Gif by the lovely @loveu2themoonandtosaturn, dividers by @/cursed-carmin
Eddie Munson x Cheerleader!Reader
Summary: It was a normal day for Eddie. Arriving at school late, getting to class late, leaving lunch late. But then an anonymous note, inked in glittery pink gel, fluttered from his locker. And he knew whose it was. No doubt about it. Because it was the same handwriting as the short message on the last page of his junior yearbook. Carved in glitter, color faded from the amount of times his thumb had traced every curved letter, every dotted ‘i’ and crossed ‘t’. It was yours. It was you. Calling him to the forest behind the school. And he had never been so early.
Or
You seek Eddie out, maybe for a little herbal relief, maybe for something more. And who is he to turn down such a pretty girl? But how will he fare having to skirt the edges of your loose-lipped truths?
Word Count: 11.1k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, PiV unprotected sex, semi-public sex, cream pie, virginity loss, dirty talk, nipple stim, fingering, oral (f rec), mention of masturbation (m), insinuated hypothetical pregnancy, virgin!Reader, semi-experienced!Eddie, fluff, mild angst, very mild dubcon (both R & E are high), Eddie’s POV, drug usage (weed), feelings, insecurity, fem pronouns, if I missed anything lmk!
Song Recs: Evie by Shoe, Palomino by FINNEAS, I Want Somebody Badly by Jeff Buckley
A/N: Everyone say thank you and kiss this anon’s forehead for the idea. Also, it’s been a minute since I’ve freshly written a full fic and not just posted a draft from the summer, so be nice to me.
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“You’re pretty.”
The words catch Eddie off guard. Especially since you haven’t spoken in two minutes, utterly transfixed by the sky above. Or maybe it was the falling leaves that stole your attention; scarlet and gold floating on the autumn breeze. Delicate. Pretty.
Either way, he hadn’t expected to hear such a sentiment from the Hawkins High cheer captain.
Although, he hadn’t expected to be here with you, at all, as a matter of fact.
Not in the woods behind the school.
And definitely not alone.
It’s unnatural.
You, laid out on top of the picnic table. Him, hunched on the seat below, straddling the old plank of wood. Too close.
Closer than he’s ever been.
It’s aberrant, really.
But maybe, just for today, everything is topsy-turvy.
Maybe it will go back to normal soon. You in your bubble, him in his. Two separate worlds. Two separate planets orbiting the same rust-bucket town. The same miserable high school. At least for a few more months.
Then he’ll get the hell out of this place. Just drive and drive and drive until the scent of manure no longer singes his nose hairs. Until the cornfields turn into beaches. Or mountains. Or shit, even swamp lands. He’s not picky.
And you’ll be off at some college, probably.
Find a braincell-deficient jock and pop out a couple of kids. He’s picturing a picket fence somewhere there, too. Possibly a station wagon with that dumb wooden interior. He hates that wooden interior.
And you’ll forget he ever existed.
And he’ll—
“So pretty.”
It’s lower this time. A whisper. Like it was only meant to stay inside your head. Like you weren’t even aware you said it.
And maybe you aren’t aware. Maybe the weed is hitting you hard. Too hard. It’s only your first time.
So maybe he should pretend like he didn’t hear. Just continue to act like the metal box in front of him needs reorganizing.
Re-reorganizing, even.
Whatever it takes to not notice the way your pleated skirt has ridden up, bunched at the tops of your thighs.
Because he hasn’t noticed.
No, he’s not aware of how smooth your skin looks, or how the cherry blossom scent of your lotion seems to intoxicate him more than the shared joint, now forgotten, smoldering between your fingers.
He has no idea what color panties you’re wearing, and absolutely no clue what powder blue fabric looks like when it darkens.
Baggies to the left. Try to prop them up against each other. Bottles to the right. Line them up. Shit, the baggies won’t sit upright. Maybe lay them flat? Then, if he moves the tin—
“Do you think I’m pretty, too?”
Fuck.
Your heavy-lidded gaze is directed at him now, and he finally feels the high. Or maybe it’s just your effect; the kind of haze that leaves him wondering what new strain has him seeing a real life angel. The kind of feeling that sends his heart away at a dead sprint and his mind swimming in a tank of molasses.
Everything is muffled. And there’s only you. And those eyes. Waiting.
“Y-Yeah,” he chokes, hoping you don’t see the heat blooming beneath his cheeks. “You’re pretty. ‘S kinda your thing.” He shrugs. “Popular and pretty.”
It’s a deflection. It’s bitter. It’s crashing through the bubble with an unceremonious pop.
Because yes, you’re pretty. Everyone knows it. Everyone.
Him noticing isn’t any different.
You blink. “But do you think I’m pretty? Just pretty.”
He pauses, wondering, for only a split second, if this was all some kind of elaborate rouse to incriminate him. If, any minute now, Andy and Jason are going to step out from behind one of these trees, itching for a fight. Because Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson is tainting the precious queen of Hawkins High. His no-good, low-life, burn-out presence might as well stain your skin like black tar.
But he nods, nonetheless. A calculated risk; it’s shaky, not insincere.
And that seems to be enough because your painted lips twitch into a small smile. It’s a breath of fresh air. If only his heart would stop pounding against his ribs like it’s trying to get out. To get to you.
“I told my friends, once, and they didn’t talk to me for a day and a half.”
Your smile is gone now. And your gaze is empty as you turn back to the tree tops.
Eddie shifts in his seat, feeling more and more like he’s fallen through the looking glass.
“T-Told them what?”
He’s not sure he wants the clarification. Not sure he wants to understand. Because it doesn’t seem like it’ll work. Like he’ll never truly understand if you say what he—
“That I think you’re pretty,” you mutter, turning to him again, a simple pout weighing your features down.
Fuck.
“We were talking about crushes, and they said theirs. And they were so…excited…. And Heather was trying to convince Jackie S. to tell Patrick how she felt. And I wanted to feel it too.”
He can barely breathe, so he stays silent, just letting you speak to no one in particular. Because he’s not here.
Not now.
Not on this planet.
Not in the same reality as the girl he’s pretended not to watch since the middle school talent show. The girl whose perfume somehow lives in his mind, though he’s never bathed in it longer than a shoulder brush through the halls. Not that girl, not in this reality.
Not you. Telling him he’s pretty. No way—
“—wanted to hear what they’d say. Like if they would tell me we’d look cute together, or they’d say they’ve seen you looking at me, or something, and maybe there’s a chance.”
Fuck, he’s low on E.
And these damn baggies don’t organize well—he should really label them. And Reefer Rick has probably laced this new, stupid supply with something because there’s simply no conceivable way—
“But they just looked at me like I said something insane. Asked me if I was joking. They didn’t believe me at first—”
He snorts, twisting the skull ring around his finger until the skin underneath starts to heat. You’re silent now, and he almost doesn’t want to look. But he has to. So he does.
Your polished nails, the lipstick stained joint, thousands of wool fibers bending and yielding to the curves of your body. Then that pout, your eyes. A frown.
The baggies of pills, the weathered wood; carved initials giving way to new grain.
“You don’t believe me, either?”
It’s so broken sounding, he has half a mind to lie and say of course he does. Of course he believes you, resident queen of Hawkins High—the girl who prances through school with five guys, minimum, trailing after her, lovesick and delusionally hormonal—are telling the God’s-honest truth. That you have somehow taken a liking to the town pariah.
The people’s princess has woken up this day and decided she’d like to bestow upon him, of all people, the greatest charity he could never repay, nor even begin to deserve.
And you’d say this exact thing stone-cold sober. Sure.
He could say that.
“Um—” he clears his throat, repeatedly dragging a dirty Reebok on the ground until a pile of curled leaves starts to grow, “I believe…uh, we’ve probably had enough.”
Before you can make a move to stop him, he plucks the joint from between your fingers, ignoring the shock of your touch.
The faint sizzle of embers being extinguished on old wood is the only sound that fills the air. That, and the rustle of wind through the trees.
He can feel your eyes on him as he licks his fingers and pinches the end of the roll. It may very well be laced, but he’s not the wasteful type.
And anyway, he’s got plans later. A date with his right hand and the well-loved porno mag he’s made some…changes…to. All while he pretends not to remember how your lips wrapped around the very same joint he hopes will last him long enough.
You sit up suddenly, swinging your legs over the edge of the picnic table. He nearly knocks his metal lunchbox off the seat, scrambling to avoid the brush of your skin.
“Do you not like me?”
The words are filled with accusation, woven by insecurity, and Eddie feels insane. Clinically. Terminally, even. That’s not a thing, but given his luck, he could be the first man, ever, to die from a hot chick coming onto him.
Because what the actual fuck? You’re looking at him like his very existence is a puzzle to you. As if you can’t imagine why in the world he’d be second-guessing your confession.
He clears his throat, again, but chokes on his breath the second you slide down next to him, your skirt creeping impossibly higher before settling properly. And he’s up in a flash, like only the heat of you near him is all it takes to burn. And God, does it burn.
“N-No! No, I, um, I—I just don’t know you.” He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “Basically just met you today, really.”
He could almost kick himself, the way his voice jumps an octave he’s certain only liars can reach. And you seem to hold the same belief, your eyes all but say as much as you stand to follow him.
Leaves crunch under his shuffling footsteps, and you pause, as if realizing the space between is carefully set.
It’s a choice he’s fighting to make, just as he’s fighting not to look at you. Though, one is admittedly easier than the other.
“I mean, not really. We’ve been going to the same school since, like, sixth grade—”
He shakes his head, correcting, “Your sixth; my eighth.”
Bewilderment overtakes your frown, and he understands the semantics appear meaningless to you, but they keep him up at night. When the hours tick by and delusion creeps into the edges of his foggy mind, thoughts of fate start to sound more and more sane.
“My mom even made you that casserole when your uncle was sick.”
Oh, yeah.
That.
He remembers that day. Thinks about it when the delusion turns sour and his conscience wants to remind him what an embarrassment he is.
He remembers perfectly how he heard your heels clicking from down the hall. How he took one look through the small hospital window, saw you in your Sunday best and booked it to the en suite bathroom.
How he left Wayne to fend for himself in a state of utter confusion, never having seen his nephew move so fast. How he hid in the small space, surrounded by porcelain and that chemical smell that still makes his skin crawl. Just so he wouldn’t have to face you.
So he wouldn’t have to watch you charm his uncle, lift his spirits like you do everyone.
No, he only had to listen and imagine what shade of lipstick you chose to match with your outfit. Because that was way easier than seeing the cruel fluorescent lights fail to hollow you out like it did everyone who entered that godforsaken room.
Yeah, hearing the raspy laugh of his uncle, followed by your airy giggles through the surprisingly thin walls was a cakewalk compared to what it would have been had he been forced to smile and nod along.
Act as if you and he lived the same kind of life. As if one wasn’t a plunder and the other a jaunt through the daisies.
Eddie paces, unable to let his twitching muscles rest. “Yeah, but what does it really mean to know someone, you know? Uh oh! I’m gettin’ philosophical now!” He chuckles, but it’s strained, and your frown comes back, unmovable this time. “Probably the weed.”
His words are stilted, and you seem too aware of this performance, but he will press on with forced amusement until you believe him. Or at least until you let him be; go on back to your bubble. Leave him to suffocate in his.
“Are you high? I’m high. I think we’re both really high. It’s so funny, it’s like I don’t even know what I’m saying— Blah!” He flails about, already planning on checking himself into Pennhurst after this. “This is so crazy! We probably make no sense right now.”
You cross your arms, trudging back to the picnic table. The breeze lifts your skirt as you plop down, and Eddie turns away. Because he has to.
“I’m not that high and neither are you.”
It’s that damn pout that’s going to do him in.
Curls twist around his fingers as he tries to hide behind his hair. “No…no, I’m pretty high.” He nods. “‘Miss Hawkins 1982’ is sitting here, tellin’ me she’s got, like, what—a crush on me?”
“‘S more than a crush,” you mumble petulantly, but for his sanity, he elects to ignore it.
“I mean, shit! I didn’t think weed had hallucinogenic properties, but you know.” His shoulders shrug in defeat, and he still can’t look at you. “Learn somethin’ new every day!”
Your head cocks to the side. “So you don’t believe me?”
Eyes wide as saucers, he wonders if this is what it would feel like to explain the sky to a mole.
“Of course I don’t believe you! You sound crazy! I mean you’re…” He searches for the words, but how does one sum up almost a decade of watching? Of wanting— “You. …And I’m me.”
It’s softer. Lower. Just where he should be. Because really, you’re the sky. And he’s just a burrower. Too afraid to leave the caverns he’s carved in his mind, even for warmth. For light. For a smile that doesn’t shine—
“Right…” Your mouth pulls, dim, and the huff of breath sounds derisive, like you can’t possibly pass it for a laugh, but still, you try. “You’re you, and I’m me—”
He nods along, internalizing the sound of his own words on your lips. If you believe it, that will be enough. It will be enough.
“Just boring…me—”
The sentence drips with resignation. As if it’s a truth you’ve cuddled up to long enough for the feelings to subside. Roommates with your own distaste. A years-long relationship molded into resentment. He feels sick.
“What?”
You resituate yourself, pulling inward, and if you could transform the atoms in the air, Eddie thinks there’d be a wall already reaching above the highest branches.
“No, I just— It makes sense.” You tug at your sweater until your hands are almost hidden, and regret nips at his bare skin, colder than the breeze. “It’s totally true; you’re so cool—”
He swallows the words, but they catch in his throat. Unusual and untrue. And despite his quiet, “Cool?” that slips out, coated in disbelief, you carry on, adding brick after brick.
“You’ve got your band, and that game you love to play—”
Now that’s just strange.
“D&D?” he mutters, blanching at the sentiment. Because, yeah, he thinks it’s cool. But he can count on one hand how many other Hawkins residents think the same.
You perk up a bit, and he feasts on the split-second of sunlight. “Yeah! That’s the one. And you literally run a club for it. That’s, like, the definition of cool.”
It’s the high. It’s the marijauna in your system. Either that, or you and he have vastly different definitions of cool—
“And your music taste! I hear you drive up to school all the time; you’re always blasting that metal stuff! It’s so…” your eyes wander, as if searching for the right word and his mind fills in the usual blanks: loud, shitty, annoying, satanic. “unique!”
You’re too good. He’s decided it. Not because of the popularity, like he had chalked it up to before. This is different. It’s pure.
And he’s tar.
“You know, if I had a nickel for every time someone told me my music taste was…unique, I’d be broke,” he huffs, crossing his arms like the act will protect against your budding smile, growing back like the first bloom of May flowers.
“Well, I’m sure they just haven’t tried it yet.” And you’re so sure. He can hear the optimism in your voice and it’s deafening.
But then, it’s like time reverses, and in comes the April shower to drown the delicate bud; you retreat into yourself, again. Smile fading, insecurity rearing.
“I’ve never… I mean— I’ve never really tried it before, either.”
Now you won’t look at him, and the insinuation of your words alone is enough to haunt him.
With a sigh, he closes the distance, sitting beside you on the bench. For a moment, he only listens to his own pulse. The rushing in his ears. He waits for the confidence to speak, unaware it’s a bus that will never come.
But impatience gets the best of him, and he decides to walk it.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel— It’s just— I just—” He groans, watching the thoughts pass him by while he fails to hang onto even one. His skin feels too tight and he’s certain the only solution is to peel it off his miserable bones. “I don’t know why I am the way that I am.”
The admission rings out like a shot in the autumn air, and the silence that follows lands like an atom bomb, breaking the sound barrier in a mushroom cloud of mortifying truth.
He doesn’t know why he said it.
Why he thought cutting himself down while you’re bleeding makes some sort of difference. How it could possibly count as some kind of balm to your wounds.
But you wear your wounds well. And truth leaks from you without loss. It pools without inhibition. Not yielding, but seeping. Filling the cracks in him—the tunnels that quake—with something malleable and pure. Not viscous and sticky. Not like tar.
His head hangs low, eyes following the way your thumb smooths over your wool skirt. Then his gaze tracks downward, and he wishes it wouldn’t. But your skin looks so soft, and he traces the curving terrain until he sees your pearly-white Keds digging into the dirt.
You could probably make it to China before he finds the right words to fix this.
“You know, I’ve never had to convince a girl not to like me.” The quirk of his lips doesn’t change the tone, despite his best efforts.
You cross your ankles, old wood creaking under you. “No?”
It’s simple. Gentle. You’re humoring him. And it’s a kindness he can’t afford, but you give it to him anyway, charity case that he is.
“No.” He huffs, something like a snicker but without the joke. “Usually, it’s the opposite.”
More atomic silence. And he starts to wonder if he ever actually learned how to behave properly. If he fundamentally misunderstands how to have a conversation.
Or maybe he was just swapped at birth with an alien whose sole purpose is to elicit discomfort. And maybe there’s a human version of him out there, travelling among the stars, charming and suave, dripping with bravado. Yeah, that’s probably it. That’s what he’ll—
“What’s the argument then?”
His brows furrow, and he swings his head to look at you. But the second his eyes meet yours, he has to force himself not to flee. Not to make a coward’s retreat.
“What?”
“The argument,” you respond coolly. “How are you gonna persuade me not to like you?”
God, he wishes you’d stop saying it. Maybe it’d be easier to hear if it didn’t sound so earnest. If it didn’t sound like it came from a well of truth.
His foot taps on the ground as he thinks, hands flexing restlessly. “Well…I guess I kind of thought the everything about me was argument enough.”
You stare silently, and his flesh might as well be made of a cellophane the way your gaze seems to expertly track the gears turning in his mind.
“But clearly not,” he murmurs.
Your lips quirk. “Nope.”
The glint in your eyes should scare him. Should shake him to his core. Because there’s something about this particular glimmer…
With the determination of a predator poised to attack, or a vulture itching to pick him apart, you watch. Quietly. Waiting. It’s the kind of look only the helpless are on the other side of. He should be terrified.
But he’s not. His hands aren’t shaking out of fear, and his stomach doesn’t flip out of nerves.
No, it’s something else entirely.
Your chin tips, and your smile curls around the words. “To ensure a fair hearing, the court must consider all evidence; Mr. Munson, you may proceed.”
His grin stretches, and he turns his body the slightest bit towards you.
“Okay,” he nods, pondering the laundry list of reasons he has locked and loaded, ready to go. Who’s the lucky winner? What’s the bare minimum he can share without mortally wounding his pride—well, more than it already is. “Alright, well, sometimes I forget to wear deodorant, and I end up smelling really bad.”
Before he has a chance to regret his choice, your laugh drowns out every doubt. It cracks through him with an unbearable weight, leaving behind splintered shards of bone instead of prison bars. His heartbeat sounds louder now.
And for a moment—only a moment—he forgets why he said anything at all. He forgets the point. He forgets that the melody floating from your lips doesn’t belong in his dysfunctional orchestra.
But the urge is there. To hear it again. To be the cause.
Your eyes squint from the size of your smile. “Shut up.”
Locked in your gravitational pull, he moves closer—minutely, and he wouldn’t if he could help it.
“No, I’m serious! It’s bad! That’s why I gotta leave school early sometimes, I start to smell like vegetable soup by 2 p.m.”
His grin is stuck as he watches your head fall back, the melody growing stronger, lodging somewhere deep in his brain. Between cobwebs and old, out-of-tune earworms. He imagines bottling the sound and building a shelf just to hold it.
“You’re an idiot,” you huff breathlessly, the word not carrying the same sting it usually would if it came from anyone else. Because there’s no bite to it. No teeth, even.
He leans in before he can stop himself. “Ah, see, that’s a good one, too! I’m an idiot!”
But the melody quiets, and the violins screech a nasty response as your smile starts to fall.
“No, you’re not.”
It’s firm and final, like you truly believed it even before it slipped from your lips.
“Yes, I am,” he says, soft yet steadfast. “I’m a three-time super senior army crawling my way to a ‘D’ in Mrs. O’Donnell’s class. And I’ve had two full tries at it.”
You cock your head, eyeing him closely. Then—
“Well, practice makes perfect. Plus, I think it’s totally your year.”
Your smile is back and so is the warmth in Eddie’s body. If he had any sense, he’d steer the conversation elsewhere, because somehow, you’ve managed to flirt with him over his tragic academic history. You’re too powerful. You and your honeyed words, so sweet and thick, he could choke if he’s not careful.
He shifts, but can’t bring himself to move away. “Okay…what about this—I wanna do music.”
Your brows raise and he can tell you see through his pitiful attempt.
“Well…you’re in a band,” you shrug. “I kind of already knew that—”
“No, like, professionally. That’s what I wanna do. I wanna go to L.A. and, I don’t know, like, get a record deal and shit, and just make music.” The light still shines in your eyes and he knows you’re not getting it. “No college for me, no office job, no suburbs—no picket fence kind of life.”
Your gaze never strays from his. “Eddie, that’s not a bad thing. That’s—that’s inspiring.”
God, you’re making this hard. Especially when you look at him like that—like he’s something to be enamored by. Something worth looking at. Something pretty…
“No,” he shakes his head, clinging to the reality where you aren’t leaning closer to him, where your soft, perfumed skin doesn’t brush against his rough, bargain-bin jeans. “No, it’s a pipedream. It’s basically me begging to live in a van for the rest of my life because you and I both know it will never—”
“Eddie,” you cut in, grabbing his hand, “let me save you the energy. There’s nothing you can say that will stop how I feel. This isn’t a new thing. I’m not going through a phase. It’s not just a blip or a crush— I like you, Eddie Munson.”
His heartbeat slows, skipping every third thud like an old record, and he now knows the weight of your hand in his.
And for the first time since his fingers brushed yours while passing the joint, he can’t look away. No amount of self-control or misplaced willpower can drag him up from the depths of your imploring gaze.
“I like you a lot. You’re sweet,” and his face must’ve twitched because you grin and add, “When you’re not trying to act all tough and broody.”
Cellophane. He’s complete cellophane around you. Weak and pliant and see-through. His posturing means nothing, and he wonders if you always knew that.
If every snide comment to the jocks came with a footnote in the smallest print only you could read: I’m jealous they get your time. They don’t deserve it.
If every breezy look elsewhere gave him away as you’d walk past his table in the lunchroom, swaying skirt billowing in the winds of his repression.
“—and you make me laugh, and you’re honest.” Your hand squeezes his and he can’t quite bring himself to hold it yet. To open up. To keel over and admit defeat. “I just feel like everyone here…pretends to live the life they think they should live. But you don’t do that. You just live. And I think that’s beautiful.”
Your chin tips low and he has a near physical reaction from losing the heat of your attention.
“I think you’re beautiful.”
His mind whirs, sirens blare, but they’re silent. Unhelpful. Useless. Exactly what he feels like in the wake of your confession. And the only thought he can hold onto long enough to realize it’s just as useless is: he should buy a lottery ticket, or something.
“I—”
He watches you shift, doesn’t hear you breathe.
“I…think you stole my line…”
The pitiful excuse for a chuckle comes too late. Too weak to sound genuine, but just strong enough to deflect. Because that’s what he’s good at, right? Deflecting? Distracting?
Rejecting, apparently. At least that’s how you seem to take it, the way your hand slips from his so easily. The way your shoulders hunch and your legs squeeze together.
Small. You’re making yourself small for him.
And he’s just too unsteady. He’s not firing on all cylinders, not since you clipped his wires a ways back. Somewhere around you’re pretty and I like you. Just left of I told my friends and down the street from you’re cool.
“Sorry. That was…a lot. God.” Your frown is back and you turn to say something, then give up before you even start. A beat. Then, “I—I’m sorry if I scared you off with all of that.”
You say it as if the moment’s done. As if he’s not still clinging to your words with a white-knuckled grip.
And you retreat.
Not in any real way.
No, you’re still sitting next to him, still closer than ever before, but now, chipping away at your nail polish seems to be far more interesting than anything he could offer.
“Well…I’m still here…” he tries, unsure.
“Yeah…. You’re still here,” you echo quietly.
Showing mercy to your manicure, you shove your hands into your lap, twisting your fingers up. He recognizes the movement. The attempt to banish the need. The need to touch. He’s felt it too. Feels it now.
The bricks stack higher as your wall grows; a structure never meant to be scaled.
But he’s a burrower.
“You know…” he ponders, forcing the humor from his tone. “I’m starting to think maybe it’s not the weed…”
That gets you.
He hears the melody again, sees your wry smile.
“Shut up,” you whine, shoving his chest.
He moves fast and with grace as he traps your hand with his, holding your palm just over where your first laugh torpedoed his ribcage. Where the prisoner waits.
“Your heart’s beating so fast,” you whisper, voice full of awe—the kind that quickly begins to carve away at his weakened flesh.
He huffs, low and earnest. “Yeah…. The prettiest girl in Hawkins just told me she likes me and there’s nothing I can do about it. You’re lucky I haven’t gone into cardiac arrest over this.”
You smirk, and he thinks it might just kill him. Like actually.
“Hm, well, now I feel like I’m kind of missing out on that…”
He snorts, his grin stretching wide. “Oh, yeah? You want me to keel over right here, right now?”
Your smile turns demure and he knows it’s a lie. Then, you give an innocent shrug that can’t even fool him.
“I mean, I’m not saying I wouldn’t be extremely flattered—”
He jolts suddenly, grunting and groaning, curling his fingers tighter around your hand as he falls back against the edge of the wooden picnic top.
You gasp, turning to prop a knee on the bench as you lean over his stiff body. “Oh my God, medic!” Your empty call echoes in the air, amusement bubbling just beneath the surface. Then, your voice falls to a low mutter. “Ohh, what do I do, what do I do? Damnit, I should’ve paid more attention in First Aid.”
Eddie convulses some, really driving the near Oscar-worthy performance home. Then he peeks an eye open, choking out, “M-Mmm-mouth.”
Your mask slips as you smirk, leaning closer. “Sorry, what was that? I didn’t quite catch it over all the dying.”
He slumps even more, the table digging beneath his shoulderblades as he sputters, “Mmm-mouth-to-mouth—”
You sit back, chewing the inside of your cheek and leveling him with an assessing stare as he twitches. “No…that can’t be it…”
Both eyes open as he brokenly utters, “No, it definitely is— With tongue! The tongue helps—”
You snicker, “Oh, yeah? It’s a necessity?”
He squeezes your hand. “Yeah, big—big necessity.”
You lean in, so close, and his mind turns to static as your perfume invades his senses.
This is it. It’s going to happen. Almost a decade of dreams that left him waking up in sticky discomfort, and he’s going to know the taste of—
“See, I just don’t remember that in the course,” you shrug, pulling away abruptly. “Mouth-to-mouth, sure, but adding tongue?”
One last shot, he reaches into the sky dramatically, convulses, then slackens in a lifeless heap, accented by his best death rattle.
He hears you call out, some half-assed plea that wouldn’t convince a soul, but then everything stops. Your lips slot against his, soft and plush and timid, and you might as well have used the paddles, the way his system shocks into action.
His hand finally releases yours, but you don’t move it, and he settles a gentle grip on the back of your head. Heavy enough to beg for more, soft enough to leave room for an escape, if you so choose.
But you don’t. Instead, your tongue glides along his top lip—a teasing kind of sweetness he accepts gladly, thankfully. He responds in kind—in hunger.
He can taste your cherry lip gloss, hear your surprised hum. It’s a tiny sort of sound he swallows with a groan of his own.
Then the pressure is gone. The taste, the noises—all gone. The music has stopped and the dizzying dance comes to an end with a blinding grin.
“Oh my God, it’s a miracle,” you pant, smoothing your palm up his chest until you reach skin.
He sits up, dazed, and you don’t move away, just letting him hover close like the proximity isn’t debilitating.
His next words slur out before he has a chance to think of a smoother line— “Have you ever considered becoming a doctor?”
And you laugh. And he’s learning that maybe you don’t want smooth. Because if you did, he certainly wouldn’t be your first call, and you wouldn’t be so quick to serenade every dumb comment of his.
So he thanks whoever rents the big house in the sky that you have a thing for burnouts and tries not to choke as you slide onto his lap, your pretty skirt splaying out across worn fabric.
Your lips find his again, your fingers get lost in his hair, you don’t bother hovering, and he starts writing a mental Last Will and Testament.
Jeff will get his Sweetheart, Mike will get his D&D manuals, Dustin will get his cassette tapes, and Gareth will finally get those twenty bucks he’s been whining about since last summer. He’ll leave it to Grant to dispose of his stash, and in payment, he can have the stack of porno mags under his bed.
Though, he might just give them away whether he dies or not, because he’s pretty sure, with the way you’re pressing down on him, they’ll soon be rendered useless.
Goosebumps rise along heated skin and something prickles up his spine as your nails rake through his curls. His mouth works against yours, a mind of its own as its aim widens, and he’s suddenly nipping down your jaw, tasting the tang of perfume on your neck.
Your chest racks with heavy, panting breaths and noises that sound like earnest attempts at his name. It’s intoxicating. His lips swell from struggling to keep up with his greed, but he can’t stop. There’s a burning kind of ache deep within him, and it’s growing.
His hands find their way to your hips, and he can’t tell if it’s you who moves freely, grinding down like you’re searching for something, or if it’s him and the ravenous need he’s not certain can be controlled.
“Fuck—”
“Eddie,” you call, tightening the grip on his hair until he groans. His cock flexes, straining against the oppressive zipper of his jeans and missing a kind of warmth he’s itching to know.
“Hm?” he grunts into your neck, barely aware. He’s pretty sure he could devour you whole. But then again, he’d much rather savor you, pick you apart and feast on your supple flesh for ages. The smallest little bites until your sweet noises grow louder and louder; scratchy and desperate like the mindless roll of your hips against denim.
“E-Eddie—”
Your voice pitches up, his name breaking on the crest of your movements, and you hunch toward him like the pleasure is a weight your shoulders can’t possibly bear.
And something twists in his gut then, something raw and hungry.
He wants to hear that again. Hear his name shatter on your tongue as his hands explore beneath your dainty skirt. He wants to feel the vibrations of your moans as he kisses every inch of you.
“Mm, yeah, baby?”
“I want— Want you,” you grit out, like the words take effort you can barely muster.
“Fuck— I know, I wan’ you, too. So bad. So fuckin’ bad.”
If it were any other time, he might feign control. Might deepen his voice with a confidence he doesn’t have. But this is not just any other time. It’s you, in his lap, whispering needy little pleas into the air like it’s obvious. Simple necessity. Like he’s not just a warm body and you’re not picturing someone else.
His fingers curl into the waistband of your skirt, and it’s as if you remembered there was more to be said because your hips stall and you press against his chest.
He swallows the disgruntled whine, and accepts your direction. Doubt creeps into the fog of his mind, but you don’t leave him time to get lost when your thumbs smooth over the stubble on his jaw, the worry in your eyes outweighing his.
“Eddie, I, um, I want—you,” you finish stiltedly, looking at him like you’re waiting for the penny to drop. “But, I, uh, I’ve ne—” It spins. “I don’t really—” And spins. “I mean, not that I’m, like—” And spins. “I’ve just never really—”
It drops, a metallic clang bouncing off the walls of his skull, and suddenly he feels like he shouldn’t touch you at all. His hands hover over your hips and the something-molten deep in his gut turns out to be much more familiar than he thought. Hot, bubbling, careless and incessant in its need to stain. To contaminate.
“Never?” His brows furrow, trying to decipher the discomfort on your face. If it’s him—if it’s the tar—he might just leave town now. Screw graduation. Screw a diploma— “Like never ever?”
Stupid question. At this rate, he should look into surgically removing his foot from his mouth before he tries to speak next—
“Guess I was just…waiting,” you shrug, thumbing the hem of his shirt. Then your movements become less innocent as your nails trail against his skin. So light, if he weren’t acutely aware of everything you do, if his stomach didn’t twitch in time with his restless cock, he wouldn’t have caught it.
“Sweetheart,” he almost warns, feeling like he misconstrued this moment for something serious, when clearly, you’re toying with him, spreading your palms along his waistband like you can’t see him shiver. Like you can’t feel his length straining beneath you, flexing against its jean prison, reaching for the warmth of your core.
“S-Sweetheart,” he repeats, the endearment sounding more and more like a plea as you rake your nails through the wiry curls just below his navel.
You go on, apparently undeterred by his fraying control. “I’ve been on dates—”
He doesn’t care. His eyes track yours and the glide of your tongue along kiss-bitten lips.
“Guys have tried—”
Okay, he cares. What?
“I’ve just never really—wanted to.”
Fuck.
You grind down, passing the motion off as adjusting your position, but Eddie doesn’t trust that gleam in your eyes. And you confirm it in the way your palms smooth down his arms until you press his hands to your hips. Making him touch you. Contaminate you. You encourage it, even. Wrapping your grip around his wrists as you guide his hands beneath your wool top.
“But it’s different with you.”
He shudders.
“Sweetheart.”
It’s certainly a plea, now. A cry for mercy as your fingers return to the sensitive skin just above his waistband, travelling up, up, up until he’s entirely covered in goosebumps, and he worries you can feel the pitiful call of the convict in his chest.
“I don’t want to. That’s not what it feels like—”
God damnit, he’s so confused and all the blood rushed from his brain long ago. There’s nothing up there anymore.
“‘S not like that. ‘S like,” you lean in close, letting him feel the words against his lips before he ever hears them, “a need. Like there’s something missing right now.” You roll your hips and he chokes on the breath he was holding. “And I think— No, I know, if I could just—feel you…inside me—I would be okay again. Better.”
“Oh, f-fuck,” he groans, thrusting up with the coordination of a muscle spasm. He lets his forehead fall against yours in an attempt to gather control. “You—you can’t just say shit like that.”
You peck his lips and he chases the small affection. “But it’s true. I don’t wan’ anyone else. Just want you. Inside me.”
“Jesus Christ,” he grits out, trapping you in a kiss that borders on consumption more than anything sweet.
He can feel you everywhere: on top of him, in his hair, under his shirt, sinking claws into his sides; your touch is kindling to the fire raging low inside him.
Suddenly, he’s reminded of the foiled condom he removed from his wallet just the other day. The old thing was practically useless, worn down and crumpled from years of sitting idle in between the folds of cracked leather. But something is better than nothing, and now he’s cursing his past-self for his terminal case of realism.
The clink of metal draws his attention back, and he hadn’t noticed your lips leave his or how your hands have grown eager, already past his belt and now fiddling with the button on his jeans.
“Wanna feel you, Eddie. I need to,” your honeyed whines wash over his body, sending a buzz through his veins. But then the purring sound of his zipper sliding open reminds him—
“Shit,” his hand wraps around your wrist. “Wait, I don’t— I don’t have anything,” he admits lowly, miserably.
You smile, kissing around his mouth like you’re drawing the shame out, and him in. “It’s okay…. I just want you,” you repeat, firmer this time. “All of you.”
And something inside him rumbles, something sick and starving. Once-weak, but now growing in strength. It’s mean and sharp, with teeth that can cut through steel and an appetite that can devour innocence whole.
It’s not unfamiliar, this beast. He’s known it for ages. It’s an old friend. A confidant. Something to speak to in the darkest moments, but never to trust. Something to surrender to during the sweatiest nights, when his hand cramps but the need still aches. Still hungers.
It’s got an imagination, too. Twisted as can be, it preens at the thought of possession, of staying. Of skin stretching and bones shifting, of curly-haired children that have your eyes and his smile. Soccer practice between label meetings, the sun beating down on hot sand as little feet kick at his back. A ring with weight and a necklace to match.
It’s like a plague on his thoughts. But it’s not. Not really. Because he doesn’t have to fear the lies anymore. The want. The bubbles are melding, his world is clashing with yours. And the beast tells the truth, now.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters against your lips, the words sounding more like a warning than anything.
“Mmm,” you hum, trailing your affection down his neck. “Been there, done that. I’d rather keep you alive for this.”
And you’ve crossed his wires so expertly, he’s practically sparking beneath your touch.
Imbued with a new kind of power, he slides you from his lap before shucking his leather jacket off and swinging it onto the table’s surface. His shirt follows with, finding a strategic home among the layers.
You seem to catch on because you climb onto the table, laying yourself out just like before. He grins, helping you out of your top, only to fold it up and leave it where your head can rest.
Both of you pause, taking just a moment to stare. Openly.
He tracks your gaze as it trails across his chest, noting each tattoo. Then his eyes widen as you distractedly remove your bra like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t fucked his fist to the thought of this very moment.
The material slides down your arms and you settle back, pretty as a picture, laid out all for him.
“Jesus…Christ, sweetheart, fuck.”
You smirk, and there’s that gleam again. Evil and conniving and he’s a willing victim, first in line, and hopefully last.
“See anything you like?”
He gulps, kneeling on the bench below, itching to touch you, but holding onto manners with a white-knuckled grip. “Yeah. See a whole lot.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” You grab his hand, guiding it to your breast with a squeeze. “This isn’t a museum, you can touch.”
“Oh, s-shit,” he stutters, losing all decorum as his other hand joins in, kneading the supple skin. Your sighs possess him, and before he can overthink it, his mouth closes around your nipple, tongue circling and laving at the tightening peak.
“E-Eddie!” Your hand flies to his curls and he groans, parting his lips wider, needing to feel more of you in his mouth.
You writhe beneath him, a victim of a fiendish kind of gluttony as he moves to your other breast, tweaking the wet peak he left behind.
He explores your body zealously, taking his time tasting and nipping every bit he can reach until you start tugging at the roots of his hair, forcing him up.
“Need you,” you huff breathlessly, yanking at his jeans. “Now.”
“W-Wait—” his hands land on yours, slowing your movements.
Your mouth parts as you look up at him, wide-eyed and completely desperate, and he feels his control unspooling like flimsy yarn.
“No, Eddie, I already told you—”
“It’s not that,” he shakes his head, kissing you quiet. “I just— We can’t just…”
You watch him patiently, clinging onto every half-thought he struggles to produce.
“I gotta— No, I—want to make this good for you…obviously,” he grunts, cringing at the lack of suavity. “And to do that, um, we can’t just…”
You nod, encouraging him as his face grows hot. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell he’ll be able to explain the concept of foreplay to you right now. Not when you’re looking at him like that, bare and ready for him.
So he sighs and kisses you once more, this time slow and careful. Full of things he can’t quite say, but he hopes you understand.
“You trust me, right?”
“Of course,” you respond instantly, eyes shining so bright.
He swallows, rubbing a thumb along your cheek. “And you’ll let me take care o’ you?”
You lean into his touch, almost shy as you nod. “Yeah. Yes…please.”
And a piece of him breaks off, then.
Splintered by your soft words, the plea that landed like a hammer on his scuffed lacquer.
One single chip in the barrier, and the beast rises in a crashing escape.
His lips find yours—messy, needy.
Wanton greed curls around every cracked rib, reaching out like smoke unfurling. Searching for something to envelop, to take. To take and take and take. Your breath, your taste, you. It wants it all.
He wants it all.
The words tumble out too easily. “Such pretty manners, huh?”
You shudder, hiding your face in the curve of his jaw.
“Pretty manners in a pretty girl,” he practically purrs, letting his hands slip down your body until his fingers invade the waistband of your pleated skirt. “Gonna let me take care o’ you, hm? Gonna let me get you all nice and ready?”
Your breathy sigh warms his neck as he shimmies the fabric down your legs, laying you back, gently.
You squirm beneath his gaze, squeezing your thighs together. “Eddie…”
“Shh, patience, pretty,” he murmurs, trailing a finger along your curving terrain until he’s toying with the powder blue fabric. “Gotta be good for me. Think you can do that?”
“Mhm,” you hum, choking on the note as he softly pushes your legs apart.
“Ohh, look at you…” His eyes darken and he thinks he could get used to this. To seeing you all laid out for him like a meal. A feast that could last him forty days and forty nights.
You shift, almost imperceptibly, as he drags your panties down, but he noticed. He always does with you. “Be good,” he warns lowly.
“I’m trying.”
Your whine falls to static as he watches a single string of arousal cling to the blue gusset with a fragile strength he aches to snap.
The trees rustle overhead and the sun peeks through, lending a perfect spotlight to your wet folds, and he groans, pocketing your underwear with little consideration.
“Fuck, you’re so god damn gorgeous, baby, think I’m losin’ my mind,” he mutters, kneading the fat of your thighs.
“Eddie,” you call, wiggling into his grip, and he’s never been more certain that you’re a temptress put on this earth to destroy him and everything that he tries to be. Controlled. Polite. Genetlemanly.
Every stuttering breath, every twitch of your hips, every slow blink—you’re chiseling away at the lacquer, unaware of all that lies beneath.
“Eddie, pl—ease!”
His middle and ring fingers glide through your folds while his opposite hand holds your hips down as you try to grind onto him.
“Knew you’d make the prettiest sounds. …Pretty sounds, pretty manners, pretty girl,” he chants the words like a mantra, entranced as he raises his fingers up to watch your arousal glisten in the evening light. “Pretty.”
You whimper, and suddenly it feels like he’s been pulled from the depths as he stares down at your face, pinched in pleasure. You’re waiting as patiently as you can and he has to reward that.
He spreads your folds once more, listening intently as he slips a finger inside. Your broken moan speaks almost directly to his cock, and he can feel a stream of precum soaking his boxers.
You call his name again, your chest moving in perfect time with the pulse of your warm walls. He responds to your plea for more with a second finger, and your nails sink into his wrist.
“Doin’ so good for me, baby. So good,” he utters restlessly, leaning closer to your soaked cunt. He glances up, notes your closed eyes, and decides to feed the beast.
With one stolen moment, he breathes deep, cataloguing the scent. Your perfume, your cherry lotion, and now you. The most intimate of all. And he can’t stop now.
He knows your touch, your heady scent; he wants to know your taste, too. The real thing. Not just your lip gloss or your languid tongue in his mouth. He needs to know you deeply, fervently.
His fingers drag inside you, a slight curl every time you buck your hips. He hears your whines, sees you dripping down his hand, shimmery and inviting.
Then he pulls out, much to your loud chagrin. And before he can scrounge up any last attempt at control, his fingers are in his mouth and he’s groaning at the taste—so sweet, he could choke.
“Oh, fuck,” he grumbles, mouth full as you stare at him. He almost feels the need to apologize. He robbed you of the friction you were so desperately seeking just so he could be selfish. Though, he feels like he might never stop being selfish around you, so maybe he’ll allow the precedent.
He’ll blame the beast. It’s not really him.
It’s not him who wants to drown in you, force you to ride his face until he passes out. It’s not him who wants to leave bite marks along your quivering thighs until salt coats your cheeks and you beg him just to fuck you.
It’s not him who wants to live in your sweltering heat, carve out a place for himself. Make your walls know the shape of his cock, feel you milk him dry until something takes and you’re his and a part of him is yours.
It’s not him, it’s the rotted want.
The need that grows hot, like a wound that has festered long enough. A gash you cut into him sometime ago.
Bleeding for years and he never even knew it.
The infection has driven him mad.
But he’s beginning to think maybe you’re suffering just the same. Fevered skin and heavy limbs, weak from the wait. Like him. Withered and hungry. So long watching the have’s, resolved to be a have not—
“Eddie, please, I need you.” Your hips search for him, for pleasure, for friction, and he drops lower, his breath spreading over your fluttering folds.
“I know, sweets, I know. But I gotta get you all ready, gotta make it good for you,” he whispers, staring as fresh arousal glints in the golden rays. It’s like you’re trying to entice, to coax.
“‘S already good,” you slur, and it sounds like the words are burning to ash on your tongue. He can feel you overheating. “‘S so good, please, just—”
“Said you trust me, right?” He smooths a hand up your body until he finds your breast, kneading it some more.
“Yes,” you huff, scooting closer to him.
He licks his lips, and the lie comes quicker than he’d like. “Just a little bit more. Wanna make sure you’re all re—”
His voice becomes muffled as he presses his face against your cunt like a starved, rabid thing. Your fingers thread deep through his curls—a knee-jerk reaction—and he laps at you with open-mouthed kisses and agonizingly precise flicks of his tongue.
You squeal and your thighs threaten to close around his head, but his fingers sink into the supple flesh, prying you open as his tongue breaches your slit with pointed thrusts.
Your back bows, arching high off the table and he pulls you closer to him, finally satisfying what has felt like an insatiable ache.
Because it’s different with you. He’s never felt this…full. Every pulse, every lewd slurp, fills him; he gorges himself on you. On your taste, on the way your moans crash over themselves like waves trying to drag you both under.
His fingers slip in once more and your body goes rigid—the perfect picture of marbleized ecstasy. His tongue circles your clit and pleasure carves into your every curve, sculpting a release that courses through you like rolling thunder.
His name dies a thousand times on your parted lips, and your hips begin to flee.
“O-Oh, God!”
He slows to a stop, smoothing a thumb over your twitching muscles. “Fuck, you taste so good— Knew you would,” he pants, sucking his fingers clean. He settles over you, whispering against your mouth. “Knew you would—”
“Tell me I’m yours.”
It’s sudden. An order.
Every syllable hammers into him, shattering something fragile. Shards of control—of disbelief, of belonging—bite at his skin. He’s paralyzed by it, a nerve punctured somewhere deep inside.
And you look worried, like that simple sentence wasn’t meant to land so heavy, but you don’t take it back. Instead, “Tell me I can be yours.”
He swallows hard, nearly choking on nothing.
He has wanted. Longer than you, he thinks.
But it’s all been in vain.
Then you show up, move mountains and shift worlds with only your audacious honesty and a quarter of a joint for courage. He could really learn a thing or two from you—
“Yeah,” he whispers, staring into eyes he never thought he’d see this close. “You’re mine.”
With a shuddering breath and a kiss so gentle, he’s almost certain reality falls away, his mind latches onto the moment your hands blindly find his jeans, urging the material down his thighs.
He helps you, watching intently as you take him in—all of him—his cock weeping and flexing, reaching for something he never imagined asking for.
You don’t speak, but he sees a reflection in the shine of your iris. It’s familiar. It commands. It guides as you drag your fingers along corded muscle with a level of reverence that leaves him dizzy.
Peering down, he holds back every sound, his chest heaving from the marathon of your touch.
You’re pacing yourself. Exploring—testing, in a way, like you’re figuring out what makes him tick.
Confidently kneading here, a delicate brush there.
Sinew twitching, his length jumping, stomach flipping.
Your nails rake through the dark curls at his navel and you follow the trail until it grows coarse, an observant hum at his body’s reaction.
“Pretty,” you mutter lowly.
His frame trembles, the single word falling from your lips like a ton of bricks.
As your hands wander, you don’t bother with permission and that almost makes him double over.
There’s no question of can I? There’s only the surety of being yours, like an apodictic artifact you’ve excavated from a shallow grave.
Because he did lay it to rest.
So many times.
Every morning his head lifted from his pillow, he buried it again. Every time your skirt caressed his desk, he threw roses. Every laugh he never caused, he said a prayer.
But he could not abide an eternity of peace.
Darkness would fall and he’d dig and dig and dig, the dirt already loose and the trees whispering their greetings. He’d drag up old ghosts—truths only meant for the moon—and dance with them all night.
Then, like clockwork, golden light would send him reaching for the shovel; the sun would rise and he was resolved to live without.
Now it’s you who has disturbed the holy ground and it’s freeing. To be exposed. To be known.
Your gaze settles on his face, and he wishes he could understand the thoughts in your mind, the ramblings behind your eyes.
For a second, he thinks he recognizes the quiet curve of your lips, but—
“So pretty.”
He chokes, his body jerking as your hand circles his cock, firm, yet gentle. Possessive.
Your unwavering attention and innocent smile turns the blood in his veins molten. His hips buck into your grip, unintentionally coating your soft palm in the sticky precum dribbling from his tip.
“S-Shit, sweetheart—”
He hunches over, weathered wood scratching against his knees as he tries to warn, to caution you on just how easy he is. How little effort it’d take him to lose it, to let himself fuck your hand like a poor, desperate slip of a thing.
“I’m ready,” you say, leading him down. “Please.”
He allows your thighs to hitch onto his hips, allows you to hold him, and he allows himself to be this close. To find purchase between your legs, to indulge in the heat of your core.
He memorizes your features—the determined furrow of your brow, the flutter of your lashes. The version of you before him.
He so badly wants to tell you what he sees.
“God, you’re— Fuck!”
Your breath hitches as you press his cock to your folds, and he tries for coherence, but it all falls away when he feels you. Soft and wet and so inviting; you’re killing him slowly.
“Please, Eddie,” you huff, your hips rolling like you mean to catch him. “Need to feel you, I swear to—”
The sentence shatters on a sharp moan the moment he takes control, letting his length glide against your slit. He’s coated in no time, practically drowning in you, but he doesn’t stop.
It’s like a trance, the way he moves, watching fresh drops of precum mix with your arousal. He wants to taste that, too. You and him, together. He wants to know.
You don’t seem to notice his paralysis, instead focusing on bucking your hips just right, and when his tip catches on your entrance, something shocks him into motion.
Your body wraps around him shallowly, sucking the blunt edge of him in. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t ignore your babbled pleas for more.
For once in his life, he allows himself to take. It’s not begrudging permission, not shameful resignation to his more selfish nature. It’s enthusiastic, it’s encouraged, it’s accepted.
He pushes into you slowly, meeting your parted lips with ragged breaths, and your walls cling to him in a joyous welcome. Your pulse drums against his length, squeezing him in a sudden clench; he thinks he mutters advice, something about relaxing, but he’s not sure.
Reality is bending and he’s thought about this so much, imagined this very moment countless times, and yet, nothing could have prepared him for how your nails take a chunk out of him, how you’re trying with all your might to pull his hips closer, huffing in impatience and cracking under the need.
You’re just like him.
He hadn’t realized it until now.
He saw shadows, heard the strain of your voice.
But he hadn’t looked in your eyes, hadn’t been near enough to hear the call.
The call of the hungry and withered. Of the wanton and greedy.
He hears it now. Loud and clear.
Responding in a bellowing groan, he sinks into you fully. His lips flutter over your face, savoring your once-delicate features as they warp in pleasure.
“F-Fuck! Ed— Eddie, more,” you cry, squirming for friction.
“More,” he echoes mindlessly, latching onto the order. A real kiss, sweet and loaded like a gun soon to go off, then, “More. The pretty girl wants more— Gets what she wants.”
The words fall from his tongue with little thought—little care. Static whirs in his brain, blocking out everything but you.
Drawing back steadily, he steals one more glance at you—checking in—then drops down in a sudden snap, guided by your fingers digging into the taut muscle of his ass.
Sweat beads at his spine as his skin sticks to yours on every impact. His arms hook under your knees, changing the angle just to hear that shrill whine he’s quickly growing addicted to.
All you manage to say is his name, over and over again like his thrusts are evicting every syllable from your chest.
The shadows rise, spreading rapidly, and it feels much like possession coursing through him.
He shudders, his stuttered breaths syncopating with the pulse of your cunt, choking him on every shove in. Your eyes have rolled back now, and your body moves with him, pliant, as if his to mold—to inflict upon, however he sees fit.
A malleable offering of sheer innocence, laid at his altar.
And it was your idea.
The lamb’s idea to come to slaughter.
“F-Feels good, huh?” he grits, watching you surrender to him so beautifully.
Your response catches, snagged halfway up your throat, clawed back by a resounding whimper as you nod.
“Yeah, it feels good,” he parrots, fighting back the raging fire deep in his gut—the one that threatens to engulf you, too. Because he’s not done yet. Not nearly.
His hips pound into you, cock dragging along your walls at a punishing pace. The beast hums and he smirks as you try to form sentences.
“S-So— Agh! I— Mmmph!”
He nods like he understands every unspoken word. “Now you see why I had to get you all ready? Hm? You were so cute, thinkin’ you could just take it. So brave, comin’ here, all sweet on the freak.”
“Eddie!”
You have the audacity to paw at him, to pull, to try to meet his strokes in crumbling desperation. He drops your legs, shoving your hands above your head as he presses down onto you, pinning you against the picnic table, the structure rocking with the movement.
His long, rhythmic thrusts dwindle to swift, sharp ruts, the action bordering on animalistic.
“But now look at you. All mine,” he huffs, dark eyes roving over your trembling body. Then his gaze travels lower, where his cock burrows into you—where you take him so easily, opening up like he said the magic word a thousand times over. “Practically made f’me, fuckin’ look at you. Stretched full and so damn pretty, too. We fit real nice together, don’t we, baby?”
You whine and he maneuvers your wrists into one hand, helping to prop your head up with the other.
“Look at you,” he repeats, firmer this time. “So wet, you’re drownin’ me, sweetheart.”
Something splinters on your face and he follows your eyeline, notices it fixed on the milky ring that circles the base of his thick shaft and the matted down curls you couldn’t stop admiring earlier.
“Oh,” he drawls, a wicked, wolfish grin stretching his lips. “You like that?”
You nod and he practically preens. You are just like him.
“Like seein’ me covered in you? Marked?”
Your response is nothing more than a brittle whimper and he can feel you clench around him, already so close to falling into the after—the space in time where you will know what it feels like to be thoroughly picked apart, to be undone. By him.
“You’re markin’ me,” he growls into your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses along your jugular, trying not to bite. “Think it’s only fair you let me do the same, hm? What do you say, pretty girl? Gonna let me really fill you up?”
“P-Please! Oh, God, please, Eddie—”
His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, practiced circles on the swollen bud and you freeze, arching into his chest, searing your sweat-soaked flesh to his. Your cries fall silent as you gape, convulsing at every third swipe he makes.
Your walls trap him in a vice grip, fluttering and milking rope after rope of cum from his flexing length. He shivers uncontrollably, feeling his warm spend flood the tight space until it leaks, shoveled out by his now-pitiful ruts.
He tries to prolong it. Tries to steal the moment from time itself and live in it; play house with the present. But then his body finally gives out, muscles slackening, and your arms are there to catch him, welcoming the iron hold he traps you in.
Raspy whispers are muttered into your neck, tattooed by the heat of his breath; quiet sentiments he’s not certain you hear over the noise of two settling souls. And maybe it’s better that way. Maybe they’re things to hoard—at least for a little while longer.
He trails kisses up your jaw, blindly searching for your lips, only to find them unresponsive. Worry fills him immediately.
Maybe he was too rough. He did notice the half-moon marks scattered along your thighs.
Maybe he was too mouthy. He can never think straight when it comes to you.
Maybe he was just too much—
“Eddie,” you call gently, pulling him from somewhere deep and dark.
He meets your eyes, surprised to see them wide and wanting, shining with that honest gleam that makes him feel so exposed.
“You are mine.”
So you heard.
He wasn’t cautious and he said the words meant for an empty bedroom out loud. And you heard.
Your fingers thread through his curls, dragging his wavering attention back to you.
“You are mine,” you repeat, softer but no less confident.
He wonders how something so delicate could detonate something so sturdy. Years and years of denial, blown to smithereens in three words.
And you make it look easy.
Make it sound plausible.
That he could be yours, just as much as you want to be his.
He nods, hanging onto you like a lifesaver as debris from the wreckage floats by. He swallows and his voice barely forms around the letters, breaking under the weight of it all.
“O-Okay.”
And he surrenders.
He believes you.
A/N: For the love of god, please be sweet and talk to me about this fic. I think I looked at it for too long and now I don’t know if it’s maybe the worst thing I’ve ever written or if I’m just too close to it rn, I’m being so for real.
thank you to every single fucking person on this god forsaken site that has ever posted your own art or writing. You really put a vulnerable, important part of yourself out in the open on the hellscape that is the internet and if that isnt an act of bravery and a labor of love I dont know what one is
MS. DECEMBER | Best Friend!Eddie Munson x Fem!Librarian!Reader
When you get a once in a lifetime opportunity to pose for a racy photo shoot your best friend struggles to come to terms with your increased exposure.
WC: ~6.9k
Warnings: light angst, insecurity/poor self-image, mention of pornography, mutual pining, jealousy, possessive behavior, alcohol, sexism, swearing, smut, perv!Eddie, voyeurism, m!masturbation, brief f!masturbation, oral f!receiving, piv sex (wrap it up irl), dirty talk, Eddie has a corruption kink, friends to lovers, everyone is 21+ 18+ ONLY MDNI
Special thanks to @madelynraemunson for sending me her smutty brainwaves. Also thanks to @rebelfell and @mugloversonly for suggesting the magazine title 🖤
“So you think it’s a bad idea?”
You crossed your arms in front of your chest and leaned back against the firm leather of the booth, narrowing your eyes to study your best friend’s clouded expression.
The bar where you’d arranged to meet up for drinks was surprisingly busy for a Tuesday evening, and the background hum of the happy-hour crowd filled the silence while you waited for his response.
Eddie looked down at his beer bottle and started to pick at the label with his thumb, its silver foil edges the sudden sole focus of his attention.
“Nah, I think you should go for it.”
The muted overhead lighting brought out the warm amber flecks in his otherwise stormy eyes as he lifted them to meet yours for just a moment before returning his gaze to the table.
Unconvinced, you tilted your head. “Really? You think I can pull it off?”
He nodded and you could see the hint of a dimpled grin soften his features.
“Totally. You’re gonna look amazing.”
As soon as the words escaped his lips, his eyes shot up to meet yours with visible panic; frizzy curls brushing the tops of his shoulders as he gave a frustrated shake of his head.
“Shit. No, I just— you’ll do a good job, that’s all.”
A rosy hue kissed the tops of his cheeks as he continued to sputter out half-formed excuses, trying to navigate the minefield he’d wandered into courtesy of his thoughtless tongue.
You bit down on your straw to fight back the giggles that threatened to bubble up while you watched him squirm, but you only let him suffer for a few moments before you interrupted his nervous stammering.
“It’s okay, Eddie. I know what you meant.”
You couldn’t blame your friend for being a bit out of sorts. After all, you had just informed him that you’d been selected to pose in Stripped, a popular men’s magazine that was doing a special feature on “Sexy Librarians of the World” — something that he had rightfully pointed out was completely out of character for you.
Knowing how keyed up Eddie could get about things, you’d waited until after the waitress dropped off your drinks to mention the shoot, in hopes that the beverages might help take the edge off delivering the news.
At first Eddie had treated your announcement with his usual brand of skepticism, waiting for you to burst out laughing and confess that it was all just a silly joke. Once he realized you were serious, he’d taken a large swig of his beer and nearly choked as it burned a bitter path down the back of his throat.
A few weeks earlier, you had confided in him that you felt like you were too boring and that you wanted to try and break out of your shell.
“It’s like everyone just thinks of me as this perfect, uptight goody-two-shoes,” you had complained. “But deep down I’m so much more than that.”
Eddie didn’t find you boring in the slightest but he knew a thing or two about being pigeonholed, and had encouraged you to branch out and try new things.
“Maybe you just need to try something new. Push your limits a bit, ya know?”
At the time Eddie had been thinking along the lines of experimenting with new foods or switching up your hairstyle, but after hearing your news he realized he may have underestimated just how daring those new things might be.
“I mean, it does sound interesting.” You shrugged. “They want to feature professional women with different looks and body types, and they said it’ll be tasteful. I don’t know…I feel like I might regret not doing it when I’m older. You only live once, right?”
Eddie nodded, his guts twisting with each second he was forced to come to terms with the fact that you were going to pose in a magazine that he’d been reading for years for the articles. A publication where everyone, including him, would be able to see you wearing next to nothing — not that he planned to look at your pictures, of course. That would be weird.
“As long as it’s something you want to do and you don’t think it’s sexist or whatever,” he mumbled, and you arched an eyebrow as you took another sip of your fruity drink.
“Don’t you read Stripped? I mean, you can’t think it’s all that bad?” You bit back a grin as he looked up at you helplessly.
“Yeah, but that’s different. Those girls…they aren’t you.”
You rolled your eyes and resisted the urge to call your best friend a hypocrite, even though he was being a giant one in your opinion. Still, his reaction to the news had been a lot milder than you’d expected so you decided to let it go.
Besides, you needed a favor.
“They booked the shoot for this Thursday afternoon. If you’re free, I was hoping you might come with me?”
“With you?” Eddie repeated, his brain suddenly running on autopilot. It was one thing for you to do a racy photo shoot but quite another for him to be there and witness it in the flesh.
For a moment he let himself imagine what it would be like watching from the sidelines of the set as you contorted your scantily clad body into the kind of provocative poses he’d seen in his issues of Stripped.
“Not to, like, watch or anything,” you rushed to add with a quick shake of your head. “I’m just a little nervous and it would be nice to have a friend there for moral support. Will you come, please?”
As you smiled and fluttered your lashes Eddie could feel himself starting to cave, well aware that it was pointless to try and resist you when you wanted something.
He tried to think up a good excuse as to why he couldn’t go with you that afternoon, but your pleading eyes melted the words on his tongue before he could speak them out loud.
Defeated, he took another large mouthful of beer, swallowing down the bitter hops along with his misgivings, then reluctantly agreed to accompany you to the shoot.
When it came down to it, Eddie Munson was a simple man.
He loved heavy metal, beer and D&D. He loved performing with his band and spending time with his friends. He also loved you — probably the worst kept secret in history as far as he was concerned, but a fact of which you seemed blissfully unaware.
Eddie and his bandmates had moved to the city a few years earlier in pursuit of a music career and things had been going pretty well for the men of Corroded Coffin. They’d booked enough regular gigs at the rock clubs downtown to allow Eddie to keep a part time day job, leaving him free to spend the rest of his time on his music. Well, his music and you.
You’d met Eddie when the library where you worked advertised for volunteers to help with its new youth D&D sessions. After seeing the flyers on his walks around the neighborhood, he’d stopped in to get more information.
“This is a really great idea,” he’d said when you had described how things would work. “I wish they’d had something like this back when I was a kid.”
It turned out that Eddie was great with the children and a very enthusiastic volunteer — so enthusiastic that he started to drop by the library several times a week to help out with some of the other programs you had on the go.
After spending so much time together you soon became good friends and eventually he suggested that you come to one of Corroded Coffin’s shows.
“But it’s okay if you don’t want to, I get that it’s probably not your thing.”
“What? Not all of us librarians are sheltered squares.” You’d laughed, but when you looked down at your frumpy outfit and sensible shoes you couldn’t exactly blame him for making that assumption.
You were reserved in how you dressed and you supposed you could come off a bit quiet and shy, but deep down you wished you could be more free-spirited like your new friend. You loved Eddie’s rock n’ roll style and envied how he didn’t seem to care what anyone thought — something you admittedly worried about way too much.
You’d always been the good girl — the responsible one who followed all the rules. But ever since meeting Eddie you’d felt like there might be more to life.
When a small crush on the metalhead had started to take root, you’d squashed it before it had a chance to bloom. You knew a guy like Eddie would be looking for someone much more fun and flashy than you, and there was no point in getting your hopes up just for them to be dashed.
You’d gone to a few Corroded Coffin shows by then and seen the kinds of girls who danced up front, the pretty ones Eddie smiled down at from the stage while he shredded his guitar.
Afterwards you’d watch them fall all over him, giggling as they wrapped their arms around his waist, and you’d make up an excuse to leave early to avoid the unwanted sight.
Compared to those girls you were so boring, it was no wonder Eddie only saw you as a friend — a thought that as much as you tried to ignore it, continued to eat away at you.
When the letter from Stripped had arrived at the library, your co-worker Muriel had scoffed as soon as she opened it.
“Can you believe this? They want people to pose in their skivvies for everyone to see. Disgusting.”
She’d held up the offending piece of paper, then gasped as you snatched it out of her hands and eagerly poured over the typewritten words on the page. A photo shoot featuring regular women who wanted a chance to show they were desirable? It was just the type of thing you’d been looking for in your effort to try something new and daring.
It was a sign.
When you got home from work that evening, you’d dialed the number provided in the letter and had been given direction on how to complete the Stripped audition process.
Weeks later when you got the call back that you’d been selected for the feature, you had debated for a few moments before giving them your answer. As you twisted the phone cord in your hand, you reminded yourself that the photo shoot was just the thing you needed to increase your confidence and get you out of your rut.
After you told them you would do it, you hung up the phone with a satisfied smile as nervous excitement fluttered in your chest.
You were going to prove everyone wrong.
You could be wild. You could be daring. You could be anything in the whole world that you wanted — and maybe someday you would even be the type of person that Eddie Munson could love.
What you didn’t know was that Eddie had been taken with you ever since the very first moment he saw you, that he adored you just the way you were. Your quirky personality and the soft way you looked at him. Your sweet voice and beautiful smile. Your body — the thoughts of which occupied a sizeable portion of his brain.
He thought every single part of you was perfection.
The two of you spent so much time together that after a while the guys in his band started to give him a hard time, calling you his wife to try and get under his skin. Even though he always told them to fuck off in no uncertain terms, he secretly liked it and hoped that someday it might be true.
Eddie had never done the relationship thing before and with you he wanted to do things right, but the thought of putting himself out there was a slightly terrifying prospect.
Until he worked up the courage to tell you, he resolved to be your loyal and supportive best friend. But as he listened to you talk about the photo shoot, he supposed he could do a bit better on the whole supportive part.
He could tell that you were nervous and he wanted to reassure you, it was just going to take some time for him to adjust to the idea.
On the afternoon of the photo shoot you walked with Eddie into the unassuming gray office building that housed Stripped corporate headquarters on the North end of the city.
The lobby was modern and plainly decorated, with white polished floors and a few sparse fake plants — not at all what you had expected for that type of wild publication.
Throughout the lobby there were several large framed Stripped covers hanging on display, and as you gazed up at the glamorous models you could hardly believe that soon you’d be amongst their ranks.
You had been told by the woman on the phone to head to the fourth floor when you arrived, so you took a deep breath and stepped into the waiting elevator. When it started its ascent you reached for the comfort of Eddie’s hand and he gave yours a gentle squeeze, smoothing his thumb over your clenched knuckles.
“You okay?” He leaned in close to whisper next to your ear. “You don’t have to go through with it if you’ve changed your mind.”
You took another deep breath and set your shoulders, giving him your most determined smile.
“It’s now or never, right?”
The elevator doors opened with a soft ping and you stepped out, still holding on tight to Eddie’s hand. There was a long reception desk along the far wall and a pleasant-looking woman smiled up at you from behind her computer as you approached.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here for the librarian photo shoot?” you answered, cursing the nervous inflection of your voice.
The woman nodded and took your name then handed you some forms you’d need to sign.
“Take those with you and go down that hallway until you get to room 4B. That’s where they’ll be doing your wardrobe and makeup.” She pointed towards the corridor to her right.
As Eddie moved to walk with you, the lady gently cleared her throat and gestured to the white leather seats in the waiting area behind you.
“It’s a closed set today. Your boyfriend will have to wait here in the lobby.”
You giggled and quickly let go of Eddie’s hand, patting his leather-clad arm in amusement.
“Oh, no. He’s just my friend.”
Eddie shifted uncomfortably as the woman shot him a sly smile before returning her attention to her work, chuckling quietly to herself.
“I’ll see you when you’re finished,” Eddie called out to your back as you turned to head down the long hallway.
Left alone, he felt around in his jacket to find his pack of smokes. He suddenly needed a cigarette. Badly.
The shoot went remarkably well, and on the drive home Eddie was quiet as you filled him in on all of the details, your voice spilling over with poorly contained excitement.
“They made me feel so comfortable and they even let me keep the outfit as a souvenir. Not that there was very much to it.” You giggled, looking over at your friend who continued to stare straight ahead at the road.
Eddie’s silence was unusual and you wondered if maybe he was annoyed that he’d had to wait around so long for you to finish. Between hair, makeup and wardrobe the shoot had ended up taking hours.
“They said the pictures should be ready for the December issue. Can you believe it?” You leaned your head back against the leather headrest and hummed with contentment as the van rumbled down the dark city streets.
Just in time for the holidays, Eddie thought sarcastically as he pulled into your parking lot. At least that would give him a few more months to get used to the idea.
A few months later
The bell over the door of the corner store chimed as Eddie stepped inside out of the cold. Behind him, tiny flakes danced in the frosty evening air and a light dusting of snow peppered his hair and jacket.
“How’s it going Phil?” Eddie greeted the ancient and seemingly ever-present clerk. Phil gave him a quick nod of familiarity before turning to grab a pack of Eddie’s brand of cigarettes from the wall behind the counter — one of the perks of being a regular customer.
Eddie was in good spirits after having spent the evening with some friends who were visiting the city for the holidays. So good, that he even found himself humming along to the staticky Christmas music that drifted from the radio Phil had stashed behind the counter.
On his way to grab some snacks, Eddie paused at the wire newsrack stuffed full with the usual array of trashy tabloids, rock features and poorly concealed nudie mags hidden in the back.
Just as he was about to continue on his way, something tucked behind a copy of Guitar World caught his eye and practically knocked the air out of his lungs. You.
“Holy shit.” He did a quick double take, not quite believing his eyes. You had told him that your issue was coming out soon but you had neglected to tell him that you were going to be on the cover.
Eddie stared like he was caught in a trance, hypnotized by a pair of familiar eyes that gazed back at him from the page with what could only be mistaken for desire — your parted, pouty lips painted a deep blood red that made his mouth suddenly feel much too dry.
He picked up the issue only to find that the rest of the cover was concealed by a plastic liner to protect the pages from prying, non-paying eyes.
A few seconds later the bell over the door chimed and a pair of young men walked in, their brash voices a jarring contrast to the previous quiet of the shop. As they loudly made their way past Eddie, he could smell that they had definitely just partaken in some liquid holiday cheer.
“Oh shit, is that the new Stripped? Man, I’d like to stuff her stocking,” one of the men quipped over Eddie’s shoulder before continuing to follow his friend to the back of the store.
The sour scent of stale whiskey filled Eddie’s nostrils as he tightened his grip on the magazine — the thought of that guy buying your issue filling him with a sudden, scorching rage.
There were four other copies of Stripped left in the rack and before he knew what he was doing, he’d grabbed every last one and marched over to plunk them down onto the counter alongside his smokes.
Phil surveyed the stack of magazines with a slight raise of his eyebrows, but silently rang them up and handed Eddie his change.
Eddie grabbed the paper bag containing his precious cargo and quickly made his way back out onto the street, his cheeks burning against the cold night air.
As he walked the familiar path towards home, he pondered what exactly he planned to do with his impulse purchase. Should he just throw them away? He definitely couldn’t look at them, that was for sure.
He didn’t want to admit how many times you crossed his mind on sleepless nights, a common occurrence when he was restless and alone. And he definitely didn’t want to think about how often he desperately stroked his cock to the image of you naked and writhing in pleasure beneath his touch.
Those thoughts had only ever been a fantasy, just secret pictures in his mind. Now that the opportunity to really see you was at his fingertips, it didn’t feel quite right.
He walked into his building in a daze, barely aware of his surroundings until the ding of the elevator arriving at his floor snapped him out of his trance.
Once inside his apartment, he headed straight into the kitchen and set the bag down on the counter alongside his keys. He shrugged off his jacket onto a nearby stool and then stood staring at the bag, unsure of what to do.
There was a new song that he’d been working on where he hadn’t quite nailed the solo and there were still some details left to perfect in his latest D&D campaign. Laundry, television, organizing his record collection, heck, even conditioning his hair — there were so many, many things that he could do to occupy his time.
But twenty minutes later Eddie paced his tiny kitchen like an animal trapped in a cage, the ever-looming magazines burning a hole through his resolve.
The arguments proposed by the devil on his shoulder were actually quite convincing — you were a grown woman who had willingly posed for the photos, after all. You had wanted people to see them. You had been excited about the shoot. Taking a look was the least he could do to pay his respects for all of your hard work.
He swiped one of his large hands down over his face in frustration, telling himself it was wrong. That it would be a betrayal of your trust.
With his mouth set in a determined line, he took the magazines out of the bag and carried them over to the trashcan under the sink and tossed them inside.
With that settled, he finally let out the breath that he’d been holding for far too long and decided to pour himself a drink. Something stiff.
Fifteen minutes later Eddie still paced his apartment with a cigarette dangling from his lips, the futile drink having done nothing to curb the torment of his brain.
At the end of his rope, he decided the best course of action would be to give in and take a quick look, reasoning it was the only way to get it out of his system and off his mind. Nobody would ever have to know.
He pulled the magazines out of the trash and carried them into the living room, setting them down on the coffee table as he perched on the edge of the couch.
Just one look.
He grabbed a magazine and ripped open its plastic liner then ran his hand over the glossy cover, his fingers lingering on your ruby red lips that were parted as if in a breathless moan.
The first few pages were ads for expensive colognes and fancy, high-end watches; he flipped past them quickly, his fleeting fingers on a mission to find the one thing he truly desired.
Before long he reached a page that announced “Sexy Librarians of the World” in an obnoxiously large and swirling font. The photo underneath was of a woman wearing nothing but a smile, the majority of her naked body strategically covered by a very large open book. Cute, but not what he was looking for.
He impatiently turned the page and even though he was expecting to see you, his heart still leapt in his chest when he was confronted with your image.
You were leaning against a bookcase full of dusty leather-bound volumes, wearing only an open white blouse and a few long strings of pearls. The strands were gathered in one of your hands and you were pulling them down between your breasts, the placement of your arms revealing only a tease of your pert nipples. Your other hand was hovering just over the juncture of your thighs in a play on modesty that almost made it look as though you were pleasuring yourself.
You were gazing at the camera with the hint of a smirk playing across your lips, the twinkle in your eyes captured in mischievous perfection.
His naughty little librarian.
Eddie let out a sigh as he ran a palm over the growing bulge in his jeans, his stiffening cock pressing uncomfortably tight against the unyielding material.
He’d always thought that you were beautiful, but seeing you like that was beyond even his wildest dreams. Eyes locked on your image, he lowered his zipper so that he could grip the outline of his heavy cock through his boxers, teasing himself over the thin cotton.
He turned the page and a growl rumbled low in his chest when his eyes fell your next photo — even more daring than the one before.
It was taken from behind and you were down on all fours on a large wooden desk, wearing only a g-string, high heels and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. His eyes traced the thin strip of material as it disappeared between the smooth cheeks of your ass, then landed on the tantalizing sight of the underside of your breasts — revealed as you turned to give the camera a sultry gaze over your shoulder.
“Mmm such a bad fuckin’ girl.”
Unable to hold back any longer, he hastily pushed his boxers down so that the elastic waistband rested just below his balls. He swiped his thumb over the tip of his cock, hissing at the sensation of his own hand, using it to spread the beads of pearly precum down the shaft.
As he started to stroke himself, the sight of your photo combined with the smooth glide of his palm brought him to the brink much faster than he expected, and he gave himself a gentle squeeze in an effort to slow things down.
He was so preoccupied with edging himself that he didn’t notice the knock that sounded on his door, but as the rapping persisted it finally brought him crashing back down to Earth. He nearly tripped when he tried to stand, pulling up his jeans and muttering under his breath about who the fuck would be knocking on his door at that late hour.
“Just a second,” he called out impatiently, figuring it was probably his neighbor Greg who was always showing up unannounced to try and score cheap weed.
When Eddie threw open the door, he was pleasantly surprised to see that instead of his middle-aged hippie neighbor, it was you.
You gave him an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, I know it’s a bit late to stop by but I was in the neighborhood and wondered if you had any weed. Today was brutal and I just need to turn my brain off, you know?”
Then you noticed that his cheeks were pink and that he was breathing a bit heavy.
“Are you okay? You look a little flushed.”
“Uh, yeah, I’m fine. Was just doing some sit ups.” He awkwardly patted his stomach. “I’ve got some weed in my room, wait here and I’ll roll you a joint.”
You couldn’t recall Eddie ever mentioning exercise before but you let his comment slide, your mind preoccupied with the exciting news you couldn’t wait to share — your issue of Stripped had just been released and your picture had made it onto the front cover. Even though Eddie had been acting a little funny about the whole thing, you knew he’d be happy for you.
Your feet were aching after a long day and you were dying to sit down, so you took off your jacket and decided to go make yourself comfortable on the couch while you waited.
When you walked into the living room, your stomach did a funny little flip when you saw your own image staring back up at you from the coffee table.
What was Eddie doing with your issue of Stripped? And why did he have so many copies?
When Eddie walked back into the kitchen a few minutes later and saw that you were gone, his blood instantly turned to ice water in his veins.
Oh shit. Shit.
He held his breath as he walked into the living room, his body freezing in mid-stride when he saw you looking up at him with a strange expression on your face.
“Eddie, why are there five issues of Stripped on your coffee table?”
Well, there it was. You were going to think he was a disgusting pervert and never speak to him again.
“I didn’t…look at it,” he stammered, guilt written all over the anguished lines of his face.
“Uh huh,” you said slowly, looking down at the plastic wrapper that had fallen to the floor in shreds like it’d been ripped apart by some kind of wild animal.
He sighed and ran a hand through his messy curls.
“I stopped at the store on my way home and these assholes came in and—“
You stared at him blankly. “And what?”
“They were looking at it—at you, and I just…” he trailed off as you gave him a teasing smile.
“You didn’t want them to look at my pictures, Eddie?”
His eyes darkened in an instant and you didn’t miss the tension of his jaw, flexing like the clenched fists held firmly at his side.
“No.”
"Why?" You stood up and walked over to him, holding his gaze as if in challenge, until you were face to face — his lips so close that you could almost feel the brush of their soft outline against your own.
Your breath caught when he reached out a hand to tenderly cup your cheek, then smoothed his thumb along the plump fullness of your lower lip.
“Because I didn’t want anyone else looking at what’s mine.”
“Yours?” Your voice came out a breathless whisper, shaken by the possessiveness of his words. You didn’t have a chance to say anything else before he leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours. Despite your surprise, you responded eagerly, letting yourself melt into his embrace and slotting your mouth against his as he pulled you into his arms.
With your mouths and limbs entwined, he walked you backwards to the couch, then sat down and pulled you on top of him so that you were straddling his waist. He pushed your skirt up in soft folds and ran his hands over the supple curve of your ass, his mouth greedily attacking your lips as he squeezed the mounds of smooth flesh in each large palm.
You ran your nails down the front of his t-shirt and then helped him pull it off over his head. His curls fell in a frizzy halo around his flushed face as he leaned back and gave you a lazy smile, the chain of his guitar pick necklace gleaming against his smooth, tattooed chest. Then with a firm grip on your hips, he guided you to grind in his lap, his breath coming out ragged as the firm bulge in his pants pressed against the barely covered heat of your cunt.
“Did you like my pictures, Eddie?” you teased as you started to unbutton your blouse, the stiff creases in his denim stealing your breath with each slow drag against your clit.
“I…fuck. Yeah, I liked them,” he mumbled in awe as he watched you push the silk down off your shoulders to reveal your lacy bra — one you were very grateful you had decided to wear that morning on a whim.
He ran his hands over the sheer lace as though mesmerized by the sight, letting his thumbs caress your hardening nipples through the delicate material.
“That’s an awfully sexy bra to be wearing to work,” he growled, reaching behind you to undo the clasp. “Maybe you’re not such an innocent little librarian after all.”
When you let the cups fall down your chest, he sucked in a harsh breath at the sight of your perfect breasts — even better in real life than they had looked in the magazine.
“Christ, you’re so fucking hot.”
You rolled your hips, your nipples brushing against the tip of his nose with each delicious grind and he leaned forward to swirl his tongue around one of the firm buds before biting down on it ever so gently, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to the growing ache between your thighs. You moaned in response and tangled your fingers in his hair.
“Since you interrupted me earlier I think it’s only fair you show me what I missed,” he rasped in a muffled voice against your breast. “I want you to pose for me. Show me what’s mine.”
“Now?” you asked with a breathy laugh and he nodded his head.
“I want something those other guys will never get to see.”
Your lips curled into a coy smile, enticed by his naughty idea. “Okay, as long as they're for your eyes only.”
You stood up to unzip your skirt and then shimmied it down over your hips. He let out a low rumble of approval when you stepped out in just your panties, already wet enough to cling to the puffy lips of your cunt.
He got up and walked over to the bookshelf to grab the instant camera that he’d recently purchased to take photos at his shows.
“How do you want me?” you asked with a nervous laugh as you climbed onto the couch, settling onto your back against the throw pillows and using your arms to push your breasts together like your first photo in the magazine.
“Like this?”
“Yeah angel, just like that.” Eddie raised the camera and you heard a high-pitched whine as it flashed. He let the undeveloped picture fall out onto the floor, too preoccupied with the sight in front of him to bother to pick it up.
His dark eyes never left you as used his free hand to unfasten his belt, then pushed down his jeans and impatiently kicked them off his feet. Your eyes widened when you saw the impressive outline that strained the front of his boxers and seeing your reaction, he gave you a wolfish smile.
“Can you touch yourself for me?”
You let your hand trace a slow path to the lace edge of your panties then you pulled them to the side, splaying your manicured fingers over your pussy just like the poses you’d seen in other dirty magazines.
“Is this what you want, Eddie?”
He stared for a moment with his mouth hanging open, unable to form a coherent word before finally holding up the camera and capturing the lurid shot. You heard the whine of the flash as you closed your eyes and slowly circled a finger over your clit.
“Fuck, Sweetheart,” he mumbled in a throaty whisper. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
You lowered your voice to a saucy purr. “Oh, I can see it, Eddie. It looks so big and hard. I bet you could really fill me up.”
He groaned at your words as you sat up to switch positions.
“Maybe you’ll like this one better?”
You flipped over onto your hands and knees, wiggling your ass in the air and turning your head over your shoulder to shoot him your most sultry gaze.
“Well, shit.” He climbed onto the couch and kneeled behind you, running a hand over your smooth backside. “Yeah, I like this one a lot.”
He grasped the tiny strip of your thong and pulled it to the side then ran two of his thick fingers along the seam of your cunt, letting out a low hum of approval.
“So nice and wet for me. Bet you taste so fuckin’ sweet.”
With a firm hand pressed between your shoulder blades, he pushed you into a deeper bend until your face was pressed against the soft cushions of the couch.
“C’mon let me see that pretty pussy.”
The camera clicked a few more times and then you heard him set it down on the coffee table. His hands free, he used them to spread your cheeks and then spit onto your folds before burying his face in their sticky sweetness. Your cries were muffled in the cushions of the couch while his long tongue fucked your dripping entrance and his nose nudged gently against your tight little hole.
You arched your back to give him better access to flick his tongue in rapid flutters over your clit, the camera suddenly forgotten in his desperate need to taste you.
The sounds he was making as he devoured you were loud and filthy, and with each soft lap of his tongue your climax quickly started to build.
“I need you inside me,” you whined as you felt yourself start to clench around nothing. He chuckled at your neediness before pushing his boxers down to free his already leaking cock. He grasped himself and started to glide his shaft through the pulsing heat of your cunt, each nudge of his head against your clit making you cry out as you dug your nails into the couch.
“Please, Eddie,” you begged, pushing back against him with a desperate whimper.
“My good girl needs it bad,” he teased as you pushed yourself back against him. He finally took mercy on you, letting his thick length sink into you slowly.
“Wanted this for so fuckin’ long,” he sighed as pulled almost all the way out, tortuously slow, before harshly thrusting back inside. Soon he was fucking you at a desperate pace, snapping his hips against you as each deep stroke hit that spot inside that made you see stars.
“Such a good girl…squeezin’ me so fuckin' tight,” he rasped as his fingers dug into the soft round of your hips.
You started to fuck yourself back against him while he used the string of your thong as leverage to bounce you on his cock, and he could feel your arousal making a slick mess of his heavy balls.
“Actin’ like an angel when all you really wanted was a big cock to fill you up, huh?”
He reached around to where your bodies were joined to rub his fingertips over your clit and before long you were crying out his name as you felt your climax taking hold. With your warm walls pulsing around him, Eddie knew he couldn’t hold himself back much longer — between you and the magazine he’d been edged going on hours.
“Shit, that’s it. Cum for me.”
You cried out as you came and he pulled out at the very last second, grunting as he stroked himself above you to decorate your ass and lower back with pearly ropes of his warm release.
“Shit. You look so fuckin’ good covered in my cum. Don’t move.”
He reached for the camera on the coffee table and snapped a photo of his masterpiece, then grabbed his t-shirt off the floor and used it to gently wipe you clean. When he was finished, you turned over onto your back and he collapsed on top of you in a sweaty mess of wild hair and tangled limbs.
He grabbed the last photo and shook it. "Oh, I can't wait till this baby develops."
You laughed and after sharing a tender kiss, you looked deep into his eyes, trying to hold onto the moment for as long as you could.
“You said you’d wanted this for a while. Did you really mean it?” you asked in a small voice.
Eddie propped himself up on his elbows and pushed a sweaty strand of curls behind his ear, giving you an almost bashful grin.
“Yeah, of course I meant it. I’m crazy about you. Been that way for a long time now.”
As much as you wanted to believe him, you had a hard time accepting that it was true.
“But I’m so boring. I see those girls at your shows…I’m not like them.”
He looked down at you with dawning realization —all your talk of being too dull suddenly making a lot more sense.
“Sweetheart, you’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met.” He pressed a soft kiss to the crook of your neck. “And I haven’t wanted anyone but you for a very long time.”
"Really?" You smiled up at him as he nodded, giving you a goofy smile.
“And just so you know, I kinda like the whole strait-laced good girl thing you’ve got going on. Makes things even hotter, if I’m being honest.”
You raised your eyebrows, feigning surpise. “Mr. Munson, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you were a little bit kinky.”
He nodded and bit his lip, his eyes alight with fiery mischief.
“Mmhmm…guilty as charged.”
And it was true, Eddie couldn’t wait to show you all the naughty things you’d been missing out on — things he knew a reserved girl like you would never, ever do. Now that you were his, he planned to take his time to unravel all of your secret desires, but he wasn’t quite finished with the current situation at hand.
“Speaking of which, Miss Librarian…” He smiled devilishly. “I think you still owe me a few more photos for my personal collection. Maybe we can make an exchange for some overdue library books?”
You furrowed your brow in faux-seriousness. “That could probably be arranged. Maybe a photo for every book that you return?”
“Oh well, in that case I have a confession to make. I have so, so many overdue books. Some of ‘em were even due weeks ago,” he raised his eyebrows up and down in jest before sprinkling soft kisses along the column of your throat.
“Hmm…that’s very serious,” you said as sternly as you could despite the butterflies that fluttered low in your belly. “I think maybe we should move this to the bedroom. Something tells me it could take a while.”
Without another word, Eddie grabbed the camera and raced you to his room.
Your issue of Stripped went on to become one of the publication’s all-time best sellers and the “Sexy Librarians of the World” pictorial was lauded as an instant classic. It turned out that the public had been eager for something different from the same old, tired fare and critics praised the magazine for its bold new direction.
A year later when Stripped executives invited you to pose for a special encore edition, you agreed on one very important condition — next time your boyfriend Eddie got to watch.
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