this is a short(-ish), nameless little idea i couldn't get out of my head about eddie trying and failing to fulfill a cnc fantasy for you and the conversation that follows, written from his perspective. 5.5k words.
warnings: EXPLICIT; MINORS DNI, I WILL BLOCK YOU! simulated non-consent. eddie's pushy but not at all violent. still soft, still himself. it's played serious. angsty, hurt/comfort. reader is characterized as shy/reserved when it comes to sex with hinted-at low self-esteem, eddie loves you more than anything and thinks he doesn't need boundaries. happy ending. lmk if y'all think i should tag anything else. dead dove: do not eat!
tagging some people that expressed interest: @stickystrawbunny @lunaiswriting @residentoftomlinsonsass @teddysugar
Eddie was sure he could handle it.
That it'd be easy, even. All it really amounted to was roleplay, after all, and he was nothing if not a veteran of make-believe.
It had started with a request that Eddie be a little rougher. You’re sort of shy when it comes to speaking—struggling usually to talk about your activities in the bedroom much more than you ever did participating in them—so he was ecstatic to hear you ask him for anything at all.
It was while laying together in bed after a quick shower that you brought it up. Two rounds apiece had worn you both out, and maybe it was being cradled so close to his heart, the comfort of warm skin pressed together and the dreamy lull of sleep that had relaxed your anxious tongue enough for the words to escape. Eddie, ever gently, eased you back enough to see your face and smiled.
He hummed as he watched you, endeared to the moon and back by the bashful little look on your face—the way you can barely meet his eye. “...How rough are we talkin’ here?”
He’d left a bruise or two on you before by accident, and as much as he felt bad for hurting you, he also couldn’t deny the appeal of knowing he’d made a mark on you. Flesh and blood evidence of the pleasure you'd shared; the grooves of his hands embedded beneath your skin. He’d also carefully pulled at your hair once or twice, even smacked your bottom, albeit more as a joke than anything carnal.
It took you a moment, staring at his mouth and his chin while you gathered the courage. “I… Well, I like it when you’re…pushy,” you admitted.
Eddie grinned even wider. “Oh yeah? You want me to bully you a little? Toss you around?” That would be no problem at all.
His knowing intonation made you purse your lips to fight a smile. “Yeah, I like that. But also…”
“...Also?” he prompted with patience. “Don’t hold out on me, sweetheart.”
“I don’t know.” You stared down at the sheets with a strained, twitchy little smile. “I just sort of have this…weird fantasy, I guess. Can't get it out of my head.”
Now you’re talking. He took care not to look too ecstatic, lest he scare the nerve out of you. “Tell me all about it,” he encouraged, “and I might be able to help you out.”
You hesitated. The sheepish smile fell away, and your eyes seemed to turn in on themselves, unfocusing. Right on the precipice of changing your mind, waving it all away. Something was scaring you inward. Eddie’s brow furrowed and he softly lifted your chin, startling you back to the present.
“Sweetheart, I’m the last person that’s ever gonna judge you for wanting to try something kinky, or…unusual,” he assured you. Serious but without pressure, smiling warm and fond. You don’t have to tell him anything, but he needs you to know that you can. “I’m not gonna look at you differently, or love you any less. That’s a promise.”
He already felt like the luckiest guy on the planet just holding you as he was, watching you watch him with love and trust and melting reservations in your eyes. If you also happened to possess even half of the freakiness that he’d been valiantly keeping at bay from the first time you touched, he might just dissolve into a pile of lovestruck mush.
-
Eddie never thought he’d have you, so he has a tendency to do anything—anything—that he thinks might help him keep you. It’s a bad habit of his (in your mind, at least) that he’s kept hidden almost as well as his less savory appetites, his more cringeworthy fears. You’ve noticed it a couple times. The way he grits his teeth and bears things you would’ve gladly relieved him of, that you’ve never asked of him in the first place. Eddie knows it’s stupid; unhealthy, even, to treat your relationship like a rolling audition he’s always in danger of bombing, but there’s some misshapen part of him that just can’t help it. You don’t need him to be anything more than he is, to give more than he has, and he knows that, he really does, but he could. If you wanted him to, he could.
Just start and don’t stop. That’s how you explained it to him, more or less.
Eddie was to do what he was going to do, and while you might squirm and struggle, tell him no and don’t and stop it, you assured him plenty that it’d just be for show. To fulfil your half of the little fantasy you’ve trusted him with—and he could see on your face how much trust it really took. Unless you use your safeword, you don’t really want him to stop; you want him to ignore it; to fight you right back; to make you.
And that’s simple. He’s the bad guy, the bully—a role he’s uniquely accustomed to—and you’re the poor maiden he’s meant to distress. He isn’t sure he’ll get as much out of it as you will, if the suppressed thrill in your eyes as you spoke about it is to be trusted, but to put it frankly, Eddie loves fucking you. He could do it for hours, for days, probably until the combined forces of exhaustion and dehydration knocked him out cold, if he lost his grip on restraint. It never really occurred to him that this could be any different.
You decide on a Friday, after dinner. Plenty of time for both play and comfort, no looming alarms to dread come morning. The day went by as usual, but when you sit down to eat, neither of you have much to say. He catches you staring. Again and again, cutting your eyes away in shyness each time. Getting impatient.
For once, you eat faster than him. When you’re done, you stand to put your plate in the sink and return to him with awkward, scattered energy, crossing your arms like it’s your first time trying to.
“...I’m gonna get ready for bed,” you tell him simply.
Eddie lets out the smirk he’s been sitting on. “Okay, baby.” It does something to you, makes you twitch. He stops you before you rush down the hall to escape. “...You’re sure you still wanna do this?”
Your feet catch awkwardly on the carpet as you turn back to face him, and your smile, unusually wide and giddy with nerves, makes his chest swell with warmth. If it was up to him, he’d jump on you right here and now, but probably not in the way you’d want him to. “I’m really sure.”
“Great,” he says. “Then… I’ll be right behind you.”
Eddie takes his time. Finishes his food, packs away the leftovers, washes the dishes in the sink—wouldn’t want them to crust over. There are a few stray food scraps on the floor, close to hidden beneath the cabinet ledge, so he decides to go ahead and sweep the entire kitchen, neglected lately.
Then, he heads for the bathroom. Turning off lights as he goes, Eddie squints through the dark and thinks that this feels correct. This is where he should be, preparing for something like this. He really wants to see you but he isn’t sure he’s ready yet, and he wants even more to get it right for you. He’s so happy, so happy that you found it in you to share it with him, knowing how awful it could be in the wrong hands. When you’d gone to sleep that night, Eddie stayed awake a while longer and teared up at the thought. No one else, you’d said. You never told anyone else but him.
Eddie brushes his teeth, washes his face. He fiddles with his hair, for some reason. As if a wayward strand might ruin the fantasy for you. He considers taking a shower, too, to cool himself off, but he knows both of you will need one afterwards anyway, and you must be getting antsy waiting for him. He pictures you squirming, sighing, grinding your needy thighs together.
And he thinks about your thighs, and the precious flower between them. How it opens up and takes him in, holds him tight and loves him just as much as you do; gushes with it. Your stomach, round and plush, his favorite plane to sink his teeth into. The swell of your chest and the pretty little jewels that dot either side, that tense and stiffen under his fingertips. Every bit as meek and sensitive as the rest of you. He figured it’s for the best if he’s already there before he gets started, and knowing he’ll get to touch you soon, to ravish you just the way you want, it doesn’t take long at all.
Eddie pushes the door in and finds you waiting with purposeful unawareness, your back to him at the far side of the bed. For a moment, he just smiles, and his nose scrunches with endearment. Your shoulder tensed up to your ear at the sound of his arrival, and it stays there as you sit in anticipation. Stepping inside, he closes the door behind him and makes his way towards his side of the bed, pulling the unneeded shirt over his head, tossing it aside.
“...Baby, you awake?” He knows you are, but he gives you the chance to pretend anyway. Your answer is a non-committal hum that scrunches his nose a second time.
He kneels onto the bed and crawls nearer, watching your partly-obscured profile. His hand lands on your upper arm and squeezes and you hum again—more distinctly reluctant this time. He figures that’s the go-ahead.
Eddie’s much more heavy-handed than usual in stealing a kiss from you; starting the game. Leaning over you, he takes you by your jaw and turns your head towards him, smashing an indulgent kiss into your lips and drinking in your cute, startled peep.
Only, then, you try to make him stop—tugging at his wrist, turning your head away from him—and on instinct he lets you go with a hot prod of anxiety. Did he fuck it up already? Is this not what you wanted?
But when you mumble your timid complaint (“I’m not in the mood, Eddie”) and turn away from him again, it clicks into place.
…Right, yeah, that’s how this works. You’re going to reject him, unambiguously, over and over and over again, and he’s supposed to ignore it every time. He knew that on paper, but seeing it in action, experiencing what it feels like to be told no by you and pretend it doesn’t matter, hits him somewhere hard to place.
But it’s what you want, so he keeps going. He grabs your shoulder far meaner than the real Eddie ever would and yanks you onto your back, lays himself over you to plant his mouth onto yours again, and when you whine into his lips he pushes even harder, forcing his tongue inside. You don’t mean to moan, probably, but when you do, Eddie’s tension deflates with a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Squirming beneath him, you push at his chest with both hands, harder and harder until he finally relents and gives you room to breathe.
“What are you doing?” you gasp, wide-eyes flitting all over his face, and it gives him pause again. He’s…doing what you asked him to—what you want him to, even if it feels like anything but.
“Need you bad, honey,” he murmurs, playing his own part a little belatedly, and his hands slide down to squeeze at your thighs. “Open up.”
“I told you, I’m not in the mood tonight.”
“It won’t take long,” he assures you. “Open up.”
Your brow furrows deep and tight, somewhere sadder than confused. “I don’t want to.”
Eddie pushes out a sharp sigh, gives you a look. He knows what to say, but it takes a moment to convince himself to let out with it. “...Sweetheart, I’m not asking.”
That clearly did it for you—nearly sent your eyes rolling back. There’s a fire in them, a pinprick of red-hot excitement even as you press your thighs tighter together, and he realizes, once again, that you aren’t going to help him out at all.
He forces his hands into the space between your thighs and abruptly wrenches them apart, and the gasp you suck in at the feeling of it is definitely real. Eddie stifles a grimace. He hopes that wasn’t your full strength he was fighting. If it really is that easy to make you, he could’ve gone his whole life without knowing it.
You have made it easy for him in one regard. Between your nightgown—really just an oversized tshirt, already riding up above your hips—and the thin, lacy excuse for a pair of panties you’ve got on beneath it, he has as much access as he possibly could without having to try and wrestle you out of your clothes. He’ll hardly even have to move anything out of the way.
You’re also fucking soaked, thank God. More than you usually are without a little help, but maybe you’d been helping yourself while you waited for him. It’s a strange feeling. Relieving for substantiating how you truly feel about what he’s doing, a little concerning (or, at the very least, puzzling) for whatever the hell that might mean. What is it that this asshole is doing for you that Eddie himself is failing to?
He takes himself out of his pants, still pulsing at the thought of you, and sucks air through his teeth as he drags his fist from base to tip, trying to work himself up a little more. When he goes to line up, your hands fly between your legs, trying to hide yourself from him, but it isn’t too hard to snatch them up and hold them out of his way. You aren’t really fighting back, just trying to seem like you are. He tugs the thin seat of your panties aside and notches his cock at your entrance, then lays his weight over you.
“Don’t,” you beg. “Eddie, please don’t!” The drop of panic in your voice is way too convincing. His heart sinks a few inches in his chest.
“Stay still, honey,” he tries to comfort—that part at least comes naturally. He’s psyching himself up to it. You told him explicitly not to prepare you; that it’s okay if it hurts a little, that you even sort of want it to, but he didn’t realize how intimidating that request really was until now. “...It’s okay. Just stay still.”
“No, baby, you can’t—”
He jerks his hips, pushes halfway in with one sharp thrust, and hisses through his teeth as he does. He’s never felt you like this before, without having been teased open on his fingers or his tongue first, and you’re wet enough for the sound of it to squelch, but he’s surprised to discover he can feel that it isn’t quite right all on his own. It’s too tense, shocked rigid, trying to evict him. At the same time, you gasp like his penetration removed some deadly blockage from your airways, and Eddie freezes, watching your face with cold sweat dripping down his sides. Your jaw hangs open, panting, brow pinched and hips squirming with overwhelm. When you meet his eye and find him staring, waiting, gritting his teeth, you give him the slightest nod you can manage, and Eddie continues.
He slowly pulls his hips back and snaps them in another mean thrust that delves even deeper, sending you moaning in pain or delight. Mouth dipped down beside your ear, he shushes you as sweetly as he can while doing such an awful thing. Grasping for any gentleness he can find. He’d like to kiss you again, but he’s reluctant to create any obstacle if you need to tell him to stop.
“It hurts,” you whine.
It’s supposed to, he reminds himself. You might even be pretending. “...It’ll pass, sweetheart, I promise.”
One more thrust, a kiss to your neck in tandem, and he’s fully sheathed inside. You cry out, and he’s pretty sure it’s pleasure—your thighs twitch like they always do when you’re excited to be full of him. Eddie pulls out again and sinks right back in, starting up a deep, powerful rhythm that makes you mewl beneath him. It almost puts a smile on his face.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he teases, planting a kiss on your cheek.
“No,” you insist, indignant. You’re still putting up your weak impression of a fight, pushing at his chest and digging your nails in, scratching him, but every ruthless thrust he gives you punches a clipped little moan out of you, surprised by the force each time.
Eddie dips his face into your neck, starts to work his teeth into you. “Don’t lie to me, baby,” he murmurs. “Know just what you like.”
He does his best to hold you still, pin you down. He’s been too focused on you to really think about his own pleasure, but when it finally occurs to him to take stock, he startles. It’s not that you don’t feel good—you always feel good—but it’s almost like he’s slowly going numb to it. Eddie abruptly picks up the pace, trying to remedy it, and you cry your noisy pleasure beneath him, but it doesn’t change much. It’s hot and slick and tight, and it’s you, but there’s no…momentum to it, no steady build-up for him to manage, no urgency.
And that wouldn’t really matter to him, since the point of all this is getting you off, but he can feel himself waning. The aching tightness he always succumbs to when you play with each other begins on its own to slump in disinterest, and the frustration of it grits his teeth together.
There’s a cold little pit in the bottom of his gut warding off the blood that should be pumping excitedly through it, and it dawns on him that, for the first time, entirely in absence of weed or alcohol or pure, concentrated nerves, Eddie probably can’t keep it up long enough to get you off. And just then, while he’s already flirting with the dread of poor performance, your voice warbles out once more, as frail as he’s ever heard it.
“...Eddie, please.”
The hair on the back of his neck stands up. It’s a sob. You sound like you’re going to cry; like you’ve been crying, and crying, and you just can’t seem to stop. Like you’re miserable, devastated, and it’s entirely and exclusively his fault. A ripple of intense aversion whips down his spine and spreads to the end of each limb, abruptly contracting his muscles to push and tear him off of you, out of you. Sitting back on his knees, eyes squinted shut, he grunts and shakes his head to cast away the awful feeling.
“...Eddie? Are you okay?” He can feel you shifting, starting to sit up.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, baby,” he says, rubbing sweaty hands over his face. The shame hits him next, sinking him lower—knowing that he’s done it again. He should’ve hit pause as soon as something felt off or done anything other than grit his teeth and assume it’ll pass, and now you’ll think it’s your fault. “I… Shit. I don’t think I can do this.”
A little silence stretches out. Eddie drops his hands to hide his wilting dick away and finds your big eyes flitting all over him, stunned; your hand trembling in front of your mouth.
“...Okay.” You hardly manage to squeeze it out. He can already hear the lump in your throat. “...I’m sorry.”
The thought of you crying scrubs his nerves even rawer. “No, no, c’mere.” He guides you to sit up with him all the way so he can wrap his arms around you, touching you with the warmth he’s been dying to all along, and he sighs in relief. He presses firm kisses to your temple, your cheek. “S’not your fault, not at all, okay? I’m fine, we’re both fine.”
You wrap your arms around his back, holding him just as snugly, and your voice is muffled into his chest. “I don’t wanna make you do something you don’t like.”
“You aren't, honey, I promise,” he assures you, squeezing you even tighter. “I said we'd try it and we did. That's exactly how it's supposed to work.”
You say, “Okay,” and nuzzle into him harder, and Eddie rests his head against yours as you breathe together, calm each other down. But a frown starts to grow on his face. He knows why he couldn’t do it—it curdled his stomach to make you feel like that, like the months he’d spent adoring you mattered less than a few minutes of empty pleasure, make-believe or not—but he can’t for the life of him figure out what you found enjoyable in all of that. You like it when he’s a little mean, he knows that, and he likes giving you a hard time just as much. But forcing himself on you; this quiet tragedy you’ve been so eager to play out. His heart pounds with anxiety just thinking about it. He never thought it would feel so real.
“...Maybe I just don’t understand,” he says. “The…appeal of it, I guess. What you’re getting out of this.”
You freeze up in his arms. “I…”
Carefully, he eases you back until he can see you, your eyes flickering over his chest in unease, and he holds both your hands in his own. “I’m not judging you, sweetheart, I swear to God. I get being…rough, y’know, and pushy. But I… can’t really wrap my head around why you’d want someone to treat you like this.”
“...I don’t know,” you mumble, but Eddie’s eye is well attuned to you. He thinks you might know, but you’re too frightened to admit it.
He sighs. “I just… I really hope you don’t think you deserve that, or—”
“No, it's not— I don’t,” you sputter out, reassuringly horrified. “I promise I don’t. It’s just… I don’t know. It's only because it's you.”
Eddie frowns, unsettled on instinct by the sound of that, but he stays quiet. Leaves you the room to creep out of your shell on your own. You chew hard on your bottom lip before your mouth opens again, and he gives your shaky hands a squeeze.
“...Because I love you, and I trust you, and…you're safe,” you go on. “I know you'd never really do anything like that, and…I like making you feel good.”
Eddie’s heart crushes in. He presses another firm kiss to your temple. “I love you too,” he tells you, but that doesn’t quite explain anything. “...Can you tell me a little more?”
You lick your lips and wrestle yourself to continue, his sweet girl. “The thought of you…needing me that badly, that it makes you mean, that you don't even care. Like I only exist to make you feel good, and that's all that matters, and I’d still love you anyway. …Sometimes I do feel like I'd let you do anything you wanted to me, even things I know you'd never actually want to do, so… it's like, I get to…give you something you'd never even ask for. Something that's sort of…dark, and intense, that I'd never give to anyone else. I don't know what’s…wrong with me, why I like it so much. But it's only because it's you, Eddie.”
“Nothing’s wrong with you, baby,” he reminds you softly, cupping your cheek and stroking his thumb over it. You aren’t crying outright, but the extra water in your eyes is torture. “I told you, I don’t like you talking about yourself like that.” Eddie looks at you and sees the purest fucking angel he’s even known.
“I know,” you sniffle. “I’m sorry.”
He smoothes his palm over your back as he thinks it over. “I…think I get that, sort of, but...you’re making it sound like you’re doing this for me, and I don’t—”
“No, it’s— It’s for me,” you correct. “I know it’s for me, and I know it’s…a lot to ask, so we don’t have to do it again. I don’t ever wanna make you do something that upsets you, Eddie. I’m really sorry.”
When your face starts to contort and your teary eyes blink faster, Eddie sucks his teeth and pulls you back in, and the way you cling onto him brings about a little sting behind his own eyes.
“I’m not upset,” he assures you softly. “Not anymore. Just…worried about you. Makes me scared you don’t love yourself like I do.”
He sways you lightly back and forth, spreading warm pressure over your back with gentle hands. Relishing the weight and feel and scent of you, the privilege of shrouding you like this.
“I love you so much, Eddie.” The evidence of it trickles down his throat, collects in the pocket of his clavicle.
“God, I love you too, baby.” He still hasn’t found a way to tell you that feels strong enough. “Like you wouldn’t fucking believe.”
When you settle yourself and your tears have dried, you press your lips to his skin, kissing, kissing, kissing. Soft enough to make him shiver.
“It’s like…a horror movie, kind of,” you muse as it occurs to you, ticklish against his neck. “It scares you, but…in a good way, cause you aren’t really in danger, and you can stop it whenever you want.”
Eddie’s mind chews on that and swallows. It goes down much easier than any other way you’ve put it. “...You want me to scare you a little bit.”
You nod into him, and his brain sparks and flares like a firework.
“...I can't do the begging, I don't think,” he decides. “It's just—too real. You’re too good at it. Makes me feel like I'm really hurting you. But…”
He can feel his synapses firing. His eyes flit around as he pieces it together. You want him to scare you, to take from you even if you refuse, but there are a lot of ways to say “no” that don’t make him feel like he should be thrown under the jail and left to rot.
“What if we…kept it physical?” he suggests. “Like play fighting, almost. I'll still, y'know, pin you down and shove it in if you want me to, but it'll be less…”
“Real,” you finish for him. You push back on your own this time, your rosy, searching eyes finding his.
He nods and gives you a little smile. “Not so dark, y’know?”
“...Okay,” you agree. “That sounds good.”
And then, when it looks like you have more to say, Eddie doesn’t even need to prompt you.
“...Could you still say things?” Your stare jumps around, skittish, only landing back on him for a split second at a time. “I just… I like it when you talk.”
He grins and cocks his head to the side. “You mean like, evil asshole things? ‘I'm not asking’ and all that?”
You breathe a laugh out of your nose and bob your head in a timid nod.
“...Yeah, I think so,” he says, scratching his jaw as he thinks about it. “We’ll try it.”
Starry-eyed as you are, Eddie can’t fight the urge to kiss you, and you melt happily into it. Arms thrown around his neck, fingers in his hair, you kiss him like you need him to breathe, each insistent press longer than the last. Eddie’s well and truly love-drunk, humming pleasedly into your mouth, but he doesn’t miss the urgency in it, the way you press yourself into him as close as you can; almost like you’re trying to rile him up, and it isn’t not working. He aspirates a laugh as he finally escapes your affection.
“Wow,” he says, close to breathless. “Did, uh… Did you wanna try it right now?”
“Is that okay?” you breathe, suddenly rigid. Then, quickly: “We don’t have to.”
He must’ve left you very frustrated, or maybe renegotiating the approach worked you up again. He pinches his eyes at you in fondness.
Eddie thinks about himself, really thinks about it. The dread pit has dissipated, knowing that he doesn’t have to be that guy anymore, seeing you smile again. He feels off, sort of, some distant imprint of it stuck in the back of his mind, but even more than that, he loves you, he loves you, and he wants you. Wants to show you how much he loves you. He was still planning on making you feel good if you wanted him to, even if he couldn’t personally summon the interest to have it reciprocated, but now, he’s probably a fourth of the way hard again already just from the fever in your kiss. If you wanna roughhouse with him so bad, he’s having trouble locating any real desire not to.
“...Yeah, I’m down,” he says, trying not to look too smug at the sight of your relief. “You wanna start right now?”
“Um… First, I should—”
You cut yourself off to shove your hand into his pants and fish his dick back out of them—bold in your actions if not with your words—and Eddie chokes on a gasp.
“Christ,” he giggles, grunting as you squeeze and tug at him, rub your thumb beneath his slit. “You really need it, huh?”
“Shush,” you tell him.
Either impatient or just suffering a craving, you scoot back, stoop down, and ease him into your mouth. The soft, wet presses of your tongue against his skin open the floodgate, sending the blood rushing in.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, head tipping back in bliss. “...You’re too fuckin’ good to me.”
You keep it up until he’s hard again and a little longer after that, stroking him leisurely with your lips while Eddie pants and shivers above you. Then, you stop. Pull back completely and stare at him like you’re waiting for something, and Eddie’s brow furrows. Is he supposed to start it? He sort of thought you were, but all you’re doing is staring.
You blink at him a couple times, and just before he can ask what you’re doing, if you’re alright, if you still want to do this, you scramble off the side of the bed. He watches you with a frown for three leisurely steps, but when you throw a coy glance at him over your shoulder, it snaps into place.
A big, wolfish grin tears across his face. “Where do you think you're going, missy?”
Eddie starts after you with enough speed to make you gasp, easily catching around the middle, dragging you back towards the bed.
“Let go,” you complain, but his arms don’t budge.
“Not a chance.”
Eddie braces himself, squats down a little, and then lifts you clean off your feet, throwing you face-down onto the bed and grinning wider at the squeal that flies out of you. He grabs you by your hips and turns you onto your back, and you stare up at him with bewildered eyes and a disbelieving smile, like you didn’t think he’d actually be able to toss you around like this. Naturally, it goes straight to his head.
Then comes the fighting. You raise your arms and your legs trying to fend him off, shield yourself; shoving away his attempts to tug at your dress or stick his hand between your thighs, and neither of you can stop from smiling as Eddie struggles to push his way in, finally securing your wrists over your head and yanking your dress up.
“No, Eddie, stop,” you whine, still squirming. It's petulant, the same tone you use when he's acting immature, annoying the hell out of you for fun.
“Nope,” he says, remorseless. “You're all mine.” He slaps his fingers down over your slit to prove it, and you jolt in surprise.
“You're being mean!”
He scoffs at the accusation. “No, I'm not. You got me hard as a fucking rock, babe, and your actions have consequences.”
You laugh—it bubbles out before you can stifle it—and Jesus Christ, this is so much better. You’re defiant, sure, putting up a fight and playing annoyed as much as you can, but you aren’t resigned to hopeless sorrow like earlier. There’s a buzzing energy between you, a tension of excitement more than sheer intensity—you fight like hell to keep the smile off your face and Eddie lets his stretch deviously across his cheeks, feeling closer to a raunchy cartoon villain than any sort of genuine predator.
“But I don’t want to,” you whine again, frowning your sweet face up at him. Eddie grabs you by the jaw, and your eyes pop wider.
“You’re adorable, sweetheart,” he coos, squishing your cheeks and staring down his nose at you with all the love in the world. Your pupils spread wide and dark, inviting him into their fire. “...Since when have I ever gave a shit what you wanted?”
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