harpyytales

[harpyytales]

𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝? | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

Your best friend Eddie tries to explain what a hickey feels like and finds he doesn't have the words. He could show you, though, if you want? [3k] 

fem!reader, shy!reader, implied inexpereinced!reader, friends-to-lovers, pining, mdni heavy petting, hickeys, lots of hickeys, marking up, neck kissing, shoulder kissing, heat of the moment confessions, eddie being flirty but also a good friend, requested here

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Eddie strokes down the length of his guitar neck almost tenderly. You're focused on his hands rather than his mouth as he recounts last night's date to you, distracted by the deft movement of his fingers, which aren't exactly small. It's an oxymoron —paradoxical, even— that his thick fingers would move with such gentle precision. 

You shift around where you're sitting on his bedroom floor, criss-cross applesauce with an uncomfortable heat rising from the bottomless pit of your stomach to your tight collar. The white button up you'd worn under your sweater vest is a size too small. You're really starting to notice. 

You peel out of the vest and hope it'll help you calm down.

"She wasn't exactly sweet," Eddie says, plucking a string, listening to the sound, and tuning it this way or that depending on how he liked it. "I think she wanted to get it over with, which isn't really my thing. She was in my lap before I could make it clear I wasn't interested in anything quick." 

You lift your gaze from his hands. He must feel you watching his face. He looks up in tandem and smiles reassuringly. "It's fine. I kind of thought she was getting into it, she was like a vampire on me at one point, but I wasn't feeling it and it's clear she wasn't either. Drove her home. How was your night, d'you watch that tape?" 

You trace the coil of a black curl down to his shoulder, and can't force yourself to meet his eyes as you ask, "A vampire?" 

"What?" 

"She was like a vampire at one point, you said." Eddie's arm goes still. "What did you mean by that?" you ask.

He puts his guitar down on the floor. You worry you've said something truly dull for him to place his sweetheart in such a rush, but Eddie's like that. He can tell you're embarrassed no doubt, and he's giving you the answer to your question as swiftly as he can to soothe the wound. 

"Here, look," he says. He pushes his hair away from his neck on one side and tilts his head, bearing a wine-stained curve of skin to you unabashedly. "She kissed me. She gave me a hickey, used a lot of teeth. That's why it's bruised so much on the edges." 

Warmth you've never felt rushes in, like your blood has superheated, and it's written on your face. Eddie's room feels suddenly a thousand times smaller than before and more intimate, his poster wallpaper curving in, the space between you inching closer. 

"Sorry," he says, "I know it's kind of weird to show you." 

"No, I'm sorry," you say, mortified. "I shouldn't have asked you." 

"Yeah, you should. You didn't get it and now you do. I don't mind telling you." 

Eddie lets his hair fall back against his neck, a kinky curtain that looks ridiculously soft in the orangey light of his lamp. There's a butter smoothness to it, and the way he moves as he does is worse, his hand open and reaching for you. He doesn't hold your hand, doesn't even try, just lets his upturned palm hang off the edge of his knee as if to say, Ask me whatever it is you want to ask me. It's cool. 

"Why would she do that?" you ask, gesturing to your neck.

"It's not her fault, I was flirting with her a ton trying to make it work."

"Not like that." 

Eddie's hand turns toward his knee. "Like what?" 

Your hand drifts to your own neck absentmindedly. You get kissing, wanting to be kissed and wanting to give them. You understand why she kissed his neck; if you'd been in her position, alone in the car with Eddie laying his charm on thick, you might climb the console and push aside his hair too. 

"I know why she kissed you. I don't see why she…" You rub your lips together, your embarrassment turning sharp. You hate how humiliating this feels. "I know what a hickey is, Eds, but why would you want one?" 

His turn to fluster. The tiniest tinge of pink paints his cheeks. "Are you asking me why I enjoyed it?" 

"Did you?" 

You despise yourself, truly. Worse when Eddie laughs, his chest forward, hair falling in his face as he chuckles sincerely. 

"Yeah," he says, smiling at you "I liked it. Before she started trying to kill me I was having a good time." 

He doesn't put you through the agony of asking what you both know he wants to. 

You've never had one?

"It feels warm, and it's– you know how being kissed gives you butterflies, right? It's better than that. It's hot, and all her weight is on you and you have your hand on her back trying to pull her in, and she's as close as she can be without, you know." Something flickers across Eddie's face. Not longing, but a remembered pleasure. It makes you squirm. 

"I don't see how it doesn't just hurt." 

The hand that hadn't been reaching for you holds a pick. He flashes it between his fingers, a party trick, a nervous tic, his eyelashes tangling together as his eyelids inch closed. He scrunches his face up for a second. 

"Don't hate me if I ask you something weird," Eddie says, eyes shut tight. 

You don't think you could. You watch Eddie's face, knowing he can't see your analysis, and feel a shock of pins and needles in your hands when his eyes open and immediately lock on to yours. 

"Do you want me to give you one?" he asks. 

Your lips feel like they've been glued shut. You're aware of your breathing, how shallow each inhale has become, but you can't do anything about it. 

He has the decency to acknowledge what position his question puts you in, "I know it might be weird but I can't describe it to you if you don't know what it feels like." 

You surprise him. You surprise yourself. "Uh, yeah. Okay." 

"Yeah?" 

"It doesn't hurt?" 

"Not unless you want it to." A hint of a smirk plays on his lips, though it fades quickly. "It doesn't hurt. That's not the point. But it can feel… foreign." 

You nod jerkily, wishing you knew what to do. 

The atmosphere is thick enough to cut through. Neither of you like it. Eddie gives you another type of smile, a familiar one that says, I'm your best friend, I always will be, so please chill out. 

"You're gonna have to sit in my lap." 

You actually laugh. "Eddie," you chastise, thinking it's a bad joke. 

"Sorry, sweetheart, but it's that or the bed." His teasing tone is light, but he still adds, "I mean, we can do it sitting next to each other but it's difficult. Whatever you want, though." 

You climb up on your knees. You're shy, absolutely, you always will be and especially when Eddie's teasing, but he really is your best friend, and the bed isn't happening.

He doesn't scare you. 

He grins and ushers you toward him. "Alright, come here." He tugs one of your thighs over his lap and your breath catches. He grabs the other and any laughter between you abruptly dies. 

You settle over his lap with an expression not far from pained. Eddie's hands rest against your thigh and your hip. He has to look up at you now, and he does as he encourages your weight firmly downward. You're more than conscious of where you're positioned. 

"Do me a favour?" he asks. 

"Yeah." You put your hand on his chest tentatively. 

"Don't suffer through it if you hate it, okay? All you have to do is say something and I'll stop, but if you feel like you can't, a good right hook would work too." 

"I'm not gonna hurt you," you protest. 

"Me neither," he says. His hand lifts from your thigh to your neck, and he brushes his fingertips down the curve of it ineffectually. It would feel good if you weren't choking on air. "Relax, sweetheart. Please." 

"I'm really warm." 

"Your shirt's too tight anyway," he says, hand at your collar. He thumbs open your top button, a second, and exposes the flat of your chest. His fingers slide across your neck as he folds back your starched collar. They're cool compared to the raging heat he finds there. 

You take a deep breath. 

"You could put your hands in my hair," he says. Wishful thinking has hope colouring his tone. 

You put your hands on his shoulders. The very tips of your fingers partition his curls. 

He raises an arm above your mess of limbs to weave a hand behind your ear. It's then that you feel his callouses, so rough against the delicate skin of your scalp. Despite their texture, you find it feels good. He tucks his hand in tight, and slowly, slowly turns your head to the side. 

"Look up," he murmurs. 

You lift your head and stare at the ceiling with widened eyes. 

He can't know but he does, and he says, "Close your eyes." The heat of his breath kisses your neck.  

You shiver at the suggestion of his lips, and again when they press to your skin. Close-lipped, Eddie kisses the skin just under your ear where on the opposite side of your head his thumb strokes quarter circles. You're quickly overwhelmed by the duelling sensations. You don't notice his lips have parted until he's kissing a sloven path downward, his spit cooling in wake. 

This isn't a hickey, this is straight up kissing, and you don't know what to do with how you feel. You hide your hands in his hair. 

It tugs him forward. He reads your hands for enthusiasm, and if it is or isn't he pulls you closer still and opens his mouth against your skin. His teeth are impossible to ignore. 

Your hand works further into his hair, getting caught in a tangle as he sucks your skin between his lips. His lazy mouthing turns insistent but still gentle, his teeth scratching ever so slightly at your pulse as it capers beneath his ministrations. You gasp at the warmth blossoming under your ribs. You cup the back of his neck a touch too tight. 

He doesn't stop kissing you, only grabs your wrist to stop you from choking him out. You make a sound you've never made with him before, a mewl, all breathless and teary as the sensation worsens. Which is to say, betters. 

He breaks a particularly rough kiss to suck in breath, his nose sliding up the curve of your neck as he leans back. "You okay?" he murmurs, half-lidded eyes locking onto your flushed face. 

"Why does it feel like that?" you ask. 

He drops his head, his nose level with your chin. "I don't know," he says, punctuating with a kiss right there, the closest bit of skin he can find. "Want me to do it again?" 

You swallow and he must see it. He says nothing, wrapping his arms around your waist as he waits for you to respond. Your stomach pushes into his, your arms braced on his shoulder so you don't collapse into his front, limp with touch. 

"Sweetheart, can I do it again?" he asks.

"Yeah," you say, quiet but enthusiastic. "Please." 

He's slower this time. Eddie leans into your neck and doesn't kiss you at first, his lips so close to your skin that you can feel their phantom. You skin tingles from his previous scandalising, and it doesn't beg, skin can't beg, but you can, you curl your arm behind his neck and hook his head there, crushing his hair to the crook of your arm. He doesn't take much convincing beyond that. His lips smush against your neck and you feel every millimetre as they part, heat and warmth and wet spreading like budding flowers come to bloom. You melt into him soon after, and Eddie takes your weight in stride, hand at the small of your back and pulling you in so hard you can feel his ribs. 

When you think you're used to it —not used to it, but expecting what can be expected— Eddie nips you. Tiny dainty kisses broken up with a nibbling you'd couldn't describe as anything but playful. He laughs at your gasping and does it again, again, giddy hot laughter mixed with one of the strangest feelings you've ever been subjected to. You're molten. You're dizzy with it.

Eddie pulls back enough to ask, "I'm gonna undo another button, okay? Just one. Is that alright?" 

"What for?" 

"So I can kiss your shoulder. Just your shoulder." He sounds pleading, desperately excited in a way you've never heard him and you want to know what it'll feel like, so you let him. 

This next button unveils the top of your bra and the soft hills of your breasts. He doesn't look, barely glances at his hand as he tugs your shirts down your arm, diving into the juncture of your neck like he needs it to breathe. His kisses are proper compared to some of the stuff he's been doing, but then he opens his mouth and the flat of his tongue wets your skin as he kisses kisses kisses down your shoulder. His hand is somewhere under your shirt, fingers slipped under your bra strap and pulling teasingly at the elastic as he eases you down in his arms. You're shorter than him where you'd started taller, totally compressed in his arms and at his mercy.

When he pulls back, the slimmest ribbon of spit shines between your shoulder and his lips. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, his eyes glassy, and that hand cups your face. He pretty much grabs you, but there's not a lick of cruelty in his touch. Eddie's rough. Never cruel. 

"You're on fire," he says. It's objective rather than joking. "You're so hot. Do you want to stop?" 

"Not– not unless you want to," you say, trying to quieten your breathing. You sound like you've run a marathon. It feels like it. 

"I'm gonna give you a real one, cool?" 

"I didn't know they weren't real." 

"Oh, sweetheart," he says, and his eyes are damning, a loving pity in the black of his blown pupils, "I was just warming you up." 

Your mind blanks. 

"Make sure I can hide it," you say. 

You aren't thinking straight, concerned about hiding his hickeys but not what this means for the two of you. His unexpected hunger, and your willingness to let him eat you whole. 

"I don't think you can hide it anymore," he says, stroking your cheek with his thumb. 

You look down at his lips. They're rosy, swollen from the pressure.

He sees you looking. 

He yanks you in by the waist and sizes you up, almost, like he's calling your bluff, not spiteful but something mean about him as he stares at your mouth in return. 

Like he doesn't want you to make the mistake. Like he knows you won't. 

His hand tips your chin up high and he ducks his own down. An inch and you'd be kissing. That's all it would take.

"Is that really what you want?" he asks.

"I don't know," you say. Is it what he wants?

It has to be. 

"Have you wanted to, before?" He draws a line down your cheek with his marriage finger. Fast as a heavy tear. "You want me to kiss you?" 

"Yeah," you whisper, trying to make sense of this, your sudden confession, a secret want pushed into the light. 

Eddie turns his hand and strokes down your cheek with the back of it, pushing any dampened baby hairs away from your skin. His gaze softens. 

"Was that so hard?" he asks. 

"You knew?"

He kisses you. He's smiling, and he doesn't take just one. He must kiss you four or five times, your lips parted enough to know he could push it further if he wanted, but he doesn't. These kisses are unhurried, missing the ravenous passion of his hickeying but not the fondness. 

"You don't know how hard it is," he says after he's broken away, his forehead tipped against yours, "how hard it is to have someone look at you like you look at me everyday, like I'm something you can't have." 

"I didn't know–" you knew. You felt the same. His kissing is evidence alone. it's confessional.

"I know. Guess I thought nothing good would come of it, but– but I don't want good. I want you." 

He pulls back quickly, like you've said something confessional rather than him. He surprised himself. 

"I'm not good?" you ask. 

"You're good. You'll ruin me, that's all." 

You don't have time to ask him what he means by that. He kisses you again, kisses your cheek, draws a line of crescent moons down along your neck to the mess he's made of you. He kisses– he sucks your neck so hard, so sudden, that goosebumps erupt and you can't stop yourself from saying, "Ohh," as you cling to his shoulders. 

This is the vampire thing he'd talked about, the points of his teeth stark against your skin even now. There's another layer of vulnerability unveiled here, knowing that he could really hurt you and knowing he never would. He kisses you until you're overwhelmed by him. Heat everywhere. Sweat shining on your skin. You don't want anything else but this.

You squeak as the pressure turns from pleasurable to too much. Eddie hears the pain in it and pulls away, instantly sorry and willing to prove it, his hands cradling your face. 

You pant. He shushes you gently.

"Sorry, baby." He pets your cheeks. 

Your head falls back, too heavy on your sore neck. You feel wiped. 

Wiped, but good. Lax. 

"That was nice," you say breathlessly. 

Eddie sits up and drags you with him, hand behind your neck to prop you up. He's laughing again, his awful sweet laugh that you've heard a thousand times before. It never fails to make you smile. 

"You're like a dead fish." 

You cover an eye with your hand. "I take it the romance is over." 

"You thought that was romantic? Babe, I'm only getting started." 

Eddie gives you a quick peck. Where his hickey had felt like the heart of a star growing hotter with each passing second, his smaller kiss feels like the sun through blinds, a dappling of warmth. 

"Are you messing with me?" you ask.

He pushes his arms over your shoulders for a hug. 

"No. Not messing with you." His nose rubs against the shell of your ear. "It's about time we talked." 

You let your hand drift down the dip of his back.

"Okay," you mumble. Talking. You need to talk about whatever it is that just happened. 

"...Maybe I'll get you a glass of water first," he adds.

"That's a good idea." 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please consider letting me know/reblogging, it means the world to me and makes a big difference!! ♡ NOTE: Eddie def pines back if that isn't fully clear, I tried to imply it with his date where he could've hooked up with someone but didn't go through with it, it was cos he's too in lurve

#*you’ll ruin me that’s all* #SCREAMING #God i love your fics so much #genuinely can’t get enough #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader

[harpyytales]

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 

summary eddie munson is super weird. he holds your hand too tight, he has a fascination with your neck, and he can’t give a hickey to save his life. good thing you’re super weird, too. [20k]

warnings two losers falling in love!! vampire!eddie munson, ditzy!reader (kind of), fem!reader, smut mdni (p in v, unprotected sex, oral fem receiving, general heavy petting and kissing, praise), fluff, hurt/comfort, angst (eddie struggling with guilt and grief). canon divergent (the events of volume 2 take place but there’s a mostly happy ending i.e. everyone good lives and everyone bad dies) TW eddie doesn't have suicidal thoughts, but he does think about it briefly. not with intent or anything like that though. requested here for my halloween party <3

(㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Eddie Munson never wanted to be a vampire, and he wants that on the record. 

It's a ridiculous existence. It's embarrassing. It's nothing like all the movies and books promised him. 

He's looking at you, Bram Stoker. 

In Eddie's mind, Stoker’s nothing less than a liar and a sycophant. 

"Who's dick were you bouncing on, Stoker?" he demands to know, kicking fallen leaf mulch under his feet angrily. "Need'ta fucking impress some vampire lover with your over-exaggerated, over-powered, ridiculous descriptions? Great. Hope it was worth it. Meanwhile I'm here, self-esteem half the size of a grain of rice because I can't scale a building with my bare hands." 

Eddie would know. He's tried. 

He's not genuinely angry with Bram Stoker, but he'd rather take his frustrations out on a guy who's been dead for a hundred years than take them out on the demobats, because he doesn't want to even think about the demobats. They're all dead too. Not before they'd had (see: devoured) their pound of flesh and changed his life for the worse, though.

He shakes his head to drive out the memory like water in his ears. It's easier to pretend none of that shit in the upside down ever happened. (Impossible to pretend. He begs himself to try anyway.) 

He’s pissed because science fiction has promised him a lot of things and reality has delivered on none of them. No super strength, no impermeable skin. He is faster, but that's more a reflexive thing than anything else. And being faster doesn't make running fun. That’s impossible.

Sunlight breaks through the treeline and his skin crawls. Science fiction didn't get that right, either. The sun doesn't hurt. It's just really, really annoying.

He covers his eyes, winces at his itchy hand, pulls his sleeve over his fingers and covers his eyes again. "This blows," he says, and means it. 

In Dracula, the sun nulls Dracula’s supernatural abilities. Eddie doesn’t have any abilities worth nulling, unless you count echolocation.

He doesn’t. 

He walks another five minutes up the road toward Forest Hills when he realises you're behind him. His senses are enhanced now as a bat’s might be, hearing fine-tuned and dialled up every second of the day — which makes living in a trailer park where everyone thinks he's a murderer an acute misery — but he's as prone to distraction as anyone else. Especially when he gets stuck in a memory.

Eddie throws his gaze over his shoulder and finds you thirty or forty feet away, talking to yourself under your breath. He knows you more for your sounds than your appearance. To be able to put a face to your mindless babbling is a mystery solved. Of course you look like that. A skirt made of soft looking fabric bounces over two cute thighs, a pretty lacy corset type of thing that isn't too tight outfits your top half. You look more like a vampire than he does. 

"Hi, Eddie," you call.

His eyes widen, a deer-in-the-headlights kind of surprise. If you notice how he's frozen you don't show it, continuing to push your bike toward him. The tick of the wheels grows louder as you get closer, two hands on the handlebars with wrists draped in bracelets, both silver and fabric. 

Besides your jewellery, your arms are bare. You must be freezing. 

"Hey," he says. 

He doesn't know your name. He doesn't know how you know his, and he’s too awkward to ask. 

Your sounds peak as you close the gap. The wet scrape of your dirty black canvas shoes over shining asphalt, the soft puff of your breath, the clinking sounds of whatever trinkets you have in your bag. If he focuses, he can make out the tiniest pinches of fabric. Your short sleeves rubbing against your arms, your bra straps stretching over your shoulders. 

Eddie takes a deep breath and tries to diminish his senses. 

"Where's your van?" you ask curiously. 

"Piece of shit kicked it in the middle of town. Just my luck." 

You pause at his side, looking him up and down obviously but without the judgement or irreverent disgust he's come to expect from near about everybody in Hawkins. 

"That's not good," you say succinctly. 

It's such a genuine response that Eddie can't find it in himself to be sarcastic. 

"God awful," he agrees sullenly. 

You nod and start to walk again. Eddie falls naturally into step beside you, matching your pace without thinking. 

"You should get a bike." 

He laughs. Coughs to cover it up. "Yeah?" 

"They're way more reliable than a car, and it doesn't hurt the zone." 

Eddie squints. "The o-zone?" 

"Is there another one?" 

You're still so serious that he spares you the ridicule he might dole out to anyone else. If Dustin had said something like that he would've ripped the kid a new one, but you're rather sweet in an odd way. You have a soft manner of talking — each word sounds like you've thought its pronunciation through meticulously beforehand. 

He ignores your question and points at your bike, ring catching the sun. "Why aren't you riding it?" 

"My chain slipped." 

"So much for reliable." 

That makes you smile. Eddie feels it like a punch, a flat palm slapped into his chest. 

"You can't put the chain on yourself?" 

A brisk breeze whips your hair, your earrings. The left kisses your cheek, a silver heart-shaped hoop with pink beads that click together. You lean into it, face tilted to one side as a perplexed smile plays on your sticky lips. "You can do that?" 

"Sure, you pull it back around the gear. It's easy." He hesitates for a moment, and then feels guilty about hesitating. "I'll do it for you, if you want." 

"The guy in no. 62 has been charging me ten dollars." You don't sound as angry as you should, in Eddie's opinion. 

"I'll do it for nothing." 

You beam at him. His chest feels like a bruise. 

Pretty girls don't like Eddie. Not before Chrissy, not after. He's trying to work out your angle, what it is that you want. 

Or maybe you don't know. 

As soon as you find out who he is, you'll turn your pretty nose up at him and walk the other way. He shouldn't smile at you, he definitely shouldn't fix your bike. 

He can't help it. He's so starved for positive attention that he follows you all the way through the park, westside to east. 

He checks the driveway of his own home and smiles mildly when he spots Wayne's new car. It's new in the sense that it's different. It's actually way older than the one he'd had before, the one he'd pawned to pay for Eddie's — well, Eddie's everything. His check-ups, his court dates, his goddamn bail. In the same way that this trailer isn't the trailer, but an older, smaller one as far away from their first as possible. 

Kid, if I had the money…

Wayne hadn't needed to finish. If he had the money, they'd leave. Leave Hawkins, leave Indiana. Settle down in some other mediocre Midwestern state with all the same creature comforts and none of the "You were acquitted but literally none of us believe you didn't kill someone," motif. 

All they have now is debt, each other, and the Great Munson mug collection. 

Eddie keeps his head down as they pass the old trailer. Nobody lives inside now. Only termites. 

He can taste blood by the time they reach your home. Far from the metallicity of his human blood, Eddie's blood now harbours a bitter taste. Not quite like coffee but with that same overwhelming earthiness. He pulls his teeth from the bitten flesh of his bottom lip and quickly raises a hand to his teeth, alarmed. 

No knife-like points. Normal teeth. 

"Are you thirsty?" you ask him. 

Eddie flinches and drops his hand. You've parked your bike against the wooden lifts of your porch and are halfway up the steps to your front door, hand clasped loosely on the railing. 

His heart fucking pounds. 

"I have grape juice?" 

"Right," he says hurriedly, "right. Yeah, that would be awesome." 

Duh, you meant juice. 

You send him another endearing smile and pop up the last of your steps and into the front door. It's not locked. He doesn't follow, thinking you must live with somebody (who's gonna know exactly who he is and tell him to get lost).

He turns his attention to your bike instead. It's easy enough to fix. He rolls the bike so its handlebars are resting against your concrete driveway and covers the top bar of the metal body with his sneaker to stop it from toppling. He rolls up his sleeves and bares his arms, but pulls them back down immediately when he remembers the white-purple whorls of scar tissue lurking underneath. 

"Fuck," he mutters. Everything is a reminder, all of the time. He can't escape what happened. 

It's everywhere. 

He's getting his fingers under the chain when you reappear. You've layered up, bracelets and naked arms hidden by a black hoodie. 

The wind blows and your skirt shifts. From his position he can see a ladder hiding in your tights where your inner thighs are pressed together. He whips his gaze up like a high-school perv caught sneaking peeks in the girls locker room and notices the stitching on your chest for the first time.

"You like Dio?" he asks excitedly. 

"Who?" 

He wilts. "Uh, your hoodie. Dio." 

"I got it for three dollars in the bargain bins," you supply helpfully, all pep as you climb down the stairs and offer him a glass cup adorned in dainty enamel flowers. "Is Dio good?" 

He waves his hand at the glass apologetically. "Two seconds…" Lifting the chain with the second hand, Eddie tugs and then feeds until the links are lined up with the bumps on the big chainring. The skin on his fingertips get pinched and his eyebrows pull together in pain, but it's a mild irritant at worst and after a moment the chain is back in place. 

He pulls his hand away and wipes dark grease down the front of his jacket. "I think I did it." 

You're glowing, earrings like a metronome as you ask, "That fast? You're awesome."

He turns the pedal and your back wheel spins in time with his heart. You're awesome. When was the last time somebody who wasn't Wayne said anything like that? 

Although Dustin had told him he thought Eddie was a much cooler, more fucked up version of the guy from Van Halen the other day. 

You're just saying that 'cos we're both called Eddie, Eddie had said morosely. 

Learn to take a compliment, dude. 

When they aren't pity compliments, he might. 

Eddie lifts your bike back onto the wheels to show you that it's working perfectly. You giggle your evident pleasure. "Oh, thank you, thank you!" you say, super sweet even as grape juice sloshes over the rims of your flowered glasses and drips down your fingers. 

"Here, let me," he says, taking the glasses from your purple-stained hands. 

You kiss your hands clean which is a thing, a lot to watch. Eddie admits to himself that he thinks you're really pretty, recognises that that is a bad thing to think considering the likely very short life span of your acquaintance. God knows you won't be saying anything as friendly when you find out who he is. 

"You're so nice," you say. It feels like you're talking more to yourself than him. "Thank you. It's slipped off three times this month, and ten dollars is ten dollars. Wait, do you want ten dollars?" 

"My services were administered charitably.”

Your smile grows. You accept your glass and take a small sip, eyes lit up as Eddie steers your bike one-handed to rest against the porch. 

"Do you wanna come inside? I don't have any of the Dio, but I have Blondie." 

He holds in a throwaway comment about real rock and roll, astounded that you’d ask him. "Your folks aren't home?" 

"I'm twenty-two." 

Eddie squints at you. "Seriously?" 

"You didn't think so?" 

He shrugs. It's not that you don't look twenty two. Or even that you don't act twenty two. But it's been a long time since he met somebody living alone in the park. Forest Hills is where poverty comes to settle. 

"A boyfriend?" 

"Just me and mister Porterson." 

"That your grandpa?" 

"That's my pet fish."

He smiles. It's his first real, authentic smile in days. He's genuinely elated by your offer and your attitude, but he doesn't know how to handle it, struck with a sudden nightmare of you, afterward, telling somebody you'd invited him in and he'd tried to hurt you. It isn't fair of him to assume you'd do anything like that. You've been nothing but sweet and sincere this whole time. 

Eddie hasn't let his guard down in a long time. 

You're giving him this wide-eyed, imploring look that promptly suffocates any fear. 

And in a week, when she finds out who you are and feels betrayed, feels tricked? What then, Munson?

"You know what happened?" he asks.

"What happened?" 

"Two years ago. Chrissy… Chrissy Cunningham?" 

Don't say her fucking name. 

Your expression clears as clarity blooms. You take a step. He needs a second to realise you've come forward rather than away, fingers twitching toward his hand. 

"I know about it. I'm sorry that happened to you." 

He stares. 

This is a trick. Two years and he can count the amount of people who believe him on his two hands, and only because they'd all gone through it with him. Sometimes there are outliers, logical people who seem to realise Eddie couldn't have killed all those people, couldn't have been in all those different places without leaving any evidence behind. And sometimes there are people who agree he didn't kill Chrissy, but he's a coward for leaving her to die. (She’d already been dead.)

Eddie doesn't know what he thinks. Wayne sets the record straight every now and then with a clap on the shoulder. You did what every parent wants their kid to do. You lived. I can't ask for more than that. 

"You don't believe it?" 

"That you hurt her?" You hold his gaze, face practically impassive. "No, I don't believe it." 

He pulls in a breath that fills every inch of his chest. "I could learn to like Blondie," he says. 

— 

You're standing in the driveway of Eddie's trailer with a heavy bag over your shoulder, face to face with a man who kind of looks like him but not really. You assume it's his uncle because who else could he be? If you hadn't seen him here you'd never guess. 

"Eddie's mom must've had strong genes," you say. You bring your shoulder up toward your cheek thoughtfully. "He didn't get any of your face. Was she pretty? Eddie's really pretty." 

"She was," he says, peering down his nose at you. 

"I got sandwiches. Do you want one?" 

"What kind?" 

"I have ham and cheese, or ham and lettuce and tomato, or I have pumpernickel cookies. Is Eddie a vegetarian?" 

"Why?" 

"'Cause I only brought one cheese and cucumber, and I have dibs." 

He climbs down the last couple of steps and is still taller but definitely less imposing, face covered in scratchy salt and pepper stubble and crows feet deeply embedded into the corners of his eyes. He looks like a man who has been tired for a very long time. You make a mental note to bring him some lavender for his pillow on your next visit. 

"You're Eddie's new friend?"

You nod your head briskly. "Yes, sir. I'm Y/N." 

He opens his box of camels like a pro, bottom pressed to his chest. He tucks a cigarette between his lips and pulls his lighter out. He doesn't light it. 

"It's nice to meet you," he says eventually, voice warming. 

You search through the mess of your skirt for the zipper on your bag and peel it open, pulling out your tupperware of cookies and cracking them open to release the fragrant smell of cinnamon and almonds. It's a heady scent, fitting for the holiday season approaching. 

You offer Eddie’s uncle a cookie.

"Thought pumpernickel was bread," he says gruffly, taking one. 

"It is, but there's this little town in France that makes these every year at Christmas and they call them pumpernickel biscuits," — he takes a bite and winces at the hard snap — "you're s'posed to dip them in hot chocolate." 

"You don't say." 

You nod happily and he moves aside to let you pass. 

"Thanks, kid." 

You turn back to him with your fingers curled around the door handle. "Of course! It's really nice to meet you, Mr. Munson, sir." 

"Wayne is fine." 

You laugh and repeat his name in a similarly rough voice, letting yourself in as Eddie had told you to do. You find him immediately in a man-made corner of the living room, pale and in his pyjamas. The trailer is open planned, a living room they’ve divided by propping a couch against the kitchen counter, a slim hallway leading to a cramped bathroom and the single bedroom. It's exactly like in your home. 

You're somewhat surprised to see him in pyjamas. Eddie doesn't wear comfy looking clothes out of the house — you've only ever seen him in jeans and jackets like a real rockstar. 

"Are you ready?" you ask.

You've invited him to come and search for bugs with you. Catching any kind of bug, whether beetle or butterfly or spider, is really scary, but you need to be able to catch them to draw them. 

You'd expressed this to him over the phone and he'd said, "I can come and help. I have good reflexes." 

He rubs his hands over his knees. There's a blanket pooled around his feet, a quilt he must sleep with, and the room is decorated with not a whole lot of stuff but enough to make you take a step back. 

"Is this your room?" you ask, enchanted. 

"Kind of." He pulls his hair from behind his ear, obscuring a pale cheek. "I don't think I can come with you today, I'm sorry. I meant to call you." 

You toy with a dark thigh high sock as you ease out of your shoes, height drastically decreasing. "That's okay, we can stay here. I brought you a sandwich. I brought you two sandwiches," you correct. 

He nods. Rather sadly, in your opinion. "Alright. Thanks." 

You step over a tented paperback and hand off the cookies before sitting down beside him on the couch he's occupying. It's smaller than the one against the wall and round like a clam, lots of room for your legs to stretch out. 

"I feel like a pearl," you say. 

You and Eddie have been friends for a little while now. Long enough for you to realise he's either depressed or mentally unwell in some way. You hardly mind keeping him company on his bad days if he needs somebody, so drawing bugs will have to wait. 

His hair is limp, not totally greasy but not super clean either. His face looks fresh enough, though the bags under his eyes make you frown. 

You pull your purse into your lap, thighs covered by the thin layers of your midi skirt. "I have just the thing for you," you murmur. 

"Yeah? Bring me another bracelet?" 

You like that he sounds eager. Making his bracelet had been a challenge, lots of knotting and double knotting, three restarts and one small under the breath tantrum. It's not anything special, black and white hearts seven strands wide, but he'd been very appreciative. 

"No, but I can make you another one if you want. I mastered the inverse chevron last night." 

He hums. You pull a saran wrapped sandwich from the depths of your crowded bag, glad to see it's mostly intact. When you open it up you find that it's the ham and lettuce and tomato one, so you drop it into his lap haphazardly and move onto the next. 

"Aha! Here," you pull a cucumber from your sandwich. "For you." 

He takes it between two tentative fingers. "Thank you?" 

"For your eyes." 

"There's cheese on it." 

"I'll still work," you assure him. 

"M'not putting cheese on my eyes." 

You laugh because he probably shouldn't put cheese on his eyes, cucumber adjacent or otherwise. "Okay, don't. I'll make you a hot towel." 

He drops his hand on your arm as you go to stand. You like how he touches you, soft but not scared. "You just got here. Stay here." He pats you nicely. "Tell me about work last night." 

You settle heavily into the seat beside him, your thigh to his thigh, your hip squished against his hip, doughy flesh separated by nothing more than a strappy tank top and a cotton long-sleeve t-shirt. His heat quickly becomes yours, a sinking transference of warmth. 

"Well," you begin, cheek turning into the couch to face him. "It was mostly okay. I dropped another plate, but this time it didn't have a stack of waffles on it." 

He smiles ruefully and sinks back as you had. Neither of you eat your sandwiches. "Progress. Taking it out of your pay?" 

"Yes, definitely." 

"Discrimination." 

"That's what I said! I said, Sarah, I was born with butterfingers and you know that." 

"She didn't budge?" 

"Dishwashing all week next week. Whatever, though, 'cause it's Saturday." 

He laughs and shakes his head, his gaze dropping to your neck. He does that sometimes. You can't blame him; you wear a varying assortment of necklaces because you think they're pretty, and you're glad he likes them too. 

"See my new one?" 

"What?" 

"New necklace." You look down at your chest and pull the newest addition from between the cups of your bra. "It's real silver." 

"It's nice." 

"It's surprisingly heavy. Wanna feel?" 

"That's okay," he says, slightly strained. 

Right, you think. I'm talking a lot. 

You press your lips together in a mild pout and look at him through appreciative eyes. He's a very pretty boy, all soft and pale and sweet dark curls.

"Do you want me to put your hair up?" 

His lips part before he talks. "I don't know if you should." 

"Sure I should. It's getting in your eyes, right?" You take his hand where it's laid unsuspectingly in his lap and slip the hair tie from around his wrist, his fingertips tickling the inside of your palm. "Sit forward, Eddie." 

He takes a deep breath, holds it, and sits up. You twist and then realise you need some more height, pushing a leg under yourself to kneel next to his lap. 

You weave our fingers softly into the hair at the front of his face and rake away in lieu of a brush. After it's mostly tamed you pull it all into one hand and wrap the tie at the base of his head. You hum to yourself as you go, pleased when his lovely curls behave. 

"Voilà," you announce, moving back on your haunches. 

He breathes out. "Thank you." 

You reach for a curl you'd missed at the very front and encourage it behind his ear. He has subtle indents in his cheeks today like he's in need of a good meal, and his skin is colder than it should be when you flatten your palm. 

"You need something to eat," you fret. Your fingertips stroke under his eye, your thumb his smile lines. 

He moves away slowly. 

You pull your hand back into your lap. "Maybe we can go out and get something, if you don't like the sandwich?" 

"What?" he asks, pale lips taut as he simpers at you. "Are you kidding? This is about to fix everything that's wrong with me." 

His enthusiasm emboldens you. "It so will! There's ham and cheese too, if you prefer that one." 

"Get it! I'm gonna eat both of them." S

Eddie eats both of his sandwiches and you eat your own, the two of you with your heads dropped back against the couch as you watch TV. There's a guy you've never seen before running around the streets of Chicago city centre looking for people to be in his play. Eddie's seen it before. He repeats dialogue in time with the characters, performing each line. Impressive, what with how tired he looks. 

"What did he just say?" you ask, mouth full of cucumber.

"He said he's gonna throw himself off a bridge," Eddie informs. "Poor guy. I know the feeling." 

You swallow harshly.

"Seriously?" 

Your sad tone surprises him. 

"I- No, I'm kidding," he says, scratching the base of his throat, friendship bracelet his only adornment.

His nervous itching makes you even more worried. 

"If you did wanna do that, you can talk to me-" 

He baulks, tongue poking out past his lips as he licks the corner of his mouth. "Thanks, sweetheart," he says, pet name like a kiss. It sounds silly but it really feels like one, right in the centre of your chest. "But I'm fine. Promise. It was a bad joke." 

"Okay," you say, letting your suspicion shine through. You hold his eyes. 

You haven't known Eddie long. It feels like you met yesterday, though really it's been two or three weeks. You fit together in a way you hadn't expected and adore more than you can articulate, two funny puzzle pieces.  

"Well, I just wanted you to know. I like being your friend, I don't want you to disappear."

He laughs and licks his lips, a rough, chesty sound. "I don't want you to disappear either." 

Tires crunch outside, a shushing sound and then the sharp shriek of a jeep being put into park. Eddie perks up considerably, his shoulders straightening. 

"Hey, Chief," Wayne calls. 

Trailer walls. Basically made of cardboard. 

"Hey, Wayne. Where's the kid?" 

You can't hear what Wayne says after that, words stolen by the TV. 

"Is that Chief Hopper?" you ask, trying to catch a glimpse of him through the mostly shuttered blinds. 

"Yeah, he- He's friends with Wayne." 

"Why's he wanna know where you are?" 

"'Cause I got into so much trouble." 

You bite your tongue. His tone is hard, not stern but almost, and you realise you've overstepped as you usually do. You want to apologise but you don't want to pick the wound, eager to gloss over and make him smile again. 

"It's pretty cool, isn't it?" you ask him.

"What?" 

You spread your legs wider to slide onto your thighs and make him the taller one again, legs bent in a 'W' shape. "Coming back from the dead! First Will Byers, then Hopper." 

Something surfaces in his expression. An irony. 

"The undead," you croon, aiming for a smile, a laugh. 

He cracks. "The undead," he agrees, smiling in bemusement. His eyes are a funny shade of brown. 

—

Eddie shoo’s you home early that night but tries to do it kindly. He feigns exhaustion, a facade that's difficult to uphold when his entire body is thrumming with want. If there's one thing Eddie hates about being a vampire (there are literally hundreds of things he hates, but this one's special) it's that he wants to hurt the people he likes a thousand times more than the people he doesn't. 

He can't explain it. Your blood is more appealing than any lonesome stranger's. Your pulse is practically music to his ears when you sit beside him. He'd kill himself before he ever hurt you, though. Or that's what he likes to think. Whether he has that amount of control is debatable. 

No. He would kill himself before he hurt you, or Wayne, or any of his friends. 

Steve can see the way that he's feeling on his face. 

Hopper's delivery set to one side, a tall glass with blood congealed in a sticky ring at the bottom, Eddie curls under his huge quilt and tries not to pass out. Blood sate feels the same as a thanksgiving food coma. It's awesome. 

He hates how good it feels. 

"Stop feeling guilty," Steve says. 

"He doesn't look guilty to me," Dustin says beside him, taller than the last time Eddie had seen him but still miles off of Steve's tall stature. He's changed his hat again, this one a garish green. It's not a good look. 

"He looks like he's napping," Robin says, delighted. 

"Can you guys go home?" Eddie asks. 

"Shithead." 

"What Steve means to say," Robin corrects, grinning her huge, catching smile, "is that no, we aren't going home. We brought games." 

"I don't wanna play games." He does. Eddie needs the distraction, because eventually the blood sate will fade and all that will remain will be self-revulsion and a cruel desire to do something awful. 

"I do not care even slightly," Steve says, deadpan, as he sits right there next to Eddie where you'd been sitting before. Steve's nowhere near as soft and he doesn't smell as nice, but Eddie's honestly glad someone is willing to sit next to him at all. 

"Ouch, what the fuck?" 

Dustin looks up from where he's sat himself on the floor. Robin giggles in her seat on the coffee table. 

"Munson, are you fucking shedding? I just got stabbed." 

"They don't work like that. They retract." 

Eddie feels at his broken gums with his tongue. There's a clean incision where his fangs come out and then snap back inside after a time. They're remarkably thin, fitting in front of his natural incisors neatly. 

Steve grumbles, hips lifted and hand searching under his butt for whatever it is that jabbed him. He retrieves exactly what Eddie had been expecting but hadn't had the forethought to prepare a lie about with a shocked gasp.

"Is this an earring? You don't have your ears pierced." 

He swallows, knowing it's a very guilty gesture, and meets Steve's eyes straight on. 

Funny how Steve's hair speaks as much as his expression, bobbing as he nods his head to emphasise each word, "Munson, do you have a girlfriend?" 

Silence. 

"...Not really." 

"Holy shit," Dustin says, sounding extremely pleased. "No way." 

Robin tucks her short hair behind her ears, hands paused in disbelief at her neck. "Actually?" 

"I have a friend," Eddie admits. 

"Thank god," Steve says, dropping your heart earring onto Eddie's thigh. The silver feels extremely hot over his pyjamas, like it's been held in the centre of a blistering hearth. 

"I really thought Steve was gonna have to take one for the team and give you a pity handie," Robin says agreeably, scratchy voice coloured by genuine awe. 

Eddie groans, "Harrington, get this shit off of me. You know I can't touch that." 

"I forgot," Steve lies. "Can you wait? My hands are busy." 

—

He has Steve put your earring between two pieces of kitchen towel and holds onto it. He doesn't see you for a week, and he keeps your damn earring in his pocket that entire time worried it's gonna slip out and brand him at any second. 

Finally, you call him. He pretends he wasn't waiting. 

"Hello," you say, like you're announcing something. 

"Hey. How are you?" 

"Eddie, I need your help. Badly." 

He flinches up where he'd been leaning casually, hard enough to make Wayne jump. Eddie smiles at him placatingly and mouths a poor sorry, turning away to pretend there's a semblance of privacy to be found in such close quarters. 

"Are you okay?"

"I gotta find a rainbow leaf beetle. Do you have a torch?" 

"...What?" 

"They only come out at night, so I'm gonna go look but I don't have a torch that works." 

He relaxes, the lilting cadence of your voice enough to make his whole night. You sound so pretty even through the phone. He suspects you could hold any pitch, deep or high, and you'd still sound nice. 

It's all in the way you — he says this with love — perform the words. You speak like each word you're saying has equal importance, and it's calming.

Even when you say stuff that's nonsense to him.

Right now, you don't sound upset or even worried about not having a torch, simply curious to know if he has one. If he focuses hard (and he's been trying not to, as you deserve your privacy) he can hear you all the way across the park, shifting from foot to foot in your bedroom, carpet crushed under your heels. 

The action makes him think this might be more urgent to you than you'd first admitted. 

"I have a torch." He also has amazing night vision. Like, impeccable. "Can I come help?" 

"You want to?" 

"I'd love to. Are you going out tonight?" He leans back to glance out the window. "The rain is finally stopping." 

"Yeah, tonight! Is that okay for you? We could go tomorrow if you can't." 

You're willing to change your plans now that he's asked to go with you. It's a gesture as lovely as you are. Eddie doesn't think you'd ever think it of yourself; your kindness is so intrinsic you don't notice it, like the fine stitching of a leather bound book. Integral and widely unappreciated.

"That's perfect."

Wayne raises an eyebrow when Eddie relays the conversation. "You're going out in the middle of the night with this girl to… look for bugs." 

Eddie crosses his arms over his chest. "I swear." 

"Be honest with me, kid." 

"I am!" 

Wayne swirls his coke can around in his hand as he thinks, a reluctance evident in his scowl. Eddie knows he's way too old for a guardian's oversight like this but he lets Wayne have a say because Wayne loves him, and Eddie doesn't ever want to put his old man through the turmoil he went through when he ran away. If that means a curfew in his twenties, Eddie's okay with that. 

"If you're going to have sex with this girl, I'd prefer you did it here. You have to treat women with respect."  

Eddie shivers, full body. "Wayne," he groans, covering his face. He can feel his cheeks pink under his palms, that's how quickly his embarrassment rises. 

"I know you're more responsible these days, and you're a grown up. If you want a girlfriend and you want to do adult things with her-" 

"Jesus Christ." 

"- then that's alright. You don't have to fool around outside." 

He drags his hands down on his face, pained. "It's not like that. You met her, you know she's…" 

"Strange?" 

"Alternative." 

"No, you're alternative. She's cooky." 

"Don't," he says. He knows his uncle isn't actually being cruel, so he lets it lie and fights for his own cause. "We aren't messing around. She genuinely wants me to go find these bugs with her. And…" He hates himself. "She has her own place, you know? If we were going to-" 

Wayne seems stricken by the same mortified embarrassment as Eddie, raising a calloused hand in surrender. "Spare me." 

"Thank you," Eddie says, spinning on his heel to hide in the bathroom for a while. It's only when he's sitting on the closed toilet does he realise Wayne hadn't mentioned his more dangerous ailment. For a time, he'd been a normal (debatable) person having a normal (horrifying) conversation with his dad. Not a vampire. Not somebody who ruins everything he touches. 

—

"It's so quiet," you whisper. 

For you, Eddie thinks. 

You're in the forest surrounding the aptly named Forest Hills trailer park, wielding your borrowed torch carefully into the dark. Eddie's following in your footsteps, trying not to smell everything that's on you today and failing. 

You smell like a person as everybody does. Over that is your soap, a faint hint of milk and honey that sticks to your skin even after you've washed it away. Over that is your deodorant, 'unscented', and over that is your perfume, which he likes most. It's a mix of smells, some Eddie doesn't know and some he does. There's lavender, though that might be down to the bunch you'd brought for his uncle wrapped in newspaper, and there's something fruity he can't quite put his finger on, all of it wrapped up in a cloying pairing of vanilla and coconut. 

"Eddie?" 

"What?" 

"Are you okay? You're almost as quiet as the trees." 

If only you knew the trees aren't quiet. 

"I'm alright," he says quickly, catching up to you where you stand a few feet ahead. "What are we looking for?" 

Best change the subject. How to explain he'd been smelling the notes of your perfume? 

"They rest on tree trunks. You have to be careful, any sudden sound or light will scare them away. But if you flash the torch on them, they shine like oil stains." 

He loves when you talk. "Where'd they come from?" 

"Place called Snowdon. They're so rare, they think there's only about a thousand alive there." 

"Well, how did they get here?" 

You laugh under your breath, so quiet he would've missed it if he wasn't enhanced. "I don't know. How do beetles get to different places?" 

"They fly?" 

A twig crunches under your shoe. 

Eddie tips his head to the side, thinking. "If there's only a thousand, how-" He stops, your circle of torch light growing further and further away. "Are you sure that they live here?" 

"No, but if they do we'll be the first to find them." 

"So they've never found any out here? In- In the midwest?" 

"Not yet. Where'd you go?" 

He shakes his head in an affectionate disbelief. "Right behind you." 

You search in silence for a while. Eddie wishes he could say he was mad, or even mildly annoyed, wishes he had even the slightest regard for his own time, but really he thinks any time with you is time well spent. Especially if it's helping you do something you want to do. Whether you find your rainbow leaf beetle or not, he feels better knowing he's out here with you to keep you safe and in company. 

Conversation is sparing. He doesn't mind. Your footsteps fill the sound and he finds even that stupid detail charming, the crunch, the pick up. His own are silent, a rare advantage to his terrible affliction. 

"Any other beetles you want me to keep an eye out for?" he whispers. 

"I'm not sure…" You turn to face him, torch pointed at your shoes. Rubber toes touched together, you lean in until you're all he can smell. Perfume. Blood. "If you see any cool spiders, too." 

"You have the mason jar?"

"You know I do." 

More than you realise, he thinks. The glass clicks in your bag. 

There's enough light reflected to see the most minute details of your face. Your nose, the circle of your irises but not their colour. He suspects Eddie from early '86 wouldn't have been able to see hide nor hair, and it wouldn't shock him if you were technically blind right now.

"Thanks for coming out with me. I was gonna ask you." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah, but I didn't want to come on too strong." He can sense your smile even though he can't see it. It's in the way your breathing deepens. "I know I can be a lot to deal with." 

"Who told you that?" 

"What?" 

Eddie doubles down.. "Who told you that?" he sounds heartbroken. 

He kind of is. Yeah, you're weird — Who cares? Who isn't? — but you're not a lot to deal with. He doesn't 'deal' with you.

"Everybody tells me that. All the time." 

"Everybody's stupid." To say it so loudly, scathingly, is sweet. It's therapeutic. "They are. This whole town is stupid." 

Your fingertips touch his thigh. He's willing you to turn the torch up and see his face, because he has a lot of feelings on display that he isn't brave enough to say out loud. 

"You never make me feel stupid," you say softly. 

"You're not." 

You giggle breathily at his vehemence, fingertips pressing in with a touch more pressure before you pull away and shine the torch deep into the trees. 

"This whole town is stupid," you mumble. "But not you." 

He thinks of his friends who are definitely stupid, but he loves anyways. He's about to add them to the not-stupid (subjectively) list when he remembers Steve's discovery: your earring burning a hole in his pocket. He'd been carrying it for long enough now to forget all about it. 

"Hey, I have something for you." 

"You do?" 

"Don't get too excited. It's not a gift." 

He digs in his pocket for the tissue paper wrapping and hisses in shock as the silver plating of your hoop graces his index finger. You shine the torch at him. His eyes ache like he's been stabbed and he slams them closed, hand pulled to his chest. 

How embarrassing. 

"Eddie, what happened?" you question loudly.

He winces at the sudden overstimulation. Slowly, he blinks, and finds you staring at him in a worry that softens every feature, even your nose. He doesn't know the logistics. 

"It's okay. Stabbed a paper cut on the back. Your earring's in my pocket, the heart?" 

"The hoop? I thought I lost it." Your worry turns to confusion and then melds into joy. You step forward and fish in his jacket pocket for your earring. 

"Steve found it." 

"'The hair'?" 

"Yeah, the hair." 

You both laugh and yours heightens when you find the earring, pulling it out like a knife to be brandished. "Yes." 

"I meant to tell you a dozen times that I had it." 

"You're the best." 

There's a crunch of wood somewhere to the left like something heavy falling over.

The forest sprawls in every direction and the trees tower, their presence looming as skyscrapers. The wind ruffles the topmost branches and their trunks groan with pressure. It's enough to freak Eddie out super sense or not, feeling suddenly like he couldn't protect you. He could hear the individual droplets of drool dripping from a lynx's bloody maw, and he can sense each twig underfoot before he takes his next step, but none of that is going to keep you safe in the face of real danger. 

"Maybe we should head back," he says tentatively.

"Okay. Do you want to come over?" 

His breath catches. "You want me to?" 

"Yeah, we can watch movies, I have leftover pasta." 

That sounds more like what he should've been thinking. "I don't wanna keep you up." 

"What kind of pasta?" he asks. 

The torch flickers. "With the tiny tomatoes. You'll like it, super creamy." 

"How do you know?" 

"You like Alfredo," you say astutely, hitting the torch into the palm of your hand. It flashes weakly, the shadow of the trees flickering and so dark they're violet. 

"Try tightening the handle." 

You turn the barrel of the torch and the light switches off completely. You try to undo what you've done to no success, the sound of plastic rubbing plastic almost as loud as your heartbeat. Your pulse falters and then grows to racing when the light fails to come back on. 

"Eddie," you say, sounding unsure. It's a new sound on you. "I don't know where we are. How are we gonna get home?" 

Your admission is like a dousing of ice water over his head. "You don't know what direction we came from?" 

"No, do you?" 

Eddie wouldn't know if he couldn't hear the sound of the electricity pylon buzzing somewhere to the right. But how can he explain that? "Uh, we were turned around."

You creep to his side and grab his arm with both hands. "Are you sure?" 

"Hey," he says gently. "Hey, it's okay. I know where we are. We'll be fine." 

"Are you sure?" you ask again. 

"I'm positive." 

You take a deep breath that doesn't erase your shakiness, a failed attempt at self-soothing. "I really don't know where we are." 

"You're not afraid of the dark, are you?" 

"Not really… I don't wanna get lost out here." 

"You won't. I know how to get back. C'mon," he prompts, pulling his arm to encourage you forward. 

You let go of him and navigate a few steps by yourself. He weaves through the trees, waiting for your heartbeat to slow. 

It doesn't. He opens his mouth to reassure you again when you gasp, kicking your foot against a root and tripping. You barely fall, catching yourself on the trunk of a tree, and Eddie remembers himself. You can't see the trees. That's why you're worried. You can't see anything. 

Then the smell of blood hits him like a freight train. 

—

Your hand stings where you caught yourself, palm scraped down against harsh bark. 

"Shit," you mumble. 

You're panicking badly, and you're confused as to why Eddie isn't. Not only was it fucking stupid of you to come out here with only one torch, it was stupid of you to assume you'd remember what way was home. It was stupid of you to come here tonight for that stupid beetle, and stupid of you to drag Eddie along. You're an idiot, and now you're bleeding. 

Your eyes sting with tears, pain like a popped seal. I'm so stupid. 

"Hey," Eddie says, his tone silky soft, "you're okay. Let me help you up." 

You hold your hands out. 

"Eddie, this is weird." Hopefully he understands that weird means scary.

He takes your hands, fingers closing slowly over your bloody palm. His breath is loud as he pulls you up toward him like he's panicked but his grip stays kind, and you abandon the notion when he rubs over your knuckles with his thumb. "It's alright." 

He doesn't sound the same. 

"Eddie, we can't see." 

"We'll go slowly, okay? I'll put my hand out and we'll walk around anything that gets in the way." 

"Yeah," you say hurriedly, heart bump-bump-bumping against your ribcage. 

He keeps one hand, the injured one, and starts to drag you slowly through the trees. His grip tightens as you go until it starts to ache, until it feels like it might bruise. 

"Ouch, Eds. You're hurting me," you say, going for a lightly teasing tone and missing the mark. 

Instantly, he eases off. "Sorry, sweetheart. You hold onto me, alright?" 

You do as he'd asked, hand clinging to him as he leads. He doesn't squeeze you again, walking slowly as he'd promised, and the closer you get to the edge of the forest the clearer it becomes. Light pollution from the centre of town leaches through the trees like water trickling from an overflowing basin. 

His second hand is in his pocket. 

"Here," he says after you've traversed to the very edge of the forest. "There's the park. We're bona fide explorers." 

He looks out toward the park and you look at the side of his face. Something isn't right. Something uncanny. 

You drop your gaze from his face to your joined hands. They come apart, blood smeared in both your palms like two halves of a dripping heart. 

— 

There is something weird about Eddie. As a residential freak of Hawkins you think you're an authority in this, and you don't feel guilty for judging him. Your brain can't stop going over your night in the forest. For days you play the scenes back and for days you lose the details. You forget how the wind had tousled his hair, how he'd smelled, what he'd said. 

You remember the way he'd squeezed your bloody hand. You remember the way he'd spoken, strained. 

Not strained like he didn't want to comfort you, he had, but strained. 

Restrained. 

You're poking at the shallow cut half-healed now in your palm at work when a dude walks in, very tall, handsome, and gunning straight for you. 

You straighten your badge and hide your bracelet heavy wrists behind your back, receding slightly as he approaches. He slows in front of you. 

You have a light bulb moment. 

"The hair," you say.

He scowls. "He told you that, huh. Typical." 

"You're Steve?" 

"That's me." Steve crosses his arms across his chest, his back to a booth, your back to the diner bar. "You're Eddie's new friend." 

"What counts as new?" A month and a half doesn't feel so new to you. 

"Trust me, you're new." 

He has the strangest patch covering the outside of his left wrist, the same peculiar scarring that you can see on Eddie's waist when he reaches for a glass out of the kitchen cabinet. You don't ask because you're not a dick no matter how curious you find yourself, but it makes your heart skip. What is that? You'd assumed Eddie's was road rash. Now you're not so sure. 

He tucks it under his arm. 

You meet his suspicious gaze. 

"You want coffee?" 

"No." 

You kick your foot, shoe sliding over the shiny waxed floor with a squeal. "Is Eddie okay?"

"Did you want to come to a party next Friday?" 

"No," you say honestly. "Like a cult?" 

"What?" 

"Are you initiating me into your cult?" 

He finally smiles, eyes creased with amusement. "I'm inviting you to our club." 

"Club where you chew on each other?" 

You look pointedly at Steve's wrist. 

"No. Club where we play board games and drink jiffy pop. Come or don't, doesn't matter." 

"If it doesn't matter, why are you asking me?" 

It's a strangely intense conversation to have this early in the morning. Patrons chatter about work, coffee gets poured. The diner smells of syrup and sugar and bitter cold-press. You're both in work apparel, both refusing to move back. If this is some kind of shovel talk then that's fine, and if it's a test you're determined to pass, even if Eddie's been super weird lately. 

"I'll come if you promise not to eat me," you say. 

"It's really not that kind of club." 

—

"I had the weirdest visit in the entire world today," you declare, stopping in front of Eddie's porch with a smile. 

"Yeah?" he asks without looking up, guitar in his lap and pen scribbling over a lined notebook.

You wait for him to stop before you continue, leaning forward with both arms braced on the porch by his feet. "Steve Harrington came to see me, and he was super mean. You said he was nice." 

He frowns at you. "I told you he was a dick." 

"You like him when you tell me stories." 

"How mean?" Eddie asks, patting the seat beside him. 

You climb up onto the porch and plop down onto the couch, worn leather cold with the weather and damp in the seams. 

You take a strand of his hair and curl it around your finger. "Not really super mean, but he was, like, acting like I killed a baby." 

"He's like that." 

You sigh and lean your cheek against the couch cushion, watching Eddie's stubble move as he tamps down a teasing smile. "He invited me to a party next weekr." 

"It's not a party- Sweetheart, what are you doing?" 

You tickle his cheek with the end of his hair. "Nothing." 

"M'gonna sneeze." 

You tickle him again, fine dark strands brushing over his pale cheek. He's a very ashen guy, you've found. Likely because he barely goes out in the sun and he doesn't eat enough. You draw circles around the apple of his cheek and grin softly at his growing smile, a sweet, silly thing. 

"I'll tickle you back," he warns. 

"Promise?" 

He steals the curl back and tucks it behind his ear. 

"You're not a cannibal, are you?" 

Eddie chokes on air. You startle at his coughing and move to pat his back, palm slapping a steady rhythm into his shoulder. When he calms down you run your hand down the length of his arm, long sleeve t-shirt soft beneath your touch. You linger at his wrist and decide to hold it. 

He drops his pen and your hand travels until he's caught your thumb. He kneads it in his fingers.

"I'm not a cannibal. Why would you think that?" 

"I don't, but you and Steve are in your club, right?" 

"Hellfire wasn't like that," he says heatedly.

"No, not- Not that one." 

He doesn't say anything. 

"You have… He has this scar, on his wrist. Like something bit him, or-" He turns to you and he looks formidable and upset and himself, not mad at you but raw emotion in his expression anyhow. It's gone as quick as it came. 

"When all that… stuff happened," he begins quietly, "we got hurt. A couple of us." 

You drop your head, ashamed at having pried.  "I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me anything else."

"Don't be sorry…" He squeezes your hand and lets it go. "Don't worry about it." 

"Okay." 

"We usually call ourselves a party, these days. Not a club." 

"Do you really play board games and drink jiffy pop?" 

"Sometimes we get really crazy and order a pizza. You should come." 

You realise as he says it how much his wanting you to go had mattered to you. Eddie's your friend, and you don't think that you're going to stay friends much longer.

"You think your friends will like me?" you ask, voice descending to a new kind of gentle. 

He puts down his guitar and his notebook. His full attention is something you've come to really enjoy, not because of the hunger you often see flitting across his face — though that's neat —, but because of the inklings of adoration clinging to his smile when he looks at you. His blinking lashes. He smiles at you and just slows. A usually frenetic boy calmed. 

"Maybe not Mike. Mike doesn't like anybody. Except for Will," he muses.

"What about you?" 

"What about me?" 

"Who do you like?" 

"I like all of them." He juts his cheek toward his shoulder, conceding, " I think Dustin's my favourite. He's funny. He's funnier than I am, and he's the smartest kid I've ever met. And he knows it." 

Your eyes focus on the pink outline of his upper lip as he speaks. It's a pleasure to be this close, and see him in this kind of crazy detail. When you go home tonight you might try to draw him. You'll probably forget.

It's the kind of smile that deserves to be immortalised. 

"I really like your smile," you tell him, hoping it'll last a little longer. 

It stretches. The pink outline turns white. "Shut up." 

"I do. I've seen a thousand different smiles but I've never met someone who smiles like you do." 

"How's that?" he asks, edging toward you, face a mirror in which you can see your own charmed expression. 

"Like you," — you shake your head with your lips parted — "know a secret. Something you won't tell anybody." 

His smile abruptly ends. 

You've nothing if not a talent for saying the wrong thing. 

"A good secret," you amend. 

He picks up his acoustic and gives it an experimental strum. "Maybe one or two," he agrees. 

Relief catches you. You nibble at the inside of your lip and watch his fingers work over the neck of his guitar, tipping your head so you can read the words he's markered over the body. 

"This machine slays dragons," you murmur to yourself. "Yeah? How many?" 

"Just the one." 

"Save any princesses?" 

"Not yet." He plucks at the strings, lost in thought, before turning to you with eyebrows raised. "Can you play?" 

You exhale out of the corner of your mouth as he pushes the guitar into your lap, an arm coming around your shoulder, the other reaching to guide your curled forefinger to the strings. You turn to face him, watching him talk with a growing fondness. 

"It's easy, I swear. We'll do Call Me. Blondie's basic, even a baby could play it." 

He realises you aren't listening and raises his gaze, shiny brown irises stuck on your lips. This close, it would be worse if he didn't look at them. 

You glance at his, an obvious thing, half a wish. If he only lifted his chin. 

Your breath mingles. 

"It's easy," he says again, a murmur of his usual volume as his gaze pulls back up to yours. "I'll show you." 

You wonder if he can hear your heart pounding; it's deafening. You wait, and you wait, and you turn your eyes back to his guitar and clamp your fingers down against the struts so he can't see them shaking with adrenaline. 

—

Eddie sits beside Steve and tries not to admit to himself that Steve Harrington is, horrifyingly, his best friend (along with the rest of the party, obviously). Steve is the closest in age and Eddie can't make excuses (though he tries and tries and tries), Steve understands how much Eddie doesn't ever want to talk about anything that's happened to them, so he talks about literally everything else instead. 

"It was the weirdest pawn shop I've ever been in. They had, like, a wall of combi's playing the same video at the same time but all slightly delayed." 

Eddie blinks. 

Steve turns his head from the TV, having expected a response. "Did you say something?" 

"No." Then, because he's not a dick. "Sorry, Harrington. Want me to sit on your other side?" 

"What for?" Steve says. Not because he denies how he's hard of hearing, but because he denies having conversations with Eddie. 

He does end up moving to Steve's other side with a pathetic excuse. "I can't see the TV." 

Steve doesn't say a word until he's sat down again. "Sorry I was mean to your girlfriend." 

"Yeah, what was that about?" 

"I was cranky because it was early and I don't want her to damage the integrity of the party." He gives equal weight to both reasons. 

Eddie snorts at him. "Since when do you care about the integrity of the party?" Steve barely acknowledges that they are a party. He thinks that's a very nerdy way to say friends. 

"Since always, dipshit." 

"And inviting her to join the party was the solution because…?" 

Steve drinks the rest of his coke and pretends to really care about what's on TV. "If," he begins after a minute, refusing to look at Eddie, "something happens with her, and something happens to you, that damages the integrity of the party." 

"Steve," Eddie says, jaw dropped down to his chest, "do you have a crush on me?" 

"Oh my god," Steve mutters. "Oh my god," he says louder. "I can't stand you." 

To prove his point, he gets up from the couch with a wrinkled nose, stops to tap his shoe gently against Max's where she's sitting in the armchair across from the coffee table, and disappears into his kitchen. 

Steve Harrington cares about me enough to give Y/N the shovel talk. 

He feels kind of great about it. 

But he's not sure your the one who needs warning. 

That night in the forest, Eddie had almost snapped. There are rules to follow if he wants to keep people safe, self-imposed, Hopper-imposed, and he's broken too many with you already, the most important being no close proximity when he's hungry. Eddie doesn't even realise he is hungry half the time. He'll be standing by you and he'll want to touch you, and suddenly it's like he's three weeks in to the month without sating. 

He thinks about kissing you and suddenly he's thinking about biting you, and hurting you, and it's literally tearing him up from the inside out. 

How can he want to do that to you? 

"You look so depressed and pathetic," Dustin says out of the blue. 

Eddie pouts and falls back into the couch, Steve's fancy throw falling onto his shoulder. "I used to like you," he says, taking in Dustin's outfit with a kind of parental approval. He's getting older and it shows, slightly more handsome than he had been — he's kept all his baby weight and it suits him, his full cheeks surrounded by the softest brown curls Eddie has ever seen. The outfit stays immature, a funny t-shirt and ill-fitting pants. 

"Sad. You have a sad face," Dustin says. 

"Go play with your nerd squad, please." 

He doesn't listen, collapsing in Steve's still-warm seat like a cheap tent and crossing longer, thicker arms over his chest. He smiles at Eddie genuinely. "Where's your girlfriend?" 

"No." 

"Where's Y/N?" 

Eddie tips his head so he can see past the coffee table and points to where you're almost hidden, sitting with Robin on the floor by Steve's sideboard. You have a basket of tapes in front of you, the two of you trying to choose what's going in the stereo. Eddie prays for anything but Blondie. 

You will most likely choose Blondie. 

"What does she like?" Dustin asks curiously. 

"Everything, kind of. Why?" 

"I wanna know what to say when I talk to her." 

Eddie smiles at his friend's face, a soft, surprised thing. "I don't know if she knows anything about the radio but if you're happy about it she'll be happy too. She's a good listener."

Dustin picks at a piece of lint on his t-shirt bearing a white and black print of a dog wearing sunglasses. "So you talk to her?" he asks without looking up. 

"I mean, yeah. What else do you do?" 

"With a girl that likes you? Huh, let me think." Dustin laughs and ruins his own sarcasm, pointer finger laid against his chin in a show of thoughtfulness. 

"It's not like that," Eddie says lightly. 

"It could be." 

"Could it? I mean… I don't even know if she'll stick around. And I feel bad 'cos I can't be honest with her." 

"Why not?" 

"Hopper said he would literally put me in the hole if I even thought about it." There's no need to expand. Dustin would know better than anyone what he's talking about. 

He cringes at the thought, self hatred a hot poker down his throat. He must've said it to Dustin a hundred times when he finally came around from his coma (that wasn't a coma, but a death, and then a rebirth). I can't believe I put you through that. I can't believe I put you through that. I'm so sorry. 

I'm just glad you're alive, Eddie. 

And for a while, Eddie hadn't felt the same. The world he'd woken up to was hard. There had been lawyers and grief and guilt and becoming. He doesn't have the words to describe how it feels to become something new, something that needs to hurt people to live, something that will hurt people to live, whether Eddie wants to or not. 

The loss of choice is suffocating. 

Though moments like this with his friends– they don't make it 'worth it', they're just how it had to happen. There isn't a scenario where Eddie could give up. He can't leave Wayne, and he can't leave Dustin. He can live with the grief of what he is if it means other people don't have to live with grief of what he isn't. 

"Eddie, are you okay?" 

He's missed something. Dustin isn't the only one looking at him. 

He curls a hand around his forearm subconsciously. "I'm fine. I think I'm gonna go to the bathroom, actually. Gotta piss real bad." 

"Eddie-" 

"I'm fine, Henderson." He puts on a good show, patting Dustin's arm. His heart, usually so slow these days, has enough life in it to ache. 

He can't have been in the bathroom for five minutes when somebody knocks on the door aggressively. He's expecting Steve, pissed at his disappearance and likely preparing a speech on attention seeking behaviours and how they're hurting the youth of America, so he opens the door with a tired glare. 

He finds you, beaming and pretty, dressed ridiculously nicely for his idiot friends. 

"Hi," you say. He can hear something from Blondie's Parallel Lines playing from the living room, familiar because it's your favourite album. "Any room for me?" 

Eddie moves back. You close the door behind you. The bathroom becomes a vacuum of your sounds and smells. 

"They didn't have any Dio," you say with a smile. 

"I honestly wouldn't expect any different." 

"You could've brought some tapes, your mix from the van," you suggest. "I love that one." 

"Which one?" he asks, and he can't help it, whenever he's with you his voice crops to a dulcet murmur. The urge to speak to you as you speak to him is unconquerable. 

"One with the winking smile on the slipcase. I really like it." 

"You can have it." 

You lean against the sink. "I can?" 

"Mm. Whatever you want." Especially when you look like this. 

You smile at him, your 'thank you' smile, all sticky fondness and mischievousness. He has no idea what you're thinking. 

"'S a small bathroom in a huge house," you marvel. Your voice echoes "Where does he shower?" 

"There's an upstairs bathroom." 

"Two bathrooms? That's-" 

"Audacious?" 

"I was gonna say overkill." 

Your candidness has him shaking with laughter. He clutches at his sides, arms crossed and leaning forward. You visibly take in his appearance, eyes panning slowly over his clean hair. He'd taken care to look like somebody you might want to look at tonight. 

"Why don't you sit down, Eds?" you ask, eyes creased with an unreadable emotion. 

Eddie feels blindly for the toilet lid and pushes it down so he can do as you ask, wondering why you're asking.

"You look very handsome today." 

He hugs himself. "As opposed to every other day, when I don't?" 

You take a step forward, a second, hands playing with the hem of your shirt. Your outfit today is delightfully simple, a pressed black t-shirt long enough to cover the waistband of your pleated skirt. There's an expanse of thigh that makes his heart beat spin out, one longer than the other where your thigh-high is falling down.

He wants to pull it up. 

"C'mere," he says. 

You take that last step between his shoes and he reaches out, getting his fingertips under the elastic of your sock and tugging it upward over the soft fat of your leg. Your hands come up to his shoulders for balance, and you say, "No, you look handsome every day. Today you look very handsome. I made the distinction." 

He covers your thigh with both hands, looking up into your face as you look down. "You look really pretty today," he says boldly, fingers spreading behind your knee. 

"Thank you. Do you like my t-shirt?" 

It's a screen print of Debbie Harry. Eddie tries not to roll his eyes. "I love it, but your dedication to Blondie is seriously worrying, sweetheart." He gives your leg a short squeeze and pulls the most giggly smile out of you yet. 

"Like Madonna." 

"No!" he bemoans. 

You laugh and grow closer, arms on his shoulder, a hand threaded into his hair. "Cyndi Lauper?" you suggest. 

He puts a hand on your waist as you move in for a hug. Your arms wrap around his neck and the tops of his shoulders, cheek crushed to the top of his head. 

He'd ask if you were okay if he thought you weren't. You're not upset or seeking comfort. You're affectionate. You've been getting more and more touchy for weeks, as he has. Stolen touches, your almost-kiss on the porch last week. 

"No, not Cyndi Lauper," he says, his hand skirting around your back to pull you in properly. 

"R.E.M?" 

"God, no. Where are you hearing all this junk?" 

"The radio." 

"Tuned into the wrong station." 

You pet the back of his head. "Yeah," you say softly, "I think I was." 

The hug is shorter than Eddie wants it to be. You make one of your happy sounds and pull away to get your hands on his face, stroking curls from his cheeks with a protective touch. "Handsome," you say, turning your hand to stroke his cheek with your knuckles. "Pretty. You have really big eyes, Eddie, so brown, and so…" You tilt your head to one side, face inching forward. 

He turns his face to suit, to fit, breath held as you close the gap. 

"So pretty," you murmur, and kiss him. 

His hands are limp and then alive, one clutching your hip, one splaying against your chest. He can hear the thud of your heart clear as day — you're bumping with excitement as you kiss him. It's a delicate, tender thing, the party suddenly far away, the music drowned by the sounds of your breathing. You kiss as you talk, as you move, gentle but with bursts of ardency. Your lips are a blissful heat, the tip of your nose smushing into his as you part your lips over his. 

He lifts his chin higher, his neck craned to receive you. He's savouring every movement. Each pause for breath that you take. The feeling of your inhales over his quick-bruising lips. 

Your hands play in his hair so sweetly it makes his eyes burn with an embarrassing amount of emotion. He screws them closed and squeezes up your waist, steadying himself as you feel along his bottom lip with the tip of your tongue. 

You don't get much further than that, seemingly pleased with your own brazeness or perhaps his touch, eyes glowing with mirth as you pull away. 

"Sorry," you breathe, not sorry at all. "You just really looked like someone should be kissing you."

You're flushed. Eddie can practically see the heat emanating off of your cheeks. He can feel it. 

He stands up, your pulse a ringing in his ears. The wet valves of your heart opening and closing. 

"Eddie?" you ask quietly, lifting your head to meet his eyes as he walks you back into the door. 

His gums sting. A click. 

It's a compulsion. 

His hands curl around your elbows, holding you in place. Your eyes are wide with confusion, your lightly swollen lips parted. He can see the tiniest slip of your pink tongue. 

He holds your gaze as he leans in. Your eyelids flutter closed. You wrap your arms around him as he descends, totally trusting. 

He's a meaner kiss than you are. He starts slow but swiftly loses a handle on it, kisses short but insistent, hot presses like little crescent moons against your barely open mouth. 

His hands move up your arms, a near vice-like grip until he finds your sleeves. His fingers slip underneath, hands hungry for your warmth. 

You make the worst sound anyone has ever made as he moves back, like something has been ripped from you. A gutted gasp, near silent. 

He placates as he wades back in. Thumbs rubbing your arms, lips mouthing damp kisses down your face. The corner of your pout, the hill of your chin, the skin under your jaw. Your head tips back against the door with an audible thud. You exhale hard. 

Eddie can't feel his hands. 

Your pulse hammers under his lips. He kisses it once. He can't think. He can't breathe. 

"You're always cold," you whisper, your hands drifting lazily under the fabric of his t-shirt. Your fingertips trail up his spine. "But your lips are warm." 

He kisses your neck, his lips parting slowly, a hair's width a second as he sucks your skin into his mouth gently. It's barely a kiss. He does it a second time. A third. You start to laugh, a golden sound. 

The point of his fangs touch your skin and you stop. 

Eddie closes his mouth abruptly. His hand leaps to your neck and he feels your heart skip as he holds you still. "I'm sorry," he says, nose rubbing over the damp spot he's left behind, your teased skin. 

Your heart hikes again. 

"I'm sorry," he repeats. He pulls away, an agony. 

"It's okay," you say. Your breathlessness says otherwise.

Eddie takes as many deep breaths as he can stand, wanting to clear his head and filling it with you instead. Your everything; your smell, your skin. Your limp hands against his back. 

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asks when he gets a look at you, your unreadable expression. He takes care to keep his head angled down so you can't see the lower half of his face. 

"I don't think you could." 

You cup his cheek in your hand and he leans into it, his weight against yours.

"I wanted to tell you something," you confess. 

"What-" He licks his lips, wincing when his fangs slide into his tongue and scrape grooves across his taste buds. "What was that?" 

"I know you…" You pause, fingertips rubbing at his cheek.

Does she know? Eddie thinks, horrified. He hadn't realised how scary waiting could be. A thousand worries condensed into a handful of seconds. Does she know?

How could she not?

You press your palm to his cheek with more insistence. "I don't want you to think you have to hide anything from me. I know you have scars," you say, fingers sliding into the soft baby hair at the back of his neck. "You don't have to cover up. You don't have to cover any of it." 

"I won't hurt you," he says, trying to convince himself. 

"I know." 

-

You stay a while longer. Eddie's friends pretend that you hadn't been alone in the bathroom for an inordinate amount of time together. You thank them all silently and less so, trying to talk to as many of them as you can. 

There's Lucas, who's really, really nice, and his girlfriend Max, who's less so. She gives you an unimpressed look through her thick-lensed glasses, but you compliment her crutches and she comes around. 

There's Mike, who actually isn't anywhere as bad as Eddie had described him. He's not frosty or standoffish, he's sweet and he asks questions. There's a girl with him that you don't catch the name of, and a boy on her other side. 

There's Dustin, who you adore immediately, Robin, who you adore more, and then there's Steve. 

Steve offers you a pretzel like you're more than familiar. He strolls right up to you with a bowl of them in hand and doesn't leave until you've eaten half of them. 

There's a couple of people you don't manage to talk to at all, and you feel guilty about it all the way home. 

"What if they think I'm rude?" you ask, tired eyes locking onto the stereo system. The time blinks analog in the dark, 12:59AM. 

"They don't, don't worry about it. You have lots of time to get to know them, anyway." 

You hum and turn to his face, indulgent because you know he can't look back. "You're not too tired to drive, are you?" He's spent. Yesterday had been one of his bad days. 

"I'm fine." 

"You say that all the time," you observe, dropping your cheek into the passenger seat's headrest. 

"I'm fine all the time." 

"Liar." 

"Nuisance." 

You huff a laugh through your nose. The strands of his friendship bracelet, the small beads at the ends, swing like pendulums in the gap between his arm and the steering wheel. You can see the rough skin of a scar creeping out from under his sleeve. 

"Mike was really nice," you say. 

"He has a bleeding heart." 

That feels accurate. "He reminds me of you." 

Eddie rolls his eyes. You feel for every detail, the strange tension between you like a gaussian filter over everything. He's gorgeous in a horrific way, heartbreakingly pale, eyes dark as pitch, hands restless. They squeeze alone the wheel, thick fingers curling tight until his knuckles are stark white. Running down the back of his hands are veins like rivers. They're more purple than green. 

"Eddie," you say, playful, a tiny bit insecure. 

"What?" 

"Wanna stay the night?" 

His hand moves forward on the wheel like he's revving a motorcycle, the tendon in his wrist rising to the surface. He clenches. "Not sure it's a good idea." 

"Just to sleep. It's late." 

"I don't know if I can sleep next to you." 

You don't wanna say please. You don't want to ask Eddie to do anything he can't or doesn't wanna do. 

He pulls up outside of your house with his mind already made up. He gets out of the car and you follow his lead. He locks it, shoves the keys in his pocket as you join him on the path up to your porch. 

He's been in here enough times to know what it looks like, but for some reason you find yourself checking his face, worried about what it is he thinks of your things, all your mismatched trinkets, your stained glass lamps, your life as you let yourselves in. He ducks through the beeded curtain into your bedroom wary that they'll get tangled in his hair like they sometimes do. 

"Do you wanna call Wayne?" you ask, gesturing to your telephone on the right hand side, nestled between a stack of books and a cup full of coloured pencils. 

You pull your knee up to your chest and unlace your shoes one at a time. Eddie punches the number into the phone and holds the receiver to his shoulder to do as you're doing. It takes him less time to pop his sneakers off than for you to get out of yours. He's just taken the phone back into his hand when Wayne picks up. 

"Wayne?" he asks softly. "Didn't wake you up, did I?" 

You can't hear his response. 

"I'm gonna stay with Y/N tonight. Yeah, we had a good time. Yeah…" His eyes drift to you as you peel out of your thigh highs.

"Yeah, I'm still here. What?" He meets your eyes and it feels accidental, because he throws his eyes to your bedsheets and turns his face to the wall. "No," he says firmly. 

You scrape together something to wear for bed and some fresh underwear and leave for the bathroom, telling yourself that nothing is gonna happen so don't get your hopes up but not wanting to get caught out if it does. You freshen up, brushing your teeth and washing your face.

You stare at yourself in the mirror and wonder if you should've left your face-powder and your mascara on. Maybe even the skirt. You'd looked nice and pretty for the party. Now you look like yourself, still pretty but without those extra touches. Will he care? Does it matter? 

You debate your pyjama pants considerably. 

There's a lot happening. 

Eddie is… Eddie is something else. He's different, you'd known that for a long time, and his kiss had confirmed it. 

He's something out of a science fiction book. 

Well, nobody's perfect. 

Whatever he is, he'd kissed you. You'd kissed him and he'd responded, he'd come back for more, and now he's sitting in your bed when he could've gone home. You bring your hand to your neck and crane to one side, fingertips poking at your unbroken skin. His hickey's haven't even bruised. 

You screw the pants up and drop them into your laundry basket. You take off every piece of jewellery on your person. 

"Do you wanna use the bathroom?" you ask from behind the beaded curtain. "I left a new toothbrush for you on the sink." 

"Yeah, desperately, I…" He takes you in as you emerge. Fresh-faced, bare-legged. As naked as you've ever been in front of him, physically and otherwise. 

Eddie meets you where you're standing. He's ditched his jacket, and for the first time since you met him you can see the full length of his arms.

"You're not wearing your bracelets," he says, looking between your bodies. His hand twitches toward yours. 

"You have tattoos," you say. 

"They were better, before." 

There's a misshapen mess of black splodges near the crook of his elbow broken up by scar tissue. One arm is less scarred than the other, an almost perfect flank of white skin. 

"Is that a puppet? He's super spooky." 

"Mh-hm." 

You bring your hand to his tattoo and feel over the skin. It doesn't feel like it's there. Eddie holds your wrist and the two of you move together, your fingertips stroking up until you're wrapped around his bicep. 

Eddie brings his free hand to your collar. His index finger straightens, encouraging your chin up so he can ease forward and kiss you. He's firm, eager, and your lips curl up into a smile underneath it. He turns his head to the right and you fall left, smile worsened when you feel his own start to form. 

He nudges your nose. You take it for a telling off and laugh. "Sorry," you apologise, kissing his top lip. 

"You're making this difficult," he chides. 

Despite any sternness, Eddie loosens his grip on your wrists to slide his fingers between yours, pressing your joined hands to your chest. He leans back down and he's careful, almost methodical in the way he kisses. Chaste pecks, hot and precious as tiny stars. 

You reach for his waist. 

Eddie kisses you a final time and steps back. "I'll be back," he promises. 

You lower your chin, flustered and perplexed by his sudden departure.

Walking around to the right side of the bed, you click on your bedside lamp — a beautiful glass and foiled contraption that throws dainty stripes of stars and hearts over everything close in the dark — before climbing in. You sniff one of your pillows experimentally, trying to remember when you last changed the bed. You decide they're acceptable even if they really smell like your hair oil and flip them around to be safe, plumping them up with your hands.

You've curled up on your side and almost succumb to your fatigue when Eddie returns, bringing with him the smell of spearmint and a fuzzy feeling in your stomach as he shuts off the light and sits on the opposite side of the bed, facing you. The hair around his face is damp with water, baby hair's limp. 

"I'm sorry I don't have anything for you to wear, I-" Youre cut off by your own gasp as Eddie kisses you, his hand on your neck, his nose bridge sliding into your own. You hadn't been expecting it, and it's no less dizzying than any other kiss he's given you today. 

"It's okay," he murmurs lowly, lips pressed to your lips, "have to wear you, is all."  

You huff a laugh into his mouth. "I swear I'm always laughing when I'm with you," you muse as Eddie dedicates himself to your bottom lip. You cup the back of his head. "You're amazing." 

Eddie groans and eases back. "I'm not good with words, sweetheart. To tell you how I feel about you." 

You push one of your legs toward his knee. "...You can show me." 

He shifts in the bed until he can lean over the entirety of your chest, hands cupping your face and lips poised hovering over your own, a millimetre of space between your mouth and his. "Okay," he says quietly.

He dips down. You can feel his bottom lip tremble, and then he's kissing you too hard to feel it anymore. You wrap loose arms around his back. 

"Are you sure?" you whisper to him. 

He rests his nose against your cheek, eyes closed, drawing the tiniest left to right. "I want you," he reassures. 

"And you're okay?" 

"Yeah, sweetheart. I'm okay. Do you want to?" 

"Yeah. More than anything." 

Another loving kiss against your cheek, Eddie moves down, down, down. "Tell me if I do something you don't like," he murmurs, top lip dragging and leaving a line of dampness to the base of your throat. 

He adorns the canvas of your neck in half-moon contusions, big hands caressing your shoulders, your chest. You hold your breath as his fingers pass over your nipple, fighting to keep in any embarrassing sounds. 

Eddie disagrees with his plan of action. You shiver as he brings his lips to a close and his bottom teeth scrape upward, as he pulls his head up and says, "C'mon, angel, breathe." 

He follows his command with a manipulative touch, a circle over your nipple that makes you shudder. He kisses you and it feels like a thank you, pressure, a heat as his palm smooths over the bump of your tummy to your thighs. He squeezes the outside of one and for a while you can kiss him back, and then he pulls your thighs apart and you break away. Eddie follows, kisses you even when your reciprocation is weak. 

He pushes your thigh flat to the bed. 

You feel the heat of your excitement start to grow. Your stomach aches with the want to be touched. 

"You're like a space heater, you're that warm," Eddie says, hand coasting down the inside of your thigh. He squeezes until fat melds under his fingers. "Are you scared?" 

His whispering in your ear, his hand as close as it is to where you want it, it winds you up like a coil. You sigh as his thumb strokes the edge of your panties, sound coloured by an awful, devouring desire. 

His face presses further into yours in reaction. 

His touch is like the tide. He wades in, away. His thumb strokes inward over something soft and then his whole hand moves back to your thigh. 

"Teasing," you utter. 

"A little… Why, is there something you want me to do?" 

His clueless whispering is infuriating and exciting at the same time. Your heart races and you can't discern if it's more lust or love.

"Touch me," you plead, pouting, knowing he's a pushover.

Anticipation stabs like a needle in your tummy as he slides his palm over your cunt completely. He rubs a careful, almost casual rhythm into your panties with the breadth of his fingers, lips kissing a lazy stripe up to your forehead, where he rests his face. You both watch his hand move past the valley of your rising chest. 

"M'gonna pull these off, yeah?" He sits up, fingers pushing under the sides. "Lift your- yeah, thank you, sweetheart." 

You buzz with his pet names, his soft voice, the feeling of your panties sliding up to your knees and his gentle exhale. You swear you can feel it fan over your slit. "Shit…" he moan, pulling at your spread cunt. 

He looks like he's in pain, eyebrows pinched together and murmuring curses as he circles the wetness gathered at your entrance. You turn your head searchingly as he starts to ease his index finger inside your heat, a gentle probing. 

One becomes two. He muffles your sighing with firm kisses, amorous praises, "That's it, baby, relax," as he works you open, fingers wet with slickness but not enough. He changes his position, pushing his middle and marriage finger inside and curving as his thumb slides up your slit looking for the bead of your clit. 

Slow, slow circles. "There, huh?" 

You shiver as he pushes in deeper, fingers as far as they can go. He spreads them wide, drops reassuring kisses all over your face when you keen. It's so new to have him kiss you at all, and to have him touching you — you're melting into nothing right there in his hold. 

"I got you. Tell me if it hurts, okay?" 

"Want you to- I want you to fuck me," you murmur, arms wrapping around him so you can hide your face in his neck. 

"Fuck. Fuck, baby. Gonna fuck you just as soon as I can fit," he murmurs back, sinking three of his thick fingers into your snug cunt. He pulls wetness out with every thrust, a line of slick dribbling down onto the sheets underneath. He wipes it upward and pushes it back inside, his chest heaving. "Y'so tight, gotta take my time. Take our time." He rubs his nose against your head until he can kiss the highest point of your cheek. "Make sure you can take it." 

"I can." 

It doesn't bear repeating how quietly you're speaking, a mouthing inaudible under the wet, rhythmic thud of Eddie's pinky finger slapping your sticky cunt as he ups the pace of his finger-fucking. 

"I don't think so," he coos, pulling his fingers from your cunt and making a show of spreading them wide. Your slick ribbons between them, almost invisible in the dark. "Ruin your sheets before any of that, maybe." 

Eddie sits up and gets his hands under your armpits. You laugh as he tugs you up so your shoulders are on top of the pillows, but you don't have time to be confused. He quickly moves to kneel at your feet and pulls your leg over his shoulder, your back lifting unevenly from the sheets. 

He starts with a sweet kiss pressed to the skin closest to his mouth, your lower thigh, and then works his way up, open mouthed, barely kisses at all until his hair whispers against your sensitive cunt and he's nipping at the stripe of skin between your thigh and the place where you most want his attention. 

"Pretty," he says into your damp skin, lips shining. You reach down to stroke his hair behind his ears, worried he's gonna get it dirty. 

He looks at you from between your thighs, his eyes dark in the dim light, their lashes long and soft where the outermost flutter into your skin. He's lovely. 

He holds your gaze as he pulls back to your inner thigh. "Pretty everywhere," he says salaciously. 

His lips part over your skin and you think he might bite you, a bruising hickey, but he pushes you down flat to the bed by your hips and kisses your clit, a simple kiss. Your fingers weave deeper into his hair. Your fingernails scratch lightly against his scalp, every tiny lick or kiss reflected in the minute tightening of your hands. 

He goes slow, mouths down, kisses wetter and wetter as he reaches your entrance. "Poor girl," he murmurs, hands pulled down to further scandalise. He sinks two fingers inside and laughs into your cunt. You squirm. 

"What happened? You're dripping on my fingers." Your thighs draw closed around his head as he curls his fingers against a soft spot.

"Eddie, can you-" You swallow. "Please. Please." 

He pries your thighs open and rubs them soothingly, lapping at the heat of your cunt in face of your pleading. His tongue appears broad and flat up the centre of you until he's kissing on your clit, fingers pumping in rhythm. Your fingers work into his hair and he groans, the vibration enough to make you whimper under his mouth. 

He laps at your clit messily and you tip your head back, breath coming in tight pants. You don't know what you say, only how you say it, desperate "please,"s and keening "Eddie,"s. 

His thrusts grow in enthusiasm, fingers rubbing eagerly against something sweet. You pull your legs up and nudge his face to your cunt insistently, thigh shaking as you hold it up. Eddie doesn't need any more encouragement, his pretty pink lips suckling at your clit until you see stars. You make a pained little sound and try to move away from his kissing, startled at the intensity of your high. 

Eddie lets your clit pop out of his mouth with a lewd, slick sound, his hands moving under your thighs and pulling you closer. "Good girl," he says, rubbing his wet face against the inside of your thigh. He inhales hard as you are, though he pauses to kiss your kneecap and pat your leg. "Good girl, sweetheart." 

"I'm sorry," you say breathlessly, hands pulling his hair from his face. Pleasure rolls through you in hot waves. 

"For what?" 

"Tugging on your hair," you explain, shoulder pulled up to your cheek.  

Eddie kisses your tummy lovingly and climbs on top of you to do the same just under your chin. "It’s okay, sweetheart, I like that shit. That was good, huh?" he asks, lips dropping down to yours all wet and warm. 

He's not bragging, he's genuinely asking. 

You nod into his kiss, your hands coming up to his sides. You swear your ears perk up as he unzips his jeans and eases them down, a hand disappearing into the mess of fabric. He moans quietly at the first touch. 

You move his hair out of the way to watch. Eddie tugs at the length of his cock with a cruel hand, a short dribble of pearly precum sobbing down the tip and under his fingers. He spreads it as it goes, the slickness emphasising the ridges and veins of his cock. You can see it throb, if you look close enough. 

He sits back and eases his jeans and boxers down enough to reveal a thatch of curls that brush his hand with every pump downward. 

"You okay?" he asks, smirking. 

You pull your shirt over your head and your chest warms at his adoring smile. "Will you take off yours?"

He doesn't hesitate like you worried he might. He sheds his t-shirt, pulling the fabric over the back of his head and dumping it off the side of the bed. 

You take in his chest and it's abundance of ragged scarring still purpled with newness. He has a tattoo over his heart, a black whorl of legs and eyes. Fine dark hair crawls from the middle of his chest down his navel, joining with the thatch of coiled hair surrounding his aching cock. You shuffle forward and wait with two tentative hands held aloft until he says, "It's okay," before you touch him. You run your hands down the soft slopes of his waist. 

"Does it hurt?" 

"Not anymore." 

"Can I kiss it?" 

He snorts. "Prefer you kiss something else." 

That really makes you laugh. You dot a kiss against his jaw and can't make yourself stop, dropping them all the way to the skin behind his ear. Your hand creeps lower as you go, held to the curve of his tummy. His skin is hot to touch the lower you go, and his stomach feels solid, a heaviness you know all too well. 

"Can I touch you?" you whisper into his ear. 

"Please." 

You drop your forehead against his chest and he brings his hand up to cup the back of your head. His cock pulses as you wrap your hand around it, skin smooth and slick as you palm slowly up and down. You watch in awe as a bead of precum wells at the tip, Eddie's rough breathing loud overhead. 

"Lie down, Y/N," he says, hand moving behind your naked shoulders. 

"What way?" 

"How do you want it, sweetheart? We'll do it whatever way you want." 

You think about it. Whatever way you want. No matter how indulgent, you know he means it.

"Will you spoon me?" 

He pushes you gently and follows behind, dragging your body into his front and angling your hips, cock hot and prodding your back. He gets his hand under your knee and pulls it up, splaying your cunt. You jump in surprise as he pushes his cock through your folds, tip rubbing against the still sensitive bead of your clit. 

Eddie wraps his arms around you, hugging you from behind. "You wanna put it in for me, baby?" 

You reach between your bodies and take his sticky cock into your hand, shifting until the head nudges against your hole. He sinks in inch by inch, arms tightening around your waist and grinding you down onto his cock until you're whimpering. 

You grab at his arms with your hands and tether yourself to him as he starts to rock his hips, his thrusting tender and his face turned into your neck. 

He presses his hand flat to your abdomen, an anchoring point as he moulds your weepy cunt around his length, each slovenly movement into your heat spreading you that little bit wider. 

"Fuck," he says finally, sounding seconds from a black out. "Oh, fuck- You're tight. Gonna fuck you open slow, okay?" 

You're pretty sure you'd let him do just about anything. You bring his hand to your mouth and kiss every white knuckle, every freckle you can see on the back, and when he bottoms out your cover your lips with his stolen hand to smother a tearful gasp.

Eddie's thrusts are spearing in their steady rhythm, a dirty slap ringing with every punching thrust forward. You curl in on yourself and hide your mouth in the sheets, wet pants smothered by fabric. Eddie's grip falls to your hip, where he pulls your body back and forces your cunt open even deeper. 

His cock pushes into your sweet spot sudden and emphatic. You moan and he stills, rutting into that same space without pulling out until you're babbling his name, body knocked forward with every thrust. 

Eddie turns your face toward him as much as he can without hurting your neck, your moans echoing in time with each thrust. "There you go," he says, "wanna hear how good it feels." 

If he cares that you can't answer him he doesn't show it, arm coming up under you arm to grasp at your chest, your breaststroke soft and aching under his hand as he squeezes tenderly. His cock kisses at the sweet spot inside you intermittently; you're dizzy with it. 

Eddie can't keep quiet either, his moans breathy, his breath hissing between his teeth when you clamp down around him. "Fuck," he begs, dragging his cock out of your heat, "fuck, Y/N." 

He says your name like the syllables alone are appraising. 

You can tell when it gets too much for him. He slows. His face drops into your shoulder, and he matches his pace to the wet kisses he leaves behind. Your wetness feels stickying, each of his thrusts snug. 

His breath hitches, ragged pants accompanying every slow push of his hips. "Where's my girl?" he asks, eyes still closed as his hand abandons where it'd been squeezing the bump of your tummy to search further downward, fingers disappearing into your folds, short curls wet with slick. He can't find any purchase. You roll your hips, chase his touch and the pleasure that comes with it. 

He groans into your shoulder. It sounds more pain than pleasure. 

"Are you okay?" you ask, trying to turn in his arms. He holds you in place. "Eddie?" 

"Yeah, fuck, I'm okay." He grinds up into your cunt. "Fuck, you're perfect." 

"Will you kiss me?" 

He does. It's nowhere near the bruising press you'd wanted. It's too careful. 

"Listen," he murmurs, "I'm gonna get you on your front, okay? Gonna make you feel so good," he promises, waiting for you to nod before he pushes your shoulder away from him and climbs up behind you. You lay flat on your stomach and Eddie settles on your thighs, a heavy weight. 

He pushes into your cunt with two fingers first, the new position allowing for a new pleasure. He pumps in and out and swaps his fingers for his cock quickly after, bearing the full weight of his body into your back as sinks to the hilt. 

You both moan in time, hands fisted in the sheets. 

He kisses your neck, lips parted, and his teeth feel so sharp that your heart sinks as it had in the bathroom. 

"Eddie-" you start. 

He pulls away, stops every movement. 

"Eddie," you say again. What are you supposed to say? You both know what he is. 

There's a lull where neither of you knows what to do filled by your too-fast breathing.

"I won't hurt you," he says, hands rubbing up the length of your back and then under. He holds a hand over your heart. He drops his lips to your back. "Do you want me to stop?" 

He must feel your pulse calm under his touch, but he still asks again when you don't answer. "Do you want me to stop? It's okay if you do. You're okay, baby, I promise." 

You steal a pillow from against the headboard and rise up on elbows. Your admission comes weak but completely honest. "Fuck me, Eddie, please... I want you. I want you-" Your murmuring's interrupted by a sharp breath as Eddie starts to move again, the head of his cock pushing into your cunt, a slick, perfect feeling. 

He moans from the back of his throat as his cock pushes into you again and again, hips smacking the dough of your ass as his pace quickens. You hug your pillow tightly, tears popping up in the corners as he ruts deep. 

"Being so good for me," he groans, clamped down on your hip with a vice-like grip. "Fuck, you feel so good. Fucking clinging to me every time I pull out, baby, Christ." His blasphemy is punctuated by a thrust that has you sliding up the bed, sheets wrinkling under your arms. You spread your thighs and wetness pools at your clit as his pelvis thrusts into you, driving pleasure so deeply it aches in your hips.

You moan pathetically and reach back to hold his hand, wiggling your fingers. He takes it in one and presses your arm against your lower back with the other, struggling to maintain a steady pace as he gets close to cumming. You're a babbling stream of sounds as he fucks in deep, swollen sweet spot tapped against mercilessly.

He throws himself back on his haunches, cock dragged out of your heat. 

You pull your legs out from underneath him and curl onto your side to watch, eyes wide as white spurts of pearlescence jump out of the head of his reddened cock and drip down the bumps of his fingers. He leans back, his stomach and thighs tensed with every pump. 

He groans through a smile, moan's coloured by a happy, relieved laughter. "F-uck," he drags, fisting his cock dry. 

He meets your eyes as the last of it slides down onto his stomach. 

You smile softly. "Fuck," you mumble. 

Eddie wipes his hand in his jeans like a fucking hooligan and tucks his cock back into his boxers with a wince, and then he collapses on top of you. He's sort of nice about it, his arm over your shoulder and his face behind your ear. 

"Fucking beautiful," he praises, dropping his head back on the bed so you're face to face. "You're so fucking pretty. So perfect." He kisses you. "You're perfect," he repeats, staring intently into your eyes. 

You pull a hand from between your legs, smelling of sex. Eddie literally couldn't care less if he tried, and he lets you take his face into your hand without complaint. 

He gets his arm under your arm and starts to rub your back. "You want me to take care of you again?" he asks, eyebrows raised gently. "Yeah?" 

And you would let him, you would, but you need to see them for yourself. 

You touch your index fingertip to his lip. 

"Can I see?" you ask. 

He loses his boisterous joy, tamps it down. He realises that he can't lie, that he hasn't been lying, and he nods. You tremble as you pull his lip up over his canine tooth, excited and scared.

A sharp, exceptionally white tooth pokes out of Eddie's gums. You're taken aback, though you'd known exactly what you'd find.

A fang. 

Blood oozes at the gums. 

"You're bleeding," you worry aloud, touching your finger to the dark beading at the base of his tooth. 

Eddie's eyes rove over your face thoughtfully. He pulls your hand away from his lip and sets it on his neck instead. "They always do that. The gum heals, breaks when they wanna come out." 

"How often do they come out?" 

"A lot more since I met you. Whenever my adrenaline spikes, they seem to think it's… feeding time." 

That is a dizzying thing to learn. 

You're not sure how you feel, but you know one thing: he's Eddie. "It's too bad," you say, forcing a lightness that turns real more easily than you expect. "I really want to kiss you right now." 

He strokes your cheek with his thumb. "I really wanna kiss you too. Maybe a small one?" 

You find yourself leaning forward, unafraid. 

He kisses you once, twice, three times, the two of you holding each other's faces and covered in mess. Slick and sweat and blood. The hearts and stars from your lamp spray over his hip and paint him with pinks, greens, oranges, a rainbow cutting over his trim waist. You rest your hand overtop, feel his keloid scars like hills under your fingers. 

"My boyfriend's a vampire," you mutter, bemused at fate.

Eddie blinks at you. "I'm your boyfriend?" 

"Yeah, I think so. Don't you?" 

Eddie pulls you into his chest and doesn't let you go for a long, long time.

-

Your first time watching a blood sate is weird. 

For one, Chief Hopper is firmly against it. He's got his kid with him, the boy from the party that Mike had been so heavily doting on, and if he didn't you might think he was a pretty scary guy. 

"I think this is stupid," the chief says plainly. "I think this is stupid, I think you're stupid," — he points at Eddie where he's sitting sickly in the round couch — "and I think you're plain crazy, kid." He points at you last. 

You beam at him. "People have said that about me." 

His kid laughs. 

"Will," Hopper says tiredly, "go sit in the car." 

"Look, Chief, I know I messed up, okay, but she kind of stuck her hand in my mouth and I didn't really have a choice." 

Wayne looks at you with new eyes. "You did?" 

You nod at him faux-seriously. 

"And what gave her the inkling that you might have had something in your mouth worth looking at?" Hopper says, which is hilarious. You laugh behind your hand. 

He gives you a disapproving look that you completely ignore. If you'd taken notice of disapproval you would've stopped having this much fun years ago. 

"Uh, well, she might have… felt them?" His pitch rises. 

Hopper looks like he's about to blow a gasket when Will says, "What was he supposed to do? Never talk to anyone new ever again?" 

"He did a lot more than just talk to me," you say. There'd been a fixed bike, phone calls, lots of sandwiches, bug hunts, an entire sketchbook full of drawings. 

"I told you to wait in the car," Hopper says.

Will grins and raises his hands in surrender. "Bye," he mouths. You wave. 

Hopper waits for the door to close before he continues. "I get it, when you're a teenager you think your hormones are the end of the world-" 

"I'm almost twenty three." 

Hopper pinches his hand closed. "But you do not understand the danger that you are creating here."

"Like a stake-ing," you whisper, very very quietly. Eddie's the only one who can hear you, and he laughs so hard he snorts. 

"I'm glad you find this funny." Hopper's tone could not imply the opposite any more. 

He hands Wayne a paper bag that audibly sloshes and stalks out, his anger a palpable cloud of steam rising off of his shoulders. Eddie seizes up beside you at the sound, lips parting as his fangs come through. You don't touch him because you value your blood inside your body, only slide away from him and smile. "You okay, handsome?" 

"Kid, maybe the chief is right. We don't know how Eds is gonna act with you here," Wayne says. 

You nod respectfully. You like Wayne, and he knows about all of this stuff more than you ever could. 

"No," Eddie mumbles, putting his hand out for you across the couch. 

You take it without thinking. 

Wayne sighs. You can hear him grumbling as he disappears from view into the kitchen and puts a pot on the stove. There's the sound of a bag being punctured with a knife, a wet slosh. Eddie's grip on your hand tightens. 

You're still fascinated that he even drinks blood in the first place. That's wickedly sickening. Wicked, because it's cool that he's a vampire, with his impressive hearing, senses and smell. But sickening, because if you had to drink a pint of blood every couple of weeks you'd throw up. 

"I read about a new blood-sucker." 

Eddie raises his heavy head. "Another bug?" 

"No, a finch! A vampire finch. They're really pretty, Teddy. They're small and brown with long beaks and they drink blood because there's barely any water on their island." You give him a loving smile. "They aren't parasites. S'just how they had to change to survive." 

He squeezes your hand, this time on purpose. 

"Are you gonna come and have it in here, Eddie?" Wayne asks, one last shot at separating the two of you.

"I'm okay," he says loudly. His eyes trace your smile. "Really." 

It can't be fun to have two people watch you drink a warm mug of blood, but Eddie finds it funny. He keeps laughing every time he brings the rim of the glass to his mouth. 

"I can't do it if you're looking at me," he says. 

Wayne rolls his eyes and looks away. You cover your face with both hands and part your fingers to spy on him through the gaps. He makes it look easy, draining the mug basically in one long pull, though his hunger turns violent as the cup empties. He chokes. Blood trickles down from one corner of his mouth. 

You automatically want to reach over and wipe it away. Wayne grabs your arm before you can and gives you a fatherly look that says, I wouldn't do that if I were you. 

"Shit," Eddie says, slamming his now empty mug down on the coffee table. It makes a grating sound like a ground mortar and pestle. He sits as far back on the couch cushions as he can, nausea clear on his face. 

"Deep breath," Wayne says. 

"Fuck, Wayne." 

"You're aces. Deep breaths." 

Your heart hurts watching Eddie like this. He covers his mouth with eyes closed tightly and breathes hard through his nose. Already there's colour coming back into his face, not a lot but anything is an improvement. He'd been practically grey. 

When Eddie pulls his hand from his mouth blood has spread over his lips and jaw. Your eyes widen.

"I'll get the shower running," Wayne says, slapping his knees as he stands. He stops before the hallway. "Good job, Eddie." 

The boy in question slouches into a ball on the sofa and nods into a cushion. You wait for the sound of Wayne pulling the shower cord that turns on the hot water before you stand up, head tipped to one side. 

"You okay, handsome?".

"Tired." 

"You want a hug from me?" 

"Is anyone else offering?" He opens one eye to peek at you and grins at your distraught expression. "I'm joking, I'm kidding. C'mere, before I start bawling." You sit and then flop onto your side, pulling your legs up next to his. "Such a frowny face." His voice is adorably tired.

"Better than yours. You look like someone from Night of the Living Dead, baby." 

Eddie's arm lies limp like a dead fish over your waist. "Lemme nibble on your brains," he says, words thick as dark honey, eyes closed. "Just a snack." 

You're waiting for someone to pull the rug out from under your feet. No way your boyfriend, your cries at the end of every movie, brings you flowers because he felt like it, won't step on cracks in the sidewalk boyfriend just skulled a glass of O-negative like it was a milkshake. 

You feel guilty as soon as you think about it. He's not confined to all his softest parts and he never will be. He's snarky and angry and loud. He plays guitar like a real rockstar and he doesn't take anyone's shit. He's a survivor. A glass of blood every now and then was never gonna stop him. 

You keep wondering if you should let him suck your blood. It could be hot. It could also probably be the worst idea ever, a relationship faux pas up there with proposing after a month or saying I love you on the first date. 

"What are you thinking about?" he asks. 

You brush the hair out of his eyes with your ring finger. "Embarrassing relationship fumbles." 

"Oh yeah? Like letting your girlfriend watch you drink human blood from a mug shaped like Woodstock?" 

"Least it wasn't Snoopy." 

"God forbid." 

"Is it always like this?" You stroke your hand down his face and rub along his jaw with your thumb. "D'you always get sleepy?" 

"Yeah." He turns his face so your hand covers his mouth. 

You've stopped wearing silver jewellery, your wrists bare besides the endearingly awful friendship bracelet he's constructed for you. Not a friendship bracelet, he'd corrected. You're not kissing other friends, are you? Because that's really gonna put a downer on this whole thing.  

You dip your forehead to his chin and the two of you lay there in silence. You can smell blood, a thick, metallic stick permeating every corner of the room. It's especially strong between the both of you. 

"Do you wanna bite me right now?" you inquire without opening your eyes. 

"Not really. Blood sate kicks in quickly. It's the worst for, like, the first ten seconds after. Now I wanna sleep, but Wayne's gonna make me shower." 

"Maybe I can shower with you." 

"I'm sure he'd jump for joy if you suggest it." 

"Really?"

Eddie kisses your hand. "No," he says with a giddy laugh. 

"I'll pretend I'm gonna sit on the toilet. Keep watch." 

"How will you stop your hair from getting wet?" 

"I'll lean out." 

Eddie laughs even more than he had been, peeling laughter that warms you from the inside out as he kisses your hand again. "That'll definitely work." 

Wayne clears his throat. 

"Shower's hot. I'm going out. For an hour." Eddie perks up. His uncle looks him dead in the eye. "Don't make me regret this." 

And while Wayne had been under the impression you and Eddie were gonna have some grown up fun together in the shower, what you really do is an innocent act of affection: you wash Eddie's hair. 

"You have to lean your head back," you chide. 

"I am." 

"More than that." 

"There's no room." 

You're lucky you both fit. You're freezing standing behind Eddie, the only relief the warm water that trickles down from your hands to your elbows as you draw circles in his scalp, working the shampoo into a fine lather. 

"How did you get blood here?" you ask, scratching rusty flakes from the hair behind his ear. 

"I don't know. It gets everywhere. Like eyeshadow." 

You push your chin over his shoulder. "You wear eyeshadow?" 

"For shows." 

"Really?"

"Is it hard to believe?" 

You encourage his head under the water and rake your hands through his curls, encouraging the soapy water down to the ends with patient hands. "Lip gloss too? Hey, can I do your makeup?" 

"Maybe tomorrow," he bargains. While the shower has helped to wake him up, lethargy remains thick and unshakeable as adamant. 

You kiss the wet ridge of his shoulder blade, picturing his pretty face decked out in dark liners and sticky balm. "Thank you." 

"I haven't worn any in a long time. Haven't played a show in a really long time." 

You wring the water out of his hair and search in the steam for his conditioner. It's mostly empty. "You could put on a show for me. I never got to see you play," you say, shaking it really hard. A dollop collects in your hand and you work the dregs through the ends of his long hair. 

"You want that?" 

"I think you're the best guitar player in the world." 

You're not joking. He's the best, and he plays guitar. And he's pretty good, semantics aside. You love sitting out on the porch with him and listening to him play old rock songs off the top of his head. You could watch his hands move over the strings for hours. 

"If that's the case, I can definitely put on a show. Make-up, costume, stage dives. The whole nine yards. Anything for my girl." 

You roll the ends of his hair between two coated palms and step back. "There. You have to let it soak in for a couple of minutes." 

Eddie turns with a grin, angling his chest and hair forward, away from the stream. 

"Whatever will we do?"

You wipe an escaped streak of blood off of his bottom lip and smile. "I have no idea." 

You kiss. Eddie leans down and you move up, damp noses glancing off of each other. You're used to short kisses, never enough to make his heart race in case it prompts an unnecessary appearance of his fangs, so when Eddie encourages your lips apart to wade in deeper you pull back questioningly. 

"Blood sate. I'm 'sated'. They won't come out." 

Your jaw drops. "For real?" 

He shakes his head with a pleased smile. "For real. Kiss me sick, sweetheart." 

You throw your arm around his neck and drag his face to yours, kissing with an ardency that both surprises and amuses him. He laughs into your open mouth until suddenly he's not laughing at all, only breathing, pushing against you with the same urgent force and the same adoring smile. 

"Does this mean you can give me a hickey?" you ask enthusiastically. Eddie has yet to give you a proper love bite.

He leans back under the show spray and pulls you in with him, laughing when you dissolve like rice paper in his arms, finally warm. There's never been a sweeter sound. 

/\^._.^/\

thank you for reading! | my masterlist | my halloween party

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#LOVE vamp!eddie #he’s my little guy #literally cannot express how much I love this #overwhelming love #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader

[harpyytales]

𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary eddie gets very, very good at fucking you the way you like it [5.1k]

warnings smut, 18+ please no minors, fem!reader, p in v sex, oral both receiving, praise kink, best friend!eddie, best friends with benefits, eddie pining for r, mutual pining, giggly sex, a part 2 to this but u dont have to read it lol

𓆩❤︎𓆪

“Bye, kids!” Eddie’s uncle calls, swiftly followed by the sound of the door shutting. The night shift begins.

You shout, “Bye, Mr. Munson!”

Eddie can see from the way your back is a little straighter that you’re waiting to see if he’s making a move tonight. The brilliant thing about being your friend is that Eddie’s content to spend time with you doing anything, not just fucking – a newer extension of your friendship, a good one – but still. Two young adults, a lot of hormones, and a natural chemistry? It’s kind of hard to resist it anytime you’re alone.

You sit further down the bed, the sheets pulled over your legs. The summer heat has finally broken into a cooling fall. Almost two months of lazy, hot sex later and Eddie’s working out everything that you like. One example, you like to be dragged around. Never cruel, but dragged the same, Eddie hooks his hands under your arms without saying anything and pulls you into the space between his legs, your back to his chest.

“C'mere,” he says, like he hasn’t manhandled you exactly where he wants you to be.

You drop your head back onto his shoulder and it’s like an electric shock, your easy smile, your wide eyes. “All of ten seconds. You don’t have much patience.”

“I’ll show you patience,” he says, quick to dive into the juncture of your neck.

He doesn’t bother with chaste kisses, lips parted and teeth scratching against delicate skin as he mouths into the spot he knows you like most. You hiss, “Fuck, Eddie,” almost scolding to his everlasting amusement, grabbing for his hands where they’ve stayed wrapped around your abdomen.

“You want to?” he asks between scraping kisses.

Your hand tightens around his as he starts to suck, intending on marking you up, something pretty to look at while he fucks you later, he reasons. Anything to not be staring at your mouth.

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#in love with this fic pt. 2 #it’s just so very #*chefs kiss* #another one I come back to #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader

[harpyytales]

𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲, 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary it’s a hot summer in hawkins and you’re bored. plus, your best friend eddie is very distracting. it was inevitable, really, that you’d end up messing around [4.6k]

warnings smut, 18+ only please, fem!reader, p in v sex, oral both receiving, awkward giggly best friend sex <3, fluff, clueless idiots, weird stains etc, eddie being hot and soft, less awkward more giggly part 2

𓆩❤︎𓆪

The midsummer sun toasts the back of your neck as you walk through the trailer park. By the time you’re knocking at Eddie’s door you feel frazzled by the heat, ducking under his arm and into the shade gratefully when he swings open the door.

“Hey, babe,” your best friend says, a hint of derision in his tone.

“Yeah, hi,” you say.

You beeline past the couch to the fridge, kicking open the stiff freezer door for something cold to hold to your cheek. “It’s, like, a thousand degrees outside,” you say, garden peas soothing your sweaty forehead.

“It wasn’t much better in here ‘til I opened all the windows,” he agrees. “If you told me you were coming I would’ve picked you up.”

You raise your eyebrows, laughing. “Yeah, I’m never getting in that thing again.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“You almost killed us-”

“I jumped a curb,” he cuts you off, waving his hand at you. “You’re ridiculous.”

Eddie rolls his eyes at you and you roll yours harder, following him down the narrow space into his bedroom. Even the window thrown open can’t hide the smell of pot and cheap beer, though you’re pleased to see he’s changed his sheets. You sit down carefully, worried to disturb the notebook on his bed.

“What were you upto?” you ask, lying back.

Eddie stretches. One arm behind his back and the other pushing his elbow down, a loud click echos. His shirt rides up, a snaking snail trail of dark hair exposed.

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#literally in love with this fic #i come back to it constantly #it’s just so cute man #and I love love love how you write eddie #beautiful mwah #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson

[harpyytales]

(𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞) 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

Steve hears you wrong, thinks he’s your boyfriend, and begins to act accordingly. You try your best to go along with it until you can’t anymore. 3k, fem. requested here ♡ 

cw shy(ish)!reader, misunderstandings, steve being a huge sweetheart, fluff, hurt/comfort, bonus fluff scene 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The arcade is loud and brisk this evening, doors thrown open to allow for the constant ebb and flow of younglings, the machine music turned up to account for so many voices. You’re lost in a sea of rainbow flashing lights and the ticklish smell of sugar. Without Steve’s hand behind your shoulder, you’re pretty sure you would’ve gotten lost and trampled half an hour ago. 

A candy necklace pinwheels past your heads like a torpedo, forcing you closer together, your shoulders tight with a flinch. 

“We can leave,” Steve says immediately. He’s weirdly thoughtful. Before he asked you out you had no idea he thought so much about other people, but he’s always thinking about other people. You could argue he thinks a little too much, like you. 

“I wanna see Max.” 

“She has to be here somewhere.” 

That theory proves less and less likely. Steve’s hand falls away from you, tugging through his hair in a marker of stress as you circle the Palace Arcade for the tenth time. “Maybe she quit?” you suggest. 

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together as he gives the arcade another sweep. Max’s rough patch freaked him out, as it freaked you out, because ‘rough patch’ is a kind way to describe it. She could’ve got a whole lot worse; she was suffering, capital S. It’s nice to see her returning to society, but not if she isn’t actually settling in. That’s the whole reason you’re here. 

Steve frowns at you worriedly. 

“Who died?” asks a new voice.

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Max!” Steve cheers. 

“That’s me,” Max says, looking at you both sceptically. Her ginger hair is pulled into two tight braids either side of her face, her cheeks flushed red. Mascara paints her usually pale lashes a darker brown, and a rosy tinted chapstick shines on her lips. 

“Hey, the uniform looks good on you,” he says affectionately. “You look like a valued member of society.”

“A society in need of better labour laws. I’m pretty sure this is child abuse.” She rolls her eyes. 

“Is it awful?” you ask. 

“It’s fine. Better when your stupid friends aren’t here making themselves sick on candy like they’re nine years old,” she says pointedly to Steve. “Are you going to throw up too? You look–” she grimaces in place of insult. 

“Who’s throwing up?” you ask. 

“Dustin. He’s outside.” 

Steve sighs and gives your shoulder a kind squeeze. “I’ll be right back,” he says, squaring his expression. “Goddamn kids.” 

He sounds like an old man, you think to yourself with a small smile. Disgruntled, he still goes to make sure everyone’s alright. He’s nice, even when that nice is begrudging and tiresome and plain gross sometimes. 

“Why are you smiling at him like that?” Max asks.

You school your impression. “Like what?” 

“Like you like him.” 

You shake your head. “Tell me about work, Max. What’s it like here? Are they giving you your breaks?” 

She drags you over to the counter to sit in the seat waiting behind. She glares at any kid who approaches, but besides that she seems in good spirits. The job isn’t hard, it’s just a job. She’d much rather be at home reading, but wouldn’t everyone? “And I get this sweet uniform,” she says, pointing at the embroidered icon on her shirt pocket. “What’s with you and Steve?” 

“Nothing,” you say, though it’s something. You’re mortified to have been caught having feelings. 

“Looks like something. Are you dating?” 

“I mean, this is a date,” you say, almost whispering as heat floods your face. “But we’re not together.” 

“He was touching you a lot.” 

“Max, he’s really nice. He’s a really nice guy,” you say gently, “and we’re not together, but if he does ask me out eventually, maybe I’ll say yes.” You realise what you’re saying and attempt to backtrack —you do like Steve, but Max doesn’t need to know that. “It’s not like he’s my boyfriend,” you say strangely. 

“Ew,” Max says with a laugh. 

“Not ew,” you correct. You hadn’t meant it in a bad way, it’s— 

“Not ew,” Steve says from behind you, his arm a heavy weight across your shoulder. 

You look wide-eyed up at his face, surprised by his huge beaming smile, an intense loveliness about him as he gives you a half hug. 

“What’s ew about that?” he asks you softly. 

Oh, boy, you think. 

As it turns out, being Steve’s girlfriend is kind of nice, but you aren’t ready.

From that afternoon at the Palace Arcade onward, he treats you like you’re made of gold. And it’s great, he’s so kind, he brings you flowers and takes you out for breakfast, where he pays the tab without any flourishes and talks to you as casually as always. You almost hope he hasn’t got it wrong at all, and that his soft tone a few days ago had been down to a brief overwhelming fondness. You’d get that. You have your moments with him, you’re falling for him, and it’s only a matter of time before you’re desperately in love, you’re sure, but then the waitress asks if you need anything else and he says, “Just a water for my girl,” and you realise you’re not getting off easy. 

Dating is sort of like being good friends; you’d planned to spend the day together anyways. You enjoy his company. It’s clear he’s eager, optioning off the day’s agenda as you return to the car, the bottom of your face hidden in your bouquet. 

“We could go to the movies,” he says, opening the passenger door, his smile seemingly permanent as you climb inside. “No science fiction, I promise.” 

“I kind of like sci-fi.” Petals press fragrant to your top lip.

“Well, we don’t have to go to the Hawk. We could go into the city. I bet they’re playing any movie you wanna see.” He checks that your leg is properly inside the car before he closes the door, jogging around to the driver’s side and practically throwing himself inside. He’s giggling like a kid. “Shit, I’ll see anything you want to.” 

“Steve.” 

“Or we can go do nothing? Until dinner.” 

“Steve,” you say again, thinking you’ll tell him. Nothing good ever comes from dishonesty. 

“What?” he asks. 

His eyes are so brown. Billions of people with brown eyes and you swear you’ve never seen anything like it before, their centres like hot honey, the sweetheart shape to them when he smiles 

You sigh. His smile is contagious, even while your stomach hurts. “Nothing. Let’s go see a movie.” 

“Are you okay?” 

“What?” 

“What do you mean, what? You sounded weird.” 

“I sounded weird?” 

“No!” He winces. “I mean, yeah, you sounded weird for you, like you… I don’t know. Sorry.” 

You feel bad, then. His apology is earnest, his hand resting open on the console for you to take if you could manage the flustering heat of it. 

“I wanna go to the movies,” you say, ‘cos you really do. 

“Alright, good. It’s just, I think my last relationship, I– I didn’t pay enough attention, and I want to do that better this time around. So yeah. Sorry.” 

Oh, Steve, you think. How are you supposed to tell him now? You’re gonna have to pretend to be ready for a relationship with him until you really are, it seems. He doesn’t deserve to have his heart played with twice. 

“Don’t be sorry,” you say gently. “Let’s go watch a movie, okay? I want to go, with you, we’ll watch a shitty daytime flick and then get dinner after. It’ll be fun.” 

You aren’t lying to him about what you want. It’s clear to everybody, Steve and his friends and especially you, that you like him, that you want to be around him and make him laugh. Maybe being his girlfriend won’t even be that different to being his something. 

After all, what’s romantic about seeing a movie? 

“You good?” he asks, half an hour later, your agony prolonged. 

You’re at the back of the movies where the seats have the most leg room, more popcorn and candy than you could ever eat at your feet and a litre cup stuffed into the armrest between you. Steve is tucking his shirt back into his jeans, his head parting the light of the projector and leaving a silhouette in the previews. 

“Steve,” you advise, gesturing for him to lean down out of the way. 

He leans down, further and further, face to face with you with his hands on his hips. A flirtatious teasing makes its way onto his lips. “What?” he asks, amused. 

“You were in the way of the light.” 

“That what it was?”

“Seriously!” you whisper-shout, laughing despite yourself. 

“You’re so cute,” he whispers back. “Want to take your jacket off?” 

Your lips part at his good suggestion. You hold your arm out and start to peel from your jacket, but he takes your sleeve and helps you out of it before folding it and sitting in the seat next to you, your jacket on his thigh. “How’s that, babe?” he asks. 

“It’s good.” 

“Okay, perfect.” He beams at you. He’s always smiling when he’s with you, like you’re the best thing since sliced bread. Like he loves you. “Tell me if you need something, yeah? I know you’re kinda shy.” 

He settles back in his seat with your jacket still in his lap and no indication that he might want to move it. Your knees touch as he relaxes, your knuckles as he puts his arm on the rest between you, a picture of contentedness as the movie begins and the opening credits play. “That’s us,” he says without looking at you. 

Two people walk down the street holding hands as the title of the movie blazes in yellow font with thick red outlines. A Day In Paradise! 

You bite down on a slither of the inside of your lip until it stings. You try to fight it off but the longer you sit there, the more your eyes burn, thinking about Steve and what he deserves and how unfortunate this whole thing is, and yeah, you’re overwhelmed, too. You aren’t ready for so much sweetness all at once. You don’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve this. 

You force the tears away. The movie goes on and on, the lights low, the chatter of moviegoers and the occasional popcorn crush not nearly loud enough to cover the sound of Steve’s breathing. 

He pushes his hair out of his face. Somebody on screen makes a joke, his hand brushes against yours, and then takes it gently as he laughs. 

You pull your hand away and tip your head down, a frantic tear flicking from your lashes. 

“You okay?” he whispers. 

You try to answer. You whimper instead, a terrible, sorry sound stuck to your throat —you can’t hold it in anymore. It’s too much. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble tearily, looking up, a tear rolling fast down the bump of your cheek. 

Steve sits still in moderate horror. “Why are you crying?” he whispers.

The thing about Steve that people tend to forget is that, while he takes care of people the best that he can, he’s really young. He doesn’t always know what to do. He stares at you now like you’re a foreign object, hand tucked back into his abdomen. 

A tear drips onto your lip. It tastes salty. “Sorry,” you say. 

“Why?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“I really like you, Steve.” 

He stares at you. “…But?”

“But I–” His frown hurts your heart. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all of this, I never– never had someone like me like this, I don’t know why I’m crying.” You say that last part to yourself rather than him, scrubbing your cheeks with your hands roughly before hiding your face completely. “It’s not you.” 

“I thought…” And of course he did. 

“I know,” you say. “I’m sorry, Steve. I thought it wouldn’t matter but everything’s going so fast.” 

He touches your arm gently. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought you wanted this. You– you said I was your boyfriend, to Max? I thought you liked me.” 

“I do like you,” you insist, meeting his eyes. 

“Can I wipe your tears away? They’re everywhere,” he says. You struggle to read his expression, but there’s no resentment or anger there for you. He looks quite serious. 

“Yeah.” 

Steve bends in his seat to wipe your tears off of your face gently. They really are everywhere, on your cheeks, your top lip, your chin, even down the arc of your neck. “I don’t understand,” he says, going back to your cheek for a missed streak, “but you don’t have to be upset. Please. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, I promise.” 

“Steve, when I was talking to Max, I said,” —you wince— “that it’s not like you’re my boyfriend. She was asking me about you, and I got all panicky because I like you, but I’m too weird about this stuff, I’m panicking now–”

“Don’t.” His hand lingers on your face, before a sorry flash of dejection passes over him, and he drops your face altogether. 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please believe me.” 

“Of course I believe you.” He grimaces at you, and the heartbreak turns to something more manageable, like he’s brushing himself off. “I’m sorry. For getting the wrong idea.” 

“I like you,” you whisper. Your voice is nearly lost to the rustle of popcorn and drinks. 

“I like you too!” he says loudly. 

A few seats down, somebody turns, an angry whirl of hair and clicky nails. “Can you guys shut up?” 

You and Steve leave your mountain of snacks behind to stand in the theatre hallway, where the winter air is cool on your flushed skin, and the silence is stifling. You lean against a wood feature wall and try to calm down, because he’s the one who should be upset (or maybe he’s not that fussed about you). He stands a half foot away with his arms crossed, looking down at his shoes, though occasionally he glances at you for a split-second and looks away again. 

“You okay?” he asks tightly. 

“I’m sorry.”

He pokes his cheek with his tongue. “So you don’t want to be together?” 

You don’t know. He deserves the truth, even if you barely understand it yourself, and it stings to say. “I do, I like you, but I… I want to take things slowly.” 

He stands there without talking for a while. When he does talk again, he’s laughing, that achy awful sadness he’d worn a far off memory. “You’re this upset because you want us to take things slow?” 

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” 

“You haven’t,” he promises. “That would never hurt my feelings. I knew when I heard it that it was too good to be true.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I guess I gotta earn the title like everybody else does. Is that… cool?” 

You nod vehemently. 

Steve blows a relieved breath of air up his face, his hair ruffling off of his forehead. “I thought I was gonna lose you completely,” he says, smiling. “This is fine. I can work with slow. Slow’s my middle name.”

—♡—

The sun is a blistering heat today. “Can’t believe it’s only spring,” you murmur, eyes covered by the back of your arm. 

A weight sits down on the blanket beside you, the sound of dry grass crushed underfoot. He brings the fresh scent of lemon slices with him, the zest sticking to his hands.

“I think I might melt.” 

“I’d never let that happen,” Steve says, laying down beside you. 

“You can be my parasol.” 

“Your what?” 

“It’s a sun umbrella.” 

“Like this?” he asks, gently laying himself across your front, his face on the slip of your stomach that’s bare, his arms sneaking behind your thighs to hug them as you bring them up. 

You reach down to stroke his hair, taking your fingers through the silky lengths of it, fingernails scratching ever so slightly at his scalp. “Thanks,” you say.

He kisses your naked leg. “You’re welcome, honey.” 

If he’d done that at the beginning of your relationship, you’d have frozen up; not because he would’ve done it differently, not because he wasn't always your handsome sweetheart, but because being comfortable with someone this intimately takes time, and that’s okay. 

“Your face is digging into my hip,” you murmur. 

He shifts back, his ear above your belly button. “Is that better?” 

“That’s perfect.” 

“Are you falling asleep?” he asks softly. 

“No… I’m thinking.” 

“Nothing good ever comes of that.” 

“I have something I want to talk to you about.”

“I love talking to you,” he says. He sounds as though he might fall asleep himself, his tongue heavy in his mouth. 

You stroke his hair away from his face by touch alone. Long, warm minutes pass without conversation. You aren’t scared to tell him how you’re feeling. He’s proved to you over time that he’s someone you’ll always be able to trust, and that whatever you have to say will hold weight. 

“It’s a question.” 

He turns in your hold to face you. You raise your arm, greeted by the image of him sun-kissed and lazing, laid out across you without a care in the world. 

“Don’t tell me then,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, you’re terrifying.” 

“Would you wanna be my boyfriend?”

He narrows his eyes at you. A myriad of emotions pass between you both, until he’s smiling, and you know he’s sitting up for a kiss seconds before he actually does. He presses his lips to yours carefully. “Baby,” he says as he pulls away, voice as mild as his soft kiss, “I think we’ve passed that point.” 

“I realised I’d never asked you, is all.” 

His hair falls down into his eyes. You tuck it behind his ear. It’s pretty clear now you’re together, even after such a bumpy start. 

“Can I get it in writing this time?” he asks, rubbing the tip of his nose against yours, your eyes fluttering closed in tandem. 

“Give you anything you want if you kiss me,” you murmur. 

His laugh fans over your lips. He cups your cheek, your heart a hummingbird drilling at your ribs as Steve moves in to kiss you properly. Your lips part under the pressure, your head tilting a touch to one side to accommodate him as he searches down for you, melty hot pleasure and nerves that never seem to fade arising as his thumb moves up your cheek, a semi-circle of touch. It promises undulating care whenever you want it. 

You tip your head aside to catch your breath.

“Better late than never,” you joke. 

Steve talks into the soft skin beside your mouth. “You weren’t late, babe. I was early, and I didn’t mind waiting.” 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank u for reading!! pretty please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed cos it means so much to me and inspires me to write even more!!! but either way i hope u enjoyed❤️❤️❤️

#Literally in love with each of your fics #all of them make my little heart sing #gives me hope that love exists man #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader

[harpyytales]

August 2023 fanfiction recommendations

Snowy sunrise by @cherrykenobi

I feel safe with you by @youdontknowwhotfiam

Arm injury by @toasterdrake

Strong, brave, lovely by @wordbunch

Yearly tradition by @make-me-imagine

One morning at a time by @dem-obscure-imagines

The wire by @naturalxselection

Divinely unlucky by @rainydaydragonageimagines

Enchanted by @profeyandere

The gummies by @ripleyswh0re

Poly! Naveen and Tiana by @ssadumba55

Ollie by @catsarerlycool

Warm pale evening by @animatr0nic-he4rt

Initials by @writingforthefandom

Scars of the past by @savvythepirate

England snow by @baguettehead

Doubts by @lilsedge

A night in Segunda by @xthescarletbitch

Sketching beauty by @beneathashadytree

You love me by @c-nstantine

Not going anywhere by @imaginexwwe

I'm not a babysitter by @maxfoxdbh

Cat parents by @terrible-turtles

Domestic bliss by @vastill

Shy by @beneathashadytree

Hidden in plain sight by @skinnywalker

The gummies pt 2 by @ripleyswh0re

Special by @specialagentlokitty

Farmer's market by @alwritey-aphrodite

Stay by @sstewyhosseini

That which you cannot see by @beybaldes

By the fire by @musings-of-a-lovesick-fool

Home doesn't have to be a house by @lilsedge

Breathe by @calkissed

Top priority by @omg-imagine

For all of us by @oneshotnewbie

Office love by @harpyytales

The first step by @naturalxselection

Snow day by @pedropasval

Jaguar attack by @nnightskiess

Big brother to the rescue by @fanficwritersworld

Thoughtful gestures by @0bsessioncntr

Insecurities by @thinkingaboutbetterdays

#screaming crying #thank you for adding me to this list #for my first public fic I am losing my mind #thank you thank you thank you <3

[harpyytales]

Like turning on the light (Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader Smut)

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x younger(adult)!fem!reader

Summary: After Obi-Wan gets you and Leia back from the Fortress Inquisitorius, the feelings you have been stifling finally come to surface on your way to Jabiim.

Warnings: Obi-Wan Kenobi spoilers, smut (minors DNI), age gap (legal - I imagine reader in her early 20s), loss of virginity, fingering, unprotected p in v (pulling out), all very soft, Obi-Wan feeling a little guilty though, no daddy issues explicitly mentioned but this whole thing is, like, deeply rooted in them, extreme loneliness? and being touch-starved? mention of light injury on reader, being kidnapped, canon-typical stuff, nothing specific about the reader's family but she is 'alone in the world'

Word count: ~9.7K I needed to get this out of my system pls don't judge me

A/n: So... I didn't use to have a crush on Obi-Wan, but then the show happened and then Obi-Wan being all sad and protective happened and then... this happened. I took a little liberty with the timeline in the first ep but it's blink and you'll miss it.

Already mentioned that it's consenting adults but just to be safe: if the age gap is not your thing please scroll past this😄

***

You hiss. The wound is a little deeper than you originally thought and a little awkward to reach, slightly to the back of your upper right arm. It could be much worse, had the Stormtrooper aimed an inch to the right, or if it weren't for you dodging the blaster shot in time for it to only graze your flesh instead of burning a hole through it. 

In the end, though, you'd take that version of events any day over one where you never got to push Leia out of the way at all.

No use imagining that. You're safe now, on the ship taking you to Jabiim. The Fortress Inquisitorious is thankfully behind you, but far from being a distant memory whose burn has faded. 

There is a small, secluded area on the ship meant for Jedi refugees who need rest on their way to safety. You are there now, sitting on a cot as you try to take care of yourself, like you always used to do before crossing paths with him. You don't truly want to be alone, but to be honest, you're not ready for the things you would say or do in the presence of others. The last thing you saw before retreating to the other room was Leia taking Ben's hand in comfort, her tiny one disappearing inside the large palm of his. She is so brave. All it does is remind you how afraid you'd been - the gut-wrenching feeling Reva had managed to plant in the depths of your chest with three little words spoken in sadistic satisfaction.

Obi-Wan is-

-bound to come check on you. So, you are hardly surprised when there is a knock on the automatic doors, and more than certain who they will reveal once you give permission and they open with a hiss.

He looks tired. But then again, he always does, even freshly awoken in the morning. Tired and troubled. His eyes are worried, his voice soft.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'll survive," you say, glancing at the cut on your arm. "How's Leia?"

He smiles fondly. "Strong. Like her mother."

"I wish I could say the same," you confess. "Never thought I'd miss Tattooine."

The short time you spent on that planet, you hated it. The heat, the smells, the constant feeling of thirst. But most of all, you hated the way that awful man you worked for looked at you, as if you held even less worth than the pieces of meat you spent hours on end chopping and packing for the miserable excuse of a wage he paid you at the end of the day. Hardly any of his workers received the credits they were owed in their entirety, but you? A young woman, new to the planet, all alone in the world? What trouble could you possibly give him if he decided to take from you the most?

None that wouldn't get you a much worse fate.

"This is barely a quarter, won't last me a week!" you all but cry out when the droid drops the sad little pile of coins in your hand. "At least give me the half you usually do!"

The foreman's smirk is sadistic under his unruly beard. "I did give you half - of a half. Now, get out of my sight before I take it away."

"Why you big, stinking bantha-"

You see red. You have no idea what you mean to do, the man is twice your size. But you take the two furious steps that get you right in his face. Whether you were about to slap him or spit in his eye, you get to do neither before he shoves your shoulder, hard, and you fall to the ground.

"Last warning, sweet cheeks," he sneers down at you.

All the workers waiting in line behind you to get paid are watching, silent as the dead. No one says anything. No one does anything. You want to look up defiantly, scorch the bastard with a withering glare, if nothing else - but there are tears of humiliation burning behind your eyes, your heart is running rampant, and fear blends with your anger as you feel something else start to burn within you as well.

As always, there's no controlling it. It builds in your gut, your bones, your very soul. And before you can even begin to try and shove it down, there are particles of sand thrumming to life around you, driven by light vibrations of air that are dangerously close to becoming noticeable to everyone watching. 

No, no, no.

You've seen what becomes of anyone who dares show the smallest connection to the Force.

Someone crouches down next to you, and you almost shove them away blindly. But then there's a large hand on your arm, and an urgent, but soft voice whispering for your ears only.

"No. He's not worth your life."

You look at the man speaking to you, stunned. He was behind you in the line. You see him everyday, just like all the other workers, but this is the first time you truly notice him - bearded, blue eyes, lines of age and an understanding on his face that leaves you no doubt he knows. And he's not using it against you. 

The air around you stills as his eyes put you at ease.

They still do. It's why you hold his gaze, even as you continue to clean your wound. You need the reminder that you have pulled through, and that come what may, you'll pull through that, too. With him.

You wince when your hand slips.

"Here, let me," Ben says. He comes to sit next to you, the doors closing behind him. He reaches for the bacta-soaked gauze you're using, and you let him take over brushing the wound with more practiced and gentle movements, his other hand holding your elbow as he works. You relax into the small contact, taking in the slight furrow of his brow. It feels so natural to put your safety in his hands now, and it goes without saying that you don't even have to ask.

He only refused you once - the first time you did.

"Wherever I go, whatever I do, sooner or later, it always shows. I don't know what to do with it. If you won't teach me how to use it, then at least show me how you hide it. Please. I'm tired of running."

He says no. Just keep your emotions in check, your head down. But then a Jedi gets hung on display in the street, and after your eyes somehow find Ben's in the crowd of terrified onlookers, he tells you to meet him at his cave once the two suns have lowered. 

You do. He's far from a good teacher these days. It's like his instinct tells him to guide you further towards the Force, even as he searches for the words that will explain to you how to shut it down, shove it so deep within yourself that you forget it's there. Like he still struggles to.

It really shouldn't take too long. But you can't hide it without learning to control it, at least in some capacity. And he has a tip or two to spare about how to defend yourself, even without it. 

One evening turns into two, then more. Your face becomes familiar. He starts to learn the sound of your voice - the first and only one apart from his own and Teeka's to echo off the walls of his cave.

The one you've made a dwelling out of (because how could you afford to rent any kind of place with a lock on it?) is much smaller, unprotected by a droid sensor like his. You haven't had a good night's sleep in weeks - always jerking awake at the slightest of sounds, keeping a small knife under your pillow just in case.

He thinks you'll refuse - hopes you will as much as he dreads it. He means no harm when he offers, but why would you agree to share a sleeping space with an older man you'd barely just met? Why would he be willing to share his?

Responsibility, that's why. That pesky Jedi itch to protect that's etched into his very bones, starting to creep in on him as if he doesn't already have a duty to fulfill, towards the boy. As if the last time he was entrusted with someone else's destiny didn't spell the tragic end of both the man he once was and that someone.

His name still hurts to think about.

You do take what little safety he has to offer. There is a fair amount of distance between your sleeping spots, but he can still hear your deep, even breaths. He remains awake for a long time that first night, listening to the presence of another. He knows you a little better now, well enough to know all you want in the world is a home. This isn't it. Not here, not him. Which makes it all the more selfish that he sleeps remarkably well with you by his distant side. 

The lonely didn't use to be so loud before you. It's strange how not strange it is to have you around, part of his daily routine. Even if he still keeps most of his past to himself, the parts of it that would endanger you both were he to reveal them. The more time he spends close to you, however, the closer they come to slipping into the light.

"Ben?"

He wakes up one night to the dampness of sheets, a horribly dry throat and your hand gripping his shoulder. It takes him a moment to realize the yelp he heard was his own, and that the flames of Mustafar have given way to his - your - dark cave. 

"You were mumbling in your sleep. Thrashing around." Your voice holds concern. Your hold on him loosens, but you don't let go. "Seemed like you were having a nightmare."

He often does, but he's never been distracted from them so fast. At the forefront of his mind is that you've never been so close at night. Now that he thinks of it, you've never touched him before, not since the day you met and he took hold of your arm to ground you. 

The warmth of your hand is a welcome balm after the heat of battle, and feels like a cool blessing compared to the mere memory of the fire he'd watched consume him.

"Not a nightmare," he says eventually. "Nightmares aren't real."

You seem unsure, frightened even, to ask. But there's a sort of soft curiosity in your eyes that wins over as you do, almost too quietly for him to hear.

"Who is Anakin?"

He doesn't answer. And you don't break the long silence that follows with further questions before you quietly step away.

The following night, he dreams differently. There's still blood and fire and betrayal, but it's the warmth of your body rather than being nudged awake which pulls him out. You're lying half on top of him, one leg casually slung over his and your hand over his heart, where your head was just resting before you raised it to look at him with those same soft, curious eyes. You caress his bearded cheek, and the tenderness makes him shudder as if your fingers were the tip of a blade. He can't hold your gaze when you touch him like that, so he shuts his eyes. This isn't what you're here for, it can't and shouldn't be. 

And then he opens his eyes to realize he was never truly awake at all. You're in your own makeshift bed, as you have always been. He's no stranger to the feeling of guilt as it washes over him, but the cold that comes with lack of touch when the ghost of it still lingered painfully real on his skin… that's a new kind of torment.

Not unlike shooting out of a bacta tank, the liquid freezing on his bare, recently scorched skin as he learned that you and Leia had been taken. He didn't want to imagine what might have been happening to you before he had you back, and it is a tremendous relief to see that the little girl is perfectly well and the only wound you have to show for your ordeal is one that happened when you were already on your way to freedom, right by his side.

Still, he asks.

"Were you hurt? Anywhere else?"

Oh, you were. Still are. But not in the kind of place that bacta can heal.

The words don't come out quiet yet, though.

"The Third Sister, she… she wanted Leia first. Thought she would break more easily." You shudder. "I tried to get her to take me instead but…"

But you couldn't make any difference, and it nearly cost the child you had promised Ben you would protect even more innocence than she had already lost. You hardly realized when it all stopped being about you and him, and became about her.

You go with him when he leaves to find Leia, despite his protests. Tell yourself you're doing the right thing, using what has always felt like a curse as a force for good. And maybe that's true, but just as true is that you'd rather follow Ben to the darkest hole in the galaxy then be alone again, sleeping in an empty cave as you wonder night after night whether he is ever coming back. 

It's been different for a while. Since his nightmare, or perhaps before. You've become more aware of him, more attached - that dreaded word forbidden by the Jedi. It's taken physical form - a sense of ease when he is near, the opposite when he is not. You wonder what he would have done, had you not retreated back to your own sleeping spot that one night. Back then, you felt his muscles loosen under your touch, the first one, you could tell, he'd felt in a long time. Like it was for you. More than once, you've thought of slipping beneath his covers when his brow furrowed with the memories plaguing his sleep, though you weren't sure for the comfort of whom. And while you don't question his pure intentions… yours are more unclear by the day. He is safety, but not peace - not when you find yourself growing restless at night, wondering what the lines of his face would feel like under your fingertips. Your lips.

He can't not know. And if you're being honest, you know about him, too. It lies dormant in the layer of the Force around you, hiding in plain sight in the words you avoid.

"If anyone asks, you're his daughter," you instruct Leia, crouching in front of her on a busy street on Daiyu. Ben subtly scours the crowd , watching out for any potential threats coming your way. The girl looks him up and down, raising a skeptical little eyebrow.

"Granddaughter, maybe," she mutters under her breath, earning a slight frown from Ben, and an accusatory whisper of her name from you. She doesn't even do you the courtesy of looking sheepish as she concedes, "Are you supposed to be my sister, then?"

There's a short, pregnant pause.

"I'm a friend," you settle for, the word hanging awkwardly between the three of you. "Close family friend."

She's not stupid by any means, but she's still a child. She doesn't understand. Few would. But then you get separated on Mapuzo, and even though he isn't there for you to call out to when she cuts you and Leia off, The Third Sister does see the blade waiting to be yielded clear as a lit saber - and twists it as far as it can go inside your gut.

"Obi-Wan is dead. He burned to death on Mapuzo."

"No use dwelling on that," he gently cuts your earlier train of thought about Leia, pulling you back to the present. By now, he's applying the bandage, careful to cover the entire length of your cut. "You were both spared the pain, that's all that matters."

This time, the words tumble out.

"She told us you were dead. I doubt she could have done any worse."

His hands freeze.

Of course it's not completely true - you wouldn't wish Leia's suffering over anything in the galaxy. But when it comes to yourself, an interrogation droid would have left you less rattled than that one lie.

Ben's done patching you up. Your arm, at least. But his hand is still a warm weight on your shoulder as the gravity of your words hangs between you.

"Y/n…"

You don't want to cry. You did enough of that, alone in your cell. Which is why you look straight ahead instead of meeting his gaze.

No one is coming for you.

But he did. And in the midst of blaster fire and the underwater base sinking in on you through broken glass, you could do nothing but run and keep at bay the immense wave of relief that threatened to sweep your legs from underneath you.

A ragged sigh escapes you, raw exhaustion and tears that never had the time to pour out. Even then, you hesitate, almost halt your motion the moment you start to lean in - but then you bury your face in the crook of his neck and wrap your arms around him anyway, and when he instantly pulls you in close with one hand cradling your head you half-sob into his tunic. 

"Oh, dear," he murmurs sorrowfully, fingers lightly caressing your hair as you tremble in his arms.

When you run into him on the base, you nearly shoot him in the head with the blaster you stole from one of the Troopers. Freshly broken out of your cell, knuckles white on the weapon and your heart beating like that of a hunted animal, you allowed yourself to think of nothing but finding Leia as you snuck through the halls of the fortress. You never expected to see her around the corner, hand in hand with Ben. And though you're still in the Empire's clutches, and you still have to keep yourself together when you feel like the world is coming down around you… it's infinitely easier to do when you're not on your own anymore. The Maker only knows how you'd ever done it before.

"I felt so alone," you confess, head still tucked in his neck and voice heavy with tears. "All my life, I've been alone, but… not a day since I met you. I could live with it before, I thought I'd be able to again, but… now there's her," you breathe out, terrifying yourself again with how much Leia has come to mean to you in such a short time, how desperately you need to not let her down. "I can't do this without you, Ben. If you hadn't come-"

"Don't think of it," he's quick to soothe. His hold on you tightens just the slightest. "You are not alone, y/n. I'll come find you. Whenever you need me, I'll always come find you."

He speaks the words with all the conviction he's capable of, like a vow. You react deeply, viscerally, almost. 

He's so strong, but also soft. He holds you in such a safe embrace, you almost shudder at the feeling. You shouldn't, not here, not now. Oh, you know you shouldn't - but you feel it between your legs. It trickles there in a slow, but steady flow, warmth that turns to the beginning of a familiar ache. Perhaps it's your body's way of coping, this nearly instant spark of pleasure that ignites from an innocent touch, but you've felt it before, with him, and knew you couldn't hold it off forever. And when he speaks to you like that…

His name falls from your lips. A low, pleading sound. His fingers in your hair halt.

"What is it?"

It's his presence. His touch. The skin of his neck and the brush of his beard against the arch of your nose as you slowly angle up your chin until your lips are where your forehead used to be, lingering on his pulse point. You swear you can feel his heart stutter as his arms tense around you. He says your name, now - a whispered question. You lift your head, and meet his eyes in such a way that should be enough to give the answer. You can't tell if it does, but he's still holding you.

So, slow and steady, you lift your leg over both of his, shift your weight - and straddle his knees. You settle there, hands on his shoulders and eyes searching his. He doesn't dare move, only sits completely still without looking away. His arms have untangled from around you with the movement and his hands hover over your hips, unsure. You're so close you can feel each other's breath, and every nerve ending in your body is alight, though no inch of your skin is touching his. It's almost frightened, the way he looks at you, but you know him by now. It's the same look he had when Bail Organa asked for his help. Not fear of being broken, but of breaking something without meaning to, the way he still blames himself for having done before. 

Your gaze drops to his lips. They used to be most often dry, as was everything on Tattooine, but his time in the bacta tank must have worked to dial back some of the years of dehydration. Not that it makes that much of a difference - you were as eager to taste them before as you are now. 

You lean in to do just that.

"Wait."

He takes firm hold of your waist. A way to keep you from closing the distance - and his hands from touching somewhere else.

"I meant what I said, y/n. But I'm not the man you need," he says softly. His mellow voice does the opposite of his words, making your chest ache with longing.

"You're the man I want," you finally confess, brushing a strand of sand-coloured hair away from his temple. "I feel safe with you, Ben. That's all I've wanted for so long."

"But it doesn't mean you want this."

"You don't?"

He can't say that he doesn't. He knows you're an adult with every right to choose who you give yourself to, but Maker, he feels so old and weary. And perhaps that wouldn't feel so wrong, if only he weren't so broken. He wishes he could feel for you what he used to feel for Anakin - the need to protect you, to guide you through the ways of the Force. In a way, he does. But he wants you closer. Has craved the comfort of your touch since before he cared to admit it. Your fingers in his hair are caring and gentle in ways he has long left behind, and if he were the kind of man who values relief over the person offering it, he would have you sighing beneath his eager mouth already.

But he is not, and he doesn't wish he were. He only wishes for you to be alright. Which is why his answer is a half-truth. "I shouldn't."

Your brows furrow in a disheartened little frown that makes his heart ache. "Because of the Jedi code?"

"I'm not a Jedi anymore," he says without hesitation. "I simply can't risk hurting you."

"How could you hurt me?"

You ask that question with such innocent incredulity, like the mere thought of it is more preposterously absurd than a flood on Tattooine. He can't help a fond, but sad smile.

"I'm twice your age, sweetheart. And ten times as worn out."

It's not that you don't know it. And though you felt the urge to avoid saying it before, if anything, hearing it out loud makes you realize how little it matters to your feelings.

You trace the lines at the corner of his eyes with a feather-light touch of your thumb, your other hand cupping his bearded cheek. It's surprisingly soft, and you relish the feeling as much as he does as his eyes fall shut under your tender attentions. 

The shadow of an adoring smile blooms on your lips as you whisper, "Well, then… you age like wine, Master Kenobi."

Ah, you sure know how to stroke a man's ego. He can't remember the last time he received a compliment, especially one that catered to his appeal as well as his Jedi skills. The corner of his mouth threatens to curl upwards as he opens his eyes into yours, and finds nothing but sincerity there.

"I'm flattered," he manages to sound composed, even when all he wants is to tell you how beautiful you are, and pull you closer. "But that doesn't change the fact that I can't give you the life you deserve. Perhaps it isn't forbidden and perhaps it feels good in the moment, but… you'll grow to regret this, y/n."

You're silent after that. You lower your gaze for a moment, biting the inside of your cheek as you let your hands fall from his face to his shoulders again. He already mourns the loss of you in his arms before you've even had a chance to leave them.

But you never do.

"Do you care for me? This way?"

There's something in the way you ask as if you don't know - like it hasn't been right there, lingering just below the surface of every exchange of words and glances - that drives him to reach up and caress your cheek as if he has to prove it. 

"My dear, you know I do," he admits, and it's both relief and self-accusation as you lean into his touch. "I can't help it, I do."

It's all you need to hear.

"Then let me decide what I'll regret."

That being said, you inch closer. And when he makes no further move to stop you, when his breath hitches and his eyes fall to your lips in surrender, you close the small gap that was left between your mouths.

Obi-Wan hasn't been touched in years, let alone kissed. Jedi rarely do. Physical relief isn't - wasn't forbidden. When the Code still mattered. But there was always a mission, always more and more lives to be saved, and little to no time for such dealings. His memory doesn't completely fail him, though, not unlike the Force still running through his veins, however sluggishly. And he has plenty of time to shake off the rust as you take it slow and steady, though it's for your own sake that you do so rather than his.

It feels right, although foreign - the brush of his beard, the wetness of his lips under yours. He was so still at first you feared you had misread his desire after all, but he quickly thawed. You kiss with small, languid movements of the lips, and your skin prickles with goosebumps as he slides the hand on your waist slightly up your back, large palm splayed over the small of it and pulling you in closer.

His other hand slides down your neck, coming to rest over your heart. Feeling the gallop he's earned with just a kiss is enough to send blood rushing below his belt. To feel you trembling with need in his arms, hips starting a subtle roll as more of you seeks out more of him… the man he thought he'd buried in the sand along with the lightsabers comes forth to respond in kind, just as the Jedi he once was had returned to fight and defend for the right cause. For the right person.

For the first time in ten years, he wants with all the vigour a man could want, and more passion than he was taught a Jedi ever should.

Damn me for this, he thinks half-heartedly. But your desire shows as clear as day, and he is only human. A lonely human haunted by the past who has gone much too long without being cared for, just as you have. How could he deny you? Or himself? You pull away, lips swollen and breath heavy with the weight of your desire, and he couldn't think a word past 'breath-taking' if he tried.

You tug at the fastenings of your trousers, trying to get them open. He's frozen in the moment - watching your face, pinched with concentration and lust as he caresses your cheeks. He still wonders why you want to bare yourself for him. The galaxy lies ahead of you, and there are many arms stronger than his to be found there. Many eyes swirling with youthful vigour, free of crinkles at the edges and lines of sleepless nights beneath. Many hands hardened by honest work instead of a battle for the Light that had been doomed before it began.

But it is his hand nonetheless - calloused, rough and a stranger to tenderness for the past ten years - that you take in yours and guide down, down, down, between your legs.

Your eyes fall shut at the first touch of his fingers, and he has to fight the urge to do the same because, Maker - how wet and warm he finds your flesh. 

"See?" you breathe out, mouth falling in an 'O' as you work your fingers over his, pressing them into your soaked folds in slow, blissful circles. Your eyes flutter open into his. "I want you. I've wanted you for… ah!" you gasp when he takes the lead by reawakened instinct, easily locating the swollen bundle of nerves aching for his attention as you clutch at his shoulders with both hands "... for a while."

Your clit feels so delicate under his fingers - so sensitive to the touch, the gentlest move can clip your breath, earn a sound of bliss from your throat. You tend to bury your face in his neck, pant and gasp your pleasure there, but he cups your cheek and coaxes you back so he can study your face as he explores, his fingers seeking all the right ways to please you like you have so sweetly asked him to.

Once they are positively drenched, they venture lower, inside. One, which draws a sharp mewl that you muffle in his mouth as he tests your wetness for a while, gently stretches you before he adds another. And then he curls them like he once learned to, mindful to press the heel of his palm into your clit with each drag of his fingers.

It's a simple movement he hasn't used since what feels like a completely other lifetime, but it does the trick in this one just as well. You grind into his hand, a string of whimpers falling from your lips as you chase your pleasure, and he nearly pants in time with you, his cock beginning to strain and throb in its confines.

You come undone with your face in his neck, your fingers in his hair and clutching at his shoulder, and he holds you as you tremble your way through the long-awaited release. Even so, you hardly make a sound, no more than a short, high-pitched mewl and a few sighs on your breath. He'd think you mean not to be heard by those outside (and more than rightfully so), but you hide your face from him long after his fingers have slowed to a halt and gently left your sensitive sex. For the first time since he met you, he feels you shy, your presence in the Force meek and… shocked, almost. It scares him to see you reduced to silence after you've declared your want for him so boldly, over and over. Surely, you haven't changed your mind once the deed was done? For the love of the Force, let that not be the case.

"Are you alright, dear?"

You chuckle softly, nuzzling his neck. "More than," you murmur there as you melt into him, making both of you at ease. "Oh, Maker. I just… I didn't know it would be like this."

You practically feel his mind stumble over your words, even before he lifts your head from his shoulder and you meet the stunned furrow of his brow.

"Y/n… you've never…?"

You just came on his fingers. That doesn't mean, it seems, that your skin stays cool, or that your words are above a murmur as you admit, "Only on my own."

He inhales slowly. He never imagined… Maker, his are the first and only hands to have ever touched you so intimately. Your first memory of giving yourself to another will always be of him. 

He hardens further at the thought, even as he berates himself, "Then my soul is twice as damned." 

He claimed that privileged place in your life without knowing it, hadn't even thought to ask-

A sweet laugh escapes you. "Oh, Ben. Why would it be? I wanted this. I liked it." Your voice drops to a near whisper, heavy with new-found desire. "I want more."

It's heady, how much power those three little words hold over him. You know why he feels he should hold back, you understand - but he isn't taking anything that isn't offered, and if he were to see himself the way you do, he would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is, in fact, everything you need. 

"Are you certain?" he asks, as you suspect he will every step of the way.

"Very. I've thought about it before, you know?" You lean into his neck, again pressing a tender kiss right where bare skin gives way to his beard. You feel as well as hear his softer than soft groan when your hips press closer into his, and he sinks a gentle hand in your hair as you murmur between kisses, emboldened, "I would have liked to sleep next to you. With you. I stayed awake wondering what it would feel like if… if you would touch me like you just did."

"So have I," he confesses mindlessly, and feels you smile into his skin. "I wished you would join me in bed. Well, what served as a bed." He frowns. "Not at first, I promise. My intentions were not-"

"I know," you're quick to reassure him, pulling away so he can see on your face that you mean every word you're about to say. "You're such a kind, honest man. There's nothing I wouldn't give you, Ben." You let your forehead fall against his, overcome with the utter truth of your confession. "Nothing."

"Sweetheart," he breathes out, as floored as you, if not more so. Your breath hitches.

"I love it when you call me that," you gush as the endearment sends a pleasant tingle down your spine. You want him to feel the same. "Can I call you by your name?"

He didn't quite realize you had yet to, despite having learned it. He hasn't heard it in so long, not as anything other than The Thirst Sister's sadistic taunt on Daiyu. It's almost frightening to think what it would do to him to hear it from your lips. Called out. Whispered. Moaned.

"Yes."

You save it for later. For now, you smile, take his face in your hands and kiss him, more boldly than before. You lick at his lips, demand to explore, to feel more. Maker, how you taste when he lets you. Like hope and strength and sweet salvation. And him - he's a rock. Yes, hard as a rock between your legs as your hips start a slow grind against his - but he's steady as one, too. Once he's yours, he's always yours - to call on, to come back to. At this point in life, they say it should be adventure and freedom that sends your blood rushing through your veins, arouses you with dreams of endless possibilities at your fingertips. But you've had enough of that - of running and having no one to rely on, no one to come find you, always. 

And for that, you want him - desperately, with a passion, want all of him - the protector and the friend and the lover.

Just as you reach between his legs, he groans, a sound deep and masculine and devastating to your senses, and lifts you in his arms to gently lay you down on the cot, covering your frame with his larger one, hips slotted between yours. He keeps himself from rolling them in search of relief, not before he breaks the kiss to look at you.

"Would you like us to…?" He brushes his fingers over your temple reverently, as if tucking away a strand of hair. "What is it you want, sweetheart?"

You smile at the endearment, and it ends with you biting your lip. Your gaze follows your own fingers as they trace an exploratory line down his jaw and neck, coming to rest below the hollow of his throat, where the hair on his chest peeks above the neckline of his robes. The amount of times you caught yourself yearning to touch him there… But you let your hand travel lower, over layers of fabric that are soon to be removed, you hope, and cup the bulge between his legs.

"You. Inside me."

Your experimental squeeze paired with your words draws a groan from his throat. Your hand stays there, massaging his clothed cock, and your desire matches his perfectly - he, too, desperately wishes to bury himself deep inside you, to be skin on skin as he rocks you both to the peak of your pleasure. But then again-

"That… that may hurt the first time," he gathers himself enough to say. "It's been a very long time for me as well, I… to be honest, I can't promise I'll be able to make it as pleasant as before."

"That's alright. I just want to feel you." You feel him twitch in the palm of your hand, and your hips squirm beneath his as the ache in your core builds again. "Please."

Such a breathless, needy utterance - he couldn't resist if he wanted to. And he doesn't, he shouldn't. He captures your lips in a short kiss, savoring the last couple of rolls of his hips into your hand before he sits back on his heels.

He wants to shed his own clothes first, lest you feel your state of undress is unfairly unequal to his for one moment. But of course, his is unequal to yours, and he finds himself quite self-conscious as he bares his upper half and your eyes rake over his torso. The right half and shoulder are still rosy with scars that haven't fully healed in the bacta tank. That aside, he's not as well-built as he used to be - still slender, but not as athletic. 

You don't seem to mind, though, and you truly don't. It almost scares you, how your heart nearly gallops out of your chest before you even see the part of him that's supposed to enter you. But the rush of seeing what you've only imagined before isn't all that makes your breath catch in your throat - it's the story etched on his skin, the one you thought was nothing but one of Reva's lies meant to break your spirit.

"Ben…" you sit up, fingertips barely daring to touch his right shoulder.

"It doesn't hurt anymore," he answers the question in your eyes. He opens his mouth, suddenly uncertain. "Perhaps I shouldn't have… I could cover-"

Before he even gets to finish that sentence, you're laying a hand over his heart and pressing your lips to the remnants of burns on his shoulder in a lingering kiss so tender it hurts. 

"I'm sorry," you mumble into his scarred skin, the guilt and fear returning, "We left you to face him alone. I knew, I knew something was wrong, I should have gone back instead of Tala, sooner-"

"My sweet, dear girl," he gushes, taking your cheeks in his hands once more and pressing his lips firmly to yours. It seems once he's allowed himself to do so once, it's an act as natural as breathing. Especially when he needs to chase away whatever distressing thoughts you so unjustly think of yourself. "It is not your fault," he says once he's pulled away, and is looking into your misty eyes. "Nor is it your duty to look after me. Although I'm sure you'd make a remarkable job of it," he smiles, though your look says loud and clear you believe otherwise. "You did well," he insists. "You told them nothing. You were already coming after Leia when I found you. In truth… I don't think you need me as much as you believe you do."

Any other time, you would argue. But the taste of his lips lingers on yours, and he's so maddeningly close, more than you ever dared imagine he would be. The sight of where Vader had burned him was an inescapable reminder, but in this moment you'd rather not think of anything that happened before, or what will happen once you reach Jabiim. So, you only say this:

"Let's agree to disagree. Because I've never needed anything as much as I need you now."

In a spur of boldness, you pull your shirt over your head. The air on the ship is cool, and you almost shudder as you bare your breasts to it, but the heat of his gaze is more than enough to warm your skin and make your nipples harden from so much more than the slight chill. Everything suddenly feels so real. You don't know who he's been with before, what those women looked like. It didn't seem to matter until you were sitting on a bed, half-naked with him kneeling between your legs. Foolishly, you start to wonder whether you're what he expected, what he likes. 

Whether it's written on your face or he feels it in the Force connecting you, he knows. 

You don't quite realize your eyes have been glued to his chest until you feel his knuckle beneath your chin, nudging it up so you meet his gaze. The look you find there alone takes your breath away - raw desire swirling in darkened eyes that are somehow still soft, still safe.

"You are so beautiful, sweetheart," he says, his voice low reverence spiced with lust. His eyes fall to your chest, and he cups the delicate swell of your breast with an impossibly gentle hand, blanketing your flesh in the warmth of his calloused palm rather than squeezing. "So beautiful," he mutters almost as if to himself as you melt into his touch, eyes falling shut. You gasp, almost taken by surprise when you feel the subtle scrape of his beard, and your pebbled nipple is engulfed in the warm heat of his mouth. Your hands fly to his hair, and there is wetness gliding over your sensitive nipple, tugging and sinking into your pliant flesh in delicious ways that leave you gasping - his tongue. On you, tasting you, pleasing you.

Maker, you can feel yourself dripping in your underwear, you're desperate to close your legs and ease the ache - but he's between them. He sucks gently on your nipple, and it's debilitating. You whimper as your body goes limp and you let yourself fall back on the cot. He follows, mouth still attached to your breast, but pulls away and brings his face level with yours once you're settled.

"Would you like me to go on?"

He's almost as breathless as you. You nod without hesitation, but can't help the temptation of his lips when they are so near yours and you pull him down for a kiss first. You taste his tongue knowing now what it feels like on you someplace else, and it's somehow even more dizzying than before. 

Your hips are rolling into his at a steady rhythm at this point, taking whatever sliver of relief there is in the action and threatening to strip him of his increasingly precarious composure. But if he's to be your first, he needs you as wet and ready as possible.

And, well, he doesn't hate to tease. Never did. He remembers as he trails heated kisses down your neck, relishing your little sounds of pleasure. Though he's not sure how much time you have left until you reach Jabiim, he takes as much as he feels he should kissing down your chest, then offering your other breast the same treatment. He could make you come like this, he thinks - lavishing attention to your chest, his hardness grinding into your core through your clothes. Maker, he could make himself come like this, like an eager young man. The way you arch into his mouth and fingers, your own carded through his hair and tugging as you pull him even closer, the way your head is thrown back in abandon and the sighs he earns with each flick of the tongue and brush of fingers over your swollen nipples - it's dangerously close to being enough. 

"More?" he asks into your skin.

You nod, head thrown back and eyes still shut. "More. Please." You lift his head to look at him with feverish eyes. "I'm ready, I want you now."

Force help him, so does he. 

He leaves one last kiss right above your heart. And then he sits back again. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your trousers and underwear, and you lift your hips as he pulls them down, over your knees and then completely off. You shiver as the cool air meets your wet folds, but also as you're bared to his gaze. 

"Your turn," you urge him softly. The way he looks at you says he would worship every inch of your bare legs with his lips if he had the time, and while the thought of feeling his beard on the soft flesh of your thighs is incredibly alluring, you're more eager than ever to finally see and feel all of him, and have little patience for much else.

Still, he leans down for one lingering kiss on the inside of your knee before murmuring, "Whatever you want is yours."

He gently manoeuvers your legs to the side so he can stand while he removes his own trousers. You finally get to close them, and relish the press of your own thighs against each other momentarily. But it's not near enough as his last piece of clothing is discarded and your eyes land on his bare cock. 

You sit up on your elbows, practically feeling the arousal dripping from your sex. His is hard and swollen, and you're not sure whether it seems big to you because it is what they call big, or because all you've ever had inside you were your own fingers, and he's definitely larger than that. 

He's not sure what to make of your expression. There is desire and wonder written on your face, but also nerves. So, he waits for you to say the word. 

"Come back," you do, your gaze finally leaving his cock in favour of his eyes. And though your words are murmured, they're nothing but certain.

He returns to his position from before. Except now, there's nothing at all between your bodies, and the tip of his cock brushes your stomach as he settles above you, making your breath hitch. He braces himself with his forearms on either side of your head, cradling it in his hands as he asks, just one more time.

"Are you absolutely sure?"

Despite your body sizzling with anticipation, his voice soothes you deeply, just like it always does when he speaks to you with such care. It puts a small smile on your lips as you cup his face and reach up to press them to his, because this - this is what you've been saving it for.

"Make love to me, Obi-Wan," you murmur, a breath away from his mouth.

The three syllables of his name fall so sweetly from your lips, he almost buries himself in you right then and there. Instead, he reaches between your legs again, slipping a finger inside you, then two, like before, and is relieved to find you just as wet and ready.

"Tell me what you need," he says as you gasp and roll your hips into his hand. "Always. Especially if you want me to stop."

"Alright," you nod up at him, eyes begging for more.

He takes himself in hand, letting out a soft groan at the small relief, and guides his tip along your folds. Your hips respond in kind, shifting to seek out the friction, and you wrap your arms around him to brace yourself. You want him close, closer, even though his chest is already flush against yours and he has captured your lips with his in an all-consuming kiss.

He wants it like this - his tongue gliding over yours in heady abandon, pleasuring your mouth to try and take your mind off the pain as he sinks in to the hilt. 

Of course you still wince and whimper in his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. You expected worse - but it's not entirely comfortable, either. His cock is considerably larger than his fingers, and your body doesn't quite know what to do with the fullness, can't adjust to it faster than the jolt of pain shoots through your core.

"I know. I know," Obi-Wan coos against your lips. He leaves soft, soothing kisses along your flushed cheek, caressing your hair and your shoulder as he waits for you to become accustomed to his length inside you. The Maker knows you feel exquisite around him - the tight warmth enveloping his throbbing cock, your body entwined with his in every way after years on end without a sliver of affection. He would almost be content just laying there, whispering sweet nothings in your ear as he revels in the intimacy of being inside you, if it weren't for the signs of your discomfort. And, truth be told, his own need to seek relief. He wouldn't dare move until you wish him to, though. And, thankfully, it isn't long before you do.

You relish his languid kisses, and press some of your own to his neck as you will your muscles to relax. However foreign it may be to feel so full, it's him you're full of. The man you trust with your life, body and mind. You card your fingers through his hair, like you've recently discovered you can't get enough of, and take comfort in the blue of his kind eyes.

"I'm good," you whisper.

This time, he watches your face carefully as he pulls back a few inches, slow and steady, and sinks back the same way. The movement draws a release of breath from both of you.

"Good?" he asks, searching your expression for the answer. There's still some discomfort there, but also a trace of determination in your gaze reminiscent of the day you'd chased after him on Tattooine, demanding to be shown the ways of the Force.

"More," you ask of him.

He grants your wish, carefully rolling his hips into yours once again and oh - there's something so strikingly right about it.

Before he even has the chance to ask again, you plead, "Don't stop."

Maker, your breathless voice will be the death of him.

He keeps his thrusts slow and deep, building a steady, gentle rhythm as your hips hesitantly start to meet his. The ship could land, and neither of you would notice. He's too lost in the way your flesh welcomes and clings to his aching cock, the warmth of your body beneath his, your fingers tugging at his hair and sinking in his shoulder, the little whimpers falling from your parted lips. And you know nothing but him, holding you as close as humanly possible, filling you up with overwhelming precision, each drag of his cock against your walls adding to the pleasure slowly building up within your core. So do the sounds he makes - raw, husky groans breathed hotly into your ear, raising delicious goosebumps on your skin.

He shifts to change the angle the slightest bit, using a hand to bring one of your thighs a little higher around his waist, and his cock presses just right into something inside you that makes you feel like you're about to fall apart.

"Obi-Wan," you all but cry out. He rests his forehead on yours, brows furrowed in the same pleasure-addled expression as he shushes you.

"You sound divine, sweetheart, but we shouldn't be too - ah," he almost goes against his own words as you tighten around him, "-too loud."

"I can't," you whisper, running your fingers down his bearded cheeks, ravenous for friction anywhere, everywhere. "You feel so good."

"Force help me," he rasps out. He can't help his hips quickening just a little, driving you both towards the edge even more vigorously. "I can't tell you how wonderful... Oh, darling," he moans before quieting your rising whimpers with his mouth on yours, gladly letting them melt on his tongue.

The cry you can't hold back is thankfully muffled as release ripples through you, your body writhing underneath his with the rolling waves of pleasure he coaxes out of you. 

It's a miracle he's lasted all the way through it, rocking into you so you can ride out every last drop of your orgasm. He's more than desperate for his own, and he'd love nothing more than to let himself spill inside your heat, milked by your fluttering walls. But he's already taken so much, much more than he deserved in the first place - he can't risk binding you to him in an even more permanent way. With one last shred of reason, he withdraws from the kiss and pulls out of you, face twisted in a grimace of pleasure as he strokes his own cock to release. His come paints your belly white in a series of trickles, and he groans deep in his throat at the sight. 

After, there is only the sound of your breathing. His hair falls around his face as he braces himself over you, catching his breath. You brush it back again like you so love to and lay your hand over his heart, relishing the afterglow and its slowing beat under your fingertips. 

"You were wrong."

His eyes snap to yours when you break the silence. "How so?"

"You made it very pleasant."

It takes a moment for his post-orgasmic mind to register what you are referring to. He chuckles, and you laugh softly as well as he relaxes, lying on his side next to you. The cot is too small for you not to end up in his arms as you turn to face him, but you wouldn't have it any other way. Your fingers trace feather-light, languid lines on each other's skin - his chest. Your shoulder. His cheek. Your hair. 

"Does it hurt?" he murmurs eventually, when it feels like you've gone for hours drinking each other in. 

"Not as much as I thought it would," you admit with a sated smile. "I'd like to do it again. When we get home."

The word hits him like a wake-up call.

Home.

He owes himself to Tattooine, to the boy who needs his protection, but you? Now that you've learned to protect yourself, there's nothing keeping you on that arid planet, no reason why you shouldn't explore all the opportunities the galaxy has to offer you at such a beautiful age.

At least not until him. 

It warms his heart as well as crushes it to imagine you spending the next years coming back to the cave you share every night. To have you, always. All the comfort, beauty and desire left in his life. But there would be so much for you to let go of - more than you even know, and more than you ever will if you do stay.

"Unless… you'd rather not," you go on, unsure. Your hand is over his heart, and the thumb you were running through the thatch of hair on his chest stops. It's only then that he realizes he's lost himself in his thoughts, and the lines on his face show his concern. It would be absurd, though, to allow you to think for one moment that he desires you any less now that he's had you.

"Oh, I do," he says in earnest, cupping your cheek to brush the pad of his thumb over your soft skin. "Forgive me, I was only thinking."

You turn your head briefly to press your lips to the palm of his hand, but your eyes on him are knowing. 

"You know, for a moment there, you were looking at me like you did when we met," you say, not an accusation, but a tentative question as to why. "Like you don't know what to do with me."

"Yes, I suppose I was," he confesses. His lips form a wistful smile as he speaks. "If I were twenty years younger and free to go wherever I wanted, I imagine I would… steal you away and show you the galaxy. Make love to you on every planet as many times as you'd have me and never tire of it." You hum appreciatively at the thought. Your little smile sadly doesn't last long as he returns to the less than ideal present. "But as I am not… I don't know what to do, indeed."

He only knows he wants it to be right by you. And deep down, you know why he looks at you the way he does, why he worries. But you must be close to Jabiim by now, and from there… who knows if you'll get to have a future to worry about at all. So, for now, these few moments of lying side by side before you must face the world again, you enlighten him.

"Hold me."

Whether he should hold on or let go, whether it's right or wrong, he doesn't know as he pulls you closer in his embrace and tangles his body with yours for what little time you have left, your head to his chest.

He only knows it feels safe - like turning on the light.

***

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Masterlist

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#This is literally so gorgeous #top 5 smut I’ve ever read #literally a masterpiece #I can’t even fully express how much I love this #obi-wan kenobi x reader #smut

[harpyytales]

Kill Your Darlings Series Masterlist || Witcher

THIS SERIES IS COMPLETE. Second installment can be found here.

Pairing: Jaskier x Assassin!Reader

Summary: Y/N falls into a confusing web of lies, all when they get assigned to kill a famous bard.

Warnings: graphic violence, language, death/killing, mentions of r*pe, alcoholism, murder, gore, torture, etc

Words: 30k+

Your kind words and reviews mean a lot to me, so please don’t afraid to leave a message/comment! 

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#literally glued to this fic all day #cannot wait to read the second installment #it’s so cute #jaskier x reader #witcher

[harpyytales]

A Smuggler and A Jedi 5/8

CHAPTER FIVE: SHU TORUN

Pairing; Luke Skywalker, Reader Warning; we love a slow-burn, more kind of fluff/kind of angst. Off screen stuff that gets mentioned. more denial of feeling. miscommunication. still no kiss- you’ll get one i promise.  Word Count; 10.2k

ONE  TWO  THREE  FOUR

Summary; Queen Trios of Shu-Torun’s betrayal allowed the evil Galactic Empire to launch a surprise attack against the Rebel Alliance’s fleet, scattering the rebels and nearly crushing their heroic cause once and for all. Princess Leia Organa, Jedi-in-training Luke Skywalker, and smuggling duo (Y/n) (L/n) and Han Solo narrowly escaped the assault and reunited with the Alliance thanks to the aid of new allies. Now, Leia has a score to settle with the Empire- and with Queen Trios…

THIS IS NOT EDITED

oh my god?? the last comic-centered chapter?? we’re almost to the endgame now kids, and I CANNOT wait for this to pick up with the remaining chapters. Sorry for the long wait on this one! I had a busy July and August, but hopefully I’m back on my monthly post update :>> also this is probably one of the hardest to write for me. Empire Strikes Back here we gOoOooOo

While Meorti continued to fix the minor problems still present on the Falcon’s outer shell, Leia dragged your group into the main hold with furrowed eyebrows and stern eyes. Her hair was kept in a bun at the top of her head, but two smaller braids hung down from it. She wore a tight grey jumpsuit, a hood stitched into the top with her holster snuggly secured to her waist and upper hip.

You sat on the curved couch, legs thrown over Hans’ lap while picking slowly at the skin around your nails. Han had perched his legs on top of the game console, slowly pressing the tips of his fingers together while looking at Leia with raised eyebrows and thinned lips. Chewie separated you and Han from the others. Luke, who was sitting on the other edge of the couch, a tan jacket zipped up fully while his leg bounced. The two droids, never being apart from one another recently, were talking animatedly to each other. 

In front of Leia was a bright red hologram of a planet. You’d made a whisper to Han about how it looked like a vegetable, but he could only spare a small, tight-lipped smile.

“This is Shu-Torun. It’s one of the primary Imperial resource sites in the whole galaxy,” she gestures to the red planet, “I think we can take it all down.”

Chewie barks out a response, and Luke shuffles in his seat, rolling his shoulders. 

“It’s about time, after everything Queen Trios is responsible for.”

R2 spins his head, a series of whistles and beeps following, “what Artoo?” Threepio asks, “‘I never trusted her?’ this is a little late in the day to disown her, you-”

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#I love him #fav boy #stupid fucking miscommunication trope #luke skywalker x reader #asaj

[harpyytales]

Sharp Teeth, Soft Touch (M)

Pairing; Eddie Munson, Reader Word Count; 3.0k Warnings; VampireEddie! MonsterEddie! Im not sorry for this, unprotected PiV (wrap it you freaks), dirty talk, degrading, oral (F receiving), oversim, creampie, this is straight filth, SEASON FOUR SPOILERS

Summary; With Vecna mysteriously gone, the party must go back into the upside-down to try and find any clues to where he’s hiding. the only person standing in their way, is Eddie. Being the person closest to him, its your job to provide a distraction. 

THIS IS NOT EDITED

The air was thicker in the Upside Down, the small particles getting stuck in your eyes and throat, making you cough and rub roughly at your eyes. The air was cold and sticky, the distant cries of the Demo bats made your stomach turn, wondering if they could smell you, already know that you’re here. 

You broke off from the group when they said they were going back to the Creel house, seeing if they could find anything to point to where Vecna could have gone. You, having a weird feeling in your stomach, decided to go back to the school. Across from the gym, was the sanctuary you considered your second home. You wondered what it looked like, if some things managed to stay intact. With your flashlight in hand, you take a deep breath and push the doors open, wincing at the loud whining of the hinges before letting it fall closed behind you.

The hallway was dark, some lockers open and bent, some doors broken off and laid across the linoleum floor. Papers also littered the area, scribbled writing decorating the lines. You didn’t stay long, trying to regulate your breathing as that feeling burrowed deeper into your stomach, biting the inside of your cheek as you willed your hands to stop shaking, to get tot he game room, to quell the fear in your stomach and to get back to the others. 

The room, a mirror image from your dimension, was in ruin. The game board was still on the table, but the small pieces that once decorated the top in a intricate campaign your club leader created were gone, scattered across the floor like they never mattered. Vines crawled up the walls, wrapped around the chair legs and even the table, pulsing and thinking. The hivemind had taken over everything, even your sanctuary. 

“I thought the same thing,” his voice resonates around the room with an echo. Its rough and cracks at the end, his throat clearing. Looking to the head of the table, you finally see him. 

Eddie. Your Eddie. But this wasn’t Eddie, this was an imposter who stole it. His hair was still curly, falling over his shoulders and into his eyes. And his eyes, once so soft and inviting, scared you. A deep dread flooding into your stomach when they flash in the light, glowing like a predator. 

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#SCREAMING #CRYING #THROWING UP #OMFG #I LOVE HIM #EDDIE WITH WINGS IS MY FAVORITE THING #AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH #eddie munson x reader #smut

[harpyytales]

Hero and Leander (M)

lluckpng

Pairing; Alex Law, (fem) Reader Warnings; SMUT, unprotected PiV (wrap it freaks), AFAB reader, subby alex law is best alex law, kisses, cursing, just- Friends to Lovers. Alex is down-fucking-bad Word count; 3.4k

Summary; After inviting you over to work on homework together, Alex begins to understand Juliet when he compared his love for you to Hero and Leander. 

THIS IS NOT EDITED

Alex was never good at his studies, he could never fully understand what his professors wanted him to if it was anything other than journalism. 

You’ve known Alex since your sophomore year of college. And now, being a senior, you still weren’t used to his bold flirting or the fact you still find random pieces of women’s clothing on the floor when you visit. 

Graduation was just around the corner, the professors ramping up on homework and projects, swamping you in essay after essay about pointless things you were never going to use after you left the classroom. 

Alex had invited you over when you talked on the phone that morning, saying you both could help each other while Juliet and David were both out at work. To him, it was the perfect excuse to have all of your undivided attention for himself. For you, it was the perfect plan to get done with your hardest essay to date. 

Laying on his bed, your legs crossed under you as your eyes narrowed at the lined page in front of you, Alex knew his determination to get any of his homework done was off of the table. Especially after moaning something about your professor and how it was making you rethink your decision on going to college.

You had on his favorite sweat pants of yours, a baggy old T-shirt, and no makeup on. With your class textbook splayed out next to your open notebook, Alex couldn’t help but think you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Alex couldn’t keep his legs still, his foot fidgeting, licking and biting at his lips, picking at the edges of his nails. He was nervous that you would notice, and you would do your normal thing of grabbing his hands and asking him what was wrong. 

How could he explain to you that he was so head over heels for you, that Juliet compared his infatuation with you to Hero and Leander. 

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#ALEX #MY BOY #AAAAAHHHHH #alex law

[harpyytales]

Office Love

Pairing; Alex law x Reader (Implied fem) Warnings; Suggestive content, Alex Law is his own warning, soft make out sesh in the office ;) Word Count; 1k

Summary; The office may be boring, but Alex Law always makes it better.

THIS IS NOT EDITED

You sat in your small cubicle. Desk littered with different files and stacks of papers, all different stories and articles you were assigned to. All of them were basic sideline stories: Local Grandma Lives To See 98; Dog Shelters Reaching Capacity; This Miracle Plant Will Save Your Gut!- boring. 

You began shuffling through a few stacks of files mindlessly, only a couple minutes until your short, mandated break. When you feel the hairs stand on the back of your neck you raise your eyes, wondering what could give you this weird feeling that you’re being watched. As you scan the surrounding cubicles your eyes land on him staring directly at you, unwavering. It was slightly unsettling really, but he makes up for it with that small smile of his.

Alex Law is no stranger to you, hell you’re sure he isn’t a stranger to half the other women in this room. Lately though, instead of dancing from girl to girl, he has been solely paying attention to you. You don’t mind of course, but you can’t help but wonder what thoughts were going on in that beautiful head of his.

With a raise of his eyebrows and a tap of his watch you avert your eyes to a clock on the wall. Break time. You smile and get up, making your way to a small and mostly empty break room. No more than a minute later he comes walking in.

“A little funny how often our breaks matchup like this, you aren’t stalking me, are you?” You smile as you watch him take a quick look at the coffee bar.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.” He shoots back a grin and then looks as though he is contemplating something. “Actually it’s quite convenient, I need to discuss something with you about a story, but I need to get a few supplies from the closet. Would you mind walking with me?”

“Of course, lead the way.” You reply and begin following him out of the break room. You two feign small conversation on the way to the supply closet, a small space in a hallway practically no one walked through. 

Once you both walked in and the door was closed it was as if a switch flipped. No more than a second after you heard the click of the handle his lips were on yours, soft hands on your hips already pulling you close. You of course reciprocated, hands flying up to run through his gorgeous blonde locks. This always earned a soft sigh from him that never ceased to make your heart flutter. 

His lips moved against yours softly, sensually, as though he was taking his time. You’d be lying if this didn’t slightly catch you off guard. His usual methods more on the rough and quick side, not that you minded of course, you just never really expected to see this side of him. You felt the familiar warmth of his tongue against your lower lip, a question you were always eager to answer. Instead of plunging his tongue down your throat, he crept in. He let himself explore your mouth as though it was his first time tasting you.

He snaked one arm around your waist and brought the other up to cup your cheek, turning your face just slightly so he could pull you even closer, if that was even possible. You felt entirely out of your depth, usually these sessions were all about him, but this time the entire focus was you. A gentle thumb stroked your cheek as his other hand gently rubbed circles in your back. His sweet and smoky tongue danced with yours in delicate waltzes. It was completely out of character and honestly you were starting to feel slightly worried.

Once you both pulled away to breathe you looked at him curiously, eyeing his bottom lip that was wet with your saliva, “That was… quite different. Good, but different,”

You began to see a light blush creep onto his cheeks. Alex Law, blushing? You must be dreaming. “What can I say, I’m just full of surprises.” He replied with his signature, cocky grin.

“Is there a particular reason for this pleasant change in behavior, or should I be worried about our office shenanigans?” You asked with a small laugh, but he looked away from you. Before you could get the chance to ask him what was wrong-

“I want you to meet my roommates. Come have dinner with us, Juliet makes a brilliant Carbonara.” He stared into your eyes expectantly, awaiting an answer.

You stared back, eyes growing wide with surprise. “Come to your place? Meet your roommates? Are you sure? That feels like a big step for us, don’t you think? I don’t.. I don’t know if your roommates would even like me-” Your slightly panicked ramble was cut off when Alex rolled his eyes and kissed you again. Another soft kiss that had your words caught in your throat. He began moving his lips to your jaw and down your neck, softly nibbling and sucking in spots he knew all too well. With a sigh you were practically putty in his hands.

“Next Saturday,” He begins between kisses, “I’ll come pick you up at 6, dinner at 7.” He sounded very final in the matter. You were in no position to argue, you simply nodded and sighed as he continued to lick, nibble and suck along your throat. You were sure you were going to have to cover up with a scarf before you stepped back into the office.

He trailed his way back up and placed another, more passionate, kiss on your lips, hands holding either side of your face. When he pulled back he was practically beaming.

“Great, see you at 6.” He then tilted your head down and planted a very quick kiss to your forehead before abandoning you altogether and leaving the supply closet. But a moment later he was peeking back inside, “And for the record, they will love you.” and then he was gone again.

#jesus christ be kind to me #it's my first fic #Alex Law #Alex Law Imagine #Alex Law headcannon #Alex Law x Reader #Shallow Grave #Shallow Grave x Reader #Shallow Grave Imagine #Alex Law Imagines #Shallow Grave Imagines #ewan mcgregor #ewan mcgregor imagine #ewan mcgregor x reader #ewan mcgregor headcannon #ewan mcgregor imagines

[harpyytales]

okay, but imagine arthur being soft and pining for you

-

He was watching you. Arthur always paid attention to you whether it was intentional or not. His eyes always found their way towards you. Hosea would be the one to point it out when he caught him looking, sometimes even John made a passing comment, and those were always insufferable. The girls would giggle whenever they saw his pathetic staring, and everyone else either rolled their eyes or poked fun at him. But you? You never noticed his longing gaze, always so clueless to his affections.

Small blessings, he supposed. He hadn't quite worked up the nerve to straight up tell you he was sweet on you, though he liked to think he left more than enough hints, never truly capable of hiding what he felt. Arthur didn't think he could competely hide what he felt for you. But you never noticed. Either you were the world's most oblivious person he ever had the pleasure of knowing, or you purposefully ignored his obvious yearning.

He sorely hoped it wasn't the latter. He didn't think his heart could take that rejection. And Arthur wasn't yet brave enough to bare his heart to you. Oh, he's sure you would be sweet about his confession--you've always been so soft and kind, despite the anger and bitterness you claimed to hold in your heart--and it would hurt him all the more if you were, yet didn't feel the same. Because Arthur knew you would feel bad about rejecting him and you would try to make it up to him, even though there would be nothing to make up for. It would be easier to respond to anger or disgust, because at least those are feelings he knew how to handle.

Arthur's eyes followed you as you pat Jack's head when you passed by and he couldn't stop a small smile from forming. You were always so sweet to the kid. Without anything to do, Arthur watched you make your way to the outskirts of camp to sit under an apple tree. You always went there when you were done with chores, Arthur noticed. Sometimes you would bring a book with you, and sometimes you would take a nap, and each time, he couldn't help immortalizing you in his journal.

Today was no different. Copper just so happened to follow you under that apple tree this time, curling up beside you and head in your lap. He watched you giggle when Copper looked up at you and you bent your head to press your nose against his wet one, only for Copper to lick your face. He couldn't hear your delighted laughter, but Arthur chuckled quietly with you before pulling out his journal to add another drawing of you under the apple tree.

By the time he was done, you were asleep with Copper in your lap. The dog always thought he was smaller than he actually was. Smiling at the scene, Arthur got up and grabbed a spare blanket from the chest at the foot of his cot and quietly made his way towards you. Copper's ears shifted once he got closer and looked up at him, tail starting to wag. Arthur had to gently shush him as to not wake you up. "Settle down now, boy," Arthur murmured. "Just stay where you are."

Miraculously, the dog actually listened for once, apparently all too happy to have Arthur carefully lay a warm blanket on him and you.

"Good boy," Arthur quietly praised and reached down to give Copper a quick pet. Looking back at you, Arthur's expression softened. You looked so peaceful. Before he knew what he was doing, Arthur leaned down to press a soft kiss to your head. His lips lingered, perhaps a moment too long, but the temptation to stay close and breathe you in was too strong. He mumbled against your head, "Sweet dreams, darlin'."

He pulled away just as you shifted, a sigh escaping you and a small smile spreading across your lips. Foolishly, Arthur let himself pretend that you were smiling because of him and not whatever it was you were dreaming about. A pathetic fool in love, was what he was. But, Arthur thought as he quietly walked away, you made him a happy fool.

And for now, he was okay with that.

-

(Later on, when he dozed off by the campfire, he missed the tender look you sent him as you threw the blanket he placed on you earlier onto him. He missed the kiss you pressed against his forehead, and he missed the way you gently ran your knuckles down his face.

A fool in love he may be, but he wasn't the only one.)

#THIS IS SO SOFT I LOVE IT SO MUCH #Arthur Morgan

[harpyytales]

how you get the girl

MY MASTERLIST

song: how you get the girl by taylor swift

pairing(s): matt murdock x fem!reader

summary: One close shave too many has Matt realizing that he might have made a mistake letting you go.

words: 5.0k

tags: explicit (18+ MINORS DNI), smut, make-up sex, sub!matt, matt's a fucking idiot on god, blood kink, angst, hurt/comfort, love confessions, sort of forced proximity, 'there was only one bed' trope-adjacent, exes-to-lovers

additional notes: i tried to beat the horny back with a stick but it's too persistent sorry

taglist blog: @rosemareblogs

Stand there like a ghost, shaking from the rain. She’ll open up the door and say, “Are you insane?” Say it’s been a long six months, And you were too afraid to tell her what you want. And that’s how it works, that’s how you get the girl.

Matt has done some far more idiotic things in his life. For one, there was the time he almost fell off the Brooklyn Bridge because he thought it would be a good idea to practice his balance on a windy night. There was the time he shadowed Foggy on a date and had to pretend like he wasn’t there when Foggy threw up in the pub bathroom from his nerves (college was rough on the poor guy). There was the time he almost died because he was stabbed in the side and failed to mention it to anyone.

That actually happens really often, but he digresses.

None of these absolutely hair-brained stunts has ever had him feeling like this, though. His hands shaking as they fist at his mask, wringing it out like a dishrag, water splattering at his feet from where it had saturated the fabric. His heart hammering so hard in his chest that it very nearly drowns out the sound of everything else for a moment. Just long enough for him to accept that he’s fucking scared.

Scared of what exactly, he’s not sure yet. Maybe that he got the wrong address? (Of course he didn’t, he could find his way back to your house from any point in the city; there’s that familiar smell of peony laundry detergent and chamomile-laced perfume oil that follows you around wherever you go, seeping from the cracks around the door. You’ve been drinking- what is it, two glasses of wine? He tastes it in the air.)

Maybe that he hasn’t spoken to you in months and you might have found someone else? (Also not true, he’s been keeping tabs on you. Not in a creepy way- well it might be considered creepy from an outsider’s perspective- he just worries about you, and so much shit has been going on recently that he sleeps better at night if he knows you’re okay. He also finds it interesting that you went on a date with another guy named Matt a couple weeks ago, but that’s really none of his business.)

Maybe the truth is that he’s terrified you’ll turn him away, because he left. Because you have every business doing so, and it’s his fault. He can’t deny that.

He still hesitates when he raises his fist to knock his bleeding knuckles against your door. A last chance to back out with grace. Not that he has any.

He hears your heart rate lurch at the knock. You never were one for unsolicited visitors, but at least he’s not here to preach the word of God. He always could, if it really came down to it, but he knows you’d sooner punch him in the jaw than listen.

When the door opens, it’s with a flood of warmth from inside to soothe his chilled and aching skin. He hears you fighting to remain calm, hears your heart pounding in your chest until he wonders if you’re going to have a heart attack. That smell of yours, of all the florals mixed with a bit of your natural scent and the wine on your breath, is enough to launch him back to six months ago in his mind.

“Are you insane?” are the first words out of your mouth, because Matt looks like a fucking mess. His hair plastered against his skull, dressed like some version of Brandon Lee from The Crow, with a rain-soaked black long sleeve top and form fitting pants. Well, the tattered remains of what used to be pants. He grips a wad of fabric in his hands that you hope was meant to clean him up, but with one look at him you don’t think he’s been using it. His face is lacerated and bruised, and a thin trail of blood drips from the corner of his lip, rips in the fabric of his top revealing cuts too deep to have just been from falling or crashing into something.

He’s still beautiful. Not that you’d tell him.

“I- uh, yeah. Most likely.” he winces as a twinge of pain stabs at him just below the ribs. “I know it looks bad…”

“Bad?” You raise your hands forward to tentatively touch him, seemingly to reaffirm that he is truly here and not merely an apparition. When you draw your hand back, you inspect it to find your palm wet and sticky with his blood and rain water. “You- my god, Matt, this is so much blood- you look like you died.”

He presses his lips together, deciding now is probably not the best time to laugh in your face. “It’s just been that kind of a year.”

You stare at him, trying to determine if he’s joking or if he was just hit on the head really, really hard. That kind of a year- he means the kind without you, right? After he told you it wouldn’t work out and, with no explanation, left you high and dry at the beginning of it. And now, after spending months wondering what you did wrong and pulling yourself together, he stands on your doorstep bleeding all over everything and shaking like a ticking bomb, and you’re supposed to hear him out?

“What the hell happened to you?” You still sound livid, even if your touch barely ghosts over his skin. “And don’t say you just had a clumsy blind moment, we both know that’s not true.”

“I was attacked by the toaster.”

“You know, you can always leave if you’re gonna be a dick about it.”

He exhales a bit too quickly and winces again. “Look, my life has been… really complicated since I left. And I, um. I don’t want to make yours complicated either, but… I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I can’t. And I know I can’t come in and pretend like I didn’t leave without saying goodbye, or run away because I was afraid, because I did, and I was. I was afraid that if I told you what I was planning to do, you would hate me for it. But I think I’m more afraid of losing you- really losing you- than anything else.”

There’s a long pause, wherein you chew on your bottom lip because he’s so cute, even when he’s scaring you half to death and you could absolutely rip into him for saying this now, and not six months ago. But, you’re feeling generous, and he’s still shaking.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but thinks better of it when your hand gently settles against his cheek, as though you’re frightened to cause him more pain.

“That didn’t answer my question, but I’m gonna give you a pass because that speech was kind of sweet and you’re getting blood all over my porch,” you mutter, pulling away from him. “I need to get you cleaned up. Jesus, did you have to come to me all beat to shit when I've been drinking?”

He’s sure the smile that slips across his lips is all but patronizing. “I might be able to plan the next time accordingly.” With an exhausted exhale, he leans against the door frame as a wave of vertigo spins through his skull.

You hum lowly in the back of your throat, fingers dragging lightly up the front of his chest until they dig into his shoulder with such a vice-like grip that it surprises even him. “Upstairs.”

Matt imagines it must be the way that you hold him once again, broken and covered in blood but so alive, that makes him lean into your embrace like it’s his lifeline to reality. His hands on your waist may be cold, but the heat in his chest attests to that.

The idea would have been an impossibility to him even a week ago. But now he holds you, he lets you carry him up the stairs to your bathroom, and it’s like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders, for a time.

Matt doesn’t remember passing out, but when he wakes up with a mattress beneath him, he temporarily forgets where exactly he is. He startles, flinching before he recognizes your weight against him for what it is, and the scent of you all over and around him.

“Relax. You’re safe, you’re in my bed, idiot,” you mumble against his chest, the movement of your lips dragging against his skin and setting him quite suddenly aflame. ‘Safe’ and ‘In his ex’s bed’ are typically quite the oxymoron, but he’s not going to argue when your thumb traces a little circle over his heart.

“Is this… Microfiber?” he fiddles with the stretchy, filmy fabric on the mattress, trying his hardest not to move too much. It seems like his hands are about the only thing that aren’t hurting, and even then, his knuckles are still cracked and scabbed over, smarting when he moves his fingers too much.

“After the silk sheets I could never go back to cotton. It’s too rough.”

Matt exhales slowly, his hand finding your leg where it’s wrapped across his midsection. “What happened to my clothes?”

“They were soaked, had to take ‘em off.”

“And what happened to your clothes?”

“Had to get you warm somehow.”

He grunts like it’s no big deal, but he can hear and feel your heart pounding in your chest where it’s pressed against his side, and his own mimics it. His body is immeasurably sore and he feels the numerous bandages you’ve pasted to his skin in his sleep, but for some reason it’s your presence, and the warm press of your skin against his, that has him scarcely able to breathe.

“So. You wanna tell me how you’re the vigilante from the news?” His mouth opens and closes like he’s floundering for some excuse, and you lift your head. “Don’t try it. I saw the mask, and I patched up all the battle scars. You can’t lie your way out of this one, Matt.”

“Ouch.”

You pull your hand away from his chest. “Shit, did I hurt you?”

“Only my pride.” He grabs your hand and pulls it back to his chest, to rest over his heart. “Guess I had it coming, though.”

You mumble a couple swears and drop your head back onto his shoulder. “Spill the beans or I’m leaving you to warm yourself.”

He clears his throat. Where should he begin? With the fact that he left you because he didn’t want to drag you into it, or the fact that he just did anyways and made the six months he’s spent without you, and all the agony he put you through, entirely pointless?

And, in that way you’ve always had of being able to read him like a book, you murmur, “Start at the beginning,” your voice as soft as it can be without being a whisper. He’s noticed that you do that for him and no one else; like you’re aware that he can hear too much all of the time, and you’re just trying to keep it down for him.

So, he talks for what feels like ages, your hand so still on his chest that he might think you were asleep if it wasn’t for your erratic breathing, far from the slow and steady pace of one who’s dreaming. He tells you about crime rings and their illicit activities, about corrupt cops, about the law firm and how close he’s been to being killed at night before waking up and pretending to be a normal lawyer each day. He explains how he fights, how he uses every sense he has to paint a picture of his surroundings.

“I didn’t want you to know,” he finishes brokenly, after who knows how many minutes of his rambling speech. It all seems so monotonous to him, like he’s a broken record spinning on a player, repeating the same phrases over and over. I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want you to see me differently. Leaving you is easier than giving us a slow death.

“I... understand.” Your heart skips a beat.

“Liar.”

You shift, and the curve of your breast crushes up against his side as your breath draws soft and hot across his neck. Matt drums his fingers against your spine, not sure why the simple reminder that he has your naked body pressed up against him is enough to have him burning beneath his skin.

“How are you so sure?” you ask him, that little bit of bite back in your voice. He smirks, and a blush heats your cheeks. He always did have such a pretty smile.

“Your heartbeat.” His hand lifts and presses into the valley of your breasts, his fingers so long and wide that they splay across your chest and nearly graze one of your nipples. Your breath catches in your throat. “I can hear it, you know.”

“That’s- um. Well.” He tries not to smile too unabashedly as he feels your heart pound against his hand, as though he couldn’t already hear it kicking into gear. “That’s not the strangest thing you’ve said tonight. You can hear everyone’s heartbeats?”

“I can hear more than heartbeats.” He wonders how much he can safely tell you, without you getting too overwhelmed. He turns his head to the left, in the direction of the far wall. “Your neighbor, June, is going on a date with… a girl named April? That’s poetic.”

“Oh my god.” You snort and hide your face in his neck, but he can feel you smile against his skin. “She was telling me about that. Does it sound like it’s going to be good?”

A beat of silence. “She’s lamenting about what dress to wear. It’s between a red one or a black one.”

“Fuck.” You shift across him, your arm extending as he grunts and grips you around the waist, while you smack at something on the bedside table. “The black one, it has to be the black one.”

“Oh, and what will you tell her about your perfect timing?” He asks you condescendingly as you lean back to open your texts. “Your ex that can hear through walls told you that she’s having trouble?”

“She leaves her blinds open all the time, I can just say I saw her looking at the options. It is imperative that she picks the black one.”

“Sounds like.” He waits until he hears your phone thunk down on the bedside table again to lay his other hand on your back, his fingers lightly tracing down your spine. You pause, your breath hitting his lips from how close you are to him, and he can still taste wine on it; but, he imagines, the taste of your breath in his mouth alone is intoxicating enough. “I know you don’t understand, not entirely,” he tells you softly as you hover over his face. “But I hope you know that there is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe. No part of me that I wouldn’t give.”

“Matt,” you tut, and although your heart lurches in your chest, you shift your thigh and the soft cotton of your panties shifts against his bare hip. “Still torching for me after all this time?”

“I thought that was obvious by the way I groveled at the door.”

“I wouldn’t call it groveling, exactly. You didn’t beg for me to take you back.” You peer down your nose at Matt’s unfocused eyes, how his lashes flutter as he takes an unsteady breath. “But even if you do- beg, that is- and even if I did take you back, you wouldn’t stop, would you? I’d always be second to the rest of Hell’s Kitchen.”

He’s quiet, probably for a bit too long. “You shouldn’t… shouldn’t be second to anyone. You don’t deserve that.”

“But I would be, with you.”

His lashes kiss his cheeks. He doesn’t want to make promises that he can’t keep.

“It’s all right, Matt. You can be the hero everyone needs. I don’t think I could love you as much as I do if you were any less.” A pause. “But I’m not going to be able to stand it, worrying every night about whether or not you’re out there getting yourself killed. Wondering if every kiss is the last one I get with you.”

Matt swallows thickly, his eyes brimming with tears. “You love me?”

Your heavy sigh hits his jaw and lips. “For a guy with supposed super-hearing, your attention to detail is pretty damn selective.”

His hand comes up to follow the curve of your jaw before settling against your throat to pull you to him, closing the gap between your mouths. You give a little squeak that makes his heart lurch as he does his level best to trace every corner of your mouth with his tongue.

He’ll never get tired of kissing you. He doesn’t know why he ever thought it would be a good idea to let you go; he must have lost his mind somewhere along the way.

“That wasn’t the last one,” Matt says hoarsely once he lets you go. Your foreheads pressed together, your lips still brushing over his with every panting breath you make, you give a minute shake of your head.

“Better not be.”

Your body shifts until you’re straddling his waist, hovering just over his bare body and slowly sinking your weight onto his groin, staying clear of each of his injuries and letting him take his time processing what you’re doing.

His breath hitches and he groans as you grind the front of your panties onto his cock. “I- sweetheart, I don’t know if I can do this right now. Like this.”

“Who said you have to do anything, Matty?” You slowly and gently roll your hips against his, remembering just how much he loves subtle touches and movements. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.”

“N-... No, don’t stop, don’t- fuck.” He cants his hips up into yours, a weak groan breaking in his throat from the strain of trying to move against you, his head rolling back against your pillow.

“You’re so pretty like this, honey,” you hum before you press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, finding his hands to place them gently on your hips. “But I’m gonna need you to stop moving, before you hurt yourself even more.”

“You want me to just lay here?” He hears the impatience and need in his own voice, and he would be embarrassed if you weren’t distracting him with the slow back and forth brush of your groin against him.

“I expect you to hold still and take what I give to you, for once. I know it’s a very difficult task for you.”

The growl he makes could be construed as dangerous, if you didn’t already know him like the back of your hand. His fingers dig into the flesh of your ass, tugging at the elastic of your panties like he might try to tear them in half in a minute; which you may not actually dislike, but you know he’s not in any shape to be exerting himself right now. His arms and chest are covered in angry red scrapes and cuts, still tender and inflamed around the edges. You wouldn’t want him to break one of them open.

It takes everything in him to try to keep still, with you rubbing yourself on his cock until he can feel the dampness of the one little scrap of fabric keeping him from feeling you, with how he can taste your wetness in the air, hanging over him like a thick haze. And when you finally do slip your hand down between your bodies to pull the fabric to the side, the heat of your cunt nearly burns him.

“Oh,” he gasps, with a burst of air from his lungs like he momentarily forgot to breathe.

“Fuck, Matt.” It’s not like you forgot how big he is- who the hell could? He’s goddamn glorious- but six months without it does damage to one’s readiness. It takes you a long moment to take him in entirely, and even then, the stretch your body makes to accommodate him has your toes curling.

It’s no wonder you had a hard time finding someone who could compare.

You don’t move. You sink onto his cock, squeezing him like a vice, and he swears he could come just from the feeling of being inside you again. Just from having your heat and your wetness around him, melting him from the inside out. “Baby, please-”

“So, now you’re gonna beg?”

Matt groans. Not just because you’re right (you’re so right), but because you flex your muscles once around his cock, and he squirms just enough that you plant your hands on his hips to keep him still.

“Stay down, Matty.”

Stay down. His heart jumps so hard he can feel it in his fingertips, where they press into your hips and likely leave marks behind. You nuzzle at his jaw before you gently bite it, your cunt pulsing around him like you don’t plan to fuck him, you just plan on milking him dry and then leaving him to lick his wounds. He wouldn’t be surprised if you did.

And then you move, slowly picking your hips up just to bring them back down to meet his again. Matt makes the softest little noise, carried by some form of submission he hasn’t been able to reach for ages, as he gives under your touch. It’s been so long since he’s been able to let go, to give up control. Of course it would only be you that he gives it to.

His split lip still tastes like blood when you bite down on it, the slow and steady rocking of your hips making him start panting, broken gasps of air whispering over your mouth and cheek. His hands tighten on your hips, trying to urge you in your movements, guide you to pick up the pace, but you shake your head as you hum into his ear.

“It’s been too damn long, don’t you want to take your time?”

“You know I never like to take my time.”

“Took your time coming back to me,” you mumble petulantly, snapping your hips down against his and making him grunt out a surprised groan, his hands landing on the small of your back. “But I think I can find it in me to forgive you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Your hands grapple for the headboard, leveraging your arms to help you sit up just a bit. “That’s how this works. You let me fuck you nice and slow, and I’ll consider forgiving you.”

His hands glide up your sides and sweep across your breasts, grounding you to the moment even when you threaten to lose your head in the bliss of having him inside you. His voice comes out a bit weak when he says, “Doesn’t seem like a fair exchange.”

“Never said it was supposed to be fair.” You grab one of his hands and lift it to your mouth, kissing his fingertips before taking them between your lips. Your tongue dances over and around the digits, soft and hot and dividing his attention. With one swirling, heavenly motion, you slip his two fingers out of your mouth and drag them, wet with your saliva, down between your breasts. “But I’m sure you’ll come up with some debonair quid-pro-quo, eventually.”

“Now you’re starting to talk like a lawyer,” he says with a smirk and, following the previous direction of your hand, lets his slick fingers glide down your stomach and past the bunched up edge of your panties to find your clit. “I like it.”

A high pitched moan echoes from your throat, your head tilting back and tossing the sound up toward the ceiling as his fingers stroke smooth circles against your clit. As if you could fold in on yourself from the feeling, your hand tightens on the headboard so hard the wood creaks in your grip, your hips lock up against his and hold, every nerve in your body trained on that one point of sharp pleasure.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Matt murmurs, trying to keep his voice steady but it comes out a bit too close to a groan as he feels you pulse around him, your heart pounding in your chest and your thighs locking up on either side of his hips. He continues the steady circles he makes with his fingers, his free hand sweeping up your thigh to feel the muscle twitch beneath his touch. Your hand squeezes desperately at the wood above his head, squeaking and slipping with accumulated sweat. He grits his teeth as he presses down just a bit harder, and feels your muscles all contract at once.

Your eyes are screwed shut, and you search for something to spit out at him but nothing comes, save for the mind-numbing feeling of him spinning you toward orgasm. Weren’t you just saying, something-something take your time?

“It’s okay. You can let go,” Matt breathes from beneath you, sounding something close to death. “I’ll catch you.”

“Shut up.” You smack your hand down against his mouth, catching his nose with your fingertips and making him give you a muffled snort of laughter. Which he then chokes on, because you give a jerky move of your hips and his cock twitches inside you just as he involuntarily bucks up against you.

His fingers turn clumsy against your clit as you resume your slow, lazy pace, your bottom lip so firmly pressed between your teeth you fear you might draw some blood and mimic his own lips. It’s torturous, how soft and measured you can be, when he knows you’d love nothing more than to fuck him so hard and loud that the neighbors complain. He should learn not to underestimate your resolve, but he never does.

Matt kisses your fingertips, dragging his nails dully down your thigh as he feels the muscle flex with every up-and-down, up-and-down, so patient and strong. Each moan that passes from your lips is sweet like honey, such that he can practically taste it in the back of his throat, along with the rest of you, of your sex and perfume and the tang of the blood you’ve just drawn from your lip.

God, he could drown in you for days.

“W-what do you want?” He graduates from begging to bargaining, as everything focuses down to the pinpoint of a needle, his breath coming out in a staggering wheeze. “I’ll give it to you, tell m-”

“I want you to shut up, you fucking- sexy- goddamn-” You pound your hand down against the headboard as heat licks sweetly at the base of your spine, spurred on by his fingers stroking you. You manage to blink down at him, your hand still lightly resting on top of his smiling lips, and in a daze of tenderness, you stroke your knuckles down the side of his face. “You’re so beautiful, Matty.”

And there it is. You watch Matt’s orgasm shatter across his face, his brows screwing together and the tendons in his neck leaping out at you, as he strains to keep quiet. You aren’t sure if he does that because he doesn’t want to be loud, or if it’s because you told him to shut up, but it doesn’t really matter. There’s no getting around his desperate gasps for breath, like he can’t figure out which way is out and which way is in, his eyes squeezed so tight that the tears he’d conjured up earlier manage to slip out over his reddened cheekbones.

It’s the heat of his release, the warmth and rush of him filling you that finally sends you over the edge after him, slumping forward until you have to reach up with both hands to grab onto the headboard. Every muscle tense and locked tight around him, your cunt throbbing as your moans echo against the wood above his head and reverberate in his ears. Matt’s fingertips softly glide up and down your spine like he can somehow coax you back to earth that way, holding you up by the waist before you collapse on top of him.

There’s a few long moments of silence where your breath mingles in the air together between your sweat damp faces, your fingers still clutching the headboard so tightly they’re turning stiff. Then, Matt wets his lips and says, “You still with me, sweetheart?”

“Mhm.” It’s too soft and high in your throat to sound convincing. You suck a long breath in through your nose and try, “‘M with you,” but that also comes out slurred and like you’re suddenly drunk.

“Now, who needs rest?” His voice is much too cocky for his actual state, because he gives a pained grunt as he raises his hands to lift yours from the headboard above his face.

“Still you,” you retort, and follow it with a delicate whimper as you raise your hips and let him slide free of you. As soon as he releases your arms, you slump forward into your position on the bed beside him again, your leg draped across his waist and your head on his shoulder.

Right back where you started.

Matt turns his head and presses his lips to your forehead. Your skin is burning hot and damp, smells of salt and pheromones, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. “...I,” he starts, not entirely sure of what he was planning to say, but just that he feels the need to say something as your heart rate gradually slows against his side. Finally, he settles on something. “I love you, too.”

“You broke my heart.”

The words reverberate across his skin and send a shiver up his spine. He swallows, but lets his fingertips trail along your forearm. “I know.”

“Don’t do it again.”

Matt doesn’t want to make promises that he can’t keep. But, like a fool, he does anyway.

#hahaha hehehehe #I love Him #Matt Murdock

[harpyytales]

Who’s name would you put it under?

Pairing; Alex Law, Reader Word Count; 2.0k Warnings; alex law is his own warning, cursing, cheeky flirting, might become a drabble series might not

Summary; the six times you meet Alex Law  THIS IS NOT EDITED

The first time you met Alex Law, he was smiling at you from across the classroom, twirling his pencil between his fingers. His notebook was forgotten in front of him, opened to a blank page as he bounced his knee while the professor went on about an exam the following week.

When the lecture ended, he stood from his seat and gathered his things, making his way over to you while you tried to gather your notes and books. He stood with his hand stuffed in his pocket, books swinging in his other hand at his side. His hair was framing his face, and the leather jacket he wore brought out the pink color in his cheeks. 

He spoke to you for the first time by asking you for the lecture’s notes- followed by your number. 

“What’s a guy like me doing without a pretty girl’s number?”

“I’m sure you have a lot of numbers, even if I told you mine- who’s name would you put it under?”

Keep reading

#I want to kiss him so much #Alex Law

[harpyytales]

Its 9AM, Alex

Pairing; Alex Law, Reader Word Count; 1.3k Warnings; cursing, suggestive themes (nothing sexual), Alex law is his own warning. 

Summary; waking up with Alex is the best thing you could ask for. His drumming, on the other hand, is a whole different story. 

a/n; THIS IS NOT EDITED. also, this is for byn. 

Waking up at 9 AM on a Tuesday would be a normal time for you to get up, get ready for classes, and make it to the coffee shop in time before your first lecture starts. 

But it was spring break. And you planned on sleeping in until noon. Maybe have a great wake-up call with Alex, tangle up in the sheets with each other until Juliet bangs on the door with David to complain about the noise- or to get you both to be humans and take care of yourselves. 

Alex had other thoughts, it seemed. 

Living with Alex meant you had to get used to the constant smell of smoke, and the fact that you didn’t live alone with him, yet. You both couldn’t be loud long into the night, nor could you sleep in for too long before the others woke up and began wondering where you both were. 

Keep reading

#No thoughts #Just Alex #Alex Law

[harpyytales]

Come What May

Pairing; Alex Law, (fem) Reader Warnings; its alex, he himself is his own warning, overall SO SOFT AND FLUFFY, takes place after the event of the movie, talk of wounds, Moulin Rouge inspired AU Word Count; 1048

Summary; wanting time away, you and Alex find yourself naked in a bay window, basking at the early mornings of the French countryside. 

THIS IS NOT EDITED 

Alex always loved magnificent under the sunlight, mainly in the new morning sun, when it would just begin to kiss the treetops and warm the grass after a cool night. You don’t remember how you managed to be dragged to the bay window, or how the thin white sheet wrapped around your body fell down to your waist. 

“You’re gonna catch a cold, idiot,” Alex mumbles, using his hands to bring the sheet back up to your shoulders. You don’t say anything about how the sheet is pooled around his waist, but when he leans back he drags it back up, hiding the crisp white bandage wrapped around his chest and shoulder. 

“It wasn’t my idea to sit here,” you decide to say, stretching your arms as you inch closer to him, wrapping a leg around his waist. He smiles, hearing the morning doves.

“Is it a crime to sit naked in a window with you?” He stops for a moment,  “I wouldn’t mind being a criminal for you.”

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#Literally my number one comfort fic #I come back to this constantly #Alex Law