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courtingchaos · 2 months

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Concentrated Bliss

Eddie Munson x Fem Reader

A/N: Local one trick pony wrote smut again, surprise surprise.

Warnings: blow job, talk of living in someone’s chest, swallowing

NSFW 18+ No Minors

Caught unawares lounging on his bed with a folded back magazine held over his face, eyes squinting in the dimming light at the article he’s been reading, he doesn’t hear the creak of the chair in the corner. Pleather rubbing against loose metal while you slink off of it like you’re made of putty. Feet pushed back when your knees hit the floor quietly and you drop onto your hands to crawl on all fours, shoulders dropped to keep your head out of his line of sight while you pick through the detritus on the floor, your approach silent and unannounced.

He shifts on the bed, a dropped knee that opens up his hips and creates the perfect divot for you to rest your ribcage in. “Did you know Motley Crue have a fucking Lear jet?” His head rolls side to side in disgust. “Assholes.”

Your low hum doesn’t register, instead he just keeps reading and scoffing, his foot bouncing to background noise in his head. It’s a broken rhythm that he taps out and if you aren’t mistaken you can almost sus out the drum beat to When Doves Cry. A soft rhythmic press of his tongue to the roof of his mouth confirms when you catch a piece of the bridge and you have to stifle your chuckle. It’s for naught though, his attention laser focused so that he doesn’t feel the dip of his mattress when you start crawling up.

“Heavy metal my ass!” The back of his fingers smack the rolled spine hard. “I don’t know why I waste my money on this shit sometimes.” He says, bringing it closer to his face to keep reading. You’re almost at your destination now, his zipper straining at the pull of his splayed legs beckoning you closer. It takes your hand sliding under his ass to plant yourself fully before he looks down finally.

“Oh.” A smile with dimples that look deeper in the fading sunset. “Hello. When’d you get here?” The magazine is forgotten over the side of his mattress, lost in all the other forgotten things behind him, that hand tucking behind his head while the other one lays soft on your cheek.

“I was stalking over here for a minute.”

“I was so engrossed in hating Vince Neil I wasn’t paying attention, I’m sorry.”

“No it’s okay.” Your jaw fits in the valley of his hip too well, the back of your head leaned against his propped up thigh. “I was trying to be sneaky.”

“Mission accomplished.”

Under your cheek you can feel the warm press under his jeans and the slowly growing heat of his attention. Nuzzling into rough cotton makes him let out a long breath that turns into a hiss when he sees you bare your teeth momentarily.

“Hey, hey gentle.” He tenses for a pinch through his pants but it doesn’t come, your teeth instead biting around a belt loop to pull at it like a dog with a toy.

“Help me out.” Is mumbled around fabric that you drool on a little bit before that hand on your face drifts to his button. You pull at the slack as the button slips free and his zipper inches down with your enthusiasm.

“What are you up to?” The smile in his voice betrays his knowledge of exactly what you’re doing.

“Looking for my keys.”

“Oh they’re like, way in there.” He snaps the waistband of his boxers before sliding that hand back along your cheek, calloused fingers catching along your hairline. “Might need to nose around a bit.”

Propping yourself up on your elbows gives him a view of the very top of your cleavage from under a worn and stretched out collar. Skin pressing against skin while you get comfortable and he knows how warm it is in there; soft when he dips his fingers between to explore and leaves a trail of goosebumps behind. Right now though he keeps stroking fingers through your hair and watching you through half lidded eyes as your fingers crawl up his pelvis to loop over the elastic band.

Pulling down reveals your first prize, a dark thatch of hair that you mimic his movements in, fingertips scratching lightly at slightly ticklish skin. The hand behind his head grips at the base of his skull, a flex of his forearm that you don’t notice just like his bottom lip getting consumed more and more. Teeth peak out between reddening lips as he chews, a roll of a tongue outward to wet them, almost as if he could taste you on the air.

Your sole focus is on him right now but not him. Not his face and his hands grappling for gentle purchase along your cheek and his own neck. Not his body that’s become flush under your frame, tacky in the joints that are still clothed, heat that rises from his chest and up his face to his ears. You’re focused on him in this other way that makes him feel bashful like he’s a kid again and fumbling around in the dark. It makes his toes curl in his socks and his thighs tense around your arms the slower you pull on his pants. Anxiousness ripples in his belly with every puff of air you huff out in private glee, the small smile lighting up your face the closer you get to undressing him making him taut.

You find delight in him and that makes him nervous. There’s no way you look forward to this but, “all day sometimes” as you’d previous stated and as always you aim to prove him wrong. He lifts his hips almost unconsciously when you tug harder and suddenly the air is cool against his overheated skin. You drag a fingertip from coarse hair to the base of him and drag it up the velvet soft skin, touch light and fixated as you run over the ridge of the head. His own nails dig into his scalp now, his lip left forgotten to hang with his jaw in a silent gasp.

You look up and he swears you’ve got a mouth full of teeth meant to tear and rend under that deep grin. Your eyes glint in the near dark and if you ate him alive right here tonight he’d go without a fight. A monster snuggles between his legs to paw at him and all he can do is melt into the mattress when you roll out your tongue. Just the very point of it licks a thin stripe back down to bush and before you can pull away he’s pressing a thumb to the flat of the muscle to feel it wiggle. It wraps around and sucks him in, runs along the ridges on the pad and you keep your eyes glued to his however hazy his vision gets.

He tries to say something but there were never any words there to begin with, just an open maw breathing heavy. Fixated on your mouth that still descends towards his cock even with his thumb still trapped between your teeth. He’s stuck under your hands that lay flat on his hips to hold him still and give you something to leverage yourself on. Your nose runs down the little bit of exposed thigh before the edge of your lip grazes his shaft and he pops his thumb free. A gasp felt more than heard and he feels drunk suddenly as that thumb finds its way into his own mouth as yours descends on him fully.

A blow job is a blow job is a blow job, but there’s something about you specifically that makes him whimper into his palm. He bites down on the thumb in his mouth that tastes like you and can’t take his eyes off your fingers digging into his naked hips. Short nails drag lightly like your lips do when you pull up and already his propped up thigh shakes. With every pass of your mouth the air feels colder on his wet skin and he feels a loss deep in his chest for something strange. He jokes about crawling into your ribs sometimes to set up a home and maybe this feels similar but there’s perversion in this urge. Something animal that ignites in his skull and drives him toward you and your roving mouth. That tongue that inches out ahead of your lips to taste and teeth that drag light yet dangerous across sensitive skin. Your lips hold him in place when you smile around your mouthful and flick your eyes up to assess your damage.

He thinks about bucking up, chasing the heat of you to sate that base need for more. He thinks about you sinking your teeth into him to leave your lovers mark on the inside of his thigh. When you dip your head again and swallow around the length of him his eyes roll back before he can finish his thought, hands sliding down to card through your hair. He doesn’t guide you, as if you needed it, he just needs to touch wherever he can. His nails scratch your scalp and you hum around his cock, a deep purr that has him gasping to his ceiling and squeezing his eyes shut. Your tongue slithers hot against him while your hand finds its way into his boxers and you’ve got him pinned under your pleasure.

It only takes a gentle squeeze before he’s trying to pull your head up, small whispered ‘hey’s’ that trail off when you pick up speed. Again you catch his blurring vision and he sees your determination to have him desperate and boneless and who is he to deny you what you’ve worked so hard for. He babbles in the mounting pressure ‘I love you’s’ and many ‘please please please’s’, whimpers as the coil tightens and snaps against your onslaught.

Knees collapse against you to hold you close as one hand gets tangled in the ends of your hair and the other blindly grabs at the pillow behind his head to pull it over his face. He breaths heavy and fast when you don’t slow down and when you keep swallowing around him and when your hands keep roaming into sensitive valleys to press and grope. His brain turns to vapor and his thoughts disappear, leaving only room for you and your blessed heat.

You know when he’s had enough and you string him along for just second more while his thighs shake around your shoulders. He only pushes the pillow off his face when it feels like his oxygen is getting thin and he gets that first glimpse of your face post reckoning. A self satisfied smirk and a run of your thumb along that reddened bottom lip. It sings to him in the full dark now and when he gets his strength back he’ll manhandle you up to his mouth to steal your kiss. For now though, “You are a wonder.” His voice cracks and you smile, nestling your head back into the valley of his hip. A light fingertip traces softening skin with a curious glance and a deeper grin than before.

“I do try.”

#Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson Fic #Eddie Munson Smut #Eddie Munson x Reader #My Fic #My Work

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doubletalkingmaeve · 8 months

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Every hot girl deserves a chance with their 80s senior citizen boyfriend

#our old men #metallica #guns n roses #def leppard #Cinderella #skid row #motley crue #iron maiden #megadeth #warrant #van Halen #kiss #poison

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magicalmelodies1017 · 6 months

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why do they look so wholesome

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sayoneee · 2 months

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☆ AND I KNOW IT’S OVER (STILL I CLING)

percy jackson, who never seems to know when to quit, keeps coming back. (2.9k)

contains: percy jackson x daughter of minor god! reader. post tlo (alt universe - everyone lives). book percy descriptions. apollo (derogatory).

kashaf’s note: book percy descriptions bc that was my first love. (sry if i get some of the words wrong, english isnt my first language pls be patient!!)

SUMMER BURNS. at camp half-blood, the scorching heat has dwindled to soft caresses, from the heat of the fire during sing-alongs where your cabin joins hands and toasts marshmallows to the cool breeze balming the sun’s glare at its zenith in the sprawling strawberry fields. at home, the scorching heat leaves marks — the biker with flames for pupils who clutched an openly bleeding wound as he thrust a first-aid kit at you, and the girl not much older than yourself with tears marring her face as she handed you a pregnancy test to ring up, avoiding your curious (sympathetic) gaze.

however, despite it all — you stand infallible, much like your grandfather’s part convenience store and part pharmacy, a poor man’s family heirloom.

you stand idly, flipping through an edition of seventeen when the rusty door swings open to admit a familiar face — with unruly black hair and an equally reckless grin (you know exactly who it is from the ba-dum of your heartbeat), the infamous son of poseidon (with the same smile as shawn hunter from boy meets world) is easily recognizable.

you glance at the crimson blooming around the crevices of his knuckles, tightly gripping a faded and worn-out skateboard, his scruffy converse squeaking across the tiled floor, raising an eyebrow as you coolly say, “band-aids are in the back, on the right.”

jackson laughs, an all-consuming sound (the wind-blown half-blood hill where apollo seemed to smile down at you, the laughter, like the memory, evanescent), “thanks, doc.”

you discreetly watch him perusing the aisles, before stopping in front of the ancient fridge — your grandfather’s store was something of an 80s pompeii with the peeling posters of back to the future and motley crue and the antiquated maroon and cream color scheme — and pulling out an arizona green tea.

when he finally goes to look for band-aids, you attempt to fix your attention back on the magazine in your hands, but like a moth driven to a flame, percy jackson was unbelievably hard to look away from (a magnet among mortals and immortals alike).

jackson’s hands are on his hips, his tupac t-shirt creasing, thick brows furrowed as he decides between different types of candy with the same intensity as a single mother with two children and a nine-to-five (even in the mortal world, there is something else entirely about him, something that made it so that you could never truly write him off).

when he approaches the register again, it’s hard not to look up and watch his ascent. when he finally does come to a stop in front of you, he looks the same as he did the last summer, though the tiny silver trident earring is new, the camp beads resting peacefully atop his collarbones aren’t.

you ring up his items: a box of band-aids, the arizona green tea, and a pack of blue gummy sharks, looking away from him all the while.

“good to see ya, doc,” jackson says, a wry grin on his face, and his eyes are so green — as green as they were at twelve.

“it’s never good to see you, jackson,” you snark back, reciting his total, “four ninety-five, by the way.”

he laughs again (your heart goes ba-dum again), and hands you a five dollar bill, shoving his things into the seemingly bottomless pockets of his baggy jeans, with a salute on his way out (his turning back was a sight far more innocuous than the last time).

the next time jackson breaks whatever tacit agreement lies between the two of you, your hands are similarly stained. reds and purples line your palms, much like the burgundy seemingly permanently staining your grandmother’s fingertips; the culprit (the bowl of pomegranate seeds) sits innocently beside you.

“back again?” you say, glancing at the familiar scarlet stains adorning jackson’s hands (a familiar blue friendship bracelet sits on his wrist, edges frayed with five years of wear, and there’s a lump in your throat).

“why, did you miss me?” jackson asks, again with that wry grin of his, skateboard in hand.

“you’re the one who came back,” you say, crossing your arms across your chest, willing the constricting feeling to disappear.

“doc, i’m sorry to have to be the one that has to break this to you,” he sighs sympathetically, putting a bleeding hand over his heart, “but the sun doesn’t revolve around you.”

“actually, jackson, the sun kind of does revolve around me, ‘cause y’know apollo, the sun god apollo? my grandpa apollo? my grandpa, the sun god, apollo?”

“going by your logic, that would mean time revolves around me, ‘cause y’know kronos, the time titan kronos? my grandpa kronos? my grandpa, the time titan, kronos?” jackson says, a shit-eating grin on his face as he sets down another band-aid box, an arizona green tea, and a pack of blue gummy sharks on the counter.

“y’know, if you cared this much, you might’ve passed greek,” you say, referring to the progress report cards you were handed at the end of summer.

he shrugged, handing you another five dollar bill, and proceeding to shove everything into his black holes of jean pockets, “yeah, well — wait, are those pomegranates?”

“yeah,” you say, “i peeled them myself — do you want some?”

(your father liked these, your grandmother had said earlier this afternoon, your mother liked to peel them for him, as i peeled them for her, and your grandfather.)

jackson suddenly looked bashful, fidgeting with the hem of his a tribe called quest t-shirt, “i’ve never had pomegranates before,” he confessed.

you blinked, taken aback, “you’re seventeen years old and you’ve never eaten a pomegranate before?” you pushed the china bowl toward him, “now you have to eat it.”

“my mom liked telling me the myths when i was younger,” he begins, setting down his skateboard, and reaching for the spoon before halting, like he was shocked, “she told me about persephone —”

“jackson,” you say, sardonically, leaning over the register to look him in the eye (there was always a storm brewing in his eyes), “i promise you, hades won’t come out of the ground and drag you to the underworld if you eat the pomegranate seeds i peeled.”

“i know what my next sleep paralysis demon is gonna be — thanks to you,” jackson says, looking down at the bowl and its floral blue pattern around the edges, playing with the spoon, and shifting the seeds from side to side.

“percy jackson, i swear to asclepius, you’re missing out on pomegranates,” you say, coming out from behind the register, and looking percy in the eye again, and there is something so earnest, so raw about your next sentence that his breath catches, “and, i swear on the styx, if hades does somehow come out of the ground to drag you down to the underworld, i’ll come down myself to drag you out, even if it’s tartarus.”

a rumble of thunder can be heard overhead despite the clear sky and scalding sun; percy blinks, before breaking out into a slow grin (your stomach seems to grow wings of its own, on the verge of flight.)

“invoking your dad, huh, doc? these pomegranates must be serious,” percy says, finally taking a bite — stepping around the bomb you just dropped.

you watch him intently, studying him as you studied tennyson and homer, “they are that serious.” there is something innocent about the way he eats, starved like every other teenage boy with black holes for stomachs.

“y’know, i can put that into a tupperware container and you can take it with you, right?” you offer.

“really?” percy asks through a mouthful of seeds, looking up from the bowl at you, “won’t you think i’ll steal it or something?”

“not really,” you shrugged, “i trust ms. jackson.”

percy nods solemnly — sally jackson is sally jackson after all, a queen among women, and an achilles of sorts, with her soft smile and steely eyes.

steeling your nerves, this is already the longest conversation you’ve had (ignoring the forever-ago late-night debriefs under a firmament of stars), you step up to the plate and take a swing, “how is she, by the way, haven’t seen her in a while.”

percy swallowed, eyebrows furrowing, “great — oh, wait, did i tell you she was seeing someone new now?”

“no way, really? good for her, honestly. i know, poseidon’s a god and all, but like, she’s always deserved just, so much more.” (you manage to make contact with the change-up thrown your way.)

there is something so sincere about your words, that percy can’t help but grin back, finally reaching the depths of his sea-green eyes, and there is something still so boyish about him, that you can hardly believe any time has passed at all, and that somewhere within this demigod who successfully defeated kronos, while saving luke, there is still a semblance of your percy.

“yeah, the guy, paul blofis, he’s an english teacher — absolutely worships the ground she walks on.”

“sounds perfect for her.”

“you should come over some time — see her, meet paul, y’know,” percy offers, still funneling spoonfuls of pomegranates, meeting your gaze head-on (this is the home run you were waiting on).

you grinned, a slow smile overtaking your face, pushing your hands in the pockets of your jeans, “might just take you up on that, before you change your mind.” (you’re leaving the ball in his hands now; it’s up to him to tag you out or let you reach home base safely.)

“nah, i won’t change my mind, unlike someone else i know.”

you ignore the jab (a smaller, suppressed part of you itches to shoot a reply back), instead choosing to focus on the hesitant hand of friendship being offered — as your father liked to say, keep moving forward.

you shrugged, and you swear, for a second you think the intensity of his gaze has lessened, almost as if disappointed. almost as if mentally shaking it off, percy hands you the china bowl back, empty, running a hand through his shaggy hair with a sheepish grin.

you smiled wryly, glancing down at the bowl and back to his face. “fatass,” you say, affectionately, and then almost freezing, wondering if you somehow overstepped the invisible lines constricting you.

percy laughs — a green light.

“lucky for you, though,” you say, disappearing behind the register for a moment before reappearing with a tupperware container filled with peeled pomegranates, “i peeled more.”

you hold it out to him, and he glances down at your outstretched hand, then at your face, before seemingly making up his mind, and accepting the olive branch, “you’re really committed to seeing my mom, huh?”

“well, obviously — the other alternative would be seeing you, wouldn’t it?”

“aw, c’mon, doc, i know you missed me,” percy says, a bit smug, picking up his skateboard, the tupperware container in his other hand (the one he still wears your bracelet on).

“in your dreams, jackson.” there is a peal of odd laughter in your voice as if you were unused to this kind of jocularity when fumbling over his name.

“in my dreams, we do more than just argue,” percy says, with one last smug smile and salute, before walking out the door, leaving you behind in the worst state of confusion you’ve possibly suffered (percy jackson: 1, you: 0).

(your grandmother admonishes you later that evening as you stand beside her stooped figure at your kitchen counter, peeling pomegranates, you gave the rest of it to that boy, didn’t you? her voice is not scolding, but you feel like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar once more. your immortal grandfather, the nuisance that he is, stands in the doorway, hands in an 80s leather jacket and matching sunglasses, waiting to be welcomed in. in contrast, his son — your father — brushes past him, grumbling, and takes on your grandmother’s burden.)

the analog clock reads ten fifty-five as you start mopping the floor, yawning when the front door swings open with a jingling bell, and a sharp metallic smell wafts into the store.

you whirl around, gripping the mop in your hand as a baseball bat, immediately alert as your demigod reflexes come into play. you physically relax at the sight of percy clutching his side, crimson pooling on the edges of his white t-shirt.

“of course you would attack a man when he’s injured,” percy says with a grin, blood dripping from a gash over his eye (luke had returned to camp some years ago, with a similar scar), and a split lip, collecting like rust on his t-shirt collar.

you scowled, dropping the mop and immediately rushing toward him, your healing instincts kicking in. lifting one of his arms and letting it curl around you, you shouldered him to the register, cringing with every audible wince percy let out.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” you asked, as you sat him on your stool, reaching for the ambrosia and nectar you kept hidden under the counter for emergencies (one could never be too careful).

percy grinned — it came out more of a grimace, “what isn’t wrong with me — that’s the question you should be asking, doc.” he nodded to himself, and then immediately cringed at the action.

you glared at him, shoving an ambrosia square in his mouth, before turning away from him to put antiseptic on cotton pads. “does ms. jackson know you’re here?”

“no?” percy says. you walk over to the fridge, grab a water bottle, unscrew the cap, and drench the part of his t-shirt covered in blood.

“ow? in case you forgot, i’m still injured here, doc?” percy clutches at his side.

“you dumbfuck, your mom is probably worried out of her mind right now,” you say, scowling, stepping closer to percy (he still towers over you, even when sitting down).

“i iris messaged her,” he shrugs, looking at you as you shift even closer to him, cotton pad in your hand, “she just knows i’m with you — pretty relieved at that, dunno why.”

reaching out to grasp his jaw in your hand, you begin dabbing at the bruises on his cheekbones, his eyes fluttering shut as you try to ignore the way his hot breath is fanning across your face right now. “you didn’t tell her what happened?”

percy opened his eyes, staring at you. “no, how could i?” he says, slowly, “you were her favorite — still are, by the way.”

you don’t say anything for a moment — after all, how could you? (sally jackson’s homemade cookies drift to the front of your treacherous mind — the sunny afternoons with her kind voice, and percy’s loutish laughter.)

“you didn’t come to see her,” percy says, the statement not accusatory, his eyes fluttering shut again (you try not to let the way his eyelashes sit so prettily distract you) as you dab at the gash over his eye.

“i didn’t think i was welcome,” you say gruffly, turning away to grab bandages. “after everything.”

while the deeper wounds have eased into far easier, superficial ones, you still make sure to wrap and bandage everything — percy had a penchant for getting into trouble (one that you knew all too well), so it was the least you could do.

“i just told you that you were welcome, last time i was here, didn’t i?” percy says, an accusation.

“yeah, well, it was hardly an invitation was it?” you say, turning away from him, packing your supplies up.

“doc, you didn’t even come to take your tupperware back.”

you ignore him, moving to walk away when his hand is enclosed around your wrist (the hand that wears your blue friendship bracelet), tugging you around to face him.

percy’s standing up now, his green eyes looking more like a swirling storm with each passing second — he still hasn’t let your wrist go.

“what do you want from me?” you ask, trying to snatch your hand back from him, to no avail — his grip is ironclad.

“i can’t let you walk away with your back turned to me again,” he says (the dim, lantern-lit night comes back into focus, and you wonder if you were too consumed by your own pride, if you had just turned around, if you had just stayed).

you realize too late that tears are pricking in the corners of your eyes, and you manage to successfully wrench your hand out of his grasp, a watery, sarcastic laugh escaping, “you’re a couple years too late, asshole.”

“i know that,” percy says, earnest, reaching out to cup your cheek, and wipe a stray tear (the action stuns you into paralysis), “but i miss you, and my mom misses you, and she hasn’t gotten off my case about you, yet.”

the thought of tender-hearted sally jackson scolding percy is an amusing one, and draws a laugh out of you against your will (percy’s smile grows a little brighter, and asclepius knows you’ve never been able to resist that smile of his), “i’ll come over for ms. jackson, not you.”

percy’s smile is even wider now (his hand is still ghosting your cheek), “same thing.”

“shut up,” you say swatting at his shoulder, trying to duck out from under his arms.

percy avoids your attempts to escape him, instead latching onto your hand, and pulling you out of the store. “c’mon, she’s expecting us for dinner.”

you let out an incredulous laugh, and let yourself be dragged out anyway (you would follow this boy anywhere, even to the depths of tartarus).

(your grandmother watches from the apartment window above the store, a soft smile gracing her lined features.)

#percy jackson x reader #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo x reader #percy jackson imagines #percy jackson fluff #percy jackson and the olympians #woc friendly #percy jackson x you #percy jackson x yn #percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson oneshot #percy jackson one-shot #percy jackson imagine #percy jackson series #percy jackson x fem! reader #percy jackson oneshots #kashaf ki likhai

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georgeweasleyx · 1 year

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If you don’t deal with your demons, they will deal with you, and it’s gonna hurt. - Nikki Sixx

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dwobbitfromtheshire · 4 months

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Summary: Steve and Eddie bond over hating Billy Hargrove, and then they suck face.

Steve dove into the closet and leaned against the wall, sliding a broom through the handles of the storage closet. He sighed in relief as he leaned his head back. He froze and tensed up when a pair of boots appeared under the door. They stood there for a moment before stomping away. Steve moved back into the storage closet and turned around to find the light. Suddenly, it came on, and Eddie Munson was staring at him, only inches away from his face. Steve jumped and stopped himself from screaming outloud.

"Did you just lock me in here with you?" Eddie asked.

"Sorry, Hargrove is out there, and I do not want to face him," Steve said quickly.

"Keep that fucking broom exactly where it is then," Eddie said and slid to the floor. "And have a seat."

He patted the floor next to him, and Steve plopped down beside him.

"You hate him too?" Steve asked.

"With all my fucking heart," Eddie said. "Honestly, a little scared of the guy too."

"He's definitely a psychopath. I don't enjoy the way he stares at me or follows me. Normally, I wouldn't have a problem if a guy has a crush on me but this guy. . . Especially ones who nearly murdered me. . . Well, if it anyone else, I'd be asking for his number, but his personality is way too ugly," Steve said.

"So, you don't really care who knows that you like guys?" Eddie asked.

"I like both and no, not really. I figured you would be safe with the hanky and all," Steve replied.

"Oh, that's just a cool metalhead thing. Does it mean something?" Eddie asked.

"Yeah," Steve grinned.

"Damn. Okay, well, that explains some things then," Eddie blinked. "Not that I'm complaining or anything because I like both too. It took me a while to figure that out."

"We all figure things out on our own time. We get there eventually," Steve shrugged.

"Yeah," Eddie said softly. "I never thought I'd meet someone exactly like me, though. Bisexual. I mean, there's Hargrove, but I'd rather gouge my own eyes out. You know, most people think we have the same taste in music. Sure, he listens to heavy metal, but what that jackass mostly listens to is glam metal like Motley Crue. He's a Tommy Lee wannabe douchebag. Normally, I respect all music but I hate Tommy Lee."

"He dresses like a douchebag too," Steve said. "He's abusive to everyone, including his own stepsister. He's racist too. I had to pull him off one of the kids I babysit. He nearly caved my face in."

"He's a fucking monster. His father's just as monstrous, I heard, but it doesn't justify him passing it on, especially if it's his kid stepsister. Honestly, I'd rather have you back as king," Eddie said.

"Seriously?" Steve asked.

"If you think you were bad, think again. I wouldn't even classify you as a bully. You actually tried to keep some of those jocks in line," Eddie said.

"I just never thought it was all that funny that they did that. It never made sense," Steve said.

"Well, then, it makes you a million times smarter than they are, big boy," Eddie said, nudging him.

"You know, I think he's probably gone by now," Steve said.

"Or he's lying in wait," Eddie whispered, leaning in close to whisper in his ear.

Steve could feel his breath against his skin, and he shuddered. Eddie placed a hand on his leg and caressed his knee gently.

"What are you doing?" Steve asked softly.

"Getting closer to you, it's kind of scary out there," Eddie said coyly. "What's your favorite kind of music?"

"Hmm, I'm not sure if I have a favorite kind. It's kind of all over. I don't really lean towards one genre. I do, really like Queen and Bob Seger," Steve said.

"That's respectable. Queen always rules," Eddie said. "I've listened to Bob myself."

Eddie moved his hand from his knee to his chest, rubbing his ringed fingers against Steve gently. He was practically snuggled against Steve’s side. Steve looked down at his hand before finally looking at him. Their faces were very close now, their lips almost touching.

"There's something that I didn't tell you," Eddie whispered.

"What?" Steve asked.

"What eventually led me to realize I liked both. . .is you," Eddie said.

"Yeah?" Steve asked hopefully.

"Yeah."

Steve leaned forward and closed the distance between them, his lips pressing against Eddie's in a soft, tender kiss. Eddie moved against him, cupping the back of his head and pulling him deeper into the kiss. Steve opened his mouth, allowing Eddie's tongue inside. It wasn't enough for Eddie, however. He needed to be closer to Steve. He threw his leg over Steve and straddled his waist as he sunk down into his lap. Eddie gasped and licked into Steve’s mouth as he gripped the nape of his neck. Steve broke the kiss, gasping for breath.

"Freshman Steve is screaming inside me right now," Steve said.

"Wait. . .you've had a crush on me since you were a freshman?" Eddie asked.

"Yeah."

"Loser," Eddie cackled and kissed him deeply while Steve laughed against his lips.

Steve broke the kiss again, grinning.

"We should probably leave before we develop a problem," Steve said.

"But Steve, what if he's still out there?" Eddie asked and paused. "Besides, what if I want to develop a problem?"

Steve laughed and leaned his forehead against Eddie's.

"If he's still out there, I'll protect you," he said teasingly.

"Steve Harrington, my hero. Well, come on, big boy, let's face the music," Eddie said.

They stood up and slid the broom out of the handle. They opened the door and slowly walked out of the closet. They looked both ways down the empty hallway. The coast was clear.

"Wait, why were you hiding in the closet?" Steve asked.

"I hook up with the janitor sometimes," Eddie replied.

"You do not! Art is a happily married man," Steve said.

"Okay, so, I don't," Eddie cackled and paused. "Wait, why are you on a first name basis with the janitor?"

"I eat in the storage closet sometimes," Steve said. "When I can't use my car."

"Not anymore. Art is going to have to be disappointed. You're sitting at our table from now on," Eddie said. "Jesus H Christ, storage closet and your car? I want to eat your face."

They walked down the empty hallway, their pinkies brushing up against each other's occasionally.

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