Thinking about Mechanics!141 and fem reader with a shitbox car (totally not me). You're in there every three to four weeks with something going wrong with your death trap of a car. The boys aren't sabotaging your car or anything. They don't need to. Your car is just that bad. It's a miracle it hasn't killed you yet. You're trying to save up for a newer car, but your shitbox keeps burning a hole in your wallet with every light blinking on your dashboard. It's to the point that the boys recognize you as soon as you walk into the shop. They hear the bell ring and they just know it's you again.
(Contains: sex as payment, oral sex/blowjob, fingering/masturbation) but of a different style from BitW but enjoy. Not proofread :p
"What is it now?" Price asks, wiping the motor oil from his hands on a greasy rag. You're already looping the key fob off your keychains.
"It's shaking whenever I get above 45."
"What part of the car is shaking?" He asks, pulling up your information on the computer.
"All of it," you say, slapping the key onto the counter with a huff. Price gives you a sympathetic look.
"Darling, you should really get yourself something more reliable," he tells you. You sigh and lean your elbows on the counter. His eyes glance down to your chest and the low-cut shirt you were wearing.
"I'm trying, Price," you say with a little more attitude than you intended. "It's impossible to save money when everything goes back into this fucking car!" You run your hands over your face. "I'm gonna die in that thing," you mutter, only half-joking. Price stops typing for a moment, thinking to himself.
"What if we could work something out?" He asks tentatively. You look up at him to see him already staring you down.
"Like... a loyalty discount?" You try to clarify. Surely he didn't mean...
"I was thinking something more along the lines of... an alternative method of payment." He leans against the counter in front of you, his face close to yours. He smelled like what you'd expect: motor oil and engine grease and musky, manly sweat. "Something under-the-table..." Your heart skipped a beat at the double-meaning of his words, allowing him just enough plausible deniability if you chose to not accept. You swallowed hard.
"What do you have in mind?" You ask softly, your heart pounding in your chest, and with how hard Price was staring at your cleavage, you think maybe he could see it. You reach a hand out to stoke a finger along his arm, feeling the coarse hair all over it. The corner of his mouth quirked up.
"I think I have something in the back office that might work. Follow me and I'll show you."
It wasn't that you were totally desperate. Well, you were. This car had cost you thousands more than it was worth and you needed to save any penny you could when it came to it. But you wouldn't have followed just any mechanic into the rinky-dink office at the back of the auto shop. This was John Price. And he was all man.
"You want that discount, you're gonna have to work for it."
Broad shoulders tapering into a narrower waist, but still lined with the perfect ratio of hearty muscle and soft belly, all leading down to an alluring bulge and plump ass, and finally, those thick, beefy thighs. Not to mention his hands: thick, strong, and calloused from years of hard manual labor, and forearms and biceps that twisted and flexed underneath his button-down work shirt.
He holds the door open for you, his body crowding you into the tight space. The office is more of an oversized closet with a desk and an old computer. He closes the door behind you both and settles himself into the rickety office chair, which creaks under his weight. He sits with his legs spread and his hands on his thighs and gestures for you to come closer.
You kneel between his legs and he smirks, adjusting his hips in the chair while you work open his belt. He lets you open his trousers for him but pushes them down for you so his semi-hard cock can spring free. He sighs when you take it into your hand, stroking him to full hardness.
He isn't much of a moaner, you didn't expect him to be, but his chest puffs as you take the tip into your mouth and suck on it lightly. Your hand moves up and down his shaft slowly, your fingers moving to meet your lips. You lick around the head and push the tip of your tongue into his slit, making his hips jerk lightly.
You close your eyes, letting yourself fully focus on his cock, letting desire and submissiveness take over your mind as you work to please him on your knees. You take him deeper into your mouth, widening your jaw and rocking your mouth side to side to fit him farther down. Your other hand slides up his thick, meaty thigh to massage his balls while you find yourself in a gentle rhythm. You bob your head, going down just far enough, but not enough to gag you, and sucking hard on the way up as your hand holds and twists the base. You melt onto him, the feeling of him in your mouth quieting your mind, leaving any thought of hesitancy far, far behind. All you need is John Price's dick in your mouth, and you think you could reach enlightenment between his thighs.
You barely register the fact that you're moaning around him until he's teasing you for it.
"Yeah? You like this, don't you? Letting me drag you to the back of the shop to suck my cock like the little whore you are." You whimpered at the filthy words he was spitting down at you. "Knew you would- the boys and I- knew you'd like us usin' you like this," he says with a grunt as he watches your eyes roll back. "Go on and touch yourself for me, dear."
You let go of his balls and quickly open your pants to sneak your hand inside. Your pussy is soaked, your fingers gliding through your lips with ease. You moan louder as you circle your clit, the motion sending sparks through your pelvis and thighs.
"There's a good girl. So obedient. I can hear how wet you are for me." He places a hand on your head, not pushing, just guiding your pace up and down his length. You press your tongue to the underside of his cock to add pressure while you touch your clit, the wet nub buzzing with electricity.
"Just like that," he puffs. He holds up his shirt and you see through your fluttering lashes the way his abs constrict with pleasure. "Go on, make yourself cum like that. Think you can do it? You think you can cum with my cock down your throat?" His hips jerk up into your mouth again with more urgency.
Your thighs twitch as your stomach tightens. His vulger words send you over the edge, and your hips stutter against your hand. Your body twitches and thrusts on the floor between his thighs.
"Good girl- good fuckin' girl," he says, his voice deep and strained, and he fists your hair harder and pulls it tight. The rush of euphoria makes you moan around him low and loud, and he cums into your mouth with a grunt. You choke on the salty fluid, swallowing what you can, but some of it slips out of your lips and drips down your chin.
He pulls you off and takes a good look at how ruined you are, your lips swollen, your eyes unable to focus, your hand down your pants, and best of all, his cum decoration your face. He smiles at you and hands you a relatively clean rag to clean your face. Little black streaks preplace white droplets on your skin, and he can't help the fond smile that creeps up on him. He's marked you now in more ways than one.
He untangles his hand from your hair and let's you rest your head on his knee until you catch your breath. You take your hand out of your pants, and he motions for you to raise it up to him, and instead of wiping it with the rag, he leans forward and sucks your wet fingers into his mouth. He holds your eyes and you feel his tongue swiping across the pads of your fingers, until he releases then with a smack of his lips.
"I'll let the boys know about our little arrangement. They'll collect their own payment when you pick it up tomorrow," he says with a wink. He helps you stand up and walks you back to the front, leaving you with one final squeeze to you ass. "Oh, and you might want to wash your hair," he adds as he opens the door to the garage. He hands up a greasy hand. "Got motor oil in it. Sorry."
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Let’s Be Closer
(Eddie Munson x Female Reader)
Warnings: Depression, anxiety, panic attacks, slightly NSFW, but not much, & language.
Pairings: Eddie Munson x Female Reader
A/N: Back with another one! I’ve been working on this for a few days, and I’m really nervous, as I’ve channeled a lot of my energy into this fic, because I’ve not been in a good mindset—at all—so I added a little Eddie to help, and I hope it makes anyone who is going through something similar, to feel better, even if it’s just a morsel? My ask box is ALWAYS open if you ever need someone to talk to—that goes for anyone that reads this, and is feeling badly or lost, or even in general—I’m here! I understand and I hear you, and I’m not going anywhere!! Hope this is okay?
Enjoy! - Kristen <3
~*~
He’d tried calling you, fingers raw from the damned dial button, eyes blurry without sleep for what is the sixth night in a row. You never ignored his calls, you never missed a club meeting—despite never playing the game, but bringing snacks and your branding charm, instead. You never explicitly dodged him in the hallways of Hawkins High, you never missed a chance to wave his Zippo lighter at his band’s shows—their number one fan since founding, and you sure as shit never went a day—hell, even an hour without seeking him out. He misses your hands pressing over his eyes, decorative bangles caressing his cheeks, how he’ll never know what shampoo you’ve decided to use this time brimming his senses. Eddie Munson needs you.
And you’re just… gone. He’s seen you at school, sure, but that’s not what he’s currently worrying a bitten down thumb nail over. He’d bugged every friend he could talk to, running over all scenarios where he might’ve upset you somehow—no results produced. Your last night together was a movie and some burgers. He’d treated you to a shared chocolate shake after, topped with whipped cream and a cherry.
You swore you would master the art of tying the stem one day, and damn it if Eddie didn’t get his kicks from seeing you try to work that cute tongue to accomplish it. You’d both sat on his favorite quilt your mom helped you sow him for Christmas a few years back, van doors open, drinking in the soft serenity of nightfall, overlooking Lover’s Lake. Perfection, peace, that’s what the day’s events contained. Eddie never noticed anything unusual about you, just extraordinary—as always.
His very own confidant. Ride or die, as you’d promised him.
Except… apparently, not anymore.
Eddie is caught between anger at your automatic dismissal, treating him as most of your shared peers, to gnawing nausea that something is seriously wrong. And as his uncle asks him where you are, obviously confused at your lack of presence in the Munson household—being angry wins out.
~*~
Rainstorms are always a bitch in any context, but Indiana seems to pack a solid punch when unpredictable Mother Nature is visiting. Eddie can barely see through his crappy wipers, windshield rain soaked and battered in pounding thumps. Your house glitters above the surface of heavy drops, visible by its glowing inhabitation. Eddie cuts his engine, fingers idle across the monogrammed skull charm keychain you’d gotten him, dangling from his key ring.
Fuck it.
Clambering from his rust bucket ride, he jogs his way up your empty drive, seeking solace on your small porch. Your parent’s cars are gone, yet the normal lamps cast their buttery glow through your windows. He isn’t a man that prays, but he’ll do anything if he can ask you what the fuck your problem is lately, and, you know—check on your well—being, or however the fuck it’s supposed to sound. Heaving in an exerted breath, Eddie presses a finger over your doorbell, legs bouncing back and forth in an anxious jolt as he waits.
And waits.
And waits some-fucking-more.
Anger vs. Anxiety: the Sequel
“Hey, knock knock, Little Hellion. It’s me, you know, the dude that’s your right hand man, the one that lets you eat his pretzels at lunch, touch all his band equipment, entertains your enthusiasm towards the ear splitting garbage that is considered ‘hit music’. Think you owe it to the friendship masters that brought us together, to at least tell me what’s goin’ on?”
Silence.
In a typical Eddie fashion, he begins to obnoxiously teeter the doorbell, each time birthing the same end scene. Humiliated, drenched, and tired, Eddie’s resolve has him pressing his hair-caked forehead to your front door.
Screw this.
You’d told him many times where your spare house key was, so he could avoid having to climb in your window, because really? Though, you adored watching him struggle into an endearing shuffle through your window frame, and Eddie found it fun—he wasn’t about to mud his way around your yard and bust his ass on a whim. Well… unless the key wasn’t here, he can admit to that.
Luckily for him—the first hope of the night—it’s under your mom’s decorative address painted rock. He gains swift access, securing himself in your home. It’s not been but a week, but it feels eternities longer. As he figured, your parents aren’t in their usual living room spots, the television off. The kitchen light above the sink is on, the hall light above your stairs, and he knows you’re bound to be awake. Ever his favorite night owl.
Yanking his shoes off, he carries them in one hand, ascending your stairwell and venturing to your bedroom.
~*~
There’s a soft blue hue merging with your hot pink lava lamp, bleeding underneath your door’s gap. You’re watching some B rated horror film, no reaction, no movement from the other side. And that’s when Eddie starts to panic. Dropping his Reeboks on your mom’s hallway rug outside your door, he doesn’t knock, doesn’t delay, pushing your door open so hard it smacks into your wicker dresser, knocking some trinkets over. He doesn’t know what he expected, maybe you having another guy here—a disgustingly bitter bite brims his esophagus at that notion—or new friends, maybe. He isn’t ready for the gut twisting sight of you, back to him, curled in a fetal position, pink cotton throw around your midriff, tear soaked eyes staring at your baby pink wallpaper, unmoved.
Eddie Munson is speechless.
He takes hesitant footsteps into your sanctuary, easing the door latched behind, as to not startle you. However, you beat him to it.
“What are you doing here, Eddie?” There’s a raw rasp to your tone, a clogged damage.
You remind Eddie of a wounded animal, a lost soldier in his dungeon. He’s never heard you sound so fucking lost. All his hostility dissipates, leaving him with a protective possessiveness. He pulls off his vest and leather coat, laying them over your desk chair, forgoing sitting to your backside and pathing his destination to your front. Your murky vision forces his form out of view, body automatically flinching to move away.
Eddie catches your wrist with a cool hand, thumb tapping the bone, pinching a small portion of your skin in reassurance. “Y/N… baby.”
He doesn’t call you pet names that intimate very often, not unless he’s voicing a concern or a sleepily muttered softness. You’ve always wondered if he called every fangirl that. The burning in your throat threatens to expose you, your limb shaking in Eddie’s vice.
“Please… Eddie, can you just leave? Be mad at me all you want, but I can’t fight with you right now.”
You’re spent, worried he’ll actually go, and not really wanting him to. But that’s how your mind works, isn’t it? Depression’s tricks of the trade; mindfucks, self-doubt, confusion, isolation, emotionless, feeling too much, not enough. His rings are chilled in their brisk brush, sliding along your pulse point, tracing all the way up you arm until they reach your jaw, where he presses a swipe, ever-so-gently. The dam is cracking, about to burst, explode.
“And go where, Y/N? Can’t exactly perform up to my full potential without the Cher to my Sonny, the Eowyn to my Faramir, that nice bit of leather that holds my sweetheart across my chest—“
“Eddie, stop.” You’re head is swimming in static, body moving upright—a position you haven’t assumed in days, with the exception of taking a shower.
Still, you don’t toss his hand off you. He’s beckoned into hope. His middle finger caresses your jawline’s expanse, pushing a bop at your nose, breathing winded, posture patient.
Yeah, that does it.
The levee gapes, flooding itself wide open. Eddie is bringing you into his chest, your fingers fisting into his Hellfire shirt, temple resting against his exposed collar bone, his pick chain tickling your cheek, and you sob. Harder than you’ve remembered doing this week, guilt wracking you at your ignorance towards how your bestfriend might be effected by your distance, that hopeless abyss caverning your chest from the inside out.
“Eddie-Bear,” You breathe out wetly, languidly. The silly nickname you’d taken to calling Eddie since childhood, all because his curly hair, and he never stopped you from saying it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
You hear him whisper a meek ‘fuck’, before he’s closing his arms around your blanket covered waist, squeezing you in so tightly to him that your air supply thrums against your ribcage. He’s more comforting than your favorite summer thunderstorm. Cigarette smoke lathers him in wafts, rainwater soaked skin, lavishly showered by his spicy cologne. You’re okay. It’s fine.
“What’s happening, baby? Stay with me, yeah?” He’s peppering your forehead with the softest kisses you’ve ever felt, each one conveying his care towards you—fragile, beautiful. It causes you to reign enough strength back in to meet his gaze, under eyes burning and sore, puffy from your tears.
That undertow overwhelms you, cutting off your momentary serenity, making you begin to tug on Eddie’s shirt in desperation, needing it off. You’re whispering and he’s in a state of confusion, arms having no choice but to untuck from you, spreading out. “Y/N…” It���s a questionable warning, a caution against what this action implies.
Something hums, throbs deep inside you—a beast needing satiated—one that Eddie doesn’t know you keep caged. You’ve always wanted your bestfriend (a rather cliche thing to you, but alas), and it seems your avoidance did nothing to improve it, signifying a tenfold magnitude of want and craving, a desperate having to have. Staying away from Eddie is catching up to you, a new anxiety settling in, a warped panic. Eddie’s eyes are closed in contemplation when you face him, mapping out the expanse of his chin, across his jawline, right over that jugular. Your brain is such a jumbled heap, wanting him to be away from you, everyone to leave you by yourself to drown like you think you deserve, to collapsing if Eddie isn’t on you. But Eddie Munson isn’t everyone, and even your fucked up, depression filled brain can admit to that.
He has some otherworldly effect…
“Y/N?” He’s begging a question. And he wants to sob in relief when your beautiful y/e/c irises meet his own.
Your answer isn’t within words, it’s a slip of your hands off his body, pushing up your own baggy white band t-shirt—a comfort shirt you reserve to usually wear. Eddie’s eyes widen when you’re not even clad in a bra, bare breasts a perfect (to him) swell. The softest of actions, yet Eddie is swallowing, confused. He can’t not be so transparent in front of you, he never has. That’s not your dynamic and won’t ever be. “So, you don’t want to see me and now you’re… what, flashing me? Y/N what is this? You’re scarin’ me here.”
“I can’t tell you if I don’t even know, Eddie.” You mumble, knees knocking into his own, his ripped jeans causing a radiating warmth from bared skin through your blanket piled lap.
Eddie is silent, mulling over your words. He isn’t wanting to allow himself to realize that he recognizes your entire mood, as he’s felt it all too much many times before. That hopeless, wayward, black hole of gloom and goddamned doom. It makes too much sense, and Eddie practically tastes that anxiousness coming off you in tower-high waves. But what you’re asking, here, your body exposed to him, another vulnerability he wasn’t prepared for—he finds he can’t deny you.
Whether it’s that cosmic connective bullshit, or his own self-afflicting mindset to be in constant companionship with you, he nods. “Only if you try and talk to me about all this. You gotta promise.” His chocolate brow raises, expectant.
“I’ll… try, as best as I can, okay? Is that good enough?” You’re weak, tears drying, new ones forming.
Eddie nods, starting to reach to brush his hand across you, hold you, not stare at this intimate part of your flesh. He hears a little hushing embarkment, another request. He grants it, finally watching you under an intensity so precious your lower lip wobbles. He tucks his fingers underneath his shirt, pulling and shimmying his upper torso from the damp fabric, letting it drop behind him on your hardwood. It’s a small echo, but something else completely significant.
He’s inhaling sharply, his creamy inked skin this burning layout you seek to travel. He’s Eddie. He’s beautiful. The neon setting of your lava lamp, the reflection of your television still going as a backtrack—it highlights both your forms. Settled and paused on your bed, Eddie looking everywhere but your breasts. This gives you your first smile in over a week. “Eddie. S’ okay to look at me if you want to.”
His reaction will forever be burned into your retinas. It’s a heated swirl, dark eyes creating a crest across your chest, almost as if he’s strumming you the way his fingers pluck at his guitar’s strings. His tongue sucks against teeth, perks, focused. He looks. You can tell he’s fighting every forsaken and forbidden urge that you are… to touch. To feel.
To know…
“Baby…” A whimpering confusion disorients your bestfriend into that pet name. That secretive thing you both have pictured, hands on yourselves at night right after you hang out, scents clinging to one another, names tipping off each other’s lips.
There’s more here…
“I just need to fucking feel you, Eddie. I can’t… I…” That embarrassingly swift panic stampedes your windpipes.
Your palms splay across his tattooed skin, fingertips tracing its unique outline. He finally reaches out when you can barely stand the anticipation any longer, his finger hooking underneath your armpit, thumb-pad brushing the underside of your breast—his first touch. You finally escape your throw, your black panties the only thing that remain. Eddie has to fight every fantasy he’s ever pictured, his own guilty conscience staring him down. You shake your head, reading him.
He’s actually looking at you in the ways you’ve dreamt of. It gives you a bravery to start a revealing, fingers sliding up and down his ribcage. “It’s been so fucked in my head lately. I just want to disappear, so I tried to… as much as possible.” You hope it makes a little sense, because it’s enough to scare the shit out of you, expecting this scrutiny.
Eddie’s throat is on fire with a settled worry, a dawning thought, a knowing sigh. His thumb caresses your breast, an ache unable to stop its responding throb between your legs. He traces your ribcage, pressing, dancing shapes along, rubbing, his voice light when he speaks. “Why didn’t you tell me? You know how my mind works, Y/N. This is the resident freak you’re talking to here. Not exactly a stranger to the dark side of the human mental state.”
“I know, Eddie. I should’ve, but I didn’t want anyone around. Fuck, I didn’t realize how much I needed you until you forced your way into my house—“
“Uh, I rang the bell, Y/N. And technically, I didn’t force my way. I used your spare key.”
“Oh, Eddie,” You sing-sigh, tears docked. “Crazy boy.”
“Y/N…” He’s closer now, bolder to grip your naked waist, your muscles moving beneath his touch. “I’ve been there. You’ve been right fucking beside me. Did you really think I wouldn’t come over here and ask you what’s going on? That’s a coward’s retreat. I can’t let you feel like shit alone, not gonna happen.”
You reach for his belt, an agreeing nod of your head. He starts to move and grab your hands. “It’s not right, not like this.”
Not like this? So… then, when? He really does want it too.
“I know,” You whisper. “Just want to feel your skin on mine.”
You rest your forehead to Eddie’s, letting your fingers trace that demon head tattoo above his pectoral, scraping the barest brushes. He shivers, pulling away, holding in. Finding the curvature of your spine, Eddie taps an invisible beat, making you croon. Your left hand winds around his neck, draping across his lower back, threading through his curls, calming him. “Please, please.” You aren’t sure you can look at him again if he rejects your last advance, your letter to a lifeline.
In a revamped silence, Eddie slides off your bed, wood floors creaking underneath his feet. Your eyes widen, posture frozen.
Is he leaving?
But he gives you that smitten Eddie Munson smile and he sheds his socks, unbuckling his belt and jeans, shoving them down to his ankles and kicking them away, his decorative buckle clattering across the flooring. He lowers his brows at you, shy, pursing his lips as he knees his way into a crawl across your bed, meeting you—blue checkered boxers all that separate him from you. His chain sways in his movement, his hand cupping your cheek and bringing you up and into him, mouth hovering, lips ghosting, so close you’re drunk on the caress. It’s so fucking intimate, so open and vulnerable. It’s as if you’ve torn open your chest and handed your bestfriend your modesty and your heart.
They’re already his…
Eddie breathes you in, your shampoo— strawberries and cream this time, your skin silky beneath his touch. He’s got you and you’re still here with him, trying.
“Promise me you’ll try and tell me someway, somehow, even if you can’t say it—that something is wrong, Y/N. From here on out, you gotta promise me.” Fuck, he really wants to kiss every bit of that panic from you, lay you down, take you in your bed, and hold you until the moon vanishes underneath the horizon, and the sun sprays its peachy hues all around your bedroom walls. He is startled to revel in the fact that you want it just as much.
“I wish we could…” You trail off, mouth puffing a breath. So close.
Eddie’s honey coated voice is rasped. “We can. All you’ve ever had to do was ask me to go to bed with you, and I’d give you whatever you fucking wanted, Y/N,” He breaks, nose nudging yours, slowly edging back enough to comb your hair behind your ear. “But right now, I won’t.”
It’s so strange, how Eddie was worried about you, angry with you, thinking you hated him, and now he knows you want him inside you just as much as he wants to be there. And you, your brain is a scrambled mess, still swimming in the darkness, yet revealing your secrets to your bestfriend, and hearing his shared truths. It’s all… too much. You don’t have to say anything else—he already knows. His tone is light, airy, as he sings along to the lyrics of your favorite drunken karaoke song. “They say we’re young and we don’t know… We won’t find out until we grow…”
He bumps your shoulder, making your eyes glisten, heart lurch, your own voice joining in. “Well I don’t know if all that’s true… Cause you got me, and baby, I got you…”
You both share a nostalgic smile, a melancholy settling into your chest, joining in together.
“Babe… I got you babe, I got you babe…”
“There’s my girl,” Eddie squeezes your shoulder, his other hand on the back of your neck. “Can’t do this shit without you.”
“My favorite dungeon master.” You quip.
Eddie feigns a dramatic look. “Better be the only one.”
“You are. Always.” There’s a new sensitivity forming—banter aside—a place you and Eddie have just discovered.
He senses those gears shifting inside you, that mood threatening to flood you. Eddie lays a kiss to your cheek, lingering, his hands sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him, breasts smashing into his chest. You both let out a ravished whimper, body heat shared, radiating. Your nipples harden, soaking in the affectionate stick of Eddie. He’s starting to move backwards, taking you with him on your bed.
You let him guide you, unable to let go if hurricane winds threatened you both. He brings a hand underneath your ass in a slide, sheets rustling, gripping where your thigh meets a cheek, lifting, sloping your limb over his lower waist. Your panties, drenched through—a response beyond your control—skim over his happy trail, where all those freckles are resting, waiting for your mouth to trace. He shushes your apology, tilting his body to lay an arm underneath your head, his pick necklace dangling across your bosom, and he lets you rest on his forearm, his other outstretching to wrap around your waist, that thick arm hair stimulating your broke out goosebumps. He rests his chin overtop your head, content, swollen between his legs, but managing to control it to a minimum.
You fall asleep in his arms— quiet, warm, safe, sleeping through the night for the first time in a month.
~*~
It hadn’t been but a few days since you and Eddie were together, and the next morning when he snuck out, he was terrified you’d bolt on him again. He treaded lightly when he showed up at school, trying to focus on getting his final set list together, and interviews for new members of Hellfire Club, pushing distractions. The day crept on and on, but he hadn’t seen you thus far, and the day’s end meeting was approaching.
~*~
He can hardly stomach being still on his throne, knee bouncing. Everyone’s voices sound staged, louder than usual. Eddie is barely aware until Gareth shakes his shoulder—hard. He nearly snaps, a stressed groan leaving his mouth, flat. “What?”
“Dude,” Gareth exclaims, waving the folded piece of notebook paper in his face. “I said, Y/N left a note for you earlier. Said she was doing something for her mom, to call her later.”
Eddie snatches it from his friend, ignoring whatever else he says, nearly tearing the paper to get to its contents. He can’t help but to grin like a fool, teeth bared, almost a proud pose, your scribbled handwriting clear.
Let’s Be Closer
~*~
Tagging: @littledemondani @prettyboyeddiemunson
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