#Cyrus Lane | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

blueywrites · 1 year

Text

Where you and Steve swing with Eddie and Chrissy, and it gets complicated.

TO KNOW YOU'RE MINE (modern!swingers!au) (18+ only)

eddie munson x chrissy cunningham x steve harrington x you

fem!reader, chubby!reader, minimal use of y/n, body insecurity, swingers, smut, fingering (v), oral (f & m receiving), p in v, praise kink, emotional sex, aftercare, infidelity

chapter eight : just pretend (13k) | playlist | AO3 | next

🎵 in this au, deftones=corroded coffin. the playlist is a combination of R's sad girl music vibes and some foreshadowing. the songs for this chapter are #25-27. The middle song is not mentioned by name.

Weigh down on me, stay 'til morning

Way down, would you say I'm worthy?

Just Pretend — Bad Omens

The entrance ramp to the freeway is less than a quarter of a mile away. You've been inching towards it for the past fifteen minutes, fingers tapping restlessly on the steering wheel. The sunlight streams like a piercing veil through the windshield, forcing you to squint despite your sunglasses as you stare dully straight ahead, eyes fixed on the little bumper sticker family on the minivan in front of you. You've barely budged; the mile marker to your right is still winking at you mockingly, and you avoid its gaze. Damn summer rush hour traffic. Shouldn't you all be heading to the beach?

It's crazy to think that exactly one week ago, you were boarding a plane on your way to a tropical vacation in Miami. Now, not only are you back to the daily grind, driving home from the pediatrician's office in a reverse commute back into the city— a direction that usually serves you well in terms of traffic— but you're also in the midst of a major heat wave, with temperatures still close to ninety degrees at six in the evening. Hotter than it'd been in paradise, even. You'd be groaning aloud in frustration if the air conditioning wasn't blasting you in the face with a sweet, blissful chill and the radio wasn't playing Miley Cyrus' new song Flowers, which is surprisingly catchy and equally as cathartic.

'Can love me better, I can love me better, baby….' You've already caught on to some of the lyrics and are singing softly along, head bobbing as your eyes go a little unfocused, staring straight ahead. All in all, this week back to work wasn't bad. Monday was rough because you'd gotten very little sleep Sunday night, but by Tuesday, you'd thrown yourself back into your weekday routine, taking solace in its familiarity. Your head bobs a little more emphatically as Miley belts, 'I can love me better than you can—!' A delighted smile spreads across your lips as you hear the raspy strength of her voice, a smile of mutual appreciation from one singer to another. Okay, Miley, I see you—

The little bumper sticker family your eyes have been resting on is partially obscured by a wafting plume of gray.

Mind blank with confusion, you blink as another waft of gray quickly follows, streaming up from the blue hood of your old Honda Civic. Your eyes dart to the dash, and that's when you see it: the needle of your temperature gauge is now slanted up near the top of that alarming red band. The blaring orange check-engine light is just the icing on the cake.

The spike of panicked adrenaline that pierces your chest is accompanied by only one thought:

Oh, fuck.

Thankfully, fate has dealt you two small miracles this day. First, you're already in the right lane, ready to take the entrance ramp onto the freeway and thus directly adjacent to the shoulder. And second, during your Miley jam session, the minivan in front of you had moved up a few feet, leaving a sizeable gap where previously your bumpers had been nearly kissing. It's surprisingly simple to wordlessly cut your wheel to the right, pull up and over onto the wide stretch of asphalt, and turn your key to kill the engine.

You sit in your panic for the briefest moment before you're scrambling for the door handle, snatching your phone from the cupholder as you stagger from your vehicle. Thankfully, the shoulder is sizeable, and the traffic is still moving at a crawl, so you don't have to fear being hit as you put some distance between yourself and your lightly smoking vehicle. Your heart is still hammering as you unlock your phone, blood rushing in your ears as you pull up your contacts. Your finger hovers over Steve's contact picture: the two of you at the basketball game he'd taken you to for your anniversary last year.

You gaze at Steve's white smile, and you hesitate.

It's almost twenty after six, and you know Steve is on his way to happy hour with his colleague visiting from California. Part of you feels a little pang of selfishness at the thought of interrupting him, though you know he'll be more than understanding when he hears why you're calling. Another part of you whispers that there's someone better to call— someone who knows much more about cars than Steve. Someone who works with them every day, someone who can diagnose your problem and tell you, in no uncertain terms, exactly what you should do in this situation.

No picture accompanies Eddie Munson's contact card, just a little purple circle with a black 'E' in the middle. Your finger hovers there as you hesitate again. Because Eddie's text— his song— is still sitting lonely in your messages app, read but unanswered. Though it's only been five days since you'd seen or spoken to him, it's longer than you've gone without some form of contact in months. And it had felt strange, an absence you couldn't stop noticing, like the gap where a tooth had been. But you also couldn't bring yourself to fill it.

You'd tried to answer Eddie on Monday and then again on Tuesday. But every time you'd pulled it up, staring at the message he'd written and hearing the echo of his smoky voice crooning in your head, you'd been filled with a tangle of difficult emotions, woven so impossibly tight there was no unraveling them.

In the end, the reason you didn't answer Eddie was simple. You just didn't know what to say.

It weighs on you now, your conspicuous silence for the last five days. You're afraid to call him. Afraid to hear that smoke voice come through the phone sounding flat and quiet, bitten curt and short, or edged with irritation. Afraid because this week is the first week in five months that your normal group play plans haven’t been made. Albeit, it’s because Steve had another obligation, but you can’t deny that you were relieved to have an excuse not to see Eddie after your extended silence, or to see Chrissy’s lithe porcelain body, a reminder of what she is and what you are not.

But one last glance at the lingering stream of smoke still floating from underneath your hood, much thinner and weaker now but still present, has you pushing past your hesitance and tapping on the call icon. Because above all else— despite the little read receipt beneath the MP3 file, despite the dove gray paint now chipping on your nails— you know that Eddie is kind. You know he'll help you.

Eddie answers after the first ring. "Hello?"

He doesn't sound annoyed like you'd feared; instead, he sounds mostly surprised, if not confused. His voice makes that poignant yearning bloom behind your sternum, an utterly unhelpful feeling in this situation, especially since you're already on edge because of your car. You try to keep your voice from wobbling as you respond. "Hi, Eddie."

"...Hi, y/n. Ah, what's—" You hear a bit of shuffling, some noise in the background like he's somewhere out in public. "What's up?"

You're already nervous and unsure, fiddling unconsciously with the ID badge still clipped to the pocket of your scrubs. Your voice goes high, words coming quick as if your mouth is stumbling over itself to explain. "I'm sorry to call you out of the blue; I just— I didn't know—"

You cut yourself off with a quick huff of frustration, dropping the badge and forcibly stilling your fingers at your side. You take a quick breath to start again. "My car started smoking from the hood, so I had to pull over on the highway—"

"Shit—" Eddie hisses, and then his voice is suddenly louder, clearer, like he's taken you off Bluetooth or brought the phone closer to his mouth. His voice has an edge of panicked urgency as he demands, "Are you safe? Is the car still smoking?"

Your lips pinch, a flutter blooming low at the sound of his concern; you glance toward the car, watching for a moment for more wisps of gray. "No, it's not really smoking anymore. I'm okay. I'm standing on the shoulder. It's a wide shoulder, and there's a lot of traffic, so the cars are moving slow. It does look like it's clearing up, though." Are you over-explaining? Probably. "I'm right outside the city," you add as if he'd asked. "I was driving home from work."

"Okay. Okay." A heavy sigh of relief distorts on the other end of the phone, and, Eddie continues much more evenly, "Then, uh… start from the beginning and tell me what happened."

You describe what you remember happening— sitting in traffic, seeing the smoke, then noticing the spike in the temperature gauge. Brow crumpled, voice a little small, you ask Eddie, "So… what should I do?"

"Well, definitely do not drive," he says through a wry chuckle, and before you can help it, you're retorting sarcastically.

"No, really?"

You hear him husk a chuckle, warm and throaty and genuine, and the sound makes your belly flip. “Is it an old car?”

"Yeah, it's my sister's old Civic. I think it's, like, a twenty-ten."

"Right, makes sense. Doesn't usually happen in newer cars, but it's definitely your radiator. Probably overheated sitting there in traffic since it's a hundred fuckin' degrees out today." There's a pause, and Eddie sighs— not beleaguered, just a little light huff before his tone turns business-like. "Look, I'm gonna call my buddy from the shop. He'll come with a tow. It'll be after hours by the time it gets there, but tomorrow we can take a look at it. I had the early shift today, and I'm at the gym now, so it'll be a few, but I'll come give you a ride home."

Instantly you prickle with regret upon hearing that you're disrupting his plans. "Oh, Eddie, you don't have to do that. I can just call an Uber—"

"No," he interrupts you, voice still kind but firm. "I'm coming to get you, y/n. I'm not leaving you on the side of the highway." His tone brokers no argument, and you can't help but feel a flutter of moth's wings at how resolved he is. Like he would never be satisfied leaving you in anyone else's hands but his own. Your throat goes thick.

"Okay?" Eddie prompts when you don't respond.

You clear your throat to keep your voice from wobbling. "Yeah. Okay. Thank you, Eddie. I'm sorry I ruined your gym plans."

"What'd I tell you about being sorry?"

You can hear the smile in his voice even as he chides you lightly; you chuckle a little, unable to help the smile that blooms warmly on your face. "Right. Just thanks, then."

"You're welcome. Ping me your location, and I'll be there soon." You bask in the answering warmth of his smoke before he hangs up.

In the silence that follows, the first emotion that trickles in is relief. Relief that Eddie isn't upset at you, that he hadn't rejected you. Though you didn't really think he would, a tiny part of you still feared he might, so to hear it confirmed has tension melting from your frame. The relief is short-lived, however, when you look down at the front of your navy scrubs, which are wrinkled both from working a full day's shift and from the oppressive heat that is still beating down on your head, heating your hair and making sweat spring at your temples and on your upper lip. After sending your location to Eddie, you quickly pull up your front-facing camera on your phone, feeling a little ridiculous when it occurs to you that every car that passes can see you checking yourself out on the side of the road. The self-consciousness is still nothing compared to the spike of nervous anticipation that flutters within at the thought of seeing Eddie soon, so you push the thought aside in favor of examining yourself closely. And it's just as you feared: your hair is limp, lifeless, and a little tangled, and your skin is dewy from the heat but lacking the charm of mascara, blush, or lip color. Of course, I would choose today to sleep in a little and skip putting on makeup.

You stuff your phone back in your scrubs pocket, working your fingers hastily through the tangles in your hair before flipping your head upside down and shaking it out, seeking some semblance of volume. You swipe at the wrinkles on your scrub shirt next, giving up quickly when your efforts do nothing to smooth out the fabric. Do I have a spare shirt in the backseat? You stare at the iridescent blue shimmer of your Civic, now radiant in the ever-deepening light, wracking your brain for what may be back there and whether it's worth it to try approaching your car considering the smoke. Probably just some empty paper Dunkin' bags, you figure, but you also need your purse, and the smoke seems to be gone, so you venture over anyway.

Sure enough, the backseat search turns up no spare shirts. You collect your bag and detach your car key from the ring, slipping it into your pocket before you pull out your phone again to shoot off a quick text to Steve. 'Car's busted. Have to have it towed.'

He answers quickly. 'God babe, you okay??'

'Yeah, I'm fine. Radiator went because of the heat, Eddie said. He's having a tow truck pick up my car to take it to the shop.'

A longer pause to accommodate the longer response. 'Do you want me to come pick you up? I can be out of here in fifteen minutes.' Your stomach swoops, and you type your reply quickly to head him off.

'No, it's okay, no need to leave. He said he'd give me a ride home.' Before sending, you add, 'Have fun at happy hour!! I'll see you when you get back!'

There's an even longer pause before Steve's final reply. 'Okay babe, see you tonight,' he says, ending with a smiley face. Your stomach settles, and you lean against the back bumper to wait for Eddie. Despite the heat and humidity, you're better off there than sitting inside the car with the engine off. You mourn the lack of air-conditioning as a bead of sweat trickles down the center of your back.

It doesn't take too long for you to spot Eddie's van angling from the left lane to the right. If you didn't recognize his car, the recklessness of the driving would've been a dead giveaway that it's Eddie behind the wheel; still, as he cuts over onto the shoulder, his breaks nearly squeal as he slams them excessively, slowing to a crawl as he approaches you. You huff a little breath through your nose, amusement briefly cutting your nerves. Sweet of him not to run me over.

Eddie's out of the van almost as soon as it rolls to a stop, and you wipe your sweaty palms against your scrub pants as he hops down. The sight of him like this— dressed in sneakers, joggers, and a loose muscle tank, hair scraped back off his neck, striding toward you with purpose— makes your wings flutter so wildly that your head feels suddenly fuzzy and your throat goes dry. You swallow to wet it, gaze darting around his face, catching on those wide honey-brown eyes before they flit away again when your heart thumps.

You manage to compose yourself enough to say, voice smaller than you'd like, "Thanks for coming."

The quick flash of his grin makes you both melt and seize up. "'Course," Eddie replies easily, pausing before you. "I'm gonna check it out real quick," he tells you, eyes sliding away just as yours return his stare. Even that brief flash of contact has you chewing on your lip as you trail after him.

You watch Eddie from a short distance as he feels around the edge of the hood for the catch. As your eyes run over those dextrous hands, those ruddy knuckles absent his usual silver, you can't help but remember the feeling of his callouses rasping against your bare waist, so slow and tender. You feel a thrill of heat bloom low at the memory, though you squash the impulse almost immediately. This is not, in any way, the appropriate time to think about that. Pointedly, you avert your eyes from his flexing biceps as he lifts the hood.

After a brief perusal, Eddie lets it fall with a decisive thunk. "Yup," he says, "definitely the radiator." You hear his footsteps crunch on gravel as they approach, stopping a brief distance from you. You glance up to see that his expression is neutral, but those brown eyes are unnervingly unreadable. "Wanna sit in my van while we wait for the tow? It's hot as balls out here."

The promise of relief from this oppressive heat has you nodding immediately. "Please," you sigh, genuinely grateful, and Eddie rewards you with another flash of his eyeteeth in a broad grin.

"C'mon." He leads you to the passenger seat, opening the door for you in an unnecessarily chivalrous gesture that strikes you as dangerously charming. Dangerous because, as you watch Eddie lope around to the driver's side through the windshield, that impossible tangle of emotions rises within you again, conjuring memories. Memories of broad hands holding you close, of tender kisses pressed to your wet cheeks. Memories of bow lips spilling sweet words about boys and girls, of butterfly-wing whispers during backseat conversations. A war wages inside you, a war between hope and despair, like two hounds with their muzzles locked tight, neither willing to release.

When Eddie pulls himself into the driver's seat, it stirs the air in the van, which is musty with stale cigarettes but blessedly cooler than outside. Silently, he turns the key, and with a cheery chime, the vents sputter and begin pumping air into the cabin. You shoot him a tiny smile, one hand resting in your lap, the index of your other hand running back and forth along the plastic edge of your ID badge. Now that there's nothing to do but wait, you're beginning to feel awkward. And it seems Eddie might feel that way too because, though he's lounging casually back in his seat, his thumb automatically seeks a knuckle before he glances down and notices he's not wearing his rings. He splays his fingers against his thighs instead, and you glance away.

He's the first to break the silence between you. "So, uh…" You look up, catching the quick glance he tosses at you. "Haven't talked to you lately. How are you?"

The question is stilted, anything but smooth, ringing like a sour note between two people who shared an incredibly intimate moment less than a week ago. You appreciate the gesture, even though it doesn't do much to quell your tense emotions. You find yourself babbling in your nervousness. "I'm okay, besides my car, obviously." A little awkward chuckle, and then you're plowing on. "Work's been normal. The same. I spend my days sticking thermometers under tongues and brandishing lollipops to ease the sting of immunizations. You know. The daily grind." It suddenly seems extremely important to explain to Eddie why this Friday is the first in nearly five months plans weren't made for group play. You dart a look at his face before turning your eyes back down to stare at his fingers, voice tight with frenetic energy. "Steve's been working like a fiend since we got back. Just, like, so busy. There's a new project he's heading. He said they're making sure their systems are ready for the student loan relief bill that just got passed. It's all really technical, and he tried explaining the details, but that kind of stuff is just in one ear, out the other for me." Another glance up, and Eddie's watching you with those dark eyes, face inscrutable. You explain, "He's at happy hour with his coworker who's visiting from California tonight, so…" that's why we didn't make plans, is how the sentence would probably end, but you let it trail off into implication.

Eddie nods; you suppose it's to show he was listening, and you rush to continue. "Um, anyway. How's Chrissy? I've texted her a little this week, but not much."

The most minute twitch of Eddie's brow follows; if you hadn't been watching him so closely, you would've missed it. "She's fine," he says simply.

You nod, head bobbing more enthusiastically than necessary. "And, um, how are you—?"

"How come you left me on read?"

You fall instantly silent as Eddie interjects. Just gonna come right out and ask, huh? You suppose it's never been Eddie's style to be subtle. It's not accusatory, his tone, but nevertheless, it makes your chest squeeze tight. Your eyes dart down to your lap as you mumble your excuse. "I dunno. Just… getting back into the swing of things after vacation. I've been busy." It sounds lame as you say it, and you can feel yourself wince as the words come out of your mouth.

Eddie's voice is even quieter when, after a beat, he replies. "Too busy to listen to my song?"

The edge of hurt in his voice has your eyes wide and stuck to his in an instant. Your brow crumples, expression earnest as you rush to say, "I did listen to it, Eddie. I listened to it a lot, actually. I just…" A little oozing guilt seeps up at the bottom of you, regret that you know he can probably read in your face. "I just didn't text you back."

Eddie looks at you with those dark eyes, examining your face silently for a moment. And then the corners of his mouth soften just slightly. "And what did you think?" he asks, brow pinching.

You want to reach out, smooth the wrinkle between his dark brows, bury your nose in the crook of his neck and hold him, or let him hold you.

'I think Eddie's gonna propose!' Chrissy squeals, blue eyes wide and sparkling with uninhibited joy.

Your fingers twitch with the impulse to reach for him, but you twist them together in your lap. Still, you can't help but be honest, and your answer comes out soft, unable to be wholly scrubbed of the tender poignancy you feel. "It was beautiful: the music, the lyrics. Your voice. Your voice is always beautiful," you say, speaking slowly, "and I don't really know why, exactly, but… something about it made me sad."

Eddie's eyes dart between yours— honey brown deepening as the sun shifts, bathing him in a shaft of deepening gold, turning his dark curls richer. The wrinkle eases on his forehead, and your gaze drops to his plush lips, pink and pillowy-soft in the pale quartz of his face. You watch his tongue dart out to wet them before he responds.

But as they part, the rumbling sputter of a truck interrupts. It draws Eddie's gaze to the side window, and you both watch the truck pull off onto the shoulder, skirting around your car to park in front. You meet his eyes when he looks back at you, a moment of hesitation lingering before you exit the car. The loud thunk of a door slamming outside breaks the moment, and mutually, wordlessly, you both open the van doors.

Eddie and his coworker meet by your front bumper, clasping each other in one of those manly, complicated handshakes guys do. You pull the car key from your pocket and pass it to Eddie, cheeks heating at the brush of his hot fingertips against your palm when he plucks it from your grasp. You hope he doesn't notice and step back to let them work on hooking your car up to the tow.

Once they're done, his coworker hoists himself back into his truck. When you call out a thank you through his rolled-down window, he jerks his chin in acknowledgment. Eddie leans an elbow on the doorframe, and after they exchange some brief parting words, you watch your old blue Civic finally roll onto the freeway entrance ramp you'd been staring at nearly an hour ago now.

A nudge at your elbow and your eyes dart to Eddie, who withdraws his hand quickly but motions with his head back towards his van in a silent prompt. You follow him, sliding again into the passenger seat and clicking your belt into place as Eddie falls into the driver's seat, long legs stretched comfortably beneath the wheel.

You're suddenly overly aware of your own body in this space that so clearly belongs to Eddie. The scent of the air you’re breathing— stale cigarettes atop soapy, artificial pine— is conspicuously foreign, and the scratch of the fabric seat under your palms is unfamiliar, too. Though you've ridden in the back of Eddie's van before with Steve, this is the first time you've been privy to the passenger seat. The van is scattered with debris of Eddie’s daily life: gas station receipts and half-full boxes of cigarettes littering the center console, empty fast food wrappers stuffed in the door pocket, the odd guitar pick stuck along the seam of the floor mat under your feet. A life you’re now witnessing up close, inserting yourself into as you ask for his help. Selfish. You press your thighs together, folding your arms in your lap as Eddie turns the key and the van rumbles to life beneath you. Despite the tinge of discomfort, you’ve already accepted his help, so there’s no point dwelling on that now. You let out a slow breath from your nose, squinting as it occurs to you, when Eddie makes no moves to pull out onto the road, that he probably doesn't know how to get to your apartment from here.

"Hey—" Your voice isn't loud, but it still seems to startle him. Eddie's wide eyes dart to you, and you bite back the apology at the tip of your tongue, unable to keep your lips from curling in the tiniest smile as you think about his warm voice over the phone. 'What'd I tell you about being sorry?' "I can put my address in Google Maps if you want," you offer, and Eddie doesn't hesitate to tilt his hips and pull his phone from his pocket, swiping it open before passing it over.

You blink as you take it, the weight of his phone familiar— the same model as yours— but also so conspicuously foreign, just like the smell of his van and the sight of all his personal items scattered around the cabin. Little bits and pieces of Eddie that you can't help but savor. Crumbs that burst with flavor on your tongue. And you can't stop yourself from collecting another morsel: you stare at his phone background for a moment before you open up the apps.

It's a photo of Eddie and three other guys, faces all squashed together to fit in the frame. It’s slightly blurred and grainy like it’d been taken at night, and the handle of a shopping cart peeks from the bottom edge. Eddie looks younger than he is now, and the unmistakable joy on Eddie's youthful face— the brightness of those brown eyes, the smile lines at the corners of his mouth, those full lips stretched in a manic, delighted grin— makes your leaves quiver. That poignant yearning rises to the surface, untangling from the rest of your emotions to settle behind your ribs. It comes out in a soft smile as you think about Eddie's eyes while you set your address.

You pass the phone back, and Eddie scans the directions before fitting the phone into the closest cupholder, pressing it up against an open packet of cherry-red Twizzlers. "Don't forget to rate me five stars at the end of your trip," he quips, shooting you a brief grin. Only once you return his smile does he glance out the side window, looking for an opening before pulling off the shoulder in a controlled squeal of rubber. You take a steadying breath, reminding yourself to be grateful for Eddie's help even though his driving makes your heart leap into your throat.

You think back to the conversation the tow truck's arrival had interrupted. 'Your voice is always beautiful,' you'd said, and that emotion that had wrinkled his brow— nervousness, maybe self-consciousness?— had eased. You want to know what he was going to say in reply, but you sense that the moment has passed as you peek at him. Eddie's eyes are focused on the road; one hand lightly grips the steering wheel while the other taps an erratic beat against his thigh.

Eddie's constant motion makes the lack of music suddenly obvious. Before the silence can get awkward again, you ask, "Can we put the radio on?"

"Never gonna say no to that." Eddie's lips quirk in a crooked grin as distorted guitars and haunting vocals suddenly blare from the speakers. No chance of hearing Miley Cyrus on this station, you think dryly. He cranks the volume, settling higher than you find comfortable, but you don't really mind. He starts headbanging lightly, dark curls swaying until the song breaks down into a soft melodic interlude as the singer croons, 'Can't you see that you're lost? Can't you see that you're lost without me?' When the beat drops back in, you bite back a giggle as he resumes more emphatically, both palms now tapping against the steering wheel as he bites his bottom lip, movements frenetic and exaggerated but also oddly endearing. Your giggle breaks free, barely audible above the music; Eddie glances at you, brown eyes glinting as his smile widens through that bitten lip.

"What is this?" you ask, nearly shouting to be heard over the music.

Cheekily, he replies, "Metal, sweetheart."

You huff, shaking your head fondly as he resumes tapping on the wheel. But when his hands leave it entirely, beating on his thighs as he gets hectic, you intervene. "I know you're the craziest driver to ever exist and all, but if you kill me before I get home, I can't rate you five stars." Your voice is lightly dry though tight with genuine anxiety, considering how you're currently cruising down the highway and Eddie has no hands on the wheel.

He huffs lightly but quickly complies, and you flash him some playful side-eye. "Thanks," you say, still dry, though not so dry that he would think you're really upset.

You make it into the city without incident, and Eddie's steady speed is significantly reduced once you hit the gridlines, that labyrinth of red and green lights that stretches on perpetually into the distance. You're about fifteen minutes away from home when a song comes on that you actually recognize: Just Pretend by Bad Omens. You find your head bobbing as you watch the setting sun glint off the tall glass buildings that cage you in, towering over the cars crawling block by block toward their destinations just like you and Eddie are. At that first emphatic chorus, when the singer croons, ' I can wait for you at the bottom, I can stay away if you want me to,' you glance at Eddie, expecting to see that emphatic headbanging again. But Eddie's head is still, and his brown eyes are deep and dark as he stares out the windshield. You frown slightly, concern rising at the whiteness of his knuckles where his hands grip the steering wheel. He doesn't return your stare, tongue working the inside of his cheek, eyes pensive and far away. Consumed by the blaring metal and Eddie’s headbanging, you'd briefly forgotten the tangle of your emotions, the war of hope and despair waging within you. But Eddie's shift in mood brings it back. The hounds are still locked in a bitter feud, neither yielding, both equally matched. You turn your eyes to your lap, worrying at the hem of your navy scrub shirt to keep your fingers occupied.

The next time the chorus refrains, the words ' heaven knows I ain't getting over you' grow gradually quieter, and you glance up to see Eddie nudging down the volume. The gesture is simple, but coupled with his shifted mood, it feels meaningful. There's a spike of nervous trepidation in your chest mixed with a tiny shiver of anticipation, and then he's speaking.

"Look, I need to say something."

"...Okay," you reply cautiously, nerves spiking again as you wait for him to continue. Your eyes lock on his face, and you watch Eddie's jaw twitch before he continues speaking slowly and seriously.

"What happened on the way back from the airport… what Chrissy did… It wasn't right."

That hot rush similar to mortification needles down the back of your neck as he glances at you, brow lightly furrowed. You avert automatically from the flash of his brown eyes, not wanting to read the look there. You find yourself wanting to avert from the conversation entirely, to protect yourself from what might come. Regret. Reluctance. Pity. All would be painful, and you don't want any of it.

Quickly, you reply, trying to keep your voice even and pleasant as you head off his concerns. "What do you mean? We've literally all had sex together, so what's the big deal? It's not like we don’t know you’re having sex with each other."

Eddie's frowning now, brow knit tight, full lips pressed into a line. Bothered, but not angry. Despite your attempts, he pushes back. "Sure, but… she didn't need to talk about it like that in front of…."

Your eyes dip back to your lap when he trails off, and you can feel his gaze on the side of your face. You feel exposed, vulnerable; the hounds growl, teeth gritted tight. Hope and despair warring fiercely within you.

Eddie's waiting for your response. And you try; you really, really try to maintain that pleasant evenness you'd achieved before. But it wavers as you remember Chrissy's bright red acrylics, her happy chattering in the salon chair, talking about her future with Eddie. "In front of me?" you ask, predicting the end of his unfinished sentence. Your voice is dull, nearly impassive. "Why would that matter?"

It would sound nearly impassive to someone who doesn't know you well.

But Eddie knows you well.

You aren't looking, but you hear him huff a humorless chuckle. You tense immediately, heart dropping in that brief pause before he says tightly, "Dammit, y/n. Fuck it."

Eddie turns into a narrow alley between blocks, swerving quickly to the right to pull along the curb. The van skids and rocks as he throws it into park. You're reeling from the abrupt change, eyes wide as Eddie turns to you, looking so serious. Before he speaks, he jams his thumb against the radio dial to cut the music entirely. "It killed me to hear her saying all that. I didn't wanna go along with it; I just didn't know what else to do." His brow creases, brown eyes imploring as they stare into yours. "I'm sorry."

Your heart begins pounding as Eddie stares at you. His obvious earnestness isn't lost on you, and you hadn't realized how much you yearned to hear him say that— to feed your hope— until you heard it. Still, the despair hasn't released you. Its grip has loosened with his words, but it still clings stubbornly, prompting your quiet reply. "Don't be sorry, Eddie." You nearly smile because you won't stop telling each other that, but you can't quite bring yourself to. You swallow, throat thick as you push out the words. Acknowledge the truth. "She's your girlfriend."

Poignant yearning aches within you, rising to the surface as you voice it. Your gaze draws across Eddie’s face, caressing the darkness of his curls; the pale quartz of his cheeks; his brown eyes, wide and framed by long lashes. It lingers there, and you see when those eyes go so soft. Eddie wets his lips, and they fall slightly open. And then his smoke fills the space between you.

"But I don't want to hurt you." Hoarse, quiet. Sincere. "I really care about you."

The smoke settles within, fluttering your wings. It sinks into the peat at the bottom of you, turning to charcoal that nourishes your roots. You feel wobbly, head fuzzing, blood rushing in your ears, but as your green reawakens, the despair releases its teeth.

Hope wins.

Your admission isn't more than a whisper, but it's enough. "I really care about you, too."

Something shifts behind Eddie's eyes, then. They dart between yours, honey deepening to amber as he rasps, "And…" He breaks off, brow furrowed, nostrils flared. His internal struggle is obvious, and the seconds tick by— loaded, motionless seconds that hang heavy in the waning light as evening approaches. You wait, fingers fisting in your lap, for the resolution of that tension inside Eddie, for whatever that will mean for you. Your eyes want to flit away as you wait, but they can't. They're stuck on amber brown, drawn inescapably in, helpless to the pull of its brightness.

You see the moment Eddie reaches his decision. It's written all over his face the instant before he speaks.

"And all I can think about is how much I wanna kiss you right now."

Your breath catches in your throat, but the smoke sinks straight through your scrubs and into your chest. Your reply is inevitable; it was written long ago. As you stare into the light of Eddie Munson's eyes, it comes as a tremulous whisper. "Then kiss me, Eddie."

The flash of those brown eyes and the instant heat on Eddie's face hit you so hard you're left trembling, fingers fumbling the buckle of your seatbelt. You're leaning toward him, straining against the strap, brow furrowed in frustration as it holds you back— and then Eddie's hand is there, fingers brushing hot against yours as he unclips you, and you're free.

You lunge for him at the same time he grabs for you. The center console digs painfully into your hip as you tilt awkwardly over it, hand fisting for purchase in the shoulder of his tank; Eddie's fingers on your face are pressing hard into your cheeks, molding your flesh in a grasp rougher than he's ever been.

But when he finally mashes his mouth to yours, nothing else matters.

The press of Eddie's full lips is ecstasy. They're warm and supple despite the fervor of his kiss, offering sweet comfort and sweltering heat alike. He moans into your mouth— a deep sound of utter relief as your mouth opens unhesitantly, allowing him access to you. His tongue seeks yours, and he tastes like smoke and spice, like cigarettes and cinnamon gum, that flavor so uniquely him. Your desire is a wild thing, more frenzied than you've ever experienced before. Just the feeling of Eddie's hands on your face and his tongue in your mouth has your pussy throbbing already.

The kiss is careless in your mutual haste, borne of desperate need that propels you together without finesse. After a moment, Eddie tilts his face, slotting his lips more ideally against yours, soft nose brushing as he works into your mouth. And it was affecting before, but Eddie's kiss now is utterly delicious— deep and thorough and oh, so sensual. His fingers soften on your face, rasping back to cup your neck, dragging up to palm your skull, unconcerned about the mess he's making of your hair. That low heat catches to embers in your belly, flaring as he licks along your bottom lip. And then he bites down on it, tugging gently in a move that has your mouth falling open in an involuntary gasp and your pussy pulsing hard.

Fuck, you want him. You want him more than you've ever wanted anything in your life.

The sounds of the city filter through the walls of Eddie's van— horns honking, tires crunching gravel, thunks and clanks of cars rolling over sewer grates. You're in a side alley off the main road, but anyone who pulls down this tiny street would see you through that wide glass windshield: cheeks flushed, eyes closed, lips locked as you release the fabric at Eddie's shoulder from your fist to drag your hand up the length of his thigh, feeling around blindly until you cup the hard bulge in his joggers.

You feel Eddie exhale sharply as you touch him; his fingers tighten against your scalp as you press down with the heel of your palm, rubbing along his length. Eddie's hips jerk up into your touch, and your blood sings in your veins, yet he breaks the kiss almost instantly. Your eyes pop open in surprise, though you flush hotter as you see him: eyes burnished with deep need, cheeks stained high, plush lips dark and swollen, chest heaving as he pants. His hand gently cradles your face, fingers splaying against your neck. When his thumb presses underneath your jaw to angle your head up, you can't bite back a little whimper of need.

Eddie's eyes flash, and his voice is gritty as he rasps, "Are you sure about this?" He pauses before adding quietly, "We can still stop."

You consider his words: We can still stop. We haven't yet crossed that line. On this side, rule upheld; step over, rule broken. But it's not just that, not anymore. Not here in Eddie's van.

On this side, faithfulness; step over, infidelity.

The hounds of hope and despair have released you, but this is a beast of a different kind. You know Eddie is right to pause, to take a moment to think before you both do something you can never take back. You search inside yourself— search for that ooze, for that green.

For what feels right.

In your silence, Eddie examines you, and his hand slackens on your neck. "Maybe we should stop," he says finally. And the look in Eddie's eyes— the concern, the gentleness that shines in beautiful brown— resolves you.

Your words come from the bottom of you, from the roots that could never be choked by the ooze of shame and guilt. You cover Eddie's hand on your neck, weaving your fingers together. "Eddie, I want to," you admit, and your voice nearly cracks with the force of your longing. "I really want to."

He shudders a sigh, a full-bodied thing that tremors through him. A sigh of relief. "So do I, sweet girl." The rumble of his smoke voice is so tender, and you drag his hand from your neck to your cheek, listing into his touch as you flutter and bloom. His lips tilt with a gentle smile. "C'mere."

The back of Eddie's van is dark inside; there are no windows back there. The third row of seats has been removed, and you suppose it's to make room for his band gear. The empty space is wide and relatively clear aside from a random assortment of loose cords. It’s lined with fabric rougher than the seats when you press your palms to it and hoist yourself in.

You turn and watch as Eddie hops up after you, one hand wrapped around a handle on the ceiling as he crouches. There's a bundle of fabric stuffed underneath his other arm. He kneels beside you, and wordlessly, you help him clear the cords and spread the flannel blanket as a buffer between your bodies and the scratchy floor. When the back doors thunk closed, you're plunged into darkness until Eddie flicks a switch above him, filling the space with warm light that casts his black and white in a soft glow. The back of Eddie's van affords enough privacy that the sounds of the city recede from your mind.

Nothing is stopping you now.

He's kneeling before you, the lines of his body stretched as he reaches for the ceiling light. You don't know what to reach for first— there are so many different places you could kiss or caress that you're overwhelmed with the possibilities. Eddie is a feast spread out before you, and you're burning to devour him. And it seems that Eddie may be thinking the same thing because his eyes are dark and molten as they drag slowly over you as if he’s savoring the sight. And it's a peculiar thing. So often, the presence of others' eyes on you makes self-consciousness squirm uncomfortably in your gut. But when Eddie consumes you with his heated gaze, you don’t feel self-conscious. Instead, as his eyes linger on your face bare of makeup, your hair limp from the heat and mussed from his fingers, and the formless, wrinkled shape of your scrubs, you feel nothing but desirable.

You're already melting before Eddie tells you, "It's just you and me, sweetheart. Don't hold back."

You can’t.

You won’t.

"Touch me, Eddie," you moan, "please—"

Hearing you beg has Eddie reaching for you instantly, hands pushing up your scrub shirt to expose your soft belly. You help him, pulling it over your head as he shoves your pants down your hips, and you fall back on your butt as he yanks them down to your ankles. You laugh as he grumbles when they get stuck on your sneakers. "Hold on, fuckin'... stupid shoes…" he mumbles to himself, and you sit up to untie the other pair of laces while he works on the first. Your shoes and socks end up flung heedlessly aside, and then you're tearing at Eddie's clothes next. Your arms wrap around each other as he gropes at the clasp of your bra and you drag his shirt up his back, your hastiness more of a hindrance than anything as you mash together, fumbling until you're both down to underwear.

His brown eyes lock eagerly on the generous swell of your bare breasts and the dusk of your soft nipples. "Tits really are so fuckin' perfect." Eddie grins, and you glow with pleasure, smiling broadly back as you playfully tighten your arms to push your breasts together. His brow tugs up as his grin turns wolfish, and without warning, Eddie shoves his face into your ample cleavage.

You squeak a surprised giggle as his curls tickle. "Smother me." His words muffle hot against your skin. "I'd die happy like this."

You laugh harder, breasts shaking as he emerges for air. "You're such a weirdo," you say through chuckles, eyes bright and fond as he tugs you against him in a tight embrace.

"You like it," he hums cheekily, smile charmingly crooked, brown eyes honeyed and warm. You soften, leaning in to bring your faces closer.

"I do like it," you confirm, and the playfulness on Eddie's face fades, smoldering into heat as he drops kisses down the side of your throat— slow and light and delicate at first, then deeper, more insistent as your head tilts to give him access. The press of his fingers splayed against your back, the warmth of his skin against your chest, the sensual caress of his plush lips and tongue; they all settle low in your belly, stoking the embers of your desire. You hum your pleasure as his lips trail slowly back up, teasing until you're throbbing insistently again, body hot and flushed.

Eddie's smoke voice rumbles against your throat as he murmurs, "Been thinking about makin' you cum on my tongue."

"Mmm." You drag your teeth against your lower lip; your voice is hoarse and soft with feminine heat as you reply, "Yeah? You've been thinkin' about me, Eddie?"

He nips and sucks at that sensitive spot beneath your ear, making you shiver with pleasure. "Always thinkin' about you," he mumbles, and you flutter as you wrap your arms around his shoulders in a tender embrace. Eddie sighs as you hold him, hands rasping slowly up your bare back. These words don't just feed your desire— they nourish you deep inside, perking your growth until your flowers quiver and awaken.

Softly, you tuck your face against his curls; your voice is barely more than a whisper as you admit, "I missed you."

I'm sorry I never answered. I thought about you every day.

"I missed you, too," Eddie murmurs back, warm and gentle, and you cup his jaw, kissing him tenderly. He sighs through his nose, relaxing into your hold as your thumbs stroke lightly against his cheeks.

Slowly, your languid kisses heat, turning more fervent. When you feel Eddie's hand dip beneath your panties, you press your hips forward to encourage him. He parts your folds, seeking the honey at the center of you, and the burn in your belly flares as his fingertips graze your clit.

He breaks the kiss but stays close, and his brows jerk in surprised pleasure. "Holy— you're soaked, sweetheart."

You flick his lips playfully with your tongue, pussy pulsing when you see his eyes darken and heat further. "All for you, Eddie," you murmur. He groans and grins crookedly, an eager, manic flash of eyeteeth.

"Is that right?" he husks, and when you nod, he pulls you into a firm kiss that steals your breath.

And once Eddie starts to kiss you again, he doesn't stop. Those kisses travel down your body, trailing heat in their wake as you lay back against the flannel blanket. He presses his face to your covered pussy, and you buck into the tease of his touch over fabric, grinding yourself against his nose as he groans at your eagerness. That wild desire resurges as he bares you, prying your puffy lips apart with his thumbs so he can finally bury his tongue in your wet heat.

Your fire catches instantly as Eddie's broad tongue drags like a slick blaze from your entrance to your clit. There's no reason to muffle your sounds as his fingers quickly circle your entrance before plunging inside. And with nothing to distract you, nothing to inhibit you— with your focus entirely on Eddie and the pleasure he's giving you— you feel that fire lick high up to your navel, tightening so quickly that your mouth falls open in a loud whine.

Eddie moans into your heat, and your hand shoots down to grasp his curls as the vibrations rumble deliciously against you. "Fuck, Eddie," you whimper, hips rolling as he works the flat of his tongue against your clit, fingers moving insistently inside as he pants against your heated flesh. His eyes flick up to watch you intently, brown deep and hazy as his gaze remains locked on yours while he pleasures you, and the sight of his pale face between your plush thighs makes you writhe.

When Eddie curls his fingers, rutting against that soft spot on your front wall as he rests his chin on the soft curls covering your mound, you throw your head back, moaning unabashedly. You feel him press a kiss to your mound, and the tenderness of it makes you whimper; your petals quiver, opening their faces. "Taste so fuckin' sweet," Eddie husks, arm wrapping around your thigh to hold you securely with a hand on your hip. "Could eat you every day and never have enough." And then he dives back in, lips suckling at your clit as he works you with his fingers.

Your chest heaves with your breath, a flush spreading down your neck as his words and his mouth and his hand drive you relentlessly toward your completion. "Oh, Eddie, oh—" His name is all you can say as that tingle spreads low between your hips, licking like fire up to your navel. He hums against your pussy, a little sound of reassurance as if he's trying to tell you he understands. You imagine the cadence of his words, can nearly hear them as if he's murmuring them low in your ear. 'I know, sweet girl. It feels good, doesn't it? I'm gonna make you cum, aren't I?'

Your fist tightens in his hair, holding on desperately as Eddie propels you straight to the brink. "Yes—!" you gasp as if in answer, and then the tension snaps, flooding you with sweet release.

Eddie's fingers slow, working you evenly as your orgasm rushes through your body, washing you with waves of tingling pleasure. You whine and whimper, muscles flexed, hips pushing up into his mouth as he swipes at you with the flat of his tongue. Eddie pulls out his fingers as your hips fall, replacing them with a lapping tongue that greedily gathers your slick until you twitch away, heated flesh oversensitive. He contents himself with kissing your thighs instead as you sigh, stretching luxuriously against the flannel beneath you.

But your orgasm hasn't left you sated; instead, as Eddie's head pops up from between your legs, curls adorably disheveled and pink lips glistening from his attentions, you're even more ravenous for him.

Eddie starts to travel up your body again, but he's moving too slowly for your taste; you haul him closer by the arms, and he grunts and chuckles as your mouth clings to his when he lands at your side. You kiss him hungrily, tasting smoke and spice and musk until you've licked your own taste from his tongue— and then you shimmy down, nose brushing the softness of his belly as you fix eager eyes on the waistband of his boxers.

It's unceremonious how you expose Eddie: not dainty, not coy, just a quick tug of plaid to his knees, rushed in your need. He pops out stiff and flushed, bobbing with his own weight, sticking proudly from that thick snatch of dark curls. You pull his boxers off entirely, hasty to taste the bead of precum weeping from the deep, mouthwatering pink of his tip. You don't have the patience to tease; he looks too delicious, too tempting. You take him into your mouth, humming in relief as you feel him hot and heavy, taste him briny on your tongue.

Your enthusiasm hits Eddie hard. As you quickly engulf him, lips stretching over his length til he's sunk halfway into your mouth, his groaning cry sounds like it was pulled from deep in his belly in desperate surprise. It hits you low, leaving you already tingling with renewed pleasure as you draw your head back, only to take him deep into your mouth again just as quickly. Eddie props himself on an elbow to watch you as you set a brisk pace, and you're gratified when his palm settles on the crown of your head, a heavy weight that doesn't inhibit your motions. You suction your lips around his head as you maneuver your arm to cup his balls, pulsing as you hear Eddie whimper when you knead them lightly. The vein on the underside of his cock becomes your focus; you trace it with your tongue as you start to bob again, savoring every twitch of his legs under your arms, every sound that spills from his plush lips. That smoke voice is tight, pitched higher than normal, and you burn with the knowledge of how you're affecting Eddie. You want to make him feel good; you want to make him feel so, so good.

"Holy fuck, your mouth is like— like f-fuckin’ heaven—" Eddie chuckles breathlessly before breaking off in a sudden sharp moan, hips jerking as you take him even deeper, motivated by his praise. He's always so composed, and your thighs squeeze, pleasure pulsing low as you realize you've reduced him to a stuttering mess. "Oh, fuck, y/n… oh, fuck—" Eddie sounds like me now. The thought is delightfully thrilling, and as you hum in satisfaction, Eddie's fingers suddenly tighten on your head, voice now breathless and urgent, not heated like before. "Wait—wait—wait, hold on—!"

Instantly, you pop off him, eyes wide; you pant through swollen lips, brow creasing with concern. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

He chuckles again, though it's a bit sheepish this time. "Yeah, no, sweet girl, it's— it's really fuckin' good. Just, if you keep doin' that, I'm gonna blow way too fast."

Oh. Your concern melts back into pleasure, and you glow with a smile as you drape your arms over his hips. Eddie's cheeks are flushed; his inked chest rises and falls quickly as you rub your cheek against his stiff length. You pout playfully as you say, "Don't do that."

He laughs again, husky and genuine this time, and your smile widens as you crawl up his body. You straddle his waist, pushing his shoulders down flat to the blanket as you capture his mouth. He presses up into your kiss, returning it eagerly, and when you pull away, Eddie stares up at you with brown eyes bright with awed delight. "Look at you," he murmurs, hoarse and smoky. "Takin' what you want. So fuckin' sexy."

You inhale his words, smoke settling rich and heady in your belly. "Yeah?" You're almost surprised to hear the lowness of your voice, the feminine husk that deepens it to a sultry hum. You sit up straight, reaching back to run your hand over the length of his cock slick with your spit. "You gonna give me what I want, Eddie?"

You feel powerful when Eddie's wide eyes darken, pupils blown wide. "Fuck yes," he groans keenly as you bite your lip and hover above him, notching him between your swollen lips. His hands settle automatically on your hips, holding you steady as you begin to lower down onto him.

Eddie is thick, and he stretches you tight, but you moan in nothing but relief as you slide down onto him, taking him all the way as your hips fall flush with his. The grit of his hair against your clit isn't overstimulating anymore; it just makes you spark with pleasure as you begin to rock on him.

And you don't rock with tentative little movements like the first time. No, this time, you ride him, chasing your pleasure from the first moment you feel him hot and thick and unyielding inside you. You writhe, abdomen rolling as you lean forward, hands bracing on Eddie's strong biceps for leverage as you fuck yourself on his cock. And all the while, Eddie watches you, eyes glittering with satisfaction as you take what you need from him. He lets you do it freely, happy to give you what you want.

The embers reignite, hot and heady, as Eddie's cock presses against your front wall and his hair grinds against your clit, still swollen from the orgasm he'd given you. "That's it," he encourages you. "Just like that. Good girl—"

You moan, head lolling as his words coax your fire. "Oh, Eddie—" Your voice is breathy and delicate as you sigh with bliss.

Eddie's fingers press into your hips, kneading your soft flesh. His eyes capture yours, holding fast as he says, "Show me how much you love my cock, sweetheart."

Your breath hitches as you flutter wildly, blooming verdant and green. Because it's a daring thing to say, daring words that play at the edge of what's forbidden. Bold. Thrilling.

You feel another thrill race through you as you anticipate the words you'll reply with. Soft, hoarse, delicate, you tell him, "I do love your cock, Eddie. I love it."

Eddie groans in response, and you feel raw, charged like a livewire as you rock harder on his length, lifting higher and falling back down with loud, fleshy smacks. And Eddie's hands are everywhere: rubbing over your wide hips, squeezing the heft of your ass, pressing into your soft stomach, fingers molding into your flesh. Your hips are shaking, your body is swaying, and all the while, Eddie is watching you intently. You're exposed, fully visible, on display— and you don't care. You don't care at all.

Eddie watches you, and you feel beautiful.

And you watch him, too. Your eyes run over his face as if you're gazing at something treasured, something precious. You savor the way his bangs feather against his forehead, damp with sweat; the way his curls fan against the plaid flannel beneath you; the way his soft nose and cheeks are flushed from heat and pleasure, pink spreading down over the pale cords of his neck to the inky armor of his chest. Black, strong, masculine and sharp; but also white, gentle, tender, and kind. Eddie is captivating, all light and charcoal, ink and smoke that feeds your soul. Suddenly, it's not enough to be on top of him, to have his thick cock inside you. You want him as close as he can be. You want him to enclose you in his strong arms, to sink inside you and never, ever leave.

Abruptly, you stop moving on top of him, and Eddie's hands still on your waist as his brow tugs up. "What is it, sweet girl?"

He sounds so soft, so concerned that your plea comes out nearly choked. "Hold me," you beg him. "Hold me close, Eddie; I need you close—"

His hands tighten on your waist, pressing up so you'll lift off him. Quickly, he maneuvers to his knees, widening his stance as he hauls you onto his lap. With your thighs spread wide, you cling to his shoulders as he cups under your ass and presses his length back into you, warm breath puffing against your cheek. This. This is what you'd wanted— for your breasts to squish tight to Eddie's chest, for his lips to seek yours, warm and soft and wet as you writhe against him and he thrusts up into your tight heat.

You pull from the kiss, noses brushing as you whine against his mouth, "Fuck me, Eddie, please—"

Eddie sucks in a sharp breath and exhales an eager groan, breath puffing warm against your lips. Your brow pinches as you stare into beautiful brown, arms tightening around his neck, fingers sinking into soft curls. You inhale that smoke voice up close as he fucks into you, splitting you open so deliciously. "Makin' me feel so good, sweetheart," he pants out. "So needy for me."

It's not particularly daring, not as it is, but you can make it so. Turn it bold. "I do need you, Eddie," you admit, soft and whiny, hoping he understands. "I need you—"

Eddie presses his face close, and as he whines against your lips, you bloom. You thrill and pulse with pleasure, licking with tingling fire that tightens in your belly. Arms and legs quivering, you rest your sweaty forehead against his. He jostles you in his grip, readjusting his hands as he grunts, "Tell me when it feels good, okay? Tell me—"

He hikes you up a little higher, hips seeking as best he can in this limiting position, angling until you gasp and your fingers tighten in his hair when he ruts against that soft spot inside you that sparks bright. "Right there," you breathe, "right there, Ed, right there—"

Eddie kisses you, humming desperately as you whimper. You can feel his arms trembling as he holds you steady while the tingle spreads again between your hips, tightening up to your navel as he drives against that spot over and over and over. But this time, you're not afraid. You feel nothing but bliss as you press a tender kiss to Eddie's lips, breaking away with a little panting mewl. "You're gonna m-make me cum again, Eddie," you wobble, voice airy and soft as you communicate your pleasure.

Eddie exhales sharply again, a desperate sigh as he pulls his face back to look into your eyes. His brow is pinched, skin damp with sweat, wide eyes dark and deep. "Cum for me, y/n," he rasps, arms tightening, "It's okay. I've got you— I'll never let you go."

And Eddie's voice is so tender, so soft, and his gaze is so gentle… you think these might be more of those daring words wrapped up in the guise of sweet talk, but you have no time to dwell on them as your pleasure overtakes you and your mind goes blank.

You keen as your orgasm rips through you, white-hot and more intense than the first, as Eddie keeps moving inside you. You blossom with wondrous feeling, tingling pleasure rushing through your tense limbs as you gasp and writhe in his grip; Eddie grunts, working hard to hold you as you squirm on him while you whimper out the depth of your feeling. But Eddie doesn't let you go, just like he promised. He holds tight until you relax, arms shaking as you cling to his shoulders. "Eddie," you gasp a dry sob, and he peppers your cheek with kisses, moving gently inside you. Your want spills out from your lips in trembling words, fingers shaking where they cup the nape of his neck. "Please, fill me up, Eddie. Cum inside me. I want you, I want all of you, please, give me everything—"

Caught up in the heat of the moment, it's more daring than you intend. You feel suddenly that you've peeled your own layers back, exposing the green at the center of you, the white of your flowers, the tiny fruit that has sprouted on your growth. Fear, sharp and acrid, pierces your chest as you realize what you may have revealed. It freezes out from your sternum, frosting along your ribs—

But then Eddie moans, smoke voice tight and high and so achingly sincere. "Anything for you—"

And when his hips stutter, pressing up into yours, and Eddie digs his nose into your neck, you gasp, nearly overwhelmed at the feeling of his seed spilling warm inside you. Your eyes prick with tears as you hold Eddie close, cradling his head as his length jerks and twitches until it finally falls still. Your chin trembles as you rest your cheek against Eddie's hair, reeling with emotion as he holds you for a long moment.

That fear that pierced you— it wanes, soothed as Eddie pulls out and lays you down flat, draping himself over you as quickly as he can as if he doesn't want to leave you for a second. Your thighs are sore and burning, and his cum is leaking thick between them, but it doesn't matter once Eddie presses his weight down on you, enveloping you in black and white. He's still panting, deep, gasping breaths of exertion, skin damp and hot as it sticks to you. You brush back the curls clinging to his cheeks as your emotion wells up, and you're struck with the desire to say more. Shakily, you stare into the light of Eddie's brown eyes and manage a whisper: "Eddie, I—"

But the words choke, sticking in your chest as you gaze at him. Your eyes begin to dart; your thumb traces his jaw, stroking quickly as frustration builds in your chest. Eddie must see your rising distress because he softens, shushing you quietly before he presses his lips to your brow, lingering there. Your breath shudders; bitter and wanting, you're desperate to fight against the blockage and tell him. But when Eddie presses tender kisses to your lips, slow and gentle, you finally give in to his patient coaxing. You release, easing your effort as you wrap your arms around him, drawing your fingertips over the planes of his back.

You cuddle naked in the back of Eddie's van for a long time, smelling of sex and smoke. Cleaning up, getting dressed, checking the time— none of these are your concern, and neither are they Eddie's as he works his fingers gently through the tangles of your hair, and you drag your nails lightly along the ink of his arm, tracing patterns into his wrist and then up to his shoulder. Your legs are woven with his as you lay side-by-side, Eddie propped on an elbow, your head pillowed by the plush material of his folded joggers.

As you draw your finger up a vein in his neck, the sight of Eddie's tank strewn nearby has you musing absently, "I didn't know you work out at the gym."

Eddie eyes you with a slanted smirk. "What," he snaps playfully, "you callin' me a weakling?"

You flush, heat flooding your cheeks as he calls you out. "No! Clearly not!" you defend, withdrawing your finger. "I just—" you cut off, no excuse readily, and he chuckles huskily while you pout.

"Between working at the shop and carrying gear, it pays to keep in shape." Eddie lifts his arm and flexes his bicep, waggling his eyebrows at you wolfishly.

You pretend to roll your eyes, but a smile breaks free. "So, was this gonna be leg day?" You tease, eyeing his pale thighs pointedly.

He laughs again, and you savor the sound and the bright flash of his eyes as he murmurs, "Still got a full-body workout, after all." He ducks close, hand cupping your cheek and stroking back your hair as he kisses you slowly, languidly, like you have all the time in the world.

You hum fondly, contentedly, hand settling again on his shoulder and drawing lightly across his chest. You've been close to Eddie many times over the last five months, but you've never been able to take your time examining the dark body armor he wears— the ink that scrawls across his arms and chest, which you've been captivated by since the first time you saw him on stage. "I love your tattoos," you tell him, and the bright smile that stretches his cheeks makes you warm with fondness. You trace the bats at the crook of his elbow, adding, "I feel like I've never really looked at them. I mean, I've seen them a bunch of times, but…." Your gaze drops to the strange dice on his wrist, thumb stroking the tendons there. You know what you're really trying to say— that even though you've seen them, you don't know them. Don't know why Eddie has them; don't know what they mean to him. And you want to know more about Eddie— to see inside him, down to whatever grows at his core.

"Ask me 'bout 'em," Eddie offers, and your wide eyes dart to his. His face is calm, brown eyes clear, mouth crooked with an easy smile.

"Okay," you say shyly, peering down at his arm. You start with an easy one— the ink on the wrist you'd been stroking. "What are these?"

"Those are dice," he replies, gentle and free of judgment despite the obviousness of the answer. "Used in several different contexts, but I have 'em because of a game called Dungeons and Dragons. I was really big into it in high school. Ran a club and everything."

A tentative smile blooms bright on your face, and Eddie's eyes soften as he sees your enthusiasm. "Really?"

"Yeah," he says. "It's a role-playing fantasy game, kind of like League of Legends. Have you ever played that?" You shake your head, and he seems to settle in, head resting more comfortably against his palm. "Well, you basically—"

Patiently, thoroughly, Eddie shares himself with you as you examine the tapestry of his ink. He walks you through the weaving of old and new alike— explaining the fuzzy blow-out of that demon head on his chest, done by a kitchen-scratcher when he was seventeen, and the crisp lines of the hobbit door along the curve of his shoulder to bridge the gap between two other pieces, completed last year. A clear pattern emerges— dark imagery, chaotic and unruly in its skulls and snakes and knives, scrawls of metal lyrics, and anti-conformist sayings proclaiming individuality and rebellion. But his collection is not without outliers. You spot a small raccoon, shaded softly and nestled in the crook of his left elbow. "'Cause I always fed the ones around the trailer park," Eddie tells you, smile manic as he adds, "Used to drive the neighbors nuts when they started hanging on their porches looking for more scraps." You grin at his boyishness, head settling in that crook to cover the raccoon as you snuggle closer. And that's when you see it— innocuous, just below his clavicle, small compared to the black widow spider nearby. A simple outline, a stamp of white quartz skin in the heavy black surrounding it, one you've never noticed before. You raise your head to peer at it, brow crinkling confusedly.

"Is that a…" you squint, head tilting. "...a mug?"

Eddie turns his face down, chin wrinkling into folds as he pushes his shoulder forward to see what you're looking at. When a corner of his lips tugs up into a gentle smile, and he looks back at you, his eyes tell you it isn't because he'd forgotten about it. "Kind of different from everything else, right?" You nod wordlessly, and he lays back flat against the blanket, eyes scanning the ceiling, plush lips slack as he goes quiet. You nestle against the plush of his joggers, eyes locked on the side of his face. He looks suddenly pensive and wistful. The dip in Eddie's mood is obvious, and you're about to tell him he doesn't need to talk about it, but then his smoke voice is filling up the back of the van— hushed, low, but unwavering.

"I told you I grew up in a trailer park," he says, brown eyes fixed on the soft glow of the ceiling light. "But I didn't always live there."

Eddie tells you about Indianapolis. About his mother, how the house had smelled of shea butter and burned plastic until she skipped out when he was seven, track marks sunk in her arms. About his father, how Eddie spent evenings in the backseat of a dark car parked outside rundown stash houses until he was old enough to come inside. "He didn't teach me how to fish," he tells you, "but he made sure I knew how to hotwire." He tells you about the drunken rants, the acerbic insults he weathered once his mother left father and son trapped together. About the bruises on his stomach and his arms, but never on his face. Never where they couldn't be hidden.

And once your chest is heavy with the weight of your sorrow, Eddie's lips quirk in a tiny grin. "And then there was Wayne." His uncle, his father's gruff older brother, who plucked him from that house and gave him the only bedroom in his tiny trailer without a word of complaint. He slept on a fold-up in the living room, pulling doubles to put food in Eddie's stomach, a roof over his head. Providing a refuge Eddie could hide in until he healed and emerged, blinking in the sunlight, finally able to be himself at fourteen years old. "He has this gigantic mug collection, and every Christmas, I get him a new one. The most ridiculous one I can find. Used to hide stuff in them, too, to see if he'd ever find them." He chuckles, a husky sound of fondness. "He never did."

Eddie settles, brown eyes sliding to yours as he says quietly, "Wayne's more of a dad to me than my father ever was." You marvel at him— how Eddie could be broken into something rugged and sharp but still remain gentle at his core. Your heart aches for the boy he was, but it yearns, it longs, for the man he is.

"I'm so sorry, Eddie," you whisper, voice thick with emotion. "You didn't deserve any of that. But I'm so glad you had him." When that little wrinkle forms on his forehead, you smooth it with your thumb. Your touch is gentle as you draw it over his brow, stroking slowly. "To go through that and still be as kind, as good as you are…." You swallow thickly. "It's something rare, I think."

Eddie stares at you for a moment, and you hold his gaze until he shifts, rolling over.

Rolling towards you.

Rolling onto his side, head landing on your shoulder as your arms wrap around him. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, pressing himself to the length of your body. One hand strokes his hair while the other presses flat to the warmth of his back, and your chin rests against the top of his head.

And there you both lay— still, quiet, breathing one another in. And as you hold Eddie, as he bares himself to you, your roots stretch. Your leaves quiver and your white flowers spread their petals, blossoming soft and full. And the fruit that sprouted abundantly along your green begins to grow plump. It ripens until it hangs heavily from the vine: succulently red, deeply sweet.

Latent and ready to provide nourishment; just waiting for the right moment to burst from your tongue.

–

Eventually, the evening must end. No longer can you just pretend that the back of Eddie's van is all that exists.

It's nearly nine-thirty by the time he pulls onto your street, and when the van rolls to a stop against the curb outside your building, you take a moment to shoulder your purse and check that your phone is inside. You pat down the length of your hair, smoothing the wrinkles from your scrubs, anything to delay the moment you'll leave the smoke and artificial pine of the van's cabin. Anything to keep the tangle of your emotions quelled by the light of Eddie's brown eyes and the rasp of his callouses on your cheek.

As it's fluttering around your thigh, Eddie gently snatches your hand, and you bite your lip as he slowly weaves his fingers between yours. Your eyes catch beautiful brown as Eddie stares at you mutely, gaze all melty soft, the same way you feel inside. Deliberately, you squeeze his fingers; deliberately, he squeezes back.

There are no parting words from either of you. Instead, your hand slips from his, and when you finally step outside, the sweltering heat has waned. Now, the air is balmy like turquoise sea water.

You spend the elevator ride up to your floor chewing on your thumbnail, mind racing to decide how you'll justify the length of your absence. But when you finally turn the doorknob, the interior of your apartment is dark and still. Steve is not yet home. You check your phone; there's a text from ten minutes ago. It's Steve telling you he should be home in about twenty minutes.

This stolen time without your boyfriend is welcomed, and you shed your disheveled scrubs immediately, heading straight for the shower. The spray washes the sweat from your skin. Conditioner smoothes the tangles in your hair. Soap washes the seed from between your thighs. You take your time in the steam, letting it loosen the tangle of your emotions until you can lay them out flat, uncoiling each strand to examine its meaning.

When you emerge, swiping your hand across the condensation on your mirror, you gaze at your reflection. At the brightness of your eyes. The healthy flush of your cheeks. The soft sheen of your hair. The radiance of your skin, a radiance that glistens from the swollen red flesh of fruit now fully grown at the center of you. You acknowledge the truth, calling back to the surface that realization you'd just begun to fathom sleeping next to Steve in the hotel room, watching Eddie's back rise and fall in the next bed over:

Steve Harrington is your boyfriend, but you aren't in love with him anymore. And your feelings for Eddie are stronger than what you felt for Steve, even at the beginning. Because Steve never shone a light on the deep earth concealed at the bottom of you. He never planted a seed, tended your roots, or encouraged your growth. And you aren't angry at him for it. You think he would have if he could. He simply hadn't known how to.

Words don't come easy to you, and you know these won't, either. But you're going to do it anyway.

Tomorrow, you're going to break up with him.

#tkym #blueywrites #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic #steve harrington

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