Work Text:
It was a hot spring in Hawkins. Almost too hot to believe for the mediocre state of Indiana. It was a lazy Sunday, so anyone who was wise was already packed back into their home, AC blasting or gently milling around gossiping as all small town folks do in their nice flowy church clothing. Safe to say you were, thankfully, not one of the latter. Eddie’s trailer always ran a little warmer or colder than regular comfort, insulation older than both of you combined. Thus had led to the situation currently at hand. His room was just slightly too sticky hot as the AC unit in the ceiling rattled away, just barely on its last leg.
It was easy enough for you to be comfortable, the summer wardrobe already making an appearance, but alas, Eddie was nothing if not stubborn. A light grey Motley Crue now muscle top, once a t-shirt before Eddie had taken a pair of scissors to it, hung off his shoulders. The elongated slits down the sides gave glimpses of his tattooed chest as his ripped black jeans hung low on his hips. It was hard not to watch him from your spot on his bed, English assignment for the weekend long forgotten after his insistence on a break away from whatever drivel Gatsby had to say to Daisy.
He had taken it upon himself during this break to grab his guitar and sling it across his waist, muttering about tuning and key changes as you laugh at his insistence on a break from focusing to only shift his focus back to his beloved. His long curls of hair spill down over his shoulders, just barely ending before the body of the guitar as he grips a pic in his mouth. Nimble fingers work their way up the neck, twisting and tweaking the spokes to tune, a light strum here and there to test the chord. The rings littering his fingers catch the light, shining and almost glittering with each soft movement he makes. His eyes are solely focused on the task at hand, never shifting once to his captive audience. He surely would’ve teased if he saw the ogling of his fingers as they worked across the guitar, each precise movement and tweak teasing of what you knew he was capable of with those fingers. Some crude comment would have slipped from his lips if he’d noticed your eyes following the path of a bead of sweat dripping from beneath his messy bangs, a small wet trail left behind in its wake as it falls gently from his chin. His bangs were no better, nearly plastered to his forehead in this heat.
A soft groan leaks out of the man before you, hands leaving the guitar to thread their way through his damp bangs, brushing all of the hair back over his shoulder in the movement. The flex of his arms in the movement draws your eyes, not quite sweaty yet, but the muscles and veins almost shimmer in the mid-afternoon light spilling in from one of his windows. His hands work slowly, gathering up the long coils of hair into his palms. One hand keeps most of the strands in a fist, just to the back of his head, behind his ear, as the other hand cards along to catch any stragglers before moving back to meet his other hand. A black rubber band blending in with the rest of his bracelets slips into his hair, looping around to create the first tie in keeping his hair up. As his fingers move to continue looping, his eyes rise to yours, the soft browns turning sharp as a smirk grows across his face, his eyes narrowing with the movement. One more loop secures his hair up, his hands sliding down from his shoulders as one goes back to the guitar in his lap, as the other pulls the pic from his teeth, crooked grin now freed from the gag.
“See something you like, sweetheart?”
The hair now up from his neck allows your eyes to pass over the skin hungrily. The lean mass of his chest and collarbones is hidden under his shirt, but fading purple blemishes trailing from the base of his neck down below his collar are more than enough eye candy.
“Never get to see you with your hair up much. It’s a classy look.”
Eddie nearly barks out a laugh.
“With the way you’re looking at me, I don’t think classy is anywhere near the correct term for those thoughts.”
“Mmmm, you’re right,” You laugh, sliding down the bed to where he sat on the end. “I want to eat you alive.”
“So violent,” He teases, eyes trained on yours as you move in closer to him, nearly in his lap if not for the guitar. “I’d think that’s a threat if I didn’t know you better.”
“Not a threat, dear.” A soft kiss to his neck sends a shiver up his spine, skin prickling as your lips meet his flesh. “A promise.”