Today I had to be at work at 6 am. When I arrived at my bus stop, this beautiful sunrise landing on the meadow delighted my eyes. Sometimes I really want to live a little longer.
this heatwave is also making me think about what the hell eddie would wear in this heat
you cant tell me he would EVER stir away from his all black fits. he would just cut the sleeves off of his band t-shirts and thats it!!!
maybe if it reached over 30 degrees (idc about farenheit) he would consider cutting up one of his pairs of black jeans to just above the knee
also thinking about him wearing that bandana he wore in the last 2 eps of s4….. many thoughts
+++ his hair in a low pony/bun *dreamy sigh*
he definitely hates weather this hot and would spent the whole days infront of the barely functioning fan in his bedroom. i know from experience that trailers BOIL in the summer, so i really feel for him. poor boy :(((
Summary: Your husband is hot as hell, but you gotta draw the line somewhere. (About 1k wds)
A/N: HEY GUYS. It’s my first smut. It’s definitely super serious, totally sensual, I mean it’s really hot stuff 🥵 It’s totally not unhinged or funny at all. For real. Trust me.
18+ Minors MDNI. Smut, PIV, Ride ‘Em Cowgirls
“Ohh, shit, baby.”
Your husband, Eddie Munson, is currently falling apart beneath you as you bounce expeditiously on his cock. His hands are gripping you as your bottom smacks upon his pelvis in a crude, indelicate manner. His cock is continuously nudging the very peak of your inner heat in a way that is surely going to leave it bruised and sore. Your back is arched, pushing your waist into his hands as he grips onto the plush expanse of your abdomen, desperately searching for something to keep him grounded while you continue the assault on his cock.
“Eddie! Fuck!” You whine, rapidly approaching the pinnacle of human existance, the meaning of life, the chemical release that will momentarily alter your brain chemistry, blinding you to to the woes of continued actuality around you. You change your position and rhythm, leaning forward to nudge the very tip of his length softly against the promised land inside of you. You roll your hips, bracing your hands on his chest to ensure leverage as you grind your swollen nub against him like a piece of flint chasing a spark.
“Fuuck, baby. Such a good girl using my cock like that, shit.” he stutters, breath catching on his words like his lungs are being squeezed with a vice.
You feel yourself approaching finality, the sensation climbing, climbing, climbing, and like mercury inside of a thermometer you are close to bursting out of your containment as your heat escalates. “Eddie—” you huff, rocking, rocking, rocking. “—fuck, baby I’m cumming!” You cry out as your vocal chords are pulled taut with desire, your husband assisting you charitably as you feel the flow of pleasure course through your body like a river of want and need. You collapse on top on him as he caresses the length of your hair and pulls your dazed head up. He peppers your face with sweet pecks. “Oh, sweetheart, you did so good.” he adulates, patiently anticipating the moment when the fog clears as he gently traces his hand along the dips in your back.
As you come to, you consciously decide that the man who so graciously puts your needs above his own deserves to be ravished in return. You kiss him all across his face, along the expanse of his neck and the planes of his chest as you close your eyes and prepare to return the consideration by rearranging yourself into the opposite position, one that he favors. You lift yourself from his body as you swing your body around to straddle his pelvis in the reverse position.
“Baby, ahh, baby that’s so fucking sexy—”
He moans sensually as he raps your ass and you firmly take his cock into your hand, expertly guiding it back into your treasure, slowly sinking back down onto him, allowing him to gaze upon the fullness of your pocket in the most intimate manner. You wrap your hands around his thighs as you prepare to bring him to his climax, slow rocking your hips as he sputters and whines.
You continue the movement, slowly opening your eyes until you finally see it. You stop what you’re doing.
“…Eddie?” you begin as he’s rubbing his hands along the width of your ass, silently wondering why the seduction has ceased. You continue, “What the fuck is that?”
He perks his head up as he attempts to deduce the thing that has you stopped in your track, still gripping onto your sides as if he wouldn’t dare let go. “…what?”
Your voice is clipped and curt, “Why didn't you take your socks off?”
His head sinks back into his pillow, hands continuing to keep you secure and enveloped around him. “…my toes get cold.”
Your body begins to shake as a silent snicker escapes and you exclaim, “You couldn’t have picked a better pair!? They don’t even fit you, oh my God!” Your body is now fighting a different kind of release.
“They were the only ones I had in my drawer!” He proclaims.
You can no longer fight the urge in your chest, the feeling in your throat as you release a full-bodied chortle and bring your forehead down between his knees, doubled over in merriment. “Babe! Oh my fucking God,” you squeak out as you catch your breath, “they’re all floppy and pointy at the toe like a fucking cartoon character.” You wheeze. “You look like one of the seven dwarfs!” You nearly screech as the laughter hits a new fever pitch, your body convulsing, the air catching in your nose creating a snort.
“STOOP!” He whines in a giggle that creates a further quake in the bed. The conflicting feeling of you wrapped around his member while doubled over in laughter is creating a chasm in his sanity.
You continue the barrage of joy as you truthfully admit, “I can’t—I’m gonna fart—I can't stop, ohmygod!”
The glee is contagious as he chokes out a plea. “Don't fucking fart with my cock inside of you, Jesus Christ!” His arms are now crossed over his eyes as he cackles, showcasing his joy at experiencing a different kind of pleasure, tears threatening to escape his eyes as the both of you submit to the hilarity of the situation.
You wipe your tears as you climb off of him, snuggling into his chest as you beg, “Please throw those socks away, ohmygod. I can't fuck one of the seven dwarfs babe, I just can't.” You say as the laughter slowly dies down, fits continuing bursting out of each of you every time you think about what just happened. He kisses your head as he contends, “I guess we all gotta draw the line somewhere.”
"That we do,” you smile up at him, the moment passing, now etched into the annals of your marriage like a legend to be told between the two of you for years to come. “Now take those off so I can suck your cock.”
A/N: If you’re done with me, don’t worry. I’m done with me, too 🤣 I hope you all learned your lesson that when I say “trust me” it means “don’t trust me at all.”
I always see fics about Janitor!Eddie x Reader, but what about Janitor/cleaning lady!Reader x Eddie?
I work as the cleaning lady in an office. Some people have told me how my job is not serious enough, or good enough or no one would like me with that kind of job. I try to no pay too much attention to that but sometimes it gets very overwhealming. When people asks me about where I work or what I do for a living I don't like to talk about it cause I fear people would make fun of me.
So my request is about something like that, and maybe reader meets Eddie and they have a lot in common, she's a metalhead, a nerdy girl, and when they start to hangout she releases he works at a record store or a comic book store or some place cool, and when he ask her about her job she doesn't feel comfortable talking about it. How it ends it's up to you (I'll be happy with a happy or sad ending ❤)
(Sorry for the long ask!)
I hope you like this! Sorry it took me so long to finish.
Warnings: female!reader, reader is insecure about her job, fluff, use of "freak" as an endearing nickname, one "your mom" joke
WC: 1.7k
Divider credit to @saradika-graphics
There was nothing like the feeling of being in the record store.
It was your own little refuge right there in Hawkins: the bell jingling as you opened the door, the boxes upon boxes of vinyl records, the music that crackled over the stereo system that let you know who was working that day.
Today, Metallica’s new album blared throughout the store, which meant—
“Jesus, Munson; what the hell do you have in here?” Steve Harrington—former King of Hawkins High and current Rockin’ Records employee—heaved a huge box onto the countertop.
“That’s where I keep your mom’s panties. I take a pair every time I—oh, shit.”
Eddie’s eyes widened when he realized there was a customer nearby. “Welcome to Rockin’ Records,” he mumbled, unable to meet your eyes. His cheeks flushed pink.
You swallowed, trying not to show your own flusteredness. You’d had a crush on Eddie since high school; back then, you would watch him climb atop cafeteria tables and make grandiose speeches to whoever bothered to listen.
Before you could manage a hello, Steve bounded over.
“Hi there. Steve Harrington. Music connoisseur." He stuck out his hand, studying your face as though trying to place you. “Do I know you?”
“We went to high school together.” You introduced yourself; not that Steve would remember. He was always too busy gawking at Nancy Wheeler to notice anyone else.
Steve Harrington’s romantic pursuits never mattered to you. And it especially didn’t matter now with Eddie Munson standing twenty feet away.
“Oh. Right.” Steve pulled back his hand and raked it through his hair, composing himself. “Well, let me help you find your perfect match.”
He winked at you, rifling through the boxes of records.
“Actually, I just need—”
“Let me guess…Madonna? No, wait; what’s the band that sings ‘can you hooooold one for one more day?’”
You tried not to wince at his pitchy falsetto. “Wilson Phillips?”
“Yeah!” Steve snapped his fingers and nodded emphatically. “Yeah, Wilson Phillips. We’ve got them right here—”
“Oh my God, this is painful,” Eddie groaned. “Harrington, you’re failing an open-book test!"
When Steve furrowed his brow, Eddie gestured grandly to the Metallica patch on your denim jacket. “New album came out yesterday. We almost sold out, but…”
Eddie grabbed a cassette tape and a record from beneath the register. “Wasn’t sure which medium you prefer, so I saved you one of each,” he said with a shrug.
Your words caught in your throat. He’d saved them for you? No, you must have heard him wrong.
Still, you took the album with a grateful smile. “I didn’t realize Hawkins had such a large population of Metallica fans.”
“We’re small but mighty.” Eddie grinned. “I may have bought five copies for myself; in case I wear out the first four.”
“Makes sense.” You chewed on your lower lip before remembering you hadn’t paid for the record yet.
You’d barely reached for your wallet before Eddie stopped you, his hand strong but comforting around your wrist.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s on me.”
Steve muttered something unintelligible, but your head swam with too much excitement to pay him any mind.
“Are you sure? I really don’t mind—”
Eddie shook his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he repeated. “Us freaks gotta stick together.”
Right. That’s what this was; an act of solidarity between people with the same music taste.
You tried to hide the way you deflated with disappointment.
“Um, thanks,” you said.
The record suddenly felt heavy in your hand, and you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.
“I should get home before someone tries to rob me,” you joked half-heartedly.
It landed just as well, with Eddie giving you an awkward smile. God, why were you like this?
“Guard it with your life,” he joked back, keeping his expression schooled as seriously as he could muster.
You nodded, trying to match his stoicness but failing miserably. A grin tugged at the corners of your lips as you tucked the record up under your arm.
“I will.”
You spent all of your spare time listening to the record. More than once, your neighbor living in the apartment next to yours pounded on your shared wall, but you just turned the music up louder.
You hummed “The Unforgiven” as you dragged a mop across the floors of City Hall, wishing you’d taken the cassette. Music was your saving grace during a long shift; your Walkman was your best friend.
Guess I’ll have to go back to the record store today, you thought, trying to contain your nerves at the prospect of seeing Eddie again. Of course, you’d have to shower first; you couldn’t show up reeking of Mop ‘n Glo—
“This is bullshit!”
A sudden outburst yanked you from your thoughts. You whipped around, eyes widening when you spotted Eddie Munson stalking through the social security queue. The chain dangling from his belt loops jingled with each infuriated step.
“This is the third month in a row that my uncle’s check has been late!” Eddie slammed his palms against Ken Turnbow’s desk.
Mr. Turnbow sighed, putting down a half-eaten candy bar and pinching the bridge of his nose. “And like I told you last month, Mr. Munson,” he said, “we do not control the speed with which the postal service delivers the checks. Your uncle will have to wait like everyone else.”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “You know who doesn’t wait? The electric company, or the water company, or the gas company, or—”
“I get it, Mr. Munson.”
“I’m not finished.” Eddie continued ticking off the monthly expenses. “Or the grocery store, or the phone company. And cars don’t run on ‘wait,’ either.”
He started pacing, and you realized that if he pivoted enough, he’d be able to see you.
Shit. Eddie only knew you as one of the other rare metalheads in Hawkins. He couldn’t know that you were a cleaning lady, vacuuming the crumbs left behind by suits working for The Man.
You had to get out of this hallway. No, because then you’d have to wheel the bucket and draw attention to yourself.
Eddie was still going; now, he ranted about his uncle’s military service during the Vietnam War.
“Is this how we treat our veterans in Hawkins?” He posed the question like he had a full audience, despite Ken Turnbow’s sole, uninterested presence. “We make them default on their payments because we can’t get them to the post office on time?”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Mr. Turnbow chewed the last of his candy and crumpled the wrapper in his hand. He started to toss it in the wastebasket below his desk, then stopped.
The older man’s eyes met yours before you could look away. “My trash is full.”
It was too late to dash out of sight. Not even leaving the mop and bucket behind could save you now.
Eddie faltered for a moment as he placed you. His irritation dissipated, his lips turning up in a wide grin.
“My favorite freak!” He threw Mr. Turnbow one last glare before bounding over to you.
Was it possible to sink into the floor? Maybe, if you wished hard enough, the mop bucket would turn into a well and you could swim to the bottom of it.
“I wish I knew you worked here,” Eddie said, oblivious to your inner turmoil. “We just got a batch of limited edition Metallica t-shirts. I would’ve brought you one.”
You laughed shakily. “That’s…awesome,” you managed.
“Everything okay?” Eddie frowned. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like the new album. I mean, Master of Puppets still reigns supreme, but–”
“No, no. I mean, I love it. I’ll probably wear it out before next week.” You relaxed a little when the smile returned to his face. “Sorry, I…wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
Eddie let out an annoyed grunt. “Wouldn’t have to come down here if these schmucks could just do their jobs!” He raised his voice pointedly, turning towards the clerk before smiling sheepishly back at you. “But at least now I can say I’ve seen you at work, too.”
“Yeah, but your job is cool.” You spoke without thinking, hoping insecurity wasn’t written all over your face.
He remained unfazed. “Not like I grew up dreaming of running a record store with Steve Harrington.” He leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper. “He knows nothing about music. You’d think he would’ve learned something from DJing over at WSQK, but nope.”
You steadied yourself, trying not to be pulled in by the scent of his oaky cologne. “At least you get to be around music.”
“Fair point,” Eddie acquiesced, “but most of my day is spent unpacking boxes, stocking shelves, or helping customers who think my tattoos mean I’m some kind of devil-worshiper. Not exactly the rockstar life I was hoping for.”
“I don’t think you’re a devil-worshiper.” Though the demon-head tattoo probably doesn’t help your case, you thought.
“And that’s why you’re my favorite customer. Well,” he ran a hand through his messy hair, “that, and your kickass music taste.”
You refused to meet his gaze; instead, you focused on a speck of dirt on the floor. You’d have to clean that up later.
“Speaking of kickass music taste.” Eddie nudged the toe of your sneaker with his own. “Could I pick you up after your shift? We could drive around and listen to the new album together? Maybe grab some food at, um, Benny’s or something? Do you like burgers? We could go to–”
“I like burgers,” you reassured him. You weren’t used to seeing him so nervous; he was always in his element at Rockin’ Records. He never even stuttered during his impromptu cafeteria speeches. “I finish at five, but I can manage to put myself together by six.”
Eddie shook his head, his curls bouncing with the movement. “I like you just like this.”
Before you could ask for clarification, Eddie pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. The touch of his lips spread a humming warmth through your body.
“I’ll pick you up here at five.” His eyes were wide with hope. You could only imagine that his heart was beating as fast as yours.
“I’ll be here. Just follow the scent of Pine-Sol.”
Eddie winked. “Good thing I like my women lemon fresh.”
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