IT WILL COME BACK (E.M.)
"honey, don't feed me - i will come back."
summary: when eddie came back from the upside down, he was different. and you finally come to realize just how different the man you saved truly is one night, when push comes to shove.
pairings: kas!eddie munson x reader
warnings: mentions of BLOOD (in sexual manner), mentions of BITING (in sexual manner), allusions to possible coercion (consent is still explicitly stated - trust me), mentions of death and trauma, mentions of eddie's canon death, taking a lot of creative liberty with expansive vampire lore across all media, mentions of murderous dreams? (eddie dreamt about killing reader idk), oral (f receiving), smut. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT - 18+ ONLY.
wc: 7.7k+
a/n: i told y'all i'd write a serious biting/blood kink fic one day - today is the day. very lazily edited so beware.
When Eddie came back from the Upside Down, he was different.
There were subtle changes at first. Small, minute details that were easy to ignore. Everyone could turn a blind eye to them — everyone figured they would fade once the boy healed. His healing was first priority, and whatever lingered after could be dealt with.
Get Eddie better. Then question all that lingers.
A simple plan. A genius plan. A torturous plan.
The two of you had been friends, if you could even call it that, prior to it all. Teasing in the hallways, working on school projects here and there when in shared classes, he was your favorite (and only) dealer when you craved something to make sleep come just a little bit easier. He had been familiar — an old ghost you'd grown comfortable with, long before you’d seen those large and wet eyes looking back up at you in the boathouse.
Long before he’d pieced together the puzzle pieces as to why you’d needed the weed to cancel out the nightmares. Long before he’d processed exactly what those nightmares entailed.
But then, you’d fought for him. You’d fought with him. And most importantly, you’d bled with him.
God, you had bled for him.
Something admirable had blossomed in that short time. Eddie’s entire life had fallen apart, thread by frayed thread, and that new planted emotion had been the only solid thing to emerge for him to absolutely cling to. You were more than a fellow classmate to pass by in the hallways. You were more than his favorite customer, always weaponizing fluttering lashes and puckered lips for a discount he’d have given you regardless.
You were a force to be reckoned with, and had ignited a hunger in him like no other.
That’s all he had thought it was when he’d awoken in his living room — not the distorted version but the real one — to you screaming for the others to help you as you’d sealed his wounds. That’s all he had thought it was when you’d come to visit him as wounds turned to scars, and stabbing pains turned to hungering pangs. So he had tried to bury it, listen to Harrington and Wheeler and Buckley when they told him to take time to readjust. He’d locked away that hunger and focused on his healing, just as everyone else had, and told himself it was just residual feelings.
Residual feelings had been bound to happen after seeing someone bloody their hands, with your own blood, for your survival.
And in his burial, he’d never considered a similar hunger igniting somewhere deep within you.
You visited far more often than you should have. Returning time and time again to change his bandages, taking on one too many shifts at the hospital during his unconscious spells and baring your teeth for anyone who got too close. The sweet blood on your hands hadn’t washed away in that first shower; you swore, if you looked closer, you could still see the stain of nearly losing him across your knuckles.
Physical wounds were easier to heal than the internal ones. It was easier to lather on antibiotic lotion than it was to sleep soundly at night. Both of you came to realize that quickly in the weeks that followed Eddie’s return from the dead.
His nights were plagued with bad dreams, with thirst and cravings he couldn’t quite name. He’d wake up, burning up from the inside out with a fever that never existed. Tearing skin. Puncture wounds. Blood spilling across floors and his lips alike. He could never tell if the shivers that traced his spine had been from the cruel visions that had become his nightly visitors or if it was due to his perpetual drop in temperature that had worried Nancy since the very first night home from the hospital, that had concerned the nurses who piled blankets atop him during his week long sleep of recovery.
Your nights were even less kind. Horrific memories were the demons that haunted you — remembering the way you had watched Eddie cut that sheet rope, remembering finding him bloodied on the ground, remembering the warmth of his blood seeping across your palms and how when your ear had turned just as heated with it as you pressed it to his chest. Only to hear nothing. Emptiness.
His heart had stopped for minutes. Plural.
It had been your steady rhythm, your desperate hands and your gasping breaths breathing into his lungs. You’d sunk your claws into him, caught them right between his ribs and had decided he couldn’t leave you.
Some nights, when you wake up screaming, you can still taste his blood on your lips. You sometimes still swore that when you’d checked for a pulse after that, you hadn’t heard anything. Still worried that Eddie Munson’s heart never really restarted and resumed beating.
The worst was when you’d stare through the faded grey of mornings plastering across your room’s walls, and could still remember that initial look in his blown out pupils, once honey brown swallowed in pure black as he’d taken his first breath on his own.
Hunger.
You’d felt it, too. Shame riddled you on the nights you’d come down from the nightmares and remember it; it was as though the Universe had snapped back into place the moment you’d watched his chest first rise. A need so ardent to remain at his side. A chain clicking into place, binding both yourself and Eddie to one another, unaware of just what price had been paid to keep the boy that had laid under you in this world. Unaware of the hunger you had struck the match too that would become both your downfalls.
And so it had been buried. Something alive, even with your doubts of Eddie’s liveliness, and choking on dirt while six feet under. You and Eddie, two sides of the same coin, had decided to not speak of it. He never told you how he had come to be able to pinpoint your heartbeat in every shared room he entered, throat burning as his gaze always settled on you, and you never told him of the matching aches that had shamefully sparked within your chest and between your hips for him.
A hunger to be near one another. A hunger to devour. Neither of you really understood the heaviness.
“How are you feeling today, Eddie?” Steve asks as he sits on the edge of the new bed in the new apartment in the new part of town the Munson men now occupy.
Government money could go a Hell of a long way. Especially after your home had been devastated by the aftermath of alternate dimensions and unheard of evil being defeated.
“Fine,” is the only response Eddie can muster.
In reality, every time anyone came near him now, he burned. His throat tightened till it was surely raw, he swore his teeth sharpened until a mere slip of his tongue against his canines could bring the taste of metallic blood to his mouth. His entire body would tense with every person that walked through his door.
Control. Whatever was happening to him, Eddie needed to exercise control.
“Just fine?” Steve continues on, not catching the drift as he puts down the bag of things he’d bought at Eddie’s request. Basic things — painkillers, packs of cigarettes, a 6-pack. Some habits die harder and can’t be controlled, “You look like shit, Munson.”
“Gee, thanks, Stevie.”
Everyone had assumed the dark shadows beneath Eddie’s eyes would fade. They assumed his cheeks would eventually fill back out. They assumed he could wash away the ashen shade his hair now flatly flowed in. It was as if the life had been drained from Eddie since that day, and they had all assumed it would eventually flow back into him.
It never did. Just as his new hunger lingered, so did the look of Death.
“Sorry, man,” Steve throws his hands up, shrugging a bit before he stands, “Just being honest. It’s the best policy.”
“Is it? Is it really?”
If honesty was the best policy, Eddie could have filled the room with it. He could admit about the nightmarish wants, needs, he’d been keeping at bay. He could admit the way his irritation had been growing this last week every time another body, another friend, walked through his doorway and it wasn’t you. You, who had begun to plague the night terrors. You, who Eddie was beginning to crave far more than he had before he’d stared the afterlife down the barrel of the gun.
Steve just looks at Hawkins’ newest zombie boy, sighing, “Look, I don’t know what’s got you pissed off-“
“The whole dying thing, for starters.”
“-or why you’ve insisted on being an asshole to all of us these last few weeks-“
“Again, I died.”
“-but you’ve got everyone but me scared to visit you. We’re all scared of you biting our heads off, dude,” Steve finally finishes with a scowl.
Everyone. It’s unspoken that you’re included in the generalization.
It occurs to Eddie that maybe, just maybe, he should be kinder if he ever wants the ache of yearning to see you again to fade. If that’s what he could call this ache.
By the time Steve has left, Eddie’s still thinking about his warning. About the way he had been unusually cruel since coming back to life, since waking up handcuffed to a hospital bed. It made sense initially. But he wasn’t handcuffed to a hospital bed anymore — he was home, or as close to home as he could get, and he was technically safe.
The issue was that he’d accepted his safety. Everyone who had wanted Eddie Munson dead was now six feet under themselves. No, the bigger issue at hand was everyone else’s safety.
Your safety.
Once he’d realized you were the staring lead in his violent fantasies, he had stopped calling. Half of your absence last week had been his fault.
No one really bothered to look deeper into it. Steve didn’t press as to why Eddie’s fridge had remained empty, Nancy didn’t take second glances at the odd books on vampire tales that were now littering all the free real estate of Eddie’s room, and you hadn’t questioned the coldness of his tone whenever he spoke to you. The chill of his words had grown icier than his own palms, desperate to keep you at arm’s length until he figured out what had changed in him that day he came back to life.
He wanted you near. He wanted to rip your throat out. He wanted your blood to stain his mouth and neck just as his had stained your hands. That was an issue. That wasn’t normal.
Something had changed in Eddie Munson, and it had terrified him to his twisted core, and no one had cared enough to notice. Not yet.
–
It took you two weeks to be fed up with the radio silence.
Eddie stopped calling even Jonathan (the only one of the group he found he didn’t want to devour whole, as it turns out). When everyone had mentioned it in passing, it had only reminded you of the sleepless nights you’d be enduring. That small voice in the back of your head that had called out to you in the dead of night, the whisper of come to me that echoed all the way across a broken town.
Come to me.
Sometimes you swore it was Eddie’s voice calling to you. Sometimes, you nearly left your own new apartment in the dead of night, and let your legs guide you to the undead boy you had single-handedly revived.
Tonight was one of those nights. Your stomach was twisting, your head was pounding, your bones were aching. Every single inch of you hurt as it listened to that soft calling, and at some point, you gave in.
Hunger. You were insatiable with the need and drive to be at Eddie’s side. Warnings from the others be damned.
One thing leads to another. You find your coat, you find your car keys. You find yourself driving the deserted streets of Hawkins in the middle of the night. You find yourself on the Munson doorstep, knuckles shaking and aching with the knowledge that just beyond the wood of the door, he was there. You don’t have to see him to feel him; his thrumming presence, his anchoring existence.
Come to me.
The door swings open before you get the chance to knock. This string tying your two souls together is not a one-way channel, it seems.
“Why are you here?”
You watch him wince as the harsh words leave him. Immediately, you know that the abrasiveness is on instinct. Just as something claws inside of you to be near him, there is something within him howling to keep you far from him.
The polarity of two magnets. Some nights, surely, his twists in a way that would draw him to you, just as yours will twirl with the sensibility that whatever has changed within him should give you cause to run as far away from him as possible.
But tonight, your magnetism only yanks you closer to him. He doesn’t even invite you in, and yet, you find yourself stepping over the threshold of the new apartment.
“You’ve gone quiet,” you whisper as an answer. It’s not what he wants to hear, grimace deepening, nearly a scowl now, “I just… It’s been weeks. I…”
I missed you. I needed you. I heard you in my dreams and I’ve never had much self-control when it comes to you.
Magnets are a useless metaphor for whatever is happening here between you. A better comparison would be the cliche image of a moth to a flame; he’s dangerous, threatening to burn you alive, and you still find your heart fluttering after him hopelessly. You’re going to get scorned, and you’ll still never learn. You’ve fallen victim to a tired narrative that you’d rolled your eyes at in a plethora of books. How many times had you sworn that wouldn’t be you? Just how many eye rolls had you exhausted at the mere idea?
And now, here you were, on his doorstep. Grasping for something you’re not sure either of you can give.
“I’ve been dealing with a few things,” he mutters as he shuts the door behind you, shielding you both from the chill of the night. The room is still cold, especially in his radius, “Didn’t think it would make much of a difference.”
“You didn’t think I’d care if you just stopped calling?” you turn slowly, taking in the state of the living room. Wayne was clearly gone for the night, work most probably, and several books littered the coffee table. Eddie had been the one reading them, lounging on the couch.
The last time you had seen him, he couldn’t even sit up in bed on his own.
He’s keeping an unusual distance, nearly leaning back out of your vicinity, “Figured you were busy.”
He’s never been this short with you. His words are choked up, his body tense with pain. You assume it’s just his injuries bothering him.
You couldn’t be more wrong, but you’re completely unaware.
“I brought you back from the dead, and you think I’d still be too busy for you,” you laugh humorlessly, fully in disbelief at his pitiful excuse, “Eddie, we could find out Vecna didn’t really die, those damn cracks in the Earth could open right back up, and the first person I’d care about finding is you.”
The animal inside that had been yearning for his presence is satiated for now, but you can still feel it lurking in the darkest depths of your mind, ready to call out a new request at any moment. It’s the distraction that has you spilling pathetic truths.
The only response he offers you is a dead stare. With eyes wide, pupils nearly swallowed up by darkness.
“You could have called,” your voice cracks, body shaking with the effort not to take a step closer to him, “You could have just let me know you were still alive.”
“I-”
He cuts himself off when he’s the one taking a step closer. His entire face twists with pain, and you give up keeping your distance. In an instant, you’re at his side as your hand reaches out for his bicep.
He flinches away. Something inside of you burns.
Your hand is hovering in the air between the two of you, and in this lighting, you swear the skin is still stained with the blood that won’t wash away.
“Please don’t,” he begs, “I’m fine, but… please.”
You don’t know what he’s begging for. Distance, for you to pull your hand away, time – you don’t know what he needs.
“We should sit down,” you insist, finally pulling your hand as far from him as possible but making no move to put the space back between you two, “Has anyone helped you with your bandages? If your wounds got infected-”
“They didn’t.”
“If you didn’t change the bandages, they definitely could have-”
“They’re not infected,” he grits out, but he’s still walking over to the couch regardless, “They’re healed.”
Healed.
Mere weeks ago, those wounds were still deep enough to keep you from ever achieving a full night's rest. Deep enough to worry you to the core that you would wake up to them finally having consumed him. Deep enough that you all assumed it would take him months, not weeks, to recover.
“What do you mean they healed, Eddie?” you whisper, almost reaching out for him as he sits down.
Your hand twitches, but the echoes of his begging and his flinching keep it at bay as you stand before him.
“I mean, they healed,” he huffs, nostrils flaring as he takes deep breaths. He’s looking anywhere in the room but at you, his gaze subverting you with purpose. As though the mere sight of you, the mere proximity, is painful to him, “Don’t know how, don’t know why – they just did.”
“So why are you still in pain?”
A sharper intake of breath. A hush of silence falling over the apartment. Even the buzz of the building’s AC unit has faded from all your senses. It’s just you and him, and a heavy quietude like no other.
Until he finally breaks the surface tension, breathing out, “You.”
Your heart drops. That tug inside your chest, the one taut as you look at him right within your reach yet still so far away, almost snaps.
“Me?”
He nods with a harsh swallow, “I- Look, I can’t explain it, but when I came back, I came back…”
“Different?”
He doesn’t have to explain it. You’d felt it.
The moment his eyes had opened, just moments after what should have been blissful victory. The taste of his blood heavy on your tongue, a terrible sweetness that had choked you rather than its initial metallic twang. The whispers of his voice in your mind.
He wasn’t the only one changed from whatever had occurred that night.
“Different is a good way of putting it,” he nods, looking up with apologetic eyes, “It’s not you. It’s cliche as fuck, but it really isn’t – it’s me. I died, and you brought me back, but I don’t think either of us knew the cost.”
The yearning. The nightmares. The unmanageable needs. The hunger.
“What was the cost?”
He almost doesn’t hear you. Your voice is a whisper, tone weighed down with the curse of knowing.
You might not have known the cost when you were pressing your palms into his chest through your wretched sobs, functioning as his heart and lungs for nearly a minute, but you think you might have a clue now.
All that had been tethering you to him since he’d come back to you, all those webs and strings that had formed their knots around both of your necks. He’d changed, and you had plummeted right into the chasm of the unknown with him.
His blood on your tongue, sweet as honey.
Blood shouldn’t be sweet.
He grabs one of the books off the coffee table, motioning for you to join him on the couch. Under the weight of your realization, you’re nearly under a trance. All he has to do is wave a hand, and you follow.
You’re at his beck and call. Just like you had been when he’d been calling out for you, yearning for you.
“Don’t make me say it,” he mutters under his breath, tossing the book into your lap the moment you’ve sat down. This time, you’re mindful to keep your distance.
This time, you’re painfully aware of the compromising situation the two of you have found yourselves in.
The book is older, leather-bound and worn from years of readers’ careless hands breaking the spine. The corners of every page are weather, close to disintegration. The entire thing could easily pass for a Halloween decoration.
It’s not. You flip open to the title page, and if Eddie didn’t appear so deathly serious at your side, you would have scoffed.
“Dracula?” you question carefully, running a finger over the delicate script of the title, “Eddie, I don’t-”
“I’m not insane,” he interrupts you, “I’m not fucking- I swear to you. I’ve gathered up every goddamn book about it that I can. Fictional, nonfictional. Just- there’s obviously a Hell of a lot more fictional material to work with, okay?”
A vampire. He’s convinced he’s a vampire.
And even worse – you’re convinced right along with him.
You turn your head to look at him, trying to find the right words, but all you find is Eddie burying his face in his hands, head nearly hung between his knees.
“I can’t eat normal food anymore,” his voice is muffled, “That was the first sign. Couldn’t stomach it, made me throw up for hours when I tried. And then all those nurses kept talking about how I was healing faster than they expected. Most of my smaller cuts – those healed in under a day,” he finally lifts his face just enough to turn and peer at you through all the stray curls that fall into his vision, “My vision and hearing were the next things I noticed. Remember how I had a nonstop migraine those first few days?”
He doesn’t need to convince you, but the argument is compelling, “It… wasn’t a migraine.”
He shakes his head. “Not even close. Just turns out that it’s a killer to get used to fucking superhuman night vision and impeccable hearing. I still can’t handle being out in the sun very long. I don’t… burn up or any of that shit, but… it just…” he trails off, shoulders falling in defeat before he throws himself back against the couch. When he continues, his tone is flat, devoid of all emotion, “I keep having these dreams about you, too. Bad dreams. Terrible dreams.”
You shut the book, toss it back onto the coffee table, and decide to Hell with keeping your distance.
You need it. Even if he’ll only allow you to get an inch closer to him, you need it.
“What do you mean by terrible dreams?” you ask, breath catching at the end of your question as you scoot yourself closer on the couch. Even with such a small movement, Eddie is quick to notice, eyes flicking to you quickly with a sense of urgency flashing behind them.
“Don’t,” he lowly warns.
“What’s happening in your dreams, Eddie?”
Another inch closer. His jaw clenches.
“Sweetheart, do not-”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. Your knee bumps into his thigh, and you watch him go rigid. Hands turning to fists, eyes pinching shut and face twisting with the same pain he’d worn the ghost of when you first arrived at the apartment.
The moment you touch him, you see it. The flashes of his nightmares, all those terrible actions haunting him every time he closed his eyes. You. Your blood. That hunger.
Like a blackhole in the center of your stomach, it burns viciously as it sucks the air out of your lungs. It threatens to cave your entire being into itself until there’s nothing left. Not even a crumb of who you once were.
But it's not yours. It’s Eddie’s.
That pain on his face is only exhibiting a fraction of what he was feeling. That dizzying craving that he’d miraculously been keeping at bay since you’d simply entered the building, not even yet knocking on his door. You hadn’t even been in the same room as him yet, and he had still known. Had smelt you, had felt you.
He could almost taste you.
“You…” you have to shift your knee away from him, break the touch, break the connection, “You haven’t fed since you woke up.”
“I haven’t fed, period.”
With the connection severed, he somehow finds it in himself to open his eyes once more. You don’t know how – if he’s feeling what you’d just been privy to, you’d be an incoherent mess on the floor. Something feral and unrecognizable.
Although, maybe he was nearly there. You couldn’t see his pupils. That same look when he’d first woken up – a man swallowed whole by hunger.
“You’ve been dreaming about ripping my throat out,” you say it as a matter of fact, not a lick of judgment in your tone.
It wasn’t you scrutinizing him. It was what you had seen, with one simple touch.
His voice is hoarse as he echoes in confirmation, “I’ve been dreaming about ripping your throat out.”
You should probably be afraid. All your survival instincts should be kicking in, your feet should be carrying you towards the door, you shouldn’t be leaning in closer.
“You know what really sealed the whole vampire ordeal though, sweetheart?” he breathes out, your eyes fluttering shut at the lull in his hushed tone.
Just as you’ve been leaning in, he’s been slowly turning his body to face yours, hands twitching at his sides. He’s no longer retreating from your presence, sucking down breaths in harsh gulps the closer you grow to him.
He’s losing control. You’re losing control.
That thread, vibrant red as it draws you near him, is clear as day now. A noose around your neck. A road to your damnation.
A road to your hunger.
You hardly hum in response, completely entranced now. Had he ever been capable of this before? Of holding you beneath such an inescapable spell with such ease?
Probably.
He doesn’t use his words to answer. Instead, he finally takes the plunge.
His head ducks down towards your neck just as his hands lose the war, grabbing onto your hips, dragging you dangerously close to him until his lips hovered just over your pulse point. And by some strength that you certainly don’t possess, he stops there. Letting his lips barely brush against your soft skin, breath coming out in pants for you to feel, to relish, to get lost in. And just as soon as those pants, those waves, become a comfortable pattern to succumb to, you feel them.
His fangs.
Grazing over your sensitive skin. Sharp tips nipping at a surface they could so easily break, pierce with one wrong move. Your pulse is thrumming beneath the surface, heart racing painfully as Eddie’s grip turns bruising.
Come to me.
“Please.”
You’re the one begging now. It goes against every rule you’ve ever seen applied in fiction. If a vampire is baring their fangs against your neck, you should be reaching for a stake. The only noise escaping you should be a scream for help, not the pathetic whimpers beginning to slip out.
“I can’t,” you feel his gasp more than you can hear it. Your blood is too loud, roaring in your ears as you feel the fangs slip with his words, “I can’t.”
That hunger you felt, the one that had called out to you through the night and led you right to his doorstep, is unavoidable now. You need him closer, you need him to do this. For the first time since you had saved his life and tasted his blood after the Upside Down, everything seems to click into place. All he needs to do is let them sink into you, take that final leap of faith and reprieve that ache you’ve battled for weeks now.
You’re so close. So close.
“Eddie, please,” you’re nearly sobbing, hands gripping onto his shoulders, trying to pull him in closer.
But you’re no match for his strength. You don’t know if it’s a new addition with his vampire business or if there was always more to him than met the eye, but he easily stays stoic against your attempts, not moving a centimeter. Still hovering, still just barely making contact with your heartbeat.
“I-” his head drops slightly, tip of his nose beginning to trail down the side of your neck, mouth no longer dangerously close, “You saw my dreams-”
“I trust you.”
You do. You trust him even more now than you had when you first stumbled upon him in the boathouse. More than when he had pleaded his case, promised he hadn’t been the one to kill Chrissy Cunningham. The trust comes easier than breathing as his nose nuzzles into the junction of your neck and shoulder.
“You shouldn’t,” he mutters, fangs now brushing your collar bone, “You really, really shouldn’t.”
He doesn’t stop you when you move to straddle his hips. Your weight settles onto his lap, and he only fights to keep his face burrowed there in your shoulder, arms now moving around your waist to hold you tightly to him.
His self-control is impeccable. You’d admire him and all this impressiveness another time, when something inside of you wasn’t lamenting his resistance.
All at once, it occurs to you how to give him the final push.
“Did I ever tell you how sweet your blood was on my tongue after I brought you back?” you start, sighing, rolling your shoulders to expose more of your neck, grip on his shoulders tightening, “All that blood, all those tears, and I still can’t forget how welcome that warmth of you was in my mouth. How I needed more. How I pictured it every night, after every nightmare-”
He breaks.
One moment, his nose is buried in your skin. And the next, his fangs are.
You weren’t sure what to expect, but relief would have been low on your list. You gasp out in initial shock, but as you feel his teeth dig in, it’s as though something has snapped. The ache has been satiated, preening as you feel the warmth of your blood contrast the chill of his chin pressing into you.
If there’s any pain, you don’t feel it through the haze of pleasure.
Ice shards spread through your bloodstream, but the point in which Eddie’s mouth is connected to you radiates heat. He’s pulling you into him, letting go completely and relinquishing all that control as he nearly purrs against your skin in satisfaction. That connection is back, two minds linking with a heavy click, and you can feel all his pleasure mingling with your own. Satiation, desperation, adoration – the plethora of emotions all swarm your head and block out any better judgment.
You’d let him drain you dry, if that’s what he needed. If nothing more than to hear those soft moans as his fangs sink even deeper.
He pulls back too soon, though, suddenly and unexpectedly. Just as quickly as he had given in to both your desires, he’s putting an end to them. He hadn’t taken much blood, but your head is swimming from the loss all the same. Your grip has gone slack on him, hands slipping down to just barely cradle his biceps while his own touch stays unyielding around you.
You can hear his thoughts. Or rather, maybe more aptly put, you can feel them.
He wants to devour you. Wholly, ruthlessly.
He looks up at you with pupils still blown wide, chest heaving and a small scarlet drip trailing from the corner of his mouth. For the first time since he’d come back to you, he looks alive. Hair fluffed in a halo around his head, skin tinted with a healthy glow and unmistakable blush, bags beneath his eyes faded for the time being.
You were never quite sure if Eddie Munson’s heart had ever restarted, knew for certain that it hadn’t now, but you swear you can feel its pulse finally thrumming for you.
I need more.
It’s his voice in your head, echoing in the empty space as you look down with wild eyes to match his.
But it’s your voice in his head when you respond instantaneously.
Then take it.
Something unspoken lies there in the need. He doesn’t move back to your neck, doesn’t bite down and drink his fill of your blood. He only stares for a few seconds, watching the welt of blood that pools from each puncture wound of his making. His eyes follow when it runs down your skin, as though he might lose it should he so much as blink. Down, down, down. Following the trail that his nose had followed minutes before, across your collarbone until it stains the neck of your loose shirt.
My pleasure.
His hold proves helpful when he quickly changes positions, roughly throwing you down onto the couch before he’s settled between your thighs, crawling his way up your body. He pays close attention to the maroon trail on your throat, his tongue cleaning up after his mess, savoring the taste of you on his tongue.
Sweet as honey.
His tongue only pauses for a moment over the bite wound, pressing into it, making your back arch as you press yourself fully into him. Your head digs painfully into the cushion behind you as you expose your neck, wanting and begging and pleading all without words.
“I think we should take this off,” he plucks at the hem of your shirt, tugging hard before he begins to carefully lift. His freezing knuckles brush against your burning skin, eliciting a whimper from you, “Before we make an ever bigger mess. Don’t you agree, sweetheart?”
A sultry tone you’ve never heard from him before. Honeyed words, familiar to how he once spoke, but entirely new in the way they curl around you. There’s a confidence there, a baiting that he’s luring you with.
“Yes, please.”
He could ask anything of you in this moment, and you’d be eager to comply. Fueled by your desire for him before the events of spring break, worsened by his new condition. A bright, red, vibrating thread. You couldn’t severe the tie if you wanted to.
And you most certainly did not want to.
Your shirt is removed, his hands careful despite the way they shake. His words may be smooth, but each move is jagged, the only sign you had that he’s still exercising control.
“And these?” he whispers, lowering his lips to your sternum as he toys with the band of your pants. His fangs scratch down the center of your stomach as it quivers with each breath, careful to not break skin as they make their presence known. You nearly lose all capability to speak until he says, “Use your words, baby. Tell me I can take them off.”
Yes.
His eyes flare, looking up to you, “Use your words. Not your mind. I want to hear how badly you need me – I want everyone to hear you beg.”
The words strike straight to your core. Lashing out in your lower stomach, burning deliciously.
It’s more than putting on a show. He needs to know you want this.
“Take them off,” you gasp out, hands wandering to tangle in his hair, “Take- Take it all off. I’m yours, Eddie.”
Shaking hands perform a dance you had long since fantasized about. In easier days, when Eddie had been uninvolved in the episode down, heart still beating along as he would bounce his knees in front of you and his fingers would idly fiddle with his pencils and pens. A yearning, a wanting, you’d always held for the boy.
He used to be an escape from it all. A pretty thing to daydream about when you weren’t worried about monsters. And now – he was one of the monsters.
Your monster. Tied to you inexplicably, brought back by your hands and your stubborn efforts.
His lips and fangs are one in the same, trailing along your body as he finds a home at the apex between your thighs. Even in undeath, he’s the most beautiful thing your mind could conjure.
You’d forgotten how he was privy to your every thought until he reacts.
“You’re too sweet,” he murmurs, smirking salaciously as he mouths innocently at that sensitive skin of your inner thigh, tongue darting out to lick a cool stride before he breathes out against it. It has you writhing beneath his hold, “You’ve wanted this all this time, sweetheart? Wanted to see me, between these pretty thighs, making you scream my name?” His mouth falls open a bit wider, the sharp canines pressing but not sinking against where he had just licked. He holds there, eyes locking with yours, until he pulls back to cockily say, “Could’ve just said something, y’know. Didn’t have to bring me back from the dead to have me devoted to you.”
Finally, finally, he lets his fangs sink back into you. The soft meat of your thigh is more pliant in his mouth, and he doesn’t linger as long as he had on your neck. One nick, just enough to start the blood flow, before he’s pulling back and licking hungrily at the scarlet liquid. Less for feeding, more for marking.
Marking you as his, just as you have with him. His methods just appeared a bit more physical.
He’s quick to avert his focus on your cunt, no warning before the tongue still covered in your blood is taking long strides over your entrance and clit. Devotion. That was the only word to describe the way he was unraveling you, alternating between indulging in your sweet cunt and returning back to that bite, going as far to even sink his teeth in a second time to take a proper drink of you. His chin and lips grow slick with it all – with the blood, with your wetness, with his own saliva. A starved man with a feast before him.
The way he’s rutting his hips into the couch as he slings your legs over his shoulders doesn’t go unnoticed.
It’s a mess. A wonderful, satisfying, enchanting mess.
Beautiful. So beautiful, all mine.
His voice has you teetering on an edge of new carnal pleasure. Completely consumed by him, your hands tugging viciously at his curls. His face is round once more, eyes and cheeks no longer sunken in, vitality being breathed into him with each taste of your blood.
Let me touch you. Please.
You beg over that connection, trying your best to not buck your hips mercilessly against his tongue. You feel his wicked grin.
“You’re already touching me, sweetheart,” he reaches up, untangling your fingers from his hair for emphasis before he’s pinning them to your sides, “And what did I say about using our words? Hm?”
“Need more,” your voice is wrecked as you tilt your head back, wrists straining against his hold, “I need more.”
You’re fully light-headed now, the blood loss finally catching up. Maybe you were about to let him drain you dry.
And what a beautiful way to die. At the hand, at the fangs, of the one you had fought so urgently to bring back to you.
One last timid lick to the wound on your thigh, and he’s crawling his way back up to you. The mess doesn't phase you as he kisses you hungrily – the blood remains sweet rather than metallic, the remnants of your juices still on his tongue – and you meet him with an unbridled fervent. Nipping at his lips with your own dull canines as if you were the one looking for a bite of vivacity.
You don’t know when he lets go of your wrists, or when your hands find their way up beneath his shirt. The specifics don’t matter once he’s naked before you, clothes discarded messily to the ground with your own. The only thing that matters is the weight of him, the reminder that he was still here as his hips roll into yours and the head of him catches on your entrance.
He had been dead. For minutes. And you had brought him back to you.
The process had taken longer than the mere CPR administered, had taken weeks of whatever waiting game you two had tortured yourselves with, but you had him now. He was yours. You were his. There wasn’t a deity, a monster, an omniscient being in this world that could take that away from you. Not even Death herself.
“Last chance, baby,” he whispers against your lips, holding himself up so that not a single inch of his skin pressed to yours. You nearly cried out, missing that connection, missing him. Your hunger, the hunger for him entirely, rattles your bones once more, “Say the word, and I’ll-”
“No,” your hands pause their exploration of skin jagged with scars. Reminders of those few dreadful moments in which the world existed without Eddie Munson in it, that would fade in time but never fully disappear. Always there, just like the stain of his blood on your palms. Always there, just like your desperation to have him at your side. “I meant it when I said I’m yours. I’m not changing my mind. I want this.”
His skin is back on yours, body laid fully along your own road map, and it all comes flooding back. The pain of seeing his lifeless body, the nights spent in an eerie hospital room, baring your own teeth at any one who came too close to the man you had pulled back from the ledge of Death. The anxiety, the fear, the relief, the yearning – it all accumulates as he’s pressing into you, brimming you so full that there’s no room for memories of nightmares.
He’s here. He’s yours. You’re his.
His heart didn’t need to beat for you to accept that truth.
You can’t decipher which chants of your name fall from his lips for others to hear, and which ones whisper in the depths of your mind for only you to bear witness to. Each curse, each grunt, each moan – there for you and only you anyways. You’re entirely unsure if your lips even separate once as he thrusts, cock brushing somewhere deep in you that has you clenching around him.
And if his fangs wander, it only adds to the pleasure.
Blood, sweat, and tears all mingle between your bodies. He’s holding you tighter than water, as though you’re at risk of disappearing from him at any given moment. But that link between your two minds, your two souls, is unwavering. It’s the only thing grounding you to the moment as your half curls around his waist and your heel digs into his lower back. Urging him, pressing him, taking him.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he says it out loud, this time. You feel his lips brushing against your ear as he does, “Gripping me so tightly. This pussy was fucking made for me.”
Every movement only unlocks something more feral inside the two of you. Your nails rake down his back, leaving angry red lines to trace over once it’s all said and done. There’s enough shallow bite marks across your neck that you’ll be wearing scarves for weeks, months. The others might question it, strangers might stare, but the pride you feel as he marks you is unmatched for any anxiety about it.
That black hole of hunger is no longer swallowing either of you whole. That debilitating pain, that animal inside, has been tamed.
When his hips begin to stutter, mouth no longer capable of the strength to properly bite you as his lips only smear the soft spattering of blood pooling at the base of your throat, you’re already there. Squeezing him tightly, sucking him in, voice raw as you let everyone know who’s ravishing you.
Eddie.
Hawkins’ newest zombie boy – Hawkins’ newest vampire.
The climax is just as pleasurable as the lead up. The haze lingers long after his spent has dripped out of you, long after he’s collapsed into your body with exhaustion and contentment. The blood dries, the wounds clot – but that haze doesn’t falter.
As long as his skin presses to yours, you feel that caress of his mind against yours.
“Did…” you’re breathless as his face nuzzles into your nude chest, a few mindless hums of gratification still slipping from him as you bring a hand to toy with the curls at the crown of his head, “Did any of your vampire books say anything about… that?”
The connection. The bloodlust. The spell you swear he still has you under, even as it’s all said and done.
He snorts against your skin, “Not that I, uh, recall.”
“What? You mean to tell me in all your research, you never dived into any vampire smut?” you tsk jokingly, a calm smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. He lifts his head, and you swear, those honey-brown irises have threads of a deep maroon now, “You’re slacking, Munson.”
“Why read about it when I can just experience it?” he coos, letting his nose and lips drag across your still hot skin before he rests his chin on your sternum, “Besides, I mean – we’ll need to do this again, won’t we, baby? For research.”
Your head still spins. Your body aches in a welcome manner. There will be a need for explanations to others, for actually researching his condition, later on. But for now, it’s enough.
The pounding behind your ribcage, the one you know Eddie feels for the both of you when his ear presses to your chest, is enough.
Of course, lover.
That thought stays between the two of you. The world doesn’t need to know what can’t hurt them.
eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog @vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @loveryanax @stylexrepp @princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles
join my taglist!
1K notes
·
View notes
@steddieangstyaugust 01/08 // second chance
wc: 2.7k // rating: M // cw: mild language, references to sexual content // tags: angst with a hopeful ending, miscommunication, eddie makes some questionable (bad) decisions, post-s4 but vecna died, protective robin buckley
divider credits @steddiecameraroll-graphics
“Woah, hey, no. Absolutely not.”
Eddie is being shoved in the chest by someone before he can even register the sharp anger in their voice.
“Wait, wait, Rob, just—”
“No!” Robin smacks him on the chest after successfully pushing him back out the door of Family Video. “You do not get to see him.”
“Robin, please—”
The bell jingles as the door swings shut, and Robin is still pushing him off the curb and into the parking lot. “No, Eddie. You’ve hurt him enough, I’m not letting you do it again.”
There’s a fire in her eyes that lets Eddie know she’s more than serious, and willing to do a lot more than just shove him out the door. He holds his hands up and steps back in surrender, no doubt looking as pathetic as he feels. “Okay, okay, okay, I’m not coming in! I just…”
“Just what?” Robin crosses her arms across her chest, looking at Eddie like he’s the scum of the earth. Maybe he is. He feels like it.
Eddie sighs and anxiously pulls at his hair. His stomach rolls with nerves. “I just wanna talk to him.”
Robin scoffs and looks off to the side, understandably skeptical of his intentions.
“I know! I know, I fucked up!”
“You—” Robin cuts herself off, her sharp gaze returning to him. He flinches at the anger in it. “Do you? Do you actually know?”
“I…” Eddie had only assumed, by the way his last conversation with Steve had ended, the way all his calls had been avoided, minus the one where Robin had answered and swiftly delivered the message to never contact her best friend ever again. He had only assumed it was bad bad. “I… didn’t know.” He finishes weakly.
“And the fact that he told you—”
“I was scared!” Eddie cuts her off. “Can you blame me?”
“Yeah, I can, actually.” Robin’s tone is harsh. Eddie knows he deserves it. “After everything you’ve been through with him, after everything you know, and to just run off like that?”
Her words sting, and Eddie can’t help but hang his head in shame. “I know, Robin. But I was wrong!”
Robin scoffs again, eyes narrowed. “And it only took you, what, a week to figure that out?”
“No! No. I regretted it as soon as I left, but I…” Eddie exhales heavily. “I still—I was still scared.” The venom in Robin’s expression doesn’t change. “Please, Rob, I wanna be with him. He’s gotta give me another chance.”
“Okay, let’s get a couple of things straight.” Robin raises a finger. “One, Steve doesn’t have to do anything.” She raises another. “Two, if, and that’s a big if, he decides to give you another chance, you better be for real, Munson. I will kill you myself if you hurt him again.”
“I am! Rob, I swear, I wouldn’t’ve come back if I wasn’t. I…” Eddie hesitates for a second. Pulls on his hair again. His heart pounds wildly in his chest. “I love him, Robin.”
Robin assesses him, eyes narrowed, trying to see if he’s serious. Eddie tries to hold her gaze, hoping she sees his sincerity. Whether she sees that, or the bags under his eyes from not having slept at all the past week, or the fact that he’s begging with everything he has in him, she seems to accept it.
“Fine. But you will not do this during work. At least let him finish his shift in peace before you come and blow everything up.” Robin turns swiftly and starts walking back to the shop, not waiting to hear anything more from him.
Eddie fumbles for his cigarettes and lighter, fingers trembling as he walks back to his van. That could've gone better, he thinks. Could've gone worse too. Taking a couple deep drags, smoke filtering out with the shudder of his breath, he wills his heart to settle down. He had time to kill now. If he had to wait until the end of Steve’s shift, he would wait.
“I love you, Eddie.”
Steve’s soft voice came from above where Eddie was resting on Steve’s chest. It made him freeze, hand idly playing with Steve’s chest hair stilled. It sounded like Steve said… but no. That couldn’t be right. This… thing, this friendship, Eddie guessed he would call it, that he and Steve had been doing since all the end-of-the-world stuff, had definitely turned into something different. Yes, Eddie had very recently had Steve’s cock in his mouth. But they were still just friends, right?
The first couple of months were average enough, as far as trauma bonding friendships went. Just being there for each other, working through nightmares and panic attacks and pain flare ups. But as they healed and moved on, Eddie found himself and Steve hanging out just for the sake of hanging out.
And then there was the flirting. Eddie started it, he knows he did. A little call back to the “big boy” comment from the RV. He’d watched as Steve’s cheeks flushed a faint pink at the pet name, and found himself wanting to see it more and more. To his surprise, Steve started flirting back, catching Eddie off guard and having him hide behind his hair, cheeky smile peeking through the curls. It just seemed to be a… thing they did. It was normal to flirt with your friends.
It culminated in a night where, after sharing a joint and drinking some beers, Steve leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to Eddie’s lips. Sweet, slow, romantic. Eddie reciprocated with heat and desire. Steve had laughed into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist and pulling him into his lap. They ended the night asleep in Steve’s bed, wrapped up in each other, exhausted after the bliss of touching and tasting each other. Eddie left the morning after with a shy wave from Steve. It happened again and again, the taste of Steve’s skin, the warmth of his hands on Eddie’s waist, the feeling of his chest hair between Eddie’s fingers, finding pleasure in each other’s touch, all becoming familiar.
Eddie thought he knew what this was. He thought they were just messing around, just having fun. The idea of being with Steve, in any capacity beyond this, was so laughable to Eddie, he refused to even think about it. There were moments where Eddie almost thought Steve liked him as more than a friend, but he quickly shoved them down. Pushed them deep into the recesses of his mind where he wouldn’t have to think about it. He knew Steve was just an affectionate guy. And it would never happen, so why even think about it? Eddie would just enjoy what they had. It was enough. He told himself over and over. It was enough.
But then Steve said…
“Wh-what?” Eddie managed to stutter, still frozen in shock.
Steve’s hand trailed down Eddie’s spine. “I know that it’s early, and you don’t—you don’t have to say it back. But I don’t wanna waste time. Almost lost you once. I wanna be with you, Eddie. I love you.”
Eddie’s mind sluggishly takes in what he’s hearing. When it finally catches up, he sits up so swiftly, Steve jerks back on reflex. Eddie sees the soft concern in Steve’s eyes, and suddenly his heart is pounding in his ears and he feels like he can’t breathe. Steve reaches out, back of his hand about to caress Eddie’s jaw.
“No! No, no, no, no, no.” Eddie jumps up, very aware of his own nudity.
“Woah, woah, hey,” Steve sits up, hands out like he’s placating a wild animal. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not!” Eddie can feel himself panicking, but can’t seem to stop it. “You just said you love me?” He can’t help the incredulity in his tone, the very idea so insane to him.
Steve’s confusion seeps into his voice. “I… I do?”
“No, you don’t,” Eddie argues instantly.
“What are you…? Eddie, what is this?” Steve’s eyes are widened with hurt, head shaking slightly. Eddie can see that he wants to reach out, but is holding back.
Frantically looking for his clothes, Eddie’s hands shake. “You—you’re just confused.” He finds his pants and yanks them on, not looking at Steve. “You don’t love me, you’re just… this is just…” Eddie trails off, looking for his shirt.
“Eddie, Eddie, look at me,” Steve pleads, fear starting to lace into the concern. “This is real, I do love you.”
Eddie refuses to look at him as he quickly pulls on his shirt, searching for his boots. “No, no, you don’t. I can’t Steve, I can’t…”
“Can’t what?” Steve finally stands up, trying to catch his eye.
Exhaling heavily, Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, before looking up at Steve and seeing the pain in his. “I can’t let myself believe that.”
Steve takes a step back, looking as though Eddie had pushed him. He sees the shutdown happen, the way Steve is suddenly closed off, pulling away, grief barely concealed as he averts his gaze. Unable to stand the expression on Steve’s face anymore, Eddie grabs his boots and runs out the door. He keeps running until he gets to his van, throwing himself inside and slamming on the accelerator, not daring to look back.
He doesn’t ease up until he’s halfway back to the trailer park and feeling like his chest might explode with the quick, panicked breaths he’s taking. Eddie pulls the van off to the side of the road and hits the brakes, body jolting with the force of the stop. The conversation with Steve replays in his mind on a loop. He forces himself to take a deep breath but the look on Steve’s face in his mind’s eye makes him choke on it. Eddie finally calms down enough to stare blankly through the windshield, and he asks himself what the hell he just did.
Sitting in the driver’s seat of his van, Eddie’s hands tap on the steering wheel, jittery with anxiety. The clouds grow dark overhead. Steve’s shift ends in a couple of hours, but Eddie didn’t want to leave in case he left early. He couldn’t help but feel guilty about cornering Steve at work, but he wouldn’t take his calls, and he was sure that if Steve didn’t intend to hear him out, Buckley would have come to tell him by now.
With half an hour left of Steve’s shift, Eddie opens the door to his van and swings his legs out, his last cigarette in hand. Keeping his eyes trained on the door, he waits for the last few customers to file out. He sees Buckley flip the door sign to ‘Closed’, catch his eye, roll hers, and disappear back into the store. Eddie’s heart was in his throat, waiting to see if Steve would appear, or if Buckley would come out to tell him to piss off for good.
After several agonising minutes, the door swings open slowly and Steve steps out. Eddie had never seen him look so… wary. So closed off. Not since they’d been friends. Steve catches his gaze, and Eddie watches the hurt flash briefly in his eyes before being quickly hidden. Buried deep down somewhere Eddie wouldn’t be able to see it. An impassive mask taking its place.
“Hey…” Eddie starts softly. “Can we talk?”
Steve only raises his brows and gestures vaguely between them. Eddie figures it’s as much approval as he was going to get. He tosses the butt of his cigarette to the ground, stepping on it as he hops down from the van seat, shutting the door behind him. He takes a few slow steps towards Steve, who still only regards him with caution. Eddie rubs his hands down his jeans, trying to still the trembling. Tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. Finally, he decides to sit on the curb a few steps away from Steve. He looks out and takes in the grey sky. Weirdly fitting. After a few moments, Steve sighs and sits down, leaving a bit of space between them.
Eddie, hunched over his knees, turns his head to look over at him. Steve looks straight ahead, but Eddie could see the darkness under his eyes, the overall flatness of his expression. It made Eddie ache to realise he caused it. He couldn’t decide if it was better or worse that Steve wouldn’t look at him.
“I’m… so sorry, Steve.”
Steve scoffs, still not looking at him. Still unreadable.
“I mean it, Steve, really.” Eddie continues to stare, hoping (and scared) that Steve might turn his head. “I just—I panicked. I didn’t think you’d ever—”
“I get it,” Steve cuts him off sharply. “You thought we were just messing around. It’s fine. I don’t, y’know, need to hear your reasoning. For why you don’t feel the same way.”
“No! That’s not it at all.” Eddie tries to keep his voice calm, but the wobble gives him away. “I mean, yeah, I did think we were just messing around but I… I thought the idea of you wanting more than that was, y’know… crazy.” His hands continue to shake as he gestures vaguely.
Steve finally turns to him, only to give him a look that was equal parts hurt, confused, and honestly quite harsh. “What? Because King Steve could never be capable of love?”
“No, Steve, of course you’re capable of love, I’ve seen it, I’ve felt it.” It takes everything in Eddie not to reach out and take Steve’s hands in his. “I just. I didn’t think you’d ever love me.”
The silence sits heavy between them for several long moments.
Steve closes his eyes, his tone is measured. “I told you I loved you—”
“I know, and I didn’t believe you.”
“And you ran away.” Steve continues as though Eddie hasn’t spoken, looking back to him. “You told me I was confused.” The hurt returns with full force in Steve’s eyes, the slight green in them shining with it. “You said you couldn’t let yourself believe it. That I could love you.”
“I’m sorry, Steve.” Eddie’s voice cracks. “I’m so, so sorry. For all of it. I hurt you, and I wish I could take it all back. I was just… scared. Terrified. To believe it. I thought I was protecting myself. That if I let myself believe you, it would hurt too much when the rug was pulled out from under me. But I was wrong. So wrong. Nothing hurts more than knowing I hurt you, and I know you wouldn’t say it if you didn’t mean it, and…”
Steve just waits, tears shining in his eyes but not spilling over. It breaks Eddie’s heart all over again to see how much pain he’s caused. He meets Steve’s gaze with as much bravery as he can muster.
“And… I love you, Steve. I do, I love you so much. I don’t wanna be without you.”
Steve closes his eyes at Eddie’s words, turning away from him, brow furrowed. Tears trail down his cheek and settle at his jawline. “I don’t… think I can trust you.” Steve’s words are slow and thick. Measured.
Eddie feels the knife twist in his heart. He takes a deep, shuddering breath before he continues. “I… I get it. I do. But I’m asking—begging you to give me another chance. Please, Steve. I’ll spend every single day proving it to you, until you can trust me again.”
Steve peeks over at him, wary. “Every single day?”
“For the rest of my life, if that’s what it takes,” Eddie promises. “I swear it. I love you, Steve.”
Eddie holds his breath, throat tight, and blinks away his own tears. Expression unreadable, Steve looks at him for a long moment, carefully considering Eddie’s words. Tentatively, Eddie reaches out towards Steve’s hand, leaving enough distance for him to decide. Steve slowly takes his hand and grips it tightly. He lets their joined hands hang between them, before finally whispering, “Okay.”
520 notes
·
View notes