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waywardrose-archive · 2 years

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THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY | 5

stranger things | eddie munson x reader | rated e | 5.5k

spotify playlist | for @punk-in-docs

fem/witchy/goth!reader, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, series-typical horror, period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, fantasizing, one-bed trope, tags will be updated as needed

Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird?

Weird weird?

He shrugged. He liked weird.

In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.

note: Heed the tags. We’re venturing into spicy territory. 🖤 Check the #em tagd tag ⬇️ for previous chapters!

After stopping at the convenience store that stocked Djarums to buy cigarettes, snacks, and drinks, Eddie kept you entertained and fueled. He regaled you with the plot of his latest D&D campaign, though he hadn’t written an ending. He had to have contingency plans for any option his players chose. You agreed that every choice must have an obstacle or risk — or the campaign wouldn’t be exciting.

He explained the newest sheep to join Hellfire: Henderson, Wheeler, and Sinclair. Henderson was a pain in his ass and too smart for his own good. You threw Eddie a pointed look, because that meant Henderson was clever enough to foil simple traps. Eddie sighed, rolling his eyes in concession.

Wheeler was a string-bean of a guy who had insight and an infuriating amount of luck. Eddie held his hands in front of himself as if to choke someone. You bit your lip to suppress a grin as you watched the road.

“What?” Eddie asked, getting a cigarette from the shared pack of Djarums and pushing at the dashboard’s lighter.

Keeping your voice light, you said, “Nothing.”

He snorted. “Look, you’d be pissed too if the little shits screwed your whole subplot.”

“Probably.”

“And don’t get me started on Sinclair.”

“Why not?” you asked. “We’re not even at the state line yet.”

“Sinclair is a sneaky little—” He growled and cracked the window. “His heart’s not in it, though. He’d be great if he wasn’t so hung up on stupid shit.”

“What stupid shit?”

Eddie jammed the cigarette between his lips just as the lighter handle popped. He put the lighter to the cigarette and took a few puffs.

“He doesn’t want to be a ‘freak’ like the rest of Hellfire.”

‘The rest of Hellfire,’ of course, meant Eddie himself.

You said, “It takes guts to be different.”

“The kid’s got guts, trust me. Bravery.” He angled in his seat, head close to the window. The wind ruffled his hair. “It’s admirable, but...” He breathed smoke out of his nose, reminding you of a dragon. “He’s only sticking around for his friends.”

“Henderson and Wheeler?”

“Yeah, package deal.”

“Then let him go.”

He grunted.

You continued, “Circumstances change everything. I used to have a circle of friends before I moved here, you know. Just...” You sighed. “Now that I’m out of sight, I’m out of mind.” You gave Eddie a wry look. “I’m this oddity at Hawkins — with a few acquaintances.”

Eddie drank from his Mountain Dew before saying, “Not only acquaintances.”

You grinned and smoothed your hair behind your ear.

“No, not only acquaintances, I guess.”

You took a drink of your melting Icee. Then an idea came to you:

“You know, I could join Hellfire?” you said. “Then there’d be no pressure for Sinclair to stay if he didn’t want to.”

“Absolutely not.”

“What?” you asked, disappointed and deep down a little hurt.

You thought he’d said persons of quality were invited to join the Hellfire Club. You were a person of quality. At least you were familiar with D&D.

“You cannot be associated with the freaks. Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want you to face that kinda social bullshit.”

You glanced at your black clothes. You’d been facing social bullshit since you changed your style years ago. It was always worth any side-eye to feel comfortable in your own skin. If someone didn’t get it, or accept you, you weren’t the one to change their mind. That had to come from within them.

Evidently, Eddie noticed the look.

“No, you don’t get it. You’re goth, spooky even, but you’re interesting. People don’t avoid you.”

Which was true — up to a point.

“I talk to you at school, though,” you said.

“Yeah, in one class, and people probably think you’re taking pity on me.”

“I don’t believe that.” You shook your head. “Pity? On you? No.”

“Well, stick around Hawkins long enough and you’ll see for yourself.”

“I don’t care what anyone thinks of you. I know who you are, Eddie.”

“Do you?” he asked and flicked his spent cigarette out of the car.

“Yeah, you’re a good guy. But you fuck with the popular crowd. Not that they don’t deserve it.” You smirked at him, which he returned. “I know you were held back, though you’re really smart—”

“No, I’m not.”

“Oh, cut the crap! You are! You’re just not good at school. There’s a difference.”

He remained quiet for you to continue.

“You’re a storyteller and an amazing guitarist, which means you have brains and drive and creativity.” Your hands tighten around the steering wheel, because Eddie was judged and had judged himself unfairly. “That doesn’t translate to the stupid factory-worker indoctrination that is the American school system.”

“I hate school,” he grumbled.

“Me, too.”

“Fuck school!” he yelled at the ceiling.

“Fuck school!”

He howled like a wolf as you cranked the stereo.

On the outskirts of Chicago, you pulled in front of a diner that boasted all-day breakfast. The waitress sat you and Eddie in a booth. She looked tired with cotton-candy blond hair and a blown-out tattoo on her forearm. You noticed him noticing her tattoo.

As you browsed the sticky menu, you asked, “Where did you get your tattoos?”

He hummed in question, then shook himself. “Oh, Gareth’s cousin. He has an apprenticeship with a parlor near Kokomo.” He took off his jacket and pushed up his right shirt sleeve to show his inner forearm. “This was my second. Got it on an empty stomach, so I almost fainted.” He chuckled. “But, eh, you know, it only cost me a dime bag.”

You reached to touch the tattoo, hesitating at the last moment.

“Can I?” you asked.

His cheeks pinked as he nodded.

You traced his smooth skin. The design was rough with a puppet-master hand controlling some type of demon. You’d seen it when he wore t-shirts, but not within such close range.

“I like it,” you said.

As you withdrew, he turned his hand to touch your arm. His callused fingertips slid over your inner wrist to settle at your palm. You stilled, breath caught. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever touched you, yet this was communication. It wasn’t something you wanted to brazen through, yet you couldn’t hesitate.

Despite your nerves, you curled your fingers around his hand and grinned. His soft, brown eyes gleamed in the light slanting through the metal blinds. He looked carefree in a way you’d never seen from him. He felt bubbly, like the sparkling wine your parents let you drink on New Year’s.

It hit you again how pretty he was; from his wavy hair to his sharp jaw and his plush lips. You wanted to lean across the table and kiss him.

He subtly wet his lips as if having the same thought.

Without warning, the waitress set two glasses of ice water on the table. You pulled away to make room. She dropped two straws between the glasses and asked what you wanted. You didn’t know, but ordered a Coke and the first meal that caught your eye. It seemed Eddie was in the same predicament as he ordered regular coffee, eggs, corned beef hash, and toast.

When the waitress left, Eddie asked, “So, you got any tats?”

You shook your head.

“Maybe someday — if I can ever settle on a design.”

“You could always get—” He showed you his outer forearm. “—Bats like me!”

You laughed. “Release the bats!”

He stuck out his tongue as he bobbed in his seat and fluttered his hands like wings, making you laugh harder.

The waitress interrupted by sliding a plastic tumbler of Coke to you, an empty mug at Eddie, and placing a dish of single-serve creamers in the middle of the table. She filled the mug with the blackest of black coffee. You thanked her before she stepped away, keeping your eyes on the coffee. It appeared strong enough to ask what the fuck you were gawking at.

He poured sugar from the dispenser in that hell-broth, added a couple of creamers, and stirred. You watched in alarm as he sipped, half-expecting his stomach to dissolve from the overload of acid. When that didn’t happen, you pulled your straw from its wrapper and plunged it into your tumbler.

“So, obviously, you eat,” he said.

Which was an odd thing to say.

To fuck with him, you said, “No, I feed off the blood of the living,” and took a drink of Coke.

He narrowed his eyes to scrutinize you.

You offered a big-eyed, innocent look.

“Honestly,” he said, setting the mug down and resting on his elbows. “That’s pretty metal.”

You nodded.

“Rich in iron.”

He attempted a serious persona, though the corners of his mouth kept twitching, and asked, “Where do you do most of this feeding?”

“Back corner of the school library — now that it’s too cold to stalk the woods for handsome drug dealers.”

“Ah, you, uh—”

New pink bloomed on his cheeks.

You realized then he didn’t handle compliments well. You had to assume no one ever told him how attractive he was. He did hang out with boys, mostly…

“So, uh, yeah, you found the picnic table back there?” he asked.

You said, “Yep, saw your lovely carving, too.”

His demeanor shifted to sly, and he asked, “Magnificent, right?”

“Oh, yes. It should be in a museum.”

“Okay,” you said as you opened the motel room closet. “If you see a cockroach, you have to kill it.”

The place hadn’t been updated since the ‘70s. All the walls were wood paneling. The brown carpet had flattened paths. The bedspreads were a striped golden-rod yellow. A clunky white television sat on the scratched dresser. The phone on the floating nightstand between the beds boasted 45¢/minute long-distance.

“Consider me your knight in shining armor, milady,” Eddie said, and dropped his duffle on the table in front of the big window.

At least it was close to the club, didn’t stink, and was quiet.

You deposited your bag just inside the closet before checking the partial-open bathroom. Nothing scurried when you flipped on the light where the toilet and tub were. It was typical, with terrible lighting and an exhaust fan that sounded like a 747.

“Not the worst,” you said, shrugging.

With a flip of the light switch, you turned and plowed into a warm wall of metalhead. You ‘oof’ed the same time as Eddie. His arm went around you, holding you tight. You braced a hand against his chest to keep yourself from teetering.

You looked into his shocked eyes before laughing. He laughed and gave you a dazzling smile that made him look puckish.

“Thanks for the save, sir,” you said with a smile and realized your cheeks were so warm.

“All in a day’s work.”

Eddie released you. His hand slid across the small of your back. You wanted to cat into it, to press yourself against him, to silently beg for more. However, he inched away to give you space. He had to have known what he did to you, how he made you feel, how he made you ache.

You dropped your hand and stepped around him, though. If he wasn’t ready, you wouldn’t force anything. He’d backed away for a reason—

And that reason wasn’t any of your business yet, you reminded yourself.

You went to your bag to unpack your makeup and clothes for the concert. From the corner of your eye, you watched Eddie dither before ducking into the bathroom.

The door shut with a faint clunk.

You put the makeup by your purse you’d left on the dresser earlier and went to the wall heater under the window to adjust the temperature from arctic to warm. While there, you hung your jacket properly on the back of a chair. You assessed the room, not knowing what to do. It was only two in the afternoon. There were hours to kill until you had to leave for the concert.

Sighing, you turned the power dial on the TV and left it tuned to some soap opera.

Eddie had draped his leather jacket over his duffle. You thumbed at the fine leather of its sleeve. Silver chain spiraled around the wrist zipper. You guessed the zipper was broken and grinned. It was such an Eddie repair — not perfect, but personal.

Your fingers warmed as you touched the chain. There was magic here. Not the kind you knew from your studies. It was rooted in devotion, determination, and pride.

Would it be wrong to reinforce that magic?

Knowing you had little time, you blessed the repair and hoped it was the right thing to do.

The bathroom door opened, but you didn’t drop the sleeve. If you did, you’d make yourself look guilty. Eddie’s eyes went to you before he stepped in front of the sink.

“I like this jacket,” you said as he unwrapped the small bar of complimentary soap.

He glanced at your reflection in the mirror.

“It was my father’s,” he said neutrally.

You let go of the sleeve and sat in the nearest chair to unlace your boots.

“He alive, or...?”

“Or.”

“Gotcha,” you said, not wanting to push.

It couldn’t have been that stellar of a relationship if Eddie now lived with his uncle, which was a fact he’d told you before you’d left Hawkins. He said he liked Wayne; they got along.

Once finished with your boots, you set them aside and went to the farthest bed. You folded the bedspread to the foot of the mattress and mounded the pillows together to recline on them.

“I think I’m gonna take a nap,” you said. “Should I set an alarm?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

You rolled towards the nightstand and set the clock alarm to go off at 5:30. That should give plenty of time to fully wake, get ready, and make it to the club before the concert at eight.

As you relaxed, your bladder made itself known. Of course. You crawled across the springy bed and walked past Eddie as he went to the unclaimed bed. You gave him a little grin before shutting the bathroom door.

When you came out to wash your hands, he was sprawled across his bed with hands tucked under his head. His socked feet nearly hung off the edge. He shifted, and the bed clanked.

You looked over your shoulder. Eddie stared at the ceiling.

Maybe that noise was his bed settling.

You finished washing your hands and crawled once more to the mound of pillows on your bed. You settled with a sigh. The mattress wasn’t great, but the pillows were fluffy.

Eddie’s bed clanked again as he got comfortable.

“You should’ve heard it when I first laid down,” he said.

“Are you kidding?”

“No.” He chuckled, which made the bed squeak. “I thought I broke it.”

“I think it’s already broken.”

“Yeah, someone gave this thing a beating.”

You could imagine what sort of beating it took, too.

Strangers who’d met in a bar down the street, their eyes trailing hungrily as they flirted. Then the invitation. Hands wandered as they stumble into the room and kick the door closed. One pushing the other onto the bed and climbing on top. Lips connecting, panting breaths, soft laughter as they struggle with buttons and zippers. Then moans as they grind together, hands gripping bare thighs, kisses on vulnerable necks, bites on shoulders.

A room too dark to see, but sensation enough to light nerves—

Eddie’s bed clanked again.

“Oh my god, this is stupid,” you said.

“What?”

“Just— Just get over here and take a nap.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t worry, your virtue is safe with me.”

“I don’t know, milady. You confessed to prowling the woods, looking for someone who fits my description.”

You giggled and leaned on an elbow. “Worried I might drink your blood?”

His bed made an ominous clunk as he sat up. He froze, eyes going wide.

“Nah, you’d be gentle.”

“Yeah, of course, super gentle. Now get over here before it eats you or something!”

He grimaced with you as he eased off the rackety bed. You reminded him to bring the pillows. He rounded your bed — pillows in his arms — as you snuggled down on your side. The mattress dipped behind you — and you tried to remain relaxed.

Because it wasn’t a big deal.

It wasn’t.

You were simply sharing a bed with a friend. A hot friend. Who you wanted to kiss and put your hands all over. It didn’t matter if he was into S-and-M. He could tie your wrists with his handkerchief and do whatever to you.

You squeezed your eyes shut and concentrated on the low voices coming from the television even as the bed shimmied.

“Thanks,” he murmured over the fabric sounds of fluffing and rearranging pillows.

“No problem.”

“If this isn’t cool, just, like, say the word, and I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Eddie.” You took a deep breath. “It’s okay.”

“If you’re sure...”

“100 percent.”

“I mean—”

“Eddie.”

“Hey, I don’t want to make a lady uncomfortable.”

“I’m very comfortable.”

“Me, too.”

“Good.”

“Okay.”

You grinned.

“Go to sleep, sir.”

“Yes, milady,” he said, a smile in his words.

The peal of the alarm jarred you from sleep. You slapped the clock a few times before it stopped. Dusty blue light came through the window sheers. There was still time before dinner, you thought and closed your eyes, rolling onto your other side. The pillow here was firmer and warm and smelled nice. The pillowcase was weird, though. It was thick with a waffle texture.

Mom never bought pillowcases like that.

Your eyes flew open. Not a pillow. A male chest.

You were in Chicago with Eddie Munson, who you were using as a pillow.

He was still — too still. He might’ve been asleep. Maybe he was a deep sleeper. Maybe you could move away without him knowing.

You whispered, “Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

Not a deep sleeper, then.

“You awake?” you asked and immediately wanted to bonk yourself on the head.

He’d replied, hence, he was awake.

“Are you lying on my chest?” he asked, voice still raspy from disuse.

“I think so.”

Heat flooded your face.

“Then I think I’m awake.”

With an apology, you ducked your head as you sat to face the television. The local news had replaced the soap opera. You kept your eyes fixed to the screen, because you didn’t want to know if he was uncomfortable or aroused or neutral. Any of those options had implications that would be too difficult to handle this groggy.

He sighed before pushing himself higher on the bed to recline.

You felt his gaze on your back.

He cleared his throat and said, “I can’t believe I slept that long.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“You want first dibs on the bathroom?”

“Sure, thanks.”

You walked on wobbly legs to the bathroom, where you used the toilet and privately talked yourself out of running away. All you had done was lay your head on Eddie’s chest. No boundaries had been crossed. It didn’t have to mean anything.

Although, he hadn’t pushed you off…

But that didn’t have to mean anything, either.

Though he had been so pleasant to snuggle. His hair smelled of apple shampoo. You couldn’t identify his soap, but it was good. He was firm enough, too, and not boney.

After finishing in the bathroom, you told him it was all his and went to fetch your toiletries. You needed to wash the sleep from your face, brush your teeth, and fix your hair. He moved around you as though he’d done something wrong. You frowned at your reflection over the sink.

When he came out a few minutes later, you smiled at him deliberately from your seat on the dresser. He offered a grin before washing his hands. You returned to doing your makeup in the mirror and watched his shoulders relax.

You asked after Corroded Coffin, if the last show had gone well, and if he’d considered playing original songs.

He tried to downplay his frustrations with the Hawkins music scene as he wet his toothbrush. All the crowd wanted was what they were familiar with. However, they’d rocked the last show like they did the previous ones.

“You know,” you said, loud enough for him to hear over his brushing. “People don’t know what they want until it’s in front of them.”

He snorted through toothpaste foam.

“I’m serious.”

He held up a finger to say he heard you.

You continued with your makeup until he spit into the sink.

He said, “I know, but it’s like putting pearls before swine.”

“That’d be a good song title.”

He laughed — but not dismissively — before rinsing out his mouth.

“I still maintain you should play at least one original every show,” you said. “Otherwise, Corroded Coffin will only be known as a cover band.”

“If I promise—”

“Pinky swear.”

“—And pinky swear to play something original, will you come watch us again?”

“Ab-so-fucking-lutely,” you said, placing your compact down to hold out your pinky finger.

He hooked his pinky around yours and gave it a shake.

“It’s a deal,” he said.

He loosened his hold, but you didn’t. He did a double-take.

You said, “Let me put some eyeliner on you.”

“I don’t think that’ll help all this,” he said and waved his free hand by his face.

“That—” You mimicked his wave. “—doesn’t need help. I want to enhance those pretty eyes.”

In a blink, his demeanor went from self-deprecating to bashful.

You swung your connected hands.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

He bit his lip before nodding. You released his pinky to dig through your makeup bag for a black kohl pencil. You uncapped it, ordered him closer, and told him to close his eyes, which he did without hesitation. In little strokes, you lined and smudged the kohl above his long eyelashes. Then you told him to look up and gave his lower lids the same treatment.

When you finished, you leaned back and smiled. The black brought out the warmth in his irises. He looked fey — and a little dangerous.

He studied himself in the dresser mirror.

“I like it,” he said softly.

“Good. You look hot.”

He met your eyes as if looking for something. Maybe a lie. He wouldn’t find one, though. He really did look hot.

You nudged him away, saying you had to put the final touches on your own face. He said he’d change clothes in the meantime and carried a roll of dark fabric into the bathroom. While you applied blush and lipstick, you wondered if he wore boxers or briefs. Did he have more tattoos? Would he show you? Let you touch them? Kiss them?

Eddie stepped out of the bathroom in all black, save his white socks. He tossed his old clothes on the bed and went to the sink to fluff his hair. His jeans hugged his ass and thighs perfectly, just as his t-shirt did his torso.

You forgot what you were doing as you stared at him.

“Hey, I don’t know if you’d be into this,” he said, evidently unaware of your ogling. “But I brought a few goodies from home.”

You mentally shook yourself. Goodies? Like brownies? Wait. He meant drugs, not like dessert.

“What do you have?”

“A few joints, molly, k, acid.”

“Molly would be fun during the concert.”

“Cool; we can smoke some weed after.”

“That makes it last longer, right?”

“Makes the comedown easier.”

You nodded. You’d dropped acid before and rolled with molly — and suffered through the bleak days afterward. However, if smoking weed made it easier, you’d happily do it.

With a check of the time, you hopped off the dresser and grabbed your clothes. It was closing in on seven. You wanted to be in line well before eight. You changed clothes as quickly as you could in the bathroom. From there it was a blur until you were walking with Eddie through the motel’s parking lot.

The club was a few blocks away, yet the cutting wind made the walk feel longer. Leaves and litter swirled on the sidewalk like little tornados. As streetlights flickered on, kids in homemade costumes ran past. Their excited giggles had you grinning at Eddie, and he at you. An older woman braved the wind, bundled on her front stoop to give out candy. She offered you both mini-Snickers, which you thanked her for and ate as you continued on your way.

The queue for the concert wasn’t as long as you’d expected. Eddie appeared amused as you joined the black-clad lineup. After a few minutes, you nudged his arm with an elbow and gave him a questioning look.

He whispered in your ear: “Why’s everyone dressed like Johnny Cash?”

You snorted, lightly cuffing his chest. He smiled.

You’d forgotten to explain the Sisters’ brand, which was essentially goth cowboy. Their hardcore fans were a whole subgenre to themselves.

You whispered, “It’s just their style.” You shifted your tone to teasing. “But don’t fret, darling, you still look good.”

His eyes twinkled as he said, “Likewise.”

Before you could reply, the queue started moving. You glanced behind you to see the line had doubled. At the door, you bought a ticket and presented your fake ID. The bouncer tagged your wrist with a green bracelet and offered a huge bowl of Halloween candy for you to pick from, doing the same for Eddie.

Eddie slid his hand under your jacket to the small of your back as you walked down the sloped hallway beyond the door. His touch made you aware of your every step, the sway of your hips, every breath.

Multicolored Christmas lights lit the graffitied walls and continued behind the bar. A television played a live feed of the stage between shelves of liquor bottles and Halloween decorations. The bar stools were occupied already. Bartenders worked their way down the bar, weaving around each other as they fixed drinks. Under the din of voices, a mix of punk and post-punk played through the speakers.

Eddie offered to buy a round, which you accepted. You waited at an inconspicuous place across from the bar. To the casual observer, Eddie blended in. However, to you, he was magnetic. And you weren’t the only one who found him appealing.

Maybe you shouldn’t have applied that eyeliner.

Eddie appeared immune to the admiration, though.

He ordered two drinks, money in hand, knee bouncing as he waited. After exchanging money for beer, he hustled through the growing crowd. He handed you a beer, and you thanked him. Together, you enjoyed the beer and mini candy bars from the bouncer as you walked around the tall chain-link fence to the stage area.

Halfway through the beer, he slipped a pill in your palm that looked like a Flintstones vitamin. You tapped your pill against his as a toast and swallowed it.

While you waited for the opening band, you commented on the graffiti. There were skeletons and demons — dancing skeleton-demons — and disembodied heads. Along with signatures and tags from previous patrons. With his beer, Eddie pointed to one demon, saying he’d like that as a tattoo. You replied it would be a cool rib tattoo. He hissed in future pain. You bumped his shoulder and said you’d hold his hand through it.

He smiled, his gaze dipping briefly.

Heat radiated from your chest to your throat. You didn’t think it was the molly kicking in. It was too soon. You sipped at your beer to hide the agony of not kissing him.

Be brave, you thought. Be brave, pull him close by the shirt, and kiss him. Beer breath be damned. Do it.

The opening band began with a guitar wail. Eddie turned to the stage.

Opportunity missed.

Shit.

By the end of their set, a jitter had started in your stomach; your heartbeat pure and true in your chest. You downed the last of your beer — fizzling all the way down — and crumpled the cup in your fist. The springy feel of plastic grounded you to the music. You squeezed it to the beat, feeling the music enter your ears and travel through your extremities. Stage lights flashed blue, then green, like an ocean-galaxy.

You laced your fingers with Eddie’s as though taking him with you. You wanted him with you. His rings pressed between your fingers, warm and sturdy. His thumb stroked your skin, sending gold sparks up your arm. They went up, up, up until they met the music to produce pink, fuzzy stars in your belly.

When the last chord faded, and the stage went dark, you rested your temple on his shoulder. Cheering surrounded you both in an infatuated mist.

Eddie kissed the top of your head as the house music started and a few lights powered on.

“You want another beer, sweetheart?” he asked.

His voice was heaven. His kiss lingered on your scalp.

You said, “If you want one.”

“Sure you want to stay here?”

You grinned, because you did. It was the perfect place near the stage, balanced between the huge speakers. You could watch the roadies set up for the Sisters, too.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’ll keep our place.”

“You’ll have to let go of my hand first.”

You laughed and released him, handing over your empty cup for him to throw away.

He touched your arm before disappearing into the crowd. His heat lingered, soft and sincere. You didn’t have to watch him to track him, either. He wove through the anonymous sea of energy, a silver flame dancing over the surface.

You stared into the black rafters and breathed deep. Anticipation scented the air like waiting for birthday cake and presents.

When Eddie returned, you saw him as if for the first time. He was more than a pretty face, though. His dark eyes held a universe. His lips were poetry. His elegant neck was the connection between imagination and perception. You wanted to touch these things, taste these things.

Then he smiled as he offered you a fresh beer.

The plastic cup was delightfully cold.

You giggled and thanked him, even as your eyes prickled. Nothing had felt this good in so long. Not since you moved to Hawkins.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true…

You met Eddie’s eyes over the rim of your cup as you drank.

He made you feel good, too.

Before you could tell him any of that, the lights went out. Your eyes widened, and you pivoted towards the stage. In the shadows, a few figures found their places on the stage. The crowd inched forward, you and Eddie included.

With the first notes of music, the stage lights flashed on. The crowd surged forward, drawn by the thwang of bass. You flowed with them, cheering as you recognized the song. Andrew Eldritch’s deep voice resonated through your chest. You swayed and danced and were blessed. You sweated with the crowd, with the band, with the planet.

It went on and on, each perfect note sparkling like water and flames and smokey diamonds.

Eddie howled with a song’s crescendo, his damp hair whipping around his face. You howled with him and stomped your feet with the beat, laughing when a few others joined your pack.

When the next song came, you knew it was the last one. You mouthed the lyrics, feeling them down to your toes. When the refrain came, your words faded. You could only experience them.

Come here, I think you’re beautiful

I think you’re beautiful, beautiful

Some kind of angel, come inside

You looked at Eddie to find him watching you.

Come here, I think you’re beautiful

He moved closer, eyes glowing, reflecting the light from the stage. That internal universe of his invited you in.

You reached for him.

“Kiss me.”

He did. His soft lips met yours in the dim. The bitter beer and tang of salt almost stung your lips, but it hardly mattered. The world faded. You melted against him, every inch of you dissolved into him. Your fingers tunneled into his sweat-soaked hair to yank him closer. Each tributary of your veins throbbed, your heart erupted with sweet heat.

He groaned deep in his chest and wrapped an arm behind your back to pull you flush. His tongue slipped inside your mouth, sliding over yours, gentle yet insistent. His head tilted to kiss you deeper, lips smearing in a slow slide that had your thighs quaking.

The heat, the weight, of him against you had you forgetting everything that had led to this. You just felt him — all of him. From the lingering scent of his shampoo, the subtle bristle of stubble, to the musk of his sweat. You inhaled it, took it in, made him part of you.

He was wonderful and delicious and beautiful — more than you could’ve ever imagined.

He cradled your damp cheek, and usually you’d be self-conscious about sweating, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care at all. His hands branded you with desire. You didn’t mind. Let the world see.

All you needed was him closer, closer, closer.

Come here, I think you’re beautiful

My door is open wide

Some kind of stranger, come inside

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson #stranger things #em tagd #waywardrose writes

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