big slut energy

✿ Em ✿ 27 - she/her I'd let Eddie Munson and Spencer Reid do nasty things to me ◡̈ 18+ content

[elegantpaperoperatormaker]

Ringing Pavlov's Bell

Gif by @/aanakin, dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Experienced!Eddie Munson x Virgin!Reader

Summary: You’ve grown weary of your virtue, and, unfortunately for Eddie, you’ve hatched a plan to lose it to a stranger tonight. But why are you telling him this if not to extend an open invitation to foil your plans?

Word Count: 15.9k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, angst, fluff, PiV unprotected sex, condom removal during sex, loss of virginity, virginity talk and shame around still having it, lots of yearning, teasing, cream pie, fingering, oral sex (fem rec), nicknames (sweetheart, sweets, pretty girl, etc.), dirty talk, arguing, best friends to lovers, jealousy, possessiveness, mention of vomit (not R or E), bad first time (not R), mention of a hypothetical junk-punch, one instance of R described to have breasts with a little weight to them, if I missed anything lmk!

Song Rec: Pavlov’s Bell by Aimee Mann

A/N: I herald his beginning. I herald your end. I herald…experienced!eddie. It’s been a while since I’ve posted a oneshot, and I tried something new with how I wrote this, so pls lemme know how you guys feel about it <33333 Born from this ask!

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“So, what do you think?” you eagerly ask. 

Eddie’s sitting across from you in the small metal chair, his fingers threaded as they rest on the laminated wooden table in his trailer. His expression is still—frozen. He’s not too sure what to make of your plan. 

Honestly, he’s waiting for you to laugh and tell him it was just a joke. A very unfunny, crass joke.

But you don’t, and after what feels like an eternity, he manages a response.

“That is the worst fucking idea I’ve ever heard, sweetheart, and I listen to every single one of Gareth’s ‘million-dollar-cashgrabs.’” 

He shakes his head with careful subtlty—like any sudden movement will scare you into actually committing to this plan. 

Disbelief clouds his features, heavy and foreboding like the sky before a summer squall— 

The nerve. The gumption. The audacity so potent on such an unassuming young woman. 

You want to lose your virginity to a stranger and you’re, what, warning him first? 

It’s like you want him to disrupt your plans. 

He watches you roll your eyes, all pursed lips and impudence. 

“Oh, seriously?” you sass. “Calm down. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

Eddie practically chokes on his scoff, and the strangled sound ripples over your body, drawing out the look he knows well. Annoyance—it forces you to sit up straight. 

You squirm in your seat for a moment, like a million tiny ants are marching up your spine, dancing over the tension in your shoulders. And he knows…the argument is imminent, but not before he speaks his piece—

“Not that big of a deal? Sweetheart, stubbing your toe is not that big of a deal. Forgetting to check the mail is not that big of a deal,” his voice raises as he gestures wildly, feeling like a Bible Belt preacher wailing about temptation of the flesh. “Losing your virginity? To a stranger? That’s a pretty big-fuckin’-deal!”

Again, you roll your eyes—blatantly disregarding the way his head cocks and his own eyes narrow in warning. He hates when you do that. When you brush him off so easily, like he’s dust on your pristine shoulder—

A quiet chuckle leaves your lips as you avert your gaze, suddenly finding the speckled laminate far more interesting. 

Like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar noise, Eddie’s head cocks back the other way, trying to figure out what exactly he said that has you laughing. Usually he loves the sound, but he doesn’t like the tone of this one. There’s something deeply derisive buried beneath the nonchalant surface. 

“I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the joke there, sweets. Care to clue me in?” he rasps, goading you.

A jeering smirk pulls at your lips, like you’re finding his simmering temper and deepening voice increasingly amusing. 

After another soft huff—a sound that could almost be mistaken for a scoff—you level him with a penetrating look, your smirk slowly splitting into an incredulous grin. 

“Sorry,” you start, but a chuckle bubbles up your throat, catching on the clearly insincere apology. “Sorry, I just find this whole thing very funny.”

Eddie sucks his teeth as he watches you shrug dismissively—no longer backing down, no longer avoiding his darkening gaze. He lets your words sit in the air, hoping their stuffy bitterness will suffocate you into surrender, but instead, they seem to brandish your skin like armor. 

And just like that, out comes your most dangerous weapon: your self-satisfaction. 

From all his years with you, he knows, when your complacency reaches an all-time high, there’s almost no way to change your mind. You’ve already doubled down once, and you’re about to batten down the hatches. Because more than anything, he knows you hate being wrong and hate it even more when you’re told you’re wrong. 

And through festering nerves and itchy discomfort, Eddie realizes he just shot your idea down and danced on its grave. 

Of course, he wouldn’t have had such a strong reaction if it weren’t such a sensitive topic. But you don’t know that. All you’ve heard so far is you’re wrong, and I know more than you. 

It’s moments like these where Eddie curses his motormouth—his almost comical inability to shut up, or, god forbid, consider what he means before he opens his trap. And until he finally learns his lesson, he figures he’s doomed to live with his foot in his mouth for all eternity.

With you shifting in your seat, and time ticking against him, he knows this bomb is going to need an extra delicate defusal. But he’s not certain he can remain level-headed about this subject matter. 

Not when it’s you. 

Not when damned images of a faceless man caressing you plays in technicolor through his mind. Because sometime ago, somewhere along the night drives and the lazy days, his wires got crossed. And now those wires are sparking, threatening to burn him through and through.

Maybe you’re not the bomb, after all. 

“Oh, you find it funny, do you?” he questions, nodding his head. 

“Well, yeah. You’re sitting here trying to tell me that, what, losing your virginity is supposed to be special?” you mockingly ask, your features alight with mirth. It’s like you’re a bloodhound catching a scent—the scent of sweet, sweet hypocrisy. 

Eddie opens his mouth to answer your rhetorical question, because…yes. 

For you? 

Yes, it should be special—

“You know what? I want you to go look in a mirror and say what you just said to me, and see if you don’t laugh too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he argues, jerking his head back. Your words might as well have physically manifested themselves into a slap because that’s how they feel, acidic and seeping into his skin with a sting.

“Please! You remember telling me about your first time? You came to school the next day bragging to me and the Hellfire guys about hooking up with some older chick in the bathroom at the Hideout! Remember that? You wore it like a badge of honor!”

He had taken you in as a freshman, just like he did every lost soul. Battling off the stifling monotony of high school together, it was no surprise you developed a crush on him. He was—is—so sweet. So funny. So unlike anyone you had ever met. 

He would play the fool just to make you laugh, but he’d defend your honor in an instant. Your very own protection against the venomous cheerleaders and mouth-breathing jocks.

When he would get himself going about something or other, marching along the tops of the lunch tables, it was like staring straight into the sun. You bloomed under his gleaming rays, flowering and reaching toward his warmth with every wild grin, every silly headshake, every teasing joke.

He was addicting, and you would come bounding into lunch every day itching for a fix. 

Then you were a sophomore and Eddie was a senior—for the first time. 

One day, he came in with a new story to tell, and no amount of sunshine could restore your wilting leaves, your shriveling flowers. No amount of water could satisfy the buds that never got to grow and now never would—

Every prideful sentence—every dirty detail boasting the changed man he had become—acted like a rain of pesticide on your delicate ecosystem.

It was a level of desecration you couldn’t undo if you wanted to. 

And you weren’t sure you were even strong enough to try.

Because it became clear that day, he wasn’t yours. He wouldn’t be yours. 

You couldn’t see him the same after that. The chemicals contaminated the image, degrading and defacing the likeness. 

He wasn’t the man you used to dream about every night. 

He didn’t look like he once had—so soft, so sweet. A man able to rot your teeth right out of your skull if you allowed him the honor.

A man so saccharine and delicate, like candy floss. 

But maybe it was the image of him that was delicate—not truly him. 

After all, your tears melted the wisps pretty easily. 

All that was left was piles of sugar—too wet for consumption, and not in the right form—and a crash unrivaled by any confectionery you’d ever had. 

White, hot anger seeps from every pore in Eddie’s skin, replaced by the shocking chill of a memory he’s tried very hard to forget.

He feels like throwing up—

This. This, right here, is why he’s vehemently opposing your plan. This feeling constricting his chest, like not enough fresh air in the world could inflate his lungs—

He thought the experience was cool at first. He thought he was being totally “metal.” 

But he was just being used. 

The woman never asked his name, and when he tried to talk to her, she crudely told him to focus less on talking and more on fucking. It was a mortifying experience. He almost wasn’t able to finish from the sheer embarrassment of it all, but eighteen year old hormones were a thing to behold.

And despite what he would have everyone around him believe, he still cared way too much about what people thought of him. So he strutted into lunch the next day, hopping up on his soapbox to spread the good word of his monumental conquest. High from the excitement of the boys, he embellished most of the story. 

And now, here you are, sitting in front of him, smug as can be, thinking you’re proving your point with his own hypocrisy. 

But he’s not a hypocrite. 

He’s just a liar. 

He has lied to you about a lot of things and, funnily enough, all those things seem to be crawling out of their grassy graves, hungry to take a chunk out of him. 

Because as much as you may think you’ve cornered him with a “gotcha” moment, your reminder of his past transgressions only makes him all the more passionate about how you should spend your first time. 

He can’t let you feel how he felt. 

Not you. 

You deserve better than empty touches and unfeeling words. 

“You wore it like a badge of honor!”

Your voice echoing in his mind has a sentiment never meant to be revealed tumbling past his lips with frightening ease—

“Yeah, and I lied!” 

Slowly, your self-satisfied smile falls off your face. Confusion overtakes your confidence. 

Capitalizing on your stunned silence, Eddie continues—

“That first time was fucking awful! I felt like shit. I only acted like it was good because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do…. Because I was stupid and young.” He utters the words with disdain, mortification and frustration mixing low in his gut until he feels more flammable than ever.

“It wasn’t good,” he repeats, a frown etched tightly into his features. “It just made me feel…empty.”

Your silence weighs heavy on his shoulders; selfishly, he steals a glance at you, at the crease in your brows and the way you seem to be reflecting. He can almost see you reliving that day in your head, searching for any twitch of an eye, any too-quick-to-fall smiles. 

But he’s a good liar. Always has been. Even when it comes to you.

The idle hum of electricity coursing into the yellow bulb above him acts as the soundtrack to your response.

“Well, I don’t plan on doing it in the Hideout bathroom, so I think we’re good there,” you shrug.

Eddie purses his lips; he knows it’s deliberate. What you’re doing, it’s purposeful, and you’re doing it to piss him off. Because you’re pissed off. 

Your eyes narrow at his, challenging him in the silence of the trailer.

A huff of air escapes through flared nostrils—he’s refraining.

But you’re killing him. 

Sometimes you can be so difficult, but he wouldn’t stick around if he wasn’t addicted to the agony of trying to figure you out.

That’s half the fun of every conversation he’s had with you. 

You push his buttons more than any woman he’s ever met, but you’ve twisted him up so bad, the only time he feels normal is when you’re looking at him. Doesn’t matter if it’s with anger or fondness or humor. 

You’re a paradox he can’t sort out because you’ve made him like this—wires crossed and incendiary feelings—but you also have a way of fixing him. Though, it’s usually just to mangle him all over again.

And he’d like to be your only victim. He’d like to burn in only your pyre, if given the chance. 

If given the chance.

If given the chance, he’d like to put a stop to this. And with the quasi-warning you’ve granted him, he feels this is as good a time as any to poke as many holes in your plan as he can—

“What’s the rush? Why now?”

He can see in your eyes, you’re taken aback by his question as your challenging gaze turns suspicious. “What do you mean, ‘Why now?’ Because I want to, that’s why.” 

Your argument is slipping; petulance curls off you in plumes as thick as smoke. And the scent is sweet to him.

Eddie settles back in his chair, sliding his hips down—looking the epitome of leisure and apathy, he hopes. Though, unable to fully transform while walking the repressive tightrope, his left hand fiddles with the rings on his right—a nervous tick he hopes you’re too annoyed to notice. 

“Well, yeah, but why not yesterday? Why not a month from now?” He shrugs, feeling flinty resentment sharpen his edges as he continues the onslaught of questions, now bordering on antagonistic. “Why not prom night a few years ago? Isn’t that where all the girls go to lose it? You went, you had a date. You could’ve.”

Your eye twitches.

“Because I didn’t want to, jackass. I’m ready now. I want to now…”

Instead of responding, Eddie just raises his brows, feeling unimpressed. Your words sit in the air, floating in between you both as they grow stale. 

The soft whistle of the A/C unit and the ticking of the old clock on the wall make him feel like he’s trapped in this liminal space where conversations never truly end because nobody’s point ever actually gets made. Like he’s just meant to sit here, staring at you, both waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing comes. Because that’s not how the game is played. 

Unfettered, Eddie continues to look at you, as though you’re something to be watched—consumed. A separate entity he can’t touch, but he can play the part of an onlooker, waiting for disaster to hit. 

You squirm and shuffle in your seat. He observes. Waits. Gives you the space to tell on yourself because he knows you’re not strong enough to resist it.

Your eyes sporadically flit from his to random places in the trailer as you avoid his patient gaze. 

After a few seconds, it appears the opened cereal box and empty beer cans across the room become a bore to you. 

Slowly, your far-out gaze drops down the kitchen counter, landing on the floor, sliding to the side, and back up the table until it rests on his joined hands, fingers threaded, rings bulky and glinting in the dull glow of the humming bulb. 

He sees the exact moment you buckle under his unyielding attention—the moment you give up. Your shoulders deflate the smallest amount, free of tension and low from submission. Your chest collapses under the expression of a deep, silent sigh. 

 “I’m tired of being a virgin,” you mutter, shame darkening every syllable. “I just want it over with, I don’t care anymore.”

Eddie purses his lips again, nodding, because he understands the feeling. He remembers the pressure. “And you don’t wanna wait to lose it to someone you love?” 

You don’t respond. Don’t look at him. All you do is laugh. Just a quiet, humorless chuckle. A few notes of melody that tell him you’ve got a well of emotions, thoughts, and opinions on the subject that you’ll have to spare him for time’s sake. 

But Eddie’s not in the business of letting you off easy. As much as you can be difficult sometimes, he can be far worse. 

He can talk, and talk, and talk for hours. Stall forever if he needs to.

Suddenly, he sits up, hunching his shoulders forward, determined. “I think you should wait…. For someone you love,” he implores.

You roll your eyes again, as though he’s spinning you an opulent fantasy and swearing it’s true.

He crosses his arms, mirroring your own movement—

“Thank you for your input, I’ll take it into consideration.” You shoot him an insincere smile before looking up at the ceiling of the trailer, as if thinking, only to return your gaze to him seconds later. “Okay. I’ve considered it. And I’m choosing to ignore it.” 

Eddie bristles, sucking in a quick breath to bolster his impending rebuttal, but you don’t even let him—

“I don’t know if you've noticed, Eddie, but there’s a distinct lack of guys lining down the block, waiting to woo me. And that’s fine, it’s whatever,” you shrug, shaking your head like you couldn’t be less bothered. “I can’t make someone love me. But this, I can control…” 

You snort, mordacious words spewing from your perfect lips. “One thing I know about men is they may not be quick to love, but they’re certainly easy to seduce.” 

Eddie shifts angrily in his seat. Not quick to love? 

As if that could be true. Who in their right mind—

Part of him wants to yell at any guy who’s ever rejected you, but the other part—the dark, untamable ego—wants to jump up in celebration, in smug satisfaction that he’s not having to duel for your devotion. 

But he doesn’t do either because love is awful. 

It’s like staring into a mirror and all his worst flaws are staring back. 

Right now, his selfishness is glaring at him, and yet, he can’t seem to care. That’s the worst part. 

He should be good. He should be better for you. Should want to be better for you. It’s what you deserve. But you’ve done something irreversible to him. 

And love is fickle. 

Because, unfortunately, he can relate to you on one thing—the woes of not being able to make someone love you. 

The pain of wanting it and not getting it. 

If he could…. 

If he could get it… 

If he could make someone love him—if it were possible—he wouldn’t be stuck here listening to you plot how you’re going to lose your virginity to some guy. Instead, he’d be half-way to the bedroom by now, your hand in his, and a million sweet kisses waiting for you. 

But love is fickle. 

“Okay, fine. Yeah, guys are easy, but you can’t lose it to a stranger. That’s probably the worst way to go about it,” he complains, regarding you with almost-pleading eyes.

You pause for a moment, your eyes narrow at the earnest display of caution on his face. But then you must remember this is the face of a liar, because—

“I mean…people hook up with people all the time. Some even after they’ve just met at a bar,” you pointedly argue, pinning Eddie to the spot with a time-hardened gaze. 

His lip curls as he regrets ever opening his mouth that day in ‘84.

If he had known it would give you the perfect shield, allowing every argument he lobs at you to bounce off and hit him square in the chest, he would have never said a word. In fact, he has half a mind to create time travel just to go back and kick eighteen year old Eddie’s ass—

“And besides, I’m not doing it with a stranger. I was thinking of asking Jimmy Royston,” you shrug, focusing on the chipped nail polish you can’t seem to stop picking at. “I sat next to him in Chemistry, like, all of junior year.” 

For the first time in what feels like forever—well, at least since you told him your plans for later—Eddie laughs. A boisterous, belly laugh that echoes around the trailer, the sound bouncing off the smoke-stained wallpaper and hitting every surface in sight. 

Too busy wiping tears from his eyes, Eddie misses the way your face sours, your lips curling into a dangerous sneer.

He starts a few sentences that immediately devolve into gibberish and giggles when he pictures you and Jimmy Royston so much as speaking. God, his stomach hurts— He always did sat you were the funnier one out of you and him. 

A terse ahem draws his attention back, and he tries to stop his body from shaking with heaving laughter.

“Oh, sorry. Phew! I needed that, I needed that.” He wipes some escaped tears off his cheeks. “Ohh, thank you, sweetheart, that was very funny. Thank you,” he says with a breathless grin, smoothing his shirt and rubbing his sore abdomen. 

Staring at him with a heavy brow, your expression remains still—

When your facade doesn’t crack—when you don’t smirk and revel in how hard you made him break, like you usually do—Eddie’s smile drops off his face, replaced by unabashed incredulity. 

You’re serious. You truly mean to tell him…Jimmy Royston is your man of choice? The guy who vomited all over himself in ninth grade when he had to dissect a frog in biology is the one you want to lose your virginity to? Jimmy ‘Puke-y’ Royston?  

What’s more, your choice is based on a year of being lab partners? Really? Eddie has known you since freshman year—known of you since elementary school—and you’re choosing an acquaintance over him? 

Not even an acquaintance—an obligatory desk-mate. How romantic. Touching, really—

He can’t help but imagine how that conversation would go. “Hey, Jimmy, remember me from Chem? Stoichiometry, am I right? That shit sucked. Anyway, do you wanna fuck me?”

All of a sudden, he starts considering whether he could win in a fight against the short, slim guy. 

Who knows? It may come to that if he fucks this up and fails to convince you never to leave his trailer—especially not for Jimmy Royston. 

“Sorry, you wanna have your first time with your eleventh grade chem partner? Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Eddie wails, a crazed, bemused look in his eyes as he leans forward over the table that separates you two. 

You groan loudly, rolling your eyes so hard your head lolls back. “Oh, what now? You don’t want it to be a stranger, I said it’s not gonna be. Now you don’t want it to be someone I know? Seriously, Eddie, you’re grasping at straws here.”

“Someone you know? Jimmy is someone you know?” he scoffs, his brows lift so high they disappear into the messy curls of his bangs. 

When you don’t say anything else, only pursing your lips and avoiding his fiery gaze, he nods fervently, his frizzy locks swaying softly with the movement. 

“Yeah, well, of course. You guys go way back,” he mocks. “You know what, while you’re at it, why don’t you call up Chris Trilcek? You were paired up for that final presentation in world history freshman year. Bet he’d be a hoot-and-a-half in the sack, and I’m sure he’s free!” 

“Oh, do you think I should?” you ask, staring off to the side of his frazzled face like you’re actually considering his teasing suggestion. “I mean it’d be nice to have options in case Jimmy isn’t up for it…”

Before Eddie has a chance to figure out if you’re being deliberately obtuse again, you’re up, leaving him to stare at the empty space across the table as you rifle through the junk-drawer in his kitchen. 

Inside the deep drawer, stray batteries and an impressive rubber band ball roll about as you dig through a shocking amount of take-out menus. Once you find what you’re looking for, you make your way back to Eddie, plopping onto your chair, letting the item drop from your hands and onto the table with a loud thump. 

Quickly, you split the phone book open, flipping through the flimsy pages to get to the ‘R’ section. 

“What the f—” 

Eddie shakes his head wildly, slamming his hand down on the binding of the book before he drags it to him and away from you—away from your deft, searching fingers. 

“Hey!” 

You reach across the table to pull the White Pages back, but before you can get your hands on it, he shoves the book off the surface like an attention-seeking cat. It goes flying, falling to the floor of the trailer with a loud, hollow thud. 

“Hey! I need that, asshole!” you yell, vexation turning your tone shrill.

You stare into his eyes for a moment, annoyance cooking your insides like a stew as you’re met with utter indifference and what looks to be a hint of smugness. You’re going to kill him. 

Stuck in another stand-off, neither of you move until you make the mistake of glancing at the ground, noting the landing spot of the heavy book, splayed out—frail pages folding under the weight of itself in haphazard creases. Eddie follows your gaze and that’s all it took to give away your next move.

In a flash, you turn, bending down, and reaching to the floor. Eddie matches your hasty movements as you both tumble out of your seats, trying to beat the other to the book. The very tips of your fingers brush the laminated cover when he lurches forward, pushing the book out of your grasp once more. 

“Ugh!” you shriek as you scramble toward it, at an advantage because, though he got it away from you in that split-second, he still pushed it to your side of the room—further away from him. You feel a brush of wind against your bare skin as he swipes at your ankle, trying to catch the limb to drag you back to him, but you’re too quick. You get a hold of the book and stand up, rushing over to the yellow landline by the door.

“Fuck!” he shouts, clambering after you. The noises of you vigorously flipping through the pages and the click of the phone coming off the hook only seem to add to his panicked fervor. 

Eddie comes to an abrupt stop behind you, his body nudging you closer to the wall with his nearly-uncontrolled speed. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, his chest warms your back as he breathes heavy. 

Right as you’re about to start typing in the number you found for the Roystons, the phone lodged between your ear and shoulder disappears—yanked free, and slammed back onto the hook by a large, ringed hand. 

Another annoyed groan tears from your throat as you feel his body loom ever-closer behind you. Hunching your shoulders, you turn away from his right hand—the one that guards the phone—to protect your precious White Pages. But it doesn’t work— 

His left hand—the one you hadn’t noticed was resting on your hip—ambushes you from the other side. 

Quickly, Eddie firmly presses the pads of his spread fingers onto the thin page you were reading from, and balls his hand into a tight fist, effectively ripping the delicate paper from the book, trapping it beneath his iron grip. In a fit of rage, you whirl around, leveling him with a sharp glare.

He backs away from you, fist still closed around the paper, shielding it from your inevitable reach. Slamming the book onto the side table beneath the phone, you march toward him. 

“Eddie, what the fuck?” you yell, matching his retreating steps with your confident stride. When he runs out of space, you corner him against the far wall and the couch, zeroing in on his fist. 

Eddie lifts his hand high above his head, fully aware of how silly this game of life-or-death keep-away is. But he’ll be damned if you get that fucking phone number. 

As you reach for the crumpled paper, he uses his body to block you—leaning back when you lean forward, stretching and giving you more of his body to reach over. You grunt and mutter obscenities at him, balancing on your tip-toes, but nothing helps. You can’t reach it. He’s never been more overjoyed at his lanky stature than in this moment—

Giggles freely escape his grinning mouth while he watches laser-sharp focus and irritation mar your face as you shove him, trying to get him to break and finally give you the page. He’d never admit it to you because you’d probably junk-punch him—especially right now—but he’s loving the way you’re all over him. 

Your touch is everywhere as you reach and pry for the bane of his existence. Not to mention you smell amazing. He has to stop himself from curling into your roving hands, but he must remain sturdy. For both of your sakes. 

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’re tall enough to ride this ride,” he goads, utterly drunk on you.

You let out the loudest groan he’s ever heard from you, leading him to snicker some more. But he soon regrets his overconfident teasing when you give up on aiming directly for his hand and instead start pawing at his arm. 

A sharp chop to the inside of his elbow sends shockwaves of dull pain through his nervous system as you use your full body weight to pull down on his raised arm, now partially crumpled from your assault to his joint. 

In a moment of desperation—your body hanging from his flexing bicep, slowly but surely bringing it to your level—Eddie shoves the ball of paper into his mouth and releases the tension in his arm, dropping it to his side. The sudden slack causes you to nearly fall over, but before you do, he wraps his arms around your waist, catching you. 

Your irate features melt into a look of disgust as you squirm out of his arms. 

“Ew! Egh! That’s so gross, Eddie!” 

“Mmm, phone book,” he taunts through a mouthful of White Pages. 

“You know, that was your phone book, right? You just lost yourself a whole two pages of R’s,” you say, raising a brow. 

“Don’t care.” 

His petulance is muffled by the crumpled paper in his mouth, and he can’t help but cringe at the taste. Paper. It just tastes like paper. But old. 

Suddenly, he sidesteps your body and crosses the room, heading back to the kitchen to throw the page away. He can feel the thin material softening from his saliva and it’s making him want to scrub his mouth out. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you watching him as he spits the wet slop into the garbage, sees the way you carefully step toward the phone again. 

“Ugh, you’re a child.” 

He pauses from scrubbing a towel over his tongue—attempting to clean any remaining pieces of paper from his mouth. “And you’re a brat.” 

You huff at his declaration. “Am not!” 

“Are too!” he rebuts, dropping the towel and coming out from around the counter. 

“I’m just trying to tell you you’re gonna regret it! I’m on board with the ‘virginity is a concept’ train—hell, I’m the conductor! My point is, sure, it’s a concept, but it’s a concept with feelings attached to it. And feelings get all confusing and…feelings-y,” he rushes out, frustrated at how he can never find the right words when you’re around. “You might not believe it now, but if you go through with this, you’re gonna feel pretty shitty afterwards.” 

He ends his spiel by crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter, staring at you. He’s said his piece.

You watch him for a moment, then—

“Great. Thank you for the wisdom, Gandalf. But how ‘bout you go share that with someone who cares? I’ve got a ‘T’ name to call.” 

You turn around, pick up the phonebook once more, and flip through a few chunks of pages to get to the right section. 

Eddie lets out a loud, defeated sigh as he lets his arms drop to his sides. “You’re really not gonna give this up?” 

Scoffing, you shoot him a glare from across the room before looking back down at the list of names. “Exactly which part of ‘I’m gonna lose my virginity tonight’ did you not understand?”

He sucks his teeth as he watches your finger find Chris’s last name, your hand already reaching for the phone. 

Fuck it—

“Fine. If you really wanna lose it to someone, and you don’t care who, then lose it to me,” he shrugs, crossing his arms again. 

He glances away from your now-still figure, your shoulders so high, they’re nearly up to your ears. 

Forcing a level of indifference he’s never quite been capable of—especially not when it comes to you—he stares downward, as if the well-worn carpet beneath his feet could ever be more interesting than the woman whose second home is his subconscious.

You’re pretty sure you can hear the fibers unfurling beneath his shifting feet. Or maybe it’s your feet. Maybe it’s your heartbeat in your ears, not his. Everything is a little confusing and you can’t seem to look away from the wall. It feels like a safe place to rest your unseeing eyes. 

Your arm aches and you retract it from where you were reaching for the phone—you hadn’t made it, you were half-way there when he said it. 

Carefully, you turn your head to him, trying to figure out if this is some shitty joke he’s spouting just to piss you off or if he has well and truly lost it. But his face is devoid of any humor and he looks as sane as he ever did—which was never a lot, but no different to now. 

More than anything, he looks almost vulnerable as he avoids your shocked gaze. 

“What? Eddie—” you start, already exasperated because you’ve decided that, even though he appears to be completely serious, he must be joking, “if this is another way for you to try and–”

“It’s not.” He shrugs his shoulders again, finally meeting your eyes while shoving his hands into the back pockets of his ripped jeans. “You win. I capitulate to her majesty.” 

You raise a brow at the medieval lilt and his waving bow to you, but before you get to reprimand him for the joke, he continues— 

“If you’re gonna go have sex with someone you feel nothing for, then why not feel nothing for me?”

You almost want to laugh at his “foolproof” logic, but the familiar pain in your chest is accompanied by something else. Something almost warm. Like rays of sun fighting through cumulonimbus clouds.

Damp dirt, new leaves, and fertilizer.

He’s offering something you only ever dreamed of like it never crossed your mind. 

Like it would mean nothing.

An agreement. A one-time deal. No strings attached; an easy fix to your problem.

But what if you want strings? 

Does he want strings? 

Strings do get messy when left untied. All the criss-cross feelings and knotted touches. 

But it’s him—

“Eds—”

Like he’s been burned by your solemn tone, Eddie cuts you off in a hurry. “At least it’d be with someone you know. Like really know…. Someone who cares about you—about your experience.”

The fragility in his eyes makes you want to console him. To tell him you believe every word. That you’re sure he would be good to you. 

Because he looks like him—

The soft, sweet man you saw all those years ago. The one you prayed to at night like a deity, asking for a few more seconds of his hand on your lower back, or more moments of just you and him. More laughter, more affection, more time. More, more, more. 

All the little things that molded you into a reverent devotee in the first place. 

Asking for every small thing to bolster your faith.

And now, he’s finally offering something much larger. 

Reaching for you with a divine gift.

How could you possibly say no?

Criss-cross feelings, you remind yourself.

Strings to tie your heart down, could be useful—

Fuck it. 

Slowly, you set the phone book down and make your way over to his spot against the kitchen counter. Stopping right in front of him, you look up with hesitant curiosity. 

You’ve never really been this close to him. Not with this much on the table. 

Mindlessly—shamelessly—you glance at his lips before succumbing to the cloudy glint in his eyes, the darkness that falls like a veil over his once-lively irises. 

There’s something there, you find. 

Something else that swirls deep in the molten shade of brown. 

Something you want to know more about. 

Your hands hang uselessly below you, resting against your body as you nervously fiddle with your fingers. The pointed tip of your tongue glides along the soft skin of your lips, leaving your mouth parted—like a siren call to his. 

You couldn’t be any closer to him. Butterflies flutter in your stomach as you feel the soft puffs of air from his wanton mouth. But you won’t move anymore. 

You leave yourself for him. He can have you if he wants. 

A sacrifice.

Eddie’s eyes rove over your face, looking down at the way you’re almost reaching for him, but it’s as if you won’t allow the touch. Won’t allow the crossing of some imaginary barrier you’ve built. 

Steadily, he lifts his hands—crosses the line—trailing his fingers up your neck like a ghost of a touch, until he settles his gentle grip on either side of your head. Stealing a moment from Time itself—just a second, a blip, like he’s plucking a ripe berry to savor in the thousand milliseconds he’s stolen—he smooths his thumbs over your temples, granting himself the selfish gift of feeling you.

His eyes consume all, admiring the dainty flutter of your mascara-blackened lashes, the softness of your skin—he marvels at the feeling.

Simmering from the heat of your body, he tries to memorize all your prettiest features, seen through an advantage he’s never had before. To be this close. To never be again. 

He’s going to make it worth his while. He has to.

A lowly victim to your gravitational pull, he finds himself leaning toward you, like light toward a collapsing star. And there’s no escaping you, not when you so easily warp the fabric of his being with frightening ease.

Loud in his straining ears, he hears the slight hitch in your breath when he nearly brushes his lips with yours, but he loses himself before he can truly feel you. Instead, he plants a cowardly, chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Simply not enough, but more than he could have ever dreamed of getting. Another bittersweet paradox.

“D’you want this?”

He’s so quiet, but he can feel the way you shudder against him. The way you feel him, his words mumbled devoutly into your skin.

“I wanna lose my virginity,” you whisper confidently, like it’s the only thing you're absolutely certain of.

Eddie tries to fight the way his face falls, but he can’t seem to manage it when your words serve as a reminder of how little this all matters to you. Or, at least, how little you care who you lose it to. 

But, ever-observant, you notice, and he catches the worry as soon as it draws your brows together. 

“T-To you…” you amend. “Can I?”

The frail uncertainty in your voice feeds the fire deep in Eddie’s gut, like bone-dry wood being thrown into the hearth on a years-long winter night. 

The flames, once dim and hopeless, time-weathered and starving, roar back to life. 

Subtly, he nods, relishing the way you relax. Bound to your request, he allows his palms to glide down your form, taking his time to explore the new terrain until he grabs ahold of your soft hands. 

Side stepping your body, he gently pulls you to his room. His backwards strides are confident—a sign of comfortability in the home he’d call yours, just the same as he’d call it his. After all, these walls have seen nearly every iteration of his care for you. From acquaintances to friends to—

Neither of you speak as he guides you around his frame—you, now in front of him, and him, leaning his weight against the bedroom door until it clicks shut. 

Wayne is on a fishing trip for the weekend with some buddies from the plant, but he’s not particularly known for remembering to pack everything, and Eddie is keen on protecting your modesty and ensuring your comfort. Like you deserve. Like he knows he can—better than anyone.

He drops one hand from yours only to lock the door. Once he’s certain there will be no interruptions, he walks you back toward the bed until you’re standing right in front of it. 

Dropping your other hand, he reaches up and gently smooths the hair near your temple again, addicted to the way your eyes flutter. His hands slide down your figure until he’s toying with the hem of your t-shirt—his t-shirt, the one you stole in tenth grade and never gave back. 

His selfishness befriends the possessive fiend he fights back daily, because you’re moving through the world marked by him. And in this moment, Eddie wonders if you really could have let another man touch you in the shirt that whispers his name against your soft skin.

Heat thrums just below your surface, boiling and bubbling, nearly spilling over when you feel him tugging at your shirt, silently asking for permission. His hands wait patiently.

You don’t respond. Don’t know how to speak. Nerves rattle against your ribcage. Or maybe it’s your heart testing its prison, looking for a way out as it pounds and pounds and pounds—

“Can I take this off?” 

His low mutter—almost a monosyllabic slur of sound—registers a second later in your hazy brain. You nod, forcing your lungs to expand, but nearly choke at the faint scent of his cologne. 

It’s familiar. Piercing, clean, and rich—

You remember the day he got it. When he dragged you to the mall, forcing you to smell every option. He bought the one you liked the most. Even when he wasn’t too sure about it. You remember warning him about the price tag, about how he should pick one he really likes if he’s going to splurge on it. But he wouldn’t hear it—

“Words.”

A confused hum creeps up your throat as you greedily bask in his scent, feeling the world move in slow motion around you. His unending touch carves canyon-like ripples into the tissue of your mind.

When you manage to focus on his eyes, there’s a level of fondness in them that has you grabbing onto his wrist for support.

“Wanna hear your words, sweetheart. Y’gotta tell me what you want.”

Understanding washes over you like cool hose water on a hot summer day. Quickly, you open your mouth to ask him—no, beg him—to undress you, but before a single word can crawl out from between your parted lips, you feel his warm fingers dancing along the delicate skin of your waist, leaving a wave of goosebumps in their wake. 

Your breath catches, and you shudder because he’s both hot and cold—

His attention warms you; his touch leaves you shivering from a chill that is so frigid it begins to manipulate your frayed nerves, tricking you into feeling the burn as if it were born from the bluest flame and not the calloused hands of your best friend—

“I— I, um…”

You shake your head as you try to remember what you were about to say before the words ran away from you and into his arms, stealing whatever desperate sentiment you meant to express. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to figure it out, to fill in the blanks—like a cipher missing its key. 

His thumbs are drawing little shapes into the soft skin beneath your shirt, aiding and abetting the thieving words. The unfamiliar affection makes your abdomen twitch and your core pulse with need.

Before you get the chance to draw up some semblance of sanity, Eddie leans into you, effectively shrinking your entire world to just him. He’s everything you feel, everything you smell, everything you see, everything you touch, everything you…want to taste.

You so desperately want to know what flavor his kisses are—

Bitter smoke from the habit he can never quite kick? Malt sweetness from the beer he loves to drink? Cool mint from the gum he always carries around?

Would you grow ravenous at the first hint of Marlboro Reds? Would you crumble under the eager pressure of his lager-soaked tongue? Would your mouth water at the lingering scent of menthol on his breath?

You’re trapped in his thrall the second he closes in on your space. His head tips to the side, running his lips along your warm cheeks, your jaw. You shiver at the soft brush of his mouth—an action you’re painfully aware is not meant to be shared among friends. No, this kind of touch is reserved for lovers only— 

“What do you want, sweetheart? Want me to touch you? Want me to hold you?” he murmurs, heavy gaze locked on the way your lips part, and you quietly pant. Your head bobs toward his mouth, body leaning into his arms, drawn to the heat of him. 

You hear the sharp intake of breath, feel his nose nuzzling your hair. Then, as if fighting for control, his hands flex, only to grab onto your hips and drag you tight against him, like he lost the battle. Or maybe he surrendered. The way he hangs over you, almost relieved at the closeness leads you to believe it’s the latter.

Emboldened by his body against yours—all growing hardness and twitching muscles—your hands paw at his abdomen, his waist, kneading and pulling him impossibly closer.

“What do you want, baby?” 

You bite back a whimper at the new endearment. 

Because that’s reserved for lovers too—

“I want…W-Wan’ you. I wanna be…be with you,” you mumble breathlessly, mindlessly.

In a huff of impatience, he pulls your top over your head. You hear the way he swallows back a groan and you wish he wouldn’t have. 

With expert dexterity, he removes your bra, and this time, he doesn’t hold back. You practically bloom under his attention—his wide, hungry eyes, his almost pained rasp of humming appreciation. 

His hands slide up the sides of your body, featherlight fingers following the length of your ribs, brushing inward as he traces the skin just below the curve of your breasts. 

Your wandering hands fiddle with the hem of his shirt before slipping under the material, flexing and groping at his toned abdomen. You pull at his narrow waist, a wordless plea for him to touch you more. 

But he seems uninterested in your needy silence and you remember his instructions—

“Eddie, please. Please, touch me. I need you…. Wanna feel you.”

“Whatever you want,” he agrees, nodding.

Electricity prickles and dances across your skin like invisible lightning as he finally slides his hands over your sensitive breasts. Gently kneading the weight, he smooths his thumbs over your pebbled nipples. You gasp at the sensation, the way it directly triggers the heat twisting and turning low in your core with a quickness you’re not accustomed to. 

Leaning down, Eddie attacks your jaw and neck with greedy, open-mouthed kisses. His nose nudges you zealously, like he’s devouring your delicate flesh and still aching for more, so you tilt your head away, eager to provide. 

You tug his shirt up his body, but quickly realize you’ll need him to break away from your neck to get the material over his head. You lightly push on his abdomen, and he begrudgingly stops his assault, understanding what you’re looking for.

With a level of speed you’ve never once seen him use, he peels his shirt off, balls it up, and blindly tosses it somewhere in the corner of the room. 

Unabashedly, you ogle his body in a way you’ve never allowed yourself before. Your heavy-lidded gaze is first drawn to the pick hanging just below his collarbones, sitting perfectly against his pale skin. Then, your eyes drop, admiring the tattoos that litter the expanse of his chest. 

You’ve only ever seen them a few times—mostly at the Hawkins pool on hot summer days, and once when you walked in on him changing. You remember how you couldn’t get the image out of your mind. The contrast, the searing visage of inky-black against milky-white, pressed into skin like a pretty decoration meant to be admired. 

And like a set path guided by nothing but desire, your eyes track down, down, down his body—all heat and hardness. Your mouth waters when you catch sight of the tuft of coarse hair trailing from his navel to whatever lies beyond the waistband of his jeans. 

Whatever lies—

But you already have an idea; you feel him pulsing against your stomach, you felt him twitch when you whimpered moments ago.

All heat and hardness.

Drawing you from your trance, Eddie’s deft fingers fiddle with the button on your jean shorts, making quick work of the fastenings and dragging the material down your legs. He drops to his knees, peering up at you with something in his eyes so…raw that it has you grabbing onto him, your balance escaping you. 

With your hands on his strong shoulders, you watch with rapt attention as he removes your shoes and socks, then he gently cups one ankle, lifting it and helping you out of the leg of your shorts before doing the same to the other. His touch is so soft—so gentle—you think you might cry.

Barely anything has happened yet and he’s taking such good care of you. You shudder to think how this would have gone had you called up Jimmy or Chris. 

Nobody could compare to Eddie. 

Feeling weightless, heavy, high, and stone-cold sober all at once, you meet his eyes. 

“You look…” he pauses, swallowing harshly, “you’re so beautiful.”

Your ears ring at the hidden sentiment between those three words. A million extra meanings you can’t catch, but you heard them like a whisper in the wind—real and slipping through your fingers the moment his hungry lips grace your skin once more.

Large hands squeeze the backs of your thighs, and you feel the tickling brush of his frizzy curls against your bare legs. 

Wet, searing kisses travel upward, his hands slide in tandem with the needy affection. He holds you with a type of reverence you couldn’t have foreseen—as if you could have ever foreseen this. He moves along your body like you’re allowing him, not like he’s the one doing you a favor. 

You sigh when you feel the heat of his breath over the place you need him most. He’s stopped at the apex of your thighs, panting like a desperate man, blocked by a flimsy slip of fabric that you’re certain he could shred to pieces with the way his eyes have darkened. 

“C-Can I?” His strained voice breaks through the music in the room, disrupting the melody of syncopating gasps and pants. 

It feels like the world is moving as you stay perfectly still, staring down at him, his arms wrapped around your legs, fingers greedily curling in the waistband of your panties. You find yourself thankful for his steady, obedient grip. 

Underneath his wanton gaze, you feel the weight of roles reversed. It’s like it’s his first time, the way he’s looking up at you like your permission will fix him. Your touch will mend something broken. 

With wide eyes and parted lips, you nod. “Y-Yes. Please, Eddie.”

A sound torn from deep within his chest rumbles out, reverberating around the room, bouncing off of every wall and hitting you like a spell. Low, where his breaths warm you, a fiery enchantment unfurls in volant tendrils like ink in water.

Suddenly, Eddie drags the thin material down from around your hips, another appreciative groan rips from his throat as he watches the gusset of your panties fall last, stuck to your wet folds. A delicate string of arousal clings to the fabric, unable to part from it. 

You watch his efforts slow, his lids grow heavy like he can’t control the need. Then, he presses his face between your thighs, the very faint graze of his tongue leaves you trembling. 

With one targeted swipe, Eddie’s tongue snaps the silky string, catching what he can with overwhelming zeal.

“Want more,” he mumbles into your heat. “Sweets…”

“Yes,” you interrupt, already drowning in desperation. “Need you—”

He growls and pulls your panties the rest of the way down your legs before his large hand lifts one of your thighs to sit on his shoulder, allowing him easier access to your soaked core. He hums brokenly—a lewd sound of appreciation. 

The second he drags the flat of his tongue through your dripping folds, your gasps devolve into messy moans, but the sound only seems to encourage him more. With foreign ferocity, he devours you. 

“Oh, god, Eddie,” you mewl, hips twitching against his face, hands threading through his fluffy hair for balance. 

Vibrations from his responding groan move through you, tearing you apart until you’re nothing but wanton shreds. Your knees almost buckle beneath you, but he presses into you. Harder. More persistent. The force sends you falling backward onto the bed, your hands hurry to break your soft descent.

Your hips hang off the edge of the mattress—one foot still planted on the ground, the other dangling over Eddie’s right shoulder. His hands grope and knead the fat of your thighs as his tongue eagerly laps up your arousal like a man starved. Your arms give out from under you, sending your back barreling down to the untucked sheets on his mattress. 

You’re panting and burning up; the heat of his breath meets the warmth of your folds, creating a smoldering furnace where his mouth dances over you. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, and one you think no other man could ever replicate. 

Your hips react ardently to every twist and flick of his tongue, the talented muscle toying with you until you’re shaking and whining and bucking against his mouth for more. 

The moment you feel the tip of his tongue draw tight circles around your swollen clit, your head flies back in ecstasy. Your hands wander the space around you for something to grab, first, trailing over your breasts with a teasing squeeze before reaching for the sheets beside you. But it’s not enough. The material is so thin, you can’t get the grip you need. 

Like he can sense the desperate energy rolling off of you in tidal waves—like he knows the feeling—Eddie grabs your hands, momentarily sacrificing his fragile skin to your clawing, pressing, sinking, crushing—

Your thoughts are plucked from somewhere high in the ether and placed back into your head the moment you feel his dragging touch, then, softness. Peering down the winding, curving terrain of your body, you meet his dark eyes, see the way he’s moved your restless hands into his hair.

The whine falling past your lips is drowned out by his aching growl deep within your wet folds. He tightens his grip around your hands before letting go, encouraging you to hold onto him—to use him.

And you do.

You tug him closer, grinding your core against his mouth until you arch at the dull pressure of his tongue breaching your entrance, pressing into you powerfully, exploring untouched territory you wish could be marred by his ministrations. Like a token to memorialize this moment in time. Something that says you’re his—

Quickly, your hips start to lose their rhythm against his face, recklessly twitching and squirming with every break he takes from fucking you to flicking your clit with searing precision. 

“Eddie, Eddie, I’m gonna— Please, Eds, I—”

Not even bothering to pull away, he moans his pleas right into your pussy. “Give it to me, baby. Mmmph, give it to me, sweets. Taste so fuckin’ good—” 

The tone he’s using, the way he pauses after every other word to slurp and lap at your quivering folds, almost makes it feel like he’s not even talking to you. Or maybe not just you. But it’s like he’s speaking directly to your weeping cunt, pleading for more—more arousal to devour, more fluttering pulses to tickle his tongue.

Your brows contort in pleasure as tears prick at your waterline—almost there, almost there.

Suddenly, you miss the pressure of his mouth for a split-second while you hear a sucking sound, then your chest wracks with desperate sobs as you feel him slip a single finger inside you. 

“Oh, god! Oh, fuck!”

His other hand holds your hips down, blunt nails sinking deeper into the surface of your skin as electricity speeds along a high-strung coil—crackling and tight—just below his large palm. But the coil soon snaps when he starts to drag his long, thick finger against your velvety walls, thrusting in and out—gentle yet firm in his actions. 

“Eddie, Eddie, oh, fuck!” 

Unmade and raw, all you can do is babble incoherent whines and pleas as he teases you even past your orgasm, his tongue working your clit until it throbs to the beat of your racing heart.

When your legs start shaking from overstimulation, you finally gather enough strength to push on his head—appealing for mercy.

Like he’s not ready to part from you just yet, Eddie doesn’t yield to your push, though he does begrudgingly grant you reprieve. But he stays between your legs, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s not just breathing deeply to catch his breath. The way he inches infinitesimally closer, the way he won’t let your thighs close—it’s like he’s reveling in your heady scent—

“Fuck, you’re so pretty when you cum. Squeezin’ my finger so hard. God, this was just one, baby,” he boasts, utter glee defiling his already dirty words.

You whimper. One finger, and you felt so full.

In response, he garnishes your twitching pelvis with wet, sloppy kisses, like he’s searing a promise into your skin—

His hands do their best to hold your hips down, allowing him to take a tour of the tops of your thighs, the divot where your folds meet your legs, your mound—soaked and slobbered on by his overzealous mouth. 

Peering down your body, open-mouthed and desperate, you nearly mewl at the way his eyes are glazed over. He looks drunk on the taste of you. Completely and utterly wasted. What’s more, his face is covered in you. 

All the way up to his nose, his skin shimmers in the light, glistening with your juices. But he doesn’t seem ashamed of the indecent display. Instead, he seems proud. Proud to wear you on him—like a badge of honor.

“Eddie, please. I want more,” you whine, breathless from the come-down. 

“Pretty girl,” he purrs, nuzzling your thigh, “so desperate. Am I turning you to the dark side already?”

You shudder at his smug grin, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about his overly-inflated ego. Your mind is mush, and all you can think is his name prefaced by the dangerous word “my.”

“Please,” you mewl. 

His grin widens, and you note the hunger no longer hidden in the dark brown of his irises. Because he’s not aiming for decency anymore. Not in the way he’s eyeing you like you’re a meal and he’s famished, and not in the way his words are rife with untapped desire. 

“Alright, pretty.” He pats your thigh before backing away from you. “Up on the bed.”

It’s a soft order. A gentle command as he grabs your forearms and helps you scoot your hips all the way onto the mattress before letting go, allowing you to shuffle to the top of the bed. 

Once your head hits the pillow, he watches you settle into place, shoving the untucked sheets out from beneath you and off to the side. Without taking his eyes off of your movements, he works to remove his jeans, shoving them down his legs, along with his boxers. 

Now that your moans have ceased, the room is so quiet, he can hear your sharp intake of breath when his hard cock bobs free from its constraints. He bites his lip at the subtle shock shifting across your face. It’s flattering, but more than anything, he’s leaking at the thought of fitting inside you. 

“That’s— You’re—” 

Every one of your sentences seems to die on the first word, and he watches your thighs clench as your focus stays on his thick length. 

Heat warms Eddie’s cheeks as he tries to stop the smile from overtaking his face. He shouldn’t be like this—he should be calm, cool, and collected, but clearly exceeding your expectations has him feeling a myriad of things. Giddy, confident, smug…eager. 

Mindlessly, he wipes a hand down the lower half of his face, gathering your slick arousal on his palm, then collects the precum pouring from his ruddy tip, and spreads the combination of juices over the expanse of his thick cock. He grants himself a firm, teasing squeeze as he steps toward you, but quickly detours to the bedside table to rifle through the top drawer. 

“I’ll make sure it feels good, don’t worry. You’re gonna help me with that,” he says lowly, then stills his searching hands as he looks to you for a nod of agreement. When you give it to him, he smiles fondly. “Good girl.”

A quiet huff of amusement escapes him when he hears your strained whimper—the way you so obviously try to keep yourself quiet, but can’t help it. 

He’s starting to catch onto what you like. How you like to be spoken to. And your responses are addicting. The clench of your thighs, the pulse of your walls. The need that crawls up your throat like it’s fighting its way out of you.

He desperately wants to know what else his words can elicit. Or maybe even try something more than his words—

His body warms as he wonders what you’ll sound like when you’re wrapped around him. His mind conjures its best guess at the noises you’ll make when his thrusts knock the air out of you, like sweet rasping melodies meant to torture him. 

He wants to know just how shrill your cries will get when you’re nearly there, searching for just a little bit more. 

But most of all he wants to hear the sweet words that will slip past your loose lips, your mind too cockdrunk to stop the affection you’ll share. The secrets you’ll spill. God, he’s aching to hear you.

If he could, he’d lock you in his room and run experiments on you for a week straight—just to find out what makes you tick. He’d take you apart piece-by-pretty-piece, just to put you back together again. He’d hold you tight and play with you passionately, like you were his favorite toy. 

His.

Drawn from his thoughts by your shifting body, his attention diverts to the box of condoms he manages to find deep in his bedside drawer. He tears at the paperboard and pulls one out, showing you the foil packet before ripping it open—

“Safe sex,” he declares, sliding the oily-feeling latex out of the wrapper. 

His wry smile widens to a goofy grin when you giggle at his words, easing the tension. 

“Stupid,” you mutter, knocking your shin against the side of his thigh as he hovers near the head of the bed, putting the condom on. 

Once he’s done, he crumples the wrapper in his hand, glancing over at you before throwing it on the cluttered surface of the nightstand. “You sure you wanna do this?”

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Yes, Eddie. You already ate me out.”

That leaves him frowning—

“Sweetheart, just because we did that doesn’t mean you have to continue. We can be done. Nothing more needs to happen if you don’t want it to.”

You remain silent, only staring up at him with so much…something…in your gaze, it makes him want to fold in on himself like the discarded foil. And he thought the ease with which you crossed his wires was bad— 

“I know,” you mutter softly. “But I want to. With you. Will you…. Will you take care of me?”

Eddie’s breath hitches, and there’s a stinging feeling behind his eyes—one he knows all too well. 

You sound so small, so nervous. As if he could ever deny you something that was meant to be yours. His care. His devotion. 

“‘Course I will.” 

He nods one too many times, entranced by the way you seem so delicate under his watchful eyes. 

Delicate because you’re asking him to take care. In the way he’ll touch you. The way he’ll guide you. The way he’ll—

Slowly, he steps closer. You scoot to the side, making room for him to knee his way onto the bed. 

His hands brush your ankles, featherlight affection smoothing up your legs, stopping at your knees. With the utmost reverence, he gently parts them, settling between your thighs. 

“You look so pretty like this. I mean…you look— Well, you look…pretty all the time,” he nervously amends, eyes flitting over your face, but never any lower. 

He wants you to know he means you. You’re pretty. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Not because you have a gorgeous body, but because you are gorgeous. 

You shift beneath him, avoiding his gaze and, instead, focusing on pulling him to you. Softly. Needily.

He follows your guidance, leaning over you until his hands land beside your head. And just like before, he’s memorizing the moment. Every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every quiet breath from your pleasure-bitten lips. 

Below, you glance to the side, find his wrists, and wrap your hands around each one, as if grounding yourself in his touch. Only then—when his pulse beats wildly against your fingers—do you meet his eyes.

Wandering palms—soft and unfamiliar in their affection—travel the length of his arms, pausing over black ink, then continuing up until they reach his biceps. He shivers as you hum, squeezing the corded muscles that lay twitching restlessly beneath heated flesh. 

“You’re pretty, too,” you murmur, sliding your palms back down and rubbing at his wrists. 

Eddie chuckles, then swallows. “No, I’m not.”

The subtle twitch of your brows, the split-second peek at the budding frown that says you disagree has him beating you to your rebuttal—

“Not like you.”

His heart leaps in his chest as your hands suddenly drag his face to yours, like you’re about to kiss him with overwhelming need. But you don’t complete the motion.

And neither does he.

Because he’s not sure he can come back from all of this if he kisses you. 

If you allow him to have you in that way—

He’s not sure he’s strong enough. Not enough to feel you like that, to close his eyes and claim your lips like they belong to him, and then go about his life like he never felt it. The beat of your heart against his, pounding in nerves and want. The truthful desire dancing from your mouth to his. 

He couldn’t go back to living a lie. To live like he doesn’t think about you every single day. Like he doesn’t wonder what you’re doing when you’re not with him. Like he doesn’t do the most mundane shit and spends the whole time thinking about how much better it would be to do it with you. 

So he doesn’t kiss you. He can’t. Not when you’re not his to keep. 

Instead, he leaves a delicate, chaste brush of an almost-kiss to the corner of your mouth. Again.

Another cop-out from a coward. 

You struggle to contain your disappointment, resigning yourself to the fantasy in your head. The imagined taste of his tongue tangling with yours. And with wanton hands, you reach for his hips, subtly pulling him closer. 

“Need you,” you mutter, hearing the hitch of his breath as you whisper the plea against his mouth. 

“Fuck— Okay.” 

You watch as he reaches for his length. Taking a strong grip, he guides the thick tip along your slick folds, gathering your wetness. 

The raw combination of moan and a sigh leaves your lips—an accidental slip portraying just how much you’re aching for him. 

“It’s gonna feel a little weird, like…pressure. Okay? But you gotta let me know if it hurts, sweets, you hear me?” 

Your fluttering eyes, panting mouth, and rolling hips aren’t enough of a response, apparently, because his voice grows firm. 

“Hey, pretty girl, you with me?” 

“Mhm,” you whine, nodding your head. 

“What did I tell you?” he asks, smoothing a thumb down your temple before tapping three times. 

“Um, you— you said, um, if it hurts, I'll tell you.” 

“Good girl.” 

His muttered praise leaves you mewling, inching your hips closer to him, looking for more—yearning for it. 

Your mind devolves into pure static as he presses his thick tip into you slowly. Through bleary eyes, you see his teeth sinking deep into his lower lip, like he’s fighting to maintain his composure. For a moment, you wonder what it must look like from his point of view—the way your folds open up to him, welcoming the intrusion, ready to wrap around him in a vice grip.

“Oh, god. Mmm.” 

Your features crumble at the sensation of dull pressure—exactly what he warned you about. It doesn’t hurt, it just leaves you wanting more, like you’ll find reprieve once he’s fully inside you. 

“How you doin’, baby? Need a break?” he rasps, kneading your thigh gently.

“Need more.”

“Fuck, y’want more? Wanna feel more o’ me?” 

You whimper and nod, your heart racing as his slurred words drag you down into the flaming pit of desire.

Your mouth parts in a silent gasp when you feel him press deeper inside of you, his stiff length sliding past your walls. Your ribs contract and expand in raucous breaths the moment you see just how much of him is left. He’s just barely got the tip in—

As your gaze creeps up his body, you realize Eddie hasn’t looked down once, not to where you’re connected. You wonder if it’s self-preservation or if maybe it’s part of his care for you. The way he watches your face intently, like he’s monitoring every slight change in expression leads you to believe it’s the latter. Probably both, really.

But you’re thankful he’s looking, because he immediately notices when the pinch in your brows shifts from pleasure to a wince of discomfort. 

His hand is on your face in a second, smoothing the crease between your brows and petting your hair soothingly.

“Baby, you okay? Is it too much? You feelin’ pain?” 

You shake your head stubbornly, sucking in a deep breath, leaving your mouth open and panting as your gaze stays glued to the sight of him inside of you. You notice it’s not just the tip, he also gets impossibly thicker through the middle of his length, and you’re sure that’s what you’re feeling now—

“Hey, look at me.” His thumb catches your chin, guiding your eyes to meet his. “I can make you feel good, but I need you to help me out. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

Something flashes in the molten color of his irises and he leans down, brushing his lips against your cheek. You practically preen as he grants you a sweet kiss, and part of you—the rotted, selfish part—wonders if feigning pain would allow you to finally taste him properly, all smoky mint and dancing tongues—

“Let me make you feel good, baby,” he implores.

“‘S just a pinch, ‘s just— It’s fine,” you placate, rubbing your hands gingerly down his sides. 

“Alright, we’re gonna wait here, and you tell me when I can move, or if you wanna stop. But in the meantime, try to relax all your muscles. Sometimes we get all tense, even when we don’t mean to.”

You nod hesitantly, taking a few more deep breaths, making a conscious effort to drop your shoulders and let your muscles rest. After a full minute of breathing, resting, and leaning into his soft palm on your warm cheek, you nod again. 

“Okay, you…you can move now.” 

But he doesn’t. Not yet. As if trying to discern the truth, Eddie just studies you for a moment. Then he moves, inching further into you.

When your jaw goes slack at the feeling of fullness, you hear a rumble of sound, like a groan that’s been cut off too early, and you have half a mind to ask him if he needs a break. But before you get the chance, your words catch in your throat as he rests lower on you.

“Pretty girl,” he coos, his hot breath tickling your ear, leaving your cunt pulsing with need.

Then a hiss—the kind that sounds like it’s bordering on pain, but is only one degree away from pleasure—escapes his lips, and you realize just how tightly you were squeezing him.

Then, suddenly, he bottoms out, the firm, jolting movement forcing all air from your lungs. 

“Oh, good girl,” he huffs out, voice strained. “You’re doin’ so good for me, taking me so well. How’s it feel, sweets? Think you like it? Wan’ more?”

Struggling to turn pitiful mewls into actual words, you nod your head fervently, reaching down to press your palms against his hips. “Mmm, wan’ more. Please, Eddie.” 

For the first time, he glances down, and you hear him choke at the sight. Electricity prickles across your delicate skin, and the sting of your teeth sinking into your lip does nothing to disrupt your giddy hum as you try to push him away.

In the dark shade of his eyes, you can tell he recognizes your movement as a very desperate, unsuccessful attempt at getting him to pull out—to chamber a thrust. And he seems utterly amused—

“Oh, baby, did you want something? You wanna do the work? Help me out like a good girl?” 

Something deeply raw and needy peels from your throat in response, and you silently rejoice when he pulls back, aiding your efforts. Unfortunately, it’s only a couple inches because—to your burgeoning frustration—he’s following your guidance, and your arms don’t reach nearly as far as you need. 

But you’ll take anything right now; desperation is cooking your nerves and boiling your insides. 

So you sink your nails into his hips and pull him back to you with a sudden yank.

Your mouth drops open at his shallow thrust, unintelligible noises of debauched need tumble past your parted lips. 

Clawing at his soft skin, you struggle to set up another thrust. “Please, please— I need more.”

“More? But you’re doin’ so well all by yourself,” he condescends, eyes twinkling with hunger as he lets you push and pull him. “Look at you go, pretty girl. Makin’ yourself feel so good. What an independent little woman.”

His teasing shakes you to your core because it’s so him. It’s your best friend, just in a new scenario with unfettered access to your body and pleasure. God, you’ve allowed him too much power— 

“Eddie! Please! I’m— I need it. I need you…”

Amusement washes from his face and you pout as he pauses, as if admiring a view. Then he ducks down.

“Whatever the princess wishes,” he murmurs lowly, lips brushing against the heated skin of your cheek, syrupy sweet affection dripping from every word. Gently, he pulls out, nearly all the way. 

The mewl that was halfway out of your mouth catches like a lock clicking into place. A loud, desperate cry comes out in its stead—a reckless, candid response to the deep gut-punching thrusts barreling into you. They’re not hard, not rough, but firm. Controlled. Resolute. 

Like he wants you to feel it. Feel him.

You chase your breath in his rutting hips, surrendering to the affection he’s searing into you with every pass of his stiff length against your pulsing walls.

Red streaks paint his milky-white skin, blooming beneath your hurried hands like a casualty of your desire. Curses, groans, and harsh gasps fall from his slackened jaw. Heat bubbles deep in your core, rivaling the warmth of the salacious words he whispers into your flesh. 

“Shit, you feel so good, sweets— Oh, god, wan’ you to be— Fuck!”

Tears flood your waterline as you stare at the ceiling, features permanently fixed in shattered pleasure. Your mind struggles to hold onto the hitch in his breath, the unfinished sentence you’re dying to hear. But the sensations are overwhelming. Every nerve in your body is sparking—all livewires itching to explode.

All you can say is his name, all you can feel is him, and yet, it’s still not enough—

“Eddie, n-need m-more, ple—aseee!”

“Ah, fuck, baby, I know. I got you—”

Eddie glides his tongue over the pad of his thumb before reaching between your legs and circling your swollen clit. 

And suddenly, it’s like lightning has struck the furnace deep in your core, shooting high voltage shocks up your body until you grow so hot you’re almost cold. A sensation of fullness takes over, like you’re mere seconds from bursting. 

Delirious with passion, your hand flies down to stop his movements—to stop what you know is coming.

“H-Hold on, I— Eddie, I need to— I wanna feel you! Please, please, let me—”

Your needy sobs have him slowing down until he stills inside of you, chest heaving and damp with sweat.

“What— You can feel me. Aren’t you feelin’ me, sweets?” He reaches his hand up to the space just below your navel, pressing in only slightly.

You whine from the pressure, and your cunt flutters around him in rhythmic pulses like it’s trying to entice him back into movement. 

And, God, you can feel him— 

He’s burrowed his way deep inside you, but it’s still not enough—

“No— Yes, I— Oh, god, I c-can feel you. I just—” Your words melt into a whimper as you squeeze your eyes shut. The feeling of warm wetness slides down your cheek.

You’re vaguely aware of a dip in the bed on either side of your head, and as you blink away the blur, you realize Eddie has dropped to his elbows over you, caging you in. 

His lips trace the track of the tear in reverse, starting first beneath your jaw, then up the expanse of your face. But his mouth doesn’t open—it’s not a trail of kisses. Just a soothing glide of soft pink, collecting salt water. 

“What do you wanna feel?” he asks patiently, like he’s ready to bring your deepest desires to fruition. 

When you don’t respond, he brushes his lips against the thin skin of your eyelids in short, delicate kisses. 

“I’ll do anything for you, baby. Just tell me what you want—”

The raw truth of his statement rings in your ears along with a prayer in the shape of your name—reverent, impassioned, desperate. The tone has you questioning when the god became the devotee. 

Your eyes flutter open as you peer up at him. 

“Wanna feel you. All of you. I don’t want— I don’t want anything in between,” you whisper, your gaze flitting between his earnest attention and his glistening lips, wet with your tears.

Eddie’s mouth parts slightly, a look of quiet shock mixing with curious disbelief as he tilts his head, like he’s observing you for any lapse in conviction. But there’s none to be found. You’re certain you want this. So he gives a single nod, yielding to you.

Before he can even shift his weight, you’re already pushing at his hips again. He lets you move him until he slips out, then your eager hands reach for his hard cock, sheathed in thin latex. 

The calm Eddie found since ceasing his thrusts starts to dissipate as he watches your movements with rapt attention. 

Acutely aware of the expansion of his ribs on every breath in, the scent of sex and your perfume permeating his olfactory receptors has any semblance of control quickly leaving his body. 

The sensation is like a loss of inhibitions. Like he’s gorged himself on you and now he’s utterly wasted. And he knows from personal experience, he doesn’t make the best decisions when inebriated—

The reminder that he’s here for you—that he’s supposed to be the one guiding you—is hard to hold onto when you’re expertly drawing him back into you, teasing yourself with the thick, ruddy tip of his cock, painting your folds with dribbling precum. 

He shudders at your wrecked moan, your eyes smoked out with hunger and desire and nothing else as you leer at his flexing length.

“F-Fuck, sweetheart, are you sure about this?”

You only hum in response, deep in focus.

“Unh, unh, look at me.”

Eddie’s thumb catches just beneath your chin, drawing your attention to his hardened features. The moment your far-out gaze focuses on him, he struggles to ignore the way your pupils have almost eclipsed any trace of color in the iris. 

But then your attention falters, your eyes slowly glide down to his mouth, your lips parting like a call to him—

He adjusts his grip, his thumb and fingers digging into your cheeks.

“No, up here, pretty girl.”

Tipping your chin up, he manually fixes your gaze to his.

“Are you sure you want this?”

As if words are too difficult to drum up, you whimper imploringly. 

And all it takes is one warning tilt to his head and you’re righting yourself. Forcing the words to come— 

“Yes! God, please. I need you…”

Satisfied, Eddie nods, taking a moment to revel in just how gone you are for him. 

“Okay.”

Another pitiful whimper escapes your closed mouth as you push harder into his grip—wanting, asking.

Knowing exactly what you’re missing—a quick learner in the language of your desperation—a smirk curls at his lips. “Good girl—”

Then he sinks into you in one quick, deep thrust that carves a half-scream, half-gasp from your chest. 

His shoulders drop at the feeling of your wet heat, your greedy walls, hugging every square inch of his cock, gripping onto him like a lifeline.

“Oh, fuck, baby. Shit, y’gotta stop squeezin’ me like that. You’re not gonna give me enough time to pull out,” he mutters, dragging his hips back and slamming into you, starting a brutal pace. 

Tears flood your waterline once more as you cry out for him, your hands touching, groping, and grabbing every bit of muscle you can get ahold of. 

“P-Please, please, E-Eddie! Oh, god, oh—oh god! Feels s-so g-good!” 

Your knees drop open as your hands blindly reach for his hips, pulling him in for impossibly deeper strokes. 

“I’m— E-Eddie, I—”

“I know, baby. I know,” he chants, holding on desperately to the last shred of his sanity.

Ducking lower onto you, he shifts his weight to reach between your thighs and circle your clit. With an open-mouthed pant, he watches as your eyes roll back, your loud moans drowning out the vulgar sound of skin slapping. 

His gaze flits across your face, memorizing your pleasure-shocked features like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to see this particular crease in your brows, this heavy-lidded trance. Panic fills his bloodstream as he realizes it might very well be the last time—

And if it’s the last time, maybe he’s allowed to be selfish. One time. Just this once—

“Fuck it,” he breathes out, dipping down until his mouth capture yours, swallowing every last moan.

Your palms fly to the sides of his head, dragging him further onto you until the range of motion in his hand severely shrinks under his own rutting hips. You lick into his mouth like you’re trying to taste yourself. Overwhelmed with desire, he begins to lav his tongue into you the same way he devoured your cunt earlier. 

Your responding mewls leave him trembling, and he worries over the tightening in his abdomen, the coiling heat deep in his gut. He starts to pull away, but he feels pressure at his hips. You’ve wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles, leaving him no way of escaping your hold. Fuck, you’re going to be the death of him—

“Baby, we can’t— I gotta— I need’ta pull out,” he slurs against your mouth. 

“Please don’t,” you whine, spit-slick lips haphazardly forming around the pitiful plea.

Eddie feels his chest crack open with raw, tortuous longing. Hips faltering to a grinding rhythm, he lets his shoulders sag under the pressure of wanting—the weight of possession. All it would take to claim you, all it would take… is just to let go. To make you his.

He’s not strong enough—

“Please don’t,” you repeat, gliding your hands down his damp skin until you still at his lower back. With a foggy mind driven by the most basic desire to claim—or rather, be claimed—you muster all your strength and press your palms hard into his spine, dragging him to you. 

Following a groan that sounds suspiciously like a surrendering cry, Eddie pulls his hips back just enough to shallowly thrust into you. They’re firm, breathtaking strokes that feel like he’s trying to permanently burrow beneath your flesh, and his mouth glides over yours in a messy, blind display of drunken need. It’s a thorough loss of all space and you revel in it.

“Fuck, sweets. I— I—”

“E-Eddie! Ed—die, I’m— I’m c-cl— Please, don’t— Don’t—”

Eddie’s thumb starts circling your clit with renewed vigor, sending spasms shooting down your legs so strong that your ankles unhook. Like two magnets repelling each other, they go flying to the bed, twitching and convulsing. 

Deep in your core, you feel a magmatic pressure that just builds, and builds, and builds, until something snaps—

Arching into him, you cry out as your body goes weightless, and your mind floats into the ether once more. 

His groans, his grunts, the smacking of skin on skin—every sound echoes as you move further away from your mind. Vaguely, you’re aware of his faltering thrusts, his hungry lips devouring. Your mouth might be moving in tandem with his, or maybe you’re babbling incoherently, it’s unclear—all your senses are fried.

All you’re certain of is the sinking of your body. Deeper than the mattress, deeper than the floor. Down, down, down—you’re dragged into the pit of sated desire while your soul soars high above you. 

“Ah, s-shit, baby— I—”

By the time you find your way out of the depths—crawling back to him—you register the tail end of shivers wracking his entire being. His arms haven’t loosened around you and his softening cock is still twitching and flexing inside of you, goaded by every pulsing constriction of your warm walls. 

Nosing into your cheek, Eddie pulls back for a second, just to get a look at you—to memorize. 

What he sees is exactly what he expected—

Something he could never forget.

Something he could never be normal about.

In your eyes, in soft pants, in the flutter of lashes over mascara smudged skin—he sees you.

Just you.

A glutton for punishment, he licks his lips, savoring the taste of you before dipping down for more. One more.

Like he’ll never live long enough to see you walk out of his room—his sweat staining your skin, his spend safe inside you—he kisses you, slow and rottingly sweet. Swallowing every sigh, stealing every breath—he prays to you with selfishness in his heart. 

“I felt something,” you mumble against his mouth, pressing your hands to his shoulders.

Ignoring the ache in his chest—the kind that blooms when space starts to grow between his body and yours, like a weed whose roots never truly die—he forces a laugh that crumbles to dust in his throat. 

“Well, yeah…. God, I hope so,” he huffs, all strained amusement and bitter jokes.

A small smile pulls at your lips. “No, I mean.… I mean— You said, um, earlier, you said…”

While you struggle to find the words, his touch seems to act as a hindrance to your search. Your breath hitches and your eyes flutter as he smooths his thumb over your sweat-soaked hairline. 

“You said if I was gonna sleep with— If I was gonna f-feel nothing with a stranger, then I should…feel nothing with you.”

Realization dawns on him, almost at the same time he decides this conversation shouldn’t take place with him inside of you—

“Maybe we should—”

“No!” You stop his movements, pressing your fingers into his hips before he can slip away. “Please, don’t! Don’t— Don’t go.”

Eddie watches your features soften from panic into an amalgamation of nerves and reserved urgency. The mess of emotions darkening your once-twinkling eyes are enough to stop his movements, but he still wishes every square inch of him could liquify and seep through the floor of the trailer until he reaches the earth. Maybe then he could be free of your dominance over his heart—

“Okay. Okay.” He nods, placating. 

Shifting above you, his attention oscillates between your wide-eyed stare and the space on your neck he kissed like he owned it. Then, as if he suddenly forgot how to behave like a human, he sucks his teeth and fumbles to respond—

 “What, uh, what did you feel?”

Your nails sink into him with a pinch, but by the way you seem lost in your own head, he doesn’t think you’re aware. Then—

“W-What— Um, did you…feel…anything?”

He stares for a moment, considering your evasion of the question, but then he looks to your neck once more.

A million thoughts zoom through his mind like advertisements on big city buses. He can’t discern all of them, but one has YOU written in what he’s certain is your handwriting. Another says everything in posh, looping cursive. A third one is void of any advertisements, and unfortunately, that’s the one that stops for him—

“I don’t think it matters,” he mutters, avoiding your frown. “It’s— I’m not the one who lost their virginity.”

You cock your head to the side, the kind of movement he knows means you’re not letting him slip by. “Yes, it does.” 

Your tone bites at him, scrambling the illusion until he’s a clear picture of vulnerability, bare under your hardened gaze. 

“I just mean, it matters more how you felt. If you— If I made you comfortable. Doesn’t matter how I felt,” he tries, wondering how likely it is that he could be struck by lightning indoors, on a sunny day—

Because you’re looking at him like he’s eighteen again. Like he’s stupid and boyish and easily breakable. But there’s something else in your eyes—

Something that makes him feel almost mendable. 

“No, but it does matter how you felt. How you feel. It matters. I care how you feel. I wanna hear what you think,” you implore, holding onto his wrists beside your head. You press the pads of your fingers into his pulse and he worries you’ll feel it before he says it—

“But did you—”

“Yes, I felt good. Yes, you did a good job taking care of me. Yes, I felt safe. Now how did you feel?”

“I feel like— I don’t want you…to…” He closes his eyes, hanging his head. “I feel like I wish you were mine,” he says, letting a humorless chuckle float out of his mouth and electrocute the air with tension. “And I feel like calling up Jimmy and Chris just to curse them out for being the ones you thought of first.”

In the loll of his admission, something shifts in your features, and every molecule of air leaves his chest like you just rolled a grenade at his feet, unpinned and already three seconds deep into the fuse delay. 

As if you have nothing better to say, you pluck the lowest hanging fruit—

“Well, technically you suggested Chris,” you half shrug.

Charged silence fills the room like rushing water until he blinks at you.

“Okay.” He begins to back away, ignoring your grasping hands.

Your face falls. “No, I’m sorry! I— That was a joke! ‘M sorry, it was stupid—”

“Okay,” he repeats flatly, peeling your fingers from his bicep. He pulls out of you smoothly, pretending not to hear the low whine deep in your throat—

“Eddie, no! Don’t— I love you!” you utter quickly, as if the words will act as a balm upon his burning skin—the skin that broils under your touch. And for a moment, he almost accepts it. He’s so selfish with you—

But when your eyes grow wide, like you hadn’t meant to let something so damning slip past your lips, he realizes the truth—

He was right.

He doesn’t leave you to explain yourself—doesn’t wait for you to quantify the secret.

“It’s okay,” he answers your worried gaze. “I told you, sex has weird feelings attached to it. Things get said in the heat of the moment, it’s all good.” 

Hopefully, if he repeats the sentiment enough, he’ll start to believe it too.

But instead of appreciation, he sees indignation warp your face. 

“I’m sorry, where have you been? The heat of the moment was five minutes ago,” you huff, eyeing him like you can’t even begin to comprehend his level of delusion. “True, I didn’t mean to say it just then. But I felt it. I have felt it. For…” you laugh, a humorless sound that grates Eddie’s heart, “years.” 

And suddenly, he feels like he got his wish—

Every muscle in his body has turned to mush, every nerve is frayed, every wire is uncrossed—

“I’ve—” you pause, then scoff. “Like, Jesus Christ, Eddie! Do you know how long—” 

He melts into you, his lips on yours, his hands on your face, holding you right where he needs you most—

Swallowing your surprised moan, he takes your needy grip in stride—every bite of painted nails against pale burning flesh, every tug and drag, seeking a closeness he craves to sate.

“I don’t care,” he slurs against your mouth, too intoxicated to hear how much time he’s missed out on. Then he pulls back a fraction of an inch, instead deciding he wants to know every single detail—even the painful bits—

Even if just to hear you talk—

“Well, I do care,” he amends. “I just—”

You peer up at him through heavy lids and a teasing grin, and he feels too far from you.

“Not right now,” he drawls, unable to think past ‘I love you, too.’

A/N: Please say nice things about this, it took so fucking long lmao. 

Want more emotional smut? 😈

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[munson-blurbs]

Steve Harrington x Female!Reader x Eddie Munson

Summary: Eddie and Steve are always arguing about something--this time, it's about their sexual abilities. Good thing you're there to referee. Loosely based off of this thought from the other night.

WC: 2.8k

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), m x f x m, oral (f! receiving), fingering, light praise, masturbation (m!), unprotected p in v, handjob, semi-public sex, Reader wears a skirt, brief allusion to public exhibitionism.

Divider credit to @saradika

Eddie and Steve were arguing again. 

That wasn’t out of the ordinary; just last week, you walked into work to hear them debating “the most bangable” non-human cartoon character: Rosie the Robot from The Jetsons or Chatta from Pink Panther and Sons. 

Most of the time, you were able to ignore their nonsense. When it got to be too annoying, you’d kick Eddie out or threaten Steve with the task of cleaning out the breakroom fridge. 

Either way, you and Robin generally let the boys duke it out while you gossiped and rewound VHS tapes. 

You could already tell that today was different as soon as you saw Robin listening intently and smirking between the two men. She never paid attention to them—not even the time they argued over the superior cheese to use for grilled cheese sandwiches. 

“That’s not possible,” Eddie was saying, shaking his head in disbelief. “Five times? No way.”

“What can I say, man? I’m that good.” Steve crossed his arms over his chest triumphantly. “She even said I was the best she ever had.”

Robin rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t count if she’s a virgin.” She met Eddie’s hand in a high-five, much to Steve’s chagrin. 

“Trust me, Linda was not a virgin.” He grinned. “And she definitely isn’t one now.”

You wrinkled your nose as you pulled on the forest green Family Video vest. “Do I want to know what’s going on?”

Three answers arrived simultaneously: “No,” from Robin, “Hell yes,” from Steve, and “Just more of Harrington’s bullshit,” from Eddie. 

“Consider my interest piqued.” You rested your forearms on the counter. The only thing that got you through these monotonous shifts was gossiping with your friends. 

Eddie huffed out an impatient laugh. “King Steve thinks he made a girl come five times last night.”

“I don’t think it. I actually did it,” Steve rebutted. “Just because you’ve never even made a girl come once—”

“I’ll have you know that these babies do more than just strum a guitar.” Eddie wiggled his fingers. 

This time, a fake-retching noise accompanied Robin’s eye roll. “That’s my cue to leave.” She punched her time card and started towards the door. “But for what it’s worth, I don’t think either of you are the Casanovas you claim to be.”

Steve’s brows wrinkled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I don’t think either of you dinguses could find the clit if it had an arrow pointing to it,” she called over her shoulder before turning to you. “Godspeed, soldier.”

You saluted her and reached for the pile of returned videotapes waiting to be reshelved, but Eddie’s hand grabbed your wrist before you could even take one.

“Can you just tell him that no woman comes five times in a row?”

“I could, but I’d be lying.” You shrugged and plucked Carrie from the top of the pile. “Have these been rewound yet?”

But your tidbit had Eddie staring at you, wide-eyed. That was your mistake—you should have ignored his question entirely. Whatever, you were in it now. 

“I thought that only happened in por—” he started, the tips of his ears turning pink when he realized what he’d said aloud. “I mean—”

“Relax. It’s not like I don’t know your rental history.” You gestured to the computer. “Unless XL Sausage Delivery for Lola is actually about pizza.”

Steve let out a belly laugh, far too cocky for someone who is most likely lying about his own escapades. 

“That being said,” you continued, looking at Steve, “I highly doubt that you made her come five times. Maybe twice, tops. And that’s being generous.”

You didn’t have any proof of Steve’s sexual abilities—or inabilities, for that matter. But based on your own experiences, no man had the patience to make his woman orgasm five times before he even came once. 

It was enough for Eddie to throw out a haughty “ha!” towards Steve, who promptly retaliated by flipping Eddie off. You took the opportunity to bring some of the tapes into the back room to be rewound, leaving the boys to their spat. 

“Hold on.” Steve barrelled through the door before you could even start rewinding the first VHS. “You really don’t believe me? Or are you just fucking around!”

You didn’t take your eyes off of the rewinder as you answered, “I believe that you believe you made her come five times.” 

Eddie’s shit-eating grin remained plastered on his face. “Sorry, Harrington. Looks like it’s two against one.”

“I can prove it.” Steve blurted out.

You raised your brows, not quite sure if you wanted clarification, but curiosity got the better of you. 

“What? Are you gonna try to make me come?” You snorted, but a serious expression quickly replaced your smile when he nodded. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Look, all I’m asking is for you to let me give you one teensy-weensy orgasm. Or a gigantic mind blowing one.” Steve shrugged. “It’s your body.”

Before you could reply, Eddie cleared his throat. “And then, uh, I get a turn?”

“Why would you get a turn?” And why were you still entertaining this? “If you two are so determined to prove that you can give someone an orgasm, why don’t you give one to each other?”

“Because we,” Eddie gestured between himself and Steve, “are not the ones with lady parts.” 

You considered their offers. It wasn’t as if you’d never fantasized about them touching you–though you could honestly say you’d never imagined one touching you while the other watched and waited for his chance.

The whole notion was utterly insane. Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson were standing in the middle of Family Video and asking you, nearly pleading with you, to make you come. You could barely believe it was actually happening.

Yet here they were, waiting for your answer. As annoying as they were, you knew that if you turned them down, they’d respect your ‘no’ and find some other asinine topic to argue over.

But maybe you didn’t want to turn them down. Maybe you wanted to quell the need building between your thighs and let them take care of you.

You shook Fast Times at Ridgemont High out of its case and popped it into the rewinder, but you didn’t press any buttons. “You have until this movie is done rewinding,” you said to Steve, swallowing the anxiety that caught in your throat. “After that, it’s Eddie’s turn.”

Steve nodded and ran his fingers through his perfectly-coiffed hair. His hand trembled slightly, as though he was caught off-guard by your acceptance.

“Yeah, that-that’s fair. You, uh, wanna sit down, or…?” 

You took a seat on the hardback folding chair that Keith had begrudgingly set out after months of begging him to let you sit during rewinds. 

Steve kneeled in front of you. “Can I take those off?” He gave a light tug on the nude pantyhose covering your legs, careful not to pinch your skin. 

When you nodded, he ran his hands up your thighs until they were underneath your denim miniskirt. He leaned in and pressed chaste kisses through the nylon; despite your nerves, your toes curled in your Doc Martens. God, he’d barely even touched you and you were already gone.

With the one brain cell that wasn’t focused on Steve’s lips, you asked Eddie to start rewinding the movie. You could only assume he did, because the next sound you heard wasn’t the button being pressed, but your tights ripping down the middle. 

“Sorry,” Steve said, though he didn’t seem apologetic in the least as he rucked your skirt up and kissed the wet spot where you’d already begun soaking through your panties. 

Given the time limit and the desire to prove Eddie wrong, you had assumed that Steve would be racing to help you cross the finish line. But he was all but wining and dining you, right thumb pulling your panties aside so he could lick up your center. 

“Shit.” The word came out with a shiver. Steve wasn’t just eating you out—he was full-on making out with your pussy. His lips wrapped around your clit as his tongue brushed against every nerve ending. 

He hoisted your legs over his shoulders and pulled you closer. There was no holding back; not when he was groaning and licking and kissing so loudly that the noises surrounded you. 

Another groan, this one less muffled, tore through your haze. You blinked to see Eddie palming at the straining bulge in his jeans, the other hand undoing his belt. 

Holy shit. Eddie Munson was jerking off to the sight of you getting your pussy eaten by Steve Harrington. 

Steve—he pulled back for just a second, his lips and chin shiny with your slick. 

“Pause the fucking tape.”

“W-What?”

“Munson wins. I don’t care.” Steve’s eyes blazed with determination. “But I don’t think I can stop just to prove a point. I wanna take my time.”

Eddie didn’t gloat like you expected. He kept one hand in his boxers, gripped tightly around his erection, while he clicked random buttons on the rewinder until the tape hissed to a stop. 

“And I want you to tell me how she looks when she comes for me,” Steve said to Eddie, who nodded in response.

For a while, the only sounds in the room were Steve’s tongue in and out of your pussy and three by separate sets of moans. His fingernails dug into your thigh, leaving behind crescent-shaped marks as proof that he was there.

You clenched around nothing as he circled your clit once again. More—you needed more—

“Fingers,” you managed through a jolt of pleasure. “Use—use your fingers.”

Steve hummed his approval and obliged, his middle finger stretching you deliciously. You’d noticed how thick his fingers were prior to tonight, but you couldn’t fully comprehend just how incredible they’d feel inside of you.

Your legs shook atop his shoulders as your orgasm approached. 

“I’m–I’m gonna–”

Eddie grunted, stroking himself while he found his words. “She’s so pretty, Harrington. So goddamn beautiful, oh, fuck…”

Maybe you would have been embarrassed by his compliments if you weren’t being hurtled towards release from Steve’s tongue and now a second finger, slightly curled and rhythmically pumping in and out of you. You barely made out his murmurs, catching the words every so often.

“Good girl–so good–tastes amazing–for me–”

There was no time for bashfulness. You threw your head back and called out his name. Were you shouting or whispering? Were you even saying anything, or were you only talking to yourself? From the feeling of Steve’s smile against you, you assumed it was the former.

He gently lapped up the mess you’d made before bringing your feet back down on the ground. The ground of Family Video. Where you worked. Steve Harrington just tongue- and finger-fucked you at your job, and from the looks of it, Eddie Munson was ready to take his place.

“Bend over the chair.” His voice was a commanding growl in your ear. 

The undone belt buckle clanged as he shoved down his boxers. His erection left a smudge of pre-cum on his Metallica t-shirt, and you had to hold yourself back from taking him into your mouth until he spilled every last drop.

Instead, you followed his very clear directions and positioned yourself over the chair. You hadn’t bothered to fix your skirt or panties from Steve’s turn, and Eddie audibly groaned when he realized you were already on display for him.

And Steve…the poor man was completely bricked up, hazel eyes blown wide with lust. After the pleasure he’d given you, it would be cruel to leave him without his own.

“C’mere.” You crooked a finger towards him and he took a step closer. “Lemme help you.”

“Y-You wanna…you wanna help me? I mean, yeah, of course.” He unclasped his own belt and straddled the chair seat, not bothering to hide his eagerness.

You nearly gasped when you saw him. His cock was longer than Eddie’s, though Eddie’s was thicker. Steve’s curved to the right, and your mouth watered at the prospect of your tongue tracing the vein that snaked down his shaft. If only your position afforded that.

Maybe next time, you thought. Would there be a next time? There was no way you could see both boys like this–that they could both see you like this–and just leave it at one night. Right?

The pondering only lasted for a hummingbird’s heartbeat before Eddie slid inside you. Thank God for the preparation from Steve’s fingers, because Eddie was big. 

“You’re so tight.” Eddie gripped your hips and delivered a swift smack to your ass, not hard enough to leave a bruise but still teetering between pleasure and pain. “Fuck, Harrington, why didn’t you tell me she was so tight and so fucking warm.”

“Why spoil the surprise?” Steve snickered, but his amusement was cut short when you wrapped your hand around him, leaned over, and spit on the tip. “Oh, Christ.”

You moved your hand in time with Eddie’s thrusts. Steve grabbed onto the back of the chair as you worked him, bucking his hips up and giving you total control. It was a stark contrast between the man who had eaten you out with such voracity that you thought you’d pass out.

Eddie wrapped his arm around you until his middle finger rubbed against your clit. The movement had you grasping Steve tighter–not that he seemed to mind.

“Holy shit.” Steve muttered, the swear hardly audible over the lewd noises coming from your pussy. You’d never been this wet before. You could feel your arousal dripping down your legs. “Faster, honey. There ya go, just like that…”

“She’s so good,” Eddie agreed, his own pace speeding up. “The way this ass bounces…Harrington, you’ve gotta take her from behind next time.”

So there will be a next time. Good to know.

Steve just nodded, a bead of sweat trickling down his jawline. He thrusted into your grip one last time before pulling away and kissing you. It was sloppy and rushed, his lips almost missing yours, but you still managed to taste yourself.

“Sorry, I just gotta–” He took himself in his own fist and stood beside Eddie, tapping the head of his aching cock on your ass. “I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come on your ass, okay, honey?”

“Mhm.” You bit your lip as Eddie slammed into you. His tells weren’t totally clear yet, but you had a feeling that he wasn’t far behind. Neither were you, if you were being honest–and you currently lacked the capacity to lie.

Steve let out a groan, his cum warming your skin while he chanted your name. Part of you wished he had finished in your hand so you could taste him the way he had you, but you certainly had no complaints about this option, either.

“Steve…Eddie…” You panted. “I’m close. Please, just a little more…”

A little more what, you weren’t exactly sure. There wasn’t much more you could take without completely eviscerating into a cloud of desire.

“Go look at her, Harrington,” Eddie said through wanton moans. “Your turn to see how pretty she is when she comes.”

And then Steve was there, tilting your chin so he could get a glimpse of you as you fell apart. “Pretty? She’s gorgeous.” He leaned in to kiss you once more, this time slowly and carefully. Like you were something delicate to protect. 

His tongue still held an essence of you, and the moment it touched yours, it was all over. You exhaled a choked whimper into his mouth as you reached your second peak of the night.

Eddie slammed into you, his body crumpling so his chest rested on your vest-clad back the second he finished riding out his orgasm. His heaving breaths tickled your ear before he pressed a soft kiss to the crook of your neck.

“You,” he started, nipping at your skin, “are in-fucking-credible.”

You loosened a laugh. “I could say the same about you both.” You stood up when Eddie did and fixed your skirt. “I’ll have to tell Robin that you both can, in fact, find the clit with no issues.”

“Yeah, but I found it from behind,” Eddie pointed out, tucking himself into his boxers and zipping his jeans. “Harrington was up close and personal. Anyone could find the clit like that.”

“Seriously?” Steve scoffed. “If we’re gonna do this, then let’s talk about how I made her come without having to use my dick. That was all mouth and fingers, baby.” 

You reached for your pantyhose before remembering that Steve had torn them in his quest for your pleasure. The last thing you wanted right now was to listen to another argument. While they weren’t watching, you slipped off your panties.

“Feel free to keep talking, boys. I’ll just be reshelving movies.” You shook the underwear in front of them. “Hope I won’t have to bend over to put them on the bottom shelf.”

--

[warmaidensrevenge]

It's not a never

Pairing: Eddie x friend!fem plus size reader

A/N: Hi! So I lied. This is gonna be a three part series. I was getting a little carried away with everything I wanted to put in this fic. So that pushed it out to one more part. Tonight's part is basically filler. Just a heads up this is a slow burn. So if you don't like that kind of fic, this one is not for you. Anyways, thanks for reading. As always love ya. Byyyyeeeee

I do not give permission for my work to be posted anywhere else. Please respect all creators. Also, all pictures and songs are from a Google search and found on Spotify. A credit to original posters and artists. Thank you for your work.

Word count: 3,190

Warnings: 18+ no minors please. Language, angst, pinning, slow burn, slight fluff and not proof read.

Summary: A trip to be remembered and a confession that leaves Eddie puzzled.

Part 2

Bags were packed and loaded. Snacks and drinks were bought. A Ziploc bag full with coins for tolls and a map were in Eddie's glove box. And hours of music were picked. All that was left was to wake up at the ass crack of dawn. 

This senior ditch day was going to be epic. Months and months of saving and scrimping was all going to be worth it. 3 days of total and complete freedom. The road trip of a lifetime. One last hurrah. Together. 

Only this was gonna be tough. Being in close quarters with you for 3 whole days. How was he gonna deal?

Lately he was doing pretty good at keeping his feelings at bay… well that wasn't true. You had left for a week after the senior outing to visit the college you got into.

He missed you more than ever. But over those few days, he reflected back on everything. Sure how he now felt about you came unexpectedly. Still, he never wanted to be with anyone more. Especially since he realized you were perfect for each other.

However if he decided to make a move, there was no certainty that you would be up for it. Also, what would it do to the friendship? You guys had been friends way too long. It would be awkward. 

So he chose to push all that he felt away and enjoy this last trip with his friends.

… 

It was 4 am on Friday and everyone was ready to hit the road. You had just hopped in the passenger seat with a huge thermos of coffee. 

“ Sorry. Thy birth giver wanted to pray for safe travels and a safe return.”

Eddie smiled. “ Welp, hopefully one of the pagan gods heard her.”

You turned around and offered up some coffee and donuts to everyone. When you turned back, you pulled out the map.

“ Okay Eddie. Please for the love of all that is holy. Please don't kill us.”

He chuckled. “ Ye have little faith kid.”

You rolled your eyes and took a bite of a donut and pointed forward. “ Let's do this.”

Everyone whooped and hollard. “New York! Here we come!”

-

3 hours later

“Oh crap! Munson please!” Jeff whimpered.

Gareth backed away a little. “ Man oh man. I told you not to have that second cup of coffee.” 

Eddie shook his head while you were laughing your butt off.

“ Calm down.” He said. “ The next gas station in 3 miles out.”

“ I-I don't think I- I can hold it!” Jeff stammered.

“ YOU BETTER!” Grant yelled.

You turned around. “ Guy, guys guys!” It's gonna be fine. Jeffrey. 2 ½ minutes. You can do this. Just squeeze.” 

You looked back at Eddie and just grinned away. All he could think about was how nice your eyes looked. 

As soon as he pulled into the parking lot, Jeff kicked open the back door and ran into the store.

Once Eddie turned off the engine everyone sat there quietly for a few seconds before laughing like crazy.

When it died down you guys got off to move your legs around.

Eddie went to fill up while the other guys went to see about some real breakfast. 

He had just put in the gas nozzle and turned to find you doing toe touches.

He shouldn't have done it, but he did. He checked you out. Loving how your leggings hugged your round bottom. How beautifully wide your hips were.

When you stood back up you walked towards him.

“ Eddie? Can you pop my back?”

He nodded and took a step closer to you. “ Turn around and cross your arms around your chest.”

Once you did as you were instructed, he stepped behind you and wrapped his arms around you. He then took a deep inhale in and caught a whiff of your shampoo. He instantly got goose flesh. 

Stop it! He told himself.

After lifting you up for a second, he quickly put you back down. Your bottom brushed his lower half in the process. 

Fuck!

His hands fell down to your hips. He mentally had to tell himself to not pull you to him.

“ W-was that okay?” He nervously asked.

You turned around and nodded. Bodies only inches apart.

“ So much better. Thank you.”

He stared at your lips as you spoke. Were they always so full? They definitely looked incredibly soft.

“ G-good.” He stuttered as he kept looking at your mouth and thinking.

“Eddie? You okay? Do I have something in my teeth?”

“ Hmm?” He met your gaze. “ Yeah. No. Yeah. You're good. I just ummm…sorry I was just trying to decide if I should take a leak.” 

“ Alright dude." You held up your hand. " Too much info. Go, I'll finish pumping.” 

With that said he practically ran away. Rushing into the first stall that was empty. While sighing deeply he cursed himself. He really wanted to kiss you.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a god awful stench.

“ UGH! Jeff what the hell man?! Ever heard of a courtesy flush?”

“ S-sorry man.”

…

Eddie smiled when he saw the buildings in the distance. He looked at you and your eyes were so big. 

“ Guys look! We're almost there.” You said excitedly. 

Gareth moved between you and him. “ Awwwww yeah baby. Just think, in a couple of weeks we're moving here.”

Eddie caught a sad look on your face. He knew how bad you wanted to go to Columbia. To be close to them while they followed their dreams to be rockstars. But things didn't work out. Instead, you were going to a college on the west coast. 

It was a good school. Everyone knew that. It had a great biology and geology department. Something you were excited about. Still, you were scared because you didn't know anyone there. Everyone you knew and loved would be on the other side of the country.

That's why Eddie understood the sad face. He remembered conversations he had with you about it. He remembered wiping away your tears as you told him about your rejection from Columbia. And though he was the one to talk you into getting some California sun, he now realized he didn't want you to go either.

He tapped your knee and started writing.

‘ okay?’

You peered out the front windshield and slightly shook your head. Then you put your hand on his and squeezed it gently. Letting him know you would be fine. 

He knew you would be. You were awesome and you would make friends easily. It's just now he didn't know if he would be okay without you.

…

You put your finger against your lips.“ Shhhh! Guys I know you're freaking out, but I need you to trust me.”

Everyone was following you down these concrete hallways for a good 5 minutes now. After checking into the hotel and getting food, they had all found themselves sneaking into a building.

Jeff was the first to doubt you. But as soon as a security officer came close to catching you guys, everyone tried to convince you to turn back.

Eddie looked into your eyes and nodded. “ Okay.” He whispered. “ If we go to jail, it better be worth it.”

You held out your hand for him. “ It will be. I promise.”

Your hand was everything he thought it would be. Soft, warm and fit perfectly in his. He swore he would follow you anywhere if it meant that he could hold your hand. 

Once you guys were finally in the spot, you told them to stay put. When you let go of his hand, he now felt like a part of him was missing. 

You were only gone for a second. But in those few moments they had all realized where they snuck into.

Eddie was speechless. There were absolutely no words that could describe how he felt. 

A few spot lights turned on. Pointing directly in the middle of a huge stage.

You returned on top of it. “ So?”

“ Shit!” They all said in unison.

You gave them a huge smile. “ I know right? Obviously you guys can't perform or anything like that. But I wanted the first time you step foot in here, that it's with your biggest support. Cuz I know one day I'm going to be standing right there… screaming my head off.”

They looked at the spot where you pointed. It was right in front of the platform.

You locked eyes with him.“ So get up here and take it in.”

The guys looked at each other then ran to get up too. Once up there you asked for help getting down. You then watched them laugh and wrestle playfully.

“ Alright freaks!” You announced. “ Imagine this.  Every seat is full. And the floor is packed with bodies. All waiting for you.” 

They all stared at you after moving to their respective place. As if they're standing by their instruments.

“ The crowd is chanting. Corroded Coffin. Corroded Coffin….Then the lights go out. The ones that are sitting jump up and everyone screams in anticipation. But then... it goes silent…”

Eddie pictured everything. It was all him and the guys ever wanted.

“ Then they hear you.” You point at Gareth. “ Then you.” You looked at Jeff. “ Then of course you bud.” You nodded towards Grant. “ And finally the strum of a guitar along with oooooohhhhs and awwwws from you.”

Eddie finally had your eyes on him. And he knew right then and there that he was in love with you. It wasn't just a silly crush anymore. It was the real thing. The can't eat, can't sleep, the winning touchdown, the home run, the one in a lifetime love.

He loved you because you loved them. You believed in them. And the way you laid out the scene with so much conviction, it had him convinced that they were gonna make it too.

You smiled at him and continued. “ And while you blow off the roof of this place, the crowd sings and sways with you."

-

Later that night everyone settled into the shared room. Gareth and Jeff in one bed, Eddie and Grant on the sofa bed. And of course being the only female of the group they gave you your own bed.

Eddie has just come out of the shower to find everyone asleep. Except you. You weren't even in the room.

He looked at Grant who took up the whole bed and he sighed. Looked like he was gonna sleep on the floor. 

He waited a minute to see if you would come back but after about 5 minutes, he went to look for you.

You weren't far though. He found you sitting on the steps reading something.

“ Hey kid. Whatcha doin?”

You gave him a quick little smile before looking back at your book. “ Uhhhh nothing really. Just checking out courses.” 

He sat next to you and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. Before he could light one you plucked it from his mouth.

“ No you promised. No smoking on this trip.”

He gave you a thin lip before taking back the smoke and returning it to the carton.

“ You really should quit. I don't want to see you end up with an oxygen tank.”

He put the pack back in his pocket. “ One day. I promise.”

You flipped a page. “ I'll keep you to that.”

You guys sat quiet. Listen to the bustle of the city. Eddie was trying to gather the courage to tell you how he felt. But he was scared. What if he took a leap of faith and it turned ugly? What if you did like him the way he liked you and things didn't work out? Or what if his confession lead to you guys not being friends anymore?

Doubt filled his thoughts. But then a bit of hope shined on him. What if it did work out? What if you guys made it past the long distance thing and were truly happy together? What if this love was meant to be?

“ Eddie?”

His inner rambling came to a halt. “ Y-yeah?”

You closed your book and started fidgeting with the corners. “ You know you're my best friend right?”

He softly cleared his throat. “ Yeah.”

“ And we always tell each other everything.”

He nodded. “ Yeah.”

You sighed a little. “ So you know that I have family out here….well my uncle actually works as a security guard at the garden. He worked tonight…he knew we were coming and he did me a solid…we wouldn't have gotten in trouble if we got caught.”

For a second there his heart sank. He thought you were gonna say that you liked him too. But then he smiled and wrapped his arms around you. 

“ I'm really gonna miss you.” He said softly.

You hug his waist. “ I think I'll miss you more.”

The hug lasted a minute or so, but it was the best damn hug he had ever had. And when you tried pulled away he hugged you tighter. Making you giggle. 

When he finally loosen his grip, you stared deeply into his eyes. The way you sat there, it was like your eyes were trying to tell him something your mouth couldn't. It was almost as if you were asking him to kiss you.

He was gonna go for it. He was gonna take that leap. However the second he leaned in you yawned. Pulling completely away from him so you wouldn't do it in his face.

“ Wow I'm beat. We should get some sleep. Big day in Time's Square tomorrow."

He frowned at the fleeding moment that seemed to be fate. 

“ Yeah you're probably right.” He conceded to it. “ You think you could lend me a pillow and that blanket you brought?”

You looked at him and raised a brow. Silently asking why?

“ Gonna crash on the floor. Grant's a bed hog.”

You laughed lightly and yawned again. “ No. You can sleep with me.”

His breath hitched in his throat while asking a shaky. “ W-what?”

You grinned and stood up, holding out your hand. “ Like when we were kids. If you're worried that I'll get handsy then we can make a pillow barrier.”

He chuckled. “ Maybe I like handsy.”

He regretted it as soon as it came out.

The silence that followed his comment nearly made him shit a brick. You stood there with an almost visible question mark above your head.

Shit! He thought. Shouldn't have said that.

You then shook your head and laughed. “ Stop being weird and take my hand.”

He practically wiped his brow and said whew before grabbing your hand. Allowing you to lead him back.

He laid there for a while thinking about all that happened. He couldn't believe he was gonna kiss you before telling you how he felt. That wasn't the guy he was. He always made sure he got consent. And with you it would be no different. All he had to do was get some real alone time with you so he can finally say something.

When we get home. He said to himself. 

He heard you sigh and felt you move a bit. Then he felt your arm sliding across his stomach. Without thinking he lifted his arm and gently pulled you closer. Slipping his arm under your head. 

Both of you sank further into the bed. He smiled and his last thought before falling asleep was how much he loved you.

…

The next day and a half was the best in his life. Exploring the city, eating the best pizza and getting some information about playing at clubs when they moved there. It was fantastic. 

Now it was time to head home and finish up the school year.

The drive seemed longer this time. More quiet. And he knew why. In exactly 2 weeks things were going to be different. Everyone was going to graduate and their adult lives were going to start. For a long time he couldn't wait to get the hell out of Hawkins. So did his friends. But now that it was happening, it was so hard to see the next chapter. Well with this little monster of love inside him.

When it was time to switch off. Jeff and Grant traded places with you and him.

You guys crawled in the back with the sleeping Gareth and tried to catch some z's. 

You leaned your head on his shoulder and started to hum a familiar tune. He put his hand on your knee and started tapping to the beat. He caught a small smile from you. 

“ Hey Jeff? Could you drop me off first when we get into town?” you asked.

“No problem.”

You went back to humming and Eddie was trying to figure out what exactly he was gonna say. Before he knew it he was sound asleep with you. 

Until he heard the vans break squeak to a stop. 

He opened his eyes and saw they were in front of your house. You had just opened the door and hopped out. 

Though he wanted this to be a private moment, it was now or never.

He sat up and followed you. “ I need a minute man.” He said to Jeff. “ Hold up kid. I'll help you.”

You tried to refuse his help in carrying your duffle bag, but he could see you were too tired to try.

You stoped on at your doorstep and reached for your bag. “ Thanks Eddie.”

He handed you the bag and took a deep breath. Just as you turned to open the door he said your name.

“ Yeah?”

His eyes fell to the ground as he rubbed the back of his neck. “ Uhhhh nevermind. I'll tell you later.”

You cleared your throat gently and took a step towards him. “ I hate when you do that.”

His gaze shot up to yours. “ D-do what?”

You put your free hand on your hip. “ When you look like you have something important to say then just brush it off…Just tell me because I'm gonna be up all night wondering what you wanted to say.”

He looked away and stood quiet for a few seconds. “ I-I’ve been acting different lately.”

“ I know.”

He met your eyes again. “ Yeah?”

You didn't say anything, but he knew that you did.

“ So I-” he cut off. Suddenly his nerves were getting the best of him. “ I don't- ummm shit…I- well the reason…damn it! I cant- I don't know-”

You grabbed his hand and lightly squeezed it. Letting him know that it was okay. To calm down and take a breath.

He took a deep inhale and slowly let it out. “ I think possibly, maybe I’ve fallen for you.”

Your expression after that gave him a sinking feeling. You didn't feel the same.

Your frown said it all.

“ I'm sorry. I-I just needed to say something.”

You nodded but surprisingly you didn't let go of his hand. You were actually staring at his hand in yours.

“Eddie…I want to talk more about this. But I can't even think straight and my knees are about to give in.”

That wasn't what he was hoping for. 

“Right! Umm yeah. Sorry, just forget I said anything.” He said trying to walk away. 

But you held his hand firmly. Preventing him from taking a step further. “ No. Don't do that.”

He looked back at you and you had your eyes closed. 

“ Eddie, this is important. If it wasn't then you wouldn't have said anything at all…This deserves a real conversation that I can't give you right now. So please don't leave thinking that I don't feel the same way."

He was in disbelief. Did he hear that right?

You gave his hand one last squeeze before letting go and going inside.

He stood there staring at the door. Did he dream that? You like him too?

Gareth rolled down the window. “ Munson, let's go. I wanna go home!”

He sighed and smiled to himself. " Y-yeah. Okay."

…

@salenorona23 @browneyes528 @ohmeg @eddiesguitarskills

[l0caltiredgirl]

me @ y/n when they do something i’d never do:

like babe this isn’t us ?? get it together

[munson-blurbs]

Eddie Munson x fem!Reader

Summary: When you confide in your boyfriend about your difficulty getting wet, his reaction is not what you'd expected.

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI!), fingering, oral (f!receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it up), reader takes antidepressants

A/N: To all the afab folks who, for whatever reasons, can't get wet--this is for you.

Collaboration with the queen of fluffy smut, @corroded-hellfire 😘

--

“Feel good, baby?” Eddie growls in your ear, his fingers digging into the skin above the waistband of your panties. His other hand cups your breast, still concealed by your bra, though you venture it won’t be long before it’s uncovered. 

You continue grinding on his bare thigh, his boxers pushed up high. The outline of his cock shows through the cotton, and you can’t help but grab it. He inhales sharply at the sudden contact, making you giggle.

“Love seeing you all turned on, Eds,” you murmur, sucking a bruise into his neck that has his eyes rolling back in his head. He moves his hand from your waist to your clit, pressing slow circles to the sensitive bud over the lace. A moan slips past your lips, quickly turning into a whimper of his name. “F-Fuck, Eddie. Right there.”

Despite your words and the drag of your cunt on his leg, Eddie can’t help but question whether or not you’re faking it. “How ya feelin’ baby?” he whispers, tiptoeing around the more direct question in a means of cushioning his ego. 

“So good.”

Okay. Good. You feel so good. Everything’s…good. Right?

Eddie pulls back, ducking behind his hair and missing your confused expression. “We can stop if you’re not into it,” he mutters. He’s not angry at you; he’s angry at himself, because he’s clearly doing something wrong if you’re not…

“Wh-Why wouldn’t I be into it?” Your eyebrows pinch together. You’d been together a few months and hadn’t slept together yet, but you’d thought tonight could be the night.

“Because you’re not really…” Eddie struggles to find the right words. “Like, you sound into it, but I don’t feel you getting turned on.”

Embarrassment heats up your body. You slide off of him and onto his carpeted floor, repositioning yourself so you’re facing away from him. You can still see him out of your peripheral vision, but you hope he doesn’t notice the tears welling in your eyes. “M sorry, baby.” Your voice is small, and despite your best efforts, it catches in your throat when you speak.

He rests his hand on your upper arm, gently caressing it with his thumb. “Hey, hey,” he says softly, trying to hide his disappointment at the unreciprocated longing. “We gave it a shot. You can’t help if this doesn’t get you going.” He gives a little shimmy, shoulders swaying back and forth clumsily.

You turn back around towards him,  “You think…no, Eds. You’re so sexy, even when you do your weird little dances.”

“I’ll have you know,” Eddie starts, giving you a playful look, “that my weird little dances have gotten me not one, but…yeah, okay, just the one hot girl’s phone number.”

“And it was mine.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He reaches for your hand and holds it tentatively. “But if I’m making you feel good, how come you don’t get…y’know…?”

Instinct has you wanting to turn away from him in shame, but his grip on your hand is enough to keep you where you are. It’s hard to meet his eyes, but once you do and that big doe stare tugs at your heart, you let out a sigh.

“You’re making me feel amazing, Eddie. It’s just…I don’t really get…I mean, I can’t get too…” The right words don’t seem to find you and frustration balls up inside of you. You slap your free hand over your eyes, partially out of frustration, but also to hide the tears that are beginning to well up. 

“Hey…” Eddie lightly chides as he rubs his thumb along the back of your hand. “You can talk to me. You know that.”

The hand falls from your face and you take a deep breath. Words jumble through your brain, trying to figure out how to come from another direction. “Y-You know how I have depression and anxiety.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” you say, swallowing before continuing, “the meds they give me for them…they, uh…well, they kind of keep me from being able to get…”

“Wet?” Eddie offers.

You nod, a few tears breaking free despite your attempts to keep them in. 

“I can…a little…just not a whole lot. I’m sorry.” 

Eddie frowns and shakes his head. “Why are you apologizing?”

“Because,” you say, huffing a humorless laugh, “you’re so cute and sweet and I’m worried that when we actually have sex, it won’t feel good for you.”

He pauses for a moment, tongue poking out from his lips in the way that makes you melt as he reaches into his nightstand and pulls out a bottle of lube. He holds the small pink tube up between the two of you.

“Think this’ll work?” he asks.

You raise an eyebrow in amusement. The bottle is the last thing you expected Eddie to pull out of that unorganized mess he calls a nightstand. 

“Where did you get that?” you ask.

“Well, uh,” Eddie starts, cheeks tingeing pink. You notice he continues to look at the lube instead of you. “I use it every night when I think of you.”

The words take you by surprise, even though he’s your boyfriend. It’s not like you hadn’t gotten off thinking about him long before the two of you even started dating. 

“You…you think of me?”

“Well, yeah,” Eddie shrugs with a grin. “My girl is ridiculously beautiful, you think I’m not going to get off thinking about her every night before I go to bed? And most mornings before school?” He ducks his head and his bashfulness makes him look especially boyish. “Plus, there was all that time before we started dating when we were just friends…”

“So that’s why it’s more than half empty,” you say, a small smile breaking through on your lips. 

“I prefer to think of it as half full.” Eddie’s roguish smile has you breaking out into a full blown grin. You let out a chuckle as you pluck the bottle from your boyfriend’s fingers. 

“I didn’t peg you for a strawberry kind of guy, Munson.”

Eddie looks down with a shy expression on his face. Every time you make him flustered you take it as a personal victory.

“It’s, uh, it’s ‘cause it smells like your chapstick.” He leans up and presses a kiss to your nose. When he sees the effect that has on you, mischievousness creeps back onto his face. “What do you say…wanna give it a try?”

You exhale, still frustrated. The anxiety at the back of your brain is still saying that Eddie is just being nice about this. That he really thinks it’s weird and doesn’t want to have sex with you now.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this? With being with someone who needs to use lube?” you double check.

Eddie looks at you with an incredulous expression. “Baby, I’d use WD40 if it meant being inside you.”

A snort of laughter escapes you and you lightly slap his chest.

“Eddie, I’m serious!”

“I am, too! Shit, I’ll go grab some Crisco from the cabinet right now—”

“Eddie!” You sigh. “I know you’re going to wanna have, like, spontaneous sex. That might not be something I can do if we don’t have lube.”

Eddie shrugs without missing a beat. “I’ll carry it around with me. Like pocket lube or something.”

“Pocket lube?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. 

He laughs, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “We can keep this one here, and I’ll buy another one for the van. How does that sound?”

The offer has your heart melting and you lean into his body. “Sounds like you’re the best boyfriend in the world.”

“Baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet,” he smirks, tugging gently at the waistband of your panties. “May I lube up the fair maiden?”

“As long as you promise never to say that again,” you say, already climbing onto his bed. 

“Noted,” he agrees with a laugh before turning his attention to the panties that block his view of your beautiful pussy. He drags the lacy fabric down your legs and tosses it aside as you unclasp your bra. A goofy grin spreads across his face as he takes one breast in each hand. “Sorry,” he says, though his tone has no ounce of apology, “but you can’t just show off your tits and expect me to focus on anything else.”

You roll your eyes and giggle, a fluttering feeling in your stomach that goes beyond the moment’s lust. The way he can make you laugh in your most vulnerable moments is special, and you want to capture this joy and keep it forever.  

“Lay back and open these pretty legs for me, Sweetheart.” Eddie squeezes out some lube onto the tips of his forefinger and middle finger, gently pumping them in and out of you, going a bit deeper each time “‘S good?”

“Mhm. So, so fucking good, fuck.” Your walls clench around his fingers in a silent plea for him to be buried deep inside you. 

“Tell me if you need more, okay baby doll?”

You nod, really only able to fixate on the way his fingers feel inside you. The addition of the lubricant removes any unwanted friction, and you moan louder than you intend to. 

“Your noises…holy fuckin’ shit.” Eddie muses, palming himself over his boxers. 

You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment. “‘M sorry.”

He pauses his movements, drawing a whimper from your lips. “Don’t ever apologize for making such beautiful sounds. It’s crazy hot, baby.”

“Really?”

He uses his free hand to grab your wrist, bringing your palm to his tented boxers. The fabric strains against his raging erection. 

“Really.”

With that, you let yourself fully indulge in the feeling of his fingers. You barely recognize the noises you’re making; you’ve never felt this good in your whole life. 

The way Eddie’s tongue pokes from his mouth gives you another idea, and you press your thighs together to stop his ministrations. 

He looks up at you, brows knitted together in confusion. “What is it, baby? More?” He starts to reach for the bottle until he sees you shake your head. 

“Do you, uh, w-wanna taste the lube?” It’s as straightforward as you can manage, still overwhelmed by the pleasure washing over your body. 

Eddie’s cock twitches, his face contorted in amused disbelief. “Are you seriously asking me if I want to eat you out?” he asks. “Was it not obvious that that would be a yes?” 

He throws your legs over his shoulders so quickly that it has you laughing in surprise, but that laughter stops as soon as his mouth is on you. His tongue immediately finds your clit, flicking over it until your toes curl. He wraps his lips around it and sucks gently until he has you on the brink of orgasm. His fingers return to your needy hole, filling you expertly until you cum with a wanton moan. 

“So fucking good f’me,” Eddie says, still between your legs. His mouth and chin are covered in a slick sheen. “You wanna taste now, baby? Wanna know just how delicious you are?”

You open your mouth and eagerly accept his fingers. They taste of your arousal and a hint of strawberry; it does bear a striking similarity to your Chapstick. Once Eddie lets his fingers drop from your mouth, you’re whining and writhing below him. 

“Need you, Eds.” It sounds more like a whimper than a plea. But your beautiful boyfriend isn’t about to deny you a thing—let alone something that he also wants very badly. 

“Fuck, need you too, baby doll.” He launches his boxers across the room and smears some lube on his cock, bucking his hips slightly into his closed palm. He doesn’t break eye contact as he enters you, searching for any inkling of discomfort. The stretch is delicious, and you arch your back once he bottoms out. 

“Look at you, taking all of me. My good girl,” Eddie growls, watching his cock disappear into your cunt. “Holy shit; I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this perfect pussy from me.”

You shiver at the praise, blinking away the prickling tears on your lash line. 

Eddie gradually picks up the pace, snapping his hips into you. His pubic hair grazes yours and he lets out a groan of his own. 

“Could stay like this forever,” he mumbles in your ear, forearms braced on either side of your head. 

So could you. Except…

“Eds?”

“Hmm?”

You swallow your timidness. I can trust him. “I think, um…could you use some more lube?” You’re embarrassed and annoyed at yourself for having to interrupt the moment, but Eddie’s unfazed. 

“Sure. Can I just put it inside you? Cuz, uh, if I put it on my dick, I’m gonna bust in my hand.” He gives a small laugh, though you both know he’s not joking. 

Eddie gingerly fingers you, all-too aware of how oversensitive and overstimulated your pussy is. At some point, he’ll have fun teasing you with his touch, but tonight is about your comfort. 

He slides his cock back inside you. “Better?”

“Much,” you manage, re-acclimating your body to him being inside you. “Thank you, baby.”

“‘Course. Let me know if you need more again, ‘kay?”

You nod, relishing in the way he fills you. His cock presses against your walls; you can feel every last inch of him.

Eddie doesn’t stop showering you with praise as he pistons his hips. “Love when my girl tells me what she needs,” he says with a small smirk. “I’d do fuckin’ anything for you, sweet thing.” A few strands of hair cover his eye, and you swipe it away. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” You manage a smile of your own before he catches you off guard, positioning you so he can rub your clit while fucking you. Your jaw drops in surprise; it’s exactly the reaction he wanted. “Just like that, Eds. Holy shit, right there!”

“That’s what you like? Hmm? Like when I’m deep inside your perfect pussy, making you feel good?” The hand not making small figure-eights on your swollen bud grabs your ass, squeezing it possessively. “Like when I claim you? Let me show you who you belong to.”

The combination of Eddie deep within you and being claimed by him pushes you over the edge. The coil snaps and you choke out a sob of relief as pleasure invades your body. You finish on his cock, chanting his name like a prayer. 

“Fuck, c-can’t hold out anym-more,” he grunts, and with a cry of your name, he fills you with his own release. He stays inside you for a moment, catching his breath; when he finally pulls out, you can feel his cum dripping down your bare thigh. He hurries to grab the faded blue towel hanging from the back of his door, wiping you off before plopping next to you. He draws tiny circles on your forearm while pressing kisses to your shoulder. 

“Was that good? It didn’t hurt or anything, right? Because I kinda lost my mind at the end—” 

You silence him with a kiss that only ends because you both start smiling. “That was the best sex I’ve ever had. No one’s ever made me cum before,” you admit. 

Eddie scoots back slightly. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. You’re the first. So, um, thank you?”

He puffs out his chest, slick with perspiration. “No need to thank us, baby. We’d do anything for you.”

“‘We?’” You cock your eyebrow. 

“Yeah, me and the lube,” he states plainly, as if this is an obvious fact. “We make a pretty good team, dontcha think?”

“You’re an idiot, Eddie Munson.”

“I dunno, I thought my ‘pocket lube’ idea was pretty damn brilliant.”

--

[roanniom]

bestie you called, i’ve been thinking heavily abt virgin eddie who licks into you for the first time and makes you cum so hard u have to push him away bc he’s greedy and sloppy with it and you might pass away if he keeps devouring you like you’re his last meal on earth and you swear he’s lying that he’s a virgin, but the second you sink down on him, god, he’s practically a puddle and ur not even bouncing on him for more than 5 minutes before he’s shuddering and panting into your neck all “wanna spend forever tucked inside you, feels so fucking good. so warm. so wet, jesus, i’m gonna fuckin cum.”

k bye😭

Rachael. RACHAEL.

Everything

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

Eddie Munson is 100%, unbeknownst to him, a Big Dicked Virgin™️

After he licks you like his life depended on it, you pull down his boxers only to reveal the most mouth watering cock you’ve ever seen. They aren’t supposed to be picturesque but Eddie’s? You want it inside you in any capacity immediately. But judging by the way he looks like he’s gonna combust from the sight of it in your hands alone (not to mention the feeling of you touching him) you don’t waste time in straddling him and sinking down onto his length.

Its an understatement to say he’s huge. It’s a stretch in the most delicious way and your eyes almost cross from the feeling of him hitting every single neglected part inside you. If he were a more experienced partner you would have begged for time to adjust. Would have needed the grace to compose yourself.

But the man beneath you is so absolutely far gone from the second you slide him inside you that you realize it’s all up to you. This sight of him absolutely fucked gets you wetter than you’d ever imagined, thankfully, so you rock yourself back and forth a bit till you work yourself up to bouncing up and down.

His fingers dig into your thighs, the meat of your hips, and his eyes are watery and wide.

“F-fuck it’s too good. You feel so fucking—oh god I can’t. I can’t take it. But don’t stop. Please-mhm.” A torrent of whimpers and groans bless your ears and you ride him in earnest, knowing you won’t have a lot of time to appreciate this quivering mess of a man before he blows.

You lean back and brace yourself with your hands on his knees and he watches your breasts bounce with each movement.

“So beautiful. Shit. I’m gonna…oh fuck. Can’t last—god what are you doing to me. Don’t stop,” he says again. Begging with his words and his eyes. His wounded puppy eyes that make you laugh because you would never dream of stopping.

“I won’t stop, Eds,” you promise. It’s a reassuring sweet sound, but you’re the devil incarnate to him with the way your hips roll and your tits entice. You smile. “Feels good?”

“F-feels like I want to buy you a ring and a house and a f-fucking dog,” he moans. It makes a zing rush through your heart but you surprises it and laugh.

“Yeah? My pussy’s that good, Munson?” you tease. He’s swearing under his breath as you ride him harder. “Gonna get me the white picket fence?”

“Fuck, yes. Yesyesyesyes,” he mutters like a prayer. “Gonna…oh god…”

“Gonna cum for me, too? That’s so generous of you, Eddie,” you continue to tease. His eyes roll into the back of his head as you lean forward to kiss his jaw. “Give it to me, Eddie. Give me everything.”

He cums inside you moments later. No longer a virgin, but newly a full devotee intent on worshipping at the altar of your body. You’d give him shit for the dramatics of it all, but he’s busy kissing his way back down your body so you really can’t complain.

[corrodedcorpses]

Eddie is truly convinced he can do those like.. run up the wall and do a backflip kinda guys and so when he does try it and he doesn’t do it and he’s like “WAIT WAIT NO I CAN I K N O W I CAN LEMME DO IT AGAIN” and he just ends up hurting himself

Oh my god yes!! He absolutely has all of the confidence… and very little of the skill involved for a lot of things like that

[munsonsfairy]

Eddie is not a gentle person

but did you know eddie likes cheese and flowers. his bookmark has garfield. he likes to have flowers put in his hair by you. his favorite snacks are mac & cheese with chicken nuggets. but! they have to be dino nuggets. he mismatches his socks with one covered in dragons & the other being a plain black one with a hole in it. he would rather freeze if it means you can wear his jacket. he gets so giddy when you bake for him. keeps every trinket you got him in his van that his dashboard is covered!!! you like fleetwood mac? he’s singing little lies with you. collecting sea shells with you. will probably grab them with his toes and try to show you but fail and flip over. will gladly go trick o treating with you. doesn’t get bothered if you watch gilmore girls for the billionth time. (me. i watch it all the time. just like i am right now :p). has a big tub of food for the stray cats and a raccoon family he feeds every night. they come at 6:00 waiting for him. kisses you all over your face just to hear you giggle. throws himself on you and wishes he was closer to you. he blows raspberries into your neck and bites your shoulder. comes from behind you and throws you over his shoulder. head bangs so hard his hair gets tangled with his headphones. thinks peanut butter and pickles are amazing. (don’t fight me on this. try before you deny hehe). refuses to kill spiders. will make silly faces to babies in the checkout line. goes crazy for the movie practical magic. he was crushed to learn the house isn’t real. loves when you put blush and lipgloss on him when you’re bored. and of course he’ll blush when you call him pretty. let’s you put beads in his hair when you braid it. will watch you sleep with love in his eyes because you’re pretty as the moon. (his words not mine).

moral of the story: i can mold him to be the most gentle giant there is. you can mold him into whoever you want him to be.

he’s fictional. eddie munson is fictional.

toodles. 🌷✨

[raccoonboywrites]

This but he’s also canonically gentle? Yeah he’s loud, but he’s so affectionate? So polite in his mannerisms, especially with the girls. Gives a hand to help steady Nancy, makes Chrissy laugh to set her at ease. Holds Dustin back when he nearly falls in the lake. He’s so full of love and care just waiting to burst out from the hard exterior.

[boldlyvoid]

rosie said season 13 spencer is so green and i was like... what colour is each spencer era and this i what I have concluded.

Season 1 Spencer is so baby blue

Season 2 Spencer is grey he is devoid of colour, he is struggling.

Season 3 Spencer is a royal and deep purple, he's working on himself. he's emotional, arrogant, irrational, overly vigilant.

Season 4 Spencer is a blushing pink. he loves his mom, he loves his work family, he becomes a god father. he's comforting, passionate, playful, all around wonderful in season 4

Season 5 Spencer is Golden. he's confident, he's generous and uplifting i mean, he spends time teaching chess in the park and compliments all the good work Sarah Hillridge did to find her son

Season 6 boyband Spencer is bubble gum pink!

Season 7 Spencer is snarky, he's a dark gloomy black. honestly he's in his reputation era post Emily's death and revival.

Season 8 Spencer is blood red/maroon cause rip maeve...

Season 9 Spencer is periwinkle light purple trying to cope with yet another curve ball thrown his way.

Season 10 Spencer is teal cause he's calm and cool and just doing his own thing this season.

Season 11 Spencer is orange cause he's impatient and wants things to stay good when he knows his life is about to fall apart.

Season 12 Spencer is a very innocent white.

Season 13 Spencer is Green for growth, safety, and prosperity

Season 14 Spencer is a dark blue, he's a lot more confident than he was when he started out.

Season 15 Spencer is a comforting, reliable brown full of wisdom and support for those around him. everyone loves him... i mean he has 3 love interests this season.

[thepastdied]

Eddie breathes into your mouth while he slowly fucks you, both all sweaty and skin sticking together

[josephchocolatebuttoneyesquinn]

Life imitates art.

[rehfan]

HOW IS THIS THE SAME PERSON???

[pinkrelish]

𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

rockstar!eddie x assistant!fem!reader

✶Tossed to the wolves of touring lifestyle, you'd had enough of Corroded Coffin's backstage antics one night after a show, and try to escape to the bus for fresh air. Eddie follows.✶

NSFW — 18+ drug/alcohol mention/use, eddie spits whiskey in reader's mouth, sexual themes, crude jokes, enemies to lovers vibes, secret soulmates au

[wc: 8.8k]

↳ standalone gift oneshot for the i will wait series written by @abibliophobiaa, @blueywrites, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, @fracturedarkness

The methodical chaos—the mechanical creep of sound scape under the drums punching through your body, building to something bigger—ended forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds ago, and like the suspended chords he loved so dearly, you were left with a sense of foreboding.

Stage lights dimmed off. You were on the clock. Show time.

Babysitter. Handler. Assistant who knew better than to offer him water.

Nerves holstered your shoulders. Unease twisted your stomach. Your ears rang, your teeth ached. Your jaw clenched in throbs off tempo from your heartbeat running wild on the adrenaline feeding the racing pulse hammering in your chest.

The concert was over, but the noise never stopped.

Inside the venue’s backstage room, abrasive bursts of laughter collapsed in excited chatter after an individual cocked back an object, and threw it.

The true night began.

A mostly empty beer bottle smacked its intended target in an echoey clang, and fell in a spray of foam. Fine. You could handle that. Then someone grabbed a plastic chair with metal legs, hoisted it over their shoulder, and chucked it, stumbling after the trajectory in the sloppy way drug-encouraged drunkenness would imply. A cacophony of too-loud cheering was caught on tape by a sound engineer’s personal Sony camcorder, flattening himself against the wall to capture the reaction to the CRT TV dropping from its shelf in the corner, stage live feed long since dead. On its fateful descent, it clipped the edge of an EXIT sign, which now dangled by its chord like a pinata, becoming the next target.

The beige brick room dampened outside interference and amplified the rest, living between yours ears alongside the snappy demands, rude remarks, and crude jokes. Spoken down to, disregarded like caked dirt between boot treads. Anxieties buzzing, looming a presence at the back of your mind, always. On edge.

Shouts, thuds, broken glass. People had the sense to duck, and cower. A side table was lifted, and heaved in a barbaric yell. Beer bottle after beer bottle after beer bottle. Chair legs ripped off, slick from the boozy bubbles coating the floor, and hurled at the red blinking sign. A lamp from another room. An ugly trash can. A hairdryer. The telephone you used to make a phone call thirty-two minutes and forty-three seconds ago; ripped from the wall with its receiver, and added to the clutter of projectiles. A bucket of melted ice, nailed head-on, splashing two dots of cold water on your cheek.

Expendable bottles were gone, but the riot didn’t stop. Another case was ripped into. Hard liquor traded hands. White powder stung noses, earning bloodshot eyes. Rewards. Rowdy shoving. Boys will be boys behavior.

An unopened Pabst whizzed past your head, slammed like a bullet into the mirror on the opposite wall, launching itself in a jet of built-up pressure across the room, ending its route at the toe of your heeled shoes seemingly just to ruin your wool-blend Express pencil skirt with hoppy liquid.

Eddie kicked the can away.

He circled his thumb and forefinger up the sides of his nose, and sniffed hard. “Want some?” he asked as he leaned on the wall with you, posture lax and open in all the ways your crossed arms weren’t. You cut your glare to the clear bottle he offered you. His grip obscured most of it, but you could see a worrying amount of whiskey had already been drunk when it crested the sides between his middle and ring finger.

Remembering to answer, you shook your head. The amber liquid sloshed with his tut, “Suit yourself,” and two deep gulps bobbed his throat.

You weren’t opposed to drinking when around him, but you learned your inebriated lesson four stops ago when the bill from the hotel totaled a stomach dropping amount, and as much as alcohol made it easier to tolerate Eddie in particular, your sluggish tongue slurring over an authoritative reminder of the early start to the morning to make it to the next city on time only fueled his defiant attitude. Pink puckered skin marked the stitches he snipped out of his upper arm with a pair of nail scissors after he and Gareth decided to smash the Hilton’s wine glasses for fun, and was surprised when a sliver of glass bit him back. Under his stringy bangs was an angry red scab from yesterday’s mic throttle to his forehead at the end of a verse, screaming his voice to the point of cracking with emotion. Other self-destructive tendencies coated his knuckles in dried blood.

It was a lot to deal with.

Today’s toll was one ruined guitar, a broken bass after the fretboard was stabbed into an amp, a bent hi-hat stand, and a completely deboned keyboard; keys removed thoroughly by the sole of someone’s boot scraping them clean off in the midst of performance. Blowing off steam, Eddie called it. Boys will be boys, one of the returning tour managers shrugged at you.

So far, it was one of the lighter days of tour—

You flinched.

A loud pop flickered through the room. One of two fluorescent lights shattered, and the tube swung down from the ceiling, becoming the next victim to a corner store ham sandwich being thrown at it.

Staying as small as possible, the emotional support water bottle in your hand crinkled as you hiked your fists further up your biceps, eyeing the camera man in the corner. Your employer tilted his head at the sight too, admiring, perhaps, the scene of two guys puffing on cigars. They stood behind two young women dressed in short jean skirts and hot pink tops, leering over their shoulders as the camcorder zoomed in on the obvious body parts a crowd of men would be interested in. The cigars bounced in their mouths as they spoke an unheard instruction in the chaos surrounding you, and the halter tops came off, breasts dropping to the tune of their girlish giggles. The men cupped their palms around the assets, and bounced them as if they were weighing fruit. From their gross laughs, it appeared they were rating the groupies, and the ladies were just happy to be on camera, pouting their lips and arching their backs.

You drew a line from their tits to Eddie’s gaze, hating the sick kick of anticipation knotting your stomach, aware you shouldn’t care for an entire phonebook’s list of reasons if he was watching them with interest. But with clarity, you realized he wasn’t paying them attention at all. His lazy smile was aimed over the rim of his bottle, full lips moving in a goad to the mass of crew members clogging the doorway.

More property ready to be damaged entered over their heads. A couch. An entire fucking couch was carried, stood on its end, and lobbed at the sign, breaking loose a length of red and yellow wires. But it still held strong. Tenacious thing.

Two grown men wrestled beside you. Their sleeveless shirts tangled, riding up to show purpled bruises on their backs—one from a mic stand thrown at him, the other from who fucking knows what. At least Gareth’s was in the shape of a crescent moon.

You shifted closer to Eddie to get away from their kicking feet, and relaxed the frustration from your brows before he commented on it. He, likewise, was bumped into by his friends, but his stature didn’t waver. That’s just how it was. Your bodies were near enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his hot skin, but the moment his sticky elbow made contact with your nice blouse—forever marking it with oily sweat—he earned an apology from Jeff who fell into him, meanwhile you were increasingly worried about receiving a tennis shoe to the ankle.

Exhaling an overdue sigh, you glanced sideways at Eddie to gauge if this was an appropriate time to remind him he should shower and get ready to greet the fans waiting outside the venue, but your breath crumbled to a groan. An eager grin cracked his face, almost manic if it weren’t for his heavy-lidded brown eyes. An idea.

He stepped forward. Everything that wasn’t his tight lips on the bottle of whiskey was ignored; downing what he could in a long swallow, and shaking off his pinched features as it burned past his gritted teeth. He raised the rest over his head, and aimed. Perfectly. The sign smacked the wall from the force behind his pitch, spinning wildly on its cord, slinging the front EXIT display clean off, and dropping lower from the ceiling, ready to sever ties. Shouts for its demise pounded your headache. Many palms clapped the back of Corroded Coffin’s frontman. He held out his hand to his audience, and a fresh bottle of whiskey was produced into his grasp.

Intuitively, employees shuffled to avoid his uncoordinated steps backwards, but you didn’t have the luxury of options, thus he misjudged the distance to the wall and ran into it, and you.

Your poor toes were the first to scream out, stuck under his heavy heel. His elbow jutted into your stomach, digging the sharp corner of your laminated backstage pass into your sternum. Even better, his shoulder mashed your nose, and you didn’t twist your head in time to keep your mouth from coming in contact with his bare tricep, getting a lick of stale salt on your inner lip, and a whiff of boy scent assaulting your nose after his deodorant stopped working hours ago. Too much of his weight depended on you to keep him upright, so you grunted out, “Fucking—Eddie,” and pushed him when others wouldn’t. Laying your hands on him in annoyance when no one else dared. He wouldn’t remember it in the morning, anyway.

Eddie followed his stumble through, and spun around. “Whoops!” he said to you in a smile—a viciously sincere thing, betraying his status over you with a genuine shine to his heavy eyes. So innocent behind his sleepy blink, long lashes fluttering, fine lines creasing at the droopy corners from the happy grin teasing his dimple into coming out, freckled nose bathed in hues of pinky red darker than the places he chewed on his bottom lip. He appeared so earnest, so charming despite his current condition, that when his dilated pupils swallowed the rim of bitter coffee brown, you lapsed in staying alert, becoming enamored by his ability to steal the noise from the room when his gaze swept your expression in a slow study. Tender, almost. If he were anyone else.

That’s why it hurt more when the comradery in his features were a trick of the light, and you were reminded of your position as his paid bitch killjoy.

The uncorked bottle of whiskey made itself known under your nose. “Want some?” he asked with kindness he did not possess, easing into a higher register to lift the question to you. Knowing. Mocking.

You swatted his hand away, and answered flatly, “No.”

It was coming. You didn’t have to be looking at him to see his face slide into dull neutrality, dry mouth and wicked tip of his tongue swiping over the back of his teeth. The displeasure was felt. Living, breathing. Fracturing your resolve like the second lamp thrown against the wall.

“Y’sure? You look like you could use a drink to loosen that stick up your ass, and have a little fun.”

Maybe it was the fact Eddie’s day started with him bitching at you for waking him up, when yours started hours earlier, rebooking his hotel rooms after being banned from the chain after last week’s incident. Maybe it was his snide tone when he demanded coffee, and you glanced at the lobby’s carafe on instinct, only to be immediately humiliated in front of the interviewer who was sitting opposite him, festering an indignant response under your skin all day. You weren’t even intending it to be for him, you weren’t stupid enough to serve him such pedestrian coffee, you were thinking about getting it for yourself. Stupid fuckhead. Maybe it was the hours you spent oscillating between enjoying the travel to new places you’d never been, and wondering if the price of him getting this riled up whenever he pleases was worth it. Maybe it was the nauseous haze flogging the room from the cigars. Maybe it was the channeled aggression from the three guys who flipped over the fold out tables for no reason, sending plastic cups of backwash tequila across the floor. Maybe it was the collateral damage the venue was going to seek. Maybe it was the three days of disaster challenging your professionalism. Or maybe it was Eddie’s next comment which pushed you over the edge.

“If alcohol doesn’t do it for you, there’s prob’ly some guy who hasn’t left the parking lot yet, maybe he can loosen you up.” And to further imbue disrespect behind his comment, he leaned in and feathered the low dip of his raspy voice over the shell of your ear, speaking so quietly the syllables had trouble catching, “But if you fuck ‘im on the bus, I wanna watch.”

The sign snapped and crashed onto the heap of damp valuables, inciting a louder celebration from those participating.

You dropped your water bottle where you stood, and skimmed past Eddie on your way out. A firm departure with seething eyes aimed straight ahead. Chin strong, moving past him with a message. “Go to hell.”

And your backbone faltered when the mass of roadies blocked your exit. Security guards with big bodies jumped, rejoicing. Lanky lighting techs downed their beers and threw them over the small crowd with no aim. Your shoulders collapsed, tucking your arms to yourself. Avoiding elbows, meaty arms with enough muscle to floor you, testosterone laced boys will be boys behavior with a heavy dose of uppers. A wall of men who ignored your plea spoken so loud in your voice which did not carry.

But they obeyed the tattooed arm beside you. Minded the obnoxious rings when rapping on a man’s arm. Heard the hoarse voice commanding them all into a single file line for you to squeeze by, “Give her some room,” and their big bodies were already hugging the other side of the hallway with a laughed apology—to him, not you.

You shuffled out as dignified as possible, knees stiff and weight focused on the balls of your feet to avoid slipping on the tile. It was embarrassing enough as is being trailed with a bottle at your back—a far cry from a heroic palm guiding you forward—and his need to overtake you in a single stride. Eddie shot his other hand out and pointed down an unoccupied corridor, in essence blocking you from leaving. Not that you had much fight left in you to argue after being awake for twenty-one hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds. You followed the lead he set for you.

Scarce lighting shone down on the two double doors leading outside, leaving the alcove he chose cast in a darkness your eyes had to adjust to. Musty warm air from the arena swept your face. A cleaning crew attacked the stands, creaking along the seating tiers. Sweeping, chucking empty cups. The pressure on the small of your back drove you to an open area near the instact and working EXIT sign allowing you to discern the back of the stadium, and his face.

Eddie’s features were glazed in a gentle omen of red.

There were thousands of scenarios churning in your mind at the situation of being stuck alone in a dark corner with a drunken man, but his slight smirk put you at ease, ironically.

The source of the painful knots between your shoulders spoke, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He then had the gall to crowd you to the dusty drywall, and rest his arm atop your head, caging you there. Treating you as a nuisance. An insect. A little bee. A bug caught in his sticky trap. Gazing down at you with reptilian cold pupils behind his happily hooded eyes, substances battling in his body. Dangerous to no one but himself.

You squinted. “No?” The questioning lilt wasn’t intentional, but you had no idea what he was getting at.

He cocked his hip out with a dramatic sigh, and dropped his head forward to stare at you through his lashes, mouth hung loose. Waiting, waiting, waiting; acting as if he were the pinnacle of patience when you refused to play into his game, making you the bad guy. But worry not, he upheld the onus to inform you, his assistant, in a tone wallowing from the dregs of flat boredom with an edge of irritation and touch of patronization for having to spell it out for you, “I’m hungry.”

A polite, professional sneer lifted your upper lip. “Okay? Food should be here soon. I called it in a half hour ago.” About when the band came off stage, and Harry gave his honest opinion on their sloppy performance, while Eddie gave notes to the sound tech about Jeff’s mic not picking him up during Down In It. “Should be here in a few minutes.”

“What’d you order?”

Apprehension tensed through your back, perceived by his forearm mussing up your hair as the instinctual emotion stood you taller, defiant; knowing why his glinty grin taunted a show of teeth.

Pizza on Fridays. Texmex on Saturdays. Chinese on Sundays. That’s how it was every weekend. The consistency ensured you didn’t mishear him earlier when he requested his usual lo mein. “You asked for Chinese food,” you stated evenly, strongly. One step ahead of him.

“Mm.” Eddie scrunched his nose as he pretended to think it over. “Not feeling it today. I want pizza,” he said, the last word suffocated inside the bottle lifted to his lips, taking a long draw as your exhausted brain snapped to condescending him.

“So eat a cheese wonton and use your imagination.”

Utter elation gleamed in the steady eye pinning you in the crimson gloom, head tipped back to drink and drink and drink, cheeks sunken from sucking in liquor, pursing his lips around the glass rim from the smile he tried to suppress after succeeding in getting a rise out of you.

Your blood could only simmer for so long. Rolls of pent up anger, of festering disdain at his ability to find any opportunity to get under your skin, of fatigue from being ‘on’ for nearly twenty-four hours, stone in your gut from the constant passing glances when you were seen with Eddie; it all met its limit. You just wanted to leave. Your path to the hallway was blocked by the smooth contour of his bicep. Ducking under would mean an introduction to his armpit, and you weren’t thrilled by the idea of flattening yourself to the wall to slip by the untamed forest of black wiry hair. It would also be an admission of defeat, even further affirming your role as his spineless assistant to boss around. You could choose the other way and go around him, avoiding him all together, but there was no pride in that, either.

“Can you move your arm?” you asked, giving him the option despite better judgment when sudden pin pricks of uh-oh spiked your senses when he lowered the bottle.

A glistening line of whiskey traced his puckish smirk. Never menacing, but never a good sign. For a long moment the ghosts of the arena haunted the space in distant noises. Caresses of other humans around. Feedback other than the clutch on your heartbeat, and his troubled exhale into a strong inhale through his nose. Big breath filling his chest. Held. You took note of Eddie’s dimpled chin and the beads of water building at his lash line, and finally, he moved.

A sticky circle stamped the soft underside of your jaw, sliding his spit along your skin as he used the rim of the glass bottle of whiskey to lift your chin up, up. Stretching your neck, tipping your head back to the relaxed length of muscle along his forearm. Barely time to register the cherry-red halo striking the ends of his frizzy curls, or the ramping excitement overriding his already ruined impulse control.

Shy, you severed the intense eye contact when his face drew near.

Blank black soundless vortex rushing in your ears.

Drip, drip, drop.

Tiny splashes, one after the other, thumped on the locket of your lips. Mouth softly shut from the pressure under your chin. Tapping, tapping. Beat, by beat. Two, three, four, before your confusion determined what the sensation was, and the astringent scent cut its way to your sensitive nose.

You froze. Body clenching tight, fists sweating, nervous saliva pooling under your tongue too difficult to swallow. Jaw clamped shut and rejecting the liquid pooling at your lips, flooding it to the corners of your mouth, tickling the peach fuzz at the edges in tall walls of surface tension until, at last, they swelled, broke, and crashed. Thin streams flowed down either side of your neck, absorbed by your white blouse’s collar and trickling to the top of your bra cups, skirting to your cleavage. Brain overloaded. Clocked out. Warring with disgust, shock, and disappointment at the pathetic way you curled your fingers in some frustrated gesture at his actions, but ultimately, wrenched his tank top into your grip, and submitted.

You parted your lips, and Eddie poured.

Liquor, warmed from his mouth, filled yours. Burning, burning; drowning under the surge of spirits setting a blazing trail to your stomach, piquing a noise from you which would only draw the attention from those curious as to who the couple was fucking in the dark corner of the arena. You blocked the deluge from choking you with your fat tongue; rising onto your tiptoes while bending at your weak knees in the same involuntary whine as you tensed and squirmed—conflicted. Twisted your hands into the top of his shirt where the ribbed knit stuck to his chest, fabric damp with sweat and cool to the touch. You lurched him forward without thinking, locked in a panic. He complied. Easily.

Body to body, lazy weight on composed. Rubber soled boots dragging along the outside of your simple heels in a stuttered slide. Nudging the introduction of his bare legs against your skin; his hairy shins and the scraggly strings from the ripped hem of his shorts brushing the sides of your knees. Feeling his heavy arm flex as the front of his hips met you in the same stunted bursts as his steps, going from the man who frowned when you approached him, to the one who pressed himself between your thighs, causing the bulk behind his zipper to rock against you as he found his footing and stood tall, keeping his mouth aimed above yours, forgiving what spilt over your cheek in his stupor.

Dried salt and earthen dirt, embroidered texture of the fabric scraps he sewed onto his tank top rubbed your knuckles. The smooth pads of your thumbs landed above the neck hole as you centered yourself, tracing the duality of chilly perspiration on the heated skin of his sleek pecs, feeling the layer of muscle shifting underneath. Notes of oakwood barrels stroked your tongue before the sour punch of rye stung water to your shut eyes. You peeked through the wetness. Just to see.

His powerful lungs exhaled at a trained rate he could sustain in time with the runnel leaving his gently puckered lips paused above your own. Bangs stuck to his forehead. Sleepy faraway gaze. Calm, serene against the circumstances which had you questioning why you weren’t spitting the liquor back in his face. The scrunch of concentration between his brows was your last blurry sight before you were desperate for darkness again, letting your eyelids fall closed, lashes marrying.

Toofulltoofulltoofull.

The difference in your mouth size was apparent. Whiskey primed the inside of your cheeks, filling their fleshy stretch, stressing the brim of what you could hold. He’d only begun to dribble what had run hot and thick over his tongue when you untwisted your achy fingers from his shirt and served three warning taps in the vicinity of his heart. Feathery prods, like silk over the sparse hair growing in the valley between his pecs.

But, due to unforeseen circumstances, he forgot to stop.

Either you wormed yourself into stretching taller against the wall, or he leaned down. Perhaps both were true. Maybe you went rigid from the impending threat of irreversible stains on your new Liz Claiborne blouse, and maybe he shifted when the nuances of your hips slid against his own, dragging upward and reminding him of the cradle he had you in.

Richly flushed from booze, the tip of his nose thawed your thoughts as it grazed past your own, mashing a hint of tenderness you rarely witnessed from him to your cheek. By accident, of course, like the wet mid of his hair skimming the edge of your jaw where the bottle remained notched to your chin; amber glass a stark contrast from the plush give of his bottom lip flirting across yours.

Dry chapped against chapsticked satin.

The unintentional touch happened so fast, too quick to explore.

Mmm! Another antsy noise from you which rang sweet when amplified by the empty pit of coiled wires in the stadium. Mouth overfull. Stomach gripped, lungs clenching for unhindered breath. Realty checking in.

You put strength behind your forearms on his chest, shoving him and whirling your face away, keeling over what room he gave you to struggle through the largest gulp of your life, losing some of the liquor in the process, as evident by the splash on the concrete floor. Beyond brave, you drank it down, coughing, sputtering, and shuddering through the aftertaste for what felt like minutes. Huffing. Heaving. Working through the flood of drool coating your tongue, momentarily resting your dewy forehead on the thick vein drawn down his bicep by the red light, trying not to puke. Your shoulder pressed to his sternum. His heart beat, loud.

You used your sleeve to attack the wet streaks on your chin and cheeks, mopping up your pinched expression as the nausea of chugging his disgusting rye whiskey churned what patience you had for him. “What the—?”

“Hey, try not to waste any,” he commented dryly.

Voice raising, “What the actual hell is wrong with you?” You picked your head up from the crook of his elbow to pin him with your vehement glare. But the flash of temper at his drunken antics faded to the messy background of emotions when you remained in his pinion. Slotted between him, the wall, and the bottle.

Eddie’s nose bumped the bridge of yours. He pulled back slightly, and lowered the bottle. Still, his voice was one half of a sigh seeking its counterpart over your lax jaw and weak scowl. “Lotta stuff,” he answered. Still, your hands remained bound in his shirt. You couldn’t let go. Why couldn’t you let go? You couldn’t let go as the center of your bottom lip tingled like the buzzing wings of a bumble bee. Why didn’t you spit out the whiskey in his face? It was gross, revolting. Why did you swallow it?

Licks of black pepper and clove stayed on your tongue. Inhales went stale with his tangy scent, acrid and musky after giving his all on stage. His sweat clung to your fingers, mixed with the sheen on your forehead. When he breathed, his belly fought for the space between you, pressing into your stomach. Existing in the proximity you’d never seen the other in before; enabling you to hear the intimate loll of his tongue moving the spit in his mouth before he spoke.

Appearing more sober than before, with a strange amount of alertness in his glassy gaze trained on the minute changes of your features, he said, “You’re going to have a miserable time on tour if you keep being this up tight.” He angled away to sip from the bottle held by its long neck in three of his thick fingers. Rolling his lips inward, his throat bobbed a fierce line in the EXIT sign glow. “I was trying to work that permanent twist out of your panties. Get you to loosen up, have some fun.”

Just like that, the frustration was back. His words, his tone, his lack of apology for being a royal pain in the ass.

“You make me miserable,” you told him. For good measure, you pinched the sensitive underbelly of his tricep in case your voice didn’t carry the anger from the last hour of putting up with his shit.

He mumbled, “Ow,” probably not feeling the pain with how much alcohol was in his system.

Restraining yourself from reacting bigger, you tightened your fists and tried not to shake him. “I can’t relax, because the second I do Corroded Coffin gets stacks of lawsuits rammed up it’s ass, and you and I both know I’m hired damage control,” for you, you didn’t finish, getting too hot in the face to want to stand in your sticky clothes any longer, squishy inner thighs humid from being pressed together by his legs, shoes numbing your ability to feel the floor. “Would it kill you to stick to a schedule? Get cleaned up, meet some fans? Do the normal thing?”

The weight of his body returned, dropping the tension from his shoulders to curve them towards you, forcing your palms flat to his ribs. Another cage.

Unfortunately, his answer was a slow smirk. The bad kind. Sultry, and saccharine; dark like his purposefully narrowed coy eyes. “Kinda like it when you’re angry,” back to mushing his words together. “Lemme guess, you’re not even wearing panties to be twisted. You’re just naturally this…” Bitchy. “Pleasant.”

You pinched his tricep until you knew it hurt, until the roots of your hair tugged at your scalp from his forearm slipping away, and you used the space created to wedge past the areas of him which tempted a flicker of want in your core after a noticeable drag against your hip. “Don’t follow me.”

“C’mon, are you really..?” A pause. “Wait—!”

A productive conversation was a fruitless, futile thing.

You silenced the voice in your head telling you there was genuine remorse in his innate reaction to call for you. As if he were done pretending to be drunker than he was just to push things too far. Like he really cared you were walking away, in essence giving him permission to continue his night how he wanted.

No heavy thudded steps chased after you. The double doors were up ahead. You leaned into opening them past the heavy gust of hot air pushing back, and you stepped out to excited faces falling flat in disappointment when it was just a lady in a blouse and skirt reeking of booze, not a member of their favorite band printed on their bleach-dyed Corroded Coffin t-shirts.

~~~

When the tour bus doors next hissed, it wasn’t a single body stomping vibrations through the overly large vehicle on their way to pore over the details for the next show, it was a steady flow of those who called the beast their home. Most slung themselves in the couches at the front, talking shop around the kitchen table. Some infiltrated the fridge for beer. Another used the bathroom which was too close for comfort, especially in the recycled air blowing through the vents.

A body approached, and you curled your toes in as he passed.

Eddie’s heavy black boots stopped in the aisle of bunks. The soles squeaked as he turned, creaking leather as he sank his weight to one side. Stalling, facing you before he sat heavily on his bed. As he did so, two sharp pops drew his attention. Checking behind him, the privacy curtain was stuck under his ass, and the plastic rings meant to hold it up were snapped into pieces. You avoided putting your gaze on his person as you watched him solve this mystery, and returned to the paragraph you were scrawling in your notebook, moving your pen across the lined page.

Two of the last three days were journaled down, catching up from the hectic weekend, and venting through your emotions by reliving them. Darker ink bloomed where you carved the tip of your pen through your explanation of your hurt feelings and the general flippancy you were subjected to by one person in particular. The roadies and other members of the band got less screen time than the star of the show in your tirades. He knew this, too, looking from across the aisle at your clumped lashes, spying the water spots on the pages when he was standing. He sat forward, much like you, but his thighs were spread with his hands in between them, palm open to whittle a nervous thumb in the cupped center, having the decency to appear ashamed.

Your clothes were folded beside you, undecided if you wanted to trash them or wear them in defiance.

“Do you want me to apologize?” he asked, not quite enunciating due to his uncomfortableness.

Unable to mask it, you blinked rapidly before opening your eyes wide, not withholding the contemptuous sigh released from deep within. You gripped your notebook harder, bending it, rumpling the pages to hide what you etched behind your tight hands. Who the fuck asks if they need to apologize?

Eddie’s washed curls fell forward with his hung head, nodding to himself.

He got up, and left.

Anger scored your face. Draped by your headache was your furrowed brows, flared nostrils, twisted pursed lips zipped up tight from saying anything you’d regret—a lesson he could do with. Your pajamas were the makings of nine heavenly clouds after being dressed in stiff business attire all day, but the blisters on your ankles stung. Your joints throbbed. Your muscles wore sore. Your spine cried every time you moved.

Tomorrow you’d start doing the stretches the stageside crew showed you that kept them limber. You made a note to fit this in your schedule, bypassing the silly daydream of stopping at a bookstore in the next city and reading up on a yoga guide for more pose ideas than what the guitar techs could teach you, aware the chance you’d find time away from your boss to pursue your own self-interests was slim.

Flipping a new page, you dated it in the corner, began your introduction, and started on the third day of spilling your heart out.

Your pen was mighty interrupted.

It’s difficult to say what came first: the mouth watering rush of saliva, or the passionate rumble of your empty stomach yearning for the white takeout box placed in your lap by the bruised hand sporting cuts from punching Gareth’s drum platform during the one of the more self-loathing songs.

A pang of humility gentled his nature.

The four-fold top was open, revealing your favorite noodle dish with extra green onion and sesame seeds sprinkled on top, plastic fork stabbed through the middle. You lifted the container to swipe the oil stains off your mid-sentence rant, shaking free the beads of condensation collecting on the sides. The cardboard had gone soggy after being nuked in the microwave, burning through to your fingertips, but you held your dinner nestled in your palms, regardless.

It didn’t come with extra green onions or sesame seeds, those would have to be found on the side and added, along with the sauce to keep it from drying out.

Eddie made it exactly how you liked.

Hunched in the minimal space between bunks, you stared at the long stem of a bean sprout sticking out from the swirls of noodles, processing his gesture. Beneath that, your journal was splayed open to a slew of harsh sentences. Lower, directly across from your bare toes was Eddie’s boots. Higher, one of the metal aglets of his laces was stuck behind the leather tongue. Fresh socks clung the bottom of his calves. You listened to him peel back the curtain before sinking to his bunk, and trailed your study over the silvery scars on his knees. Moving up, you spotted a fresh beer in his hand, maybe one or two swigs taken. His elbows rested on his thighs, body folded over, leaning in, mirroring you to some degree.

The harsh overhead lighting brought luster to the bright golds, rich reds, and deep strands of chestnut through his dark hair brushing the shadow of his clavicle over the black shirt clinging to him, hugging the slope of his stooped shoulders.

Finally, you met the depth behind his eyes communicating what he couldn’t.

The apology lasted just long enough for your consideration, and then he lifted the crinkly wrapper tucked between two of his fingers. “You want this?”

You shook your head at the fortune cookie. “You can have it.”

“Nice,” he whispered. The unassuming planes of his cheeks lifted enough to allude to the dimple on his left side, and bracket his mouth in smile lines. He was still drunk, you assumed. A merry blush persisted across his nose, and his eyelids were as sleepy as the bags beneath them. But there was a youthful glee under it all as he tore into the cellophane. A glimpse at someone from long ago; not the rockstar before the start of touring who would pull laughs from you, but further, before the conditions of fame chewed him up, spit him out.

You wondered if Chinese takeout was a rarity in his boyhood, a special treat saved for when he left his hometown on trips to the city.

Eddie flicked the wrapper to the floor—annoyingly—and ducked at an odd angle to lay his upper half into the cozy nook of extra pillows he made you buy on the first night of being on the road. He stowed his beer at the apex of his clenched thighs, fitting the cold bottle snug against the packed seam guiding your eyes to the hill of his zipper, provoking hot blooded thoughts. His shirt rode up as he brought his arms above him, fanning the thick trail of hair out from under the hem, impossibly soft in appearance, auburn tinted, growing less dense on the sides of his belly. He cracked the crisp wafer in half, and you watched his stomach tense on the snap.

Squinting in the dark, Eddie depressed the button on the tiny reading light with his knuckle, and unfurled the paper from half the cookie, scanning the faded red text.

He snorted.

Choosing a mystical-sounding rasp not far from his real one to invoke the guise of a palm reader in a smoky lounge reeking of incense sticks, he read the fortune aloud while waving his other hand about, “You will be successful in love,” he said. His wrist went limp, and he tucked his chin to congratulate you. “Lucky you.”

No amount of plastic forks shoved in your mouth would rid you of the smile tightening your eyes. “Lucky me,” you echoed, full of wryness. The food, amongst other things, worked wonders to lift your mood. You weren’t as much buzzed from the shots sloshing in your stomach as you were queasy, and greasy noodles filled the tumultuous void stupendously.

He stuffed the crunchy cookie in his mouth, and turned the fortune paper over, speaking through the gnash of crumbs, “Your lucky numbers are 35, 26, 56, 10, 32, 52,” he continued.

“Uh-huh.”

The noise across the rest of the bus was at a level you could endure. Shooting the shit at an appropriate volume, or nodding along to the conversation. The driver would give the signal soon, and the boys would, or should, go to their bunks.

While you ate, Eddie stayed laying with his legs off the bed, head crooked against the wall due to the narrow space. He held the fortune above him. Reading it, sometimes. Thumbing the edge other times, or rubbing the texture of the stiff paper across itself. Staring, staring, unblinking from whatever he was thinking as he wrung a hand around his face; eliciting a sense of comfort from the audible stroke of his knuckles scratching over his stubble.

You scraped the bottom of your container, and put aside your notebook to gather your trash, two feet planted to make your way to the kitchen. At the last second, a glint caught your eye, and you bent over to pick up the wrapper Eddie dropped, tossing it in the takeout box, too.

“While you’re down there, be a doll and take off my boots.”

“No.”

His disgruntled groan followed you to the front of the bus.

The guys gave you a mixed reaction of curious glances and uninvolved nods as you stuffed your garbage in the overpacked bin. Jeff in particular made a point to look from you to his best friend’s legs, though you didn’t have much of an answer to whatever he was searching for.

A goodnight wave would have to do, and you were back at your bunk, folding the sheets down in preparation for the dreamless state you wished to be in. You sat on the mattress, eyes closed and spine somewhat neutral. The structure of the bunks were unforgiving, but the small crawl space could feel cozy at times, like a blanket fort made from couch cushions. Except, the house moved throughout the night, and angry honks woke you up on occasion. Not to mention you were a light sleeper from the stress of a car crash, or being dumped onto the floor.

The fortune paper flitted. Regarding you over the imposed suggestion between his legs, he informed you, “It says here the best way to relieve some of that tension you’re always carrying around is by taking a ride on a nice, fat—”

You snatched the beer bottle from between his thighs, big fake hard-on standing tall. He startled from the sensation, darting his eyes from the phantom trace against himself, and hailing you with a sputtered laugh through his cheek-aching smile, denying you the reward of taking him off guard by covering his mouth with his hand.

“I earned this,” you said about the drink.

“Yeah?” he goaded, pleased at your forwardness.

In a valiant attempt to show off, you tipped the mildly hoppy bitter back. Two pulls in, you thought better of it. Not quite a chug, but he lost the war with his grin, pearly teeth shining behind the thumbnail he strummed over the center of his bottom lip, eyes almost closed entirely in a bout of crinkles.

You pulled your lips off the bottle; off his spit and off his drink, off his glass cock, and were emboldened by the confidence of his playful disposition to rib on him openly, like the guys would when his pendulum mood swung to the good side. You lamented in a dramatic sigh,”Maybe my love life will be so successful, I'll get swept off my feet, and be free from the burden of listening to your sloppy guitar plucking all night.”

His expression lurched towards impressed. Overacting with his mouth agape in surprise, lips curled over his teeth, and splaying his hand on his chest. With how he propped himself up on one elbow, his shirt stretched flush against his pecs, accentuating the two round shadows at the ends of the metal bars through his nipples.

Right, you remind yourself, able to forget their existence through most of his wardrobe choices, he has pierced nipples.

Your body ran hot at the memory from two short hours ago where you were inexplicably thrusted into a situation where you could’ve felt the jewelry by accident, pressed against a wall. Now you were able to think through the adrenaline, and acknowledge having another person’s touch on your skin did more harm than good for the loneliness lurking within, calling it to the surface.

The notebook beside your pillow drew your glance.

Eddie stabilized your position in the conversation, not letting your sudden reservation deter him from seeking retribution for your insult. “Think y’drank too much honey, there, Bee. That one stung below the belt.”

The moment it took for you to register the low leech of a tease sneaking its way through his croaky, whiskey-hoarse words was a long one. Longer was his heavy palm falling to demonstrate where exactly your insult hurt him, cupping and grabbing the afflicted area. “You wound me!” he dramatized, demonstrating the limits his fatigue green shorts flattered, cotton fabric scrunching under his grip, then slouching flat on the release. Longer, still, was the distance between the gaudy ring on his middle finger and the tip of his short nails, thick digit landing on the tattered seam splitting him down the middle. Letting go, he rested his hand above his belt.

Everything about him was victorious. Champion eyes glinting rum colored; a shade you’d never seen on him, and almost missed with your observance stuck lower, trapped by his overt flirtations.

His belly rose and fell with a sympathetic hum devised to rattle you.

When sober, the invitation to crude insinuations began and ended with intangibility. A calculated smile to fluster you when caught admiring how his tattoos twisted over the muscles in his upper arms when he leaned on his keyboard, a sentence spoken in the morning before his voice warmed to its comfortable register, a tossed comment in the midst of conversation with his band mates and the effect it had on you shifting uncomfortably just outside the ring of amity—quarantined behind the scope of his single-handed gesture pumping an obvious motion, pretending you were absorbed by the timetable schedule for the band inside your folder, appearing busy and decidedly not desperate to either be included or released from the task of being present, even when hot needles of sweat stressed the lack of consideration for your feelings with each sorry expression cast in your direction. You were his worker bee, paid to wait on him, and his teasing was rarely physical beyond an appropriate knock on your bicep for your attention in the off chance he didn’t snap his fingers at you like a dog. Or a tap on your knee under the kitchen table to get you to stand so he could leave; a light pressure which you could replicate days later with your own knuckles. His daily indifference was born of spite, and his drunken actions were bred of the same annoyance, bottle-deep perspective viewing you as the one who was ruining his night. Assuming he continued to push his tolerance with more drinks after you left the green room, his bold teasing made sense, you supposed, too unrestricted to deny himself the fun of riling you up.

The right thing to do would entail divorcing yourself from this conversation, and bringing up his conduct tomorrow. The wrong thing to do would involve taking another swig of his beer. The right thing to do would require reminding him of his meeting with Murray in the morning, who had a shorter fuse than anyone in the music industry. The wrong thing to do would include lobbing the bottle in his bed. The right thing to do would demand not giggling at Eddie’s poor reflexes when he made a bigger mess of the ale spilling on his blanket.

Eddie seized to catch it, but his hand-eye coordination was not up to par. He scrunched his eyes closed at the last second, jolting into a crunch with his chin tucked in an inordinate amount of wrinkles, and hands turned with his palms out, more keen on keeping the bottle from hitting his face than truly catching it. Which was a plausible excuse for his boot kicking your bunk in the process, and overall lack of poise as he brought his hands together after the beer had already bounced off his belly, and rolled where the bed dipped around him.

The wrong thing to do would consist of you running your knuckle along your shameless grin, prodding the flesh against your teeth as he dropped his head back and emptied the bottle onto his softly cradled pink tongue, thank you for sharing the drink, every last boozy drop.

Recognition curved the groove of his mouth.

Boys will be boys behavior.

“Here,” he said, rolling forward with his arm extended. The glass bottle in his hand drew your immediate wilt, but before you advanced too far into your frown, he alleviated your ire with the two fingers pointing at you, fluttering the damp paper between them. “You believe in this sorta shit, don’t you?” Despite the mock, you knew better than to refute his claim, not having the chops to sound convincing. Not that you really had faith in the mass produced slip of paper, but the affirmation that you’d find your soulmate one day produced a sense of ease before bed. Even when the word ‘successful’ was blurred from a drop of beer.

You placed the fortune in your notebook, feeling the ache of an unfinished entry.

At the front of the bus, the driver stamped up the stairs and gave the signal he was going to start moving soon, cuing the subliminal bedtime. The unbelonging technicians left, and the rest of Corroded Coffin stretched from the stiff cushions lining the booth seats around the table. As they picked up after themselves, Eddie untied the top set of his laces, and kicked his boots off, leaving them in the aisle along with the empty beer bottle.

He rolled onto the edge of the mattress to rip back his sheets and shoved his legs under, hesitating from drawing the curtain when he browsed the end of your bunk, where your feet moved under a pile of belongings placed atop your covers. “I’ll send your clothes to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”

Not an apology.

“You mean you’ll send me to the dry cleaners tomorrow,” you corrected, and his face smoothed flat from the accidental snub.

Harry moved between you two. Jeff divided the conversation further. Gareth cleaved whatever rapport you had with Eddie when he snorted at the two of you facing each other in your bunks, cuddled up like a sleepover.

Thinking harder as his peers climbed into their beds, Eddie relaxed onto his forearm supporting his upright posture, and sank into the jut of his shoulder, spinning his hand in the same flippant way the scrunch between his brows appealed to the snark loading in his throat. “I’ll just give you my wallet then, mm?” he offered, gravelly voice dusted with insincerity. “Then you can buy all the white blouses, and black skirts your pretty heart desires.”

Someone snorted again. It sounded like Gareth.

“And, uh,” Eddie endured as the plastic rings tinked across the metal bar, leaving a generous window visible from the top of his shoulders to his wild hair spread about his pillow palace, limp curtain hanging pitifully, “if you’d be so kind, don’t watch me sleep.”

“I won’t,” you said, and it sounded so sad. So soft, and faint, no bite behind it. No zest, no strength. Just confusion, though you understood the events leading to the pendulum swinging the other direction.

You closed your curtain, too.

The tour bus rumbled before sighing its characteristic hiss and chugging forward, pitching its cargo inside. You swayed in your nook. Laying on your back meant you experienced every roll of the tires cutting corners in the parking lot, but you weren’t ready to turn over yet. Your mind was swarming with cluttered thoughts. There were things you could be doing other than peering out at the depressing darkness where the dim ambient light didn’t pierce. You could brush your teeth, stow away your pocketbook before the pens rolled out, pick up the bottle before it tipped over and played pinball down the aisle all night. Your journal entry could be finished, you could sit up and read a book like Eddie, you could do some of those stretches for your hips and back. You could cry, you could count sheep for the next four hours and forty-seven minutes, you could cry some more; wet face wiped raw by the stiff sheets, and mouth buried in the unfeeling comforter to muffle the squeak of air leaving your lungs when you couldn’t suppress the emotions lodged in your throat any longer.

You could do many therapeutic things.

Instead, you pressed your knuckle over the center of your lower lip, replicating the pressure, and thought about the fortune.

[roanniom]

I am a wreck. Jesus Christ this was a rollercoaster.

I was an assistant to a very entitled, thoughtless man for two years, so this was actually very triggering in the not so sexy way hahaha, but that’s my personal problem. AND YET STILLLLL. I LOVE EDDIE HERE???? HOW? What is this sorcery?

How do I love him in every form, even problematic???

Ugh this was just so well written ♥️

[ceriseheaven]

todays thots-

having a mini makeout session with eddie in the car before dinner with your parents to help calm his nerves but it just makes him hard so you wait for it to go down but it doesn’t and you just have to suck him off before you go inside 🙄

ugh don't you just hate it when you have to suck him off 🙄 such a boring, annoying thing to do 🙄 having to go down on him while he's a moaning, whimpering mess above you with his hands grabbing your hair, making you lightly gag on his cock 🙄 having him call a good girl and telling you "you're taking me so well princess fuck yeah yeah rub your face on my balls a little.. yeah baby" 🙄 having him cum down your throat so much that it begins spilling out of your mouth so he pulls you up and smashes his lips against yours, letting his cum spill in his mouth 🙄 ugh don't you just hate it 🙄

[pinkrelish]

Eddie and miss mouse doing missionary with his hands beside her head and she grabs his wrists moving her head side to side moaning and him begging her to look at him in the eye 👁️

ugh, yes. 18+ sweet, romantic smut [wc: 1.4k]

humming praise along your jaw, he asks from his husky throat not yet warmed from dawn, “please, baby,” and you nod, “—don't wantcha missin' your god.”

oh, how you explore him without sight, skimming your fingers over the smooth length of his back, planes of muscle filling your palms with steady breaths. from the sway which dips with each long draw of his hips. up bumps of spine, curve of ribcage. contrasts of solid strength feeding into the hidden lurch beneath his skin, subtle contours shifting and flowing in sync with his lazy thrusts. shoulders. working man shoulders, broadened by time and labor, flexing under your loose grip. hard shapes for your hands to find; groove of his delt, swell of his bicep. strong arms beginning to shake.

you lower your sightless study to his forearms. fingertips grazing through prairie grass hair leading you over the ridge of an at-home tattoo and through the field of faint scars. upon his knuckles, you widen your reach to encompass them all, falling short. falling weak. falling, falling.

stability was found in his mighty palm to your cheek. stifling hot, big, and rough with character. everything familiar you sought in a home, cherishing the doorway between forefinger and thumb, trailing open kisses to the bed of his palm—three pecks for good luck, and one to grow on—then feasting on the meat above his wrist, and bathing your warm tongue over the rest.

"makin' you feel good?" eddie checks to inflate his ego, brimming with amusement. "or's here better?" his abs brace, his knees move in, and your body clings to a shiver. "mm, right there, huh?" his tender tease flows into the kindest sigh.

he peels his stomach off yours, chilling your combined sweat and tightening your nipples with the rush of air. sharp teeth flirt on the pulse beneath your ear as he adjusts, uncoordinated, rocking an arm under your shoulder and tugging the fitted sheet loose on the mattress; his other hand slips up to cradle your head, protecting you from the old oak headboard while your pillow lifts your hips.

the position loads his weight where he pins you best—embraced in his arms, wholly respected. your leglock around his ass restricts him down to a fraction of his long draw from before. he understands. the ache he stirred with his practiced fingers crooked between your thighs reached a yearn for something bigger, and when he sank into you, half an hour ago, you expressed your satisfaction in a whisper-thin gasp. "that's it," he kissed. to be stretched by his head notched at your opening, easing in, splitting you, fulfilling you, reaching a depth which was made for him. "that's fuckin' it," he moans in the present when you clench firmer around him.

the pretty noises you made then, when he could last, earned his pride. now, they spur his pace.

you dig your heels into his backside and cradle him close, tilting your hips; wet friction grinding bliss against your core. the warmth of his body smothers you, and the wiry hair above his solid base follows the same quick roll, lapping at you like his tongue. you seek foundation beyond the darkness of your eyelids, turning your mouth to the hand on your shoulder, sucking a kiss on the peak of knuckles. his polished skill between your legs spark deep, fluttering moans. the angle was a work of trial and error over the years, but eddie was ever diligent to learn—eager, you'd say—to delay his release, and build yours.

consuming throbs of hot pleasure pulse within you. each stroke is better than the last. the pillow, the angle, the extra twitch of his cock when you squeeze around him just right. you were—"eddie, i'm—"

"look at me, baby," he asks, and you switch to pursuing his other hand, slotting your small fingers through the gaps where he worsened your bedhead. "open your eyes. wanna look at you," he laughs, mashing his nose along the blooming fever on your cheek, draping his curls over you both. it takes all your strength to answer him in an inarticulate whine, nestling into his palm until he understands the message and caresses his thumb over your temple. "please," he begs. you try. yet, he demands, stern voice pooling molten lust where he delivers relentless smacks of skin, "look at me when i'm your god."

your eyes fly open.

sleepy blue on the cusp of yawning orange presses through the thin curtains. light floods his smugness in swings between his long hair, stupid shadowed grin glinting in the daybreak. his curls tickle in sweeps across your cheeks, and at once, your weak limbs are threaded in the space where your chests press, and you're bringing him down for a rough kiss, teeth to lips, dirty like the sounds drowning out the birdsong.

muffled moans grow loud as he pulls away, just enough to adore you in the cage of his arms, watching you battle the haze while his eyes shine from vanity. his muscles burn from fatigue, and his smile interrupts his panting, cutting each labored breath with a stutter, but he keeps going, chasing the reason your expression pinches.

it comes on so strong, so fast, you clamp down on him hard, and though he expects it, eddie's whine is punched from his lungs, surprising you both. the pretty sound lends you strength, and he nearly collapses from every wet ridge massaging him as he grinds slow and steady in your heat, driven deeper by your assertive legs forcing him to bite his tongue as you rode out your high. he's dying. "baby," he pleas, nose to nose, forehead to forehead, sweat mixing on his damp bangs, soft body squirming under his, "y'look so fuckin' hot. can i?" poor boy asking to finish.

you soothe him in circles scratched on his scalp while he stills from motion, sighs jumping in time with the aftershocks pulsing on his length. the feeling of weightlessness was taking over. showing mercy, you release him, and he rises. careful as he can be in this state. fast, fast, fast, hiking you higher on the pillow and keeping you in place with one hand on your hip and the other cupped under your thigh, dimpling shadows in the sunrise. strong torso between your legs, top of his stomach flexing on every slap, sending ripples over your skin. light penetrates the center of the curtains to paint his beauty. flushed red, head dropped forward, messy hair kissing his shoulders, long lashes marrying, succumbing to whatever his body decides. watching himself slide into you, mouth hanging open at the sight of your pussy gripping him as he rocks back, upper lip lifting at the sheen of cream coating the base of his slick cock, eyebrows scrunching from the honor.

he picks up the urgency in which he's fucking you, each moan cracking higher.

"look at me," you break his concentration, voice not as powerful as his. he obeys, and the connection races an extra heartbeat in your chest, throat gone tight from the sense of accomplishment.

nothing compares to the flattery of his lidded gaze fighting to stay open as his warning comes late, already spilling into you.

wicked heat spreads in waves, burning your cheeks, pumping your reward in arrhythmic pulses. his tip is oversensitive and red when he pulls out, covered in a beautiful shine. he gives you the pillow, and adjusts himself so his length follows your stomach; though he takes a sharp inhale at the sensation; and lays on top of you, stretching his legs between yours. the magnitude of his understated working-man muscles go lax. amalgamating scents of sex encompass the tangle. birdsong rings through the blood rush. you hum, he hums.

"love starting our days like this."

"mhmm."

you revisit discovering him without sight. his weight limits your movement as he catches his breath from his efforts, but you encircle his middle. trace the tacky skin along his spine, roll your head to feel his curly hair sticking to the dew on your neck, rub your foot along his hairy calf. you lean up to press your lips to the salty crest of his shoulder, and end the motion when thick honey drips to the bedsheets. his spent self softens on your belly. you almost drift into a dream. "you're so corny with the 'god' line," you complain in a whisper, only a tad annoyed, and he sweetens you with his full lips smacking a noisy kiss to your cheek.

"yeah, but it worked," he replies, voice retaining its rasp from sleep, yet sporting a teasing rise, "and you still love me."

"and i still love you," you yield, rolling your closed eyes.

"do you?"

"i do."

"good," he huffs, "didn't wanna lose my grocery shopping partner."

you roll your closed eyes harder.

[bettyfrommars]

Touch my cheek before you leave me, baby

gigalo!Eddie x virgin!older!fem!Reader

18+Only, mature themes, intimacy smut, protected p in v, oral (f receiving), paid sex, pet names, insecurities, reader is wearing a skirt, f & m orgasm. WC: 2.8k

Summary: Reader is a 29 year old virgin introvert in need of a confidence boost. Eddie is hired to make our first time a good one. Eddie catches some feelings that he wasn't expecting. Tummy rolls are briefly mentioned, but not in a disparaging way.

A/N: I had this idea last night about him needing the intimacy as much as reader. And then my head started running with all of his possible other clients and the debauchery they could get into together, but this one is just sweet.

pls no minors beyond this point

Today is your 29th birthday, and your friends pooled their money together to get you the one thing you desperately wanted: to not be a virgin anymore.

You hadn’t been holding onto your virginity for any particular reason, but there had been several factors at play.  First of all, you didn’t like to leave the house much, aside from going to work and the rare meetup with friends, and so the chance of bumping into a promising sexual partner in your hallway was remote.  Secondly, you considered yourself to be fairly plain; you weren't one of the babes that men drooled over or tripped over themselves in the street for.  The crushes you’d had thus far were never reciprocated.  No one had openly pinned over you or held a boombox over their head outside your window, and on the occasion that someone did show interest, they often did not earn your affections. 

Your friends decided, and you agreed, that your first time should be with a professional, a guy who could give you the best first time that money could buy.  

Enter, Eddie Munson.

Covered in tattoos, he played in a band, and  had a reputation around town for being a favorite sexual companion for bored housewives and curious young women alike.  He was notorious for being particular about the clients he took on, though, and he didn’t just advertise in the paper—you had to be referred by a friend.  

That friend came in the form Robin Buckley, one of the baristas your friend Nellie worked with at the coffee shop.

“He’ll treat her right,” Robin assured her, jotting the number down.  “Now, I’ve never needed his services, personally, but I’ve never met an unsatisfied customer.  He makes women feel…desired.  As they should.”

So, there you were, two glasses of wine later, perched at the edge of the sofa in the lobby of the hotel where you’d been told to meet him.  Your friends knew exactly where you were, and there had been paperwork to fill out and sign—you didn’t know gigalos needed official signatures, but all the same, it stripped it down to a business transaction which is basically what it was. There were a few boxes to check off regarding things that turned you on and, conversely, triggers that he should avoid saying or doing during your time together. Did you have a praise kink or a daddy kink? Did you enjoy the use of pet names within intimacy, or was that something he should avoid? Hair pulling, choking, spitting, ass play, all of it was available for a check mark and you felt like you had the potential to compile one seriously huge fuckfest ice cream Sunday.  

He knew you were a virgin, and that you might not even know if you’d like some of the things offered, and he promised to take that into consideration to enhance your experience on the whole. 

Once he had accepted you as a client, he gave Nellie a safety list of things that would make your experience more enjoyable, and one of them had been not to drink too much, because he didn’t want you to engage in any activity you might regret.  Another one was to dress comfortably; there was no need to try and impress him—he was the one who needed to impress you.  

And impress you, he did.

He showed up earlier than expected, beard stubble grown in and a little scruffy (because you said you liked it that way), long hair tied back, button down black shirt cuffed at the elbows exposing his tattoos, and black jeans.  He also had a bouquet of yellow daffodils clutched in his fist, wrapped in cellophane.

His eyes locked onto you immediately and they lit up; a smile breaking the sigh that hitched in his chest.  He put the palm of his free hand over his heart as he walked toward you.

“Damn, baby, you are a sight for sore eyes,” he was beaming genuinely, as if he really meant it.  “Even better in person.”  Your friends had shown him a photo of you so that he would know what you looked like, but you had no idea which photo it was.

You didn't feel like you looked good, though, so you lowered your eyes as you got to your feet on wobbly legs, feeling frumpy and bloated, taking in the sharp reminder that he was being paid to lie to you.  You were so nervous, your palms were sweating, and the wine was churning sour in your stomach from the swarm of butterflies in there.

“Hey,” he got close enough to crook his finger under your chin and tilt your head up; his golden flecked, rye bread eyes were serious.  “You know how beautiful you are, right?”

All you could do was nod under the kind assessment of his stare, and it made a smile stretch across his lips. “That’s my girl,” he said, introducing himself properly, handing you the daffodils.

He knew that daffodils were your favorite flower, because of the paperwork you filled out, but you never expected to receive any, since they weren’t even in season.  There must’ve been a flower shop somewhere that had them, and Eddie had found it.  He hitched his arm out for you to take.

There were two other people in the elevator, and he pulled you back flush against him, possessively holding you by your hips.

Eddie had a key to the room, and once he pushed the door open, you could tell he’d already been there.  The lights were all off, but for a lamp on the opposite side of the bed near the window, and two candles lit on the desk near the TV.  What you assumed was his leather jacket was the only thing hanging in the closet.  You even spotted Magnum condoms and a fresh bottle of lube on the nightstand.

“How’s the lighting, sweetheart? You want me to turn that lamp off?” 

You specified that you wanted the room to be dark, maybe just enough light to see what each other was doing, but you didn’t want him to see you in full brightness.  This whole time, you’d been too nervous to say more than one or two words.  

“Because, if I’m being honest,” he slid his hand up the side of your neck, palm warm against your skin.  “I really want to see you.”

“It’s fine,” you choked out, unable to hold eye contact with him for too long.  God, you bet he was already regretting taking you on as a client.  What a waste of a boring evening for him; but, at least he was getting paid.  

Yet, not even a flicker of his enthusiasm for you left his eyes.  He took the daffodils from you and put them on the dresser at the foot of the bed.  

When he turned back around, he cupped both hands around the sides of your throat, thumbs at your jawline.  “You can trust me baby.  If things start moving too fast, you let me know okay?”

You nodded.

“Have you ever been kissed before?”

You bit your lip and then, “a couple times. I had a boyfriend once, but it was long distance and it—”

But then Eddie’s lips silenced you.  He kissed your top lip and then your bottom before parting them with his tongue.  

You closed your eyes, letting him move your head from side to side, and you couldn’t help the moan that squeaked out of your throat as arousal built between your legs.  He smiled against your mouth, nuzzling your nose.  “You’re a good kisser, baby.”

Deciding you liked it when he lied, you allowed yourself to become an active participant and slid your hands up his ribs, clutching him, pulling him closer.  He kissed you softly a few more times, caressing your cheeks with his thumbs, and your hand found the courage to travel down yonder and see what was below his belt.  

What you found made your eyes fly open: not only was it huge, but it was hard.  

Eddie chuckled.  “See what you do to me?”

The one thing you had done several times was given a few blow jobs here and there, and so you were working his belt open and dropping to your knees at the same time when he stopped you, catching your arm to pull you back up.

“Tonight is all about you, sweetheart.  I’ll get mine soon enough,” he assured, urging you back to drop down to take a seat on the bed.  You stared up at him while he straddled your legs and unbuttoned his shirt.  Once the defined muscles of his chest and scattered tattoos were exposed, he helped you take your shirt off, pulling it over  your head, and then he knelt before you.  

You braced your hands behind you as he pushed your skirt up  your thighs, maintaining eye contact.  He caught a glimpse of the lacy underwear you had on and he lifted an approving eyebrow.  

You swallowed hard, and then he was sliding the underwear down your legs and off, kissing your knees as he went.  He came closer, arms nudging your legs wider, taking a glimpse at the glistening gift you had for him underneath.  

Eddie bit his bottom lip, making a hungry groan.  “You gonna let me taste this beautiful pussy, baby?”

“Please,” your hips twitched forward a bit, begging.  Normally, you were too shy to let others go down on you, but you were determined to get all you could out of this night, knowing it was a rare opportunity.  

He brushed his lips along your thigh as his hands worked your skirt up higher.  You shivered when you felt the warm breath on your swollen lower lips, and then he was watching you as his tongue flicked out in a few kitten licks.  After a taste, enjoying the way you writhed, he buried his mouth, moaning, fingers clutching your thighs.

“Grab my hair, baby,” he said.  “Tell me how much you like it.”

So, you did just that.  His ponytail tie was off, so his hair was around his shoulders, and you slid your fingers in to hold on as he took you in his mouth and rolled your bundle of nerves around with astonishing accuracy.  

It wasn’t long before you could feel yourself beginning to unravel, “just…like that,” you told him.  “I think you might make me…”

And then Eddie sucked your nub in and flicked it faster and you were cumming, leg jerking, head falling back, forehead clenched.  

He wanted you to kiss him right then and there so that you could taste your release on his mouth, and you obliged, holding his face as you did so, melting into the moment.

For the next minute, you helped each other undress, and it was all happening so organically—it felt so real—that you could almost imagine he was actually your boyfriend, or someone who at the very least, wanted to be. 

Both naked now, he held you close as you stood next to the bed, tracing a finger down the side of your face.  “Are you ready, baby?”

Truly, you’d been ready your whole adult life, and you were glad you had waited for Eddie, even if this was a paid arrangement and you’d probably never see him again.

His lips tended to your neck and your breasts while he worked the condom on, making the educated decision that you were so soaking wet, he wouldn’t need any extra lubrication.  

It was the intimacy that you’d specified wanting to feel; like he was no stranger to you and this moment was something special between two people who felt deeply about each other.  So, he came down close and gave you exactly that, putting his forehead to yours.  “I’m gonna go slow at first, okay?” He breathed.  “You tell me if it’s too much?”

“I will, baby.”

He smiled at the way you returned the use of the pet name, feeling your body open up beneath him as anxiety and doubt morphed into trust.

“Shit,” Eddie broke character for a second as the tip sank in, caught off guard at how tight you were, and he had to pull out again for a second to catch his bearings.  

It was the closeness that he loved, too; he craved it.  He’d never had a client who wanted it this way, and it was the main reason he’d taken you on.  It wasn’t the virgin aspect—surprisingly enough, he’d been a first time experience for a good handful of his customers.  It was the opportunity to pretend he was someone’s boyfriend for the night—a role he hadn’t played in real life for far too long.  The chance to pretend that you both cared deeply for each other and no one else in the world existed.  

He sank in this time a little further than the tip, and you cursed, but then nodded for him to keep going.  “All of it, baby,” you urged, leaning into your role.

Your core was rippling around his length, aching for more.

He went half in and dipped it back and forth a few times, pausing to watch your face.  

“I’m worried that I–” he started, but then he realized he was breaking character again, and the vulnerability made him stiffen.

“What are you worried about?” You whimpered as he stretched you out a bit more.  Your legs were wide, bottoms of your feet planted on the bed.

He thrust in balls deep with a shudder, both of you gasping.  “I’m worried I might like this too much.”

Inside, there were party streamers exploding in your soul at the mutual yearning that ebbed between you.  As you gave yourself over to him, there was a feeling that he was also giving himself over to you, and it felt so real, that you rode the wave with every fiber of your being, wrapping your legs around him, kissing him deep.

The kissing and the endearing moans were about to make him cum, so he sat back, shaking his head, and hooked your knees over his elbows.  

He took you in from under hooded eyes as he made long, slow thrusts inside.  “You’re so fucking hot, baby."

You were so deep in it, you actually believed him this time.

“Harder, baby,” you coaxed. 

That elicited a coy smile and an eyebrow wiggle from him.  “Oh I’ll gladly pound the fuck out of this sweet pussy,” he breathed, and then he was fucking you so hard your tits bounced, as did your belly rolls, and you could tell he was getting off at the sight.  His thumb found your nub and worked there, making you expose your throat with a whine, enjoying the wet slap of your arousal as your bodies met.

The connection and intensity between the two of you was palpable, and you couldn’t tell if it was manufactured or real, but regardless, you could feel another velvet bomb inside of you about to explode.  

His eyebrows were pinched when you found his eyes.  “I’m close, I’m close, I think I’m…”

The closest you’d ever been to knowing the sweet pull of a mounting orgasm was from those moments alone with your vibrator, and having your hole satiated by Eddie thick cock enhanced it in a way you could’ve only imagined.

“Fuck, me too,” he grabbed your thighs with both hands and buried himself over and over.

It never happened this way.  In fact, there had been several times when he had never cum at all: he was always very content to make it about the other person.  He fully intended to wait for your second orgasm before he even tried to relieve himself, but this time it felt too good; he wanted it too fucking bad.  

Your head snapped to the side as you came, babbling his name, walls clenching around his cock in a way that sent his hips jerking, pounding against you, pretending his seed was filling you up instead of a condom.  

Eddie bit his lip as you both chased the high, and then his sweaty forehead was on yours again, long hair grazing your cheeks.  He needed to kiss you when he was done, and that was how you liked it, too.

Your friends had only been able to pay for two hours worth of Eddie’s time, but you ended up staying for much longer than that, at his urging.  You called to give them this update, and the confusion in Nellie’s voice was priceless.  

When you were both getting dressed, Eddie started buttoning his shirt while you sat down to put your shoes on.

“Hey, so, if you ever want to do this again,” he swallowed, thinking of his words while you waited, head turned to look at him.  He couldn’t meet your eyes, he just kept fumbling at a button.  “You wouldn’t have to be a client.  I mean, I wouldn’t charge you.”

[galaxy-siren]

Wear Your Shirt

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem Plus Size! Reader

Request: Could I request an Eddie x Fem!Plus Size!Reader where she wishes she could do the cute girlfriend thing where she wears Eddie’s shirts. But they are two different sizes so Eddie’s shirts don’t really fit and it bums her out. So Eddie, the next time he goes to a concert buys a shirt in her size and he sleeps in it a couple times, washes it with his detergent, and maybe sprays it with his cologne and gives it to her so that it smells like him and it feels more like he is giving her a shirt of his.

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: fluff, established relationship, Eddie being a sweet boyfriend

AN: this was an anonymous request! As a plus size woman I absolutely loved this idea! Wearing your partner’s shirts/clothes has always been something I thought would be very comforting, but being bigger puts a damper on that thought sometimes. I thought this idea was something Eddie would for sure do because he wants his partner to be happy and wants them to be able to do cute couple things like swapping clothes. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! 

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[dinah-lance]

This guy [Wayne Munson] is someone who cares about his nephew, that’s it. He’s concerned about his nephew, you know, his nephew’s been wrongly accused of something and there’s no proof about it, I just know my nephew. And I know he didn’t do it. Whether or not he was a trailer park guy, who might’ve been an angry, bitter, guy… which I think there is a little bit of angry bitter in Wayne, but still, you know, the concern about his nephew overrides any of that stuff.