eddie munson | a little too drunk
masterlist | requests | ko-fi
foreplay, nipple play, oral (woman receiving) no penetration, just the before part, b/c i suck at this. alcohol consumption and mutual intoxication. mentions of eddie being “the freak” (in the sheets, also). mention of reader having a shitty jock boyfriend and rough break-up. vague mention of cigarettes and weed. oh, also, the reader is curvy/plus-sized with stretch marks because the day I write a character with a perfect body is the day I stop writing altogether.
prompt: eddie x popular reader where eddie is dragged to a party or whatever they’re both WASTED and hook up and they wake up at eddies trailer and he’s so nervous and scared that she’s gonna wake up and flip out that she slept with the freak but she just kinda wakes up and giggles and snuggles into him and is just happy she’s with him cause of how long she’s crushed on him and he’s just sO CONFUSED JSJSJ
–also, a good song for this is let’s go home together by ella henderson and tom grennan, just in case you like putting a song to the fic.
You can’t stop looking at him. You’ve always been addicted to Eddie Munson — his smile, his eyes, his damn hair, the way he moves and speaks and isn’t afraid to be himself — but you’re usually much, much better at hiding it. Mostly because you only ever saw him at school before graduation, and it’s been out of sight, out of mind, since.
But not tonight. Tonight, he’s shown up at one of Steve Harrington’s, of all people’s, house parties. No longer surrounded by your old cheer posse, who were always quick to judge, you don’t have the restraint to pretend like you’re not fascinated. Especially not when you’re already a little bit — okay, a lot — drunk.
You sit with your feet dangling in the pool, a beer bottle sweating in your hand and the rippling water casting shimmering shadows against your face. The place is packed, but you can only see him. Your eyes are unfocused, but he brings clarity as he messes around with the few people who dare to be friends with him, Steve and Robin Buckley included. It’s the way his cheeks line with his grin, you decide. Or maybe it’s those low-slung jeans and the leather jacket. Maybe it’s just you being horny because your dick of a boyfriend broke up with you a month ago, leaving you alone with your vibrator, which, admittedly, gives you much better orgasms than he ever could.
Or maybe it’s just Eddie. His life.
His gaze snags yours across the pool suddenly, and you lower your eyes, smirking foolishly to yourself. But what are you doing? You want him to look at you, don’t you?
When you lift your focus, he’s still looking, though he pretends to be engaged in conversation. Your cheeks heat, but you do your best to radiate all of that old cheer captain confidence, even if it never quite came out for Eddie before. You’re not a little girl anymore, after all, and you’re not in high school. You can like who you want. You can be whoever you want to be.
And maybe who you want to be tonight is his.
He frowns as though your attention confuses him, and you clumsily — it was supposed to be seductively, but you’re drunker than you realise — lean back on your palms. His lips turn up with an amused smile and finally, finally, finally, he approaches.
“Hey, stranger. One of those for me?” He motions to the little collection of drinks you’ve gathered beside you, too lazy to keep going in and out of the kitchen.
“Sure. Knock yourself out.” Your words are slightly slurred, and you try not to giggle. Especially when he sits cross-legged beside you and you feel his warmth. You can’t remember ever being this close to him before. He smells like cigarettes and weed and musky aftershave, and something squirms deep in your gut.
“I think I’d better. Can’t let you drink all of these alone, can I?” He uses his teeth to remove the lid. “Got some catching up to do, it seems.”
“Exactly.” You kick your legs in the water to remind yourself this is real. You’re talking to Eddie. “I wasn’t expecting you here tonight.”
“‘Cos I’m a freak who should be playing D&D?”
“No.” You cast him a pointed look, mostly because you can’t bear the thought of him believing that’s what you think of him. You’ve always worried it’s the reason he never attempted to be friends with you: he saw the cheerleading uniform and your group of friends and assumed you were as judgemental as them. But you’re not. Different is good. You like different. Hell, you have your own nerdy interests that would probably put the Hellfire Club to shame. “‘Cos I didn’t know you were friends with Steve Harrington.”
He looks Steve’s way, chugging on his beer. “A new development, I guess.”
“Yeah? I could be a new development, too.” You’re too drunk to feel embarrassed, but you still hold your breath as you wait for his reaction.
Eddie guffaws, nudging you in a way that lingers a little past friendly. “You’re wasted. You do realise who I am, right?”
“Eddie Munson,” you reply. “One and only. And I’m Y/N.”
“Oh, I know who you are, babe.” His eyes trail you up and down. “What about your jock boyfriend? Is he not around to terrorise me tonight?”
Your features darken at the mention of him, and you look away. “No. He got too good for Hawkins, I guess.” Too good for me.
“Well, good riddance, I say.” Eddie kicks off his boots and flings off his socks before dropping his legs into the pool beside yours. Your thighs brush, his jean-clad and yours half-bare in your mini dress. “That guy was an ass. I don’t know what you saw in him.”
You shrug. “I made a lot of mistakes in high school.”
He scoffs. “Right. Little miss prom queen. Cheer captain. Straight A student. So many mistakes. Please. I’m one huge fucking walking mistake. I’m on my third repeat of Senior Year, for Christ’s sake.”
You guzzle down the last dregs of your beer. “Well, graduating isn’t as liberating and wonderful as everyone makes out.”
“Is that why you’re talking to me?” His tone is teasing, but there’s something hard beneath it, as though he really wants to know. When you look at him, you find his eyes already burning into you.
“As I recall, you came over to me.”
“You were giving me those fuckin’ eyes.”
“What ‘fuckin’ eyes’?” you ask innocently, doing your best attempt at a smoulder.
He points accusingly. “Those ones. Those ones exactly. The ones that could make a grown man sink to his knees.”
And isn’t that just an idea. Eddie, on his knees…
You clench your thighs together in a desperate attempt at creating fiction, swallowing carefully. “Fine. You got me. Maybe one of the mistakes on my very long list is never talking to you even though I wanted to.”
He freezes mid-sip, a drop of condensation from his beer rolling into his sleeve. “You wanted to talk to me?”
You raise your eyebrows as though it’s obvious, because it always has been for you. There’s something about him that has always dragged you in.
He stutters as though speechless. “Why?”
“I mean…” he clears his throat, rolling his shoulders back. “Why didn’t you?”
“You never seemed interested. I thought I was a little too boring for you. And, y’know, my friends were all jerks.”
“Boring.” It comes out in a half-chuckle, as though it’s ridiculous. As though you’re ridiculous. “I mean, I did think you were a lot cooler before you started wearing that uniform. Your style is rad, and I used to hear you humming Guns ‘n’ Roses in the hallway. Cool as shit.”
You tuck your chin into your chest, bashful suddenly. You hadn’t known he’d noticed that. You hadn’t known he’d looked at you at all. “So, what? I stopped being cool when I joined the cheer squad?”
“No. You never stopped being cool. You just…got popular. Didn’t think you’d want the biggest freak in town ruining your rep. You stuck with your people, I stuck with mine.”
“Oh. So we’re, like, Romeo and Juliet, then?” Your eyes sparkle, and you find yourself getting closer to him. So close you can smell the beer on his breath.
“Fuck that shit. We’re way cooler than Shakespeare. We could be…” He seems to soften, and then clicks his fingers. “What’s that shitty musical called about hair gel?”
You wrinkle your nose. “Grease?”
“Right. Grease. Not saying I’m gonna to break into song, but I could totally be your John Travolta.”
You choke on your own laughter. “Is that right?” Your tongue swipes against your bottom lip, and you lean in closer still, so your noses brush. “I guess I could squeeze into a catsuit for you if you wanted.”
You hear the exact moment his breath hitches. Agonisingly slowly, he tucks a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. “Don’t bother. You’re already smokin’. Scratch that. You’re fuckin’ beautiful. Always wondered what it would be like to talk to you. To have your attention. To be the reason you laugh.”
Your heart rackets against your ribs. It feels like a dream. All these things you’ve always wanted to hear, and they’re coming from him. Eddie Munson.
The moment is broken when Tommy cannonballs into the pool, leaving you both soaked. You squeal, kicking the water back at him. “Jerk!”
Eddie just laughs — not at you. With you. He uses the heel of his palm to wipe the water from his eyes and then looks down at the both of you. “You’re a little wet.”
In more ways than one, you almost say. Instead, you roll your eyes and wring out your dress, the hem hiking further up your thigh. You feel his eyes on that little space dappled by cellulite dimples and stretch marks and pray he likes what he sees.
When he says, “We should go dry off somewhere,” you’re certain he does.
You perch on the edge of the double bed in Steve’s spare room, anticipation swelling like a balloon in your chest. A part of you worries Eddie might not come back. But before you can let yourself imagine the embarrassment you’d feel if he didn’t, there he is, a pile of Steve’s clothes in his hands. And he isn’t wearing a shirt.
“These were all I could find.”
Your eyes dance across his tattoos, his broad shoulders, his slightly soft belly, desire sparking in you. God, you thought he was beautiful before, but now…
You shouldn’t go there. Should you? Are you crazy for even thinking about it?
You try your best to feign nonchalance as you take the clothes, but when you rise from the bed, you stumble on your drunken feet, falling a little too close to him. He laughs; steadies you. Your fingers brush as you take the clothes, and you turn around, thinking that he’ll leave, and it’s probably best he does.
But he doesn’t. He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot.
You raise your brows and set the spare clothes down. You don’t think you’ll be needing them. You hope you won’t be needing them.
“Are you going to help me out of these wet clothes?” you ask quietly.
He blinks as though he can’t quite believe you asked, taking steady steps forward until you’re close enough to touch. “Are you sure?”
“Uh-huh.” It’s an effort not to beg. You want him. You’ve wanted him for a long, long time.
“We’ve both had a little too much to drink. I don’t want you to do something —”
You press a finger to his lips, and when he quiets, you replace it with a kiss. He stills for just a moment, and then his hands are in your damp hair, your peaked breasts pressed against his hard chest, and you can’t breathe. You’re tingling, every nerve ending screaming, as he drags his free hand down to your waist. Lower when he cups your ass, and you stifle a groan. “Eddie…”
“Do you have any fuckin’ idea how beautiful you are?” he asks between kisses: your lips, your neck, your jaw. “Holy shit, Y/N.”
“You’re beautiful,” you babble, and it’s no longer beer you’re drunk off. It’s him. His lips, his touch, his warmth.
He chuckles at that, and it vibrates against your neck. But you pull away, cupping his jaw and meeting his eye, because you need him to know it’s true. You need him to know just how often you’ve admired him.
“You’re beautiful,” you repeat.
He shakes his head, his eyes glossy for a minute before hunger darkens them to near-black. “Can I touch you?”
His throat bobs as he looks down, fiddling with the hem of your dress. Your core throbs with how close he is to you. To the centre of your thighs. To the part where you need him most.
“Please,” you beg again. So he peels the dress off inch by inch, revealing your thighs, your underwear, your round stomach and cushioned ribs. His gaze scrapes up your body with the material, and you lift your arms so he can finally free you. The dress pools on the floor and you’re left bare.
His focus burns into your breasts and your nipples pebble with need as you imagine those lips sucking, biting, kissing. And you can’t wait a moment longer, so you pull his hand to your sternum in invitation.
He lifts his gaze to you and pounces.
You fall back onto the bed in a fit of giggles as his kisses grow more savage. He ravishes you, taking his time to move from your collarbone to your tits, and finally, he grazes his tongue against your nipple. The other is plucked by his calloused fingers like it’s one of his guitar strings, and this time, you can’t hold back the moan. Your hips rock desperately for friction, finding it against his thigh, still clad in wet denim.
“Take off your pants,” you order, already scrambling for his belt buckle. You help him out of them, your hands wandering down the staircase of his spine and then to his stomach. It’s so fucking soft, just like yours, and you’ve never been this confident in bed before. Never felt like you don’t need to cover up. The way he looks at you, like you’re a damn goddess, is proof you don’t need to.
You tug at his curls when he returns to kissing you, down the valley of your breasts, to your stomach, lower. The waistband of your panties.
“Take them off,” you ask again. He grins up at you, and everything in you clenches. He isn’t rough. Doesn’t tear them off like some men do. He rolls them down your thighs as though it’s just another opportunity to touch you anywhere, everywhere. And then the cool air hits you and you spread your thighs, too drunk, too addicted, too everything, to protect your modesty now.
He tiptoes his way back up your legs like you’re a piano and he’s the musician, placing sporadic kisses on your ankles, your shin, your knees. And then he’s there, between your legs, his fingers teasing the inside of your stretch-marked thighs. You grunt, lifting your hips impatiently, and it tugs another laugh from him.
“Tell me what you need from me, babe.”
“Everything. Everything.” You’re seeing stars already, and he hasn’t even touched you yet. You tilt your head to the ceiling as though in prayer — and then his tongue laps at your clit, and you come undone.
Eddie doesn’t know where he is when he wakes up, squinting against the blinding morning light pouring in through the window. He doesn’t know why he can’t feel his arm, either, until he shields his eyes and looks down at you. Your hair is splayed across the pillow, head resting on his arm and mouth slightly agape. Sleeping.
Memories of last night come back to him in bursts of colour. Your laugh, your moans, your sloppy, earth-shattering kisses. He feels like he’s been wrung out, turned inside out, but not in a bad way. In the best fucking way he’s ever known.
“Best fuckin’ night of my life,” he murmurs.
You stir, nestling deeper into his bare chest. “Hmm?”
“Nothing.” He can’t help but smile as his heart pounds, and he wonders if you can hear it. Gently, he draws the pad of his thumb over your cheek.
But then you bat your eyes open, and the dread hits him along with a strong dose of reality. You were both hammered last night. What if you regret it? It’s not like any of it makes sense. You’re beautiful and funny and popular and he’s…the freak. The idiot.
Only he doesn’t catch any hint of regret. Your smile blinds him as you brush his hair off his face. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he replies carefully. “You okay?”
“I’m…” You laugh nervously. “I’m pretty okay, yeah. Minus the headache.”
“So you…you don’t regret anything we did last night?”
You tilt your head up at him, frowning. “Of course not.” You draw back slightly. “Why? Do you?”
He pulls you back before you can even imagine him regretting a thing. His memory is a little foggy, but he remembers more than enough. His cock stirs, the ghost of your touch lingering as more images unravel. The way you writhed and moaned and begged, and the way he did the same. Fuck, he wants it again. He wants it sober. He wants it soft and rough, fast and slow. He wants to explore more of you, and he doesn’t ever want you to think he could regret it.
“Fuck no,” he says, peppering kisses on the tip of your nose. “Never. I just thought…I mean, it’s cool if you don’t want anyone to know.”
“Shut up.” You press a finger to his lips, just like last night. “I don’t give a shit about what anyone thinks. I had a good time last night. A great time.”
He can’t quite comprehend it. So many of his hook-ups, even his interactions, ended in them asking to keep it a secret, because god forbid anyone knows that they were hanging out with Eddie Munson. But you…you’re looking at him like none of it matters. Like only he matters.
Something north of his balls tightens this time — his hopeless damn heart. “You think maybe we can…I don’t know, do it again some time?”
You smile, closing your tired eyes again and locking your legs through his. “A gentleman would at least buy me breakfast first.”
He chuckles. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
And he doesn’t care that he can’t feel his arm, or that he still can’t quite believe this is real. He just wants to stay like this with you for the rest of the day, or at least until the hangover cravings get bad enough that he has to take you for the breakfast you’ve asked for.
So he does just that, wrapping you up in his arms and listening to your breaths lull him back to sleep.
