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punk-in-docs · 2 years

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🕷Head Over Heels🕷

Eddie Munson x Reader, One Shot

7.6k Words.

Summary: “Actually, I uh, I think we might have some new stuff, in the back.”

Eddies stunning grin gets your knees trembling weak.

“Might?” His resulting grin absolutely melts you. Oh that playful tone of his dropped right into your panties and got you good.

“Definitely. No we, definitely, have some new stuff in the back.” You decide quickly. You nod and laugh at your own dense stupidity.

Or;

The one where Eddie comes to visit you at the record store where you work. You end up making out in the storage room.

Anyone who stepped inside Nirvana Records could definitely attest to one very salient thing; it sure had texture.

An independently run store wedged between the parade of mom-and-pop businesses on Franklin Boulevard. As soon as the creaking door was shoved open, the atmosphere of this place seeped out to the doormat like water.

Tacky warm plastic of cassettes and musty paper from old vinyl sleeves smack like a wall as you come in. You couldn’t escape it.

It was decidedly more gross before you started working here, and you helped Sal tidy up this hole, dragging the place into the 1980’s.

It used to smell like an armpit that had smoked a dozen stale cigarettes. Draped in orange and seventies decor, with crappy sharp patchouli incense burning away in an ashtray, and hippy acid swirled Peace-Love posters poorly slapped all over the walls. A sad display of second hand tattered vinyl’s limp on the racks

You don’t know how you got the grouchy bastard to update, but somehow the fact that he made more money off the ‘new wave shit’ seemed to slowly evolve his mind.

You spent many a painful Saturday in here sorting and cataloguing genres, and desperately phoning around music wholesalers out of state. Finding entire armfuls of posters of Elvis, The Kinks, or the Beatles for pennies at the dollar store to just liven up the bullseye-red walls.

You’ve put your touch to this place. There’s no doubt about it. In the gold twinkle lights you tacked around the counter and some strung across the ceilings or along the backs of the racks.

The heartthrob red paint to pack a punch beating off every wall. The blue neon light sign of the store name you made him shell out for behind the till. It’s a bohemian space full of old layered rugs and vintage posters and it lends itself well to such a lived in feel now a bit of effort and time has been spent on it.

Music is eternally threaded through the air from the stereo sat by the till counter. Guitars of all shapes and sizes line the walls for sale. Acoustic, electric, and - much to your shame - some banjos too. Though thankfully you’ve never sold one.

There’s cassettes in the front. Vinyl in the back. The place isn’t huge and it’s rammed with narrow aisles of so much choice. Current music posters and vinyl’s fight for space up on the walls. Bruce Springsteen, Metallica, Wham!, Madonna and Bowie. The place is wall to wall sound.

When you duck into the place on Tuesday the sun is warm on the back of your neck, sweat skating down your skin, as the bell hooked over the door tinkled all bright with your arrival. Not that it did much to announce you to your boss. You clutch your car keys in your hand and wind through the aisles.

You’re not at all surprised by the deafening waterfall-fluid riff of Hendrix, and his psychedelic Red House filling up the air. You take your bag off your shoulder and head for the till.

You round the counter and your boss is to be found in his usual spot. Lanky frame all bones and sharp knees, swallowed up into the sagging leather chair squared onto a matted old wine-red flowery rug, just out of sight behind the counter.

He’s sat there being his usual slothful self in a silvery cloud of camel smoke. Inspecting the B side of a Jethro Tull.

He looked like a Fleetwood Mac roadie had a collision a Carnaby street throwback.

One leg bent onto the other. Those ridiculous Cuban heel boots on as per. Acid washed jeans, his rusty suede fringed jacket, and a faded Rolling Stones red lips tee hanging off his torso. Peace sign pendant sat on his craggy sternum over the shirt.

His usual blue and grey tie dye bandana pasted his stringy grey hair back from his forehead. Blue round-rim John Lennon glasses always perched on his aquiline nose. Cig burning low, stuck stubby between his lips.

He barely flicked his eyes to you as you came in. So used to your presence here, it was second nature. Never mind the fact this old hippy moved so slowly sometimes you think he was at serious risk of growing moss.

The smoke-grey record store cat, Ziggy, sat like the fat little lump she was on the counter. Getting fur all over a stack of vinyls. She flicked her yellow eyes across to you and twitched her tail as you stroked her head. She often sat stretched across the racks or tables. Fell asleep on the vinyls until someone had to nudge her aside in order to take a look.

You place your bag under the shelf at the bottom, wincing at the volume he has the stereo turned too.

“Are you trying to damage what little scrap of hearing you have left?” You ask him over the reduced din.

He acts like you hadn’t even spoken. Not maliciously. You could never be entirely certain what sunk in with him. It was 50/50 he was even listening. He dropped so much acid in the 60’s you’re amazed he’s still coherent at all.

“There was no one like Hendrix playing live, man, nothing.” He plucks his cigarette out his mouth and gestures towards you. Stating a point of fact. Speaking through smoke. “No one held the crowd like he could. He could transport you-“

That was his odd sort of way of saying hello. Bounce straight into a conversation about music. No niceties, no nothing. It usually ended up in you both taking unsubtle potshots at each other.

“Voodoo Child is better.” You argue back as you pick up the hefty box for restocking. Sal doesn’t bother with it. You turn your back and walk through the stacks. Thumbing through the new stuff. Little Walter, The Who, Rick James, The Zombies. Some Nina Simone blues.

“You’re a little late by the way.” He called at you. Now abandoned the album and nose deep into one of his obscure folk music magazines. Something about Woody Guthrie. He wasn’t partially paying attention.

“Class ran over.” You offer back. Slotting the blues albums into their alphabetised spaces. Neatening what had been messed up yesterday.

You weren’t gonna blab to Sal that the reason you were late it cause you hared it at such an illegal speed home.

Or, that it took you a clammy filled half hour after a shower rushing around like a mental patient, trying to choose what to wear in an attempt to appear effortless but totally cool. You didn’t want to dress for someone else, but you had to admit you weren’t sure your usual thrown-this-on look would be appealing to the eye.

You ended up on your boot cut jeans and green sneakers. You slick perfume on your wrists and behind your ears. A honey yellow bottle of scent Mom bought you back from her trip to Spain once.

You settled finally on a cute and fairly clingy violet ribbed sweater that was actually your mom’s too. You scooped your hair back again. Into a claw clip and had to rush out the door to make it here on time.

Linda almost tore your meniscus in your knee the way she nudged you to stop the nervous bouncing of your leg under the table in class this afternoon. Last period.

Jesus Christ, you’re so wired and twitchy today. What’s up your ass?

I swear there’s like, a jar of rat poison or snake venom where your heart should be.

She then bit your head off for the way your pencil eraser was tap-tap-tapping against your books as you kept your eyes glued to the clock hands in the classroom.

“You done something different with your hair, kid?” He calls through the store to you. His eyes still turned towards the mag.

You stop in your tracks. Turn back to him with the stack in your arms. You fidget a little. “Just-trying something out.” You blush.

You didn’t realise it was that obvious that you’d dressed up for your sort-of-not-really-a-date.

Sal peers at you over his blue specs. Knowing grey eyes piercing deep into you. You feel like you’ve been busted. Goddamn the guy.

He barely notices when you walk into a room and say his name ten times, voice migrating into a shout. But he’s a human fucking bloodhound for sniffing out when something minutely small about you has changed even slightly. It’s uncanny and as wildly strange as the rest of him.

You’re not in your paint scuffed jeans or your usual dressed down tees and plaid. Tonight, dare he say it, you look -altered. Dressing up all prettier than you usually do. Tight top. Ass hugging jeans.

“For a boy?” He asks. No hint of shame in his tone. He doesn’t even look phased by the fact.

You flounder in knowing how to answer.

“Or is it a girl? That’s cool too, man.” He states easily.

Glossing over the fact Sal would be totally cool with the fact you could come out as gay, you answer him with the actual truth.

“Maybe there’s a guy.” You answer.

One thin grey brow hooks up his forehead. Encouraged you on.

“He might be coming by tonight.” You offer trying to sound casual about it. You do hope Eddie will be swinging by. He’s theatric and manic, sure, but you hope he’s the type to stick to a arrangement when he’s made one. You pray he doesn’t flake cause that will be a huge downer for your night that’s got you so edgily excited.

“A guy?” He checks.

“A guy.” You repeat.

“A guy.” He nods. Getting the point.

There’s a beat of silence. He nods and makes an impressed face. Looking down at the magazine flopped open in his hands. He drags his cigarette slowly. Shakes flecks of ash off the glossy pages.

“I thought you hated all the guys at your school?”

“I do.” You say as you slot the Police cassette back to its rightful place in the P’s. Moving Queen’s ‘The Game’ out the way.

“You’re always going on about that Laura friend of yours and her idiot jockstrap.” He sniffs as he reads.

“Linda.” You correct. He was terrible with names. He’d taken three years to learn yours. And even now he still called you kid, or man.

“… and that every boy at your school is plucked straight from a JC Penny catalogue of unoriginal bullshit.” He quoted you directly.

“They are.” You smile at your own little quip of all those boring guys at your school. The ones who followed norms and never dared do to think or do anything different.

“What’s this kid like then?” He asks.

You think how best to sum up Eddie. You see him in your minds eye. Smiling that stunning grin at you across the school lot yesterday. The way that made your skin prickle with fiery heat.

Flickering smell of smoke caught in his dark jacket. Sunk into his shirt. The bourbon eyes that dipped right into yours and left you stunned drunk. The wannabe Mark Bolan hair falling in gentle waves around his face. The way he didn’t let Linda’s bitch attitude phase him for even one second. Her nastiness slipped off his leather jacket like oil slick. Wrapped his hair around his finger and went all squirly as he flirted with you.

“He is sweet. And different. And anything but boring.” You told Sal.

You don’t even dare turn and look at him cause you know you’ll blush even just talking about the boy you’re mad about. You idly pick at an Ella Fitzgerald tape.

Sal made a ‘mmmm’ noise of mild interest.

You snag a tape before walking back over to the counter. Alice Cooper. You punch Sals crap out the stereo, and replace it with that one. Steady rock pumps out and Alice’s sneering and enlivened vocals start to growl through the speakers. You loved his stage presence. The gothy dripping black eyes and the way he snarled the vocals along to guitar.

“Anyway why are you taking such an interest in my nonexistent love life?” You ask him.

You lean your elbows on it as you talked to him. The bell shrills as a couple people step inside. You turn your head and smile at them. Saying hello. Leaving them to browse.

He shrugs at your question. “Just curious.”

You make a face at him that he doesn’t turn to see.

“Don’t go thinking you can use my store room in the back for having sex. Those shelves won’t hold your weight. Trust me, I’ve been there.”

To say you winced was a massive outcry of an understatement.

“Jesus, Sal.” You lob a King Crimson cassette at him that he lets thud off his shoulder and to the couch cushion beside him. He doesn’t even acknowledge it. His reactions to stimulus weren’t the same for other normal people from this solar system.

More disturbing was the fact you didn’t want to even picture the type of person to try a sexual liaison with the bag of dusty bones in a stones t-shirt sat before you. You blink the thought away very quickly.

“And remember to tell your guy pulling out doesn’t work. Wrap it before you tap it kid. Safe sex ain’t no joke.” He warns.

You turn the stereo up. Right up. Anything but a lecture on safe sex from your boss. You shake your head at him. No no no.

“If you don’t shut up, Sal, I’m putting Richard Hell and the Voidoids on again.”

“Fucking hell.” He mumbles.

His tolerance for listening to anything Punk was about as short as yours was for his penchant of playing Joan Baez for hours and hours. You once had to stick your fingers in your ears and decried that you were going to phone social services.

You may punish him later and shove a bit of the Clash in the stereo. Just to make him pay.

The rest of your shift swings by without a hitch. The usual rounds of drudgery.

You help people out who come in looking for some specifics. Some very blood pressure raising enquires to deal with. Including a very safe looking middle aged woman in a cardigan and chunky gold earrings.

I don’t remember the name of the album. But it has a blue cover. Does that help?

You should ask Sal for a pay rise for your more than generous habit of not socking these people in the face.

You eventually help that woman find what’s she’s looking for. Ring up a Bing Crosby album for her and tried not to react too much when she said it was the best thing she’d ever heard.

Helped another kid find a few good cassettes. He wasn’t sure what to like. You steer him towards Blondie and some okay hits of The Police, and get him to stay away from Duran Duran. You also manage to convince him that T.Rex is actually pretty awesome too.

You play him a bit on the stereo and watch his face light up listening to it. You turn it up loud loud loud for him and laugh kindly when his eyes almost bug out his head.

You love to think that the Children of the Revolution will be blasting through his bedroom and pissing off his parents for weeks.

He eagerly buys all of your suggestions. You throw in the T.Rex for free.

A group of kids from your school come in too. Two sophomore cheerleaders and their inane boyfriends trailing behind them. They come in and immediately gawk at the decor and make fun of apparently everything about it, and you, for the mere fact you worked here.

You growl to yourself under your breath as they scan around all smug and snobby through the aisles.

You pay no attention to their snide remarks and carry on flicking through the out of date music magazines Sal kept cluttered around the place. You slam some Siouxsie and the Banshees into the stereo and let Cities in Dust bathe away some of your sourness from their presence.

You lean over the counter and resume your place in the magazine. Slowly swerving your jaw chewing your pink gum.

“Excuse me?” Comes a whiny voice across the counter at you. A cheerleader trills at you like Tweetie Pie with a too slick lipgloss smile.

“Do you work here?” She asks like it’s something amusing. She probably spends her time filing her nails at whatever beauty department store counter she worked at. Playing with lipsticks and nail polish, gossiping with her friend on the phone rather than helping anyone.

“It’s why I’m this side of the counter.” You grin nicely. Exposing too much teeth. You try and keep your tone neutral but you just knowyou don’t quite make it.

She scoffs at you with a sickly expression. “I’m looking for some party music.” She tells you like that should be obvious. Blinking her lashes at you.

You roll your gum on your tongue. Teeth gritting. “You’re in the right place then.” You flip your magazine closed. Rest your chipped nail polish on the paper.

“Do you even have any Madonna?” She dug at you like you’d decided to leave your brain at home when you clocked on.

You take a breath. Inhale slow and steady. You’d kill to steal one of Sal’s cigarettes right about now.

“We’re a record store. We have pretty much everything.” You state.

“Madonna?” She asked again. Louder.

“Funnily enough it’s under the section labelled M.” You harp back with the same amount of detriment she threw at you. You nod towards the section where they’d find what they’re after.

“If you can’t find it, just do a high kick or wave some pom-poms at me. I’ll come running.” You assure her. You narrow your eyes just a little.

Her mouth drops open. She flips her perfectly highlighted hair over one shoulder and her friend glares daggers. You hear her bite out the word ‘Bitch’ as she goes in search of her terrible make-out music.

You chew your gum and round the desk after flipping your magazine shut. Let Sal serve them you’re done dealing with drippy cheer girls from your school.

“Cyndi Lauper is under C in case you get confused.” You breathe out as you wander to the back with a box of tapes that needed sorting. The needle eyes she shoots your way let’s you know you didn’t say it as quietly as you’d intended.

Fuck them. You’d offer them civility if they had any intention of talking to you like a damn human being. As it was, you were fine with being acidic.

You nudge Sal as you walk past the couch where he sat. “Sal. Customers. Your turn.” He makes a waving with his cigarette. A sort of ‘fine’ expression taking over his face.

He kills your Siouxsie tape and puts on Stairway to Heaven instead. You call through and tell him how rude that is.

You hide in amongst the vinyls whilst those guys from your school finish browsing. Like hell are you serving them. You hope Sal overcharges them for their tacky make out music.

You sigh as you shuffle the Vinyl and their sleeves into the places they belong. Flipping them forwards to slot behind. Balancing the heavy box on your hip. You hear the bell on the door shrill again. Over the sound of Led thrumming through the shop.

A burst of energy suddenly blazes your way.

Your curly maned metal head is throwing his arms across the rack your stood in front of. Leaning over from the other side. Twirling a vinyl in his hands. Big grin beaming at you. You can never tell which way the crazy Munson storm is coming from.

“Pardon me ma’am. Do you happen to know where I could find some truly terrible music? Really? I’m after some awful stuff, and I will need your guidance as an avid music expert.”

You smile. Whole body prickling with warmth and blushy awareness now that he was here.

He hadn’t dared to forget you. How could he forget his pencils?

You look to the front and see that same gaggle of guys from before at the front. The cheerleaders and their boyfriends side eyeing you like you’re a bunch of freaks, who belong together.

What’s amazing is how little you care.

Naturally you play along. “Of course, sir. There’s Donny Osmond and Musical Youth up the front there for you.” You nod forwards to the cassettes.

“Such great service.” He kisses his fingers like he’s tasted something sublime.

He peeks over and his curly hair drags down as he puts the vinyl in its proper place. Goes back to standing with his elbows leaning on the rack. The zips clack on his sleeves. You only just notice he’s attempted to mend the zipper on one side with three chains.

“Any other terrible music I can point your way? How about some Genesis?” You encourage. You reach across and nudge his elbow with the Vinyl of The Ronettes that you slip down. Your touch makes him smile wider.

“I’m all ears.” He tilts his head at you.

The stereo shifts behind you and you hear the too far familiar psych rock again. You turn back to Sal whose back on his slumped couch. He put Red house back on. “Not again?”

“It gets better the more you hear it.” Sal defends loudly.

Eddie pipes up. Really the boy is too sweet. “Nothing wrong with a little Hendrix. Bit too hippy hazy compared to the stuff I like, but the guy sure could play the shit out his Stratocaster-“

“Wait? This is the kid?” Sal asks. Another lit cigarette held between two fingers.

“He’s a metal head?”

“Shut up.” You chirp nicely. Aimed at your boss but you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at Eddie.

Eddies brows shoot up into his unruly bangs. A giddy smile suddenly curls.

“You’ve been talking about me, pencils? I am flattered.”

“Ignore the crusty old hippy.” You twirled a finger around your temple.

“Fried his braincells with too much acid in the 60’s. Doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“You soooo talked about me.” Eddie teases. Stopping to check out a W.A.S.P vinyl as he slipped past.

He smiles and cooed at Ziggy who’d hopped up near the vinyls to snooze. He chucks a finger under her chin and strokes her for a second.

You saunter back to the counter and place the box in front of Sal as you walk past. He picks through it with his cig hanging out his lips.

Clearly you’ve got a very personal-slash-hate relationship with your boss. There’s something he likes a lot about seeing your wit and sarcasm shine through.

He also absolutely caught the sway of your hips and ass in those blue denim jeans. If he said he didn’t stare for a hot second, he’d be lying. He swallows and rounds the counter as you come opposite. Snatching Sal’s Hendrix tape out, replacing it with Richard Hell and the Voidoids.

Sal scowls over at you. “You know what you did.” You held out. Let him stew in your gritty 1976 tapes.

“Punk huh?” Eddie smirks at you as he leans over the counter. “Never would’ve expected such an anti-establishment streak from you.” He shakes his head in a funny way that makes his hair sway.

“Comes with the territory of being on track for Art at indie state.” You shrug simply. Eddie smiles at your dream.

“I little punk attitude never hurts.” He figures.

“Plus did you know this guy actually helped set up the DIY ripped fashion of punk in the 70’s at CBGB’s? And his stuff was so sophisticated and immediate compared to the later bands who were just basically a load of kids screaming out any old shit and calling it new wave. This guy actually had some permanence with his message in music.” You point at the stereo with a thumb over your shoulder.

Elbows on the counter. Eddie is opposite. Pressed against it. Hands in his leather pockets. Listening to you talk about punk with that fascinated passion lighting up your whole face. He could and he would listen to you talk for hours-

“And-I’m getting carried away.” You say. Restricting your waterfall of words. Shrinking back. Clasping your hands together on the shiny magazine cover.

“I like carried away on you.” He smiles. And you did make it look good.

“Did you still want some terrible tapes?” You ask softly. You’re right over the counter.

He starts to lean in a little too.

You wet your lips cause those fucking brown eyes are disarming up close. He’s so damn pretty.

“You did come here for some music if my memory serves.” You say.

“It does. And I did.” He nods. Leaning in and bracing his elbows near to yours. “Maybe a little metal. Anything of the Death or Thrash persuasion.” He says.

He lies though. He’s got so many tapes.

He mostly came so he’d have an excuse to see you again. Hopefully kiss you some more if he could. Though he’d settle for not. Just spending time with you. Unravel more of what you’re like, and walk you to your car after your shift is over. Leave with a gentle goodnight kiss.

This is the thing about Eddie, he’s not expecting anymore than that. He settles for less and is more than shocked when he realised you wanted to offer more.

His fingers are crawling closer to yours.

You let them.

Fingertips of his stroking your knuckles a little before slipping between your spread fingers. Cold silver metal brushing your skin to tingle. You take the initiative to tangle your hand through his.

“I know we got Iron Maiden. Megadeath. Van Halen. Def Leppard, uh, Metallica, Led Zeppelin.” You rattle off a list.

“If you haven’t listened to Alice Cooper yet, I will have to tie you down not let you leave until you’ve listened to him, like, a lot. He’s insanely…great.”

You’re rambling, cause his hand is fully holding yours now. And your brain is on the ceiling. Your heart is rammed up your throat and your stomach is somewhere sailing north of the Dakota’s.

“Not gonna let me leave huh? Sounds real ominous.” He looks awful enamoured with the idea.

“Yeah. You should be very scared. You’d have to sleep here on Sal’s couch. And I’m willing to bet there is probably a bit of unaccounted for Mexican Sativa, lost down one of the cushions.”

“That doesn’t sound like such a bad time.” He supposes gleefully.

“Would give me a chance to hang out with some beautiful shapely looking chicks over there.” He gestures towards the guitars on the wall. Red and white. One black. One tiger striped.

He bites his lip as he looks. Waggles his brows.

Ah, his other weakness. Electric guitars.

“Shall I leave you alone for a moment? Put on some Barry White? candlelight?” You tease. Poking fun.

Where you lean over even more to twirl your fingers into his, he gets a neat view of the lacy strap of your blue bra that almost makes his heart squeeze to a stop.

“What’s your employee discount again, pencils?” His tongue tips out cheekily between his grin.

“Cold. Munson. Ouch.” You laugh. You nudge his hand with yours. But most importantly, you don’t let go.

“I’m only messin.” He promises.

“Besides, If you think I’m important enough for Sal to give me a discount. You’re gonna be disappointed. But I do have my methods of bribery.” You smirk.

Whilst that is true, he does let you sneak some things by. If he sees a new tape you’d like, he lets you slip a couple in your bag if you bring in some home baked goods sometimes. A tray of mac n cheese. Or bring him a sandwich or a pizza if you’re on a late one doing stock take. Something for the bony guy to soak up the weed and beers with.

He can’t complain. At the end of the day you’re a good kid. And you don’t mess him around and you work damn hard besides that. He can see you’re on track to your college. He cuts you some slack. Occasionally slips you the odd joint with your new cassettes. It’s a classic give and take.

“I knew under that arty persona lurked the canny wiles of a temptress.” Eddie flattered you.

“Temptress?” You smile. Not often you hear words like that bandied around. Then again, this guy does have his fantasy world lingo to play with.

“Completely. Like, I know I haven’t stopped thinking about that kiss from the other night. You’ve been stuck in here, pencils.” He taps the side of his head with his free hand.

“No getting you out.” He tells you honestly. Eyes gazing into yours.

“I was worried you’d think I kissed you only cause I was drunk.” You confessed.

He tips his head at you. “Actually. I had a theory about that-“ He began. Looking devious.

“A theory he says.” You sound impressed. His thumb strokes over your knuckles.

“I think we should try it again. Y’know. With you sober this time. In the interest of conducting a fair scientific test and all that.” He offered. “Just so we’re sure.”

Ohh, smooth.

You bite your lip and consider this sweet funny guy stood the other side of the counter asking politely if he can kiss you again.

Your smile is more than enough of an answer.

You clear your throat, a tad louder than necessary, and flick a look across in Sals vague direction. You chuck your pink gum in the bin. Wouldn’t be good to choke on it.

“Actually, I uh, I think we might have some new stuff, in the back.”

Eddies stunning grin gets your knees trembling weak.

“Might?” His resulting grin absolutely melts you. Oh that playful tone of his dropped right into your panties and got you good.

“Definitely. No we, definitely, have some new stuff in the back.” You decide quickly. You nod and laugh at your own dense stupidity.

There’s a shift from the leather couch as Sal gets up and wanders to the front. The smell of cheap Patchouli incense and cigarettes wafting after him as he moved.

“No fucking on my shelves. They’re rickety as hell, they won’t hold ya.”

Eddie has the temerity to blush. You scowl at the back of Sal’s bandana.

“Won’t be a sec. Just gonna see to those tapes.” You say, again, loudly, to your wayward boss who went to the front to flick through some tapes

You move around the counter. Walking through the vinyl. You check he’s not watching. No customers in. You shove a hand into Eddie’s denim jacket and pull him along after you. He stumbled along a little in his sneakers. Ever graceful.

You weaved the narrow aisle and ducked into the side door leading to the cold shadowy back store room.

He goes wherever you lead him. It’s awful cute.

You make sure his back is pressed against the door to open it better. Your hands still on his collar. He looks at you with nervousness blended with unsure excitement.

You do what you’ve wanted to do for three days now;

You lean up on your tiptoes, cup the front of his shirt in greedy fists and press your mouth to his. A proper hungry kiss.

You knock him back to the door with the force of it, and he steadies himself and muffled a moan into your mouth - only just - hand wrapping around the back of your waist and spread up onto the small of your back. His moan sends a reactive zing right the way down your spine

He’s stunned and you can tell you caught him off guard so suddenly.

And then you just melt to each other. All honey slow and gentle. His lips are so goddamn plush. You could mouth at them for hours upon hours and not even get bored.

You smile when you feel his arm cup you closer. Hand reaching up to cradle the side of your neck like you’re something precious to him. Warm skin and cold rings.

Your kiss slowly grows hungrier. His does too, he pressed back to you just as much as you were offering your lips to him. Slowly at first, and then moving to match the rhythm you gave him. Mouths sealed together.

You walk him back and try not to stumble him into anymore boxes in the dingy dark room. Waddling back with your legs tangled amongst each other’s. Knees and thighs brushing in your jeans. His wallet chain hitting your leg with a heavy thud.

Although you fail miserably when you catch the corner of your shin on a box that shudders and jerks out behind you. Clashing plastic clattering around as the box splits from the other side.

Eddie breaks away. Possibly to breathe, but more to check you’re alright. His lips are adorably kiss-pink.

“Shit, you ok?“ He breathes in a whisper. Chest hitching. His eyes are so round and wide. Trying to see the mess you made in the dark.

You’re addicted. He tastes like too sharp cigarettes and something tacky cherry sweet. More.

“Doesn’t matter.” You sigh quickly. Shake your head. Dazed and smiling so so so wide Eddie feels like it splits his soft heart open like a ripe mushy fruit.

You tug him to you. Close as you can possibly get. Kiss drunk. Reel him right in. So that in this stuffy closet, you’re up against the infamous shelves, it’s harsh edge digging into the middle of your back. Against the back of your head. But you don’t care.

So worth it.

He somehow noticed. Snuck his hand around the back of your nape. Cupped your head to hold you closer, made sure it didn’t hurt you.

He looks at you for a moment. You pant heavily against each other’s lips. Eyes flicking over each other’s faces. Cheeks glaring pink.

He makes the move this time. And it’s so explorative, but tentative.

His kiss numbs out the rest of the world beyond that door. The music. Sal. All of it. He leans in and you cup the back of his hair. Surrounded by the feel of him and never wanting to give it up.

Eddies other hand slithers impatiently around your back again. Needed the tactile touch of you. That little silky dip in the small of your back. Tasting the fruity gum on your tongue. Some smooth balm on your lips that’s trying to be strawberries or something- it’s nice.

Where he cups your head his elbow knocks another box. Just a nudge and some tapes clatter out of that. He has to avoid crushing them underfoot.

He twists against your mouth and hissed a groan. Tried to turn and look. You don’t wanna let him.

He half speaks into your kiss. Can’t get the words out. You’re interrupting him too much. Your lips pecking to his eagerly.

“I- fuck- mhmmm. Gonna… break-somethin…here-pencils.” He manages to sigh before you’re on him again.

You pull back and see the tapes scattered across the floor. You make out the artist name on the cover.

“Pet shop boys. Doesn’t matter.” You shut him up with another eager kiss and he rumbled a breathy laugh into it.

You moan impatiently. The sound makes his thighs quiver. Mouths way too spit wet but that’s what makes it so dirty-glorious. You’re needy for him and it’s frying his brain.

When you break apart to try and breathe again he grins like a fool. “Knew there was a reason I liked you so damn much.”

“Pure music snobbery-?“ You sigh all high and whiny as his mouth dove for your neck.

His hand at your head, slowly travelled downwards. Both resting at your waist instead. Fingertips skirting over the edge of where your top rode up over your hips. He touched your skin and the sensation bleeds straight through you like a live wire.

“Holy fuck.” You sigh all blissed. Trying not to moan too loud.

Your hand tangled in his hair. Nails scraping his scalp. You tip your head back to give him room, groan his name and he swears it’s better than any Metallica riff he’s ever heard.

“Something like that.” He hushes all softly and smiley against your hammering pulse point. Pecking it all sweet like you’re both innocent of anything naughty. Your toes are curling in your shoes.

One hand of yours slides down and finds the smooth of his hipbone under his shirt. You run your hand along his skin and you feel him shudder.

You’re willing to bet he has some sensitive patches of skin and some badass ink on those hips.

His hand slips under your sweater and cups up your back. Eye for an eye. Smoothly holds you as he works kisses into you neck.

“Easy. Don’t want me to give you a hickie, do you pencils?”

You smile and bite your lip, cause. “Do your worst, Munson.” That’s exactly what you desire from him.

“You not gonna freak about people-seeingit?“ Cause he can only imagine the outcome if you tell people that he was the one to put a sizeable love-bite on your neck. Him. The Satan of Hawkins High.

You slide your hand up through the back of his curly hair. Fluffy to the touch. Wrench his head away and speak against his lips so your noses almost brush. You love how blushy and dazed he looks. Lips so red and kiss stung.

“Don’t care who sees. Let them see.” You smirk. Kissing his lips again. Addictive lips of his.

That’s shooting an odd tingly sensation of pride right on through him. The fact you’re willing to be so visible when with him. Cause fuck this small minded town. Fuck their stuffy opinions and what the popular kids think. You’re not gonna start pretending you care what they think.

“All those rumours will be flying around that you’ve fallen under spell of my demonic powers.” He widens his eyes as he talks about it. Peppering kisses along your jaw. You feel his voice aswell as hear it.

You hum a pleased sound. You’re lip locked in your record store storage closet with Eddie Munson. Whatever repercussions or gossip come your way, at this point, are just all stupid fury and no sound.

“I can deal with that. Tell them I’ve sold you my soul for a very reasonable price.” You shrug openly. “And maybe a joint or two.” You add.

“Ahhh I see. So you’re signed up for the Eternal damnation package?” He jests.

“What does that involve?” You ask, acting all innocent.

“I’ll send you the literature but I think, entitles you to a whole lot more, of…uhm. Well. Something like this…”

As he spoke he moved closer and closer until he slanted his lips to yours again. Gently deepening it. You blush right down to your tits when his tongue flashes against the front of your teeth.

You only pull away to breathe, and even then it’s torture. Sloppy lips parting with a sticky moan coming from each of you.

“You got many others subscribed to this, ‘package’ of yours?” You ask with cheeky insinuation. Heart pulsing at your throat. Pulling for air and you’re not giving it much to go on. You’re more focused on his lips.

“Nah man. Just Gareth. And he’s a fuckin lousy kisser.” He rolls his eyes. Loves the way you light up with a laugh.

He kisses your neck with smacking wet pecks.

“I wish… I had more time. To keep…. Kissing you. Like this.” He says in-between smooches. Closing his eyes and breathing, wanting to live, in the way you sound and the heat of your perfume.

The world outside comes tumbling in to ruin your lust-crazed bubble, when you think how much longer you want to get away with kissing this beautiful guy. Hours and hours wouldn’t cover it.

You pull back to pant some more after an indulgent kiss and sigh at him. “Me too.”

This boy is pumping hard core strength indica directly into your heart, puffing it through your veins, and you just want all of it. Every bit of sensation of being around him.

You don’t want to unwrap your arms from each other but it appears you have too. You’re on the clock still, and the last thing you want is Sal coming back here to catch you both in the act.

You pet his hair around his face as he looks at you. Swipes his thumb over the back of your neck and up that tempting little dip in your lower back. Just a moment whilst you drink him and his closeness in. His lips are all cherry bright and his hair smells like some cheap apple shampoo. It’s near dangeroushow much you want him.

He’s way too pretty like this. Too much to resist.

“Come on.” You tug kindly on his leather jacket cuff and weave him through some boxes. “I can sneak you out.”

“Secret tunnel?” He quips. “Like that old movie. Very Steve McQueen.”

“Yeah. There’s a Triumph TR6 waiting for you out back, Steve.” You joke.

You love how spontaneous words just sprawl out his mouth. Big ball of energy attitude. It’s amusing to be around. Refreshing even. Your entire friendship with Linda is all pot-shots and unsubtle digs at each other.

“Your boss isn’t gonna wonder where the hell I, uh, went, is he?” He asks.

You turn and flash him a look. Make a noise between a snort and a scoff. Tilt your head. “Sal?” You ask him with meaning.

“I doubt he even knows what day or month it is, Munson.” You smile. He does too.

“Gotta love a hippy loop hole.” He remarks to make you laugh.

You come to the old warped fire door right at the back. Leaning heavily on the bar to jerk the door to open with a crunching whine. You pluck something off one of the shelves as you walk past.

You stand with your back against the door, holding it for him, as he brushed past you. The way his hand lingered on your stomach, made your thighs go all squirmy in your jeans. Makes you blush like some silly third grader.

He has to step careful cause there’s so many boxes in the way cause Sal is about as organised as he looks. Zero.

He stays near you. He doesn’t step past. His jacket almost brushing your hip. He doesn’t want the distance as much as you don’t. It’s nice, that.

You reach over to hold the back of his wrist, and press an Alice Cooper cassette tape into his hand. ‘Love it to Death.’

He smiles when he turns it around and sees the cover. “You really weren’t kidding.”

“I never joke about good music.” You grin. “Track two and five.”

“Yes ma’am.” He beams.

His pretty grin then turns devious. Eyes burn with it. He leans right in, his hand braced to the door by your arm.

“And here I thought you wanted to tie me down first?” He echoed back your earlier threat. One brow crooks up. “Should I admit I’m disappointed.”

“I’m all outta rope. I’d have to get creative and use cassette tape. Tie you down with ABBA or some shit like that.” You grin.

“I take that as a very personal attack, now Pencils.” He warns pointing a ring clad finger. But you know he doesn’t mean it.

You stand there. Grinning at each other like a pair of dozy braindead idiots.

“How about I make it up to you. Movie night? Sometime… my house. Pepperoni pizza extra cheese. Horror films. I’ll buy the jolly ranchers, to sweeten the deal?” You offer.

He takes you by surprise this time with a completely soft kiss.

His hand finds your belt buckle and he loops a finger through. Grounding him to your touch. Tethered to a piece of you cause he hates the idea of pulling away.

When he breaks apart, his nose brushes yours before he speaks.

“The deal of seeing you again is plenty sweet enough.” And he means it too. Those puppy eyes brim over with sincerity.

You part with one more kiss that makes your stomach soar. He slips away with a cheeky grin on his face, and you blush to know you’re the cause.

“Wait-“ Comes a pitchy cry from him.

He twirls back all sudden and pecks another kiss at your mouth before the door closes.

Leaning in with one hand on the frame. The other cupped the back of your neck. Pushing you backwards with it. Sighs when he comes up for air.

“Sorry. Had too. Just had too.” He winks. Grins. And then swirls away.

You’re such a goner.

When you finally shut the door, and come back inside out the storage closet, Sal is at the counter and not so subtly knocks a tape in to play on the stereo. He’d been waiting for you to come back in-

Japan’s ‘Adolescent Sex’ starts to filter through the speakers. He doesn’t look up from having his nose stuck in his magazine.

“You’re so hilarious.” You seethe at him. His smile curls up on one side.

Right. You stalk the stacks determined to find something along the lines of the Sex Pistols to really piss him off.

“You should be more mellow for someone who just got laid.” He calls out.

“We didn’t go near your goddamn shelves ok?! Go have a smoke you dusty old bone bag.”

🕷Next part to this is right here. Just in case you’re curious or whatnot🕷

#eddie munson #eddie my boy #EDDIE DESERVED BETTER #EDDIE MY BELOVED #eddie x oc #eddie munson x original character #eddie munson x reader #record store #records #vinyls #making out in the store room #making out #kissing #snogging if youre feeling gb about it #lots of snogging #this fic is for anyone who just wants to kiss eddie

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