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waywardrose-archive · 1 year

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THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY | 11

stranger things

eddie munson x reader

rated e

5.8k

spotify playlist

for @punk-in-docs

fem/witchy/goth!reader, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, no y/n only pet names, series-typical horror, period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, mutual masturbation, fantasizing, one-bed trope, making out, fingering, dirty talk, consensual pursuit and capture, oral sex, handjobs, condoms, piv sex, reader’s father is a dirtbag, mild spanking, magical violation, mental torture, body horror, aftercare, nightmares, strict parenting, panic attack, tags will be updated as needed

Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird?

Weird weird?

He shrugged. He liked weird.

In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.

note: Stg, this chapter proves the maxim “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture,” but I tried, dear readers. I tried.

“Hey,” Eddie said, voice smokey — from weed or cigarettes, you still couldn’t tell. “Wanna hear the first song I ever learned?”

You perked at the unexpected offer and set aside the spell book you’d been paging through.

“Sure.”

“‘kay, hang on.”

Knowing it was coming, you pulled the headset away just in time to miss the plastic clunk from his side. A distant clatter and footsteps filled the void. He muttered a ‘son of a bitch’ before something heavy hit the floor.

You grinned as you determined his voice was smokey from weed. No doubt about it. He wasn’t the most graceful person when sober. When high, he was loose-limbed, yet uncoordinated. Like a bloodshot-eyed fawn.

Static from the phone announced his return.

“This is gonna be an awkward set-up, but I think you’ll hear me.”

“Cool.”

The plastic clunk came again.

As he strummed the first notes, you recognized “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd.

It was easy to imagine him — scrawny, baby-faced, already jaded — with a guitar too big for him. His fingers struggling to keep pressure on the strings. You wondered who’d introduced him to Pink Floyd. Or was it something he’d heard on the radio? Had he looted an adult’s record collection?

Then Eddie sang, hitting David Gilmour’s inflections. Your breath caught at how much emotion Eddie could put into such simple lyrics. It was as though he were on the verge of something, yet he exorcized it through the song.

You wanted to sing with him, but your chest was too full of that same something. All you could do was listen and feel it.

When the song ended, it was quiet on his end. You had no words — even though you wanted to tell him how much you loved the song, his playing, his voice. You covered the mic with your palm and took a few deep, shuddering breaths. It released a tension that felt like the prelude to a sob.

“You there?” he asked.

You uncovered the mic.

“Holy shit, honey.”

Your voice remained tight, but you stretched your neck to help that wane.

With a smile in his tone, he said, “Yeah?”

“Holy. Shit.”

He chuckled.

You asked, “When did you learn that?”

“Uh... Twelve?”

“No fucking way!”

“Yes fucking way!”

“You’re a prodigy, baby.”

He let out a ‘pfft.’

“I’m serious.”

It was quiet for a beat. You didn’t know how to fill the silence. You didn’t want to push your opinion, though you would repeat it if he argued. Because he was talented.

“I know,” he murmured. “Thanks.”

You hummed. “My pleasure.”

“Is it?”

You felt him waggling his eyebrows.

“Absolutely.”

He let out a breath before saying, “I’ve been working on another song.”

“What is it?”

“Frustrating.”

You gave a short laugh.

“I’ve been struggling with getting out of chords-melody thinking and into vertical-horizontal.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Okay, right, I can play four notes one after another.” He plucked four strings separately. “Or at the same time.” He swept the same strings concurrently. “Same tonal experience. Kinda. The first is horizontal, the second is vertical. Horizontal can be suspenseful, vertical dramatic.”

You nodded while making a sound of assent.

“Old-school composers didn’t think in chords, exactly, either. They saw everything as melody. Like a voice. They wrote a melody, then added a counterpoint melody. A counter-melody. And there are rules for counter-melodies.”

“So, how does that change the music?”

“I mean... It doesn’t. Not really. It’s all perspective to the composer.”

“Which is what you’re trying to change, got it.”

“Yeah, I want a different perspective. I don’t want the rules.” He hummed. “Well, not exactly. Sometimes the rules sound good, but...”

“Breaking them sounds good, too?”

“Precisely!”

“Well...” You bit your lip. “What do you have?”

His tone turned sly as he said, “You just want me to keep playing, don’t you, milady?”

“Guilty, good sir.”

“Is this, like, getting the villain to monologue? Are you planning to distract me while you execute—” His voice went theatrical. “—your diabolical plan?!”

“Now who sounds like a villain?”

“We’ll be villains together.”

“I like the sound of that.”

He agreed with a short hum.

“You know,” you said. “That almost distracted me.”

“...Damn.”

“Get your music, bard, and play me this ditty.”

He laughed, then warned he needed to set up his electric.

“That red and black one?” you asked.

“The very same.”

With a grin, you said, “What a treat.”

“You’re making me blush over here.”

“I wish I could see that.”

“After Thanksgiving?”

“You bet.”

It was quiet for a beat before he said, “Okay, setting up the guitar. I gotta move the phone away from this amp.”

“Oh? You’re in your room?”

“Uh, yeah—” He sounded distracted. “Got a phone the other day.”

You didn’t ask, but it sounded like he’d bought the phone to more easily talk to you. Maybe that was wishful thinking. He could’ve bought it so he wouldn’t have to get out of bed when someone called. Still, the thought he bought it because of you was a nice stroke to the ego.

Scraping and clattering, punctuated by the occasional ‘goddammit,’ made you grin.

Sounding out of breath, he said, “Okay, okay, I’m back.”

“Still here.”

“Alright, no lyrics yet, but yeah—”

The phone clunked as he set his headset down. There came a click, then the electric hum of an amp. His chair creaked. A deep rhythm like a heartbeat started. It dissolved into a sultry metallic shred, followed by the heartbeat again. Then a dark thrum. The heartbeat. The shred again, this time ending in grinding reverb. It went through the cycle once more until it sped into an unrelenting canter.

You knew that tempo, heard the creak of a bed in it. Staring into the black of the nearby window, you could almost see the shabby motel room.

The song was about you and him.

The canter went lighter for a few seconds. He then used that dark thrum to bring the shred back, then the heartbeat.

It was a wet dream. You bit your lip. It was his memory.

Even without the drums to drive the song, or the bass to harmonize, you could imagine how it would sound. It would be heavy, primal, with Eddie growling and crooning the lyrics. You closed your eyes and moved with the song’s pulse, like it was a living thing you rode. It was energy and alive — and a gift. No one had ever given you anything like this.

When the song ended, you opened your eyes.

His headset scraped along a smooth surface. Then it went quiet.

Knowing he was listening, you softly said, “That’s us.”

“It’s Halloween weekend.”

“Yeah.”

“That okay?”

“Okay that you were inspired?”

“Yeah?”

You grinned.

“Yeah, of course it’s okay. Write about whatever you want. I love it.”

He sounded shy when he asked, “You do?”

“Uh yeah, it’s amazing.”

You knew he gnawed on his lip. Oh, how you wanted to kiss him to make him stop and hold his face to tell him you loved the song. You wanted to tell him you loved him, because you did — with your whole heart and mind.

No, he wasn’t perfect. Neither were you. But it didn’t matter—

“You know,” he said, unaware he’d derailed your thought. “When the guys hear this, they’re gonna know.”

“Like they don’t know already.”

Not that you cared, either. Let the whole world know you banged Eddie’s hot ass in a cheap motel.

He snorted. “True, subtlety isn’t exactly my speciality.”

“How self-aware of you.”

“I try.”

You’d already bookmarked a spell for manifesting. In another book, utilizing sex magic to manifest a lover. There was a variation on the same spell for better sex. While you didn’t need better sex or a lover, you could alter the spells to manifest your magic. You reasoned you could use sexual energy for manifestation.

Maybe your magic was blocked, though. You needed a spell to unblock it. Or you needed to call your magic back, which was a lot like manifesting.

You sighed and leaned back in your desk chair. Spells were all fine and good, but if you didn’t have magic, how could any of them work?

No, you corrected. You didn’t need magic to make spells work. You needed energy.

You read the bookmarked spells again, noticing similarities. Combining them, rewriting them for your own purpose, and using your own energy wasn’t a farfetched idea.

In your notebook, you sketched the manifesting sigils. Supplies were simple: candles, chalk, and a goal. You copied the guidelines about breath-work, retaining awareness of your energy as it moved through the body, and visualization.

However, you didn’t know what your magic looked like. How were you supposed to visualize something that didn’t have a physical form?

You stared out the window. The sunset bleached the blue sky nearly white, like the color of faded denim. Thin, mottled clouds turned purple and gold.

Then it came to you: light was energy, but you couldn’t sense it until it interacted with something else. That didn’t mean it didn’t exist before then.

So, if your magic was energy, what mattered, in terms of visualization, was what it interacted with.

Which was you.

Now that your magic was gone, you realized you used it like another sense. You’d interacted with your surroundings with magic. It was how you felt the care in Eddie’s jacket repair and how you made your footsteps silent. However, the major driver was you. Always you.

You asked yourself how you felt with magic. The simple answer came quick: expansive. You’d sensed more. Since the attack, you felt asleep. Like in dreams where you ran, yet lacked forward movement.

Envisioning that expansiveness was manageable.

You stood, tucking in your chair, and rolled back the rug covering the hardwood floor until you had enough space. From the supplies in your closet, you retrieved spell candles, blessing oil, incense, and white school chalk.

It didn’t take long to prepare. After turning off the lights, you undressed by candlelight and anointed your body. You knelt in the middle of your sigiled circle, swirls of chalk smudging your spread knees. Though you couldn’t feel the sigils’ power, you trusted it was there.

You placed a palm on the chalk to connect to the sigils. With the other hand, you reached between your legs. As you idly brushed your clit and the tender folds leading to it, you remembered blowing Eddie. The warmth between the sheets had smelled of you and him. His silky skin had been so warm.

You’d inched his sleep pants to his thighs and kissed his firm belly, his treasure trail tickling your cheek. He’d stirred, yet hadn’t woken. The linen-filtered light gave a tranquil air. There’d been no rush.

You’d rested your cheek below his bellybutton, his clean scent filling your nose. He had smelled of heated skin and salt and your soap. You’d run your hand over his belly, around his soft cock, across the downy hairs at the top of his thigh.

Feeling bold, you’d swept your fingers up his inner thigh; the skin fine and soft. You skimmed the tip of his cock and his sac. His legs had spread minutely, which made you grin. You spiraled a finger around the glans just to see how he’d react.

And it had been mesmerizing.

Though his breathing had remained steady, his cock plumped and reddened. You hadn’t expected his body to be so responsive. If he’d been awake, you might’ve teased him by calling him slutty.

You’d then drawn closer to this growing erection, wrapping a hand around the base to brace it. Saliva had gathered on your tongue, because you’d wanted to taste him.

You wanted to taste him now — and hear his groans.

The thought combined with the memory had you slick.

You stroked your clit to the rhythm of the song he’d played for you last night. You thought of his talented hands — on his guitar, at your waist, holding your throat, clapping down on your ass. He stretched you perfectly, ground against you like he couldn’t get close enough, kissed you as if he wanted you inside him.

You squeezed your eyes shut and focused on your building pleasure. It trickled in like a gentle brook. And it was energy, hot and syrupy. Sweet like honey. You remembered that tremendous feeling of the universe, of being able to tap into it. All of it was yours, and you were in its thrall.

With a whispered curse, you imagined the trickle of energy filling you. It flowed down your spine to pool between your hipbones. It infused your flesh, spilled into your arms.

You opened your eyes to watch the chalk lines flicker with light.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, yeah, come on.”

You sped your strokes, trying to recall how Eddie had done it. He’d used fingers on either side of your clit. You adjusted your touch and rocked your hips counter to each forward stroke.

Connection, you thought. You sought connection once more.

“Please...”

You pressed harder, and it was as though your body remembered the scenario of half-lying on Eddie, his body against yours, grinding onto his fingers, his other hand branding one cheek of your ass.

Please, please, please...

“Give it back. Give it to me.”

When the energy swelled and orgasm crested like an ocean wave, you bit back a moan and breathed through it. You thought of the connection to the magic, of using what had been given, of feeling favored.

The chalk flickered once, twice, before going dark. It wasn’t enough. You didn’t have enough.

“No,” you said. “No, no, no.” You curled forward, slapping your wet fingers on the chalk. “Please, come back.”

The candles’ flames danced as the central heating kicked on. Goosebumps prickled over your forearms. The blessing oil turned sticky on your skin.

You sat back on your heels, breathing deep. This wasn’t the end. Perhaps you needed to rework the spell, or take more time to prepare. You couldn’t just dive into a spell anymore. As normal as you’d been rendered, you probably now had to meditate and rest and use the proper moon phase.

Before you did any of that, you needed to wash off the chalk, oil, and come.

At the kitchen table in the morning, Mom announced she and your father were going on a date Friday night. They’d made a reservation at some Italian restaurant downtown. She then reminded you that you were still grounded.

Like you’d forgotten.

You nodded and took another bite of cereal as an outline of a plan came into focus.

Date night meant they’d both have too much to drink. You didn’t want to think about what happened after they came home and retreated to their bedroom. Logically, though, you knew they’d be occupied with each other for the night. In the morning, they’d sleep late, pop painkillers, and want a greasy breakfast.

They wouldn’t notice another person in your bedroom. Especially if that person didn’t park their van nearby. Or if they didn’t drive over at all.

“Just in case,” you said, tentative. “May I have my car keys?”

Your father grunted and folded the newspaper to the side. He looked unimpressed.

“Just for the night, promise.” You glanced between your parents. “What if something happens?”

You gave Mom an imploring look.

To your father, you said, “I won’t do anything stupid.” To Mom: “If there’s an emergency—”

“You call 9-1-1,” your father said.

“Now, dear,” Mom said to your father. “The police take so long to respond. What if someone breaks in? How would she get away quickly?”

“She runs.”

“You want her barefoot out in the cold? It’s almost December.”

He sighed through his nose, lips pursed.

You offered, “I could get us breakfast in the morning?”

His eyebrows lifted, then his expression shuttered.

“No.”

You nodded and finished your cereal. If you argued, your father would likely add another week to your grounding. He’d say you were trying to find a loophole or whining or being a child. Then he’d compare you to the brats his colleagues raised — and you weren’t a brat, were you?

No, you weren’t a brat. You were a witch who’d been violated and had her power ripped away.

You took your empty bowl to the sink, rinsing it with water before leaving the kitchen. The bus would be at the corner in ten minutes. You threw on your coat, shouldered your backpack, and left the house.

You waited outside O’Donnell’s for Eddie, hands tucked between the small of your back and the wall. It was probably overkill to wait. Or it would look like it embarrassed you to ask where anyone could overhear. You could pass him a note during class, but you didn’t want it confiscated. O’Donnell had read students’ notes aloud before.

And what you were going to ask could be misconstrued. Well, maybe not misconstrued. You were asking him to spend the night to help you with a sex ritual.

When he turned the corner, you straightened from the wall. A bright smile spread across his face as he caught sight of you. You smiled back. He scurried over, light on his feet, then struck a goofy pose when in front of you.

His face went serious as he said, “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Whatcha doing out here?”

“I need to ask you a favor.”

He leaned in, conspiratorial.

“A sexy favor?”

With a nod, you said, “Yes, actually.”

He tilted his head side to side with a hum, looking more mischievous by the second.

“Alright, let’s go. Van’s parked in the side lot.”

You bit back a laugh as a few students veered around Eddie.

“How about this Friday instead?”

“In the van?”

“In my room.”

His eyebrows rose just as the bell rang.

Multiple sets of sneakers squeaked on the linoleum as students rushed into various classrooms. You both were lucky O’Donnell hadn’t arrived yet. However, the clack of her heels grew ever closer.

You said, “Call me tonight,” and walked into the classroom.

Everyone was too busy talking amongst themselves to notice you and Eddie arrive together.

After taking his seat, he turned to you and asked, “Sure I can’t tempt you?”

You gave him a somber look in an attempt to hide a grin before pointedly ignoring him to get a pen from your purse. It was tempting to leave, because you didn’t want to sit around for the next fifty minutes and take notes.

He sighed dramatically and flipped his notebook to a fresh sheet as O’Donnell began taking roll. He kept side-eying you throughout class, but you kept your gaze focused on the board.

Eddie slung his jacket with vest over the stair rail in your room. He stopped at the edge of the rolled-up rug as you tip-toed around the larger, redrawn chalk circle on the floor.

“Okay,” Eddie said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re going to concentrate your energy on the circle.”

“You want me to jizz on it?”

You shrugged.

“That’s bound to happen.”

“And this is supposed to help you what?”

You sat on the window seat and focused on the sigils you’d drawn earlier. Your hands fisted the thick fabric of your winter-weight robe. You didn’t know how to explain the ritual without convincing him magic was real. He had to believe to help.

“Look, I know this is gonna sound crazy,” you said, mouth gummy. “But magic is real.” You swallowed, heart hammering in your chest. “Magic is real, and I’m a witch.”

You finally glanced at him. Eddie was still and staring. His open flannel shirt hardly moved, as if he’d stopped breathing.

He looked at the circle and back at you.

“You’re a witch,” he said flatly.

“Yeah, I’m a witch.”

“Did you really sleepwalk across town?”

With a shake of your head, you whispered, “Not exactly.”

“Have you done anything to me?”

“I’ve blessed things.”

“What things?”

“The repair on your jacket.” You nodded at it. “Your black handkerchief.”

Sounding suspicious, he asked, “Nothing else? No love spells and shit?”

“No, I... Of—” Your vision blurred with tears. “Of course not.”

You’d definitely ruined his trust. He’d be wary of you from now on and always doubt any feeling for you. Unfortunately, you didn’t know how to prove your intentions. You could only tell him the truth.

You put a hand on your tense chest and said, “I’ve never — never — manipulated you.” You blinked while looking up. “Those kinds of spells don’t work, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Love spells. You can’t make someone love you. It wouldn’t be real.” You lifted a shoulder. “You can cast with love, but you can’t force emotion from another person.”

He sat on the bed, the toes of his sneakers inches from the circle.

It was quiet — too quiet — as though the house was holding its breath. Eddie studied the circle as you watched his profile. The waves of his hair possessed a hint of dampness. You wanted to sit beside him and bury your nose in those waves. You didn’t know if he’d ever let you do that again.

“Okay, so, magic is real,” he said, expression grim as he looked at the circle.

You nodded.

He continued, “And you want me to help you do something magical.”

“I want you to help me regain magic.”

“Because someone took it.”

“Yeah.”

“But you can’t confront that someone.”

“I don’t dare.”

He looked at you, the irises of his eyes dancing as he examined your face.

“What’ll happen if you pull your magic back from them?” he asked.

“I don’t think I can do that, exactly, but I can’t—” You inhaled. “I can’t let them leave me crippled like this.”

He nodded, then rested his elbows on his thighs.

“You know, when you said you needed me for a sex ritual, I didn’t think you were serious.”

You waved your hands in a small arc.

“Surprise?”

He grinned for a beat, then his face turned serious.

“It’s not dangerous, is it?” he asked.

You shook your head before explaining the sigils, the circle, how the waxing moon helped, and what you’d tried before. He brightened when you mentioned masturbation. You rolled your eyes and remarked it was just energy you could manipulate.

He smirked.

“Yeah, that’s not the only thing you manipulated.”

Your mouth twisted as you shook your head at the lame joke.

“I should’ve seen that coming.”

“Oh, you’ll see something coming, alright.”

You covered your face with a hand, trying not to laugh.

“Oh my God, will you stop!?”

Imitating a bad porn soundtrack, he sang, “Bow-chick-a bow-bow.”

Your face heated, though you couldn’t help laughing, and you pointed at the stairs.

“Leave.”

“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands in surrender, yet had a puckish smile. “I’ll stop.”

You smiled at him for a moment. His eyes twinkled, the earlier suspicion gone.

“Do you trust me?” you asked.

Nodding, he said, “Yeah.”

“Are you sure? I don’t—”

“Sweetheart.” He pivoted on the bed to face you. “I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t.”

You bit your lip as the tightness in your chest slowly unspooled.

He gave you a reassuring look and sat up straight. You took that as a cue to approach. His hands were cool against yours, calluses coarse across your palm. You tugged him to his feet.

“Thank you — even if it doesn’t work. I really appreciate it.”

He released your hands to cup your face.

“It’s my pleasure,” he said with a quirk of his lips.

You breathed a laugh, but he cut it off with a kiss. His soft lips were sweet from some sugary drink. His skin smelled faintly of sharp aftershave. You slanted your head to deepen the kiss and put your hands on his sides. His ribs undulated with his gentle breath, which fanned over your cheek.

Eddie kissed your mouth open. His tongue brushed yours in a tease. He sucked at your bottom lip before pulling back.

“I’ve missed this.”

“Me too.” You peeked around him to read the time. “But we need to get started.”

“Yeah.” He blinked as if he’d forgotten the reason for being in your room. “Yeah, sure.”

You eased his flannel shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. His bangs partially obscured his face as he watched your hands. Once you’d gotten the shirt off, you tossed it on the bed. The t-shirt underneath — the Metallica one from the first day of class — was tucked into his jeans.

“Can I?” you asked, pinching the t-shirt.

His voice was just above a whisper when he said, “Sure, go for it.”

You pulled the t-shirt hem loose and swept it up his torso. He raised his arms to twist out of it, his hair fluffing even further when he was free. You added the t-shirt to the clothing pile.

Somehow, Eddie looked broader without clothes. Like a reverse wet-cat situation.

You traced the demon-head tattoo on his upper chest. You’d seen all his tattoos before, of course, but you’d take any excuse to touch him. Goosebumps rose over his skin; his nipples hardened. You apologized if your hands were cold since he radiated heat.

He whispered, “No, it’s cool.”

You brushed the black-widow tattoo above the demon's head. She looked as if about to crawl across his chest. Maybe in the future you could get a spiderweb tattoo. It would be her home.

“What?” he asked softly.

“Just thinking about tattoos.”

He hummed, but didn’t push for a reply.

You centered the guitar pick on his necklace and snuck a glance at his face. His lips were red and wet, dark eyes hot, pink mottling his cheeks. That same pink trailed down his neck. You wanted to feel the heat on your lips, taste his sweat, bite his perfect skin, leave bruises on his hips and scratches on his back—

Fuck.

You couldn’t get distracted. Despite how distracting Eddie was.

You smoothed your palms down his square torso and around to his sides.

“Should I take your rings off?” you asked.

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

His left hand trembled as you slipped off the chunky rings one by one. A pale ghost encircled his wrist where his watch usually sat. In comparison, his right hand was tame with simple rings on his middle and ring fingers. You took the rings to your desk, lining them next to your open notebook.

When you turned, he was sitting to untie his sneakers. He knocked them aside and pitched his socks in their direction. You went to him and combed his hair away from his face. He grinned with a contented sigh, eyes going half-mast.

“Are you ready?” you asked.

“As I’ll ever be, baby.”

“Okay, I’ll light the candles and stuff. You get undressed and kneel in the circle.”

He grabbed your hips to stop you from taking another step.

“Wait.”

“What? What is it?”

“C’mere.”

You moved between his spread legs with a hunch about what he wanted. He pulled at the lapels of your robe to have you bend, which you did. You balanced yourself with hands on his firm thighs.

“Yes?” you asked with a knowing smirk.

He glanced at your chest before leaning in, mouth tilting for yours. You couldn’t refuse that wordless offer. You kissed him once more, languid and tender. As the seconds ticked on, your apprehension faded. It was you and him. It was warm and tingly. It was anticipation and familiarity.

You pulled away to look into his eyes. His pupils were wide, fathomless, and full of desire. You wanted to drop to your knees, give in, let him have everything he’d been denied.

Instead, you inhaled a deep, calming breath.

Save it for the spell.

“Are you ready now?”

He re-wet his lips with a nod. You returned the nod before going to light candles and incense. After clicking off the lamps, you turned to see him standing outside the circle, naked, his hands curled around his groin. The dance of candlelight painted gold across his skin. The curve of muscle deepened, tattoos softened, the waves of his hair became a halo.

Though you wanted to touch him, you moved to the opposite side of the circle and found the ends of your robe’s belt.

“Hold up,” he said.

You released the belt, hoping he wasn’t having second thoughts.

He took a cautious step onto the circle. Before the attack, you would’ve felt the contact between him and the chalk. There was no guarantee you’d feel it after the spell, of course, but you hoped you would.

Eddie eased onto his knees as if in prayer. He held out his hands for you to take.

With a deep breath, you clasped his hands and stepped onto the circle. You needed the anchor of his touch as your equilibrium wavered from focusing on him. He said nothing of it, releasing your hands and reaching for your belt. He unknotted the bow you’d tied. The front panels loosened to hang from the slope of your breasts. You swallowed as he parted the panels enough to see you bare from throat to knee.

He smiled up at you.

“Didn’t know you were naked under this.”

“I didn’t think there was a point in getting dressed.”

“Well...” He glanced down. “I’m not complaining.”

With a grin, you said, “I didn’t think you would.”

He pushed the panels farther apart. The heavy fabric caught on your pebbled nipples. He angled forward to kiss your belly. His hands snaked up your outer thighs and hips to your waist. The slow caress made your breath catch and back arch. He nuzzled into the softness of your middle, humming.

Your cunt clenched. He was so close. He could probably smell your arousal. All you had to do was throw a knee over his shoulder and guide his face to your slick pussy.

That wouldn’t be enough, though. Your orgasm alone hadn’t been enough last time. You needed his as well.

“Eddie...” You pet his hair. “Eddie, we can’t. Not yet.”

With a soft groan, he rested his forehead on your belly. “You’re right... Jesus, fuck—”

You shimmied the robe off your shoulders and tossed it onto the bed. It took ample willpower to step back and drop to your knees instead of sliding onto his cock and riding him hard. The hungry look in his eyes didn’t help, yet somehow, you remained kneeling.

“Mirror me,” you said, walking your knees apart and putting a hand on the chalk.

He did as requested, his face close to yours. His erection jerked between his legs. Clear precome oozed down the underside, glossy in the half-light.

“Breathe with me.”

He stared at your upturned breasts as he bit his bottom lip. His chest started to sync with yours.

“Feel your energy.”

“All I feel is... wanting you.”

You nearly whimpered at his confession.

“I— I want you, too. Just put it here,” you said and nodded to the circle.

He squeezed his eyes closed with a quick bob of his head.

“Christ, when can I start jacking it?”

As before, you reached between your legs. You idly brushed your clit and the tender folds leading to it. Unlike before, there was no need to fantasize about Eddie. He was here now. You could kiss him, taste his skin, and smell his musk as much as you wanted.

“Set our pace, honey,” you said.

He fixed his attention on the hand between your legs while holding the base of his cock. You relaxed into position, waiting. A tension, more intense than before, coursed through your body as the still moment stretched. Your cunt throbbed, and you had to swallow back a plea.

Almost too soft to hear, he asked, “Are you wet?”

You nodded.

He drew his fingers up to smear the precome around his tip and over his frenulum. You mimicked him by dipping two fingers in your hot hole, then spreading your juices on your clit. The slide of them had your hips canting back, your clitoral hood stretching. The tension became physical as your breathing shallowed.

He wrapped his hand around the tip, massaging it and twisting his hand. You circled your clit in broad rotations. He rubbed the dripping slit at his tip, and you used his rhythm to tease your hole.

You met his gaze and exhaled. His eyes glowed with lust, cheeks feverishly pink. Your first instinct was to lean forward to kiss him, but you couldn’t distract yourself — or him.

“Ready?” he asked.

You breathed a ‘yeah.’

He gave a long stroke down his shaft and back up. You used the length of two fingers to stroke your clit. The delicious friction had you biting your lip. His graceful hand built a rhythm until it was the same canter from the song he’d played for you.

Something about that made the song, the situation, raunchier and deeper. It would never not turn you on now.

You mewled.

“Good?” he asked, breathless.

“Keep going.”

His breathing sped as he pumped his cock. You matched him stroke for stroke. The tip of his cock was red like ripe fruit, the shaft flushed. Heat bloomed in your chest, over your neck, and spread to concentrate between your legs. Your clit drew in. You had to press harder, but that hardly deterred you. It ramped up the pleasured warmth. It centered in the tightening muscles below your navel, your sensitive nipples, and, unexpectedly, your bite-swollen lips.

You whispered, “Make us come, Eddie.”

“Just a little faster, baby. Show me...”

You quickened your strokes. You rolled your hips against your fingers. Your eyes refused to stay open, though. You tucked your chin as your body tensed. Give it back. Orgasm was right there. Give it to me. You teetered on that knife-edge.

Eddie groaned like the sound was punched out of him. He growled a curse.

The strain in his deep voice made your gut swoop. It was enough to have you tipping into orgasm. You gave in. It felt like falling. You saw yourself falling into the velvety shadow of magic you’d once known. It thrummed around you, airless and sparkling against your skin. It sucked you in like an undercurrent. You reeled until you broke the surface with a gasp so powerful your head fell back.

You opened your eyes. Light reflected off the ceiling, strong and steady. Not candlelight.

The chalk circle shone like a beacon under you and Eddie.

Your chest heaved for breath. You felt as if you filled the entire room. You felt Eddie’s palm on the floor and his connection with you. It wasn’t the same as before, but it was something.

You met his shocked gaze as the circle dimmed little by little.

“Jesus Christ,” he said between pants. “Magic’s real.”

Acoustic cover by Yoni Schlesinger of Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" (Schlesinger vocals are more gentle than Eddie's, but you get the idea.)

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #stranger things #em tagd #waywardrose writes

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