#High School parties
Text
🕷Is It My Body🕷
Eddie Munson x Reader
6.9k words
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.
Or;
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.
Fuck-
“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.
“Hey, uh.”
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.
~
🕷 Feast your eyes on the following bit? 🕷
#stranger things#stranger things season 4#eddie muns#eddie my boy#eddie x female reader#eddie munson x reader#steve harrington#Nancy Wheeler#johnathan byers#maxine mayfield#dustin henderson#will byers#mike wheeler#lucas sinclair#1980's#high school#high school parties#party#eddie munson x original character#eddie munson x oc#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#ride home#rescue#knight in shining armor#knight in shining dio vest
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Male Cheerleaders are Hot. Objectively. -Rhysand, Cassian, and a Bunch of Other Bitches
Day Six of Tamlin Appreciation Week: Modern AU
@tamlinweek2023
Note: There are some suggestive things in this fanfic, but nothing happens on screen.
Cassian/Tamlin endgame, but everyone is crushing on him.
“Rhysand, why are we here?” Azriel asked. “You’ve never wanted to watch any of Cassian’s games before?” They sat down in the bleachers around the football field at their school.
“What do you mean, I love coming to Cassian’s games?” Rhysand asked, looking offended.
“You have never agreed to go to one before.” Azriel pointed out. He looked at where Rhysand was staring before gasping.
“Is it about the new cheerleader?” he asked, smiling.
“No.” Rhysand said furiously. “No it’s not.”
“It totally is!” said Azriel. “I mean, come on, you’re staring entranced at the field and the players haven’t even come out yet.”
“Shut up.” said Rhysand, dropping his violently red face into his hands.
“Aww, I’m right. Aren’t I?” Azriel teased.
Rhysand moaned slightly in annoyance. “Yeah, it’s embarrassing.”
“Nah, I mean, I had a crush on Mor, and now she’s with Armen, so. And now I like Cassian of all people.” Azriel shrugged. “Now come on, let’s figure out how to woo your future beloved.”
~~
Tamlin stretched in the locker room after the game. “That was really fun for my first game.” Armen, the other cheerleader, had left the squad at the request of her new girlfriend, and they needed a new emergency member. Team leader, Feyre, had recommended him. Surprisingly, it isn’t as awkward to work with your ex as people think.
“You did good.” agreed Feyre, sitting next to him. “I was honestly a little surprised you didn’t freeze under the pressure.”
“Okay, well, rude.” Tamlin laughed a little bit, taking off the skirt and putting it in his locker. “I fucking rock all the time, I don’t know why you’re surprised.”
“Yes, I don’t know how I was surprised.” she said with a laugh. “Come on, we have an after party to go to, put back on your skirt.”
Tamlin rolled his eyes and pulled back on his skirt.
“Did you see Rhysand eyeing you from the stands?” she asked, poking his shoulder a bit.
Everyone in Tamlin’s friend group knew that Tamlin and Rhysand had once been big friends, but had stopped being friends due to some big family issue and had a falling out.
However, Feyre also knew he had never really stopped crushing on him. It was why they had broken up.
Tamlin flushed a little. “He was not.” he said in annoyance. “Don’t bother lying.”
“He totally was. I bet he thought you looked so cute.” she teased. “And, since the third of their little friend group, Cassian, is on the football team, so they’re probably gonna be there. Get your flirting on, chat him up. Get some d.” she winked and poked him lightly.
“Hey Tamlin, you looked great.” said a voice from the door. It was Tamlin’s best friend, Lucien.
“How could you see it?” Tamlin asked jokingly. Lucien was blind in one eye, and used golden contacts to look cool.
“Ha ha.” Lucien rolled his eyes and walked over, tightly hugging Tamlin from the side. “Come on, we got the party to go to.”
“How did you get invited, you aren’t on the team?” asked Elain, Feyre’s sister.
“I invited myself. Also, Tamlin.” said Lucien, squeezing Tamlin tightly.
Tamlin blushed slightly. Feyre rolled her eyes, because she was a good friend and loved to tease him for stupid reasons.
Tamlin giggled a little bit and followed Lucien and the other cheerleaders out to the after party and Rhysand’s house. Because Cassian was living there too, and he was hosting.
Very inconvenient.
~~
“You looked amazing out there!” called Nesta, Feyre’s other sister. She slammed into Tamlin, hugging him tightly. She was clearly already a little drunk.
“Hey Nesta, good to see you.” Tamlin said,
She reached out and patted his chest slightly. “So what a pretty boy out there.” she cooed, smiling up at him with a sloppy drunk look.
“Okay, thank you.” he said, removing himself from the girl’s clutches. “That’s nice of you.”
He turned slightly, looking for Rhysand, when he saw Cassian come over. “You looked amazing cheering for me.” he said with a smirk, patting his hair.
“I mean, it was the whole team, not just you.” Tamlin said, ducking slightly with a blush. And don’t blame him. Cassius was hot and so beefy. He really wanted to lick his abs sometimes. Not that he would ever admit it.
“Well, you can come cheer for me?” he suggested, leaning in and practically growling into Tamlin’s ear.
Tamlin looked around frantically and saw Feyre staring at him with a sly smile. She gave him a thumbs up and nodded.
“Okay.” said Tamlin, grabbing Cassian’s hand. “Let’s go then.”
Cassian smirked and dragged him off through a hallway to the bedrooms.
“Why does this house have so many bedrooms?” asked Tamlin as he was dragged down the hallway.
“I dunno, Rhysand’s dad is super rich.” said Cassian with a shrug.
“Don’t I know it.” Tamlin muttered. He let Cassian tug him into an empty bedroom and push him onto the bed.
~~
Tarquin walked up to Rhysand and Azriel. “Hey, do you know where Tamlin is?”
“No, he vanished a few hours ago.” said Azriel. “So did Cassian, but that's less surprising.” he sounded strangely upset about that.
“Oh, yeah, Cassian took Tamlin to one of your many bedrooms a few hours ago, I’m surprised you didn't notice.” said Feyre as she drifted over to them. “It was right after Nesta basically threw herself at him.” she giggled.
“He what?” asked Rhysand and Azriel in unison. They both looked strangely angry.
“Mhm. Lucien went over to get Tamlin, because he’s my designated driver and I have work tomorrow.” she hummed and drifted back off, looking for Nesta and Elain.
~~
Cassian ran the damp washcloth over Tamlin, making sure he felt okay. They were having chest to chest contact and Tamlin felt oddly comfortable, despite the aching in his crotch and the bruises on his back.
“I didn’t hurt you too much?” he asked, running a finger around the bruises on his back, but not touching it, just lightly running it over with the washcloth.
“Nah, I’m fine.” said Tamlin, stretching and pressing into Cassian’s chest deeper. “It was nice.” he slurred out, turning his face directly into his neck.
“I guess this isn’t the best timing to tell you I’ve had a small crush on you for a while.” said Cassian, smirking down at the blond.
“Not the most romantic of settings. Or times.” Tamlin said with a laugh.
There was a knock on the door and Lucien looked in. “Ah, sorry.” he said, red but looking at Tamlin’s very naked back and butt.
“What is it?” asked Tamlin, raising up his eyebrow.
“Feyre sent me to tell you you need to drive her home and that she has a shift soon.” Lucien said.
Tamlin nodded and got up. “Sorry Cassian, I gotta go. Friendship duties and all that.” he said, shrugging. “Sorry to leave you like this.”
“Nah, it’s fine. Be safe.” Cassian nodded and turned. “I’m gonna clean up here,” he added.
Tamlin nodded and pulled back on his skirt and a shirt from the pile of clothes that they had thrown on the floor. Lucien glared at Cassian’s back before following Tamlin out of the room and back to the party.
“Come on Feyre.” said Tamlin, finding the three sisters giggling around the punch bowl. “Drink some water, we have to get back so you can go to work.”
“Mhm, kay.” said Feyre, stumbling over to him.
Tamlin carried her over to the car, sighing as he strapped her into the passenger seat. “She’s gonna regret that in the morning.”
~~
When Tamlin woke up the next morning, he saw a text from Cassian. He wasn’t sure how, since he had never given him the number.
Unknown
‘Hey Tamlin. It’s Cassian. Just texting to make sure you’re okay and got home safe!!!’
Tamlin smirked and texted back.
Tamlin
‘Hey Cassian. Yeah, I’m fine, got home okay.’
It was barely a minute before the bubbles and dots popped up.
Cassian
‘Hi!!! Glad you’re okay!!! Anyway, I want you to know I wasn’t lying when I said I had a crush on you.’
Tamlin smirked and thought for a moment before texting back.
Tamlin
‘If this is your way of asking me out, then yes.’
Cassian
‘Great!!!
‘We can go out tonight if you’re free!!!’
Tamlin
‘Yep, I’m free.’
He could practically hear Cassian’s screech of joy on the other side of the screen.
#tamlinweek2023#tamlin week 2023#tamlin#tamlin week#pro tamlin#tamlin/cassian#cassian/tamlin#parties#high school parties#one night stands -> boyfriends#everyone likes tamlin
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I am not immune to funny crackships.
+ Bonus
#*falsettos your chasitys*#this started out as a ‘aha yea they fucked once in highschool’ joke for me how did I end up here#it went from ‘Teddy: yea man it doesn’t count if your socks are on’ to queer teen situationship in the 90s angst with religious overtones#I would like to blame everyone who has made holybastard fanart/fanfics for converting me#I don’t see them as a long term relationship but more on an active affair between two old high school ‘friends’#I drew these while listening to The Last Dinner Party ans now I can’t stop thinking about holy bastard to some of their songs#‘picture me in bed- under your crucifix- under your long black hair- I’ll see you on Sunday’ are actual lyrics how can I not-#I just impor you to listen (there only 5 songs as of now) and do the same- ESPECIALLY SINNER ITS SUCH A MARK CODED SONG#who would have figured the queer ex religious person would be a sucker for queer relationships with religious themes#grace chasity#peter spankoffski#pete spankoffski#mark chasity#holy bastard#starkid#team starkid#starkid productions#starkid fanart#starkid animation#npmd#nerdy prudes must die#nerdy prudes must die fanart#npmd fanart#npmd starkid#hatchetfield#hatchetverse#hatchetfield universe#fanart#my art#my animation
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gerard way has looked like about 300 different people throughout his life and I can shamelessly say that I am deeply and madly in love with every single one of them
#yes this still applies to scraggly homeless-looking bear gerard in 2017-2020 (ish) fucking fight me#also he was a cutie in high school#I’m 16 and if he went to my college I would literally fall in love with him don’t even#I’m just whipped basically this post is me saying I am pathetic and in love and whipped 🫶#speakfromtheheartbeeeefletcher#gerard way#gee way#mcr#my chem#my chemical romance#my chemical fucking romance#suddenly needing the gerard way eras tour#respectfully idgaf about some white lady in different coloured leotards GIVE ME SKELETON BLACK PARADE GERARD TURNING INTO PARTY POISON
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noah kahan really said growing up in a small, bitter hometown is about the rage and the hatred that's been sung about many times before but it's also about love and devotion and the 'all three of us were drowning and we didn't know how to save each other but there was an understanding that we were all drowning together' of it all and knowing people so intimately yet not being able to help anyone and he's morally grey at best in a lot of his songs and objectively the bad guy in others and that's just how it is and it's about substance abuse and normalised crime and teen suicide and country roads and failed exams and leaving and being left and love and hate and love and hate and love and
#anyway. listening to orange juice again. like it's my fault#girls when growing sideways and view between villages and northern attitude and homesick and stick season come on#like new england must actually be called that for a reason bc you cant convince me this guy isnt actually secretly singing about england#like even when he sings about the WEATHER im like !!! this guy gets it fr!!!#IM TIRED OF DIRT ROADS NAMED AFTER HIGH SCHOOL FRIEND'S GRANDFATHERS AND MOTHERFUCKERS HERE DONT KNOW#THEY CAUGHT THE BOSTON BOMBERS TIME MOVES SO DAMN SLOW I SWEAR I FEEL MY ORGANS FAILING I STOPPED CARING ABOUT A MONTH AGO#SINCE IT'S BEEN SMOOTH SAILING I WOULD LEAVE IF ONLY I COULD FIND A REASON IM MEAN BECAUSE I GREW UP IN NEW ENGLAND!!!#or the entirety of growing sideways. divvied up my anger into 30 seperate parts keep the bad shit in my liver and the rest around my heart#r u even listening. what the hell#HONEY COME OVEERRRRRR THE PARTY'S GONE SLOWERRR AND NO ONE WILL TEMPT YOU WE KNOW YOUVE GONE SOBER <- sobbing#noah kahan#stick season
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Smosh high school au or something idk
#Tommy is the main character#tommy bowe#amanda lehan canto#courtney miller#spencer agnew#arasha lalani#shayne topp#smosh#smoshblr#Just feeling like..a high school party vibe from these#spommy#probably at least#spourtommy#maybe#au idea#tomey bones#kimmy jimenez#angela giarratana#tommy#spencer#courtney#shayne#amanda#arasha#kimmy#angela
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personally i didn't mind the original "childish" g3 outfits; it made them look more like 15 year olds, y'know?
#i know they're fashion dolls but in gen 1 90% of the outfits consisted of miniskirts and 6 in heels#and granted i grew up in a smaller town--maybe its different in the cities or smth#but kids normally only dressed like that to go to parties and stuff. it was a lot more casual going to school#plus its nice having a wider variety of outfits#my only real complaint for the g3 outfits so far is that some of them could use#a bit more black/darker colors to better evoke that classic goth-y mh vibe#and itd make the vivids & pastels pop more#monster high
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“ask your mom if you can sleep over”
#i miss sleepovers#sleepover#slumber party#tw food#2000s childhood#2000s nostalgia#nostalgiacore#nostalgia#high school musical#childhood memories#sfw agere#flickr#childhood photos
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i think of them frequently. in terms such as these
#my art#mcr#my chemical romance#fun ghoul#party poison#kobra kid#jet star#they're so funny to me sorry i wish i was friends with them in high school. guys i would vape in the girls' bathroom during bio with
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STARKID TRENDING CATEGORY 5 AUTISM EVENT
#I MEAN I KNOW THIS IS THE GAY THEATRE KID WEBSITE#BUT I ALWAYS THOUGHT OF STARKID AS PRETTY NICHE?? I GUESS???#I'VE NEVER SEEN IT TREND#I DIDNT ANTICIPATE THAT AT ALL#AUGH#BEAST MODE#i really have no concept of this site's userbase tbh#i didn't know if ghosts would trend after s5#but i mean REALLY i was thinking 'well it would be quite cool if starkid trended but it's not 2012 so i'm really expecting nothing'#like fully this has put me into shock#sorry. but like i had no perception of this#me thinking that skblr was a small and fairly niche community#anyway#starkid#i love npmd so much i've been listening to high school is killing me on repeat since the 15th of september#anyone else watching hf halloween party btw? it's in fifteen minutes i'm so excited for workin boys and the new info about the future of hf#gnomeantics original 🌟
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i’ll go see you again tomorrow (spring is coming to an end) ; sashisu
[ part 0 - first meeting ]
synopsis; the gradual blossoming of a youth shared with three strange classmates, at the weird, isolated boarding school you all attend. as the seasons of your first year together pass, the relationship between you changes into something you don’t need to put into words to understand.
word count; 1.6k
contents; sashisu/reader (but can be read as either platonic or romantic, or something inbetween!! i wrote it with the latter in mind), gn!reader, no curses au (dw they’re all still a little bit insane and damaged), very shoujo manga-esque, reader is a little bit in love with all their friends, just wholesome comfy vibes :), characters may be ooc but pls bear with me </3
a/n; this is the shorter opening piece of a sashisu/reader series i’m writing and the first out of six planned parts!! :> the rest will be much longer this is just me setting the tone. sorta. i’m extremely normal about sashisu and i wanted to write something summery and sweet so <3
you first meet them in a sun-soaked classroom, with blue-tinted windows.
the room in question, clearly not having been of use for some time, is just a little dusty. enough that you notice it, nose scrunching up as your gaze trails over the space.
tiny specks of light dance around, meeting and intersecting between the gaps where streaks of sunlight fall and illuminate the floorboards. they’re oddly mesmerizing, a little hard to forget. the flicker of their movement begins to etch itself into your retinas; for some reason, you can’t quite take your eyes off them.
eventually, your attention is caught by something else, coaxing you into moving your gaze towards the translucent windows. they glimmer softly, tantalizingly in the sunlight, reflecting the blue of the sky. through the glass, it’s all you can see at first — a sky so blue that it’s a little irritating. big, white clouds are scattered like splotches of paint across a blue canvas, treading gently over the boundary of your vision.
in a similar fashion, the ground of the schoolyard is littered with dots of white. for just a second, you delude yourself into thinking that it’s snow; it’s not until you spot the skeletal trees and their pale blossoms that you see them for what they are. soft petals flutter down to the ground eagerly, covering everything in a pure white.
it really is eerily reminiscent of a snowy landscape, ephemeral in its beauty. it gives you the impression of having stepped over some sort of threshold, into another realm, another world entirely. coated in apricot blossoms, soaked in sunlight.
(it shouldn’t be possible from where you’re standing, behind the windows — but the scent reaches you all the same. everything smells of apricots.)
it’s springtime, and you’re in the prime of your youth.
a youth you’re about to share with three other kids, all standing in front of you and wearing mildly indifferent expressions as you give each other a brief glance.
you try not to stare too hard, but it’s difficult to resist the temptation. three new classmates, mysterious and just slightly intimidating; two guys, and one girl. the tiny glances you steal at them aren’t very sneaky, but you doubt they’d care, when they’re all doing the same.
you study their appearances, eager to sate the curiosity clawing at your heart.
the girl is pretty.
the expression on her face is laid-back, almost bored, and she looks a little like she doesn’t quite want to be here. her hair reaches down to her chin, just barely, brown and smooth and silky. estimating her exact height is a little tough; you can tell she’s fairly short, but you don’t know how much of it is exaggerated, courtesy of her placement between the other two. their lanky legs and broad shoulders only make her look smaller in comparison.
her eyes are chestnut-coloured, a little dim, somewhat hazy. there’s a mole under one of her eyes, too, and you’re acutely aware of how charming you find it. you’re relieved to have at least one girl in your class, anyhow. you hope she’s nice.
the boy on her right is pretty, too.
he’s much taller, and wearing a somewhat serious expression, but something about him feels almost comforting all the same. he seems relaxed, but also sharp, as his eyes trail across the room. his hair is black and silky, and it’s long — or so you assume, judging by the fact that he’s got it in a bun. two things about him stand out in particular; one, the black gauges on his ears, and two, a single lock of hair framing his face. his hair is tied up and neat, prim and proper, with the exception of his bangs. you don’t think it looks bad, exactly, but it’s an odd choice.
at first glance, you think his eyes are black, but when a ray of sunlight falls across his face you realize that they’re brown. a deep colour, oddly soothing, warm. little sparks of amber glitter in the depths of his irises, illuminated only by the sun. it gives you the impression that there’s more to him than meets the eye.
then there’s the other boy.
he’s the most intimidating out of the three, without a doubt, though you still can’t pinpoint exactly why. he strikes you as particularly unnerving; maybe it’s the expression on his face, that you can’t seem to identify. he’s also tall, very tall, even taller than the other guy — though only by a smidge. he towers over you slightly, and that unnerves you even further. there’s something in the way he’s standing that almost seems a little menacing. his hair is white, and soft, and just a tad messy. and he’s wearing a pair of round sunglasses, even though you’re indoors.
you can’t see his eyes well, behind the black glass, but you get the vague impression that they’re blue when sunlight cascades down the contours of his face and reflects in them.
you take another moment to simply look at them, observing them, as if trying to reach some sort of conclusion about what they’re like. it doesn’t really work, but you do get some semblance of an impression.
finally, your teacher clears his throat, breaking the silence of the classroom — urging you to hurry up and get the introductions done and over with. the impatient reminder snaps all four of you out of your collective trance.
the first person to speak up is the boy with the weird bangs. that alone gives you a sense of his personality; polite, proper, the first to do the thing no one really wants to do.
”my name is suguru geto,” he begins, well mannered. ”it’s nice to meet you.” his voice is pleasant, somehow. nice to listen to. there’s something comforting about it, that you can’t quite place; it sounds almost familiar, like you’ve heard it all your life.
then, the cute girl chimes in, casual and unbothered as she fiddles with something in her pocket. ”shoko ieiri. just call me shoko,” she says, short and sweet.
she really is pretty, you muse, bathed in the streaks of sunlight falling haphazardly across the room. and she seems nice, not uptight or obnoxious; the kind of person that’s easy to talk to, easy to be friends with. you think you like her already. but she notices your lingering stare, and so you look away, gaze falling to the floorboards.
finally, after a slight pause, the boy with the sunglasses speaks up. you still can’t get a good read on his expression. ”… satoru gojo,” is all he says, and you can’t seem to grasp his tone of voice, either.
it irks you, though. you’re not sure why. you almost get the sense that he thinks he’s appeasing you, by introducing himself, like hearing his name is a priviliege. that, and you feel a little like you’re being dissected when his gaze falls on you — like he’s weighing your value, deciding your worth. you think you almost catch a glimpse of his eyes behind the black tint of his glasses, and they strike you as acutely menacing, bright blue and uncanny. you decide that you don’t like him, and that his sunglasses are kinda ugly.
their gazes fall on you, at last.
you’re the only one whose name they don’t know, now. it’s a kind of power, in a way, the power of mystery. intrigue. their stares feel heavy on your skin, and you feel more than a little nervous; but you’re intent on following the silent cue, all the same.
and you do so, dutifully, raising your hand up in a silent hello before tentatively saying your name. then, in a voice you hope doesn’t come across as bored or unpleasant:
”— it’s nice to meet you.”
some of them hum in affirmation, as if to say it’s nice to meet you too — others remain silent. even when the introductions are finished, you continue to look at each other, vaguely and discreetly, as if trying to look inside each other’s heads.
but then your teacher begins to speak, in an authorative voice, and you’re snapped out of the trance, once more.
he babbles on and on, about something you’re sure is important, something about the school and the classes you’ll be having and the dorms and so on. you try to listen, you really do, but it’s tough — you vaguely get the gist, but all you can really think about is your classmates, still so mysterious and intimidating.
you try to repeat their names, inside your mind, trying to ingrain them into your memory.
suguru geto, shoko ieiri, and satoru gojo.
you still don’t really know what to think about them. shoko will probably be fairly easy for you to warm up to, but the other two are a different story. all three of them seem to have strong personalities, reflected in their eyes; a dim hazel, a deep umber, and a stark azure. you don’t know what’s hidden in them, but you have a strange inkling that you will, in due time.
that’s how the four of you meet. and in this moment, as you look into their eyes for the first time, you have no idea how much your life has changed — how much they’ll change it for the better.
you only know that it’s springtime, and that you’re in the prime of your youth.
a youth you’re about to spend with these three kids in front of you, who you know nothing about. some part of your soul urges you to find out, for yourself.
maybe you will.
(outside the sun-soaked classroom, through the blue-tinted windows, the world observes your meeting with bated breath and barely contained excitement.)
part i
#title is taken from the lyrics of yorushika’s ’spring thief’ btw i listened to it while writing this n cried <3 its sooo sashisu.#anyway!!! this series ended up kinda reader-centric but the focus is meant to be on the relationship between all 4 of them#its just… really easy to analyze the characters from a third party pov. and im a shameless self inserter so. x reader it is!#this series is also my excuse to (attempt to) analyze sashisu as a trio/individually but idk if my own interpretation will align w/ canon#in my defense theyre a lot less traumatized in a no curses au#but i still wanted to try and explore their high school selves + their issues w/ intimacy and trust n all that. im obsessed with them.#so i hope i did a decent job :’) anyway thats enough ranting in the tags if u read this far i am in Love With You#sashisu x reader#shoko ieiri x reader#geto suguru x reader#gojo satoru x reader#sashisu#gojo satoru#geto suguru#shoko ieiri#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk x reader#…. i think thats all#jujutsu kaisen#jjk
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🕷Your web,I’m caught🕷
Eddie Munson x Pencils (OC) slow burn series, Part I
7.6k words
Summary: Snorting laughter at the disappearing Jocks back. Marlboro red clamped between his lips. Smoke slithering out his smile. Between the cracks of his straight teeth.
When you saw who it belonged too. The laugh. The cigarette smoke.You weren’t even suprised.
Who else could it be-Who else would be doing a drug deal on the outskirts of a high school party, in the woods, at almost eleven at night, but Eddie “the freak” Munson.
Authors note; So, I wrote this because I probably have Eddie Munson brain rot, and because I just love this funky lil freak ok? It’s kinda long. No smut (yet) I might do more parts. We shall see. ~ (any feedback or comments are very much welcome folks)
It was through Hawkins like wildfire on bone dry kindling. One spark of friction and the whole thing soared to churning flames in a hot second.
No survivors.
Kyle Rothman’s parents were going to visit family in Elwood for some big fancy party.
Anniversary, you’d heard. Funeral, someone else had bemoaned.
Eight o’clock Friday night. Kyle’s House on 1280 Abalone Drive. Bring your own beer.
This is how you found yourself bundled unwillingly into the plump passenger seat of your friend Linda’s station wagon come Friday night.
Bouncing along on the safe suburbia streets to a godawful party, peppered with the usual dumb jocks and poisonous cheerleaders. The freaks and nerds tended to stay in their own lanes. Keep well away.
Lucky fucks.
Two six pack of Coor’s sat rattling at your feet. She’d spent half an hour teasing your kinked hair all big, and persuading you to slick on some blue eyeliner and glitter. You drew the line when she approached you with this tube of waxy fuschia lipstick.
You batted her hand away with contempt and let her slip huge plastic blue earrings in your ears instead. It goes with your top. She’d chirped.
Technically, her top. It was a loaner.
Really, you���d tried so goddamned hard to weasel out of it.
You considered pulling an all nighter as an excuse. A painting you’d forgotten to do for art class. A Chem lab final. The fact you didn’t take Chem non-withstanding. Or a sudden very fast acting sick spell to dodge the draft.
Mom’s away. It’s me and Charlie. And she’s on nights now. I can’t leave the house, Linda.
Your door has locks, now doesn’t it? Don’t be square. We’re seniors. One little party to take the edge off.
I’m good with my edges the way they are, thanks.
She wore down your stubbornness with the sugary sweet relentless attitude. Harder than grainy sandpaper against your onerous mood. She won. Softened you into submission. Ground you down and drowned the fight out of you with her strong army of ‘pretty pretty pleases’.
With a heap of maraschino cherries dumped on top for good measure, she wrapped you round her little finger like a silk ribbon with promises of movie nights and lots of beer. Pizza too. And her eternal love and devotion. She promised to buy you some weed. Give you her Soul. Her first born.
She really really wanted you to go with her to this fucking party. God knows why. She’ll spend the night with her jock. Not you.
She sat next to you in the drivers seat. In her hot pink tiered skirt and skinny white high heels. Blond curls all frizzy and piled half up on her head with a pink scrunchie.
Her little lilac purse with a long strap sat perched on your hip. Containing four condoms, gloss, and a pack of lifesavers zipped securely inside.
Told you right away what kinda night she was expecting to have.
She’s brimming with energy cause her meathead is going tonight too. On the basketball team and practically a clone to High School royalty, Jason Carver. And her new squeeze is persona-non-grata with her strict parents for bringing her home once past curfew, and half cut. So this is one of the only chances they get to make out and do hand stuff in the guest bedroom.
Atleast someone’s excited for tonight. And thank god it’s her. You want to stay festering in the land of piss and vinegar with a scowl slapped on your face. Razor slashes of your glaring eyes landing on all those preppy idiots.
Because you liked to sit at an easel, armed with your mad array of bold paints and a brush. And you actually liked and were good at it. That instantly afforded you some hatred from the athlete crowd.
Linda reaches over and nudges you with a bony elbow. Knocking you out your self imposed funk. You side eye her for being a pest. She sing-songs cheery cooing words at you over husky Joan Jett on the radio. Words all prim and sickly like butter wouldn’t even melt.
“C’mmooon. There’ll be drink. I heard that Jason is bringing some of his dads liquor.” She trills away like tweetie pie.
“There’ll be a lot of jocks too. Lot of jocks on a lot of drink. They won’t know the difference between a viable mate and a wet hole in the ground.” You pointed out. Scuffing the door with the tip of your shoe. Black. Faux leather kitten heel boots.
She’d shoved those at you too. The boots. You wore the same size. Annoyingly. Instead of clinging to the comfort of your usual paint spattered reeboks. She wrinkled her nose up and tore your sneakers away from your grip. Turned away to dust more neon pink blush on her cheekbones.
“You’re gross.” She grimaced at you as she turns a corner. The bracelets on her arms slap and click together as she shuffled the wheel.
“Gross but right.” You poured back. Flicking hair out your eyes. It felt stiff and dry with all the stuff she rubbed and sprayed on it. The noxious chemical stink of too much hairspray and her candy-like Revlon perfume choked the interior of her car. You usually kept your hair back with a scrunchie. Possibly with a pencil or a paintbrush tucked into the bun.
“Just try and not be a catty bitch. Get a drink. Have a dance. Take that iron rod out your ass for once.”
“Its good for my posture.” You sniped at her as she smacked her glossy lips together in the rear view - not checking the car behind her or anything important like that.
“Pretty bad for your sex life though. Yours is particularly tragic right now.” She shot back dryly. Dry as sand and that dig was below the belt.
“Volume series tragedy is what I was actually aiming for.” You grinned at her. Layering the charm on thick.
Not letting her blows have anywhere to land. You scooped up her words and threw them back at her before the typical Linda shrapnel got it’s chance to pierce your skin.
It had been a while, sure. But that didn’t mean you were going to a kegger, to get blackout wasted, and end up dry humping the nearest small dicked athlete in a letterman two tone jacket. You liked to think you had taste. And a little modicum of class.
“You know I don’t get to see Jonny very often. Not since he made the team. I’d look like a loser turning up tonight all by myself.” She whines. Bitching. Stomping her foot on the gas pedal like a brat.
“Next thing I’ll have to start having to sit with the freaks at lunch. Christ, can you imagine?” She scoffs. “Me at the losers table with freak Munson and the rest of his social rejects.”
You gave her a look for that. Blasted her your chilly side eye for her small mindedness.
They were nerds, sure. Into D&D, metal music or band.
They weren’t lepers.
God forbid you ever said this aloud. But, you actually admired the way that some people didn’t conform to the mind numbing rules of popular or preppy. You liked that they cared enough to be themselves. Fuck what others say or think. The punk attitude clinging deep in you found it ballsy and brave.
Maybe they were all braver than you were- hiding yourself away in art class or the Library day after day instead of having to decide what table you’d be sorted onto. Or welcomed at. Chained too.
You weren’t entirely sure Linda would save you a space at the table with the royalty. You didn’t belong there. Your clothes weren’t preppy and cute. You didn’t wear bubblegum neon colours. Or trade gossip. You knew who Siouxsie and the Banshees were. That most likely tipped you into nerd territory. Loser crowd recruit.
You’re sure there’d be a place carved out, so where, for one the arty type, like you. Eternally graphite smudged hands, or flecks of paint dried gummy in your hair. Leafing through your sketchbook and scribbling away. Eyes down, plugged into your Walkman and latest Talking Heads or Smiths cassette.
“Could you be more of a stuck up snob?” You asked with rising hilarity in your voice.
“Yeah.” She preened. Slowing down to make the dreaded turn onto Kyles. Bounces the huge clunky thing onto the nearly busy, paved driveway.
“I am dating a jock now, you know.” She hums. Pleased with herself.
Your eye roll was almost audible.
“Don’t forget to wash your hands after and check for crabs.“ You bat your mascara thick lashes all sickly as you coo the words at her.
You grab the beers and grumpily make your feet leave the car. It’s a trudge but you manage it. You slam the car door because you needed to direct your still seething annoyance somewhere.
She bumps her door shut with her hip and properly wiggles her feet into her heels. Long tanned legs of hers bare and peeping out her pink skirt. A gauzy white top and swingy pink earrings stood neon out her bouffant blonde perm. You weren’t flashing nearly as much.
You wore your white leather jacket with the squeezing black and gold belt she nipped around your middle. Made your tits look awesome, and bigger, her words not yours. Her bright blue top that hangs off one shoulder. Soft black jeans and her back heeled pirate boots which click as you walk. She’d been obsessed with Adam Ant for a while.
Onto your wrists she’d threaded yet more bright jewellery. And the plastic hoops dangling from your ears, you kept on having to untangle it from your hair every four seconds. Your wavy fringe kept on flicking in your eyes.
You stand with the beer and look up at the split ranch style house in front of you. Cicadas humming already. The lawn is green and fuzzy short and the street lights cast a dozy orange thrown into pools everywhere. The house is set back and stood alone. Well spaced out from the neighbours. It backed into the tall dark woods. No risk of noise complaints.
Brown wood and overhanging eaves. It’s a big place. Each window lit up a drowsy yellow. And crowds of voices roils. The tell tale whump-whump of whatever lame ass pop music is blasting along and pulsing at the walls and shaking the windows from the inside.
You step towards the front door. Linda actually scurries along in her heels. Jason’s jeep parked right upfront means the cavemen had already descended. She fluffs her hair and grips the door handle. Slowly jerking it open. It was too loud to hear knocks anyway. The party was in full swing already.
The first thing you do when you come inside? Wince.
Club Tropicana is bellowing loudly through the house on what is very clearly very deafening speakers. The drum beats drown your ears. The thrum of the base plucks the air. You feel the thud of it through the thick squashing carpet.
Someone’s made a vain attempt to party up the place. Twinkle lights glimmer in the living room where many bodies are dancing and throwing hands in the air. Fierce chilli red. Neon green. Sapphire sea blue, spots of light dotted and swimming around the dark ceiling where the lights were poorly tacked. Last minute attempt you’re guessing.
Red cups sloshing drink everywhere. Half drunk beer cans and bottles stood on every flat surface. Some toppled over and leaking dark dribbled spots into the carpet. The dank smell of cigarettes and some musty weed clouds the air.
High schoolers are strewn across the couch. Some making out. Two seconds from dry humping right in the open. Some were chatting. Laughing at their own drunkness. Crowding the narrow hallways.
Linda scans around the crowds. Flirtily shimmying her fingers in a wave when she sees her Jock. She almost bounces on the spot. Giddy smile splitting her lipstick.
Her boyfriend lumbers across and you’re quickly forgotten on the doormat. She takes her purse off you. And one of the six packs.
“Bye?” You state to her with a frown as she preened and laughed as they joined hands.
“Find you later.” She breezed. Her smile was so wide. Cheeks full of blush. Fake and real.
“Wrap it before you tap it.” You growl at her. Narrowing your eyes to pin slits. She flips you the bird when she totters off after her gorilla in basketball threads.
Not four seconds later they’re wrapped around each other like leeches. Tongues down throats. Waxy glossy lipstick all over their chins. He whispers something in her ear when they break apart and they wind through crowds headed for the stairs. Beer forgotten. She’s giggling he’s got a shit eating grin on.
That had taken all of eight seconds past your feet crossing the doormat before your abandonment.
When Four Tops starts blasting. You’ve decided; you must seek out some liquor. You can’t be forced to suffer this indignity of a night in any kind of sobriety.
You growl to yourself. Your mood just plummeted so way far down it could be in the South Pole by now. A pit of acid and spiky nails and broken glass was your stomach. Mood went from foul to fouler.
Armed with one six pack, you heft your way to the kitchen. Pushing past dancers and athletes that line the doorways. Elbow past a couple very loudly making out. They don’t even notice your shouldering byYour reward for basically commando busting your way through crowds is the sight of the kitchen. For some reason the lights are off and purple lights are drowning the room. The colour of Lilac and moody nightshade bruises. A huge bowl of ruby red punch half gone sits on the island. Spiked no doubt. Fine by you.
Liquor bottles stand with tops ripped off, cheap whiskey and vodka. Beer kegs on rosy towels on the floor in the far corner. Red solo cups are scattered everywhere. Crushed, used and not. Chips are half eaten in a messy bowl. Popcorn too. Spilled all over the place. You didn’t envy the cleanup.
You grab a clean one and dunk it into the punch. It spills down your fingers and you suck the drips away. Sip some. The terrific cheap sugar of something that tasted like it was trying to be fruity, combined with the bitchy bite of vodka. Perfect.
You lean against the counter and nurse a cup. You dive back for another. The first slipped down way too easily. Cherry red staining your tongue. Vodka seeping into your legs and arms with its lazy sluggish heat.
You wrap one arm around yourself and stand leaning against the counter. The granite dug into the back of your hips painfully.
Some Basketball jocks who barely lift their eyes to regard you as a form of life, bustle rudely past and knock into you. Sloshing your cup to spill down your top. Drink rolls in drips off your chin.
“Watch it loser.” One of them drunkenly snickers at you. Tossed the words carelessly over his shoulder as they go to draw more shitty beer from the keg. His friend laughed at his crass remark to you.
Fuckin meatheads.
You scoff under your breath. Mood sour you slam your hand down on a can of beer and take your still somewhat full cup out the back door you can see left wide open the other side of the island.
You mumble a curse word at them loud enough to hear as you slip past. “Pricks.” You catch one of their hands with their cups so they drop it by surprise.
“Bite me, babe.” One slurs. Leaning over and holding the handle. Opening his arms at you like some twisted invitation. His gruff words didn’t threaten you.
You turn your head and spit words at them. Eyes narrow under your frizzy fringe. The drink helping get your tongue bold.
“Go find some balls to play with. Idiots” you snipe as you feel the delightful sensation of stepping out the house and into the dark back yard.
You brandish the V’s at them with your fingers and your chipped blue nail polish as you slip out the door and into the mild night. Shoes clicking down the steps. You hear their sneers as you leave.
“Stupid bitch.”
You walk around the perimeter of the pool. You don’t want to know why there’s floating beer cans and a bikini top strewn at the bottom.
You keep walking. Your feet only just unsteady. Out towards the very far back of the yard. The dark border of the trees seemed threatening. Huge towering trunks and dark leafy tips barely grazed by the starlight. Silent sentinels of night. No light snuck back here. Barely any orange light from the street or the rooms of Kyles house reaches all the way out here.
There’s ratty lawn chairs and a couple of empty cans rattling around on the lawn. Evidence that some people were partying here before you. But went back inside to dance or drink. Or went into the huge woods looming just behind you for some clandestine privacy. Or to try and scope out a bedroom.
You take your jacket off and spread it beneath you before you settle down on the end of a blue lounger. The plastic creaks with your weight. Sinks just a bit into the spongy grass. You sit yourself down and take your first deep breath.
You look at that busy house down the slope of the garden. The trash floating in the blue square sear of the pool. The windows limned in yellow. Crowds jump and burst within. Many voices and thudding party pop carry out to you. It’s a Madonna song now. Drifting up the grass that freckled, speckled with slithers of ochre light from the street. The other half carved in dark linear shadows.
You were drunk. Slightly. Not wanting to be here. Definitely. On the peripheral like a distant planet in orbit. Trying to find the place you could belong too. You didn’t know if you ever would. For some people it seemed damn easy. The need to fit. To be.
You had your art. Your drawings. Your craving for your Walkman and the solace of your music and what that bought you. Your job at the record store which you live love loved. Even though your boss, Sal, who was mercurial and was all cynical-moody as anything. But underneath that crusty exterior he was good to you. You still loved it.
You had a sad set of dreams pushed back, way back, nesting under your skin.
One day maybe if you were very lucky, you’d be far outta this town living them dreams. You sure as shit hoped so.
It wasn’t so bad. When all was said and done, at the very least, you didn’t just melt into an easy personality to please other people. Slap on a fake persona to get others to like you. Paste it on every morning. Beam a smile and wear things falsely. You couldn’t bear being that shallow just to have girlfriends to chit chat with at lunch. You couldn’t live that way.
When you tip your head back. You find yourself all of a sudden laying back. Body dizzy. Mind swirling. That punch was strong. You suspect it wasn’t just vodka. Maybe some tequila thrown in there too. You drank it too quick to decipher.
You don’t fight the movement. Spreading back. You can see stars. The majesty of the heavens. All those endless scattered white pearls that wink and shimmer in the endless blue between spots of murky smeared cloud.
After a long minute, you sit up to keep on knocking back your drinks.
You toss back more red vodka punch and don’t stop until the cup is empty. Red dregs. The wonderful snap of vodka makes you hiss through the sting as you finish it.
Nothing is stopping you tonight. One down, then you’re cracking open the cold beer. The satisfying hiss and the hoppy cheap mist spurts over your fingers.
“Here’s to edges.” You toast your beer up to no one. “Mine in particular.”
Your head felt fuzzy. Your tongue loose. You welcomed the sensation. Let it bleed through you and unwind the taut bowstring of your tension. You could really use a smoke right about now. You have to hide them at home. Charlie wouldn’t approve.
You swig the beer. It’ll have to do. It’s definitely cheap and tasted like it. But it’s cold and you just need to unwind your tightening steel wire spool of anger.
Fucking Linda. Fucking Jocks. Dragging you here only to ditch you in favour of sucking face and now probably busy right now sucking other body parts with her gorilla of a boyfriend.
You kick one of the crumpled cans on the lawn with your pirate booted foot. The resounding crunch and rattle comes off far far louder than you’d thought. Knocking off into the trees. Bouncing back like a slap, off the house.
It’s then you hear that maybe you didn’t have as much privacy as you had previously thought.
An odd sort of whispered hissing starts growing louder. The steady crunch of a twig being broken underfoot. Rustling of brittle paper leaves under a sneakered foot. The distant tang of Marlboro smoke curling around the trees.
Someone. Or more than one someone, was in the woods behind you.
The voice comes again. Deep enough to be a guys. Pitchy enough to still be a whisper. “The fuck was that?”
Another voice answers. Louder. Confident. Whispers not tamping down his volume. His tone is mocking.
“Look man, I don’t have all night. Quit wasting my time. 25 for a half ounce. Or I walk away right now and take the sweet stuff with me.”
Your drunk head strains to hear more. You lean further back. Like that will make one scrap of difference. You slosh down more beer and listen through the breeze ruffling the imposing wall of trees.
You hear some more rustling. The unsteady shuffling of feet. A sighed huff. The slap of something into an open palm.
“Pleasure doing business with you.” The sarrcy confidence voice answers. There’s a soft rustling of a plastic baggie.
“Whatever, freak.” Comes the grumble.
“My, my, Such manners. You kiss your mommy with that mouth.” Sneers back the voice. Lilt of humour and sarcasm composing his words.
You turn your head back to see someone break out the shadow swallow of the tree line. A guy in a letter man jacket breaks away and stalks drunkenly through the garden on wobbling legs. Shoving something like a crinkly plastic bag down deep into his pocket. Green and white baseball cap backwards on his head.
He doesn’t seem to notice you sat in your spot. When you raise your beer to take another sip your movement catches his eye. He almost trips over his own feet. Frowns at you.
“What you staring at, loser?” He barks grumpily at you. Bit his teeth around the insult.
You don’t offer a response. You swallow your retort down.
Something about pot making you lose brain cells, him not being so stupid as to take the risk. Needs all the help he can get.
You kinda hate yourself for staying silent But you let it go. You chug more beer. And just try and sit here and not feel.
He turns back and lumbers his stupid way back towards the house. Feet stomping over empty beer cans. You swallow down more beer and watch the party continue on without you.
Apparently, so was someone else.
A sudden flick coming from behind you makes you startle. Twisting back. A lighter being struck to life as this amazingly noiseless person behind you finally came out the tree line.
“That was one hell of a charming duuude.” Mocked the voice. Snorting laughter at the disappearing Jocks back. Marlboro red clamped between his lips. Smoke slithering out his smile. Between the cracks of his straight teeth.
When you saw who it belonged too. You weren’t even suprised. Who else could it be-
Who else would be doing a drug deal on the outskirts of a high school party, in the woods, at almost eleven at night, but Eddie “the freak” Munson.
The undisputed ruler of the geeks table in the cafeteria. Adored by his crowd of younger freshmen. His followers. His little band of devoted lost sheep. Recruited to the dark side to play his sadistic D&D campaigns. This older senior who was always gilded in chunky metal rings, chain bracelets, and rock and roll.
Something about him from afar shrieked messy danger; whether it was the careless swagger he walked with, or the unpredictability of when he’d burst into something crazy or unstable.
Climb on tables, throw food, shout at the top of his lungs with his hands cupped beside his mouth. Antagonise Jason and his pack of Jocks every chance he got. Spray paint ‘Hail Satan’ in glaring neon red across Principal Higgins door like he did last semester.
That last one was technically a rumour that it was him who did it, but you still kinda believed it to be dead true. It seemed his style.
He saw how you’d sprang around to look at him. Heart kicking in your chest as he made you jump.
“Sorry. Shit. Didn’t mean to startle you there.” He held his hands up. Skull bandana in his back pocket flapping against his ripped jeans. Orange tip of the cigarette burned bright like an evil eye in the dark. Lighting up his face and his pillowy lips.
His earlier cocky confidence seemed to have been flipped away, perhaps as a sign of how genuinely he meant his words.
You watch him slowly saunter across to where you’re sat. Nimble footsteps on the soft grass in his sneakers. The only noise coming from how the chain on his jeans swung into his legs. The zips and some of the metal badges on his jacket shining dully in the night air.
The deep tar pit of those black eyes tugged you in. The frizzy rockstar mane curling down to his shoulders. Sticky Ink black, echoing the shade of his eyes. The messy cut of his Jean jacket draped over leather. That blood red demon blazoned on his white raglan Hellfire Club t-shirt - you’d never seen him wear anything else.
“You’re the least scary thing I’ve come across tonight. Trust me.” You tell him. Sipping more beer. Hearing it slick around against the sides of the can.
You weren’t sure why but him being here had you on edge. You didn’t get nervous walking through a whole house of preppy morons. But here, now, you notice nervousness crunching down on your stomach.
Why nervous?
Not because you were scared of him. You felt safer alone with him out here than any of those knuckle-heads inside.
You think in some warped kinda way you wanted to impress him-
Ok, where in the cursed fucking pits of hell had that proclivity bloomed from?
He stops a decent distance away from you. You couldn’t quite read the expression on his face. He was looking at you warily.
You stared at the grass below your borrowed pointy leather shoes and the half empty warm beer in your hands.
“Are you, uhm. Alright?” He seeks. Gone was the earlier plucky confidence. His voice is fully tender.
“Oh I’m just peachy, thanks.” You smite nicely at him. Voice dripping dark sarcasm.
Those wild black eyes narrow with more concern.
“Sure about that?” He checks. Voice tipping up. Smoke exhaling from his mouth.
You summon the courage to look over at him. Bewildered.
He explains by tapping his finger twice under his eye. Still looking intrigued.
You shrink in self consciously. Folding in. Wipe under your eyes. When you bring back your hand, mascara sits weepy and smeared on your finger. Probably running under your eyes a little in your annoyed frustration. You hadn’t realised.
You sniff and wipe your eyes. Who cares anyway. No one was looking at your makeup. They weren’t bothered with you. That stung. But it was true.
Eddie was the first person to actually acknowledge you as a fully fleshed human being. To actually speak to you.
“It’s nothing. Really.” You assure him. Smiling mildly. Unable to believe the guy who had the words loser and freak tossed at him like bullets every damn day is asking you if you’re okay.
“Don’t worry I’m not so wasted that I’m out here sobbing by myself. You don’t have to deal with an emotional girl.” You consider your mood. “Maybe a pissed off one though-“ You added softly.
You loosened your grip on your beer. Flicking your fringe out your eyes again.
“Hey-“ He starts. And it’s so sweetly tender it makes your lungs skip. His voice seems to deepen a little from that anarchistic shriek and shout you often hear from him.
You peer over under your kinked fringe. He thinks how freakin adorable it looks on you. Hits him like a freakin clap of lightning.
Your hair all wild and teased, back combed to hell, and then those eyes. Doe, bambi, sparkling eyes shining in the dark. Side of your face caught all caramel smooth in the peachy-orange light from the street. Despite the smudged eye makeup blacking under your eyes, actually, he kinda likes that dark smouldering look.
You’re fucking pretty.
Fancy that. Eddie Freak Munson talking to a real pretty girl at a High School party. What’s becoming of him?
“You’re out here drinking alone, sweetheart. I just put two and two together is all. My mistake.” He admits sheepishly. Meshing his fingers together as he spoke. Animated. You watched the way his rings glinted in the darkness. Cig wobbling on his lips as he spoke.
“Well. It’s coming out four. Munson.” You admitted gently.
Your very girlish instincts did a little elated hop with the way he called you sweetheart. Those idiots inside had called you a bitch and loser. He had called you sweetheart-
“You know my name.” He grinned all boyish. Hands on his hips, clasping onto a belt that had a handcuff buckle.
“Colour me impressed.” He flits a wink at you. “I didn’t know we were on a surname basis.”
“You’re the local troublemaker and weed dealer. Of course I know your name.” You answer. You didn’t live under a rock.
“Mommy and Daddy have my picture pinned on the dart board at home, huh sweetie?” He tilts his head again and grins all wide and playful. Framing his face with his thumbs and hands like a mock photograph. Smoking cig trickling lazily up to the sky.
He walks a slow circle around you on the lounger. He can’t keep still evidently. Kicking beer cans out the way. Kicks one down the slope of the lawn. Comes back around you like he’s assessing you coolly. Casually. Grey smoke trails in his wake.
Something tells you he’s almost proud of the accomplishment of being considered near infamous. Anything but the poisonous fucking trap of being considered ‘normal.’
“Yeah. They show me a picture of you every morning. Your face slapped over wanted posters serve as a warning to parents all over Hawkins county.” You joked with fake gravity. “I might be indoctrinated into your dangerous devil D&D cult if I don’t watch out.”
“I relish the chance to corrupt more innocent souls. Especially pretty ones.” He says in a mock gravelly devil voice. Sticking his tongue out at you. Widening his eyes to look scary. It makes you almost spit out a mouthful of beer for laughing.
He’s a goof under all that threatening metal persona. You suspect a soft warm heart of gold lurks under that denim and leather chest too.
You offer out the can of beer to him. “Sorry. It’s a little warm but-“
He smiles and stands for a moment. Assessing you. Eyes growing almost warm.
“Poisoned, Snow White?” He jokes.
“I don’t need that on my conscience. Not to mention the stoners in school would flay me alive for taking you out.” You comment. Waving the can out at him between two fingers.
“Sold.” He says.
He drifts in just close enough to take it from you. His rings clack against the thin metal. Crosses and skulls and all things bad bad bad and demonic adorn his hands.
“Sharing beer and we’re not even on a first name basis.” He says as he takes it and pulls back a swig.
You absolutely kick yourself for the way you watch his neck elongate from tipping his head back to drink. Hair down his back. Wavy over his shoulders.
You give him your name. First and last. It tumbled out your mouth before you could stop it. Your drunkenness sliding you right on into trouble.
He raised the can at you in a salute. Repeated your surname at you. Rolled it around his mouth. As if he was tasting it like he was the beer.
“Pleasure to meet you.” He smirked as he did a mock bow and dipped his head at you. Swigging the beer once more.
You bite your lip and wipe your clammy hands on your soft jeans as you turn away and force yourself to look at something much less- distracting. Dangerous?
You settle on looking at the house. Music still bouncing out the place. Voices spilling out boisterous. You watched a guy stumble out the back door to puke into the bushes by the kitchen window. Maybe a newbie.
Eddie saw it but ignored it. Kept his dark gaze stuck on you instead.
“How’s it you ended up out here?” He asked. Passing the can back to into your hand. You take it and cold silver rings brush your hand. Sparks skip over your skin.
“Well. Firstly the music-” You grimaced.
He chuckled archly.
“Fuckkkk I know right? This party could totally use some Motörhead.” He proclaimed.
“Or some Talking Heads.” You agreed.
His eyes lit up. “Stop making sense.” He said approvingly. You smiled at the inside joke.
“I did actually come with someone. But they ditched me before we were even in the front door. They’re upstairs right now, and probably having sex on the pile of coats in the guest room.” You estimate.
You watched Eddie’s brows raise up a little. Ballsy.
“That’s real shitty.” He states without hesitation. But that smile is creeping back.
“Tell me to get lost if it is none of my business. Sweetie. But uh, did you come here with a… boy. A boy who is maybe a friend. A boyfriend?” He seeks slowly. His head tilting. Rolling his hands as he talked. Manic sprinkled on manic.
Leaning to one side as he asked. That floppy hair leaning over his shoulder. Coming closer and making an unsure grimace as he slowly chewed over that last word. Cig at his side between two fingers.
You shake your head for no. His eyes glint a little.
No boyfriend. Knows who Talking Heads are. Goddamn it, he may have to start turning up the dial to flirt with you some point soon.
His smile turns up at the corners. How have you never noticed that under that manic rock n roll energy it’s actually such a great smile.
He takes another drag and spun away for a second to toss away his cig before it burned out. You hear the way the chains on his arms hit the leather jacket across his chest.
You clarify as to why you were here. How you were dragged along here by your teeth.
“My party friend, Linda, dragged me here. Blonde perm. No braincells, lots of leg and hormones. Idiot Jock strap for a boyfriend.” You explain.
“Alright for some.” Eddie grins at you. His eyes look sharp as black ice in the dark.
“I guess.” You smile. Stretching your feet out. “Maybe not for her though.” You snark in dirty insinuation. It makes him smile across at you.
You both laugh at your joke and it softens him a little to see it.
He spins away and suddenly hops up onto the lawn chair near to you. Flurry of energy. Standing on it and trying to keep his balance. You looked up at him where he stood. Dirty sneakers balancing on the plastic slats.
“I swear I do know you from some place.” He says. A calculative look on his face. He repeats your surname again. Tasting it in his mouth. Arms now crossed over his chest. He leans towards you so slightly. Bending down.
“Uh, School?” You state obviously.
He clicks his tongue. Looks mischievous. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
That figures, actually.
“Big building. Students. Teachers. Classrooms. Finals.” You explain.
He’s walking up the lounger. Testing precarious steps on the cracking plastic. “It’s vaguely familiar to me.” The chain on his leg swings again with his steps.
“We had a history together in middle school. Mrs Grey’s class.” You offer. Though he’d looked different then, his mannerisms weren’t dissimilar to now.
Just now he had the demon tats and rocker hair to back it up.
“We did?” He questions. Or states. He’s unsure. Or testing the waters. You can’t tell. His mystery is his charm. Unreadable expression.
You remember some of his antics. You doubt he’d ever turned his eyes toward the classroom board even once the whole semester.
On the days he deigned to turn up, he usually spent more time scribbling his own little lyrics or campaign ideas over the assignment paper he’d been given on his desk. Or drawing devils, monsters and skulls with leering forked tongues, in a thick stubby sharpie. He took tormenting your teacher as a personal mission.
Any time he was called on, he answered with bite, with wit and a - deeply buried disguised - degree of intelligence that meant he could walk this class - if he really, really wanted too. You found it almost admirable. It was almost enough to make you develop a crush on him.
His dislike for conformity and following the establishment rules had him cemented as this jagged little pill of a troubled guy who couldn’t care less about school. Or grades. People looked at him and saw no more than trailer trash trouble. The rebel Munson kid who lives in the trailer park off Kerley.
“I’m memorable from all the way back then?” He asks. Doubting he was even worth remembering from last week. Let alone going back years.
“Yeah. You made me laugh.” You tell him bravely.
Whether it was the way he snuck in late, or asked to borrow a pencil. Threw balled up pieces of paper at the popular crowd to antagonise. Made stupid distorted faces behind Mrs Grey’s back. Contradicted her til she was red in the face.
“I sat behind you, didn’t I?” He remembered. Then he snaps his fingers. His chain leather bracelet jangles. “Pencil girl.”
You nod. “Nice nickname.”
He drops suddenly in a jump to the ground. Burst of energy. Sits himself facing you on the end of the lounger. Knees spread. Holds out a flat hand to you to shake.
“Nice to properly meet you again. Pencil girl.” He grins at you.
You blush. You actually feel your blush crawl it’s molten way up your cheeks. Eddie Munson is offering his ring clad hand out for you to shake.
You meet his eyes as you look over and take it. Slip you palm into his warm one. Clutch of metal surrounding your fingers as you shake. The brackets on your arms clack together as you jerk your arm.
“Nice to properly meet you too, Eddie.” You grin.
His eyes look warm as he beams at you. Those dark eyes all melting and dark liquid chocolate in their gaze. Your knees almost brush his ripped jean kneecaps where you’re leant over to shake his hand.
He seems awfully unconcerned about letting go of your hand any time soon.
Because he’s come closer to you, you can smell the beer on his breath and the the sharp acrid of cigarettes woven into his clothes. Along with some faintly tangy scent of weed, powdery laundry detergent.
Up close he’s even more terrifying. Those wild eyes bordered in shade by that even wilder tangle of hair.
“How come I rarely see you around. Pencil girl.” He asks genuinely. Sliding his hand out of yours at last. When you break away to look at his hand sliding off yours, you only realise then you’d been staring.
“Well I do actually go to my classes.” You tease.
He clutched over his heart like he’d been pierced with a mortal wound. Choked, Gasped your name.
“Mean.” He grins. Those melting eyes turn all puppyish. Holding the space over his heart like it hurt.
“I guess I mostly live in the Art classroom at school. Or the library. That’s where I am most days. Most lunches and my free periods.” You tell him.
He smirks. You can’t tell what that means.
“You’re telling me you’re secretly one of us.” He lowers his voice to a whisper.
You frown. Oh it’s a good look on you. It bunches up little wrinkles between your brows.
“One of us?”
“A freak.” Eddie grins. His grin slowly grows.
“Is that an official diagnosis? Dungeon master?” You ask him.
Twisting to fully face him where you sit on the lounger. You feel Linda’s top slide down your shoulder. Your bra strap is showing. Eddies eyes flick to it for the barest second.
“Totally. I hereby brand thee. Fellow freak. Pencil girl. Welcome to the club.” He puts his hands over his hair, mimes placing a crown on your head. Arms outstretched around your head. Surrounding your puffed up hair.
You smile. The scent of warm old leather and cigarettes smacks you in the nose. He waved his fingers either sides of your temples. Your stomach squirms. Butterflies kicked to life.
He’s a freak. And a goof. And so are you.
And, oh christ, you think you might like him-
“Great. So when’s my swearing in ceremony. What do we do? Sacrifice virgins or goats, what?” You play around.
“Friday nights. I’m afraid the sacrificing of virgins is messy. But necessary.” He waggles his brows. Trying to look serious. You doubt he ever looked serious in his life.
You snort. You can’t help it. You cover your mouth. He shakes with laughter too. Chest bouncing with it.
Your head is swimming drunk and you can only just believe you’re sat out here shooting the shit with Eddie Munson of all people.
And for once in your life, you’re enjoying one of these terrible shitty parties.
The new music dancing across the lawn catches Eddies ears. The mellow base and chirpy singing.
He rolls his eyes over to the house in disgust. ‘Just the two of us’ is crooning across the lawn. Tacky. Saxaphone riff, and Bill Withers smooth whiskey-dulcet voice.
“I’m gonna be puking in the bushes soon if they carry on with that shit.” He nudged his head across to the open door. The golden rectangle of the kitchen door that glowed in the night. Spilling light up the slanted yard.
“I think, my friend isn’t going to be surfacing any time soon.” You wince at the thoughts and all that could possibly entail. Whether or not she’d bother to come find you. Skirt twisted around her waist. Lipstick all smeared around her puffy mouth. Hair mushed. Cheeks glowing.
You should go and find her. But- you really don’t want too. Nothing could move you from this lounger.
“I should go back inside.” You say out loud. You stay stock still.
Eddie shoots you a look. Disbelieving.
“Listen. Anyone who sits on the outskirts of this fuckin idiotic makeout party and listens to Talking Heads is plenty alright with me. You’re better off.” He points a thumb into his Hellfire clad chest when he says ‘me’.
Where his t-shirt was disturbed, you see a dark triangle of a guitar pick on a necklace around his neck. Some ink on his skin. You want to see just exactly where those tats end and begin.
Your gaze is drawn to the house as a gang of jocks come out to the back yard. Some to stand and chat with their friends. Some to smoke. They seem to have clocked you both. Eddies mood changes.
“Let me give you a ride home, pencils.” Eddie says suddenly out of nowhere. His voice took on a deeper tone. Duller.
You aren’t sure you heard him right. What?
You turn back and see a very sincere look stained across that anarchistic expression. His eyes almost deepen.
“Are you serious?” You ask him.
“Not often. But just then? Yeah. I wouldn’t feel right walking away, leaving a pretty girl like you alone and vulnerable out here. Not with that crowd of assholes circling.” Eddie says as he scans along the row of them with, clearly, no love lost in his tone.
“Uhm.” You churn over your thoughts. Fragments of choppy sense returning to your tipsy head. “Yeah ok, Sure. Thanks.”
Eddie smiles. That palm of his is offered to you once again. And you take it.
You wobble on your feet on the soft grass.
He smiles. Steadies your elbows with his hands. Both hands clutching on for your safety. He draws you close. Just a little. His dark eyes dart with slight starlight.
“Us freaks gotta stick together. Man.” And then comes that rock n roll mischief smirk. Your belly melts.
You think you like being a freak after all.
~
🕷 Fancy a sneak at the next part? 🕷
#stranger things#stranger things season four#eddie munson#eddie munson x female reader#eddie munson x reader#steve harrington#nancy wheeler#maxine mayfield#dustin henderson#will byers#mike wheeler#1980’s#high school#High School parties#high school drama#high school cliques#party#eddie munson x original character#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x oc
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can't believe the americans are mocking "sixth form" when freshman, sophomore, junior and senior makes NO INTUITIVE SENSE
#fhjy#dimension 20#fantasy high#fantasy high junior year#adventuring party#im not even english and our system has grades 1 through 10 and then next school stage years 1-4 and then university#which is like#very transparent#but i do not see where these yanks (affectionate) get off mocking a number based name when junior year isnt even the first one#why is the man fresh???
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It occurred to me that this season's been a little different than the first years (especially Sophomore Year) because it seems like the Bad Kids aren't forming as many relationships to NPCs - not bringing them along on adventures or talking that much outside of getting information (at least not friendly NPCs, they're interacting with the Rat Grinders plenty) and then I noticed that in downtime, they've basically been ignoring rolling for the Relationships track. It's almost like being in a constantly stressful and results-focused environment really destroys your interpersonal relationships
#dimension 20#fantasy high#junior year#fantasy high junior year#dropout#my posts#i know brennan had a lot of them go away to introduce new story but still#they've rarely talked to ragh or their parents or mazey or ayda or anyone else unless it's for mystery investigation#it makes sense as they're focused on the mystery and on school#but i do miss just hanging out with the little guys#stop it d20 it's getting too real how school and obligations is leaving them no time or energy to have other friends#edited bc i was refering to the rat grinders as the good kids in my head for so long i forgot they had an actual party name lolll
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Filthy MAGA animal.
🖕
#gop#republican hypocrisy#gun control#republican party#gun violence#marjory stoneman douglas high school#Republican domestic terrorist#MAGA cult#2nd amendment douche bag#the nra is a terrorist organization#fuck the nra
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So, FHJY theory/au idea:
In that one promotional video, Emily had been unsure about continuing on as Fig right? Well, looking at the devil's nectar, and how powerful Fig's illusions are becoming, and all the stuff with Cuspin Clark, imagine if Figueroth Faeth turns into Wanda Childa, and Wanda Childa finds that she cannot turn back?
#fhjy#d20 fhjy#fantasy high junior year#fantasy high junior year theory#fhjy spoilers#fig faeth#wanda childa#Imagine you are a person with an entirely fictitious past#there are four separate people who were parents to someone you just... aren't#that they'll never get back#you never existed and now you are in your junior year of high school#maybe fig even triggers this intentionally in a misguided attempt to destroy the curse#Ayda gets back and Fig isn't real anymore#and there's this new person who stands where she stood#and it's not her fault#The bad kids now have a complete stranger as a part of their party#Would they have to move to pass fail?#technically noone died#that makes it even worse methinks#my post
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