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hellfire--cult · 2 years ago

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HIS HEART IS THUNDERING, AND JESUS FUCK I WANT THEM TO GO ON A DATE SO MUCH, I NEED HIM TO BE PATHETIC AND DUMB AND SHY AND FOR HER TO JUST BE SO FUCKING SMITTEN BY IT

I want him to read Tolkien to me too im going to cry

MORDOR (a barista!eddie x barista!reader au)

summary: you take a chance, and decide to call mordor.

warnings: fem!reader (use of she/her pronouns), mentions of life struggles (reader's turn to go through it), references to previous addition in this series so might be a little harder than normal to read as stand alone! this is really just me projecting on my need for eddie munson to comfort me

wc: 4.8k+

the full menu

You’re late. So, so fucking late.

It panics Eddie. He sat in his car for that extra hour just waiting for your ridiculously bright yellow Jeep to pull in beside him, and when you still hadn’t by the time Nicole arrived, his chest twisted. When Nicole gets out of her car, and you’re still not there, his stomach churns.

Where are you? Are you okay?

You hadn’t texted Nicole. You don’t call the store as the two of them flit about and try to manage opening without you. And when the time arrives to unlock the doors for the customers, Nicole finally excused herself to try and call you herself.

Eddie scorns himself for not having your number. How stupid is it that you two have made a pact to be friends, and yet here he is weeks later, still not having your number.

“Any luck?” he asks, trying to level his tone when Nicole returns and he’s turning on the ovens.

“Nope,” her brows furrowed as she quickly scoots behind him, heading towards the front register, “It went straight to voicemail. Which, I mean… she’s never been late. Not like this.”

“Should we be worried?”

It’s a stupid question. He’s already worried. He’s frazzled enough to say fuck it, toss down his apron, and send out a search party for you rather than worrying about the store.

“Maybe,” Nicole shrugs, as if this doesn’t concern her as much as it does Eddie. As if there’s not sirens going off in her head as well. As if your sudden lack of punctuality is something to just shrug off.

As if your absence doesn’t rattle her the way it rattles Eddie.

An hour passes by. Eddie gets more restless. Constantly looking to the store’s front door, incessantly checking outside the drive thru window for any sign of you or that damn Jeep. Every time the phone rings, Eddie has to curl his hands into fists to let Nicole answer rather than him. Each time, when he looks at her, the subtle shake of her head tells him it’s not you. His tongue nearly bleeds from how he chews on it with his molars to stop from asking her if she had tried to reach you again. He knows she has, notices how she spends extra time in the back, no doubt sending texts and useless calls alike your way.

If it were any other coworker, both Eddie and Nicole would be fuming. Concern would be replaced with irritation

He’s actually reaching to untie his apron and informing her that he’ll start trying to reach you instead when you finally come bursting into the store, a full two hours late to your shift.

“Fuck,” you whisper-exclaim as you power walk through the lobby, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“You’re here!” he doesn’t bother keeping down his volume at the sight of you, flooded with immediate relief.

You’re okay.

“I’m so sorry,” the apologies immediately begin to pour from your lips as you nearly trip rounding the corner into the back room, Eddie hot on your trail, “I’m so, so sorry! Shit, I- I just slept through my alarm, and had a late night, and-“

You’re digging your apron out of your bag when he finally reaches out to softly grab your arm, squeezing gently in an offer of comfort as you finally pause.

“It’s fine,” he promises, “Everyone is late every once and a while.”

Nicole was in the bathroom, but he’s sure that she’d say the same thing. The entire morning, both her and Eddie had been more worried than anything. Not mad, not irritated, but worried.

And yet, you’re still on the verge of tears as you look up at Eddie, “It’s not fine. You had to open the store all on your own, and I know that’s stressful, and I saw all the missed calls but my phone was on silent. I mean, my shift’s already half over at this point. And I just-“

You cut off your rambling with a shaky breath. It breaks his heart to see you so upset, so guilt-ridden over something that happens to the best of you all.

“It’s okay,” he stresses once more, another squeeze on your arm, “You had a late night? Is everything okay?”

You open your mouth to answer him, the no already forming on your lips, when Nicole returns from the bathroom.

“Oh my gosh, there you are!” she exclaims.

And just like that, Eddie’s chance to be there for you as you were for him has vanished into thin air.

—

Your shift may have lasted several hours less than it was meant to, but you’re convinced it’s the absolute worst hours of your life. Which is saying a lot given how your life has gone to shit the last two days.

You were already falling behind on classes, and your bank account was in the negative due to tuition payments. Your mother was calling every day to spend hours on the phone under the guise of catching you up at what you were missing at home, when in all reality it was just her complaining without taking a breath or allowing you to say a single word. You had to take your cat to the emergency vet when he wasn’t eating, only to find out he probably just didn’t like his current food anymore after a series of very expensive tests. Thing after thing, punch after punch, was being thrown your way. It was all just a bit much.

And then you were late to work. Slept in after forgetting to set an alarm after a late night of staying up and listening to a friend rant over the phone. Burnt your hand not once but twice on the ovens. Spilt an entire cup of hot coffee on yourself.

Life was out to get you.

And the only good thing about today was Eddie.

When the clock finally signals for the two of you to step off the floor, you’re sighing out in relief. You have no idea what the next issue will be waiting for you off the clock, but you’ve accepted that the day couldn’t get worse. And yet, as you go to grab your bag, wrapping your apron by muscle memory as you watch him, your stomach churns at the thought of today’s time being cut so short today. You just like being around him. You like making inside jokes, sharing quick glances, making one another laugh until your stomachs ache over stupid things in the midst of chaos. He’s a guiding light, something to look forward to, a wonderful break from reality that you just… you just cherish.

As you’re tearing up suddenly at the realization along with the heavy weight of your week, you recall that conversation last week. The word you two had assigned for when you needed a break.

Technically, it was probably a joke. Or to be used to ditch work. He probably hadn’t meant it.

But you have to try.

“Hey, uh, Eddie?” you ask nervously, fiddling with the straps of your bag as he’s patting his pockets for all his items.

“Yeah?” he doesn’t look up yet, doesn’t see the forlorn look across your face.

Just say it. If he doesn’t get it – no harm, no foul. If he gets it, and rejects the motion – oh well. The worst he can say is no.

You have to swallow hard, take a sharp breath, before you can get the single word out. “Mordor.”

He freezes mid-pat, hands hovering over his front pockets as he slowly looks up.

“What did you say?”

“Mordor,” you repeat yourself, with a little more confidence to your tone this time. The worst he can say is no.

For a second, you become convinced he’s forgotten all about that conversation in the parking lot. You really don’t blame him; half the time, you guys discuss anything and everything with minimal importance. Those early and surreal mornings are always more about spending time with one another, with a friend, than it is about actually processing the things said.

But then, two things happen. Firstly, the wrinkles between his brows smooth out. A second passes. And then – they return.

Sloping ridges and mountains in that small space, each and every bit of them etched with worry. For you. The corners of his mouth deeply downturn and all the white noise of the front of house fades away the longer he looks at you with such care.

“Mordor?” he echoes, “Like, as in… as in our code word?”

You feel as if the moment you speak up, all that strength you had mustered throughout the shift will shatter. You’re tired and you’re beaten, you’re desperate and you’re hoping. You don’t even care if he tells you he doesn’t have time to properly sit and unwind with you right now – you’d settle for just a hug. The same arms that bump against yours and that sometimes stretch along your space to grab things from around you, the same arms you’ve seen strain as he insists on carrying heavy kegs for you, the same arms you just want to wrap around you, if even for a second, and squeeze.

Who knows? Maybe, if he squeezes tight enough, he can put all the broken shards of the week back into place. It’s not his job to fix it, but you’re convinced for a moment, he’s the key to everything just feeling okay for nothing more than a mere second.

You nod. If you answer him with words, you’re going to cry. The tears are already eagerly burning your corneas.

He says your name softly, gentle enough that you have to pinch your eyes shut and take a shaky breath to avoid any spillage of your emotions.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” you try to make it a laugh, as if this is a joke, “I, uh- not really?”

“Is it because you were late today?”

Your voice cracks and your eyes squeeze shut tighter for a second as you answer with a weak, “Kind of.”

You let your eyes snap open again, try and seek out some everpresent warmth in his honey brown ones as your vision blurs a bit with shameful tears.

You’ve never realized just how many shades resided in those irises, all warm and cool browns alike swirling. They almost match the espresso, you come to realize. And it’s funny, to think about the way all your other coworkers whisper just as scary and grumpy he is the moment he’s out of earshot. It’s funny how customers seem to crumple timidly beneath his disassociating gaze when he finds himself lost in thought on bar or warming. Every single other person who has stepped foot in this store seems to have one impression of Eddie, and it’s not even a proper shadow of the man before you.

All soft edges. All care and all warmth. He’s not scary, he’s not grumpy; he’s careful and considerate, a little shy at times, a little hesitant at others. And you can only imagine why he’s that way, when you can see someone entirely different reflected in those goddamn honeyed eyes in this moment.

He takes a step forward. Opens his mouth to speak. Goes as far to even begin to reach out a hand. And then he’s interrupted.

“Thank you for your patience,” Nicole chirps into her headset as she comes into the back room, turning a corner with determination and snatching a sleeve of cups off the shelves as she continues to speak over the drive thru channel with ease, “Can we get you started with anything to eat today?”

His mouth closes and his hand drops as you both glance down at the floor, completely silent as you wait for her to finally retreat back out onto the floor without a second glance at the two of you.

The tears still burn and blur your vision.

“Okay,” Eddie says the moment the two of you are alone in the back once more, “Okay. Mordor it is. Come with me, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. It rolls off his tongue and it wraps around you before he reaches out and grabs at your hand, only connecting palms and avoiding intertwining fingers before he’s tugging you out the back door.

Not even through the front. As if he wants to save you the embarrassment of a walk of shame with teary eyes and defeated shoulders.

“We can’t-” you start to protest, but he’s already wrangled the key that is left in the back door – impressively quickly, as even you struggle with that fickle lock at times – before he shoves the door open wordlessly and yanks you out with him wordlessly.

The door doesn’t even slam shut. It feels like a dramatic moment where it should, but it only closes back with a whisper and soft whoosh of air.

“They have to do a trash run anyways,” he reassures you when you look back at the unlocked door with worry, referring to the overflowing trash that would soon be taken out to the dumpster in the distance, “It’s fine.”

The soil crunches beneath both of your sneakers as he makes a beeline to his van. No questions are asked, just as you two had joked about.

The sun is still favoring the Eastern sky despite growing warmer in the late morning. Eddie’s van is stuffy when he initially unlocks it for both of you to jump into the front, him being sure to open the passenger door for you and only shutting it closed once you’ve securely settled into that seat you’ve spent countless early hours in.

He starts up the vehicle once he’s in his driver’s seat, but makes no move to drive off as he stares at you.

“What?” you whisper, voice still strained as you toss your bag down by your feet.

All he says in return, still gentle and still warm, still glowing brighter than the man everyone seems to think he is, is a reminder of, “Seatbelt.”

You obey that half-spoken command. You don’t ask where you two are going once he shifts into drive the moment the click sounds in the small space.

—

Eddie drives for a while. He gets onto the freeway in the opposite direction of your way home, and you probably should be worried, but you aren’t. You have no mental capacity for consideration of how you’ll get back to your car, whether your coworkers will worry about it remaining in the parking lot, or whether Eddie even knows where he’s going. Hell, even his slightly erratic driving doesn’t affect you.

You just stare at the trees as they pass by in a blur. Your mind numbs, smells of a rainstorm in the distance slips into the cabin of the vehicle through the cracks in the back windows, and you just let go.

If your mother knew what you had done today, you would have absolutely been reamed a new one.

Eddie slows at an unfamiliar exit, just after the two of you pass a small green sign that reads NOW ENTERING HAWKINS CITY LIMITS.

“Hawkins?” you murmur your first noise of the entire drive.

“You ever been?” Eddie asks as if you hadn’t been catatonic the entire way here.

You prop an elbow up on the door, fist digging into the side of your face as you lean and take in the scenery now passing by a bit slower, “Can’t say I have.”

“Well, then,” he keeps talking, and it’s sort of comforting after the long silence, “Consider yourself lucky.”

That gets a snort out of you. One that has his head turning quickly to look at you as he slows at the first redlight after the freeway, a grin twitching on his lips softly as he takes in the sight of you.

He must think you can’t see him staring, because he continues to do it, until the light has changed green and he’s made no move to press on his gas.

“It’s green.”

“Huh?”

You look over at him, his rosy cheeks and diverted eyes at being caught, and repeat yourself with more emphasis, “The light’s green, idiot.”

“Oh, shit!”

Another snort, another rapid (albeit shorter) glance on his part.

He’s got a nice smile. Even if he might totally be a secret serial killer who was just jumping at the opportunity to murk his unsuspecting and vulnerable coworker in the middle of the woods. He could get away with it with a smile like that.

It’s only once he’s turned onto a dirt road that leads out into the woods that you really care to finally ask one of the first questions you probably should have asked the moment you got in his van – “Uh, Eddie? Where… Where are you taking me?”

“Trust me,” he insists, both hands gripping his wheel with care as he navigates the car into thicker foliage, “I promise I’m not going to, like, murder you.”

“Sounds like something someone who is going to murder me would say,” you put in a little extra effort, offering him the joke and more than a snort this time.

You don’t miss the swell of pride that lifts him to sit up just a tad bit straighter in his seat. As if your joking, as if your laughing, was something he was proud to elicit from you.

“Guess you’ll just have to wait and find out, then.”

He drives pretty deeply into the woods, until the road turns rougher and the treeline is thick enough you can’t catch clearsight of the main road anymore. You really should be worried, but all you do instead of mustering up any anxiety is roll down the window. It makes him glance at you, but you don’t pay that look any mind.

The smell of rain is even stronger, heavy as it mingles with the scent of pine and dirt. It somehow dances between something familiar and something new, a distant memory that unlocks and soothes some of that tightness that had been residing in your chest for a week now. It doesn’t smother, but it does gather up in your nose, tickling in the slightest. You swear, if you were to focus hard enough, you’d pick up on the comforting smell of a burning campfire somewhere. It just seemed like the kind of appropriate scent to add to the essence of it all. The strings of light that break through leaves in golden hues, the cloud spitting out of his back tires as he clearly goes just above the recommended speed for this old road, the pleasant chirp of a bird that whistles right past – the essence of pure comfort to someone like you.

It kind of makes you wish you lived in Hawkins, just as you assumed Eddie did.

He finally slows the van into a clearing, never once scolding you for rolling the window down. He leaves you as you twist your body in what must be an uncomfortable fashion to rest your chin on the top of the door, cheeks and nose just barely peeking out of the car. Every slap of the breeze on your face feels as though you’re releasing another bit of worry to the wind, your chest continuing to grow lighter and lighter.

“Alright, Sunshine,” he clears his throat, throwing the van into park. The clearing is very obviously a small campsite – you can make out a fire pit just a few paces away and the perfect space cleared of rocks, “You call the shots. What are we gonna do?”

“What?”

Eddie leans over the center console, getting closer to you as thunder rolls in the distance, “What do you want to do? You called Mordor, so whatever is going to help you, we’ll do.”

You want to tell him that just doing as he has, not saying no and not asking questions as he drove the two of you out into the middle of nowhere, helped. The fact that he hadn’t hesitated when he’d processed that you’d said Mordor was already doing wonders for the storm that had brewed within your chest. You’d managed to snag extra time with the boy who had a way about making everything alright, and that in itself was able to erase some of your week from Hell.

But he’s looking at you, awaiting a real answer, so you say the first thing you can think of, “Do you have your copy of The Hobbit on you, by chance?”

“Oh, say less, sweetheart,” Quickly, Eddie fumbles with his seatbelt and unbuckles himself, swinging open his door and clambering out onto the soft ground waiting below. He waits for a moment, hands on his hips as he looks at you expectantly, “Well? C’mon. I promise you the back seat is far more comfortable.”

“Does that line usually work for you?”

“I don’t mean it like that.”

“Every fuckboy means it like that, Eds.”

You don’t know it, but his heart swells a little bit at the nickname.

“Good thing I’m not a fuck boy then,” he leans back into the van a little, smiling wildly, “Now come and join me in the back of my van in a totally platonic, definitely not suggestive way, Sunshine.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice; you’re climbing out to follow him to the back of the van, not even flinching as you both slam your doors shut in sync and you giggle the entire way. It’s just his effect. Everything is lighter with him around, and you’re starting to believe he should be the one called Sunshine instead of you.

“M’lady,” he bows dramatically, swinging open the heavy doors for you.

The climb in is a bit awkward, but you don’t even think about it as you take in the nest of an arrangement Eddie has set up in the back of his van. There’s an old comforter spread out across the entire floor of it, with several smaller blankets bunched at random with a few pillows.

“Are you sure you’re not a fuckboy?” you question as you’re careful to not touch the blankets with the sole of your shoes, twisting and beginning to unlace the sneakers that had seen better days. There’s stains of various sauces and syrups from work, and surely milk layering the bottom of them. You’re positive if you investigated close enough, you’d even find coffee grounds lodged between the ridges of the textured sole.

“Positive,” Eddie follows you in, reaching and shutting the doors carefully behind him. He’s less meticulous about his own boots, hardly undoing the knots and kicking them off into the same corner you’d placed your shoes, “I solemnly swear you are the first to see these freshly cleaned blankets.”

“What about before you cleaned them?”

“Sweetheart,” he throws himself down on one of the worn pillows, laying right beside where you have your knees drawn up to your knees. He’s flat on his back, hair flaring out in a halo around his head as he looks up at you with big, brown eyes, “You’re killing me here.”

You can’t help it. The two of you are probably not nearly close enough for what you impulsively do, but you’ve had a hard week, and his hair looks damn soft.

Your fingers are reaching out to trace over some of the wild and thrown out strands of curls before you can overthink it. Curling caramel and honey softness, you try to not let your breath catch as your pull up on the strand and let it run between your knuckles rather than just fingertips.

“Yeah?” you smile gently, watching him melt as you twirl the end of the curl you’d been playing with around the length of your finger, “Any specific requests for your funeral?”

He plays along, trying to not get too lost up in the barely-there feeling of you playing with his hair, “Your attendance, obviously. And probably some good music. Preferably Metallica – again, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously.”

“Actually, d’you think you can get Kirk Hammett himself to attend? That’d be the best outcome. My only request, actually.”

“You’d rather Kirk Hammett attend your funeral than me?”

“I’ve got priorities here, Sunshine.”

Your fingers have traveled up to his scalp now, scratching gently as you both are consumed in withheld laughter and brilliantly shy smiles, letting go of heavy weeks and succumbing to all of the sunlight crammed into the back of Eddie’s van.

“Alright,” your fingers pause their scratches, “I believe you were meant to read me a bedtime story, Munson.”

“Bedtime story? It’s not even afternoon yet,” Eddie scoffs, throwing a hand up as he digs beneath one of the small, fluffy blankets in the corner. When his hand comes back into view, it clutches that same copy of The Hobbit you’ve seen on the back desk at work on multiple occasions, “Alright, well, make yourself comfortable.”

Eddie shifts to sit up, your hand falling from his scalp as he piles a few of the pillows from beside him to prop him up as you mentally debate your options.

You could just lay down beside him. Not touching, just listening. The arrangement was comfortable enough and you have no doubt that it would still be exactly as you needed after all the stress.

Or you could be daring. You could do more than listen; you could lay your head in his lap, or maybe rest your tired temple against his shoulder. Your could press up against him tightly under the excuse that the space back here was limited and you could selfishly indulge in all that he was willing to offer for this afternoon. More than brushing touches, more than playful glances.

You could feel the skin of his arm against your own bare shoulder and for a moment, you could just pretend.

Don’t overthink it. Don’t overthink this.

You opt for the lap. It’s more comfortable. Less intimate, you convince yourself.

When your cheek presses into the rough denim stretching over his thigh, you can feel him tense up momentarily. Everything seemingly stops for just a second – even his breathing. But by the time you notice, it’s already resumed. You start to worry you’ve overstepped boundaries, gone too far for two coworkers playing pretend as ‘friends’.

This definitely isn’t what he meant. First you played with his hair, now you’re laying your head on his lap. You need to learn personal space, personal boundari-

All thoughts evaporate as Eddie suddenly tugs one of the blankets over you, letting it drape comfortably over your shoulder.

“Shall we begin?”

Eddie’s voice was made to narrate Tolkien. It becomes apparent between the way he enunciates each word to paint a beautiful fantasy world, his fluctuation changing for each character without missing a beat. His voice takes on a slightly deeper timber than his normal speaking voice as you listen to the storm that had been teasing the entire drive finally break. Hard winds knock against the sides of the van occasionally, the patter of rain echoing off the metal roof of the van. Thunder becomes more frequent, and you couldn’t be sure, but there must be lightning somewhere above the trees to match it. But it doesn’t reach the two of you, the random bursts of light easily mistaken for swaying shadows through the windshield.

Here in this van, with just you and Eddie and the adventures of Bilbo Baggins, it feels as if nothing bad can touch either of you. Not long weeks, not irate customers, not pessimistic friends or family – nothing. A certain bubble of safety has been created here, and you revel in it. Preen in the certainty of a few hours rest as Eddie’s fingers begin to tangle in your hair and return the favor of playing with your own strands. A simple pattern; he starts at the scalp, runs the fingers all the way through until they trail down the slope of your neck and curve of your shoulder. On occasion, they even slip to caress the top of your spine through the blanket.

Somewhere between the warmth of the soft blanket enveloping you in the scent of clean laundry and the soothing repetitive motions, you find yourself slipping away into sleep. Well-deserved, very much needed sleep that welcomes you with open arms. It’s not quite the hug you had craved from Eddie back at the store, but it’s a hug all the same, and it does hold you close just tight enough to make you believe the afternoon is capable of pressing all your broken pieces back together. If not forever, then just for now. The comfort of it all only has you nuzzling your cheek deeper into the muscle of his thigh.

The lap, it turns out, was the right choice.

Little did you know how grateful Eddie was for your choice of position. Better for your head to rest on his lap than for your ear to be pressed to his chest and hearing the current thunder of his heart that challenges the storm beginning outside the van, beating far harder for you than a friend’s would.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @d64d-n0t-sl66p1ng @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975

ghost's taglist: @emmaisgonnacry @figmentofquinn @bebe07011 @barbedwirebats @ayooooo0 @neverlearnedcivility @munson-enthusiast @digwhatudug @wow-cam @daddysmodifiedprincess2 @cancankiki @gothmingguk @nix-rose @thesesuggestedblognamesbegreat @chevelle724 @madaboutjoe @take-everything-you-can @josephquinnsfreckles @thebanisheddreamer @water-loos @dailyobsession @whenshelanded @happy-and-alone @alwayslindie @royale1803 @onegirlmanytales @whyamiheresomeonehelp @mrsjellymunson

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