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[inspire-h3llfire]

Detention... | Eddie Munson x Cheerleader!FReader

Part Two

Description: You & Eddie are both caught in an unfortunate circumstance, that only one of you is guilty of creating...unfortunately the teacher that caught you both is less than understanding, and you both end up in detention for the next two Saturdays...

CW: smut and cheating (in future parts), ptsd

Rating: 18+, minors DNI

Part One

Tagging: @catherinnn @mylunarlovess

Comment to be added to tag list

Saturday comes around fast. Too fast.

It hasn't been on your mind, really, the looming detention. Between finding the time yesterday morning to finally get the homework done (yes, the same homework that got you in this mess in the first place), and yet another pointless extra cheer practise followed by yet another pointless fight with your boyfriend, it snuck up on you. Tiptoeing, creeping, until your alarm is ringing, both for school and not.

You see him before you see Mrs Wannabe-Prison guard, and do not return the sly half smile he throws at you.

He absolutely does not deserve it.

Something about the way your eyes flicker to the ceiling is funny to him. This only makes you glare, and him laugh harder. Annoyance thrums through you like a pulse.

"Dried off, then?"

Somewhat reluctantly -- on your part -- you find yourself walking beside him.

"No thanks to you," you deadpan.

He grins again, shooting you a sideways look the devil would have been proud of. "I have that effect on girls a lot."

You open your mouth to retort that hasn't quite materialised, when you're cut off before you begin. "Ah, Mr Munson, Miss YLN." Her voice has the cadence of a disgruntled oxen. "How nice of you to join me." She fails to raise a single brow as she checks a wristwatch. It's gold and ugly, with a faded brown strap. "Three minutes late."

You're far enough away from her that Eddie is able to successfully murmur the words, "Wow, you better throw away the fucking key," out of her earshot.

It catches you so off guard, and a hastily feigned coughing fit is suddenly necessary to hide the eruption of giggles.

She leads you down the corridor that leads to the math classrooms, and then up two flights of stairs. You've never been here. The walls are bare, the magnolia paint peeling and more chipped than usual. The school is chilly, and dark. Outside, the makings of what looks like a nasty storm is battering against the thick windows. You shiver as you approach what turns out to be your destination.

There's no way around it, the cupboard is a tip.

Eddie says so.

"It's a good thing you have two Saturdays to clean it then, isn't it, Mr Munson."

Bitch.

As she walks away, you swear you hear a snigger.

You turn to Eddie. "I'm going to say this once." You turn back to the cupboard. There are boxes and boxes, some crumpled, some overflowing with papers and pens and envelopes filled with god knows what. The floor is littered in wrappers and files and yet more pens. There are pens everywhere. "Fuck you, Munson."

"Maybe later, sweetheart." He even has the audacity to wink right before he steps inside.

Wishing you were rather anywhere else, you follow. There's enough room for the two of you to stand comfortably within, and not much else. "Not what I meant," you grumble, cringing as a snap of plastic under your foot rings through the small space. You look down. A pen, of course.

You glance around, the storm of stationery making your arms prickle.

Eddie only laughs as he pulls a nearby box towards himself with a grunt. As soon as he lifts it, the base collapses, covering more of the floor, and his shoes, in a wave of yet more papers.

"Fuck!"

You shouldn't. You really, really shouldn't, because it's not funny, yet you find yourself laughing, even as swirls of dust coat your jeans.

"Fuck, indeed."

You work for the next three hours. When you leave your crouched position, where you spent the last ten minutes organising some rulers, your eyes trail over the shelves. And realise something...unpleasant, as you look towards him. "How can it look no fucking better?"

"No idea." He shrugs, and pulls something from an inside pocket of his faded denim jacket. Something small and white and cylindrical that he holds in front of your face. "Fancy it?"

Your reply comes out rushed and breathy. "Oh my god." You eye the joint, then the cupboard, then him again. Do you fancy it? What? The terrible idea that could land you in far more shit than a few Saturday detentions? "Yes, yes I do."

He lights it with a chuckle, at the same moment a rumble of thunder echoes from somewhere above, and an involuntary shudder overcomes you.

You've never liked thunder.

Not since...

The snort of derision you expect doesn't come, nor does the snide dig. Instead, he sits amongst the pen-centrich chaos, and beckons you to join him.

And you do.

The first draw claws at the inside of your chest, making the desire to cough almost too much. Somehow, you remain composed.

More thunder. You pinch the joint tighter and look at your other hand. Balled into a fist and pressed into the top of your bent knee.

"You know," Eddie says as you pass it back, "I used to be scared of thunder, too."

"I'm not scared of thunder," you retort, a little too fast, too defensive. You know you both know it. You blow out a long breath. "Just don't fucking laugh, okay?"

"Now, why would I do that?" He may not be laughing, but he is grinning.

You throw him a pointed look, and -- against all your better judgement -- say, "Because that's what guys do."

"Guys...laugh at you?"

Yes. Shit. No. Sometimes. And not guys, plural.

Just the one.

"Just the one."

You take the blunt again, and your next draw is a big one.

"Josh, I assume."

You're pretty sure it's not really a question. Your boyfriend's name sounds absurd coming from Eddie Munson's mouth. You neither confirm or deny his words. It seems pointless.

"It doesn't matter."

He takes longer than a second to answer. "It kind of sounds like it does."

"Shut up."

"Yes, ma'am."

You snort, then abruptly stop as the third roll of thunder, the loudest, cuts through the air like a knife through soft butter. You're grateful then, to be sitting, for your knees, even in this position, are shaking. You swallow, hard, and knit your fingers together.

"Woah," Eddie begins, though his tone is soft, far more than any other time you've heard his voice anyway, "Y/N, you really don't like thunder, do you?"

You're ashamed of the way your eyes clamp shut, and of just how hard your head shakes from side to side.

And, as another roll forces your mind away from a chorus of memories you've tried in vain to dampen for six years, somewhere in the swirling darkness, a hand takes yours, and a boy's voice tells you it's okay.

And you wish you could believe him.

TBC....

Comment to be added to tag list.

[inspire-h3llfire]

The two most handsome men I have ever seen in my entire life.

[inspire-h3llfire]

Detention... | Eddie Munson x Cheerleader!FReader

Part One

Description: You & Eddie are both caught in an unfortunate circumstance, that only one of you is guilty of creating...unfortunately the teacher that caught you both is less than understanding, and you both end up in detention for the next two Saturdays...

Rating: 18+, minors DNI

CW: smut and cheating (in future parts)

Comment to be tagged in future parts

It's almost 8:30pm -- on a Thursday -- and you're still in school.

How that sentence in itself isn't criminal, you do not know.

Funny how there was no mention at cheer tryouts just how many late nights you'd be expected to put in. The other girls, they thought it was worth it, the uniform, the basketball playing boyfriend. You had both of those...and you weren't so sure.

God, you were tired. And, of course, you'd forgotten the chemistry book you needed for the homework due tomorrow you hadn't even started. Cheer practise ran late was an excuse that flew with far fewer teachers than you'd been led to believe, and the dick that taught you chemistry was not amongst them.

You sighed, tugging your hair free from its scrunchy-shaped prison, and shook your head, running your fingers through in an attempt to tame the un-tame-able as you turned into the corridor where your locker stood. The school was chilly, the heating not kept on, apparently, all night. It smelled like cheap chemicals. There were still lights on, though only in the halls. Save your muffled footsteps, few sounds met your ears.

You'd only taken a few steps before it happened. In a rush and gasp and an icy jolt straight to your legs and ass...and you realised, in horror, you were not only on the ground, but soaking wet.

"What the shit!"

For a second, or two, you sit there, as frozen as the wetness seeping further and further up your back and down your legs, before a laugh, a kind of deep giggle, erupts from your right. It's closely followed by a thud, and an, "Ohhh, fuck!"

From not too far away, footsteps clip clop along. Though you don't have time to dwell as you blink upwards, a hand appearing close to your face. Covered in an assortment of heavy metal rings and marred by more than one scar. Without really contemplating, well, anything, you take it, and allow yourself to be hauled upwards, away from the puddle stretching almost the entire width of the corridor, and towards...

"Well well well, Mr Munson, Miss YLN, what do we have here?"

You had barely registered who the hand in question had belonged to. You drop it at the same time you blow out a long breath, cringing as a soft breeze presses the back of your top against your already freezing flesh.

Eddie Munson.

What the fuck was Eddie Munson doing here, at 8:30pm, beside a giant, indoor puddle?

You're not sure you want to know.

The teacher, whose name you also do not know, though who seems to know you, has a similar question. Though from the way her eyes bore first into him, and then you, she seems to want answers from you, too.

Is she insane? As if you'd have anything to do with whatever this is...or Eddie Munson.

"Uhh," Eddie starts, running a hand through his long hair, which, if anything, makes it messier, "nothing, Miss."

"A likely story."

"I...was at cheer practise." You gesture behind and instantly wish you hadn't as the movement causes shards of ice to permeate your side. You jerk, and even Eddie Munson has the grace to look guilty.

Before it's replaced by a smirk.

"Another likely story."

She must be insane. It's the only explanation for why she'd think you'd be standing here, willingly, soaking wet.

The bitch.

"Uh, Miss, I really didn't-"  You attempt to explain, though a raised hand and a scowl cuts you off.

Eddie fails to cover a laugh with a cough, and says, "She really didn't have anything to do-"

"And I really do not care, Mr Munson." Her eyes, which are dark and beady and too small for a her head, are still darting between you and him. "Detention, this Saturday. Both of you."

Your mouth falls open. "Wait...no, what?!"

Her face is both a livid mask, and a dare for either of us to question her further.

"This Saturday, and now the one after. Nine am, at the front office. I'll see you both then."

Raging bitch!

This...had to be a joke.

Right?

TBC...

Let me know if you wanna be tagged in part two...

[inspire-h3llfire]

TW: sexual assault.

He doesn't know how deep it really goes. Doesn't know how the remains have burrowed so deep into parts of your mind you're not sure they'll ever die.

What he does know, are two truths: you dated a shithead basketball player for nearly a year, and he cheated for at least half of that...with your best friend.

Ex best friend.

But those are the things everyone knows.

You've been here an hour. Maybe more. You asked him to meet you, and he did. You cried when you first uttered the words. Please, you said. I need something. I can pay.

He said okay. And he led you to a clearing you've never been to.

The scent of woodsmoke lingers here.

The lunchbox is atop the table in front of you. The slab of wood that used to separate you and him and now sits in front of both of you.

You don't know when he slid out from his bench, and onto yours. Only that, for some reason, you're glad he did.

"Usually," he says, "I'd be all over this sale." You dart your gaze to his; it's on the cash crumpled in your fist, and then it's on you.

"Wha-" A rush of something -- panic, maybe, courses through you. Maybe it's not enough, maybe... you lift the money, pushing it towards him.

Eddie's hand meets your fist, and, with a hesitancy you don't miss, pushes it back towards you.

"I-I can get more, I can..." you trail off, tears threatening. How you have any left is a mystery for the ages.

"I can't believe I'm saying this." He picks at the surface of the table and sighs. "I don't want...your money."

"Then wh-" Your entire body tenses as the implication hits you. Your hand reaches for the neck of your shirt, wishing the top two buttons were fastened, and then wishing you were anywhere else, with anyone else. "N-no, I'm not-"

In a flash, both his hands are held aloft, palms towards you. "No, oh shit." His eyes are wide, and he swallows hard. "No, that's not what I meant. Jesus."

Oh. Shit. "I...I'm sorry, I..." You lower your hands. That's all he ever wanted...even when you didn't. Even when you said just how much you didn't. The memory stings and your eyes cast down. "I didn't mean to...I'm sorry," you say again. It doesn't sound enough.

"It's fine."

It isn't, but you blow out a long breath. "Wh-what do you want, then?"

It takes him a few seconds too long, during which he seems to trace your every feature with his eyes, his mind. When he smiles, his eyes crinkle at the sides. "I...wanted to know if you'd ever want to just...hang out."

"Oh." Your mouth falls open and a hundred different memories flash in your mind. Of him. Of him and her and him and you and him...hurting you. You close your mouth and try your best to ignore the way your heart is pounding as if trying to escape and your hands are tingling, the edges of a few of the notes digging into the insides of your fingers.

You ask yourself why he'd want to. Why anyone would want to.

You're a frigid bitch, remember?

A psycho.

A 'freak.'

But, you realise, according to them, so is he...

[inspire-h3llfire]

They have my heart.

[inspire-h3llfire]

[inspire-h3llfire]

He doesn't take it seriously.

Not English class. Not his GPA or college choices or what extracurriculars will 'be a benefit in the long run'

He doesn't take any of it seriously.

Hell, he doesn't even take h.i.m.s.e.l.f seriously.

Not like you.

Not like you have since you were thirteen years old and Andrew Moak that used to live next door broke his leg rollerblading down the hill at the end of Cross Chase. And you knew then you were going to be a doctor. Because the angle Andrew's leg ended up in, which grossed everyone out s.o.f.r.e.a.k.i.n.g.m.u.c.h was FASCINATING to you.

And so you asked your mom and your dad and your aunt Debra who works something called graveyard shifts as a nurse what you had to do to get there.

And then, like a lunatic, you snuck into a careers fayre meant for kids years older than you. And you asked a man with a stethoscope round his neck and a handlebar moustache.

Work hard.

And don't mess around with boys.

They'll lead you astray. Apparently. According to handlebar.

And so you did. Do.

You work so fucking hard.

And you've come so fucking close.

You close your aged copy of Twelfth Night and blink ahead, your eyes on the streams of dust specks -- the kind you once believed were streams of magic -- spreading from the too bright window. And you feel it.

No, you see it. Barely. At the very edge of your eyesight's periphery. You see it.

Him.

Or, rather, the way he's not looking ahead, like you are.

He's looking at you.

Every other time you've ignored it. Even when your heart beats that little bit harder, faster and the centre of your chest goes kind of...fuzzy.

Because boys will lead you astray.

Even beautiful ones.

Especially beautiful ones.

But you can't help it when the ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth like a soft breeze pulls at wheat grass stems, forcing them just a little bit sideways.

You hear the bell, and a part of you acknowledges the scuffs and scrapes as, around you, chairs are pulled and their occupants rise.

And, inside, a part of you tells you to look over.

When you do, he's standing, his eyes so decidedly not on you, despite your grades, you feel stupid.

Until his head turns, and his eyes meet yours. And then all you feel is fuzzy in the chest and not much else.

"Hi."

Your reply is breathy...for some reason. "Hi."

He takes a step, two. Towards you.

You should really move.

"You know," he begins, a smile -- bigger than yours -- playing on his lips, "I don't think we've ever spoke." A hand reaches forwards, towards you. Towards you.

Fuzz. Fuzz. Fuzz.

"I'm Eddie."

You know that, of course, but you pretend you don't as you take his hand.

"Y/N."

"See you tomorrow." His eyes hold yours. They're the kind of brown shade that feels like fall. Like leaves and bonfires and lattes. "Y/N."