pixxxieland

[pixxxieland]

right where you left me;

chapter one: ticket to anywhere

summary: steve harrington is unlucky when it comes to matters of the heart. for years he’s been in love with his best friend, but circumstances have made it impossible for him to make his feelings known. fate seems to have other plans, when you ask him to help you escape your wedding day, with nothing but his hand to hold and a car to drive off in. you suddenly find yourself headed back to hawkins, back to the place that feels so unfamiliar now — back to the place where you first fell in love.

warnings: 18+; smut in later chapters; alcohol mentions; class differences; financial insecurities; purposeful vignette-like/short scenes to cover a larger span of time in this mini-series (11k words).

steve harrington x f!reader || best friends to lovers, mutual pining, second chance romance with the town handyman who lives in a cabin in the woods. inspired by this edit from @somnambulic-thing.

masterlist | next chapter

——

October, 1990…

——

Everything is wrong.

It hits you, sitting there in front of the vanity mirror, voices swirling about the room full of your girl friends. Your gown, the colors of the bridesmaids dresses, the venue. It’s too lavish, too over the top. Not the small, intimate feel you imagined ever since you were a little girl, friends surrounding you, watching as you married the man of your dreams.

But then again, the groom isn’t who you imagined either. That’s the first of the many issues with this day that jump to your attention.

Clark is fair haired and light eyed. Handsome, in the way that you can tell he spends thousands of dollars on clothing to do so. More acquaintance than the man you always envisioned standing beside you on this day.

This same man, who you found only moments ago seemingly in a passionate argument with one of your bridesmaids. Both of them touching one another in a way that seemed too familiar, like they’d done this dance, had this same conversation at least once before. She begged for him to leave, to get away now, to back out of the marriage. Pleaded with him to consider love, instead of some business endeavor.

Had reached up and kissed him bruisingly, his hands fisted in her gown. The same wrinkled one that stares at you now as your fingers toy with your bouquet, her sad eyes plastered on your face.

You know you should feel something. Anger, betrayal, hurt, resentment — but instead you feel nothing at all. You’re not in love. Haven’t been. Now your mind only buzzes, someone calling your name bringing you to attention, head lifting slightly.

“Are you okay?” they ask, “can I get you anything?”

And it’s two words.

A name, really, that pops into your mind.

“Can you see if Steve Harrington is here yet?”

——

Steve’s not sure what to think when a bridesmaid he barely recognizes — likely because he’s only met them once or twice before — barrels toward him, an intensity in her eyes that has him worrying something has gone wrong.

Everything is wrong, though. Because he’s here, in this ridiculously huge wedding venue, standing in for those in Hawkins who couldn’t make the trip, about to watch as his best friend marries a man who isn’t Steve Harrington.

And as much as it pains him, loving you means doing anything to see you happy — even if it kills him in the end. It’s all he knows, all he has done for as long as you’ve been a friend to him, two wide-eyed eleven-year-olds sitting in some fancy ballroom as you watched your parents parade themselves around like the elite that they deemed themselves to be.

What he doesn’t expect, however, as he’s practically dragged into a room, is to find you standing there pacing back and forth, beautiful as ever and not at all happy for someone who is about to be married.

“Stacy, a moment?” you ask, lifting your head enough that he can see you fully.

You’re absolutely breathtaking, in a way that’s almost cruel, because after today you’ll officially be a wife. After today, he’ll have to accept that his feelings that are not at all platonic toward his best friend he still harbors all these years later can only ever just be that: feelings.

As the door shuts behind Stacy, you rush forward and slam into his chest, and he’s immediately there to wrap his arms around your waist. You’re a vision in a fluffy tulle skirt, the veil on your head brushing against his chin, and it’s then he feels the frantic flutter of your heart against his sternum. It’s then he can feel your fingers curl around the lapels of his suit — can see the flash of tears swimming in your eyes.

“I need to get out of here,” you whisper hoarsely.

Breathlessly.

“What do y —”

“Please…take me away from here. Anywhere, I don’t care. Please,” you beg, and though he has more questions than answers, he dips his head. Because again, he’ll do anything to make you happy.

Even if that includes helping you run from your own wedding.

With a long exhale, Steve steps back a bit, fingers carding through his hair. He moves to the door, head tossed over his shoulder to glance back your way.

“Give me a second,” he says, slipping from the room into the hallway.

There’s no one in the nearby vicinity, this room far enough away from the rest of the guests that escaping shouldn’t be a problem. His eyes catch on the glowing exit symbol in the distance, and he knows his car is a few blocks away, but it’s better than nothing and will have to do.

When he slips back into the room, you’re wiping your hands along your dress, clasping one around his as he extends a palm your way.

He can’t deny the ache in his chest as you take it, the electric jolt that courses through his body, but now isn’t the time. If you’re going to get out without anyone noticing, you’ll have to do so now — and quickly.

“Come on,” he urges, and you’re both off, rushing down the empty hallway unbeknownst to your waiting guests, the world bursting to life in color as the exit doors swing wide open.

——

“Remind me to never run in heels again,” you gasp out, hand tight in Steve’s as you dart through busy city streets, avoiding bodies along the way.

All around, people honk their cars, citizens whistle and congratulate you as you run on by. And you know it’s because you and Steve, for all intents and purposes, look as though you’ve just married. Him in his suit, and you in your poofy wedding gown, the edges now stained a murky soot color.

“And I want this stupid thing off my head right now.”

Steve pauses on the side street as you come to a halt, his chest bumping yours at the abruptness as your fingers reach up to unclasp your veil from your head. Balling it up in your hands, you toss it into the nearby garbage can. Pigeons scurry away in haste, a squirrel skittering away from its hard earned meal.

“How do I look?” you ask, hiking up the edges of your gown as someone nearly trips on it, making their way towards the crosswalk.

“Like a runaway bride.” He laughs, shaking his head. “My car is another block that way. Let’s go.”

He grips your hand again, and you know you really don’t have to hold it, but it brings you comfort all the same. The further you run away from the wedding venue, the more you realize what exactly you’ve done. You’ve run out on your intended husband, on friends, on your family who has spent the money to make it all happen — and everyone will have something to say about it. Word gets around quickly in your social circle.

But it’s a decision for yourself. The first in a long long time.

There’s something so liberating about it — about rushing after Steve as he loops you around other bodies, as he opens the passenger side door for you and helps push your frilly skirts inside, before dropping down into the driver’s seat and shoving his key in the ignition.

And as he turns the key, peeling away from the busy side street, and heads toward the nearest highway, you know it’s the right decision.

——

Neither of you speak for the first half hour driving. The roads are busy, traffic bumper-to-bumper in the city, Steve’s grip a white knuckled one around the steering wheel. There’s also the suddenness in which your reality comes crashing, dress still on your form, the edges sodden around your ankles, the ring on your finger glinting in the slowly setting sun. Every part of this day has done a complete one eighty.

“We’ll probably have to stop in a few hours,” Steve says, a little more to himself, the hum of the radio spilling into the quiet car, “where do we want to go anyway?”

“I still can’t believe you drove all the way here,” you tell him softly, head turning a bit to take him in.

He’s loosened the tie around his neck, his hair is a little unkempt now, the suit jacket long tossed into the backseat. Those bare forearms of his ripple with each turn of the wheel, your eyes dragging along hair-dusted skin. You’ve missed him; more than you ever could realize, his presence a comfort after being surrounded by people who don’t understand you — not really, at least — for so long.

“I wanted to be here,” he says, “I don’t mind driving, you know that.”

You did. You’d spent many nights circling the familiar streets of Hawkins over the span of a few years once you’d both been able to drive. Those same streets that are unfamiliar now, mere memories in your mind. It had been a few years since everything that happened with Vecna, and a few years since you watched your childhood home grow smaller and smaller in your parent’s rear view mirror, Steve along with it, waving from his parent’s driveway.

“And I wanted to see you,” he adds, glancing your way, those hazel eyes bright in the setting sun.

The idea dawns suddenly, lips moving to form the words before you can think otherwise, “Hawkins. Take me to Hawkins with you.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, a little hesitantly, weariness seeping into his tone. “It's about…a twelve hour drive. I think we can make it to Ohio before getting some sleep for the night. You’ll just need to direct me with the map.”

You answer with a smile, reaching into his glove compartment and pulling out the map, the weathered corners bent like they’d been the last time you’d gone on a road trip with him. After everything had gone to hell at Starcourt, you needed to get away, the two of you taking to the road, a finger swirling around until it landed upon a random state.

It feels like old times, sitting here in the car with him, the windows down, his hair blowing in the wind, and the crisp smell of fall air to greet you.

The drive is quiet for the most part, other than the small exchanges here and there of roads to take, giving him enough time to make sure he’s in the correct lanes and the like.

It dawns on you then how long it’s been since the two of you really talked. Your exchanges throughout the years have been sparse, at best. Always meaningful, but moving twelve hours away has put a strain on your relationship from the get go. Initially you’d aimed for one phone call a week, which had soon turned into once every two weeks, and then down to once a month.

And once Clark had stepped in six months ago, your conversations were even less frequent, and always cut short — Clark never having understood why the two of you were so close.

So you suppose you shouldn’t be too surprised when Steve suddenly asks, “What happened back there?”

“I didn’t want to marry him,” you admit in a whisper, training your gaze ahead at the streets, leaves golden and amber flashing by the passenger side window. “I couldn’t marry him. I didn’t love him — I never loved him.”

It had been an added blessing that it seemed Clark felt the same, his mouth preoccupied with your friend’s minutes before you made your escape out the back door.

“Then why agree to marry the guy?”

It’s an innocent question, but it has your stomach lurching all the same, your lips parting slightly, heart pounding in your throat. “Steve…your parents are like mine. You know why.”

Because it had been arranged that way, Clark’s path pushed in front of yours, the pressures of your parents and their business ventures breathing down your neck. That and Clark had his own goals, as did you, and marrying would help you achieve them.

It wasn’t like you’d ever love him, either.

Love had only been reserved for one man in your life, and he’d never loved you back.

“So you marry some uptight rich guy to make your parents happy? What about how you feel?” His fingers tighten around the steering wheel, voice rising in volume. “And you were going to just go along with it?”

“Stop judging me! It’s not that simple.” His eyes dart to yours, unused to you ever raising your voice at him. “You don’t get it. You gave up that life. I had no choice but to go with them when everything happened the way it did in Hawkins.”

“Yes, because I was tired of feeling like a failure of a son,” he grumbles, carding his fingers through his hair, “tired of being looked at like I was Jonah Harrington’s biggest mistake.”

“You’re not a mistake.” Your fingers reach over the center console, briefly hovering above his bicep before resting there gently, feeling the tension in his form dissolve. “I thought I was doing the right thing for my family. I was trying to buy time and get my inheritance so I could be done with it all eventually. It was stupid, I know. But I’m making this decision right now, running away with you, for myself.”

His hand slides down to grasp yours, bringing the back of your knuckles to his lips to press a kiss there. He’s done it thousands of times over the years, but it has your heart skipping like it does every time, chills dancing along your spine.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, dropping another gentle kiss to your knuckles, “I’m happy you’re here.”

“Me too, Steve.”

——

The moon comes out to play, and the two of you stop at a gas station just as Steve’s watch reads eight at night. The place is dilapidated at best. Neon glowing lights flickering along the top of the pump, the numbers worn away by weather, the inside of the building covered in inches of grime.

You’d intended to grab some snacks and water bottles, but the lack of sanitation efforts has you wanting to wait for the next convenience store instead. So as Steve pumps the gas, you lean onto the hood of the car, skirts spanning around your thighs, thanking someone as they pass and comment on how beautiful you look.

“You do look beautiful, you know?” Steve lifts his head, those corded muscles on his forearm drawing your attention once more. Head shaking, you tip your head up, eyes narrowing on his face curiously. “A shame you got all dressed up for that guy though.”

“Shut up,” you tease, sticking your tongue out at him, propping your map up on your thighs. “So if my guesses are right, we’ll be getting to Ohio in a little less than three hours. Hopefully the hotels in Powell aren’t full. I’m already pretty tired.”

“If worse comes to worse, we could always sleep in the car —”

“Steve.”

“What?” He raises a hand in surrender, smiling at the angry furrow of your brows. “Wouldn’t be the first time we camped out in the back seat of it.”

“I’d prefer a mattress after the day we both had,” you tell him, folding the map and tucking it beneath your thigh. “We also need to keep an eye out for a store. Pretty sure I saw a cockroach in the gas station, so I’m not trusting anything in there. Plus pork rinds and jerky didn’t exactly sound appealing to me.”

Steve grimaces in agreement, the gas pump clicking, signaling his full tank. He replaces the nozzle on the holder and pushes the flap back into place, snatching the map from your hand as he passes around the front of the vehicle to slide back into the front seat.

You follow suit, shoving your skirts about your thighs, finger toying at a hole in the hem that you must have made while running through the city streets. The realization of thousands of dollars, all for naught, with the lingering fear of your parent’s disappointment swirling in your gut has your stomach churning uncomfortably. But there’s little time to linger on those worries, as Steve slides a finger along your forearm to draw you back to reality, giving you a reassuring smile.

“Look at me,” he demands softly, hazel eyes glowing in the seedy gas station light that flickers above. Lips twitching, you meet his stare, chest warming under the burn of his affection, “there’s that smile I love. Everything is fine.”

There ends up being a small grocery store at the next exit, a little family owned thing, with very few shoppers lingering inside. You offer to go in alone, but Steve insists you’re in another state and he’s not about to leave you by your lonesome. So you end up standing beside him, him all tousled in his dark pants and wrinkled dress shirt, and you in your dress, drawing the attention of curious customers.

“We got lost on our way to the airport for our honeymoon,” Steve tells one person who wanders a little too close for his liking as you grab bags of chips off of a rack, tossing in a jar of salsa for good measure. “Going to stop at that hotel down on Verdant instead. Really want to go above and beyond and treat my wife, you know?”

The one that looked all seedy, like it was practically falling apart, windows broken and covered with wooden slats. The customer eyes the two of you wearily, offering well wishes, sounding a little uncertain as they slowly but surely back away, not wanting to talk any further.

Nothing quells your giggles at that, head pressing into the bag of marshmallows you found, eyes pinched shut to keep your tears at bay. “Steve, they probably think we’re crazy.”

“Speak for yourself, honey,” he chuckles, reaching over to snatch the bag from you, “why do we need these?”

You pluck it back, pouting. “If you must know, they’re for me. I don’t share with guys named Steve who have too many opinions.”

“If we’re getting marshmallows, we need graham crackers and chocolate too,” he points out, reaching over to grab the other two s’mores ingredients from the end cap you’re standing in front of, tossing them into your shopping cart. “For two adults, it looks like we’re buying for a bunch of kids about to enter into a sugar coma.”

“Look — we’ve had a stressful day,” you huff out, pushing the cart further down the aisle, “we’ve earned s’mores and snacks. Plus we need it for the rest of our trip. I saw a coffee shop next door too. I’ll buy it. I feel bad you drove all the way to the city, only to leave again.”

“If I have coffee now, I’ll never fall asleep,” he exhales, shoulder brushing yours as you meander through the aisle, snatching a package of water bottles for the car off a pallet. “I do think we should grab breakfast tomorrow morning. Maybe do a little touristy stop before heading back to Hawkins. What do you think?”

Time alone with Steve? Time you haven’t had in way too long, if you’re being honest with yourself. Even now, standing in the store with him, getting gas with him before that, you realize just how much you’ve missed your best friend. Things like this, so banal and generally uninteresting, have you smiling until your cheeks hurt, brimming to overflow with excitement.

It’s an easy choice, really. “Sounds perfect.”

——

One room. There’s only one room with a single bed left in the whole damn hotel. You suppose it shouldn’t come as a surprise, because nothing has really turned out how you anticipated today.

Still, you ask the woman at the front desk again, and she arches a brow in confusion — likely assuming you and Steve are already having marital issues merely hours after you tied the knot. There’s no use explaining it to any more people tonight. For now, you’re a newlywed, and Steve is your doting groom.

“Not like we’ve never shared a bed before.”

Steve’s voice is a low rumble near your ear as you stare at your distorted reflection in the silver wall of the elevator across from you. The thing is you have shared a bed with Steve numerous times over the years. As teenagers, when you often snuck over to Steve’s, after your parents left for business trip after business trip. He’d leave the window unlatched, a hand there to grab you as you scaled his trellis, blankets already pulled back on your side of the bed.

But for some reason this feels different. Hours ago you’d been engaged to another man — hours ago, after you’d caught said man in an affair, you’d only had one thought. And it had been this man standing before you; though then again, it had always been that way.

Steve Harrington, your beautiful best friend with a big personality and even bigger heart. Steve Harrington, the one that you always wanted, but also the one that never was.

With a steely sigh of resignation, you watch as Steve swipes the key card, flicking the light on in the doorway. It’s a simple room, not the upscale hotels you’re accustomed to. There are no lavish furnishings, no glittering chandeliers. Instead you’re met with a dresser and a dilapidated television. Against the back wall is a bed, the linens starchy beneath your fingertips, though you suppose they’ll have to do.

Steve whistles, glancing up at the popcorn ceilings. “Could be worse, right?” It’s an awkward chuckle, his hands reaching down to undo the buttons around his arms, hair on his chest visible a moment later as he unbuttons the top of his dress shirt. “Shit — just realized we don’t have any clothes. Should have stopped somewhere.”

“It’s fine,” you tell him, because he’s seen you in nearly every state of undress at this point.

In bathing suits over the summer, sitting atop his bathroom sink in your bra after Billy Hargrove had shoved you particularly hard at the Starcourt mall while under possession, your ribs scraped against the hard ground. And you’d seen him the same, beaten and bloodied after his altercation with Jonathan, after the Russians had taken him for questioning and beaten him to a bloody pulp, after the events with Vecna that had left his skin raw and battered.

Though you suppose this is a little different, as it’s the first time he’s going to be undressing you, despite being under different circumstances than those you dreamed of throughout the years. Fantasies you’ve long pushed aside in the catacombs of your mind, to be filed away as ‘things that’ll never happen since he’s your childhood best friend.’

Your fingers tremble as you turn in front of him, exhaling deeply as you mutter out, “I can’t reach the buttons. Could you…please?”

There’s a sense of awareness that settles over you as he approaches from behind. Broad, battle-calloused hands rest at the nape of your neck, drifting lower where they settle on the endless row of buttons there. His breath prickles along your skin, those nimble fingers of his toying with that first button, his inhale shaky as he undoes another, and then another, and another. With each button, more flesh is revealed, the ghost of his touching a phantom along your spine, the dress starting to sag around your breasts, your hands coming up to cup the gown close to your chest.

Steve’s eyes meet yours in the mirror affixed to the wall in front of you — hazel, and sparkling in the ethereal moonlight that pours through the softly parted curtains, tinged with an emotion you can’t quite put a name to. A deep exhale falls from gently parted lips as his knuckles drag along your spine, a delicate line that stops once he reaches the base, freeing you from the last of the buttons. White tulle drops to the ground beneath you, toes kicking it out of the way, leaving you standing there in a cream nightgown, lace detailing around the edges hugging the sumptuous curves of your breasts.

Steve’s throat bobs, clearly not wholly unaffected by all of this, as he peers at you. Your feet carry you backward toward the bed, legs curling beneath your form as Steve moves to unbutton his own shirt, tossing it haphazardly into the corner once it’s free from his torso. He’s the same and different than you remember. All broad chested, a dusting of hair along his upper body, a line from his naval down beneath the dark pants hugging a pair of toned thighs. Scars line his sides where the demobats had bitten into his flesh, his shredded back a tapestry of markings that catch your eye as he walks around the opposite side of the bed and slips in beside you. You avert your eyes, trying to not draw attention to the fact you’ve been ogling, ignoring that simmering ache low in your belly that forms.

If he notices you staring, he says nothing, only settling down on the mattress and shifting so his thighs brush your hips, his head resting on a pillow as he gazes at your profile.

Rolling onto your side, you reach over and trail your fingers along the forearm he tucks under his head, thumb running gentle stripes along the width of it. “Thanks for saving me today.”

“You know I’ll always be there for you,” he whispers back, reaching over your form to turn off the bedside lamp. “Always.”

——

Stones knock against the bedroom window. Rouse you from bed. Head poking up from your pillow, you wander over to the windowsill, hand covering your heart as Steve’s head appears in the opening, body practically thumping against the floor in his hastiness.

Broad palms settle on your biceps, the backs of your thighs pressing into your mattress as he leads you to sit down, hazel eyes meeting yours. Your fingers reach up to glide over his chest — to feel the rapid thump of his heart in his chest.

He’s real.

He’s here.

After worrying for days that something has gotten him too, he’s right here in the flesh.

Alive.

“I saw the news,” you gasp out, swallowing the harsh knot growing in the back of your throat, “Do they really think Eddie Munson did it? Do they really think he killed Chrissy? Fred? Steve, what’s going on? Is it the Upside Down? Let me help you.”

“It’s bad this time. Like — like really bad.” His fingers touch along your temples, poking and prodding, gauging your reaction. Your only reaction, however, is to grip at his wrists, fingers bracelets around his pulse points, head tilting to the side. “Are you in pain anywhere?”

“Steve, I’m fine,” you reassure him, pushing forward to loop your arms around his waist. To push him back against the bed so he can settle down a bit, his thighs against yours. “Your heart is racing. What’s wrong? I’m coming to help next time —”

“You’re not helping this time. Last time was a mistake.”

You’d been driving in the rain one evening back in July and saw Max and El walking on the streets, looking a little dejected, and ended up peering in the window at the Holloway’s when something had gone wrong and demanded the girls tell you what was going on — especially when you were El’s tutor and she usually told you everything. Once you’d found out Steve was missing too, all bets had been off the table for staying out of whatever was bump in the night.

He rolls over onto his side, hand coming up to cup your cheek, smothering your grimace under the softness of his touch. “I can’t…I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to you.”

“Steve.”

Your hand rests over his, eyes boring into his, noting the flush on his cheeks, the glittering lower line of his lashes. Whatever this is, whatever he’s dealing with…the weight is crushing him, and your heart breaks with the immensity it.

His fingers reach over to grasp at your Walkman laying on the bedside table beside your bed. He drops it down onto the mattress between the two of you, a pleading look in those hazel depths.

“Put your favorite song on loop. Keep batteries on you at all times, and keep the headphones nearby until I tell you it’s safe.” Your mouth opens to speak, but he continues, “Please, just trust me. It’s safer for you this way. People are dying.”

“Let me help, Ste —”

“Please,” he begs, dropping his forehead against yours, “just trust me, okay?”

You nod, and in the morning, as you start to feel your body coming to wake, his fingers trace your temple. Like he’s trying to memorize every detail, the calluses on his fingers from years of baseball soothing your soul.

“I love you,” he whispers, like he always does.

I love you, in the way he loves Dustin and Robin or any of the other kids.

I love you, in the way he’s loved you since you were eleven.

I love you, in the way you always tell one another you do.

I love you, in the way he always has, but not in the way you always wished he would.

“I love you,” he says once more, and you slip back into sleep.

——

Went to try and find us some clothes. You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you. Be back soon. - Love, Steve.

With a yawn, you roll over in bed, clutching the note to your chest. It smells like your best friend — that warm vanilla scent with something minty beneath. Comforting and completely him. The space beside you is still warm, the imprint of his body a reminder that he’d even been there at all. Popcorn ceilings meet your field of vision as you flip onto your back, holding aloft your left hand, light coming through the window catching on the glittering diamond there.

“Never thought you were one for a rock that needs an insurance policy,” Steve teases, appearing in the doorway with bags of clothes and other products in hand. “Then again, never thought you’d marry a guy named Clark. What is he, Spider-Man?”

“You mean Superman?”

He shoots a mocking glare your way and settles down beside you on the bed, pulling out various articles of clothing.

“It’s not designer, I hope that’s fine.” You shove at him lightly. He’s gone with a pair of black leggings and a chestnut colored sweater for you, along with a pair of boots that’ll be nice for the fall weather outside. “I eyed the shoe size. Hope they fit.” The shoes are a size too big, but they’ll work, and you laugh as he pulls out a bra and a pair of underwear. His eyes narrow a bit your way, “Just wanted to make sure I covered all the bases. I already got judged enough at the store by the cashier, so do not even go there right now.”

You snicker, tucking the clothes against your chest gratefully. Honestly, nothing sounds better than a new pair of comfortable clothes, ready to be rid of the flimsy dress dancing along your thighs.

“This is perfect,” you tell him honestly. Steve himself went for something similar — a pair of dark blue jeans, a black sweater, and a pair of simple shoes. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it,” he says, stopping you from reaching for your wallet. “You couldn’t exactly walk around in your dirty wedding dress for another day.”

“Yeah, but you’ve already done too much for me —”

“You’re my best friend. Stop acting like you’re inconveniencing me. I asked for this. Plus we haven’t hung out much in…oh, I don’t know, two or three years? That’s a lot of lost time to make up for.” As your features soften at his words, he adds, “Now hurry up and get dressed. There’s a diner around the block that looks nice enough and I’m starving.”

——

Fifteen.

You’re fifteen and it’s a dare.

Tommy and Carol think it’s funny.

Seven minutes in heaven with Steve Harrington.

The room is silent, all eyes on you. And maybe it’s the cheap liquor stolen from Steve’s parent’s expensive cabinet running through your system, but when Carol points at you and laughs that you won’t do it, you grip Steve by the collar of his shirt and stomp off to the nearby coat closet.

Steve’s breathless behind you, body thumping yours as you both stumble inside and the door is shut. Without hesitation, you tug on the rope chain connected to a single lightbulb and squint as your eyes adjust to the orange glow radiating off Steve’s golden skin, flushed by the summer sun.

“Time is ticking and we don’t hear kissing!” Tommy cackles, though it’s muffled through the wooden door separating you from the rest of Steve’s guests.

The rest of the room dissolves into fits of giggles, drowned out by the harsh thump of your heart pounding in your ears. The light flickers up above, and part of you wonders if it’s the only imperfection in the Harrington home. Something so trivial, and yet it distracts you from this nerve wracking moment, in this closet, with this boy.

“I’ve — I never…” you babble, feeling your chest heat, embarrassment choking off the rest of your words. “So, like, if we…do this…I don’t really know what I’m doing. And I think if I’m going to get it out of the way, I’d want it to be with someone I trust, and there’s no one I trust more than you. So, like, why not, right?”

Steve’s grinning. A goofy little thing that grows as he steps a little closer, one of his palms curling around your hips, toying with the belt loop on your jean shorts. “You want me to kiss you, hmm?”

Steve’s different now. He’s grown in the four years you’ve known him. He’s handsome, not that he hasn’t always been. But there’s more of him now. His chest is broader, his hair is longer, he’s popular now. By default, you are too. None of that has ever mattered; as long as you have him, you’re happy. But it’s at fifteen that you really understand the love you feel for him isn’t wholly platonic. In fact, the older you get, the more time you spend with him…it only solidifies in your heart that whatever his soul is made up of sings to your own.

It’s equal parts surreal and terrifying.

“Hey…hey,” Steve whispers, voice a coo that he only reserves for you, “what’s the pout for?”

“You’re teasing me,” you tell him, tipping your head up a bit, the fire in your eyes clashing with the worry in his, “and I already told you I’m nervous. You only have one first kiss and I —”

“I’m sorry, you’re right. I'm being an asshole. Let me start over again, yeah?”

You nod, swallowing thickly as he lifts a hand and cups your cheek. The pad of his thumb runs over your bottom lip, parts you for him gently. Shaky breath skitters along your bottom lip, heart thrashing wildly behind your sternum as he takes another step closer and tilts his head down a bit, the warmth of him permeating your thin tank top when his chest brushes yours.

“It’s just me,” he breathes out, noting your trembling, taking another step closer.

His hips bump yours and linger, all the butterflies in your stomach fluttering wildly. A steady beat of ‘kiss me, kiss me, kiss me’ in time with their wings throbs in your blood.

Steve’s thumb strokes back and forth against your lip, drags it down further as your breath mingles in the middle, as you lean up onto your toes and meet him there, humming into his flesh.

The space between you shrinks and he’s there, warm and gentle against your flesh. You barely have time to register the fact he’s kissing you, because a knock sounds from the other side of the door, signaling your time is up. Both of you jolt apart, a little breathless, your hand coming up to rest against your mouth. He swallows thickly and opens the door, the closet awash in bright light, and though he seems mostly unaffected, a solid realization drops into your gut.

You’ve never loved anyone before, and maybe people will say you’re ‘too young’ to know anything about it, but you know with absolute certainty you love Steve Harrington.

——

Steve’s beaming because you’re glowing. Practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you wander through the park you’d stumbled upon shortly after breakfast, shoes crinkling against fallen leaves as you kick them into the air, glee personified. He wishes he had a camera, if only to capture the way you look right now. You, with your head tipped up to the sky, arms out at your sides, catching the small droplets of rain that began falling only minutes ago on your upturned palms.

He’s already suggested heading back to the car and getting on the road for the remainder of the trip to Hawkins, but the more it rains the happier you seem. As though you’re shedding your old life, a little lighter than you had been hours ago.

He hates that Clark’s ring is still on your finger, especially when he feels the way he does simply looking at you in this moment, but he can only imagine the enormity of the emotions welling in your system. You walked out on your family and your marriage; he knows your family, and knows what consequences might come from your actions.

Maybe you need a moment before popping the bubble and accepting fate? And who is he to hinder your joy? He’d spend every day trying to get you to smile like you are right now, having done so all the years of your friendship, only now it twists his gut tight. A harsh coil, curling around his esophagus, robbing him of his voice and air.

“I love how free and open everything feels here,” you tell him, practically skipping over to his side, shoulder brushing his. “I’ve been in the city so long I forgot what it’s like.”

He knows exactly what you mean. It’s quiet here. Peaceful. For a moment he can pretend you two are the only people in the world. “And soon you’ll be back in Hawkins,” he says, curling an arm around your shoulders, tucking you in close. “Are you excited?”

“A little nervous to see everyone,” you admit, resting your head against his shoulder. “It’s been…”

“Almost three years since you visited.”

He’d come to visit you in the city, on weekends where he could get away and book a plane ticket. But even then, he’d only see you for a weekend at a time. Nothing like before, when you’d spend nearly every day with him, and then once Robin joined the picture, she’d become the third part of your trio.

He can’t wait to have the both of you back together in the same state again.

There is so much he already imagines doing, places he wants to show you, things he wants to share with you.

“Everyone misses you, though,” he reassures you, hating the way your features drop when you whirl around to face him, the amber leaves wrinkling around the edges of your shoes. “They’re going to be so excited. Swear.”

“Pinky promise?” You hold out the sad little pinky, eyes leveling with his.

“We haven’t done one of these since we were seventeen when you asked me to teach you how to parallel park and promised to write my science paper if I helped you pass —”

“Yeah, because I failed the road test and was the only one in our class to not pass on the first try. It was embarrassing.” And you’d been miserable about it. Made it everyone’s problem. He’d thought it cute, the way you’d ripped Tommy H to shreds when he said it was okay you failed because Steve could always chauffeur you around, and you’d flipped the guy off with your favorite finger to throw his way.

Still, he curls his finger around yours and grins, “How do you feel about getting on the road? If we leave now, we should be in Hawkins by dinner time. Maybe we can bother Eddie for a free drink. You know he owns the Hideout now? Expanded it, so it’s a restaurant too now. The owner had passed and trusted Eddie would take care of it. Everyone’s really proud of him.”

You don’t. He’s never told you. It happened the past year, and with Clark entering your life, communication had dwindled a bit. He tried to hide his upset with those first few phone calls. Tried to pretend he never noticed how you’d spoken quicker, as though you were trying to speed up your catch up sessions, as though someone were looking over your shoulder.

It hurt to have the little bits he got to keep of you — the parts he liked to think were for himself — cut even shorter.

Things are different now, he reminds himself. You’re here, with him, heading back to Hawkins.

But for how long…that weary part in the back of his soul whispers. Just as quickly as he has you back, he knows he can lose you now. The thought alone stirs dread within him.

“Do you mind if we stop at a phone booth first? I want to call my family. Make sure they at least know I’m okay.” You’re already gesturing to the booths he can see in the nearby distance, hidden under a halo of golden and flame colored leaves dancing on tree branches.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” He knows them. He knows it’ll be anything but civil conversation.

He watches a grimace flutter across your features. “I think I owe at least that to them.”

——

Calling is a mistake. A huge, unfathomable mistake. The phone booth rests on the outskirts of the park, leaves falling to the ground around you, the fall chill in the air adding to the drop in temperature once you step beneath the awning and dial the number you know by heart.

Steve remains behind you, a comforting hand on your shoulder you accept by lacing your own fingers atop his. There’s a quick greeting, a simple ‘hi’ that spills out from you in a nervous rush, and then the phone blares to life. What feels like dozens of voices burst on the other end. You can hear your father shouting in the distance when your mother says who is calling.

Clark’s voice also appears in the background, and you wonder why he’s with them. It’s not like you ever spent much time with him outside of family obligations.

The relationship had been a ruse, a predisposed desire foisted upon you both by affluent families in want of furthering their ‘prestigious bloodlines,’ a result of societal pressures becoming too much. Many had insisted many married for less, that these arrangements were more common than you were led to believe, that love wasn’t afforded to people ‘like you.’ You hated it — hated all that it stood for.

Your relationship with Clark had never been deeply emotional or physical. A kiss on the brow or a peck on the lips for appearances sake, but you never allowed him near your heart. He was a friend, sure; someone you could talk to, could vent to — but that was all it ever had been.

You were merely upholding the optics your families expected of you both. The plan all along had been to eventually separate after Clark received his promotion within your father’s practice, and you obtained your inheritance before finally deciding what you wanted to do with your own life. Figured it was the least owed after throwing away everything you once knew to play a role you detested as a ‘perfect daughter’ to one of the largest plastic surgeons in the country.

“Where are you?” your father demands, voice a gruff bark, “You must have some grand explanation for walking out and throwing the thousands of dollars I threw into your wedding away.”

“I’m safe,” you tell them, smiling softly to yourself as Steve’s fingers squeeze tight around your shoulder.

“Don’t think we didn’t see you run out with Harrington's son. I had the venue pull the security footage —”

“With Steven?” your mother gasps. “You didn’t tell me that, dear.”

“If this is some affair, you and Clark will deal with it in couple’s counseling. I expect you back here this instant, young lady. I did not raise you the way I did just for you to run back to that hell in a handbasket town —”

“I need time away,” you say, a little bite to your tone you don’t expect, heart hammering away, “I don’t know how long. But I need this, okay?”

“Sweetheart.” Clark’s voice pours through the receiver. It’s fake, you know it’s fake. All appearances because he knows his promotion is in jeopardy. He can’t be sole heir of your father’s practice without the wife needed to secure the deal. “Let’s think rationally here. Come back home, I miss you. Please, my love.”

Steve stiffens behind you, his ear having lowered down to the earpiece. You shake your head and he softens when you tug him nearer by his sweater, relishing in the warmth of his body to block out the cold.

“I only wanted to call to tell you all that I'm okay. And I’m okay. I promise.” Voices start to rise in volume, but the phone slams against the holder and the line grows dead, ready for the next caller. Fingers rise to pinch at the bridge of your nose. Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill out. Steve opens his mouth to speak, but you offer a stiff shake of the head, murmuring, “Can we just…go? I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Y-yeah,” he stutters, sliding a hand down to take yours in his, pulling you from the phone booth. You follow listlessly behind, free hand toying with the edge of your sweater. For someone who always takes up a room with her personality, you seem so small now. Deflated. He hates it. Hates that they hold this power over you, knowing he escaped the same thing years ago now and never looked back. “I love how they still think I’m some shitstain on my family legacy even after all these years. Kind of funny, right, seeing how those people are so miserable, and yet for the first time in my life I’m actually happy.”

You laugh at the blasé nature of his words. He always knows what to say to make you laugh, always has. “I’m glad one of us is.”

He stops, whirling around to cup both your shoulders. “You’ll figure it out too. This will all blow over. It’ll be okay. Do you want me to take you back home?”

The word sinks deep in the pit of your stomach. Home. Is it home, though?

“No,” you mumble, sounding a little forlorn, “no, I want to stay with you.”

“Okay, well…I have one rule when we get back into the car.” His hair dances along his brow as a stray wind picks up. There’s a shadow of stubble along his jaw, and the urge to run your fingers along that new part of him rises up within you. Head tilting to the side curiously at his words, he continues, “Your life back in the city? Doesn’t exist right now, okay? All of that — leave it right here on this walkway. Think you can do that for me?”

You nod, the city laid there to rest on that sidewalk in the middle of Powell, Ohio.

——

Steve visits the first winter after you leave Hawkins. Feels a little out of place as he appears at your parent’s doorway, holding out a bottle of wine he grabbed from a supermarket, in a suit that he knows is ill fitted on his body because he borrowed it from Eddie Munson. Your home is huge; towering white walls, marble floors, a sprawling staircase. But it’s cold and it’s empty and feels empty, without memories to fill it.

Not like your home back in Hawkins, where he spent his days laying on your bed as you studied, or on the couch watching movies, legs tangled in blankets, chairs set around to make silly forts. He misses baking in the kitchen — or rather you baking, while he prattles on about anything that comes to mind as you tossed ingredients together with love and care.

His heart swells as you rush forward, practically leaping into his arms, perfect as you’ve always been. All beaming smiles, melodious laughter, and that incomparable beauty that radiates from within you.

You feel like home — like his; and yet, you’ve always felt that way.

But you’re here and he’s in Hawkins and you’re miles apart now.

And the way your father pulls him to the side after dinner for a not-so-innocent glass of whiskey outside reminds him exactly of that.

“This childhood crush you have — I always thought the two of you would grow out of it. But it’s clear that is not the case.” It’s a dark sound, a sound that has Steve swallowing thickly, fingers tightening around his glass. “We allowed it for as long as we did because it was good for the two of you. Having friends in that town. These are the people my daughter needs to be around. Her peers, her friends, people that she can grow with.”

Steve swallows again. It’s not unlike the conversations he’s had with his own father before his parents left Hawkins. ‘You’re not good enough for her, you’re not good enough in general, you should have scored that hoop, should have won that baseball game, should have gotten better grades, should have joined the family business.’

Should have, should have, should have.

“I love your daughter, sir.”

He’s always dreamed of telling you first. But the moment was never right, sometimes you’d be dating someone, or he would be. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if your feelings were the same. If he learned anything from the knock on his head thanks to Nancy Wheeler, it was that life only passed you by if you waited.

The older man leans back on his chair and sips his drink, the air bitingly frigid, and yet Steve feels hot beneath his clothing. Can feel every wrinkle of fabric against his slick skin. “You know I can’t allow that.”

“Not to be disrespectful, sir, but she’s her own person —”

“That may be true. She has her free will, and both of us are well aware how stubborn she can be, but sometimes that clouds her judgment —” Steve’s mouth opens, but he’s cut off, “What will you be able to provide her? Where are you working these days? That movie shop?”

“I’m — ah —”

“If you were to marry her, how would you provide for your home? For your children, should you have any?”

Steve flounders on the spot. He has his job, and maybe it doesn’t pay what he would like, but he’s also taken up working side jobs with a local contractor. Has started learning how to build, how to fix, has started remodeling Hopper’s old home that he bought off of him when he married Joyce. It’s a fixer upper, but it’s one of the few things he has that he can fully say are his and his alone.

Maybe he doesn’t have everything now, but in a few years…

“Imagine in a few years. You might make her happy now, but what if she wakes up one day and realizes love isn’t enough? When the bills come in and finances are tight — it creates a strain on a relationship, a stress that I don’t think your childhood whims can even sustain. Not forever, at least. She’s used to this.” He waves his hands to the lavish home you live in. “All she knows is this.”

And he cannot measure up. He can’t provide this. Will never be able to reach this unimaginable wealth. Can’t take you to fancy five-star restaurants, still drives the car he’s had for years now, lives in a home that doesn’t have fully functional windows. A home where when it rains he lays out buckets to catch the water droplets that dribble inside through the roof that still needs a ton of love. He has no pension, no fancy 401k, and the barest of savings to his name.

Not enough, he’s not enough, not good enough.

It’s the words that are unsaid that speak the loudest.

He understands immediately what the older man means.

He’s not enough for you.

He’d never been enough for his own family, so why did he assume this would be any different?

“I know I cannot tell you what to do,” the man across from Steve says, a smug grin across his lips that has his blood running cold, “but I would like to make it very clear you will not have my blessing in the matter. Is that understood?”

Steve says nothing, because the door slides open and you’re there in your sparkly dinner dress that likely costs more than what he makes in a week. The differences in your classes have never been so firmly drawn in the sand. You take his hand and urge him inside, smiling at him like he hung the moon, and your father presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Steve, remember what we talked about, son.”

And he’s gone, but his words remain. Swirling, swirling, swirling around inside Steve’s mind. Like little crystalline shards, little daggers, that sink into his skin and twist. Barbs, tangling within him, leaving him reeling and aching.

“Hey,” you whisper softly, brows furrowing, hands cupping his cheeks. “Hey, are you okay?”

You’re warm, stroking his skin so comfortingly, and he smiles down at you, forces it onto his face for your sake. “I’m okay,” he lies, but though you frown a bit at his reply, you smile weakly when he adds, “Missed you, that’s all.”

“There’s a movie playing tonight that I think you’d like. Come with? For old times sake?” Hopeful. You sound so hopeful.

“Sure,” he says hollowly, the mantra of ‘not good enough’ echoing impossibly loud as you walk him down the hall.

——

The rain falls harder now. Thicker droplets that drop against the windshield, little tracks like tears falling down the glass, pushed away a moment later by wipers.

You tug your thighs up closer to your chest, head nodding along to the song playing on the radio. Steve seems far away — lost in thoughts that form a haze over his eyes. Moments ago you’d run your fingers over the backs of his knuckles and he’d offered you a smile, but that wouldn’t do.

“This mountain I must climb,” you sing out, filling the car with your off-key notes, “feels like a world upon my shoulders.”

“What are you doing?” Steve chuckles, head turning your way. There’s a nervousness about him that feels unfamiliar. A conscientiousness that’s usually not there when it comes to him.

Trying to break him out of whatever spell he’s in, your hand splays out, clutching at the sleeve of his sweater dramatically, waving his arm in the air.

“Through the clouds I see love shine —” Another grand swirl of your free hand, and a laugh bursts from him. “It keeps me warm as life grows colder. Come on, Steve!”

“In my life, there’s been heartache and pain,” he mumbles beside you, thumb tap-tapping against the steering wheel. From where you’re sitting, you can see the twitch of his lips, the corners climbing upward. “I don't know if I can face it again.”

You both break into a fit of giggles as the next lines come through the speakers. And then, with your hand against your heart and his waving out in a flourish that teasingly thumps your chest you both cry out in equally as horrendous voices, “I wanna know what love iiiiis. I want you to show meee.”

You turn to face him, staring intently in his eyes, both of you wailing from deep within your bellies, “I wanna feel what love is. I know you can show meee.”

Your head falls against his shoulder, both your shoulders shaking as the song continues around you, eyes following the tracks of the raindrops spilling onto the glass. Comforting, it’s comforting and feels like home.

The chorus blares again and you catch Steve mouthing the words to the song, his eyes a little misty, your heart splintering down the middle.

Trying to break the quiet tension in the car, you tease, “Is that a tear in your eye I see, Steve Harrington?”

He shoves you lightly, though he makes no effort to move you from his shoulder, sniffling noisily. “Shut up.”

“It’s an emotional song. I don’t blame you,” you giggle airily, looping an arm around his waist, the gearshift digging into your middle. You’re about to ask him what has him in his thoughts just as a rectangular object flashes by your side of the car. “Oh! Was that the —”

“Welcome to Hawkins,” he says softly, your head whipping behind you to catch the back of the sign declaring your entrance to your childhood town.

“I’m back?” You breathe out, nose nearly pressing up against the windshield, despite Steve trying to pull you into your seat by the back of your sweater. “Steve?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles breathily, “you’re home.”

“Home.” Endless rows of lush trees fly by, the rumble of distant thunder drowning out the Foreigner song blaring through Steve’s stereo system. “It’s been so long. Still kinda smells.”

“Definitely still smells over here,” he admits, finally managing to get you to rest back against your seat. “Calm down, you dork.”

Wrinkling your nose at him, you suddenly jump, clapping his forearm rapidly with your excited palm. “Oh my gosh — I get to finally see your place!”

“You get to stay at my place too,” he muses, smirking in a way that has your toes curling a bit in your shoes.

You watch as familiar buildings come into view. Different than they were before the town had been devastated by Vecna, but they're all the same. He winds down roads with names you can still remember, weaving along streets until making his way down the path toward where you knew Hopper’s old cabin to be. Only as you pull up, glancing out the window up at the beautiful trees above, it’s much different than you remember. Gorgeous, nestled away as it is in the middle of one of the most peaceful places in all of Hawkins. Larger and triangular on top, with wide windows and a wrap around deck. Beneath a wooden awning are two wooden chairs, facing your direction. A porch light glows with a yellow light, illuminating the deck and the car just feet away from where Steve parked.

“Were you expecting company?” You push the clasp of your seatbelt free, grabbing your things and pushing the passenger side door open. Leaves crinkle and crunch beneath your feet as you step out, rain droplets falling onto your head.

“Looks like Eddie is still here. That’s his fiancée’s car.”

“Eddie’s here.” He nods at your query, stepping in closer, arm there to loop around your shoulders. “Your home…it’s so much different than it was. It’s — it’s amazing, Steve.”

“Figured it needed some remodeling, seeing as monsters had ripped through it.” He grins to himself at your compliment, though, pride radiating off of his form. “It does look pretty great, doesn’t it? I’m proud of it. Mr. Lafferty gets all the credit. He taught me everything I know.”

“Mr. Lafferty…” The name sounds familiar. He’d been one of the few carpenters in town.

“He passed away a few months ago.” Steve grimaces. “But he helped a ton. We expanded the place, added some rooms, and updated it. It’s…well, it’s home.”

“Show me?”

He nods, pulling you along the makeshift walkway beside him. Rocks shift and move as you follow him, shoes tapping against the wooden steps leading to the front door. Steve pushes it open and you’re greeted with high ceilings, wooden beams along the walls, a fireplace set in the far right corner, two gray couches nearby with a wooden table in the middle of the space. There’s a television in the corner, and set back against the far wall is the open kitchen area.

“You are…not at a wedding,” Eddie murmurs, appearing from within the refrigerator, open beer can in hand. “Thought you were getting hitched.”

“Decided marriage wasn’t for me,” you laugh, rushing forward to slam into the man, sighing happily into his chest as arms loop low around your waist. “But Steve tells me you’re getting married.”

“Yeah, somehow tricked a girl into saying yes,” he chuckles, taking a step back to look at you. “You look great.”

“You do too!” His scars look faded by time now, his hair longer than you remember, earring twinkling behind those dark curls of his. “And who is this?”

There, on a little mat in the corner of the kitchen, is a little orange kitten. It peers up at you with honey colored eyes, a little nervous as it pads closer to Eddie. The metalhead scoops the kitten in hand, little kitten limbs spilling over his forearm.

“This is my nephew, Garfield,” Eddie says, rubbing at a tiny furry ear. “Steve found him behind the Hideout. I managed to convince him to keep it. Poor guy is out here living all on his own, it was only a matter of time before he started talking to the trees. As his best friend, I needed to look out for him, you know? So I figured talking to a cat would be more acceptable.”

“Very funny, asshole.” Steve plucks the kitten from his friend, holding it between the two of you. Your eager fingers reach out to pet it, the little head tilting upward to maximize chin scratches, a rumbly purr vibrating against your fingertips. “You fed him?”

“Fed him, cleaned up after him. By the time you have human babies, I’ll be a pro.” Eddie clapped his best friend on the back, giving you another hug. “I should get back. Promised Abi I would grab pizza on the way home. I’ll see you both around. Enjoy your night, kids.”

His ringed fingers waggle and your cheeks burn. “Oh, it’s not like —”

He offers a parting bow and slips out the door, his boots thundering on the front steps, leaving you alone in Steve’s home. Alone again, you take another glance about the space, noting the staircase against the opposite wall.

Raising a finger in the air, you ask, “Your cabin has a second floor?”

“Yeah.” He nods, jerking his head in the direction of the stairs. “Come on.”

Following him, you walk the few stairs leading to his bedroom, taking in the large king bed set against more windows that bleed moonlight into the otherwise dark space, the tan and cream pillows piled high against a dark comforter, his closet in the corner. There’s a woven basket in one corner, various plaid and knitted blankets poking out. To your left is what he tells you is the bathroom, door closed for now.

Even without the fire presently burning in the fireplace, the home feels warm. Like something Steve has put his heart and soul into to make it exactly what he envisioned. Proud doesn’t even start to touch the emotions welling up within you for the man.

All of this. He’s done all of this in the years since you’ve been gone.

“So, uh, you can use the bed? I have a ton of blankets, so I can always sleep on the couch. For however long you want to stay.”

“Steve, no.” He arches a brow. “This is your home. You didn’t plan on hosting. You take the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Or…” Steve places Garfield down on the edge of the bed, the kitten curling up into a content ball, paws kneading into the comforter below. “we just…share? Again, nothing we’ve never done before. Just like the thousands of other times we’ve done it.”

“I mean. Hell, we did that last night too.” You shrug, because he’s not wrong to suggest simply sharing again.

“Exactly.” Steve watches as you walk around his bedroom, taking in the sights. “I got you pajamas. They’re in the car, so I’ll just have to run out and grab them quickly. We can go shopping for more stuff in the morning. If you’re…planning on staying for a bit.”

“Yeah…I mean, I haven’t thought about for how long, and I don’t want to put you out for longer than I —”

“You can stay however long you need to. Or want to. Not a problem.” Steve clears his throat, hand coming up to run along the back of his neck.

“Okay.” You nod.

“Okay,” he echoes.

That’s that.

And later, as you both curl up beneath the blankets, Garfield lying comfortably near Steve’s feet, you whisper into the darkness.

“Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?”

You can feel him in the bed behind you. There’s enough distance between you that it feels like a chasm, though.

“I’m cold.”

He exhales a yawn. “Do you want me to throw more logs on the fire?”

“No…” You shift backward a little, your frigid feet touching his warmer ones. “Can you, uh…get closer? Like when we were younger.”

Bandaged knees. Summer slick skin. The smell of sunblock in the air. Bodies huddled together, legs tangled and arms wound right. Nights where you fell asleep against him on the couch during winter, his heartbeat a lullaby. Laying under the stars at Lover’s Lake, losing track of time, and having to rush back home as the sun set to get ready for school, his hair a wreck. Images flicker in your mind, memories of times long ago.

It feels different now. Changed, as his body sidles in closer, a muscular arm coming to curl low around your waist. A hum pours from you as he tugs you against his chest, the feeling of his breath at the back of your neck a comfort that has your head nuzzling further into a fluffy pillow.

“Is this good?” he asks, resting his forehead against the back of your head, the rumble of his chest vibrating along your spine.

“Perfect.”

And as his breathing slows and he starts to drift off to sleep, you can’t help but to think about how warm he feels. About how easy it would be to lose yourself in this fantasy — of staying here, in this home, with the person you love.

Therein lies your problem.

——

please please interact if you like. it means the world to content creators. and as always, i am so happy to share a new story with you all. 🩷

[pixxxieland]

Steve Harrington x fem!reader requested by @lame0o 18+

“Babe,” Steve tutted, a laugh caught in his throat. He noses at your cheek, your jaw. “You’re not watchin’, c’mon.”

You whined, putting an enormous amount of effort into lifting up your head from where it had fallen back against Steve’s shoulder. You’d been alternating looking at his bedroom ceiling and at the stars behind your eyelids, the spikes of colour that flashed there every time he touched you. 

“Steve,” you moaned his name like a question, like a prayer. But you weren’t really sure what you were asking for. 

“Baby,” Steve cooed back, in that same tone. Mocking, condescending, a little sweet. “C’mon, you’re doing so well. Look at you, huh? Fucking perfect.”

The praise went straight to your head, to your clit. It made you fuzzy, warm inside your chest, slick between your thighs. You preened, back arching against Steve’s chest and your eyes fluttered open. The bedroom looked a little blurry for a second, but when it gave back into focus you were greeted with the same filthy sight Steve had been making you watch for almost an hour now. 

The both of you, propped up against Steve’s pillows at the top of his bed, you between his legs as he spread your own obscenely. Except, you were naked and Steve wasn’t. The mirror he’d propped against his desk showed you everything, every part of you, wet, pink, pretty. Steve had one big hand on a thigh, keeping you open even when you squirmed. The other was busy pulling dirty sounds from you, slick mixing with your moans and sighs, cry baby whispers of his name into his neck as you dug your nails into his denim covered knees. 

“You gonna come?” Steve murmured, kissing over your damp cheek as he pressed his middle finger to your clit. He’d been asking you the same question for too long, grinning as he brought you to the edge and then took his hand away. You keened high, nodding, letting your eyes fall shut again. Steve stopped touching you. “Ah, ah, come on, what did I say?”

The breath you let out was shaky but you pouted anyway, twisting a little to tilt your chin up, lips grazing Steve’s jaw and you delighted in it when he didn’t pull away. “That I had to keep my eyes open.”

The boy ran a hand over your thigh, skin soft and too warm. He hummed, letting you curl into him, your hand lifting to reach back into his hair and hold. He kissed your jaw, the spot under your ear, the line of your throat when you arched it for him. “Mhmm. And what happens when you don’t do as you're told?”

“Babe,” you whined again, a sweet, wet noise that only made Steve harder than he already was. “Please, I’m sorry, I’m just—”

“Just what?” Steve whispered. Two hands spread your legs further apart, hooking your ankles over his own so he could keep you that way. “Too needy?”

You didn’t answer, didn’t need to, not with the way your body flushed with heat, the way you hid your face in his neck again. You wriggled against his hold, testing it, wanting to feel the hard length of his cock that was pressed against your bare ass. 

“If you can’t behave, baby, get on your knees.”

It shouldn’t have sounded as fucking hot as it did. Any other scenario, any other person who tried to give out orders, who tried to make you feel small, would’ve been met with hell. But Steve’s voice was syrup, sweet and cloying with affection and heat and it made your toes curl. He granted you another kiss on the cheek, even giving in when you made a soft sound and tried to catch his lips with yours. 

He kissed you deep, slow, tongue licking over your own in a way that was just fucking dirty. Kissing you like he owned you. 

“Knees, honey.”

So you did as you were told, arching your back and popping your ass, smiling into the sheet when Steve made a noise of appreciation, cooing at you in praise. You felt him shift, the soft thump of his shirt hitting the bedroom floor and then the cold buckle of his belt was pressed to your overheated skin as he settled behind you. 

“Spread ‘em,” he told you and he didn’t need to ask twice. You kept your shoulders down, cheek to the bed, tits pressed to the mattress and you spread your knees apart, ass high in the air. It was filthy, the way he could see all of you. “Nuhuh, baby, head up, you gotta watch.”

It made you burn, but you obeyed, lifting your chin so you could see yourself in the mirror, bent over real fucking pretty for the boy was kneeling behind you. You caught his eye, the love there, the absolute fucking excitement there. Then Steve grinned and winked. 

He raised his hand and when it came back down, the first slap landed directly on your spread cunt, the wet sound making the white hot pleasure that ran through your body skyrocket. Your eyes rolled and you groaned, head dropping back between your shoulder blades. Your pussy was throbbing, your clit desperate to be touched. 

But Steve wouldn’t give in that easy, no. 

“Count ‘em, honey.”

[pixxxieland]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶The garage gets slammed with clients, and the clear delineation between workplace flirting and PDA is put to the test when stolen kisses in the storage closet aren't enough, over the clothes touching leads to frustration, and getting interrupted in the breakroom leaves Eddie aching.✶

NSFW — smut, porn with plot, dry humping, oral (receiving), pussydrunk!eddie, horny depravity at work, van sex, masturbation, swallowing, teasing, sexual tension, hickeys (giving), reader and eddie are verbally harassed by a customer, protective!eddie, protective!reader, 18+

chapter: 12/20 [wc: 23.7k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11 / 12

AO3

Chapter 12: Satanic Mechanic

The storm triggered rising temps.

————

Monday smacked you awake.

Your digital alarm clock wasn’t worth its price tag when the power flickered, and the blinking numbers of 12:00 seared into your tired retinas, really highlighting the fact that the two fat backup batteries hadn’t been replaced since you lived in a dorm. Whatever—It wasn’t that late, just late enough to cause a sweat when you were half hanging out of Robin’s car, wrestling with a spare umbrella while the sleeves of your light gray Champion college sweatshirt were darkening from ice-slushed rain. Oh, and because that wasn’t enough, the bottom of your pants waded through a puddle in the auto shop’s parking lot, too.

Stupid cursed town.

Swearing under your breath, you sped towards the employee door, and your expectation of a teasing remark from Carl about your tardiness lapsed into stark bewilderment.

You shook off your umbrella, and tossed it in the only available corner inside the cramped garage. Between the shuttered doors were four motley muscle cars parked back-to-back in various makes and models from yesteryears, bright colors announcing themselves amply. As you neared one, a quick shadow passed over the floor from the lobby door opening, widening the men’s muffled voices inside into clear conversation, and closing. You turned to greet them, but the words caught in your chest.

Eddie crowded you two steps backwards, away from the windows, and tucked you to the concrete wall where privacy could be had.

Heat stung your cheeks at the sight of your boyfriend of thirty-two hour’s careful attention on you. Thoughts on thoughts on thoughts wore themselves like a fever under your thick winter scarf. The same fingers he fiddled with to release his nervous tension were once tracing your spine. Not two days ago the big pink tongue he pressed to his teeth licked the intimacy between your breasts. Frazzled curls stood from the rest of his hair as if your hands had been through them time and time again. Soft concern edged the beautiful brown of his eyes analyzing your expression as he did when your bodies were entwined on his couch—yet, in this moment, he idled a measured distance away, guilt weighing heavily on his posture.

The tender rot of apology weakened his tone, “Hey, baby. I’m sorry about not calling. My power’s been out since I got home the other night, and I only just got it back this morning. I hope.. I hope that’s okay.” Reading the quick flit of your eyes falling to his hands and back up, his voice erred remorseful, “I promise I would’ve called.”

“Aw, handsome,” you released. Slotting your fingers into the cup of his palms, you narrowed the space between you in a squishy tennis shoe step. “Our phone line’s down too, and the power’s been going off and on. You didn’t think I was mad at you, did you? Even if something came up and you couldn’t get around to it, I would’ve understood.” The shelf of his shoulders were dotted with rain. “Were you pacing outside?” Meaning: were you so anxious you made yourself nauseous?

“No, no, this is just from dropping Adrie off. Uhm, I actually.. I know I look nervous—couldn’t help it once I saw you, ha,” he broke into a shy giggle, already sticking his gaze on his thumbs engulfing your knuckles. “But uhm, I actually wasn’t worried about you being upset with me. I know you said that when I dropped you off, but I’m getting better at not, ah, freaking out. Thinking of the worst case scenario, shit like that.” A glance through his lashes, and his lips stretched into a sly grin, rounding his cheeks. “I know we’re good. You and me.”

“Yeah, we’re good.” You leaned in, a hint of mischievousness marking your suggestive tone, “More than good.”

“More than good,” he repeated in a smiley mumble. “Just didn’t want you gettin’ the impression I’m some jerk who forgets to call his girl.”

His girl, his girl, his girl.

“I’d never think so poorly of the sweetest man alive.”

Magic happened. There, in his labored swallow, and your fluttery blink. An invisible pull encouraging your bodies closer, sliding your shoulder along the cold wall of your workplace. Seeking heat where it was found against his belly, standing the peach fuzz on your arms at attention from a single brush of your fingertips over his jumpsuit. Want, need; a wish to relieve the burn of pride in your chest, longing to reward him for his progress of keeping a level head when he could’ve spiraled into negative thoughts, yearning to kiss his rosy cheeks aglow with respect. But under the guide of his excessively gentle thumb strokes over your knuckles, a truth was earned. To him, it didn’t feel appropriate to kiss where people could see. Where people could fawn, pry, ask questions, put pressure on something so new. The desire was there. Oh, the desire was there in his gaze dipping to your lips, and staying.

Remembering Saturday, you inhaled sharply. “Oh! I didn’t tell you the good news. Robin got a call the other day, and—”

The voices in the lobby grew. One gruffed out—“Hey, you two?”—and you released each other’s hands, jolting apart. “Wanna get up to date on this shitstorm of a week?” Mr. Moore asked, motioning you both inside with two succinct waves of his clipboard.

A feeble look was exchanged from Eddie to you. The good news would have to wait. Talking would have to wait. Discussing the events from the weekend and all the pretty words he wanted you to hear while his mouth was nurturing the intimate skin beneath your paint-stained crewneck would have to wait.

Following your boss to the circle of employees gathered in front of your desk, Carl and Kevin said hello with raised eyebrows, and Mr. Moore flipped through the sheets on his clipboard, catching you up to speed. “So, lucky us," he said, tone betraying the luck, "the storm hit Springfield harder than Hawkins, so the annual Classic Car Show was moved down here this weekend." Rolling his hand, he grumbled—guy said the ol' historic buildings downtown would look nice in photos—"Anyway, all those uppercrust sons’a are gonna start droppin’ their cars off here for last minute maintenance, or whatever damn hell Roy was sayin'. He sent what parts he had, but we'll have to put in an emergency order, and of course the damn phone is still out."

Mr. Moore targeted you. "We can not," he stressed, "can not accept normal customers this week with all these yuppies comin' in. Unless it’s an emergency, just turn them away, or point 'em towards Thatcher's if they need their tires rotated. Got it?"

So, that explains why Eddie's eyes were welded shut in preparation for the arduous day ahead. The cavity between your hand and his could’ve been filled with a supportive squeeze, maybe a silent assurance in the passing touch, but you tore your gaze from the myriad of grievances wrinkling his expression, and answered your boss, "Got it."

Papers were divvied, sighs were had. With a hard clap of Mr. Moore’s meaty hands on each of your shoulders, he guaranteed a generous bonus for the extra work, and dismissed the group. You pivoted to collecting mail-in order forms for car parts in case the phones didn't work by the afternoon, and the men went off to the garage where hours were lost to the heavy clank of tools making clockwork.

As the day yawned to noon, Eddie’s ears were ringing. He fetched his Walkman from the car, and blasted music through its shitty foam cups in effort to destroy his hearing with something preferable. Amongst the mayhem of cars rolling out of the service bay and being immediately replaced by another, he curled his fingers in a small wave at his favorite Office Administrator, but you missed it on account of the old man at your counter needing the keys for his ‘57 Chevrolet Bel Air.

It was a lonely day. A busy day. An aching day where the itch to connect with each other led to melancholy behind every antsy glance through the windows gone unmet.

Your lunch was a limp sandwich eaten between visiting clients, and when Eddie ate, he did it with his back facing you, bent over the work table on the far wall, mixing cleaning solution for an engine block in between sips of Campbell's tomato soup.

In the wait for a muscle car to be exchanged for a truck requiring new brake pads belonging to the mom with two kids in the lobby who needed it for work the next day, Eddie sought you for comfort in the breakroom, but you had walked to the post office after the rain let up, and by the time you got back, you shrugged off his jacket, picked up a stack of clean rags from the storage closet, and used them as an excuse to enter the noisy garage.

Handing off the rags was the closest either of you had been since that morning. Skin contact was bittered by the barrier of his black nitrile gloves, and the interaction was stained by grime sketching the fine lines of his tired face, stress preying on his mood when you pulled away. He needed you.

Miss you, you mouthed.

Miss you, baby, he returned.

Eddie went back to his project. You went back to organizing paperwork. When you checked the phone line, it wasn’t even joy which influenced your forced smile at him through the window. It was just more work when the dial tone answered.

Busy, busy, busy. No respite for conversation, not even between the mechanics. Kevin’s goodbye was offered as the sun hung low in the sky, touching the tree line. Carl knocked on the hood of the car David was working on to get his attention before clocking out for the night. In retrospect, Mr. Moore was the only one who held a proper conversation with Eddie, telling him he’d be in his office for a bit, and he’d stay late to help on the final set of cars.

In the last slants of daylight dragging through tree branches, Eddie focused on the Mustang Mach 1 in front of him. Sun at his back, wiping sweat from his forehead. Wasting his time on small detail work he wasn’t normally paid to do, yet finding some fulfillment in clearing the nooks of leaf debris and polishing excess grease out of the crannies, salivating at the reward at the end of it: a fat check.

Indeed, he was lost in fantasies of how he’d spend his money when a commotion invaded his mind palace, infiltrating the blank air of his cassette clicking to the end of its tape. Eddie pushed the headphones down to his neck, squinting at the windows to the lobby.

His sweetheart’s face was set with bored malice. An air of disregard, but annoyed all the same. Softly narrowed eyes, loose shoulders, crossed legs. Listening to the man who leaned over the heightened front of your receptionist desk with a pointed finger you didn’t care for, and moving your mouth in a rehearsed response. The man’s voice raised, tanned skin gone blotchy. Spitting mad. You flinched at his irate gestures nearing too close for comfort.

Instant. Adrenaline whipped Eddie forward. Muscles flexed into action, constricted, strained, prepared and loaded, roiling with power ripping open the glass door, sending loose papers flying off the black tool cart, including the one with the man’s name he recognized—

How could he forget?

Square jaw, springy curls cropped close to his skull. Light brown hair extending to the shitty wisps on his upper lip not any better than a grandma could grow. Ditch the letterman jacket for a suit and tie all he wanted, but there was no mistaking Andy, best friend of Jason and player on Hawkins’ High basketball team who helped scar Eddie Munson’s frail reputation after that fateful party he never went to.

Someone he was lucky to dodge at most preschool functions by virtue of his son being nursery-aged.

“—It’ll be ready tomorrow,” you finished in uniform curt.

“Listen better, bitch, I don’t have time for—”

“Hey!” Eddie’s voice packed the tiled room in an authoritative boom with the same fury he entered, commanding the space, possessing the attention as papers floated to the ground behind him. Shifting in his stance, his heart pounded against the strict discipline he leashed himself to, gaining control of his volume for your sake. Quieting to a seethe, he forced out, “You can’t speak to her that way.”

The subject of his ire slid his snakey gaze to him, deducing his long hair, his cheap cassette player, his jumpsuit. Sizing him up. Assessing him. Casting judgements.

Holding reign with a steady pupil on his target, Andy straightened himself from the desk. His expression wore neutral, hands pushing himself away from the ledge and rolling his shoulders with casual controlled dominance. His ugly red tie slipped against his white poly-cotton button down shirt at the motion, following his slow turn towards someone he thought so lowly of. “Figures you’d be here,” he said, jaw jutted in a lax chew as if he were sucking on a toothpick. “This the only place that’d hire a scumbag like you? Hm?”

Fingers stretched and flexed. Veins coursed with heated blood. Sweaty palms were crushed closed.

But it wasn’t Eddie who responded—no—it was his little Mouse.

Jumping from your seat, your chair rolled into the rackety filing cabinets behind you, causing a scene with your hand striking the desk. “You can’t talk to him that way!”

Andy arched an eyebrow at your bark, however, he propped his elbow up in a lazy lean on your binder-clipped manila folders, and held a mutual gaze with the man opposite him. “Sweetie,” he patronized, addressing you with a smug crook of his lips aimed to taunt Eddie further, “this devil worshiper here preys on pretty girls like you. Don’t defend his honor. He’s got none.” With a cocky tongue click, he licked his bottom lip, reveling in the storm brewing in his doormat’s eyes. There was history in the words he chose. They were crafted for The Freak of Hawkins specifically. The rumors he was known for. The lies. Also, the truths.

Testosterone suggested violence in Eddie’s deliberate refusal to blink, but anger did not darken his cheeks in reveals of red as they oft do, nor did he rear a fist like you wanted to. Hard pumps of aggression strained the tendons in his neck, creating shadows along the thick blue vein leading to his strong jaw, but otherwise much of his reaction was reserved, contained in his stoney expression and hidden beneath his biding posture, waiting. Assessing. For years he endured his name being spat on, and he was only beginning to understand the toll of surrendering.

“You’re new here, aren’t cha?” Andy spoke to you, but matched the trained stare across from him. “There’s no need to stand up for this creep. He’s just some lowlife who begs for table scraps, and still can’t coerce girls into giving him the time of day. Kinda pathetic, don’t ya think?” Tone sneering to a scoff, he added to Eddie, “S’kinda miracle you managed to procreate.”

“Shut up!”

This anonymous man regarded you finally. Confusion hung heavy on his brow, curious as to why you were so adamant about protecting someone like him. Then, he dropped his head to the side, enough to see you, and raked his glare over your body, pausing his study on one place in particular.

Your jaw dropped at the audacity, throwing a hand over your stomach on instinct.

Andy involved you with a nod. “This another chick you knocked up?”

Quickfire, Eddie snatched starchy fabric and knotted silk in his fist, dragging him in by his tie, smothering his wet grunt of surprise with a vice grip on his shirt. They were the same height, but when pitted against steel toe boots, leather loafers lost. Not that he needed the extra inch. A different danger lurked in Eddie’s minimal movements, reeling the other man closer without much effort. Enough intimidation lived in his clenched jaw and quivering muscles to show he was not tucking tail and rolling over.

“Hey now,” Andy rasped against the solid threat of knuckles digging into the hollow of his throat, taming him from uttering more. He raised his hands in defense, manicured nails atop soft fingers atop softer palms.

“Watch your mouth,” Eddie enunciated, slow and warning.

Knocked off status by the brave chin challenging him, Andy’s nostrils flared, but his amusement didn’t waver. Under pressure, he wrung the corner of his mouth, lifting his fuzzy upper lip in sly charm while he puzzled out the dynamic between the cool-headed receptionist who’d gone rabid at a bit of joking, and the blue-collar mechanic who abstained from standing up for himself, but sure as hell did when it involved you.

A smirk dared to stretch across his face.

Andy tucked his eyebrows in, and pleaded, “Don’t tell me you already brought more annoying spawn into this world.”

Visions of red gushed over Eddie’s scarred, dirty knuckles, but the reality was ripped from him before he explored the sweet relief.

Dying to get your hands on a ghost from his past, you competed for the shirt on Andy's back. Grabbing his shoulder, you tore him from your beloved’s grasp, slinging him backwards on stumbling feet. You didn’t let the fucker catch his footing before you rammed your shoulder into him with all your scrappy might. “You wish you were half as good of a man as he is!” Growled through bared teeth and trembling with malice. “You’ll never compare. You can’t! I feel sorry for everyone you’ve ever met.” Snarled from darker depths than witless gossip about a man you adored, slapping your hands hard on his chest, shoving him. “Get out!” Shove. “Out!” Push. "And if you ever—ever!—bring up Adrie again, I'll fucking.."

His wild eyes searched for Eddie across the room, but you demanded respect.

Harder shove, striking palms where it hurt—making him cough. “Get the fuck out!”

His steps faltered, disoriented by the polarity of the quiet bitch behind the desk being the one to catch him off guard, attacking him before he could gather his dignity and stop. fucking. tripping. “You little—!”

“Out!” You cut a fierce line with your arm, pointing at the streets. “Leave! Out! Now!” Shove.

Scrambling, slipping on the wet tile, the metal corner of the door handle bit his squishy palm, pulling a hiss from gritted teeth. Shove. Point. Bark. He yanked the door open with a slew of words you’d only tolerate from Eddie when he said them in the heat of your bodies joining in sweet passion, and you let him know with a guttural grunt, pushing Andy out and into the parking lot where a puddle of ice water awaited his shoes. Squish, squish, squelch. He found his footing on the cracked pavement, huffing and puffing with haughty swipes at his clothes, dusting them off on the way to his Cadillac.

You followed his retreat with two proud middle fingers, shouting, “Take that ugly hood ornament and shove it up your ass!” When his shoulders squared like he was going to turn around, you yelped and scurried inside, locking the door only to hear him spit on the ground. Gravel crunched afterwards, and you assumed the tire screech was him leaving.

Dry gulp. Pounding heart. Aching wrists. Loud blood rushing everywhere. Vision vibrating from the adrenaline pulsing between your ears. You got your bearings, and turned to Eddie—except, he wasn’t there. No one was in the lobby. No one was in the garage, either. Down the hall there was a sulking shadow cast across the floor, growing smaller as it sat down.

You went towards the breakroom, passing by Mr. Moore’s head peeking out of his office. Creases from a notebook marked his cheek. Groggy and confused, he asked, “You handle whatever that was?”

“I did.”

“Well,” he shrugged. “Good on ya.” He shrank back into the dark room, returning to his nap.

Approaching the round table with caution, you picked the plastic chair next to Eddie and sat gingerly, noiselessly. Hands folded, upper body turned, waiting for him to speak first. And when he didn’t, you prodded. “Are you okay?”

Eddie unlocked his twined thumbs, and dropped a heavy hand on your knee, patting you. “Yeah, I’m okay, baby,” he replied softly. He didn’t pull his gaze from the wall, blinking only when he brought himself out of his ruminations to pat you again. Blank expression, hollow. Legs spread wide, ruling the space while your thighs were tucked tight together, same as any day you’d share lunch while he brainstormed a campaign idea, writing the story in his head and forgetting to hold a conversation with you. But his silence separated you. You needed more from him.

“Do you want a hug?” you asked.

Pat, pat. “Nah, I’m good, I promise,” he said with a bit more sureness lifting his tone.

Staring holes into the side of your boyfriend's face for far longer than it took to lose faith in telepathy, you swallowed through the scratchy rasp taken hold of your throat after yelling at a customer, and guided him, “Can I have a hug?”

“Oh shit, right, sorry!” The cluelessness jumped off of him as he sat up and wrapped his arms around you, scooping you to his chest. Your cheek picked up a healthy amount of dirt when sliding past his, and his headphones smoothed most of his hair from entering your mouth, but as sweaty and filthy the hug was, his crushing hold on you was everything a platonic coworker could ask for after being verbally harassed. A forearm behind the shoulder blades, a kind splay of fingers on the mid-back. Polite. “I’m sorry he yelled at you.”

Arms trapped against his chest, you bunched the collar of his coveralls in your fists, and he hummed into the comfort of your reciprocation, no matter how covert while your boss was one door down.

“S’okay,” you whispered. Nudging towards his ear, you smeared the sweat at his hairline onto your temple in a blessing. “My first job was at a McDonald’s drive thru. I was fourteen. I’m used to men in business suits yelling at me.” Caught between a sympathy snort and cringe, he offered another apology and pulled his face away.

His eyes and smile went soft, losing their strength from a different emotion trickling in. “Should I have decked that guy? Did you want me to do that? Did you want me to stand up for you, and knock ‘im out?”

“And risk you getting an assault charge on your name? Uh, no. I’m more than capable of standing up to a guy who won’t hit back because I’m a woman.”

Nodding against his ego, he took a moment to mull it over, and dropped into a serious tone, “I don’t want it to seem like I was letting him walk all over me, either. Not that long ago I would’ve freezed up. Probably would’ve sat there, taken it, and fixed his car while he watched. Then I would’ve gone home and cried about it because I’d be so fucking mad at myself for not dislocating his jaw. But,” he paused to run his tongue over the back of his teeth, settling the anger he harbored after the years of unapologetic abuse he tolerated.

He exhaled in a two-count, inhaled on three.

Collecting himself, sincerity replaced the animosity. “But since me and you have started hanging out, I can see how wrong he is, and it just—sorta–doesn’t bother me anymore, y’know? Like, I don’t even have to think about it, I know I’m not those things he said.” He strummed his thumb over your shoulder, soothing the lingering fight shivering through your body, invoking care in his words to calm your racing heart, and his. “I kinda lost it when he brought you and Adrie into it, and I’m glad you intervened when you did, before I did something I regretted, but I’m sorry for what he said. Or what he was, ah, implying about you..”

“Wasn’t really an insult, anyway.”

“Hm?”

“You know, as if it’d be a bad thing to be—uh, uh..” Your stomach clenched from the impact of his gaze falling to it. The sentence would never be finished, and it didn’t need to be. Your mindless chatter proved your subconscious thoughts loud and clear. It wouldn’t be an insult to be pregnant with your child.

Panic prickled your nervous system hummingbird fast. Slews of mortification reached your eyes, urging him not to draw conclusions based on something you blurted on the spot, because—because—just—Jesus Christ, man, please move on.

Shifting topics with more tact than his faintly stuttered exhale would suggest, he shook the stiffness from his posture by clearing his throat, and narrowed his eyes in a curious squint. Dropping his head to you, his fingers skimmed the clasp of your bra band through your sweater, and one of his anxieties was stroked into the relationship with a pivotal question, “Can you tell me, are there cameras in here?”

Without looking, you thought of the layout. “No, there’s just the two outside. One facing the entrance, the other facing the intersection. Why—umph?” He stole the concern from your lips.

Crashing mouth on mouth, he moaned at the relief of having you after a shitty day, and you doubled his vigor, dragging him in by his clothes until it hurt. Spine bent, hips to hard plastic, lips smashed against teeth, joints leading to your strained fingertips twisted above his embroidered name tag. You kissed him until it ached, until he was sated, until lungs burned for breath. It was the best change of subject, because when Eddie flirted his bottom lip along yours after you broke for air and his spit mixed with tangy salt on your tongue and gritty earth between your teeth, you wondered if the primal emotion steeped in his heavy-lidded eyes was the result of the same phrase repeating in his head as yours. Knocked up.

“Do you think it’s okay if we kiss like this? As long as we’re alone?”

“Yeah,” you guessed. “I think it’s okay if we’re alone. Not while customers are out there, or in front of the guys. We should be good, if that’s what you want.”

“Yeah,” he repeated. “I’d like that.”

You accepted his forehead against yours, feeling him sag with a tired groan. Exhausted from responsibilities, emotionally drained and succumbing to the crook of your neck, depending on you to rejuvenate him with tiny, smiley pecks at the top of his ear. Poor man.

As usual, you were the bearer of his weight, trusted to hold him up and be the pillar of strength as his arms fell to your hips, hands at the waistband of your jeans, ambitions decidedly pious as his fingertips explored the ridge of a stretchmark on your lower back. “Ed?” You tucked some loving caresses through the hair at the base of his nape, working circles into his oily roots. “I never got to tell you my good news.”

“Oh!” He piped up, coming into focus, face alight with excitement from your giggle.

“Bobbie got the call, and our apartment is ready!”

There was hardly a predictability to how Eddie would react to things. Sometimes sharing stories about your past in New York would earn his disinterest; sometimes he was eager to listen. Talking about the future was the same. Sometimes his gaze drifted faraway when you brought up the potential of your favorite Chinese restaurant closing before you could have the #4 special again, and sometimes he needled you about learning to drive before he finds you and your bike crumpled in a ditch on the side of the road one of these days.

But worry not, the sunshine grin breaking across his lips warmed you in all the right places.

“No shit?” he released in a breathless, excited laugh. “No more living with the Buckley’s, huh?”

“Mhm! No more competition while solving the Wheel of Fortune, but I think I’ll live. Especially if it means having my own bathroom.”

“Nice, nice, nice. And, uh,” he broke off to trace a pattern on your pants, “And, if I may ask because I’m an upstanding gentleman who wants to lend his strength without the expectation of reward, when exactly do you move in?”

“This weekend.”

“Oh,” he flattened. Voice monotone—Oh. Also known as ‘fuck’ or ‘damn.’ “Corroded Coffin has a gig in Indy this weekend. Drive there Saturday morning, come back Sunday around 3, maybe 4AM, if I rush.” He started mumbling to himself, “But, maybe—if Wayne can watch Adrie on Sunday, I could still— Or if she stays where I can see her and doesn’t get in the way, she can come, and I’ll help bring in big furniture, some heavy boxes. Set up your bed for you, the TV, uh, does the place come with a fridge? I could do that too. Make sure all your outlets work. Could hang some stuff up for you, help you decorate.” You sighed in a way where he’d get the hint to shut up.

He frowned. “What?”

“You don’t need to help us, we’ve got it figured out, but I was trying to tell you the news this morning because—” Quick high-pitched beeps from a Buick made your point. Eddie swiveled around to peek down the hall at Robin’s car parked out front, headlights beaming through the windows. You enunciated for effect, “Because we’re going furniture shopping and packing every night this week, so I’ve gotta clock out early, before the stores close.”

A heavy dose of disappointment jaded his hand falling limp over your thigh. “So, not only do we not get to see each other during work this week because I’m buried under cars owned by dickheads who should take pride in servicing their own vehicles, but you can’t stay late, either?” he summarized to your apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry,” you began, grazing your knuckle along the powdery soot lining his jaw like stubble. Incited by more honks, you picked up the pace, and fit his face to your palms, thumbing his cheeks; collecting him, lifting his chin, guiding him to your lips.

Two hums converged, harmonizing. His handsome nose mashed against yours in order to steal kiss after kiss as two people should when huddled in a private room away from their boss. Sympathetic to his cause, you resisted the urgency of the ticking clock, and worked your hips into his hold, swaying all the closer, consuming the dearness of his prayer when your fully clothed body stood between his legs, melting his stress away.

“Should get going,” you mumbled, brushing through his hair with each subsequent glide of his desperate tongue making it harder to leave.

Instead of a honk, a car door shut, and you pictured Robin stalking up to the door with her lips rolled in, gesturing animatedly at her watch.

Your muscles posed to take a step away from Eddie, but he climbed his hands to your waist, refusing to let go. “Wait! Wait!”

“What? What?” you mimicked.

“We didn’t get to talk about what happened over the weekend,” he insisted, and you took pity on him, raising your brows with a caveat grin telling him he should make this quick. “I wanted to say that our date was perfect. Like, amazingly perfect. Not just the, ah, obvious part, but watching movies and making dinner together was special to me. As dumb as it sounds, even washing dishes together was special to me.”

The bare circles on his cheeks where your thumbs wiped the dirt away plumped up from his grin.

“And then the way you took care of Adrie,” fondness rushed in, eclipsing the fatigue in his voice, “baby, you’re beyond perfect for that. I couldn’t have asked for anything better. You got her to stop crying when I couldn’t—Yes, I can hear her knocking—and you did everything just so exactly right, and I’m so fucking grateful for you, and, wait! Before you go,” he begged you, laughing into another lip-smack on your forehead. You backed away until he stood up, face still wedged between your palms, coerced into following you into the hallway so your best friend didn’t think you’d gone missing without a trace. “I’ll try not to do the whole crying-my-eyes-out and then spilling-my-guts-to-you thing every time we’re together.. No promises, though.”

Almost to the door, you continued to walk backwards, advancing him until the last second when you had to let go. You teased him, “If it becomes a habit, I’ll put ice cream on the grocery list, and we can sob it out together at my place like real friends do. Sound good?” Umbrella, purse, chapstick—check. “See you tomorrow, handsome,” you said on your way out. Eddie filled the doorframe, casting a sharp eye around the parking lot while returning your adoring goodbye.

He curled his fingers in a guilty wave at Robin.

She, with her keen nose, bent to sniff at you, and commented overly loudly, “Your sweatshirt smells like Camels.”

————

Tuesday was a strong, steady build in pressure.

Privacy could be had in the public space between buildings where cars passed on either side, puttering at their leisurely pace before slowing to a stop when the intersection lights flipped red. You bounded up to Eddie carrying two waxed paper cups filled with morning energy, beaming brighter than the dawning rays glancing off the brick alleyway. “Hey! Got you a little somethin’.” That, along with the rocks crunching under your shoes, was his only warning before you were forcing a drink into his hand, and slipping your other arm inside his unzipped jacket, squeezing his middle.

He rocked on his footing and laughed, collecting your head to his chest with a firm palm behind your neck. Your bodies swayed together, ear pressed to the source of his voice; his choppy cadence drawn tight from the sudden rise in eagerness to tuck his chin and mash kisses atop your hair. “Hey, sweetheart,” he breathed, tinted with a stutter from surprise. “You got me coffee?” Spinning it in his hand, he read the shop’s logo stamped onto the cardboard sleeve and put the lid to his nose, smelling the steam piping through the hole. “Mmm, a latte. You didn’t have to go and get me something special like that.”

“I wanted to since I was too busy to call you last night,” you apologized. “Thought you could use the extra caffeine, too.”

Bathed in the teasing glow of sun, you lifted your cheek from the thick scent of burnt tobacco baked into his coveralls, and swam to the heady surface of smoke enriching the crisp air. Raising your nose higher, though, there wasn’t a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

Fresh mint followed the thin fog escaping his lips in a visible puff of breath.

Eddie kissed you deep. Wrigley’s Spearmint coated the flavor on his tongue as he dragged it over your bottom lip and across your teeth. The recent ad campaign targeting smokers sponsored his confident lick into your mouth. Lazy and casual, relaxing his arm around your shoulders. Hot coffees tucked to his chest. Pocket below his name tag stuffed with the red and white packaging of foil sticks next to his lighter and Camels, finishing up his morning habit with a clean taste now that he gained certain privileges at work.

“Could definitely do with a pick-me-up from my girl,” he mushed en route to your cheek, pulling away to take the first sip of his coffee and ending with a satisfied mmm.

You vied for his approval. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Another sip, another warm ahh fanning your cheeks. His one-track mind instilled bravery in his hand sliding down from your shoulders to the roundness of your ass, groping your hips flush against the metallic clink of the button snaps closing his jumpsuit, bringing you to him.

Regarding you down the length of his nose, he dipped his smoker’s rasp into something rougher, deeper, resonating from the courage in his chest, “Y’know, I used to worry about making things weird at work if I made a move on you and it wasn’t appreciated–”

“Oh?” you interrupted, pointing above you. “Do you.. Do you not see the flashing sign over my head begging you to ask me out?”

“Hush,” he reprimanded you with a wolfish spank over your back pocket. “What I’m saying is that I’m startin’ to see the perks of workin’ together.” He flicked his eyes up to survey the end of the alley, minding the crawl of traffic passing by. Any Hawkins citizen could turn their head and see you two together; fronts touching in the indecent way coworkers shouldn’t. Stomachs brushing in the intimate way acquaintances wouldn’t. Faces nearing, warmth radiating from his full lips holding steady above your silent plea in the eager way friends might not. Hands taking what they want—smooth and strong alike, improper filth—grabbing in the coarse way sweethearts do.

Eddie’s fingers followed the crease at the bottom of your ass cheek, cupping himself a handful, and drawing you into his nicotine and menthol kiss. You wrung a fistful of the back of his coveralls, using him for weak-kneed stability, yanking until fabric strained against the snap clasps, making gaps to where his shirt showed underneath.

Huddled, coffee cups captured in the embrace, your bodies buzzed drunk on indulgence. 

In the echoey distance, a shutter door rolled open. “Perks gotta wait, I’m afraid,” you moped, falling short of getting swept into the intoxicating trap throbbing between your thighs when he groaned at the heavy chain rattling, locking one door into place before moving onto the next.

He shook his head, sighing in genuine annoyance at the few minutes you had alone, now over. “Guess we’ll have to sneak around if we want to see each other this week.”

“Yeah?” you drew out, thick and sweet like honey, walking your fingers up his chest. “Need me that badly?” you questioned, mawkish and innocent. “Need me to beat up your bullies, and kiss you better?”

Playful spite painted his grin. “Is that too much to ask for? They’re workin’ me to the bone here, babe. I think I deserve a little pick-me-up after replacing a heater core.”

The second service door creaked and clanked at the top of its slot.

“A little pick-me-up, huh?” you repeated, earning a nose-scrunched amusement at the quick peck you offered him. “Like that?”

“Just like that,” he confirmed, already against your mouth for more.

Just like that—

Even footfalls of heavy boots thudded closer.

Giddy kicks of excitement electrified your nerves. The thrill of sneaking around gripped, bound, and knotted your stomach. Eddie, intending to steal one last treat before his fingers and wrists were fatigued from labor, rocked you forward with his strong palm, but he too was spurred by the endorphin rush, hauling your hips in with too much enthusiasm and causing you to discover more than he’d meant to.

Swiftly separating, backs to scratchy brick, the third shutter door dislodged from the dusty ground and began its clattery ascent. Cool, calm, casual. Racing-hearted coworkers.

Hello, Mr. Moore. Fine day, isn’t it? Dotted cloudy sky with plenty of sun, no rain. Yes, I’ll get started on a pot of coffee in just a minute.

Your boss walked away.

You looked at your boyfriend. Waxy to-go cup poised at his puckered lips, eyes nearly closed to mirthful little crescents and twinkling from your collective shared secrets which grew exponentially. Plunging thoughts, yet you kept your gaze high, deciphering his devilish features instead of analyzing the outline below the waistband of his dark gray coveralls leading to his hand was in his pocket, picturing Eddie’s cock in his fist before noon.

Rock hard only from kissing.

He mocked you lightly—teacher’s pet, people pleaser— “Better get goin’, sweetheart.”

Your features arched to the tune of sarcasm on your tongue, asking him a question he refused to answer with anything but a smirk, “Why? Need some alone time?”

————

Wednesday ripened like boozy fruit.

Thick winter layers were shed for lightweight counterparts; canvas jackets shucked after a cup of coffee, breaking free from the hug of warmth before it riled a worse sweat than the impulses caused.

Just like that—

Treats throughout the day in between vintage cars and pretentious clients. Exploring the perks of a stolen peck in the breakroom after Kevin shuffled out. The favor of a massage along the knotted muscles between his shoulder blades when crouched behind an Impala, where you were changing the trash liners at the workbench, and he was counting lug nuts. Silly benefits like you thanking him in a kiss to your palm, blown from behind your desk after he delivered a stack of invoices, to which he mimed catching it and pressing it to his cheek, walking backwards into the garage in a lazy stride, embracing his dopey grin. “Corny,” he said that time. “Shh, baby,” he said another, when his wandering hand landed in a squeeze on your ass, and your squeal of delight peaked higher than he was comfortable with in the hallway outside your boss’ office, spiking hues of cassis wine across his nose.

Innocent snacks. Quick low-risk indulgences.

That’s how it started, anyway.

“Psst,” you got Eddie’s attention as he strolled past the storage closet on his way to the breakroom for his Chef Boyardee lunch. His elbow jutted a big angle from stretching his tricep, looking like Rosie the Riveter in his royal blue coveralls and red bandana on his head.

When his expression remained exceptionally oblivious upon seeing you peeking out of the narrow room housing dusty metal shelves lined with car parts, you snagged him by his grimey sleeve and dragged him inside. With two people crowding the shoebox shaped space, running into the cardboard boxes of windshield wipers you’d yet to put away was inevitable, as was Eddie ducking around the pull string for the single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. Your eyes itched and your throat scratched, but with everyone's breaks being staggered to ensure there was someone out in the bay and someone available to answer customer’s questions at all times, your loneliness was agonizing, and his sly smile accentuating his dimple knew it.

“Yeah, sweet stuff?” Already, the lure. The bait of his tone. Dry rasp in his overused voice, hoarse from yelling over the grind of a powertools.

The heavy door crept closed behind him, ajar enough to catch shadows. You backed to the furthest wall. He trailed, brushing his stained fingertips on his hips to rid them of excess motor oil before touching his girl.

But, before he could lift your chin in an overdue kiss, you stopped him dead in his tracks. “Thought you could use a pick-me-up,” you said, breathy and thin, too high-pitched and fluttery to be sultry. Butterflies had been building in your belly since you first had this idea at your desk, erupting into swarmy impatience as the timing never worked out and you couldn’t get him alone without one of the guys noticing, or a customer leaning over to ding the bell next to your pen cup, breaking you from your daydream.

Eddie was still a step away, raising his arm from his side, when a beautiful sight swallowed his pupils whole.

A shiver grasped your middle.

Sweat met cool air, erupting goosebumps along your ribs, tightening your nipples to stiff peaks. The hem of your thin sweater stayed gathered at the top of your chest, hands splayed to keep it in place, helping frame the generic black bra. You didn’t enter the day prepared to show off your lamest lingerie, but Eddie’s stare was glued to the plain dull shine of polyester stretched over cups covering the full range of your goods as if they were worthy of the French term usually relegated to something not designed for comfort.

He wiped his hands more energetically on his chest.

No pet names, no clever remarks crafted to make you melt. No swoony lines, no verbal compliments from his handsome mouth hung on a dumbfounded gape. No thoughts, wit, or brainpower. Everything vanished the moment you took his wrist, and smoothed his palm to your breast.

Suave, he was not. Eddie giggled like a teenager—elated, ecstatic to be touching a pair of boobs as if it were his first time. You pitied him in a chastising snort, hopelessly fallen for his big grin, and helped his other hand. Large palm, calluses dragging on the fabric. Cups too thick and opaque to ogle what was beneath. But he was mesmerized all the same. He fitted the stretch of his fingers across that which you arched into his hold, and ran his thumb over the softness. His knuckles and tendons flexed as he did so, moving under the pressure of your heavy suggestion, sliding his hand down so he cradled the bottom and lifted, giving him more area to explore—

Your inhale came sharp and sweet.

Eddie throbbed.

He checked your reaction, repeated the motion. Found the hard bud under the layer, and trapped it between the edge of his thumb, rocking it to the long side of his index finger. Your body leaned into the feeling, eyebrows drawn, bottom lip pushed out and freshly licked. He learned to do it again. Again. More. Harder. Shimmery praise collected in the corners of your eager eyes, heavy lids and batting lashes forced open to watch the confidence in his movements grow. Faster rubs, heavier pets. Kneading what you gave him. Drawing quick, simple breaths from your pretty mouth as he concentrated on circling his thumbpad around the point of pleasure, using his nail to skim over it, dragging a lurch from your core.

“Eddie.” His name tipped into a moan hummed through your nose.

The stuffy room heightened your fluster. Eddie burned. Furnace body, ember hands stoking your fire. Ends of his bangs coming to a damp point above his brows. Dewy skin beneath his diligent strokes over the polyester cups. The squish. The yearn. The need for cold metal shelves to be pressed into your backside, positioning himself against your front.

“Like it when I do that, baby?” he asked, deep and husky for no other reason than to hear your voice pitch when he pinched your nipples, elusive as they were from the slippery fabric.

You pushed your sweater higher, flaunting your arms closer. The amount of gratification coming from his thumbing was small, but the fun of doing it in a closet while on the clock had you oversensitive. Anticipation swelled your fat tongue, slurring your question with girlish flirt, “S’it a good pick-me-up? D’you feel better?” you asked for no other reason than to feel him grow hard against your hip.

Cement walls deadened outside interference, isolating his hammering heart in its loudest beats, and projecting the low sound stuck in the back of his throat. His deep rumble of, “Yeah, feelin’ better,” was spoken in the hollow between your chests, stomachs meeting during your feathery inhales opposite his resolute ones filling the planes of his pecs with renewed strength to get through the day.

Eddie’s exhaustion illustrated itself in the bags under his eyes; intense wells of purple beneath deep wrinkles you couldn’t begin to solve for him. However, you could stretch up, brush your lips over his, and make the eager noises which fed his ego.

“Makin’ you feel good?” he asked, grounding his pleasure in what he could do for you.

“So good, handsome.”

“Love it when you call me handsome.”

“Yeah?”

He collapsed into you, “Yeah.”

Sly now, your grin broke the kiss. “You still remember how to unhook a bra, handsome? Or has it been too long?” No surprise—he nipped at the bottom lip he adored so much, shutting you up.

His big, tired body lost its strength from cranking tools all morning, but he still managed to impress you with his firm determination laying against your belly, pulsing eager. He circumvented your taunt with fingertips diving to the bottom of the cups and pushing up, drawing tension on the underwire, tightening the band around your ribs. It teetered on the edge of a great reveal, nipples harder than him between your legs. You begged for the release, for your bra to finally crest the whole, and bounce what you had into his waiting palms, where his thumb and index were shaped to tweak another hot moan into his mouth—full lips mashed gently to your desperate whine—unapologetic confidence staring you down. Doing it all with a smile.

The door opened with Carl’s question, “You get those u-joints for me?”

Violent strikes of shame-induced panic shocked you both into action before thinking.

Thank God you still had a hold on your sweater to yank it down in sync with Eddie’s side-step, the dumbass, exposing you because his priorities laid in fleeing. Well, at least he was a redeemable dumbass who used his quick wit Dungeon Master skills to remain with his back turned towards the door, perusing the top shelf for a box of universal joints.

You acted your part. “Oh! Uh, I couldn’t reach them, so I got Eddie to help,” you overexplained, pointing at your taller platonic friend who definitely wasn’t the reason your clothes bunched weirdly over your chest.

“Hm?” Carl looked up from his invoices, just noticing Eddie. “Could’ya get me some washers too?”

“Yep,” you answered for him, hearing the box slide along with the rattle of the steel washers, taking them and handing them off to Carl who grunted out a thank you, double checking his paperwork as he walked away, none the wiser as to why your gaze was sealed on the floor.

Mouth dried of all fluid, yet body drenched in the same embarrassment which reddened your coworker’s face darker than his bandana, you gulped past your heart lodged in your throat, and idled next to Eddie, pretending to tidy up a container of gloves. Really, you straightened out your bra instead, door wide open behind you.

It wasn’t against the rules to date your colleague, but he was uncomfortable with other people knowing about your relationship. Perhaps it was the prying, the questions, the pressure which bothered him most. Or the loss of privacy. All eyes on the single dad who hadn’t been in a serious relationship since a brief stint out of high school, and finding someone now, for him, The Freak of Hawkins, was such a significant event they’d probably congratulate him, therefore crushing the dignity he worked hard to assemble from the crumbs he was left with.

He had more to care about. More to lose. Always, you followed your boyfriend’s lead when it came to his reputation.

“So..”

“S-So,” he answered. “Uhm..”

“Should we.. Do you want to keep doing this?” you hesitated, trying to figure him out. Eddie knew what you were asking, though. It strained against the last set of buttons to his coveralls. The edge with no relief. Sneaking around, copping feels in dusty closets, stealing kisses behind walls, never having enough time to start, nor end something worthwhile to ease the aches left behind. “Maybe we should relax at work until we have a real weekend to ourselves again?”

“Fuck no.” His blunt response raised your eyebrows. “C’mon, babe,” he scoffed, locking onto you with his sloppy puppy grin and playful nudge on your arm. “This work week already fucking sucks, and you’re the only good I get.”

Checking over his shoulder, he sidled closer to you, and lowered his voice, “Yesterday I got to kiss you, and then go home to my kid who ate her chicken and broccoli without a single complaint.” He cut his hands to his chest, palms up, bouncing them in a shrug. “I don’t see any downsides here.” Aside from the prominent downside in your periphery, you agreed. “We’re just havin’ fun, right? Our weekend’s gonna come. These, uh, close encounters of the romantic kind are just to hold us over until then, that’s all.”

Just having fun. Just like that. Perks, pick-me-ups. No downsides here.

After giving him a long look, you nodded. These were just treats to get you both through the tough week. You could resist the temptation of taking it too far, keeping it casual. He could dial it back, and remain level headed about kissing, and a little over the clothes touching. No big deal.

Casual. Dialed back.

Easy.

————

Thursday was hot under the collar.

Coffee sputtered fat drops into the glass carafe, adding steam to the small breakroom, and filling it with the wake-up scent. Sat in a creaky plastic chair was a man sapped of energy, and behind him was his dearest flame. On the clock, technically, but arriving before other employees dared.

“Had to stay late last night to finish a car on time,” he grumbled to you, neck muscles flexing under your fingertips as he lolled his head side to side. “Wish you didn’t have to leave so early.”

You pulled his hair off his shoulders, and stroked your thumbs from his nape to the underside of his jaw in long sweeps over the tense slope, down, massaging the base where his collar began. “I know, baby,” you gentled, “me too, but we found a couch last night, and made sure it was the perfect size and comfort level for cuddling during a movie marathon.” His groan scratched vibrations along the rub, tugging your heartstrings.

“That sounds so good right now.”

Nothing made Eddie feel further away than the graywash walls surrounding you; lights too bright, vending machines droning too loud, stale odor of motor oil stinking too harshly of motor oil. Too everything—grating. His solid shoulders bowed weak from unyielding tasks. Body tired, brain stuck in problem-solving mode, watching cranky customers like a hawk, never getting a break once he got home; making food, washing dishes, cleaning spills, changing laundry, vacuuming dirt, providing entertainment, being the source of a thousand answers, drying tears, saying he’s sorry he can’t find the missing Barbie brush, worrying about everything, forgetting nothing, trying his best, falling short, perceiving himself as inadequate, disregarding himself as worthy of nothing more. Never getting the validation he craved after a long day. Poor man.

You leaned down and loosened the only button on his pinstripe coveralls, below his throat. Slipped the sky blue plastic from its cotton vice, threaded it through the hole in a languid beat, and kept things slow. You crawled your fingers to the sturdy metal zipper—dull gold—and ground the teeth three stretches down his chest, parting the halves to expose his black tee underneath. Your nails scratched the union of his pecs on the way to pull the collar off his neck, earning a comforting sound of approval from him, inspiring your own hum tickling your lips.

Switching from your thumbs to your knuckles, you dipped under his coveralls, and prodded the chain of stiffness on either side of his spine. Cheap poly-cotton grazed your skin. Mmm—His breath hitched, cheeks puffing at the sore knot you encountered, exhaling hard through the pain of your digging. It was so reminiscent of your second date when you were straddling him on his shit replacement for a bed not fit for a grown man, it hurt. You worshiped him between the bones—a small relief you wished to give him, delaying the restless ache growing more visceral every day you didn’t get to hold him for hours. Eddie reciprocated the yearn. He rested his head on your belly, washed curls swaying from his crown, frizzy strands clinging to the static on your blouse; leaning backwards so the meat between his neck and shoulder rolled under your handiwork. Closed eyes, fanning lashes. Mellow sounds of contentment sung through his nose. Beautiful man.

“Feeling better?” you asked, squeezing his traps in hard pinches, collecting his woes and turning them into sighs.

Mhmm, he said.

Perfect, you thought.

Better meant there’s still room for improvement.

In a fluid motion, you bent at the hips, and he leaned his head to the side, accommodating your arms draping around his front. The angle pressed your ass to the wall in an audible glide of your skirt shifting against it. Eddie, so soft and romantic, hiked his shoulders up and beamed hard at the ceiling, squeezing his eyes shut thinking his sweetheart was hugging him. However, you slipped your hands under his uniform, and his sunshine grin faltered.

His pulse quickened at your descent.

“Whatcha doin’, baby?” he asked, tone floating the river of curiosity and suspicion.

You doled kisses where his bangs parted, down to his temple, his eyebrow, sunk in the hollow of his cheek between the hardness of his teeth. You traveled the smooth grain on his jaw—warm notes of nutmeg, cinnamon, and vanilla in your lungs—and wandered over his earlobe, nosing through his long hair to the place you wanted. Lips on sensitive skin. Dangerous.

His throat bobbed at the top of a heartbeat, and his chest sank only to fill with a strong breath. The thin fabric of his tee stretched over the firm muscle laying dormant under a sleek layer of fat. Wheat shafts of hair mid valley brushed against the motion of your hands opening his coveralls further, fingerpads skimming his pebbled nipples; golden zipper sneaking to the top of his stomach, enough room for you to flatten your palms to his pecs, and unwind him. Like a good partner, you massaged the width where you laid your head to rest during a long hug, where you set your ear to listen to the rhythmic thump, where the source of his voice ignited when you asked him a question; thumbs joining to stroke the worthy center.

His black tee framed by the baby blue stripes paved a dark arrow to the kick of his hips tilting upwards as he slouched in the chair.

Excessive flattery laced your tease, “Are you hard?”

“‘Course I’m hard,” he pointed out the obvious. “You’re touching me.”

Not that the swollen length rising from his lap could be anything else, but knowing you caused such a standing ovation after a little bit of back rubbing ran you a mighty temperature.

Wicked thoughts pooled at the bottom of your stomach. The stiff outline influenced your thighs rubbing together, rallying hunger in your eyes. You angled your head, and shifted your focus to the goosebumps surfacing from your sigh fanning the shell of his ear.

Eddie’s neck invigorated your appetite.

You opened your mouth wide and grazed the sharp edge of your teeth over the vulnerable column thrumming with life. His body went rigid—”Oh”—then slack in increments. Again, you scraped lightly over the slope of warmed muscle appreciated by you as a result of the physical price he paid to assume the jobs of many, taking on the responsibility of Carl’s workload to ensure he made it to his son’s wrestling practice on time. Your man deserved the world; he deserved your lips forming a ring over his pulse, he deserved his heartbeat darting against your tongue, he deserved to melt under your attention. Your man deserved to have his little groan stolen when he remembered your mouth’s talent.

Despite the animal way you started, you eased him into the pressure, sucking down on his skin until your open bite filled with delicate flesh. A liquid glottal click preceded the faintest catch in his vocal chords. He secured a palm around your shoulder, heaviness drawing your arm forward, enticing your hand to rove down his chest. Shirt wrinkles collected around your fingertips as you reached the roundness of his stomach, and dipped below his coveralls. The change in environment was instant. Humid, sticky pheromones clung to your skin. Damp body heat trapped tacky warmth to your middle finger dipped to his navel while your knuckles prowled beneath his jumpsuit in visible arches. Edging closer, closer. Nearly there.

You arched your wrist to put strain on the zipper, dragging it with you, almost within reach of what he earned.

Eddie’s hand covered your own. “We shouldn’t, ah,” he cleared his throat, “shouldn’t start something we can’t finish,” he asserted, caught between the confliction crossing his face, and the gravelly tug in his vocal chords. He hooked his forefinger under your pinky and lifted your hand to the outside of his coveralls, where the halves parted below his sternum. “With our luck, someone’ll walk in on us.”

Yesterday’s incident in the closet brought fresh memories to his reddened ears; blotching renewed embarrassment along the pinkish skin where your spit dried. You took this into consideration when opposing, “Doubt anyone would walk in on us in the next thirty seconds.”

He’d deflect your implication with a glare if his eyes weren’t closed in disgust at his own actions.

“Just saying,” you sang, words becoming muffled on the stretch of neck he presented to you with a cant of his head, “we could have fun before anyone shows up.”

Teetering an inappropriate boundary neither of you should indulge, especially not in the storage closet or on your sturdy wood desk, his willpower faltered. “Don't tempt me with that shit when you know it’s a bad idea,” he griped without the balls to make it sound sincere.

You raked your fingers into a fist where they laid, pulling his uniform taut. The coveralls went tight over his lap, stressing deep shadows leading to the concentrated swell down his pants leg; made more obvious when he spread his knees wider, scraping his boots across the floor. Jittery nerves, flexed thighs, torn between crossing a line. Treats, perks, pick-me-ups. Hugging, kissing, touching over your bra. It was a dangerous path to tread. Risky. A million reasons why you shouldn’t.

“Want me to stop?”

“No.” Punctual, quick. Answered hoarsely in the breakroom of your workplace. “Keep going.”

His sentence rumbled in your mouth. Permission vibrated past your teeth, words rolled over your tongue, coating your brain in syrupy sweetness. Keep going. Texture of his stubble, then texture of his skin. Nearly invisible bumps matching the taste buds you licked down the sculpt of his throat, following the moody blue vein to where it disappeared under the ribbed collar of his shirt. You nudged the barrier away, and dropped wet kisses on the hilled muscle. His head fell further into the crook of your arm, offering, making the spot more accessible for you to lap at, cherish. The position was perfect. No better vantage point to stare down your boyfriend’s shuddering chest while you sucked a bruise on his neck, and wrung his coveralls a little tighter.

The shadows defining his lap twitched.

Eddie imposed his fingers between yours, and adjusted his grip several times until the sturdy cotton twill restricted his length flat. Without looking, you knew his nostrils flared when he released a rough exhale afterwards. Being so close, you heard the bubbles in his saliva pop before his mouth constricted on the swallow. You listened to the spit travel, saw his throat bob. Felt the hitch in his whine before he ever sank to the edge of the chair, where his hips would lurch and his clothes would drag along the oversensitive temptation begging for more in a hard throb. A short, delicate, and devastating morsel of what his mouth drooled for.

“Am I making you feel better?”

Through the trance of the powerful initiative rushing his blood south, compounded by the many rules and boundaries he broke of his own accord since he met you, paired with the sultry aid of your husky voice, he nodded. His muscle swayed beneath your teeth. “So much better, baby.”

“Love to hear it, handsome,” you kissed his cheek.

Dots of bright candy apple red bloomed amongst the pink where you marked the destination in the passage from his ear to his ball chain necklace. The metal beads were warm on your loving peck to his keepsake. Returning to the raw span beside it, you nursed the bruise along, sealing your kiss-plumped lips to the afflicted area, and bringing forth stipples of violet. Eddie disciplined his moan in the quiet room; coffee pot full, and vending machines clicking to lower hums; yet his weak noise wrapped you in tangled bedsheets, and unset alarms. Strong arms, and a slow cadence between your legs. Fantasies which were lost in the anguish of professionalism, and busy schedules.

Then, he called you back to reality with another sound. Whinier. Hemmed in his shaky breath, and a fluttered ‘oh’.

You broke the heavy-lidded spell over your eyes and fixed your gaze on the reason his grip on your shoulder cinched.

Eddie rocked his hips, and the outline of his cock strained against his coveralls. The entire definition of his head stretched the fabric as hard as it could at the top of the thrust, and fell to his thigh on the descent. Lines amassed on his forehead as he worked the circle again, starting on a pace which favored his next moan. Low, and slow—finding a steady rhythm, and simmering. Like that, accepting the urge and giving in, fuck the consequences. The spontaneity of you suggesting you give him some relief before the work day began spurred him, and whatever reservations he had about not fooling around while on the clock crumbled. Not that his convictions were ever strong to begin with when it came to you.

Approaching something more desperate with each controlled motion scoring the friction he couldn’t resist, another moan—thick, and hot like warmed maplewood sap—rumbled from his braced chest.

With his eyebrows pinched, and mouth slack, he watched himself get off on nothing but his own determination.

Spit flooded your bottom lip. Your palm needed to be filled. You ached for his smooth skin moving up and down while you fisted his shaft. You strangled his clothes at the thought, and yes, you begged, “Can I?” to which he dropped his head back and groaned a soft ‘fuck’.

“Whatever you want, baby,” he released in a jumble of grateful syllables.

Hanging onto his composure, he reached for the zipper, and the action stirred a phantom taste of his salty release on your tongue. Your body fought tooth and nail to have patience. You distracted yourself by placing fervent kisses in his hair as thanks for the wonderful start to the morning, about to pump Eddie’s cock to the same tempo as your racing heart without an ounce of restraint, when you froze.

A near-mute whoosh of air alerted every nerve in your body.

There was no mistaking the gust of the glass door rushing open, its whispered squeak imperceivable to anyone who didn’t spend an inordinate amount of time sitting beside it. But Eddie heard it. Or, he heard the thudding steps leading the jumpstart in his heart.

He freaked.

In a flurry, Eddie kicked up his hips to zip his jumpsuit to his throat, and you spun around to dig through the fridge while metal chair legs screeched across the tile, scooting in until his upper half was soldered to the rim of the table, and you picked out his favorite creamer.

Hot coffee beat out the smell of Old Spice. The fridge’s condenser fan knocked sense into the lapse of judgment. A booming voice penetrated the ringing pitch of bad decisions rushing loud in your ears.

“Mornin’!” Mr. Moore waited for your response of ‘Good morning’ to drive his Thursday mood, “Y’watch the news last night?” he asked, holding the conversation just inside the breakroom door. “Weather lady said the storm over Springfield is just sittin’ there—y’know, just hangin' over the city churnin' out rain like you wouldn't believe! It’s a strange one; the whole system is avoiding us, but it's what's brought on this heat wave. And just a few days ago we were seein’ our breath! The thunderstorm from the weekend dented my new chicken pen with hail, and now I’m turnin’ on the A/C, but that’s Hawkins for ya.” Sucking his teeth, he muttered to himself, “Cursed town.”

At that, you collected Eddie’s mug from the cabinet, and clinked a spoonful of sugar and Coffee Mate in his mug, stirring through the swirl of piping hot beige.

Mr. Moore continued, “Anyway, we should prob’ly dust off that drum fan, ‘nd set it up before the sun turns the garage into an oven.. You okay, Ed?”

You wiped the steam from your fingers onto your skirt, demonstrating an extraordinary amount of strength in resisting looking at him.

“Yeah, I—yeah, I think those fumes from yesterday got to me.”

“Ah, gotcha,” Mr. Moore replied, familiar with the debilitating headaches mechanics frequently succumbed to. “Take it easy today, will ya? And, uh, could you help me with the fax machine?” You perked up at the change in tone, understanding the question was intended for you. “If you got a minute, I need to send out some of these papers.”

Tapping the spoon, rinsing it, putting it aside, you said, “Sure can,” and your boss took that as his cue to walk into his office. Door open.

You set the perfect cup of coffee on the table, and stalled. Eddie’s fingers trembled over his forehead, laced into a shield and only lowered to the bridge of his nose in order to pierce you with all the glare he could muster; bouncing his knee in such a frenzy it quivered the curl of his bangs over his plum face, and shook the thinness of his scorched cheeks.

“Told you this was a bad idea,” he enunciated, wholly vindicated.

Your lips wore a tingle through their numbness as they thinned into a regretful grin. “I’m sorry.” You passed a kiss over top his head where your hand stroked. When the coal of his eyes continued to scold you through his thick lashes, you gave him another kiss, and spoke in softer earnest, “I really am, Eddie. I didn’t mean to, you know.. yeah.” Balls so deeply blue, they matched his jumpsuit. “Thought we had enough time to finish.”

He grunted.

Under the pressure of both time and guilt, you spun your hands into finger guns at the door, and shuffled backwards from him awkwardly, eyes set on the scuff marks on the floor. “I’ll just—” You were already steps away, about to exit.

“—guess I’ll jack off again.”

“What was that?”

Eddie jerked his head up, eyebrows lifting, realization crossing his glazed over stare. The sentence was meant as a vent of frustration, but not where you could hear it. He couldn’t get redder; in fact, he paled around his mouth a little, licking his lips. “I–uh.” He blinked irregularly through his stutter, finding the words which evaded him, scraping his brain for an explanation while he wrung and crossed his arms in a loose hug over his shoulders, fidgeting. “It, well, it h-hurts if I don’t..”

Corroding into an eye-roll only hidden by the very act of closing your eyes, you informed him, “Yes, I am well aware of the biological phenomenon. You said ‘again’, though. Meaning?”

After a moment of deciding how much information he was willing to divulge, he shrugged into his shoulders, dipping his chin to one side, using his hair to shy behind. “I’ve.. had to jack off before,” he answered, being coy with the topic.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“At work?”

“In the bathroom, yeah.”

“How come?”

His intentional avoidance drew your smile, so mischievous and calling his bluff, cornering the affection in his expression until his sneaky glance from beneath his bangs wove more and more of a story into his sheepishness. “Sometimes you wear stuff I like.”

You pounced. “Oh, yeah?” Interposing yourself between two chairs across from Eddie—ignoring the sound of Mr. Moore’s fist beating on the plastic machine in the other room—you drew circles on the tabletop, and pried, “What kind of stuff? When? Do you mean this week, or, like, before we were even friends?”

“I am not telling you that,” he laughed, he choked, he denied—hard—basically confirming he did wrap his hand around his cock at the thought of you, perhaps at work, perhaps yesterday after the closet incident, perhaps at the start of your employment at David’s Auto Repair when he didn’t know how to process the new receptionist flirting with him and his way of shutting down any feelings before they began was by ridding himself of the urge.

The topic itself was eliminated by his arm swinging outward, conversation not up for discussion.

And you, enjoying the attention that made him fold his hands over his lap, laid your upper half across the table, propping your elbows so there was a gap down your blouse if he so chose to ocularly venture.

Your words mushed from your fists beneath your chin, “Is it the skirts?” You rocked side to side. His crows feet deepened, shoulders shaking from suppressed giggles, refusing the allurement of your shapely sway draped in corporate gray. “Or is it the jeans and hoodie that does it for ya? Really getcha goin’ when I’m dressed down? Hmm?” Your eyebrow waggle dueled with his sealed lips.

“‘M’not tellin’,” he defended, hardly able to speak through his fondness for flattering you; as if praising you were its own reward, reflected upon him as a good man worthy of having his dirty boots tucked beside your front door.

From the hallway, a rackety sound strung together with a cuss and muffled call of your name roused the logical side of your brain, awakening you both from the hormonal haze.

Eddie clicked his tongue. “Best get to work, sweetheart.”

“Why? Need some alone time?”

The weight of the ache between his legs burdened his lack of comeback.

Obliging, because he was right, you stretched across the table and waited for him to meet you halfway. But he didn’t attempt to close the distance. He stayed put, committed to his stubbornness, and forced you to stain the muscles down the backs of your legs in order to reach. Fine, you played into his game. You planted your smirk on his mouth, dousing his smug features with your own.

“I was just thinking,” you lead innocently, “I’ve already packed my closet, but I might find the time to go through the boxes tonight, and pick out my outfit for tomorrow.”

“Babe—” It was an instant beg. Your favorite kind. “Don't you dare,” and he couldn’t even erase the intrigue, the thrill, the excitement of stolen youth in his tone. The sneaking around, the perks, the treats—the boundary you both knew you shouldn't cross, because of worse decorum than him sitting stiffly at a table, ripe with embarrassment. “You can’t do that. Are you even—? Baby?”

“By—e,” you sang on your way out.

————

Friday came with an excessive heat warning.

Footsteps came from behind you, lingering at the door. An arduous breath was spent sighing, but his voice was too playful to shame you, hardly traipsing through his throat to chastise, “You’re something else, you know that?”

Every beat of your heart was emphasized by his step forward, dragging his boots until his body heat warmed your backside. Blissfully unaware, you continued washing the glass carafe in the breakroom sink. Staying diligent in your task wasn’t an admission of guilt; rather, diverting your attention was an act of grace, of benevolence, granting him access to feast on your figure. It was obvious from the moment you arrived his hunger grew insatiable. You walked into the garage exactly as late as you planned, arms loaded with two boxes of freshly fried donuts, and the shine in his sharp-set eyes did not match those of his coworkers springing from their circle around the workbench. No, the to-go orders of dark roast coffees did not feed a smile to his face as it did for Kevin, nor did the waft of sugary glaze excite his mouth into watering like it did for the other men.

Eddie’s cravings were of a different breed.

His expression was hard, then. If you’d just met, you’d think your merry presence pissed him off. Now knowing better, you read the initial shock before he schooled it to an intense stare, steely gaze locking you into a match. You provoked him with a golden sunshine grin. His jaw went slack enough to run his tongue along his inner cheek, calming his rise in blood pressure, nose perking pink and eyes flashing dark and lips twitching to one side.

You excused yourself—“I should clean the coffee maker before I leave those grounds in there all weekend,”—and went to the breakroom. Eddie was hot on your trail. He came in not half a minute later. Probably didn’t even make up an excuse, he just left the circle.

“This is too far, even for you,” he maintained, aching and slow, words brushing over your ear.

Anticipation mounted in the sound of his clothing shifting, leather boots creaking. You expected him to do something sweet—run his knuckle down the small of your back, or thumb at the strap along your shoulder—but instead, you gasped.

Water sloshed in the coffee pot, suds squishing from the squeeze you put on the sponge.

He dived under the hem of your dress. The fabric fit tight on your body, snug to your waist, closing your thighs in a hug. He tugged it over the curve of your ass, exposing your bare cheeks to the chilly room. Bold. Risky. Dirty. Nowhere near the platonic workplace relationship he was trying to front. You twisted to look up at him with wide, thrilled eyes, giddy with the boost of flattery knowing your simple clothing choice drove him wild.

Eddie got a sturdy grip on the counter edge, and eased his weight onto you until you were covered by his magnificence, chest to back. He shaped his palm to your hip, and dug his thumb above the elastic band of your underwear, connecting the need of his hand to the yearn of his mouth. You melted in the pocket of his embrace, greeting him with parted lips, accepting his tongue. Never would you tire of his breath overtaking yours. Spit, spearmint gum, oddly metallic. Smoke break. You break. Morning tangle of you and him when the others were enjoying donuts one glass door away.

Fearless fingertips discovered you without hesitation. Polished callouses swept over and around to the front of your thigh, greeting the warm juncture with a smooth trace of his buffed skin, middle finger following the edge of your cotton panties down the seam, and up. Only an inch or so into the crease where your leg met the thong, back and forth twice along the line, enough to skim your nerves awake, and work you into a sweat for his index hovering over the swell where a single graze would have your knees weak. Taking the touch away, he wrapped his arm around your middle, and drew your hips in.

He pressed fat and heavy along your backside, unashamed.

The kiss ended in a juicy smack, finished by your hum against the coarse grain peppering his jaw. Lips were licked, sparkling eyes gazed into their match. Coming down with a lovesickness, your skin fostered a high fever, woozy bliss clouding your head—dreamy dreamy dreamy.

“You know what this dress does to me, don’t you?”

A grin cracked your face. “I might.” You immersed yourself in the comfort of his firm body draped around you, the raw sensation of your bare skin against his rugged coveralls, and lazed in the same memory as him.

The burgundy pinafore clung to the warmth of his taken smile from that night. So smitten, and fond. A dress made of belly clenching laughter, woven together with threads of brave glances, converging and averting when the strikes of nerves teemed on admitting too much. Cinnamon, nutmeg, grape jelly in the slow cooker meatballs. Freshly shed pine needles, and glitter. Significance baked into every fiber of the dress you wore under a lonely sprig of mistletoe, unkissed.

Never again would he let you go home believing you weren’t a treasure.

“Can’t be wearin’ this around me,” he obsessed, and you giggled at the rich confidence in his voice—a prelude to the depth he was willing to go. “Gonna get me in trouble.”

Using the sink ledge as leverage, you muscled Eddie into standing up straight with you, winning his heart with a doe-some blink. Arching, you swayed your hips on the length catching between your round cheeks, though the position flaunted something else which might entice him in engaging in risky behavior. “I’m not wearing a bra, either,” you said. Your voice was girlish—floaty and high—a bit raspy from your neck being turned to admire the handsome amount of approval twinkling in his dark eyes.

“Yeah?” Eddie moved his Stupid Cupid lips over the very edge of your ear, and rumbled through the words weighing down his chest, “Need me to fuck you that bad, huh?”

Thrums of pleasure lit within you.

You nodded the side of your face against the scratch of his chin—a morning, day, evening, night, dusk, dawn without a shave.

“Need me here?” he asked, slipping his fingers inside your dress. The fabric over your chest struggled to accommodate his circle around your nipple. You sucked in a breath—released in a moan—and grabbed onto his arm for stability, already falling backwards into him. The direct blessing of his prod to the bud was too much. Your toes curled at his pinch. He flicked the tip of his smooth finger pad over it faster. “Yeah? You like that?” You whined a croaky sound, resting your head on his chest, unable to keep your eyes open to admire the way he watched himself do this to you, chin hooked over your shoulder to view his own hand groping his girl beneath his favorite dress.

“Need me somewhere else?” he asked, and your hips began to mimic the circle he stroked as an answer.

With the ease of a man who’d pictured this scenario more times than respectful, Eddie seized the permission. Middle, index; his two thickest, longest, dexterous. Divine, and unholy. At the bottom of your dress bunched over the top of your thighs, he crooked those two fingers under the hem intentionally, while your hand combed through his hair at the suggestion. “Yeah? Want me to touch you there?” There—a base he’d yet to run even when you were alone on your second date. “Need me that bad while we’re at work?”

You verbalized your desire, as weak as it skirted past your sigh, “Please, Eddie.”

One plea, and it was Love Potion No. 9. His lean frame blanketed you, cradled you, collected you to his height, corded muscles gone solid with restraint. Large nose pressed to your ear, including you in the deep draw of validation into his lungs. Hugging you to the pride inflating his firm chest. The full throaty rasp of desire, and being desired, intimate and close. Two fingers ventured under your dress. You twirled his hair, teething your bottom lip in anticipation for the touch. They were shaped to claim his prize locked behind a fine layer, but he teased you first. He curved the breadth of his palm to the stretch of cotton, width of his calloused reach forcing your feet apart, and brushed past your deepest craving to cherish the place he craved.

“Jesus,” he wept.

His fingers glided along the wet patch on your thong, fabric sticking to your wet heat. It slid along you in a sticky lick, and he sank his teeth to the base of your neck, beyond help. A noise tripped in your throat at his simultaneous pinch on your nipple. He was a goner.

In a few circles around your entrance, he had you melting into his arms. A tweak on your nipple gained your fingers at the root of his hair. He squeezed your slick lips together, and your neglected need sang at the stimulation, begging him in a gasp to do it again. He did. He did, he did, again, however many times it took to have your sighs dive into moans.

Two devilish fingers began their journey upwards, intentions set and clear. Smarmy with ego, he goaded, “Let’s see how long it takes you to cu—”

The near-mute whoosh of the glass door was made obvious by the chorus of men’s laughter bouncing in.

Cold fear licked up your spine. You scrambled for the abandoned coffee pot in spectacular fashion, struggling to get hold of its soapy body in the fret of stress induced tunnel vision—but Eddie? Eddie took his time hitching your dress hem where it should be, flattening it to your thighs. The telltale gait of your boss was nearing, and he was in no rush to jolt to the opposite end of the planet away from you. Oh, no. Your boyfriend brushed his hands in methodical sweeps over the fabric, smoothing it to your hips, mirroring the same cadence as the steps which sent you into a panic. He even gave you a hard pat after he was done. Kissed your cheek to seal the deal, only stepping away to peruse the vending machines the moment Mr. Moore rounded the corner.

“Can’t resist havin’ a little sugar in my coffee,” he informed from the hallway, chipper as can be, strutting in while you were rearranging your dumbstruck stare into something pleasant. He swiped three Splenda packets. “We’re ‘boutta start the meeting, by the way.” You nodded at the coffee pot you washed to a shine. Mhm! you replied after an anxious attempt for anything better, tight-lipped, and dodging his prying eyes by enacting a coughing fit into your elbow in the other direction, willing to bolt if he even so much as thought about voicing his concern over your strange behavior.

Ka-shink, ka-shink, ka-shink. Eddie fed quarters into the Pepsi machine. “Be right there,” he announced, jamming one of the rectangular buttons on the side.

Mr. Moore paused for the longest .02 seconds of your life. No amount of money could bait you into turning around. Whatever expression he was making—if he knew what you and Eddie were doing—that was between him and God. Your shoulders were squared, muscles ready to flee in panic, heart racing beyond what it should be capable of. All the while Eddie crouched for his drink clunking to the bottom slot.

“Well,” was your boss’ succinct response on his way out, underscoring the end of his thought.

There should’ve been some relief, but your breath stayed in your lungs, and your hands shook horrendously, smacking the handle for the faucet too hard on accident, shooting the stream out on high. And, of course, the closed coffee pot lid was the perfect shield, sending water everywhere.

You screwed your eyes shut and defended yourself from the onslaught, worrying about your face and dress first, and your wimpy shriek second.

Eddie came to your rescue.

Ever the hero, ever the gentleman, he shut off the water for you. A ‘thank you’ had been earned, but one peek between your lashes had you quirking your brow in question. He was too close. Standing univinted beside you, almost touching, invading your personal space in a show of ownership. Shadows attempted to temper his smirk, but they cut harshly around the devious apples of his flushed cheeks. You opened your mouth to ask why he was looking at you like that, when—

The explanation came in your stolen yelp.

“Ed!”

“Shh,” he taunted, taking charge of his bubbling laughter at your reaction.

Goosebumps erupted down your legs, pebbling harder where he rolled the freshly dispensed can of Mug root beer across the back of your thighs. The chill bit into you, and you bit into your bottom lip. Squirmy noises squeaked from your throat. He reached under your dress and held the soda to your ass cheek, replacing the warmth of his cock with a bitter lesson. A stinging—fucking—cold lesson. He pinned your options between him, his arm, and the countertop. There was no escaping his revenge. You saw no other choice but to cling to his coveralls, let the shiver run its course, and scold him in a failed whisper, “Eddie—!” He loved it. Enjoyed every crinkle of your pathetic glare when you realized why he was doing it.

His length was softening against you. An old technique, rubbing vigorously at his sensitive head until the evidence of his arousal went away without repercussions. And now you were the one all worked up with no release.

Grinning like a menace, his cockiness eclipsed your vision, putting his forehead to yours so his snarky giggle vibrated in your skull. He wrangled you into his embrace, manipulating you with ease. Layers of implied strength snapped your hips forward. Years of unassuming muscle beneath his humble clothes locked you to his body without trouble. Strong arms you recognized the power of when they snatched a man by his tie, seasoned hands equipped for ripping out rusted axle shafts, fingers which threaded elastic string through plastic beads with the same finesse as soldering spliced wires together. They all joined in consecutive evil to slide the can between your round cheeks, down to where your yearning sprung.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” You picked up his vocabulary at some point. “I swear, Eddie Munson, if you don’t move that right now.”

“I’m just coolin’ ya off, sweetheart.” He sounded so pleased with himself, the jerk. He also sensed the impending handprint on his cheek, and apologized with a bit of earnest effort, “Sorry.”

Not betraying his newly actualized cavalier attitude towards urgency, he utilized his afternoon drink against your needy core as a way to hike you onto your tiptoes, and bless you with an offensive smirk kissed onto your slanted grimace.

Pussy numbed, he took his root beer away, and moved past you.

“Did you plan this?” you asked, assumed, accused. Mellow in anger, harsh in disbelief. “Is this payback for yesterday?” And the day before that. And the day before that. And maybe the day before that, too.

“Well, yes and no,” he resolved, sorting his explanation while opening the fridge. You crossed your arms, and stuck your hip out. The sensation between your legs was dull and cold. “With our luck, I knew we’d get interrupted before we could finish—and I did intend to give you a taste of your own medicine—but, yeah, uh, then you showed up in that dress, and all my plans went out the window,” his voice tumbled silly with self-deprecation, gestures as big as his eyes. “I was planning on just coming in here, and letting you know how hot you were. Make out with you some, maybe get a lil’ handsy, y’know, make you feel good like you make me feel good. But, uh.. Yeah. Didn’t mean to get carried away like I did.” He prized you in another look over. A damning amount of awe sat in his simper, like he was experiencing his crush flirting with him for the first time all over again. That is, before he hung his head back, and opened his throat to release a hoarse groan at the ceiling.

Eddie held the cold can to his lap, rolling it over the swell, taming the last of his biological drive from showing. “Trust me, baby, I’m chewing through my leash to get to you.”

Too charming. A flustering rush of flattery washed over you—warm, fuzzy, prickly heat of the back of your neck. Your annoyance at him was never genuine, but it certainly wasn’t after watching him speckle his jumpsuit with condensation in effort to resist breaking a code of conduct. Though, you were still strategizing how long it would take with your deft fingers down your underwear in order to rid your own need, and sit at your desk without chewing through the particle board, too.

Reading your mind, he put the soda away, and approached you with two palms on your nape, frigid fingers laced behind your neck and cold thumbs stroking your jaw. He dropped his head to the side, and maintained unblinking eye contact through his slow disapproving shake, resentment festering in his desperate gaze. “If I don’t get a few minutes alone with you today, I’m gonna go insane,” he stated. You believed him. “I’m serious, you better scrape together a few minutes to come kiss me on my smoke break, or else.”

There was no elaboration on what ‘or else’ meant.

“I will,” you promised, weak to his kiss on your forehead.

Figuring you’d both been stalling long enough, he trailed his last goodbyes for the foreseeable future on the line of your cheek bone, your chin, bridge of your nose, corner of your lips. Wherever. He swept his hand into your own, and brought it to his mouth, hiding the beginnings of his smirk in the smooches to your knuckles. “Was the soda thing too much?”

Grinding dullness to his sharp intrigue, you rolled your eyes. “It was kind of hot, I guess,” you forced out in a monotone droll, feigning harder exasperation when his expression squinched too mirthful.

“Don’t you mean cold?”

You soured, distaste in every syllable, “Criminally unfunny.”

“I know you liked that one, sweets,” he shot back, waggling his eyebrows. “Now, let’s get to that meeting before they get any ideas about us, pretty girl.” He finished with a wink, and two giddy-up clicks of his tongue.

“I hate you.”

“That’s too bad, ‘cause I adore you.”

~~~

A few kisses in the alleyway, that’s all either of you asked for. Two minutes alone. Maybe more than three sentences exchanged about matters not pertaining to work. But, no. Even when you escaped the two men at your desk reciting an encyclopedic amount of knowledge about some type of engine you didn’t care about, you were roped into giving directions to the shop over the phone while shuffling through invoices in Mr. Moore’s office. And when Eddie got you pressed against the wall in the storage room, someone yelled for him to help with a rush job, killing the mood. To make matters worse, the grueling week ended with you and Eddie being scheduled on the same lunch slot, but with the approaching deadline for expense sheets being due at the end of the day, you were planning to eat yours at your desk, and avoid the torture of sitting next to him without being able to touch him like you wanted.

You opened the fridge and took out the Buckley special. Yellow squash casserole with a side of Shake ‘n Bake chicken. Eddie’s teal and purple lunch bag contained an extra helping of both. It’d become customary for Robin's mom to cook extra, and pack it away for you to bring for him. His actual lunch was in a paper bag next to it. Big spoiled man.

Speaking of, he was at the sink; sleeves rolled up his wrists, scrubbing himself clean with Fast Orange. Bitter citrus stung your nose as he lathered up his hands, working the pumice into the smudges of grease around his knuckles.

Mr. Moore got your attention without introduction. “I’m taking the wife out to that new Italian restaurant. Should’a asked her if she wanted Italian food, but oh well. We’re swingin’ by the sign shop next to it, and makin’ real sure our logo’s nice and big on that banner for tomorrow.” He accentuated the importance of David’s Auto Repair with high brows, and a canted head. He also managed to pronounce it both Eye-talian, and Uh-talian in the same thought. “Be back in, uhh—hour ‘n a half, maybe?” He swung his keys into his fist on his way out.

The group for lunch would be smaller, then. Maybe you could do your paperwork at the table, and get away with playing footsie with your favorite mechanic. Yipee.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Kevin announced, and you both looked at him over your shoulders. You were sorting the lunches to get the casseroles in the microwave, and Eddie was rubbing an extra squirt of Dawn between his fingers. Exceptionally mundane. “I was so impressed by that coffee this morning, I’m going down to the diner and ordering myself a sandwich and dessert. Prob’ly finish it up with another cup’a coffee after. Gonna make it a whole forty-five minute ordeal,” he sold the significance with several nods.

His immediate disappearance out the lobby door after his statement was strange, but you shrugged at each other, and went back to the lunches and hand washing.

“D’you know where those bottles of wax are?”

You shook your head. Eddie shook his head slower. A heavy thread of tension bred awareness between your two bodies strung taut from pent up urges.

“Weird,” Carl huffed. “I swear I just had ‘em. Well, shit. Can’t finish this car without at least one. I’ll go pick some up at the hardware store. Be back in a few,” he let you know, voice echoing off the hallway walls on his way to his truck.

Cold, warm, hot. Your blood buzzed. The bell above the front door dinged as it latched closed. Left behind was a lobby empty of people, garage paused in limbo, and a building cast in silence. You turned to Eddie. Dawning comprehension overtook your faces, wide eyes fixed on each other.

“Holy shit,” he exhaled, and you were already shoving your food back in the fridge, smashing his bologna sandwich in the process. Eddie cursed again, “Holy shit!” and snatched the hard bristle brush, scouring the dirt from under his nails, between his fingers, up his arms until the water ran clear and his skin burned pink. The same could be said for the grime on his cheeks. His light blue coveralls were soaked from the water dripping down his neck, but his face was spotless. Only the best for your lips.

“Oh, fuck, Eddie,” came your relief.

He accepted your willowy clutch on his sleeves. “It takes—It takes four minutes to get to the hardware store,” he stuttered in excitement, counting on his fingers behind your back, “so eight minutes roundtrip, factor in another eight for parking, looking for the wax, and checking out. That gives us sixteen minutes!”

Sixteen minutes where? Behind you was a plastic table which wobbled from an uneven foot. In the lobby was your desk in full view of the windows. In the bay were cars neither of you were quite brave enough to chance a stain on a seat.

“Um, um,” Eddie’s quick thinking trembled, about to suggest he take you there on the unforgiving tile floor, when he remembered, “Oh! My van! I brought my van.” He grasped you by the shoulders, shaking passion down to your toes about the hunk of metal parked outside his trailer when you visited. “I brought my van! I brought my van to drop off some amps at Gareth’s before the show!”

Rattled, you went to give him a thumbs up in full agreement, but he grabbed your hand, and bolted. You half-complained, half-shrieked, “You don’t need to drag me!” Reckless youth inspired him, broad grin loud and clear in his unadulterated sprint towards the OPEN sign and flipping it to display CLOSED. You skidded and bumped into him, bodies converging in true laughter. He caught you, he always caught you, and hauled you to the glass door, slowing in a smooth stride to open it for you. Always opening it for you. The garage was baked in sunshine, streaming through the warehouse windows on the bright day. Eddie’s boots clunked loud on the floor. A rock in the alleyway ricocheted off his shoe, bouncing off the tire of your temporary five star hotel.

The covert brown and cream van sat parked amongst the brick, gravel, and curls of dead leaves playing in the gentle breeze. It sat in full view of cars passing on either end of the back street. You hoped they were watching.

He wrenched one half of the creaky back doors open, and ushered you in the hollow between him and the carpeted floor, engulfing your face with his citrusy palms. “Don’t wanna waste a second,” he asserted in a winded breath, blurring your mind with a heady kiss, and impatient pat on your backside.

Rocks crunched under his boots. Two sturdy hands cupped the back of your thighs, helping you hop up onto the back of his van in a thrill of flirty giggles, weak for how bad he wanted you. Your calves slid against the warm metal bumper, your feet dangled by the exhaust pipe, your knees trapped his hips between your legs. His thick fingers sank into your fat, thumbs particularly bruising. Being everything he wanted, you snagged him closer by the collar, mouths almost meeting, and tilted yourself on the outline straining his coveralls, looking into his big brown eyes with a plea when the lone impact sweltered under your skin.

He hiked your knee to his waist, exposing you more to his packed heat aching to see you again. “C’mon,” he said, lips loaded with devilishness, “can’t stand to spend another second out here where I can’t have you.”

Anyone cruising by could bear witness to Hawkins’ number one Satanist loading a pretty young thing in the back of his ice cream sandwich colored van, and make assumptions.

Bless them.

You scooted backwards into the belly of the dragon’s lair. For an old beater used for transporting band equipment, he took good care of it. The carpet was clean. The wood paneling up the sides remained unscuffed. The back seat was taken out to make room for a hard case for a guitar, and two large amps wrapped in a spare comforter to prevent damage on either. And that’s where your observations ended.

Eddie’s indecent gaze was set on the stretch of white cotton under your dress. Nothing could break his stare as he threw his hair in a low bun, grabbed either side of the metal doorframe, stepped one foot on the edge, and bounced the van twice before hauling himself—and his manic smile—inside.

The acoustics amplified the door slamming shut.

His boots made for two heavy lovedrunk steps. Bruises were earned on his knees, dropping to them where your hem had ridden up, keen eyes traveling the valley between your thighs, up to the soft round of your nipples. Expecting his imminent weight, you laid back. Heat from the floor warmed you through your clothes. He crawled over you; one hand by your hip, the other next to your shoulder. You were lying beneath him for the first time, and he behaved long enough to memorize your gentle grin, and adoring squint.

“Oh, you’re gonna be the end of me,” he said, accent thick in his throat, ripe with lust. The gravel alone had your hands on the back of his neck, attempting to pull him down, to continue the momentum. But he didn’t budge. Distant in the blood rush, he found a bit of sobriety to ask, “D’ya mind if I get you dirty? I’m kinda gross.” His coveralls were marked with grime, dusted with dirt, splotched with oil. The overt blue collar status of his job opposed the unblemished burgundy and stark white tee of yours, sitting at a desk and answering phones in semi-working A/C.

You admired the mental fortitude it took to ask you first, but now was not the time to be a gentleman.

“So get me gross,” you replied, and a flicker of revelation stirred in his features. “I want to be gross with you.” You, Munson, The Freak of Hawkins, the one who everyone avoided; he who was rejected for being unapologetically himself. Taking advantage of his solid shoulders, you peeled yourself off the floor, and from the depths of belonging, you set fire to his kindling. “Make me fucking dirty.”

Eddie’s mouth pursed, then stretched thin, cheeks high, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “My pleasure.”

Plush lips crashed onto yours, body covering you in desperation, touch starved. His weight hugged you, pinned you. He flattened his arm alongside your head for support, and welcomed your legs bent around the length of his backside. Playfully suggestive hums followed his greedy hand scaling your thigh. Short layers of his hair fell forward, tickling your cheeks in summer innocence, while down below his thumb grazed the narrow string of your thong strapped over your hip in a fraction of the hunger he had for you. One trace under your panties, and the kiss went sloppy with tongue; slick mouths mashing, teeth knocking, jaws aching, and lips swollen. Aggressive, possessive, and dizzy. Your dress bunched around your waist. Rugged fabric rasped where your chests met. Smears of grime, dust, oil dirtied you.

Because the clock was ticking, you sped things up with a squeeze around his ass. Eddie listened. Oh, Eddie listened. He took the thrust in stride, pressing down on your need, and catching your forehead with his. The pain was negligible. A gift, even, to hold your gaze when you clawed for the waist of his coveralls, and harnessed a hotter tension on your underwear. A concentrated craze blunted by the thick layers separating you. You lifted your hips for him, spurring more, faster, pouring your strength into earning a faint squeak on the van’s suspension.

He nosed your chin up, and slipped painful kisses over your jaw, finding the spot below your ear to laud, like you did to him, sucking and releasing when your whine doubled. “Pretty,” he moaned into a harder kiss along the trail of spit his breath cooled. The edge of his teeth scraped another fragile gasp. He rocked his hips for a better one. “Love the way you sound.”

Grasping for clarity in the haze, you reminded him, “Just for you.”

“Fuck” —his voice cracked in the sprint to recover what those three little words did to him— “that’s fuckin’ right just for me.”

Copying what you did in the breakroom, he brought his hand up from your waist to move your shirt out of the way, exposing the meat at the base of your neck. Too excited, he left a map of his teeth. The bite stung your nails into his back. “Sorry,” he regretted, but you denied your pained gulp of air, rubbing your cheek along his temple in a head shake, S’okay. He ran his tongue over the grooves as an apology, anyway. Tracking the dips and curves, licking, suckling, and nipping however hard he could to make you scratch circles on his scalp while struggling with the two syllables of his name.

His hair smelled of fertile soil and charred earth, a tang of metal and new tires.

You gave yourself over to the garden of his scent, sunshine against your eyelids. Beyond the fatigue in your inner thighs was his constant, eager, chase. Chewing through his leash. Gnawing at his restraints. You focused on the long graze of friction, and forgot your surroundings which did not serve the fleeting jolts of pleasure between your legs, or the groping at your tits. You didn’t know there was an issue until Eddie’s frustrated grunt led to a harder tug at the unforgiving neckline of your dress, and finally, he shoved himself upright.

“How the hell do I get this off you?”

That explains why he was grabbing at both sides beneath your arms in search of a zipper.

Blinking, suddenly coming back to Earth, you contained your snort at his distressed motioning at the offensive garment enough to tell him, “It’s in the back,” and added, “like most dresses made in the last two, or three decades.”

He beckoned for you to sit up—a sharp gesture, but not without reason—and with your arms around his neck, he unzipped it with such speed, the plastic teeth should’ve melted from the traction. As he lowered you, the straps slipped from your shoulders, thick fingers inviting the release down to your elbows, breadwinner fists folding the top of the dress over on itself, joining where the bottom was scrunched around your middle. You’d only shaken the straps from your wrists when your body rocked side to side; a victim to his fumbling way of untucking your shirt, dying from suspense.

Stale air struck you from navel to neck.

His warm tongue was on you. “Oh—mm!” your voice raised a girlish notch. Two fat laps into coaxing your nipple tall, and fresh embarrassment ramped up your cheeks from the choked noise you made. You arched into his mouth for more, seeking foundation on his hands when an accidental skim of his teeth piqued your nerves alight. Rolling your head back, you found him through touch, starting with his wrists, working up to his knuckles, and curved squeeze cupping your tits together. He showed you how his mouth watered at the sight. Switching sides, he gifted the other stiff bud with a wet swirl, slipping over it again and again, gaining a squirm in your hips when he changed the speed—and without a break, he went back to the first to suckle, and his unintentional moan slipped out louder than yours when he pulled off.

He released a ragged breath into the valley between your breasts, “Couldn’t help myself.”

His determination throbbed impressions along your body even after he sat on his knees, leaving aches behind as a result of the sixteen short minutes he had with you. The adrenaline stayed in his shaky fingers. The top button of his coveralls dodged his pinch, eluding him. Another attempt, and a darker shade of red crept up his throat. “God fucking damnit, why’d I wear the ones that fucking button all the way down,” he fumed, wishing he could rip it open like the metal snap pair. You peered at his predicament through your lashes, and helped him out.

You tucked your chin to your shoulder in a pout, and competed for his attention, “Hurry up.”

“I know, sweet—” he verbally hit the brakes.

All too pretty, you pushed your tits together and strummed your fingers over your nipples in easy flicks, using his spit to skate over the peaks. You opened your legs wider, feeling his eyes devour you between the thighs. “I’ve missed you all week,” you said. His pulse jumped at the tiny excuse for underwear wedged further into the split, trimmed hair growing on either side.

Too long of a pause passed where his expression was slack. “Jesus Christ.” Working faster, he tore through the rest of the buttons, possibly losing one in the process, and shucked the jumpsuit over his shoulders. He flapped his arms to get the sleeves off, and his stark black tattoos made an appearance. The clumsy way he undressed shouldn’t have an affect on you, but when he took hold of the stuck cuff and the plastic beads clicked together on his bracelet, fresh roots of attraction thrived. Underneath his workwear a white ribbed tank top stretched over his chest. It must’ve been bought long ago when he was a size smaller, the bulk he’d packed on at the garage filled out the seams to their limit. Soft definition contoured the sun around his muscles. Veins strained the surface of his forearms, streaking shadows through the golden rays. Sparse curls fanned over the top of the neckline, thicker under his arms, and dark where his shirt rode up.

The jumpsuit hung loose around his hips, giving a peek at his boxers.

“You don’t wear jeans under those?”

“No? Did you think I did?”

The thought never crossed your mind until it was the only thing on your mind. You just assumed he would, so you shrugged, thinking of quickies in the future.

Eddie’s tolerance for conversation was low. A shuddered exhale blew past his lips, easing his hand down the front of his coveralls, pumping along the length fighting for his attention while he obsessed with what laid before him. Irresistible temptations which would forever change the way he looked at you were created the moment you touched yourself for him. Two fingers, two little circles over your underwear. You lured him, hypnotized him, sighing sweetly at the satisfaction. His bicep jumped in strength to restrain his pace, forearm pulsing from the choke he had on his base.

“Better calm down,” you teased in a slow lilt.

He scoffed—shallow in mockery, but burdened by the truth of the lines softening around his eyes. Shoving his coveralls low enough for his ego to stretch freely against his boxers, he walked his hands beside your body until his mouth was posed above yours. A suggestion of touch hovered over your knuckles rolling in a rhythm to honor yourself. “I haven’t known calm since I met you.” Your face scrunched cutely at the compliment, and you stopped adding fuel to your fire by bringing both arms around his neck, preparing your lips for a kiss which would not come. “I haven’t known calm since I met you,” he repeated. “So why start now?”

Unexpected pleasure consumed you. Eddie rocked his hips forward, and the raw glide of his cock with the thinnest separation of fabric possible stole anything that wasn’t animal instinct. You locked your ankles behind his thighs, drove the thrust deeper, and he answered by grinding down, working his base between your lips, loyal to you and the sweat beading on his brow.

You wrenched his tank top in your fists and felt it go tight where your chests merged, grazing over your nipples harsher with each rut. His shoulders shifted under your curious roaming, bulk of his body withdrawing. He didn’t stray far, only to tuck his forehead to your neck where he could hear the catch in your throat and the beat of your heart. Cozying to a place so near, you heard his guitar pick schlink past the beads of his necklace. Adjusting, he slipped into a deeper position between your legs, and a kiss was dipped to the top of your collarbone, long lashes brushing your skin as his eyes fell closed.

Cradled as one, Eddie dragged his cock down your heat, and followed the new angle up. Pitiful begs broke faster than his jagged groan. His fat tip notched itself at the top of your tender lips, nestled where your thong gathered, and he kept you on the precipice of your moan—of which you crashed into splendidly.

“That’s—god, Eddie, right there,” you babbled into a whimper.

“Fuck, such a pretty sound, baby,” his voice faltered on the endearment, panting hot and sticky on your throat.

The damp spot on his boxers grew. His unrelenting strokes over your clit fast-tracked you both towards the edge.

“Did you—condoms?”

Perking with interest at your hitched whisper, his stubble scrubbed your jaw in a delight of scratches on his way to nose at your cheek. “Picked ‘em up on my way home last night.” The suggestive rasp in his voice took residence in your rib cage, smitten by the thought of him going through a checkout so he was prepared to fuck you the next day. “They’re in the.. the..”

The rate at which his soul left his body would surprise grim reapers.

“Where’re they?”

Understanding your concern, he kept his eyes screwed shut and whittled at the knot between his brows with his knuckle, drilling away the irritation at himself. “They’re in the glove compartment.. of my car.”

“Oh.” The disappointment was brief. Your body clung to the fever he set, knowing you were both close, and paradise was another weekend away. Thinking quickly, you cupped his cheeks and put a swing in your tone, “We can do other stuff!” Hoping it was good enough, you scrutinized his expression, watching the words register, sink in, brighten his pupils into unholy territory at the idea.

The charm of his dimple was the cherry on top of his two front teeth emerging from the leap of his lips. Earnesty from a thousand endless wells poured out of him, “I love other stuff,” he said, imbuing each round word with a secret.

Jumping up, his enthusiasm was hampered by the roof. “Close call,” he commented to himself, narrowly dodging a concussion. He crouched to some degree, and made his way over to the amps, hiking up his coveralls to his hips as he went. The sheer lust in his weight pressing you to the floor was sorely missed, but you sat up to watch him waddle the amps to the center of the van and tip them, guiding their front plates down flat.

You puzzled out why he would line them up like a short mattress, and began salivating at the thought of him sitting on the additional height, and having his cock better in line with your mouth. “Are those for you?” Eagerness lifted your voice, swam in your glossy eyes. Eddie should be thanking the stars he landed someone so enthusiastic about drinking him whole after putting in hours around the shop, but instead of getting his brain-stopped-working glazed over stare, he slapped the amps twice.

“These are for you, pretty girl. Come sit down. I gotta thank you, remember?”

A memory of torn nylon and unfulfilled promises sparked at his phrasing.

Gotta thank you.

Getting to your feet, you arranged your arms for a bit of modesty, and snuck past the back windows, walking on shaky legs to where he kneeled at one end of the makeshift bed. Pure affection spotlighted you as the sole receiver of his enraptured smile, face aglow. He squeezed the tips of your fingers as you sat, and his lips were the softest thing to grace your cheek. It was the sweetest you’d seen him, especially when he anchored his palms to your hips, and his nerves crept in.

“Just, uh, tell me—or, let me know if I’m doing something you don’t like, okay?”

You tittered, “Okay,” as if you weren’t on the brink of unraveling regardless of skill, or even effort.

Putting faith in the durability of the hard shell encased amps, you leaned back on your hands, lowering to your elbows on the texture plastic, relaxing through the suspense of being on display for someone for the first time—and in broad daylight, too. Dim bedside lamps and flattering angles could obscure much, but why hide anything when your boyfriend spent the better part of his week biting at the cage of adult responsibilities keeping him from you? He’s the one who hid the new order of car wax for an excuse to fuck you sloppy in the back of his van. You basked in his reaction.

Eddie’s hands wandered the curves spread on the pedestal before him. One palm cupped your chest where his spit dried to a sheen, teasing your nipple lightly; juxtaposed, the other shaped itself over your waist and hips, clamping on your knee and smoothing his muzzled grip up your thigh. They joined to ruck the hem of your dress higher. But before the reveal, he bent over the slope of your body to cherish the glitters of sweat sparkling across your sternum. The minutes working against your escapade were unforgiving, but he chose to dedicate a few moments to your natural salt as he hooked his fingers under the stretch of your underwear. The cotton stuck to the praise he’d given you thus far, damp and tight, a work of art. Moving them aside, he stayed kissing the curve of your belly.

Intense, hot-blooded throbs of desperation concentrated on the immediate relief of your wet heat being exposed for appreciating. Fingertips caressed into a curl for his knuckles to adore your puffy lips plumped together, tracing up the other side with his thumb, and cresting the short curls at the top. A tortured lurch in your hips followed his touch when he took it away. Not a strong enough man to deprive his girl for long, he allayed you in kiss down your antsy chase, and sat back on his calves, landing his gaze where his fantasies only imagined.

He didn’t do anything for a few seconds.

Sunlight streamed from the window over his shoulder, shining radiance on the glisten made for him.

His lungs emptied in a thin, wispy breath.

Manners vanished when it came to a starving man. Your excited gasp lapsed into a spell of stunned giggles, which shot into an open-mouthed ah! No composure to spare, he dove in, shouldering one of your legs and hooking an arm around to pry your thong out of his way. Fat tongue, longer than you knew, buried between your lips. Insistent mouth framed by your pussy. Jaw slack to lap up his reward. He leaned his entire being into licking inside you, and dragging upwards, mixing your arousal with his spit and swirling it in a heavy circle. A single direct graze, and your chest rose and fell in stuttered bursts, shaking through the beginning of a sweet whimper. A light suckle from him pulling off to swallow the taste, and escaping your throat was a noise capable of convincing him God was real.

Attentive eyes connected over your mound. Big, brown, and pleased. Pupils inundated by curiosity, yet abundantly aware. Respecting you to the highest degree, he edged his fixation, surrounding your swollen clit with his full lips to feel you throb through the contact. “Eddie—” Your nipples hardened through the helpless pant of his name at the first true suction. Increasingly mesmerized by the response he earned when he added pressure, he stamped his tongue to his top lip and dropped it to his bottom, adding the sort of strokes that had your hand in his hair. “Eddie, you’re gonna make me cum so fast,” you rushed out. The shame in your whisper felt less like shame and more like a compliment when you held the back of his head, and tilted yourself in offering.

In one solid action, you were yanked to the edge of the amp by his grip twisting around your dress, and he looped his arms around your hips to hug you closer still, sealing your gift to his mouth. Muffled whines of gratitude came from his throat, so thankful for the opportunity, eyelashes batting heavily at the privilege of your inner thighs squishing his cheeks. Too beautiful. Could watch it for hours if you had the time.

You stretched out on your five star hotel bed, and closed your eyes, focusing on the articulation of his tongue against your need.

Steady licks devolved into wet kisses sucked between your lips. Pleasure bloomed from the place he persisted, weaving warmth from your stomach to your fingers in his loose curls. You swept his bangs from the beads of sweat plastering them to his forehead, raking them back with your fingernails on his scalp, luxuriating in the connection of your honeyed caress and his moan rumbling against your core.  “Feels so—so fucking good,” you gushed.

The weight of one of his arms let up. Smooth calluses swept to your knee, rubbing the spanse of your thigh before shaking a handful of your fat, and leaving a sting of his handprint behind. Your body rocked from him shifting under your legs. Bumpy actions led to his mouth withdrawing, and the sounds of him making out with your cunt were replaced by your heartbeat hammering in your ears. He sat up to his knees briefly, and came back to tend to you in a distracted rhythm, clothes rustling in the process. A question formed in your head, but before you could ask it, he latched his pout around your clit, and worked you into a frenzy.

Pressure prodded at your entrance. One finger glided in without trouble. He fucked you with two, then. Two crooked inside, knuckles shoved against the hypersensitive skin running slick with arousal. He strove for a response until your heels dug into his back, and he knew the sensations were linked—inside and out, mouth and fingers.

Then he took his hand away.

You were left feeling empty when there was nothing to clench around, but his devotion didn’t waver. Your muscles twitched at each immaculate lick, thighs closing in on him, too close to care about whatever else he was doing. You concentrated on yourself, arching into your hands, spoiling yourself with fluttery traces over your nipples, rolling the buds in light pinches at the enthusiasm he had for savoring you. The constant vibrations of satisfaction he hummed on your pussy were enough to have you dripping, and when his big fingers stretched you open again, pumping you full in a few thrusts along the base of nerves which burned your cheeks, the van echoed every indecent soppy smack.

And again, there was a sensation of him curving his fingers deeper than normal before his shoulder dropped, and viscous yearning flowed after the emptiness.

A repetitive soft thumping noise blended to the back of your consciousness.

Eddie committed his sense of self to making you cum. Learning the unambiguous signs of your release, and being the reason they manifested, became his purpose. Sucking ceaselessly, investing the curve of his lips, his agile tongue, his entire mouth to heed the steady motion. Fingers still coated in sticky lewdness, they returned to fuck you too. Your deep breaths turned shallow, stomach seizing on moans and releasing them in trembling gasps. Waves on waves on waves of bliss crested under your hot skin, and your voice went too tight in your throat to not drive him crazy, “Eddie, I’m gonna—!”

Groans in the lower octave of a man enjoying himself shaped your release crashing over you.

The intimacy of his tongue on your oversensitive clit was incomparable, sending you into shamelessly grinding on his mouth, huffing out tiny whimpers as your muscles braced around him. Tighter, and tighter, until the tension became too much, and you were shivering for his mercy, riding the last jolts of your climax snug against his nose. “Please,” you squirmed for less, then when he gave you less, your ankles locked behind his back through the torture of a few more.

Doses of euphoria swam in your veins. Sinking from your high, heaviness blanketed your limbs. Bonelessness seeped from top to bottom. Tingly warmth took over, relaxing you to a state of clarity, flourishing in the scratch of Eddie’s five o’clock shadow on your inner thighs. He let go of your underwear, issuing an apology for where the material cut into your skin with a gentle roam over your hip as both hands left you.

The bend where the underside of your knees draped his shoulders bounced at an impressive speed.

You peered over your curves to sate your curiosities. Eddie’s temple rested on your leg, bangs askew and hair a mess of frizz and curls stuck to the sheen on his neck. He’d yet to move from his position, laying his head where he could, face angled to admire his work, eyes heavy-lidded past the point of inebriation. Ambient sun decorated the glisten around his mouth. A gleam of drool wet his red lips, flushed darker than his cheeks, which he pressed into a slow swallow over your tender cunt.

His exhale cooled the wetness before his tongue warmed it up.

A sharp hiss jumped into a whine of his name. “S’too much,” you strained. A wrecked man, Eddie couldn’t hear you through the pride you afforded him, flirting delicate kisses on your overworked clit, surrendering to the hold you had over him, and reveling in the aftermath of making you cum. Gradually going limp, his nose mashed to your mound, mouth hung open, pushing your orgasm in lazy laps. Another cry, beg, aftershock of his name and the burden of his forehead fell to your hip crease, filling his lungs in uneven drags. The break in sensory overload was appreciated; a sigh of relief.

You sat up and dropped your legs from their mantle, intent on clearing the fuzz from your mind, but—Eddie’s elbow rubbed a fierce tempo along your calf. The motion synced with the fast-paced squelch you heard earlier, before it faded to the background along with the soft thump and rustle of clothes. All of it came together in an echo of answers. Straightening up further, you witnessed exactly how worked up he was over your pussy.

Speechless awe overrode your ability to form sentences 

In the gap framed by your thighs, his body shuddered through the fervent strokes focused over his lap. With his coveralls slacked to the tops of his thighs, he cupped his balls over the waistband of his boxers, skin bouncing in his palm, soft grip protecting their load while his other hand worked his length. Clear slick trickled over his knuckles, fingers slipping over the cream gathered at the head and guiding it down. Absolutely candid in his attraction, he fucked his fist using your arousal as lube.

In just a few twists over the blushy needy tip, he pumped the base in effort to make himself last, and peeled his sticky cheek off your thigh, looking up at you. Whiskey eyes awfully honest, awfully clear and round, he said, “You’re about to make me cum so hard.” In the vocal pause, the wet glide of his palm drove him to the edge, and his tone grew pointed as he went beyond the point of slowing down, “Like, now.”

The reason behind his direness took a moment to register, but when it did, panic flickered through you.

“Oh—shit—uh,” you stuttered. He needed a place to cum, and in your post-orgasmic daze you dropped your chin to think of your tits first, but had the wherewithal to decide against the possibility of him misaiming onto your dress. Beside you, the blanket was mostly stuck under the amps, and there wasn’t an extra rag in sight. His tank top was an option, but you thought of a better one. “My mouth!” you insisted with a gesture. “I’ll—” swallow.

Eddie was already to his feet. The van rocked with his heavy boots, wide stance stretching his coveralls tight around his legs, and undershirt pushed up out of the way. He braced one hand on the roof, cushioning his head bent to the metal in order to stand, and resumed his pace. You stuck your tongue out. The immediate pressure of his cock prodded the flat middle. Tasting yourself for the first time, the tang was surprising, but welcomed by the familiar salt leaking from his tip mixing with your spit. Warming up to the blend, you swirled sultry licks on the sensitive underside he avoided, and his tattooed stomach clenched.

Sitting pretty, you knew what he liked and cupped your tits together, gazing up at him with a submissive pinch between your brows. “So goddamn hot,” he grunted out, jaw clenched as if he were mad, stroking himself faster. His middle finger rammed over your lip on every pass. It might swell. It might bruise. “So—mmm—f’king hot.” Breaths jagged, his thighs flexed from the buckle in his knees, staggering him a step forward enough to put tension on your gag reflex. You clutched his jumpsuit into your fists. His rough groans shook through his stature. Building cusps of his release stuttered his hand flying over his cock, jerking himself off in bursts as pleasure peaked under his skin. The scrunch of concentration above his nose deepened. His stomach tightened in pulses, pecs jumping with his gasp, “Gonna,” and he was spilling into your mouth.

A moan made its way through your throat before it closed in a quick swallow. Tongue out, he trembled as he coated you some more. The first two shots were heavy, the rest followed suit, filling you for another round which you accepted with your lips snug around his fat tip. He doubled over at the achy raw sensation of your cheeks hollowing. Baby, he throbbed into you, flinching, yet giving. Allowed, you polished swirls over the throbbing head, lapping up any remains. You sat there with his clean cock in your mouth, meditating on the line drawn from the tattooed dragon wrapped around the sword pointing at the trail from his navel to the thick patch of curls at his base, which you could only reach when he was going soft, as he was then.

He tucked himself into his boxers after you pulled away, and sank to his knees. The sweat on his forehead merged with yours, oily noses pressed together, eyes hardly open as he trusted you to hold him up. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” his voice came hoarse with sincerity, anchored by the current of true longing flowing from the depths of his past. “How much it means to me, making you feel good like you make me feel good.” For Eddie, having proof of the good he could provide for you validated parts of himself he hadn't acknowledged for years. “Sorry I made it about myself in the end there. I, uh—ha—I couldn’t help myself when you were getting into it, and saying my name, ‘nd stuff.” Your bark of laughter encouraged his shy giggle, all bashful and humble.

Kissing his smile, your lips connected on the fated scents of each other after a hot and heavy day at work, and he sighed into palms fitting themselves to his jaw, mouth fixed in a taut smile as he worked through the happiness welling in his throat.

You told him, “Make me cum like that, and you can do whatever you want, Munson.” He snorted at his name, and played with strands of hair over his face, hiding his stupid grin. “I’m serious. Not that I thought you’d be bad or anything, but that was beyond good. Like, really good.” You should stop talking. “And it was flattering. Like, hot. It was really hot,” you decided, “knowing you couldn’t stop touching yourself—”

“Stop,” he complained in an embarrassed whine. Unable to take praise outside the heat of the moment, his gaze made friends with the floor while he mumbled about how he was a motivated learner and pulled out all his tricks to impress you, tucking his chin to avoid owning his skill. He dropped the act on a dime. Pointing, an overabundance of pride entered his tone once more, “You, uhm.. you christened my amp.”

“Huh?” You spread your legs to see. Utter mortification stung your nerves at the sticky stream of arousal, spit, and climax drying down the side of the plastic, wetting his piece of expensive equipment. “Oh god, I’m so sorry! Is it okay? Did I damage it—?”

“I got it,” he said with a firm hand to your sternum, laying you flat.

The low rumble in his throat drew near. Staying gentle, he parted your slippery split in a deep lick to your inner heat, running his tongue in broad strokes up the extra passion made just for him, quenching his thirst before your lunch break rendezvous was over. An appreciative kiss was bestowed on your clit before he smoothed your underwear into place. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and helped you up. The amp was left how it was.

Eddie opened his arms, and you understood. Moving slow through the syrup in your limbs, you straddled his lap, settling yourself over his softened cock, sensitive selves brushing through clothes. He reached behind him and popped open the door. Fresh air smacked rivers of sweat, cooling and calming. You melted into the other’s embrace, bonding in the last moments of your time together.

Sun glanced off the wood paneling, casting a glow on his puffy face. Sleepy eyes, messy hair, unbearably adorable grin—the type of candid expression showing how honored he was to share the same breath in the limited space between your chests. Lovesick eyes, bed head, face he’d have to wash in the bathroom sink with hand soap. So handsome. You combed the delicate hairs at his nape up into his bun, scratching tingles through his body. The threat of being caught was ignored for one minute longer.

Traces of humor rounded his clipt tone, “I need you next weekend. ‘Kay? I don’t care what we gotta do—if we gotta send Buckley off on some island vacation—I want some real alone time with you.”

“What? Is the van not good enough?”

“No,” he answered your tease with a serious drawl, raising his eyebrows. “This was just to hold us over until then. I don’t wanna make a habit of this, ‘cause then this? This is all I’ll think about when I’m supposed to be, y’know, working. Fixing shit. Not.. picturing you with your tits out.” Speaking of the distraction, he tugged your shirt down, and you fell into a fit of giggles, snickering against the crook of his neck as you stuffed the hem in your dress, and he crawled the straps up your arms, managing to zip the back up without looking.

Of which your good mood dwindled when you collected yourself. “Aw..”

“Yeah, it’s kinda worse than I thought it’d be.. Sorry.”

Dirt, motor oil, grime. Streaks, smears, smudges. And plenty of it. The burgundy dress he adored was visibly ruined, and only half way through your clocked-in hours.

You found the silver lining. “Guess I’ll wear black from now on.”

“Black looks good on you,” he assured. You reared back to assess the damage, and he filled the stretch of his palms with two handfuls of ass, ensuring you didn’t lose balance. Always willing to be of assistance, of course. “Oh, and may I say, genius planning on your part with the car wax,” he stressed his admiration of you. “Can’t believe I didn’t think of that myself.”

Not following, you stopped scraping your nail over a patch of dust clinging to your white sleeve. “I thought you hid the car wax?”

“No..”

The next line was predictable. You would meet eyes, wait a beat, and deliver ‘Then.. who did?’ However, Eddie proved his impulsive thoughts won when devious shadows crowded the hook of his smirk, dimple arising. He opened his mouth, and you knew no good would come from it.

“I didn’t even fuck you, and you already can’t remember where you put the—Gah!” He shrieked at your pinch on his nipple, and the van rocked harder with your combined laughter, obnoxious in every organic way.

Casual wasn't an option when you wore this dress. Dialed back lost its meaning one root beer ago. The afternoon delight would live in the fibers of your unspoken language every morning when you looked at each other; coffee, cigarettes, spearmint. Goodbye normal workplace relationship, and good riddance.

~~~

Carl entered the lobby with confusion on his brow. He eyed the CLOSED sign on the door, and shuffled the bottles of wax loaded in his arms to turn it around, almost dropping them in the process. Earsplitting guitar licks and shrill vocals belonging to Iron Maiden beat on the windows to the garage, drawing his attention to the half-dressed mechanic ripping a bite out of his bologna sandwich, and flipping a socket wrench in his hand, head banging along to his music. Carl slid his side-eye away. Questions were not asked on his walk past your desk, merely serving a glance at your forkful of perceptibly congealed squash casserole which hadn’t been microwaved. Better yet, he didn’t address the canvas jacket you wore despite the visible shine dotting your forehead, nor your wheezing breaths as if you’d sat in your chair approximately thirty-nine seconds ago. He continued down the hall in silence.

The hair on your nape stood on end from someone’s gaze on you. The correct choice would be to ignore it, keep your head down, and finish the expense reports due by the time Robin picked you up. But like a good bitch, you submitted.

Waiting for you was Eddie’s cocky grin. Through the dusty glass pane indulgent curves of mischief edged his eyes into smug little crescents glinting from the secret between your bodies. Boundless amounts of vanity broadened his chest, pecs jumping as he tightened the sleeves of his coveralls tied around his waist. He peacocked in a slow turn to bend over the engine he was working on, shifting from foot to foot and leaning his hands on the car, flexing through the motion to catch swathes of shadows on the swell of his triceps leading to his hardened shoulders, strong back taking shape under his tank top. Mesmerizing. You couldn’t begin to imagine a world where you could keep the dreamy sigh out of your voice when Carl’s bewildered question arose.

“Wait—Were these here the whole time?” Judging by the plastic bounce and cardboard scramble, he had dropped one of the bottles, and when he dropped to his knees to grab it from behind a mop bucket you forgot to empty, he spotted the box of car wax you ordered at the start of the week and misplaced amongst the chaos in the storage closet.

“Oh? Were they?” you wondered. Stuffing the casserole in your mouth, the fork tines scraped across your teeth on its way out, chewing with your cheek propped on your fist. Blinking sleepily at the purply blue bruises you left on Eddie’s neck the morning before, you replied from faraway, “Weird. Thought I left them on the shelf.. Maybe the garage is cursed like Hawkins, too.”

[pixxxieland]

Miss mouse: fuck I’m coming already!

Eddie: just goes even harder and manhandles her *fuck me*

nsfw 18+ wc: 753 tiny breeding kink implied

especially when eddie's lap is flush against your ass, chest pressed to your back in a sticky union of sweat building with each growing hum of the vibrator buried between your legs dialed higher by his greedy thumb.

it's not the first time he's stretched you this full, but it is your first experience taking him until he was seated to his base, bringing you to the cusp of a pleasant moan and bulling it out of you as a sudden grunt at his final push inside, trapping your pleasure between the device in his rough hand and the heaviness of his sack resting against the drips of your sopping heat spilling from where he fills you.

his humid breath coasts past your ear in huffs skating across the backs of your damp fists drawing deep into the sheet beneath you. he has you prone beneath his weight, keeping you lifted with his forearm and the toy alone. enveloping you completely, caging you with his shoulders curved over yours and his arm hooked beside your head, bicep shaking the longer he holds himself above you. your cheek becomes smashed to soft cotton and tacky skin alike, panting, panting hot and shallow with your back arching to his command, thoughts melting to the place where his besotted praise consumes you.

unutterable words fall from your kiss-bitten lips, losing them to the crook of his elbow. flipping to where your other cheek met the damp hollow, you sought fresh air for your lungs, moans gasping with desperation to tell him what your fat tongue and lust-laden eyelashes could not, fluttering shut from the burden of focusing on anything but the tension clenching around his thick cock.

"keep," you tried, "like that." the heavy purr of the toy being stroked in circles over your clit steals the rest.

he's eager, voice slipping from genuine awe to cuts of coy, "gonna—already, baby?" he asks, but he knows. he knows what your pretty whine cut short sounds like when you begin squirming, rocking your hips in the unforgiving space between your bodies—but to have it so soon?

he'd yet to move since the initial slide of his weeping tip past your point of pleasure, and now you were begging for it in the neediest way, causing him to twitch inside you at the excitement.

"please—" the softest ask "need you to fill me."

the newness of your relationship was no match for the dirtiness of your request. "fuck, baby." his praise mixes with yearn for your tight cunt creaming around him. "gonna make me cum like that. you want it? you want all of it? wanna make you full?"

cresting to the peak of your climax with his lips, teeth, tongue, and ragged breath at your jaw coinciding with the heavy drag of his cock learning which spot unravels you fastest, he channels the brink of his own undoing into keeping you still.

his hand is a force to be reckoned with on your hip. digging fingertips around the cup of bone, flesh bruising beneath his flustered grip; he had let go of the vibrator, and you took over, grinding onto him from the overstimulation, fucking up onto his cock with deviousness, eyes glinting in the same low lamplight which struck love in his.

you strain to watch his expression arc prettily from your writhing. the crease between his eyebrows knits tighter—red cheeks going slack from his mouth hung open on a disjointed moan. his messy hair curtains you both, curly ends tickling your skin with every erratic thrust he surrenders to.

he moves his knee up beside your hip, brushing his hairy leg along your thigh, peeling his chest away to drive into you deeper, putting an ache in your spine as you became his one sense, his one purpose, slapping skin on skin in a wet mess of your orgasm painting his lap, pumping his length until its coated and your puffy pussy is ready for him.

his pace stutters to a beautiful collapse, and he chokes out, "makin' you mine." and it's not dirty talk, it's a promise. with the soreness of his hard spank to the side of your ass, his muscles draping about you with animal restraint, and a voice made of primal gold, he reminds you of whats leaking down the backs of your thighs, "let's clean that up, and then we'll go again, yeah? and please, sweetheart, last a little longer this time," he finishes in taunt and pride.

[pixxxieland]

chef’s kiss🤯🤥💌

𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶"Can I kiss you?"✶

NSFW — smut, blowjob, swallowing, ball worship, cock worship, grinding, dry humping, first kiss, slow burn, flirting, mutual pining, eddie is touch starved, mild angst, 18+

chapter: 10/19 [wc: 25.1k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10

AO3

Chapter 10: The Intentional Second Date

Smoke trembled past his lips in stuttered bursts.

It was Eddie’s second cigarette of the morning. Not completely out of the ordinary for him; sometimes he needed a second one when Adrie gave him trouble before preschool, or if he had a bad night’s sleep and relied on nicotine to help delay the impending headache, but that’s not why he was smoking again today. Adrie woke up, got dressed, brushed her teeth, and told him she loved him in the carpool lane. She was a dream. His nightmare, on the other hand, was coming to fruition. Because of course he couldn’t remember where he’d set his wallet if it weren’t chained to his pants on a sober day, but drinking enough to where he should’ve been plastered? He remembered it all. He remembered it all.

Oh, he remembered it all.

And when he heard the front employee door to the auto shop unlock, he held his breath, and counted down the routine seconds for you to pop your head out in the alleyway and greet him, and when it didn’t happen.. He knew you remembered too.

The morning smile did not come. No greeting. No laughter. Just nothing. Nothing happened except for the glass door to the lobby opening, and you going inside.

He fucked up. He fucked up. He fucking fucked up.

He made things weird, and now you were avoiding him, as you had every right to after he tried to initiate phone sex without warning— Consent? Consent. Both of you were inebriated to some degree, and he’d never felt more like a creep.

Oh, God.

His knees went weak.

Anxious bile sloshed in his seizing stomach. His face broke out in a cold sweat. Knots constricted tighter. Heart beating in his throat. Decisions—mistakes—put stars in his vision. His world was ending, and it pounded at his temples. This was it. This was it. He fucked up.

“Good morning, hand—Oh?”

Eddie froze.

You leaned more than your head out the door, and stepped onto the concrete slab. All your tender attention was on him, studying his pale face, and his hunched form. Your eyebrows swooped in worry at how he was crouched to the reedy weeds instead of standing tall with his back against the gray bricks. A frown slighted your smile, insulting your beauty when you saw him bent down, knees to his chest, holding his head while his other hand shook hard enough the cigarette pinched between his fingers fell amongst the rocks.

“Eddie? You don’t look good. Are you okay?”

His lips parted.

Was he dreaming? Was the lift of delight in your tone when you first went to greet him, and then the drop to concern ebbing your voice deeper when he appeared ill a figment of his imagination? Were you about to call him handsome? Was this the second chance he didn’t deserve?

“Eddie?”

“Yeah!” His exclamation helped him stand, and the twitch of your lips battled his nausea. “Yeah, I just had a long night,” he lied.

Lightheaded, he concentrated on keeping balanced in his woozy lurch towards the wall.

Sharp edges of rocks slid against one another under your winter boots. “Aw, I’m sorry.” Your apology was sincere, as was your silly quirk of swinging your arms to point finger guns towards the garage. “I brought donuts this morning, and went ahead and made coffee, so they’re both fresh if you’re the type to dunk.” You mimicked dunking a donut into a mug of coffee. “Maybe it’ll make you feel better?”

Endearing. Genuinely, honestly, so fucking adorably endearing.

“Yeah, that sounds great right now.” The pet names returned to their restricted status for now. He had to know for sure. “Did you, uh, like playing with us Saturday?” It was a coward’s way to dance around the real question burning his esophagus, but it was a valiant introduction.

“I did! It was a lot of fun. I’m glad you invited me. And, hey, uhm, I didn’t say anything weird to your friends, or anything like that, did I?”

“No, you didn’t,” he responded in an even tone, stomping his curiosity from fluctuating his cadence with hopefulness when you chose that of all things to ask him.

“Good! My memory went a little fuzzy after my fourth drink, you know, when Lloyd kept trying to get us to sing along to that adventuring song he made up. I didn’t know if I said anything weird, or rude, or something by accident.”

Salvation reigned upon him.

Eddie’s lungs allowed him to breathe at the kindness alcohol spared him, and finally, he could relax. Your fretting stemmed from making a good impression on his friends, and with his reassurance, you stopped fidgeting at your nails, and the color returned to his cheeks. “You don’t need to worry about that. Seriously, they loved you.” His grin struggled to blossom. “Do you not remember anything else?”

In contrast, your grin was a field of wildflowers swaying under the summer sun.

“Not really, it’s pretty spotty around the time they left, but I do remember a few things,” you said, taking another step towards him. “I remember you throwing a napkin at the back of my head. I remember falling asleep in Robin’s car. I also remember asking her to pull over on the side of the road. I remember waking up in the living room, on her dad’s recliner of all places. And boy! do I remember being hungover.”

Closing the few feet of distance remaining, your confidence was established in your ability to pinch the sleeve of his coveralls and tug at it in a playful, flirty way, coasting your frosted sigh over his embroidered name patch.

You claimed him, heart and soul, “But I remember us dancing, too. I’m so glad I remember us dancing.” Softer, “You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever met, you know that?”

“I’m the sweetest?” he repeated in a mumble, complying with the tug to open his arm in a curve, which you fit into.

“Of course you are. You sure you’re not sick? You still look like you’re about to puke.”

As if your grip on his tricep wasn’t enough of an anchor on reality, the backs of your fingers gliding down his cheek were, checking his temperature like he was worthy of being doted on. A fortunate thing, a blessing; having your hand guide him from the river Styx with a simple brush, thumb tracing the edge of his lip.

Yeah, his heart clenched. “I’m okay,” he rushed to whisper, wanting the words to sprint after your fingers falling from his chin. He kept the connection alive by copying the stroke along your spine, over your denim jacket. 

The wintry redness returned to his face, he knew. His racing pulse brought it there, splotching warmth to his skin. There was not enough bravery in the world to ask how much of the dance you recalled; whether your memory ended at your head on his chest, or your wrist to his lips, or your foreheads together with your noses smashed to the other’s cheek, but he did gleam one thing for certain.

You beamed up at him with eager eyes, as if those intimacies flashed in the sun’s reflection, and you wanted more of them.

He said, “I think I’ll feel better after a donut. Or three.”

“Or a nap, or three,” you countered.

“Sweetheart,” he exhaled, a rasp present in his throat from smoking, “I’m not gonna waste my time napping when I could be eating donuts with you.”

A wry laugh played at your lips. “How romantic.”

“I’ve been known to be romantic from time to time.”

You hummed in interest, arching an eyebrow. It was a challenge. Oh, really? you asked. Show me, then, you said.

Stepping back, you dragged your hand down his arm and embraced the motion, seeing it through to his elbow, forearm, the heel of his palm. Feeling but a faint outline of his form beneath the thick sleeve of his canvas jacket and light blue coveralls, yet still clinging to him as if he were your heater. Your warmth. Another body laying next to you in a cold bed.

“C’mon, handsome.” You urged him inside by your feeble grip around the stretchy knit cuff covering the plastic bead bracelet around his wrist. “Let's see if getting some caffeine in you helps you look less like a corpse.”

He snorted, and obeyed. “Whatever you say, dear.”

By all means, it seemed you didn’t remember the phone call. No doubt you were stone cold sober for the bad jokes, dorky innuendos, and inappropriate behavior that would be frowned upon at work, but you didn’t bring those up, so he didn’t either. He was in the clear.

Fate forgave him. And now, he could move on with the ‘thank you’ he owed you in good faith.

————

It was days later when your stapler ran out of staples.

You clamped it shut a few more times until you realized, and opened the second drawer on the short filing cabinet beneath your desk. After a cool slide of metal on metal came a rattle. Instead of your extra sticky notes, folders, and office supplies being visible, a foreign object sat on top of them. Perplexed, you reached in and grasped the lime green box. An index card was taped to it, and removing it jolted the waxy candies inside, sliding them against the cardboard in a merry cascade.

Setting the Mike and Ikes aside, you read the thin, angular handwriting on the note, written in red.

DO YOU WANT TO GO ON A DATE WITH ME? (circle one)

              YES    or   NO

ARE YOU ONLY SAYING YES BECAUSE ITS YOUR POLICY?

              YES    or   NO

By outward appearances, your mouth was tugged downwards at the corners, but make no mistake, it was not a frown. No, no. What your expression was overcome with was so sentimental, so empathetic, you had to pout.

Besotted, you hugged the card to your chest, and reflected on the heaviness of his expectant gaze when he passed by your desk this week. The longer eye contact, the anticipatory lift of his eyebrows wrinkling his forehead when you waved at him. He must’ve put this in your drawer days ago, and you had kept him waiting by accident, poor guy.

You weren’t about to keep him in suspense any longer.

(Though, maybe he should’ve put it in the top drawer, which you opened daily for your highlighters, if he wanted a quicker response.)

Pen to paper, you selected your answers, jotted a line, and tucked the notecard inside a manila folder with two invoices he needed to fill out. You pushed your rolly chair away from the desk, and dug through your purse before going to the breakroom where Eddie sat hunched over the round table, shoveling a chicken Rice-a-Roni meal in his mouth (haphazardly) with his left hand while writing in his DND notebook with his right.

You stood at the vending machine with your hip jutted out, sinking to one side with utmost concentration on your pursed lips, perusing the rows of choices. There were just so, so many categories to choose from. Chips, candy, chocolates. How could you ever decide? You crossed your arms, and tapped your chin at the dilemma, taking your time. This was a wise use of your work hours, of course. Flirting with your coworker by passing notes, and watching the side profile of his smirk break through his curtain of curls in the glass reflection.

Finally, you settled on F4, and slotted in your quarters, punching those buttons.

The Kit Kat bar was deposited in a loud clunk.

“Hey, didn’t know if you saw,” you started casually, and held the manila folder out to him with an imposing grimace, “but you forgot to fill out a couple of lines at the bottom of these invoices. Can’t have you slipping up, and not finishing your paperwork before working on your little roleplaying game, now can we?”

Eddie shifted his gaze from the bulky folder failing to stay pinched closed, to your face. Fawning, he arched into an overly apologetic expression to match your performance, and placed a hand over his heart. “Oh, no, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. Did I forget to do that? Silly me.”

“Better not let it happen again, Mr. Munson,” you warned, placing it on the table and leaving.

“Never, never,” he promised.

Back at your desk, you sat in your chair, calm and poised. And approximately two seconds later, you kicked off the floor into a fierce spin, dizzying the lobby around you. The place was a blur, your stomach swirled, and still, your goofy grin refused to wane. But, you did stop eventually. The antics had to come to an end. You did have work to do, afterall.. Which you ignored when you heard him rip into the foil wrapper in the other room, and you couldn’t possibly concentrate on calling a warehouse to check on an order of headlights when your ears were tuned to the flimsy chair scraping across the tile, and his heavy work boots stomping down the hall.

“Filled out those forms for ya, sweetness,” Eddie said with a wink.

There was a weight to the manila folder when he dropped it on your desk, and tapped twice on his way out to the garage. Not a physical weight, but a gravity that wasn’t there before, now concentrated in his keen eye contact. An invisible significance.

The relationship had changed, just then, in the trade off of boring invoices.

Opening the folder, the index card was deemed more important than the paperwork. Your gaze stalled on the thick circles around YES, and NO. Yes, you’d go on a date with him, and no, it wasn’t because of your policy. Below them, your thick handwriting flowed together.

what did you have in mind?

I RETURNED THOSE KIDS MOVIES FOR YOU.

  YOU CAN THANK ME FOR SAVING YOU

    THE LATE FEE BY WATCHING SOME

       HORROR WITH ME AT MY PLACE

PICK YOU UP SATURDAY AT 6?

Fighting back another sickeningly stupid willowy sigh at his charm, you wrote a lovesick reply.

In usual Eddie fashion, he left the very last box on the second form blank, so you had to go out to the service area, and address the mechanic bent over a car engine. Not that you were complaining. The back of his coveralls hugged the slight curve of his ass, and his hair was not only pulled into a low bun at his nape, but he wore a bandana tied to keep his bangs off his forehead.

“Hey there handsome, couldn’t help but notice you left the date box on this form blank again.”

“Oh, did I, pretty girl?” He spun, and rolled his eyes to mock himself. Wiping the grease from his hands on his coveralls, he took your pen. “It’s my old age, y’know. Things always slippin’ my mind.” Mumbling to himself, he pressed his palm to the back of the folder, and sketched out a sentence into the page longer than a few numbers warranted. During the arduous process, he looked at you with sorrow, and complained, “These dates are just so tedious to write out, it may just take me all night to complete.”

You refused to give him the satisfaction of a smirk at his (possible) insinuation.

All night? He wished.

Eddie surrendered the folder and pen, and smiled at you, stretching the streak of soot on his chin and cheek. “There you go. All filled out. Not a ‘T’ uncrossed, nor an ‘I’ left undotted.”

“Thank you,” you over-enunciated as a goodbye.

The very second the glass door came to a slow close behind you, you sat at your desk with the folder, and threw a subtle glance out the window to the garage to make sure Eddie wasn’t watching you lose your mind over two short words exchanged in quick succession.

sounds perfect :)

YOURE PERFECT =)

For the second time since you moved to Hawkins, you had a date. And judging by Eddie’s sway from foot to foot with his hands laced behind his neck and his head hung back, listening to the traffic outside echo off the cement walls, he was thrilled for his second date, too. He dropped into a steady bob at music that wasn’t playing. A too-large grin teased at his mouth as he paced to the motor he was repairing, and bent over it. His boyish excitement spilled like an overpoured mug of coffee into his unabashed giggle, and glance in your direction.

Eyes locked, he didn’t steal your breath. You gave it to him willingly.

————

Saturday’s setting sun was just another audience member to your date night routine. Robin and her mom leaned in the doorway of the bathroom the entire time you were shaving, and due to the opacity of the shower curtain, you were unable to convey your glare to the degree it deserved.

“Well, why doesn’t she wear this instead?”

There was a shock of laughter mixed with Robin’s scoff. “Mom, if she wore that Eddie would pass out on the spot. What if he hit his head, and they had to call an ambulance? You know she can’t drive him to the hospital. No, this bra still gives sex appeal without causing an injury. And besides, calling 9-1-1 would put a damper on them—”

“Rob,” you groaned.

“—spending a wonderful evening together,” she finished.

The thunk of a walking cane neared, and her dad’s hoarse voice sounded from down the hallway, “My! The rowdy Munson boy is getting lucky tonight, is he?” he proposed in a faux British accent after watching BBC nature documentaries all day. “Do you think he’d have dinner with us tomorrow? We haven’t seen him since Robin threw that New Year’s party years ago, and almost set the roof on fire.”

Oh dear God get me out of here.

Once you were finished with your shower, freshly scrubbed and smelling nice, you humored them by wearing the outfit they picked out. It was pretty much what you would’ve worn anyway. A short black skirt made modest by nylon tights to stave off the chill from Eddie’s trailer, and an oversized crocheted cream cardigan with tiny pink flowers, the hem of which hit you at your waist, showing a tempting preview of your stomach when you raised your arms to fix your hair. The pale lavender bra (the reason for their debate), was covered by the aforementioned sweater, and you weren’t sure if the sheerness of the lace mattered much when Eddie’s daughter may be present, or in the next room over. It didn’t occur to you to ask if he’d have Adrie with him, so, such is life. The bra may stay a secret despite their efforts to doll you up. But the sudden realization he may see you in it tonight clenched your stomach with excitement..

The clock struck 5:55, and an ominous roll of thunder put everyone on edge. It electrified nerves, and stood hair on end, setting forth premonitions of bad weather and foul fortune. Doom, it was; and it came, and came, neverending. Except.. It wasn’t thunder. It was Eddie Munson’s brutal music.

His little black car came flying down the road, and swung into the driveway, screeching to a halt heralded by flung rocks spat by his tires, and a flock of songbirds splitting the sky.

And yet?

Charm bowed before Eddie’s easy strut. Pebbles dodged his stride. Clouds of hellish dust evaded the shine on his laced up boots. His tight jeans flaunted the subtle flex of his thighs, and his belt sloped on his narrow hips with each uneven stride, daring the world to stare at the extra length of stiff leather flopping outside the confines of the belt loops, attracting all the attention he desired to the places he wanted.

You were still in the living room struggling with the buckle on your Mary Janes when the intense, raw screams of his heavy metal music stopped, and the muffled guitars faded away. He showed up, shockingly, on time, and you shot out the door before the heavy slants of sun breaching the leafless trees could beat down on his trademark jacket rattling with dainty chains.

“Hey there, sweetness.”

“Hey!” you blurted in a huff, racing down the steps. Flustered by his punctuality, you made the first move of the night by snatching his hand and dragging him away.

Slighted by your absence of drooling over how cool he looked, Eddie grunted in objection, but let himself be steered away. He glanced over his shoulder at the three faces peering at him from the window, and spared them a tentative wave. They were nosy, but not in the unkind way he was used to, and for that, he was thankful.

You apologized at a hurried pace, “Sorry, but if you step foot on the porch, they’re gonna ask you a bazillion questions, and never let us leave.”

“Ah,” he said, short of a laugh, “but let me get the door for you. Wanna impress them.”

“Impress them?” Dregs of sleepy sunlight highlighted the twist of your lips. “You come in here like a bat outta hell, blaring your music loud enough that I’m surprised you’re not hard of hearing, and you’re worried about impressing Bobbie’s parents?”

Refusing to let your fingers slip from his when he felt your grip go weak, he tightened his hold, and opened the car door with his other hand, sidestepping awkwardly to avoid the wide swing, towing you around him.

“Is that so strange?”

“It’s a little strange.”

“Good.” He established the bond of your palm cupped to his until you sank into the red plush passenger’s seat. At the groan of the hinges, and a hard slap on the metal, he finished, “I like being strange—” Punctuated by the door slamming shut. His cackle was far away. Shrieking silence filled your ears, interrupted by your elevated pulse pounding in your chest, and the tink of a pebble pinging the bumper when one was unfortunate enough to come into contact with his boot as he strode around the front of the car with his hands in his back pockets, stretching his shirt over the curve of his stomach.

What a lovely thing he was, truly. To lord the power of sheer captivation over you, and still ground you with a humble gaze and tender smile through a windshield flecked with dirt, as if stealing one of your five senses was a normal feat and returning it to you wasn’t an act of benevolence.

He folded himself into the seat beside you and staggered his legs until he could relax fully into the position, and turned the key in the ignition. His music took residence in the sense he stole. You tensed in anticipation, but it wasn’t offensive. The previous song was ending, and with you being boxed in with the speakers bullying your ears from every angle, you heard the animalistic screams as something more haunting, more beautiful. They were organic. Emotional. Conveying a longing which flowed into the next track; a restrained piece laced with sweltering lines, where each croaky utterance heated your cheeks fiercer and fiercer. Carnal of a different nature.

Intentionally avoiding eye contact with Eddie, you twisted enough to see the carseat behind you was empty. “No Adrie?” you asked to confirm a suspicion.

“She was invited to a sleepover for one of her friend’s birthday parties tonight,” he said.

You reeled at the information, but not for the reason you assumed. “Wait, what? There’re people out there willing to have a hoard of five-year-olds running around their house? Like, with the screaming and everything?”

“Crazy, right? Some people still have their sanity, I guess.” He stamped the gas and clutch, revving the engine with an amused answer poised on his plump lips. “Or enough downers to get them through the night.”

The guitars increased in ferocity, drowning out his wistful reminiscing on such substances helping him through the day, pre-Adrie.

It was then you noticed an interesting detail about his compact car you didn’t fully appreciate last time you were in it: there was no center console. You didn’t need to check. The lack of separation was confirmed by the heat radiating from his heavy palm draped over the gear shift, and the blunt edge of his nails skimming your tights when he clicked the stick into a lower slot, dragging it along your leg. The armrests were raised, and they too touched at the base. It was no surprise when his long hair swept your clothed shoulder as he twisted around to look out the back window and put the car in reverse, avoiding the Buckley’s dented mailbox, and lurching you against the seatbelt.

The lyrics peaked in sultry aggression.

So, no Adrie. “Am I meeting your uncle, then?” Oh, how your question was thin against the strong note the singer held. His wavering timbre penetrated you in waves, releasing a ripple of tingles from head to toe. Creating a change in the tension existing between you and Eddie when he answered in a deeper register.

“No, he’s uh, he’s gone for the weekend,” he said, drumming his rings on the steering wheel, squeezing his fingers over the gear stick to shift it into drive. “Out playing poker with his friends. So, uh, it’s just you and me. S’that cool?”

So, no Adrie, and no uncle.

“Yeah—Yeah, that’s cool,” you replied. Whereas his voice went lower, yours went higher at the acknowledgement. Fainter, wispier. Fluttery with the nerves in your stomach. Restless like butterfly wings beating on gusts at the explicit implication matching the subject matter pumping through the speakers.

Tonight was your first real date with Eddie, in his trailer, alone.

Soon, the dense thicket of rural Hawkins was replaced by houses and population; gone were the fields of deer, and approaching in a blur were stout brick buildings, and stop lights swinging in the slight breeze.

He slowed at the intersection where Family Video’s neon sign struck red over the black pavement, and stopped. Eddie, being an opportunist, saw the boring wait for the light to turn green as fortuitous. It granted him the ability to gaze upon you as he wished, ready to take you in after your rushed greeting. You had robbed him of the movie-esque scene where he’d walk up to your door, knock three times, greet you with a stunning grin and compliment you until you were giggling and swooning in his arms. It was only fair he drank you in now, in the low liquid blue of the early night.

Beyond bewitched, he didn't register how methodically he traced his eyes over your body; devouring details the generous neckline of your cardigan allowed him, reaching the narrow channel of shadow where your bra assisted your chest, and the small gaps the tiny pink flowers woven into the yarn created in the chain loops, gifting him a charitable preview of the delicate lavender beneath. Appreciating how below that, your skirt wrapped your legs snugger than his arms had ever been privileged, and your tights graced skin he’d never felt. Perhaps he even lingered on the strap of your Mary Janes draped around your ankle, wondering if he’d be lucky enough to circle his fingers there one day, too.

Flattery raced your heart. You’d never been the subject of someone’s study to this degree, as if you were artwork to be admired. Not from any of the dates you’d been on, anyway. Not in a meaningful way, consumed wholly by someone you considered a close friend. And not while a man sang about vulgar acts in a gorgeous way.

Eddie remembered to breathe when green flashed in his periphery, and his gaze evened the playing field when he caught you dedicating entire prayers to the indecent crease at his hip and inner thigh where he rested his large palm.

“Baby, you’re beautiful,” he exhaled.

Not you look beautiful. You are beautiful.

Meeting him head-on, you smiled. “I don’t have the lexicon to describe you.” His expression faltered to a confused pinch between his brows, and you reassured him, “Handsome isn’t good enough anymore. Never was. No words are. They need to invent new ones.”

Leaning in, he scrunched his nose, and teased, “You can just call me hot.” Which would’ve been a decent line; imposing himself so near his words caressed the gloss on your lips, and finishing the hard plosive—Hot—with the bite of his charismatic wolfish grin. But the aggravated honks killed the mood.

Two cars behind him laid on their horns, and he was startled into the reality of holding up traffic. You openly laughed at his change in demeanor, at how he scrambled to get the car going before they got angry again, all flustered and stomping too hard on the gas, sending you both slamming backwards in your seats.

“Yeah, real hot stuff you got goin’ on,” you teased in return.

He stuck his tongue out in concentration as he checked the rearview mirror, speeding to put distance between him and the other cars. Dangerously, he slid his gaze to you once more, prioritizing you over the road. “Are you really gonna deny I'm the hottest guy you’ve ever met? Even with all your city boys, actors, and freaks who’ve been on bigger stages than me? Guys who took you to fancy sit-down restaurants in a suit and tie? Men who drone on about finances because they chose a viable career not covered in grease? Are they really hotter than me?”

His tone was flat, and his face neutral, cracking a cavern of curiosity wide within you.

Your instinct was to treat the insecurity as genuine, but the moment you opened your mouth to restore his confidence, he smirked.

“Just kidding, baby,” he broke the act. “I know I’m the favorite.”

Glowing with confidence, he took his hand off the gear shift to jab at your ribs, but he underestimated how thick the crochet was. Instead of tickling you, it was more of a soothing stroke along your side. And he didn’t stop. He kept up the intimate gesture, brushing the fabric with his curled index finger three times. Giggling, himself, at nothing other than his own thoughts.

Gone was the swell of empathy clogging your throat. “My favorite idiot,” you corrected in an exasperated mumble, yet leaning into the shy affection.

The cassette played static, then began a new song. Angsty still, but not quite as on the nose as the last. This, along with another dig at each other, eased the pressure preventing you two from relaxing into the evening. The awareness revealing itself in nervous glances and dry swallows digressed into your normal dynamic as friends with the benefit of flirty innocence without the stress of expectations. Those motives could stay locked between your clenched thighs, and aching against his jean’s zipper. Tonight was the first foray into real time together, and if you watched movies and it ended there with no moves made, or romantic elements explored, then so be it. There wouldn't be any unnecessary impatience, or snap decisions made to cross those final platonic boundaries if one of you chickened out. This date would be perfect, regardless.

Right?

You could endure another day of him acting confident in front of others, only for him to buckle under the pressure and pussy out before kissing you, right?

..Right?

Whatever. The night was young, and oh, how Eddie’s giddiness for spending time with you emerged. The instant he arrived at the trailer, he jammed his thumb into the seat belt latch and commanded you to stay put. Naturally, this didn’t go without a snort from you, but it escalated to true laughter when he stumbled out of the car, and sprinted around the front in a flustered jangle of chains beating on jeans, only to play it off as cool once he reached your side and opened your door for you. “You’re silly,” you commented. His chest rose with a panting breath, and his lips jumped into a playful smirk at his own oddities. He stepped back, and swept his arm in a classic bow.

The friction burn from the seat belt slipping through your grip was balmed by the chilled leather beneath your fingers when he offered his elbow to you. You set your heeled shoes on the uneven ground, and wobbled on the deep tire tracks scoring the dried mud, and again, he was twisting this way and that, trying to figure out the best gentlemanly way to help you balance. Not that his brave palm on the small of your back wasn’t warranted in the treacherous battle of shadows in the underripe evening, but even you couldn’t stop your snicker when he, too, met you with a side-ways glance.

“Nervous?” you asked, bringing attention to the situation for what it was.

“Me? Nervous?” He arched his eyebrows up, then brought them into a swift furrow. “Nah, never. I’m just making sure my girl doesn’t twist her ankle before I get to cook for her on our second date,” he ended with a suggestive tone, canting his head to yours. Foreheads near.

Ah, the buzzing of springtime bees was trembling your fingers again, gripping him when the hive in your stomach fed honey to your hungry heart, pumping, pumping a sugar rush.

Acknowledgements. His girl. Cooking. Second date.

He was sweet. And you were trapped in the sticky nectar thrumming in your veins. It was a futile effort, after all, to convince yourself you two could act as normal friends do around each other. Truly, you lost that war when you inclined your head to his, and divulged in the same grin he wore.

“Cook for me?” you repeated in a voice of ambrosia, which he partook.

“Mhmm,” he hummed amongst the drone of television programs filtered through bug screened windows. “I wanna watch movies with you, cook you somethin’ nice, and remind you that I’m not the guy I was at the movie theater—” He flinched at the last part, accepting your weak slap to his chest. Pleased with himself for finally swooning you, he trained his gaze on your giggly sway, and squinched his eyes with mirth.

“Eddie, I’m well aware you’re not that guy.”

“Oh?” he lilted. “But aren’t I? Still got the outdated haircut, stick in the mud attitude, and leather jacket.”

You slipped a finger beneath the jacket, and poked at the macabre skull on his tee. “Got a different shirt, though. Last time you were wearing a rattlesnake, now it’s..?”

“Metallica,” he finished. A softer expression deepend his dimple. There may have been a particular meaning behind it you were missing, but he didn’t share. “Good memory, but may I also bring to your attention that it’s fucking freezing out here?”

Overcome by a shiver, you retracted your prodding, and he removed his hand from your lower back. The warmth was sorely missed. You agreed, it was fucking freezing and pantyhose were not a replacement for snow pants.

Eddie jostled the keys from his pocket and unlocked the front door for you to enter first, trailing behind you with a welcome to his humble abode, as if you hadn’t been there several times before. But you supposed the circumstances were different when he showed you in, and a certain coziness defrosted your cheeks. The trailer was lit by a singular lamp in the living room and the nightlight from the bathroom. An electric radiator generated heat near the armrest where his pillow stayed, and at the other end of the couch was a messy pile of blankets in varying textures and thickness. A stack of three VHSes sat on the coffee table near a collection of never-used cork coasters. In the kitchen, a spread of groceries occupied the counter, along with a page from a magazine, but Eddie stole your attention before you could puzzle together the ingredients he laid out.

“So, which one do you wanna start with first?” Eddie asked, drawing your gaze to the VHSes fanned in his palms, fingers stretched wide to contain the movies.

Subtly, he wiggled the one on the end. The green HORROR sticker on the cover appeared new; unblemished, without creases or dirt. You recognized the drippy blood stylized title as the same one printed in the local newspaper warning mothers of its gore and perversions. Less subtly, he darted his eyes to it, and made encouraging noises while presenting it closer to you. It's not like you cared what order you watched his surprise selection in, so you went with the new release he was most eager for, as opposed to the other schlocky B movies.

“Sweet!”

Adorably, he told you to make yourself at home, and you both found yourselves bumping into each other in the entryway. You bent to unbuckle your shoes, and he shrugged off his jacket. Maybe you swung your knee into his shin, and he flopped the leather sleeve atop your head in retaliation. And when you stood, he jabbed his elbow into your arm before kneeling to untie his boots, and you picked a long, curly auburn hair off your sweater, holding it out and away from you as if it were revolting. “Is this what it’s like living with you?” you asked with an excessive amount of mock disgust.

“‘Fraid so,” he consoled, looking up at you as he worked the knot out of his laces. “At least—until I go bald.”

You tilted your head as you tried to picture him without his wild haircut, and after some consideration (and curious fingers kept laced tight to discipline yourself from running them through his curls to test the tamability of such rowdy layers cut without rhyme or reason), you concluded, “I think you’d still be the most attractive person I’ve ever met.”

His expression widened at your honesty. Pushing himself upright, he rocked side to side as he toed off his boots, and stepped beyond them, narrowing the distance between his ego and your lifted eyebrow. “Most attractive? Yeah?”

Before his head swelled to hot air balloon status from a compliment he pried out of you, you stopped him.

“Bald or not, you’re still Eddie,” you expressed. “And that’s what I like about you the most; your Eddieness. Regardless of your hair, you’re still that guy that’s willing to trip over his own feet so he can open a door for me.. and cook for me, apparently.”

You drove your gaze to the ingredients on the counter, but he distracted you from venturing into that part of the date.

“Uh-uh-uh,” he tsked. “Movie first, then dinner. I’ve been wanting to see this one, so make yourself comfortable. Get some blankets too, I know the radiator sucks.” The warmth it gave off rarely brought circulation to his toes when he was sleeping, much less kept him from shivering on the windy nights. “Lemme get us something to drink, and I’ll put on the movie.” He chose to fill two bright red plastic glasses with water and bring them to the coffee table. They were the type of textured cup one would find at a pizzeria, and he set them directly on the wood, because why bother with coasters when most of the varnish had been worn away over the years.

Water itself shouldn’t be a surprise, but the fact he chose it over beer stood out.

Interesting. You made yourself snuggly as instructed, and sat in the middle of the couch where two cushions met. Amongst the pile, you picked the thick blue and white striped comforter, and draped it over your not-quite-numb legs. He crouched in front of the TV, and popped open the VHS case, brushing his calluses over the frosted plastic cover, and shut the case with a satisfying snap. Lining the movie up with the VCR slot, he pushed on the flap, and it was accepted into the mouth of the machine—kuh-chunk, slide, whirring reels, a fuzzy high-pitched noise—staticy snow played, then the first commercial started, flickering a woman’s face mid-scream across the screen.

Eddie turned off the lamp, and in the sudden darkness, he slid his socked feet in timid steps across the carpet to avoid a pinky toe colliding with the coffee table, and he fell into place next to you.

The cushions sank with your combined weight. The seams separating you clashed. Hip, thigh, shoulder. Layers of clothing blazed from the heat of his proximity, setting fire to your cheeks. You weren’t touching, not really, not yet, and you both stared at each other with lips slightly parted.

Your voice went unnaturally airy as you offered him the blanket, “Want some?”

And his voice was lost to the sensation of his bare arm making contact with your sweater.

He nodded.

Predictable for the genre, the next commercial advertised a pair of tits before the camera cut away, and the woman was assumed to be brutally stabbed by a masked serial killer.

He shifted. You shifted.

The comforter slid across your lap. He stole the warm pocket of air you were generating for yourself, and replaced it with the cold half of the blanket. It may have been an innocent movement, but him yanking it caused you to press against him more than you already were. His arm went rigid with tensed muscles the further you sloped into the crevice where the cushions met, stiffening against your soft body like a brick wall you had no choice but to lean on. You tried to help the situation by breaking the silence between the next commercial.

“Do you want to know another Eddieness I find endearing?”

During the first part of your sentence he didn’t react. He watched the TV; jaw tight but not clenched; it was only on the last word did he turn his head, and set those big eyes of his on you.

You went ahead and answered, “It’s how shy you are.”

The hint of a deeper emotion eased from his gaze when he closed his eyes in a slow blink, and raised his brows, processing what you said. “’M not shy.” His smile grew at that, stretching half his mouth in shadow, making his nose appear larger, rounder.

“And awkward.”

“I’m not awkward,” he complained, tone soft and playful.

Lit by the soft grain of the movie starting on a scene of a young boy running inside pitch-black house, Eddie’s eyelashes clung to the remnants of light, curling longer, and longer. His lips lifted at the corners, testing a sneakier grin at the idea of you finding him both shy, and awkward. Words he hadn’t heard in years. Descriptors he would’ve called himself when he was still in high school and dipping his toe in the dating pool, but not since then. Not since he dabbled in liquid courage at parties and gained some experience from the confidence alcohol afforded him.. and lost when he discovered the consequences of acting impulsively, and his casual assuredness was ripped from him when his daughter was born.

Or, yeah, maybe he was always shy and awkward as you presumed, he just didn’t care about people’s opinions when he wasn’t invested in starting a future with them. Which was fine by him, you could call him dorky if you wanted, because here he was in the midst of a boyish rush of adrenaline when the lack of stressful music coming from the TV became ominous, and the excitement of his plan working vibrated in his chest.

“Oh! And you’re—” Whatever adjective you were about to use was bitten short.

Paying more attention to him than the movie, you missed the build up of the masked killer’s reflection in a mirror, and were caught off guard by the boy’s sudden blood curdling scream trilling above the heart-racing violin screeches. It wasn’t even a good jumpscare—totally predictable—but you still jolted from it.

Eddie lurched into a devious smirk. “Movie getcha, pretty girl?”

It was your turn to be defensive. You pouted, “No. It just surprised me, is all.”

“Aw, come on,” he implored in a gravelly urge. Under the thinning comforter, between the mountains of compacted cotton from overwashing it, there was movement, and the unmistakable contact of the back of his hand on your nylon tights. He bumped you once. “Here, if it’s that scary, you can hold my hand, okay?”

As snarky as his teeth glinted, as teasing as his words were, both of your chests rose with a mutual suspended breath.

This was the line. The barrier. The emotional boundaries were dust, only the physical ones remained. He invited you over them as gingerly as a grown adult man could when on his first true date in years, and the fresh fear of making a move on his crush spiked his rejective-sensitive nerves.

“Yeah, you’re right,” you exhaled. Holding his gaze with the same fondness which existed in your heart, you found the edge of his hand after some sightless venturing. At the graze of skin on skin, you dropped your head to the side, and appealed to him, “It’s so scary.” Across the room, the TV played a calm, serene daytime scene with birds chirping in the background. “So terribly scary,” you repeated, facetiously pitiful. “There’s no way I’ll get through to the end all on my lonesome.”

But rather than hold hands perfectly between the both of you like the pious churchgoing teenagers you’d felt yourselves become, you went in for the kill.

Drawing back, you wedged your fingers between his arm and his ribs, and after a beat, he understood and lifted his elbow. You snaked your hand along his forearm, and down to his awaiting palm. His jeans were rough; his palm was too, torn asunder by his trade to ensure a roof over his and his family’s head, but the spaces between were softer. Love gentled the joints digging into your bones. Your fingers had to stretch to accommodate him, and the wintery dryness pulled at your unlotioned knuckles, but the twinge was forgotten when you focused on your hand in his hand. Your hand in his hand. Your hand in his hand.

You dragged your attention away from the entanglement of your selves finding a missing half under the blanket, and searched his face. His eyes flicked from the same knot stirring under the comforter, and the wrinkles in his expression flourished. He thinned his lips into a tight smile. His cheeks were never that full, but there was a roundness there you’d give anything to discover by touch. You’d been closer to him before, like in the kitchen when you counted his freckles after your painfully geeky dagger innuendo, but if you leaned in any further, your vision would blur.

An obvious awkwardness dwelled in the intimacy of your entwined arms, and tensed bodies.

“So, so scary,” you promised during the exposition dialogue taking place on a sunny morning between the characters eating cornflakes at a large dining table. “I’ll probably have to cling onto you the entire time with my eyes shut.”

His voice cracked high pitched, “Yeah?” Feathery soft, on the verge of disappearing altogether. “Guess I’ll have to be the brave one, then.”

“So very brave,” you said, sweet as sugar.

He snorted whereas you giggled, converging with heads together, and a laugh shared, hands held so very bravely. A breakthrough. One second at a time, you melded into his shadows, as you belonged. You angled yourself toward him and tucked your legs onto the couch, freely huddling your knees against his thigh. Your joined hands were nudged onto his leg more, and the clasp became sticky from perspiration. That was okay. There was a thrill in being the reason each other sweated. He curled in his fingers harder, nesting them between the peaks of your knuckles, and you returned the honor by hooking your fingers between his, lightly squeezing him back. One second at a time, he sought your sunshine, as he belonged. He made sure the pressure of his arm and elbow boxing yours in against his side wasn’t painful, slouching a bit so the top of his leather belt wasn’t digging into your forearm. He was thoughtful that way. Concerned for you and your comfort. Didn’t matter if his lower back would be killing him by the end of the first movie, you were wrapping your free hand around his bicep and rubbing your thumb under the short sleeve of his shirt, back and forth. Back and forth. Then, you were resting the side of your head on his shoulder.

He heard you—felt you—inhale deep. Why? Was it to fill your lungs with the scent of his deodorant, the cheap cologne he spritzed at his chest, the drip of Old Spice aftershave on his shirt collar? Was any of that better than oxygen?

Curious, he tilted his head as if something in the movie had him stumped, and he put his nose to the top of your hair, and took a small breath.

A different shampoo than usual hit him first, but below that, clinging to your clothes, was the smell of Robin’s home. He was struck with the thought of what his home smelled like. Was it good? Bad? Could, over time, over months, over difficult questions he couldn’t bring himself to ask, could maybe by the end of summer your two homes combine to make one unique scent?

That would be the dream. And a dream, it may remain. But what a lovely reality it would be; you staying, and your scents mixing to create a new one.

So lost in his thoughts, he didn’t predict the fake-out jumpscare of a murder of crows taking flight after an eerie bout of silence, and he was the one to flinch.

“Aw, movie too scary for ya, big guy?” you cooed.

Eddie sealed his lips in a frown, and tucked his chin to create the maximum amount of wrinkles when he looked down at you. “Maybe a little. Good thing I have you here with me, though. Right?”

You nodded most ardently, squishing your cheek over his scorpion tattoo—just another place on his body you made your home—and grinned up at him.

“Of course, babe.” You called him babe. He smiled so fucking hard. “I’m here if you ever need me to hold your hand.”

You squeezed.

He squeezed back.

Scenes went by on the tiny TV across the room beyond the condensation pebbling on the plastic cups threatening to fall on the coffee table where Adrie’s box of crayons spilt into her coloring book. A story unfolded in the flash of blade, a clatter of piano keys, and a quiet neighborhood who knew no better. The movie played, but neither of you paid attention.

Your gaze was keen to the way his lips stayed parted after he licked them. His gaze was invested in your expression, how you viewed him with such kindness he was seldom shown. A tenderness he was rarely given. He tried to show you the same sincerity, but your eyes were fixated on his mouth.

Self-conscious, he asked, “Is there something on my—?” He rubbed the back of his wrist over lips.

You answered him with a belittling pat on his chest. “No, big guy. You’re good.”

Your tone didn’t sound ‘good,’ but you pulled the blanket up to your chin, and laid your head on his shoulder again, wrapping your other hand around his bicep until your fingers were stuffed between his arm and side. He interpreted your change in mood as a signal the conversation was over, and put his eyes on the movie. Though, his brain was busy toiling over why you were staring at him, and wondering if the pats on his chest were still echoing beneath your ear, or if it was simply his heart threatening to strangle him from the angst of not understanding if he did something wrong already.

At least he was holding your hand like a real boyfriend would. That had to count for something.. Right?

~~~

The credits rolled, and neither of you moved until you pointed out a name scrolling by, and a laugh so akin to a man being punched in the gut wheezed out of him, it caused you to erupt into your own embarrassing goose honk laugh, causing you to both double over in a fit.

Somehow, his nose was nuzzled to your hair. His inhale was cool on your scalp, and his words were a humid huff. “Bart Horsedick,” he said, “Whatta name.”

“You should name a character after him in DND.”

“Mm! You know what? I will. He’ll be a local legend with all the ladies, and tries to charm his way into the party by constantly making passes at the girls. Erica will kill him for sure.”

With a groan and a wince, he sat up straighter, and you lifted your head off his shoulder, making similar complaints about your neck. It was tough work being brave during the scary parts for each other, regardless if neither of you were paying enough attention to care about the reveals.

He asked, “How’d you like the movie? Even that last scene kinda got me.”

“Yeah, it was good,” you answered in the same tone, searching for anything to say that wasn’t, If you don’t kiss I’m going to fucking scream. “I wasn’t expecting the second killer to be the news reporter. That was kinda cool. And that final death was super gory, with the guts ‘nd all, but uh, I’m starving, and ready for something campy.”

Heeding his lady’s request, Eddie dashed around the room, turning on a few of the eclectic lamps, and jabbed the backwards arrow button on the VCR until the movie was playing in reverse at a hilarious speed. “Be kind, rewind, y’know.” Once it clicked, he took the tape out, and put the next one in.

You followed him into the kitchen where the groceries were laid out on the counter. Some were things he already had, like the half-empty bottle of olive oil, and two government supplied cans of vegetable stock, but from the fridge he added an unopened tub of butter, a container of mushrooms, and a wedge of parmesan cheese. He put them beside the onion, fresh sprigs of parsley, and special bag of rice. Ingredients he bought specifically for a meal he didn’t know how to make, but knew it was impressive, and wanted to try cooking it for you.

You picked up the magazine clipping and raised your eyebrows at the recipe.

He fidgeted, spinning his rings. His voice was hesitant; falling back on self-deprecating humor as a crutch, “I know you’ve probably been to France, or, uhh, Italy or whatever,” he guessed, “and’ve learned from experts on how to make it perfectly, but I thought maybe I’d give it an attempt and hope it turns out edible. Just forgive my shit knife skills, and if I pour too much broth, or don’t stir it the exact number of rotations, or some pretentious bullshit like that,” he finished, gaze solidly on the floor, toeing at a scuff on the vinyl to occupy himself. “‘M not exactly a chef outside a can of Boyardee, so..”

Some of his mumbling was lost on you as you read the bottom of the page. Narrowing your eyes at the title printed beside a number in the corner, you put your fist on your hip. “Edward Munson.” He snapped out his worrying at the use of his full name. “Did you rip this out of one of my lobby magazines at work?”

He rolled his lips inward to curb his grin. “No, no, of course not, dear,” he promised, finding it the most opportune moment to turn away, and organize the ingredients in no practical order.

“I swear if I go to work Monday and find Better Homes and Gardens missing page 57—”

“Okay, okay—I’ll tape it back in, but give me some credit, will ya? I didn’t rip it out like some animal.. I cut it out neatly with scissors.” He eyed your harmless smirk, and plucked the mushroom risotto recipe from between your fingers. “Now, if you’d like to get out of my hair, you may,” he said, gesturing at the TV with a knife. “Skedaddle. Go watch the movie.”

“You don’t want me to help? Or at least to keep you company?”

It wasn’t often he was tripped up on what to say, so when his mouth hinged on a mute excuse to get you to leave, you registered what he was going on about earlier, and shook your head.

“Wait, Eddie, I worked in kitchens prepping vegetables when the cooks were too drunk to come in on time because they went home with some random woman from a bar, and were too hungover to know what day it was. That’s why I’m like, okay-ish with a knife. You don’t really think I’d judge you for how you chop an onion, do you?”

A few words were stammered. You shushed him from bothering.

If his confidence had trouble surfacing when everything was out in the open and not hidden under a blanket, then you’d give him another nudge; a single stroke of your knuckle along the monster tattooed on his tricep. The muscle reacted to you, flexing the wyvern’s clawed feet. You did it again. And again. Pinching his sleeve and tugging at it, doing all the cutesy, flirty things you’d learned over the years, including dropping your gaze to his pretty pink lips. Employing your best strategies, you laid it on thick; swaying your hips, and bringing in your arms to frame your chest. “You could heat me up a can of Chef Boyardee, and it’d be the best meal I’ve ever had, as long as I got to share it with you.”

Shy, shy, shy. He brought his shoulder up and ducked his face from your view, giggling at your heavy adulation. “You don’t have to flatter me like that,” he mumbled, sounding not unlike he was wrapped in a ball of lovesick yarn. Overly smitten, ooey gooey with the warm fuzzies in his chest. So very, very adorable, sneaking a glance at you with an unbelieve amount of precious crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

How sweet.

It’d be sweeter if he could take the hint and share those kinds of things with you, but you could be patient and wait until he was ready. Again..

Just.. keep making everything so obvious for him, and try to ignore the sting of rejection when the guy you’ve liked for months finally invites you over for a date, and still won’t kiss you.

At least you were saved from the worst of your downward spiral by the bad B movie and its body melting scene.

“Ooh!” Eddie pushed the cutting board away. “That effect was really cool!”

Since he was already making his way to the TV, you trailed at his heels, and crouched beside him, sinking to your knees while he pressed the rewind button, and clicked Stop/Play twice. The lead up to the moment played again. You sat in anticipation, wholly aware you’d just watched this interaction between the college girls putting their best effort into delivering their lines, only for them to fall flat when their acting was off the charts horrendous. Eddie regarded them with the same sort of awkwardness, rotating his hand in hurried circles until one of them got obliterated into a goopy pile of human remains, and you began to dissect the undulating puddle of sludge.

“How do you think they made that one?” he whispered, mesmerized. “The way it pulses like that?”

“I think it’s from a balloon inflating beneath it. Watch the way the flesh cracks, and the blood oozes out. I think it’s something like that pushing it up from under.”

He hummed, and rewound the tape a few seconds. “Yeah, yeah, I see what you mean,” he said, tapping his finger on the thick curved glass. “And look at that bone. It actually looks like a charred, brittle skeleton instead of those cheap femurs everyone gets at the party store for Halloween.” You also agreed with him in a hum. The extra touches of effort were impressive for a low budget film like this.

The movie continued inches from your eyes. You rested on your calves, flattening the plush carpet under your shins. The harsh fibers were dulled by your pantyhose, and if this was a spot Eddie had to scrub clean after Adrie spilled juice, you weren’t aware of the stain; you were only aware of the hair-raising sensation of being watched.

You directed your attention to Eddie’s pointed stare on the side of your face, about to ask if there was a reason behind his adamant inspection when—

He dropped his gaze to your lips.

Sparks ignited behind your ribcage. Hopefulness latched onto each long second wherein he resisted flicking his eyes back to the screen. Each passing breath a choice to follow the gentle curve of your mouth, and stay there to revel in the simple pleasure of studying the unspoken language evolving between you two, sinking into his own warm grin for you to decipher. He was still crouching on the balls of his feet, and you had to wonder if he leaned over to kiss you now, would he lose his balance and cause you both to fall to the floor? Would he catch the back of your head in his palm to soften the crash? Would his hips fit perfectly between your legs? Would his jeans drag along your inner thighs? Would he whimper when you held him? Would he grind down on you at the first sign of reciprocation? Would he already be hard?

Your thigh muscles ached at the racing thoughts, clenched so tight in response to the needy throb between them.

Was the unspoken language shouting now?

Eddie’s throat bobbed on a stuttered exhale; his chest shook at fractions of his inhale, as if he was experiencing the same tightness there from the rosy desire blooming so greatly, struggling to cope with the oxygen in his lungs when there were far sweeter things they’d rather be filled with. “I—” He stopped. “I read a review on the back of the box that said this movie was scary too,” he informed you in whisper, right when a godawful green alien appeared and shot the worst CGI laser you’d ever seen from your peripheral vision. “Better hang out with me in the kitchen, where we can keep each other safe.”

You urged your yearning away from his mouth to the neon colors of a spaceship glancing off his cheeks, to his large nose, to the tips of his bangs skimming his eyebrows, to the bags under his eyes, and finally, you caught the last moments of him roaming your features with utmost care before your gazes locked.

The floor beneath him creaked.

Briefly, you considered closing your eyes.

The carpet flattened in a muffled rustle.

Briefly, you considered uttering his name.

The dry air in the room vanished with his humid huff coasting over your forehead.

Briefly, you considered begging him when he pushed off his knees, stumbled slightly towards you, and stood, offering you a helping hand.

He said, “Gotta make this dinner for you before I starve, sweetness.”

Kissless, you fought against your inner bitterness, and accepted his fingers. To hide your wilting resilience, you put a swing of vigor in your voice, and happiness on your face. “Yeah, watching hot blondes perish into goo really makes one hunger for sloppy rice with mushrooms.”

Well, at least you could always make him laugh.

~~~

Onion skin crunched under Eddie’s heavy chop. The papery layer was discarded. Laying the halves on the textured cutting board, he dragged the knife in long slices out from the root, then rotated to dice it into cubes. He blinked away fresh tears, and beside him, you scraped the sweated mushrooms into a bowl, and placed the pan back on the burner for him to sweep his prepped vegetables into. They sizzled on impact. You stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon, and made sure nothing seared to the bottom.

Steam rose from the bowl of cooked mushrooms. Slippery oil slicked their surface, adding to the smells of onion and garlic. Condensation fogged the tiny window above the sink. The rice began to toast. A burnt popcorny, yet pleasantly floral fragrance mixed with the sour note of cheap white wine bubbling down to nothing, and salty splashes of broth.

Mostly, the continuous stirring was done passively because you were both watching the movie from across the room. When it was your turn at the stove, you grasped the skillet handle and moved the spoon around in some sort of pattern, but your upper body was twisted towards the TV. When it was his turn, you took his place at the wrap around counter, bending over to rest your forearms on it, savoring his body heat baked into the surface under your palms before it faded and was replaced by your own.

The last VHS was inserted. No commercials on this older tape.

You grated the last of the cheese into the rice, and tipped in the mushrooms. Behind you, there were two metallic latch sounds followed by two loud bangs. Eddie sucked in a hiss, and apologized. You were too busy portioning out the risotto to see what in the world he was doing, but the sharp clicks of his lighter were distinct, as was the notch turns of the unnecessary lamps being turned off, casting you in dimmed ambiance.

Garnishing the meal with parsley, you scooped up the bowls and turned.

“Ta-da,” he said meekly, opening up his arms with weak pizazz.

You were stunned at the effort.

The collapsable ends of the green table hung by their hinges, making the surface area impossibly intimate. On top, there were three lit candlesticks to set the mood, and underneath, the seats of the chairs almost touched. The whole thing was incredibly sweet. Thoughtful. Endearing. He had trouble meeting your eye.

Eddie glanced at the unscented candles burning bright for practicality’s sake. The first wet drip of wax joined the others melted down the side since the last time he used them when the power went out. Not exactly romantic. “Has, uhm, anyone made you risotto before?” he asked, and tacked on, “At home?” when the fear of not being the first smacked the words out of him.

“No,” you stated. “No one's ever done something so sweet for me.”

His lower lip twitched, and he ran his tongue over his teeth to quell the giddiness from exploding. And to stop himself from celebrating too soon.

As you carried the bowls towards his attempt to recreate a fine dining experience, he tried to push aside the thoughts of inadequacy—the candles, the fact he couldn’t take you to a real restaurant, the flowers he decided against because he no longer had a vase, the nagging voices in his head that told him this whole idea was stupid—and instead, he focused on anything else. Anything, anything else.

“Here, lemme help you, sweet—Ow, ow, ow, ow—Jesus, do you have hands of steel or somethin’?” The candles wobbled when he dropped the bowl on the table, and you both froze as they teetered back and forth, praying your second date didn’t go up in literal flames.

When they came to a rest, you both sighed.

“Hands of steel, huh?” you mused. “I think they feel kinda soft compared to yours.”

Quickfire, he picked up on the age-old flirt you used on him months ago (back when he was dumb, and genuinely thought he was the one flirting with you by suggesting you come back to him when you found a spider as big as his palm), and he concurred, “Maybe we need to compare them again. Y’know, really get in there and make sure I have the toughest hands in the Midwest.” Adopting a southern drawl, he stuffed his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans, and puffed out his chest. “Can’t let a lil’ lady who answers phones with ‘Yellow?’ have stronger hands than me, now can we?”

You pinged him with a wry expression twinged with cringe, and sat down, scooting your chair in, and looking up at him still standing. “You are so pitifully dorky.”

“I sure am, sweetheart,” he said proudly, falling into the chair across from you.

Your knees collided under the table; bone on bone due to his inability to wear jeans without holes in them. They knocked painfully, and while he did remember to apologize when you winced, he was distracted by the silly notion that his bare knees were the second body part to make contact with your tights. The back of his hand during the movie didn’t lend much to his senses, now he had a better feel of the texture, and how it rubbed against his skin. A strangely marvelous thing. And he was getting ahead of himself, sure, but he wondered how your tights must feel under the same rugged palm he was offering to you upturned on the table while below, his thoughts were erring away from respectful visions of circling his thumb over your knee cap while you were stretched across the couch with your legs in his lap, to something he felt unworthy to ask for.

Oh, but how he ached to be the one who was trusted to keep you warm when you were undressed..

Your chair squeaked. You changed the position to where your legs were bracketed by his wide spread. Perfect, because he brought in his stance and crossed his ankles behind yours, locking your thighs and calves between his, as if you were his possession, unable to escape. Indulging him, you giggled, and squirmed to the edge of your seat, taking his hand. His right, your left. A polite union of criss-crossed fingers. Mountainous calluses mapped against rolling hills of satin. Flickering candlelight dancing off the silver band of his ring. Kind, and sweet.

He gripped his spoon in an unnatural way, dragging it through the risotto, and bumping the ceramic.

“I can hold your other hand,” you offered, motioning at where you could link his non-dominant hand in the space between your bowls.

His voice was made of mushy tenderness, but his clipped tone left no room for argument, “Nah, I like it this way.” If you didn’t understand why yet, you did when you traced his gaze to his wrist. The beads had shifted from where they dug into his flesh. Squares from the blocky letters left indents in his skin, as did the corners of star beads interspersed throughout the round ones. Opposite D-A-D-D-Y, your sleeve was bunched up from cooking, baring the precious nickname M-O-U-S-E.

Your eyelids fell half-closed. The fondness on your lips wasn’t a result of the risotto—as delicious as the first bite was—no, the sentiment was much too darling. Almost as if you could hear the dormant vocabulary you awoke running hot in his veins. My girl, my girl, my girl is wearing the matching bracelet my daughter made for us, and I’ve never wanted anything more than another excuse to call you my girl out loud; I want it so bad I could cry.

“You did such a good job on this,” you complimented the risotto after taking another bite.

Fate. “It only tastes good because I had my girl’s help.” Under no circumstance was he about to make eye contact after saying that. In fact, he avoided sound altogether when he angled his spoon so he wouldn’t scrape it along his teeth a second time, and blew on the porridge-like rice before sliding the richness over his tongue, alighting his mouth with mellowed complexities for such unassuming ingredients. As he ate, he listened to you eat too. As he glanced, you glanced too. As he embellished his grin with a secret, you snuck in one of your own through the mysterious sharpness in your eyes boring into his too. He didn’t question it, didn’t breathe, didn’t make a sound above the panicked yelling happening in the movie in the other room; for now, he was content with holding your hand and calling you his girl.

The pressure to continue conversation waned.

He squeezed.

You squeezed back.

~~~

Dinner was finished in cherished bites. The movie was in the process of concluding, as most of the cast had been killed off by the time Eddie uncrossed his ankles and released you. He blew out the candles and stood, already regretting the act when the imprint of your body faded from his between his legs.

While he filled the sink with soapy water, you put away the forgotten ingredients, and wiped up the counter with a wet rag in absentminded circles, thoroughly invested in the slasher’s “forest chase scene” probably filmed in someone’s mom’s backyard.

Once the frothy bubbles sloshed to the rim with each dish put in, and the clammy air was brightened by the scent of blue Dawn liquid soap, Eddie rolled the stretchy bracelet up his forearm and began dunking the glass cup used for measuring the broth. He ran his hand around the inside to rid it of the gritty residue left behind. Dipping the thin washcloth, he submerged his hands up to his wrists in skin prickling hot water, and brought the cup out, exposing his chafed knuckles to the sting of cold air. He washed it, rinsed it under even colder water, and handed it off to you. You toweled it dry, and put it in the cupboard next to the fridge.

Over and over, he washed, you dried. He washed, you dried.

Routine, monotonous, robotic and quiet.

Outer input died away. No more movie, no more hot water, no more spoken conversation, no more meaningful glances, nor more intimate nicknames, no more inappropriate touches stolen under the guise of a drunken night. Just his thoughts, insecurities, anxieties, and hopes and the instant foreboding stress wrenching his stomach with fear of those hopes never coming true.

The air was thick with awareness.

You were in his home. The date was coming to an end, and so was his bravery. This was his chance, and he was letting it slip by him. Again.

He’d run out of excuses. Or rather, he reasoned with the excuses, and now he was facing the real problem. All the stuff from months ago about him not knowing if you liked him, your flighty lifestyle, the dynamic of being coworkers and worrying if it’d make things weird, the conversation he never had with Adrie; forgoing divulging his hobbies, his music, or his past with you because he didn’t see the point; those things he conquered. Those things no longer bothered him. Those things had answers putting them to rest.

Now, there was nothing keeping him from pursuing you except his own inhibitions..

Sad, how even when he had the courage to get this far with you, the differences in your lives served as a reminder he was just a poor boy from Indiana whose greatest aspiration was owning a trailer of his own so his uncle could have his room back. You had a drama degree—hell, you went to college in the first place. You had real dreams, and achieved semblances of those dreams before coming to Hawkins. A star as bright as you shouldn’t have to peter out in a town in the middle of nowhere. You needed the city to thrive, to perform on stage again. It was your calling, wasn’t it? Munson wasn’t calling you like your previous life, was it? You spoke of your accomplishments so highly. Would you ever learn to speak of him that way? Would he, one day, become one of your stories? A memory you moved on from?

Or did he deserve to ask you to give up everything you loved and earned to settle down in a dead-end shithole that hated him, and help him raise a child that wasn’t yours, tying yourself to his reputation forever?

What if he asked those things of you? Would you say ‘yes’?

Shit.

While the sea of doubt churned in his head, he rinsed off the ceramic bowl you used to eat from, and blinked the sting from his eyes after staring off into space for too long. He waited to hand it to you until you had put a pan away in the lower cabinet under the wrap-around counter, and accepted the bowl, drying it off and ping-ponging to the other side of the kitchen to the upper cabinet above the toaster. You didn’t have to guess. You knew exactly where it went. You were familiar with the precise drawer the spatula went in, next to the cutlery one where you tossed in the spoons. There was a beautiful domesticity to it all; washing dishes with you as if it were a nightly occurrence. Like you lived here. Together. You, him, Adrie, and his uncle—preferably not in that arrangement, and not in this trailer, but the vision.. the vision was there. You and him rejecting the bullshit small town mentality, and creating a life in Hawkins you could both be proud of, free from strife. A do-over, in a way, with you at his side, and his daughter on your hip.

The pit of self-loathing in his stomach yawned.

Those idyllic fantasies were too much to ask for. Too much to even risk speaking out loud. He could feel the rejection welling up behind his eyes as it were, wobbling at his bottom lip. The crushing reality of being a lonely single dad with nothing to offer—

You slammed the cabinet door shut, and tossed the towel aside. “So, are we gonna pick up where that phone call left off, or not?”

Eddie stilled under your loaded stare.

You remembered you remembered you remembered—

“If you adore me so much..” you added.

Jolted into action, the last dish slipped from his fingers, splashing and bouncing sluggishly off the bottom of the sink. Adrenaline hit him in droves. Frantic stings of want pushed him forward. Chores were forgotten. Mind blank. The soft thuds of his stride thundered off the thin walls. Pace quickened. Pulse beating in his throat. Vice grip on his heart. Months, weeks, days, hours of keeping his starvation alive through longing looks and inside jokes and hands brushing hands in fragile innocence, denying the vital comfort he craved to experience with the one person who made him feel special; the yearning reached its peak.

Predatory hunger rushed color to his cheeks at the remarkable sight of his dearest dream going slack with surprise.

He secured his fate with his arm wrapped around your waist, sweeping his hand upwards and dragging your cardigan with it. Water dripped to his elbows, cooling the wicked fever igniting his skin. He poured his strength into bringing you into him at the same time he stepped into you, forcing you back, back, back until the distance keeping you apart was eliminated, caging you where you gave him his final nudge beyond the brink of composure. His hips coaxed you side to side. His legs boxed you in where he commanded. Each motion pressed his strong, needy body to yours, driving the edge of the countertop into your lower back. Sway by sway, a dance of insurmountable patience built over months met its breaking point. You went pliant for him. No fight, only a small noise when he engulfed you in his aggressive embrace.

You gathered the hem of his shirt in your weak fists. His sudden leap over the platonic line broke goosebumps across your exposed midriff, tightening your nipples against the delicate lavender lace. The tremble in your knees was juxtaposed by his steady hand tilting your face up to his.

Sudsy bubbles burst on the peach fuzz beneath your ear from where he cupped your jaw. Droplets trickled to the base of your neck, curving over your breasts, and beading on the surface of your cardigan. He swept his fingers in an untamed stroke over your cheek. He tested a deeper angle, fitting his broad grasp to your chin and compelling you to lean in with the heel of his palm guiding you, drawing you forward, supporting the pout of your bottom lip with the base of his thumb.

His nose whistled when he took a shallow breath. The wet, soapy trails left in his hand’s wake went cold against his sigh coasting over your skin. Again, he tried another breath. Deeper; initiating the unadulterated intimacy of his stomach filling out and pushing against yours. More. The great expanse of his shoulders squared with confidence, and his muscles braced under your tender exploration. Your weak grip left his waist to climb up the confines of his arms, passing over his ribs and the flat plane of his pecs to place the lightest touch at the base of his neck. Closer. The serious glint in his eyes blurred as he neared.

The tip of his nose butted the apple of your cheek.

“Can I kiss you?” he spoke aloud for the first time, words breaking on the whisper.

You answered him in a faint, insatiable, “Yes.”

He imposed himself more. Frame on frame. Unyielding body leaned and curved around your softness, channeling every repressed feeling he’d had since you met into pinning you against the counter. Gradually, he dropped his head into a better angle; grinding forehead on forehead, tracing his perfect nose along yours, tilting so his mouth hovered fractions above a decision.

He teased, “Are you only saying that because it’s your policy?”

You smiled against the edge of his thumb after spying his sly grin through your heavy lashes. “No,” you stressed the single word, speaking through the mild irk of impatience building like an itch that could not be scratched in the marrow of your bones.

Anticipation clung to the prolonged gossamer blinks before they lulled into closed eyes, and slow swallows of air until lungs were poised on a held breath.

Every syllable of his next question dragged his lower lip across yours. “Are you my girl?”

“Eddie—”

The whine. The beg. The genuine plea of his name.

Organically imperfect, he smashed his mouth to yours. It was a harsh collision of teeth to lips, and a startled grunt at the abrupt impact, but neither of you cared. Reservations were off. You clung desperately to his shirt, stretching the cotton around his neck and biting the ball chain necklace into his throat, striving for a needier kiss; sparking a heady rush of awareness to the oversensitive areas reacting to the animalistic push and pull of him gaining control, advocating for his own fight in the flex of his thighs driving you into the creaky doors of the cabinetry. The fervency spurred him on. You combed your fingers through the downy curls at his nape, and he did not hesitate slipping a hand under your sweater to smooth his palm to your bare waist. And fuck, how you arched your back on instinct.

Nasally grunts of pain descended to pleasant hums from the throat.

Unable to divide his attention, the kisses went sloppier. Rushed. Awkward, and clumsy. He slotted his mouth to yours with too much force, to the point of bruising your spit slicked lips, and the wet smack pulled a submissive whimper from the places he’d yet to take. The flush blotching his throat ran hot like flames, heating the Old Spice aftershave on his skin. The scent aided the dizzy lurch in your head, lost to the dull lamplight beyond your eyelids, rocking you onto your toes and falling back on your heels in the swirling give-and-take of his unstated needs reaching levels of crisis only you could solve. A pain you could cure as you crammed your nose to his cheek, spread your fingers firmly against his skull, and kissed your friend harder than he kissed you.

Hums lowered into a depraved moan.

The intensity of your reciprocation fueled his ego. Seeking, he moved his chivalrous hand from cupping your face, downwards. Grabbing, seizing, squeezing. After refraining from so much for so long, he was mesmerized by the curve of your shoulder, the sway of your lower back, the waistband of your scratchy polyester skirt. He roved until he found your ribs, and he molded his fingerprints there, branding you with the sensation of his thumb beneath your underwire bra. It was a messy exploration. His excitement had him bearing his weight down on you, and when your strained feet failed to steady him, your ankle gave. Knees bumped; he stepped on your toes. He fell into you and matched the pain of the counter prodding your tender flesh with the bulk of his leather belt scraping your stomach. No apology. Not with words. It was the safety and protection of his arm crooked between you and the laminate countertop which rescued you, and as a reward, he dropped his forearm from the cusp of your hips and feasted his thick fingers on a handful of your ass, rocking you into him.

There was no other way to react to the blunt suggestion.

Heavy, uneven breaths were panted across the other’s sore lips as you both withdrew to gauge the next step. He scoped your features with urgency, darting from your relaxed brows, to your keen gaze. There was an etching of insecurity marring the honey in his gentle brown eyes when you were too dazed to remember to smile, jumping to conclusions in his worrisome ways.

He really did worry too much.

Bringing your hand out of his curls, you grazed the strained tendon on the side of his neck, and worked your way up. You trailed your knuckles along his cheek, swept them under his wispy bangs, and put your fingertips to his temple, triggering a shivered sigh and fluttering lashes at the new touch.

You answered him as you combed his hair away from his face, “I’m your girl.”

The instant sincerity of his red, swollen lips kicking up into an uneven grin invoked a raw tenderness to his pink nose scrunching in playfulness, and the corner of his eyes going tight with happiness.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice hoarse from the exertion of kissing you senseless.

“Yeah,” you promised in another caress.

For a moment, he held your gaze with the importance of someone understanding what it meant to be by his side and to be seen with him out in Hawkins public; as if he were on the verge of crying from the sheer gratitude of your policy landing you here, in his arms, on this night, wanting to be his.

Eddie peered into your eyes again. His wide pupils and dusky cheeks spoke of the nature of his body, but behind that, lurking beneath his fibrous sinew was the same innate marrow telling him this was okay. This was right. Just let go.

Just let go.

He listened.

As wild as he took you minutes before, he was ready to luxuriate in the nuances of affection. He pressed his mouth closed in a dry swallow, and raised his hand from your ribs, beckoning your cheek into the stifling heat of his palm. The throbbing pulse in his neck beat a rhythm to his chest, rising and falling in a quick cadence until he was able to discipline his attention away from the obvious snag of his zipper on your skirt.

He relaxed into another kiss. It may have been the hundredth of the night, but it was pivotal. Something changed. The frantic clashing lessened, and the cravings heightened.

Consistent as he was in taking things slow, he knew how to make you feel cherished. He took your bottom lip between his and dragged it as he broke the chain from one kiss to the other, as if the extra second he claimed a part of you was crucial to his survival. Truly indulging in the full potential of someone witnessing the many bad days of his life and still wanting to cook dinner with him. Someone enjoying the harmonized hum of your lips converging while you scratched small circles on his scalp above his ears. Someone willing to hear his shameful complaints about fatherhood, and not judge him when he took his lunch break in his car, cranking the seat back to rest his blood-shot sleepless eyes, instead of sharing a coke with them in the breakroom. Someone he’d come to rely on; a constant in his life.

He poured his coffee pot’s worth of trust into you, and you answered him with the blissful endeavor of your fingers scaling his forearm, brushing through the thin hair growing like wheat and pushing the beaded bracelet up to his wrist, cupping your hand over his on your cheek. D-A-D-D-Y. M-O-U-S-E. In turn, you drank his insecurities and added your own, overflowing with the mutual truth that neither of you had been in a stable relationship lasting longer than a month, and this whole thing should’ve been very scary.

But it wasn’t scary.

It was slow and steady.

The heaviness of his body returned. Hands wandered aimlessly. Arms entwined, untangled, confused themselves on who was where. Attentive fingertips glided over woven yarn and cotton, following the dips and curves and slopes; basking in the reverence of married threads and validation. Legs shuffled, spreading and accommodating. Jaws went slack. Languid tongues merged, lazy and hot. He palmed your ass in a lax grip, easing your hips flush against his. You answered with a purposeful roll intending to earn some friction, but you couldn’t reap the benefits on account of one problem..

Your skirt was stretched to the fabric’s maximum allowance, creating a taut buffer keeping him at bay. Any motion was nullified by the hindrance. Noticing this, he shifted to be better cradled by your thighs, and a delicious gift was granted with the tandem action of your bodies joining.

He flattened his hands on the countertop behind you and blessed you with a proper long drawl of his hips; pausing in an open mouthed kiss because the noise you made—the noise you made—the noise the noise the noise you made—

Your quick inhale faltered, flattering the hard press of his cock with a shameless gasp.

Eddie halted at the top of the motion from your involuntary praise, and locked eyes with you. Just like when he made you laugh, he wanted to witness your pleasure, soak in your reverent stare and pride himself on the way you asked for more—by sinking back and away and rutting upwards, instigating a filthy tension on the layers separating you; panties, nylon, polyester skirt, seams on seams on seams of harsh denim, and his choice of boxers; and God, you thrived on the bulk behind his zipper caressing you for the first time where climaxes were born. Your moan hinged on his satisfaction, and in a dare, you pivoted the descent of your roll towards the right, capturing between you his stiff length tenting towards his pocket. And when you arched into a slow grind on the base—sliding him along the curve of your clothed heat—he released his own pretty noise.

“Mm—fuck,” he groaned into your mouth.

Gravitating elsewhere, he left messy kisses on your jaw and brushed his nose over the peach fuzz on your cheek to put his love-bitten lips to your ear. Gravelly with want, he asked, “When did you remember what happened that night?”

A dirty throb pulsed where he buried himself between your legs, striving for the angle which had you grasping at his narrow hips as a silent plea for him to drive into you harder.

“Oh,” you panted into his hair sticking to your mouth. Answering casually as you could despite your face running hot, and your voice straining light with a joke, you answered, “I never forgot. I lied when you asked me.”

“You—?” The word was a quick huff of air against your neck. He pulled away enough to look at you, but not divorce your stomachs from touching. Two deep creases formed between his brows, shadowing his squint with incredulity. “You lied to me?”

A pang of doubt weeded its way into your insecure hands around his waist, forcing you to question if he was really mad at you for pretending you didn’t remember the exact details of last weekend in order to bolster his confidence into asking you on a date instead of wallowing in silent guilt for thinking he did something wrong and end up pushing you away, sabotaging himself from ever acting on this.

You were about to speak your mind—that is, until his lips crooked up, and he invaded your space with his big eyes, big nose, and even bigger grin.

“You lied to me,” he said with a snap of wolfishness, tonguing his sharp canine after the bite of his words; hosting an overabundance of admiration in his half-lidded gaze raking over you, alighting every sinful nerve in your body.

Time to pick up where that phone call left off—

“Yeah, I did.. But you didn’t.” You sank your hand between your bodies, and flattened your palm to the front of his jeans.

His breath hitched.

Skimming, teasing, playing with him, you strung his lust taut, tracking your fingertips over the hardness and sweeping them to the very end, circling an outline around his head like a Siren’s call to his fiery blood. His biceps flexed against your arms. The laminate counter squeaked from his sweaty grip on the edge. Vinyl flooring creaked at his antsy rut into your hand, and you gave in to your own curiosity.

Wrapping your fingers as best you could through the thick denim, a spike of cold excitement washed over you at the sheer girth you struggled to handle—much less the long, long drag of your palm from base to tip—sending an ache to your cunt begging to be stretched by him.

Slightly over seven inches, indeed.

Lacking poise, you blurted an unintelligible word, and his smirk underscored his heavy kiss.

“Told you I didn’t need to overcompensate,” he taunted.

His newfound smugness was allowed. Encouraged, even, by your firm strokes, again and again, creating a damp patch on his pants at every pass of your thumb. You were fascinated by his ability to engulf you in another tender union of lips when your senses were overwhelmed by the impressive size filling your palm. Intoxicated by the gentle glide of his considerable tongue along your bottom teeth. Dazed by his pitiful groan when you increased your pace, building and building the wicked friction burn from his jeans on your soft skin, tending to the flames of your arousal, sensitive nipples peaked and receptive to the warmth of his lean chest pressing down on you.

Needing him, you closed off the kiss and played into your appeal with a saccharine pinch to your expression, and a cloying sweetness to your tone. “You do so much for your family,” you murmured. “You work so hard to provide for them, always staying late at the garage, covered in grease and dirt, fixing cars until your hands are torn and your back aches. Making sacrifices without a second thought. Always putting their needs first.”

Stroking his hard cock, you asked, “When was the last time someone put your needs first?”

Eddie screwed his eyes shut and fit the bridge of his nose to your forehead. When he spoke, his embarrassment influenced his mumble, “S’been a long, long time.”

“Sounds like you need me to take care of you, handsome.”

He tensed to suppress his shiver from your sultry tone, and withheld his whimper at the prospect, meeting your gaze in a nervous flick. “I don’t, uhm.. have..” His assured demeanor ebbed to stuttering shyness. “I didn’t, uh, buy any condoms, and all the stores are closed by now..”

Your face fell flat.

You threw your exasperated stare to the ceiling, and searched the series of events which would lead to him asking you on a date, at his home, at night, without anyone else present, and somehow not think to buy condoms. “Why didn’t you buy any?”

He shrugged, frustration evident in his tone. “I was afraid of being a dumbass and leaving them out in the open where you could see them—like with the groceries or some shit—and give you the wrong impression, like my goal was only to invite you over for that reason, and, I don’t know, think I’m coming on too strong, or something, and make you uncomfortable.”

You gripped your beloved dumbass by the chin with your unoccupied hand, and put an end to his fretting. “Or, I would get the right impression, and we’d have that box opened within ten minutes of me walking through the door.”

He blinked dumbly.

Before he could ask if you were serious, you steered the conversation to its original topic with a gentle squeeze where the dark spot on his jeans bloomed, and said, “We’ll worry about condoms next time.” He throbbed in your palm. Next time. “After all the romantic stuff you’ve done for me, I want to show you my appreciation.” You slid your fingers through his belt loops, and leaned up, nosing your way through his frizzy waves to whisper a fantasy in his ear. “I want you in my mouth.”

You put the power of suggestion in your aggressive tug, snapping your hips together.

Ripples of electric pleasure stood his arm hair on end. The alertness in his expression glazed over. He lazed in the feeling, hardly able to open his eyes to follow the bounce of your eyebrows and the deep cut of your smirk; matching with his own goofy smile going lopsided with enthusiasm.

Since his birth, there were few instances where he felt wanted, or loved, and for his dream girl to waltz into his life and be so brazen about her attraction to him with no hidden motives, empty sweet-talk, or ill intentions—

For possibly the first time in Eddie’s ostracized existence, he felt desired.

Each low tug on his jeans was another boost to his self esteem, guiding him step by step further beyond the platonic line. Deeper, and deeper into new territory. Crossing the threshold from cracked vinyl to plush carpet, and with it, entering the fear of the unknown he wasted countless hours resisting. There’s no going back after this. Acquaintances was a laughable notion, coworkers was a tricky dynamic left to be dealt with on Monday, and friendship was the foundation of him opening up to you.

Every decision persuading you to the edge of his bed was made in careful consideration. Choices were presented and chosen without impulse. Nothing about him was casual. Not anymore. The slow crawl towards this relationship was impeded by his past, and instead of giving up, you stayed true to him. Because you saw him as worthwhile.

Eddie sank to the couch, and before his back made contact with the cushions, he had his fingers cupped to the backside of your thighs, proposing a bend to your knees. In a fluid motion, he dragged his rough palms up your tights and coaxed your legs on either side of him, running his heavy hands over your skirt and up to your waist. He relaxed into the sitting position with an arm crooked around your ass while he treated himself to a handful, gathering you as close as possible until he was satisfied with the places he could reach. Not once did his eyes leave your face. He tipped his head back to watch you go from standing at the end of his knees, to straddling his lap. Wholly enamored.

Blue cast from the TV’s standby mode contrasted the dim glow from the old lamp on the kitchen counter, highlighting his blushy cheeks in eventide colors, and cleaving a defined shadow down his bobbing throat.

Earned muscle and bulky denim and seven inches of bliss prodded the delicate meat of your inner thighs. You sat high on his lap, releasing the tension in your body in increments, settling yourself on top of him. He kissed you. Short and sweet; a brief encounter compared to before, but with your senses amplified by the deeper connection you two fostered for one another, it was the best kiss of your life. And it served as a chaste prelude to his next devotion.

Taking the lead, Eddie moved on from your lips, working downward in a dreamy, drunken daze, reveling in skin-on-skin. Want—more—please. When he couldn’t access the vulnerable underside of your chin, he urged your head up with a determined bump of his nose to your jaw, and continued to praise you in stray kisses and greedy palms. He showed you what he wanted by dragging you forward in his lap, and you didn’t need to be told twice by his white-knuckled grip.

You grinded down on him, and your mouth went slack with a fragmented moan.

“You’re so pretty when you do that,” he slurred, voice husky and low.

The bulge behind his fly parted your aching cunt. With your legs spread wide, you found your perfect middle and worked the stiff seams against your need. Each rut glided him along you, slipping over the nylon and stretching your pantyhose taut. You beared down harder, obeying the faint throbs of desperation, and turned them into inadequate stirs of pleasure, fleeting at each pass.

The first stitch of nylon broke. Then, another.

His generous kisses went wayward, favoring your jawbone as a means to end, tucking his teeth into the pocket beneath your ear and nipping at your vulnerable pulse. You swallowed under the threat, and dropped your head back, revealing the neglected expanse for him to cherish.

Cascades of euphoria flowed down your neck. Teeth grazed, his tongue tasted, the cold tip of his nose drew sentiments on your throat. For every dull sting of his untamed bite, he apologized with a softer, and softer affection. Lessening in aggression. Soothing your sweltering skin with cooling breaths on the streak of spit he left behind. You shivered despite the sudden break of sweat in the humid entanglement and embraced your urges, squirming against his jeans and circling your hips in measured thrusts, tilting into the motion for your own sake and blanketing your thigh over his achingly hard cock by chance. “Christ, sweetheart.” His muffled moan set your blood on fire. Your fingers went tight on his shoulders, digging into the muscle shifting beneath your nails, wrinkling the fabric of his favorite shirt.

More nylon stitches popped.

Too lost in your own efforts, you hadn’t noticed the loss of his possessive hold on your waist until your hard nipples brushed two solid objects.

Yarn fibers tickled overtop the sheer mesh cups of your bra.

Eddie nuzzled at the base of your neck and rested the slope of his broad nose there, moving his lips on your skin when he remembered, but otherwise his attention deviated elsewhere. At his leisure, he thumbed the top button of your sweater through the loop, and drifted to the next. Another, and another, exposing the sheen of perspiration on your chest to the stagnant air in his living room. His deft fingers undressed you with undue ease. Each loosened button raced your heart, and you repaid him by widening your knees and sinking fully onto his lap, laying your plush inner thigh on top of his length in a satisfying squish, and staying there.

A weak whine tinted his pretty, “Feels—good.”

Feels good played off the thin walls stacked with ceramic mugs. Feels good joined the sporadic pitter patter of raindrops on the tin roof streaming to the grassless earth outside. Feels good warmed you like the oil filled radiator at the end of the couch, popping and crackling when the heat droned higher. Feels good manifested in your cardigan slipping from your shoulders and falling to the floor in a mute drop; rooted itself in his ringed fingers dipping into your waistband; was proven by his other palm molding to the curve of your hip as if it were shaped by the same artist; and confirmed by the unambiguous focus to your right side.

Feels so fucking good burst forth in his hand’s unyielding snatch on your waistband and decisive jerk forward, ripping through the last of the strained seam trapped against your satin underwear.

The pantyhose split at the gusset, and your plump pussy spilled out, perfectly framed by the gaping nylon hole presenting your wet cunt to the thick denim. You draped him sweetly. Curved over the immense rise behind the creased zipper, creating a stiff peak before sloping to the soft give of his stomach. It didn’t take more than a single experimental thrust for your thin panties to slide into your sticky need, working them snug to your heat and inciting the first true tug at your core. Whispers of relief roused at your center, but it wasn’t until your second try, when you tilted your hips and Eddie guided you down onto him, genuine satisfaction was achieved.

The low rumble from the bottom of his chest filled you with oozy pride.

You concentrated the friction on your clit, and Eddie concentrated on anything else.

He stopped sealing his kisses, letting the envelope of his lips fall open, slack, and inarticulate, never beginning nor ending the ode to your neck. His mouth hovered wherever his head hung, and in his stupor, he could do little more than use his tongue to cut a fat line through the luster beneath the hollow of your throat, letting the salt sit in his mouth before swallowing, grateful. With each movement, the scratchy grain on his jaw from that morning’s shave buffed your sensitive skin, and he lapped at the rawness he caused in apology. The higher you rose over the swell of his cock, the lower he prized you in sloppy drags of his ample lips. He cupped his ringed fingers to the underside of the lavender lace and used his heavenly tongue to lick the top of your breast, accentuating the curve for his teeth to savor you in a lovebite. Your nipples begged for him, and your back arched for him. Your mouth fell open with a gasp—”Eddie”—drawing out the last set of vowels before they devolved into a whimper. Soon, his head was a heavy burden between your tits, and you wrapped him in your naked arms, cradling him there with your fingers in his hair. Spit from his sloppy kisses smeared on your cleavage, wetting the stubble on his cheeks, and he remained smitten, moaning into them with each bounce on his lap.

He was so wrecked on intimacy. 

Loading your lungs with another sigh of his name, you rocked your hips in whichever way felt best, not paying attention to the way your inner thigh rolled over Eddie’s fat cock, again, and again. Satin on denim; faster, and faster, tensing your leg muscles and releasing them like a quick stroke down his length. You embraced him with your chin to his hair, panting over the frizz sticking to your lips. Tender, always. Committed to lauding gentle kisses to his scalp even as you chased the one thing on your mind. Grinding in quicker thrusts. Listening to his muffled praise, but not hearing him go quiet, or noticing his body go still when his thighs edged into a hard flex under your ass. You were oblivious to his hand falling from your bra, and his fingers anchoring onto your waist. You were too engrossed in the act, rutting like animals do. Lurching towards the inevitable one desperate grind at a time, quicker.. quicker.. Heeding what your body wanted. Racing, faster.. faster.. 

Abrupt pain bloomed where he shoved his palm into your thigh to stop you.

“You’re gonna make me cum,” he panted in a ragged breath.

A new heat rushed to your cheeks. The dirty word spoken from his mouth engulfed you. It tingled and danced over your skin, firing signals of excitement in pulses. With clarity, you realized the few direct strokes during what was supposed to be foreplay had him tensing and trembling, trying to keep his release from arriving too early and making a mess of himself before getting to the real deal. Your nipples tightened at the knowledge, and your legs clenched on instinct. You almost made him cum his jeans. What a compliment.

Your puffy clit was sore from the brief friction, and you felt every centimeter of space he put between you and your reward, but it was like a switch flipped in your brain.

The sharp throbs of his fingers clamped onto the meat of your thigh and his thumb jammed into the soft muscle were forgotten when you looked down at the man who shied under your observation; his face aflame with the awareness he ruined your release as well and his, and his bashful eyes worried with remorse. He was the reason you craved the early dawn, and weekday nights. He was the reason your heart crowded your throat when you woke up and your first thought was to reach for the bracelet on your bedside dresser. He was the reason you took a liking to heavy metal and board games. He was the reason your body reacted to wafts of earthy tobacco in the air, only to be disappointed when the person behind you at the grocery store was just another smoker who hand rolled their cigarettes, as if they had the right to smell like Eddie Munson.

You looked down at the man who lived an isolated and thankless life, who found joy in the small things and loved with his whole heart, who had few outlets to express himself and receive love back, and nothing mattered to you more than giving him a reason to look at you differently come Monday morning.

You thumbed the edge of his jaw with a promise. “I’ll go slow, pretty boy.”

He made a choked off noise in response.

Eddie’s eyes followed the nuances of your movement as you rose from his lap and planted your feet on the carpet. His stance widened to make room for you, chest falling with a silent exhale; peering at you with a question between his brows, as if he were contemplating his luck. When you bent over and placed your palms on his thighs, you stole his gaze from the intimate way your cleavage shifted under gravity, and honored his lips a last time for the foreseeable future, about to show him how fortunate he really was.

You sank to your knees, dropping dry kisses onto his shirt in a path to his belly as you went, and lifted the hem. The bottom of the inked sword and dragon greeted you. Sparse hair fanned as you raised the shirt above his tattooed navel, and pushed it to the crease where his sternum and belly met. His stomach wasn’t as flat as when he stood, giving him a slight curve where it pushed past the edge of his belt—a roundness when he sat relaxed. You laid your elbows on his thighs, and avoided touching the large subject in your peripheral, instead shaping your hands to his hips, and bowing your head.

His muscles jumped under your lips.

Finally, you knew his ticklish spot.

He sucked in a breath, and squirmed at the scattered kisses to his sides. You applied more pressure, mashing your mouth to him with a giggly hum, and teased your wet lips through the thick curls leading downwards. The hairs grazed the sides of your mouth and nose. The warm metal from his belt buckle brushed your chin. You’d never guessed you’d come to know these sensations when you first met him and he made it clear your enthusiasm for life was not appreciated, but here you were, stroking your thumbs up his leather belt, bordering your grin with his happy trail.

Eddie skimmed his fingers over your wrists. “I’m not gonna last long,” he warned.

“That’s fine,” you assured him in a quick peck to the significant outline you’d become obsessed with, feeling him twitch beneath your lips. “We have all night to work on that.”

“What—? Jesus Christ, uh—okay.”

Sitting back on your calves, you held his gaze while you pulled the extra length of his belt through the loops in a smooth rush, and worked it through the handcuff buckle. You tightened the slack and loosened the pin with a nimble finger, undressing him with the ease of an expert.

Asking from a place of your own curiosity, you wondered, “How often do you jerk off?”

His eyebrows disappeared behind his tousled bangs.

Not yet used to you being so forward with him, he stammered on his tongue, but held his composure, much to the surprise of both of you. “Not that often, I guess.. Uh, a few times a month.”

You snorted. “You don’t have to lie to me, you know that, right? You can tell me if it’s everyday, I don’t care. It’s not like I’m gonna judge you.”

The two halves of his belt flopped to either side of his waist. With it out of the way, you pinched at the stamped button at the top of his stupidly tight jeans, but you had trouble getting a good grip on it. Here, let me—he mumbled in a small voice, lifting his hips off the couch to undo it himself, popping it through and revealing the waistband of his forest green boxers.

It was with great determination you aimed your gaze above his obvious grandeur when he started talking.

“I’m not lying,” he said during the sturdy grind of the zipper being tugged down. “Not exactly like I have a door to lock when I need some alone time around here, sweetness. Plus” —he grunted at the freedom his unzipped jeans granted him, pushing them lower on his hips— “I’m usually too worn out after work, and just wanna crash on the couch. Not to mention taking care of everything around here is exhausting. Just don’t have the energy most days.”

Reading the precious draw of sympathy between your brows, he sat on the edge of his bed, and reached into the fly at the front of his boxers. “But, uh, there has been a recent change in my life that’s motivated me to.. take better care of myself. More often.” A certain motivator who sat between his legs with her hands in her lap, piqued and obedient. “Lot more often than a couple months ago, before she started working with me.”

He wrapped his fingers around himself and stroked upward, moving his knuckles against the fabric. He’d been rambling to ease the anxiety from his nerves until only the adrenaline remained, and with his pretty girl biting her bottom lip at his impure thoughts, his stalling came to an end.

Out came his hand—broad palm and thick fingers stretched full—and you stared in silent awe.

The back of his pale wrist and rosy knuckles were the first to show. Prominent blue veins led to his crooked hand, thumb and foremost fingers grasping his base while the last two struggled to collect the rest. His wet tip grazed the top of his boxers, peaking the fabric and dragging it along in a mouthwatering sweep towards the opening, and out it bobbed in flushed hues of pink and needy red. Below, he used his other hand to lower the fly, and cupped his palm to his heavy hanging fruits. They slipped out one plump roundness at a time to display their greatness against his dark jeans in a weighty sway.

Eddie’s cock leaked a bead of anticipation for you.

Starting with a lazy tug, he stroked himself. The arousing sheen smeared around his tip glistened, shining anew with the pass of his fist. As predicted, he curved to the right, and the fact he could hardly overlap his thumb to get a good hold on himself spoke of his size. All of him was beautiful, and you felt beautiful when another drip of precum swelled from his pretty head, threatening to fall before your very eyes.

He was thrilled by your shock. “Want it?”

“Need it,” you responded in a faint exhale.

With a smirk deepening his smoky tone, he kept moving his hand up and down, and granted you permission, “It’s all yours.”

You snapped your attention to his face, and inched forward until you were snug against the couch, eager and motivated by the lustful stretch in your thighs exposing your soaked cunt to the air. Good and pleasing, you clasped your hands politely in the folds of your bunched up skirt, and framed your arms around your chest.

Dipping your head, you lolled out your tongue for his approval.

His expression was the highest compliment; revering you with crinkles at the corners of his heavy-lidded gaze, lips stretched into a genuine smile which emphasized the elusive dimple on his cheek, and defined the bags under his eyes. Strands of his finger-swept messy curls stuck out at odd angles after you had your way with his hair, grazing his high cheekbones, and thick neck.

His heart pounded louder in his chest the longer he stared at your offering.

Weight pressed down on the plush middle of your tongue. It left, then happened again, again. Again, he tapped the fat head of his cock to the sticky wetness, mixing his salty taste with your spit. Bestowing you the gift, and taking it away. Teasing you. He slapped his heaviness down in a dull throb of owning you, and lifted it off to run his fingers over his own length, jerking himself off at an easy pace he wouldn’t cum from before putting his weeping tip to your tongue once more for you to admire, but not indulge. It was the cruelest, and hottest, thing he’d ever done to you.

When he next rubbed his head along the supple muscle and took it away, you tempted him into giving you mercy.

His lungs stuttered at your first demure kiss to the underside of his cock. You listened to his shallow breath on the second, released in a short ahh on the third. On the fourth, you vied for privilege to spoil him. He relented. How could he not?

To give himself a better angle to watch, he propped one of his hands behind him, and dropped his cheek to his shoulder, where his hair poured in a mass of tangles. The broad grin he wore waned to a subtler emotion as you hummed for the silky skin thrumming against your lips, feeling him shift when he lifted his thumb from taming his hard-on down.

Eddie marveled at how you balanced his cock on your pout. Amusement—and an unending amount of tenderness—gentled his features. He was sweet on you. You were sweet on him.

Treating him how he deserved, you rolled your tongue around your mouth to gather spit, and pushed it past your lips to wet his slick head, making your kisses slip against him in a smooth glide. You showered him in small pecks at first. Short kisses with the cutesy sounds pressed to the sensitive ridges which earned Eddie’s involuntary moan; low and thick, drawing from the months of pining for this moment. Venturing into more, you darted your tongue out to test his reaction when you licked the valley between the halves of his plump tip, and you winced. His cock kicked up, and fell in a smack. It was painful, probably bruising the delicate inner flesh of your lips when it smashed them against your teeth. You thanked him in an acquiescent whine.

It was addictive—a daze. With nothing but gravity to keep him in place, you cherished your favorite mechanic’s cock openly and honestly. You flattened your tongue to him in a loving lap, and chased it with a long drag of your lips up the underside to the round head, struggling to keep your eyes open from the bliss of tasting his reward, and suckling noisily for more.

Eddie accepted defeat in a sudden, disappointed grunt, “Yeah.. I’m not gonna last long.”

He fell backwards in a dramatic flourish.

Sprawled almost flat, his shoulders hit the cushions, and his body melted into the position with his fingers laced over his eyes as a shield. A groan of despair reverberated in his throat. Poor Eddie, can’t last long with his favorite receptionist’s mouth around his cock. A giggle bubbled from your chest, and you were about to repeat your promise to go slow, but the words wouldn’t form.

Your mouth had other plans than wasting their time on reassurances.

In his melodramatic moping, his dick left your lips and flopped onto his belly—which was a loss you felt in your soul—but with how he slouched into the cushions, a fruitful endeavor presented itself. Swung, and bounced, actually.

You leaned in, and became acquainted with your hand around his girth; familiarizing yourself with the naked warmth in your palm, and his airy whimper when you did.

The top of his boxers brushed your knuckles as you drifted your hand up in a single stroke. One fluid glide on the cock which belonged to you. He did say it was yours, after all. And though the thought alone had you wishing it was stretching your tight cunt in a blend of pain and pleasure, you had a yearning for what else moved up and down when you pumped your fist.

“Eddie?” you called. He peered at you from the shadow of his fingers. Innocently, you traced the bottom of his sack, and oh so carefully settled them into the nest of your unblemished palm. “Are these mine too?”

A croak broke his speechlessness. “Y-Yeah, those are yours, too. If you want them.”

Please was written in your grateful lurch towards his cock. Thank you was expressed in your lush moan when he entered your mouth.

“Baby,” he whined in a docile sigh.

You sank his cock into the wet heat he needed, but only for the purpose of curving your tongue to his begging tip and bathing him in your spit, using your hand to work it down his shaft. Except, you got carried away. A few strokes in, and you put your lips tight around his head, and already there was a warning forming between his brows.

You backed off. His face went lax in relief.

“Feels too good, sweetheart,” he praised from the depths of his gravelly voice. “Gonna make me cum like that.”

Your pussy ached to be spoken to that way.

Moving your attention away from how pitifully empty you felt, you loosened your grip and twisted your wrist to massage the base of his slick cock; not exploring upwards, just giving him enough friction to keep him on edge without spilling over. A perfect amount of pleasure, you guessed, from his red face emerging from behind his hands, raising them to comb his bangs off the fine layer of sweat beading on his forehead, and blinking himself out of his haze just in time to see you lower your face between his thighs.

You tended to him first with a kiss. An opening, or introduction, to your lips finding the spot beneath your working thumb where the hardness ended and the velvety skin began. He tensed. His legs flexed around your shoulders, bringing his knees in all shy like, like he was self conscious to have you down there. And maybe it was one thing to have his balls cupped in your palm, but it was another to have you nosing around the opening of his boxers when he hadn’t gone through with his plan of trimming back the hedges.

All he could do was stare when you inhaled his scent after he spent the day cleaning his home, running errands, driving across town to pick you up, and sitting next to you during scene after scene of horrors playing on a screen directly across from the terrifying event of holding your hand while trying not to out-sweat his t-shirt.

His bewilderment was apparent, but so was your enjoyment.

You burrowed your nose at the narrow opening of his fly, and tilted his cock to the side, finding the thick thatch of curls growing around his base, and admiring his heavy musk breaking through the perfumed Dove soap. A heavy purr of pleasure rumbled in your throat, coming out as a nasally moan against the wrinkled skin you kissed. So enraptured by his body, you couldn’t hold back anymore. You had to part your lips, and run your tongue along the seam of his sack. It was with a dire urge you stopped at the bottom, and flaunted how big he was by snuggling your nose to the heft and lifting.

You draped his balls over your mouth.

It was silly to him, and you didn’t mind the tss of laughter, but to you, earning his baffled smile while your giggle was buried under his sack was vital to your design. Their ripe heat enveloped you. The stripe you licked was wet on the tip of your nose. His natural scent swaddled you. Both corners of your lips were encumbered by the wonderful weight hanging on either side, brushing your cheeks as you swallowed the taste of his tangy sweat. You kissed up into the excess skin stretched over your face, and they rolled to your chin when you changed the angle you were teasing his cock, disciplining him towards his stomach so you had more room to worship the pome.

Warming him to the idea, you flattened your tongue to one side and ran it along the fullness, curving up, and dragging down in a long caress. In a breath, he placed his hand on his stomach where his shirt gathered, and skimmed the other over his body until it laid on top of his jeans, in the crease between his hip and thigh. You could see his fingers work themselves into the loose denim out of the corner of your eye, and heard them relax when you traced the other side of his sack, ending with a murmur to the textured skin.

“Too much?” you asked—he shook his head before you could finish the question, still hanging onto a suggestion of his fascinated squint at what you were doing to him.

With his approval, you indulged.

The gentle licks evolved to sloppy circles, eager to prize and polish, ensuring there was no part of his balls gone neglected. Lapping at, kissing at, making out with another spot on his body out of a necessity to fawn over every inch of him. Willing to nuzzle your way between the plumpness and have your drool drag wetly across your cheeks in his name. Fully content with messier and messier affections, cozying your nose to the base of his curls until he understood how little it bothered you to be smothered by his nature.

Unable to resist satisfying him how he deserved, you dropped an open kiss to the squish of his sack, and suckled on a small section, checking his reaction.

Not an ounce of protest glimmered behind his lashes, eyes falling almost closed at the intimate gesture between two people who were never supposed to be more than coworkers.

You parted your lips, and accepted a mouthful. 

Eddie whimpered.

His toes curled into the carpet at the novel sensation. There was an incredible amount of trust required to fight the instinct to pull away. Even his fingers strained the denim when you drew your lips around one of his balls, and slackened your jaw. It was with great respect you brought him into your mouth, and cradled the weight on your tongue, cheeks stretched full and soft. You held him there for a long second. The rain was a steady noise of the roof, but your exhale was loud in the space between his thighs. Quiet suspense followed your hand climbing his shaft.

You wrapped your fingers around his hopeful tip, and fitted your thumb to the valley on the underside. In perfect sync, and with your eyes steady on his face, you hollowed your cheeks and squeezed each of your fingers at the same gentle pace.

“Fuck, baby—”

At once, Eddie’s unabashed groan inspired you, and his balls jerked in response to the direct touch in the places he needed it. From pinky to index, you massaged his fat head in a smooth pulse—matching the strokes of your thumb—and though your grip was light, he was already kneading his hand along his inner thigh and clamping it down close to your face. You soothed him on your tongue as best you could, and eased him into having more pressure from your lips, sucking harder on the most sensitive part of him.

Concentration stressed a shadow between his brows; chest braced on a held breath.

The telltale sign of his skin tightening in your mouth, along with his clenched stomach and abnormal silence, had you testing his limits. But it was too fun feeling his legs squirm at the effortless flow your fingers performed, coaxing him closer to coming undone and still daring to smear the swells of precum over the pleading edge of his tip, again and again, but slower. Slower. Memorizing the metallic slink of his guitar pick running along the ball chain necklace when you released him, and his chest sank with a sigh.

His voice cracked a notch higher, “Jesus, you’re really into this, huh, sweetheart?” he asked, but you couldn’t answer.

Before committing to his other ball, you spat into your cupped fingers, and put them to his cock, adjusting how you held him until you could look past and see the handsome glint of respect in his eyes, and he could gaze into wealth of adoration in yours.

“Love being on my knees for you,” you mumbled sweetly, kissing your way to the other side of his sack. “Love your cock, Eddie.”

His name, spoken where it was on his body, brought out a smugger twist to his already prideful grin. “Yeah? You like it?”

Rushing at the chance to compliment your man, you straightened your spine, and punctuated your words along the thick vein leading up to the drips of seed. “Love it,” you promised in a syrupy yearn, swallowing the bitter salt. “Love your cock; love it so much. It’s my favorite.”

“Is it the best?”

The question was tonally rich with confidence, but just in case there was any doubt woven into the wording itself, you regarded the man who went to work early on a day he had off for the purpose of leaving flowers on your desk, and smiled.

“Yeah,” you confessed, recalling a memory from the earlier months, after your first failed date, when he shared his can of Coke with you at lunch because the vending machine was out, and two sets of chapsticked lip prints were left around the metal rim. “It’s the best.”

You hugged his cock to your cheek, and nuzzled the warmth as you would any other part of him, humming a sunshiny hum, and parted ways to return to your true calling further down.

This time, Eddie groaned in relief when you settled his other ball in your mouth—”That’s it.”

With your newly slick hand, you slipped your palm over his desperately purple tip with ease. His thighs jumped into a flex, and his stomach fluttered with tension—almost like he was going to lose himself right there—but he exhaled hard through his nose, and became better at existing in the mutual pleasure. This was as much for you as it was for him.

There was a scrunch of determination above his nose, and a strong edge to his jaw, but otherwise, his fingers were gentle on your temple. 

“You always know how to make me feel good,” he said, tracing his knuckles downward, lacing multitudes of meanings behind the sentence. Physical, and emotional.

He prodded his thumb into the hollow of your cheek, feeling how full you were of him; how his calloused fingerpad rocked in the same rhythm of your lips sealing around him and sucking; and you leaned into the tender gesture of his open palm, to which he cupped your jaw with a sentiment tantamount to what you were baring.

A sweet man through and through, even as he trembled in your fist.

You curved your tongue around the tight skin in your mouth, and moaned prettily for him. Frequent moans, ardent moans, moans appealing to his ego, moans you’d hear on a tape rented from the backroom of a competing video store with a black curtain separating it from the wholesome movies up front. Performing for him, finding what he liked. Which lick, which whine, which speed had his cock leaking over your fingers. Which trick made the creases between his brows mature, and his mouth fall open: the answer was two fast pumps over his throbbing head, and back down to his base for a respite, prolonging his release with a thank you on his heavy eyelids.

Prolonging, at least, until two fast pumps became a naughty blur of more—Oh, fuck, baby—and his brushes along your cheek went rare, and he licked his dry lips in the fog of his ramping high, and he hung his head back to the dense cushions, and his question escaped his throat in a hoarse huff, “You wanna—?” and it wasn’t a question at all.

You pushed your lips in soft goodbye to his sack, and his fingers under your jaw communicated his wish, aiding your chin up with a light pressure until your mouth was tasting the result of his aching lust. Slow and steady, you lavished his head in tame licks, building into a long sweep over the top. Warming yourself up to the painful stretch your lips were about to endure while his kind fingertips coasted over your hair, and found themselves at the back of your neck. Drawing out the seconds he tucked his thumb behind your ear, and rubbed circles. Sitting in the moment of something delicate, before things changed, and the platonic line became a horizon.

You drove his tip past your lips, and channeled all your appreciation into sucking Eddie’s cock.

He whimpered in surprise. A different whimper than before; not a drowsy noise he may make when rolling over in bed, but a sputtered note expelled in bursts of heavy breaths, singing a hymn to your blood.

The pace was not shy.

You descended to meet your fingers wrapped around his shaft, and reached your temporary depth where his hardness caressed the back of your mouth, and your throat clenched. Pulling back, you focused on his head, wetting his length with the sudden drool, and busying your other hand with his balls, cupping and stroking them in gentle passes.

“Ri–Right there, yeah, God, right there, sweet girl.” The syllables were mashed and dropped and disconnected on his whine.

Flicking your gaze up, you thrived on his fixated stare, bobbing your head on his tip only. Sliding your lips back and forth over the luscious ridge which had his tongue pressed against his bottom teeth. Massaging your wet heat around the center of his pleasure; encouraging a pinch in his expression as if he were in pain when he was in anything but.

Being higher on your knees meant your tits could be seen, and what a delicious sight it was for him to covet. Braced by your bra, your cleavage bounced as you pumped your fist along his cock, grazing your nipples above the opaque floral applique, cresting them beyond the sheer lace. It was enough to make his stomach squeeze, and his fingers tremble in the baby hairs at your nape.

His cock twitched twice in your mouth, conveying a message.

You welcomed him to the back of your throat, gladly this time, accepting the overfulness making it hard to breathe and the soreness surely to come, using your hand for the rest you could not take. No amount of uncomfortableness would make you shy from showing him the recognition he earned. For years he didn’t see the value in himself, and knowing the person who saved a Laffy Taffy wrapper to tell you the joke on the back didn’t prioritize his own happiness compelled you to take him deeper, faster. You shaped your tongue to the outline of his cock, and chased your lips with your fist, hollowing your cheeks at the top, teetering him on the cusp, rousing him until your skin buzzed from the friction and his hips pitched. Bringing him so close to the edge that when you broke away to catch your breath, his muscles shivered, and the shadows between his brows lessened as they arched higher from the mounting pleasure, where every touch on his body felt better and better and better than the last.

In the brief seconds you wrapped both your hands around his length, he made a pleading noise with the added weight of his warm palm at the back of your head—an urgency in his disheveled state, but not without the option of choice.

At once, he was at home in your throat.

In a union, your fingers wrenched his waistband into your damp palm, and he laid his hand across your knuckles. The control was yours, but the pace was his. He fucked himself into your pliant mouth in short, quick thrusts; ever attentive to keep his thumb strokes on your cheek unquestionably loving.

“Gonna make me—” He found the angle to cant his hips so you could watch him unravel; eyes falling closed and face tipped to the ceiling. “—Make me cum, baby,” he finished, voice light as air.

Throat flushed bright pink, cheeks dark red. Eddie panted into a shaky moan of true relief, and your core craved to be the one to take care of his needs, but there was something special about proving your attraction to him in every way you could.

The ridges of his greedy tip found where they were best brushed, and his hips lost their tempo. His stomach sank and stuttered in pulses. A dear emotion clutched your chest, letting loose when he crashed into his climax.

His knees closed you in, crowding you to his lap. “I’m gonna—” he gasped, rough and breathless; presented as a warning for the shot of bitter taste at the back of your throat, filling your mouth and spilling over your tongue with each throb of the thick vein pumping over your swollen bottom lip.

Something undeniable feathered the vulnerability of the position.

You swallowed.

And when more remained after it slid down your throat, you steadied his twitching cock over the offering of your tongue and jerked him off, stealing more drips to satiate you, swallowing with your lips pressed in a kiss to his overstimulated tip. “Baby,” he begged with his head thrown back, legs shifting restlessly around you. He sucked in breaths. Squirmed. Bit his tongue. Tugs of laughter played at his screwed up mouth, so desperate to resist giving in to a true grin when you rode out his high until he was beginning to soften, and the euphoria wore off to a dozy tingles, and the tingles dissipated into you giving him mercy, and mercy gave way to the aftermath.

In all the awkwardness of reality, you unceremoniously wiped your hands on his jeans, and right as he properly tucked himself back into his boxers, he beckoned you with open arms, gripping at your hips and bringing you onto the couch in a clumsy tumble; straddling his lap with his eager kisses seeking your jaw, your neck, your mouth which worked so hard for him. “Fucking amazing, baby,” he mumbled at the corner of your lips. You didn’t need the words—you’d heard them all before—but the reassurance of his arms locked tight around your middle, and the golden rays of honey shining so bright in his eyes allayed the tiny ball of worry at the pit of your stomach telling you he’d next follow it up with an excuse to send you home, as did every man before him.

“‘Mazing, ‘mazing, ‘mazing,” he mushed together on his way to your slack lips, bringing you out of your thoughts and into a kiss. “And dare I say, ‘amazing?’”

His ability to make you giggle when your bare stomachs were pressed together was the sort of tenderness you sought, and he provided.

You rubbed the tip of your nose along his, so very aware of his broad grin, and sweet nature. “You’re silly.”

“That I am!” he stated proudly.

Dipping to complete your gentle smile with his, you sank into the acceptance of him wanting to take your bottom lip between his, and flatter himself with the knowledge of where it’s been, what parts of him it became intimate with, instead of avoiding what was only human. He noticed your cold skin beneath his hands, and ran them along your back and upper arms. There was a motive behind his fingers slipping under the hem of your skirt, and palming you forward—where your heartbeats hammered together, and heat stirred in the lack of layers separating you—but still, there was one more affection you thought he deserved before the night moved on to your own.

Shivers chased his thumb braving the roundness of your breast, edging closer to the sensation of due pleasure yearning to be released. He spoke straight to your needs by putting the suggestion in your hips, “It’s your turn now.”

You stopped yourself from toppling to the cushions, and upheld your decent balance through your grip on his shoulders. “Wait,” you complained without malice, forgiving him for not reading your mind, “I’m not through with you yet.”

The word choice sparked intrigue across his face, then it cautioned to curiosity at the ominous roll of thunder rumbling through the trailer, clanking the mugs on the wall behind him.

He turned his head to the side, eyeing you. “What does that mean?”

~~~

“God, that feels so good.”

“Yeah, right there.. A little to the left—Oh fuck, right there.”

“So fucking good, sweetheart, keep going.”

Perturbed, you asked him, “Do you ever shut up?” and kneaded your knuckles harder into the knot of muscle between his shoulder blades, earning a louder groan than when you had his dick in your mouth.

One of the horror movies played on the TV, volume turned high for the alien’s gargled dialogue to be heard over the storm. Eddie’s lanky body was limp with sleepiness, melting under the smooth strokes of your palms starting at the base of his neck and gliding downward over his shirt, dragging another grunt out of him when his voice was hoarse from shameless use, not tempering it for a late night where he’d employ his range outside of singing for Corroded Coffin. He mumbled another praise, but his face was smashed to his pillow, rendering what he said unintelligible. His strong back rose with a shallow breath, and you moved with it. The couch was crowded, but you insisted he get comfortable, even if you had to straddle the curve of his ass with one knee fallen to the alarm of crayons and crumbs stuck between the cushions, and your other leg hung off the edge. This worked for him, though. It gave his hand a place to hold you, fingers clasped to your calf and thumb tending to you in little sweeps of truth. I need to touch you. The room was smothered in darkness, save for the brighter scenes highlighting the glossy line of his eye fighting a losing battle one massage of your thumbs into the pockets of soreness at a time.

You worked at the tense muscles with his comforter draped around your shoulders. It slipped down to greet the chafing air, rushing goosebumps over your skin. After the fourth time adjusting it, you left it gathered at your waist. Making sure Eddie was taken care of was more important. And the college girl turning into goo occupied what was left of your attention.

Though, soon, your tendons ached from effort, and staying-up-late stole the water you yawned from your eyes, and the comfort of being with someone who appreciated you wore heavy on your bones.

You grabbed the blanket, and leaned forward.

Brushing back the mess of curls covering the side of his face, you combed through the strands of hair stuck to his stubble, and found his chubby cheek smushed to his shoulder. You kissed him. “I adore you.”

He put a weak squeeze in his palm behind your knee, and spoke through the grog, “I adore you too, baby.”

Adore. Using the endearment in place of another word, and still, the weight was understood by the both of you.

Housed in the cozy heat of his body, sheltered from the rain lashing the windows in sheets, and the howling wind whistling past the corrugated metal roof in gusts, you sighed. Thunder vibrated from the floor, to the couch, to him, to you.

“You’re too sweet to me,” he said, sounding more awake.

“I’m exactly as sweet as you deserve.”

Instead of using his words to express he wanted to turn over, he just started rolling beneath you, forcing you to rip yourself from his divine warmth, and settle upright on his lap.

You were reminded of the reason you were cold when his eyes trailed over your naked skin, not afraid to show their appetite for your chest. The hunger in his hands returned, scaling the plush expanse of your thighs, and feasting his thumbs higher on the sensitive inner haven he’d yet to pay tribute to.

A smirk cut across his mouth. With a slow breath, he rocked his hips, grinding his half-hard cock against your neglected need, now attuned with the perfect tilt to achieve that pretty noise from your mouth which riled him like nothing else.

Oh, he was very awake.

Eddie exhaled with a pitying sound with attentive eyebrows, almost like he was mocking your moan. “You look so good up there, sweetheart,” he admired through his teasing. “Could get used to it..”

“Yeah?” you questioned. Reaching between your joined bodies, you held no qualms about circling your fingers over his cock, and honoring just under his head, ending your stroke just before he could reap the benefit.

He tipped his head back to gain his wits, finding his answer in the darkness behind his eyelids. “But you keep forgetting this night was about you, and thanking you for everything you’ve done for me. And then you go and add that on top of it.” Private fantasies took hold of him, influencing his heavy moan and thumbs climbing higher, higher. “Gotta thank you for so many things, sweetheart. So many.. However many you want,” he said, alluding to his way of showing gratitude. Fresh lust rushed to your soaked heat hugging his length. “Gotta get you out of these, though.” He scratched a nail over your pantyhose.

You snorted, accidentally ushering humor into what was a sexy exchange. “Why bother? You already ripped them.”

“I what?” Plain confusion marked his face.

Treating it like an ordinary thing, you bunched your skirt up to your waist, and drew his gaze to your mismatched black panties. You gandered at them as well, second guessing if you should’ve taken the extra time to find the lavender pair somewhere at the bottom of your drawer.

“Yeah,” he groaned; as his chest fell, his cock swelled. “I’m gonna show you just how thankful I am, again, and again, and again,” he trailed off, each word fluttering the heartbeat at your core—

Lightning struck, and the phone rang.

Jolting, Eddie stared at it from a long moment, breath held as if that alone would will it into submission from ringing a second time. Spikes of prickly anxiety stabbed at your chest, frightened out of the moment worse than any jumpscare.

It rang a second time.

He took the initiative and sat up, consoling you with his hand on your back and a kiss on your cheek. “I’m sure it’s nothing, just stay put and make yourself comfortable, sweet girl. I’ll be right back.”

Use your pet names all he wanted, his voice didn’t instill confidence when it went flat and wavered.

He got up from the couch and you were left feeling exposed, nestling into the blanket as the rain picked up, and the buzzy feeling he left imprinted on your skin faded.

“Hello?” he answered, rubbing his stomach above the open fly of his jeans.

As he listened to the man’s voice on the other end, he dropped his hand, and his shoulders sagged at the information.

Turning away, he huddled the receiver to his ear, and asked, “Is she okay?”

His question didn’t have the direness a parent should have if someone were hurt, so you stood up and padded softly to the kitchen, straining your ears, listening intently and discerning a few sniffles. But one little girl’s cry rang above them all. A shrill call for her Daddy to save her from her greatest fear.

Thunder rocked the trailer.

“Yeah.. Yeah, I’ll come get her.”

The phone clicked into its holder on the wall, and like that, the illusion was shattered. It was no longer just you and him spending a night together, carefree. Responsibility took precedence, and when Eddie faced you, his mood was tainted by all the things he explained about being exhausted from just existing his thankless life, judged by all.

He stared into your optimistic gaze knowing this is when you’d get a dose of his reality as a single father.

Fatigue and dread haunted his expression: this date is over.

[pixxxieland]

Any blood-thristy monster:

Me:

[pixxxieland]

let's go, don't wait: part II (e.m. x f!reader)

inspired by this prompt by @edsforehead - it's not exactly the same but i did my best! series masterlist summary: modern!eddie's been single since 2020 and aside from getting his dick wet after weekend shows at the hideout, he hasn't been going out of his way for love until his friends make him. cw: 18+ for adult themes. alcohol use, swearing, phone sex, smut, oral (f receiving). some sad childhood talk, all around this is a fluff piece so nothing too bad. (19K words.)

With how easy the first date had been to make, Eddie wasn’t expecting it to be so hard to pin you down for the next one. Neither of your schedules had lined up for the rest of the week, and up until next Friday neither of you had much free time. You either had to stay at work late or he had to stay late for the three extracurriculars he was running (jazz club, D&D club, and co-runner of the school’s GSA) – which he’d only be annoyed about running if he didn’t absolutely love the kids. The extra overtime didn’t hurt either, perks of working at a rich kid private arts school.

At first he was nervous you were busy going on dates with other guys until he called you one night and he could hear your boss in the background waxing poetic about the shift to lab grown sapphires. Then he’d feel bad for feeling so accusatory to start – you’d never said anything to each other about being exclusive. Hell, you’d only been on one date. But you talked every day, and fuck did that feel good for Eddie. 

g’morning pretty  ew you’re obsessed with me. good morning, boy

He’s happy he knows you’re joking because he’s certain no other guy would get it. He knows you read his text and screamed into your pillow, cheeks hot and chest thrumming. That’s why you always have to respond so mean so that he doesn’t know how much you like him back. This backfires, because he can tell that the meaner you are, the more you like his attention.

what’s your weekend look like? i know you leave for AZ on sunday but i’d really like to see you before you go. 

You were headed to a gem trade show in Tucson on Sunday for a few days. You went every year you’d been working for your boss, you told him all about it on the phone. You’re cute when you’re excited but he didn’t want to embarrass you by saying so – just let you rattle on about all the things you get to see. You promised to send him pictures of some of the cool fossils you might come across, all of the big crystal furniture.  “You were a weird dinosaurs kind of kid, right? You’d be into pictures of fossils?" “Why are you so mean? Would you go up to nine year old me and call him a weird kid that’s into dinosaurs?” “No, he’d be so sad.” “So next time you wanna say some mean shit, imagine you’re saying it to nine year old me.” “I bet you were a cute kid,” you thought out loud, “You’re a really cute adult.” 

“You think I’m cute?” “The cutest.” His face burned at every compliment you offered him, flushing dark pink at every sweet word you said. He was a mess. Embarrassment would flood him when he’d check his phone during class, the kids would never let him hear the end of it.  “Did you meet her on Tinder, Mr. E?”  “This is not appropriate class discussion guys,” his eyes would shut tight in frustration when they’d catch him texting you back and he’d reluctantly tuck his phone into his back pocket. They were way bolder than he was at their age. “No because like, you’re so happy though. Look how you’re smiling when you text her.” “Mr. Munson’s got that W rizz.”  “Is she hot?” “Be fucking forreal. He’s blushing so hard right now.” “Smash or pass, Munson?” “Guys, can you relax? You literally have a test right now." Bzz. Bzz.

i gotta run errands on saturday and go then leave sunday night :( working late friday cause we need to take gem inventory essentially He sighed, he didn’t want to wait until next Friday to see you again. 

i could run errands with you if you’ll have me. i’ll drive! you sure? it’s not super exciting stuff. you make it exciting. :) i’ll take you out to lunch. sound good? okay :) okay :)  see you saturday, cutie omg shut up 🙄 but yeah. see you saturday. :) 

He was nervous you’d notice he got his interior detailed the night before, but he was too embarrassed to let you get into the car in its original glory. He honked the horn in three short bursts, being mindful of the neighbors even though it was around 9:30 in the morning.  You inch out of the door of your place, the first floor of a quaint three family home, in your Princess Diana best. You dressed for errands and his heart swells, leggings and a big sweatshirt, little white sneakers and socks. You look cute like this, hurrying outside with your paper Old Navy bag blowing in the wind, relaxed and laid back. But you aren’t for long, you take a step outside only to feel the chill in the ‘second winter’ air of March and raise a finger to him before running back inside — reappearing with a lightweight parka haphazardly thrown on. You patter to the car and he tries to ignore his heart rate speeding up while he leans over to open it for you. “Hey you,” he smiles, “Good morning.”  “Morning,” you say with a coy smile. His chest leans forward slightly to kiss you as you settle in but he stops short. Are you there yet? You only kissed that night last week. What if you weren’t ready to kiss again? He swallows, settling back into his seat but recognizing how his car fills with your scent. You smell so fucking good he could eat you.  “So what’s the agenda, sugar?” he asks.   “Okay, agenda: Target, Old Navy for a return,” you say, raising your bag, “I have to run into Sephora to pick up some sunscreen for my boss, and um…I think that’s it? They’re all in the same shopping center over by um – by the movie theater.”  “Oh yeah,” he nods, “I know the one.”  He reaches for the sound system, turning the volume up a little, Lamb of God’s Vanishing crunching through his speakers. He watches for your reaction and can tell you don’t know it, but you don’t seem appalled or repulsed.  “Do you have a tunes preference?” he asks, voice velvety smooth, eyes catching on your parted lips, “It’s a long drive.”  “Uh…” your knee bounces faster, “I mean it’s your car. We should listen to what you wanna listen to.”  “Honey, I’m like your Uber driver today,” he offers, head tilting while he looks over at you. Eddie’s gaze lingers on your face with soft eyes, lashes a shadow over his irises, “How’m I gonna get a five star review if you don’t like the music?” 

“I do!” you assure aggressively, “I do like it.”

“Here, I have a plan,” he nods, holding his hand out, “Gimme your phone.” 

You toss him a look which triggers an eye roll from him, “Just trust me, give me your phone.” 

“Here’s the bargain, I connect your tunes to my car,” he mumbles while he disconnects his phone from the car’s Bluetooth and connects yours instead, “But I get to pick the songs. Deal?” 

A giggle bubbles out of you, shoulders shaking loosely, “That’s ridiculous.” 

“But is it a deal?” he asks again. He takes a breath that inflates his chest, while you consider it. It’s not fair that you look so cute this morning, it’s not fair that he doesn’t have the confidence to just reach over and lay one on you like they do in the movies. He wasn’t lying when he said you were so kissable. 

“It’s a deal,” you nod. He watches your knee slow down to stopping. Eddie swallows, eyes traveling from your knees to your full thighs sitting fat in his passenger's seat with a quick scan that you don’t notice. 

“Okay, so let’s see…” he mutters, going into your music and scrolling through your artists, landing pretty early on with an enthusiastic nod that makes his waves bounce around his face. 

“Blood Brothers?” he asks, “Wow, you really did hate your dad, huh? I haven’t heard this album in years.”

“I started liking them for a boy back in high school,” you shrugged while he thumbed through the tracks, “Then started liking them forreal.” “That’s okay,” he smiles over at you, “You’d be surprised to see my Spotify wrapped every year. Never as mean and scary as you’d expect.” 

“No?” your brows raise, “Not a bunch of ‘Stabby Metal Scream Crunch Stab’ in your top ten?” 

He scoffs, settling on ‘Set Fire to the Face on Fire’, the opening Fire! Fire! Fire! leaking through the speakers, “I married the head cheerleader at my high school – I’d like to think my music taste is pretty eclectic. Metal’s just, y’know, the main course. Plenty of side dishes on my roster.” 

“You a big fan of having something on the side?” you quirk a brow at him through the rear view mirror while he puts the car in drive. He scoffs again, lips twitching up into a smirk. You’re quick and it makes his blood rush, his fingers drum nervously on the wheel while he keeps the car in place.

“Why’re you so mean, huh?” he teases, “Do I look like the kind of guy that’s had a lot of side pieces?” 

“Oh,” you start, giving him a once over, “Not even close.” 

“You’re here with me, aren’t you?” he asks, putting the car in park again. He turns down the volume, turning his body completely towards you. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” you drone, turning yourself toward him in return,  “I guess I am.” Eddie clears his throat, tongue flicking over his full lips to wet them. 

“So uh…before we hit the road,” his voice cracks, heart rattling in its cage, trapped in his chest, “D’you-think-I-could-steal-a-kiss-good-morning?” It pours out of his mouth while his body goes numb – like the bandaid was ripped off but someone else did it for him. His hopeful voice when he presents the offer sounds foreign to him, but he knows what he’s asking you. Blood rushes in his ears, the steady thump of his heart pounding through his veins. Your bottom lip tucks into your teeth, eyes shutting briefly with anticipation, a tiny chuckle huffs through your nose. Your knee starts to bounce again. 

“Yeah, but it’s not stealing if I’m letting you have one,” you reply, your own voice becoming delicate and girlish, teenage nerves coasting down your throat through the back of your neck. He leans close to you, engulfed again in the scent of your perfume, head leaning to the side slightly while your movements mirror his. Eddie brings a hand up to hold your face, keeping you steady while he goes in for the kill, one he’d been hoping to make since he saw you last. Heart stuck in his throat, he almost feels a sob shoot through his chest when his lips touch yours. It’s as soft and warm as he remembers. As soft and warm as the moment he’s been replaying in his head since last Monday. 

You both break apart but he doesn’t move away from your face, hand dropping from your cheek to your bouncing knee where he gives it a gentle squeeze, “Are you nervous?” 

“I don’t know,” you shrug, “I think maybe, yeah. But I’m excited, too. Y’know, to spend the day with you.” 

It’s his turn to feel giddy and embarrassed, a flush building steadily on the apples of his cheeks, “If it makes you feel any better, I’m nervous, too. But it’s  just gonna be a nice, chill day, okay?” 

“Okay,” you nod, both of you wearing matching smiles. 

“I do have a rule, though,” his brows furrow, implying he’s serious. You look very seriously back at him. 

“I gotta kiss you every time you’re startin’a look a little too good,” he gives you a shrug of one shoulder before settling back into the driver’s seat while he pulls onto the road, “Cause I don’t know if you saw, but the way you look this morning is fucking illegal.” 

You let out a soft tsss from between your teeth, shaking your head while you settle back into your seat, “You’re so stupid.” 

“I’m just a man, sugar,” he tilts his head, readjusting behind the wheel before putting the car back in drive. He restarts the song before pulling onto the road, feeling like maybe this errands date would go much, much better than he’d planned. He drums on the steering wheel again, head softly bouncing along with the beat of the song while the lyrics scream through the car. You mouth along with them, staring out the window while you do. 

‘Those cold hooks, cemetery claws raking at the infant's jaws,Set fire to the horse on fire,Set fire to the dress on fire,Set fire to the stage on fire,Set fire to the stars on fire!’

“Damn, me and the band shoulder cover this,” he nods to himself, “We’d fuckin’ crush.” 

“Can you scream like that?” you ask, turning your head to face him, “I feel like I’d blow my vocal chords.” 

“Eh, sorta kinda,” he tilts his head from side to side, “I got plenty of practice. Do plenty of screaming with our own stuff, you sorta train your voice up to do it. I might not be able to scream as high but, I could harmonize with Jeff – lead guitar if you remember –” “I remember,” you smile, “And his wife Alycia.” 

“And is wife Alycia! Damn, look at you,” he smiles, “You should write my memoirs. But yeah, surprisingly Jeff can get pretty high up there – it’s super impressive.”

“Well when you cover it, I’ll come watch,” you nod, “You still haven’t really told me about your band.” 

“Corroded Coffin?” he asks, turning into a coffee shop drive-thru and pulling up behind a short line of cars, “Not much to tell. We play shows every couple weeks, in the summer every week, at a few bars around the city that are into that scene. We have fun – still play at our old stomping grounds in Hawkins, too. Same five drunks cheering us on for the last twelve years.” 

His eyes widen at the realization, “Twelve years, Jesus. I’m so fuckin’ old.”   

“Oh, thank god I only have two years until I’m fuckin’ old,” you laugh, “You don’t look old.” 

“You don’t look old either,” he smiles, giving you a once over that you immediately feel shy under, “What can I get you?” 

“Oh no, no,” you shake your head, reaching for your wallet in your Old Navy bag, “I’ll get it, seriously. You’re driving me.” 

“No, please, I’ll get it,” he says, pushing your hand down gently while you offer your card. 

“I wanna pay for it, you’re already going out of your way to do all this boring shit,” you offer again. He plucks your card from your fingers and flicks it into the backseat. He shrinks when your smile falls, you’re very obviously not taken by his actions. 

“Look,” he shrugs, voice lowering, “I didn’t wanna say anything cause I didn’t know how you’d react. But this location actually doesn’t accept money from women. I know, crazy right? So sexist. Its so gross of me to still go here when it’s totally against all my shit. But since they don’t accept any payments from women, I’m gonna have to pay or else we can’t get coffee.” 

You roll your eyes but can’t hold back your laugh, “Fuck, why do you have to be funny about it?” 

“You think I’m funny, huh?” he grins, pulling up to the microphone box. 

“Yeah, funny lookin’,” you tease. Eddie ‘tsks’ a few times with a shake of his head, looking back at you. 

“What can I get you?” he asks again. 

“Medium, iced, caramel. Almond milk if they have it, regular if not,” you respond, crossing your arms. He orders and can feel your eyes on him, he wants to turn back around and kiss that pout right off your lips. You’re not used to having someone take care of things and he can tell, you don’t like it either. Or at least you don’t know how to let yourself like it. Two givers stuck in a car running errands with each other – he wonders if you’ve ever known how to take. 

He gets the coffees, yours with your milk and flavor, his iced and black. You say thank you when you take it, there’s something about your face when you do, a softness he feels like he’s not supposed to see. 

“Hey, you know my rule,” he says, leaning in again, “You’re startin’ to look at little too good right now.” 

Your embarrassed smile says enough when you close the gap between the two of you, lips pressing together in a soft and gentle peck. 

“Thank you,” he expresses, big brown eyes looking into yours before pulling back onto the streets. He turns the sound system up again, the opening of Cam’ron’s Hey Ma flows through the speakers, he nods enthusiastically. 

“Another banger,” he exclaims. 

“You know this song?” you ask with surprise. 

“I grew up in a trailer park, baby. You hear a lot of different music out there,” he shrugs. Eddie feels his throat choke up when he realizes he called you baby. But at least if you hated it, you weren’t showing any sign that you did. 

“Got drops. Got coupes. Got trucks. Got jeeps. Alright, 'cause we gon' take a ride tonight So ma. Wassup? Let's slide. Alright. Alright, and we gon' get it on tonight.” He likes that you’re impressed that he knows the words, of course he does. He grew up hearing this song all of summer 2002, running through the hose with the little kids, while his old baby sitters sat out in lawn chairs to work on their color. Playboy Bunny stickers on their hip bones to show off their tan lines. 

You both sing the opening verse to the windshield, windows coming down an inch as you turn onto the parkway, voices booming over Juelz Sanatana’s. 

“Now I was down town clubbin’, ladies night, Seen shorty she was crazy right, And I approached baby like, ‘Ma, what’s your age and type?’ She looked at me and said, ‘Yous a baby right?’” He hits the last red light before the long stretch of the drive, turning to you to deliver a passionate line reading of the lyrics. He’s surprisingly smooth, even impressing himself at how actually cool he’s being about it. 

“I told her, I’m eighteen and live a crazy life, Plus I’ll tell you what the 80s like, and I know what the ladies like, Need a man that’s polite, listens and takes advice. I can be all three, plus I can lay the pipe. Come with me, come stay the night.” 

He winks when he finishes the line and by the way you stop singing, he knows he’s got you flustered. You are easy. He wants to see how much easier it is. 

“You better be careful,” you warn, tongue caught between your teeth. “Yeah? I better be careful?” he grins, car pushing forward when the light changes so he can turn onto the highway. 

“You’re trouble, Munson,” you shake your head, turning your attention back to the stretch of asphalt ahead of the both of you, “You’re big trouble.” 

“She looked at me laughin’ like, ‘Boy your game is tight.’ I’m laughin’ back like, ‘Sure, you’re right.’” 

“D’you need a cart?” Eddie asks, taking a side step over to the push carts neatly pushed into each other in between the double doors of Target. 

“Nah, if I get a cart I’m just gonna use it as an excuse to buy more stuff,” you pull a face, shoulders dropping dramatically, “And while I’d love to have an excuse to buy more stuff, I just need a basket.” “Basket it is,” he grins, hand wrapping over the hard plastic of one of the handles, tugging a basket loose from where it’s encased with its brothers. You reach your hand out, taking a step closer to the entrance, our step triggers the automatic doors and he files in after you. 

He looks at your outstretched hand behind you and then up at your face, “I can hold it, Ed.” 

He gives you a small shake of his head, “Nah, I’ll carry it. You lead the way. What’s on your list?”  “I mostly just need to get travel stuff…like toiletries,” you think out loud, “I guess this wasn’t really much of a big errand now that I think about it.” 

“That’s okay,” he says, and he means it. 

You don’t go straight to the beauty section. You’re taken by the $5 and under shelves at the front of the store, full of small decor knick knacks that he recognizes from his own apartment. This is where Tati’s always picking up those little gold tchotchkes for the coffee table and bookshelves every other month. The same way Chrissy would always have new, tiny holiday themed pieces every year to sneak onto their mantle.

“So, do you want me to keep you on task?” he asks, falling in step next to you, watching your fingers toy over a felted bunny figurine for Easter, “Or do you want me to aid in you not being on task?” 

You look over at him, eyes scanning over his frame. He catches the way your eyes linger on the way his t-shirt fits him under his leather jacket and denim vest. Dark olive green, a touch too tight in the chest, collar worn out just enough so that the ends of his collar bones peeked through. 

“We have all day, right?” you smirk. 

“All day,” he nods, “You a walking through the aisles type of girl?” 

“Is that a deal breaker?” you ask, attention captivated by a lavender ceramic pencil holder in the shape of a rainbow. 

“No, not at all,” he assures, taking you by surprise when he presses a kiss to your temple, “I’m a walking through the aisles type of guy.” 

“Was I looking a little too good while perusing the five dollar shelf?” you tease while you move onward into the store, stopping to thumb through a rack of jeans.

“Well that’s the thing,” he says with a tilt of his head, “You’re always lookin’ a little too good.” 

He hums when you roll your eyes, “Hmm. How’d I know that was coming?” 

“Why’re you so nice to me all the time, huh?” you fake argue, bored with looking at clothes and taking deliberate steps towards home goods to the bath section. Eddie hurries to keep up, basket clicking and clacking in his hand. 

“I guess I can be mean to you, but I feel like that would make me a shitty date,” he jokes back, “And an even worse Uber driver.” 

“So true, actually. Zero stars,” you nod, running your hand over a towel that matches the color of his shirt, “Y’know green’s a really good color for you? Makes your eyes pop.” 

“Oh…” he can feel himself turning red when you say that. So she’s been looking at my eyes? Is she always secretly sort of checking me out the way I’m always secretly sort of checking her out? Does she think I’m cute or something? Why am I trying to propose to her right now? Is it ‘cause we’re looking at towels? 

“Um, thank you. I’ll um, I’ll wear it more often,” he runs a hand over his face while you continue to look at towels, turning the corner to look at the fancier ones. You laugh at his jittery response, not so much at him, not teasing, but – this guy covered in tattoos, stomping in combat boots, definitely has a knife in his back pocket, chains dangling down the side of his pants, is blushing bright red just because you said he looks good in green. This guy? 

“You should,” you encourage, turning to see his reddened face, “What happened to not being nervous?” 

“That’s a rule for you,” he says, walking a few steps ahead of you. His eyes catch on a soap dispenser, it’s the same one he had in the master bathroom back with Chris, “I can be as nervous as I want.” 

“Ah, I see, rules for thee, not for me,” you nod slowly. 

“See! Now you’re getting it,” he says over his shoulder. He reaches his free hand back toward you, eyes meeting yours, tossing you a smile when you look at his hand and back at him, “Yeah, I want you to hold it.” 

When your fingers slide in to lace with his he realizes his hands are a little sweaty. They weren’t last time you saw him, with your hand cradled in between his on his knee at the bar. He was a couple drinks in then, not forced to face the action fully. Not aware enough to realize he was holding a pretty girl’s hand in public on a domestic date and all he can think about is railing you in the backseat of his Honda Civic and also making a mental note of all the color choices you like so when you eventually move in together he already knows what you — Jesus fucking Christ you have soft hands. You guide him through the rest of the bathroom section, stopping briefly to consider whether or not you need more hand towels for your apartment and then shaking it off. He let’s you take him around the corner to mattress covers, you talk about your Casper mattress and how you still aren’t sure if you really like it two years later. He hears himself respond in a fog but he’s caught up on how right it feels to be here with you, to be holding your hand, holding your Target basket for you, listening to you talk about whatever. 

You get to bedding and stop at the throws, Eddie’s fog lifts when you let go of his hand to take one of them off the shelf. A dark green knitted blanket replaces his hand, folded up neat and tidy in its wrap-around casing. 

“This is so perfect for my living room,” you murmur to yourself, “It’s so cute.” 

Eddie leans against the shelf while you let your senses absorb the knit: touch, sight, smell. You peer at the other colors, unhappy with the rest, balancing the blanket on your hip while you look back at the empty spot where it once sat. Your eyes roll again, shoulders slumping for real this time.

“Not seventy five dollars cute,” you grumble, putting the blanket back on the shelf. 

“Seventy five dollars?” he asks, aghast, brown eyes rounding in surprise, “What, did they shear the sheep here or something?” 

“That’s capitalism for ya,” you click your tongue, giving the blanket one last look with a little pout, “Oh well, I’m sure I can find a dupe or something at TJ Maxx.” 

“M’sorry, sweetheart,” he consoles, taking your hand back and giving it an apologetic squeeze. 

“Sweetheart…” you repeat back, “That’s cute.” 

“That’s cute? Okay,” he smiles down at the tile under his feet, teeth showing, “I’ll keep note of that.” 

You both continue your journey through bedding, crossing through the Hearth & Hand showcase where he listens to you gripe about how you swear it’s a scam. None of this shit should be this expensive. Like, I could get all this shit at H&M Home online for twenty dollars less. What, just cause they’re on TV? Frickin’ ridiculous. He still stands by thinking that you’re cute when you’re mad. He can’t let go of your hand. He doesn’t even care that you’re both so far from travel toiletries, that you likely forgot why you were even here. He just likes this, being in Target with you, holding your hand while you yell about something. 

“Oh, hold on, I gotta look at these,” you squeeze his hand before you let go again, walking ahead of him while Matchbox Twenty’s 3AM fades into Des’ree’s You Gotta Be. 

“Decorative wicker baskets?” he asks, stepping back to look at the wall of wicker baskets of all sizes in the back of the store. 

“I need two for under my dresser,” you say, reaching up to grab one and looking at the tag for the dimensions, “S’for my socks and stuff.” 

He tosses you a look and you look back at him, “Don’t ask.” 

You get lost in the task, two stepping with a little sway to your hips, small movements. You sing along to the song while you pull one basket down and put it back, and so on. You gotta be cool, you gotta be calm, you gotta stay together. You aren’t mocking him when you sing along but the lyrics feel like they are. You’re so into it, too. He guesses this is what you’re like when no one’s around to watch you. How unfortunate that you’re so kissable even when you think no one is around to see it. 

“Hey,” he says, putting the basket down, “What did I say about looking too good?” 

“What?” you turn around, eyes rounded, almost startled, “Am I taking too long?”

“No,” he says with a furrow of his brow, approaching you gently while he crosses into your personal space. His voice drops a little lower, lips lingering close to yours, “No baby, not at all. Just looking really cute over here.” 

You can’t help but feel girlish when he’s like this, giggling while heat floods your cheeks and chest. 

“C’mere,” he whispers, pressing you back with his body so you’re flush with the shelves against the wall. His nose brushes yours, fingers finding your chin to tilt you up toward him where his mouth can taste you and you can taste him. He starts slow, just a test, shrouded in the lower light of the back decorative basket aisle, lips parting slightly to see if you’ll match it. He puffs a small breath against the ridge of your upper lip and it’s enough to send you into a frenzy. His body presses close up against you, kiss gaining fervor, hands coming up to cup around your cheek and neck to guide you with him

“Wait, wait,” you gasp, breaking away, “We’re gonna get in trouble.” 

“You think I’m scared of getting in trouble?” he clicks his tongue before grinning at you. Looks like you don’t do trouble. His lips ghost over yours, skating softly over your cheek to get to your ear, “I’ve been gettin’ kicked out of Targets since 2007, sweetheart.” 

His teeth graze your ear lobe, your hands reaching to clutch the soft leather of his jacket, a small sigh puffs out of you. He’s not sure if it’s pushing it, but the aisle is empty, and whatever he’s doing, he’s pretty sure you like it – his lips drop from your earlobe to the edge of your jaw, settling on a slow, wet open mouth kiss on your neck before meeting your mouth again. 

“Ed,” you mumble quietly, “I can’t be turned on at Target.” 

“Yes you can,” he giggles, stealing another gentle kiss from you. 

“Uh…hey folks,” a timid voice calls from the end of the aisle. You both break away, embarrassment clearly taking you over while you cover your face in your hands. A younger guy in a red t-shirt and khaki slacks waves awkwardly when he has both of your attention. 

“Sorry to uh, to interrupt but, um – y’know, this is a family friendly store and we just – yeah, I’m sorry. You’re not in trouble or anything,” he offers, stumbling over his words. 

“Thanks man,” Eddie says genuinely, giving him a wave back, “Sorry about that, just uh, caught up in the moment I guess. Baskets really do it for her, y’know?” 

The guy nods, walking away when a small thwap of the back of your hand hits his chest. 

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you laugh, changing your voice to mock him, “Baskets really do it for her. Fuck all the way off.” 

Eddie laughs with you, picking up the Target basket and placing it in your hand, “Look, I gotta pee so bad. Do you think you can man the aisles yourself while I go and take care of that?” 

You nod, “Just text me when you’re done and I’ll tell you where I am, okay?” 

“Cool,” he nods back, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek, “See you in a bit.” 

hey, where are you at?easter stuff, i got distracted very godly of you

He bustles through the aisles, realizing now that you’re on the totally opposite side of the store than you were before. He spots you where all the candy is, your basket full of your toiletries.  “Easter candy?” he asks. 

“It’s the best holiday candy, easily,” you confess, “I know people will probably say Halloween since that’s the candy holiday, but dude, there’s something about Cadbury eggs.” 

“Yeah?” he reaches out and takes the basket out of your hand gently, you don’t protest when he does, “Isn’t it supposed to be from the UK? Don’t they have better chocolate by proxy?” 

“I think so,” you agree while Eddie strolls a little further down the aisle, “Have you ever had them?” 

“I’m sure I have,” he says, fingers tracing over a chocolate bunny in a box, “I guess I’m more of a Halloween guy.” 

“Boring,” you sing, holding two small bags of Cadbury eggs in your hands. Eddie holds the basket in front of him while you gear up to toss one in. 

“Kobe!” you shout, the candy leaving your fingers in a lay up toss, floating through the air only to fall at Eddie’s feet on the tile. 

“Too soon,” Eddie shakes his head solemnly, reaching down to grab the chocolate and put it in the red basket in his arm, “How’re you gonna call out a legend’s name and then miss?” 

“I feel like you moved it so that I’d miss,” you accuse playfully. 

“I kept it exactly where it was, I think you’re just not very good at basketball,” he says, making his way towards you. You put the other bag in with the rest of your stuff and look up at him through half lidded eyes. He matches your gaze while he looks at you. 

“You just don’t wanna see me be great,” you tease. 

“Oh, stop,” he tutts, “You’re very great.” 

Neither of you can help but kiss again. It feels natural to do it at this point. 

“You get everything you need to get?” he asks against your lips. You nod, a little ‘mhm’ squeaks out of your throat, “Good, cause they can’t yell at us for making out in the parking lot. So we should head out of here soon.” 

The remainder of the errands and lunch go by like a blur to him. Saturday meant busy restaurants so instead you opted for fast food in the parking lot, starting the drive home sharing Wendy’s waffle fries over the center console. 

Before you pull out of the lot, he flicks your music on again, opting to just leave it on shuffle because he feels like he learns you better that way. What’s going to come up next that’ll surprise him? What’s he gonna find out about you? 

‘Baby, I know you’re hurting, Right now you feel like you could never love again. Now all I ask, is for a chance, to prove, That I love you.’ 

Eddie barks out a laugh, takes a sip of his Sprite, and then laughs again, “Oh shit. I haven’t heard this song in years!”

“You know this song, too?” you ask, surprised again at his music repertoire. 

“You really don’t think I’m cultured, do you?” he jokes, “I have a deep affinity for the Backstreet Boys, though I will admit I was an NSYNC boy myself growing up.”

“Of course,” you murmur with an eye roll, “What’s your favorite NSYNC song?” 

“Ooh, let me see,” he thinks while he turns onto the highway, “Definitely Drive Myself Crazy. I’d always try to hit JC’s runs.”

“You knew their names too?” 

“I told you already, I grew up in a trailer park. I had the same babysitter from two to eleven,” he explains, “Mrs. Grandy watched me until her daughter Summer turned thirteen and then I’d go and pal around with her and her friends. I was like her little brother, I practically lived there.” 

“Were you always there?” you ask, “At your babysitter’s house?” 

“Yeah. My uh, my mom died when I was seven but she was always working and tryna stay out of the house when my dad came home so I was always at the sitters. He’s y’know – he’s in jail but he was in and out of it when I was a kid, too. Got arrested for beating on her a couple months before she died and my uncle moved up from North Carolina to take care of me. But he worked nights so – if I wasn’t at school I had to have someone watch me while he slept and then someone had to be at the trailer while I slept. It was way easier when I was in school – but anyway – wow – off topic there – yes, I spent a lot of time with my babysitter and her mom,” he finishes.  

“I’m sorry,” you offer, reaching over to give his knee a reassuring squeeze. 

“No, don’t be. It’s okay. I’m okay – I turned out pretty cool, I think,” he shrugs.

“You’re really cool,” you smile, Eddie smiles back. 

“What’s your favorite Backstreet Boys song?” he asks. 

“Hey Mr. DJ, easy,” you tell him, “It’s the most fucknasty song they’ve ever made and it still holds up. Like, I want it played at my wedding. I’m trying to make a child to that song.” 

Eddie loses it at fucknasty, head falling back on the headrest while his chest bounces, “The most fucknasty song? We’ll have to play that next.” 

“You won’t be disappointed,” you say, “AJ sings it and he was my favorite.” 

“Oh, baby, that does not surprise me at all,” he grins. Calling you baby sounds comfortable now, even after just talking for a week. He’s not sure how fast or slow these things are supposed to go, but your little smile every time he says it makes him wanna say it more. 

“I saw them in concert, when I was like, nine or ten or something,” Eddie says, “For their Millenium Tour – was when I Want It That Way was huge.” 

“You got tickets?” you ask, a teasing grin splitting your face. 

“Summer was a huge Backstreet Boys and NYSNC fan, like, posters all over her room. Had every magazine they were in that she could find, everything. So all we would do when she would watch me was listen to them and talk about them, so I liked them because she liked them and I thought she was cool,” he starts. 

“So anyway, she finds out on the radio that they’re giving away tickets to a show in Columbus – cause like, no one fucking comes to Indiana to play shows – and she calls in and wins! She literally went into shock. But we ended up going and she brought me instead of her friend because she was like ‘Mom, he’s family’. Which as an adult, makes me fucking melt y’know? But as a kid I was like ‘Damn you’re gonna drag me to Ohio to see a boy band? I wanna see Tool.’”

“Not Tool!” you laugh.  

“But it was cool cause we got to stay in a hotel for a night and all that other shit. It felt really special, her mom got us t-shirts which I’m sure cost her a fortune but – damn. I had a lot of fun.” 

“It sounds like you did.”

“The most crazy thing though – which I’ve never told anyone so, I hope you feel special – was when I saw them perform, I thought like, ‘Wow, I wanna do this when I grow up.’ So in a way, if it wasn’t for the Backstreet Boys, I would’ve never realized I wanted to be a rockstar,” he confesses, “And I mean, obviously I was really into rock, and metal, and folk-punk stuff ‘cause of Wayne, but seeing those guys on stage? Everyone screaming? I was like ‘Damn, I wanna be up there! I wanna be shredding up there!’” 

“I love that,” you reply, a warm smile spread across your face while you watch him relive the memory in his head. 

He shrugs, “It was a cool dream to have but, I don’t know. That ship has long sailed.” 

“What do you mean? Long sailed? You can still be a rockstar,” you argue, a fry crunching soft between your teeth. 

He shakes his head, slight defeat caressing his tone, “No I can’t. I’m too old now.” 

“Too old? Shut up,” you assert through a mouthful of waffle fry, “Metallica’s still out there playing. Iron Maiden is literally on tour right now. And they’re all like – in their sixties for fuck’s sake.” 

“Okay?” he huffs back, the red from the hazard lights of the car in front of you flashes against his face, “And? They all got famous when they were like, twenty or younger. I’m fucking…thirty-two.” 

“Exactly! You’re only thirty-two,” you exclaim while he rolls to a stop at a red light. Your hand reaches out to squeeze his arm, “You have so much time. You can literally be a rockstar whenever.” 

Eddie’s chest gets tight when you say that – it had been a while since he heard that type of encouragement. He’d missed the feeling of someone cheering him on from the bar while he was on stage, Chrissy’s praise when they’d get home. Wayne calling to tell him he saw a review of their set in the paper. Lately the shows felt sad to him, he felt lonely, even though he was always the happiest when he could make it on that stage. 

“You can’t be saying shit like that to me,” he says knowingly, maneuvering his arm so that he can take your hand in his. 

“Why not?” you ask, your voice holding a hint of sullenness that breaks his heart. He kisses your knuckles before resting his and your hand on your thigh, the light changing to green. 

“‘Cause you’re gonna make me fall in love with you.” Your eyes cast down at his hand on your thigh, your smile tight, stretching painfully across your cheeks, “Oh, okay. I’ll be meaner if that’s not what you’re going for.” 

“It’s definitely what I’m going for,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand softly. 

The mood in the car shifts to comfortable silence, I’ll Never Break Your Heart fading out into the opening croons of Leon Bridges’ Coming Home. You lean your head on the window, looking at the cars passing you on the highway, the light flecks of rain hitting the glass as the car keeps its speed. Eddie lets go of your hand, palm stretching over the mass of your thigh, running soothingly up and down on your leggings. His thumb rubs soft and slow over the outside of your quad, he just wants to touch you. It’s a comforting touch, no implications other than – I like being here with you right now. 

‘The world leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, girl. You're the only one that I want, Wanna be around. Wanna be around, girl, Wanna be around, girl, Ooh, wanna be around, girl...’

“I like this,” Eddie says, his voice soft, “Who is this?” 

“Leon Bridges,” you answer, “The whole album is so good. It honestly sounds even better on vinyl.” 

“I was just about to say, I bet it sounds great on vinyl,” he enthuses, “I like the old timey vibe.” 

“It’s cozy, right?” you ask. 

“Very cozy,” he nods, tossing a look over to you. Your eyes are heavy lidded, breath steady in your chest,  “You gettin’ sleepy?” 

“Kinda,” you yawn, “You’re not boring me or anything, I promise.” 

“That’s okay,” he offers you a soft pat on the thigh, returning back to the slow back and forth that was putting you to sleep, “We’ll be home soon-ish, just take a nap.” 

You frown, “You sure? Am I being lame?” 

“Nah, you’re not being lame,” he assures. Your eyes flutter closed, the warm cascade of his hand continues while they do. 

After a long stretch of highway, Eddie turns the car into your part of town, a sadness washing over him that he has to drop you off and then go home to his apartment for the remainder of this rainy evening. For a flicker of a moment he wants to be selfish and ask if you wanna just kick it at his house, but he knows you have stuff to do before this trip. Envy seeps into his sadness that your boss gets to spend so much time with you, gets to watch you laugh, gets to watch you solve problems, gets to watch you do anything all day. Is it healthy to feel like this so quickly? I don’t know her like that, he wonders, Is it that sort of thing where like, if you know you know? Or am I being kind of insane right now? 

“What’d I miss?” you ask, rising from your mini-nap in the car. You frown when you see your surroundings, so much closer to home than you hoped. 

“A few showtunes and Mariah’s Vision of Love,” he says, your sleepy voice tugging on his heart and lips, “I’m partial to My All but that’s cause I’m a professional sad boy.” 

“My All is on there, but it’s probably good I was out for Vision of Love – you didn’t have to hear me screlting it in the small confines of this car,” you laugh.

“Do you sing?” he asks. You shake your head no. 

“I did musicals in high school, as you can see by the showtunes,” you explain, “But I wouldn’t call myself much of a singer.” 

“I’m sure I’ll find out if that’s true sooner or later,” he offers. It’s part way through Good Charlotte’s Girls & Boys, volume low so he didn’t disturb you sleeping. 

“This song makes me laugh,” you say, he feels your hand find his, still sitting firm on your lap. You play with his rings, twirling them around his fingers, he swallows hard. 

“Like, so many songs that came out around this time, even a couple years after – now they just sound like women’s empowerment.” 

“Tell me more,” he says, turning onto your street, the ache creeping back up again. 

“Like, ‘Girls don’t like boys, girls like cars and money.’ Is that supposed to be a dig? Of course I like cars and money – I’m a person. ‘Paper or plastic, don’t matter, she’ll have it.’ Like it’s a bad thing! Sounds like she’s thriving, he’s paying for everything and she didn’t even ask him to, she’s just sitting there looking hot!” you continue, “Sounds like a dream to be honest!”

“Yeah!” he nods, mulling it over in his head, “Fuckin’ – good for her!” 

“I’m happy for her!” you laugh, he laughs with you. It’s nice to laugh so much with you, he likes that you’re sort of goofy in your own right. He pulls up to your house, pulling in to park in front of the walk way. Both of your laughs quiet down, you both look at the house through your window and the air in the car changes. 

“I don’t wanna go,” you frown, shoulders slumping, “I wanna keep hanging out.” 

“I know,” he says gently, “I wanna keep hanging out, too – but you got stuff you need to get ready for tomorrow.”

“I know,” you scrunch your nose, “So stupid.” 

“So stupid,” he agrees, “How dumb that you have to go to a really cool expo where the weather’s nice.” “Well when you put it like that,” you say with a tilt of your head and a smile. 

“Let me get your stuff out of the trunk,” he offers, getting out of the car into the smattering of rain. He pops the trunk and grabs your bags, coming over to your side to open your door for you. 

“Here,” he says, offering you your toiletries, Old Navy exchange (and a few other purchases), and a Sephora bag with definitely more than just your boss’s sunscreen in it. You thank him and lean in for a kiss but he grins, turning away from you to go back to the trunk, “Sorry, forgot a bag.” 

He reappears with the trunk closes, another Target bag in his hands that he passes to you. The weight reveals what it is before you look, but you peek to be sure, “Ed…”

“I didn’t really have to pee,” he confesses, “You just really liked it and you looked so sad when you put it back so, you know, I just wanted to do something nice.” 

“It’s really nice,” you smile, looking down at the green Casaluna blanket nestled in the bag, “I just don’t want to like…feel like I owe you something.” 

“No, no, no,” he hurriedly shakes his head, “Please don’t feel like that. This really was just like – it’s not like a power move or anything I’m not like that, I promise – I don’t want anything in return, seriously.” 

“Except maybe a picture when it’s all set up nice in your living room,” he grins. Your eye rolls make his heart flutter because so far, you always kiss him after you do it and this time is no exception. 

“I’ll see you when I come back,” you say, wincing as the rain starts to pick up. “You act like you’re going to war, sugar,” he teases, “Like you’re not gonna text me in five minutes.” 

“Ew, bye,” you scowl, giving him a peck before hustling up the walkway to find refuge on the covered porch. 

“Bye,” he calls out, bottom lip tucking between his teeth in the afterglow of another good date. He gets back in the car and waits for you to get in safely before driving away towards his own apartment. At a red light, his phone goes off, just five minutes since he’s pulled away. He opens his texts, a full belly laugh barking from his mouth.  it looks great in my living room. oh shit it’s only been five minutes. 😡 fuck you. 

By day two of your trip, Eddie was already homesick for you. Savoring every message you could send his way when you weren’t busy, but also trying his best not to text you back immediately so he didn’t seem needy. Or worse, desperate. He liked it the most when you’d send pictures: big pink quartz bathtubs, amethyst arm chairs, huge chunks of malachite that were the size of his hand. 

these would make cool dice for d&d, right? the coolest. you should buy that and then hand carve the dice for me. let me pull a grand out of my ass real quick so i can get to work on that. so needy.   oh, so you miss me? of course i do :) i miss you, too :) 

“So when’re we gonna meet your mystery girlfriend?” Robin asks, swirling her rum and coke with her straw, “Or does she go to a different school in Canada that we wouldn’t know about?” 

Steve snickers with Robin, two mean girls who always mean girl together. It was a Tuesday, which meant Robin and Steve would meet up for Happy Hour at a bar near Nancy’s office for the paper and then bother everyone else to come meet them until everyone showed up. The three sat at the corner of the bar, Steve in the center in his business casual. Patagonia vest over his blue button up, hair perfectly windswept with his sunglasses tucked into his t-shirt collar. Picture perfect finance bro with his mean lesbian guard dog to bark at any woman who might hurt his feelings. Eddie was convinced that if Robin wasn’t gay, they would’ve gotten married the day that they met. 

“Well she’s not my girlfriend yet, for one,” Eddie starts, defensively, “And if you wanna know if she’s real, here’s her Instagram.” 

He passes his phone to Robin who swipes through your photos with a nod, a smile pulling across her face, “Not bad at all, Munson.” 

“Let me see,” Steve demands with a slight whine, plucking the phone from her hand. He scrolls, a touch of a salacious smirk spreading across his face, “Oh, smash. Immediately smash.” Steve passes Eddie’s phone back to him on the table, screen open to a risque picture of you on the beach, “You didn’t fuck?” 

“Not yet, Harrington,” Eddie sighs, “I’ll be sure to let you know the moment I slip it in, okay?” 

“I’m just saying,” Steve shrugs, “I would’ve fucked her already.” 

“Yeah, we know loverboy,” Robin teases. Eddie’s shoulders tense a little because if Steve wanted you, he’d definitely be able to take you. He’s hot and charismatic, he has more money than he knows what to do with, and at the end of the day – Steve loves women. All kinds of women. Eddie swore Steve would leave college with a taste for thin blondes that were in his frat’s sister sorority but every night it was someone new. And every night, Steve Harrington got what Steve Harrington wanted. 

“Tell her to follow me,” Steve winks. 

“It’s the first thing I did when I met her, actually – told her to follow you,” Eddie jokes back. 

what’re you doing? happy hour with the group. well right now just rob and steve but everyone else is on the way. fun! i bought a new bathing suit at a vendor because i have bad impulse control. also look at these cool rocks. oh, sick – what kind are they? the vendor said they’re ocean jasper do you want one? will you get a matching one with me? also linger is playing at the bar right now and it’s…making me think about you? stupid as hell. absolutely will get us matching ones. i love that song. who said you could be this cute? pretty sure i did. steve says hi by the way, he’s ‘linger’ing over my shoulder. lmao you’re so corny “Is she gonna send you a picture of her in the bathing suit or not?” he asks impatiently. “She’s still working, man,” Eddie flips his phone over so the screen can’t be seen, “And even if she does, I’m not gonna show it to you.” “Yeah, don’t be such a perv Steve,” Robin sasses, “Get me another rum and coke instead.” 

After an hour, the rest of the group has made it and Eddie’s had three beers in a short span of time. Not enough alcohol to feel drunk, but enough alcohol that he keeps getting lost in the thought of your thighs on that barstool last week. The little overflow of your tummy in your jeans, your hips, what you might look like out of those jeans. What sounds you might’ve made if he went to your house after Target and he peeled those leggings off you. You’re busy and he’s bummed out about it only because he selfishly wishes you were here at happy hour instead of looking at cool rocks. “You look so sad right now,” Tatianna says from across the table the group has gathered round, “You miss your girl?” 

Eddie pouts dramatically, nodding, “I do.” “Guys this is the one, I’ve never seen him like this before,” Tatianna grins, “He’s down bad.” 

Tati reaches next to her to hold hands with Gareth giving it a squeeze, “Hinge is the truth, I’m telling you.” 

“I mean, you sure? He thought Chris was the one and look how that turned out,” Mike says from the other end. Everyone sighs and groans, whines of ‘C’mon Wheeler,’ sound out of a few of them. 

“When you know, you know, kid,” Gareth offers softly, “And I think Ed knows.” 

“When’re we gonna meet this girl who likes your nerdy ass?” Erica giggles next to him. “Exactly what I was saying earlier,” Steve adds. 

“I don’t think you need to meet her, Steve,” Dustin laughs, “Let him have something, for God’s sake.”  “Well,” Nancy starts, “I mean, Steve’s party at Barcade is next week. Might be a good sort of low stakes way to ease her in.” 

“That’s actually such a good idea,” Tatianna agrees. 

“But I have the jazz concert for my kids that night,” Eddie sulks. 

“Yeah but that ends at like, eight thirty,” she argues, “You should tell her to come. We’ll take care of her before you show up.”  “I’ll take realgood care of her, Munson,” Steve grins.

“Steve.”

Eddie’s head is down on his forearms so he doesn’t know how many people started scolding Harrington over his head. This was overwhelming again – this part. Eddie thought maybe all the fussing over starting to date would be the worst but now it’s every day that they ask about you. At least twice a day in the group chat – Your girl coming to D&D? How was your date last weekend? Is she with you right now? Tell her we all said hi. Are you gonna bring her to Tati’s art show?

He doesn’t have all the answers yet and he doesn’t know where you’re at either. Do you want to meet his friends? Would you even like them?

Everyone yelling at Steve is satisfying, but it would be cooler if you were here to see it.  

The following night he was up late grading papers he should’ve graded a week ago but he was too caught up in his personal life to care. Conversation with you had dwindled quickly last night as he spent more time at the bar and ended up planning the next campaign. You hadn’t reached out at all today and he felt too proud to be the one to text you first, a twinge of resentment plucking at his heart strings in his chest. Hollow loneliness drumming at his ribcage. 

The papers were graded, neatly stacked and put away in his bag for tomorrow, red pen capped and put back on his desk. Eddie groans as he stands up to stretch, peeling off his t-shirt and slipping off his sweatpants, tossing them haphazardly in the corner of the room by his hamper. He kicks off his socks, finally comfortable in his boxers and silver chain, before trudging down to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He comes back to a quiet buzz on his phone, screen glowing to life while he swipes it off his dresser. 

hey, sorry i was so MIA today. things got really busy and hectic, surprise zoom meeting with bloomingdale’s and then a second surprise offer call with bergdorf goodman and then a few vendors wanted to get dinner and schmooze. it’s no excuse honestly but i should’ve messaged you to let you know i was busy. i’m sorry, handsome :( thought about you all day if that helps 

Eddie’s heart leaps in his chest, cheeks already hurting from the smile splitting his face open. You thought about him all day. You thought about him all day. The same way he thinks about you all day. He climbs into bed, snuggling in under the covers with the glow of his phone illuminating his grinning face in the dark. 

don’t apologize, sweetheart, i know you’re busy. glad that your hectic day is over at least, now you can relax! thought about you all day, too. one of my kids kept trying to play juicy by doja cat on the sax at jazz practice, so you came to mind immediately. LMAO. i’ll take that as a compliment. what’re you doing up so late?  grading papers, but i’m done now. i’d ask why you’re up so late but it’s only nine thirty there. what’re you up to? trying this bathing suit on, finally. do you wanna see it?

“Do I wanna see it?” he murmurs, exasperated with an eye roll to no one, “Of course I wanna see it.” 

yeah, show me :) 

He waits with bated breath, trying his best to swipe out of the text conversation and do something else instead of counting the minutes until you reply. His heart hammers in his chest while he waits for the familiar buzz in his hand. 

And there you are, dark red spandex hugging you tight, cinching you in all the right places. His eyes linger on the high cut of the bottom, the way some of the pudge of your hips pokes out at the seams and he bites his lip. ‘Fuck,’ he mumbles quietly. Your thighs on full display for him, thick and begging for him to grab, you’re so fucking grabbable he can’t even stand it. 

jfc you know what you’re doing  whaaaaat? what do you mean?  ‘what do you meaaaannn 🤪’ you know what i mean.  do you not like it?  i like it a little too much  you wanna see it from the back? 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters into the darkness. He feels the blood rush to his pelvis like an army command, cock partially at attention while his hand palms delicately over his boxers. 

of course i do 

He gulps when the picture comes in, you posed like that on purpose. One ass cheek propped up on the bathroom counter, the other lifted and perky from your stance. The soft rolls of your back on display from how you’re turned to still have your pretty face in frame. He’d fucking wreck you. Lovingly, of course.

do you want me to hop on a flight or??how much are tickets to az? i’m about to come thru. you got enough blood in your brain to make that trip rn? lmao you know i don’t😏 sorry i’m all the way in a different state, i’d help take care of it. 

“Yeah?” he chokes out, palming turning to full slow strokes over the fabric, “You wanna take care of it for me?” 

yeah? you’d take care of it? only if you asked nicely :) 

“Fuck,” he whispers, tossing his phone down to reach for his side table drawer to reach for the tiny bottle of lube he kept there. He tugs down his boxers hastily, squirting some of the liquid in his palm before picking up the phone again with his clean hand. 

i’d ask very nicely. i’d even say please.  what a good boy. :) 

“M’such a good boy,” he huffs, hand wrapping tightly around the base of his cock and dragging upwards, “I’ll be so good for you.” 

would you want me to use my hands or my mouth? 

“Oh my fucking God,” he groans, brain short circuiting at the thought of you on your knees while he stands over you. Eyes looking up at him with a hand tangled up in your hair, desperately trying to not thrust deep into your throat while you go to work on him. He bites his lip while he fucks his fist, palm and fingers gliding in time with his foreskin, teasing his tip. A fire lights in his belly, cooking up thoughts in his head on how he’d want you first. 

i like the idea of keeping your mouth full oh you wanna shut me up? is that it? i don’t think it takes much. 

His head leans back on the wall behind his bed, eyes closing while his hips roll up to meet the speed of his hand, slower now to stave it off. 

“Yeah, suck it just like that…” he hums out, “Please more.” His brows pinch while he looks back at the picture you sent, your glossed lips gleaming back at him. They’d look so good around his cock, your eyes would look so good filled up with tears when you tried to deep throat him.

“T-take all of it,” he stammers out, unsure of his own dirty talk to himself. Would he actually say that? 

Bzz. Bzz.

oh yeah cause you’re soooo big 🙄

“Psh,” he hisses out with a roll of the eyes, hand lifting off his cock to type back. He guesses when it comes to you, he would say that. Just so you’d stop being such a brat. 

you’re gonna feel so stupid when you see it  you sound very confident because i am is it big? 

He looks down at himself confidently, laying fat and dense up his stomach, kicking up at the thought of you seeing it for the first time. Chrissy always gawked at it, despite how many times she’d seen it, it was always like she was seeing it for the first time. The girls he’d pull into the bathroom at The Hideout and other bars would whine at the sight. Both him and them slurring together about how they can make it fit. 

its big, sweetheart. but i think you can take it. i know i can take it. so sure of yourself tonight, huh? bet you wouldn’t be so cocky if you were here. so i could watch you jerk it in your bedroom? puhlease. 🙄i can tell by how you’re talking that you really like the idea of that. so you are jerking it in your bedroom? the same way i know you have your fingers between your pretty thighs

He doesn’t know that, but it was worth the shot. His mind reels, thinking of you barely changing out of your swimsuit into nothing to lay back on your hotel bed to touch yourself to him talking to you. He grunts when his hand wraps around his length again, fisting himself with more intention, thinking about your hips writhing in time with his. He wishes he knew how you sounded when you felt good, how you’ll sound when he makes you feel good. And god does he wanna make you feel good. 

🙈 stop yeah? i can stop. don’t actually, i’m just embarrassed 😩how come? cause i do have my fingers between my thighs 

“Fuuuuuck me,” he groans into a whimper. He shudders a gasp while his hips buck up to meet his hands thrusts, imagining you on top of him, under him, below him, above him. Mouth, hands, pussy, anything of yours bobbing over his cock. Wiping the images clean and starting over with you splayed out on the hotel bed again, trying to keep quiet so your boss won’t hear you through the hotel’s thin walls. 

does it feel good, sweetheart? it would feel better if you were doing it for me. can i call you?

“Can I call you?” he reads out loud, in a whisper, “Can I…call you…” 

absolutely. 

Your face pops up on his phone within the minute, phone buzzing rhythmically in his hands. His heart rate jerks alive, stomach dropping like he’s on a roller coaster while it continues to ring. 

He accepts, swallowing thickly as he does. 

“Hey there,” he murmurs. 

“Hi,” your voice is shaky on the other end, he holds back a moan. 

“Hi,” he says back to you, squeezing himself softly at the base again. 

“Do you wanna hear something embarrassing?” you laugh, following up with a soft needy sigh. 

“Always,” he swoons out, low and warm. 

“Your voice is so hot to me,” you giggle, “I don’t think I could finish if I didn’t hear it.” 

“Ah, there you go again, thinking your compliments to me are embarrassing,” he smirks. You sigh again and he lets out a heady breath while he strokes himself, teetering towards a climax. 

“Sorry,” you smile, and he can hear it in your voice, “You having a hot voice isn’t embarrassing. Me getting off to it is embarrassing.” 

He pauses, hearing your shallow breaths pick up, waiting for the right time to strike. His thumb trails over his tip to smear the precum oozing out of it over the head — his eyes roll back as he thinks about your tongue there instead. 

“S’not embarrassing,” his eyelids lower, settling deeper into his pillows. He groans low in his chest before speaking again, “You all wet for me, sugar?” 

“Yeah,” you whine to him. 

“Wish I could be there to take care of you,” he huffs, “I’d make you feel so good.”  

“How?” you ask breathily. 

He smirks, biting his lower lip, letting out a low laugh, “I’d take my time with you. Sounds like you get real needy.” 

“I’m not needy,” you protest. 

“Not needy, but calls me from the other side of the country to cum to my voice?” he argues playfully, “Oh yeah, not needy at all, baby.” 

You whine again, a few huffs of breath sound in the receiver. 

“You like that?” he asks lowly, “When I’m a little mean to you?” 

“Yeah…” 

“Fuck…” he whispers back, blood rushing to the tip, twitching while he works his hand up his shaft.

“Wait – are you actually jacking it right now?” you ask with a laugh. 

“Yeah,” he sighs back, “Are you surprised?” 

“How long have you been doing it?” 

“Since you sent me that picture with your whole ass out,” he confesses with a giggle, it just makes sense to him to answer honestly. 

“Is that how you wanna fuck me?” your voice is laced with depth and sex, his hips buck up at the sound, “From the back?” 

“Maybe not at first,” he starts, imagining he’s in the hotel with you, eyes locking on yours while you touch yourself. Meeting your pleading eyes with a salacious grin while he pumps his cock, climbing on top of the mattress. Climbing on top of you. 

“I’d probably want you on your back so I could see your pretty face,” he offers, “Watch you take it.” 

You sigh into the receiver again and he groans quietly while pleasure starts taking him over. 

“But if I’m being honest…” he starts again, voice lightly teasing. Your breaths pick up, and if he thinks he’s hearing right, you’re very wet. Just because of him, the way he’s talking to you. He shudders before regaining his composure, voice dropping dangerously low. 

“I can’t wait to get my mouth on that pussy,” he slurs out, drunk on the idea. 

“Mmm, fuck,” you mewl out. Okay Munson, maybe you still know how to do this shit. “Oh, you like the sound of that, huh?” he asks, a light raise to his voice, “You like thinking about me between your legs?” 

“Yes,” you huff through gritted teeth. He feels his orgasm creeping up on him quick, your little whines hitting his ear and gliding down his chest to his pelvis. Every soft puff of your breath feels like he’s the one making it punch out of you. 

“I know you’d take it so good, too. You’d get so messy for me,” he groans again when his palm grazes over the underside of his tip, cock leaking cum unceremoniously, sending shockwaves through his system, “Just like you are right now, hm?  Waiting for me to come over ‘n’ fuck you stupid?” “Please,” you whine into a growl, “Please fuck me stupid.” 

“Oh baby, I will,” he moans while he feels his balls tighten, closer and closer to the edge, hearing you pant and beg like that. Just for him. He grunts, breath huffing from his nose like a bull while his orgasm takes him over, cum shooting onto his belly in thick ropes, “F-fuck till you can’t fuckin – mmmf – can’t fuckin’ think.” “Oh! Oh my god, fuck. Fuck!” you cry out into the receiver. He grins, satisfied at that reaction, both of you taking deep breaths into your mics while you both come down. 

“Did you cum for me, sugar?” he drawls. 

“Mhm,” you squeak out. His grin doesn’t fade, it turns dirty, filthy, “Good girl.” 

“Don’t say that.” He can hear your embarrassed smile in your voice, it makes him laugh. He’s normally not like that, that’s not something he thinks he’s ever said in bed – at least not sober. 

“I won’t say it, I’m sorry. You don’t like that?” he asks thoughtfully. 

“I like it a lot and you’re too far away,” you say softly. 

“Poor thing,” he offers. 

“I am a poor thing!” you exclaim. You quiet down a little, both just listening to each other breathe on the other end, “I’m excited to see you again, when I come back.” 

“I’m excited to see you, too,” he smiles while he speaks softly into the receiver, “But lucky for me, I have these pictures of you to hold me over until then.” 

“Visual learner?” you tease. “Physical, too,” he counters. 

“You really are trouble,” you laugh, “And um – I don’t want you to think that like, the only reason I wanna see you is just to have sex or anything. I just really like spending time with you.” 

“I don’t think that at all,” he assures, “I really, really like spending time with you. I’m – and this is gonna sound super lame – but I’m excited to keep on getting to know you.” 

“Lamest thing I’ve ever heard,” you laugh, “But also, same. We can be lame together.” “Oh – uh, by the way,” Eddie’s voice reverts back to normal while a reminder jolts his body awake, “The group really wants to meet you and I know it’s gonna be the day after you get back and you might want to rest, but Steve’s birthday party is Friday if you wanna come. Totally understand if you’re gonna be too tired.” “Oh no, I’d love that!” he can hear you shifting on the mattress, likely getting ready for bed, “Steve’s the one whose Instagram request I shouldn’t accept, right?” Eddie laughs, “Right.”

You both talk for a little longer before he tells you it’s getting late and you should get some rest since you had such a long day. He doesn’t want to hang up, but you’re both too old to be doing the ‘falling asleep on the phone’ thing. Plus, he had to be up for work in five hours. 

Eddie slides into the seat on his Honda Civic and sighs – he’s tired. He doesn’t want to go to Steve’s party where everyone is gonna be loud and drunk by the time he gets there. He hates playing catch up, but you’re gonna be there so he’s doing his best to hype himself up before he starts the car. He cracks the Monster Energy sitting in his center console and chugs it, heaving a deep breath before starting the car. Mayhem’s Freezing Moon blares through his speakers and he nods to himself, Good, good, good. It would be a hype enough song to get him excited on the way there. He gives himself a once over in the rearview mirror, looking the same as he did when he freshened up in the teacher’s bathroom after the Jazz Club performed during the Spring Concert. His slim fit black slacks still kept their crease, his wallet chains still dangled from his pocket. Eddie took your advice and started wearing more green, a hunter short sleeved linen blend button up laid open and loose over a clean and expensive white t-shirt. If he didn’t know any better, he would say he looked hot. His hair was coiffed and coiled – he made sure to get a trim before you came back just to touch up the shag. His tattoos were the showiest you’d ever seen them and deeply moisturized, his silver chain and small rings were recently cleaned. 

He wants you to lose your mind when you see him, but when he walks into the bar he knows he already lost. There you are, standing at the bar with Nancy, Robin, Steve, and Dustin while they laugh with you at some story you’re telling. You’re all legs in your little black skirt with a cute cropped ‘ARIZONA’ sweatshirt cinching you in right at the waist. Your little white sneakers were shining purple in the black light of the bar, you probably wear these everywhere. 

“Eddie!” Dustin calls out, giving a big wave to call him towards the party. You whip around, beaming while he makes his way over, meeting him part way with a drink in your hand. He can smell your perfume immediately and he’s surprised he hasn’t already fallen to his knees. “Started without me, huh?” he asks, nodding to the drink in your hand. “I tried to get Steve a drink but he said it was a better gift for him to buy me one…or two,” you tell him sheepishly. Eddie catches Steve’s eyes over your shoulder when he pulls you in to say hello and shakes his head. Steve smirks, blowing him a kiss before mouthing, ‘Her ass? Insane.’ putting his hands out to show off the size of it. Eddie flips him off while he lets you go. 

“Everyone’s been really nice though,” you smile, giving him a once over, “You look really good.” 

“Thank you,” he says in your ear, kissing your cheek, “You look too good. Don’t think I can let you stick around here too long.” 

“S’kinda hot when you’re like that,” you grin sloppily, biting your lip. The tequila’s blurring the filter in your head a little, he can tell you’re just saying what comes to mind, eyes a little glassy. 

“Like what?” “A lil’ possessive,” you shrug. He tucks a knuckle under your chin, lifting your gaze toward him for a moment.  “Okay,” he smiles, leaning in to kiss you much more passionately than you expected. Your mouth is cold against his, tongue sliding in to taste the tequila on yours. He snakes one arm around your waist so that you’re chest to chest, both of you laughing against each other’s lips while Tati and the group whoop and holler over your makeout. He breaks away, looking down at you, eyes sparkling. 

“I missed you,” he says confidently. 

“I missed you,” you smile, pulling him tight against you. This was what he was waiting for. An ounce of clinginess so that he didn’t feel so insane for wanting to be close to you all the time. He leads you back over to the bar, hand on your lower back while you put yourself back in your little group. 

“What’re you having tonight, big boy?” Ed asks Steve, clapping him on the back in a brotherly hug. 

“Surprise me – you doing shots?” he asks. Eddie nods, getting the bartender’s attention when she makes his way over. 

“Can I get four shots of Jameson and then two for my buddy over here?” he asks, pointing at Steve with his thumb. The bartender nods, lining up the shot glasses and starting the pour. “I don’t really like Jameson,” you scrunch your nose. 

“Well baby, they’re all for me, so don’t worry about it,” he grins playfully, white teeth shining, “I’ll get you something else when you finish that drink.” 

You nod lazily, pulled into conversation with Robin while Steve and Eddie start taking their shots. The whiskey feels good hitting his throat, burning just enough to reinvigorate him for the rest of the night. He clicks his tongue when he downs them all, the scent of Tatianna’s vanilla perfume overtakes him before her hands cover his eyes from behind. 

“Guess who it is,” she laughs. 

“Someone who used my Warm Vanilla Sugar hand lotion today,” he answers, his fingers running over hers while he peels her hands away. He turns to her to pull her into a hug and then hugging Gareth behind her, already with their drinks in hand. 

“Look, it went with the fragrance I was wearing today. You used my curl cream again so – you can’t even be mad,” she shrugs, beckoning him over with her hand, “Come sit with us really quick.” 

Eddie turns to get your attention but Tatianna stops him, “She’s a big girl, she’s been doing fine on her own without you here, so far. Let her make friends.” Eddie pouts and Gareth pats him on the back after passing Tati’s drink to her, guiding him over to their booth close by the end of the bar. Eddie sits in the middle of the bench, looking like a kid who just got in trouble and is about to get a stern talking to by his parents. “So…” Eddie starts. 

“I really like her, dude,” Gareth grins, “Came in and immediately knew who we were, introduced herself, offered to get us a round. All around seems very much your vibe.” 

“And you, mom?” he asks, eyes lifting up through his lashes to look at Tatianna who has a smug grin on her face. 

“All I’m saying is that you should always be listening to me when I tell you to do something,” she shrugs, “‘Cause what if you had deleted the app that night? Would’ve never met the love of your life right there.” 

“Love of my life? You think?” he asks, eyes widening. “I know. Her energy is exactly what I thought it was gonna be,” Tatianna explains, gold rings in her twists flashing back the neon reflecting on them, “And you’ve been down bad for the past few weeks so I knew there had to be something about her that was really good.” 

“So you like her?” Eddie grins. 

“We love her,” Tatianna nods, “Consider her adopted.” 

“Steve loves her too, it looks like,” Eddie huffs, looking back over at the bar to see Steve showing you something on his phone, a little too close for comfort. 

“He’s behaving himself, don’t worry,” Dustin says while he slides in next to Eddie, “We all gave him a warning before she got here. Plus, he’s got two girls on his radar right now that he’s trying to take home if he doesn’t get too drunk – but y’know, we’re banking on the getting too drunk part.” 

“Always banking on the getting too drunk part,” Gareth laughs. 

The night continues on, people coming and going, getting up to dance, getting new drinks. He watches you blend in seamlessly, swaying with Tatianna at the bar while you wait for a rum and coke for you and water for him. He still has to drive home after all. 

“What do you know about this song?” Tatianna laughs while Victoria Monet’s Coastin’ booms over the speakers. You both walk back over, two stepping in time until Gareth pulls Tatianna in tight to him, rocking back and forth with each other and stealing kisses. 

Eddie watches you approach him while you lipsync the words playfully, hips swaying in in time with the beat. 

‘Think of the waaaays, The ways I wanna give you this ass, Just how you liiiiike, Feel like a Thursday how I’m throwin’ it back.’ “The ways you wanna give me this ass, huh?” he smirks, eyes flitting over you while he takes the water yor offer him. You keep up with your sway, pressing up close to him – you look up with a fake unamused quirk of your brow and he knows you’re about to say something bitchy that’ll make him fall for you even harder. “I don’t think you could handle it,” you flirt. 

“You know something?” he starts, putting his water on the table of the booth, catching you before you can sit down, “I think I can handle you just fine.” You burn at his words, a shy grin pulling at your lips when he sits down at the edge of the bench next to Nancy and across from Steve and Robin. It’s fun to flirt with you like this, right on the precipice of something a little dirty. He wants you so bad and if he knows women as well as he thinks he does, he knows you want him so bad, too.  He pats his thigh, encouraging you to sit on his lap. You hesitate at first but he nods encouragingly, a silent Please, it’s okay. You settle in, the table high enough that both sets of your thighs fit under the table. He takes a breath before letting his hands settle on your skin, imagining what it might be like when he gets to put his hands on all of it. 

Everyone banking on Steve getting too drunk to take someone home was right, him and Robin were already in their codependent best friend phase of the night where they only want to hang out with each other, hands cupped tight on the table. You’re talking to Robin about a game that’s like Sims but 8-bit – 

“It’s called Unpacking and it’s so cute, you basically unpack a house or a room and you learn more about the person’s story by unpacking their boxes – sort of like Sims but with actual feelings that you don’t have to make up,” you enthuse. 

“Is it on Steam?” she asks, “I’ll literally buy it right now.” 

“We’re partying, Rob, don’t play a dumb game,” Steve whines. 

“She’s not gonna play it right now, Steve,” Nancy chides, “She’s gonna play it later. Don’t worry, we all know tonight is about you.” 

Lucas comes over to the table looking aggravated, Max grinning next to him in a smile that Eddie knows too well. Lucas lost a bet and has to pay up, Eddie wonders what they bet on this time. 

“Why does your Dragon’s Lair score have to be so fucking high? Can you literally let anyone have anything?” Lucas huffs. 

“Don’t be so sad, Sinclair – you can always try to beat Red’s score,” Eddie shrugs, smirking smugly at the pair. 

“She’s 250 points behind you, and you’re both like, seven thousand points ahead of everyone else,” he huffs. 

“What’d’you owe her this time?” he asks. 

“I can’t even tell you out loud,” he sighs. Max cackles, offering her hand and leading him back over to the Party at the bar, fingers laced with each other while they talk. Eddie adjusts under you, groin shifting under your ass by accident but he savors how delicious it feels to have you on top of him like this. 

“Are there any other games in there that you have a high score on?” you ask, breath hitching slightly while his hands coast teasingly over your bare skin under the table. Your posture straightens when his fingers glide up your inner thigh, brushing his fingertips past the hem of your skirt. You like that, he thinks, your body language tells him all he needs to know to keep going. 

“The Dracula pinball machine,” he replies confidently. 

“I’m gonna go beat it,” you grin up at him. 

“Oh yeah?” he asks, hand sliding off your thigh when you get up to head to the arcade room,  “You even know how to play?” 

“You can show me,” you shrug. He doesn’t really have to show you, pinball is pretty self explanatory, but he doesn’t want to give up a chance to have you alone. He leads you to the machine, pointing out where you want the ball to hit for the best chance at extra points. The music on the sound system is loud and the machine’s music matches it so he has to get close to your ear to explain. 

“Do you think I don’t really know how to play or do you just wanna get close to me?” you ask, turning your head to look at him while he chin hooks over your shoulder. “You caught me,” he blushes, hand resting on your hip while he fills the gap between your back and his chest, “I’m sure you’re gonna do just fine.” 

And you do, in fact, you’re really fucking good at pinball and he’s almost mad about it. “Where did you learn to do this?” he asks after you rack up nearly three fourths of his high score in one go, the ball just narrowly missing the lever before sinking down to be propelled again. 

“Summers on the boardwalk in New Hampshire,” you grin, “My uncle lives over there so we go visit him every year. Played one pinball machine every summer – my high score still stands, like, eleven years later.” “That’s so hot to me, oh my god,” he laughs while you get the next ball rolling onto the board. You lean forward, hips jutting out against him while you really get into it, concentrating hard. Eddie’s breath hitches when you slowly move your hips against him, so slow that he’s not sure if you’re doing it on purpose or not.  Rihanna’s Work starts over the speakers and  that’s when he knows it’s on purpose. Your movement’s pick up a little, lost in the game and in the beat. You’re a good dancer and that makes his mind wander to other things you might be good at. Your fingers work quick on either side of the machine, lights flashes against both of your faces while you keep trying to win and he keeps trying to not pull your skirt up in the middle of Barcade. 

While the song continues, he stops paying attention to you playing, so caught up in how your waist winds and ass bounces against him that he doesn’t realize you aren’t even playing any more. His hips grind slowly back against you, one hand on your lower back, the other gripping your hip to keep you in position. This isn’t new territory for him, pulled into clubs by Tati and Gare, Robin and Steve, everyone else, from the moment things opened back up again in Indiana. When you look back at him he short circuits at first, but he knows you’re surprised he can dance like this. Maybe you forgot, but he does teach Music Theory – rhythm is kind of his whole thing. Of course he has it.  

Your hips roll, making your ass run painstakingly slow and firm over his hardening cock. A groan gets stuck in his throat, reaching out to your shoulder to pull you up right again with your back against his chest. 

“You like bein’ a tease?” he asks, voice deep and daunting. 

“Just getting you back for what you did under the table,” you say matter-of-factly, turning around to face him with your butt leaning against the machine, “You’re not the only one here who knows how to be a slut.” “Also, I beat you,” you grin. 

“Looks like you did,” he says, eyes passing yours to look at the new high score glowing on the outdated screen. 

“Do I win a prize?” 

“M’sure I can think of something,” he murmurs, lips pressing against yours while both of your eyes flutter closed. He takes your hand, leading you to the dark corner close by, both of you hidden by the now defunct change machine to press you up against the wall. “What do you think you deserve?” he purrs before catching your mouth in his again. His kiss is a little sloppy, a little needy, it’s the four shots of Jameson. Not too drunk to drive, but buzzed enough that he doesn’t care about his kissing technique, he just wants to taste you. “Oh, it’s like that?” you giggle mischievously, “I don’t think we can do what I think I deserve in a public place.” 

“Hmm, okay, not into exhibitionism I guess,” he huffs a laugh while his kisses trail to your neck, knee slotting between your legs where you eagerly press up against him. He feels one of your hands fall into his hair, making his assault on the crook of your neck more intense when you give it a slight pull. “Kiss me,” you whine softly. “M’sorry, sorry,” he smirks, meeting your lips again, “You just smell really good, I like being in there.” “You’re a really good –” Kiss. “Mmm--kisser.” “Thanks, sugar, you’re –” Kiss. “Not so bad your –” Kiss. “Mmm shit – yourself.”  He can barely think like this, so close to you but not close enough. Hands on your waist and hips to guide you against part of his thigh while a little whine pulls out of you. He can’t hold off much longer, feeling his pants grow unbearably tight. 

“Let’s get out of here,” he mumbles against your jaw, a satisfied smile blooms on his face when you roll your hips against his knee again. 

“You don’t wanna hear everyone drunkenly sing Steve happy – oh, mmm – happy birthday?” you pant out while he presses kisses at the curve of your jaw back to your mouth. His hand entwines with the hair at the nape of your neck, giving you a soft tug to keep your head in place. 

“The only thing I wanna hear right now,” he purrs in your ear, “Is what you sound like when I’m making you cum.” 

The ride home is quick, barely saying goodbyes while he pulled you through the crowds building at the bar and paid the tab. Gareth shot him a wink as they left, tossing you both a wave but neither of you could think of anything else except each other. 

He dropped his keys twice trying to get in the door of his first floor apartment, “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” you smile, “Just breathe. I’m still gonna be here.” 

The door opens and he takes a millisecond to rip your coat off and kick off his shoes, instructing you to kick off your sneakers or Tati would likely emerge from the walls and kill you both for walking into the house with your outside shoes on. His lips immediately attach to yours. There’s no time to waste for him, pulling you over to the couch and plopping down with an excited puff of breath. “C’mere baby,” he beckons you over with two fingers, grinning up at you while you climb over his lap to straddle him. His kiss is searing, hands exploring you with abandon, all the ways he’s been thinking about touching you were now fair play. No one here to see either of you, no one around to interrupt. You can feel how hard he is under his dress pants, the material leaves little to the imagination. The gentle curve of it, its thickness, the length, all pressing up against you with every mutual roll of your hips. 

You choke out a whimper when it hits just right up against your clothed slit. Eddie looks up at you mischievously, greedily sucking on your neck for a moment before catching your gaze a little.

“That’s all it takes? Just pushing my hips up like that?” he purrs, rolling them up again slowly, “Is that what you want?”

“Uh-huh,” you breathe. He bites at the skin on your chest, not hard enough to hurt. He grips and grabs you but not hard enough to bruise. He’s testing the waters, seeing what you like and how you like it. His hands travel down past your hips, gripping the fat of your ass.

“Fuck, baby,” he moans into your mouth, exploring you more, his palms flattening against your skirt while it rides up, the curve of your cheeks warm in his hands. 

“Finally got to grab it the way you wanted to?” you tease between breaths. 

“Mhmm,” he groans, “Now I just gotta smack it around.” 

You take his lower lip between your teeth, making his cock twitch when you let it go to click back against his gums. 

“Ooh, you wanna spank me?” you laugh into your next kiss. His hand reaches up to pull at your waist, pushing you tighter up against him. His fingers graze between your legs from behind while your head falls back in a breathy gasp. 

“Do you want me to spank you?” he asks, brows raised inquisitively.  

“Maybe not tonight,” you shrug with a smirk, hips winding over him in a way that makes him really feel you. He growls when you do it, hands guiding your hips to do it again, “Maybe only when I’ve been bad.” 

“Jus’lemme know,” he grumbles, pupils taking over the brown in his eyes, “So I can  — mmm, shit — teach ya a lesson.” 

“Next time,” you huff into his next kiss. He manhandles you so that your back is to the cushions and throw pillows, switching your positions so that he’s on top.

“Next time,” he nods, pulling your sweatshirt off and dropping it to the floor, “But since you’re so good, it only makes sense that you get a reward, right?” 

“I did beat you at pinball, so…” you grin. He grins back, kissing your neck hungrily, slotting his knee between your legs like he did at the bar. 

“You did beat me at pinball,” he nods, a soft growl brewing in his chest when he feels you start to grind against him. Insatiable, he thinks, Greedy girl. But he doesn’t know if he can say that to you yet. He doesn’t know, all the way, what you like. He feels his heart hammer in his chest at the fear of realizing it – you aren’t Chrissy. What if he was only good because Chrissy thought so? What if he wasn’t actually – 

“Oh!” you squeak out, hand reaching out to grip his bicep. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, pulling away from your neck to look at you, big brown eyes blown with nerves. 

“Y-yeah that’s just…where you’re kissing…that’s a spot for me,” you admit bashfully, unable to look at him. 

“Sweetheart,” he shakes his head with a knowing smirk, “Shouldn’t’ve told me that.” 

A kiss on the lips is his only consolation to you before he goes back to your neck, tongue trailing down to its last spot where he parks his teeth and lips. You like that. He hears you like it. And fucking God is it good to hear you like this, to hear you in person, moaning and whining in his ear just from kissing and sucking this spot on your neck. 

“Eddie…” you breathe, high pitched and desperate, hips still pressing against his knee for friction. He can’t help but go back to your lips, but before he does, he peeks to see the marks he left behind. 

Lips become neck, neck becomes chest, chest becomes stomach, stomach becomes hips, and before you know it he’s on his knees on the rug in front of you. Eddie’s eyes find yours when he’s kneeling between your legs, the center of your thighs looking him in the face. He places a kissing on the inside of your knee, gentle and soft. 

He opens his mouth to ask, but you nearly read his mind, tugging up the hem of your skirt over your thick thighs. He helps, pushing the fabric up over your hips and ass so he gets another chance to touch and feel you. Once he settles back down he takes a breath, smiling up at you while he readjusts your legs to open a little wider, mouth making contact with your skin soon after. His lips capture the fat of your inner thigh, traveling down in passionate kisses, like your skin is divinity that he’s found for the first time. 

“You’re so soft,” he whispers, lips ghosting over your underwear to reach the top of your other knee, planting a kiss there too. 

“Thank you,” you breathe out. He lets out a low, teasing giggle at the state of you, head lolling back on the couch while he kisses the inside of one thigh and runs his hand over the outside of the other. His kisses stop and he looks up at you from between your legs, big brown eyes begging you to let him in. A ringed finger teases over the gusset of your underwear, the way you bite your lip gives him the approval to keep going. His slides your panties off, run of the mill black cheeky cut cotton that he wished he could’ve stripped you down to. Just to see that ass swallowing them, to see the way they sat on the curves of your hips. 

“You nervous?” he asks with a smile while your legs close, your underwear placed on the floor next to your shirt.

“A little,” you giggle. 

“Don’t be nervous, baby,” he coos, hands cupping under your knees to spread your legs again, “Just gonna make you feel good.” 

He sighs when your legs open up for him, already wet and puffy, you’d been thinking about this all night. Eddie nips softly at your inner thigh again before he lets his lips linger over your folds. You squirm your hips closer to him, a whine leaking out of your mouth. 

“Okay, okay,” he laughs, “I won’t tease you, I’m sorry.” 

But he’s lying. Leaning in to get close, only to ghost a breath over your clit. Fingers sliding to your slick lips to separate them slightly for more access to you. He pauses, leaning back away from your pussy and looks up at you quizzically.

“Actually, should I put on Hey Mr. DJ to set the mood? Since it’s so fucknasty…” gesturing his thumb towards the sound system on the other side of the room. You let out a mix of a laugh and a groan while his kisses coast on your thighs again.

“You said you wouldn’t teaaaasssseeee-oh my God,” you moan out when his mouth meets your clit without warning, soft, slow sucks and licks. 

“You like that, sugar?” he asks, voice dropping down to a bassy gravel. 

You nod feverishly, “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.” 

“Mmm, don’t stop?” he asks, tongue gliding from your entrance to your clit. 

“Please,” you gasp, hand reaching out to run through his hair, bangs pushing back to reveal the soft lines of his forehead. 

“Well you’re asking so nice, seems a little mean to keep you waiting,” he coos, fingers replacing his mouth while he talks, “But I thought you liked it when I was a little mean.” 

“Don’t be mean, Ed,” you pout. 

“Okay, I won’t be mean,” he smiles, opening your legs a little wider. He’s confident about his skills here, Chris loved getting eaten out so he dedicated a lot of time to getting it right. It helped that he loved going down, watching his partner gasp and whine while he serves her on his knees. Feeling the tug on his hair when he’s doing it right, making her feel good. The press of her hand to push him closer to her when she’s getting close, giving it to her over and over again. 

“Oh fuck, Ed — oh my god, baby,” you mewl, hips grinding up against his mouth. He smirks into the next stripe of his tongue, latching onto your clit to suck softly while his fingers press against your entrance. His eyes gaze up at you, your own going glassy while you look down at him. 

“I like when you look at me like that,” he confesses quietly, mouth returning to its actions immediately. He keeps his eyes on you while his first finger pushes in, he groans at the feeling — snug, warm, wet. He drags out slowly, a high pitched moan escaping you when he pushes back in with little resistance. His head moves with his mouth, tongue laving over your clit, lips pursing over it when he feels your pulse over his finger. 

“You’re so good — fuck — you’re so good at this,” you sigh. The praise runs down his chest and along his spine, he moans gratefully into his next kiss against you. He stripes his tongue again, using his other hand to keep your lips spread for more access. Your thighs twitch while he goes back to soft deliberate sucking, alternating between that and gentle fluttering flicks from the tip of his tongue. 

“That’s good for you?” he mumbles. 

“You’re so good for me,” you whisper back, gripping his hair hard when he pushes his second finger in, “Just…unhm, just like that.” 

He keeps a steady pace with his fingers, evidence of his skill coating them while he does. He wants to drag this out a while, take his time with you like he said he would. He breaks his mouth away for a moment to really look at you, just in your bra and skirt. His heart skips a beat, breath caught in his throat. You’re so beautiful, he thinks. Too afraid to say it outloud. What if you don’t like that while you have sex? You said you like when he was a little mean, does that mean he should be mean all the time? 

“Earth to Ed…” he hears you say, your hand waving in his face. He looks back up at you, startled, “You okay? You stopped and sort of just…stared for a second.” 

“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” he laughs to himself, taking his fingers away to massage the inside of your thighs with both hands, “Just got caught up staring at you.” 

“Ew,” you giggle with a smile, “You think I’m pretty or somethin’?” 

Eddie leans up between your legs on the couch where you come down to meet him, noses inches apart, “Well I don’t wanna be too forward…” 

“You’re literally eating me out, you can’t get any more forward,” you both laugh at the ridiculousness of it. Of both being shaky and shy even this far into the game. 

“Like I was saying — I don’t wanna be too forward, but I think you’re honestly so beautiful,” he blushes bashfully, looking down so all you can see are his full lashes, “And I didn’t wanna be corny and say it while I’m like, neck deep in your pussy.”

“That’s very sweet, baby.” You run your hand through his hair, pushing back one side when he looks up at you again. Baby. He likes when you call him that. He likes when you call him baby. He’s excited for you to call him other names like pretty boy, and babe, and honey. He wants to hear ‘em all. He wants you to spend the night so he can make you breakfast in the morning — for like…ever. You kiss him and he shudders, cock jumping in his slacks for a hint of attention — but he has a job to finish. 

“You’re very sweet,” he says, nuzzling your nose before kissing your cheek, then your jawline, your neck, your chest, down and further down until he’s between your legs again — he doesn’t tease this time. He licks at your entrance, replacing his fingers with his tongue to lap up what you have for him. Your thighs tremble he trails back up, swirling his tongue over your clit when his fingers snugly sink back inside you. 

“Eddie…” 

“You gonna cum for me?” he asks, voice smokey and deep. He lets his fingers search inside you for your g-spot, grinning when he finds it. Your moan is loud when he massages it, hips pushing down into the couch cushions, head thrown back while you grind against him. 

“M’so close,” you huff, “That feels so good, please don’t stop. Don’tstopdon’tstop.” 

He grunts, feeling your thighs jump while he keeps up his pace. His tongue gets sloppy with it, wet and filthy, pooling spit out of his mouth in droves to mix with your slick. He fills you with a third finger, legs parting further again while you huff into the stretch. 

“Ooh, you can really take it, baby,” he encourages, “Look at you takin’ all these fingers.” He glides the flat of his tongue over you once before leaning back to watch you. The pads of his fingers press in slow circles against your g-spot again, smirking when your eyes roll back. 

“M’gonna cum…oh shit  — oh fuck Ed I’m g.. — ohfuck — fuckfuckfuck — mmm-ah!” Your hips jump, lifting off the couch, writhing to pull away while you feel your orgasm rush rapidly to its peak. 

“Thaaaat’s it,” he smiles, mouth returning home to its place latched over you. He holds your hips down with his free hand, eyes fluttering closed while he continues. A slight flit of his tongue right as he pumps his fingers in puts stars in your eyes, thighs snapping closed on either side of his head — exactly what he wanted.

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” you chant with strained, shaking vocal chords, tears pricking your eyes. Eddie groans when he feels your walls clench down hard over his fingers, flooding over him down his hand. You hiss while he keeps going, fingers easing out of you but tongue licking up as much as he can while you come down in shivers. 

“You okay?” he asks, when your thighs release him. You reach for his hand, still covered in your juices and pull it toward you — but he knows your game. He knows you’re gonna lick it off and give him those eyes — so he pulls his wrist away, “Oh, no baby.”  

Eddie delicately puts his fingers in his mouth, eyes on yours with a glint of satisfaction, and gently sucks them clean instead. 

“I don’t like to waste it, sugar,” he croons, “I can make you something if you’re hungry.” 

His sexy act breaks when you roll your eyes at him, clearly flustered by his antics in your post orgasm glow. He snickers when he stands up, leaning down to peck you with your arousal still smeared on his mouth and chin. 

“Don’t laugh at me,” you pout. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he pouts back. A peck turns to a kiss, a kiss to something passionate. 

“Why don’t I go get cleaned up,” he starts, before catching you in another kiss.

“You should pee since that’s the smart thing to do before and after,” he presses a kiss to your neck.

“And then I’ll take you to bed,” he murmurs huskily, “How’s that?” 

“That’s really nice,” you rasp back, turning so that you’re nose to nose, “But I am a little hungry now that you said that.” 

“You’re funny,” he smiles, another kiss, “I’ll get us a snack and then I’ll take you to bed, is that better?” 

“Much better.”  

Eddie passes you your panties and shirt, and points out where the bathroom is down the hall. While you traipse along, he opens the fridge, taking out the tiramisu he got as dessert with his takeout last night but didn’t get around to eating. He slices the generous cut in half, gently placing it on two tea plates and grabbing two forks. 

“Do you like tiramisu?” he asks when he hears your socked feet pad into the kitchen. 

“I do. My mom’s is the best actually,” you brag. He turns around to see you, your bright smile, your refreshed face. 

“Will you still eat it if it’s not your mom’s?” he asks, offering you the plate. 

“Yes, of course,” you nod, taking both plates out of his hands and placing them on the table, “But first I gotta –” 

Eddie’s taken aback by the kiss, but you don’t notice. He’s swift at the pick up, matching your pace expertly and hoisting you up onto the counter with surprising ease. He grunts when you pull him forward between your legs by the belt loops because he knows you’re trying to fuck just as much as he is. 

“Baby…” he starts, regretfully breaking away, “Are you hungry or not?” 

You don’t answer at first, you just look at him and kiss him again. When you pull away, your gaze lingers. Fear coasts icily over his chest when you almost look forlorn. 

“Shit…” you whisper, shoulders drooping. 

“Wh-what? What is it?” he asks, hands getting clammy where they rest on your thighs.

“I…” you take a deep breath, it shakes when you exhale, “I really fucking like you.” 

He smiles, but he knows why this is your response, why you look like this, why your shoulders sulk — because he’s also there, “Does that make you scared?” 

You nod, but instead of going in to kiss you again he pulls you close, smooching your cheek before leaning your head on his shoulder. 

“It’s okay that you’re scared,” he murmurs, “But if it’s any consolation…”

“I really fucking like you, too.” 

When you kiss again, he’s overwhelmed. 

“Fuck the tiramisu,” you breathe, “Let’s just —.” 

“Mhm,” he breathes back, hoisting you off the counter, balancing you on his hips, “I fucking need you.” 

Jingle. Click. Creak. 

“HONEY, WE’RE HOME!” calls the voice of a sloshed Steve Harrington, from the front door, “Put your clothes on, sluts.” 

But it’s not just Steve, it’s the whole party — the group filing into the living room while you hurriedly slide down Eddie’s form. Tatianna and Gareth follow in after everyone gets their shoes off, laughing and joking with Robin and Dustin while they stumble through the door. They halt when they catch Eddie’s expression from the other room, a stare so cold it could freeze them both. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Gareth mouths, realizing with deep regret what they’ve interrupted. Tatianna makes her way over, making a face of pure guilt when she makes it into the kitchen. 

“So here’s the thing, my phone died and Steve was using Gareth’s phone to change the music and I forgot to text you,” she explains to the both of you, “I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s seriously okay,” you laugh, “Please don’t feel bad. It’s you and Gareth’s apartment, too.” 

“Are you mad at me?” Tati pouts at Eddie, who could not stay mad at Tati for even a second. 

He puffs a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms, “No, no, I’m not mad at you. It’s okay.” 

“Okay,” she smiles, opening her arms for a hug which he obliges without question, “Gare’s sorry too, but unfortunately he’s busy babysitting Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum with Nance.”  Eddie looks down at you when he lets go of Tatianna, reaching his hand out to rub your back, “She means Robin and Steve.” 

“I figured,” you smile. Tatianna makes her exit and you’re both alone in the kitchen again. 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie offers, using the leverage of his hand on your back to pull you in close to him. 

“What, why? There’s nothing to be sorry for,” you furrow your brow, forearms leaning up the length of his chest. The opening bass of Dua Lipa’s One Kiss starts to thump from the soundsystem in the living room into the kitchen, along with Steve’s passionate This is my favorite fucking song, holy shit. 

“Everything got ruined,” he frowns, “I’m like, kind of embarrassed.” 

“Don’t be embarrassed,” you urge, pulling him a little closer to give him a reassuring kiss, “There’s always next time. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” 

“No?” he asks, leaning his forehead against yours, “You’re stayin’ right here?” 

“Well, until I have to go to home,” you shrug. The music gets a little louder and Eddie throws his disappointment to the wind. There is always next time. For now, he has you here in his kitchen, lips on yours, hands on your cheeks, the steady thump of the beat of his heart. And of course, Steve drunk crying to Robin in the living room – You’re literally my best fucking friend. You’re my best fucking friend Rob, I love you so much. 

Eddie giggles against your mouth at the sound, an ache caught in his chest. He really fucking likes you. 

[pixxxieland]

Her Body Is Bible:

steve harrington x fem reader

Summary: Steve and you can't keep your hands to yourself despite being in a church. (aka filthy smut that sends me straight to hell) | masterlist | steve's music | NSFW 18+

WC Range: 3-5k

Warnings: religious themes (mentions of celebrating Easter/Christian church things like the lord's prayer, I'm not responsible for lightning strikes to anyone who reads this), breeding kink (both of ya'll), public (church basement bathroom/with family afterwards), piv intercourse - creampie, dirty talk, a little ass slapping

Steve was losing his damn mind.

A ribbon in your hair, his initial hanging from a simple chain settled in the dip of your collarbones. Lavender fabric that matched the concealed bruises he sucked into your skin only a few hours earlier falling over your curves softly. Lace edges across your shoulders and laying against your thighs. Your laughter the sweetest melody as you spin his cousin's baby in your arms and nod at something she’s telling you. Your insistence to help his grandmother with the dishes, placing a glass of wine in her hand and shooing her out of the room. 

He couldn't take it any more. It was all too sweet, too easy for you, too domestic. And as he leaned against the wall and the room grew quieter, you brought him a refilled glass of whiskey, straightening his tie and tugging it a little so he fell closer to you. 

Catching his chin with your thumb and whispering, "Careful, Mr. Harrington, I think you're drooling a bit."

Steve's hands dared to play with the edge of your dress, fingers gliding over the straps as he swallowed harshly. Eyes trailing from the little gold 'S' to the lace curving over your breasts just below it. 

"You like my dress, Steve?" Smiling sweetly up at him, a mischievous and rebellious glint to your eyes under fluttering lashes.

Steve only hummed, fingers hooking under your chin so he could pull you in for a soft kiss. Your hands fell to his chest as you each sighed into parted lips, body relaxing against his. The heel of your wedge sandal lifting just slightly as his tongue swipes over your top lip.

Lemon and powdered sugar on yours, the spice of whiskey on his, just a brush of a taste between your lips before someone was calling for him and you were left standing there with blinking eyes and flushed cheeks. 

Steve's wink over his shoulder before exiting the room causing you to press your palms to your heated face and pull your lip between your teeth. 

You were losing your damn mind.

You know that Steve knows what he’s doing. Soft and sweet kissing all morning to get you riled up until you were late because you were cumming on his fingers while he sucked a bruise into your neck. His blazer and his tie and the whiskey and god dammit now he had a three year old on his shoulders walking up the steps of the church. 

He watches as you grab coats and say it’s no trouble, you need to freshen up anyways, slipping away and disappearing down the stairs past the nursery. His grandmother grabbing his arm before they enter the chapel, “Oh, honey, could you hang up my purs-”

She doesn’t even finish her sentence before he’s nodding and quickly rushing down the stairs after you. A dimly lit, well worn carpeted, and a too strong lilac air freshener filled hallway leads him to you. Leaning up against a small counter, fixing your lipstick in a mirror that you meet his reflection’s gaze in. 

Your heart is racing, because Steve is looking at you very much in a way he shouldn’t be in a church and he feels like he’s going to explode from how much more the forbidden energy of it all makes him want to devour you. 

Turning to face him, you press a manicured hand to his chest in a half hearted way to stop him, eyelids fluttering as your eyes travel up his neck, watching the way his Adam's apple bobs when he glances down at your cleavage. 

Steve’s hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing over the fabric and he makes a noise that he’d argue was not a whimper and you’d gloat it was as he whispers, “Just give me five minutes.”

Hand traveling up his neck, cradling his jaw, playing with the stray hair behind and over his ear, you smile, whispering back, “You’re unbelievable. We’re in a church. Be patient, Steve.”

His fingers glide over your dress, down to the hem, trailing up your thigh and pulling the fabric with it. Stomach flipping as warm breath falls over your neck, his mouth and nose just ghosting against your skin as his fingers climb higher at an agonizing pace. 

“I’ve been patient,” voice shot, raspy and low as his nose presses into your cheek and his lips skim your jaw, “In case you’re forgetting, I didn’t get to cum this morning.”

Your head falls back on its own accord, exposing more of your neck and chest to him as your hands slide into the lapels of his blazer, humming as your eyes start to flutter closed, “That’s not my fa-fault,” his fingers squeeze at the inside of your thigh, hitching your breath, “We were late.” 

Steve nods against your cheek, lips grazing your skin still as his fingers finally find the edge of lace he was desperate to feel. As they glide even higher, ready to follow the band to the center in that teasing way you like, he finds no gap.

“Oh, fuck, honey.”

Steve’s a goner. Pulling away enough to glance between your bodies, the skirt of your dress rucked up around your hip to find all black lace, mesh, and hard boning that connects all the way up to your breasts. The smile you bite down on, trying to hide how pleased you are at his reaction has him growling into your neck.

“You’re a menace,” his fingers grip at your lingerie covered sides and he moans, a press of wet lips to under your ear, hot breath fanning down your neck as his lips graze and his teeth nip, “Had this underneath here all fucking day?”

You hum, hands fisting into his jacket as his fingertips drag along the high cut edge, following the dip and crease of your thigh as his breathing grows heavier at the way you sigh his name. 

Steve glances over his shoulder, tugging you quickly through a door and clicking a lock in place before he’s back on you. Your hands resting behind you on the counter of the sinks, he’s on his knees, fingers dragging up the back of your legs as he presses his soft lips up one of your calves. 

“Baby,” he presses his nose into your knee, “Baby, you’re gonna kill me. Walking around with this on all day, holding infants, and being so sweet.” He’s mouthing over the black fabric now, nose nudging into your covered clit as your hands move to his hair. 

“Steve, I-”

Teeth tugging on the edge of the lace, he groans when you say his name all breathy and timid like that. Like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. 

Standing now, his fingers toy with the thin material that’s quickly becoming soaked, nose pressing to your cheek as he closes the distance between you, your dress held up in his other hand on your hip. 

His middle finger traces the edge down and back up, lightly pressing your clit again as he admits, “I’ve been thinking about ripping this dress off of you all day. Looked so pretty in it, holding babies on your hip, helping with things around the house, so,” he slaps over the wet fabric harshly and suddenly, sticking it against your slicked folds, as you gasp around his words, “Sweet.”

“Steve, please,” your lips catch the corner of his, pressing a kiss there and then to his jaw. Your fingers search for purchase on the cool countertop while his slip under the lace, soaked as they drag through your slit. 

“Please what?” He hovers over your lips, eyes unable to pull themselves from where your legs spread wider for him. Unable to hear anything except the sound of your wet lips parting around two of his fingers now. 

“Kiss me, please,” you’re whining, nose into his jaw, thinking about the small amount of scruff he’s grown and how it would feel between your thighs. You feel possessed. Like the devil himself shoved the forbidden apple down your throat but then you asked for more with a hopeful please. 

Steve doesn’t make you ask again, parted lips over yours. He tugs on your bottom one, teeth grazing over it as his fingertips tease at your entrance. You nod against his forehead, hands coming up to cling to his shoulders as your kissing becomes more frantic. 

“Please, baby, I’ve been thinking about you doing this all day, I can’t-” broken off into a moan as he nudges a finger into you, a second one following almost instantly. 

He swirls his fingers slowly, letting you catch your breath and adjust before his thumb slips over your clit, the mess you’re making tells him you’re not lying at all. Driving himself crazy as he thinks about how you had this on all day, growing wet thinking about him. 

“Poor girl, just been feeling empty all day, huh?” He mocks as you gasp against his cheek, mouth quickly finding his again, breathless and sloppy kissing as you squeeze your eyes shut. He’s expecting you to grow shy like you do, to let his teasing take over, to let it numb your brain but you nod your head against him again.

“You were-oh fuck-” your hands drag down his jacket, quickly working on his belt, “You were with the kids and I-” biting your lip like you don’t want to say it out loud. 

Steve’s fingers stop moving, and you whine, hips squirming against them as he pulls them out slowly. Wet with you as he catches your chin, cheeks pink and pupils blown out as he stares at you, “Thinking about me filling you up and getting you pregnant? Is that it?”

Your lips part at the words, a slow and timid nod of your head against his hand still cradling your jaw. Shoulders rising to tuck your neck into him as you grow shy again has him crashing his lips into yours, both of you frantic to tug at his belt and slacks. 

He kisses you quick and pushes his pants and boxers down, freeing his length. Pink tip swollen and leaking as he pumps himself, nudging his nose against your cheek, “Turn around for me, honey.”

You do as you're told, earning a moan as you spread your legs for him without being asked. His lips kiss up and down your neck, smirking into your neck as he speaks, “So sweet even when she’s being filthy.” He tugs the black lace to the side, sliding his tip through your slick until he’s nudging at your entrance slowly. 

The crackle of the speaker alerts you both that the service has now started and Steve pushes into you as the pastor greets everyone. 

Biting your lip to hold in the obscene noise you want to make, feeling every inch of Steve against your walls until he’s pressed flush against you. Dress in his fists as he glances down at where your bodies meet, pink cheeks and tousled hair, his reflection looks wrecked. 

Your hips wiggle against him and he tsks at you, kissing over your shoulder, nosing along the strap of your dress, “Be patient, sweetheart.”

He slowly pulls out and thrusts into you, rolling his hips against yours that earns him an absolutely sinful moan. Crawling out of your chest and mingling with the quiet sound of a hymn being sung. 

Steve continues to babble nonsense into your skin, cheek pressing to yours as he catches your eyes in the mirror, “Wanna walk around so full of me it’s leaking out of you while you’re in a church, huh, honey?”

His cock pulses inside of you at the way you clench around him at the words. He can’t himself but to push in a little harsher on the next thrust, grunting as he imagines getting to cum inside of you over and over again, ready to give you a baby. You’re all fluttering eyes, flushed skin, heaving chests as the drag of his cock along your walls seems to go even slower. 

A forceful thrust up into you, a roll of your hips back against him and the fucking ceramic easter decorations covered in crosses fall over on the counter. A fire slowly burns inside of you at the tantalizing pace and his hopeful tone despite teasing you. It’s all so wrong, and you want more. 

Steve mouths at your neck, pace of his hips slow and agonizing, but forceful, like he’s trying to be so deep inside you that it’s sure to stick.

“Want me to give you a baby, huh? Wanna make me a daddy?”

The sound you make brings him straight to heaven. 

Steve’s hands roam to over your stomach, dress falling from his hands so he can press and squeeze over your stomach and hips and his breath is hot in your ear as he admits, “You’re gonna look so pretty with a baby, all round and carrying our kid and-oh fuck.”

He grips at your hips as your head falls back against his shoulder, whining at his words and he keeps going, kissing over your neck and cheek and jaw as his hands push and cup at your breasts, thumbs swiping over your pebbled nipples through the fabric, “You want it too, don’t you baby? You want everyone to see you all pregnant? Need everyone to know you’re the one who gets to have a kid with Steve Harrington?”

Your hands reach above you, holding onto the back of his hair and gripping, gasping at his words as his hips pick up their pace.

He lets go of your chest, hand cupping at the curve of your ass and slapping it, “Tell me, babe.”

Nodding furiously, you clutch his hair tighter as he moans into your neck at your words, “Please, Steve, I want you to fill me up.”

“Yeah?” 

Steve’s teeth nipping at your shoulder, lips smiling into the dip of your neck as you shiver, letting out a quiet, “Christ.”

“Baby, we’re in a church, be good,” his teeth drag on the chain of your necklace, tugging at it as his hands pull up your dress again, “Hold this. We don’t wanna ruin your pretty dress, right?”

Doing as he says, his hands push on your lower back, marveling at how you arch perfectly for him, begging him to hurry up before he’s cupping your ass, spreading your cheeks so he can see how you’re dripping around him. Black lace curving and cutting across at a high angle, stark underneath the bunched up pastel and pristine fabric of your dress, he closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. 

His hips slap against yours as his pace becomes brutal, bruising your insides on every drag out and thrust back in. The slick of your walls tightening around him on every pump, your breathy mewls and gasps of babbling nonsense mixing with his grunts and the sermon crackling out of the speaker. 

“Steve, baby, please-”

“Our Father, who art in heaven-”

Steve could feel you clamping around him, your dress curling in your fingers as you gripped at the counter underneath it, his left hand covering yours, rings clicking together faintly. Chest to your back as he kissed at your sweat slicked neck, breathing in the scent of your fresh perfume.

“I know honey, just-” Steve mouthed over your spine, nose pressing behind your ear as he gasped out, “I’m almost there too, just hold on-”

“Thy will be done, on earth as it is in-”

He felt you tense up, thighs and legs shaking as you gushed around him, dripping out and down his dick, the base coated as you couldn’t keep quiet, his name leaving your lips in what was practically a sob, begging him for something he couldn’t wait to give you. 

“Steve!”

“-and deliver us from evil. For-”

Steve whispered your name into your skin, groaning as he gripped your hip, his own stuttering as hot ropes of his release spill into you. Quiet praises of how good you did and how much he loved you lost in both of your heavy breathing. 

“Forever and ever, Amen.”

Steve drags himself out of you, fingers quickly reaching down and pushing his cum back inside, soothing over your puffy lips, then dragging the black material back over your cunt. His palm holds it flat against you as he presses wet and hot open mouthed kisses over your neck in between ragged breaths, “Can’t let any of our mess leak out.”

Your knees buckle at his words, chest heaving as you let your dress fall from your hands, wrinkled from where you had clutched it so tightly and you cover your lips with your fingers. 

Steve tucks himself back into his slacks, amused eyes finding yours in the mirror and he kisses down and back up your neck, nose tracing over your ear. He smirks into your sweat kissed skin, when you whisper, “I think that was more than five minutes.”

His teeth scrape at your earlobe, and he squeezes your hips, “Give me five more and I’ll be ready to go again.”

Turning, you smack at his chest, “Steve!”

He kisses all over your laughing face, already daydreaming about a glow you’ll have when you are actually pregnant. His hands roam up your sides and back down, his lips moving over to your neck and you both sigh as your head falls back for him. Arms wrapping around his neck, fingers carding through his hair as his kissing leads down to your chest, he whines into your cleveage, “Fuck.”

Your giggle spurs him on more and he’s pawing at your hips and thighs, pushing you up against the counter and he feels himself growing hard again. Head shaking from side to side, your lips press to his temple, “Who’s the menace now?”

Pushing him away, he pouts as you unlock the door and peek outside, hand reaching back and grabbing his wrist. As quietly as you can, you sneak into the back of the chapel, settling in open spaces in the last pew. 

Steve’s fingers graze the outside of your thigh, hitching the hem of your skirt higher as his knuckles drag back and forth. You sit with your legs pressed together and he’s giddy with the knowledge of why. When you interact with the toddler looking over his father’s shoulder in the pew in front of you, sticking out your tongue and crossing your eyes to elicit a shriek from the kid, you giggle and hide your face in Steve’s shoulder and he squeezes your knee. 

It seems simple for you, to act like nothing happened. You hug his grandparents and push his cousin’s on the swings after the service. Running around and helping them with the Easter egg hunt like it’s your job. And it’s driving him even more insane than it did earlier. Now he knows what’s underneath your dress. Now he knows what it’s keeping from dripping out of you. 

At one point there’s one kid on your hip playing with your hair and one holding your dress as you ask her what kind of cookie she wants. A kiss on each of their cheeks as they leave and helping a worker fold chairs even though no one asked. Easy, sweet, domestic, a secret menace. The love of his goddamn life. 

It’s hard to breathe properly after leaving the bathroom with Steve. Thighs sticky, limbs heavy, and your heart hasn’t gone back to beating properly since. You’re filled with adrenaline, a secret no one else knows but you and Steve. Hating and loving that something that should’ve been wrong felt so right. Relishing in catching Steve’s eyes on you, almost able to still feel his breath on your neck, the fullness of him inside you still fresh and dancing across your nerves. 

When it’s finally time to say goodbye, Steve and you barely make it five minutes before you’re already climbing over the console as he pulls off onto a gravel road. Pants dropping to the floor of the car and dress hitched to your hips again as you take him back to heaven. 

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you thought, and I hope you consider reblogging my work to get it circulated to new readers - thanks for being here 💛

Steve Tag List: @boomhauer @loveshotzz @myobmaya @sweetsweetjellybean @pastel-pillows @littlesubbyflower @aftermidnightwriting

[pixxxieland]

this barbie has 97 mental illnesses and is banned from most public places

[pixxxieland]

[pixxxieland]

[pixxxieland]

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR TWELVE

in which you grapple with new emotions of nothing, eddie makes a few bad jokes, and honesty becomes an illusion again.

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, smut, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ wc: 3.8k+

→ a/n: half way point, folks! sorry this one is shorter. blame eddie?

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

12:00 ────────ㅇ───────── 24:00

JOHNNY BOY: No photo, no money, right? 

ARGYLE 😎: learn some patience broski 

JOHNNY BOY: It's been an hour and they aren’t answering. They haven’t said anything. I want my money. 

DINGUS: why the fuck are you guys blowing up the chat right now? someone better be dead. 

ARGYLE 😎: the lovers haven’t sent their hourly update. 

ARGYLE  😎: maybe they are dead. killed each other with passion. 

JOHNNY BOY: So what are we buying with that spare 1k, guys?

BIRDIE: oh fuck please tell me they aren’t dead

BIRDIE: did they seriously kill each other? do i need to facetime them? 

DINGUS: @BIRDIE honestly, for once, you have a good idea. facetime them. i would call but… something tells me i need to back off for a while. 

JOHNNY BOY: I take it you remembered that night at the bar? 

DINGUS: oh fuck off (yes. i did.)

BIRDIE: i’m facetiming them now.

DINGUS: great. i’m going back to bed. 

JOHNNY BOY: I think I’m going to buy a new camera with my cut of the money personally. 

—

HOUR TWELVE - 3:00 AM

One of you should have moved.

It could have been minutes, hours, decades later. The concept of time is completely lost on you as you focus on the weight of Eddie lying over you. He’s half draped across your back, bare chest sinking into your exposed skin, throwing the brunt of his weight in the sliver of cushion available to him beside you. His softening cock is still inside of you, the warmth of him is encasing you from the inside out. You match each deep inhale of his with your own, exhaling on the same silent beat. An unspoken moment of synchronicity, letting the weight of the decisions just made truly crawl beneath both of your skins. 

I hate you. 

Good, then this changes nothing.

You wondered if he tasted the sour of his lie in the heat of the moment. You wondered if it was just as metallic on his tongue as it had been on your own. 

One of you should have moved. But it takes the realization of your incapability to truly hate Eddie Munson as you should and the twitch of your body that follows to rouse Eddie. 

“Fuck,” he sighs out, finally pulling out, turning to fully fit his body onto the couch rather than on top of you. You dangle a leg and arm over the edge of the sofa, keeping your cheek pressed to rough fabric and your eyes turned from him as you bite your tongue. 

A million words you want to say in the clarity, all lost and slipping between your fingers with time. 

I lied. I don’t hate you. This meant everything. This changes everything. I don’t hate you. 

“Fuck is right,” you settle on murmuring instead. There’s nothing you can say now that can change what’s transpired. It’s over, it’s done with. Rather than staying stuck in the past still in your rearview mirror, you need to focus on the road laid out ahead of you two. 

The two of you lay like that for even longer than you had the previous position, shifting here and there until you both fit comfortably on the lumpy cushions. Side by side, almost spooning, but space left between you. You don’t think Eddie even realizes his hand is grazing soft circles over your thigh, moving on its own accord and sending shivers of comfort down your spine. 

Is the road ahead of you two even paved? 

“What now?” he suddenly asks, breaking the silence you two had been reveling in. You had been in your own head, and you wonder for a moment if he had been as well. You can’t find it in yourself to glance over your shoulder and look at him, to solve the mystery on your own, instead clinging to those grazes of his fingertips still skimming your thigh. 

With an exhausted sigh, you zero in your focus across the room, looking at the clock on the shelves, “I don’t know. It’s already three in the morning, so-”

“Oh, fuck.” 

“What?”

“It’s fucking three,” Eddie is shooting up from behind you quickly, “We never sent a fucking picture.” 

You understand his panic immediate, realization settling as he springs off of the couch, echoing his words with sincerity, “Oh, fuck.” 

In any other scenario, it would have been comical to see a nude Eddie panicked and rushing about his apartment living room. To see him disposing of the condom, to see him struggling to pull back on his sweats and t-shirt before he’s disappearing into his bathroom and emerging seconds later with a blushing face and a wet rag. 

He returns to you in an instant, murmuring the world’s softest apology before he swipes the cold cloth over your sore cunt, making you hiss out in surprise. 

“What the Hell-”

“I said I was sorry!” he defends, tossing the rag to the floor before he’s grabbing your clothes, his clothes technically, and handing them over to you, “Figured you’d want to be dressed before we send the photo.” 

“I-” you stare at the clothes with a contorted face, still trying to brush off the exhaustion that came with the sudden change in atmosphere. You hadn’t even gotten to maneuver the aftermath of it all, pilferage the rubble and bring up the possible path-not-yet-road that you two had to face going forward. 

What did this mean for you two now? What did this mean for the remaining twelve hours?

Nothing, you suppose. Maybe you don’t need to ask those questions, because Eddie already answered them for you. It changes nothing. 

“Thanks,” you numbly say and take the clothes from him. He grabs your phone off the floor as you shrug the clothing back on.

What the fuck were you expecting? 

It was a one time ordeal. It was just a quick fix to get it out of both your systems. Just because you were needy, because you were craving a conversation about it all, didn’t mean Eddie was. There was no difference here between what transpired between the two of you and some random hookup. No feelings, no strings attached. The only difference was the obligation to spend another twelve hours together, if your friends hadn’t already decided their altruistic grace periods had hit their limits. 

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie grumbles, looking over your plethora of notifications, “Fifty fucking texts. Seven missed calls. We’re fucked,” When you let out a sharp laugh, he looks up from the screen at you, furrowing his brows, “What’s so funny?”

“Can you imagine making it halfway only to fuck up because we were getting along too well?” you snort, unable to help yourself. Twelve hours. You two had managed what already felt impossible, only to screw it all up because you two couldn’t keep it in your pants. Maybe if you admitted that to your friends, they would let the bet continue. You can already imagine Robin’s yips of glee at the prospect. 

Eddie’s worrisome look begins to crack, the corners of his mouth twitching, “I… That would… suck.” 

His voice is wavering, barely able to keep it together and withhold his own amusement as you beckon for him to hand over the phone, both of you sitting back on the couch, thighs pressed together. 

“Suck is one way to put it,” you giggle, barely glancing at the missed notifications, “Seriously. We made it this far. And it’s not like we weren’t together… We were. A little too literally.” 

If this is the closest you two come to talking about it, you can handle that. 

Eddie finally barks out a laugh, “Yeah. Maybe we took the bet too literally.”

“Just a little bit,” you shimmy a shoulder against his, forcing all laughter and smiles and drowning out any worries that continued to persist in your chest. Now wasn’t the time. This was enough. You can handle it. 

Your phone lights up with a Facetime call, making both of you jump.

Robin.

“Oh, no,” you groan, eyes pinching shut. 

“It could be worse,” Eddie notes, leaning into your space. His side presses into yours and it makes you want to die, “At least it’s just Buckley.” 

You shake your head, ignoring the burn he ignites in you with every slight touch still, grumbling, “Right, it’s just Buckley.” 

The two of you had sex. It should be out of your system. There was no need to continue to feel goosebumps raise when his shoulder knocked yours, when his knee slotted up against yours. It has to be out of your system. 

You swipe your thumb to answer the call against your better judgment. 

“Oh my God, you two idiots are alive! I swear to God, we thought you two killed each other! I almost had to go across the hall and have Steve predial for the cops if you two didn’t answer, I-” 

Robin’s rambling begins without so much as a hello. She’s speaking a mile a minute, taking no breaks, no pauses, no breaths, as you stare blankly at the screen where she’s half hidden in the shadows of her dark room. 

“Jesus,” Eddie whispers, eyebrows raising. You watch him through the screen, afraid to turn your actual face towards him. You don’t trust yourself. It should be out of your system, but it isn’t. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone talk so fast-”

“Fuck off, Munson,” despite Eddie’s effort to keep his voice low, Robin picks up on his words mid-rant, “My point is, we were worried. Why didn’t you send your photo or answer any calls?”

“We forgot,” you supply lamely. You catch Eddie’s fight against a smirk as he coughs over the beginnings of a scoff, and immediately shoot your elbow that’s out of frame into his side. 

Robin narrows her eyes at the screen, “You just forgot? How? No offense, but I can’t see you two getting distracted, especially with each other. We’ve all been under the assumption you just… sit on opposite sides of the room, and pretend the other doesn’t exist.”

Eddie coughs again, followed by a grunt from another pierce of your elbow.

“Have you considered that we might have been sleeping?”

“You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping.”

“I’m so glad that you’re all-knowing, Buckley,” Eddie says as he composes himself, “Where would we be without a sleep expert?” 

You finally turn your head to glare at him face-to-face rather than through the screen, trying to warn him to back off. Robin could go hours in the ring with Eddie, and you weren’t exactly in the mood to listen to the two banter off each other. He meets your warning gaze with wide eyes, almost as innocent as a child caught in the act. You can’t even stay mad at him – the moment those autumn brown eyes meet yours, soft and gooey and terribly laced with tempting gold, you’ve melted for him. All your defenses fall. 

You need to talk about it. You need to know if he means it.

“What does that even mean?” You ask as you slowly turn your head away from Eddie, “What exactly are we supposed to look like after sleeping?”

“I don’t know. Messy hair, squinty eyes, maybe some dried drool and appearing more… more… caught off guard?” Robin rattles off her list as she stares at them through the screen, shifting around from where it looks like she’s laying in bed, “Actually, now that I’m saying all this outloud, maybe you guys were sleeping,” you and Eddie freeze up in sync. Technically, you two could pass off as the Facetime being a rude awakening in your mutual dishevelment – both your hair and Eddie’s was messy as could be, shirts looking to be twisted from putting them on so carelessly. Hell, at your own detrimental embarrassment, you bet Robin would spot dried drool on your face if she looked close enough. Just not for the reasons she would believe, “Shit, yeah, okay. I believe you guys. You were sleeping. Our bad.” 

Just as you sigh in relief, Eddie’s face blooms with a wicked grin. 

“That or we were fucking.” 

It comes to your attention now that it is very hard to decipher when Eddie is joking. You wonder just how many times you had misinterpreted his sarcasm, how many times he had said a blatant truth only for you to take it for a grain of salt. 

Most of all, you wonder if Robin catches your distress at him actually exposing you two. You don’t even have it in you to shove your elbow especially painfully into his side this time, completely dismayed and unsure of what to say. 

She doesn’t catch it. She only snorts, rolling her eyes, “Right. Of course – or that.” 

You’re still unable to respond as Eddie continues to grin, laughing along with Robin, including her in an inside joke she had no idea of her involvement in. She has no idea. 

Because you guys were fucking. You’d had sex with Eddie, let him use you and throw you around like a goddamn rag doll. And now, here he was, so casually joining around with your mutual friend about it as if it were some absurd dream. Some stupid joke, some unreasonable thought of something that could never possibly happen. 

“Okay, well I’ll let you guys go back to bed-”

“Or jumping each other’s bones,” Eddie interrupts Robin.

She makes an exaggerated gagging noise, though the corners of her mouth are pulled up in a smile, before continuing, “And I’ll let everyone know we probably won’t get an update for the next hour. Just… don’t kill each other, alright? Who knows, maybe you guys can even become friends?” 

You wait for Eddie to take the punch line of something along the lines of being friends with benefits, to make a spectacle yet again of what had just transpired to an unsuspecting Robin. 

It meant nothing to him. It was all a joke to him. 

“See ya, Robs,” you offer weakly, numbly, hardly able to raise a hand to wave her off. You know that to her, this is just a symptom of fatigue. The type of tired solved by crawling back into bed and sleeping it off. She’s not worried; she even grins wider as she says her final goodbyes to you and Eddie before the call ends. 

Eddie knows better than Robin. 

He waits a few seconds after the call has ended and his apartment has fallen silent again, watching your slow movements as you sit your phone down on the arm of the couch. 

You lied to yourself, clearly. This incessant ache in you, this question that has begun to run laps in your mind, will never be satiated or sedated through joking discussions of what happened. You can’t pretend like your hips won’t carry invisible scars for the rest of your days from where Eddie’s hands scorned you, you can’t forget how his lips fit against yours in a movement easier than breathing. Kissing him, holding him, filling him had been more effortless than filling your lungs with the air necessary for survival. And you hadn’t caught onto it in the moment, hadn’t recognized your mistake and stopped this train from running off its tracks quicker than you could handle. 

That’s all it was. A trainwreck. You and Eddie were a trainwreck, and the only casual so far it seemed was you. 

An explosion. A glass wall. A tormented ocean. Every single transaction between you and him ended with you wounded, never him. 

“Hey, are you okay?” he asks when you suddenly stand from the couch, not really sure of where you were going to go but no longer capable of just sitting and thinking, pondering, drowning. 

“Fine,” you curtly reply, deciding the kitchen might be a good place to start. Get a glass of water, gulp it down instead of false hope or fake niceties Eddie was probably going to shower you with now. 

Or maybe there would be no face niceties. Maybe he’d go back to being cruel, and in that, not realize he was being kind to you and your heart that had grown too heavy over the last twelve hours. 

“You don’t look fine,” he persists, and follows you. It nearly sparks irritation. But of all the emotions rushing through you right now, you don’t have the energy to spare for petty irritation. 

“Then stop looking,” you sigh as your eyes trace over his cabinets, trying to remember which one holds his glasses. He gets too close too fast, coming up behind you and opening one of the cabinets as if he was reading your mind. A collection of mugs, plastic cups, and crystal glasses alike line the shelves. You focus on them rather than him. 

“What’s wrong?” he insists, actually starting to get on your nerves now.

You didn’t want to tell him what’s wrong, because it was stupid. The most predictable cliche has come to fruition, and you only have yourself to blame. The anger he’s assuming is his fault is just misdirected. You just needed to get your emotions under control – if you could accomplish that, you could survive these last few hours. 

“It’s nothing,” you push back, finally looking at him. You worry for a second that you might be teary eyed, but you know better. Your corneas burn, everything aches, but your vision is clear as day. He’s clear as day, and it makes the ache all the more unbearable, “I’ll get over it.” 

You’re not supposed to want him this way. You’re supposed to hate him. 

He stiffens, “Get over what?” 

“It.” 

“I-” he stammers at your vague response, mouth pressing into a harsh line as his eyes narrow, “Jesus Christ, how are you still this fucking stubborn? After everything that’s happened tonight? After everything that happened in the last hour?” 

“I’m not stubb-” you fruitlessly try to correct, but he bulldozes on without listening.

“I thought after I had been balls deep in you, maybe we had made some progress – maybe we could be friends-” 

“Are you fucking joking?” you scoff, trying to properly process the sentence he’d just said and not get hung up on him using the phrase balls deep, “I- No, okay? Sex doesn’t mean friendship, Eddie. That’s not how this works.” 

“Then how does it work?” if you were stupid, you’d assume he was begging, “Please enlighten me. How do I get you to trust me?” 

“Why do you need my trust so badly?” you snark back. Misdirected anger, and he’d put himself directly in the line of fire, “Why do you want that of me so goddamn badly when it’s clear that after tonight, we’ll pretend all of this never existed?” 

He steps back as if you slapped him. As if he hadn’t been the one just making a mockery of whatever was happening between the two of you. 

“You said it yourself,” you continue to ramble, waving around a previously fisted hand, “It changes nothing. And it’s not your problem that I struggle with that. I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at myself – there’s a difference.” 

“It doesn’t feel like there’s a difference,” Eddie immediately snaps, “You’re mad because I said… I said that? Because I said your words back to you? Because if you can recall correctly, sweetheart, you’re the one that said it all means nothing first.”

The misdirected anger is starting to feel perfectly directly with each word that leaves his mouth, “Because you asked me if it all meant nothing first. They’re still your words, not mine!” 

“I only asked that because you’ve made it very clear that you enjoy hating me.” 

“You think I enjoy this?” your voice breaks with emotion, taking a step closer to him. Your toes brush his, “You think I enjoy all this fighting with you? You think I enjoy seeing you act like it’s painful to be in a room with me for more than a few seconds at a time?”

His hardening gaze, his hands twitching at his sides, the lilt of his mouth as the corner folds downward. Now that you’ve tasted him, you could never erase yourself of him. 

“You really want to know what I think?” he’s not screaming like he should be. The two of you should be shouting to the ceilings, screaming until the surrounding neighbors could hear you. You want to yell until your lungs give out and noise complaints have been filed, but he’s not having it. He’s quiet as he takes the next step closer. His head dips in closer to yours, lips nearing the shell of your ear, “Do you truly want to know what I think about all of this?”

“Yes,” you whimper out, the need for yelling being swallowed down for the time being, “That’s all I want.”

It’s true. You don’t know if he can see it, the crack in your composure as you admit it, but it’s the truth. You want to see inside his mind, watch the mechanics ticking in real time. You need to know his every single thought and feeling so badly, your hands shake. 

“I think,” his voice comes out as a husky whisper directly against your ear, chest just shy of brushing against yours, “you never really hated me, baby,” he pauses, and one of his hands come out to your hips, grabbing you and pulling you in closer to him, “I think, you just wanted me so badly, it made you into a dumb, angry slut.” 

“You’re cocky,” you shakily laugh. You need to stop this. You need to push him away, save yourself.

You lean into his touch and silent commands, pressing up into him. Going as far as to stand up on your tip-toes so that your nose brushes against his neck. 

“Am I?” he chuckles, and the sound shoots straight to your core. 

You need to push him away. You need to put distance. You need to remember this means nothing.

“You asked me what I thought, sweetheart,” he goes to pull away, and you follow, “And I’m nothing if not an honest man.”

It means nothing. You can deal with your own ramifications tomorrow. You can work through the catastrophe relief come tomorrow afternoon, nurse away the heartbreak and sore disappointment. 

You have him for one night. One night. To let him slip away from you is to waste it. 

“Honest?” you try to scoff, but it comes out a breath against his skin, both hands now wrapping around your waist as he turns the two of you and cages you against the counter, “You… You can’t even honestly tell me why you hate me. You have to use some bullshit excuse.” 

His hands rake down your sides before cupping beneath your thighs, lifting you to sit on the counter. He’s fucking smirking. Completely unaffected by your words. 

“Would you like me to be honest now, doll?” he rasps, leaning back to take you in, “Or would you rather me eat that poor pussy right here, right now, on this counter?” 

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[pixxxieland]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!Reader Series

Summary: After moving to Hawkins to take care of your ailing grandma, you end up spending a wild night with Corroded Coffin's lead singer, Eddie Munson. When you uncover his true intentions, you have no desire to ever see him again, but fate--and his son, Harris--has other plans.

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), fingering (f! receiving), oral (m!receiving), slowburn, strangers to enemies to lovers, angst, Eddie is 30, Reader is 28, no use of y/n

WC: 7.5k

Chapter 1/?

Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple Divider credit to @saradika

Late August, 1996. 

July had come and gone so quickly, and you could sense it in the muggy air as the daylight dwindled away on the horizon of an orange colored sky. Your heels click along the parking lot pavement as you make your way into the dingy bar. Everyone told you that your twenties would be full of surprises, but no one warned you that those twists and turns would land you in Hawkins, Indiana. 

The neon sign reads The Hideout; well, really, it reads Th H deo t, and the “o” is starting to flicker. You’re not the only one who notices the building’s crumbling exterior. 

“Huh,” Jess says, crossing her arms over her chest. “This place seemed a lot cooler when I was in high school.” Still, she pushes open the door, where you’re immediately hit with the stench of cigarettes and beer. The floor is sticky with what you can only hope is spilled liquor, and you take a seat on a rickety barstool. 

“How did you even hear about this place?” you ask your new friend, tugging your dress so it covers a bit more of your thighs. You had one night out to yourself, and Jess was insistent on you making the most of it. 

“Used to come here all the time when I was, like, sixteen?” She wrinkles her nose. “They’re dirt cheap and they never card, so my friends and I used to get super wasted. Thought we were hot shit.” She flags down the bartender with a wave and a smile. “Anyway, you can’t live in Hawkins and not come to the Hideout at least once. It’s a tradition.”

The bartender, a woman who looks to be in her mid-forties, leans on the counter. “What can I get you ladies?” she asks. Her voice is raspy from what sounds like decades of chain smoking. 

You’re about to order a Bud Light, but Jess cuts you off. “We’ll each have a Hideout Special,” she says confidently. “Make hers a double.”

“Jesus Christ, are you trying to kill me? And what the hell is a Hideout Special?”

She waves off your concern. “Honestly, I have no idea. But it’ll get you buzzed fast.”

You reluctantly agree, sipping on something that tastes vaguely like a mixture of rum and vodka, with the pungency of rubbing alcohol. “That’s awful,” you grimace, and Jess just laughs.

“Yeah, they’re pretty rough going down. But you only have one night to yourself, and you’re gonna make the most of it.” She links her arm through yours, using her free hand to tilt the drink back up to your lips. “Now, drink up. The band’s gonna start playing soon, and you’ll need all the liquor you can get. Trust me.”

Corroded Coffin, the band in question, is warming up in the back room. Tuesday nights   has been their slot since high school, and if their lead singer and guitarist has his way, it’ll be their slot until they’re too old to play. He’s tuning his ax, tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration, only looking up when he hears a faint “oh, shit,” come from his bandmate.

“Y’good?” Eddie asks, strumming gently to play a perfect A-chord.

“Yeah,” Jeff says, holding up a small black box. “Forgot I had this in my pocket; almost dropped it when I took off my jacket.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “That’s what you get for wearing leather in fuckin’ August, dude.” He squints at the object in Jeff’s hand. “What is that, anyway?”

“A ring,” Jeff proudly announces. “I’m gonna ask Viv to marry me.” The big, goofy grin on his face makes Eddie’s stomach churn. He looks at Gareth and Danny, expecting similar disgusted reactions from them, but they’re both smiling, too. 

“Way to go, man!” Danny says, and Gareth claps Jeff on the back. “Our little Jeff is growing up.”

“Oh, fuck off, man,” Jeff says, but he’s laughing as he accepts the congratulations. He glances expectantly at Eddie, waiting for him to chime in. 

“You two’ve been together for a million years,” Gareth jokes, twirling a drumstick in his free hand. “What made you decide to take the plunge?”

Jeff’s eyes dart around the room. “Okay, I wasn’t supposed to say anything,” he starts, voice hushed, “but Viv’s pregnant!”

“Holy shit!” Danny sputters. “Dude, you’re gonna be a dad!”

“Yeah,” Jeff agrees incredulously. “Fuckin’ wild, isn’t it?” His gaze falls to Eddie. “Does the seasoned professional have any words of wisdom?”

An uncharacteristic silence fills the room. Eddie can feel their eyes burning a hole into his head. He knows what he should say, what Jeff wants to hear, but he can’t bring himself to feign happiness. “You don’t have to marry someone just because you knocked her up.” It comes out with a snarl, meaner than he’d intended. 

“Crazy thought, but have you considered that I actually want to marry her?” Jeff shoots back, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’re not all content being miserable hermits like you are.”

“Whoa, break it up,” Gareth tries, stepping between the two guitarists, but the conversation’s already too heated. 

“I’m not miserable, and I’m not a hermit,” Eddie counters. “I’m just not about to limit myself when there’s plenty of pussy in the sea.”

Jeff rolls his eyes. “Whatever, dude. Thanks for the well wishes.��� Eddie can’t help but notice the flash of hurt in his eyes as he walks away. A small part of him feels bad, but he can’t shake the anxiety that unexpected change seems to bring.  

“So, what does this mean for Corroded Coffin?” he asks. “Should we consider this our farewell show?” He tries to ignore the irritated glares he’s getting from Gareth and Danny. It’s like the words fall from his mouth before his brain can process the damage they can do. 

“Obviously, once the baby comes, I’ll have to take a step back,” Jeff shrugs. “And I’m gonna try to work some overtime before it’s born. Save some extra money, y’know.” 

The room had been zapped of joy, and Eddie feeds off of the sullen atmosphere. “Nice commitment to the band,” he sneers. “Glad to see how easily your priorities change.”

“Yeah, man, you should try it sometime,” Jeff snaps. His fists clench, and he looks angry enough to throw a punch. “Maybe you’ll stop acting like an overgrown teenager.” 

Eddie’s about to fight back, jaw locked in place and eyes seeing red, but he’s temporarily grounded by the sound of the manager’s tired voice echoing from the ancient sound system.  

“Put your hands together for Corroded Coffin!” A smattering of applause signals their cue to enter. Eddie tries to shake off the conflict; it can be resolved after they play. The show must go on, or whatever it was that his high school drama teacher always said. 

A balding man with a gruff voice introduces the band as Corroded Coffin. Jess’s eyes go wide; she’s already a few Hideout Specials deep and definitely feeling it.

“Oh, shit!” she laughs with a hiccup. “That’s my sister’s boyfriend’s band!” She motions to the bartender to pour her another drink, but you shake your head and just mouth water. The bartender gives you a knowing nod, probably grateful that she won’t have to be the one dealing with Jess tonight.

“Yeah, that’s Jeff!” Jess continues, pointing at a tall guitarist with tight curls. “He’s the one who knocked up Viv!” She cackles like she just made the most hilarious joke. “I totally forgot they were playing tonight.” She frantically waves at him, and he gives a small head nod in acknowledgment.

Your eyes are drawn to someone else: the lanky, ring-clad man who takes center stage. He grips the mic with black polished nails, smirking out into the crowd as he yells, “Hawkins, how’re we doin’ tonight?” The loudest cheers come from Jess, and you join in, letting out an obnoxious “woooooo!” in response.

The noise draws his attention, and you watch as his smirk shifts to something needier, hungrier, even. His big brown eyes land on you and Jess, leaving you momentarily breathless. He’s absolutely gorgeous, light stubble on his cheeks and above his plush lips. He’s wearing a white V-neck that shows off a dusting of chest hair. His torn black jeans hang low on his hips, accentuated with a studded belt. A gleaming pair of silver handcuffs are clipped to one of the loops.

“All right!” he calls back. “Well, this first one goes out to the pretty girl in the blue dress at the bar. Wait for me after the show, Sweetheart.” He counts out to four, and they launch into a cover of Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me.

It doesn’t even register until Jess nudges you, more forcefully than necessary, and says, “Hey, you’re wearing a blue dress!”

Oh. 

Oh. 

“Who…who is he?” you ask, feeling a warmth spread through your core that you’re sure isn’t from the alcohol. 

“That,” Jess says, leaning on you for balance, “is Eddie Munson. Total freak back in high school, but now he’s just got a reputation for being a freak in the sheets.” She throws you a clumsy wink and adds, “looks like you’ll get to find out for yourself tonight.”

“I’m not really a one-night stand kind of person,” you counter, internally cringing at the memories of your feeble attempts at hooking up, all of which inevitably ended with you pining after them pathetically. 

Jess rolls her eyes. “Come on,” she whines, taking note of the way you and Eddie can’t seem to tear your gazes from each other. “Your dad leaves tomorrow, and then you’ll be spending your nights taking care of your grandma. You gotta live a little!”

Plopping back down onto the barstool, you consider her sentiment. It’s true; once your dad goes back home, you’ll be the one helping out in the evenings. And the new school year starts next week, leaving you with little time for yourself. 

Your whole life has been spent helping others. You became a teacher to shape young minds and provide them with a safe place to learn and express themselves. You moved to a tiny town in the middle of Indiana to look after your grandma. Even now, you’re babysitting Jess and ensuring she doesn’t dehydrate instead of letting loose and ordering another drink. 

“Fine, but only if he brings it up,” you concede. “I’m not gonna be the one to make the first move.”

The band moves on to their next song; it’s either an original or one you’re not familiar with, but you find yourself dancing to the beat. Jess joins you, writhing her body in some kind of drunken jig that has you cackling. You’re having such a great time that you don’t even notice Eddie tripping over a few chords as he watches you sway your hips back and forth. 

Corroded Coffin plays for another forty minutes. You recognize some Metallica and Black Sabbath songs, headbanging along until you’re dizzy. The bartender slides you another drink—on the house, she insists—and you sip it eagerly, trying to quell your nerves. Eddie shouts out, “thank you, Hawkins!” and disappears backstage with the rest of the band. 

You can’t ignore the dejected pain in your heart, but you muster up a smile and turn to Jess. “Ready to get out of here?”

She shakes her head, putting her palm on the bar to steady herself. “You still have to wait for Eddie,” she teases. “You promised.”

You cock your eyebrow in amusement. “First of all, Drunky McWasted, I didn’t promise anything,” you say, “and second, show’s over and, uh, he’s not here.” You swivel around for emphasis. 

“Give him a fucking second, would ya?” The comment doesn’t come from your friend, and you turn around to see Eddie standing behind you. He’s got a towel around the back of his neck, mopping up the sweat from his performance. His hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and you can see the remnants of kohl eyeliner smudged around his lash line. “Had to clean myself up a little bit, damn.” He smiles, and you feel like you’re going to melt. 

Jess interrupts, pushing you closer to him. “Eddie, this is my neighbor.” When you still don’t say anything, too awestruck to introduce yourself, she tells him your name. 

Eddie nods, letting his fingers graze yours. “What’d you think of the set?” He grins at the bartender, who gives a small head bob and hands him a whiskey, neat. 

“It was good,” you manage, finally finding your voice. “I especially liked the song you dedicated to the pretty girl in the blue dress.” There. You flirted. The rest is up to him.

“Yeah?” He rests his forearm on the bar and leans over to take his glass. “Was kinda hopin’ you would. Soon as I saw you, I knew I had to shoot my shot.” His eyes flit over the low-cut neckline of your dress before he drags his gaze back to your eyes. “You new to Hawkins?”

“Mhm,” you say, watching as he fumbles with a pack of Newports. “I moved here to take care of my grandma.” Good going. Nothing turns a guy on like talking about your elderly relatives.

But Eddie’s unfazed. “Hot and nice? A lethal combo, if I do say so myself.”

“What about you?” you blurt out. “I mean, have you always lived in Hawkins?”

He shrugs. “Been back and forth. Came here when I was nine, left when I was twenty-two, then came back about four years ago.”

“What brought you back? Missed all the excitement?” You laugh and he gives a small smile, but an emotion you can’t pinpoint crosses over his face.

“Somethin’ like that,” Eddie mutters, popping a cigarette between his lips. “Wanna go outside an’ have a smoke with me?”

“I’d love to,” you say with an apologetic tone, “but I really don’t wanna leave her alone.” You motion to your friend, who is currently trying to convince the bartender to let her have another drink. But as soon as she hears you using her as an excuse, she waves you off.

“Go,” she insists. “I’ll be fine. ‘M gonna have Jeff take me back home.” She stands on her tiptoes, nearly falling over, flailing both her arms wildly when she spots Jeff in the crowd and shouting, “Jeffy! Jeffy, can you drive me home so these two can have sex?”

You feel your face heat up at her words as Eddie shakes his head incredulously, lips twisting into a cocky grin. The last thing Jeff wants to do after Eddie’s earlier tantrum is help him get laid, but he knows there will be hell to pay if he doesn’t watch after his inebriated sister-in-law-to-be.

“Yeah, sure,” he grumbles, carefully looping his arm around her waist and helps her to his car. He appears to deliberately avoid making eye contact with Eddie, though you don’t know why. The two of them seemed to be getting along just fine on stage. The rest of the band leaves with them, carrying various instruments. No one even acknowledges Eddie’s presence. 

“Uh, everything okay?” You can’t not pretend you didn’t notice; the tension is far too obvious.

Eddie brushes it off with another shrug. “Guys all got sticks up their asses, I dunno.” He pulls a black Bic lighter from his back pocket and motions towards the door, signaling your cue to walk out with him and drop the conversation.

Chirping crickets and a rowdy group of drunks shouting obscenities at each other punctuates the otherwise quiet atmosphere. Eddie looks at you expectantly, holding out his lighter, and you realize that he’s waiting for you to take out your own pack of cigarettes. A pack of cigarettes that you do not have.

“Oh, I, um, I don’t smoke,” you stammer, biting your tongue in irritation towards your own awkwardness. “I mean, I’ll smoke, like, socially, but I don’t carry cigarettes on me. Sorry.”

“Wanna bum one?” You pluck one from the pack and lean in as he lights it for you. The crisp inhale of tobacco lingers in your lungs for a moment before you breathe out, grateful that you didn’t cough like a middle schooler stealing cigs from her mom’s stash. You take another drag, watching as he does the same. You’d thought that there would be some level of conversation, but Eddie seems perfectly content smoking in silence.

“So,” you finally say, “how long have you been playing guitar?”

He chuckles and pushes his hand through his hair, stopping where it’s gathered into a hair tie. The perspiration on his forehead is starting to dry, but his bangs still stick to it. “Shit, gotta be twenty years now. Damn, I’m fuckin’ old.”

“How old are you?” It comes out more accusing than inquisitive, and you sharply inhale more nicotine to shut yourself up.

“Turned thirty last month.”

“Oh, that’s not old,” you reassure him. “I’m twenty-eight, so…not far behind.” 

He doesn’t say anything in response to this. Maybe you’d misread his intentions. Or maybe he’d lost interest after just a few moments alone with you. The pretty girl in the blue dress quickly becomes the lame girl in the blue dress, and you both return home unsatisfied.

You try again, this time saying something that warrants a response. “I just moved here last week, if you have any recommendations of places to go. Restaurants or something?”

Eddie shakes his head. “Nah, ‘s pretty boring around here.” 

End of conversation.

“Well, I should probably get home,” you say, shifting your weight onto your other foot and stubbing out your cigarette in the nearby ashtray. There’s no sense in wasting anymore time, and the nighttime chill is biting at your bare legs. 

“Wait, what?” Eddie practically does a double-take. “I thought…didn’t Viv’s sister say something about…”

Or maybe you’d read the situation correctly after all.

“You still want to?” 

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?” He ashes his own cigarette, and the smirk returns to his face. “Your place or mine?”

Considering the fact that your place is currently housing an eighty-year-old woman with declining cognition, and your father, you quickly jump at the offer to go to his home. 

You walk with him to his car, a beat-up blue sedan. He opens the passenger door, and you thank him with a tight smile, still not sure what to expect. Maybe he’s just not into small talk, but he seems awfully closed off for a man who’s trying to get laid.

A tangle of tree-shaped air fresheners hang from the rearview mirror; they sway slightly as the two of you plop in your seats. Instinctively, you look behind you as he turns the key in the ignition. Nestled into the far left side of the backseat is a carseat. Cheerio crumbs are wedged in the crevices, and an empty sippy cup leans up against it.

“Is that a carseat?” It’s a dumb question; of course it’s a carseat, but you can’t bring yourself to be more blunt and ask if he has a kid. I mean, the guy couldn’t even tell you a single restaurant to go to.

“Oh. Yeah.” Eddie reaches around, placing a ringed hand on the back of your headrest as he backs out of the spot. He doesn’t elaborate on the matter, just speeds out of the parking lot, so you don’t push it.

The words, I love kids; I’m actually a preschool teacher, linger on your lips, but you bite them back. This is supposed to be casual, a one-night stand; you’re not trying to be anyone’s stepmother.

Eddie flicks on the radio to a metal station–of course–and you sit back and try to enjoy the ride. You can faintly hear him humming along to the music. The fingers on his left hand drum on the steering wheel, while his right hand finds its way to your upper thigh. Fuck, it feels good. He gently squeezes, and the sensation of his cold metal rings combined with his hungry touch makes you involuntarily press your legs together.

“Just wait, Sweetheart,” he laughs. “There’s more where that came from.” It’s probably the most he’s said to you all night, and you consider it a small win. You lean in and gently nip at his earlobe, grinning as he shivers at the contact.

“There’s more where that came from,” you echo, shifting back in your seat. Eddie looks at you, brows raised and forehead creased in amusement, but–big surprise–says nothing. He pulls into an apartment complex parking lot, swinging into the nearest available spot, and kills the engine. Without the music or the steady hum of the ignition, you’re suddenly plunged into complete silence. Are you really doing this? Going to a stranger’s apartment to have sex with him? What if he’s some sort of serial killer? But Jess knows him–sort of–and vouched for him, so he can’t be all bad, right? Although, Ted Bundy had friends, too…

Eddie clearing his throat disrupts your inner monologue, and you glance up at him shyly. “Sorry,” you mutter, though you’re not quite sure what you’re apologizing for.

“No biggie,” he says, like he’s used to women just spacing out in his car before they fuck him. “Um, y’ready to go inside?”

You nod, opening your door and carefully stepping out onto the uneven pavement. You wobble a little in your high heels, but you feel a hand on your lower back, steadying you. “Lemme help you,” he mumbles, lacing his fingers through yours and guiding you to the front door of the building. 

The two of you only make it to the stairwell between the first and second floors before he’s pouncing on you, your back against the cold concrete walls. His hands start on your waist, traveling upwards and lightly grazing your breasts before he’s cupping your face. His kisses are hungry, but not sloppy; when his tongue breaches your lips, you let him in without a second thought. He places his knee between your legs, just barely nudging it against your lace thong. “Fuck,” he hisses, pulling away from you and running his tongue over his teeth, “I need you, pretty girl.” 

You pout, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him deeply. “Can’t get naked until we’re in your apartment.” You pause before whispering in his ear, “and if you thought this dress looked good on me, wait till you see it on your floor.”

Eddie’s eyes widen. “‘S just another flight of stairs after this, yeah?” He doesn’t wait for a response, just takes your hand again and leads you to apartment 3C. There are a few Hot Wheels cars scattered on the ground, but he kicks them under the couch without further explanation. He sits down, adjusts his body on the soft beige cushion, and pats his lap. “Your throne,” he says cheekily, exposing tiny dimples on either side of his lips.

Wordlessly, you climb on top of him. Your dress bunches up as you straddle his waist, though that won’t be a problem much longer. You greedily grind your clothed pussy over the rough denim of his fly, sucking on his neck as his strong hands clasp the back of your thighs and pull you closer.

“Needy thing, hmm?” Eddie smirks, chuckling when you feign offense. “Where’re you going? ‘M just teasing you.” He sits up a bit, tugging one dress strap down and kissing the flesh between your neck and shoulder. “Maybe I read it wrong, but…y’look like a girl who likes to be teased,” he says, voice muffled by your skin. 

“N-No, I do. Like it,” you stammer, fumbling with the frayed hem of his shirt and lifting it over his head. You run your hands over the expanse of pale skin, admiring his tattoos. There’s one of a red guitar pick right above his left pec; without thinking, you kiss it gingerly. He lets out a quiet moan, unzipping your dress and helping you shimmy out of it. You’re not wearing a bra, and he nearly chokes on his own tongue when he sees you on display for him.

“Christ, baby,” he groans, “got the most perfect fuckin’ tits I’ve ever seen.” He kisses them and runs his thumbs over your pert nipples before briefly sucking on them. The nickname baby isn’t lost on you, but you try not to read into it. 

Still, there’s a sense of satisfaction at the way he’s crumbling literally beneath you, though you can’t help but snarkily say, “bet you say that to all the girls you bring back here.”

Eddie throws his head back and laughs, sending vibrations through your core. “Only the ones with perfect tits.”

You hate yourself for wondering how many perfect-breasted women there have been.

“Bedroom?” It’s all you can manage, already breathless from dry humping like a goddamn teenager on prom night.

Eddie hesitates before shaking his head, a curl falling loose from the hair tie. “Let’s just, uh, stay out here. Room’s kinda a mess.” The unsure expression on his face hints at another reason, but he quickly distracts you by pushing your panties to the side, slipping his middle finger into your aching cunt. “Holy shit. S’fucking wet already. I knew you were needy.”

“Y-Yes. Need you. Need more.” You’re already stretched out by one finger, but you’re dying to know how a second one feels. The more of him inside you, the better. He obliges, fucking you with his pointer and middle fingers while his thumb makes tiny, hurried circles against your clit. “That’s it, right…right there. Don’t stop; please don’t stop!” He brings you to your orgasm, smirking as you finish all over his fingers. 

Your rocking slows, and you reluctantly pull yourself off of him and sink to your knees. He’s unbuckling his belt as fast as he can, and you can’t help but notice the wet spot on his jeans right where you were grinding on his thigh.

Eddie’s pants and plaid boxers are around his ankles in a heartbeat. His hard cock rests against his stomach; a pearly bead of pre-cum leaks from the tip. “Let’s see what that cute little mouth can do, Sweetheart,” he muses, leaning back into the couch with his hands behind his head.

You bite your lower lip. “First I gotta clean you off, yeah?” you ask before licking the tip, tasting him. His length twitches at that minimal contact, which makes you giggle. “Just relax. Let me take care of you.” There’s no protesting, so you grasp the base of his shaft with one hand and cup his balls with the other. You suck on the head, circling it with your tongue, before taking as much of the rest of his cock as you can fit into your mouth. 

“Mmm, baby, yes,” he growls, inhaling sharply when you gently tug on his balls. “Thas’ a good girl. Play with my fuckin’ balls, just like that.” He bucks up his hips, bringing his cock even further down your throat. “Gag on it, baby. Gag on my big fuckin’ cock.”

He’s not wrong; at least, it’s the biggest of any guy you’ve ever been with. Hollowing out your cheeks, you increase your pace, letting your nose brush against his patch of dark curls. Saliva drips down your chin; you swipe at it clumsily and keep your focus on him. 

“Shitshitshitshitshit–FUCK!” Before you can even process what’s happening, Eddie pulls out of you. Thick, hot ropes of cum trickle down his right hand, and he buries his face in his left. You reach for a tissue and hand it to him, and he angrily wipes off his spend. 

“Gimme fifteen minutes, and I’ll be good to go,” he says, tossing the used tissue in a nearby wastebasket. He finds the remote tucked behind a couch cushion and clicks on the TV. An episode of Seinfeld comes on. “You’ll do,” he mutters, plopping down next to you and poorly stifling a yawn.

“Sleepy?” you tease, wrapping your naked chest in an itchy wool blanket and curling up. He doesn’t put his arm around you, or make any attempt to cuddle, so neither do you.

“Nah, ‘m fine.” But nearly five minutes later, while Jerry and Elaine argue about God-knows-what, you can hear Eddie softly snoring next to you.

“Eddie,” you whisper. No response, so you try a little louder. “Eddie!”

“Huh? What?”

“I can, uh, I can go now. I’ll call a cab. Just need your address.” You start to get up and head for the phone hanging on the wall, but he puts an arm out to stop you.

“‘S’okay. Stay for a bit, baby.”

Stay for a bit, baby.

It almost feels like you’re taking advantage of him; his curt conversations and closed-off demeanor earlier in the night indicated that he was not looking for someone to sleep over. But now he’s asking you to stick around, resting his head on your shoulder and letting one tattooed arm drape over your waist. You let him stay there, trying your best not to wake him, but you’re forced to reach over him to grab the remote when an infomercial starts blaring.

“C’mere,” he mumbles, half-asleep as he lays down and scoots himself as far back as he can. You follow his lead, pressing your back against his bare chest. Your eyelids flutter shut, and you find yourself drifting off while wrapped in the warm embrace of this handsome stranger.

RRRRIIIINNGGG! RRRRIIIINNGGG!

You’re startled awake by a loud, unfamiliar noise that doesn’t sound like your alarm clock. 

RRRRIIIINNGGG! RRRRIIIINNGGG!

Eddie jolts up, almost knocking you off the couch. “Shit, didn’t think you were still…” He turns towards the ringing sound, still confused. “What time is it?!” His eyes widen as he gets a look at the clock, which reads 7:19. “Shit, shit, shit! Son of a bitch!” 

He practically flies off of the couch, sprinting to the phone and bringing the receiver to his ear. “Wayne? Yeah, I’m sorry…overslept. I can be there in ten…no, you don’t have to do that, I’ll just…okay, okay, fine. See you soon.” He hangs up with a clank, turning back to you. 

You’re just sitting on the sofa, still wearing nothing but your underwear and the blanket. “Everything…um, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but he lets out an overwhelmed sigh. “Let me help you find your dress.” He doesn’t say it aloud, but the real meaning behind his words seeps through: you should leave.

You nod, feeling the all-too recognizable lump in your throat. It happens any time these shared intimate moments come to an end; the realization of just how temporary you are in someone’s life is a punch to the stomach.

You find the bunched blue garment behind the couch and slide it over your head. The fabric feels stale and cold against your skin, like it doesn’t belong to you. Eddie’s only wearing his boxers, and you catch yourself staring at the collection of tattoos that trail down his arms and torso.

“Like what you see?” He laughs when you duck your head, scratching at the stubble on his cheeks as he walks towards you. “C’mon, don’t be shy. Not after that little show you put on for me last night.” He leans down, tilting your chin up to him and kissing you softly. “Before you go, leave your number, yeah?”

That makes you roll your eyes. “Oh, please,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What?”

“Don’t ask for my number if you’re not gonna call,” you say. You sling your bag over your shoulder as you walk to the door. “We don’t have to do the whole song-and-dance. We can just, y’know, leave this as a one-night stand.”

Eddie chuckles incredulously. “You wound me, Sweetheart,” he says. “‘Course I’m gonna call you. How could I not wanna see a girl as beautiful as you again? ‘Sides,” he adds slyly, “We didn’t even get to the best part.”

Begrudgingly, you write your number on a nearby notepad. The phrase don’t get my hopes up for nothing sits on the tip of your tongue, but you bite it back.

You’re halfway down the stairwell when you remember that you never called a cab. There’s no way in hell that you’re going to clamber back up to the third floor and ask Eddie to use his phone–and get his address–so you continue down to the lobby payphone and dial Jess’s number.

“H-Hello?” a man’s sleepy voice picks up on the third ring.

“Uh, Jess?” It’s clearly not your neighbor, but you have no idea what else to ask. Did she find some skeezy guy to bring home from the Hideout last night? 

“Nah, it’s Jeff. Who’s this?” When you say your name, he hums in acknowledgment. “Oh, yeah. From the bar, right?”

“Yeah…is Jess there?”

He yawns into the receiver. “Last I checked, she was asleep. Finally. She spent half of last night puking her guts up. Everything okay?”

“Mhm. I was just wondering if she could pick me up from…um, from Eddie’s.” You cringe at your admission; the last thing you want is for Eddie’s bandmates to think that you’re some kind of pathetic groupie.

But Jeff seems unfazed. “I’ll be right there.” Before you can protest, he hangs up. 

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the glass-door reflection. Your hair is a mess, and there’s smudged makeup around your eyes and lips, like a billboard for the walk of shame.

Jeff pulls up a few minutes later, and you bashfully climb into the passenger seat. “Thanks,” you mumble, trying not to let your humiliation show through.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs as he pulls onto the main road, “it’s a special occasion.” When you pinch your eyebrows together in confusion, he laughs. “Ed never lets a girl stay over. Not sure what you did–don’t wanna know, to be honest–but you must’ve made quite the impression.”

“Didn’t mean to,” you say quietly. “We both fell asleep after…yeah. We only woke up when we did because some guy named Wayne called.”

Jeff nods knowingly. “That’s his uncle. He watches his son on Tuesdays when we have our gigs.” 

His…son?

Jeff must notice the stunned expression on your face, and his cheeks flush pink. “Shit, he didn’t tell you about Harris?”

“We didn’t do much talking,” you reply wryly. “I’ll have to ask him about that when he calls.”

“Christ,” Jeff shakes his head. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but he’s not gonna call. Never does. Calls it the ‘Cat-and-Mouse.’”

“The what?” Your throat goes bone-dry. You should’ve trusted your intuition, denied giving him your number, left it as a one-time thing.

“He brings a girl back to his place, has sex with her and asks for her number, but doesn’t call. When she shows up to the bar the next week, all insecure and wondering if he’s still interested, he acts like he’s been so busy, apologizes profusely, and strings her along until she catches on. Then it’s onto the next one.”

You feel like your heart’s been ripped out of your chest. Bile burns at the back of your esophagus, and you have to blink back tears. How could you be so stupid, so naive? Didn’t you know by now that guys like Eddie Munson are only after one thing?

The two of you sit in silence until he pulls up to your building. “Thanks,” you say finally, “for the ride and for the warning.” Jeff just nods, watching to make sure you get inside before driving off. As soon as he’s safely down the road, you burst into tears. Angry at Eddie, but mostly angry at yourself.

Eddie watches from his window as you get into a car–Jeff’s car–and leave. Great, he thinks, I’m sure I’ll get my ass handed to me at our next practice for fucking around with his sister-in-law’s friend. If we even still have a band, anyway.

Throwing on a pair of dark gray sweatpants and an undershirt, he makes his way downstairs just as Wayne and Harris arrive. His son is leaping out of his carseat to get to him.

“Daddy!” Harris flashes a gigantic smile. His dark brown curls are a tangled mess atop his head. Eddie unbuckles him and wraps him in a giant hug. He’s losing the chubbiness of his baby fat, but he’s still sweet and cuddly.

“Har-Bear!” Eddie laughs. “Did you say goodbye to Grampa Wayne?” Harris encircles Eddie’s waist with his legs, reaching out his arms to give Wayne a hug through the window.

“Sorry again,” Eddie says sheepishly. “Fell asleep and forgot to set the alarm.”

“Got a job yet? A real one?” Wayne asks stoically, ignoring his nephew’s apology.

A storm cloud washes over Eddie’s face. “I’ve told you a million times: nothing’s going to pay the bills as well as working for Rick.”

Wayne rolls his eyes. “Get a job,” he says pointedly, pressing a kiss to Harris’s cheek before lowering his voice and growling at Eddie, “and wipe the damn lipstick off your neck, for Chrissake.”

Jeff’s right: Eddie never calls. The home health aid that takes care of your grandma during the day informs you at the end of each shift that week that no one named Eddie called for you. And while you can’t say you’re shocked, it doesn’t do much to quell the hurt.

You spend as much time as you can preparing your classroom for the new school year. By the time you’re finished, the room is decorated to look like a jungle. Stuffed animals of lions, monkeys, and different birds line the shelf tops, which are packed with various books and art supplies. Your walls are decorated with different posters, all of which encourage kids to be their best. 

The hustle and bustle of the first day of school helps keep your mind off of your personal life. With a thermos full of hot coffee, you happily introduce yourself to your teaching assistant, Will. He’s a sweet guy, a few years younger than you, and he’s practically bursting with games to teach the kids.

“Before I forget,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper, “I picked up our roster from the office on my way in. Looks like we have ten kids this year.”

“You’re the best,” you tell him gratefully, and he starts putting tiny chairs around tiny tables.

Being new to town, you don’t expect to recognize any of the names on the list. There’s an Abigail Carver, a Joshua Harrington…

And a Harris Munson.

“No fucking way,” you muse, apparently a bit louder than you’d intended, because Will’s head snaps up and he swivels in your direction. “Sorry.”

The sounds of bubbly giggles and excited chatter filing into the hallway grab your attention. One by one, parents start dropping off their kids, kissing them goodbye. There are tears–some from students, some from parents–and you’re quick to reassure everyone that school will be so much fun.

You’re just grabbing the sign-in sheet for Mr. Carver to fill out when you feel a small thump against your legs. When you look down, you see a curly-haired boy staring up at you with wide, brown eyes. 

“This is my classroom!” he says matter-of-factly, pointing to the number 3 on the door. “My name’s Harris. Like the guy from Iron Maiden!” He jumps up and down as he speaks. “Are you my teacher?”

“I am.” You smile and introduce yourself, peering towards the door. “Harris? Did a grown-up drop you off?” And please tell me his name is Wayne, you silently plead. 

“Oh, yeah! My dad has my backpack!” He starts running back to the hallway, only to crash right into Eddie. 

“Little dude, you can’t be running off like—” Eddie stops mid-sentence when his eyes land on you. “Oh, shit.”

You set your jaw, willing yourself to stay strong. He’s on your turf now. 

“Mr. Munson, you need to watch your language,” you warn crossly. 

“Yeah, sorry,” he mutters, handing Harris’s backpack to him. “I packed him a snack, um, and a juice box.”

“Okay,” you nod, crouching down to Harris’s eye level and injecting enthusiasm into your voice. “Can you find your cubby? It’s the one with your name on it!”

The little boy bounds over to his assigned spot, hanging his bag on the hook before running over to play with blocks. 

Forced to interact with Eddie, you press up on your knees and say, “Pick-up is at two.”

“Can I say goodbye to my kid before you kick me out? Jeez,” he grunts, calling out to Harris with his arms wide open. Harris hugs him, half-heartedly promising to be on his best behavior before starting to race back to the toys. 

“We walk in the classroom,” you tell him sweetly. “That way, people don’t hurt each other!” You make a point to look over at Eddie when you say the last part, though his gaze is trained on the classroom posters. Harris, innocent and oblivious, walks hurriedly towards the group of kids playing with blocks. 

“Didn’t know you were my kid’s teacher,” Eddie remarks, pressing his tongue into his cheek. 

You shrug. “Maybe I would’ve told you if you called me.”

Shooting you the wide eyes that he passed down to his son, Eddie lets his lower lip jut out in a little pout. “I’m so sorry; life’s just been, like, crazy lately—”

“Exactly what Jeff said you’d pull,” you bite back. “Two PM, Mr. Munson.” You walk towards your students to begin circle time, leaving Eddie dumbfounded. 

After a long day of wrangling ten four-year-olds, you’re ready to go home and take a nap. The kids are gathered around the table, molding Play-Doh and giggling amongst themselves. By 2:10, everyone’s been picked up. Except for Harris.

“Typical,” you mutter, kneeling next to the boy and smiling sweetly. “Whatcha making, Harris?”

He holds up a lump of the yellow clay. “A dinosaur, see? Roar!” You fake being scared, and he laughs. “Don’t worry; it’s just pretend!”

“Oh, phew!” You wipe imaginary sweat off of your brow. “I was afraid that he was gonna eat me!”

Harris reaches over to where one of the other students had been sitting and plucks a handful of blue Play-Doh off of the table. “Wanna play with me?” He’s looking at you adoringly, and you can’t possibly turn him down.

Just as you’re about to join him, Eddie runs into the room. “Hey, buddy! Sorry I’m late. Got, uh, caught up with something.” 

Harris just shrugs, unaffected by his dad’s tardiness. “S’okay. Look!” He holds up the dinosaur proudly, giving another ferocious roar.

“That’s awesome! And super scary.” Eddie ruffles Harris’s curly hair before looking at you. “Can we talk for a sec? Out there?” he asks, gesturing to the hallway.

You huff out a sigh. “Fine,” you concede, and Will slips into the chair next to Harris. 

Eddie closes the door behind him. “Listen,” he begins, twisting his rings around his fingers, ”about the other night…” He trails off, and for a split second, you think he might offer a genuine apology. “I just don’t want this to affect how you treat Harris.”

You bark out an incredulous laugh. “You really think I treat my students any differently based on whether or not I like their parents?” Crossing your arms, you turn back towards the door, throwing out a pointed, “I think it’s best if you leave now.”

Eddie’s voice draws you back into the conversation. “I’ve never had this problem before,” he snorts. 

“Excuse me?”

“Most girls love the thrill of the chase. The will-he, won’t-he. Haven’t struck out yet,” he retorts, a smug grin spreading on his face. 

You roll your eyes. “Well, I’m honored to be the first. I don’t know what girls are into your pathetic games, but I’m certainly not one of them. So, please, just go before you say something else ridiculously stupid.”

Eddie bristles at that, standing a bit straighter and clenching his jaw. “Yeah, whatever,” he mutters, twisting the doorknob and punctuating his frustration with, “Frigid bitch.”

He’s just trying to get under your skin, and you refuse to let him get the best of you. You plaster on a well-practiced fake smile. “If you don’t think that this classroom is a good fit for Harris, you can request a transfer with the office.”

“Sounds like a plan, Sweetheart,” he snaps, yanking the door open so aggressively that it smacks into the wall. “We’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow.”

“Can’t come soon enough.”

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[pixxxieland]

Fight

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Female!Reader

Summary: Another house party, another meeting. Eddie gets to watch you do your job.

A/N: I wrote this before Tease so it might read a little weird (?) but I tried to smooth out the wrinkles. No smut in this one! I'm incapable of writing little smutty oneshots apparently and this is actually turning into a series 🙃🙃🙃 Go figure. Anyways, have fun!

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, fighting, blood, NSFW 18+ Minors gtfo you know the drill kids.

Steve’s house is big like his parents house was big, but nicer. Newer. More importantly it’s set deep in the back of the neighborhood, a lone house on a culdesac with a big backyard up against the woods, pool and two car garage and finished basement and it’s all dull. He’s said so himself but it was part of his trust fund shit. Robin gets to stay with him for free, not like he’d ever charge her anyways, and she gets to play hostess when he throws a party, so everyone is winning. 

“Oh my god I haven’t seen you in forever!” Robin yells over the music, wrapping you up in a hug as soon as you step into the house. She smells like lemonade and vodka when she presses a wet kiss into your cheek. You can see Steve over her shoulder, arm draped over his new blonde. He waves lazily at you, beckoning you in. You have to walk Robin backwards with her still hanging off your neck, yelling drunkenly into your ear about the night so far. 

She’s lucky she’s cute. 

“Robin, babe can I get drink?” You pry her arms from around your neck. 

“I’m so sorry! I’m a terrible host! You want something tasty?” She gives you a sultry look over her shoulder before walking away into the kitchen. 

“You gotta keep an eye on her tonight.” You say to Steve, pointing after Robin. 

“Is she being clingy?”

“Yeah, might just slip her into my Uber with me.” You wink at him and his yelled ‘No!’ follows you into the big kitchen. 

Twenty minutes later you’re two cups into whatever this lemonade shit is that Robin’s made when you see those long curls go past the kitchen doorway. 

“Eddie!” Robin squeals and jumps off the counter where she’s been sitting.

When you come around the corner from the kitchen, his back is to you. He’s laughing at something Steve said, his arm around someone. At first you think it’s Robin but you see her hanging over Steve’s shoulders. There’s a nasally giggle and of course it’s Dani. You get up next to him, sneaking again, and whisper. 

“Hey Vlad.” 

He jumps and whips his head sideways to look at you. Robin is laughing at him and you flash him your most winning smile. He gives you a once over when you lean back, arm crossed over you to prop your other elbow on. 

“Hey.” So few words for you when he has a thousand for everyone else. He walks around these parties joking and chatting but you? He shoves a joint in your mouth and tells you to shut up. 

“Hey Red.” Dani leans around Eddie’s shoulder, eyes sharp. She’s clutching that fucking purse like it’s made of gold. 

“Hey Dani. Great purse.” You lazily point at it with your drink. 

“It’s Gucci.” She preens. You’re not blind, could see the gold clasp from the kitchen. 

“Oh I know, that’s the Aphrodite right? I would have gone with the Deco but, you know…” you trail off with a shrug, dragging your eyes back to Eddie. He’s still staring. 

“You know purses?” Robin pipes up, unaware that a standoff is happening. Steve knows though, turns around and starts gently pushing his friend into the living room. “Ask later Rob.”

“You here by yourself?” Eddie asks, turning to face you and leaving Dani standing by herself. 

“Well it was supposed to be me and Lisa, but I’m solo tonight. Why, you looking to share a ride later?” Your eyes trail down and he shifts under your gaze, crossing his arms tightly. It’s still hot, unusual for an April night, and humid again. It suits him, makes his skin glow. His shirt is worn thin enough you can see the little specks of sweat dotting through the dark green; the shine of his chain through the collar. He’s got those torn jeans on again that offer you a glimpse of his thigh, crisscrossed with ink. You decide your gonna see the rest of that canvas tonight. 

Dani clears her throat and links her arm through Eddie’s like she’s read your mind. 

“Ed, do you wanna grab a drink?” 

You think she looks like a foal wobbling around in her black pleaser platforms. Her red tube dress sits just under her ass and she’s hanging onto the purse like a lifeline. Even with the added six inches she’s not eye level. It’s almost comical the glare she’s trying to level at you. Eddie holds your look for second longer before nodding down at Dani, ushering her into the kitchen. 

“See you in the shadows Vlad.” You say to his back. 

Eddie brought Dani because she wanted to see Steve, and Eddie only came to this party because Robin texted him specifically. He could never say no to her and this was supposed to be a normal party. None of Rick’s stupid shit, just some of Steve’s crowd was what Robin had said. A thousand heart emojis later and here he was and there you were. 

If he was smarter he would have known to come alone. Should have known you’d be here, you knew Robin from your real job so of course she’d invite you. 

He had texted you a few days after the bar incident, against his better judgement, that danger danger danger flashing in his brain like a chyron over his thoughts. 

He’s busy watching you across the room, repeating his mistake from before. Watches you move between people, holding your drink over your head. Watches Robin find you again, her own blonde now hanging off of her. He can tell you’ve noticed him staring but he doesn’t care. Dani isn’t even talking to him anymore, too busy on her phone. 

Eddie’s been watching the way your crop top sits right under your tits. It moves with you and he catches a glimpse of black lace. Your skirt is high waisted and tight, showing an inch of skin above. He wants to slide his hand there, pull you up against him in a bedroom upstairs. He likes whatever perfume it is you wear, wants to bury his face in your chest where it’s probably sweetest. 

He shakes his head to clear it. Decides to scroll through his phone to distract himself. You’re a snake like most of the girls in here. Slick and beautiful and mean, you can unhook your jaw and ruin anyone’s life. Eddie makes it a point to keep himself quiet and subdued at these house parties, at Rick’s. It’s a side of himself he keeps partially hidden from the rest of his friends, from the good part of his life. This has never been how he wants to be, but it’s how he’s ended up. A phone full of girls he can cycle through, not one of them long term or meaningful. Roll of cash and a safe hidden in his room. It’s just gotten easier after a decade. 

“Do you know where the bathroom is?” Dani cuts into his thoughts. He points down the hallway. “At the end, last door on the right.” 

“I’ll be right back.” She drops a kiss on his cheek and he doesn’t react, just keeps scrolling through Twitter. 

Out of the top of his vision he catches a glint of gold and looks up to see you slowly climbing the steps to the top floor. Fingers dancing over the railing, head tilted to watch him while you head up. When your grin disappears, he stands up to follow. There’s enough people in the house that he blends in when he moves through the crowd, music so loud he can’t hear himself walking up the steps.

On the landing he sees one doorway with light spilling out of it, pushes it open to find you sitting at the edge of an unused bed. 

“Oh so you did see me.”

“Kind of hard to miss the hair.” He steps in so he can push the door shut behind him. You flip your hair over your shoulder and it shines in the light of the bedside lamp. It’s big and wavy tonight and Eddie thinks he can get his hands in it again without you slapping him.  

“Well then it’s done it’s job.” 

He stands in front of you emptying his pockets, phone and wallet dropped next to your clutch on the corner of the bed. He nods his head behind you before you can sit up off your hands. 

“Slide back.”

“But my shoes.” You pout and lift a foot up to rest on his thigh. Eddie stares down at your leg, hands paused mid air before looking back up at you wordlessly. You wiggle your toes and lightly push your shoe up to his hip. “Untie them?” A tilt of your head, the false innocence making him chuckle. His fingers pull at the knot behind your knee and he unwinds the thin cord, fingertips light and calloused over your skin, sliding off the strappy heel. He drops that foot and pulls your other leg up from behind the knee, making you lean back further. As soon as he pulls the heel off you slide back against the pillows and Eddie follows after toeing off his boots. 

His arms cage your head and you get a whiff of his cologne. He smells like cedar and tobacco and weirdly like metal. You lean up on your elbows to get in his face. 

“You smell expensive.”

“I think that’s you.” He kisses you hard. It catches you off guard. Teeth nipping at your bottom lip and you know this is gonna be payback for the hickey. He suck’s your lip between his teeth and you slide a hand up his arm to wiggle your fingers under the sleeve of his t-shirt. He lets you go abruptly when a shout bounces off the house. 

“Fuck you asshole!” It’s sharp and makes you both look over at the window. Eddie gets off the bed and you want to scream. He pulls the blinds up and squints out at the backyard. 

“Oh my god, fuck ‘em-“

“It’s Matt.” He sounds worried and that gets you up. 

“You sure?” You push him out of the way to look and it sure is. Matt is Dani’s boyfriend who has somehow found her here. A place you know she most definitely told him she wouldn’t go. 

“God damnit, you gotta take that fucking phone away from her when your out.” You say to Eddie who’s already shoving his boots back on. You almost drop the blinds before you see Matt reach out and snatch Dani by the back of the head. 

“Motherfuck-“ you slam the lock open and wrench the window up to yell out the screen. “Motherfucker! Let her go Matt!”

He can’t see who’s yelling at him and he’s dumbly scanning the side of the house. You can hear Eddie behind you telling you to shut the fuck up but Matt shakes Dani and she yelps.

“Let her go!” He sees you finally and grins. He’s gotta be drunk because he just pulls her closer, rag dolls her around like she weighs nothing. 

“Fuckin’ make me then bitch!”

A blind rage hits and you run past Eddie to pound down the stairs, pushing everyone out of your way when you beeline for the french doors that lead to the backyard. Steve is already outside trying to calm everyone down but you brush past him, running barefoot over the laid brick around the pool. Matt watches you get closer and let’s go of Dani’s hair to ready a punch for you. 

This isn’t the first time you’ve had to handle this asshole, his penchant for grabbing the girls being mainly what your here to prevent. All you see is red when Dani topples over and scrapes her legs on the pavers. 

Matt isn’t much bigger than you but his fist does make you pause just long enough for him to prematurely swing and miss. The only thing you can think to do is stomp your foot down on the top of his and push him, heel holding him in place while he topples back. 

There’s a wet pop and then a scream and you know he’s down for good. No one moves at first until Steve rushes over, phone in hand, and pushes you out of the way. 

“What the fuck?!”

“You weren’t doing anything!” You yell at Steve. He’s trying to get Matt to shut up for a second but he’s howling about his broken ankle. Looking up to find Dani and she’s already standing, shaking and crying with Eddie trying to get her over to one of the loungers by the pool. You step over Matt’s body and he snatches your ankle, calling you seven kinds of cunt and you kick your foot until he lets go. 

“I told you last time I’d break something.” You spit at the ground and he grabs you again. This time you ball your fist up and swing down, stupidly. You aren’t throwing a real punch, just hitting him with the pinky side of your first and the pain shoots up your arm when his nose explodes blood. 

It’s over pretty quick when Robin pulls you back and into the house. You aren’t fighting her but you are raising holy hell about anyone letting Matt’s stupid ass in. 

“It’s not like we have a bouncer.”

“Well you should! He fuckin’ knows better too so he got what he fuckin’ deserved.” Keyed up and a little tipsy is how she leaves you, sitting on the front step to get some fresh air. She comes back with a water and an aspirin, your clutch dropped next to your hip. Wordlessly you accept it and watch Steve and some other guys carry Matt to the backseat of his car, moans echoing in the dark. You haven’t seen Eddie or Dani, don’t think you will until there’s a limping sound behind you. The scuffed up platform comes into view first and then her rashed leg. 

“Eddie get you cleaned up?” You don’t look over at her when she sits beside you. Instead you fish around your clutch and pull out a cigarette. 

“Uhm, yeah he-he made sure I’m okay.” Her voice is shaky and the deep breath she takes sounds wet. 

“Are you? Okay?” You see her nod lightly, adjusting her hair over her shoulder. You get through most of your cigarette before she speaks up again. 

“I didn’t tell him where I was.”

“Does he have your location on?” 

“I don’t-“ Dani fumbles with her phone for a moment. You glance at her screen and see her open up settings and it’s there. “He must have turned it on I didn’t give him-“ You lay your free hand over her phone and finally look at her. Eddie got her makeup cleaned up too but the tear tracks are all down her cheeks, cut through her foundation. 

“Turn it off now, don’t leave your phone around, and turn off Face ID. He probably did it while you were sleeping.” Silence again and you can feel the pain in your feet. Running around barefoot like a crazy bitch will do that. The pain in your hand went away quick but you know it’ll creep back later after you sleep. 

Dani takes a deep breath after she finishes with her phone and turns to look at the side of your face. 

“Thank-”

“God, don’t. Just don’t.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.” You snap at her. She tucks back over to her side of the step to run her finger over the scuff on her shoe.  

“You smell really nice.” 

You want to laugh at the way she’s trying to make this feel normal. “It’s lost cherry. Tom Ford.” The step is cold under your ass, your bare feet too where they’re curled on the step below. Your voice sounds flat. You are too old for this shit. 

Gotta find my shoes. 

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“What do you normally wear?”

“I don’t…it’s an Ariana Grande one. Like a blue bottle?”

“Oh my god.” You dig through your clutch for the thin glass. “Look, I’m sure it smells great but you gotta find something better.” Your fingers close around it and you reach over to grab Dani’s wrist and pull it close. “This won’t smell the same on you but,” you spray twice on her upturned wrist, let it dry a little before bringing it up to sniff, “it’s better than Cloud.” Dani is still under your touch. Watching you with wide eyes, her hand curls into a fist in your own. She pulls her arm back and cradles it for a moment before gently sniffing her wrist. 

“Oh, that does smell different.”

“Yeah, you get more on the cherries. I get the rose notes better.” You shrug and stub out your cigarette, stand up to get some feeling back in your legs. “Listen, I need to find my shoes. Care to help?” You’re already halfway into the house, throwing the invitation over your shoulder. Dani doesn’t move from the step, still holding her arm against her chest. “No? Just holler at me if you find ‘em.”

The shoes are still in the bedroom, but Eddie is gone. 

Shame.

A sigh rolls off you when you bend to pick up the heels. You won’t be putting them back on, not after running barefoot like you did. Pounding down the stairs and across the concrete outside really rocked your ankles, you won’t lie. You look out the window and see the red dash of blood across the pavement, even all the way up here, proof of you making good on a promise. You tuck your shoes up under you arm and dig your phone out of your clutch, ready to take a picture to send to Lisa when you feel someone standing behind you. 

“Did you miss me Vlad- oh.”

“You found your shoes.” Dani stands awkwardly in the doorway. Clutching her Gucci purse against her stomach and wobbling one ankle around in those scuffed platforms. 

“I did, no thanks to you.” You’re teasing, but the bitchiness is an undercurrent. This whole night went south because of her.

“Eddie left.” 

“Without you? I wonder why.”

“Steve and him took Matt to the ER.”

“Ah, shame. Should have rolled him into the pool to drown.” You turn back to the window and snap a picture quick. “You need a ride? I’m grabbing an Uber.” The light of your phone glares in the dark bedroom while you swipe through to find the right app. From over your phone you can see Dani tentatively walking toward you. 

“Thank you.”

“It’s what I’m here for plus, Matthew knows better. Shouldn’t have swung on me.”

“I just, I know that you all think I’m stupid for staying with him. I know you guys don’t like me because of that, or whatever.”

“Dani.” You finish ordering the car, sixty bucks down the drain, and look up her. “They don’t like you because you walk around here like you’re better than all of us.” You aren’t going to touch the first part of her statement, that’s a whole other fight. 

Her hands tighten on her purse but she doesn’t say anything, just stands there too young and naive to stand up for herself. 

“We all suck the same dicks, some of us just get better perks.” Your hand slaps against your thigh after you gesture at her bag. “Cars gonna be here in like 10 minutes, c’mon.” You grab her arm gently when you walk past her to drag her with you. She’s not leaving your sight again until she gets home. 

In the driveway of Steve’s house you and her wait for the car, your feet sticking to the concrete in the humidity. 

“I didn’t suck his dick for this.” The short gold chain clinks when Dani shakes the small crescent bag at you. “You just, you keep saying that but I didn’t.” She’s earnest. 

“I don’t actually care, babe. It’s just a joke.”

“Everyone thinks it though.”

“Well, it’s how a lot of us end up with pretty things!” Your phone vibrates with a notification that your car is here. The headlights turn down the street, slowing down at the driveway. The window rolls down and thank whatever deity is watching tonight, it’s a woman that waves out to you. Dani climbs in the back first and you slide in behind her, throwing your heels on the floorboard. 

“You guys okay?” The driver asks, looking back through the rear view. It takes all your willpower to not snap and roll your eyes at her too. 

“Oh totally, just a long night. Boys, y’know?” And that’s all the nice you have in you. She nods and takes off, the soft murmur of pop flowing through the car speakers. Your phone vibrates a few times but you just can’t find it in you to fucking care, not moving your head from its place leaned on the window until you all pull up to Dani’s apartment. She’s been quietly undoing her platforms before hopping out barefoot, leans back in to thank the driver. 

“It was a birthday present.” She says, reaching in for her heels. 

“What?” You’ve been almost dozing against the cool glass. 

“A birthday present. Everyone else forgot, but Eddie sent it to my work. Let me open it in front of everyone. It made me feel special.” 

That’s just…so much you don’t feel like wading through right now. “Goodnight Dani.” 

You ask the driver to wait until you see the light come on in her apartment. 

Your apartment is an outside walk up, the stairs going up the middle with doors on either side and at the very top, outside of your stupid little place, is a crown of curls haloed by the yellow recessed lighting in the breezeway. You debate even getting out of the Uber, maybe this nice lady will leave you at a Denny’s or something but the fact that he doesn’t move yet your phone buzzes makes you angry enough to get out. You thank your driver and promise her the biggest tip of her night and just stand in the parking lot in the damp air. Heels hanging from the same hand holding your clutch, you start for the stairs and take them slow. You catch glimpses of him between the wooden slats, the cherry of his cigarette bobbing around while he watches you back. 

A solid minute you moseyed up the stairs and he’s leaned forward staring at you, arms propped on his knees, cigarette dangling between his fingers. You expect that uninterested stare he gives everyone at parties but he looks upset. You just reach forward and steal his cigarette. 

“So do you know how to answer a text?” Eddie isn’t being quiet in this stairwell where he should be. You wave a hand down in front of you, shushing him. 

“Did you text Dani?” 

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here. She told me you took her home.” 

“Aww, we’re you worried about me?” You do this thing when people are being nice to you. A lot of fake pouting and cunty remarks until they leave you alone. Eddie doesn’t fall for it though. He just sighs heavy and stands up fast, motioning at your front door. You laugh. 

“I am absolutely not inviting you in. The night is over bud.” You’re done, ready to go in and lick your wounds behind three closed doors and the knowledge that Matt was in an ER somewhere getting his ankle reconstructed. 

“I’m not trying to fuck you.”

“You were earlier.” You purr at him, edging past when you take the last few steps up. “I didn’t forget about our little bedroom tryst.” 

“I’m serious. Let me look at your hand.” He gestures at the one holding all your stuff, the one you’d swung down at a dumb angle. You give him a confused look and huff a laugh at him. There’s no way he came all the way to your apartment to look at your hand. 

“This isn’t my first fight Eddie. I’m a big girl.” The key turns in the lock and he just opens the door for you, stepping in like he’s been here before, like he belongs. You scoff but he’s already in the kitchen wetting the towel you left on the countertop. 

“Excuse me.” He doesn’t respond. “Hey seriously, I would like you to fuck off. I’m fine.”

Eddie just walks back to you silently. Takes the cigarette from you and tosses it in the stairwell. Pulls you in to your apartment so he can shut the door and holds your hand up to his face. You can see the red on your rings, can see where two knuckles have split. He wipes your rings off first and then dabs at your fingers, his touch gentle where there’s signs of bruising. 

“I don’t think it’s broken.” He’s says quietly, still working dried blood from between your jewelry. 

You feel your chest tighten, nerves suddenly flared. You don’t feel like fleeing though, very suddenly you have a different trajectory in mind. Your bedroom is just a few feet behind him. Queen sized bed with new sheets and maybe he’d be nice to you in there too. Not a basement or the back of car but somewhere soft and warm and delicate. Maybe he’d hold your head the way he’s holding your hand, all gentle, attentive touch. You can feel the want enveloping around your head, making you soft and stupid. It creeps up behind your ears and whispers into them ‘how sweet’ ‘how caring’ ‘how thoughtful’ ‘how kind’. 

“Eddie you need to leave.” Your tone is final. If you stare at his chest you can see him pause, kitchen towel stained pink clutched in his hand tightly. 

“Will you just let me fuckin’ help you?”

“No.” You do look at him then. Eyes hard, staring holes through him. “I don’t need your help.” You pull your hand back firmly to let it hang by your side. “Thank you for checking on me, but it’s time for you to go.” When you swallow your throat sticks. He looks confused for a moment before he lets out short laugh. 

“Fine. Fuck…just fucking be like that then.” He waves you off before tossing the towel back on the countertop. Stomps over to your front door and rips it open and you want him to look back in so you have an excuse to be soft and stupid but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even leave with a scoff or a mean little quip he just…leaves. 

So sweet. So kind. Yeah, right.

(sacrifice for the readmore)

[pixxxieland]

turtle dove and the crow

You’ve known Edward Munson since he moved into the farm next door with his uncle - eight years old, odd, and utterly intriguing to you. For ten years, you’ve known him, and over that time, he’s become your best friend. But now, in the dreamy haze of August heat, you begin to know him in a different way. And in this process of knowing and becoming known, lives will be irrevocably changed.

A 1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader

story tags: 18+ (minors dni). smut; true love; unexpected pregnancy; angst, angst, angst; parental issues; corporal punishment; scheming, plotting, and betrayal; hurt/comfort; period-typical stigma regarding unwed pregnancy; angst with a happy ending.

chapter tags: 18+. oral (f!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, breeding kink.

part one | part two | part three | part four | epilogue | playlist

PART ONE: THE HOLE IN THE LEAVES (15.1k)

(by the way, this part can be read as a stand-alone if you just want the best-friends-to-lovers smut without any angst. 🙃 there will be both smut and pain in subsequent parts. also, please ignore typos, I'll be editing after I post. enjoy!)

And the sweat will roll down our backs

And we’ll follow animal tracks

To a tree in the woods

And a hole in the leaves we’ll see

The bright baby eyes of a chickadee

Animal Tracks — Mountain Man

“Mama!” 

Your call flattens in the August heat, weighed down by thick, humid air and the drone of the cicadas chirping outside the open window over the sink. You cup your hands around your mouth to make sure she hears you; you don’t want her to accuse you of galavanting if she finds you gone. “I’m gonna take Guinnie out now!”

You drop your hands and wait for an answering call, scrambling to pick the broom up where you’d leaned it against the wallpaper as you hear the brisk shuffle-thump of her footsteps approaching the kitchen. She appears in the archway, hands on hips and eyebrow cocked. “Y’finished sweepin’ yet?” She asks you, turning a discerning eye to the floorboards to search for any errant specs you may have missed.

“Yes, mama,” you reply obediently, knowing better than to even think of sassing her. You know if you sass her, there’s no way you won’t end up confined to your room for the remainder of the day, less supper and having foiled your own plans before they’ve even begun. “I was just looking to take Guinevere out to the field with a blanket and my book now I’m finished with my chores for today.” 

Her discerning eye flicks from the spotless floor to you, and you resist fidgeting with your dress's cotton skirt under her sharp gaze, which lingers for a moment before she humphs. “Fine, then,” she says, and you’re about to beam before she continues as if returning to a subject you’d been discussing before. “And I mean it, missy. Y'arent to go off with Wayne's boy anymore, y'hear?" She shakes her head in preemptive consternation. "Off in the woods gettin’ up to God-knows-what. It ain't appropriate at your grown age.” The irrythmic tapping of her foot and the exaggerated hunch of her back as she leans toward you would be almost comical if it wasn’t for the injustice of the accusation.

You purse your lips but swallow your indignation when one of her brows goes skyward— a clear warning. “No, mama,” you concede. “I’m just goin’ to read by myself, I swear it.” You widen your eyes hopefully. “Would it be all right if I fill a canteen with sweet tea to take with me? Please?”

Your mother straightens slowly, face twisted as if considering, and you nearly sag in relief as her hands leave her hips and she folds her arms beneath her ample bosom instead— a clear indicator that she’s easing now. “That’d be fine,” she says, and the snap is gone from her voice. You lean the broom carefully against the island counter and spin to quickly collect your tea from the icebox and the canteen from where it hangs near the screen door. 

As you sling the canteen over your shoulder along with your knapsack, you hear her mutter, “Speaking of, that boy desperately needs a haircut.” She squints at you. “Think y’could convince him to trim that mop? Wayne’s been tryin’ for years, and he only seems to listen to you.”

“Oh, no, mama,” you say sweetly, hands clasped behind your back as you face her, edging in tiny steps back towards the door— that screen that stands between you and freedom. “I couldn’t possibly.” Blindly, your hand finds the handle, and she's still eyeing you as you turn it and slip out. 

Unimpressed, she humphs, but the screen door is already snapping closed behind you. “Be back before sundown!” she shouts, but you’re already bounding down the back porch steps. “I will!” you call, but the cicadas have already drowned you out as you skip toward the paddock. “Thank you for the tea, mama!”

Your mother is a woman of few mistakes, but she’d made one today. She told you you’re not allowed to see Eddie, and you’d sworn to obey her, and that was that. But her mistake lay in not asking you to show her your hands. 

Because she made you swear not to see him, but she hadn’t see your fingers crossed behind your back.

You haven’t spoken to Eddie yet today, but you know exactly where he’ll be. 

He’d called to you this morning; you heard it through your cracked window, white embroidered curtain swaying as the cackle of a crow cut through the early morning heat that was yet to fully settle in. You knew what the sound was right away: the call you’d come up with together five summers ago that meant to check the stump. You glanced toward the open door across the hall, the room beyond its threshold empty and still. It’s a miracle you haven’t been caught yet, that none of the adults have cottoned on that the caw of the crow sounds an awful lot like a certain brash mischief-maker’s voice. You crouched down to the open window in your nightgown and coo’d your own answering call, the call of the turtle dove. Your musical voice is loud in your ears, but it needs to be in order to reach the red house across the way, separated by a sea of shorn grass and the thick wooden fence between. 

Over these five years, none of the adults have cottoned on that the turtle dove always answers the crow, either, and for that you’re grateful.

There was a pause of silence following your melodic coo. Your hair rustled in the slightest breeze whispering through the cracked window, puffing like a cool sigh against your skin as you turn your ear toward the opening and wait. You waited, and waited, oh, so patiently… 

And then you heard it: a quick and faint whoop-whoop of boyish delight that, like always, made you shake your head and snort.

Later that morning, you’d put the kitchen scraps out for the goats and edged alongside that thick wooden fence towards the gnarled stump that rests between your family’s farm and the Munsons’. It’s almost dead-center, nearly bisected by that wooden demarcation, but you claim a sliver more and never cease to remind Eddie of that fact. ‘It’s my stump,’ you declare, triumph in the corners of your smirking lips. ‘I’m just allowin’ you to use it out of the grace of my heart, Eddie Munson.’

This morning, you’d reached deep inside the hole, the one that’s rotted straight through to the other side. The one which, if you’d crouched to peek, would offer you an unobstructed view to the grass field of Eddie’s yard, identical to the one you occupy, differing only in its status as his homestead and not yours.

But you didn’t peer through that opening. Instead, you reached your arm in blindly up to the elbow, feeling around for the note you knew would be wedged inside. When your fingers brushed smooth paper, you pinched it and pulled it quickly back, casting a furtive glance around the yard to ensure you were still safe from watchful eyes. With nimble fingers you unfolded and read the note quickly before tearing it to shreds, cupping it in your palms and letting it free to be scattered in the wind.

The note had been memorized almost as soon as you’d read it. Its instruction was simple; you and Eddie have developed a sense of brevity in your message-leaving, writing only as much as necessary to communicate what is needed. Today, it had read, ‘three after noon, hop’s, creek.'

At three o’clock on the dot, you ride Guinnie out to the treeline and hang left, picking your way to the edge of Mr. Hopper’s property which just kisses the corner of the Munson’s farm opposite your family’s land. Eddie is already waiting for you there, nestled in the ferns, hand shading squinted eyes as he sits astride his horse Merlin. You guide Guineveire to meet him in a trot, but she ignores you when you pull the reigns to slow her, too eager to approach her friend. You sigh in exasperation but can’t help but smile when the two horses nicker softly and nudge their faces alongside one anothers’ cheeks.

They make a strange pair, these two. One gargantuan blue roan, his haunches coiled thick with muscle, downy gray and speckled with deep spots of dark to match his mane, tail, and socks; and one pale blonde palomino, stomping daintily as her cream ears flick when the other knocks her with his neck a bit too hard in his enthusiasm. Merlin and Guineveire— a mismatched pair, just like the ones who named them. Yet it little matters when Guinnie sways forward, leaning fondly against her larger companion and, incidentally, drawing you closer to the boy astride him. 

Eddie lightly kicks you in greeting once Guinnie makes a slow circle and comes to stand alongside Merlin rather than let her face be flicked by his tail, which twitches away the flies that came to investigate while he and Eddie waited for you. Eddie’s feet are bare and dirty, his trouser hems rolled sloppily above the ankle, and you grimace at him as you swipe dirt off the top of your foot where he’d left smudges on your bare skin. He interrupts before you can work yourself up about it, asking, “J’your ma make you sweep the whole house?”

“No, just the kitchen. I must be doin’ somethin’ right this week because she barely even fought me when I told her I was takin’ Guinnie out. And—” You lift the canteen near your thigh, shaking it so the liquid sloshes inside. “I brought us sweet tea.”

Eddie stares at the canteen with exaggerated rapturous relief, his reply a dramatic sigh. “Good, ‘cause I’m so parched I could drink a lake.”

So quick it’s almost automatic, you unthread the strap and pass the canteen over, watching as he unscrews the cap and throws his head back to gulp it in huge, desperate swallows. And he must be thirsty, because as you watch his adam’s apple bob while he guzzles the still-cold tea, you can see full beads of sweat dripping down the pale cords of his neck to disappear beneath the collar of his white work shirt. The top two buttons have been popped open for some hasty relief, the bottom hem still half-tucked into his trousers but rumpled now from heat and disregard, scrunched around his suspenders. You wonder how long he’d been waiting for you; sitting still like this for just a short while has already made the heat almost unbearable, and the sight of Eddie’s thick curtain of heavy, dark curls is enough to make even you feel hotter.

Eddie’s mouth pops from the canteen with a ragged gasp, lips blushed pink and shiny before they’re concealed behind a hasty swipe of his forearm as he wipes off his mouth and passes you back the canteen. You take a small swig yourself, careful not to let any spill on your dress as the sweet liquid fills your mouth and cools you fractionally, not enough to truly combat the thick, hot soup of the air. Capping the canteen, you ask, “Did you bring our book?”

The answer is written in the sudden sheepishness of your best friend’s expression, and yours flattens as he confirms it. “Nah,” he says, more rueful than dismissive. “I forgot.” 

His brows pinch when he sees how clearly crestfallen you are to hear it; he angles quickly to appease your disappointment, adding, “But I did nip some of the cookies Ms. Willard left for Wayne.” You barely have time to brighten before he’s scrunching his nose, saying, “I think she’s actually sweet on ‘im,” like the thought makes him want to scrape the words from his tongue.

You swat at him, and Merlin chuffs disgruntledly when Eddie leans back to avoid you. “Stop that!” you chastise him. “I think it’s darling.”

Eddie is unrepentant, brown eyes lit with the hazy gold of afternoon sun that glints in them mischievously as he doubles down rather than relenting. “It’s disgusting. I might chuck if I have to think about them all wrinkled and bumpin’ uglies.” Before you can retort, he tilts his face at you, coaxing in a sing-song, “The cookies are lemon and lavender— your favorite.”

Your lips fall open in delighted surprise as you anticipate the crumble of tart lemon and sweet, earthy lavender on your tongue. Such a treat truly is your favorite, and mama never bakes so indulgently except for special occasions. Eddie beams at you, his mouth split in a fond, lopsided smile at the sight of your happiness, and his smile washes away any lingering reproach you feel at the insinuation that Ms. Willard would carry on in such an inappropriate way with Wayne. She may be aged and unmarried, but she’s still a lady.

It takes a moment to realize that, in your enthusiasm, you’ve begun wiggling your hips, the hem of your dress pulled tight over the saddle as more bare leg inches out when you swing your feet in little kicks of glee. You realize it when you watch Eddie’s eyes dart down to your exposed calf for a split-second and then back up to your face, his broad grin softening to something stickier, something forbidden and decadent like the cookies he’d stolen for you to share. 

It’s not the first time Eddie’s looked at you like that this summer. His gaze has been lingering a little too long for some time now, his fingers a little too eager to graze and tease, his breath skating a little too close along your cheek when you’re alone. And when you’re not, he’s a little too eager to position himself beside you when you’re seated at the table with others, to shout and cackle and make himself big so you’ll look at him across the room at a party, to act the fool in front of crowds of townsfolk if only to hear you giggle, however slight it might be. 

Not to say that his manner is entirely new. He’s always been a handful since the day he moved in next door ten years ago— wild and frenetic, brash and mischievous, quick-witted and imaginative, restless and wanting and oh, so hungry for something, only heaven knows what. It took no time at all for you, at eight years old, to befriend the odd boy on the farm beside yours. There was something about Edward Munson that appealed to you. He was too much for many, but he was never too much for you— to handle, to temper, to thrive beside. And because you were the only one who Eddie felt truly understood him, he’d quickly become covetous of your attention, and you of his. You wanted to know him, and he wanted to know you. And over years of playing pretend, celebrating birthdays and running errands in town, exploring the landscape beyond your farmsteads and rescuing one another from boredom, sadness, and the ire of your adults— giving just as much as you receive— you feel you know Eddie Munson as deeply as one friend can know another.

But the attention Eddie has paid you lately is not the same as it’s been in years past. You feel that difference in the pit of your belly when his eyes catch yours across the room, in the tingling of your skin as his fingertips graze it incidentally, in the flutter behind your ribcage when the sun shifts and the softness of his nose or the slant of his jaw or the ruddiness of his knuckles looks suddenly more captivating than it had the moment before. But it’s not the sun that’s made it so; it’s not Eddie’s features that have suddenly changed. It’s a feeling inside you, growing restless and wanting and oh, so hungry for something that both thrills and scares you in equal measure.

So when Eddie’s eyes hold yours a beat too long, you quickly look away, lifting one side of Guineveire’s reigns so she’ll turn from where she’d been comfortably lazing her head against Merlin’s. Your horse rouses, alert now as she feels the shift in your energy, the way your thighs tighten against her sides in preparation for what you have planned. “Come on,” you say, tossing Eddie a smirk over your shoulder as Guinnie snuffs in anticipation, hooves shifting against grass and fern. “I’ll race you to the crik.”

Any protest about unfairness from Eddie is drowned out by your joyous whoop as you snap the reins and Guinnie takes off like a bat out of hell. Merlin may be stronger than Guineveire, and Eddie more wild than you, but no one rivals you in conviction once your mind is set. 

You’ve set your mind to beating Eddie, and so you do. You beat him by almost a full minute, heart pounding and hair mussed as you emerge from the thicket to the welcome sight of the creek. Down by the bank on the right, a towering weeping willow steals all of the attention; its branches dip full and low over lazily flowing water, the edges of those leafy tendrils grazing its surface like a languid caress. You’ve been here many times before, sometimes with Eddie and sometimes without, and the sight of the ferns tapering to short clover in the clearing between forest and water and then to cattails at the bank’s edge is as familiar to you as the back of your hand. 

You’re suddenly glad to have beaten Eddie to the creek for a reason other than bragging rights: dismounting Guinnie exposes enough knee and thigh beneath your dress to thoroughly scandalize your mama, even with a copse of trees and two farm-fields between you. You don’t much care how unladylike it is to travel astride in a dress as opposed to sidesaddle— you’d rather hike up your skirt than try to navigate through the woods sitting so insecurely, but it does force you into a rather compromising position for a moment as you climb down. Thankfully, no one is around to see it, other than the chickadees trilling in the branches of the willow, the turtles sunning themselves on flat river rocks, and the bullfrog croaking inside a dead log at the water’s edge. You lead Guinnie over to the trunk of a nearby cedar, and you’re still tying her off when Eddie bursts from the trees, huffing and swiping errant leaves from his hair as Merlin wanders over toward you and Guinnie independent of his rider’s direction.

“Took you long enough,” you sass, pursing your lips against a smug smile when Eddie grunts sourly. 

Eddie swings himself down to the ground, his pale forearm flexing as he catches Merlin’s bridle to keep him from tossing his head impatiently. “Yeah, I know, I know, you beast,” he mutters, and though he glowers, there’s a touch of fondness in it, apparent as he smooths his hand so carefully along Merlin’s powerful neck. “You’ll be all snug next to your girlfriend in a jif. Just wanna get this saddle off’ya first.”

As if falling into a practiced routine, you and Eddie prepare your lounging space for the afternoon. He tends the horses while you clear rocks and twigs to lay down the woven blanket in your knapsack. Wordlessly, you take Guinnie and Merlin’s saddles from him, laying them across the mossy boulder at the edge of the clearing; wordlessly, he passes you the canteen and the paper bag of cookies, and you carry them over to the blanket, laying them in the clover nearby. You’re watching how the light plays through the leafy canopy above you, casting shadows that dance on the weave of your blanket when Eddie lopes up from behind, brushing past you in a rustle of cloth and a blaze of body heat before flopping down unceremoniously onto his back in the middle of the blanket.

Your voice comes indignant and quick at the sight of his filthy toes. “Ed, your—”

With a jolt, he snatches his feet up where they’d been threatening your blanket, shimmying himself down until he can bend his knees and plant those filthy toes in the soft clover instead. He tucks his hands under his head, closing his eyes and nestling in with a contented sigh as you lay out much more carefully beside him. As soon as you’re prone on your tummy, skirt fanned across your calves and elbow grazing the side of his buttoned shirt when you prop your chin on your fists, you’re eyeing him expectantly. Your gaze roams his peaceful face, unconcerned about the tick in his brow as you demand, “Tell me a story.”

Eddie cracks his eyes just barely to slant you a glance, and their umber is nearly concealed by his long, dark lashes as he drawls, “Can’t a man who’s spent the whole day breakin' his back take a moment to rest, you pesky woman?”

You’re entirely unphased by his snark. “Firstly,” you challenge him, “you spent a good part of the day futzin’ around on your guitar, and don’t you try to argue the point ‘cause I heard you playin’ over the fence. And secondly, you’re the one who forgot to bring Don Quixote. I wanna hear a story about knights and dragons and princesses, and it’s your responsibility to deliver,” you finish haughtily. 

Eddie sighs heavily, pretending to hem and haw just to get a rise out of you. It doesn’t take long for his frown to melt into a grin when you play along, kicking your feet in the air and raising your voice to be heard over his griping. “And now you gotta put in a giant and a windmill just ‘cause you’re vexing me!” 

“Fine, fine, Christ Almighty,” he relents, and you drop the charade immediately, walking your elbows over to angle toward him for optimal listening, your eyes trained on his pale face. 

 Almost effortlessly, Eddie begins to weave you a tale about knights and dragons and princesses as his eyes go far away, watching the puffy-clouded sky, and your eyes go gooey and soft, watching him. His gaze flicks to yours when the giant and windmill each are introduced, his plush lips curling when you smile at him, inordinately delighted that he’s humoring you even though he always does. The buzzing hum of August’s voice sings along as he regales you, the sounds of the forest a welcome melody to accompany the theatrical accents he gives to each character. 

The longer he goes, the more animated Eddie gets, and it’s almost— almost— enough to forget just how hot it is today. While the creek offers some indirect relief, cooling whatever slight breeze occasionally wavers through the fronds, the humidity and sun are formidable beasts, palpable and oppressive as they crowd in against you and Eddie both. Eventually, Eddie’s gesturing and facial expressions grow visibly weaker as his bangs begin to stick to his glistening skin and sweat pools in the hollow of his throat. The dampness pops along your skin, too; the nape of your neck begins to itch, and when you swipe at your upper lip, the heel of your hand comes away wet. 

It’s clear when Eddie’s voice cracks that it’s time to take a break. Your dress's fabric clings uncomfortably to your skin when you twist to grab the canteen, passing it to Eddie first, who takes two conscientious sips before promptly handing it back so you can loosen your sticky tongue and soothe your own throat. You snatch up the cookies next, your stomach growling as you see the evidence of their decadence— the bottom of the paper bag has grown dark as it soaked up their butter, making your mouth water with anticipation. You reach eagerly inside to pull out two cookies, passing them into Eddie’s waiting palm before taking one of your own.

You nibble as you sit up, crossing your legs underneath your skirt, your knee pressing into Eddie’s hip as tart lemon and earthy lavender burst within your mouth, the cookies more dense and sweet than you’d even remembered. You don’t stifle your moan of satisfaction as your head tips back and sags in bliss, lips puckering so you can keep chewing though they want to smile. 

“That good, huh?” Eddie’s voice is hoarse, warm and teasing, but you don’t bother to reply, entirely taken in by your favorite flavors. Instead, you just nod and impulsively stuff the entire cookie in your mouth.

The rasp of Eddie’s barking laughter has you huffing amusedly through your nose in turn as you dig in the bag, swallowing a little prematurely but resolved in savoring this next one. You eat the second cookie much more slowly, gazing out at the creek as it undulates in little swirls of blue and green and white, unrelenting in seeking its way around whatever may jut into its path— a branch stuck between rocks, a tangle of leaves caught in strands of rivergrass near the shore. It’s a comfort to see it flow so steadily, endlessly churning and ever-changing, but nevertheless a reliable constant you can return to time and again.

The second treat tastes just as good as the first, and you lick the crumbs from your fingertips as you glance down at Eddie once you’ve finished. He has eaten his cookies lying down, one hand propped beneath the splay of his dark wild curls and the other resting on the flat of his tummy. In between them, marring the white of his half-unbuttoned shirt and stuck against the skin exposed by that gaping triangle, is a conspicuous heap of golden-brown crumbs. The mess is entirely unsurprising, considering how sloppy Eddie often is, but the result is no less distasteful for it.

You scrunch your nose and lean over him, planting one palm in the space his bent elbow makes beside his ear and briskly swiping the other along cotton and damp skin. Your chuckles color your admonishment as you exclaim, “Sit up if you can’t help but make a mess of yourself! You’re such a pig, I swear—!” 

 Eddie surges up, capturing your wrist in a grip light enough to break if you were to want to. “Take it back,” he says warningly, and when he tilts his head this time, the glimmer of mischief in his eye tells you it’s not to coax you. A thrill alights in your chest at the promise of the game, the way his long fingers circle your wrist so easily. 

A giggle squeaks out of you before you declare loudly, “Never!”

Your gleeful shriek echoes off the willow and the cedars, the creek and the clover as Eddie grapples with you playfully. You try to fist one of his suspenders with your other hand, but the attempt puts you at his mercy; he uses that advantage to bully you down flat to the blanket, though even in this semblance of roughhousing Eddie’s attempts are light and easy, nowhere near the latent power coiled in his biceps from years of chopping wood in winter, tilling earth in spring, and hacking hay in fall. Husky chuckles rain on your skin as you squirm and wiggle in his grip, not really trying in earnest to escape until his hand leaves your shoulder and dips instead to your waist, fingers digging with devilish precision into the most ticklish parts of you.

Your glee turns to desperate gasping and involuntary, wheezing giggles as Eddie tickles you mercilessly while you try harder to buck away from his touch. Your attempts are entirely ineffectual, and the sensation of his deft fingers writhing against your ribs and the soft of your waist coupled with the stifling heat of his body where he has you half-pinned beneath him to keep you from escaping, have your face utterly burning with discomfited hysterics. He doesn’t let up until you call for mercy, though at the first stuttered “St-stop—” that falls from your lips, his fingers immediately cease their cursed torture. Boneless, exhausted, your head tips back against the blanket as you heave for air, the fuzz in your head from lack of breath slowly dissipating as Eddie’s palm drags firmly and briskly up and down your waist, rubbing away the residual ticklish sensation almost contritely. 

Once you’ve gotten your bearings and recovered your senses, you realize that while Eddie has stopped tickling you, he hasn’t moved from his position half on top of you. His belly presses into yours with each breath, firm and solid just like the rest of him, and you can smell the evidence of the August day clinging to his dark curls where they’re pinned against your nose: the sour tang of sweat, the earthy snap of tobacco smoke, the natural musk of his body, and, beneath it all, the scent of wild rain, of summer wind and petrichor, subtle but heady like an approaching storm. That feeling within you stirs, awakening at the press of his solid weight across your ribs and breasts, but the heat of him, while in some ways welcome, makes the heavy August humidity edge beyond extremely uncomfortable to utterly unbearable.

You express your discontent with an exaggerated shimmy of your shoulders; Eddie stirs, grunting as you make his resting place unpleasant to continue resting on. “It’s too dang hot for wrestling,” you gripe, “get offa me, you big oaf.”

Eddie’s head pops immediately from your shoulder, his nose nearly brushing yours as he pins you with a wide and eager stare. The gleam in his umber eyes should alarm you, but all you feel is that stirring inside again until his breath ghosts over your lips when he declares proudly, “Then let’s go swimming.” 

His face shines like it’s the best idea he’s ever had, but exasperation floods to stifle that warm stirring within you. Eddie pouts when he sees your face contort skeptically, pink lips poking petulantly at your immediate resistance. “Eddie,” his name is mostly a sympathetic sigh, “I can’t. My mama would roast me alive, you know that.”

Your best friend’s eyes narrow at your tone, and you suck your lips into your mouth almost apologetically, knowing Eddie really doesn’t like it when you treat him like he’s simple. The remorse fades when he quirks a brow, glancing down at the slick skin of your throat and collarbone exposed above your neckline before teasing, “You’re already roastin’ alive. You’re sweatin’ like a whore in church.”

Your indignance is instant and fierce. “Edward Munson! Well, I never—!” You shove him bodily off of you, and he lets you, rasping with easy laughter as he leans on a palm to the side of you, looking down at your burning face with a smirk. 

Eddie is smirking, but you know he doesn’t mean to call you a whore, that he only really says things like that because he likes to goad these reactions out of you. And you’d keep playing his game— keep being angry at him— if it weren’t for the way the light was filtering through the leaves, playing on his frizzy curls and lighting them beautifully amber at the edges. If it weren’t for the way his collar had fallen further open when you’d been roughhousing, exposing more of his pale chest as it bunches around his suspenders, making him look more like the cover of some two-cent romance novel than the sloppy farmboy he’s always been. If it weren’t for the way he's looking down at you— you lying prone on your back with him beside you, towering over you from your vantage point, with that sharp jaw and the plush curl of his lopsided smirk and the veins popping on the forearm he’s braced on, his skin flushed pink beneath the rolled sleeves of his white shirt. 

Your anger dissolves at the sight of these things, and if it had remained, perhaps this next conversation would have gone differently.

You lean up slightly, your eyes sliding from your best friend’s face toward the scenery behind him. The slow journey of the creek’s water over rocks and sticks, the soothing sound of its trickle and flow, the sight of those willow leaves dragging against its smooth surface… 

It looks so mouthwateringly refreshing.

With the lack of your anger comes mournful regret. “I can’t go home soaking wet,” you lament, and your tone makes your internal conflict clear.

Your eyes slide reluctantly from the creek back to Eddie, and you see a peculiar look cross his face. “I mean,” he says, hesitating for the briefest moment, “we could just take our clothes off.”

You blink at him, thrown entirely for a loop at the outlandishness of that suggestion, rendered mute as you try— and fail— to process it. In your muteness, Eddie keeps talking, as if he’s working it out to himself while he speaks. “Yeah. Ya know, that could actually work. Could swim for awhile, cool down, get out, dry off with the blanket.” He grins. “Bet we’d even air dry in no time in this heat.”

The proposition is absurd. It’s entirely inappropriate, and just… just lying there, staring up at Eddie’s face as he leans over you, makes your skin feel suddenly too tight for your body. You sit up abruptly, folding your knees and wrapping your arms around them. When Eddie clocks the look on your face, he huffs, his voice going a little sharp in his defense. “What? What's wrong with that? We've been friends for ages; I’d say we’re way past the point of gettin' embarrassed.” He snaps and points at you, shaking his finger as he gets on a roll. “‘Member when you came to me all upset because you bled through your dress and had to turn your apron around to keep your ma’ from seeing? I even helped you get the blood out. Didn’t I?” He doesn’t give you a chance to confirm or deny before continuing smugly, as if he’s got you beat, “And I showed you that nasty wart on my toe when you asked me to, even though I really didn’t wanna. See? Like I said, no reason to be embarrassed.”

You’d stopped listening at the mention of his wart, craning your neck to try and see his foot where it’s tucked against the clover over the edge of the blanket. “How is that now? Is it still there?” you ask earnestly. Eddie just snuffs a wry breath through his nose; his curls sway as he shakes his head. 

“Uh-uh. Already showed y’once, I’m not doin’ it again. Plus, you’re provin’ my point.” He smiles at you crookedly, digging his toes further into the clover to hide them before eyeing you smugly. And you can’t fault his logic when you’d walked right into it like that. 

“Yeah, I guess,” you reluctantly agree, to which he adds,

“Plus, s'not like I haven't seen you nekkid before.” 

You can’t help but scoff at that. “Yeah, when we were, what, eleven? It's different now.” 

The smugness on Eddie’s face melts; his eyes fill with that stickiness from before, like when he looks at you a little too long. His voice a quiet murmur, Eddie asks you, “What makes it different now?” 

The question could be answered easily enough. Because we're grown. Because you're a man now, and I'm a woman, and it wouldn't be proper. But after this summer's changes, and with that feeling awakening in the pit of your belly— wanting, yearning, hungry— you can tell that it's more loaded than that. Suddenly, the air feels heavier than it was just a moment before, thicker with something other than summertime humidity as you stare into Eddie’s umber eyes. Nervousness dances along your limbs, but it’s not that terrified kind of fear— it’s closer to anticipation.

Rather than answering the question directly, you avoid it, lifting your chin to reply as nonchalantly as you can, though you feel anything but. “Fine.” 

Eddie’s eyes bug out. “R-Really?” 

His immediate shock makes you rush hot with embarrassment, feeling caught out and self-conscious. Your voice bursts from you in defensive indignance as you drop your knees, crossing your arms tight beneath your breasts. “You cannot be serious. You're the one who proposed it, Ed!” 

He scrambles to keep you from getting upset, brow pinched and eyes wide in a different way. “No, no, I…” He flounders for a moment, looking at a loss. “I just didn’t… I didn’t think—” 

With a sharp shake of his dark curls, face scrunched as if to clear the cobwebs from his head, Eddie cuts himself off. He blinks at you silently for a moment, finally saying, somewhat more hoarsely, “We can do it. I wanna do it.” 

You watch Eddie’s adam’s apple bob as his eyes scan quickly down your cotton dress, lingering in your lap, though the swaths of fabric conceal even the innocent outline of your legs. A pulse of heat tingles low as his gaze sweeps over you, and you resist the urge to jam your hands down to cover yourself, feeling exposed though there’s nothing to see. Fiercely, you warn him, “Just keep your back turned ‘til I get in the water, or I'll whoop you." 

Eddie snorts loudly, countering, “You really think you could whoop me?" 

“Yes,” you snap back sassily, your faux-confidence deflating slightly as you add, “...if you let me.”

You smile at the warm chuckle he rewards you with, but when Eddie starts peeling his suspenders down, your heart seizes in your chest. The anticipation feels a little more like fear now that you’re confronted with the reality of what you and Eddie are about to do. You pop to your feet, rocking on your heels and fidgeting with your fingers, and Eddie’s brows jump when he looks up and registers your nervousness. Your voice wavers slightly as you ask half a question, letting it trail off into implication. “Are you gonna, um…?”

“Yeah, no, yeah,” he says quickly, scrambling up and wiping his palms on his trousers. Haltingly, cheeks pink, he rushes, “I’ll just… I’ll go behind the willow. Meet you in there.”

“Yep,” you say, the word bitten off a little too short in your awkwardness. “‘Kay.”

“‘Kay,” Eddie echoes, shooting you a sheepish smile before hurrying off in that direction. Only once he’s ducked behind the willow trunk does the hammering of your heart begin to calm, that nervousness settling back to anticipation, though it’s a little queasier than it was before now that there’s nothing technically stopping you from preparing to swim.

You kick off your shoes first— the simplest to remove— and, with a deep breath, you begin to undress. 

With trembling fingers, you undo the buttons on your dress and peel the sticky fabric from your arms and decolletage. Your silky chemise comes next, and you aren’t sure whether to be grateful or rueful that in the summer, you’re wearing so few layers. It’s an odd sensation to feel the sun on every part of you— the small of your back, the valley between your breasts— as you fold your chemise and neatly tuck it between the bodice and skirt of your dress to maintain modesty before laying them both on the blanket. 

And that’s it, then. The chickadees titter in the branches, the turtles sun themselves on flat river rocks, the bullfrog croaks in the dead log at the water’s edge, Merlin and Guinnie nicker gently at the edge of the clover clearing— and in the middle of it all, you stand there, buck-naked as the day you were born.

It feels distinctly uncomfortable at first, being naked anywhere but in your bedroom or bathroom back at home. You half-suspect your mama to come barreling out of the trees, ruddy-faced and angry as the devil to drag you back to the farm by your ear and lash you, both with words and with papa’s belt. But as the seconds tick by, and you begin to settle into the feeling, the weak breeze that wavers the fronds whispers along your sticky skin, tickling you pleasantly. You look towards the creek— the whole purpose for your nakedness— and you begin to covet the sight of the flowing water, to imagine how it will slither against your ankles and knees, cradling your body in cool refreshment. Discomfort eases; eagerness at the thought of that relief takes its place.

It doesn’t take long for your eyes to stray to the thick trunk of the willow overhanging the creek. You imagine Eddie behind it and begin to ponder all sorts of questions. What does he look like underneath his clothes? Is he lean? You’ve seen the muscles on his arms and back earlier this spring when he’d take off his shirt to work in the field as the weather got warmer; you couldn’t see much, though, as you had nary a birds-eye view from your distant bedroom window, and no way could you have chanced trying to peep over the fence. You find yourself wondering now, Are his thighs as muscular as his arms seem to be? Are his calves? Do the freckles across the bridge of his nose echo on other parts of his body this late in the summer, maybe on his shoulders? 

It’s been a long time since you’ve seen him bare— seven years, give or take— and you know you can’t reliably compare what you’d seen then with what he looks like now; Eddie’s more man than boy lately. The nature of your wondering changes. What does a bare man look like, anyway? You’ve never seen one. Naturally, a question follows: Has Eddie seen a bare woman before? 

That wondering flusters you, and you can only begin to think about why before heat is rushing to your cheeks and you need to abandon the thought. Unconsciously, you go to smooth your skirt, but your hands hit the flesh of your thighs instead, unencumbered by clothes. You glance down and your breasts are there, sloping gently from your chest, your nipples soft in the warm humidity. It makes you wonder how Eddie’s chest has changed, whether he has hair there now. It can’t be thick if he does, or you probably would’ve seen it from the window. Does he have hair any other places? You suppose he probably does, since you’d grown hair under your arms and between your legs when you reached your maturity, too. You only barely conceive a thought about what lies between Eddie’s legs, and that flusters you so thoroughly that when you press your palms to your cheeks, your skin feels hotter than you imagine the surface of the sun must be.

You wonder then if Eddie is thinking about you and how your body has changed in the same way that you’re thinking about him. It makes you self-conscious to picture him imagining you beneath your clothes, drawing his own conclusions about your shape, and then glimpsing the truth of what your clothes conceal. No one has seen your naked body except for mama and your older sister, who couldn’t give two hoots what you look like, and the thought of someone looking at you and being disappointed in what they see is a crushing thought. Not that you think Eddie will see your body, really, but you can’t help but—

A sudden whoop, wild and boyish, startles you out of your thoughts, and with a blur of pale flesh and dark curls, Eddie takes a running leap into the creek. 

The dramatic smack of Eddie’s body against the water has you bolting for the willow tree, your hands colliding with rough bark as you peek around it, beratements hissing through your teeth. “What a reckless, stupid idiot you are, Eddie Munson!” The words are cutting, but the crinkle of your brow and the squeezing of your chest bely the true meaning behind them. Your breath catches as beats pass without any sign of him, anxiety rising until his head bursts from the surface of the water, fixing you with a waterlogged but manic smile as you peer at him from the other side of the trunk, body shielded from his view.

The only way you could possibly convey the depth of your vexation and relief is by childishly stomping your foot, and you do just that. “Gosh darn it!” you shout, face all screwed up, “You’re so—! Ugh!” You stomp again. “You coulda hit your head on a rock and drowned!”

Eddie ignores your shouting, dark curls plastered to his cheeks that round with the force of his joy. “Git over here!” he calls, “It feels like heaven in here!” He laughs raucously, disturbing the water as he swishes his arms through it in boyish delight.

Seeing his joy and yearning for that refreshment for yourself, you put aside the tightness of your worry for him. “Turn around!” you call, and obligingly, Eddie straightens and does, showing you the plane of his pale back and the wet tendrils of his drenched curls covering his shoulder blades. “And no peeking!” you tack on, snorting as you hear him slap both palms over his eyes, though the gesture warms your heart nonetheless.

You edge down to the bank, keeping one hand on the willow’s trunk as you test your footing. The bottom of the creek bed is a little slippery with stones but mostly soft with peat and algae, and the water feels so rapturously cool on your ankles that you sigh audibly in relief once both feet are in. You wade further toward the center of the creek until the water reaches the tops of your breasts, at which point you finally toss a glance in Eddie’s direction again. 

Even with a few feet of distance separating you, knowing Eddie is naked underneath the water has your nerves churning up again; you duck down so that the cool water covers your clavicle, making sure your breasts can't be seen before you finally call out to him again, much more quietly now with your proximity. 

“Okay,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip, “you can stop covering your eyes. My virtue is protected,” you joke, though it comes out a little more tremulously than you had hoped. 

Slowly, Eddie’s jutting elbows straighten as he drops his hands from his face, and your eyes dart over everything you can see— the chapped ruddiness of his elbows, the veins in his arms, the bend of the skin at his waist as he begins to turn around. And then you’re just looking at his face as it emerges— the curve of his ear, the darkness of his hair, normally a frizzy stormcloud around his head but now flattened silkily against his jaw; the hollow shadow between his jaw and throat, the softness of his nose, the beads of water clinging to his dark brow. 

And then, all at once, Eddie is facing you. His umber eyes never stray from your face, not glancing for a peek of exposed skin, though you’ve ensured barely any can be seen, just the tiniest sliver of the tops of your shoulders, plus your neck and face. Not much he hasn’t seen before. Nevertheless, he doesn’t try— doesn’t attempt to look below the water to see what your bare body looks like. He’s a gentleman, perfectly adhering to your instruction not to peek, but you can’t decide if you’re more relieved or disappointed by his compliance. 

For a long moment, there’s just the sound of the creek flowing between you as you look back at Eddie. He's taller than you, and he isn’t hunched; he’s standing tall, seemingly unconcerned about you seeing what flesh is exposed above the water. Your eyes glide over the water running off the ends of his curls and down his pale chest, making little ripples when they slide into the creek where they belong. You remain composed until you notice the dusk of his nipples beaded with water, hard and puckered in the water’s chill. Your eyes widen slightly as the sight awakens that hunger again, and you blurt the first thing that comes to mind in an effort to keep him from noticing your reaction. 

“Oh, my word, this is so refreshing!” you say, perhaps overly enthusiastic, your smile a bit too broad as it aches in your cheeks. “Probably the best idea you've ever had, in fact. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

Eddie’s brow twitches in confused amusement at your exaggerated cheer, but he blessedly decides not to comment apart from saying, “Think that’s the first time you’ve ever willingly apologized to me.”

“Mmm…” you pretend to deliberate, wobbling your head back and forth. “Yeah, maybe,”you reply, chuckling to lighten the mood. 

But your laughter weakens, going a little uneasy as Eddie wades closer, head tilting like a curious hound. “You didn't get your hair wet,” he observes, and you glance up like you’d be able to see it atop your head. 

“I don't wanna get my hair wet, Eddie,” you say, an edge of warning in your voice already. Because you know Eddie Munson, and you know that, though the observation had sounded entirely innocent, those umber eyes are already gleaming with mischief.

“Awww,” he goads, and the word goes husky with laughter as he sees the alarm on your face, the way you tense warily as he edges closer. “Come on, turtle dove. You gotta go under.” 

“No, Eddie.” You attempt to be firm, glaring at him in an attempt at intimidation. “It'll mess it all up and it’ll never dry in time—”

“Here,” he says lightly, disregarding your protests as his smile goes wolfish, “I’ll help you—”

Quick as a copperhead strike, Eddie makes to grab for your arms. But you’d been prepared for this— you dodge backward, squealing and splashing him directly in the face. 

Eddie halts and sputters, running his hands roughly over his eyes and dragging them down the expanse of his face. And you know— you know— with how Eddie’s wolfish smile goes manic and wild when it’s revealed again that now, you've really done it. 

Desperation drives you as you begin to scramble backward, wetting the ends of your hair in your haste to get away. He pursues you almost languidly, with a sense of confident assurance that has you crumbling and grasping for your final defense, which is to declare shrilly, “Edward Munson, don't you dare. I swear on all things holy—”

When Eddie lunges for you, you know with a sense of certainty that you won’t be able to escape the cage of his hot hands as he traps you, holding you firmly around the upper arms. In fact, you don’t even try very hard at first— you just let him grab you, freezing in his grip as if in hope that your compliance will convince him to take mercy on you. But then, with a bright grin of triumph, Eddie begins whipping his head side to side, shaking his curls to coat you with water like a dog. 

You brace your palms on his chest and push then, crying out in dismay as you feel the droplets rain down on your hair and face. “Eddie!" you protest, but as you squint at him, you begin laughing— laughing at how silly he looks doing that, laughing at the fact that he could’ve easily shoved you under the water but has chosen to do this instead. You're laughing, and then Eddie starts laughing, your voices overwhelming the sound of the cicadas as they bounce off river rocks and cedars, filling the August air with your shared joy.

Eddie is still holding you, still shaking his head, though more slowly now, as you suppose he’s likely getting dizzy. And this becomes one of your games— you press your palms harder against his chest and his fingers tighten around your upper arms, pulling as you push, keeping a careful equilibrium in maintaining distance. 

You maintain distance until, with the river water and sweat combined, your slippery hands slide on his chest. 

One moment, you’re pushing and he’s pulling, equally and carefully matched in strength to continue your game. The next instant, before you can think or react, you’ve lost purchase. Eddie has no time to think or react, either; not expecting that sudden lack of resistance, he tugs you bodily against him. 

Suddenly, his hot skin is everywhere, slick and firm and soft all at once. A ragged gasp rips from your throat as you’re overwhelmed by sensation: your hard nipples rasping against the dusting of hair on his chest, your nose now smushed against the hollow of his throat, the entire length of your body buzzing with the utter foreignness of feeling someone else's bare skin touching your bare skin. And there's something else, something inexplicably hotter than the rest of Eddie’s body, somehow hard and silky soft all at once where it presses between you against your belly. You’re uncomprehending for only a fraction of a second before it becomes very obvious what it must be.

Oh.

Oh.

You spring apart from him at the same time that he releases you, no more than a second after the impact, though it had somehow felt much longer than that in the moment. Your face floods with searing heat as you stare at him, barely registering the look of wide-eyed, visceral horror on Eddie’s face as your heart pounds in your ears. His mouth is moving, but you don’t hear it— you’re consumed by the feelings flooding your body, reeling from shock and mortification but also from dizzying, fluttering euphoria. Because that feeling inside you— the one that hungers for something more with the boy standing across from you, who's still blathering something you can’t hear— has now had a taste of what it yearns for. Liquid heat pools low in your belly, pulsing much more intensely than the typical tingle you feel when thinking about Eddie in this way, rushing up to buzz through your body until your pupils dilate and you burst with heady need.

Eddie’s dismayed rambling eventually becomes discernable above the pounding of your heart. You register distantly what he’s saying— “I'm so sorry, oh fuck, please, i-it was an accident, I didn’t mean to—” but all that matters is that he's babbling, hysterical, face contorted and fingers fisted in his curls in a way that must be painful. And how can you talk to him like this? How can you even begin to think when he’s yammering on in such a way?

So you stomp forward, grab the back of Eddie’s neck and yank his face into your outstretched palm, which clamps over his lips. “Eddie Munson,” you huff, ignoring the way his lips feel against your palm as he keeps trying to speak, though you suspect it’s more in befuddlement now than remorse as his eyes are wide as kitchen saucers. “Would you just shut it for one dang second?” 

All at once, Eddie’s stifled speech ceases, and his lips grow still against your palm. You sigh, relieved to have finally put a stop to that noise, but the look on Eddie’s face pierces you, holding you fast.

He looks terrified.

Eddie looks more scared than you’ve ever seen him, his brow scrunched up tight, his eyes so dismayed that they appear glassy with unshed tears. It pierces you deeply to see him looking at you this way, tugging behind your ribs until your chest aches like the deepest bruise. Your brows marry in the middle, crinkling up as your eyes go big and soft and sad for him. “Eddie,” you whisper, cracked with compassion at the sight of his distress, though fear and longing have knit you up just as tightly inside. And though you let go of the nape of his neck, you don't pull your palm away from his face. Instead, slowly, tentatively, you shift your hand to Eddie’s cheek, dragging against his warm skin in a slow, crawling path as he stands stock-still, watching you like a deer in headlights. You pause for a long moment, just holding Eddie’s cheek, before your trembling thumb lowers, petting featherlight along his cheekbone.

It’s not something that can be explained away by one best friend attempting to comfort another after a mortifying accident. Your thumb traces Eddie’s cheekbone once, twice, and then again, prodding against the boundary of your friendship in a way that cannot be ignored. Stroking Eddie Munson’s cheekbone is the scariest thing you’ve ever done because on the other side of this choice can be effusive bliss or rending sorrow, and nothing in-between.

Your breath is shallow as you wait for Eddie to react— to say or do something, anything, to indicate what he’s thinking. Because he doesn’t look scared anymore, but you can’t place the look on his face, either. You’ve never seen it before. And then slowly, as if he’s half afraid to move and shatter the illusion, Eddie’s hand emerges from the surface of the creek, droplets running down the length of his forearm and falling in little ripples back into the water as he reaches up and brushes his fingertips so gently, so lightly, against your collarbone. It’s a graze of skin you can barely feel, but you tremble nonetheless.

“Eddie,” you whisper again, but compassion doesn’t crack your voice this time. 

Wanting does.

Eddie swallows thickly, voice hoarse and choked with the weight of what he is about to ask. “C-can I kiss you? Please?”

There is no hesitation, only sweet, euphoric relief when you nod, and then your best friend is kissing you.

Fluttering, dizzying desire bursts in your belly when Eddie slots his mouth against your mouth; all you can feel is warm wetness as his breath flows down to mingle with yours in your lungs. It isn’t tentative, or questioning, or timid when Eddie kisses you, grabbing up your face and moaning past your teeth as if he’s never wanted anything more in his life. Your fingers scrabble for purchase along his muscular shoulders, clutching slippery skin as you whimper and move your lips frantically against his. The heat of his skin and lips contrasts with the cool slick of the water enveloping your bodies from the chest down, and the sensation makes you break out in goosebumps that he soothes with restless stroking of his broad palms over your arms and back. You’ve wanted to touch him like this— be touched by him like this— so desperately that your bones cried out for it, and they sing in praise as Eddie hikes you up against him, kissing you insistently, crushing you so tightly to his body that it’s almost uncomfortable. But it’s exactly what you need— your breasts pressed up against his chest, your belly heaving into his as you gasp and kiss and lick into his mouth, brain fuzzy, body following only instinct. Eddie’s palms find the small of your back, clutching you close as he angles his muscular thigh between your legs. You whine, body electrified with the feeling of his hands pressing your hips forward until that place between your legs rubs against him, sparking delicious friction that seems to be the physical culmination of that hunger inside you, never before explored.

When you undulate your hips experimentally, mimicking the movement Eddie has coaxed you to follow, his palms leave the small of your back to pull you closer, wrapping you up in his firm embrace. With how tightly you’re pressed against him, you can feel that the hardness trapped between you is even hotter and stiffer now against your hip, and it makes that hunger flare in the pit of your belly, desiring more, more, more. You’re panting, overtaken as Eddie licks across your bottom lip, and you whimper; with shaky fingers, you reach down beneath the water, seeking blindly between your bodies until your fingertips brush against the very tip of that hardness. 

You stiffen in surprise as it jumps against your belly; abruptly, Eddie pulls his mouth from yours but doesn’t retreat completely. He continues to hold you, chest heaving, staring into your eyes for a dazed moment before his lips crack and his voice leaks out hoarsely. “Have you ever lain with a man?” 

Your cheeks heat at the brazenness of the question, but considering the position you’re in— pressed up against him, having just been rubbing yourself along his thigh and feeling his hardness dig into your hip— you suppose talking about this is far less brazen than you’ve already been today. Mutely, you shake your head. “Have you,” you ask, “with a woman?” 

After a moment, Eddie nods. Your stomach falls; you feel yourself grow sour with jealousy, and Eddie misinterprets the sudden pinch of your brow. “We don't have to,” he says quickly. “We don't have to do anything you don't wanna. Hear me?” 

He cups the side of your neck, gently, so gently, wetting the hair at your nape as his calloused fingertips brush there. His tender touch eases your sourness, and you think instead about his assertion, about the implication of what you could do with him— what you could allow him to do to you. And you know how it works. You've seen geldings mount mares before, however ineffectually; you know the wheres and the hows and the whens of it all, though your knowledge is all theoretical and in no part practical. 

But when you think about Eddie’s hot stiff flesh still pressing against your hip, about that hardness sinking between your legs, you can’t deny you’re curious. And with him… you feel safe. You feel cherished. And part of you can acknowledge how you've been yearning to know him in this intimate way for a long time.

Since the beginning of summer. 

Since before that. 

Maybe since always. 

“I want to,” you tell him, and at last, all the hesitation melts from Eddie Munson’s face. He smiles, and the stretch of his lips is sticky, forbidden, and decadent; the softness of his umber eyes is filled with simmering heat. Your best friend has been looking at you like this all summer, and you finally know what it means.

Eddie goes first, guiding you to the edge of the creek. As he does, little by little, the water recedes from your bodies, revealing more and more of his pale skin as he climbs out before you, planting his feet and holding out his hand to help you up after him. You set your smaller hand in his, and his grip is unwavering as you use what he offers you to climb out onto soft clover.

On the bank of the creek beside the weeping willow, you see all of Eddie for the first time. He is tall, lean, and still a little gangly in the length of his arms and legs like he’d been as a child, but far more solid now, with firm muscle from toiling on his family’s farm. His shoulders are broad, his neck strong, his waist narrow but padded with a healthy layer of soft fat that fills him out more than you remember. The hair on his legs and arms is sparse, same as it is on his chest, but it thickens near his belly button in a trail leading downward before spreading low on his pelvis. 

He’s at the very tail end of that transition from boyhood to manhood. And there's one part of him that's very much man— it's staring you right in the eye between his legs. Ruddy, curved, nestled in that dark thatch of untrimmed curls. You pulse with desire as you see it, heat tingling low as you shift on your feet; nevertheless, your eyes jump sheepishly from there to his face as if you’ve done something wrong.

But Eddie merely looks back at you calmly, allowing you to look at him. And when his eyes drag over your exposed skin in turn— over your breasts and soft stomach, your hips and pillowy thighs, over the curls between your legs, and even over the gentle curve of your calves where they meet your bony ankles— he looks so in awe over you that you resist the urge to cover yourself from his gaze, not wanting to take it from him.

You aren’t concerned about dirty feet or cookie crumbs when you lay with Eddie on the blanket again, the heat of his body radiating against yours as he stretches out beside you. When he cups your jaw to meet your lips with his, you relax into his touch with an ease that feels like passing through the threshold of your back door and feeling the weight of the world leave your shoulders.

Eddie’s tender touch feels like coming home.

As Eddie kisses you unhurriedly like he’s savoring every brush of tongues and smack of lips, your fingers wrap around his wrist where he still supports your head, thumb stroking against the firm veins on its tender underside. And he was right— it takes very little time for your bodies to dry in the heat, though the water in his hair lingers. Damp and cold, it brushes against your cheeks; you try to ignore the tickle, but after some time you huff sharply through your nose, pulling your lips from his with a wet pop. “Your mane’s a menace, Ed,” you say dryly, huffing again when he grabs the ends of his curls and tickles them across your neck. You scrunch your head to your shoulder, giggling through your protest. “Stop that! Be nice!” 

Eddie grins, sticky and thick again. “I am being nice,” he murmurs, dropping his hair and cupping the back of your neck to pull you closer as he descends on your lips more intently now. He rolls you over onto your back, and his hair becomes nothing more than a vague nuisance as Eddie’s kisses trail from your lips to your jaw, nipping and sucking on their path downward to draw out little breathy moans and sighs from you. He kisses from your throat to your clavicle, from the valley of your breasts to the edge of your ribs, his cold curls dragging against your nipples as he travels lower on your body. You watch him with curiosity as his lips trail over your belly button and down to your hips before he finally settles between your legs, which part only enough to make the barest amount of room for him. He glances up at you, thumb ghosting over your curls. "Can I taste you here?” he asks, eyes dark like liquid smoke, pupils nearly swallowing the iris. He stifles a groan in his throat as he looks back down, rasping, “Bet you taste so sweet." 

The suggestion feels distinctly naughty, and you rush with mortification at the idea, but above that is the hunger and the heat tinged with unmistakable excitement. “Okay,” you say, voice small, and Eddie rests his chin lightly against your pubic bone, folding his arms across your hips, very clearly ready to wait and follow your direction. 

Gently, he tells you, “If you don't like how it feels or want me to stop, just say the word, okay? I mean it.” 

“Yeah,” you reply, lips curling in a smile as your chest flutters. “Okay, I will.” 

“Okay.” Eddie nods, his chin dragging against your skin as he unfolds his arms and looks down again. More hoarsely, he says, “You’re gonna have to spread your legs.” 

Slowly, you do, heart thumping as your thighs peel apart and you expose yourself to his gaze. You want to squirm in discomfort with how intently he’s looking at you, but the heat on Eddie’s face, the unadulterated excitement and want that shines in his eyes as his plush lips fall open, is undeniably thrilling. You suck in a tiny gasp when his breath ghosts hot against that intimate place, a whimper escaping at the anticipation of his mouth on you. And then there’s the faintest brush of his wet tongue, snaking just slightly between your lips; you hiccup and moan, thighs twitching against his shoulders.

“S’it ok?” Eddie’s voice puffs against your heated flesh, cooling the place he’d just licked, and you exhale shakily, pushing out your confirmation.

“Y-yes,” you say, and after a brief pause, Eddie licks you again, and again, moving his tongue more boldly with each pass. He tips his chin down, lengthening the strokes of his tongue, dragging low to high for the first time; he groans deep in his throat, and you jolt as it buzzes against your lips. “Knew it,” he mutters to himself, voice tight with desire, and you moan as he wiggles his face in closer to you, his nose parting your folds.

 It feels so good, his mouth on your special place; it begins to satisfy the hunger inside you in a way you’ve never felt before, not even when you’d dragged yourself against his thigh. You relax into the feeling as he laps at you, wet tongue broad and flat as it drags against your pussy, sparking pleasure with each pass. And the sight of his curly head between your thighs makes you bloom warm over your whole body, your belly buzzing for more, more, more. 

“Eddie,” you moan, unable to fully articulate your desire but attempting to in the way his name falls so hot and sweet from your tongue. “I want you, Eddie, please…” 

He lifts his face from between your legs to press feverish kisses up your slit to the top of your mound. You tense when he digs his nose into your curls and inhales there, breathing deeply against your hair and skin. A whimper eeks from your lips as you squirm inside with self-consciousness, legs tensed to remain still. You worry suddenly about how you must smell, how the August heat and the creek may have made you unpleasant in some way. But when Eddie’s chest rises and falls with a heavy, contented sigh, and he wraps his arms beneath the backs of your thighs, your self-consciousness fades; when he nuzzles against your curls, dragging his cheek along your mound so affectionately, you positively melt. 

“Are you sure?” Eddie murmurs, lifting his head to peek up at you. You push onto an elbow, and he kisses the pudge of your tummy as it folds when you sit up. Smiling softly, you tuck his curls behind his ear, touch lingering against the side of his face. 

“Yes,” you say, so light and delicate but oh, so sincere, “Eddie, I really want it. I want you to…” you trail off, biting your lip. His eyes darken. 

“You want me to fuck you,” Eddie says, voice hoarsened but also sticky and thick and sinfully sweet like honey. You rush with feeling all over again— shock at his language, mortification at the crudeness of it, but also thrilling anticipation that tingles low in your belly, mixing with the heat and tightening to an aching need. You nod, gasping, “Yes. Yes, I want you to do that.” 

Eddie’s moan rumbles low in his throat, and you feel it against your inner thighs where they’re pressed against his chest. He drops one last hasty kiss to your belly before unwrapping his arms from around you. You lay back against the blanket as he climbs up your body, spreading your legs so he can settle between them. Your brow pinching when he mounts you, his pelvis pressing flush with the juncture of your hips, and his hardness wedged between you. He stares down at you, and the curtain of his thick curls seems to conceal the two of you from the rest of the world; the cicadas and the creek fall away as you meet his eyes. Eddie’s face is flushed, his lips swollen and wet, but his eyes are wide with concern when he shifts his weight to one hand to stroke back your hair with the other. "It might hurt at first," he says, voice soft, and you nod.

"I know," you reply, and he traces the side of your face with his thumb before lowering from his hands to brace his weight on his forearms. You take a shaky breath as his belly brushes yours with his new proximity, your vision filled only with Eddie’s pretty face. 

"But,” he continues, “I'll take care of you, okay?" He shimmies his hands under your shoulders, tucking you closer to him, and as your bodies press lightly together, you can feel him trembling. "I'll take such good care of you,” he rasps, “Always will." 

Your breath hitches in your chest, lungs burning as you well up with some emotion. Not hunger, not desire, but something more poignant. Something soft, like the down of a feather. 

“Are you ready?” 

“Yes,” you say, and your hand trails up his back, tracing the warmth of his skin almost reverently as you lift your chin to kiss him softly.

“Okay,” Eddie breathes, voice wavering as he sways his hips, untucking one hand from beneath your shoulder to reach down between you. You spread your legs wider as you feel that stiffness shift, poking against you as he maneuvers it down to line up with your entrance.

Eddie kisses your lips so tenderly, and he pushes in slowly, so slowly, but nothing he could do could prevent the pain you feel when the head of his cock pops inside your entrance. He freezes as you gasp sharply at the intrusion, your lips clamping tight in a belated effort not to alarm him, though the crease in your brow tells the whole story. Eddie looks pained to see you pain; he rains kisses down on your face, and you tangle your fingers in his damp hair to ground you as he waits until you’ve relaxed to begin moving again. As soon as he does, though, the sharp sting returns; it continues as a burning and insistent pain while Eddie stretches you open in a way you’ve never felt before. 

He starts and stops as many times as you need until his hips are flush with yours and he’s seated fully inside. He’s panting, one hand fisted in the blanket as he tries to stay so perfectly still, wincing and murmuring against your hair, "Aw, hell… I'm sorry, y/n. I'm so sorry it hurts… Don't wanna hurt you—" 

You whimper, tucking your face against his neck, and he strokes soothingly up and down your waist with his other hand until your body has adjusted and the burn has faded to a barely a pinch. You kitten lick the salt from his throat, and you enjoy the way he shivers. “I'm ready, now, Ed.” 

He lifts his head to examine your expression. “You sure?” 

“Yes,” you reply, and after a moment where his eyes dart back and forth between yours as if to check for any hesitation. He rocks his hips slightly, not pulling out, just testing to see how you respond to him moving. When you sigh with relief, he sighs with relief; when he rocks again, and you bite your lower lip, he swipes along his with a tiny dart of his pink tongue; and when you buck your hips up lightly against him, Eddie groans deep in his throat, a guttural sound of deep want that makes your chest rush hot and your nipples prickle up tight.

Eddie fucks you languidly in the heavy August heat, the chorus of cicadas blending with the soft moans and panting breaths you hush against one another’s faces. Your bodies slowly grow slick with sweat again as you move together, lips exploring lips, hands exploring skin, the steady, even rocking of his hips predictable and soothing. The slide of Eddie’s warm skin against yours, the rasp of his hair, the slick of his hot mouth against your lips, and the pressure of his hard cock inside you all build until you begin to tingle low in your belly again. As you sigh and whimper against his mouth, licking against his teeth, Eddie pushes in suddenly deep, pressing his pelvis tightly to yours and rotating his hips. Your breath catches as the head of his cock brushes against a spot that makes that tingling tighten. "Yeah?” he husks, his lips brushing yours, “That feel good?" 

“Mm-hmm,” you hum, “please, don't stop.” Eddie keeps circling his hips slowly, pressing tight and groaning in satisfaction as you wrap your arms around his back, seeking to be closer. When you rotate your hips in time with his, his pubic hair rubs sparks against that sensitive spot above your opening. You whine open-mouthed, eyes heavy and glazed as you stare into his, rubbing your nose against the damp skin of his cheek. 

He nudges into your touch, murmuring, “You want more?” 

“Yes,” you pant. “More.” But when he stops circling his hips, falling still, you're quick to pout, protesting with a frown, “That's the opposite of more—” 

His hips jolt back and forward suddenly and sharply, and your back arches as he punches a moan out of you, cutting off your protest. He smirks knowingly as you cling to him, fingernails scrabbling for purchase on his sweaty back. He begins fucking you at this faster pace, a little rougher than before, and it is the more you wanted. It's more, more, more. 

“Oh, fuck,” Eddie grunts, “you feel so good inside. So tight and warm.” You whimper at his words, blooming with heat as he adds, “Wanted to do this for so long.” 

You manage a question even under the onslaught of his pounding, desperate as you are to know the answer. “H-How long?” 

Eddie’s hips falter slightly, continuing more slowly as his adam’s apple bobs. He hesitates for a moment before answering, “Since the Fourth of July party at the Byers’ when you wore that new dress.” 

You scrape your teeth against your lower lip, looking up at him with big eyes, and his head falls to your shoulder as he chuckles wryly, his hips stilling entirely. “Aw, hell. Y’look at me like that, and I can’t…” Eddie huffs, and you shiver as it puffs hot and damp against your neck. Without lifting his head, more quietly, he says, “Wanted to be with you like this ‘lot longer than that, if I’m bein’ honest.” 

You burst with flutters at the revelation— low in your belly, high in your chest, tingling in your fingertips, tightening in your scalp. The feeling is hot and hungry, soft like feathers. You gasp a shaky breath to reply in a whisper that wavers with the depth of your emotion. “Me too.” 

Eddie’s moan is broken and vulnerable as he presses a hot, urgent kiss to your throat, trailing desperately up to your mouth. He cups your face, fingers pressing in against your cheeks as his hips begin to slap with fleshy smacks against your spread thighs, his cock moving hard and hot and insistent deep inside you. And more than ever before, that feeling— the hunger, the coil in your belly, the heat between your legs— is building to something new, something intense, something that looms over you as it begins to tighten and tingle between your hips. 

It scares you. 

Your hands flutter and tap at Eddie’s shoulders as you whimper his name differently from before. "Eddie. Eddie—" 

The urgency in your voice gives him pause, and his hips fall instantly still as he cups your face, tilting your chin up as his eyes dart over you restlessly. “What’s wrong, turtle dove?” 

Your heart leaps at the nickname, and he must see the way your eyes soften because his fingertips draw gentle and featherlight along your brow, a touch of comfort and reassurance. "I don't know what's happening. I feel... strange." 

His alarm is instant. “Does it hurt?” He asks, tinged with urgent distress. "Am I hurting you?" 

"No, no," you soothe your palm along his jaw, and he lists into the heel of your hand when you cup his cheek. His concern makes you rush warm with pleasure in a different way. "It feels… I think it feels good," you clarify, feeling strangely ashamed like you shouldn't be talking about this. "But it's just… odd, I guess." 

Eddie’s face softens to match yours. "It's okay, it's supposed to feel that way.” 

Uncertainly, voice small, you ask, “You promise?” 

Eddie pulls from your hand cradling his cheek to mash his nose to the side of yours, and the huff of his chuckle brushes sweetly over your lips. It's not exasperated or amused. It's nothing but fond. Almost, you’d say, if you didn't know better... almost loving. "I promise. Never led you astray yet, have I?" 

“Well—” you start to hedge, but when he pokes your cheek aggressively with his nose, you give up the game and giggle. “No, you never have,” you say, and it’s not teasing, not wry. It's nothing but fond. Almost, you'd say, if you didn't know better... almost loving. 

Something shifts then as Eddie begins to move inside you again. There’s a certain inevitability to it as his hips pound into yours, his cock pumping hard inside you as you rock your hips to meet him. “Wanna make you feel so good, turtle dove,” he tells you, and you drink in the sound of his voice. You feel dazed, drunk, almost, entirely caught up in the feeling of Eddie all around you, inside you, tangled not just with and in your body but also with your soul.

“It does feel good,” you tell him, voice soft and thick with feminine desire. “Feels so good, Eddie.” 

Your encouragement spurs him on; his hips pump harder, his breath harshening with the effort. The inevitability grows more imminent as you feel the evidence of his exertion— the slick of his sweaty chest against your breasts and his tummy sticking to yours, the way the unrelenting rhythm of his hips begins to falter just slightly. “I’m getting close.” You look up at him, and his eyes are wide and hazy, his bangs clinging wetly to his forehead— it’s pink, with one vein throbbing over his left brow. You’re thinking idly of licking along that vein when Eddie interrupts you with a husky question. “You wanna take my seed?" 

Caught up in him entirely, you can envision only one answer. You moan at the idea, nodding frantically. "Yes, please, please, Eddie—" 

He groans gutturally at your enthusiasm. "Shit, yes. Gonna fill you and fuck it up into you all deep—" 

You whine at the filthiness of it, the forbiddenness of it, but mostly with a deep yearning for him to possess you entirely, for him to spill inside and for you to know that, even when he pulls out of your body, some of him will linger for longer. 

Eddie’s forehead dips to yours, pressing against it lightly, and you pant into his mouth. You keep your eyes open and wide, wanting to see everything— every fleck of gold and brown in his eyes, every pore, every freckle, every strand of hair in his brows, every line at the corner of his eyes. Every tiny detail of his beloved face. You watch that face start to twitch and contort, and you thrill deep in your chest. “Ed, are you about to—?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m… oh, fuck—” he whines into your mouth and you gather him closer, tangling your hands in his curls as he huffs and his hips press tight against your thighs. You swallow his stuttered groan like it’s the only sustenance you need as Eddie reaches the pinnacle of his pleasure.

There’s a burst of reciprocal pleasure low in your belly when you feel him pulse and spill inside you, and as the rocking of his hips slows, your burning need and pleasure fade to a pleasant buzzing warmth. You’ve not reached that pinnacle yourself, but you are content nonetheless as Eddie falls still, panting and spent in your arms. You are sweaty, hot, and sticky in a way that would, in any other context, have you grumbling and seeking relief. But here, with Eddie’s heavy weight on top of you, his arms curling around your body to hold you close to him, and his cock softening inside you, you couldn’t muster a grumble if you tried.

Eddie rolls you onto your sides but doesn’t relinquish his grip on you, and you hold one another other until his seed starts to leak between your thighs. You stir then, and he looks down at you as you glance towards your tangled legs, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “I should wash up,” you say quietly, and reluctantly, Eddie loosens his arms so you can rise and pad over to the edge of the water. 

You’re about to crouch to cup water in your palms when a broad hand finds the small of your back, the light touch almost reverent. “Let me,” Eddie says quietly behind you; you turn, looking up into his face as he offers to cleanse you of his seed. That poignant welling of emotion, soft like the down of feathers, fills you toe to tip as he gets on his knees before you, cupping water in his palms and gently washing your sticky folds until your skin has been thoroughly cleansed.

Eddie Munson washes you off between your legs in the creek, and it feels almost more intimate than having relations with him. 

When he straightens up, you make to walk back toward the blanket, but when he lingers near the water’s edge without following, you pause and look at him curiously. Eddie pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, fidgeting as his eyes flick between yours before the words burst out of him. 

“Y’know you're my girl now, right? If you wanna be,” he adds quickly, and the blush of his cheeks, the sudden sheepish nervousness in his expression tugs at your heart.

But it’s such a silly question— if you wanna be.

Of course, you wanna be his girl. You’ve coveted Eddie Munson’s attention since he was that eight-year-old boy, odd and awkward, gangly and wild, your new neighbor next door. You’ve yearned to know him and be known by him as deeply as a best friend can, and now you’ve begun to know him in a way that, somehow, feels even more right than that.

You’ve wanted to be Eddie Munson’s girl for what feels like your whole life, now, or close to it.

“Yes,” you say, sticky and sweet and so utterly enamored with the boy standing beneath the willow at the edge of the creek. “I’ll be your girl, Eddie Munson.” 

Eddie beams so bright and beautiful that your breath shudders in your chest, a poignant squeezing of your ribcage that only intensifies as he says with reverence, almost like he can’t believe it, “You belong to me, and I belong to you.” 

You kiss him again, wrapping him up in your arms as he sways you happily back and forth. You wish it would last forever, but with a lurch in your belly, you realize the light casting Eddie’s curls in a deep amber glow is more than golden now— it's edging on orange. Hastily, you pull against his grip, and he releases you as you groan with dismay, “Aw, hell, Ed. We gotta race the sunset!” You bounce on the balls of your feet, shaking your hands by your sides as anxiety tangles in the pit of your stomach. “Mama’ll skin me alive if I’m not back before sundown!” 

Eddie’s eyes dart to the sky, widening with equal alarm. “We’ll make it,” he says breathlessly, “I got the horses, just get your clothes on!” He lurches around the willow while you rush to the blanket to pull on your rumpled chemise and button your dress, smoothing your hair and slipping on your shoes just as he’s miraculously finished saddling both horses, already dressed. You’re impressed until you hurry closer and realize Eddie’s suspenders are twisted thrice each and his shirt is buttoned one-off from the top. 

You sigh and tug him closer by the trousers, and he stumbles as you briskly unwind his suspenders and rebutton his shirt. 

“Much obliged,” Eddie pants breathlessly, his lips curled in a delighted smile as you tend to him. His beam widens when you duck your head, going shy under the intensity of his gaze; Eddie cups your cheeks and kisses you wild and hard, leaving you dazed for a moment as he hoists himself deftly onto Merlin’s saddle. “Betcha I’ll beat you back,” he says, towering above you atop his giant horse— your best friend, roguish and mischievous, clever and brash, beautiful in the deepening light. 

A wicked grin blooms on your lips as you look up at him, grasping hold of Guinnie’s mane and cantle to pull yourself up smoothly beside him. “Betcha you won’t,” you counter, and with a squeeze of your thighs, you rise to the challenge. 

You ride Guinnie hard and fast through the forest, racing Eddie until you both burst together from the treeline onto the field at the edge of Mr. Hopper’s property. In the distance, you can see the tall fence that separates your farmstead from his, the red house that he calls home sticking from the earth beside the brown shingles of your own, in permanent company with one another. You expect Eddie to call the game over now, but he tosses a smirk over his shoulder at you, his curls whipping as Merlin rears and gallops on, spurred by a whoop of boyish delight.

Your legs will be sore tomorrow, and between your legs will be sore too. But as the sun sets on this August day and you ride through the fields, chasing the young man you cherish, and the bugs erupt in puffs like clouds from the tall grass, you’ve never felt so known, nor so damn alive.

[pixxxieland]

need to play fight and lose. badly. and get railed about it

[pixxxieland]