billy and steve comfortably stoned, kinda huddle on eddie's bed, both hooked up into the way eddie's fingers start by making sweet sweet love to the strings of his guitar, then get rougher, demanding, as the song takes off.
and it’s dangerous, and billy knows, but everything’s so quiet, everything’s so deafeningly still on the outside, as opposed to how billy feels on the inside: he needs to let gasoline flood out of him so maybe it catches a spark, so maybe both sides are burning.
he leans in. eyes on the flex of eddie’s jaw. hands itching. lips on steve’s ear. tongue craving. whispers: “can you imagine how’d he look like, playing with himself like that?”
steve breath catches, he goes still. everything else about him feels deafening loud.
billy licks his lips, tastes that magical second before gasoline meets spark. says,“how’d feel like, if he’d play with us like that?”
but eddie, steve and billy spending so many summer nights laying down on the roof of eddie's trailer, just getting stoned and watching the sun go down and inventing dirty shapes out of the stars and falling aesleep as they slowly roll over into each other, cradled by their shared warmth and the quiet heat oozing out the sleepy indiana land. just that.
| harringroveson aka harringrove + eddie | n s f w + shotgunning + k i s s i n g | tw: drug use | part 3/? | part 1 | part 2|
for @wholeshebangs thanks for everything my sun <3
~
It’s only his belt and four fucking buttons but,
Eddie just can’t. Won’t get it right. Can’t because―
“Fuck, Eddie. Your hands are shaking”
Steve. Grins . Licks his lips.
He’s got his own hand spread up higher, the pads of his fingers caressing Eddie’s tummy, then trailing upwards, rucking his shirt up, mimicking on his skin the feeling of music as it pumps up louder and louder and louder, the feeling of surging up along it with your eyes falling shut.
And Eddie is aware of the way his chest is rising and falling, the way his skin’s sticking to his rib cage every time his lungs try to fill up. The way Billy’s hand reaches in between his legs and touches himself just so, just enough to make his lips part, a broken breath trembling past them― the way he then squeezes himself hard , right after, like he needs it to keep himself in check, like he’s so close it wouldn’t take that much for him, just: that kiss. Eddie finding the courage to bat his hand away then being the one squeezing him or just ―
Steve, maybe, just looking at Billy the same way he’s looking at him right now:
Appetite in his eyes. Some slippery, voracious kind of fascination and,
“C’mon. You can do it. Just need to relax . C’mon”
C’mon.
C’mon― it's the tail of a snake slithering down his throat and the addictive tang of shared smoke. C’mon is the joint still trapped between Steve’s fingertips when he reaches out and offers it to Eddie at kissing distance, so close he can feel it burn. C’mon is that same hand Billy just had on himself curling now along the shape of Eddie’s inner thigh and squeezing, hot and appetizing, want against the rough fabric of his jeans, so close to that part of Eddie’s skin nobody’s ever touched.
It’s the way he says it,
“ C’mon, Munson. Relax. Only gotta pull them down. And we kiss”
C’mon it’s electricity crackling his bones from the inside out and Eddie leaning in just enough to suck at the joint out of Steve’s hand and the insane feeling of his fingers vibrating when he finally unbuckles his belt and―
Steve withdraws his hand and anticipation looks bright , liquid in his eyes, and Eddie breathes, sweet marijuana and an urge made of gasoline flooding his lungs.
One. Two. Three buttons.
Four. Billy’s fingers are impatient, his nails scratching his hips as he yanks the fabric down. Eddie’s cock bounces out of his pants. His ass clenching with the sudden rush of need , the pornographic feeling of being so exposed like this. Rock-hard and throbbing and so vulnerable like this but―
It’s the way Billy licks his lips at the sight, what makes him moan this time.
“God, Munson you’re―. Fuck. You’re already dripping, man” red, beautiful . He bites them. Cherry-blood and plush. And Eddie thinks they must taste red, too, and so, so warm.
They would feel so red too, if he were ever to, to ―
Holyfucking fuck .
His cock’s weeping. Thick, half-translucent tears of touch me, of lemme spill. He can feel them running down the heat of his skin. His cock spasms. Billy leans his forehead against Steve’s temple, breath shaking out his pretty mouth in an echo: sounds same as Eddie feels. Like want burning his skin from the inside. Like the pain of holding himself back. He whispers something against the shell of Steve’s ear then looks at Eddie, lashes trembling like they weigh a ton and. Eddie―
Eddie feels ― fuck. Feels Steve’s fingers on his cheek, the softest kind of caress, fragile, like rolling paper swishing as weed consumes.
“Good. So good, just ― ” Steve smiles, eyes fixed on his, tangles those same delicate fingers on Billy’s goldmine-curls, knuckles wound tight, almost white. “There’s this one rule, Eddie” he says, eyes dark, opiate,
“You can’t touch yourself”
You .
Billy’s lips slide along his cheek as he turns back to him. You. The palms of his hands running in a plea along the long curve of Steve’s spine where it’s covered by Eddie’s vest. You can’t. They look into each other’s eyes. Breathe each other’s air. Billy’s chest rising and falling and rising and falling and rising and. Falling.
You. Can’t touch yourself.
His whole body’s howling. It pleads to Heaven same as Page’s praying fingers in Stairway except this one― this one stairway descends, when Steve takes Billy’s face in his hands. When he opens up his mouth. Sticks out his tongue. Runs it on his lips. Makes them wet. Ready. When―
He uses it to wet Billy’s . Slowly. With just the tip. And it’s impossible, impossible that Eddie―
Can’t touch yourself .
And want― want’s rabid thing, trapped on his insides, it’s biting its way out Eddie’s skin. He wants them to kiss him with the same kind of feverish desperation with which you’d hold your tongue close to a lighter just to know what fire tastes like.
He digs his nails into the lines of his palms.
You . Can’t. Touch yourself.
And Eddie thinks please.
Cries out “ Please ”
He slips .
It’s his fourth mistake and it’s―
Animal . When they kiss.
It’s Def Leppard playing and thirty nine in the shade, your back sticking to the backseat’s leather and praying for someone to stick their hand down your pants and paint the curve of your belly blinding-white. It’s your veins catching on fire like alcohol at the touch of a flame and sweat dripping down your throat in the middle of a summer day turned into wildfire. It is: Billy's tongue peeking out his mouth to meet Steve's, tips brushing, Steve's lips catching his and then kissing him wet and open mouthed, spit making their mouth slide and it goes straight to Eddie's head like turning up maximum volume when he’s playing his guitar. Billy and Steve kiss for him and it rumbles, that kiss, beats out from Eddie’s bones like music beating like a second heart and―
He moans. Blood screaming from where it’s trapped on his wrists. His fists are tingling. Billy and Steve kiss for him and Eddie feels higher than ever. From smoke and magic. From this music made of kisses and bared skin and,
From them.
It’s a maniac kind of rush.
And then Eddie’s thrusting against absolutely nothing, pleasure creeping around him like an obsessive, elusive feeling. And all he can think about is touch .
Himself. Them . He wa―
“― ant ” his voice weeps down his throat. If they’d touch him now, Eddie knows he’d cum with a sob and tears running down his eyes. Want. He bites his lips. He wants things he's only dared to think about under then numbing anesthesia of vodka and his best weed past witching hour, fingers buried down his ass and fucking himself from behind. Want is a hoarse, nameless voice digging its teeth into his neck and making him push up against his own fingers until he’s making a mess out of his mattress and Eddie’s been so, so careful for so long but―
Now,
“What” Steve asks him, lips relishing on Billy’s lips, eyes half-shut. And Eddie devotes an incoherent moment to think about how pretty his long fingers look tangled in Billy's curls and how, once you see it, it's impossible not to realize there's more than one kind of magic, binding them into one.
And Eddie wants, wants, wants, wants them to cover him in that magic, to leave on him a permanent mark. Wants to be part of their spell. Be the one who spellbinds them .
"Eddie" Billy whispers, his fingers gently tracing the collar of his vest. Grasping the ends. Pulling to draw Steve closer, closer to himself. Making him bark out a laugh then bite him on his cheek, then soften that bite with a tender, sweet kiss "Eddie, what do you want ?"
First rule of survival: never, ever let anything slip out.
But Billy asks and Steve’s looking at him through those thick, dark, heavy lashes and Eddie wants ―
This time. He does not slip .
“I want you to kiss me. Both of you. Just like you just kissed for me”
This time, Eddie stops in front of the Gates of Hell. And knocks.
.
--and, welcome back to cliffhanger hell? xD I swear I'm not doing this entirely on purpose! i don't have much time to write these days so I'm putting these out as soon as i get them done but! next part will finally get us into some a c t i o n :D
.
part 4
if you've come this far through hell: thank you so much for reading and commenting and leaving kudos on this. they're giving me all the fuel i need <3
| harringroveson / harringrove + eddie | n s f w | tw: drug use | part 1/? |
(ok this-- was eventually bound to happen bc threesomes are the single thing i just can't resist. thanks, @c0bblenygma for the ship name!)
~ ~ ~
The thing is, Eddie’s been selling Marijuana for years but he’s never, ever, shotgun it with anyone.
The other thing is that, two joints and a half after Billy Hargrove as always, banged his fucking door and, as always he and Steve Harrington invited themselves to his home and as al-ways took reign of his “Dirtier than a fucking rat’s, Edward. For dear fucking Jesus, you should call plague control”―bed, in Hargrove's words, Eddie―well. Eddie slips.
‘Fuck. I’ve never done that’
He slips. Can’t help it. Just fucks up. Firs rule of survival: never, never slip about anything. There are stories. Legends. About Eddie Munson that keeps on slyly changing hands same as Eddie passes the good stuff. They’ve granted him, over the years, enough respect to make him almost untouchable. Respect. Envy. Fear. And the first rule is always this: never, ever let anything slip out.
There’s the juicy rumor that once Eddie did it with Tina and Julia Rusell like two Halloweens ago. The shotgunning. All Eddie remembers is having blown the smoke of his cig in Tina’s face. That’s how you become King of the unpopular: rumors and never. Letting. Anything. Slip. Out. But―
They’re laying down, the three of them, transversely on the old mattress Eddie's got on the floor, feet stretched out and sharing the third joint and―
Hargrove and―
Harrington.
Eddie’s got them one on either side, sweating in the toxic August heat, tears of laughter drying in their eyes, relaxed, thoroughly stoned. The two Kings of Hawkins spending their weekends in Eddie the freak Munson's trailer. One of the few rumors that are actually real. One that of course Eddie won’t go on denying.
Billy Hargrove. Steve Harrington. Their temples glistering with sweat and their shirts lost somewhere between the first and the second. Steve's chest covered in thick dark fuzz only half visible in between the denim of Eddie's vest because at some undetermined point Hargrove got one of those fits of malice that take over him sometimes and said "I bet even not even you can pull that off, Stevie" and Harrington got infected by it like he always does and slide vest over his bare skin because "The hell I can't."
Harrington and Hargrove.
This is how it happens:
Hargrove asks him “Want a hit?” and Harrington’s like “Sure” and they half rise up on their elbows. Hargrove sucks on the joint in a long long long inhale, the kind that fills your whole chest. Lips red, eyes glazed. He turns the joint over in his hand, offers the butt to Harrington and there, right there, that's where reality breaks through the invisible veil of magic because Harrington leans over to suck it from his hand, his bare belly pressing against Eddie's side and his eyes almost closed but then Hargrove pulls his hand away, staring at him with those melting-blue eyes of his and a tight-lipped smile, cocks an eyebrow and Eddie knows then, that he was just baiting him, because Harrington chuckles, licks his lips, looks up at him from in between those long lashes and―
Nods. Skims closer, closer. Parts his lips.
And fuck if that ain't magic. Because then Hargrove gets closer too, his fingers finding grip on Eddie's bony hip and his nails digging in and his lips parting for Steve Harrington and then smoke’s escaping though those red lips and they’re almost pressed against Harrington's and the tips of their tongues are almost touching and Billy's nails are digging so deep it hurts and― that magic’s running liquid and hot down the curve of Eddie’s spine, curling between his legs when Harrington inhales, and their mouths brush, and Billy Hargrove, Billy Hargrove moans, a low, lewd thing, and― Eddie. Eddie knows this kind of magic. Eddie’s used to feel it in his fingertips and for it to make his heart beat rabid, like it's just been electrified back to life. This magic is Heavy Metal and madness and Billy Hargrove and Steve Harrington are conjuring it with their mouths, with the hungry shimmer of their tongues and the way they’re breathing smoke into each other like all they want is to drown and. And―
“Fuck, I―” and what wants to come out of Eddie’s throat is a moan but he somehow manages to tone it down into a sigh. He feels like his skin is burning, right beside where Hargrove’s nails are buried “I’ve. Never done that. With anyone”
And never means but I want to and anyone means with you. I wanna do it with you two and―
By the time Eddie realizes what he’s just said, it’s late already. That’s the first of his mistakes and Hargrove throws him head first into the second with a broken laugh and bare white canines and Harrington with a sweet smile that slides down softly on the impossible curve of those pretty plush lips he’s got.
“C’mon now, Edward. Really? Never ever?” Hargrove teases and, immediately―
“Wanna try?” Harrington reads his mind, whispers, “With us?”
And they break apart just enough to look down at him, the two Kings of Hawkins, half-naked and sweaty and stoned. They almost wring a second confession out of him. That something he’s never told anyone. That something that’s always harder to hide from when weed turns reality into mist and makes the things that matter too much seem like they don't matter at all.
What they do wring out of him is―
“I wanna try” a second mistake: “With you”
I wanna know how it feels like, to do what you just did.
Harrington’s smile melts, sugar and smoke and malice. And Eddie feels breathless when he suddenly remembers who’s actually the worse of them two, when he steals from Hargrove the joint he’s just slipped back to his mouth and takes a long drag and laughs.
And the next thing that happens is the animal riff of Stranglehold. Is November Rain when Slash makes it rip through your ribcage, exposing the bone. It’s the high of Thunderstruck and the fucking, fucking insanity of Bohemian Rapsody.
“’Course you do” And his voice, his voice’s Kashmir, when the Leds get the fuck out of their minds.
| harringroveson | n s f w | shotgunning + k i s s i n g | tw: drug use | part 4 /? | part 1 | part 2 | part 3 |
~
In the end, it’s always the most innocent thing, what brings a flame to the world and sets it on fire.
For Eddie, it's Steve’s hand finding gold between Billy’s curls, making him groan ragged and low when he pulls to tip his head back, their mouths wet and red from kissing, eyes fixed on the others’ like both ends of a lifeline.
It's Steve whispering,
“Baby. Wanna kiss him first?”
It’s― Billy moaning, nodding, tongue peeking out between his lips, that tongue of his, always so hungry. It's Steve leaning in to lick at it, a long, slow thing, like he’s relishing in Billy’s appetite. It's the way he stares at him like into a fever, right after, as if that was exactly what it takes to make him lose his cool:
To taste the way it’s making Billy burn from the inside out, the crave to kiss.
“That’s my boy,” he says.
And then―
It's Steve, who makes Billy kiss him.
Magic and some hardcore kind of Metal. Hot spit and gold . Steve’s hand pulls again and Billy follows, like some well-trained dog. His spine a long, delicate curve as it shifts.
And Eddie braces himself for the impact: a kiss of neon-gold highlights and metal just about to crash. Waits for what he imagines kissing Billy Hargrove must feel like except,
Steve guides him downwards and―
Feeds him.
It feels like alcohol distilled in madness: it burns.
Billy’s lips touch him, wet and hot. Swallows him down the back of his throat. Hard and dripping, desperate as he is. Eddie’s eyes fall shut.
And it’s sweet, the sensation of his cock sliding in. Heat and all that slippery skin and Billy’s teeth grazing just enough to make him want to ask for more. Billy’s lips press around the crown of his cock as he goes up and pleasure turns into a melting kind of feeling when he starts to suck, Steve hand holding him, guiding him. And Eddie can’t really help the way his nails sink into the skin of his own thighs when Billy moans and swallows him down again to the back of his throat, like Eddie tastes just too good, like he’s taking him so deep because he needs more more more and―
“Fuck , look at you ” he feels Steve’s fingers on his cheek, caressing the curve of his mouth. Voice lowering to speak into his ear “Open your eyes, Eddie” kisses him soft and gentle, the kind of kiss that feels like a Don’t be afraid, light on his temple “Look at him, sweetheart. He’s so good at this, ain’t he?” and yeah, fuck, yeah. Eddie nods out a sob. He wants to cry, with how good it is, with how fucking good it feels, to be buried like this inside Billy’s mouth. He pries his eyes open because how could he not, do everything Steve Harrington decides he wants from him, no matter what. And he touches Steve without really daring to, fingers wrapping involuntarily around his wrist, getting a grip, when he finally looks down and sees him, Billy kissing him with reddened lips and hollowed cheeks, his tongue flat on Eddie’s length, licking him on its way up, a kiss made of languid, obscene hunger, made of shiny spit and an appetite for tasting, lashes fluttering when Steve lets go of his hair to caress some stray curls out of his forehead. And Eddie thrusts up, just a little, with that part of his desire he just can’t hold back. He wants to press his thighs against Billy’s cheeks and fuck his mouth. He so fucking wants wants wants. To cum. To watch as Billy’s mouth is painted white with his spent as he sucks him dry. He wants thrust deeper deeper , as Steve laughs into the crook of his neck, bites his pulse, licks the pain out of his taunted skin with a starved whine. He wants to beg when Steve asks,
“Want me to kiss you too, sweetheart?”
Too.
He bites him again, runs his open mouth up the curve of his jaw, sloppy and damp, and Eddie pants “ Yes ” his throat working, voice hoarse, dry “Yes” he can’t take his eyes off Billy, got Steve’s wrist gripped so tight it must hurt.
“But there’s another rule, baby” Steve whispers, some wicked kind of amusement rolling off his voice, making Eddie shiver. And he’s― fuck, he’s definetly the worst of them, no doubt about it. ‘Cause there are legends , each one a remasterization, a shameless exaggeration of Eddie Munson’s oeuvre and life: none of the ones he’s heard about Steve Harrington half-honors the truth of what is happening.
‘Cause what Steve asks him is―
“I wanna know ― ” lips. It’s impossible. Not to wanna catch those lips. They drag over Eddie’s skin in the form of kisses, climb up his cheek leaving a desire-shaped mark on the corner of his mouth. Steve crowds him, hands on either side of his head, Eddie’s still anchored on his wrist, following wherever he goes. And Steve leans in, lips upon his lips in something that’s not quite a kiss, words falling into a brush, skin on skin. Whispers , “I wanna know if somebody’s ever done it to you before. What Billy’s doing”
Billy. He gasps between his legs. Opens his mouth wide but doesn’t quite catch his breath. Sounds ripped and ragged. His spit’s dripping down the heat of Eddie’s length, shiny . Makes everything feel hot and marvelous and crazy. Billy . His stomach hollows and he pushes his hand past the impossibly tight waistband of his jeans and touches himself, knees on the wooden floor, thighs spread, the curve of his spine a long, damp, sun-kissed work of beauty, curls obscured by sweat. And nobody’s ever, ever ―
“No” it’s a not-kiss, and almost -kiss. His lips brushing Steve’s. “No” he swallows. “ Never . It’s―” he breath is a shallow, pained thing. Feels lightheaded, blood frenetic on his temples, the thin skin of his wrists. Thinks about how they’re shredding him out of his skin. Feels like they won’t leave any secret left for him after tonight, to cover the few parts of him they have the mercy of leaving intact.
“Damn. He’s your first, baby?”
Eddie nods. His whole body shaking. And it sounds like a purr , the low sound Steve pours into his mouth. A satisfied thing, rumbling down between their chests and then― Steve sticks out his tongue, licks Eddie's lips. A long, wet line that ends at the edge of his cheek and leaves him breathless, lungs wrecked, mouth gaping “Fuck, Eddie. You’re being so, so good to us”
And his voice tastes like honey as it slides down Eddie’s throat, drips downwards below his navel, feels like it melts into Billy’s mouth when he leans back in and sucks it from the tip of his dick, fingers wrapping around the base, jerking him off in long, light strokes, his tongue tracing circles right where Eddie’s so sensitive it makes his thighs quake. Sucks him like he knows, exactly what Steve’s voice is doing to him, like he just can’t help it, eat all that pleasure out, make it spill, hot into his mouth and―
“ Steve . I can’t― Billy. Please ”
His voice’s become a sob. Feels himself throb inside Billy’s mouth. Feels like his cock is weeping. He’s not gonna―
“―ast. I can’t. Last. I’m gonna―” Steve whines. Dark eyes almost black. Teeth sinking on his lower lip “I’m gonna cum. Steve― Billy. Fuck. I can’t”
“Shhh. Nonono ” Steve’s voice sounds so soft , made of some fine, smooth kind of fabric, like the cool touch of a whisper on feverish skin “You can’t, baby. Can’t let you. Don’t you want me to kiss you too?”
And when Eddie nods, the pain from his nails pulsing on his palms and this borderline feeling of being just about to spill into Billy’s mouth making his lungs burn― when Eddie nods, Steve smiles softly, and makes everything worse .
Makes it millions times better.
Says “Good boy,” rewards him with those hands on his back on Billy’s curls, lowering his voice “Let go baby. Not yet. Just a little more” pulling his head back. Rewards him with Billy opening his mouth in an obscene, gorgeous way that makes Eddie’s cock slip out and with the agony of losing the impossible heat of it and Eddie cries out a whine “That’s it. Such a good boy” releasing him just to get those fingers on his cheek, caressing it with an unrushed, rapt kind of tenderness. And Billy’s got his mouth wide-open, panting breathless, like Steve’s making him agonize too, taking Eddie’s cock out his mouth. And he’s looking at Eddie with those electric-blue eyes, using that open mouth to catch Steve’s thumb and suck it in with a low groan, the hand down his jeans stroking slow slow slowly, hips tracing a languid, contained kind of curve, ribs showing against his skin as his check hollow and he breathes in deep, Steve grinning, devouring Billy’s desire with his eyes, licks that grin when Billy lets him go with a pop and rumbles,
“And why not you too, pretty boy, uh?”
And the next thing Eddie’s feverish mind registers is Billy undoing Steve’s pants. Hooking his thumbs against the skin of his hips. Yanking the fabric down his thighs. It’s Steve’s cock, hard and big and beautiful slipping out. Reddened. Plump. And it’s Billy hollowing his cheeks and bending forward just to let a thick, long line of spit slide down his lips and drip on Steve’s cock, making it spasm, twitch, as it runs down his length and then falls sideways, dripping heavy on the sheets, making Steve bite that grin, eyes half-lidded and― it shatters, his so impeccably well-held cool, it pills out as easily as Billy makes him wet the bed now, his own pre adding to the mess as Billy reaches out and touches him so lightly it makes Eddie ache with how much it doesn’t look like enough , just his fingertips spreading wetness over Steve’s hard flesh. He grins, teeth animal-white and sharp "What if I don’t let you cum either? Not till I say so?"
And his words make Steve’s breath stall. His eyes darken. Because there’s something in Billy’s gaze, some wicked kind of challenge, something sharp curving at the edge of his smile. It feels like something other than kisses and smoke is taunting its balance between them and―
It’s gotta be the high. The rush . The fucking insanity of it all. Eddie bursts out laughing. Finds back part of himself in the process. A sliver of his own kind of insanity. His personal brand of stupidity. Says,
“'S up? Are there power quarrels between the crowned Kings of Hawkins?" and Kings is a loud bark at the top of his lungs, it's that stupid, impulsive, involuntary kind of tendency to always pick on who he shouldn't. And Eddie should maybe start learning his lessons, grow a survival instinct.
Not today, tho. Not today.
Steve frowns. His chest rising up like he’s holding back something. Bites around a “Shut up, Munson” but Billy’s gaze’s on him, a shadow painted delicately under his lashes, his tongue presses against one of those white canines and Eddie can’t help but think about how fun I’d be, joining forces against Steve Harrington. The line between winning and losing becoming a blurred, shifting, unimportant thing.
And Steve― Steve doesn’t look like he’d actually care either. Absently draws his fingers up the skin of Eddie’s thigh, gaze caught in the winding path his hand’s tracing. And Eddie’s jeans are cutting into his bloodstream right where they keep him trapped above his knees and must be that and how goddamn hot they both look like this what’s making him lightheaded: Steve's hair a beautiful mess. Sweaty. Eddie’s vest covering his tanned skin like a second one― Eddie’s . Billy and those eye’s he’s got, those lips, freckles dark against flushed cheeks and that dreamy kind of laziness that makes eyelashes look always so heavy. The way his hand keeps on kneading inside his jeans as his gaze joins Steve’s as he keeps touching Eddie. A light caress up his groin, his inner thigh and― Steve grabs his balls. His palm hot. Soft . Wide enough to fit him all. And Eddie gasps at how tight he feels, how heavy, a fucking riff playing him right into madness.
Steve squeezes him tighter , makes him howl “ Fuckfuckfuck, ” cock dribbling down his belly, making him so desperately wet.
“You just try not to cum yourself. Ok, baby?” So fucking arrogant. Insufferable. Eddie loves it “’Cause we’re gonna kiss you now. Both of us”
i just feel like, together, they have this potential for absolute disaster, a menace in and out of bed. they'd become hawkins' worse nightmare the moment the sun goes down. would kiss the night away all tangled up in each other, fucking in the back of billy's car.
