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ghostgorlsworld · 2 years

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Van Halen Hair (Part Four)

It’s inevitable. Eddie confesses over a grilled cheese and the two of you christen his van. Warnings: Explicit smut ahead, NSFW.

Link for Part One here:https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/writerwannabetree/687408204731252736?source=share

Part Four: Finally.

You've never been in a bar before.

It has all of the classic bar things, the neon lights, the sticky bar, the scruffy men in the corners hunched over beers and pool tables. It smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne, reminding you of the rare times you had take a piss in Eddie's trailer's bathroom, and there's a low-lit stage by the bar, where a blonde man in an army jacket is carefully tuning his guitar.

You had made Eddie stop by your house on the way here so you could change clothes, out of a skirt and into tight jeans and a baggy band tee. "That's the most casual I've ever seen you, princess," Eddie commented when you climbed back into his van, his eyes lingering on the denim hugging your hips.

He seems to belong here, in the neon lights and racks of alcohol, dumping his jacket behind the bar to begin prep work. His boss, an older, grizzled woman with more tattoos than skin and a grandmotherly smile, pats you on the back and asks Eddie if you're the girl she's heard so much about. "Yes ma'am." Eddie busies his hands with cutting limes into neat slices. "You mind if she hangs around for a while to hear the music?" The older woman laughs, "Oh, honey, she can stay as long as she likes. I'm going home early tonight, I figured I'd leave the drinks and shit to you and the music to Dodson, he always handles that shit anyways." She winks at you, "And as long as she's a good kid that behaves, I won't look too long at her I.D." "I promise she'll be good, Ronnie," Eddie says wryly, winking at her. "I'll see you tomorrow night." "See you, honey." She walks out with a limp, her jeans tight enough to pass as a second layer of skin, riding low enough to reveal a butterfly tramp stamp.

"I like her," you say, smiling at Eddie. "Do you like working here?" "Yeah," he says, shrugging. "It's good for me, you know? I make money without having to do illegal shit and I get to hear live music while I do it. I know it's not, like, a steady office job or college, but this…this suits me." He ducks his head, waiting for the you can be better than this speech he's probably heard a hundred times in his life.

"Eddie, if you're waiting for me to judge you, just remember that you make more money here than I do at the drive-in," you say, laughing. "And I tutor you because it's time for you to get the hell out of high school, not because I think you should go to college or trade in your Metallica shirts for a suit and tie. If this is what you like, there's no shame in it."

Eddie looks up at you, his eyes softer than you'd ever seen them. "You're really not what I expected," he says huskily, like he needed to catch his breath. "You want something to drink?" You laugh. "Bartend me. You know what I like, Eddie."

"I do." He busies himself with tossing a few square ice cubes in a whiskey glass, pulling a jar of maraschino cherries and a cold coca-cola from the fridge. "You want it virgin?"

"I don't think so," you lean forward, elbows on the sticky bar. You feel bold in this low light, like you could get anything you want. "Definitely not virgin, Eddie. I don't feel like being good tonight."

God, you're so cheesy.

Eddie pauses, hand on a bottle of vanilla rum, his dark eyes reflecting the neon against the wall. "Be careful what you wish for, princess." He makes coke and rum with a twist, cherry syrup glinting blood-red against the glass. His shirt ruches up when he leans to pass you the glass, revealing a dark, curly happy trail that disappears into his jeans—you kind of want to run your fingers through it, feel the hard planes of his hips and stomach.

You take a cautious sip—you've drank before, of course, because this is Hawkins, but you'd never actually liked the taste. But this tastes like your favorite drink with a burn that warms your throat, sweet cherry lingering on your tongue—this tastes dangerous.

You pluck a maraschino cherry out of the glass to drop it into your mouth. "You're a natural."

"Does that mean you like it?" "It means I don't hate it."

You spend an hour on that stool, sipping slowly at your drink and watching Eddie interact with customers—he was good at this, you could see him in ten years, with more tattoos and the maturity of a grown man long past pubescent years, owning a bar and maybe writing on the side, those short stories he never spoke of but loved. You could see him with a small band, the kind that plays at bars like this and enjoys music more than fame, DnD campaigns held dutifully in his basement—he would be happy being himself and you realize you want to be in this future you've imagined, even just as a friend.

But friends will be a finish, not a start—not anymore.

You're tipsy but not drunk—Eddie would never actually get you drunk—and he slides a glass of water and a grilled cheese sandwich your way, saying, "There is no way in hell I'm taking you home drunk tonight. Your momma would string me up with her wind chimes." "Where did you get the sandwich?" You ask, only minimally tripping over your words.

"The cook thinks you're cute so I got him to make you a sandwich—if you see a young-ish tall dude with face tattoos in the kitchen, smile your pretty smile, it'll make his year." You lean over to peak into the kitchen curiously; sure enough, a tall guy that might be a few years older than you is doing the same thing to you, craning his tattooed neck to see you at the bar. He flashes you a smile and you raise the grilled cheese in appreciation, flipping him a thumbs up.

"Who knew, I get free drinks and free sandwiches at bars," you say, taking a bite of the sandwich and groaning at the perfect bread to cheese to crunch ratio. "I should wear jeans more."

"You should," Eddie agrees. "Though I like your skirts better." Because you're coming out of the slight haze of tipsy, it doesn't register immediately that he's flirting with you—until you lean in with a grin, gesturing to him like you were about to whisper the secrets of the universe. "You wanna know a secret?" "Mmm?" "I started wearing skirts a lot more when I met you."

His eyes darken almost imperceptibly. He leans in too, a stray curl falling over his face. "You wanna know a secret?" "Absolutely." "I passed every single assignment this year, but I told you I failed them so you would keep sitting in my kitchen in your pretty fucking skirts with your questions and homework, telling me how to find X and the meaning behind that jackass Moby Dick. Those days are the best of my week, just because I can make laugh and watch you drink cherry coke and imagine what those skirts would look like with my hand up them."

Your mouth pops open in soundless surprise. "Now, we can do two things: we can forget I said anything and go back to the way we were, friends and nothing more." He tucks a stray hair behind your ears, his fingertips rough and callused against your cheek. "Or you can wait for my shift to end and give me the honor of making out with me in the back of my van." "I think you know what I want," you say, tipping your face into his palm. It's warm and raspy against your cheek, comforting.

"I do." His grin could light entire cities on fire, gap-toothed and hungry. "Eat your sandwich, princess, we have twenty minutes left." Those twenty minutes are hell—you're anxious and anticipating at the same time, excusing yourself to the grungy bathroom to splash water over your hot cheeks and make sure you didn't have B.O. in strange places, desperately regretting that you put on your weekday underwear this morning. You hadn't thought that there would be a possibility of Eddie seeing you in your underwear, which brings up the question: do you want this?

Good girls are supposed to say no.

But God, you want it so badly—your whole life, you hadn't understood the thousands of movies and literature about young love, the desperation, the blood rush—and while of course it's not love yet, you're close enough to taste it.

You sit yourself back down at the bar stool and allow yourself to enjoy this; the way his eyes flick to you as he closes the bar, forearms straining as he lifts boxes of liquor into the storage room, the way his hands shake when he places another glass of water in front of you, despite the fact you've been stone-cold sober for the past two hours.

The twenty minutes pass like molasses. Eddie locks up the liquor cabinets with a set of keys that he tosses to the other man, Dodson, his hand sliding into yours to yank you up from your seat, is dark eyes bright and wild.

"Got somewhere to be, Eddie?" Dodson shouts behind him, grinning at the two of you with cigarette-stained teeth.

Eddie makes a noncommittal noise and pushes the door open, his hand tight and insistent around yours. You don't make it to the passenger's seat before he's kissing you, pressing you against the van with his hands tight around your hips. The kiss is hard and sloppy and unbearably desperate—it feels like you should've done this sooner, like you've been wasting all these months just being friends.

Eddie seems to feel the same way. His fingers dig deep into your plush hips, pulling you into himself almost painfully, carving his hot tongue through your mouth like he wants to eat you alive.

He breaks away with a muttered fuck, hair mussed, eyes glazed, his mouth slick with saliva. "God, I've wanted this for so long, princess. This feels like one of my fuckin' dreams."

"Why didn't you tell me?" You whisper, but he's already pulling you back in—you suppose that's his kind of answer, his months of book borrowing and homework and offering free rides in his shitty van that all somehow went over your head, making you believe that someone like him could never want someone like you.

Eddie stumbles into the backseat and you climb onto his lap without a second thought, denim against denim, his hands gripping your hips like a lifeline. He grins with his mouth still fused to yours, teeth nipping at your bottom lip in a way that has you rolling your hips against his, his self-possessed confidence from earlier now replaced by a desperate, horny boy that wants you so badly his hands shake.

"You terrify me," he says between gasps, his hand curled up in your hair. "I never met anyone like you. If I told you and you didn't feel the same way…"

"How long?" You ask breathlessly, your mouth hovering just above his.

"Since I walked in that fuckin' classroom. You were wearing a Goonies shirt and a white skirt and I pretended to lose my pencil just so I could talk to you."

You remembered that. A skinny, wild-haired boy had sat next to you on the first day of school—he had touched the sleeve of your shirt to ask you in a deep voice if you had a spare pencil, his smile charming in a goofy, slightly crazy way. When the teacher had taken you aside a few days later to explain that he had signed up for tutoring, you had to crush a sliver of excitement in your stomach, telling yourself that he isn't your type.

You were wrong. Everything about Eddie is your type—his hair, his hands, his dark eyes and needy pink mouth, the way he presses his hips against yours so you can feel exactly how badly he wants you.

You tell him this between kisses, his mouth traveling down your neck to nip and suck at the sensitive skin on your throat, your fingers dug deep into his denim jacket. A flash of tattoo is revealed on his collar bone and he groans when you kiss it, his hand gripping your hair tighter.

"Princess," Eddie says hoarsely, breaking away from you. "Princess, unless you want me to fuck you in the back of this shitty van, we're going to have to stop. Please." "You have anywhere else in mind?" You ask, unable to stop yourself from rolling your hips one last time.

Eddie blushes, his eyes widening. "What?" He sputters, obviously not expecting your enthusiasm.

"You know what I said," you say. "We've waited long enough, haven't we?" "Are you sure?" Eddie asks, tilting your chin into the half light from the bar so he could read your face. "Have you ever…? "Once," you answer, and he seems to be relieved that he won't be deflowering you in the back of a rusty van. "And I'm sure. Are you sure?" Eddie tosses his head back with a laugh, "I think you can feel how sure I am."

The next few minutes is all awkward laughs and knees and elbows, shirts tugged off and flung into the corner, your weekday underwear hanging limply from the back of the front seat. Eddie lays out a ragged blanket in the back, and it feels soft against your skin, his bare chest all angles and shadowy tattoos in the low light.

This is when it gets desperate, mouths crashing against each other as he presses his jeans into your bare thighs under your skirt, belt long gone and zipper undone so you can feel his hardness press into you. "Eddie," you gasp, fingernails curling into his shoulders as his hand slides up your skirt, fingers brushing gently against your soft thighs. "Please." His hand cups your sex. "Please what?" Eddie asks, his eyes nearly black.

"Don't be cocky," you groan, "Just touch me." His grin is wicked."Yes ma'am." His fingers glide into you, deliciously slow, and your head falls back with a thump, a raspy moan rising from your throat.

"Shit, you're so wet," Eddie whispers, like a prayer. "You're so fuckin' pretty."

It's like a novel, you think absently, quickly spiraling towards the ending, the climax, the moment where two become one and you realize that you're in love—not fawning puppy love or the half-assed meaning of love high schoolers say to each other in the hallways, but something real and true. Something that you can't help, something that happened when you weren't even paying attention. When he slides inside of you for the first time, it hurts. You stiffen and grip his shoulders harder, your breath frozen in your lungs.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks, brushing your hair out of your face. You relax at the tenderness in his voice, the way his palm cupped your cheek.

"Keep going," you whisper, and he obeys, the pain quickly receding into something sweeter, your thighs clenching around his hips while he rocks into a rhythm.

Eddie's eyes never leave your face, his hand curling to wrap gently around your throat—not pressing or squeezing, just to hold, to keep you still—and his pace picks up, his cock reaching so far inside of you that your eyes roll with each thrust, your nails digging into his ribs.

"I'm close," you whine, and his hips press harder into yours, his rings cold and metallic against your throat. "God," Eddie chokes, mashing his mouth against yours desperately. "Fuck, I'm not going to last long. Come for me, princess."

And you do. Your body shudders and you come with a sigh, white exploding behind your eyelids as your back arches and he doesn't miss a beat, still rutting into you with his hair wild and sweaty, his rings digging into your hips as he follows you off the edge.

"Holy shit," Eddie breathes against your lips, his hips shaking as he pushes into you one last time. "Jesus, fuck." You laugh, too blissed out to even blush. He collapses next to you and you wrap around him like a sweaty octopus. "You wanna go on a date this weekend?"

"You wanna be my girlfriend?" Eddie responds, grinning blissfully. "You can be my queen of Hellfire— Dustin would shit bricks."

"Deal," you say, smiling, twisting one of his curls around your finger. "You're gonna have to teach me how to play if I'm going to be queen of anything. I had no idea what I was doing last time." Eddie leans into your hand like a puppy, his fingers sliding up your stomach to cup your breast. "Princess, I'll teach you anything." You sigh happily and lay your head on his chest. He looks so peaceful like this, his jeans pulled up loose around his waist, his fingers running over your skin as if it were silk.

"Have I ever told you that you have Van Halen hair?"

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things 4 #plus size!reader

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ronearoundblindly · 2 years

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Do You Two...Fondue? (14)

Summary: Steve is trying to propose to you, but it's not quite going his way. (Warnings: suggestive language, but Minors DNI)

Red, White, and Blue, Part Two (see previous or series)

Steve is enamored. He’s enamored and scared shitless. This is the year he takes his birthday back by doing something just for him, but he’s going on hour seven of having an oval jewelry box in his pocket. It's a tiny object hotter than the sun, burning a hole right through his thigh. Last night was all prepping, and this morning was busy. Then you worked a half-day because you’re a bit of a workaholic and now a bit of a boss. He’s getting impatient, but it doesn’t feel quite right to ask when the party starts. He can’t get you alone. Then over comes Dodson, and Steve loses you only to find you being insulted by Clarence, which again, seems like a crap time to take you away from the crowd. But he tries, he really tries as best he can.

Steve thought sunset might be perfect. There’s a breeze, and your heart sounds particularly calm and happy. He enjoys your hmms of joy from sipping a cold drink. It’s finally not too hot for you to remain held against his side (the one that doesn’t carry the box), and he gets to just look at you for a while.

Some hair has fallen down the back of your neck, curling after dampened against the exposed skin of your back in that dress. That blue dress with a red sash. That dress with bits that flutter in the breeze.

His nerves keep piling on the more he thinks. Steve’s used to making decisions that start long, drawn out battles. This? He has one question and awaits a one word answer. He can’t handle how definitive a grand total of five seconds will be in the span of his life, so he’s starting to chicken out, stalling.

He gets you another cocktail and even lets go of your hand when you make your way to the stage. Steve’s convinced that even professional singers can’t sound good in karaoke, but the song, the words projected on the wall behind you, and the passion dripping off your voice by the final notes nearly break him. It takes so much control not to rush the stage and drop down right there in front of you that he shakes. He has to shove his hands in his pocket and sink his heels into the grass. He can’t even make a peep to cheer your triumphant entertainment, and his awkwardness reads like disappointment.

The false note is mirrored in your face when you find him, and you clearly don’t understand. “Is something wrong?” You get patted on the shoulder and encouraged by a complete stranger while Steve doesn’t move, gripping the ring out of sight. “I wasn’t trying to—“

“Do you wanna take a walk?” Now he’s as stiff as the box in his pocket, and you ring your hands timidly in response, shrugging.

He makes it all the way to the tree line, far enough away from the onlookers gathered at the stage, grass bathed in a warm yellow light from the distance. Steve realizes he’s been staring at the ground trying to find a place to kneel, so he takes a moment to look into your eyes. He just…has nothing else to say. He can’t stall anymore.

He drops to one knee in the almost-dark under the stars.

“Sweetheart,” he breaths, noting his voice is too quiet and he’ll have to speak up. His knee sinks a little, and he wobbles. He has to focus. Over and over in his head, Steve has reminded himself that he isn’t a wordsmith, that his mind has gone blank in your presence multiple times, so he’s kept the speech very simple. “You already make me happy. You’ve already made me a better man. You can—and have—taken on the whole world on your own, but—“

As he pries the box from his pocket, Steve swears he hears the sound of static in the trees. There’s been so many delays though, he doesn’t care. He has to keep going. He has prepared himself to remember his line even when he looks right into your eyes. He practiced, like a lot.

“Will you marry me?”

Your face lights up, as he hoped it would. Your smile is wide. Your eyes glitter, reflecting the stage. From his spot below, there are even a few stars visible above you like a halo…and then your head turns away toward the trees.

“Shit” comes a rustle.

“Is someone there?” You look alarmed, and suddenly, Steve thinks duh because you’ve been caught off-guard by a bear in the woods. Of course, you’re unnerved by the noise.

It’s hushed whispers that Steve can barely understand, but he recognizes Russian.

“Guys,” he whines, gripping your hand that waves to get him to stand. He assures you, “it’s fine. It’s not an animal.”

“As you were,” Nat quietly articulates from the shadows.

You stomp a shoe into the ground. “You scared the bejeezus outta me!”

“Doll, the man asked you a question. Put him out of his misery,” Bucky chuckles, too.

Great, now it’s a damn party. What the hell is Steve supposed to do?

You clutch your hands over your heart as if stoping a heart attack. “Shut up, perv.”

“Make me, nerd.” Bucky never could stop his cheek.

“You’re the one hiding in the bushes!”

Steve grabs your arm to get your attention again.

The sound of static clicks, and Nat yells, “Tony wait,” but the warning fails.

Fireworks explode and whiz up into the air, strobing colors all around, but now Steve can’t hear you when your mouth moves and is pointed to the blossoming sky.

How did it all go so wrong? Why—WHY—did he wait so long? What are those two dingbats doing in the woods?!

Steve reels, watching Nat and Bucky emerge into the light with respective looks of regret and amusement. The din blocks out any warning before you crash onto the grass in front of him, face a meer inch from him, taking his cheeks one by one in soft hands.

He has to read your lips though you’re shouting this close. Yes. I love you. Yes. I’ll marry you. The last bit he has to just fill in by the way your mouth moves against his. It’s done. The leaden weight of four words washes right off his shoulders even as he lifts you up, up, and into his arms.

While you and Steve are kissing, Bucky keeps talking, though only half the words can be heard, and Steve is going to deck him if his best friend doesn’t quit soon.

You break away to shout a response, but Steve’s too fast. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he mumbles into your lips, “if you ignore them, they’ll go away.” He doesn’t add the part where they also might just start making out with each other.

You break away again only to raise your middle finger at them. Steve’s never been so proud of such a gesture.

Bucky puts up his arms. “Ok, message received. Sheesh.”

“So bossy,” Nat chides, but she leads Bucky off through the open field. Steve appreciates how she makes them visible so he can ensure they do, in fact, go away.

He presses his lips into your shoulder, cherishing another hug, one of many, many to come for the rest of his life. Your feet are dangling off the ground, and you don’t seem to mind. He keeps a tight hold for as long as you let him.

“Is that why you were so weird all day?” You pull back to frown at him. The fireworks have stopped, so the field is quiet, intimate again.

“What? I was nervous.”

“Well, I think you should have gone over the plan a little better with those two.” Your chin juts in the direction of the party.

Steve considers that. “I…didn’t…” He lowers you to the ground and looks about, confused. He never told Natasha or Bucky. He would have told Bucky, except he didn’t want a guilt trip about how slow he’d already been. Tony didn’t know what Steve was trying to find in storage, so…could he have even guessed?

Obviously, he’s been predictable enough to read, but you didn’t know. He’s got good (smart) friends who he will chastise on a different day. Not today. Not his birthday. Steve is used to sharing his birthday with a national holiday, but now he shares it by choice. Today’s the day you said yes. The day you—

The ring.

He’s fumbling to open the box, trying to explain at a rapid rate while finding your correct hand and finger, box dropping to the grass.

“Steve. Stevie, stop,” you say, steadying his hand on yours. “Deep breath, Sketch.”

The slender gold ring slides on but won’t fit past the second knuckle. Sarah Rogers had excessively petite hands, apparently, and he’s only now noticing the blunder. The heat of his blush spreads to his ears.

“Oh,” you smile while sucking air through your teeth, ”know what that means, don’tcha?”

Steve looks up terrified. What must you think of him?

You cup his jaw with a delicate palm. “Means we get to keep it secret for a little longer, too.” After a quick peck on his lips, you move the ring to your pinky. “Well, as secret as it already is. Can we go into the light so I can see?”

“I wanted this to be perfect,” Steve tries again.

“And it is. The whole thing is perfectly imperfect, like all great art.”

He can’t breathe and feels sick, maybe even faint. Steve is the vessel for a war of butterflies swinging tiny toothpicks around in his gut. The best he’s got is “okay,” and he flashes a smile that is so dopey you laugh.

Nailed it, the butterflies tell him.

He stretches an arm over your shoulders, and because Steve’s a gentleman, it’s the first time he’s let even some of his weight rest on you while you both walk.

“Oh, my. You doing alright?”

“No. I’m…I’m fine, but…I was thinking about that for a little too long, I guess.”

“Found Cap’s weakness did we?”

“Can’t throw that punch a second time,” he mutters and swallows hard.

Your tone changes from playful to legitimately concerned.

“Okay, big guy. Let’s get you some water and sit ya down somewhere.”

You don’t lead him back to the party. You know him too well for that. There are stone benches around the far end of the building, a side not used for the festivities. Steve is actually unsteady by the time he lowers himself to the bench.

You take hold of his hands on his lap. “Will you turn into a pumpkin if I go get you water? Or, is this a moment, one where you need actual medical attention? Because you know that’s not my type of science, right?”

He giggles, but it’s high, too high for normal. Steve’s anxiety has managed to shoot up like those fireworks, but he doesn’t know the reason. You said yes. That was the nerves before; that was all of them, or so he thought. What the hell is bothering him to the point of panic now?

“Honey,” you prompt, “I’m about to make the executive decision to take you to the infirmary. You’re gonna think it’s payback, but that’s only part of the reason.” His hands get a gentle squeeze, and suddenly, he gets it.

There are no walls left. All his bizarre requirements have been met. He has no other excuse than he’s too chickenshit to say why he’s put you through a waiting game nearly eight months long.

It’s so much worse than asking one question. He has to wade into a hundred years of expectations and hopelessness, has to boil it down to a palatable size, has to bumble through even when he knows the truth sounds excruciatingly pathetic.

But you listen. Crouched at his feet, patient, encouraging, you listen while he just spews unrehearsed nonsense about what he physically wants and fears.

That heat that rises in him instead of tears reaches the tips of his hair and radiates into the wind. He is outrageously uncomfortable but refuses to let go of your hands. He’s a mess, a mess whose girl has his mother’s ring on her finger, a mess who feels as small as if the serum just evaporated out of his body.

“So…” you ponder in the accompanying silence. Confusion pinches and relaxes separate areas of your face in slow succession. You sit back cross-legged and slide your hands from his, leaving an emptiness that ramps up his nerves one notch higher.

“So your sensitivity to touch is…dampened?”

Steve swallows hard again. He’s not a rough man. He’d rather be abstinent than that. His brain picks this moment to berate him for locking you into a promise before speaking with you about such a big deal. Sex is so personal though; Steve would not talk about it with anyone unless he had to. His nerves—those little bastard butterflies mid-rave inside him—chose right now to say he has to.

“What about your other senses?” You tick your head to the side.

“Uh…” Steve blanks.

“Is your sight or hearing less sensitive?”

He shakes his head, concerned that your casual inquiries mean you don’t understand the gravity of his confession.

“What about smell and taste?” When he shakes his head again, you continue. “Do you ever—“ you look down and flex your hand, and he’s ashamed to remember how hard he grabbed it that one night “—get excited without touch?”

Steve shifts uncomfortably on the stone. He supposes he deserves the straightforward, methodical approach, considering how roundabout he’s made the journey here.

A smile twitches to life, and you bolt up to your feet. “Feeling good enough to get to your room? I have an idea.”

Oooo the smut's'a comin' (pun 1000% intended)

(Next part)

#steve rogers fic #fluff and feels #steve x reader #steve x you #fluff and romance #fools rush in #steve rogers #fanfic #series #eventual smut #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers x reader

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