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inklore · 2 years

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crimson and clover.

part one | next part | series masterlist

premise: maybe you shouldn’t get high with eddie again but you can’t get him off of your mind, and his lips are too inviting to fight the growing addiction you’re succumbing to from the things he can do with them.

pairing: eddie munson x richgirl!reader

word count: 7k

warnings: eighteen+ content, porn with plot, f receiving oral, fingering, a touch of voyeurism, weed smoking, virgin!eddie, teasing and banter, soft dirty talk, alluded blowjob, jealousy mention, cheesy fluff, shitty parentals.

etc: i’m literally obsessed with these two to the point of insanity!! like i’m not usually that much of a plot heavy girly but buckle up besties we in deep <3.

i do not give anyone permission to translate or repost my work, please be respectful — if you enjoyed please comment or reblog!

It’s quite embarrassing, excruciatingly taxing, vexing and every other big word that you could remember and barely comprehend—but now are having a grave first-hand experience with—from those Jane Austen books you had to read in class.

Every ten sellable verb, feeling, pretext; all of them describing the exact state of your mind right now, and how superficial it made you feel. Aforementioned: excruciating, embarrassing.

A week has gone by since the night you spent with Eddie, and it’s all you find yourself thinking about.

Your mind plays a constant loop reel of everything that happened; the giggles, the kiss, the…other thing. At night when you want to sleep your mind is too busy thinking about whether or not Eddie’s thinking about it too, what happened. Or if he’s out bragging to his friends—something you have your doubts about. The two of you hadn’t discussed if this was an under-wraps kind of thing, it was probably common knowledge you wouldn't want it to be spread all over town. Which it would be, like wildfire.

None of your friends have called you to belittle you yet, so you doubt he’s told anyone.

But was it plaguing his mind as pathetically as it was yours? Or were you just so starved for decent human interaction that your mind was holding onto this one night like it was an aphrodisiac?

Maybe if you had received a call from him you wouldn’t be acting so…mortifyingly in your feelings for god knows why.

"Will we be graced with your presence across the tracks again, princess?" He had asked when he pulled up a block down from your house, not trusting his loud engine to not wake up your parents—or at the very least a neighbor who would see and then go running to your parents about the strange man they saw you with. It wasn’t a mess you wanted to deal with.

"Don't call me that." You had groaned, undoing your seatbelt and hiding your smile by biting the inside of your cheek. You hadn’t thought past this night, were still too busy rolling off that high from smoking and having Eddie against your mouth…inside of your mouth.

And maybe it was his smile, his thumb tapping on the steering wheel, eyes flashing to your mouth and back up like he didn’t know if he was allowed to kiss you again, or if he should.

But you reached across the dash and grabbed the pen randomly rested atop of it, leaned over to pull his hand from the wheel, and wrote your number on top of it.

"Don't call before six or after midnight.” You let your smile spread, threw the pen back on the dash, and opened the passenger door hopping out. “See you around, Munson.”

That was seven days ago and counting.

Never-ending counting.

It’s not like you expected him to call. You figured he probably wouldn’t, the two of you were not about to become best friends just because he cleaned your shoes, or let you smoke his weed, or because he came in your mouth. You didn’t—shouldn’t—have any expectations from Munson and you were sure he had none from you.

History didn’t make you friends. Sharing weed or an incredible kiss didn’t either.

So it wasn’t a big deal he hadn’t called.

And yet as you sit at one of the pristine white table cloth tables of the Country Club, your parents on either side of you, your fingers playing with the straw of your drink; you’re wondering if he’s called.

You’re so hyper-focused on that thought, of the thought of that stupid smile that you can’t shut your eyes without seeing—that you don’t hear your mother speaking to you until the words “I heard you two broke up” are spat through the air.

Reality crashes down on you, and you can’t help the grimace that flashes across your lips. Word really does spread like wildfire in this town. You hadn’t expected your parents to find out until at least a few weeks—or never, a girl could dream. Enough time for you to come up with an excuse at least, anything but the truth. Which would be nothing but unacceptably unrealistic to them.

“He’s not a good-”

“I didn’t ask for your feelings on the matter.” Your mother interrupts. Scowls down at the martini glass in her hand. “Fix it. You’re both going to the same college, a college your father called in many favors just to get you in. Since you couldn’t do it on your own.” Her last words are mumbled, snappy, and hurtful as always. “His parents run in the same social circle as us and could do wonders for your father's business. Don’t ruin this for yourself over girlish feelings.”

Your throat feels tight, constricted, suffocated. Your fingers have dropped from your straw to grip the end of your white pleated skirt under the table. You know even if you told your mother the full story, how you truly felt, how you’ve been with him since sophomore year and neither of you have even muttered the words ‘I love you’. And don’t think you ever will. Would.

Or how last year over spring break the two of you broke up for a month and you had felt more rejuvenated than any hundred-dollar spa treatment ever could. As if you had peeled off a deadweight and could finally feel something other than the caked-on layers of presser that were endlessly put onto you by him, by them.

Then he came back and said the same thing your mother did “don’t ruin this for us” when he had been the one to leave you. And you’d done the stupid thing and said yes. As the two of you kissed and made up your mind searched for the why, the how, the what-the-fuck-were-you doing.

And now with your mother's words as fresh as a reopened wound reminding you of the memory, you know you said yes because of her. Your father. Their need to seem so disgustingly perfect on the outside, to hide how ugly they were on the inside.

Were you as ugly as them?

The question makes your knee bounce, knuckles straining from the grip on your skirt.

Your mothers already moved on from you, talking to the friend at her side. Smiling, keeping that perfect crown in place. Turning towards your father you hope to see a sympathetic look, some wise words—wasn’t that what fathers were supposed to do? Wise words and comfort? But he’s not even looking at you, too busy laughing at something the man beside him has said.

You need to get out of here. Go home and scream into your pillow or something.

Standing from the table, a little too quickly. The legs of your chair screeching against the hardwood, your father finally looks at you.

“Everything alright?” A monologue of how everything is the farthest thing from being alright in the back of your throat and ready to be screamed. But then you can feel your mother's eyes on you, don’t have to turn to see her look of impassiveness to know it’s there.

“Yeah,” you give them both your best performed smile. “Just going to do what mom said, fix it.”

Your lie only gets you a hum from said woman and then she’s done with you and turning her head. Your dad gives you the weakest of smiles and asks if you need any money—for no reason at all. Shaking your head you quickly bid them goodbye and do your best walk-sprint out of the building.

The hot summer night air a welcome humidity from the suffocation you felt in there.

You have your parent's driver take you home. Screw your ex and screw your parents.

If your mother wanted him to be in your family so bad maybe she should drop her Pilates instructor and have him instead. It would take a hefty price—that you were sure your parents would gladly pay to get you to shut up and listen to them—to ever bring yourself to his front door and beg for him back.

You didn’t beg. For anyone. Over anything.

You asked. You got. Demanded. Sometimes you didn’t even need to ask. You were just given to. Your bank account and school career showed as much.

Fuck, maybe you were the Princess of Hawkins after all.

You start in a small sprint up the stairs to your room, your throat still feeling as if it’s being squeezed by your mother's words, indifference towards you, demands. Even with her not around you feel like you’re being suffocated by her.

You really shouldn’t have come back home.

Not for the summer. Not anytime. Should have just stuck to the one call a month and check in the mail. Life was more peaceful that way. At least you could breathe.

It was going to be one hell of a long, torturous summer.

“Someone called for you!”

You hear just as your foot lands on the last step. Your heart leaping in your chest as you turn and yell down, “who?”

“They didn’t say.” Your family housekeeper appears at the bottom of the stairs, a small smile on her face. “But they did leave their number and said to call them if you needed help on biology or something like that.” She shakes her head, “could barely understand them. There was loud music in the background.”

Eddie.

The grin that spreads across your lips is demeaning to your social status. Same with the way your heart feels like it’s pumping from your stomach now as you run back down the stairs and take the number from her, only to run back up them and to your room; dialing the number into the pink phone beside your bed, pacing the floor as you wait, hope, shamefully pray that he answers.

On the fifth ring he answers and when his voice floods through the phone when you hear the “shit-hold on” as he turns down the music blaring in the background, you feel like you can finally breathe again. No more tight throat. Suffocating. The only thing you feel now is that familiar giddy ache in your cheeks.

“Biology huh?”

You can hear the puff of air Eddie lets out from realizing it’s you, from the smile that you can tell is on his face when he speaks through the receiver, “I thought telling her I was ‘the weed guy’ would be worse, town freak was my second option.”

"Munson, it's summer no one's doing biology!"

“Incorrect. Summer school is a prison sentence I have had the displeasure of being sentenced to.” Of course, he has. You can’t help the laugh that comes out, one he joins in on.

There’s a silence that spreads where you can hear him fiddling with something on the other line.

And then he’s saying, “is the Princess busy or can she step away from the castle, and grace us, peasants, with her presence?"

You’re smiling again, fuck.

“She could, but I don't know, she might need payment." You say in your best uppity voice, flopping back on your bed. Your fingers coiling and uncoiling the cord hanging from the phone.

"Drats! Right when I’m out of gold doubloons too."

“Oooh, and I only take gold, looks like the peasants must go un-graced today.”

"Would thy majesty take my humble payment of the best weed in the county instead?" He puts on his best historically accurate voice that has you snorting.

“That’s very presumptuous of you to say it's the best."

"Did I say the best? Sorry, I meant the greatest.”

God, you despised how nice this felt. How the muscles in your cheeks were already sore and you hadn’t even been talking to him for more than five minutes. How you can’t remember someone calling you and it being like this, no gossip, no hounding questions or accusations.

Oh, how the normal half lives.

"I'll meet you where you dropped me off the other night, okay?"

"Your chariot will be waiting, princess."

When Eddie picks you up and the two of you fly across town, sharing silent smiles, the town passing in the rear view, heavy metal blaring throughout the speakers—that he doesn’t turn down until his van comes to a stop through a wooded clearing, in front of a familiar lake.

Lovers Lake.

"Really, Munson? Trying to get lucky again?" You tease, a cheeky grin covered up by him laughing behind the hair that moves in his face as he undoes his seatbelt and moves to the back of the van.

You follow him into the back, sitting on the van floor. Eddie on the sofa, much like the last night the two of you were together. Except now you’re sitting with your legs crossed out in front of you, back against one of the walls of the van.

You let him do his thing of pulling out the metal box and rifling through it while he finds what he needs. Occupying your time with looking at the newly added amps and wires that weren’t there the other night.

"What's your band called again?"

"Corroded Coffin.”

You smile remembering him telling you that when you were partnered together. Remember how he drummed his fingers on the desk and air guitared you a silent piece to emphasize how good he swore he could play, how good the band was.

"You should come see us play sometime. If you're into that.” He looks up at you through his bangs, his fingers moving in his lap as he rolls the joint.

You give the tiniest smirk as you say, “like a date?”

His shoulders are shrugging, ringed fingers scratching his cheek. “If a grimy bar and drunk geezers falling off their barstools is your ideal date then yes. Absolutely.” You share a smile and then he’s going back to his task at hand.

When he’s finished rolling, and after you’re done eyeballing him: watching how his fingers work along the rolling papers, those damn rings distracting you, and finding yourself at a loss for words when you watch him bring it to his lips and run his tongue along the seam to close it.

You were here to get away. To kill time. To smoke. Nothing else.

What happened the other night should stay a one time thing. With how your insides keep acting up from the mere thought of it. This was dangerous territory already.

"Your payment, princess." Eddie holds out the freshly rolled joint, doing a little bowing motion as he does. Making you laugh and playfully snatch it from his fingers.

Bringing it to your lips, he pulls out a lighter from the front pocket of his jeans. Leaning forward he flicks it and holds it to the other end, lighting it for you. His eyes on yours as you forget to inhale for half a second, too busy staring back at him. The thick smoke almost making you choke after you’ve come to and inhale; an intensity holding between your gazes.

He’s so close, if you were to remove the joint you could lean in and….

Nope. Not happening. Not tonight.

You quickly move back over to your spot and take a few puffs, praying that it chills whatever tempestuous feelings were burning in your lower belly right now.

The two of you fall into an easy rotation, puffing, passing, Eddie making a joke and you losing it. A peaceful cycle that soon has you forgetting about the earlier events of the day and how you had felt; your nerves now lax, body feeling good. And not just because of the weed, but because of the boy sitting in front of you.

A fact you let yourself feel.

The only thing you allow yourself to feel.

You’re tapping your foot mindless against the bottom of the couch to the metal playing through the van, ignoring the friction it causes against the pant leg of Eddie’s jeans; his leg pressed against yours as the two of you have your limbs spread out.

Your fingers are flipping through a random magazine you’ve found in one of the many piles of junk on the floor. “Who sings this?”

"Corroded Coffin.”

Your head snaps up a little too fast giving you whiplash, as you look up at him—he’s already staring back, how long has he been watching? And have your cheeks always been this warm, or is the thought that he had possibly been watching you for god knows how long that’s making you feel overheated right now?

“This is your band?!”

“Yes,” he chuckles. “I don't see any blood coming from your ears so I take it your majesty approves?"

You make a face, shrugging. "I was swallowing down my vomit actually, was trying to hide it with being nice."

“Mmm.” He replies, his hair covering his smile as he fiddles with the chain connected to his jeans.

It’s an effort to pull your eyes away from him and go back to flipping through the magazine—as if you were doing anything other than looking at the pictures. Your high mind having very little comprehension of the words printed across the flimsy papers.

That comfortable silence spreads between the two of you again, your foot going back to its tapping. Your head doing a little bob along with the beat.

“Was that a jive I just saw?”

Your movements stop, “a jive?” The snort of laughter that comes deep from within your throat should be embarrassing. If it were anyone else in front of you you know you’d do everything in your power to cover it up.

“Who says that?”

“I know many people who say it.”

“Are they 80 and over?”

Eddie shakes his head, his laugh dying down. “You like it, the music?”

“I’ve heard worse.” You shrug nonchalantly. Close the magazine and toss it back in its pile of junk.

“I’ll take it!” His fist pumping in the air in triumph.

Shaking your head you send an eye roll his way. Your heart doing a little leap in your just at how cute you think he looks right now. Your mind working overtime to hone in on the little things that light up his features when he smiles or laughs—and then the little things that don’t matter at all: like how this is your second time here and the first he had scurried around and tried to move his random messes out of the way, to clean it up. But this time around he didn’t even bother, as if a comfortability has already grown between the two of you. You hadn’t run for the hills, already knew what he was about, that this van was a second home to him by the looks—and he knew you wouldn’t care what it looked like. Hadn’t made a fuss the first time so why not let you see him more in his realm?

It makes a weird affection burn in your gut and has you toying with the bottom of your skirt to distract yourself from it.

Just listen to the music. The band. It’s pretty good.

Which isn’t shocking to you in the slightest. It only took you all your school career, and give or take a few years, to realize that Eddie Munson was a lot of things but mediocre was not one of them.

But your mind is racing a mile a minute, unlike the first time, you smoked Eddie’s stash. Which meant that you were the problem, the issue causing your mind to run from the blissful high into difficult feelings and misunderstandings of said feelings.

Go figure.

Your legs are still touching each other. You can feel the bare minimum of his heat against your legs, but it’s enough to add flashbacks of the other night into the mix of your mind. How you could feel the heat from other parts of his body; under you, beside you, against you, inside your mouth.

The tender skin of your bottom lip quickly becomes raw from your teeth, as the memories bombard you. As you grow warmer and warmer. And make the mistake of looking up at him, watching him, staring at him—and then he’s catching you doing just that and you have the urge to ask him if he’s thought about you sense that night, or why he hadn’t called sooner.

Questions with obvious answers.

But your mind is working against you here.

And the last thing you want him to think is that you’re just sitting at home waiting for him to call. Like you’re desperate for it, begging for it. Something you do not do. And was not about to start for Eddie Munson.

“Did you have plans later?” He asks.

Making your brows come together, a confused look on your face as you wonder if you’ve missed something. If he spoke before this and you just didn’t hear because of your internal war.

“The outfit,” he points with a finger, “it’s chic.” A lopsided grin pulls up the corners of his mouth just as you laugh.

“Chic?” You shake your head, “I was at the Country Club with my parents.”

“And you let me steal you away from such fun with the other royals? Honored." His hand splays over his chest.

You make a face, “my mother thinks I’m crawling on my hands and knees back to lover boy." You drop the same nickname Eddie had the other night for your ex, seeing his expression change from it. His smile faltering, fingers brushing at a few loose strands of hair in his face.

“Are you?”

“If I was, would I be here with you?"

"Maybe you needed some devil induced bravery to help you crawl."

"I wouldn't waste a good high on him,” you scoff.

Eddie’s silent for a second too long for your sanity and then he’s saying, “instead you're here wasting it on me."

"It's not a waste.” The words slip out. Come out so naturally that you don’t realize how sentimental of a meaning they have until you see Eddie’s expression. See the softness of it, and how you cannot bear the way your insides feel right now.

What’s the worst thing that can happen from you hooking up with Munson again?

“At least it doesn't have to be.." you’re pulling at your skirt again, can’t bring your eyes up to his as the words hang in the air—an invitation.

"Hitting on me now, princess?” His leg pushes into yours playfully, “who knew you could be so flattering. So charitable.” He teases.

You only look up to scowl at him, because you were not hitting on him—maybe, not really, you didn’t hit on people, you were hit on. But like many things around Munson it had changed, morphing itself into something you don't recognize; something better. You are going to tell him as much, flaunt your Princess status tenfold. But can’t stop looking into his big brown eyes, can’t stop the burning in your stomach going lower lower until it turns into that same lust you felt for him the other night.

And fuck it.

You’ve already dipped your toe over that line once, mine as well put your whole foot in.

"Shut up, Munson.” Your retort is less ice than it is fire, a breathy huff that you mean to sound playful but miss the mark. “Come here,” you hesitate. "Please.”

The beam that spreads across his face is anything but subtle or shy, promptly dropping down to his knees and crawling the short distance to you. A position he stays in even as he brings his lips to yours.

The kiss, his lips, his fingertips at the side of your neck just as heart stopping and pulsating-ly devastating to your insides as last time. A pang of jealousy shoots through your belly at the thought of how many girls he has kissed before you, he’s had to have kissed a couple, a handful maybe, you weren’t this good at kissing if you hadn’t. Kisses didn’t just feel like this, normally. Right?

Or maybe you just weren’t kissing the right people. Person.

It doesn’t take long for the kiss to move into the realm of breathless pants and tongues against each other, teeth biting into lips. And unlike last time Eddie doesn’t need an invitation to touch you; his hands go from your neck to your cheeks, your jaw, chin, the back of your skull, and into your hair. The tips of his fingers making a road map of every sensitive spot above your collarbone.

Eventually, thanks to some maneuvering and awkward giggles the two of you are laid on the floor of the van—you on your back, Eddie on his side with his front pressed flush against you. His lips have veered from yours, leaving a path of kisses and nips along your jaw, under it, to your neck where he runs his tongue along a sensitive spot of skin, his lips wrapping around it to suck softly and then sink his teeth into.

A breathy gasp strangled out of you, your hips moving against the air. An imprint of Eddie smirking against your skin from the noise, left behind when he kisses just below the area. Fuck.

“How many–” you swallow, lick your lips, breathless, “how many girls have you kissed like this?”

It’s probably not the right thing to ask right now, but your mind keeps going back to it. That jealousy making your stomach sink as you anticipate his answer, as you dread and wish your body and brain were working together instead of on separate plains of pain and pleasure.

“Uh, a dozen obviously.” He laughs softly against you when you dig your nails into his arm playfully, in replace of the scowl you’d shoot him down with if you could turn your head—or if you wanted him to stop the knee shaking presses of his lips right now, which you’re delirious but not that delirious to stop him. “Only you, princess.”

The information shouldn’t have you soaring any more than you already are, shouldn’t make those jealousy twists get snuffed out by a belly full of butterflies, and flutters that go all the way down to your throbbing clit. But it does and you’re reeling at the sentiment that you’re probably Eddie’s first everything in this sense. In this realm.

It’s not triumph you feel, it’s something softer and dangerously close to affection and attachment that has no business filling your chest with warmth right now.

And instead of feeling the aforementioned feelings, distracting yourself with giving him pleasure—and to hear those beautiful noises from the other night—your hand is moving from his arm to the bulge pressing to your hip.

Your fingers and palm run up his clothed length and pull those delicious breathy grunts from him. No man should sound this good, no sound should have you feeling like you’re melting into the floor.

Your mouth finding Eddie’s in a hungry kiss, a need to swallow down his noises like a drug, needing sedation. You could get addicted to this if you’re not careful.

Your fingers drag themselves up to his belt, try to blindly pull the leather through its buckle, the loops. And just like a repeat of the night before, his hand is there to stop you.

“Gotten shy on me?” You ask with a coyness that makes him give you a ‘not in this lifetime’ look.

“I just want to make it crystal clear that I didn’t bring you here for this.” His tone only holds gentleness, his hand bringing yours up to his mouth to brush a few kisses across your knuckles.

“Even if you did,” your fingers twist a strand of his hair, “I wouldn’t be upset.”

And you mean that. If Eddie had only brought you here for a replay of the other night or something further than that, you know—even if it was against your better judgment—you wouldn’t be too upset about it, or at all. It was hard to be upset with lips like his pulling out smiles and whimpers from you.

But it also means that Eddie had called you because he wanted to see you, to hang out…which is harder for you to grasp than the prospect of only casual hookups between the two to you.

Those Jane Austen feelings back with a vengeance in your chest cavity.

Your answer makes a chuckle echo in his chest. “But,” he’s looking at you with all seriousness within those doe eyes. “Now that we’re–” he motions to your current positions with his hand, “here. I want to return the favor. For the other night.”

Oh?

Oh.

Pressing your lips together, you do your best to hide the excitement that shoots up your spine, nodding in a super-casual-not-too-fast way. “Yeah, okay, yes, totally.”

“Totally?” He mocks you, smirking.

“Totally.”

Then his lips are on yours again without needing further confirmation. The kiss slower this time compared to the last lip lock that made your bottom lip feel like it was inflamed from his teeth. Your mouths move in perfect sync, and if you could figure out a way you know you could get off by just his kiss alone. He moves your hand back to his crotch, giving you back access to his hardness as his hand begins its travel down your chest. Palming your boobs over your white polo, his thumb moving across your nipple, making you whimper. Your chest pushing up into him.

The closer he gets—the further his fingers move along the fabric of your clothes—the anticipation of where you want him, where he wants to be, makes your legs pull together. Thighs in a tight lock, your attempted relief of the pressure on your clit only makes the throbbing worse. You can feel how soaked you are through the cotton of your panties, know that once you feel his fingers slip inside of you it’s going to be game over.

There's a whoosh of air against your thighs from Eddie pushing up the top of your skirt, putting your clothed pussy on display for him. His mouth pulling from yours as he looks down at you and takes you in. The hunger in his eyes turning the brown hues in them black. You’re about to ask him if he wants you to take your underwear off, his fingers slipping past the elastic of them stopping you. His palm warm against your mound.

Eddie runs his middle finger through your folds, voice low and gravelly when he says. “You’re so wet.” All you can do is mewl, bite your already raw lip as you try to keep your hips still, try to hold yourself back from fucking his hand the way you want to. His fingers explore you for a bit, misstepping your throbbing clit each time the tips of his fingers come close to it. Even as you finally let yourself move your hips a fraction of an inch up, he’s still not touching the spot you really need, instead, he’s moving every place you don’t need him. Until he slips a finger inside of you too aggressively, making an “ahh” hiss out of you.

Your face scrunched when he turns to look down at you, halting his actions. Body tense, “did I hurt you?”

He’s never done this before, it’s not new knowledge and yet thanks to your hormone filled haze—and the need to come—you were expecting him to know all the places to touch. To not be as aggressively pushy right from the get-go.

“No,” you sigh, laughing softly. “Sort of, just…can I show you?” You’re nervous he’s going to take it the wrong way. That this is where it’s going to end because it'll be awkward and he’ll be embarrassed or mad or something.

But there you go thinking Eddie is one thing when he’s the exact opposite. The endless surprise of this boy never ceasing to show you why you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover—or by its fellow shitty townspeople.

Eddie nods, eyes soft and tentatively looking at you in the same way an excited student looks thrilled to learn from a teacher.

Wasting no time you loop your fingers into the elastic of the cotton covering your pussy, pulling the garment down your legs and tossing it to the side. Moving comfortably back into your lying position, skirt still pushed up, completely showcasing yourself to him. A flutter sinking low into your belly when you watch Eddie’s throat bob from a tight swallow as he looks down at your wet cunt.

And while he watches, stares at you, you’re staring up at him. Watching the hunger and desire to learn—to be taught—displaying itself across his face; your hand moves between your legs, the pad of your index finger putting the lightest of pressers on your clit. The moan you let out has Eddie’s hair falling in your face for half a second as his eyes snap to your face. As he watches your mouth part, brows come together, breaths shaky and weak as you touch yourself. Rubbing slow circles against your throbbing clit, where you wanted, needed to feel him. Where you’ve been throbbing and aching for what felt like hours—days—for him.

His fingers dig into your thigh as he spreads your legs wider, holding it up and against him below your knee so you’re completely open for him. So he can see you run your fingers down between your folds to catch the gathering arousal at your entrance and pull it back up to coat your clit.

You should be talking right now, should be directing him with your words, but you can’t. Have never touched yourself in front of anyone before, never had to, or wanted to. The act of touching yourself strictly permitted for when you were alone in your room at night. Never like this. But you’ve been convinced. Turned over a new leaf in the things you like, enjoy; the way Eddie is watching your fingers, the way he brings his gaze back up so fucking slow to look at your face. To hold eye contact with you as you moan and tremble. That mounting pressure already starting, so fast, so good.

Eddie leans into the small distance of space between your mouths to swallow down one of your moans that comes out at the same time his lips press to yours. “You’re so pretty.” He whispers between kisses. “How many guys have you let watch you like this?”

You whimper, breath hot on his mouth, “none. Only you.”

He’s grinning against your mouth, “you do this at night when you’re alone in your bed?”

“Yes.” Humming, you feel breathless, can feel your hips gyrating against your hand, legs trembling. Know you’re so close. But don’t want to make yourself come. Want Eddie to be the one to make you come, want his fingers to be inside of you when your walls constrict and carry you through that euphoric high.

“Who knew you were such a dirty girl, princess.” His head lifts back up to look back down at your pussy, the wet sounds of your arousal against your finger and clit filthy.

Have you ever been this wet before? This turned on? Fuck, Eddie Munson.

Without thinking—reeling off of your own need—you grab his hand that's still holding your leg to him. “Put your hand over mine.” Following directions eagerly Eddie does so, places his searing palm atop yours, his index finger resting perfectly against yours; moving along as you go back to stroking your clit. “Like this, slow–ahh–circles.” The last syllables of your words choked out over a moan. Your skin feels like it’s on fire, know you’re probably making a mess on the makeshift carpeting below you.

He copies your movements for one, three, six circles and then you’re snaking your hand away and it’s his finger on your clit. The change in feeling is instantaneous and has your hips stuttering, whines coming out weaker. Your hand gripping the material of his shirt, needing to ground yourself. To remind you that yes, this is reality and not some crazy out of body wet dream.

“Like that?” Eddie asks against your cheek.

“Yes.” You don’t think your moans have ever sounded this wailing, this intense to the point where you’re almost embarrassed at how good you feel right now. How your body is shaking and mewling and reaching out for him for pleasure. In need of it.

This time when he slips a finger into you it’s slow, so good and gentle as he pumps it inside of you, that amplifies the squelching of your wetness. “This okay?”

“Mmhmm.”

He fucks you like that, his middle finger fucking up into you, his thumb brushing against your clit at just the right angle that has you on the verge of seeing stars. You’re so so close, know that if he keeps doing that you’re going to be a goner–

“Wait, what are you doing?” Your brows pull up in confusion as you watch him detach himself from your side, removing his hand from between your thighs. Settling himself between your legs on his knees.

You expect him to start undoing his belt, figure he’s ready to take it further, aren't mad at the thought—but he’s surprising you again. “You got to taste, it’s only fair, princess.” Eddie smirks, situates himself in a comfortable hunching position, and then you’re gasping as he runs the tip of his tongue along your clit. Any rebuttal you could have thought to reply with dead in the water.

“Fuck, Eddie,” there are no missteps like the first time he was down there with his hand. Mimicking the movements you showed him with your fingers with his tongue, with a few added experimental licks and sucks that have your breath caught in your throat. “Ohmygod, and you’ve never done this before?” You curse, feel a breathy laugh fall across your clit. One, then another, finger slipping into you moving in tandem with his tongue.

Only one other guy has gone down on you and it was not as nearly intense or agonizing pleasurable as this—to the point where your thighs are closing in around his head, hands in his hair. Back arching. You feel like a woman crazed, like you had no idea you could feel this searing, pleasure this good.

You mean to say something, to warn him, to say any words that you can dredge up from the crevice of your dysfunctional brain; but all you can do is scream as you come against his mouth, as your pussy convulses around his fingers. Your hips rolling up into him, thighs shaking, body spasming as his name falls from your lips like a sinful prayer.

“Munson,” you whine, pulling at his chin once you’ve come down enough to function. Once you can finally see something other than the white bursts of light across your vision. Eddie’s tongue still running along your sensitive clit to the point of oversensitivity, that you have to pull him up.

His chin and cheeks are damp, bangs pressed to his forehead. Find yourself laughing at his tousled hair—no thanks to your fingers. There’s a cheshire grin stretched across his face as he runs the back of his hand over his mouth. Crawling up your body to hover over you and kiss you, a whimper coming from your throat as you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Wow.” You breathe, smile over at him as he rolls back to his side beside you. A palm resting over where your heart is still beating a mile a minute.

“I’ll take it.” Your laughs are in unison as a look of triumph flashes in those big eyes.

“If only you were that much of an eager learner in school, might have graduated, joined me on the road to success.” You pick.

“Not even seconds after I make her come and she’s already wounding me.” His chuckle muffled by the press of another kiss to your lips. “Better than lover boy?” Eddie teases.

“Can’t compare something that never happened.”

He makes a disgusted noise from the back of his throat, “no wonder you left him for the steerage.”

You hum nodding, turning your head to the side to press a kiss to his throat. Would it be too sentimental of you to tell him that he’s better than anyone you’ve been with? That no one has ever made you come that hard, not even yourself. That you can feel your wetness rolling down your ass cheeks and inner thighs from how wet he made you.

It could be a mood killer, sentiment isn't even your thing.

Plus it’s his turn now. Fair’s fair right?

There’s no complaint from Eddie as you move on top of him, roll your hips against his hardness, the seam of his jeans making you shudder from still feeling over-sensitive, as you move down the length of his body to rid him of his jeans and take him into your mouth.

“Here.” There’s a cassette tape gripped in his hand, the back of his head resting on the headrest of the driver's seat. You’re parked in the same spot he picked you up earlier, a block from your house. “Since you liked it so much,” he smiles.

Sentiment. Fuck.

Your smile is too cheesy and girlish for you to wrap any logistics into your head about it just being a tape, as you take it from and see his band name in black marker at the top. Your stomach fluttering. A simple gift that's not a big deal. You have to remind yourself as you try not to lean over and kiss him on that beautiful mouth of his.

“Here,” you say as you pull off your underwear and drop them into his lap. “A gift for a gift.”

You don’t let yourself stick around to see the heart-palpating look in his eyes as he grips the fabric in his hand and laughs, shouting “gold doubloons could never compare!” out of the open window. Making you press a finger to your lips, shooting daggers at him through the windshield as you pick up the pace towards your house. Trying to quiet your giggles and wipe the big girlish grin on your face.

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