what about “need help getting out of those clothes?” or “god, you have no idea what you do to me.” with eddie???
When It's Raining
Thanks for the request, my love! I'm sorry I got a little carried away 😅 I got this insane urge to write some really, really soft smut, and I was listening to fleetwood mac. You know how it is ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Likes, comments, and reblogs keep me going. Requests are also open 💖
Eddie Munson x F! Reader
Warnings: mutual pining, friends to lovers, eddie's kind of gross, minor drug mentions, some teasing, reader gets stood up 😭, 18+ only, PIV sex, fingering (f), ring kink, safe sex, leetle bit of overstim (m), squirting, it's just a teeny bit awkward, i'm telling on myself with this one, maybe this is too many ideas for one story but fuck it we ball, and I think that's it!
The days are always too slow when it rains.
Eddie's got no commitments, no plans. Nobody was about to hike out into the woods or his trailer when the rain is thick enough to swim in, so he's got no business either. What he has got is a lit cigarette in his mouth (despite Wayne’s warnings against smoking in bed, all because he fell asleep one time), the rain on the trailer roof beating in uneven time, and an excess of thoughts.
He'd tried to drown them out with music, but the record's been spinning quietly for a while now and he couldn't be assed to get up and flip to the other side. Instead, he's chewing on his tongue, thinking about your date.
"I have a date tonight, asshole."
That's what you'd said to him when he called you up at work and begged you to save him from this mind-numbing boredom. When you said you couldn't, he'd made some wise-ass remark—something about how you couldn't have plans when he was your only friend.
"I have a date tonight, asshole."
"Bullshit, with who?"
"Connor Ingraham. He graduated the year before I did."
The year Eddie was supposed to graduate. "Was he the dickhead who chipped his tooth trying to do a backflip off the table in Mr. Holley's room?"
"He got it fixed in the city, but that's not the point. He came into the store today and we got talking. He asked me to dinner."
"And you said yes?"
"Yeah, why not? He was cute, even with the chipped tooth."
Eddie scoffs aloud at that, and then flushes even though there's no one around to hear it. Connor wasn't cute. He was a grade-a piece of shit then, and Eddie highly doubted he had changed that much since graduation.
More importantly though, Connor didn't seem like your type.
Eddie stubs out the cigarette, carding a hand through his hair and feeling stupid. He doesn't even know what your type is. If he did, maybe he could figure out how to get your attention.
There's a knock at the door, rattling his bedroom window with enough force that it pulls him from his stupid little pity party.
Eddie rolls from the mattress, feeling stiff and dirty, wearing the same clothes he woke up in—which also happen to be the same clothes he'd worn all yesterday. Not that it matters; he wasn't trying to impress anybody.
Or that's what he thought. Then he'd found you behind his door.
You're not looking your best, though, either. Your clothes are completely soaked through—the sweet little dress, your denim jacket, your shoes. You're a walking puddle with big, sad eyes, sitting on his porch.
You brush some of the rain and running mascara from your cheek without making a dent in the mess. "Can I come in?"
Eddie steps out of the way, wordless, watching as you shift the jacket from your shoulders, hanging it on the hook by the door. It creates its own little inside rainstorm, dripping limply onto the carpet. He peels his eyes from it as you slip your shoes from your feet next, barefoot and shivering in his living room.
"What the hell happened to you?"
"I walked here," you say, like it’ll clear up all his questions, "can I stay the night? I'll sleep on the couch, even."
Giving up his bed for a night is the least of his problems. Eddie grabs a couple towels from the top of the laundry basket, shuffling back to you. He tosses one down on the cushions, and flings the other around your shoulders like a cape. You grab ends of it gratefully, holding it close for warmth as you flop down onto the couch.
He sits down beside you, picking at the loose skin around his nails to keep himself from touching you. "Of course you can, but you gotta tell me what's wrong, first."
You're staring at your knees, chewing on your lip, and he knows your expressions well enough to recognize when you're embarrassed. Which is silly, of course, because it's him you're talking to. You've seen him pick up a corn dog off the ground and eat it.
(Although he never told you he only did it to make you laugh. That would be its own kind of embarrassing.)
Eddie scoots a little closer than he normally dares, jeans soaking up some of the water you're dripping, leaning in close until you look him in the eyes.
"Did he- did he hurt you?"
You roll your eyes at him, but he still catches the tears pooling in your lashes. "He would have had to show up to do that."
Oh. That's got Eddie at his boiling point.
He takes your hands in his because he's got to have somewhere to channel this energy—something to ground him—but your skin is like ice, and the anger's not going anywhere.
"You want me to beat him up for you?"
At least that makes you laugh. "What good would that do? You haven't won a fight since," —you pause, thinking hard— "actually, I don't think you’ve ever won a fight."
That's not saying much. You'd only ever seen him throw a punch maybe twice, and one of those was in middle school. Now though, he's feeling like an animal—like he could rip Connor's throat out with his teeth.
But he doesn't want to scare you, so instead he puts on a half-smile, rubbing some warmth into your fingers as he says, "there's a first time for everything."
You shake your head. "I just want to forget about it."
Leaning down against his shoulder with a wet plop, you’re turning his white t-shirt see-through as it soaks up some of the rain from your hair. He’s never been this close to you anywhere but his dreams.
"Yeah, okay." And god fucking damn it, his voice cracks a little.
If the proximity has the same effect on you, he’s not seeing it. Eddie forces himself to ignore the welling bitterness, choosing instead to focus on the quiet cadence of your words.
"I should have known better. He never looked my direction when we were still in school. Nobody did."
Eddie did. That's why he failed English last year. Couldn’t even get himself to glance at the board.
"It's probably not even like that," —Eddie shifts uncomfortably. He doesn't know why he's defending this guy; seeing you sad makes him crazy,—"maybe he just forgot."
You shoot him a cynical look. "Would you forget?"
"No, but that's not the point." That's like the furthest you could get from the point.
"Yes, it is, Eddie,” you say, sharp with anger, “eventually I'm gonna have to accept that I'm not that kind of girl—"
Eddie sits back so he can look at you, make sure you didn't have some kind of a head injury he'd missed before. "Wait, hold up a second. What kind of girl?"
"You know . . . the kind of girl that people . . . like."
You're picking at your nail polish—little red flecks falling to the carpet—avoiding his eyes. He can’t believe you would say something like that, let alone believe it.
"I'm just saying—"
"Well, stop saying. 'Cause it's not true."
Eddie stands—pacing—but the tight, hot feeling in his chest doesn't go anywhere, and he hardly hears the words spilling out of his own mouth. "God damn, you know you're too good for that dickhead, anyway. Way too good for him—you’re too smart, and funny, and easy to be around, and- and, fuck , so fucking pretty, even when you're not trying to be, and god, it's like you have no idea what that could do to me—"
Oh, shit. He’s fucked up.
You’re standing, close enough he could reach out and touch you although he doesn’t remember seeing you leave the couch. All that anger floods out of him like air in a punctured lung.
He grips a handful of his own hair, flexing his fingers rhythmically, trying to think. "I mean- just, like, to men, you know. In general."
"You didn't say that,” your tone is soft, but guarded, “you said 'to me.'"
There’s barely any distance between you now. He can see the rain drops perched in your lashes like little jewels, your shining skin, the warmth of your breath tempered by the chill in the air.
"What do I do to you, Eddie?" you ask, in a voice soft like velvet. His heart’s gonna beat out of his chest.
The tip of your finger traces over the chain on his wrist, pressing the cool links against his skin. “What do I do to you, Eddie? Tell me.”
He’s gotta be honest with you. It’s the only thing he has left.
"You- you drive me fuckin' crazy."
The pause you give him is weighted enough to crush him, eyes wide and unreadable, a soft furrow appearing between your brows. And then you’re rolling your eyes again, pushing him half-heartedly on the shoulder to hide your hurt.
"Come on, Eds, you know I don't believe that—"
Eddie needs you to shut up, and there's only one way he can think of, his fingers sprawled across your cheeks, burying his nose against your skin, warming your lips against his with a surge of hot, open-mouthed kisses. You taste better than he thought you would, and he’s thought about it a lot.
Thought about it so much he’s not even sure what’s real—the feel of your arms at his neck, hands in his hair, tongue stroking along the seam of his lips. He hopes the little breathless laugh you give him as you pull away is real, staring up into his eyes with more honesty than he’s ever seen from you.
“You drive me crazy, too.”
You kiss him, pressing your body tight to his and gripping thick handfuls of hair, tugging a little until he gasps. It’s the proximity that tips him off to the shivers traveling through you, your skin still cool despite how long you’ve been inside.
God, he’s freezing—leached of heat wherever the rain has soaked through his own clothes, and it’s got to be worse for you.
He strokes a thumb over your lips as he pulls away, letting you know that he’s still thinking of them. “We should get you out of these clothes.”
You follow Eddie to his bedroom, just like you’d done a thousand times before—so you could smoke, or check out one of his new records, or work on your homework while he dicked around with his guitar—but the nerves he feels this time are brand new.
“Y’know, what I said before,” he pauses in the doorway and turns to face you, drumming a beat on the frame with his fingers, “it wasn’t a come-on. If you want to just go to sleep, I can- you know, take the couch.”
You look at him with false innocence in your eyes, and Eddie wishes you would stop. The chemical reaction it causes in him is too much.
“The couch, huh?”
You touch him again, and—outside the heat of the moment—he doesn’t know how to handle it, trembling at the feeling of your fingers stroking up his chest. It’s nothing compared to the soft press of your lips at his neck.
“Just . . . if it would make you more, uh,” —his vocabulary is shrinking by the second. He’s gonna be nothing but a pile of moans and single-syllable words if you don’t stop doing that— “comfortable.”
You kiss along his jaw, down his collar bone. He can barely form a thought, let alone a word.
“We’ve shared a bed before, Eddie,” you tell him, leaning back on your heels. The distance means he can think again, but only about how disappointed he is you stopped.
That’s true. Kind of. There were nights you’d fallen asleep on the same mattress, bodies curved around each other without touching, the river of his want carving canyons between you while he watched you doze off.
“I mean, yeah, but never on purpose.”
You echo his words from earlier, turning your back and exposing the little white zipper of your dress. “There’s a first time for everything. Besides, I need your body heat. Help me?”
Eddie’s mouth moves wordlessly, completely dried up as he takes the metal tab in between his fingers. It pulls down smoothly, the little teeth clacking with each inch of your skin he reveals, until his hand stops, just above the curve of your ass. You shrug the dress forward off your shoulders, letting it fall forward and slip from around your hips.
“God damn.” Eddie thinks that maybe he shouldn’t curse—like it might cheapen the moment—but he’s got no control over the whispered words when his eyes trace over the lacy pink straps at your back, the junction where your sheer underwear meets the curve of your hip. He wants to snap the elastic against your skin, wants to make you tremble, but his hands stay locked at his sides.
The view’s even better when you turn, your arms folded shyly in front of you until he can just barely catch a glimpse of your stiff nipples through the sheer fabric, the swell of your breasts dented against your arms. He grabs at your wrists, pinning your hands out of the way, tracing his eyes from your crossed ankles up, taking all of you in.
You look really good in pink—looking demure, innocent even though he knows well enough that you’re not, but still . . . he wants to ruin you. Wants to mark you with his big hands and his dirty mouth and his cock. Wants to make you his, and only his.
“Do you like what you see?”
You’re making fun of him—maybe just to get rid of your own nerves—but fuck, yeah, he does. He likes it a lot.
Eddie’s never been that good at keeping his thoughts to himself around you. He knows his face must give away everything, and normally he’d lie about it, say it was nothing, but now’s not the time for lies. “It’s nothing— I just- I kinda wish you were wearing this for me.”
Against his will, he thinks about Connor again. The idea of his clumsy hands at your waist, his stupid little patched tooth leaving marks against your neck, and his eyes taking in the way your tits look covered in pretty pink lace when he doesn’t even deserve to be in the same room as you.
You soothe his worries, pressing a kiss to Eddie’s cheek, the thought of Connor poofing into thin air.
“I am wearing it for you, Eddie. There’s nobody else,” —you take his hand in your own, place it over your stomach and press up until his fingers are wrapped around the curve of your breast— “I would rather be with.”
Fuck. He explores you with a wide-open palm, cupping your tit experimentally, capturing the soft skin under his thumb. He shifts, and you gasp a little, the back of his ring catching on the raised bud of your nipple, your mouth falling into the sweetest little o shape. And then he does it again. And again.
You reach out to him, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. “Can I see you?”
“Uh, yeah.” He stumbles back to the bed, blinded momentarily when you pull his shirt off over his head, your fists curled limply his chest as he rolls back onto the mattress, shifting until you’re beneath him.
Your skin grows warmer under his hands—one making indents at your waist with the press of his rings, and the other intertwined with your own, buried against the mattress with every heavy sigh and roll of his hips. He kisses you, over and over, each kiss longer than the last, growing bolder with the press of his tongue against yours, the nip of his teeth, feeling bolder when he hears your shaky breaths, feels the rise and fall of your stomach, soft against his.
And, god, there can’t be anything better than this. There can’t be. To have you here, in his arms, in his bed, your breaths ringing in his ears—it’ll dull the rest of the world.
“Eddie.” He’s pulled off your lips just long enough to hear you say his name, and he wants to hear it again, kissing along your jaw to keep your mouth free.
“What, baby?” he asks with your earlobe caught between his teeth, sucking it into his wet mouth, filled with a thrill when he feels your neck go taut, head rolling back against his pillow.
“Fuck, Eddie. I need you.”
God, how long has he waited to hear you say that? He leans back so he can meet your eyes, his hair falling down in curtains around your face like your own private canopy—a private space with you and him and nobody else. “Yeah?”
You nod, speaking between heavy breaths. “Yeah.”
Eddie presses a kiss to your knuckles, fingers still entwined with yours.
“Anything for you.” And he means it.
Sitting back on crossed ankles, he tries not to stare at the way you’re sprawled across his sheets, gripping your hips in both hands. You slide towards him with a laugh when he pulls you flush against his hips, eyes wide with surprise—or maybe it’s delight—knees parted around his waist and hair splayed out behind you.
He keeps his eyes on your face, running his palm up the inside of your thigh. His fingers fit perfectly in the space between your thighs, cupping your clothed pussy.
“Fuck, baby, you’re wet.”
You were soaked through before, but he can’t give all the credit to the rain, pressing the tip of his middle finger tight against your hole, stroking back and forth against the warm, damp fabric. Your lips press tighter together as you shift back on your shoulders, freeing up your hips to move against his hand.
Not wanting to get ahead of himself, Eddie pulls back, gripping the largest of his rings—the one on his middle finger—in his other hand, wiggling the pig’s head from where it rests against his knuckles. The others clink against the first in his open palm, catching your attention.
“What are you doing?” You sit up, gripping at his wrist with your eyes on his hands. His fingers feel naked without the heavy metal, and he flexes them uneasily.
“I was gonna, uh, finger you?”
It’s hard not to laugh, saying it out loud instead of just thinking about it. Eddie’s always told you everything, except this. He’d steered clear on the topic of sex, not wanting to say something he’d end up regretting, and now his mouth is unsure how to form the words when he’s looking at you.
You bite at your lip, and he finds a little comfort in seeing that you look equally embarrassed. “Yeah, but . . . I want you to leave them on.”
“Seriously?” He knows he’s wide-eyed, lips splitting into a wide grin he couldn’t dream of hiding.
You just shrug in response. “You heard me.”
You won’t look at him, but he can’t keep his eyes off you as you take each of the rings in your own hand, slipping them back into place one finger at a time. It’s a honeyed gesture—made for soft mornings and sunny days. It’s got his heart cracking in two.
Eddie takes your chin in his hand when the rings are back where they belong, pressing gentle kisses—one to each cheek—giving you a little sugar of his own.
“Loud and clear, babe.”
You lay back against the bed again, a deep breath in your lungs as he peels away the slick fabric away from your center, parting your lips with one thick finger, fighting for air.
You’re so pretty like this. He’d thought you were pretty before, but this is next level—better than seeing you in the passenger seat of his van with the windows down, better than your teasing smile. He slides his middle finger inside the tight, wet channel of your cunt, feels you squeeze around him, and the word pretty has a whole new meaning.
You take him so well as he slides his finger in and out, deep as he can with the rings, your slick spend coating the metal with each thrust, and you move against him, the pace of your breath keeping time with his thrusts.
“That feel good?”
He takes his eyes off your cunt for just a moment, crumbling a little when he finds your own hands wrapped around your tits, lace cups pulled down so you could squeeze at your nipples, back off the mattress with the way his thumb stutters against your clit.
“I need more, Eddie.”
Fuck, he’s gonna give it to you, already sliding another finger beside the first, increasing the speed until any sounds coming from you mouth have to compete with the wet sucking sound of your greedy pussy. His other arm wraps across your hips, burying his fingers against the bone, trying to hold you still so he can massage your clit with the tip of his thumb.
“Eddie,” you say, desperation in your voice like fucking heroine.
“Already, baby?” he’s panting, the muscles in his arms starting to seize, as if that would get him to stop. He changes tactics instead, shifting just slightly to improve the angle, pressing against your slick front wall with two fingers. His thumb bears down on your clit, and your walls draw in tighter around him, soft tremors echoing through his hand. He watches you, insatiable, licking his lips at the way your tits shake, your hands clutching his sheets tight enough to tear.
“Fuck,” you try to tell him off, but the message is weakened by your little moans, “don’t make fun of me.”
“Why not? It’s one of my favorite things to do.”
Or it was. His new favorite thing to do is definitely making you cum. With his rings grazing your folds, he feels you squeeze around his fingers, thighs shaking at his sides, and he’s more than content to watch you put the pieces of yourself back together, brushing your clit once or twice because he likes the way you spasm.
He slides from you, flopping down on the pillow beside you with a stupid grin, wiping his hand off on the sheets so he could turn your eyes towards him, holding your face in his hands.
You’ve finally got enough of your breath back to respond, face covered in a thin sheen of sweat. “Fuck you, Munson.”
“You want to?”
You want to? Typical smart-ass comment—Eddie’s said that to most of the people he knows, since he hears fuck you pretty regularly. The asshole jocks at Hawkins High never knew what to do when their threats of violence were met with his indifference, and his friends always got a kick out of it. He’s never said it to you before, though. He knew he wouldn’t be able to take it when you inevitably said no.
So his heart’s beating a little too fast for his liking when you plant a hand against his chest, catching his lips against your own in a gentle kiss. “Yeah. I want to.”
He just barely manages to resist the urge to say really?, still in shock when your palm grazes over his crotch, popping the button of his jeans.
“You got something?”
He can only nod, reaching into his nightstand drawer as you help him shimmy from his pants, kissing you, harsh and open-mouthed, so you won’t think about how awkward he is at doing both.
Eddie’s palms are too sweaty to reliably tear open the condom package, so he opts to use his teeth, shucking his boxers off and kicking them to the edge of the bed up on his knees.
You’re staring at him, wide-eyed, tongue peeking out between your plush lips. Staring at his dick.
“What is it?”
His voice is high and vulnerable—cracking like a fucking middle-schooler. Nobody’s ever told him that there was anything weird about his cock, but it would be just his luck that all of them were too polite—or high—to mention it.
“Nothing, it’s just,”—you press your lips together again, wiggling a little, embarrassed, “you’re bigger than I’d thought you’d be.”
God damnit. You’re trying to kill him.
Eddie rolls his eyes, but he knows he’s bright red down to his neck as he shifts onto his elbows, sliding between your thighs.
“Fuck you,” he mumbles, even though it gives away how totally and completely pleased he is, fucking over the moon thinking about you thinking about his cock.
“Please?” you ask, batting your eyelashes, and yeah, of course he’s gonna give you what you want.
One hand guides his cock towards your entrance, the other cups the back of your head, pulling you close so he can feel the little gasp on your lips at the pressure, the head of him just stroking over your entrance, circling your clit.
Your nails scratch along his shoulder blades. He feels your whisper at his neck.
“What did I say about teasing me, Munson?”
He laughs. “That I should do it as often as possible?”
Whatever you’re about to say in response is cut off with a sharp gasp as he presses the head inside your cunt, sliding in the first few inches with relative ease, your body still loose from your first release.
“You good?” he asks, waiting for your nod before he shifts forward. You’ve got your fingers curled against the base of his scalp, tugging a little at the roots.
“I’m good. Are you?”
“Yeah.” But the answer is no. He’s ready to bust—not even a two-pump chump at this point. Feeling your body envelop him is better than he’s ever imagined. Tighter, and wetter, definitely, but also more passionate—hearing and feeling and seeing how totally and completely you want him.
He’s got to start slow, and it’s so goddamn soft—the way you open for him, legs stretching wider to accommodate his thrusts, your gentle kisses at his neck, soft doe eyes looking up at him like you’ll die if he looks away.
“Fuck, you feel so good, baby. Way too fuckin’ good.”
He knows he’s babbling, cupping your cheek in one hand, brushing the stray hair out of your face so he can watch you. If he’s lucky, you don’t even hear him—cock-drunk already by the sound of your moans. If he’s lucky, you feel as good as he does right now.
If he’s lucky, you’ll let him do this again.
You clasp your hand over his, fingers exploring the surface of his rings, and there are tears in your eyes, hips meeting his with every thrust, such pretty little noises pouring from you when he hits that spot deep inside you, cunt squeezing him tighter than he thought possible, swallowing up every ridge and vein like his cock was made for you. He grips your hip tight in his other hand, pulling you closer, hard enough to bruise. You don’t seem to mind.
“I’m- fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last,” he has to admit it now—too far gone for shame—vision going spotty, little white lights obscuring your features until he can hardly see you at all.
He buries his head in your neck, but there’s no judgement, just your voice in his ear. “I want you to, baby. Cum inside me.”
He does. A deep groan ripping its way out his chest, he spills inside you, the muscles in his core spasming as the pleasure shoots through him. He feels it in the base of his spine, in the palms of his hands, in his chest, mind far off because he didn’t know it could feel that good and he doesn’t know how to handle it.
His cock is still throbbing inside you when he feels your hand snake its way between your sweaty bodies, fingers rubbing tight circles at your clit, moving faster and faster, jaw clenched tight with a high, keening whine, cunt squeezing until you’re gushing around him, dampening the thick hair at the base of his cock, dripping on the sheets.
His body rocks with the same convulsions you feel, so intimately entwined it’s almost like he’s cumming again, body shaking and exhausted, too tired to even slip his cock from between your legs long after you’ve gone still. Instead, he rolls onto his back—away from the wet spot—arms wrapped around you, pulling you along with him until your weight is pressing him into the mattress.
“Wow,” you tell him, head pillowed against his chest. You still haven’t caught your breath enough for full sentences. He’s not much better.
You trace the lines of his tattoo with the tip of your finger, and it tickles a little. He can feel your heart rate slow. “I wish I’d have known it would be like that ages ago. I would have tried to fuck you a lot sooner.”
“I would have let you.”
It feels so good, being this honest. He’s got nothing left in him to hide.
You shift your hips enough to let his cock slide out from you—still a little sensitive as it lands against his thigh. You’re wiggling your shoulders next, trying to pull out of his grasp. Eddie just tightens his hold, locking his hands behind your back.
“Eddie,” there’s a little bit of a whine in your voice, “I gotta go pee.”
He just shakes his head with a little laugh. “Not yet, baby. I think it’s time for round two.”
He lets you sit back just enough you can look him in the eyes, wrapping his arms around your waist.
“Absolutely, baby. I’ve been waiting for this too damn long. We’re just getting started.”