out of tune (the guitarist: book 2) | eddie munson x reader

part twelve: sinatra's serenade

AN: this ones so long but i so love it

CW: lightly suggestive imagery

Bold: Eddie's POV

You'd spent the duration of the ride to the lake fiddling with Eddie's radio, cackling every time he tried to swat your hand away from the cassette player.

Now, you were sifting through his vast collection of tapes, attempting to find the perfect concoction of music for the two of you to blast through the boombox while you'd lounge on the shore.

"You did not just pass over Judas Priest," he accused, gasping at your fingers flying through a row of tapes in his glove compartment.

"Hey, I'm a 'Breaking the Law' while breaking the law kinda person," you crooned. "I hardly think it's fitting to soundtrack our excursion so inaccurately."

He gave you a dramatic groan. "Fine, fine, I will succumb to your accurate soundtracking. But not that." He points to the tape in your hands, left at the bottom of the bin for so long the plastic cover had cracked. Though the words were faded, you recognized the album cover from your parents' collection. Frank Sinatra's Come Fly With Me.

"Not a Sinatra fan?"

"Absolutely not." He grunted with a chuckle, averting his gaze.

"But it's so romantic," you nearly whined, pleading with him as you shook the tape lightly in your hand, waving it like a flag.

"Jesus," he huffed, turning his attention to his keychain.

You braced yourself on a knee, bringing your face close to his as you leaned over, pouting your bottom lip in a sickly-sweet attempt to change his mind.

He choked awkwardly on whatever he was going to say.

"Pleeeease," you hummed, your eyes glossed over with honey-laced petition.

Eddie huffed. "You think you can use your wiles to convince me?"

You remained an inch from his face, grinning at his still-averted eyes. "Well, is it working?"

He finally faced you, and you gleaned up from behind your lashes, the Sinatra tape clutched in your fingers.

"Fine," he groaned. "Fuckin' succubus."

You laughed, victorious as you slid back across the passenger seat, slamming the glove box shut and gathering your selection of tapes while he exited to fish the boombox from the back of his van.

The two of you hurried to the shore of Lover's Lake, listening to the wash of gentle waves on the pebbled shore. As you reached a spot that seemed perfectly arranged beneath a break in the canopy of trees above, you threw a large picnic blanket down, atop of which he placed the stereo.

You were carefully placing the tapes down, arranging them in order of preference when you caught his stare.

"What?" you questioned, checking the ground to see if you'd accidentally dropped something. Nothing had fallen unintentionally from your hands. You glanced back up to him.

He smiled at you, shaking his head lightly as if in disbelief. "You're just so goddamn beautiful," he mumbled, kneeling down on the ground before you. "I could stare at you all day."

Heat bloomed on your face as you smiled, averting your eyes. "Flattery won't keep me from playing Sinatra, you know."

"I know." He reached up to brush your jaw, fingers catching on your chin as he gently turned your face back to meet his gaze. "Play all the Sinatra you want, (Y/l/n)."