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lewisyellowhelmet · 2 years ago

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summer storm

summary: eddie munson x reader

You got caught in a summer storm, you may as well wait in Eddie’s trailer while you wait for it to pass. (6k+)

content: virgin!eddie, smut, cheating (but its ok #girlboss), weed, general pining, confusion, eddie charm, p/v sex, fingering etc all that yummy stuff, praise kink if you squint

It’s the kind of violent summer storm that makes you think the apocalypse is incoming. Preceded by violet, rolling clouds in the sky, and the kind of humidity that makes you feel like you’re constantly in a warm bath. The wind is vicious, hitting the walls of Eddie’s trailers with a thrilling intensity, rain slashing against the windowpanes. You sit, fidgety, on the very edge of the worn couch, sneakered feet turned in on each other. The plastic bag of weed is already buried in the bottom of your backpack, your money in the pocket of Eddie’s jeans, but the rain had come before you could make your routine exit. You cringe for your poor bicycle, leant up against the porch outside, getting soaked through. It’ll rust if you leave it too long.

“I can drive you home,” Eddie had offered, but you thought of your mother in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and watching through the blinds as you manoeuvred your bike out of Eddie’s van, blinking in the rain, calling out thank you’s back to him. She’d never let you leave the house again. So. Here you are. Sat on Eddie Munson’s couch, waiting for the storm to pass. You’re winding a stray thread from your jean shorts around the tip of your finger, watching it go purple and throb before you unwrap it, feel the pulse of escaping blood.

Eddie is crouched in front of the television, rifling through VHS cases, mumbling to himself. You feel like an observer, someone not meant to be in the scene with him, witnessing something private. Usually, you do your deals after school, and even if you do bike out here you only ever see a brief glimpse of the inside of the trailer, just enough to swap pot for money, say thank you, and retreat back out into the bright daylight to ride back to town. You’ve never been in his presence for so long, had a conversation longer than a few brief sentences. And now he’s searching for a movie to watch together, something not too scary, as you’d requested, even though he’d rolled his eyes. You bite back on a smile, imagining the conversation with Nancy tomorrow as you rolled blunt’s of Eddie’s weed on her back step, drizzle coming down but safe under the porch. You did what, she would say, round, shocked eyes, at his house? And you’d smile and say, he wasn’t that scary, actually.

“Ah ha!” Eddie says, rising up and spinning to show you the video in his big hands. His chunky rings clink together. Labyrinth. You grin.

“I love David Bowie,” you say, laugh at him pretending to gag. But he puts it on, punches buttons on the television until it flickers onto static and then the reeling play menu. Eddie backpedals to the couch beside you, collapsing in a crumpled mess of long limbs and hair. All the energy seems to go out of him, like a deflated balloon. It’s strange seeing him still. He’s usually so active, parading around the cafeteria, causing a ruckus in the back of English Lit, but here, in his own space, he seems almost peaceful.

“Have you seen this before?” He asks, and you nod, allowing yourself to finally shift more comfortably on the couch so you can lean into the back, pulling a cushion into your lap for something to do with your hands.

“Yeah, in the cinema.”

“With your boyfriend? Hot date.”

You swallow over a dry mouth, “Something like that.”

You wonder what your boyfriend is doing now. They were supposed to be running laps today for basketball training. Have they been rained out? Retreated to the gymnasium to listen to the rain drip through the tin roof? Or maybe he’s with that Junior, under the bleachers where you’d caught them last week. You feel suddenly ill at the thought, and slouch further into the couch. You should break up with him, but the energy required of such a task seems supernova like. Everything feels like too much effort these days, as you careen towards graduation and college and adulthood. May as well play out the facade for a few more months. You turn to Eddie before you start thinking about it too much.

“Did you wanna smoke?” You ask. He turns his head towards you before he drags his eyes from the television set, but when they land on you it feels suddenly blinding. His full attention, surveying you on his couch. Deciding whether you’re a good enough weed partner or not. His mouth crooks into a sideways smile. You don’t know why you suddenly need his approval so badly.

“Sure, if you wanna,” Eddie says, a lazy way about his words that make you feel judged. Has he decided you’re cool enough? Or not, a disappointment. The feeling clangs in your belly. You go to dig in your bag for the weed he’d just sold you, but he bats your hand out of it, levering himself off the couch.

“Don’t be silly, I’ll get my stuff, it’s better anyway,” he says, and you frown at his receding figure. You were under the impression he had given you the good stuff. Nancy certainly never complained, and her boyfriend was an aficionado at pot. In the movie, Jennifer Connelly is arguing with David Bowie about her missing brother, as he rolls the crystal globe menacingly in his hands. Somehow, the outside rain seems to increase in intensity, thundering down on the tin roof. It’s soothing, being inside and warm while the weather storms. The light is cosy in here, just a lamp in the corner and the television set. The place smells like smoke and coffee, the scent of clean rain just beginning to edge in. Somehow the trailer is exactly how you expected it to be. Cluttered, obviously occupied by single men, but homely. A collection of bric-a-brac mugs. A rug on the floor. There’s an amp pushed into a corner.

“Here,” Eddie announces, and to your surprise plops down at your feet, the supplies he’d gathered spread out on the floor. You pretend to watch the movie while he carefully puts together a blunt, packing it neatly. You look away when he lifts it to his mouth, pink tongue flickering over the edge to seal it. The sound of his lighter, the crackling paper, and then the sweet, sticky smell of weed. Eddie passes it to you, and you don’t think about how his mouth was just where yours was as you take a drag. You want him to see how you don’t cough, how you’re good at this, but when you look down at him he’s watching the movie, fiddling with the lighter in his hand. You pass the blunt back to him.

“Thanks,” he says, absentmindedly, like he’d forgotten you were there at all. Even more, you feel like an intruder. Now you’re smoking his weed, too. Insisted on a movie he clearly doesn’t like. Awkwardness clogs your throat, but the high brings a soft edge to it, not so immediate.

“Do you think I could pull off those pants?” Eddie says, breaking the smokey silence. David Bowie and his package are taking up the screen. The weed makes you laugh easier.

“Maybe if you straightened your hair,” you say, take the blunt he’s passing back. Eddie frowns and ruffles his hand through his mop.

“What, and lose all this? Curls get the girls, ya know,” he says, and throws a smirk over his shoulder. You feel it again, the blinding power of his attention on you. You want to say something funny back, something to make him laugh, but the weed is clouding your brain. Instead, you suck in another hit, let it sit in your lungs for too long.

You alternate between watching the movie and watching him. He’s stayed seated on the floor, one knee pulled up, the other leg stretched out languidly in front of him. It’s strangely endearing, seeing him in his socks, heavy boots lost somewhere. Your whole body feels heavy and fluid, like you’re sinking into the pillowed depths of the couch, but you’re not that fussed about it. The rain is soothing. At some point, Eddie shifts, and you find his shoulder is against your leg, a steady pressure. You imagine your boyfriend finding you like this, slumped in the couch, your leg against the side of Eddie’s body, smoking a blunt right down to the ash. Eddie is flicking his lighter on and off, and you watch with hazy eyes as the flame appears and disappears at his will.

“Are you thirsty?” He asks, eventually, somewhere in the last act of the film, and you nod, eyes heavy. He laughs at you, rumbling.

“You okay?”

You nod again, blinking up to where he’s leaning over you, half amused, half worried.

“Yeah, it’s just… Nance and I, we don’t usually smoke that much at once.”

“Oh, shit,” Eddie says, standing up. Seated in the couch like this, looking up at him, he seems very tall, his shoulders broad against the ceiling. The rain pounds down. You wonder if it will break through, flood the trailer, leaving you swimming around his kitchen.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think,” he apologises, “Let me get you something to drink.”

You listen to him in the kitchen, clinking glass, the open and close of the refrigerator. You’re not greened out, you know how that feels (Jason Carver’s basement, Sophomore year), you’re just very high, floating away. And this couch is so comfortable, and the rain is so nice. Your leg is cold where Eddie’s body was. You reach to rub warmth back into it.

This time, he sits back on the couch with you, waiting for you to wrap both hands around the glass of lemonade, ice blocks floating at the top.

“Thanks,” you remember to say, smiling at him over the rim of the glass, small, sweet sips.

“You’re very welcome,” Eddie says, rubbing one eye. The room has a smokey haze, now you think about it, all the windows closed against the rain. The air is warm and close in a dreamy way. The movie is about to end, Jennifer Connolly has her brother in her arms. The lemonade clears your head so you don’t feel so much like you’re about to melt into nothingness. Eddie is watching you carefully, and you try to act normal, movements robotic.

“Still with me?” He asks, as the credits roll. You’re sucking on an ice block, rolling it around behind your teeth.

“Yeah,” you say around the ice, “still with you.”

“Good,” he says, gets up to turn the television over to a live channel. There’s an I Dream of Jeanie episode playing. You notice it blearily, feeling Eddie take the empty glass back from you.

“I can’t go home like this,” you say to yourself, noticing how you’ve half collapsed into the corner of the couch, head propped up by pillows and the arm. One of your legs is tucked up into the crook of your body.

“That would be a bad idea, I think,” Eddie agrees, his head coming into view above you.

“What time is it?”

“Just past 9. But. It’s still storming.”

You close your eyes to think. You feel sleepy in a comforting way, the haunting insomnia of senior year far away. You know you shouldn’t be here, but you feel relaxed like you haven’t in a long time. Sat on this couch with him. Really, you’ve known Eddie your whole life, orbiting each other in a small town. It makes sense, somehow, that you’d end up here together, trapped by weather. But maybe that’s just the weed.

“Can I use your phone?” You ask. Damage control time.

“Yeah, of course. Look, you know. You can stay here, if you want. I can sleep on the couch.”

You open your eyes to blink up at Eddie, who’s rubbing his hand across his chest, not meeting your gaze, looking at the pillow you’re still holding.

“Are you sure? It’s just. The rain. And the weed.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. Besides, if you get in trouble, I’ll get in trouble,” Eddie says. Something hot and urgent flares in your chest. You sit up, ignoring the head spin.

“I wouldn’t tell,” you say, grabbing his wrist so he looks at you, “You know that, right? If I got caught, I would never say you’d sold it to me.”

Eddie is doing his lazy smile, just one side of his mouth. Something is shining in his eyes though.

“You really know how to get a guy all mushy,” he says, “Not ratting me out, now that’s romance.”

You grin back at him, the word romance getting stuck in your chest. You realise you’re still holding his wrist, fingers flexing before you let go. Eddie clears his throat.

“I’m gonna shower, you can use the phone or whatever,” he gestures to it on the wall near the kitchen, “What’s mine is yours, mi casa et tu casa, etc cetera and all that.”

“Thank you,” you say to his receding figure, take a second to gather yourself before you stumble up and to the phone, plugging in your home number. You listen to the shower turn on as you explain to your mother you’ve got stuck at Nancy’s, that you’ll be home in time for Church in the morning. You definitely do not think about Eddie undressing in the room over, standing under the shower, the water streaming over his naked body. What would he look like? You’ve seen the tattoos on his arms, but does he have more, hidden under clothing? Does he face up into the water stream? Does he use conditioner? Your mother says something about homework and you blink the image away.

You wander into the bedroom after soothing your mother’s concerns, find it how you expected, messy and boyish. Clothes on the floor, posters haphazard on the walls, various drug paraphernalia. A guitar slung over the mirror. A dog eared copy of Lord of the Rings on the bedside table. The bed is unmade, and you tug the doona back into place before you sit down, mentally committing the room to memory. It feels strangely important, knowing everything about this space. It shouldn’t feel like this, really. You shouldn’t need to know every part of him. But everything is obscured by the rain, so nothing is real. This is a moment outside of time. Just for you, in his most private of spaces.

“Oh,” Eddie says, finding you in his room, just a towel around his waist. His hair is roughly dried and dripping down his chest.

“Sorry,” you say, standing up, a blush high on your cheeks. Caught.

“No, I just uh - Didn’t expect you in here,” he says. You drag your eyes off his chest, trying to track all the tattoos, the images he’s chosen to have on his body forever. His body isn’t what you expected. What did you expect? He’s all lean muscle, a boy almost grown into the figure of a man.

“I won’t look,” you say, cover your eyes, smile when he laughs.

“Alright, eyes shut,” Eddie says, and you stand resolutely still, listen to him move around the room, the rustle of fabric. You imagine him dropping the towel, naked in the room with you, choosing what clothes you’ll see him in next. At one point, you feel his hands around your shoulders, moving you off to one side.

“Sorry, just, here,” he says, and you hide your stumble when he lets go, listen to the dresser draws open behind where you just were.

“Sorry,” you whisper, not sure where he is in conjunction to you.

“It’s okay,” he whispers back, right by your ear. Your stomach drops out.

“Can I open my eyes now?” You ask, ignoring the crack in your voice. Hoping he does, too.

“Almost,” he says, and you listen to his footsteps come closer, then, “Okay, now you can.”

You blink against the light of the room. He’s changed into soft looking sweatpants, an oversized Metallica shirt with a hole in the collar. His hair is still damp around his shoulders, spreading wet.

“Everything okay with Mommy and Daddy?” Eddie teases, sitting down in a rickety chair by the cluttered desk. You return to the edge of the bed.

“No. But, yeah.”

Eddie nods wisely, like he understands everything. Maybe he does.

“I gather you didn’t tell them where you were,” he says, picking at a seam of wood.

“God, no. I said I was at Nancy’s.”

He seems to consider his next words, then, “What would they say, if they knew you were here?”

You cross your ankles over, hands either side of yourself, curled into the bedspread. Your eyes are itchy from the smoke.

“Maybe they’d send the cops, I don’t know. Something bad.”

Eddie huffs a laugh, rocks back in the chair precariously, “Probably with good reason. Who knows what satanic Eddie is gonna do to their precious little daughter.”

You blink. Swallow. “What. What is he gonna do?”

Eddie looks at you, and his eyes are heavy and dark, then the smile splits his face and he’s laughing, “God, your face. Nothing, oh sweet princess, nothing. You’re safe with the big bad wolf.”

“Are you saying I’m little Red Riding Hood? Because I’m not a ginger, I won’t stand for that,” you protest, and he grins at you.

“Darling, I wouldn’t dare.”

“Good,” you say, chin jutted.

“Now,” Eddie says, claps his hands together as he stands up. The sound breaks the moment, whatever it was, the movement of him. “Did you want clothes to wear to bed?”

You stand up with him, body still slow with weed, “yeah, please.”

You change in the bathroom. The bathroom mirror is still steamed from his shower, and you can smell the apple body wash he’s used. It feels weirdly intimate, occupying the same space he just did to clean himself. You’re methodical about changing, folding up your shorts and t-shirt, into a Dio shirt that swallows you and a soft pair of his boxers. These are the clothes he’s chosen for you, he thought about you when he pulled them out. The fabric is well-worn and comforting on your skin. You blink at yourself in the mirror. Tracking back through memory. Why are you here? Still? Why is everything shaded quiet and warm, here, with him. Circling each other for so long, gravity pulling each other closer and closer until you’re here, hiding from a storm, settled with Eddie to watch it pass. You take a deep breath.

When you emerge, sneakers in hand, clothes held against your chest, you find Eddie on his bed, strumming at his guitar. The chord breaks as he looks up at you, quiet smile.

“All good? God, that’s huge on you,” he laughs, “you look like a ghost. But a metal ghost.”

“Thanks,” you say, making a little pile of your stuff by the door, “Because that’s the kinda ghost I wanna be.”

Eddie plays quietly as you flit around the room, picking up things and putting them down again. Intrigued by what he’s chosen to keep close around him. The shower has cleared your head, although the remnants of the high shade everything hazy and dim. Eventually, you get brave enough to climb into bed. The rain is louder in here, three walls exposed to the weather. Eddie doesn’t look as you settle, just keeps playing. You watch the muscles in his back move.

“Alright,” he says, eventually, standing up, returning the guitar to its place, “Goodnight. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

You’re half asleep, sat up in the bed but with heavy eyes, soothed by the rain and his playing, bleary as you realise he’s leaving, retreating to the couch. You want to say stay so you don’t let yourself open your mouth, watching him take a blanket from the end of the bed, turn the light off, then the shape of his body in the dark and the quiet close of the door. Then here you are. Alone in Eddie Munson’s bedroom. In his t-shirt. Expected to sleep. Leave in the morning like this is normal. Suddenly sleep feels very far away, staring up at the ceiling, eyes kaleidoscoping against the blackness. Somehow the rain seems louder in the dark. You hear the sound of the television being turned down, the heavy sounds of his body on the couch. Is he comfy? He’s tall, he won’t be able to stretch out very well. You roll over, pressing your face into the pillow. The sheets smell like him, boy musk, weed and smoke and deodorant. Or is it the clothes he’s given you? You’re in layers of Eddie, his smell is yours now. The shadows of his furniture loom, the wind rattles against the trailer. You think of how he said big bad wolf, the words in his mouth, the way he’d leered at you. It was a joke, but, it made something warm and sticky turn over in your belly. You imagine you can hear him in the lounge, breathing, yawning, turning over. Is he thinking about you? In his bed? Imagining he can hear you breathing?

The courage hits you like a train, and you let yourself get carried away. For once, you don’t think about the decision, just throw off the doona, bare feet on the carpet, move from memory to the door, feel the knob cool and smooth under your palm.

The hallway is dark, and you keep one hand trailing along the wall as you tread into the lounge. You hear him stir, for real this time, the rustle of his hair, the movement as he props himself up on one elbow. The light from the television illuminates him. His chest is bare, his hair messy.

“Are you okay?” He asks, concern on his face. It makes your heart hurt.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. It’s just.”

Your eyes flick to the television, back to him, clasp and unclasp your hands.

“You don’t have to sleep out here. It can’t be comfy. It does’t. It doesn’t bother me if we sleep in the same bed. I feel bad,” it comes out all in a rush, more than you meant. Maybe you are still high.

“Don’t feel bad,” Eddie says, still craned around to look at you, a spectre in the hallway.

“I know, but I do. Please. I won’t sleep thinking about it.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Eddie says, sitting up, but he seems wary, brow creased.

“Only if you don’t mind, like, sleeping in bed with me,” you say, winding the hem of his shirt around your hand and back again.

“Why would I mind?” He seems genuinely confused by the idea, head tilted. “Do you snore?”

You laugh, “No, but I talk in my sleep.”

“Great,” he stands up, goes to turn the television off before he comes towards you in the hall, “I wonder what secrets you’ll spill.”

“It’s just gibberish,” you tell him, watching him step around you, the closeness of him, before following him back into the bedroom. His movements are easy, familiar, the routine of going to his own bed. You feel clumsy as you crawl up beside him, take the wall side. The mattress creaks and dips as you settle. It takes you a moment to realise you’re facing each other, gleaming eyes in the dark.

“Hey,” Eddie says, teasing, a smile.

“Hey,” you reply, poke his shin with your foot.

“Jesus, your feet are cold,” he cries out, overdramatic, but you laugh anyway.

You hate sleeping with your boyfriend, never let him stay over if he sneaks in, it feels suffocating, having another human in the bed with you, wriggling and breathing. But Eddie’s presence is soothing, the heavy weight of him beside you, the musky smell of him, the quiet rumble of his voice as he tells you your feet belong in Antarctica.

“Are you sleepy?” You ask, after a long quiet moment. His eyes are closed, long clumps of eyelashes, but he says, “Not really. Are you?”

You could sleep for eons here, under the rain, the steady sound of his breath, knowing you can reach out and touch him if you want, but you say, “Not really.”

“Hmmm,” Eddie hums, eyes still closed but mouth crooked into a smile, “Dilemma.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. The wind has died, finally, and it’s just the patter of rain on the roof, less punishing. You could ride home in this, now, just be damp on arrival. But you don’t get up.

“Eddie,” you murmur, gazing at him, the shape of him in the dark, the lines of his face. As familiar as your childhood, as unknown as adulthood.

“Yeah?” He mumbles, eyelashes fluttering and then his eyes open, wide and brown and warm.

His mouth is soft when you kiss him, the rustle of your face across the pillow to meet him, a chaste press of lips, a drawn out moment before he turns his head, his big palm sliding over your face, opens his mouth to kiss you properly.

He doesn’t kiss like your boyfriend, all punishing tongue that isn’t even that nice, really. He’s slow about it, measured, kisses you like they do in movies, lingering. For a long time there’s nothing but the rustle of the covers as you try and crawl into his chest, panting into his mouth as Eddie kisses you and kisses you and kisses you. He makes quiet sounds every now and then, his hands grabbing at you under the blankets, smoothing over your skin, calloused and rough. A man’s hands. You touch under his shirt, the muscle of his back, imagining the tattoos under your fingertips. He groans when you tug on his hair, and you smile into his mouth.

He’s careful not to to touch you. His hands on your ribcage, but no higher, no lower. You try and encourage, a leg over his waist, kissing open mouthed down his neck and listen to his cut off breath, but his hands stay on the curve of your waist, rubbing warm patterns.

“Eddie,” you say, finally, lips swollen, heart pounding, “You can touch me, if you want.”

He’s panting, chest moving quick under your hands. You can feel him against you, the hard line of him in his sweats, pressed into your belly.

“Are you sure?”

His sweetness is almost sore, your fingers skittering over his cheekbone to brush the hair out of his face.

“Yeah of course,” you say.

“Okay, just. Okay. Tell me if. If I do something you don’t like,” he says, his voice rough.

“Yeah,” you murmur, nudging your nose into his chin, wanting desperately to just be kissing him again, “I will.”

It’s only when his hand is finally, finally, up and over your breast, fingers brushing over your nipple, that you realise no one’s ever told you that before, ever checked. You pull him in tighter.

It feels like he’s a step behind in the dance, but it doesn’t feel disjointed, it just means you get the pleasure of seeing his reaction to every movement you make. When you sit up over him to take your shirt off, his eyes are wide and he makes this quiet, hurt sound, teeth sliding over his lower lip as he hands come up to to touch your tits, massage over them.

“That’s so nice,” you say, dropping your head down close to his, mouth over his jaw.

“You’re so pretty,” Eddie says, his voice by your ear, hot breath. You rock down onto him and he moans, his hands sliding down to your hips, up to your face, back to your boobs, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you the most.

“Do you have a condom?” You whisper, and for a moment the interaction is shocking, in a bell clanging kind of way. Sat on top of Eddie Munson, in his bed, in his boxers, asking if he wants to fuck you. But then he smiles up at you in this dopey kind of way, like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen, and it’s like the camera clicks over, and the picture is again soft and close and warm.

“Is that. Is that what you wanna do?” He asks, as if he’s not grinding you down onto him like he’ll die if there’s no friction.

You laugh, the words so sweet in his mouth, glide your hands over his chest, his shoulders, bring yourself low over him so your tits drag over his skin and you can kiss him again.

“Yeah, that’s what I want,” you say into his mouth, can feel the way his cock jerks against you.

“Okay, yeah, just let me. Hang on,” he says, doesn’t let go even as you slide off him, like he can’t bear it, still kissing you as he gets out of bed. You kick out of his boxers under the covers, watch him rifle through various draws, before he produces a battered box, shakes out a foil packet.

“Is this alright?” He asks, mattress dipping as he returns. You frown.

“Yeah, I mean, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“Right,” Eddie says, crawling over you, the condom in his hand. His mouth on your breast, warm and wet, and you tangle fingers into his hair, holding him there. He’s attentive, learns quickly what makes you gasp and twitch, does it over and over again until you feel like you might die. He groans when he realises you’ve lost his underwear, bare underneath him, his hand hot and big slipping over you. You want to be embarrassed about how ready you are, can feel the way his fingers slip over you that you’re too wet, but he’s been so hard it must hurt for awhile now.

“Eddie,” you say, when he’s out of his sweats and you can feel the heavy weight of his cock on your cunt, “Please.”

“Yeah. I. Yeah,” he says, sitting back on his knees, opening the condom packet. His hands are shaking. You reach out, close your own around his trembling ones.

“Eddie, it’s okay. You’ve done this before, right?”

He huffs a laugh, shoulders sinking, “I. Yeah. I. No, I haven’t. But I want too, I really want too, if you just tell me what’s good I can. I’ll try and last, I - ”

He’s talking too much, untethered, unmoored. He looks silver in the light of the moon coming through the window, broad chest, the mess of his hair. Since when was the moon out? You drag him down to kiss him so he stops talking and think, the rain has stopped. The storm has passed. And Eddie Munson is a virgin.

“We don’t have too,” you say, hands sliding down his body, back up into his hair. Can’t stop touching his hair.

“I want too,” he’s insistent, panicky almost. He’s hot and hard against your hip, absent rocks for pressure.

“I just. I want it to be good for you,” he says, doesn’t make eye contact.

“It will be,” you say, and realise you’re not lying. It will be because it’s him, and his hands are so careful on you, his kiss so wanting.

“I’ll help you,” you whisper, touching his swollen mouth with the pad of your finger, “I’ll teach you, we can stop whenever you want, it doesn’t matter, just tell me if you wanna stop.”

“I don’t think I’ll wanna stop,” he laughs, breathless. You smile at him.

“Have you, like, done hand stuff before?” You ask, words awkward, but Eddie rolls his eyes, shakes his hair out of his face.

“Yes, ma’am, I’ve done hand stuff.”

“Alright, just checking!” You protest, wriggle your body under him, “Work your magic.”

“My magic?” He crooks an eyebrow, kisses the very tip of your nose, “My magic, she says.”

Then, his hand between your legs, his body to the side of you, hot and long, his mouth on your shoulder, your neck, your cheek. You think it will be like it is with your boyfriend, the only experience you really have to go on, two fingers pushing into you, perfunctory, just opening you up so he can get into you as quickly as possible. But Eddie is slow, sucks on his fingers before he touches you, so it’s slick skin and easy. He whispers to you, his mouth moving over your skin, as he rubs your clit, steady, slides down just to prod at your entrance before he withdraws, teasing, making you clench around nothing.

“That’s good, huh,” he murmurs, “That feels good? You’re so hot, oh my god, look at you.”

You’re so knocked out by it that you can’t do much but pant into his mouth, grip his wrist, move his hand where you want it. And he’s pliant, lets you manoeuvre him, kisses the air out of your mouth. Then one finger, sliding into where you’re hot and wet, not enough but so good, already pressing on a spot that no one but you has ever found.

“Eddie,” you whisper, half a sob, wanting more, fucking yourself onto his hand.

“Yeah, baby? Whatever you want, whatever you want,” he’s saying, and your heart thumps like a bullet, wanting to make him say baby again.

“More,” you get out, flush when he laughs, but he dutifully slides another finger into you, curls them in.

“Is that good?” He asks, and you groan, pressing into his body, sweaty and hot.

“So good,” you gasp.

Already, you want him desperately, your body searching for more of him, all of him, but the next part will be easier if you’ve already come, so you curl into his body, kiss him and breathe him in until you’re whispering, “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, right there.”

“There?” He checks, and you can hear his hand moving inside you, slick and hot, his other hand rubbing steady circles on your clit.

“Yes,” you pant, head pushed back into the pillow, eyes screwed shut, “Yes, there, there, God.”

“Just Eddie is fine,” he says, breathless laugh, and you come like that, laughing at him, clenching around his hand between your legs.

He stays very still beside you, his fingers still in you, kissing gently on your shoulder until you can breathe properly again.

“Oh, hey,” you say, peeling open your eyes. He grins. He seems to be vibrating with energy, eager.

“Hey, you,” he says. You whine when he takes his hand away, wiping it on the sheets. Such a boy.

“You ready for the big show?” You ask, reaching for him between your bodies. He sucks in a breath when your hand closes around him.

“Take it away,” he says, his voice thin and wavering, eyes slipping shut.

“You have the condom still?” You ask, and he fumbles around in the sheets for a moment before he produces it, triumphant.

“It’s probably easiest if you’re on top,” you tell him, rolling onto your back, legs spread. Eddie nods, moving over you, sat back to roll the condom onto himself. Your hands move out without thinking, he’s hot and achingly hard, bending forward into your touch.

“Jesus,” he whispers.

“Nope, just me,” you say, grinning at getting him back. He flips you off. Your heart jumps with sudden fondness.

“Okay, come here,” you murmur, reaching for him, suddenly craving his return, the warmth of his body, the heavy, reassuring weight of him. You kiss him, wet and messy, before you reach down, guide him in to nudge against your opening. He’s breathing hard and quick, fists curled into the sheet.

“Whenever you’re ready,” you murmur, blinking open eyes to see his face. His jaw is slack, his brow furrowed with concentration, a needy glaze to his expression. You try to exude calmness and confidence in him, and not the shaking, urgent want to have him inside you, like, yesterday.

The push is slow, and he’s thick, opening you up where his fingers didn’t. The sound he makes is delicious as he slides into you, a relieved groan that goes right to your spine. The breath punches out of him as he sinks home.

“Good?” You whisper, voice hoarse from the way he feels, the stretch of him.

“So good,” he breathes, his lips moving over yours.

“Everything you dreamed of?”

“And more,” he teases.

You can feel him trembling, the urgency of his breathing.

“You can move, Eddie,” you murmur, shifting to wrap your legs around him.

“Yeah, I’m just,” he laughs at himself, drops his chin, “Just concentrating on something here.”

“Oh. Sorry. Yeah. Do that. But, it’s okay. I already came so, whenever is fine.”

“I don’t wanna end it too soon,” he says, and you push the hair behind his ears, kiss him. Can’t speak over the thickness in your throat. Want him so bad it hurts.

He takes some deep breaths, then pushes himself up onto his arms, withdraws, fucks back into you. The rhythm is off, at first, but he’s a quick learner, and you murmur, slower, then, faster, until he’s got it just right, panting, his chest glistening with sweat, and his necklace skipping over your collarbone as he fucks you.

“Eddie,” you gasp, fingers tight around his biceps, gazing up at him, “Eddie, Eddie, s’good, it’s so good.”

“Yeah? Like that? That’s how you wanna be fucked?” His voice is rough and instinctual and you feel like you’re going to explode.

“Yes, yes, God, yes.”

Eddie pants and groans and you vaguely notice the bed thumping into the wall but you can’t care about anything but him and how he feels.

“Fuck, sorry, I’m gonna. I’m close. Fuck,” he says, his voice thready.

“It’s okay, I want it, I wanna see,” you tell him, hands in his hair. There’s suddenly nothing you want more than seeing Eddie come. Fuck college acceptance. Fuck parental approval. Fuck everything. Just Eddie. He’s all that matters.

“Jesus, fuck,” he says, fucks into you once, twice, messily, and then a whole shudder goes through him and he groans out your name, twitching inside you as he comes. You pant and gaze up at him, enamoured. He collapses into your body, like all the strength has suddenly gone out of him.

“Oh my god,” he says into your neck. You laugh, tracing fingers down his spine, feeling him pant.

“Good?”

“So fucking good.”

“I’m glad,” you murmur, and you are. This is something you can hold forever, in a safe spot behind your lungs, that you took Eddie Munson’s virginity. That it will always be you. He’ll always remember you.

“Are you good?” He asks, and you smooth his fringe back to kiss his forehead.

“I’m good.”

It’s nice, having him lie on you, an anchoring weight, sweat drying tacky on your skin. The storm has passed, and outside you can hear the crickets beginning to start up, emerging from the ground to tell tales of the appalling weather to their brethren. You think Eddie might be asleep, but he sighs and slides off you, rolling onto his back. You look at him, suddenly unsure of your place, but he gets up, gets rid of the condom and crawls back into bed, drawing the covers up over you. He seems almost shy as he reaches to touch your belly, curve his hand around your hip.

“Are you sleepy?” He murmurs, tracing a bumping pattern over your ribs.

“Yeah,” you say, and find it’s true. You’re suddenly bone tired, sated. You let yourself wriggle closer, into the encircling warmth of him, and Eddie gathers you in. He smells like sweat and sex and boy and you want to breathe him in forever.

“Don’t snore,” you mumble, and he huffs a laugh.

“I’ll try.”

You want to remember the last time someone said they would try for you, try and make things good for you. No memory arrives.

“Can’t wait to hear all your secrets,” he mumbles, already half asleep.

After tonight, you think he might know them already. Outside, the crickets roar.

#eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson fluff #stranger things smut #stranger things #joeseph quinn x reader #joeseph quinn #*

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angelplummie · 3 years ago

Note

Okay so like for starterssssss, I love getting represented as a chubby gal 🥺🥺 so I love you for writing that last Oikawa imagineeeee 😩😩😩

Soooo, I was wondering if I could request a plus size reader that really likes Kuroo, (and he’s like a super cliché bad boy🤰🏽) but he’s too embarrassed to be seen with Y/n. So she starts to hit on his friend or try to make him jealous. (I want you to add your own little idea here! But likeee, make her a baddie 😘😘)

Thanks baby 😚

HE’S A SCUMBAG DON’T YOU KNOW

KUROO X CHUBBY F!READER

Angsty?? kinda, a pinch of suggestive stuff

masterlist

post girlboss was referring to

a/n:i decided to go for emo / anger issues / definitely has punched a hole in his wall kuroo, just cuz i love writing losers, and i love seeing grown men cry. reader is like 20/21 just like college age yk, kuroo is 23 as stated in fic. p.s where my artic monkey hoes at

warnings: swearing, mentions of sex n specific sexual acts, suggestive stuff, uhhh bad boy but he’s not a (bad boy) he’s just a (bad) (boy) he’s just no good, like no fr never date guys like this, he may SEEM COOL and give you the dick but girl you will be so embarrassed once u realised u gave up the kitty for a man that genuinely believes tame impala and mac demarco are unheard of and calls himself an empath even though he’s mean to his mum every time she comes over to help with the laundry and has manipulated every girl he’s ever been in the vicinity of but i digress! on with the story!

“Kuroo-!” you yelped in surprised, bed bouncing beneath you. The second he had thrown you down, he ripped off his shirt and made a noise of frustration when he couldn’t shed his skinny jeans fast enough. Brows furrowed, he began hopping furiously to yank them off.

You laughed, much to his annoyance.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself if you keep up with that. What’s the rush?”

He sighed, and carefully pulled them off his ankles. Standing up straight, he seemed to have composed himself, with that cocky smirk on his rugged face. Your eyes trailed down his lean, long body. It was all you could do not to scream, he was so gorgeous. He took a few sweeping steps to where you lay, and got right on top of you, hands either side of your head. His eyes bore into you, it made you squirm internally, not that you would ever admit it.

“Just want you so bad, kitten.”

You barked out a laugh as if your heart didn’t jolt at his stupid pet name. It was such a stupid name, but coming from him it made you melt. Again, not like you’d ever admit it.

“Ew, Tetsu don’t call me kitten, it’s cr-“

He cut you off by leaning down and kissing you, you could feel his snake bites against your bottom lip. He groaned softly, shoving his tongue down your throat. He tasted like his sour apple vape, and his hair was soft when you ran your fingers through it. You could barely contain your butterflies, eyes squeezed closed.

“Come on babe, you know you like it.”

No matter how many times you and Kuroo hung out, it always felt so fresh. Maybe it was because he was exciting, or because he was a little bit wild, you didn’t know.

He leaned down closer to you, getting on his elbows, deepening the kiss. He pulled away and smirked at your breathlessness. With a slender, ring adorned hand, he reached beneath your top and cupped your tits over your bra. He gave them a sharp squeeze and started placing chaste kisses on your neck. He was considerate like that, didn’t leave hickeys because he knew they’d be hard to cover for you. He groaned as he jiggled the fat of your boobs in his hands,

“God, you have the nicest tits, babe.”

You had been dating for nearly 3 months now, if that was what it was. To be honest, you weren’t really sure what you were. You hang out all the time at his or your place, there was rarely a time when you didn’t have an ache between your legs, one way or another. He didn’t really take you on ‘dates’ but chatting to him was fun in itself, you didn’t need to go out to do that. He didn’t necessarily say romantic stuff either... but he didn’t not say romantic stuff either? He beat up your ex at a party one time! That had to mean something right? He exactly wouldn’t tell you how he felt but he showed you, kissing your cheek or tilting your chin up to look at him or kissing your neck or feeling you up. But that usually led to sex, so you couldn’t be certain. It wasn’t like you only screwed though, you watched your favourite movies together... although the last couple times he just started fingering you. You showed him your playlists? No no, he showed you his playlists, his sex playlists. There seemed to be a common theme here. But... there were times, afterwards, when he would pull in you so tight, tell you how good you were for him, how well you did, how pretty you looked. Any doubts you had were gone after a few hushed words on his tobacco reeking rickety old bed. You’d never really had a relationship like this before, but you assumed it was just because Kuroo was so chill. You were probably boyfriend and girlfriend, he just didn’t feel the need to announce it, he was laidback like that. So what if you guys had a lot of sex? Weren’t you a new couple? Wasn’t this just the honeymoon stage were you can’t get your hands off each other? You didn’t want to seem high maintenance and nag, so you let it be. He was sweet enough to you, right now everything was good.

Until it wasn’t.

A clatter sounded downstairs, the door slamming open against the hallway wall.

“Kuroo! Hey man, I brought some California!”, a voice called from bellow.

Kuroo broke away immediately, spit trailing from your neck to his pink lips.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” Kuroo mumbled, pushing off the bed and scrambling the pick up his discarded clothes and shove them back on.

You sat up, disgruntled, rearranging your bra strap from were he’d kneaded at it.

“What’s wrong? Who is that?”

He shot you a glance before continuing to yank back on his jeans.

“Uh, so change of plan, I can’t do tonight. I need you to go home. Discreetly.”

What?

“What? Tetsu, I’m already here,” you scoffed.

What was going on?

Why was he acting like this?

You had never seen him so... frantic.

“I know babe, and I’m really sorry about that, but my friends are here early than I said.”

“So? Can’t I meet your friends?”

He didn’t reply for a moment, just let out an exasperated breath, zipping up his fly.

“Well, yeah you can meet them, just not with me. I don’t want them knowing that I-“

He cut himself off, but you had heard enough to understand.

There was a beat of silence, only disturbed by Kuroo’s friends calling for him.

Your mouth hung open, and you scoffed in shock.

You shouldn’t be surprised really. It’s so obvious now that you think about it. So that’s what this was. That explains everything. He didn’t really like you, he was just using you. That’s why he didn’t take you anywhere, or why he didn’t show you he cared. It was because he didn’t. He wasn’t “afraid of getting close to people” or “emotionally distant”, he was just upfront about not giving two shits about you aside from your vagina. I guess he didn’t want his friends to know he was furiously screwing a fat girl any chance he got. He was embarrassed of you. You were something to be ashamed of. Your stomach jerked as you got to your feet. You were pissed, but that didn’t mean it didn’t really hurt. You had liked him. A lot.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

You could see the panic in his eyes, it was quite funny actually. Of course you new what it meant, but it still made you feel a little better to watch his eyes widen like that, to hold a shred of power over him.

“I mean- well I didn’t- come on babe you know I didn’t mean it like that-“ he laughed nervously, not noticing the footsteps in the landing. You rolled your eyes. You may have been naive, but you certainly weren’t going to fall for his shit again. Whatever he spouted.

“Don’t give me that bullshit. Just say it, your embarrassed of me.”

“Y/N, please, don’t you think-“

Two men burst through the door, one with spiked grey hair and one with fluffy black hair.

“Kuroo! What the hell are you doing up here we’ve been-“ the grey haired one, stopped when his eyes went from a shirtless Kuroo to you.

Your eyes flickered to Kuroo, he looked mortified.

“Ah. I see. Well, Akaashi, we better give these two some time, we can just-“

“Oh no, I was just leaving,” you grabbed your jacket from on top of his chest of drawers and turned back to the two men, putting on a big smile, adrenaline and fury spurring you on.

“I’m Y/N, by the way.”

Your eyes shot to Kuroo, who looking like get was about to shit himself.

“You probably haven’t heard of me, me and Kuroo have actually been having sex for three months. He kept it a secret because he’s embarrassed of me. We should hang out soon though!”

“Y/N-!” Kuroo yelled, exasperation clear in his tone, but you were already descending the stairs.

He came into the hall, hands rubbing his temples.

“Y/N just come talk for a second, I can-“

But he was cut off by the door slamming.

You got in your car parked outside and sped away.

The whir of the engine and the monotony of the roads cleared your mind a bit, a mist of anger still remaining.

You can’t believe you let yourself be tricked. you were a fully grown woman, but you had been reeled in hook, line and sinker. Not only had you been reeled in, you have been reeled in by a man that still had tik tok LED lights in his room and a fucking monster can collection at the age of 24 fucking years old. The more you thought about him, the more you realised how much of an emo loser he was. Of course you were still hurting, but it was more of the angry hurt you feel when it turns out your crush is homophobic or something (been there done that, don’t ask). He was a waste of oxygen, you had decided by the time you made it back to your apartment. A waste of perfectly good space that could most definitely not get the kitty anymore. You got inside your house, pulled on some comfies and got on facetime with your friends.You told them all about what happened, and they passionately bitched about him with you, confirming your suspicion that they never liked him in the first place. They also told you to forget about his existence, he wasn’t worth a slither of your brain power, he was dirt compared to you. All in all, you felt marginally better, saying goodbye to your friends while they still giggled about how stupid Kuroo’s hair was.

This was just a speed bump, you thought as you tucked yourself into bed, you would get over this.

Fast.

“Who’s Bokuto been talking to all night?” Yamamoto leaned over to ask Lev, shouting over the blaring music.

It was a week after you had thrown Kuroo to the curb, and he was out with a couple of volleyball friends, some from Nekoma, but there was also Bokuto with them.

“I’m not sure. I think it’s Y/N something? She’s in class. She’s pretty chill.”

Kuroo’s ears perked up, and he turned around to face his friends up against the bar.

“Bokuto’s talking to who?” he said through gritted teeth.

“Y/N. She goes to my-“

“I know who Y/N is,” kuroo snapped, taking a swig of the beer in his hand and scanning the dance floor for either one of you. He found bokuto first, shoulder against the wall, holding a drink as he leant down to have you whisper something in his ear. That’s when Kuroo paid attention to you. You looked... you looked gorgeous. He felt jealousy creep up inside him. How many times had you been out looking like that since you broke things off? How many guys had you slept with since? How dare Bokuto chat you up when he knew you two had been a thing? Wasn’t he meant to be Kuroo’s friend? As Kuroo wound himself up, you and bokuto continued your extremely pleasant conversation.

“I just wanna say, sorry about Kuroo. He’s a real bonehead, but we’ve been friends since high school so I can’t ditch him.”

You snorted into your cocktail.

“What?”

“Bonehead?”

He frowned and straightened up indignantly.

“Yeah, and? What’s wrong with bonehead?”

“No no, nothing, it’s just very Legally Blonde.”

He beamed down at you.

“I love Legally Blonde!”

“You do? Me too!”

This big beefy man was very cute, you had been talking for nearly three hours now, but you never ran out of things to say. And, aside from the obligatory introduction compliments, he had not made any move to try and get you into a wendy’s bathroom as quick as possible, which you couldn’t say of yours and kuroo’s first meeting.

He had dreamy eyes, you noted as he smiled for the nth time that night.

“Whose your favourite-?”

“What the fuck are you doing man?”

You glanced scathingly over to the familiar face of your old fling.

“What?” Bokuto asked back, clearly done with his friends bad boy shtick.

“Why are you talking to her when... when you know?”

“What’s there to know? I’m talking to her because I want to, and she wants to.”

He looked over to you for approval.

“Right?”

You nodded, a little nervous. You hated Kuroo’s guts, but you knew how weirdly possessive he was, you didn’t wanna cause trouble for Bokuto.

“See? Now I don’t think she wants to see you, right?”

He looked at you again. You nodded again.

“Ok? You guys are over, now are we done?”

Kuroo huffed. His eyes flitted from Bokuto to you, remembering you were there most likely, and he scowled.

“No, we aren’t done, what are you trying to pull anyway? Trying to piss me off by talking to someone I know? Are you really that petty? Well, your little plan is working, so just-just stop, ok?”

You felt like screaming. You had just come out here to have a nice time, not listen to Kuroo’s narcissistic whining.

“Can you just fuck off? Was I not clear enough or something? You’re dead to me, Kuroo. I’m just trying to have a nice night.”

Kuroo’s mouth gaped open. He had never been spoken to like that, never. He clenched his fists at his sides and his glare intensified.

“You’re lucky I gave you the time of day, fat ugly slut.”

He grabbed Bokuto’s shoulder roughly, turning him to face him completely.

“Hey man, thanks for clearing up my sloppy seconds, really good of you. Good to know I’ve got great friends like you.”

Those were the last things out of Kuroo’s mouth before bokuto landed a punch on his cheek, knocking him to the ground.

“You’re a fucking asshole man,” Bokuto grunted.

He stepped over where Kuroo lay, and held out a hand for you to step over too. You took it quietly and trailed along behind him to the door, fingers still locked. His hands were warm, and big. Kuroo’s face must hurt right now. The thought made you smile. He held the door open for you before sighing, resting his back against the wall. You stood in front of him, twiddling with your fingers.

“I am so sorry about that,” You apologised, embarrassed and shaken by the scene Kuroo had made, “I shouldn’t have wound him up, and I shouldn’t have talked to you after I knew you guys were friends, I promise I didn’t mean to start anything.”

“Don’t be, if anything I’m sorry for not making him leave right away. And either way,” he gently reached for your hand again, and you let him take it,”I’m glad you talked to me. I’d like it if you talked to me even more.”

DISCLAIMER FOR KUROO STANS!!!! I DONT THINK HIS HAIR IS STUPID!!! it’s just when ur bestie is going thru a break up or anything entailing a male you shit talk everything about him to high hell, doesn’t matter if he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. also i have no ill will towards kuroo nor any of the characters i write shit bag fan fics about i just like to complain any way i hope you enjoyed! reblogs and replies always appreciated!!!

#haikyu x reader #haikyu x y/n #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu!!#hq x y/n #haikyu angst #haikyuu angst #hq angst #hq x reader #angst #kuroo x reader #kuroo smut #kuroo angst #kuroo tetsurou #bo x reader #haikyuu x chubby reader

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