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selenevesper · 11 days ago

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i hate how i didn't have the time to read this masterpiece yet 🤬

i won't quit on you

chapter six from the little mess you made.

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x singlemom!reader (modern au) word count: 3.8k

summary: with a sick toddler, and your world on the verge of a breakdown, eddie's sole purpose is to cheer you up, take care of you. and the best way he knows how? through the stomach.

chapter cw: 18+, minors dni: suggestive & mature themes, forced proximity, mutual pining / yearning, fluffy angst, emotional hurt / comfort, navigating family dynamics, adult language, mentions of food / eating — pls let me know if i missed any!

psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.

News reports break one month after Eddie’s unexpected arrival in Hawkins.

Thirty days of shared meals, pre-school runs, grocery store trips, jotting lyrics in his down time, yoga classes, sneaking photos when you think no one’s paying attention, and evening catch-ups on the patio.

Thirty days of blissful routine. A real sense of normalcy shattered, rather cruelly, in a matter of seconds.

The first call comes from Steve, of all people. Not Smithie, the rockstar’s agent, not his PR team, not even a measly heads-up from his bandmates, or fucking Felix. Eddie’s oldest friend is the one who picks up the phone, having heard the news from Julie.

Ah, Julie.

Eddie met the lovely Julie Schaefer that one, faithful Monday morning you dragged him along to the yoga studio for the very first time.

Big blue eyes, platinum blonde hair tied in a ponytail that is meant to appear rushed, unplanned, when in fact it probably took twenty minutes of focused precision. Pretty in an all pink get-up, down to a pair of designer sneakers — which the rockstar only recognises because he bought them once, for a hook up who asked politely mid some seriously illicit behaviour.

“Doesn’t she look like she belongs on the cover of Vogue,” you murmur to Eddie after stepping inside the building, then immediately leave his side to hug the girl.

The rockstar stares, and one might think his brown-eyes are glued to the mysterious bombshell he’s yet to officially meet. That would be wrong. He’s staring at you. Only you because it suddenly doesn’t matter that the blonde you’re embracing is exactly the Los Angeles type he’d often land in bed with. Somewhere behind his ribcage, in this very moment, a notion solidifies that no matter where he’ll end up, you’ll be the most beautiful girl present (or otherwise).

Turning back around, with Eddie’s gaze still on you, you motion him over with a tip of your head and offer an introduction to Julie Schaefer.

“Julie is my business partner,” you inform the rockstar. “She co-owns the studio, but she’s more my friend.”

Eddie nods and forces himself to look at the blonde because it would be rude not to. It would be rude to smite your friend since you might think too much into things if he ignores her. You might think he’s suddenly starstruck by Julie, when it really is the opposite.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, mind still whirling, and politely extends his ring-clad fingers.

Julie smiles, showing her perfect pearly whites, and shakes Eddie’s hand.

“Likewise,” she says in a tone that edges on flirty, but the rockstar thinks that’s just how she talks to everyone because behind her blue eyes, there’s no indication of any sort of attraction.

Years in the spotlight taught him how to notice such things. Pick out people that aren’t into him at all, or the people who only find him attractive because he’s famous, and then the ones who actually like him. Prime example: how Julie is looking at him now compared to how you looked at him back then, that night in New York.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Julie adds.

This piques Eddie’s interest. He cocks a brow and after dropping his hand from Julie’s grasp, he looks at you. There’s a small smile circling your lips, almost shy, as if you’d been caught doing something you’re not supposed to be.

Eddie’s chest swells at the sight. Surely, you haven’t talked about him all that much in the few weeks he’s been back. Although, how nice would it be, if true? He’d talk about you too, constantly, if he had anyone remotely trustworthy to do it with.

There’s Wayne, but his uncle seems extra protective of you — rightly so. How would Eddie even broach such a topic? ‘Hey, I’ve got a crush on the mother of my child, but I might be leaving soon and I don’t want to cause her any more pain than I already have. Got any advice?’ He could say that, but he knows Wayne’s reply already, ‘Leave her be, son.’

Quite a pickle he’s in.

“Oh, yeah?” He probes, grinning, as his eyes flicker back to your friend. “All good things, I hope.”

Julie laughs like she’s hiding a secret.

“Well, I’d like to say yes, but that’d be a lie.” She admits, a sly smirk playing on her lips. “Stevie’s got some wild stories about you.”

He certainly wasn’t expecting that answer and it shows, all over his face. You chew on the inside of your cheek, holding in a snicker that’s waiting to happen.

“Stevie?” Eddie asks, perplexed.

Julie glances at you. A miniscule peek before her blues settle back on the rockstar, but Eddie notices nonetheless and something tells him he won’t like where this is going.

“Steve,” she clarifies. “Harrington.”

His jaw ticks. Of fucking course.

And because Eddie can’t help his own mind, he imagines the three of you sitting in Harrington’s grand living room, on the massive sofa, sharing an overpriced bottle of wine and talking about him. Although, the image doesn’t come fully into fruition. Blurry behind his eyes because he knows you’re not the type of person to utter a negative word.

Which would mean… Julie and Steve talk about him alone. Huh.

“Julie is Steve’s girlfriend,” you say.

Eddie’s shoulders drop, instantly relaxed. The smile he’s throwing at the blonde grows increasingly genuine, wider by an inch. With his hands on his hips, trying to act as casual as possible about this brand new piece of information, he says something along the lines of, “Harrington likes to shoot the shit.”, and when you roll your eyes, the rockstar is not the least bit jealous of your defensive stance because there’s nothing to be jealous of.

Friends; the answer to the question that’s been playing on the brunette rockstar’s mind since he saw you again. You’re not with Steve. You’re not his girlfriend. You’re just friends because Steve is dating Julie.

Ah, Julie.

Gorgeous, gorgeous Julie. Fuck, he’s so happy he could kiss the girl, but that would be inappropriate because she’s Harrington’s Julie.

Instead, he claps his hands, rubbing them together, and says, “Let’s do some yoga, shall we?”

And when he walks past you and the blonde, she catches your eyes, brows raised as if to say: I told you so. Because she did, tell you: Eddie is — was — jealous of Steve.

For days after, Eddie’s grin cannot be wiped off his face. His whole demeanour has changed. He knows Wayne noticed, he knows you noticed. He wants you to notice and point it out, ask him what’s playing on his mind. However, you keep your plush lips shut and just smile.

And that fucking smile of yours makes his knees buckle.

“If you keep smiling at me like that, sugar, I might have to kiss you.” He tells you one night, while you pass each other in the dimly lit hallway.

He’s heading for the bathroom you’re after exiting from and winks as the sentence causally slips from his mouth. A tingly sensation in your core is the result, heat rising to your cheeks.

“I’m not into cocky B-listers.” The tease is modest, a call-back to the night you met.

It’s also a small white lie. Back then, and today. You’re not into cocky B-listers, usually. Eddie is exempt from that rule because he’s not cocky. His on-stage persona, sure, but the guy you met, the father of your child, he’s far from who he presents himself to be. And he may tease you endlessly if you ever said the words aloud, but he’s also not a B-lister. Not anymore.

A twinkle in the mahogany of his gaze as he watches you disappear into your bedroom, following a soft goodnight. Moments later, under the shower, he thinks about you. Not in a creepy way because he’s a gentleman. He thinks: now that he’s found you again, how could he possibly ever walk away?

Thirty days pass in bliss.

Thirty days pass by a matter of routine and getting to know new sides of you, plus that wicked kid you share.

Messer has quickly become Eddie’s favourite person on the planet — near second to you, of course (sorry Wayne). The toddler has an incredible imagination, he’s funny, and crazy smart for his age — although, he’s sure all parents think such things about their kids.

Thanks to the little man, the rockstar finally understands why, growing up, a lot of children thought they were on top of the world. They were lucky to have parents who built them up. Messer is one of the lucky ones.

“He’s a lot like you. Personality wise,” you say one evening, after putting Messer to sleep and the statement rips through Eddie, sending shockwaves through his entire system.

Then you squeeze his hand, only increasing the electric shock, creating an urge to wake the fuck up and realise there’s more to life than what he’s been doing so far. And he sees that. Honestly, he’s seen it since he’s arrived and he likes this life.

Now, his new reality is threatened.

The call from Steve, who heard the news from Julie, is blunt, but Eddie hears the panic in his friend's tone because you’re near-centre of Harrington’s reality too and the fabric is being ripped faster than he thought possible.

“Does it say who leaked it?” Eddie asks urgently.

“No, man.” Steve answers through the cracked line. “Jules said it read ‘sources close to the star confirm’, whatever that means.”

Eddie’s jaw locks and his grip on the phone tightens. He knows exactly what it means.

“Means my team is done protecting me.”

Steve sighs into the device. “Are you sure? Seems unlikely they’d keep this shit out of the press only to shove it down people’s throats one random morning.”

“Yeah, dude. That’s exactly why I know it’s them.” Eddie says, anger bubbling. “They hid the information to keep me in their money-making machine, you know?”

“But now you know anyway…”

“Exactly,” Eddie affirms. “I know anyway, so they’ll create chaos to keep me in check. Make it so I need them.”

“That’s fucked up, man.” Steve says.

Eddie bops his head to no one in particular. He sighs, heavy and frustrated, then tells Harrington how he’s grateful for the call. He’ll deal with it.

“Tell her first,” Steve instructs. “Before she finds out from the internet.”

After ending the call, Eddie’s first order of business is to find you. He does rather quickly, when you exit Messer’s bedroom and gently close it behind you. When he meets your gaze, his heart clenches in an unfamiliar way. Sorrow, perhaps? You look tired, that much is clear, and he’d do anything to take your worries away.

“His fever is down and I finally got him to sleep,” you whisper, leading the rockstar away from Messer’s room and towards the living room.

“Good.” Eddie nods, adding, “Wayne went to the pharmacy to pick up Messer’s prescription.”

A faint shadow of a smile crosses your mouth. He reaches for you on instinct, offering comfort because it looks like you need it.

Strong arms wrap around your frame in the first embrace of your new found friendship and ice begins to melt. One hand on your neck, while the other makes home on the small of your back, and he breathes. He inhales your scent and relishes in this closeness, hoping you are too.

Eddie is careful in his movements since he doesn't want to scare you away. His fingers graze against you, slowly, and the rockstar traces them up and down the cotton material of your t-shirt. He can feel the patter of your heart against his chest, beating in tandem with his own. The soft sound of your breathing, the goosebumps on your skin. All of that — and more — is driving his senses into overdrive.

“He’ll be okay,” he mutters into your ear and before he can help himself, he places a gentle kiss to the tip of your lobe.

A shiver runs down your spine at the contact, his lips on you, and despite the circumstances, your body aches for more. More kisses, more touches, more of Eddie Munson. You want to experience him the way you got to that night in New York.

But that would be a bad idea. A colossal mistake.

Sliding your hands in between your bodies, you press your palms against his chest and gently push away.

“I needed that,” you say, taking a step backwards.

“Anytime, sugar.”

Digits scratching at the back of his hair, his mouth works upwards. Your expression follows suit and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel more relaxed than minutes prior.

The bubble soon bursts.

“There’s something I gotta tell you.” Then, after clearing his throat, he continues quickly, “The world knows. About Messer, that is. Someone leaked it and it’s all over the tabloids.”

You don’t move, don’t blink. Frankly, you’re not sure you’re breathing.

Rationally, you always knew this day would come. Sooner or later, the world was bound to find out about Eddie Munson’s secret love child. You prepared for this. Mentally, emotionally, and in the physical space too. Over the years, along with Wayne and Steve, you put in precautions to ensure Messer’s safety and his right to privacy.

Yet nothing could have prepared you for this crushing sensation. The dot you carried, the baby you nursed, the boy you taught to eat, crawl, walk, play. The toddler you taught to dream, and be kind and strong. Mason Wayne Munson was no longer your little secret, your little mess. A part of him belonged to the world now and such a notion is a tough pill to swallow.

“Okay,” you manage.

“I’m sorry.”

You shake your head. “Don’t be. This was gonna happen one day.”

With his hands on his hips, Eddie looks up at the ceiling and briefly switches off. He closes his eyes and tries to regain his composure since the last thing you need right now is him going off the rails. He’s angry, yes. You don’t need to see that side of him. You don’t need to see the side that’s mainly angry with himself as the thought at the forefront of his mind is, if he never came back, Messer would still be wholeheartedly yours.

“I’m really sorry, sugar.” He says again.

“Seriously,” you frown, “Stop with the pity party.”

And for the second hug of your new found friendship (situationship, relationship, whatever), you’re the one to close the gap. First, your hands hold his face. You offer him the kindest smile you can muster and when he returns his own, your fingers trail along his skin until they’re around his neck. You loop them amongst his dusty-brown hair and press your chin into his side.

He exhales. You feel the long, winded breath vibrating through your being. It’s not long until he returns the embrace and when the world outside goes completely still, when it feels like there’s no one in the room but him and you, Eddie allows himself forgiveness.

“Is it absolutely irresponsible to get drunk when your three-year-old is sick?”

He snorts a laugh at your question, reluctantly pulling away from the hug — but not before placing another kiss to the tip of your ear.

“I think you know the answer to that, sweetheart.” The rockstar replies. “Also, ‘cause it’s only ten in the morning. Did you even have breakfast?”

An exaggerated sigh escapes your pout and Eddie has to chew down on his tongue to stop himself from leaning over to kiss the shit out of you.

“I think you know the answer to that, B-lister.”

Eddie spins you around effortlessly. Two strong hands land on your shoulders, then you’re being shuffled along as he proceeds to lead you out of the room, towards the kitchen.

“Let’s change that then, shall we?”

After a gentle squeeze of your shoulders, thumb grazing along your neckline, the rockstar lets his arms fall. He pulls out one of the chairs, instructing you, without any words, to sit down. You oblige and he conceals a smirk with a wipe of his face, thinking how easy it is to get you to do things, what else he could make you do.

Getting to work, Eddie retrieves milk and butter from the fridge, and flour from one of the cupboards, then he assembles the necessary utensils. Medium-sized saucepan, whisk, some cutlery, an oven tray which he lines with a baking sheet.

You watch him cook.

First, Eddie plops the stick of butter into the chosen pot and waits as it melts. He whisks in the flour, then stirs. He talks while he does this. Tells you how he’ll do his best to find out who leaked the information and reassures you that everything will be okay, no one is going to come knocking.

“Messer’s life will remain unchanged,” Eddie promises, sneaking a sideways glance in your direction.

You nod.

To the saucepan, the rockstar gradually adds milk and continues to stir, slowly, until the spoon he lifts to taste drips with a thick white mixture. Your eyes are on his mouth, unintentionally, and blood rushes to your cheeks when Eddie catches you staring.

He seasons the sauce.

“You’re quite good at this,” you point out.

“Making Béchamel?”

Smiling, you answer, “Cooking.”

“Wayne was always working,” the brunette man tells you while taking the pot off the stove. “I had to learn if I wanted to eat anything other than Kraft Mac and Cheese.”

He reaches for the loaf of bread. One by one, four in total, he retrieves a slice from the paper bag and spreads the Béchamel with quite the precision.

“And when I’m on the road, it would be easy to fall for the fast food trap ‘cause it’s convenient. But I couldn’t do what I do night after night if all I ate was McDonalds, or pizza.”

“So you cook?”

“If we’re on the move between shows, yeah, I’ll cook on the tour bus.” Eddie says with a shrug of the shoulders, placing the fourth piece of bread on the previously prepared baking sheet. Wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, he saunters towards the fridge and grabs ham, cheese, and eggs. “If we’re at some hotel for the night, I’ll get room service.”

He glances at you, a smirk playing at his lips, and adds, “Unless I’m otherwise pre-occupied.”

The memory the rockstar pulls from you is vivid. Two naked bodies tangled in soft sheets at an overpriced hotel, stealing kisses in between moans and giggles. Thinking back to that night, a known burn ignites in your core, travels between your legs, forcing you to shuffle in your spot and avert your gaze. Eddie sees the reaction and clears his throat, willing himself to also look away before he does something he shouldn’t do on top of Wayne’s kitchen table.

“Well, all your conquests thank you for abandoning dinner in pursuit of—”

“Dessert?” Eddie teases, flashing you a not-so-innocent smile.

You roll your eyes, hoping the force will dissipate any further memories of that one night with him. The dark hotel room and Eddie between your legs, on top of you, behind, touching, caressing. But it’s the gentle slam of the oven door that hails you to reality as assembled sandwiches go in to bake.

Eddie’s got his back to you once more as he grabs a skillet and greases it with butter.

“To be honest,” he begins, with focus on the task at hand, “There’s not been uh, anyone else. Other places, yeah, but not in my hotel bed.”

You blink, his admission settling around you. When you part your mouth to ask what he means — even though you already know — the rockstar changes course.

“I think someone on my team leaked the story. I think they’re scared I’ll choose to stay, now that I have the truth, and the one thing that will get me to leave is knowing my absence will keep Messer safe, his life unchanged.”

He cracks an egg onto the pan, then another.

“If I’m back on the road, no one will come knocking on your door.”

The decisiveness in his tone forces you to bite your tongue, swallow the rebuttal building in your throat because it wouldn’t do anyone any good. Eddie has made up his mind. He’s leaving, you can tell, and it was only a matter of time. He’s told you before how that’s been the plan all along, you knew it was coming. Unfortunately, understanding his reasons doesn't dull the sudden ache in your chest.

A plate lands in front of you with a gentle thud and Eddie’s proud ta-da redirects your thoughts back to the present. He pulls out a chair for himself, a screech of wood on wood vibrates through the kitchen, and as he sits, his gaze lands on you.

“Croque Madame,” he says as you take in the dish in front of you.

Your eyes flicker with delight, stomach making itself known, as you look up at the brunette and smile. Shamelessly, the rockstar’s browns travel to your mouth because he can’t help himself. That fucking smile of yours it’s like… Hook, line, and sinker. He’s a goner. Always has been.

And if things were easier, he’d lean over this table, kiss you silly. Instead, he momentarily sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, swallows, then focuses on his own plate of food.

“Eat, or I’ll feed you airplane style.”

Laughing softly, you do as the rockstar instructs and cut into the fried egg. The yolk spills over the sandwich, down its edges, and colouring the plate orange. You slide a knife through the bread, digging a piece of toasted goodness onto a fork and putting it in your mouth.

Eddie’s eyes are back on you, observing for a reaction, or just being plain creepy at this stage. He really can’t help himself. Without knowing, or meaning to be, you’re at his centre. A magnet, attracting him with force he doesn’t dare fight.

“This is delicious, Eddie.” You compliment mid-bite, the palm of your hand covering your mouth as you chew.

“I’m glad you think so, sugar.”

He digs into his own plate of food and for a solid four minutes, there’s nothing but the sound of metal on porcelain, birds chirping outside the kitchen window, and the hum of the running refrigerator. Pure, untainted bliss.

Then Eddie’s phone pings.

He does the stupid thing and peeks at the messages flying into a newly formed group chat, instantly ruining his appetite and more importantly, his fucking peace.

Smith Lyne (dickhead): Edward. T-minus five days. Felix the fuck-tard: We’re back, baby!

as always, thank you for reading! pls support your writers by commenting & reblogging <3

story masterlist

tagging some cool people that expressed interest (if you want to be removed, just let me know), and if anyone wants to be added- also let me know:

@tvserie-s-world @probablyin-bed @the-dumpster-fire-of-life @darknesseddiem @kellsck @althaiareads @streamafterlaughter @ali-r3n @ratsematary @alyisdead @kravitzwhore @aestheticsunflower19 @s1mp-4-ga11y @monstermunsonswife-blog @xingyuluvr @ari-joe @dearestro @spider-starry @vodkapetalz-blog @ilovetaquitosmmmm @angelbabyivy @cupidbloaterz @fishinsuits @thedoubleexposurephotography @thrashcam @kravitzwhore @maskofmirrors @taylorswiftsloverr @djodirt @reidsgubbler @wendyxox @obsessed-midwest-princess @mdurdenpitt @talknerdytome5391 @stitchlover324 @tigolebittiez @helsa3942 @lovehadlovelost @ggjhgg

#selenevesper recs #tbr list #the little mess you made.#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson fluff #rockstar!eddie x reader

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selenevesper · 11 days ago

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the little mess you made. (masterlist)

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x singlemom!reader (modern au) total word count: tbc

summary: five years after he returns home, eddie munson is greeted at the front door of his uncles house by a toddler with a head of dusty-brown locks. in need of a break from the life he's built for himself, the rockstar is instead faced with another hard truth. Wayne Munson tells his nephew about the girl Steve Harrington introduced him to. the girl that found herself in a certain… situation, following one of Eddie’s gigs. the girl, who had nowhere else to go, so Wayne took her in, helping her every step of the way for the last four years because, after all, she's the mother to Eddie’s kid: Mason Wayne Munson aka Messer.

content warnings: 18+ minors dni: suggestive & mature themes, implied intimacy + also just pure smut at times, one night stand gone awry, secret pregnancy aka no-one told eddie he's a dad, forced proximity, slow-ish burn, heavy on the mutual pining / yearning, on the fluffy side as these two flirt (a lot), use of pet names, emotional hurt / comfort, adult language, navigating family dynamics, plus mentions of: alcohol consumption, recreational drug use, physical violence — pls friends, read the warnings for each individual chapter.

psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.

prologue (a blurb)

chapter one | aka the little mess you made

chapter two | aka nice to each other

chapter three | aka what did i miss?

chapter four | aka something has to change

chapter five | aka never felt better

chapter six | aka i won’t quit on you

chapter seven | aka the longest goodbye

a/n: the following are some songs i think they fit perfectly with their story, so i wanted to share them with you.

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

main masterlist

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selenevesper · 11 days ago

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GHOST YOU HAVE NO IDEIA WHAT YOU DO TO MEEE OMG

I just fucking love the way you write Eddie, it's literalmente him and no one can change my mind

Ringing Pavlov’s Bell

Gif by @/aanakin, dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Experienced!Eddie Munson x Virgin!Reader

Summary: You’ve grown weary of your virtue, and, unfortunately for Eddie, you’ve hatched a plan to lose it to a stranger tonight. But why are you telling him this if not to extend an open invitation to foil your plans?

Word Count: 15.9k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, angst, fluff, PiV unprotected sex, condom removal during sex, loss of virginity, virginity talk and shame around still having it, lots of yearning, teasing, cream pie, fingering, oral sex (fem rec), nicknames (sweetheart, sweets, pretty girl, etc.), dirty talk, arguing, best friends to lovers, jealousy, possessiveness, mention of vomit (not R or E), bad first time (not R), mention of a hypothetical junk-punch, one instance of R described to have breasts with a little weight to them, if I missed anything lmk!

Song Rec: Pavlov’s Bell by Aimee Mann

A/N: I herald his beginning. I herald your end. I herald…experienced!eddie. It’s been a while since I’ve posted a oneshot, and I tried something new with how I wrote this, so pls lemme know how you guys feel about it <33333 Born from this ask!

Masterlist

“So, what do you think?” you eagerly ask.

Eddie’s sitting across from you in the small metal chair, his fingers threaded as they rest on the laminated wooden table in his trailer. His expression is still—frozen. He’s not too sure what to make of your plan.

Honestly, he’s waiting for you to laugh and tell him it was just a joke. A very unfunny, crass joke.

But you don’t, and after what feels like an eternity, he manages a response.

“That is the worst fucking idea I’ve ever heard, sweetheart, and I listen to every single one of Gareth’s ‘million-dollar-cashgrabs.’”

He shakes his head with careful subtlty—like any sudden movement will scare you into actually committing to this plan.

Disbelief clouds his features, heavy and foreboding like the sky before a summer squall—

The nerve. The gumption. The audacity so potent on such an unassuming young woman.

You want to lose your virginity to a stranger and you’re, what, warning him first?

It’s like you want him to disrupt your plans.

He watches you roll your eyes, all pursed lips and impudence.

“Oh, seriously?” you sass. “Calm down. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

Eddie practically chokes on his scoff, and the strangled sound ripples over your body, drawing out the look he knows well. Annoyance—it forces you to sit up straight.

You squirm in your seat for a moment, like a million tiny ants are marching up your spine, dancing over the tension in your shoulders. And he knows…the argument is imminent, but not before he speaks his piece—

“Not that big of a deal? Sweetheart, stubbing your toe is not that big of a deal. Forgetting to check the mail is not that big of a deal,” his voice raises as he gestures wildly, feeling like a Bible Belt preacher wailing about temptation of the flesh. “Losing your virginity? To a stranger? That’s a pretty big-fuckin’-deal!”

Again, you roll your eyes—blatantly disregarding the way his head cocks and his own eyes narrow in warning. He hates when you do that. When you brush him off so easily, like he’s dust on your pristine shoulder—

A quiet chuckle leaves your lips as you avert your gaze, suddenly finding the speckled laminate far more interesting.

Like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar noise, Eddie’s head cocks back the other way, trying to figure out what exactly he said that has you laughing. Usually he loves the sound, but he doesn’t like the tone of this one. There’s something deeply derisive buried beneath the nonchalant surface.

“I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the joke there, sweets. Care to clue me in?” he rasps, goading you.

A jeering smirk pulls at your lips, like you’re finding his simmering temper and deepening voice increasingly amusing.

After another soft huff—a sound that could almost be mistaken for a scoff—you level him with a penetrating look, your smirk slowly splitting into an incredulous grin.

“Sorry,” you start, but a chuckle bubbles up your throat, catching on the clearly insincere apology. “Sorry, I just find this whole thing very funny.”

Eddie sucks his teeth as he watches you shrug dismissively—no longer backing down, no longer avoiding his darkening gaze. He lets your words sit in the air, hoping their stuffy bitterness will suffocate you into surrender, but instead, they seem to brandish your skin like armor.

And just like that, out comes your most dangerous weapon: your self-satisfaction.

From all his years with you, he knows, when your complacency reaches an all-time high, there’s almost no way to change your mind. You’ve already doubled down once, and you’re about to batten down the hatches. Because more than anything, he knows you hate being wrong and hate it even more when you’re told you’re wrong.

And through festering nerves and itchy discomfort, Eddie realizes he just shot your idea down and danced on its grave.

Of course, he wouldn’t have had such a strong reaction if it weren’t such a sensitive topic. But you don’t know that. All you’ve heard so far is you’re wrong, and I know more than you.

It’s moments like these where Eddie curses his motormouth—his almost comical inability to shut up, or, god forbid, consider what he means before he opens his trap. And until he finally learns his lesson, he figures he’s doomed to live with his foot in his mouth for all eternity.

With you shifting in your seat, and time ticking against him, he knows this bomb is going to need an extra delicate defusal. But he’s not certain he can remain level-headed about this subject matter.

Not when it’s you.

Not when damned images of a faceless man caressing you plays in technicolor through his mind. Because sometime ago, somewhere along the night drives and the lazy days, his wires got crossed. And now those wires are sparking, threatening to burn him through and through.

Maybe you’re not the bomb, after all.

“Oh, you find it funny, do you?” he questions, nodding his head.

“Well, yeah. You’re sitting here trying to tell me that, what, losing your virginity is supposed to be special?” you mockingly ask, your features alight with mirth. It’s like you’re a bloodhound catching a scent—the scent of sweet, sweet hypocrisy.

Eddie opens his mouth to answer your rhetorical question, because…yes.

For you?

Yes, it should be special—

“You know what? I want you to go look in a mirror and say what you just said to me, and see if you don’t laugh too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he argues, jerking his head back. Your words might as well have physically manifested themselves into a slap because that’s how they feel, acidic and seeping into his skin with a sting.

“Please! You remember telling me about your first time? You came to school the next day bragging to me and the Hellfire guys about hooking up with some older chick in the bathroom at the Hideout! Remember that? You wore it like a badge of honor!”

He had taken you in as a freshman, just like he did every lost soul. Battling off the stifling monotony of high school together, it was no surprise you developed a crush on him. He was—is—so sweet. So funny. So unlike anyone you had ever met.

He would play the fool just to make you laugh, but he’d defend your honor in an instant. Your very own protection against the venomous cheerleaders and mouth-breathing jocks.

When he would get himself going about something or other, marching along the tops of the lunch tables, it was like staring straight into the sun. You bloomed under his gleaming rays, flowering and reaching toward his warmth with every wild grin, every silly headshake, every teasing joke.

He was addicting, and you would come bounding into lunch every day itching for a fix.

Then you were a sophomore and Eddie was a senior—for the first time.

One day, he came in with a new story to tell, and no amount of sunshine could restore your wilting leaves, your shriveling flowers. No amount of water could satisfy the buds that never got to grow and now never would—

Every prideful sentence—every dirty detail boasting the changed man he had become—acted like a rain of pesticide on your delicate ecosystem.

It was a level of desecration you couldn’t undo if you wanted to.

And you weren’t sure you were even strong enough to try.

Because it became clear that day, he wasn’t yours. He wouldn’t be yours.

You couldn’t see him the same after that. The chemicals contaminated the image, degrading and defacing the likeness.

He wasn’t the man you used to dream about every night.

He didn’t look like he once had—so soft, so sweet. A man able to rot your teeth right out of your skull if you allowed him the honor.

A man so saccharine and delicate, like candy floss.

But maybe it was the image of him that was delicate—not truly him.

After all, your tears melted the wisps pretty easily.

All that was left was piles of sugar—too wet for consumption, and not in the right form—and a crash unrivaled by any confectionery you’d ever had.

White, hot anger seeps from every pore in Eddie’s skin, replaced by the shocking chill of a memory he’s tried very hard to forget.

He feels like throwing up—

This. This, right here, is why he’s vehemently opposing your plan. This feeling constricting his chest, like not enough fresh air in the world could inflate his lungs—

He thought the experience was cool at first. He thought he was being totally “metal.”

But he was just being used.

The woman never asked his name, and when he tried to talk to her, she crudely told him to focus less on talking and more on fucking. It was a mortifying experience. He almost wasn’t able to finish from the sheer embarrassment of it all, but eighteen year old hormones were a thing to behold.

And despite what he would have everyone around him believe, he still cared way too much about what people thought of him. So he strutted into lunch the next day, hopping up on his soapbox to spread the good word of his monumental conquest. High from the excitement of the boys, he embellished most of the story.

And now, here you are, sitting in front of him, smug as can be, thinking you’re proving your point with his own hypocrisy.

But he’s not a hypocrite.

He’s just a liar.

He has lied to you about a lot of things and, funnily enough, all those things seem to be crawling out of their grassy graves, hungry to take a chunk out of him.

Because as much as you may think you’ve cornered him with a “gotcha” moment, your reminder of his past transgressions only makes him all the more passionate about how you should spend your first time.

He can’t let you feel how he felt.

Not you.

You deserve better than empty touches and unfeeling words.

“You wore it like a badge of honor!”

Your voice echoing in his mind has a sentiment never meant to be revealed tumbling past his lips with frightening ease—

“Yeah, and I lied!”

Slowly, your self-satisfied smile falls off your face. Confusion overtakes your confidence.

Capitalizing on your stunned silence, Eddie continues—

“That first time was fucking awful! I felt like shit. I only acted like it was good because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do…. Because I was stupid and young.” He utters the words with disdain, mortification and frustration mixing low in his gut until he feels more flammable than ever.

“It wasn’t good,” he repeats, a frown etched tightly into his features. “It just made me feel…empty.”

Your silence weighs heavy on his shoulders; selfishly, he steals a glance at you, at the crease in your brows and the way you seem to be reflecting. He can almost see you reliving that day in your head, searching for any twitch of an eye, any too-quick-to-fall smiles.

But he’s a good liar. Always has been. Even when it comes to you.

The idle hum of electricity coursing into the yellow bulb above him acts as the soundtrack to your response.

“Well, I don’t plan on doing it in the Hideout bathroom, so I think we’re good there,” you shrug.

Eddie purses his lips; he knows it’s deliberate. What you’re doing, it’s purposeful, and you’re doing it to piss him off. Because you’re pissed off.

Your eyes narrow at his, challenging him in the silence of the trailer.

A huff of air escapes through flared nostrils—he’s refraining.

But you’re killing him.

Sometimes you can be so difficult, but he wouldn’t stick around if he wasn’t addicted to the agony of trying to figure you out.

That’s half the fun of every conversation he’s had with you.

You push his buttons more than any woman he’s ever met, but you’ve twisted him up so bad, the only time he feels normal is when you’re looking at him. Doesn’t matter if it’s with anger or fondness or humor.

You’re a paradox he can’t sort out because you’ve made him like this—wires crossed and incendiary feelings—but you also have a way of fixing him. Though, it’s usually just to mangle him all over again.

And he’d like to be your only victim. He’d like to burn in only your pyre, if given the chance.

If given the chance.

If given the chance, he’d like to put a stop to this. And with the quasi-warning you’ve granted him, he feels this is as good a time as any to poke as many holes in your plan as he can—

“What’s the rush? Why now?”

He can see in your eyes, you’re taken aback by his question as your challenging gaze turns suspicious. “What do you mean, ‘Why now?’ Because I want to, that’s why.”

Your argument is slipping; petulance curls off you in plumes as thick as smoke. And the scent is sweet to him.

Eddie settles back in his chair, sliding his hips down—looking the epitome of leisure and apathy, he hopes. Though, unable to fully transform while walking the repressive tightrope, his left hand fiddles with the rings on his right—a nervous tick he hopes you’re too annoyed to notice.

“Well, yeah, but why not yesterday? Why not a month from now?” He shrugs, feeling flinty resentment sharpen his edges as he continues the onslaught of questions, now bordering on antagonistic. “Why not prom night a few years ago? Isn’t that where all the girls go to lose it? You went, you had a date. You could’ve.”

Your eye twitches.

“Because I didn’t want to, jackass. I’m ready now. I want to now…”

Instead of responding, Eddie just raises his brows, feeling unimpressed. Your words sit in the air, floating in between you both as they grow stale.

The soft whistle of the A/C unit and the ticking of the old clock on the wall make him feel like he’s trapped in this liminal space where conversations never truly end because nobody’s point ever actually gets made. Like he’s just meant to sit here, staring at you, both waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing comes. Because that’s not how the game is played.

Unfettered, Eddie continues to look at you, as though you’re something to be watched—consumed. A separate entity he can’t touch, but he can play the part of an onlooker, waiting for disaster to hit.

You squirm and shuffle in your seat. He observes. Waits. Gives you the space to tell on yourself because he knows you’re not strong enough to resist it.

Your eyes sporadically flit from his to random places in the trailer as you avoid his patient gaze.

After a few seconds, it appears the opened cereal box and empty beer cans across the room become a bore to you.

Slowly, your far-out gaze drops down the kitchen counter, landing on the floor, sliding to the side, and back up the table until it rests on his joined hands, fingers threaded, rings bulky and glinting in the dull glow of the humming bulb.

He sees the exact moment you buckle under his unyielding attention—the moment you give up. Your shoulders deflate the smallest amount, free of tension and low from submission. Your chest collapses under the expression of a deep, silent sigh.

“I’m tired of being a virgin,” you mutter, shame darkening every syllable. “I just want it over with, I don’t care anymore.”

Eddie purses his lips again, nodding, because he understands the feeling. He remembers the pressure. “And you don’t wanna wait to lose it to someone you love?”

You don’t respond. Don’t look at him. All you do is laugh. Just a quiet, humorless chuckle. A few notes of melody that tell him you’ve got a well of emotions, thoughts, and opinions on the subject that you’ll have to spare him for time’s sake.

But Eddie’s not in the business of letting you off easy. As much as you can be difficult sometimes, he can be far worse.

He can talk, and talk, and talk for hours. Stall forever if he needs to.

Suddenly, he sits up, hunching his shoulders forward, determined. “I think you should wait…. For someone you love,” he implores.

You roll your eyes again, as though he’s spinning you an opulent fantasy and swearing it’s true.

He crosses his arms, mirroring your own movement—

“Thank you for your input, I’ll take it into consideration.” You shoot him an insincere smile before looking up at the ceiling of the trailer, as if thinking, only to return your gaze to him seconds later. “Okay. I’ve considered it. And I’m choosing to ignore it.”

Eddie bristles, sucking in a quick breath to bolster his impending rebuttal, but you don’t even let him—

“I don’t know if you've noticed, Eddie, but there’s a distinct lack of guys lining down the block, waiting to woo me. And that’s fine, it’s whatever,” you shrug, shaking your head like you couldn’t be less bothered. “I can’t make someone love me. But this, I can control…”

You snort, mordacious words spewing from your perfect lips. “One thing I know about men is they may not be quick to love, but they’re certainly easy to seduce.”

Eddie shifts angrily in his seat. Not quick to love?

As if that could be true. Who in their right mind—

Part of him wants to yell at any guy who’s ever rejected you, but the other part—the dark, untamable ego—wants to jump up in celebration, in smug satisfaction that he’s not having to duel for your devotion.

But he doesn’t do either because love is awful.

It’s like staring into a mirror and all his worst flaws are staring back.

Right now, his selfishness is glaring at him, and yet, he can’t seem to care. That’s the worst part.

He should be good. He should be better for you. Should want to be better for you. It’s what you deserve. But you’ve done something irreversible to him.

And love is fickle.

Because, unfortunately, he can relate to you on one thing—the woes of not being able to make someone love you.

The pain of wanting it and not getting it.

If he could….

If he could get it…

If he could make someone love him—if it were possible—he wouldn’t be stuck here listening to you plot how you’re going to lose your virginity to some guy. Instead, he’d be half-way to the bedroom by now, your hand in his, and a million sweet kisses waiting for you.

But love is fickle.

“Okay, fine. Yeah, guys are easy, but you can’t lose it to a stranger. That’s probably the worst way to go about it,” he complains, regarding you with almost-pleading eyes.

You pause for a moment, your eyes narrow at the earnest display of caution on his face. But then you must remember this is the face of a liar, because—

“I mean…people hook up with people all the time. Some even after they’ve just met at a bar,” you pointedly argue, pinning Eddie to the spot with a time-hardened gaze.

His lip curls as he regrets ever opening his mouth that day in ‘84.

If he had known it would give you the perfect shield, allowing every argument he lobs at you to bounce off and hit him square in the chest, he would have never said a word. In fact, he has half a mind to create time travel just to go back and kick eighteen year old Eddie’s ass—

“And besides, I’m not doing it with a stranger. I was thinking of asking Jimmy Royston,” you shrug, focusing on the chipped nail polish you can’t seem to stop picking at. “I sat next to him in Chemistry, like, all of junior year.”

For the first time in what feels like forever—well, at least since you told him your plans for later—Eddie laughs. A boisterous, belly laugh that echoes around the trailer, the sound bouncing off the smoke-stained wallpaper and hitting every surface in sight.

Too busy wiping tears from his eyes, Eddie misses the way your face sours, your lips curling into a dangerous sneer.

He starts a few sentences that immediately devolve into gibberish and giggles when he pictures you and Jimmy Royston so much as speaking. God, his stomach hurts— He always did sat you were the funnier one out of you and him.

A terse ahem draws his attention back, and he tries to stop his body from shaking with heaving laughter.

“Oh, sorry. Phew! I needed that, I needed that.” He wipes some escaped tears off his cheeks. “Ohh, thank you, sweetheart, that was very funny. Thank you,” he says with a breathless grin, smoothing his shirt and rubbing his sore abdomen.

Staring at him with a heavy brow, your expression remains still—

When your facade doesn’t crack—when you don’t smirk and revel in how hard you made him break, like you usually do—Eddie’s smile drops off his face, replaced by unabashed incredulity.

You’re serious. You truly mean to tell him…Jimmy Royston is your man of choice? The guy who vomited all over himself in ninth grade when he had to dissect a frog in biology is the one you want to lose your virginity to? Jimmy ‘Puke-y’ Royston?

What’s more, your choice is based on a year of being lab partners? Really? Eddie has known you since freshman year—known of you since elementary school—and you’re choosing an acquaintance over him?

Not even an acquaintance—an obligatory desk-mate. How romantic. Touching, really—

He can’t help but imagine how that conversation would go. “Hey, Jimmy, remember me from Chem? Stoichiometry, am I right? That shit sucked. Anyway, do you wanna fuck me?”

All of a sudden, he starts considering whether he could win in a fight against the short, slim guy.

Who knows? It may come to that if he fucks this up and fails to convince you never to leave his trailer—especially not for Jimmy Royston.

“Sorry, you wanna have your first time with your eleventh grade chem partner? Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Eddie wails, a crazed, bemused look in his eyes as he leans forward over the table that separates you two.

You groan loudly, rolling your eyes so hard your head lolls back. “Oh, what now? You don’t want it to be a stranger, I said it’s not gonna be. Now you don’t want it to be someone I know? Seriously, Eddie, you’re grasping at straws here.”

“Someone you know? Jimmy is someone you know?” he scoffs, his brows lift so high they disappear into the messy curls of his bangs.

When you don’t say anything else, only pursing your lips and avoiding his fiery gaze, he nods fervently, his frizzy locks swaying softly with the movement.

“Yeah, well, of course. You guys go way back,” he mocks. “You know what, while you’re at it, why don’t you call up Chris Trilcek? You were paired up for that final presentation in world history freshman year. Bet he’d be a hoot-and-a-half in the sack, and I’m sure he’s free!”

“Oh, do you think I should?” you ask, staring off to the side of his frazzled face like you’re actually considering his teasing suggestion. “I mean it’d be nice to have options in case Jimmy isn’t up for it…”

Before Eddie has a chance to figure out if you’re being deliberately obtuse again, you’re up, leaving him to stare at the empty space across the table as you rifle through the junk-drawer in his kitchen.

Inside the deep drawer, stray batteries and an impressive rubber band ball roll about as you dig through a shocking amount of take-out menus. Once you find what you’re looking for, you make your way back to Eddie, plopping onto your chair, letting the item drop from your hands and onto the table with a loud thump.

Quickly, you split the phone book open, flipping through the flimsy pages to get to the ‘R’ section.

“What the f—”

Eddie shakes his head wildly, slamming his hand down on the binding of the book before he drags it to him and away from you—away from your deft, searching fingers.

“Hey!”

You reach across the table to pull the White Pages back, but before you can get your hands on it, he shoves the book off the surface like an attention-seeking cat. It goes flying, falling to the floor of the trailer with a loud, hollow thud.

“Hey! I need that, asshole!” you yell, vexation turning your tone shrill.

You stare into his eyes for a moment, annoyance cooking your insides like a stew as you’re met with utter indifference and what looks to be a hint of smugness. You’re going to kill him.

Stuck in another stand-off, neither of you move until you make the mistake of glancing at the ground, noting the landing spot of the heavy book, splayed out—frail pages folding under the weight of itself in haphazard creases. Eddie follows your gaze and that’s all it took to give away your next move.

In a flash, you turn, bending down, and reaching to the floor. Eddie matches your hasty movements as you both tumble out of your seats, trying to beat the other to the book. The very tips of your fingers brush the laminated cover when he lurches forward, pushing the book out of your grasp once more.

“Ugh!” you shriek as you scramble toward it, at an advantage because, though he got it away from you in that split-second, he still pushed it to your side of the room—further away from him. You feel a brush of wind against your bare skin as he swipes at your ankle, trying to catch the limb to drag you back to him, but you’re too quick. You get a hold of the book and stand up, rushing over to the yellow landline by the door.

“Fuck!” he shouts, clambering after you. The noises of you vigorously flipping through the pages and the click of the phone coming off the hook only seem to add to his panicked fervor.

Eddie comes to an abrupt stop behind you, his body nudging you closer to the wall with his nearly-uncontrolled speed. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, his chest warms your back as he breathes heavy.

Right as you’re about to start typing in the number you found for the Roystons, the phone lodged between your ear and shoulder disappears—yanked free, and slammed back onto the hook by a large, ringed hand.

Another annoyed groan tears from your throat as you feel his body loom ever-closer behind you. Hunching your shoulders, you turn away from his right hand—the one that guards the phone—to protect your precious White Pages. But it doesn’t work—

His left hand—the one you hadn’t noticed was resting on your hip—ambushes you from the other side.

Quickly, Eddie firmly presses the pads of his spread fingers onto the thin page you were reading from, and balls his hand into a tight fist, effectively ripping the delicate paper from the book, trapping it beneath his iron grip. In a fit of rage, you whirl around, leveling him with a sharp glare.

He backs away from you, fist still closed around the paper, shielding it from your inevitable reach. Slamming the book onto the side table beneath the phone, you march toward him.

“Eddie, what the fuck?” you yell, matching his retreating steps with your confident stride. When he runs out of space, you corner him against the far wall and the couch, zeroing in on his fist.

Eddie lifts his hand high above his head, fully aware of how silly this game of life-or-death keep-away is. But he’ll be damned if you get that fucking phone number.

As you reach for the crumpled paper, he uses his body to block you—leaning back when you lean forward, stretching and giving you more of his body to reach over. You grunt and mutter obscenities at him, balancing on your tip-toes, but nothing helps. You can’t reach it. He’s never been more overjoyed at his lanky stature than in this moment—

Giggles freely escape his grinning mouth while he watches laser-sharp focus and irritation mar your face as you shove him, trying to get him to break and finally give you the page. He’d never admit it to you because you’d probably junk-punch him—especially right now—but he’s loving the way you’re all over him.

Your touch is everywhere as you reach and pry for the bane of his existence. Not to mention you smell amazing. He has to stop himself from curling into your roving hands, but he must remain sturdy. For both of your sakes.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’re tall enough to ride this ride,” he goads, utterly drunk on you.

You let out the loudest groan he’s ever heard from you, leading him to snicker some more. But he soon regrets his overconfident teasing when you give up on aiming directly for his hand and instead start pawing at his arm.

A sharp chop to the inside of his elbow sends shockwaves of dull pain through his nervous system as you use your full body weight to pull down on his raised arm, now partially crumpled from your assault to his joint.

In a moment of desperation—your body hanging from his flexing bicep, slowly but surely bringing it to your level—Eddie shoves the ball of paper into his mouth and releases the tension in his arm, dropping it to his side. The sudden slack causes you to nearly fall over, but before you do, he wraps his arms around your waist, catching you.

Your irate features melt into a look of disgust as you squirm out of his arms.

“Ew! Egh! That’s so gross, Eddie!”

“Mmm, phone book,” he taunts through a mouthful of White Pages.

“You know, that was your phone book, right? You just lost yourself a whole two pages of R’s,” you say, raising a brow.

“Don’t care.”

His petulance is muffled by the crumpled paper in his mouth, and he can’t help but cringe at the taste. Paper. It just tastes like paper. But old.

Suddenly, he sidesteps your body and crosses the room, heading back to the kitchen to throw the page away. He can feel the thin material softening from his saliva and it’s making him want to scrub his mouth out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you watching him as he spits the wet slop into the garbage, sees the way you carefully step toward the phone again.

“Ugh, you’re a child.”

He pauses from scrubbing a towel over his tongue—attempting to clean any remaining pieces of paper from his mouth. “And you’re a brat.”

You huff at his declaration. “Am not!”

“Are too!” he rebuts, dropping the towel and coming out from around the counter.

“I’m just trying to tell you you’re gonna regret it! I’m on board with the ‘virginity is a concept’ train—hell, I’m the conductor! My point is, sure, it’s a concept, but it’s a concept with feelings attached to it. And feelings get all confusing and…feelings-y,” he rushes out, frustrated at how he can never find the right words when you’re around. “You might not believe it now, but if you go through with this, you’re gonna feel pretty shitty afterwards.”

He ends his spiel by crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter, staring at you. He’s said his piece.

You watch him for a moment, then—

“Great. Thank you for the wisdom, Gandalf. But how ‘bout you go share that with someone who cares? I’ve got a ‘T’ name to call.”

You turn around, pick up the phonebook once more, and flip through a few chunks of pages to get to the right section.

Eddie lets out a loud, defeated sigh as he lets his arms drop to his sides. “You’re really not gonna give this up?”

Scoffing, you shoot him a glare from across the room before looking back down at the list of names. “Exactly which part of ‘I’m gonna lose my virginity tonight’ did you not understand?”

He sucks his teeth as he watches your finger find Chris’s last name, your hand already reaching for the phone.

Fuck it—

“Fine. If you really wanna lose it to someone, and you don’t care who, then lose it to me,” he shrugs, crossing his arms again.

He glances away from your now-still figure, your shoulders so high, they’re nearly up to your ears.

Forcing a level of indifference he’s never quite been capable of—especially not when it comes to you—he stares downward, as if the well-worn carpet beneath his feet could ever be more interesting than the woman whose second home is his subconscious.

You’re pretty sure you can hear the fibers unfurling beneath his shifting feet. Or maybe it’s your feet. Maybe it’s your heartbeat in your ears, not his. Everything is a little confusing and you can’t seem to look away from the wall. It feels like a safe place to rest your unseeing eyes.

Your arm aches and you retract it from where you were reaching for the phone—you hadn’t made it, you were half-way there when he said it.

Carefully, you turn your head to him, trying to figure out if this is some shitty joke he’s spouting just to piss you off or if he has well and truly lost it. But his face is devoid of any humor and he looks as sane as he ever did—which was never a lot, but no different to now.

More than anything, he looks almost vulnerable as he avoids your shocked gaze.

“What? Eddie—” you start, already exasperated because you’ve decided that, even though he appears to be completely serious, he must be joking, “if this is another way for you to try and–”

“It’s not.” He shrugs his shoulders again, finally meeting your eyes while shoving his hands into the back pockets of his ripped jeans. “You win. I capitulate to her majesty.”

You raise a brow at the medieval lilt and his waving bow to you, but before you get to reprimand him for the joke, he continues—

“If you’re gonna go have sex with someone you feel nothing for, then why not feel nothing for me?”

You almost want to laugh at his “foolproof” logic, but the familiar pain in your chest is accompanied by something else. Something almost warm. Like rays of sun fighting through cumulonimbus clouds.

Damp dirt, new leaves, and fertilizer.

He’s offering something you only ever dreamed of like it never crossed your mind.

Like it would mean nothing.

An agreement. A one-time deal. No strings attached; an easy fix to your problem.

But what if you want strings?

Does he want strings?

Strings do get messy when left untied. All the criss-cross feelings and knotted touches.

But it’s him—

“Eds—”

Like he’s been burned by your solemn tone, Eddie cuts you off in a hurry. “At least it’d be with someone you know. Like really know…. Someone who cares about you—about your experience.”

The fragility in his eyes makes you want to console him. To tell him you believe every word. That you’re sure he would be good to you.

Because he looks like him—

The soft, sweet man you saw all those years ago. The one you prayed to at night like a deity, asking for a few more seconds of his hand on your lower back, or more moments of just you and him. More laughter, more affection, more time. More, more, more.

All the little things that molded you into a reverent devotee in the first place.

Asking for every small thing to bolster your faith.

And now, he’s finally offering something much larger.

Reaching for you with a divine gift.

How could you possibly say no?

Criss-cross feelings, you remind yourself.

Strings to tie your heart down, could be useful—

Fuck it.

Slowly, you set the phone book down and make your way over to his spot against the kitchen counter. Stopping right in front of him, you look up with hesitant curiosity.

You’ve never really been this close to him. Not with this much on the table.

Mindlessly—shamelessly—you glance at his lips before succumbing to the cloudy glint in his eyes, the darkness that falls like a veil over his once-lively irises.

There’s something there, you find.

Something else that swirls deep in the molten shade of brown.

Something you want to know more about.

Your hands hang uselessly below you, resting against your body as you nervously fiddle with your fingers. The pointed tip of your tongue glides along the soft skin of your lips, leaving your mouth parted—like a siren call to his.

You couldn’t be any closer to him. Butterflies flutter in your stomach as you feel the soft puffs of air from his wanton mouth. But you won’t move anymore.

You leave yourself for him. He can have you if he wants.

A sacrifice.

Eddie’s eyes rove over your face, looking down at the way you’re almost reaching for him, but it’s as if you won’t allow the touch. Won’t allow the crossing of some imaginary barrier you’ve built.

Steadily, he lifts his hands—crosses the line—trailing his fingers up your neck like a ghost of a touch, until he settles his gentle grip on either side of your head. Stealing a moment from Time itself—just a second, a blip, like he’s plucking a ripe berry to savor in the thousand milliseconds he’s stolen—he smooths his thumbs over your temples, granting himself the selfish gift of feeling you.

His eyes consume all, admiring the dainty flutter of your mascara-blackened lashes, the softness of your skin—he marvels at the feeling.

Simmering from the heat of your body, he tries to memorize all your prettiest features, seen through an advantage he’s never had before. To be this close. To never be again.

He’s going to make it worth his while. He has to.

A lowly victim to your gravitational pull, he finds himself leaning toward you, like light toward a collapsing star. And there’s no escaping you, not when you so easily warp the fabric of his being with frightening ease.

Loud in his straining ears, he hears the slight hitch in your breath when he nearly brushes his lips with yours, but he loses himself before he can truly feel you. Instead, he plants a cowardly, chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Simply not enough, but more than he could have ever dreamed of getting. Another bittersweet paradox.

“D’you want this?”

He’s so quiet, but he can feel the way you shudder against him. The way you feel him, his words mumbled devoutly into your skin.

“I wanna lose my virginity,” you whisper confidently, like it’s the only thing you're absolutely certain of.

Eddie tries to fight the way his face falls, but he can’t seem to manage it when your words serve as a reminder of how little this all matters to you. Or, at least, how little you care who you lose it to.

But, ever-observant, you notice, and he catches the worry as soon as it draws your brows together.

“T-To you…” you amend. “Can I?”

The frail uncertainty in your voice feeds the fire deep in Eddie’s gut, like bone-dry wood being thrown into the hearth on a years-long winter night.

The flames, once dim and hopeless, time-weathered and starving, roar back to life.

Subtly, he nods, relishing the way you relax. Bound to your request, he allows his palms to glide down your form, taking his time to explore the new terrain until he grabs ahold of your soft hands.

Side stepping your body, he gently pulls you to his room. His backwards strides are confident—a sign of comfortability in the home he’d call yours, just the same as he’d call it his. After all, these walls have seen nearly every iteration of his care for you. From acquaintances to friends to—

Neither of you speak as he guides you around his frame—you, now in front of him, and him, leaning his weight against the bedroom door until it clicks shut.

Wayne is on a fishing trip for the weekend with some buddies from the plant, but he’s not particularly known for remembering to pack everything, and Eddie is keen on protecting your modesty and ensuring your comfort. Like you deserve. Like he knows he can—better than anyone.

He drops one hand from yours only to lock the door. Once he’s certain there will be no interruptions, he walks you back toward the bed until you’re standing right in front of it.

Dropping your other hand, he reaches up and gently smooths the hair near your temple again, addicted to the way your eyes flutter. His hands slide down your figure until he’s toying with the hem of your t-shirt—his t-shirt, the one you stole in tenth grade and never gave back.

His selfishness befriends the possessive fiend he fights back daily, because you’re moving through the world marked by him. And in this moment, Eddie wonders if you really could have let another man touch you in the shirt that whispers his name against your soft skin.

Heat thrums just below your surface, boiling and bubbling, nearly spilling over when you feel him tugging at your shirt, silently asking for permission. His hands wait patiently.

You don’t respond. Don’t know how to speak. Nerves rattle against your ribcage. Or maybe it’s your heart testing its prison, looking for a way out as it pounds and pounds and pounds—

“Can I take this off?”

His low mutter—almost a monosyllabic slur of sound—registers a second later in your hazy brain. You nod, forcing your lungs to expand, but nearly choke at the faint scent of his cologne.

It’s familiar. Piercing, clean, and rich—

You remember the day he got it. When he dragged you to the mall, forcing you to smell every option. He bought the one you liked the most. Even when he wasn’t too sure about it. You remember warning him about the price tag, about how he should pick one he really likes if he’s going to splurge on it. But he wouldn’t hear it—

“Words.”

A confused hum creeps up your throat as you greedily bask in his scent, feeling the world move in slow motion around you. His unending touch carves canyon-like ripples into the tissue of your mind.

When you manage to focus on his eyes, there’s a level of fondness in them that has you grabbing onto his wrist for support.

“Wanna hear your words, sweetheart. Y’gotta tell me what you want.”

Understanding washes over you like cool hose water on a hot summer day. Quickly, you open your mouth to ask him—no, beg him—to undress you, but before a single word can crawl out from between your parted lips, you feel his warm fingers dancing along the delicate skin of your waist, leaving a wave of goosebumps in their wake.

Your breath catches, and you shudder because he’s both hot and cold—

His attention warms you; his touch leaves you shivering from a chill that is so frigid it begins to manipulate your frayed nerves, tricking you into feeling the burn as if it were born from the bluest flame and not the calloused hands of your best friend—

“I— I, um…”

You shake your head as you try to remember what you were about to say before the words ran away from you and into his arms, stealing whatever desperate sentiment you meant to express. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to figure it out, to fill in the blanks—like a cipher missing its key.

His thumbs are drawing little shapes into the soft skin beneath your shirt, aiding and abetting the thieving words. The unfamiliar affection makes your abdomen twitch and your core pulse with need.

Before you get the chance to draw up some semblance of sanity, Eddie leans into you, effectively shrinking your entire world to just him. He’s everything you feel, everything you smell, everything you see, everything you touch, everything you…want to taste.

You so desperately want to know what flavor his kisses are—

Bitter smoke from the habit he can never quite kick? Malt sweetness from the beer he loves to drink? Cool mint from the gum he always carries around?

Would you grow ravenous at the first hint of Marlboro Reds? Would you crumble under the eager pressure of his lager-soaked tongue? Would your mouth water at the lingering scent of menthol on his breath?

You’re trapped in his thrall the second he closes in on your space. His head tips to the side, running his lips along your warm cheeks, your jaw. You shiver at the soft brush of his mouth—an action you’re painfully aware is not meant to be shared among friends. No, this kind of touch is reserved for lovers only—

“What do you want, sweetheart? Want me to touch you? Want me to hold you?” he murmurs, heavy gaze locked on the way your lips part, and you quietly pant. Your head bobs toward his mouth, body leaning into his arms, drawn to the heat of him.

You hear the sharp intake of breath, feel his nose nuzzling your hair. Then, as if fighting for control, his hands flex, only to grab onto your hips and drag you tight against him, like he lost the battle. Or maybe he surrendered. The way he hangs over you, almost relieved at the closeness leads you to believe it’s the latter.

Emboldened by his body against yours—all growing hardness and twitching muscles—your hands paw at his abdomen, his waist, kneading and pulling him impossibly closer.

“What do you want, baby?”

You bite back a whimper at the new endearment.

Because that’s reserved for lovers too—

“I want…W-Wan’ you. I wanna be…be with you,” you mumble breathlessly, mindlessly.

In a huff of impatience, he pulls your top over your head. You hear the way he swallows back a groan and you wish he wouldn’t have.

With expert dexterity, he removes your bra, and this time, he doesn’t hold back. You practically bloom under his attention—his wide, hungry eyes, his almost pained rasp of humming appreciation.

His hands slide up the sides of your body, featherlight fingers following the length of your ribs, brushing inward as he traces the skin just below the curve of your breasts.

Your wandering hands fiddle with the hem of his shirt before slipping under the material, flexing and groping at his toned abdomen. You pull at his narrow waist, a wordless plea for him to touch you more.

But he seems uninterested in your needy silence and you remember his instructions—

“Eddie, please. Please, touch me. I need you…. Wanna feel you.”

“Whatever you want,” he agrees, nodding.

Electricity prickles and dances across your skin like invisible lightning as he finally slides his hands over your sensitive breasts. Gently kneading the weight, he smooths his thumbs over your pebbled nipples. You gasp at the sensation, the way it directly triggers the heat twisting and turning low in your core with a quickness you’re not accustomed to.

Leaning down, Eddie attacks your jaw and neck with greedy, open-mouthed kisses. His nose nudges you zealously, like he’s devouring your delicate flesh and still aching for more, so you tilt your head away, eager to provide.

You tug his shirt up his body, but quickly realize you’ll need him to break away from your neck to get the material over his head. You lightly push on his abdomen, and he begrudgingly stops his assault, understanding what you’re looking for.

With a level of speed you’ve never once seen him use, he peels his shirt off, balls it up, and blindly tosses it somewhere in the corner of the room.

Unabashedly, you ogle his body in a way you’ve never allowed yourself before. Your heavy-lidded gaze is first drawn to the pick hanging just below his collarbones, sitting perfectly against his pale skin. Then, your eyes drop, admiring the tattoos that litter the expanse of his chest.

You’ve only ever seen them a few times—mostly at the Hawkins pool on hot summer days, and once when you walked in on him changing. You remember how you couldn’t get the image out of your mind. The contrast, the searing visage of inky-black against milky-white, pressed into skin like a pretty decoration meant to be admired.

And like a set path guided by nothing but desire, your eyes track down, down, down his body—all heat and hardness. Your mouth waters when you catch sight of the tuft of coarse hair trailing from his navel to whatever lies beyond the waistband of his jeans.

Whatever lies—

But you already have an idea; you feel him pulsing against your stomach, you felt him twitch when you whimpered moments ago.

All heat and hardness.

Drawing you from your trance, Eddie’s deft fingers fiddle with the button on your jean shorts, making quick work of the fastenings and dragging the material down your legs. He drops to his knees, peering up at you with something in his eyes so…raw that it has you grabbing onto him, your balance escaping you.

With your hands on his strong shoulders, you watch with rapt attention as he removes your shoes and socks, then he gently cups one ankle, lifting it and helping you out of the leg of your shorts before doing the same to the other. His touch is so soft—so gentle—you think you might cry.

Barely anything has happened yet and he’s taking such good care of you. You shudder to think how this would have gone had you called up Jimmy or Chris.

Nobody could compare to Eddie.

Feeling weightless, heavy, high, and stone-cold sober all at once, you meet his eyes.

“You look…” he pauses, swallowing harshly, “you’re so beautiful.”

Your ears ring at the hidden sentiment between those three words. A million extra meanings you can’t catch, but you heard them like a whisper in the wind—real and slipping through your fingers the moment his hungry lips grace your skin once more.

Large hands squeeze the backs of your thighs, and you feel the tickling brush of his frizzy curls against your bare legs.

Wet, searing kisses travel upward, his hands slide in tandem with the needy affection. He holds you with a type of reverence you couldn’t have foreseen—as if you could have ever foreseen this. He moves along your body like you’re allowing him, not like he’s the one doing you a favor.

You sigh when you feel the heat of his breath over the place you need him most. He’s stopped at the apex of your thighs, panting like a desperate man, blocked by a flimsy slip of fabric that you’re certain he could shred to pieces with the way his eyes have darkened.

“C-Can I?” His strained voice breaks through the music in the room, disrupting the melody of syncopating gasps and pants.

It feels like the world is moving as you stay perfectly still, staring down at him, his arms wrapped around your legs, fingers greedily curling in the waistband of your panties. You find yourself thankful for his steady, obedient grip.

Underneath his wanton gaze, you feel the weight of roles reversed. It’s like it’s his first time, the way he’s looking up at you like your permission will fix him. Your touch will mend something broken.

With wide eyes and parted lips, you nod. “Y-Yes. Please, Eddie.”

A sound torn from deep within his chest rumbles out, reverberating around the room, bouncing off of every wall and hitting you like a spell. Low, where his breaths warm you, a fiery enchantment unfurls in volant tendrils like ink in water.

Suddenly, Eddie drags the thin material down from around your hips, another appreciative groan rips from his throat as he watches the gusset of your panties fall last, stuck to your wet folds. A delicate string of arousal clings to the fabric, unable to part from it.

You watch his efforts slow, his lids grow heavy like he can’t control the need. Then, he presses his face between your thighs, the very faint graze of his tongue leaves you trembling.

With one targeted swipe, Eddie’s tongue snaps the silky string, catching what he can with overwhelming zeal.

“Want more,” he mumbles into your heat. “Sweets…”

“Yes,” you interrupt, already drowning in desperation. “Need you—”

He growls and pulls your panties the rest of the way down your legs before his large hand lifts one of your thighs to sit on his shoulder, allowing him easier access to your soaked core. He hums brokenly—a lewd sound of appreciation.

The second he drags the flat of his tongue through your dripping folds, your gasps devolve into messy moans, but the sound only seems to encourage him more. With foreign ferocity, he devours you.

“Oh, god, Eddie,” you mewl, hips twitching against his face, hands threading through his fluffy hair for balance.

Vibrations from his responding groan move through you, tearing you apart until you’re nothing but wanton shreds. Your knees almost buckle beneath you, but he presses into you. Harder. More persistent. The force sends you falling backward onto the bed, your hands hurry to break your soft descent.

Your hips hang off the edge of the mattress—one foot still planted on the ground, the other dangling over Eddie’s right shoulder. His hands grope and knead the fat of your thighs as his tongue eagerly laps up your arousal like a man starved. Your arms give out from under you, sending your back barreling down to the untucked sheets on his mattress.

You’re panting and burning up; the heat of his breath meets the warmth of your folds, creating a smoldering furnace where his mouth dances over you. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, and one you think no other man could ever replicate.

Your hips react ardently to every twist and flick of his tongue, the talented muscle toying with you until you’re shaking and whining and bucking against his mouth for more.

The moment you feel the tip of his tongue draw tight circles around your swollen clit, your head flies back in ecstasy. Your hands wander the space around you for something to grab, first, trailing over your breasts with a teasing squeeze before reaching for the sheets beside you. But it’s not enough. The material is so thin, you can’t get the grip you need.

Like he can sense the desperate energy rolling off of you in tidal waves—like he knows the feeling—Eddie grabs your hands, momentarily sacrificing his fragile skin to your clawing, pressing, sinking, crushing—

Your thoughts are plucked from somewhere high in the ether and placed back into your head the moment you feel his dragging touch, then, softness. Peering down the winding, curving terrain of your body, you meet his dark eyes, see the way he’s moved your restless hands into his hair.

The whine falling past your lips is drowned out by his aching growl deep within your wet folds. He tightens his grip around your hands before letting go, encouraging you to hold onto him—to use him.

And you do.

You tug him closer, grinding your core against his mouth until you arch at the dull pressure of his tongue breaching your entrance, pressing into you powerfully, exploring untouched territory you wish could be marred by his ministrations. Like a token to memorialize this moment in time. Something that says you’re his—

Quickly, your hips start to lose their rhythm against his face, recklessly twitching and squirming with every break he takes from fucking you to flicking your clit with searing precision.

“Eddie, Eddie, I’m gonna— Please, Eds, I—”

Not even bothering to pull away, he moans his pleas right into your pussy. “Give it to me, baby. Mmmph, give it to me, sweets. Taste so fuckin’ good—”

The tone he’s using, the way he pauses after every other word to slurp and lap at your quivering folds, almost makes it feel like he’s not even talking to you. Or maybe not just you. But it’s like he’s speaking directly to your weeping cunt, pleading for more—more arousal to devour, more fluttering pulses to tickle his tongue.

Your brows contort in pleasure as tears prick at your waterline—almost there, almost there.

Suddenly, you miss the pressure of his mouth for a split-second while you hear a sucking sound, then your chest wracks with desperate sobs as you feel him slip a single finger inside you.

“Oh, god! Oh, fuck!”

His other hand holds your hips down, blunt nails sinking deeper into the surface of your skin as electricity speeds along a high-strung coil—crackling and tight—just below his large palm. But the coil soon snaps when he starts to drag his long, thick finger against your velvety walls, thrusting in and out—gentle yet firm in his actions.

“Eddie, Eddie, oh, fuck!”

Unmade and raw, all you can do is babble incoherent whines and pleas as he teases you even past your orgasm, his tongue working your clit until it throbs to the beat of your racing heart.

When your legs start shaking from overstimulation, you finally gather enough strength to push on his head—appealing for mercy.

Like he’s not ready to part from you just yet, Eddie doesn’t yield to your push, though he does begrudgingly grant you reprieve. But he stays between your legs, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s not just breathing deeply to catch his breath. The way he inches infinitesimally closer, the way he won’t let your thighs close—it’s like he’s reveling in your heady scent—

“Fuck, you’re so pretty when you cum. Squeezin’ my finger so hard. God, this was just one, baby,” he boasts, utter glee defiling his already dirty words.

You whimper. One finger, and you felt so full.

In response, he garnishes your twitching pelvis with wet, sloppy kisses, like he’s searing a promise into your skin—

His hands do their best to hold your hips down, allowing him to take a tour of the tops of your thighs, the divot where your folds meet your legs, your mound—soaked and slobbered on by his overzealous mouth.

Peering down your body, open-mouthed and desperate, you nearly mewl at the way his eyes are glazed over. He looks drunk on the taste of you. Completely and utterly wasted. What’s more, his face is covered in you.

All the way up to his nose, his skin shimmers in the light, glistening with your juices. But he doesn’t seem ashamed of the indecent display. Instead, he seems proud. Proud to wear you on him—like a badge of honor.

“Eddie, please. I want more,” you whine, breathless from the come-down.

“Pretty girl,” he purrs, nuzzling your thigh, “so desperate. Am I turning you to the dark side already?”

You shudder at his smug grin, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about his overly-inflated ego. Your mind is mush, and all you can think is his name prefaced by the dangerous word “my.”

“Please,” you mewl.

His grin widens, and you note the hunger no longer hidden in the dark brown of his irises. Because he’s not aiming for decency anymore. Not in the way he’s eyeing you like you’re a meal and he’s famished, and not in the way his words are rife with untapped desire.

“Alright, pretty.” He pats your thigh before backing away from you. “Up on the bed.”

It’s a soft order. A gentle command as he grabs your forearms and helps you scoot your hips all the way onto the mattress before letting go, allowing you to shuffle to the top of the bed.

Once your head hits the pillow, he watches you settle into place, shoving the untucked sheets out from beneath you and off to the side. Without taking his eyes off of your movements, he works to remove his jeans, shoving them down his legs, along with his boxers.

Now that your moans have ceased, the room is so quiet, he can hear your sharp intake of breath when his hard cock bobs free from its constraints. He bites his lip at the subtle shock shifting across your face. It’s flattering, but more than anything, he’s leaking at the thought of fitting inside you.

“That’s— You’re—”

Every one of your sentences seems to die on the first word, and he watches your thighs clench as your focus stays on his thick length.

Heat warms Eddie’s cheeks as he tries to stop the smile from overtaking his face. He shouldn’t be like this—he should be calm, cool, and collected, but clearly exceeding your expectations has him feeling a myriad of things. Giddy, confident, smug…eager.

Mindlessly, he wipes a hand down the lower half of his face, gathering your slick arousal on his palm, then collects the precum pouring from his ruddy tip, and spreads the combination of juices over the expanse of his thick cock. He grants himself a firm, teasing squeeze as he steps toward you, but quickly detours to the bedside table to rifle through the top drawer.

“I’ll make sure it feels good, don’t worry. You’re gonna help me with that,” he says lowly, then stills his searching hands as he looks to you for a nod of agreement. When you give it to him, he smiles fondly. “Good girl.”

A quiet huff of amusement escapes him when he hears your strained whimper—the way you so obviously try to keep yourself quiet, but can’t help it.

He’s starting to catch onto what you like. How you like to be spoken to. And your responses are addicting. The clench of your thighs, the pulse of your walls. The need that crawls up your throat like it’s fighting its way out of you.

He desperately wants to know what else his words can elicit. Or maybe even try something more than his words—

His body warms as he wonders what you’ll sound like when you’re wrapped around him. His mind conjures its best guess at the noises you’ll make when his thrusts knock the air out of you, like sweet rasping melodies meant to torture him.

He wants to know just how shrill your cries will get when you’re nearly there, searching for just a little bit more.

But most of all he wants to hear the sweet words that will slip past your loose lips, your mind too cockdrunk to stop the affection you’ll share. The secrets you’ll spill. God, he’s aching to hear you.

If he could, he’d lock you in his room and run experiments on you for a week straight—just to find out what makes you tick. He’d take you apart piece-by-pretty-piece, just to put you back together again. He’d hold you tight and play with you passionately, like you were his favorite toy.

His.

Drawn from his thoughts by your shifting body, his attention diverts to the box of condoms he manages to find deep in his bedside drawer. He tears at the paperboard and pulls one out, showing you the foil packet before ripping it open—

“Safe sex,” he declares, sliding the oily-feeling latex out of the wrapper.

His wry smile widens to a goofy grin when you giggle at his words, easing the tension.

“Stupid,” you mutter, knocking your shin against the side of his thigh as he hovers near the head of the bed, putting the condom on.

Once he’s done, he crumples the wrapper in his hand, glancing over at you before throwing it on the cluttered surface of the nightstand. “You sure you wanna do this?”

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Yes, Eddie. You already ate me out.”

That leaves him frowning—

“Sweetheart, just because we did that doesn’t mean you have to continue. We can be done. Nothing more needs to happen if you don’t want it to.”

You remain silent, only staring up at him with so much…something…in your gaze, it makes him want to fold in on himself like the discarded foil. And he thought the ease with which you crossed his wires was bad—

“I know,” you mutter softly. “But I want to. With you. Will you…. Will you take care of me?”

Eddie’s breath hitches, and there’s a stinging feeling behind his eyes—one he knows all too well.

You sound so small, so nervous. As if he could ever deny you something that was meant to be yours. His care. His devotion.

“‘Course I will.”

He nods one too many times, entranced by the way you seem so delicate under his watchful eyes.

Delicate because you’re asking him to take care. In the way he’ll touch you. The way he’ll guide you. The way he’ll—

Slowly, he steps closer. You scoot to the side, making room for him to knee his way onto the bed.

His hands brush your ankles, featherlight affection smoothing up your legs, stopping at your knees. With the utmost reverence, he gently parts them, settling between your thighs.

“You look so pretty like this. I mean…you look— Well, you look…pretty all the time,” he nervously amends, eyes flitting over your face, but never any lower.

He wants you to know he means you. You’re pretty. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Not because you have a gorgeous body, but because you are gorgeous.

You shift beneath him, avoiding his gaze and, instead, focusing on pulling him to you. Softly. Needily.

He follows your guidance, leaning over you until his hands land beside your head. And just like before, he’s memorizing the moment. Every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every quiet breath from your pleasure-bitten lips.

Below, you glance to the side, find his wrists, and wrap your hands around each one, as if grounding yourself in his touch. Only then—when his pulse beats wildly against your fingers—do you meet his eyes.

Wandering palms—soft and unfamiliar in their affection—travel the length of his arms, pausing over black ink, then continuing up until they reach his biceps. He shivers as you hum, squeezing the corded muscles that lay twitching restlessly beneath heated flesh.

“You’re pretty, too,” you murmur, sliding your palms back down and rubbing at his wrists.

Eddie chuckles, then swallows. “No, I’m not.”

The subtle twitch of your brows, the split-second peek at the budding frown that says you disagree has him beating you to your rebuttal—

“Not like you.”

His heart leaps in his chest as your hands suddenly drag his face to yours, like you’re about to kiss him with overwhelming need. But you don’t complete the motion.

And neither does he.

Because he’s not sure he can come back from all of this if he kisses you.

If you allow him to have you in that way—

He’s not sure he’s strong enough. Not enough to feel you like that, to close his eyes and claim your lips like they belong to him, and then go about his life like he never felt it. The beat of your heart against his, pounding in nerves and want. The truthful desire dancing from your mouth to his.

He couldn’t go back to living a lie. To live like he doesn’t think about you every single day. Like he doesn’t wonder what you’re doing when you’re not with him. Like he doesn’t do the most mundane shit and spends the whole time thinking about how much better it would be to do it with you.

So he doesn’t kiss you. He can’t. Not when you’re not his to keep.

Instead, he leaves a delicate, chaste brush of an almost-kiss to the corner of your mouth. Again.

Another cop-out from a coward.

You struggle to contain your disappointment, resigning yourself to the fantasy in your head. The imagined taste of his tongue tangling with yours. And with wanton hands, you reach for his hips, subtly pulling him closer.

“Need you,” you mutter, hearing the hitch of his breath as you whisper the plea against his mouth.

“Fuck— Okay.”

You watch as he reaches for his length. Taking a strong grip, he guides the thick tip along your slick folds, gathering your wetness.

The raw combination of moan and a sigh leaves your lips—an accidental slip portraying just how much you’re aching for him.

“It’s gonna feel a little weird, like…pressure. Okay? But you gotta let me know if it hurts, sweets, you hear me?”

Your fluttering eyes, panting mouth, and rolling hips aren’t enough of a response, apparently, because his voice grows firm.

“Hey, pretty girl, you with me?”

“Mhm,” you whine, nodding your head.

“What did I tell you?” he asks, smoothing a thumb down your temple before tapping three times.

“Um, you— you said, um, if it hurts, I'll tell you.”

“Good girl.”

His muttered praise leaves you mewling, inching your hips closer to him, looking for more—yearning for it.

Your mind devolves into pure static as he presses his thick tip into you slowly. Through bleary eyes, you see his teeth sinking deep into his lower lip, like he’s fighting to maintain his composure. For a moment, you wonder what it must look like from his point of view—the way your folds open up to him, welcoming the intrusion, ready to wrap around him in a vice grip.

“Oh, god. Mmm.”

Your features crumble at the sensation of dull pressure—exactly what he warned you about. It doesn’t hurt, it just leaves you wanting more, like you’ll find reprieve once he’s fully inside you.

“How you doin’, baby? Need a break?” he rasps, kneading your thigh gently.

“Need more.”

“Fuck, y’want more? Wanna feel more o’ me?”

You whimper and nod, your heart racing as his slurred words drag you down into the flaming pit of desire.

Your mouth parts in a silent gasp when you feel him press deeper inside of you, his stiff length sliding past your walls. Your ribs contract and expand in raucous breaths the moment you see just how much of him is left. He’s just barely got the tip in—

As your gaze creeps up his body, you realize Eddie hasn’t looked down once, not to where you’re connected. You wonder if it’s self-preservation or if maybe it’s part of his care for you. The way he watches your face intently, like he’s monitoring every slight change in expression leads you to believe it’s the latter. Probably both, really.

But you’re thankful he’s looking, because he immediately notices when the pinch in your brows shifts from pleasure to a wince of discomfort.

His hand is on your face in a second, smoothing the crease between your brows and petting your hair soothingly.

“Baby, you okay? Is it too much? You feelin’ pain?”

You shake your head stubbornly, sucking in a deep breath, leaving your mouth open and panting as your gaze stays glued to the sight of him inside of you. You notice it’s not just the tip, he also gets impossibly thicker through the middle of his length, and you’re sure that’s what you’re feeling now—

“Hey, look at me.” His thumb catches your chin, guiding your eyes to meet his. “I can make you feel good, but I need you to help me out. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

Something flashes in the molten color of his irises and he leans down, brushing his lips against your cheek. You practically preen as he grants you a sweet kiss, and part of you—the rotted, selfish part—wonders if feigning pain would allow you to finally taste him properly, all smoky mint and dancing tongues—

“Let me make you feel good, baby,” he implores.

“‘S just a pinch, ‘s just— It’s fine,” you placate, rubbing your hands gingerly down his sides.

“Alright, we’re gonna wait here, and you tell me when I can move, or if you wanna stop. But in the meantime, try to relax all your muscles. Sometimes we get all tense, even when we don’t mean to.”

You nod hesitantly, taking a few more deep breaths, making a conscious effort to drop your shoulders and let your muscles rest. After a full minute of breathing, resting, and leaning into his soft palm on your warm cheek, you nod again.

“Okay, you…you can move now.”

But he doesn’t. Not yet. As if trying to discern the truth, Eddie just studies you for a moment. Then he moves, inching further into you.

When your jaw goes slack at the feeling of fullness, you hear a rumble of sound, like a groan that’s been cut off too early, and you have half a mind to ask him if he needs a break. But before you get the chance, your words catch in your throat as he rests lower on you.

“Pretty girl,” he coos, his hot breath tickling your ear, leaving your cunt pulsing with need.

Then a hiss—the kind that sounds like it’s bordering on pain, but is only one degree away from pleasure—escapes his lips, and you realize just how tightly you were squeezing him.

Then, suddenly, he bottoms out, the firm, jolting movement forcing all air from your lungs.

“Oh, good girl,” he huffs out, voice strained. “You’re doin’ so good for me, taking me so well. How’s it feel, sweets? Think you like it? Wan’ more?”

Struggling to turn pitiful mewls into actual words, you nod your head fervently, reaching down to press your palms against his hips. “Mmm, wan’ more. Please, Eddie.”

For the first time, he glances down, and you hear him choke at the sight. Electricity prickles across your delicate skin, and the sting of your teeth sinking into your lip does nothing to disrupt your giddy hum as you try to push him away.

In the dark shade of his eyes, you can tell he recognizes your movement as a very desperate, unsuccessful attempt at getting him to pull out—to chamber a thrust. And he seems utterly amused—

“Oh, baby, did you want something? You wanna do the work? Help me out like a good girl?”

Something deeply raw and needy peels from your throat in response, and you silently rejoice when he pulls back, aiding your efforts. Unfortunately, it’s only a couple inches because—to your burgeoning frustration—he’s following your guidance, and your arms don’t reach nearly as far as you need.

But you’ll take anything right now; desperation is cooking your nerves and boiling your insides.

So you sink your nails into his hips and pull him back to you with a sudden yank.

Your mouth drops open at his shallow thrust, unintelligible noises of debauched need tumble past your parted lips.

Clawing at his soft skin, you struggle to set up another thrust. “Please, please— I need more.”

“More? But you’re doin’ so well all by yourself,” he condescends, eyes twinkling with hunger as he lets you push and pull him. “Look at you go, pretty girl. Makin’ yourself feel so good. What an independent little woman.”

His teasing shakes you to your core because it’s so him. It’s your best friend, just in a new scenario with unfettered access to your body and pleasure. God, you’ve allowed him too much power—

“Eddie! Please! I’m— I need it. I need you…”

Amusement washes from his face and you pout as he pauses, as if admiring a view. Then he ducks down.

“Whatever the princess wishes,” he murmurs lowly, lips brushing against the heated skin of your cheek, syrupy sweet affection dripping from every word. Gently, he pulls out, nearly all the way.

The mewl that was halfway out of your mouth catches like a lock clicking into place. A loud, desperate cry comes out in its stead—a reckless, candid response to the deep gut-punching thrusts barreling into you. They’re not hard, not rough, but firm. Controlled. Resolute.

Like he wants you to feel it. Feel him.

You chase your breath in his rutting hips, surrendering to the affection he’s searing into you with every pass of his stiff length against your pulsing walls.

Red streaks paint his milky-white skin, blooming beneath your hurried hands like a casualty of your desire. Curses, groans, and harsh gasps fall from his slackened jaw. Heat bubbles deep in your core, rivaling the warmth of the salacious words he whispers into your flesh.

“Shit, you feel so good, sweets— Oh, god, wan’ you to be— Fuck!”

Tears flood your waterline as you stare at the ceiling, features permanently fixed in shattered pleasure. Your mind struggles to hold onto the hitch in his breath, the unfinished sentence you’re dying to hear. But the sensations are overwhelming. Every nerve in your body is sparking—all livewires itching to explode.

All you can say is his name, all you can feel is him, and yet, it’s still not enough—

“Eddie, n-need m-more, ple—aseee!”

“Ah, fuck, baby, I know. I got you—”

Eddie glides his tongue over the pad of his thumb before reaching between your legs and circling your swollen clit.

And suddenly, it’s like lightning has struck the furnace deep in your core, shooting high voltage shocks up your body until you grow so hot you’re almost cold. A sensation of fullness takes over, like you’re mere seconds from bursting.

Delirious with passion, your hand flies down to stop his movements—to stop what you know is coming.

“H-Hold on, I— Eddie, I need to— I wanna feel you! Please, please, let me—”

Your needy sobs have him slowing down until he stills inside of you, chest heaving and damp with sweat.

“What— You can feel me. Aren’t you feelin’ me, sweets?” He reaches his hand up to the space just below your navel, pressing in only slightly.

You whine from the pressure, and your cunt flutters around him in rhythmic pulses like it’s trying to entice him back into movement.

And, God, you can feel him—

He’s burrowed his way deep inside you, but it’s still not enough—

“No— Yes, I— Oh, god, I c-can feel you. I just—” Your words melt into a whimper as you squeeze your eyes shut. The feeling of warm wetness slides down your cheek.

You’re vaguely aware of a dip in the bed on either side of your head, and as you blink away the blur, you realize Eddie has dropped to his elbows over you, caging you in.

His lips trace the track of the tear in reverse, starting first beneath your jaw, then up the expanse of your face. But his mouth doesn’t open—it’s not a trail of kisses. Just a soothing glide of soft pink, collecting salt water.

“What do you wanna feel?” he asks patiently, like he’s ready to bring your deepest desires to fruition.

When you don’t respond, he brushes his lips against the thin skin of your eyelids in short, delicate kisses.

“I’ll do anything for you, baby. Just tell me what you want—”

The raw truth of his statement rings in your ears along with a prayer in the shape of your name—reverent, impassioned, desperate. The tone has you questioning when the god became the devotee.

Your eyes flutter open as you peer up at him.

“Wanna feel you. All of you. I don’t want— I don’t want anything in between,” you whisper, your gaze flitting between his earnest attention and his glistening lips, wet with your tears.

Eddie’s mouth parts slightly, a look of quiet shock mixing with curious disbelief as he tilts his head, like he’s observing you for any lapse in conviction. But there’s none to be found. You’re certain you want this. So he gives a single nod, yielding to you.

Before he can even shift his weight, you’re already pushing at his hips again. He lets you move him until he slips out, then your eager hands reach for his hard cock, sheathed in thin latex.

The calm Eddie found since ceasing his thrusts starts to dissipate as he watches your movements with rapt attention.

Acutely aware of the expansion of his ribs on every breath in, the scent of sex and your perfume permeating his olfactory receptors has any semblance of control quickly leaving his body.

The sensation is like a loss of inhibitions. Like he’s gorged himself on you and now he’s utterly wasted. And he knows from personal experience, he doesn’t make the best decisions when inebriated—

The reminder that he’s here for you—that he’s supposed to be the one guiding you—is hard to hold onto when you’re expertly drawing him back into you, teasing yourself with the thick, ruddy tip of his cock, painting your folds with dribbling precum.

He shudders at your wrecked moan, your eyes smoked out with hunger and desire and nothing else as you leer at his flexing length.

“F-Fuck, sweetheart, are you sure about this?”

You only hum in response, deep in focus.

“Unh, unh, look at me.”

Eddie’s thumb catches just beneath your chin, drawing your attention to his hardened features. The moment your far-out gaze focuses on him, he struggles to ignore the way your pupils have almost eclipsed any trace of color in the iris.

But then your attention falters, your eyes slowly glide down to his mouth, your lips parting like a call to him—

He adjusts his grip, his thumb and fingers digging into your cheeks.

“No, up here, pretty girl.”

Tipping your chin up, he manually fixes your gaze to his.

“Are you sure you want this?”

As if words are too difficult to drum up, you whimper imploringly.

And all it takes is one warning tilt to his head and you’re righting yourself. Forcing the words to come—

“Yes! God, please. I need you…”

Satisfied, Eddie nods, taking a moment to revel in just how gone you are for him.

“Okay.”

Another pitiful whimper escapes your closed mouth as you push harder into his grip—wanting, asking.

Knowing exactly what you’re missing—a quick learner in the language of your desperation—a smirk curls at his lips. “Good girl—”

Then he sinks into you in one quick, deep thrust that carves a half-scream, half-gasp from your chest.

His shoulders drop at the feeling of your wet heat, your greedy walls, hugging every square inch of his cock, gripping onto him like a lifeline.

“Oh, fuck, baby. Shit, y’gotta stop squeezin’ me like that. You’re not gonna give me enough time to pull out,” he mutters, dragging his hips back and slamming into you, starting a brutal pace.

Tears flood your waterline once more as you cry out for him, your hands touching, groping, and grabbing every bit of muscle you can get ahold of.

“P-Please, please, E-Eddie! Oh, god, oh—oh god! Feels s-so g-good!”

Your knees drop open as your hands blindly reach for his hips, pulling him in for impossibly deeper strokes.

“I’m— E-Eddie, I—”

“I know, baby. I know,” he chants, holding on desperately to the last shred of his sanity.

Ducking lower onto you, he shifts his weight to reach between your thighs and circle your clit. With an open-mouthed pant, he watches as your eyes roll back, your loud moans drowning out the vulgar sound of skin slapping.

His gaze flits across your face, memorizing your pleasure-shocked features like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to see this particular crease in your brows, this heavy-lidded trance. Panic fills his bloodstream as he realizes it might very well be the last time—

And if it’s the last time, maybe he’s allowed to be selfish. One time. Just this once—

“Fuck it,” he breathes out, dipping down until his mouth capture yours, swallowing every last moan.

Your palms fly to the sides of his head, dragging him further onto you until the range of motion in his hand severely shrinks under his own rutting hips. You lick into his mouth like you’re trying to taste yourself. Overwhelmed with desire, he begins to lav his tongue into you the same way he devoured your cunt earlier.

Your responding mewls leave him trembling, and he worries over the tightening in his abdomen, the coiling heat deep in his gut. He starts to pull away, but he feels pressure at his hips. You’ve wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles, leaving him no way of escaping your hold. Fuck, you’re going to be the death of him—

“Baby, we can’t— I gotta— I need’ta pull out,” he slurs against your mouth.

“Please don’t,” you whine, spit-slick lips haphazardly forming around the pitiful plea.

Eddie feels his chest crack open with raw, tortuous longing. Hips faltering to a grinding rhythm, he lets his shoulders sag under the pressure of wanting—the weight of possession. All it would take to claim you, all it would take… is just to let go. To make you his.

He’s not strong enough—

“Please don’t,” you repeat, gliding your hands down his damp skin until you still at his lower back. With a foggy mind driven by the most basic desire to claim—or rather, be claimed—you muster all your strength and press your palms hard into his spine, dragging him to you.

Following a groan that sounds suspiciously like a surrendering cry, Eddie pulls his hips back just enough to shallowly thrust into you. They’re firm, breathtaking strokes that feel like he’s trying to permanently burrow beneath your flesh, and his mouth glides over yours in a messy, blind display of drunken need. It’s a thorough loss of all space and you revel in it.

“Fuck, sweets. I— I—”

“E-Eddie! Ed—die, I’m— I’m c-cl— Please, don’t— Don’t—”

Eddie’s thumb starts circling your clit with renewed vigor, sending spasms shooting down your legs so strong that your ankles unhook. Like two magnets repelling each other, they go flying to the bed, twitching and convulsing.

Deep in your core, you feel a magmatic pressure that just builds, and builds, and builds, until something snaps—

Arching into him, you cry out as your body goes weightless, and your mind floats into the ether once more.

His groans, his grunts, the smacking of skin on skin—every sound echoes as you move further away from your mind. Vaguely, you’re aware of his faltering thrusts, his hungry lips devouring. Your mouth might be moving in tandem with his, or maybe you’re babbling incoherently, it’s unclear—all your senses are fried.

All you’re certain of is the sinking of your body. Deeper than the mattress, deeper than the floor. Down, down, down—you’re dragged into the pit of sated desire while your soul soars high above you.

“Ah, s-shit, baby— I—”

By the time you find your way out of the depths—crawling back to him—you register the tail end of shivers wracking his entire being. His arms haven’t loosened around you and his softening cock is still twitching and flexing inside of you, goaded by every pulsing constriction of your warm walls.

Nosing into your cheek, Eddie pulls back for a second, just to get a look at you—to memorize.

What he sees is exactly what he expected—

Something he could never forget.

Something he could never be normal about.

In your eyes, in soft pants, in the flutter of lashes over mascara smudged skin—he sees you.

Just you.

A glutton for punishment, he licks his lips, savoring the taste of you before dipping down for more. One more.

Like he’ll never live long enough to see you walk out of his room—his sweat staining your skin, his spend safe inside you—he kisses you, slow and rottingly sweet. Swallowing every sigh, stealing every breath—he prays to you with selfishness in his heart.

“I felt something,” you mumble against his mouth, pressing your hands to his shoulders.

Ignoring the ache in his chest—the kind that blooms when space starts to grow between his body and yours, like a weed whose roots never truly die—he forces a laugh that crumbles to dust in his throat.

“Well, yeah…. God, I hope so,” he huffs, all strained amusement and bitter jokes.

A small smile pulls at your lips. “No, I mean.… I mean— You said, um, earlier, you said…”

While you struggle to find the words, his touch seems to act as a hindrance to your search. Your breath hitches and your eyes flutter as he smooths his thumb over your sweat-soaked hairline.

“You said if I was gonna sleep with— If I was gonna f-feel nothing with a stranger, then I should…feel nothing with you.”

Realization dawns on him, almost at the same time he decides this conversation shouldn’t take place with him inside of you—

“Maybe we should—”

“No!” You stop his movements, pressing your fingers into his hips before he can slip away. “Please, don’t! Don’t— Don’t go.”

Eddie watches your features soften from panic into an amalgamation of nerves and reserved urgency. The mess of emotions darkening your once-twinkling eyes are enough to stop his movements, but he still wishes every square inch of him could liquify and seep through the floor of the trailer until he reaches the earth. Maybe then he could be free of your dominance over his heart—

“Okay. Okay.” He nods, placating.

Shifting above you, his attention oscillates between your wide-eyed stare and the space on your neck he kissed like he owned it. Then, as if he suddenly forgot how to behave like a human, he sucks his teeth and fumbles to respond—

“What, uh, what did you feel?”

Your nails sink into him with a pinch, but by the way you seem lost in your own head, he doesn’t think you’re aware. Then—

“W-What— Um, did you…feel…anything?”

He stares for a moment, considering your evasion of the question, but then he looks to your neck once more.

A million thoughts zoom through his mind like advertisements on big city buses. He can’t discern all of them, but one has YOU written in what he’s certain is your handwriting. Another says everything in posh, looping cursive. A third one is void of any advertisements, and unfortunately, that’s the one that stops for him—

“I don’t think it matters,” he mutters, avoiding your frown. “It’s— I’m not the one who lost their virginity.”

You cock your head to the side, the kind of movement he knows means you’re not letting him slip by. “Yes, it does.”

Your tone bites at him, scrambling the illusion until he’s a clear picture of vulnerability, bare under your hardened gaze.

“I just mean, it matters more how you felt. If you— If I made you comfortable. Doesn’t matter how I felt,” he tries, wondering how likely it is that he could be struck by lightning indoors, on a sunny day—

Because you’re looking at him like he’s eighteen again. Like he’s stupid and boyish and easily breakable. But there’s something else in your eyes—

Something that makes him feel almost mendable.

“No, but it does matter how you felt. How you feel. It matters. I care how you feel. I wanna hear what you think,” you implore, holding onto his wrists beside your head. You press the pads of your fingers into his pulse and he worries you’ll feel it before he says it—

“But did you—”

“Yes, I felt good. Yes, you did a good job taking care of me. Yes, I felt safe. Now how did you feel?”

“I feel like— I don’t want you…to…” He closes his eyes, hanging his head. “I feel like I wish you were mine,” he says, letting a humorless chuckle float out of his mouth and electrocute the air with tension. “And I feel like calling up Jimmy and Chris just to curse them out for being the ones you thought of first.”

In the loll of his admission, something shifts in your features, and every molecule of air leaves his chest like you just rolled a grenade at his feet, unpinned and already three seconds deep into the fuse delay.

As if you have nothing better to say, you pluck the lowest hanging fruit—

“Well, technically you suggested Chris,” you half shrug.

Charged silence fills the room like rushing water until he blinks at you.

“Okay.” He begins to back away, ignoring your grasping hands.

Your face falls. “No, I’m sorry! I— That was a joke! ‘M sorry, it was stupid—”

“Okay,” he repeats flatly, peeling your fingers from his bicep. He pulls out of you smoothly, pretending not to hear the low whine deep in your throat—

“Eddie, no! Don’t— I love you!” you utter quickly, as if the words will act as a balm upon his burning skin—the skin that broils under your touch. And for a moment, he almost accepts it. He’s so selfish with you—

But when your eyes grow wide, like you hadn’t meant to let something so damning slip past your lips, he realizes the truth—

He was right.

He doesn’t leave you to explain yourself—doesn’t wait for you to quantify the secret.

“It’s okay,” he answers your worried gaze. “I told you, sex has weird feelings attached to it. Things get said in the heat of the moment, it’s all good.”

Hopefully, if he repeats the sentiment enough, he’ll start to believe it too.

But instead of appreciation, he sees indignation warp your face.

“I’m sorry, where have you been? The heat of the moment was five minutes ago,” you huff, eyeing him like you can’t even begin to comprehend his level of delusion. “True, I didn’t mean to say it just then. But I felt it. I have felt it. For…” you laugh, a humorless sound that grates Eddie’s heart, “years.”

And suddenly, he feels like he got his wish—

Every muscle in his body has turned to mush, every nerve is frayed, every wire is uncrossed—

“I’ve—” you pause, then scoff. “Like, Jesus Christ, Eddie! Do you know how long—”

He melts into you, his lips on yours, his hands on your face, holding you right where he needs you most—

Swallowing your surprised moan, he takes your needy grip in stride—every bite of painted nails against pale burning flesh, every tug and drag, seeking a closeness he craves to sate.

“I don’t care,” he slurs against your mouth, too intoxicated to hear how much time he’s missed out on. Then he pulls back a fraction of an inch, instead deciding he wants to know every single detail—even the painful bits—

Even if just to hear you talk—

“Well, I do care,” he amends. “I just—”

You peer up at him through heavy lids and a teasing grin, and he feels too far from you.

“Not right now,” he drawls, unable to think past ‘I love you, too.’

A/N: Please say nice things about this, it took so fucking long lmao.

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#selenevesper recs #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #fic rec #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem!reader smut

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selenevesper · 11 days ago

Text

just letting you know that i'm coming for your ass, roe

Edit of Eddie: pitifulbaby

Chapters: Masterlist (Go here to see list of chapters, plotline and general warnings.)

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers, Non-Traditional Omegaverse, Slow burn, Modern!AU, Mechanic!Eddie

⚠️18+: tooth rotting fluff, anxiety, panic attacks, eddie is sick, angst, nervousness, talk about illnesses, a new character comes in

wc: 14.2K

A/N: welp. So sorry for the wait. I wasn't going through a good time lately, and thanks to Johnny Storm i got my spark back, a little. AND AND AND AND BECAUSE OF @deaddflowerz WHO IS DRAWING BARING TEETH EDDIE JUST BECAUSE? LIKE? anyways you guys will hate me thank u @andvys for proofreading and telling me it doesn't suck

Anyways, Enjoy! ❤️ And don't forget to always support me by hitting the reblog button or leave a comment!

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CHAPTER 27

He took a deep breath once you sat down next to him.

You smelled sweet, yet a little sour. He could clearly smell your nervousness, which he could understand because it wasn’t easy meeting a whole group of people at once. His eyes roamed over you as you finally introduced yourself for the very first time. He could smell Jonathan’s scent spike, and his eyes found his friend, his eyes scanning your body just the same.

He gave you a soft smile, yet your sourness was still there, which made his nose scrunch in alarm. He sometimes wished he didn’t have to deal with this, because then he wouldn’t judge people so easily. However, scents he dislikes are a warning sign for him. The more you talked, the more… sour it turned…

Then he remembered Robin’s scent when she told the group about you. Robin’s scent reminded him of a scented cherry candle, but that time, it also smelled burnt. Something was wrong with you. Robin seemed excited about you, but Eddie knew something was going on.

And then, he asked what brought you to Chicago. He asked nicely, and you shot him a smile that didn’t reach your eye, and the sweetness of your scent left you completely.

“Well, um… Independence mostly. Always lived in a small town in Georgia, and I didn’t have many opportunities with my degree there, so… Here I am.”

You were a mother fucking liar.

He knew his own scent had turned bitter, but he was relieved no one at the table could detect it. He took a sip of his beer as Argyle kept talking, introducing himself, and when you asked if he and Eddie were together, the metalhead couldn’t help the sharp, stinging tone behind his voice.

“Do I look remotely gay to you?” Eddie asked you, wiping his mouth with his wrist, and you flushed in embarrassment, noticing that you hadn’t said the right thing.

“I just– I don’t know, he said, inseparable, so I assumed–”

“Well, it was wrong.” He said coldly, taking you aback. You opened your mouth to apologize as the table erupted in giggles.

He didn’t want to hear it. Not when you were a complete liar to one of his closest friends. He would protect them till the end of time. Forever.

Because this was his pack, and you were a thorn trying to get in.

He could smell how uncomfortable you were, nervous, displeased. He wasn’t going to stand there and do nothing. Even if he didn’t like you, even if he didn’t want you there, Robin considered you part of her own pack in her mind. If something were to happen to you, Robin would be distraught.

So, he marched over towards you at the club, holding your shoulder to pull you behind him, his eyes finding the depraved man’s eyes in front of him.

“Don’t you understand the word ‘No’?”

“Saw her first man, go away.” And Eddie’s vein popped off his neck, pushing the man away as hard as he could. The man stumbled a bit, glaring at the metalhead.

“She’s not an object to call dibs on. Fuck. Off. She doesn’t want to go with you.”

And the man was ready to charge at him. He was ready to do so, but Eddie was furious. He glared at the man, puffing his chest a bit as his top lip tugged a bit in disgust, in rage. His fists clenched hard on his sides as he stared down at the little man before him, whose scent turned smaller and smaller by the second.

Even if the man was a Beta, Eddie still had Alpha traits that worked as if they had never stopped or disappeared. The man just didn’t know why he was backing down so easily. He didn’t know it was because of the Alpha pheromones that Eddie was letting out.

He watched the man walk away and then turned around to face you again. You were shocked, stunned in your place as you stared at him. His gaze softened, leaning forward a bit so you could hear him

“Do you want to go to the bouncer to throw him out?”

“Yeah, okay, did you cum?”

“Excuse me?!”

He knew he shouldn’t get under your skin like this, but he knew you were not satisfied. He could smell your hormones, almost, how you were left aroused, unsatisfied. He didn’t need you to tell him you hadn’t gotten off from your date with Jason Carver, whom he told you was a mistake to sleep with.

It was unexpected that the liquid was drenched on him. The beer rolled off his face, making his anger just boil over the edge. He yelled at you, and you yelled back. Your scent was sharp, stinging, but he wanted you out of this place. He wanted you out of his pack’s home, their safe space.

So, after Robin and Steve came out, he decided to pay it back, throwing his drink on your head.

Second thing he didn’t expect, being tackled to the ground by you. He didn’t want to put pressure on you because he could easily break you. If he wanted to, you would be with snapped bones right now. His chest was hit over and over as his nose flared with displeasure, and he could sense everyone else worriedly coming to separate you two.

Steve was worried to another level because he knew about Eddie’s condition. He knew Eddie was volatile, and he knew about how he thought you were not being truthful to Robin. That meant you were a suspicious person. You were lying about your past, and maybe because you did something sketchy, and he didn’t want his pack to suffer something thanks to your actions.

“Just because I call you out on your bullshit doesn’t mean I am interested in any of it. Be fucking sincere for once, because maybe, just maybe darling, that might be the reason your dates fucking fail.”

He should have stopped there. He should have noted how the bitterness in your scent had lowered by his words. But he was angry. He was so fucking angry.

“Have you ever thought that maybe, probably, POSSIBLY, you are the problem?”

And not only your scent had gotten… muddy, wet, earthy… Robin’s turned strong. His eyes widened when he saw your face. He had never seen you like that. You were broken. He had said something that only brought pain back to you, something you probably wanted to forget.

And when you left, he couldn’t help but taste the bitterness on his tongue.

If only he weren’t so protective of his friends, maybe he wouldn’t have snapped like that.

He couldn’t get you out of his head.

The way you had poured your past to him. The way your body trembled. The way you cried. The way that he could barely stand how damp your scent felt to him, and he knew you were not happy. You were not okay with having told that story to him. He shouldn’t have exploded the way he did, but he was out of his quarter rut, so everything was a little more heated up for him than before.

Everything made him angry or emotional, and he had hurt you in the process of it. He didn’t know if you would ever forgive him, but now, more than anything, he wanted it. He didn’t have a problem with you joining the pack any longer, but you hated him. He really fucked it up thanks to who he was.

But to his surprise, on that balcony, he witnessed your first laugh towards him. A first smile. A first conversation that didn’t include insults or bantering for the first time. A genuine conversation. An honest one. Where he told you about his uncle, because you two didn’t know each other. It was something new, and maybe it was too soon to open up the way he did, but after what you told him, he would reciprocate the same way.

“So, you would commit murder for my sake.” You said as you took another swig of your nicotine stick, looking at him as he looked forward again into the sky.

“If he hurts you after what you went through? I think Robin would be my alibi.”

The threat had come out before he could stop it. You were part of his pack, even if you didn’t like him; he would protect you. He won’t let anyone disturb you. He won’t let anyone destroy your happiness. Not again.

He’ll make sure of that.

You smelled sweeter every day. He wondered if you had enhanced your scent with perfume, or maybe his nose started to become faulty, because he only smelled women getting sweeter to him, when his pheromones wanted said woman. But he didn’t want you. You were with Mr. Model. He assumed he was just very protective of you now, after everything.

But then you saw him cry. You came by his shop unannounced and caught him after the ride from Hawkins the day before caught up to him again. Wayne didn’t look okay. He didn’t look fine. He didn’t look fucking alive, and Eddie could barely handle it.

He pretended to be alright. He pretended nothing was bothering him. But fuck, something was making him a little dizzy with you. Something that made him lose his strong bravado, and the walls came tumbling down the moment you asked him what was wrong.

“I don’t…” And he shouldn’t tell you. He shouldn’t speak of something like this to you, because you two just barely started talking, but for some reason– He felt you could understand him.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask something like that–”

“It’s my Uncle.”

And your hand was warm over his. Super warm. Extremely warm.

He liked it.

He looked at his hands after he ripped Mr. Model away from you.

Steve stared at him with worry, wondering if his friend was alright, as he then looked up to see your face once again. You were distraught. Crying out against Robin, he wanted to comfort you as well. His protectiveness and his need to make you feel okay because you were part of his pack now were becoming too great, and he needed to go beat the asshole up.

Billy did care for you. He could smell it, but just like you had, he had a sour scent behind, a hint of something that Eddie felt uncomfortable with. Uneasy.

And after days, a week, two, of you simply not talking to any of them, he had had enough of it. He was worried. Too worried. He needed to see if you were okay, and he didn’t have a clue what you even looked like now. So he told Robin to call you up, and whoever could, were going to go to your house, whether you liked it or not.

Steve had told him to calm down, that you were at least alive, but that wasn’t enough. It should be, and it fucking wasn’t. He didn’t want you to suffer anymore, because you didn’t fucking deserve that shit. You didn’t. Not again.

And when he finally saw you, he felt relief and grief at the very same time. You were clearly not eating okay, you had bags under your eyes you tried to conceal with makeup, and you just looked… tired.

He tried to lighten up the situation, and his nose scrunched up when he sensed how bitter your scent got when you mumbled to Robin that you were fine. Liar. You were lying again, and he knew Robin noticed. They all knew you weren’t okay, but all he could do was try to make it better. He had to make you feel better. He had to try.

And you did.

He couldn’t believe you truly thought you would never have the chance of a family. If there is anyone in the world who wouldn’t have a single chance, it would be him. His condition was too risky for a family; no woman would understand or even try to be with someone like him for life.

Because that’s what would happen, he would get together with someone, and for him, that person could be their mate, but for the other one, it would be just a normal beta, a normal person, and if they broke up, they would move on pretty easily.

But not Eddie.

Eddie would try not to kill himself for a while. The rejection sickness was probably going to hit him for the first time, being the worst of it all. He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t take any chances. But he couldn’t tell you that.

Nobody knew how alone he really felt. Not even Steve.

But maybe Wayne.

Your scent was even fucking sweeter.

And he knew he was starting to get in trouble.

The lingering gazes. The stares. The touches. The subtle flirting. He shouldn’t let that happen with you, but he could hardly contain himself. He was drawn to you like a goddamn magnet. He shouldn’t, and he knew it, and yet–

Your lips were nectar on his. He had never tried anything sweeter before. A soft, quick peck over a drinking game, yet enough to drive him insane. Enough to settle in his gut that he had to have you no matter what. He couldn’t even think of the consequences as he felt the fire in his chest brimming, burning him slowly.

And when the next weekend came, and you were clearly trying to get his attention, he knew he was growing a little possessive. He shouldn't, but he couldn't help it. He took the opportunities to throw flirty comments your way, but was still testing the waters. Still waiting for your reactions. Watching the way you move. The way you flinch. The way your scent heightens just for a second, to then return to normal.

You were nervous, that much he knew. Indecisive, but your body was betraying you. He had set his mind on having you already; he knew his resolve. He knew what he wanted. What his Alpha wanted. This aspect of his came by a few times in his life as an Alpha. Wanting things so desperately, to the point of going a little too far to get them. He got angry when things didn't go his way. Fury was something he had to learn to control as an Alpha. He got too hot-headed over the smallest of things, the tiniest of annoyances.

So working at Scoops Ahoy alongside Robin and Steve was a challenge at first. Gladly, he was already a few years ahead of his presentation, so he had managed to control his feelings a little bit better than when he was a mere teenager. That was, well, until you came along.

You kept saying the word 'friend' to him. You kept murmuring it, as if trying to convince yourself of it. He knew you wanted him, so he wondered why you were so hesitant about it. He wasn't thinking of consequences really, he just wanted to properly taste you. He didn't want a simple peck. He wanted to wrap his lips around you, taste your tongue with his, make your body grow a sweat for him to taste.

And then you pulled on his hair, as if you didn't know what you were doing. As if you didn't know it would rile him up. He felt his chest rumble with a low growl, a threat, as he looked at you through the mirror.

“I dare you to do that again, Peach.” Your scent, once more, spiked up. Your face twitched, your throat bobbed, your breath hitched. He noticed every single thing. His eyes never missed a change of pace. He could feel the nerves, the excitement, the thrill, the uncertainty, and all he wanted was to prove to you that he could take all of that away if you would just give him one night.

Maybe tonight was the night.

But he couldn't help the slight joy of having you laughing, just like you always did before you broke up with Billy. The bantering that was jokingly done between the two of you, the easiness that came with talking to you about anything, joking about anything, laughing about anything.

So he kind of guessed why you were nervous. He could see that line that was still drawn between the two of you, and he came to the conclusion that, if it were to be crossed, it wasn't going to be thanks to a step of his, but a step of yours. He was going to wait for a green light, if that ever came. He was going to still flirt with you, of course, but he was not going to break.

And when everyone left, except Argyle and Eden, and Eddie went to look for you, and saw you dancing like that, he felt the fire inside of him burn brighter than hours ago. His fingers itched with the need to touch you. His teeth ached with the necessity of taking a bite. But he couldn't. He couldn't. He was first and foremost, your friend.

But you were such a fucking bitch, because how dare you press your ass against him and slide down on him the way you did? Dance against him as if he weren't your friend? Then, turning around when he warned you that you were overdoing it. You were drunk, and he was too, but he had a bit of consciousness left. You bantered with him. You kept touching him slightly, pressing against him, purring in his ear. But he wasn't going to cave in; he wasn't going to succumb to the need of having you when you were clearly nervous about something.

And then you kissed him, and how could he hold back? There was absolutely no way that he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from wrapping his arms around you, welcome the step that you took, and cross that invisible line, even if small. He kissed you back, ferociously, grabbing at every inch he could of you.

Your scent was all over him, all inside of him. It was sweet, mixed with the alcohol, and the arousal. He could smell how worked up you were with him. There was no denying you had a sexual attraction to him, but if he needed proof, this was the one. His hands betrayed him, groping your ass, pulling you even closer. His tongue slid into your mouth, and his chest rumbled with delight. You tasted as sweet as you smelled.

But when the moment came to pull away, and he saw how your eyes rolled to the back of your head, his own arousal was gone. His protectiveness surged, clearing his foggy mind from the alcohol, at least until he knew you were safe. You were his pack now, part of it, and as he carried you to the car after getting Argyle and Eden, he made sure to check you weren't falling asleep. He held you in the back of the car, trying to fight off his own dizziness from the alcohol, and Argyle talked as he started the car.

"So, first your house and—"

"No time, take me back to my house, and I'll let her sleep there. She might puke any second and—" He couldn't say that he needed to know you were safe. He couldn't say that he needed to see you in his den, or else he would have a nervous breakdown. He needed to take care of you. He did it with Steve before, with Nancy, and you were not an exception.

Argyle didn't question it, just shrugged as he held Eden's hand over the console. Eddie looked at the joined hands, only to then feel a squeeze in his own, making him look down at you. You were gripping his right hand as you lay on his chest, legs across his lap.

He gripped your hand back.

“We’re gonna forget it happened.”

Well, that pissed him off. Why were you so against the idea of even kissing him? You wanted to forget the kiss of the night before. He was irritated, angry, confused because he didn't know why you were being so stubborn. Why you didn't even want to try it out. Test the waters, just like he was.

And you saying that you two were friends, and just that, bullshit. It was such bullshit. He could smell how aroused you were right now, yesterday, the days you came by to his shop, whenever he flirted with you or gently touched you. He knew it all, and yet you were resolute on making him miserable. His jaw clenched as you tried to explain yourself. How you were touchy sometimes when you were drunk, and he knew that was a fucking lie.

But as he talked with Steve on the phone, and saw you looking for your clothes, he felt his chest clench. He didn't want to lose you. Even if you drove him mad, you were still part of his pack, one way or the other. He felt protective of you after you told him what you went through. He didn't want to be a cause of distress for you or complications. You lived with those for the past two years.

So he played nice.

He returned to his old mannerisms, but no flirting. He tried not to watch your instagram stories, knowing he would get lured back into jacking off into his own hand or a random number in his phone. He was angry at himself as well. When his eyes settled on something, he dropped everything around him in order to get it.

This time, it was you. He wanted you, and it was costing him his sex life. Since he couldn't have you, he didn't want to be with any other woman out there. He had been texted, even sent nudes to, and he never responded. He probably lost a few of his hook-ups by now, but he really didn't care. This applied to everything in his life. If he wanted a burger for the day, he would not eat anything until he got his burger, even if it were 8 AM.

And so, he hosted a party. Friends of friends came, old colleagues, old clients he met when he first put his shop up. Then his whole pack came over, and his house was filled with people. Yet, his eyes betrayed him each time he glanced your way, and he couldn't help to recognize the spike of spice in your scent. You were angry at something. He also noticed the twitch of your eyebrows. Maybe he could ask what was wrong with you. Maybe it was work-related.

And then, you had to be a bitch.

“And I bet you fucked more than two of the women here, right?”

Why were you angry at him? Why were you acting jealous and possessive when you were the one who wanted to put what happened in the past? Pretend it never even existed. It was you, and you were acting butthurt? No. His nose flared, and if people could detect scent the way he did, everyone in this room would probably leave with fear.

He could feel you watching him, all the time. You were scanning who he was talking to, wrapping his arms around of, and who he left the room with. And you were so stupid to believe he didn't notice. He needed to talk to you, because if you were going to act like this, it meant you didn't want to put anything of what happened in the past.

So, when everyone left, and the only ones that were in the house were his friends and you, he made you stay back. He had strategically moved your coat, hid it, so he would have an excuse. Your eyes found his, and he knew that you realized you were in trouble.

And then when the two of you were finally alone, he couldn't control himself any longer.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You took a step back from him. He could smell your nervousness, your uncertainty, but most of all, he was surprised to smell arousal. You were wet. His nose flared, his chest rumbled, his mouth drooled. He had to have you, despite you walking away from him, despite you walking up the stairs, despite you yelling at him.

So he kissed you.

And you kissed back.

And then he tasted you, and he became drunk on you. You let him roam your body like you didn't care. Like all of the other times you said this shouldn't happen, never existed. He watched you come undone under his touch, and he was going to make sure to make you remember him. To make you see how good he could make you feel, and you wasted precious time.

But he wasn't prepared. He wasn't prepared for what you did to him. You didn't even flinch when you saw his full length. When he presented and started sleeping around, he knew he was a bit different down there. Some would call it 'lucky', but it was a curse.

When he first had sex, at the age of 17, he hurt the girl. She wasn't a virgin, but he didn't know his size was that different from the others. He was more careful the next time, noting the length he could get in. He didn't want to mention it to Murray, and much less to his uncle, but he felt the need to. Alphas have a rather larger member. They have to because they have what Omegas or Betas do not have. A knot.

A bulge that expands at the base of the penis, so it can lock itself into the willing Omega. This prompts the breeding to be even more successful and a higher chance for the Omega to get pregnant.

Eddie never knotted. Or well, felt it, or remembered it. His presentation was a blur of pain, of sweat, of burning, of excruciating pain that he wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy. Murray said that he was knotting when he presented, but Eddie really didn't remember it. But that was the reason why he was larger than the average Beta. There was a part of his penis that was supposed to enlarge, but since Betas don't have the expanded cavity to take an Alpha's member, they hurt in the process.

So he never bottomed out on anyone. He couldn't. If he did, he would pierce their cervix, and he had to make sure not to get carried away at any time. He gladly never did with his ruts, except for the typical headaches, but that was about it until he came and had a bit of action. But he was never satisfied. He doesn't remember a single time when he enjoyed himself during sex.

And now, here you were, sucking his cock without any fear.

He got his dick sucked a few times, but most of the girls flinch at the sight. They obviously know they cannot deep throat him, or at least are not willing to try. If he had his dick sucked, it was kitten licks, or his tip was sucked on, but no more than that.

But fuck, you were gurgling on him, your drool all over him, dripping down on his balls, and you looked like you were enjoying it. His eyes widened as his body arched the moment he hit the back of your throat. You tried to hold it for a few seconds, but gagged and pulled him out. He let a sharp breath out, his mind already reeling. Shit, shit, shit.

He was losing control.

It was the first time he felt this happening. It was the first time he felt himself burn with such intensity that he wanted to consume someone else in it as well. He took a deep breath in before he sat up, and you pulled his dick out of your mouth with a triumphant look on your face. He put the condom on, his eyes never leaving yours, asking in silence if you were okay with it.

His hands moved to grab onto you so he could roll you over, ready to tell you that he will be careful not to hurt you, to tell him when to stop. But he was pushed back, and his eyes widened in surprise when you started straddling him.

What the fuck were you doing?

“Sweetheart– Peach– Listen–” And you glared at him. You literally glared for him to shut up, and he couldn't let you go down, but he hissed when you rolled yourself against his dick.

“You regretting this, Munson?” Hell no, but you were going to be if you didn't stop. You were going to be in pain if you didn't let him take the lead. He tried stopping you by digging his hands into your hips.

“No, fuck no, Peach, but I have to warn you–” And he choked on his breath when he started feeling his tip going inside of you, and he was in flames. It was burning him all over, and he was trying to calm himself, calm his mind before he lost it completely. Shit, shit, shit, you weren't listening to him. You weren't stopping at all. Your face was contorted in pleasure just by this, and he was fighting with himself not to push his hips upwards. “Sweetheart– It won’t–”

“Shut up Eddie, for fuck sake–” He felt your nails digging into his chest, scratching him, and his eyes went towards where he was disappearing inside of you. Inch by inch. As much as he wanted this moment to happen, he didn't want to hurt you. You were halfway there, and you were reaching the point where he could pierce you. He was gasping for air, trying to sound alarmed.

“Shit– Shit–!” He called your name again, trying to get your attention as he felt a bead of sweat drip from his forehead. It felt good. It felt so good, and his body was betraying him. He could push you off of him, but he didn't want to stop. He tried, through jagged breaths, again, one last time.

“Munson–!” And then you slammed down.

And he saw stars. His eyes widened, and all he could see was white. He never felt like this. He was shocked and a little terrified. He didn't know how he would react to this new scene. But did he hurt you? Were you in your own right mind? So, his eyes went back to you as he coughed out his breath, and fuck, you were a sight.

Your face was contorted with pleasure, smiling, feeling content. Your scent spiked up in levels he had never smelled on you before. You felt good. Fuck, you were feeling good. You weren't in pain. How? How were you not in pain? How were you not hurt by him? How was this happening? Was he dreaming?

But he didn't have time to think that you started moving, up, down, up, down, and all he saw was his entire cock disappearing inside of you, and something inside him awakened. Something he never felt before. Something that was trying to rip from the inside out. And he showed you so.

He fucked you, and railed you, ruined you. He needed to claim every inch of your body.

He wasn't going to let this go this easily. No.

“You take me so well, Peach… fuck– you take me so fucking well–” And you didn't even know how much that meant to him. You didn't have the slightest idea as you bounced underneath him, his cock just squelching against you, skin slapping with each powerful thrust of his, finally letting himself go during sex. Finally, not having to worry if the other party gets hurt. He could enjoy himself.

And he was ready to do it over, and over, and over again.

“Then, what is your final answer, Peach? We done here? One time thing, that’s it?” Oh, was he pissed.

He was towering over you when you told him that this was just a slip-up. That this should never happen again. How could you? How could you say that to him when you rode him into oblivion, sucked him off, let him taste you, and let him have you in ways he never imagined?

"I—" He noticed the hesitation; rather, he smelled it on you. You wanted him, that's for sure. He understood the part of getting attached, and if something went wrong, he got it. But it didn't have to go that deep. It was just sex. And he needed this sex. He needed you. You just didn't understand how much.

But he can't force you.

So he let you go, but he told you to keep your distance because he needed time to fucking recover. How is anyone ever going to compare to you? Was someone out there that had your same… pussy? Or whatever? He will kill himself if you are the only one in this world who could take him. He literally will.

So he stopped the messaging, he stopped the talking, he stopped looking at your instagram. He needed to forget you, somehow, and it was bordering on impossible. But he kept himself strong. He kept his distance from you, but then, he remembered Argyle's birthday. He was going to see you after having his dick inside of you. That was gonna be a challenge.

But then, when he arrived, he could already sense you. He already knew you were nervous the moment he walked into the kitchen. He also sensed how everyone was laughing or feeling a little curious about something.

“Robin said that since Eddie’s party, she–” And Jonathan pointed a nod your way, and he heard you wince, ”--has been in a special mood at work and now we found out why.”

You were looking at him wide eyed, and he was already fuming. You told them about the two of you, and you were the one who didn't want to make things weird? To basically not tell anyone? His fingertips itched the more he looked at you, the more he remembered, the more he felt—

“She just told us Jeff came to pick her up that night after we left.” Steve interrupted and— Oh.

Oh, that was rich. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh so fucking loud, all he mumbled was "Jeff?" and it was enough for you to whip your head around to look at him, and he couldn't help the smirk forming on his lips. So, you lied.

“It wasn’t that good.” That was not something you should have said. That is something that should not have come out of your mouth. A mouth that yelled his name while moaning, breathlessly panting as he thrusted in and out of you. A mouth that had him. Tasted him with delight. And now you were lying, saying it wasn't that good?

So he followed your bantering. He continued it. You continued it. You both did, and it almost sounded as if it were a year ago. He didn't like it. He didn't like it at all, but it was better than wanting you. It was better than desiring you. It was better to keep you as far away as he possibly could.

So maybe he should throw his luck at the club tonight. He knew you were watching him, your eyes following his movements. Following who he was talking to, or drinking with. He could smell you from across the dance floor. He had to stop. He had to fucking stop. You didn't want it, you were clear, but your signals were all over the place. He knew what you truly wanted, but you were not acting on your instincts, and it was driving him mad.

Because all he knew, all he was taught, was that instincts were important for an Alpha.

But you weren't one, nor an Omega. So he had to understand that your mind was a little more rational than his was. So he disappeared from your sight, just because he couldn't have you close any longer. He saved you from a creep, and that was about it.

A woman sat beside him, a good-looking one. He pretended to be interested, scented the arousal from her instantly, and also some liquor. He could try. It wasn't going to be the same, and it would suck, but he could try. So he flirted back. She wasn't entertaining in the slightest. He could smell you for a moment, and he thought he was crazy because it was a little sour. As if you were distressed.

He paid it no mind,

"So, you with someone tonight, handsome?" She tried to play sexy, and he noticed she was a little older than he was.

"No, not really. How about you?" He wanted to. He wanted someone else tonight, but he couldn't have her, so, he would settle for this random ass woman.

"Not at all. But would love to spend the rest of it with you, if you don't mind." He played off a flirty smile, the best he could, but then, his shoulder was tapped. His eyes widened in surprise when he turned around to find you looking at him with those eyes that drove him a little mad.

“Hi, sorry to interrupt, um– I– I feel sick…”

He would be able to smell it if you were sick. You weren't. You were lying. He felt his chest puff with pride, with accomplishment. You kept lying, telling him to take you home, and he could guess the jealousy that was spurring inside of you.

He dismissed the girl, not caring; he didn't even remember her name. All of his focus was on you, and you only. His lungs were filled with you, his eyes were raking your form, his hands were itching to touch you again. He wanted to grab you over the console, pull you onto him, make you a babbling mess that you wouldn't even remember your fucking name—

“Y-Yeah… I’m honestly feeling icky. Nauseous and stuff.” And he frowned, his gut already turning with a bad feeling, an awful taste in his mouth at your words. Were you serious? No, he definitely knows you are lying.

“Wait, you’re actually sick?”

“Yeah, I was– in the bathroom trying not to puke before talking to you.”

“You– Oh my fucking god!” He had never been angrier. He could smell you wanting him, and you made him waste an opportunity to get laid. You did it on purpose, and you were denying it. Why were you fucking denying it? Why were you acting like this? Why weren't you doing what you wanted to do to him? He was trying to be understanding this past week, but what you just did made no sense.

He was fuming. He was angry. He wanted to rip your clothes off and mark you, dig his teeth, his fangs, all over your body to show you that you couldn't deny how good you felt with him.

But he didn't need to do that.

Because you were on him a second later. Another one, and he was inside you. And the world made a little more sense just then.

Weeks passed. He didn't see you every day, but it was like he couldn't go without being inside of you for more than two days. Maybe three.

He couldn't care less about other women. He wasn't going to tell you about that aspect because he didn't want you to misunderstand, and there was no way in hell he would tell you about what he really was. If he told you— If he told you what he was—

But your lie with Jeff kept going. You had to pretend the one you were fucking was Jeff, and not him. And then, the mother fucker of Harrington had to come into his workplace, at the same time you did, and you had to put on a show. A stupid fucking show that was making his insides burn, and all of his atoms were clashing with one another.

Then Steve had to pull him away, shove him into his office where he couldn't see you, watch over you, smell you properly. He didn't know what you were feeling or doing, and it was making his skin itch. Steve was curious, trying to talk to him, asking him questions about the girl he was hooking up with.

And Eddie didn't lie, except for the name.

“Are you exclusive to each other?”

That question shook every nerve ending of his body. You certainly weren't, but the thought of someone else grabbing you, tasting you, was making his hands turn into fists, and his chest rumbled with anger. He could feel it vibrating, a small growl that got trapped at the back of his throat.

And then he saw you with Jeff.

And he lost it.

This never happened to him. He never thought he would lose his cool this way. He never thought he would be this rough with you, this possessive, and he didn't understand. Why with you? Why? Was it just because of how good he felt with you? Because you couldn't compare to anyone else he had been with? Because you felt amazing?

He didn't know. He didn't.

But all he knew was that he had to make sure you knew. He wanted to hear it from your mouth. He wanted to make sure you were his. He didn't understand it, but he needed to hear it. So as he fucked you into the desk, he looked into your eyes, your teary eyes that were looking at him as if he had hung the stars in the sky,

“Look at you… yeah, I’m the only one that can make you feel like this, Peach.” And it took some tries because of how cock drunk you were, but finally, you yelled it out,

“You! Just you Eds– Fuck, just you–”

And for now, that was all he cared about.

It was, wasn't it?

He noticed the sadness radiating from you. There was a hint of excitement, and you were trying to disguise some sourness that was creeping in the back. You were sitting next to him in the bar booth, celebrating that your CEO had selected you for training, to take over the company when the moment came.

“Congrats, Peach. You deserve that.” His voice was genuine, and he could feel himself growing joyous about your achievement. You smiled at him, eyes that told him something he wasn't sure if he was getting it right. He got lost in them for a second too long, and— Were your eyes this beautiful before?

And then, Nancy spoke,

“Why are you going into training, though?” And your scent went bitter. Something was wrong. Something was not right. Robin flinched, and his eye caught it. She opened her mouth, and you were gone in an instant. His eyes followed you, a pair of magnets you never noticed you had on your back.

Robin sighed, looking down, and Eddie's eyes immediately looked at her. Nancy grabbed Robin's hand, a frown etched in her eyebrows in question.

"Robin?" He spoke, catching the girl's attention. He could smell how distraught Robin was for you, and he felt a hole being punched into his stomach with dread.

"There was… a pregnant woman today… A client." Nancy's eyes widened, and he sat there as he took that information in. That was probably not easy for you. That was probably something you could barely handle.

"Oh… That—" Nancy said, and when Robin's mouth opened again to continue, he could feel himself growing a sweat, his fingertips blazing as he knew something else was hurting you. Something else was making you feel horrible, making you think stuff you shouldn't.

"Liana is pregnant. She is going into maternity leave in a month."

The world fell silent for Eddie. He could see Nancy talking, asking for details, looking back to see if you were coming back to the table, and he was still processing what Robin just told him. You were given a great position, a great opportunity… at the cost of your biggest insecurity. His heart felt like it was ripping itself apart, and he needed to go after you. He needed to hold you. He needed to reassure you that everything was going to be fine.

That he was going to make it right.

And then he scented it. His nose flared, the whiff of smoke, acid, distress, anger just filling his lungs. Your anger. Your sadness. Your fury. He immediately got up from the booth and marched towards the bar where you were getting drinks. Something was not right. Something was happening to you right this second, and he needed to protect you from whatever that was.

Or who it was.

A blonde man, striking a conversation with you, and your face was one of disgust, but a pained frown remained. A betrayed look in your eyes. He was speaking, and Eddie's nose scrunched at his smell. Disgusting. Fucking disgusting. You weren't comfortable, and he wasn't backing away.

So Eddie interfered.

His eyes were going towards you, then back at the man, wanting to be filled in with the situation. Was he flirting with you, and he wasn't understanding no for an answer? Was he an old client you didn't want to meet up with anymore? But no. There was more. He could smell it. He could feel every blood cell in his body burn with the need, for whatever reason, to beat this man to the ground, until he would gargle in his own blood.

“I’m Henry. Um… Her Ex-Husband. Old friend.”

The man who had betrayed you in the most horrible of ways. The man who had broken you body and soul. The man who made you believe you wouldn't have a chance to have a family ever again. The man who chose your own childhood best friend over you. The man who stole everything from you.

And Eddie saw red. Pure, bloody, animalistic red.

He could feel himself moving, but he couldn't feel himself thinking. He couldn't. There wasn't a rational thought as his head collided with the other man's. As his fist connected with his chin and knocked him down. As he straddled him and pinned him to the ground. As fist after fist exploded into the man's face. There was cracking, there sure was, but he couldn't stop it. He couldn't stop himself.

He couldn't hear, he couldn't see past the man that was now under him, bloodied, cheeks and nose broken, and he just kept punching. He could hear the people yelling at him, Jonathan trying to pull him off, your voice a distant chime. And then he could see Henry's eyes open, and Eddie could see the fear. He could see it, feel it, smell it underneath the blood, the sweat, the drool.

His fangs were out, and he was growling into the blonde man's face.

Because how dare he even speak to you? How dare he fucking look at you after what he had done?

How dare he harm what was his?

And he finally got pulled away by four men. His surroundings came back to him in a strong wave, and his eyes clashed with your face. You were on the verge of tears. You were calling out to him, and Eddie didn't even know if you noticed you were doing it. Nancy and Robin were yelling, but now his senses were back to you. His rationality came back to him. He looked back down to see Henry writhing, holding his face as people surrounded him.

"You need to get the fuck out, Eddie." Jonathan sneered, and honestly, Eddie didn't even care that his friend was kicking him out. He knew he had to leave because right now, you were more important. He could feel the panic that was setting in you, and Robin rushed to your side, holding onto you, murmuring that you all needed to leave.

He followed instantly, grabbing Jonathan's rug from the bar to wipe his hands off, trying to get that bastard's blood off his skin. His feet rushed to your side, Robin and Nancy were holding you as they walked towards his car. He opened the passenger's seat and made you get inside. Your gaze was lost, not crying, and he knew you were holding it in. This wasn't the first time you did this. His stomach plummeted as you were unresponsive, just staring out into the windshield.

They all got in the car, and Eddie started driving. He didn't want to leave you alone. He couldn't. Maybe he can drop Nancy and Robin off, and leave you last, or maybe he can leave you first, then the other two, and then go back to your house. Whether you liked it or not, he wasn't going to leave you alone. Not tonight.

“I want to be alone.” And your eyes found his. You needed him. You needed him beside you. He gave a nod as Robin asked you questions, wondering if it was the right thing to do. He sped up, his adrenaline of getting you alone and making you feel safe was rushing into him in waves. He had to make sure you were going to be okay. He needed to.

He dropped the other two girls off first, and before Robin got out of the car, she spoke to him,

"Make sure she is safe."

And she didn't know that he was going to do more than that. He was going to try to make you feel better, to bring the joy back to your face. He wanted to see your smile. But he knew he needed to make you vent, to make you talk, to make that sadness come out of your chest before it consumed you.

They arrived at your home, and he helped you out of his car and up to your apartment. As soon as you two got in, you went to your couch, and he closed the door behind him.

“Peach… are you alright?” And he knew you weren't. He sat down next to you, wanting to rest his hand on your knee, comfort you, but then he felt you move.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” And you were straddling him, kissing him, and his mind was a mess. His hands held onto you, and this was not right. Your scent was not that of arousal. It was desperate, deliberate, and he didn't want it to be like this. This isn't what you needed.

He tried stopping you once, but you kept rubbing on him, and he was only human. He cursed at himself for reacting the way he did when you were like this. So he tried again. And then, he heard your voice, broken, trying to disguise feelings that he knew were destroying you. So he grabbed onto your biceps, pulling you away from him. His eyes filled with worry, and his chest held in a rumble, a whimper on seeing that broken look on your face. One you were trying to hold back.

“You don’t need this. You don’t need me like this… You need something else, Peach… I can give that too.”

And you broke. You sobbed into his chest, and he held you tightly. He hurt to see you this way, to hear you like this. He has heard you only one time sobbing this way, and it was because of the same reason. He didn't want you to feel like this anymore. You didn't deserve it. Any of it.

He caressed your hair, your cheek, your sides, your back, and he could feel you trembling underneath him. His shoulder must be soaked, your makeup is surely smudged, but he preferred this. He preferred you breaking, letting these emotions out, than holding them in. Because he was now there to hold you and to care for you.

“I’m here, Peach… I got you, baby. I got you.”

And the next day of that, you kissed his knuckles. The bruised knuckles that punched your ex-husband's skull in. And he could feel something coming up inside of him, something he never thought he would feel. Something he once thought he would be able to live without.

But the more he watched you, looked at you, and heard you, he realized that maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. Maybe there could be a chance for him not to end up all alone. But why with you? Why did he have this feeling with you? Was it him? Was it his heart? Was it his condition? It didn't matter. It didn't, because as soon as the feeling came, his lips formed a deal. Something he meant, but should have never left his brain.

“When we turn 30, and if we are single… I’ll give you one.” It felt like the world stopped, and you were just staring at him, stuttering words as if what he was saying was true. His eyes scanned your face, then your body for a second, and he felt a shock running through his spine. Something was trying to pull him towards you, to grab you, tell you that he could give you more. But why? Why?

“Why… I– You would have a kid… You are willing to have a baby with me? You don’t have to feel… sorry for me…” Your voice was broken, and he could feel his fingers burning, and not because of his bruises. He moved them a little bit to try to get the sensation off to no avail. Why were you doubting it? Why did you think he didn't mean it? He didn't want you to think that. Fuck, but he shouldn't do this. Why is he doing this?

“I want kids. I want a family too someday, and I honestly– Don’t think…” 'I would ever have a partner.' He wanted to say. But you would ask questions. You would ask him why he thinks he would be all alone until the end of time. He wasn't ready to answer any of that; it wasn't in his plans to ever tell you what he truly was. "And I think that you would be the greatest mom in the entire world, so… it’s a win-win for me.”

And when you slowly started to smile. That damn smile that shook his entire floor, that he didn't know was slowly caving in. He could feel warmth coming out of your hand when he grabbed onto it, and your scent turned sweet. Like peaches. His eyes drifted to your belly. He would have to wait three years. He hoped you would still be single by that time.

Because you would look good.

Fuck, you would look real good.

The moment the question settled in his mind, he dropped everything, turning off the sink.

Were you meaning what he thinks you were meaning? Did you ask that question because you wanted— Oh shit.

"Fuck." He grabbed himself onto the sink, fingers gripping against the counter as he felt his body burning, aching, and his limbs were trying to make him run up the stairs. Shit. Shit. Shit. He never felt like this. But he had to make sure this was what he thought it was. That you asked because you wanted him in a way he never thought he'd be with someone.

But he didn't know why he felt like he was losing control. He had to calm himself down or else, he was afraid of what would happen to him, or worse, to you. He took deep breaths in, but that was worse because he could smell the arousal, but with a hint of sourness coming from upstairs. Shit. You definitely meant it that way, and he took a while to get it.

Because he never thought he would have this chance.

He always used condoms because of possible illnesses. He would never go raw on someone. So, he never came inside of anyone, and obviously, as an Alpha, that need had always been there. To mark someone. To breed. It was in his nature. Something he pushed away because it would never happen, because he would never have someone he would trust that much to do so.

And now, there was you. Who was waiting patiently upstairs, probably upset because you thought he didn't want it, when, poor you, it was the whole other way around. He was curious. So curious. He was yearning for it, clutching at his chest to try to stabilize his breathing. He shouldn't. He shouldn't. If he did, he would never let you go. He would never let you walk away if you ever decided to do so. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He straightened up, his nose flaring. A surge of warmth rushed over his body, calling out to you. Possessiveness. You were his. Why would he even LET YOU walk away? Over his dead fucking body.

And then, when he was upstairs, your body embraced by his arms, his body pressing against yours from behind, his hips calling for yours. You were breathing heavily, your arousal scaling every second, and you smelled so fucking sweet and intoxicating, and he felt like he was losing his goddamn mind.

“Since you got tested… have you been with anybody else?” You asked.

“I have not.” And he could feel you relax a bit in his hold, and it felt so good, even if it sounded selfish, that you were worried he had been with others. But now, the question goes back at you, something he had wondered, but always known… Because he never smelled someone else on you. "You?"

And your eyes locked with his, and he was a gone man.

“I have not.”

It was an impulse. Throwing you into the bed to manhandle you, take you in whichever way he wanted, but he wanted you to say it. He wanted you to tell him what you wanted. You bounced on the bed after his push, and he crawled on top of you. His hand was grabbing your chin, forcefully, making you look at him.

“Are you telling me you want me to fuck you raw?”

And he held a breath in. He could see the need in your eyes, in the way you were breathing, in the way your body was responding to his. Fuck, he needed to take you. He needed to fuck you until you couldn't walk straight. He needed to see his cum dripping out of you. See his claim on you.

“I– I never said–” And he wasn't in a playful mood today. Not now. You shouldn't be a brat right now. You should obey him. You should follow every single command he gives. So he growled, and a glare was directed your way.

“I am not playing games right now. So tell me what you want before I lose my fucking patience, Peach.”

��I… I want to feel you cum inside of me, Eddie.”

Your eyes were glossy with lust, and his body trembled at your words. You were giving him the green light. Something he had always wanted to do. Something he thought he'd never get to experience. And here you were… With open legs, and a willing cunt that could take all of him.

“You have no idea what you just did.”

Then it was a blur. It was as if some kind of beast controlled his body. He tasted you, savored you, fingered you, took a climax of yours into his throat, and nothing was satiating him. Nothing. So many words that he never meant to say out loud came to life. So many things that probably would not make sense to you if you weren't so cock drunk.

“Don’t order me. Not tonight.”

“I’m going to fucking ruin you, Peach.”

“Keep your ass up.”

“Don’t you fucking dare touch yourself. You will cum when I tell you to.” You were presenting yourself. A position Omegas do to Alphas to offer their bodies, their wombs, their souls. A sign of mating. And you didn't even know. Your upper body down, your ass in the air, and that was driving him insane. His fangs were enlarging. His eyes were focused on a particular spot on your body. He couldn't look away as he pounded into you, ordering you not to cum. Ordering you to wait for him.

Because he was close, and he could feel the base of his cock burning, aching, throbbing. He wasn't going to knot, he couldn't. The medicine prevented it. But he was losing control as his fingers dug into your waist, and he started moving downwards as the thrusts became fierce, feral. His eyes were still glued to that spot as you moaned his name, as you begged for mercy to let you cum.

“Cum. Cum now–”

And when you engulfed him completely, clenched around that area that was scorching hot, he felt his chest thump aggressively. His body trembled, shook as spurt after spurt came out. His mouth was against something, and he growled as you cried. He felt like he had been gone for an eternity, but the fact that his seed was inside of you, and not inside of some stupid latex protection, was satiating him, finally.

And then one more growl.

Because he knew that it wasn't going to take.

You were radiant.

He was happy. He let you look into his photo album. He let you caress him. He let you kiss his cheeks. He helped you with work and you helped him. He asked you to spend another night because, he couldn't part with you. Not yet…

And then, Robin and Steve…

And Steve fucked everything up. Made him think stuff that made him doubt everything he was.

Then his uncle. His uncle Wayne. Seeing you with his uncle, laughing with him, smiling, and then— then— You holding a baby. You, holding a child. You were born for it. You were born to be a mom.

But not just for any child. No. That baby, he wanted that baby to be his.

And he knew he was doomed.

And everything Steve said, was thrown out the window.

Pain.

The only person in his life who had cared for him since little was gone. The one person who had been by Eddie's side was no longer in this world. The one person that Eddie saw as true family is no longer with him. His true father.

Wayne was gone. Wayne was truly gone. And Eddie was spiraling. He didn't want anyone at his funeral. He was not supposed to break. Alphas are not vulnerable. They are made to protect, and he wasn't the exception. He couldn't even invite Steve to the wake. He didn't want anybody to see this, to see him.

And then when he came back to Hawkins, you were there, with Robin and Steve. Worried. He tried to keep calm, but there was that magnet again. That pull that screamed at him that he needed you. That you had to stay with him. He never felt that with Steve, and now, it's almost painful to be apart from you. It wasn't until he saw you again that he realized just how much he'd missed you. How much he had fucked up by not telling you to come to him.

And he tried letting the three of you go. He really tried. He was supposed to be everyone's pillar. He was the Alpha of his pack, and he was the one who comforted everyone and helped. But his lip trembled as he heard the door open behind his back, and his body instinctively turned around, going to the one person he needed the most. The one person whose body ached to hold the most. The one person he realized he couldn't live without any longer.

You.

And you stayed. You made sure to stay. He felt safe with you, as if you were a warm blanket. You held him as if he were the most precious thing in the world. You comforted him as if he were a child. Washing his hair, making him food, stroking his hair, his back, while he cried on your chest. You embraced him, held him, and he felt safe. He felt protected by you.

You.

Mine.

“Say you’re mine…” His eyes showed an intensity like never before, and you were still in awe at the whole situation. He gulped, scanning your face as he waited for your answer. “I need to hear it… I need to hear you say you’re mine and mine only, sweetheart.”

“I’m yours, Eds… Just yours…”

And that will have to count as a bite mark.

It will have to.

Your eyes were fixated on him, the shock of what had just been revealed still trying to sit in your mind.

An Alpha?

You scoffed a bit, nervous, not really knowing what to think, or what to even say from the shock.

"You— No, that's— That's impossible, Alphas— They are—"

"Extinct… I know…" He whispered softly, looking at you with a worried frown on his face. He could see your eyes going back and forth, how your knee started bouncing, how your breathing quickened, hitched, as the gears processed in your head.

Eddie is an Alpha. A designation that was believed extinct, long gone, as well as Omegas. You stood up from the bed, and you started to pace in the room, trying to get your thoughts together. This wasn't a lie. Eddie would not lie about this. What would he gain from it? Nothing. But this didn't make any sense. Why did he—

You stopped on your tracks, slowly turning to face him. Your heart was in your eyes as his gaze was still fixed on you, his Adam's apple bobbing as he waited for you to talk. To say something. To ask anything.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He sighed, looking down at his lap. He had to be honest with you. If he wanted to keep you, if he wanted what he always thought he would never have, with you, then he'll have to be straightforward.

"Because, if what I am gets out, I would become a lab rat. The fewer people who knew, the better. If I get targeted, my pack gets targeted."

"Pack?" You asked, still trying to wrap your head around what he was saying. A lab rat? Then what was this place?

"Before, our groups were called packs. It wasn't just… friend groups, or family groups. You belonged to a pack." He explained, and you rubbed your forehead as you felt a migraine starting to kick in. This information was making you dizzy because you didn't understand anything, and you were so confused, and you just didn't know what to think— "Sweetheart…"

His soft voice pulled you out of your pacing, out of your mind place. You turned to face him, and he had a look of sadness displayed on his features. Your heart stopped a bit, wondering why he was pulling such a face. You took a deep breath in, shaking your head.

"Eddie—"

"If you cannot be with someone like me… If you don't want to deal with it… You are free to walk away."

The universe stopped.

What?

Before you knew it, you were moving towards him, holding his face in between your hands. You didn't understand anything, you were hurt, you weren't told a thing, you were confused, you were afraid because you didn't know what anything of this meant for your future, but there was one thing you knew. You couldn't live without Eddie.

"I don't care what you are. You are still the asshole, cocky, son of a bitch metalhead I met a year ago… and my boyfriend. I just—" You clenched your jaw, feeling tears filling your eyes. His eyes were gazing up at you, and he wanted to nuzzle you. He wanted to scent you. He wanted to comfort you. His heart was in his ears as he heard your words, chest warming up.

"So you're staying?" His voice was almost small, vulnerable, and it reminded you of a week ago. He looked afraid of losing you. You nodded at him, pressing your forehead against him.

"I just— I just need some explanations—"

"Aaand I am here for that." The door slammed open, and you snapped your head over your shoulder, seeing Murray smiling innocently with a chart in his hand, a nurse behind him with a tray in his hands. "What a nice, comforting display. May I butt in for a second?"

You heard a growl coming from Eddie, and now you heard it for what it truly was. Your face turned to see him staring at Murray, and your hand went without thinking towards his chest. It was vibrating. All this time, you thought you were hallucinating. That your brain was playing tricks on you. But it wasn't. Eddie was growling, almost like an animal. His eyes went towards you again, his features relaxing instantly. You heard Murray hum in thought, as he wrote in his chart.

You gulped, letting go of Eddie's face, and instead holding his hand. You stood next to him and looked at the doctor before you. You could feel your stomach turning with nerves, with emotions that were bordering on a panic attack.

"Who are you? What is this place?" You asked. Eddie talked about being a lab rat, but this clinic, this place, weren't they doing exactly that?

"I think I introduced myself already—"

"Murray." Eddie's low voice came back, and his hand clenched yours for a second. A chill ran down your spine, hearing that low tone you heard hours ago again.

"Jeez. Okay, okay. If you didn't notice, this isn't your typical… hospital." The bald man explained, and you raised an eyebrow in question.

"Meaning?"

"We are not governmental. They don't know about us. That's why I warned you to never talk about it, outside of this building, of course." He gave a fake smile as you blinked, trying to swallow this information in. You opened your mouth again, and the nurse stepped forward, holding a tray in his hands.

"Sir?" Murray turned to look, seeing a syringe and some tube samples on it.

"Oh yes." He turned back at you, tilting his head. "Do you mind if we take some blood samples from you?"

Your heart skipped a beat, frowning because— Why the fuck did they need that? What did you have to do with any of that? Eddie's head whipped back to Murray, his face filled with confusion and some worry.

"Why do you need her blood? She is fine." Eddie started, and Murray raised a hand to make him stop talking, which only made Eddie snarl at the man.

"Oh, quit those Alpha noises. You ain't scaring me." He grabbed the syringe and the tubes, walking towards you. "Look, it's scary… But I need to confirm something."

"Confirm what?" You asked, looking at how the man was studying you behind his glasses. He hesitated for a second, his eyes looking at Eddie for a moment, and then back at you.

"You… aren't supposed to be able to… take him." You felt heat creeping up on your cheeks, opening your mouth to begin insulting the man before you for talking about your privacy like that, but he stopped you once again. "I need to see if you have Omegan traits."

The world fell silent. Eddie's breathing stopped. You? An Omega? No, it was… impossible, wasn't it? Your eyes were looking at the man before you, while Eddie's were fixed on his own lap. His mind was racing, trying to make sense to the doctor's words.

"I— I can't be an Omega… I— I am not fertile, I—"

"Look, it's just… You are defying everything I've ever known of Alphas, Betas, and Omegas. I will explain later, but first, I need your blood. It'll take only a couple of minutes." He tried again, and you could hear ringing in your ears, the gears in your brain trying to work, but not finding the right slot so they could move.

But what if you were?

Your arm immediately shot out, giving it to Murray. Eddie's eyes widened, and the doctor sighed, cleaning your arm with the cotton and alcohol the Nurse had in his tray. You winced slightly as he took a sample of your blood, getting it into the test tube. He pressed a cotton to the little puncture, and you let go of Eddie's hand to hold it in place. Murray put everything on the tray again, including your blood.

"We look for O-45?" The nurse asked, and Murray nodded.

"And OG32." The nurse nodded towards you and walked out of the room. You were frowning, looking at the arm blood had been taken from. Hope rose in your chest, and you didn't know why. "Betas are not supposed to be able to take an Alpha's member."

Eddie's eyes turned to the doctor, sitting straighter despite the burning in his belly. The medicine was still kicking in his system, so his instincts were still a bit in a frenzy.

"I just thought it was a possibility that she was just… different than the rest." Murray glared at your boyfriend, pointing a finger at him.

"And you should have told me, and I would have told you that it isn't possible!" His voice raised slightly, and you were beginning to grow a little infuriated. You were still being left in the dark, not receiving any answers, but just making you have more questions.

"Can someone, any of you two, explain SHIT to me!?" Both men turned to look at you, a bit surprised. Murray cleared his throat, his hands gesturing as he explained.

"Like I said, you are supposed to be in pain taking someone his size. He is larger than the average Beta, because his member is supposed to have a knot at the base." And his explanation was still very vague, very fresh, very weird. Impossible. You threw the cotton ball in the trash can, turning to both men again.

"A knot? So, it was real? Everything in the anatomy books they taught us in school was true?" You could feel some anxiety creeping in. It was always hard to believe those books when you were at school. It looked surreal, and you couldn't believe there was a time when your bodies possessed anatomies like those.

"Of course they are! That's why they're taught!" You frowned, looking at Eddie then.

"But you never… had… that when we…" You felt your ears burn, not wanting to say anything more with the other man in the room. Eddie nodded a bit, clearing his throat.

"It was the medicine." You kept looking at him, searching for more answers. "The medicine helps with keeping my instincts at bay. They're suppressants."

"Suppressants?" He nodded, and then Murray talked again.

"They help with keeping his Alpha traits hidden, making him look and act like a Beta. If he didn't have those… Well, you saw what happened today, Missy." You were still confused, so confused. You rubbed your forehead, sitting down on the chair that was in front of the bed.

"What kind of traits?" You asked, and Eddie took a sharp breath, looking at the doctor. The bald man tapped on the chart, pacing in the room.

"Aggressiveness. Fangs coming out. Growling. Unbelievable strength… And a desperate need to satiate himself if he is close to his rut." Everything started making a bit more sense. Some of his actions, or words, how hard he beat Henry, how hard he had pushed Billy when you broke up with him, and he was grabbing you. Wait, rut?

"Rut?" Eddie felt his cheek flush, and Murray smirked, waiting for the metalhead to give that answer. Eddie groaned, glaring at him for a second before looking back at you.

"It's my… breeding season." You blinked a few times, staring at him as if he had grown a second head.

"Breeding season? Like animals?" And Murray cut in, a cheeky smile on his face.

"We were all animals once, sweetheart. But, yes, like animals. Omegas had heats, and Alphas had ruts." You remembered reading something like that in school, but everything about this past was very poorly educated because it was something they didn't deem important, because it was supposed to be… a myth.

"But when is that? I mean, were you in a rut in any of the times we were together?" You turned to Eddie, now curious to know if it had happened without your knowledge. He shook his head, and you tilted your head slightly.

"Ruts come every three months… I'm due soon… That's why, today…" Eddie stopped talking, his eyes moving away from yours in shame. He could have hurt you. He could have done something you weren't ready to experience. He could have done things to you that no ordinary Beta could take.

"Today what?" Eddie didn't talk, so Murray sighed, stepping in again.

"When you came back, your scent, your presence, overwhelmed him. You are his partner. His suppressants were not in his system, and his rut is due to start soon. So, when you walked into the room, if you hadn't strapped him down, and if we hadn't arrived in time… Well… It could have gone a little differently than all your other intimate times."

And you remembered how Eddie was looking at you. He looked like he was going to eat you. Like he was going to devour you. His fangs were out, and he was trying to fight against the handcuffs to get to you. You gulped heavily, a cold sweat invading you. How bad could that have ended?

"You wouldn't have been able to recognize me, Peach. I wouldn't have been able to forgive myself if I—" He couldn't finish it. He never experienced a rut outside of his suppressants, and he wasn't going to start now. Not with you. His knot would hurt you… But if you had Omega traits—

"But you didn't… You controlled yourself in order to protect me." You talked, and he sighed in relief, looking at you again. "So… How… Did you handle your ruts?"

"I get headaches, normally. Sometimes nausea… I— I basically slept around." He replied in shame, and you felt the pang of jealousy right in your chest. But then, it made sense. Robin had told you about weekends where Eddie would basically disappear to fuck, and different women at that. Does he still need different women? Wait, were you enough when the time came?

"I—" You didn't know what to say, because your insecurities started creeping in. Eddie opened his mouth, noticing the change in scent.

"But this time I have you to spend it with. It only lasts two days at most, and I really am no different than all the other times… But I do need to satiate myself, or I will get migraines…" You looked at him, and he realized what he said, shaking his head, stuttering, "O-Only if you want to, of course, I am not going to force you—"

"You know you cannot go into a rut without—" Murray interrupted, and Eddie bared his fangs at him.

"I never tried. And I ain't going to force her into—"

"I will do it… Why wouldn't I?" You asked, frowning in question as he looked back at you. Why would he think you wouldn't go through firestorms, blizzards, and tornadoes for him? He stared at you, his heart beating into his throat. Your eyes were still warm as you got punched with information that was completely foreign to you, that until yesterday, you might have believed it would never happen ever again in these modern days.

"Now that THAT is out of the way—" Murray interrupted once again, now making you groan, and Eddie chuckled at your reaction. "You now know his condition, and what he is, and—"

"When did it happen?" You asked this time, looking back at Eddie. He looked back down at his lap as the memories flooded back into his head.

"I presented at sixteen."

And then you remembered the photo album. He didn't have any pictures when he hit that age. There were very few for an entire year… And then his entire self changed. Too mature for seventeen. You couldn't even believe he was that age when you looked at the pictures. Murray kept silent for a second, finally having some respect for Eddie's memories. After a few seconds, he talked again with a sigh.

"I was working at a hospital while managing this research clinic. I was basically undercover to see if hospitals, pharmacies, everything that had involvement with the government, were covering up cases like Edward." He started pacing again, his hands and chart behind his back. "I saw him… and Mr. Munson in a waiting room in Indianapolis."

Mr. Munson. You felt your chest grow heavy, looking at Eddie with sadness in your eyes. He was still not looking at you, starting to talk once again.

"My uncle had taken me to almost every clinic and hospital there was. I was… feverish, overly feverish. I had pains all over my body, my bones felt like they were breaking or bending, and my mind, my consciousness, was slowly drifting away. I didn't feel like myself." He continued, and you got up from the chair, rushing to grab his hand again, your thumb rubbing the top of it. His eyes finally looked up, and you gave him a small smile, wanting him to know you were listening, and you understood how painful it still was for him to talk about his uncle.

Eddie brought your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently, before he smiled up at you with gratitude. Murray cleared his throat, and you both turned your heads to meet the eyes of the man who, sure, was a genius, but was a pain in the ass.

"I approached them and told them I had a special clinic that might be able to identify what Edward was having. Wayne was desperate, so he agreed… I didn't want them to be in a hospital any longer, afraid they might take them both away if they were to discover what he was." You frowned now, shaking your head.

"But wouldn't the blood tests figure it out? You took some of mine to see—"

"Hospitals and clinics do not use those kinds of tests any longer because… Well, Alphas and Omegas are supposed to be extinct… But what if one hospital did have it? Your boyfriend wouldn't be here now." You swallowed the information in, a feeling of dread invading you as the prospect of Eddie being locked up suddenly came to your head. Him, locked up, strapped to a bed, blood taken out of him constantly, experiments being done on him, no, no—

You gasped when you felt two strong hands gripping your right hand tightly, giving you a slight tug. Your eyes found Eddie's worried ones. You hadn't noticed your breathing growing heavy, or how your fingers started twitching, and your eyes were looking everywhere, completely lost.

"I am here, and I'm safe. Murray might be fucking crazy, and look the part, but I promise he doesn't treat me like a lab rat." The bald man scoffed at Eddie's words, but they were enough to make you calm down and feel a bit more grateful for the doctor in the room.

"Okay… Okay… So, he is basically… living a normal life?" You asked, and Murray opened his mouth, only for the nurse to walk back in again with papers in his hands. Your body straightened up, and Eddie's breathing hitched.

What if you were?

Murray grabbed the papers, and the nurse gave a nod to both you and Eddie before walking out of the room. You were standing there, hope in your eyes over a diagnosis that you never really thought of. A diagnosis you never thought you were going to have or even get studies for. A diagnosis that was a complete myth… until today.

And Eddie was there, never having thought of the possibility of meeting an Omega in his life. The fact that you might be one, that you might possess traits of it, might answer so many questions he held in his brain. If you were an Omega, you would be his. He would be able to mate you. He would be able to make you his, forever.

Murray looked at the papers, his eyebrows meeting in the middle, his eyes scanning the letters over and over again.

Your breathing stopped as he read your diagnosis out loud,

"You aren't an Omega."

end of chapter 27

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a/n: i fucked you all over with your theories, didn't i?

I will start deleting people that do not interact with my posts.

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