#diamondsandrust fic

[denim-mixtapes]

Diamonds and Rust [1/5: Treasure Hunting] - (Eddie Munson/Reader)

Rating: T Word Count: 2100 Pairing: Eddie Munson/F!Reader Warnings: Language, Slow Build/Slow burn, pet names instead of Y/N, unironic use of the word "milady" Summary: Working in a thrift shop makes for some long, boring days, especially in the summer when you can't even fill the time with studying. Luckily your favorite metalhead regular stops in often to help pass the time. Also posted on AO3

Working in a thrift store at the edge of town usually meant long, boring days. You’d get the occasional antique hunter, a few moms shopping for their families on the weekends, a handful of regulars, and every so often some bored teens would stroll through but for the most part it was quiet. You liked it that way. All the more time to get some studying done all while getting paid, right? At least that excuse worked during the school year. Now, mid-July of the summer after your senior year, the days passed like molasses through an hourglass. Shadows stretch along the walls as the sun moves across the sky and not a soul passes through the door. 

You spend your shifts processing donations, sorting clothing into piles such as Menswear or Children’s or Dear God Why Would You Donate This There Is Literal Shit On It , and testing electronics and toys for functionality. It’s a little dull sorting diamonds from rust, but it’s a living.

Like clockwork around 2 PM, the bell above the door signals the entry of your favorite regular. He’s missing his signature leather jacket and battle vest combo, and his mop of hair is tied into a knot at the base of his neck, but he still has that signature Eddie Munson smile plastered on his face. He beelines for the counter you’re sitting behind and taps out an enthusiastic beat on the glass top, the silver of his chunky rings clicking against it louder than he anticipated. 

“Anything new for me today, Sweetheart?” He asks, drawing out the pet name a little too slowly. 

Reaching under the counter for the milk crate you and your coworkers stashed the particularly good donations, you shrug. “Not much more than yesterday, Munson. Most people don’t drop off donations in the middle of the week.” 

As you set the crate on the counter, his eyes shine with excitement. He’s practically bouncing on his toes, watching as you dig in the bin for the box you’d stashed there earlier today. 

“Maybe not,” he muses, “but I know you don’t always go through everything as soon as you get it… and you wouldn’t have reached for your little treasure chest down there if you didn’t have to so, again I say,” he actually does bounce this time, his hands coming to a teepee in front of his wicked grin, “what’cha got?” 

You can’t bluff any longer, and roll your eyes when you toss the velvet jewelry box onto the counter. “Dunno if it’s your size,” you say, “but it’s got your name written all over it.” 

Eddie opens the box quicker than you thought humanly possible, and the noise he makes can only be described as a roar of excitement, followed by a hearty laugh. He pulls the thick silver ring from its place in the box and inspects it. A heavy skull sits on the top, much like the one he already wears daily, but this one has a set of dark, tarnished metal horns curling from its forehead and small red stones set in the eye sockets. He immediately slips it onto all of his fingers to test the fit. It doesn’t look hopeful until he switches hands, slipping it onto the second finger where his other skull ring sits. 

Chuckling, he switches them, tossing the old ring up in the air and catching it before stuffing it in his back pocket. “Would ya look at that? Guess there’s only room for one,” he chuckles, flexing his fingers and admiring the new piece. “How much?” 

“As you can guess, we probably wouldn’t make much on that from anyone but you,” you tease, looking over all the other jewelry prices in the case before you. You throw out a random number, “Two-fifty?” 

“Oh,” the man before you feigns offense. His hand flies to his chest, pressing softly against the Hellfire logo, and he throws his head back. “You wound me, sweetheart. You really think that little of my style that something I love is worth a mere two dollars and fifty cents ?”

Laughing, you raise an eyebrow, your hands resting mockingly on your hips. “You wanna pay more for it?” 

“No, no,” he holds out a hand, stopping the bit before it can go any further, and rummages in his wallet for a few crumpled dollar bills. “But keep the change,” he says as he hands them over, “I don’t like…jingling.” 

Your eyes narrow at him while you pluck two quarters out of the register and deposit them into the penny pool next to it. 

“I dunno,” you murmur, “you seem to me like exactly the kind of person who wouldn’t mind jingling, what with all the chains and buttons you wear.”

“Touche, my dear, touche.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and gives an exaggerated shrug. Turning on his heel toward the door, he calls over his shoulder, “guess I just don’t like change. Pocket or otherwise!” 

When Eddie is around, you fear you’ll never stop rolling your eyes. Which you do, affectionately, and bid him adieu until tomorrow, when he’ll inevitably show up once again asking if anything new has come in.   

You'll definitely look. You always do. It’s a habit now, to keep an eye out for things that your regulars may like while you sort and process donations. Charles, the old man who looks for cat trinkets for his wife, always stops in on Saturday mornings while she’s at her hair appointment. You set things he may like aside so that you can show him and save him the time of browsing. Anything remotely trendy or something that may seem like a cool find, you tend to hide amongst the racks to make it more of a challenge for the teens that come in and love the hunt of it all. Likewise, the items that scream Eddie Munson at you, you can’t help but stash away with your own findings, because he can spend all day browsing the racks – and he will – but seeing his face light up when you produce your wares from under the counter is one of the highlights of your day. 

You weren’t sure how to feel when the town outcast seemed to pick your shop as his new hangout. To give yourself credit, you never really were one to buy into all the rumors spread around high school, especially in Hawkins. If you did, you wouldn’t trust anyone. No, you didn’t think he could be nearly as bad as everyone made him out to be, but his personality and style still didn’t paint him in an overly-inviting light, and you didn’t want anyone stirring up trouble in your (for the most part) peaceful place of work. At his first visit, you figured he just needed a thing or two and that he would be in and out. Then he hit you with that damn smile, and he kept coming back . Soon enough his “freak” persona melted away before your very eyes, and with every visit, over casual conversation and the occasional Icee he would bring you from the gas station across the street, you got to know the true Eddie Munson. Sure, he was still a metalhead with quite the eccentric fashion sense and devil-may-care attitude, but he was also an excitable and inviting nerd who loved a good opportunity to talk about his interests and even your own. 

So now you find yourself tucking tee shirts and patches and tapes into that milk crate and looking forward to the next time you see him. Really, you always looked forward to his next visit, but your little treasures were a better excuse for that excitement. 

The day after you presented him with his new favorite ring, the store received a donation that you’re more excited than ever to sort through.

The record store in town has had “CLOSING SOON! EVERYTHING MUST GO!” signs in its windows for months, and you had assumed they were just waiting to sell the last of their inventory before finally closing their doors, but according to the former owner the rent on the building had become too much to make keeping the doors open worth it. So, he brought the last of the inventory (about 9 crates full of records, and a few boxes of resale tour merch) to you, hoping that they might have better luck on your shelves. 

You can barely contain your glee and have to stop yourself from ripping into the boxes before he’s even left the store. By the time two o’clock rolls around you’ve managed to sift through about half the boxes, and have a short stack of records on the counter waiting to show off. 

“Well, well, well,” Eddie’s voice startles you from your concentration on the task at hand, you’ve been so engrossed in sorting through the items that you didn’t even hear the bell above the door. “What do we have here?” He gestures to the overflowing counter with both hands, excitement dancing in his eyes. 

“Christ, Eddie,” you scold, hand to your heart and a soft glare on your features. “You scared the pants off me.” 

Raising his eyebrows, he leans heavily on the counter, leaning in close to peek over the edge at your legs, “aw, man,” glancing back up to your exasperated face, he chuckles. “I was hoping you meant literally.” 

“Shut up, Munson.” You breathe. 

“Alright,” he reaches for the box closest to him and digs in, “but only ‘cause I’m itchin' to see what this is all about.” 

So you dive into the story, explaining everything the shop owner told you when he dropped it all off and you both sort through the records. Although, while you organize them alphabetically, Eddie is sorting them into two distinct piles: “Worth Listening To” and “Utter Trash.” You won’t tell him you saw, but he definitely slipped an extra ABBA album underneath Bat Out of Hell in the 'good' pile .

“Oh!” You exclaim after setting the last of the boxes behind the counter to get priced and shelved, “I almost forgot the best part!” 

“Oh yeah?” He probes, his dimples on full display when he gives you a cheeky grin, “What’s that?” He leans his elbows heavily on the counter, leaning into you with interest.

You grab the stack of hand picked items from under the counter and push it toward him, your expression full of pride. It’s not much, a couple of pins, a shirt, and three records, but they’re the ones that stood out to you most before Eddie showed up. 

“Take ‘em,” you say, barely above a whisper despite there being nobody else in the store, “they haven’t been logged yet so they technically haven’t been donated.” 

He holds the shirt, a Black Sabbath Tour ‘78 design, up to his chest and bites back a grin. “Now something tells me you shouldn’t be doin’ that.” Then, pulling the shirt away from himself, he holds it in front of you, making a show out of closing one eye and lining it up perfectly so that he can picture it on you. Your cheeks heat – whether it’s under his stare or at the comment you aren’t sure. He holds the shirt out to you and winks, “You should keep this one for yourself though. I’ve already got one like it and I’m sure you’ll rock it better than me, anyway.” 

You snatch it from his grasp and busy yourself with another box of donations to hide the fact that your blush is only getting deeper. 

“We aren’t technically supposed to hold shit for anyone after it’s been processed either, but you don’t seem to complain when I do that.” 

When you look back up, he’s holding his hands up in surrender, “hey, no complaints over here, I just wouldn’t want you getting in trouble with the law or anything. That’s kind of my schtick.” 

“Eh,” you shrug, “what the boss doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and with a donation as massive as this, they won't be missed.” 

He worries his bottom lip between his teeth as he scoops the pins into his pocket and shuffles the three records between his hands. His gaze flicks between the titles (Judas Priest Stained Class , Rush 2112 , and Motörhead Overkill ) and your face, his smile widening as he does, “these are some good picks.” 

“I know , ” you press, “now get outta here so I can do my job.” 

He bows, actually bows, with his hands outstretched and turns toward the door. “Till next time, milady!”

[denim-mixtapes]

Diamonds and Rust [4/5: Rage Room] - Eddie Munson/Reader

Rating: T Word Count: 2.9K Pairing: Eddie Munson/Fem!Reader Warnings: Language, vulnerable Eddie, brief mentions of alcohol, major canon divergence (as if that hasn't already been a problem in this fic...but Jason and Chrissy are both alive and well, and mentioned in this chapter!), uses of actual dialogue from the show because I COULDN'T RESIST. Summary: When Eddie stops by to pick you up for your date, something is wrong. He's angry, and clearly needs an outlet for that anger, so you show him your favorite game to play with your coworkers after a hard day. [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Also on Ao3]

It’s not until the following Friday that you and Eddie have a mutual free evening. For the town’s famous outcast he sure does have a tight schedule between his DnD club and band’s separate engagements. When the weekend finally arrives, you’re buzzing around the shop happily all day, humming to yourself as you do your busywork and ring out customers. 

Your anticipation makes the day go by so quickly you almost don’t notice that Eddie doesn’t stop in at his usual 2:00 PM time. (Almost.) It made sense, since he would be stopping by at closing time to pick you up, but you’re still a little bummed to be missing your usual visit and shenanigans with your favorite regular. 

He bursts through the door ten minutes before close as planned, but not before you watch him exchange some heated words with someone you can’t quite see through the window. Some snippets of his voice make it through the glass to you, twinged with more hurt than actual anger. He pushes open the shop door with his shoulder, still shouting, and throws both middle fingers in the same direction. “Have fun with your new girl, Carver!” this time, paired with a crue rolling-the-dice gesture accompanying ‘new girl’. He finally ducks into the door the rest of the way and flashes his teeth your way. You can tell he’s had practice at quickly manufacturing a happy face, but you’ve seen his real smile enough to see right through it. 

He approaches you slowly, hands in his pockets as always, that damn phony smile that doesn’t reach his eyes on his face, and leans on the counter. “Hey sweetheart,” he greets, the pet name sounds unnatural when it isn’t paired with the twinkle in his eye, almost foreign. “Ready to go?” 

“Almost,” you say, and go about the necessary steps to close down the register. “Hey, I don’t wanna pry, but…” you look over your shoulder at him as you walk to lock the door. “You okay?” You want to take back the question as soon as you ask it, because at least the fake smile was worlds better than this, the way he shrinks in on himself. You think you’ve seen every side of Eddie after last week’s nervous rush of a confession, but never anything like this. A kicked puppy. There’s a flare of anger in his eyes but it’s gone as quickly as it came. Crossing the storefront back to stand in front of him, you rush out, “you don’t have to tell me what all that was about. It doesn’t matter. I just…you don’t seem like yourself and I wanted to make sure you were feeling okay.” 

He visibly softens at your honesty. His arms are wrapped around himself protectively, but he stands taller now, a gentle – but genuine – smile graces his lips and your heart stutters. Head bowed, hiding behind the curtain of his hair, he shrugs. “That? That specifically was Jason Carver being his usual knuckle-dragging narcissistic self. I just happen to be blessed enough to be the target of his aggression today,” tightening up, arms now crossed around his chest instead of his stomach, he’s glaring out the window. “Or, always I guess.” 

Blinking back your surprise at his words, you reach out a hand to squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. “You’re a badass, Eddie,” you encourage, “and he’s a townie who had the chance to get out and blew it all for a girl who dumped him as soon as he rejected that football scholarship. He’s just taking his anger out on anyone who looks happier than he is.”

Eddie chuckles at this, a little too knowingly. “Actually that’s probably why he has it out for me.”

A sharp gasp breaks free before you can stop it, “Eddie Munson, you did not.” You swat at his chest, reveling in the full blown laugh that he finally breaks into. 

Holding his palms out in defense, he shakes his head. “If you’re wondering if I slept with Chrisy Cunningham, no, I didn’t, you pervert.” His nose wrinkles. “No, I just finally convinced her that that creep wasn’t worthy of her throwing her future away. She’s a sweet girl, and she’s doing very well for herself at college, thank you. Carver’s had it out for me ever since, just like the rest of this fucking town” Now that he’s talking about it, you can tell it’s the release he’s never known he needed. He breaks out into a rant, a monologue fit for the theater. His stature goes from defensive to heated to downright pacing the floor in front of you, talking animatedly with his hands about how poorly this town has treated him. You know, of course, you’ve been privy to the whispers and rumors about the freak. Your heart stings every time he says the word. Standing before you is one of the most confident men you have ever had the pleasure of knowing, and he’s being beaten back down to the shy, jittery, furious kid from high school before your eyes. 

“...It’s as if nobody in the state of Indiana understands the nuances of self expression. Christ, they put so much faith in their God – who, by the way, is really no different than the deities of our silly little fantasy game that they claim makes us violent – that they forget that his whole thing is acceptance. Pin their hope on athletics and popularity in high school and then peak before they realize that they don’t actually like any of that shit, but by the time they realize that maybe, just maybe, the freak had the right idea all along, just enjoying things without abandon and shamelessly expressing his interests, it’s too late for them to figure out their own interests because they’re married and raising little shits that are going to act just like them and treat kids like me the exact same way they did…”

It’s clear that he needs to let off some steam. It’s clear in the way that he scrunches tufts of hair in his fists as he talks. It’s clear in the way that his shoulders hunch and his pacing increases. It’s clear in the small, defeated, exhale of, “it isn’t fair,” that he lets out at the end of his rant. Before you can reply, he’s rushing out, “Shit, sorry. I am ready to go whenever, don’t let my dramatics put our plans on hold.” 

You didn’t really have plans per say. He was supposed to pick you up from work, and the pair of you were going to drive around town, listening to the mixtape and smoking. Some “plans” he’s ruining, but you smile, this small flash of your teeth that strikes him right through the chest, and hold up a finger to tell him to wait there. 

He stutters in response, but as you step into the back room and duck your head back out to look at him, you offer an encouraging look. “I’ll be right back, promise.” You wait for his gentle nod before fully retreating. 

In the back room, there’s this shelf in the corner that you lovingly refer to as the ‘reject pile.’ You and your very few coworkers save the undesirables from donations that can’t be sold but may serve another purpose and chuck them in the reject pile. Electronics that don’t work, vases or glassware with more chips and cosmetic damage than you deem worth the sale, bikes with missing tires, and clearly homemade pottery adorn the shelves. You pull a shopping cart over to the shelf and start filling it. You struggle a little with a fax machine, but eventually it makes it in, and you tuck pots and plates and crude coffee mugs around it. Then, on your way through the door again, you grab the baseball bat that you kept just inside the doorway for self defense. 

Upon seeing your haul, Eddie narrows his eyes in both confusion and suspicion. 

“What’cha got there?” He asks, slowly, coming around the counter to inspect the cart. 

“Change of plans,” you say, “follow me.” 

He raises an eyebrow in question, but does as you ask. 

Leading him out the front door, you lock it back behind you and make your way around the building to the garage out back. It’s a tiny little thing, enough to maybe fit one car and some clutter, but it’s been vacant as long as you’ve worked at the thrift store, and you and the store opener have used it for your own personal use for most of the summer. 

Flipping the lights on, you grab two pairs of safety glasses off the hook next to the door and toss one to Eddie, who catches them clumsily. Then, putting on your own pair, you push the cart over to the folding table set up in the middle of the room. 

“Is this the part where you put me out of my misery?” He asks, donning the glasses. “I thought if I ever got murdered it would be in a cooler place than Hawkins.” 

“Shut up,” you chide, setting out one of the larger vases on the table, then line up the mugs on the far edge. Joining him at the door again, you hold out the bat to him, handle first. “Here.” 

Nervously, he looks from the outstretched bat to your encouraging eyes, and back. Tense laughter spills from his lips as he says, “why does this feel like a setup?” 

You roll your eyes and flip the bat through the air so that the handle is now in your grip. Strutting up to the table, you choose your target (a coffee mug with no handle, printed on it is Garfield saying “Big Fat Hairy Deal”), and SWING. 

Shards of ceramic hit the floor with a chorus of little tinkling sounds. Your smile is wider than Eddie has ever seen it and you have this look of elation as you watch the shards fly and follow through with your swing. His face mirrors your own, but he still shakes his head in disbelief. 

The bat is once again thrust in his direction, one hand on your hip, and you cock your head at him. “You’re pissed. Clearly. What kind of friend would I be if I saw that you needed to break some shit and not let you break some shit? Fuck our previous plans, go crazy.” 

“You’re nuts,” he mumbles through a gleeful bitten lip as he takes the weapon from your hand. You shrug and turn on your heel to the radio in the corner, pressing play on the mixtape titled ‘Fuck Shit Up’ that permanently lives in this garage. Motorhead’s ‘Go to Hell’ echoes off the walls, and you can practically feel the excitement waft off of him when he lunges for the table and takes out the vase first. 

The sound of his laughter mixes with the shattering of glass as it bursts, and it’s your own kind of music to your ears. When he looks at you, it's with a childlike excitement, like he’s looking for approval, and you can’t help but holler in response. Throwing your fists in the air triumphantly, you shout, “yeah!” 

Eddie circles the table, strutting around it like a lion stalking its prey. The next mug in the lineup is taken out next, swept off the table and making it to the floor in one piece before it shatters upon impact with the cement. You pull yourself up to sit on the same workshop bench as the radio, kicking your feet off the edge as you watch him let out whatever it is he needs to. He digs in the cart with determination and comes back up with armfulls of china, stacking them deliberately on the table to make a tower only to smash it to pieces as soon as it was finished. Eventually you hop back down to join him in building things.

When you’ve both constructed a pretty magnificent structure, he hands the baseball bat back over to you. 

“I take it you do this a lot, huh?” He asks, standing back to admire your swing with hands on his hips. 

“Oh, all the time,” you giggle, sweeping one plate out from the tower with enough precision to leave most of the structure standing. You hand it back. “Sometimes just to air out general frustrations,” WHACK, your turn again. You try not to take too much notice as his fingertips brush yours where you pass the bat back and forth. “Sometimes it’s more direct. I like to picture the shit we’re smacking as someone’s face if it gets real bad.” With your last swing, you take down the rest of the tower you built. “See, that wine glass was Gary, for not giving me your tape sooner.” You breathe a giggle at the way Eddie’s face softens, and point at the last thing in the shopping cart, the fax machine. Raising your eyebrow, you ask, “got any faces in mind for that guy?” 

“Oh,” Eddie breathes, “hell yeah.” 

He thankfully doesn’t let you struggle with the beast this time, retrieving it and setting it on the ground in front of the garage door. He chokes up on the bat, steadying himself in front of the machine with a sway of his hips, and looks at you over his shoulder, “you want a turn first?” 

“No, no” you say, shaking your head and taking your place perched on the counter again. “This one’s all you, Munson.” 

The tip of the bat is an extension of his arm as he points at the machine, strutting around it as he monologues again. “There will be no more retreating,” he growls, a boyish hop in his step as he makes his way back to his original place, “from Eddie the Banished!” You try to hide your laughter at his theatrics behind a hand, but he hears you and looks up with a grin, tongue sweeping his bottom lip and chest heaving with a deep breath. He winks, then turns back to the hunk of metal and plastic before him, rearing up with both hands on the bat. With it high above his head, he addresses his inanimate foe by name. “This is for interrupting my date with a really fuckin cool chick, Carver.” 

The bat collides with the plastic with a sickening crunch. Over and over, he smacks the hell out of the offending thing, switching between overjoyed laughter and offhand comments of all the things Jason Carver has done to cause him pain in the past. When he’s finally done, he’s mad with laughter. The bat makes a hollow sound as it hits the floor and rolls, and he turns to you with pursed lips and a wrinkled nose. 

“All done?” You ask with a soft giggle. 

He’s crossing the room, now, coming to a stop between your knees. When he moves to set his hands on your knees, it’s tentative, but when you don’t show any signs of protest he rests them there fully. “For now.” His cheeks are pink with exertion and if you had to guess, a touch of a blush as he says, “thank you, by the way. That was...really satisfying.” 

“‘Course,” his eyes fixate on your tongue when it darts out to wet your lips. “Thanks for defending my honor against a defunct machine.” 

You don’t realize how close his face is to yours until his lips just barely brush yours with the utterance of, “anytime.” 

Grinning as his breath fans against your lips, you bring a hand up to fist in his collar, the material twisting between your fingers as you pull him flush against you. His grip on your knees tightens in surprise and he stills as your lips meet his, lingering for just a moment before his lack of reciprocation urges you to pull away. But as soon as he comes to, he won’t let you retreat, he pushes up onto his toes to follow your lips as you pull away, connecting them again with a renewed eagerness. Hands creep up your thighs slowly to land on your hips, fingers curling posessively and he pulls you forward to the edge of the bench. 

You can’t stop the squeal that the motion pulls from you, and you break the kiss with a giddy grin, your own hand releasing his shirt and coming up to rest on his cheek. Your thumb brushes at the corner of his lips when his own smile mirrors yours and his eyes search your face for any sign of upset. He’ll find none. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, turning to kiss the palm of your hand before he straightens and brushes a lock of hair away from your face and behind your ear. “What are you doing tomorrow night?” 

“At the risk of sounding too eager,” heat floods your face before you even say the words, “probably whatever it is you’re about to ask me to do.” 

“You clocked me,” he chuckles, then reaches into his back pocket to hand over a flier. “My band has their first real gig tomorrow. You know, outside of Tuesday nights at the Hideout playing for three or four people too drunk to recognize that we’re even playing. It’s a couple of towns over, but I’d love for you to come.” 

“I’m there!” You exclaim, winding your arms around his neck to pull yourself into him for another excited kiss. “Besides, nobody in this town appreciates real music anyway. I’ll be happy to make the drive to see you play for an appreciative crowd.” 

He lights up at your praise, but looks timidly into your eyes as he admits, “as long as you’re there, the rest of the crowd won’t matter.”

[denim-mixtapes]

Diamonds and Rust [2/5: Missed Connection] - (Eddie Munson/Reader)

Rating: T Word Count: 1170 Pairing: Eddie Munson/F!Reader Warnings: Language, Eddie is kind of a simp Summary: Eddie works up the courage to bring a gift by your place of work, reminiscing on the first time you met along the way, only to find that you aren't there. Also posted on AO3

A/N: While the rest of this fic is in your traditional reader insert 2nd person perspective, this chapter is in the 3rd person! Just cause I really wanted to make Eddie's train of thoughts and feelings very clear in this chapter. It'll be back to 2nd person for the last 3 chapters!

There’s bound to be holes burned into the floor of Eddie Munson’s trailer, the way he’s spent all morning pacing back and forth. 

Today’s the day. 

He planned this for weeks, spent just as much time working up the courage to deliver this mixtape as he did curating the track list and recording the songs off the radio, but he’s finally doing it. The tracks are written as neatly as he could manage on the sleeve, though it still looks no better than chicken scratch to him. On the opposite side, he’s penned a short-but-sweet message explaining why he picked each one, or why they remind him of her. Frankly, they all remind him of her, because she’s the only person he thinks of when he hears a good song, now. 

It’s no secret that he doesn’t have the most conventional taste in music, and it’s something he’s come to terms with over the years; it’ll be rare to find someone whose tastes align with his so well, but it seems that her’s do. He’s been planning this since the first time they met. 

On his first visit to the little second hand store on the edge of town, he decided to browse the tee shirts and see if anything interesting stood out to him. He wasn’t expecting much, but he got to the Hideout much earlier than his bandmates and he had some time to kill, so why not? He thumbed through racks of duds. Hawkins High and Purdue University spirit wear and “Official Indiana State Fair Produce Judge.” Hand drawn designs and many, many local business logos. Just as he was starting to give up hope, flipping even faster through the hangers, a familiar face caught his eye. Going back to see if his eyes were playing tricks on him, he breathed out an excited, “ Finally! ” as he pulled the Iron Maiden shirt off of the rack and threw it over his shoulder to keep looking. 

“Find what you’re looking for?” Her voice caught him off guard. Obviously he knew that someone must have been working in this place, but he had seen nobody when he came in. He didn’t jump at her voice, no, he just…moved on very quickly to the next rack, but she definitely noticed, a melodic laugh accompanying her next statement. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“Oh, no, you didn’t–” Eddie turned to look at the girl who greeted him and tripped over his words. He could feel the weight of her smile deep in his chest, like it was a sight that he could (and would) commit to memory in seconds flat. Her nose wrinkled as the smile widened, and he forgot how to speak entirely. Jesus Christ, Munson. Just say ANYTHING at this point, what the hell are you doing?   “It’s just so quiet in here – I mean, I wasn’t expecting – yes, I did find something. Thank you.” In an effort to look like less of a bumbling fool, he held up the tee shirt, balled up in his fist, making her breathe another soft laugh. He decided at that moment that her laugh was one of his new favorite sounds. 

When he deposited the shirt onto the counter and she searched for a price tag, her eyes widened with excitement. She looked from the shirt, to Eddie, and back again, and he suddenly felt very aware of himself, straightening his posture and attempting to tame his mane by running his fingers through it. 

“About damn time someone bought this thing,” she said, folding the shirt. There was a hint of color to her cheeks when she added, “if it spent one more week on the rack I was about to take it for myself. Seems like nobody in this town appreciates good music. It’ll be $1.79, if that’s all for you today.” 

“Almost nobody,” he corrected, raising his eyebrows and pointing to his own face with both hands. “Some of us actually listen to more than the top 40 radio bullshit. And of course by ‘some of us,’ I mean myself, my bandmates, and like, two freshmen that I took under my wing last year.” 

“So not only does he listen to Iron Maiden,” her eyes flicked to the various patches and buttons on his vest, “Motorhead, and Judas Priest…but he’s in a band?” 

Eddie nodded and bowed dramatically, “in fact, he is . And uh, what about her? What else is the mysterious thrift shop clerk into?” 

After that, they talked about music for hours, about their likes and dislikes, favorite songs and guilty pleasures. Why their favorite bands earned that title, and theories on why everyone else in Hawkins seemed to think that pop dance music was the standard. He sat at that counter talking to her for so long that he was twenty minutes late to sound check (which the guys will still not let go of, almost a month later) . 

Finally, with one last deep breath (and a quick check in the mirror), he chucks the tape in his inside jacket pocket and makes his way to the thrift shop. 

He twirls the keys around his finger nervously as he walks up to the shop door, prepares what he wants to say one more time in his head, and steps in…only to be greeted by an unfamiliar face and a gruff greeting from the man behind the counter. 

Eddie stops dead in his tracks. 

He’s been here almost every day for a month, except for Sundays when they’re closed, and she’s always here. Why –  today of all days – was she not here? 

“Can I help you find something, son?” The man behind the counter asks. 

Hands in his pockets, Eddie approaches him. “Yeah, uh, there’s usually a girl here who helps me out, is she here? Maybe in the back?” He cranes his head around the man toward the dark back room where the donations are kept. 

The man visibly deflates, knowing he isn’t getting a sale from Eddie. “Nup,” he carped, “she had a family thing. A wedding or a funeral or something, hell, I dunno, but she’s off today either way.” 

“Ah, okay.” Dejected, Eddie decides it’s still now or never. If he brought the tape home with him, it wasn't ever going to see the light of day again. He had to take the chance. Pulling the tape from his pocket, he slides it across the counter, “Could you leave this for her? Just tell her Eddie dropped it off, she should be expecting it.” 

So maybe it wasn’t 100% truthful, but he figured the best way to get the tape in her hands and not the trash as soon as he left the building was to say that she knew it was coming. 

The man waves a hand in dismissal and pulls out a cigarette, lighting up before he responds with a clipped, “sure, sure.” 

Eddie thanks him and turns on his heel to make his exit. No turning back now. 

[denim-mixtapes]

Diamonds and Rust [3/5: The Truth] - (Eddie Munson/Reader)

Rating: T Word Count: 2.1K Pairing: Eddie Munson/F!Reader Warnings: Language, uncharacteristically shy Eddie, Dustin and Steve being annoying wingmen Summary: Eddie's been acting different ever since you got back from your time off. Maybe the mystery mixtape you found in a pile of donations has something to do with it. [Part 1] [Part 2] [Also on Ao3]

A/N: SO sorry this took so long, I decided I hated it and had to rewrite the entire back half. Also I forget how demanding my job is sometimes so I make promises that something will get posted and end up working two 12+ hour shifts in a row. ANYWAY, enjoy these awkward lil nerds.

When you return to work on Monday from your mini vacation, it’s to a heaping pile of new donations and a note from your manager that he ‘didn’t have time’ to process any of them in your absence. You pluck the sticky note from the wall and roll your eyes when the adhesive peels flecks of paint off the wall. Sometimes being the sole employee of a store has its perks, but more often than not it just means that you are the only one left to do the owner’s dirty work. Throwing it into the trash with a roll of your eyes, you decide there’s no time like the present and dig in. 

It’s mostly clothes, but the sheer volume of the pile is enough to keep you busy into the afternoon. 

When Eddie shows up like clockwork, he isn’t his usual self. His demeanor is different, more timid. His hands are shoved in the pockets of his jeans and his approach to the counter is a lot slower than usual. 

“Hey!” You greet him cheerfully, peeking over the top of the mountain of clothing you have on the counter. “Missed you yesterday!” 

“Hey, yeah,” he comes to a stop in front of you and reaches up to nervously rub at the back of his neck. The motion ruffles his hair and you bite back a laugh. “I didn’t know this place could run without you.” 

“I’m not so sure it did,” you scoff, shoving the pile aside to lean your forearms on the counter, “Gary may own this place but he’s about as useful as ol’ Spot over there.” You jab your thumb in the direction of the old beagle statue that stands by the register. It’s never been for sale, so after your first few months working here you ended up naming it. 

Eddie actually squats down to pet the damn thing and chuckles, “now don’t say that, you’ll hurt poor old Spot’s feelings over here.” He’s still laughing when he stands back up, but his brow is furrowed and you can practically feel the nerves radiating off of him. Hands stuffed back in his pockets he continues, “Speaking of Gary, he didn’t, uh…did he give you anything this morning? Like maybe something was left for you?” 

Your own brows come together in confusion and gesture to the mess beside you, “other than the heap of donations he didn’t care to process, no, not so much.” Then, narrowing your eyes at the boy before you, “why? Did he say something to you?” 

His “no!” comes a little too quickly, and he laughs it off, repeating it softer this time, “no I just…he doesn’t seem to work much, does he? You’re always here, I guess you might have been welcomed back with a promotion or a raise or…shit, I don’t know.” You don’t fully believe him. Something is off that you can’t quite place, but he gives you no time to think about it, looking at where a watch would be on his wrist if he were actually wearing one, and then pointing over his shoulder toward the door. “You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t actually have much time to chat today, gotta run to band practice.” 

You stutter out your goodbye, but he’s gone before you can fully say anything else.

Over the next few days, every time you see Eddie, it’s just as weird as the last. His visits are even more brief and frantic than usual. It’s almost like a routine. 

2 PM.

He bursts through the door with a flourish and spouts some dramatic grand greeting with a false kind of confidence that is nothing like his usual tenacity. 

Straight for the music section. He looks briefly at the shelf of records but his target is the box of cassette tapes underneath it. He’s surrounded by the clattering of plastic as he digs through them.

He’s looking for something, and quite frantically, you observe…but every time you offer to help him look, he’s waving you off with a noncommittal noise and a soft apology. 

Four days after your return, you’ve finally made it to the bottom of the donation pile. You were starting to think that the old man must have dug up some extra merchandise from the back or personally brought in his family’s entire estate just to keep you busy, but the light at the end of the tunnel is finally near. 

Under the mounds of fabric there are a few knick knacks and accessories, but what really catches your eye is the single cassette tape sitting all by itself. 

Upon closer inspection, there’s a handwritten tracklist on the cover. You scan the titles quickly, but don’t pay too much attention. While your shop sells all sorts of second-hand goods, including records and cassettes, mixtapes aren’t typically accepted. They’re unpredictable, often personalized with voice recordings, and quite frankly, unsellable. Still, there’s no harm in giving it a listen yourself before tossing it. You pop it into the stereo behind the counter and press play before moving on to continue with your busywork. 

After the first few songs, you start to get the feel for the tape. Whoever made it clearly had a vibe in mind when they did, with heavy rock influences, some names you definitely recognize but some you don’t. Every few songs there’s something new you don’t recognize, but all of them you thoroughly enjoy, and you find yourself smiling and nodding your head to the beat as you move around the store dusting off furniture and organizing the clothing racks. 

Eddie doesn’t come in all day. 

Not that you’re looking for him. 

Of course not, but when you see the same person almost every day at the same exact time, it becomes a part of your routine. You’ve come to expect and even look forward to his visits, and truth be told you were quite excited to show him this tape. It practically has his name written all over it, and since you aren’t allowed to sell mixtapes anyway, you figured he would enjoy taking it off your hands. 

But he doesn’t come in. Not for the next two days, and you’re starting to worry. 

By Saturday, you’re starting to think something must have happened to him. There’s no way he would just disappear like this, right? Perhaps you didn’t know him quite as well as you had thought, but still, after seeing him and chatting with him every day for months now, you would think you’ve gotten to know him pretty well…and he doesn’t seem like the type to just disappear on you without a word. 

As if the universe heard your worrying, just as Charles is leaving with the latest find to surprise his wife with, here comes Eddie.

Except he’s not alone. 

He’s flanked by Steve Harrington and a teenager who you can only describe as a younger version of the two of them put together. Eddie is pinching the bridge of his nose while the other two talk over each other animatedly.  They stop inside the door, Eddie turning his back to you to face the other two, and places his hands on his hips in annoyance while the other two prattle on. You don’t catch much, but every so often you can hear a few key words. Come on! and tape and you dumbass and Henderson, shut the fuck up. You watch on, amused, but try not to eavesdrop. They’re cute, honestly, arguing like brothers. A smile tries to fight its way onto your face but you bite it back, not knowing the severity of the situation. After a few moments of hushed arguing and annoyed scoffs, Steve takes Eddie by the shoulders and turns him in your direction. The other kid (Henderson, you presume) gives him a little shove in the center of his back, sending him stumbling toward the counter, and they both whisper-shout, “Just tell her!” 

You wave with a sheepish smile, not wanting to let onto what you heard, and you notice the other two boys slip back out the door, still whispering animatedly to each other. 

“Bandmates?” You ask, pointing to the front window of the shop where the two of them can be seen trying to act nonchalant and definitely not like they were trying to watch. 

Eddie barks a laugh and shakes his head, “no, no, they wish. Harrington could never be that cool. Dustin, maybe, but nah. They’re just friends of mine.”

Nodding thoughtfully, you move on, not wanting to bring up the conversation you just overheard but not knowing what else to say. “Where have you been all week?” He flinches at the question and you soften your expression, “It’s been real quiet around here is all. Missed having you around.” It's as much of an admission as you’ll allow yourself to make right now. 

“Yeah uh…” He pauses. You once thought you had seen all sides of Eddie Munson. Excited, eager, angry, enraged (never at you but always about something trivial), but he was always confident. He always carried himself like he never cared what anyone thought, but this is new. He seems nervous, more so than he has been the last few in-and-out stops to the store. “...Sorry about that. I-” 

There’s a clatter from outside, and when you both look to the window, Dustin’s face is pressed up the window, glaring, and Steve looks just as exasperated as ever. 

“Fuck, okay.” Eddie laughs nervously and continues, “did a mixtape turn up in your donations after last week?” 

You light up at the question, and nod excitedly, reaching under the counter to retrieve the tape from the milk crate. “Yeah! I actually set it aside for you,” you can feel the heat under your skin as you flush. “We aren’t allowed to sell personalized stuff like that, so I gave it a listen and I thought you’d really like it.” 

His color deepens as well, mirroring your own blush. It’s a sight you could get used to, the rosy cheeks and soft smile on his lips. A hand runs through his hair and he shakes his head with another laugh. 

“Yeah, well. It wasn’t really supposed to be donated.” Another ruckus from outside, and Eddie gestures rudely behind him, but doesn’t break his focus on you. “I…brought it in for you. I mean, I made it for you, but when I came in to give it to you, you weren’t here, so I kind of panicked and left it with your boss…I see now that was a mistake.” 

“Oh.” Blinking in surprise, you look down at the tape again and notice the notes next to each track. They’re lengthy, and you never paid them any mind because you didn’t know you had to. 

“So you’re right, I do like it.” Another laugh, this time more confident and amused, “but the question is, do you?” 

Your heart flutters at the vulnerability in his voice when he asks. Holding the tape to your heart, you can’t stop the smile from breaking out on your face when you nod. “I’ll have to give it another listen, now that I know the intention behind it, but yeah, I really do.” 

“Sick,” he mumbles, and you swear you can see him shake a fist in celebration, but the counter hides it well. 

Your own responding laugh is music to his ears when you ask, “Is that what you’ve been looking for in the music section so frantically?” 

“Yes!” He throws his head back dramatically, twirling in place with a heavy sigh before stopping and leaning on the counter again. “I didn’t know if you would recognize my handwriting, or worse, if someone else would. Christ knows what kind of shit I would get into if any of the guys from Hellfire or the band would say if they got their hands on it, let alone any of those assholes I didn’t graduate with.” 

“Fair.” you nod and look back down at the tape, fiddling with the corner of the tracklist paper idly. “So, hey,” at the inquisitive tone of your voice, Eddie's eyes perk up, brows raising. “What if we listened to this together? Instead of me reading all this alone, you could tell me all about it?”

Curls bounce around his head as he nods eagerly, a tight lipped smile spreading across his face. “Yeah, I think that could be arranged.” 

He leaves that day with an extra pep in his step, your home phone number on a sticky note in his pocket, and a chorus of shouts and high fives from the two boys outside. You spend the rest of your shift unable to stop smiling or your pulse from racing. You can’t wait until closing time, when you were promised a phone call to set up a date.

[denim-mixtapes]

Okay yall I'm torn.

I originally mapped out 5 chapters of Diamonds and Rust, hence the label of ?/5 on each chapter.

Except here's the thing. Chapter 4 ended with a sense of finality thats making it difficult to actually write chapter 5. I even have all the points mapped out but every time I try to write it, it feels out of place and wonky. Like if I added this one last chapter I would HAVE to add a bunch more in order for it to make sense.

I'm still gonna try and write it, see where it takes me. But it might just be a while before it gets posted or if it even does. I'll update it on my masterlist as "on hiatus" for right now, but in the end I may very well decide that 4 is where it ends. I'd love to hear thoughts from you guys on how you'd like this story to go!! Lemme know!!

Thank you and I'm sorry I'm trash 💕