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fizzigigsimmer · 5 months ago

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A Loyal Servant

A continuation of this little ficlet. This is crack treated seriously. So don't take it too seriously.

~*~

Fuck it.

That’s what Billy’s lips say as the blonde stands suddenly from the bed, pushing himself up from his splayed position.

Steve smiles in triumph at yet again successfully reading Billy’s lips. He’s gotten really good at it, and it’s almost his favorite game now. Right up there with guessing what the blond will do next. When he gets up, will it be a shower this morning or will he continue the no bathing streak? Will he make himself toast and leave the house before the other occupants wake, or will he stick around long enough to be subjected to his step-mother’s greasy fry up?

It should be boring as hell, spending so much time watching the same person, but somehow it just isn’t. Billy keeps Steve on his toes and always finds a way to throw him an unexpected curve ball. Steve still has no idea what he and Eddie get up to on Thursday evenings for instance. As the best supplier of black market ingredients in the area (not to mention party drugs) years ago a powerful witch put a ward on Eddie’s trailer to keep away uninvited guests.

So every Thursday Billy goes to see Eddie and Steve has no idea weather it’s to get blitzed,fucked, or to braid each other’s hair. They could be summoning the legion in that trailer for all he knows, and it really really bugs Steve that he can’t get close enough to know, and that there’s this one part of Billy’s life he doesn’t know. He knows what brand of toothbrush Billy uses and that too much dairy gives him the shits, but not what he does with Eddie Munson.

Robin thinks Steve is obsessed with Billy Hargrove. Honestly that’s fair. Steve’s under no delusions that his current occupation - parked across the street from Billy’s home on cherry street with his eyes glued to the pair of opera glasses she enchanted for him, watching the other teen undress - is anything less than obsessive and, yeah, just a little creepy.

He wonders which Billy would take more of an objection to. The whole stalking thing has to be objectively less creepy than Billy being abducted while he slept, hoodwinked by horny sex fog, and having sex with a guy possessed by satan, right? But whatever Billy, Robin, or anyone else for that matter might think of it, Steve actually has a perfectly good reason to be stalking Billy Hargrove. Several in fact.

The first reason is appearing right now as the blond stands in front of his bedroom mirror and peels off the grease stained sweatshirt he’s been wearing for days, like it’s the only article of clothing he owns. Two perfect pectorals, areolas swollen and red, strain the white tank top he wears underneath.

Squinting Steve presses himself up against the door of his car, forehead against the window, smashing his borrowed scry glasses up against his eyes as he watches the way Billy’s chest wobbles a little and sways as he discards his top.

Fuck. Fuck,fuck,fuck. They’re definitely bigger than they were last week, Steve determines, swallowing and licking his dry lips. Because of the panic, obviously.

He’s not perving. Billy’s tits are not the good reason he has to stalk him. Well, yes, they are, but not that way. It’s the fact that Billy’s perfect tits are also perfectly male, but they are still growing, that he’s taking note of here. Not comically large. Not enough for anyone to notice as long as Billy is wearing loose clothing (hence the unforgivable sweatshirt) but definitely a noticeable change when he’s naked.

The fact that Steve’s dick is hard right now is irrelevant. He’s a nineteen-year-old horny idiot. He gets hard at the thought of breakfast. But since he’s not a dirtbag, he can totally be the hero that Hargove doesn’t even know he needs right now even with a stiffy. It’s called multitasking.

Because the second good reason that Steve has to be stalking Billy Hargrove, is that Steve is pretty damn sure Billy is going to have his baby. Well technically it’s the devil’s baby, but he used Steve’s seed as a conduit so it still counts in Steve’s book.

Anyway, it’s actually part of their duties, after the ritual, to watch the brides and report back at the first sign of fruit. So technically Steve was just doing the job he’s been prepared for all his life. As a male witch Steve’s place in the coven has always been contingent on his ability to be useful. The devil doesn’t suffer fools gladly and Steve’s not good enough at magic to ever dream of being called a full warlock.

He’s a decent conductor which allows him to take on spirits or transfer them to others with ease, which means he can at least make for an excellent familiar. Serving the devil’s servants is nowhere near as exciting or important as serving the devil himself but it’s a living. It’s mostly digging graves and providing his mistress with strength and protection while she’s at her spell work. It really is his muscle, along with obedience and big dick that are useful to his coven sisters, and that’s okay. Steve has never minded the expectation that he wouldn’t amount to being more than a familiar, or the thought of finding a nice witch to devote himself to so they can pop out babies to strengthen the devil’s army.

Nancy’s a very talented witch, who is already rising quickly in the ranks of the coven, and unlike his previous mistresses she actually seems to like Steve just as much as a human as a cat. Steve’s down for the whole henchman boyfriend gig if he knows his partner respects him. He’s a human being with feelings after all and not actually a pet. Though it’s pretty hot when Nancy calls him that, he can’t lie.

But not if he gets kicked out of the coven for completely fucking up their single most important ritual, Nancy can’t be his mistress anymore. So for a minute there back in the room with Billy, Steve really had been convinced his life was over. But they’d completed the ritual with no one even having a clue that there had ever been a hiccup, all thanks to Billy. So if Steve is a little obsessed with Billy after the fact it’s because the guy is a genius and Steve like, owes him his life. You know?

Even while mind numbingly horny Billy had been able to figure out that the foundation of the ritual was in the planting, so to speak, and it didn’t seem to matter whether the soil was fertile or not.

That’s like, impressive. Even Robin thinks so (or else she wouldn’t have agreed to help him on what she thought was a pointless errand by enchanting her grandmother's opera glasses).

Anyway. The point he’s trying to prove to himself here is, Steve is stalking Billy Hargrove because he is a decent guy, not because he can’t stop replaying the night they spent together over and over again in his mind.

He wishes (not for the first time) that Billy hadn’t taken to keeping the blinds on his window closed. The cat demon doesn’t give a shit what Billy Hargrove looks like naked, but Steve’s feeble human mind certainly does. Like, he literally can’t stop thinking about it. He pretty much has to bite his lip to keep from getting a stiffy about once an hour because he gets caught up, remembering the way Billy felt - ass clenching as Steve ground his hips in circles, driving these perfect high pitched little mewls of desperation past the blonds lips as he satisfied the mutual need for ‘right there!’

But that’s because he’s nineteen and horny. Not because of Billy. Not because Steve like wants to devote his soul to him or anything. Objectively yes, he wouldn’t turn down sleeping with him again if it was on the table, but like, who would? Munson wouldn’t. Eddie is probably fucking Billy’s brains out every thursday like clockwork, because who can resist that ridiculously perky ass and those warm weighty thighs gripped around their waist once they’d had it?

An ominous click warns him that if he presses any harder on the opera glasses he’s going to break them and Steve takes a deep breath.

He’s cool. He’s calm. Because he doesn’t give a shit who Billy sleeps with. He’s a loyal and devoted servant, whose heart and soul belong to his mistress and thereby the prince of darkness. Steve has been stalking Billy for weeks now because it’s his job to follow the bride and watch for signs of coming of the anti-christ, and even if Billy can’t actually get pregnant there’s always the chance that being magically roofied and fucked by a dude possessed by the devil could traumatize him, and Steve’s not a total dick. No other reasons. Period.

Watching Billy Hargrove is the decent thing to do. You don’t do your damndest to knock someone up, and then just not check up on them. And yes, admittedly following him for this long was total overkill, but Nancy has been really deep in her studies lately and hasn’t called for him in ages. Billy at least is entertaining. Talk about an enigma. Hargove is a mess. So weird, so gross, but he’s also kinda hilarious too, and softer than he lets on to people.

Also, he’d already proved to Steve once, he’s really stupidly smart and that’s always kinda sexy. Steve bet Billy could even keep up with Nancy. It’s such a shame he’s not a warlock, because if those two could team up he’s pretty sure they could bring on armageddon all by themselves.

Fuck. His half chub is becoming a full hard on so it’s pretty obvious now's not the time to indulge in that little fantasy. It would be so much easier to convince himself he’s not being totally stupid and falling for some clueless non-believer who would totally lose their shit if they knew half of the things that were normal in Steve’s world, if he could just turn into a cat and sit on the man’s window sill like he had in the beginning.

Steve’s had to clean come stains off of his dashboard more than once this week and it’s all Billy’s fault. The dude is allergic to shirts and spends more time naked in his bedroom than any single person has a right to. Even with the blinds closed, like who seriously lounges around naked so much? If Steve didn’t know any better he’d say Hargrove was doing it on purpose. Which obviously he doesn’t. He’d have to be a pretty powerful warlock to sense he was being scryed on.

No. Steve is ninety-nine percent certain that Billy Hargrove is just another tragically clueless mortal soul, who has no memory of the night they spent together and no idea that Steve has been shadowing him ever since.

And it’s a very good thing Steve is so committed to stalking Billy - even going so far as to beg his best friend to create scry glasses for him - because if Steve hadn’t been stalking Billy, he’d have no idea right now just how royally screwed he is.

Because impossible as it should be, Steve is almost a hundred percent positive that Billy Hargrove is pregnant.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #Steve doth protest too much #he wants that man carnally as well as spiritually lol #he's down bad

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dirtbagwitch · 1 month ago

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every damn time.

every single time the seasons change, my immune system just taps out. minneapolis went from 50 degrees to a full-blown snowstorm overnight, and now i’m suffering the consequences. that being said, my very loving partner jett made me a hot healing potion—a chaotic mix of pantry staples that tastes like fire, salt, and regret, but actually works.

🌿 believing in magic doesn’t mean ignoring science—this brew is loaded with real medicinal benefits AND magical properties to help kick this cold’s ass.

✨ THE POTION RECIPE✨

hot water

medicinal purposes: keeps me hydrated, helps break up mucus, soothes the throat, and warms my insides so i don’t feel like a haunted corpse.

magical purposes: water is the element of healing, intuition, and flow. the ultimate energy conductor, enhances the properties of all the ingredients, transforms and carries intention. in this case? flushing all the sickness out of my body.

flaky salt

medicinal: helps with hydration and electrolyte balance. also lightly antibacterial, so it’s pulling out the nasties.

magical: purification and protection. when you add salt, you’re literally warding off negative energy—whether that’s bad vibes or the absolute plague in my sinuses.

black pepper

medicinal: clears congestion, antibacterial improves circulation, warms the body and helps the body absorb nutrients more effectively, aka aids digestion (important when i have the appetite of a victorian orphan).

magical: wards off negativity, removing bad energy, increases strength, and adds fire energy to burn away sickness. basically, an immune system bouncer.

crushed red chili pepper

medicinal: packed with capsaicin, which fights inflammation, opens up sinuses, helps circulation, and boosts immunity. makes me sweat out whatever demon is possessing my lungs.

magical: increases energy, speed, and power. protecting, banishing. this is an amplifier—it cranks up whatever intention i set for this potion. in this case? get better, fast.

honey

medicinal: soothes a sore throat, is naturally antibacterial, anti-inflammatory, antimicrobial, and boosts the immune system. straight-up liquid gold when you feel like death.

magical: prosperity, attraction, love, and healing. also, sweetens your words and energy, which is important when all i’ve been doing is whining about being sick.

lemon

medicinal: full of vitamin C, breaks up mucus, supports the immune system, and helps flush out toxins.

magical: purification, clarity, solar energy, and renewal. symbolically cutting through the illness (aka negativity) and making room for healing.

✨ OPTIONAL SUBSTITUTIONS OR ADDITIONS ✨

if you wanna boost the potion, here’s what to add:

ginger

medicinal: antibacterial, anti-inflammatory, helps with nausea, and gives the immune system a HARD reboot.

magical: fire energy, strength, and courage. it’s the magical equivalent of slamming an espresso.

garlic

medicinal: nature’s antibiotic, fights infections, and strengthens the immune system. (this is the OG medicine cabinet ingredient. vampires be gone!)

magical: wards off evil, protection, and banishing. in this case? kicking my cold to the curb.

turmeric

medicinal: anti-inflammatory, helps with respiratory issues, and supports overall healing.

magical: protection, purification, and strength. burns away what no longer serves you—like, say, this cold.

cinnamon

medicinal: increases circulation, warms the body, helps with congestion, and is lightly antibacterial.

magical: fire energy, success, and power. also makes everything taste less aggressively medicinal.

bay leaf

medicinal: antimicrobial, helps clear up lungs, and can reduce fever symptoms.

magical: manifestation and protection. write your healing intention on the leaf before adding it to the tea. (bonus: it smells amazing.)

rosemary

medicinal: antiseptic, great for respiratory issues, and helps clear the mind (aka, fights that gross brain fog when you’re sick).

magical: healing, clarity, and protection. keeps illness at bay (pun intended).

chamomile

medicinal: anti-inflammatory, calming, and helps you sleep. when you’re sick, rest is the best spellwork.

magical: relaxation, peace, and dream magic. chamomile eases the body and spirit.

whiskey (with some caveats)

medicinal benefits: decongestant, opens up blood vessels, numbing agent, relaxer, helps sleep, mildly antibacterial

magical benefits: strength, resilience, lubricant for transformation magic, banishing, protection, courage, confidence, spirit/ancestor connection

don’t add it if: you’re dehydrated or running a fever, you’re taking medicine that interacts badly with alcohol, you need to be functional and alert, or you know yourself and you’ll pour in half the bottle instead of a splash

🔥 THE DIRTBAG WITCH’S HEALING CHANT 🔥

this brew is fire, this brew is light

burn the sick, set me right

lemon sharp, honey sweet

salt and spice, clear the heat

body strong, fever break

let me rest, let me wake

i drink. i heal. i rise.

or if you’re not into rhyming, say what you want, but add some intentionality behind it. spells can work for you, babes. try something like:

fire in my chest, salt in my veins, warmth in my bones. body, wake up. immune system, do your job. may this potion heal, cleanse, and restore. i release this sickness, i call in my strength. may it be so, and so it is.

🧪 HOW TO USE IT:

• hover over your cup like a cryptid and breathe in the steam. let the warmth wake up your lungs and shake the sick loose.

• mutter or whisper the incantation as if you’re sealing a deal with the universe. feel it sink into the potion.

• sip slow, let it burn, let it soothe. picture the ingredients doing their damn job.

• optional bonus: stir clockwise to welcome in healing, or counterclockwise to banish the plague from your body like a medieval exorcism.

‼️OF NOTE‼️

just because i’m drinking my ✨witchy brew✨ doesn’t mean i’m ignoring modern medicine. i’m still taking meds, hydrating, sleeping like an exhausted cryptid, and willing to go to a doctor if this gets worse

magic isn’t about rejecting science—it’s about working with it. this potion is full of actual medicinal benefits AND it’s infused with intent and energy. you can do both. you should do both.

most importantly if you’re sick right now—let yourself rest. the spell is working. the medicine is working. the body is doing its thing. you’ll be back to causing problems (on purpose) soon enough

anywho, posting this now, curling up under six blankets, and waiting for the magic to kick in. pray for me.

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blue-disco-lights · 1 year ago

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Catching up on Electric Blue and started to feel a kind of way thinking about fan fic in general, and how when we (or at least I) read a story, it's not just the Mickey and Ian from the show anymore... it's all the infinite universes everyone's created - the Teenage Dirtbag them, and the Restoration them, and Africa them, the a witch in wicker park them... you get it. The 16K+ version on AO3 and @galladrabbles and ficlets. Each story leaves an impression and adds to how I love and understand their characters. Feeling sappy and grateful for all the writers! 💖

#gallavich fan fic #this isn't even .1% of my favorite fics

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queen-of-deans-booty · 3 months ago

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Thin Lizzie: Final Part

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.4k

Warnings: canon angst and violence, extra angst, feeling broken and utterly helpless to the point of depression

Summary: What you think is a routine ghost case turns out to be much more. Amara is back and she is planning something but you're not sure what it is. You know one thing for sure: you might be in danger and are at risk of becoming the one thing you fear: the Scarlet Witch.

Season Eleven Masterlist

Author’s Note: For the sake of this rewrite, we're all going to pretend that the Lizzie Borden House is located in St. Louis.

You three leave Len in the car and approach Nate's house from the front. You knock twice but receive no answer, so you walk around the porch to see if there are any signs that someone is home. There is a car in the driveway so someone has to be home. You look through the window and see furniture toppled over like there was an attack.

"Something happened in here. Looks like an attack."

Sam points to the car in the driveway. "The blue car is the mom's. I saw it last night."

Dean takes out his lockpick kit to use on the locked door. You look away shamefully knowing you once had the power to unlock doors with just a thought. You do have the power but at what cost? What might you turn into if you use that magic again? Is it worth it? Suddenly, you understand why your mom wanted to give her magic up. Should I do the same? You're not sure how to do that but it might be your only option. No magic means no way of becoming her again.

Once inside the house, you and the brothers split up. You and Dean head down to the basement while Sam stays on the first floor. The basement is dark so you try the light switch by the door only it doesn't work. Since when is it ever that easy? Dean takes the lead and uses his flashlight to light the way and you follow closely behind.

The basement is dark and dingy like how a basement should be, but something pricks at the back of your neck. Something isn't right. The basement opens up to a much wider space that has a full kitchen and table as if someone lives down here. Everything is covered in a thin layer of dust so it hasn't been used in a while, but it's still creepy to see.

There is a small rollaway bed in the corner which wouldn't be cause for concern except for the pool of blood peeking out from underneath it. You nudge Dean and point to the blood, and he moves the bed out of the way to reveal Nate and Dawn, dead on the ground. They were axed to death.

"We gotta go," you whisper.

You and Dean turn to leave but someone hits you both over the head with something hard, and you fall to the ground as the darkness overcomes you.

When you wake up, you're tied to something hard. You wait for your vision to become clear and see that you're tied to one of the wooden posts in the basement. Sam is tied to a chair next to you and Dean is tied to another wooden post on the other side of Sam. The lights are on in the basement which means someone flipped the switch on the breaker to make it seem like the lights weren't working.

"Oh, thank God. I thought you were dead." The woman who hit you over the head stands and steps back a few feet with a shotgun in her hand. "Huh. I can't believe that I bagged all three of you."

"This is Sydney, the killer babysitter," Sam explains. "Not the mom. So, what's the story? Are you gonna hack us up like the others?"

"I'm past that. You three are an offering to my new friend."

Dean looks over at you and raises his eyebrows in silent question. You know what he's asking. He wants you to use your magic to set yourself free. You yank on the ropes with tears in your eyes, and you shake your head at Dean. I can't do it. Will I ever be able to?

"Let me guess. Is your new bestie Amara?" Dean asks.

"You know her?"

"Too well," you mutter.

"How'd you two meet?"

"A couple of nights ago I got pretty wasted. This smug, little trust fund dirtbag had just dumped me. I shouldn't have been drinking that much but I didn't care. Amara found me outside. After talking about how she was going to help me, she grabbed my hands and... I felt like I was Cloud 9, like ecstasy-orgasm-chocolate-cake level. I called her an angel which pissed her off, I guess. She grabbed my face and something white came out of me."

Great. Another victim of Amara's.

"Have you guys ever seen the iced tea commercial? Where the lady is lying along the inflatable raft and she's just drifting along a sparkling pool? That's what being with Amara was like. Bliss. No hurting. No sadness. No memories."

Pain. No happiness. No joy. No sense of who I am.

"So, you don't want memories?" Sam asks.

"Did you have nice parents, Sam? Because my folks treated me and my sister like human ashtrays." Sydney pulls up her shirt to show off the cigarette burns on her body. "I used to have to drink myself blind to even look at these, let alone show anybody. Now, I don't know what Amara did to me but it's just skin. No more waking up screaming from nightmares. No more flashbacks. Amara took away the pain. She lightened something in me."

"Except now you're an axe murderer," you glare.

"I'm free. Before there was always this constant voice in my head, 'You can't do that. It's wrong. What if you get caught?' Now it's quiet. It's just me and what I want. When you can do whatever you want, you don't have to get caught. then you can really fly."

Without a sense of direction, I was the most dangerous thing walking the planet. That little voice never told me to stop so I didn't. Amara didn't take my soul, Dean did. He found a way to put it back in. Sydney doesn't have that option.

"Were you flying when you diced up that couple at the inn?" Dean asks.

"When I'd found out that puss-hole was taking another girl to the B&B... That's his deal-closing move. I didn't have to sit at home and cry about it."

"What about the innkeeper's mom?"

"That piece of jerky," Sydney scoffs. "She screwed me out of two weeks pay. I used to fantasize about killing her and now I'm living the dream."

If you're going to be bad, be bad with a purpose. Otherwise, you're nothing. I had a purpose. Sydney doesn't and that's gonna get her killed.

"That's how you got in and out. You worked there."

"Just for one summer."

"What about Jordie's parents? Huh? What? Did they screw you over, too?"

Jordie must be the son of Dawn, the young boy that Sydney was babysitting.

"Not me. Jordie. Where to start?" she scoffs. "Meth-dealing dad. Slut mom. No, I saved Jordie! I'm going to take better care of him than they ever did."

"You said we were an offering. How do you plan on bringing Amara here? Don't tell me that girl's got a cell phone," you ask.

"I've been praying. I know she can hear me. I can feel it. She's close."

"She's not a God you can pray to. She is vile and manipulative. The only thing she ever did was take away the good things about you! You are nothing and all you'll ever be is nothing," you bite out.

Sydney glares at you and slams the butt of the shotgun into your head.

"She is a goddess!"

The rope on Sam's wrists breaks apart and he jumps out of his seat before Sydney has a chance to react. He runs over to a toolbox for a weapon of say kind, and Sydney blasts him with the shotgun. Sam ducks down right before he can be shot, and she goes to shoot him again when she suddenly stiffens up. She gasps and crumbles to the ground, revealing Len behind her with an axe in hand. He stabbed her, shoved the axe right into her back.

"Holy shit. I just did that," Len gasps.

Sam gets up and approaches Len who then turns the axe on him. Sam holds his hands up in defense and yanks the axe away before Len has a chance to use it on him. You don't think Len would have used the axe on Sam but the younger Winchester isn't taking any chances.

"The darkness is coming." You look at Sydney as she lay dying on the ground. "It's so peaceful. It's coming for all of us."

Amara is going to kill me. Sam unties his brother first before your husband goes to untie you. You're frozen stiff with fear knowing that Amara is out there and likely coming for you. Dean wraps an arm around your shoulder and helps you stand, and you're grateful for the support. Sam takes Jordie outside to talk to him while you and Dean take Len to the living room. Len holds up the hand that was in the handcuff and there is a piece of cloth wrapped around it. He doesn't have a thumb.

"First of all, I ripped my hand out of the cuff."

"You saved us, Len."

"That's not why I mauled myself. I wanted to see if I could do it. It hurt like a motherfucker, but it didn't wig me out. At all. I picked up my thumb like it was a mini-hot dog."

"I'm not gonna lie. That's worrisome."

"That poor girl... My brain said I should help you but I didn't really feel anything. For you three or her. What kind of person can murder and feel nothing?"

What kind of person can murder and feel nothing? Me. You look away just as two tears fall over your cheeks.

"Len. Whatever darkness you have inside you, if there is a shred of conscience, then there might be hope."

"No. Sam said once your soul is gone you can't get it back. I know for sure now if I'm not stopped there will be another kill. I can feel it. Like a bubble rising up."

I needed to keep killing. I needed to feed the Mark. It wouldn't let me stop.

"So, what do you want to do?"

"You could kill me."

There was a time before when I would have killed him without a second thought. Is that part of me still inside?

"No, I can't. I don't want to do that."

"Then there's only one thing else I can do. I'm gonna turn myself in. I'll confess to all the murders. That way I can't get out."

"Huh. Well, there's not too many soulless killers that would give themselves up," Dean says.

"I remember what it was like to do the right thing. So, I'm going through the motions for as long as I can."

As soon as Len turned himself in, you got the hell out of Dodge. Dean stopped to grab some food and parked by some harbor so that he and Sam could enjoy their meal, but you find sleep in the back seat.

"I still can't believe Len turned himself in," Dean says.

"I mean, it kinda makes sense. People have different reactions to losing their souls. I did. Y/N did. Everyone's got their own history, right?"

"Len loses his heart. Sydney loses her head. What are we? Looking for the cowardly lion next?"

"I get like this pit in my stomach any time I think of her. The Darkness. We only know the tip of what she is and what she does to people. Len was freaked out by her, but Sydney? Sydney couldn't get enough. The bliss she was talking about? What was it like for you? Did you feel like that with Amara?"

"No. It was quiet. You know, until she started hatching killers and rallying monsters to raise armies."

"That's how we find her. We follow the bodies." Sam looks back at you and sighs. "Is she going to be alright?"

"I don't know. She's afraid to use magic. She's afraid of becoming the Scarlet Witch again. I tried telling her that she'd have to lose her soul in order for that to happen, but with Amara sucking souls out, it might be possible again. I'd die before I let her become that... thing again. She was not human. I won't let her be that again."

"She won't. We won't let her."

Sam and Dean finish their meals and drive the rest of the way back to Lebanon. Molly manages to get four kids and their parents to attend the small party for Maryann at the local park. Mary is happy with whatever you give her, so she was ecstatic when she found out she'd be playing at the park all day with friends she made at preschool.

Molly set up a small table for presents near two trees and decorations litter the park even though she doesn't pay any attention to them. There isn't a lot of presents but Mary doesn't seem to mind. You wish you could do more for your kids but even getting out of bed proves to be the best you can do. Will I ever get better? You look down at your hands and see them glow softly with magic but you quickly look away in pain.

No matter how hard you try, you just can't seem to use it.

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester angst #supernatural #supernatural fic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fluff #supernatural angst #supernatural series rewrite

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rosanna-writer · 9 months ago

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Karma Is My Boyfriend (2/?)

Summary: Elain Archeron saved countless lives by vanquishing Graysen Nolan, her literal demon of a fiancé. She's a hero, but it's just not fair that being a good witch destined to rid the world of evil has left her tragically, painfully single. Enter Lucien Vanserra, the best cupid in the business, who's been sent by the universe to balance the karmic scales and find Elain the perfect new partner…

Happy day two of @elucienweekofficial!!! The people I can't thank enough include both the wonderful event organizers and ALSO the friends who generously allowed me to mine their dating app horror stories for fic potential <3

The whole fic can be found Here on AO3, or you can start with chapter one here on tumblr and read the second chapter under the cut.

Lucien was waiting with his feet up on her desk in the back of Roots 'n Shoots the next day. After her conversation with Rhys, Elain had loosened the wards around the store, though she hadn't expected Lucien to just…winnow directly into her office before she arrived.

But he already had steaming cup of her favorite herbal blend ready, so Elain decided not to give him an earful, even though she disliked being relegated to the spare chair she kept for guests.

"Are we on some sort of deadline?" she said, dropping her bag on the floor. "It's still quite early."

Lucien gave another elegant shrug. "I hate burning daylight."

In the past year, the Archeron manor had been full of…well, night people. Elain appreciated that Lucien seemed not to be another one. "Likewise," she said, taking a sip of tea.

He'd stirred in the amount of sugar she preferred, and she decided not to ask whether that information was contained in her file as well. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Lucien produced a cell phone seemingly out of nowhere and held the screen up for her to see. "I've already gotten started on making you a Tinder."

If Elain had been any less of a lady, she would have spat her tea all over him. Lucien was supposed to be an expert at helping people find love—but apparently all he had too offer was a dating app she was perfectly capable of navigating herself.

"It's quite helpful of you to be so on top of it," she said, though the icy chill in her voice made it clear she wasn't grateful at all.

"We'll cover more ground using an app. And with a cupid helping you screen your matches, you're guaranteed not to meet up with any douches, dirtbags, or demons."

Elain hesitated, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. It was true that she'd sworn off dating since Greysen—no matter how much Nesta and Feyre reminded her that the best way to get over someone was to get under someone else. With a busy shop to run and innocents to save, she'd insisted that she'd rather spend her precious few nights out catching up with friends.

Which was true, of course. But it wasn't the whole story, and the way Lucien's smirk melted into something softer told her he knew it. "You'll be safe with me," he said more gently. "I promise you're in good hands, Elain."

"Thank you," she said, taking the phone from him with a sigh.

Elain scrolled through the beginnings of the profile he'd set up for her. The photos of her seemed to be stolen from Feyre's private Instagram, but her artistic little sister had such a knack for finding good lighting that Elain decided not to question how Lucien had gotten them. His information was accurate, too: 5' 9", interested in both men and women, looking for something serious, plant mom, avid baker, all of it.

"I think this will do," she said.

"Is there anything else I should know before we get started?"

Elain took a moment to consider it—he'd covered everything. Well, almost. "No women named Elaine with two e's."

"Understandable. When I dated before becoming a cupid, I wouldn't touch a Lucian with an a. Moaning your own name in bed feels wrong."

"Exactly," Elain said with a laugh. It was a relief he understood, but at the same time, a bit irritating to find herself warming to him after what an ass he'd been the day before. But then, she thought again about what he said, and… "Cupids can't date?"

His mechanical eye clicked a few times, and she didn't know what to make of it. "It's not strictly forbidden, but that's…not something that's in the cards for me anymore."

There was a finality in his voice that Elain wasn't brave enough to question. Besides, Lucien's love life was hardly her concern, anyway. She handed the phone back to him and let him finish setting up the profile.

Something in Elain's chest went uncomfortably tight as they began looking through matches. Maybe this was a mistake. Surely it was better to stay single forever than to risk another disaster…

Not that she'd be going anywhere with the first man whose profile appeared. His face was hardly visible under the brim of an ill-fitting camo baseball cap, and he was holding up a fish.

She swiped left. And the next profile belonged to another man holding up a fish. And the next. And the next.

After five near-identical profiles of would-be fishermen in a row, Elain was beginning to wonder if there was anyone out there even worth messaging.

She let out a huff of frustration. "Do these people have any other hobbies besides fishing?"

"Clearly none of them are getting assistance from a cupid. Any of us would tell them there are better ways to give off the impression that they're well-endowed," Lucien said, picking at his nails.

"Is— Is that what they're doing?" Elain felt her cheeks go pink despite herself.

"Trying to, at least. And speaking from experience, it's really only impressive when that fish was caught with your bare hands."

Lucien was so….well-groomed that Elain struggled to picture it. He struck her as the sort of person who'd insist the Sidra was disgusting even though plenty of people happily swam in the clear blue river every summer. She couldn't imagine him just wading right into a lake or a stream. "Is it?"

"Those big fishing poles are a crutch for people who aren't skilled with their hands."

Elain couldn't help but glance at his hands. She hadn't quite noticed how big they were when he'd first come into her shop the day before, but now that he was closer, she found herself wondering how much they'd dwarf hers if she interlaced those long, elegant fingers with her own…

Not that it mattered. Lucien was there to help her find true love, not hold her hand.

"I see," she murmured, swiping to the next profile. This man, at least, wasn't holding a fish, which would have been a relief if it wasn't something a million times more mortifying.

Tamlin Springfield—Feyre's ex-fiancé.

He was staring into the camera, a violin tucked under his chin. Elain supposed the expression on his face was meant to be soulful, but truthfully…he just looked constipated.

"Please tell me you aren't insane enough to seriously consider your sister's ex," Lucien said, wrinkling his nose. "I'd rather not deal with the drama."

Elain stilled. "How do you know he's my sister's ex?" There was no way that file was extensive enough to list out her sisters' dating histories, too.

Oh gods, had she been too quick to trust him?

Annoyingly, Lucien just smirked despite the suspicion that had crept into her voice. "Most cupids stopped using arrows a long time ago, but we still learn to shoot because the elders grumble about tradition. Feyre's the most patient archery instructor to come along in centuries, so of course we all pitched in to help her out with Rhysand after that nasty business with Tamlin's curse."

Whatever the cupids did had worked. Last night, Nesta and Cassian were out teaching their weekly judo class, so it had just been Elain at home with Feyre and Rhys, who'd cuddled up on the couch, his wing wrapped around her shoulders while they made disgustingly cute heart eyes at each other. She'd retreated to the kitchen to bake and avoid them.

It still seemed too much to believe that with Lucien's help, she could find love like that, too.

"Well, I'm not matching with him, but hold on a second," Elain said, taking a screenshot and sending it to her sisters.

She quickly muted the chat before Nesta or Feyre had a chance to ask how things were going with Lucien. The last thing she needed was an interrogation.

The next profile after Tamlin's was a woman—and finally, someone who looked promising. In her picture, Briar was standing in a greenhouse, and her smattering of freckles, floppy straw sunhat, and fresh-faced beauty were exactly Elain's type.

There was some sort of audio player embedded on the page. Odd. Elain hadn't seen that before, but perhaps Briar was particularly conscious about making her profile accessible to the visually impaired.

She looked a question at Lucien, who just gave another one of those elegant shrugs she was beginning to suspect were his calling card.

Elain hit play. And the sound of Briar, greeting visitors to her page in a voice that sounded exactly like Kermit the Frog, filled the room. Elain clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. Her eyes slid to Lucien, silently asking him if he was hearing this, too.

He somehow managed to keep a straight face until Briar began to sing, and his shoulders shook with laughter as she painfully warbled her way through "One More Sleep 'til Christmas." Elain couldn't hit pause fast enough.

"I know the conventional wisdom is that you'll have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince, but…" Lucien said, trailing off as Elain's giggle grew in to out-and-out laughter.

The fist that seemed to always be clenched around her chest these days loosened just a bit. If Elain wasn't mistaken, she was having…fun. Since Greysen, she'd felt that way so rarely that she'd almost forgotten what it was like.

After a few more quick swipes left, Elain finally paused on the profile of a man who had the kindest blue eyes she'd ever seen. Tarquin Sommers was an oceanographer who spent his free time attending beach cleanups and teaching children to surf.

And it certainly helped that he had a gorgeous, muscular swimmer's body, too.

Elain's finger hovered over the screen, and Lucien noticed, his mechanical eye seeming to whirr with excitement. "Tarquin is a sea witch," he said gently, "so he'll be perfectly understanding of the whole slaying demons thing, if that's your concern."

"That's good to know," Elain said. "He's— He's very pretty."

"And not on the cupids' no-fly list, either. I recommend you start with him."

Elain told herself that the knots in her stomach were just excitement and swiped right.

A few days later, Elain found herself waiting outside a coffee shop—one of the cute local ones that advertised fair trade beans and used biodegradable cups. She was so out of practice that Feyre did her makeup, and her lavender romper had needed several rounds of Nesta's wrinkle-removal spell after being relegated to a heap at the back of her closet for so long.

But Elain made it. She was going to do this.

Lucien was already inside, sipping a dirty chai while pretending to read a book but really keeping an eye on her through the window. He'd offered to keep his distance and give them some privacy, but there was something about his presence that Elain found incredibly reassuring. She'd asked him to stay.

And honestly, he was probably the only reason she hadn't panicked and cancelled at the last minute.

Tarquin greeted her with an easy smile. He'd swapped out the board shorts in his picture for jeans that hugged his ass and a crisp white t-shirt that matched his hair and made his dark skin glow. Elain let him lead her inside.

They ordered their drinks, and somehow, the world didn't end as they made conversation. Elain had been good at this kind of thing, once. Before her life had been demonic crisis after crisis, she'd hosted parties and loved flirting and getting to know new people.

But now, she hardly spent any time with anyone who wasn't Feyre, Nesta, Rhys, or Cassian. She loved her family, but…she'd shut herself away.

It helped that Tarquin seemed like the sort of person who was easy to love. Barely a few minutes into their date, they'd already found common ground in a shared interest in aquatic plants.

In fact, Elain was so interested in coastal seagrass that she excitedly gestured with her cup. The lid went flying, and suddenly Tarquin's white shirt had a bright green matcha stain that extended all the way from his collar to his hem.

Elain wanted to disappear on the spot. She should have just accepted that she couldn't date without mucking everything up, and it was better to cut this short while the mess was still small enough that it could be taken care of with bleach instead of a vanquishing spell so complex it drained all of her power for weeks afterward. She'd been so monumentally stupid for—

Lucien caught her eye from across the café. "Elain," he said gently, but still loud enough that his voice carried to her. "It's quite alright."

Something inside her settled. She managed a weak smile in his direction. Lucien grinned back, snapped his fingers, and then Elain found herself in the same spot she'd been thirty seconds prior.

Their drinks weren't finished yet. Tarquin's shirt was still perfectly clean.

Lucien had turned back time to fix her date.

Elain repeated what she'd already said about seagrass meadows, and Tarquin didn't seem to notice anything was amiss. This time, she was careful not to spill her drink as they talked.

The whole thing was…nice. Tarquin's stories about swimming with dolphins back home in Adriata were charming, and he listened with intent, genuine interest as Elain explained how the ratio of white to brown sugar in a cookie recipe affected the texture of the final product. And he was even better-looking in person.

But still, a spark was missing. When it was time to leave, Elain turned her head at the last moment so that the goodbye kiss intended for her lips landed on her cheek instead.

Lucien was already in the living room of the Archeron manor when Elain winnowed home that evening—somehow, he'd secured a dinner invite from Nesta. He was lounging on their sofa, looking strangely at home as he fixed the fletching on one of Feyre's arrows. His auburn hair looked molten in the golden hour light streaming in from the windows.

"Well?" he said, looking up as she walked in.

"It was good," Elain said.

Lucien turned to face her fully, placing his feet flat on the floor and his hands on his knees. He tilted his head, and the glint of metal in his golden eye looked strangely predatory. "Just good?"

A pleasant shiver skittered its way down Elain's spine. "Yes."

"We should be doing a hell of a lot better than 'just good.'"

He stood, tapping the arrow on his palm as he approached her. His gaze traveled slowly down her body, and Elain's throat bobbed. Lucien came closer and closer, until she could feel heat radiating off of him.

A spark had been missing with Tarquin earlier, but Lucien was a gods-damned inferno of a cupid.

"Should we?" Elain breathed.

"I'm not giving up until you've been thoroughly swept off your feet. You deserve nothing less. But I think you're blocked, and it's time to try a different approach."

Before she could ask what that meant, Feyre called them into the kitchen for dinner.

#elucienweek2024 #elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #karma is my boyfriend

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urhoneycombwitch · 9 months ago

Text

Eddie Munson: Series

witch of ages, cleft for me

eddie x greenwitch!reader

part i - 3.8k

part ii - tbd!

you oughta know

dirtbag!eddie x art student!reader

howdy, honey!

older!cowboy!Eddie x honey!Reader

roommate!Eddie collection

fics, blurbs, 'n more

autistic reader collection

shy!reader collection

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #mlist

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waywardrose · 1 year ago

Text

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY 28

stranger things

eddie munson x reader

rated e

spotify playlist

for @punk-in-docs

fem/witch/goth!reader, sweetheart!eddie, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending, no y/n only pet names, series-typical horror, period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, mutual masturbation, fantasizing, one-bed trope, making out, fingering, dirty talk, chasing, oral sex, handjobs, condoms, piv sex, reader’s father is a dirtbag, mild spanking, magical violation, mental torture, body horror, blood, aftercare, nightmares, strict parenting, panic attack, past child abuse and abandonment, semi-public sex, break-ups, running away, guns, fist fighting, everyone survives, suicide ideation, fighting and making up

Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird? Weird weird? He shrugged. He liked weird. In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.

note: This is it, my dudes! The final chapter. No epilogue, because I don't think this story needs it. Thank you for all your comments, likes, and reblogs! Your support has kept me going. I'll post a masterlist directly.

Today’s volunteers had been abuzz with the news of Chief Jim Hopper’s miraculous return from the dead. The story was he’d uncovered a terrorist plot and worked with the government to thwart the radicals. Starcourt Mall had been the unfortunate backdrop of the confrontation.

It was also unfortunate a surviving radical had recognized Hopper. Since Hopper had been in danger, he’d been put in a protection program until the threat had been eliminated.

Rumor had it he’d been involved in defeating the rest of these radicals, who had something to do with Hawkins National Laboratory.

You didn’t bother to point out the specific government agency had been conveniently omitted. Same with the terrorist organization. Over sandwiches in the courtyard, Steve said Hawkins Lab had been closed for over a year when Starcourt’s fire occurred.

Nevertheless, while there had been casualties at Starcourt, they’d been few. Everyone considered Hopper a local hero.

A few volunteers discussed Eddie, too. They felt sorry for him and insisted they’d never believed those ugly rumors. Eddie was an orphan who’d been taken in by his uncle Wayne. Wasn’t that sad? Why, they’d known Wayne Munson for years! Wayne was an upright person. A veteran, too. There was no way he would’ve tolerated Devil-worship under his roof.

Those horrible classmates — bullies, really — must’ve targeted Eddie because he was different. Being different wasn’t a crime! Besides, Eddie had never hurt anyone. He performed at The Hideout with his little band all the time. One volunteer knew The Hideout’s owner, Cliff, who said Eddie was a good, if weird, kid.

You’d nodded and hummed in agreement while sorting donated home goods. There was no point in calling them hypocrites. Perhaps some of them weren’t. You wished you’d gone to that town hall meeting with your parents. Then you’d be able to pick out the liars.

On the way home in Steve’s car, Robin turned in the front seat to face you.

“You know, people want to be on the winning side. They like to think of themselves as smart enough to know who’s telling the truth.”

“But they were blinded by fear,” you said in agreement. “And looking for someone to blame.”

Steve said, “Like the pilgrims burning all the witches in Salem.”

You and Robin shared a look. He was close enough.

“Yup,” she said.

He appeared proud to have contributed to the conversation.

Robin rested her chin on her forearm.

“Eddie’s lucky you found him before anyone else.”

“Outside of the military, yeah, I guess.” You offered a bitter grin. “Who knows what they would’ve done to him if he’d survived Vecna.”

Though you don’t think he would have. Most likely, he would’ve dropped dead with the rest of the hivemind. If you hadn’t died from taking part of Vecna’s curse earlier, you might’ve shared that fate.

Steve said, “God, I’m so glad that fuckface’s dead.”

“Me too.”

“Me three,” Robin said with a grin.

Once at Steve’s, you three talked about dinner. Steve had pulled everything this morning to make a pan of baked ziti with roasted broccoli on the side. Robin made a disgusted face at the mention of a vegetable. You laughed at her scrunched nose and tongue poking out. Robin exclaimed eating broccoli was like eating green farts while Steve opened the front door.

Classical music played from the sunroom’s stereo system.

“Hey, Munson,” Steve said, projecting his voice as he tossed his keys into the bowl on the foyer table.

The music cut off, leaving a silence that felt as if you needed to pop your ears.

Robin kicked off her shoes and hung her jacket on an empty hanger in the closet. She reached for yours as Eddie jogged across the living room.

“Hey, good day?” He didn’t wait for a reply as he said to Steve, “I know this is a pain in the ass, but would you take me to my van? I want to do it before it gets dark. It’s on Coal Mill.”

“Dude, I gotta start dinner.”

Robin held up her hands when Eddie looked at her.

“No license. And the last time I tried to cook in that kitchen, I almost set everything on fire.”

Steve smirked.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Yeah? Tell that to your smoke detector that wouldn’t shut up for fifteen minutes.”

You snorted to hide the pang at being Eddie’s last choice and shrugged your jacket back onto your shoulders.

“I guess that leaves me.”

With a pat to your pockets, confirming you had your wallet and keys, you left the house. Eddie bumbled out the front door a minute later, swinging on a navy sport coat that was a size too big. It clashed with his green track pants and untied blue sneakers.

You kept your comments to yourself as you unlocked your car and got behind the wheel. Eddie sat in the passenger seat as you started the engine. The stereo came to life. The Sisters of Mercy simmered through the speakers. You hit the power button, cutting them off.

Sounding amused, Eddie said, “I haven’t heard that in a while.”

“I was in the mood for them the other day.”

“You can turn it back on, if you want.”

“No, it’s fine.” You shifted the car into Drive. “How do I get to Coal Mill?”

“Uh, take a left. We’ll go the back way.”

You nodded and pulled onto the street. He tied his sneakers. At the first intersection, he directed you to go left. The evening sun’s golden light flickered between the trees. This far from the nexus, the woods appeared unaffected by the poisonous ash. You mentioned it. Eddie asked how downtown was faring.

You lifted a shoulder.

“It’s like a war zone and a natural disaster had a horrible, mangled baby.”

He laughed. “Vivid.”

“There’re construction crews all over, and the school gets dusty overnight. We have to cover everything with sheets before we leave. People sleep with masks on.”

“What a nightmare.”

You nodded as you passed the turnoff to Sattler’s Quarry.

After that, the road narrowed and twisted. Eddie navigated you through more intersections and over train tracks. You passed farmhouses with fields of growing corn and pastures for cattle. He had you take a road into the woods where squat houses sat close together.

The road dead-ended with Coal Mill Road T-ing into it. Behind the houses, sunlight reflected off rippling water. He advised you to park in the gravel at the side of the road; his van wasn’t far. You found a wide, flat section and stopped the car. The peaceful neighborhood didn’t seem the place to stash a van.

You then recognized the house reflected in the rearview mirror as the one from the broadcast identifying Eddie as a suspect. That had been a shitty day. Even for you.

Eddie opened the passenger door. You blinked out of the memory, unlatched your seatbelt, and got out of the car. He was quiet as you came to his side. His grim face had you reaching for his hand.

He stiffened at the touch.

You recoiled and looked away. Rather than the quiet hurt you expected, though you were hurt, this white-hot feeling spread through you. Your jaw locked and vision narrowed. Each inhale became deliberate. You wanted to claw at his pretty face.

“Okay, what the hell is your problem?”

That pretty face became dismissive, and he stepped onto the road towards the woods.

Over his shoulder, he asked, “What do you mean, what’s my problem?”

“You’re…” You struggled to find a word as you followed, but the only one came. “Skittish. I don’t know.”

“I’m not skittish.”

A few yards down from your car, he separated two shrubs to reveal parallel tire ruts in the grass.

“You are!” You waved a hand at his back. “You are. You won’t sit next to me. You won’t touch me. Not that I expect you to be all over me, but you don’t reach for me.”

He stepped between the shrubs and held one back for you.

“I—”

“I take your hand, you flinch.” You tramped into the underbrush and onto a rut. “I sit next to you, you make sure there’s plenty of space between us. I make a move, and it’s always wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he said, letting the shrub go.

“Really?”

He went to the other rut. You stopped to glare at him.

Did he not see the irony of maintaining four feet of distance?

“Really?”

“I…” He frowned, though he continued walking. “I don’t want to crowd you.”

“Eddie, you’ve had your dick in me.” You resumed walking. “And I’ve never pushed you away.”

In fact, you had only pushed him away when he’d been under Vecna’s control. When it was just the two of you, the thought never crossed your mind.

He sighed.

“I’ve needed space.”

“Then tell me that. I don’t want you to feel pressured.” That heat inside you vanished. “You’re not obligated to… to do anything.”

“No, it’s not that.” He stopped and glanced at you. “I haven’t felt like myself since…”

“Yeah.”

“No, not like— It’s like…” He sighed again, his face twisting up. “There’s this emptiness.”

What could you say to that? You wouldn’t diminish his experience by saying plenty of people felt that. His was different. It wasn’t anything one could ignore or fill. You remembered dissolving into silence, and how it had swallowed everything.

You said softly, “Like a hunger.”

He met your gaze. In the sepia light and dusty shade, his brown eyes appeared darker and more vulnerable than you’d ever seen them.

“I don’t want it to touch you.”

You shook your head.

“It’s not a stranger.”

He looked away, into the trees, chin quivering. The tip of his nose turned pink. You wanted to kiss it, kiss him, make it better somehow. You took a hesitant half-step to take his hand, at least, but he walked farther into the woods.

With a deep breath, you followed a couple paces behind. The ruts curved around a dead pine and disappeared behind a thicket. Eddie knelt at the far side of the pine to dig into the rust-colored needles. An old camouflage net covered his boxy van from roof to tires.

You pushed up your sleeves while circling the van.

As you came around, he said, “Look, I know you’re too smart to believe the shit Vecna said.” He pulled something from the needles. “But I want… I want you to hear it from me—”

“Eddie.” You shook your head again. “That’s—”

“No, let me get this out. Every shitty thing he said — I said — was a lie.” The metallic jingle of keys punctuated his statement. “I don’t believe any of it. I never thought it.”

While you didn’t doubt Eddie, there was a part of you that wondered if Vecna was right. You were privileged. Your parents could afford to send you to any college. They’d even set up a savings account for you. You didn’t have to worry about a part-time job. You had a car. You’d been protected from the banal cruelty in the world. You’d taken so much for granted over the years. On top of that, you were a witch.

He straightened and looked at you.

“I don’t know how to prove it. All I got is my word.”

“No, no, I believe you,” you said, holding up your hands.

“I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

“What?”

“You saved me, sweetheart.” A corner of his mouth quirked. “Kinda feels like a blood debt.”

You grinned.

“Is that a real thing?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I don’t know, but, Eddie…” You drew closer to him. “You owe me nothing. You’ll never owe me.”

The keys rattled in his hand. His gaze darted away.

You continued, “I know what I did spooked you, but I did it because I love you. And it’s okay if you don’t…”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. It was hard to breathe or think or control the swelling sob in your chest. A tear rolled down your cheek, and you swiped it away.

Eddie’s head tilted in sympathy, lips thinning. He stepped near and offered his empty hand. It was the first time he’d done that in days.

Your vision prismed with fresh tears as you grasped his hand. The callused pads of his fingers scuffed against your skin. Your sob transformed into a long exhale.

“Vecna took you from me,” you said, and sniffed back the wet clog in your nose and wiped at your eyes. “I did it because you’re mine. Because he hurt us — hurt me.” You barked a laugh. “Now that I say it out loud, I hear how fucking selfish I am.”

You met his red-rimmed eyes. He shook his head like he couldn’t accept you were selfish. Regardless of his belief, you were, but you’d try not to be with him.

You whispered, “Even if we don’t stay together, you’ll never owe me. You’ll always be special to me.”

He tugged you near and put your palm on his sternum with his hand covering yours. His chest rose and fell because he’d pushed Vecna out, because you’d brought him back. That was something you’d never regret.

His voice was a hoarse whisper as he said, “I love you too, and you didn’t spook me. Don’t… don’t hide from me.”

As gently as you could, you said, “I’m not the one who’s been hiding.”

He stared at your stacked hands.

“Jesus Christ, I’ve been fucking up so goddamn bad.” He shook his head, his hair obscuring part of his face. “I hadn’t protected you. God, I actually hurt you. I can’t give you what you deserve. I can’t even fucking graduate.”

If his last statement was an obstacle, you would’ve tripped over it.

He couldn’t graduate? That made no sense. Nothing was official yet, of course, but Dr. Owens hadn’t balked at the party’s insistence of all the seniors graduating. Had no one told him? Hadn’t it been mentioned in conversation?

“Wait,” you said, trying to remember if anyone had brought it up.

He watched you from under his bangs, eyes so fawn-like, a little furrow between his brows.

You said, “I thought Steve told you about the party’s demands.”

He angled his head.

“No…?”

“One was all the seniors graduating, regardless of standing.” You took hold of his coat’s lapel. “What did you have in O’Donnell’s?”

“A low D.”

“D’s passing.” You grinned. “You’re graduating, anyway, but you passed her class. That’s all you needed, right?”

His eyes went wide and lips parted as he nodded. You glanced at his full bottom lip while scraping your own between your teeth. You hadn’t kissed him in ages.

You stepped closer and slid your hand from his lapel.

“Congratulations,” you said before rising and pressing your lips to his.

He gasped. His lips dragged against yours. Then he jolted, pulling away.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Why would you hurt me?”

His gaze slithered from your lips to your neck to the neckline of your shirt in an invisible touch.

“What if I lose control?”

You studied his worried face in the dimming light.

“Is it the emptiness?” you asked.

He nodded, casting his gaze to the side.

You remembered how predatory Eddie had looked with the MP’s blood on his chin. That hadn’t been Eddie. Not entirely. That had been the hivemind of bloodthirsty carnivores.

“Is it…” You didn’t know how to be tactful with this. “Do you want my blood?”

His tongue worked in his mouth, licking his canine, before he said, “I don’t know.”

You cradled his jaw over the scar and eased his head forward. His focus remained to the side.

“Please, look at me.”

His irises swung to meet yours. A flicker of sunlight illuminated them cinnamon sweet. His dark lashes fluttered as he blinked.

“I know you don’t want to hurt me,” you said. “But if you want to try—”

His posture went rigid as he shook his head. His hand pressed yours tighter to his chest.

“No.”

You pressed on.

“If you want to try my blood, I’ll let you.” You grazed the corner of his mouth with your thumb. “I’m not scared.”

He closed his eyes, mouth pinching and brows furrowing.

“Honey, don’t be scared.” You stroked his cheek to his clenched jaw. “It’s just me and you here.”

“Yeah, it’s just me and you.”

You sighed.

“What, you think you can kill me? You think I’d let you? You think I don’t know my limits?”

He opened his eyes, which blazed with anger and frustration and panic.

“What if I don’t know mine anymore, huh?”

Gritting your teeth, you said, “Then we’ll discover them together.”

With your hand on his chest, you pushed him towards the van. He bumbled backwards, dropping the keys. His back collided with a dull clunk. You slid your hand from his chest to the van, boxing him in, and pressed your front along his.

“Fucking trust me.”

“I do.”

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

He nodded, throat bobbing with a swallow.

“Are you sure?”

Again, he nodded.

You closed the distance with a hand on his nape. He angled his head, lips moving counter to yours. The kiss stole your breath and thought. You ravaged, biting his bottom lip. His hands cupped your ass and drew you against him. He plundered, groaning as your tongues slid over each other.

Teeth scraped your lip, yet it didn’t frighten you. Let them break skin. You didn’t care.

Trembling hands snuck under your shirt. He pulled at your waist, making your back arch. You mewled into the kiss and plunged your fingers into his messy hair. His tentative palms skimmed up your back.

You shivered as your nipples pebbled.

You broke the kiss to whisper, “Touch me. It’s okay. I trust you.”

His eyes gleamed as he drew his swollen bottom lip between his teeth. He spread his feet and maneuvered you between his knees. The firm mound of his erection pressed into your belly. He trailed his hands down to your ass. His fingers met at the central seam of your jeans.

“You’re so hot here.”

“Because of you.”

He caught your lips in another kiss. You gripped his hair as the woods went fuzzy. His hands, more confident, skated up your ass, under your shirt, and up your sides. Cool air swept over your skin. You inhaled as he found the band of your unsexy bra. The earlier work at the school hardly warranted anything fancy.

Eddie didn’t seem to mind. A hungry noise came from his chest as he fondled the underside of your breasts through the bra. He sucked on your bottom lip, and the sensation flowed through you like water. Your nipples tightened further. Your cunt clenched.

“God, you’re so soft.”

You caressed the warm skin at his nape, saying, “I’ve missed you.”

Without waiting for a response, you kissed him. His fingers dragged across your breasts until he pinched your nipples between his thumbs and sides of his palms.

You gasped at the wicked frisson, angled your face up to catch your breath, and writhed. You pressed your hips to his, the thick seam of your jeans rasped between your legs. He rocked his erection against you. New heat zinged down to your toes.

Voice husky, he said, “Fuck, I missed you, too.”

He kissed the side of your neck. Each kiss became more open-mouthed. His tongue moved as if he tasted more than your skin. He pulled his sharp teeth across the big tendon in your neck, like he was teasing you both. The threat of a bite had your heart beating double-time and eyes rolling back.

He pinched your nipples harder, making your lower body squirm from the ache. You kept your chest and neck still as you waited to feel what he’d do. He groaned and mouthed his way to the artery under your jaw. He sucked hard at the skin there, mouth scalding. You gasped at the delicious pain.

“Jesus,” he said between pants against the sore spot.

As his saliva cooled on your skin, you swooped down to kiss him once more. His tongue slid over yours as his hands left your breasts. You held his head in place by the hair, losing yourself to the decadent back and forth.

He folded his arms around you when you held his smooth cheek. There was no panic here. There were no monsters. It was only you and him, sharing breath and touch.

“How do you feel?” you asked.

“Good.”

You stroked his cheekbone.

“That’s all that matters.”

“I didn’t… freak you out there?”

“By giving me a hickey?” You smiled with a chuckle. “No.” You brushed your lips against his. “I like wearing your mark.”

His cheeks pinked further. He made a happy sound and buried his face in your neck once more.

“Gonna give me another one, baby?”

Muffled against your skin, he said, “I might.”

Tightening your hold in his hair, you pulled his head back. He looked at you with hazy eyes. His red lips parted, breaths shallow.

“Gorgeous,” you said.

His gaze drifted to the side. He wanted to shy away, but you wouldn’t have it.

“You act like I haven’t seen you, but I have.” You traced the scar on his jaw. “And nothing’s changed for me.”

He met your eyes, his own bright with conviction.

“Me neither, I swear, milady.”

You smiled at the endearment you hadn’t heard in too long.

“Then no more hot-and-cold, good sir.”

He nodded as much as he could.

“I’m with you.”

“No half-assed crap, either. I mean it, Eddie,” you said, relinquishing your grip on his hair and lacing your fingers behind his neck.

His spine straightened as if coming to attention.

“Whole-ass-ing it from here on out.”

“Good, I like your ass.”

“I like yours, too.”

His eyes lit with mischief, reminding you of the Eddie you’d first met. The one who quoted the Scorpions during roll call, who always answered the phone, who howled during concerts.

A hand gripped the underside of your ass-cheek and gave it a squeeze. It put to mind him holding you against the cold wall behind The Hideout and fucking you with hungry desperation. You wanted that with him.

“Wanna go home and prove it?” you asked with a quirk of an eyebrow.

He gave you a toothy grin.

“Absolutely.”

He didn’t release you, nor you him, despite the blue of the sky having faded to ginger and blushing violet. Rose-gold sunlight graced the tree tops. Once gentle shadows were now hard-edged and inky.

You liked the heat radiating from under his thin t-shirt and all the evidence he was alive. He’d survived. You had as well. He must’ve had a similar idea, because he surveyed you with loving eyes.

You swayed.

“Let’s go, Muffin Man.”

He groaned and let his head flop back.

“I swear to God, that’s adorable when we were high, but you cannot say that in front of our friends.”

“Not even—”

His head shot up.

“No.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” you said with an exaggerated pout.

“Oh, well, please continue, sweet lady.”

“I was going to say, not even—” You imitated his dramatics as you said, “The Muffin of Demonic Charm!?”

He laughed. “I only like the ‘muff’ part of that.”

You backed away with a giggle, sticking out your tongue. His hands went to the sides of his head, pointer fingers out, and stuck his tongue out at you.

You said, “You won’t get any part of that out here.”

He fluttered the tip of his tongue.

“Tempting, but no.”

He spread the sport coat and posed like a centerfold to entice, hip canting to the side and his chest arched.

“Oh, if only I had a camera, baby.” You found the forgotten keys amongst the pine needles and dead leaves. “You’d make Goodwill a lot of money in their annual calendar,” you said and tossed the keys at him.

He straightened to catch them, juggling them to his chest.

“I’ll have you know—” He swept his empty hand down his body. “—all of this is House of Harrington.”

“How chic.”

“Very exclusive.” He pointed to the corner of the van for you to help gather the netting. “Not just anyone can say they’ve worn Steve Harrington’s tighty whities.”

You laughed and lifted the corner of the netting.

Together, you uncovered the van. Eddie gathered the netting and kicked it under the thicket before going to the passenger door to open it for you.

“I’ll drop you off at your car.”

You thanked him and climbed into the stuffy van. The scent of old smoke, warmed plastic, and upholstery seasoned with boy invaded your nose. You rolled the window down halfway after he closed the door.

With a glance at the vacant back, you thought of Corroded Coffin’s equipment there. You’d seen little of Jeff, Gareth, or Dougie at school. You hadn’t asked Eddie if they still played at The Hideout. You hadn’t asked him about a lot of things. There was so much you’d missed since New Year’s.

Eddie opened the driver-side door and hopped in. He made a face, then rolled down his window.

He turned all the air-system controls off, saying, “Cross your fingers she’ll cooperate.”

He shoved the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine sputtered and whined and chugged until something aligned, and it roared to life. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, throwing you a laugh.

You smiled back and fastened your seatbelt.

He shifted into Reverse and maneuvered away from the thicket. The tires spun in the layer of pine needles and budding grass before finding traction. The van lurched forward. You hung onto the seatbelt and prayed the van wouldn’t get stuck. It was too old for off-roading. He steered onto the ruts, tires kicking up dirt as they bit into the earth.

Your prayers were unnecessary or maybe something out there listened to you, because a minute later the van was on the pavement and next to your car.

“Your noble steed, milady.”

With a smirk, you said, “I thought that was you, stud.”

He leaned in, eyes sparking.

“I’m at your beck and call.”

You bent close enough to feel his breath on your lips.

“Get me home, sir, and I’ll show my appreciation for your fealty.”

His eyes darted to your lips.

“I can do that.”

Tilting your head as if to kiss him, you said, “I know you can,” and moved away to unfasten your seatbelt.

His head drooped.

He looked at you when you opened the door, expression amused.

You said, “Don’t go too fast, honey, wouldn’t want to get pulled over.”

“Depends on who’s doing the pulling over, sweetheart.”

You smiled, shaking your head at the cheesy line, and left the van. His attention stayed on you as you crossed to your car, like fingers trailing down your spine.

Once in the car, you made a U-turn and followed him to Steve’s. Eddie was something of a lead-foot, but you could keep up easily. He parked in front of the garage at Steve’s. You stopped next to him and locked up.

He met you at your trunk and offered his elbow.

“Not too fast for you?”

You snaked your arm around his bicep.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

He hummed in agreement as he walked with you to the front door.

“Um, I know this is out of left field,” you said, “but I thought about the rest of the band. I hadn’t seen them at school, except in the hallways sometimes. Like, I don’t share any classes with Jeff or Dougie.”

“Last time I saw them was during the last Hellfire meeting.”

“Maybe you should call them? Now that your name’s cleared, it’s safe for all of you.”

“I don’t know…”

“They’re probably worried about you.” You squeezed his arm. “And unlike me, they can’t use magic to track down your ass.”

He bobbed his head once.

“I’ll call them tomorrow.”

“Good.”

You stopped him before he could make his way to the front door. He turned to you, gaze searching.

The blue hour painted him in shades of purple. Warm light from the porch sconces and nearby kitchen window caught in the waves of his hair. He was a fallen angel, halo stripped yet seraphic nature undeniable.

That felt like a line from someone more imaginative. You were no poet, though you wished you were.

Softly, he asked, “What is it?”

You shook off the thought and grinned.

“Nothing, I just… I just like you like this.”

He glanced at himself before giving you a wry look.

“In borrowed clothes with dirty hands?”

“No, butthead.” You jostled him by the arm. “I like you here — with me.”

That wry look disappeared. His eyes rounded, earnest and affectionate. He drew you in with a gentle hand on your nape and kissed you. His lips were tender on yours in silent relief, as though you’d surprised him. While he’d withdrawn after Vecna’s defeat, and you’d been uncertain about a future with him, you still loved him. That had never changed.

You threw yourself into the kiss, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Blood rushed through your veins. Your cheeks burned as the kiss deepened. His other hand clutched your hip to guide you against him.

It was easy to lose yourself with him. It was easy to love him, and he made it easy to let yourself be loved.

He cradled the back of your head like you were priceless. He held you like he couldn’t get close enough. The mark on your neck was a brand of sweet possession.

At an inevitable pause, you said, “Let’s go inside.”

“I can’t sit through dinner.” With a small shake of his head, he said, “I can’t wait.”

“Then we won’t. We’ll go straight to your room.”

“What about…?” He gave you a meaningful look. “Condoms?”

“I got it covered.”

“Sounds like I’ll be saying that later.”

You laughed, playfully shoving at his shoulder. He looked pleased with himself and trotted to the front door. Hand on the doorknob, he glanced back to make sure you were behind him.

You whispered, “Wait,” and drew energy up your body. It had been so long since you’d obfuscated your presence to sneak around, you’d nearly forgotten it as an option. You laced your fingers with Eddie’s, including him in the silent bubble you created.

“Keep close and avoid making too much noise.”

He nodded before easing the door open.

A top-40s station played on the radio in the sunroom. Robin and Steve’s voices floated from the kitchen. They remained out of sight even after you gently shut the door.

You directed Eddie to the stairs and remained a tread behind him as you both climbed. Once on the second floor, you ushered him to his room. He left the door ajar and lights off. You padded to your room, pocketed the couple of condom packets you’d stolen days ago from Steve’s nightstand, and slunk to Eddie’s room.

He sat at the head of the bed, blanket hiding his lower half with his t-shirt covering the upper. You closed the door and locked it. By the meager light coming through the window, you found the nearest lamp and clicked it on.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Yeah, sure, fine, why?”

The sport coat and track pants draped across the armchair. The sneakers and socks lay jumbled by the bathroom door.

“Just asking.”

You crossed the room and set the condom packets on the nightstand at Eddie’s side. He remained motionless, hands hidden in the rumpled sheets. You perched at the edge of the bed while he stared at the condoms.

Something was off. He should be flirting or reaching for you. What had happened between kissing you, saying he couldn’t wait to be with you, and now? Most guys would be naked and panting like a dog for sex.

With a minute shrug, you said, “If you don’t want to…”

“No! No, I do. Trust me, I do.”

“But…?”

He exhaled.

“I don’t… You should know, I don’t look the same.”

“I’ve seen you in only a towel. I’m aware of what you look like.”

“That’s not up close and personal.”

“You think I’m going to run screaming from some scars?”

He said, “Look, baby, I’m a horror show under this,” and plucked at the t-shirt.

You let out an exasperated sound. “Are you trying to push me away? Again?”

“No—”

“Do you not want me?”

“Oh my god, I want you.” He scooted to you and cupped your face. “I’ve wanted you for weeks. Months!”

“Well, me too!” You held one of his wrists. “Anything you got under there is gonna work for me, okay?”

He scanned your face, gaze roaming from your eyes to your lips and back.

The protective blessing you’d placed in his handkerchief had failed you — and him. Your magic had been nothing compared to Vecna’s power. Eddie had pushed out the hivemind on his own. He was so much stronger than he gave himself credit for.

Through a constricted throat, you said, “Your blood soaked through your clothes.” Your eyes pricked with tears. “You di-died in front of me.”

Eddie leaned in, crushing your lips together. You forgot about tears and the feel of his blood thick between your fingers. He tilted your head. His lips, puffy and slick, glided across yours.

“I’m here,” he said, and kissed you again. “I’m right here.”

You kissed him in reply, letting your greed and relief guide you.

You shimmied your jacket off your shoulders. His hands went to your arms to help tug it off. You grinned into the kiss when the fabric caught on your forearms. He huffed, amused, before yanking at the sleeves. You shook your arms free and flung the jacket.

Planting a knee on the bed, you crowded him back onto the pillows. He put his hands at your waist and pulled you onto him. You straddled his hips, the linens bunching between you.

He hauled you up his body to tuck his face against your throat. He mouthed and bit at your neck, all hesitation thrown to the side. You encouraged him with a whimper and fingers gripping his hair. His soft lips left a fiery line as his hands grabbed your ass.

You arched your back. Your ribs pumped with every rapid breath.

“Wanna eat you alive,” he said. “Fuck, you taste so good.”

“Want you, too.”

Teeth scraped under your jaw, catching on the sore hickey there. You gasped, yet refused to shy away. Let him bite and draw blood. Let it hurt. You could heal yourself.

With a groan, he dug his teeth midway down your neck. The sting made your spine melt. His palms slid up your back, taking your shirt with them. Then he sucked, and you felt it between your legs.

You ground against him — as much as you could through the layers of fabric. You needed to feel his heat, taste his skin and scars. Because he was alive, and you were in his bed.

When he released your skin, sensation beyond pain, beyond heat, bloomed through your neck. It rang in your ears, fisted a groan from your lungs, stole your strength. He folded his rangy arms around you and grazed his lips over the spit-wet spot.

You closed your eyes with a hum.

He kissed you from jaw to cheek. He even kissed your chin. You curled to catch his lips in a languid kiss. It went aggressive in a handful of seconds. You couldn’t tell who set it in motion, but you’d follow it through with sucking on the tip of his tongue and biting his lip. He shivered and squirmed and held onto your waist.

You broke the kiss to leave him reeling.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?”

He nodded, eyes half-closed.

“Then let me take care of what’s mine.”

Again, he nodded.

You directed Eddie’s hands to the pillow, letting your fingertips linger on the silky insides of his forearms. His t-shirt sleeves slipped up to expose scarring on his upper arms. You pressed your lips to the delicate scar tissue.

He inhaled sharply.

You whispered, “It’s okay.”

He closed his eyes with a brief nod.

You kissed the scar on his jaw and the faint one at the side of his neck. He angled his chin to expose himself. In reward, you kissed his lips. His muscles unspooled. You brushed your thumbs over his cheekbones.

“I got you.”

“I know.”

You wiggled down his torso and sat up. Oh-so slowly, you skimmed your hands under his t-shirt to his sides. The jagged edge of a bigger patch on his torso peeked from under the t-shirt’s hem. The uneven texture of the scars didn’t feel ugly or rough. They were interesting, and you wanted to see them.

He clapped his hands over yours.

You met his uneasy gaze and waited, keeping your expression open. While you could offer platitudes or compliments, they’d ring hollow. He knew how you felt and how you viewed him. It was only a matter of time for him to gain confidence — or at least trust you.

His hold relaxed, then gradually drifted away.

You followed the taper of his torso until you held his undulating ribs. With the t-shirt bunched at his pecs, you could assess the havoc the bats had wrought. Beyond the patch on his lower torso was a line of bites and healed sutures on his left. A wedge of pink scar tissue defaced the right side of his ribs. Between the larger patches were claw and teeth marks.

You traced them with a light touch before looking at his face. His teeth dug into his lip as his gaze jumped from between your bodies to the side to your face and back again.

“So, this is the horror show you promised?” you asked with a playful look.

He frowned, mouth opening.

Before he spoke, you asked, “Can you feel my touch?”

He wet his lips and nodded.

“Yeah?”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

“You don’t—”

“No, I don’t whatever. I’m not grossed out.”

To prove your point, you bent to kiss the bite mark on his sternum. The satiny, pitted skin wasn’t disgusting. It was just skin — that smelled like him. You nudged the t-shirt higher to get at his left nipple. You teased it with your tongue, and he stilled. You pinched it between your teeth, and he arched against your lips. You soothed the tiny hurt with a kiss, and he gasped.

You inched the t-shirt higher until you propelled his arms up. He took over and snatched the t-shirt over his head. He dropped it beside the bed as you caressed his chest.

Only fragments of his demon-head and black-widow tattoos were visible around a darker scar. You followed the scar’s border with your fingers and pouted at the loss of the tattoos. Not because they were the most beautiful you’d ever seen, but because they’d been Eddie’s.

“You can have these redone.”

“Nah, I’d rather get a cover-up.”

You smiled before bending to pepper kisses on the scar.

“That’s going to be a big cover-up, honey.” You kissed your way from the scar to the dip of his throat. “Maybe I can hold your hand through it.”

He tilted his head back with a soft groan. You angled his chin to the side and sucked at the hot skin of his neck, giving him a faint hickey. You kissed your way up to his ear and sucked on the lobe.

With a near growl, he said, “God, I can’t—” and pulled you into a burning kiss.

You opened for him as he teased your tongue with his own. He kissed your hot cheeks and your forehead. His hands surged down your sides, then under your shirt. You straightened onto your knees and stripped off your shirt and bra. Your nipples puckered in the cooler air.

His hips jerked as his hands gripped your hips. He stared at your chest and licked his lips.

Instead of asking if he wanted to touch, because that seemed obvious, you bent and guided his hands to your breasts. You encouraged him to support them, squeeze them, while you watched his flushed face.

He circled your nipples with his thumbs, his touch graceful yet electrifying. A feeling like goosebumps trickled through your gut and had your thighs tensing. You curved into his caress in encouragement. Your underwear’s saturated cotton grazed your pussy, and you wished it was his cock.

Eddie held your ribs and rose to bury his face between your breasts. He mouthed at the valley between them and kissed the beginning swells. You held the back of his head. He sucked at one nipple, then the other. That goosebump feeling intensified until you were a quivering mess.

He undid your jeans, and your eyes popped open. He looked at you through his pretty lashes. There was a voracity in his dark gaze that said only you could slake his need — and you wanted to be the only one to do it, too.

“This okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Y-yeah.”

With no hesitation, his hand slithered between your stomach and underwear. It burned a line down the curve of your belly through your pubic hair. His middle and ring fingers glided between your wet folds. You gripped his shoulders, hard muscle moved under his skin.

The first long stroke to your clit had your nails digging into his skin and sucking air between your teeth. You couldn’t stop the tiny sound you made. He nibbled at your collarbone, teeth scraped your skin. You leaned your weight against him as your watery legs trembled. His free arm held you upright by the waist.

Rather than circle your clit, he kept stroking. The first wash of pleasure fueled you to move your hips counter to his fingers. His calluses pulled at the hood of your clit, then drove it down. He pressed harder, sparking a sensation deeper than your clit.

Your focus narrowed to your rising orgasm and the thought of his cock pumping deep inside your juicy cunt. You wanted to feel his strong hands restraining you, his sweat-slick skin on yours, and his lush mouth between your legs.

An animalistic keen left your throat at the jumble of images. Your heart hammered in your ears. You rode that knife-edge of climax. It was right there.

“C’mon, baby, fuck those fingers.”

You moaned, doing as he ordered, until ecstasy forced its way through you — so hard, so deep. The internal throb of it stole your strength as it went on and on. You crumbled, putting more of your weight on him. He held you without protest.

“Can feel it,” he said, petting your oversensitive clit.

You writhed in his arms and begged for something you couldn’t put words to. He kissed your throat as he lay still pressure on your clit. Your cunt pulsed strong enough that your hips moved of their own volition.

After a moment, he pulled his hand from your underwear and brought his fingers to his mouth. You sat on his thighs to watch him suck at his wet fingers. He hummed in satisfaction. Your cunt pulsed one last time, as though it hadn’t had enough.

Maybe it hadn’t.

He met your gaze and offered his flushed lips for a kiss. You cradled the back of his head and kissed him with unexpected fervor. You tasted the tang of your own come on his tongue. He held your face, sticky fingers on your cheek, and pushed into the kiss. You sucked your flavor off his bottom lip, pulling a moan from his chest.

“Take the rest off,” he said, falling onto his back.

“You too.”

He smirked.

“Not much more to go.”

You let your eyes track from his chest to the wrinkled lump of blanket covering his groin. Despite knowing, intimately, what was underneath, getting him naked continued to be a thrill.

“Good.”

He blushed, and his smirk softened.

You climbed off him to sit at the edge of the bed. You untied your Docs and wrenched them off. Your socks followed. Eddie kicked the blanket away. While he wiggled out of his briefs, you hooked your thumbs in your underwear and jeans, rising enough from the bed to slide them down your hips and off your legs.

You pivoted on a hip to find him reaching for a condom. His eyes went wide with a question. Or like you’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t. You bent a leg on the bed and plucked a condom from the pile before he could.

“You know,” you said, holding the condom like a cigarette between your fingers. “I think I need to get on the pill.” You got on all fours. “Or get an IUD, or something.”

Sounding on tenterhooks, he asked, “Why’s that?”

You crawled between his legs. He spread his thighs to make room for you.

“So I can have you raw.”

He let out a breath, cheeks reddening further, and wrapped a hand around the base of his cock. A thick bead of precome pearled at its slit.

“Would you like that, honey?”

“Shit, you know I would.”

You gave him a playful wink before hunching to lick the tip of his cock. He groaned through a smile, squeezing his cock. You savored the salty taste of him.

You tapped at the back of his hand.

“Let go.”

“I swear, I’m gonna blow in, like, ten seconds flat.”

You sat on your calves with a self-satisfied shrug. He needed to feel as good as he’d made you feel. If that happened quickly, that was fine with you because—

“We got all night,” you said, and tore open the condom packet.

He still hadn’t released his hold.

“Eddie, honey, let go.”

“Just—” He swallowed. “Get it halfway down first.”

You pulled out the lubed condom and discarded the wrapper. He bit his lip, looking as though you were about to perform surgery on him. Keeping your touch light and at the minimum, you pinched the tip of the condom and rolled it over his shaft until it met his fingers.

He shuddered with eyes closed and a crease between his brows.

You said, “Let go.”

He exhaled and thumped his fists to the bed. You wasted no time in rolling the condom the rest of the way down. He panted and keened. His cock twitched in your hand, but you wiped your palms on the sheets before he could embarrass himself.

With a gentle shush, you caressed his hips and ran your thumbs in the shallow groove of muscle on either side. You kept at it until his breathing slowed and tense thighs relaxed.

You maneuvered your knees on either side of him and balanced yourself with a hand on his chest.

“Ready?”

When he nodded, you reached between your bodies to brace his erection. You were so ready, so wet, for this. Even the feeling of the condom didn’t turn you off. You found your hole and eased onto his thick cock, inch by slick inch.

Once you settled, you had to give yourself a moment. You sat with hands on your thighs while you adjusted to the fullness. He felt perfect and delicious. You looked at Eddie to see him watching you, bottom lip between his teeth and fingers digging into the mattress. Emotion filled his bright eyes.

You wanted to soothe him, but if you moved, it would set off a chain reaction he’d been trying to suppress.

“Don’t think.”

Through gritted teeth, he said, “Trying not to.”

If you didn’t take the initiative, he would torture himself for the rest of the evening. You rotated your pelvis. The simple movement made you gasp. It had been so long, and you were so eager for this with him. Under you, he choked on a desperate sound.

“I can’t wait to feel you without any barriers,” you said, rotating your pelvis again. “Feel you come deep inside me.”

He grabbed your hips to propel your movements.

“I’ll fill you up,” he said.

You planted your hands on his chest with a groan and rode him like he wanted you to. You rose only to sink down a second later, never letting him slip out. His hands glided up your sides. With a hum, you encouraged him to touch you — touch you anywhere, everywhere. You couldn’t get enough of his cock, of his nimble hands, of his body tight against yours.

Your need ramped to a boiling fever, some thrilling sickness. You bent to kiss him, sucking on his lip and tongue, as you rolled your hips in a frantic rhythm. Your skin slapped against his, but it wasn’t enough. You hid your face in his shoulder and whimpered when you found no relief.

His arms looped across your back, as if you’d try to escape. Like you could get away from this desire.

You stilled in time for him to roll to the side and on top of you. He pushed his cock deep. You mewled, your thighs stretched around his hips.

His gaze roved over your features.

“I’m gonna fill your sweet pussy.”

You nodded.

He said, “I’ll make you come.”

You closed your eyes as you imagined it. Hands all over you, gripping you, going between your legs, holding you steady as he worked your body. Your cunt clenched at the image.

“Because you’re mine, too.”

You nodded once more.

He adjusted his stance, knees dipping into the mattress. He grasped one of your shoulders as you held onto his arms with shaking hands.

“Look at me and tell me you love me.”

You stared into his eyes. It was all written out there for you to see: no denial, no hiding, and no more doubt.

“I love you.”

He caught your lips and kissed you so thoroughly you forgot anything beyond him. His hold tightened. His hips minutely rocked. His heavy cock kindled that heat hidden inside.

You moaned against his lips and pulled at him. He needed to move. You’d been wanting him for what felt like years. You’d both gone through hell, seen oblivion, and returned to each other’s side. You needed him to move — now.

He buried his face in your neck, lips against the marks he’d left. The rocking of his hips descended into grinding, then full-out thrusting. He fucked you hard. His cock dragged at the underside of your aching clit. The bed springs whined every time he bottomed out.

You couldn’t catch your breath as his thrusts became desperate. He yanked at your hair to bare your throat. His long hair — that smelled of your shampoo — veiled your humid face.

He kissed his marks and murmured something you couldn’t make out. You agreed anyway. He groaned in reply, driving you down while he thrust up. The sheets stuck to the sweat on your back. His hips snapped forward over and over, his cock ramming deep. You tried your best to move with him, but he was too fast.

Then you couldn’t move at all. Your belly quivered and your thighs tensed. His cock was too much. You strained against him, with him, until that fever broke. You shook in his arms. Your jaw clenched. Orgasm burned through you like a geyser. It sizzled up your spine. You couldn’t catch your breath. Hot tears trickled over your temples in rapturous agony.

Eddie fucked you through it, holding you tight. Your cunt throbbed and clamped around his pistoning length. He cursed in needy growls until he seized, breathless. His voice cracked. His thrusts slowed, yet remained fierce, as his cock pulsed with each thrust.

He stuttered a jumble of cut-off thoughts, all of them flattering and loving. You grinned and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, hugging his sides with your thighs. He mouthed at your neck lazily.

After a tranquil moment, he kissed you, gentle yet demanding. You felt him — every bit of him. His lips tasted of salt. His hands sheltered and cradled. His gaze warmed you. You could only respond in kind. He melted as you smoothed his hair away from his flushed, glowing face.

He kissed you one more time before steadying the condom and slipping out of you.

You relaxed, allowing your tired limbs to sink to the bed. He rolled to the side and dropped the condom on the heap of his dirty clothes. You wrinkled your nose, but didn’t comment. He flopped beside you and pillowed his head on a bent arm. The heating system kicked on. Your sweat cooled as you contemplated getting out of bed. Instead, you tucked your feet between the folds of the blanket.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie said.

You hummed in acknowledgement and glanced at him.

“I was thinking, and you might not be into this, but you want to go to LA? With me?”

You stared at the ceiling.

Los Angeles: broken glass glittering in gutters, live music every night, fluttering neon, cars with their tops down, a bland apartment with a mattress on the floor, your feet warmed by sunshine as you read the newspaper’s entertainment section, Eddie writing songs at the kitchen table.

A smile spread across your face.

“Hell yeah.”

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #stranger things #em tagd #waywardrose writes

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