#eddie ... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bitterreid · 22 hours ago

Text

OBSESSED !!!

Off the Record (and on his knees)

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 / 𝐏𝐭. 𝐈𝐈 ? 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: rockstar!eddie munson x famous!reader ��𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A rockstar who claims to thrive on indifference, a secret that's about to make headlines, and the kind of bad decision that tastes like more. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.8k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: just a lot of cliches probably, smut, mdni, honestly idk i need sleep 𝐚/𝐧: was supposed to be taking exams but ended up in the hospital so i had some downtime, hopefully this will bring some positive energy my way for resits (also a massive shout-out to @littlexdeaths for helping me edit this!!)

There are two fundamental truths that make Eddie Munson into the glorious, unrepentant disaster he is to this day.

One: He couldn’t give less of a shit what the world thinks of him.

Take seventh grade, for example—back when his voice still cracked mid-sentence and his hair was an unholy tangle of DIY bleach jobs, a walking middle finger to both genetics and good taste. He’d been a scrawny thing back then, all sharp elbows and a sharper tongue, but what he lacked in muscle he made up for in sheer audacity. Tommy H., in his puffed-up, wannabe bravado, had cornered him in the locker room after gym class, sweat still gleaming on his forehead like he’d just run a marathon instead of dodging dodgeballs for forty minutes. He’d squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest like a rooster preening for a fight, and sneered, “You’re a waste of space, Munson,” like he’d just invented the insult. Eddie’s response? A slow, shit-eating grin, a lazy glance up through the mess of his bangs: “Takes one to know one.” And then he’d just… walked away. No fists, no shouting, just five words and a smirk. The other kids had gasped, like he’d just pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it over his shoulder without looking. (He’d found out later that Tommy had punched a locker hard enough to bruise his knuckles. Eddie had worn that knowledge like a badge of honour.)

Or fast-forward to last year, when Gareth somehow—through a combination of dumb luck and family ties that shouldn’t have counted as networking—scored them an appointment with his aunt’s ex-husband’s nephew, who just so happened to be a mid-level A&R guy at Universal Music Group.

The band had collectively lost their shit; Jeff had stress-bought a button-up shirt from some overpriced boutique, then spent twenty minutes in the van trying to figure out how to tuck it in just right so he didn’t look like he was attending his own funeral. Gareth had rehearsed his "professional musician" voice in the mirror until he sounded like a Wikipedia article narrated by a malfunctioning robot. Even Don, who usually had the emotional range of a brick wall, had gone suspiciously quiet, staring out the window with the vaguely nauseous expression of a man mentally preparing to sell his soul. Eddie had simply rolled out of bed that morning, pulled on the same ripped jeans he’d worn the day before, finger-combed his curls into something that defied both gravity and basic hygiene, and strolled into that glass-and-chrome office building smelling faintly of cigarette smoke, cheap diner coffee, and zero fucks given.

The exec—some slick-haired suit with a watch that probably cost more than Eddie’s entire van—had barely looked up from his phone when they walked in. His office was all sharp edges and sterile lighting, the kind of place that made Eddie’s skin itch just by existing.

So Eddie did what Eddie does best.

He cracked his knuckles, dropped into the chair across from the guy like he owned it, and said, "Wanna hear some real shit or what?"

No pretending. No apologies. No watered-down pitch about marketability or brand synergy. Just him—raw, unfiltered, a little too loud, a little too much.

For a long, excruciating moment, the guy just stared at him, eyebrows creeping toward his hairline. Then, he smirked. Leaned back in his stupid ergonomic chair. Muttered something under his breath about "angst sells, I guess" and "decent fucking tunes" before reaching into his briefcase and sliding a contract across the desk. Gareth had nearly choked on his own tongue. Jeff’s carefully tucked-in shirt had come untucked from sheer shock. And Don? Don had actually smiled—an event so rare it should have been documented by National Geographic.

Two: Eddie Munson doesn't get nervous. Never has, never will. It's practically part of his DNA at this point, woven into the fabric of his being as tightly as the faded tattoos on his knuckles and the ever-present smell of leather and Marlboros that clings to his clothes.

Not when Corroded Coffin played their first sold-out stadium show, amps screaming loud enough to shake the teeth in his skull and the foundation beneath their feet. He'd stood at the edge of that stage, sweat dripping down his temples, staring out at a sea of faceless bodies that stretched so far back even the stage lights couldn’t reach them—and instead of freezing up like some wide-eyed rookie, he'd just grinned like the devil himself, cranked the volume higher and played the opening riff of "Blackened Skies".

Not when they were nominated for their first Grammy—or the second or the goddamn third. Each time, he'd strutted up to that mic like he owned the place (and in his mind, he did), tossing off irreverent quips that had the crowd howling. "Guess hell really did freeze over," he'd drawled the first time, dangling the golden gramophone from two fingers like it was a beer he'd just been handed. The camera had caught the exact moment some blue-haired socialite in the front row had choked on her champagne.

Nerves? Nerves are for people who give a shit what others think. For choir boys and politicians and anyone with something to lose. Eddie thrives on the chaos, feeding off it like some kind of beautifully messed-up symbiotic organism. The louder the crowd, the brighter the spotlight, the higher the stakes—that's when he comes alive, electricity crackling under his skin like a live wire just waiting to set the whole damn world on fire.

So why the hell is he suddenly hyperaware of every rumour that clings to him like cheap cologne? America's favourite Casanova. The man who could sweet-talk the habit off a nun with nothing but a crooked grin and a well-timed power chord. Sure, maybe there's some truth to it—he's got charm coiled in his veins like nicotine, confidence that borders on pathological, and absolutely zero shame. Flirting is his native language; he thrives on the electric back-and-forth, the dangerous tilt of a smile, and the way pupils dilate when he crowds just inside someone's personal space like he's got every right to be there.

Five minutes ago, he'd been holding court across the room, spinning that ridiculous story about smuggling a live chicken into the Bellagio as part of a bet with Ozzy's bassist. His hands had painted the scene in the air—the squawking, the feathers in the minibar, the security guard's face when they found the damn thing wearing Eddie's sunglasses. The crowd had eaten it up with fucking spoons because Eddie Munson could make reading the phone book sound like a rock opera if he felt like it. He'd been radiant, incandescent, the human equivalent of a lit match in a fireworks factory.

Now Eddie’s tongue feels like it’s been swapped out for wet cardboard, useless, sticking to the roof of his mouth as if his body’s forgotten how to function. His fingers twitch at his sides, restless, aching for the familiar weight of a guitar pick between them, the grounding burn of a cigarette, anything to steady himself as the world tilts violently beneath his feet.

And then there’s you.

Leaning against the bar like some fever dream made flesh—all sinuous curves and effortless grace, the kind of quiet confidence that doesn’t need to shout to be heard. It screams louder than any of his stage antics ever could, louder than the roar of a sold-out crowd. The dim lighting catches the edge of your signature ring—that ring, the one from the Gucci campaign that had been plastered across every billboard last summer. It glints as you tap it absently against your glass, a slow, hypnotic rhythm that matches the erratic thud of his pulse.

He should look away…

He can’t.

Because you’re not just beautiful—you’re impossible. The kind of impossible that makes his chest ache, the kind that shouldn’t exist outside of late-night fantasies and the pages of his most dog-eared poetry books. And yet here you are, real and radiant and right there, close enough to touch.

And Christ, he knows you. Not in the way of shared cigarettes backstage or whispered confessions after last call, but in that primal, bone-deep way sailors know a storm rolling in—through the electric charge in the air, the ominous stillness before the first crack of thunder splits the sky. The kind of knowing that prickles the back of his neck even as it pulls him helplessly closer to the cliff's edge.

The headlines from the Met Gala flash behind his eyelids like a vintage film reel stuck on repeat: you in that scandalous embroidered silk dress that clung to every curve like liquid gold, the neckline plunging with the same reckless abandon as a dive into midnight waters. The world had collectively lost its goddamn mind—fashion critics penning breathless odes to your "rebirth of modern glamour", Twitter wars erupting over whether you'd "saved or slaughtered" haute couture. Half the internet had clutched their pearls raw over the "death of modesty". The other half had been reduced to a single, guttural scream for you—your name trending with fire emojis, your walk immortalised in grainy cellphone footage that still played on a loop in Eddie's darkest, most private moments.

And now here you stand, all that barely contained lightning in human form, close enough that he can see where your perfume clings to the hollow of your throat. The realisation hits like a cymbal crash: he's spent months watching you through screens and tabloids, but nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the reality of your presence, for how the oxygen seems to thin when your gaze drags over to him.

Your head turns.

Your eyes meet his.

And just like that, his entire fucking operating system crashes.

The clever greeting he'd been mentally workshopping? Deleted.

His usual arsenal of one-liners? Corrupted file.

Every ounce of that legendary Munson charm—the same silver tongue that had talked his band out of a back-alley brawl in Berlin, flirted his way past VIP bouncers in LA, and charmed a room full of jaded music critics into giving his album a standing ovation—has short-circuited into white noise. What emerges instead is a strangled "Hey" that cracks halfway through, the single syllable tilting upward like a question, like a prayer, like he’s not entirely convinced you’re not some whisky-fuelled hallucination conjured by his traitorous subconscious.

His pulse thrums erratically at his throat, a wild staccato beat visible beneath the edge of his collar. For one horrifying second, he’s just a man reduced to bare wiring and exposed nerves, utterly certain that if you asked him his name right now, he’d stare at you like a dial-up connection trying to process the request.

What's worse? You know who he is. Or at least, you've absorbed the stories—those wild, larger-than-life legends of Eddie "The Freak in the Sheets" Munson that circulate through VIP lounges and gossip columns like holy scripture. The stories about him talking his way out of actual police handcuffs in Munich. The whispered accounts of how he once seduced a Rolling Stone journalist mid-interview, resulting in a profile so scandalous the magazine's servers crashed from traffic. The kind of reputation that usually has strangers crawling into his lap before he's even finished his first drink.

And yet…

The way you're looking at him now—head tilted at that precise angle of clinical fascination, like a virologist observing a particularly intriguing strain under glass. Your lips quirk in faint amusement, not the starstruck grin he's accustomed to, but the expression of someone who's just discovered the magician's trapdoor. There's no awe in your gaze, just patient analysis, like you were promised a category-five hurricane and got a stiff breeze that barely ruffled your hair.

Your lips twitch, not quite a smile but something far more dangerous—the smirk of a chess grandmaster who's already played this match twelve moves ahead.

"Hey," you echo, your voice smoother than the whisky in his abandoned glass and twice as intoxicating. Eddie catches the glint in your eyes first—mischievous, daring, the same glint he's seen in mirrors right before doing something stupid—and feels his pulse kick up a notch. Then your fingers skate up his arm, nails dragging just barely hard enough to raise goosebumps under the sleeve of his blouse. His breath stutters like a dying engine when your lips brush the shell of his ear, warm and teasing.

"Are you going to stare all night, Munson, or are you actually going to say something?"

The slow arch of your eyebrow is the most devastating thing Eddie's ever witnessed—a silent challenge that hits him like a well-placed chord vibrating straight through his ribs. That deliberate lift, paired with the smug curl of your lips, sparks something primal in his chest. You look like the cat that got the cream, the guitarist who nailed the solo, like you've just won some private bet he didn't even know you were playing.

And that—that smug little quirk of your mouth—is what finally kickstarts his brain. Because Eddie Munson doesn't lose. Not at banter, not at bets, and definitely not at whatever this sudden, unspoken game is that you've started between heartbeats and heated glances.

He exhales sharply through his nose, the sound almost a growl as he straightens to his full height. When he finally speaks, his voice is all rough edges and smoke, the kind of tone that precedes either a killer riff or someone getting thoroughly wrecked against a backstage wall.

"Funny thing about staring, sweetheart…" his fingers dart out, catching your wandering hand just as it begins its ascent up his chest. He twines his fingers through yours, pinning your palm against the rapid-fire beat of his heart. "—it takes a hell of a view to make a man forget his words."

The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes—because the joke's on him, really. You haven't just stolen his words; you've taken the air from his lungs, the rhythm from his pulse, left him feeling like an overstrung guitar about to snap from the tension.

Just as Eddie begins to find his rhythm in this dangerous little dance—just as he starts to anticipate your steps, to recognise the subtle hitch in your breath when he leans in too close—the music screeches to a halt.

Someone materialises from the crowd like a poorly timed jump scare, designer cufflinks glinting under the club lights as his arm slides around the sliver of exposed skin at your waist. The touch is possessive, practiced, the kind of casual intimacy that makes Eddie’s molars grind hard enough to spark.

And you—

You don’t even flinch.

The realisation hits Eddie like a kick to the ribs. He watches, jaw clenched, as the guy leans in—close enough that Eddie catches the cloying scent of his expensive cologne, the glint of veneers too perfect to be anything but bought. The way he kisses you is all performative passion, a showy press of lips that lingers just a beat too long, complete with a theatrical tilt of the head, like he’s mentally checking his angles.

Christ. It’s like watching a bad rom-com.

The guy pulls back with the smug satisfaction of a man who’s never been told no, his thumb brushing your hip in one last obnoxious display of ownership before he turns to Eddie. He extends a hand, his Rolex glinting under the strobe lights.

“It’s Edgar, right?”

Eddie’s eye twitches.

“Theodore”, the guy continues, flashing a smile so white it’s practically radioactive. “I take it you’ve met my girlfriend?”

Checkmate.

Fuck.

How could he have forgotten?

He’d been too busy writing sonnets in his head about the cadence of your voice when you whispered in his ear and too busy memorising the way your nails felt dragging up his sleeve to even fucking remember you have a boyfriend.

And not just any boyfriend.

No, it’s Theodore fucking Langley. Actor. Heartthrob. The guy whose face is currently plastered on every teen magazine from here to Tokyo, the same guy who got voted “Most Likely to Make You Swoon” by Seventeen or some shit. The kind of guy who probably has a skincare routine longer than the Lord of the Rings trilogy and a publicist who writes his posts for him.

Eddie forces a grin, sharp enough to draw blood, and shakes the guy’s hand just a little too hard.

“It’s Eddie. And yeah, she was just warning me to steer clear of the right-hand stage.” He nods toward the VIP section, packed to the brim with Hollywood’s most gossip-hungry vultures. “Unless I want to end up as tomorrow’s TMZ headline.”

The excuse rolls off his tongue smooth as honey, but inside, his thoughts are a fucking hurricane.

Because, honestly?

He doesn’t get it.

Not just because he’s got the hots for you (which, yeah, okay, he definitely does), but because the whole thing is so goddamn ridiculous. From what you even see in this guy to what the two of you could possibly talk about—Eddie knows the type⁠ in the way you know a bad sequel—overproduced, underwhelming, all flash and no substance. He’s met a hundred variations of Theodore at industry parties. ⁠Does he even know you? The real you? Or just the version that looks good on his arm during red carpets?

The tabloids are eating it up, of course. “Hollywood’s New It Couple!” bleeds across magazine covers in obnoxious neon fonts, while gossip sites run breathless slideshows of you and Theodore at every red carpet event, gala, and painfully staged coffee run. The cameras love the way his Armani-clad arm possessively anchors you to his side, how your designer dresses complement his tailored suits like you were manufactured as a set.

But they're not looking closely enough.

If they did, they'd notice how Theodore's fingers indent the fabric at your waist just a fraction too deep—the kind of grip that leaves bruises blooming like ink stains beneath fabric. They'd catch the microsecond delay in your smile when his lips graze your cheek, the way your eyes flicker toward the exits like a caged animal calculating escape routes. They'd see what Eddie sees with devastating clarity:

A mismatch.

A performance so polished it's rotting at the core.

The greatest fucking waste he's ever seen.

And then—the moment Theodore releases you to go charm some studio director who could "really take his career to the next level, darling," your hand snaps out with viper precision, your fingers curl around his wrist with deliberate precision—not tight enough to leave marks, but firm enough to make the veins in his forearm jump under your touch.

"Meet me backstage."

The words lick against his ear, molten and venomous—a command wrapped in velvet. Your teeth graze his earlobe just hard enough to remind him this isn't surrender. It's an ambush.

It's not a request.

Eddie's no stranger to the value in playing along, but Christ, the sixty seconds he forces himself to wait feel like slow torture. He counts each heartbeat against the sticky bar top, his fingers drumming an erratic rhythm that betrays the calm facade. The ice in his whisky melts unnoticed as his pulse hammers in his throat, torn between walking away and breaking into a run toward whatever fresh hell you're offering.

The hallway to the dressing rooms is a study in controlled chaos, narrow enough that Eddie's shoulders nearly brush both walls as he stalks forward, the buzz of faulty fluorescents casting strobe-like shadows that make the space feel both claustrophobic and thrillingly illicit.

And there you are—a vision of calculated nonchalance leaning against chipped paint that flakes under your fingertips. One foot props against the wall behind you like you've been waiting lifetimes rather than minutes. When your eyes lock onto his, they're dark with knowing amusement, your lips curling into a smirk that says you've already scripted this encounter and he's just now catching up to page three.

"Took you long enough," you tease, your voice a velvet-wrapped blade that cuts through the bass thumping from the main room. The words dance across the scant inches between you, each syllable weighted with unspoken challenges.

The dressing room door clicks shut with finality behind you, the sound louder than it should be in the sudden quiet. Eddie's body thrums with restrained energy—you can see it in the way his carotid pulses against the collar of his shirt, in the white-knuckle grip he maintains on his own belt loops to keep from reaching for you. The air between you crackles with the kind of tension that precedes summer storms, heavy with the promise of lightning.

You'd expected him to pounce—to back you against the nearest flat surface and finally give in. But instead…

He hesitates.

The space between his eyebrows furrows into a crease—the one that appears when he's tuning a stubborn guitar string or trying to decipher some cryptic lyric. But now it's deeper, more vulnerable, as his dark eyes roam your face like he's searching for answers in the slant of your cheekbones, the part of your lips. When he finally speaks, his voice is wrecked—rough as sandpaper and twice as raw, like he's been screaming himself hoarse backstage. "Is this what you want?"

The question hangs between you, weighted with something that makes your ribs ache. There's an unfamiliar tremor beneath the words. "Really?"

You blink up at him, and for one terrifying heartbeat, your carefully constructed mask slips—the one you wear at press junkets, the one you've perfected for Theodore's arm. Your breath catches audibly before you can school your features back into indifference. "What, don't you want me?"

The words slice through the charged air, sharper than you intended, laced with a surprise that has nothing to do with the game you've been playing. Eddie drags a hand through his hair, sending those riotous curls into glorious disarray. The movement makes his biceps flex, the tattoos peeking out from his sleeves suddenly vivid in the low light. "I don't give a fuck about my reputation, sweetheart." His usual smirk is nowhere to be found—just raw honesty that terrifies you more than any of his staged bad-boy antics ever could.

He exhales sharply through his nose, the sound almost pained, like the next words are being ripped from somewhere deep and rarely visited. "But yours?" A muscle jumps in his jaw as he gestures between you, his rings glinting. "You really wanna risk it all for this?" His usual swagger is fraying at the edges, revealing something far more dangerous beneath: a man who cares too much.

You tilt your head, lips quirking in a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Since when do you care what people think, Munson?”

“I don’t,” he snaps, stepping closer—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the leather-and-cigarettes scent of his jacket. “But you should. That boyfriend of yours? He’s got the media eating out of his palm. You really think they won’t tear you apart if—”

“If what?” You step into him, chest brushing his, and watch his throat bob as he swallows hard. “If they find out I’d rather be with you?”

Your fingers twist in the front of his shirt with deliberate purpose, the fabric straining under your grip as you yank him down into a kiss that's more collision than connection—all clashing teeth and shared breath and the kind of desperation that borders on violence. Eddie makes a raw, punched-out noise against your mouth, something between a groan and a curse, before his hands find purchase on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave tomorrow's bruises as he walks you backward until the sharp edge of the dresser cabinet bites into your thighs.

The moment your legs hit solid wood, his tongue swipes against yours with devastating precision—hot and demanding and tasting faintly of whisky and the cigarette he sneaked between sets. And fuck, he kisses like he plays guitar: all calloused fingertips and effortless skill, bending you to his rhythm until you're gasping against his mouth. There's that same reckless passion he channels into every riff, that same single-minded focus he reserves for chasing the perfect note—except now, he's chasing you, chasing this, like he's reaching for something sacred in the space between your bodies.

Your back arches instinctively, pressing every inch of yourself against him, and the sound Eddie makes—a broken, shuddering groan muffled against your jaw—sends a thrill of power straight down your spine. One of his hands slides up to cradle the back of your head just before it would've connected painfully with the mirror behind you, his touch unexpectedly tender even as his hips grind forward with unmistakable intent. The contrast makes you lightheaded—this is Eddie Munson at his most dangerous, equal parts rough edges and brutal softness.

But then—

He tears himself away, breathing raggedly. “Wait. Wait. What about—?”

“Theo?” You nip at his lower lip, relishing the way his fingers dig into your waist. “What about him?”

Eddie’s brow furrows, that crease between his eyebrows deepening like a fault line splitting open. “I don’t want people thinking you’re—”

“A slut?” you murmur, dragging your nails down his chest in one slow, deliberate scrape, revelling in the way his breath hitches, the way his muscles jump under your touch. “A cheater?”

He flinches like you’ve struck him. “No.” His voice is rough, almost angry—not at you, but at the idea, at the world that would dare reduce this to something cheap. “I just—fuck—” His hands flex at your hips, like he’s holding himself back from something far more dangerous. “I don’t want you to regret this.”

And that—that just drives you crazier. Because Eddie Munson, the man who’s built his entire life on not giving a single fuck about consequences, is suddenly terrified—not for himself, but for you. For what this might cost you.

It’s the most reckless thing he’s ever done—caring.

Your hands slide under his shirt, tracing the taut lines of his abdomen, fingertips mapping the heat of his skin, the ridges of scars and ink you’ll ask about later. You grin against his mouth, all teeth and no mercy. “Stop telling me what I’m supposed to do.” Then, softer, a whisper against his lips—“And just fuck me like you mean it.”

Eddie’s restraint crumbles.

One of his fists twists in your hair, tilting your head back as his mouth crashes into yours again, harder this time, hungrier, like he’s trying to rewrite every kiss that came before this one. His other hand skims up your thigh, hiking your dress higher, and when you gasp, he swallows the sound like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, like he’s been starving for it.

Then he’s hoisting you up onto the dresser with effortless strength, the cold surface biting into your bare thighs as he drops to his knees like a man preparing for ascension.

And he tries to be patient—he really does.

He presses open-mouthed kisses up the inside of your thighs, savouring the way your muscles jump under his lips, the way your breath hitches when his stubble drags against your skin. But Christ, he can already smell you—that heady, intoxicating mix of your desperation and his own name lingering on your tongue. It hits him like a punch to the gut, leaving him dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with the liquor he’s been nursing all night.

Vertigo.

A full-body shudder.

The kind of high no drug could ever replicate.

And it’s not like he has a reputation to uphold—so he doesn’t bother hiding how fucking gone he is. He nudges at your clit with his nose, just to hear the way your breath fractures, just to feel your fingers twist in his hair like a silent please. Every flick of his tongue makes your hips jerk, every low, filthy noise you make going straight to his dick, and he’s already praying for a way to freeze time, to get to stay here between your legs forever. ⁠His tongue drags a slow, torturous stripe through your folds, and the sound you make—fuck—it’s enough to send a bolt of heat straight down his spine. Higher pitched, broken at the edges, like you’re already halfway to ruin.

Heaven shouldn’t even bother trying. There’s no way it could top this.

Eddie dives in like a starving man, hands splayed over your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh. And God, he’s insatiable once he starts. Eager. Determined. Like he wants to memorise every twitch, every gasp, every time your legs tighten around his ears like there’s a part of you that’s worried he’ll change his mind. He licks into you like he’s trying to devour you, like he’d happily suffocate right here if it meant getting one more taste. Your fingers tug at his hair, and Eddie groans against you, the vibration wringing another broken sound from your throat.

This isn’t a sprint. It’s not even a damn marathon—it’s a relay race, and Eddie is eagerly playing each part, trading one touch for another, one filthy whisper for a bruising kiss, until you’re gasping, wrung out, and still begging for more.

His hands are everywhere—skimming up your ribs, gripping the back of your thighs—each touch deliberate, each movement calculated to drag another broken sound from your lips. His mouth is relentless, trailing fire in its wake, teeth scraping just hard enough to make your back arch off the wall. He eats you out like he’s got something to prove, like he’s mapping every gasp, every shudder, filing them away for later.

And when you think you can’t take any more, he drags you right back to the edge, his lips finding that spot that makes your breath hitch. Your head falls back against the mirror with a thud, his name spilling from your lips in a moan that’s half plea, half prayer. The glass is cool against your heated skin, a stark contrast to the feverish press of his body against yours.

Eddie’s teeth scrape over your pulse point—claiming, punishing, worshipping—before his tongue soothes the sting, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s memorising the shape of them, like he’s trying to brand himself into your bones.

And when you kiss him, when your hands are fisted in his hair as you drag him towards you, as your tongue swipes against his, you can taste yourself on him, sweet and sharp, and it makes you whimper, arching into him⁠. Eddie groans, low and rough, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. He kisses you back just as hungrily, like he’s been starving for this, for you, and suddenly, there’s a certainty in his chest, bright and terrifying, that he doesn’t know how he ever lived without this.

His usual moves—the ones that earned him that damn Freak in the Sheets nickname—are nowhere to be found. There’s something ruined in the way he touches you, like he’s not just trying to wreck you but worship you, like every sigh you let out is a prayer he wants to memorise. When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his breathing ragged. His dark eyes search yours, thumb brushing your cheek in a gesture so soft it makes your chest ache.

“You okay?” He murmurs, voice wrecked.

It’s such a stupid question—of course you’re okay; you’re better than okay—but the way he asks it, like he genuinely needs to know, like your answer matters more than his next breath, it lights something inside of you as well. Because you feel it too—the way the air between you crackles even when you’re not touching, the way his hands linger even after he’s pulled away, like he can’t stand to let you go.

You swallow, suddenly too exposed. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect you to be so…”

“So what?” He grins, but it’s not his usual cocky smirk—it’s lopsided, almost nervous.

“Attentive,” you admit, and his grin softens into something real.

Eddie huffs a laugh, pressing his forehead to yours. “Yeah, well. You’re… special.”

Eddie exhales, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your waist—slow, possessive circles that leave fire in their wake. His voice drops, rough with something that isn’t just want but need.

“Let me take you out.”

His eyes meet yours again, dark and pleading, his thumb brushing your lower lip in a touch so tender it makes your breath stutter. His gaze is unbearably fond, like he’s already memorised every freckle, every hitch in your breathing, like he’s been waiting for you forever and just didn’t know it until now.

“Somewhere that’s not a dressing room,” he murmurs, lips quirking in that half-smile that’s equal parts mischief and vulnerability. “Somewhere with… chairs. And menus and shit.”

You laugh, but it comes out shaky, because, fuck, this isn’t how this was supposed to go. This was supposed to be a distraction, a one-night rebellion against the perfectly curated life you’re supposed to want—the one where you’re Theodore Langley’s golden girl, where your smiles are scripted and your hands are meant to linger on his arm, not tangled in Eddie Munson’s hair.

But Eddie?

Eddie’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

And that’s terrifying.

Because you feel it too—the way your chest tightens when he smiles, the way your skin still hums where he touched you, like his hands left permanent fingerprints.

“Why?” you whisper.

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. His thumb stills against your lip, his voice raw. “Because I don’t think once is going to be enough.”

And God, the way he says it—like it’s already a lost cause, like he’s doomed, like he’s been ruined for anything else and he doesn’t even care.

You swallow. “What if I say no?”

Eddie’s grin is all teeth, but his eyes? Soft. “Then I’ll wait for you till you say yes.”

“For how long?”

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “However long it takes.”

And fuck, he's in trouble.

Because maybe there's a third thing that makes Eddie who he is right now—not just the leather-jacketed rebel who flips off convention, not just the raw-nerved artist who bleeds his truth into every chord.

But Eddie Munson, the man who never begged for anything in his life, who would get on his knees for you.

Eddie Munson, who built his career on not giving a single fuck, would burn down every bridge if it meant keeping you warm.

Eddie Munson, the self-proclaimed freak, has never felt more terrifyingly human than when you look at him like he's something precious instead of dangerous.

#eddie munson #eddie #eddie munson x female reader #bitterrecs

233 notes · View notes

wonderlandwalker · 3 months ago

Text

Two can play (but three's more fun) | Steve Harrington x reader x Eddie Munson

stranger things masterlist / inbox

summary: when Steve catches Eddie staring a little too long at his girlfriend, he doesn’t throw a punch—he extends an invitation. And as Eddie quickly learns, Steve doesn’t just share; he teaches, with slow, filthy demonstrations.

word count: 5.2k

tags / content warnings: smut, just pure filth really, posessive steve, desperate eddie, a lot of swearing, I couldn't help it, maybe some repetitive words but smut vocabulary just has it's limits

a/n: I got insanely stoned and wrote this so if it came out too horny i'm sorry, also im ovulating oops. I've prolly been very inconsistent with grammar tenses but I can't be bothered to check it. I usually correct my grammar after i've already posted so the masterlist link has significantly less errors than earlier versions

The living room was bathed in the flickering glow of the TV, some forgotten horror movie playing on low volume—The Thing, maybe, or was it Halloween?—its eerie soundtrack warping under the weight of the thick, sweet-smelling haze curling through the air.

Eddie had outdone himself with this new strain, something sticky and potent that left his limbs heavy and his usual sharp edges dulled into something languid and warm, his thoughts perhaps a bit too syrupy.

“—I know I talk a big game, man, but fuck. I have no clue what I’m doing when it actually comes down to it.”

His voice was a low mumble, words slipping out like he hadn’t meant to say them at all. He tipped his head back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling as if it might hold answers.

Steve blinks at him, slow and rhythmically, before snorting. “What, like… at all?”

“Yeah, man. Like—” Eddie waves a hand vaguely, the silver of his rings glinting as he moves. “How the fuck am I supposed to know what sounds are real and which ones are fake? It’s fucking Russian roulette.”

The next reaction from Steve is immediate, no hesitation. Just a lazy, knowing smirk as he stretches his arms behind his head. “Huh. Well, once you know the difference, it becomes pretty obvious.” He pauses, just long enough to take a quick glance over Eddie’s face. “If you really need some pointers, I can ask my girlfriend if she wants to help you out.”

Eddie nearly comes crashing to the fucking floor.

Because fuck. He’s had a crush on you for, like, forever. Not that he’s ever admitted it out loud — not when Steve Harrington has a reputation for rearranging the faces of guys who so much as look at you wrong. Eddie has seen it happen: some poor asshole at a party, fingers skimming your ass as you passed, and bam — Steve’s fist in his jaw before anyone could blink. There’s even a rumour some other idiot once stared just a little too long at the way your lips wrapped around the neck of your beer bottle and then slurred, “Wanna spin the bottle?” Word is, Steve dropped him in one hit. No warning. No theatrics. Just pure, primal instinct.

So yeah, Eddie’s kept his mouth shut.

But now? Now Steve is watching him with this lazy, half-lidded expression, like he hadn’t just detonated a goddamn bomb in Eddie’s head.

“You’re fucking with me.” Eddie pleads, his voice rough.

Steve just grins — slow, deliberate — his eyes dark with something Eddie can't name. “Nah, man. She’s actually really into that kinda stuff.” His voice drops, gravel scraping over each word, and Eddie’s stomach flips “And I’d do anything for her.”

The air feels thick as Eddie’s pulse roars in his ears, his throat suddenly bone-dry. Was this a test? A trap? Christ. Harrington was going to be the death of him, and worse—Eddie knew he’d fucking thank him for it.

His fingers twitch at his sides. “...Yeah?”

Steve’s smile only widens, but his eyes soften. “Yeah.”

When Eddie shows up at your place the next night, he’s strung tight enough to power Hawkins twice over, his pulse hammering in his throat. He’s spent the last twenty-four hours convincing himself he’d imagined the whole conversation, that there was no way Steve Harrington just offered—

And then you open the door.

Dressed in nothing but one of Steve’s old band tees, the fabric riding high on your thighs, you greet him with a smile that damn near stops his heart. “Hey, Eddie.”

His mouth goes dry. And before he can choke out a response, Steve is behind you, hands sliding possessively around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. And then — Jesus Christ.

The kiss Steve gives you isn’t just heated — it’s filthy. All tongue and teeth, your fingers twisting in his hair as he backs you against the doorframe, his hands already under your shirt like it’s a regular Tuesday afternoon.

Eddie’s knees nearly give out.

“Watch,” Steve murmurs against your lips when he finally breaks away, his gaze flicking to Eddie over your shoulder. His voice dark and commanding. “And pay attention.”

Then, right there in the doorway, Steve pulls the shirt over your head — meticulously slow, like he wants Eddie to memorise every second. And, well — Eddie does.

He memorises the way your breath hitches when Steve’s fingers brush over your ribs, the way you arch into his touch, the soft, real sounds spilling from your lips as Steve’s mouth finds the top of your breasts—

Eddie’s throat protests as he swallows, fingers twitching at his sides like he can’t decide whether to bolt or drop to his knees.

Steve notices —of course he does— and his lips curl into something dangerously close to a challenge. “You just going to stand there, Munson?” His hands slide down your hips, squeezing just hard enough to make you softly gasp. “Thought you wanted to learn.” Eddie manages to get control over his brain just long enough to answer “I— Yeah. Fuck. Yeah. I do.”

Steve hums, pleased, and spins you around to face Eddie fully, his palm splayed possessively over your stomach. “Then get over here.”

It’s not a request.

Eddie moves like a man in a trance, close enough now to feel the heat of your skin, to catch the intoxicating scent of your perfume. His gaze darts between your face and Steve’s fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over your collarbone.

“First lesson,” Steve murmurs, leaning in to nip at your earlobe. “Don’t just touch. Listen.” His free hand reaches out, grabbing Eddie’s wrist and dragging it toward you. “Feel how she reacts.”

Eddie’s fingertips brush your waist—hesitant at first, then firmer when you shiver under his touch. His breath hitches as you lean into him, lashes fluttering when his thumb grazes the delicate curve of your ribs.

“Good.” Steve’s voice is low, eyes locked on Eddie’s every twitch. “Now kiss her.”

Eddie’s head jerks up. “What?”

Steve’s grin is all teeth. “Unless you don’t—”

“No, I—fuck.” He surges forward, crashing his mouth against yours like a man starved. It’s messy and desperate, and he barely gets a taste before Steve yanks you back by the waist, eyebrows furrowed in disapproval.

“Jesus Christ. Not like that.”

Eddie stumbles after you as Steve kicks the door shut behind them. “It’s like you were raised by wolves.”

Eddie opens his mouth to protest—then snaps it shut. Because Steve’s right. He’s a wreck.

“What are you waiting for, a written invitation?” Steve’s voice is rough with impatience. “Kiss her again.”

Eddie hesitates—just for a second—before lust wins the war. This time, when his lips find yours, it’s still hungry, but it’s also aware, his movements more controlled. For a heartbeat, he’s terrified Steve will deem him unworthy of you altogether and kick him back to the curb—until you moan into it, until your fists twist in his shirt and drag him closer.

Steve groans in approval against your shoulder. “That’s it,” he rasps, pressing you forward just enough that Eddie can feel your heartbeat against his chest. “Now slow down. Make her want it.”

Eddie whimpers, but obeys, pulling back just enough to tease your lower lip between his teeth before licking into your mouth like you’re water and he’s been dying of thirst.

The sound you make — the soft, wanting whine—it's the hottest thing he’s ever heard. Steve pulls you back again, but this time, there’s satisfaction in his grin. “See?” His thumb swipes over your kiss-swollen lips, smug. “She likes it when you take your time.”

Steve doesn’t let go of you—not really. Even as he nudges you toward the couch, his palm stays glued to the small of your back, steering you like he owns every inch of space you move through. Eddie doesn’t need to be told to follow; his pulse hammers in his throat, fingers flexing like he’s already imagining the weight of you beneath them.

“Sit.” Steve’s order cracks through the air, and Eddie drops onto an armchair like his strings have been cut.

You don’t get the chance to join him. Steve catches your wrist, yanking you back against his chest instead. His mouth brushes your ear, voice a low, possessive hum: “Nah, sweetheart. You’re staying right here.” His fingers trail down your arm before guiding your hand to Eddie’s jaw. “Let him earn it.”

Eddie’s breath stutters. Christ. Up close, you’re devastating. The way your eyes shimmer with pure lust, the way your lips part—just slightly—when Steve’s fingers skim over the lace of your bra. The syrupy moan you let out when he pinches your nipple over it, just enough to make your back arch—

“See that?” Steve’s voice is rough against your ear. “She gets loud when she’s turned on. You just have to know how to listen.” Eddie nods, swallowing hard. His hands hover over your hips like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve under his touch. Steve rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, Munson. You’re not going to break her.” He grabs Eddie’s wrist, pressing his palm flat against your stomach. “Feel how warm she is? How fucking desperate?”

Eddie’s fingers twitch. He can feel it—the rapid rise and fall of your breath, the way your skin burns under his touch.

“Now”, Steve murmurs, lips grazing your shoulder, “show me what you’ve learned.”

Eddie doesn’t need to be told twice.

This time, when he kisses you, it’s relaxed—calculated. He licks into your mouth like he’s savouring it, one hand sliding up your ribs while the other tangles in your hair. And when you moan, when your hips jerk forward like you just can’t help it, Eddie groans against your lips like he’s just discovered fucking religion.

Steve watches, eyes dark with approval. “Better,” he rasps. Then, with a smirk: “Now get on your knees.”

Eddie freezes, and Steve arches a brow,“got a problem?”

“No—fuck, no.” Eddie’s already sliding to the floor, knees hitting the carpet with a thud. His hands find your thighs, gripping just tight enough to feel the muscle tense under his fingers.

Steve’s smirk widens. “Good.”

The praise goes straight to Eddie’s dick.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp—and God, Eddie’s never been so hard in his life.

Steve’s voice is a murmur as he trails a path down your throat, bruises already blooming under his mouth. “Now, make her beg.”

Eddie’s breathing is ragged as he looks up at you—fuck, the way your pupils are blown wide, the way your chest rises with every shaky inhale. Steve’s fingers are still tangled in your hair, his thumb brushing a stray strand behind your ear with a tenderness that feels domestic. Your eyes meet Eddie’s just before they flutter shut, and it’s all the permission he needs. His mouth finds the inside of your knee first, lips dragging slow and hot up your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. Steve hums, tracing your ribs and sliding your bra strap down your shoulder. His palm cups your breast as it spills free, kneading with a lazy possessiveness that has your hips jerking forward — but Eddie holds you steady, determined.

His tongue traces past the waistband of your panties like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you, and when his eyes flick up to Steve, all he finds is lust, raw and unfiltered. So Eddie hooks his fingers into the fabric and pulls, dragging it down your legs as he kisses a trail after it, reverent even in his hunger. His fingers work you with surprising precision, his gaze desperate for approval — and when he curls them just right, you gasp, arching into his touch with a moan loud enough to make Steve’s smirk falter. He wasn’t expecting that.

The slip in Steve’s control sends a thrill through Eddie, and he murmurs against your thigh, voice rough: “You sound so fucking sweet — bet you taste even better.” Steve’s grip tightens on your hip, hard enough to bruise, but you don’t seem to mind.

He’d meant to teach. Now, he’s learning.

And the way you’re unravelling under Eddie’s touch stirs something awake inside of him. Eddie’s got a musician’s dexterity, his fingers able to coax sinful melodies from you with every twist. When you whimper Eddie’s name, Steve’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t stop him. Just watches with a gaze darker than the midnight sky itself as Eddie’s breath ghosts over you, your thighs trembling. “Please—”

The word barely leaves your lips before Eddie adds another finger, crooking them until your thighs squeeze around his wrist. He groans against your skin, resting his forehead against your leg as the vibration tears another broken sound from your throat. He fucks you with his fingers — slow and deep, then fast and relentless, like he can’t decide whether to savour you or ruin you.

Eddie, drunk on your praise, dares to glance up at Steve with a smirk. Steve’s nostrils flare, but instead of shutting him down, he drags a thumb over your cheek and growls, “You gonna cum for him?” You can’t even answer. Your back arches, toes curling, and Eddie drinks it in like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. The moment you shatter, he loses it. He’s not sure what destroys him more — the way you choke out his name, begging him not to stop, or the filthy, approving rumble of Steve’s voice as he speaks, “Good girl.”

Eddie finds himself at an impasse, torn between begging for more and staying silent as the two of you decide his fate. His fingers twitch where they grip your thighs, his breath ragged, his entire body coiled tight with anticipation—and fear. Steve detaches himself from nipping at your collarbone when Eddie wavers, his movements faltering. A reprimand flashes in Steve’s darkened gaze, sharp enough to make Eddie shudder again. “Didn’t you hear her, Munson?” Steve’s voice is a low, warning growl. “She told you not to stop.”

But Eddie freezes. The reality of where he is—what he’s doing—hits him like a freight train. He has no idea how to continue.

But Steve doesn’t tolerate hesitation. His hand fists in Eddie’s hair, yanking him forward with a rough, “Stop thinking.”

Eddie obeys like a man possessed, and the moment his tongue drags over you, his whole body jerks—holy shit. You taste even better than he could’ve dared to dream. Sweet, addictive, and the way you gasp when he flicks his tongue over your clit? He’s ruined. Forever.

Drunk on you—on the way your fingers tighten in his hair, the way you’re so wet it’s coating your thighs—he laps at you like his life depends on it. Steve watches with drowsy satisfaction, his palm sliding possessively up your stomach to cup your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple just to hear you whimper for him again.

“Listen to how she sounds when you do it right,” Steve murmurs, voice thick with contentment. “Isn’t it the most beautiful sound in the world?” He doesn’t wait for Eddie to answer. Instead, he tilts your jaw toward him, locking you in a searing kiss. You moan into Steve’s mouth as Eddie continues, his tongue relentless, his own desperate noises vibrating against you. Steve chuckles darkly when Eddie whimpers, his cock straining against his jeans just from tasting you. He hasn’t even touched himself, but he’s so close he’s shaking.

“Are you going to come just from this, Munson?” Steve drags him off you by his hair, grinning at the dazed, wrecked look on Eddie’s face. “Fuck, look at him, darling. He’s a mess.” Eddie’s lips are slick, his chest heaving, his pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. Steve doesn’t give him a chance to recover. He pushes Eddie back into the armchair, his grip firm, dominant. Then he guides you onto the couch with a smirk.

“You did good,” he tells Eddie, voice dripping with condescension. “Now let me show you great.”

Steve doesn’t waste time. In one smooth motion, he hooks his hands under your knees, spreading you wide —putting you on display— before dragging you to the edge of the couch. His gaze locks onto Eddie’s, making sure he’s watching as he leans down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, a shudder running through you at the sensation. “See how she shivers?” Steve murmurs, his breath hot against your skin, laced with something Eddie can only describe as devotion. “It’s because she knows what’s coming—” Then he devours you.

Unlike Eddie’s frantic, eager strokes, Steve’s tongue moves with precision — deliberate, decisive licks that have you arching off the couch within seconds. He teases you, circling your clit until you’re gasping, then he pulls back with a cruel smirk.

“Steve—” you whine, fingers scrambling at his hair. “Patience, sweetheart,” he muses — before sucking your clit between his lips, hard. Your cry echoes through the room, and Eddie’s hands clench into fists, his hips jerking helplessly as you overwhelm his senses without even touching him. Steve doesn’t let up; he works you with his mouth until your thighs tremble, until your moans grow longer and heavy, until you’re right there—, and he pulls away.

“No, no, baby, please—” you beg, but Steve just clicks his tongue, amused, sliding two fingers into you without warning. “Look at her, Munson,” he orders, curling his fingers just right, making you sob beneath him. “This is how you give her what she deserves.” His thrusts are ruthless, his palm grinding against your clit with every movement. You’re a writhing, whimpering mess, your nails digging into Steve’s shoulders as he fucks you on his fingers, his eyes locked onto Eddie’s the entire time.

“She’s close,” Steve taunts — he doesn’t even need to look at you to know, too busy watching the way Eddie’s jaw clenches. “You want to see what happens when she comes on my hand?” Eddie can’t even speak. He just nods, frantic. Steve smiles wickedly and makes do with the response. “Then watch closely.”

He crooks his fingers again, pressing deeper, and you don’t just shatter — you explode. Your back bows like you’re possessed, broken screams tearing from your throat as you squirt, and Eddie swears he’s seeing stars. Your hand finds Steve’s bicep, clinging desperately, like you’re afraid he’ll stop. Eddie can’t look away; he doesn’t dare blink — if he misses a single second of this, he’ll never forgive himself.

Steve works you through it, drawing out every last spasm until tears streak your face, until you’re oversensitive, trying to squirm away. Only then does he finally relent, licking his fingers with a satisfied hum before brushing featherlight kisses up to your neck. The moment you feel his proximity, you meet him in a kiss — not heated like before, but purposeful, delicate, like Steve is guiding you back to reality with it. He doesn’t rush you; he just lets your fingers weave through his hair until your breathing steadies. Then, he speaks again. “That”, he says, “is how it’s done.” He meets Eddie’s stunned gaze. “You shouldn’t even be thinking about getting your dick wet until she’s clenching around nothing.”

Eddie’s so hard it hurts. His cock throbs against his jeans, neglected and aching, precum soaking the fabric. He’s never been this turned on in his life—and the worst part? Steve knows it. The bastard smirks, dragging a thumb over your lower lip. You suck it in eagerly, tongue swirling, before he pulls away and stands. It’s a fucking performance. Steve undoes his belt like he’s savouring the way Eddie’s eyes cling to his hands, the leather slipping free with a final, damning shush. You whimper, still boneless from your orgasm, but your eyes flutter open when Steve’s palm slides up your thigh, squeezing. “Please, Steve?” you breathe, and his grin turns feral. “Not yet, love.” He glances at Eddie, whose throat bobs under the weight of his stare. “Munson hasn’t earned it yet.”

Eddie’s stomach drops. Fuck. He’s dripping in his pants, his hips twitching like a fucking teenager, and Steve’s going to make him wait? But then—

Steve grips Eddie’s chin, forcing his gaze up. “You want her?” he asks, voice rough. Eddie nods, greedy. “Then prove you can take care of her.” And just like that, Steve shoves him onto the couch with you. “Do it like I showed you.”

For a heartbeat, Eddie can only stare—at the way your breath hitches when he touches you, at the way your eyes lock on Steve, who’s sprawled in the armchair like it’s a fucking throne, lazily stroking his cock. Your lips part, and Eddie swears he sees your mouth water—fuck, it’s obscene. His hands tremble as he touches you—really touches you—this time. His mouth finds your thigh, kissing up the sensitive skin, trying to mimic the way Steve had worshipped you earlier. But when his tongue drags over you, your breath catches—wrong—and Steve’s low chuckle cuts through the room like a knife.

“Christ, Munson,” Steve sighs, his grip tightening around his cock. “You’re thinking too hard.”

Eddie grits his teeth. He is. He’s thinking about the way Steve had made you scream, the way your back arched off the couch like you were trying to fuse into him. He’s thinking about the fact that Steve’s watching, lazily stroking himself while Eddie fumbles like a virgin.

And the nail in the coffin? You’re watching Steve too. Your teeth sink into your lower lip, eyes heavy with desire—but not for Eddie.

“Fuck,” Eddie rasps, pulling back. His voice is wrecked.“I can’t—I don’t—” Steve leans forward, fingertips ghosting over your throat as you keen toward him. “You can,” he growls. “Stop trying to perform. Just feel her.”

Eddie’s breath comes in sharp bursts. This time, when his mouth finds your cunt, he doesn’t think. He listens. To the way your breath catches when he licks a slow, experimental stripe. To the way your hips jerk when he sucks just there. And when your fingers fist in his hair—finally—it’s not to guide him, but to hold on.

“There,” Steve murmurs, voice thick with approval. “Now you’re getting it.” Eddie moans against you, the vibration pulling a whimper from your throat. Fuck. He’s dizzy with it—the taste of you, the sounds you’re making, the way Steve’s gaze burns into him like a brand.

But then Steve stands. Eddie barely has time to register the loss before Steve’s dragging him up by the collar, spinning him around to face you—really face you. Your lips are swollen, your chest heaving, your thighs slick with Steve’s work.

"Look at her," Steve growls, his voice a dark scrape against Eddie’s ear. "Don’t just glance—really look."

And Eddie looks. He sees the damp flush between your breasts, the way your hips lift like you’re already chasing it, the way your pupils blow wide when Steve’s thumb swipes over your bottom lip. "She’s not yours," Steve breathes, dragging his teeth over Eddie’s earlobe. "But fuck, look how bad she wants you to try."

Eddie’s pulse races. Then Steve steps back, gesturing like a king permitting a subject to kneel. "Go on. Make her forget my fucking name."

So he closes his eyes, trying to drown out the noise in his head, to sync himself with the thrum of your heartbeat beneath him, to dissolve into every breath you take. He wants to belong here, in this moment, where Steve’s approval hangs heavy in the air and your pleasure is the only thing that matters — success. A satisfied hum from Steve when Eddie finally finds the right rhythm, a broken moan from your lips. But your eyes — your eyes stay locked on Steve, even as Eddie’s mouth works you over. It’s still him you want. Hunger battles with pride in Eddie’s chest. He hates how badly he craves this—how much he needs Steve’s approval—but god, he longs to pull those sounds from you himself, to unravel you with nothing but his touch. And so he moves like a man possessed, single-minded in his mission to play you like an instrument, to pluck every string until you snap.

Your taste is intoxicating, something he’s already addicted to, something he’s not sure he can live without anymore. Your eyes scrunch shut as pleasure blooms, so lost in it that you don’t even notice Steve speeding up his strokes, his grip tight on his cock. Eddie gets close—so close he can practically taste your climax—but you linger on the edge, just out of reach. He’s aware he’s missing something, some final piece to send you over, but he can’t find it. Then your eyes flicker open again, searching for Steve’s gaze like it’s the only thing that can save you. And Eddie knows—he’s pushed his luck too far. Steve’s patience snaps—not with his pleasure, but with Eddie’s failure to give you yours. Next thing he knows, he’s being dragged back, the warmth of you ripped away too soon. Steve looms over him, a predator in human skin, annoyance rolling off him in waves. “If you want to get a chance to fuck her,” Steve growls, voice dripping with challenge, “you’re going to have to do better than that.”

Eddie’s brain becomes the mental equivalent of a dropped Wi-Fi signal—because did Steve just imply—?

Every touch, every taste Steve has allowed him, Eddie has devoured with insatiable hunger. But now it hits him—this is more than just a demonstration. Steve might actually let him fuck you. Or he would have. Now, Eddie isn’t sure he’ll ever get the opportunity again. A sharp, breathy cry from you yanks him from his thoughts. Steve has already turned you over, guiding you onto your hands and knees, one foot perched on the armrest behind you like a damn king claiming his treasure. Eddie is so close to your face now, your slick still glistening on his chin as you blink up at him, dazed. Steve teases your entrance with his cock, just enough to have you pushing back, begging for it. And for one glorious, heart-stopping moment—you look at Eddie.

Not at back at Steve.

At him.

Your gaze is pure, primal desperation—like he’s the one you need. Steve drives into you in one brutal thrust, and your eyes screw shut in ecstasy. You sob Steve’s name, but your eyes flicker back open as you you look at him.

“Baby, please—” And it dawns on him—you are begging Steve, but not for Steve. No, you’re begging for permission, your gaze locked onto Eddie like he’s the only thing anchoring you to earth. He doesn’t know what you’re asking for, but Christ, he already knows he wants it just as much.

Steve, of course, does understand. He drags his cock into you agonisingly slow, pressing tender kisses along your spine even as his voice comes out harsh. “You think he deserves it, honey?” You whine, desperate, but Steve doesn’t need more than that. He leans over you, his thrusts deliberate, sinful. “How could I ever say no to you?”

And fuck, Eddie gets it now—gets why Steve turns possessive, gets why you love it. He’s watching the two of you move like a single entity, Steve’s hips rolling into you with a precision that rewrites Eddie’s entire understanding of sex. And the real tragedy? He’s pretty sure you’re only getting started. Your fingers fist in Eddie’s collar, yanking him down hard. His breath stutters as your lips take him in, hot and needy, and he doesn’t think—just reacts, his hands tangling in your hair as Steve’s thrusts rock you forward, forcing Eddie deeper into your mouth. You moan around him, the vibrations nearly undoing him right there, but then your hand tugs at his belt loop like it’s personally offended you, and Eddie’s thoughts fry into static. What do you want? He glances at Steve for answers, but the bastard just laughs, driving into you harder like he’s savouring Eddie’s confusion.

And God help him, Eddie looks. It’s downright pornographic. Steve’s cock glistens as he pulls out, your body clinging to him like it never wants to let go, and every time he sinks back in, you clench, a broken noise tearing from your throat.

As Eddie freezes, you take matters into your own hands, undoing Eddie’s belt with ruthless efficiency. The zipper’s barely down before his jeans pool at his knees. He looks at Steve again—helpless—but Steve just shakes his head, smirking. “Jesus, Munson. Keep up.”

Your fingers brush the straining outline of his cock through his boxers, and his hips jerk. Your mouth finds the spot beneath his ear, teeth scraping, and—fuck—it nearly sends him over the edge right then. You’re not gentle. You know exactly what you want. In seconds, his dick is in your hand, your grip perfect, and the first stroke has him grinding his teeth so hard his jaw hurts. He wants to keep his eyes open—to watch, to devour every detail of every second—but his body betrays him. A shudder wracks through him, his lashes fluttering helplessly before his head falls back, lost to the crushing wave of ecstasy."

“Fuck—!”

Steve’s voice cuts through the haze, dark with amusement. “That’s it, sweetheart. Show him how good you can be.” His hand tangles in your hair—not guiding, just holding—like he wants Eddie to see he’s the one in control. That every gasp you make, every shudder Eddie can’t suppress, is because Steve orchestrated it.

“Bet he’s never felt anything like you.” Eddie’s thighs tremble, his cock twitching against your tongue. He’s close, too close, and Steve knows it—fuck, he’s enjoying it. “Look at him,” Steve murmurs, dragging his cock out of you just to slam back in, punching a moan from your lips. “Already shaking for you. Bet he wishes it was him inside instead.” His thumb swipes over your clit, and you whimper, your rhythm on Eddie faltering. “But he’s got to earn that, doesn’t he?”

Earn it? Eddie’s vision blurs at the edges. He’d shamelessly beg if it meant— Then your tongue swirls over the head of his cock, and he chokes, almost falling forward into you.

“Steady,” Steve warns, though his voice is anything but calm. “You cum before she does, and I’ll make you watch while I fuck her twice as hard.”

Eddie’s groan is nothing short of pure agony. Steve fucks you more slowly then—cruel, like he’s savouring Eddie’s torment—dragging his cock almost all the way out before sinking back in, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to make your eyes water. But your dedication doesn’t waver; if anything, it burns hotter. “Shit—” Eddie’s hips jerk involuntarily, but you swallow him deeper, humming around the salt-bitter heat of him. His fingers scramble at the cushions, knuckles white. “Jesus, sweetheart, where the hell did you learn—?”

Steve’s laugh is a dark, knowing thing against your neck. His hands slide up your thighs, spreading you wider as he presses inside, slow, letting you feel every fucking inch. “She’s full of surprises,” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear. “But you’re not going to last long enough to find out, are you?”

Eddie’s groan disintegrates, the way you swirl your tongue around him, the slick pressure of your throat—it’s nothing like the groupies who’d thrown themselves at Corroded Coffin. This is ruination. This is worship. Your mouth works him with practiced greed, and Eddie’s vision blurs.

“Fuck, I’m not—I can’t—”

“Yes. You can.” Steve’s voice doesn’t leave room for argument—this isn’t a suggestion; it’s a command. His hand moves from your scalp to your nipple, pinching just shy of pain until you whine around Eddie’s cock. His other hand slips between your legs, circling your clit with filthy precision. “You going to come for us, sweetheart?” he rasps. You nod frantically, lips stretched lewdly around Eddie. “Good. Let him see.” You break with a cry, muffled around Eddie’s cock, and Steve growls as your body clenches around him. “That’s it,” he grits out, hips snapping harder, “that’s my girl—” Eddie’s spellbound.

Steve fucks you through it, your tears smearing Eddie’s thighs. His breath comes in punched-out gasps, cock twitching against your tongue—

Steve loses control first. A guttural groan tears from his throat as he spills inside you, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.

Eddie’s hips stutter when you whimper, oversensitive, as Steve grinds into you one last time—claiming you like he wants to brand the feeling into your skin. And then— “Fuck!” Eddie’s back arches, his cock jerking as you pull off with a slick pop, begging Steve for mercy. He comes untouched, frustration and relief searing through him as he gasps your name like a prayer. Steve laughs, low and satisfied. Eddie’s too wrecked to care, chest heaving—until Steve’s next words send him tumbling straight back into want.

“Let me know if you’ve got any requests for the next lesson.”

2K notes · View notes