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letterstotheflre · 2 years ago

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He swallows thickly and then admits, voice cracking halfway through his confession, “I’m so hard that it fucking hurts, sweetheart.”

OH MY FUCKING GODDDDDD

Virgin!Eddie thoughts?

THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT | quid pro quo

summary: eddie muson is a virgin and doesn't want anyone to know (because being an adult who's never fucked anyone is a total reputation ruiner). but you, his favorite customer, are more than willing to change that. pairing: eddie munson / f!reader word count: 6.5k (holy shit this was supposed to be a blurb) warnings: talks of virginity and masturbation, the word "tit" too many times, a handjob (sorta?) 18+ mdni a/n: you asked for thoughts but i had way too many of them for a single post so i might turn this into a whole virgin!eddie series that will only see the light of day if you guys are into this so... no pressure <3

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You were Eddie’s favorite customer, though that went without saying. It was something both of you were more than aware of. Albeit it, it was a little strange, since he — the supplier of your weed — was essentially paying for your high. He doesn’t mind it, though. He never did. You made it up for him in other ways; and, no, it’s not as perverted as it sounds.

It’s actually much, much weirder.

It was your fourth time meeting with him but your first time without any money to give him in exchange. You’re all pink and fidgeting and feeling like a total loser as you shift on the hard wooden bench across from him.

Your gaze is tilted away from his and down at your hands where you twist the rings on your fingers — “I was supposed to get paid last Friday, but my boss is paying me weekly now instead of every two weeks, so he completely changed my payday on me, and he swears he told me about it, but he totally didn’t— anyway, that’s beside the point. I don’t have any money to give you, or like, at all. Genuinely. I’m gonna be lucky if I get to eat anything other than top ramen for the next few days.”

“Damn,” he laughs, not in amusement at your situation but rather pitying you for it. “That sucks—”

“That sounds like I’m guilt-tripping you, doesn’t it?” you keep rambling. “I’m really not. I’m just trying to be honest. I’m not, like, trying to do you over or anything. I swear. You probably don’t even care. You’re my drug dealer, not my friend, I wouldn't blame you if you didn't— I’m making a total fool out of myself, aren’t I?”

“No, not at all,” Eddie assures sincerely, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of his lips. That’s all he can muster. He feels like the fool right about now because your words sting a little harder than intended.

He always considered you a friend. Or, at least, a whole lot more than just a client. You’re the only customer he has fun with, who he can laugh with, who doesn’t just hang around long enough for him to hand you your drugs like everyone else does, who actually cares enough to make conversation with him.

Maybe that’s why he chose to give it to you for free that day.

Because he’s started to grow fond of you (and because he genuinely believes that you’re in a bad way and that money’s a little too tight for you right now. He knows all too well what that’s like.)

But he asks you for a favor in return when you take the plastic baggie from him. It has him blushing with embarrassment like you’d been just minutes before. He can’t meet your gaze as he says the words, but he can feel the incredulous beam of it piercing holes into him.

“You, Eddie Munson, are willing to give me weed, for free, as long as I… help you pass your next English exam?”

You weren’t repeating it to mock him or to make him feel bad for being a third-year senior. You’re just actually shocked because you know a thing or two about the Munson’s. You know that his Uncle is working two jobs, and his nephew has resorted to drug dealing to compensate for their being strapped for cash. You also know that suppliers giving out anything for free is bad for business, so it’s essentially unheard of.

And aside from all that, Eddie wanting to study — to want to try to be good at something rather than just winging it and hoping for the best — was almost as surprising as him wanting you to be the one to help him. You literally have Gareth, his best friend, in your English class, and he’s way better at it than you are.

You try to find what makes you somehow special but come up short.

“Is that, like, really weird?” he wonders meekly, scrunching his nose and peering at you through his lashes. His eyes are the color of chocolate syrup, you notice then. Like, exactly. And they have a sort of sheen to them beneath the sun, like he's trapped a star inside of them.

“Yes,” you answer with a laugh that's as light as air. “Considering you could’ve offered literally anything else. Like, I don’t know— groping my tits or something.”

It’s what you were half-expecting. Not because you thought Eddie was that kind of guy, but because that’s how it often went down, at least in porn. A busty (broke) blonde orders a pizza, a man with an enormous dick delivers it… It’s a tale as old as time, really.

Your words make him tense for the second time in five minutes.

He almost wants to be offended that you’d think of him that way, but his yearning far overpowers his wounded ego.

He’s got a soft heart. That offer never would’ve crossed his mind, and even if it did, he’d never be stupid enough to say it out loud. But he didn’t realize how much he liked you until right then. It wasn’t just a friend caring for another friend, but a boy with a crush on a girl eons out of his league (with boobs he would happily touch if she’d let him).

He clears his throat and irrationally prays that you aren’t a mind reader.

“I’m down if you are,” he answers with a playful lilt to his voice that makes you giggle again. He’s happy to hear it. Your laugh is like being basked in sunshine. He wants to keep it in his pocket when he gets lost in the shade.

That’s the moment that started it all — the strange friendship that formed out of practically nothing. Who knew what being poor, free weed, an historically low GPA, and a missed opportunity for tit-groping could do to two people?

From then on, all your weed was free. As long as you broke down all the themes in Of Mice and Men for him, of course. And then, when he ultimately aced that paper, he wanted to run his D&D campaign by you — “So, you know, it isn’t totally lame when I show it to the rest of Hellfire.”

“Of course, it’s gonna be lame,” you deadpan from across the rotting bench. “It’s Dungeons and Dragons.”

He goes red at that, a flash of pink blotched around his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He glows cherry with embarrassment and smiles faintly as he looks down at his hand, fidgeting with his silver skull ring. It’s cute. Too cute. The kind of cute that makes you grin to yourself without even thinking about it.

“I’m kidding, Eds—”

Eds. That was new, the boy remarks to himself. Not the nickname itself, perhaps, but the fact that you were the one calling him by it. You’re getting more comfortable with him. He likes that. It gives him a false hope; that one day he’ll be a friend to you and not just your dealer.

“—It sounds really fun actually,” you assure him with nod and a twinkling gaze that proves you sincere. “As long as you’ll smoke with me during.”

“I don’t really like to use my own product…” That was a lie. Mostly. He didn’t like to smoke his own stuff because that burned a hole into his profits. But that didn’t mean he didn’t do it. It was far too tempting to have a tin full of so much weed never more than just a few inches away.

Now he’s got a pretty girl in front of him, wanting to smoke with him, wanting to spend time with him. Hell’s freezing over as they speak and that certainly calls for a celebratory smoke session.

A smirk pulls at his pink lips and he tilts his head, bringing his ear to his shoulder, as he looks at you with a glimmering umber gaze.

“But I’m willing to make an exception. Just for you.”

Eddie swears you blush at that, but he catches only the shortest glimpse of your crimson cheeks before you duck your gaze to the table. The beam on your face is only half-washed away, however, when you turn up to look at him again. You look shy, almost, as you peer at him through your lashes.

“You’ll basically have to start from scratch too, you know that, right? I don’t know anything about that shit.”

“Well, I’m glad I can be your first,” he quips.

You laugh again. It’s like the pinky-orange of a sunset. He could paint it if he had the right supplies. And a set of hands that were good for things other than rolling die and playing guitar.

It was his first time, really. In every aspect of the phrase.

It was the first time a girl’s ever offered to hang out with him and not the other way around. The first time a customer’s ever offered to share their weed with him. The first time someone’s ever wanted him to explain his favorite hobby and not care that he’s been rambling for the better part of an hour.

He doesn’t even notice that he hasn’t shut up since he started talking, mostly because you aren’t giving him that look of annoyance people usually have when he hasn’t gotten the hint. Most couldn’t care less about goblins and villains and battles and knights and princesses — princess knights.

It’s more interesting than you ever hoped a board game could be, but less so as enchanting as the glow Eddie’s got about him as he rambles on and on about something that makes him so happy.

He’s beaming and he doesn’t even realize it. He has no idea he could light up an entire solar system with the smile on his face. You’d tell him if it didn’t feel totally inappropriate.

It takes two weeks to perfect the campaign, which isn’t at all long if you compare it to the year it took him to build it from scratch. When the Cult of Vecna (you pat yourself on the back for coming up with the name) is polished and Hellfire worthy, Eddie starts giving you weed... just because.

There’s nothing left for him to offer in exchange. And he isn’t going to turn his favorite customer down for anything.

“What? No tutoring? No D&D campaign?” you wonder with furrowed brows and a face contorted in confusion.

Eddie shrugs and swings the baggie full of greenery back and forth with the tip of his pointed finger. “Nope. I’m passing English and the campaign’s all finished — the guys love it, by the way. Thanks to you. You’ve helped me out with enough shit, so… just take it.”

“Well, now I just feel bad,” you reject with a scrunched nose, displeased at the idea of taking something and not doing anything for it in return. He can hardly afford it to begin with, much less without anything in exchange. “You're basically paying for my weed already. I can’t just take it.”

“You could,” the boy lilts with a sardonic nod. “My hand's getting a little tired here, sweetheart.”

You huff and reach across the bench for the plastic baggie. Your face is still twisted with an absentminded annoyance and your gaze still uncertain. “You sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah. Cross my heart.”

“Fine.”

“Unless groping your tits is still on the table, of course,” he squints playfully over at you and then smiles softly at the recollection of the conversation from many moons ago.

It was supposed to be a joke. But you’re not laughing.

And when you nod at him, he isn’t either.

It’s got him nearly choking on air and sputtering for a response. “No, I was— I was just— It was a joke. I was just kidding.”

“I know. But, I don’t know, I’m down if you are,” you shrug. “That’s what you said before, right?”

And Eddie has no idea what to say to that. Of course, he wants to. There are a billion things he wants to do. He wants to graduate, he wants to play a show at the Madison Square Garden with Corroded Coffin, he wants to bend you over this table and fuck you silly.

He could do all those things if he were a different person, but he wasn’t. He’s just some guy who can’t pass an English class he's already taken three times, with a mediocre band that plays in front of about five drunks (if they’re lucky), who has a crush on a girl who’s offering to let him feel her up for a short-lived high.

He repeats that last part to himself in his head a couple times. It sounds like a dream he had once. He pinches the skin of his wrist, just to make sure, and winces when it starts to hurt.

It’s real, you’re real, and that’s the scariest part.

Because he’s never actually seen boobs that weren’t projected from a television screen through the grainy film of a VHS tape, or pictured in a crinkled magazine he stole from a gas station — let alone touched one. And the second he puts his hands on you, and you feel him shaking like a leaf and totally unsure of what to do, you’ll know that.

That is, if he doesn’t come in his pants first.

He’s terrified that when you do realize that he’s a complete and utter, absolute and proper virgin, you’ll think he’s significantly less cool. And he can’t have that.

It’s bad for clientele. They’ll stop seeing him as the mysterious metalhead from the wrong side of the tracks but rather as some teddy bear who’s never actually been inside a woman.

He could probably handle the potential drop in income and the talks around school. Hell, he could even handle all the shit Jason Carver would spew at him if he knew. But the idea that you’ll stop wanting to hang out with him — he isn’t sure if he could take that.

He doesn’t notice that he hasn’t said a word until you’re speaking again. And even then, it’s all muffled like he’s underwater.

“I can come over tonight, if you want.”

No, he thinks to himself. That’s far too early. I have to lose my virginity and learn everything there is to possibly know about sex first.

“I... I can’t. Hellfire,” he answers, almost slurring, still caught in a stupor.

“Tomorrow, then,” you challenge at his rejection. You cross your arms and lean over the table as you squint at him. The wind rustling through the trees carries the warmth of your floral-vanilla scent over to him, like a lullaby, or a magic spell.

As though he needed something else to make him all stupid.

Suddenly you're ten feet tall. Eddie feels like an ant. You could crush him if you wanted. You have all the power and the look you give him tells him that you know that. He fidgets on the hard wooden seat but can’t seem to break your stare. His voice is tight and a few octaves higher as he answers — “Yeah. Tomorrow sounds good. Great, even.”

“Cool,” you’re suddenly beaming. You stand from the bench and saunter off, tossing a look and a wave over your shoulder as you shout, “See you tomorrow, Eds!”

He has to jerk off after that one. He counts himself lucky that he made it to his van before he exploded completely.

Eddie has to become a sex god in twenty-four hours and he doesn’t know where to start.

So, like any master procrastinator, he doesn’t. He just worries about it all night and the following day. He turns himself into a big ball of anxiety (if you touched him, he'd probably shock you) and it’s left him in the sort of worry that doesn’t let him sit still for too long.

Wayne’s sitting in his recliner, trying to eat his late lunch before he heads off to work the graveyard shift. It’s hard to enjoy his sandwich or the latest episode of Miami Vice playing on the television ahead of him when his nephew keeps bouncing in and out of the room. Making brief conversation, rearranging the knickknacks on the coffee table, coming in just to stand in place for a few minutes before leaving again to rustle in other parts of the small trailer.

At one point, he comes in with the fucking vacuum and nudges at the man’s work boots until he kicks his feet up. Wayne’s never seen him do a chore in his life.

“What the hell has gotten into you today, boy?” the man complains through turkey, cheese, and bread.

“Nothing. What are you talking about? I’m perfectly normal.”

He’s never been normal a day in his life either.

Eddie disappears out of the room a second later with the whirring of the vacuum in tow. Wayne shakes his head to himself. “Boy’s gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles and takes another too large bite.

It’s unlike Eddie not to tell his uncle things, especially things weighing so heavy on his chest that they're starting to feel like pure steel. But his uncle doesn’t ask any questions, and Eddie’s grateful.

How the hell is he supposed to tell Wayne that a cute girl is coming over and that he’s jacked off three times at the thought of her?

Once in his bed, the first thing he did that day when he woke up from a dream about you that felt a little too real; the second in the shower when the cold water wouldn’t kill the boner he’d gotten; and the third in his bedroom, in the shirt he’d peeled off hardly ten minutes beforehand when he got into a bath. It made him feel dirty again though his skin was perfectly clean.

Wayne would think he was joking. At least with the “cute girl” part. He’d probably pat him on the back for the second one — “oh, to be young again,” he'd mumble to himself while simultaneously deciding to leave well enough alone.

Eddie’s so nervous he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

You’ve got him practicing what to do in the mirror, trying to plan the conversation, ironing out the wrinkles of what might happen. “Hi—” he starts but then shakes his head and clears his throat. His voice is deeper as he continues, “Hey, how are you doing? Oh, that’s cool, I’m good too�� shit, this is so fucking lame.”

He wonders how you’ll go about it. If you’ll offer first, or if he needs to ask. If you’ll make small talk or if you’ll just straight up take off your shirt. He’d take either, honestly.

He jerks off one more time, just for good measure, after Wayne’s left for work. He’s already tired and his dick is practically raw with how much it’s been tugged at, but he hopes it’ll stop him from getting hard the second you walk through the door. And he figures with the amount he’s come that day, he’s a whole less likely to do it in his pants when he touches you.

You knock on the door at 7 o’clock sharp, like you planned it down to the minute.

He straightens out his leather jacket when he stands abruptly from the couch. He rushes to the door and then hesitates with his hand on the rusted brass handle — because he doesn’t want to seem too eager, right?

He leans to the side to look in the dirty glass mirror hanging by the coat rack, brushing through his curly locks in attempts to tame them. Then he shakes his head so they’re wild again.

He finds you standing on his porch in a tight-black sweater that dips down at your chest; the pendant of your necklace sparkles under the yellow nightlight perched on the outside wall. It’s paired with a white nylon skirt that stops at your thigh.

He’s only seen girls on TV in the suede boots you’re wearing — the kind that’s tight up to your ankle with a short and chunky heel. They match the color of your skirt. He wonders if they were expensive and how much you’ve worn them; they look brand new, like you’ve brought them down from the top of your closet just for him.

You’ve got a stack of thick tapes in one hand and a brown paper bag of snacks in the other.

“What… What’s all this?” he wonders, not displeased at your effort but shocked by it nonetheless.

“Thought we could have a movie night,” you shrug then slide by him and into the trailer. He shuts the door behind you and watches from afar as you set the sack down. It’s not quite flat on the bottom so it topples over and spills some of its content onto the coffee table — red hot chips and sour gummy worms.

“You mentioned that you’d never seen Fast Times a couple weeks ago, so I decided to go rent a copy at Family Video, right? And then I started talking to Robin and she started showing me all the new movies that just came in, so I got a little carried away—”

You're rambling, he notices, almost like you’re nervous.

It makes him feel slightly better, knowing this obviously wasn’t your first time hanging out with a guy (or being touched by one, if he ever got to that part), but that you were nervous nonetheless. Like you wanted this — whatever this was — to go well just as much as he did.

Eddie puts the tape into the VHS player when you’re headed back from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand. You sit it on the table before plopping yourself in the middle of the couch — the boy across the living room has no idea you spent the two-and-a-half minutes it took to cook the snack debating on where to sit.

You feared sitting too far on one side might spook him from sitting next to you, that he’d think you didn’t want to sit next to him. So you place yourself snuggly in the middle of the decade-old sofa and hope you don’t seem too eager.

Your heart sinks to your ass when Eddie sits so far on the edge he’s practically sitting on the arm of it.

You muster a smile and try to make a joke of it. “I don’t have cooties or anything, Eds.”

“Promise?” he lilts. The way his voice shakes is purely for comedic effect. Obviously.

“Cross my heart.”

He hopes that by playing it off, you won’t notice how anxious he is about sitting next to you. But when he plants himself beside you, just close enough so that the rough fabric of his jeans scratches your knee every time he fidgets, it’s a little like sitting next to a rock. You spend the first half of the movie wondering if he’s nervous too or if he really just didn’t want to sit this close to you.

The film keeps playing and he keeps snacking — eating chips and Oreos and popcorn in a rotation before combining all three and marveling at the taste; “You’ve got to try this!” he exclaims to you with raised brows and wide eyes. He eventually forgets to be nervous.

That is, until Fast Times hits 53 minutes and 5 seconds.

The smooth bass of Moving in Stereo plays lowly in the background as Phoebe Cates rises from the pool water, clad in a small red bikini. The chlorine-laced drops of water glisten off of her tanned skin. “Hi, Brad. You know how cute I always thought you were,” you quote quietly along with her.

Your eyes are as glued to the television as Eddie’s when she starts to unlatch her top, like it’s the first time you’re seeing it too. You joked to Robin once that you couldn't wait until they made this movie in 3D.

Eddie gets hard as a rock, then. In every sense of the phrase.

“She’s hot, right?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” he answers. He clears his throat when the word comes out too tight. “Totally.”

“That’s how I knew Robin was gay, you know? We watched this when I slept over at her house one time and I woke up in the middle of the night and found her playing this scene over and over again,” you confess with a laugh and hope your best friend won’t be too angry you told him this. “She was sitting, like, two inches away from the screen.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. And when we made out afterward, that really sealed the deal—”

“Holy shit—” he sputters before he can stop it. “—Are you joking?”

Please, say yes before I come in my jeans, he thinks to himself.

“Why?” you challenge, shooting him an arched brow over your shoulder. “Does that change anything?”

“What? No! Of— Of course not!” It just makes you, like, ten times fucking hotter, that’s all.

“Good,” you nod and then turn back to the television. You move on quickly, and Eddie’s grateful. You keep telling the story like it’s one you tell all your friends.

“I asked her why she was watching it without me, and she said she got bored, but I already knew why she was watching it, you know? I guess I just wanted to hear her say it. So I just came out with it — ‘If you want to look at a pair of tits, I’m literally right here.’”

Eddie’s so entranced by your words it’s like you're telling him a bedtime story. He’s looking at you so intently, his gaze locked to your profile like he’s trying to commit it to memory. And when you finally turn to look at him again, he can’t seem to turn away, to even pretend like he wasn’t just hopelessly staring at you.

“So, then it became this whole thing, right? Like, I’ll show mine if you show yours. And then she got all awkward and nervous and lost in her head, kinda like you right now, and then I leaned in…” you trail off quietly, doing it in time as the words leave your mouth. So teasingly and breathtakingly slow. Eddie finds himself drifting closer to you, too, like a bayman to a siren’s call. “Just like this… And then I—”

You don’t have a chance to finish your sentence.

Eddie’s already kissing you before he realizes what he’s doing. Your noses knock together, the tip of his crushed against the side of yours. The sweet flavor of your strawberry chapstick evades his mouth when your lips press together.

He’s as shocked as you are.

He’s wanted to kiss many pretty girls in his life, but this was the first time he's actually ever done it.

You feel his face burn red against you when he realizes what he’s just done. He tries to pull away from you, but you keep him there with a hand on the back of his head; deepening the kiss and telling him that you want this — that you’ve always wanted this — without actually saying the words.

Refusing to separate from him, you maneuver yourself to face him more as press yourself against his side and tuck your knees beneath you. You caress the rough pad of his tongue with yours all the while, one hand balled in the shoulder of his t-shirt and the other anchoring itself to his curls.

You wait patiently for him to take action. To grip your waist. To lay you back on the couch. To climb over you and take what’s his.

He never does.

He hardly even touches you. He’s got one palm on your hip, but it’s so featherlight that it’s barely even there. His other hand is clutching the pillow on his lap with a white-knuckled grip, like he’s fighting to contain himself in some way. But you want him to let go. To lose himself with you.

The cushion had been there for most of the movie, something to keep in his absentminded hold and get crumbs all over. You wonder, now, if it’s a shield for something else.

Your lips click wetly when you part from him. A small smile forms on your mouth when you notice a string of spit threatening to connect the both of you. It breaks apart, landing cold below your mouth, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand.

“Are you hard?”’ you wonder through bated breaths, coming right and just saying it.

Eddie’s eyes go somehow wider and his mouth falls agape. “Uh… No?”

Giggling, you ask, “Is that a question?”

“Maybe.”

“So what’s the answer?” you pry.

“Honestly?” he starts with a heavy breath and heavier eyes, still trying to joke. “Whatever makes me sound super cool and mysterious and sexy.”

“I’ve always thought you were all those things,” you confess with a soft laugh, twisting a strand of his hair with the tip of your finger.

“…Really?” he can’t help but wonder. Those words are about the most shocking thing that’s happened so far this evening.

“Yeah,” you nod, then tease: “Because you've never lied to me.”

So tell me the truth, he can hear the words jumbling around in your head. So does. He swallows thickly and then admits, voice cracking halfway through his confession, “I’m so hard that it fucking hurts, sweetheart.”

You’re smiling like the Chesire Cat at that, big and sly and mischievous. You have all the power and you know it.

“Can I make you feel better?” you whisper to him, lilting like you're taunting him. You mean it, though, and he knows that because you’re already tugging at the pillow in his lap. You don’t fight to snatch it away completely. You leave just enough room to allow him to say no. But his grip on the thing relaxes and allows you to slide the cushion slowly from his crotch.

He can’t say the words because his tongue is suddenly heavy in his mouth and his throat is closing on him. So he just nods, peering at you with eyes hooded with ecstasy.

You go back to kissing him, then, unhurriedly this time. You allow yourself to feel all of him, to hold his face in your hands and explore all the bits of him you never got the chance to before now. You do it more so in an effort to get him to relax, to forget to be nervous, but it only half-works.

He gets more comfortable with himself with time. The hand on your waist finds a more confident purchase there and the other climbs up to your face, cradling your jaw while his ringed fingers get lost in the strands of your hair. Then he starts to kiss you back harder, more earnestly than before, like he’s trying to prove something. Trying to tell you everything like this than with words he can’t seem to say out loud.

He forgets to be nervous again when your lips fit together like pieces of a puzzle — the kind with the funky edges, the kind you know goes together because there’s only two in the whole bunch like it. He stops worrying if he’s doing it right.

His breath is warm and heavy as it fans against your cupid’s bow. He’d rather take in small pieces of oxygen like this than stop kissing you now. You feel the same way as you straddle his thigh, careful not to move with too much haste that it knocks your lips apart.

Eddie’s legs part for you on instinct. When you settle more comfortably against him, he can feel the warmth radiating between your thighs through the thick fabric of his jeans. He wishes he was naked right now, more so that you were, so he can feel all of you, bare against his skin.

But he takes what he can get for now. And tries not to burst completely at the thought that the only thing separating you from him was the thin layer of your cotton underwear.

It’s hard not to think about your own pleasure like this. You could so easily move your hips against his thigh, let the rugged fabric of his jeans and your panties do all the work against your clit and bring you to a swift release. You want to. You’re sure Eddie would want you to if you asked him. But it strangely seems less important now.

Because you know you’re minutes away from making Eddie come so hard his legs shake. And you always wanted to know what he looked like when he came.

Your hand worms out of his hair and down his neck. Your fingernails trail lightly over his skin, leaving visible chill bumps in their wake. Your palm falls down his chest and stomach, smooth like drops of summer rain. The print of his Def Leppard tee is rough and cracked with age. You wonder how long he’s had it, how often he’s worn it, as your hand settles again. This time on his belt.

For a split second, he’s anxious about you seeing his dick. What if you think it’s too small? He thinks to himself. What if you think it’s too ugly? But then he realizes you’re not even trying to take off his jeans. You just rest your palm over the rough material of the denim and grip him through it.

A groan crawls up his throat and out of his mouth. His head falls backward and lands against the back of the couch.

He’s bigger than you thought, and warm against the tender skin of your hand, even through his boxers and his pants. It’d be ever warmer if you were feeling the real thing, you discern, but you figure you’ll save that for another time. Because even though it’s not the real thing and there are so many layers separating your fingers from his cock, Eddie’s letting out small and breathy moans that tell you that you’re touching him just right. The more you squeeze, the louder he gets.

“Is this okay?” you whisper to him.

“Are you kidding?” he retorts with a breathless laugh. “I feel like I’m in heaven right now.”

“Just wait until you come,” you giggle. It makes him moan again. His eyes fall shut because he knows he’s moments away from feeling what it’s like — not to come, obviously, but for it to be from your hand and not his.

You massage him through his jeans, feeling him grow somehow harder with each caress of your fingers. Peering down at him, you can see his jaw clenching, the way it moves his temples, and the muscles in his neck straining as he climbs the peak of pleasure.

“If you think this feels good now, just wait until you're inside me,” you purr to him.

“Oh, fuck,” he drawls shakily at your words. He doesn’t know if you’re being serious or not. He wants so much to believe that it’s a promise, though. The idea that he could unbuckle his belt right now, free his cock from its restraints and slip your panties to the side and take you, just like this, with you on top of him and riding him for all he’s worth, that nearly does him in.

But he’s fighting to keep it at bay. To let this moment last as long as he can. Because it’s entirely likely that he’ll come and you’ll never want to do this again. It’s even more likely that he’ll wake up from this way too vivid fantasy he’s concocted in his brain. How good can dreams get until they’re nightmares again?

The hand on your hip darts to wrap around your wrist.

“What’s wrong?” you ask him, gaze sober and sincere.

Eddie breathes out a tremble sigh of relief when you slow your motions against him. “I just…” he breathes heavily. And swallows. “I really don’t want to come in my jeans.”

You’re smiling again at that, pleased at how good you're making him feel. Like the pleasure is foreign to him. He can feel your grin as you lean down to kiss him. It’s a chaste peck, like you're just sprinkling yourself there so it can linger the rest of the night.

Your kiss is far more fervent against his neck, wetter and more passionate. His skin has a faint taste of salt, like he’d been sweating. And he was, for the entire day that he anticipated your arrival, though there was never an ounce of him expecting this. You bite at the strained tendon and marvel as he shudders beneath you.

“It’s okay,” you leave your promise against his skin. “I’ll wash them for you after. Like a good little housewife—”

It was a joke and he knows it because you’re laughing at the absurdity of your words, at the reality of them. You’re probably the only person in the world giving your drug dealer a handjob for free weed and then offering to wash his damp bottoms when he comes in them — calling yourself his fucking housewife. But, for a reason he can’t explain, that’s what gets him.

Not marrying you, perhaps, but the idea that he could have this feeling forever. That you could bring him to complete and utter, blinding bliss and then take care of him while he comes back to earth.

You give him an especially tough squeeze that sends a moan spilling roughly from his throat. His hips jerk up to their own according, his thigh jamming into your clothed pussy — he swears he hears you moan — and his toes curl in his boots.

He doesn’t let go of your hand as he comes. He grasps your wrist and presses you further against him. His grip is almost too tight but you don’t mind it, not when you can feel the denim growing damp with the evidence of his orgasm.

Eddie doesn’t feel anything for a while after that. It’s just pure pleasure for several long moments. The fuzziness of his climax, your hand pressed against him, your warmth still pressed against his thigh.

But then the high fades away like a rolling summer cloud and he starts to feel the wet patch forming in his clothes. The fabric of his thin boxer starts to stick to him and he almost feels gross, like he’s a teenager again who can’t so much as look at a woman with needing to come.

But then he sees the way you look at him, grinning like a cat who got the cream — because, in some ways, you are. You look like you're proud of him. Like you’re secretly wondering how many times you can do that before it’s too much. He wants to find out too.

You plant another kiss to his lips. Just because you can.

“Take your pants off, Munson,” you mumble against his mouth, kissing him one more time for good measure before pulling away again.

“Oh— shit— wait, really?” he sputters. “I thought you were joking about— about me being… I— I don’t know if I have any condoms.”

He totally does, in an unopened box under his bed, collecting dust.

You don’t need to know that, though.

“I meant for washing them so you can change,” you laugh at his embarrassment. The sound somehow makes him feel better even though you’re slightly making fun of him. You shrug and arch a brow at him, lilting, “But… I’m down if you are.”

have any more virgin!eddie thoughts? or just thoughts about my writing/requests in general? leave them here if you want! ꒰◍ᐡᐤᐡ◍꒱

#this is so so good wtf #the writing is amazing. virgin eddie x experienced!reader my beloved. eddie cumming in his pants. eddie being a simp..#CHEFS KISS #myfavourites #eddiemunson #eddiemunson.recs

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letterstotheflre · 2 years ago

Text

"there she is, my good girl," rafe finally whispers

"messy baby" he shakes his head and you pout, he reciprocates the action, though his is mocking

"don't fucking," he grits, pushing down on your back to pull you back towards him, filling you up again, "run from me."

"there you go, good fucking girl" he slaps at your clit once before moving his hand away

"don't, fucking shit," he grits, his dick pulses and he forces his way back into you "don't push me out, need to keep it all in, baby"

JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH

❥ stay, baby ˚ rafe cameron

❥ summary: rafe turns up at your house in the middle of the night, insisting he stays because he needs you ❥ warnings: rafe being a meanie, slight daddy kink, oral, general contents of smut, minors do not interact! ❥ authors note: i haven’t written in months so, enjoy �� pairing: rafe cameron x fem!reader

he stands in the middle of your bedroom and he's angry, though you don't know why. the string lights you have decorating your wall being the only thing to shed some light into the room, "you can't be here" you say quickly, moving away from the balcony doors and towards him

"well," he scoffs and gestures around your bedroom, "i'm already fucking here" he huffs, rubbing a hand over his jaw before moving it up into his hair

shaking your head you reply, "no rafe, you cannot be here" you step towards him but he steps back, keeping a distance between you both, "get out" you huff pointing at the door

he had woken you up, banging on the balcony doors and when you'd opened the door to ask him what he was doing, he rushed in, not giving you the time to turn him away. "no" he answers simply with a shrug

a groan escapes you as you tilt your head back towards the ceiling, you take another step towards him. he stares down at you, his jaw clenching slightly, "are you high?" you ask as you notice his pupils twice the size they should be

rafe looks away from you, his eyes darting around your room, though nothing has changed since his last visit. you hum to get his attention, reminding him you had spoken, "i don't know" he shrugs again

"okay, you definitely can't be here," you say quickly grabbing at his bicep to pull him around so he's in front of you. planting your hands on his back you start to push him towards the balcony, "go home"

as rafe gets to the doors he growls, "get the fuck off of me" he turns quickly and snatches both of your wrists into one of his hands. you stop and stare up at him before thrashing your arms about, he doesn't let go

the more you struggle against him the more he fights back, holding your wrists almost too tight, you're sure there will be bruises to show for it tomorrow. one of your wrists manages to slip out of his grip and you immediately push at him, he doesn't move though, "rafe, stop, you fucking asshole" you half shout, thankful you’re home alone for the night

he pulls you towards him and his free hand finds your neck, holding you in place, just looking up at him. out of instinct your fingers come up to wrap around his wrist, "stop running your fucking mouth and shut up" he talks slowly, "okay?"

you nod and he lets go of you, though the feeling of his fingers around your throat lingers. your chest rises a little faster as you swallow thickly. before you can stop yourself you're stepping forward, pushing him harder than you did before

rafe stumbles back slightly, his hip bumping off of your dresser as he does but you immediately regret it when he looks at you. he tilts his head quickly, his eyes full of fire before lunging at you, his arms sliding around your waist tightly

he walks you back across the room until your legs hit the edge of your bed, pushing you back until you're falling and laying flat under him. rafe slots his knee between your thighs and leans over you, caging you in, his hands either side of your head

"last fucking warning sweetheart, stop" he talks lowly, his breath fanning over your face as his eyes search yours. you scowl at him and his eyebrow raises, only coming back down when the crease on your forehead disappears, "i'm staying here, do you understand?"

"yes" you reply quietly. rafe opens his mouth, spurring you on without a single word, "yes daddy" you whisper, giving into him. he dips, your noses almost brushing, his forehead resting against yours as he sighs

this happens between you and rafe more than you'd like to admit. he turns up, always high or drunk, out of the blue, you argue and sometimes fight and still, somehow, you end up underneath him

his body relaxes against you, hips coming flush against yours. rough denim scratches against the slither of exposed skin where your sleep shorts have slipped down slightly. the weight of him against you makes you gasp, "there she is, my good girl," rafe finally whispers

he leans on one hand, bringing his free hand to your throat again, this time his fingers are gentle as they sweep over your skin, even the rings he wears are warm and don't leave a chill on you. he presses his thumb into the side of your neck until you whimper, your lips parting involuntary, "rafe,"

"hmm?" he answers, "what's wrong pretty girl?" he's mocking you, you know it. he knows exactly what he's doing to you and you hate it. hating the way your breathing has got heavy in anticipation

"kiss me"

slowly he obliges, dragging your bottom lip down with his thumb, "stick your tongue out, baby" he mumbles and you let your tongue loll out of your mouth. rafe hums and smirks as he spits onto your tongue, tasting like alcohol and weed, groaning to himself when he watches your eyes soften, "c'mere"

your eyes flutter shut as he crowds your space, pushing your tongue back into your mouth with his own, his teeth grazing straight over your bottom lip as he kisses you. it's messy and desperate, like it always is. your hands slide over his neck, feeling veins underneath your palms as you pull him into you

rafe leans down on his forearm and his free hand finds your bare thigh, sliding upwards until he hits the hem of your sleep shorts. his lips start to trail down to your jaw, leaving small wet patches as he goes from where his tongue licks over your skin

his fingers pinch at your thighs, quick and not enough to properly hurt but enough to make your back arch away from the mattress, your tits pushing against his chest as you do. he sucks lightly at your neck, he's everywhere, around you, against you and above you and your cunt flutters and drips at the interaction, soaking your panties

"need these off" rafe complains, dragging your shorts down as far as he can with one hand before moving off of you, completely, just long enough to get them off. he discards them on the floor somewhere before kneeling between your legs

under his gaze you feel tiny, he towers over you with a smirk as he runs his hands down both of your thighs, curling them around to the backs so he can push them back, spreading you open for him. he tuts at your wetness seeping through the thin fabric of your panties and your face reddens

"messy baby" he shakes his head and you pout, he reciprocates the action, though his is mocking but before you can whine at him he drags a knuckle straight up your clothed slit and you moan, loudly, when he presses against your clit

"fuck, rafe," you whimper when he repeats the action, up and down your cunt until his knuckle is sticky and wet, "please" he swaps to his thumb, drawing lazy circles over your aching clit but still, it’s not enough

"please what?" rafe asks you with a tilt of his head, still hovering over you. you roll your hips down against his hand, forcing more pressure against where you need him most, "words" he grunts, moving his hands to your hips, pinning them down onto the bed

your cheeks heat up again and you attempt to turn away, looking anywhere but up at him but he quickly takes hold of your chin, "just fuck me" you whisper, "please" you finish, sliding your hands up underneath his shirt to press your fingers along his hip bone

normally rafe would make you be more specific, letting you mumble out all the disgusting things you let him do to you but this time, he gives in quickly. he moves to stand at the edge of your bed and leans over you, wrapping his hands over your hips before pulling you to the edge too

"need you to come on my face first, angel," he admits, sinking down to his knees in front of you. his hands slide underneath your ass, hooking his fingers under your panties just enough to drag them down your legs

he blows onto your pussy and then licks a stripe from your dripping hole to your clit, flattening his tongue over the aching bud. you pant when he starts to suck, your fingers push through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp gently

"who's pussy is this?" he asks, pulling away, his lips wet and shiny with your arousal. he spits onto your clit while he waits for your answer, licking his bottom lip as he watches it drip down between your folds, "c'mon baby, you know the answer to this"

your brain turns to mush when his thumb starts to spread the wetness around, barely dipping into your needy hole before pulling away, "yours, it's yours," you pant, "always yours, dadd-"

rafe plunges two thick fingers into you, cutting you off as you cry out, your hips bucking off of the bed. he sits back and watches the way you clench around him, silently begging him to move. he pulls out slowly, humming appreciatively when you tighten around just the tips of his fingers

"fuck, oh my god," you moan breathlessly, covering your eyes with your forearm. he slides his fingers back into you, his thumb swiping at your clit as he leans back down, replacing his thumb with his mouth

the sounds coming from your cunt are obscene, between the way he's messily sucking and licking through your folds and the wet squelching as his fingers pump in and out of you

his free hand settles on your tummy, pushing down slightly when he curls his fingers inside of you. he's so deep you can almost feel it in your chest, the warm coil starting to tighten underneath his large hand

he presses into your spot and eats out out like a man starved, his eyes closed, lashes touching his cheeks as he drowns in you. your chest heaves, moans and whimpers tumbling past your lips before you can stop them.

"rafe, god," you pull gently on his hair, keeping him in place as your orgasm builds far too fast. he hums against you, the vibrations against your clit making your back arch off of the bed. he knows your close, he can feel your walls pulsing around him, "i'm so fucking close"

you don't even realise his hand has moved from your stomach until you hear the clang of metal, his belt coming undone. you push yourself up on your elbows to watch him desperately pushing his jeans down just enough to wrap his hand around his cock

his shoulder jerks as he works his hand over his dick and he moans against you, spit runs from the corner of his mouth. the whole scene sends you over the edge, "i'm, fuck,” you whine, "i'm coming"

rafe works you through it, his fingers slowing inside of you as you drip around him. you push his head away, shuddering violently as you border on overstimulated, flopping back against the bed

"oh angel," rafe tuts as he stands, his cock still weeping in his hand, his jeans pushed down around his thighs. you stare up at him while your breathing evens out. he leans down over you, his free hand cupping your jaw as he pulls you in for a kiss.

you taste yourself on his lips and tongue, whimpering into his mouth when he grazes his teeth over your lip. "you didn't ask to come" he mumbles against you, barely pulling away long enough to speak

he gives you no time to process his words, he flips you over onto your hands and knees, pushing your legs apart so you're on display for him, "raf- daddy," you rush out, "i didn't mean to, please" you defend yourself because you know what's coming

"i thought i trained you better," he huffs and moves around behind you. your hear his belt hit the floor and then his hand squeezing at your hip, pulling you back towards him, the tip of his cock brushing at your entrance, "you should know better"

all the air in your lungs get punched out when he fills you in one swift thrust. he's huge, barely fitting inside you, "shit, you're so big," you cry out, running from him, his cock almost slipping out of you

"don't fucking," he grits, pushing down on your back to pull you back towards him, filling you up again, "run from me." he leans over you, hair brushing your back as he rocks back and forth, forcing the last inch of his cock inside of you, balls deep, “so fuckin' tight,"

tears run down your cheeks and you sniffle with the stretch and overstimulation, your forehead pressing into the sheets. rafe coos behind you, "c'mon baby, you can take it, know you can," he pulls back and slams back into you, both of you groaning in tandem

"please, please," you babble, your brain turning to mush when he starts to thrust, deep but still harsh, his hips slamming into your asscheeks hard enough to leave bruises, "please"

"please what?" he asks, smugly. he kneels on the edge of the bed, forcing you forward a little as he finds the leverage he needed. your spot gets abused by the fat head of his cock every time he pushes in, feeling the veins on his dick pulsing against your soft walls

unable to form words you don't answer, instead you cry out. a mix of moans and whimpers constantly falling from your mouth, barely able to breathe between each one. his fingers thread into your hair, pushing your head down into the mattress as he grunts loudly behind you

his free hand winds around your waist, wet fingers sliding over your clit furiously. you clench around him like a vice, sucking him in and keeping him there. he moans loudly through gritted teeth behind you, tilting his head towards the ceiling, the noise rumbles through his chest and his cock twitches, you know he's close

"oh, fuck" rafe shudders, letting go of your head, he takes both of your wrists into his hand, pulling you back against him with every unrelenting thrust, "such a good fucking pussy," he growls

"s'yours, all yours" you cry, your orgasm building desperately, "can i come? pl-, oh god, please" resorting to begging is your only hope and you know it works with rafe, usually.

"not yet angel" he starts to slow, pulling back to look at where you're stretched around him, a creamy ring left around the base of his cock, "hold it baby, know you can"

you whine loudly, letting the end turn into a cry. your thighs shake and his thumb continues to press almost too hard against your clit. you clench your eyes shut, trying with everything in you not to focus on the fire burning hot inside you

"gonna ruin your little pussy," rafe starts to ramble, his hips falling out of time with the push and pull of your bodies, "keep you stuffed with my come so you're mine, aren't you?" he pants hard, "say it"

"i'm yours, only yours" you gasp and grit your teeth. your wrists get released from his grasp and you snake a hand between your thighs, wrapping your fingers around his wrist in attempts to stop the assault on your clit, "please"

he ignores your pleas completely, moving his free hand to your hip, pulling you back onto him hard. he grunts and growls behind you, "fuck, you can come" he pants, the coil snaps and you start to come with a shout, tears streaming down your face, "there you go, good fucking girl" he slaps at your clit once before moving his hand away

stars appear in your vision as your cunt contracts, pushing his fat cock out when he starts to come, warm thick ropes of cum splashing up your walls, "don't, fucking shit," he grits, his dick pulses and he forces his way back into you "don't push me out, need to keep it all in, baby" he finishes breathlessly

your body and brain feel like jelly and you only know you're breathing because you can hear it, panting in time with the boy who lowers over you. his hands planted either side of your head, he leans down and peppers kisses over your sweaty shoulders, his chest sticking to you, "you okay?" he mumbles into your skin, "did so fucking good for me"

whimpering and nodding you turn over underneath him, your bodies still pressed together, he kisses at your nose and cheeks, warm salty tears wetting his lips. minutes go by and his hips pull back when his cock softens, slipping out of you with a vulgar squelch

rafe kisses your forehead but then moves off of you. you reach for him, fingers brushing his sides, "need to clean you up so you can sleep," he talks softly and retreats to the bathroom to grab a towel.

when he comes back he parts your legs, you whine and try to shut them, flinching when the towel bumps against your clit, "rafe," you sigh, pushing him away with your foot

"i know, i'm nearly done" he whispers and wraps gentle fingers around your ankle, pulling your leg away from him, "i'm done, i'm done" he says quickly when you whine. he discards the towel on the floor and looks down at you

"what?"

he scratches at his already pink and blotchy chest, "do you still want me to get out?" he asks softly and you reach for his other hand, lacing your fingers together so you can pull him gently onto your bed

"no, you can stay, baby”

#holy?? fuck??#myfavourites #rafecameron #rafecameron.recs

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