THE VECNA BUS IS COMING

The thing about Eddie Munson was that he could flirt with everyone except you, seriously.

The guy could lean over a lunch table and make some poor sophomore nearly pass out with one wink, could sweet-talk bartenders into free fries at The Hideout, could stand on stage with a guitar slung low on his hips and command an entire room without even trying.

But the second you walked into the room? Gone. Reduced to a fidgety, chain-fiddling idiot who forgot how sentences worked. And honestly? You weren’t much better.

It had been like that for months now, maybe longer. Ever since Steve accidentally invited you into the weird little orbit of his friend group one summer night after work, things with Eddie had been weird. Not bad weird, but worse. Tense weird, full of pent-up energy. 

The kind of weird where everyone else noticed before you did. The kind where Eddie always saved you a seat without asking. Where his hand would land on your lower back in crowded rooms. Where he’d light your cigarette for you before lighting his own. Where he looked at you like you’d hung the goddamn moon and then immediately panicked the second you caught him doing it.

Robin called it painful to witness. Nancy called it emotionally constipated. Steve called it “like watching two idiots repeatedly miss a stop sign.” Because apparently, everyone knew Eddie Munson was in love with you, except Eddie Munson. And apparently, everyone knew you were in love with Eddie, except you.

Or— no. You knew, you just refused to do anything about it because the possibility of rejection made your stomach hurt. So instead, you and Eddie existed in this endless cycle of longing glances and almosts.

Almost touching, almost kissing, almost saying something real, then immediately chickening out. Which was exactly how you ended up five tequila shots deep at girls’ night, squished into a booth between Robin and Nancy while aggressively denying the obvious.

“He does not like me,” you insisted for maybe the fifteenth time, words slightly slurred as you pointed your straw accusingly at them. “You guys are projecting.”

Robin barked out a laugh so loud the table next to you looked over. “Oh my God,” she said, clutching her chest dramatically. “Nancy, I can’t do this anymore. They’re actually stupid.”

Nancy looked equally exhausted. “Eddie nearly walked into traffic last week because you waved at him.”

“That is not true.”

“It absolutely is true,” Robin said immediately. “Steve had to physically yank him back onto the sidewalk.”

You snorted into your drink. “That’s dramatic.”

Nancy leaned forward, expression deadly serious. “He watches you like a starving animal.”

“No, he does not!”

“He does,” Robin insisted. “It’s honestly embarrassing. You say his name, and he sits up like someone rang a little bell.”

Nancy nodded calmly. “And you’re not any better, by the way.”

You scoffed, offended. “I am incredibly chill.”

The two of them stared at you, then burst out laughing.

“Bullshit!” Nancy retorts. 

“Oh my God,” Robin wheezed. “You wore his leather jacket home once and slept in it for like three days.”

“It smelled good!”

Nancy took a sip of her drink. “Case closed.”

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands while alcohol buzzed warm through your body. Maybe they were right, maybe Eddie did like you. 

Robin suddenly narrowed her eyes at you over the rim of her beer. “You know what your problem is?”

“I’m scared of vulnerability?”

“You’re both cowards,” she corrected.

Nancy nodded. “Severely.”

“Thank you, Captain Wheeler.”

Robin grabbed your wrist dramatically. “One of you needs to make a move before I lose my mind.”

Your cheeks felt hot now from the alcohol. Definitely the alcohol, and not from imagining Eddie’s hands or his mouth or the way he looked at you whenever you wore short skirts. Absolutely, 100% not that.

“You know what?” you announced suddenly, sitting up straighter. “Fine.”

Nancy immediately looked wary. “That tone concerns me.”

“I can make moves.”

Robin’s eyes widened in delight. “Oh no.”

You were already digging through your purse for your phone. Nancy reached for you immediately. “Wait— hold on, maybe let’s think first—”

“No thinking,” you declared. “Thinking is what got me here.”

Robin looked thrilled. “I support women’s rights and women’s wrongs.”

Your phone nearly slipped from your hands as you unlocked it, tequila confidence making you reckless.

“What are you doing?” Nancy asked cautiously.

You grinned, then wobily stood up, sashaying your way to the bathroom. Robin immediately grabbed Nancy’s arm. “Should we stop her?”

Nancy sighed into her drink. “There’s no point.”

You flipped them both off over your shoulder, nearly tripping over your own boots in the process, before disappearing into the tiny neon-lit bathroom. The second the door shut behind you, you stared at yourself in the mirror and burst into drunk laughter.

Your eyeliner was slightly smudged, your cheeks warm and flushed from alcohol, and your lips shiny from the cherry gloss Nancy insisted you borrow earlier. Cute, dangerously cute, at that. 

“This is insane,” you whispered to yourself, then immediately unlocked your phone anyway.

Because maybe it was the tequila. Maybe it was the way Eddie looked at you like he wanted to devour you whole every time you wore a low-cut top. Maybe it was the fact that he’d spent months touching you like he was terrified of wanting too much.

Whatever it was, it made your pulse flutter wildly as you adjusted your top just slightly and angled your phone. Not fully nude, but just enough to make him weak in the knees. Enough cleavage, thigh, and pouty face to absolutely destroy him. You stared at the picture for a long moment afterward, chewing your lip.

Then typed:

you: girls night has me making bad decisions apparently

you: don’t let this go to your head munson

[image attached]

Across town, Eddie was lying across his bed pretending to watch some shitty late-night horror movie, pretending being the key word. Because really, he’d spent the last hour thinking about you. Again.

Your laugh earlier this week. The way your hand lingered on his arm yesterday. That tiny skirt you wore last Friday that nearly made him drive his van into a mailbox. Pathetic behavior, honestly.

He was halfway through wondering if maybe he should finally grow a pair and ask you out properly when his personalized ringtone for you shattered through the room.

Eddie tried to play it cool, giving it some time before he opened the messages, but failed instantly. Then he opened the message and short-circuited.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.

Eddie bolted upright so fast he smacked his knee against his bedside table, hard, but didn’t even feel it. Because there you were on his screen, all flushed cheeks and glossy lips and soft skin, looking pretty and teasing and so unfairly gorgeous he thought he might actually die.

Not fully exposed, but enough. Enough to make his brain completely stop functioning and send every coherent thought directly out the window.

“Oh, my god,” Eddie sighed instantly, closing his eyes and clutching the phone to his chest like he was protecting a sacred artifact.

His face was burning, his heart was pounding, and embarrassingly enough, his first thought wasn’t even 'holy shit she sent me a dirty picture.' It was:

She thought of me. Out of everyone, she thought of me.

Then his eyes drifted back to the photo, and okay. Maybe a few less gentlemanly thoughts immediately followed. Because Jesus Christ. The angle, the look on your face. The fact he knew you were probably drunk and giggling somewhere while simultaneously ruining his entire life.

Eddie scrubbed a hand down his face, already feeling warm all over as his imagination immediately started betraying him in vivid detail.

What you’d look like sitting in his lap. What that top would look like on his bedroom floor. What noises you’d make if he finally kissed you the way he’d been wanting to for months.

You hit call before the liquid courage could wear off, heart slamming against your ribs as you leaned back against the cool bathroom wall. 

“…Hello?” Eddie’s voice was rough with sleep and surprise, like he’d been halfway to dozing and your name on the screen jump-started his wake. “Sweetheart? You okay? It’s late, you’re—”

You smiled at your reflection, cheeks flushed, top still pulled just low enough. “I’m fine, Munson. Better than fine, actually.”

You could picture him sitting up in bed, hair a mess, eyes wide. “Did you… uh… did you mean to send that picture? To me?”

God, he sounded so shy. The same guy who could flirt with half of Hawkins but turned into a nervous wreck the second you looked at him too long.

You let out a soft laugh. “Yeah, I meant to. Girls’ night got a little… dangerous. Tequila made me bold. And I’ve been thinking about you all night.”

A stunned little pause, then a shaky breath left his mouth. “You… yeah? Fuck. I don’t even know what to say. You look insane in that photo. Like, stupidly hot. I can’t even formulate a coherent thought.”

You smiled, leaning back against the tiled wall. “Good. I want you stupid for me.”

Eddie swallowed hard enough for you to hear it. “Jesus Christ. You’re really doing this?”

“Mhm.” Your voice dropped. “I keep picturing you pushing me up against this wall. Kissing my neck all sloppy while your hand slides up under my skirt. You’d find out real quick how wet I am just from thinking about you.”

A rough exhale. “Fuck… yeah? You’re wet right now?”

“Soaked,” you whispered. “Can you help me, Eddie?”

You swore you could hear his eyes rolling back. “Help you with what, sweetheart?”

“Tell me what you’d do to me. I need to know.”

He groans, “That little mouth? I keep imagining those lips stretched around my cock, looking up at me with those pretty eyes while I fuck your throat slowly. You’d take it so good for me, wouldn’t you?”

You let out a soft, needy sound. “Yes. I’d be so good.”

Eddie’s breathing was getting heavier. “Shit, sweetheart… I’ve thought about that so many times. You in my van, skirt flipped up, riding me in the backseat while the windows fog up. Or bending you over the hood, fucking you stupid.”

Your thighs pressed together. “Eddie—”

“I’d take my time with you first,” he continued, voice rougher now, confidence growing with every word. “Eat you out until your legs shake. I wanna feel you come on my face before I even think about fucking you.”

Your mind begins to race, flashes of what were mere fantasies coming to fruition every second he speaks. The thought of him actually pounding you against the van causes an audible whimper to leave your throat.

“Fuck,” he growled. “I’ve wanted you for so long. Every time you smile at me, I get stupid. Every time you wear something short, I go home and lose my mind imagining exactly this. Pinning you down in my bed, legs over my shoulders, pounding into you until you’re crying and begging and coming so hard you see stars.”

Fuck is right, Eddie. You were breathing fast now, flushed and aching. “Then stop imagining. Come get me. Right now. I’m done waiting. I want your hands on me tonight. I want you inside me now.”

There was a long, charged pause. You heard him shift, probably sitting up fast.

“You—,” he pauses, taking a deep breath. “I’m coming to get you. Fifteen minutes, tops. You stay right there in that bar. Don’t you dare leave with anyone else. You’re mine tonight, sweetheart.

Then, the line clicked dead. You stared at your phone, cheeks burning, and a giddy smile spreading across your face.

Mission accomplished. 

well well well

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