i’m going to preface this by saying i haven’t written fic in over ten years, so i’m a bit rusty. however, this was insanely fun to write so it won’t be the last. this is my first foray into a reader pov fic, so i’ll probably end up writing some actual steddie fics as well in the future!
enjoy 😘
You feel Eddie grasp your chin between his thumb and finger, two bruising points of contact. “Eyes on me, now.”
Swallowing heavily, your eyes flutter open. Eddie’s eyes are teasing, molten brown. You can feel Steve’s hands gliding over your ribcage, his fingers soft and light in sharp contrast to Eddie’s commanding hold.
Eddie grins sharply. “Stevie here had a bit of a reputation in high school, didn’t you, sweetheart?”
You think you hear Steve murmur an answer in reply. Everything is starting to feel hazy, far away. You gasp as you feel a tongue gently brush along the path Steve’s fingers wandered moments ago, reverent in its slow sweep across your ribs and stomach.
“You see,” Eddie begins as if he’s simply telling a bedtime story, his eyes darting from your parted lips to your rapidly fluttering eyelids. “Steve loves nothing more than eating someone out. King Steve, they used to call him. No one could eat pussy like Steve Harrington. He’d have girls throwing themselves at him morning, noon and night.”
Eddie laughs mockingly as your eyes widen. Steve is still tracing his tongue teasingly against your skin, now moved on from your torso to your inner thighs, his lips and teeth nibbling gently every so often.
You feel Eddie remove his hold from your chin to let you look at how Steve worships you. His eyes are closed, his brow relaxed as he mouths at you. You think you could watch him forever.
Suddenly, you feel a hand in your hair as Eddie grasps at the root, pulling your face back up to meet his gaze. “He’s not going to eat your cunt until I tell him to.” He spits, venomous. “He’ll beg, whine, plead to taste you. But he won’t until he has my say so. Do you understand?” He punctuates his question with another sharp tug at your hair, making you gasp.
“I said, do you understand?”
You nod as well as you can with Eddie’s strong hold on you, “Y-yes.”
“Yes, what?”
You feel tears prick at your eyes as Eddie pulls harder, your neck beginning to strain as you try to keep eye contact. His eyes are blazing. “Yes, Daddy.”
Eddie’s nostrils flare, eyes narrowed. “That’s a good girl.”
Steve’s mouth moves ever closer to where you want it and you whine, arching your back to try and encourage that sinful tongue lower. You hear Steve whimper, his breath hot against your cunt.
“Eddie, please,” he begs, pitifully. “She’s so wet. I- I need to taste her. Please.”
Eddie’s head whips around to face Steve, tendrils of hair coming loose from his messy bun. “Touch her there and I’ll eat her out myself and make you watch, Steve. Do you want that?” You hear Steve moan pathetically as Eddie denies him what he craves. “I’ll tie you to that chair in the corner and I won’t stop until she’s screaming my name, begging for it to be over. You can thrash and cry and scream all you want as I take what’s yours for myself, you hear me?”
You feel Steve nod slowly against your thigh, chastened.
“You’re going to be a good boy, Stevie. Promise me you’ll be good, sweetheart.”
Steve swallows, “I- I promise.”
Eddie offers Steve a smile, gentle. A smile that paints a picture of love so fathomlessly deep that it almost hurts to watch. You want to sink to the bottom of those depths to see what treasures lay in wait there.
“That’s it, angel. You’re so good for me. You want to taste her so bad, don’t you?” At this Steve nods fervently, his mouth watering at the thought of quenching his thirst. “Want to devour her dripping cunt so badly you’re drooling for it. Pathetic.”
Eddie turns back to you, all traces of softness gone. His eyes are like flint as he stares down at you, his face a mask of blankness as he reaches down to take his hard cock in hand, pumping slowly.
“You’re going to get me nice and wet for Steve. If I think you’ve done a satisfactory job I’ll let him eat your pussy, so don’t let him down. I’d hate for him to not get what he deserves, wouldn’t you?” Eddie teases the head of his cock with his thumb, dipping into his slit. He hisses, “After all, he’s been such a good boy.”
Eddie traces your lips with the head of his cock, smearing pre-come until they glisten with it. Your tongue reaches out to taste. Eddie watches, enraptured as you lick your lips clean. “Fuck, know you’re gonna take my cock so well. Open wide for daddy, baby girl.”
You do. Your eyes flutter the moment Eddie’s cock breaches your mouth, your tongue immediately swirling around the head to taste him. “That’s it, angel, that’s it. Get me nice and wet.” Eddie encourages, uncharacteristically gentler than his words from earlier. “You can take more than that, can’t you? Come on, wider now.”
His cock pushes further into your mouth, your lips stretching to accommodate his girth. You feel fingers gently weave into your hair, “Look at her, Steve.” Eddie moans, blissed out. “She was made to take my cock. Just like you.”
Steve whines from between your thighs. It’s clear from his breathing that he’s watching so intently, his attention pulled away from your throbbing pussy for now, not wanting to miss a single moment of Eddie’s cock slowly disappearing into your mouth.
“I love your cock, Eddie.” Steve sighs, “‘wanna taste, too.”
“You’ll get it soon enough, sweetheart. You just lie there and look pretty for now.”
Eddie starts to shallowly thrust in and out of your mouth, careful not to choke you. You can feel drool begin to slip from the corners of your mouth, Eddie’s dick stretching you wide.
“Fuck, good girl. You’re getting me so wet, baby. So fucking good for me.”
The thrusts come faster, almost as if Eddie can’t control himself. “I could fuck your mouth all day, baby girl. I want to. Want to ram my cock down your tight little throat until you choke on it.” He pulls out all the way, heaving for breath. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, being my little cockslut?”
You moan around Eddie, suctioning your cheeks and swirling your tongue just so, glancing up to meet dark, molten chocolate staring right back at you. He breaks the contact, eyes rolling back and head tipping towards the ceiling. You hear his guttural moan and outpouring of curse words as he continues to rock back and forth into your hot mouth.
“Fuck, oh f-fuck, honey. I love your mouth. Oh god… oh shit. Making daddy feel so good, baby girl.” Eddie’s brow is creased, his mouth parted as he lavishes you in praise.
You feel the bed rocking slightly below you and suddenly Eddie stops, his cock laying heavy on your tongue. “What are you doing, Stevie baby? Did I say you could do that, huh?”
Eddie moves away from you to grab at Steve’s hair, pulling his head up taut, his neck and shoulders straining beautifully. “You think you get to hump the mattress without my say-so, angel?”
Steve has tears in his eyes as he cries out, “I-I’m sorry, Daddy.”
You see his hips shift, his deliciously sculpted ass rising and falling to try to get any friction on his abandoned cock that he can. He moans out pathetically as Eddie catches him in the attempt, the fist that the metalhead has in his locks curling tighter.
“Sweet Stevie, you poor thing.” Eddie looks at you, a sly smile gracing his lips. “Do you think he can have his treat now? You did such a good job sucking my cock, baby. I think Steve can eat his fill now.”
Eddie strokes Steve’s head reverently, “Do you want that, sweetheart? Answer me.” He tugs at Steve’s hair, teasing.
“Please, please, Eddie. Want to eat her so bad. Need it. Need her.”
Eddie shushes Steve softly, offering one last caress of his hand through those silky locks. “Okay, sweetheart. She’s all yours.”
Steve immediately dives between your legs, kissing and suckling on your inner thighs as he works downwards towards where you’ve been aching for him. Your breath catches in your throat as you feel his nose against your clit, just before he takes one broad swipe at you with his tongue, licking up your wetness.
You hear Steve groan as you cry out, a symphony of pleasure shared between you. He laps at your entrance, his tongue barely peeking in before he sweeps over your clit, circling gently.
“Fuck, Daddy. She tastes so good.” Steve pants against you, his hot breath fanning against your cunt. He swirls his tongue against your clit, focusing all his attention on that tiny bundle of nerves that makes your back bow from the bed, sinfully arching against the soft sheets.
“She tastes good, baby? Wish I could try her for myself, Stevie.” Eddie groans, sounding wrecked. “But you know how much I love eating you, sweetheart. Gonna get you all wet and ready for Daddy.”
You glance over from admiring the view of Steve between your legs to see Eddie grabbing at Steve’s hips, lifting him onto his knees and spreading his cheeks. He spits, the sound going straight to your pussy that Steve is still worshipping. Steve moans in anticipation of what comes next. He doesn’t have to wait long as Eddie dives straight into his perfect ass, keening as he begins to eat with abandon.
“Love your ass, baby. Can’t wait to fuck into this tight hole and stretch you out on my cock.”
“Please, Daddy.” Steve cries, high-pitched and reedy, face lifting briefly. “Want your cock so bad. Need it… Need you.”
Your feet scramble for purchase as Steve’s tongue brings you right to the precipice of ecstasy, your heart racing, your stomach fluttering in suspense. You’re so close to falling off the edge.
“Steve,” you cry out, your hands shakily threading through his gorgeous brown strands, guiding him gently. “Steve, please. I’m so close.”
“Make her come, sweetheart. Do it. I want her to come on your tongue, Steve. Don’t stop until she begs you to.”
The pace of Steve’s tongue quickens, flicking back and forth over your clit as he pants heavily against you, fuelled by Eddie’s words. Your legs start to shake as the pleasure builds, thighs quaking against Steve’s head.
His strong arms wrap around you, pinning you in place as he drives you to orgasm, his fingers bruising in their hold.
Your mouth opens in a wordless scream as your orgasm crashes into you, over you, through you. Your body is a live wire, lightning coursing through your veins as Steve pushes you over the edge, his assault still going as you seem to splinter apart.
Eddie and Steve moan in unison as they watch you shatter. You feel unmade, untethered, adrift in an endless ocean as Steve slowly laps at you, easing you down from your high; bringing you back to shore. As you try to catch your breath you feel Steve murmuring sweet words of praise against you, nuzzling softly into your inner thighs.
"That's a good girl. I've got you," he whispers, his own breath stuttering as Eddie begins to lick at him with abandon. "Ah, fuck... You're so beautiful, princess." He catches your gaze, his gorgeous hazel eyes blown wide, almost fully black in the low light of the bedroom. You blink slowly, taking in the view before you.
Steve's strong, sculpted back is arched gracefully as he presents his ass to Eddie. You want to run your fingers along the valley between his shoulder blades, trace out every freckle and mole; create constellations on his skin. His face is a sinful picture of bliss, his soft pink lips parted as he moans, his eyes squeezing shut.
Eddie looks... you have no other way to describe him other than utterly entranced. The thread of his control is dangerously close to snapping as he preps Steve. Steve is wriggling in place, rocking back and forth, fucking himself on Eddie's thick fingers.
"What's that, sweetheart?" Eddie teases, playful. You can tell by his voice that he's just as wrecked as Steve is, despite his put-on bravado. "You want Daddy's cock?"
Steve lets out his most pitiful whine yet, his fingers tightening in your grasp. You squeeze back, grounding him.
"Please. Please, Daddy! I've been so good." He sobs, frustrated tears pooling in his eyelashes. He blinks rapidly and you watch them run down his face. "I've been good, I- I..."
"Easy, sweetheart, easy. I've got you. I want you to do something for me first though, angel. Can you do that for me?" Eddie strokes along Steve's flank before reaching for the lube, hissing as he slicks his cock. "Can you do one last thing for Daddy? Then I'll fuck you so good, I promise." He gives his dick a few lazy pumps as he waits for Steve to answer him.
"Wha- what's that, Daddy? I'll do it. I'll do anything you want, Daddy."
Eddie moans, his hand coming to twist at the head of his cock. "You're so good for me, angel. Fuck, can't wait to be inside you." He pats Steve on the ass with his other hand, motioning for him to shuffle closer to you. "I want you to put your cock in her pretty pussy, Stevie. I want you to fuck her as I ruin you. Can you do that for me?"
Steve climbs over you eagerly, his arms bracketing your head, careful of your hair splayed across the pillows. He leans in to kiss you, his lips gentle as they move over yours, letting you taste yourself. Tenderly, you reach up to caress his face, the hinge of his jaw, before curling your fingers in his hair, pulling him down more firmly against you. He moans into your mouth as your tongue brushes his, submitting to your intrusion.
You break the kiss, smiling. "Hi," you whisper, suddenly shy.
"Hi, princess." He answers back, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. He huffs out a soft laugh, unable to help it when he kisses you again, and again, and again. As he pulls himself away from your mouth, he looks you straight in the eyes, gentleness and desperation leaking out amongst the tears still there. "Will you let me love you, baby?"
"Y-yes."
"Thank you, princess. Thank you." Steve whispers reverently, bracing himself on one arm as he cradles your head. You feel the head of his cock against your entrance and you open your legs wider, creating a space for him to sink into. You both moan as he slowly fills you inch by delicious inch, his dick bigger than anything you've taken before.
"That's it, baby. You're taking me so well. I've got you... I've got you."
"Ahh, Steve... oh my god." You thrash your head back against the pillows as he fully settles into you. He pulls back gently, letting you adjust. You feel hot all over. Electric. Steve is frowning in concentration, desperately trying not to thrust into you with abandon. His arms are shaking. You see a bead of sweat meander its way down his freckled temple, carving a wet line along his tanned skin before dropping off his strong jaw. It puddles into your collarbone.
"You're so tight, fuck. You feel so good, princess. So fucking good."
You turn your head into his arm, mouth open as you gasp for air, your chest heaving. Your lips brush against Steve's arm with every exhale. You kiss him there, wishing you could worship every inch of his body.
"Steve, kiss me." You beg. You crave him. "Please kiss me."
He rushes to meet your lips in a frenzy of tongue and teeth. Any finesse that was there before has been replaced by raw, animalistic hunger. He hisses as you catch his lip with a particularly hard bite. You want to draw blood. Ravenous for every part of him.
He breaks the kiss with a high-pitched moan as Eddie presses the blunt head of his cock against Steve's entrance, grinding his hips and slowly working his way down to the hilt.
"Fuuuuck, Stevie-baby, you're sucking me in... So fucking tight." Eddie's head is hanging down, mouth open on a groan as he watches his dick disappear into Steve. "You're so hungry for my cock, aren't you sweetheart?" His hands tighten where they're settled between the creases of Steve's thickly muscled thighs and narrow hips.
"Love your cock, Daddy. Love you." Steve babbles mindlessly. His composure is shot to shit, pupils blown to hell. You can't see the hazel of his eyes anymore in the low light. His head falls into your neck, nibbling and kissing the soft skin there. "Love you so much."
You're not sure who he's talking to anymore.
"My perfect Steve, fuck, you should see how you look right now. Pure fucking sin, sweetheart. God, I love you, angel."
Steve sighs as Eddie fully settles against him, buried to the hilt. "Can I move now, Daddy?"
"Fuck her for me, Steve."
You brace your hands against the headboard as Steve starts to pull out, the action drawing a sharp exhale from him as he fucks himself back onto Eddie, who has already settled into a rhythm.
The sound of skin slapping skin echoes in the room as the three of you chase the heights of pleasure together. Your blissful moans, Steve's soft cries and Eddie's rough growling create a harmony almost too beautiful for words, the purest form of music.
Steve's rolling his hips sensually into yours as Eddie pulls him back, meeting him thrust for thrust. You can see from over Steve's shoulder that Eddie's hair has come loose from its tie; his bangs are plastered to his forehead, and loose strands are stuck to his cheek. He looks wild. Animalistic.
Maybe those rumours about him being the devil weren't too far off the mark.
He catches your eye.
Fuck.
He looks like a god wrapped in the flesh of a sinner.
You want to beg for absolution.
His eyes promise untold pleasures if only you submit to him.
It's an easy choice, really.
"Come for us."
You fall.
An unholy scream leaves your lips as Steve and Eddie bring you to a rapturous orgasm. You feel your pussy clench around Steve as he continues to thrust into you, quickly chasing his own end.
"Fuck, fuck, that's it, baby." Steve pants, "Good girl. You're gonna make me come, I'm so close."
Eddie has set a punishing pace behind Steve, his every breath drawn out in a moan. You can hear his hips slapping against Steve's ass. It’s filth. It’s divine. "Shit, I'm gonna come. Gonna come inside you, sweetheart."
Eddie stills with a groan, pumping Steve full as Steve cries out, "Oh fuck, I- Eddie, I'm coming!"
You grab onto Steve's head, sinking your fingers into his thick hair and pulling him into a kiss. It's less of a kiss and more moaning into each other's mouths as you come down from your collective high. A laugh puffs out of Steve as he peppers your face with kisses, giddy. You giggle with him, floaty and light. You want to bottle the sound of his joy.
Behind Steve, Eddie slowly pulls out with a hiss before collapsing onto his back, a disbelieving chuckle erupting from him. It's not long before you all fall into fits of laughter together.
Summary | Eddie Munson's ghost is haunting the house recently occupied by Daisy Morgan. Having been deceased for years, Eddie becomes visible only to her. As she adjusts to sharing her living space with an otherworldly presence, their relationship develops into a compelling yet forbidden romance between the living and the dead. But, how could that ever truly work?
Pairing | Eddie Munson x OC
Warnings/Tags | 18+ only, Strained parent relationships with significant focus on maternal issues, Themes of feeling unwanted and abandoned are central, Cheating -though not involving Eddie Munson or the main character, alcohol and drug use, Profanity, Sexual content, and Mental health themes.
Fic Notes | This fic is set after the events of Stranger Things season 4. Seven years have passed, and everyone has moved forward since the defeat of Vecna and the closure of The Upside Down. This story won't revolve around Vecna or The Upside Down. While there might be occasional appearances by other Stranger Things characters, the narrative centers on normal life, void of supernatural plots except for Eddie's ghostly presence.
I don't have a fixed posting schedule, but I'll aim for weekly updates. I might post more frequently, but I'm keeping the dates flexible for my mental well-being. Rest assured, I won't leave this fic unfinished.
Word count | 4k
Read on ao3
August 1993
Embedded within our very DNA is the innate longing for maternal love and acceptance. When that love is withheld over time, our minds adapt, convincing us that we can do without it. However, a persistent yearning for that inherent love remains, a constant reminder of the void that's meant to be filled.
Even in death, Daisy’s mother couldn't find it within herself to love her daughter. Grace’s final moments weren't filled with apologies or declarations of affection for Daisy; instead, there was only a will assigning property to her.
With a chuckle, Daisy twirls the keys around her finger, amused by Grace's belief that a house could mend the chasm in her heart. It’s a testament to how detached she was from what love between a mother and child should be.
For the past six months, Daisy has been stuck in limbo, her presence tethered to this seemingly senseless house following her mother’s passing. Today, at long last, she clasps the keys in her hand—a significant stride towards ending this dreadful chapter of her life. Whether driven by resentment or anger, Daisy raises her middle finger to the sky, smiling with satisfaction as she bids farewell to Grace.
In the parking lot, a few passersby cast concerned glances her way as Daisy releases a breath. It's not just any breath; it's a sigh that unburdens her from a lifetime of pain. The ache will persist, but it no longer shackles her to Grace; now, her mother can only haunt her dreams. And she will take that as a win.
A huge smile is plastered on her face as she walks to her car and calls her realtor. The line rings twice before she hears his eager voice on the other end.
"Hello, Ms. Morgan."
"Walter, it's all set. You can move forward with putting up the for-sale sign. I'll send over the necessary paperwork soon. ” Daisy says.
"Absolutely, ma'am. Sounds great.”
“Oh, I’ve also turned on the electricity under my name while we work on getting it sold.”
“Wonderful. I'll arrange an open house for next weekend."
This house holds no appeal for her; it seems Grace hoped to tether herself to Daisy through the property. The faster it’s sold then the faster she can move on with her life.
"Thank you, and please, call me Daisy."
"Certainly," he replies apologetically.
She gives him a kind smile, almost as if he could perceive it through the phone, and says goodbye.
Music blares as Daisy speeds out of the lawyer's parking lot. Her sunglasses shield her eyes from the summer sun, her brown hair wiping in the wind, and her engagement ring glimmers brilliantly as her hand tightens on the steering wheel.
Things are finally looking up.
She planned to stop by the bridal store and try on her dress for the last fitting, but she could do that tomorrow. She just wants to relax at home with Nick and watch Pretty Woman. Maybe even recreate the bath scene, singing Prince while drowning in bubbles. That’s a perfect night.
*
The apartment's lights are on even though her fiancé isn't due back until seven.
"Nick?" Daisy's voice echoes through the apartment as she opens the fridge, her mind set on preparing dinner. A craving for pasta, rigatoni specifically, with grilled chicken, mushrooms, and onions fills her thoughts, her stomach voicing its approval with a rumble. Unfortunately, they are completely out of chicken and pasta. Wonderful, just wonderful.
Luckily, their apartment lies within walking distance of one of Nick's favorite Chinese restaurants. The prospect of takeout lifts Daisy's spirits as she heads to their bedroom to ask Nick if he wants his usual Kung Pao chicken.
The sound of the shower greets her before she enters the room.
"Nic—" Her words halt as her gaze falls upon the disheveled bed.
What in the world? The comforter hangs askew and pillows litter the floor in disarray. It’s an absolute mess and she could have sworn she made the bed this morning like she always does.
Before she can call Nick's name once more, noises emanate from the bathroom. Daisy cautiously pushes the bathroom door open. The sight before her is surreal: Nick and his coworker Mia are in the shower together. His hand rests on her thigh, the same hand that's wiped away Daisy's tears. His lips pressed against her neck, the same lips that proposed to Daisy. Mia's moans fill the air, reminiscent of the sounds Daisy herself has made. Her mouth goes sour at the sight.
Daisy remains rooted in place as if observing the scene from outside her body.
This can’t be happening.
Time slows as Nick becomes aware of her presence, the shower door flinging open, Mia futilely reaching for a towel, and Daisy retreating.
Nick's voice calls after her as she assembles a small bag. She can't answer, gripped by a numbing shock. The room's movements feel surreal, and Daisy navigates it like a phantom, a silent specter swallowed by her own detachment.
Pushing the front door open, the summer air snaps her back to reality as she approaches her car. Nick's voice recedes as she leaves him standing, towel wrapped around his waist and their shared future at his feet, symbolized by a single apartment key.
“Daisy!”
Betrayal is no stranger to Daisy, but it doesn't blunt the pain of misplaced trust. A sense of foolishness washes over her, as Nick held the secrets of her past, her vulnerabilities, her fears. Tonight he reinforced her sense of being an unwanted burden.
It’s too much to bear. She has to get the hell out of here.
*
Hawkins lies eighty miles from Indianapolis. Unintentionally, Daisy found herself heading north on Interstate 65, steering aimlessly while her thoughts were lost on autopilot. At some point during the drive, Daisy stopped for gas and picked up McDonald’s despite lacking any appetite. She mechanically consumed it, then pulled over on the highway only to throw it all up. All of this occurred while she was in a haze, unable to recall the process. She moved through these actions like a mere shell of herself. Reaching a new city without a memory of the journey ignited a surge of panic within her.
Daisy wasn’t just in Hawkins, Indiana; she found herself parked outside her mother’s house, now her very own. Mixed emotions surged within her as her hands tightened around the steering wheel, her focus unwavering on the imposing iron gate adorned with the “Morgan” insignia.
She will never admit that she'd memorized the route to her mother's house. A house she never intended to visit. It was always decided after the accident that she would never contact Grace again, but it gave Daisy a sense of control knowing where her mother was and not doing a damn thing about it.
Until now.
She would have driven to Sloan's place, relying on her childhood best friend's kindness to give her a place to stay while she figured out what to do next. Sloan had always been there, a constant pillar of support. But, tonight was not the night to ask for support. Sloan happened to be attending a significant work event with her girlfriend, Robin at her side. Months ahead of time, she had planned a stay at a luxurious hotel for this very evening. Even on a subconscious level, Daisy understood that intruding upon their special night wasn’t an option, even when her own life was unraveling at the seams.
Left with no other options, Daisy finds herself in an unexpected predicament—having to accept help from her mother, the last thing she ever wanted. Daisy understands her mother's presumed satisfaction in the afterlife, and it's a painful realization. Even though the house was hers, the idea of depending on Grace’s help for her own well-being bothered her, making her upset. She was meant to sell the home and ever step foot on the property.
It felt like her mother had won, even though the game ended when Grace died. But Daisy reminded herself that the stay isn't indefinite; it's just a temporary solution until she figures out her next step.
Her hand trembles as she inputs 0527 on the keypad. Time seems to freeze for a moment, and Daisy holds her breath. The tension snaps as the gate loudly creaks open, breaking the silence.
The driveway stretches, winding its way around towering trees and clusters of flowering bushes. Daisy remembers the land from before the house was built—a trailer park with families that got wiped out by a natural disaster in ‘86. Grace saw the chance, bought the land, and replaced the trailers with a mansion. The families from the Forest Hills were paid to leave, a deal they took because their homes were falling apart. They didn't have many options and didn't want to end up homeless. Most of them did not have insurance to take care of their homes and Grace paid more than they could ever offer.
One person with too much money took over a place that used to be home to many families. Instead of helping them rebuild, Grace paid them to go away. Daisy wonders about those families and the kids who used to play here; their laughter once echoed between the trees and now it’s silent. Hopefully, they managed to reconstruct their lives using the resources she provided.
As the sun set, its light bathed the house, creating a gentle radiance along its edges. The home stands on a grand scale, boasting windows that envelop both the lower and upper levels. Despite only being built seven years ago, Grace held a deep appreciation for history and it shows in the architecture. The Victorian-style home was crafted in a manner that exudes the aura of centuries past.
The focal point, the entryway, is crowned with two grand wooden front doors, standing tall and imposing, their well-worn elegance inviting all who visit. Ironically, Daisy can only assume that visitors to the house were few and far between during Grace's time.
Effortlessly, the key slipped into the lock, and upon entering, Daisy’s bag dropped onto the wooden floors, the sound reverberating through the expansive, vacant house.
"Hello?" Daisy's voice echoed through the space, although she knew well that no one would answer.
Still, she waited for a reply that never came—only the structural creaks and the soft hum of air circulating through the vents persisted. It was eerie, but at least she was not on the streets and the house itself was undeniably beautiful and fully furnished. Daisy had to admit that Grace possessed a talent for home decor. An artist at heart, Grace's creative vision shone through, not just in her painted canvases but also in the ambiance of her house.
Daisy admired the exquisite crown moldings that decorate the ceilings, intricate panels adorn the walls, and ornate chandeliers cast a warm, gentle glow. It was inviting even if she didn’t feel welcome.
Stained glass windows, with their kaleidoscope of hues, scatter fragments of sunset light. The grand staircase, an artful masterpiece that anchors the foyer, leads to the upper floor, its handcrafted banisters a tangible testament to the commitment to the minutiae.
All of it was stunning. It’s hard to believe that Grace was living in this while Daisy endured nights on a couch, lacking a proper bedroom, in a family that seemed indifferent to her presence.
She debated unpacking her bag but was overwhelmed by the day's events. She wanted to take the edge off, to forget. She figured Grace might have left some wine in the kitchen. Grace was rarely without alcohol nearby.
The kitchen was pristine. The house staff, paid ahead of time, had maintained the house and yard even after her death. They hoped to impress a new owner. Daisy wondered what they'd think when they saw the for sale sign at the end of the weekend. She couldn't worry about that now; it might push her over the edge with all that’s on her mind.
Daisy tossed half-empty wine bottles into the trash and found a corked bottle on the rack. She wiped the dust off a Pinot Noir named Goldeneye.
Never heard of it, but it’ll do.
“Aha,” Daisy muttered with satisfaction as the cork popped.
Holding the bottle, she walked to the living room. Taking a hefty sip, she hoped the wine would numb her. The smoky black cherry flavor lingered on her tongue. The house was quiet. Daisy kicked off her shoes, drank some more, and collapsed onto the couch.
"Fuck," Daisy muttered, looking around at her situation. Emotions surged, and she used the wine to drown them.
“Fuck!” She shouts into the emptiness, fighting tears.
Amidst denial and disbelief, laughter bubbled up, an unexpected reaction to her turmoil. Could this really be happening? Maybe it was a terrible nightmare, and she'd wake up soon. She gulped down more wine, trying to steady herself. She pinched her arm, in a desperate attempt to wake up, but the pain was real. She choked back a sob with alcohol.
No, Daisy told herself, forcing herself off the couch. Sulking wasn't the solution. What did she need now? Besides wine, music. Daisy searches the living room and it doesn’t take long for her eyes to spot the record player sitting pretty on the oak table behind the couch. The vinyls are displayed perfectly on a shelf. Daisy’s fingers brush the stack until she comes across Tell Mama by Etta James.
With steady hands, Daisy placed the needle down in the record, and the resulting music gently cradled her frayed nerves. She’s thankful she paid to have the electricity turned on or she would have been sitting in the dark.
For the first time in hours, a smile graced her lips as she raised the half-empty bottle, playfully spinning around the room.
“Sing it, Etta,”
The house came alive with echoes of the music. It felt different, there was a shift in the air.
But a sudden whiff of smoke caught her attention, and she slowed down. She frowned, puzzled.
Was that the smell of cigarettes?
It couldn't be. Chalking it up to the wine's effect, Daisy walked to the window and opened it, welcoming a draft of fresh air. She was beginning to feel hot and that was a sign that she’s had too much too quickly.
Examining the bottle in her hand, she was met with a shocking sight that widened her eyes—within its brown-tinted glass, a man leaned against the wall, arms crossed, an amused smirk playing on his lips.
The sight paralyzed her momentarily, her scream of terror overpowering the music before the bottle crashed to the floor.
Dizziness engulfs the room, and she clings to the couch for stability. Her gaze shifts to the spilled wine staining the wooden floor, and then swiftly looks up to find the man.
But, he's gone.
"Who's there?!" Daisy's voice trembles as she retreats toward the kitchen, tripping over her own feet in her haste.
The music persists, accompanied by the lingering scent of smoke. Daisy snatches the phone off the hook, her fingers fumbling with the buttons as she struggles to dial 911.
"Get out now! I'm calling the police!" Daisy's voice wavers as she shouts, her unease palpable.
As she waits for the line to ring, Daisy stretches the phone cord to its limit as she reaches for a kitchen knife.
There is no ringing. The line is dead.
Daisy's heart sinks, and her face slumps as she presses the numbers again in frustration.
No. She forgot to set up a new landline under her name.
“No!” Daisy's exclamation filled the room.
A voice emerged from behind Daisy, “You can see me?”
Daisy spun around, stumbling backward. The same man stood over her with a confused look—a figure both captivating and haunting.
He was taller than Daisy, lean and lanky in build. His dark, tousled curly hair framed his face, the locks falling gracefully over his forehead and partially obscuring his eyes. Those deep brown eyes gazed down at Daisy with curiosity.
“Get back!” Her knife trembled as it rose toward him. “Get out of my house!”
His lips curled up as he leaned down, his face mere inches from the knife's tip. His gaze shifted from the knife to Daisy's widened eyes.
“You’re in my house, sweetheart.”
Without hesitation, Daisy thrust the knife into his neck.
A gasp escapes her lips as she realizes what she had just done.
But there is no blood, no cry of pain from him. The knife left no mark.
The man straightened, appearing unaffected and unperturbed. His fingers brush over his neck, and he examined them. A laugh erupted from him as he confirmed his lack of harm. The sound of his laughter startles Daisy. She struggles to comprehend how the knife had passed through him as if he were air.
“Impressive, but you have to try harder than that,” He remarked.
Daisy recoiled, her veins flooded with an icy rush, as he moved through her and vanished.
Through her... he had walked through her as if he were the wind rustling the leaves in the trees.
What the actual fuck is going on?
Gasping for air, Daisy struggles to catch her breath, her attempt to regain composure falling short. Her chest feels constricted, as though it might collapse under the weight of her racing heart, while her head continues to spin with disorientation.
This is it. She’s going to die.
In the same house as Grace? Hell no. The thought of that alone has Daisy scrambling to her feet.
Her eyes dart around, and he is nowhere to be found. A surge of adrenaline has her running to the front door. There is a phone in her car. She just needs to make it there and call 911. I’ve got this, she thought.
Daisy didn’t turn around once she made it out the door. She’s seen too many scary movies and they never survive when they slow down to check their back.
She closes the car door with a strong thud, locking it forcefully. Her phone is in the glove compartment, rarely used. It’s a new addition, and she isn't entirely used to having a phone on the go.
With shaky fingers, she dials 911. The operator's voice on the other end is a lifeline, reassuring and guiding her. The calm instructions provided a semblance of order amidst the panic that threatened to engulf her.
Dispatch is en route to her location and that helped Daisy breathe a little easier. Following the operator's directions, Daisy remained in the safety of her car.
She settled into the driver's seat, eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of the intruder who had shattered her sense of security while she waited for the police to arrive. The absence of the man did little to quell her unease; if anything, the tension remained palpable, coiled within her like a tightly wound spring.
Time seemed to stretch as she waited, every passing second laden with apprehension.
The flashing lights of the approaching police vehicles pierced the darkness, casting an eerie glow on the scene. Relief mingled with lingering fear as Daisy watched the law enforcement officers spring into action. Even though the immediate threat might have dissipated, the aftershocks of the intrusion still reverberated through her, leaving her on edge.
As the officers began their investigation, Daisy recounted the harrowing encounter, her voice shaky but resolute. She cooperated with their questioning, hoping that their presence would help dispel the lingering shadows that had taken hold of her mind.
However, the man who had broken into her home remained elusive. Even though the immediate danger had passed, Daisy couldn't shake off the feeling that she was being watched, which kept her on edge.
As the investigation reached its conclusion, Daisy's version of events started to unravel. No signs of forced entry, no trace of an intruder—her story seemed to be falling apart.
Doubt crept in, exacerbated by the officers' questioning of her sobriety due to the spilled wine and the discarded bottles. Frustration surged within her. They didn’t believe her. Of course they didn’t.
Internally, Daisy wrestled with the wild scenarios her mind had conjured in the heat of panic, like the memory of stabbing the man who simply walked away unharmed and how he disappeared in thin air. She kept these details to herself, focusing on the central truth: she had indeed seen a man, an intruder.
“Perhaps the alcohol took its toll and played tricks on your perception. We've all been there before, Ma’am. It's understandable,” the officer offered, his tone laced with a well-intentioned reassurance.
“No, that's not what happened!” Daisy's frustration surged forth. Her voice held a mixture of anger and determination. “I had maybe half a bottle. I’m not intoxicated. I saw a man, and he was in my house.”
A glance exchanged between the officers told Daisy all that she needed to know, and now her patience is wearing thin.
This day had tested her resilience. Her emotions teetered on the edge of tears, a precipice she was desperate to avoid.
Hold it together, Daisy. Tears will only add to their assumption that you’re insane.
“We're here to help, Ms. Morgan. Let us accompany you inside,” The officer suggested kindly. “It's getting late and about to rain.”
Walking back inside, Daisy's thoughts were a whirlwind of disbelief and vulnerability. As she stepped in, the house no longer felt safe. The officers' presence was comforting, yet it couldn't hide the truth: Her space had been invaded, not just by a stranger but also by doubts that made her question her reality.
“We've checked your home thoroughly. There is no one here. I can promise you that. Now, If you come across anything else suspicious or unusual then give me a call. Here is my card.”
The officer hands over the card, offering well wishes for the evening, then heads towards their car and drives away.
Daisy lingers in the doorway as rain begins to fall. She wonders if she’s losing her sanity—could she have imagined everything? Doubt sneaks into her thoughts like an unwelcome intruder, picking at her beliefs. Yet, the uncomfortable sensation in her gut persists, a reminder that things aren’t right. Her emotions converge, forming a bubble of anger in her chest. She’s tired of looking like a fool.
With a forceful slam, the door shuts behind Daisy as she enters the living room, her steps heavy and furious. She scans the room, finding it empty and shrouded in silence. The music has stopped, leaving only the wine stains as the only reminder. She scowls, her eyes fixed on the red-stained wood.
“Where are you?” Daisy’s voice reverberates through the room in a shout.
No response.
“Show yourself! I know you’re here.”
Silence. Total silence. Daisy’s face glistens with dampness, and she wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. The tears, once contained, now break free like a dam bursting open.
Daisy pulls out her cell phone, her vision blurred by tears and sobs catching in her throat. With shaky fingers, she dials ten digits, and amidst the ringing, she eases down the wall, finding herself on the floor. Even though she doesn’t expect an answer, hearing Sloan’s voicemail gives her a small sense of comfort.
“Yeah, you reached Sloan. Leave a message and maybe I’ll get back to you.”
A loud beep sounds, and Daisy takes a moment to collect herself. “Sloan,” her voice quivers, “I need you. Please call me back when you can.”
Daisy draws her knees close to her chest, enveloping them with her arms as she lowers her head. This, she acknowledges, is her lowest point. Here it is, the culmination of losing her fiancé and her sanity, all within a single night.
Daisy’s attention is grabbed by a heavy sigh, causing her to look up. Everything in her freezes. There he sits, on the counter’s edge opposite her, absently twisting the ring on his finger.
“You know, there’s something about a girl crying,” he murmurs, drawing a breath before slapping a hand over his chest, “It just tears me up.”
Though his words carry a genuine tone, his eyes hold an elusive expression she can’t quite place. Daisy remains frozen, her gaze locked on him.
Their eyes meet, and he speaks softly, “You’re killing me, Daisy. And I’m already dead.”
summary eddie munson is super weird. he holds your hand too tight, he has a fascination with your neck, and he can’t give a hickey to save his life. good thing you’re super weird, too. [20k]
warnings two losers falling in love!! vampire!eddie munson, ditzy!reader (kind of), fem!reader, smut mdni (p in v, unprotected sex, oral fem receiving, general heavy petting and kissing, praise), fluff, hurt/comfort, angst (eddie struggling with guilt and grief). canon divergent (the events of volume 2 take place but there’s a mostly happy ending i.e. everyone good lives and everyone bad dies) TW eddie doesn't have suicidal thoughts, but he does think about it briefly. not with intent or anything like that though. requested here for my halloween party <3
(㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)
Eddie Munson never wanted to be a vampire, and he wants that on the record.
It's a ridiculous existence. It's embarrassing. It's nothing like all the movies and books promised him.
He's looking at you, Bram Stoker.
In Eddie's mind, Stoker’s nothing less than a liar and a sycophant.
"Who's dick were you bouncing on, Stoker?" he demands to know, kicking fallen leaf mulch under his feet angrily. "Need'ta fucking impress some vampire lover with your over-exaggerated, over-powered, ridiculous descriptions? Great. Hope it was worth it. Meanwhile I'm here, self-esteem half the size of a grain of rice because I can't scale a building with my bare hands."
Eddie would know. He's tried.
He's not genuinely angry with Bram Stoker, but he'd rather take his frustrations out on a guy who's been dead for a hundred years than take them out on the demobats, because he doesn't want to even think about the demobats. They're all dead too. Not before they'd had (see: devoured) their pound of flesh and changed his life for the worse, though.
He shakes his head to drive out the memory like water in his ears. It's easier to pretend none of that shit in the upside down ever happened. (Impossible to pretend. He begs himself to try anyway.)
He’s pissed because science fiction has promised him a lot of things and reality has delivered on none of them. No super strength, no impermeable skin. He is faster, but that's more a reflexive thing than anything else. And being faster doesn't make running fun. That’s impossible.
Sunlight breaks through the treeline and his skin crawls. Science fiction didn't get that right, either. The sun doesn't hurt. It's just really, really annoying.
He covers his eyes, winces at his itchy hand, pulls his sleeve over his fingers and covers his eyes again. "This blows," he says, and means it.
In Dracula, the sun nulls Dracula’s supernatural abilities. Eddie doesn’t have any abilities worth nulling, unless you count echolocation.
He doesn’t.
He walks another five minutes up the road toward Forest Hills when he realises you're behind him. His senses are enhanced now as a bat’s might be, hearing fine-tuned and dialled up every second of the day — which makes living in a trailer park where everyone thinks he's a murderer an acute misery — but he's as prone to distraction as anyone else. Especially when he gets stuck in a memory.
Eddie throws his gaze over his shoulder and finds you thirty or forty feet away, talking to yourself under your breath. He knows you more for your sounds than your appearance. To be able to put a face to your mindless babbling is a mystery solved. Of course you look like that. A skirt made of soft looking fabric bounces over two cute thighs, a pretty lacy corset type of thing that isn't too tight outfits your top half. You look more like a vampire than he does.
"Hi, Eddie," you call.
His eyes widen, a deer-in-the-headlights kind of surprise. If you notice how he's frozen you don't show it, continuing to push your bike toward him. The tick of the wheels grows louder as you get closer, two hands on the handlebars with wrists draped in bracelets, both silver and fabric.
Besides your jewellery, your arms are bare. You must be freezing.
"Hey," he says.
He doesn't know your name. He doesn't know how you know his, and he’s too awkward to ask.
Your sounds peak as you close the gap. The wet scrape of your dirty black canvas shoes over shining asphalt, the soft puff of your breath, the clinking sounds of whatever trinkets you have in your bag. If he focuses, he can make out the tiniest pinches of fabric. Your short sleeves rubbing against your arms, your bra straps stretching over your shoulders.
Eddie takes a deep breath and tries to diminish his senses.
"Where's your van?" you ask curiously.
"Piece of shit kicked it in the middle of town. Just my luck."
You pause at his side, looking him up and down obviously but without the judgement or irreverent disgust he's come to expect from near about everybody in Hawkins.
"That's not good," you say succinctly.
It's such a genuine response that Eddie can't find it in himself to be sarcastic.
"God awful," he agrees sullenly.
You nod and start to walk again. Eddie falls naturally into step beside you, matching your pace without thinking.
"You should get a bike."
He laughs. Coughs to cover it up. "Yeah?"
"They're way more reliable than a car, and it doesn't hurt the zone."
Eddie squints. "The o-zone?"
"Is there another one?"
You're still so serious that he spares you the ridicule he might dole out to anyone else. If Dustin had said something like that he would've ripped the kid a new one, but you're rather sweet in an odd way. You have a soft manner of talking — each word sounds like you've thought its pronunciation through meticulously beforehand.
He ignores your question and points at your bike, ring catching the sun. "Why aren't you riding it?"
"My chain slipped."
"So much for reliable."
That makes you smile. Eddie feels it like a punch, a flat palm slapped into his chest.
"You can't put the chain on yourself?"
A brisk breeze whips your hair, your earrings. The left kisses your cheek, a silver heart-shaped hoop with pink beads that click together. You lean into it, face tilted to one side as a perplexed smile plays on your sticky lips. "You can do that?"
"Sure, you pull it back around the gear. It's easy." He hesitates for a moment, and then feels guilty about hesitating. "I'll do it for you, if you want."
"The guy in no. 62 has been charging me ten dollars." You don't sound as angry as you should, in Eddie's opinion.
"I'll do it for nothing."
You beam at him. His chest feels like a bruise.
Pretty girls don't like Eddie. Not before Chrissy, not after. He's trying to work out your angle, what it is that you want.
Or maybe you don't know.
As soon as you find out who he is, you'll turn your pretty nose up at him and walk the other way. He shouldn't smile at you, he definitely shouldn't fix your bike.
He can't help it. He's so starved for positive attention that he follows you all the way through the park, westside to east.
He checks the driveway of his own home and smiles mildly when he spots Wayne's new car. It's new in the sense that it's different. It's actually way older than the one he'd had before, the one he'd pawned to pay for Eddie's — well, Eddie's everything. His check-ups, his court dates, his goddamn bail. In the same way that this trailer isn't the trailer, but an older, smaller one as far away from their first as possible.
Kid, if I had the money…
Wayne hadn't needed to finish. If he had the money, they'd leave. Leave Hawkins, leave Indiana. Settle down in some other mediocre Midwestern state with all the same creature comforts and none of the "You were acquitted but literally none of us believe you didn't kill someone," motif.
All they have now is debt, each other, and the Great Munson mug collection.
Eddie keeps his head down as they pass the old trailer. Nobody lives inside now. Only termites.
He can taste blood by the time they reach your home. Far from the metallicity of his human blood, Eddie's blood now harbours a bitter taste. Not quite like coffee but with that same overwhelming earthiness. He pulls his teeth from the bitten flesh of his bottom lip and quickly raises a hand to his teeth, alarmed.
No knife-like points. Normal teeth.
"Are you thirsty?" you ask him.
Eddie flinches and drops his hand. You've parked your bike against the wooden lifts of your porch and are halfway up the steps to your front door, hand clasped loosely on the railing.
His heart fucking pounds.
"I have grape juice?"
"Right," he says hurriedly, "right. Yeah, that would be awesome."
Duh, you meant juice.
You send him another endearing smile and pop up the last of your steps and into the front door. It's not locked. He doesn't follow, thinking you must live with somebody (who's gonna know exactly who he is and tell him to get lost).
He turns his attention to your bike instead. It's easy enough to fix. He rolls the bike so its handlebars are resting against your concrete driveway and covers the top bar of the metal body with his sneaker to stop it from toppling. He rolls up his sleeves and bares his arms, but pulls them back down immediately when he remembers the white-purple whorls of scar tissue lurking underneath.
"Fuck," he mutters. Everything is a reminder, all of the time. He can't escape what happened.
It's everywhere.
He's getting his fingers under the chain when you reappear. You've layered up, bracelets and naked arms hidden by a black hoodie.
The wind blows and your skirt shifts. From his position he can see a ladder hiding in your tights where your inner thighs are pressed together. He whips his gaze up like a high-school perv caught sneaking peeks in the girls locker room and notices the stitching on your chest for the first time.
"You like Dio?" he asks excitedly.
"Who?"
He wilts. "Uh, your hoodie. Dio."
"I got it for three dollars in the bargain bins," you supply helpfully, all pep as you climb down the stairs and offer him a glass cup adorned in dainty enamel flowers. "Is Dio good?"
He waves his hand at the glass apologetically. "Two seconds…" Lifting the chain with the second hand, Eddie tugs and then feeds until the links are lined up with the bumps on the big chainring. The skin on his fingertips get pinched and his eyebrows pull together in pain, but it's a mild irritant at worst and after a moment the chain is back in place.
He pulls his hand away and wipes dark grease down the front of his jacket. "I think I did it."
You're glowing, earrings like a metronome as you ask, "That fast? You're awesome."
He turns the pedal and your back wheel spins in time with his heart. You're awesome. When was the last time somebody who wasn't Wayne said anything like that?
Although Dustin had told him he thought Eddie was a much cooler, more fucked up version of the guy from Van Halen the other day.
You're just saying that 'cos we're both called Eddie, Eddie had said morosely.
Learn to take a compliment, dude.
When they aren't pity compliments, he might.
Eddie lifts your bike back onto the wheels to show you that it's working perfectly. You giggle your evident pleasure. "Oh, thank you, thank you!" you say, super sweet even as grape juice sloshes over the rims of your flowered glasses and drips down your fingers.
"Here, let me," he says, taking the glasses from your purple-stained hands.
You kiss your hands clean which is a thing, a lot to watch. Eddie admits to himself that he thinks you're really pretty, recognises that that is a bad thing to think considering the likely very short life span of your acquaintance. God knows you won't be saying anything as friendly when you find out who he is.
"You're so nice," you say. It feels like you're talking more to yourself than him. "Thank you. It's slipped off three times this month, and ten dollars is ten dollars. Wait, do you want ten dollars?"
"My services were administered charitably.”
Your smile grows. You accept your glass and take a small sip, eyes lit up as Eddie steers your bike one-handed to rest against the porch.
"Do you wanna come inside? I don't have any of the Dio, but I have Blondie."
He holds in a throwaway comment about real rock and roll, astounded that you’d ask him. "Your folks aren't home?"
"I'm twenty-two."
Eddie squints at you. "Seriously?"
"You didn't think so?"
He shrugs. It's not that you don't look twenty two. Or even that you don't act twenty two. But it's been a long time since he met somebody living alone in the park. Forest Hills is where poverty comes to settle.
"A boyfriend?"
"Just me and mister Porterson."
"That your grandpa?"
"That's my pet fish."
He smiles. It's his first real, authentic smile in days. He's genuinely elated by your offer and your attitude, but he doesn't know how to handle it, struck with a sudden nightmare of you, afterward, telling somebody you'd invited him in and he'd tried to hurt you. It isn't fair of him to assume you'd do anything like that. You've been nothing but sweet and sincere this whole time.
Eddie hasn't let his guard down in a long time.
You're giving him this wide-eyed, imploring look that promptly suffocates any fear.
And in a week, when she finds out who you are and feels betrayed, feels tricked? What then, Munson?
"You know what happened?" he asks.
"What happened?"
"Two years ago. Chrissy… Chrissy Cunningham?"
Don't say her fucking name.
Your expression clears as clarity blooms. You take a step. He needs a second to realise you've come forward rather than away, fingers twitching toward his hand.
"I know about it. I'm sorry that happened to you."
He stares.
This is a trick. Two years and he can count the amount of people who believe him on his two hands, and only because they'd all gone through it with him. Sometimes there are outliers, logical people who seem to realise Eddie couldn't have killed all those people, couldn't have been in all those different places without leaving any evidence behind. And sometimes there are people who agree he didn't kill Chrissy, but he's a coward for leaving her to die. (She’d already been dead.)
Eddie doesn't know what he thinks. Wayne sets the record straight every now and then with a clap on the shoulder. You did what every parent wants their kid to do. You lived. I can't ask for more than that.
"You don't believe it?"
"That you hurt her?" You hold his gaze, face practically impassive. "No, I don't believe it."
He pulls in a breath that fills every inch of his chest. "I could learn to like Blondie," he says.
—
You're standing in the driveway of Eddie's trailer with a heavy bag over your shoulder, face to face with a man who kind of looks like him but not really. You assume it's his uncle because who else could he be? If you hadn't seen him here you'd never guess.
"Eddie's mom must've had strong genes," you say. You bring your shoulder up toward your cheek thoughtfully. "He didn't get any of your face. Was she pretty? Eddie's really pretty."
"She was," he says, peering down his nose at you.
"I got sandwiches. Do you want one?"
"What kind?"
"I have ham and cheese, or ham and lettuce and tomato, or I have pumpernickel cookies. Is Eddie a vegetarian?"
"Why?"
"'Cause I only brought one cheese and cucumber, and I have dibs."
He climbs down the last couple of steps and is still taller but definitely less imposing, face covered in scratchy salt and pepper stubble and crows feet deeply embedded into the corners of his eyes. He looks like a man who has been tired for a very long time. You make a mental note to bring him some lavender for his pillow on your next visit.
"You're Eddie's new friend?"
You nod your head briskly. "Yes, sir. I'm Y/N."
He opens his box of camels like a pro, bottom pressed to his chest. He tucks a cigarette between his lips and pulls his lighter out. He doesn't light it.
"It's nice to meet you," he says eventually, voice warming.
You search through the mess of your skirt for the zipper on your bag and peel it open, pulling out your tupperware of cookies and cracking them open to release the fragrant smell of cinnamon and almonds. It's a heady scent, fitting for the holiday season approaching.
You offer Eddie’s uncle a cookie.
"Thought pumpernickel was bread," he says gruffly, taking one.
"It is, but there's this little town in France that makes these every year at Christmas and they call them pumpernickel biscuits," — he takes a bite and winces at the hard snap — "you're s'posed to dip them in hot chocolate."
"You don't say."
You nod happily and he moves aside to let you pass.
"Thanks, kid."
You turn back to him with your fingers curled around the door handle. "Of course! It's really nice to meet you, Mr. Munson, sir."
"Wayne is fine."
You laugh and repeat his name in a similarly rough voice, letting yourself in as Eddie had told you to do. You find him immediately in a man-made corner of the living room, pale and in his pyjamas. The trailer is open planned, a living room they’ve divided by propping a couch against the kitchen counter, a slim hallway leading to a cramped bathroom and the single bedroom. It's exactly like in your home.
You're somewhat surprised to see him in pyjamas. Eddie doesn't wear comfy looking clothes out of the house — you've only ever seen him in jeans and jackets like a real rockstar.
"Are you ready?" you ask.
You've invited him to come and search for bugs with you. Catching any kind of bug, whether beetle or butterfly or spider, is really scary, but you need to be able to catch them to draw them.
You'd expressed this to him over the phone and he'd said, "I can come and help. I have good reflexes."
He rubs his hands over his knees. There's a blanket pooled around his feet, a quilt he must sleep with, and the room is decorated with not a whole lot of stuff but enough to make you take a step back.
"Is this your room?" you ask, enchanted.
"Kind of." He pulls his hair from behind his ear, obscuring a pale cheek. "I don't think I can come with you today, I'm sorry. I meant to call you."
You toy with a dark thigh high sock as you ease out of your shoes, height drastically decreasing. "That's okay, we can stay here. I brought you a sandwich. I brought you two sandwiches," you correct.
He nods. Rather sadly, in your opinion. "Alright. Thanks."
You step over a tented paperback and hand off the cookies before sitting down beside him on the couch he's occupying. It's smaller than the one against the wall and round like a clam, lots of room for your legs to stretch out.
"I feel like a pearl," you say.
You and Eddie have been friends for a little while now. Long enough for you to realise he's either depressed or mentally unwell in some way. You hardly mind keeping him company on his bad days if he needs somebody, so drawing bugs will have to wait.
His hair is limp, not totally greasy but not super clean either. His face looks fresh enough, though the bags under his eyes make you frown.
You pull your purse into your lap, thighs covered by the thin layers of your midi skirt. "I have just the thing for you," you murmur.
"Yeah? Bring me another bracelet?"
You like that he sounds eager. Making his bracelet had been a challenge, lots of knotting and double knotting, three restarts and one small under the breath tantrum. It's not anything special, black and white hearts seven strands wide, but he'd been very appreciative.
"No, but I can make you another one if you want. I mastered the inverse chevron last night."
He hums. You pull a saran wrapped sandwich from the depths of your crowded bag, glad to see it's mostly intact. When you open it up you find that it's the ham and lettuce and tomato one, so you drop it into his lap haphazardly and move onto the next.
"Aha! Here," you pull a cucumber from your sandwich. "For you."
He takes it between two tentative fingers. "Thank you?"
"For your eyes."
"There's cheese on it."
"I'll still work," you assure him.
"M'not putting cheese on my eyes."
You laugh because he probably shouldn't put cheese on his eyes, cucumber adjacent or otherwise. "Okay, don't. I'll make you a hot towel."
He drops his hand on your arm as you go to stand. You like how he touches you, soft but not scared. "You just got here. Stay here." He pats you nicely. "Tell me about work last night."
You settle heavily into the seat beside him, your thigh to his thigh, your hip squished against his hip, doughy flesh separated by nothing more than a strappy tank top and a cotton long-sleeve t-shirt. His heat quickly becomes yours, a sinking transference of warmth.
"Well," you begin, cheek turning into the couch to face him. "It was mostly okay. I dropped another plate, but this time it didn't have a stack of waffles on it."
He smiles ruefully and sinks back as you had. Neither of you eat your sandwiches. "Progress. Taking it out of your pay?"
"Yes, definitely."
"Discrimination."
"That's what I said! I said, Sarah, I was born with butterfingers and you know that."
"She didn't budge?"
"Dishwashing all week next week. Whatever, though, 'cause it's Saturday."
He laughs and shakes his head, his gaze dropping to your neck. He does that sometimes. You can't blame him; you wear a varying assortment of necklaces because you think they're pretty, and you're glad he likes them too.
"See my new one?"
"What?"
"New necklace." You look down at your chest and pull the newest addition from between the cups of your bra. "It's real silver."
"It's nice."
"It's surprisingly heavy. Wanna feel?"
"That's okay," he says, slightly strained.
Right, you think. I'm talking a lot.
You press your lips together in a mild pout and look at him through appreciative eyes. He's a very pretty boy, all soft and pale and sweet dark curls.
"Do you want me to put your hair up?"
His lips part before he talks. "I don't know if you should."
"Sure I should. It's getting in your eyes, right?" You take his hand where it's laid unsuspectingly in his lap and slip the hair tie from around his wrist, his fingertips tickling the inside of your palm. "Sit forward, Eddie."
He takes a deep breath, holds it, and sits up. You twist and then realise you need some more height, pushing a leg under yourself to kneel next to his lap.
You weave our fingers softly into the hair at the front of his face and rake away in lieu of a brush. After it's mostly tamed you pull it all into one hand and wrap the tie at the base of his head. You hum to yourself as you go, pleased when his lovely curls behave.
"Voilà," you announce, moving back on your haunches.
He breathes out. "Thank you."
You reach for a curl you'd missed at the very front and encourage it behind his ear. He has subtle indents in his cheeks today like he's in need of a good meal, and his skin is colder than it should be when you flatten your palm.
"You need something to eat," you fret. Your fingertips stroke under his eye, your thumb his smile lines.
He moves away slowly.
You pull your hand back into your lap. "Maybe we can go out and get something, if you don't like the sandwich?"
"What?" he asks, pale lips taut as he simpers at you. "Are you kidding? This is about to fix everything that's wrong with me."
His enthusiasm emboldens you. "It so will! There's ham and cheese too, if you prefer that one."
"Get it! I'm gonna eat both of them." S
Eddie eats both of his sandwiches and you eat your own, the two of you with your heads dropped back against the couch as you watch TV. There's a guy you've never seen before running around the streets of Chicago city centre looking for people to be in his play. Eddie's seen it before. He repeats dialogue in time with the characters, performing each line. Impressive, what with how tired he looks.
"What did he just say?" you ask, mouth full of cucumber.
"He said he's gonna throw himself off a bridge," Eddie informs. "Poor guy. I know the feeling."
You swallow harshly.
"Seriously?"
Your sad tone surprises him.
"I- No, I'm kidding," he says, scratching the base of his throat, friendship bracelet his only adornment.
His nervous itching makes you even more worried.
"If you did wanna do that, you can talk to me-"
He baulks, tongue poking out past his lips as he licks the corner of his mouth. "Thanks, sweetheart," he says, pet name like a kiss. It sounds silly but it really feels like one, right in the centre of your chest. "But I'm fine. Promise. It was a bad joke."
"Okay," you say, letting your suspicion shine through. You hold his eyes.
You haven't known Eddie long. It feels like you met yesterday, though really it's been two or three weeks. You fit together in a way you hadn't expected and adore more than you can articulate, two funny puzzle pieces.
"Well, I just wanted you to know. I like being your friend, I don't want you to disappear."
He laughs and licks his lips, a rough, chesty sound. "I don't want you to disappear either."
Tires crunch outside, a shushing sound and then the sharp shriek of a jeep being put into park. Eddie perks up considerably, his shoulders straightening.
"Hey, Chief," Wayne calls.
Trailer walls. Basically made of cardboard.
"Hey, Wayne. Where's the kid?"
You can't hear what Wayne says after that, words stolen by the TV.
"Is that Chief Hopper?" you ask, trying to catch a glimpse of him through the mostly shuttered blinds.
"Yeah, he- He's friends with Wayne."
"Why's he wanna know where you are?"
"'Cause I got into so much trouble."
You bite your tongue. His tone is hard, not stern but almost, and you realise you've overstepped as you usually do. You want to apologise but you don't want to pick the wound, eager to gloss over and make him smile again.
"It's pretty cool, isn't it?" you ask him.
"What?"
You spread your legs wider to slide onto your thighs and make him the taller one again, legs bent in a 'W' shape. "Coming back from the dead! First Will Byers, then Hopper."
Something surfaces in his expression. An irony.
"The undead," you croon, aiming for a smile, a laugh.
He cracks. "The undead," he agrees, smiling in bemusement. His eyes are a funny shade of brown.
—
Eddie shoo’s you home early that night but tries to do it kindly. He feigns exhaustion, a facade that's difficult to uphold when his entire body is thrumming with want. If there's one thing Eddie hates about being a vampire (there are literally hundreds of things he hates, but this one's special) it's that he wants to hurt the people he likes a thousand times more than the people he doesn't.
He can't explain it. Your blood is more appealing than any lonesome stranger's. Your pulse is practically music to his ears when you sit beside him. He'd kill himself before he ever hurt you, though. Or that's what he likes to think. Whether he has that amount of control is debatable.
No. He would kill himself before he hurt you, or Wayne, or any of his friends.
Steve can see the way that he's feeling on his face.
Hopper's delivery set to one side, a tall glass with blood congealed in a sticky ring at the bottom, Eddie curls under his huge quilt and tries not to pass out. Blood sate feels the same as a thanksgiving food coma. It's awesome.
He hates how good it feels.
"Stop feeling guilty," Steve says.
"He doesn't look guilty to me," Dustin says beside him, taller than the last time Eddie had seen him but still miles off of Steve's tall stature. He's changed his hat again, this one a garish green. It's not a good look.
"He looks like he's napping," Robin says, delighted.
"Can you guys go home?" Eddie asks.
"Shithead."
"What Steve means to say," Robin corrects, grinning her huge, catching smile, "is that no, we aren't going home. We brought games."
"I don't wanna play games." He does. Eddie needs the distraction, because eventually the blood sate will fade and all that will remain will be self-revulsion and a cruel desire to do something awful.
"I do not care even slightly," Steve says, deadpan, as he sits right there next to Eddie where you'd been sitting before. Steve's nowhere near as soft and he doesn't smell as nice, but Eddie's honestly glad someone is willing to sit next to him at all.
"Ouch, what the fuck?"
Dustin looks up from where he's sat himself on the floor. Robin giggles in her seat on the coffee table.
"Munson, are you fucking shedding? I just got stabbed."
"They don't work like that. They retract."
Eddie feels at his broken gums with his tongue. There's a clean incision where his fangs come out and then snap back inside after a time. They're remarkably thin, fitting in front of his natural incisors neatly.
Steve grumbles, hips lifted and hand searching under his butt for whatever it is that jabbed him. He retrieves exactly what Eddie had been expecting but hadn't had the forethought to prepare a lie about with a shocked gasp.
"Is this an earring? You don't have your ears pierced."
He swallows, knowing it's a very guilty gesture, and meets Steve's eyes straight on.
Funny how Steve's hair speaks as much as his expression, bobbing as he nods his head to emphasise each word, "Munson, do you have a girlfriend?"
Silence.
"...Not really."
"Holy shit," Dustin says, sounding extremely pleased. "No way."
Robin tucks her short hair behind her ears, hands paused in disbelief at her neck. "Actually?"
"I have a friend," Eddie admits.
"Thank god," Steve says, dropping your heart earring onto Eddie's thigh. The silver feels extremely hot over his pyjamas, like it's been held in the centre of a blistering hearth.
"I really thought Steve was gonna have to take one for the team and give you a pity handie," Robin says agreeably, scratchy voice coloured by genuine awe.
Eddie groans, "Harrington, get this shit off of me. You know I can't touch that."
"I forgot," Steve lies. "Can you wait? My hands are busy."
—
He has Steve put your earring between two pieces of kitchen towel and holds onto it. He doesn't see you for a week, and he keeps your damn earring in his pocket that entire time worried it's gonna slip out and brand him at any second.
Finally, you call him. He pretends he wasn't waiting.
"Hello," you say, like you're announcing something.
"Hey. How are you?"
"Eddie, I need your help. Badly."
He flinches up where he'd been leaning casually, hard enough to make Wayne jump. Eddie smiles at him placatingly and mouths a poor sorry, turning away to pretend there's a semblance of privacy to be found in such close quarters.
"Are you okay?"
"I gotta find a rainbow leaf beetle. Do you have a torch?"
"...What?"
"They only come out at night, so I'm gonna go look but I don't have a torch that works."
He relaxes, the lilting cadence of your voice enough to make his whole night. You sound so pretty even through the phone. He suspects you could hold any pitch, deep or high, and you'd still sound nice.
It's all in the way you — he says this with love — perform the words. You speak like each word you're saying has equal importance, and it's calming.
Even when you say stuff that's nonsense to him.
Right now, you don't sound upset or even worried about not having a torch, simply curious to know if he has one. If he focuses hard (and he's been trying not to, as you deserve your privacy) he can hear you all the way across the park, shifting from foot to foot in your bedroom, carpet crushed under your heels.
The action makes him think this might be more urgent to you than you'd first admitted.
"I have a torch." He also has amazing night vision. Like, impeccable. "Can I come help?"
"You want to?"
"I'd love to. Are you going out tonight?" He leans back to glance out the window. "The rain is finally stopping."
"Yeah, tonight! Is that okay for you? We could go tomorrow if you can't."
You're willing to change your plans now that he's asked to go with you. It's a gesture as lovely as you are. Eddie doesn't think you'd ever think it of yourself; your kindness is so intrinsic you don't notice it, like the fine stitching of a leather bound book. Integral and widely unappreciated.
"That's perfect."
Wayne raises an eyebrow when Eddie relays the conversation. "You're going out in the middle of the night with this girl to… look for bugs."
Eddie crosses his arms over his chest. "I swear."
"Be honest with me, kid."
"I am!"
Wayne swirls his coke can around in his hand as he thinks, a reluctance evident in his scowl. Eddie knows he's way too old for a guardian's oversight like this but he lets Wayne have a say because Wayne loves him, and Eddie doesn't ever want to put his old man through the turmoil he went through when he ran away. If that means a curfew in his twenties, Eddie's okay with that.
"If you're going to have sex with this girl, I'd prefer you did it here. You have to treat women with respect."
Eddie shivers, full body. "Wayne," he groans, covering his face. He can feel his cheeks pink under his palms, that's how quickly his embarrassment rises.
"I know you're more responsible these days, and you're a grown up. If you want a girlfriend and you want to do adult things with her-"
"Jesus Christ."
"- then that's alright. You don't have to fool around outside."
He drags his hands down on his face, pained. "It's not like that. You met her, you know she's…"
"Strange?"
"Alternative."
"No, you're alternative. She's cooky."
"Don't," he says. He knows his uncle isn't actually being cruel, so he lets it lie and fights for his own cause. "We aren't messing around. She genuinely wants me to go find these bugs with her. And…" He hates himself. "She has her own place, you know? If we were going to-"
Wayne seems stricken by the same mortified embarrassment as Eddie, raising a calloused hand in surrender. "Spare me."
"Thank you," Eddie says, spinning on his heel to hide in the bathroom for a while. It's only when he's sitting on the closed toilet does he realise Wayne hadn't mentioned his more dangerous ailment. For a time, he'd been a normal (debatable) person having a normal (horrifying) conversation with his dad. Not a vampire. Not somebody who ruins everything he touches.
—
"It's so quiet," you whisper.
For you, Eddie thinks.
You're in the forest surrounding the aptly named Forest Hills trailer park, wielding your borrowed torch carefully into the dark. Eddie's following in your footsteps, trying not to smell everything that's on you today and failing.
You smell like a person as everybody does. Over that is your soap, a faint hint of milk and honey that sticks to your skin even after you've washed it away. Over that is your deodorant, 'unscented', and over that is your perfume, which he likes most. It's a mix of smells, some Eddie doesn't know and some he does. There's lavender, though that might be down to the bunch you'd brought for his uncle wrapped in newspaper, and there's something fruity he can't quite put his finger on, all of it wrapped up in a cloying pairing of vanilla and coconut.
"Eddie?"
"What?"
"Are you okay? You're almost as quiet as the trees."
If only you knew the trees aren't quiet.
"I'm alright," he says quickly, catching up to you where you stand a few feet ahead. "What are we looking for?"
Best change the subject. How to explain he'd been smelling the notes of your perfume?
"They rest on tree trunks. You have to be careful, any sudden sound or light will scare them away. But if you flash the torch on them, they shine like oil stains."
He loves when you talk. "Where'd they come from?"
"Place called Snowdon. They're so rare, they think there's only about a thousand alive there."
"Well, how did they get here?"
You laugh under your breath, so quiet he would've missed it if he wasn't enhanced. "I don't know. How do beetles get to different places?"
"They fly?"
A twig crunches under your shoe.
Eddie tips his head to the side, thinking. "If there's only a thousand, how-" He stops, your circle of torch light growing further and further away. "Are you sure that they live here?"
"No, but if they do we'll be the first to find them."
"So they've never found any out here? In- In the midwest?"
"Not yet. Where'd you go?"
He shakes his head in an affectionate disbelief. "Right behind you."
You search in silence for a while. Eddie wishes he could say he was mad, or even mildly annoyed, wishes he had even the slightest regard for his own time, but really he thinks any time with you is time well spent. Especially if it's helping you do something you want to do. Whether you find your rainbow leaf beetle or not, he feels better knowing he's out here with you to keep you safe and in company.
Conversation is sparing. He doesn't mind. Your footsteps fill the sound and he finds even that stupid detail charming, the crunch, the pick up. His own are silent, a rare advantage to his terrible affliction.
"Any other beetles you want me to keep an eye out for?" he whispers.
"I'm not sure…" You turn to face him, torch pointed at your shoes. Rubber toes touched together, you lean in until you're all he can smell. Perfume. Blood. "If you see any cool spiders, too."
"You have the mason jar?"
"You know I do."
More than you realise, he thinks. The glass clicks in your bag.
There's enough light reflected to see the most minute details of your face. Your nose, the circle of your irises but not their colour. He suspects Eddie from early '86 wouldn't have been able to see hide nor hair, and it wouldn't shock him if you were technically blind right now.
"Thanks for coming out with me. I was gonna ask you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, but I didn't want to come on too strong." He can sense your smile even though he can't see it. It's in the way your breathing deepens. "I know I can be a lot to deal with."
"Who told you that?"
"What?"
Eddie doubles down.. "Who told you that?" he sounds heartbroken.
He kind of is. Yeah, you're weird — Who cares? Who isn't? — but you're not a lot to deal with. He doesn't 'deal' with you.
"Everybody tells me that. All the time."
"Everybody's stupid." To say it so loudly, scathingly, is sweet. It's therapeutic. "They are. This whole town is stupid."
Your fingertips touch his thigh. He's willing you to turn the torch up and see his face, because he has a lot of feelings on display that he isn't brave enough to say out loud.
"You never make me feel stupid," you say softly.
"You're not."
You giggle breathily at his vehemence, fingertips pressing in with a touch more pressure before you pull away and shine the torch deep into the trees.
"This whole town is stupid," you mumble. "But not you."
He thinks of his friends who are definitely stupid, but he loves anyways. He's about to add them to the not-stupid (subjectively) list when he remembers Steve's discovery: your earring burning a hole in his pocket. He'd been carrying it for long enough now to forget all about it.
"Hey, I have something for you."
"You do?"
"Don't get too excited. It's not a gift."
He digs in his pocket for the tissue paper wrapping and hisses in shock as the silver plating of your hoop graces his index finger. You shine the torch at him. His eyes ache like he's been stabbed and he slams them closed, hand pulled to his chest.
How embarrassing.
"Eddie, what happened?" you question loudly.
He winces at the sudden overstimulation. Slowly, he blinks, and finds you staring at him in a worry that softens every feature, even your nose. He doesn't know the logistics.
"It's okay. Stabbed a paper cut on the back. Your earring's in my pocket, the heart?"
"The hoop? I thought I lost it." Your worry turns to confusion and then melds into joy. You step forward and fish in his jacket pocket for your earring.
"Steve found it."
"'The hair'?"
"Yeah, the hair."
You both laugh and yours heightens when you find the earring, pulling it out like a knife to be brandished. "Yes."
"I meant to tell you a dozen times that I had it."
"You're the best."
There's a crunch of wood somewhere to the left like something heavy falling over.
The forest sprawls in every direction and the trees tower, their presence looming as skyscrapers. The wind ruffles the topmost branches and their trunks groan with pressure. It's enough to freak Eddie out super sense or not, feeling suddenly like he couldn't protect you. He could hear the individual droplets of drool dripping from a lynx's bloody maw, and he can sense each twig underfoot before he takes his next step, but none of that is going to keep you safe in the face of real danger.
"Maybe we should head back," he says tentatively.
"Okay. Do you want to come over?"
His breath catches. "You want me to?"
"Yeah, we can watch movies, I have leftover pasta."
That sounds more like what he should've been thinking. "I don't wanna keep you up."
"What kind of pasta?" he asks.
The torch flickers. "With the tiny tomatoes. You'll like it, super creamy."
"How do you know?"
"You like Alfredo," you say astutely, hitting the torch into the palm of your hand. It flashes weakly, the shadow of the trees flickering and so dark they're violet.
"Try tightening the handle."
You turn the barrel of the torch and the light switches off completely. You try to undo what you've done to no success, the sound of plastic rubbing plastic almost as loud as your heartbeat. Your pulse falters and then grows to racing when the light fails to come back on.
"Eddie," you say, sounding unsure. It's a new sound on you. "I don't know where we are. How are we gonna get home?"
Your admission is like a dousing of ice water over his head. "You don't know what direction we came from?"
"No, do you?"
Eddie wouldn't know if he couldn't hear the sound of the electricity pylon buzzing somewhere to the right. But how can he explain that? "Uh, we were turned around."
You creep to his side and grab his arm with both hands. "Are you sure?"
"Hey," he says gently. "Hey, it's okay. I know where we are. We'll be fine."
"Are you sure?" you ask again.
"I'm positive."
You take a deep breath that doesn't erase your shakiness, a failed attempt at self-soothing. "I really don't know where we are."
"You're not afraid of the dark, are you?"
"Not really… I don't wanna get lost out here."
"You won't. I know how to get back. C'mon," he prompts, pulling his arm to encourage you forward.
You let go of him and navigate a few steps by yourself. He weaves through the trees, waiting for your heartbeat to slow.
It doesn't. He opens his mouth to reassure you again when you gasp, kicking your foot against a root and tripping. You barely fall, catching yourself on the trunk of a tree, and Eddie remembers himself. You can't see the trees. That's why you're worried. You can't see anything.
Then the smell of blood hits him like a freight train.
—
Your hand stings where you caught yourself, palm scraped down against harsh bark.
"Shit," you mumble.
You're panicking badly, and you're confused as to why Eddie isn't. Not only was it fucking stupid of you to come out here with only one torch, it was stupid of you to assume you'd remember what way was home. It was stupid of you to come here tonight for that stupid beetle, and stupid of you to drag Eddie along. You're an idiot, and now you're bleeding.
Your eyes sting with tears, pain like a popped seal. I'm so stupid.
"Hey," Eddie says, his tone silky soft, "you're okay. Let me help you up."
You hold your hands out.
"Eddie, this is weird." Hopefully he understands that weird means scary.
He takes your hands, fingers closing slowly over your bloody palm. His breath is loud as he pulls you up toward him like he's panicked but his grip stays kind, and you abandon the notion when he rubs over your knuckles with his thumb. "It's alright."
He doesn't sound the same.
"Eddie, we can't see."
"We'll go slowly, okay? I'll put my hand out and we'll walk around anything that gets in the way."
"Yeah," you say hurriedly, heart bump-bump-bumping against your ribcage.
He keeps one hand, the injured one, and starts to drag you slowly through the trees. His grip tightens as you go until it starts to ache, until it feels like it might bruise.
"Ouch, Eds. You're hurting me," you say, going for a lightly teasing tone and missing the mark.
Instantly, he eases off. "Sorry, sweetheart. You hold onto me, alright?"
You do as he'd asked, hand clinging to him as he leads. He doesn't squeeze you again, walking slowly as he'd promised, and the closer you get to the edge of the forest the clearer it becomes. Light pollution from the centre of town leaches through the trees like water trickling from an overflowing basin.
His second hand is in his pocket.
"Here," he says after you've traversed to the very edge of the forest. "There's the park. We're bona fide explorers."
He looks out toward the park and you look at the side of his face. Something isn't right. Something uncanny.
You drop your gaze from his face to your joined hands. They come apart, blood smeared in both your palms like two halves of a dripping heart.
—
There is something weird about Eddie. As a residential freak of Hawkins you think you're an authority in this, and you don't feel guilty for judging him. Your brain can't stop going over your night in the forest. For days you play the scenes back and for days you lose the details. You forget how the wind had tousled his hair, how he'd smelled, what he'd said.
You remember the way he'd squeezed your bloody hand. You remember the way he'd spoken, strained.
Not strained like he didn't want to comfort you, he had, but strained.
Restrained.
You're poking at the shallow cut half-healed now in your palm at work when a dude walks in, very tall, handsome, and gunning straight for you.
You straighten your badge and hide your bracelet heavy wrists behind your back, receding slightly as he approaches. He slows in front of you.
You have a light bulb moment.
"The hair," you say.
He scowls. "He told you that, huh. Typical."
"You're Steve?"
"That's me." Steve crosses his arms across his chest, his back to a booth, your back to the diner bar. "You're Eddie's new friend."
"What counts as new?" A month and a half doesn't feel so new to you.
"Trust me, you're new."
He has the strangest patch covering the outside of his left wrist, the same peculiar scarring that you can see on Eddie's waist when he reaches for a glass out of the kitchen cabinet. You don't ask because you're not a dick no matter how curious you find yourself, but it makes your heart skip. What is that? You'd assumed Eddie's was road rash. Now you're not so sure.
He tucks it under his arm.
You meet his suspicious gaze.
"You want coffee?"
"No."
You kick your foot, shoe sliding over the shiny waxed floor with a squeal. "Is Eddie okay?"
"Did you want to come to a party next Friday?"
"No," you say honestly. "Like a cult?"
"What?"
"Are you initiating me into your cult?"
He finally smiles, eyes creased with amusement. "I'm inviting you to our club."
"Club where you chew on each other?"
You look pointedly at Steve's wrist.
"No. Club where we play board games and drink jiffy pop. Come or don't, doesn't matter."
"If it doesn't matter, why are you asking me?"
It's a strangely intense conversation to have this early in the morning. Patrons chatter about work, coffee gets poured. The diner smells of syrup and sugar and bitter cold-press. You're both in work apparel, both refusing to move back. If this is some kind of shovel talk then that's fine, and if it's a test you're determined to pass, even if Eddie's been super weird lately.
"I'll come if you promise not to eat me," you say.
"It's really not that kind of club."
—
"I had the weirdest visit in the entire world today," you declare, stopping in front of Eddie's porch with a smile.
"Yeah?" he asks without looking up, guitar in his lap and pen scribbling over a lined notebook.
You wait for him to stop before you continue, leaning forward with both arms braced on the porch by his feet. "Steve Harrington came to see me, and he was super mean. You said he was nice."
He frowns at you. "I told you he was a dick."
"You like him when you tell me stories."
"How mean?" Eddie asks, patting the seat beside him.
You climb up onto the porch and plop down onto the couch, worn leather cold with the weather and damp in the seams.
You take a strand of his hair and curl it around your finger. "Not really super mean, but he was, like, acting like I killed a baby."
"He's like that."
You sigh and lean your cheek against the couch cushion, watching Eddie's stubble move as he tamps down a teasing smile. "He invited me to a party next weekr."
"It's not a party- Sweetheart, what are you doing?"
You tickle his cheek with the end of his hair. "Nothing."
"M'gonna sneeze."
You tickle him again, fine dark strands brushing over his pale cheek. He's a very ashen guy, you've found. Likely because he barely goes out in the sun and he doesn't eat enough. You draw circles around the apple of his cheek and grin softly at his growing smile, a sweet, silly thing.
"I'll tickle you back," he warns.
"Promise?"
He steals the curl back and tucks it behind his ear.
"You're not a cannibal, are you?"
Eddie chokes on air. You startle at his coughing and move to pat his back, palm slapping a steady rhythm into his shoulder. When he calms down you run your hand down the length of his arm, long sleeve t-shirt soft beneath your touch. You linger at his wrist and decide to hold it.
He drops his pen and your hand travels until he's caught your thumb. He kneads it in his fingers.
"I'm not a cannibal. Why would you think that?"
"I don't, but you and Steve are in your club, right?"
"Hellfire wasn't like that," he says heatedly.
"No, not- Not that one."
He doesn't say anything.
"You have… He has this scar, on his wrist. Like something bit him, or-" He turns to you and he looks formidable and upset and himself, not mad at you but raw emotion in his expression anyhow. It's gone as quick as it came.
"When all that… stuff happened," he begins quietly, "we got hurt. A couple of us."
You drop your head, ashamed at having pried. "I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me anything else."
"Don't be sorry…" He squeezes your hand and lets it go. "Don't worry about it."
"Okay."
"We usually call ourselves a party, these days. Not a club."
"Do you really play board games and drink jiffy pop?"
"Sometimes we get really crazy and order a pizza. You should come."
You realise as he says it how much his wanting you to go had mattered to you. Eddie's your friend, and you don't think that you're going to stay friends much longer.
"You think your friends will like me?" you ask, voice descending to a new kind of gentle.
He puts down his guitar and his notebook. His full attention is something you've come to really enjoy, not because of the hunger you often see flitting across his face — though that's neat —, but because of the inklings of adoration clinging to his smile when he looks at you. His blinking lashes. He smiles at you and just slows. A usually frenetic boy calmed.
"Maybe not Mike. Mike doesn't like anybody. Except for Will," he muses.
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Who do you like?"
"I like all of them." He juts his cheek toward his shoulder, conceding, " I think Dustin's my favourite. He's funny. He's funnier than I am, and he's the smartest kid I've ever met. And he knows it."
Your eyes focus on the pink outline of his upper lip as he speaks. It's a pleasure to be this close, and see him in this kind of crazy detail. When you go home tonight you might try to draw him. You'll probably forget.
It's the kind of smile that deserves to be immortalised.
"I really like your smile," you tell him, hoping it'll last a little longer.
It stretches. The pink outline turns white. "Shut up."
"I do. I've seen a thousand different smiles but I've never met someone who smiles like you do."
"How's that?" he asks, edging toward you, face a mirror in which you can see your own charmed expression.
"Like you," — you shake your head with your lips parted — "know a secret. Something you won't tell anybody."
His smile abruptly ends.
You've nothing if not a talent for saying the wrong thing.
"A good secret," you amend.
He picks up his acoustic and gives it an experimental strum. "Maybe one or two," he agrees.
Relief catches you. You nibble at the inside of your lip and watch his fingers work over the neck of his guitar, tipping your head so you can read the words he's markered over the body.
"This machine slays dragons," you murmur to yourself. "Yeah? How many?"
"Just the one."
"Save any princesses?"
"Not yet." He plucks at the strings, lost in thought, before turning to you with eyebrows raised. "Can you play?"
You exhale out of the corner of your mouth as he pushes the guitar into your lap, an arm coming around your shoulder, the other reaching to guide your curled forefinger to the strings. You turn to face him, watching him talk with a growing fondness.
"It's easy, I swear. We'll do Call Me. Blondie's basic, even a baby could play it."
He realises you aren't listening and raises his gaze, shiny brown irises stuck on your lips. This close, it would be worse if he didn't look at them.
You glance at his, an obvious thing, half a wish. If he only lifted his chin.
Your breath mingles.
"It's easy," he says again, a murmur of his usual volume as his gaze pulls back up to yours. "I'll show you."
You wonder if he can hear your heart pounding; it's deafening. You wait, and you wait, and you turn your eyes back to his guitar and clamp your fingers down against the struts so he can't see them shaking with adrenaline.
—
Eddie sits beside Steve and tries not to admit to himself that Steve Harrington is, horrifyingly, his best friend (along with the rest of the party, obviously). Steve is the closest in age and Eddie can't make excuses (though he tries and tries and tries), Steve understands how much Eddie doesn't ever want to talk about anything that's happened to them, so he talks about literally everything else instead.
"It was the weirdest pawn shop I've ever been in. They had, like, a wall of combi's playing the same video at the same time but all slightly delayed."
Eddie blinks.
Steve turns his head from the TV, having expected a response. "Did you say something?"
"No." Then, because he's not a dick. "Sorry, Harrington. Want me to sit on your other side?"
"What for?" Steve says. Not because he denies how he's hard of hearing, but because he denies having conversations with Eddie.
He does end up moving to Steve's other side with a pathetic excuse. "I can't see the TV."
Steve doesn't say a word until he's sat down again. "Sorry I was mean to your girlfriend."
"Yeah, what was that about?"
"I was cranky because it was early and I don't want her to damage the integrity of the party." He gives equal weight to both reasons.
Eddie snorts at him. "Since when do you care about the integrity of the party?" Steve barely acknowledges that they are a party. He thinks that's a very nerdy way to say friends.
"Since always, dipshit."
"And inviting her to join the party was the solution because…?"
Steve drinks the rest of his coke and pretends to really care about what's on TV. "If," he begins after a minute, refusing to look at Eddie, "something happens with her, and something happens to you, that damages the integrity of the party."
"Steve," Eddie says, jaw dropped down to his chest, "do you have a crush on me?"
"Oh my god," Steve mutters. "Oh my god," he says louder. "I can't stand you."
To prove his point, he gets up from the couch with a wrinkled nose, stops to tap his shoe gently against Max's where she's sitting in the armchair across from the coffee table, and disappears into his kitchen.
Steve Harrington cares about me enough to give Y/N the shovel talk.
He feels kind of great about it.
But he's not sure your the one who needs warning.
That night in the forest, Eddie had almost snapped. There are rules to follow if he wants to keep people safe, self-imposed, Hopper-imposed, and he's broken too many with you already, the most important being no close proximity when he's hungry. Eddie doesn't even realise he is hungry half the time. He'll be standing by you and he'll want to touch you, and suddenly it's like he's three weeks in to the month without sating.
He thinks about kissing you and suddenly he's thinking about biting you, and hurting you, and it's literally tearing him up from the inside out.
How can he want to do that to you?
"You look so depressed and pathetic," Dustin says out of the blue.
Eddie pouts and falls back into the couch, Steve's fancy throw falling onto his shoulder. "I used to like you," he says, taking in Dustin's outfit with a kind of parental approval. He's getting older and it shows, slightly more handsome than he had been — he's kept all his baby weight and it suits him, his full cheeks surrounded by the softest brown curls Eddie has ever seen. The outfit stays immature, a funny t-shirt and ill-fitting pants.
"Sad. You have a sad face," Dustin says.
"Go play with your nerd squad, please."
He doesn't listen, collapsing in Steve's still-warm seat like a cheap tent and crossing longer, thicker arms over his chest. He smiles at Eddie genuinely. "Where's your girlfriend?"
"No."
"Where's Y/N?"
Eddie tips his head so he can see past the coffee table and points to where you're almost hidden, sitting with Robin on the floor by Steve's sideboard. You have a basket of tapes in front of you, the two of you trying to choose what's going in the stereo. Eddie prays for anything but Blondie.
You will most likely choose Blondie.
"What does she like?" Dustin asks curiously.
"Everything, kind of. Why?"
"I wanna know what to say when I talk to her."
Eddie smiles at his friend's face, a soft, surprised thing. "I don't know if she knows anything about the radio but if you're happy about it she'll be happy too. She's a good listener."
Dustin picks at a piece of lint on his t-shirt bearing a white and black print of a dog wearing sunglasses. "So you talk to her?" he asks without looking up.
"I mean, yeah. What else do you do?"
"With a girl that likes you? Huh, let me think." Dustin laughs and ruins his own sarcasm, pointer finger laid against his chin in a show of thoughtfulness.
"It's not like that," Eddie says lightly.
"It could be."
"Could it? I mean… I don't even know if she'll stick around. And I feel bad 'cos I can't be honest with her."
"Why not?"
"Hopper said he would literally put me in the hole if I even thought about it." There's no need to expand. Dustin would know better than anyone what he's talking about.
He cringes at the thought, self hatred a hot poker down his throat. He must've said it to Dustin a hundred times when he finally came around from his coma (that wasn't a coma, but a death, and then a rebirth). I can't believe I put you through that. I can't believe I put you through that. I'm so sorry.
I'm just glad you're alive, Eddie.
And for a while, Eddie hadn't felt the same. The world he'd woken up to was hard. There had been lawyers and grief and guilt and becoming. He doesn't have the words to describe how it feels to become something new, something that needs to hurt people to live, something that will hurt people to live, whether Eddie wants to or not.
The loss of choice is suffocating.
Though moments like this with his friends– they don't make it 'worth it', they're just how it had to happen. There isn't a scenario where Eddie could give up. He can't leave Wayne, and he can't leave Dustin. He can live with the grief of what he is if it means other people don't have to live with grief of what he isn't.
"Eddie, are you okay?"
He's missed something. Dustin isn't the only one looking at him.
He curls a hand around his forearm subconsciously. "I'm fine. I think I'm gonna go to the bathroom, actually. Gotta piss real bad."
"Eddie-"
"I'm fine, Henderson." He puts on a good show, patting Dustin's arm. His heart, usually so slow these days, has enough life in it to ache.
He can't have been in the bathroom for five minutes when somebody knocks on the door aggressively. He's expecting Steve, pissed at his disappearance and likely preparing a speech on attention seeking behaviours and how they're hurting the youth of America, so he opens the door with a tired glare.
He finds you, beaming and pretty, dressed ridiculously nicely for his idiot friends.
"Hi," you say. He can hear something from Blondie's Parallel Lines playing from the living room, familiar because it's your favourite album. "Any room for me?"
Eddie moves back. You close the door behind you. The bathroom becomes a vacuum of your sounds and smells.
"They didn't have any Dio," you say with a smile.
"I honestly wouldn't expect any different."
"You could've brought some tapes, your mix from the van," you suggest. "I love that one."
"Which one?" he asks, and he can't help it, whenever he's with you his voice crops to a dulcet murmur. The urge to speak to you as you speak to him is unconquerable.
"One with the winking smile on the slipcase. I really like it."
"You can have it."
You lean against the sink. "I can?"
"Mm. Whatever you want." Especially when you look like this.
You smile at him, your 'thank you' smile, all sticky fondness and mischievousness. He has no idea what you're thinking.
"'S a small bathroom in a huge house," you marvel. Your voice echoes "Where does he shower?"
"There's an upstairs bathroom."
"Two bathrooms? That's-"
"Audacious?"
"I was gonna say overkill."
Your candidness has him shaking with laughter. He clutches at his sides, arms crossed and leaning forward. You visibly take in his appearance, eyes panning slowly over his clean hair. He'd taken care to look like somebody you might want to look at tonight.
"Why don't you sit down, Eds?" you ask, eyes creased with an unreadable emotion.
Eddie feels blindly for the toilet lid and pushes it down so he can do as you ask, wondering why you're asking.
"You look very handsome today."
He hugs himself. "As opposed to every other day, when I don't?"
You take a step forward, a second, hands playing with the hem of your shirt. Your outfit today is delightfully simple, a pressed black t-shirt long enough to cover the waistband of your pleated skirt. There's an expanse of thigh that makes his heart beat spin out, one longer than the other where your thigh-high is falling down.
He wants to pull it up.
"C'mere," he says.
You take that last step between his shoes and he reaches out, getting his fingertips under the elastic of your sock and tugging it upward over the soft fat of your leg. Your hands come up to his shoulders for balance, and you say, "No, you look handsome every day. Today you look very handsome. I made the distinction."
He covers your thigh with both hands, looking up into your face as you look down. "You look really pretty today," he says boldly, fingers spreading behind your knee.
"Thank you. Do you like my t-shirt?"
It's a screen print of Debbie Harry. Eddie tries not to roll his eyes. "I love it, but your dedication to Blondie is seriously worrying, sweetheart." He gives your leg a short squeeze and pulls the most giggly smile out of you yet.
"Like Madonna."
"No!" he bemoans.
You laugh and grow closer, arms on his shoulder, a hand threaded into his hair. "Cyndi Lauper?" you suggest.
He puts a hand on your waist as you move in for a hug. Your arms wrap around his neck and the tops of his shoulders, cheek crushed to the top of his head.
He'd ask if you were okay if he thought you weren't. You're not upset or seeking comfort. You're affectionate. You've been getting more and more touchy for weeks, as he has. Stolen touches, your almost-kiss on the porch last week.
"No, not Cyndi Lauper," he says, his hand skirting around your back to pull you in properly.
"R.E.M?"
"God, no. Where are you hearing all this junk?"
"The radio."
"Tuned into the wrong station."
You pet the back of his head. "Yeah," you say softly, "I think I was."
The hug is shorter than Eddie wants it to be. You make one of your happy sounds and pull away to get your hands on his face, stroking curls from his cheeks with a protective touch. "Handsome," you say, turning your hand to stroke his cheek with your knuckles. "Pretty. You have really big eyes, Eddie, so brown, and so…" You tilt your head to one side, face inching forward.
He turns his face to suit, to fit, breath held as you close the gap.
"So pretty," you murmur, and kiss him.
His hands are limp and then alive, one clutching your hip, one splaying against your chest. He can hear the thud of your heart clear as day — you're bumping with excitement as you kiss him. It's a delicate, tender thing, the party suddenly far away, the music drowned by the sounds of your breathing. You kiss as you talk, as you move, gentle but with bursts of ardency. Your lips are a blissful heat, the tip of your nose smushing into his as you part your lips over his.
He lifts his chin higher, his neck craned to receive you. He's savouring every movement. Each pause for breath that you take. The feeling of your inhales over his quick-bruising lips.
Your hands play in his hair so sweetly it makes his eyes burn with an embarrassing amount of emotion. He screws them closed and squeezes up your waist, steadying himself as you feel along his bottom lip with the tip of your tongue.
You don't get much further than that, seemingly pleased with your own brazeness or perhaps his touch, eyes glowing with mirth as you pull away.
"Sorry," you breathe, not sorry at all. "You just really looked like someone should be kissing you."
You're flushed. Eddie can practically see the heat emanating off of your cheeks. He can feel it.
He stands up, your pulse a ringing in his ears. The wet valves of your heart opening and closing.
"Eddie?" you ask quietly, lifting your head to meet his eyes as he walks you back into the door.
His gums sting. A click.
It's a compulsion.
His hands curl around your elbows, holding you in place. Your eyes are wide with confusion, your lightly swollen lips parted. He can see the tiniest slip of your pink tongue.
He holds your gaze as he leans in. Your eyelids flutter closed. You wrap your arms around him as he descends, totally trusting.
He's a meaner kiss than you are. He starts slow but swiftly loses a handle on it, kisses short but insistent, hot presses like little crescent moons against your barely open mouth.
His hands move up your arms, a near vice-like grip until he finds your sleeves. His fingers slip underneath, hands hungry for your warmth.
You make the worst sound anyone has ever made as he moves back, like something has been ripped from you. A gutted gasp, near silent.
He placates as he wades back in. Thumbs rubbing your arms, lips mouthing damp kisses down your face. The corner of your pout, the hill of your chin, the skin under your jaw. Your head tips back against the door with an audible thud. You exhale hard.
Eddie can't feel his hands.
Your pulse hammers under his lips. He kisses it once. He can't think. He can't breathe.
"You're always cold," you whisper, your hands drifting lazily under the fabric of his t-shirt. Your fingertips trail up his spine. "But your lips are warm."
He kisses your neck, his lips parting slowly, a hair's width a second as he sucks your skin into his mouth gently. It's barely a kiss. He does it a second time. A third. You start to laugh, a golden sound.
The point of his fangs touch your skin and you stop.
Eddie closes his mouth abruptly. His hand leaps to your neck and he feels your heart skip as he holds you still. "I'm sorry," he says, nose rubbing over the damp spot he's left behind, your teased skin.
Your heart hikes again.
"I'm sorry," he repeats. He pulls away, an agony.
"It's okay," you say. Your breathlessness says otherwise.
Eddie takes as many deep breaths as he can stand, wanting to clear his head and filling it with you instead. Your everything; your smell, your skin. Your limp hands against his back.
"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asks when he gets a look at you, your unreadable expression. He takes care to keep his head angled down so you can't see the lower half of his face.
"I don't think you could."
You cup his cheek in your hand and he leans into it, his weight against yours.
"I wanted to tell you something," you confess.
"What-" He licks his lips, wincing when his fangs slide into his tongue and scrape grooves across his taste buds. "What was that?"
"I know you…" You pause, fingertips rubbing at his cheek.
Does she know? Eddie thinks, horrified. He hadn't realised how scary waiting could be. A thousand worries condensed into a handful of seconds. Does she know?
How could she not?
You press your palm to his cheek with more insistence. "I don't want you to think you have to hide anything from me. I know you have scars," you say, fingers sliding into the soft baby hair at the back of his neck. "You don't have to cover up. You don't have to cover any of it."
"I won't hurt you," he says, trying to convince himself.
"I know."
-
You stay a while longer. Eddie's friends pretend that you hadn't been alone in the bathroom for an inordinate amount of time together. You thank them all silently and less so, trying to talk to as many of them as you can.
There's Lucas, who's really, really nice, and his girlfriend Max, who's less so. She gives you an unimpressed look through her thick-lensed glasses, but you compliment her crutches and she comes around.
There's Mike, who actually isn't anywhere as bad as Eddie had described him. He's not frosty or standoffish, he's sweet and he asks questions. There's a girl with him that you don't catch the name of, and a boy on her other side.
There's Dustin, who you adore immediately, Robin, who you adore more, and then there's Steve.
Steve offers you a pretzel like you're more than familiar. He strolls right up to you with a bowl of them in hand and doesn't leave until you've eaten half of them.
There's a couple of people you don't manage to talk to at all, and you feel guilty about it all the way home.
"What if they think I'm rude?" you ask, tired eyes locking onto the stereo system. The time blinks analog in the dark, 12:59AM.
"They don't, don't worry about it. You have lots of time to get to know them, anyway."
You hum and turn to his face, indulgent because you know he can't look back. "You're not too tired to drive, are you?" He's spent. Yesterday had been one of his bad days.
"I'm fine."
"You say that all the time," you observe, dropping your cheek into the passenger seat's headrest.
"I'm fine all the time."
"Liar."
"Nuisance."
You huff a laugh through your nose. The strands of his friendship bracelet, the small beads at the ends, swing like pendulums in the gap between his arm and the steering wheel. You can see the rough skin of a scar creeping out from under his sleeve.
"Mike was really nice," you say.
"He has a bleeding heart."
That feels accurate. "He reminds me of you."
Eddie rolls his eyes. You feel for every detail, the strange tension between you like a gaussian filter over everything. He's gorgeous in a horrific way, heartbreakingly pale, eyes dark as pitch, hands restless. They squeeze alone the wheel, thick fingers curling tight until his knuckles are stark white. Running down the back of his hands are veins like rivers. They're more purple than green.
"Eddie," you say, playful, a tiny bit insecure.
"What?"
"Wanna stay the night?"
His hand moves forward on the wheel like he's revving a motorcycle, the tendon in his wrist rising to the surface. He clenches. "Not sure it's a good idea."
"Just to sleep. It's late."
"I don't know if I can sleep next to you."
You don't wanna say please. You don't want to ask Eddie to do anything he can't or doesn't wanna do.
He pulls up outside of your house with his mind already made up. He gets out of the car and you follow his lead. He locks it, shoves the keys in his pocket as you join him on the path up to your porch.
He's been in here enough times to know what it looks like, but for some reason you find yourself checking his face, worried about what it is he thinks of your things, all your mismatched trinkets, your stained glass lamps, your life as you let yourselves in. He ducks through the beeded curtain into your bedroom wary that they'll get tangled in his hair like they sometimes do.
"Do you wanna call Wayne?" you ask, gesturing to your telephone on the right hand side, nestled between a stack of books and a cup full of coloured pencils.
You pull your knee up to your chest and unlace your shoes one at a time. Eddie punches the number into the phone and holds the receiver to his shoulder to do as you're doing. It takes him less time to pop his sneakers off than for you to get out of yours. He's just taken the phone back into his hand when Wayne picks up.
"Wayne?" he asks softly. "Didn't wake you up, did I?"
You can't hear his response.
"I'm gonna stay with Y/N tonight. Yeah, we had a good time. Yeah…" His eyes drift to you as you peel out of your thigh highs.
"Yeah, I'm still here. What?" He meets your eyes and it feels accidental, because he throws his eyes to your bedsheets and turns his face to the wall. "No," he says firmly.
You scrape together something to wear for bed and some fresh underwear and leave for the bathroom, telling yourself that nothing is gonna happen so don't get your hopes up but not wanting to get caught out if it does. You freshen up, brushing your teeth and washing your face.
You stare at yourself in the mirror and wonder if you should've left your face-powder and your mascara on. Maybe even the skirt. You'd looked nice and pretty for the party. Now you look like yourself, still pretty but without those extra touches. Will he care? Does it matter?
You debate your pyjama pants considerably.
There's a lot happening.
Eddie is… Eddie is something else. He's different, you'd known that for a long time, and his kiss had confirmed it.
He's something out of a science fiction book.
Well, nobody's perfect.
Whatever he is, he'd kissed you. You'd kissed him and he'd responded, he'd come back for more, and now he's sitting in your bed when he could've gone home. You bring your hand to your neck and crane to one side, fingertips poking at your unbroken skin. His hickey's haven't even bruised.
You screw the pants up and drop them into your laundry basket. You take off every piece of jewellery on your person.
"Do you wanna use the bathroom?" you ask from behind the beaded curtain. "I left a new toothbrush for you on the sink."
"Yeah, desperately, I…" He takes you in as you emerge. Fresh-faced, bare-legged. As naked as you've ever been in front of him, physically and otherwise.
Eddie meets you where you're standing. He's ditched his jacket, and for the first time since you met him you can see the full length of his arms.
"You're not wearing your bracelets," he says, looking between your bodies. His hand twitches toward yours.
"You have tattoos," you say.
"They were better, before."
There's a misshapen mess of black splodges near the crook of his elbow broken up by scar tissue. One arm is less scarred than the other, an almost perfect flank of white skin.
"Is that a puppet? He's super spooky."
"Mh-hm."
You bring your hand to his tattoo and feel over the skin. It doesn't feel like it's there. Eddie holds your wrist and the two of you move together, your fingertips stroking up until you're wrapped around his bicep.
Eddie brings his free hand to your collar. His index finger straightens, encouraging your chin up so he can ease forward and kiss you. He's firm, eager, and your lips curl up into a smile underneath it. He turns his head to the right and you fall left, smile worsened when you feel his own start to form.
He nudges your nose. You take it for a telling off and laugh. "Sorry," you apologise, kissing his top lip.
"You're making this difficult," he chides.
Despite any sternness, Eddie loosens his grip on your wrists to slide his fingers between yours, pressing your joined hands to your chest. He leans back down and he's careful, almost methodical in the way he kisses. Chaste pecks, hot and precious as tiny stars.
You reach for his waist.
Eddie kisses you a final time and steps back. "I'll be back," he promises.
You lower your chin, flustered and perplexed by his sudden departure.
Walking around to the right side of the bed, you click on your bedside lamp — a beautiful glass and foiled contraption that throws dainty stripes of stars and hearts over everything close in the dark — before climbing in. You sniff one of your pillows experimentally, trying to remember when you last changed the bed. You decide they're acceptable even if they really smell like your hair oil and flip them around to be safe, plumping them up with your hands.
You've curled up on your side and almost succumb to your fatigue when Eddie returns, bringing with him the smell of spearmint and a fuzzy feeling in your stomach as he shuts off the light and sits on the opposite side of the bed, facing you. The hair around his face is damp with water, baby hair's limp.
"I'm sorry I don't have anything for you to wear, I-" Youre cut off by your own gasp as Eddie kisses you, his hand on your neck, his nose bridge sliding into your own. You hadn't been expecting it, and it's no less dizzying than any other kiss he's given you today.
"It's okay," he murmurs lowly, lips pressed to your lips, "have to wear you, is all."
You huff a laugh into his mouth. "I swear I'm always laughing when I'm with you," you muse as Eddie dedicates himself to your bottom lip. You cup the back of his head. "You're amazing."
Eddie groans and eases back. "I'm not good with words, sweetheart. To tell you how I feel about you."
You push one of your legs toward his knee. "...You can show me."
He shifts in the bed until he can lean over the entirety of your chest, hands cupping your face and lips poised hovering over your own, a millimetre of space between your mouth and his. "Okay," he says quietly.
He dips down. You can feel his bottom lip tremble, and then he's kissing you too hard to feel it anymore. You wrap loose arms around his back.
"Are you sure?" you whisper to him.
He rests his nose against your cheek, eyes closed, drawing the tiniest left to right. "I want you," he reassures.
"And you're okay?"
"Yeah, sweetheart. I'm okay. Do you want to?"
"Yeah. More than anything."
Another loving kiss against your cheek, Eddie moves down, down, down. "Tell me if I do something you don't like," he murmurs, top lip dragging and leaving a line of dampness to the base of your throat.
He adorns the canvas of your neck in half-moon contusions, big hands caressing your shoulders, your chest. You hold your breath as his fingers pass over your nipple, fighting to keep in any embarrassing sounds.
Eddie disagrees with his plan of action. You shiver as he brings his lips to a close and his bottom teeth scrape upward, as he pulls his head up and says, "C'mon, angel, breathe."
He follows his command with a manipulative touch, a circle over your nipple that makes you shudder. He kisses you and it feels like a thank you, pressure, a heat as his palm smooths over the bump of your tummy to your thighs. He squeezes the outside of one and for a while you can kiss him back, and then he pulls your thighs apart and you break away. Eddie follows, kisses you even when your reciprocation is weak.
He pushes your thigh flat to the bed.
You feel the heat of your excitement start to grow. Your stomach aches with the want to be touched.
"You're like a space heater, you're that warm," Eddie says, hand coasting down the inside of your thigh. He squeezes until fat melds under his fingers. "Are you scared?"
His whispering in your ear, his hand as close as it is to where you want it, it winds you up like a coil. You sigh as his thumb strokes the edge of your panties, sound coloured by an awful, devouring desire.
His face presses further into yours in reaction.
His touch is like the tide. He wades in, away. His thumb strokes inward over something soft and then his whole hand moves back to your thigh.
"Teasing," you utter.
"A little… Why, is there something you want me to do?"
His clueless whispering is infuriating and exciting at the same time. Your heart races and you can't discern if it's more lust or love.
"Touch me," you plead, pouting, knowing he's a pushover.
Anticipation stabs like a needle in your tummy as he slides his palm over your cunt completely. He rubs a careful, almost casual rhythm into your panties with the breadth of his fingers, lips kissing a lazy stripe up to your forehead, where he rests his face. You both watch his hand move past the valley of your rising chest.
"M'gonna pull these off, yeah?" He sits up, fingers pushing under the sides. "Lift your- yeah, thank you, sweetheart."
You buzz with his pet names, his soft voice, the feeling of your panties sliding up to your knees and his gentle exhale. You swear you can feel it fan over your slit. "Shit…" he moan, pulling at your spread cunt.
He looks like he's in pain, eyebrows pinched together and murmuring curses as he circles the wetness gathered at your entrance. You turn your head searchingly as he starts to ease his index finger inside your heat, a gentle probing.
One becomes two. He muffles your sighing with firm kisses, amorous praises, "That's it, baby, relax," as he works you open, fingers wet with slickness but not enough. He changes his position, pushing his middle and marriage finger inside and curving as his thumb slides up your slit looking for the bead of your clit.
Slow, slow circles. "There, huh?"
You shiver as he pushes in deeper, fingers as far as they can go. He spreads them wide, drops reassuring kisses all over your face when you keen. It's so new to have him kiss you at all, and to have him touching you — you're melting into nothing right there in his hold.
"I got you. Tell me if it hurts, okay?"
"Want you to- I want you to fuck me," you murmur, arms wrapping around him so you can hide your face in his neck.
"Fuck. Fuck, baby. Gonna fuck you just as soon as I can fit," he murmurs back, sinking three of his thick fingers into your snug cunt. He pulls wetness out with every thrust, a line of slick dribbling down onto the sheets underneath. He wipes it upward and pushes it back inside, his chest heaving. "Y'so tight, gotta take my time. Take our time." He rubs his nose against your head until he can kiss the highest point of your cheek. "Make sure you can take it."
"I can."
It doesn't bear repeating how quietly you're speaking, a mouthing inaudible under the wet, rhythmic thud of Eddie's pinky finger slapping your sticky cunt as he ups the pace of his finger-fucking.
"I don't think so," he coos, pulling his fingers from your cunt and making a show of spreading them wide. Your slick ribbons between them, almost invisible in the dark. "Ruin your sheets before any of that, maybe."
Eddie sits up and gets his hands under your armpits. You laugh as he tugs you up so your shoulders are on top of the pillows, but you don't have time to be confused. He quickly moves to kneel at your feet and pulls your leg over his shoulder, your back lifting unevenly from the sheets.
He starts with a sweet kiss pressed to the skin closest to his mouth, your lower thigh, and then works his way up, open mouthed, barely kisses at all until his hair whispers against your sensitive cunt and he's nipping at the stripe of skin between your thigh and the place where you most want his attention.
"Pretty," he says into your damp skin, lips shining. You reach down to stroke his hair behind his ears, worried he's gonna get it dirty.
He looks at you from between your thighs, his eyes dark in the dim light, their lashes long and soft where the outermost flutter into your skin. He's lovely.
He holds your gaze as he pulls back to your inner thigh. "Pretty everywhere," he says salaciously.
His lips part over your skin and you think he might bite you, a bruising hickey, but he pushes you down flat to the bed by your hips and kisses your clit, a simple kiss. Your fingers weave deeper into his hair. Your fingernails scratch lightly against his scalp, every tiny lick or kiss reflected in the minute tightening of your hands.
He goes slow, mouths down, kisses wetter and wetter as he reaches your entrance. "Poor girl," he murmurs, hands pulled down to further scandalise. He sinks two fingers inside and laughs into your cunt. You squirm.
"What happened? You're dripping on my fingers." Your thighs draw closed around his head as he curls his fingers against a soft spot.
"Eddie, can you-" You swallow. "Please. Please."
He pries your thighs open and rubs them soothingly, lapping at the heat of your cunt in face of your pleading. His tongue appears broad and flat up the centre of you until he's kissing on your clit, fingers pumping in rhythm. Your fingers work into his hair and he groans, the vibration enough to make you whimper under his mouth.
He laps at your clit messily and you tip your head back, breath coming in tight pants. You don't know what you say, only how you say it, desperate "please,"s and keening "Eddie,"s.
His thrusts grow in enthusiasm, fingers rubbing eagerly against something sweet. You pull your legs up and nudge his face to your cunt insistently, thigh shaking as you hold it up. Eddie doesn't need any more encouragement, his pretty pink lips suckling at your clit until you see stars. You make a pained little sound and try to move away from his kissing, startled at the intensity of your high.
Eddie lets your clit pop out of his mouth with a lewd, slick sound, his hands moving under your thighs and pulling you closer. "Good girl," he says, rubbing his wet face against the inside of your thigh. He inhales hard as you are, though he pauses to kiss your kneecap and pat your leg. "Good girl, sweetheart."
"I'm sorry," you say breathlessly, hands pulling his hair from his face. Pleasure rolls through you in hot waves.
"For what?"
"Tugging on your hair," you explain, shoulder pulled up to your cheek.
Eddie kisses your tummy lovingly and climbs on top of you to do the same just under your chin. "It’s okay, sweetheart, I like that shit. That was good, huh?" he asks, lips dropping down to yours all wet and warm.
He's not bragging, he's genuinely asking.
You nod into his kiss, your hands coming up to his sides. You swear your ears perk up as he unzips his jeans and eases them down, a hand disappearing into the mess of fabric. He moans quietly at the first touch.
You move his hair out of the way to watch. Eddie tugs at the length of his cock with a cruel hand, a short dribble of pearly precum sobbing down the tip and under his fingers. He spreads it as it goes, the slickness emphasising the ridges and veins of his cock. You can see it throb, if you look close enough.
He sits back and eases his jeans and boxers down enough to reveal a thatch of curls that brush his hand with every pump downward.
"You okay?" he asks, smirking.
You pull your shirt over your head and your chest warms at his adoring smile. "Will you take off yours?"
He doesn't hesitate like you worried he might. He sheds his t-shirt, pulling the fabric over the back of his head and dumping it off the side of the bed.
You take in his chest and it's abundance of ragged scarring still purpled with newness. He has a tattoo over his heart, a black whorl of legs and eyes. Fine dark hair crawls from the middle of his chest down his navel, joining with the thatch of coiled hair surrounding his aching cock. You shuffle forward and wait with two tentative hands held aloft until he says, "It's okay," before you touch him. You run your hands down the soft slopes of his waist.
"Does it hurt?"
"Not anymore."
"Can I kiss it?"
He snorts. "Prefer you kiss something else."
That really makes you laugh. You dot a kiss against his jaw and can't make yourself stop, dropping them all the way to the skin behind his ear. Your hand creeps lower as you go, held to the curve of his tummy. His skin is hot to touch the lower you go, and his stomach feels solid, a heaviness you know all too well.
"Can I touch you?" you whisper into his ear.
"Please."
You drop your forehead against his chest and he brings his hand up to cup the back of your head. His cock pulses as you wrap your hand around it, skin smooth and slick as you palm slowly up and down. You watch in awe as a bead of precum wells at the tip, Eddie's rough breathing loud overhead.
"Lie down, Y/N," he says, hand moving behind your naked shoulders.
"What way?"
"How do you want it, sweetheart? We'll do it whatever way you want."
You think about it. Whatever way you want. No matter how indulgent, you know he means it.
"Will you spoon me?"
He pushes you gently and follows behind, dragging your body into his front and angling your hips, cock hot and prodding your back. He gets his hand under your knee and pulls it up, splaying your cunt. You jump in surprise as he pushes his cock through your folds, tip rubbing against the still sensitive bead of your clit.
Eddie wraps his arms around you, hugging you from behind. "You wanna put it in for me, baby?"
You reach between your bodies and take his sticky cock into your hand, shifting until the head nudges against your hole. He sinks in inch by inch, arms tightening around your waist and grinding you down onto his cock until you're whimpering.
You grab at his arms with your hands and tether yourself to him as he starts to rock his hips, his thrusting tender and his face turned into your neck.
He presses his hand flat to your abdomen, an anchoring point as he moulds your weepy cunt around his length, each slovenly movement into your heat spreading you that little bit wider.
"Fuck," he says finally, sounding seconds from a black out. "Oh, fuck- You're tight. Gonna fuck you open slow, okay?"
You're pretty sure you'd let him do just about anything. You bring his hand to your mouth and kiss every white knuckle, every freckle you can see on the back, and when he bottoms out your cover your lips with his stolen hand to smother a tearful gasp.
Eddie's thrusts are spearing in their steady rhythm, a dirty slap ringing with every punching thrust forward. You curl in on yourself and hide your mouth in the sheets, wet pants smothered by fabric. Eddie's grip falls to your hip, where he pulls your body back and forces your cunt open even deeper.
His cock pushes into your sweet spot sudden and emphatic. You moan and he stills, rutting into that same space without pulling out until you're babbling his name, body knocked forward with every thrust.
Eddie turns your face toward him as much as he can without hurting your neck, your moans echoing in time with each thrust. "There you go," he says, "wanna hear how good it feels."
If he cares that you can't answer him he doesn't show it, arm coming up under you arm to grasp at your chest, your breaststroke soft and aching under his hand as he squeezes tenderly. His cock kisses at the sweet spot inside you intermittently; you're dizzy with it.
Eddie can't keep quiet either, his moans breathy, his breath hissing between his teeth when you clamp down around him. "Fuck," he begs, dragging his cock out of your heat, "fuck, Y/N."
He says your name like the syllables alone are appraising.
You can tell when it gets too much for him. He slows. His face drops into your shoulder, and he matches his pace to the wet kisses he leaves behind. Your wetness feels stickying, each of his thrusts snug.
His breath hitches, ragged pants accompanying every slow push of his hips. "Where's my girl?" he asks, eyes still closed as his hand abandons where it'd been squeezing the bump of your tummy to search further downward, fingers disappearing into your folds, short curls wet with slick. He can't find any purchase. You roll your hips, chase his touch and the pleasure that comes with it.
He groans into your shoulder. It sounds more pain than pleasure.
"Are you okay?" you ask, trying to turn in his arms. He holds you in place. "Eddie?"
"Yeah, fuck, I'm okay." He grinds up into your cunt. "Fuck, you're perfect."
"Will you kiss me?"
He does. It's nowhere near the bruising press you'd wanted. It's too careful.
"Listen," he murmurs, "I'm gonna get you on your front, okay? Gonna make you feel so good," he promises, waiting for you to nod before he pushes your shoulder away from him and climbs up behind you. You lay flat on your stomach and Eddie settles on your thighs, a heavy weight.
He pushes into your cunt with two fingers first, the new position allowing for a new pleasure. He pumps in and out and swaps his fingers for his cock quickly after, bearing the full weight of his body into your back as sinks to the hilt.
You both moan in time, hands fisted in the sheets.
He kisses your neck, lips parted, and his teeth feel so sharp that your heart sinks as it had in the bathroom.
"Eddie-" you start.
He pulls away, stops every movement.
"Eddie," you say again. What are you supposed to say? You both know what he is.
There's a lull where neither of you knows what to do filled by your too-fast breathing.
"I won't hurt you," he says, hands rubbing up the length of your back and then under. He holds a hand over your heart. He drops his lips to your back. "Do you want me to stop?"
He must feel your pulse calm under his touch, but he still asks again when you don't answer. "Do you want me to stop? It's okay if you do. You're okay, baby, I promise."
You steal a pillow from against the headboard and rise up on elbows. Your admission comes weak but completely honest. "Fuck me, Eddie, please... I want you. I want you-" Your murmuring's interrupted by a sharp breath as Eddie starts to move again, the head of his cock pushing into your cunt, a slick, perfect feeling.
He moans from the back of his throat as his cock pushes into you again and again, hips smacking the dough of your ass as his pace quickens. You hug your pillow tightly, tears popping up in the corners as he ruts deep.
"Being so good for me," he groans, clamped down on your hip with a vice-like grip. "Fuck, you feel so good. Fucking clinging to me every time I pull out, baby, Christ." His blasphemy is punctuated by a thrust that has you sliding up the bed, sheets wrinkling under your arms. You spread your thighs and wetness pools at your clit as his pelvis thrusts into you, driving pleasure so deeply it aches in your hips.
You moan pathetically and reach back to hold his hand, wiggling your fingers. He takes it in one and presses your arm against your lower back with the other, struggling to maintain a steady pace as he gets close to cumming. You're a babbling stream of sounds as he fucks in deep, swollen sweet spot tapped against mercilessly.
He throws himself back on his haunches, cock dragged out of your heat.
You pull your legs out from underneath him and curl onto your side to watch, eyes wide as white spurts of pearlescence jump out of the head of his reddened cock and drip down the bumps of his fingers. He leans back, his stomach and thighs tensed with every pump.
He groans through a smile, moan's coloured by a happy, relieved laughter. "F-uck," he drags, fisting his cock dry.
He meets your eyes as the last of it slides down onto his stomach.
You smile softly. "Fuck," you mumble.
Eddie wipes his hand in his jeans like a fucking hooligan and tucks his cock back into his boxers with a wince, and then he collapses on top of you. He's sort of nice about it, his arm over your shoulder and his face behind your ear.
"Fucking beautiful," he praises, dropping his head back on the bed so you're face to face. "You're so fucking pretty. So perfect." He kisses you. "You're perfect," he repeats, staring intently into your eyes.
You pull a hand from between your legs, smelling of sex. Eddie literally couldn't care less if he tried, and he lets you take his face into your hand without complaint.
He gets his arm under your arm and starts to rub your back. "You want me to take care of you again?" he asks, eyebrows raised gently. "Yeah?"
And you would let him, you would, but you need to see them for yourself.
You touch your index fingertip to his lip.
"Can I see?" you ask.
He loses his boisterous joy, tamps it down. He realises that he can't lie, that he hasn't been lying, and he nods. You tremble as you pull his lip up over his canine tooth, excited and scared.
A sharp, exceptionally white tooth pokes out of Eddie's gums. You're taken aback, though you'd known exactly what you'd find.
A fang.
Blood oozes at the gums.
"You're bleeding," you worry aloud, touching your finger to the dark beading at the base of his tooth.
Eddie's eyes rove over your face thoughtfully. He pulls your hand away from his lip and sets it on his neck instead. "They always do that. The gum heals, breaks when they wanna come out."
"How often do they come out?"
"A lot more since I met you. Whenever my adrenaline spikes, they seem to think it's… feeding time."
That is a dizzying thing to learn.
You're not sure how you feel, but you know one thing: he's Eddie. "It's too bad," you say, forcing a lightness that turns real more easily than you expect. "I really want to kiss you right now."
He strokes your cheek with his thumb. "I really wanna kiss you too. Maybe a small one?"
You find yourself leaning forward, unafraid.
He kisses you once, twice, three times, the two of you holding each other's faces and covered in mess. Slick and sweat and blood. The hearts and stars from your lamp spray over his hip and paint him with pinks, greens, oranges, a rainbow cutting over his trim waist. You rest your hand overtop, feel his keloid scars like hills under your fingers.
"My boyfriend's a vampire," you mutter, bemused at fate.
Eddie blinks at you. "I'm your boyfriend?"
"Yeah, I think so. Don't you?"
Eddie pulls you into his chest and doesn't let you go for a long, long time.
-
Your first time watching a blood sate is weird.
For one, Chief Hopper is firmly against it. He's got his kid with him, the boy from the party that Mike had been so heavily doting on, and if he didn't you might think he was a pretty scary guy.
"I think this is stupid," the chief says plainly. "I think this is stupid, I think you're stupid," — he points at Eddie where he's sitting sickly in the round couch — "and I think you're plain crazy, kid." He points at you last.
You beam at him. "People have said that about me."
His kid laughs.
"Will," Hopper says tiredly, "go sit in the car."
"Look, Chief, I know I messed up, okay, but she kind of stuck her hand in my mouth and I didn't really have a choice."
Wayne looks at you with new eyes. "You did?"
You nod at him faux-seriously.
"And what gave her the inkling that you might have had something in your mouth worth looking at?" Hopper says, which is hilarious. You laugh behind your hand.
He gives you a disapproving look that you completely ignore. If you'd taken notice of disapproval you would've stopped having this much fun years ago.
"Uh, well, she might have… felt them?" His pitch rises.
Hopper looks like he's about to blow a gasket when Will says, "What was he supposed to do? Never talk to anyone new ever again?"
"He did a lot more than just talk to me," you say. There'd been a fixed bike, phone calls, lots of sandwiches, bug hunts, an entire sketchbook full of drawings.
"I told you to wait in the car," Hopper says.
Will grins and raises his hands in surrender. "Bye," he mouths. You wave.
Hopper waits for the door to close before he continues. "I get it, when you're a teenager you think your hormones are the end of the world-"
"I'm almost twenty three."
Hopper pinches his hand closed. "But you do not understand the danger that you are creating here."
"Like a stake-ing," you whisper, very very quietly. Eddie's the only one who can hear you, and he laughs so hard he snorts.
"I'm glad you find this funny." Hopper's tone could not imply the opposite any more.
He hands Wayne a paper bag that audibly sloshes and stalks out, his anger a palpable cloud of steam rising off of his shoulders. Eddie seizes up beside you at the sound, lips parting as his fangs come through. You don't touch him because you value your blood inside your body, only slide away from him and smile. "You okay, handsome?"
"Kid, maybe the chief is right. We don't know how Eds is gonna act with you here," Wayne says.
You nod respectfully. You like Wayne, and he knows about all of this stuff more than you ever could.
"No," Eddie mumbles, putting his hand out for you across the couch.
You take it without thinking.
Wayne sighs. You can hear him grumbling as he disappears from view into the kitchen and puts a pot on the stove. There's the sound of a bag being punctured with a knife, a wet slosh. Eddie's grip on your hand tightens.
You're still fascinated that he even drinks blood in the first place. That's wickedly sickening. Wicked, because it's cool that he's a vampire, with his impressive hearing, senses and smell. But sickening, because if you had to drink a pint of blood every couple of weeks you'd throw up.
"I read about a new blood-sucker."
Eddie raises his heavy head. "Another bug?"
"No, a finch! A vampire finch. They're really pretty, Teddy. They're small and brown with long beaks and they drink blood because there's barely any water on their island." You give him a loving smile. "They aren't parasites. S'just how they had to change to survive."
He squeezes your hand, this time on purpose.
"Are you gonna come and have it in here, Eddie?" Wayne asks, one last shot at separating the two of you.
"I'm okay," he says loudly. His eyes trace your smile. "Really."
It can't be fun to have two people watch you drink a warm mug of blood, but Eddie finds it funny. He keeps laughing every time he brings the rim of the glass to his mouth.
"I can't do it if you're looking at me," he says.
Wayne rolls his eyes and looks away. You cover your face with both hands and part your fingers to spy on him through the gaps. He makes it look easy, draining the mug basically in one long pull, though his hunger turns violent as the cup empties. He chokes. Blood trickles down from one corner of his mouth.
You automatically want to reach over and wipe it away. Wayne grabs your arm before you can and gives you a fatherly look that says, I wouldn't do that if I were you.
"Shit," Eddie says, slamming his now empty mug down on the coffee table. It makes a grating sound like a ground mortar and pestle. He sits as far back on the couch cushions as he can, nausea clear on his face.
"Deep breath," Wayne says.
"Fuck, Wayne."
"You're aces. Deep breaths."
Your heart hurts watching Eddie like this. He covers his mouth with eyes closed tightly and breathes hard through his nose. Already there's colour coming back into his face, not a lot but anything is an improvement. He'd been practically grey.
When Eddie pulls his hand from his mouth blood has spread over his lips and jaw. Your eyes widen.
"I'll get the shower running," Wayne says, slapping his knees as he stands. He stops before the hallway. "Good job, Eddie."
The boy in question slouches into a ball on the sofa and nods into a cushion. You wait for the sound of Wayne pulling the shower cord that turns on the hot water before you stand up, head tipped to one side.
"You okay, handsome?".
"Tired."
"You want a hug from me?"
"Is anyone else offering?" He opens one eye to peek at you and grins at your distraught expression. "I'm joking, I'm kidding. C'mere, before I start bawling." You sit and then flop onto your side, pulling your legs up next to his. "Such a frowny face." His voice is adorably tired.
"Better than yours. You look like someone from Night of the Living Dead, baby."
Eddie's arm lies limp like a dead fish over your waist. "Lemme nibble on your brains," he says, words thick as dark honey, eyes closed. "Just a snack."
You're waiting for someone to pull the rug out from under your feet. No way your boyfriend, your cries at the end of every movie, brings you flowers because he felt like it, won't step on cracks in the sidewalk boyfriend just skulled a glass of O-negative like it was a milkshake.
You feel guilty as soon as you think about it. He's not confined to all his softest parts and he never will be. He's snarky and angry and loud. He plays guitar like a real rockstar and he doesn't take anyone's shit. He's a survivor. A glass of blood every now and then was never gonna stop him.
You keep wondering if you should let him suck your blood. It could be hot. It could also probably be the worst idea ever, a relationship faux pas up there with proposing after a month or saying I love you on the first date.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks.
You brush the hair out of his eyes with your ring finger. "Embarrassing relationship fumbles."
"Oh yeah? Like letting your girlfriend watch you drink human blood from a mug shaped like Woodstock?"
"Least it wasn't Snoopy."
"God forbid."
"Is it always like this?" You stroke your hand down his face and rub along his jaw with your thumb. "D'you always get sleepy?"
"Yeah." He turns his face so your hand covers his mouth.
You've stopped wearing silver jewellery, your wrists bare besides the endearingly awful friendship bracelet he's constructed for you. Not a friendship bracelet, he'd corrected. You're not kissing other friends, are you? Because that's really gonna put a downer on this whole thing.
You dip your forehead to his chin and the two of you lay there in silence. You can smell blood, a thick, metallic stick permeating every corner of the room. It's especially strong between the both of you.
"Do you wanna bite me right now?" you inquire without opening your eyes.
"Not really. Blood sate kicks in quickly. It's the worst for, like, the first ten seconds after. Now I wanna sleep, but Wayne's gonna make me shower."
"Maybe I can shower with you."
"I'm sure he'd jump for joy if you suggest it."
"Really?"
Eddie kisses your hand. "No," he says with a giddy laugh.
"I'll pretend I'm gonna sit on the toilet. Keep watch."
"How will you stop your hair from getting wet?"
"I'll lean out."
Eddie laughs even more than he had been, peeling laughter that warms you from the inside out as he kisses your hand again. "That'll definitely work."
Wayne clears his throat.
"Shower's hot. I'm going out. For an hour." Eddie perks up. His uncle looks him dead in the eye. "Don't make me regret this."
And while Wayne had been under the impression you and Eddie were gonna have some grown up fun together in the shower, what you really do is an innocent act of affection: you wash Eddie's hair.
"You have to lean your head back," you chide.
"I am."
"More than that."
"There's no room."
You're lucky you both fit. You're freezing standing behind Eddie, the only relief the warm water that trickles down from your hands to your elbows as you draw circles in his scalp, working the shampoo into a fine lather.
"How did you get blood here?" you ask, scratching rusty flakes from the hair behind his ear.
"I don't know. It gets everywhere. Like eyeshadow."
You push your chin over his shoulder. "You wear eyeshadow?"
"For shows."
"Really?"
"Is it hard to believe?"
You encourage his head under the water and rake your hands through his curls, encouraging the soapy water down to the ends with patient hands. "Lip gloss too? Hey, can I do your makeup?"
"Maybe tomorrow," he bargains. While the shower has helped to wake him up, lethargy remains thick and unshakeable as adamant.
You kiss the wet ridge of his shoulder blade, picturing his pretty face decked out in dark liners and sticky balm. "Thank you."
"I haven't worn any in a long time. Haven't played a show in a really long time."
You wring the water out of his hair and search in the steam for his conditioner. It's mostly empty. "You could put on a show for me. I never got to see you play," you say, shaking it really hard. A dollop collects in your hand and you work the dregs through the ends of his long hair.
"You want that?"
"I think you're the best guitar player in the world."
You're not joking. He's the best, and he plays guitar. And he's pretty good, semantics aside. You love sitting out on the porch with him and listening to him play old rock songs off the top of his head. You could watch his hands move over the strings for hours.
"If that's the case, I can definitely put on a show. Make-up, costume, stage dives. The whole nine yards. Anything for my girl."
You roll the ends of his hair between two coated palms and step back. "There. You have to let it soak in for a couple of minutes."
Eddie turns with a grin, angling his chest and hair forward, away from the stream.
"Whatever will we do?"
You wipe an escaped streak of blood off of his bottom lip and smile. "I have no idea."
You kiss. Eddie leans down and you move up, damp noses glancing off of each other. You're used to short kisses, never enough to make his heart race in case it prompts an unnecessary appearance of his fangs, so when Eddie encourages your lips apart to wade in deeper you pull back questioningly.
"Blood sate. I'm 'sated'. They won't come out."
Your jaw drops. "For real?"
He shakes his head with a pleased smile. "For real. Kiss me sick, sweetheart."
You throw your arm around his neck and drag his face to yours, kissing with an ardency that both surprises and amuses him. He laughs into your open mouth until suddenly he's not laughing at all, only breathing, pushing against you with the same urgent force and the same adoring smile.
"Does this mean you can give me a hickey?" you ask enthusiastically. Eddie has yet to give you a proper love bite.
He leans back under the show spray and pulls you in with him, laughing when you dissolve like rice paper in his arms, finally warm. There's never been a sweeter sound.
/\^._.^/\
thank you for reading! | my masterlist | my halloween party
if you enjoyed reading his, please consider reblogging. i promise it makes a huge difference
Summary: You and Eddie take the definitive step towards boyfriend and girlfriend. An empty house and a evening alone yields to a perfect evening of a first time, and much much more (11.2k words, so much SMUTTT)
🕸️🕷️ Link to the previous part right here & you can find the rest of the Eddie x Pencils series here—
“Are you sure?” Eddie asks for the umpteenth time.
Hair flicking across his cheek like dark fluffy spiderwebs, as he twists his head to you. Brown shiny eyes on the road. Chewing his inner lower lip a fierce pink.
Those beautiful shiny eyes are so caught up in the pretty rosy light of the fading sunset. Gossamer blue to fluffy pink like melting cotton candy. It makes you think of those huge bags of it you get at the Hawkins High Carnival. Hooked on the stalls and sat next to the lumpy stuffed prize teddy bears with unsettling beady wonky eyes.
The clouds are being whisked away over the huge cool blue. The sky that’s now plunging into dark cenote. You’re bound homewards.
You drove past houses as porch lights start to flicker on and burn true and gold. Windows offering butter yellow light thats framed by the gathering dark. The night air wraps everything up. Brings with it a taste of ozone, dew and verdant rain-splashed grass. Evening gathers slowly along to the tune of cicadas.
He’s asked you a minimum of ten times since you left the grocery store if you’re still sure.
As if you’ll suddenly pull a 360 and change your mind. Like you ever could.
The calmness of your countenance touches him deep. Cause each time he’s asked, you smile a little wider when that very same question comes rolling around.
“I’m still sure. Munson.”
And then there’s that little unassuming smile. The one which flips his insides right way up again. Like you are his compass tugging him back to due north each time.
You’re calm. He’s fucking losing it.
You’re so calm it’s making his heart beat drum that much louder.
Nicko McBain loud. Dave Lombardo Loud. So loud he feels like you should be able to hear it rattle his chest. Rattle the sides of this van.
He lapses into ticky fidgety silence for another ten seconds. Eyes flick towards you and back again. Vaguely on the road. Teeth chew that lip and then;
“How about now?”
“Hmmm” You mock frown and make a wavering noise.
“Now I’m re-evaluating this whole thing.” You say as you clack your nails on the window ledge your side.
When he meets your eyes with a sidewards little glance and some more fidgeting, your teasing slip of a smile awaits him. Says it all. He can read it plain as day on your face. The serene calmness.
My mind is made up.
He takes a deep breath. It sounds rattly. “Okay.”
You saw the clammy palms he wiped on his jeans when he drew the van curbside to your house. He swallows and it clicks in his throat when he putters the van into park by the curb. Suspension lurching to a stop.
You open the door and climb out and he follows suit. Feeling sheepish he rounds the van and treads across your lawn. It’s getting straggly now. Weeds starting to poke on through the stubby grass.
He takes great care to step over a fluffy clump of dandelions. Idly wonders if you had someone who came and mowed your lawn for you. He could do that if you needed someone to do it, that is. Clean the rain gutters out too. He can’t see you or Ronnie teetering up on a ladder to do it. He’ll do it.
But really house maintenance isn’t the thing that should be on his mind right now, dammit.
He wanders up behind you on the porch, stops his crazy mind wandering, as you fish your keys out your bag. Struggling to hold your books and all your grocery supplies in one hand as you dig around.
He hops up onto the porch step. Aching to assist. Gently hooks his fingers under your things and lays them against his chest so you can better look. He smiles at you and it’s all melting chocolate gaze and dimples for days in his smile.
He’s distracted looking at the now melting bag of peas he got you, plonked on top of the brown bag staining the paper dark. He doesn’t like how red your knuckles look. They must be hurting like a bitch by now.
You swing the door open and hold it for him. “Welcome to the uh, crap palace.” You introduce.
Alright, okay, maybe you’re just a little nervous too.
Yourhouse keys feel warm and slippery in your palm. Warm penny metal.
“Crap palace?” He asks you as he lopes inside after you. It’s pulled through a bubbly laugh. And all those dimples frame that megawatt smile.
“Yeah, me and mom tried to name it one night and we couldn’t come up with anything that sounded better so we just started calling this place the crap palace. And it stuck. She almost ordered a house sign with it on.” You smile through a wobbly laugh.
He steps in and you close the door softly after him. He can’t help but be enveloped by this place.
He saw glimpses that one time. The walls all slaked in darkness, when he bought you soup. He didn’t stop to really look. He’s looking now.
He scans the wall of your small hallway and he instantly knows the calibre of the inhabitants; quirky posters in bold frames. Music posters, family photographs. An odd purple lamp and a fuzzy rug spilling across the floor. It feels warm. A house built out of warm touches and not trying to stick out to impress anyone. Like other families in shinier, neater neighbourhoods would have.
He can’t agree with the namesake for this place at all. It’s lived in. There’s a cosy bohemian vibe that can’t be downplayed with the crazy rugs and mismatched furniture. Picture frames and a crazy amount of art crammed on the walls. There’s books and music and band posters, life and travel springs from every wall and tchotchke.
“Definitely not a crap palace, Pencils.” His voice takes on a softer register that makes the top of your stomach melt. The inflection of his words hits deep with such fierce meaning.
His attention refocuses on you when you offer to take the groceries out his hands and deposit the foodstuff in the kitchen.
“You hungry?” You ask. Voice wavering a little. He can sense the nerves pouring off you.
Glad his nervousness is finding compatible symmetry in yours.
He hovers in the kitchen doorway. “Nah. I’m good. But could I use your phone? I should probably get a hold of Wayne and let him know.”
He watches your eye widen and brain splutter with the thought. It drags a chuckle from him.
“I won’t tell him that Pencils. My god. He’d be here in two seconds to drag me away by the scruff of my neck, and give me a good stern lecture about ‘safety’.”
He winked boldly at the end of his sentence.
You laugh. It makes him weak to hear. It’s a balm, that sound, after todays events.
You come closer. Swaying into him. Stroke a hand down his chest. It just seemed so implausible not to have your hands on him in that moment. Can’t resist leaning in to peck at his jaw, and then the tendons in his neck as he accepts your melting into him.
His leather arms come around you, chain jangling, and despite the pinch in his bruised ribs he fully believes it to be worth every damn second.
You feel the jut of his chin rest on top your head as you stand there cosied together in the kitchen. Laying the foulness of this day to rest. It feels a lot like something sacred. This peace populated by just you two.
“What will you, uh, say to Wayne?” You ask curiously.
“I’ll just tell him I’m crashing at Gareth’s or something. Don’t worry babe.” He offers. The endearment soothes you. Smoothes something fuzzy soft down the ragged edges of your nerves.
“Sure- just through there, go ahead“ You point him towards the old as shit bright red rotary phone in the living room.
He flicks a salute at you from his temples which makes you smile and he shuffles off to use the phone. Some dorky spark back in the way he moves. Playing back to his full muppet-ish strengths again.
You idly wander around tidying the kitchen as he uses the phone.
He’s smiling at the definitely signed Bowie Ziggy Stardust poster proudly enshrined on the wall. Smile crooning on the sound of his voice as he dials and waits for Wayne to pick up. Hopefully catching him mid doze state before he readied himself and went off to work.
You listen to the lull of his voice as Wayne picks up the other end. You unpack the medicinal supplies from the bag. Leave the aspirin out in case he needs it. Stow the peas in the freezer. You bought some pizza rolls to stash in there too. For later on.
For after-
You listen to his peppy tones as he relays the news to Wayne that he is indeed spending the night with Gareth. Bit of a session going with the band. Might get some pizzas and Mountain Dew and make a sleepover of it. Crash on the couch. Gareth’s mom didn’t mind. Matter of fact she’s totally cool and entirely susceptible to Eddie’s infamous Munson charms.
You smile like an absolute moron.
Wayne must tell him to be good or behave. Because Eddie answers with an “I’m always good, Wayne.” And a grin so infectious you can hear it.
There comes the click of the phone. And then he’s loping back around the door to you.
“Alibi in place gorgeous. I’m all yours.” He spreads his arms wide like he’s presenting himself to you like some silly jester. His wallet chain jangles against his jeans.
“Now how’d I get that damn lucky.” You comment back honestly.
You suddenly scan down to see his tee shirt. Led Zepplin joined with crusted old blood and wet mud. Makes your heart squeeze and sink to think what ugly marks are under those clothes because of the events tonight. Reminders writ in bruises. You can almost see the outline of a sneaker print on his side.
It still hurts you how much they hurt him. A knife slice to something deep inside you that’s too querulous to settle.
You won’t be okay about this for a long while yet. Broken bones didn’t seem enough. No measly amounts of vengeance you could scrape back to chuck at those morons will ever be enough to your mind.
Never enough. Not for hurting your guy with the pure golden heart.
He can’t deal with that pinched expression on your face. He has to make it melt away.
“Y’know, I think blonde ape is gonna be giving you a wide berth from now on, Mi’lady.” He smiles all cheesy at you.
“Damn right he should. Teaches him to go meddling with my metal head.” You reach across and press a kiss on the back of his hand, rub it with your thumb after.
He feels a shiver through him right down to his toes. His hands tug you even closer.
More of that please, sewn into his touch.
“Let me throw your clothes in the wash. Reckon I’ve got some things that should fit you. Get the mud and blood out.” You offer. You stroke his chest and pull away.
“Oh shit. Yeah.”
He seems to look down and notice for the first time that he’s grazed in muck. His ribs throb distantly. His eye still feels a little on the raw side. He won’t be shocked if it swells tomorrow. Bloated and nursing a tender lid the colour of nightshade petals.
“That would be good.” He accepts. “Not looking my most stunning self right now.” He admits. Plucking with two fingers at his t-shirt that’s crusted in mud and crimson.
“C’mon.” You urge softly. Hand brushing his shoulder.
You walk past him, nod up the stairs. He goes off his dirty sneakers and leaves them at the base of the stairs, before he comes padding after you. You slip your hand out to escort him. He takes it gladly.
“Mmm. Be gentle with me.” He jokes sultrily as you come into your room. Pulling him along. He comes willingly. Too quickly, if anything. He’s enchanted.
“I’ll treat you like a fabergé egg, my precious.” You explain as you come into your room. Switching some lights on.
You cross for your drawers, rifling through for clothes baggy enough to fit him.
He stands by the end of your bed. Drinking in the small details of your room like he did last time. The way you hadn’t made your bed today, the wrinkled baby blue covers punched with sunny daisies, all bunched in the middle, and he knows with absolute alacrity that the smell of your perfume and a hint of your shampoo is draped over those pillows. It does something tugging and tight to his belly that he can’t name, that scent of wholly things that’s only you.
He stands at the end of your cast iron bed. Shoulders off his jacket with a wince. Drapes it over the bedpost and let’s it hang there
He does notice some differences; the terrible sharpie note he left is pinned pride of place on the cork board by your desk. New drawings scattered across leafs of pages sat on the desktop. Cobwebs and spiders and bats. Doodles that irrevocably led you back to the ink he’s got scratched on his skin. The ones you’ve been dying to run your fingers over.
He watches you tuck your hands into your drawers and root around for clothes that would suit. You manage to come up with a too big band tee, he smiles to see it’s an Alice Cooper one. And some bed shorts, they may be pink and red striped, but he’s not exactly going to be picky.
“Sorry about the shorts. They’re the biggest ones I have.” You explain. Baggy and overstretched from too many years of use, and probably one too many washes.
He takes the offered clothes with thanks. Drowning in the scent of some dreamy powdery detergent. The shorts are so soft he just stroked them in his hands for a moment.
“Don’t worry. I’m easy.” He flirts. And then stammers into a blush. “Well, uh…”
Your smile breaks wide. “You must be a little easy. I have got you here after all.” You flirt.
He bites his lip and looks at his hands.
“Yeah I will do just about anything for a jolly rancher.” He teases to bring you to an even bigger smile.
“…. And for you.” He adds. Eyes so full and round and sincere it skips your breath for a second. Skims the top off your lungs seeing the sheer amount of warmth those eyes can hold.
I’d do just about anything for you, pencils.
He stops you before you can move elsewhere. Leans over for a change, makes the move to come to you, lays a simple sweet kiss on your lips.
He tastes like grape sugar from that candy he snuck in the car. Dark purple fruit and sweet.
It feels like he’s pushing how grateful he is into this kiss.
It’s a moment that just waits for the two of you. Time slows to your convenience. Wrapped up in each other and deepening the kiss. His finger hooks into your belt loop, halting you where you stood. Maybe swaying your front to his a little. Slanting bodies that go gladly.
It’s a great kiss. Shivers that devastate up and down spines kinda kiss. Clicking over every vertebrae.
You love the slight tickle of stubble on his upper lip. Mouths melting to one another as your bodies follow suit. You bring a hand up to cup the back of his head. Wiry spongy hair under your hand. His hand spreads; migrates across to cover your hip and the kiss grows more indulgent.
The change in atmosphere is palpable; shifting sands that tumble clean away, exposing nerves and bone and need. You take a moment to process it, tuck it away to save it, spin it out to savour it, sucking in a breath.
Eddies hand comes to rest on your side, pushing so gently at the fabric of your shirt, until his fingers touch bare skin. His rings burn cool but you like it. Cool stroked on your warm softness. He needed that contact. Like some cold blooded creature reaching to curl into the warmth of the sun in order just to feel seen.
He’s not doing a thing. Just watching you with those big chocolate eyes, touching you, patient as ever, but there is a heat in his gaze that you feel it simmer low and hot in your belly. Watching him swallow and just sink his eyes into yours.
You don’t feel inadequate here, you realise...ultimately, you feel powerful. Cherished.
It occurs to you all at once that he wants you. Desires you. It's enough to make your head spin into reeling bits. A calm settles over you, then, and you have to fight the urge to laugh in disbelief that this guy wants you.
This guy. The one you’re pretty damn sure you love. The one you’re tangled deep in love with.
“I think before this goes anywhere else…” He pauses to nurse a gentle kiss right back on your mouth. Tentative soft and tender.
“That I should probably de-stink if you’re gonna… y’know, let me have the honour of being in your bed.”
“Such a gentleman.” You comment. Wrapped up in his gaze. You never want to peel away from it.
He mimes tipping a hat brim at you like a Victorian.
Amused, you slip past him and walk across the dark landing, soft glow of your bedroom light dots gold onto the soft pink carpet that lays in the darkness.
You switch the bathroom light on and the soft plink blinks the room into life, illuminating your blue and white bathroom that smells like vanilla and soap and girly bath products. You fetch a clean green towel out the corner cupboard and set it on top of the wicker hamper near the shower. You turn back as he hovers in the doorway.
“Use anything you like- um. Get out of those. Knock when you’re done. I’ll throw them in to wash. Can’t send you home to Wayne looking like that.”
He nods. “Sure thing, boss.”
You linger awkwardly outside the door as he shuffles inside and shuts it. You hear the scuffle of clothes and then the creak of the door as he appears in the gap. Ringed hands with thick fingers hold out the rag tag bundle of his dirty clothes to you. Blood mud crusted.
“Think that’s everything, Pencils.”
You’re stuck staring.
You’ve never seen so much of him.
Through the peek of the door you can see the lean ropes and cords of his skinny arm and then the pale expanse of his chest. You can see the famous sweet old tatties. The infamous creeping widow and the notorious demon with its half ravaged skull and blazing eyes. The tips of his dry wild hair kissing his bare chest and that guitar pic snugged at his collarbones. He’s hiding his naked groin with the bunched up towel.
His eyes meet yours and he can’t quite hold them. He looks down to his chest. Tips his chin and regards himself with something that doesn’t look proud. Yeah, this is me. In all my weedy glory.
He knows what he looks like, he can’t pretend he’s hiding any sort of impressive bulk under his clothes.
He has poky shoulders and lanky arms and a chest that isn’t exactly stellar like those golden toned athlete jocks at school. All in all he looks like a cross between a drowned shaggy dog and a newborn foal. All waif eyes and overlong limbs. And he’s grown up knowing that’s not exactly a huge turn on.
God, you prove his insecurities so damn wrong.
Which is why he’s so stunned when you close the gap in the door to plant a firm kiss right on his mouth. Sweetly poignant need pressed against his mouth. A kiss that can only lead to more. He smells like warm salty skin and you can’t pretend the slight tang of cologne on his neck isn’t a huge turn on.
He seemed stunned when you pulled away. Awed. But that’s definitely a dozy needy look flickering across his expression. His eyes glow warm and raw dark with it. Like heavy twin tar pits.
“Don’t leave me hanging too long, Rock star.” You ask of him with pink cheeks as you turn with his messy clothes and move out of sight into the shadows.
The offerings of slithered light from the bathroom stick in your eyes and the fold of your smile. It blinds him.
He thinks he nods. Maybe he even gasps a laugh. He doesn’t know. Face full of heat. But it feels pretty fucking great.
~
When he walks into your bedroom a short few moments later, he’s towelling the back of his head off. Looking quite at home in all his rings, and the Alice tee, even the pink shorts which he will admit are the singular most comfy things he’s ever worn.
He finds you sitting criss cross applesauce on your bed in pyjamas of your own. A too big nightshirt on, blue and white stripes. Big and shapeless and cozy looking on you. Your clothes discarded on the armchair. You’d neatened the messy sheets and he finds it oddly endearing.
He can think how cosy and worn that nightshirt feels against bare skin. He has the most voracious urge to kiss you to death again. Run his hands all over. Up your back, down to the curve of your ass. Grab you. Have you all wrapped up in touch on your bed under him. Paw you like an animal.
He’s certainly thought about it numerous times. On his own with a slice of dozy orange light striped across his bed in the trailer at 3am. Rain pelting on the roof. Hand wrapped around his dick and tugging himself off in slow strokes thinking about the way you tasted on his tongue. The way your touch and your kiss felt like molten metal in his veins. Kissing you felt holy, like every nerve in his body could pop with golden fireworks.
The huge swelling romantic lovey crush he has on you is snuck into every atom. Silently strolled in and took over when he was too busy trying to figure out how to make you smile, and laugh.
The way your eyes alight with warmth and your smile grows dimples in your cheeks when you see him walk in makes him feel crafted out of pure sunshine gold.
You’d mooded the place up real nice too.
You’d lit a couple of lemony smelling tea-lights on your desk. Casting a warm cosy glow. The curtains are pulled together, barely leaving a crack, and you’d put some slow soulful sounding chick with a soft strumming guitar on your stereo. A strip of condoms surreptitiously tucked in your bedside drawer for use in the not too distant future.
You’re ready. You really are.
You’re nervous and the silence feels mercury tonne heavy and awkward and you’re desperately willing it not to be. You wanna leap at this next step like you’re taking on hurdles.
He catches the way you wipe your palms on the rounded balls of your kneecaps. There’s nerves here too. Fringed with excitement.
“Successfully de-stinked, Pencils. How do I look?” He cheekily asks. Still ruffling the back of his head.
The curls still held their shape, but more flattened and wetted to thicker strands. Now he brought a little less of that typical Eddie smell of verdant grass, cigarettes and detergent. Now he smells like fake coconut and your thick sweet shower gel that he lathered all over.
It makes your stomach swirl with butterflies.
“Doth I pleaseth my lady?” He asks with a flourish and a silly little jesters bow where he whirls his hand in front of him. The dimples of his wide clowning smile negates the horrible appearance of his battered cheek and swelling black eye.
You smile. And more than that, you flush hot. Deepest warmth across both cheeks. And pooling at the base of your neck. You pat the newly neatened bed next to you.
“Your state pleases me mucheth, good sire. Now getteth thine fine ass over here.” You demand of him. “Need to kiss you again.”
The desperation of your tone bites straight through him and bolts downwards to make his dick throb a little.
“As my lady commandeth.” He answers gladly. A twinkle in his eyes as he slung the damp towel over the end of your bed and rounded the end to clamber on.
He slopes himself onto your bed and grazes a smirking kiss against your temple. Coconut wet hair hanging in your nose like a dark drape of tropical jungle vines. It’s oddly addictive.
You tilt your head up and he boops a kiss to the end of your nose and then swoops down to take your mouth. You laugh into it at his absurd antics.
Another melting kiss sparking warmth down low as he slowly deepens the kiss.
You smile into it and hold him; one hand at his still damp hair, the other on his shoulder-blade through your Alice shirt. Without meaning it fully, the kiss seemed to tip you backwards, he tilted to you. Hands either side of you as you unfolded your legs to make room for him to slot between them.
Your head hits pillow with laughter still huffing on your breath and then it’s swept away because Eddie, your sweet Eddie metal head, is a firm and gentle weight atop you.
Your long stretch of gorgeous boy with narrow hips, and long fingers and enough love flowing through his kiss to electrify a whole city block.
You run your hands up his back. Over the hills of his shoulder blades. Mark his skin through the shirt. Bury them in the back of his hair. Unintentionally pulling a little with the pleasure of it that’s shooting through you like you’ve been shot.
His kiss turns heavier and slower. Honey slow and twice as sweet. Lots of lush lips and the gentle peek of his tongue.
He lives on frenzied edge for the way you gasp when he averts attention from your lips to your collarbones and up your throat. Plucking kisses and peppering them with little noises and grunts that he simply cannot help that come spilling from his chest.
He knows how neck kisses spikes goosebumps along your skin when he nuzzles into you there, all languid and hot and gently taking his time with those silky delicious lips that are absolutely just killing you. He knows it shoots straight to your tits and makes your nipples hard. It’s give and take. Push and tug.
You groan and divert his lips back up to yours with a fist full of his hair that’s making him groan even more. Moans vibrating against your lips. It’s so two sided. You’re making soft noises of appreciation too. You just want to fade into him. Get utterly lost here in this bubble of love and need.
Your nipples are so stiff against his chest through your thin as tissue paper shirt grazes skin. The friction is unbelievable and almost painful, and you can feel how hard he is.
One slow press of his body to yours is enough to get his dick filling out. You know there’s enough raging hormones running around in Eddie’s body to kill a huge mammal.
Grinding against you as the kisses turn downright sloppy and magnificent. You feel dazed, drugged. Love drunk. Eyes all dozy heavy and cloudy head completely gone on lust.
You decide to up the stakes of this slow make out; cause frankly you want him so bad you could sob.
You break the kiss and the sloppy sound echos loud in your room against the backing of soft plucked guitar strings and soulful crooning. Your lips feel cold and you want nothing more than to sink back into that devilish munson mouth.
You reach down for the hem of your shirt, and Eddie levers off you just a tiny fraction to see what you’re getting at.
You grab it with fingers that feel like they’re shaking, and lift the whole thin blue thing up your body and over your head. Sliding it away. Revealing you to be in absolutely nothing but a pair of lilac panties before him.
Eddies eyes get blacker and rounder. If that was even possible. Wide wide and round like huge tortoiseshell brown buttons. Or muddy puddles the shape of coins.
Your tits are right there in front of him, for him, and it’s really truly breaking down most of the very few remaining braincells in his head.
You can pinpoint the way the gears in his head slow to a rusty crunch like an old engine. Looking at the way your nipples are perked and just right there and perfect.
“Holy shit man.” He comments like he’s dazed. Mouth almost open and drooling at the sight of your tits. Tentatively bringing one hand up to slowly cup you. Shuddering when he gets you in his hand. He’s so hard right now it’s insane.
“God, you’re so pretty pencils like, seriously, it’s ridiculous.”
You feel that molten heat flush your face again. Yanking him in for another needy kiss. Fully allowing him to press his hand against your chest and touch you as you sunk into another full lipped kiss. Your heartbeat felt so loud it was almost like it hurt; pumping hummingbird fast like a mad thing has taken residence in your chest.
You hook one leg up and over his narrow hip and slip your hand around his side. Slowly sneaking fingers up the back of his shirt, getting at his bare burning hot skin. Making him moan louder and grind on top of you.
“Fuck. I really dig you. You know.” He mutters. Smile etched so wide on those pillowy lips.
“I really dig you too.” You answer back with shining eyes and a blush splotching over your chest. Right between your tits. He resumes the kiss cause it seemed mad not too.
You run your nails over his back. Feeling his muscles roll. Feeling his sides at the expand and sink of his ribs as he huffed hot breath into your mouth.
His hard dick laying along your hip prodding into your thigh. Suffocated in those flimsy pink bed shorts you gave him. The softness of them giving the sweetest kind of friction.
You sneak your hand around his side and wiggled your fingers into and under the waistband. Ravenous when you circle your fingers around his fat shaft and squeeze.
His hips stutter and the noise that leaves him is so sinfully loud and needy. He breaks the kiss to moan. Brows tugging up in the middle and a look of pure ecstasy bred with torture on his face.
“Baby you keep touching me and this is gonna be one very short lived fuck cause I will bust in my pants of you do much more.” He whines. Fingertips drawing patterns over your hard nipple in a way that made you bite your lip.
“Take the shirt off.” You moan in urging with a smile he could only describe as heavenly.
Bucking up and catching his mouth again with yours. Sadly, he has to separate your mouths for a second to get the shirt up and over his head. Throwing it away the same as you’d carelessly done with your shirt. Bedroom floor littered.
When he comes back down chest to chest with you, your hands are hungry, greedy- you’re all over him and everywhere. Hands in his hair, down his shoulders. You drag him into another kiss that feels like you want to swallow him whole. He returns that sentiment tenfold. Breaks away and you mouth up his jaw to hear his breathing turn choppy.
“Let me um, huuh, use my fingers on you for a bit. Okay? Get you nice and wet.” He wets his lips. Eyes looking darkly stalwart. Determined.
“Won’t have far to go Munson. I’m soaked.” You inform him with a sly smile that he thinks makes you look fully femme fatale evil. No coy naïve Hepburn kinda look. That was a sizzling dame, flicking your fluttering lashes at him. Like Bergman or Bacall on the silver screen.
He gets his hand between your legs and sees what you meant; your panties are utterly soaked with a wet patch. Dark and sweet. Clinging to the shape of your peachy soft mound.
You’re dripping all over the sheets of this now messy bed. Clouded with the scent of coconut and you and Eddie thinks he may be losing what’s left of his rational mind. He doesn’t remember taking a hit off anything but he feels high.
The way he’s rubbing and teasing through your panties has you absolutely dribbling mad for more.
“Please Eddie, please, so good.” You groan. Incapable of stringing together a full sentence. He could drive you wild like this. You’ve waited long enough to get him here.
He makes your stomach curl and swoop when he finds your clit. Nearly makes you fly up off this bed.
“Oh..” you yelp.
His grin splits wide.
“Haven’t forgotten how good you taste Pencils. You drive me insane. You know that? Goddamn looney bin insane for you, and your pretty pussy, and those world class tits.” He huffs in awe. Watching said tits bounce as you writhe.
“Everything else just… hmm, white noise to you huh?” You joke. He swirls pressure again just to make you moan.
“Pencils. I am beyond offended. I hold your whole being in very very high regard.” He teases. He wants to kiss every part of you if you’d let him.
“Please get your fingers in me, you prick tease.” You beg. You’re actually clenching your bedsheets in fists. Crushing blue daisies. You’re panting, he’s got you so worked up.
“Surely I’m being a clit tease right now?” He smirks.
“Eddie.” You whine. There’s an edge to it.
He saves your squirming and obeys. Can’t leave his girlfriend wanting.
Sinking his fingers over your plump lips again, grazing your clit, rubbing in slow pressured circles, which sails a needy whine right out your mouth.
He carries on his explorations; rubbing his fingertips up through your pubic curls, and then down to seek your cunt. You were positively dripping into these panties and onto his fingertips for more; and he gives it to you.
When he slots two of those crazy good guitarist fingers right into you, your mind fully blanks. Your stomach rips down the middle with a tug. Pussy hungrily contracts around those slim skilled digits. He likes the way your silky slick gets pushed, squelching up his fingers.
If you weren’t so aroused, you’d be entirely embarrassed and awed by how sloppy wet he’s got you.
“Fucking hell, I mean like… fuck. You’re so warm. Jesus.” He says like he can’t believe it. Can’t wrap his crazy skrungly mind around the fact you’re almost naked, right here in front of him, weeping in desperation for the curl of his fingers.
His fingers hooked into you so nicely. From prior experience he tries to recreate the pattern that really gets you going. Strong broad strokes. Steady wins the race.
Shifting off you to watch how his hand presses against you. Fingers deepening into you. Drawing out more slick. The way his hand pounds the beautiful plump mound of your cunt.
Really you’re so pretty it’s insane
He watches as he slowly and methodically
fucks you with his fingers. Watches his motions and the listens intently to the noises you make. His thumb cleverly pressed to your clit for that extra bolt of stimulation.
You urge him in again; desperate for another kiss. You never wanted to break away from that magic mouth of his. He’s making you feel so good; you try and press some of that pleasure into a messy kiss that he’s smiling into.
When he reaches your g-spot and sets a good rhythm, you jolt against him. Gasping for breath. Head thrown back. “Oh, yeahyeaahyeah, there’s good.” You squirm. Voice all high and pitchy.
He’s sucking your neck. Sloppy kisses and open mouthed sucking that you know will leave dark love bites in their wake.
The way you moan he wants to keep captured on loop in his head forever. If it was a cassette tape he’d wear it out playing it so much. Over and over. Till the tape all but melts.
“There? That good?” He checks. Trying to keep the pace that has you writhing into him. Your answer isn’t verbal. You aren’t capable. It’s a whine that takes the shape of an affirmation.
Half of him wonders of this isn’t some kind of delirious sex dream. Hyper realistic. Maybe those jocks hit his head harder than he realised.
Cause the sight of you stretched open with his fingers fucking into you, sprawled on big soft bed on your messy bedsheets that smell utterly like you, doused in the scent of your perfume and detergent, with candles you lit softly going and music playing. He doesn’t know how he got this damn lucky.
Can’t be real man. No way. He’s not this lucky.
He shifts up and kisses you. He can’t help it. It’s all kinds of longing and gratitude that you’re giving this moment and this momentous occasion to him. You’re making his heart melt and bleed into mush and he will thank you for every damn second of attention you’ve given him. For all you’ve given and done.
You grip into his still damp hair. Lock eyes for a second. All brown damp depths await you. Slight pink tint to his cheeks. He rocks into you to alleviate some friction and holy fuck it’s good.
Wet spot definitely noticeable in those bed shorts. How he hasn’t busted yet he’s no clue. He’s enjoying the sight of you way too much.
He moans right from the depths of his skinny chest when you start clamping down on his fingers. Nails digging crescents that sting into his shoulders. Sweat starts to form on the skin that’s pressed fever hot between you. The noises of your wet pussy and panting breaths all you could hear.
“Mmm babe I’m close. Really close.” You warn him through gasps.
“Yeah?” He puffs out. You calling him babe and telling him you’re close to cumming in the same breath made his knees wobbly weak.
He continues in his quest to see you cum. And what a sight it is. So blissed out and clutching onto his back and moaning right in his ear as he gets you there.
Your eyes are shut as you start to flutter and clamp down his fingers. His eyes stay fixed on your face. Nibbling sultry bites onto your neck, listening to the way you fall apart under him. It’s sweat slicked and beautiful and he swore to Satan he didn’t know pleasure could be like this.
He barely feels the burning in his shoulders as your nails sting. He can only concentrate on the way you ride out your pleasure from getting finger fucked.
You moan his name sailing into the aftershocks and that just about undoes him. He muffles his mouth down onto your shoulder. Grinding to your thigh and almost drooling with how good it felt. It’s a million degrees in here and you’re sweating all over each other. It’s amazing.
“Fuck.” You whine with finality as the tide of pleasure within you recedes to tiny ripples. Clit throbbing from the press of his thumb. Thighs splayed open around him. Prostrate on the bed under him.
“A good fuck?” Eddie shuffles up and asks you. Eyes all dozy puddles and you can’t help but kiss him. He hums into it. Slowly melting to you with it. Drawing his fingers from you and leaving slick pooled at your inner thighs.
“I should start calling you Magic Fingers Munson.” You decide against his mouth. Breaking apart to kiss the tip of that sweaty round nose of his.
“Mm. I like that.” He smiles down at you and in the moment of distraction.
You slip your hands down his hips and under your shorts to squeeze at his ass with your bare hands. A cheek in each hand. Squeezing the flesh of him. Pulling him into your body cause you want him. You want more. Badly.
“Those shorts are long overdue in coming off.” You tell him nicely. A wicked look in your eye.
“Okay. God, bossy.” He pretends to be put upon. But smirks as he shifts back and pulls the ridiculously tented shorts off and over his very hard cock. He was almost flushed purple. Angry red and throbbing.
Your mouth waters. He’s just as gorgeous as you remember. Shiny head dripping and he’s almost ashamed of how big the wet patch is against the shorts you gave him. Going commando in them rubbing all sorts of friction over his length.
“Come here, Beautiful.” You urge him over. The praise burns red at the tips of his ears.
You Let him slowly ease down on top of you. Skin to skin. His guitar pick necklace dangling in your face. You lift your hips, knocking into him as you get your panties down your hips and over your thighs. He helps slip them down your calves and off your ankles. Biting his lower lip all cheeky as they come off with some grappling.
Makes you chuckle when he crushed them into a ball in both hands and lobbed them over his shoulder. Uncaring. “Don’t need those anymore. In fact I’m banning them.” He decides.
“Evidently.” You agree. As he flicks hungry eyes up and down your fully naked form.
With anyone else, the thought of being naked and bare before them would send you into a maelstrom of panic.
Warped little ugly things and voices, fears, that would nip at your belly and self esteem like razors or stabby little burrs. You’d be worrying about what they’re thinking. And what they’re not saying.
If your boobs were a weird shape or looked odd where you’re laying. Your thighs too fat. The rolls of your stomach. You’d worry that there’s malice in how they view you.
There’s no spec of that here with Eddie. He wears every emotion so openly you actually think you can read his eyes like a textbook. And they’re swimming in love and awe to have you finally naked in front of him.
That, and the fact he looks so hard that he could pop any second like a backed up bottle rocket.
“If anyone’s ever made you feel less than fucking beautiful pencils. I’m gonna have to go and hurt them forever. Fuck me.” He gazes in awe. Brown eyes soaking you up.
“You’re something of a hot fox yourself.” You tell him. Running fingers down the tips of his hair that laid down onto his chest. Swirling a finger around that demon tattoo as its unseeing eyes glared at you. You walked your fingers over the windows legs like how it would crawl. Fingertips grazing his ink and sinking into his sweaty body.
He slips his hand up and covers your fingers with his bigger ones. His rings are so warm.
“Still wanna do this?” He checks like he isn’t sat there hard a flagpole, throbbing purple with need for you. If you’ve decided to just have a handsy steamy night, with no more than this. He can go and jerk off in the bathroom. No hard feelings.
“I really do.” You smile sparky back at him.
He flattens you to the bed with a manic kiss. You squeak when he sneaks a hand up under you and tips you on your side to him, mashing your chest to his front. On your side and crushed right to him as he drowns you in another needy kiss that never seems to end.
Your hand is drawn down to touch him. Cupping him. His hips leap up into your touch. He screws his eyes shut and his fingers dig into your hips. Rounded bitten nails spilling into your flesh.
“Hahh, Babe please. Mercy. I’m about to blow over here.” He begs.
“I like touching you.” You smile. He pants into a loving kiss you give him. His bottom lip sticking to yours.
“I noticed.” He gulps. Trying to breathe through your strokes. If you gently cupped his balls and played with his sac this would all be over way too soon.
You peel away from his mouth and he almost whines, face pained from the absence you’re creating. You twist back and fumble in your drawer for a couple of seconds, seizing the strip of condoms and bringing them back to the bed, tearing one gold square away.
Eddie swallows. Takes the square out your fingers and tears the top off with his teeth. Spits it out with a ‘pah’ and begins rolling the slippery off white condom onto his dick. Getting lube all over his fingers. Making the task a tricky one but he manages it eventually.
He rolls it to the base and your stomach is curling and kicking in excitement. You’re so ready and horny for this boy.
He kisses you again, you hold his shoulders as he rolls on top of you. Kissing your neck and shoulders and probably giving you get more hickies against your pulse points so he can gaze at them after and feel giddy as you’re trembling in afterglow alongside him.
“Get inside me.” You urge him in a breath whisper. Following it with a sloppy kiss.
“I’ll go slow.” He promises. Eyes nearly wide. Full up and sparkling with half love and half anxiousness.
You watched him chew his lip and hold himself at the base to guide into you. When the head of him lined up to your pussy, you couldn’t help but clench. He eases himself into you, slow as he possibly could.
He pushed his way inside and swore blind he actually saw heaven. Biting his lower lip as he sank to his fullest. Breaching you just right with the most minimal sting that came from how tight you were; wonderfully warm and the wetness he coaxed out with his fingers helped the glide.
You gasp when he finally seats deep. Hips flush to yours and he’s shaking. Practically punching blood out his lower lip with his teeth he’s biting so hard. Spit wet lip nearly quivering as he checks in with you again.
“With me?” He asks. Voice sounding wounded. Dragged through hoarse gravel with need.
“So with you, Eddie.” You moan.
You have this glazed hungry look in your eyes that he must admit he kinda likes, he pushes into you and fit like a glove, hands tucked under you and almost shivering from how good it is. How he hasn’t blown his load yet he’ll never understand. Willpower of the gods over here.
He swore. Over and over curses trip from his lips as he starts to move. His eyes are shut, face deftly arched into an expression of sheer bliss. Eyebrows pulled up in the middle. Mouth slack and moans sailing over the pink bed of his tongue in husky waves. Overwhelmed at this. How right it feels.
How mind blanking this feels because it’s everything. It’s you and him joined and horny and so so in mad maximum soul searing love and by god, it’s incredible. He didn’t know sex could be this tangible. He feels like there’s rockets and bonfires in his blood and sliding in his skin, as he slips in and out of you and every push and tug fires more ecstasy.
“Fuuuccccckkkkk me pencils. This… I. Fuck.” He keeps wanting to come up with some element of poetry and meaning but all that keeps coming is fuck.
You’re on the same page.
You both make such wild noises as his hips start slapping into yours. Rhythm picks up and he finds a pace that feels so right it shocks him with goodness right down to his marrow.
He hunts for that spot he’s read about in those dirty magazines of his. Intrepid searcher for it. He started to fuck you with the intention of finding it.
Clasped your hips, cupped them upwards. Undulated up to meet you pushing for more. Stroked into you like it was his only chance of keeping you. As if he has to prove how much he needs you. Fucking you reverently. Linking your knees up over his hips to get at an angle that makes you cry out loudly.
This rewrite every sordid snatch of gossip you’d heard about sex. Sex wasn’t scary or clinical like the way you’d learnt about in classrooms with blazing cheeks as you tried to fumble snapping a rubber onto a banana and dying of awkwardness. Not feelings you’d be picked on and teased over the way the nastier jocks cat called the cheerleaders. This wasn’t seedy teens so pumped full of vanity just looking for a quick easy way to get off.
This was a whole new plain. This was where sex could feel beyond amazing. It was skin torched to blistering fever hot and sweat slicked, indulgent, and messy certainly, and not washed in sin or gut clenching shame. This was an act of no pretension between partners, stepped up to the same mark and seeing each other fully, with nothing but respect and love. So much affection traded in every kiss. Every touch slaked in reverence.
His thrusts punch air of you with each slap. Skin meeting wetly. You can’t believe how intense it feels. You keep expecting it to die down but it only seems to blaze harder. Seizes your whole lower body. You can feel the giddiness of it thrashing up and down the backs of your thighs.
He opens his eyes and meets yours; darkly focused and intensely set on you as he reaches between you to get at your clit. Squeezing his fingers between your bodies to increase your pleasure doubly. His eyes so focused on you it was nearly worrying.
He was so intent on making sure you’re well cared for. That he’s the good type of boyfriend who’ll check you’re okay, and fuck your brains out just right.
“Fuck, pencils, I’m, huuh, Oh god you’re gonna kill me man. Can’t wait to see you cum on my dick. Waited so longgg you’ve no idea. Tell me you’re close too...” He babbles, damn near choking his words out.
“Mmmn. Close. Close.” You eke out as a warning. His work on your clit is dragging you perilously close to the edge.
You think you meet him babble for babble. You nod your head and sink your fingers to hold onto his hair at the nape of his neck. Tug his mouth to yours to share a messy sweaty kiss. Teeth clacking, tongues lolling, tasting salt and devoted desperation, and you almost can’t breathe.
Hypoxia and love clots and spikes in your lungs. It’s a shared feeling. You’re gazing at one another like you each strung the stars up in the sky.
“Want to make you cum. Wanna make it so good for you.” Eddie narrates in a hoarse mumble, as he fully loses his mind and pounds you softly with deep strokes that feels like it hits up into your stomach. The way he slaps into you with your pelvis tilted up turns out to send you launching into bliss.
It’s like he shot you into the stars. Swirled his fingers on your clit in firm slow circles pressed right to your body. It takes three swipes of his fingertips and something unbelievable just bursts below your gut.
Sparks shoot up and down your legs and back again. You clamp and clench and moan so loud, swear blind that your eyes flick back in your head like marbles, like you’re possessed. You cry his name but past the sound of your own heartbeat roaring in your ears it’s hard to tell.
Eddie was fucking you hard, all gentleness lost in the chase for pleasure. He’s nearly drooling, red faced and shaking. Sweat beading on his brow. Hair stick in wild curly vines to his face. You’re squeezing him so tight it’s like you want to reel him in and never give him back.
He gives you five more body bowing thrusts before he breaks too. Sinking down chest to chest to grind himself deep. Clutching your thighs wrapped around him like a mad man and hammering deep. Mouth falling slack as he starts to come apart.
He fucks you through the most perfect first orgasm. Gasping as he reaches his fill and blows his load unendingly onto the condom with a shaky groan, and several more stuttered curses.
Pleasure just kept on going. Finally rolling to a stop when it had completely ravaged every cell inside him.
He flopped down on top of you with a heaved out groan. You tightened your legs around him and chuckled. He was a nice comforting weight but he’s heavy and sprawled like a bony sack of limbs when you’re trying to catch your breath again.
You drifted into clouds and a sensation that’s drowsy and sweet like honey milk. Body sliding into molten contentment. He made you melt into this bed in a heap of sweat and moans that follow the shape of his name in excessive mania and praise.
“Jesus.” He comments. Groaning.
Still gasping for air when he shuffled up and catches your eyes. Chest heaving. Tits still looking incredible, feeling how you still squeezed down on him, plugged to the hilt inside you.
You lean up and untangle a long lock of hair from sticking to his cheek. Thumb it away and hold his eyes. He swallows, finds his sex wearied voice.
“How uh, umh was it, uh, good, for you too?” He runs his finger along your collarbones. Against a particularly vicious purpling hickie.
You lean up and answer him with a slow smooch to the lips. Tasting sweat and his scent completely envelopes you. Your shampoo and his hot skin emanating notes of sweat. It’s so quintessential Eddie it makes you swoon.
You pull away and catch his eyes again in the soft warm glow of your room. You cup along his soft rounded jaw with your hand.
“Eddie…” your heart hammers deep in your chest like it wants out.
“I love you.” You finally gather up the strength to say it. Slow and sure. It’s been rucking up and pooling and building in the back of your throat for weeks now.
Ever since he circled you on that lounger when you were pissed and drunk, at Kyle’s keg toting jock infested party. Where you edged around each other like morons, and flirted with hearts hung in your eyes.
At the arcade on your date as he looped his arms around your waist, and tried to beat you at lair of the dragon and dig dug. His hair draping over your cheek as he jiggled, tried to be distracting, and make you lose.
When he elbowed his way in your window by surprise, with a tin of Campbells noodle soup one night, cause he heard you were sick and all on your own.
You could hear the way his brain churned to supply you with an answer.
He seemed stunned. Your stomach clenched. And then he smiled. “Shit.” He gasps.
“I love you too, pencils. Damn. Feel like I should’ve mentioned that sooner.” He beams with it. Brows drawing as he felt like a rat for not saying something.
You smile so wide. Gushing. “I think now is kinda perfect, actually.”
There’s candles and music and there’s been mutual orgasms. How much more perfect could it get?
You lean in and sink him into a kiss once more. You can’t get enough of those lips of his. So silky. You’d gladly kiss him forever. Unending.
He moans as he shifts off and out of you.
With your head coming back to you, laying there as you suddenly realise with horror that over your panting to regain breath, and heartbeats gonging in ears, that Long Train Runnin’ by the Doobie Brothers is now playing. He realises too.
“Mmmm romantic. I like the mood you’ve set.” He teases.
You snort laughter in realisation. Horrified and covering your eyes with a hand he tries to peel away as you curl up in the sheets. Ashamed.
“It’s my mix tape. It wasn’t intentional. It started out with some Carole King. It was meant to be indie chick and totally cool.”
A slow grin has clambered across Eddie’s lips and it shows no signs of leaving.
“Something tells me, somewhere in Hawkins right now, probably within a fog of sativa smoke and some Credence blasting away, that Sal is laughing his bony ass off at us.”
You shake with laughter. Smiling into your pillow. Burying yourself into the covers.
When you meet his eyes. It doesn’t help you can’t stop. His sticky skin pressed up on yours. You place your hand on his chest. Trace that sweet old tattoo. Feel his chest walls expand and sink. It’s calming.
“Stooppp, no! That’s awful.” You chuckle.
“What is he like a sex guru? He can hear people getting it on.” You ask.
“A superpower I fear would come with a hell of a lot of drawbacks.” Eddie commented idly. Mouth slanted into a grimace.
“Yeah I’m not interested. Flying or invisibility would be way cooler. Handier too.” You decide. Eyes growing swollen and heavy lidded.
You let out an easy contented sigh. Picking sweaty tendrils of hair off his forehead. You’re laying on your sides facing each other. He’s got the sheets draped over his hips. Hand smoothing over the round of your thigh and into the dip of your waist.
“I feel like Jell-O right now. Like, a huge bucket of Jell-O. That was amazing. You’re amazing.”
“You’re sex drunk, Munson.” You tell him gently. He twirls a finger over your shoulder. Leaning over to kiss it.
“Yeah I am.” He kisses against your skin. Looking awful smug.
“And shit, now I really want a beer and a smoke.”
“I think I can help with that.”
~
Ten minutes later and you’re both sat cross legged on your bed in some very mussed blue daisy sheets.
Snacks had been fetched. Beer had been brought up to the bedroom cause you wanted to spend the rest of the night slobbing around.
Eddie had wanted to bask in the glow of nakedness a while longer. You threw on clothes that he tried to pull out your hands. You successfully lured him to the kitchen with kisses, along with golden gleaming promises of ice cold Coors, and Pizza Rolls. It worked a treat.
You’d pulled on your discarded shirt and a new pair of panties. Wrestled your definitely sex tousled hair up into a scrunchie. All in all this gave Eddie full view of all the love bites he left on your neck. Both new and fading.
The sight of you barefoot in your kitchen making post-sex snacks, really sets something warm and fuzzy going in his romantic heart.
It leaves him looping his arms around the small of your waist, dragging you closer from where you’re lathering peanut butter and sticky grape jelly onto thin slices of bread. Licking some of your thumb and smiling as he nuzzles into you again
He treats distance with a sharp distaste. As if any spare atom of space between your bodies is a disgusting affront.
There’s no hesitation in his action, in the way he burrows himself into your skin. Groin against your ass. Snugged tight. No trepidation.
The tip of that bulbous round nose crushed into your skin. Dips it into the hollow of your throat. Long rocker hair tickled the side of your face as he chomps kisses over your neck and over those tender bites to make you giggle.
You sip on a cold beer and almost snort it out your nose when you watch Eddie take a huge bite of piping hot pizza roll that then spills out to burn his fingers. He dances around and flaps his hands like the muppets on sesame street. Hair bouncing. Eyes wide as he chugs cold beer to lessen the burn.
End up holding an ice cube to his tongue with water dripping down his open mouth and onto his shirt. Gives you that ice cold tongue for a filthy kiss when he’s finished waggling it at you, flitting those brows up and saying he could it use it on you for far dirtier things.
You accept the kiss. Offer to blow on his pizza rolls like he’s a toddler. His eyes gleam when you say the word blow and you playfully slap his ass with a stern ‘don’t.’
You put on some music as you assembled the sandwiches.
“Kinks? Nice.” He comments as he walks around, pretending to strum your saucepan like his warlock.
“It’s moms. She’s got a Brit rock fetish.” You explain.
“Anything mod 60’s she loves. She’s unhealthily obsessed with the Beetles and all things Bowie. And Cilla Black, Cliff Richard, and she has a Who poster in her bedroom signed by Keith Moon. She says she loves it more than both her kids.”
“Anglophile huh?” He beams.
“For sure. She passed it down to me in anarchistic punk genes.” You smile.
“So I gotta rip my clothes, cut my hair and die it bright red, gel it all spiky, and adopt a shouty British accent to get your attention?” He asks. Fake pouting.
“Nah. I like what I have.” You twist over and lean up on tiptoes to smack a kiss on his barely stubbly cheek.
“Awh. I like a gal who settles.” He winks. Slinging an arm around your shoulder.
You laugh around your kitchen, fake guitar strumming with said saucepan and head banging, dancing mad and barefoot along to your mom’s cassette in the stereo.
You watch his hair fly, and he twirls you to the sound of ‘You really got me.’ He turns it up way too loud and you truly don’t care if the neighbours hear.
He’s laughing and burning brighter than the sun to your eyes. Your narrow hipped skrungly wild child boyfriend. Goofy as all hell and irresistible. You soothe him with a kiss as you twirl him too. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss.
Your array of dining choices includes jolly ranchers, some sort-of-in-date pretzels, pizza rolls and smooshed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. All washed down with beer.
You’d put on your favourite dossing movie - pretty in pink - and don’t end up watching any of it. Too busy snacking with Eddie and enjoying the beers. It must be close to midnight. Witching hour, he calls it with a spooky witch voice.
You find you don’t want to sleep. You want to soak up every moment with him. Watching him perch on your armchair like a gargoyle and blow smoke out the window you opened for him. Filling the room with the muggy cloying scent of American Spirits. As show and explain to him, finally, who Duckie is.
He bitchily points out with glee that James Spader is totally like Linda’s boyfriend which you can’t help but agree with.
He finished his smoke and came springing back onto the bed. Plying you with kisses and getting his hair in your face and tangled in your kiss. You playfully shove him off and stuff another pizza roll in his mouth.
“Y’know, We should do something to commemorate tonight.” Eddie comments through with a mouthful of pretzels and beer.
Slumped back on your bed. His head resting against your hip as he sits in front of you so you can both watch Jack giving Andie her pink dress.
“I thought the sex was pretty fucking good”. You say with a big smile. Sprawled length ways across the width of your bed.
“I was thinking something more permanent.” He grins. Not taking his eyes off the screen. “Some ink.” He says.
“It’s 1am babe. I don’t think any tattoo parlour would be open now and definitely not for two underage’s.”
“Who said anything about needles?” He waggles a purple sharpie at you.
You raise a brow.
He ends up tipping you on your side with the promise of endless oral and kisses, and then he’s drawing a love heart tattoo on your bared ass cheek. With an arrow sprouting off the side and a big scraggly ‘E’ perched in the centre of the heart. Devil horns too. Just for maximum affect.
You watch him concentrate. Laid on his belly with his legs kicking in the air and his tongue poked out between his teeth.
“Masterpiece.” He insists as he finishes with a flourish. Kisses it too with a ‘mwah’
“Should be with you for 5 to ten days babe.” As he snaps the lid back on.
“Alright, but I demand tit for tat, Munson.”
He grins like a letch. And you whip the sharpie off him.
“One to match? Anywhere you like.” He encourages. Throwing his top off and gladly throwing it at your huge Billy Idol poster.
You sit up and begin your work. A huge plump heart on the space not taken by tats, opposite the demon and the spider. You surround the heart with little lace like edging and decide on a ‘P’ for Pencils as the initial. With an arrow just like the one he drew on you. And sparkles and stars. Just because.
He dips his chin to see it when you draw back, finished. Closing the pen lid with your thumb and a resounding click.
“Will that do you?” You ask. Tilting your head to examine your work.
“Mm think that’s gonna have to be added to the permanent collection babe.” He awards truthfully.
Leaning forwards and grasping your shirt at the waist - two handfuls. Bringing him in. You’re both knelt facing each other. He kisses you long and slow for a moment. When you pull back, those stunning bourbon eyes stun you with their intensity.
“Best night, maybe, ever.” He rubs his hands up your back. Something sparkles in those eyes. It’s totally wicked. You run your hands though his tousled dry hair as he paws at you.
“I concur.” You decide.
“My turn to set the mood.” He holds up a finger. Springing off the bed to slow your mattress wobble, and you watch his scrawny ass bounce a little in those red pink shorts, and his skinny legs as he stalks to your desk and fiddles with your stereo.
You laugh when ‘Give it to me baby’ starts chipping with Rick James sultry voice and deep base starts playing.
“Tacky as hell.” You admit even though you do like the song.
He turns back to you and smiles like a king. Fully smug and flirty. He’s snacked and smoked and refuelled. He’s nowhere near done.
No because why did he look so good in this scene specifically. Like all he’s doing is opening a cabinet to grab spaghettiOs and he looks unbelievable. The fluffiness of his hair? His face. I never see anyone talk about this.
His smile bright against the black backdrop. His long curls are pulled back into a low bun, a few strands loosely falling around his face. An undone tie hangs around his neck and his shirt is unbuttoned just enough for a tease.
His brown eyes are deep and velvety, making you feel as though you could melt into them.
Small wrinkles form just beneath his eyes as he smiles. And those fucking dimples.
You turn the page to see a montage of photos of him sitting on a chair.
Knees spread, leaning back with a cocky smile.
The black tie remains tossed around his neck but that's the only article of clothing he has on.
His hair is down now, his untamable curls matching his wild personality to a T.
His guitar that's propped between his legs is the only thing covering his private area.
His ringed fingers grip the guitar as he grins.
In one of the photos his long tongue licks along the neck of the guitar. The sight making your heart speed up in your chest. The guitar is moved to a few different positions as he poses for the shoot. Every one of them making you crave more.
There's a model on his lap at the bottom of the page, Eddie's hands covering hers as he shows her where to place her fingers on the strings.
You keep eyeing the pages, feeling yourself getting wetter as you take in every detail of his body.
The next photo he’s fully nude with his middle finger stuck out towards the camera.
Fuck, he looks good. His tatted chest is glistening, his dark hair wet, drops of water cascading down his naked form.
You turn the page once more.
His dark eyes stare directly into the camera, a perfect smirk planted on his plump lips, his eyes basically screaming 'fuck me'. His shaggy hair in disarray.
A black and white photo of him slouching in a large leather chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips as smoke rolls towards the ceiling.
The last one makes you jealous. Wishing to be the girl in the photo.
He has one hand in his hair, his head tossed back, an expression of pure pleasure on his face. A nude model on her knees, her face blocking his cock while his other hand grips her head, giving the full illusion that she's sucking his dick.
Eddie fuckin Munson
* this is partially a small excerpt from my fic on wattpad that I’ll be moving over soon. 🤭 it’s ex boyfriend rockstar Eddie x popstar reader 🖤
We always talk about Eddie’s bullet belt, but we never talk about where it came from. We always talk about Eddie’s bullet belt and throw around headcanons that Steve got it for him, or Robin, since he didn’t go inside War Zone and couldn’t have got it for himself. We always talk about Eddie’s bullet belt, but we never talk about the fact that it was Erica who got it for him. Erica, who had known Eddie all of five days. Erica, who had only really spent three of those five actually interacting with Eddie. Erica, who, despite everything— Vecna curse, upside down nonsense, false murder charges, the general ‘Freak’ rep —not only really comes to like Eddie and wants to help clear his name, but also comes to know him well enough to take one look at a bullet belt while shopping for the quote-unquote necessities to say, “Yeah, no, that long-haired little metal dude is gonna eat this shit up. Gotta get it. Steve’s wallet can cry later,” and be absolutely right when she did. They might be going to war, but they can at least accessorize… Erica Sinclair, you are a genius, and we bow to you.
Can we talk about Eddie’s hands real quick? Cause like okay, he plays guitar, he’s good with cars, he most definitely knows how to roll a joint, he wears cool rings. Alsoooo the clip where he’s in the cafeteria flipping the bird, YOU CAN SEE VEINS?!?! WHEN I TELL YOU I LOST IT I MEAN I LOST IT. Sooo anywho…I live for Eddie and his hands
Summary: Look, you're only helping him out because your friends have taken pity on him. It's totally not because of his stupid, pretty face and how much you want to kiss it. Totally.
In which you're in denial about your crush on Eddie until he has to go on the run and crash at your place. Horny antics ensue.
Content Tags: Explicit (18+ MINORS DNI), smut, porn with feelings, oral (f + m receiving), blowjobs, handjobs, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, somnophilia, choking, bondage, handcuffs, rough sex, smoking, drinking, drug use, marijuana, switch!eddie, idiots in love, love confessions, angst, hurt/comfort, discussions of anxiety/death/near death experiences/ptsd, fix-it, fuck canon all the homies hate canon, reader is in college and eddie's age.
tags are collective for entire work - check each part's individual warnings before proceeding
author’s note: no but hiking/nature-walk sex with eddie has me in HEAT. also my bf and i like to fuck on hikes sometimes so this is inspired by that concept hehe
cw: 18+ , semi-public sex, THE HANKY STAYS ONNN, unprotected p in v, dom!eddie, sub!fem!reader, cream pie
scenic route
[wc: 421 words]
“can’t believe how loud you’re being for me right now. you want us to get caught, is that it?”
panties to your knees, eyes rolled up to the misty clouds, you’re taking eddie from behind during a “nature walk” he snuck you off to, belly-first and sprawled out onto a nearby log.
“eddie,” you whimper. “fuckeddiefuckeddie fuck…harder, harder, harder!”
he quickens his pace and you’re a mewling mess. you hear him ask you, “how’d that one feel?” followed by a “like that?”, and a “yeah, like that huh?” but you’re already far too fucked out to answer him.
“look at you,” eddie tsks, shaking his head to admire your beauty. “sweet girl getting fucked all silly, she can’t even speak.”
your pussy loves his knowledgeable cock so much, judging by the way it hugs itself so tightly around him, milking him for everything he’s got, and lubricating his thick shaft with the slick of that spongey heat.
“fucking shit…” you whisper as you near your edge. “‘don’t care if people see. need you to keep fucking me, please, eddie…”
knowing you’re close, eddie is further incentivized. his grip on you loosens briefly as he restrains your arms with one hand and reaches for his handkerchief with the other.
smirking to himself, eddie rolls the hanky neatly into a long thin rectangle before nestling it snugly between your teeth. using the leverage he now has, he tugs you up towards him.
“mm!” you cry out in pleasure.
your burning core clenches around eddie as you feel him twitch inside of you. the aggressive sounds of slapping skin echo loudly across the bare wooden field. after a few more knee-buckling pumps into what feels like the base of your cervix, eddie paints your guts with his hot cum, the overflow dripping down your legs and onto the dewy blades of grass beneath.
letting you ride out your orgasm, eddie pulls your lace panties back up for you and straightens out any wrinkles on your skirt you may have acquired throughout the ordeal. when you come to, you can only beam up at him in awe.
“how was that, baby?”
“fucking amazing,” you rave as you and your twinkly eyes lean into him. “you always know how to fuck me so good.”
he issues you a tender kiss on the forehead before standing you back up, smacking his large palm across your ass. it causes you to whimper once again.
“and that,” eddie announces. “is why i like taking the scenic route.”
Just me simping over Eddie (and others) 18+ only!! @themrsmunson - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
