🕷Is It My Body🕷
Eddie Munson x Reader, one shot
Summary: Eddie Munson drives the way he looks like he would drive.
No finesse and all maniac speed. Seemingly more concerned with thumping the stereo to get it to work properly, than what’s ahead in the road.
You’re clamped into that passenger seat for your life with sloppy drunk hands. Nudged somewhere between half sober and half cut. Recognising the blurring drag of safe safe Hawkins outside your window.
The one where Eddie gives you a ride home after your friend ditched you at a terrible party.
! ! ! This follows on from my first Eddie one shot which you can read here ! ! !
Of all the ways you pictured the ending of this party, it had to be said, this right now? Oh, it would be so very, very low on your list.
Scraping the heel of it in fact.
You’d wanted to bail. Stalk off home by yourself and send Linda a pissy message by way of your absence.
Or maybe you’d get black out drunk. Sink to the bottom of a cup again and again. End up passing out on that shitty cracked plastic sun lounger in the garden.
Wake up in the morning still laid there, with a splitting head and cotton mouth. Crunched crushed solo cups and beer cans littered all over Kyle’s too green lawn.
You didn’t think it would be that you were being driven home, way before curfew, a lick too fast, in a tacky old van, with an interior that’s all stale weed and distant stench of spilled beer, emanating from the scratchy balding carpet in the back.
You’d never have guessed your night would be this. Eddie Munson and all the dreadful rumours about him that curled around his character, and his threatening reputation. And he’s plucking you out your misery to take you home.
He practically sprung down the street to the clunky old heap of a van. Swung open the passenger door- for you. His rings clack sharp on the door handle. Dumb grin lights up his entire maniacal face. Ladies first.
Who cares if this was your drunken stupidity blindsiding you at its finest… Anything was preferable to staying even within 20 yards near that house teeming with jocks, bedrooms, and hormones lost to drink.
“Your humble chariot.” He mock bows to you. Slipping his hand to yours and helping you climb on in.
Your stunned brain takes a second to realise his hand has yours. Holding yours. Electric skipping on your fingers. Your mouth gapes a little, and you swallow when you look down just to check.
Yes. That would be his fingers wrapped around yours. Warm gentle skin. Cold rings. Big manly sized palm. His chain bracelet sliding down his wrist.
You thank him. A tiny little peck of a word. Almost slurred from your lips.
His hands are way way softer than you thought they’d be- damn . No guitar calluses how is that even logically possible.
His touch withdraws and there’s that Cheshire Cat grin. Again . Locks eyes with you.
You turn away and move to shift a couple of tapes out the way of your ass before you sat on them. Iron Maiden’s Piece of Mind, and W.A.S.P’s Inside the Electric Circus. It wouldn’t do well to ingratiate yourself to Eddie by mangling the cassettes of some of his beloved bands.
“Belt up, pencils.” He encourages sweetly. Elbow slung off the door. Orange street lights drip and spill into the cold wrinkles of his leather jacket arms.
And you do. He stays round your side. It’s unnerving that he watches you fumble for the buckle with drink numbed fingers for a second.
“Geez. Take a picture. It’ll last longer.” You play around. Self awareness making your cheeks throb all warm. You flick hair off your hot forehead once more.
He doesn’t rise to the bait. He stands there until he’s satisfied.
You click the belt to the buckle with resounding success. The fucker has the nerve to loop a finger under and tug on it twice. Just to check.
You frown all bemused again. God, he thinks you’re so irresistible to look at when you do that.
“Precious cargo here. I don’t take risks.” He slams your door with a careful creaking thud and takes to his side.
Your brows shoot up. Disbelief stains your expression.
“I highly doubt that.” You gawk to yourself as his door creaks and slams and then he shifts into his seat.
Risk-less? He who wanders around your school with a metal lunchbox full of weed and roll your own papers.
He who was taking this random girl he’s only just really met, home from a shitty party. Not caring to abandon her to fester all on her own.
Rounding up those little lost sheepies, huh, Munson?
My specialty, babe.
He twists his hand on the hanging set of keys in the ignition, and the engine whines and then decides to be merciful and putter to life. Rock is suddenly shredding your ears from the radio.
Instant loud aggressive thrash guitar, drums that pound like thundering war, and a shrieking male singer starts to wail through the speakers.
‘I got pictures of naked ladies, lyin on their beds. I whiff that smell and sweet convulsion, starts a swellin inside my head.’
You don’t mean too - but your mouth curls into a smirk. The very overtly roaring sexual nature of the song. Nothing was subtle about it. The chorus screaming about animals and fucking like beasts.
He winces at the too loud volume and flicked those bambi bourbon eyes across at you to sharply turn the dial down.
It’s kinda endearing really-
He looks almost sheepish you heard it. Looking around as he pulls away and off into the road.
Made you smile and your stomach all slippery with heat inside, that he worried about the delicate state of your ears. Maybe it was the vodka still squirming in your stomach you can blame that on.
You had a feeling it was a pure habit. You could picture him in his state of bliss with music turned up to deafening. Head banging with that waved mane flying as he drove. Rings and fingers snapping where he tapped his hand flat on the wheel to the beat. Window down, hair tugged by the rioting wind. He’s loud, unapologetic and so messy with the unclear way he moves through life.
And Eddie drives the way he looks like he would drive. No finesse and all maniac speed. Seemingly more concerned with thumping the stereo to get it to work properly, than what’s ahead in the road.
You’re clamped into that passenger seat for your life with sloppy drunk hands. One clutching at the door. The other hooked to the ripped seat. Nudged somewhere between half sober and half cut.
The fuzzy twirl of your eyes and mind, the blurring drag of safe safe Hawkins outside your window, indicates the alcohol that still flushed in your system making your cheeks and neck warm.
Or maybe that’s just because of your proximity to him. You don’t let that possibly ruinous thought get any roots down. It was drink.
It was the drink doing all the thinking and talking. Right?
Too much vodka and the nice offer of a lift home- that’s all. Full stop. Period.
Death metal cassette tapes are strewn around your feet. You realise when one slides over your shoe. Album covers with skulls and glowing red eyes. Crimson red and matte black struck with blue lightning. Skull sneers. Skeletons and their yellow bones exposed with ripped flesh. Searing eyes in dark sockets.
The cassettes are clunking onto your feet when he turns a corner. He curses when more fall over your boots. “ Shit, sorry. I just sorta throw stuff on the seat.” Takes his eyes off the road for a split second to turn to you. Hair flicks at his cheek with the twist of his head.
“It’s ok.” You state softly. And it is. You’d put him out with him having to take you home. Not the other way around.
Leaning down a little, you scoot down to pick them up. Leaf through, but not enough to make him think you’re being nosy and poking around in his things casting judgement.
“Wasn’t exactly expecting to give anyone a ride home from a weed deal in the woods behind Kyles house.” Eddie explained with a wry grin.
“No? Shame. Your client seemed like such a great guy.” You snarked. You shared a smile as you remembered the rude jerk who’d spat abuse at you after stomping off with his purchase from Eddie.
You’re looking down at the tapes in your lap you’ve gathered up to safety from the floor. Looking at a few of the covers. Some you recognised. Some weren’t your scene, but they looked intimidatingly metal.
You hold up a Cramps cassette. “This one is good.”
Eddie jerks his head to you like you’ve suddenly sprouted devil horns and pansies out your hair. Cynicism rooted deep in those eyes.
“No way.” He says with quietly mounting confusion.
Your face falls. Trying to keep up with him is keeping you on your toes that’s for sure.
“No way, what?” You seek. Amusement tipping up your smile. His enthusiasm is infectious.
“You gotta be bullshitting me. There’s no way you know who the Cramps are, Pencils.”
“What you think I only listen to poppy shit like Madonna and Wham?” You ask him.
“I had my doubts.” He shrugs all teasing.
“Pirate boots seemed very Adam Ant. I misjudged you on that one.” He confessed. Once again with you, he’d drawn the wrong conclusion. Shot a blank.
You reached down and plucked at your belt. “Yeah, well.”
The bright plastic bangles. The earrings. The huge proofed up and waved hair. None of it was really you. You’re strewn with borrowed essences from Linda’s wardrobe. Not yours.
“The way I look tonight, I don’t exactly blame you for thinking that of me. I look like every other dime store airhead at school who thinks Tears for Fears are dreamy as hell.” You admit.
He goes quiet for a beat. Licks his bottom lip. Chews it a little with his teeth. “Still, you- uh.” Another pause.
“You look pretty good from where I’m sitting.” He says.
“With this hair?” You ask. Skating your hand up and feeling the wavy springy curls that await you. Layered in so much crispy Rave hairspray you seriously had to think twice about being near anyone lighting up tonight.
“It’s not the hair I’m lookin at, Pencils. It’s the girl attached to it.” He decided honestly. His gaze was on the road. But he turned his head towards you.
Caught your eye for just a second. His honest answer blew you clean away.
“You’re not high are you?” You ask carefully with implied mirth. Eyes flicking up and down his face to drink in that expression.
Because there’s no way on earth this cool guy is flirting with you. It’s just not possible. His type is probably some ultra goth rock chick in ripped fishnet tights and leathers on a Metallica poster. Or on the back of a roaring Harley.
He slaps a ring clad hand over his heart. Crinkled that already creased Hellfire t-shirt. “Scouts honour.”
“You? Scouts?“ You doubt.
“Goddamn it Pencils. Stop needling me, man. I can only take so many hits in one night.”
You turn to look out your window. Wet your lips and chuckle.
Your neck crawls with heat. Spine flushed with dizziness, cause my god, that was out of left field and so unexpectedly sweet. You can’t even think of a witty cut back of a response.
Got me there. Munson. Cat fully got my tongue.
“You gotta tell me how you’ve heard the Cramps now. C’mon. My mind is teeming with such vivid stories.” He piped up.
You chuckle. Again. Lay his teeming mind at rest.
“I work in the record store. The one over on Franklin.” You tell him.
Every shift when it’s your turn to click in a cassette to play, your boss, Sal, rolls his eyes back and grumbles with whatever you put on, be it some gritty paced punk, or some glam shock rock. Basically anything that interrupts his usual whining, hour long prog rock noises. Dirges of King Crimson and Genesis.
“You do?” He checks. “Well damn. In that case, It looks like I may have to consider growing some balls, and asking you for your number.”
Those words smack you straight in the gut. In a great way.
You find yourself nodding. “Ok. I may be a little drunk still, but I’ll give it to you, that was smooth.”
“I’m very good at admitting I have no balls.” He says seriously which makes you bark out laughter.
He rolled his hands in the air as he spoke. Wrists hanging off the wheel. “I wasn’t gonna bring it up at all actually...”
“Your balls?” You joke.
It earns an unguarded smile from him.
“Not on a first acquaintance.” He says in a stuffy put-upon voice, holds the steering wheel and flicks those dangerous eyes over at you.
“But y’ know? Timing wasn’t great back there. It didn’t seem like the cool moment to hit on you when you were all angry and looking like you wanted to put your whole fist through a wall.” He clenched one hand on the steering wheel.
“Mmm. No not my fist. Maybe my friends head though.” You grumped with an evil smirk.
“I really can’t read you right, can I?” He insists with mocking frustration. Bouncing his knee like he’s nervous.
You watch his profile when he grins. You cannot pin him down either. It would be like trying to herd sand.
“I’d say you’re doing pretty good, actually, Munson.” You tell him with a nod. Nervously picking at the plastic covering a very worn Metallica cassette.
There’s just something magnetic about him. You’re certain you’ll never discover what it is - you’ve been trying to decipher it ever since he leapt up onto that lounger next to you. Crazy and bounding. Spilling over with energy.
Perhaps it’s in the sheer unpredictability of his character, it’s as wild and chaotic as the rest of his rugged appearance. The way those whiskey-black eyes swallowed you in when you spoke. The crinkled dips that shaded either side of his bright eager smile. Something playful about that full smile. Almost boyish.
Maybe it’s the way he dresses like something spat straight out the glossy pages of Rolling Stone. Appearance shrined in pin badges and patches, and a poorly stitched denim vest.
Even in physique he would admit that he looks undesirable; like a cross between a shaggy wet dog and a newborn foal. The way he talks about himself makes it sound like cause he’s not straight out of a bullshit J-Crew beige catalogue like so many others, that no one could possibly find him hot.
He’s far more original than any of the athlete meat heads at your school. You like that about him. No one is like him that you’ve ever seen.
Despite the devilry and bad press you’ve heard of him, it was so unbelievably touching the way he shifted into being entirely nice and unassuming so as not to unnerve you even further tonight.
The way he dropped every ounce of attitude, in order to make you feel more comfortable. That was something.
There was definitely something in the way that he just took a minute and talked to you; the loser girl sat all alone in the dark. On the fringes. Toasting on her own and pointedly avoiding the rest of the party.
Alright, so you’d never decipher this guy, but something in you recognised something in him. Freaks always find their way to other freaks. Isn’t that the saying?
“So you’d be cool with me getting your number and maybe even, I dunno, ringing it at some point?” He checks.
“Well. You’re my knight in shining Dio vest. So I guess I do owe you.” You say all playful like you’re still thinking about it.
You’re well past thinking about it at this point. Fuck playing coy. You’d rip your own arm out the socket just to give him your number.
“And yeah. I would be very cool with you ringing it, also.” You added, and really just tried not to sound as geeky as you felt saying it aloud.
“Cool.” He smiled. You watch those dimples ripple in his cheeks. He wipes a sweaty palm on his jeans.
He made the turn onto your street. You scanned the houses. “Tell me when I’m getting warmer here, pencils.”
“At the end on the left.” You tell him. Scanning eyes along the sleepy street. Limned in cheap yellow street lights and dark slants of shadows bursting all over the houses.
Your street wasn’t exactly the classiest in all of Hawkins. A few shabby houses here and there. Your place was definitely not the picture postcard of shining grand suburbia.
Your neighbours had broken or wonky chain link fences separating their yards. And old clunkers sat rusting on your neighbours drive on the house to the right. Somewhere distantly gruff dog barks punctuated the night and it’s low buzzing hum of streetlights.
You didn’t live anywhere fancy but it’s not bad. Your home. A split level ranch house with a scruffy browning lawn and faded pea green paint on the wood panelling, framed by the four second floor windows.
There’s some huge sprawling trees in your otherwise bare yard, a yellow flowering vine honeysuckle climbing up the wooden terrace nailed to the side of the house. It was okay. Not exactly a palace. But not a dump either.
“How wicked pissed are your folks gonna be that I’m the one bringing you home?” Eddie asks as he brings the van to a shuddering stop alongside the curb.
He’s eyeing the dark front window like a strict parental hand is gonna flick the curtain aside any minute and glare out at the street. Eye at the pair of you in scathing disapproval.
“Well, my dad walked out on us when I was four. And my mom is currently somewhere near Bondi Beach.” You tell.
Eddie glances to you with a huge vulnerability falling open in his expression.
“You’re here all by yourself?” He asks or states. That thought weighs on him. You going home to a dark empty house. That doesn’t settle right. Sticks in his throat like a scraping rock.
“My sister works nights at the Diner just outside of Hawkins. And she stays with her boyfriend sometimes. Mom’s away for a few more days. Off where she usually is. Circling the globe.”
His face warrants you to explain. A gentle frown on those dark brows that just escape his unruly bangs.
“She’s a stewardess with an airline. Hence the travel. She’s home when she can be, and she sends postcards and always leaves a healthy amount of pizza and beer money pinned to fridge. So - I’m golden.” You click your tongue and make a thumbs up gesture as you shift Eddies precious tapes off your lap, back into the overflowing glove compartment.
Eddie nods and looks back to your dark house. He feels saddened by the way you’ve no one to go come home too. Opens a pit in his chest.
Sure, his predicament isn’t entirely foreign to yours. His uncle takes nights so he rarely sees him. Passing ships and all that. His mom couldn’t care less about anything that wasn’t binge drinking a hole in her gut and remarrying asshole after asshole. And his old man? Prison took him away years ago.
But Wayne was good to him. He had someone good. Shared his trailer and his only alright cooking skills with his nephew. He was gruff sure, made terrible coffee, and never talked too much. But he was level headed. Dead intent on keeping Eddie in school and out of trouble til he - finally - graduated.
Wayne was a sturdy salt of the earth man who knew what an honest day’s sweat and toil was. Eddie had sworn long ago he’d grow up to be more like him, and less like his dad, who wasn’t worth the muck on his shoes. He didn’t want to be lumped with the heavy tonne weight of the Munson family name.
Eddie knows with iron clad certainty that when he wakes up tomorrow half sprawled in his bed, that Wayne will have put some leftovers in the fridge for him, along with a fresh six pack. The smell of fresh cheap laundry detergent will be soaking through the trailer. New pack of reds on the kitchen counter. It was invisible care but it was there. Threaded through their trailer even if Wayne himself wasn’t.
You wouldn’t have that. Not here all on your own.
He doesn’t stop himself unbuckling and getting out his side to come straight around to yours. He opens the door for you - again.
You take his offered hand again and ease out the van to come and stand down in front of him. Your boots click on the tarmac drive.
He seems to stand next to you not quite knowing what to do. Or where to put his eyes. Awkwardly holding his hands on his hips at his belt. Floundering between looking at you, and looking at your house.
The silence seems suffocating for a moment. Only broken by the distant noises of cicadas and their hum and that damn dog still barking it’s head off down the street.
“Thank you. For taking the trouble to drop me home.” You say again gently. Layering on the gratitude. Because you are grateful not to have had to walk all the way here in the dark, drunk, alone. In pinching boots. Charlie would strangle the daylights out of you for doing that.
“Y’know. Civic duty really.” He clasps a hand over his chest. Shaking his head. Waving it off as nothing.
You slowly meander to the cracked weed strewn drive to your door. Eddie shoves his toes at crackling stones underfoot. Your shoes seem to echo so loud against the house. Little stabs of kitten heels.
“I uh, couldn’t live with myself knowing I left a Cramps fan all alone there listening to very inferior music.” He chuckles with a giddy grin.
“Don’t know how you would’ve slept soundly tonight.” You go along with his little joke.
Wobbling a little as you laugh. So unguarded you almost snort laughter. You smother your laugh with your hand to stop it.
You feel his hand on the white leather of your boxy jacket shoulder. Steadying you again. “Found your feet yet, pencils?” He grins.
You nod. Reassuring him. Your legs were still distantly related to the plights of your brain. But you’re whirling more and more into sobriety with each second. Too many solo cups and a beer starting to take their toll.
“These fucking boots. I tell ya. Lethal. Don’t know how Adam gets around in these.” You mumble. Trying to balance in the pointy things when drunk was a challenge you were ill-equipped to tackle
In truth they were starting to hurt. Stupid pointed toes. You’d throw these at Linda’s head when you saw her next.
“Well, he has the Ant’s support on stage.” Eddie guesses. Shoving his hands now in his jacket pocket, safely convinced you’ve remembered how to walk in a straight line without toppling.
You point a finger at him. Shaking it in emphasis. “Of course.”
You’re realising that at some point in your slow promenade down the drive, eventually you’re gonna have to stop when you hit porch or house.
You start patting your pockets trying to allocate the lump of your keys. Something bulky gets a pat in your right pocket. You halt dead.
“Oh shit.” You curse as your fingers stumble through a metal hoop and pull out a set of keys. You wrangle them out and hold them up.
Eddie’s looking at you for clarification as you curse. “Shit. Shit. Shiiittt.”
Linda’s car keys. You don’t remember how the fuck they ended up sneaking themselves into your pocket.
You catch his eye and then you’re both grinning like possessed maniacs. Eddie’s smile grows so wide and it makes your heart pound. You stand there under the dingy orange streetlights laughing your asses off with each other.
You have to playfully swing at his arm to get him to shut up. Or he’ll get Mrs Abernathy over the road twitching her net curtains, puckered old face of hers with her rollers in, peeking out and seeing what the noise is at this ungodly hour.
Like his shredding music didn’t wake everyone in a two mile radius when his van was prowling on down the street.
He lets you take a playful swing at his arm. Doesn’t budge an inch when you shove him. He’s stuck on watching you smile so giddy.
Karmas a bitch.
“I’d say that’s a fair form of payback.” Eddie grins like the devil he’s rumoured to be. More leering naughtiness in his face than on the scarlet demon on his t-shirt.
“Ohhh. She’s gonna be pissed. I will never hear the end of this coming out her big lipsticked mouth.” You tell him. Making a face.
“A trait I’m sure her lover boy appreciates.” Eddie jokes crassly with you. You only just manage not to snort again. Too much laughter bubbling at your stomach almost hurts, holding it back.
“Jesus.” You exclaim, as you find your keys and weigh them in your palm. Penny metal smeared across your sweaty hands.
You stand there and hold your keys. Cause whatever the hell this is, you don’t want it to be over just quite yet. Not yet.
Why don’t you want this part of the night over yet?
Oh yes. That’s right. Because Eddie Hellfire Freak Munson is stood behind you when you turn back and look at him. Like a rockers wet dream.
All stunning wild hair haloed in muddy orange streetlights. Eyes a shining pool of whiskey dark chocolate, and those pillowy pink lips, you just wanna spend hours mouthing at, and feel his groaned response. Fingers twisted in his hair. Feel him slide his tongue into the cup of your mouth and flash yours along his teeth.
You bet he could be a great kisser with those. And those hands, you wanted them on you in any capacity. Everywhere. Skid in your back jeans pocket. Cupping your ass. Warm skin and cold rings burning on your back. Cupping your neck. Tilting your jaw up as he mouthed and sucked over your kicking pulse. Biting your throat.
So apparently you’re a much hornier drunk than you ever cared to realise.
Especially when a long haired, unconventionally pretty boy, with a heart of pure melting liquid gold, crosses your path.
You uncurl your tongue from the roof of your foolish mouth and try and think back to those flirting tips Linda read you from that issues of Cosmo once. Sat on her bed in your plaid pyjamas eating cookie dough. She then pulled out a playboy mag and started to compare tips and tricks. And whether or not small tits were prettier than big ones.
But when your drunk brain shreds that not very useful memory to incoherent babbles, you struggle to locate any form of flirting or Cosmo tips on behaviour, so you’re left with an embarrassing plea sat on the tip of your tongue.
“So, what’s the best way to, well. Do you still want, I mean you can have my uhm. “ You’re gesticulating with your hands and getting precisely fucking nowhere. Your tongue tying itself in knots.
You just end up stammering. “Number. My. Um. Number.” And gesturing to yourself. You went to pieces.
You’d kick yourself for this display later on. You really would. Until your shins bleed.
Then he has to go and smile that imperfectly dazzling grin at you. Make you stammer like a moron.
“Hell yes.” Is his reply.
Before you can ask, he’s yanking a thick sharpie out his pocket like it’s nothing. He bites off the lid and rifles through his pockets for paper. He comes up empty-
So he pulls up his sleeve. And that’s where it gets very interesting-
He steps up very very closely to you. Talk about hairs breadth. He’s even more damning up close.
Those bambi eyes are even more stunning with distance halved between you. He’s all cool intimidating craziness and flirty eyes. Smelling like leather, tangy weed and some spice of plain soap. Taste of hops and red ash still swirl heavy on his breath.
He tugs up his leather sleeve. Bat tattoos fluttered across his forearm. He’s handing you the pen. Lid pushed on the end.
You look down and take it. Your hair almost brushed into his. Bangs touching. Eyes intent on yours. Close enough to touch but he doesn’t close the gap. Doesn’t touch. Just looks.
His smile curls up soft at the corners. You felt your reaction to it tug at your stomach. Gnawing.
You never thought it could be so sexy not to be touched.
The desire to kiss him has not gone away. Nor is it likely too. You’re pretty certain your spine will melt soon. Puddle away into nothing and pool sticky at your feet.
You swallow and take your grip around the pen to hold it with a tiny tremble in your fingers. It’s unnerving him being close yet at the same time, you ache inside for more. So much more.
More that wouldn’t be right considering how you’re still a little tipsy.
“You’re not worried it won’t rub off?” You ask him before you commit your number to his arm with some pretty hardcore permanence.
His smirk widens again. One day you hope you find out what that means. Contented that perhaps you never will.
“Isn’t that kinda the point now, Pencils.” He smiles. His eyes glow. You don’t know how, but they do. It’s nearly hypnotic.
You gently reach over and hold his wrist by his chain bracelet. Thumb over his pulse. Start scrawling letters blacker than bruises on that lily white arm that’s exposed to you. All bones and corded threads of sinew faded in half shadow, the other half drowned in light.
You notice he has other things scrawled on the back of his hand in wiggling blue biro. Times and dates. Because of course that’s where he writes down his weed dealings.
You finish and click the lid on the pen and pass it back. Fingertips brushing as he gently plucks the pen off you. He rolls his sleeve back down. Did always try to keep a pen on him. Never know when he might urgently be needing it.
He’s glad he didn’t forget it tonight.
Now he’s rocking one of the best semi-permanent tats he’s ever gotten. And it follows the beautiful unique shape of your phone number.
The bottom few digits peek out his sleeve and run along his wrist. Clasping the bottom of his palm.
“I’ll have to stop by that record store of yours sometime soon, too.” He adds. Looking nervous as he fiddled with his rings. Twirls it around and around his finger. The one with the skull on his left hand.
You’re so giddy your cheeks dully hurt from smiling.
“Absolutely. Come check it out. I apologise in advance for Sal. He just came out that way.” You shrug in a mysterious explanation.
“I’m on the edge of my seat.” He commented idly. “You work weekends?” He seeks. Building a pattern in his head.
“Thursday and Tuesday nights too.” You add. He nods. Makes a mental note.
“Maybe I’ll see you around school?” You hope sweetly.
“Man, I don’t know. I heard something about finals and exams earlier. Put me off. Doesn’t sound like my kinda scene.” He grins.
You definitely know what it means that time. 100% Flirt.
You smiled. “You should give it a try sometime, Munson.”
“I always happily take a pretty girls’ advice.” He says suggestively.
“Wise man.” You offer. He bows his head and his hair curls forwards over his shoulders.
He clasps his hands behind his back. Looks boyish all of sudden again. Kicks something across the tarmac with his shoe. A small stone skits away.
You turn towards your door to slot the key in the lock. He’ll never forgive himself for losing his opportunity. For once he seizes onto the little scrap of bravery life gifted him.
You turn back and your hair bounces when you look at him.
“Not to come off too strong or weird whatever, but… If you’re ever finding yourself home, alone, you know, mom and sister not around then, maybe we could hang out? Order pizza. Watch a really bad movie or two. Have a smoke-“ He offered.
Brows raising to see what you think. Fiddling with his rings on his fingers behind his back. Nervous tick. He looks like he’s expecting you to shut him down. He’s biting the inside of his lower lip waiting for your answer. He’s adorable.
“I’d love that.” You tell him with a nod.
“The smoke?” He counters. Checking that was cool with you. One brow of his crooks up. Maybe he was corrupting the goody-two shoes art student.
Your responding grin makes his belly completely flip over. Head over heels.
“Hell yes.” You echo back his genuine words.
“Only if you let me pick the movie though.” You bargain. Raising your smile to something cheeky. Defiantly winning. Twisting your hand in the lock. Hearing it give the other side.
“Nothing sappy.” He warns. In hope-
Poor misguided boy.
“Footloose is it. Gotcha.” You accept. Your grin is positively Machiavellian. He suspected there was a little spitfire spirit to you.
“American Werewolf in London.” He counter offers.
“Fine. In a double bill with The Fog. And maybe Carrie.” You add.
He tilts his chin down in an incline of a nod. “Deal.”
“With tootsie rolls. Butter popcorn, and Twizzlers.” You piped up.
He chuckles. “I see your demands and raise you a cold six pack and a joint.” He tilts his head looking crafty. “And Jolly ranchers.”
“Pleasure doing business with you.” You smile at him. Opening your front door and pausing on the front step with your hand on the doorhandle.
He stands there on your drive and you share another few seconds of that gaze that turns your bones to water. Electric bursting in your veins. Stunning you.
You definitely like him
“I may give that school thing you suggested a try. So I guess I’ll see you then.” He says in parting.
“You know. If you need directions there or anything just call me.” You dare. Unable to hold back a big grin.
He winced in taking a breath and an agonised face. “Ooo. Low blow but, fair.”
“Have a good rest of the night, Pencils.” He says in parting.
He hovers awkwardly before floundering with a weird wave that somehow turns into a two fingered salute flicking out from his temple, before he turns away and off back down the drive. Wallet chain hitting his leg as he moved.
You stand at the door and wet your lips. Your hand is so clammy on the cold door handle.
“Wait, Eddie?” You call across to him. You hop down the doorstep and onto the path.
He spins back. Hair flying as he hears the clack of your boots hitting tarmac again. You’re moving closer to him. Walking and trying to act like you aren’t half drunk and wobbling across your lawn to him with one very clear goal in mind.
He twists to face you and his eyes are all big and curious. Smile still warm on his lips.
“Yeah?” He answers. Biting his lower lip. Hands floundering not knowing what to do.
You walk right up to him and don’t waste a second. You lean in real close and kiss his cheek.
You pull back and he’s blinking at you with such a rosy blush creeping into his cheeks, that lets you know he wasn’t expecting that - at all.
He’s looking at you like he can’t quite believe you. And in the best way. Being the town pariah was hell when it came to attracting any sort of attention. From either gender.
Chicks glared at him like he was a leper. They went for the popular guys on route to college with good families and fucking picket fence futures. No one went for him. Never him. The metal head reject, with scruffy mad hair, with only his beloved warlock, a Judas Priest t-shirt, and a blunt to his name. A trailer park upbringing staining him as a hopeless cause for life. He could never scrub that stain away.
“Thanks. For the, tenth time, for seeing me home safe. A very metal move.” You say. Embarrassed with yourself. Blushing and stepping back.
Taking your hands off him and hoping you didn’t just read this wrong and fuck it all up.
You’re all wet lips and he can’t can’t stop looking at your mouth. You smell like cherry gloss and cigarette smoke and some faded fruity perfume that’s all peaches and rose petals lingering on your jacket.
And now he’s realising his inaction is making you ramble, and you’re stepping back and away-
Before he can fully know what’s got a hold of him, he’s drawing you back in.
His hand is under your chin, his rings are cold and they chill you to send shivers racing down your spine. Your hand finds itself sliding down his leather clad arm and holding on for dear life as he kisses you back.
His other hand tugs the corner of your jacket. Keeping you surrendered to him.
Holy shit. His lips are magic.
It’s dirty but somehow unbearably sweet. He tastes of beer and reds. Some long lost taste of mint too.
Unpractised. Maybe even a little sloppy. It’s graduated from something all rolled in sugar and very innocent to something far messier and dirtier.
He pushes his plush lips to yours. They’re wickedly soft and you simply curl into him. Brain blown completely away to heaven, blown away to wherever, away to god only knows- who cares.
You chase for one more second of his mouth when he pulls back. When you do break apart it’s a good thing you’re both holding each other up. Cause, fucking whoa.
Eddie swallows to speak. His thumb smears against your jawbone. You fight off a full body shiver. “I was not expecting that Pencils-“ He grins.
“Just wanted to show you my gratitude is all.” You say. Not moving your hand off his arm.
His other hand is still very much respectfully on your hip. He didn’t even dare try and move it from the side of your jeans.
“No other reason?” He asks softly. His lungs are burning, winded.
“None.” You shake your head. Meeting his eyes and smiling. You look criminally good with bruised lips and that little naughty hellfire glint living in your eyes.
“I think I’m really gonna have to find out where school is now.” He nods. Playing along to your joke with him. “Just got a whole lot more interesting. The fact I might see you around.”
“Might?” You nod. Sounds almost promising.
“Yeah that’s my way of saying I’ll absolutely be looking out for you. But I wanted to sound all cool, and casual about it.” He offers very openly. His fingers tap lightly against your hip. He’s all gestures and swinging his hands when he speaks.
You’ll be damned if this guy doesn’t wear his heart right there on his sleeve with all the zips and chains and metal patches.
“I don’t mind obvious.” You tell him. Stepping back cause you should really be going inside. Tame the way your heart is swooping around your chest like it has a mad mind of its own.
“Good. Good.” He says. A goofy little grin on.
Mourning the way his hands feel pulling off you. You stand close and he tucks his hands into his pockets otherwise he’s too tempted to reach for you again.
“Night, Munson.” You smile as you turn back and do make for your front door this time.
He softly calls across to you where you’re stepping in your door. Shaded in the silent hallway that awaits you. Streetlight orange down your white jacket back.
“Could you salvage my deadly reputation and try and forget that I’m not gonna seize any sort of dignity, and I will be calling you way too soon, Pencils.” He offers.
You laugh. Putting a finger to your lips. He was making that dog down your street bark even louder. Yapping its head off. You dread to see Mrs Abernathys curtains flick across the street. There’d be hell to pay tomorrow.
“I need an answer, here.” He answers Hollering louder. Stands there with his arms open wider. More dogs starting to bark and howl at the disturbance.
You’re laughing even harder. “Fine, yes. Now shut up!” You hiss, grinning at him across your lawn. You love how he didn’t give a shit if he woke up this whole block.
He waves at you all silly as you head inside.
You can’t resist peering out the window in your front door. Watching him practically twirl around in a circle in giddiness, manic energy and a hop in his step as he walks back across to his van. Leaping up to his door.
You chuckle to yourself and you swear to god your lips are still tingling from that completely out of the blue kiss.
Eddie’s shredding music is dull as it thuds and blares around inside his van. He starts the engine and pulls away.
He spies the Cramps cassette tape you left on the passenger seat. He taps his fingers against the wheel in tune to the drums of Black Sabbath.
His eyes flick down to the number scrawled on his wrist. Best tattoo ever.
He’s smirking all the way home.