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Something In The Way You Move | The Redemption

Author’s note: I struggled writing this next instalment, and there was a lot of chopping and changing, so apologies for the late update. There’s one final part after this, and the plan is to have it out by mid-May. In terms of their apartment, this is how I pictured it but feel free to switch it up. This is only for fictional purposes only, but please don’t copy my work without my permission. Enjoy 🤎

Warnings: angst, fluff, suggestive/implied smut, bad language, couple reconciling, side chick confrontation, some relationship issues, minors DNI (let me know if I missed anything)

famous!Reader x Jude Bellingham Word count: 8k words

///

‘So, Bestie,’ Winnie starts, ‘what’s the plan? And how are we going to pull this off?’

That’s a good question: how will you break the big news to Jude? It’s been five torturous days since the positive pregnancy test and you’re yet to tell him about it. The timing just hasn’t been right, and the next bit’ll sound silly, but you’ve kept this from him because you don’t want to take the attention from him.

His first season at Real Madrid has exceeded all your wildest expectations, and you just wanted him to celebrate it all without detracting from it with the baby news.

Girlfriend of the Year, right?

‘To be honest, Wins, I haven’t thought about it.’

You’re standing in the kitchen waiting for the water in the kettle to boil and Winnie’s in the living room, her limbs stretched out on the sectional as she mindlessly browses through one of the coffee table books.

Your best friend’s in town for work, and earlier today, she actually filmed a couple of scenes with you for the show, and that’s when you told her about the pregnancy.

Off camera, of course. However, looking back at the moment, you regret not filming it.

Between filming your scenes, you quietly pulled Winnie to the side and showed her the sonogram you now carry around in your bag, and her reaction was exactly what you expected it to be and more. There was squealing, excited jumping, and there were lots and lots of tears shed between the two of you.

‘Okay, well, when do you plan to tell him?’

Tonight. You think enough time has passed and yesterday, you went to your first doctor’s appointment and confirmed that you were indeed pregnant, but despite your excitement, you kept the news from Jude because you wanted the announcement to be well thought out—special.

Also, there has been so much distance between you, you’re hoping that the baby news could be the catalyst to bring you two together because you kinda miss being close to him.

‘I’ll be honest with you, Y/N/N, that doesn’t give us much time to plan it.’

Winnie makes a good point, but you’re not looking for perfection, all that matters is that he knows.

‘Well,’ the kettle boils and you walk over to where it sits on the counter to grab it, ‘it depends on what we decide on.’

You start pouring the boiling liquid into the cups.

‘My only request is that we incorporate the sonogram.’

‘Wouldn’t it be cute if we could find a pair of infant football boots?’

It’s kinda cheesy—very cheesy, actually—but you like the idea. A lot.

‘Yeah, that’s a good idea. We’re getting somewhere with this.’

It’s almost hard to believe that you’re standing here, plotting out a way to tell Jude that you’re expecting.

If someone had come up to you the night you first met him and told you that in two years, you’d be standing in the kitchen of your shared apartment in Madrid, planning a pregnancy reveal, you would’ve called them a liar.

Excuse your French, but. . . ‘Holy fuck, Wins, I’m pregnant.’

It’s like it’s hitting you for the first time.

Winnie laughs, amused by your sudden realisation. ‘I can’t explain it, right? But it feels like a teen pregnancy.’

There’s no need for her to explain it further ‘cause you know exactly what she means. When you first saw the positive pregnancy test—you know, after your initial shock—you first panicked about how your family would react to the news.

You had to take a moment to stop and remind yourself that even though you’re still so young, you’re more than capable of raising this child.

With Jude’s assistance, of course.

‘Do you want to record it?’

‘Record what?’

You take the steaming mugs from the island and make your way over to the living room, where you place them onto the coffee table.

‘The moment you tell him. Not for Netflix,’ she clarifies, ‘but you know, home videos or whatever.’

Yeah, you’re definitely keeping this one in the family. Maybe if the show gets renewed for a second season. . . but you’re jumping the gun.

‘I want to, but’ you look around the ostentatiously decorated main living space ‘where can we put the camera? I don’t want him to see it.’

‘We’ll figure it out.’

Winnie’s composure is just what you need right now. You can always count on her to be calm in stressful situations.

‘Is your camera charged?’

You’ll have to check. It’s been some time since you last used it. Part of your job is that you’re a part time YouTuber, it’s something you dabble in because you like filming and editing. . . all that jazz, but lately, your channel has taken the backseat.

Why vlog this period of your life when they can catch it on Netflix when the show comes out?

‘Come,’ Winnie shifts to make space for you on the couch.

You take your seat next to her and by the time you settle, she’s already got her phone out, with her Pinterest open.

‘What’s that for?’

‘Well, something’s got to inspire us.’

Duh. It must be the pregnancy fog.

‘Don’t worry,’ she assures. ‘We’ve got this.’

And got this you do. A half hour and two cold teas later, there’s a plan, but this plan requires you to leave the house.

Booooo!

You’re not too keen on the impromptu outing, but there are baby football boots to be bought, and at least you’ll have Winnie there with you.

‘Well, that was easy.’

You beg to differ, but whatever.

Winnie locks her phone and sets it on the couch, ‘When’s The Boy coming home?’

You’re not sure when it started, but Winnie now refers to Jude as “The Boy” which you find to be endearing.

Probably late. He’s out with Toby and Noah, and he mentioned something about his other teammates joining them, but you weren’t really paying attention.

‘I’m not sure.’

And it’s not something you wish to discuss further because the thought fills you with dread. It’s been days since your discovery but given the circumstances, there has been no time to sit down and talk about Coralie.

The result of that is that whenever he goes out—and he’s been going out plenty to celebrate his victorious season—you can’t help but feel anxious that he might cheat on you again.

Surely this is no way to live.

‘But it doesn’t matter, does it?’ you rise off of the couch and start for the bedroom.

Naturally, Winnie’s trailing after you and you just know that this conversation is far from over. She’s persistent.

‘It doesn’t, but I think you should ask him.’

She makes it sound so simple. And you guess it is simple, he is your boyfriend after all, it’s your privilege to call or text him whenever and wherever.

‘We don’t want any surprises.’

You don’t, but if he does walk into something he’s not supposed to walk into, that’s all on him.

‘I don’t think it’s necessary, really.’

Inside the walk-in closet, you start stripping out of your house sweats to change into something appropriate. Once upon a time, you could leave your house in your house clothes without the fear of being pasted on the MailOnline and labelled “dowdy” and “unkempt”.

But that was a long time ago.

‘Oooh, what’s this?’

Winnie finds herself distracted by the Chloé box that’s sitting on the closet island.

‘Oh, yeah, that’s a PR box they sent me on Monday,’ you state matter-of-factly.

She opens it and gasps when she sees what’s inside the large box.

‘What the. . .’

‘It’s crazy, right?’

She turns to you in utter disbelief. ‘They gifted these to you?’

You hum.

She grunts and confesses, ‘I’m so jealous of you right now.’

Twelve full sized perfumes, all gifted to you by the brand.

You tell her to take a bottle, and of course, she’s over the moon. And it earns you the title of World’s Best Best Friend.

‘Well, I still think you should text him,’ she states as she tests the different scents.

And here you thought she had forgotten about that.

‘Just so we have an idea.’

You don’t really want to send the text, but you don’t want to raise any alarms with your friend. Lately, things between you and Jude have been far from perfect, but you’d prefer to keep your relationship problems from the world—even if it’s Winnie and she’s your best friend.

‘Yeah, alright.’

Your phone’s in the living room, so you have to leave the closet to grab it, and when you come back, Winnie’s discovered your new Chanel handbag—a gift from Jude.

‘He bought this for you?’

‘Yeah,’ but you’re not trying to make a big deal of it.

Jude bought the bag for you about a month ago. At the time, it seemed so random—his urge to buy such an expensive gift on a whim—, but after seeing those text messages, you know it was the guilt that made him do it.

‘Lucky bitch.’

‘I’ve been telling you to bag yourself a baller,’ you tease as you take your seat on one of the ottomans.

You: Hey, when are you coming back tonight?

You read over the text to make sure you’re not coming off as desperate. . . a nag. But whatever, the text needs to be sent, and the way he interprets it is up to him.

He doesn’t immediately respond, but you don’t expect him to. He never does when he’s out.

You take a final look in the mirror. You look so good, it’s almost hard to believe that the look was put together in ten minutes. And you’d take a picture to post on your story, but there’s no time for that now.

‘You ready, Wins?’

She smiles, ‘Ready.’

‘Alright then, let’s go.’

///

When he did finally respond to your text, Jude said that he’d try to be home by midnight, which gave you more than enough time to prepare for the reveal.

For her visit, Winnie will be staying at the apartment with you, but she’s gone out because she’s not pregnant and she’s actually got a life. However, she did help you set everything up for the reveal, which you appreciated because she came with all the good ideas.

Like she suggested that you do it in your closet as opposed to the kitchen, where you had initially planned to do it, because the lighting and acoustics were better.

And now it’s a little past eleven o’clock and you’re rewatching an old episode of your favourite series. Earlier in the night—after Winnie left—you filmed a night time routine vlog for your TikTok, which you should be working on editing, but can’t be bothered about.

Waiting for Jude to come home has reduced you to a ball of anxiety, and despite your eyelids getting heavier and heavier with each passing minute, you simply can’t make yourself fall asleep. However, one thing’s certain, no pregnancy reveal will be done tonight.

Damn him, and damn your feelings for him.

You can’t believe he’s once again ditched you for his friends this week. It’s disrespectful at this point, but the worst part?

You keep allowing him to get away with it.

But what can you do, leave him? As if that’s an option for you. The love you feel for him runs so deep, you can’t bring yourself to imagine a life without him in it, especially with the baby coming. So apologies to all the feminists of the world, but your love for this man surpasses all reasoning.

Your phone dings with a notification and you quickly grab it, hoping to find a text from him—you’ll take an incoherent drunken text at this point, anything—but instead it’s Winnie asking if he’s home yet.

Fuck.

You: Not yet, but soon :)

You hope.

She’ll never confront you about it, but you think that Winnie suspects that things aren’t good between you and Jude. The lack of calls and texts throughout the day was a dead giveaway. The two of you can’t get enough of each other, and even when you’re apart, you’re constantly updating each other one way or another so the silence was deafening.

But whatever, right?

People across the world experience relationship problems every day. You’re not the first couple to experience this, and you’re certainly not the last. You just wish that your relationship problems weren’t because he stepped out on you.

‘Babe?’

And now your mind’s playing tricks on you, because you swear you can hear him–

‘Y/N?’

Oh shit, he’s home!

You quickly reach for your phone to check the time: 11:26.

Fuck!

In the last text you sent him almost an hour ago now, you gave him strict instructions to text you before he left the club.

Guess he didn’t catch that text.

‘Baby?’ he calls for you again, but his voice sounds distant, so you figure you have enough time to do what it is that you have to do.

But you’ve got to move fast, so you clamber off of the bed, and scurry to your closet. You head straight to the camera, which you’ve carefully propped on your Louis Vuitton jewellery box, and switch it on to start recording.

This probably isn’t the best of angles, but so long as it captures his reaction, hopefully with his face in the frame.

‘Baaaaybeeee?’

His voice sounds closer now.

‘In the closet, babe,’ you finally call back, then internally brace yourself for what’s to follow.

With Jude, the plan was always to get married and have children, but the when was never discussed in detail.

‘Why are you hiding in here?’

Some of that anxiety leaves your body at the sight of him. He’s beaming at you, so visibly happy to see you.

‘Hiya.’

This man has seen you in all kinds of vulnerable situations, why are you so shy all of a sudden?

As he closes the distance between you, you notice that his eyes are kinda red and glossy, the only sign of his intoxication. When he reaches you, his smile widens—if that’s even possible—and he leans forward to connect your foreheads.

‘Hi, gorgeous.’

He smells of mint with the faint scent of alcohol, and a smell you can only describe as Jude on a night out.

With your eyes shut, you deeply inhale the comforting scent, happy to have him back home.

‘Hey, why are you hiding in here?’ he asks again, his words running into each other, the second sign.

‘Uh, ‘cause.’

You weren’t anticipating that question, and you don’t know how to answer it.

‘“‘Cause?”’ he chuckles.

You hum.

‘Come here,’ he envelops you in his large and strong arms, practically suffocating you but you can’t bring yourself to tell him to release you because you’ve missed his affection and the intimacy.

You fear you’re starting to sound like a broken record.

‘How was it?’

‘How was what?’

‘The club?’

‘Fine.’

And that’s all he’s willing to offer.

‘I thought you said Winnie was staying over?’

She is, she’s just gone to a party with the new guy she’s seeing.

‘And you didn’t join her?’

‘No.’

You give him a half-baked explanation for why you didn’t, but all you’re thinking is how this isn’t going the way you hoped for it to go. This isn’t what the other significant others did in the videos you watched earlier.

But how do you save it?

‘Why are you asking about her?’

‘Just curious, I guess.’

‘Alright then,’ you fist his jacket in your hand. ‘It’s good to have you back home.’

He likes that, you know that because his heart rate picks up. Things are still a bit awkward between you, but that’s to be expected since you haven’t been talking much.

With your arms around his neck, you press onto your toes and crane your neck to peck him on the lips. ‘And actually, babe, there’s something I want to show you.’

Jude tenses up at that, but it’s so subtle, if you weren’t in his arms, you would’ve missed it.

‘You do?’

And like magic, he’s sobered up. Only a bit though.

‘Don’t worry,’ you assure him, amused. ‘It’s nothing bad.’

Your assurance does nothing to ease his wound up body.

‘Jude, relax. . . please.’

Still tense. Whatever, you won’t dwell on his anxiety.

With a final peck to his lips, you step away from him and direct his attention to the island, where the football booties you went out to buy earlier are placed next to a toddler Real Madrid jersey, a positive pregnancy test—you took another one a couple of hours ago—and the sonogram.

‘Surprise,’ you say softly.

You want to sound excited, but it just comes out dejected.

You watch as he takes it in, your heart hammering against your chest. Unfortunately for you, you only have a view of his side profile but even from this angle, you can see that his usually expressive face is perfectly still. You can’t read him, and it feels like an eternity before he turns to face you.

‘Is this for real?’

You nod, the lump that has found a home in your throat making it hard to speak. Your vision’s also blurred, courtesy of the tears that have pooled in your eyes.

‘It is?’

The first tear falls.

‘Oh, baby.’

Jude lifts you into his arms and squeezes all the air from your lungs.

Man, he’s so strong.

Then he sort of holds you like that for a long time, and the next thing you know, your neck is damp.

‘Babe, are you. . are you crying?’

He denies it, but you can feel the damp spot grow with each passing second you’re in his arms. Oh goodness, he is.

‘I think you are.’

‘Shut up,’ he mutters, his voice muffled.

You giggle when he tickles you.

His reaction’s quite the relief and it feels like a ginormous load has been lifted off your shoulders. In terms of his reaction, you weren’t sure what to expect, but this is the best reaction possible, and as he holds you, all the lingering resentment about his past transgressions are forgotten.

Eventually, he sets you down to reveal his red rimmed eyes and similarly hued nose.

‘How far along are you?’

Seven weeks and three days today, according to your doctor. When Dr Hernandez told you, you couldn’t believe you were so far along and didn’t notice.

‘That’s what, almost two months?’

In defence of you though, between your work and Jude’s chaotic football schedule, you’ve been out of touch with your body.

‘Did you know?’

‘I suspected it.’ You tell him about the morning after that night when you noticed that your period was late. ‘I wanted to tell you, but I wanted to take the test first.’

‘And why didn’t you tell me after?’

‘I wanted the doctor to confirm it.’

You’ve grown so tired of standing, so you sit on the carpeted floor of the closet, and Jude joins you, pushing the ottoman to one side so that he can lean against the island.

‘I called Dr Morena who referred me to Dr Hernandez.’

He scowls, ‘Who’s that?’

‘My obstetrician.’

The scowl deepens.

You sigh, ‘The doctor who’ll care for me during the pregnancy.’

‘Oh.’ With his legs spread and stretched out before him, he pulls you into him and sets you between them. ‘And you said that Dr Morena referred you to this. . .’

‘Obstetrician.’

‘Yeah, that.’

You hum in agreement as you rest your back against his torso.

Dr Morena is your family GP.

There’s a silent beat then he asks, ‘So he knew before me?’

‘Winnie too,’ you turn your head so that you’re partially facing him. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Winnie knew before me?’

The offence is evident in his voice.

‘I had to tell her,’ you defend, but this isn’t where you want to steer the conversation. ‘She helped me set this all up.’

He grunts.

‘Are you mad at me?’

‘Kinda.’

Well, now you feel bad.

‘I’m sorry,’ you sit up and turn to face him, maintaining eye contact as you explain, ‘Had I known it would’ve offended you, I wouldn’t have done it.’

But she was so integral in all of this, a part of you’s glad you did. . .

‘Oh, come on, Jude.’

He’s pouting, your big baby.

‘Cheer up, will you?’ you straddle him, cupping his face to gently stroke his cheek with your thumb. ‘I’m really sorry.’

It’s about another minute of silence and avoided eye contact, and you’re about to give up and on the verge of tears when:

‘Babe, I’m only messing with you.’

A quiet beat, then there’s relief, followed by loud laughter.

‘That wasn’t funny,’ you grouse, slapping him lightly on his chest. ‘I almost cried, you know.’

‘Come here,’ he pulls you into him.

The traces of alcohol still linger in his speech, but he’s significantly sobered up since he got home ten minutes ago.

‘I can’t believe you’re pregnant.’

And you can’t remember the last time Jude was this excited about something outside of football. His reaction almost makes you wish you had waited to share the news with him on his birthday, but that wouldn’t have worked because he’ll be in Germany then with the national team for the Euros.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘How the pill doesn’t work a hundred percent,’ you pull away.

But then again, with all the jet setting you’ve been doing, you probably weren’t taking it at the same time every day.

With a flash of his signature smile, he concurs.

‘My knees are starting to hurt,’ you announce as you move off of his lap and back to your previous spot between his legs.

Jude places a hand over your stomach, and with your hands over his larger ones, you move them lower to the pelvic area.

‘There.’

He chuckles. ‘You know, I always dreamed of being a young dad.’

You didn’t know this about him.

‘Not at twenty-one,’ he continues, ‘but you know, in my twenties.’

It’s comforting to know that this baby fits into his life plan.

‘How about you?’

‘I don’t know,’ you admit after a moment of consideration.

You’re still wrapping your head around the turn your life’s taken. The WAG thing kinda blindsided you, the fame too. The craziest part of this all is that you’ve made a career of it, built an entire brand.

‘But I’m not mad at this plot twist.’

‘Our kid’s a plot twist?’ he chuckles.

You nod. ‘Clearly we weren’t paying attention in sex education.’

He kisses the top of your head.

‘Dr Hernandez said that the baby’s about the size of a blueberry,’ you tell him.

It’s such a random fact, but you feel compelled to share it with him.

‘That’s really tiny.’

‘Right?’

Jude keeps rubbing over the area, and you have an inkling he’ll make a habit of this.

Some minutes pass, and then you remember that the camera’s still going, so you excuse yourself from Jude.

‘Where’re you going?’

His grip is firm around your waist.

‘I’m going to get the camera.’

He looks confused, but he releases you. On bended knees, you shuffle over to the other end of the island to quickly grab it, but you don’t stop the recording. When you get back to Jude, you find him in a daze, silently staring at the sonogram in his hand.

‘She’s so tiny,’ he comments when you sit at your previous spot, facing him.

‘She?’

Talk about wanting to be a girl dad.

‘You think the baby’s a girl?’

He looks up to find a camera in his face. ‘What, you think it’s a boy?’

You shrug, you haven’t actually given it much thought. ‘Well, do you think you can handle a mini me?’

He makes a face.

‘Ah, take it back,’ you giggle.

He takes the camera and turns the lens to you. ‘Well, now I’m asking you. Y/N, do you think Baby Bellingham’s a girl or a boy?’

You pause to think about it. A mini you or a mini Jude, how difficult. ‘Well, I’m going the opposite, I think Baby Bellinghamʼs a boy.’

You snuggle into him, ear pressed against his chest, camera still in your face, but you’re both in the frame. One fact people don’t know about your boyfriend is that he’s a master vlogger, and he’s actually recorded many segments for your vlogs that will never see the light of day because when it comes to Jude, you’re a shameless gatekeeper.

‘I want to shower before bed,’ he proclaims once the recording has stopped. ‘Join me?’

You’ve already taken your shower, but you figure a second one wouldn’t hurt. Jude takes your hand and leads you out of the closet and into the bathroom, where you strip out of your clothes.

‘Is it my imagination, or are your boobs getting bigger?’

Huh?

You look down at your exposed breasts, ‘Are you joking?’

‘No, I’m not,’ with a hand on each shoulder, he turns you towards the mirror. ‘Look.’

You’re looking at them, but they still look the same to you, but he’s adamant. Then, in a move you deem perverted—in a good way, of course—, he cups them in his hands.

‘What are you doing?’ At this point, you can’t contain your laughter.

‘How are you not seeing this?’

He must’ve drank more than you realise, because what the fuck is this?

‘Are you high?’

His face twists with disapproval, ‘No, why?’

‘The boobs,’ you turn to him, ‘what’s with the sudden fascination with them?’

‘I like your boobs, you know this.’

You do. And you like his butt.

‘Come,’ you wrap your hand around his wrist and pull him into the shower. ‘I think you’re tired.’

And horny.

You turn the faucet to run the water.

As you’d imagine, not much showering is done.

‘Careful not to wet your hair,’ you warn him, but it’s too late.

‘I don’t care,’ he says flippantly as he takes your face between his hands and leans over to kiss you.

This is not what you came here to do.

You’re both covered in suds.

‘Jude, I need to rinse my body.’

‘Later,’ he mutters against your lips.

‘Jude!’ you squeal.

He’s such a Silly Billy when he wants to be.

You gasp into his passionate kiss when you suddenly feel the cold shower wall against your back. In a swift and slick movement, Jude trails kisses across your left shoulder and you tilt your head to one side to give him better access to your neck.

A soft moan escapes your parted lips as he sucks on the sensitive skin.

‘Jude. . .’

You want to tell him to stop, but the hand on his naked lower back pulls him into to you.

He hums into the kiss as his hand moves up your body to cup your boob, ‘Tonight, you’ve made me the happiest man alive.’

His vulnerability catches you off guard, how can you not give into him. . .

///

For breakfast this morning, you’re making honey butter toast using a recipe you found on the internet. It’s your first time making it and you’re not entirely sure what you’re doing here, but Jude saw it on Pinterest the other week and begged you to make it, so that’s what he’ll have for breakfast.

It’s a simple enough recipe, but knowing you and your iffy cooking skills, this could either be a major success or an epic fail—nothing in the middle. If it does fail though, you’ve got the regular bacon and egg fry-up on standby.

But only positive thoughts in this kitchen.

You’ve got your favourite morning playlist going softly in the background, and today’s what you consider the perfect Saturday morning. The sun is fully out, and the expansive windows of the apartment allow for the natural light to pour into the space and warms it.

You put the toast into the oven and set the timer.

At the end of the summer, your lease for this apartment will be up, but the likelihood of you extending it has significantly shrunk with the latest development in your life. The song goes, “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Y/N with a baby carriage,” but you’ve skipped parts, so some things need to be shifted around.

That means that the house hunting that you’ve been putting off needs to start. . . now, really.

This is where Coralie comes in handy, but you’re not talking to her. She actually reached out to you Sunday morning to apologise for your awkward encounter at the restaurant that night. Her text read:

Coralie: Last night, I overstepped and I’m really sorry and embarrassed by my actions. Please forgive me.

You’re yet to respond to the text, but you don’t plan to anytime soon because you don’t accept her stupid apology. As far as you’re concerned, she’s an insignificant homewrecker. She is two-faced and vindictive and incredibly cruel for subjecting you to such humiliation.

She laughed with you, acted like a friend when she was fucking your man behind your back for six months.

‘Bitch,’ you mumble as you load the dishes into the wash.

But she’s not worth the time, emotions, nor the energy. So with a deep breath, you bop thoughts of her out of your mind, and move on with your day.

Easy.

A half hour later, breakfast is ready to be served. You’ve gone all out with this meal, and it would be an absolute shame to not take a picture to post onto your IG story. Very quickly, you snap a picture to post later, and take the food to your sleeping boyfriend before the ice-cream starts to melt.

He’s still fast asleep, but he’s since shifted sleeping positions, and he’s hugging your pillow.

How cute?

When he wakes up, you expect him to be hungover and grouchy from all his boozing, and you just know he’ll play it up for attention. If there’s one thing you know about your boyfriend it’s that he dies for attention, and he simply cannot resist being babied.

‘Wakey wakey sleepyhead.’

You place the heavy tray onto the bedside table, on the other side of it to avoid it getting bumped by mistake, and attempt to wake him again.

Still, nothing.

‘Jude,’ you mount him, peppering a million tiny kisses against the side of his pretty face. Even in his slumber, he looks perfect. ‘Come on, you got your eight hours, it’s time to wake up.’

He grunts, then sends you away.

‘But I got food,’ you object with feigned sadness.

But he doesnʼt budge.

Alright, sweet coaxing out the window. ‘Babe, I made honey butter toast and the ice-cream’s rapidly melting. Wake up.’

There’s another silent beat and then, ‘What the hell is that?’

Of course he doesn’t remember what it is.

‘Honey butter toast,’ you repeat, as if it’ll somehow miraculously make him know what it is. ‘That bread you saw on Pinterest and begged me to make.’

He’s still clueless, but at least you’ve got his attention. Finally, with a long groan, he sits up, moving cautiously to not send you tumbling to the floor.

‘What time is it?’

‘Ten.’

He cusses softly as he rubs his face. ‘I’m supposed to meet with my parents at eleven.’

You didn’t know that.

But it’s clearly nothing pressing because he doesn’t seem fazed by the fact that he’s running late. He yawns, rubs his eyes and face some more, then turns to you—sitting comfortably on his lap—and smiles. ‘Good morning.’

You mirror his expression. ‘Morning. You hungry?’

‘Starving. What’s for breakfast?’

‘Here,’ you slide off his lap to take the tray and hand it to him. ‘It’s my first time making it, so be nice.’

He assesses the tray of food you’ve placed before him, then looks back up at you. ‘Nine out of ten for the presentation.’

Your brows furrow, ‘Why not ten?’

‘Some of the ice-cream has melted and it looks a bit sloppy.’

‘Yeah, and who’s fault is that?’

He lets out a hearty laugh, but you’re not amused by this judge.

You climb back onto the bed, your eyes fixed on Jude as he puts the first forkful of the honey butter toast, with a little bit of the vanilla ice-cream and salted caramel sauce, into his mouth.

He chews, then he moans, his eyes widen, more chewing, and then finally, he swallows.

This is a good reaction.

‘You like it?’

‘I love it,’ he cuts another piece of the toast. ‘Ten out of ten for the taste. Did you make the ice-cream and caramel sauce yourself?’

‘Alright, Paul Hollywood.’ You grab the extra fork you had on the tray and dig in—curious about the taste—and are met with protests from Jude. ‘I just want a little taste.’

‘Get your own.’

Your bottom lip juts out, it’s your turn to pout. ‘Yeah, but I’m pregnant.’

With a heavy sigh, he proclaims, ‘And so it starts.’

You can’t help but laugh at his solemn tone.

The two of you remain in bed, even after he’s finished having his breakfast, because his outing with his parents has now been postponed to two o’clock. If it were any other day, you’d join them, but you promised to accompany Winnie to the art gallery and you don’t think you can get out of it.

Turning into your side, Jude questions, ‘Why does she have to go to the art gallery?’

Because she’s in her art girl era, inspired by her latest fling, an up-and-coming visual artist from Portugal. His name’s Baltasar, and they met at Coachella a couple months back, and lately, he’s all she ever talks about. You think she’s in love.

‘A visual artist?’

‘Yep.’

‘So he’s broke?’

‘Hey, don’t be mean,’ you chide.

He doesn’t care though, he thinks it’s funny.

‘You’re such an asshole, d’you know that?’

‘Babe, I’m just kidding.’

Yeah, right.

‘Well, she really likes him so if she mentions it to you, keep the bad jokes to yourself.’

‘Noted,’ his mouth connects with your cheek.

The conversation smoothly transitions from Winnie’s new boyfriend to Jobe, who’s relentlessly trying to convince his older brother to take a short trip to Ibiza before he has to report for international duty. You think it’s a great idea, a final hoorah before it gets serious again.

‘Will you come with?’

‘Ibiza sober? Count me out.’

‘I’ll drink for the both of us.’

‘Uh, definitely not,’ your fingers glide up and down his naked back. ‘And I think Jobe wants this to be a boy’s trip. No girlfriends.’

‘But you’re not my girlfriend.’

Huh? ‘I’m not?’

‘You recently got upgraded to baby mum.’

He’s an idiot. Who even laughs at their own jokes this much? Either way, you’re not going to Ibiza with them. It’s another half hour of mindless chatter before you ask,

‘What time is it?’

‘Early.’

‘Jude, I’m being serious,’ you reach blindly for your phone and find it on the other end of the bed. ‘I need to start getting ready.’

‘Can’t you postpone it for another day?’

‘Winnie leaves tomorrow night.’

But he’s not budging, and so you have to use all of your might to shove him off of you.

Your strength leaves him shook. ‘Where’d that come from?’

‘It’s all those training sessions you’re paying for.’

He swells with pride—men.

‘Will you join me?’

Jude perks up.

‘But we’re only showering, nothing else.’

And he’s dejected.

‘I’ll just sit on the side and watch.’

That’s fine by you.

He follows you into the bathroom, and you think you hear him mumble something about you making it worth his while.

///

What your gallery date conveniently forgot to mention was that Baltasar would be joining your gallery excursion. Had you known he’d be here, you would’ve asked Jude to tag along so it could be a double date or something.

Jude: How’s it going? 🖼️

You’re miserable here, and you’re pretty sure you’re third wheeling. And look, you want to be supportive of your best friend, right? But it’s so hard to be when the guy she’s seeing’s the textbook definition of an asshole.

You’re one pretentious comment away from faking morning sickness to get out of this.

You: I’m having the worst time

You: The art is great, but he’s so smug 🙄

And he’s rude, so rude, and he’s determined to talk over you.

Jude: The artist? 🎨🧑‍🎨

You: Yeah, I don’t think he likes me :/

And you’d actually be doing him a favour by leaving, you’d be doing you both the favour because at this point, you feel like you’re intruding and you’re starting to feel awkward.

Jude: Well fuck him

His text makes you chortle.

At least Winnie’s making an effort to include you. Every now and again, she’ll ask for your opinion on certain pieces, but in the end, you just can’t do it.

You can’t be here anymore.

‘Hey,’ you lightly tap Winnie’s shoulder.

She turns to regard you, ‘Hey, what’s up?’

‘Can I talk to you for a second?’

‘Sure.’

She excuses herself from Baltasar, who’s really displeased with your intrusion, and you find a quiet corner.

‘Is everything okay?’

‘Yeah, everything’s fine, the art’s great, but I’m not feeling too hot.’

‘Oh no,’ her brows knit in concern, ‘is it morning sickness?’

She’s buying it, good.

‘I think I’m going to head home, you know, to lie down for a couple hours.’

‘Yeah, alright,’ she takes your hand in hers and lightly squeezes it.

‘But how will you get back to the apartment?’

You are her ride home after all.

‘I was planning on spending the rest of the afternoon with Baltasar,’ she looks over her shoulder at him and when she looks back at you, she’s blushing, ‘but what about you? Are you fine to drive in your condition?’

‘It’s just a little nausea, I promise I’ll be fine.’

It takes a minute to convince her, but you don’t relent, and in the end, you manage to convince her.

‘Now go,’ you nudge her towards her waiting love interest. ‘Have fun with your boyfriend–’

‘Uh, he’s not my boyfriend,’ she quickly interjects, her voice dropping to a scolding whisper.

You smile knowingly, sure he isn’t.

‘What makes you say he’s my boyfriend? Did he say something to you?’

‘No, but I saw the way you were looking at him,’ you shrug, ‘the way he was looking at you.’

Winnie’s uncharacteristically shy all of a sudden.

‘I’ve clearly misread the situation,’ you start backing away from her. ‘But we’ll talk more about it later, okay?’

‘Promise to text me when you get home.’

‘I pinky promise to call you when I get home,’ you blow her a kiss.

You wave goodbye to Baltsar, who seems pleased to see you go, and then you’re out of there.

It’s a short drive home from the gallery, and you’re glad to be back home, but you wish Jude was here with you.

You: I miss you.

As soon as the message’s sent, you regret sending it. But you can always blame pregnancy for making you so clingy.

You fall back onto the bed with a long exhale. What to do with your time? You could watch a movie or you could go the self-care route.

The other day, a skincare brand sent you a few collagen face masks you’ve been dying to try. It’s one of those that melts into your skin. And since you’re on that path, you can also soak in the tub ‘cause you haven’t done that in a while. And if you’re really up to it, maybe you can do your nails.

But first:

You: Got home safe. Have fun with your friend ;) can’t wait to hear about it later x

Jude misses you too. He’s also still with his parents but should be home before dinner.

You: Did you tell them about… 🫄

Jude: No. I thought we’d do it together.

That’s a good plan.

You: Great idea. I’ll see you later, I love you x

Jude: I love you more 😘

Dinner time’s a while away, so you’ve got plenty of time to have your self-care afternoon.

The tub is halfway full, the bubbles foaming, the steam and aroma engulfing the space when your phone notifies you that someone’s at the door.

Your body’s sheathed by a robe, but you still feel indecent as you make your way to the door.

The doorbell goes off a second time just before you reach the door, and when you open it, the last person you expect to find standing on the other side of it is Coralie.

Yes, Coralie’s at your door and she looks like. . . Well, she looks like shit.

‘Y/N,’ she forces her lips into a tight smile. ‘Hi.’

The shock has you frozen for a moment, but you’re quick to recover. ‘Jude’s not home.’

You’re curt because you want her out of your sight and you’ve left the water running in the bathroom.

‘I know he isn’t.’

She does?

‘I’m not here to see Jude, I’m actually here to see you.’

Of course she’s here to see you.

‘Why?’

‘‘Cause there’s so much we need to talk about, woman to woman.’

“Woman to woman”, what a joke? And it takes everything in you to stop your eyes from rolling. What the fuck does that even mean?

‘Can’t we schedule this for another time? I’m kinda in a rush.’

‘It won’t take long, I promise.’

Hell, she can’t take a hint, can she?

‘Can I come in?’

‘We can’t talk about whatever it is here?’ you tighten your grip around the door handle to stop your hand from shaking. ‘I mean, you said it yourself, it won’t take long.’

‘Yeah, but it’s weird doing it at the door, so can I come in?’

‘You’re in no position to call the shots.’

‘Please,’ she sounds desperate. ‘I just need ten minutes of your time, then I promise I’ll go.’

The more you look at her, the worse she looks. Honestly, she looks like she’s been to hell and back, and if you didn’t hate her so much, you’d feel sympathy.

‘Ten minutes, then you have to leave.’

‘That’s all I ask, thank you.’

And so despite your better judgement, you step to one side to allow her into the apartment. As you shut the door, you offer her a drink.

‘I’ll have a water, thank you.’

‘We’ve got water in the fridge.’ You walk towards your bedroom to shut off the running water, ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

On the short trek, you dig your phone from your robe pocket.

You: Coralie’s here she says she wants to talk but i’m uneasy

You shut the faucet. You quickly change out of your robe into the first clothing items you stumble upon, which are the sweats Jude was wearing earlier. They’re loosely fitting, but they’re comforting because they smell like him.

Coralie’s in the living room, bottle of water in hand, and she’s focused on something out the window.

‘Sorry I took so long.’

Your sudden intrusion snaps her out of her reverie, ‘It’s fine.’

Her eyes are fixed on you as you move around the space to take your seat on the sectional, feet tucked beneath your bum.

This is so awkward.

‘So,’ you start, breaking the ice, ‘you said you wanted to talk?’

You heard Jude out, so it’s only fair that you hear Coralie’s side of the story.

‘Right,’ she clears her throat. ‘I assume you know about our. . .’

‘Affair?’

She winces at your choice of words.

‘Yeah, I do.’

‘And he told you everything?’

‘That you got drunk last December and hooked up? That you’ve been hooking up behind my back for the last six months?’

She sits perfectly still, but her trembling lower lip betrays her.

‘That you were sending inappropriate texts, pictures, and videos. . .’ you continue, pleased to see her squirm in her seat. ‘Am I missing anything else?’

It’s only been, what? Five days since you last saw her, but in the short time span, she’s aged a decade. Coralie’s never disclosed her age, but you’ve always placed her in her late-twenties, maybe early-thirties, but today she looks well into her forties.

‘How did you find out?’

‘I saw the drunk text you sent him, what did it say again?’ you pause for dramatic effect. ‘Right, “I’m drunk and I miss you. Call me.”’

She’s fidgeting with the bottle in her hand, her head bowing in shame. ‘Y/N, I’m really sorry.’

‘What are you apologising for?’

‘All of it.’ She looks up at you, ‘I’m sorry that you found out the way you did.’

You hear her, but you’re not ready to accept her apology. Especially because she’s cutting into your self-care time with this crap.

‘Who made the first move?’

‘Jude did.’

Your heart aches at the revelation, it’s like someone has driven a sharp knife into it.

‘He was upset at you, he didn’t say why but he was really cut up about a fight you had,’ she proceeds. ‘And if it wasn’t me, it would’ve been someone else.’

You think you might throw up.

‘But he was drunk, we both were, and. . .’ her voice trails.

An uncomfortable silence descends upon the room because really, what else is there to say?

‘Do you love him?’

‘Does it matter?’

It doesn’t matter, but you want to know. Let’s say it’s curiosity.

‘He’s hard not to love.’

That’s true.

‘But am I in love with him? No.’

Some of the tension in your shoulders eases.

‘And he doesn’t love me either,’ and she almost sounds sad when she says that. ‘It was only ever sex between us, nothing more.’

But the texts. . . what did they mean?

‘Nothing,’ she insists. ‘Call it harmless flirtation.’

‘Harmless?’

She flushes, ‘You know what I mean.’

So you now know that he was mad at you, they were both drunk, they fucked and you think Coralie regrets it, but you’re not sure.

‘Who pursued it?’

‘What?’

‘Your. . . thing, the affair,’ it irks you to say it.

‘Oh, Y/N, I don’t think you–’

‘Was it Jude?’

‘He loves you.’

‘I know he loves me.’

Coralie’s quiet which furthers your frustration at her.

‘Did he pursue the affair?’

‘Why does it matter? It doesn’t change anything because in the end, he chose you.’ It’s like it pains her to say it. ‘He’ll always choose you.’

You nod.

After another long and awkward silence, she professes, ‘You know, I felt awful deceiving you because you really are such a good person.’

‘Don’t start with that crap.’

‘No, I mean it. You’re a good person, and we were friends–’

‘We were never friends,’ you interrupt. ‘You were never my friend.’

You tolerated her, there’s a difference.

‘I know you’re upset with me, and trust me, I get it, but come on,’ she persists. ‘We were friendly with each other.’

‘You sleep with all your friends’ boyfriends?’

That shuts her up.

‘Look, Coralie, I appreciate the apology,’ you pull your phone from the sweatpants pocket to check the time and discover eight missed calls from Jude. ‘But you said you’d be here for ten minutes, and you’ve exceeded that time.’

‘I know, and I’m really sorry about that, but there’s one last thing I want to tell you.’

Your stomach twists with dread—she better not tell you that she’s pregnant. The cheating you can move past, but a child you can’t recover from.

‘You’re pregnant?’

‘What?’ She looks offended that you’d even ask her that question. ‘No, I’m not pregnant.’

You sigh in relief.

She’s not pregnant, but she did lose her job. She received the call this morning to let her know that her services were no longer required by the club. She’s certain Jude had something to do with it, so she’s here to plead with you to talk sense into him.

‘And I meant what I said, I really am sorry for the inconvenience that I’ve caused in your life, but Y/N, I really need this job,’ she concludes.

‘How are you so sure he had something to do with it?’

She shoots you an incredulous look as if to say, ‘Really?’

‘And if he did have something to do with it, what makes you think he’d listen to anything I have to say?’

‘Because you told him to end our arrangement and he did.’

‘But you said it yourself, you mean nothing to him.’

She flinches again.

‘I mean, I can try to talk to him, but I can’t promise you anything.’

‘Thank you,’ she smiles. ‘That’s all I ask.’

‘Well, like I said, I have somewhere to be so–’

You don’t get to finish the sentence, ‘cause you’re cut off by a panicked Jude who storms into the apartment, followed by an equally panicked Mark.

‘Babe?’

Thank the heavens he’s here.

///

You wake up in the middle of the night to find Jude’s side of the bed empty. At first you think he’s in the bathroom, but when five minutes pass and he’s not back, the panic sets in. You grab your phone off of the bedside table to check the time: 2:38.

Where the hell is he?

You sit up and search the dark room for traces of him, but there’s nothing—only his phone on the bedside table.

It’s been hours since your confrontation with Coralie, but you’re yet to process it all. You’re still in shock at the fact that she rocked up at your door the way she did, but you’d be lying if you said the conversation wasn’t cathartic.

‘Jude?’

You push the covers away and climb off of the bed. After you locate your house shoes, you set out to find him.

His phone is here, so he shouldn’t be far.

‘Jude?’

As you make your trek down the short passage, you hear soft chatter coming from the TV room. When you turn the corner, you find Jude sitting on the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him, feet resting on the coffee table.

A smile takes over your face at the sight of him.

‘Hey, you,’ he greets you as you crawl into his lap.

‘Hi,’ you tuck your face in the crook of his neck and inhale his scent. ‘What are you watching?’

‘Pulp Fiction.’

Of course he is.

‘Why’re you up?’

You trace patterns on his t-shirt clad chest. ‘I woke up and you weren’t in bed. I panicked.’

He tightens his arms around you, ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ you sit up. ‘This pregnancy has me acting weird.’

‘Yeah, blame it on the pregnancy,’ he teases.

‘Shut up,’ you shift to straddle him. ‘Why are you sitting here alone?’

His hands settle on your waist, ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’

There’s still so much to discuss in terms of Coralie and her claims, but tonight just isn’t the time for that.

‘Do you think we’ll ever be okay again?’

‘Yeah,’ he takes your mouth into a deep kiss.

‘Come to bed with me,’ you whisper against his lips, moaning when he slips a hand between you, teasing his fingers through your slick folds.

‘I don’t think we’ll make it to bed.’

///

Tagged:

@luv4bellingham

#jude bellingham #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham scenario #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham x you #Jude Bellingham one shot #Jude Bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham fanfiction #Jude Bellingham scenarios

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zachsucr · 2 days

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WOOO THE FIRST ONE IS HERE!!!

Funny enough, but my first ever drawing based on Confinium was with Navigator and not the Pilot (who still is my favourite to this day ABSOLUTELY ISN'T OBVIOUS YEAH). So, this Navi drawing was made in the summer of 2018 in my first sketchbook. Damn, I was 15 at the time...

I loved every character in the game, but Pilot resonated with me more than anyone else. Maybe his character is just something that is closer to me personally. So, I liked Pilot so much that I made a felted toy after him. It's still one of my favourites (I also have felted Zacharie and Bad Batter's head, but I consider them ancient at this point, and they look like they have seen some shit) and I brought it with me to the Black Sea one time. Me and my family traveled there by the car, 3 000 km to the sea and then 3 000 km back to my hometown, so that lil' guy have seen a bunch of russian cities and beautiful landscapes on our way B)

I also made some of my drawings in not so pleasant periods of my life (specifically the two last ones). I guess I got some sense of relief from drawing certain scenes from the game, trying to put my feelings in the atmosphere of those pieces.

I still come back to the game from time to time. The first time I played Confinium was in 2018, but only a year ago I found this "Bendy and the Ink Machine" song reference when you make Pilot observe the sheeps for a couple of times. That's actually what I really like about the original OFF itself and It's fangames. You can come back to the game and still manage to find something new for yourself each time you visit it.

By the way, Penta (my fav OFF OC) was originally made to be a Confinium OC, BUT THEN SOMETHING WENT HORRIBLY WRONG and now he's a character of his own story, which I want to make real someday hopefully.

And for the last, I also still have some old cosplays on Pilot and Omni in Pony Town eheheh

So that concludes my expirience with the game and it's characters, I guess. Thank you Xin for making this amazing game. Even if it's not completed, It still brings joy and happy memories to me and a lot of people who played it. Thank you for leaving a print on my teenage years. When you ever feel down, I hope that you will remember that there are people from all around the globe that appreciate you and the things you do. You matter.

(If anyone wants to do something similar to this post, you're more than welcome! No need for tagging or anything, just make your fav creators feel appreciated by telling your own stories and some nice words to them!)

#off game #off fangame #confinium #confinium (off fangame)#pilot (confinium)#navigator (confinium)#omni (confinium)#king batter (confinium)

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onyichii · 2 days

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This is a response to @cocogum post! Since it is SUPER LONG! Imma start doing this instead of reblogging if I have a lot to say.

OG Post by COCOGUM:

YES COCOGUM!! I am LOVING YOUR ENTIRE POST! I have a few thoughts to add...

A) I'm happy her hair is growing out too! I hope she eventually has hair as long as her mothers.

I want her to look like a forest goddess.

I think the growth is a symbol of just (as you said) being happy or at peace. In TV/movies people cut their hair as a symbol of change (freedom from the past) and grow it out again (sometimes) when they're at a new happy place. As we have seen, her hair and that green leaf she sports now are a symbol of her new found happiness.

B) I too was not expecting the "adult fun time" scene but i am hoping we get A TON more especially if this series is gonna be 100 chapters. I want more fluff, more hugs, more kisses, more f--ks! lol Put a baby (or three) in her Yugo! Give the Sadida kingdom an heir!

I can see where you are coming from that Yugo was having a wet dream. If that's the case, that is funny because he (presumably) had just pollinated his flower queen and he is dreaming of doing it again! 😀😀 And he called her tireless!? LMAO. Whether it was a dream or they were interrupted before the nut we can agree that they are BOTH hungry for each others touch/warmth (based on that scene alone).

I still think they were interrupted before they...made sap🌳and fell from the air.

I think the "adult fun time" positions you were suggesting are accurate and I can see Yugo switching too. I think it would depend on who initiates it. When she initiates she's top but when he initiates he'd top....sometimes (not all the time because as you said—he loves the view)! lol

C) For the open room. I think the construction of the floor (or level) gives them privacy. Like a long corridor before the room entrance. And at the entrance to the corridor there'd be a magical cotton bell (as seen in s3) that rings when pulled to let the royals know when servants want to enter. BUT if there is no magical door bell (OR ANYTHING) that is bold of them!! lol.

Rereading your post...if the doorway is open like that it makes me think of this quote (the last quote at 1:40) from the film Scary Movie (watch from 1:30 to 1:42 for context)

D) So I am GLAD people have been bringing up Draconiros. I am not deep into the WAKFU/KROZMOS/DOFUS universe and had NO IDEA who he was nor any of the other primordial dragons.

I got into Wakfu for Amalia. I thought she and Yugo would be cute from all the hugs she gave him. When they canonized a potential Yumalia (in the OVA) I STANNED for their star-crossed lover romance that could never be. I love the whole cast but Amalia's character design is so cute/fun (it drew me into Wakfu).

Anyway, I am curious if Draconiros is ALSO responsible for Nora's daydream in ep 4 of season 4. THIS SCENE ALWAYS THREW ME OFF!

I feel like this scene was added for two three purposes... 1) to introduce the audience to Efrim (in a foreshadowing way) 2) to add to what Oropo says in episode 1. Questioning Yugo's "good" intentions and actions which have caused (and WILL CAUSE) trouble for the World of Twelve. 3) To sneakily, introduce Draconiros (without the audience knowing).

The reason why I think this is Draconiros and NOT Efrim is because—how would Efrim know any of what was said in that scene? Efrim is in the Necroworld at this moment. He and Nora were in the Krozmos away from the World of Twelve for a long time. There is NO WAY Efrim would know about YUGO's effects on the World of Twelve. At none, that I can think of...

Which also brings to question, how did the Goddess Eliatrope know the Brotherhood of the Tofu and everyones names when they entered the temple? Did I miss something? I mean Quilby could have told them some things. From before his imprisonment...but I digress...

Anyway, I think Draconiros took on Efrims form/voice in s4. And now he is making an official appearance in the manga.

If they had shown Draconiros in season 4, it would be a loose end. And Tot wanted to wrap the animation up without any loose ends. So (to me) it'd make sense not to show Draconiros' true form at all in s4 and have him take on Efrims form/voice.

E) I think this dude is gonna be a problem. But I may be over thinking 🤷‍♀️. And shouldn't he be referring to her as QUEEN Amalia instead of LADY Amalia? Does he have some passive aggressive beef with her? Or is it okay to refer to a Queen as Lady instead. I feel like the Sadida's are more chill about titles (compared to other kingdoms) but...idk.

His character design (in this scene) is just giving...bad guy or pawn to me. If I am right, he could play a betrayal role (if the plot takes that turn). I do not see him being a fan of the Eliatropes either.

F) And I agree that the Sadida kingodm is tense with it's new residence. I'm glad you brought up the perspective from the Sadida but let's talk about it a little more with a Eliatrope in mind...

The Eliatrope have NEVER had to live with another race before. EVER. They had their OWN PLANET. No other race existed on there but them.

Thanks to Baltazar (in s2) they had been watching Yugo through the Eliacube, but have they been taking notes on the customs of the world around him?

Being on a new planet with so many races must be a SHOCK to them. ADDITIONALLY, they haven't interreacted with anyone but each other for goddess knows how long!!! So the communication, customs, cultures, and everything probably hit them like a TON OF BRICKS. I would assume that they don't (quite) understand what tolerance and acceptance of other cultures is thanks to their isolation too.

However, it is something they are gonna have to learn. Starting with the Sadida race.

Since they're teens I think (...well, I hope) it'll be easier for them to learn and integrate into the world of twelve via the Sadida Kingdom.

ALSO...It will take time for the Sadida's to be comfortable with the Eliatropes too. I mean...people have been trying to take their homeland (via possess the tree of life) for a long time. It's no surprise that they are weary/tense of some alien race residing on said homeland. They may know Yugo, but they don't know his people. They probably think they'll take over....IDK.

But I am here for the tea! 🫖🍵

FRIDAY NEEDS TO HURRY UP!!

#wakfu manga #wakfu webtoon #wakfu #wakfu yugo #wakfu amalia #yumalia #wakfu s4 #wakfu season 4 #amalia sheran sharm #yugo #yugo x amalia #yugo the eliatrope #kroz #krozmos #dofus

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bluejutdae · 1 month

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• best friend Stray Kids saving you (or being saved by you) from a bad date | Minho x you

Chan, Changbin, Jisung, Felix, Seungmin, Jeongin

genre: friends to lovers

warnings: asshole date, nothing happens but reader thinks her date might follow her home

This night has been terrible so far. Your friend convinced you to go out with one of her colleagues to get over your crush for Minho, and you knew it was pointless, but she insisted so much you have lost the will to fight. So you wore a nice dress and a minute before you left the apartment, the guy texted you saying there was a change of plans and to meet two hours later and at a different location. Is the dating scene like this for everybody? You haven’t dated anyone for a long time, a bit because of how things ended with your last boyfriend but mostly because of the raging (unreciprocated) crush for Minho.

Minho’s now one of your closest friends, but you never actually gave up on your feelings for him. It’s almost comfortable, safe in a way, to love someone knowing things won’t change but won’t end either.

But for the sake of shutting up your friend, you are now in a very shitty situation. The guy is pretty, you’re mature enough to admit that, but he’s a major asshole. Even ignoring the last minute change of plans, the fact that he arrived 25 minutes later and apparently the new location is a nightclub. His hands have been on you the moment he introduced himself and the more you try to put some distance between you two, the more he’s all over you. You could just leave, that’s true. It’s also true that this guy is very set on never leaving your side and he’s so pushy you’re certain he wouldn’t hesitate to follow you home.

You wonder when Minho is going to be here so you can at least leave the club and have him keep you company, when you feel a hand grabbing your wrist. You turn to find the hand holding you belongs to Minho himself and he’s looking at you with a surly expression, teeth clenched and a frown between his eyebrows. “We’re going home.”

His voice is cold and firm, you’ve never heard him speak to you like that. Your date notices the scene and turns to Minho. “Woah dude, she’s mine tonight.”

Minho’s cold stare rests on the guy and at the same time your friend makes a step to place himself between you and your date. “She’ll never be yours, not tonight, not never. She belongs to me. Dude.” The last word was spat through Minho’s teeth, mocking and a bit cruel.

Words die on the guy’s tongue when Minho gets into his face and says something too quiet for you to hear.

A moment later he’s gently pushing you away and through the crowd, towards the exit.

“Well, that was intense,” you joke when you’re safe on the sidewalk.

“Don’t you ever put yourself into a situation like this. Ever again.” He’s on your face, almost screaming the words at you, anger contorting his face.

You can understand he was worried, but you don’t like the way he’s talking to you.

“Ya, Minho! Do you think I wanted that?” You raise your eyebrows. “I didn’t call you so you could scold me! I called you because I trusted you to help me, I know I was in a shitty situation!”

“And yet you still got into this situation!” He rebuts, and in this moment you hate him a little.

Why is he judging you like this? Why is he blaming you? Sure, you were a bit too naive but it’s not like you consciously decided to put yourself in a potentially dangerous situation.

“This clearly wasn’t what I expected.”

“No? You’re the one who decided to go to a club with a man you didn’t know. And you came alone! Was bringing a friend too easy?”

“Fuck you, Minho!”

You stalk away, towards the direction of the bus stop. Why is he mad at you now? He’s never been mean or cruel to you, despite what lots of people say about him, he’s a caring friend.

You can hear his footsteps getting close and you almost laugh at the thought that comes to your mind: you are always so focused on him, you can now recognize his footsteps.

“I parked in the other direction.”

“Then go the other direction. I don’t need you here. Sorry I bothered you. I won’t be your problem anymore.”

“You are my problem.”

“Oh, so I really am a problem to you.” You can believe him. All this because he had to come get you? You didn’t think it’d be such a hassle.

“Yes. You’ve been my problem since I met you.”

“You’re being so fucking cruel tonight, Minho.”

“I am not- can you stop walking?” He asks, sounding exasperated. You stop and face him, one hand on your hip and your lips pursed in disapproval. “So you can tell me more about how I’m a problem?”

“I didn’t say a problem.”

“You said exac-“

“I said MY problem! Emphasis on my. Because you’re not other people’s problem. And I don’t want you to belong to other guys, don’t want them to call you theirs! I want you to be mine.”

You stare at him for half a minute, silent and still. Putting aside the fact that he’s repeating the fact that you’re a problem, you try to read between the lines.

“Is this a fucked up way to tell me you have feeling for me?”

“Yes.”

This is ridiculous. Really ridiculous. Your crush has feelings for you. And the most backwards way of confessing. Well, considering he is Minho, it’s pretty in character for him. Still ridiculous, though.

“I didn’t know you decided to go on dates.” He says it like a second thought.

“I didn’t.”

“You were on a date.”

“Doesn’t mean I decided to go on dates.”

“Means exactly that.”

“Jesus, Minho. Can you ever drop something?”

“Not when it’s about you.”

This asshole. How can you find his otherwise annoying answers amusing?

“My friend insisted so much that she wore me down, so I accepted this date with her colleague. So, as I said, I haven’t decided to go on dates.”

“Good.”

“You can never be normal, uh? Always with a weird answer.”

“You like weird.”

“I do.”

“You’re normal. I like normal.”

He likes normal, and he likes you. And he tells you so in a Minho way at least another ten times in the following minutes, during your way home.

You say goodbye and you’re about to get out of the car, when he puts his hand on your arm, an hesitant expression on his face. “No more other guys, right?”

You smile softly at him. “No more other guys. There hasn’t really been another guy since I met you.”

His smile is all you need.

#stray kids fanfic #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids x reader #bluejutdae #skz #minho smau #minho imagines #minho fanfic #minho scenarios #Thiana writes Minho

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wonderthor · 2 months

Text

random p*rn star nanami thot

i feel like he wouldn’t be much of a talker, which is funny cuz his deep and sexy sultry voice would be enough to get both his viewers and fans and whoever he’s fucking off. it’ll come out out of the blue, when no ones expecting it and probably make even the director and the photographers close their thighs together. he could say something like “that’s it that’s it, just like that” or “come on, you can do it. do it like that, just for me” and everyone within earshot would be drooling and creaming their pants.

he’s been in the business long enough and usually isn’t trying to try new things or join up in new trends, which is sad cuz he’d dominate anything he would try. he doesn’t really have to put in much effort; with his great stamina and strength he can go on for hours and hours and fuck hard like a wild animal in a rut. one time he did try a new position and put a fellow actress in a full nelson, the poor girl could barely walk for a whole day. he was talked into trying some BDSM films, but was scared off when his costar came unscripted and untouched when he spoke deeply in her ear with that dangerous voice of his “now be a good girl and listen to your master” with his tie around her throat.

he’s very well known in the biz but isn’t overly arrogant or conceited. before every film when his costar is introducing themselves and greeting him with high energy and saying how much of a fan they are, he simply nods his head and shakes their hand with a warm and polite smile, “hello nice to meet you”, like a business man meeting a client. he’s very cordial and a bit stoic at first, and then bending them over and fucking their lights out two minutes later. he’s very caring, checking on his costars after every scene. he’ll even bring water and food to them after he asks if they’re okay and they’re only able to give a thumbs up since their legs are still numb from having their insides rearranged.

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huggingkoalas · 2 months

Text

ride me it

pairings natasha romanoff x fem!reader

synopsis riding a motorcycle should be similar to riding her face, right?

word count 1.8k

warnings smut, use of vibrators (using a literal motorcycle), mentions of ‘exhibitionist’ kink, mentions/use of ‘mommy’ kink, pet names, teasing, cursing, established relationship, bottom!reader, top!natasha

author’s note am i going absolutely feral over nat's motorcycle scenes in age of ultron and black widow? yessir :P + this fic is inspired by this tiktok edit of nat too <3

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“Will you teach me how to ride, Nat?” You asked, stopping your gentle scratches on her scalp.

Natasha, lying on the bed with her head on your lap, turned her attention from the movie playing on the television to you. Amused, she raised her eyebrows, her infamous smirk on her lips. “Are you talking about my face?”

You slapped her hard on the arm and shook your head in amusement. “I meant the motorcycle, you weirdo.”

“Ouch, that hurts.” Natasha hissed with a pout on her face.

Both you and Natasha knew she could handle physical pain since she was literally the Black Widow. Even if she didn’t have superpowers like Thor and the Hulk, she was still one of the most powerful women in the world. Fighting the desire to roll your eyes, you played along with her antics. You rubbed her arm, eyes twinkling in faux pity while mouthing ‘sorry’.

“I read the mission reports everyone sent from the Ultron Offensive mission. I had no idea you knew how to ride a motorcycle.” You remarked, continuing your featherlight strokes along her hair. You wish you were there that day. If you witnessed Natasha riding a motorcycle, skillfully navigating through traffic and avoiding danger, you’d be drooling right away.

“I guess it just never came up. I wouldn’t mind teaching you, though. It would be hot if you rode something other than my face.” Natasha teased.

“Nat!” Your cheeks turned bright red from her comment. “I-I mean, you’ll have to teach me the basics first, though. I don’t think I’m ready to drive one yet.”

The thought of driving a fast vehicle sent shivers down your spine. Despite feeling scared, you wanted to impress your girlfriend. Maybe if you tried something dangerous, like learning how to ride a motorcycle, she wouldn’t keep calling you a scaredy cat.

“I can teach you the basics now.” She replied, removing her head from your lap and sitting up.

“N-Now? You sure?” You hesitated. “I mean, sure, yeah, okay.”

You didn’t think she’d teach you how to ride a motorcycle now, but you weren’t complaining. Natasha intertwined your fingers with yours, dragging you to the garage quickly.

You could see the excitement in her eyes as she led you to the garage. The green in her eyes was brighter than usual, and you couldn’t help an endearing smile appearing on your face. Seeing this side of her made your heart melt. Sometimes, she reminded you of a puppy.

Your eyes adjusted to the amount of sunlight flittering through the ceiling-to-floor windows once you reached the garage. It was your first time here, and the spaciousness of the area amazed you. Numerous cars, including SUVs and Humvees, were lined neatly side-by-side. Your gaze immediately spotted the familiar black and red motorcycle you had read in her mission report.

“What’s its model again?” You asked, walking to the motorcycle and running your fingertips along the tank cover before resting your palm on the leather seat.

“It’s a Harley-Davidson LiveWire.” Natasha walked up behind you, resting her hands on your hips. “It’s brand new. The motorcycle from the mission got totalled, so Fury and Stark had to buy me another one.”

“Yeah, I know. I had to deal with financial reports afterwards. It’s... really expensive.” You turned your head to look up at her, leaning up to kiss the tip of her nose. “Only the best motorcycle for the best woman in the world.”

“Enough compliments or I’m bringing you to my room and showing you how much you’re the best woman all night.” Natasha husked, her teeth tugging at your earlobe. Her hot breath whispered in your ear, making you weak to your knees.

She released herself from behind you, her famous smirk on her face as she noticed your flustered state. “Alright, get on the motorcycle.” She said, her voice an octave lower than usual. You looked at Natasha, and she was looking at you with darkened eyes.

You both knew what that tone meant. It was the tone she would use on you when you were writhing on her sheets, moaning her name over and over again as she brought you to multiple orgasms. Both of you knew what the tone did to you. You’d willingly get on your knees and do anything she asked if she used that sultry voice again.

Clearing your throat to brush your mind off the filthy thoughts your brain had come up with, you inquired. “Won’t it tip over if I get on it?”

Natasha lets out a short laugh as you shoot her a nervous look. There’s a mixture of amusement and something else entirely in her green eyes. You're not sure. She’s making you even more nervous than you already are.

“See that little stick on the side propping up the bike?” With a nod of your head, she points to the black pedal holding the vehicle up. “That’s a kickstand. The bike doesn’t magically defy gravity, and it certainly doesn’t fly.”

You wanted to wipe the smug grin off Natasha’s face. Normally you’d make a snarky remark now, but instead, you let her off with a shrug.

“I promise to catch you if, for some reason, the kickstand doesn’t do its job, detka (baby).” The use of the pet name relaxes you a bit, and you nod your head.

“Fine, I trust you. Is there... A specific way to get on it?” You asked.

“Just mount it, lyubov’ (love). It’s the same as riding on my face.” Natasha replied in a teasing tone. Your head snaps towards her, and your cheeks warm. Her arms are crossed, and her biceps are clearly visible as she wears a black sleeveless sweater. You know you won’t survive the rest of the lesson if she acts (and looks) like this.

You grab the handles and slowly swing one leg over the seat. Your feet barely touch the ground, and you’re tiptoeing while sitting on the vehicle.

“I think the motorcycle is too tall for me.” You looked at her with a frown.

Natasha expertly climbs onto the bike behind you. “Shortie.” She taunts.

“Careful!” You exclaimed, holding onto the handlebars as the bike tilted left and right due to her movement.

You shift in your seat, getting used to the weird position. The motorcycle seemed larger between your thighs. Furthermore, there were a bunch of pedals, levers, and buttons. You were familiar with what the side mirrors do, but you were not sure what everything else does.

Your heart pounded in your ears. The seat slope caused Natasha's body to press up against you. You shudder slightly as you feel her breasts press up against your back. You tried to make yourself comfortable, but her breath against the back of your neck sent a small shiver down to your core.

“You’re so tense, detka (baby). Do I make you nervous?” She rests her chin on your shoulder, her hands running down your arms to take your hand in hers while you hold the handlebar.

“You’re sleeping on the couch if you don’t shut up right now, Nat.” You replied, gritting your teeth. As much as you liked her relentless teasing, the heightened adrenaline and fear in your body spiked your anxiousness.

“You’re so cute when you’re angry, lyubov’ (love). Let’s start the lesson then.” Natasha said, turning her attention back to the task at hand.

She turned the key in the ignition on. The rumbling of the motor startled you as the engine started to thrum softly beneath you.

“I’ll put it on neutral since you’re not driving.” She added.

You nodded your head. You had a license to drive a car, so you knew some driving language. But even though you had experience driving a car, you knew that riding a motorcycle was something completely different. You could feel your heart racing and your grip on the handlebars trembling slightly.

“The lever above the left handle is the clutch lever. The one on the right is the lever for the front brake.” Natasha continued, showing and explaining the parts and their functions.

You couldn't concentrate. The vibration of the engine below you and the slight vibration of the seat had your attention instead. You pursed your lips and nodded as you pretended to understand what she was teaching you.

Closing your eyes for a moment, your breath caught in your throat as Natasha’s lips touch the spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “Are you listening to me?” She murmured against your skin.

You pursed your lips and speak shakily. “Y-Yes.”

Natasha smirked as she watched your face, she could clearly see that your mind was somewhere else entirely, exactly where she wanted it to be. “I can make you feel even better...”

“This is the throttle handle that gasses the motor.“ She taps a finger on the right handle. She slowly turns the handle towards you, her wrist applying pressure, and the engine revs louder.

“Shit, Nat-” You gasp out loud, the vibrations beneath you getting stronger the more she turns the handle. You feel even more wetness gathering in your panties.

“Nat,” You whimpered with desperation. “Please, I..I-”

You arch your body against her and throw your head back against her shoulder, enjoying the vibrations from the seat. Natasha almost moans at the sight of you aching for her. She gently pulls your shirt off, throwing it behind her. The cold air sends goosebumps down your arm and her left hand rests on your thigh, squeezing and kneading your clothed thigh.

“Shh... Quiet. You don’t want someone to walk on us like this, do you?” She warns you.

Your lungs are struggling for air as you gasp. Shame and desire course through your veins at the thought of someone catching the both of you in this position. You bite your bottom lip, biting it hard you think it might bleed.

“Want me to go faster?” She asks in a sultry voice. Without waiting for your response, she twists the handle down quickly, the seat pulsating quickly and louder.

Your torso jolts forward and you can’t stop the moan that leaves the back of your throat. Your panties and pants are sticking to you uncomfortably as the leather seat vibrates harshly against your folds. You’re rutting down onto the seat desperately, aching for release.

“I-I’m close, Nat, don’t stop, please-” You somehow manage to plead through the haze.

You moan loudly as she revs the engine loudly once more, and you scream ‘mommy’ as you orgasm, stars blinding your eyes as your body shakes with bliss. Your arousal sticks to your thighs and pools onto the leather seat below you as you come down from your high.

Natasha switches off the ignition once you finish tumbling over the edge. The vibration and the sounds from the motorcycle quiet down, and all you can hear is your increased heartbeat and the silence of the garage. You feel your legs and body twitch slightly from the orgasm.

You turned your head towards her, seeing a shit-eating grin on her face. “Wow, ‘Mommy’, huh? That’s a first.” She teased, licking her lips. “I’ll have so much fun cleaning the bike later.”

You groaned, hiding your face in her neck. “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

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#lumi’s fics!#marvel #mcu #the avengers #natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow x reader #smut #wlw #fanfic #fanfiction

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withahappyrefrain · 3 months

Text

Ruin the Friendship- Bob Floyd

Warnings: Best friends to lovers trope, it’s so obvious they love each other they’re stupid, language, filth, some angst (why not?), unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), Bob being pussy drunk.

Summary: The night before Bob leaves for Boot Camp, he's learned no one has gone down on his best friend. He's determined to fix that.

Words: 4.8K

This is for @attapullman's Bob Fucks celebration!

When you've been friends with someone since preschool, you get to know them like the back of your hand. Certain quirks and sayings that no longer surprise you.

“God, I wish that were me.”

It wasn't the first time Bob heard you say that. Usually there was a cute dog around, or a sushi boat being delivered at a restaurant when you said it.

But saying it during an oral sex scene in a movie was new.

It also brought up many questions.

Questions Bob shouldn't ask, considering he's known you since preschool. Questions Bob couldn't ask right now, because he was too preoccupied looking at you.

Your eyes were fixated on the screen, focused on the actress withering. Occasionally, they would dart to the other actor who was between the actress’ thighs. Bob noticed the increased rise and fall of your chest, how your front teeth dug into your bottom lip, how when you lean forward, the v-line cut of your shirt showed off the tops of your breasts. The soft glow of the lamps highlighted the beautiful features on your face.

All things he shouldn’t be noticing about his best friend. But then again, best friends shouldn’t be watching a French film together whose plot line focused on sexual liberation before he went off to Navy boot camp.

Granted, you and Bob haven’t had a conventional best friend relationship in a while, if at all, considering both sets of parents claimed you two promised to marry each other at the age of four.

Promises or not, best friends shouldn’t be one another’s first kiss. Or make out practice partners. Or each other’s New Year's kiss when y'all were single. Or spend Valentine's Day together at the local dinner.

The line between friends and something more was blurry, saved by a comment that ensured the other to think that the feelings that had been brewing weren't reciprocated.

“You’re a good kisser. Kelsey McCoy is going to think so too.”

“If Tommy Delaine doesn't like you, he's a dumbass.”

“I’m sure next year you’ll have someone.”

“If I had to spend it with anyone, I want it to be with my best friend.”

“You’re an amazing friend, you know that?”

Why say that if you harbor romantic feelings? Surely, all those kisses and talk of marriage meant nothing to them.

At least that's what the other thought.

It's because of this blurry line that Bob doesn't bite his tongue, doesn't throw away the comment to be forgotten. Instead, he speaks up.

“Been awhile?”

And because it's Bob, the guy you've known your whole life, the guy you tell everything to, your response rolls off your tongue without a second thought.

“Try never.”

It takes Bob a moment to process your words as the way your lips wrap around the beer bottle is far too distracting. But just like processing a car accident, once it registers, your words bring his brain to a screeching halt.

“Wait, never?” The shrug you give isn’t satisfactory. He grabs the remote to pause the movie, ignoring your cries of protest.

“Real talk; are you saying that no one has ever gone down on you?”

You sigh, regretting saying anything in the first place. One would think that after years of friendship, you’d know well enough that once Bob set his mind to something, he wouldn't relent until satisfied.

You down the remnants of your beer, mentally preparing for this conversation.

“No Robby. I've never had someone eat me out. Happy now?” Reaching for the remote was all in vain, as he just held it further away from you.

Darn those long limbs.

“But you've been with people…..so what did they do?” When you looked at him, there was no malice, just Bob looking genuinely baffled. His gentle blue eyes put you at ease, giving you the comfort to explain.

“They would touch me,” you motioned to the lower half of your body, “And like finger me. Enough to get me ready, I guess.”

Bob raised an eyebrow, “You guess?”

College was supposed to be a time for you to explore, to figure yourself out, to interact with new people.

And yet, when it came to the relationship aspect, everything had fizzled. You were now going into your junior year having yet to experience a meaningful romantic relationship.

Did you just have shit luck? Or was it because your mind would wander back to a bespectacled best friend when you were in bed with someone else?

“So instead of eating you out, which would actually be enjoyable on your end, you're telling me they just stuck their hand down there and hoped they were rubbing your clit? You didn't ever ask them to do something else?”

Bob didn't have the pristine mouth that parents thought he possessed. You knew, and had known for a while. And yet, hearing him say the phrase your clit in his deep, slightly twangy voice felt different.

You rubbed your thighs together.

“Are you shaming the people I've been with or me?”

Bob closed the difference between you and him on the couch, placing a hand on your bare knee.

Have his hands always been so big and veiny?

Fuck, did you have a thing for hands?

“I'm not shaming you. I’m shaming the people you've been with because well,” he ran a hand up and down the back of his neck, “Well, I enjoy giving….I like doing it. So I guess I'm surprised other people don't?”

His statement was shocking because everyone else you had been with viewed it as a chore, as something to use every excuse in the book to avoid doing.

Too tired. Takes too long. Wet enough so what's the point?

“You…like doing it?”

The tops of his cheeks reddened, despite a smirk beginning to form, “Yeah. I like giving and I like making them feel good. It's also a confidence booster, being able to make someone fall apart with your mouth.”

It shouldn't come as a surprise, it was Bob after all. The same Bob who always brought an extra pencil with him to algebra, in case you forgot yours. The same Bob who shared his Dunkaroos because your mom refused to buy them. The same Bob who made his dream of serving his country finally come true after years of hard work.

He was selfless. But this didn't feel like selflessness. Hearing him talk about giving pleasure, making someone fall apart with his mouth, was different. Even his voice when he said it was different, raspier than usual.

“Well,” you scooted closer to the edge of the couch, trying to widen the gap so he couldn't feel how hot your body was, “I can't wait ‘til I meet someone who feels the same way.”

“You don't have to wait.”

The grip on your beer bottle tightened, the alcohol getting caught in your throat. There's no way he could have just said that, no way he could be implying what you're thinking.

But when you look at Bob, he was staring back with raised eyebrows and thin lips curled into a little smirk. The same look he’s given you countless times before when he mumbles a smartass comment only your ears were privy to hear.

You heard me.

“What-are you…” You stared at him, mouth agape. Bob appeared unphase by it, like he had just offered something totally normal and rational.

Perhaps it was the three beers he had downed. Perhaps it was the rush of adrenaline kicking in after realizing this was his last chance at making a move before he left.

“Wouldn't that be like crossing a line?” Your head was racing, alternating between flashbacks of when you kissed Bob and imagining what it would be like to have his mouth on your body.

“Wouldn't be much different from what we’ve already done.”

All the air was sucked out of the room by his comment. Because of course he wasn't doing this because he wanted to, because he wanted you. This would be meaningless, just like everything else. If you went through with this, you’d wake up the next day to Bob leaving with nothing changed, still in this seemingly endless limbo.

Long, nimble fingers hooked themselves under your chin, gently forcing you to look up.

The look he gave you was unfamiliar. His eyes remained focused on your face, though it seemed like they were searching.

For what, you couldn't tell.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you want it to be different?”

What good was telling him if he didn’t feel the same way, thus ruining a great friendship?

“Do you want it to be different Robby?” You countered back.

He leaned in, his breath hot on your face, “I asked you first.”

He thought he had the upper hand. But you were like a lightning bug, faster.

“I asked you second, Robby.”

Like a rubber band, the tension snapped as Bob was unable to hold back a snort of laughter. The tension left your shoulders, the sight of him laughing familiar and safe.

“I’m going to really miss your resounding maturity,” Bob deadpanned after gaining the ability to compose himself, though a sweet crooked smile remained.

It was now your turn to roll your eyes, though it didn’t stop the smile currently forming on your face. Seeing this side of Bob was always fun; most folks thought he was quiet and meek. The truth was that he liked to observe and didn’t find value in speaking when it wasn’t necessary. He didn’t hold back with you, didn’t feel the need to sit and observe. He truly conversed with you and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you feel special.

He was never that way with the other girls he dated.

“You love me,” you teased back. It was a comment you've said countless times, always with that sweet, albeit mischievous smile that made Bob's heart flutter.

But this time instead of shaking his head or rolling his eyes, he leaned forward until your foreheads were touching.

Seeing him up close took your breath away. You could see how his roots were beginning to darken, the blonde fading as he got older. The little scar on his chin from a BB Gun incident when he was ten. Eyes bluer than the ocean. The ends of his hair were beginning to curl, something you'd greatly miss when he'd get the military mandated buzz cut.

“Yeah, I do.” There was no teasing in his voice. No mischief in his eyes. Instead of playfully shaking your shoulder, his hand found its way to the back of your neck, fingers cupping your warm skin. He was moving quickly, making you unable to truly process what he had just said.

Despite it being new territory, he was handling it beautifully. You, on the other hand, were torn between wondering if your increased heart beat was medically concerning and how large Bob’s hands were.

“You gotta….if you want to stop, tell me,” His breathing had increased, like it did when he had finished his part in the marching band. But this wasn’t marching band practice and y’all weren’t on the high school field. You were in your parents’ basement, with Bob’s lips quickly closing the gap between yours and his.

It wasn’t your first time kissing Bob, but it might as well have been. Years of experience had given him more confidence. He knew where to put his hands now, one still on your neck to guide you, the other gripping the soft flesh of your hip. He didn’t hesitate to slide his tongue across your bottom lip, successfully driving you wild.

When the rounded tip of his nose brushed against yours, a soft laugh escaped your lips. Bob didn’t mind, using the chance to let his tongue explore your mouth. Your body leaned towards him, hands gripping the soft fabric of his old Warped Tour T-shirt.

“I thought you,” your words were slurred, a weak moan interrupting your speech due to his lips moving down to your neck, “Thought you were gonna eat me out.”

Bob’s moan vibrated against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. His hands traveled to your breasts, gripping them through your T-shirt. It wasn't a hard squeeze, which is what you were used to.

It was pleasurable. Bob was pleasurable.

“Did none of the guys you were with do foreplay?” He asked, his hands continuing their ministrations.

“I-fuck- yes they did, it just never took this long,” you grunted against his lips.

“God, you have terrible taste in men.”

You wanted to let Bob know that he was now included in that group. But then his fingers hooked themselves around the band of your shorts, pulling them down. Had you known what tonight would entail, you would have opted for underwear that wasn't so worn. The long hairs on his arms tickled your sensitive skin as he moved to kneel on the floor, the cool basement air making you realize just how wet you were.

How could he do that so quickly?

He pinned your hips against the soft couch cushions. With anyone else, you would complain with how hard he was gripping your soft skin. But with Bob, you’d love it. It meant hand-shaped bruises that would stay after he left, reminding you of tonight.

When his sharp nose nudged your clothed slit, a loud gasp erupted from your mouth.

Thank god your parents were on vacation.

His tongue was so wide as it stroked the quickly dampening fabric. How was he able to find your clit so quickly? Most struggled to find it even after your panties had been taken off.

Bob couldn’t help but chuckle upon hearing your strained whimpers. You were practically squirming, hips erratically jerking with every touch.

“Wha-why did you stop?” You whined, looking down to find him staring up to you.

“Are you-I just need to know, do you still want this?” God, he was so fucking considerate. In any other moment, you’d find it endearingly sweet.

But if his tongue felt that good against your covered cunt, you were dying to feel it without the barrier.

“Robby, I swear to god, if you don’t eat me out, I’m going upstairs and using my vibrator,” Your voice was strained, your knuckles turning white from gripping the couch cushions.

He laughed. Bob knew you were bluffing. He had just gotten started and you were already so wet.

Slowly, he took his glasses off, placing them on the coffee table behind him, making a show of it.

“Won’t need those. I’m nearsighted after all.”

“You little-” The insult remained unsaid, as Bob pushed your underwear to the side, his mouth instantly latching onto your swollen clit.

His mouth was warm. The pressure wasn’t too much, just enough to make you wither in pleasure. It felt so good, so fucking good. When Bob looked up, he found your mouth open, despite no sounds coming out.

Good.

You deserved to know what it was like, to have someone care about your pleasure, to focus solely on making you feel incredible.

God, he could feel his cock throbbed. You looked so pretty with your eyes glazed over, mouth agape as you watched him, completely enthralled.

And he had just gotten started.

He wanted to do more than make you come, he wanted to blow your mind. Call it selfish, but Bob wanted to ruin you for anyone else. He had always held back his tongue when it came to the people you dated, knowing sooner or later you'd realized they weren't worth your time.

But now he had his chance and Bob sure as hell wasn't going to let it slip away.

The loud sound of fabric ripping broke you out of the pleasure filled haze you were in. Before you could make a sound about your now ripped underwear, your knees were pinned to your chest, giving Bob complete access to your soaked core.

“So fucking sweet,” He groaned against your cunt, sending vibrations all through your body, “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Robby.”

To say Bob dreamed of hearing you moan his name would be the understatement of the fucking century.

Your whole body was on fire, unable to do anything else but take everything Bob was giving.

A resounding moan fell from your lips as Bob thrusted two fingers inside you, your walls struggling to accommodate the unexpected stretch.

Was he this thick elsewhere?

You wanted to find out. Wanted to feel it inside you, in your mouth. You shamelessly wanted it all. But you couldn’t even voice that because Bob was tracing figure eights on your clit, his fingers brushing against a spot you thought Cosmo had made up.

Fuck, he was doing a number on you. His soft hair threaded through your fingers as you gripped the strands. Your hips involuntarily jerked upwards, desperate to get as much of Bob as possible.

You kept expecting him to stop, considering you were wet enough for him to fuck you. That's what everyone else did.

But Bob Floyd wasn't like everyone else. Far from it.

He was fucking delighted to hear all the cute, strained noises coming from you as he continued. Each time you tugged on his hair, a groan would fall from his lips. It was the prettiest sound you had ever heard.

Why did either of you wait this long?

You tried to communicate, to let him know you were close, tugging on his hair, trying to move away from his mouth.

But Bob was deceivingly strong, using his free hand to pin your hip back to the couch, his mouth firmly on your pussy.

When you looked down, you were in awe of how blissed Bob looked. His eyes were closed as his mouth remained latched to your clit. The sounds of your own wetness were obscene, but barely audible over the moans Bob was letting out.

He really did enjoy it.

“Come. Wanna taste ya,” His voice was muffled as he added a third finger inside you.

Worried thoughts of coming on his face left your brain as pleasure coursed through your veins. Without any warning, the band that had been tightening came undone.

Bob used both hands to hold your hips firmly in place, his tongue lapping up your release.

You don't recall coming this hard or this long before. It wasn't a small wave, it felt like the whole damn ocean was taking you under.

His fingers continued to stretch you open, prolonging your high. The Navy was the perfect fit for him, considering he could apparently hold his breath for an impressive amount of time.

The soft fabric of the couch cushions brushed as the back of your head, your eyes half closed. You couldn't even voice an acknowledge when Bob’s mouth and fingers withdrew from your abused cunt.

“You're so pretty when you come,” Bob murmured, his lips brushing against yours.

Your hands tugged on the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

“M-my turn,” you whined, hips jerking up towards his.

Bob shook his head, “Wanna be inside ya.”

How was this the same guy who feared clowns as a kid?

Before you could even question it, Bob had sat down on the couch, gripping your hips to help you straddle his lap. When had he taken off his jeans? How was he so quick-

Jesus Christ, he was huge.

“Fuck, she was right.”

Bob looked up from where you two were about to connect, a very confused look on his face, “Excuse me?”

“Betsey Thomas said you had a huge dick,” you confessed, wishing that you'd think before speaking for once.

Bob’s brows knitted together in confusion, “Betsey Thomas has never seen my dick, the fuck are you talking about?”

“Said she could tell you were packing because of the gym shorts you'd wear for PE class.” Bob signed, shaking his head as he muttered something about the required uniform.

“I….we can unpack this later-”

You snorted, “Why? Too busy packing here?”

Your laughter was cut short by Bob rubbing his cock against your soaked cunt. Memories of high school escaped your brain, the only thing you could focus on now was Bob and his huge dick.

Curious wasn't accurate. Frankly, you were desperate for him. Had been since middle school, if you were being truthful.

“Woah, hey. Easy baby, easy,” his voice made your thighs clench, made you whine into his shoulder as you tried to line your aching hole with his cock.

Finally, you felt him at your entrance. Slowly, he filled you up inch by inch. Every time you tried to urge him to go faster, Bob would simply shake his head before pressing a kiss against your cheek.

“Don't want to hurt ya darlin’.”

Darlin. You were his darlin.

He made you feel so full, and you didn't even have it all inside of you yet. All you could do was cling to him as he whispered praises in your ears.

Once you reached the base, it felt like you and Bob were the only ones in the world. At least, that’s what you pretended. It was better than thinking about how he would be gone for who knows how long after tonight. After boot camp was done, he would be off to train for the Navy.

Even he didn't know when he would return home.

It wasn't fair, finally expressing your feelings for one another just to be separated immediately after. You wanted him to stay, to go on dates with him, to visit him on the weekends when school started, just like everyone else in a long distance relationship.

“Hey, what's wrong? Do you- we can stop if you want, it's okay.” Bob’s voice was soft, full of concern.

His hand lifted your chin up from his shoulder, revealing your watery eyes.

“I don't want you to go.”

“I know,” his voice was barely a whisper, matching your volume. Long fingers gently traced over your face, as if he was trying to memorize them.

“I know it's horrible timing, but we'll figure it out, okay? I want to figure it out with you, I promise,” He peppered your face with soft kisses, earning a small smile out of you.

“But for now, can I make ya feel good? Because I'm willing to bet no guy has made you come while fucking ya.”

Unlike in the past, where Bob’s smartass comments earned him a shove, you pressed your lips against his.

“I'm gonna start moving now, okay?” Even though he warned you, nothing could have prepared you for how full Bob made you when his hips thrusted upwards.

“You're-fuck- you feel so good, oh my God.”

Your fingers tangled into Bob’s hair, trying to commit the feeling to memory.

Bob was trying to do the same, his hands roaming over your body as he took in your scent. Maybe if he asked nicely, you'd let him take a bottle of your perfume with him.

He was going to need it for the next few months.

Your mouth clashed against his, tongue desperate to taste him. Wandering hands desperate to feel everything everywhere.

“When-fuck- when I come back, wanna take you out. W-we can go to that Italian place by your school. The one where you have to wear a tie.” How Bob was able to talk coherently while fucking you was beyond comprehension.

The Navy will be lucky to have his great ability to multitask.

“Gonna bring ya flowers too. Sunflowers ‘cause they're-oh my god- you're favorite.” You didn't think you could recall your full name with the way Bob is thrusting into you, much less favorite things.

Your walls clench around Bob’s thick cock, eliciting a desperate groan from him, rather than the instant ejaculation you were used to.

“If you keep doing that, I'm gonna come,” Bob whined into the crook of your neck.

“That’s-shit- the point,” you grunted, your hips picking up speed.

Bob shook his head, “Need you to come first.”

Confusion caused you to still your hips, “Bob, I already-”

“Don't finish that sentence, don't you dare,” Bob ended his command with a strong thrust that made you feel as if he was splitting you open on his cock.

Your head dropped down to the crook of his neck. His skin was so warm and the smell of sage was nearly overwhelming. You knew exactly what body wash he had used, as it was the same one he wore ever since junior year, when you commented on how nice it was.

In hindsight, it was painfully obvious.

His lips found yours, capturing them in a desperate kiss. When you felt his fingers draw circles on your clit, you saw stars.

You didn't know it could feel this good with someone. This was more than a quick fuck, as you actually felt cared for. It was intense, the sensitivity of your first orgasm still echoing every time the thick head of his cock brushed against your walls.

It's audible how wet you are for Bob. He can feel it at the base of his cock, which makes him wonder what it would be like to have you on your knees, or better, your back, all spread out for him.

“C’mon sweet girl,” he’s panting, voice desperate and raspy, “Wanna-fuck! Wanna feel you come s’bad, please, please baby.”

Each circle drawn on your clit causes the band in your stomach to tighten. Combined with Bob’s words, you knew you wouldn't last much longer.

“You're incredible, shit, I-fuck. All yours. Wanna be all yours. Fuck fuck fuck, clenching me so hard, fuck, don't stop.” Obscene was not a word many, if any, would use to describe Bob Floyd.

Up until thirty minutes ago, you would have considered yourself part of that group.

But now? Now you were falling apart on his cock. The rush of pleasure had hit like a brick, coursing through your veins. It hit harder than anything else, harder than the now banned alcohol caffeine combo drink, or any controlled substance doctors had prescribed to help you focus.

His finger-fuck, usually you had to use two of your own- didn’t stop rubbing your clit, nor does he stop thrusting in and out of your pulsing cunt. It's almost as if-no, you know Bob’s enjoying making you feel euphoria.

That's what blows your mind. His laser focus on your pleasure, rather than his own. Truthfully, he could have come already and you wouldn't have thought twice about it.

But now it was all you could think about. How much he cared, how good he felt. How incredible it was for him to pull your hips flushed against his, filling you to the brim with his cock.

“Holy shit you're so tight-I, sh-should I pull out?”

Instead of answering, you used all your strength to rock your hips against him. Considering he made you come twice, the least you could do was help him find his release.

Your fingers gripped his hair, tugging on the strands as your mouth clashed against his.

The downright guttural groan he releases against your mouth has you clamping down on his cock. The motion finally leads to Bob’s undoing, causing him to come deep inside you, warmth flooding your body.

His arms are wrapped around your body, clinging onto you as if he thinks you'll disappear if he lets go.

You’d be a damn fool to.

The basement is now quiet, apart from the heavy breathing coming from both you and Bob.

After several minutes pass by, you gather the courage to break the silence, “Did you mean all that? Taking me out on a date and being mine?”

Bob’s cheek burned a bright red as he timidly nodded his head, “I….yeah. I didn't mean to say it when we were, you know. I'm sorry.”

You pressed a reassuring kiss to his warm cheek, “Robby, what do you feel the need to apologize for?”

He looked up to you, those earnest blue eyes sparkling, “Shit timing?”

“You're not wrong about that, but like you said earlier, I want to work it out with you.” Your words brought comfort, giving Bob the confidence to place a sweet kiss right on your lips. His smile was burning into yours, causing your stomach to flutter.

“I know it's not that Italian restaurant, but can I take you out to breakfast tomorrow?”

The local diner had been a go-to since y'all were thirteen. But this time would be different. This time you wouldn't feel the urge to look away when he caught you staring. This time neither one would correct the waitress when she'd make a comment about y'all being a cute couple.

The soft call of your name pulled you out of your thoughts.

“Uh can I….eat you out again? Tomorrow obviously! Like before we go to the diner?”

Good Lord this man was going to be the death of you.

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@ohtobeleah @sebsxphia @attapullman @ryebecca @sio-ina-bottle @rhettabbotts @callsignspark @roosterforme @lewmagoo @hangmanapologist @justabovewater20 @theharddeck @cumholland @bobfloydsbabe @sometimesanalice @heartfairy @auroralightsthesky

#my writing #Bob Floyd #Robert Floyd #Robert Bob Floyd #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #Bob fucks #robert bob floyd x reader #bob floyd imagine #bob floyd fic #Bob Floyd smut #bob floyd x y/n #bob floyd x female reader #top gun smut #top gun fanfiction

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pholla-jm · 22 days

Text

Say My Name

IMAGINE: SAY MY NAME~ LUFFY X READER GENRE: FLUFF cw: not proof read. use of (y/n). ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Luffy has gone by many names.

Monkey D. Luffy.

Mugiwara. Strawhat Luffy.

Lucy.

Luffy tarou.

Captain.

Or simply Straw Hat.

He doesn’t mind any of the names that he is called.

However, that changed when you joined the crew.

You always called him Captain, and he didn’t mind that. But he grew to hate. Why? Well it all started when he paid attention to how you interacted with the rest of the crew.

“Hey Nami! Do you want to paint nails together?” You call out to her, holding out a new tube of nail polish. Nami smiles brightly at your requests and nods her head.

Luffy first noticed that you called her by her name, and not by her title.

“Zoro, can you move your weights please?” You call out to him. Since you were bored, you wanted to clean the area. But his weights were in the way. “Just clean around it.”

Luffy watches the scene, head tilted. Wondering why you didn’t call him by his title.

Later, when the crew was finished with dinner, you had stayed behind. So did Luffy, waiting to see if there was more food.

“Hey, Sanji. Mind if I help with dishes?” You ask. “Oh no, my dear. You shouldn’t sully your hands. You should head to bed, get a good night's rest.” You smile fondly at the cook, “thank you. Goodnight.”

You turn to see your Captain, “good night, captain.” “ night.” He responds, deep in thought.

It went on like this for days, weeks, and almost months. Hearing you call out everyone’s names. “Robin” “Usopp.” “Chopper.” “Franky.” “Brook.”

And yet. When it came to him, it was just Captain. Never Luffy, and he was getting quite frustrated at this point. He just wanted to hear his name from you at least once.

So when you were by yourself on night watch he decided to take the initiative. He stretches himself up onto the crows nest.

Upon hearing the familiar sound of rubber stretching, you turn around to greet your Captain.

“Hey Captain, what brings you here? Shouldn’t you be sleeping or something?”

“Why don’t you ever say my name?” He got straight to the point.

You stare at him in confusion, “What are you talking about? I do say it, captain.” The captain pouts his lips, “no. That’s not my name. It’s just a title.”

“Well, yeah. And that title is your name.” “But you never call anyone else by their title.” “Hm, well I was just raised this way. You’re the captain and this is just how I’m showing my respect for you.”

Luffy hums in response with a thoughtful look on his face.

“As your captain, I want you to call me by my real name. Captain's orders.” He smiles at you like he just found the biggest loophole, “you have to respect that, ya know?”

You just laugh and shake your head. “Fine, I'll start calling you by your real name.”

He looks at you, waiting for you to mutter the simple word from your mouth. However, it is silent. And the both of you are just staring at each other.

“Oh, you mean now?”

Luffy nods his head.

“Okay…. Luffy. I’ll start calling you by your name.”

A huge grin breaks out on his face. He didn’t know that hearing his name from you would be so… addicting. The way you said it sounded so smooth and alluring. It drew him in, and he definitely wanted more. You had a slight accent so his name sounded a bit different. However, he still liked it.

“Say it again.”

“Huh?” You laugh, “why?” “Just say it again. Please.”

“Okay, Luffy. I’ll say your name as many times as you want.”

He took that quite literally.

“Again.”

“Luffy.” “Again.” “Luffy.”

Every time you would say his name he would get closer and closer to your face. Almost like if he got closer, he could somehow hear his name better. Every time he got closer, your face would get redder and redder. Your noses were basically touching, and you could feel his breath fan against your lips.

“Again.”

“Uh, Luffy. What are you doing?” “I want to keep hearing you say my name forever.”

You nervously laugh, afraid to even speak out loud since he was still so close. “Luffy, we have all the time in the world. You can hear it whenever you want.” You whisper.

He purses his lips and pulls back slightly. “You’re right. Just one more time, please?” “Okay, one more time. It’s time for you to go to bed, Luffy.”

Luffy’s face turns into a smile, “okay. Thank you (y/n).”

You don’t respond. You just smile at him and watch him departure for the crow’s nest.

#one piece #one piece x reader #oneshot #op x reader #luffy x reader #luffy x y/n #luffy fluff #op #op fluff #monkey d. luffy x reader #luffy x you #monkey d luffy x reader

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bonny-kookoo · 6 months

Text

Jungkook

𝐇𝐨𝐭 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 🔞 | Oneshot

"Does he even pay you?"

Tags/Warnings: Idol!Jungkook, fuckboy!Jungkook, friends with benefits situation, major angst, mentions of sex work, smoking, smut, god so much filth, Dom!Jungkook, big dick JK but what's new, did I mention angst?, protected sex, multiple rounds, multiple positions, a brief thighjob, so many feelings

Length: 7k+ words

There is no taglist for this fic. This is a Oneshot.

♥━━━━━━━━━━•.♡.•━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

"How does it feel to be a celebrity and ending up with me?" You wonder at him over the music, making him frown before he shakes his head, pulling you in by your hands he's holding.

"What're you talking about babe?" He argues softly, letting go of your hands to hold your waist now. "I've got the prettiest girl at my side, in my opinion. Can't complain whatsoever." He tells you into your ear, voice raised a bit and slightly raspy from his last smoking break.

You just shrug, enjoying the music when some people approach you, talking to Jungkook about something you don't listen in on, even though he's still holding you close. It's none of your business, you really don't want to get too involved with his work and everything around it, but it's clear that he likes to do exactly that.

Jungkook wants you around all the time. Doesn't matter if it fits the scene and situation, if he can invite you or bring you along, he will.

Fans don't know your connection to him. They constantly battle it out in comment sections that you're just a translator, nothing else, that you're staff so of course you have to travel alongside him. And just how they can seem to connect everything to dating if it fits their 'ship' they've got inside their minds, they're also talented in finding thousands of (sometimes frankly ridiculous) reasons as to why it cannot possibly be true either.

While before, someone wearing the same jewelry as Jungkook was a confirmation of a relationship, with you its just pure coincidence. You're an adult woman, you can choose whatever necklace or ring you want, that doesn't mean you're dating him. You're wearing the same t-shirt he wore just a day ago? Maybe you just own the same, or he was nice enough to lend it to you for one reason or the other. Seen near his hotel room? Well of course, you're staff!

The truth is, that you're not even staff at all- but you're also not dating him.

Jungkook has become awfully… comfortable in his trust that fans will brush off every rumor floating around. It's why he's shamelessly grabbing your tits from behind right now just for the fun of it, lips kissing your neck as you slap them off to hold your waist instead. "They'll call it AI-generated or something." He laughs, but you can't shake off the feeling of doubt about that. "And there's no one here filming anyways. It's a private VIP zone, so relax baby." He chuckles, swaying you with him to the beat.

He's right that this is a secluded zone- but that's never stopped anything ever before, did it. One random Instagram live where you're both seen in the background and it's over. For both of you.

"Let's go back to the hotel though. I'm horny as fuck." He laughs, making you roll your eyes with red cheeks to go with.

Jungkook is a shameless person- he doesn't see anything wrong with the things he says or does if they're not hurting anybody. He's got his own opinions and he stands by them, only ever shifting his stance if there's undeniable evidence of him being wrong shown to him. And he also enjoys the more physical aspects of love.

Jungkook enjoys sex to its fullest.

He used to sleep around quite often, his charm and also wealth and status enough to make the act of finding someone willing fairly easy. Most wouldn't be believed anyways if they openly said he'd slept with them- he made sure they never took pictures or god forbid videos, and he also never stayed the night, most of the time preferred the security of his own home where he could politely tell them to leave after the deed was done, his reasoning always having to do something with his work.

'I'm sorry, I got called up to the studio.'

'Fuck I forgot I had a flight early morning tomorrow.'

'I'm really sorry, ah this is awkward, but my manager just told me to a live now, and I can't have you being seen.'

You knew he did this. You were staff at some point, after all, even if not hired by his company but rather outsourced during a particularly demanding schedule and many other employees sick due to a viral infection going around in the office building.

You'd been just another victim of his. But somehow, he ended up biting down too hard- making him taste blood, Primal hunger awakened at the mind-blowing experience he'd had, an odd need to keep you just for himself having blossomed from it all. You were a keeper, you still are- and while it's not really love, it's good enough for him. Close enough.

He reminds you, regularly, that it's not love, with how he never claims to love you, avoids the topic altogether, always tells others you're just very close even when it's obvious just like tonight that you're a little too close to just be something casual. But he enjoys your presence nonetheless. Like a dear friend, just with some deeper layers to it.

Some staff call you his personal prostitute. And in a way, you do sometimes feel like that.

Jungkook is that kind of man who could have sex first thing in the morning. Doesn't even have to wake up fully- if you touch him just a bit, he'll come to life in an instant, if he's not sporting a boner already. He enjoys the exhaustion he feels afterwards, always pushes you past your first and second O, keeps his own saved up for the very last stretch all the time. He draws it out to high heavens, has trouble calling it quits.

Shower sex he's mastered, knows exactly where to step and what position to get into to make it as safe as possible. He loves having you on his large sofa, leather easy to clean after you're both done. Sixty-nine is his favorite dinner for two, though he has to admit that lately, he's been enjoying the more closer positions a lot more. Spooning from behind, lotus, you name it- you've become more than just an outlet for him.

He doesn't know what they call you behind his back. What your unofficial status is. They'd never admit that to him, because why would they? No one wants to get on his bad side if they don't have to.

He's on his phone, free hand on your thigh as you both sit in the back of the car that's driving him back to his hotel. He's gonna get out first, make his way inside, while you'll get in later from the back entrance to not raise any suspicion. It's normal. Routine. You've mastered it by now.

"I'll see you in ten." He winks before he makes his way out the car, rushing past some fans who've found out his location, bodyguards already there to guide him inside the lobby.

"Does he pay you?" The driver chuckles, and you shake your head. "Damn." The elderly man clicks his tongue. "Go find yourself an actual man, dear." He tells you as he parks behind the hotel, watching you move, your phone vibrating in your pocket, before it stops suddenly. "You know what they call you, right?"

"I know." You admit quietly.

"And you're okay with that? You're too sweet to let yourself be used like that. Have some self-worth." The man tells you with a kind tone. "I've seen you around long enough to know that you're kind, and a nice person. Trust me, you can and will find a proper man to love you right. But this?" He shakes his head. "You know he just wants you because you've become routine."

"I know." You repeat again, sighing a little.

"You're not what they say you are. You're just a little soft at heart, hm?" The old guy smiles over his shoulder, watching you unbundled your seatbelt. "Trust me, he won't be sad if you call it quits. I've worked for guys like this for more than thirty years- they'll just jump to the next." He explains, and you smile to yourself, before you nod towards the man. "Never mess with entertainers, sweetheart. They'll always break your heart." he offers.

"I know." You say once more, before you exit the car, and get on your way to Jungkook's hotel room.

You don't officially share one, but he still keeps you around for most of the night. You leave whenever he has to do a livestream or if he wants to go to bed, and you come back if he wants you to- but most nights you sleep alone, because he deems it too intimate for you to stay.

Apparently, sleeping in the same bed is more intimate than spitting on your cunt. Interesting.

When you knock on the door, Jungkook opens. Something's off, you notice it right away, but you don't dwell on it, don't answer. It's none of your business, and he won't tell you anyways, so what's the point in just further inducing his bad mood.

It's quiet as he moves around, since he doesn't talk to you, and you don't know what to say. You wait for him to make his move, and when he doesn't, you get up to grab your sweater you forgot in his room earlier, just to have him stand behind you, hands on your hips. "I didn't forget about you." He chuckles, and you let the fabric slip out of your fingers and back onto the floor as he kisses the crook of your neck.

Maybe jungkook is indeed using you. But you've started to use him just as much, if only to even out the odds, and make yourself feel more than just cheap company.

He slips out of his shirt. You raise your arms to help him take off yours, your naked skin at this point almost a requirement for him every time he takes you. He used to be satisfied with just fucking you somewhere quiet quick and simple to quench his thirst, but over the course of time now nearing an entire year, he's become more and more hungry. Like he wants to crawl underneath your skin at some point, the Idol constantly pushes himself more and more inside your body, not just in a sexual sense. He buys you clothes he thinks will look good on you, has a playlist just for when you're at his place filled with somber lovesongs more about heartbreak than anything else. He claims he didn't look up the lyrics, but you know he's lying. He knows a lot more english than he admits, just so he can pull the 'I don't understand' card whenever he's asked a question he doesn't want to answer.

He lets you wear his clothes without much comment by now, has gifted you jewelry he's worn and liked, laughs any mention of that being 'such a sweet gesture' off if anyone around him mentions it. He's not your boyfriend, but he surely is starting to act like it- maybe the lines are blurring for him just as much as they do for you?

People around you have started betting. On when he's gonna have another one, when you'll be 'swapped out' for something else, or at what point he's gonna make it official that you're indeed more than just nightly company. You don't await that day. It's never gonna come anyways.

"Turn around." He commands, and you do, because that's the easiest way to get where you want to be down the line. Head empty, no thoughts left, fucked stupid by a man who keeps you around for just your body and the familiarity you provide. You don't really mind any longer, long having stopped caring about emotions that are fruitless, bound to rot and die because Jungkook won't ever nurture anything you'd try and plant in his heart. He doesn't want it, and doesn't need it either- if he wants to feel loved, he just has to show his face to his millions of fans always on edge for more content. That's where he gets his love from. Maybe you're just there to feed other desires he can't have fulfilled like that.

He licks his lips as he gazes over your naked upper body, bra long undone by his hands on your back, fingers trained in the routine by now. You remember the surprise he'd shown you when you'd worn one with the clasp up front, face so soft and round for just a second that it felt like you'd just slipped into a dream- but his hunger had quickly returned, because Jungkook is a beast never satisfied. He craves more and more, constantly aims for absolute euphoria, never soft, never gentle.

Jungkook bites. He claims, grips, holds and pushes- he's aware over the physical strength he holds over you, and plays around with the fact almost every night. From tugging on your leg to pushing your head down whenever you decide to please him with your mouth instead for once. Something about the way you swallow around him and swirl your tongue always makes him feral, thighs trembling as the muscles spasm beneath the skin from the force of his orgasm. Maybe that's why he keeps you around. Because you can keep up.

His own shirt is shed, and his hands make quick work of his belt before he helps you out of your pants as well. He'd told you he didn't want to use the bed tonight, because asking for new sheets is always awkward, but he does it anyways- picks you up just to let you fall onto the bed, crawling over you. "What do you want?" You ask out of breath, but he just tilts his head in familiar habit, until it shakes no.

"Don't know yet." He answers. This is new.

Usually he always has a fixed scene set out, knows how he wants to take you right away, but this time he visibly seems unsure where to start. Almost like the first time.

He spits in his hand, doesn't bother taking off the rings, fingers working you up like it's second nature. He knows where to place them, how to move and what patterns to choose- and you don't bother thinking about the possible reason for it. Probably to get you wet and ready quick so he can get to the actual act itself, or maybe he just finds some sort of personal satisfaction from it. You're not sure- and neither do you really want to ask.

You're a little cold, but he'll warm you up soon. Hopefully you won't get sick like last time. Will he find someone else to fuck if you're unavailable?

Who knows. He surely has a lot to choose from, if he so much as asked.

He's got a question on his mind, but visibly contemplates on asking it. His teeth clamp down on his bottom lip, tongue playing with the twin piercings placed there for a second, before he leans in, kisses you. This is one of those things he does that are just outright cruel to you. His kisses full of fever and want feel so burning hot that you're sure you're marked by them for life. Like a signature he's inked underneath your skin almost he claims you again and again like this, with his tongue teasing yours, mouths open and ready to steal each other's breath.

He surely takes yours hostage, every time- and that's probably the smallest crime he commits.

"Have you eaten today?" He asks, and it catches you off guard, eyes opening again, painfully tugged back into reality where he lets his sticky hand run over your abdomen, just to settle on your hipbone. "Your stomach keeps growling." He teases, and you come crashing down. Of course. He'd never actually remember to ask that out of the blue if it wasn't for something reminding him about it.

"Not really." You respond, adjusting your position a little bit, legs trying to pull him closer. "Doesn't matter." You say, and he hums, leaning down again to mouth at your neck- probably marking his territory again, a joke made on a constant whenever you turn up with the blooming bruises on your skin, their origin more than obvious.

"Hm." He hums, almost dissatisfied, but you don't bother to think about it. He moves to lean off the side of the bed, pulling his suitcase closer to get himself a condom, opening the package easily before he rolls it over his length. He seems oddly soft tonight, in more ways than one. Is he still exhausted from the shooting? Could be. He never wants to admit himself that he has to take breaks, thinks that his body can just magically manifest strength from nothing but pure thought, and it used to irritate you, because you felt responsible, in a way. But that was when you still saw more in this than there actually was- nowadays, it's his business, not yours. He's got nutritionists and personal trainers who get paid for taking care of him. It's not your job.

What is your job, really?

Well, you're most certainly not working under his company any longer, and neither have you returned to your original agency either- simply because Jungkook's management deemed you too much of a danger in your position, after the idol had let it slip that you two were having sex on a regular basis. So you just signed an NDA, got paid for your silence, now earning a living by writing books. Modern fantasy novels, where the daydreams you once had can actually become reality, and your hopes and wishes can be dreamed of by other people who have the same.

It's good money. A hobby you cherish.

Jungkook has never asked you what you work as nowadays. He doesn't even visit your apartment, has never seen it before, and he doesn't know if you have family either. He just takes you as his, lets you live alongside him and entertains you whenever he's in the mood for it. And you let him, because these days, he's all you've got. There's not much else you can do than write all day at home or accompany him on his overseas schedules.

You're not sure why he always drags you along, when back home, he won't even call you for days. Maybe he doesn't have to? Maybe his bed at home is always warm. But if that's the case, why not take them on a trip once in a while? Does he have designated women for specific occasions?

Then who will the woman be he chooses to show to the public one day? Number three in his harem?

You can't even truly blame him. As someone he grew up in this industry, his view on the world is warped, shifted, not the same colors as yours. He doesn't feel the same worth in a simple banknote that you do, he can't understand the struggle of missing the bus or having to face an empty fridge.

"Sit up, baby." He tells you, chuckles when you struggle a little to do so- compared to him, flying around all the time actually does take a toll on you. And the petname doesn't make it any better in this moment, as his hands reach out to hold you steady, helping your legs over his thighs, before he guides the head of his cock into you. He wants you close tonight it seems like. Hopefully he keeps holding you, because you're not very energetic this time. "I've got you." He says, and you nod, resting your arms around his neck, hands faintly touching the skin of his back. "Are you cold?" He wonders.

"A bit." You respond. He's probably noticed your icy fingertips.

"I'll warm you up." He purrs, and you nod. You know he will. He always does- always hot hearted in everything he does, even in this. He holds you close, hands on your behind helping you move, your hips rolling a bit too slow for his liking, but he overlooks it for once. You're not sure what's up with him tonight. This isn't him. "You tired, baby?" He wonders, and you nod.

"Sorry." You tell him, but he shakes his head, moves to lay you down, knees pressed into the soft hotel bed mattress as he thrusts his hips forwards.

"It's alright." He brushes it off. "Flight was long as hell." He muses, lazily moving himself. You're enjoying this, even if it's odd for him to behave this way. "Wanna come over for breakfast tomorrow morning?" He asks, and you shake your head.

"Can't." You sigh, arms now moving to lay above your head, eyes closed in bliss. "I fly out back home at 8 tomorrow." You remind him, and you can't see the way his brows lower, face darkening as he realizes he didn't know that. You usually fly back after him. Why are you going home sooner this time?

"Why?" He huffs out, hands grabbing your legs as he pulls your thighs over his, pushing himself deeper now. "You always fly after me." He almost growls.

"I dunno.." You slur. "Management said." You just respond. Why does he seem so irritated by this? It's not a huge deal at all if you fly back sooner or later. He's not gonna call you up back home anyways, so why does it bother him so much.

"Management can go fuck themselves." He argues. "You fly after me. I'll book the flight myself if I have to." he demands practically, slight irritation causing him to have his energy boil up, position adjusted as he becomes more restless, balls smacking loudly against you cunt, pace a lot more ruthless now.

You're finally reaching it. Your head becomes fuzzy.

You don't notice Jungkook becoming almost.. satisfied from that sight of your tension finally leaving. You're nothing but whimpers of pleasure as he slips out of you, hands tugging and pushing your legs and body to have you on your side, the taller Idol now laying down on his side behind you to spoon you, dragging the head of his length through your soaked and slicked up folds. one hand holds up your thigh, helps in opening you up, though you're pretty much gaping from his girth stretching you out moments prior. His lips find your shoulder, your neck, as he pushes himself back inside with the help of your hands-

who suddenly do something new as well, tugging the condom from his cock, making him gasp out in sensitivity. "What're you doing?" He grows.

"IUD." You tell him. "Please-" You beg, and yet again he moves as if awakened from slumber, pushing you halfway on your stomach as he pushes the now bare head of his cock back inside you. This is most certainly new, and he knows for a fact, that he's never going back again.

"Fuck.." He almost laughs, leaning over you now, body covering yours as he just pushes himself in for a good moment, humming a sound of pleasure into your neck as he lets himself relish in the new sensation. "Ah-" He sighs out, before he clenches his jaw, thrusting hard as if to make sure your body will remember him for days to come.

It will. Sadly.

"God, fuck-!" He groans out, holding onto your body now, having turned you onto your side, hand reaching out adjust your arm so he can see your face. Your lips are parted, eyes closed in bliss, and he can't help but have his hand smack down onto your behind that's moving in a way that's way too inviting. He does it a second time, slap clearly heard as he smirks at the way you clench around his cock currently rearranging your insides. He moves your leg to rest over his shoulder, reaching even deeper, hand underneath your belly button pressing where he can faintly feel himself move.

No one can blame him for being absolutely obsessed with your body.

He can feel the way you begin to tighten, thighs shaking a little as you come undone, his hands moving your legs again to close them once more, holding them up, slipping out of your clenching cunt to push his cock right between your soft and wet thighs. it's enough for a moment, though you reach out to touch the tip poking through almost teasingly, making him laugh as he suddenly sighs out, groaning as he spills over your stomach and up your chest. You're breathing heavily, and don't notice you start to shiver, as he parts from you to turn on the light in the bathroom to clean up.

Aftercare is not really his thing- and you've come to accept that.

When you sit up, you stretch your arms in front of you, muscles slowly regaining strength as you wait for Jungkook to finish up, toilet flushing before he emerges again, shamelessly walking without underwear, gaze following you as you walk past him to use the bathroom yourself.

The moment you re-emerge to grab your clothes, he's sitting on the edge of the bed with his boxers back on, phone in his hand. "I booked the flight for you. Tomorrow at 12:30." He tells you as you slip back into your underwear, not bothering with the bra as you search for where he'd thrown your shirt. "Here." He offers- and you slip the garment on with a thanks, only noticing afterwards that that's not yours at all, oversized fabric reaching almost to your knees. "Cute." He comments way too quiet to be meant to be heard, so you don't mention it at all.

"Why is the flight-thing so important?" You wonder, slipping into your socks as he moves around to find the hotel room service menu.

"Because you always fly back after me." He repeats again, clearing his throat.

"…you already said that." You mumble to yourself, but he clearly hears you.

"Fuck alright, god damnit!" He whines in complaint, rolling his eyes. "If you were to fly back earlier, you'll run right into all the paparazzi and shit waiting for me. That's why you're meant to fly back later- so they're gone by the time you arrive." He explains, and you're stunned in the spot you're standing, watching him a bit confused.

So that's the reason?

"It's not like they know." You say, unsure why he's so adamant about it.

"Doesn't matter." He shakes his head. "I'm not having them jump you for whatever reason they might have." He denies, before he sits down in the seat near the window which blinds are shut. "Now what do you wanna eat?" He asks, and you shake your head.

"I'll eat something tomorrow morning." You deny, and he slumps back in his seat, eyes closed and tongue pushed against his cheek.

"What do you want to fucking eat, babe." He repeats, making sure to pronounce the petname before he looks at you with frustration.

"Nothing." You respond. "Are we done?" You ask him, and he shakes his head, setting the menu down before he crosses his arms.

"No." He denies. "What to they call you?" He asks, and you're not sure what he's getting at, shaking your head with brows furrowed in confusion.

"What're you talking about?" You ask, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"What do they call you?" He repeats. "I heard what you talked about in the car when I left."

"How?" You ask baffled.

"Telepathy." He jokes without humor, before he scoffs to himself. "I called you to actually ask you if you wanted to eat something- but you must've accidentally accepted the call without looking, because I clearly listened in on a convo I wasn't supposed to hear." He explains. "Either way, I want an answer. What. Do. They. Call. You." He demands, and you sigh.

"Why does it matter?" You argue, searching for your leggings in the room- finding them over the armrest of the chair he's currently sitting in. "I'm your personal prostitute, just without the pay." You tell him, and it takes him a second to realize that that's your answer.

Suddenly, he wants you out the room.

Not because he doesn't want you here any longer, but because the guilt is eating him alive with ever second he has to look at you. Because the more he think about it, the more it becomes obvious to him that this really must look like just that to everyone. After all, he's just taking you with him apparently for sex, and he's become so comfortable in it that he didn't think about it any longer. It's what you want too, right?

Jungkook has never really learned how to convey his emotions properly. He doesn't know what it's like to fall in love, has no idea what to look out for. He likes spending time with you, and enjoys the sex to the point that he's been monogamous with only you for the past year or so. It's nice to be in a relationship, even though he knows this one isn't normal. It's still okay, because down the line, you understand each other. He likes you, he just doesn't want people to use that against him or you at some point- so he keeps your status to himself. No one needs to know you're a couple. Only you and him. Because.. you know that, right?

"You know that's not what you are to me, right?" He asks, and you shrug.

"Does it matter?" You ask. "It's none of my business who I am to you, or whoever you screw apart from me." You say.

"What?" He asks, crossed arms unraveling. "I'm not fucking anyone but you." He says.

"Cool." You say.

"Cool? That's it?" He argues. "How can you be so calm about everyone else telling you I'm apparently cheating on you?" He worries, and you're yet again confused.

"What're you talking about?" You ask. "That's got nothing to do with cheating." You say.

"No no no no whoa there. Stop for a second." He holds his hands out as if to soothe a raging crowd of people, looking at the carpet. "You- you do know we're in a relationship, right?" He asks you, and your face tells him everything he needs to know. "Oh my fucking god are you kidding me…" He complains into his hands, covering his face in frustration.

"How the hell was I supposed to know?" You say, now with your own arms crossed. "Jungkook, you rarely even talk to me when we're back home. You only take me with you when you've got something up overseas, you constantly tell people we're just friends, you've never even asked me out in the first place!" You argue.

"We've been fucking each other for almost a year, I thought it was obvious I liked you?!" He whines, looking at you with what you realize are tears brimming on his waterline. Why is he so emotional now? "Have you- did you see anyone other than me?" He asks quietly, and you shake your head.

"No." You deny.

"Okay. Fuck- okay." He takes a deep breath, swallows down his panic. "I like you. I don't- I've got no clue if it's love or not because I don't know, alright? But I like you, a lot, to the point where I want us to be something permanent." He tries to explain. "Just us. You and me." He underlines, and you shrug.

"Jungkook, it's not that easy." You sigh. "If this has been what you think a relationship is like, then we won't work out."

"Alright, then what do you need me to do?" He argues, not letting go. "God- fuck, tell me what do I have to do to make you stay?" He asks, voice cracking.

"Jungkook, calm down-" You start, but he shakes his head, swallows thickly, bottom lip quivering for just a second before he licks over it, pulls it in between his teeth.

"I can't-! Not when it sounds like you're gonna leave me-" He worries.

"I'm not, don't worry. I'll stay. Just.. breathe for a second, alright?" You ask, getting up to walk closer, pushing his shoulders back to force him out of his slumped over position. "Hey- okay?" You ask, and he instead pulls you closer, sits you onto his lap, before he clings onto you, resting his forehead in your shoulder. "Why do you never reach out to me when we're home? You're confusing me." You gently tell him, and he shrugs.

"I'm scared they'll see you." He sniffles. "If they do- they'll tear you apart." He sighs. "When we're out here, like this- I can just.. claim you're staff, whatever. But at home- I can't.. I don't know how to protect you." He shakes his head.

"You should've told me." You sigh, leaning into him. "I was hurt, you know?" You tell him.

"I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm so sorry." He apologizes, pulls you just a bit closer. "I don't know what to do." He whines.

"What if you just visit me instead?" You offer. "They don't know where I live. And my windows are all mirrored so no one can look inside." You tell him.

"…since when?" he asks, leaning away from you a little so that you can finally see his face again, eyes red, a stray tear escaping him that you wipe off.

"Since a few months ago? Jungkook you don't even know my apartment in the first place. You've never visited me at all, ever!" You laugh, and he sighs.

"I know, and I.. always wanted to, you know, visit you.. spend time with you but.." He runs a hand over his face.

"You're okay. We talked about it now." You nod, an action he copies. "I'll come back tomorrow morning and we can have breakfast together, okay?" You ask, but he shakes his head.

"No, you gotta stay." He denies. "I don't care if you don't like that, but I need you close tonight." He says.

"Never said I don't." You say. "You just seemed uncomfortable with it." You wonder.

"Because I snore!" He whines, throwing his head back. "I snore, I move a lot, I might cling to you at night or I sweat, or whatever the fuck- I'm not as perfect as I'm made out to be." He complains.

"Jungkook sorry, but what the fuck." You laugh, and he can't help but smile at the sight and sound of you happy. "You can fart and burp like whatever, and I'd still stay. You're human, I'm not perfect either!" You explain, but he shakes his head, leaning forwards to kiss your already blossoming bruises on your neck.

"No, you are." He says. "You're absolutely perfect." He argues.

"Not really." You deny.

"Stop arguing." He complains, squeezes your waist a bit.

"What're you gonna do about it?" You tease, and he looks up at you with a heated gaze.

"Get me nice n' hard and I'll show you." He responds, making you giggle with eyes rolling, as you lean back to tug him out of his underwear, a hiss leaving him. "Fuck, baby your hands are icy!" He laughs, leaning back to hold your legs so you don't slip off of his thighs.

"That's cause it's cold in here!" You joke back, warming your hands up on his already heated length, skin already flushed and swelling as the blood rushes back. His hands travel beneath the shirt you wear, softly grabbing at the flesh of your chest, making you get up to shed your underwear and get back onto his lap.

"Think you can ride me on this thing?" He asks, talking about the seat he's sitting in. "Kinda tired right now, won't lie."

"Huh, making me do all the work now?" You raise your brows. "And here I thought you wanted to take us seriously.." You sigh, attempting to joke- but he clearly doesn't take it as such, face becoming serious again.

"Lift your hips a little." He demands, and you do so- unsure what he's trying to do, before he spits into his hand once more, feeling you up between your legs to check if you're ready. You are- quickly slicking up at the thought of him, and he guides his length inside of you again, stretching you out once more, but this time, it's not just sex.

He refuses to move. He just helps you settle on his lap, but holds onto your hips, keeping you from moving. "Jungkook-" You whine, but he shakes his head, and pulls your face closer to kiss you.

"No, I wanna stay like this for a bit." He denies.

"But I thought we wanted to eat something later?" You ask, making him roll his eyes.

"I'm trying to be romantic here." He complains.

"By putting your dick inside me?" You ask.

"Well I don't know what else to do!" He whines. "I.. I don't really know how else to properly express.." He falls deep into thought for a second or two, before he finally says it. "I don't know how else to make sure you can.."

"..feel how much I love you."

You're quiet for a good while, watching how he rather looks at your neck than at you in particular, avoiding eye contact as he continues to move his hands back to your sides underneath your shirt. "Jungkook…" You mumble, and he cringes.

"Don't-" He sighs, clicks his tongue in irritation. "-don't pity me or something-" He begins.

"No no no I'm not pitying you I just-" You cut him off, now your hands holding his cheeks to force him to look at you. Because you just realized something in the things he's said earlier. "Remember how you said.. you want me to fly back after you?" You ask, and he nods.

"Yeah." He answers, his way warmer palms now taking yours from his face, holding them in his. "Of course."

"That's.. something that also shows that you care about me." You say. "Because, you didn't say that you were worried about someone spotting me and putting your career on the line- but that you were worried about me being in danger." You remind him, and he nods. "Or how you noticed my stomach growling, and wondered if I ate today." You giggle.

"I already wondered if you didn't- cause I didn't see you eat anything." He shrugs.

"See?" You hum towards him, running your hand through his hair. "That shows you care, too." You say.

"But I want you to feel it." He complains stubbornly. "I want you to.. feel the same as I do when I'm around you." He offers.

"Horny?" You ask, and he rolls his eyes, throwing his head back.

"That too-" He laughs. "But mostly.. just, I don't know." He takes a deep breath. "It's hard to explain. It's like chest constricts when I'm not around you. Whenever I'm home, I miss you so bad that I sometimes go to sleep early just to avoid giving in and calling you. I have to distract myself just to not think about you- and yet I still do, almost all the time." He sighs, tucking your hair behind your ears. "When I wake up.." He hums, hands moving to your shoulders. "When I do my morning routine.." He explains, letting his fingers travel over the length of your arms. "When I work out.." He continues. "When I go to bed. It doesn't matter at all." He shakes his head.

"You know you don't have to make up something just to make me stay, right?" You ask him, and at that, his eyes immediately snap back up to you, panic returning.

"I'm not." He denies instantly. "I'm really not-" he urges. "-how can I prove it?" He worries.

"You.. listen, it's not something that you can just clear up in a moment." You sigh. "It's gonna take time. We're basically starting from scratch here." You explain, and he nods.

"Do you.. should we stop then?" He asks, glancing between your bodies for a second. "Until you believe me?" He wonders, and you shrug, before you shake your head.

"No." You deny. "I'd miss you too much-" You tell him, before you adjust your legs, arms around his neck. "-And you'd probably go insane without sex." You tease.

"Not without sex." He denies, watching how you begin to move your hips, letting him slip out until just the very tip remains inside you. "But without you." He clarifies. "It's not sex I want- that's a… I don't know. It's the closeness I feel, you know?" He sighs when you sink back down. "I just like touching you.. being inside you.." He hums, eyes fluttering closed as he leans back into the seat while your hands settle on his shoulders to keep you balanced, pace slow but fast enough to intensify the pleasure you both feel. "Just like that.." He sighs out in bliss.

"I have a really nice couch, you know?" You hum towards him, making him smile while his hands find your waist. "My bed is really big too.." You tell him, and he opens his eyes a little at that.

"Big enough for two?" He wonders, and you shrug.

"Guess we have to find out." You tease, and he nods, hands moving from your waist to your hips before one of them finds your heat between your legs where he can see his cock disappearing inside you.

"Is the couch sturdy?" He wonders, fingers playing with your clit now, making the muscles in your thighs twitch.

"Ah- yes!" You whine, picking up your pace.

"Hm, gonna fuck you on it then." He chuckles. "Stress-test it." He jokes, and you whimper as you come undone, your slick now coating his own legs, strings of the sticky fluid keeping you both connected, wet sounds echoing off the walls of the hotel room. "Break it." He growls, heels on the ground helping him in shifting his hips upwards into you, catching you off guard, your orgasm washing over you in a wave threatening to drown you.

You're shaking, but you still move, needing to feel him reach his high as well, and he does find his own release, spilling whatever he's got left to give, holding you close, kissing whatever skin he can reach from how you're hugging him now, breathing slowly easing again.

And he keeps you like this, uncaring of the food since it's by now too late to order any roomservice anyways.

And for the first time, he actually sleeps next to you, in the same bed-

promising himself to do everything he can to keep you this close, for now and as long as you'll have him.

#bts imagine #bts fanfic #bts fic #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook imagine #bts smut #bts jungkook imagine #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #bts jungkook fanfic #jeon jungkook fanfic #bts jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook imagines #jungkook imagines

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bunnysbrainrot · 7 months

Text

Blood Flow

Kinktober Prompt: Choking

Relationship: dbf!Joel Miller x Reader

Content: [i was going for something sensual and i failed.] Explicit sexual scenes, fingering, choking, squirting, praise kink, Joel’s kinda rough, teasing. No outbreak AU.

Summary: You curiously tread into the realm of choking, but you have no clue why people think it feels ‘good’. With Joel’s help, you realize that there’s simply a right way to do it.

A/N: pay attention to the last line. it implies exactly what you think it does. **ALSO! part 3 for this is out, it’s called Daddy’s Girl!

this scene is so weird, why is he choking her???

Your fingers flitted across your phone screen, texting as you watch a new show. In this scene, the two main characters finally broke their tension, and things were growing heavy. You watched the actor’s hand wrap around his costar’s throat, watching how her face contorted in bliss.

Cause it feels good, sweetheart, Joel replied.

Bringing your own hand to your neck, you pressed against your windpipe and choked, like really choked, but it didn’t feel like you thought it would. And your face definitely did not make those same expressions as the woman in the show.

Clearing your throat, you replied to Joel. A few years ago, this kind of conversation would earn you an intervention with your parents. This was your dad’s best friend, and you shouldn’t be texting him about being choked, of all things.

But fuck, was texting Joel a wonderful time.

A single message could have you squeezing your thighs together. Every baby girl, sweetheart, and honey was imagined in his voice as if he were there, whispering them into your ear. You would imagine his fingers dancing across your skin as he showered you with those sweet pet names.

tried it on myself, and i can confirm that it feels awful. coughing my lungs out right now

Joel read your text and let out a hearty chuckle, quickly replying back. He knew you were a tad… inexperienced with things like this, and that you wouldn’t ask just anyone about this. He had you wrapped around his finger, as you did him.

Baby doll, you’re probably pressing on your windpipe. It’s a little tricky to do it on yourself

You groaned at the text, still frustrated at your little mishap. The reply you gave him was rather bold, but you anxiously sent it anyway.

maybe you could show me

The two of you had flirted a lot more since you came back home from college. Four years of hard schoolwork had you taking a break back home with your parents to choose your next big step in life. At first it started small - little compliments on your clothes, on your intelligence, on how much you’d come into your own. Your glances at Joel lasted too long to be friendly, and it didn’t help when you ran your foot along his leg under the table at big family dinners.

In short, you were driving each other absolutely wild, pulling the tension taught between you, waiting for it to snap.

But Joel wanted to go slow. This was dangerous territory, and he needed to take his time.

Maybe I could

You stared blankly at the phone screen, reading over the message with a fluttering heart behind your ribs. A wave of warmth spread over you with a beeline between your thighs. You clenched your legs together as you texted Joel back.

right now?

J: Door’s unlocked, I’m just watching TV. If you want to join me we can watch that show you were telling me about

Like an alarm went off you shot out of bed, hurrying to your dresser and closet to find a more impressive outfit. Joel wouldn’t care all that much - he liked seeing you in anything. It didn’t matter how much or little you had on, you were always beautiful to him.

headed out now!

Joel have a swift reply that buzzed in your pocket.

Someone’s eager.

You trekked over to the neighborhood next to yours, practically skipping with each step up to Joel’s house. Thankfully, his daughter, Sarah, would be at a friend’s house this evening, leaving you and Joel all to yourselves.

Joel’s head perked up when he heard you knock. He, almost too excitedly, shot up from the couch and headed to the front door.

He was an effortlessly handsome man. And now, in a simple pair of sweatpants and v-neck shirt, he looked more stunning than ever. For you, it also didn’t matter what he wore - he always looked handsome.

“Hi,” you said, offering him a small smile.

Joel raised an arm and leaned against the doorframe. His lean muscles shifted under his tan skin, hardened by those years under the Texas sun, and caught the light from inside to accentuate his bicep. He caught you ogling, and laughed.

“Sweetheart, I’m not just eye candy,” Joel’s voice was soft after the long day he had, “You comin’ in, or what?”

Your smile widened as you stepped in, dipping under Joel’s arm to step in the living room. He had already closed the blinds preemptively to shield yourselves from any prying eyes. You sat on the couch and waited for Joel to join you.

He slowly made his way over, “So, what show were you watchin’?”

You sighed dramatically, “Well, now it’s just embarrassing. We can watch something else, instead.”

Joel shook his head at your offer, gesturing to the TV, “Not embarrassing at all. ‘Sides, I got a plan for it.”

He snatched the remote from the arm of the couch and chose a spot right next to you. After a series of questions, you began to play the show you’d seen, found the right episode, and played the scene in question.

Joel remained silent the entire time, glancing between you and the TV. His stare bore into you, but it was unclear as to what was going through his mind.

But the scene, to your relief, ended, and the shyness you’d felt could be over. Joel paused the show in the middle of the next scene and finally met your eyes.

“Alright, I think I know where ya went wrong,” he commented. You cocked an eyebrow at him.

“It’s all about controlling the blood flow, not pressin’ on the windpipe. That’s a one way ticket to the man upstairs,” Joel laughed and brought his hand to your cheek, cupping your face carefully. His thumb passed over your cheekbone before he shifted down toward your neck.

He placed his thumb and index finger on either side of your throat, right under your jaw. The pressure was uncomfortable at first, pressing into you in a way that sparked some faint nausea. You cleared your throat and swallowed to dull the feeling.

“Pressin’ here,” his grip tightened, “reduces the blood flow. It’s still a lil’ hard to breathe, but it doesn’t risk your safety.”

A lightness began to creep through you as Joel pressed into your throat. Blackness clouded the edge of your vision, blurring Joel’s features, though you could barely make out a lazy smile.

After a few long seconds, he let go, and you could freely breathe once again. The rush of blood back to your brain throbbed at your temples, though the brief headache was nothing compared to the rush of pleasure it delivered.

To your surprise, the rush went straight to your core, leaving you shifting your legs together.

Joel leaned forward and planted a kiss on your cheek, his voice was a low whisper.

“See? Feels good when someone does it right, don’t it?”

You nodded, still held securely by his hand around your throat. His lips traveled across your face, to your temples, to your jaw, and finally finding your own, flush and fluid with your own movements. Joel tightened his grip again, and the same rush came flowing through. It was tricky to keep kissing Joel at the pace he set. Instead, your mouth slacked open as a moan escaped you, swallowed eagerly by Joel.

He spoke slowly against your lips, nipping at them between his words.

“How is it, baby doll? Still feel good?”

It was wonderful. Had you not messaged him about this, you would’ve been completely in the dark about this whole new world of pleasure. So wonderful, in fact, that you could feel a new slickness in your sex, about to soak into your panties. Instinctively you ground your hips, pathetically pressing your aching pussy into nothing substantial.

Joel moved his other hand lower, raking over your shifting thighs, “Tell me, sweet girl, does it make you feel good down here?”

His hand cupped your clothed sex, pressing against your slit and slowly massaging your core. Your breath trembled as you gave him another nod - a small sign of permission to take things further.

“Joel… Joel,” you whispered, fighting against his grip on your throat. Amidst the rush going through your head you could barely hold onto what he was saying, let alone reply coherently.

His lips had wandered to your jaw, peppering a trail of kisses around his rough fingers, “What is it, baby girl? Tell me whatcha need.”

You choked out your reply, “In.. inside.”

A low laugh danced across your skin, “That’s my girl. Always needing something fillin’ her up. ‘Least when I’m involved, anyway.”

He pressed harder against your aching sex - the abrasion of the fabric turned you into a whimpering mess in a matter of seconds. You needed more. You needed him.

Joel groaned against your skin when you tugged his hand past the waistband of your pants, pushing him lower toward your core.

“Need me to make you feel good, sweet girl?” his voice thrummed through your chest. You nodded, urging your lungs to take in sweet, fresh air amidst the constriction. Joel loosened his grip ever so slightly, letting you catch your breath.

He hummed against your jaw as he adjusted his hand with his fingers teasingly at your entrance. A single finger played with your wet hole, swirling around carefully, not fully giving you what you need. Not yet.

You mewled a slurred version of his name, eyes rolling back when his grip tightened around your throat.

Joel’s fingers didn’t stop, but rather pushed further, sinking past your soaked folds and into your tight pussy. A small whimper from you made him smile, carefully eyeing you as he moved his fingers, curling them up to brush your sweet spot.

“Joel… fu-fuck,” you choked.

His fingers plunged deeper into your warm cunt, curling harshly to draw a long-awaited moan. Until now, Joel hadn’t had the joy of hearing you utter anything above a whisper.

You cried out, straining against his grip, but was sent back to fighting for that sacred blood flow back to your brain.

You brought your hand up to meet the one at your neck, tapping against the back of his hand. A beat passed before Joel realized the mistake. He swiftly released you and cradled your head, slowing his movements between your thighs.

“Sorry,” you rasped, “that was just a little too hard. I couldn’t really make any noise without coughing.”

Joel leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours. He broke away with the softest tone you’d heard all night.

“You ain’t got nothin’ to apologize for, honey,” he replied, spreading his kisses to your cheeks. “Got a little too ahead of myself there.”

He kissed you until you were left breathless and panting. By now your lips were plump from the bites and nips Joel had given them.

“Maybe we could try a different position, whaddya say?”

After a beat of thought, you nod in agreement and follow his lead. He removed his hand from your pants, lightly sucking at his soaked fingers, and moaning at your taste across his tongue.

This was the closest he’d been to truly tasting you. Words escaped him as he tried to describe the feeling of heaven on his very lips.

You stood from the couch and watched Joel taste yourself on his fingers. He was completely entranced, and monitoring your every movement as you waited for his direction.

Darkness filled his eyes, “Y’might need to take those pants off, sweetheart. Need a good angle for this.”

Now right in front of his legs, you urged Joel to spread them apart and stood between them.

He took this as a silent request for his help. Joel gave you a smile and sat forward, letting his hands climb up your thighs, taking their sweet time to cover as much of them as he could.

Joel hooked his fingers on your waistband and gently tugged, unwrapping you like it was Christmas morning.

Your bottoms dropped to your ankles, and all was left was your soaked panties, the last barrier between Joel and what he’d wanted to see most. Joel leaned further, leaving a trail of kisses from your mid-thigh to your hip, alternating to the other side. Each touch of his lips set you ablaze. His gentle touches paled in comparison to the heat roiling through your belly, trickling right down to your aching pussy.

At long last he peeled your panties off of you, slowly sending them down your legs until they joined your pants. Your lower half was bare for him now; you were a gift unwrapped, the best present he could’ve asked for.

“Christ,” Joel muttered. His eyes scanned over your half naked form, giving you a curious look at your chest.

He wanted nothing more than to wander up there, letting his hands dip below the fabric and slide up to your chest. Your tits were selfishly hidden from him, with your perfect, perk nipples poking through, enticing him to search for more.

You wrapped your legs on either side of him, pushing Joel back against the couch so you could get into position. His legs stayed spread open, thus making you open yours across his.

Spread perfectly wide for whatever he had planned for you.

Joel cupped the back of your neck and pulled you in for another kiss, working his hands over your thighs in the process. You could feel a couple of damp fingertips from where he’d fingered you before. Those same fingers now crept toward your needy hole, teasing you ever so slowly.

You bucked your hips and positioned them over his hand, whining at the lack of touch.

“Joel, please,” you mumbled, keeping your lips in tandem with his own. Joel grumbled out a reply you couldn’t discern before a hand made its way to your throat.

Joel pressed down on either side of your windpipe to deliver that sweet head rush of elation.

“I’ve got you, baby girl, I’ll take care of you.”

And that, he did. His hands moved with pure greed at your neck and pussy, sending two fingers up into your tight cunt. You cried out against his lips as he slowly pumped into you.

“That’s it, sweet girl. Let it all out.”

You were relieved you could make at least a little noise. It was better than it was at home, where you’d spent countless nights touching yourself, moaning against your hand or a nearby pillow.

But here… here you could cry out as Joel touched you. You could freely show him how good he was making you feel.

You let out a soft whine, but it was not well-received by Joel.

“I wanna hear you, baby.”

A louder moan drew from your throat. Joel’s fingers curled inside of you, pressing into the spongy part right past your entrance. Your walls fluttered gently around his fingers, pulling him in further.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” said Joel, still mumbling against your lips. You offered him a smile, proud that your body was to his liking. It was all you’d hoped for, to be perfect for him.

“Not sure how this little pussy’s gonna handle me, though,” he continued in a cocky voice. “But I think you could do it.”

He curled his fingers harshly, causing you to slur your words together. Something about Joel, and harder, and please.

“Such a good girl. Bet you’d take anything I gave you, huh?”

You nodded slightly, constricted under his grip to move any further.

Joel pushed his fingers deeper, picking up his pace until the wet sounds of your ravaged cunt filled the room. Your juices flowed from your pussy and onto his hand, leaking down from his fingers to his palm, pooling your sweet slick before it trickled to the floor below.

His pace became relentless, though the grip on your throat loosened. You let out a shuddering moan as he furiously pumped his fingers, making your cunt squelch with the most obscene sounds you’d ever heard.

“Attagirl,” Joel praised, “Just keep still. I gotcha.”

The reassuring tone kept you conflicted - it totally contrasted from what he was doing to your body.

Fuck, if this is how it was with just his hands alone, you silently prayed that you could handle what else he could give you.

There was a new tightness in your abdomen, pooling around in your sex, but it was a deeper sort of pressure you’d never felt. It felt like…

“Joel,” you protested, “I think I gotta pee.”

He laughed against your lips, “Just work with me here, darlin’.”

You squirmed on his hand as this new sensation spread through your pussy. This kind of pressure wasn’t something you could’ve gotten from your own hand, let alone any toy.

No, this was the masterful work of Joel Miller’s fingers, unraveling you around him.

He struck deeper, twisting his wrist to get a better angle, curling each thick digit against your sweet spot. You choked on a gasp as the pressure in your abdomen built, threatening to break apart.

With a flurry of swift motion the tension broke, and a beautiful symphony sounded - the rush of your juices that poured onto his hand, the strangled moan that fell from your slacked mouth, followed by the pleased groan Joel drew out.

“What… hah… was that..?” you panted. Joel kissed your cheekbone as he worked you through your high.

“Did I just… did I sq-“ you could barely make out the word.

“You did. And you did such a good job, sweet girl.”

The praise roiled through your gut. A soreness flooded through your sex, trailing toward your cervix. You swallowed nervously at the thought of anything bigger, and what it could do to your insides.

Joel slowed his pace and released the hand that had been trained to your neck. You both worked through your climax, coming down smoothly to where you now laid slumped against Joel’s chest.

His hands still roved over your skin, gently kneading your ass and thighs as you caught your breath.

“How you feelin’, honey?” his Southern drawl intoxicated his words with a sickly sweetness.

You pressed your face into the crook of his neck a let out a small, content mmm, taking in his scent. The mix of his cologne and sweat sent something possessive through you, to have this all for yourself. It felt too selfish for that pining to be one-sided - for you to want him as much as you did, without knowing if he held the same ferocity about you as you did him.

“Thirsty.”

“I bet. That’ll take a lot outta ya - let’s get a glass of water and getcha cleaned up.”

You worked your legs off of his thighs and stood shakily. After sitting in that awkward position and having your senses scrambled, your knees buckled beneath your weight, desperately trying to hold your quivering thighs steady.

“Hold on, sweetheart, I’ve gotcha,” Joel said, swiftly standing on steady feet. You pouted at the unfairness - his hands tore at your sex and left you trembling while he was perfectly fine.

“You better not laugh at me,” you snapped, though the drained tone in your words had Joel chucking slightly.

He held you steady with both hands and led you toward the kitchen, “You look like you got a hip replacement.”

“You’re nearing that age, aren’t you?” you quipped. Joel gave you a firm smack on your ass as his reply.

“Better watch it, I don’t do well with brats.”

hi y’all! thank you so much for reading and supporting, and happy Kinktober!

If you’re looking for the part 3 of this, it’s called Daddy’s Girl! I would love if you gave it a read

ily xoxo

#fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #dbf!joel #joel tlou #the last of us #tlou #bunny writes #kinktober #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #supernatural #pedro pascal

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wroteclassicaly · 2 years

Text

She’s Trouble

(Eddie Munson x Female Reader)

Summary: Tired of trailing behind, feeling like you don’t matter much, you decide that 86’ isn’t only going to be your bestfriend’s year.

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Word count: 16,185

Warnings: Language, violence, mentions of drug usage, blood, NSFW, smut, drinking, Eddie is angry and sad in this, masturbation, slight voyeurism, breeding kink, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, angry sex, creampie, angst, fighting, rough sex, Dom!Eddie, and MORE!

A/N: I started writing this based off the scene of Eddie smirking at the cheerleaders he lets by after his cafeteria speech. And, well… it’s spawned itself a new life and turned into a whole lot more than I planned. But so is the life of an author, am I right? ;) Eddie is a dick in this, Reader is a lot more vocal than I’ve written before. I wanted to do something a bit different and I hope this accomplishes my mission?

I wanna thank @littledemondani for helping me out of my brain fart on which direction to take this! Also, do check out her masterlist, which is pinned at the top of her blog (it won’t let me link it here). She’s an incredible author and a fellow Eddie Munson slut, and one of my longtime best-friends! ♥️

Side note: I’ve also shifted a few things in the timeline of the show, for obvious reasons. The whole Eddie/Chrissy thing doesn’t happen on the same night as in the series. Chrissy and the reader have a good interaction and Eddie is a dickhead, but his reasoning will be explained. Also, while the reader is wearing a bustier top, this is an all inclusive fic, where the reader can be anything you imagine! I believe anyone can wear anything that they choose to—regardless of their size, so don’t let that bit of the story deter your perception, as I’ve left it open-ended! ;)

Enjoy! I’ve got a lot coming up soon! Part twos of multiple fics, prompts, plus other goodies! <3 - Kristen

~*~

You watch the way that he tries to be cute and coy towards them, attempts to impress with a dramatic wave through of his hand. Short skirts, tight little tops, bouncing ponytails, and a shitload of generic gossip on their painted lips—they pass by, everything included but those damned pom poms. Apparently they are giddy at his little show of calling out every group but your own in the cafeteria. Your eyes roll so hard that you feel a protesting sting, ignoring it to stab your fork into whatever creation is wiggling on your lunch tray. All the guys—freshman to seniors, and you—the only girl since founding, and Hellfire Club’s treasurer/manager to Corroded Coffin—make up the outsider table.

This year, however, you’ve felt so fucking off base with this group and their antics that you’re getting exhausted pretending to care about their shit when they don’t respect you or yours. Dustin, Lucas, and Mike are always the sweetest to you, even with Lucas joining a sport, he’s still quick to always give you a smile and a nod whenever you pass him in the halls. They’re young, unlike Eddie and the older guys. You’re finally a senior this year, but still behind your bestfriend by a year in age. All this used to be okay, Eddie multiplying how much he repeats the grade, you trailing behind him like a lost puppy without any brain of her own, but now—it’s unbearably smothering.

And thus, it’s been building. You’re over bringing chips that are from your personal stash and using your gas to go buy smokes with your small work paycheck, or clean equipment for Eddie’s band, or stay up all night just to design campaign posters for Eddie, only for him to be so fucking stoned that he doesn’t even appreciate it, nor remember it.

“Fucking fake losers,” Jeff mutters.

“So fake,” Gareth agrees, both looking towards Eddie as he settles himself back down, wiggling his brows at you.

It’s an unsettling pressure that boils inside you, crackling, and as soon as you look into your best-friend’s brown doe eyes—it all comes apart. “You wanna talk about fake?” Your chest pumps a rush of adrenaline, helping careen the words off your tongue before you can stop them. Everyone’s attention snaps quicker than you’re prepared for, eyes wide and shocked. Sure, you’re vocal and sassy, but never outwardly angry. “The fact that all of you will condemn the basketball players, but would give up any of your seats at our table for one of the bitches in a skirt that they chase, if they popped their gum or batted an eyelash. You’d all be a bunch of drooling, little horndogs.” You can feel your heart racing with each pronunciation of a word, rising from your seat, knuckles white from gripping the edges of your yellow tray so hard.

You hear Dustin whisper a ‘whoa’, but your vocal vomit doesn’t stop.

“Frankly? I’m fucking sick of all this.” You pick the tray up and slam it down for good measure, unwrapping your messenger bag from around your seat, and you leave the table of gaping young men behind you, not even indulging yourself in Eddie’s bugged out, concerned stare.

You don’t even have time to throw your bag across your chest, when Jason Carver shouts out from behind you, “Damn, look at Munson’s slut go!”

It seems your group aren’t the only ones taking an interest in your outburst. Your breath is engorged in jagged pants of pitiful air, a fire coursing through you faster than you can handle, your skin singing, prickling with goosebumps. Your cheeks redden in humiliation, your feet swiveling and carrying you, fast and quick to their table, you throw your bag off, body like some damned slow motion track. Everyone notices Eddie’s antics, but you’ve never garnered any attention. It’s a surreal high.

Your combat boots click across the cement flooring, your hair like a dead weight across your back. Carver and his entire group are expectant, chairs scraping across to get out of your way. It’s all such a blur that you don’t even know your fist has collided with Jason’s face until you feel the pressure bite into your knuckles, a crunch beneath your force. He shrieks, his friends jumping to his aid, your stance shifting, ready to take anyone on. Your ears are bubbling with a murky static, applause in some direction, shouts in others.

Your name is being shouted from two different directions, the one you see stomping angrily towards you belonging to principal Higgins. He’s calling for help, shoving his finger in your face, motioning to your shirt. “This Hellfire Club does nothing but cause trouble!”

You snort, completely coming off your hinges, shaking the ends of your shirt, before stepping back and flinging it over your head, leaving you clad in your jeans and a leather bustier top no one could ever picture you owning. You’ve always kept your shit to a minimum to draw less attention, but you liked the support it provided your breasts with. You spin around, hands in the air, using the shirt as a lasso, tossing it at your old table. You begin to giggle, honestly wondering if you should visit the school nurse, but uncaring. Higgins is literally sputtering, making you snort, waving a hand. “I’m a slut, I’m trouble. Anyone have anything else to add? No? Yes?”

You bend back over to snatch your nap sack up, motioning to Higgins. “Lead the way to your office, Sir! Please fucking do.”

The pep in your step as your principal is angrily leading you from the masses is such a euphoric feeling, you’re sure you’ll never feel again in your life. You can taste the drama on your tongue’s tip. You don’t even spare your friends a glance, not wanting Eddie to have a morsel of satisfaction. This is your moment. Not as Eddie Munson’s best-friend, not as his groupie. As Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N.

~*~

Eddie Munson has been clutching your discarded Hellfire shirt, doused in your perfume that is brimming his nostrils full, damn near trembling for the past twenty minutes that finish up lunch. He can’t move, that swelling between his legs keeping him glued to his seat, all the images of your fist soaring into Jason Carver’s face, ripping off your clothing in front of Higgins and the entire damned school. He went from concerned, angry at how you acted, to so fucking turned on that his stomach knotted up, sucking him to where he’s seated, his cock throbbing in his jeans. He’s never seen you like this.

The guys are silent, unsure what to say, how to even go about comprehending the you they just saw, that even Eddie himself has never heard of. He knows one thing for sure—okay—two. He has to find out if you’re okay and what’s going on.

~*~

You roll your eyes at the lovely note, signature of a three day suspension secured by Higgins at the bottom. Crumbling it up, you slide it into your back pocket, rifling through your pin tattered bag for a cigarette. You already know where you’re gonna go, and it sure as hell isn’t home. No one is there and no one is gonna care about your minor indecency. You can forge your mom’s signature, much like you do every good grade you bring home that she’s never around to see, or every comment from a teacher about how your folks are missing out.

It’s quiet at your house, your space. You parents more or less sleep there when they’re not gone on business. Pinching the filter, you cup Eddie’s stolen Zippo, that ashy hiss helping beckon that sweet bitter taste in past your lips. You don’t desire that home front solace right now, craving different scenery.

Maybe I’ll get lost…

You feel like Hawkins is your oyster, and you’re eager to explore on your own terms, by yourself. You’ve got your smokes, your pocket knife, and a pen and paper. That’s enough for you to make a decision.

Skull Rock it is.

~*~

One thing about Indiana is the ever predictable bite of hot weather that March brings. Spring is automatically Summer in the Midwest, and this is no different. Your leather top had stuck to your skin in an uncomfortable crunching press, making you eventually discard it, leaving you topless, your only accessories a chain with your birthstone pendant and a thicker silver chain, with a cheesy little guitar charm (a present from Eddie) nestled between your breasts. Your form is shaped against the rock behind your bare shoulder blades, a cool sensation that has you tilting your head back, stretching your neck, treetops breezing above you—tall and luscious. You smile softly, undoing the flap on your bag and seeking out your Walkman and sunglasses.

In moments your eyelids are fluttering closed, shielded from sun rays, your Walkman clicking in place, readying Heart’s Barracuda to nick your ears, coasting in welcomed caresses. It’s not thick heavy metal, but it’s you. And in the serenity of these woods, another cigarette you allow yourself—you begin to drift off in a galactic solitude that is solely your own. You’d learnt how to count beats, read sheet music, even sing a few notes from Eddie, so getting into your song’s groove isn’t hard for you, your fingers wrapping around your chain, tapping underneath the swell of your breast along with the chorus. You’re off the precipice and gone, demolished to the point you don’t hear the familiar footsteps, the sound of your name, or leaves and dirt crunching beneath white Reeboks, nor do you hear a throat-deep groan at his discovery.

~*~

Eddie and you always share this in synch kinda shit, which creeps a lot of people in your circle out. Eddie, however, welcomes it today. When he couldn’t find you after abandoning his lunch, spent what was left of the day attempting, only for Henderson to tell him he’d heard you’d been suspended for a few days—he made it his personal goal to find you. Your parents are gone so he knows the times you do and don’t like to be at home by yourself. And with the way you lashed out at everyone, you won’t go anywhere he has easy access to.

That leaves one place. Skull Rock.

~*~

The drive feels shorter to Eddie this time, but the walk longer. He has to shed himself of his denim and leather, tossing it over his shoulder and clambering up the path towards finding you, keeping your club tee in his back pocket. The more he walks, the more he wishes he brought a drink or his smokes, which remain on his dash. If he’s wrong and you’re not here, he isn’t sure if this is reality anymore. This day has been one big mindfuck.

Thankfully, as he hears a loud tone droning over the clearing, a soft hum, his heart patters in his chest, nostrils inhaling sharply. He rounds the corner’s pathway, already calling your name, his eyes widening, jaw unhinged, fists clenching at his sides. You’re reclining against the boulder’s curve, black shades perched over your eyes, hair draped across your neck, your boot clad ankle crossed over the other, a cigarette perched into your puckering pair of lips, your layered chains swaying, slumbering against your skin, and fuck—your tits, Eddie winces, gripping himself to adjust—frozen.

He can’t not notice how your nipples are reacting to the air. He can’t not detail your shape, how your waist is formed, zeroing in on the baby bat you’d gotten to match his larger ones, inked into your ribcage, and he certainly isn’t forgetting your jeans that are settled over your hips. His eyes glaze over, heat prodding his flesh, shrouding him a veil of desire and raw ache. You don’t notice him, calls of your name falling on mainstream rock’s ears. He doesn’t think approaching you is smart, like a cat and mouse, your behavior for once—unpredictable.

Has Eddie just not been paying attention to you that much lately?

Suddenly, when he’s debating a cowardly retreat, baiting his internal monologue for an excuse, your audible gasp is heard, his name crushed between your gritted teeth.

Fuck.

~*~

In all of his glory—stands your best-friend. He’s balling and un-balling his fists, eyes darting rapidly, tongue sucking against his teeth, feet ready to carry him far away. And the more he avoids your stare, the angrier you get. So what, you’re not good enough to look at because your breasts are out? Modesty to a back burner, you take your crossed arms off your chest, scraping your smoke out on the rock, pushing your glasses into a perch upon your head, body facing Eddie as you stand.

I dare you.

Your eyes complicate a challenge—craving him in your proximity, and hating his grunge blanketed sight. Eddie’s neck is a really pretty thing when he tenses, his jugular agitated against a harsh gulp of air. He answers you by meeting you in the clearing, palms sweaty, scrubbing over his back pockets. It’s a cool damned drink of water, as if you’ve been without, making thee Eddie Munson squirm. But he’s still your best-friend, and you are half naked.

Covering yourself back up so he will look you in the eye, you tuck your arms into a push beneath your sternum, forearms shielding your nipples. It’ll have to do.

“Eddie, what the fuck are you doing here?” You snap before he can voice a concern or a question.

Tethered to deep breathing techniques, Eddie is insulted, and is biting back in his acidic response. “After your own personal talent show antics at school, I was worried about you. Excuse-the-fuck-outta-me, Y/N.”

A bitter laugh comes from you. “Oh, you’re focused enough on my shit to actually be worried about me? How kind of you, Edward Munson.”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I be worried about you?” Eddie is raising his voice, sizzling in a cautious rage. He’s usually happy-go-lucky with you, but you’re pushing these fucking buttons he isn’t aware he’s been hiding.

“You really need a list of reasons? Wait,” you say, moving to circle him, pinching your thumb between your teeth, “you’re probably, completely oblivious, because I’m just Y/N. I’m not your club, not your band, not one of your groupies that flounce around for an ounce from you, then leave your ass for their jock boyfriends.”

“Whoa, whoa!” Eddie raises a hand, rings clattering together. “When the fuck did all this start, Y/N?”

Your arms fall back at your sides with a loud ‘thump’. The heating has settled, your high wearing off, truth remaining as to why you’ve been upset in the first place. A caverning hurt carves its place into your chest, igniting an anguish that drowns you. You’re defeated. “It started when my best-friend forgot that I’m my own person and not his servant. Or maybe it began when my person was so stoned that he barely acknowledged a test I fucking flunked to stay up and make his campaign posters—which, may I add—he also gave zero fucks about-“

“So all this is because I didn’t kiss the very ground you walk on for some posters that you practically begged me to make, and wow—your A+ average went to an A. Curse me into the deepest depths of hell, please.” His bracelet slides down his wrist as he palms his heart.

Maybe you’re not the only one who is changing. Eddie hasn’t ever disregarded you in such a crude manner. Your tongue is practically salivating in need to layer on biting and cruel words, things you won’t be able to come back from. You remain silent, mulling over what to say, glaring, docked, stinging prickles of tears. It’s an elating elevation when the words do come. “I’m your best-friend, Eddie. Not your little groupie. I’m tired of you preaching about conformity, when all I do is conform to you. You don’t ever let me pick music, you always take for granted I’ll give you and the guys rides when your van isn’t working, despite if I might have something to do that doesn’t involve an all male ensemble. I spend my money to buy you cigarettes and snacks for the meetings. I manage gigs, I clean your band’s equipment.”

Eddie sniffs, looking pointedly at you, doe eyes dark and growing increasingly fed up. “Didn’t know you were keeping a tally, Y/N.”

“That’s… That’s all you’re taking from everything I just said to you, Eddie?” You can’t keep that hurt out of your tone this time.

Eddie shrugs, crossing his arms, coldly spitting out, “Seems to me like you’re sick of me. And that’s not my problem, that’s yours.”

Your head is swimming in turmoil, all your acting out and emotions swirling into a mindfuck. He doesn’t care. You’re standing here finally pouring your entire soul out in heaps and your person is pouring gasoline on the pieces, dangling a match.

“I’ve never kept a tally, Eddie. I do these things because they make you happy, and that makes me happy, but it fucking sucks when you don’t appreciate them or care about anything in my life, either.”

“That’s what you really think, Y/N?” There’s a flatline in how he’s speaking to you.

“No,” you murmur, “it’s what I know.”

Eddie’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding. He kicks at the ground with the toe of his shoe, brows raising. “Breaking Jason Carver’s nose and my cold, dead heart.” He splays a hand across his chest. Those rings, which are always a comfort to you, reflecting off the sunlight, dripping in judgement.

Your trembling wavers, crackling sentence structure falling apart. “Eddie. Don’t.”

“No. Fuck you, Y/N. Seriously, fuck you!” He shouts, snapping a finger in your direction.

Your hands rub up and down your goosebump soaked skin, finalizing what you need to do. Heaving in a deep breath, a sentence escapes your lips. And you pray, pray Eddie will heed this warning and value what you have enough to understand, to work it out. “Maybe it’s time to fess up to the fact that 86’ needs to be a bigger year for us both.”

Mind reader. A power you’ve never wanted more than in this moment as you claw at the cusp of your best-friend’s reaction. Outwardly, Eddie shifts, Adam’s apple bobbing, thumb swiping underneath his nose. Your mouth waters, throat reflexes threatening a fountain of vomit. And Eddie takes your warning, slaying through it, every bit of ground beneath your boots threatening to cave in.

“You’re right. Hell, Carver is right. You do act like my slut. And you have every right to change it, because it’s only holding us both back. And it probably has been for a long time.”

Kicking you would’ve hurt less. You’re unable to see Eddie’s form longer, muddled to a watery silhouette, your brave bravado dissipating. You won’t beg him. You’re nothing to him anymore, he’s just confirmed. You try not to think about the first time he taught you how to dance before your first snowball, or how you both snuck Jim Hopper’s cigarettes when you’d get in trouble at school and be sent to see him for minor misdemeanors, or Eddie’s pride when he managed to get you on stage to sing one song with the band, rubbing circles on your back the whole time you both sang to a trio of drunks, or splitting beers on his van’s roof and nearly breaking limbs when it started raining and you had to climb down, how he taught you to drive in the fancy neighborhood and you knocked over the mayor’s mailbox, when you watched him buy his ‘sweetheart’, tears in his eyes at a possession so gorgeous and all his own, his hands gentle as they held you the nights you cried from one stupid thing that felt massive to you, when he was your person and you were his.

Your wet, quivering breaths are what you hear. Birds chirping, wind rustling, even Eddie’s heavy breathing drowned out. It takes what feels like eternity, before Eddie is slashing the quiet, guarded and stoic. “You need to put a fucking shirt on.”

Your jeans are covered in tear drops from a bowed head, fingers shaking hard enough that your knuckles roll into a crack at the motions. You wipe your tears in time to see Eddie hold out your Hellfire shirt—second edition—his being the first. His reverie breaks briefly, and you think… maybe. It’s gone in those brown eyes that you can no longer read or recognize. Filled with loathing and disgust at you, his last words imprinting on your psyche, a physical recoil.

“On second thought. You won’t be needing this anymore.” Eddie makes his way around you and finds his lighter atop your bag, flicking a flame to life and nudging it at the end of your shirt. It catches quick, burns fast, like every fiber of friendship with Eddie Munson.

Eddie tosses the tattered, charred remains to the forrest floor, pocketing his lighter, walking away from you and out of your life.

~*~

He can’t stay any longer and watch you fall apart, not when he’s running away from his cowardice. And he does, run. He moves and clambers, stumbles until he’s from you and the cries that he hears pour off your lips. His chest is thumping sporadically, pulse in his blurry vision. His five fingers catch a tree, slamming, splintering, a sob breaking free of his tear soaked lips.

Eddie Munson forces himself to remember how unsure you looked in your dress when he held you around your waist, never feeling more himself in his entire life than he did with you— at thirteen—during some cheesy school dance, how you entertained his tunes so he could teach you the counting method he uses for his music to move your feet to the beat, all your encouragement every time he hit a new note, or your midnight phone calls to ask what he’d like on his posters, your body trusting him to keep you safe on those nights when everything became too much for you in your life, but you had tried to hide it, or when you both snuck in to see Carrie when you were pre-teens and you couldn’t sleep without him, so he made a makeshift mattress next to your bed for a month, about that time you were so tired from an all nighter that he had walked into his room and found you curled up in his bed, using his vest as a makeshift pillow, your nagging him to study more, because he’s always capable of anything he sets his mind to, and those cookies—the only thing you can bake without having to call for Hawkins fire department—a container you’d brought for him and his Uncle, still sitting on his kitchen counter.

He was your person and you were his. And now? You’re gone. Eddie runs away. He keeps running, leaving you to your own miserable anguish, drowning in his own, getting himself in his rust bucket and going back to his trailer to get completely fucked outta his not-so-right mind.

~*~

By the time your suspension is over and you can no longer barricade yourself into your room and finish off another bottle from your dad’s liquor cabinet—it’s sheer dread. You’re not only the freak who broke Hawkins Highschool’s Prom King’s nose, but you’re the freak without anyone by your side—a true and thorough outsider. As you stand outside your school, nails pinching into already weakened threads dedicated to your bag’s strap, you’re really regretting those couple of drinks this morning and how you’d poured more vodka into a flask to take your Tylenol with. Hell, it’s not like you can get a fix from the school dealer anymore, is it?

Those damned double doors are louder, a jolt to your already throbbing headache, fluorescent lights sparkling in your retinas through your shades that cover a nursing hangover and distraught, red and puffy eyes from a three day sob fest. Each step your boots make sounds like you’re walking to your death, your outfit—sans any Hellfire related attire—is all yours. Your two chains limited to one, Eddie’s gift waiting in a cardboard box you’d half-assed assembled, and tossed in random shit he’d given you. The deeper you get into every hallway, making simple turns you know like the back of your hand, your nausea grows as to what might be awaiting around each corner. Or who. It’s a short lived relief upon arrival at your locker.

You pinch your shades off, raw eyes protesting the moment fresh tears staple your skin in brushes. In red letters, diagonally capitalized across your door contains what you haven’t wanted to face since it happened.

The freak got dumped

You choke on your salvia, throat wet and enduring a suffocation strong enough to have you gagging on the piece of toast and water you’d forced your famished form to consume this morning. You barely make it into the toilets before double over and expelling everything, diaphragm on fire, bones vibrating through tosses. Hair dangling in your face, plastered to your mouth, you sniffle and tremble, vision blurring. You ponder getting yourself fucking expelled, but you made this whole ordeal about it being your year. If you retreat now, what will that do? Mustering all your strength, your courage, you flush your bile, clean off your mouth and face, pop a mint, take a swig out of your flask, and make your way to your first class.

~*~

By the ever popular lunch time, you have managed to clean your locker and pinpoint the culprit (an ashamed that a girl broke his nose, Jason Carver), but neither of you speak on it. You keep your head down, you focus on your school work, you take your Tylenol, and you sip on your vodka. Enough to keep an edge off, but not enough to send you down a despairing hole filled with regret and torment. You know you’re being stared at as soon as you hit the line to get your tray. It’s fake smiles and refusal to acknowledge it that gets you in search of an aisle, and hopefully out of sight. You aren’t so lucky…

“Hey, Y/N! Over here!” You hear an all too cheery voice belonging to Dustin Henderson. It halts you in your tracks, a wince causing a physical recoil.

It’s not his fault you and Eddie no longer have anything resembling a relationship, and he apparently has not told them, and they’ve not seen Jason Carver’s masterpiece.

Good.

What isn’t good is that Eddie is very much at your old table and you know it’s unavoidable. You wished you had borrowed some concealer for your under eyes, but it’s too late. There’s a grand staircase cloaked in invisibility beneath your feet, your stomach knotting in crushing vices, your cheeks stained with red. You walk to your former friend group, trying like hell not to side eye Eddie Munson. Keeping a steady focal point without blinking against your scratchy lower lids is damn near impossible. And guys are going to be guys—much to your chagrin. Gareth is drawing further attention where nothing needs to be, popping off with a, “Damn, Y/N lookin’ like she went on a bender.”

“A week long bender,” Jeff chimes in.

Biting the inside of your cheek between your teeth, you shrug a shoulder. Better them having knowledge of your binge drinking celebration than knowing about how messed up you are.

Don’t look at Eddie. Is your mantra for today.

He, on the other two hands, is not prioritizing that same aspect.

“So what if I did? I know of about ten girls who can drink your asses under the table, myself included.” You smirk, gripping your tray’s edge.

“Been holding back on us?” Gareth is grinning from ear to ear. It eases your shouldered weight tremendously, breaking tension in your table’s ranks.

“You gonna have a seat or what?” Mike Wheeler interrupts, his hands flipping towards a desired target, one that you wish you could keep pretending you never knew.

Fuck it.

You really crave for some divine intervention to help you, because meeting those chocolate brown eyes that are distraught, angry, and rimmed red—your heart constricts to painful blows, windpipes crushed beyond speaking capabilities. Eddie’s been somewhere off planet earth with that kinda high, you remember seeing his demeanor that way only a handful of times, including this one. Maybe he does care? No, doesn’t matter, don’t go there. It’s over and done.

Still, that idiotic, massively moronic part that Eddie owns of you—it’s billowing hope. Eddie Munson dashes it in seconds flat.

“No.”

You glance away, jaw twitching to control an automatic quiver. Dustin is laughing it off as a joke, someone else asking why. Eddie reclines his legs in your empty chair, loud enough to get your attention back. He wants me to see.

“No traitors.” It’s a simplistic answer, aggressive, no room to argue.

Ever-the-curious-freshmen, Dustin and Mike peg their leader for questions. You halt it, tone breaking apart, fingers tucking into your shirtsleeve as you balance your lunch on one hand and wipe across raw flesh to clean fresh tears from your eyeline. That’s when Eddie does look away.

Coward.

“It’s okay, guys.” Is what you say.

“What’s going on?” Gareth asks.

“I won’t be around meetings or practices anymore, but I’m still here if anyone needs anything, okay? You know where my locker is, and where I live.” You pat yourself on the back for that robotic but truthful statement.

“Unless you’re sick of everyone else too…” His deep voice rumbles.

Like a deer in headlights— you’re frozen, a blinding rage of hurt and red hot anger pouring over you in a storm. You explode. Picking up the first thing in your sight, which happens to be on your plate—a glob of some chocolate goop (possibly a brownie)—it’s slung directly at your former best-friend’s crisp white Hellfire shirt. Your second cafeteria incident that, yet again, everyone notices. Eddie yelps, shouting out your name in brisk spits.

You further it, abandoning your food in a repeat of days ago, floating to his side and shoving him back two steps. Eddie stops his rapid shirt swipes and immediately presses his form into yours, chests smashed, food squishing through your top. His hair is frazzled from the humidity, his toffee colored irises slowly polishing into a thick black gloss of dilated pupils. He sucks his tongue against his teeth, swaying into you, not touching you with those hands, an air about him that is beginning to swarm your initial reaction and bend it over, fucking it into the next decade. He’s taller than you remember, but you latch onto your own, tasting that cigarette soaked breath, lips hovering over his, hot tears matting your lashes.

Whether it’s regarding his inability to respond to your reasoning for this whole situation, his lack of expression, your self-disappointment for something roused inside you at his huffing proximity, you crown him with a title off a jagged voice box, damp in her sorrows, just as Dustin steps between you two, gently prying. “You’re a fucking coward, Eddie Munson.”

Teachers are starting to flock in, and you shake your head, hand over your eyes briefly, before sprinting in strides from the room in search of a place to collapse.

~*~

If you had told yourself at the beginning of the school year that you’d be in a camaraderie with the girl’s bathroom—you would have laughed. And if your mind had convinced you otherwise, you’d have expected Eddie to be right beside you, arm around your shoulders, sharing his lunch, making stupid jokes, coming up with lame ideas to make you feel better, but in that endearing Eddie Munson kinda way. You let out a soft cry, giving up on that stinging beneath your lids. You’re a hot mess and the whole building probably knows how alone you really are now. When the outcasts cast you out, where else can you go?

Clenching onto the sides of the ceramic sink, bag slipping off your shoulder and onto the floor, you keep your head bowed between your shoulder blades, not noticing someone come in and approach you, a gentle set of fingers laying upon your shoulder. Through foggy vision you can make out the green colors of her uniform and her perfectly straight ponytail, her face seemingly concerned. Your laugh is exhaustion on steroids, expression bombarded with emotion. “Okay, what the fuck is next? A girl craves some independence and the whole school turns against her. Let me guess, your boyfriend sent you to get even? Why don’t I make it easy for you and you can call your friends in here, and… and—“

Great.

Your lungs start to burn, your ribcage pounding with an erratic heartbeat, throat feeling like it’s been dusted with a thick blanket of ash. You’re panicking in front of Chrissy Cunningham. That alone has you feeling more pathetic than ever before in your life, and it worsens your heaving sobs—broken and unguarded. Chrissy’s eyes are drinking you in, irises glossing over with tears of her own. She grasps your other shoulder and squeezes, not releasing her hold on you, her soft voice strong when she speaks, but gentle enough between the expanse of your shared airspace.

“One, two, three, four. Okay, now deep breath in, and release it for me, Y/N.” She’s actually calming you, keeping you steady on your feet, which feel as if they’re sinking into the flooring below like led weights.

“Chrissy…” You aren’t sure how to articulate, still alarmed and attempting to breathe with her.

“I’m right here. Just keep breathing and counting with me.” And you do. And that’s when it hits you.

She has experience with this mind numbing panic too. That otherworldly anxiety. You feel a connective pull towards the cheerleader—seeing—not this persona you’d imagined, but her calming features, her easy going manner towards you, how she lets you find your lifeline, but also lends you her own in case you need it. When your breathing slows, she gives you a look, a silent communication of question. You may be able to breathe a little easier now, but it doesn’t stop the weight of your situation from crashing down and demolishing what’s left of you.

“Can I… I’m gonna hug you, is that okay?” At this point, if she’s going to put a sign on your back you don’t care. You need the human connection, the comfort. You agree and your schoolmate takes you into a light grip, but folds her arms around you and lets you bury your cheek against her perfumed sweater.

You both stand in the embrace, no trace of awkwardness, a sense of kinship and knowing. It’s when you pull back that hint of a questionable concern with her, wiping your sore eyes with a hiss. She notices.

“Are you here because of Jason? I just need to know.”

“Jason was a dick, Y/N.” Her language shocks you, having only heard her be proper before.

You laugh, your first genuine giggle in days. It’s contagious, as she joins in, hip jutting against the sink. “No, I’m here on my own terms. I promise. I saw what happened with your friends…”

“Yeah, I can imagine how everyone must be amused right now.” You bite your lip, facing away.

Chrissy gives you a saddened smile, but attempts to reassure. “I know this is gonna sound incredibly lame coming from me, but you’re stronger than all this, Y/N. The way you’ve stood up for yourself these past several days… I admire it.”

You frown deeply, wondering if this is a trick, because no way is Chrissy Cunningham admiring someone like you.

“You admire a loser that can’t even manage her own newfound independence?”

“No,” she says with a pause, looking down at her French tip manicure, before facing your curious gaze once more. “I admire your ability to stand up for yourself, despite what everyone is saying or doing to you. It’s a good quality to have, one that many of us are afraid of, you know?”

There’s this hollow pain in her eyes and your continued recognition has you pulling her in for another hug—this time for her benefit, rather than yours.

“Looks like we’ve fallen into the cliché trap, Cunningham.” You grin, pulling back.

Chrissy tilts her head, curious. “What do you mean?”

“A freak and a cheerleader thinking the same as what their peers think, and getting each other totally wrong.”

Her sweet eyes light up, her head nodding. “That’s exactly it.”

You share a knowing smile, a newfound bond forming. Chrissy situates her small shoulder bag, pulling out a compact and tugging you by your sleeve. “C’mhere. Let me fix that.”

She takes a gentle hand, not rushing as she speckles your sore under eyes with her own stash of makeup. After she blends it with soft fingertips, she snaps the lid closed and places it back in her bag, turning you to the bathroom mirror, brushing some of your hair through, giving your back a rub. “Is that any better, Y/N?”

Your circles are mostly covered, puffiness disguised enough where you won’t be embarrassed. You look and feel much better, and you’re overwhelmed with gratitude for the blonde at your side. You incline yourself into a swivel, leaning in her direction. “Chrissy Cunningham, I think you’re one of the sweetest people I now kinda, sort of know.”

Her giggle is infectious, and she gives you another squeeze. You drop down to swoop your messenger bag into your arms, grabbing out a your notebook and a pen, scribbling your home phone on it, hesitating, before handing it over. “If you ever need to talk to someone about all the bullshit, whatever it is, consider me your new confidant.”

She holds the simple sheet paper as if it’s another lifeline and you’ve just given her a treasure. Going back into her own bag, she has a cute little pink embroidered stationary paper that she jots her number on, and uses a smiley face to dot the i in Chrissy. Seconds later, her friends and a group of other girls burst into the bathroom, gossip on their lips. You and Chrissy flash each other a secret smile, and you make another hasty retreat.

~*~

Eddie had to hear a bunch of shit from the guys, overly bearing questions sounded off by Henderson and Wheeler. The eventual revealing by a passerby group of cheerleaders about your specially decorated locker, had surprised him too. As if there’s not already a weighted dagger wedged into his ribcage, one interlocking into his heart muscle—he lost control with his bitter mouth again, and it fueled your temper. But deep down, deeper into those subconscious recesses, you both felt that ignition start, a kind of coercing heat that is waging an internal war in Eddie’s head. His sole reason for blocking you out and refusing to talk about anything with you in the woods.

Eddie Munson is in love with you. Eddie Munson needs to fuck you.

It’s something he’s always done—built walls, got high, stayed drunk, coped with humor, hid behind his guitar or his campaigns. And without his right hand woman, he feels naked, too vulnerable to all the bullshit he’s tried to keep out. And your absence has become a set course for his weakening concentration on anything that isn’t you. His ultimate warrior princess is also his Achilles heel. Your feelings in wanting to branch out, they scare Eddie.

His brain is flipping logic into thinking you are seeing what everyone else sees in him: freak, failure, piece of shit, a nobody, a criminal. He pushed you out before he could pull you back in—easy, abrupt. And it’s not just changing him—no—he could smell your vodka soaked breath across the table, see your eyes swollen and glazed—absent. For the first time in years you weren’t wearing your limited edition shirt (thanks to him), and Eddie isn’t sure why he expected you to still have his chain around your neck. It fucking hurts.

As the room slowly falls back into their daily routine, Eddie loses his appetite and leaves his herd behind, urgent to get the fuck outta this building, out of Hawkins. Hell, maybe even the country. Like you, however, Eddie Munson’s retreat isn’t one that is unscathed. In his urgency, he smacks straight into you, stumbling over his own clumsy ass feet, gripping your forearms to keep you both steady. He’s processed your scent before he even takes in your beautiful features.

Fuck…

You look less like you’ve been partying all weekend, but Eddie knows better. Your pupils are dilated to the bright overhead lights of the hallways, making your sclera more visible. It’s bloodshot red, lower lids swollen and tinged a rough crimson beneath the fresh makeup that Eddie now sees. He swallows and looks away, but he doesn’t let you go. His grip isn’t harsh, it’s simply what it’s always been with you two. Easy and sturdy, safe.

You’re the first to downcast your gaze, focusing more on your shoe wear than on Eddie. It kills him. Even through these notions, this fear, whatever anger you’re both harboring, it’s as if this whole damned school and everyone passing you two are mere bodies, Eddie Munson and Y/N Y/L/N floating, tethered. His stomach churns its lunch contents, teeth clenching tightly. You make a brisk dart off, but Eddie attempts to catch you, instead tugging too hard on your shoulder strap, causing your bag to dump and spread out its contents at his sneaker clad feet.

Eddie’s eyes are quick to see it before you realize. Shining underneath hallway lights, scattered amongst notebooks and pens, is a small flask. His brows perch, he crouches first, scooping it away from your jutting hands. Gareth’s words rewind and play on repeat in his head.

“Damn, Y/N lookin’ like she went on a bender.”

The way his heart rate spikes, hostilely spitting that acid all over his lungs, battering his throat muscles with a pummeling storm. He’s already sure what he’ll smell if he presses the lid to his nostrils, but Eddie has to feed his anxious curiosity, unscrewing the cap with nervous hands, sniffing, shrugging off your grabs. It burns his mouth from its strength, his distraction giving you enough leeway to wrap your hands over his fingers and pull. Eddie locks your digits within his own, second thoughts gone. Against everything inside him he is getting angrier by the second, the anger masking itself, easier than being petrified and scared in front of you.

And Eddie is scared. Is he really so fucking stupid to think you weren’t at all affected by any of this?

“What the fuck, Y/N?” Your fingers sliding through his own, flood him, prickling every vein running beneath his skin, cutting off his blood flow—scorching.

~*~

Having Eddie’s hands on you again, his body so close, despite your shame at his discovery, it’s a feeling that comes more natural than breathing. You avoid his question, feeble grasping docked.

“Why do you have a flask full of fucking vodka?”

“Will you keep your voice down!” You hiss the words, finally breaking off him and retrieving the rest of your items on the scuffed up floor, and securing them back into your bag, Eddie holding back your liquor.

“Did you drive to school drinking this crap? Tell me you didn’t, Y/N, cause’ I swear to god—“

You chortle, a humorless boom smacking across your chest.

“Eddie, this faux best-friend act is getting old. Your on and off switch is enough to drive anyone to drastic measures. But don’t flatter yourself into thinking I’d be an idiot and drive drunk. Not even for you.”

His irises that are glossy with concern, they cave to dilating pupils, an animalistic rage priming them. “Oh, you have got to be the most clueless bitch alive, Y/N.” He steps towards you, frame towering slightly. You’re not afraid, never fearing if he’ll do something, because that is not Eddie, no matter what. But, you are very much dripping with rage at his words.

He pockets your flask in his left back pocket, rings clinking against it as he pats it for good measure. You try to dive around him, beneath his arm, but he swoops in on his own, using that strength for his slender frame, literally scooping you into a half bring-away, only discarding you back onto your feet once you’re both outside. You try to shove at him, palms resting on his stained club shirt. The bell has rang to signal your free period, but you don’t give two fucks, giving up and being the one to leave.

“Who’s the coward now, huh? You’re gonna walk away from me when I call you on your shit, Y/N?”

You spin on your heel, dirt and gravel specks crunched beneath your step. “I thought I was a clueless bitch, Eddie? A traitor? Or, your slut.” You scoff, crossing your arms.

Guilt briefly flickers across his features, but he shuts it down tenfold. “Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean I want you to destroy your fucking liver or your life. Jesus Christ, you really think I’m that big of an asshole?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore!” You fling your hands into the air. “One minute we’re at each other’s throats, the next you’re up my ass. I don’t know what to do here, Eddie.”

“Thought you craved some individuality and independence.” Though there’s meant to be flare behind the words, Eddie’s tone has splintered across each word, voice breaking apart. Your guts sink into your ass, as does a particularly pointed swallow that stabs at your jugular.

“Didn’t say I wanted to be completely independent from my best-friend.” Your own response is gentle, voice soaked with impending emotion.

Fuck. Stupid fucking tears burning again. Not right now.

Eddie’s attention snaps back on you, proximity closing in. His jaw clenches, he moves it from side to side with a closed mouth, sniffing, whistling air through a wet breath. “Feels like you’re leavin’ me and I can’t do anything to stop it…”

It makes sense suddenly. A catapult of truth slamming right into your chest, spreading throughout your body.

He thinks I’m leaving him. That I want to leave him.

As if the last seventy two hours haven’t happened, better yet, as if they haven’t mattered in the grand scheme of things—you’re the one that meets Eddie, reaching to push that curly hair from his eyes, his head downcast and posture sullen. His brown eyes are brimmed with tears that spill over his lash line, a permanent frown creased between his brows, mouth red and spit slick. Those freckles on his nose are suddenly very prominent to you. You’ve never seen Eddie Munson this vulnerable. Your heart shatters, the ache so physically strong that you have to remain close to him to hold on and find that strength again.

How could you have gotten this so monumentally wrong? Maybe if you’d have expressed what you meant more instead of feeding off Eddie’s anger. His communication and yours both need nurturing, but your sudden shift in mood must’ve made him feel like you wanted to abandon him, not just do things for yourself. He may not realize that yet, but you do. And it fucking sucks.

“Eddie. I’m sorry.” It’s all you can say in the seconds that your heart heaves into your throat.

He shakes that shaggy mane. “Don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me, especially you.” He backs away from you and you see his entire expression crumble, tears spilling onto his cheeks.

That pain drowns your throat, seeing him cry because of your lack of explanation and mutual avoidance. You chase after him, running around to block his view, unable to let him go, gripping onto his waist beneath his jacket to keep him planted. Another familiarity. He tenses beneath your touch before relaxing.

“Eddie, will you please listen to me? I think I know what’s going on now.”

“And look who is the one flipping her emotions this time.”

“Because, I… Eddie, I—“

“What lame ass line do you want me to buy, Y/N? You think I’m not used to worthless promises or idiotic reassurances? Yeah, good.” His sentence is fragmented, voice rough and breaking apart on each word. “You know I still care about you, but I don’t need you to lie to me, you don’t owe me a damn thing, I promise you—“

You press a finger to his quivering lips, halting him. There’s a shift in the atmosphere, a pause in the universe, your legs heavy, fingertip stroking along the plumpness of your best-friend’s full, lower lip. Eddie’s chest is moving up and down swiftly, tongue against his teeth, that warning look. You fail to heed it and Eddie’s hands tremble at his sides before he gives up and cups the sides of your face, bringing your foreheads together. His lips part to speak, your finger still on them. “Think we’re in trouble here.”

You can do nothing but nod as his declaring statement, inclining your head further, nose nudging his own. It doesn’t feel as if you’re standing any longer, every mean thing that Eddie has said, every disproportionate attempt of yours to communicate—obliterate, shrouding you both in the process. His breath is hot as his mouth opens and he sucks your finger inside, tongue licking its tip, biting the digit between those milky white teeth. It sends that throbbing nudge, snapping between your thighs, making you arch into your best-friend. You whisper his name and his fingers move along your jaw, across your ear, sliding through your hair and rubbing a pathway to your necks’ nape, sending an army of goosebumps across your flesh, the coolness of his rings stimulating your skin.

“Yeah, you feelin’ it too?” Your lids flutter closed, Eddie using his thumb pad to brush the corners of your lashes, signally for you to open them. “Didn’t say you could stop looking at me, did I, sweetheart?”

You grind against him, unable to stop. Your last several days, everything between you both is on hold, these buried urges able to finally win out. This dominant side of Eddie Munson has you an inward and outwardly quickening pile of mush and hormones, of fucking need. Eddie about loses his cool when you obey him, pupils blown, mouth looking parched and in need of his kisses. He leans, walls starting to slip, resolve crumbling, his pouting mood long gone.

Years of built up tension and confusion, being rightfully by one another’s sides, it all comes apart, the seams, begging to be repaired into what it has to be now.

You envelop his hold on you, hands sliding into slips beneath his jacket, around his waist, tracing over his back, before dipping under his armpits and grasping his shoulders, knuckles pushed down by his leather jacket. One more step and he’ll kiss you. He’s closing a gap, no more breaches, you tapping his shoulders right down to the blades in encouragement. It’s parted mouths hovering over one another, cigarettes and vodka, school lunch and weed, it’s—

“Hey, guys! Higgins is so pissed off right now… After that shit went down in the caf, he’s ready to expel you, Y/N! Pretty fuckin’ sure.” You hear Gareth approach, and just like, Eddie releases you.

You have to steady yourself, want simmering into a slumber in your belly, not yet gone, but still reminding you where it lives. Your glare is directed at your mutual friend. Eddie, feeling as if he’s been doused with ice cold water, and the moment is shattered, you see those walls rebuilding rapidly, and she shrugs off your hand, leaving you and Gareth, and that slickness that has collected in your panties.

~*~

You aren’t sure just exactly what Eddie is feeling, but you’re very aware of what you are. So driving to his place once you know Wayne has left for the night shift—it’s a no brainer. You’d debated bringing Eddie your box of treasures, even your necklace, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. Maybe, maybe your best-friend doesn’t want you to…?

Want.

A dynamic shift in your relationship, or what it used to be. You can barely sit still as you wrack your brain through all the levels of hazy blurs. So much has happened in three days, but… today, with Eddie nearly kissing you on the mouth, and you nearly grinding against him in the Hawkins High parking lot—yeah, you two have to talk about all of this. As you squirm in your seat, hands tightening around the wheel, that approaching trailer park sign signals your arrival to his residence. You can’t stop the way your heartbeat feels as if it’s ping ponging around in your throat, or that anxious twitch of your mouth’s corner—forget even attempting to deny your cascading memories of the way his chocolate irises wore an expression unlike anything you’ve ever seen on Eddie Munson.

His trailer comes into your sights, that tickle swooping your guts and holding them hostage. You swallow a thick ball of anxiety, parking next to his van, cutting your engine. The lights are all on and you’ve got no excuse to chicken out. It’s your year too, right? Fucking fuck it.

With your keys clutched in your palm, you make your way to Eddie’s trailer, rasping on his door lightly. You don’t hear his music blaring, so he might be reading, planning a campaign, writing some music he’d mentioned wanting to practice with the guys soon, get a feel for its sound—just last week. You have given about three octaves of knocks and are about to give up, head pressed the door, thinking he was just lost in lust earlier, and maybe you’d fucked up on your end beyond repair. Exhausted by the stampeding pain that brings your insides, you flip the Munson’s spare key off your key ring and unlock the door. A bold move—albeit—a very stupid one.

That familiar scent of Eddie and Wayne’s shared carton of cigarettes hits your nose, along with the leftovers from dinner you see sitting out on the stove. Your cookies, which have been devoured, are missing their note. You panic, briefly thinking Eddie probably trashed it, only to come back from that brink seconds later. It’s not what you’re here for. You glance at the couch and it’s empty, not even Eddie’s usual indent on the cushion is there.

Swinging your keys from your pointer finger, you peek down the small hallway to Eddie’s closed door, light spilling out underneath. He could be sleeping, possibly ignoring you, or he snuck out the back door…

Your feet make an echoing squeak across the trailer’s flooring structure, your fingers twisting the knob and pushing, pausing, deciding to go ahead. If he wants you to leave then you’ll go, if he’s asleep, you’ll go, if he left… You can’t fathom that thought, another ignorance that you partake in. You aren’t sure exactly what you expected, but seeing your best-friend’s tallish frame, with his back facing you, lean leg propped atop his mattress, right arm bent at a very clear angle, his left propped on one of his many amps he’d apparently moved since you’d been here last—is sure as hell NOT it. Eddie’s curly hair ruffles and is jostled across his shoulders with each movement his arm makes, his delicious ass clenching as his body thrusts into his rhythm, the outline of his chain on his perspired neck and damp strands of dark hair—clear. You don’t have to hear the thick, slick and wet stroking to know what he’s doing to himself.

You cross an ankle over the other, squeezing your legs together tightly, trying to bounce on the balls of your heels to get relief. Your fingers white knuckle his banged up door handle, your mouth parting. Whether it’s that bond you two share, or your very visible labored breathing, Eddie’s shoulder blades pinch together, his motions abruptly cut. He turns as if caught doing something he shouldn’t be—definitely something you aren’t prepared to handle. It’s like your mouth is speaking for you, eyes in a trance, enslaved to your lustful abiding.

Fucked out, blown up pupils shave off the color of your irises, your tongue gliding across your teeth, that take a turn to sink into your bottom lip, your toes curling in your shoes. You feel hot, body battered in melting flames that won’t cease, won’t let you get in a normal burst of air flow. You know without having to fix your posture that you’ve made a mess between your legs, panties soaked to hell—completely ruined. You’re honest to fuck not sure if you can make it out of here in an upright position, that painfully strong ache tackling your cunt, breaking off your common sense, leaving you Eddie-drunk. Helping yourself to a swiping look between his legs, he’s still got a ring clad hand wrapped around a very generous girth—shiny—a length that leaves saliva pooling on your tongue’s tip.

His chest is slick with sweat, tattoos glossed beneath, nipples hard from the cool air let into his bedroom. Which, you note, is really fucking hot, and the window is steamed up. Your eyelids flutter in rapid blinks to help you reign yourself in, but all you see are glimpses of Eddie’s fist around himself, that creamy and swollen head, full balls on either side, trimmed curls at the base of his shaft. You want to die. And oh, what a sweet and sinful death that would be.

“Mhm… fuck.” You say through the gap between your panting mouth, words take the opportunity to bust free, joining a high pitched whimper.

Eddie’s chocolate eyes are completely black, leaving no room for anything else but purely raw desire. They widen, a sharp heave in his inhaling chest, abdomen flexing as he holds himself tightly. When you don’t move Eddie takes the initiative, slowly approaching, a softness there beneath the want and knowing. He reaches your space, still giving you enough, but you’re able to still feel that radiating body heat. Neither of you speak, because what is there to say right now?

You’d be a pleading mess of profanities, apologizes, and begging to be taken and used.

Thankfully, Eddie makes another move before you. His spare hand joins your own on the door knob, fingers brushing your knuckles, encouraging, giving you one more opportunity if you’re in distress or uncomfortable. You hook onto his offer and you surprise you both by finding something to say after all, throat parched, yet still damp with wanton rasp. “Start touching yourself again, Eddie. Please?” Fuck, well there’s a beg.

Eddie, assuming you want a show, nerves being dipped in lava and left to forever sizzle and smoke—gives in, both of you shutting his door and closing the two of you off from the outside world. He doesn’t wait for you to back away, pushing his hips to a rise, his cock gliding through his closed fist. You let him lean over you, frame against his door, watching his legs spread to widen his stance, obeying your plea. He almost asks, but assumes it would be too hopeful if you would want to touch yourself in front of him too. You’re out of your mind, common sense obliterated for all eternity, watching your bestfriend practically pin you to the door and fuck himself in front of you.

Those sounds you’ve imagined, pictured, they’re even more pronounced in person. Some low enough that it’s a stifling whimper, a needy sobbing. If you don’t do something about the gnawing throbbing between your thighs, it’ll be total combustion. There’s an empowerment that winds itself around a pulsating set of nerves in one’s decision to masturbate in front of their best-friend. That coolness works itself in your palms, your fingers tossing your keys over and onto Eddie’s dresser, toeing off your shoes, his eyes steamy in their grasp on your every move.

You’d wished you had brought your camera to photograph his expression when you walk over to where he stood in front of his bed, turning to face him, your fingers undoing your jeans and the zipper, a resounding echo in the room, Eddie’s tongue poking out on his upper lip, he holds himself around the base, the urgency to fuck his hand as you take your seat on his mattress and scoot with your back to the wall, hips lifting to help you pull off your jeans and panties. You struggle momentarily, but neither of you are saying a word, gazes steady and unwavering.

Discarding your clothing with a soft thump onto his floor, you’re heartbeat thumps in your throat, ribcage taking an unsteady hammering of its resounding drumming. You heed Eddie’s silent command to continue, agreeing to this turning point between you two. Your thighs fall open and that sticky want strings to your swollen folds, glistening in the creases of your thighs, your cunt sopping wet. You’re dripping, and Eddie isn’t missing it when your arousal finally does drizzle from your neglected pussy and onto his bedsheets. You shift to get comfortable, hand cupping yourself, immediately smothered in your own juices, legs falling into a drop, toes finally able to curl without the barrier of your shoes, bunching Eddie’s sheets.

Eddie watches you from where he can see, still eager to be closer, but unable to stop himself from stroking along his length, teasing that vein that runs alongside his cock. You do it again, rubbing your palm up and down your lips, a crude squelch causing Eddie to almost black out, and you shiver. He releases himself, heavy and hot between slim thighs, and he’s moving. He puffs out a gravelly hiss from pursed lips, stalking towards you and giving a cat like crawl across his own bed, planting himself shoulder to shoulder with you to your left. He must be feeling the overwhelming change that is occurring, as he reaches for your hand to give it a reassuring squeeze.

You gravitate towards your hand, fingers slipping through your slickness, your head bowing in embarrassment. Eddie grips your chin and tilts you his way, shaking his head, that same hand dropping to your thigh and lifting to pull up and to the side. And he looks. He fucking memorizes you between your legs with these little mewling coos of appreciation that cement themselves into your subconscious. You do the same, helping yourself to an up close and personal view of what he’s been hiding.

Eddie leans forward and cups the nap of your neck, his other hand taking your wrist and removing it from your self-touches, shushing your protesting whine. He brings it up to his mouth, which is hovering close to yours, your own fingers pressed against your lips, and he licks a straight stripe up your creamy covered palm, humming underneath his breath as he does so. You want to slap him and ride him on every available surface in this trailer. You’re the one to speak, having to.

“Eddie…” It’s a meek little trail-off.

Eddie lets go of your wrist and uses that hand to pull his cock off his stomach, a wet patch left behind in his happy trail. He still doesn’t let your neck go, his fingertips tapping an invisible beat, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He’s laughing, tufts of air settling across your mouth. You narrow your gaze, moving to shut your legs, Eddie’s hand quickly preventing the action, stroking the meat of your inner thigh. “Only fair if I’m exposed, sweetheart.”

“But… you’re laughing.” And it hits you then, why he’s really chuckling in that Eddie Munson way. It’s an incredulous and mind boggling turn of events. Best-friends that broke up when they were never together, now side by side and in a very compromising situation.

You grin and falter into his embrace, your hand working its way into a wind around his neck, taking sweaty strands in scoops between your fingers, his pick chain draped across your knuckles. Eddie licks across his bottom lip, tapping your hips as he moves, your hands falling, and sprawls his legs into a propped spread, cock neglected and flushed, much like the rest of his skin, that you’ll die if you don’t put your marks on. He’s motioning for you to turn in a slow facing position in front of him, and that’s how you end up—vulnerable, so fucking vulnerable. He’s muttering words, huddled and unintelligible, reaching out and tugging you to him by your ankles, stopping, resting, eyes dark as they do a once over to gauge your mental stability. When you don’t protest, palms splaying out to keep yourself upright behind you, Eddie lets his legs flatten against his sheets, a smirk pattering his lips, indenting its knowing presses beside his mouth.

His exhale catches on a ragged breath, a passionate declaration signing off on what’s about to occur, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he pulls you close, your ass resting on his hairy thighs, waiting, held, his arm wrapping around your lower back and lifting you completely into that ink splattered, silk-slick chest, his skin sticking to your long sleeved t-shirt, ruining it with sex-soaked perspiration. You think that there’s nothing—no—you know that in this entire world, no matter what, that whatever will happen to you is never going to compare to the moment when Eddie’s maneuvering hands glide your wet cunt over his cock, using your drenching heat as his own personal lubricant. Your ankles lock around his waist, no choice from the close band that your best-friend has re-tethered you to him with, leaving no room or space where you’re not touching or breathing in the other. Your arms curl around Eddie’s neck, hands draped down his back as you help yourself to pinching and clawing the flesh beneath, relishing every little grumble and groan off his pretty lips. Your face takes solace in his neck, nosing your way through his curly hair, nose bumping his chain to lift so that your mouth can claim him.

“Fuck.” His throat constricts around a swallow, your teeth sinking into a piece of Eddie’s flesh and biting, releasing, lips closing over that angry spot to soothe, tongue tasting salt, licking it off, indulging.

He lets your have your way with his neck, a particularly harsh slap landing on your ass in following of your mouth on his jugular, letting your tongue following that curvature into his jawline. You don’t stop his wandering hands, you don’t dare fight off his vice grip on the globes of your ass, his kneading, using as them leverage to place you right where he wants you. You let him take control, an unspoken agreement, a having to have. Your head falls back as Eddie rolls his hips beneath, rocking his lap, solid presses that drag his fat cock over your embarrassingly wet pussy, scattering your thick arousal and smearing it across his happy trail, getting caught in that patch of curls at the base of his shaft. You’re dripping all over him, quite literally. Caught on a trapped hum, hung in its hisses between your clenched teeth, you croon into Eddie’s neck, your stomach tightening, that velvety drag of his dick through your swollen folds making your lids flutter closed, colors dotting in their dances—translucent.

You aren’t sure where to move your hands, comfortable with having them shred Eddie’s back and empty out the past few days of frustration and desperation. Eddie encourages, palming handfuls of your ass, creating a cresting twist, a thigh trembling rub of sopping wet desire. He’s merely whimpering, appreciating, not overly vocal until his swollen head catches your neglected clit, and his head drops back, fingers pinching so tightly into your skin that it burns.

“Oh, shit. Dammit, baby.”

You’re simpering on a series of whimpers, agreeable and speechless. Eddie is feeding off it. “Yeah? You needing this too? Little clit feels so good rubbing on my dick, sweetheart. You want me to do it again?”

When you’re not immediately able to be vocal, Eddie pulls back a little, shoving his hand between your thighs and drags his rings directly through your arousal, coating them in a glittering shine. His first real touch where you need him the most. You both inhale sharply. It’s the pain from the cool metal of his jewelry that makes it feel so fucking good. He curses, telling you how messy you’re being, flinging his hand in your sights, dragging you in a pry off of his neck, holding your jaw and flashing his knuckles.

“See what you did, messy little angel. You gotta clean em’ now for me.”

His eyes are so fucking demolished, brown crushed beneath a midnight sea of black and insatiable attraction. You’re mewling, tongue lolling out, licking that metallic onto your tongue, sloppily sloping around his knuckles, lips suckling what your tongue can’t catch, your own taste fresh off your mouth. That’s when Eddie brushes a calloused thumb across your bottom lip, tugging it down to expose your teeth, and he brings your lips to his, a feral groan stealing your breath, sharing your juices in your first kiss. It’s a shift in the energy you share, a no going back, no running away, a fate sealed. Eddie loses all control and flips you off his lap, pinning you beneath him, kissing you with such feverish vigor that your hand tangles into his messy curls, and you pull, hard.

His tongue licks your lips open, greedily removing what’s left of your taste that remains. It’s noisy and nasty in the expanse of his small bedroom—diabolically sinful. One hand caresses your throat’s expanse, the other dropping down with a snapped wrist between your thighs, palm smacking your cunt, a guttural groan vibrating from his mouth into your own. Saliva strings on the break away, Eddie’s gaze switching to watch the hand on your cunt, out of it.

“Your pussy always this wet, baby? Or is it just for your best-friend?”

“Only for you, Eddie. Always you.”

Fallen into the depths of satisfaction, Eddie permits a slender digit to drag down your slit, taking that thick honey with it, a squelch echoing in the room when his finger wiggles its way inside of you. You clamp around him, chest heaving with shaky breaths.

“Jesus Christ. You’re gonna drown my dick when you let me fuck you, aren’t you?”

You’re incoherently babbling, tapping the hand that’s on your throat, hungry for it. “Tighter.”

Eddie’s brow raise is comical, a surprise coating his features. “So miss Y/N likes it rough? Never woulda guessed.”

You gulp a pump of air that vibrates across his hold, trying to gain more depth from his finger. It’s moving in exploration of your softly wet walls, an excess of arousal being pressed out upon that squish. Eddie tightens his hold on your throat, before he taps his fingers to your jugular and releases, hand toppling down your side and caressing, bringing. “Fuck, my best-friend’s got such a perfect little pussy. S’ made to be destroyed and used.”

You’re nodding so hard that the motion causes a cracking pop in your neck, Eddie laughing that noise under a cute breath. He’s thick with it, wiggling in a second finger and causing you drop your hands back behind you and push into the sensation, chasing, hunting it.

“Desperate to get away from me all week, now look at you. What a whore.”

Eddie has a mouth on him, something you’d always wondered about in your daily daydreams and nightly fantasies. As vocal as when he’s singing with his band. He’s saying words to you, snapping your attention, you’re whining as his fingers leave your cunt, and he’s pulling you into him so hard your lips split apart, cushioning his cock, cradling him in that overwhelming slick. He must not have meant for that action to cause it, as he jumps when you do, this feral look flickering behind those heated orbs. You know… it’s time.

Eddie is barely able to stand, clumsily bringing you with him by a laced grip in your hands. He gets you upright and you’re dizzy, his hands taking purchase on your shirt (the only remaining piece of clothing on you), and rips it with gritting teeth and anger, as if he’s pissed it’s not the club shirt, or sickened with himself for destroying yours—you’re not sure. Spit pools at the corners of your mouth as you let him tear off your tattered tee and yank your bra down, impatiently yanking the clasp apart and discarding it, helping himself to your tits, closing those plush lips over a nipple. Your hand wraps around his throbbing cock, fingers barely touching around the width, squeezing him—tugging. His hips stutter and he whines against your breast, teeth biting the flesh with a harsh precision.

Your other hand works its way through his wet curls and massages his scalp, tenderly altering in beckoning strokes, ones that switch off into root tugging pulls. Eddie’s hands keep your breast cupped, switching off to the other, whilst you dip lower and fondle his balls, letting your pinky drop off and scratch into his inner thigh. He’s doing that humming thing underneath his fucked out tone again, and you’re focusing your attention on his cock, thumb pad stroking that weeping slit, spreading it around and over that vein, enchanted with how it causes a thin bright shine over him, your own cream matted into the curls at the base of him, pathed up his stomach. His mouth leaves your chest and those big hands grip your cheeks, both of you watching as you jack him with a sticky tug.

Fuck me.

“Who’s the whore for his bestfriend now, Eds? You gonna admit that half the shit I’ve done this week has gotten your dick so hard you can’t decide what you’ve hated me for more,” You say, pausing to twist your grip, making him fold into your holding hand, “my smart mouth or how much you need this.”

Your powering dominance is short lived, hand falling off his erection, with Eddie kneeing you into a shove until your back collides with his desk, his arm reaching around to push most of its contents off and onto the floor, not caring where any of it goes. He nudges your thighs apart and slots his lean frame between, thumb catching the corner of your mouth, his instruction clear, yet awaiting your consent to cross this no back-stepping boundary. “M’ gonna fuck you right here, and you’re goin’ to watch me take you, Y/N.”

You’re pretty sure you’re gonna pass out at any given moment.

“I’m gonna watch you, Eddie.” You agree, zoning out and sprinting after your pleasure.

“Good girl.” Eddie breaks briefly, mouth on your shoulder, hand winding your hair around his fist and tugging it back so hard that the ache inside of you becomes an inferno. He finds the underside of your chin, voice honey-hot. “Because you’re not leaving this room until there’s a puddle of me running back out of your cunt.”

You launch forward so fast that Eddie falls into you, chest smashing against your breasts, your lips crashing into his for a brutally intimate kiss. You sink your teeth into his bottom lip and tug, biting down so hard you taste copper—licking it up and making Eddie’s cock jump. His ring covered hand attaches itself to your throat and he drags you off your prop against the desk, spinning you around and securing you to it, those hairy thighs pressing into you, wet cock so close to where you need him the most. His hand wraps around your hair again and lifts your gaze to that small opening in the mirror where posters and his most prized possession hangs. You’re flushed and soaked with sweat, mouth swollen and streaked with red from biting into Eddie’s plump lip, your pussy dripping thick strings of your creamy essence, slowly slithering in dangles from your pussy and onto the floor.

“You’re so fucking messy, Y/N. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, baby?” Eddie is like the devil on your shoulder, and you, you’re his angel of eternal damnation.

You’re about to beg, but Eddie saves you the trouble, his fingers tapping in tips down your spine, caressing, stroking, before they spread your lips apart and dip inside, palm flat. “Should fuckin’ split you open, do it raw. Cum so deep inside that you end up pregnant with my baby and have no choice but to always think of me, be around me.”

Though there’s a tease behind his passionate words, there’s this primal exclamation that overtakes you and you clamp down on his fingers. A series of fast paced images are vivid in your mind. Your tummy swollen and breasts heavy, Eddie having you bent over like this—one hand on your belly, the other on your throat, feeling your pulse galavant beneath his touch.

“Y/N… Fuck, sweetheart.” He’s so fucked in his descending tone that the depth is gruff and tipping off his diaphragm, you imagine. He presses his cheek against your own, chin resting on your shoulder as you drink each other in, in the mirror’s expanse, Eddie’s tone weak. “You really willing to carry my kid?”

You meet his eyes in the cluttered mirror, nodding, a softness carving out permanent residence in your features. It’s a topic you’d never shared with anyone else, never banked too much on thinking about, but beyond the idea of how hot this all is, you can’t imagine a scenario like this that doesn’t involve Eddie Munson. Vulnerable and barely above a brisk whisper, you’re answering him with, “Yeah, Eds. Want a family with you.”

At your admission, he lets his hand go in languid thrusts. You groan and let your head shift, but Eddie is jerking you back to stare into the glass, both of you panting and on the cusp of an out of body experience. It causes you to grin, licking your lips as your best-friend pumps those experienced digits to cause a purposeful squelch, his rings clinking together. His hard cock is pressed between his own stomach and your back, that pre-cum pooling onto your lower back and smearing in streaks down your ass. You’ve had more than enough teasing and you’re well aware that Eddie has too.

His look briefly falters, turning to mouth at your chin, a silent question. It’s you who uses your words, or rather, trembles in your feeble attempt. “Eddie, just put your cock inside me, or I swear I’ll—“

He’s smirking wildly at your slack-jawed expression when his fingers slide out of you and stick together with your cum, to which he helps himself to and coats his cock, then lines himself up and presses the thick head into your opening, leaning down to bite at your shoulder and leave an exposed imprint. Your legs feel like jello and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. He’s going to ask you to beg, and you’re an all in willing participant. Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t. He inhales sharply, you hold your breath, and both of you watch him sink into your slick and soft cunt, inch by inch, until his balls rest against the globes of your cheeks.

You’re still holding your breath, releasing it when you feel him sigh, grip on your hair loosening a little, too caught up in the fact that he’s where he belongs, after so much time doing without this. Your legs are about to buckle, jerking, toes curling against the carpeted floor, overwhelmed by everything that’s happened, and by your best-friend’s cock throbbing in your aching pussy. “E-Eds…?” It’s a pathetic cry of a question.

Eddie’s brows pinch together, sweat beaded between. He grips your jaw and his fingertips tap you back to meet his mouth, hovering over your lips. “S’ okay, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.” He briefly drops the playful gimmick, reassuring you that he’s right here with you.

It’s more than enough to have you arching back into him, a brash pummeling of his hips that sends you into the dresser, having to reach out and catch yourself. Eddie is quick witted, gripping your wrists with one hand and pinning them behind your back, stepping with you in toe, elongating his arm to snatch those handcuffs on his wall, that cold metal biting into your wrist, that dull noise presenting itself as the cuffs lock you into place, Eddie gripping onto the chains’ excess expanse, using it as a leverage. A sliver of a chalky moan trickles off your kiss-swollen lips, appreciative. The way Eddie is manhandling you has you so fucking euphoric that you’re sure you’ll be in a comatose state before either of you can cum. Your best-friend’s large hand finds purchase in your hair again, drawing his hips back, the other on the chain of the cuffs—steadying himself into a rhythm, riding you like all that matters is your destruction and his ultimate ownership.

Eddie Munson has owned you since the very moment that you two met.

The way he’s executing such precise and rough thrusts, making sure you’re high on the bring up, toes pressing into the carpet, that you’re stuffed full of his fat cock until it hurts, twitching in overstimulation, sore and fluttering walls eager to be soaked in everything he has to give you, that you are taking in every inch, catching every ridge, leaving you a shambled, panting mess, in pieces only being put back together again when Eddie will allow your release. His hair is tickling your shoulder blades, his fingers leaving the cuffs to press into your mouth and curl over your tongue, relishing in how you gag around the digits. You’re weak, so fucking weak for him, and he knows it.

“Can’t wait to hear you gag on my cock, Y/N. If you have trouble with these bad boys?” He puts an emphasis, wiggling his fingers against your tongue, giving them a secondary push to over extend your gag reflexes, his dick twitching inside you.

You bite down on his fingers, sucking them in, accepting his challenge, willing it to happen. His balls slap into your ass, heavy and hot, every movement causing the metal to rut into the skin of your wrists. He’s got a steady tempo going, alternating it by dipping his hips to bring you with him, letting you nearly collide with your chest flush to his desk. He reaches up and shoves that poster back by peeling tape, revealing more of your fucked out forms. Your eyes widen at your disheveled and unrecognizable appearance, Eddie using your cuffed hands as reigns. Riding you so hard that you can’t breathe anything but his hot air curling around the shell of your ear.

“Dammit, you are such a good girl for me, Y/N. Always pictured you takin’ my cock, but you’re not even crying yet, just taking what I give you.”

Yet… Fuck me running.

Your scalp is tingling with a prickling crowd of flames from his harsh grip, his other hand reaching to smack your ass, using some mechanism on the cuffs—albeit—struggling with his spit soaked fingers that were just in your mouth, to unlatch them and discard them at your feet, and he watches the flesh of your ass cheek redden and jiggle beneath his biting palm. You fist your fingers into a strewn pair of his blue denim jeans left on the desk top, dipping your forehead down and arching your back, trying to look between your own legs from this new angle to see Eddie’s cock cradled in your puffy lips. He tuts at your unsuccessful action, forcing you back into watching him doing his hard work—the hardest he’s worked at anything (sans his band or the campaigns, if he’s being honest with himself)—to make this unforgettable for you. He hits that spot located inside, the one you have to strain an arm to barely graze, and you lose all coherent capabilities.

“Eddie… that’s, oh my god, oh FUCK. Right there!”

Eddie’s throat crumbles under a weak pant, which ends up coming out as a whimper. He remains firm, however, still using your hair to keep you right where he wants you, his other hand reaching around to pet his own shaft as he slides out just enough to make you wetter.

“Yeah, baby? That spot gonna make somethin’ happen for you?”

You don’t answer, mumbles and babbling gibberish. He shakes that precious head of his, curls tickling your back and shoulders, a sigh breaking free. “Sorry, sweetheart. Can’t believe we’re doin’ this in front of you. Both my girls right here with me, one of them at my fuckin’ mercy.” Your attentions snap over your shoulder and you see Eddie looking at his fucking guitar, that is one of the only things remaining on the mirror. You gape, but aren’t surprised in the slightest.

He continues on, pretending he doesn’t see your partial seethe. “Makin’ a mess all over me, but I bet you like to see it too, don’t you?” He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, still talking to the inanimate object. “Both my sweethearts are such sluts for their owner.”

You can’t help that rattle that clamps around your bones and slices through your spinal cord, seizing your abdomen, right down into your cunt. Owner? You have zero time to warn him, ask if you can, alarms unprepared, skin slapping on skin, his taste on your mouth, his breath on your flesh, that slippery glide that has cum running down your thighs, and it’s a sudden wave crashing over your insides and drowning them in your painfully interstellar-esque orgasm. Your eyes burn with tears as you watch your best-friend feel what’s happening, realizing. He’s covered in your release, and instead of being mad, he is influencing you like the little devil that he can be, plump lip pressing to your ear lobe with one continuous command. “That’s it. C’mon, Y/N. Drench my dick.”

You wish you could bottle the feeling of your first orgasm with Eddie Munson, your best-friend—forever. Finding yourself growing into that vulnerability that comes with the high, you seek to find solace in Eddie’s arms, whimpering at the overstimulation of his thick cock. With that connection still in tact, Eddie is spinning you around, dick sliding out with a messy mixture of arousals covering you both—his member completely doused in your cream, painting the trimmed curls at the base of his shaft with even more of you, slicking back some more of that happy trail. You want to be embarrassed, but as he’s red faced and struggling to breathe, you know that there’s no need to be. He steers you back onto the bed, falling easily between your spread thighs, drawing them up and around his waist.

He presses his forehead into your own, kissing each corner of your mouth, rings circling in dusting sweeps on the apex of your thighs. His voice is a shivered whisper. “Fuck, baby. You okay?”

There’s words on your tongue, Eddie’s taste on your mouth, things you’ve known for years, but are unsure if Eddie has, or if this is something he needs because he’s afraid you’ll abandon him, but that he doesn’t feel what you do. Your head is spinning and Eddie brushes sweaty strands of hair off your forehead, taking his cock through your swollen folds, pressing that spongey head into your clit—both of you crying out. “Y/N, m’ right here. Care to join me?”

And god help you, the way that you look at him. Really allow yourself to see him this way—unabashed—it stirs all those feelings Eddie has bottled down since forever. You press your thumb into his mouth, your other hand sliding down to grip onto him, gliding your hand back and forth, relishing in how his abdomen tenses, muscles flexing, body gravitating towards whatever you’re willing to bestow. He doesn’t let you touch him much longer, taking what your hand isn’t around and guiding it back into your cunt, that scrumptious burn brimming you, making your thighs drop open, back arch, only to tighten your ankles around him, digging your heels into his ass. He suckles your fingertip into his mouth, licking the digit in until it’s down to the knuckle.

Your head presses sideways, cheek on his pillow, inhaling his shaving cream and that spicy scent. He pauses his movements, making you frown in displeasure. He lets go of your spit tainted finger, gripping your chin, a possessive fire overcoming him. His irises remain completely black, putting you deeper into that comatose trance of agonizing sin. “I want you to fucking say it, Y/N.”

You start a beginning questionnaire, Eddie shaking his head and pressing in harder on your chin, fingers splaying across your jaw, rings pinching your chin in the most delightfully painful of ways. “Say you want me, tell me you fucking need me. That you’re not tired of me, and that you’re proud to be the freak’s slut.”

Your hands wind around his back and you sink your nails in as hard as you can, bearing down on him, sucking him in deeper, both of you in a state of no return. His hand tickles down from your face and grips your neck. “Still sick of me, baby?” He situates your gaze, lifting his hips to a raise so that you can see where you’re connected. You’re inconsolable, that fire already blazing your gut, turning every sense into nothingness.

When Eddie starts back up again, he slams himself into you so hard that your vision goes dark and you shred your own bottom lip open, body moving closer to his wall due to the force. He’s licking beneath your jugular, words sensual and filthy, making your entire body spike in a sudden electricity. “Gonna cum in every hole you’ve got, so you remember that they’re mine.”

This time you’re more than ready to give him a warning, body beginning to shake beyond your control, breaths stuttering in your chest. Eddie reaches down between you, calloused thumb flicking your clit. Everything is so fucking wet and the way it sounds in the expanse of Eddie’s small room, it has you opening your mouth, out of control and greedily begging for more.

“Eds, harder. Please? Almost…”

He’s grinning in that special way that weakens you—heart and soul, body and mind. “So much more than a slut.” His thrusts become choppy, his own babbling tone turning into Eddie-speak. “You are way more than you know, Y/N.”

You fondle his pick chain and bring him into your immediate airspace, mouths hovering. He’s nearing his end, cock getting fuller inside you. “Need you to tell me how much you love me.”

You both completely go slack. Eddie stops himself all together, body trembling, head bowing. Your heart rate increases, feeling as if you’ve skipped a staircase thousands of feet in the air and you’re now free falling.

Love… You don’t have to think twice.

Your hands move to cup his face, holding on, your eyes shining with tears at all overloaded emotions and senses. “I love you so fucking much, Eddie.”

At your admission, those beautiful eyes—dark with remains of passion—they fill, and he gives you his all, driving his cock into you in calculated presses, trying like hell to get you to cum first. When he speaks, his voice cracks apart. “Let me know that you’re right here with me, Y/N.”

“I’ve always been here, Eddie.” Is what you manage, thumping your hand against his wrist and helping him bring his fingers back to your clit.

He doesn’t let you look away, noses smashed together, sticky foreheads pressing, hair curtaining the apples of pink, sex stained cheeks. Your eyes widen as that knot begins to tighten in your stomach, unraveling so violently that Eddie has to grip your quivering thigh in one hand, the other keeping steady on your clit. You dig into his back, other hand tugging on his hair, and Eddie is giving a throaty seduction. “That’s it, be my good girl and cum again for me.”

And you’re coming apart at your very core, every cell exploding and rebuilding, gluing yourself to Eddie to seize the ache that scrambles your insides and leaves you breathless. He’s cursing, keeping his finger on your clit to help you coast over the high, immediately following you with the lowest, sweetest, whimpering moan that you’ve ever heard. Both of your eyes still drinking in the other’s pleasure, tears spilling over your lash line as Eddie’s hips cease and he holds, his cock swelling and that soft, creamy warmth coating your sore walls in spurts. He collapses onto your chest and you hold him there in a vice hug, his hand still trapped between your exhausted bodies. He gently eases it out, groaning around the wetness that he’s all too eager to sample until the layer of shine is off his fingers.

Holy shit and fuck me…

Your legs fall to the side, unable to stay upright any longer, Eddie keeping a hovering hand to soothe your shaking. He kisses your neck with a plush mouth, his chain dangling between your breasts. You’re petting his hair—which is so soaked it’s as if he’s been in the rain or come from the shower—off his forehead, wincing as he slides out and keeps himself by your side. You gasp and he joins, fascinated by your cum and his own seed pouring from your cunt. He raises up a little. “Mhm. Let me see?”

He props your thigh, sliding his fingers back and forth, zoned in on his bedsheets being ruined from the literal puddle of your shared cum that runs from you. Seconds pass and he grins widely, plopping onto his back, his fingertips caressing your shoulder, down to your arm. It’s a comfortable quiet, even with the intense meaning of the words that were spoken, until Eddie starts with a, “So..?”

And you cut him off, trying to get your uncomfortably hot body closer. “So I love you. And I have never stopped needing you, or wanting you, Eddie. I just hope all this wasn’t because we were fighting and you got scared I would leave, and —“

He doesn’t let you finish this time, that chocolate-ly brown ring swinging back around his pupil in a brisk develop, showcasing the moisture in his eyes. “I was scared because I love you so damn much that I would charge headfirst into Mordor, or some alternate dimension without any weapon or any shield, just for you. You gotta know that, Y/N.”

His softness, that glittering fragility, it makes you seal your mouth to his, kissing him full of your feelings. He cups the nape of your neck, drawing in closer, thumb coaxing a shiver from you as it passes over a certain spot behind your ear. On a wet break away, you’re nodding your head. “Guess we spent all week fighting when we should’ve been fucking and talking about our feelings.”

Eddie smirks, then is serious. “Be that as it may, I’m sorry I’ve been shit at showing you I appreciate all that you do for the guys and me. And for forgetting that you are your own person too. S’ not like I meant to, I swear. I just get so fucking caught up and I shouldn’t take for granted anything that has to do with you or with us.”

“Have I ever told you that you’re my best-friend, Eddie Munson?”

While it’s still true, you’re wondering when the words leave your lips. Eddie just fucked you so hard you probably won’t be able to sit down for a week or walk upright for hours, so friendship isn’t exactly the most appropriate term anymore, is it?

Eddie taps his fingertips to your temple, drawing your dazed expression, clinging to the cosmic connection once more. “M’ yours, Y/N.”

“Oh yeah, Munson?” You’re so high that you could fly out of here right now and make rounds around the whole globe. Your chest is aching with a tempo that promises new hope and ease.

Eddie is giddy too, that wide set smile, cheesing. “Just gotta get you a new shirt.”

The memory of your old club attire being one with the forest floor seems like so long ago. Eddie knuckle grazes your cheek, apologetic. You shush him. “I ruined yours, so we’re even.”

There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes and he’s tackling you beneath him, pinning your hands in a lace above your head. “Nah, we are just getting started on bein’ even, baby.”

~*~

Tagging: @littledemondani @prettyboyeddiemunson @gothbitchshit @thisishellfire @ethereal27cereal @likedovesinthewnd

-I really need to form a bigger tag list! I’m sorry :/-

Lemme know if you want on my general tag list, please! :)

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