Draw Me Like One of Your Dwarf Girls, Eddie
Pairing: Eddie Munson x You
Summary: Eddie decides to work on his drawing skills, and accidentally awakens a monster in the process.
Contains: Titanic references, female nudity, a brush with death.
Word Count: 1.3k-ish
"Draw me like one of your dwarf girls, Eddie," you say in a sultry voice, trying your hardest not to laugh.
"What did I tell you about talking?" He pauses to give you a pointed look, since he's already told you to pipe down several times. You roll your eyes, and he returns to his drawing with a renewed vigor.
It's early 1998, and you've recently dragged your poor Eddie to a theater to see that damn Titanic movie everybody and their mother keeps raging about. All 3 hours of it. You may have neglected to mention the runtime when you bought the tickets. You owe him.
He survived, but was suddenly faced with the desire to "work on his people-sketching skills." Which of course meant it took him less than a week to convince you to strip and pose like Rose on the couch, wearing only that red guitar pick necklace he's had since high school.
You're stretched out and exposed and already bored. Two hours ago, he'd adjusted your hand a quarter of an inch this way, your knee a quarter of an inch that way, and you'd been instructed not to move.
Well, it felt like two hours, but it was really only about 30 minutes.
With nothing else to do, and being mildly disappointed that he didn't find your commentary amusing, you watch his eyes follow the pencil scratching across the paper you can't see. He's cute when he's concentrating. Tongue poking out, brow furrowed, that spark of creativity in his eye. It must be going well, because he smiles occasionally. He even giggled once. If you had to guess, you'd say it probably had something to do with a nipple. It was a little chilly.
"Just as I thought; it's a masterpiece."
"Are you done?" You'd only been in this position for an eternity.
"Oh yeah, this baby's getting framed." Ignoring you, he holds his sketch pad out to view it at an arm's length, beaming at his creation.
"Can I move now?!"
"Yeah, you can move."
You stretch your stiff limbs and get up off the couch, reaching for the flannel he'd discarded on a chair nearby, buttoning a few buttons as you pad over to where he sat admiring his work.
You place a hand on his back and look over his shoulder at the figure on his sketchbook. You're confused, but you can't take your eyes off of it. You can't think of anything to say. Until…
"What. The FUCK. Is THAT."
He looks up innocently and says, "What? I was just following instructions. You kept talking, figured I better listen."
You have no words.
You do, however, have a fucking BEARD in Eddie's drawing.
He sits there, looking up at you with a proud grin on his face, waiting for you to react.
You stare at him wordlessly, still in a state of shock.
Until he laughs at you. LAUGHS AT YOU.
Your brain begins to swirl furiously, until it flashes one word: KILL.
You clench your fists, and he begins to sense that you're not going to start laughing with him. His eyes widen, and he jumps out of his chair, vaults over the coffee table, and stands on the couch.
"I can explain," he says quickly, trying to sound calm, steps unsteady on the cushions.
You can explain too. Explain to the responding officers how one Edward James Munson met his gruesome demise.
"It's Tolkien."
You ignore him and advance slowly, like a predator stalking its prey. Eyes unblinking. Blood boiling. Steam probably coming out of your ears. He jumps off the couch as you approach the coffee table.
"It's from a book!" He's walking backward, holding out his sketch pad like a lion tamer with a chair.
His eyes bulge as he hits something solid. You've backed him into a corner. Literally.
"Tolkien! Middle-earth! The Hobbit! Nerd shit!"
Nerd shit won't save you now, Munson. You narrow your eyes and prepare to go in for the kill. He panics.
"Dwarf women have beards! It was a joke! I'm sorry! I love you!"
The "I love you" makes you pause, just as you were about to pounce and slash your prey to pieces. The hell?
"What?" you ask, giving your head a slight shake in confusion.
"Dwarf women have beards. In the books. You said to draw you like a dwarf. It was a joke. I thought you'd know what it was."
"You thought I'd know some random detail from a book I haven't read in over a decade?"
"I mean, it's a pretty memorable detail…"
You roll your eyes, heave a sigh, and pinch the bridge of your nose. Why is this not surprising?
"So you're not gonna kill me?" He's still backed into his corner. You consider it for a moment, deciding that you've played with him enough for today.
"Not tonight, Munson."
He exhales and leans his head back against the wall.
"But I WILL get you for this," you threaten, pointing a finger at him. He nods, used to this constant back-and-forth game you'd both been playing for over a decade. He knew you'd never really hurt him, just like you knew he wouldn't hurt you either. It was just a game.
You turn to walk away, and hear him whisper to the abomination he's still clutching: "Don't worry baby, you're still gettin' framed."
You whip around, eyes flashing. He gulps. You step closer, making him lean further back into the wall. He's cute when he's scared.
"Give it."
He stares at you with those big, beautiful brown eyes of his.
"Give it," you repeat, holding out a hand and waiting for him to place his sketchbook into it.
Reluctantly, he hands it to you. You maintain eye contact as your fingers find the thick cover page, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of looking at his ungodly creation again. You slam it shut and he flinches.
"What are you gonna do with it?"
Beat your nerdy ass to death with it.
Still clutching his sketch pad, you step back silently and gesture for him to walk on by with your free hand. He slowly peels himself off the wall and begins to move with an apprehensive look in your direction, and a thought occurs to you.
As he scurries past you, you smack him on the ass with his sketchbook. He whirls around with a yelp, hands clutching his cheeks. It's cardboard, you drama queen. You step closer and swing the book at his arm.
"You made me lay there for AN HOUR! While! You! Drew! That!" You punctuate each word with another smack of the sketch pad. He continues overreacting to each hit and falls to the floor with a wail when you finish yelling, clutching his imaginary wounds. You lift the book above your head with both hands, ready to finish him.
"It started out real! But I couldn't make it look like you! It wasn't pretty enough!" You graciously decide to let him continue, still holding the sketchbook in an attack position, just in case. "I tried," he explains calmly now, "but it wasn't working out, and then you said the dwarf thing, and I thought it would be funny. I'll make it up to you."
"Damn right, you will." You lower the book and release it. It lands on his chest with a light thud. He grins from his position on the floor. You step over him and make your way toward the bedroom.
"Starting now," you inform him from the hallway, not slowing or turning around. You hear him scramble to get up, knock something over, and curse before he hurries in your direction.
He's lucky he's cute.
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Oh hell, I am all about them drugged confessions. If/whenever you’re up for it. 💕
From Put That Guy in a Situation(TM) Ask Game
Jumped this one ahead in the queue since it's someone's birthday. 💜💜💜 Enjoy, my friend! I hope this has enough of the stuff you dig about them.
13. Drunken/drugged/sleepy confessions
content warnings: referenced non-consensual drug use and mildly spicy because Seto is thirsty
---
The city lights stabbed into Seto's eyes. The city's heartbeat—a frantic cacophony of bumper-to-bumper traffic, music spilling out of late-night shops and restaurants, and an overwhelming pulse of humanity—pulsed against the back of his head like a second migraine.
He lifted his heavy head and tried to get a better look at his surroundings. Not an easy feat when the world wouldn't stop spinning. Seto could feel the planet's rotational force itself.
In the sky, a bloated, sickly yellow moon hung on the black canvas, a dim bulb when compared to the Oriental Pearl Tower's neon blue and magenta on the opposite riverbank. The phalanx of lit skyscrapers behind the landmark formed a blinding wall that threatened to lighten the night sky.
No wonder they were sitting at a standstill in traffic. He was in the Bund. Shanghai. He was in Shanghai. Not for the first or second time, but the city's nightlife never failed to overwhelm.
It came back to him in bits and pieces. The Pan-Asia Duel Monsters Championship was in China this year, which KC was a sponsor of, along with a dozen international and domestic corporations. Seto wasn't here to compete, though. He was here to do business and build guanxi.
Which meant night after night of hard drinking and tedious back slapping as Seto endured their patronizing compliments about his passable Mandarin. Endless rounds of maotai until his blood must be 90% alcohol. That was the preferred poison of the old-school elites, the ones who built their wealth on the backs of a rapidly booming economy that outpaced everyone's wildest imagination. Not even Japan had sustained that kind of boom in the post-war years.
Potential liver failure was the price of doing business in this country.
That was last night, though. Seto was sure of that much, even if the passage of time seemed theoretical at best. Tonight, he'd been swept into a gaggle of their children, mainly the sons of the previous night's party officials and business moguls.
The fuerdai. His "peers."
Ha! Gozaburo had handed him nothing. Everything Seto owned, everything he accomplished, was through his own sweat and blood.
Seto will give them one thing: their tastes were decidedly less provincial. While their fathers drank baijiu like fish drinking water, they preferred cocktails, or at least pitchers of iced green tea mixed with Crown Royal.
Maybe that was his first mistake. Maybe he shouldn't have underestimated how fucked up he could get on such a simple mixture.
That was the last thing he could remember. He drew a yawning gap between the afterparty at the club and this taxi cab.
Seto sank into the seat and squeezed his eyes shut. His stomach lurched. Perhaps it was a good thing that they were stuck in traffic. He might not be able to keep it down in stop-and-go traffic.
An abrasive—a familiar abrasive voice—encroached from the fringes, though. An equally combative voice shot back in a different language.
Seto's head lolled to the side, away from the window and toward the other passenger in the backseat. Reluctantly, he pried his heavy eyelids open. God, why was he so tired? It felt like he'd pulled several all-nighters in a row.
His fellow passenger was Jounouchi, locked in a heated conversation/argument with the cab driver.
Right. Jounouchi was also in Shanghai this week. Except he was here to compete in the tournament. And unlike Seto, he didn't speak a lick of Chinese.
Not that his laughable grasp of English fared any better.
"Fuck, I'm telling ya, it's the other Marriott!" Jounouchi groaned in Japanese, running a frustrated hand through his bird's nest hair. It looked softer than it had any right to be, though. The strands ought to be bleached to hell and back after this many years.
But Jounouchi had been updating his wardrobe and his deck in recent years. Every victory advanced his look and style, and even netted him some media training like someone deserving of media notice, which was why he was playing in the Pan-Asian championship. Seto couldn't ignore him like he once did, like he still tried to in vain sometimes.
(And sometimes, he very much didn't want to ignore Jounouchi, wondering if he could catch the other man's attention in return...)
None of that explained why they were in the same cab, though.
Jounouchi tried again to communicate. It hurt to listen to him butcher English to that extent. The cab driver appeared to grow even more irate, threatening to eject them entirely.
Giggles spilled uncontrollably out of him. Of course! Of course, Jounouchi's incompetence got them stranded on the opposite end of the city from their hotel.
Fortunately, he was a snack to look at, even if his brains were nothing to write home about.
Seto's words croaked out of him, repeating in Mandarin what Jounouchi had been trying to convey. God, why did it hurt so much to speak? But even his drunken slur sufficed, earning a grousing retort from the driver that Seto should've just said so sooner while shooting a death glare at his other passenger through the rearview mirror.
At the sound of Seto's voice, Jounouchi jolted in shock, releasing the driver's headrest he had been clinging to. After several awkward moments of staring, he inched closer to Seto, stopping short of touching him. But the proximity and the tight enclosure made Seto's skin crawl. Not in an unpleasant way, though. His body tingled and felt a touch flushed.
How would Jounouchi's skin feel against his?
"You alright there, Kaiba?" asked Jounouchi, seemingly floating closer. He waved a hesitant hand in Seto's face.
Base urges welled up in him. He wanted to grab Jounouchi's hand and bite it, no better than a dog, as he once mocked the other man for being. Better yet, he could drag his tongue across the rough palm and lap at his knuckles. Suck his thick fingers into his mouth and learn contentment from how they could fill his mouth.
Seto was never drinking green tea mixed with whisky ever again.
He managed a small noise of confirmation before he twisted away, curling as best as he could around the seatbelt. Something like a whimper pushed at the back of his throat, but he refused to release it. He wouldn't humiliate himself any further. Just as he wouldn't crawl across the middle seat and cuddle into Jounouchi's lap.
But god, he wanted that so much it hurt.
A warm hand landed on his back, and he nearly surrendered as Jounouchi rubbed soothing circles between his shoulder blades.
"It's okay." Jounouchi spoke softly, but somehow it rang louder than the many decibels of Shanghai traffic. "We'll be back at the hotel in time. Just hang in there."
Seto spent the rest of the journey folded into himself, wedged firmly against the side of the taxi, trying and failing not to tremble under Jounouchi's caring touch. With a hushed tone, Jounouchi explained what had happened. It was pure coincidence that he ran into Seto and his "party" at that particular club. (Coincidence is giving chance too much credit. There were only so many high-end nightclubs in the city.) Jounouchi had wandered over to say hi before rejoining his own group. But out of the corner of his eyes, he'd noticed that Kaiba was acting unlike himself. In fact, the entire group seemed a bit off.
Seto was coming to his own conclusion before Jounouchi shared his.
Seto had been drugged. And since he knew better than to take random shit handed to him by strangers, it must've been slipped into his drink. Or maybe it was in the communal cocktail pitcher to begin with.
"They were trying to drag you off to someplace else. Don't ask me where. But you didn't look like you wanted to go, so I stepped in," Jounouchi trailed off. He'd yet to remove his hand, but it sat unmoving, a steadying weight on Seto's back helping to ground him to reality.
"I can't imagine they were happy," Seto muttered.
Jounouchi chuckled. "Not one bit. Acted like I was trying to kill the party. One chick threatened me with her stiletto heel."
"My knight in shining armor." Seto found himself laughing, then regretted it when his head throbbed.
"Don't worry, I didn't hit any of 'em. Mighty tempting, though. I just kinda threw you over my shoulder and high-tailed it outta there. That was how I knew you were really outta it. You barely cursed me out."
Heat associated with both shame and arousal rushed through him. It turned out those biceps he secretly admired weren't just for show.
"Finally, we're here!" exclaimed Jounouchi. His hand also regrettably retreated.
Seto watched blearily as Jounouchi overpaid the driver and leaped out the door. He didn't go far, though. He jogged around the vehicle to Seto's side and yanked open the door. As he leaned in and over Seto to undo the seatbelt buckle, the woody scent of Jounouchi's cologne flooded Seto's nostrils. And his strength was plainly evident as he braced his arms around Seto's shoulders and hip.
"Alright, up we go," urged Jounouchi.
Under any sober circumstance, Seto would've never allowed this to happen. To let Jounouchi touch him, especially as a caretaker. But Seto was the farthest thing from sober, fucked up on whatever combination of alcohol and party drugs he had been unwittingly fed. He didn't have the strength to stand on his own two feet.
So he relied on Jounouchi and his strength. Clung to the man's sweat-slicked neck.
The doorman didn't give them a second glance. Why should he? Seto was simply the latest in an endless stream of drunken guests stumbling back into the five-star hotel.
A lobby concierge approached and tried to help, though. Both Jounouchi and Seto waved him off. Jounouchi likely because he didn't want another stressful not-conversation, and Seto didn't want anyone but Jounouchi touching him right now.
"Hey, what floor?" Jounouchi asked after propping him against the wall of the elevator carriage.
Seto patted down his pockets and was relieved to find his wallet. He didn't expect the fuerdai to rob him blind like a common mugger, but you never knew. He tossed the leather wallet to Jounouchi and croaked, "Key card."
The tournament competitors were provided with single-bed guest rooms. Seto, on the other hand, occupied the Vice Presidential Suite for the week. Their elevator shot toward the top floors, bypassing the dozens of floors between the ground and the suites.
As they ascended, Seto snuck covert glances at the other hand. Despite the air conditioning running at full blast, Jounouchi was still huffing and sweating. Who could blame him? Summer in Shanghai could be blistering.
"Can you walk?" asked Jounouchi when the elevator doors finally parted.
Struck muted, Seto shook his head. His heart raced as Jounouchi wrapped a burly arm around his waist, and together, they hobbled down the hall to the suite's door.
The lights flicked on automatically as they entered, drawing an impressed whistle from Jounouchi as he took in the room.
"Yeah, guess I should've known. You wouldn't be caught dead living like us commoners. Where's the bed in this joint?"
The mention of bed caused something hot and heavy to coil in Seto's navel. Without meaning to, his arm tightened around Jounouchi's neck, which only prompted the other man to grip him tighter, mistaking the action as a plea for more support.
"Bedroom," he moaned, knocking his head against the side of Jounouchi's. He might be imagining it, but he swore Jounouchi shivered and pink flooded down to his neck.
Seconds later, they stumbled into the adjoined bedroom. The spacious room apparently didn't warrant any comments, because Jounouchi deposited Seto on the bed and disappeared from sight.
To say Seto was disappointed was an understatement.
It may be a blessing in disguise. Jounouchi had already done the "decent" thing: extracted him from a dicey situation and brought him to safety. Seto didn't need to embarrass himself in front of the other man any further.
He jumped when a hand grabbed his shoulder, kicking a leg out blindly.
"Relax, it's me."
Silly though it was, Seto did relax as soon as he registered Jounouchi's voice. His firm but careful touch.
"Here. I got you water from the minibar and a cool towel. It's unopened. I promise."
Seto stared helplessly at the two items being offered to him. Jounouchi made no moves, either. They were at a stalemate. At least until the other man sighed and pressed the moist towel to Seto's sweat-dampened forehead. His eyes fluttered closed, and he unleashed a faint moan at how good and chilly it felt.
"C'mon, you gotta drink the water, too. The whole bottle, then I promise to leave you alone."
Panic spiked through Seto's system. Being alone, something he never minded before, suddenly sounded unbearable. He didn't want Jounouchi to leave.
He reached out. Not to take the proffered bottle, as refreshing as its content may be, but to grab Jounouchi's forearm. Jounouchi froze under his clutch.
"You can't leave. I won't let you," said Seto before he could stop himself.
Jounouchi's breath hitched. As he stared at Seto's face, his eyes darkened with something unspeakable. He licked his lips. "Okay, not leaving. Not tonight. Guess someone's gotta keep an eye on you and make sure things don't take a turn for the worse. But you gotta at least let go of my arm. I'll take the couch outside."
Seto slid closer. "I want you—"
Jounouchi gasped. Seto could kiss him at that instant, but his head spun.
He wanted Jounouchi in every conceivable way. Wanted to feel his naked skin against his skin. Wanted to feel his weight pressing down on him as his cock pushed into Seto's hole. Wanted to shatter apart and then let Jounouchi piece him back together in the afterglow, warm and content.
He thought Jounouchi might grant him those things. If only he'd ask for them. But the words remained stubbornly lodged in his throat as sobriety started to creep in on the edges.
"I want you to stay with me," he whispered, holding Jounouchi's shell-shocked gaze.
Tonight and tomorrow. Maybe even for the rest of their lives. One day, Seto would give voice to the whole truth.
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