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starlightsearches · 2 years ago

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Just saw your post for kinky prompts 👀 what do we think about hate-fucking Eddie 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

Payback

Kinky Prompts

My friend, we think veeeeerrrry favorably about being hate-fucked by Eddie! Thank you for sending this in 💖 Requests are open; comments, likes and reblogs make me soooooooooooooooo happy!

Eddie Munson x Virgin! Femme! Reader

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, PIV sex, protected sex, spanking, virginity kink (kind of), corruption kink (kind of), fingering (f), orgasm delay (f), clothed sex, crying during sex, a little tender for hate-fucking whoops but i contain multitudes, mentions of canon-typical violence, language, season 4 volume 1 spoilers!

"You know you don't have to babysit me, right?"

Eddie pops around the corner from one of the bedrooms, awake from his third nap of the day and scratching at his skin under the collar of his hellfire shirt. The movement puts the top of a tattoo on display, but you can't identify it from this angle, not without catching the black collar in your finger and pulling it down a few more inches.

You tear your eyes from him, glancing at the windows out of habit, letting out a sharp breath through your nose. The curtains are still closed—just like the last time you checked—but his shadow could still be visible to someone passing by.

"It was Nancy's idea. Will you sit the fuck down?"

Eddie rolls his big dumb eyes, plopping down on the floor beside you. He keeps his long legs bent, pale knees poking from the rips in his jeans.

"Well at least you're not cranky about being stuck with me, princess. Because that would make my exile totally unbearable."

You meet his eyes, catch his mocking smile, and shift an inch to the side.

"First off, don't call me princess. Second, you smell like shit. When's the last time you showered?"

He huffs, pretending to think, chin cupped in his hand. "Probably around the last time you slept. If those bags under your eyes get any bigger they're gonna need their own zip code."

You just flash him your middle finger, resting your head against the cupboard and trying to ignore the throbbing pain in your eyes. It's not like you've been trying to stay awake, but stress could do that to you. Every time you closed your eyes, your brain went into overdrive—imagining the yawning horror you'd feel finding your friends' bodies with their arms bent at odd angles and their eyes gouged out.

Eddie nudges you with his knee just as a shiver travels through you, denim he wears brushing against your bare thigh, repeating the movement over and over again until you look at him. He ignores the glare you give him.

"Seriously though, how long have you been awake? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I can manage not to burn the house down for a couple of hours without your constant supervision."

"Right," you scoff, "and when Jason and his friends show up to beat your ass, you can annoy them to death."

"Sounds like a plan to me."

The sun's just starting to set beyond the windows—his cue to stand without you yelling at him again—and he does, navigating the darkening kitchen with ease and grabbing a cereal box from the counter. "Out of curiosity, how are you planning on protecting me? Besides batting your eyelashes and bending over in that little skirt?"

"Something along those lines, yeah."

Eddie still doesn't know about the baseball bat you borrowed from Steve, hidden under the couch. As far as you're concerned, he doesn't need to.

"Good to know they'll all be rock hard when they kill me. Wouldn't have it any other way."

You make a face—maybe just to hide the way your eyes go wide at the idea of anybody being rock hard. "You're disgusting."

"So I've been told," he says, spraying a mouthful of honey comb, "by you, actually."

You just stare at him blankly, watching him chew as you replay the last few days. A lot had happened since you'd saw him threaten Steve with that busted bottle, and you'd called plenty of names during that time, but disgusting wasn't one of them. "No I haven't!"

He's not looking at you, admiring the silver glint of his rings, fingers splayed.

"You're friends did though," he says, quiet enough that you have to stand just to hear him, "and I don't remember you going out of your way to shut them up."

Oh. He's not talking about your friends—Steve and Dustin and the others. He's talking about your friends, the ones from before—the little clique of girls you ate lunch with every day for four years without really knowing each other at all.

"Whatever," you shrug, trying to brush off the accusation, sorting through the food Dustin had picked out to keep your hands busy, "that was high school."

He's unimpressed with your defense. "Okay, well you were a bitch in high school."

It hasn't even been a year since your graduation, but the person you were then isn't someone you'd recognize anymore. Hearing him say that about you makes your stomach sink—remembering all the times you had been a bitch to Eddie and people like him. You'd never be able to take those moments back, no matter how often you and your new friends saved the world.

You do your best to hide the hurt, reaching for a handful of M&Ms. If defense wouldn't work, you'd have to go offensive.

"If we're gonna bring up high school, you fucking started it."

Eddie leans in close under the guise of snatching some of the chocolate from your hand, warm fingers dancing over the skin of your palm.

"How'd I do that?" he asks with mock sincerity. Your heart races watching the movement of his dark pink lips.

"You know . . . you were always kicking my chair in Mrs. Click's class, and sticking chewed gum in my notebook when I turned to talk with Jared or Ashley, and- and whatever."

You can't look at him and talk at the same time. Not when he's got a few strands of hair caught up in his ridiculously long eyelashes, luring you into the warm center of his gaze, trying to trap you there.

He brushes some of the hair out of his eyes, sliding a little closer, chest pressed up against your shoulder. His skin is warm enough you can feel it through his shirt. His voice gets throatier when he whispers.

"How else was I guy like me supposed to get your attention?"

The M&Ms are turning to mush in your palm, crunching a little when your fist tightens involuntarily. You drop the chocolatey glob on the table, sliding away from him and facing the sink, hoping he couldn't feel the heat in your cheeks.

"You've made funnier jokes, Munson."

He just keeps talking, even with your back turned to him, spewing out shit that makes your whole body tense.

"Not a joke, babe. I've always had a thing for pretty girls with sticks up their asses. Figured somebody needed to fuck that attitude out of you."

You've got a death grip on the towel beside the sink, dripping little puddles all over the counter.

"I don't have anything up my ass," you mutter under your breath, as if a weak attempt like that would stop him when he's just getting started.

"—and I figured I could do the job, since those dickheads always drooling around you looked too stupid to fuck their way out of a paper bag—"

You just scrunch your nose, talking to yourself, "like I would know anything about that."

You're sure he won't notice your mumbled response, not when he's having such a good time talking to himself. And you're busy—in your own way—thinking about how many of those same dickheads had left you drunk in party bathrooms or alone in the woods on moonless nights when you'd shoved their hands away from your hemline one too many times.

"What?"

Eddie heard you, somehow—the one time you didn't want him to. Shaking the thoughts from your head, you do your best to change the subject. "Nothing. We really should talk about something else—"

"Wait, are you—?"—Eddie's sidled right beside you at the counter, leaning forward on both arms, smiling so fucking wide your hand itches to slap the smug look from his face— "Holy shit, are you a virgin?"

Fuck.

"I said I didn't want to talk about it!"

You throw the towel at him, but it just smacks against his chest with a disappointing thud, doing nothing to tone down your anger or the stinging embarrassment. "God, don't you ever shut up?"

He's totally immune to your little tantrum, taking one of your hands in his own, bringing it close to him, playing with your fingers.

He's got big hands. They practically swallow your own with no effort, the boar's head ring smiling up at you. You don't want to think about what they'd feel like touching you elsewhere, his huge, hot palms cupping your ass, spreading you apart with his ring-heavy fingers.

"Aw, baby," he coos, "if you wanted me to be your first, you could've just asked."

"Don't be delusional, Munson," you say, yanking your hand from his grip. It tingles a little where he's touched you, nerves deadened when they're not feeling him.

It's not like you cared that much about who was your first; it was always more about how. All those other losers had been fine with a quick fuck in the back of a car and you weren't about that. It's not like you expected candles and rose petals and shit—just a guy who'd at least try to get you off.

With the way he's looking at you now, Eddie's seeming more and more like the perfect candidate.

"Yeah, delusional, okay," Eddie's tone is sarcastic as he rolls his eyes, coming in close, seeing right through you like a piece of glass. His hair is brushing against your cheeks, hot breath on your neck, and your whole body responds, thighs pressing together, a thick swallow in your throat. He smells like cigarettes, with the faintest faded whiff cologne underneath the sharp sting of sweat. The more you have of it, the more you want.

There's something sinful reflected in his eyes when you look at him; it takes a second for you to recognize it's your own expression.

"Five bucks says you're wet for me right now."

He's surprised the sarcasm right out of you, reading you like that—leaving your voice weak and breathless, without your usual bite. "In your dreams, maybe."

"Oh yeah, all the time,—" the tips of his fingers brush against the outside of your thigh, "—but that's not what we're talking about here."

His palm is like a brand, pressed just above your knee, thick thumb stroking across your bare skin.

"Stop that," you whisper. Your throat burns with the smell of him.

He just cocks a brow. "You want me to?"

No. You won't say it—swallowing the word down and staring at him in silence—but you can't say yes, even if you don't mean it. He's the kind of guy who would actually stop if you did.

And you can't have him stop.

His hand curls into a fist against your skin until you lose contact with the cool metal of his rings. Eddie's expression is almost stern.

"I'm gonna need to hear you say it, princess."

The nickname doesn't bother you this time, stoking the heat at your core enough to loosen your tongue, just in case he might say it again. "No. I don't want you to stop."

The smile he gives you is worth your pride a hundred times over.

"Good girl."

Eddie's hand moves painfully slow, tips of his fingers brushing over goosebumps like he's trying to read braille, doe eyes staring down at you, gaze flickering towards your lips. It could be ironic that the one time you were desperate for a guy to rush through this part, the guy in question is determined to take his time.

It could be ironic, if it wasn't so fucking infuriating.

"Eddie," you say—way too desperate—but he just smiles at the shift of your hips as you take the last inch between his fingers and the soaked fabric of your panties by force.

Fuck, he feels good between your thighs—even just this part of him. He strokes his fingers back and forth, pinching a little at your covered pussy, laughing at the gasping sound you make when one of his rings catches against your clit.

You don't even care that it was this easy for him. You couldn't give less of a fuck.

He's got dimples in his cheeks from the grin he wears. "I'm flattered, sweetheart. This all for me?"

He's still stroking you, a smooth back and forth with his long, beautiful fingers. It's hard to form words anymore.

"Sh- shut up."

"About this?" His hips are harsh against yours, "uh-uh, never. I'm never gonna shut up about this wet. fucking. pussy."

He's breathing hard, gripping roughly at your cunt, punctuating each word with a brush against your clit, the tip of one finger past your lips and stroking along your entrance. Even through the cotton it makes you squirm, the feel of the soft, wet fabric almost too much for your sensitive cunt.

Your clumsy hands meet at his belt buckle, just resting there, arms jellied by the way he's touching you.

"Eddie."

He's got his ear pressed up against your cheek, a few of his flyaways sticking to the sweat on your temples. It's good he's so close or he might not be able to hear you at all.

"Yeah?" His chest heaves, arm muscles tight where they press against your stomach. When you lean back enough to meet his eyes, he's got his tongue caught between his teeth.

"I don't—fuck—I don't have five dollars."

"What?"

He actually stops his assault on your pussy for just a moment, and you breathe a soft laugh. It's nice to know you're not the only one who can be caught of guard.

"The bet. I owe you five—"

The thrust of his hips cuts off the end of your sentence, alarm bells ringing in your head. He hadn't been carrying anything in his pockets, as far as you knew—no switchblade or flashlight or a fucking cucumber by the feel of it. Which could only mean one thing.

Eddie Munson is rock fucking hard. For you.

His hand still cups your pussy as the other takes you by the neck, palm easily spanning your entire jaw and there's no chance you'd even think about fighting him when he guides you closer to his lips.

"I think we can work something out."

Eddie's kisses are intoxicating—hot and wet and strong, putting a burn in your throat from the power behind it—body aching at the way he bends you, his jaw pressed tight against yours, guiding your body with every shift of his head. He's got his tongue past your open lips, tasting like cigarettes and sugary breakfast cereal and stale sleep and it's still got you weak at the knees.

Kissing Eddie is everything.

He's making little moaning noises against your lips, the pressure behind his hips denting your back against the counter, digging into you enough there might be print of his dick on your thigh when he pulls away. His hand has gone still as he's caught up in this kiss, and grinding down against his fingers isn't enough anymore for the gnawing heat in your cunt.

You pull back, turning your head a little to the side when he chases after your lips.

"Fuck me, Eddie."

Even in the fading light, you can see how dark Eddie's eyes have become—already deep irises swallowed by black pupils.

"Really?"

His adam's apple bobs with a harsh swallow, like he didn't even think it would get to this point. You don't have time to worry about the statistical likelihood of a situation where you'd be begging Eddie Munson to fuck you—not with the way your pussy is throbbing.

"God, Eddie. Yes."

The muscles in his throat tense, thin blue veins distended, and if he's nervous taking control, he doesn't show it. You, on the other hand, are shaking like a fucking leaf.

"Bend over," he tells you, and you comply without comment—just grateful you don't have to make any of these decisions yourself—stretching out long, arms at an angle against the wall and chest flat against the table top.

There's the heat of his body against your thighs as Eddie steps closer, hips looming behind you, just out of reach. The fabric of your skirt is shifted out of the way, bunched up around your waist, and then Eddie's broad palm cups your ass, thumb achingly close to your core again, whispered touch moving closer, closer, the flat of his thumb pressed against your dripping hole. His other hand reaches for the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down roughly over your hips with the scrape of his rings until they fall to your ankles, leaving you totally bare.

And then you feel the harsh smack of his hand against the swell of your cheek, hips forced into the counter and a low moan on your lips.

You're still reeling when you turn back to look at him.

"Jesus Christ, Eddie!"

"Sorry, baby, but I had to," he laughs, untouched by your anger as always, looking a little endeared by the glare you send over your shoulder.

"You could warn me first," you grumble. Then maybe you could have done something about the mortifying sound you'd just made.

His fingers rub gently at the mark he must have left against your ass cheek, soothing the ache as he presses his chest against your back. "Where's the fun in that?"

He grins—face framed by wild hair, big eyes shining—and it mollifies you, but only slightly.

"Are you gonna fuck me or not?"

"Patience, baby," —he leans off you, reaching into his back pocket for a little silver-foiled packet—"safety first."

A fucking condom. You roll your eyes. "How long have you had that on you?"

"Since you told me you were staying. Rick keeps a bunch lying around—figured it couldn't hurt to be prepared."

So he's been thinking about fucking you for the past two days. You're not sure if that makes you more desperate or more annoyed.

You lay your head back down, rolling your eyes even though he can't see them at this angle. "You're an ass, Eddie Munson."

Not that you care, not with the sound of his zipper and the clink of his belt—which definitely make you hornier—the crinkle of the condom wrapper and the way you hear him spit a piece of the shiny foil onto the floor after opening it with his teeth.

With your cheek pressed to the table, you can't see what he's doing, shifting your hips side to side as you as you wait to feel him touch you again. It starts with a hand at your hip, pulling you against him, the white-hot pit in your stomach fueled by the feeling of his cock pressed between your ass cheeks, teasing you with a few soft strokes.

"You sure you want this?"

His other hand wraps around your waist, splitting your folds with his fingers, just barely petting across your clit. You can feel your pussy dripping for him.

"God, yes. Pl—"

He cuts you off, the end of the word lost in an ungodly moan as he presses the thick head of his cock past your messy entrance, and the stretch is already unreal—a searing sting that has your eyes rolling back in your head and your nails biting into your palms.

"Christ, baby, you're fucking tight," he says, with a hint of awe in his voice, sliding forward another inch, drunk on your little whimpered sounds.

You can't keep quiet as Eddie thrusts forward again, and again, and again, going until you're sure it would be impossible for him to have any dick left, cunt pulsing around him like its in cardiac arrest.

And then he gives you another inch.

"Fuck," —it's the only word you know anymore, the only thing you can think past the tremors running up and down your entire body, every brain cell you've got focused on the stunning pain stretching out your cunt, so full it's like you can feel the tip of him nudging at your lungs. "Fuck."

Eddie's not saying a word—a first for him—but you can tell he's thinking the same thing you are, can feel the letters F-U-C-K printed against your hip bones on the tips of his fingers. His breathing is loud and messy, shifting his hips just slightly until there's the soft slap of his balls against the backs of your thighs.

"Gotta, Jesus,"—two of Eddie's fingers press down against your clit, and you whine, wiggling a little at the feeling until his other hand tightens against your hips, "gotta loosen you up a little, baby. I'm 'bout to fuckin' bust."

He sandwiches you against the counter as he shifts forward to improve the angle of his fingers, circling your clit steadily. Your legs part, a little wider, hoping to make room for more of the feeling he's giving you.

"That's a good girl," Eddie groans.

You hadn't even noticed the way you'd been rocking your hips back against him, too absorbed by the feeling of his dick nudging at some shining point inside you, setting off fireworks behind your eyes with each brush.

He thrusts into you in earnest, and it's like you can hear the pop of your mind's pyrotechnics, the bass thudding in your chest, coming out of your mouth as long, throaty moans.

And Eddie must like those noises you're making, because it's got him pounding at you faster—slamming his whole dick into you hard enough to make the cupboards shake.

"Gonna ruin this fucking virgin pussy," he says, but you're not sure if you're meant to hear, or if it's a promise he's making to himself, "gonna ruin you for the next asshole who comes along."

"Fuck Eddie, I want you to . . . don't- don't want anybody else."

Jesus, where did that come from? Half an hour ago you were teetering on the edge of throttling him and now you're promising him a life-time unlimited supply of pussy.

If he replies, you can't hear him over your high-pitched whine as he pinches at your clit, strumming at you with his guitar-calloused finger tips.

"Gonna cum," you warn him, lashes fluttering at the way the heat is building in your gut and your pussy and your chest, building higher and higher, ready to take you.

Until he pulls back, totally still with his hands at your hips.

"Edddiiiieeeeeeeeeee."

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. The feeling's gone, and no amount of whining is going to get it back, the opening of your cunt trembling and dripping and empty.

He shushes you, one hand at your neck, ring biting at your throat and the chain at his wrist brushing against your chin as he pulls you close. Fat tears blur your vision until he's one big, brown smudge of hair and pink skin.

"Can't make it too easy for you, honey," he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your puffy lips. You blink the tears from your eyes.

"That was mean."

His chest shakes with laughter, and some of your spend smears across your cheek as he brushes a strand of hair back behind ear. "Let's consider it payback, princess. You wanna cum this time?"

I wanted to cum the last time, you think, but don't say it. He's fucked the antagonism right out of you. "Yes, please."

He kisses you, and the angle is awkward with you propped up on your hands, his tongue halfway down your throat as his other hand guides the head of his cock back to your throbbing entrance. He slides inside with ease.

It feels better with him this close, his thrusts shorter and slower but hitting you just right, hips slapping against yours, belt and chains jangling in time with the wet squelch of your cunt. It feels better when you can taste him, running the tip of your tongue along the edge of his teeth.

"You close again, baby?" he asks between sharp breaths. You nod, feeling hot, feeling used, thighs coated with your sticky wet cum, and body trembling in his grasp.

"Eddie," his name is like a cry on your lips, everything else stolen. You can't get the other words out, can't tell him that you feel it looming and it's heavier than the last time and it's strong enough to scare you, can't tell him that you don't know what's going to happen or who you'll be on the other side. "Eddie."

He's unphased, laughing, face mashed up against your cheek. "Tell me about it."

It takes you, fucking swallows you up and spits you out. Your whole body is pulsing, a ten on the Richter scale emanating from your pussy. Total devastation.

He thrusts into a few more times, fucking you through it, short bursts that make you whimper until the quaking stops and he groans, sliding from your cunt.

"God fucking damn," Eddie says, rattling around the kitchen, and you don't have a single brain cell left to wonder what he's doing, "how was that for your first time?"

It's a good question. You shift experimentally, aching in places you didn't know existed and numb everywhere else.

He's back at your side with a wet dish towel in hand. Eddie pets it gently between your legs, cleaning up everything sticky from your skin and your hair. You just hope Rick won't mind finding a towel covered in pussy juice in his house whenever he gets out of prison.

There's a soft look in Eddie's eyes as he cleans you up, tongue caught between his teeth, and it has you gnawing on your lips—a melty feeling in your chest no orgasm could cause.

"So . . . what happens now?"

You're not sure what you're hoping for—if you want him to kiss you, or tell you he'll fuck you whenever, no strings attached, or promise he'd never bring up the way you screamed for him ever again.

Actually, you know you don't want the last one. Beyond that, you're willing to take what you can get.

"Now," Eddie says, cupping your face in his hands, "you finally get some fucking sleep."

Maybe he's being stupid on purpose, saving your question for another time when you've got a little more mental prowess available and he's not being hunted for sport. Eddie leads you to Rick's bedroom, one hand at your waist, and your exhaustion hits you in a wave. You hadn't even realized how hard you'd been working to keep your eyes open.

The rest of you might be on the edge of sleep, but your suspicion is wide awake. "Did you only fuck me to tire me out?"

Eddie chuckles, crawling onto the big mattress and guiding you up with him, his body softer beneath yours in the darkness.

"Not only," he whispers, arms tight around your waist, "but I think it worked out alright."

You're breathing steadier already, having him here. There's no need to listen for him alive outside the door when you've got his heart beat beneath you. You'd never realized how much you worried about him whenever he was out of your sight.

"Eddie?"

He's lit a cigarette—you can see the red orange tip of it glow brighter in the darkness when he takes a drag.

"What, baby?"

"I'm sorry I was a bitch to you in high school."

His chest rises and falls with steady breaths. "Don't worry about it."

And then it's quiet again, your eyelids falling closed and staying that way. Eddie keeps a hand on you—sometimes stroking gently over your arm, or nestled tight at your waist. You would have thought that kind of movement would keep you awake, but you can feel your body grow heavier against him, muscles relaxing under his touch.

"Hey, Eddie?" You don't even bother to open your eyes this time.

"What is it now?"

"Can we do that again," you ask, sentence broken up by a soft yawn, "you know, when I wake up?"

"Sure thing, baby," Eddie promises, "whenever you want."

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