falseprkers - Tumblr blog

falseprkers · 10 months

Text

Aren't We All Sinners? - Vol. II: People Write Songs About Girls Like You

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Female Reader Word Count: 10.4k Summary: It's a night full of firsts, and new feelings for Eddie start to surface when you go to see Corroded Coffin perform. After some less than stellar news from your mom, Eddie cheers you up with a late night call and your very first orgasm. Warnings: 18+ ONLY Heavy sexual themes + Explicit smut. Chapter specific: Alcohol consumption, drug use mention, Making out, reader insecurity, more in depth discussion of faith/loss of faith, more of Eddie being a Thigh Guy (TM), Phone sex, Guided Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Eddie's disgusting overuse of pet names (Specifically: sweetheart, angel, and baby).

[Series Masterlist] [Mixtape Playlist] <- This playlist, aesthetically, is NOT Eddie-centric. Ignore that. I was going more based on themes than the actual music genre.

You aren’t entirely sure how you got here.

Lying has never really been your strong suit, obviously, but with a thinly veiled half truth about going to visit with your college roommate, Veronica, at her family home in Muncie and a promise to call as soon as you arrived, you were set free for the night. It cost extra volunteer hours at church, a promise to start coming to choir practice again, and what feels like your sanity, but you’re on your way to Muncie.

In reality, it wasn’t entirely a lie. You are meeting your roommate at the bar, but the couch she offered you for the night was that of her boyfriend who you hadn’t yet met. You aren’t too keen on staying there, but the curiosity to see Eddie’s band and excitement to see your friend after weeks apart won out in the end.

The Phoenix is a larger bar than you’re used to seeing in Hawkins, obviously built for live music and an expansive crowd, but still small enough to host local bands. After making your call home from the pay phone out front, you make your way to the door. House music and the sound of a crowd seep out from the open door as you approach, floating alongside the haze of cigarette smoke, and a large stoic bouncer stands just out front. When he asks for your ID, you panic, but a commotion from inside commands his attention and he waves you through without looking before walking away to break up the fight.

Your arms wrap around your torso uncomfortably as you weave through the crowd toward the bar, and you breathe a sigh of relief when Veronica calls out your name and waves you over, happy to see a friendly face.

“Ronnie!” You shout back, a bounce to your step now that you’ve seen her, making a beeline in her direction.

A quick hug, an introduction to her boyfriend, and then she’s in full judgment mode, scrutinizing your outfit.

“The hell are you wearing, girl?” She giggles, already tipsy, holding out both of your hands to take a closer look at you. “You know you’re at a rock show, right?”

“My parents thought we were going bowling!” You exclaim, embarrassed, “this was the best I could do if I wanted them to let me leave the house.”

It’s not a completely hopeless outfit, you don’t think, a baggy pair of overalls over a long sleeve white ribbed tee and a pair of All Star sneakers. Nothing revealing, but nothing too church girly either. Clearly, your friend does not agree. She takes your hand and drags you to the bathroom and pushes you into a stall.

“Trade me,” she says simply. You try to stutter a response, but she’s already throwing her black polyester miniskirt over the stall wall. “Keep your shirt, we’ll fix that next.” As you reluctantly strip your overalls and pass them to her over the stall, she adds, “If this boy means enough to you for you to drive out to Muncie and lie to your dictator parents, then you better look hot for him, that’s all I’m saying. How do you know him, anyway?”

You huff in protest, pulling the skirt onto your hips with a wiggle and a jump and slamming the stall door open to meet her out in the main bathroom. “He doesn’t…mean anything to me. It’s not like that. He works at the record shop and has been showing me new music. That’s all this is, just another new band. It just happens to be his.”

“Sure,” she scoffs, rooting in her purse to retrieve a pair of manicure scissors. She doesn’t even ask before she starts butchering your shirt, cutting off the bottom hem just above where the waist of the skirt sits and pulling, twisting, stretching it until it rolls. “The shade of red you’re turning right now suggests otherwise. Is he hot, at least?” Next, she snips the collar off of your shirt, leaving a raw edge, the same at the cuffs of your sleeves. You try to protest as she reaches to keep cutting but she bats your hand away, cutting a “V” into the neckline to reveal a little more of your decolletage. Thankfully she stops before anything too damning is revealed.

“He’s…” you trail off. You’ve never called anyone hot before. It never felt fitting. But Eddie is decorated in too many tattoos and piercings, too much darkness for you to want to call him handsome. So you relent. “Yeah.”

“Yeah? Yeah what?”

She’s having too much fun trying to get you to admit it.

“Yes, he’s hot, okay? Really hot.” Now that you’ve started you can’t stop the words from falling from your lips. “He’s got these eyes, gosh, they’re the most stunning thing you’ve ever seen. He has this way of speaking that just captivates you. And Ronnie, his hair. I just want to run my fingers through it.”

She giggles, handing you a dark, brick red lipstick from her bag and urging you to put it on. “Jesus, even when you’re hot for someone it’s rated G.”

You mumble a soft “shut up” and throw the lipstick back at her. You try to push past her to get to the door, but she grabs your shoulders and focuses an intense stare into your eyes.

“You look sexy,” she says, reaching up to pull the scrunchie from your hair and muss it up just enough, “own it. Forget your parents for a night and show that rockstar what you’re made of.”

It’s with all the love in your heart that you say, “you’re so lame.” Both of you laugh and make your way back out to meet her boyfriend at the bar. You order a water, much to her chagrin, and twist around in your seat excitedly when an emcee takes the stage to introduce the band.

Three band members take their place and start playing, a long, slow build of music that introduces the first song. From somewhere off stage, a guitar riff sounds, and you perk up, eagerly waiting to see your friend (could you call him a friend?) take the stage.

When he makes his entrance, Eddie is breathtaking. His staple black, ripped denim adorns his lower half, handcuffs locked at his waist to hold them up. Other than his battle vest, his torso is bare, a smattering of tattoos you’ve never seen before on full display under the harsh stage lights. A black bandana is wrapped around his forehead, holding back those enticing curls, and the same guitar from the flier hangs heavily on the strap across his shoulder. You can’t take your eyes off of his fingers as they glide up and down the fretboard, a speed and a talent you’ve never had the pleasure of seeing live.

Not only does he look good, but they sound incredible. You can feel the bass in your chest as they play, and before you know it, you’re abandoning your post at the bar and joining the crowd that gathers in front of the stage. You feel electrified, not a drop of alcohol in your bloodstream but you’re drunk on the atmosphere, swaying with the beat and grinning stupidly up at the man who has yet to notice you.

When he does, when his eyes lock on yours, it only amplifies the adrenaline in your system. As he strums the final, lasting note of their first song, his eyes meet yours and you forget how to breathe.

Eddie isn’t so sure it’s you at first. You’ve never looked like this before. Plush thighs on full display in a skin tight mini skirt, torn tee shirt exposing your midriff, a brick red stain on your lips in lieu of your usual clear gloss; but your smile is wholly you, and the tiny, shy wave that you give confirms that this is real, you’re here, and you look like you were ripped straight from a wet dream. Silence overtakes the crowd. Eddie forgets that he’s supposed to speak, supposed to be putting on a show. He’s distracted at the first glimpse he catches of you in the crowd. Gareth gives two kicks of the bass drum to snap him back to reality.

Your trancelike eye contact is broken when the drummer snags Eddie’s attention back and he introduces the band to the crowd once again.

They put on one hell of a show. Not that you have much to compare it to, but the way your body is buzzing, moving with the crowd, prickling with excitement all night, you know they’re good. Toward the end of the show, there’s a song that showcases every member individually with a solo, a little bragging right for each of them. When it’s Eddie’s turn, he power slides to the edge of the stage, where the crowd has pushed you to the very front. He’s knelt in front of you, eyes wound shut in concentration and fingers playing at the strings sinfully. His tongue pokes between his lips, and that's when you find yourself screaming along with the others in the crowd. At the sound of your voice his eyes fly open, a cocky, sly grin gracing his face as his solo comes to an end. A guitar pick is flicked your way, and when you catch it, he shoots you another wink before standing back up and moving on with the show.

The rest of the night is vibrating floors and sweaty bodies and ringing ears. The push and pull of the crowd around you, and a giggle caught in your throat when Eddie takes a dramatic bow at the end of the set. Your cheeks sting from smiling, and when you make it back to the bar and order another water, it’s the most refreshed you’ve ever felt in your life.

Conversations swell around you, the hum of a satisfied crowd and the rattling of ice in cocktail shakers. You spot your friends at a table in the corner and wave, but at the same time, Eddie is pushing through the saloon doors to the side of the bar, denim vest now exchanged for a cropped muscle tee, and his eyes are locked on yours. He’s headed straight for you, so you stay put.

“Hey!” He shouts, all of his excitement and a post-show high poured into one little word. Without hesitation, arms wrap around you, pulling your frame into his. One of his hands tangles in your hair and the other rests on the small of your back. You breathe him in, the acrid stink of pot and sweat masked by cheap bathroom cologne and leather. You should be disgusted, but you can’t be bothered. Pulling back to gauge your reaction, he holds onto your elbows, making sure not to let you get too far. You grip his forearms in return. “What did you think?”

“Eddie!” You shout, at a loss for words but praise dripping from your tone. “So good! You guys killed it!”

Speaking to your lips now instead of your eyes, he rolls his own bottom lip between his teeth, breathing, “fuck yeah we did.” The bartender stops in front of the pair of you. Eddie greets him by name, because of course he does. “Hey Joe, give me a PBR, and…” he trails off, looking sideways at you and dropping a hand to your waist with a squeeze. Your skin shouldn’t be tingling where his palm rests against it, but it is. “What’re you drinking, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

“Oh, uhm, just water.”

SweetheartSweetheartSweetheart.

“Fuck that,” he laughs, “we’re celebrating! C’mon, it’s on me.” He narrows his eyes at you, calculating, before looking back to the bartender. “Give her an Amaretto Sour on the band’s tab.”

When the bartender, Joe, you assume, turns his back you widen your eyes at the man beside you. “Eddie! I’m not drinking-”

“Shh,” he insists, holding a finger to his lips. “You’ll love it, I promise…and if you don’t, you don’t have to drink it. I’ll give it to Gareth, kid’s a bottomless pit.”

He’s right, you suppose. You’ll be 21 soon enough anyway, what’s a few months?

When the drinks are passed across the bar, Eddie presses the cold glass of light amber liquid into your hand. The coolness is a reprieve against your warm skin even if you don’t end up drinking it, but you do give it the tiniest taste at the eager prompting of the man beside you. The sweet, nutty drink is nothing like what you expected and goes down easy, but you still nurse it slowly as Eddie introduces you to his bandmates, chats about the set and asks you which songs were your favorite. All of them, you want to say, but manage to recall a couple of titles.

When your drink is almost gone, Ronnie approaches you, boyfriend in tow. You introduce them all, they praise the band on a great show, and your roommate pulls you aside.

“So, we were thinking of heading home,” she says, looking from you to Eddie and back, leaving her statement open ended.

“Oh…” You look over at Eddie yourself, liquor and adrenaline clouding your judgment. He’s talking to Jeff animatedly with his hands and smirks over the other boy’s shoulder when he catches you staring. “You know what, you guys go ahead. I’ll hang out for a little bit.”

“Are you sure?” She asks, gripping your shoulders, “Have you had anything to drink?”

“Just this one,” you say, “I’ll be fine, promise. I’ll stay a while and I can just head home. I’ll tell my parents I wasn’t feeling well if they ask.”

“Okay,” she nods, “just be safe, and call me tomorrow to tell me everything.” Wrapping her in a tight goodbye hug, you promise to do so, and when she pulls from your embrace, her focus is behind you instead of on you. “I think someone else wants your attention now. Bye, Eddie!” She’s gone with a flutter of her fingers.

Turning on your heel you find Eddie just behind you, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. He nods toward the door he came out of earlier. “Wanna go somewhere a little more quiet?”

You only nod in response, and he grins victoriously, guiding you toward the back exit of the building with a commanding hand on the small of your back.

He tries not to crowd you, he really does, but your skin is warm to the touch, soft where his fingertip slips beneath the hem of your shirt. You’re here, and you’re dressed so differently than you usually do, and he can’t help but wonder just what else you might do to rebel tonight. He only hopes he’ll be lucky enough to find out.

Stepping outside into the balmy night air, he takes you past the band’s van being loaded up with their equipment and toward another slightly smaller van. You hesitate when he opens the back door and holds it open for you, but the laugh lines that crease around his eyes when he offers you an encouraging smile are enough to get you moving. As you climb in, his hand never leaves the small of your back for support, and you can practically feel the way his eyes linger on your backside, but aside from the rush of heat to your cheeks you don’t react.

It’s clunky and awkward, getting yourselves situated in the back of Eddie’s van. Where he falls gracelessly into a pile of blankets with an air of confidence only Eddie Munson could manage, you’re still tripping over your own feet and hunching to accommodate the low ceiling, unsure of where to sit. He grins up at you, and if you didn’t know any better you’d say he found your anxiety amusing. His gaze is fixed on your skirt hem where your fingers idly fiddle with it, a glint in his eye and heave in his chest from where he still can’t catch his breath after an exhilarating show.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, the word hanging quiet in the dusty air. He pats on the worn out, threadbare bean bag chair beside him and unsuccessfully tries to stifle his joyous laugh. “I won’t bite, sweetheart.” His smile flashes with mischief and it’s only when you give in and settle into the cushion next to him that he leans in closer and adds in a breath, “unless you want me to.”

You pretend not to hear him.

“You guys really did kill it tonight,” you compliment instead, grinning and nudging his bent knee lightly with the rubber toe of your sneaker. “I don’t…I mean I guess I don’t know what the standard is, since this was my first concert and all, but it was seriously so good.”

“No fucking way,” he exclaims, savoring the way you blink involuntarily when he swears. Reaching out to catch your ankle before you can withdraw it, he squeezes gently and grins up at you. “You’ve never been to a show before?”

A shrug. The press of your knees tighter together, hyper aware of your skirt riding up in this position. “Not unless you count the church choir’s Christmas performance or Worship before Sunday service.”

He only manages a soft chuckle and another thoughtful, “no way,” when he releases his hold on you, playfully dropping your foot. A few moments of silence pass, interrupted only by a ruckus outside, two men arguing and then the slamming of car doors. When it passes, Eddie speaks up again. “So you’re really into all that, huh? Jesus and whatnot.”

You can’t stop the giggle from coming out at his phrasing. “I guess, yeah?” You shrug again. “Although, I used to say I enjoyed worship because I could feel God moving me through the music…but now I’m starting to think that might just be what live music feels like, because I got the same rush in there as I used to during worship…maybe better.”

Eddie tries to not let it go to his head that you basically just equated him to God.

“You guess? You don’t sound so sure there, sweetheart..” His eyes fall from your own and trail downward, lingering on the crucifix around your neck before continuing on. You shy under his gaze, skin warming under his attention as you wrap your arms around yourself again. “But you still wear that cute little thing, so I’ll believe the good girl act for a while longer. ”

He knows it’s not just an act, that you truly are as innocent as you seem, but there's curiosity and drive behind your eyes – a hunger to learn more and be more than just the church girl, and so help him, he’s determined to help you reach that potential.

“I don’t know,” you sigh, shrugging. Always shrugging. You fear you might develop a hunch from it. As you continue talking, Eddie leans across the front seat to turn on the radio, turning the volume down to a more appropriate background level. Still, you don’t miss the way he stiffens in reaction to your next sentence. “My dad is a pastor, so it’s kind of all I know. I grew up in the church, went to catholic school, the whole nine yards, so it’s just been kind of drilled into me.”

“Seems like a good reason to believe in something, just ‘cause others told you you should.” He says, voice dry but not cruel judging by the hearty smile on his face. This time when he plops back down, it's on the beanbag beside you.

“Yeah, yeah,” You try not to focus on the fact that the dip in the cushion has rolled your body in toward his, or on the way that his thigh presses into yours, or the heat that lingers there. “When I moved out for college, I kinda got the drift that things weren’t as black and white as I was raised to believe. Like for example,” nudging his shoulder playfully with your own, “not all secular music is made to worship the devil.”

Eddie snorts, “right, only the good stuff.”

Playfully punching his shoulder, you sarcastically agree. “Exactly! I dunno, it’s just hard sometimes, finding my place in the middle. I like to believe that there’s still some truth to the Word, but I also don’t think that I should be living life in fear of being labeled as a sinner for the kind of music I like, or the kind of company I keep, or the length of my skirt. Frankly the concept of sin just seems…I don’t know, like a threat nowadays? How are we supposed to let the promise of an eternity in Hell stop us from enjoying the life we’re living now if we don’t even know for sure that Hell exists!? I just– sorry. Sorry, I’m going off on a tangent.”

“It’s okay,” he chuckles, and his voice is soft and earnest when he urges, “you have nothing to apologize for, I asked.”

“I– I suppose.”

Your eyes shine with worry when you meet his, and it only makes his smile even wider.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know the truth, your truth. And besides,” his expression is downright giddy when he lets his head lean back against the seat back behind you, eyes shifting to take a peek at you, “I get what you mean. Nobody is truly perfect, but that doesn’t make them inherently evil either. Sure I’m tatted up and swear by the word ‘fuck’ and play a game that society sees as devil worship, but there’s also like, murderers and people who beat the shit out of their kids and animals and rob banks. So it’s a spectrum, I’d say.” He takes your hearty laugh as a sign that he didn’t cross some sort of unspoken boundary and presses further. “Really, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? I find it hard to believe that you haven’t rebelled at least a little since leaving the nest.”

“Uh…” you take in your surroundings and let out a chastising laugh. You could tell him about your sole experience at a frat party, but you hugged the wall and nursed a solo cup of water the entire time, so you wouldn’t say that counts. “This?”

Eddie balks. “No!” He protests, voice thick with disbelief, “no, come on there was never any sneaking out in high school? No secret late night rendezvous with the quarterback?”

You lean your head on his shoulder, unable to face him head on when you admit, “there was, at best, a peck on the lips with the captain of the debate team after prom.” Your laughter is dry and self deprecating.

It makes no sense to open up like this to Eddie. Earlier in the night, you weren’t even certain you could call him a friend, but now here you are openly admitting your dirty little secrets…or lack thereof. There’s just something about him that offers you comfort. His charming presence, the confidence he carries that never feels judgemental, the arm around your shoulder holding you close to his chest as he chuckles at your admission.

Wait– when did that get there?

“Sorry, sorry, I should have known.” His laughter is more jovial than cruel, a dig at his own ignorance rather than your innocence. His free hand crosses both of your bodies to grab your left hand, holding it up and twisting so that the dull overhead light reflects off of the gold band on your ring finger. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? Promise ring? How far do the rules of that thing reach, anyway? Like does–” There’s a pause and a stutter in his breath. For the first time since you met him you can feel uncertainty wavering in his voice. “You know what, no that’s too far. Even I can recognize that.”

The giggle in your voice is music to his ears when you press him to say what he wants to. The jab of your elbow in his ribs, your little playful smack to his chest. You lean into him with a raised brow, challenging him to continue.

Eddie stares you down, scrutinizing, narrowing his eyes as you continue to giggle innocently up at him. He’s begging every God he doesn’t believe in to forgive him when he gives in. “Okay, but only ‘cause I want to know if it’ll make you blink like swearing does.-”

“ – I do not blink at swears!”

“You definitely do,” he confirms, coolly ignoring your interruption with a smug grin. “Now do you wanna hear the question or not?” Doe eyes shine curiously back at him through the dim moonlight as you nod. Reaching for your hand again, he fidgets with the ring on your finger, with your fingers themselves, turning your hand about in his own with his gaze fixed on your joined hands. Quieter now in the still air of his van, his voice is even more gravelly than usual when he asks, “D’you take it off when you wanna touch yourself?”

You blink.

He likely already knows the answer, but the image of you getting yourself off has already wormed its way into his brain and he just has to know.

“I-” your throat is suddenly the driest it’s ever been, and your attempt to clear it is only partially successful. The atmosphere in the van has shifted, your previous laughter and playfulness sucked out the cracked front windows and replaced with a sudden awareness of your proximity. You should chastise him for bringing it up. It’s inappropriate. You shouldn’t answer him, it’s inappropriate, but the way his Adam's apple bobs and his eyes dart up to meet yours as he patiently awaits your answer compels you to give it. You answer to his lips, unsure if it’s because you don’t want to meet his eye or because you simply can’t look away from the perfect cupid’s bow framed by late evening stubble. “I don’t do that.”

“‘Cause it’s a sin?” He teases, and despite your earlier rant on sin, you give a shallow nod in response.

“It’s like you said earlier,” the space between you is getting smaller, but neither of you are aware of who’s at fault for that. You feel drawn to him, the gravel of his voice, his own personal gravity curling around you and tugging. “We don’t know if heaven or hell exists,” closer, “and even if it does, aren’t we all sinners in the end?” Closer. He’s close enough now that his breath ghosts your collarbones, his free hand on the curve of your waist, his gaze drops to your own mouth as he finishes, “The way I see it, if you don’t sin a little, then doesn’t that mean Jesus died for nothing?”

You’re close enough now to taste the beer and hope on his breath, and for a brief moment you think he might kiss you, but then another ruckus breaks out outside the van. Excited hollering and slamming of doors and a broken beer bottle against the concrete just outside the van startle you and Eddie apart. Your heart is racing when you look out the window to see the car that was parked next to you peeling away, and you take the moment to calm yourself.

Shaking your head, you settle back into the bean bag an acceptable distance away from him once again, but he spreads his legs as he settles further into the cushion, pressing his thigh into yours and commanding the space. You convince yourself he’s just getting comfortable, not trying to stay close to you, but the way he smirks down at your naked thigh pressed against the black denim covering his own sends a shiver down your spine.

You both wait out the moment, a beat of quiet passing between you, but when the tape that’s been playing in the background clicks to signal the end, he speaks up again, nudging his knee into yours.

“For real, though, you’ve never even been curious about it?” He asks, turning to rest his arm against the seatback behind you.

“About se…about sex?”

God if that little stutter wasn’t endearing to Eddie and God if the curious pinch between your brows didn’t go straight to his cock because you aren’t denying it. He decides to test the waters, lean in a little closer again and gently push the hair out of your eyes, tucking it behind your ear.

“Well, sure, yeah…but not even that far. Just like,” he pauses again. “Even the PG-13 stuff. Making out under the bleachers or missing half the movie and steaming up the windows at the drive in are essential to the teenage experience.”

You hum thoughtfully, his question bouncing around in your head. You can’t stop focusing on his hand that’s come to rest on the outside of your thigh, pulling you just slightly toward him. Your brain is foggy, you can’t for the life of you remember being curious about what you might be missing out on, but then again you’d never had anything to compare it to either. It’s not that you don’t know about sex. Sure, the schools you went to taught abstinence only sex ed, but you’re not stupid. You know the logistical side of things, you’ve just never experienced anything first hand so you don’t know how it feels. If the way your pulse races whenever Eddie meets your eye or the jolt of adrenaline you get when he touches you in a new unfamiliar way has anything to do with his so-called teenage experience, then you just might think you have been missing out.

“Not really? I guess I never saw the point.” You finally say, shying under his attention. “But I also didn’t have any experience to inspire such curiosity.” The way you say it is like a question, meek voice lilting up towards the end of the statement and another shrug pulling at your shoulders. Then, turing from shy self-pity to the mask of self-deprecating humor you’re used to using with your roommate, you tack on, “y’know, ‘cause the captain of a catholic high school debate team is bound to be the object of every girl’s fantasies, right?”

Eddie’s face falls again, his fingers stilling where he was once stroking the exposed skin of your thigh. He tries to hide his shock, but you still catch a glimpse of it amongst the gleeful look of curiosity. “So you weren’t just being hyperbolic, huh? You’ve really never even been so much as kissed?” You’re about to jump in when he waves you off and rolls his eyes. “Yeah yeah, prom with Dorky McChristian, I know. But I don’t think that counts. I mean really, truly kissed. A toe curling, basement flooding kinda kiss that leaves you wanting more, you know?”

“When you put it that way…” your laughter is soft and nervous. There’s no judgment from Eddie, not that you can feel. He’s leaning in and speaking with a genuine sort of curiosity that sparkles in his eyes, like he really wants to know what makes you tick and what hasn’t yet made you tick. It’s the same voice he uses when he asks if you’ve ever seen Evil Dead or listened to Kiss, like he’s just banking away another fact about you in his memory. So without that feeling of judgment, you confirm his statement. “...then no, I’ve never been kissed.”

He tries to keep his voice full of seduction and not the hope that swells in his chest when his gaze drops to your lips and he asks, “would you like to be?”

Your heart is in your throat, caught there with the little gasp and exciting sort of uncertainty that bloomed in your chest at his offer. You should get going. You should make note of the time and tell him you’ll see him on Monday at the shop.

Instead, you nod.

“Uh-uh,” he murmurs, grinning proudly, the cat that caught the canary. The hand behind your head comes to rest on your jaw, two fingers pressing into the pulse point under your jawline and thumb tugging gently at your lower lip. He relishes in the way your pulse races under his fingertips, “gonna have to hear you say it, angel.”

“Yes.”

It’s barely audible, the hint of a whisper on shaky breath but it’s enough for Eddie. Eddie, who crowds your space even further, his eyes heavy-lidded and fixated on your lips until he’s too close to focus. Not for the first time tonight, your breath hitches, fingers tingling, heart hammering, the thump thump thump against your ribcage rivaling the band’s earlier performance.

Time seems to stop in this moment, surrounded by the scent of cheap cologne and musk and summertime air leaking in through the cracked windows. Minutes or hours or days pass there, breathing each other’s air, leeching body heat from tacky skin.

When it finally happens, you’re surprised at how tender it is, the gentle press of lips against lips so quick you’re unsure who even finally closed the gap, but Eddie leaves no room for doubt. The moment you pull back enough to voice your confusion, near protesting that – while better than your prom kiss – that was still absolutely just a peck, his grin contorts into that self-assured smirk. The hand on your jaw shifts behind you again, working into the hair at your nape and pulling you back into his embrace with an involuntary squeak.

It’s hard. Shoulders tense, teeth pressed tight against closed lips, eyes wound tight.

You’re unsure what to think at first.

But then Eddie breaks away just enough to mumble, “‘s okay,” and, “just follow my lead, sweetheart,” between another set of rushed kisses. You try to relax, and remember, oh, yeah, you should be kissing him back. That’s a thing.

Eddie is soaring with pride when you relax enough to return the kiss, leaning up and into it, unknowingly pressing your chest up against his in an effort to get closer. Despite your obvious nerves and initial stiffness, you’re more than making up for it now. She’s a natural, he thinks smugly, a quick study, and when he coaxes your lips apart and hears the soft whine that comes with it, he can’t help but let his mind wander to all the other noises he might be able to get you to make.

You don’t know how much time passes before he breaks the kiss, pulling away with reluctance and a tug of your lower lip between his teeth, but your breathlessness suggests it’s been a while.

“How ya feelin’, angel?” He wears his smugness in the dimple of his smirk, tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip, his own breath ragged but much more controlled than your own. “Like you wanna confess?”

He swears he could live off of the flushed smile and bitten lip that you try so desperately to hide from him before carefully answering, “Not…necessarily.”

There’s a soft thump when his head falls lazily against the seat back, smirk growing as he sizes you up. “No?” He teases, eyes raking across your features, taking in your rumpled clothes and heavy lidded gaze, the shy smile hiding behind the curtain of your hair. Nimble, calloused fingers hook into the space behind your knee, tugging until your legs drape over his lap. Your skin burns where his fingertips tickle just below the hem of your skirt, goosebumps forming in their wake. They stay there, dancing along your exposed thigh as he allows you a moment to catch your breath, and he can’t help but praise, “you look fucking perfect like this.” His touch teases higher, dipping under the polyester just enough to make you squirm. “Now don’t get me wrong, I love your usual look, but this…” Tugging on the hem, he shifts again to hover over you and nudges your nose with his own. You can feel the brush of his lips against yours as he speaks, “...worst part is you don’t even know what you were doin’ to me in there tonight.” There’s no time to answer before he kisses you again, a hungry growl in the back of his throat.

You’d never given much thought to kissing before tonight. Truly, out of sight out of mind. When you’d overheard Veronica on the phone with one of her friends talking about the date who used too much tongue, you remember thinking any amount of tongue in a kiss must be too much, surely.

But now, Eddie is coaxing your lips apart with his own, every move calculated and commanding, and when his tongue sweeps into your mouth to massage your own…oh.

Something akin to static settles deep in your stomach, tendrils of it curling from your chest and down to tingling fingertips. Reaching out, you fist a hand in the collar of Eddie’s tee shirt and pull, wanting him as close as possible. Betraying his suave demeanor, the action makes Eddie lose his balance, toppling him over with a joyous laugh and a hand on either side of your head. He drops his weight onto one elbow and reaches out for you with the other hand, tilting your chin with his thumb to make space for himself in the crook of your neck.

“Feelin’ a little eager are we?” He murmurs into your ear, breath ghosting the shell and making you shudder at his closeness. “By all means, sweetheart, manhandle me all you want.”

Teasing, always teasing, he noses along your jawline, savoring your shallow breath and the way he can feel you arch up into him. Your hand slips into his hair as he tests the waters, kissing, licking, sucking at little points across your neck. A nip of his teeth into the soft flesh just below your ear has you gasping and tightening your grip on his curls. You press your thighs together unknowingly as he soothes the sting with a pass of his tongue and continues on, latching onto another lower point on your neck.

“E-Eddie, wait-” You gasp, gently pulling him away from you.

“What’s wrong?” He asks gently, biting back a smile as he admires the sight of you flushed and pliant beneath him. “Not feelin’ it?”

“No I – um, it’s not that. I mean it’s different. I feel weird, but…good weird?” Your voice falters, brows pinched, and you bring a hand up to rest on your own neck in the space he just occupied.

“That’s called horny,” he teases, interrupting you.

You choose to ignore the comment, finally eeking out, “please don’t, um…I can’t have any hickeys. I’ll be dead. Literally six feet under if my dad sees anything.” You pout at your own statement, big, round eyes and a puffy lower lip that Christ, Eddie just wants to sink his teeth into.

He’s about to do just that when a loud banging comes at the back door of the van. His face falls, head sinking, curls tickling your chest before you both look to the still-closed doors. Thankfully Gareth doesn’t open them, only yells through the layers of metal.

“Ed, bar’s closed. We gotta get going!”

His voice is practically a growl that you can feel in his chest, “can’t you hitch a ride with the guys? ‘M a little occupied at the moment.”

There’s a long pause on the other side before he calls back, “...all the equipment…no room in the van, I’m sorry man.”

He heaves a sigh and presses another hurried kiss to your lips, nipping at that pout just as he wanted to, but much more playfully quick than intended. He quietly murmurs an apology to you before yelling back, “fine! Give us a second, jackass. Take a lap around the block or somethin’!” Then turning to you with puppy eyes, “sorry, I am so sorry about that.”

He kneels away from you, leaning on his heels to offer you a hand up, which you gladly take.

“It’s okay,” you hum, not wanting the evening to end but knowing it might be a good idea to head home before things carry on further. “It’s, um…it’s quite late, I should probably be on the road already anyway.”

You right yourself as he goes for the door, pulling your skirt down where it bunched up, finding your discarded purse in the corner and fishing out your car keys. By the time you’re situated, Eddie has already hopped down from inside the van and is offering his hand to help you down easily.

With youreet secure on cracked asphalt, the real world settling in alongside the cool night breeze around you, you’re suddenly nervous again, shy. You find yourself worried that outside the comfort and closeness of his van, he’ll see you for what you really are; an inexperienced girl playing dress up with false confidence. The next time he sees you at the shop in your usual, modest getup, he’ll regret ever kissing you – or worse, forget it even happened.

Dejected by your own thoughts, you nod at him in thanks and clutch the strap of your purse nervously.

“It really was a good show,” you say in place of a farewell, “Eddie, tonight was really fun.”

“Thanks, angel,” he says through upturned lips, lighting a fresh joint. He leans against the open door of the van, one foot propped up on the bumper, the free hand not pinching his smoke stuffed into the pocket of his jeans. He looks like he was ripped straight from the silver screen, the bad boy John Bender type in your own little coming of age flick. He exhales, billowing smoke into the air in the direction opposite you. “I had a pretty stellar time, myself.” He grabs you by the forearm before you can retreat to your car, pulling you into him for a much more chaste goodbye kiss, mumbling, “drive safe,” against your lips, not wanting to part even to share the sentiment.

“Promise,” you assure him, pressing a final kiss high on his cheekbone and turning to start the journey to your car. You turn to say a final goodbye and are met with the flash of a Polaroid Spectra. “What was that for?” You ask, voice lilting, giggling musically.

You can see Gareth returning from around the corner and wave, feeling floaty as you walk backwards to your car.

Eddie simply says, “Told you you look fantastic like this. Wanted to remember it.” Like this, he thinks, hair a riot, skirt bunched up, flustered and breathless from nothing more than a kiss.

Shaking your head, you shout another goodbye before getting into your car and driving away.

As the photo develops in Eddie’s hand and he’s joined by his drummer, he shakes the thoughts from his mind. You don’t know what you’re in for.

Fuck Gareth for needing a ride.

—

Monday following the concert, you flit into Camelot music in your regular getup. Hair twisted into two messy braids, soft off-white tee shirt layered under a billowy thin denim dress. The forecast called for rain and a bit of a chill with it, so instead of sheer pantyhose you opted for a pair of over-the-knee socks, surely covered by the dress when you left the house, but now exposed by the knot you’d tied over one knee.

Eddie’s with a customer when you walk in, but his attention is solely on the tops of those socks and the way they cut into your skin. You busy yourself by looking at a rack of new releases that don’t interest you as he finishes up, ringing out the cheerleader/letter jacket couple with a shallow nod and empty responses to their questions.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, you’re joining him at the counter.

“Hi,” whispered nervously, uncertain where you stand after the weekend.

“Hi, angel.” Eyes dart over your shoulder briefly, ensuring there’s nobody around before he reaches over the counter to hold your face with both hands, pulling you in for a searing kiss. You squeak with surprise and he laughs into the kiss, breath ghosting your upper lip. “Thought about you all weekend.”

You insist he’s trying to flatter you.

He’s not lying. Only omitting the fact that most of those thoughts were lewd, obscene little brain worms. Images of you panting beneath him, your chest pressed against his, nipples perking under his attention. He kept returning to that damned thought of you touching yourself, of his name on your lips as you reached your peak. Every chance he got, every moment of alone time, his imagination ran wild, long, languid strokes of his cock spurred on by the memory of those perfect sounds you made for him from just one silly makeout session. It fueled him, how sensitive you were, so new to everything. Moreover, nothing turned him on more than the fact that he was, apparently, the first and only person to make those precious sounds, to make you feel that way, not even yourself.

“You did not,” you accuse, rolling your eyes.

“Cross my heart,” he mumbles, jaw slack at the memory. Then, ducking suddenly below the counter he adds, “Hey! Made you something.”

You can’t help but giggle at the way his hair stays suspended in the air just a beat longer than he does, and you lean forward further to see him rooting around under the counter for something. He returns with another mixtape, this one labeled sloppily as People Write Songs About Girls Like You.

Raising an eyebrow at the title, you turn the tape about in your hands.

“Should I be worried about this one?”

He quirks a single eyebrow, “only if Daddy finds it.”

“Oh my gosh.” Mortified, you stuff the tape into your purse and hide your face in your hands.

It’s a short visit this time. While a few Metallica tracks were featured on your first mixtape, he decides to play you their ‘86 album Master of Puppets in full over the store stereo, pointing out certain tracks and what they mean to him. He credits the title track for literally saving his life in his third (and final) senior year, says the dedication to learning to play it on the guitar by ear is what made it click for him that he wasn’t as stupid as everyone tried to convince him he was. It was that push that allowed him to finally cross that stage and inspired him to put a real honest effort into the band too.

“I think this is my new favorite song, then,” you note with a soft smile as it comes to an end.

“Softie,” he teases, throwing a balled up receipt at you.

“Maybe,” you giggle. Then, noticing the time, “hey, I gotta get going, have to cut it short today. Mom said she wanted to talk about something when she got off of work. Sounded important.”

Ever dramatic, he mimes a dagger to the heart, twisting it, writhing with the pantomime of pain and falling limp against the cash register. “If you must,” he heaves. “Can I call you tonight at least?”

You fiddle with the gold cross around your neck, and his eyes follow the movement. “It’s not that I don’t want you to,” you say uncomfortably and note all too quickly the hurt on his face. “It’s not!” You insist, shifting from foot to foot. “It’s just that if you call while my parents are awake, they’ll…ask questions. And probably listen in on the other end.”

“Well,” he chuckles, “we don’t want that.”

“Nope.”

“Tell you what.” He pulls a sticky note from off the stack near the register and scribbles hastily, passing it to you when he’s done. “When do they hit the hay, what, nine? Ten at the latest?” You nod. “Give me a buzz when they’re out. I’ll be around.”

Grinning, you plant both hands on the counter and lean across it to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, “sounds like a plan. Talk to you later!”

“I’ll be waiting!”

—

As it turns out, your mother’s talk was not important.

“I’ve arranged a date for you,” she says over the rim of her coffee mug, her post-work decaf practically a ritual at this point.

“You what?”

“A date!” She repeats, smiling sickly sweet like she’s doing you a favor.

Dread swirls in your stomach, all color draining from your cheeks. “Mom, I- you didn’t have to do that.”

“I know I didn’t have to, silly. I just thought it might be nice for you to get out with a nice, respectable boy, and besides, Justine was practically begging me to make the arrangement, what with the way she was bragging about Tom’s doctorate studies and empty social calendar.”

You balk with realization, “wait- Justine…? Mrs. Murray? You mean you set me up with Tommy Murray?”

The Murray’s were well known in your parish. Charitable, well off…uptight. Tommy had been in the youth group with you for a few years, but he aged out in your 8th grade year. Janie had a massive crush on him, but you thought he was an arrogant jerk, a narcissist at best. He was smart but he knew it and that soured you to him immediately.

“He goes by Tim now, honey.” Is all she manages in response, not acknowledging your disgust.

“Mom,” you scoff, “I am not going out with that guy.”

“Don’t be rude,” she chastises, the mug in her hand thunking against the table harshly, dark, milky liquid threatening to slosh out from the force of her setting it down. “I’ve already made the plan so you will go through with it. Now I suppose you don’t have to continue to see him if you don’t like how it goes but I did you the favor of setting this up, the least you could do is show up. Respectably.”

It’s almost painful, suppressing the eye roll, but you know you’ll be better off just giving in. At least maybe you’ll get a good meal out of it. Your voice is soft, obedient when you ask, “when and where?”

“He’ll pick you up Thursday at noon for lunch.”

“Can’t I drive myself?” She doesn’t have to answer. Her stern look is enough to have you sighing with defeat. “I’ll be ready by 11:45.”

“That’s what I thought. Now go clean up for dinner.”

—

By some miracle, your parents both manage to turn in before nine that night and you retire to you room, door cracked and handheld landline receiver tucked under your pillow, waiting for any sign that they’re asleep. By 9:20 the bedside lamp clicks off, the thin stream of light from under their door going dark. By 9:35 your father’s snoring indicates that they’re out.

Still, you wait another twenty minutes to assure that they’re asleep for the night before you pad quietly across the room to shut your door and throw a blanket in front of the crack at the bottom. Just in case.

Your heart skips a beat with each ring, until finally the other line clicks.

Silky smooth and hushed, voice mottled by the crackling of the line, he answers, “hello?”

“Eddie?” You ask hopefully…stupidly. You know who you dialed, he doesn’t know who is calling. You can’t see him smiling at your blunder over the phone, you just clear your throat and continue, identifying yourself.

“Yeah, I knew it was you, sweetheart. Did you think I could forget your pretty voice?”

“You’re such a flatterer, you know that?” You tease, twirling the fringe of your throw blanket between the fingers of your free hand.

“What!?” He’s all mock shock and dramatic gasps, the other line rustling as he gets comfortable in bed. “Me? Never. I haven’t even told you how nice you look tonight.”

“Please,” This time you do snort through your laugh, shaking your head even though you know he can’t see. You settle back into your pillows, tucking the receiver between your ear and shoulder so you can free up your hands for idle fidgeting. “You can’t even see me.”

“Just cause I can’t see you doesn’t mean you don’t look nice.” He argues, “I bet you’re a stunner. Describe it to me. What’re you wearing?” An overused line, a cliche for any late night phone call, he’s aware, but he’s dying to know what someone like you wears to bed.

You hum into the phone, tucking your feet underneath you and hugging your knees to your chest. “You won’t laugh?”

“I could never.”

You think about lying, but something tells you he would be able to tell.

“It’s a, um,” you giggle at how predictable your answer must seem to him. “A white nightgown.” He’s quiet on the other end, not much more than an encouraging mhm, trying to pry more details from you. You’re not sure exactly what he’s looking for, so you go for the obvious, describing the details of the garment. “It’s got, like, a french collar and this frilly lace on the hem and the straps…little bow on the neckline.”

“Now why would I ever laugh at that? Sounds to me like you’re just living up to the nickname, angel.”

“Don’t be cruel,” you giggle, though his tone doesn’t hold any malice.

“Wouldn’t dare. How long is it? Hittin’ the floor?”

“Nope.” Playing with the lacy hem of it, you correct him, “little bit above my knee.”

You swear he groans on the other end. Eddie, who’s been playing shows in sleazy bars for years, who’s seen his fair share of scandalous outfits on girls much more sexual than you, is groaning over the mention of…your legs? No, that…that doesn’t add up.

“So you’re letting those pretty legs out to play, hm?” His voice is rougher, gruff, and he takes note of the rustling of pillows behind you. “You in bed?”

“Mhm,” you don’t know which question you’re answering. Both are true, you suppose.

“Yeah? Me too. So…” Eddie sighs into the receiver, palming his growing erection through his jeans. He is far too into this already, and he’s getting ahead of himself. He doesn’t even know if this is pushing your boundaries too far yet, for fuck’s sake, but God, is he hoping you take the bait. “I was thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” you tease.

“Cute.”

“Sorry,” you giggle, “couldn’t resist. What were you thinking about?”

“...how unfair it is that you’re 20 goddamn years old and you don’t know what an orgasm is like.” Your fiddling fingers halt, the air sucked from your lungs at his boldness, that same churning, staticy feeling starting low in your stomach at the thought. “And I know you say you don’t know what you’re missing out on so it’s not that bad, but hear me out. I know what you’re missing out on, and I think it’s a fucking shame.”

“I’m…sorry?”

There’s a long pause between you before he finally breaks down and joins in on your laughter.

“No need to be sorry, angel. I just want to help you out.”

“And that’s an entirely selfless offer, I'm sure.”

“Baby, there’s lots of ways I’d love to be involved, but tonight’s about you. You need to learn about your body first, find out what you like.”

“You want me to…on the phone with you?” You know what he’s suggesting, but still can’t quite wrap your head around the idea.

“Only if you want to. This is only good for me if you’re enjoying yourself.” His words settle right in between your legs, your thighs squeezing together and trapping them there with the growing heat between them. Against your will, a whimper makes its way past your lips at the thought. “Sounds like you’re into the idea.”

Glaring down at the gold band on your finger, you sigh before ripping it off and shoving it in the drawer of your nightstand. You want this, you think, and you don’t need judgment from some dumb piece of symbolic jewelry. Still you hesitate.

“I don’t…hate the idea, but I don’t know how to– I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“That’s why I’m here. I’ll walk you through it. Just do as I say and tell me how you’re feeling. If you like something, don’t like something…if you change your mind all together. Just tell me and I’ll adjust accordingly. Think you can do that?”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

“Good girl,” he murmurs, “we’ll start you off slow. Want you to play with those gorgeous tits for me, okay? Start over your nightgown, just do what feels right.” You shake away the nagging insecurity and oblige, running a hand across your chest, steadying the phone in the other. It takes a moment to find your rhythm, cupping, softly groping at your own flesh, but Eddie can tell the moment you relax into it, soft sighs and hitched breath like music to his ears. “Good, now don’t forget your nipples, sweetheart. Light touches, tease yourself a little, remember we’re just getting warmed up.”

You settle further into your plush mattress, letting the down pillows and Eddies gravelly, rough voice envelop you. He continues to coach you until your muscles are loose, movements slow and careful, appreciating your body in a way you never considered.

“When you’re ready, I want you to hike up that skirt and touch yourself through your panties. Don’t take them off yet, stroke that pretty cunt until you’re whining.”

“Eddie!” You don’t know if you’re scolding him or praising him, shallow breath stuttering as your touch ventures south, teasing through your underwear and letting out a soft moan when your fingers press against the damp cotton.

“How’s it feel, angel?”

“F-feels good,” you simper, gasping when your touch focuses on that spot that makes your toes curl.

“You want more?”

That gets him what he wants, a sharp whine disguised as a, “please,” and he’s finally giving in and unbuttoning his jeans, allowing his aching cock some reprieve from the denim confines with a satisfied grunt.

“Lose the panties, baby. Slide your fingers between your folds, tell me how wet you are for me.” The phone gets knocked aside in your haste to peel your panties off, kicking them off the edge of the bed, but you make sure it’s securely back in place on your shoulder before you follow his instruction. It’s obscene, the sound your arousal makes as you part your lower lips, sliding two fingers between them. “Fuck, don’t need you to tell me,” he groans, pulling his boxers down just enough to start stroking his cock in time with your moaning, “she’s telling me herself. Keep playing with your clit, baby, I could listen to those sounds you’re making forever. Might fuckin’ put ‘em on my next album.“

The line goes quiet for a few moments, just the sounds of wet, slapping skin and labored breath and needy mewls.

Your pleasure floods your stomach, coiling tight and hot and as your fingers toy with your sex. Muscles tense, the sound of Eddie’s ragged breath on the other end of the line spurring you on further, faster, needier. You’re chasing a feeling you can’t even identify but you know you can’t wait to get there.

“Mmh– Eddie, I-” You cut yourself off with a hand over your mouth, stifling the desperate keening sound threatening to come out.

“You’ve been needing this, angel, I can tell. So desperate already. Haven’t even fingered yourself and you’re already about to cum, aren’t you? C’mon pretty baby, try a finger for me.” Without hesitation, your fingers dip down to tease at your entrance, forefinger curling in without much resistance. It’s tight, the feeling foreign but not unwelcome. You cry out at the intrusion, slowly pumping in and out and pushing yourself further toward the edge. “That’s it.” He croons, “doing so well.”

Your hips have a mind of their own, grinding on your hand, seeking out that sweet friction that you lost from your clit. Thigh muscles tense even more, shaking, your back arching off the bed. You don’t have to warn him, he can tell that you’re just on the edge, all it’ll take is one little push, and he’s happy to give it.

“Let go, baby.” It’s practically a growl and you can feel it in your bones, mixing into your growing pleasure and making it boil over. Suddenly, your body can’t help but obey, tipping over its peak and tumbling toward sweet release.

Eddie has to bite into the meat of his bicep to stop himself from shouting with his release, the muffled sound of it lost on your ringing ears because you’re still coming down from your own.

It’s quiet again for a moment. You can hear what you think is Judas Priest playing from somewhere in the background on his end while you both catch your breath, until finally you break the near-silence with an involuntary giggle. Eddie can’t help but laugh with you, aimlessly, tittering over nothing on a late night phone call like you hadn’t just had your entire world turned upside down.

“What’s so funny?” He asks after a moment.

“Dunno,” you giggle, “you were right, I guess. I mean it really was pretty darn unfair that I went my whole adult life not experiencing that.”

“Just you wait. That was nothing.” Then, despite himself, he laughs again. “Did you just say darn?”

“I– yeah?”

“You mean to tell me you just moaned an entire year’s worth of spank bank material into my ear and you still won’t swear?”

You protest, “that’s different!”

“How is that different! I would even argue that swearing is the lesser offense here! Shit, I’ll get you to swear for me one of these days. I guarantee it.”

Both of you stay like that a little while longer, joking and laughing and teasing as if you hadn’t just come undone in each other's ears. It’s comfortable, familiar, like you’ve known him much longer than a month. Eventually, when his tape comes to an end, he reaches for his acoustic guitar and starts to play a quiet tune, soundtracking your conversation. It starts to lull you to sleep, but just when you’re on the precipice Eddie's voice brings you back to reality again.

“Hey, angel?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re my girl, right?”

He isn’t entirely sure why he asked, the thought burst from him like a Xenomorph before he could stop it. But there was something there, a pride that swells in his chest at the thought of claiming you as his.

“I’m your girl, Munson.” You confirm, sleepy and gleeful and satiated.

99 notes · View notes