Tumgik
#they'd be super fun though
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more of them
I don't have much to say other than they're still living rent free in my head Separates under the read more! :D
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scoliosisgoblin · 1 month
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Peter and Jay doodles feat. T.K. and Lucy (headcanons for what I think they'd look like as humans.. gonna change their designs though)
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v-anrouge · 27 days
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was that selfish of me to do
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hazeism · 6 months
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I also want to talk about Daneel's 5d gender : ) (ft. some misc Baley in Trantor considerations that aren't worth explaining here)
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vonaegiremblem · 3 months
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Luigi's Mansion 3 is really funny because 75% through the game you are forced to backtrack for a new ability that is literally completely optional after the first time that you are required to use it
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dandyshucks-moving · 4 months
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woah rare other system part sighting lmao, here's a Guz drawn by not-Juno
#I was working with the base they laid out so I had to fudge some shit because they'd laid out the neck and shoulder weirdly RIP#like the head is too far over to the right lmao but I didn't feel like erasing a bunch of it to fix that#the hand behind the wrestling box corner thing is also goofed lmao#turning rbs off but Juno (Dandy is vaguely a cross-system name so it feels weird calling them that) might post the art later better#I don't know how they edit their photos but I think I maybe got close lol#this guys fun to draw tbh love a rough n tumble boy lol he's got the same body type as one of my OCs except Stasis is mostly a robot LMAO#dandyshucks#dandy doodlebugs#<- I'll add these just in case ig ?? idk Juno do what u want with this even if it means deleting it lol hope this is fine for me to post#ALSO THIS WONT BE A REGULAR OCCURRENCE LMAO I was just super bored tonight and happened to switch in during Juno drawing this guy#probably won't ever happen again lol#our drawing styles arent super different I think but also this is using a base they laid out so I would've done it differently lmao#maybe it is different though - apparently I'm not a good judge of shit like this bc they say I write and play accordion differently somehow#but I thought I was doing a pretty good job the other day of doing it like they do lmaooo but nah they said it was all noticeably different#I'm chatty tonight sorry lol been a hot minute since I've had any time in front but I'll scoot off now#💜so good at being in trouble
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itsbrucey · 6 months
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Sickness won. Thinking about how my ocs would feel about/would interact with the dads... oougghh...
Kinda ramble. Look away.
I have like,, 4 main D&D OCS + a fuckton of others but mainly my D&D OCS for the sake of consistency.
I've concluded that my Goliath Monk Vio would be very fond of Henry. They'd get along great as " nature-vegan-love-all" types and Vio would be very into learning about Geology bc he just. Fucking loves new things. Vio would give Henry one of the special enchanted roses that his monastery protects bc he's a kind gentle dude and he'd assume Henry would use it for the good of someone else. Vio would crack Glenn's spine in half if he knew about the UFC betting.
Beacon. Human Paladin. a lot of valor, honor, protection; a little iffy on how far he'll go to trophy hunt monsters but overall pretty chill. I don't think he'd like any of them that much but he'd like Darryl's Protector role in the party and Ron's fishing......hobby??? Might slay Jodie, but would hesitate.
Góban would arm wrestle all of them and would make fun of the losers. She's a human fighter and probably my least defined PC but she wants somebody who will listen to her, will fight her for fun, and carry her in their shoulders if she gets tired. Would think Henry is a wuss, like Darryl and Glenn, and demand that her and Ron compare heights ( she's also short)
Ska'rrva....would fucking hate all of them. Like she's neutral at best but she's an orc body-guard-for-hire and does not fuck around. Stern, strong, easy to irritate if you're a manbaby. Barbarian to Barbarian communication with Darryl, thinks Ron is probably the least annoying out of all of them. Henry needs to shut up and Glenn can stick around is he doesn't sabotage her job.
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phoebemunster · 1 year
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I watched multiverse of madness, could not tell you if I liked it or not. 
#like....I enjoyed when you could tell sam raimi could do what he wanted rather than when marvel took creative control#love that the bruce campbell cameo loved that he punched himself in the face loved the oldsmobile cameo#and between him directing and danny elfman doing the music it did feel like the spider-man movies at times so that was fun#but there were so many plot holes and like 83% of the actors completely phoned it in lmfao they were there for a paycheck and that's it#I liked the wanda stuff though I wish she would get her own movie or another series wandavision was probably one of the best pieces of#marvel media I've seen in a long time even though it's veered so completely off track from the comics like if it's entertaining I don't mind#I'd kina like for sam to cast elizabeth in another horror movie where he has total control again I could tell she was having fun with all of#the horror aspects and like being creepy in general so I think they'd be a good fit with better material tbh#I never saw the original doctor strange so like I'm not invested in him I was here for sam and wanda tbh I just don't find benedict to be#super charismatic and like in these sorts of films you need that for it to be enjoyable over the cheesiness and all he's just kinda boring#that being said I probably won't be watching anymore marvel stuff unless wanda comes back because I just don't care anymore#I was going to watch the agatha spin off until they cast aubrey plaza I cannot stand her so it's a no from me dawg#also charlize as clea.............not the worst choice in the world but sort of a weird choice tbh#at least she's close in age to benedict I guess? would've preferred her as amora but whatever it's really not that serious#also I LOVED the scene where wanda possessed the other wanda and looked right into the camera that was so good#and I also really loved zombie strange that was super text book raimi and the like deadite voices two of the best parts for sure
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shadowedresolve · 1 year
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considering adding futaba, junpei and yusuke as teritary muses at some point... not yet since i need to replay p5/p5r and p3 since there’s tons i don’t remember about them but. i do love them.
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snailsnfriends · 2 years
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*infinity sign*
and he kept on screamin / "you been screwin the milkman!" / and then he ran into my knife / he ran into my knife ten times
cell block tango - chicago
ask game!
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mayonakano-archive · 2 years
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CRIES IN PAIN I WROTE A WHOLE THING ABOUT ZENO AND THEN TUMBLR CRASHED. KILLING AND MAIMING. TAKE 2 SJFKSHDK ashe and i got summoned by zeno >:) the basic premise of the game is that there’s these two guys (one a serial killer, the other a doctor) who wake up in an abandoned hospital with no memories. very soon after, they also find themselves handcuffed together! your goal is to get them out of this place alive…… and while that may sound simple enough….. ough girl….. and the lore you encounter along the way is also so. SO AUSIFKFKSHA AAAAAAAA bro i literally cried playing this game that’s all i’ll say. very important note though, if you’re at all uncomfortable with the topic of cannibalism, please do not play zeno! it features quite heavily in the game. if you need a more specific cw list hmu >:) zeno has 13 main endings you can reach, and it’s very recommended (by ME!!!) to try to hit them all. the dynamics explored with the characters in all of the routes are so interesting and funny and tragic and AUGH anyways if you wanna play the game, here’s a link! the english translation is so bad but it’s so funny i promise. stick it out for the plot!! if that short premise intrigued you at all, i hope you’ll give zeno a shot! if you liveblog i’ll totally follow it HAHA <3 (here’s some official art of the main characters below!)
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OH NO I HATE WHEN TUMBLR DOES THAT </3 but thank you for sticking it out!!!
ooohhh that sounds. so neat. i love me a silly english translation too :3 but like!!! that does sound. so neat!!! also i love the main characters designs too :o
that is a lotta endings... but i am not swayed!!! i will definitely give it a shot!
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doux-amer · 1 month
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Thinking about it, it's not that I was lonely or anything growing up. I had a lot of friends and people I had fun with and talked to a bunch, but due to the way I was brought up, I wasn't able to really deepen and nurture those friendships. It's something that's impacted me to this day and at one point in my life, I became aware that some friends were not as close as I told myself they were except one particular moment, this wasn't because they did anything shitty (and that shitty thing wasn't done out of malice or intent), but it's that thing when you're young and you call everyone your close friends and you grow up and you realize lol, no they're just friends! And that's okay!).
And then I learned to see relationships I had with people very objectively (for the most part! I'm only human) which helped me be a more balanced adult and why I don't particularly get upset that certain friendships fade. That's just part of life, and when you're an adult, it's even harder to maintain a certain intensity and intimacy in friendships and a certain amount of interaction. I don't know if this is weird to say, but I think that's why I get taken aback and it means a lot to me when I have to recalibrate my perspective on a relationship because a good friend actually values what we have more than I expected.
Obviously, this is uncomfortable and bemusing when you know for a fact that their perspective isn't accurate and they're implying there's an intimacy there that in fact isn't, but when it's someone you care about and they level up the friendship like that...I'm not explaining things right. It hasn't happened much tbh even if I obviously had and have friends who have appreciated and celebrated our friendships and that means a lot too, that you know where you stand and you never have to question it, but there are some friendships where you realize oh...I mean a lot to this person. Oh, this is how much I mean to them or they like me this much?
#this probably makes zero sense because i'm writing this stream of consciousness style without editing lol#it's not that i don't care for friendships that i realize aren't that deep#because there are friends whom you have fun with and friends whom you do certain things with. work/school friends. social friends etc.#i really like people! and care about people! but i'm also aware of where we stand#and i respect that. this makes me sound like i'm a neutral distant observer lol#although sometimes this does get in the way of developing relationships further#and i'm not infallible. i still want more from relationships that i like that maybe i'll get too#but yeah. sometimes a friend drives all the way to your house to drop off a letter#before you go on a flight to live in another country for a while#even though that friend was ''objectively'' speaking someone you can categorize#as a school friend because we never hung out outside of school#and you last saw them at graduation and they're out of your life#but they decide they'd write you a plane letter and hand deliver it to you despite never dropping by before#instead of emailing/dming/snail mailing it#sometimes a classmate invites you to his house and it's supposed to be for a school thing#but then you end up talking for hours so that his parents come home and it's almost time for dinner#and your mom keeps calling your phone because of that and he says something that makes you realize#whoa. i didn't know you understood and appreciated me like that. you SEE me#and then instead of saying bye he'd walk you home and then we didn't shut up then#a friend who let you crash at her place which was super gracious#but hey we were college kids! except then she mentioned she wished you stayed longer#and she wished she could take you on a road trip into the beautiful irish countryside to show you her home#and do that all for you and i think of all the opportunities i lost#and opportunities that were interrupted and i think what if because i don't have opportunities like that anymore#i am both glad that i'm able to not feel hurt about overinvesting in relationships#and frustrated at how i get in my own way because you got to take the leap!#instead of letting things be where they stand. ANYWAY feeling grateful for those who#took a leap with me and went beyond sometimes without realizing what they did was bigger than they knew
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dravidious · 5 months
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You're more amazing than tummies
Been thinking about plushies lately and wanted to make a set of fabric-themed Etrian Odyssey classes for playing as and fighting plushies
Scissorblade - A melee class that specializes in attack buffs and basic attacks, and wields limited elemental damage. Sharp Snip: Melee cut attack. Basic attacks guaranteed to crit next turn. Temper Blades: Increases physical damage and crit chance to one ally line for 3 turns. Double Attack: Passive. Gives a chance to make two basic attacks. Heated/Frosted/Static Edge: Increases physical damage and imbue basic attacks with fire/ice/volt to one ally line for 3 turns. Burning/Frigid/Voltic Cut: Melee cut+fire/ice/volt attack to one enemy line.
Ragstainer - A melee class specializing in ailments, with attacks that lower bind/ailment resistance and ailment attacks that can splash ailments. Rip Up: Melee cut attack. Lowers bind+ailment resistance for 3 turns. Mud Blot: Melee bash attack. Inflicts blind on all enemies in the row. Mud Splash: Inflicts blind on all enemies. On failure, reduces bind+ailment resistance for 3 turns. Bleach Bash: Melee bash attack. If the target has an ailment, remove it to greatly increase damage.
Night-Knight - A defensive melee class that can create extra HP in the form of padding and share it with allies to soak up damage. Fluff Up: Gain a large amount of padding. Auto Fluff: Passive. At start of combat, chance to use Fluff Up for free. Swaddle Ally: Gain some padding. One ally shares user's padding for 3 turns. Swaddle Line: Gain some padding. One ally line shares user's padding for 3 turns. Selfless Swaddle: Gain some padding. For 3 turns, all other party members share user's padding, but the user does not. Pillow Hammer: Melee bash attack. Spend all padding to increase damage proportional to padding spent. Nightfall Hammer: Melee bash attack. Stronger with less remaining HP.
Stitchstabber - A melee class with high speed that can use splash and piece attacks to stitch enemies together; when one enemy is hit by a single-target attack, all stitched enemies are hit. Side-Stitch: Melee stab attack that splashes to adjacent enemies. Hit enemies are stitched together. Straight-Stitch: Ranged stab attack that pierces enemy lines. Hit enemies are stitched together. Rending Needle: Accurate melee stab attack that reduces the target's evasion and physical defense this turn. Painful Needle: Melee stab attack that reduces the target's accuracy and physical attack this turn. Sever Life: Remove stitches to make a powerful ranged cut attack on all stitched enemies with a chance to instant-kill.
Laundromancer - A melee/support class with damage and healing skills that purge buffs/debuffs to increase potency. Dry Out: Melee fire attack that purges a buff and a debuff. If a debuff was removed, increase damage. Wring Out: Melee bash attack that purges all buffs and debuffs. Increase damage for each debuff removed. Soak: Heal an ally and purge a buff and a debuff. If a buff was removed, increase healing and restore TP. Wash Away: Heal a line of allies and purge a buff and a debuff. Increase healing and restore TP to each ally that lost a buff. Good as New: Revive a dead ally and restore a large amount of HP. Spin Cycle: Ranged ice attack to all enemies that purges all buffs and debuffs. Increase damage to all enemies for each debuff removed.
Threadspinner - A ranged class that can strike and bind enemy lines with lashes of thread, or throw needles that hit bound enemies extra hard. Head/Arm/Leg Lash: Ranged cut attack to an enemy line. Binds head/arms/legs. Coiling Lash: Ranged cut attack. Binds head+arms+legs. Piercing Needle: Ranged stab attack that pierces enemy lines. Increased damage to bound enemies. Vicious Needle: Ranged stab attack. Increased damage for each bind on the target. Needle Rain: 8 ranged stab attacks to random enemies. Cannot hit the same enemy more than three times. Increased damage to bound enemies.
Dyesplasher - A ranged class wielding elements, buffs/debuffs, and ailments, giving it a versatile and flexible toolkit. Red/Blue/Yellow Splat: Ranged fire/ice/volt attack. Inflict panic/poison/paralysis. Red/Blue/Yellow Wave: Ranged fire/ice/volt attack to all enemies. Color Cloak: Increases elemental defense to all allies. Red Ruin/Blue Blues/Yellow Yelp: Reduce fire/ice/volt resistance and physical attack/elemental attack/bind+ailment rate to an enemy line for 3 turns. Rainbow Mixture: For 3 turns, increase an ally's elemental damage and ailment rate, and make fire, ice, or volt attacks become fire+ice+volt. (note: due to the way damage types work in Etrian Odyssey, more elements is always better)
Plushstuffer - A ranged/support class that uses builds up stuffing as it uses basic skills, then uses it for powerful plushie skills. Cotton Catapult: Ranged elementless attack. Get 1 stuffing. Unwind/Pluck Off: Remove a bind/ailment from an ally and restore a small amoung of HP. Get 1 stuffing. Tiger Plushie: Spend all stuffing (max 3) to make 5 ranged bash attacks against random enemies. Cannot hit the same enemy more than twice. Increased damage with more stuffing. Frog Plushie: Spend all stuffing (max 3) to heal all allies and remove binds/ailments. Increased healing with more stuffing. Unicorn Plushie: Spend all stuffing (max 3) to attempt to revive/heal all allies. Increased chance with more stuffing, 100% at 3.
Outfitter - A support class with a wide arsenal of buff skills, which can be spread to buff multiple allies or combined to use multiple on one ally. Can also steal enemy buffs and bind them with restrictive clothing. Daring Clothes: Unlocks the Phys/Elem Attack, Act Speed, and Bind+Ailment Rate clothing skills. Practical Clothes: Unlocks the Phys/Elem Defense, Endure Chance, and Bind+Ailment Res clothing skills. Comfortable Clothes: Unlocks the Regeneration, TP Discount, and Accuracy+Evasion clothing skills. Fashion Line: Use a clothing skill on an ally line. Mass Production: Use a clothing skill on all allies. Custom Fit: Combine two clothing skills into 1 buff on an ally, then double the duration of that buff. Bespoke Garb: Combine three clothing skills into 1 buff on an ally. Catwalk Showoff: This turn, buffed allies deal more damage. Flattery: Steal a buff from an enemy and give it to all allies. Mask/Mittens/Heels: Inflict head/arm/leg bind on an enemy.
Patchmender - A support class with healing and cure skills that apply patches to allies, boosting their stats or negating binds/ailments. Athletic Patch: Heal an ally and boost their phys/elem attack for 3 turns. Athletic Mending: Heal a line of allies and boost their phys/elem attack for 3 turns. Reinforced Patch: Heal an ally and boost their phys/elem defense for 3 turns. Aromatic Patch: Heal an ally and give them regeneration for 3 turns. Patched Tear: Revive a dead ally and give them a chance to endure death once in the next 3 turns. Mended Knot/Stain: Remove a bind/ailment from a line of allies and negate the next bind/ailment they would receive in the next 3 turns.
#asks#the skills given are just a handful of examples#if they were real they'd have a bunch more#as usual the hardest part was the names lol#both class names and skill names#except for the Outfitter. that one was super easy and fun#also to explain Rainbow Mixture making elemental attacks have all elements:#if an attack has multiple elements the game uses the one that the target is weakest to#so that means that if you want to poison an enemy with Blue Splat but it's immune to ice you can make it fire+ice+volt to still deal damage#and if it's weak to fire then it'll take weakness damage even though it's immune to ice!#also Etrian Odyssey combat has a front line and a back line so that's what the “ally line” “pierces enemy lines” stuff is about#also binds are a really neat mechanic: each skill requires a certain body part (head/arm/leg) and if that part is bound you can't use it#so if the enemy is blasting you with powerful magic you can bind the head and they'll waste their turns trying and failing to cast spells#leg bind is the least useful bind tho because barely any skills use legs lol#it does negate enemy evasion tho!#i'm proud that i managed to make a full 10 because that's the amount that normal EO games have#though i'm just now realizing i want the thimbleknight to be blanket-themed instead#okay i changed it now it's the bedding-themed night-knight and all the skills are the same just with different flavor#had to make sure my love of blankets was sufficiently represented#ALSO i made Nightfall Hammer because you can have low HP but lots of padding so you're safe and i think that's neat#also also i'm just proud of some of the mechanics i made like padding and stitches because they're unique#i'm glad i was able to come up with enough ideas to not just be copying classes from the games
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hellenhighwater · 1 year
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What are your pronouns?
my gender is someone gave me a bowl of raisin bran and my brother a bowl of cheerios, and I like raisin bran just fine, but if they'd asked what I wanted I might have picked cheerios? But I'm already a couple bites into the raisin bran and it seems like an awful fuss to switch to cheerios now, and while I've heard that some people prefer lucky charms or cinnamon toast crunch, and those do seem super fun...I'm not really willing to put in the effort of explaining my breakfast choices to people who think that everyone should just be eating raisin bran or cheerios and nothing else, especially when I don't really care if I'm eating raisin bran or cinnamon toast crunch or lucky charms or cheerios, though I do think everyone should eat whatever cereal they want without being bothered about it.
She/her's fine.
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luveline · 1 year
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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. 
/\^._.^/\
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itislils2004 · 14 days
Text
Alr guys pt.2 of this, if I do more it'll be about Narinder, Lambam and Ratou. (no promises)
Here's another long rant of headcanons of my Shamura and Kallamar :) !
Heket and Leshy
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Summary:
As much as I like to joke about him, he's actually quite talented and meticulous. He prefers to not venture to spaces that could be remotely harmful to him (because he gets sick, really easily), unless the pros outweigh the cons. He's full of himself at times, but he does NOT have NPD (Narcissist Personality Disorder). Simply has a very strong sense of self, and absolutely hates being told what to do (even if it benefits him, and even if he already planned to do it).
He's also quite artistic and has an eye for things, despite not working for the cult he does take charge when organizing events and decorations. He's a perfectionist down to a fault, although he'd never force anyone to fit his criteria he's pushy about it at times.
Smaller character details:
Leshy has a lot of fun hanging out with Kallamar, and likewise for the squid. In fact, Kallamar often has him running errands for him or asks him for help whenever he's trying to make something or simply wants to rant.
Because of his nature to not go out much, he's rarely seen outside of events. But even then he leaves a marking impression on the flock due to his ability to multitask, and his talents.
Gets on well with the Lamb, in his head that is. He's super laid-back whenever he speaks to him. The feeling might not be mutual, but at least he cares for them, a bit.
Sozonius is also a close friend of his, but Leshy wins when it comes to who Sozonius feels more comfortable with, since they were friends even when he was parasite.
^ Either way, Sozonius helps him a lot during research or on the rare occasion they do go out (they both hate Anura, so there's no worries about one of them wanting to go there).
He refuses to learn ASL although he's partially deaf (unless The Lamb provides him better auditory capabilities, very much like Heket. This can be applied to all Bishops except Narinder.)
So whenever he cannot get a grasp on what's going on (although he's gradually getting better at reading lips) he has either Leshy or Heket to help him understand what's going on.
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Summary:
Quite the forgetful arachnid, ever since they got indoctrinated, it tends to slip their mind to ACTUALLY take care of themselves. Often forgetting to eat or to wear an extra layer since they can barely regulate their own body temperature. Heket and Kallamar always try their best to make sure they eat properly and not get sick. The lamb tries to do the same, but many times it is unsuccessful since they deviate from the matter at hand. They actually spend a lot of time with the Lamb, often talking sentences that do not have a coherence to it, or simply tales of the past that come unprompted. The Lamb makes little to no effort in stopping them, and allows them to do as they please.
Smaller character details:
context:
Because the lamb actually never really learned how to groom their wool (or simply able to shear it) it tends to get matted and heavy overtime. When that happens they simply unalived reseted themselves to come back to their form, because before they got executed, their wool got trimmed by heretics before getting sacrificed so that the axe would be able to do its job in one swing.
Thankfully though, Shamura (in their right mind) helps the Lamb, and maintains their fleece voluntarily. The lamb has no comment on this action. But they are one of the few people who lets them touch them to such an extent.
Shamura is no (morally speaking) monster, but they don't actually harbor any genuine affection for the Lamb outside of some pity. Their ministrations come from simply Shamura's nature, which leads to them helping the Lamb in minor ways or even offering comfort in little amounts. The lamb prefers it this way. They'd actually reject the help if it was in the name of "affection" or "pity".
However, they have a hard time understanding complex emotions and underlying meaning. They're very literal, but also have a way of explaining things through metaphors. It's their way of understanding complex things, by associating information they already know and molding it.
Loves making jokes!! They tend to be very old/unfunny but they still enjoy it. Narinder always plays along with the jokes and sometimes laughs at how bad they are. They also use a cane/walking stick with the form of a serpent, old relique.
Tries to help around the cult as well, but is often stopped if attempting too hard when it comes to manual labor. They're awfully tall which difficults things, and due to their complexion they have a hard time standing up on their own for a long period of time without the cane (walking normally that is). They do however, work a lot on clothes and such, with Kallamar sometimes helping on the sidelines.
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