hi my love! i have a little request if that’s alright with you <3
so eddie is taking reader on a date. reader dresses fem (skirts, dress, pinks, whites) so eddie rents some cassettes from family video such as madonna, cyndi lauper, the bangles etc. however, once eddie lets them know they have free range of the music, they move all the rented cassettes out of the way and pick up eddie’s own casettes such as metallica, iron maiden, dio etc and get super excited over them. just some super cute fluffy stuff about eddie falling so much more in love with reader?
thanks if you do darling 🫶🏻 x
hi my love! thank you for another lovely lovely request, this was fun! hope you like it
contains fem!reader, fluff [1.9k]
-
If he's completely honest, Eddie has no idea how he got here.
There's a black spot in his memory, hours and days of lost time wherein he must have done something to end up in this diner, across the table from you. He knows that there were two more dates before this, but even those are beyond his belief, and the fact you said yes to a third is entirely unreasonable.
He can't believe his luck. He's struck silly, your pretty face looking at him softly from the other side of the booth. You're all sparkly and he's convinced you're glowing. There's no light in here really, just the neons on the walls and a couple spotlights over the counter, but he thinks you look divine.
"Eds?"
His eyes meet yours and finds them wide and expectant.
"Huh?"
You smile. Pretty.
"Lost you for a minute there."
If he told you the truth, it'd be that he can't possibly concentrate on what you're saying and the cherry you've got between your finger and thumb. You keep dipping it in the whipped cream, bringing it back to your lips and licking it clean, and there's no way he can't watch.
"Sorry, sorry," he breathes, shaking himself loose. "What were you saying?"
The giggle he gets from you is holy, tinkling like windchimes, silver on silver.
"I said, we should go see a movie some time," you repeat, smiling.
"Right, yeah," Eddie responds, grateful you haven't lingered on his lack of focus. He rests an elbow on the table, beside his half-eaten burger, and holds his chin in his palm. You shuffle, leaning your own elbow just like his, holding your chin the way he is. You smile at him, your expression turning silly with your eyes fluttering closed. He watches your lashes kiss your cheek and the way your lips curl up, the cherry still dangling from between your fingers. You bring it to your lips again and stick it between your teeth, eyes still closed, pulling it off the stem. His eyes linger on your mouth, the sugary red of the cherry stuck to them. There may as well not be another soul in the diner, because all he can focus on is you, lit up with a wash of pink light and soft like nothing he's ever seen before.
Soon enough the waitress appears, lacquered fingers reaching over to take plates and your glass. As you leave he drops twenty dollars with the lady at the register, and you loop your arm with his to pull him out of the door.
Your palm smooths down his jacket sleeve, reaching his hand just as you get to his van. Opening your door, he helps you inside, the sound of your laugh and baseless objections ringing in his ears while he jogs round to his side.
As his hand curls round the handle he stands for just a second. This is it, he thinks. This is the moment he's prepared for. You're going home with him, three dates in and smitten with one another; he gets to drive you there, show you around like it's not a two-room trailer and let you kiss him as much as you want because there's not a soul around to see.
Pulling the door, he jumps into the seat and turns to you.
"Seatbelt?"
"Check," you respond with two fingers to your forehead in a salute. "The goods are safe."
He laughs a breathy sound that he doesn't know is making your head spin. Starting the engine he stretches his arm over your seat, around your back, looking over his shoulder to reverse. It's driving you wild, though he doesn't know it, how your spaces are slowly seeping into one another. The distance is closing, boundaries blurring; he moves into yours without so much as thinking about it anymore.
Gravel crunches as he floors the accelerator and screeches through the lot and onto the street. Town is quiet, it's late, and there's only one place he wants to be.
His radio's playing an Indiana metal station. It's soft, the volume kept low so he can hear you chatting to him about which movies are playing next week, but he gives in to the urge to change the station anyway. You stop speaking when he does, watching his fingers fiddle with the frequency dial, but you pick up where you left off when he settles on a random charts station.
-
"Here she is," he says flatly as he holds his front door open for you. You pass him, looking around the room.
"My shoes okay here?"
Eddie's home isn't exactly very conventional. If anything, it's a little frowned upon, even though Forest Hills stretches so far back it's nearly half the size of Hawkins itself. In any case, he's not used to people being worried about the thredbare carpet.
"Uh," he drones, lost at your question. "Yeah, sure, wherever."
You crouch down to undo your laces and pull your shoes off, lining them up neatly, toes by the wall. As you stand he closes the door behind himself and kicks his own boots off. Taking your hand, he pulls you through the untidy kitchen, hoping you're not paying too much attention, into the sanctuary of his own room.
It's tidier than usual, though you don't need to know that. You follow quickly behind him and release his warm grip to show yourself around.
He steps slowly over to the bed, sitting in his usual spot against the headboard to watch you flit around the room, eyes darting everywhere and hands even worse. You're pawing at his magazines, staring wide-eyed at the posters, strumming his guitars gently. He can't help but look at you, bewildered that someone so pretty, in a dainty pale blue sundress and white cardigan, is here, in his room. Your pristine tennis socks look so out of place against his grubby carpet.
"You can, uh, stick some music on," he says, nodding to the tape deck on a table in the corner, "if you want."
Beaming, you look at him and then to the deck, bouncing softly across the room on the balls of your feet. His eyes follow you, heart thrumming with anticipation. Its steady rhythm falters, though, when you move the small, intentional pile of tapes to one side and pick up something from underneath. This one's worn down, plastic case cracked and littered with smudged fingerprints.
"You can play whatever you want, sweets," he calls. With your back to him he can't see your expression, but he can see that you're sorting through his tapes, the ones he likes. And he sees when you settle on one of his favourites: Metallica's Kill 'Em All.
The steady crescendo of drums begins, ebbing as you toy with the volume dial, but he's not really listening, worried instead that you're doing this for him. When you turn around you're grinning, bobbing your head lightly, treading over to him slowly.
"You didn't have to put this on," he tells you.
"What d'ya mean?" Your eyes are wide with confusion, expression malleable as you settle beside him, seated on the edge of the bed, taking his hand in yours.
"This is my music," he says. "You don't have to listen to it just 'cause you're in my room."
"I like this album," you tell him honestly, face plain, and your naïve intonation makes him choke a laugh.
"What?!" you ask through the beginnings of a smile.
"I just-" He's laughing, rubbing his free hand up and down his face, pinching his nose. "I bought you all those tapes, I just assumed, I-"
"So that's why you have Cyndi Lauper over there!"
"I just assumed that's what you listen to, y'know-"
"I did think, wow, Eddie Munson, Cyndi Lauper, unexpected-"
"-a pretty girl like you, must listen to prettier music than me-"
"-imagined you holed up in your room, 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' on blast when no-one's home-"
"-hey!"
His fingers at your sides cut you both off, pulling a screeching laugh from you, your giggles blending with his as he wrestles you onto your back.
"Eddie, Eddie! Stop it, I-"
"I cannot believe you'd think I listen to Cyndi Lauper!" he yells over you, his assault unrelenting until you bring your knees up under him to kick him in the stomach. He huffs out an umph and stills, flopping down beside you.
As you finish giggling and catch your breath, you turn on your side to face him. He's lying on his back, eyes on the ceiling and hand splayed across his chest, feeling the drum of his heart beneath. Turning his head to look at you, he finds you looking back at him, your hair more tangled than before and face flushed pink.
"You did that for me?" you ask him, voice quiet like you're uttering obscenities.
"Did what?"
"Bought all those tapes. There's even Madonna over there."
He laughs, his warm breath on your face making you scrunch your nose. Though he wants so badly to kiss it, he holds off.
"Yeah," he finally admits. "I guess I just- I dunno, I never pegged you as a metal girl."
"How judgemental of you, Munson," you tease.
"Can you blame me?"
"I like being unpredictable," you tell him.
"That's one word for it," he says with a laugh, sitting up. He twists and holds his hand to you, pulling you up with him when you take it. He likes the way the rush of air lifts your hair. "You really like this?"
You hum, nodding, and sing along playfully. Standing quickly, you turn to him and scrunch your face, hands out in front of you as though you've got a guitar in them. The sight of you, in your pretty clothes, all rosy and smiley, playing air guitar to Metallica, fills him with that funny, fizzy feeling that's been pestering him since your first date. It's like firecrackers in his bloodstream, or static down his nerves, and it makes his fingers tingle.
He reaches his hands out to take your waist. As he pulls you in you stop the air guitar and let him move you as he wants: his palms smooth down your hips and to your thighs, where they urge you onto his lap. Your arms wind around his neck as you find your balance.
With his hands back on your waist, he looks up at you.
"You," he whispers, "are so pretty."
He relishes in the way your face warms at his words, the coy expression that flashes over your face, and reaches up to kiss your cheek. Your thighs are warm as his hands roam up and down, and he begins to litter kisses across your other cheek and onto your jaw.
"Eddie," you breath over him, eyes fluttering closed.
"So pretty," he repeats. "I'm so fucking lucky."
"You're pretty too," you giggle.
"Why, thank you," he says, smiling into your throat.
"So," you begin, "will you play me some Iron Maiden?"
"Christ."
"What?"
"It's like you're trying to kill me."
"What do you mean?!" you ask with another laugh, one so light it feels like there's a breeze in his brain.
He emerges from the crook of your neck and looks at you. Your face is still warm, your eyes sparkly and wide, and he wants to commit every square inch to memory.
"You're perfect," he tells you.
-
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