Chapter Text
Strictly speaking, they’re not supposed to call it a sex shop.
Which is kind of a lark, if you ask Eddie, because they stock products like the Homewrecker and Co-ed Cumslut and the porn shelf has an ever-present copy of grandpa kink (not daddy kink—they have that, too, Eddie’s actually morbidly curious about that, but—granddaddy kink, which, no shade, but where does it end, you know?), on and on, but apparently telling people you work at the sex shop around the corner from Cherry and Vine, in the strip mall with the laundromat, the smoothie bar, that insurance company that’s probably a front for something, and the store with all the fancy lampshades, it’s bad for the image.
But, you know, Eddie’s checks are getting signed by a woman named Bambi Beaumont, so she probably knows a thing or two more about image than even he does.
Nobody’s ever told him what he should call it, though. Adult boutique, adult novelties, adult something-or-other—and he stresses that, the adult, whenever he has to shoo the kiddies away with the push broom, because Henderson and Wheeler in particular are always just dying to poke their pervy little heads in and get him in trouble with the manager.
Kyle. Ugh. That’s just embarrassing. Eddie doesn’t want to get written up by a guy named fucking Kyle.
Anyway.
Point is, whatever it’s called, it’s a socially disreputable enough part-time gig that it doesn’t ruin Eddie’s street cred and, hey, if he’s gonna die a virgin—he’s long since accepted this, it’s cool—he might as well be well-informed. Plus, occasionally he gets to whack Steve Harrington (always slipping in to flirt with Nancy Wheeler) upside the head with a silicone dildo, so. Every job has its perks.
Most shifts Eddie works with Nancy. She got the job because she lost a bet to Robin and apparently her mom is old college friends with Bambi, anyway, so maybe it was inevitable, but either way this is why Eddie never takes Robin up on her bets.
It’s good, though, that Nancy’s here. Usually when girls come in to browse they’d rather talk to a girl, and if anyone gets weird, well, it’s no secret that Nancy Wheeler’s got an open-carry license and really good aim, so more or less nobody gets too weird.
Over the phone, well, that’s another story, when Nancy hangs up on some other—yet another, this is the second one on this shift alone and they’re only an hour in, but it’s also Friday night so they’re just getting started—dude calling the store mid-wank. Some people have no goddamn shame (Eddie would say they have no self-respect but, believe him, these people are plenty proud of themselves).
“You gotta scare ‘em, Wheeler,” Eddie tells her, from where he’s leaning back in his chair behind the checkout, which is raised just slightly over the rest of the scrubbed wood floors that creak in impossible-to-memorize places. “Do your best James Earl Jones impression and tell them your name’s something tough, like Butch. Or the Fonz.”
Nancy lifts an eyebrow at the battery display she’s restocking. “James Earl Jones?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to jerk it to Mufasa, I’m just saying,” Eddie points out, just as the bell above the front door jingles and a gaggle of girls spills inside, loud and giggling and possibly a little bit toasted. Wouldn’t be the first time; won’t be the last.
He throws his arms out in greeting, shouts, “Welcome to Bambi’s, ladies, what’s your poison?”
“Don’t ask them that—” oh, shit, that’s Chrissy Cunningham, slipping between her chattering, sort-of-gleefully-shrieking friends and making her way to the counter like she needs some space “—they’ve had so much to drink they won’t realize you’re joking, and they will try ordering shots.”
“Ah, Cunningham, love of my life.” Eddie flashes his brightest widest grin, the one he saves just for her. “Stone-cold sober, I see.”
“It’s Betty’s birthday.” Chrissy sighs, goes up on her toes to prop her elbows on the counter in front of him, right next to where he’s got his feet. “She wanted to bar hop, and I volunteered to drive because no one ever volunteers to drive, we never would have gotten out of the house.”
“How do you not get carded?”
Her glossy pink lips—mmph, Jesus—tilt into a little bit of a smirk (mmph, Jesus even harder, thanks). “Same reason you never took my money, I guess.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, are you telling me every bartender in the town square is madly in love with you?” Eddie smacks a hand to his chest, clutches his Steel Panther T-shirt. “Rip out my heart and eat it, why don’t you, I thought what we had was special.”
Chrissy grins at him, all toothy, and bobs up and down on her toes. Yeah, Christ, special sure is a word for it.
He’d smoked her up a few times—yes, for free, just like she said, because he is indeed madly in love with her, even though she doesn’t actually know that, she just doesn’t understand how drug dealing works so he’s been able to fly under the radar—in the last few months leading up to graduation, when she’d been busting under the pressure and just needed someone to be nice to her.
Eddie wants to be more than nice to her, if you catch his drift.
Head out of the gutter, it’s not just about sex—certified virgin for life, baby, remember?—he just… wants to do things for her. Hence the free bud.
But, like, he would do literally anything for this girl, for real whatever she wants, it’s almost as embarrassing as being named Kyle—hell, he’d had to physically restrain himself from begging her, please, Chrissy Cunningham, please can I be your side piece? but that ended up not mattering so much, because six days after she took her first hit—coughing and laughing and leaving tacky cherry lip balm on his roll paper that swear to God Eddie can still taste to this day—she broke up with paragon of Christian virtue and most boring dude on the planet (he has a side part, like, come on) Jason Carver, anyway.
It’s been another three months since, March to June, a whole-ass changing of the seasons, and Eddie still has not done one single goddamn thing about it.
Except flirt with her so ridiculously that she’ll never for a second believe he’s serious about it. He is serious about it, but Chrissy laughs him off so much Eddie eventually figured out that she thought he was joking. Which isn’t the worst thing, honestly, because now he can keep doing it while he figures out what to actually do.
He’s still got nothing, though, especially now that Chrissy’s here, in a strappy pink dress, with her perfume that smells like thick sweet flowers and leaves glitter behind on her skin, surrounded by massage oils and vibrators and ticklers (and she is ticklish, by the way) while—he kids not—“I Touch Myself” by the Divinyls plays on the speakers.
Maybe Eddie’s been picking up too many shifts, because this has just… gotta be one weird overworked sex dream, right?
“Don’t worry, Eddie,” Chrissy assures him, patting his sneaker, “you’re still my number one.”
He snorts. “Well, that’s a start, I guess I’ll just have to kill the rest of them.”
“Subtle, Eddie,” Nancy scoffs, rolling her eyes with a wicked smirk as she walks off to help Chrissy’s friends decide between a rabbit and a bullet and patiently explain the difference between clitoral and G-spot stimulation, because Hawkins High’s sex ed was less educational, more if you touch it, it’s gonna fall off.
Eddie balls up a used invoice and chucks it at the back of her head. Nancy bats it out of the air and barks out a laugh, and Chrissy looks to him, all wide-eyed innocent curiosity.
“You wouldn’t kill anyone.”
“I dunno, Wheeler might be on my list. So,” Eddie continues before Chrissy can keep being all curious at him, “how goes the apartment hunting?”
“Oh! We found a house, actually, on campus,” Chrissy tells him, successfully distracted in her excitement. “We’re closing on it tomorrow. Which is good, you know? It’s only ten minutes away, but, with my mom and everything…”
Eddie nods. He knows plenty.
The short version of events is that Chrissy’s dad’s stepmom, his dad’s third wife—Christ, what a soap opera—never quite took a shine to Chrissy’s mom, to say the least, and sprung the surprise of a trust she’d put in Chrissy’s name, all hers at the ripe old age of eighteen.
That had been one of those busting-under-the-pressure things—not the money, but the fallout with her mom. With her newfound freedom, Chrissy had put her foot down, told her mom she wasn’t following Jason to Notre Dame, she wanted to stay here with her friends—the friends she’d made through Eddie, it turns out, not to mention Eddie himself (be still his beating heart)—and take art classes at the community college. Laura Cunningham had flipped her stiffly-permed lid about it, and Chrissy’s been hitting the real estate pavement with Robin Buckley ever since.
“A whole house, huh?” Eddie whistles. “Any asbestos? Mold?” He wriggles his fingers, sits up straight so he can lean closer to her, and taps them up the slight slope of her nose. “Ghosties?”
Chrissy giggles again, nose twitching. “I’m not sure about that last one, but Robin has been Googling, um, ethically-sourced smudge sticks? Just in case. But no asbestos, no mold, nothing. Steve checked it out for us.”
“Harrington. Blech. My nemesis. Wheeler’s too,” he adds, inclining his head towards Nancy as she comes back to the front, “but they hate-fuck about it.”
Another eye-roll, another flash of a smirk that tells Eddie this psychopath is about to try ruining his life again. “There’s nothing to hate about sex with Steve. I’ll prove it, too, I’ll give him out on loan. Maybe Chrissy should give him a try.”
“Um, no—” Eddie sputters, pinwheels his arms as he nearly falls out of his damn chair but manages to steady it at the last second. “No she should not.”
“Hm.” Nancy cocks her head at Chrissy, who’s gone as pink as her dress but she’s clearly trying not to smile. It’s the same face she makes when she’s trying not to laugh at something Eddie said. “Jason never struck me as the type who was any good in bed, so, I just figured… girl power, right? Sisters before misters.”
“You’re hanging out with Buckley too much.”
Nancy flicks her wrist at him with a sigh, turns back to Chrissy. “Ignore him. Do you need help with anything, or is Eddie actually doing his job?”
“Oh, um—” There goes that pink in her cheeks again. Eddie’s always wondered how far that blush of hers goes down, and which divine deity he’s gotta bribe to find out.
Before Chrissy can come up with an answer, there’s more delighted shrieks from her friends on the other side of the store. Nancy excuses herself to put a stop to another riding crop swordfight—a popular pastime, for their customers, who are apparently trying to take an eye out—or whatever else is going on, and tells Eddie to earn his paycheck for once.
Which, unfair. He’s the only one who knows how to put the displays together. You think Kyle’s gonna debase himself with the manual labor it takes to assemble a sex swing? Not a chance.
Oh, well.
“Yeah, yeah.” Eddie hops over the counter, lands spryly on his feet next to Chrissy, tightens the flannel tied low around his waist, and claps his hands together. “Alright, Cunningham, whaddaya say we do some damage, huh?”
“Oh, but I—” Chrissy’s following him, even as she protests “—I’m really not looking for anything. The girls just wanted to come and, um. I mean, have you ever said no to a bunch of tipsy cheerleaders? One of them definitely would have tried to somersault me out of the driver’s seat.”
Eddie laughs. “Get real, baby, you know you’re the only girl I’m never gonna say no to.”
Only girl he’s ever gonna say yes to, only one he ever wants asking, yadda yadda, all that.
She nudges his arm with her knuckles, a little bit like a punch, but he still got another giggle out of her, so. She could full-on deck him in the face right now and he’d thank her for it.
“Now, come on, come on.” He waves an arm along the wall, stocked with their new merchandise. There’s not a whole lot, you know, small space and all, but any and all of it’s gonna get the job done if you know what you’re looking for, what you need. “How do you get your jollies, Cunningham, c’mon, I won’t tell.”
Eddie swipes a cross over his heart, puts his hands together as though in prayer. “You have my solemn oath as a customer service representative.”
Chrissy folds her arms. She’s making that face like she’s trying not to laugh at him again. “What is that, like the Hippocratic oath?”
“No, dummy,” he says, all fondness, “I’m not a doctor.”
“Hm.” Chrissy’s eyes scan the wall. She bobs her head, her mouth quirking in this smarmy little grin she does sometimes that makes him want to do filthy, filthy things to her (like, you know. Kiss her tenderly, slow dance in the kitchen, put a little heart eyes emoji next to her name in his phone… and, fine, so he’s already done that last one, but you get it). “Doctor of looooove, maybe.”
“Oh, you smartass.”
Chrissy’s grinning, pleased as punch with herself. (Filthy, absolutely abhorrent things he’s thinking about right now. Holding her hand, what’s her ring size, etc., etc.) “Okay, fine. What’s with all the suction cups?”
“For your clit.” Eddie plucks one of the display rabbits off the wall, powers it up. “Dual stimulation. Clit,” he says again, pointing to the suction cup, “and the rest, y’know, it’s internal.”
“A suction cup, though? On my clitoris,” she says flatly and, whoa, boy, they’re talking about her clitoris now, Eddie needs to put his two weeks’ notice in, like, two weeks ago. “Isn’t it like… How does this work, exactly? Because—have you ever tried to take a suction cup off a wall, Eddie?”
He can’t help the sly grin, okay, he can’t. “What do you have suction cups on your wall for?”
“To hang my loofah in the shower. Oh my gosh, why?”
“People use them for, y’know.” Eddie indicates the space above his hips. “Stick your dildo on the wall and go to town.”
“I—Eddie.” Chrissy huffs, snatches one of the ticklers from its end cap, and whacks him with it. It’s all feathers and pretty much useless as a weapon, but he’s not letting her live this one down, no way, not a chance in the real-world hell that is Chrissy Cunningham smacking him around with sex toys, however innocuously.
“Hey, hey, simmer down there, Mistress.” Eddie snags the tickler from her, uses it on her nose, her cheeks (he’s gonna have to damage this one out, it’s got her body glitter all over it now). “The suction cup isn’t gonna stick on you, Christ, that’s terrifying—”
“That’s what I mean—”
“Relax, bananas. Peanut butter banana sandwich. Banana cream pie. Whatever, simmer. The suction cup’s just, like, logistical. Most of these, you get them on your clitoris—very professional of you, by the way, Doctor-of-looooove Cunningham—and it simulates oral sex, y’know, there’s a little suckage and it puffs air and all that.”
“Oh.” Chrissy blinks. Now he’s got her attention. Interesting, interesting. “So, um. Is that one—is it good?”
“This one?” Eddie flicks the rabbit between his fingers, clicks it off with a shrug, puts it back on its display. “It’s alright. But it’s, see, it’s like twenty bucks, so the battery life isn’t great and just, overall, not gonna last you long. Fifty’s pretty much the baseline for anything worth your money. If you wanna try a couple different things, sure, I say go for the cheap stuff, figure out what you like, but I see you, Chrissy Cunningham, I say oral sex and I’ve got you perked up like you just shotgunned a Red Bull.”
He sure could do more than just say it to her. He’ll do it. Right now, if she wants, he’ll drop to his knees and get under her skirt, so what if they’ve got customers and, like, basic public decency laws to abide by? What is a law, anyway, if it’s not meant to be broken in the throes of grand romantic gestures like cunnilingus-on-demand?
“Eddie, jeez.” But she laughs, snatches the tickler back and hits him with it again. Useless, but undeniably the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him—Chrissy Cunningham, manhandling him with a little red as-good-as-feather duster sparkling with her body glitter, va-va-voom, you know?
“I just…” She nips at her bottom lip, strokes one of the feathers along the length between her fingers. “I mean, what Nancy said, about Jason…”
“Oh?” Eddie prompts her, would-be nonchalant if only he could pull off nonchalant, but, no dice.
Chrissy snorts. “Well don’t look so happy about it.”
“Baby doll, I would never.”
“Uh-huh.” Another huff, but she’s smiling in spite of herself. “Okay, so. If that’s what I’d be… interested in… what would you, um. Recommend?”
Well, he’d recommend she come back to his place. Not that he’s ever done it before—truly, he’s a certified virgin in every possible iteration of the word—but he’s a quick study. If she’s gonna take the time to figure out a new vibrator, she might as well take him for a spin, a ride, a trip around the moon, that’s all he’s saying.
But, more’s the pity, he has probably teased her enough for one night, so, Eddie cuts her—and his own sanity, who’s he kidding—a break.
He recommends the Satisfyer; it’s sleek and pretty and rose-gold, very Chrissy, easy to use and the recharge life is kiiiiiind of totally bangin’. He swipes a bottle of toy cleaner for her, too— “Body soap, dish soap, whatever, all that shit’s gonna clog up the pores on the silicone and, bam, baby, that’s a bacterial infection. So you’re gonna use this instead. Before and after, spritz a little bit, let it sit for thirty seconds, rinse with room temp water, you’re golden.”
She asks about lube, which, between that and talking about her clit… Look, Eddie’s a professional, but Chrissy has always made him feel like what it was like to get his first inopportune boner—nervous out of his damn mind, kind of wishes he were dead, but at the end of the day the whole experience winds up feeling pretty goddamn good.
(End of the day being jerking it to the mental image of Chrissy in various stages of his sexual fantasies, it depends on his mood, but point is it’s always goddamn good.)
He points out a couple of contenders for the lube. Chrissy nods along, asks, “Not the KY, huh?”
“Yeah, no, you’re not doing that to yourself. We pretty much stock it just because people expect us to? And the heated stuff’s not bad for, like, a back massage or whatever. But the main ingredients basically break down to sugar, so, that’s another bacterial infection if you, y’know…” Eddie clicks his tongue, jerks his thumb. “Stick it up your pussy.”
A wry smile twitches the corners of Chrissy’s lips. “You love that you get to talk like that at work, don’t you?”
“Filing my taxes just so I can tell people what they shouldn’t put inside of themselves, you got it, peach. Um.” His laugh is a little shaky, and hers is a little jumpy. It’s fun, sure, but also this whole thing’s kinda nuts and he’s glad they’re both aware. “Anyway, uh. The flavored ones, honestly, here, the Wicked ones? Worth the extra couple bucks. And I’m not just saying that for the commission.”
Chrissy elbows him. “Even if I’m, um. Just by myself?”
“Uh, well… I mean, there’s, uh.” Christ, how to put this? “You know, it, uh. It depends on your whole… process.”
And now he’s thinking about her process, Jesus—yeah, okay, so he just said stick it up your pussy to her, but that was professional advice and also, like, jokey? But now he’s back to literally helping her masturbate to completion here, and he’s about to tell her how he likes it.
Are you there, God? No, you fucking are not.
“But there’s something to be said for, ah.” Eddie scratches his nose, sniffs, all twitchy nervous energy. “Finger-sucking. While you’re goin’ at it.”
“Oh.” Chrissy seems to be thinking about that. Eddie knows he’s going to, too, for the rest of his natural-born life and, if it turns out reincarnation is a thing, the rest of those lives, too. “Um. Which one’s your favorite?”
The sweet release of death, actually, would be his favorite right about now.
But he tells her the other truth, which is chocolate-covered strawberry, and fuck him—please, fuck him—that’s the one she buys.
(The tickler, too, because “I got glitter all over it and, um. It feels… good.”)
(Dead dead dead he wants to be dead.)
Eddie rings Chrissy out while Nancy takes care of the last of her friends. They’re all still a riot of amaretto stone sour giggles, meanwhile Chrissy is… contemplative, maybe? She’s up on her toes again, arms folded on the counter as she watches Eddie work the fuck-off old-as-shit computer system. It, mercifully, doesn’t give him too much trouble.
“Thanks, Eddie.” Chrissy’s curled knuckles linger against his when he hands over her plastic purple bag.
“Sure thing, peach.”
She hesitates, just a second, still on her tiptoes, and then—wha-bam, you know? The hand holding her bag curls into his shirtfront, too, and she yanks him down—Jesus, she’s strong—and she plants a sticky lip gloss kiss smack at the corner of his mouth. She lingers there, too, and her breath smells like Diet Coke and cherry lip balm.
Oh, God. Maybe he did die, after all.
He’s ascended, surely, with Chrissy’s grip in his shirt and her lips ghosting almost almost almost on his when she whispers, “I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Literally anytime,” he confesses, because he’s all choked-up stupid right now, “I’ll even quit my job if you want, free up my schedule, I’ll do it right now.”
Her giggle breaks apart on his skin, skims across his mouth, he is definitely definitely not alive anymore and that is. So fine with him. “Don’t. I might need your help again.”
Well. Can’t say no to that. Can’t say no to anything she says, actually, but especially not that.
At the door, Chrissy shoots him another smile over her shoulder. A little shy but a little sure, too, and Eddie thinks that’s the way he likes her best. (Or. Well. He likes her best all the time, so it doesn’t really matter any which way, but…) Probably why he can feel the stupid dopey look on his own face, plastered there even after Chrissy’s ushered outside with her friends, disappearing into the bright summer sunset of the parking lot.
“Dear—fucking—God,” Eddie groans like he’s been stabbed, as he sinks, crumpling, to the floor behind the desk, where he continues to groan intelligibly and just as painfully.
Nancy ha!’s, and scoffs, and she repeats, “Subtle, Eddie.”
“Not trying to be subtle,” he says, still groaning on the floor. He thinks he’ll stay here forever, thanks. “She’s killing me, Wheeler. She’s killing me, and it’s kind of turning me on, so I have some real soul-searching to do about my… fetishes.”
“You have a Chrissy Cunningham fetish, it’s not hard.”
“It’s so hard.”
“Gross.”
Eddie huffs. Ugh, this floor is dusty. “Not that—” well, a little bit that, but “—I wanna marry her.”
“Might want to try a movie first.”
Right. Sure. “I just sold her a vibrator, and edible lubricant, and you want me to ask her to a movie.”
“Actually what I want you to do is get off the floor, because Kyle pulled a close/open last night and this morning, and you know he doesn’t sweep.”
So that’s why the floor’s so dirty. Also because it’s the floor, but… Another groan. “Just leave me here to die.”
“Chrissy’s never gonna kiss you on the mouth if you’re dead.”
Ah. True. Eddie cuts off his groans immediately. “Compelling argument, Wheeler,” he says, pushing himself up. He wipes his palms on his jeans. “Any other pearls of wisdom you care to share with the class?”
“Hm.” Nancy slits open a box of what’s basically just low-budget Viagra, no prescription required, and starts restocking the display case. “Robin’s stopping by tomorrow. We’ll brainstorm.”
“I don’t need the whole goddamn fuckin’ peanut gallery in on this.”
“Yeah, right.” Nancy laughs. “You need all the help you can get, peach.”
Eddie opens his mouth to argue, decides against it, and just frisbees a cock ring at her instead. He misses—not everybody’s got Nancy Wheeler’s death ray aim—but it’s the principle of the thing, alright.
The principle being, his friends totally suck, and they are so not invited to his and Chrissy’s wedding, so there.