tricky," you muttered. "Itâs wedged real deep."
Hank 4 looked down at you, lip caught between his teeth, cheeks tinged pink.
"Oh yeah," he grinned, voice dropping like he thought this was a very different kind of situation. "That oneâs in real deep. Might need some serious effort to⌠ease it out."
"Might take a few tries," you agreed. "Thatâs fine. I think long, twisty cords are fun to handle."
From somewhere behind you, Hank 3 groaned. "Oh my god, bro. Bro."
With a few steady tugs, the final loop slipped free. The cord gave a soft snap as it came undone, and before you could even register it, Hank 4 let out a surprised yelp.
âWhoaâ!â
He toppled backward in an ungraceful sprawl, limbs flailing briefly before landing squarely in Hank 1âs lap. There was a distinct oof from both parties.
âOkay! Thatâs four.â
Now, only one Hank remained.
You turned toward him, brushing a few strands of hair from your face as you assessed the last, worst knot job of the bunch. Hank 3 was slumped against the wall, half-pinned by a spiderweb of cord. It looped around his chest, through the sleeves of his wingsuit, andâ
You paused. Blinked once. Then again, slower.
âUh,â you said carefully, leaning in to poke at a stubborn knot. âOkay. So youâre⌠like, really tangled into my underwear.â
Hank 3 looked down at the spot in question. Then up at you.
"Iâm good right here," he said, grinning way too brightly. "Don't need to untie me, gorgeous."
House - 0 | Homeowner - 4 | Hank #3 - 1
Dirk sat cross-legged on your closet floor, half-buried beneath a pile of costumes and old clothes. In one hand, he held up a glittery mesh crop top. In the other, what looked like the shredded remains of faux leather pants.
"So⌠Volt and Eddieâs Halloween party," you said, rummaging through a plastic bin with half-peeled stickers. "I want something cool. But also, like⌠hot!"
Dirk blinked up at you, adjusting the pirate hat youâd thrown on him earlier. "Is that why you dragged me in here? Costume triage?"
"Yep!" You held up a sheer, iridescent bodysuit with a smile. "Too much?"
Dirk made a strangled sound, his voice catching in his throat as he stared at the outfit. It barely qualified as clothing, and now all he could picture was you in it.
"Yâyeah. No, yeah. Thatâs⌠thatâs definitely a bold choice."
You grinned, clearly taking it as a compliment. âPerfect.â
Then, you turned away and pulled your sweatshirt off in one smooth motion. Underneath, you were just in pajama shorts and a cami. You tossed the sweatshirt onto the pile beside him like it was nothing.Â
Dirk, still sitting cross-legged on the closet floor, looked like youâd physically drop-kicked him.
You held the bodysuit up to your chest, turning toward the mirror. "Do you think Volt or Eddie would wear something like this? I want to match their vibe, yâknow?"
Dirk let out a very soft, very audible groan through gritted teeth. "I think if you show up in that, nobodyâs gonna be thinking about the damn fusebox."
You blinked, tilting your head. "Huh?"
He coughed once, looking down at the crop top in his hands like it held all the answers. "Nothing. Youâll look great. Totally⌠on-theme."
You brightened. "Perfect! Help me zip?"
He stared at you for a moment like youâd just asked him to diffuse a bomb with one hand while blindfolded.
"Yeah. Totally. Yep. Zipping. Great," he muttered, voice a little too low, a little too strained. Then he lifted two fingers, curling them in a lazy beckon. "Câmere, bug."
You turned around and stepped in close, presenting him your bare back. The bodysuit was already halfway up your thighs, hugging every curve like it had been poured on. Dirkâs breath hitched. His hands hovered, fingers twitching slightly before they settled on the zipper.
His fingertips grazed the dip of your spine as he slid the zipper upward, and you gave a little wiggle to help it along.
Once it was fully on, you turned to admire yourself in the mirror. "Okay, but be honest⌠Is this too sexy-scary? Or just scary-sexy?"
You bent forward slightly, twisting to check the fit. "Itâs a little tight around the backâŚ"
Dirkâs eyes bulged. "N-nope, itâsâitâs perfect. Itâs barely clothing. I meanâit looks great. On you. In a way thatâs⌠completely hot."
"Youâre such a good hype man," you added, tossing him a wink. "Iâd be lost without you."
He didnât respond at first. Just nodded, very tightly. Then turned so fast he tripped on a hoodie sleeve and nearly ate the floor.Â
"Are you okay?" you asked, half-laughing, half-concerned.
"Yup," he muttered, breathless and wrecked. "Totally fine. Everythingâs fine. The universe is testing me, but Iâm fine."
House - 0 | Homeowner - 5
Halloween night at the Breaker Box was loud. Thumping bass, flashing neon strobes, and fog machines in overdrive.Â
Volt had wanted it to be big, a full spectacle, especially since this was the first time their human was going to be there. That was probably the only reason Eddie had agreed to it in the first place.
Eddie held down the bar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, expression locked somewhere between irritation and resignation as he poured drinks beneath the flickering lights. Volt, on the other hand, was in his element, gliding through the crowd, all confidence and charisma.Â
"Hi guys!"
Eddie turned just in time to see you walk in, dressed for the occasion.
And immediately choked.
Not on a drink. Not on smoke. Just on you.
Your hair was a wild halo of static-kissed chaos, somehow framing your face perfectly despite looking completely unintentional. The outfit you had on was a sheer bodysuit layered under a cropped vest, fabric clinging and torn in just the right places. Flashes of skin peeked through: a sliver of hip, a glimpse of collarbone, the gleam of a screw-shaped clasp on the choker around your neck.
You were Frankensteinâs monster. And you looked good.
Eddie felt his whole system short-circuit. And clearly, he wasnât the only one.
The crowd quieted for a second as heads turned, eyes wide. People stared. Someone actually dropped their drink. Heat spread across more than a few faces.
"Live wireâ" Eddie muttered, voice low and a little strangled. "What the hell are you wearing!?"
You beamed at Eddie, bouncing slightly on your heels, proud as ever. "Frankenstein! Well, Frankensteinâs monster, technically. I figured Iâd fit right in with you guys, you know... all alive and electric."
Eddie just stared. It took him a second to actually process what he was seeing. The way the vest clung perfectly to your frame, the delicate stitching tracing your thighs and collarbone, the gleam of bolt-shaped earrings catching the light. You looked like you belonged here.Â
Like you belonged to him.Â
To both of them.
"My, my," came Voltâs voice from behind you, silk-smooth and slow like warm static down your spine. "Isnât this a lovely surprise?"
You turned cheerfully toward him, just as the next performer, Keyes, hurried up to the piano. You gave her a bright wave, beaming with your usual sunshine.
Face flushed, Keyes dropped onto the bench and launched into her piece like it might save her life, fingers flying over the keys as if she could outrun the image of you still lingering in her head.
Beside you, Volt let out a low whistle.
"You look like our third," he murmured, eyes trailing from your boots to your vest, lingering far too long on the space in between. His smile curled slow and dangerous, pure voltage wrapped in charm.
You turned to him, head tilted in confusion. "Third what?"
For a beat, something sharp and electric flickered behind his eyes. Then, with a wicked gleam, he recovered.
"Our third piece," Volt said, lips twitching. "You complete the look."
"Oh!" You laughed, delighted. "Yeah, thatâs what I was going for! I based this on your outfits. Thought it would be fun to match."
Behind the bar, Eddie made a sound that couldâve been a groan. His hand slipped while wiping a glass, knocking over a shaker, which he caught with reflexes just a second too slow.Â
âMmm. They look great, donât they?â Volt added smoothly, clearly enjoying the show, and the effect you were having on Eddie.
âYeah,â Eddie muttered, voice low and hoarse. âIf theyâre trying to kill me.â
You turned toward him. "What? Sorryâdidnât catch that."
Volt chuckled, low and knowing, stepping just a little closer to your side. âYouâre going to be the end of him.â
You blinked, tilting your head. âWhy?â
Then you shifted, turned fully to face Volt, and thatâs when Eddie saw the back of your costume. Or rather, the complete lack of it.
You see, what little fabric you had on in front didnât quite make it all the way around.
Eddie dropped behind the bar so fast he nearly sent a bottle of rum flying. His ears went crimson. His entire face followed.
Volt, absolutely glowing with delight, slid an arm lazily around your shoulders like you were the nightâs main event. Which, frankly, you were.
"Why donât you come with me," he purred, steering you smoothly toward the dance floor, "before poor Eddison starts shorting out the liquor shelf."
House - 0 | Homeowner - 6
You yawned as you stumbled into the dim hallway, one shoe dangling loosely from your toes, the other long since lost to the dance floor. Glitter was smeared across your cheeks, streaked with sweat and eyeliner. The distant bass from Volt and Eddieâs Halloween party still throbbed somewhere deep in your skull.
You padded toward your room, dragging your feet like a glittery zombie, and found Betty sprawled across your bed, basking in the silver wash of moonlight spilling through the window. Her dark curls fanned over the pillow like a halo, and her lips curved the second she saw you.
"Well, well," she purred, voice all velvet and slow amusement. "Look who survived the electric rave."
You blinked at her, swaying like a drunk little sapling. "Betts⌠I think I danced so hard my toes forgot how to be toes."
She arched a brow, eyes glinting. "That would explain the outfit."
You hiccuped out a laugh and tugged your costume shirt over your head. Glitter exploded into the air like celebratory dust. "Too many layers. Iâm like⌠a sexy onion."
Bettyâs eyes followed the shirtâs arc as it floated to the floor, then snapped back to you, lingering as you struggled with the zipper on your pants. "If thatâs what onions look like now," she murmured, watching you wiggle, "I need to spend more time in the kitchen."
"Whaaaat? Why would you do that?" you asked, half-wriggling, half-collapsing. "Youâre a bed. Beds canât be in kitchens."
Your pants finally gave up their grip, and you attempted to kick them off, only to faceplant onto the mattress.
Betty sat up slowly as her gaze ran over you, hunger wrapped in amusement.Â
"Poor thing," she murmured, voice sticky with suggestion. "Sounds like you need someone to⌠take care of you."
You groaned into the sheets. "I need coffee."
She paused. "What if I offered⌠a massage?"
You rolled halfway onto your side and squinted up at her. "Oh my god, no. If anyone touches me, I might vomit glitter. Iâm unstable."
Betty blinked, clearly unprepared for that answer. "Okay⌠how about a bath? Me, Bathsheba, and you?"
You peeled your remaining shirt off with the elegance of a molting animal and flung it vaguely across the room. "No time. Must become one with this mattress."
Betty, undeterred, slinked forward on her knees and leaned close, her lips brushing your ear. "You know⌠some people sleep better when theyâre not wearing anything."
You let out a blissful sigh into her stomach, your voice muffled. "Wow⌠You smell like sexy marshmallows."
Betty fell flat on her back, staring at the ceiling in utter defeat.
"Sexy marshmallows," she repeated, deadpan.
You gave a solemn little nod. "So soft and squishy. Iâd drink you with a spoon."
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Then Betty let out a long, tortured sigh and wrapped her arms around you, pulling your half-naked, glitter-dusted form flush against her.
"Youâre lucky youâre cute," she muttered, tucking you close as you immediately went slack and boneless in her hold.
She traced gentle circles over your back, eyes heavy-lidded.
"You know," she whispered, voice low and dangerous, "if I didnât know better, Iâd think you were trying to get me into trouble. Crawling into my bed, stripping down, whispering sweet nothingsâŚ"
You snored against her stomach.
Betty groaned, defeated once and for all. "Unbelievable."
House - 0 | Homeowner - 7
a/n: my laptop charger broke so im just trying to get my drafts out before it goes lowbat TT
my new charger comes in a few dayss so the part 3 to the 100 bfs fic will take a while
