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gwndolnfrankln · 5 months

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🗣 WRITE FOR FATHER PAUL 🗣

FINALLY SOMEONE ASK ME TO DO IT!!! Buckle up bc I have no self control so this is at least 2k words and I rushed to edit it >:( okay bye

Cherry Wine

Summary: Father Paul is on the road to damnation, he drags you down with him.

Warning: Religious imagery, religious themes, religion in general. Blood play(?) There's literally no smut but there's some bloody kissing. Power imbalance maybe, definitely older man/younger woman bc l.o.l

When he turns up at your door, soaked in rain and whipped by the wind– you tell him he's got the wrong house and he does, there's no doubt about it. You didn't go to church, never been— you were raised agonistic and you stuck to it, clinging to the only thing your parents ever left you with shaky hands.

In your house, even now, God was a whisper, an afterthought in your darkest moments. He was always a murmur of thanks, a shout of surprise, and a wail of grief— God wasn't a friend, barely an acquaintance and yet he sent one of his strongest soldiers to your doorstep in one of his worst storms. Father Paul looks like a soaked weasel in a way, his hair clings to his face in little ringlets that he messily swiped at whenever rain dripped down.

He looks happy that you recognize him, there's a light he tries to hide when you murmur his name, a smile he tries to dim and he even tries to joke with you. “I was, uh, in the neighborhood, going door to door hoping to spread the word of god.”

You frown, leaning against your door. “I thought only Jehovah's witness did that.”

He offers you a grin as he readjusts his bag, his throat clearing. “I was hoping to steal some of their business, you know, get a headcount on how many people I can convince to celebrate Easter. ” The wind blows hard again, and he steels himself, blinking rapidly against the wind and rain, and his smile drops, just slightly. “It was you or Beverly– and I would rather take my chances with someone I hardly know than hole up with her for the night.”

That… that makes you grin, just a little, a jump of your lips and a soft laugh. Opening the door a little wider, you allow him a glimpse inside your house as you drawl, “You really God-fearing?”

Father Paul is already nodding before you finish your sentence, and you're moving out of the way and allowing him to hustle in. He's shaking like a leaf as you close your door, watching you with curious eyes, “Of course. Why?”

“I hope a God-fearing man won't murder me in my own house, is all.” You shrug and there's a flicker of disbelief that crosses his face. “I didn't mean anything ‘bout it, just can never be too safe.”

“Right–um, of course.” He's nodding again but he doesn't look too sure of himself, he jumps when you tell him to take his shoes off and leave them by the door and he struggles to do so as you round a corner and disappear deep into your house and he follows, only after a moment's pause and what sounds like a small prayer.

There's barely any decoration in your home, Paul notes, there's one photo of you and a group of people who are smiling wildly at the camera, a framed and signed record by Prince and only two pictures of people he's never seen before, one a family photo filled to the brim with kids and an older couple and the other, just kids in the midst of playing— blind to the camera but their joy forever memorialized on film.

“That’s me and my sisters.”

Paul jumps, his hand yanking away from the picture frame like it burns him. When did he even move to touch it? It must have been a haze because you managed to sneak away and return with a capri-sun and a cosmic brownie– you look a little nervous as you offer it to him, your lips pulling downwards as you mutter about the lack of food–you apologize to him, swearing that if he gave you a few minutes you'd cook him up a meal fit for a pastor.

He bites, he's too curious for his own good. “What meal is fit for a pastor?”

You offer him a smile as you rock on your heels that has him smiling in return. “Grilled cheese and grape juice. It's not the body or blood of Christ but–”

Paul laughs, shaking his head. “A grilled cheese sounds lovely, thank you.”

Neither of you talk about your lack of presence at church that night.

***

The next time you see Father Paul, you think, if there was truly a God, he was testing you.

For what? That could be anyone's guess but this felt like a test. Out of all the places you lived in your life, Crockett Island was the oddest– every other week there was something, an annual barbeque, a dance, or a get-together, and today, it was a picnic. There was some story behind it, Erin Greene had told you over coffee, a story that changed depending on who you asked, a story you think that's mostly forgotten but people still got up and came for the company or free food.

You were the latter, with a tin filled Swedish meatballs you were hoping to get in and out– place your tray of food down, make the biggest plate of food you could, and leave with your wits and the comforting thought you didn't have to talk to anyone.

But Father Paul sees you arrive and tears himself away from Bev Keane and rushes up to you with a smile that makes you squint. “You don't–” He doesn't let you finish, already taking the tin from your hands. “Ooooh-kay then.”

“You saved me again.” He whispers, still grinning, “Beverly had me cornered— she thinks the church needs a new roof and she thinks I can convince the Mayor to agree to it.”

You look past him, a tight smile forming on your lips as said woman's eyes dart between the two of you with a frown. “That’s why she's glaring at me?”

“I’m sorry.” He doesn't look sorry, he's still smiling down at you, walking backwards towards the food table, you give him a breathless laugh, shaking your head and he turns just before he bumps into the table.

“S’fine.” You shrug, you take another look at Bev and she's still looking, still frowning but it's directed more at you than Father Paul. “Bev has been giving the evil eye since I moved in– it gets worse when I turn down her invitations for church.”

“Why is that?”

Your eyes snap back to him in confusion, “Maybe because she's a little crazy?”

Father Paul shakes his head, but he doesn't disagree as he puts the tin on the table. “No– uh, why don't you go to church?” He runs his hands down the sides of his jeans and your eyes follow. Do other priests wear skinny jeans? “I mean, I lead the sermons and this may sound a little biased and a little big-headed but I think I make them interesting– I, um, make them fun. More than half the island goes but you… you don't.”

You make a noise at the back of your throat, your shoulders tense as if you're going to shrug but stop midway through as you look away from him, grabbing a paper plate. “I celebrate Easter.”

Father Paul blinks. “What?”

You scoop a good amount of your meatballs onto your place, then move to the half-opened yellow rice and green beans. “You don't have to convince me to celebrate Easter– I do, kinda. I used to put out little candy eggs for my cousins—” Your hand shoots out, grabbing onto Sheriff Hassan as he passes with Ali at his side, “That’s halal, sheriff.” You point to your meatballs and grin when Ali instantly turns towards them as Hassan murmurs his thanks.

You turn back to the table, scooping and dumping more food onto your plate– this time it's potato salad. “And I celebrate Christmas, not for the gifts— I go to the mainland and I visit family, I volunteer at homeless shelters.” You slide further down the table, and he follows, watching as you dig out a hefty size of cornbread. “I’m not Jehovah's witness, Father. Nor do I want to be.”

“You aren't Catholic either, or Christian for that matter.”

You nod, still not looking at him, you're debating adding deviled eggs to your already packed plate. “Nor am I Muslim, a satanist, or an atheist.”

“You believe in God?”

You settle for five deviled eggs, four really, as you quickly stuff one in your mouth before answering him and he fights back a smile. “Sure.” You shrug, “There could be a God out there, could be a lot of things out there. Vampires, aliens, werewolves, and ghosts.”

Father Paul is staring at you like you just walked on water— a thought that makes you laugh— the disbelief that dances across his face is odd like it's mixed with something, dare you say, he finds you amusing. He opens his mouth, ready to say something, anything really because he doesn't want this conversation to end but a bell rings. Church bells.

The two of you make eye contact but only you smile. “It was nice seeing you, Father.”

Just like before, he bites. That damned curiosity again, “You aren't staying?”

You grin, grabbing another deviled egg and stuffing it into your mouth. “Nope.”

***

It goes on like that for a while. The little game of cat and mouse— Father Paul corners you, telling you stories of the bible in a voice that's too soft and caring. He knows the words by heart, knows how to work it into every conversation— how to make everything a lesson, to make everything have a meaning and you let him. You think he knows that too.

You could avoid Bev Keane who did the same thing but with harsher words. You could dip away from her notice or make her red and mad in the face where she gives up and stomps off, cursing you to damnation under her breath. But with Father Paul, it's different– you let him tell his tales, you tell your own and he listens, he really does. There's a hand he offers and you take it– every time you see him, you take it.

After a while, he doesn't ask about the church or try to get you there anymore. He does talk about it though, about the alter boy or Bev, he still tells his stories and you tell yours— he touches you and it lingers, but you try to think nothing of it, he's a man of God, best of his men and strongest of his soldiers, Father Paul stands on your porch in the dark of night drenched in blood.

“I, uh, didn’t know where else to go.” He says it so quietly and yet, he flinches at the sound of his own voice. He wipes a hand down the length of his face and cringes, he smears more blood. “This was a mistake, God, this was a mistake– I'm sorry, I should go. I should leave.”

You don't say anything, you're too busy gaping, wide-eyed, and dizzy. He begins to turn and that's what snaps you out of it. “Is— are you okay?”

He stops and looks down at his hands, clenching and unclenching his fingers then he looks up and his eyes flash gold, a trick of light— you tell yourself as he gives you a smile that looks more like a grimace the longer you look. “I feel alive.”

You nod, licking your lips. “Okay. Okay.” You clench the doorknob between your sweaty fingers as he draws closer, his eyes still glinting gold. He doesn't look away from you and it's like he's transfixed– for the first time since you met Father Paul, you shy away from holding his gaze.

You want to ask a question, the question— did you hurt someone? It's heavy on the tip of your tongue, you need to ask it– you know you do, that somewhere out there, there could be a person hurt or worse, dead. But your lips don't move, you don't want to know, if he hurt someone, you wouldn't want to know— you wouldn't want to break the image, the illusion you formed of him, the untouchables pastor, a man too good for this world, too good for you. By the time you come to from your questioning, Father Paul stands in front of you, gazing down at you with wide, glorious gold eyes and you can only whisper. “So— did you want to come in?”

“I don't think that's a good idea.” But he doesn't move to leave.

“Oh.” there's a pause, a heavy one where the two of you simply gaze at each other. You're trying desperately in your mind to explain this, to snub out the fear that wants to climb up your throat and slam the door. The fear that wants to turn tail and call for Sheriff Hassan, for anyone while Paul stares at you like he's seeing you for the first time.

He can hear it now, the steady climb of your heart– it pounds in your chest, a steady thump, thump, thump, as he lets his eyes take you in– from the way your eyelashes curl, the way your nose scrunches, and the way your bottom lip disappears between your teeth as you gnaw on it, you aren't scared of him, despite the sight of blood and his nonsense words, your heart doesn't speed up in fear nor does it skip or sputter, you're nervous, you're worried for him.

It stirs something in him, something he pushed down and it forced it to lie dormant— fueled by the blood, Father Paul doesn't think, he just acts. He kisses you.

He really kisses you, forcing you back into your house as you gasp against his lips. You don't fight it, don't fight him as he crowds you against your wall with bloody hands cupping your face and pulling you closer and it feels like an eternity before any tension melts from you and you meet his kiss in kind.

It's frantic, teeth clinking against each other, it's iron and salt bleeding against your touch as you yank at his hair pulling him closer. It's wrong– it should feel wrong, the swap of spit, the brush of tongues. But it doesn't feel wrong, it feels the farthest thing from it– it feels like heaven when you pull at his hair again and he groans into your mouth. His bloody hands push up at your nightshirt and you try to pull back and watch him but you move too fast, his teeth nick your tongue and lip and you flinch with a whimper and just like that, the spell is broken.

He rips himself away from you, colliding into your wall and your house shakes. His eyes are no longer glowing and he shakes, shakes, and shakes– “I’m sorry, I'm sorry– I shouldn't have– we shouldn't have-”

“It’s okay, it's okay—” But you're bleeding, it pours from your mouth far faster than it should, you cup your mouth with steady hands, you're still looking at him but he's looking at the blood. “Paul, it's okay—”

“This was a mistake.” He whispers as he backs away from you, “This was all a mistake— a test, yes– god sent me a test and I failed, I failed it.”

“...What?”

Father Paul looks at you, or you think he does, he's muttering– mumbling and licking the drying blood on his lips. He's praying, you realize, a soft prayer, too soft for your ears. “I have to— I'm sorry, I'm sorry–” and for once, he seems to mean it. He leaves in a flurry of movements, and the door slams behind him on his way out.

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gwndolnfrankln · 5 months

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i want a priest but not in a “i want a priest to fuck me” way, i want a priest in a “i wish there was a priest at the small church in my town. a priest so devoted to his faith he’d barely notice me but once he does? i wish to be only thing possessing enough power to bring him away from his God” way

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gwndolnfrankln · 5 months

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I made a meme lol

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gwndolnfrankln · 5 months

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bella pouring cheerios moodboard

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gwndolnfrankln · 5 months

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gwndolnfrankln · 6 months

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thinking about mike leaning against the doorway watching fem!reader put abby to bed and it's SO FLUFFY.

no bc i love this!

imagine Abby is upset because you won’t leave Mike for a second. she practically drags you to her room; showing you her drawings and playing games from her closet.

mike wasn’t really worried. he knew his sister didn’t trust a lot of people and this was adorable to him. his two favorite girls getting along. he would check up on you momentarily.

for his last time checking, he almost cried at the scene in front of him.

you had tucked Abby in, softly singing as song with her as she slowly drifted to sleep. his mind began to race with thoughts.

as you made it to the bed, he cuddled up next to you, holding you close to him before whispering, “when will we have kids?”

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gwndolnfrankln · 6 months

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hello

are we just not gonna talk about how fine this man is

wait am i crazy

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gwndolnfrankln · 6 months

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Pooh's Heffalump Halloween Movie (2005) dir. Elliot M. Bour and Saul Andrew Blinkoff

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gwndolnfrankln · 10 months

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can i plllllleeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaase have a bubbly reader offering miguel a hug (as a joke bc hes grumpy) and he says no at first but later on when hes rlly upset abt whatever he puts his pride in his pocket and asks for one??? i know tht man is touchstarved a good hug might fix him

wait shut up. this is adorable :((

✫ ;: .. A HUG?

miguel o’hara + fem!reader

fluff; that’s literally it; maybe a bit of angst??

“And why are you so grumpy?” You slid across the bench, as Miguel sat, minding his own business and eating. He doesn’t spare you a glance as you just rested your hands on your elbows, tilting your head with a smile.

“What is she doing?” Gwen asks, from her farther seat, next to Hobie, Pavitr, Miles, and (occasionally) Peter. They are all staring at you and your bubbly nature.

“Ah, let her figure out how antisocial he is.” Peter shrugs, adjusting Mayday’s spider beanie.

“I think she already knows.” Miles says.

“That’s probably why she’s over there. To “cheer” him up.” Pav adds.

“Good luck with tha’” Hobie lightly chuckles, resting back against Pav as he swings his legs up, watching what he’d call a “show”.

“You look like you could use a friend.” You say, finally making Miguel look at you. His expression was the definition of ‘indifferent’. Your smile didn’t fall. “Or maybe an acquaintance you can talk to?”

Miguel’s expression doesn’t shift. You nod. “Imma have you figured out soon…I promise.” Your eyes slightly narrow in an inspection of him. Then he turns back to his food.

“It’s going well.” Pav sarcastically comments back at their table, making Hobie scoff.

“You know…” you say, fingers lightly tapping the table. “There’s things that can help with being moody.”

“I’m not moody.”

“Ah huh!” You softly cheer. “You spoke. Progress.”

Miguel looks exasperated as he shuts his eyes. He just wanted to enjoy his empanada.

“But you wanna know what will help?”

“I’m not…moody.” He repeats a little slower, to make sure you heard.

“Yeah you are. But it’s okay. Cause you wanna know what will help?”

“You clearly want to tell me.” Miguel breathes out.

“Mhm.” You smile. “A hug.”

Miguel shifts his gaze to you, blinking a few times.

From the farther table, the spider gang is still thoroughly invested. “Oh shit, he looks annoyed.” Miles comments.

“What do think she said?” Gwen asks, resting against the table.

“Tha’ he looks like a wannabe gangster.” Hobie says, now rocking his leg slightly back and forth as he watches.

“A hug would help. It helps me.” You are saying, still staring at Miguel, smiling.

Miguel clicks his jaw, before he’s standing, muttering to himself.

“Let me know!” You call to his leaving form with a chuckle.

;;

Later that night Miguel is pacing his office, just back from a mission that went terribly. The anomaly got away. And Miguel is beating himself up inside. How could he let that happen?

You’re walking down HQ’s hallway, looking for something you had dropped. As you scanned the floor, you hear muttering that reminded you of earlier today. Miguel.

You stopped by his slightly cracked open office door. You carefully knock. Miguel swings it open, sighing upon seeing you. “Now’s not a good time.”

You smile. “Don’t worry. I just want to ask if you’ve seen a pen.”

“A pen?” Miguel’s brows furrow.

“Mhm. I lost it.” You reply. “You look stressed.”

“I’m not—“ he takes a deep breath. “I’m fine. And no I haven’t seen your pen.”

“No worries.” You begin to back away. “Let me know if you see it though. It’s got a weird blue design on it.”

Miguel’s mind is whirring for some reason, as he finds himself calling for you to stop and turn back around. “Did you mean it?” He muttered it so quietly that you almost missed it.

You’re now walking back, eyeing him. “Mean what?”

Miguel’s tongue pokes out against his cheek, feeling his entire body drenched with exhaust and self pity. And putting his pride away he says “A hug.”

“A hug?” Your smile has widened. “I thought you weren’t moody?”

“I’m not. I just— you know what forget I asked.” Miguel goes to turn away feeling stupid, but then you’re reaching forward, wrapping your arms around his neck, with a smile.

At first Miguel doesn’t know where to place his hands, but you stay put, just resting your body against his, as your cheek slightly squishes up against his shoulder. Then Miguel slowly—very slowly—wraps his arms around your midriff, and hugs you back.

Miguel doesn’t what to admit that his body has instantly relaxed upon feeling yours against his. Your hand had begun to softly soothe the top of his back. Just drawing in slow circles, that makes his muscles stop their tensing.

And that hug wasn’t the last time it happened.

Now Miguel would secretly search for you. Big on the ‘secret’ part though, because he can’t have anyone else knowing he likes to hug you. No that would cause too many implications and destroy his well thought out ‘in control’ demeanour.

So when he’d find you walking alone—something he noticed you did a lot. And after he’d make sure that you were both in a desolate enough place, he’d softly grab your arm, pulling you somewhere even more desolate before he’s wrapping his arms around you in a much needed hug.

You didn’t mind. Hugs had always been your love language with family and friends alike. Though you were surprised by how often Miguel would now seek you out, just so you could rest your head on his shoulder and draw patterns on his back.

He claimed it was just for relaxation and that you shouldn’t have offered him a hug if you would’ve asked so many questions. So you let him, his own hand having gradually drawn its own patterns on your waist.

He liked hearing and feeling your breathing. Your breath by his ear sent almost cleansing shivers through him. And the feel of the rise and fall of your chest against his own made his usually racing heartbeat calm down to match with yours.

He liked the calmness your body gave him. And deep down he knew he now craved it.

;;

You were all in a different universe. Gwen, Miles, Pavitr, Hobie, Peter, Mayday, Miguel and you. Jess had to take care of another mission so Miguel very clearly claimed how he’s stuck with you all, his scowl very present.

It was midway through trying to catch this anomaly when Miguel’s gaze gets caught up in a man and his baby. And as you stopped, noticing his focused gaze first, you identified the man and baby as Miguel and his daughter.

You didn’t know much about Miguel’s daughter. Just that in his universe she had died. And now as Miguel watches a variant of himself with a variant of his daughter he can feel his body tensing.

He’s never had the misfortune of seeing variants of his family before. And now really wasn’t the time to dwell and sink deeper into his mind but he just can’t help it.

“Is he okay?” Whispered Miles to Peter.

Peter shakes his head. “But there’s nothing we can do about it. No one can take him out of episodes like this.”

Because everyone could see that inside Miguel was fuming, so close to exploding that everyone had almost taken a step back.

You stared at Miguel, watching as his chest heaved with a racing heart.

You remember one time he had muttered to you, head in your neck. You weren’t sure if you were actually meant to hear it or not. But he had said how your breathing slowed his breathing. Or something along those lines. Because after he had said that he had drawn you in tighter, keeping his large hands around your body.

So now you edge closer. And this could be a terrible idea, you realise that. Your friends seem to as well.

“Y/n!” Gwen hisses quietly, watching as you edged closer to the ‘beast’ or how everyone else was treating him like.

You all needed Miguel to focus to capture this especially dangerous anomaly. You couldn’t have him trapped in his mind teetering on the edge.

So you continued to walk forward, and as everyone stared in shock, you carefully wrapped your hands around his neck in a hug. You did so very lightly, to give him any room for rejection. You were actually waiting for the rejection.

But then, to everyone’s shock, Miguel wraps his arms around your waist, just like every other time. And he’s found you fit against him so nicely, it felt so comfortable. Your heartbeat was against his now, and the slower tempo made Miguel sink into your neck, his arms now engulfing you.

Shocked now isn’t a big enough word. Because you were hugging Miguel. And it wasn’t the ‘you’ part everyone was surprised by. It was the ‘Miguel’ part. He was clearly eager to hug you back, and they all watched as Miguel practically became putty in your hold.

Yes. Miguel craved your hugs now. And there was nothing you could do to stop him from bringing you in and keeping you close. You were now his comfort and he a wasn’t going to let that go so easily.

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gwndolnfrankln · 11 months

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gwndolnfrankln · 1 year

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In the silence

• Pairing: Joel Miller × Fem!Reader

• Tags: Fluff x100. Protective & caring Joel. Lingering looks and soft touching. Touch and loved starved. Hidden feelings. Feelings of pain, self hatred and feeling undeserving of love. Sweet and tender short fic.

• Word count: 1.3k

Crossposting on wattpad and AO3.

The sun lit the sky on fire and slowly faded into a cotton candy swirl of light pink and blue. It was one of the only beautiful things left in this world. Beauty was a rare sight. So, when Joel first saw you he was dazed. He couldn’t think or speak properly, but you never noticed. He was good at hiding it and when you don’t know him that well you wouldn't know the subtle differences. Ellie sure did. She made fun of Joel in the quiet moments when you wouldn’t notice. The moments you’d walk away and he would look a few seconds longer than normal. The moments you’d fall asleep and he would silently offer a shoulder or his jacket. Ellie would giggle when she would catch it and he would shoot her a look before pretending nothing had happened. Sometimes she would call him out directly and he'd play his part of acting as if nothing affected him.

“Come on,” Ellie whispered a little too loudly at Joel as she looked over at your head resting on his shoulder.

Joel didn’t even look Ellie’s way. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of his reaction, so he kept his eyes on the road. The truck came to a stop shortly after, finally reaching the destination for the night. Joel says it’s safe and you and Ellie trust him.

After setting up for the evening and Joel scoping out the area, Ellie nestles into her sleeping bag. Joel stands and waits. He always waits for you and Ellie to get settled before he rests.

“Thank you,” You say to Joel as you pull down on the burgundy oversized shirt that he gave you. After a long day of traveling and running into some trouble, your shirt was ripped. Joel pulled a shirt from his bag and offered it to you without hesitation.

Joel nodded and the corner of his lips pulled up ever so slightly that you almost didn’t notice it. He was a man of few words, but his words were in his body language. You learned this quickly.

You struggled to get the zipper to unzip on your sleeping bag and you groan because this is the third time this has happened in the past couple of months. It always happens when you’re overly tired and desperate for sleep. Joel leans down without a word and in one swoop he swaps your sleeping bag with his. You look up at him and meet his gaze. His eyes linger on yours and your stomach flutters under the weight of his stare. His chest moves unevenly and then he looks away quickly. But not quick enough for Ellie not to notice. Her soft laugh fills the silence and you can hear Joel sigh as he walks over to the trees to take one last look around.

“Goodnight, Ellie.” You say with a shake of your head and a small smile that you can’t seem to hide.

Ellie mutters something sarcastic before turning away to close her eyes. You hold back a laugh and shift to lay on your side. Your eyes are heavy, but you keep them open. It’s something you can’t seem to help, searching for Joel in the dark. There is a sense of relief and calm when you finally see him. It’s too dark for him to see you watching him, so you don’t try to hide it. He walks around the trees with his gun in hand and his eyes alert. You wonder if he ever truly sleeps. He’s taken the responsibility of the protector without question. You can’t help but worry about how that weighs on him. It’s in his eyes how exhausted he is and it saddens you.

Joel eventually feels good enough to set the gun down and lay down in his sleeping bag. The zipper easily broke loose and gilded open without strain. Of course, it did, you think. You scoff without thinking and Joel looks your way. You should turn the other way, but you don’t. Instead of facing Ellie tonight, you face Joel. Maybe just this once you want to fall asleep with his face being the last thing you see.

Ellie’s soft snoring and the sound of the tree's swaying in the wind feel comforting to you, but nothing is more comforting than his eyes on you. All day long those eyes scan restlessly for danger but right now they scan for contentment.

Joel looks at you and his chest burns with longing. He thinks of your touch but is fulfilled with just your gaze. He believes he’s undeserving of you. You seem too good to be true, a beautiful piece of the world before that roams alongside him in a world that’s turned into hell. He feels as monstrous as the dead and won’t dare ruin you.

Every day he wakes up feeling inadequate when it comes to protecting you and Ellie. He guards himself in hopes to protect himself from the pain that’s bound to come. He admires you from afar and sometimes lets himself imagine what it would be like in the world before if he ever met you. But that’s as far as he goes with the feelings that brew inside. He tries not to indulge in it.

But, why can’t he look away from you tonight? The stars and moon above shine bright enough to light up your face. He can’t help but let his eyes wander over your features. He doesn’t realize it, but he’s studying you and storing your beautiful image in the back of his mind in case something ever happens. He’s always trying to find ways to protect himself from the pain of losing people he cares about.

A loud crack from the woods causes you to jump and reach out a hand across the dead grass to Joel. Your heart races with fear, but you notice Joel staring at your hand on his. He doesn’t react to the frightening sound and you figure it’s most likely a branch that broke from the heavy wind.

“You’re safe.” He says, reassuring you.

You calm down and notice Joel is still staring at your hand on his. With flushed cheeks, you begin to pull your hand back, but he grabs your hand stopping you. He gently slips his hand into yours and lifts his eyes to meet your gaze. His hand is rough and calloused, exactly how you imagined. It feels nice. It feels more than nice. Two touch deprivation people feeling high from the simple touch of a hand.

Joel tightens his grip around your hand and pulls you to him. You gasp as your sleeping bag effortlessly slides along the grass and settles next to his sleeping bag. You lay next to Joel, dressed in his shirt, hand in hand and face inches away from his. In the silence, Joel brushes his thumb gently down your face and shakes his head, in disbelief that you are actually real. He meets your stare after admiring your face.

“Goodnight,” He says quietly with his rugged voice.

You smile and whisper, “Goodnight,” before your heavy eyes close you catch Joel's subtle smile.

He watches you drift to sleep and feels more content than he has in years. He doesn’t ask for more than your hand and the closeness of your body. When you’ve desired something— someone, for so long you take your time and savor it. Especially when it’s one of the only good things left.

There is beauty in the earth, such as a sunset, but there is also beauty in people. There is beauty in wanting someone in the purest form and them wanting you back. The most intimate thing isn’t always sex, it’s lingering looks and gentle touches.

The earth rattles with hope as you both radiate happiness connected by a soft touch. You and Joel lay under the stars, hand in hand, and finally, feel something made of heaven while living in hell.

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gwndolnfrankln · 1 year

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still not over HIM

𝐄𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐌𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 + 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞

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gwndolnfrankln · 2 years

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#Steve just wanted to join a club 😔

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gwndolnfrankln · 2 years

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eddie has such a rideable face, his nose is so big and the bulb of it is so plump. he knows his power at this point. never paid attention to his nose before to be honest, but he realized that every time you rode him, after you climaxed you always gave the bulb of his nose a kiss after. at first he though it was just you being sweet as always, but he eventually caught on to you tenderness. he also maybe eavesdropped on a conversation you were having with nancy.

“y’know that guy eddie that use to be in your class?” your hair is twirled between your fingers, feet kicking in excitement to share your sexual experiences with your older friend.

she pauses for a moment, honestly not sure who you’re talking about, until you describe his long hair and leather jacket. nancy’s eyes widen as she repositions herself in bed. “no way you’re talking about eddie munson?”

eddie inches himself closer to you doorframe, back presses against the cold wall, trying everything in his power to be quiet and make sure he wasn’t seen. his hearing heightens every time you mention something about him.

your bottom lip is tucked beneath your teeth, wide smile on your face as you nod. “yes him. i’ve been helping him study so he can finally pass and-“

“the two of you had sex?” nancy cuts you off with a hushed tone, as if it’s a secret.

“nance!” you squeal from slight embarrassment, latching on to the nearest pillow to gather yourself.

“what’s it like?”

you sigh looking up at the ceiling, figuring out what you wanna talk about first and how you wanna explain it. “it’s really fun to ride his face. he has this big nose and plump lips.” you flip over on the bed, now laying on your stomach. “it feels really good.” you add.

nancy hums in agreement saying she’s had a similar experience with steve in the past, adding on other tips n tricks on how to make it feel better. she wasn’t super experienced, but she had a few tricks up her sleeve.

but that’s when eddie knew, and he took full advantage of his newfound information. constantly pulling you up to his face whenever you too are having sex. he’s already addicted, already pussy drunk. but now that he knows how much you get off to it, how much you like it, he can’t get enough.

lightly shaking his head back and forth, so the tip of his nose can rub along your clit better, the sensation making you gasp, gripping onto his bangs tighter. he’s groaning into your cunt, desperate and needy as always. addicted to the way you buck your hips against his face and use him like the rag doll he is, addicted to the way you slick has now stained his lips and lower chin, addicted to your taste, addicted to you scent, the way you look when the coil in your stomach finally snaps. he’s addicted to the way you fuck him harder, only caring about your release, how you eyes squeeze shut when you cum this hard, how your grip on his hair gets even tighter, the stinging of his roots make his dick jump. the way you’re riding out his nose and tongue, giving him the privilege to lap up anything left over that he didn’t get to earlier. addicted to the exhausted moan you give his name. and how at the end you place a tender kiss to the tip of his nose, licking your lips at the left over mess you made.

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gwndolnfrankln · 2 years

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wow

#he will be the death of me

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gwndolnfrankln · 2 years

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Eddie Munson x Tarot!Reader HC/Blurbs/Concepts

Summary: Imagine Eddie meeting a reader who does tarot… He’d be absolutely enamored.

Warnings: fem!Reader, descriptions of bullying, mentions & descriptions of tarot (duh), fluff, pining, making out

Authors Note: well, here’s this! I couldn’t get this concept out of my head so here’s this monstrosity I churned out before I start on part 3 of my other WIP. Enjoyy (:

The first time he sees you, he spots you at the end of the Hellfire table with the younger members gathered around your chair. You were sat across from Gareth who was having his cards read. Eddie cocked his head with confusion, no one ever randomly sat down to strike up conversation, only lost sheepies that had been invited into the club at the beginning of the year.

From Eddie’s first look, it seems like an exciting card game or magic trick. Then he realizes they aren’t regular playing cards—where the suits and numbers on the card should be were full pictures depicting a scene instead.

So far, Gareth had one card in front of him: the Knight of Pentacles. You were sat up on your knees, with a thick, leather- bound tarot book on the table in front of you and the deck split between your hands.

The boys mumbled eagerly amongst each other, stealing looks at the pages to see what it all meant. After shuffling the deck twice, you fanned the cards out in front of Gareth, asking him to choose three more.

Eddie sat quietly at his seat at the head of the table, not even offended like he would’ve been had they not noticed his presence like this on a regular day. Gareth’s eyes widened in excitement as Jeff nudged his shoulder to pick.

He looked up to you nervously, hesitant to touch the cards. “C’mon, don’t tell me Hellfire’s too scared for tarot.” You tutted teasingly.

Eddie smiled at the jest while Gareth laughed and wiggled his fingers above the cards. “No way, L/n, haven’t you heard? We run with the devil.”

The table erupted into laughter at Gareth’s response, Eddie’s unmistakable chuckle finally making his presence known to the crowd at the other end of the table. The boys turned their attention to Eddie immediately.

“Don’t stop on my account, please,” he said with a flourish of his hand. This was the first time he made eye contact with you, a moment he’ll never forget. At this, you nodded and accepted Gareth’s three cards he quickly selected.

You look them over one by one and set them down with the original card. You look around the table theatrically, rubbing your hands together. “Very interesting, indeed!” The boys laughed as you flipped through the book, double checking two card meanings.

“So what does it mean??” Gareth asked with quiet eagerness.

You point to the Knight of Pentacles, “This is you,” then move to the next card, the Knight of Cups, “This with your card could represent matters regarding your…love interest… there is one, right?” You raise your eyebrows knowingly.

Gareth seemed to blanch on the spot. “Tell me, Gareth, are you competing for the attention of a girl deemed…unattainable?” You ask with a crinkle in your brow, looking over the other two cards. He fumbled for words and looked to Jeff and then Eddie wordlessly, knowing they know about his need to win the heart of a certain little flautist in the school band.

You notice all the people that had left the cafeteria, only leaving a few stragglers and the full Hellfire table. Taking that as a sign to speed up, you point at the last two cards: the Lovers and the Seven of Pentacles.

“Basically what I see here is that you’ve been planting these little seeds with this girl, talking with her here and there, maybe a compliment or two? Anyway, this other guy may make you feel inferior or like his gestures land better with her than yours, but your slow and steady approach is going to bode well for you in the long run, as long as you’re patient and put in the effort.” You nod, keeping eye contact with him as he nods furiously.

You spot a teacher’s aid marching towards your table with determination, and swiped all the cards up to tuck in your bag quickly, followed by the large book.

“Alright, pack it up, lunch is over.” He said with a bite in his tone. The boys shuffled to get their trays bused and their books and remaining papers in their bags. Eddie took his time standing from his seat with a stretch, purposely lingering to see what your next move is.

The aid, seemingly satisfied with the panic he raised in the freshman, strolled out of the cafeteria, leaving the two of you alone. “You just made his year. Maybe even his life if it works out.” Eddie shrugged, approaching you slowly as you zip up your bag.

You smile warmly at him, “I hope so, he seems really sweet.”

“Oh, now that would probably be a big blow to his ego, you know? Pretty girl calling him sweet?” He hissed at the end shaking his head. For the first time in this encounter, your confidence faltered a little at the passive compliment.

“I, uh, I should get to Spanish.” You manage as you walk past him. His eyes follow you through the door, sending you an “Adios!”, which makes you blush a bit.

Eddie officially inviting you to the Club after you receive backlash for hanging around them and your public interest in the occult.

After sitting at the Hellfire table a few times, it becomes your regular spot, because let’s face it—if the Hellfire Club is deemed untouchable because of their shared love of a fantasy game, your interest in tarot would be treated the same.

You sit at the table with a huff in your now regular seat. The boys collectively sneak looks at you, noticing the lack of your usual upbeat attitude while you tentatively pushed your mushy peas around your tray.

Gareth is the first to break the tension, scooting his chair to the other end of the table to speak to you. “Hey, man, why the long face? Peas got you down?” He joked. A small smile flashed across your face as you looked up to address the table of friends.

“If only it were the peas.” You say with a smile and shiny eyes, keeping the tears at bay. You let out a shaky wry laugh at yourself.

“People started calling me ‘the Witch’ fairly recently.” You shook her head. “At first I thought it was funny, but then came all the rumors about how I spend my free time making sacrifices and talking to satan. And then when I came to school this morning, someone wrote ‘Hellfire Slut’ on my locker.” You roll your eyes to downplay the tears that have fallen. “and then that Carver prick has been going around saying he saw me dancing naked and covered in blood under the full moon the other night. What is this shit, ‘The Crucible’??” You look around with disbelief and the table shares stifled laughter, trying to respect your feelings.

You didn’t realize how easy it is to laugh at the bullshit happening to you when you have a group full of friends to laugh at it with you, and thankful you were experiencing it now. You slowly erupted into a fit of giggles through the tears finally falling from your face, followed by the rest of the table laughing with you.

“And look at you now, Goody Carver saw you with the devil.” Gareth said nodding to Eddie, who made his favorite goofy demon face, flicking his tongue and growling like a maniac to make you laugh and wipe your eyes properly.

“The people in this town reject what they can’t comprehend, sadly, if it’s any consolation, no one at this table thinks of you like that,” Eddie glances around the table as everyone nods in agreement. “It gets easier with time, but I think this means we have ourselves a new member to officially invite, don’t we gentlemen?” Eddie asked as he stood from his seat with raised brows, zeroed in on you. The group nodded supportively, admiring how the once broken look on your face blossomed into one of gratitude.

“Y/n L/n,” Eddie said, approaching you from around the table to kneel before you. “Would you do this band of outcasts the absolute honor of joining our party as our Druid?” He asked with his fist over his heart like a pledge.

You look to the other boys reaction at the proposal, all wearing eager looks and nodding vigorously. “If I say yes…” you started, causing Eddie eyebrow to quirk up questioningly as you leaned in slightly. “Do I get one of those cool shirts?” A smile spreading across your face, as a matching one made its way onto his. “Oh, absolutely.” He nodded seriously, offering his hand to shake.

After another moment, you take his hand and shake it gently but held on as tight as he did. “Welcome to Hellfire.” He said with his killer smirk.

Dude would have to know the story behind every card, especially the ones that look the coolest like Death, The Tower, the Ace of Cups, the Knight of Swords, etc.

He’d probably get a few ideas for campaigns that way, just asking you to draw cards for him to arrange into a story. But also used that as an excuse for more time spent after school together.

I could see it really inspiring him to the point he spends a whole long weekend cranking out a new campaign, and once he hits a block he’d either call you, or better yet show up at your window asking for some input no matter what time it is.

After he gets over the initial intrigue of the archetypes, I think he’d want to delve into how tarot works.

Hearing you talk about intention and energy and the universe amazes him like a Tolkien story. You offer to lend him books and resources to do his own research but he’s adamant about listening to you and your perception of the universe and it’s inner-workings as if you wrote it all yourself.

For a while, you feel like you may talk too much around him, that maybe he just indulges you because you’re friends and he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings by telling you that you monopolize conversation.

But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

One evening after Hellfire, Eddie asks you to stay behind under the guise of needing assistance cleaning up. You both quickly get the board put away, along with the long table and chairs belonging to the drama department.

Eddie grabs two sodas and sits down on the floor next you, offering one out as he takes a sip of his own. You take it, giving a small thanks before popping the top. “I was wondering,” Eddie blurts, taking you by surprise. “uh, if you’d read my cards for me… if you wanted to!” He finishes.

You set your drink down with a smile and reach for your bag to grab the deck. “What kind of question is that, Munson? Of course I wanna read your cards.” You laugh and shuffle the deck.

Eddie looks on with intrigue, the worn cards cascaded back and forth between your hands. “Anything on your mind specifically? Or you just wanna see what they say?” You ask with eager curiosity. Eddie looks back and forth between your eyes with admiration that goes by unnoticed.

“I’d like to see what the universe has to say.” He says with a nudge to your shoulder. Feeling a blush creep up your cheeks, you turn your face forward to the deck in your hands again. You fan it out in front of you, feeling the number two on your mind. Leaning into your intuition, you pick two cards up from opposite ends and flip them over to reveal the Knight of Wands and The Page of Cups. Your eyebrows raise as you look to Eddie.

Eddie wears a matching expression though he has no clue what’s happening so far. With a small breath you pick one last card from somewhere in the middle of the fleshed out pile, turning it over to reveal the Lovers. “Oh my,” you say quietly, with both hope and jealousy flooding your system.

“I think I know what that one means, huh?” He chuckled. “Well, you are the Knight of Wands, obviously,” you start to explain. “Why ‘obviously’?” He asks with potential offense taken.

You roll your eyes jokingly and finish your explanation, “So the suit of Wands represents fire, and The Knight of Wands is someone very passionate, someone outgoing, on a mission, like out there, maybe a little immature..” you say dragging out the last words of the sentence teasingly as his eyes widened and his lips pressed into an embarrassed line. “Alright so it is obvious.” He said with a shrug and smirk.

“What about the Page?” He asked quietly, somehow closer than before. He picked up the cards to examine them, focusing in on the Page of Cups’ appearance. She held a chalice that contained a happy little fish peeking out at her, and wore long flowing robes of white and blue.

“So Knights tend to represent someone young like a teenager living in their masculine energy whereas Pages are most likely a young person in their feminine. So chances are it’s about a girl.” You force out a chuckle. Who wouldn’t want a reading like this? You should be happy for him.

“Okay, so, what do cups and fish have to do with her?” He asked, quietly teasing her as he gazed at the curtain of hair between them. You turn to meet his eyes again, “the Cups, which is water, represents our emotions and the different phases of how we all end up dealing with them through life. Pages can signify news, this one more specifically is tied to romantic news with this young Page.” You nudge his shoulder to avoid looking at him longer.

“So the Page of Cups. What’s she like?” He asked, already certain you’d be describing yourself since you’re the only girl in Hawkins that’s managed to steal his attention in many years.

You pause for a moment, narrowing your eyes at the card. “Hold on let me consult the book.” You mumble and unzip your bag wider to unsheathe the brown book marked Tarot down the spine.

Eddie looks on as you flip through the pages almost expertly, knowing where different sections are by heart. You finally land on the Page of Cups’ character description. “Artistic, intuitive, poetic, possesses a sweet disposition, empathetic, and immature—“

“Ahh, so you’re finally getting a taste of your own medicine, huh?” He smirked down at you. Your breath hitches in your throat as you turn to meet his eyes again. “I suppose so, yeah.” Your eyes glimmered as they searched his face.

“Is that what we are? Fire and water?” He whispered, closer than he’s ever been before, surely close enough to hear how bad your hear pounded against your chest. Your brain forgot how to respond, all of your focus was on Eddie; his words, his proximity, his smell. You nervously turn your head to face forward, giving a slight nod; not being able to stand looking at his face for one more second without falling apart into a pathetic whimpering mess.

“So it’s either forbidden for me to touch you, or we balance each other out, is that right?” He whispered into your hair as he took a deep and quiet breath, sending the sweet scent of your conditioner through his senses, driving him wild. Eddie wasn’t looking for an answer, he was certain he had you exactly where he wanted you.

“Either way… I need you.” He whispered in your ear, sending a quiet shiver down your spine. With this revelation, you turn to him and he immediately engulfs your lips with a tender and passionate kiss, his hands cup your face pulling you into him more.

You fumble forward without breaking the kiss, the cards long forgotten and scattered on the floor where you sat. You lean into him—your hand lands on his knee as your other finds the side of his face to brush stray curls out of the way, settling to cradle his jaw.

It was a feeling unmatched by anything you’ve felt before. You’d kissed guys plenty of times, though they always left you feeling unsure; not great, not bad. But this was different. Eddie’s kiss left you buzzing.

One of his hands moved around your waist to pull you into his lap, fully. You, like a rag doll, flop down where he directs you with ease. Your other hand slides up and around the back of his neck, much to his delight as he lets out a soft but irresistible moan.

You only break the kiss when you’re almost gasping for air like the fish in the Page’s Cup. Your grip on each other only allows you to enough space in-between you for your noses to graze. “So what do you say? Let me be your Knight?” He asked with nervous eyes closed.

Before answering you brush your nose back and forth against his, his brown eyes fluttering open. “I’d be honored to be your Page, Sir Edward Munson.” You said with a warm smirk and traced his chin with your thumb.

“Such a nerd.” He joked as you snakes your arms around his neck to get more comfortable, keeping your closeness. You scoff, “Says the King of the Nerds himself.”

“Thought I was a Knight?” He asked, feigning confusion just to push your buttons. You roll your eyes and move to get up, but Eddie just pulls you in for a tight bear hug before laying you back to prop himself up and cage you in. “I’ll be whatever you want me to be.” He whispers earnestly, stars shining in his eyes as he hovered over your face. You could feel his necklace grazing the hollow of your throat which left the skin feeling tingly.

You sat and pondered on a witty response, and he could feel it coming which sparked excitement for him down low. You smiled and tucked some hair behind his ear, stroking his cheek tenderly while you’re there. “I like everything you are.” You whisper looking at his plump lips.

Before he could shake his head and ask what you meant, you pulled him down to you for a kiss that would melt his brain and make all questions disappear from thought. If he could’ve managed just one, it would be that he absolutely loves the universe and that he is certain the universe loves him back.

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gwndolnfrankln · 2 years

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𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭 pt. i ✧ ˚ · . 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary: something that is desired all the more because it is not allowed—you find yourself torn between the idea that even though eddie is in a position of authority as your professor, he’s still what you crave the most.

cw: 18+ (minors, dni) teacher/student relationship, age gap (21 & 29), corruption!kink (eddie is well aware of what he’s doing), background ronance, max is readers bestfriend, eddie likes to wear his hair up for class and hates being formal, bratty!reader (sorta), angsty touches, a smutty cliffhanger, ect & lots more to come (pun intended)

word count: 11.6k

The campus was huge and crowded and everything you hated all wrapped into one—but you couldn’t beat the view, the pleasant Indians weather, and all the amazing classes the college had to offer. And normally, first days would be terrifying, crippling your anxiety, but there was nothing but excitement; for now, at least.

Most of your morning was spent combing through syllabuses and trying to find your classes, which is mostly your own fault, deciding on a major so vastly different from your main course work—by the time afternoon rolls around, you’re forced to walk clear across campus, nearly ten minutes late to your class and faced with a surprisingly unirritated gentleman, who’s three seconds away from shutting the door closed indefinitely.

The man steals a glance at his watch, arm twitching slightly to force his sleeve back. His eyes glance up to you for a moment and back down, “Not a great way to start off your first day,” He comments cooly, face void of any emotion, “is this gonna be a habit?”

“No—god, no,” You respond, slightly out of breath, hand clutching the strap of your book bag, “I’m just getting used to where everything’s at—I didn’t get a chance to visit the campus earlier, I have no idea where anything is or—“

“It’s fine,” He assures, beckoning you into the classroom, surprisingly full, forcing you to the front row, positioned almost directly in front of his desk—this was the beginning of your nightmare, “let’s just be mindful of time, yeah?”

Not that Eddie has ever been punctual a day in his life. But, he’s learned that being a hard-ass is more effective than not giving a shit at all, especially when it comes to his students.

“Yeah—yes, I promise.” You swear, forcing a thin smile before making an immediate line for your desk, hoping that the further you sink, the more unnoticed you’ll be. Unfortunately for you, that wasn’t the case.

The loud slide of the chalk against the chalkboard as he writes his name across the green slab is defeating, most of the class watching in fearful silence—like there was some impending doom about to descend upon them.

“Uh, sir—“ You can see him visibly tense at the word, “are we going to be learning how to play any instruments in this class?” The voice comes from a boy who seems naturally quiet and more reserved, mortified by the fact that he even found the courage to raise his hand and ask a question.

There’s a small roar of laughter from the others, but you look along stoically, watching his face upturn slightly.

“Don’t call me, sir—please,” He laughs lightly, “it makes me feel old.”

“Professor Munson,” He corrects himself, “sorry.”

“You’re fine,” He assures, “and look—this isn’t an intro to music, it’s intro to musical therapy. We’re not just studying instruments and music, we’re also studying behaviors, the mind, how all of this stuff connects and affects people’s thought process and aiding certain struggles they may have.”

His way of talking is animated and refreshing, a stark change from the usual monotone professors you’ve run into all morning.

“So, if you’re just expecting to learn how to play the piano or something, this class probably isn’t for you,” He explains, eyeing down about a quarter of the class that makes a collective groan, “hey—I’m just being honest.”

And you knew you wouldn’t see half of those people in a week, jumping at the first chance to transfer, but you couldn’t help being intrigued. It wasn’t necessarily your first choice for a major, but it took you by surprise; your love for psychology and mind studies mixed with your love of music, it seemed like the perfect storm. Plus, your professor wasn’t the worst person in the world—yet.

He easily snaps open the cuff links to his sleeves, rolling them halfway up his arm, revealing a rather striking depiction of bats, swarming around the expanse of his forearm.

He definitely seemed like a tattoo guy, but it was still odd to see so openly—his feet tap together as he takes a seat on the end of his desk, scanning the room. You can’t help but notice his lopsided tie, wanting so desperately to fix it—it was bound to drive you nuts.

“It’s probably best to get most of your question out of the way today,” He says, “so, shoot them at me while you have the opportunity.”

A few hands fly up, he points off to your right, a couple rows behind you.

“So—are you a therapist?”

He snorts a soft laugh, shaking his head, “No—I don’t have all the proper certifications, but I assist therapist a lot when they’re looking into doing stuff related to musical therapy. I know enough to get by.”

The smile he flashes leads you to believe that he’s trying to be humble.

“Do you play any instruments?” Another student asks freely, the heads of the rest of the class snapping in their direction.

“A few,” He answers, hand waving about in a noncommittal manner, “mostly just guitar.”

He adjusts his tie again, even more lopsided now and you can’t help but stare it down, focused on nothing but the black, shiny material of it—Eddie clears his throat softly, catching your attention.

He’s staring right at you, caught red-handed—quick, think of something—

“Who do you usually work with?” You ask suddenly, “In your line of work, I mean.”

Outside of being a professor, obviously.

Another laugh, more subdued. “Veterans, mostly, and a lot of children.”

Eddie claps his hands together very suddenly, startling most of the class, including yourself. “Anyways, let’s go over the syllabus so there’s no confusion—I don’t need you guys bugging me outside of my office hours, as much as I love to teach.”

You sense another jab coming, but it doesn’t.

The syllabus review is a breeze, setting you up for what most of the semester entails, including when he was available—again, making it very clear that he wasn’t available outside of office hours.

And then he’s adjusting the damn tie again, almost like it’s wringing his neck to death. By the time class ends, he dismisses everyone with a simple wave, a few students lingering around their desks, debating on whether they should drop the class or not.

The voice that trails from the front of the classroom as you take a step down catches your attention, pulling your head up to look at the culprit. “Staying or dropping?” He asks.

Professor Munson. It felt weird and unnatural as it rolled around in your mind, still not falling from your tongue.

“Staying,” You answer surely, “I knew what this class was before I signed up—I’m not about playing roulette with taking a college class.”

“Fair enough.” He’s leaning against his desk again, hands shoved into his slack pockets, shiny, gold watch resting on his wrist, and you can’t take it anymore, the frustration boiling from your chest

“Your tie,” You say abruptly, pointing at the material, “It’s crooked.”

Really fucking crooked.

He takes a glance down, finger slipping in the space between his tie and neck, pulling at the offense piece of clothing, loosening it until it’s snapping away.

He balls up the tie and tosses it behind me, landing messily on his desk. “I never wear those after the first day—hate them. They’re so stupid.”

“Or, you just don’t know how to tie a tie.” You point on, mouth speaking before your brain can catch up—realizing much too late that this was your professor, not a friend.

Eddie scoffs mockingly, “And I’m sure you do.” He counters, watching your face drop slightly.

You did, actually—but that wasn’t the point.

“No one ever taught me.” He tells you, “So I’m wingin’ it.”

You nod thoughtfully, surprised at how quickly you managed to embarrass yourself. “Oh.” You say simply, it’s all you can manage.

You save yourself for further humiliation by offering a wave of goodbye, breaking the uncomfortable tension that had grown between you both, excusing yourself immediately.

And if that was horrible enough, your night would be even worse.

☆.｡.:*

“The Hideout?” You ask curiously, twisting the flyer in your hand, “That place is still open?

Max snatches the paper from your hand, shoving it into the pocket of her jacket, protecting her from the biting cold of wind—the beginnings of Hawkins autumn weather creeping up on you.

It didn’t help that you were barely covered from the waist down, skirt leaving little to imagine as the slit ran high up your thigh, thankfully the long sleeve top you wore was enough to save your upper extremities.

“Nancy and Robin swear by that place—plus, they’ll be pissed if you don’t go.” Max explains in her usual ‘could care less’ tone.

The only reason she was going was because of Lucas—a boy she’d met during her first class that day, who she also invited out, despite barely knowing. You couldn’t blame her, though. Max could handle herself well enough, that was for sure.

The drive is long, further out of town than you expect—hidden on some rundown road on an empty corner, bare except for the small bar, yet the place was packed with cars.

“Okay, maybe this place isn’t as rundown as I remember,” You take note of, “or everyone really wanted to get drunk tonight.”

Either way, you were definitely heading toward the latter option, following closely after Max. It doesn’t take long for Max to be pulled away though, quickly distracted by the only reason she came here, abandoning you.

“Have fun,” You remind her, “seriously.”

You could take care of yourself, settling up at one of the empty tables before the stage, perched on the uncomfortably tall seat, ordering yourself a quick drink as a server passes you.

“Hey!” A perked up voice yells out from behind you, arms wrapping around in a gentle hug—no one had the nerve besides Robin, who quickly caught you in a fuller hug as you turned to face her. “How have you been? Where’s Max?”

“She’s busy,” You laugh, giving her a pointed look, which she catches on quickly. “Where’s Nance?”

“Right here,” Her delicate voice peaks out from behind Robin, watching as her hand sneaks into Nancy’s, squeezing firmly.

You smile to yourself, but Robin sees it, shoving you an annoyed look.

At least those two finally figured it out—almost ten years later.

“So, you two know who’s playing tonight?” You ask curiously, sipping on the beer that the server passes to you on their way through the crowd.

“Yeah, he’s an old friend—we haven’t seen him in a while, though.” They both frown at the mention of it, sharing a quiet glance. “We should’ve invited Steve, Nance.”

“He never wants to leave the house, you know that.” Nancy adds, “His kids keep him busy enough.”

And it seemed like Steve got the life he always wanted, for the most part—but it’s still somber to think about, wishing just as badly that you could’ve seen him once more.

“Maybe next time.” You offer, and both of them smile.

“I’ll have to remind him to invite you to his littlest’s party in a couple months,” Nancy says, “he misses you.”

The feedback startled all of you, pulling you from the conversation and toward the stage, light dimly over the center. The lights around the bar dimmed in contrast, adjusting everyone toward the men gathering in their places on stage.

You squinted carefully, watching the guitarist adjust the microphone, pulling it up to his height. His hair was long, unruly, and obscuring his face as he leaned forward, speaking into the microphone.

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” He asks with a decent amount of enthusiasm, receiving a hearty applause in return. “We’re Corroded Coffin.”

The name blanks in your mind, not ringing any immediate bells.

It was definitely a crowd full of fans—or family, at least. They excitement was palpable, everyone leaning on the edge of their seats.

“This is our first show in a couple years, so go easy on us.” He laughs, head flicking up to move the hair out of his face—again, he spots you almost instantly.

The intake of breath is involuntarily, getting caught in your throat. The blush that creeps up your cheeks is hot and burning, noticeable from a mile away.

Eddie fucking Munson, your college professor—of all the chances and fate in the world this is how your night was going to go?

Eddie clears his throat, immediately averting his gaze. “We’re just doing cover songs tonight—so if you’ve got a request, send it through Gareth.” He instructs, jerking his head over his shoulder.

And despite how mortifying this all feels, Eddie plays his heart out; you’ve never seen anything like it. He’s a person who expresses himself through his body and his music, clearly—thrashing wildly and putting every movement he can into his playing, bouncing on his feet. He can’t be bothered to stay still, which is a complete difference from his classroom demeanor.

From what you’ve seen, at least.

“You good?” Robin asks, nothing the ghostly look on your face.

“Yeahyeah, uh—“ You reply distantly, “The lead looked familiar, but I think it’s a coincidence.”

One hell of a fucking coincidence.

“Eddie?” They both ask simultaneously, “There’s no way.”

Eddie Munson. Again, your professor—but also, a friend of a friend, and a complete fucking stranger otherwise. You must’ve pissed someone off well enough down the line to end up in this position; the biggest dose of karma you’ve ever felt.

“Like I said—it’s probably a coincidence.” You assure them, eyes still locked on him.

“Yeah—I don’t think we started hanging out with him until after you moved schools.” Nancy supplies, further attempting to assure you.

Eddie catches another glance at you and you can’t help but down the bottle of beer in one go, immediately leaving your seat to ask for another, leaving your friends to congregate at the table.

The song ends abruptly, falling off of a long guitar solo, and you can’t even dare to look in that direction, faced shoved into the drink you gripped in your hand.

“Come here, come here,” You hear Robin call from behind you, but you know it’s not for you, another rumbling voice slipping through the many others, a weak protest, “Stop being like that.”

There really was no arguing with Robin and Eddie was smart to keep quiet, following her obediently to the bar. The hand that clasps your shoulder is light and gentle and Nancy shoots you an apologetic look as you look behind you.

“Ringin’ any bells now?” Robin asks playfully, holding her hand up under his face, like he was on display. Eddie makes a face, side eyeing her affectionately.

“No, sorry,” You lie easily, shrugging him off. Eddie seems to relax at that, half-expecting you to out both him and yourself—not that there was anything wrong, it was just another freaky coincidence, “What’s his name again?”

And really, it’s just to poke fun, the slight buzz creeping into your system.

“Eddie Munson,” Nancy replies, glancing between the both of you, “Edward, if that helps.”

Eddie rolls his eyes at that, hand held up in desperation as he called out for a drink over your shoulder, reaching around you to grab the bottle. You visibly tense at the proximity and he notices, still, he doesn’t try to move away.

This was too weird.

“Nope, still nothing.” You tell them, sticking to your story.

Robin shrugs, “Well, I should probably explain—Nancy used to babysit her when she was younger, her and Max and all those crazy little kids that we always told you about—“

It made you wince; babysitter, Nancy, kids. It was the worst sequence of words that could’ve been spoken in history, to your professor, in the middle of a bar, that he was also playing at.

“Robin,” You warn, “I’m sure he doesn’t care.”

“Nah,” Eddie shrugs, leaned beside you against the bar, metal chain clinking against the counter-top, lifting the beer to his lips leisurely, “It’s nice to meet you.”

And the smile seems forced, but his voice is steady, easy—you almost believe him.

But, then Nancy and Robin are pulled off in a different direction, catching up with another small group of friends and Eddie is staring at you.

And not secretly—very, very openly.

“I swear I didn’t—“ You start.

“I don’t usually,” He interrupts.

You both take a hard stop, looking each other down.

“You first,” He instructs, bring the drink to his lips once more, “then I’ll go.”

“I swear I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight,” You explain, “otherwise I would’ve skipped out.”

He wants to ask why, but the answer seems obvious—no one wants to see their teacher outside of school.

“I don’t usually make a habit of letting my students see me like this.” He motions to his get-up, hair loose and clothes even looser, aside from the obviously homemade jacket he wore, patches hand stitched and worn at the seams, but the weirdest part of it all—the ripped jeans. It felt out of place for someone nearing their thirties. He catches your gaze, the judgement evident. “My point exactly.”

“So, that’s why you don’t know how to tie a tie.” You challenge, taking a long sip of beer, eyebrow quirked in amusement as you swallow, cheeks puffed out by the liquid.

He scoffs softly, amused at your comeback. “We shouldn’t even be talking right now, you know that?” He points out, yet he hasn’t moved an inch, still close enough that if you decided to separate your thighs, he’d fit perfectly.

You hum quietly, “Yet, you’re still here.” Another beer down, another slipped into your hand like clockwork, throwing it back easily. “So, who’s fault is that?”

Him being the responsible adult and all, not that it really mattered here. This would be a level playing field outside of any other circumstance.

“Wait—can I ask a personal question?” And maybe it was the alcohol talking.

“No—“ He answers quickly, but your brain bypasses it.

“How old are you?” You ask curiously, “You look too young to be a professor.”

Eddie looks stunned, affected by your forwardness, but he takes it in stride. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment—I’m twenty nine, a couple years older than Nancy and Robin.”

You don’t press on the additional information, but nod thoughtfully, taking another quick sip of your beer.

“Sorry—it was bugging me. I have a bad problem with filtering my thoughts.” You admit sheepishly, cheeks flushed from the alcohol, fiddling with the flimsy zipper on your skirt.

“Clearly,” Eddie laughs, bringing the bottle to his lips slowly, stopping just as his lips pressed the rim, “Are you even old enough to be drinking?”

“Are you going to kick me out if I’m not?” You challenge playfully, Eddie doesn’t bite, looking you down accusingly.

It was as if he suddenly shifted back into teacher mode, judging your choices and feeling the need to scold you.

“I’m twenty one,” You tell him, “don’t have a fucking stroke over it.”

You don’t know why Eddie’s eyes shift, scanning full body, like he’s trying to take all of you in—both of your contrasting styles outside of school are a welcomed surprise; he doesn’t really expect it from you. But, you could say the same for him.

“Wasn’t gonna,” He assures you, nursing the beer near his mouth, forearms leaned against the bar now as he looks toward you, eyes catching the way your fingers fiddled with the label on the bottle, “you cold?”

Your leg crosses over the other, goosebumps riddling your skin—it’s like he’s a mind reader, the entrance door of the bar swinging open, a cold blast of air spreading throughout. “Not really.” You lie, gripping the end of your skirt to shift it down.

You could’ve been more practical, shown up in jeans and some worn out band shirt, but you wanted to look nice—feel cute and dressed up for once, was that a crime?

“Hey, there you are,” Max calls from behind you, scattering toward you with a wide-eyed Lucas in tow, “so you met Eddie?”

You turn in your seat, staring the fiery redhead down, a smile plastered on her freckle covered face.

“You too?” You ask incredulously, glancing toward Eddie, who seemed rather unfazed by it all now. “What the hell?”

“He used to live across from me, back in high school,” Max explains, which makes sense.

You moved after middle school, leaving most of Hawkins in your rear view, aside from the occasional letters to Max—both of you swore that despite the distance, college was your nonnegotiable; both of you applied, both of you got accepted, it was some sort of divine miracle, but neither of you questioned it.

“Small world,” Eddie shrugs from beside you, finishing off the last sip of his beer, “you staying out of trouble, Red?”

“Probably not,” She replies honestly, before turning to you sheepishly, “—do you think Robin will give you a ride home?”

“Max,” You groan, her look switching from hesitant to pleading, “fine—whatever, I’ll talk to Robin.”

“I love you,” She says endearingly, wrapping you into a quick forceful hug, nearly knocking you from your chair, “I owe you one.”

“Uh huh,” You reply sarcastically, waving her away, “See you tomorrow.”

When you turn, Eddie is slapping a fresh bill on the counter-top, returning his chained wallet back to his pocket.

“I guess I’ll be seeing you Monday.”

Saying it makes it even weirder.

“I won’t tell anyone.” You assure him, seeing the way his eyes catch yours, almost thankful. He doesn’t have to say it—he didn’t take you for the type to brag, but still, it’s a comforting confession. “I promise.”

The last part feels like too much, but Eddie smiles regardless, adjusting his jacket over his shoulders, preparing for the crisp, cold air that awaits him.

Robin, find Robin. Your brain scrambled, searching around for your friend—or Nancy, but neither of them are anywhere inside of the bar.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

“Everything okay?” Eddie asks softly, pulling the hair caught under the lapel of his jacket.

“I think they left,” You frown slightly, preparing yourself to walk several blocks until the nearest bus station, feet already sore and achy from the uncomfortable heels you wore, “Robin and Nance.”

And Eddie has the internal battle with himself for at least half a minute, weighing the odds of how uncomfortable this could be, or how creepy it may come off, but he wasn’t going to leave you high and dry—he wasn’t raised that way.

“Where am I taking you?” He asks suddenly, swinging his keys into his palm.

“Huh?” There was no way you were taking a ride from your teacher, of all people. “—I’m fine, really. I just need to walk far enough to the bus stop.”

“In those?” Eddie asks pointedly, staring down at the heels that hugged your feet like a vice grip, already sore from only a couple hours of use. “It’s not a big deal—are you going back to campus?”

You nod hesitantly.

Eddie motions toward the door and you follow obediently—your feet could thank you later. You knew there was no harm in a ride home, either, Eddie was far from the normal sketchy men around Hawkins, but it didn’t feel right. It felt like keeping a secret from your parents and doing something that had persistently told you not to, or how often the school system looked down on relations with staff outside of school, no matter the level or severity. It seemed that Eddie was hoping you’d keep this to yourself—he was counting on it.

☆.｡.:*

“Did you enjoy the music at least?” Eddie asks halfway through the drive, one hand gripping the steering wheel while the other fishes for his pack of cigarettes; a bad habit he’d yet to break.

“I mean—they were cover songs,” You shrugged, “Metallica is alright, but I prefer Bon Jovi and Quiet Riot—“

“Are you shitting on Metallica, right now?” Eddie asks, shocked by the admission. He manages to wiggle a cigarette out with one hand, tossing the box toward the middle console, “Do you mind?”

Part of you wants to say yes, just to be difficult, but you shake your head. He flicks his lighter opening, lighting the end of the cigarette until it burns a bright amber, ashes falling from the tip.

“You dress like you’re stuck in the eighties, dude.” Eddie seems offended by the comment, but takes it in stride.

“Says the lady who still listens to Bon Jovi.” Eddie sharks, pulling the cigarette from his lips, smoke billowing from his nose as he breathes, “

You hate how nice it is to watch, his soft lips pursing into a tight line. One more hit at him and he’d probably fail you out of spite, but you do it anyway.

“Says the guy still singing eighties cover songs.” Eddie winces at the jab, flicking away the ash from the cigarette, held out in the air as he searches for his retort.

“So you hated it?” Is all his brain can muster at a time like this, brain hazy from the amount of beers he consumed—you could say the same for yourself, the alcohol buzz is still ever apparent—you wouldn’t have ended up in a situation like this while stone cold sober, that’s for sure.

“No,” You reply honestly. The music was good, the performance was even better, but still—it seemed he was searching for your approval, like it would make all the difference, “but it’s the mid nineties, you need to get with the times.”

Eddie scoffs offensively, a few more puffs before he’s rubbing the cigarette to its untimely demise, pulling into the quiet campus.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that,” He says, coming to a stop, “—I hope this is close enough, the last thing I need is someone catching me dropping you off.”

Then he shouldn’t have offered a ride, which was his first mistake of many.

It’s offensive how handsome he looks under the dim lights radiating from the inside of his van—an odd choice for a teacher of his salary, but it still makes sense, somehow.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sir.” You retort, throwing the last bit in for fun—he tenses again, visibly. He doesn’t correct you, though, which is even more difficult to understand.

He offers a simple wave, friendly and polite, then he’s gone and halfway across the campus before you can even process what happened.

It also doesn’t help that the first thing you see in your dreams that night is his face—ungodly in the way he worshiped your body, from head to toe; it was definitely the alcohol talking.

☆.｡.:*

Monday drags more than you expect, having nursed your hangover during the weekend, it felt like an aftershock was trying to overtake you, your focus lacking. It wasn’t unlike you.

You replay the conversation with Eddie in your head a few times that weekend, realizing that even through your drunken haze, Eddie was not attempting to be teacherly toward you—he was friendly, a natural conversationalist, it felt wrong.

It felt even worse when you fell asleep, his head stuck between your thighs as you dreamed that night, “She’s so pretty,” His voice is faded, muffled—like he’s stuck in a tunnel and too far away, “fucking soaking wet, too.”

And it feels too real as he licks a broad stripe up your cunt, moaning obscenely as his face is coated in your wetness, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit—it’s too much for you to process.

“Good afternoon,” Eddie’s voice carries through the door to his classroom, satchel and coffee in hand, looking just as worse for wear. His hair is tied back in a loose bun, no tie today, and his slacks look like they’re been worn for a week straight, wrinkles and all, “nice to see the class has downsized.”

It has, nearly half of the original class is gone—which really, it was better for you. You couldn’t focus in large classes and it felt less personal, more disconnected than you liked.

Eddie tries desperately to keep his energy up during the duration of the lesson, but he’s lacking on all fronts—maybe he had a rough weekend?

When he hands out the first assignment near the end of class, he stops by your desk, leaning on the railing to speak to the entirety of the class, “And don’t freak out—this is just a basis to see where you heads are at in terms of what music you like, how it makes you feel, it’s just a soft introduction into some of the stuff we’ll be covering over the semester.”

It’s a list of various songs, bands, genres—a mix of things dating back to the early fifties, up until more recently. “Go out, rent some of this if you’ve never heard of it, and write what you feel—that’s it. Easy enough?”

Eddie doesn’t acknowledge you most of the class, which is expected, but disappointing. He seems preoccupied, distracted, clearly bothered by something. But, it wasn’t your problem—the only focus you had now was your course work, which was the first thing you started on that night; a very giddy Max rummaging through your dorm room as background noise, so disorganized it could drive you insane.

“He drove you here?” She asks.

“Yes—but you can’t say anything, Max. I’m serious.”

You didn’t have anything to worry about, you knew that.

“I didn’t even know he taught here—or that he was even a professor. I mean, I know he finally graduated but—“

“Finally?” You ask curiously, swiveling in your chair to face her fully, interest fully piqued.

“He had a rough time in high school—he didn’t graduate until he was twenty, I think.” She explains, busy hands now stopped in their tracks. “He’s been through a lot.”

Your eyebrows raise in question, hoping Max would spill everything she knew—you couldn’t help but be curious about him, even if he was your professor.

“He probably doesn’t even know I go here,” She laughs slightly, “His mom and dad were never in the picture, though—at least I never saw them, it’s always been him and his uncle. He hung out with Nancy, Steve, and Robin a lot—closer to when he was graduating, they’ve stayed good friends, I guess.”

You nod slowly, absorbing the information.

“Is he mean?” Max asks randomly and you almost laugh, “My professors are the worst.”

“He’s fine,” You shrug, “It’s kinda nice that he’s not such a dick, you know?”

“What does he teach again?”

“Musical therapy?” You respond, wondering if that would surface any other tidbits of information.

“Oh—that kinda makes sense. He was always listening to music, then he just disappeared after graduation, but his uncle always talked about how he was helping people, doing something he really liked—I just never bothered him about it.”

There’s a long silence before Max can’t help herself, perching herself on the surface closest to you, pens scrambling to the floor as she takes a seat on the edge of your shared desk.

“What did you guys talk about?”

“The weather,” You say flatly, not receiving any type of reaction from her, “—-just music, that’s it.”

“But, babe, you love music.” Max reminds, like it wasn’t painfully obvious.

“And—he’s my professor, it’s fucking weird.” You explain, but even Max doesn’t believe you. “What—why are you looking at me like that?”

“You two are so similar,” She laughs, “It’s freaky.”

“Maxine—what are you trying to imply?”

“Nothing,” She shrugs, hoping from the desk, “—remember that I’ll be your maid of honor at the wedding, though. We pinky swore.”

“He’s my professor, Max.” You stress again, Max smiles wide, annoying you further.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, right?” Max asks, realizing that you’d used the same playful jab at him the night before.

“What?” The coincidence was uncanny.

“Eddie used to tell me that whenever I tried to justify doing something I wasn’t supposed to—I’ve grown, obviously,” That’s not entirely believable, but you keep your mouth shut, “the saying stuck with me—it’s kinda fun to use.”

“Whatever—did you get the music I asked about?” You ask, impatiently switching the topic to something less scandalous.

“Everything was spoken for,” Max explains, trying to let you down gently, “I really tried—but I guess everyone in that class had the same idea on where to go, unless you want to take a trip to the store and buy them—“

And it dawns on you, Eddie must have some sort of music collection, “Wait—what time is it?”

Max takes a quick glimpse at the alarm clock on her nightstand, “A quarter past five, why?”

Still open for office hours—you prayed silently, despite your lack of religion, hoping that he was still in his classroom.

“Give me a ride.”

Max doesn’t question it, being the best friend she is.

☆.｡.:*

“I’m busy,” He says before you can even knock on the door, your loud ascending footsteps giving you away, “come back in the morning.”

You peek through the window of the door anyways, seeing a perfectly relaxed Eddie reclined at his desk, feet propped up as he jotted something down in a book, tongue poked out in focus.

“Uh Professor…Munson,” It felt foreign and weird, “I just had a question.”

His demeanor changes on a dime at the sight of you, unbusying himself completely. It’s a little hysterical, but endearing nonetheless. It makes your stomach flutter at the sight, scrambling to button his shirt higher, seem more professional, not that you hadn’t already seen him outside of work.

The door creaks open, his head popping through as you back away, “What’s going on?” He asks, surprised that anyone would dare to bother him outside of normal class hours. It doesn’t take you long to realize that he only mentioned the office hours out of courtesy, he didn’t actually expect anyone to bother him.

“I was trying to work on your assignment—“ His eyes softened, and it made you flinch, feeling exposed, “I don’t really have the money to buy any of the music and everything was already rented out—-so I wasn’t sure what to do.”

“Oh,” He wasn’t sure what to expect but he finds himself opening the door wider, welcoming you inside, “Yeah—a few students raided my shelf before class was over but I’m sure there’s some left.”

“Thanks,” You reply shyly, squeezing beside him, watching as he lingered by the door still, hands shoved into fists in his pockets, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, sir—“

“You can call me Eddie—here, at least.” And that definitely doesn’t feel appropriate, but if he’s insisting, well…

“Sorry, it just feels…strange, I guess.” It’s not how you wanted to describe it, but it’s the only word that comes to mind. “I can’t imagine how weird it is running into your students outside of class.”

“Probably as weird as it feels running into your teacher,” He adds playfully, lightening the mood. It’s nice that he’s not so bothered by all of it, “Oh—I’ve got some Elvis in there, a lot of classic rock. I’m not sure about the newer stuff, though.”

“Max has some of it.” You comment without thinking, sifting through the box of music, picking and choosing as you went.

“Max?”

“She’s—she’s my roommate here.” You answer quietly, unable to meet his eyes as he walks closer, leisurely making his way around his desk.

“I guess I should’ve put that together,” He says, taking a moment to examine the sweater you’d shoved on, “You two share a closet?”

“Among other things.” You smile, grasping the stack of Cd's in your hand, “How did you know?”

You share a glance down at the faded sweater, reading off the name of some random skate shop back in rural Hawkins, a place you’ve never stepped foot inside of.

“I got that for Red on her sixteenth birthday, before I left.”

Eddie’s frowning now, nearly unnoticeable, but you see the way his mouth creases, eyes turned down. “It’s her favorite,” You say, in an attempt to make the mood less dark, “but I always steal it from her—she’s let me take residency over it at this point.”

“It looks nice,” Eddie says suddenly, feeling the slip up as it slides off his tongue, rambling even further as he says, “on you—I mean, it’s a nice sweater—that’s why I bought it.”

You laugh softly, bottom lip jutting out as your mouth curls into a smile. “Thanks, Eddie.”

He scratched at his temple, ringed finger shining against the light refracting from the lamp on his desk. You’ve never noticed it before—or them, since his hand was adorned with three, that you could see.

“Hey, those are cool—“ You point out, finger pressed in the direction of his upheld hand. He stops, views his hand, almost like he’s forgotten he was wearing them, “I’ve noticed them before.”

“I try not to wear them during class hours, the administration thinks it’s unprofessional.” The nature of the rings, not the fact that he wore them—if he had a wedding ring it wouldn’t matter, but the thought of marriage made Eddie want to vomit.

“Fuck ‘em.” You say crudely, shoulder shrugged In indifference.

Eddie’s mouth hangs open slightly at the sudden outburst, amusement flooding his face, “I’m still your professor—probably should keep that type of language to a minimum.”

You snort at his indication that he had any type of hold over what you do—he couldn’t be further from the point.

“Or what?” You say challengingly, “This isn’t high school—it’s not like you can give me detention or tell my parents.”

“I am the one handling your grades.” He counters, hip leaned against the edge of his desk. Your free hand travels to your waist, slipping underneath the sweater to rest against the skin.

“You don’t intimidate me—I hope you know that.” You remind him carefully, eyes narrowing in his direction. “The other’s are terrified of you, but that shit doesn’t work on me.”

And he should know better—you shouldn’t even be here and he definitely should be flirting with a student, if you could call it that. Was this flirting? Was this crossing the line? He’s studied body language for a long time, through the process of his treatment of people, and he can’t help but notice how relaxed you seem, almost enjoying the back and forth.

“You should go,” He says quickly, avoiding any further lines being blurred or crossed or misconstrued; you were his student and it was unprofessional, “my office hours are closing soon.”

“Uh huh.” You nod slowly, adjusting the stack of music under your arm, watching the way Eddie’s fingers drum against the desk impatiently, like he can’t wait to get you out of there.

If he was really that bothered, he could’ve said something.

“Thanks again, professor.” You say with grandeur, motioning to the stack of Cd's, “It’s greatly appreciated.”

Eddie tries to ignore the small sliver of skin that shows underneath your slightly raised top that was no longer obscured by your hand, almost like you’re doing it on purpose.

Which, yes, you absolutely were.

You slip by him silently, avoiding the way his eyes follow you. It felt predatorial, but not uncomfortable—and that’s what you hated about it.

He didn’t look at you as a student—he looked at you like something else; you couldn’t put your finger on it.

Eddie turns on the heels of his shoes, “I expect those back tomorrow,” He warns, but there’s no sense of actual ramifications behind it.

You don’t answer fully, a small nod that Eddie doesn’t quite notice. He grabs the sleeve of your sweater gently, his fingertips pressing against your covered arm. “I mean it.”

You look at the hand that gripped your arm for far too long, Eddie still holding on just as hard. “I know.” You appease him, “And if I don’t—you know where to find me.”

The glance to your desk is silent, but done in unison.

“Wanna let go now, sir?”

Eddie hates the way his dick twitches under the material of his corduroy slacks, releasing the bunch of material from his grip. You half-expect him to scold you for the remark, but he’s speechless, for once in his life.

“Sorry,” He apologizes, feeling like he’s made things uncomfortable, but it’s so far from that—he has no idea, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“On time, hopefully.”

It’s just another playful comment, but it has Eddie gripping his thigh from the inside of his pocket, muscles tensed in frustration.

You leave with a wordless smile that’s burned into Eddie’s mind for the rest of mankind—and it’s definitely not the first thing he thinks about when he slips his boxers down his thighs that night, cock still half-hard from earlier in the evening.

☆.｡.:*

He becomes a permanent fixture in your dreams as the weeks grow on, unbeknownst to him—not that he can say much for himself either, annoyed by the finite nerve you have to walk into his classroom, skirt pulled halfway up your waist, ass barely peeking out of the bottom of the pleated material.

He knows it’s wrong and going against all of the rules set it place for this very reason, but he can’t help himself. So, he suffers in silence—not that it was anything new to him, he’s done it his entire life; under different circumstances and situations perhaps, but the basics of it still remained.

“Fuck—spread your legs,” His voice is hushed, quiet against the skin of your leg as he sucks a deep purple mark into the skin, jerking at the touch of cold metal, the outside of his rings grazing your thighs, “wanna taste you.”

It feels too real—you toss and turn in your sleep restlessly most nights, dreaming about your professor with his hands around your thighs and his mouth buried deep into your cunt.

And with little to no interaction during class, aside from the occasional glance in your direction, he kept his distance—which wasn’t a surprise, he had no idea.

He had no idea that his student was practically pining after him. It doesn’t help that you’ve seen him outside of the classroom, dress downed and free of an inhibitions or rules; it was a special kind of torture.

It’s late October when Eddie speaks to you directly, alone—he’s got most of the class set up on various different instruments of their choosing, allowing them to feel them out and play freely, and somehow—by some fucked up fate, you get stuck with a six string and not a clue how to play.

Fake playing wasn’t working, Eddie could spot it from a mile away. You don’t chance the glance up at him, but the squeak of his shoes is enough warning, bracing for whatever remark was going to be sent your way.

“Have you ever played before?” He says instead and your eyes immediately shoot up to him, all previous restraint thrown out the window.

“No, not really.” You say truthfully, watching as Eddie pulled up a chair in front of you, facing the back of it in your direction, thigh swinging over the side—his jeans tightening with the action, along with your thighs. You really needed to get your shit together.

“Here,” His hands come out to rest over yours, adjusting your left hand over the base of the guitar, your right hand around the neck, “This is A,” He presses your finger over the cord, instructing your other hand to strum.

It’s slightly out of tune, but the guitar seems old—probably provided by the college rather than Eddie himself, “That’s good,” He praises calmly, “Now try playing an A sharp,” He guides your hand further down the neck, the warm, rough skin of his hand covering your own. He feels tough and worn and you notice the small cuts around his fingertips at this proximity, breath catching as his hand grasps around the wrist that was actively strumming the guitar, “it’s really complicated at first, there’s a lot to learn.”

“Clearly,” You say, forcing down the smile that threatened to break through, “how long have you played?”

He seems surprised that you cared or even tried to ask.

“Since I was about twelve, probably.” He answers honestly, “More than half my life.”

Eddie still hasn’t moved his hands, either—he can’t be bothered. It doesn’t look as incriminating as you thought, but still, you knew. He helps you play through a few more notes until he’s gotten you to the point of playing a small, five second tone—but it’s all you can really manage.

“It takes a while.” He assures you, not that you wanted to pick up a guitar again after this.

“Why don’t you play?” You ask sweetly, smiling flashing with nothing but devious intent, handing the guitar over toward your professor.

“Nono—I’m really not—“ He protests, setting the guitar back on its stand beside you.

“Not what? That good?” You ask curiously, he was worse at lying to himself than he was to you.

“Are we forgetting how I saw you play that night?” You ask quietly, nothing how his gaze lingered with yours, “Because if that wasn’t you then—“

He gives you a muted look of warning, wanting you to drop the topic of conversation, but you can’t be bothered. He wasn’t in charge of you, not really.

“You can play a Dio song blindfolded, I bet,” You point out, still keeping enough of a hushed town that only Eddie can hear, “Your eyes were closed that entire set.”

“It was my first time back home in a while,” He defends lamely, “It helps with the nerves.”

“I thought it was really good.”

Eddie’s eyes light up in a way you can’t ignore, bordering on shock and adoration, it’s the first real smile you’ve seen from him.

The end of class comes quicker than you want it to, forced to pack your belongings back into your bag in a rush, everyone’s already managed to file out before you can even think of zipping your bag up.

“Hey,” Eddie calls out, every other student already long gone, “here, take this.”

It’s a flyer, similar to the one Max shoved into your hands a few weeks prior.

A different bar, same band; one night only.

“I’m probably breaking a thousand rules by giving you that,” He explains carefully, “but maybe you and Max could come out and watch us play—tell her I’ll even throw in some free Kate Bush.”

Your smile is warm, folding the flyer and stuffing it into your pocket. “I told you—I’m not the type to blab, Eddie.”

You hate how easy it feels to say his name in such a setting, still dressed up in his ridiculous attempt at seeming studious and professional. You knew he hated it, he knew it too.

“I can ask her—if not, I’ll still show.” You tell him.

He was only inviting Max to be courteous, but that wasn’t up for him to decide whether or not you actually brought her along. Either way, he was appreciative. He knew that a lot of the support he received back home was mostly done out of obligation and sympathy, but with—it felt real. He didn’t know you, he didn’t have anything to prove to you, and more importantly, you were genuine and honest; he hated that you took up this class. Hated it.

“It’s not a big deal if you can’t.” He offers as an out.

There was no way you were going to miss it, not with how Eddie was looking at you now; despite the circumstance, it was so blatantly obvious to you how badly you wanted him.

“Eddie, I’ll be there.” You assure him once more.

And if the smile that spreads over his face isn’t something worth worshiping, you’d surely find something else.

☆.｡.:*

The bar is small, on the complete opposite side of town—but Max still offers to drive you, but it’s definitely not for your own benefit. She hasn’t shut up about Eddie since you’d told her the situation, the weird looks he gives you, and the horrible filthy dreams you’ve been having; sans the super embarrassing details. She gets it—it’s incredibly amusing to her, but she gets it.

“You sure you don’t want to stay?” You asks, fingers tapping nervously against the ripped denim of your jeans, frayed material pulled between your fingertips. “He did invite you.”

“Babe, I’m doing you a favor.” Max interjects, halfhearted smirk on her face.

“He’s my teacher—for the last time,” You begin, beyond desperation, the words falling from your tongue weren’t even believable to your own ears, “I’m not trying to fuck him, Max.”

“I did not say anything about fucking him,” She laughs amusingly, turning into the parking lot of the bar, “—it’s just not as weird as you’re making it out to be. I’ve known Eddie for a long time.”

“You’re really missing the point.” You say, rubbing the frustration on your face away with your hands, eyebrows furrowing in annoyance.

“Oh whatever, don’t tell me you suddenly have some strict moral compass,” Max replies flippantly, “you want to screw him and you know it.”

The suspense is enough of an answer. There was no lying to Max, she knew just about every deepest, darkest secret you carried.

She pulls to a stop outside the entrance, turning toward you carefully, “Also—I can’t pick you up so you’re gonna have to ask him for a ride. I love you.” She rambled it off in one breath, barely giving you time to process. “See you tomorrow?”

It’s the one fight you decide not to pick with her, because for some reason, you know it’s for your own good.

“Hey—you made it!” The familiar voice calls from behind you—Eddie, guitar case in hand, the rest of his band mates in tow. “Red.” He acknowledges, offering her a nod. “There’s parking in the back.”

“Oh—I’m not staying,” She shouts from the driver’s side, “take care of her or I’ll murder you, Munson.”

Max is pulling off before you have any last fleeting chance to run, leaving both you and Eddie at a loss for words.

“Pulled a fast one, didn’t she?” Eddie asks after a moment, gathering by your side, following you into the bar. “She’s sneaky as hell, I’ll give her that.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” You huff softly, watching your step as you crossed the threshold, hit in the face with the smell of cigarette smoke and cheap beer.

“A beaut, isn’t she?” Eddie asks sarcastically, but despite that, the bar still garnered a decent amount of attention, packed to the brim with older gentlemen—nothing like bars near campus.

“I think I found your target audience,” You joke lightly, catching the smirk that crosses Eddie’s face as you glance over your shoulder. “I’ll fit right in.”

Eddie slaps a twenty into your hand, “Here, drinks on me—since I forced you here,” You look at him reluctantly, “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I didn’t plan on drinking tonight.” You insist, forcing the bill back into his hand, “I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?” He asks, eyeing you carefully, like he’s trying to find a hint or tell, something to figure out what exactly your mind was fighting against—which right now, it was the fact that Eddie looked ridiculous with eyeliner, yet, still criminally attractive.

It’s exactly why you shouldn’t have come tonight, because whatever could happen—you weren’t sure if you had it in you to shut down.

You nod with finality. Eddie takes the money back reluctantly, stuffing it into his front pocket. He feels terrible that you have to sit there, alone—all to watch a shitty cover band play a few songs.

But to you, it was worth it.

You sit and wait, forcing away the bartender a few times until he finally gets the message, leaving you be. It’s quiet, aside from the hum of laughter and idle conversation, Eddie and his group setting up silently onstage—that impending feeling in your gut expanding further as you watch him move around, guitar strap swung over his neck, watching shamelessly as he adjusts the instrument against his body.

He catches your eyes then, sending you a cheeky smile that has you face burning on the spot—at this point, you care less about your professional relationship, if it could even be considered that.

Eddie plays with all the gusto you expect, belting out lyric after lyric on his performance high; it’s unlike anything you’ve ever witnessed. It’s hard not to compare him to his classroom demeanor, more restrained and relaxed—it was forced, that was easy to tell. But this—this was Eddie, unafraid and free to behave how he pleased, it was unfair how attractive he was, both in looks and personality. It felt like you’d know him longer than just a few weeks; months maybe? Years?

It was like hanging out with an old friend, discovering new and old things about one another; you’d spill your heart to him at a moment’s notice if he asked—and that’s why this felt so dangerous.

☆.｡.:*

“How was it?” Eddie asks as he rounds the corner, still slightly out of breath and face covered in a sheen of sweat. You hand him a napkin in silence and he laughs, but accepts the offer.

“Good,” You smile honestly, “I really enjoyed the gradual crescendo from Holy Diver into Living After Midnight—“

Eddie could kiss you on the spot, which is such a startling thought that it stops all thinking completely—you were absolutely too good to be true, it was a constant reminder every time you spoke, making him fight with this taboo feeling more and more every day.

“Do you still need a ride home?” He asks suddenly, interrupting your waterfall of compliments, “I was going to head out already.”

“Well, considering Max left me stranded,” You say with an empty bitterness, knowing that her attentions were mostly good, “yes, I do.”

Eddie nods a silent direction—and just like the first night, you follow without question.

☆.｡.:*

The foot that isn’t pressed on the gas pedal is shaking insistently, leg bouncing against the leather of Eddie’s seat, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. He can hear you humming, mumbling the song on the radio to yourself, another classic—one of Eddie’s favorites, and he really can’t help himself anymore.

It was just a small, innocent indulgence. Who could it really hurt? You were both consenting, capable adults—and the worst thing you could do was turn him down, which Eddie really hoped wasn’t the case, but he was beyond caring about norms and rules, driven by the pure fact that he just wanted—wanted you, in any sense of the word.

“What are you doing?” You ask curiously, watching as Eddie searched idly through his stack of music, somehow still managing his focus on the road.

“Changing the song,” He comments simply, pushing the disc into the player—the soft synth of the song pushing through the speakers of his van, “do you know it?”

“Corey Hart, right?” You ask, taking a wild guess. You’d only heard the song once, but it was still catchy enough that it stuck around in your brain, “I didn’t picture you as the type.”

“You’d be surprised.” He comments oddly, turning the volume up slightly.

He notices the humming again, the small head bop along to the beat. “You like it.”

It’s more of a statement, rather than a question. You catch the side of his face, the small glint in his eye as he focuses back on the road.

“That's presumptuous of you,” You retort, hands twisting in your lap, “it’s alright, I guess.”

“Mind if I do a little study?” He asks hesitantly, breath catching in your throat for half a second.

“Of me?” You ask with a laugh, “I mean—if you want?”

“Your heart is racing, for one,” Eddie points out slyly, watching the rapid rise and fall of your chest as the beat picked up, chorus running through the silence that filled the air, “and you’re squeezing your hands.”

“Okay, genius,” You remark, “You’ve got eyes, good for you.”

He’s not really using his degree in this situation, it’s more of an innocent observation of the already underlying tension that Eddie couldn’t help but notice—the obvious body language giving you away. The song was just a secret favorite of his, but you didn’t need to know that, not yet.

“Mind I make one?” You ask, “An observation, I mean.”

What was the harm in it anyways? Eddie nods for you to continue.

“You’ve been shaking your leg since we left.” You point out, the bouncing coming to an abrupt stop, “and I’ve never seen you do that—ever.”

“It’s the after performance buzz.” He replies cooly, but you can’t be bothered to believe it. “It’s not that unusual.”

“Eddie—you’re making that up,” You tell him, eyeing burning into the side of his face, “what’s your deal?”

“My deal?”

“Yeah—why are you lying?” It’s a bold question to ask, heart fluttering in your chest. But, the way he looks at you has your legs crossing in frustration, squeezing together to relieve that ache growing between your legs.

“So, you want to pretend I didn’t notice that either?” He asks, eyeing the full expanse of your body before stopping on your legs, still firmly crossed in the seat, hands white knuckling each other under the long sleeves of your shirt. “Uncross your legs.”

“What? No.” You scoff, offended by his forwardness for a brief moment.

Eddie slips his hand under your knee wordlessly, prying your legs apart. You can’t help but look at him as if he’s lost his fucking mind—that doesn’t stop your legs from following his order. It made the ache that much worse.

“Don’t,” He warns hesitantly, the small shift in your leg giving you away, “it’s not gonna help.”

“Help what?” You reply dumbly, “I can’t cross my legs? Is that a crime?”

Eddie’s gaze lingers for far too long, noticing the flush of your chest and the way it creeps up your cheeks—they felt like they were on fire. In the midst of all the back and forth, it’s hard to keep focus on the main fact at play—teacher, student, your mind screaming, wrong.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

“I can help.” He makes a subtle nod toward you.

It didn’t take a genius to know what he was talking about. You were very well aware of the issue. You want to weigh your options, come up with some stupid reason to wiggle out if the situation—but nothing comes to mind. The way Eddie’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel has you digging your nails into your own thigh—you’re going to cave, you can feel it.

“Eddie.” You warn, watching as his hands lingers toward the gear shift, resting against the cracked and worn down plastic covering.

“Our secret, right?” He teases, like this whole situation wasn’t built on secrecy. You nod willingly, legs spreading a few inches wider. His fingers trail the seam of your jeans, stopping on the button, popping it open with deft fingers. “Move this way—yeah, there.”

And when his fingers breach the seam of your underwear, your mind sings a soft praise of release, watching as his hand forces its way into the tight space, leaving him no other option but to cup your cunt with his full palm.

There was no turning back now.

His middle finger drags through your folds testingly, matching the slow undulating beat of the song, like this was a game to him. You have no idea how to handle your hovering hands, too afraid to touch him, so they wrap around the headrest behind your head, fingers gripped tightly together.

Your legs spread wider, giving him better access—you were rutting into his hand at the shift of position, feeling that familiar tingle of pleasure as it shot through your body, mixed with the feeling of a bite of forbidden fruit, avoiding Eddie’s heated gaze as he shifted between you and the road.

It feels reckless and stupid, but you can’t find the courage to stop.

The first dip of his finger is like heaven, feeling unfamiliar after so long, despite how often you touched yourself, you couldn’t remember the last time there had ever been anyone else but you—not since the first summer after you graduated; freshly eighteen and naive, letting a much older man have you how he wanted—it’s uncanny, the situation your in now. But this, it doesn’t feel like that.

“Fuck—“ Your voice catches, stomach clenching at the curl of his middle finger as it slipped inside of you and back out, pace so insufferably slow, “—need more.”

“There she is,” He smiles to himself, confidence oozing in his tone, “—shit, you’re such a liar.”

It takes you a minute to realize that he’s not talking to you at all—which sends you down a different wave of emotions, pussy clenching around his lone finger, gasping at the way he curls it against the soft walls of your cunt, searching desperately for something out of reach.

“How long has it been like this?” He asks curiously.

Since the moment you met him, is what you want to say.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You reply breathlessly, back arching away from the seat, cunt pressing further against his hand as he slips a second finger inside.

At the lie, Eddie stops without warning, and it gives you a headache, that slow build of pleasure deflating immediately.

“The truth,” He says, though, it’s more of a demand, “tell me.”

And fuck, if you weren’t putty in this man’s rough, calloused hands.

“Since earlier,” You reply, rewarded with the soft brush of a fingertip over your clit, you quickly unzip your jeans to allow for more room, “when I saw you onstage.”

Eddie’s groan in response tells you everything you need to hear. He slows to a stop at a red light and it’s the first real glance you share with him the entire evening, both of you seeing straight through each other, bodies overran with pleasure.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” He says, and it seems a little late for a realization like that, you can’t help but laugh, “what—you think it’s funny?”

“You’re the one with your hand down my pants, sir.” You retort, earning a disciplined squeeze as he shoves his two middle most fingers back into your cunt, molding around him like glue.

“Sorry—I know you hate that word,” You say playfully, “But do you mind if I use it? Or, do you prefer professor?”

It was your turn to play into the guilt he was feeling, though it didn’t seem to be concerning if he still had his hands shoved down your pants so willingly.

“Shut up,” He forces out, swerving slightly at the way you cunt clenched around his fingers, insides fluttering as he curves his fingers wildly, grazing that sweet spot deep inside of you, “don’t call me that.”

His hands were larger than yours, making up for all the work you missed out on.

“Too far?” You ask teasingly, knowing that was the least of your worries; all moral lines crossed, blurred, forgotten about entirely. Eddie’s fingers pull back to graze over the sensitive nub, rubbing in small, leisurely circles, “Fuck that—that feels—“

Your moan is so unashamed that it surprises you, hips bucking up into his hands as you nearly leapt out of the seat.

Eddie can’t take the suffering much longer, pulling off onto the winding side road, tucked into a nest of trees. He unbuckles his seatbelt, allowing fuller access as he turns toward you, switching his hands with practiced ease—you couldn’t even open your eyes, face drawn up in pleasure. You knew the moment you looked at him you were done for.

“Look at me,” His voice echoes alongside the melodic tune of the song, his fingers matching the catchy beat—the damn music aficionado he was, toying with you, fingers strumming against your swollen clit like the strings of his guitar, “—I said, look at me.”

Your body works for you, eyes opening on instinct—his voice was rough, authoritative, leaving no room for argument.

“Good girl—It’s what you wanted, right?” He asks with a semblance of a smirk on his face, “It’s why you came tonight?”

You laugh weakly at his words, double entendre, unable to go unnoticed, “As far as I’m concerned, no one’s came tonight.”

His eyes darken, shifting toward your cunt, covered by your clothes, his wrist poking out above the thin material of your underwear.

“You can stop—stop acting like this is my fault,” You hiccup, gasping as he applies heavy pressure to your clit, rubbing steadily, hating how shameful it feels as your cunt clenches around nothing, wishing his fingers were still buried inside you. “Please—fuck, I just—“

All self restraint forgotten, you hand searches for his face, finding its way into his curls, pulling gently at the root, the softest hint of a grunt falling from his lips—the first noticeable sign all evening that he was even slightly affected by this—by you.

And maybe you’ve gone too far, the idea of touching him is where things go wrong, but you can’t be bothered to hold yourself together anymore.

“It’s okay,” He assures you, leaning over the middle console, hand working quickly against your cunt, moaning loudly into the confines of the car, ashamed at how wrecked you sound, “I like it.”

He must’ve noticed your expression, lingering on his face—you could do anything and he’d fall to his knees.

“It hurts—“ You plead, begging for release, “—please?”

It sounds too pretty coming from you, deciding that putting you out of your misery was easier than watching you suffer, on the verge of a mind-blowing orgasm, Eddie’s hands feeling so much better than your own, or anyone that’s touched you before.

Your mouth hangs open on a wordless gasp, eyes squeezing shut at the force at which your high hits you, his fingers gently coaxing you through the descending pulse of your orgasm, near the point of over stimulation.

“Okayokay—“ You ramble, fingers wrapping around the length of his wrist as you pulled him away, heart skipping in your chest at the sight of his fingers flexing against your stomach as he pulls away, fingers covered in your wetness as a result of what just happened.

Your head rests against the back of the seat, chest heaving rapidly as you try to catch your breath. “Not that I’m complaining—“ Eddie’s voice pulls you out of your hypnosis, “but you might wanna let go.”

“Shit—I’m sorry,” You apologize softly, letting go of his hair, looking at him sheepishly, hands returning to your lap to fix your pants.

The song had ended long ago, the gentle rumble of the engine filling the quiet like an ambiance, realization settling between you both.

Who speaks first?

He’s quiet, wiping his hands on a black handkerchief that he seemed to have pulled out of nowhere, before stuffing it into his back pocket—where it must’ve been all along.

“I’m—“

“Should I—“

The stare you hold is long and tense, brimming with even more sexual tension than before, searching for some way to cope with whatever just happened.

He glanced down at the hard bulge of his jeans, noticing the way your gaze catches. He shifts, pulling at the front of his jeans to adjust himself. “It’s fine.” He lies, not ready to allow this to go any further than it should have.

“I don’t mind,” You reply slowly, voice hesitant as you lean forward, “I want to.”

He feels himself flex at the thought, the idea of your mouth—or even your hand, wrapped around, he was ruined. But, he’s insistent.

“I need to get you back to campus, right?” He asks, though the answer is obvious. It was a grasping at straw attempt to change the subject. “Red’s probably worried about you.”

Not a fucking chance.

“Yeah—you’re right.” You answer, trying to hide dejection, wanting nothing more than to touch him, as intimately as he had you. “We should go.”

It’s like he’s turning on his classroom demeanor before your eyes—and frankly, it’s ridiculous. He’s regretting every choice he just made and you know it, watching as he flips the gear into place, back on the road with one swift twist of the steering wheel.

And it could’ve been the heat of the moment or the copious amount of drinks that Eddie had been offered that night, obscuring his rational thinking—but he didn’t reek of alcohol, not a single drop on his breath. So, if anything, it was regret, obvious and plastered over his entire face.

But to Eddie, it's shame.

Shame at the idea of breaking so many rules, risking his job at the hands of some young women—who he couldn’t help but be lured by, entranced at how much of an enigma you were. He couldn’t describe it, couldn’t even put it into words.

And even after he drops you off that night, he comes in his hand, against the soft expanse of his stomach, the image of your face in his mind as you come apart by the work of his own hand.

He knew there was no going back, allowing himself to fully succumb to the idea that if you were willing to let him have you like that, you’d let him do just about anything.

It was exactly what you wanted.

author's note: and an extra special thank you to @hellfirehoe for dealing with my nonstop horny thoughts about this and helping me proofread.

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