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Time moves slowly within Eddie’s van.
It stretches on and on – dense and detached from reality.
Feels like a concert venue in a capsule.
There’s only one source of light coming from the roof of the van, but it’s so dim that it only grants a dusty thread of it. You worry the battery will die, but you don’t let yourself dwell on that for too long as you close your eyes and your torso languidly sways to the music. With your sight lacking, all your other senses come alive so vibrantly.
It’s hot as hell itself, humid with your shared perspiration, reeking of weed, beer and sweat, and Sabbath’s Born Again album blasting so loudly from the van’s speakers it could be deafening if you weren’t used to it by now.
The drums resonate in your heart and the bass tightens up the coiling in your lower belly, so moving isn’t even necessary to have you heaving, tensing and relaxing your muscles.
The driver’s seat is leaned back all the way so that Eddie is comfortably laid down but with easier access to the cassette player, with you perched naked on his lap, only covered by his leather jacket, as Eddie insisted that he didn’t want anyone to see you out here in the woods.
Not that anyone would come here in the first place on a Saturday night.
Not that they’d see anything anyway from how the windows were all fogged up.
You’d been at this for hours.
Shedding clothes throughout the night as it got hotter, playing different albums all evening and teetering on the edge of climax, holding off for as long as you could ride it.
This was all Eddie’s doing. He wanted to play a game to see who would give in first and cum.
If you win and he cums first, Eddie will finally watch Flashdance with you; if Eddie wins, you’d have to let him cheat off your Spanish homework for the rest of the semester. The stakes were totally uneven, you thought, so you’re definitely determined not to lose this one.
(If anything, you wanted to win just to admire the way he looked when he crumbled down underneath you – beautiful doe eyes closed beneath a furrowed brow, a mouth that would seldom be shut all slack around a wanton groan, and the tendons of his neck tensed from holding off his breath at the highest peak)
In trying to hold out as much as you could, you’d been back and forth playing games of this or that with some of Eddie’s favorite artists – just to add to the torture.
You’re wholly impaled on him yet unmoving – only the tiniest of squeezes would escape you when he made you laugh or when he’d accommodate on the leather seat or when you’d lean down to lazily lap at every bead of sweat that trailed down the creamy planes of his neck, adam's apple and especially the now glistening tattoos in his chest.
Both of you had your hair matted down and drenched, skin musky from every lick and kiss and drops of beer that coated it. But it’s nothing but absolute heaven and then a little bit of hell when – beyond the pleasure – the odds of the game come back to you.
“Okay, okay, I got another one,” you sigh before pulling away from his mouth as you had been speaking in intervals between kisses, “after The Runaways: Joan Jett’s solo career, or Lita Ford’s?”
“Joan Jett, without question,” he hums with his lips pressed to yours before exclaiming, “NEXT”
“Well that was an easy one!” you laugh and sit up to put a little bit of distance between you, with your palms resting on his chest.
“Come oooooon (Y/N), was that the best you got?” He accentuates his point with a short couple of hard thrusts that have you giggling and moaning at the same time. You absolutely lived for these casual displays of the power that he has over you, able to have you grinning while shattering before him with such little effort.
“Alright, fine. Let’s see.” You squeeze your pussy walls in retaliation, leaning further back away from him to elongate your upper body so that your tits were on full display for him, with his jacket slipping a few inches off of your shoulders. “AC/DC: Bon Scott or Brian Jonshon?”
That way that he ogles at you, with his wide brown eyes fixed directly on yours and hands that automatically splay out on your ribs, stroking their way up until his thumbs tease the sides of your tits and barely graze your stiff nipples in slow circles, makes you feel truly wanted, despite the silliness of this game you’re in. Never in your life had you felt this good – so invincible, even, like an actual goddess before him.
And it’s all because it’s Eddie. That’s just it.
“(Y/N) he died though” You snort out laughing at how indignant he sounds in contrast to his mesmerized face.
“Yeah, and? Pick!”
“That’s a no brainer, it’s got to be Scott, he’s the OG. NEXT!”
“You’re getting cocky, Munson.” You interlock your fingers with his to bring his palms away from your breasts as punishment, pinning them on each side of his face as you lean down once more with a smirk, inches away from his plush lips.
He acts as if he’s going to kiss you but goes to breathe right in your ear instead as a taste of your own medicine.
“These ones are easy peasy. I think someone’s mind is getting a little bit fogged from wanting to cum.” One long shiver runs down the side of your neck towards your spine at how gruff and deeper his tone got. His voice was like a match, striking fire on the inside of your body as if someone had poured a line of gasoline that ended right in your core.
There was a little bit of truth in his teasing, no doubt.
Be it the weed heightening your senses or the lack of light or the vibrations of the music or merely Eddie’s Bambi eyes all swallowed up by his pupils, but your restraint was quickly vanishing.
You muster whatever power of will you have left and reply, “In your dreams, Eddie. Don’t use diversion tactics on me, I could go on and on…”
(that was a lie)
“...I think it might be the other way around…” You lick the shell of his ear arch your back like a pleased cat from the moan that escapes him. Wanting more of that addicting sound you nip at his earlobe, kissing it softly once, twice, three times along the curve before stopping abruptly.
“Right, so! Van Halen: with David Lee Roth or Sammy Hagar?”
He gives you a side glance and folds his arms around your back, urging you to remain close which pulls your clit right against his pelvis igniting instant sparks flying out of your head and eyes rolling back in your skull.
“Oooooh now we’re onto something….” he notices that quiet whimper you tried to bury on his hair so he tightens his grip on your lower back, squeezing your ass before grabbing handfuls of it to press you closer still and augment the friction on your neglected clit.
For focus, you try to search for the smell of Eddie’s shampoo underneath all that sweat – you figure that if you can concentrate on this one thing, on seeking out that mixture of green herbs and mint leaves, you might distract yourself from feeling of Eddie’s abs cushioning your stomach and your sore nipples rubbing against his chest.
You swallow your moans and ask instead, “So what’s it gonna be, Eds?”
“They’re totally different vibes…” he breathes against the side of your neck.
“I know,” you distance yourself once more, with your palms on his shoulders and nails digging into the stiff muscle there. “Which is why it makes it more fun to watch you try to put some thought into it. You’re slipping, Munson…”
“FUCK, okay! I suppose David Lee Roth because he’s the OG…but Sammy Haggar’s voice, though…”
“If you don’t pick at the count of 3, I’m gonna start moving and you’ll be finished in less than a minute –”
“-- Okay, okay, okay! David Lee Roth.”
“Good boy.”
You smirk at the full-body shudder that’s visible as all the little blonde hairs on his arms raise and how his puppy dog eyes are borderline manic at the use of that pet name. The delicate skin of his pink lips looks as if it might break from Eddie biting on it while his knuckles quickly turn white with how hard he grasps at you for dear life, trying not to cum.
Then a lightbulb goes off in your head thanks to the album that’s playing in the background.
Your entire disposition changes with one wicked, wicked smile.
“Okay I really got it now, asking the real question here. Black Sabbath: with Ozzy or with Dio?”
“OOF!” He sits up in a flash and you hiss at the change in position – his cock sliding up to the hilt within your cunt so harshly that you’re left a drooling mess, moaning the entire moment that it takes you to squeeze and hold him there in a death-grip. Eddie groans along with you, but still the question in the air couldn’t be ignored. “No, no, no, no, you can’t go there!”
“I just did. Now you have to answer, Eds”
And honestly you hope he does because you can’t hold back any longer, your hips itching to move and even if you didn’t, it wouldn’t be difficult to just cume from the pulsing contractions of your walls.
He merely closes his eyes and shakes his forehead against your collarbone. His hair tickles and it feels so, so good you can’t help but lovingly rest your palm on the back of his neck and nuzzle the crown of his head. Your chest fills with affection at how sweetly he’s whimpering and grabbing at you – whining a childish, “Noooooo…” that’s such a stark contrast to what you’re actually doing here.
You just can’t anymore. So what if Eddie cheats in his Spanish homework, at least he’d graduate that way.
You start to rotate your hips slowly, ever so slowly building up a pace.
Eddie catches up on what you’re doing and wants in – branding your waist with his hands to make you bounce down on him harder while he thrusts up and latches onto your neck to give you endless marks as evidence of the absolute torture you’ve just put him through.
As if this hadn’t been his idea in the first place.
“I hate this, but I gotta go with the Prince of Darkness,” Remarkable how he got that full sentence out with such shallow breaths.
“Ozzy ‘till fffffucking the end, baby” he shouts and your laughter merges with the beat of the music – fucking Eddie – you laugh so hard your belly contracts and makes the pleasure all the more sweeter and oh so very loud.
You’re right there on the edge, but still you have one card up your sleeve.
“Alright then. But how about this: Ozzy IN Black Sabbath, or Ozzy’s solo career,”
“FFFFFFUCK, HOW DARE YOU, (Y/N)?”
He pulls at your hair, bunching it up at the nape of your neck to make you look right into his eyes while his thrusting never ceases, only gets rougher and rougher as he speaks between gritted teeth, “You can’t just do that (Y/N), what the fuck!? It’s like asking you to pick between Stevie In Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Nicks by herself, how would you feel about that, hmmm?”
You try to contain your evil grin by biting your lip, but one particularly hard thrust has your neck arching back and yanking a painful moan that comes straight from your core and out of your throat.
His grip around the nape of your neck tightens and his mouth is directly grunting in your ear, “Huh? Who would you pick then, sweetheart?” before laying back down, fully removing his leather jacket and caging you in his strong arms.
“Don’t change the subject, this is not about me.”
Your vision goes black – seeing stars that look like the flashing lights of a concert as the encore builds, as the crowd chants for the band to come back and finish off the set with something they’ll remember forever.
“It’s always about you, princess.” He releases his grip on your neck to press on your clit with his thumb – not even circling it, just pressing it back to your pubic bone in one last attempt to tease you. “It’s always about you…” he sighs so sweetly you might even let go.
You pull back to look at him, and the hand at the small of your back now cradles the side of your face, gently pushing back your hair so he could see you properly.
“Please, Eddie…”
Your hand seeks support on his forearm moving down to feel the fingers he had practically adhered to your clit. “Please…” you beg him with one moan after the other. His intense gaze is too much so you look down but it’s even worse – you cry at the lewd image of his cock all soaked up in your juices as it enters you again and again and again, at your hands joint at the apex of your thighs.
“Come here,” he pleads and you follow without question, wrapping your arms around his neck and swallowing every lasting hum from his mouth.
“Right there, right there, right there, Eddie, please!”
You can’t explain why this sight gets you so feral, but looking down and seeing his veins portruding from his strong forearm, his tattoos harshly contrasting against his milky skin, and his rings adorning his long, dexterous hands as he circles your clit with the same speed and skill with which he plays his guitar, is what finally breaks the dam.
You yell at the pleasure and pain combined, and yell once more when you feel – amidst the violent contractions of your cunt – Eddie’s thrusts getting sloppier but rougher, insistent, urgent, hitting up your g-spot with no finess whatsoever but with enough force to pull a second climax that leaves you out of breath and tightening your hold on him for support as he fills you up with his cum.
You stay interlocked for a moment, breathing in the scent of one another.
He softly drags the tips of his fingers up and down your spine, kisses the side of your head ever so gently while you rest your face by the hollow of his throat, palm over his chest tattoo watching it rise and fall with his returning breath.
“Hey…” he guides your gaze to meet his own, with his fingers underneath your chin and smiles, “I’m gonna pull out now, okay baby?
“Mmhmm…ohhh” you hiss at the sensation of his thick spurts of cum gushing down from inside you, but Eddie’s quick to push his fingers in, keeping you all nice and full of him. You can’t help but giggle, all blissed out and well fucked. Your Eds is truly one of a kind.
People could call him a freak all they wanted but only you got to experience just what kind of a freak he really is.
You both humm as you exchange kiss after kiss after kiss – unhurried and tender – savoring just how good his lips taste, how gorgeous they look all swollen when you pull just an inch away.
“So I guess we both lost, huh?” you murmur.
“What?” he chuckles, “nuh-uh, sweetheart, I distinctly remember that you came first.” He laughs in your face when your eyes bulge out in disbelief.
“That’s not true, Munson! We came at the same time! You didn’t even answer the Ozzy question!”
He tackles you to your back with an ambush of kisses and tickling fingers all over your sides.
“I’m copying off your Spanish homework, sweetheart! And you didn’t answer either! So which is it, Stevie on her own or with Fleetwood Mac?
“No, no, no, not fair, oh my god Eddie!”
His tactic to stop your complaints is to just kiss you again and again until your whines turn to giggles, turn to moans once more.
And two rounds after that, when you’re both laying on your sides in the back of the van, with his car seats completely soiled and the battery of his car dead he finally reveals.
That maybe, just maybe,
He might be inclined to say that he prefers Ozzy, but only in a life or death situation and only because the lyrics to Crazy Train speak to him so personally.
The little confession makes your heart so full that you straddle him again and softly kiss your way to a slow, third round after which you confess that while you adore Stevie on her own, Rhiannon is a Fleetwood Mac song.
After that, the next time that you went to Eddie’s trailer, you had the Flashdance VHS in your backpack, and your Spanish homework all done and ready to be passed down to him.