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punk-in-docs · 2 years

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🕷Power of Suggestion🕷

Eddie Munson x Reader, one shot

5.3k words

Summary: His seer dark eyes drag across the courtyard crowds, the preps, the band kids, the dweeby nerds. Like he’s searching for something amongst the bubbling crowds of many.

His eyes find their way to yours and it’s a clap of lightning that stuns and stings.

Because he smiles right at you

Or;

You see Eddie at school after he gives you a lift home. There’s definitely something you need to resolve. It’s mind over matter and there’s something you’re both after.

“Trig is kicking my ass. I got a D on my last paper. I swear to god, Mr Taylor actually like fucking hates me.” Linda whines as she plucks another chip from your open packet in front of you. Flipping open her pink framed sunglasses. Purple bangles clack on her arm.

“Can’t help you there. I’m useless at trig.” You sighed in agreement as you reached for your fruit cup. Ripping off the lid.

“But maybe you shouldn’t keep blowing off his class to make-out with Jonny under the bleechers. Just an idea.” You point out. Picking over your fruit with the little fork.

“God, you sound like my mom.” She throws a splinter of a chip at your knee.

You grin. Pop the plastic straw of your juice box in your mouth. Clicks right between your teeth. Suck on it all smug.

“Glad one of us does.” You beamed. She huffed and set herself out on top of your table. Hitching her acid washed denim skirt up a little, and laying down so she could work on her tan.

Wiggling her off-the-shoulder pink top down her neckline even lower. Her legs dangling off the table, swaying as she laid there basking, like she was at the beach. And not on lunch break.

It’s one of those days in school where it’s all stuffy humidity and too bright buttery sunshine. The breeze block grey hallways inside stay cool, but outside the heat is vicing.

You decided to take your lunches outside for today. You’d found a spot on a table, swallowed in the shade of a pillar.

Linda was the opposite. Out there for the whole school to see. Skirt hitched up. Soaking up the rays. Which really said it all.

Where you sat you could both listen to the track team warm up for training on the field. Must be sweating bullets by now in this heat.

She didn’t want any lunch other than a diet soda. Watching her figure apparently.

She just bitched her usual, and picked off your plate. Stole your chips and still found the energy to give you a whole earful of shit about ditching her at the party.

She hadn’t shut up about it. In fact. She’d only just stopped scowling your direction.

As if she had every right to be pissed at you, and not the other way around. It made for a pretty tense pickup when you bounced your rusting yellow capri into her driveway this morning.

She stomped across her lawn and got into your passenger side with a grimace slapped on. You threw the keys at her head which she narrowly caught.

Where the ever living fuck were you? We were looking for these for over an hour.

You’d grinned.

Yeah, well. Turns out I had spontaneous plans too.

The resulting glare she gave you could’ve blistered skin.

As you let her steal more of your lunch, you flick idly though your English homework. Book report. Rereading it for the thousandth time, tapping your pencil against the table. You were pretty wired when you finished it last night. Too much coffee, you suspect. You want to check it doesn’t read too jittery.

Whistles blast from the field, cheering team mates and friends comes bubbling across from the bleachers. The air is all wet grass baked dry by sun.

A couple of Jocks who walk past your table wolf-whistle and make typical jeering comments seeing her tanned legs all laid out on the table top. Tiny skirt so far up her toned thighs.

She flips them the bird and they laugh all the more.

“Blow me, sweetheart.” One of them leers.

This causes her to huff and sit up. She rips her shades down and gives them her most scathing stare. Under her pretty packed blue eyeshadow and peachy pink blush heavy on her cheekbones, her eyes were set to her particular brand of pure ice-cold loathing.

“I don’t work with small equipment.” She grins all sickly at them. Heavy emphasis on her last word.

“Yeah we heard about that.” One of them smirks suggestively. They lumber away to the track field. Sniggering with each other.

“Those guys are such assholes.” She comments with a derisory sniff. Laying her head back down. Mushing her blonde curls.

“They’re wearing letterman jackets.” You state. As if that should speak for itself. Not looking up, keeping hunched over your lunch and your ever-mounting pile of homework.

She twists to turn around and look at you as she slips back on her glasses.

“We get it. You hate jocks.” She says like she’s bored of your well deserved hatred of them.

“Only ones that stand or breathe.” You glean sarcastically.

“You know, you shouldn’t be so picky. You’ve not exactly got guys lining up.” She slings one of her thoughtless jabs at you.

You’re used to them now. The acid slice of her insults land on your numbed ears.

“Because dating and boys has to be the most important mark of my personality?” You ask. Flicking through your book. Knowing full well her answer will be in the positives.

“You need to stop being so square and pop that cherry, babe. Trust me. Don’t wait til you’re in college.” She points her manicured finger at you. Like she’s handing out some sort of sage bullshit wisdom. Warning you off with a wag of her fierce fuchsia pink fingernail.

You might aswell sit and talk to the trash can against the far wall at this point. It might be a better listener.

“Thank you for that pearl of wisdom. But I’m still fine with having a jock-less existence.”

She giggles suddenly. It sounds completely evil. “Suit yourself. But Jonny does this thing with his fingers-”

“No! No, and no.” You wince. Talking over her. “Jesus Fucking Christ.”

You throw a balled up piece of spare paper at her head. It bounces off her forehead. She throws it back, offended. Sails it cleanly over your shoulder.

“What is even your type anyways? Science nerd? Someone from band?” She digs.

Hell no, you think to yourself.

“My ideal type of guy is, none of your business.” You turn a page and smudge out another typo.

“Come on. You do every piece of homework annoyingly on time, or you’re home alone, or in the record store working overtime with your hippy nut-bag of a boss. That’s all work and no play.” She points out. Tapping her toes where she lays.

You smile at her description of Sal. The eternally grouchy hippy-rocker who ran the store where you worked. He was a walking cliche in his leather trousers and a suede vest that drips fringe. Tie dyed bandanna fused to his head.

Proud owner of Nirvana Records. Scraping by on pennies cause kids came in for all that new wave poppy shit. The name of the business he interestingly plucked straight out of one of his acid trips in the 60’s. When he was selling t-shirts to score shrooms at Woodstock.

“Hey. I’m not always on my own or working. Don’t forget the terrible make out parties you drag me to kicking and screaming.” You add.

“Heaven forfend you actually kiss one guy before you’re a freshman in college. I’m just trying to shake some fun into you, babe.”

You bite back a smile chewing on the end of your pencil in a vain attempt to hide it.

You hadn’t told her about Eddie.

His big hearted act of chivalry taking you home, and the furtive doorstep kiss. You weren’t prepared for the screechy judgemental outcome that would be hurled your way like a category five hurricane if she knew.

Didn’t stop you thinking about him all night though.

Wrapped up in your bed, under your sheets. Still a little drunk, mind swirling along with the whirling distortion of your bedroom ceiling.

When you closed your eyes, you were tugged back to that moment alone on your lawn with him.

It was imperfectly perfect. The way it caught you off guard. His chapped lips. The thin film of sweat over you from the humid night. The way your hair felt just frizzy, and wrong and just, not you.

The goofy and very real unguarded stuff you’d been laughing about in his van. The flirty look he aimed your way when he held out his arm to you to get your number. That dazzling grin.

You were buzzed and there was this heady charge like crackling dry static between you. Had been since you stumbled across each other in Kyle’s garden. Like that hot chalky sky blooming over a dry prairie before lightning scrawled.

You couldn’t get those big beautiful puppy eyes out your head. The way he smiled so wide and pure across at you, with the streetlights threading a funky warm orange through his crazy hair.

The way his hands had felt with those rings on clutching your shoulder through your jacket to steady you, or holding your hand.

You kept wanting to reach up and touch your lips. Recalling that vivid skipping spark that lit you up like the Fourth of July - all fireworks and pops and zinging rockets - when you thought about every second of his sweet, brushed kiss.

How hard you burned when he kissed you right back.

You wondered what would happen if it got dirtier- you wanted to yank him close by his denim lapels and taste that cheap beer on the bed of his tongue.

Feel his hand across the back of your neck to clutch you in deeper. Sink your hands in that fluffy rioting hair. The soft of his tongue against your teeth. Make him groan and melt. Make him want to push you up flush against the side of his van and get frantic with it.

The thought of making out so dirty with Eddie made your thighs clench tight. Filthy messy kisses with too much spit and wandering hands. Greedy and breathless and gasping for more. Starving.

You blink back into life when you realise she’s still whining at you. The drone of her voice meets your ears once more.

“We all know you’re well on track to Indie State for Art like a proper little Miss goody-two-tits…“

You snort at her words.

“But seriously, live a little before you get sad and old, and your ass starts to sag.” She offers up.

“You should be a poetry major.” You tell her with thinly veiled amusement.

She knows you’re not going to take any of this venomous ‘advice’ seriously. But that doesn’t stop her from pestering you constantly with it. Hailing you with the jagged shrapnel of her opinions.

“You know I’m right.” She hummed at you. Satisfied with herself.

“Well. You better let me get back to my homework. I got a hot date at the library with my physics paper. Then I’m gonna go full academic recluse. Wear nothing but a ratty bath robe. Only exist on Slim Jim’s. Maybe get ten cats-“ You tease.

“You joke about it- but that could actually be your Friday night.” She mocks.

“Don’t call me when you’re a mad old art professor with greying frizzy hair and those ten cats. I’ll be in Monaco with one of those guys from Wham.” She dreams.

You roll your eyes and return to your work.

She returned to basking in the sun. Which really said it all.

“Oh, before I forget, can I copy your answers for that paper in Mrs Rodriguez’s class on Wednesday?”

The irony is just too great.

“Seriously?” You seethe at her. Slamming your pencil down.

She shrugs. “I didn’t have time to study.”

“The party was Friday. What were you doing all day Saturday and Sunday?”

She smiles. Moves hair off her neck so you could see her myriad of blue-black hickies swelling to grape purple. Salacious look on her face. “Worth every minute of ignoring homework.”

“Good grief.” You sigh. Shoving your book towards her. It’s not worth her tantrum to refuse.

“Have it back by Tuesday or I swear to god, I will hurt you so, so, much.” You threaten.

She puckers an air kiss over at you. Talk about sweet and fucking sour.

Over the din of the sunny lunchtime crowds buzzing around the courtyard, one particular group of high schoolers stand out from the rowdy rabble din of the table they’re occupying across the way.

It’s the cluster of Hellfire shirts you see first.

You recognise some of them. The kids. There’s Lucas Sinclair, the skinny but sweet new guy on the bench with the basketball team. There’s Nancy Wheeler’s younger brother with the shaggy mop of black hair and fine bladed nose. They’re crammed around the table with schoolwork, and sheets of paper. Revving up for a campaign, no doubt.

Henderson with his riot of curls and cute science themed base ball caps, and that adorable pudgy smile. There’s a couple other guys too. Older guys. Jeff, and Greg? Gary?You weren’t entirely sure of their names.

And it’s then you glimpse the familiar manic trappings of one gorgeous metal-head at the beating heart centre of it all.

Your heart does some crazy wild stunt on seeing him again. Pounds and wracks your ribs like it wants out.

Eddie is sat on the table, feet on the bench seat, king of the heap. Surveying his D&D lackeys. The empire of his sins.

He’s got a half chewed green apple in one hand. That infamous metal navy lunchbox nudged against his black jean thigh. No jacket and denim vest on him. Just his Hellfire shirt ending at his elbows.

Henderson says something to him. Eddie slyly grins. All snake eyes and wide white teeth around a snapping bite of his apple. Playfully yanking down the brim of Henderson’s hat over his eyes. Spins him away with the force of it.

He chews on his apple again. Leaning forwards, toes tapping on the bench in his dirty reeboks, elbows clasping to his knees. His seer dark eyes drag across the courtyard crowds, the preps, the band kids, the dweeby nerds. Like he’s searching for something amongst the bubbling crowds of many. Looking-

His eyes find their way to yours and it’s a clap of lightning that stuns and stings.

Because he smiles right at you-

No sense of self-preservation or censoring any expression he feels. He must be braver than you cause he just wears it. Wears everything out in the open, studded on that messy-edged battle vest of his.

He’s so used to people being- prickly with him. They just don’t know quite how to handle him, and they just fire out scathing insults, or edge away. They don’t get him.

Only you did. And he’s not been able to stop thinking about you ever since.

You lived in glorious perfect - torturing - technicolour behind his closed eyelids the last few nights. He ran back over every touch. Every graze of your eyes falling on him. The feel of your lips, light caught in your bouncy hair, and how his dick fucking throbbed with need when you pressed in and kissed him back.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t shy and recoil from his touch. You sat there, eyes flicked fully forwards to glimpse all of him. Laughed at his jokes, didn’t make snide remarks about his music. Kissed his cheek like you were afraid to peel open and show more of yourself to him.

You got him hooked. Because now he definitely wants to glimpse more.

He sees the way you avert your gaze and look all jittery when he smirks at you across the tables.

And how he fucking adores it.

Your breath catches in your throat. You twitch your hand where you’re holding your pencil. Some weird jerky gesture of a two fingered wave back.

Ok Lame. That was so lame goddamnit-

You can’t help the way your smile quirks up. Your cheeks absolutely blaze with it. Stomach all melting and gooey slippy with the sensation of a heady new crush.

Your heartbeat punched into your belly like stomping recoil. Possibly even hitting a tad lower- because despite your best level-headed efforts you are just as composed of raging hormones and lusty need as any other teenager. And this wicked menace of a cute guy, is making your internal compass slam haywire from point to point.

You’re crushing on him. Hard.

Super hard. Times ten- No, scratch that. Times a hundred. Turn it up to eleven.

Those big bright eyes, edged with such wilderness. He’s got a path wound around around his little finger, and you’re treading it without question, without caution. Who knows where you’ll end up. It’s exciting as hell.

But it appears you both want to follow that path. See where it ends you-

You wet your lips and avert your gaze to your work. Stuck between squiggled ink lines in your book. Not sure where else to look. Worried you’ll get good and lost in that magnetic chocolate gaze of his. Never able to wander free again.

Out of nowhere a sudden gust decides to snatch at the loose paper leafs of your homework. Twitching and yanking it out from your textbook.

Dragging it across the table, threatening to tumble it over the dusty scraping rocks of the grey courtyard.

You slam your juice carton down to the table, and awkwardly untangle yourself ready to chase it across the fucking track field if the wind got up.

“Shit.” You slap your hands to the sheets on the table. A couple slip off the other side, spilling off side and slouching to the floor.

You’re bent in half practically flattened across the top of the table, hands skating and slipping for it.

Another hand joins yours.

Nearly slid on top of your own. Familiar silver rings on very familiar fingers. Capturing the papers that had just managed to escape you. Bat tattoos fluttering over his forearm. Along with some barely faded inky digits that makes your stomach just swirl all giddy with recognition.

You look up and Eddie is grinning that gleaming smirk down at you. All grin dimples, and creases by his eyes.

Getting a hand on the pages and sliding them back towards you. Hands for the barest second brushing over yours. His touch is so hesitant. Kind.

He’s expecting you to spurn him away in front of everyone. That’s what usually happens.

He’s waiting for it now- in front of your friend, with him, you’ll shrink, brush him off. Be curt. You’ll send him away scorned. Call him a freak like they do, and this time that little dagger of a word really will cut deep.

But no. The heavens have cracked open for him. You’re smiling-

Smiling directly at him-

“Slippery little suckers, huh?” He beams. The half chewed green apple is still in his other hand.

You could collapse forwards in a complex burning implosion of embarrassment and giddiness onto this table. You really could.

“I mean I hate Physics as much as the next person, but sudden abandonment seems an extreme.” You smile. Nervously wetting your lips.

His smile grows and he laughs a little, and you actually think you hear harps. Dear sweet god.

“Hey Pencils.” He greets all sweet. Hair falling fluffy around his face. Eyes twice as bambi brown and melty as you remember.

“Hey, yourself.” You return gently. Maybe one day you’ll just stumble into him without needing to be rescued like some weak maiden. Or have your schoolwork scraped off the pavement and handed back to you.

“Looks like you’re saving my bacon again, Munson.” You insist.

Gratefully taking your work and slotting it deep inside a heavier book. You trap the suckers there. Though you can’t say you’re sorry it brought him over here. Your fingers brush his again and you really can’t be held responsible for the way your brain goes twitchy on the blink.

“They don’t call me ‘Eddie the Merciful’ for nothing.” He grins. Opening his palms outwards to present himself all wide and flailing.

“Patron saint of saving drunk girls at parties and their grades in Physics.” You smile. Clutching at papers. Scooping them back in.

“Saint huh? Damn. Don’t know about that one, babe. I’m more familiar with the term anti-christ.” He shoots you a clever look that’s all dipped in flirt.

He likes how honest you are. And he really loves how you seem more like, you, today.

Gone are those wannabe Whitney Houston neon threads he saw you in at the party. Knowing full well you borrowed them from the Malibu Barbie currently sunning herself next to you.

He watched from across the tables, the way your bangs fell into your eyes. When the jocks walked by they leered at your her sat there prostrating her legs. Didn’t even take the time to see you.

He did.

Smiled to himself when he really should’ve been listening to whatever-the-shit Henderson was saying to him. He watched you lob a ball of paper at her thick head when she doubtlessly got annoying.

Your hair is all long choppy layers, Something echoing a Farah Fawcett shag and today it’s not fluffed up all poofy with products. Sleeker. You’ve just tied it back to keep it off your face.

You’re wearing a pair of tight bootcut jeans with a brown leather belt and sneakers. A brown and red plaid shirt that looks all soft and worn and he suspects is a hand-me-down cause it’s a tad too big. You got the tails tied around your middle.

He smiles when he sees the Nice N Sleazy Stranglers tee underneath. Charcoal and paint smeared across the knees of your jeans and splattered like lost little stars on your shoes.

In all the commotion, Linda only just bothered to sit up. But now she definitely went to the trouble of raising herself up to sear a scowl in his direction.

She lowered her baby pink sunglasses and flicked her eyes derisively over him like he was mangled roadkill.

“Lost your way to the losers table, Freak?” She spits with venom. Words punching like nails out a gun.

Eddie almost swaggers to look at her. Challenge accepted.

“Came over for a splash of that sugary-sweet attitude of yours, blondie.“ He tilts his head at her.

Does this thing where he widens his eyes a little. Playing on the way people thought he was satanic. You understand now; It was all part of his armour.

If he slots it in place and punches and kicks back to keep people at arms length. Perhaps then, their nasty knife-tip words will never slip underneath that steel plating that so protects him.

An integral part of his Munson doctrine. He was designed to unsettle. To mislead.

“Turn around and keep walking. We don’t need any reefer today.” She wafted her hand at him as she laid back down. Acting like she was Lady Muck dismissing a servant.

You want to drop your science textbook on her face. And it’s weighty too. Could make some serious dents.

“Sure? I got some good shit that’s great for mellowing out bitchiness.”

He snaps another bite into his apple. Those brown eyes shift all needle sharp. Amused. “Few hits wouldn’t hurt.” He speaks through chewing.

You don’t try very hard to bite back a smile.

“What’s your problem, trailer trash?” She scoffs. Sitting up. Disdain scuffing her tone.

“No problems here, Barbie.” He grins all chirpy. And it’s lethal.

“Just helping out a damsel in distress. Kinda my bag these days.” And his gaze swivels on back to you. Flutters his brows.

She looks between the two of you. The tension between you is singeing the air. Blistering at the corners.

“What am I missing here?” She asks you.

Cause Eddie doesn’t technically exist as much more than an atom spec on her popular radar.

“Eddie was nice enough to give me a ride home from Kyle’s party after you ditched.” You defend for him.

She looked vaguely ill with the mere idea.

“Surprised you didn’t become his latest victim.” She snipes.

“You are really growing on me, blondie. You single?” He plays around.

“Got a fresh tarp in the van that could use a little O-negative splashed on it.” He widens his eyes again. Makes that devil smile with a curling tongue at her that could rival Gene Simmons.

He leans on the table. Bent over. Elbows rested together. Hands twined still holding his apple. Acting like he’s making a pass at her. His theatric way of defending himself.

She frowns as she looks at him invading her surroundings like he’s rotting meat attracting flies. Contaminating her air space.

“Jackass.” She lashes out.

He crunches his apple again and grins as her as he chews noisily. Crushing shiny flesh and creamy fruit with those pearly whites.

“Is that the only way you can pick up chicks, Munson?” She digs at him. “Trap drunk one’s in your van.”

“Yeah. And If I make the knots tight enough they can’t get away from me.” He teases all devilish. Staring her down. Unblinking.

“Knock it off, Linda.” You try and barter with her bitchiness. But when has that ever really worked for you?

Eddie turns his head sideways back towards you. Content to ignore her insults. You can see the glint of mischief sparked to light in his eyes. Shaded under the brim of his hair.

God, you like him so much. How do more people not like him?

“Why did you let wannabe Ted Bundy drive you home?” Linda demands off you. Holding up a hand to block his face from her sight. Excluding him.

Her memory surely can’t be that short.

“You were otherwise busy being Linda Lovelace upstairs.” You shoot her a look. Your finest and sharpest. She clams up. Thank god.

Eddie smiles. Impressed with your bluntness.

“You were right. Maybe this place isn’t my kinda scene.” He insists.

You chuckle. “Hey. No fun in warning ya.” You throw at him. He smiles at your challenge.

“Ruthless. It’s kinda hot, actually.” He purrs at you. Definite flirting happening that time.

Linda scoffs and lays back down. Though you’ve a feeling she’s watching you guys closely through her fake ray bans.

“Ignore her. She likes it. She’s just crabby cause she’s on a diet.” You tell him.

The way he had to bite his tongue to fight off a comeback has you sharing a knowing look.

She flips you both the bird. Pink nail polish glinting at you. Rattling those bangles on her wrists again.

“I actually, uh, needed your advice with something, Pencils.” He speaks up. Standing up straight and sways around to lob the last of his apple into the garbage can behind you. It bounces off the wall and clunks to the trash. Jackpot.

“I need some new tapes. Maybe even some vinyl. Was gonna swing by the record store at some point. Y’know but I just couldn’t decide what night I should go...I’m thinking maybe Tuesday or Thursday…?”

He’s fidgeting. Twirling hair around the skull ring on his finger. Dragging it in front of his mouth.

He’s asking when you’ll next be at work.

You have the wild urge to kiss him again. Taste that apple tang, no doubt mingled with cigarettes, off his lips. Yank him in by a fistful of his Hellfire shirt. Have him press you up against the edge of this table. Haul him in by that guitar pick chain if you had too.

Who the fuck cares if the whole school sees you lock lips with him. You just wanna kiss him. Like, a lot. A ridiculous, unhealthy amount.

“I mean, both are solid choices. But… personally speaking… I’d go for Tuesday. New stock delivery after three. Open til late.” You smile. Hooking your hands in your back blue jean pockets.

Message received loud and clear; See you then.

He grins. “Perfect.”

You think you’ve just scored a date. Of-sorts.

You smile. The more you talk to him, the more you keep wanting to just gravitate to this funky beautiful guy.

Linda’s looking at you like she can’t believe what the actual hell is going on. The clanging school bell peels out the end of lunch and people start drifting away for the next class.

Somehow his palms are itching to feel you again. He’s near you and talking to you and it isn’t enough. It gnaws at him.

He wants to touch your waist, your hair. Stick his face in your neck and see if you still smell as good and fruity-sweet as he remembers. Your scent that had made him swoon. Cup your neck like a sacred chalice. Drink your lips like he needed you to live.

And isn’t that just mad- if only he knew. Just exactly how much of an echo his thoughts had in common with yours.

“Duty calls.” He smiles at you as he half turns away. He gestures to his group.

“Sadly. Welcome to my nightmare.” You admit. Starting to heave up your books and your off shoulder bag. Heavy with textbooks and notebooks. Your Walkman and headphones too. The Clash with Guns of Brixton is your audio sustenance for today. It feeds you better than any dry book.

“Gotta be honest, I don’t see a long future in this-“ He nudges at his chest and points to the school building. Meaning himself and his relationship with grades and graduating. Which was famously one sided.

“Toxic love affair?” You ask.

“Seems to loooovvveee screwing me over.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. Smiles like it’s something out of his hands. A joke at his own clownish expense. He makes you laugh.

“You should find an alternative affair to enjoy.” You tell him. Nodding. “One that likes you back”

“Think that’s what I’m trying to do right now...” He says as he spins away and flits back. Walking backwards. Bandanna swaying at his legs. Flouncing incoordination writ into the rhythms of his steps.

You smile and clutch your books to your chest. Sweaty palms on dry hardbacks. Watching him weave away. In a strange distant way, like faintly dragged paper cuts, it almost aches. Seeing him go.

Linda was sat up, ready to leave and she snaps at him. “Bye?” Like it was painfully obvious.

He clutches a hand over his heart. Pretends to look infatuated. Backing away. “That cuts deep. I know you’ll miss me. Don’t cry too hard now, Barbie.”

Her glare is like something skimmed off a frozen glacier. Packed in bone cutting ice.

He shoots a cool wink at you before he goes. Flicks you a grin as wide as a skull sneer.

You just manage to see him off back to his table of Hellfire clad cohorts. Some of whom seemed very concerned at his absence. You watch his springy walk as he bounces over to them. Manic energy splitting his smile.

Dustin asks him what that was about. Pointing a thumb over his shoulder at you.

Eddie cups his back and says he wouldn’t wish to offend such delicate ears. Pressing a fingertip to Dustin’s nose in a way that made the younger boy screw his face up and wave him away.

He’s crowded with questions and a few curious turns of heads and eyes swim over your direction. You hear him speak to his younglings as he shrugs on the second skin of his jacket and trusty vest. Flips his hair out the collar. His rings flash silver in the blazing sunlight.

“You wouldn’t understand Wheeler. It’s called game, man.” Grinning with his tongue cheekily tipped out between his teeth. Ruffling the kids hair.

Eyes roam to you over the crowds rudely cutting between you both.

Eddie’s expression flashed across at you, and it was so sincere it made your breath catch. He smiles again and you can’t wait. Tomorrow night cannot come to you fast enough.

The rattle of bangles is sharp and sudden to your left. A firm nailed hand grabs your elbow. Poison perfume and rave spray floods your nose. Linda reels you in.

“What the fuck? Why the hell does fucking freak Munson have your phone number written on his arm?”

Oh. You just smile and smile.

🕷Interested in some more? Why here it be🕷

#eddie munson #eddie my boy #EDDIE DESERVED BETTER #EDDIE MY BELOVED #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x oc #eddie munson x original character #dustin henderson #mike wheeler #Linda being her usual bitch self y'all #stranger things #stranger things season four #season four #reader x eddie munson #flirting #more flirting #its kinda cheeky #lot of dialogue in this one #making out in the next piece forreal

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