Raven

Of course I’m like oh cool! He reminded me of Eddie (where is my wife says I’m Maurice Coded)

Tell me WHY this little shite has awaken a monster fucking fetish within us? And not any monster, just him.

Howie Mandel did a number with this one.

Thank you for coming to my Ted talk.

He's been growing out his facial hair as of recently. Soft stubble constantly littering his cheeks and jawline. When he was younger, it had been a thing to incur complaints from him, his shaving routine a holy ritual every single morning - but as the two of you have gotten older, he's gotten far more lenient.

As far as you can see, he looks handsome. A cliche picture of rugged and charming in your starry eyes.

"This," he says, as if it should be obvious. He lifts a finger and jabs it seemingly random against his cheek. "I'm staring at this."

"Your cheek?"

"I, wha-" he cuts off, standing up straight and looking at you in shock, "Sweetheart, I know you aren't blind."

"Are you talking about your facial hair? 'Cause, that's sort of what happens when you don't shave for a week, Eds-"

"The grey hair!" he interrupts you, throwing his hands up before pointing at the same spot again and leaning in closer to you. "I've got a damn grey hair in my beard. Look."

You squint, eyes narrowed at that spot on his cheek. It takes a while for you to properly see it due to two of your three fluorescent bulbs in your bathroom needing to be changed. But somewhere, between the dim lighting and shadow being cast by his hand, you spot it.

A single grey hair.

Buried amongst the darker spikes that litter his cheeks, hardly noticeable unless you intensely stare him down. The silvery strand glitters a little when he moves his face just right, but it's easy to lose track of it when he starts to shake his head.

"Seriously?" you ask, exasperated, "You just said someone is dying, all because you have one teeny, tiny, grey hair in your-"

"Someone is dying," he interrupts, "It's me. I'm practically on Death's doorstep. It's a grey hair, sweetheart."

You have to bite back a smile at his genuine distress, feeling a little guilty for finding this all so amusing.

"You're not dying. You're aging," you manage to get out without giggling, "The fact that you made it past thirty before finding a grey hair is impressive, honestly."

Despite all his despair, you can't help but feel a soft warmth growing in your chest. He may be losing his mind at the evidence of him growing older, but you cherish that little blessing - proof that he's getting to grow old, with you. That he's living out a long life at your life. If anything, the measly hair makes your heart only cling to him harder.

He's always disliked the signs of growing older; his aching back and knees, the way both of your staminas have decreased in and out of the bedroom, how early you both get tired these days. You're only in your mid-thirties, not even old, but Eddie loses his mind as he feels his youth slip between his fingers.

You love it. Every single day, it's proof that you're living out your greatest wish - growing old with the man that you love with every fiber of your being.

"I'm practically ancient," Eddie groans, throwing his head back in exaggeration, "God, what's next? I throw my back out and we can't have sex for a week?"

You immediately snort, eyes widening, "Jesus Christ, Eddie-"

"What? It's a realistic fear. If you were on top every time, your knees would go out next, and-"

You slap a hand over his mouth, shaking your head as you finally start laughing. "Baby. I love you, but shut up. It's really not a big deal. It's normal."

He mumbles something against your palm, brows furrowing. You can't make out a single word said, and so you remove your hand to let him repeat himself.

"What was that?" you manage to ask between more giggles.

He huffs the moment your hand drops, "I said, it's not normal - it's a goddamn tragedy."

You can't even argue. You just sigh, and take his face entirely in your hands; a palm cradles each cheek before you pull him in for a soft kiss on each corner of his mouth, pressing your forehead hard to his.

"I like seeing you grow old, Eddie," you murmur in reverie, "I think the grey hair makes you even more handsome, okay? It's not a tragedy. I hope one day, I get to see you with a full beard of grey. Capiche?"

His eyes light up at your words, and you have the nagging feeling that his excitement is due to the wrong thing.

"That's it!" he excitedly exclaims, reaching up to hold both of your wrists, not removing your hands from his face but simply stroking his thumbs over your soft skin. "We gotta even it out."

Your brows furrow, "Even it out?"

"Yeah," he nods eagerly, "If I make it all lighter, no one will be able to tell that it wasn't on purpose-"

"Eddie," you chastise, "We are not bleaching your facial hair."

He deflates before he turns the two of you, leaning his lower back against the sink as he tugs you closer, "Why not? I even have the perfect idea as to how to do it safely."

You can't admit it, but your curiosity is getting the best of you. And based on the shit-eating grin on his face, you know whatever he's about to suggest is going to be goddamn ridiculous.

He reads that spark of curiosity in your eyes easily, able to read you after years of memorizing you. "Wanna guess? Or should I just put you out of your suspense, darlin'?"

You squish his cheeks between your hands a bit harder, making his lips pucker.

"I know that look," you scowl, catching sight of his dimple on his left cheek, "Whatever idea you have, is a terrible idea."

"It's a great idea."

"It's probably going to be a pain in my ass."

"You haven't even heard what my idea is," he whines. "Just hear me out? Please?"

You let go of his cheeks, but his arms are quick to wrap around your waist, keeping you close to him. You don't have to say a word - the stern look you level with him encourages him to come out with it, and to stop messing around. The quicker he spits it out, the quicker you can knock some common sense into him and find out what he wants for dinner.

"Okay, okay," he mutters, still fighting to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up too high, "So… you know how vaginas have a specific pH level?-"

"No," your eyes widen, immediately knowing where this is going, "Absolutely not."

"Let me finish!"

"No!"

He's cackling now, and tugging you even closer, making your hips press flush to his own, "Oh, c'mon. Haven't you seen all that stuff about men with their beards lighter around their mouth? It's my God-given right as your husband to wear a naturally bleached beard with pride-"

You smack his chest, and a hand comes up to catch your wrist before you can pull it back away, "I'm not letting you eat me out just because you got a grey hair, Eddie."

"Why not?" he tilts his head, "You said it yourself - it makes me more handsome."

He's right. The bastard is right. You like him with his facial hair; you especially like the thought of him with a salt-and-pepper beard. But you know damn well that what he's suggesting won't bring that result.

"It doesn't even work like that," you grumble, trying to tug your hand out of his hold with no avail, "It would turn the hairs ginger, not white."

"Same thing," he shrugs.

It's obvious that now, he just wants an excuse to go down on you.

"It is not-"

"Sweetheart," he sighs in exasperation, "Are you going to keep arguing with me, or are you going to get your pretty little ass on that counter so I can eat your pussy like a starved man? Your choice."

Your entire body floods with warmth, pooling right between your hips. It's the way he says it so casually, rolling his eyes and giving you attitude as he presents the crass choice. Even after all this time, he still gets this reaction out of you.

Years of marriage, even more of dating. You've spent more than half your time alive knowing Eddie, and somehow - even the simplest of words from his mouth can have your clit throbbing.

He sees the moment your mind has been made up, and is quick to switch positions with you - in an instant, you're the one pinned between his body and the counter.

"Jump," he murmurs in a soft, commanding voice, "Gotta help me out here, baby."

You wish you could say that you aren't that eager, that you have more self-control and that you snark back at his comment about helping.

But you are that eager.

He smiles boyishly as his hands grip under your thighs to help boost you up onto the counter, leaning in until those curled lips are brushing against the side of your neck. He chuckles. You don't hear it — you feel it. A gust of breath along your sensitive skin, triggering shivers to climb up your spine.

"Y'know," he quietly whispers, lips still brushing against you with every syllable, "I think it's cute that I can still get you all hot and bothered like when we were teenagers. You've always been so easy, darlin'."

"Shut up and take my pants off, or I'm going back to doing laundry," you grumble, trying to ignore just how heavily he really does affect you.

Sixteen or sixty - he's always going to make your heart race like this. You're always going to see that glimmer of your endless youth every time he gets this look in eyes, as if his soft brown eyes might be made of glitter and magic. Caramel like the sticky candy of your childhood, whiskey like you sipped too recklessly in your early twenties, coffee like you survive off of these days; you see an entire lifetime reflected back to you in those damn eyes.

Except, when he pulls back and looks at you this time, most of that magical color is gone. Swallowed whole by his blown out pupils as his chest heaves, and he almost looks more excited than you do.

"And always so impatient," he nearly purrs, hands beginning to wander now. Dancing fingers and warm palms skirt their way across your thighs, up and over your hips, following paths they've traveled a hundred times. "You never do change, do you?"

You open your mouth to reply, but he's quick to lean forward and capture your lips in a bruising kiss.

A gasp escapes you, but it's unheard as he traps it between his own teeth. He has his tongue down your throat, just as eager as your second date. Gripping your ass the same way, breaking the kiss with a grin in the same way.

"I'm glad for it," he admits, his voice dropping soft and low. Vulnerability shines through for just a moment, "I really, really love you, you know?"

"I know."

Your response is immediate and sure. You've never gone a day without knowing since you met him. He's never allowed it.

With that moment continuing to linger in the air, Eddie slowly undresses your bottom half. He's taking his time, almost like he's trying to memorize you for the first time all over again. Eyes tracing over every curve and mole, as if he might find something new to learn about you. Dimples and creases in your skin, scars from your youth both before and with him.

Little things you dislike about yourself, just as he does his grey hair, but they serve as a reminder of the exact same thing; you guys made it. You're here, and you're growing older.

Eddie is careful as he slowly drops onto his knees, tugging your sweatpants and underwear down with him.

"Part of me is sort of wishing I had insisted you sit on my face," he jokes softly as you lean back, exposing yourself to him even more as your knees fall further apart, "Bet my knees are gonna hurt damn bad after this-"

"Eddie," you whine, arching your back to press yourself closer to him. Your hips scoot forward ever so slightly, and he's quick to reach his hands up to grab them.

"Not in a joking mood, got it," he huffs out, laughing a little under his breath.

He helps yank you forward until your legs are resting over his shoulders, his lips trailing along your inner knees, pressing lazy kisses as he leans in closer to you. His facial hair scratches against the skin, making your squirm.

If you didn't know him so well, you might complain about his teasing. You might press your heels into his shoulder blades and force him in to close in where you need him most.

But you know Eddie, and you know the exact result that any more impatience will get you.

Each pass of his lips rises higher and higher, grazing along your inner thigh, each of his exhales tracing closer and closer to your cunt. Your arms are shaking from holding up your weight, legs tense as you resist closing them around his head.

"What are you waiting for?" you finally breathe out, looking down at the pretty sight of him below, "If you wait any longer, you're gonna go grey on your head, too-"

Your snarky words are cut off by him suddenly removing one of his hands wrapped around your hips, and bringing it down to smack you right on your pussy. A gasp escapes you.

"Don't even joke about that, baby," he murmurs, and you see the corners of his mouth twitching up, "Besides, you'd still be begging me to fuck you, even with a head full of silver."

"I said grey," you dare to sigh, knowing you're egging him on, "Not silver-"

Another smack to your pussy. It's as if his hand on your cunt ignites sparks, flames licking their way up your lower spine and embers pooling in your abdomen.

"You and your technicalities," he rolls his eyes, but he's smirking, "Honestly, I think you're to blame for my silver hairs."

You open your mouth to keep bantering, but it seems his patience has run thin.

His mouth is on your clit in less than a second, lips wrapping around to create a practiced suction that has your back arching off of the mattress. His tongue pokes out just as a loud whine rips through you, and he wastes no time in tracing circles around your sensitive nerve.

"Eddie-" you gasp out, nearly falling off the counter, "Fuck-"

He only hums against you, and the vibrations send your legs twitching.

Your reaction only encourages him further.

His hands are wrapping around the plush skin of your thighs, gripping hard enough to leave imprints for days to come. A subtle ache that lives in your bones, the ghost of the weight of his hand haunting you to always remind you that you're his.

He's the one that had you chanting his name like a prayer. He's the one taking you on your bathroom counter right now. He's the one growing old with you.

You feel all those sparks and embers flare, muscles tightening as you know you're nearing the edge. Your entire body is shaking, breaths coming out in pants; the only sensation that matters to you right now is the way his tongue is swirling perfectly against your clit as he reaches a hand up to spread you wide open with two fingers. No preparation, no waiting. Just his spit lubricating the digits as he all but drools from having his mouth on you.

"You're doing so good, sweetheart," he mumbles against you, and your head falls back with a thump against the bathroom mirror. "You gonna come for me? Come all of my face?"

He nuzzles his cheek against your thigh again, as if emphasizing the entire thing that started all of this - his damn facial hair and that single grey hair.

The scratch against the skin this time, now that you're even more sensitive, has your thighs clenching around his ears. He only breaks away from you ever so slightly, eyes darting up as his lips spread into a wide grin.

Instead of trying to pry your legs open wider, he only presses on the outside of them, encouraging you to squeeze his head harder.

"Go ahead," he drawls, "It's not gonna stop me. Not when she's cryin' for me," his eyes dart back to your cunt, and he throws his head back with a groan, "God, you're fucking dripping."

It's probably half his spit, half your own arousal.

But if your skin down there is anywhere near as slick as his chin, his nose, the corners of his mouth and his bruised lips - well, you can see the allure. You've made a goddamn mess of him, and just the sight of him could bring you over the edge.

He must see the way you go so glossy as you stare at him, because he suddenly dives back in with a new found determination.

As he laps at you, you can hear the mess he's making. Slurps, gasps, growls. He's practically feral as he brings you closer and closer to the edge - both metaphorically and physically.

Your hips are nearly off the counter now as he clings to you, trying to drag you as close to him as possible. You're not even sure how he's breathing.

It's when your walls start to flutter around his tongue that he breaks for breath, just long enough to chuckle and give your thighs a more deliberate squeeze, "There she is. You're getting close, aren't you?"

He gives you no time to respond. He's back on you like a goddamn magnet, and you're back to arching your back as you whine out his name.

"Fuck, I- ah- I'm gonna cum," you choke out, eyes fluttering shut, legs shaking. You can feel that coil between your hips, growing tighter and tighter, "Oh- Oh god, I-"

You can feel Eddie press his nose against your cunt even tighter, eager to bring you over the edge. His tongue is vivacious, his skilled fingers from years of guitar working to be skilled as ever.

"Do it. Cum for me, sweetheart."

When you feel his fingers curve harshly inside your cunt, paired with his words, something simply snaps.

Your vision goes white and time almost stands still as your pleasure crashes over you in heavy waves, almost as if threatening to pull you out of your body. Eddie keeps going, working you through the orgasm - you swear you hear him muttering soft encouragement, his thumbs swiping over your skin soothingly as he finally loosens his grip. It's impossible to hear at first, though. Your heartbeat is in your eyes, and you hardly register the buzz of his words against your clit.

As you slowly come down, chest heaving and eyes still shut, you can finally make out his words.

"-did so good for me," he mumbles, pressing a kiss to one hip before moving to the other side, his stubble tickling your lower stomach, "You're always so pretty when you cum for me, sweetheart."

You open your eyes slowly as he presses another chaste peck to your other hip, already looking up at you. As you roll your head forward, still trying to ground yourself, he grins toothily.

"There she is," he whispers softly, "You still with me?"

You huff out a laugh with what little air you still have in your lungs, nodding tiredly. "Yeah. I'm still with you."

Your thighs are trembling where they rest on his shoulders, and your knuckles ache from where you'd been gripping the edge of the counter without realizing. He notices your hands immediately, and reaches over to loosen your fingers to allow his hand to replace the counter.

Without a word, he brings your hand over and presses a few kisses along your knuckles.

The slick of your arousal gets all over your skin from his lips, and you scrunch your nose, "You're making a mess, Eddie."

"You love when I get all messy."

You can't even fight his sharp retort, just sigh as you bring your other hand to his scalp, "Yeah. I do."

After a few moments, both of you seem to have caught your breath once more. The trembles no longer torment your body, and Eddie has one hand in yours as his other still kneads at your thigh softly.

"You know…" you murmur, looking down at him. How his cheeks are still a little flush, pupils still big as can be. You have no doubt if you could see his crotch right now, you'd find a tent awaiting you. "We could take this to the bedroom. Keep having fun."

Eddie looks up at you, melted youth shimmering all over his face. When he looks up at you like this, all you can see is the younger him, the one you first fell in love with. It's insane to you that he can't see what you see when he glances in the mirror.

He's still the same boy that wowed you with a nerdy dialect and blushing cheeks all those years ago. Just a little more rugged, a little bit wiser.

A little bit better at giving you the best goddamn head of your life (although, he's always been eager).

"What about laundry?" Eddie asks, clearly fighting a smile.

"I can do it later."

Trivial things can wait. The mundane can click pause. For right now, you just care about him.

But then, he smiles sheepishly up at you, and brings a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck - a nervous tick.

Your face falls, "What?"

"I…" For a second there, he seems to be considering lying to you. Clearly, he decides against it, "To be honest, sweetheart, I don't think I can't get up off my knees right now. My legs are dead fuckin' asleep."

You immediately snort, almost bending in half as you start to laugh at him.

Fuck, you love him.

He pouts and grumbles as you take your time recovering, eventually sliding your thighs off his shoulders. You're still grinning as he leans back and you swing so that you can hop off the counter on your own shaky feet.

"Old man," you tease as you bend over and offer a hand.

"Hey," he grabs your hand, scowling, "I'm not that old."

"Oh, so now you admit it?"

"You little-"

His words are cut off as he pulls you down to the ground with him, cushioning your fall as you both collapse on your bathroom floor. Giggling like children.