I love Eddie Munson (40+) UK Seaside dweller….Mother….Wife…heavy metal…autistic adhd always up for chats…..perpetually in love with Eddie and appreciating Steddie ❤️
Helloo! I would love a espresso, with an extra shot. And a cookie plzz<3
call it what you want | eddie munson x f!reader
cw: 18+ mdni, handjob, best friends to lovers, perv!eddie, mentions of masturbation (f), dirty talk, oral (f receiving), fingering, 2.2k
note: i present to you, pervy bsf eddie
1k celly | masterlist
eddie could feel his heart hammering wildly in his chest — could also feel the blood rushing straight to his cock. no, this can’t be happening, not when you’re sitting right there next to him on the sofa. your right leg was crossed over your left, which hiked your short plaid skirt up enough to showcase more of your thigh. eddie silently cursed himself and prayed to whatever god would listen to take away the filthy thoughts beginning to infiltrate his mind.
usually, those thoughts would creep in late at night when he was trying to go to sleep. he’d imagine how you’d look with your mouth stuffed full of his cock. your pretty eyes welled up with tears as you gazed up at him, silently pleading for him to fuck your throat just a little bit faster. he’d picture himself between your legs, tongue flicking at your clit with two fingers pushed in to the knuckle. he’d wonder how tight your cunt is, how wet and warm you’d feel around his cock. the way your walls would flutter and clench with each thrust he gives you. he’d try to imagine how your moans would sound, how his name would fall from your lips, begging him to fill you up with his cum.
in those moments, he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt. his mind was clouded with lust, only focusing on how fucking good his hand felt stroking his painfully hard cock. it wasn’t until after the post-orgasmic bliss faded did the reality of the situation sink in, leaving him with a heavy, ugly feeling in his chest.
you were his best friend and had been ever since the 10th grade when you two were paired up to be lab partners in biology. he was there for you through every heartbreak, every new relationship, the drama with the other girls in your class, your parents' divorce, and everything else in between.
to have those sexual feelings about you, in his eyes, made him just like every other guy — the ones you complained to him about who only wanted to be your friend in hopes of getting into your pants. he hated that he had them, but no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t push them away for good. they always came back stronger and stronger, and now, much to eddie’s horror, they’re coming up directly in your presence.
he knew he should avert his gaze, should put his attention back on the movie that he insisted the both of you watch. instead, his eyes roamed over your exposed thigh, taking in how the hem of your skirt stopped just below your groin. if you moved even the slightest bit, he’d be able to catch a glimpse of your panties. what kind were you wearing? were they black? pink? blue? purple? cotton? lace? his cock swelled at the idea of you wearing a red lacy thong underneath.
you cleared your throat and it brought eddie back to the present. he quickly tore his gaze away from you and reached to grab his beer from the coffee table. to not seem conspicuous, he glanced down while he took a decent swig, taking notice of the obvious erection straining against his dark denim jeans. fuck what was he gonna do? if he noticed it, you could too if you happened to look directly at his lap.
he closed his eyes and tried to picture every repulsive thing imaginable to get rid of his hard-on. mrs. o’donnell in a bra seemed to be doing the trick, until he felt your hand on his thigh. his eyes snapped open and he looked down at you, the panic clearly evident behind his big brown eyes.
“are you okay?” you asked sweetly. “you’ve been fidgeting this whole time. d’you not like the movie?”
eddie couldn’t speak. your hand was close to his crotch, so close. one inch to the right and you would be touching him. he swallowed thickly, trying to wrack his brain for a good excuse.
he stammered a bit, brows furrowed and slightly shaking his head before settling on, “nah, no. e-everything’s good.” followed by a nervous chuckle and a fake smile.
you weren’t convinced at all. and it wasn’t just because it was blatantly obvious that he was lying. you had noticed him staring at you. noticed how he sucked in a sharp breath when you crossed your leg over the other and your skirt rode up. noticed how he had to dig his nails into the denim of his jeans — something you figured was to keep himself from reaching out to touch you like he most likely wanted to. out of the corner of your eye, you could see his gaze roaming over your body, and you couldn’t deny the warmth that flooded you because of it.
“really? because something tells me your mind was…somewhere else.” you scooted closer to him, and he tensed up a little, earning a giggle from you.
when he doesn’t say anything, a habit of his when he’s really flustered, you gestured to his lap. all of the blood quickly drains from his face, turning him slightly pale. fuck, you knew. you knew and you were probably going to be super freaked out and want nothing to do with him. you were going to yell at him, call him a freak, and run out of his trailer as fast as you could. at least, that’s what he pictured every time he thought about what you would do if you ever found out.
“i uh — listen, i-it’s not what it looks like—.”
“i think it’s exactly what it looks like,” you note. “you got a hard-on. all because of how short my skirt is.”
it feels like the walls are closing in on him and he’s struggling to breathe. he closes his eyes, waiting for the inevitable moment when you start cursing him out. that never comes, though, and eddie is beyond shocked when you carefully rub your palm over his erection.
he looked at you, eyes wide, a mix of confusion and wonder behind them. your lips were tugged into a wicked smirk as you felt his cock twitch against your touch. “isn’t that right, eddie?”
he doesn’t know what to do. in all of his worrying, he never stopped to think about you actually being into him that way. you always called him your ‘buddy’ and spoke to him like you did any other friend you had. he thought his chances with you were slim to none and had come to accept that you would only ever see him as a friend.
“i-i,” he stuttered. he took one last glance at you. your bottom lip was pulled between your teeth, eyes filled with what he could only describe as lust, chest slightly heaving as you continued to palm him. you wanted him. just like he’s wanted you all this time. that revelation destroyed every ounce of panic within him, and in it’s place, left only an intense state of arousal. “i can’t help but have dirty thoughts when you look like that.”
you can’t suppress the whine that slips past your lips. you increase the pressure of your hand on his bulge, keeping your eyes glued to his. “hm..do you think of me like that often?” you asked thoughtfully.
“y-yes,” he admitted, swallowing thickly as he flicked his gaze from your eyes, to your lips, then back again. his cheeks flushed a hint of pink in embarrassment, but, judging by your lack of a reaction, you don’t seem to mind his confession one bit.
“do you fantasize about me? about what i’d do to you?”
he nods, unable to speak as you drag your nails over the imprint of his cock. he was incredibly hard, you noticed, his cock practically begging to be let out from the confines of his jeans. you trail your fingers up to the waistband, slowly undoing the button. you pull the zipper down and eddie feels like his heart is going to burst through his chest. he’s breathing hard, licking his dry lips as he watches you intently.
“in your fantasies, did i ever do this?” you carefully take his cock in your hand, unable to contain the moan that spills past your lips. it’s a lot bigger than what you had anticipated; the head is perfectly shaped, leaking beads of pre-cum from the slit, shaft is thick, slightly curved to the left, with a prominent vein along the underside. the sight, along with the heavy feel of him in your hand, makes your cunt clench around nothing. you brush your thumb over the tip, relishing in the slight twitch from eddie as he gets used to your touch. you lean over him gathering enough spit in your mouth before dribbling it onto his cock. you start to pump him slowly, from the tip all the way down to the base then back up again, twisting your hand on the upstroke.
eddie watches in awe, soft groans and whines leaving him as you work his cock. he nods, letting out a shaky, “shit, yes.”
getting to actually experience you giving him a handjob was so much better than any fantasy he ever had. you were perfect, knew just the right amount of pressure to squeeze his cock and where to put most of your attention to. his head tilted back as your other hand moved to cup his heavy balls, moaning hotly.
“i thought so,” you said with a smirk. you gently squeezed the tip on the upstroke, mewling as pre-cum gushed from the slit. “can i tell you a secret?”
he flicks his gaze to you, plump lips slightly parted. “w-what is it?”
“i fantasize about you, too,” you confessed. “fuck myself with my pretty pink dildo every night and imagine it’s you.”
there’s no way any of this is real. you? masturbating while thinking about him? an image of you with your legs spread wide, thrusting the dildo deep inside your little cunt flashed in his mind.
“fuuck…,” he groaned, rutting up against your hand.
you leaned into him, your lips ghosting along the outer shell of his ear. “do you wanna fuck me eddie?” you whispered and he shivered against you.
“yeah,” he nodded. “god, i wanna fuck you so bad, baby, please.”
“good…because i can’t go another second without you being inside of me.”
you smashed your lips against eddie’s, releasing some of the pent up sexual tension you had been feeling. his lips moved seamlessly with yours, like the two of you had done this a thousand times over. eddie brought the hand that wasn’t on your thigh to cup your cheek, gently brushing his thumb across your soft skin. it was a stark contrast to the way the two of you were kissing, but it made your head spin all the same. you pulled back, about to lift your leg over eddie’s lap when he stopped you.
“wait,” he breathed, peering up at you through the strands of hair that fell over his eyes. “i know we’re just friends, but—”
“just friends?” you interrupted him. “do your friends make you feel like this? do they make you moan like this?”
“n-no,” he shook his head, his brown eyes never leaving your gaze.
“didn’t think so,” you said with a slight smirk. “i know my friends sure as fuck don’t make me wet like this. don’t make me so goddamn horny i can’t even think stra—”
in a swift motion, eddie flipped you onto your back, his hand delving between your legs to rub his fingers along your clothed cunt. “you’re right,” he said with a devilish smirk as he rubbed slow circles on your clit over your panties. “i think we’re well past the point of being just friends.”
you rolled your hips up into his hand, a soft, needy sound slipping out of you.
he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and yanked them down your legs in one impatient motion, flinging the ruined scrap of fabric somewhere behind the sofa. your plaid skirt stayed bunched around your waist, leaving you bare and glistening for him. he spread your thighs wider, settling between them like he belonged there, and just stared for a second, eyes dark and hungry.
“jesus christ,” he breathed. “s'much prettier than i ever imagined.”
he dropped his head and licked a long, filthy stripe from your entrance to your clit. you cried out, back bowing off the cushions, one hand flying into his wild curls. eddie groaned like he was the one being touched, tongue working you with messy, eager strokes—lapping, sucking, flicking your clit until your thighs started to shake around his ears.
two fingers pushed inside you without warning, sliding knuckle-deep into your tight heat. he curled them immediately, finding that spot that made your vision spark white at the edges, and pumped them in a steady rhythm while his mouth stayed suckling on your clit.
“eddie…oh my god,” you babbled, hips jerking, trying to ride his face and his fingers at the same time. he moaned against you again, the vibration shooting straight through your core, and you felt yourself flutter and clench around his digits.
I said “expect this to be drawn and posted some time this month” in August, and now here we are in September, but better late than never :) I missed drawing this pretty boys I love them.
Written for the third of the @steddiemicrofic 3rd year anniversary celebration prompts, micro | WC: 555 | Rating: E | CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI insecure!Eddie, body worship, mention of scars, oral sex, orgasm delay/denial, cum eating | Tags: Post-S4, semi-established relationship
Steddie masterlist | General masterlist
Eddie feels like he's under a microscope. It's a sunny afternoon, and he's never been examined in such detail before. Ordinarily he'd be uncomfortable, squirming under such close scrutiny. What if they dislike his body? What if the more they see the less they want? What if they somehow uncover his true self? What if they run…?
But today, Steve's inspecting every curve of muscle, every crease, every inch of skin, every freckle, inked line and perceived imperfection. And all Eddie can do is lie there and take it.
They've hooked up a few times, albeit hurriedly. Eddie’s van, the break room in Family Video, midnight at Skull Rock. Always mostly clothed, or somewhere dark enough where Eddie doesn't care. So it's a new feeling, being this naked, this… open with someone.
He allows Steve's eyes and fingers and mouth to travel wherever they please, over sharp bones and spindly limbs, second-rate and half-decent tattoos, all his scars, his very being. Lets him lick and stroke and suck and sigh, focusing only on the experience and sensations, ignoring the niggling apprehensions about what Steve might be thinking or feeling and trying to believe the muffled murmurs that sound like he can't bear to leave Eddie’s skin,
“My god, Eddie. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”
Steve's mouth skims over the uneven, pink flesh of Eddie’s chest. Humming, he sucks the peaked flesh of his remaining nipple past his lips. Eddie whines, gasps, hands grasping his own hair, trying to ground himself while Steve’s attention moves down his stomach and happy trail and he mumbles,
“And you taste… mmm… so fucking good.”
Soft skin slips around his cockhead, and Eddie hisses as Steve slurps his smeared precum like its manna itself before wet heat suctions around him. Eddie jerks and bucks, Steve's broad palms holding his hips static as he swallows him down.
Eddie writhes and moans, finally yielding to the restraint, and suddenly he's succumbing to the bliss of Steve's mouth embarrassingly quickly. He grunts unintelligible warnings as his balls tighten and abs tense, and his hot spend pulses forcefully into Steve's receptive throat.
Breathing heavily, he lifts his head to watch Steve sit back on his heels, groaning as he swallows Eddie's seed. He's accustomed to them having quick hookups, and anticipates Steve'll leave now, but Steve's heavy, lidded eyes lock to Eddie's. He dips to lick a wide stripe along his softening length, suckling gently at the head to garner every drop of release, Eddie’s cock twitching valiantly even as he shudders with overstimulation.
Hands squeeze his hips affectionately before sliding up his sides, and Steve continues watching, assessing, examining until their lips connect. Eddie tastes his tongue, himself mingled with Steve's unique flavour, and now Steve's exploring every crevice of his mouth, tongue mapping the roof and dragging around his teeth. Eddie registers Steve's hard member rutting against his damaged thigh as his mouth moves to Eddie’s jaw, hairline, earlobe, his large hands still exploring every location he can reach.
And unexpectedly, Eddie realises this isn't an examination. It's a proclamation. Of adoration. Of addiction. Of love.
And if Steve ever decides to crack him open and examine his soul and psyche with similar microscopic scrutiny? After today, Eddie thinks that prospect might not be quite so frightening after all.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 9.4k
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your boyfriend throws himself off a 200-foot tower to save you. and you've finally had enough.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: established relationship, heavy angst, character analysis, switch!steve, hurt/comfort, pain kink, breeding kink, minor blood kink, choking (m!receiving), bondage (?), hate-sex adjacent, sex as coping, descriptions of blood/injury, fantasies about marriage/children, scars, ptsd, aftercare, fluff, bathing together, palm reading, happy ending
𝐚/𝐧: out of everything I love about steve harrington, this is the thing that breaks my heart the most.
✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦
“You’re such a fucking—idiot—asshole—”
How do you love a man who would die for you, but won’t live for you?
“—selfish dick!”
You slam back into him before the sentence can finish breathing. Words shredded by teeth and tongue, by kisses hard enough to bruise. Bite hard enough, and maybe you can tear the martyrdom out from under his skin. Rip the halo off and snap it between your teeth.
You sink your cuspids into his bottom lip, right over a split that had barely scabbed over on the drive home.
You feel it tear back open. Feel the plush give of it, the hot burst of copper that blooms across your tongue. Metallic and thick, his life slides down your chin in a slow ribbon of red. It smears between your mouths when you grind closer, staining your skin, marking you both.
He makes a sound.
And it’s not anything born out of pain—you’d know.
Deep and guttural, dragged up from somewhere starved. His hands clamp around your waist, fingers digging into your ass as he hauls you flush against him. Denim rasps against the inside of your thighs when he rolls his hips up, grinding into you.
That thick, heavy bulge makes itself known, humiliatingly honest.
Blood in his mouth. Dirt under his nails and the sour, rotten tang of that other place still caked in his hair.
And he’s hard.
Something in him is broken that way.
Years of surviving by the skin of his teeth—beaten and concussed and tortured and choked and drowned and devoured—it’s fucked up the wiring in Steve Harrington’s brain.
Pain tolerance shot to hell. Fear braided with dopamine until his nervous system can’t tell the difference anymore.
Getting hurt no longer scares him.
Now, agony comes hardwired with clarity. That split second before impact, when adrenaline screams through his veins and he’s teetering on that razor-sharp edge of death, that’s when he feels most alive.
Your thumb presses into the fresh cut on his lip, smearing his blood back into it. His lashes flutter. His hips jerk up, rutting against you like you’re fucking him.
You grab his jaw, fingers digging into the sharp hinge to force his gaze down to yours. His pupils are blown impossibly wide; barely any color left, drowned beneath an endless wash of black.
“Yeah?” you whisper, venom-sweet. You drag your thumb down his throat, feel the jut of his Adam’s apple jump under your touch. “Does that feel good?”
He nods.
Doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Whatever scrap of self-preservation he’d once possessed hollowed out by hunger—by that sick, reckless void inside him that only ever seems to ignite after he’s survived something that should have killed him.
A cruel cosmic coin toss that keeps landing in his favor—and instead of gratitude, it leaves him burning for more.
You lift your knee and press your thigh into the seam of his pants. He sucks in a sharp breath through blood-slick lips, head tipping back, throat bared.
You despise it.
You despise that this is the language his body understands. That he can shove you out of the way without a second thought—dangle over two hundred feet of empty air because he decided your life was worth more than his—and still get hard when you hurt him for it.
You drag your bloody thumb to your mouth and suck it clean, eyes never leaving his.
He watches you do it, watches your lips wrap around the pad of your finger to taste, to swallow—swallow his blood like it’s yours, like he’s yours, like the world could never take him from you.
Like he hasn’t already tried to give himself away.
Only this time... it was for you, wasn’t it?
Hurled himself into the abyss without hesitation, fingers scraping at metal while the yawning darkness waited below.
One second slower. One fraction of a heartbeat, and—
Your palms slam into his shoulders.
Just like his had slammed into yours.
Bile surges up your throat as you claw at muscle and bone, shoving and shoving until his balance falters.
He stumbles back, heel catching on the edge of the bed. Momentum betrays him for a second time and he falls back onto the mattress with a startled grunt.
Your stomach falls with him. Phantom vertigo clawing up your spine, even now.
And the moment you close your eyes—
You’re standing on top of that tower.
You remember the look on his face.
That awful, quiet resolve of someone who had already made peace with his fate.
You remember his hands on your shoulders. The firm press of his fingers, the way he held on just long enough to make sure you were steady, to make sure you were far enough away.
Far enough that you couldn’t reach him.
Far enough that you would live.
And then he let go.
You remember the force of it careening you backward, your boots scraping against the metal platform as you fought for balance. You remember the cold bite of the railing against your back. You remember watching him move in the opposite direction, his own momentum carrying him toward the open edge.
You remember his hand shooting out on instinct, searching for anything that would keep him there. His palm scraping against rusted steel, leaving streaks of red behind as his fingers curled desperately around the railing.
The same hands that had pushed you away.
The same hands that had held yours on the way up, guiding you over every rung of that ladder when the height made your stomach twist.
You remember his mouth opening like he might say something—your name, maybe—a goodbye, something he needed you to know—but all that came out was a broken, ragged breath.
You remember the color draining from his face as he looked down, the terrible understanding settling in his eyes.
You remember lunging for him without thought.
You remember Robin’s arms locking around your waist, holding you back so tightly it bruised, her grip the only thing keeping you from following him over the edge.
And then his fingers slipped.
You stalk toward him now, trying to outrun the memory, fists clenched so tight your nails carve crescents into your palms.
He’s sprawled across the sheets, chest heaving, arms flung wide in surrender.
“Why?” you demand, climbing over him, straddling him with an anger so raw it shakes your whole body. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
He lets out a quick breath through his nose, incredulous. Raises his brows like you’re the insane one.
“Seriously? You’re seriously asking me that.”
He’s smiling.
A crooked, boyish thing, manic brightness behind the eyes, adrenaline still lighting him up from the inside out.
It detonates something in you.
You slam your weight down on him, knees digging hard into his sides. The mattress groans, the air punching out of his lungs in a sharp grunt.
You fist the hem of his shirt and yank it up.
The sight underneath steals your air right back.
It never gets easier to see.
Bruises bloom fresh and vicious across his ribs, inky purples bleeding into sick reds. New hurt swallowed by old hurt, skin that never gets the chance to heal clean before something tears it open again.
Jagged crescents from teeth, ropes of pale, warped ridges that split the tan of his skin like fault lines, ready to crack him open. That chunk of puckered flesh on his right side that never healed right—and it never will.
Your fingers drag down the center of his chest, shaking.
“What was the plan this time, hm?” you spit, nails scraping over the soft plane of his stomach, catching on one of the scars. “What was the fucking plan, Steve?”
You hook your fingers into his belt buckle and rip it loose, hard enough that the metal clangs against itself.
“Answer me. What would you have done if—if Jonathan didn’t catch you? If you slipped?”
His head falls back, exposing the flushed column of his throat, pulse hammering wild and alive under skin you’ve kissed a hundred times.
“What the hell was I supposed to do?” he pants. “Let you fall?”
“You didn’t know I was gonna fall!”
“Well I wasn’t gonna fucking wait to find out, alright?”
The mattress groans when he pushes himself upright too fast, pain flashing across his face before he buries it immediately, one hand flying to his ribs on instinct.
“I can’t... I’m not gonna just stand there and wait for something to happen to you.”
Your body goes still.
The bright sting behind your eyes arrives right on cue, the fury choking off in your throat until all that’s left is grief.
“You know,” you whisper, quieter now. “You know I’m not just talking about the tower.”
There’s a moment of recognition in his eyes as the words sink in, a flash of something that might be guilt if he ever let it sit long enough.
He knows exactly what you mean.
Then, just as fast, he shutters himself. Lets the feeling die before it can root.
His gaze slides away toward the ceiling.
“No, don’t... don’t do that,” he mutters. “Don’t make this into some... suicidal thing. It wasn’t.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“No.”
“You could’ve died tonight.”
“But I didn’t.”
“That’s not the fucking point!”
“Well what do you want me to say?” he fires back suddenly, frustration cracking his voice. “That I’m sorry I stopped you from falling?”
“I want you to stop acting like your life means less than mine!”
He clamps his mouth shut, an audible click of his molars as he frowns, incredulity settling behind his wide eyes. His brows pulling together as he stares at you like he can’t understand why you could possibly be saying this.
Steve doesn’t consciously believe his life matters less.
He would never say that.
But somewhere deep down—in the ugly marrow of him, in the abandoned, lonely places built inside him when he was a kid—he believes it instinctively.
You’ve known that for a long time now.
Steve grew up starving.
Not for food.
For affection.
A reason to believe he mattered even when there was nothing he could offer except himself.
Love, in the Harrington house, was conditional.
And at Hawkins High, he traded one kind of emptiness for another.
Built himself a throne out of borrowed attention and hollow praise.
Then the world ended, and suddenly everybody needed him.
Needed his fists, his strength. Needed the frightening way he could take hit after hit after hit and still stand back up bleeding.
Steve latched onto that feeling with both hands.
And his body became a type of offering.
A thing to spend.
You’ve lost count of how many nights ended exactly like this.
Both of you stumbling back home, adrenaline clawing through your veins, slick with sweat and blood—yours or his, it doesn’t matter anymore. Shaking so hard your teeth chatter while you scream at him, fists slamming into his chest.
Screaming and shoving and crying and kissing and begging—begging him to please, please stop being so fucking careless with your life. What’s the point of any of this shit if you’re dead, Steve?
It always ends the same way. Your anger dissolving into something wetter as Steve reaches for your waist with bruised hands, dragging you against him, mouthing apologies into your throat he’ll never say aloud. Fucking you on top of bloodstained sheets while the smell of iron hangs thick in the room, face buried in your neck, every thrust a word he won't say.
Sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
You stare at him now, chest heaving, lungs scraping for air that won’t come.
Then you reach down and pull his wrists together.
The leather creaks when you thread his belt around them.
Loop, thread, pull, cinch.
Survival knots perfected in the dead of night, in basements and back rooms, hands slick with sweat while you practiced until it stuck. So when the time came, you could hold down something thrashing and dangerous.
Because hesitation is what gets people killed.
It makes sickness crawl up your throat, how naturally your body remembers.
How this world has taught you to restrain someone you love—and taught you well.
You yank his arms above his head, the strap biting into his skin, pulling tight until the leather creaks and his skin pales underneath.
Steve doesn’t fight it, doesn’t even try. Just lets his head fall back against the pillows, wrists falling limp over dark linens.
Has the fucking audacity to smile.
“What,” he breathes, wrecked in an entirely different way now. “You gonna punish me?”
You yank the belt tighter.
He hisses softly through his teeth, brows creasing in a fake show of pain, hips stirring in anticipation.
“Okay, easy, easy,” he mutters breathlessly, grin crooked. “Jesus—easy, honey.”
“Oh, so now I’m honey?”
You shove his wrists harder into the pillow, then drop your hands to his pants, fingers rough and impatient. The button fights you before snapping loose, his zipper dragged down with a harsh metallic rasp. He sucks in a breath, back arching as the pressure eases off his swollen cock.
“Baby...” he tries, a soft laugh in his voice. “C’mon, you don’t have to, just—”
“Shut up.”
You shove him back into the mattress, gaze burning furiously through him.
He just stares back, that reckless, adrenaline-drunk smile still clinging to him like he hasn’t learned a single fucking thing.
So you wrap your hand around his throat.
Four fingers digging into warm, sweat-slick skin. Your thumb presses into the hollow beside his windpipe until you can feel it.
The frantic thump-thump-thump of life.
Life he throws around like loose change.
“S-shit, babe...” he chokes softly, lashes fluttering, eyes rolling back, the fucked-up wires in his brain firing off all at once. He uses what little leverage he has to lift his hips, grinding against your ass until you tighten your grip, a crease of real strain forming between his brows as his breath snags under your palm.
But even then, he doesn’t push you away. His bound hands strain downward, fingers grasping uselessly at your wrist, tugging you forward so he can get you closer, grind up harder.
You hate him.
You love him so much it makes you violent.
And he’s still fucking bleeding.
Face covered all over in fresh cuts and bruises, illuminated by the soft blue glow of the dinosaur nightlight in the corner—same one he’s had since he was five.
This bed once held your first kiss.
Your first time.
Steve laughing breathlessly into your mouth at sixteen years old because he kept fumbling the condom wrapper with nervous hands.
Whispered promises under blankets about senior year and college.
A hundred different somedays and maybes.
About a future that didn’t look like this—didn’t include gates or monsters or watching the boy you love come within inches of disappearing, over and over again.
Now you’re choking him in it.
Straddling him with your hand around his throat because you don’t know how else to make him understand that you cannot survive loving somebody who keeps choosing death.
It won’t leave you alone, the image of his face on top of that tower.
Not an inch of hesitation.
Like it wouldn’t have mattered, either way.
Your other hand comes up, circling his throat fully now, pressing in.
Your eyes sting as you narrow them, forcing yourself to hold his gaze.
Barely a whisper, the words cut you on their way out.
“Fuck you.”
Some days you think about killing him yourself.
Ending it before the world gets to.
Precipitate the inevitable doom that is loving a man who would bleed for you, break for you, die for you—
But won’t live for you.
At least it would be quick, then.
At least you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life waiting for the inevitable moment where his luck finally runs out.
It’s unbearable.
Loving someone who would move mountains to keep you alive, but cannot understand why you’d want the same for him.
Calm in the face of oblivion, martyrdom fits him like a second skin.
That’s what terrifies you most.
Because somewhere deep down, you know he doesn’t fear death the way he should. The way a normal person would.
Sometimes, you think a part of him finds peace in the idea of going out useful.
And it’s all so completely, irreparably fucked, because you don’t love him despite it.
You love him because of it.
Loving Steve Harrington feels like standing on a fault line, waiting for the ground to split wide and swallow you whole.
It’s a special, exquisite kind of torture, to be so in love with a man who throws himself at death like it’s a dare.
And it is love, undeniably and irrevocably so.
You love him.
By god, you love him.
Because his martyr complex is just a twisted language for devotion. When he throws himself into danger, you know it isn’t bravado—it’s instinct. A reflex burned into his bones, older than logic, older than fear.
Love is the only language Steve Harrington has ever been fluent in, and he speaks it with his whole body.
It turns his skin into armor, his heart into a blade. Sharp enough to carve permanent lines inside you—wounds that might close, someday, but never fade.
And he really does believe it.
That this is what it looks like, loving somebody.
But what good is devotion if it buries you?
What good is love from someone six feet under?
Your hand loosens around his throat, just enough for him to drag in a ragged breath. His chest heaves under you, pulse still racing against your palm.
His Adam’s apple bobs, sending ripples of light over the pale rings circling his neck, thin and white against his flushed skin. Scars that still have him jerking awake some nights, clawing at his own throat, gasping like he’s still back there.
Nightmares that leave him staring at the ceiling until four in the morning because every time he closes his eyes, he sees vines threading around broken bodies. Migraines that get so bad after trips to the Upside Down he has to sit alone in dark bathrooms, forehead pressed against cool tile, breathing through the nausea until the room stops tilting.
His hands still reach for a nail bat when the house creaks at night, before he's even fully awake.
Fear has never made him run. It only ever taught him to step forward.
And the tear you've been holding back all night finally slips free, landing on his bare stomach with a soft, awful plop.
Steve flinches like it’s acid, muscles clenching underneath you.
“Baby...”
You let go of his neck fully as you sink back onto his thighs, fingers gone numb, teeth digging into your lip until copper floods your mouth.
“You didn’t even hesitate.”
You watch as his expression immediately sobers, brows drawing together, eyes flicking between yours.
“Y-you never do. You never fucking hesitate,” your breath starts coming in tight hitches, catching in your chest. “And it’s like—it’s like—”
The rest of the words slip free, torn loose now that everything’s exposed, out there in the open, your handprint around his throat and his wrists bound in leather.
“...It’s like you don’t even care if you leave me here.”
Steve goes silent for a moment, shoulders slumping with a quiet breath.
You watch—eyes burning, body trembling—as he slowly reaches for you. The leather belt creaks as his wrists slide down until his fingers brush yours.
You feel the metal burns on his palms against the back of your hand—his skin split from gripping the railing so hard he tore himself open just to keep from falling.
He whispers your name on a soft breath.
“Baby, if I ever lost you?” He shakes his head faintly. “That’d be it for me.”
You sniff hard, refusing to blink.
“I mean it.” Light pools in his eyes, trembling along the lower lashes until they glimmer like wet glass. “I’d never… I’d never leave you behind. How could I?”
He closes his fingers gently around your wrist, thumb brushing over your pulse.
“I love you. More than... more than anything. You know that.”
You lift your gaze slowly to meet his.
“Do I?”
Two words, but it’s the ugliest thing you’ve said all night.
It's suffocating, the silence that follows.
“Do you ever think about us? About me?”
Because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it?
For all the names you’ve thrown at him in your worst moments—reckless, stubborn, idiot, a selfish asshole with a death wish—
It’s you who feel selfish.
For wanting him to stay.
For wanting to keep him in a world that seems determined to take him first.
For wanting him to choose you over the next disaster that crawls out of the dark.
Because you’re terrified that when the moment comes, when it’s you or the world, he won’t have to think about it. That the world will always reach for him first—and that one day, it’ll win.
Or worse, that he’ll choose you instead.
That he’ll stop running toward danger because of you. That loving you will make him hesitate.
And you’ll be the reason he changes.
The reason the world breaks.
Steve’s expression changes in a flash.
The belt creaks as he tries to sit up, a real wince cutting across his brow when his bruised ribs take the pressure. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, dragging himself upright.
“Look at me.”
You turn your head instinctively, but he follows.
“Hey. C’mon. Look at me.”
Hazel burns molten in the dim light, the shine in them trembling.
“Of course I think about you,” he whispers, breathless. “You don’t think I think about you? Hey, hey, look at me—you’re all I think about. You’re in my head, all the time. Every fucking second.”
Your tears spill harder, falling freely now, dripping from your chin onto the dark brown fabric of his cargo pants, leaving small damp spots that bloom between you.
“Every time something goes wrong, or—or I’m thinking about doing something stupid, you’re there. First thing. Your face, your voice. Telling me to stop being an idiot, telling me to think—"
You shake your head, a broken sound catching in your throat.
“And if I just stood there tonight,” he presses on, eyes locked on yours, brimming with tears but never flinching, “If there was even a chance you could fall, and I didn’t do anything?”
He swallows.
“I couldn’t live with that. I mean it, honey. I couldn’t.”
A tear slips loose and slides down his own cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.
“Baby, I... I wasn’t trying to die. I was trying to end this. All of it. So we don’t have to keep doing this forever.”
His mouth twitches faintly.
“You remember what we talked about? About college? That stupid road trip idea I had with the camper van?” He shakes his head, letting out a quiet laugh. “Six kids, right? Or... whatever insane number I said.”
His hands come up as much as the belt allows, clumsy from the strain in his shoulders, and cradle your face. His thumbs drag across the wet heat beneath your eyes, catching tears as fast as they fall, rubbing salt into flushed skin.
“That’s the goal. That’s always been the goal.”
He leans forward until his forehead presses against yours.
For a long moment, he says nothing. His hands stay on your face, thumbs brushing softly over your skin, his breathing uneven in the small space between you.
Then, almost too quietly to hear:
“I would’ve jumped with you.”
You recoil immediately, shaking your head hard, eyes squeezing shut.
“Don’t. Don’t fucking say that.”
Steve pushes on, voice low and terrifyingly calm.
“If you’d fallen off that tower tonight, I would’ve followed you.”
His thumb brushes under your eye again, catching another tear before it reaches your jaw.
“Wouldn’t even think about it. I’d just go.”
“Steve—”
“I’d go.”
Your eyes snap open.
Those big, stupid hazel eyes bore into yours.
That stupid nose. Those stupid thick lashes and those stupid moles and those stupid lips.
And underneath all of it, that huge, catastrophic, stupid heart crammed inside a body that keeps throwing itself into danger like it doesn’t belong to him.
Your chest aches just looking at him.
You’ve spent countless nights staring at Steve Harrington while he slept beside you, wondering if loving him would always feel like standing barefoot on train tracks.
Waiting.
Feeling the vibrations underneath your feet before the impact ever comes. Knowing that something massive and merciless will come racing toward you and there won’t be a damn thing you can do to stop it.
Sometimes you’d trace the slope of his nose with the back of your finger. Follow the shape of his eyebrows. The tiny scar under his chin from a T-ball game when he was six.
You’d study the dip of his cupid’s bow, the soft curve of his lips as he breathed into his pillow, completely unaware of how thoroughly he’d ruined your life for anyone else.
And you’d torture yourself with the same impossible question.
If someone had stopped you before all of this, taken your face in both hands and said:
Here, this boy is going to become the center of your entire world.
He's going to make you laugh so hard your ribs hurt.
He’s going to kiss you like you’re the last person on earth, and he's going to love you so completely you'll forget there was ever a version of yourself that existed before him.
He's going to look at you like you're the only thing worth finding at the end of the world.
Then one day, he’ll start throwing himself in front of monsters and nightmares beyond comprehension.
He's going to throw himself off a tower without hesitating if it means you get to live.
Would you still choose him?
Would you still let him in, knowing one day he might not make it back?
Would you willingly hand your heart to someone who would protect it with his life—
But never his own?
And even in the quiet space of that hypothetical, the answer had never changed.
You would.
Every fucking time.
“I love you,” the boy in front of you whispers.
The words slice straight through you, scraping against everything frayed raw inside your chest.
“Shut up,” you breathe, eyes squeezing shut.
Because if he loved you, wouldn’t he try?
Wouldn’t he try?
“I love you.”
“Steve, s-stop.”
“I love you. There’s nothing—nothing—that matters to me more than you.”
“Steve, I swear to god—”
“You’re it for me. And if it came down to it again—”
“Please, stop—”
“—I’d choose to jump. Every time.”
It feels like a seam is splitting inside your chest.
Your breath caves first—a sharp, stuttering inhale that catches in your lungs hard enough to hurt—before your body moves on instinct.
You surge forward, the mattress groaning beneath the force of it as you crash into him, fists tangling in the front of his shirt.
“Fuck you,” you sob.
Steve sucks in a breath as you pound weakly at his chest, his restrained hands jerking uselessly between your bodies.
He can’t hold you properly. Can’t wrap his arms around you the way he wants to.
Still, he tries.
He shifts forward on the mattress, pulling you between his thighs. The leather around his wrists creaks when he strains to hook his arms around your waist.
You bury your face against his neck.
His entire body folds around yours, chest pressed flush against you so tightly you can feel the frantic hammer of his heartbeat through his sternum, the uneven rise and fall of his lungs where your bodies are crushed together. He presses his cheek against your temple, breathing hard through his nose.
“I know,” he murmurs hoarsely into your hair. “I know, baby. I know.”
“N-no, y-you don’t,” you choke out.
Your hands claw at his shoulders hard enough to bunch the fabric beneath your fists. You need him closer. Closer than skin, closer than bone. If you could unzip his ribs and crawl inside his chest just to keep his heart beating yourself, you would.
“You don’t know,” you sob against his throat. “You d-don’t know what it f-feels like—”
“Hey,” Steve whispers shakily. “Hey, c’mon. Breathe for me, baby. Please.”
You curl tighter against him, fists twisting in the soft cotton of his shirt until your knuckles throb from the effort. The tears don't stop. They soak into the warm skin at the base of his neck, your breath catching against him in broken, uneven pulls until your throat burns and your ribs ache with every desperate inhale.
Steve gathers you as close as his battered body will allow. Every so often, he presses another lingering kiss into your hairline, your temple, the crown of your head, each one quiet enough to say what words can't.
“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs into your hair. “M'right here, I got you. Not going anywhere.”
You let his words settle over you, one shaky breath at a time. The sobs begin to lose their violence, splintering into uneven hiccups that leave your chest sore and hollow.
When you finally pull back, it's only far enough to see him.
Your hand trembles when you lift it to his face.
Steve goes still as your fingertips ghost over the scrape on his cheek, tracing down the line of his jaw. He doesn’t so much as flinch when your thumb brushes over the split in his lip, featherlight over the broken skin there.
The first kiss is soft.
Nothing like the frantic, bruising collision from earlier.
But it’s worse like this, somehow.
Wet with tears, with blood, salt and iron passed between soft, shaking kisses. Steve sighs into it, a trembling sound that vibrates against your lips as he tilts his head and follows you deeper. His nose nudges against your cheek, his kisses careful, almost hesitant in how tender he’s being with you.
And it’s funny, really.
How grief can change shape in the span of a heartbeat.
One moment it's lodged beneath your ribs like broken glass, your body still trapped on that radio tower, watching Steve disappear over the edge.
The next, it's here.
In the careful way he kisses you, the warmth of his breath against your mouth.
In the slow, wet drag of his tongue against yours, your fingers hooking into the open button of his pants. The zipper presses cold against the side of your hand before you push deeper, slipping beneath the elastic of his briefs.
He’s already half-hard. Heavy and thick and burning hot against your palm, velvety-soft skin twitching when you wrap your fingers around him. The soft curl of hair at his base brushes against your knuckles when you adjust your grip.
He pants openly into your mouth as you slide your other hand into his hair, gripping tight, yanking his head back at the angle you want it.
Nose to nose, lips brushing even as you’re not kissing—only sharing air and spit, slick between swollen mouths.
And your eyes stay open, watching him.
Darkened hazels and helplessly fluttering lashes, his is a face that will haunt every version of your future. The one you almost lost, the one you’re still begging the universe to let you keep.
“Show me.”
He blinks at your words, lips parted in soft pants.
“Show me how much you love me.”
He swears under his breath, eyes clenching shut.
“Fuck…” he groans, shaking his head slowly, side to side, grunting when you drag your thumb across the sensitive tip. “Baby, please... just untie me,” he pleads, straining against his binds again. “Please—fuck—let me touch you—”
“No.”
“Please, baby—”
“No,” you repeat, wrist rolling as you start to stroke him harder, feeling him swell fully in your grip.
He grunts, brows creased in pleasure as you continue to squeeze and glide your palm up and down his length, lips parted to keep kissing you in this obscene way, tongues sliding together in slow, wet strokes.
“God, you’re so... so pretty when you’re mad, you know that?” He huffs against your mouth, almost a laugh, throat gone hoarse and dry from how hard he’s been panting.
“You get this look like you’re—ah, fuck—like you might actually kill me.”
You squeeze your grip around his cock, dangerously tight.
“Maybe I should.”
Something catches in those soft hazel eyes, then.
Pinning you in place with nothing but their unblinking stare, almost unnervingly steady.
You watch, helpless, as he lifts his own hands up toward his mouth. He spits lewdly into the hollow of his right palm, shoving his waistband down just enough to free his cock, replacing your hand with his own.
Wrists still bound, he slicks himself in slow, wet strokes, eyes never leaving yours.
"Yeah?" he asks quietly. "You gonna punish me?"
He tips his chin up toward you, lashes nearly brushing your skin when he blinks.
“You gonna use this cock, baby? Take it out on me?”
He uses what little range of motion he has to rub his tip up and down your glistening slit, obscene schlicks that fill the space between your breaths, spurred by the impatient grinds of your hips.
And the moment he pushes inside you, he breathes the words against your skin.
“I love you.”
His mouth swallowing your whimpers at the stretch of taking him this way—no prep, no lube, just spit—yours, his, it doesn’t matter anymore.
“I love you. I love you. We’re... we’re gonna be okay, baby, I promise. We’re gonna be okay.”
Your hands shake as you reach for the belt around his wrists, the buckle catching under your fingertips before releasing with a muted clink. He cups your cheeks as soon as it does, cradling your face, pressing his lips against yours.
“I love you,” he repeats against your mouth, over and over. “I love you. I love you.”
Grief really is a funny thing.
It burns until there's nothing left to consume
And the anger that had kept you upright for hours—the frantic, desperate need to make him understand how terrified you'd been—begins to crumble beneath the weight of what you almost lost.
Your strength gives out in increments. Your fingers slowly uncurl from his biceps, the crescents your nails pressed into his skin easing away. Your forehead finds the warm slope of his shoulder instead, eyes slipping shut as the last of the fight drains from your body.
You sag forward, soft whimpers and low groans exchanged between your lips as you rock back and forth on his cock, letting it fill up the hollowed-out places inside you.
And when you get too tired to do even that—when your strength gives out, thighs trembling with the effort of lifting yourself up and sinking back down—he’s there to catch you.
One arm sliding securely around you as he eases you onto your back, the muscles in his shoulders rippling under your fingertips as you wind your arms around his neck. You cling to him as he kisses you hard and deep, exchanging punched-out breaths as he starts up his thrusts with newfound fervor.
"Gonna marry you," he pants suddenly, stealing what little breath you have left.
You gasp against his mouth, caught between a disbelieving laugh and another sob. “Steve—”
“I mean it,” he insists, hips snapping into the mattress, barely pulling out before burying himself back in. “I-I want all of it. That house with the... the porch. That trip we keep talking about, in the camper van, and—”
His face screws up and he has to stop moving for a second, drawing in a shuddering breath.
“I’m gonna marry you and—fuck—gonna give you a baby.”
You choke on the words, a helpless sound catching in your throat as you cling to him, bruisingly tight.
“Yeah?” He strokes your hair back, cupping the crown of your head with his palm. Smoothing the sweat-slick strands away from your face, thumb lingering at your temple as his eyes search yours. “You want me to give you a baby?”
You nod into him, unable to find the words.
“How many?”
His pace is unrelenting—thrusts hard enough that the bedframe is thudding repeatedly against the wall, hard enough that you know the wallpaper’s going to show it tomorrow.
“Tell me,” he grunts, voice rough with emotion, like he needs to hear you say it out loud. “How many?”
Sweat shining along his skin, hair a damp mess across his forehead, but he never once looks away.
“F-fuck, I don’t...” you break on another sob, eyes clenching shut. “Two. Maybe... maybe three.”
“Three,” he repeats to himself, and his hips snap a little sharper. “What about... what about four? Make it a—mm, fuck—make it an even number.”
And it’s hardly new—the kind of bullshit he spouts when you’re both this far gone, when adrenaline has burned through every last nerve and neither of you are thinking straight anymore. He’s always been prone to making wild promises in the heat of the moment—spinning out impossible futures and reckless dreams, building an entire lifetime in the space of a few breathless minutes—just to get you both off.
But tonight, they don’t feel like a fantasy at all.
“You’d look so... so fucking pretty,” he pants, voice breaking. “Pregnant with my kid. Jesus.”
“Mm, close...” you whisper weakly, face scrunched at the unbearably mounting pressure in your lower stomach.
“Yeah? You’re close? You gonna come for me?”
You nod, burying yourself closer, clinging to him harder. “T-tell me again.”
“Tell you what, baby?”
“That you... that you love me.”
“Fuck,” he groans, thrusts turning sloppy as he buries a loud groan against your lips. “I love you. Love you so fucking much. I don’t even know what I’d do without you. I—shit, a-are you coming? Oh, fuck, that’s—that’s it. That’s my girl.”
Your orgasm hits hard and blinding. A broken groan ripping out of you as you clamp your thighs around his waist, mewling into his skin. You blink your eyes open just in time to see his gaze fixed on you—expression reverent, chest heaving as he watches you shake underneath him.
And as you go to kiss him, feeling the labored grunts of his mounting pleasure against your lips, the weight of his breaths and the slick drag of his cock against your heat—
When you press your lips to his and whisper for him to come inside you, make me yours Steve, get me pregnant, keep me, love me, stay with me, stay, stay, please fucking stay—
When he presses inside all the way to the hilt and lets his own pleasure overtake him—
You finally whisper the words back.
Three syllables against the enormity of what lives inside your chest.
Three syllables trying to hold every sleepless night and every quiet morning, every time you pressed your lips to the places on his body that hurt and wished that love alone could take his pain away.
They cannot carry it all.
They never could.
But when he closes his eyes and tips his forehead to yours—his weight melting against you as he presses an exhausted, dazed smile against your lips—you realize maybe the words don’t have to hold it all.
Maybe he can feel the rest.
· · ·
The seal breaks with a sharp snap, the plastic ring splitting loose and skittering across the bathroom floor.
You turn the bottle over in your hand, staring at it for a moment.
It’s the good kind—the expensive kind stored in heavy glass, the label still clean. You haven’t touched it since the day Steve brought it home months ago, back when you could still ask for things like Epsom salt and a box of chocolates at the general store without anyone looking at you like you’d lost your mind.
He’d shown up at your door that afternoon grinning like an idiot, grocery store roses tucked under one arm and a paper bag in his other hand that clinked when he lifted it.
“Thought we deserved something nice,” he’d said, holding up the bag with that stupid, proud little grin. “We haven’t done a proper date night in a while, right?”
But you hadn't used the bottle then.
You'd saved it.
For a night that felt right.
For a night where you weren’t just surviving long enough to see morning.
Your hands shake a little as you tip the bottle now.
Pouring more than you should, watching the pale liquid ribbon into the rushing stream of water, swallowed by the force of it before slowly blooming back to the surface in soft, frothy bubbles.
The smell hits a second later. Sweet, heavy lavender that clings to the back of your throat, swirling with the clean heat of the water.
For a moment, you let yourself go back.
Back to the day Steve bought this because he wanted to take care of you. Because he wanted one normal night where you could both pretend the world hadn’t changed.
A night where the biggest problem was what movie to put on.
Then, the sink creaks behind you.
You turn immediately, heart jumping.
Steve’s reflection is blurred in the mirror—shoulders slumped, chin dipping toward his chest. He’s got one hand braced against the counter, knuckles pale from how tightly he’s holding on. The other fumbles with an orange pill bottle.
“You okay? You need help?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I got it.”
The words are automatic. Steve’s favorite answer to anything that worries you.
He tips a couple pills into his palm, fills the glass beside the sink, and swallows them down.
You watch his face tighten afterward, eyes squeezing shut as he waits for it to pass. His throat works hard, his whole body briefly tensing, muscles bracing against something that should have been painless.
You step closer, hands settling carefully on his arms as you turn him toward you.
He doesn’t argue when you crouch in front of him.
You start with his shoes.
Fingers working at the laces, easing them loose before pulling them off one at a time. They hit the tile with a quiet thud. His socks peel off next. Then his pants, the buttons still undone. His briefs.
He stays silent through all of it, one hand resting lightly on your shoulder.
It’s not much pressure, but you feel the way his weight leans into you, the slight sway when you shift back, like he’s having to constantly correct himself just to stay upright.
Helping him into the tub takes time. You stay close while he steps over the edge, one hand gripping your arm, the other braced against the wall.
Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself into the water.
The second it reaches his ribs, he hisses.
“Shit—”
His head falls back against the tile, eyes squeezing shut as a sharp breath slips between his teeth. His hand tightens reflexively around your wrist.
Foamy water laps against his chest, darkening the hair across his sternum, rising and falling with each careful breath.
“Too hot?” you ask quickly, already reaching for the faucet.
He cracks his eyes open, shaking his head.
“’S perfect.”
You keep watching him, searching his face for the slightest sign that he's only saying it to spare you.
Then, little by little, the strain begins to loosen its grip.
The hard line of his jaw softens first, his fingers easing around your wrist. His shoulders sink another inch beneath the warm water, the tension slowly melting out of them as the heat works its way into his muscles.
His next breath comes easier. Then another.
After a long moment, his eyes drift open again.
They're hazy with fatigue, heavy-lidded and unfocused, but they find you where you're perched beside the tub, knees tucked against your chest.
He squints, mouth twisting into a petulant frown.
“What?” he murmurs. “You’re not getting in?”
A smile tugs at your lips. “You want me to?”
He gives you a slow, incredulous look—the classic Steve Harrington stare.
“Uh, yeah,” he mumbles, like it’s obvious. “How else am I supposed to feel better?”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you stand.
Your hands aren’t as steady as you’d like; you notice it more now, with nothing else to focus on.
You pull your shirt over your head, and immediately hear the quiet shift of water beside you, a soft slosh.
By the time you glance up, he’s already looking at you.
Sitting a little straighter than he was a moment ago, chin lifted despite the exhaustion pulling at him. Steam curls between you, softening the edges of his face, but his eyes never leave yours. They follow every movement with boyish concentration, fixed on you in a way that’s not even pretending to be subtle.
You huff a quiet breath through your nose, fighting a smile as you tug the rest of your clothes off.
“Seriously?”
The corner of his mouth quirks, all innocence.
“What? Sue me.”
He shifts deeper into the tub, water rolling around him as he eases back, making room between his legs before patting the space in front of him.
You step in carefully, goosebumps prickling as the heat climbs slowly over your ankles, your calves, your thighs. The water embraces you inch by inch until you're lowering yourself fully beneath the surface, warmth wrapping around you like a heavy blanket scented with lavender.
The moment your back brushes his chest, his arms find you.
They slide around your waist with familiar certainty, one settling securely across your middle to draw you closer. Your hand rises on instinct, covering his forearm where it rests across your stomach. His skin is warm and damp beneath your fingertips, the fine hairs catching against your palm as your thumb strokes absent circles over his wrist.
His chin grazes your shoulder as he nestles closer, his next breath warming the side of your neck.
“This is nice,” he hums, body growing heavier where it rests against yours.
You let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”
You let your weight settle back into him completely. He answers by tightening his arm around your waist, one hand gliding up to squeeze your side as he draws you a fraction closer.
You take the other one for you to keep.
Turning it over slowly, relearning it by touch. The familiar roughness of his skin, the broad span of his palm, completely swallowing yours whenever he laces your fingers together. Your thumb glides over the callus at the base of his index finger, the thickened patch of skin from years of gripping weapons he never should have had to hold.
You rub over it absentmindedly, once, twice, then again.
“How do you know?”
The words come so quietly you're not even sure you've said them aloud.
“Hm? Know what?”
“How do you know...” You swallow, unable to lift your eyes from where the water laps gently over your joined hands, pale violet opalescence that ripples around you both. “How do you know this is real?”
He goes still at that, the only sound between you the soft ripple of water and the rush of your own thoughts filling the space.
“We could still be down there,” you whisper, the words gathering speed the longer you speak.
“Maybe... maybe we never got out. Maybe Vecna just made us think we won by giving us...” You gesture around the room. “...this.”
The lavender.
The warm water.
Him.
“What if none of it's real? What if he just—what if he made us think we were safe because it'd hurt more when he took it away? I mean, how would we even know?”
Your chest feels tighter with every word.
“What if we're still—"
“Hey.”
Steve's voice is so soft that you almost miss it.
“Hey. Look at me.”
His face is drawn with exhaustion, pain lingering in the tightness around his eyes, in the careful way he holds himself, like every breath reminds him of another bruise.
But they’re still his.
Still that same warm hazel you've spent so many nights memorizing, never daring to believe you'd get a lifetime of looking into them.
“You know how I know?”
Your throat goes tight. “How?”
“Because you’re scared.”
Your brows pull together, fingers tightening around his. He squeezes your hand back, gentle but certain.
“That’s how I know. Because you’re sitting here trying to figure out if this is real instead of just being happy that we’re okay.”
Steve watches you for a moment before looking down between you, at the lavender bubbles drifting around your joined hands.
A bead of water clings to his lashes before he blinks it away.
“I mean…” He draws out a slow breath. “I don’t know if I can prove it. How could anyone, right? After everything that happened? I don’t think any of us are supposed to just wake up the next day and be like, ‘Cool. Guess that’s over.’”
He pauses, a small smile pulling at his mouth.
“But then I look at you and… and I just see you doing that thing.”
You blink. “What thing?”
He lifts your joined hands from the water, droplets sliding down your wrists as the surface ripples around you.
“This.”
He gives your hand a little squeeze, lacing your fingers together more securely.
“You always start messing with my hand when you’re freaking out.”
Your brows pull together. “What?”
He lets out a soft laugh, reaching up with his free hand to gently tuck a damp strand of hair away from your face.
“Yeah, you grab my hand and then you start doing this weird little... I don’t know. Thing. Like you’re inspecting it or something.”
Only then do you realize your thumb has been moving back and forth over the same callus on his palm, tracing the same small patch of rough skin.
“...Oh.”
“Yeah.”
There’s something teasing about his voice now, his smile.
The same Steve who’d make an absolute idiot of himself just to get you to roll your eyes. Who could make you laugh in the middle of the worst days of your life.
His smile softens as he looks down at the water, where your fingers are still tangled together.
His thumb brushes slowly over the back of your hand.
“I guess… I guess that’s how I know.”
The steam curls around you both, blurring the edges of the room until there’s nothing left but this.
His hand in yours.
His heartbeat steady against your back and his voice low and certain beside your ear.
“Because I know you.”
He tightens his fingers around yours.
“I know you.”
· · ·
Eventually, the warmth of the bath starts to fade.
The water isn’t quite as hot as it was when you first climbed in, the lavender bubbles breaking apart into a faint, delicate layer.
You’re still holding his hand.
Neither of you has let go.
“Hey,” he murmurs after a while, giving your fingers a small tug.
“Hm?”
He lifts your joined hands out of the water, turning his palm toward himself.
Then he starts tracing something, slow and awkward, brow furrowed as he studies the lines crossing his palm.
You can tell he’s searching for something—squinting at the grooves in his hand, trying to remember a detail you’ve explained to him once or twice before, maybe more.
You watch him for a second, then mumble:
“You’re doing it wrong.”
“I’m doing it wrong?”
“Yes.”
He turns to look at you, eyebrows raised, genuinely offended in that exaggerated way he does when he knows he’s being teased.
“How can I be doing it wrong? It’s my hand.”
You give him a look.
“Because you don’t know what you’re looking for.”
He glances back down at his palm, then back at you.
“Okay, fine, genius,” he huffs, holding his hand out toward you. “What’s this one mean?”
You smile faintly.
“You don’t remember?”
“No, I do. Just... tell me again? I remember you said mine was good.”
You did. Sitting cross-legged on the couch years ago, his hand stretched across your lap while you traced the lines in his palm. You’d laughed the whole time because you didn’t actually believe in any of it. But Steve had listened like it mattered, eyes serious, hanging onto every word.
You adjust your grip now, turning his hand so you can see it properly. Then you take his index finger between yours and guide it slowly along the deepest line on his palm.
“Here,” you murmur.
His finger follows where you lead it, brushing over the groove that starts just beneath his pinky and curves upward across his hand.
“This is your heart line.”
Steve doesn’t look at his hand.
He looks at you.
“It’s deep, and it doesn’t break. That means you feel things deeply. You lead with your heart.”
He hums softly, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the top of your shoulder.
You keep tracing, guiding his finger toward the end of the line where it curves upward.
“And here, it turns up.”
You press lightly into the space beneath his index finger.
“See that spot?”
“Mm.”
“That’s called the Mount of Jupiter. And when your heart line curves up like that, it kinda means you’re... a hopeless romantic.”
You don’t even have to see his face to know he’s smiling. You feel it in the small twitch of his fingers around yours, in the quiet huff of amusement against your shoulder.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
You follow the line with your own thumb, pretending to study the grooves of his skin like they might reveal something you don’t already know.
But the truth is, you're not really reading his hand.
“It also says you don’t know how to love halfway.” Your thumb follows the line one last time. “When you care about someone… you give them every part of yourself.”
When you glance back over your shoulder, he's already watching you.
Something achingly fragile settled over his expression, a quiet wonder in his eyes as though he's seeing himself the way you always have.
“Yeah?” he whispers.
You nod.
“Yeah.”
You lean in to close the small space between you, brushing your lips against the uninjured corner of his mouth.
It’s a delicate thing, more of a press than a kiss.
His fingers tighten around yours beneath the water.
“Tell me what else.”
You smile, looking back down at his palm.
“You want me to read everything?”
“Yeah. Obviously.”
You turn his hand back toward you, guiding his finger to another line.
“Okay. This one is your head line.”
Steve settles back against the tub, his arm tightening around you as you continue tracing the little grooves and curves in his palm, explaining what they’re supposed to mean.
The truth is, none of this is anything you don’t already know.
You don’t need the lines in his hand to tell you who he is.
You’ve known for a long time.
So you tell him what you've been carrying in your heart for longer than you can remember.
That he’s stubborn.
That he’s brave.
That he loves harder than he knows what to do with.
That he’s always seen himself as ordinary when he’s anything but.
And Steve listens.
· · ·
You stay there together until the water goes cold around you.
And though the lavender fades from the bath, the scent still clings to your skin, lingering long after the warmth has left.
Outside this room, there will still be reminders.
Things neither of you can outrun.
Memories that return without warning, scars that ache long after the wounds have closed.
Maybe some things never fully leave.
Maybe they don’t have to.
Because the bad things are not the only things that get to stay.
And when the first light of dawn slips through the bedroom window the next morning, washing everything in soft gold, Steve is still there.
Lev. My jaw is on the floor. You are without a doubt one of the best Steve writers ever with the way you get him so deeply!!!
From start to finish this entire fic is gold, but these three parts were absolute gut punches. Oh my godddddd.
Lev idk how you do it; you can write about Steve so deeply that it never ever gets old. It’s always so consistent but never feels like a loop of the same points over and over, and I just think that alone makes you one of the best writers in this fandom fr. (Honestly, any fandom would be lucky to have your writing)
The ending def made me cry lmao I’m not surprised. Ugh. Your work is seriously everything. Thank you for writing and sharing this with us bb!!!! 🥹🖤
Eddie is so excited for summer. He has been thinking about summer Steve Harrington for months, patiently biding his time so he can be in all the prime lurking corners for the Steve Show.
He's imagining slutty shorts, no shirts, tan lines, and sweat. Lots of sweat, please, dear god.
Which he gets. Especially the sweat.
Steve is wearing the cutoffs all right, while making Eddie and Dustin help him clear out the attic. It takes a week in July to get everything taken down and sorted through and then another week to clean the damn thing and get everything back upstairs. Eddie's back aches in ways he's always dreamt of coming with hot, steamy sex.
It's okay, though, because two weeks of the glorious summer is nothing. He's still got at least two months of tanned up Steve ahead of him.
And then, Steve signs them up for summer camp. Summer camp. Dear God, it must be love because he's going to help run a three week summer camp for 11-13 year olds. But at least he'll get to see the shorts, and maybe even some swimsuit action.
No. He gets stuck in the craft center, a musty cabin with all the nonathletic kids whose parents made them come. Normally, not a bad gig for him, but the constant sweat and stink and knowledge that Steve is out there pooling it up with some shrimps puts a damper on the whole thing. His only sources of sanity is the little glimpses he gets of a post swim Steve with his little rugrats trailing behind out the window.
What he thinks is going to be the last straw is pool cleaning day. So sexy in theory, but a complete nightmare in practice. They need to move all the chairs, empty the damn thing, scrub it down, and mess with all the nasty chemicals. It's terrible, it's awful, his nose is going to fall right off his face from the smell of chlorine, and Steve is still wearing a shirt.
He hates summer, he knew fall was the best season, he never should have doubted himself.
His eyes catch on the where the back of Steve's shorts have ridden up while he climbs out of the basin, where pale skin meets summer tan.
lu. listen im kinda late. but i had a thought from your smut prompt list 3 i think, “marathon session (they just fucking keep going, babyyyy)” with husky!neighbor!eddie x reader (my favorite) and reader is ovulating and literally wont get off of eddie. like she just keeps wanting more and more for like 1-2 hours straight. now, im also thinking he doesn’t really know what’s going on other than shes mega horny and just cant help herself. he just thinks she took a sex gummy (is that even a thing…?) or sum idk. then he finally asks “what’s gotten into you?” and she just tells him (he knows that it is, and he’s just oblivious.)
cherry what a sensational idea. plz enjoy this blurb <3 more husky!E content here <3
Eddie swears hoarsely as his head tips backwards into the sheets. Every one of his limbs feels wrung out to dry, but he still manages to keep a hold of your hips as they wind down in smaller and smaller swivels.
“Sorry,” you whisper. Not apologetic enough to stop moving altogether, though. Your hands are planted in the middle of Eddie’s chest, and you run your thumbs over the meat of his pecs as your hips continue to twist in tight circles. “Just needta- need you.”
“Goddammit,” Eddie groans in response. His fingertips are near to bruising as he swallows, hard, blinking up at you, feeling the sweat prickle across his skin. “Sweetheart. Don’t have to- apologize. For that.”
It’s becoming increasingly hard to think, three orgasms in. Eddie’s cock is somehow, miraculously, still stiff in the tight sleeve of your cunt.
You’ve had twice as many orgasms as him but are showing no signs of slowing down.
“Think I’m ovulating.” Your stomach ripples with movement, sliding forward and back across Eddie’s lap. Pussy squeezing like a vice with each pass.
Eddie blows out a laugh and regrets it when stars swim into his vision. How is he still fucking hard? “Yeah, y’think?”
You pout down at him, lower lip trembling just like your thighs. One of your hands leaves the round of his chest to snake between your own legs, gasping- “I can’t help it…”
There’s an obscene, wet noise as Eddie’s cock re-sheathes inside the channel of your muscle. The base of him is coated in a mixture of your combined slick and cum.
He sinks his hips further into the mattress in order to tilt them up, curling against that soft spot that makes you cry out.
“Fuck, shit- Eddie- like that-!”
Eddie grinds his teeth together to smother the whine that wants to crawl from his throat. His hands slip to the outside of your thighs, biceps engaging to take more of your weight so he can fuck up into you properly.
“That’s it,” he encourages, breathless, when you start mewling at the pace he sets. “Can’t help it, right? Just gotta let me give it to you. Take it, baby.”
hey Lu what do you think eddies reaction would be if his shy gf asked him for a hug??
(Bc I had a very vivid eddie dream last night and all I want is an eddie hug 😢)
foreword: you've momentarily brought my writing back to life with this anon ty ever so much. here's shy!Reader and Eddie once again, I'm thinkin' earlier in the relationship when they're still sort of figuring it out. love you!!
cw: shy!Reader, overstimulation + introversion, can be read as autistic!R too, they pronouns used for R, Eddie is an understanding sweetheart, also... Tennessee accent makes an appearance, physical affection, the healing power of a well-timed hug <3
wc: <1k
shy!Reader x Eddie masterlist | no smut but mdni as ALWAYS!
Fuzzybrain, you’d called it.
Once upon a time when you were searching for the right word to describe how it felt in your head after a big event, after a day like today of a summer picnic on the river with all the kids- you’d made up your own word for it.
Like the space between my ears just goes fuzzy and I can’t make myself feel anything, anymore. Fuzzybrain.
As if Eddie could’ve loved you any more than he possibly did already (max capacity, four-alarm fire type of love even then) you had to go and invent new words for your beautiful, perfect mind that didn’t need any explaining but fuck was he glad to have a reference.
A younger, earlier version of Eddie might’ve thought you were mad at him on the van ride home.
Forehead leant against the passenger window, hands folded in your lap, not humming along to the radio like you usually do.
But Eddie knows you. Knows what this is.
Fuzzybrain. That’s all. A bad case, it seems.
Eddie can’t blame you at all. You both spent five whole hours talking and laughing and splashing around with the small army of teenagers today, made sure they were fed and hydrated and properly covered in a layer of suncream so no parents would complain during dropoff.
He doesn’t offer his hand to hold. Turns the knob of the music down until it’s less than background noise, and notices when the tight line of stress in your shoulders begins to ease the closer to home you get with nothing but the purr of the van.
Eddie acts as normal- if a bit quieter, gentler in his demeanor, like he’s opening the front door of his trailer for a world-renowned racehorse that’s run magnificently today and needs their rest.
You slip off your shoes next to his boots and start towards the kitchen with a mild, blank expression (three sheets to the winds of overstimulation, as he once called this state of yours), until Eddie catches you by the back belt loop.
“Hold on a sec, sugar. You ain’t gettin’ in the kitchen all sun-drunk like you are- sit your rear end on that couch and pick up a book ‘r two.”
Eddie thrills when the joke of his thick-as-molasses country teasing earns him a dreamy, half-curve of smile before you obey. Tucking your feet up underneath yourself against the far corner of the couch and drawing a bookmarked library hardback into the comfort of your lap.
Eddie doesn’t think too much of it when you don’t talk for the next twenty minutes.
He’s content to putter around in the kitchen, starting up a batch of Melvald’s finest boxed mac and cheese, chopping some veggies into sticks and arranging them in a bug-like fashion onto one large plate for you both to eat from (Who the hell said nutrition was for uncreative losers? No one in this house!)
The pasta is boiling and Eddie is standing in place, staring at the bubbling pot, rehearsing song lyrics in his head.
The day has been so full of noise. He’s enjoying the quiet, too.
There’s a low whirring from the overhead fan which is why he doesn’t hear you the first time, but when you say his name again- “Eddie-” he turns immediately, eyebrows raised.
“Oh, hey, sunshine. Food should be ready in five. Want me to get your other book from the van?”
You shake your head. Back and forth, slow, eyes trained on the tile flooring. “No. It’s… Can I have…?”
Your voice trails upwards like the question was asked in full but Eddie still doesn’t know what you want, guessing instead of asking, making a show of bringing the stick-bug-veggie plate into your sight.
“Hungry? His name’s Gerald. But don’t worry, he was made to be eaten. We can even say a prayer beforehand if it makes you feel better.”
There’s that quick, sweet smile again as your eyes lift from the plate back to his face, then somewhere past his ear as if it’s hard to look him in the eye while you talk.
So softly it barely registers over the drone of the fan, your voice again. “Can I- can I have a hug?”
“Oh, shit.” The shock of the request makes Eddie fumble a bit, tilting Gerald at a dangerous angle until he has the good sense to replace the plate back to countertop. “Jesus. Of course you can. C’mere-”
Eddie was already opening his arms before his sentence was over, just as you were already stepping forwards into them.
Your arms loop around his waist, while his engulf the entirety of your upper back. Warm palms spreading across your shoulders on either side. Your ear to his chest, his cheek to the crown of your head.
It’s quiet again. Save for the fan.
Eddie breathes deeply and feels you do the same. You smell like sunscreen and pine trees and somehow, inexplicably, like the wind around the lake itself.
You’ve always been magic like that.
Eddie drops a kiss to your head. Rocks you ever so gently from side to side, feeling the rhythms of your heart and letting you guide the movement as you need.
description: Eddie Munson has been a regular at your coffee shop for four months before either of you finally exchange names. After that, it's easy conversations and the sort of harmless crush you swear you'll eventually get over. Meanwhile, your sorority house becomes the target of increasingly disturbing phone calls. You just never think any of it has anything to do with the sweet guy who calls you 'sweetheart' every morning at seven.
pairing: ghostface!eddie x reader (fem!reader)
tags: ghostface!eddie munson, stockholm syndrome ish! reader, obsessive!eddie, stalker!eddie, dark romance, predator/prey dynamics, possessive!eddie, yandere vibes, knifeplay, fear and attraction, the mask STAYS ON, dead dove, if crazy why boyfriend shaped
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do NOT interact!! (like fr). stalking, home invasion, coercive behavior, CNC themes, power imbalance, murder, mentions of rape, alcohol use, dead dove
WC: 8.4k
A/N: well well well...the longggg awaited part two is here. i had this and 'i pine, i perish' in my drafts for WEEKS but i had zero time to edit/finalize them etc...BUT i just got an IUD so i am bed-ridden, meaning lots of writing >:).
****disclaimer****: hi <3 friendly reminder that this is a Scream-inspired work of fiction. i am certainly not endorsing any of the behaviors depicted here in real life (w/o consent, ofc). if you're here because you enjoy horror and fictional men who desperately need to be institutionalized, you're in the right place.
reblogs are always appreciated <33
xoxoxoxoxo enjoy, my loves :)
You sat there panting, the haze of sensations slowly fading as Eddie’s head rested in the crook of your neck, catching his breath.
For a moment, everything felt oddly normal. Just you, sitting at your desk, post-sex with a guy you’ve had a crush on for what felt like forever.
Then the cruel realization began to hit when you analyzed your surroundings: Eddie’s cloaked body and masked face pressed against your bare body, knife still gripped tightly at your side, and the looming fact that your former sorority sisters and friends were all dead.
Every single one of them. Besides you.
The reality of it settled heavily into your chest as your gaze slowly drifted to the white mask still obscuring his face. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, neither of you moved.
Then, slowly, your hand reached up. Eddie stiffened; you felt that immediately. But he didn't stop you.
Your fingers found the edge of the mask and peeled it away.
Eddie stared back at you. Not a stranger, not some faceless monster, just Eddie. The same dark curls. The same amber eyes. The same face that had smiled at you every morning across a coffee counter. The same face that had called you sweetheart. The same face you'd spent months developing a crush on.
For a second, neither of you seemed capable of processing it. You already knew. Some part of you had known long before he started talking. Long before he'd mentioned the coffee shop. Long before he'd started listing all the tiny details he'd memorized about you.
Still.
Actually seeing him felt devastating. Eddie's expression shifted through a dozen emotions at once. Relief. Fear. Regret. Something dangerously close to panic.
"You shouldn't have done that," he said quietly.
Your throat tightened. "It was you."
Eddie looked away. For the first time all night, he looked genuinely exhausted. He leaned forward, grabbing a discarded shirt from the floor beside your desk before handing it to you.
"Put this on."
You stared at him. For one brief second, he almost looked embarrassed, like the situation had suddenly become too real for him too. Slowly, you pulled the shirt over your head.
Then the bedroom door opened, and both of you looked up.
A second Ghostface stood in the doorway. His gaze bounced between you and Eddie, then to the discarded mask sitting beside him.
"...Oh." The voice was familiar.
Gareth. The freshman. The one they'd all laughed about. The one Madison had humiliated. The one who'd ended up in the hospital.
Gareth slowly reached up and removed his own mask. "Well."
He blinked. "I guess we're past secret identities."
You stared, your brain struggling to keep up.
Gareth looked at Eddie, then at you, then back at Eddie. "What are you gonna do with her?"
The question hung in the room. Eddie's jaw tightened as he turned to you.
"What do you want?"
You almost laughed. The question felt absurd.
"What do I—" Your voice cracked. "I want to be alive."
Silence. Eddie nodded slowly, like he'd expected that answer. "Okay."
Gareth frowned. "Okay?"
Eddie ignored him. Instead, he stood and began pulling the mask back on. The motion made your stomach drop.
"Eddie..."
He paused, then looked at you. The black eyes of the mask stared back.
"If you're the only survivor who walks out of this house untouched, they're going to arrest you."
The realization hit almost immediately, and your blood ran cold. Eddie continued.
"They'll think you did it."
"They'll think you helped."
"They'll think something."
Gareth shifted awkwardly. "He's got a point."
You looked between them, horrified.
"What are you saying?"
Eddie's shoulders rose and fell. "I'm saying I need them to believe you survived."
The room suddenly felt like it was impossible to breathe in.
"Eddie—"
"I'm sorry." Again, always with the sorry.
Before you could move, his gloved hand caught your shoulder. The next few moments blurred together. A shove, the edge of your desk catching your back hard. The cold tang of a knife slicing your arm. Then a straight plunge into the side of your hip. Pain began to explode behind your eyes.
Next, the floor rushing up to meet you. Voices becoming distant, muffled. Somewhere far away, you thought you heard Gareth arguing. Thought you heard Eddie snap back at him. Then darkness swallowed everything whole.
The next thing you became aware of was noise, so much noise. Radios. Voices. Footsteps. Someone saying your name. Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy.
When they finally opened, bright lights immediately stabbed through your skull, and you winced. A police officer was kneeling beside you. Another stood near the doorway.
The room was packed with people. Crime scene tape. Paramedics. Flashlights.
Questions. Questions. Questions.
"What happened?"
"Can you hear me?"
"Do you know your name?"
You swallowed, and your throat felt raw. The last thing you remembered was Eddie. The mask. His eyes. The apology. Then nothing.
As the room spun around you, a paramedic gently guided you back against the wall.
"You were very lucky," she said softly.
Lucky. The word echoed strangely in your head.
The hospital room smelt like antiseptic and soap, and the buzzing of the overhead lights did nothing to soothe the pounding in what felt like your entire head.
It’d been a long day of answering questions between doctors, police officers, FBI agents, and worst of all, your mom. Every time somebody new walked into the room, it felt like the same conversation all over again.
What did you see? What do you remember? Did either of the attackers say anything? Did you recognize them?
You'd become very good at answering without actually answering.
"No."
"I don't know."
"It happened really fast."
"I'm not sure."
The lies got easier every time, which somehow made you feel worse. By the time the sun started setting outside the hospital windows, a detective was sitting across from your bed with a legal pad balanced on his knee.
"We're almost done," he promised.
He glanced down at his notes. "The nurses said you mentioned seeing two individuals upstairs."
You nodded. "I think so."
"You think so?"
Your fingers tightened around the hospital blanket. "I don't know."
He studied you carefully. "Do you remember anything else?"
The mask. The voice changer. Eddie's face. The flowers Gareth had brought Madison. Coffee cups. Blueberry muffins. Mornin', sweetheart.
You swallowed. "No."
The detective held your gaze for a moment longer, then nodded. "Okay."
It should've felt like a relief. Instead, guilt settled heavier in your chest.
Because you knew things; not everything, not enough, but more than you were telling them. More than anybody else in that building knew.
You'd spent hours trying to understand why. Why you were protecting him. Why every opportunity to tell the truth died before it reached your lips. It wasn't because he deserved it, you knew that much.
People were dead. Girls you'd lived with. Girls you'd laughed with. Girls whose names would be plastered all over the news for weeks. What Eddie did wasn't excusable. There wasn't a version of the story where it became okay.
And yet...
Every time you imagined saying his name aloud, something inside you recoiled.
Maybe because the version of Eddie sitting in your memories didn't match the version everyone was hunting.
Maybe because you couldn't reconcile the guy who fed stray cats and complained about hot dogs with the person standing behind the mask.
Maybe because part of you still couldn't believe they were the same person.
Or maybe because you were a coward. You honestly weren't sure anymore.
The detective eventually left while your mother stayed, unfortunately. The second the door clicked shut, she crossed her arms.
"There's something you're not saying."
You nearly choked. "What?"
She raised an eyebrow. "I know that face."
"There is no face."
"There absolutely is."
You groaned. "Mom."
"I'm serious." She sat down beside the bed. "You look guilty."
"I survived a massacre."
"I know."
The teasing disappeared immediately, and her expression softened. "I know."
After a moment, she reached over and squeezed your hand.
"The police said you can't go back."
You nodded; you already knew that much.
The sorority house was still an active crime scene. Forensics. Evidence collection. Photographs. Investigations. The place wouldn't be reopened for months, maybe longer.
The thought felt strange. Your entire college life had taken place inside those walls, and now they were covered in yellow tape.
Your mother sighed. "I found you an apartment."
You looked up. "What?"
"Off campus."
"When?"
"Today."
"Mom."
"What?" She shrugged. "I was stressed."
"It's in a good neighborhood."
"According to who?"
"According to me."
"That's not reassuring."
"It has security."
"Mom."
"It has locks."
You rolled your eyes.
She pointed at you. "I'm being serious."
A few hours later, after discharge papers and prescriptions and a dozen final instructions from nurses, you found yourself standing in front of a small apartment building on the edge of town.
It wasn't fancy. Just brick, three floors, quiet. The kind of place students rented when they wanted to avoid roommates and campus drama. Normally you'd have hated it. But tonight, it felt like a fortress.
Your mother helped carry in your things. A few bags of clothes. Textbooks. Your laptop. The essentials.
Neither of you acknowledged how little there was. Most of your belongings were still sitting inside a house nobody was allowed to enter.
Eventually she hugged you goodbye, a little too tightly, then she left. And for the first time since last night, you were completely alone.
You brushed your teeth, changed into sweatpants, and locked the front door twice. Checked the windows, and then checked them again.
By the time you crawled into bed, exhaustion had settled deep into your bones.
The mattress wasn't comfortable. The room didn't feel like yours. The ceiling looked wrong. Hell, everything looked wrong.
You rolled onto your side and pulled the blankets higher.
A week passed. At least, you thought it had been a week. Time felt strange now.
Days blurred together in a cycle of police interviews, missed classes, awkward condolences from people you'd barely spoken to before, and the constant feeling that everyone was looking at you differently.
The Survivor. The Final Girl. The Poor Thing. You hated all of it. The apartment helped a little.
You'd settled into a routine of locking every door twice before bed and checking the windows every night before sleeping.
The bruises across your body had faded from deep purple to sickly yellow, and the stitches in your scalp had finally stopped pulling every time you brushed your hair.
On the surface, things were beginning to resemble normal again. At least as normal as they could. Work had helped more than anything. The coffee shop was familiar, predictable.
Most mornings, you could almost convince yourself your life hadn't exploded. The problem was that every morning at seven, your eyes still drifted toward the front door.
The bell would jingle, A customer would walk in, and for one stupid second, your heart would jump. Only to sink again.
Because it wasn't him, never him. No dark curls. No leather jacket. No crooked smile. No "Mornin', sweetheart."
At first, you'd told yourself it was because he was hiding. Then because he was smart. Then because he was gone. The truth was probably all three. By the end of the week, you'd stopped expecting him altogether.
Which was exactly why you nearly dropped your keys when you walked into your apartment Thursday night.
The place was dark. You'd spent the entire day on campus meeting with professors and trying to convince everyone that no, you didn't need special treatment.
You were exhausted, and all you wanted was a shower and eight consecutive hours of sleep. You pushed open the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind you.
Then, you reached for the light switch, but the lamp in the corner flickered on instead. You froze.
Somebody was sitting on your couch. For one horrifying second, every muscle in your body locked. Then the figure leaned forward.
Dark curls. Black jeans. Familiar tattoos.
"Eddie."
He was sitting there like he'd been waiting for you, one arm draped over the back of the couch, and an open bag of pretzels resting in his lap.
Like, this was completely normal. Like he hadn't been the subject of a statewide manhunt seven days ago.
Eddie looked different. The dark circles beneath his eyes were deeper than you'd ever seen. His jaw was covered in several days' worth of stubble. But it was him. No mask. No voice changer. Just Eddie.
For a long moment, he simply stared at you, like he was making sure you were actually there. Then he glanced toward the locked door, back at you.
And said the first thing that came to mind. "You didn't rat me out."
You blinked. Of all the things he could've said, of all the possible openings, that was what he landed on.
"You broke into my apartment."
A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "That wasn't a denial."
"Eddie."
"It wasn't."
You stared at him, and he stared right back. The familiar smile slowly faded, until there was nothing left except something that looked suspiciously like disbelief.
"You didn't tell them."
"No."
"Why?"
You looked away first. "I don't know."
"That's a lie."
"Probably."
Eddie exhaled quietly, his gaze dropping to the floor, then back to you. "I kept waiting."
"For what?"
"For the cops to kick my door down."
You swallowed. "Do they know where you live?"
"No." The answer was immediate.
"I haven't exactly been staying there."
Of course he hadn't.
You suddenly realized you'd never actually asked yourself where he'd been.
Eddie glanced around. "You got a nice place."
You looked at him incredulously. "That's your contribution?"
"What?"
"You vanish for a week."
"Mhm."
"I find you sitting in my apartment."
"Technically your living room."
"And your first real observation is that the place is nice?"
He considered that. "Second observation."
You folded your arms. "And the first?"
For the first time since you'd turned on the light, something softened in his expression. The concern you'd seen in your bedroom that night. The concern he'd spent the last week trying and failing to hide.
"You look okay."
You swallowed hard. "I mean, I'm not okay."
The words came out quieter than you'd intended. "How can anyone be okay considering what happened?"
The moment the sentence left your mouth, something changed in Eddie's expression. The concern disappeared; his jaw tightened and his eyes hardened.
He looked away and laughed once, a short, bitter sound. "Right."
"Eddie—"
"No."
He stood abruptly, pacing a few steps away from the couch before dragging a hand through his hair. "No, you're right."
His voice was growing sharper now. "I should've just killed you."
The words hit like a slap, and your stomach dropped. "Eddie."
"I'm serious." He spun back toward you. "This is exactly why I shouldn't have come here."
"Eddie—"
"I knew this would happen."
His hands were shaking, not with fear, but with frustration. "I should've left you alone."
You stared at him, trying desperately to reconcile the guy standing in your living room with the one who'd spent months making you coffee-shop playlists and complaining about professors.
Finally, you found your voice. "Why?"
The question stopped him.
His expression flickered. "What?"
"Why did you do it?"
Silence.
"Eddie."
He looked away immediately. The first genuine hesitation you'd seen from him all night. "Don't."
"Why?"
His jaw tightened. "Because."
"Because what?"
"Eddie."
His refusal somehow scared you more than his anger. Slowly, you reached for your phone resting beside you on the couch. The movement was instinctive; you barely realized you were doing it.
Eddie did. His eyes snapped downward; then he was moving. His hand wrapped around your wrist hard before your fingers ever reached the phone.
You flinched, the reaction hitting him just as hard as it hit you. Eddie froze, staring at you while you gave him a look with scared eyes. Then his grip loosened immediately.
"I'm sorry."
His voice dropped, the anger disappearing almost as quickly as it'd arrived.
"I'm sorry."
He slowly released your wrist. You pulled it back against your chest, both of you breathing harder than before.
"I wasn't gonna call anybody." The lie sounded weak even to your own ears.
Eddie looked unconvinced. Finally, he sat back down and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
"The plan wasn't supposed to be this. We were angry."
His eyes remained fixed on the floor.
"After Gareth."
You thought about the stories. The hospital. The rose. The humiliation.
"Originally, it was only supposed to be Donovin."
“The pledgemaster?”
Eddie nodded.
"Just him. We spent weeks planning it."
His laugh was humorless.
"Actually planning it. The mask. The voice changer. The calls. The whole thing."
He shook his head.
"Then Madison happened."
You closed your eyes briefly. The name still hurt.
"She wasn't the only one."
Eddie's voice had grown colder now.
"They all knew. They all laughed, all helped."
You thought back to the common room. The stories. The laughter. The way nobody had seemed bothered. Still.
"They didn't deserve—"
"No." His head snapped up. "They deserved worse."
The intensity in his voice made you recoil. Immediately, he saw it, and immediately, he hated himself for it.
"Eddie..."
He looked away. "You know what the funny part is?"
You didn't answer.
"I didn't even know you were one of them."
That surprised you. "What?"
"The sorority." His eyes found yours. "The day I asked your name."
Your stomach dropped. "My sweatshirt."
"Kappa Delta."
You remembered. "Oh."
Eddie laughed quietly. "I went home, and I was pissed."
The admission caught you off guard. "Why?"
"Because I liked you." Its honesty made your chest ache.
"And suddenly I find out you're one of them."
His gaze drifted toward the window.
"I thought I'd been wrong about you. So I started watching."
The words should've terrified you; they did. But they also sounded deeply pathetic and deeply human.
"I kept waiting for proof."
"Proof of what?"
"That you were like them. You never were."
He looked down.
"I watched you leave parties early. You spent Friday nights reading. You worked extra shifts. You brought leftovers home for the girls who couldn't afford takeout."
Your eyes burned.
"I watched you defend Gareth."
The room fell silent.
"And then I realized you weren't one of them."
A tear slipped down your cheek. "Eddie."
"No." He shook his head. "I know what you're gonna say."
"Do you?"
"They were your friends."
The words shattered something inside you immediately. Because they were. You started crying before you could stop yourself.
"They were." Your voice cracked. "They were my friends."
The apartment blurred.
"I lived with them. I knew them. They had families. They had—"
"I did you a favor."
The words cut through your sentence. You stared at him, horrified.
Eddie looked almost offended by your reaction. "They were awful to you."
"What?"
"They talked about you constantly."
The anger was back. Not directed at you, but at them.
"You think they liked you?"
"Eddie—"
"They made fun of you."
His voice rose. "They called you weird. They called you desperate. They thought you were embarrassing."
You shook your head. "No."
"Yes. They did." The certainty in his voice made your stomach twist.
Eddie leaned forward. "They had plans for you."
The apartment suddenly felt very quiet. "What plans?"
His jaw tightened. For the first time all night, he looked genuinely furious.
"The end-of-year retreat."
You frowned. "What about it?"
"They were going to frame you."
The words hit like ice water. You stared. "What?"
"They wanted to dump all the chapter finances on you."
His eyes darkened. "They were planning to accuse you of stealing."
Your breathing stopped.
"They thought it'd be funny."
"No."
"They did."
"Eddie."
"I heard them."
The conviction in his voice left no room for doubt. "They thought because you were quiet and not that involved, nobody would defend you."
He laughed bitterly. "Madison called you expendable."
The tears kept coming. You didn't know what hurt more. The possibility that he was lying, or the possibility that he wasn't.
Across from you, Eddie sat silently while the tears kept coming. You hated it, hated crying in front of him.
Hated that he was seeing you like this. Hated that some sick part of your brain still found comfort in the fact that he was here at all.
Your vision blurred as you wiped angrily at your face.
"Eddie, they were my friends." The words came out broken.
"They were awful friends." His response was immediate, like he'd been waiting to argue.
You laughed bitterly through your tears. "You don't get to decide that."
"No?"
"No." You shook your head. "You don't get to decide who lives and dies because they were mean."
For a second, you thought he was going to get angry again. Instead, his shoulders slumped.
The fight seemed to leave him all at once. Slowly, he moved closer. You should've moved away; you really should have. But you didn't.
"Eddie—"
"I'm not saying what I did was right."
You looked at him skeptically. "Really?"
"No." The honesty caught you off guard. "I'm saying I'm glad you're alive."
His voice had gone quiet, almost tired. "If that makes me selfish, fine."
You simply stared at him, and he simply stared back. Not like Ghostface, not like the guy the police were hunting, just Eddie.
The same guy who used to lean against the coffee counter every morning and give you butterflies with a simple grin. The same guy who remembered your favorite pastry. The same guy who somehow existed inside the same person who had destroyed your life.
"You deserve more than that place." His voice softened. "You deserve more than people who treat you like an afterthought."
You looked down. "They weren't all bad."
"No." His expression softened too. "I know."
The admission surprised you.
"I know they weren't."
Then Eddie carefully reached over and wiped away a tear you hadn't realized had escaped. The gesture felt strangely intimate.
"I was terrified you died."
Your eyes lifted to his. "What?"
"The night at the house." His jaw tightened. "When you got knocked out."
“Got knocked out.” Not, “After I knocked you out.”
The memory flashed through your mind. The bedroom. The mask. The darkness.
Eddie looked away. "I kept checking the news."
A humorless laugh. "Turns out every news station in the country was talking about you."
The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. "That's creepy."
"I know."
The fact that he agreed immediately made you laugh weakly. For the first time all night, the tension eased. Enough for you to finally ask the question that had been lingering in the back of your mind.
"So where have you been?"
Eddie leaned back into the couch. His expression immediately became more guarded. "What do you mean?"
"You and Gareth."
You shrugged. "It's been a week. No arrests. No suspects. No police showing up at your door. So, where have you been?"
For a moment, he seemed to debate whether he should answer. "Moving around."
"Moving around?"
"We stayed at a motel for two nights."
Your eyebrows rose. "A motel?"
"It was disgusting."
"I can imagine."
"The shower looked like it had diseases."
You snorted.
"I knew you'd find that funny."
The brief smile faded, then Eddie shrugged. "After that we split up for a little bit."
Your stomach twisted. "You split up?"
"Temporarily."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "We figured if they started looking at one of us, they'd find both of us."
Its practicality made your skin crawl, as they'd planned for this. Maybe they had.
"They haven't questioned you?"
Eddie shook his head. "Not once."
"What about Gareth?"
"Nope."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
His expression darkened. "They've been focusing on people connected to the sorority."
Your stomach sank. Of course they had.
"Campus security. Ex-boyfriends. Former pledges." Eddie laughed quietly. "One detective apparently thinks it was a drug deal gone wrong."
"What?"
"I know." He shook his head. "It's ridiculous."
The fact that he found the investigation amusing made you feel sick all over again.
A week ago, that would've been the biggest red flag in human history. Now it barely cracked the top ten.
"So you're just..." You gestured vaguely. "...hiding?"
"Pretty much." His eyes met yours. "We're trying to stay quiet. In case somebody finally starts asking the right questions."
You nodded, looking down at the floor.
You don’t know why you felt the need to tell him this next part. It felt almost as though you owed it to him. Why? You don’t know.
“You know…the uh, hospital had asked me some questions.”
He tilted his head. “What kinds of questions?”
You nervously bit your lip, a nasty habit you picked up somewhere after the events of this week.
“When they were giving me a full-body exam, you know…checking me out and whatnot. The nurses, they—” you paused, searching for the correct way to put it.
“They said that my vaginal tissue looked damaged. They assumed that you, that whoever it was—”
“No.”
You looked at him then, his eyes shifting to a combination of fear and sincerity.
“I would never do that to you. Do you think—did I?”
The question hung between you.
For the first time since he'd shown up in your apartment, he looked genuinely afraid of the answer. Not scared of prison. Not scared of getting caught.
Scared of you. Scared of what you might say.
Slowly, you shook your head. “No.”
The tension in his shoulders immediately eased.
“No,” you repeated. “I don't think that.”
Eddie let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for days. “Okay.”
You looked down at your hands. “The nurses kept asking. They asked if I remembered everything.”
Your throat tightened. “They asked if somebody had forced me.”
Eddie's jaw clenched. You could practically see him replaying that night in his head. Every moment. Every choice. Every mistake.
“And?”
You swallowed. “I told them no. I told them I wasn't assaulted.”
Eddie stared at you, the realization slowly settling across his face.
You laughed bitterly. “Which was apparently not the answer they expected.”
“Sweetheart—”
“They wanted to do a rape kit.”
His expression immediately darkened.
You continued before he could interrupt. “And I refused.”
Eddie didn't move, didn't blink, didn’t breathe. He simply couldn’t.
You looked away. “The only DNA they would've found would've been yours.”
The words sounded strange spoken aloud, like you were talking about somebody else's life.
“They would've found evidence you were there.”
His eyes never left you.
You forced yourself to continue. “So I said no.”
Eddie looked stunned. “Why?” The question came out almost immediately.
You laughed once. “That's kind of what everybody keeps asking me. What I keep asking me.”
“No.” His voice was softer now. “Why?”
You rubbed your forehead. “I don't know.”
It wasn't entirely true; you did know, you just hated the answer.
Because somewhere between the coffee shop and the apartment and the hospital room...You'd made a choice.
A terrible one. A great one. One you still couldn't explain.
You looked up at him. “I knew what would happen.”
His brow furrowed.
“If they found your DNA, they'd start asking questions.”
“You covered for me.”
You nodded.
“You covered for me.”
Neither of you spoke for several seconds, then Eddie leaned back against the couch, looking completely bewildered. Like this outcome somehow even surprised him.
“You should hate me.”
The statement caught you off guard. “What?”
“You should.”
His eyes found yours. “Everybody else does.”
The sincerity behind it made your chest ache.
You shook your head. “I do hate you. Part of me does.”
Eddie nodded once, accepting it. “That's fair.”
Tears burned behind your eyes again. “Eddie, I don't understand anything anymore.”
His gaze softened immediately. “I know.”
“I hate what you did.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I lied.”
“I know.”
Your voice cracked. “And I hate that you're sitting on my couch right now and all I can think about is whether you've eaten anything this week.”
The confession slipped out before you could stop it.
Eddie froze.
Eventually, he looked down at the floor, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
“I had a gas station hot dog yesterday.”
You stared at him, then groaned. “Eddie.”
“What?”
“A gas station hot dog?”
“It was surprisingly good.”
“You are unbelievable.”
The laughter faded quickly. Not because anything was funny, but because reality was still sitting between you on the couch.
"So what now?" He asked.
You stared down at your hands. You'd spent the entire week avoiding that exact thought. Now here it was, sitting beside you, looking at you, waiting for an answer.
"I don't know."
Eddie nodded once, as he'd expected it.
You swallowed. "I don't know what this is."
His gaze stayed fixed on you.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
Then you laughed bitterly. "Part of me still likes you."
The admission hurt more than you'd expected. Because it felt wrong, terribly wrong.
"But every time I look at you..." Your eyes stung. "I see what happened."
Eddie's expression faltered. "I know."
"I see the house."
His jaw tightened. "I know."
"I see Madison. I see all of them."
Eddie looked away first. "I can't change that."
The honesty caught you off guard.
"I know."
"I wish I could."
"What if… I tried?"
You frowned. "Tried what?"
"To make it up to you."
A short laugh escaped you. "How exactly do you plan on doing that?"
"I don't know. But I'd figure something out."
You stared at him. There was something absurd about the conversation.
As if the two of you were discussing a bad breakup instead of mass murder. And yet...a part of you wanted him to prove you wrong, to fix his mistake.
"Okay." The word slipped out before you could stop it.
Eddie blinked. "Okay?"
You nodded slowly. "Okay."
You weren't sure what you were agreeing to. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But for now, it was all you had.
Then Eddie's eyes drifted toward the dark circles beneath yours. The bruises still fading along your jaw. The way your eyelids kept drooping.
"You look tired."
You let out a laugh. "Observant."
"I'm serious."
"I know."
He stood slowly and almost reluctantly. Something in your chest dropped: the realization that he was about to leave, that you'd be alone again.
Eddie shoved his hands into his pockets. "I should go."
You nodded. Then, something took over you.
"Eddie."
He stopped immediately, turning back. "What?"
The question sat in your throat for several seconds. Long enough that you nearly changed your mind. "Stay."
Your face burned. "I just..."
You looked away. "I don't really want to be alone tonight."
The confession hung awkwardly in the air.
Eddie stared at you, for once looking genuinely surprised.
If anything, he thought you’d want to be alone, at least away from him. He’s the reason you’re afraid of the dark in the first place. But who was he to complain?
His expression softened then, the same way it used to in the coffee shop when you'd hand him a free pastry at the end of your shift.
"Okay."
Your chest tightened. "Okay?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
The answer was simple, like there had never been another option. You watched him settle back onto the couch. Then he patted his lap once, and you scootched over, resting your head on his thigh.
Within seconds, his fingers began raking through your hair. And within minutes, you drifted off without a second thought.
When you woke up the next morning, you were in your bed. Blankets wrapped around you just the way you liked, somehow in your pajamas, hair brushed, makeup off.
And Eddie was nowhere to be seen.
You looked around for a moment, scanning the room. Then the front door clicked open, causing you to jump upright.
“Who’s there—”
Eddie peeked his head in the doorway with a carry-out tray of coffee in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other, kicking the front door closed with his foot.
“Just me, sweetheart.” He chuckled. “Have you ever seen horror movies? You should never ask ‘who’s there?’ You’re basically asking to get mu—” He paused, reading your expression.
“Anyway, I got your favorites.”
Your chest fluttered despite the comment. You turn to hop out of bed but pause at your keys still on the nightstand, raising your eyebrow while looking at Eddie.
“How did you…”
“Oh, I uh…made a second set.”
You nodded once, like that made sense. It shouldn’t have made sense.
But, in the series of events from the past week, this was one of the most normal ones.
"Anyways..." Eddie slid the coffee toward you before taking the seat across from you. "Got any big plans today?"
You pulled out one of the barstools at the small kitchen island. "Class at noon and then another at five."
He nodded.
"After that, I've got some staff and TAs mixer at one of my professors' houses."
"Sounds riveting."
"It'll probably be painfully awkward."
"You're definitely getting cornered by somebody who wants to talk about their dissertation."
"I wouldn’t even know what their dissertation is on."
"Doesn't matter." He shrugged, "They'll find a way."
A laugh escaped you as you unwrapped your breakfast sandwich.
For the next half hour, the conversation drifted effortlessly between complaints about professors, the coffee shop, Gareth's inability to cook anything that wasn't boxed macaroni, and Eddie's insistence that gas station coffee "wasn't that bad."
"It is."
"It builds character."
"It builds stomach ulcers."
"Semantics."
By the time the coffee cups were empty and the paper bag sat crumpled between the two of you, it almost felt normal.
Like you weren't sitting across from a murderer, and like he hadn't shattered your life barely a week ago.
Eventually, Eddie stood, gathering the trash before tossing it into the kitchen garbage.
"I should probably disappear again."
You nodded. "Probably."
He lingered for another second. "You'll lock the door?"
A small smile tugged at your lips. "I'll lock the door."
"And the windows."
"Yes, Mom."
He rolled his eyes. "I'm serious. There are some weirdos out there after all."
"I know."
Satisfied enough, he gave you one last look before slipping quietly out the front door.
The rest of the day passed in a blur.
Your classes came and went without you retaining much of anything, your notebook filling with half-finished sentences and absent-minded doodles instead of lecture notes.
Every so often, you'd catch yourself staring out the classroom window, wondering whether Eddie was somewhere out there doing the same.
By the evening, the faculty mixer felt like the last place on earth you wanted to be. You almost skipped it.
Instead, you showed up fifteen minutes late with a bottle of cheap wine and every intention of making a polite appearance before slipping out after twenty minutes.
That plan lasted exactly twenty minutes. Someone handed you a drink, then another. Your professor insisted you stay for dinner. Another TA challenged everyone to a ridiculous card game. Before you knew it, hours had disappeared.
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the relief of pretending, just for one evening, that your life hadn't become the lead story on every local news station.
Or maybe trauma had a funny way of convincing you to stay wherever your thoughts couldn't catch up to you.
Whatever the reason, by the time you finally stumbled back toward your apartment, the streetlights had already flickered on.
Your head buzzed pleasantly. You fumbled your keys into the lock and pushed the door open.
"...Huh."
The apartment was completely dark. No lamp by the couch. No light over the stove. You reached instinctively for the switch beside the door.
Click. Nothing. A power outage, perfect. You sighed to yourself, kicking your shoes off by the entryway.
“Fuck it,” You slurred. "I guess I'm going to bed."
Using the light from your phone, you carefully navigated the familiar apartment, shadows stretching strangely across the walls as you made your way toward the bedroom.
You sighed, already reaching for the bedside lamp out of habit, when a gloved hand clamped over your mouth from behind.
Your scream died against warm leather. The phone clattered to the floor, screen cracked but still glowing faintly.
"Shhh, sweetheart," his voice danced right against your ear. "It's just me. Missed you."
Your heart slammed against your ribs, half terror, half something far more dangerous. The alcohol still buzzed warmly in your veins, loosening the edges of your fear into something slick and needy.
You felt the hard press of his body against your back, the robe, the familiar weight of him.
He slowly removed his hand, but the knife's cold, flat side traced lightly down the side of your neck instead.
"You've been drinking," he observed, voice low.
"Did you miss me, too?"
You swallowed hard. "Eddie..."
He spun you around and shoved you back onto the bed. The mask loomed above you in the near-darkness, white and expressionless, knife glinting as he climbed over you.
Straddling your hips, he pinned one wrist above your head.
"I hope you don’t mind, but I read your diary, pretty girl."
The words hit like ice water. Your eyes widened. "You—"
"While you were out playing normal at that mixer." He tilted his head, the mask's black voids staring down at you. "Couldn't help myself. You left it right there on your nightstand like an invitation."
His free hand roamed down your body, squeezing your breast through your top, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaked.
"All those late-night entries about the mask. About the knife. About wanting to be chased. Caught. Used." He chuckled lowly.
"My sweet, filthy girl. You get wet thinking about the man who slaughtered your friends, pinning you down and ruining you."
Heat flooded your face. Shame. Arousal. The conflicting storm that had lived in you since that night.
You squirmed beneath him, but his weight kept you trapped.
"Eddie, I—"
“Uh, uh,” he tsked. “I know what you really want, princess. We can have fun, but I don’t want to hurt you."
He tilted his head in thought, slowly sliding the knife down the side of your face.
"How about we make a safe word. You know what that is, sweetness?"
You nodded once, “Mhm.”
“Good girl. If anything gets to be too much, just say ‘red’, okay, sweetheart? I’ll stop the second you say it. No questions."
You nodded pathetically and quickly.
"Good girl." The knife slid lower, slipping under the hem of your shirt and slicing upward in one clean rip.
Fabric parted like paper, baring your breasts to the cool air.
He groaned. "Fuck, look at you. Been hard for days thinking about this."
He rocked his hips against yours, letting you feel how hard he already was under the robe.
The knife traced circles around one nipple, the sharp point never quite breaking skin, just enough pressure to make you gasp and arch.
"You like this, don’t you?" He leaned down, mask brushing your cheek. "The monster in your room while you’re drunk and helpless, begging to be caught."
You whimpered, hips rolling up to meet him. He laughed darkly and shoved your skirt up, yanking your panties aside.
Two fingers pushed into you without warning, curling deep.
"So fucking wet already. Greedy little thing." He pumped them slowly, scissoring, stretching you while the knife stayed pressed to your sternum like a threat and a promise.
You moaned, clenching around his fingers. He added a third finger, fucking you harder, thumb grinding against your clit.
"Eddie—please—"
"Please, what?" He pulled his fingers out and flipped you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up so you were ass-up, face pressed into the mattress.
The knife traced down your spine, then lower, teasing between your cheeks. "Please fuck you? Please hurt you? Please remind you exactly who you belong to now?"
You heard the rustle of fabric as he shoved the robe open. Then his cock, hot and bare, nudged against your entrance. He rubbed it through your slick folds, teasing.
"Say it."
"I want it," you gasped, pushing back against him. "Want you. Want all of it. Please."
He slammed into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You cried out, the stretch burning so good.
He didn’t give you time to adjust. He fucked you hard, one hand fisted in your hair, the other pressing the flat of the knife to your throat from behind.
"Such good little girl," he growled through the changer, hips snapping relentlessly.
He perfectly dragged inside you with every stroke, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.
"Taking my cock so well. You tremble under me, and yet, you’re still creaming all over the monster who owns you."
You were babbling, moaning, pushing back to meet every thrust.
The knife stayed at your throat, a constant cold edge that made your pussy flutter tighter around him. He reached around and rubbed your clit in tight, merciless circles.
"Cum for me, sweetheart. It’s all yours."
The orgasm crashed over you violently, your whole body shaking as you clenched and pulsed around him. He fucked you through it, snarling praise and filth, until your legs gave out.
He pulled out, flipped you onto your back again, and straddled your chest. The mask hovered above you as he stroked himself fast and rough.
"Open."
You obeyed, tongue out, eyes locked on the white mask. He came with a guttural groan, painting your tongue, your lips, your tits in thick ropes. You swallowed what you could, dazed and trembling.
Eddie dropped the knife to the side and finally tugged the mask off, tossing it aside. His real face, flushed, curls wild, eyes dark with obsession and something softer, stared down at you.
He leaned down and kissed you messily, tasting himself on your tongue.
"Still with me?" he murmured against your lips.
You nodded, boneless and floating. "Yes..."
He huffed a quiet laugh and collapsed beside you, pulling you into his chest. His fingers stroked through your hair, gentle now, the chaos temporarily sated.
“That wasn’t too much?”
You shook your head against his chest, humming something incoherent. Your body still buzzed, boneless and warm, the ache between your thighs a pleasant reminder of how thoroughly he’d wrecked you.
Eddie pressed a kiss to the top of your head, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back while the other tilted your chin up for a lazy, lingering kiss. “C’mere. Let me take care of you.”
He slipped out of bed after a minute, disappearing into the hallway. You heard him fumbling around, then a few distant clicks.
The lights in the apartment hummed back to life, the lamp on your nightstand flickering on and bathing the room in a soft glow.
Eddie reappeared in the doorway, wearing nothing but his boxers and that crooked, satisfied smile.
“Breaker box in the hall closet,” he explained with a shrug, like breaking into your apartment and knowing its secrets was the most normal thing in the world.
“Figured you’d want to see my pretty face afterwards.”
He returned with a warm, damp washcloth from the bathroom, a glass of water, and one of your oversized t-shirts.
Settling back into bed, he gently cleaned you up; careful between your legs, wiping away the mess with tender strokes and soft murmurs of praise.
Once you were clean, he helped you into the shirt, then tugged you back against his chest under the blankets.
His arms wrapped around you securely, one leg tangled with yours as he pressed lazy kisses along your shoulder and the side of your neck.
“You okay, baby?” he whispered, voice low and sweet. “Need anything else?”
You smiled and shook your head sleepily, curling tighter into him. It was strange, really, the stark contrast from how he had acted ten minutes before to now.
The switch was so effortless it made your head spin, as though the tenderness and the terror had always belonged to the same person.
requested: you come on your period when your boyfriend, Eddie, comes over, and panic. He doesn’t quite understand why until you tell him how your ex treated you on your time of the month.
warnings: didn’t proofread, readers ex is a vile human, sprinkle of misogynistic energy from him?? Period shaming, blood (duh), Eddie is a sweetie, tooth rotting fluff.
word count: 1.7k
"You okay, babe?" Eddie called out, following you into your bedroom.
The cramps always seemed worse when you were on the first day of your period - the dull ache in your lower stomach, spreading out across your lower back and thundering down your thighs, but when you reached day four, you knew that the pain wasn't getting any better.
"Yeah, just give me a sec," you murmured, bent over, "Just need to grab my balm."
You had tried almost everything. Dozens of different pain pills, bath salts to soak in the tub with, and now a hemp balm; hopeful that it would work, but not too hopeful to deny the disappointing reality.
You tried to shuffle over to your dressing table, but you couldn't move your heavy legs and aching thighs. As the cramps intensified, you hunched over further, gripping at your stomach and lowly groaning, screwing your eyes shut. Your pad also sat uncomfortably in your underwear, slightly twisted at the back, and the adhesive was coming loose.
Fuck. Why is this happening now? I should've rescheduled.
Why didn't I tell him I was coming on and for him to stay home? He'll be pissed when he realises...
"What is it?" Eddie asked, "What do you need?"
Eddie noticed the dullness in your eyes and the slight knitting of your eyebrows to know that something was wrong. You were always bubbly with a little hop and skip in your step, so to see you struggling to stay on your feet was ringing the alarm bells in his head.
"It's fine, I can get it." He said sofly, gently placing a hand on your waist, leading you closer to the bed.
You knew you couldn't get to balm now. If you tried, you'd either fall to the floor or risk your pad falling down the leg of your pyjamas, risking a thick trickle of blood to follow after.
"What do you need?" Eddie repeated, not taking your refusals for an answer.
You sighed, already feeling useless, "Please can you pass me the balm in the green tin?" You pointed towards your dressing table, tucked in the corner of your bedroom.
Eddie stood up, walked over and grabbed the green tin, which looked tiny in his hands. He focused on the floral and herb illustration over the front of the tin, and traced the weed leaf with the pad of his thumb.
"What's goin' on?" Eddie asked, his wide doe eyes full with worry, giving you the balm, "Since when did you use this sort of balm?"
"It's nothing," you were quick with your response.
Periods were normal and nothing to be ashamed of but your ex-boyfriend's change in behaviour every time you came on was enough to make you feel embarrassed and dirty; the sight of a pad repulsed him, and if any blood managed to seep through your clothing or onto the chair you were sitting on, he'd lose his mind.
"You're disgusting!" he whined, throwing a towel at you fast and hard, almost whipping you with it.
You could feel the shame burning the tips of your ears and weighing heavily in the bottom of your stomach, "I can't help it! Do you honestly think that any of us enjoys going through this? Do you think that we enjoy the bleeding, the cramps, and the monthly cost of tampons and pads?!"
You wouldn't defend yourself when he'd start mouthing off, you'd stay quiet and bully yourself, scolding yourself for bleeding, but you were starting to grow tired of becoming a punching bag for something you couldn't control.
"Oh, stop complaining!" He raised his voice over you, "It's all you lot do, whinge and whine. I knew periods made you moody, but I didn't realise they turned you into a total bitch!"
It wasn't just his vile outlook on this natural function that took a toll on you, but it was his lack of sympathy and zero ability to provide the simplest of care when you were in bed, struggling, writhing in pain.
"I'm sorry to ask," you started, "but the pain is getting really bad again, please can you grab my heat pad? I don't think I can make it out of bed."
Rather than returning with what you asked with a hand on your shoulder or a kiss on your head, you were denied care, you were every single time, you didn't even know why you asked, you knew he wouldn't help anyway.
"Can't you see I'm in the middle of something? If I die in this game, I'll have to start all over again. Get it yourself, you're blowing this way out of proportion."
"doesn't look like nothing," Eddie crawled onto your bed, watching you slowly drag your feet over before lying back against the pillows.
Carefully, you tugged your loose-fitting pyjama pants down and pulled off the lid of the tin. Using your index and middle finger, you scooped up the creamy balm, evenly and gently spreading it across your abdomen
"Thank you for getting it for me, I won't ever ask again." You panicked, but trying to keep your voice steady .
Eddie's eyebrows knitted together more, bunching up and he hesitated for a moment, almost keeping quiet, but he couldn't. This wasn't like you.
"You're never like this." He tilted his head, "Just tell me what's up, I'm getting worried, babe."
"It's uhh..." you swallowed hard, "I'm on my period... I know I should've told you not to come over and I know I need to suck it up, I usually do but I'm in agony, and don't worry about any blood getting on your jeans, I put a towel down on the mattress before you came over."
He's going to leave. He's going to be so pissed.
Eddie wanted to laugh at first until he realised how ashamed you were. The sight of you struggling to massage the balm into yourself made his heart ache.
"Sweetheart," he cooed, "pass me the balm."
"It's okay, I've got this-"
"Pass me the balm."
Looking into Eddie's dark eyes, you were greeted with warmth, softness, and sympathy. His palm was out, hovering over your stomach.
Dampening your lips with your tongue, you gave him the balm and watched as he scooped it out onto his fingers before gently spreading it on your stomach. His touch was firm but not aggressive, and he massaged the balm into you in circular motions, careful not to press too hard.
Your heart went fluttery at his touch, and how happy he looked to be massaging you; he was focused and relaxed.
"First of all, there's nothing wrong with a little blood spilling when it's your time of the month. Second, why the hell didn't you tell me? I would've got you a heat pad or something."
The whiplash caught you off guard, and rather than focusing on Eddie's hands, you were staring at him, unable to believe what he said. So casually, with no passive aggression.
He noticed you staring at him and pulled back a little, still massaging you, "What?" he asked, a small smirk tugging at his lips, "Did you think this would bother me?"
Go on, tell him.
"I'm not used to that response," you spoke up, your voice hollow, "my ex... he... didn't get it."
Eddie raised an eyebrow, "What's not to get?"
If only you knew..
"Did he have an extreme phobia of blood or something?" Eddie continued.
You sat up just enough for your boyfriend to stop massaging before lifting the towel from under you and passing it to Eddie so he could wipe the excess oils from his hands.
A long sigh escaped your lips, "He didn't have a phobia, he just blamed me, every time I came on, he'd force me to keep away from him." You took a breath, "I couldn't sit near him, if I was in pain, I had to be quiet about it and get on with it on my own, he'd make me feel disgusting for..."
"For menstruating? Seriously? What a loser." Eddie scoffed.
He finished wiping his hands and folded the towel up before, wrapping an arm around you.
"You should've told me, I would've... I don't know, got you some pills, brought you some weed you could smoke, some chocolate or whatever you're needing."
You felt a little pathetic at the tears welling up in your eyes. This was the bare minimum, but you'd never had it before. You were denied it and refused to believe that you'd ever get it.
"The heat pad you mentioned earlier did sound nice," you admitted, blinking away your tears.
Eddie pressed a kiss to your temple, nuzzling his nose into you as the balm slowly absorbed into your skin. With his arm still around you, he pulled you into his arms with enough room for you to rest your head on his shoulder.
"How about I go and get you that heat pad from the store, maybe stop by Family Video and rent out whatever movie you want to watch, and we can order a pizza. Sound good?"
You couldn't tell if it was a placebo effect from the new balm you were trying or if Eddie's compassion was truly easing the pain.
"That sounds perfect, Eds." You murmured, nuzzling into him, "Thank you."
"Nope, no, don't want to hear a thank you," he smirked, "it's the bare minimum, princess."
Eddie kept his word.
Each month, when you were due, he'd have the heat pad ready, or a hot bath, with extra fluffy and absorbent towels he could wrap around you when you managed to climb out of the tub.
When blood trickled down your inner thighs and dropped to the floor, Eddie would wipe it up without complaint, reassuring you that it was just blood - nothing gross, nothing to apologise over or be embarrassed about; he didn't think twice, he didn't even blink.
If you were painfully bloated and not in the mood to eat, Eddie saved the pizza for another day and offered you something settling to drink instead. You'd fall asleep to him massaging your scalp and stroking your hair, or helping to ease the crushing pain in your pelvis and lower back.
Bizarrely, this time of the month (aside from the pain) became your favourite. You and Eddie, dead to the rest of the world, curled up in bed together, peacefully getting by without embarrassment or shame.
warnings: 18+ smut, unprotected p in v, fingering, oral (fem. receiving), use of petnames, cheating, phone sex (kinda), slight use of "daddy", choking, multiple orgasms, protective eddie with his fuck buddy
pairing: eddie munson x female (afab) reader
summary: your boyfriend steve cheats on you all the time. your vengeance comes in the form of eddie, who you're secretly hooking up with. when the phone rings during one of your sneaky sessions, a three-way call might be the way stevie finally finds out...[6.8k]
—inspired by "scotty doesn't know" by lustra—
a/n: i had this idea while listening to this song and HAD to write it. this is one of my first times writing smut, i'm still practicing! enjoy ♡
Your boyfriend Steve couldn't help but be a douche sometimes. Most times, actually.
You should have known dating Hawkins' most infamous ladies man might be problematic before you even started. His stupidly perfect hair and ability to smooth talk made you believe he might be different with you.
The first time you caught him with another girl, you didn't want to believe it. And because you were naïve and try to see the best in people, you stayed with him.
Unfortunately for you, there was a next girl. And another. And then another one after that. The cheating reached a point where you almost expected it to happen and even grew apathetic to it.
You stayed with Steve out of fear of being alone, and because that's all you knew how to do. That was until you became acquainted with the notoriously odd and intimidating Eddie Munson.
It started one night when you were buying weed from him. He'd told you to come by the trailer he lives in, claiming that he kept his "good stuff" there. You were surprised to find out how funny and kind the older male was.
He was a total flirt, making you smile and laugh in ways that King Steve never even came close to. That's how smoking a joint with him turned into the best sex you ever had, each having an earth-shattering orgasm on his stained mattress.
That one-time thing turned into a routine, squeezing in a quickie any chance you got. His place, yours, his van in the school parking lot, under the bleachers...
You and Eddie were addicted to each other, drawn together like magnets. The connection only got stronger the more time you spent together. He made you feel more than just physical pleasure...he made you comfortable.
After a shitty day, you went by the tattooed male's place hoping to forget your troubles. You ended up crying in his arms and telling him about everything on your mind. Eddie cared, he really cared about you.
That's why his blood was boiling when you told him about Steve. He could never believe that the douchey brunette got to have you, the coolest girl in town; hearing how he was treating you made him want to "rearrange Steve's face".
Slowly, you became more than just fuck buddies. It was a complicated situation, especially with how passionate the sex got at some points. Fingers laced together, longing gazes into each other's eyes, tender kisses, and sweet nothings.
You felt guilty for cheating on Steve even though he had been doing worse to you for about a year. Eddie encouraged you, never letting you feel bad about it. And how could you argue when he was inches deep inside you, calling you pretty and making you feel amazing?
He was doing exactly that now, thrusting in and out of your sopping cunt as he knelt behind you. Your upper body was limp against the bed, back arching as Eddie held your hips up. He gave your ass a firm smack, watching the recoil with a groan.
"Mmn, fuck, Eds," you moaned, face down in your pillows. The laud only spurred him on, encouraged him to pull you back against his fat cock.
"Yeah? You love being fucked like this, baby?" he grunted deep from his chest. The pet name made your walls clench around him like they always do. It drives Eddie crazy.
The slapping of your skin together halts when he pulls your ass flush with his hips, making the bulging tip of his dick push the soft spot inside you. You whimpered and reached back, searching for somewhere to hold on. Your sweaty hand found Eddie's forearm and you squeezed it firmly when he started gyrating.
The rolling motion he's making with his hips allowed him to fuck you insanely deep without ever leaving your pussy. His ringed hand slid down beneath you to your clit, three calloused fingers working it perfectly as he's done thousands of times.
"Oh my god," you pant, feeling a warmth tingle in your lower abdomen. "'M gonna cum. P-please, please."
The sound of you begging even though Eddie always gives you what you want made him chuckle darkly. He pulled out his dick merely a couple of inches, looking down at where you were swallowing him in. A creamy ring surrounded the base of his length, a sight that made him twitch as he pushed all the way back in to continue his motion.
Just as your whining picked up and you were about to cum, your phone rang loudly on the bedside table. Eddie's hand on your clit stopped and he slowed his thrusts as you groaned, annoyed.
"Does that asshole have to ruin everything for me?!" you bitched, already knowing it was your shitty boyfriend. You pushed your ass back, hoping to fuck yourself on Eddie although your climax was already ruined by the shrill ringing. "He can wait."
The curly-haired boy watched the part of your face he could see, laying against the pillow with reddened cheeks. He read the frustration on your face and bent down to kiss your shoulder blade. His hand slithered up your body, pinching at your hardened nipple.
He hummed a pleased noise when you clamped down around his length. When he was about to start back up, the phone sounded again.
"Oh my fucking god," you hissed, reaching to unplug it from the wall.
Eddie took hold of your bicep, stopping you. When you looked back, the expression on his face was one of deviance. He smirked from beneath his dark, fringed bangs and your heart sank.
"Answer it."
"What?" You couldn't believe what he'd said.
"Pick up the phone," he began, and his voice took on a devilish tone. "Have a conversation with your boyfriend."
"That's it?" you questioned. "No catch."
"Only one. I want you to be quiet. Don't give it away."
"Give wha-" Your words were snatched away when Eddie pulled his dick out with a wet schlick, plunging two fingers in as the replacement.
A high-pitched scream tore through your throat as he began to fuck you filthily with his digits. They weren't as thick as his cock, but the ferocity of his movements made you require a moment to recover.
"Pick up the phone and talk, sweetheart," he spoke with a steady voice, a talent of his you were consistently amazed by. He brought his face down to kiss the plush area around your ass and hips. When you didn't grab the telephone fast enough for his liking, he brought his teeth down on the skin.
You squealed, biting your lip and regaining your composure as you lifted the phone to your ear.
"Hello?" You swallowed thickly, hearing your heartbeat thundering in your ears.
"Hey, babe. Sorry I forgot to call yesterday." You rolled your eyes at Steve's lie. "What are you up to?"
"Me? Oh, nothing much, just-"
Eddie began to scissor his fingers inside you. His lips pressed to the unoccupied area of your slick sex, lapping up the juices as quietly as he could. Your free hand slammed onto the mattress on its own accord, grabbing a handful of the floral sheets for purchase.
"Talk, baby," Eddie breathed against your core. He licked a stripe up your fold and blew on it before introducing a third finger in your swollen hole. You pulled the phone away temporarily to whine.
"Just watching some TV and working on homework," you lied, letting the words out a little too quickly.
"Oh, that sounds fun." Steve's totally not listening to you. "I saw that 'Risky Business' is playing at the drive-in this weekend."
"Cool. That's the one with Tom Cruise?"
Eddie chuckled when you squirm as he removed his fingers, creating a sinful noise. He saw the way your thighs were shaking and pushed your hips down to level you flat on the bed. He hovered over you, caging you beneath him as he moved his face to where you could see him.
You met his eyes that were hooded with a teasing hunger you can't stand. He sucked on the fingers that were just inside you, cleaning your slick off as he moaned quietly enough that Steve didn't hear.
"Yeah, that one," Steve's voice sounded, though it's impossible to focus on anything but Eddie.
"I was thinking we could go see it. It'd be like old times."
As Steve started to detail the date, Eddie crawled back down to part your legs with his large hands. You brought your hand from the sheets to your mouth, covering it as his plump lips start to kiss their way up the insides of your thighs.
"We could park in the back, bring some booze..." Steve's voice rambled on as Eddie's lips finally connect where you want him most.
He began to eat you out from behind, sucking and swirling his tongue in combinations that had you grinding yourself on the mattress, desperate for some more friction. Your mind went blank when he flattened his long tongue on your clit.
"Are you listening to me?" Steve snapped.
"Y-yes. I'm listening," you struggled to respond back. "Go ahead."
Hearing this makes Eddie laugh, vibrating against your dripping cunt. The sensation shot you closer to your orgasm and he could tell from the way your hole gaped around nothing.
"Pretty pussy," he spoke against it, though you can barely hear him. "Needy for her daddy, huh? So naughty. Gonna cum on my tongue while she talks to her boyfriend."
You caught the last part and made a fist, biting down as Eddie prodded his long tongue into your slit. And because he's greedy and wants to taste your orgasm, his thumb skillfully circled your clit.
"No one can see us so we don't really need to watch the movie..." Steve chuckled and you would surely roll your eyes if they weren't already back in your skull from Eddie's ruthless assault on your pussy.
"Sounds like you just wanna get in my pants, Stevie," you shot back, voice steadier than it had been because he was really bothering you. This made Eddie growl an animalistic sound.
He knows he shouldn't be jealous, but he is. Especially now when he's buried in your cunt, the one you've told him he owns so many times before. He knows Steve can't make you feel half as good as he does, can't fuck you the way he does, can't love you the way he does.
With a final slurping sound, he abandoned the idea of pulling an orgasm out with his mouth. He lost all self-control; he needed to be as deep as you can take him rightfuckingnow. You barely had time to register the fact that he stopped licking you before he roughly tugged your ass back up in the air.
"I didn't mean it like that, I just...We haven't gone past second base in forever." Steve's ridiculous words were drowned out when Eddie slammed back into your pussy.
It welcomed him, wet and stretched out from everything he'd given you so far. He faced hardly any resistance stuffing his generous length all the way to the end of you. The backs of your thighs smack his pelvis as he started to drill into you with an unforgiving pace.
You screamed, loud and high-pitched into the receiver. Your upper body sank and you attempted to hold yourself up on your elbows. This only added to the pleasure as your blushed nipples rubbed the cotton sheets, tits bouncing with every thrust.
"Babe? What was that?" Steve stopped mid-sentence to question you.
It was a challenge trying to straighten out your thoughts when you could feel Eddie in your throat. He's hitting such a delicious angle, one that prods the spongey end of you so forcefully it's teetering on the edge of pain.
"N-no..." you stuttered, holding out the vowel as you fail to soothe your boyfriend's suspicion. "Nothing. Something f-fell off the shelf and scared me."
The words came out rushed, all weaved together in one single breath. Each time the metalhead thrust in and out, he stole away your oxygen. His large, rough hands squeezed onto the fat of your thighs to pull you against him. His thick cock was splitting you apart, emptying and filling you to bust at the seams at a frantic speed.
A dark chuckle spilled from the plump lips of the male behind you and he could still taste you on his tongue. The realization made him groan, dropping his head back as sweaty tendrils of cocoa hair tickled the backs of his shoulders.
Without warning, he slowed suddenly. You were about to whine at him before Steve's droning voice on the phone reminded you of the secrecy you were beginning to fail at maintaining.
The metal of Eddie's rings bit your skin when he squeezed firmly on your left hip. This was one of his signals for when he wanted to switch positions or have you take over.
He was able to guide you without words, your heated body pliant beneath his dominant touch. His cock never left your pulsating core as he relaxed his position back, kneeling on the mattress.
Your legs bent around his as you sat back against his lap. His chest pressed flush against the curve of your spine as you wriggled, adjusting your seating. The position would allow you to reverse ride him using the strength of your thighs.
The curled cord of the phone was stretched out to reach where you were. The douchey brunette on the other line was telling a story about some party he and Tommy had gone to, laughing at his own words as he recalled the memory and tried to omit the parts about him hooking up with other girls.
Eddie's one hand settled against your hip while the other smoothed its way up your side. It started at the soft pooch of your tummy, up to your heavy tits to tweak the hardened peaks, and finally to a gentle grip on your neck. His long fingertips reached up to tilt your chin forward as he clamped around the thundering veins near your throat.
As you breathed a strangled gasp under his touch, he forced you to look up where the reflection of you two stared back in the mirror atop your dresser. The sight of his hand of rings wrapped around your neck as you were seated on his cock made you moan, a noise that was cut short by the pressure from his choking.
You weren't sure who looked more fucked out, you or him. Usually, Eddie was great at keeping his composure, but the look he had in his eyes when you met them in the mirror was...feral. Rabid, exhausted, lustful, on the brink of losing it.
He took in the sinful sight of you. The way your head was hanging limply on his shoulder, drool glistening at the corner of your lips from the aggressive pounding you'd just taken. Your grip on the telephone was weak, leaving it to slide low on your neck as your sweaty hand could barely stay up.
"Come on, pretty," he rasped hotly in your ear. "Take what you need from me."
With a breath in for preparation, you lifted yourself up slowly. As you hollowed out, your cunt drooled down every inch of him and onto his balls, heavy and wound tight with his impending release. You cried out when you dropped your ass back down, spearing his bulging tip into your guts.
You began a steady pace, bouncing yourself on his dick and swallowing the whimpers that came when he stretched your hole continually. Eddie thrust his hips upward to meet your movement. This only wedged him deeper into your sex, nudging your uterus and launching you toward climax.
Steve was ranting about how much he loved having a pretty girlfriend and that he'd make it up to you for how busy he's been lately. You pulled the phone away, clamping a hand over the lower speaker as you switched to gyrating your hips in circular motions.
"F-fuck, Eddie. So good, so, so..." you babbled.
His rugged hand clamped over your mouth, silencing the pornographic noises you were making. On your neck, his hot mouth sucked and nipped.
"Gotta stay quiet, sweets. Pick up the phone and keep talking," he ordered.
"But, da-"
"Don't be a brat," he barked. A particularly sharp thrust upward punched the air from your lungs. "Don't you wanna be good for me? Want me to let you cum?"
You nodded with such vigor Eddie thought it must've hurt your neck. He removed his hand from your mouth and smacked a wet kiss onto your temple.
"That's my girl."
Your cunt fluttered around him, giving you away. You loved how possessive he could get and he knew it. Maybe it was because he cared and wanted you to be his...that was more than your actual boyfriend ever did.
Taking a deep breath in, you brought the phone back up to your ear to find Steve finishing up his ridiculous ramble.
"How are you gonna make it up to me, big boy?" you uttered, exerting all your effort to sound natural.
The tattooed male grunted beneath you and encased both your hips with his large hands. He used his strength to lift you up and drop you back down on his fat cock. It was a challenge keeping the sound of slapping skin to a minimum, especially when his brain was this fuzzy.
His dark eyes kept darting between the mirror and his lap. One allowed him to watch himself pumping in and out, your cunt stretched wide around his girth and soaking down to the coiled tufts of hair at his base. Your ass jiggled each time and the skin reddened from the roughness.
The mirror was his favorite view: you, coming undone from how incredible he was making you feel. Your body was littered with love bites, places he'd nipped at for hours that evening. The sight of your breasts, full and flushed as they swayed with the motions, was making him lose it.
When he ever looked at your pretty face, Eddie had to tighten the muscles of his abdomen to hold off his orgasm.
Your head was lolled back into the crook of his shoulder. Sweat-damp wisps of hair were glued to the sides of your pink cheeks. Your eyebrows were knit together, creased in the middle as you worked to stay quiet. Saliva glistened where it trailed down from your swollen lips, stuck open with small breathy pants.
He needed to make you cum now because it was growing impossible for him not to.
Steve was spewing some bullshit about flowers and taking you to Enzo's for dinner. You nearly laughed thinking about how the last time he did that, he flirted with the waitress and ogled at her ass right in front of you. It blended into white noise when Eddie increased his efforts.
He leaned back slightly, the sticky skin of his chest leaving your back to allow a needed swath of cool air. Two calloused fingertips pressed to your sensitive nub and begin to play you like his most prized guitar. That alone was pushing your stimulation to the brink of exploding, but he wasn't done yet.
The lanky male returned to thrusting upward into you again with more fervor this time. Rather than just stroke straight up, he used his hips to direct himself in different directions, at multiple angles.
His massive cock pioneered its way into places you'd never felt him before. You could feel the thundering of his veins as he stretched out new channels in your pussy.
"H-hmn," you bit down on moans. "Mmn, hngh."
It didn't take much more for you to lose yourself. The band in your stomach that had been pulled taught since before the phone even rang finally snapped. A pathetic whine rose from your chest as your body quivered, seizing up and then falling limp.
"Oh, fuck," Eddie spat, about to come undone himself. His throat choked up as he continued to ram upward, quickly chasing his own orgasm as you became a rag-doll in his lap.
Your juices trickled down his skin as he pumped into you a few more times. His whimpering blended with your heavy-breathed panting as he came deep inside your cunt.
The sound of his ragged moans and sharp cussing was almost inaudible over the ringing in your ears. When you came back down to earth, he'd already recovered from his climax.
"Shh-shh," Eddie soothed. Your slit throbbed as the milky mess you two warmed where you remain connected. He pulled your back flush to his inked chest. "Took me so well, honey. I've got you."
The bad boy being that sweet to you though he fucked you so ruthlessly made you melt into his touch. Your eyes drooped and a single tear streamed down. The sensation inside your chest was red-hot, passionate; deeper than something you should be feeling for your fuck buddy...
Coming had caused such a blackout in your mind that you didn't register Steve speaking to you until he shouted through the phone.
"Hello?! Did you hear what I said?"
"S-sorry." You struggled to hide the exhaustion in your voice. "What?"
"What the hell was that noise? Are you watching porn or something?" he pushed, clearly irritated.
You weren't sure what to say...he had definitely heard your keening as you came, probably Eddie too. Would he be dumb enough to believe a lie?
"It's just the TV. Some overdone sex scene, I dunno," you responded.
Eddie wrapped his strong arms around you to help you relax against him, giving your worn-out body a rest. Your abused cunt fluttered upon feeling his warm release spilling out around his softened length.
"Oh. Okay. Well, turn it down," Steve requested. Wow, he is dumb enough to believe it.
Miraculously, your boyfriend went right back to blabbering. He loved to talk when it was about himself; he switched to the topic of how his dad was forcing him to get a job at the mall for not getting into college.
You almost felt bad since he doesn't really have anyone to talk to. He always dumps it on you, and you let him no matter how shitty he is to you.
Your mind doesn't have time to wander that way as the metalhead picked you up, pulling out and admiring the mess you made. The hollow feeling as your gaping hole clenched on nothing made you wince.
Eddie's soft hands laid you down with your back on the mattress. It felt nice to be horizontal again, able to let yourself settle in with limbs that felt like Jell-O. You rolled your head to the left, trapping the phone between your ear and shoulder so you didn't have to hold it up anymore.
With heavy eyelids, you glanced up at where the long-haired boy was. He was standing at the foot of the bed, taking a long drag of the cigarette he'd abandoned in the bedside ashtray. You two held gazes as he blew out a grey cloud.
"Want some?" he mouthed to you. You nodded, eyes blown open with luster. The springs of the mattress creaked beneath his weight as he leaned on a knee, outstretching his tattooed arm.
"What about The Gap? Or Herman's Sporting Goods?" you suggested to Steve's need for a job.
After the words left you, Eddie held the filtered end up to your lips. You laid a gentle hand on his forearm and swept the pad of your thumb over the freckled skin. The deep inhale of tobacco was a welcome indulgence after the body-shaking orgasm you had.
The sight of you was trouble, however.
Eddie could feel the blood rushing back to his crotch again already. As he backed up, you caught sight of his cock, red and hardening. His sex drive never failed to impress you; that's why most times you left his place being unable to walk.
He couldn't handle it. How beautiful and fucked-out you looked laying there. Your body, every curve and dip, was glimmering with a sheen of sex. His marks were all over you: from hickeys to bruising indents of his rings, to his cum dribbling out of your sweet center.
His heart was throbbing, perhaps even more painfully than his dick was.
It stood upright against his toned stomach as his gaze dragged across you. The Harrington boy recounted his failures of the jobs he'd already applied for while you twisted the rubber-coated cord around your finger.
The image of the older male needy for you again had you rubbing your bare thighs together. He was undeniably the most attractive guy you'd ever seen. Never before had you had this level of sexual chemistry and spark with someone. It's like he unlocked something in you, took away your fears, and maximized your pleasure in all things.
"Jesus," he muttered.
You two moved in sync, your hand traveling up your own body as he brought an uneasy hand down to palm himself. His tip glistened with pearlescent pre-cum when your red-painted fingernails cupped your breast. You squeezed down just enough for the fat to spill between your knuckles, putting on a show.
Apparently, your stamina had built up since being involved with Eddie. You beckoned him closer with a curling pointer finger.
"Need you," you let the words ghost out. And because he would do anything you say, the boy crawled atop you so his frizzed curls hung down around your face.
You gripped the midsection of the phone to secure Steve's increasingly-irritating voice against your ear. The lower speaker pressed into your shoulder, hopefully an effective agent for muffling noise.
Two of your nimble fingers hooked around Eddie's dangling necklace to pull him down. His mouth was gentle on yours, a newfound softness to ease back in. It was a nice break from the rushed heat of the past hours and still turned you on an immense amount.
There wasn't much foreplay this time. Eddie's diamond-hard cock sank inside you easily as you made out lazily. You whimpered at the sensitivity of your puffy cunt, a pathetic sound that he swallowed as you passed it onto his skillful tongue.
"Do you think Coach would be one of my references?" Steve's questioning intonation snagged your attention before it got too foggy. You hummed against Eddie's lips and your unspoken language got him to pull away.
"Mm, maybe...who else do you have?" you mumbled. As you turned your head to the receiver, the long-haired male kissed your cheek and temple. He then nuzzled his face into your neck.
It was a momentary break for him, pausing to breathe in your scent and become intoxicated with you. It was something he did when he was feeling clingy, needy for you; a confusion in his mind on why he felt so intimately connected to his friend with benefits.
"Perfect girl. He doesn't deserve you," Eddie slurred with hot fanning breaths. "Gonna make you forget him. Gonna fuck you so good you can't remember his dumb name..."
As he grumbled in one of your ears, Steve was in the other, justifying that he used his mom as a reference. You urged him to think of other people and asked him about places in town that he thought would be fun to work at; you knew this would send him into more verbose blabbing.
Your purposeful inquisition worked and your boyfriend's words became garbled nonsense as you shifted attention back to the pretty boy on top of you.
He had begun to thrust, slow and sloppy. The movement was enough to increase your two's breathing and arousal. He accompanied it with wet kisses along your neck, suckling the tender skin every so often.
"More," you huffed. Your fingers twisted in the roots of Eddie's hair and tugged softly, emitting a groan from his throat.
"More what, sweets? Hm?" he urged, lifting his face up to see you. He was super talkative in the bedroom, so it was killing him trying to tone it down since you were on the phone.
"M-more Eddie."
He puffed air through his nostrils in amusement and forced his cock a tad deeper in you. His hips continually met yours as you felt every veiny detail of him gliding inside. The whine that left you was unintentionally loud, neediness pricking momentary irrationality in you.
Hearing you asking for more him had Eddie's world spinning and cock pulsing.
"'M gonna give it to you, but you gotta be quiet for me," he grunted. "Just a little longer."
You gave him agreement by stretching your neck up to meet his lips, kissing him into a wet mess. He adjusted his legs, slightly kneeling to give him better leverage to fuck you. As his hips picked up moving again, a thought struck his fuzzy mind. He broke the kiss.
"Baby, need you to do somethin'," he uttered in that deep bass his voice takes on during sex. "When you cum, be as loud as you want."
"E, he's gonna hear." You emphasized the words quietly, gesturing with your head to the phone you held with a clammy hand.
"I know" was all he said before snapping back and stuffing his cock meanly into your sopping pussy. Your hand was jostled from his hair to the broadness of his back, muscles strong beneath taught pale skin. You had to dig your nails in for grip, trying to hold on and not scream from how incredible he felt.
Missionary was not a position you two used often. It was too romantic, though you blamed it on its "vanilla" reputation; nothing was vanilla when Eddie was as huge and skilled as he was.
In fact, being able to see him up close in the position was launching you toward your orgasm so quickly that you couldn't even think. His eyes were like polished cedar, brown and glossy as he maintained an unbroken gaze.
The curled mess of his hair hung around his broad shoulders and strands of his bangs stuck to his forehead with sweat. Pink, plump lips that kiss you just how you need him every time were parted to let out throaty breaths. His cheeks, flecked with faint spots and a tiny vertical scar, had flushed the most delectable red hue.
It was impossible to conceal the small uh's and hah's slipped your lips. Eddie couldn't get enough of them, fueled to fuck you harder so he could hear them louder.
You loved being able to hear him too. He was no doubt the one in charge, but you had the ability to make him fall apart with such ease. There was a longing in your chest to hear him praising you, something he was holding off on since Steve was still a third party to this.
Normally, the older male would be coaxing you to your orgasm. He always hit this point where you were squeezing him so tight that his mind got lost, absolutely drunk on you and how you felt.
Feel so fucking good, babe. Jesus, you're fuckin' tight. Wanna hear those pretty noises when you cum for me. Perfect pussy squeezin' me just right. Gonna fuck you like this forever, beautiful girl.
He was biting his tongue now, only letting flat huffs and the occasional groan fly free. But you knew the things that drove him crazy.
You lifted your hips, wrapping your legs around his waist to keep him closer. It made you suck his thick cock even more, pussy suctioning him to its limit. The angle had his tip spearing into your stomach and he could feel it. He hissed through his teeth.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he groaned. Your warmth was gripping him like a vice and it had the muscles in his abdomen tightening. His thrusts stuttered only a second before they increased in intensity.
Harder, deeper, faster.
"Fuck! Eddie, Eddie," you gurgled, tongue twisted and mind entirely mush. Reckless abandon took over you, leaving Steve entirely forgotten. "Oh my-hah-ah...Baby, baby please!"
The pitched whininess to your voice was a telltale sign of your climax. Eddie stroked a hand up your side, thumb rubbing your tummy.
"Let me hear your pretty sounds," he purred. "Let go, baby. Cum for me."
You were a goner.
With the sensitivity of your cunt, you came suddenly, harshly. A flash of white light overtook your vision and your head pushed back into the pillow. As Eddie continued grinding himself deep into you, your back arched up off the mattress to press your body against his chest.
The noise that rattled your throat was somewhere between a sob and a moan. As your body seized up, the plastic phone dropped into your shoulder. Your fingernails dug further into the reddened lines they scratched on Eddie's toned back.
Your juices mixing with the cum he was fucking back into you made a wet squelching as he continually rammed in. He thrust through your high as his balls tightened and he couldn't take any more. His rings pinched your skin as he clamped down on your hips for leverage.
"Pretty girl takin' me so good." Eddie began the mindless ramble he often does as he unravels. "Pussy was made for me. Pretty...fuck, 'm gonna cum. Gonna cum inside my girl. My sweets-"
Despite your exhaustion and subspace blankness, you gasped at the sensation of the hot flood of his cum coating your walls. His cock throbbed as you squeezed him for every drop. Eddie panted in heavy breaths as he continued to slackly thrust.
He let his sticky body rest on yours gently while his dick softened inside you. Your legs dropped onto the mattress and you relaxed, letting your breathing regulate.
The wordless recovery was one of the best parts of sex with Eddie; both of you making dulcet sounds, bodies pressed together...just you and him in a cloud of euphoria and heat.
That peaceful moment was cut terribly short when Steve's furious voice boomed through the phone speaker. He was loud enough that you both could hear him even as the landline lay in the crook of you.
"Are you having sex right now? You're fucking some other guy?! Answer me, (Y/n). I swear to God..."
Eddie lifted his head up from your chest to clutch the phone, believing you were too out of it. As he was about to scream back at your boyfriend, your small hand encased his large one. You nodded at him and took the phone.
Though you appreciated his protectiveness of you, this was yours to handle. Steve Harrington had screwed you over, treated you like shit too many times.
No more.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Is that wrong of me to do?" you began. You didn't know tonight would be the night you duke this out with him, but here you were.
"Are you fucking kidding?!" Steve snapped, obviously fuming. "You're cheating while you're on the phone with me!"
"You wanna talk to me about cheating, Steve? That's hilarious. Really fucking ironic, don't you think? I'm not an idiot. Heather, Tina, Linda, Tracy, god damn Carol!"
The words you spat made him shut up. You took a moment to breathe, the anger toiling inside you mixed with the heat of sex. Eddie collected your tangled hair to lift off your neck, preventing you from overheating.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Steve deadpanned. "I knew you could be a real bitch, but slut trumps that by a long shot."
The phone was ripped out of your grasp before you could reply. Eddie had heard and he was fucking seething. In the low lamplight of the room, you swore you saw fire in his eyes.
"Talk to her like that again and no girl will ever want to be seen with your reconstructed face," Eddie threatened. His voice was booming, full of venom.
"A cheating, classless, daddy's money douchebag like you could never take care of a girl like her. Don't worry, 'cause I've got it covered. Fuck you."
You flinched at how hard he slammed the phone back onto its holder. His shoulders broadened as he inhaled a deep breath and released it, shaking with anger.
However, when he brought his face back to you it was soft and kind...those eyes cradling you inside their vision like the most precious thing he's ever seen. Without thinking, you used two slim fingers to brush back his hair with a tender touch.
"Are you okay?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He leaned his weight onto his left side, hip meeting the mattress. His soft length remained inside you, plugging up the creamy mess you two made. Your body moved with his, angled just slightly as he used a grip on your waist to keep you ever so close.
"Mhm," you hummed, closing your eyes momentarily. You were dazed, worn from going at it for hours with Eddie and exerting the rest of your energy on Steve.
The tattooed boy tipped your hips as he pulled out, making you wince at the sensation. Feeling that empty after being stuffed full all night had you tingling. He kissed your cheek with saliva-shined lips and reached blindly around the bedside. Your eyes blinked open slowly upon the contact of him wiping you clean with his bandana.
Mindlessly you ran your hand up and down his warm bicep. He swiped the cloth delicately over your swollen folds, taking care not to hurt the sensitive area.
As he cleared the wetness, you watched his eyes, glossed and mesmerized that were glued to your sex. You breathed a hum of amusement; he was still shamelessly addicted to your pussy, even when he was showering you with the tender aftercare he did every time.
"Thank you," you expressed. It was an innocent utterance into a room heavy with sweat and lust. Eddie's gaze met yours and you blinked, tiredly.
"I told you before, you don't have to thank me for cleaning up, sweetheart." He scrunched his nose cutely.
"I didn't mean for that."
"You don't have to thank me for making you cum," he remarked with a cocky smirk.
"Not that either, you dork." You poked your red-varnished fingernail into the black ink on his peck. As your round-cheeked smile faded, the eye contact between you two intensified.
For fuck buddies who keep one another secret, you sure do look at one another with a lot of endearment. Maybe it's because of how intimately you know one another from the sex. Deep down you both know it's more than that; you just don't want to admit it and ruin what you have.
"I meant thank you for helping me finally get rid of that jerk," you mumbled. It made him smile genuinely with those dimples that charmed his way into your pants many months ago.
"Fun way to do it, wasn't it?" he teased, wiggling his eyebrows. He circled you in his arms, one slipping beneath your neck and the other wrapping around your back.
Both your hands rested on his chest when he tugged you closer. Naturally, your legs tangled into a jumble as your bodies were constantly magnetized to be as near as possible. It was a state of calm that you never felt with anyone else.
"I couldn't handle hearing you cry over him anymore," Eddie admitted. His voice rumbled under where your palms were flattened. "He never deserved you and you didn't deserve to feel like that."
The wavering breaths you released tickled his pale skin, still burning. He seemed to always have the right words and the ability to make you feel good. You scooted your face closer to his on the silken pillow.
"I feel a lot better now," you murmured.
"I bet you do," he smirked. "I think that big finale was the loudest you've ever been. 'Oh, Eddie! Oh, baby!'"
His teasing mockery of your moaning made you roll your eyes, but his big dimply smile got you. You burst into giggles as the inches between you closed and his nose bumped yours.
You didn't need Steve; you never did. It was your friends with benefits, your fuck buddy, your dirty little secret who finally made you realize it.
A blissed smile formed on your plumped lips when Eddie kissed your forehead and hugged you against him. Relaxation soothed your sore muscles as you had nothing left to worry about.
Not then, anyway. It was just you and this perfect boy who respected you and made you scream with pleasure.
Cuddling in the afterglow with him, it wasn't long before you were both fast asleep, velvet skin pressed warmly together as you rest your tired bodies.
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reblogs & feedback are appreciated! thanks for reading♡
Written for the first of the @steddiemicrofic 3rd year anniversary celebration prompts, three | WC: 333 | Rating: E | POV: Steddie, but ambiguous | CW: 18+, SMUT, NSFW, MDNI, explicit sexual content, allusions to homophobia
Steddie masterlist | General masterlist
“Baby, it's our third anniversary. I know you can do this. Will you try? For me?”
“Please, I– I don't know if I can.”
His voice is strained, he sounds in pain. But he loves his boyfriend, so he's willing to try.
It's been a hard three years.
To start with, they dallied around each other for ages, too shit scared to admit how they felt in case the other didn't reciprocate, and wasting so much time in the process.
Then, they had to navigate coming out to their friends, revealing their relationship, and deciding how much affection they could safely express in public.
After, there was the excitement, and anxiety, around shared accommodation, not least the necessity and extra expense of renting a two-bed lest people asked questions.
But it's also been amazing. Joyful. Wondrous. Having a loving boyfriend to come home to, to build a life with, and give just as much love back to in return? Worth it.
But this boyfriend isn't above asking for demanding what feels like the impossible.
He’s already made him cum twice. First with his mouth on their shared sofa, cumming in his pants as he humped himself against his leg.
Then again in the shower as they cleaned up, this time with fingers in his ass as his wet body trapped his still-sensitive cock between his belly and the cold tile.
And now, as his beau rails him into their shared mattress, their hard work and adoration and devotion flowing between them, he falls over the precipice one final time as the love of his life spills inside of him.
He's rewarded with tender kisses peppered all over his sweaty, aching body, knowing the aftercare will be just as sweet. And yet his boyfriend is still somehow of the opinion that he's the lucky one, as he squeezes his ass cheek one last time and mumbles into the crook of his neck,
“Thank you, baby. I knew you could do it. Best. Gift. Ever.”
Thanks so much for reading!
Who did you put where? (I couldn't decide so I thought I'd let you choose 😉)
A/N: Hmm, I only have 333 words for this most meaningful of microfics, what shall I concentrate on? *slams hand on table* SMUUUTTT!!!
As a metalhead I appreciate steddie fic writers who are also metalheads
(or who do a crazy about of research)
like omg you do know the crazy division punks and metalheads had (and still have) and don’t mix up the two subcultures, yes Eddie has a slayer poster on his wall and would probably listen to, ofc heavy metal, but also thrash, speed, and maybe even early black metal (merciful fate).
Yes Eddie would definitely be a little elitist and hate hair metal. Yes he would be insufferable about his metal takes (that’s 2/3rds of metalheads already), yes he would listen to a lot more than hard rock. Yes he would 1,000% judge Steve’s music taste even if at times it’s good.
And yes….him giving his battle jacket to Steve is actually the equivalent to ripping his heart out and throwing it at Steve’s face.
stormborns
areudirty
origamiaround
ellievsbear
yousharknotpass
snowghoul
baratheonpilled
