Eddie with shy virgin girlfriend please please please
This is living in my mind rent-free
Nsfw if possible, taking away her v-card
Munson Curse - Eddie Munson
warning: of course it’s smut 18+
This need was a living thing inside Eddie Munson.
It coiled in his gut, a restless serpent, every time he looked at you. It was there in the faint, possessive tap of his rings against the lunch table when you smiled. It was a low, constant hum beneath his skin when your shy, nervous laughter met one of his jokes. It was a physical ache, a sharp, sweet throb that echoed in time with his heartbeat when you’d bite your lip, your eyes darting away from his intense, adoring gaze.
You were perfect. To him, you were a creature of sublime, impossible perfection. The way your words came out soft and halting, the way you’d fiddle with the sleeve of his battle jacket when you wore it, drowning in the denim and the scent of him. The way your innocence wasn’t a fragility but a quiet, unshakeable strength that left him in awe. And it made the need so much worse. Or maybe, so much better.
He was a man of appetites - loud music, chaotic campaigns, wild gesticulations. But you… you were a quiet craving that had become a fundamental necessity. He needed you with a desperation that sometimes stole his breath.
He saw the effect he had on you. He wasn’t blind. When his eyes would darken, the usual mirth replaced by a raw, hungry intensity, he’d watch a pretty pink flush creep up your neck. You’d duck your head, a failed attempt to hide from the heat of his want. He loved it. He loved knowing he could make you feel that, even if you didn’t fully understand the language his body was speaking.
And when you were in his arms, pressed together in the shadowy confines of his bedroom or on the worn couch in the trailer, the need became a tangible, pressing thing.
Making out with you was his favorite form of worship. His hands, usually flying through the air to illustrate a dramatic D&D story, would be impossibly gentle. One cradled the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair, while the other splayed across the small of your back, holding you close. His kisses started soft, coaxing, but they always deepened, fueled by that bottomless need.
And you could feel it. Pressed against you, the hard ridge of his erection straining against his jeans was an unavoidable truth. A gasp would catch in your throat when you shifted and brushed against it. You’d freeze for a second, your body going rigid with a mixture of shock and a thrilling, terrifying curiosity.
Eddie would always break the kiss then, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged pants that fanned across your feverish skin.
“Shhh, sweetheart,” he’d murmur, his voice gravelly with restraint. “It’s okay. Just me. Just how much I want you. I’m not gonna do anything. I promise.”
He’d wait. He’d promised you, promised himself. He would wait until you were shaking with the same need, until you asked him with words or with your body, until every last shred of your sweet shyness was burned away by a fire he knew he could stoke. The waiting was a special kind of agony, but it was his agony, and he cherished it because it was for you.
The old couch in his trailer had borne witness to many of these tender, tortured sessions. The springs groaned in protest as he leaned over you, his body caging you in, his lips tracing a searing path from your mouth to the frantic pulse at your throat. The air was thick with the scent of weed, cheap laundry detergent, and the intoxicating sweetness of your skin.
You were lost in it, in the feel of his tongue against yours, the scrape of his rings against your jaw, the solid, demanding heat of him everywhere. Your hips made an involuntary, tiny arch against his, and a low groan ripped from his chest. He ground himself against you once, a helpless, friction-seeking motion, and you whimpered, your fingers clutching at his shoulders.
That’s when the trailer door creaked open.
Eddie froze, his entire body going rigid. You squeaked, trying to shrink into the cracked vinyl cushions. Eddie shifted, swift as a predator, trying to shield you from view as he looked over the back of the couch.
His Uncle Wayne stood there, keys in hand, having just finished his shift at the plant. He took in the scene: his nephew, wild-haired and flushed, hovering protectively over your thoroughly kissed, mortified form.
There was a beat of silence. Then, a low, rumbling chuckle.
“Well,” Wayne said, his voice dry as dust. “Don’t let me interrupt the, uh… negotiations.”
“Wayne,” Eddie croaked, his voice strangled.
You had buried your burning face entirely in Eddie’s chest, wishing the couch would just swallow you whole. Wayne just shook his head, a faint, amused smile on his weathered face.
“I’m gonna go put my feet up in my room. You two… try and remember the doors got a lock on it.” He ambled off down the hall, his chuckle echoing softly.
The moment his bedroom door clicked shut, the tension broke. Eddie let out a shaky breath, a mixture of relief and residual embarrassment. He looked down at you, still hiding against his t-shirt.
“Hey,” he whispered, his voice soft. “He’s gone. And he’s not mad.”
You peeked up at him, your face a brilliant, adorable shade of scarlet. “I’m going to die of embarrassment. Right here.”
Eddie’s grin was slow and wide, his own cheeks flushed. He brushed your hair back from your face. “Nah. You’re not. It’s just Wayne.” He leaned down, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to your lips. “See? Still alive.”
He settled back beside you, pulling you into his side, your head on his shoulder. The needy ache was still there, a persistent thrum in his veins, but it was soothed by the weight of you against him. He could wait. For you, he would wait forever. But God, the needing was a sweet, sweet hell.
Of all the places that felt sacred to Eddie Munson, your bedroom was quickly becoming his favorite chapel.
It was a world away from the chaotic, heavy metal haven of his own room. Your room was soft. It smelled like vanilla lotion and the faint, clean scent of fabric softener. A string of fairy lights cast a warm, golden glow over walls adorned with a few band posters and delicate prints of flowers. Stuffed animals still held a place of honor on your neatly made bed, and the sheer, gauzy curtains fluttered in the gentle night breeze from the open window - his point of entry and exit.
He was sitting cross-legged on your floral-printed rug, your hand cradled in his, tracing the lines of your palm with a calloused finger. His voice was a low, soothing rumble as he described the lair of a Lich King, not with monstrous fury, but with a reverent awe that made your stomach flutter. This was how he showed love - by sharing his worlds with you.
But tonight, the usual calm was charged with a new, electric current.
You’d been quiet for a while, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You’d been turning the words over in your mind for days, weeks. Gathering your courage. The memory of his patient need, his hungry gazes, his promises on the worn trailer couch, had finally coalesced into a single, terrifying, thrilling decision.
“Eddie,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
He stopped his story immediately, his dark eyes lifting to yours. He was always so attuned to you, catching every shift in your mood like a seismograph. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
You took a shaky breath, your gaze dropping to where your hand rested in his. The silver of his rings was cool against your warm skin. “I… I think I’m ready.”
The silence that followed was profound. The air itself seemed to still. You forced yourself to look up at him.
The change in his face was instantaneous. The playful storyteller vanished, replaced by the raw, needy man you only glimpsed in your most heated moments. His eyes widened, then darkened, the pupils swallowing the warm brown almost completely. His lips parted slightly. You could see the pulse jump in his throat.
“Yeah?” he breathed out, the word thick with emotion. He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a fervent, open-mouthed kiss to your knuckles. “Are you sure? You’re… you’re absolutely sure?”
You nodded, a nervous, jerky motion. “I’m sure.”
A shudder ran through him, a visible release of a tension he’d been carrying for months. A slow, devastatingly tender smile spread across his face. He began to lean in, his free hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. His eyes were locked on yours, full of so much love and blazing, unchecked want that it stole the air from your lungs. You could feel the heat radiating from him, pulling you in.
“Okay,” he whispered, his voice a husky promise. “Okay, sweetheart. We can—"
The sound was explosive, a sudden, deafening alarm right outside your bedroom door.
You both jolted apart as if electrocuted.
Buster, your golden retriever, who had been peacefully snoozing in the hallway, had apparently decided a squirrel of epic proportions was on the roof. His barking was a frantic, window-rattling cacophony.
Panic, cold and immediate, doused the heated moment.
Down the hall, a light flicked on. “Honey?” your mom’s sleepy voice called. “Is everything okay? What’s Buster going on about?”
Your eyes, wide with terror, met Eddie’s. His face was a mask of sheer, unadulterated agony- the agony of a dream violently deferred. The need that had been so close to being sated was now a frantic, caged thing behind his eyes.
But month of sneaking out and evading authority had honed his instincts. He was on his feet in a second, moving with a silent, practiced grace.
“I gotta go,” he mouthed, already backing towards the open window.
He gave you one last, longing look - a look that promised this isn’t over - and then he was gone, slipping out into the night like a ghost. The curtains swayed in his wake.
Your mom peeked in, squinting in the dim light. Buster shoved his wet nose through the gap, whining, his mission apparently accomplished
“Just a nightmare, I think,” you managed, your voice trembling only a little. “Buster was just… checking on me.”
Your mom smiled sleepily. “Alright. Good dog, Buster. Go back to sleep, sweetie.”
The door closed. The hall light went out.
Silence descended once more, thick and heavy. The only sound was your own ragged breathing and the happy, panting sigh of Buster as he settled back onto the hallway rug.
You crawled onto your bed, burying your burning face in the pillow that still smelled faintly of Eddie. A hysterical giggle bubbled up in your throat, followed by a groan of pure frustration. It was so perfectly, horribly timed it was almost comical.
Outside, crouched in the bushes beneath your window, Eddie Munson let his head thud back against the siding. He squeezed his eyes shut, the image of your shy, determined face seared into his mind. The needy ache in his body was a physical pain now, a throbbing reminder of what had been so cruelly interrupted.
He groaned, low and pained, into the quiet night. “You have got to be kidding me,” he whispered to the uncaring stars.
The wait had just become a thousand times more excruciating.
The universe, it seemed, had a personal vendetta against Eddie Munson getting laid.
A week had passed since The Great Buster Betrayal. A week of tense, whispered phone calls and looks in the school hallway so full of smoldering promise they should have set off the fire alarms. The need had become a tangible entity between you, a third presence that followed you everywhere. Eddie was a live wire, all jangling nerves and restless energy, his touches becoming more possessive, his kisses lingering a second too long between classes.
Tonight was the night. You’d sworn it. Your parents were at a day-long wedding two towns over. The Munson trailer was empty, Wayne pulling a double shift. The stars had finally, finally aligned.
You’d barely made it through the trailer door before he was on you, his mouth hot and desperate on yours, his hands roaming your back, your hips, pulling you flush against him. The usual gentle worship was gone, replaced by a raw, hungry urgency.
“No dogs,” he panted against your lips, backing you towards his room. “No uncles. No interruptions. Just us.”
You nodded, your own hands fisting in the soft fabric of his Hellfire shirt. “Just us.”
He kicked his bedroom door shut, the faded Black Sabbath poster rattling on the back. His room was a sanctuary of him - the cluttered shelves, the guitar in the corner, the faint, comforting scent of weed and his cheap cologne. And in the center of it all, his bed.
It was the site of so many of your fantasies. The place where he’d hold you after a nightmare, where you’d listen to cassettes for hours, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. Now, it was the promised land.
He looked at you, his chest heaving, his dark eyes blown wide with pure, unadulterated want. “You’re so perfect,” he breathed, his voice ragged. “I’ve waited so long for this.”
He guided you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. With a final, searing kiss, he laid you down, the old springs groaning a familiar welcome. He followed you down, his weight a delicious, solid pressure, his body caging you in. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling deeply as his hands began to wander, finally, blessedly, under the hem of your shirt.
Your skin prickled with anticipation. This was it. The nervous flutter in your stomach was being chased away by a wave of pure, liquid heat. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips.
Eddie responded with a groan of his own, shifting his weight to get a better angle, to bring his body more fully over yours.
It was the shift that did it.
There was a sound-not the comfortable groan of settling springs, but a sharp, sickening CRACK of protesting wood.
Then, a catastrophic SNAP.
The world dropped out from under you.
The center of the bed gave way with a tremendous, groaning sigh. The mattress tilted violently, spilling you both into the sudden, V-shaped canyon that had opened up in the middle of the frame. Your limbs tangled, your head bonked gently against the headboard, and you landed in a heap of shock, limbs, and floral-printed comforter.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
You were lying at a bizarre angle, half-pinned under a very stunned Eddie Munson. You blinked, trying to process the sudden change in altitude and atmosphere.
Eddie was frozen. You could feel the rigid line of his entire body against yours. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted his head. His hair was a wild halo, his eyes wide with a mixture of horror, disbelief, and the rapidly deflating remnants of world-ending lust.
He looked at you. He looked at the broken bed frame, the mattress slumped sadly in the middle. He looked back at you.
A sound escaped him. It started as a choked gasp, then morphed into a wheeze, and finally erupted into full-bodied, helpless laughter. It was a laugh of pure, unadulterated hysterical frustration.
You stared for a second, the absurdity of the situation crashing down on you. The most anticipated moment of your young lives, ruined by a piece of termite-riddled wood. A giggle bubbled up in your own throat, then another, until you were both lying in the wreckage of his bed, laughing until tears streamed down your faces.
Eddie finally rolled off you, clutching his stomach. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!” he howled, kicking a leg out at the broken frame. “The bed? The BED?”
You wiped tears from your eyes, your body still shaking with laughter. “I guess… I guess we were too much for it,” you managed.
He turned his head to look at you, his laughter softening into a look of such profound, aching affection it made your breath catch. He reached out, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“Nah, sweetheart,” he said, his voice warm and rough. “The world just can’t handle how perfect we are together. It’s trying to stop us.”
He sat up, groaning as he surveyed the damage. “Well… there goes the mood, huh?”
You sat up too, leaning against his shoulder. The frantic, needy energy was gone, replaced by a warm, comfortable intimacy. The need was still there-it would always be there with him—but it was banked for now, soothed by shared laughter.
“We could… fix it?” you suggested weakly.
Eddie snorted, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. “Tomorrow. Wayne’s got some two-by-fours in the shed. We’ll rebuild it. Fortify it.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. “For the next attempt.”
You sighed, content in the circle of his arms, sitting in the ruins of his bed. The universe might be against you, but as long as you were with him, even the catastrophes felt like adventures.
The air in Eddie's van was thick with the scent of his cologne, weed, and a new, electric tension that was all raw, unfiltered need. There were no more obstacles. No dogs, no uncles, no structurally unsound furniture. Just the two of you, parked at the edge of Lover's Lake, the moon a sliver of silver watching over the still, black water.
He killed the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening. He didn't look at you, just stared out at the lake, his knuckles white where they gripped the steering wheel. You could see the rapid pulse hammering in his throat.
"Eddie?" you whispered, your voice small in the vast quiet.
That broke his trance. He turned to you, and the look in his eyes was enough to steal the air from your lungs. It was pure, unadulterated hunger. The playful, patient boyfriend was gone, stripped away by weeks of agonizing frustration, leaving behind a man on the edge.
"No more waiting," he said, his voice a low, gravelly promise that was not a request.
You just managed a shaky nod.
That was all the invitation he needed. In one fluid, desperate motion, he was out of his driver's seat, the van door sliding open and shut with a bang. A second later, your door was wrenched open. His hands were on you, not with their usual gentle reverence, but with a fierce possessiveness. He unbuckled your seatbelt, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of your stomach, making you jolt. He didn't say a word as he half-lifted, half-guided you into the back of the van, where he'd laid out a nest of blankets and pillows.
The second you were both in the confined space, the dam broke.
His mouth crashed down on yours. This wasn't the soft, exploring kiss from your bedroom or the passionate, interrupted ones on his couch.
His tongue plunged into your mouth, claiming you, tasting you with a guttural groan that vibrated deep in his chest.
One hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back to give him better access, while the other slid down your back, over the curve of your ass, gripping you hard and pulling your hips flush against his.
You could feel the rigid length of him, already straining against his jeans, pressing into your stomach. A whimper escaped you, a sound of shock and overwhelming arousal. He swallowed the sound, his kiss becoming even more demanding
"Need to feel you," he rasped against your lips, his hands frantic. "All of you.”
His fingers found the hem of your shirt and yanked it up and over your head, tossing it into the darkness. The cool night air hit your skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of his palms. He looked down at you, your chest heaving in your simple bra, his eyes dark and wild.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he breathed, before his mouth left yours and trailed a hot, wet path down your neck, to the swell of your breasts. He mouthed at you through the fabric, his teeth scraping lightly over a pebbled nipple, making you cry out and arch into him.
He made quick, clumsy work of the clasp of your bra, his rings catching for a moment before it gave way. When he saw you, bare to the waist in the dim light, he stilled for a moment, his breath catching. "Christ," he whispered, almost a prayer. Then his mouth was on you, his tongue laving one peak while his thumb and forefinger rolled the other. The sensation was so intense, so direct, it was almost too much.
Your hands came up to clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging into the leather of his vest.
He understood. His hands went to the button of your jeans, popping it open, dragging the zipper down with a harsh rasp. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your jeans and panties and, with a single, rough tug, peeled them down your legs and off, leaving you completely bare and exposed to his hungry gaze. He knelt between your legs, his eyes raking over you, from your flushed face to the apex of your thighs.
"Perfect," he growled. "Fucking perfect."
He didn't give you time to feel self-conscious. He leaned down, but instead of kissing your mouth, he continued his descent, his lips and tongue tracing a blazing trail down your stomach, over your hip bones, until he was there, his hot breath ghosting over the very core of you.
You gasped, trying to close your legs.
"Eddie, wh-what are you-"
"Shhh," he soothed, his hands spreading your thighs apart, holding you open. "I need to taste you, sweetheart. I've dreamed about this."
And then his mouth was on you.
You cried out, your back bowing off the blankets. It was unlike anything you'd ever felt.
His tongue was relentless, licking into you with a firm, wet pressure, circling the most sensitive part of you before sucking it gently into his mouth.
His stubble scraped against the tender skin of your inner thighs, a delicious friction. One of his hands remained on your hip, pinning you in place, while the other slid up your stomach to palm your breast, his thumb flicking over your nipple in time with the rhythm of his tongue.
The world narrowed to the feeling of his mouth, the scent of him, the ragged sounds of his breathing and your own helpless, keening moans. The coil of pleasure in your belly tightened, spiraling tighter and tighter, a frantic, building pressure. You were babbling, his name a broken litany on your lips.
"Eddie... I'm... I can't..."
He groaned against you, the vibration pushing you even closer to the edge.
"Come for me, baby," he commanded, his voice muffled against your flesh. "Let me feel it."
It was the command in his voice that shattered you. The coil snapped, and a wave of pure, blinding pleasure crashed over you, wracking your body with violent tremors. You screamed his name, your fingers tangling in his wild curls, holding him to you as you rode out the convulsions.
Before the last tremor had even subsided, he was moving. He reared up, frantically unbuckling his own belt, the metal clinking loudly in the silence. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his dick. He was thick and hard, the tip flushed and leaking. He positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes, black with lust, locked on yours.
"Look at me," he demanded, his voice rough. "I want to see your eyes when I'm inside you."
You nodded, breathless, still reeling from your climax, your body hypersensitive and aching for him.
There was a sharp, brief sting of pain, and you flinched, a tear leaking from the corner of your eye. Eddie froze instantly, his whole body trembling with the effort of his restraint.
"Okay?" he gritted out, his forehead beaded with sweat.
You took a shaky breath, the initial pain already fading, replaced by a feeling of incredible, shocking fullness. "Yes," you breathed. "Don't stop."
A ragged groan tore from his throat, and he began to move. He started slow, shallow thrusts, letting your body adjust to his. But the control was short-lived.
Months of waiting, the interruptions, the sheer depth of his need for you-it was too much. His thrusts became deeper, harder, faster.
His mouth found yours again in a messy, desperate kiss. "So tight," he panted against your lips. "So fucking good for me. You feel that? That's all for you. Always for you."
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting his frantic rhythm. The pleasure was building again, different this time, deeper, coiling from the place where you were joined together.
The sounds were obscene-the slick, wet sound of your joining, his guttural grunts, your high, breathy moans.
"Gonna come," he warned, his rhythm becoming erratic, brutal. "Where do you want it, baby? Tell me."
"Inside," you begged, lost to everything but him. "Please, Eddie."
That was his undoing. With a final, deep, grinding thrust that hit a spot inside you that made you see stars, he shouted your name, his body seizing up. You felt the hot, pulsing release of him deep inside you, and it triggered your own second, shattering climax, this one even more intense than the first. Your inner muscles clenched around him, milking him through his own release as you sobbed his name into his shoulder.
He collapsed on top of you, his full weight a welcome, solid anchor. You could feel his heart hammering against your own, a frantic, synchronized beat.
For a long time, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the gentle lapping of the lake water outside.
Slowly, carefully, he shifted his weight to the side, pulling out with a soft hiss. He didn't let you go, though. He gathered you into his arms, pulling the blanket over your cooling, sweat-slicked skin. He pressed a kiss, impossibly soft and tender now, to your forehead.
"How are you?" he murmured, his voice hoarse.
You nuzzled into his chest, inhaling his familiar, beloved scent now mixed with the new, intimate scent of the two of you together. "Perfect."
He chuckled, a low, satisfied rumble.
"Took us long enough." He held you tighter. "Worth every second of the wait."
As you lay tangled together in the back of his beat-up van, listening to his heartbeat slow to a steady rhythm, you knew he was right. The universe had thrown everything it had at you, but it had failed. You were his, and he was yours. Finally, completely.
