#i mean man barely performs live | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 8 months

Text

PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT ─── cillian murphy ✧𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “I am turned inside out by the ache in your voice, the taste of your tongue." — ‘Afternoon Masala: Poems’, Vandana Khanna

pairing. cillian murphy x actor!reader

summary. you and your co-star, cillian, are having a hard time performing a sex scene for your movie. they do say, however, practice makes perfect.

warnings. swearing, thigh-riding, creampie, p in v, unprotected sex, mentioned/implied age gap, probably inaccurate depictions of actor-life, mirror sex, slight breeding kink, kinda innocent reader(?), AU cillian murphy (not married/no kids), SMUT UNDER THE CUT!

word count. 4.5k

a/n. this is not in any way meant to disrespect cillians wife😭 i js made this a not married AU to be convenient!

“Cut - cut, cut!” The director repeated, his increasing irritation colouring his voice completely. “Now, I said it earlier, but—“

You scrubbed your face with a sigh, getting up off of Cillian and the desk, who was propping himself up by the elbows. “It’s not passionate enough,” you finished flatly for your director, who nodded earnestly.

“I promise, this is as tiring for me as it is for you. Remember,” the director continued, the script half curled in his hands and making a thin flapping noise, “it’s the culmination of six months of pining. Six months of taboo, unrelenting, electric tension. Nothing more than stares in class and brief touches- you are supposed to be bordering feral for one another.”

You, and your co-star, Cillian, were currently filming the first sex scene of a movie portraying the forbidden, toxic love affair between a barely 18 teenage student and her much older teacher. Well, not exactly filming- you weren’t getting far with the scene, for the two of you just couldn’t get it right. Or, as the director liked to say, passionate enough.

The role was already incredibly taxing, even without the added stress of the sex scene: it was 20 hour work days, living on set in a trailer far from home, having to devote at least half of those hours to filming this very sex scene, and had a perfectionist director like yours.

The problem was that it was long, and the director wanted it done in one take. Brilliant man, he was, and had a love for this project you wished every director had for theirs, but he was adamant on it being done perfectly. He said it was intended to be the “primary and most iconic” scene of the entire film, for it was the crux of the story; the point of no return for the characters.

“With all due respect, I’ve never imagined such a scenario, much less had experience. Just how can you expect me to portray a student-teacher romance accurately?“

“That’s your job: to imagine and perform.” The director demanded, obviously up to his ears in frustration.

Just before you retorted irately, Cillian cut in smoothly. “I think what she means,” he said, watching the veins in the director’s forehead nearly burst, “is that it’s hard to perform because it’s not common. S’easy to act in love because there’s love all around, yeah? We don’t have much to go off of, visually.”

The director’s gaze rapidly flitted between you and Cillian for a moment, before letting go of his anger and sighing wearily. “You’ve never even thought about a superior that way? Someone older than you?” he pressed, obviously joking and trying to lighten the set’s mood.

You paused, and tried not to look at Cillian, your blatantly gorgeous forty-something co-star who was chosen for this role firstly, because of his stellar acting and secondly, because of how fucking attractive he was.

His character was a total fucking creep, and you knew casting Cillian had been a calculated choice; all in the name of making the audience’s guard come down to be smacked in the face by his immorality later. He was meant to be charming, handsome, and terribly, totally, off-limits: the object of completely forbidden desire, the line your character was desperate to cross.

It seemed the same in real life, too: the young inexperienced actress wanting to ignore those societal niceties and pine wholeheartedly over the middle-aged actor with decades of knowledge under his belt.

You weren’t, like, in love or anything, but you certainly reveled in his presence: he was patient, kind, and completely understanding of your lack of experience, always guiding you through all the steps an actor takes during filming like when to take off hair and makeup, what best to say to family and friends prying for details- all the things, he said, he wished someone told him when he was first starting out.

You were afraid you two had unknowingly fallen into a mentor-mentee dynamic, but there were always those spare moments, between hearty fits of laughter and silly conversation that you’d never expected to come from such an intimidating man as Cillian, where his rough hands would brush past your waist, gaze dragging up and down your body, sounding sensual and provocative despite nothing dirty leaving his mouth at all.

He made your insides pulse, especially when your more intimate scenes came about, and you could only have a lusting woman’s pipedream that he felt the same.

You still remember the first sequence you’d done with him: in the movie, your characters met after-class to make up for a missed exam, and it was the start of their corrupt attraction. Cillian had been pressed against your back, leaning over you to pressuringly peer at the test, large hand gripping your shoulder. The air felt steamy then, his body warm, low voice making you feel lightheaded as he recited his lines.

You shivered at the remembrance of the moment, coming back to reality, and you answered the director’s question with a vehement shake of the head.

The director let out a (strained) laugh, and smacked his palm lightly with the script, shoulders slumping. “Okay. Okay, we’ll - we’ll break for today. Take this extra time to imagine, research, anything- just practice the scene, alright? Practice makes perfect.”

You and Cillian nodded simultaneously, giving eachother a look that just screamed “he’s ridiculous” before tearing away from each other's stare to return to your trailers.

Later, you were getting ready to go to bed, peeling your freshly showered hair out of a small towel, when there was a knock at your trailer door.

“One second,” you called out, pulling on your silk sleep shorts. You vaguely registered how awkward it might be to be seen in your pajamas if the director or one of your fellow actors came about, but you were way too tired to care.

You did care, however, self-consciously crossing your arms and covering your thinly-clothed chest, when you opened the door and there on the steps stood your co-star, Cillian.

Before speaking, he looked you up and down, icy blue eyes gleaming behind an unfamiliar pair of tortoise shell frames. “You goin’ to bed?” he finally asked, tone husky.

His gaze lingered on the bare skin of your legs for a few seconds longer and you shifted uncomfortably, crossing your ankles together in a poor attempt to hide yourself.

“What do you need?” you asked briskly, more sharp than you meant it to be.

“Sorry,” he corrected himself, shaking his head and finally looking you in the eye. “I meant’a come by earlier… got caught up. I know this, ah, sex scene is tripping us up, so…” he trailed off, lifting up the white script he’d been holding behind his back. “Y’up for some practice?”

You blinked rapidly at the simple, innocent request. Mere rehearsal, not some lecherous late-night escapade you’d been dreaming up in your mind. “Oh… yes, of course,” you nodded numbly, moving out of the way to let him step in.

Only moments later, when he’d perched onto the edge of your vanity — looking uniquely casual in what you assumed was his version of pajamas: baggy gray sweatpants and a fitted, well-worn black t-shirt — did you realize the connotations of rehearsing your sex scene.

Sure, it was all pre-determined, every word you’d say and every action you’d perform, but still. Saying- and doing, such suggestive things after-hours? That was beyond your dirtiest fantasies.

However, you shook yourself internally: Cillian had come to rehearse the scene with professional intentions. Honestly, he’d probably done so because he was tired of you messing up the scene. He could do his own part masterfully, and you knew that if it’d been a better, more experienced actress by his side, filming would’ve moved on ages ago.

You took shaky, tentative steps near him, settling on your bed, watching him flip through the script— when he looked up and frowned.

“What’re you doing? Come here,” he gestured for you to come closer, almost a command. “We don’t have a desk, so we can use your vanity.”

You nodded, biting your lip and nervously complying with his words. “So, we’ll start from the beginning?” you asked, your voice -- and legs -- suddenly feeling terribly weak.

His eyes were still trained on the paper as he answered. “Not necessarily. The sex part s’really the only thing we’re having trouble with, yeah?”

You gulped, throat dry. “Yeah, I guess so.”

With that, he chanced one last look at the script, before diving into the scene. His actions were ones you were extremely familiar with, having attempted this scene everyday for at least a week now.

His body turned to yours, hands coming up to your jaw, and pressing your back onto the table slightly. He held you tightly, and made you look at him, while delivering his lines softly, memorable Irish accent replaced by his character’s generic American one.

Jiltedly, you did the same, poorly remembering what you needed to say and dragging through it like some amateur. “Fuck, sorry,” you cursed suddenly, tearing away from his touch and sighing.

He gave you a small, careful smile, immediately breaking out of character and taking a step away from the vanity. “No need t’be nervous. Practice makes perfect, right?”

You snorted at his quoting of the director. “I just… I don’t know what he means by passionate. I’m trying to be professional about this but - but I’ve seriously never been in some steamy love-affair.”

“Can’t really expect that of you, can we? You’re too young, too much’ve a good girl for that kinda ‘ting.” He said, hand coming up to your shoulder, the one where your silk tanktop’s spaghetti strap had slipped off, rubbing it soothingly.

You practically melted into a puddle at both the pet name and how the rough pads of his fingers brushed against your sensitive skin. You were so entranced you almost whined when he stopped and pulled up your fallen strap, but instead you wordlessly snatched the script that was dropped onto the table and found one of the lines, inhaling sharply and readying yourself.

Your hand came up to tug on the sleeve of Cillian’s shirt, as dictated by the script. “Sir, please,” you whispered out in your character’s high pitched voice, “I - I… want you to touch me.”

“This is -- wrong. I’m your teacher, and I…” Cillian responded, swiftly back in character, the back of his palm grazing your cheek. “I gotta break your heart, darling.”

You looked up at Cillian, summoning crocodile tears to fill your gaze. “Please. I need you.” Then, one of your clammy hands ran down Cillian’s chest as you spoke, like it did back on set. “I think of you, at night. I soaked through my shorts the day you scolded me.”

You heard Cillian’s breath hitch- his character, you reminded yourself. “Fucking hell… I think of you in class, sweetheart,” he growled out perfectly.

So far, so good, you thought. It wasn’t awkward, and was already miles better than the lackluster performances you’d given previously. You continued by leaning into Cillian’s touch, making him sit on the vanity— the part of the scene you’d gotten to this morning, before the director called cut.

This time, however, Cillian’s actions differed from the ones he was supposed to perform: instead of petting the crown of your head, his fingers trailed down your hips, sending shivers down your spine.

“I’ll be good for you, sir,” you recited, face growing hot as his hand inched closer to the curve of your ass. “You can do whatever you want to me.”

Cillian’s gaze had darkened now, flitting over your features. He didn’t say his line - or, had at least missed the timing, and you removed your hands from his body worriedly. “Are you alright—“

Before you could finish your sentence, Cillian had grabbed you by the ass, switching your places and setting you down on the edge of the vanity.

“Cillian!“ you squeaked out, the only thing you could really say as you processed what exactly just happened. Your mind was swimming with confusion — and anticipation — as he stood before you, legs pressing on either side of your knees and trapping you on the vanity.

“Improv,” he promised quietly in his telltale Irish accent, a sly wink appearing on his sharp features.

You bit your lip, nodded, and repeated your line. You trusted him to guide you — and the rehearsal — because, as mentioned before, he did these kinds of things often. If he thought you’d act better if you sat on the vanity, you’d sit on the vanity.

His hand then pet your hair, the other hand coming up to your chin and making you look up at him. “Whatever I want?” he murmured, back on track with the script.

You bat your lashes at him. “Everything. I’m yours.”

Now, this is where you thought Cillian would stop— because after your line came the kissing and the touching and the heavy petting: all things you thus far hadn’t filmed at all, because you couldn’t even get the dialogue out right.

Instead, he leaned down and began to press hungry kisses down your neck, making you gasp.

“What are you—“

“Shh,” he demanded softly, “it's all part of the scene, remember?”

You blinked dumbly, mouth opening and closing, unable to register a coherent thought or word. He said it was part of the scene but you’d read that script, and his teeth nipping lightly at your skin was not written anywhere within it.

But, you gulped down your thoughts, and belted out several more of your lines in tandem to his own. With his other hand gripping your thigh so tight you thought it might bruise, you were starting to think that maybe this was one of those lecherous late-night escapades you were dreaming of.

All you’d been doing was acting, like he’d asked, but still, you could see clear as day how that’d affect him— how easily it could be to succumb. After all, you were just barely restraining yourself from jumping his bones: how could you not, with his gorgeous face just inches away from yours?

Well, acting or not, you’d enjoy every minute of this.

When one of his hands began playing with the waistband of your shorts as he suckled on your pulse, that just right spot on your neck, you couldn’t help the whimper that left your mouth.

However, the noise seemed to startle him; jumpshock him back to reality, and your suspicions became completely confirmed when he pulled away from you roughly.

“Fuck, I’m—“ a pained grimace washed over his features, looking you up and down like he just realized what he’d been doing. “I don’t know what came over me, I— shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have come here tonight.”

You stared at him, body disappointed at the lack of touch, watching him press his pink lips into a conflicted white line. “What - what d’you mean?”

His gaze coursed over your every feature, so intently you thought he was admiring your face. “I can’t— we can’t happen. Y’too young, you’re, you’re too…”

“Then we can stop. If that’s what you want,” you murmured coyly, hand coming up to pick a piece of thread off his thin shirt. “But only if you ask. C’mon, say it: I don’t want you and I want this to stop.”

He groaned, biting his lip. “Don’t do that. I can’t do that.”

“Do what?” You tilted your head to the side.

“Tease. Because you know I won’t tell you to stop. ��Cause I won’t be able to fucking control m’self,” he grumbled, before pressing a desperate, deep kiss to your lips, pulling you off the vanity and continuing down your chest.

“Then don’t. Take me for everything I have,” you whined, following his every move and manhandling touch.

He breathed heavily between kisses. “Saying those kinds’a words with that pretty voice of yours… fuck, you’re doing things to me.”

Your hands were trailing all over his body, and then you tugged his shirt off, desperate to feel him. He had similar thoughts, fingers dipping into your silk shorts and petting your hot mound.

“Need you,” you panted, and, at your words, he suddenly tore off your silk shorts and panties in one clean go, making you shiver.

He then sat down on your vanity chair and roughly grabbed you by the hips to place yourself onto one of his thighs. The thick fabric of his sweatpants, taking in your wetness like a sponge, made you wince.

“Go on then,” he demanded darkly, “get y’self off on my fucking thigh. Show me how bad you need me.”

You bit your lip, face burning with shame at the order. But there was an aching need in your gut, and the way he crossed his arms, watching and waiting for you to get the hell on with it, had you clenching around his thigh.

Your hands gripped onto his shoulders, and you began slowly rutting against him, the soft fabric of his pants doing poor work for pleasuring your core. You pressed your face into his shoulder, screwed up at the lack of friction.

“Can’t do it,” you whined, “Please.”

He rolled his eyes. “You said you needed me. You’ve got me,” he gestured to his thigh, “so get to work.” Then, he suddenly flexed, making an unwarranted mewl leave your mouth.

You wanted nothing more than his fucking cock, but here you were, pathetically pleasuring yourself on his thigh until he allowed otherwise. You nodded resignedly, and dug your fingernails into his shoulders, starting to set a steady pace of grinding down on him, slowly building up the heat within your insides.

You were moaning now, vigorously dragging your hips against him harder, needier, feeling the pressure in your cunt grow hotter and more rampant.

“Y’hear that?” He asked, one of his fingers tilting your chin back up to face him. “D’you even realize how fucking delicious you sound, all needy f’me?”

You nodded, but weren’t really paying attention: you were closer than ever, just moments away from falling off the edge— when Cillian stopped you.

“Stop,” he spoke, voice filled with sheer lust, and you whimpered at the abrupt loss of momentum. Then, he got up, holding you against him by the waist, looking down at his sweatpants. “You made such a mess… soaked all over m’pants.”

You didn’t — no, couldn’t respond to his musings, pressing your thighs together in an attempt to return friction to your needy pussy, biting down on your lip to muffle your breathy pants.

He noticed this, however, smirking and quickly pressing you stomach down onto the vanity. You caught a glimpse of yourself for the first time since your shower, and you flushed with shame: your eyes were heavy-lidded and dilated, lips pink and slick with drool, your brows in a perpetual knit.

You looked fucking filthy, and when you felt Cillian press his thick head to your entrance, something you hadn’t noticed he’d pulled out, too enraptured in your dirty expression, you shut your eyes.

You were suddenly so much more aware of the situation: you’d fucked yourself silly on your co-stars thigh, the co-star who was twice your age. He now knew you weren’t a talented aspiring actress, no, you were just a desperate little thing begging to be fucked.

“Hey, hey,” He tutted in mock-disappointment, “open your eyes, and fucking watch yourself. It’ll be good for our scene.”

You whimpered helplessly, obeying him and fluttering your eyes open, as he pushed his cock past your dripping folds inch by inch.

“Oh my god,” you cried out when he finally pressed all the way in. You felt so full, stretched to the brim with his hardened cock, so deep his balls touched your sticky clit.

“So fucking wet,” he commented, chuckling darkly behind you. You were totally slick, helping him enter you faster, but his cock was still a foreign intrusion to your inexperienced cunt: you were young, and had never been the type to “get around” — at least not with the intentions of getting fucked so much you could take any length of dick easily.

You clenched around him, a groan leaving his mouth at the increased pressure around his cock, and he snapped into you, making you bounce forward as your lips parted with a sweet moan.

You’d been focussed on his face, in the mirror, but Cillian’s hand suddenly tangled through your hair, grabbing a fistful of it and lifting your head to face yourself. “I told you to fucking watch yourself,” he spat, gripping your hair tightly. “you’re the reason we can’t wrap up, so do your job and fuckin’ practice.”

With that, Cillian started pounding into you, digging the rough pads of his fingers into your hip, and you would’ve protested such a fast progression — having been given barely any time to get used to his long cock — but your expression was even worse than before, if that was even possible.

Your mouth was open, tongue out and panting like a fucking dog, your lustfully sticky spit spilling down your chin to your chest, and your eyes were rolling into the back of your head with each hearty thrust Cillian delivered you. The sounds you were making weren’t helping your embarrassment either, all unintelligible mewls and needy whines for his cock.

“You’ve wanted me for so long, haven’t you? I always knew what a filthy desperate girl you were, pressing up against me during shooting… those naughty hands on my thighs,” he snickered.

“Needed you in me so bad,” you whimpered, nodding enthusiastically, barely able to register what you were doing now with the pleasure washing over you and clouding your senses. Your back was arching into him, sucking in his cock and never wanting him to leave despite the mind-breaking ecstasy that was coming from his pounding.

“Just look at your dirty fuckin’ face… so pathetic.” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek; sweet and lovely, a stark juxtaposition to his unrelenting rutting and degrading words.

You whined at his words, but you knew they were true: you’d never seen yourself get fucked, always too busy with, well, getting fucked, but seeing yourself in the mirror like this had you unexpectedly hotter than before. There was just something about it, your face unabashedly contorting around the pleasure, Cillian’s hands snaking up your body as he rammed into you in the background.

Kind of like your own personal porno, you thought offhandedly, and you wondered how it’d affect you if you filmed yourself. Hopefully, with Cillian.

His other hand then came up to your folds, spreading them apart so he could see himself disappear into your hole. “Fuck, your cunt’s so perfect,” he growled, his head falling back, losing himself in the pleasure.

The orgasm building in your gut wasn’t like the one when you’d been grinding down on his thick thigh, no, it came faster, making you sweat and your knees shake. You wanted more, and you gasped out “faster,” and “harder,” to Cillian, needing him in the stick spongy spot deep in your cunt.

“Please,” you begged without any expectation of a real answer or action, “please, Cillian, please.”

He did go faster, though, to your apparent shock, both hands coming to your thighs to steady himself. “So needy,” he grumbled, pushing himself deeper and more swiftly into you, feeling how deliciously your fleshy walls tightened around his new pace.

With that, your high came just as quick, hitting you like a fucking freight train and making you scream out his name. Your orgasm wrecked you, made your vision go white and your thoughts stutter to a complete halt, and you vaguely made out Cillian’s proud hum, whispering “Good girl,” in your ear.

When you came to, your head was hanging low, your eyes blown out, lips puffy. Cillian was still thrusting into your worn-out pussy, but it was more jilted, shaky and needy.

“Come in me,” you pleaded suddenly, gripping the vanity to keep your trembling legs up, “fill me up, please, make your come spill out of me.”

“Good god, girl,” he groaned, pounding one last thrust into you before letting go, his cock pulsing around your wet core. He was pressed up to you so deep you could feel him shoot his load right into your cervix, and you grinned weakly, a sweet image of you: knocked up with his kid, your cunt so young and fertile you’d get pregnant from just about anything from him, entering your mind.

After a moment, he slipped his softening cock out of your filthy cunt and picked you up by the waist to set you down on the vanity and keep you from falling onto the floor.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, looking up at him through your lashes. You then bit your lip, feeling his thick load of creamy come ooze out of your used hole onto your vanity.

He noticed too, letting out a satisfied groan, spreading your legs lightly, before collecting himself on his finger and pushing his come back into your cunt. “Such a good girl,” he reiterated, going back to being sweet and petting your hair, doting on your weak form, looking deep into your eyes.

You swooned at his delicate actions. “Is this a good time to say I like you?”

He laughed, all adoringly. “It’s as good a time as any. I like you, too, if it’s any consolation.”

“But you, y’know… you said I was too young,” you reminded him, frowning slightly.

He sighed, gaze drifting away nervously for a moment before coming back to you. “That I did, but, well… if you wanna take this old man for a ride before I keel over,” he shrugged.

You couldn’t help the laugh that belted out of you, his words so ridiculous and completely not based in reality. “Oh, sure,” you said, shaking your head, lips still in an amused tilt, “you’re mine, old man.”

Before he could speak, probably say another stupid joke, your hands wrapped around his neck and you pulled him toward you, pressing a soft kiss to his plump lips.

“I like you like you, okay?” You whispered, sounding incredibly juvenile but twice as heartfelt, your tone wavering and self-conscious. You were bearing your heart on your sleeve here, okay, acknowledging feelings you thought should never come to light.

His hands came up to your face, gently holding you. “Good thing I like you like you, too.”

ii.

“Cut!” The director called, and you swore you felt your heart drop to the floor. Fuck, you thought, mind racing, what went wrong this time? Was it the kissing, or the hands in the hair?

However, the director came up to you and Cillian and let out an uncharacteristic shriek of delight. “Perfection,” he said simply, bordering on catatonic with how content he was.

Your shoulders slumped with relief, and you leaned into Cillian, who was subtly dancing his fingers across your thigh. “It’s finished?” you asked, breathless with excitement.

The director nodded. “That was electric, needy, tense, delicious, passionate, so, so passionate,” he continued with a gasp, hands clasping together tightly. “You are two of the most amazing actors I have ever worked with— you are incredibly talented, so convincing I’d have thought you did sleep together.”

You preened at his praise, but not without looking up at Cillian, meeting his gaze and barely keeping your expression happy and neutral and not at all warm at the thought of the other night's events.

As the director went off rambling about the utter masterpiece the movie was to be, Cillian trailed behind you off the set, murmuring lowly in your ear, “I guess practice does make perfect.”

#cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy rpf #cillian murphy x reader smut

5K notes · View notes

sm-baby · 3 months

Text

OFF-LIMITS

freakshow AU by @hootbon

Context || The Chosen one (Part 1(??))

PRETEND MARRIAGE FIC LETS GO!! Off-limits is a non-canon sort of continuation for The Chosen One!! Also Just putting it here: Showtime is not canon in freakshow AU!! I'm just.. being indulgent-👉👈

Word count: 7750

The pacing is a little off but I'll let you be the judge...OK ENJOY BYE HUGS AND KISSES!! NO BETA WE DIE LIKE MEN!! also if Hoot's reading this I'm so sorry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were many benefits to being the ringleader's favourite.

One of them is being proposed to, apparently.

She didn't think her body still had the capability to choke, but apparently it was all too possible. She gagged, punching her fist to her chest on the flavourly assault on her throat, hacking wheezing as the grip on the tea table tightened.

Pomni winced, eyes twitching and swallowing before sitting back down with a not-so-casual tone in her voice. She faked a laugh “Haha… what-”

“ I'm marrying you."

The man sat on the opposite side of the tea table, classy, with full manners. the way his hands were politely on the table, proper yet focused… Caine so specifically wanted the meeting in Pomni’s room... She was perfect for the setting. A doll playing tea party. Classic. Simple.

“ A-And what does-”

“ It means my brother can no longer claim ownership over you."

Pomni inhaled and stirred the tea in her hands. She fawned a fake sympathy towards his perspective humming along as if she understood his reasonings…but she choked, this time mentally.

Were they seriously still on that dumb brother’s quarrel? Ownership? She didn't think Able would want to do anything with her after their last meeting but it seems the tension she's been feeling between the both of them has been growing… Caine’s brother has been nicer to her lately, she assumes, still in the effort for him to be in her good graces… but she didn't think it would really lead to anything, nor would she let it.

“... Ha." Was all that left her. Pomni doesn't often know what to say in tense situations. She lost herself in her thoughts, cupping her tea in both hands, nervous and tense. Of course, she definitely doesn't want to do this. She was more so thinking about a way to decline him rather than a yes or a no.

Uhh… hmm..

“ You would still be performing, but this also means you get to sleep in the old manor. Or so I think that's what husbands do… unless my sources are wrong which—“

Pomni could spit out her entire drink! That changes everything! “ YES-" she slammed her hands on the table.

Caine wasn't startled, but rather, just looked at her, raising a brow at the rude interruption. he'd look down, seeing that pomni just spilled tea over herself and the table… what manners.

“ Uhh-... Yes- that- that is what husbands do, yes… “ she sat back down, her voice awkwardly lowering to a timid whimper.

The gentleman barely looked at her, rather levitated a napkin to wipe the table. It was a cruel silence, almost like he dared her to explain such rude behavior.

Pomni cleared her throat “ sorry, I-I would uh… love to be married- to-- You… ?” Is that how one says yes to a proposal?

“ Ha. It humours me how you think you have a choice in the matter. “ Caine snapped his fingers, and the napkin disappeared. If he were to be perfectly honest, he saw no qualms in letting Pomni live in the manor. He would relish in the thought of her walking past his brother knowing she was officially unattainable. A sort of trophy of sorts. A taunt mayhaps. A jest. A silly funny mockery.

Meanwhile Pomni’s brain was completely somewhere else…

To have access to the circus on the regular while having more time in the manor… no more stupid games necessary, no more-- having to kiss up and hold the balance towards both brothers! This was a win! Of course this isn't a ticket out of the circus, but she's going somewhere, and it's refreshing compared to the circles she's been running for the past few months.

Pomni looked up to see Caine, sitting across her, this time with a hand extended to shake.

As soon as she shook his hand, a ring formed around her finger, from thin air, seemingly out of nowhere.

“To show that you're reserved."

Pomni looked at her finger, and-- honestly the way he said that made her skin crawl. Caine always saw Pomni and the others as lesser than him. And the way he proposed was no different from a person booking a seat at a restaurant.

The deal was struck and Caine wasted no time to get up and leave the room. A small good bye greeting, closing the door behind him, but otherwise his business there was done.

Pomni was still sitting on the tea table, thinking to herself, staring at the ring on her finger. It was like it was part of her body. She would try to pull it off but to no avail, no budging or anything.

She grit her teeth… great.

The two went their own separate ways thinking nothing and everything about the transaction… though it must have been quite the sight to see Caine leave the room, and have Pomni follow a few moments later, now with a ring on her finger.

“ No f@#$ing way.” Jax thought, seeing the sight.

She didn't know what she was expecting, but it was certainly a Caine wedding.

The ceremony itself? she could barely remember any of it. Rather, small clouds of memories that were important.

The way she walked down the aisle so stiffly, like a gun was pointed at her head. The way Caine placed a ring on her finger, Kaufmo’s death gurgles as he officiated their wedding…

There were small comforts. She didn't actually think of it as anything special— more just a necessity rather than an actual wedding, but some of her friends tried to make it special for her. Ragatha was sitting front row in support not for the union but for Pomni herself– Kinger hallucinating, holding her hand in a father daughter dance. And Gangle making the the effort of getting her a wedding gift– or what she could give anyway…which was a drawing of her in her wedding dress.

Caine wasn't even present in the after party. He just placed the setting and left the guests to their own devices. That was honestly a relief for Pomni for a short while, to be able to hang out with the closest things she had to “friends”. She had the lone memory of Ragatha and Kinger giving her a drink, and asking her how she was doing.

They've both been well aware of her motives by now. Exit, exit, exit. At this point they were convinced that was her form of insanity. But they supposed that little bit of hope was keeping her going.

Kinger turned Ragatha then back to Pomni. “ We hope you know what you're doing.”

“ I never said I did…” the bride said, her pitch getting timidly higher. “ But– it's a direction! I don't have a lot of expectations either, but…hey, I think I'd regret it if I didn't take the chance. ” She looked back up at them, embarrassed at her short rambling. “ Oh! I hope– you two are holding up relatively okay tonight?”

Ragatha chortled.

Kinger answered “ We haven't been okay for years, Pomni.”

“ Y-Yeah…I… I should have seen that coming, yeah…”

Suddenly, a slow song came on the reception.

Most of them weren't fond at the idea of a slow dance at first, but a tap from Ragatha to a ribbony friend (and a sister begging the other) later, people were on the dancefloor.

Ragatha danced with Gangle, then exchanging partners from her to Kinger. The Gangle AI found it funny to force Kaufmo and his rabbit friend in a dance. The night was going off with a hitch.

Ragatha swayed back to exchange partners from Kinger to Gangle, and the magician was off on his lonesome again. He took no offence to this, but standing in the middle of the dancefloor on his own, to a song that used to be considered romantic, he couldn't help but freeze.

He stared at one of the guests in the distance, the one who decided to sit out the activity. The one in the dark staring daggers at him as they dawned the very torso that used to bring him warmth.

Maybe…

… If she was still in there…

He could ask if—

Before Kinger could take one step further, a hand took his own, the hand of a very worried bride clearing her throat and walking him back into the dancefloor. “ Kinger, this sounds like a good song!” Pomni laughed nervously, heels clacking as she pulled him gently but insistently.

Kinger blinked, and turned to her. “...Oh! Yeah! It is!” And just like that, the old man was brought back to the dance floor.

It was almost like the poor were invited to their first celebration. Some were laughing, and there were definitely moments of teasing and natural play, but at the end of the day they knew they would be hungry again. It was an inevitability. Some chose to spend it to the fullest, some chose to wallow, some chose to make the best out of it.

Pomni struggled to keep up with the magician’s stature, but they figured it out after their earlier father daughter dance. She would be pleased to see that He was almost experienced with the way he moved.

Her dance partner wasn't all that mentally present, but she could see that he was calm. The way he listened to the music and closed his eyes was disassociated. But it was a look of contentment.

His grip was so sure yet gentle around Pomni. Holding her like it was the last dance he would ever have with someone.

She could only imagine what he was picturing in that brain of his. She dared not interrupt.

“ I've danced with someone before... I think.”

Pomni looked up at him. “ What do you mean?”

“ I don't know who that person was, but I remember feeling very nice when I was with her.”

Pomni sucked air through her teeth. She's heard… read… stories from Ragatha. Although it wasn't the most in detail, she figured out the jist just from hush-hush language she used.

She had a feeling she knew exactly what was going on. But it wasn't her business to correct him.

“ She must have been a great person.” Pomni said.

For the first time Kinger didn't feel like wood. His eyes relaxed just from that simple validation, a moment of blissful unawareness of where he was or who he was. Love spread from his heart, to his chest, to his finger tips, to the… little…friend? Yes, friend… that he was dancing with.

Pomni was well aware that she wasn't the person he was seeing at that moment. He had no thoughts, but the feeling of a powerful comfort took over him, he didn't care to take back anything else. Not his memories, not his sanity, not his mind. Like holding the hand that he once kissed. Spinning her, laughing with her, holding her close when the clock struck a romantic midnight.

He could feel a tear escape his eye.

“What about you, Pomni?” Kinger opened his eyes and suddenly realised that his hands were holding at nothing. Not a person, not anything. Kinger blinked and looked around, that blissful feeling suddenly becoming fleeting.

He was by himself on the dancefloor again

“... Pomni?”

Pomni would catch herself tripping forward. What was once the tiles that was the dance floor was now wooden, and unfamiliar. “Wh- wha- where…?”

In the blink of an eye Pomni was somewhere else. For a moment she was confused before turning around and seeing her new found husband, back turned to her, sitting, looking down from the balcony they were at.

“ Awfully rude of you to dance with someone more than your own husband.” He didn't even bother to turn to her. He was still looking down, hands on his would-be chin, sitting on a long chair made of cushion and fine wood.

“ I-I was just dancing with—”

Pomni was cut off by Caine slowly patting a space on the seat beside him. The cushion, comfortable, yet sturdy. Pomni gulped before approaching.

When she joined him she could see the view from above…it was an indoor balcony built for the rich to watch the poor.

From up high, Pomni could see the other performers, and quickly she scanned the dance floor to see Kinger, shaken, looking around and interrupting Ragatha’s dance in worry for where she went.

Pomni bit her lip and sunk down. Guilt over took her. She stood on her tiptoes, hands on the wooden railing and waved to be seen, to let them know that at least she's safe, and praying that they understood that she didn't leave them but-

Caine’s hand grabbed her arm. “ No, no. Let them figure it out.”

She froze from his touch. Caine guided her hand to make her sit down and she sunk in the seat right beside him. She looked down to read the others distress and felt immense relief when she made brief eye contact with Ragatha which then the assistant turned back to kinger, calming him down without making it obvious she's seen them.

Pomni sighed.

On her way to lean back on the chair, she felt an arm wrap around her shoulder, then pulling her to her side.

She stared at it for a moment, the arm. her body stiffened at the all too familiar touch, before looking forward, sweating, in denial at the situation.

Caine crossed his legs, an ankle on the other knee, still looking on at the view in front of them. His posture was far from hers. Swaying his crossed legs, relaxed, and confident. for a moment he looked at her and back down at the party.

Amazing reception as always, Caine. You've really outdone yourself with this one.

They stayed there in silence for a couple of moments. Caine was all too comfortable and Pomni had nothing to say to him. The groom would say that his bride looked beautiful that night, but in the most objectifying way possible. She was an accessory. She always was. Nothing different from a beautiful pearl necklace.

Maybe it was the way he was gripping her, but Pomni couldn't breathe with all the tension in the air. She let out a shaky breath, a face comparable to a cat hypervigilant towards a cucumber. Sometimes she forgets how affectionate Caine can get with her physically, and every time she just accepts it. Not like she can do anything about it really.

“ Wine, boss!” A servant walked into the balcony area. A voice so signature, and unmistakable Pomni didn't need to turn around. Caine and his bubble were inseparable except for the moments when they weren't. If she hadn't known any better she—

Pomni came back to reality.

…Wine?

“ Thank you, Bubble.”

Pop!

Caine didn't even have to lift a finger, the wine bottle was already levitating towards him as well as a wine glass, ready to pour.

“ Wine???” Pomni flinched, turning her whole body towards the bottle.

Caine blinked. “ Oh! How could I forget, you've never had this…” He thought to himself.

He would never let the circus members have wine for multiple reasons. The poor PG rating would go down if their mouths were without filter. And also he didn't need to have a bunch of wild animals run a muc and destroy the circus tent. But right then, he duplicated the wine glasses into two, pouring one for himself and for his bride.

“ Consider it a reward for being so attentive today.”

Pomni got her glass, and held it in both hands. God damn. She hasn't had alcohol in so long.

It was as plastic as expected but wine wasn't there for the texture. She was just about ready to drink the night away. Pomni tried to play it with manners but admittedly took longer sips than what she could usually handle.

They both continued the night in silence

and Pomni waited…

And waited…

And…

Motherfucker, this isn't doing anything to her!

The visible frustration was clear and Caine couldn't help but let out quiet snickering.

“ Huh—!?”

Caine snickered again, barely audible, but less is more. Pomni couldn't help but feel embarrassed. There he is again! Playing with her like always! “ You didn't actually think I would let it affect you, did you?”

“ No—! I… I didn't even think that you could--! I..!” The woman gripped the wine glass. “ ugh! ”Had it been for the fact that she had to watch herself around Caine, it would have been in pieces by now!

Caine would continue to laugh, not seeing any of the woman’s frustration as a threat. It would take a great deal to scare Caine. One could take a knife to his throat and he wouldn't take it seriously. Pomni wasn't even sure if fear was programmed in his AI.

But Pomni stared at the floor, eyes scribbled, forcing herself into disassociation to stop herself from doing something she’ll regret, and suppressing any more anger.

She hated him. She hated where she was. She hated so much of this. She had a long fucking day and she really didn't need this. She couldn't cry, she couldn't scream. She felt the strongest urge to have a tantrum in her room but that wasn't possible! She just can't win in this shit hole!

Ugh! God DAMN IT!

So much screaming went through her head, but it was nothing but silence on the outside. She was just about ready to be completely immobile for the night. Mentally skip pass the rest of the day, she could just explode and she would be okay with it.

Caine rolled his eyes and took a sip from his glass, but Pomni’s overall energy was too loud to ignore. He sighed.

The groom lifted her head up by poking a finger on her forehead, and forcing her to look up at him. “ As much as how beautiful you are pouting, it's really ruining my night.”

Silence.

“ Pomni, do you want to be intoxicated?”

Silence again.

…Caine patted her face.

“ Huh? What? Where am I?”

“ I'm noticing your desire to be intoxicated. Do you want to be drunk?”

Pomni squinted her eyes and furrowed her brows, looking at him in question. Suspicious. “ What's in it for—”

“ I will give you the ability to be intoxicated if you stop seething. I will not have this attitude on my wedding night.” Caine said, grumbling, taking another sip at his glass. “ So I ask you one last time, would you like to be-”

“ YES!” pomni cried!

Caine squinted his eyes at that reply, once again unamused by Pomni’s rude interruption. But this time she wasn't apologetic at all, rather grabbing at his collar desperately.

she continued. “ God, yes, please—”

Oh he really shouldn't be rewarding this behaviour.

And just like that, Pomni's glass was filled once again. It didn't take her long to start sipping but their mini deal came with boundaries:

(1)She is to take her time and behave while drinking.

(2)Caine has the ability to make her sober again at the snap of a finger.

(3) She may only have one glass of wine.

That was it. Truth be told, I didn't care for anything else. If she gets aggressive he could easily subdue her. If she hurt herself, as long as her dress wasn't ruined he was fine.

At first it felt like nothing. Pomni was just calm, her speech becoming slightly slurred, but otherwise it was just Pomni. She looked light weight and she was light weight.

Ah, that's more like it. Quiet.

He wrapped his arm around her again, and this time Pomni just accepted her fate. She leaned into his touch, thinking of him as nowhere different from a pillow.

Pomni’s vision could go blurry with how little attention she was paying at that moment. But she couldn't help but wonder. The blinding lights, the food, nice decor… and asked: “ Why all the effort?”

“ I don't say no to a celebration to my name! and yours I guess.” Caine mumbled that last part in the middle of a sip. “… and if my brother asks one of you, you have the right to say that our wedding was official.”

“ God, you two are such brothers….” Pomni muttered under her breath.

“ Only by code.”

The bride put a palm on her face, muffling her words. “ No… the fighting. The quaralling, the one upping… you act like little boys.”

“ …Excuse me?”

“ I didn't even think marriage can be official in the digital realm… you make the rules. Might as well make wedding certificates and it would be just as official.” Pomni chuckled. “ But you married me cuz you wanted to make your brother jealous.”

… He didn't have the energy to reply to such an immature, untrue, false, made up, retort. He just rolled his eyes. He had too much self respect to entertain such false assumptions. “ Ugh…” his face grew in disgust. Pomni without filter is worse that he thought. At this point he'd prefer if she got aggressive instead.

Time passed. Pomni wasn't very pretty when she was drunk. She'd have the ugliest laugh, and the crudest things to giggle at, though, the last one was a little amusing. But Caine was just waiting for til the moment the glass was empty so he could— pop! Snap her back to soberity.

But something intrigued him.

She started talking about his brother.

Her filter became less and less. And Caine perked up when she did. She talked badly about Able’s taste in music and art, how annoying it was whenever he visited the circus, how much she despised his very existence…

…Caine filled her glass again.

“ —a-and that nagging voice! ‘That sounds wonderful, sweetie!’ ‘ Oh, Pomni, you're so smart!’ God!”

Caine chuckled, and started leaning closer towards Pomni to hear her better.

Pomni continued,“ Oh he's so pretentious! And so-- so—”

“ Condescending?”

“ Yes! C-Condescending, patronizing, I— what am I? Nine??!”

Caine laughed! Oh hearing slander about his brother was music to his ears! And to hear it from someone to passionately-- he can't get enough! This was making his night!

“ S-say… was my glass always so full?” Pomni turned to her wine glass. She could have sworn she's been drinking for an hour at this point… she doesn't remember refilling it!

“ Hm? Oh, no no, digital hellucinations, my dear. Do carry on with what you were saying.” Caine pushed her wine glass closer to her chest, not bringing much attention to it.

“ Oh. Right. As I was saying…”

Oh Caine was having the time of his life. Smug chuckling left his teeth, absolutely enraptured by Pomni’s unfiltered bad mouthing. Shes been putting into words feelings he held for far too long. Ahh, he could stay there for hours.

“ I mean— at least you don't even-- try to hide that you don't like me. You don't act like friends with any of us.”

Caine could feel himself blush, playfully swiping his wrist at her. “ Oh you're too much.” She was praising him now? Why, Christmas came early! How can he not enable this behaviour? “ Keep going.”

The trauma bonding would further on, but at some point Pomni tuckered herself out. The alcohol was getting her, she's been talking long enough, she's been full of hate enough today. Pomni leaned her head back on the chair to doze off, before Caine shook her awake.

“ Hey!” He grabbed her face, mushing both her cheeks. “ Awaken! Tonight hasn't ended yet. We have yet to full-fill the husband/wife quota.”

“ Mmm…you're already my husband, remember? Kaufmo said so at the..the..” Pomni yawned. “Wedding.. ceremony…”

Caine groaned!

Snap!

“ Oh- damn it!”

And just like that all alcohol was erased from Pomni’s system. He also fully woke her up. Pomni can never truly escape that day. She groaned into her hands as she felt energy return to her body.

“ Come, come.” Caine got up and fixed his suit. “ Let's at least greet the guests off. Then you'll sleep at the manor.”

“ On my way…”

Alcohol truly was a temporary darling. Just when she felt her sorrows were drowned away, she came back into reality— at an even worse state.

The two teleported back downstairs to end the party. Caine announced it's end and Pomni was saying goodbye to her friends. She greeted Kinger goodnight, waved Ragatha goodbye while she was busy with (one of) the twins. Jax’s goodbye was nothing but mockery, gesturing to her like she's some little princess in her wedding dress, which Pomni froze in embarrassment. Zooble wasn't even there when she came downstairs…for the better maybe. They always made her skin crawl.

The guests were away and the two were alone once again. At the snap of a finger, Caine fixed the entire reception. Any mess, streamers, decoration, gone, as if there never was a party to begin with.

Caine fixed his coat and arranged his gloves, dusting off all the mess that came with being in the vicinity of the others. Meanwhile, Pomni was thinking to herself— something she never thought to question…

“ Hey, Caine…” she looked up at him. “ When you said ‘sleep at the manor’, what —”

And swoop! Next think she knew he swept her off her feet in the traditional bridal style position, and before she could react—snap! They were teleported somewhere else! A bedroom that was nowhere like the others.

“UH—” Before she could say anything, Caine put his arms out straight and dumped her on to the bed. Man. What a romantic guy.

Oof Pomni frowned when she was dropped head-first, so carelessly and aggressively on the cushions… she groaned in misery— before remembering where she was.

She quickly got her head up and looked around! She was wrong! This place was familiar!

“ Huh!?”

“ My bedroom.” Caine said so passively. “ Well technically now it's yours as well, but. It's mine.” It looked like his mind was occupied with something else, he was staring forward but he was not at the present moment. She knew that look, he was searching something in his database.

“ When was this??”

“ Since I told my brother you were moving in.”

“ Why??”

“ I'm ignoring you if you keep asking questions.’

Pomni looked around… this was like the guest room they made for the performers but grander. The bed was even a little higher— God forbid she falls off in her sleep.

Caine fits right in the room’s aesthetic, Pomni was completely out of place. The room’s palette was red and black, with linings of gold here and there… Caine really hadn't bothered to make it accommodating for her. She just sat there in silence awkwardly like she was just invited to a friend’s house.

Man…can she even sleep in this? She looked down on the sheets: they were red, The pillows as well. the wood was furnished black and if she looked up, she'd see a chandelier at the ceiling.

She shivered… Her old bedroom was weird, but she's spent just enough time in it to grow comfortable. at least she fit in its overall aesthetic. But she doesn't think she could say the same for this one. This whole room screamed Caine.

“ Ah. Here it is. ‘How newlyweds spend their wedding night’.” Caine said, and continued to look forward.

“ What…N...No. Caine, don't read that.” Caine really…really…did n o t need to know about human customs. She's going to die from how awkward this was about to be..

The AI muttered what he was reading, “ ‘ Spend time together, Newlyweds often feel drained after a day of celebration …’ skip.”

“ Caine.” Pomni winced. “ Caine, did you not do research beforehand-”

“ ‘ When both couples lay in bed together it's important to have both parties feel safe in each other's presence—’ ickk.. skip. Are there any alternatives?”

“ Caine, I'm going to throw up.”

“ ‘According to a new survey with over 350 recently-married couples, nearly 40 percent of newlyweds had—’...”

Caine squinted in disgust.

“ I'm not reading that.”

Pomni at this point just gave up and put her head on the pillow.

“ Seeing as none of this is applicable to us, let's just skip this step of the consummation. As much as it pains me not to properly follow the process. I'll just leave you here and you can sit out the night. Good?”

“ I-”

“ Wonderful.” Caine snapped his fingers and the two were back in their usual outfits. He was back in his ringmaster clothes and Pomni was in her sleeping wear. And by sleeping wear, it means her usual tutu. Because she does not have sleeping wear.

Caine fixed himself up and pulled a blanket up on Pomni’s body. That's good enough. Husband's say goodnight to their wives if he was correct?

Caine scanned his database again.

Yeah, he was correct.

“ Goodnight, dear.”

“ Ahh…” This was weird. “ G-Good.. Goodnight.”

And just like that, Pomni was off to sleep. Meanwhile, Caine teleported out of his room into another place at the Manor. He dusted his hands off and was already somewhere else mentally. he had other matters to attend to, another show to organize. He's spoiled himself enough with a night celebrating his name, now it was back to work. How Caine liked to work.

Morning followed and Pomni was snapped awake with a booming greeting “ Good morning, dear.”

Pomni screamed.

Her heart would beat out of her chest from the surprise-- forcing her up from her fight or flight

She flinched away at the sight of Caine's face inches away from hers. They sat there in silence for a moment… Pomni gulped, before looking pass him and seeing where she was then remembering the night before.

“Wh…” the red bed, the chandelier… “Oh.” Pomni look at her hand, the left, and saw the ring that stubbornly stuck to her finger. but before she could say anything more, the blanket was thrown off of her, a snap, and the next thing she knew she was sat on the vanity table.

Oh god-- everything was going so fast… Caine snapped his fingers again and her grooming mannequins teleported in. “ I'll leave you here to get ready. I must awaken everyone else for role call. There should be a door to the circus down the hall! Be there.”

Pomni forced a smile and two thumbs ups, then, Caine was off.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She hadn't considered how little privacy she had now that her and Caine shared the same bedroom. Will he be doing this every morning? God, not only is it an incredibly inconvenient start of her day, it's also like having the world's most dangerous alarm clock.

Pomni put a hand through her face and grumbled, keeping herself awake— less so in the physical sense more in the emotional motivation sense. And before she knew it, the mannequins brushed her hair and did their work.

The next few days were something she had to get used to. Every morning Pomni would be greeted by a routine wake up, and every night she would be dumped back into bed, greeted goodnight, and Caine immediately leaving a second later. “Goodmorning, dear.”, “goodnight, dear.” again and again. Caine really was committed to the husband role-- though it wasn't far for AI to follow certain routines and patterns after acquiring a new set of data.

Oh how could she forget:

Able spent more time in the Manor than Caine did. She would often see him around the house minding his own business, doing his own half of work. He never tried to make small talk anymore which was a stark contrast to his overly friendly persona towards her before she got married. The sounds of violins would go quiet when she walked in the room. It was as if he could just walk pass her with how invisible she was to him. He didn't have lips but she felt that if he did, it would turn into a scowl.

Once, she remembered walking pass him in the hallway, that time she tried to start conversation and—

“ Able?”

“ Don't talk to me.” With out even turning around, his heels were already clacking away, posture more spiteful than his usual.

It was odd but Pomni rolled her eyes.

Good riddance.

During her stay though she never stopped looking for an exit. Being in the brothers’ home was a system all in itself. Ever since she moved in, Caine apparently was there more often. This made it hard to navigate but memorizing both the brother’s schedules didn't take long. Being ai they were very systematic, consistent, as long as there were no human interruption nothing was stopping them from following the same routine.

To be in close vascity between Caine and Able meant no privacy. Pomni snuck around to investigate, less she’d be caught and teleported back. She's tried most of everything, but the brothers’ Manor was bigger and more…liminal, than she thought.

For every one hallway it felt like there were 50 more. Door after door, an endless maze of nothing but unfinished projects and code. The Manor was a testing facility… a place where the brothers tested out code and concepts before applying them at the circus… there has to be something.

At some points she was so deep into it she didn't think either of the brother's could hear her. She didn't know if anyone could hear her. She could scream or laugh as much as her manic mind can get, and no one could. It was comforting in a way to finally be left alone, but dread came with it.

The dread or never making it back home. The dread of never leaving this torturous realm.

Things started to get blurry.

The wallpaper was repeating. Doors, every single one looked the same. She didn't know if one door was the other. She turned back and— did the lay out change?? The wallpaper was all so fancy and clean but headachingly repetative. The world was spinning. Her head had a pulse. Her heart was wriggling in her chest. It felt like someone reached inside her back and pulled her spine out.

She opened a door,

And another

And another.

Random generations, code and miscalculations, projects abandoned and left to dust, circus acts left to die. To die. To die. To die. She envied it. She envied the ability to die.

She got so dizzy. So frustrated, but there was nothing to break, nothing to focus on. she was on autopilot. With how she's been opening doors for the past few hours, she didn't even care to find an exit anymore. Simply open doors. Wander around. If you find an exit on the way, congratulations. But otherwise, there was nothing anymore.

One hallway had a mirror and all she could do was stare with broken eyes. What she saw, she couldn't care less about anymore…who was that she was looking at? Where was she? Who was she? How did she get here? What was her name again?

She kept staring and her eyes wandered to her hands. Amongst all the dissociation was a pit of anger in her throat. She looked at her finger. The ring. And all she saw was the very thing keeping her trapped there. The cruelest person— the cruelest thing, in the world.

Pomni started to pull at the ring.

She hated him. She hated him so much. She hated how much he toyed with her. She didn't understand how such fucked up things could even happen to a block of code, she didn't know what peice of shit of a person would ever create him. If god can be proven then the devil can be too. And he was living proof of that. The entire circus was proof of that.

Pomni grunted a tearful cry, desperately aching for the ring to come off, but it wouldn't budge. If there was pain, she couldn't feel it. She would bleed if it meant having to take it off. Pain was the last thing on her mind at that moment, just the desperate need for something, anything to go her way. Out of anything in this god forsaken realm, she wanted freedom from something, living breathing proof that there was hope in leaving, that she had a semblance of control in this hell.

“ God DAMN IT!!” The pain on her fingers were apparent, yet she hasn't processed any bit of it. “ I hate you! ” She sucked air to her teeth as tears formed in her eyes. She saw no use in keeping anything in anymore.

Tears streamed down her face with no means of stopping. Pomni, with bruises and scratches on her ring finger, collapsed with her knees on the floor, bent down, letting her tears be absorbed by the carpet. Her whimpering, cries, tears she hadn't let out in ages. She soon let her forehead touch the floor, complete and utter loss of hope and motivation.

And for a few moments she just sat there… adjusting by sitting on the floor, leaning her back on the wall, tears streamed empty emotions. Crying didn't help. Running didn't help. Screaming didn't help. And so she sat there. Like a puppet left to sit until their next performance.

That's all she was. And that's all she'll ever be.

Was she any different in the real world? She didn't care anymore.

Pomni let out her last hiccups. The floor wasn't comfortable at all…The doll stood up, body heavy. Her steps towards any door were heavy and unmotivated. The only sound echoing through the halls were the sound of her muffle heels, clacking above the carpet.

She could use some sleep.

After a long day of organising and work, Caine reached into his coat for his pocket watch. It was about time where the performers would be off to bed, and he didn't need to tell them that. This is one of the rare times of the day where he leaves them to their own. He, however, doesn't need sleep. Caine AI knows no tire. He turned his heel, ready to do more work before remembering— ah. His wife. That part of the daily routine.

See, for the past few days he's been having the formula to wake Pomni up in the morning, and putting her to bed at night, leaving seconds after. Always with his “goodnight, dear” and “good morning, dear”s that one. That's right. He was officially given the trait husband, and-- he's heard that that's what husband's do. And so he Incorporated it in his system.

Of course, even after their wedding night he never put in the effort to even think about laying in the same bed with her. First of all, he has no use for sleep. Second of all, that would be a complete waste of time and resources—He can do work simply standing up and staring into oblivion, but there is only so much he can do. Third of all, it was terribly boring. Fourth of all, he can touch Pomni but laying in the same bed for a prolonged period of time-- no amount of snaps would rid him of all her filth. And fifth—

The list can go on and on, and yet… something ached him to his core. It's been bothering him since the wedding night actually. The very act of not spending the night with her as husband and wife, that skipped a step in the process. And that bothered him more than any boundary he has up. It was part of a system, and he didn't officialize it because he wasn't feeling it that day? Caine AI, were you coded in a barn? Frankly, he was disappointed in himself for letting his ego— perfectionism get the better of him. Was he even truly husband without that final step? He felt like a fraud.

That whole thought process took place in the matter of .0001 seconds. And he was off.

He teleported to The Manor on his way to atleast clean up the bedroom first. But just when he made his way up the stairs, he turned, noticing the clearly dishevelled and previously distressed looking Pomni coming out of one of the hallways.

He squinted and scanned her.

Dirty clothes, eye bags, wet and sore eyes, sniffling, head low…

Oh. She had been crying.

He rolled his eyes. As long as she wasn't doing it on stage he didn't care. And frankly he didn't want to deal with it.

He cleared his throat to let her know that he was present, in a way, also telling her to gather herself.

“ Oh…” But Pomni didn't budge. She wasn't as disassociated as earlier but still had little energy to be scared at that moment. “ Hey, Caine. I’ll get upstairs soon, I just need a minute to—”

He didn't have time for this.

Snap!

The usual routine continued. He teleported her to their room, dumped her to bed and sent Pomni face down on the cushion. She doesn't think she would ever get used to that. She put her head up groggily, still too tired to even really complain, before crawling to her usual side of the bed, the right side. She let out a few sniffles of misery. But before she could tuck herself in, she realised that Caine hadn't greeted her goodnight. Or— hasn't even teleported away yet, actually…

She turned to Caine in the bedroom and would notice that he was looking at himself in the mirror. He was snapping his fingers, switching through different kinds of sleeping wear— what??

She squinted in confusion. Caine usually wouldn't stick around for any longer than a few seconds.

“ Wh…what are you doing…” Pomni said, voice clearly still sore for all her time crying.

Caine finally found pajamas that fit him and fixed himself in the mirror. “ I'm spending my time here tonight.”

“ …Why…?”

“ It doesn't concern you.” he turned to her, and floated his way to the bed, before noticing what she was wearing. She was still wearing her uniform! Is that what she was sleeping in the whole time? Honestly he hadn't cared, and he wouldn't care had it been for the fact that he was joining her tonight. He was in classy night wear while she wore her tutu. That simply isn't uniform.

A snap of a finger, and Pomni was wearing a nightgown that matched his shirt and pants. With bags under her eyes, she looked down. She didn't have the energy to comment on it as anything special. It was nice to be comfortable for once. But there was nothing more she can say about it.

“ There we go.” Caine said. “Goodnight, dear.”

“ …Goodnight.”

He put himself under the covers, but Pomni was still staring off. Someone who cared for Pomni would ask her how she was feeling, but they were not in the room at that moment.

Pomni wasn't feeling good. She was feeling terrible. If this was any other day, she would be terrified to be sleeping next to Caine. But the fact that she doesn't feel anything strong…

She didn't have a good day… entirely honestly, she was hoping to cry herself to sleep that night. It wouldn't be her first, and it wouldn't be her last. But with the devil beside her, he had no choice but keep herself together.

Her breath was shaken. But she laid down for sleep.

A few hours passed. It felt like the longest night the two would ever spend.

Pomni didn't know if it was her nerves or the room temperature, but she buried herself in her blanket. She could close her eyes all she wanted but no amount of pretend could distract her from all the voices in her head. She wasn't hallucinating, it wasn't anything. Rather the voices were more of doubt, insecurity, and fear. It would come often, but that night was especially loud. Terribly so.

Caine on the other hand was staring at the ceiling. Hands on his chest. He's been staring in silence for hours at this point —and he had the artificial patience to go on for longer—but he found this activity inconvenient. And even worse so when he could hear his wife sniffling right beside him.

Pomni finally started shaking under the covers. Hands shielding her head-- her knees were on to her chest with how curled up she was. It hurt to be quieter than she was already being. The voices got to her and all she could do was cry at that point.

Neither of the couple could get themselves to sleep.

Caine could only roll his eyes. While he stared at the ceiling, Pomni was faced to her side, away from him, curled up cold and unrested. For a moment she looked at the hands shielding her, and the representation of her entrapment looked back. With several bruises and scratches around it, her finger still dawned the very ring that put her there.

The memory of Caine in the wedding ceremony played back-- the very moment he put the ring on her at the altar. That was the moment that sealed her fate. She wished she could take it back. The image felt like dying a hundred times over.

Caine wasn't stupid. Although he knew little understanding of the human condition his processors picked up on certain symptoms and body language. He would usually ignore them as they were a waste of energy, but he had nothing else to process other than the ceiling he'd been staring at for the past few hours.

He knew Pomni wasn't well. What for? He didn't care. All that he knew was that she was upset, and it wasn't worth his time. It wasn't anything that he hasn't already heard a hundred times from the other performers. She was going to cry again and again anyway. What was the use?

Her hiccups and sniffling were tiny compared to the rest of the room. And yet no one was willing to hear her, listen to her. Perhaps that was all she wanted. If she had someone to be there to trust-- maybe this would have been bearable. Maybe in a different timeline she would still have the strength to go on for just another day. But that wasn't realistic. Not in the digital realm. She could scream all she wanted and no one would bat an eye.

This wasn't the first time she cried tears this painful. And it certainly will not be the last.

#The amazing digital circus #freakshow au #pomni #caine #The amazing digital circus pomni #The amazing digital circus caine #tadc pomni #tadc caine #caine x pomni #pomni x caine #showtime #showtime shipping #tadc #fic #writing

759 notes · View notes

cyberpxnk · 1 year

Text

jealous | song mingi (1/2)

♡ part two

♡ pairing: mingi x fem! reader (afab) ♡ chapters: 1 out of 2 ♡ word count: 3.9k ♡ rating: mature/18+ (minors dni) ♡ genre: pwp, smut, established relationship

♡ synopsis: choi san finds great fun in trying to seduce mingi's girl on the daily. on one particular night, you're left to deal with the consequences of san's actions after their concert. waiting alone in the dressing room, you fear that you're in for a wild ride.

♡ warnings/tags: idol! mingi, rengoku hair! mingi, brief mentions of ateez, smut, shameless tbh, jealous behavior, possessive behavior, sweaty mingi, san is a little shit but he means well, a lil bit of man handling, size kink, mingi GOT THE SCHLONG, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, praise, name calling, spanking, bruising, biting, hair pulling, slight dom/sub undertones, slight voyeurism

♡ author’s note:

kinda proof read but not rly tbh

howdy, folks! this is my first time posting in the ateez writing community, so i hope this is to everyone’s liking. i haven’t written anything in a few years but the creative juices have been flowin lately !!

this is also cross posted on my ao3, if you would like to support me there as well. this was originally a one part fic, but i’m currently in the midst of finishing up the second and final chapter. thank you and happy reading! comments r greatly appreciated :plead: :3

Swarmed by hundreds, your body is rocking amongst many others as the sounds of singing and shouting fills the air. The music is loud and pulsing through your ears, yet you feel at home within the crowd of fans. You don’t think you will ever get tired of seeing the boys perform live, despite spending nearly every waking moment around them. Similarly, Mingi is with you almost everyday yet you can never stop yourself from marveling at the sight of his lithe figure. It’s as if you’re seeing him for the first time ever with each new day.

With your hungry eyes following the fluid movements of his hips, he easily sways to the current song’s beat as he begins to drift further from your peripherals, heading toward the opposite side of the stage. Soon after his disappearance another figure soon comes into your view, their laced boots firmly planted on the stage in front of you. Even as those around you stir with excitement, your gaze barely strays from Mingi.

Only until hearing the screams erupt louder around you do you reluctantly tear your eyes away from his retreating back. Always being good at eliciting reactions from the fans, San’s sensual movements don’t go unnoticed by you or those surrounding him. The performer loved to get a rise out of making his fellow member jealous, although you were immune to his charms after many years of his ceaseless teasing.

To you, his flirting is almost always harmless and mostly just a hoax to get under Mingi’s skin. You can’t help but to roll your eyes at his obvious antics in trying to rouse you, but he instead begins to attract the aforementioned rapper back over to your corner. The male before you gyrates once more, hoping to further divert your attention from Mingi. It doesn't seem to take long for the other man to catch on as he practically stomps his way over to San.

Even if San's action never affected you, it always left a sour taste in Mingi's mouth. His jealousy was clear as day given how he was reacting now. Unseen by the public eye, his bout of anger was unnoticed by the fans — but not to you and San. In fact, the crowd is more than delighted by his quick return. His appearance beside his band mate prompts another round of enthusiastic yelling. Those around you wave and jitter excitedly and their mass of hands reach for the two idols, their phones held high.

Mingi is hovering close to the edge of the stage, mic in hand as he dances — his movements are aggressive, his irritations evident through the flow of his rhythmic dances. He bounces on his feet, rocking back and forth while following the groove of the music. It’s then that he tips his cap up slightly, immediately meeting your eyes with his own smoldering gaze.

Look only at me. The expression on his face says enough.

You can see a sliver of his tongue peeking out beneath his teeth before a shit eating grin is plastered across his features. He and his tongue do nothing but taunt you, slipping to and from his ample lips. You can’t help the flash of vivid imagery that briefly fills your mind. Eyes fluttering just barely, you find yourself imagining the wet appendage slipping into your hot cunt — his plump lips kissing at your wet folds as he eats you out. Fuck. The heat that rises through your body is immediate and you find yourself involuntarily shouting out for the man, joining the crowd as you all bristle animatedly from his interactions. He only smirks to you, as if knowing fully well what nasty thoughts were running rampant through that pretty little head of yours.

Mingi looks sinfully delicious in the fitted monochrome attire he adorns. Even he seems to know it, easily relishing within the attention he garners. You will definitely have to thank the stylists later. Even with little skin to show, limbs covered, the straps that hook around his lean torso only further excite you and feed into your fantasies. There's nothing more you want to do than to grab at the fabric of his shirt and yank him off the stage to make out. In front of the audience, you knew if he ever had the chance he would love to absolutely fuck you mindless on the stage. You also knew his sole purpose for frequenting your side of the stage so often was to get you hot and bothered.

You hated him for teasing you; loathed him for leaving you wanting and physically aching for his touch. The deliberate and slow thrusts of his hips are meant specially for you, but his cocky antics played it all off so easily. The fans would never suspect that he danced with such passion only to wind you up. Thankfully, you were not the only one amongst the fans feeling the heat from him. However, you did have the full satisfaction of knowing that at the end of the day you would be the one he was bending over.

Upon entering the dressing room, you could already see his sweat covered figure panting; exhausted from the concert yet seemingly more than ready to jump you. His breaths are labored with a primal desire and you can feel his heated gaze heavy on you. Yourself only adorned in a strappy crop top and tight little skirt left much of your skin exposed to his roaming eyes and little to his imagination. During the entirety of the set you two had exchanged many looks of yearning. The tension gave way and it was no wonder that he was ready to fuck you here and now. It isn’t long before his towering figure is looming over you, grabbing you abruptly as he practically tosses you against the nearest wall.

"Fuck!" A sputter of profanities. With the air being knocked out of your chest, you have no time to try to recover from his actions — literally breathless against his muscular frame. You can barely react as you're thrown up against the door with your back hitting the steel surface forcefully. Only the lean of his body and his taut muscles pin you up and you're nearly slipping down the door until you're scrambling to hook your legs around his waist. His broad hands find their grip on you, one squeezing a thigh to further hoist you up before the other grasps your hair tightly.

The impact has you feeling dizzy, yet you know you should be used to Mingi's roughness by now. There is a hard tug of your locks and you find yourself craning your neck to him obediently as he directs you by your hair with ease. The delicious expanse of skin is exposed to his eager mouth and he’s leaving hot kisses along your nape. Each brush of his lips burns into your skin, a fire further igniting beneath your belly. A whine bubbles from your throat once his teeth begin to graze along your throat, nipping gingerly.

Mingi has always been needier than you; always having to touch you, always wanting to taste you, and always needing to mark you. Despite knowing this, when he bites down between the junction of your neck and shoulder particularly hard, you can't stop yourself from crying out pathetically. His tongue allows you temporary solace, lapping against the tender wound before he begins to suck at the same spot. The hickeys he enjoyed leaving on the canvas of your skin were always welcomed, only fueling the desire that has been rapidly building over the night. The skin seems to bruise tenderly beneath his touches. Each mark is deliberate. He wants everyone to know that you were accounted for, especially San.

"You're mine." The baritone of his voice sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core and you're nearly keening at his words.

"Yours," you breathily say back to him as your hands grasp his shoulders.

"That's right. You belong to me. You're mine and only mine." His lips find yours briefly before he leans up to bite your ear, his husky voice raspy and hot against you. The trickle of words that leave his mouth don't stop even as his strong hands begin to roam your body once more. One arm holds you steady against the door as the other dips between the apex of your thighs. You gasp out as his long fingers inch closer to your core, stroking along the clinging fabric of your already soaked underwear.

"Look at you. Already dripping for me. You've been wanting me to touch you all night, haven't you? My needy girl."

Another startled sound comes from you as he easily tears the flimsy cloth from your body, hastily shoving your underwear into his back pocket. You can barely utter a word, instead settling for a choked noise of surprise as two of his fingers suddenly plunge past your slick folds. The stretch is immediate and he wastes no time pumping his digits within you as his thumb circles over your clit. With your mind reeling, you can barely catch up to his actions. His fingers feel so damn good scissoring within you that any coherent thoughts you possessed swiftly diminished.

The breathy moan that falls from your lips is delectable and much louder than anticipated. You’re both well aware that anyone passing by could probably hear you two, but that only seems to encourage the man to continue his efforts. If he was going to fuck you senseless, he surely had hoped San could hear him through the walls.

"Mmm.. You like that, babe? Do my fingers feel good?" Before you can answer, his mouth slots against yours with fervor. You two are exchanging sloppy kisses, teeth knocking into each other as your bruised lips move in unison — hot and heavy with your tongues intertwining. The desperation to taste you is too much. It's evident among his greedy touches.

You're pathetically grinding against his palm, his fingers furled to press deep at the delicate tissue of your g spot. With his soaked fingers expertly delving back and forth inside you, he easily reaches spots that have you dizzy with pleasure. You're soft and pliant to his ministrations, juices audibly gushing down his wrist with every pump. The sound is embarrassing to your ears, but your writhing body spurs Mingi on as he's no sooner curling his drenched fingers harder against your arousal.

He detaches from your lips, his own lingering down your shoulder blade. His nose is grazing along your skin as you're painfully arched between him and the door. Each thrust is driving you further away from sanity, your mind hazy with lust. With your mouth agape, you cannot stop the string of garbled noises that fall from your lips. Mingi always knows how to make you fall apart at his hands. The size and thickness of his fingers were nearly enough to have your orgasm peaking, but it was never that simple with the man.

The entirety that fills you is fleeting and you're soon whining out from his withdrawal. The actions have you locking eyes with him, his pupils blown wide with lust. Breathing heavily from his swollen lips, Mingi looks frenzied the way he bores into you. You can feel him undressing you so readily with his stifling stare. He looks crazed, his fiery locks damp and wild. The sheen of sweat on his skin is smooth and his musk is heavy, intoxicating your senses.

“M-Mingi.. Please,” you mewl at him pathetically, clenching around nothing but your own heat.

“What do you want, needy girl?” Your skin feels hot from his question. You are shy to utter a response and instead squirm beneath him, hips meeting from your movement.

“You want my fingers?” He grasps your jaw with one hand, grip tightening as his thumb grazes along your mouth. You're eager to wrap your lips around his finger, tongue brushing against his digit.

“Or maybe you want me to eat that pretty pussy of yours?” A strangled noise forms at the back of your throat upon hearing his words.

“You can barely keep quiet around my fingers. Everyone is going to hear you scream if I do that.” He says such things as if the results wouldn't be the same regardless of how you came unraveled. You would take him all the same.

With the absence of his hands between your bodies, you're suddenly free to grind against his groin. You're desperate and needy for him to be closer, chasing a temporary relief from being teased toward your orgasm. The action is welcomed as you finally feel the shape of his straining erection pressed to your dripping slit. The material of his pants does nothing to hide his size, fabric growing increasingly wet from your movements.

Just as you're enjoying yourself rocking against him, you’re unceremoniously dropped by him and you're staggering to try and find your balance as your feet shakily hit the ground, knees nearly buckling.

“Mingi, what the fuck?” Hands meeting his shoulders, you're holding on as you try to keep steady.

He ignores your pestering and busies himself with removing his trousers. The sound of metal clinking is heard as his belt drops to the floor. Haphazardly he is tugging down his zipper, pants and underwear pooling at his ankles. In all his glory, he’s left standing before you as you openly ogle his well endowed size. Everything about him is so big and it turns you on immensely.

The sinful sight has your mouth going dry. It’s hard not to stare at how his swollen tip smears a trail of precum against the toned muscles aligning his stomach. You would drop to your knees then and there just for a taste, but knowing Mingi, he wouldn't allow anything of the sort whilst in charge.

“Can’t wait to take my big cock, huh?” Mingi seems extra mouthy today. You roll your eyes at his words, though they do nothing to quell the fire in your loins. It’s not long before you're closing the gap between your bodies, hands tangling within his tresses. Thankfully, he gets the message and shuts up as your mouths reconnect in a heated exchange of saliva. Tongues are met feverishly, enjoying each other's taste as you card through his hair.

Between gasps and whines, there is a playful tug on the bottom of your lip when Mingi begins to withdraw from the kiss. His hands linger along your neck, trailing to cup your cheek as his narrowed stare grows more intense with each passing second. You swallow thickly.

“Turn around and show me that ass, pretty girl,” he instructs, the low grovel of his voice shooting a tremor straight to your core. The new position you take feels vulnerable and it's evident as your thighs seem to tremble with anticipation once you've swiveled to face the door. Despite your face growing hot with embarrassment, you can't help yourself from turning slightly to try and meet his gaze with curiosity.

His eyes are zeroed in at the exposed skin beneath your skirt. From this angle he can see just how wet you truly are, your folds slick and coated with your own arousal. Large hands are soon gripping at your ass, squeezing appreciatively as he spreads them apart with a guttural moan.

“Fuck, you’re so wet… Are you this needy just for me, baby? You want me to make you cum that bad?”

You whine.

With a rough shove you stumble forward, flush to the wall with your chest against the door as the solid metal meets your torso. Mingi maneuvers you to arch forward, his feet planted between yours while he's holding you by your rear. You're whimpering against the door, expectant and ready once you feel the intimidating length of his cock finding its way between your drooling slit. He pauses for a moment, enjoying your squirming against him.

The room almost feels too quiet, tension thick with your combined breaths as you listen to the slick movements of his erection teasing along your aching cunt. You jerk yourself back against him, forcing his tip to slide past your clit. This earns a pleased moan from you, but you're met with his disapproving tsk as he slaps your ass a single time in warning. The pain is resounding, stinging so good that you cry out for him.

“Look at you. So impatient. You can't wait until I fuck you full, huh?” The head of his dick inches past your walls. His movements still, listening to you as you try not to sob out in frustration.

“You’re going to take all of me in your tight little cunt, and I want you to scream my name so loud that San will never think to cross me again. Do you understand?” Mingi's voice rumbles deep and firm against the shell of your ear, the implications behind his words are dangerous and clear yet another wave of hot arousal courses through your body. The fresh trickle of liquid that begins to trail from your wetness down your thigh is enough to show the man just how desperate and obedient you will be for his cock.

“I said do you understand me?” He repeats himself once, voice raising as he grasps a fistful of your hair. You respond with a wince, eyes springing with tears at the sudden sting on your scalp.

“Do you?!” Another slap to your already reddening cheeks.

“Yes! I understand! P-Please, please! Mingi! I need you inside me!” You sob out to him, tears slipping down your cheeks.

"Good girl." A harsh snap of his hips forward and he's plunging himself deep within your cunt. You feel yourself stretch around the entirety of his size, eyes rolling back in pleasure as your walls wrap around his thickness. Your tears fall freely at the relief that floods your senses, reveling in how deeply he reaches within you.

There is a mix between a wail and moan that falls from your mouth once he begins to rut himself against your backside. The pace he sets is brutal, pistoning hard into you as he shifts back and forth inside your heat.

The sound of skin slapping is loud, messy and wet, squelching with his every thrust. Gods, he felt so big inside you. Each movement is met by his labored panting, a guttural noise bubbling from the back of his throat as he angles himself to fuck into you mercilessly. He wants you to cum fast and he knows you'll be unable to last with how you're barely keeping yourself standing against the door. An arm encircles your waist, ensuring you're somewhat upright as his other is gripping your hip bruisingly.

The way his hips buck into yours drive you mad and each drag of his cock within your fluttering walls has you keening. The fullness of his size fills you so well that you can feel the pressure of his heavy length against your g spot.

“Mingi!” You scream when he pulls out of you completely before pounding back in particularly hard, making sure to hit your g spot over and over as he resumes his rhythm.

“Good girl… Taking me so well,” he growls lowly against your neck, planting hungry kisses along your nape. Where he has already marked, he begins another trail of bruises down your neck, each love bite decorating your skin in a way that satiates his possessive nature.

“S-So close, Mingi…” You whimper into the door, meeting his thrusts with your own sloppy movements. You can feel the tension coiling within your belly as he jerks into you. Your cunt is twitching wildly around his shaft, encouraging his cock with the squeeze of your folds around him.

“You gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna fall apart on this big dick?” Languid kisses follow up your ear, and his words are igniting you, fueling the flame that is your orgasm. You barely process the hand that has slipped from your ass and now lays between your legs, fingers rubbing wet and slick against your throbbing clit.

The digits that play around your button have you chanting Mingi’s name in an endless hymn, mindlessly moaning as his tempo grows erratic. He knows that you're almost there, he can feel the way your cunt is clenching him so tightly.

“Come on, pretty girl. Come for me.” The way his fingers pinch at your clit and how he fucks himself into you with reckless abandon causes you to orgasm fast and hard. Your eyes are fluttering shut and you see stars, reaching the crescendo that is your orgasm. Your pussy is spasming around him when you come, your hips weakly pushing back against his thrusts to ride your high.

With your writhing and convulsions gripping his cock, it doesn't take him long to reach his own orgasm as he chases for release. He is sloppy, frenzied and desperate as he hammers into you, pace only stuttering as he begins to spill rope after rope of his hot cum into you. He peaks with a loud groan, hands finding their way back to your ass to grip at the mounds of flesh before his movements slow to a lazy grind.

You feel him pull out of you once he's had his fill, and it has you whimpering softly as you try to ignore the feeling of his cum seeping out of you. He is huffing heavily when he turns you around to face him, hands cupping your cheeks. Mingi peppers kisses lovingly all over you before pressing his lips to yours sweetly.

“God, I love you, babe… Let's get you cleaned up.”

“I love you too, Min.”

The people that await you outside of the dressing room are not particularly pleased as the two of you step from the door, both red with embarrassment. Bowing your head and grasping Mingi’s hand, you both flee toward the room that ATEEZ occupies. It doesn’t take long to reunite with the rest of the group, but entering the vicinity, the room is silent and the tension is palpable. The resident captain seems to be fuming near the back, motioning for Mingi to come to him before he begins to scold the latter. You definitely don’t miss the scalding glare he shoots your way too.

Shuffling awkwardly you turn to face the others, and you can see that Yunho’s ears are red as he refuses to meet your eyes. You can't help but to smile sheepishly. The rest of the group seems to be idling around, either playing on their phones or chatting together quietly. Similarly, some of them barely glance to you while others offer a shy wave in greeting. It's clear to you that the rest of the members and some staff weren’t exempt from hearing your loud ass shenanigans. You knew that you and Mingi would get reprimanded for it later, but at least you got some killer sex out of it.

Amongst Hongjoong’s bickering and Mingi’s apologies, it is San who stands from the couch and clears his throat as he casually saunters over to you. An arm is thrown around your shoulder as he ducks his head down close to yours.

You see Mingi’s head whip over to your direction. San smirks.

“So, I take it the plan worked?”

You only grin back at him.

#ok also like im lowkey scared of posting this but seriously i hope u guys like it #i just wanna make atiny writer/reader friends :sob: which is the whole reason why i revamped my tumblr #hehe :3 #ateez fic #ateez fanfic #ateez ff #ateez scenarios #mingi scenarios #mingi smut #ateez smut #ateez oneshot #mingi x reader #song mingi x reader #ateez x reader #cyberpxnkwrites

2K notes · View notes

solaireverie · 8 months

Text

dr3 | deep blue but you painted me golden

part three — long live all the walls we crashed through

[ series masterlist ] part 1 | part 2 | part 4

pairings: daniel ricciardo x f!leclerc!rbr driver!reader, lestappen

summary: [ social media au ] red bull's second and third drivers learn to get along, y/n wins her first grand prix, and things get... complicated

warnings: mentioned/implied sex (13+ only please) (if you're -13 get off tumblr)

faceclaim: barbara palvin + random faceless checo/max pics + pinterest

author’s note: technically max and charles aren't together yet. they're still in the friends-with-benefit-in-denial phase. oof. also the lack of gay paparazzi photos is a CRIME. enjoy!

liked by charles_leclerc, redbullracing, danielricciardo and 249,736 others

yourusername back home and ready for the monaco gp 🤟

view comments

pierregasly whoever places lower has to pay for dinner?

↪ yourusername i'll hold you to it, gasly

↪ user pierre is this really a wise bet to make with red bull's current pace 😐

↪ yourusername shhh 🤫 i want free food

lorenzotl maman wants you and charles to bring arthur home before midnight

↪ arthur_leclerc why am i the only one with a curfew 😨 y/n's barely older than me

↪ yourusername formula 1 privileges 😌

↪ charles_leclerc more like maman knows you'll just sneak out like always 😶

↪ yourusername charles marc hervé perceval leclerc i know who you've been pining after for the past decade. watch your words

↪ charles_leclerc i thought we agreed not to speak about that???

Max Verstappen, Y/n Leclerc, and Daniel Ricciardo on Monaco — Oracle Red Bull Racing

liked by yourusername, danielricciardo, maxverstappen1 and 569,420 others

tagged: yourusername, maxverstappen1

redbullracing We're ready for the Monaco Grand Prix as Y/n takes her first-ever pole position with Max locking out the front row in P2 🥳

view comments

user literally can't wait for the race

user i wonder if y/n will be able to keep p1 🤔

↪ user i mean at least she'll have an advantage on a track like monaco 🤞

user rbr 1-2 loading...

liked by redbullracing

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, danielricciardo and 998,574 others

yourusername je ne peux pas le croire, mais c'est la réalité 💫 aujourd'hui est le plus beau jour de ma vie. merci aux fans, mon équipe, mes amis, ma famille... je n'ai pas de mots pour ma joie 🇲🇨🥇

[ i can't believe it, but it's reality 💫 today is the best day of my life. thank you to the fans, my team, my friends, my family... i don't have words to describe my joy 🇲🇨🥇 ]

view comments

charles_leclerc notre étoile et notre championne ❤️🤍 [ our star and our champion ❤️🤍 ]

liked by yourusername, pierregasly, arthur_leclerc, lorenzotl

pierregasly félicitations! mon portefeuille est prêt 🫡 [ congratulations! my wallet is ready 🫡 ]

↪ yourusername haha je veux du homard [ haha i want lobster ]

maxverstappen1 if someone else had to win at least it's you 🙄

↪ maxverstappen1 jk great job y/n! looking forward to racing you

↪ yourusername awwww tysm maxie 🥰

danielricciardo fantastic driving! guess i lost the bet 😅

↪ yourusername time to make good on your word, ricciardo. i want that falsetto to be PERFECT

↪ charles_leclerc do i want to know what's going on?

↪ yourusername daniel said that if i placed higher than max today he'd go karaoke-ing with us AND that he'd do a cover of heart attack 😇

↪ charles_leclerc oh dear...

↪ maxverstappen1 please no i don't need a repeat performance from monaco 2018

↪ danielricciardo too late, max, i'm a man of my word!

likes and reblogs are appreciated!

masterlist

#solwriting #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 #f1 #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 x you #f1 social media au #f1 imagine #f1 smau #daniel ricciardo #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo fanfic #daniel ricciardo imagine #lestappen #lestappen fanfic

589 notes · View notes

lethalchiralium · 1 year

Text

No More | [2] | Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

a/n: WOW. i did not expect that to blow up as hard as it did. thank you so much!! [this seriously might become a series. we’ll see.] [also, that means you’re getting a backstory. a very… need for speed backstory ;)] i really do think this is shitty but that’s all part of the plan baby!

warnings: cussing, alcohol, simon drinks to forget but he always remembers, non-sexual nudity, mentions of genocide, mentions of trauma, mentions of past careers, mentions of planes, mentions of crashing, mentions of american citizenship (you don’t have to be from there if you don’t want to be! i live there and i don’t want to be here! it’s just important from a certain aspect of your previous career.) simon is also a lot more lovey when he’s drunk.

summary: He’s convinced he should leave. He’s convinced himself that you are better off without him, better alone than being hurt by a shell of a man like him. He barely got a foot out of the door before he changed his mind.

part one here! | SERIES MASTERLIST

He had more bourbon in the past two months than he’s ever had in his entire life. The sickly sweet pull and the burn down his throat was a comforting pain as agony ripped through his heart. He sat alone in your shared apartment, a dim lamp being the only light in the entire space. He hadn’t gotten sick of the bourbon like he usually does, he couldn’t move it from the coffee table - he had sat forwards, arms resting on his knees and hands dug into his hair.

He was bone tired. He hadn’t slept in two days; it was a normal occurrence now that you had gone on that mission. He had to take leave so he didn’t rip Price’s throat out for not letting him go with you. The ache in his head still hadn’t gone away with the aspirin he took a few hours ago and the full bottle of his best bourbon down the hatch. The night wasn’t flying by like it did last night, he could hear the clock on the wall tick as he wallowed in his own misery.

Sometimes it took him weeks to bring up the scalpel and separate Ghost and Simon, divide the halves into quarters and dissect what actions could have been better performed to produce a better outcome - essentially, what he did to fuck up the one good thing he had going for him, and how he could fix it. He took your words to heart, and he was taking a very long time to stew over everything he could have done that would’ve have made him look like he didn’t trust you. Simon trusted you with every fiber of his being, he loved you more than that. He knew you were an amazing fighter, your fire to help those in need could never be extinguished.

He realized later rather than sooner that Ghost was why you didn’t trust him - Ghost was protecting the person Simon loves the most. And maybe, that included when you were home too. Keeping Simon locked away so he didn’t get hurt, so Simon didn’t get hurt by you.

If he had half a bottle less, he would’ve gone up to bed - but the room felt suffocating without you. He couldn’t lay in a bed that smelled like you if it became one of the last things he had of you in case you were killed, so he had cat napped on the couch for the past nine weeks. If he had a bottle less, he wouldn’t have thought about how his absence wouldn’t hurt you as much as Ghost does - if he had the £348 he spent on alcohol back, he wouldn’t have thought how this place felt like your home. Never his, he also categorized it underneath Ghost’s half - keeping his love at arms length so his self-destruction doesn’t hurt you.

He was drunk. Piss drunk, since he had never gave himself time to sleep off the bourbon. Ghost was cracked in the middle, and Simon was punching out holes in Ghost’s façade. Ghost never allowed Simon to feel, never allowed him to connect with anyone - a self-defense mechanism. But now? Ghost was almost gone, and he felt like himself now. And God, did it hurt.

How could he have done this? How could have pushed you away so far that your rope was dwindling by a thread, how could he have hurt the one thing that made him begin to unlock the cage around his freezing cold heart? He felt it in his chest, the raw burn and tug of desperation - he knew that he had to cut the thread.

He didn’t want to, he would give anything to not let you go - but Simon couldn’t let you keep getting damaged by his defense measures.

If he had no alcohol in his system, he wouldn’t have gotten up like he did. He wouldn’t have waltzed to the guest room, messily packed his duffle and brought it to the living room. He wouldn’t have grabbed a pen and an old pad of paper. And he definitely wouldn’t have written the note he was writing now.

He folded the note, lifting up the bottle of bourbon on the coffee table and setting it down on the table, putting the bottle on the corner to hold the note down. His hand grabbed his duffle and he stood and he made his way to the front door. He slipped on his boots, only caring enough to tuck the laces into his socks before Simon went to open the door. He took the time to turn around, gazing at the dim apartment that smelled like you, that held all of your important belongings. It was the place that cradled you when you were down, the place he kept falling for you, the place he would kneel to the kiss the ground you walked on.

This was the place he loved you.

Honestly, in the back of his mind, he knew his sober ass would walk home after a week.

Before he could open the door, the lock turned and the door burst open - he threw his duffle into the adjacent kitchen and was about to fight. That was before he saw you.

Dirt and blood caked on your face, your duffle hanging from your hand, your hoodie tattered and your neck bruised - and he watched as the tears raced down your face. He could barely even begin to speak when you flung your duffle inside and dove into his chest, arms wrapped around his chest so hard, he thought you would pop his lungs.

“Baby, baby, hey,” He cooed, his hand immediately held your head against his chest - he pulled you both out of the way so he could close the door and lock it, now he was immediately sobered up. Your sobs were loud now, your hands gripped onto the back of his shirt so hard he was convinced it would rip.

He tried to pull you away but you refused, begging, “Please, pl-please don’t let me go.”

“Where’s Cerby?” He spoke gently, keeping his hand on the back of your head, feeling dirt crusted into your scalp. You must have come straight here.

“With K-Keegs.” You mumbled, muffled by his thin t-shirt with a faded band logo on it. He sighed, sad that his dog wouldn’t be home for a few days but he let the feeling go. All he needed to focus on was you, and definitely not his foolish actions from literally three minutes prior.

He hummed then, his free hand moved to underneath your thigh - he pulled it up so you would get the hint, which you did. Your arms moved from around his chest to around his neck and you jumped into his arms, caging your legs around his large waist as best you could. Both of his hands held the back of your thighs, he glanced to the kitchen and made sure both of the duffles were there and unharmed. They were, so he turned around and walked down the hallway to the bedroom he hadn’t used in since the last time you were home. He pushed the door open, turning on the warm light before walking into the ensuite bathroom.

He flicked on the light before moving to sit on the side of the bathtub, it creaked under your combined weight - you were sat firmly on his lap and his hands went to your back and head, cradling you.

“I’m gonna start a bath for you, love.” He spoke, his voice wavering with uncertainty as your arms wrapped tighter around his masked neck.

“No, no, please, don’t let go.” The tumble of words from your mouth made his grip on you tighter. He couldn’t imagine what happened, he didn’t want to - he thanked God that he decided to drink that entire bottle of bourbon a couple of hours ago. His mind was muddled, he could barely get any thought out of what could’ve happened. All he wanted to do now was help you.

He kissed the top of your head through his mask, dismissing the feeling of cloth against his lips and he gently pulled your head back, he gazed into your red-rimmed eyes. He whispered your name like a prayer, as if you were an angel - which you were to him. Even covered head to toe in dirt, blood, and grime, he would still be able to see your halo through any darkness. “Let me help, love. Let me help you feel better, then I won’t let you go for as long as you want.”

“I can’t.” The voice he heard was almost unrecognizable, he had never heard you sound so small. “I can’t, I can’t.”

He sighed, moving forwards to press the skull to your forehead - something he did when he knew you needed it. You physically relaxed when he did it, your back bent into his hand as you pushed every single ounce of weight onto him. His fingertips pressed into your spine, dragging up and down it from above your shitty old hoodie. He stayed like that for a few minutes, letting you cry against his mask. He gave you a bit of time before he pulled up your hoodie, you obliged and let him pull it over your head. You were just in your dirty black sports bra, and now he got a good look at you.

He felt bile rise in his throat. Your entire chest was spray painted in black bruises, he got a good look at the dark purplish handprint on your neck. He looked back up at you, your head faced to the side as you cried, ashamed.

“Oh, my love,” His hand returned to the back of your head, cradling it as he gazed at you. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

You quickly shook your head, tears removing most of the grime on your cheeks. Your arms were now at your side, fiddling with the hem of his athletic shorts while you let out a broken sigh. His hands moved to lift you off of his lap, one hand didn’t stop touching you while he pulled off your boots, tossing them to the side before tugging off your holed socks. He made a mental reminder to buy you new socks at the base shop while he placed a hand on your back, guiding you with him as he moved to turn the faucet on. He turned it all the way up then back a little, the temperature you liked. He plugged the drain and put his hand underneath the flow of water, waiting for it to turn almost hot - normally, he would’ve made it extremely hot, you had always said you thought it was like being boiled like a lobster. But, he didn’t want to agitate your injuries. His hand moved from your back and didn’t break skin contact when he took your hand, still looking away from you but he still held your hand gently.

“You’re warm.” You mumbled, moving his hand up to settle on your cheek.

“I know, love.” He answered, turning back to you. His hand slipped from your face and down your side to your belt loops, undoing the buttons and zipper then pulling down your pants. He took your hands as you stepped out of your pants, watched as you kicked them behind you and he observed new pink scars, healed but still fresh. Surrounding them were black bruises, identical to the ones on your chest. He heard your whimpers of pain when you stood back up, his hand ghosted your side as he gazed at it, seeing identical black bruises again. Even if he felt sober, he knew that the adrenaline from you showing up injured would wear off and he would become sloppy. He didn’t hurry, he took his time as he pulled down the boxers you stole from him and toss them away. His hands found the bottom of your sports bra, your wince made him pause and look at your face again.

Fat tears still rolled down your cheeks, silent sobs left you as you kept your eyes closed. Your hands stayed at your side until he murmured, “Raise your arms please.” You did as you were told, he tugged it off quickly but not as painlessly as he wanted. You let out a loud wheeze that echoed throughout the bathroom, he placed his hand on your side again, his presence close to you as he leaned down and shut off the water. “‘m gonna pick you up, love.”

“Okay.”

He did as he had said, gently swooping you into his arms and placing you in the warm water that reached up to your collarbone. Your eyes opened again when he retreated from the tub, your gaze watched as he pulled out a towel from the closet and began to rummage through it.

“I almost died.”

Simon visibly froze as you turned back, your gaze now staring at the light above the tub. He peered around the door, hand clutching a washcloth with a pain he couldn’t soberly place. “Do…Do you want to tell me?”

You didn’t respond. He brought all of the materials to the side of the tub, he gently pet your head.

Simon, drunk as hell, bathed you with care. He didn’t speak a word and neither did you, you stared at the wall the whole time except when he tried to wash your hair. You let him move you under the faucet, rinse your hair for five minutes because he couldn’t tell if the soap was gone yet, let him dry you with a towel and dress you in new clothes.

You could barely keep your eyes open when he carried you to bed, tucking you in before he did himself. He watched as you curled into a ball, facing him and keeping your eyes on the sheets, your hand drew circles beside your face. He turned off the lamp on the nightstand, drowning the room in darkness and settled back onto the bed, watching you with bated breath.

“Got trapped in a burning truck.” Your voice almost spooked him, his eyebrows furrowed. You just stared at the gray sheets. “RPG’d the ground in front of us and flipped it. Knocked Logan and Keegs out. Hesh got launched from the driver’s windshield. Had to drag them out and triage them in an abandoned warehouse while trying to fight off the enemy. Got captured for a week. Keegs saved me.” You sniffled a little, your hand reached for his - he instantly took it. He squeezed your hand. “Had bad flashbacks. It had been a while since I’ve got stuck under burning metal and tortured. S’why I was crying.”

“How’re the boys?”

“Watchin’ Cerby and all as stubborn as always. All fine.” You mumbled, pressing his rough skin to your chapped lips.

A deafening silence settled then, your thumb threaded over the back of his hand while he felt your breath graze it. He began to feel drowsy, the slow turn-table of dizziness was coming back from earlier and all he wanted to do was place his head in your neck and just breathe. He needed you like he needed oxygen, you touch him and he felt like it was the first breath he’s ever taken.

“Sleep, baby.” He murmured, sliding down from his sitting position, underneath the soft duvet. He moved closer to you, settling his head so that he laid face to face with you. He could barely make out your nose and cheeks in the dim moonlight, but he could see the glisten of your eyes as they gazed at his.

“I haven’t had a PTSD episode since I left the US Naval Aviation division.” The voice he heard sounded nothing like what you normally do - it was small. Broken. Damaged. An echo of you.

He furrowed his brows, he thought he knew everything about you. Both your dad and childhood best friend were pilots, but you never specified what kind - and apparently neglected to tell him that you were one too. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a pilot?”

You sniffled, squeezing his hand and ignored his question. “Got shot down over enemy territory. Crash landed and had to pry my legs from my jet as the fire burned.” The sensation of his hand being squeezed tighter made his dizzy mind think that you were angry - but in reality, the memory of burning metal against your hands made you feel scared. You wanted to pull him closer, to have him shield you from your memories. Yet you kept talking, even if you recognized the hurt twang in his voice. “Had to fend for myself in an abandoned city just over the border in Ukraine. Stayed in that town for three weeks ‘til Special Forces came and found me.” You pulled his arm to your chest, pressing his hand into your cheek. “S’where I met Price. Almost shot him too, thought he was an enemy.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the flashbacks?” His voice was softer then, he pressed his warm palm down to your jaw. “I could’ve helped you, my love.”

“‘Cause it’s not important now.” You murmured, both of your hands cradled his. “Wasn’t even s’posed to stay with 141, meant to go back to Miramar. Meant to get back in the air.” You took a quiet breath. “I fell for you and everything I knew went up in smoke.”

His heart dropped to the floor. It thumped against it, still pumping blood but it hurt in his chest.

“If I hadn’t given it up, I wouldn’t have you.”

“I would give up anything for you.” He whispered. “Don’t give up anything for me, darling. You deserve everything you have.”

“That means I deserve you.”

“You don’t deserve me.” He immediately answered, his other hand went to settle on the duvet, tugging it up more. “You don’t deserve my problems, how fucked up I am.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.” He settled his hand on your side, feeling you breathe underneath his fingertips. “I’ve hurt you, not on purpose but I still did it.” His thumb circled on the duvet, you barely felt it as his voice became quieter. “You really hurt me when you walked away.”

“I’m sorry.” Your voice wavered, he couldn’t bear to hear you start to cry again. He paused, hand coming from your hip to completely take off his mask - something he had never done in your presence before. He tossed the mask away onto the floor as he moved forwards, placing his lips against your moonlight dusted cheek.

“I deserved it.” He answered, settling back and pulling your hands into his chest. “Made me think for a while.”

“You’re drunk.” A statement he didn’t deny, he pulled your hands upwards to his collarbone.

“I am.”

“Because of me?”

“Because I hurt you.” He answered, now pulling your hands to settle on his cheeks. “I want you to feel that I trust you, because I do.” He began to move your hands upwards, his eyes fluttered closed as your fingertips traced his warm face, tracing his eyebrows and dancing over his eyelids.

“Simon, you don’t have to let me do this.” Your hands paused, his own grip settled on your wrists. “I want you to be sober, you’ll be mad at me tomorrow.”

He scoffed, moving his head to kiss one of your palms, keeping his eyes closed as he whispered, “I could never be mad at you. Frustrated or upset? Yes, but angry? No.” He gently rubbed your arms, hands moving to settle on your own cheeks. “I’ve decided that you need to really know how much I trust you. How much faith I have in you. How proud I am of you.”

“You hurt me for so long.” Your voice cracked so heavily, fingertips grazing his forehead and memorizing his nose, coming down to trace his lips you knew well.

“I want to fix it.” His lips kissed your palm again, eyes opening to gaze at your dimly lit face. “Give me a chance.”

“I think this is most comfortable you’ve ever been to talk about things like this.” You remarked, hands stopping on his jaw, cradling it. “I want you to show me how much you trust me, but when you’re sober.”

He nodded in return, moving forwards to place a slow kiss on your lips. His hands moved to settle on the side of your head, pulling you forward just a little. When he broke the kiss, he placed another on the tip of your nose. “You’ll know how much I treasure you until the end of time.”

“Okay.”

“Just don’t leave me like that ever again.” His voice was low, one hand going to trace down your body. “Ever.”

You nodded as you moved closer to him, chest to chest. He removed his other hand from your cheek and slid his arm under his pillow.

“Sleep, love. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

_______________

comment for part 3! (part three here!!)

—————————

tag list:

(i was not able to tag some - i apologize!)

@luhvbot @its-me-ya-boi-lisa @ladystarfishnut @chris3tom2pau1rdj @kat-nee @efsa-lks @angelsquid @marytvirgin @medivalpersephone @ramadiiiisme @blueoorchid @guiltyconfessions @abbiesxox @lockleywife @nicomactavish @nose235678 @lumpypoll @multi-fandomlovers-world @holyfeck @thriving-n-jiving @kgive @simonsdoll @crazyfandomist @ryunniez

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley call of duty #simon ghost riley x afab!reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley cod #simon ghost riley x fem!reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley mw2 #simon riley call of duty #simon riley mw2 #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley cod #simon riley x afab!reader #simon riley x f!reader #simon riley x fem!reader #lethal chiralium #lethalchiralium

1K notes · View notes

powderblueblood · 3 months

Text

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER NINE — EDDIE the OBVIOUS and the LADY SPHINX

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: a tense dinner at rick lipton's place reveals some part of al munson's reason for returning to hawkins. your saturday morning detention is tense, and you and eddie both get more than you bargained for when you crash hellfire club to profile them for the school newspaper. content warnings: MINORS DNI AS ALWAYS warnings for smut, cunnilingus, dick-fondling, p in v, reference to drug usage, slight perv!eddie, silly teenagers having silly teenage fights that actually aren't so silly (kinda antagonistic ronance version!), reference to childhood physical abuse, al munson jumpscare, lacy's dad jumpscare, both lacy's real first name and surname is used in this chapter. no description of body type. just descriptions of a good time eye emoji eye emoji word count: 16.4k

Dear Lord,

Grant me the serenity to accept the shit I cannot change, the courage to change the shit I can, and the wisdom to seize a damn fine opportunity when I see one.

Amen.

When Al Munson cooks a spaghetti dinner, you know he means business.

Once a line cook with aspirations higher than diner fumes, always a line cook with aspirations higher than diner fumes.

He learned to cook on the grill, but perfected it in the joint. During one of his stints, a homecoming tour of the state of Kentucky, he fell in with this web of wiseguys who made him stagiaire in their makeshift kitchen, slicing ghostly slivers of garlic with a razorblade.

Al’s insisted on the method ever since. Even now, hunkered over in Rick Lipton’s kitchen, preparing a meal for which Eddie’s already lost his appetite.

Eddie had already given up on the whole there are a bunch of knives right there suggestion, knowing his father loves few things like he loves performing his whole Kiss the Cook bit. He plays it to the hilt, an exercise in tart, rich, floral smarm that beats out the complex flavoring of his tomato gravy by a country fucking mile. Down to that bullshit Serenity Prayer.

“Courage to change the shit you can? Man, you can barely change your underwear!” Rick heartily chuckles, heaping pasta onto his plate. The way the noodles slide against each other, thick and glistening like worms full of nefarious promise, makes Eddie want to ralph.

He hadn’t had much of an appetite for anything since he’d visited the nurse’s office.

He felt weird. Strung out. Guilty. And angry. Guilty like, what got into me, why’d I do that and angry like, why’d I leave you just standing there like that, and why’d you let me.

“C’mon, kid, you look famished,” Al pulls that anger-inducing Cheshire Cat face, placing a solely ornamental leaf of basil on top of the dish Rick passes. This fucking asshole. These fucking assholes. In cahoots together. “Wayne’s Hungry Man dinners ain’t hittin’ the way they used to, huh?”

Al’s smile doesn’t slice through the tension of the room nearly as clean as he wants it to. Eddie feels Wayne stiffen at his right elbow, sees Rick divert his eyes from across the table.

“Well, Dad,” Eddie says, forcibly stabbing and winding his fork through the spaghetti, “You know what coulda solved that?”

“What’s that, huh?”

“You staying out of lockup for longer than the duration of an MC5 song.”

Al doesn’t falter. Eddie bets he could open-palm slap him and that shiteater of a grin wouldn’t slide from his face.

“I’m here now, ain’t I?” his father clicks his tongue, digging right into his own dish, “You really gotta learn to live in the moment, kid.”

Eddie’s spaghetti-filled mouth starts to form around the indignant words, I’m not a kid! but Al beats him to the punch. Quite literally.

“Though, judgin’ by those scuffs on your knuckles, looks like you did somethin’ without thinkin’ it the whole way through first. Huh?” Al slurps his pasta noisily, and Eddie feels Wayne tense even more, if that’s possible. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

The sense memory of silver flashes colliding with Billy Hargrove’s face in the parking lot, the sense memory of you and your vicelike grip trying to pull him off before he killed him. The sense memory of bile blowing through his veins, stumbling upon those lowlifes talk to you like that. Rage blackout. Yadda yadda.

According to rumor, Hargrove was lucky that Eddie didn’t cave his entire cheek in. He still couldn’t totally see out of his right eye, the swelling was that gathered and insistent.

Eddie lets the question droop in the air, before eventually mumbling, “S’nothing. Just– shit at school.”

Wayne had been the first one to ask him, obviously, catching sight of his bandaged hand when he came upon Eddie staring a hole into–you guessed it–yet another Murder, She Wrote rerun, following your encounter on the examination table.

Eddie had given it the brush off so Wayne had given it the brush off. He was no stranger to his nephew bearing busted knuckles, even if it did make the old man’s blood chill every time he saw it. Those interactions always reeked of you poor kid, like Eddie was the perpetual victim. Got under Eddie’s skin a little.

But Al asks him like he knows something. And Rick won’t look at Eddie.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with your lovely new neighbor, would it?” Other shoe, meet short, hard drop.

Eddie’s grip tightens around his fork, and in the back of his mind, he summons the spirit of the sharpest tongue he knows.

“Who?” He’s this close to prank calling people using his Lacy impression, that’s how good it’s gotten.

Al cradles his cheek against his palm. His eyes, the eyes that might as well have been scooped out and shoved into Eddie’s skull, they’re such iris perfect replicas, search his son for cracks in his composure. Al stabs, stabs, stabs aimlessly into his dinner.

“You’re a lot of things, Eddie Munson,” he says, “but you ain’t dumb.”

“Truly do not know what you’re yakkin’ about. Can I eat?”

“Come on, Eddie boy! You out there getting into scuffles over that little gold-plated piece’ah something?”

“Can I eat?”

“A little forbidden flame, maybe, two’ah you?”

“Can I eat?”

“Can’t say I blame ya. If I were… twenty years younger.... Or maybe she likes ‘em a little more mature. Think I got a shot?” Al’s teeth are starting to grit, spittle starting to fly. Frenzied in the way he’s trying to eek a reaction out of his kid. “Huh? Eddie?”

Al’s lecherous suggestion of you toed the line of too much for the Munson men, it seems. Eddie and Wayne’s voices overlap.

“Maybe we leave that girl out of this, Al–” “–can I eat, or what?”

SLAM! Al’s fist comes into direct contact with the hardwood of Rick’s dining room table, plates and cutlery and glasses clattering nervously. Rick jumps a little, groaning under his breath. Wayne drags a hand over his eyes.

“You can answer the goddamn question! Shit!”

Eddie, for his part, should probably feel a little scared, his dad raring up on him like that. Instead, he just lets his wound-up fork sag in a pile of spaghetti and leans back in his seat. The thing with Al Munson is this– his bark has always been way bigger than his bite. Especially when he’s as coked up as he is right now.

Ever since he’d roared into Rick’s driveway in that eyesore of a muscle car (alright, it was a little cool– but in, like, a lame Dukes of Hazzard kinda way), Al had been operating in sharp angles and backed-up nostrils.

Shit, Eddie would be shocked if there wasn’t residue on that razor blade he used to slice the garlic. That stupid, reckless, peacocking-as-a-father motherfucker.

He folds his arms, waiting for Al’s tone to pitch on down, for the tremor in his hand to act up, for him to say–

“Sorry. Sorry,” pressed through a line of grit teeth, “I just… Hmm.” It’s like Al is actively trying to plaster the mask of his charming grin back on his face but it keeps slipping out of his fingers. “She’s a real dime. Smart as hell too, huh? Shame about–”

“Al, what’re you gettin’ at with all this?” Wayne asks, and thank god he does. Eddie doesn’t know how much more dancing around the subject he can take, but he won’t be the one to bend first. “What did you bring us up here for? And don’t–” the eldest of all Munson holds a hand up, “--say you just wanted to get together. I don’t buy it. Eddie sure doesn’t buy it. And if Lipton here buys it, he’s a fool.”

Al shrinks, a snot-nosed kid under the magnifying glass his big brother holds to him. “Wayne–”

“You bring us up here to make us part of that goddamn stupid high school feud with that girl’s father? You really spin out that far?”

It’s not often that Wayne speaks up, but when he does, boy. Can that man dress a situation down.

Al falters. Wayne has that ability to knock him out at the knees, and Eddie makes a mental note to ask him how he does that.

“Listen. Alright. It’s not– alright,” Al clenches his hands in fists, a flex in and a flex out. A gesture Eddie notices, because he does it too. As if he’s trying to grasp the last threads of trust from them. “With that girl’s old man permanently benched so to speak, there’s an opportunity for another batter to step up. Okay? Jail sentences get doled out like Halloween candy–who knows that better than me, right?--but life goes on. There is… an opportunity here. Work still needs to get done. Work that I could’ve– that I can do.”

Eddie knows that his dad doesn’t realize he’s saying a lot of nothing, because Al’s always saying a lot of nothing. Vague promises with no real end to them. What catches him this time around is the glint in his eye, hidden behind the drug-induced one, and the glint of a gaudy ring on his finger. A green gem stamped in the middle, like a cat’s harvested eyeball. Huh.

“... let me make good on this, boys. For once. Let me take care of y’all.” Al huffs a faux-humble breath, glancing toward Rick for some kind of illustrative reassurance. “Y’know, seeing how it screwed up that little girl, seeing her big, upstanding daddy go to jail and all, I really–,” a swallow, for dramatic measure. Gunning for Best Actor here. “--felt it. Made me think, Eddie, of all the times when you were just a squirt… Made me wanna do right by you, is all.”

“How much of that doin’ right have you got up your nose, Dad?” Eddie sneers, putting two and two together. Of course this is what he’s back for; not to sell, couldn’t possibly be that simple in the convoluted world of Al Munson, but to supply. To get a suit fitted, pretend to be the big man. “Try before you buy isn’t exactly the most cost-effective policy.”

“Jesus, why, why have you got to make this so hard on me, kid?” Al is just about wringing his hands right now, scaling the apex of his desperation. “You have an in! You have the in!”

The in, of course, being Eddie’s connection to you, and by proxy, your dad. Al’s like a bloodhound that way, sniffing out the few good things that Eddie has going for him from miles off and tearing them right from his hands and acting like he’s doing Eddie a favor by making him his man on the inside.

“This whole town could be ours if you would just–”

That does it. Eddie leaps from the table, chair clattering to Rick’s warped wooden floor.

“I don’t want this whole town, are you fucking crazy?!” he yells, spittle flying, “And–and I certainly don’t want it if it’s anything to do with you!”

What the hell would make Al think that Eddie would hitch his wagon (which, granted, ain’t in too great a shape–he’s barely passing any classes, thanks to a pickup in business he guesses he can thank his dad for) to the living sunk cost fallacy that his father is? What the hell does Al Munson want with that kind of fantasy, one where he’s king bastard of the Hawkins cockwalk when he can’t even stick within county limits for more than a couple of weeks?

Well, Eddie actually has a pretty good idea, one that occurs to him like a lightning strike as Al struggles to keep his temper level. Let Eddie look like the tantrum-throwing brat.

Yeah. Exactly.

He’d wind Eddie into whatever scheme he was cooking up and ditch it, half-baked, leaving Eddie in a kitchen with all the smoke alarms going off. Elbow deep in an unsalvageable mess, because Al could never follow through on anything.

He’d have Eddie exploit your relationship for a couple of instances of, “That’s my boy.” Because Al still thought that trick worked; making him believe he’s loved, valuable, wringing every last drop of loyalty out of him because a boy needs his father… and a father needs his boy, y’know!

Fuck that.

“We should split.” It’s Wayne who says it, batting away the apologetic glance both the Munson men get from Rick– like he’s Al’s keeper or something, managing his moods. Like he isn’t raking in a cash cow from Al’s great Ray Doevski replacement theory.

“No, c’mon–” Al half-heartedly protests, like he could still save the evening but can’t really be bothered.

Wayne follows Eddie’s furious stalk out the door, tearing a cigarette from a soft pack as he hauls into the passenger side of the van.

Eddie, a tightening ball of rage, whacks the steering wheel with one good thump. He’d been stupid enough to entertain Al these past couple of days– out of confusion more than anything else. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it were.

“The in,” Eddie mockingly mumbles as the van roars to life and he peels out against scattering gravel.

Wayne has his cigarette pinched between his thumb and index and lets that settle for a beat or two.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Fists flexing around the wheel, Eddie knows very well he’s been caught red-handed. There’s no way Wayne had gone this long without suspecting anything, even after he’d specifically warned him. More of a suggestion, actually; Wayne knows that Eddie will do whatever he wants, regardless.

Unfortunately, he’s like his father that way.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Eddie says, a shoulder shrug, a mirthless lilt in his tone. “She…”

Again, Wayne stays silent. Waiting for Eddie to tell on himself, like he always does.

“She doesn’t deserve to be in the middle of this,” Eddie arrives at, voice a little choked. “Whatever Dad’s planning on doing–”

“Neither do you,” Wayne reminds him. This is where Wayne and his stoicism pulls Eddie up short. Neither do you, and the only way you avoid the blowback is if you two avoid each other. But at that same time, Wayne always knows where Eddie’s heart is at. Knows that his heart is too big not to follow.

Even if Wayne hasn’t seen you two together, laughing ‘til you’re stupid like the kids that you are, can’t he see…

“Why can’t this be easy?” Eddie asks, his voice small. Echoes of a littler him, one that Wayne would pick up in the truck after school. Head hanging, backpack trailing, kicking pebbles and cursing the world.

Instead, through a sage swirl of smoke, Wayne’s hard stare seems to peel back some. He’s always known where Eddie’s heart is at. Eddie’s starting to think he wishes he knew less.

—

Jesus Christ, are you ever sick of learning your lesson. Of reflecting on what you’ve done.

It’s exhausting, and more to the point, pointless, and even more than that, boring.

Truth is, you’re beginning to second-guess your adoration of brilliant thinkers. Those motherfuckers knew too much, and in the past week, you’ve found yourself yearning for the days where you got by on knowing nothing but the good stuff! The juicy gossip, where the best parties were at, what lipstick could not stand up to what nail polish! When intellectualism was a bedtime story you’d read to yourself under the fucking covers and you didn’t have to decode the labyrinth of your own stupid feelings!

Sure, you felt like a husk most of the time, but you’d take that over this graceless stumbling shit!

You should be allowed to smash the windows out of Billy Hargrove’s car and no one should be able to say boo about it! God!

Instead, however, you’ve been caught up in an as-yet-unprecedented display of seething and sulking. People are still whispering about you, natch, glancing at your belly like you would’ve if that heinous spawnous prank was played on anyone else. At the very least, they still have the good sense to flinch when you match their stare.

Billy Hargrove’s two week suspension means you don’t have to worry about seeing his ugly face, but it also comes with the two week guarantee of not seeing Eddie.

And the probable delay of your Hellfire article. Which is paramount. Obviously.

Speaking of Eddie, there’s too much speaking of Eddie to do.

You keep replaying the sneak attack from Al Munson in your head, him sliding his aviators down his nose to get a look at you.

“What are you doing here?”

“Payin’ my respects. Your father, shit. Shame what happened to him. He was– well. I was gonna say he was a ‘good man’, but that sounds kinda funny, don’t it?”

It wasn’t about Eddie, except it was about Eddie, because every stupid thing is about Eddie.

Especially the fact that you’re sitting in your college-going beau’s chariot, about to slink into Saturday detention. If it weren’t for him…

“Lacy?” a voice calls from the driver’s seat. “You alright?”

You snap to, rearranging your face into something definitive and sharp and pleasing to the eye. Because you’re fine! You’d said as much when he snuck you into the basement of his parent’s house–why wasn’t he back in school yet–and said as much when he squirmed against you, asking you if you were okay in that weighted way that really meant can I put it in yet.

You’d gotten on all fours because it allowed you to roll your eyes when he was all, oh, woah! sliding it in from the back.

You’d reached around and teased your clit to attempt a climax. Trying to imitate that clumsy rhythm from the nurse’s office. It didn’t quite stick–paled in comparison, like a Simon and Garfunkel tribute act made up of people that didn’t secretly want to fuck each other.

And then he gave you a ride this morning. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to bore yourself out of misbehavior– but you’d told him that you had newspaper business to attend to.

“I’m fine,” you brightly declare for the fourth and final time, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. It was a weird gesture, but the shine had buffed off. He’s cute and all, but you two had gone to see Paris, Texas at the Hawk and he didn’t get it.

He didn’t get how much you clowned on him for not getting it afterwards either. You hadn’t been able to get it out of your head, the way he shrugged away from you at the diner as you ribbed him for his plodding misunderstanding of Harry Dean Stanton.

Coldly, you thought of the trade-off that you and Eddie had agreed on. Repo Man for Paris, Texas once it came out. You had to pretend you liked Repo Man a lot less than you actually did to swing that one, because Eddie wasn’t keen to lock in to some movie about a dude crying in the desert or whatever unless you angled in the fact that you owe me for making me sit through all that machismo.

“You love machismo. You wanted to nail that sweaty little punker, I saw you squeezin’ your knees together.”

“For Emilio Estevez? Please. I had my eye on the old guy. ‘Ordinary fuckin’ people, I hate ‘em’--that kind of shit really does it for me, Munson, you know that.”

“That why you’ve been entertaining the pleasure of my company for so long?”

“Down, dog.”

Anyway. Fuck.

“Listen, Lacy, I gotta tell you s–”

“Can’t right now! I’m already late and Fred is gonna have my head,” you chime, all saccharine, climbing out of the car. “Call me!” You pray that he doesn’t.

Slam. What an extraordinary waste of time.

As instructed, you make your way to the gym, which you think is a little weird. Detention usually denotes writing pointless, go-nowhere laments on how sorry you are for being such a bad kid, right? Think on your sins, yadda yadda yadda.

Typically enough, no one’s here on time. Everyone’s late. You’re perched on the bleachers like an asshole, sitting alone like an asshole. That’s the goddamn ticket, isn’t it? You’re alone in all of this. You always have been.

Like, for example. The Al Munson walk-on role into the surrealist tragi-comedy that is your fucking life. You can’t tell that to anybody. Not Eddie, naturally, not your mom, not Nancy because then you’d have to explain the continued and complicated Eddie of it all, not Ronnie because just because. And the ickiness of it hangs off your every move, and you can’t shake it, and no one can share it.

You’re beginning to wonder if that’s true of all the parts of you. The ickiness. It’s all a little heavy, isn’t it?

As if on cue, hearing ickiness called by name on the wind, Mr Kaminsky pushes open the gym’s double doors.

“Oh, what the fuck.”

“Had to see it for myself.” Your loathed History teacher says, full of glee.

“Sir, if this is some kind of elaborate courting ritual, I have to say, you’re not my type.”

“Careful up there, Doevski. There’s more detentions where this came from.”

“Freak accident. I can’t be caged.”

“Well, let me enjoy the exception to the rule!” Kaminsky claps, and you jerk at the echo.

You sigh so hard you almost unlatch something. “What elaborate torture have you got planned for me today? Want me to run laps or something? Because these shoes aren’t built for that.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Lacy,” the teacher digs, “We’re still waiting on your comrades.”

“I’m late, I’m late, I know I’m late!” a familiar voice comes skidding right up behind Kaminsky, baseball hat askew, mud stains on the knees of her overalls. “Some goddamn lunatic tried to run me and my bike off the road–”

“Ronnie?”

“Hey, Lacy!” she calls brightly and breathlessly, slamming herself down on the bleachers beside you.

“Ron, what’re you–”

An unmistakable heel-click rounds its way into the gym, and in walks Nancy Wheeler with her face all pinched like a porcelain doll. She receives your big ol’ center-piece-missing jigsaw puzzle of a look with a knowingly arched eyebrow.

“You’re late, Wheeler,” Kaminsky tries, but Nancy’s already consulting her wristwatch.

“Detention starts at nine sharp, right?” she says, impenetrable as always. “It’s 8:58.”

“Then can I have my admission of lateness struck from the record, actually?” Ronnie asks and Kaminsky shoots her a withering one, consulting his clipboard.

“Alright, we got one more. Give it the goddamn two minutes, but then I’m bumping her to suspension. You wanna count it, Wheeler?” he scoffs. Wow, so he’s like a round the clock douchebag. To everybody.

At what you only can assume is 8:59, the mismatched gangle of Robin Buckley comes slinking over the waxed floor, looking half-awake and pissed off–more pissed off, you might argue, now that she registers her company. She perches on the furthest end of the bleachers, pointedly away from the loose gaggle of you, Ronnie and Nancy.

You shoot Ronnie a look like, what’s the sitch there? Thought you two were getting all bosomy.

Ronnie just shrugs.

“Alright!” Kaminsky claps the clipboard again, “So, this is a fun group. Bunch of smart girls who got caught doing idiot stuff. We’re gonna make you pay for that today. Sound good?”

The whole bad bunch of you just stare at him, slit-eyed.

Your collective punishment, as it turns out, comes in the form of scraping old, disgusting, errant gum and other mystery sticky bullshit from the bottom of the bleachers.

“Stupid is as stupid does,” Kaminsky sagely says, handing you each a tiny chisel from the art room, “And I understand that some of you are violent offenders,” that’s a pointed look at you and Ronnie, by the way, “but please. Don’t use this opportunity to take another girl’s eye out. Your community college acceptance is riding on it.”

Motherfucker. Everyone knows Ronnie Ecker is in the running for valedictorian.

He leaves the four of you to your own devices, promising to check up on you all in a solid forty-five.

“How many times you think he can beat off in forty-five minutes?” Ronnie immediately asks as the teacher disappears through the door.

“Depends. Is he doing it in the shameful privacy of his three-door rust bucket or the clandestine confines of the AV room?” you question.

Nancy makes a gagging sound but adds, “And is he using his imagination or Ms Kelley’s yearbook picture?”

Nasty Wheeler! That girl has truly endeared herself to you.

Robin, however, doesn’t weigh in at all. She just sort of glares and angles herself onto the nearest bleacher rung to start scraping the age-old mastication from the wood. Tension in the air.

“Buckley’s got the right idea,” you say, twirling the chisel in your fingers, “Sooner we get started, sooner we get the grossness over with…”

Ronnie sticks close by you, which is nice. You always like having her in proximity. Nancy, who’s nothing but work ethic in everything she does, starts furiously working on a corner a little ways away from you both– and Robin.

It doesn’t take long, maybe fifteen minutes of silent, resigned scraping, for you to get bored. And disgusted.

“At what point do we get to do the whole prison thing of what are you in for?” you say, sitting up and letting the blood rush back to your head.

“Well, yours goes without saying,” Ronnie chuckles, “going all batter on Hargrove’s car like that. Did you actually bust a window?”

“Just swung it around,” you say, driving your heel into the bench, “I may have inherited the felony misdemeanor gene, but I didn’t inherit getting caught. What about you?”

Ronnie flicks another gum wad off with her chisel, “Actually, you might wanna ask Wheeler about that.”

Your brow furrows. “Nance?” your voice rings down to the lower rungs, “Ronnie here says you were implicated in her detention-getting.”

“Yeah, um. Well, I heard about everything when you went–”

“--totally awesome psycho–”

“--in the parking lot and… I just. I wanted to clean up all that shit. From your locker. And then Nicole came by, smacking her stupid gum, and it kind of got ugly.”

Nicole. The irony of it, Nicole, gnashing out shittalk about you and Eddie in order to impress whatever unfortunate member of the wrestling squad she’d dug her press-ons into this week. Nicole, who’d already invaded Eddie’s territory, much to her apparent shame.

What a majorette of a bitch.

You would’ve given anything to be ringside for this, her versus Nancy.

“You toed up to Nicole Summers?” a little pause, your voice goes smaller, “For me?”

Nancy sits up, her perm clouding around her. She points her chisel Ecker-ward.

“Ronnie was the one who smacked all her books out of her hand.”

Ronnie pffts. “Like she hasn’t done that to me a million times. Eye for an eye.”

“Nicole wouldn’t even go near her on account of that one time she bit that one kid for catcalling her.”

“Oh, stop,” Ronnie’s gathering a blush, batting her hand all coquettish.

“Wait, that was real?” you say, eyes darting between them, “I thought that was just some freak rumor we came up with.”

Rabid Ecker was one of the less clever nicknames your group of crown ghouls had come up with, so it obviously didn’t stick too long.

“We?” Nancy scoffs, not mean.

“The royal ‘we’,” Robin Buckley drawls from her prostrate position on the bleachers. That sounds mean, the bite in her voice.

Your hackles can’t help but rise at that cold snap in her tone. Does she have a fucking problem, or something?

“And why are you here, Robin?” you call, hands knitting in your lap.

“I was with these bozos,” she says, a note-faithful mockery of your pointed voice, “For some godforsaken reason… and now I really wish I wasn’t.”

“Why’s that?” you press.

Nancy’s whole upper half tenses. “Robin–”

Robin’s chisel clatters on the bench, a toss made out of frustration. She looks to the three of you with pursed lips before letting loose.

“Steve found out,” Robin says, “About the pregnancy test thing. In like, the worst way he could possibly find out, which is so goddamn unfair, unfair in the first place because of Nancy not telling him–like, I get it, your choice or whatever but you guys have been together for, like, a really significant period of time and you know how he feels about you–”

You and Ronnie can’t even get a breath in before Nancy rises from her seat, fingernails digging into tiny little fists at her side. She’s all spit and fury, she’s on Robin.

“Oh yeah, the worst way he could find out, Robin, the worst way which is that you blabbed to him!” Nancy yells, ricocheting around the gym, “‘Oh, I couldn’t help it, he asked me what was wrong and it all just came out–’ Give me a break! I mean, are you really that co-dependent that no one can tell you anything in confidence without you running to tell Steve?”

Robin’s face seizes in a snarl. “Are you really that stupid that you forgot to use protection with your long term boyfriend?”

“What is your problem?” Nancy’s voice whistles through her teeth, sheer exasperation, “How is this any of your business?”

“Should we stop this?” Ronnie whispers, with no intention of moving.

You shake your head in tiny, tiny increments, gossip monger past getting the best of you. “I kinda wanna see where this goes.”

“He is my friend, Nancy! And you broke his heart, dumping him right after– after–!”

Both your and Ronnie’s mouths drop into an ‘o’. You’re kind of disappointed–a big Wheeler-Harrington bust up and you weren’t first on the call list?!

“Jesus, Robin!” Nancy spits, perm flying, stomping towards Robin, “Get a personality! Sublimating yourself onto Steve Harrington isn’t doing you any favors!”

“Why, Nancy? I thought you loved him.” What confusing wording.

“I–”

Okay, these two girls are walking right into shit you can’t take back territory. You and Ronnie rush the bleachers, breaking the negative space between them both.

“Ladies! Break it up!”

“You heard Kaminsky! We’re all holding chisels, this could get ugly fast!”

You look to Nancy and her eyes are glistening. Reddening with the heat of anger and frustration. Robin’s jaw has hardened into a tough clinch, arms bound around her chest. Ronnie, she just lingers awkwardly, not quite knowing where to look. Your hand goes out to Nancy’s elbow, and she jerks away from you at first.

“Let’s go. Come on.”

“We’re supposed to be chiseling,” Nancy seethes. Your eyes roll, no patience for this go-nowhere brat routine, and you lead her to the other end of the bleachers anyway. Saying something like, we’ll take one end, Ronnie and Robin take the other, we’ll get this shit cleared in no time.

Nancy starts working furiously, but that’s kind of not what you had in mind here.

“You broke up with Steve?” you ask, point blank. Like she’d ask you.

She keeps chiseling for a few heavy, angry seconds. “I wasn’t gonna tell him, you know. I wasn’t gonna tell him, and we were gonna be fine. He could have lived without knowing. And then–fucking Buckley– and he had all these questions.”

“Like what?”

“Like why didn’t I tell him. And why was I so put out by the idea. Like, why didn’t I want to have his hypothetical baby at age seventeen… stupid shit like that.”

“He’s sensitive.”

“He’s a moron.”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” as if you didn’t have irrefutable proof in her favor. But that was the old Steve Harrington, wasn’t it? He’s meant to be some soft-hearted do-gooder dream boy now, right?

“No, Lacy, he’s a moron,” Nancy hisses, spit flying again; you’ve never seen her like this. Blue eyes bold and frightening with conviction. “Why should I have to tell Steve about something like that if it’s just a big nothing? If I was never even actually pregnant or whatever? Why can’t I just have that to forget about myself? Why do I owe him part of every single goddamn decision I make about my life?”

This is a bigger conversation, isn’t it? What you’d once regarded as poor Nancy and her perfect boyfriend, boo-fucking-hoo is now poor Nancy and her perfect boyfriend, stifled by his redemption.

“At least if he was still an asshole, I wouldn’t feel bad about breaking up with him. After all this.”

“Now it’s just like you’ve kicked a puppy.”

“Exactly.”

“What total bullshit.”

Nancy shoots the tiniest smile up at you, a stiff little nod bobbing her neck forward.

There’s a long beat as your focus reframes around Nancy. All the two of you wanted were lives of your own. Existences not indebted to anybody, good or bad. Shit.

“I’m the sublimator, by the way. I know that,” Nancy whispers, great big eyeballs glittering at you, “It’s easy to… fold into someone like Steve when, y’know… you’re not exactly likeable on your own. I just. I wanted to hurt her. She doesn’t deserve it. But I wanted to.”

Her chisel gestures towards Robin, working alongside Ronnie in relative silence that Ronnie awkwardly tries to puncture.

You understand that. Wanting to hurt people after you feel like they’ve breached your trust. Even accidentally. And doing it. And the ugliness of the shame after, you’re familiar with that too.

You reach forward and brush a little lint off her collar. “Thanks for getting in trouble for me, by the way. With that stupid prank and everything.”

“What are you talking about?” she scoffs softly, “You covered for me. And you didn’t have to.”

“Hey,” you hold out your pinkie finger. It’s the least you can do. “Promise is a promise, right?”

—

The members of Hellfire Club gather in an awkward row, standing under the odd, warm glow of the drama room lights like a police lineup of suspects least likely to score a date to homecoming. Sorry, Ronnie.

“What do you think,” you say, swiveling your focus to Jonathan, who’s standing there twice as awkwardly with his camera slung around his neck, “Should we take ‘em outside, make ‘em do Abbey Road?”

In the middle of it all sits the man who can’t help but be of the hour, what with the throne and the glowering and the gravitational pull. Eddie, slumped into that wild set piece left over from god knows what drama club production of, like, Henry VI or Pirates of Penzance or whatever, is so beyond unhappy with what’s unfolding in front of him.

Good.

Ronnie clearly hadn’t even fluffed him into the idea. Which she offered to do, when you’d hitched a ride home on the back of her bike after the tension of Saturday detention dissipated. You’d firmly nixed the idea, the sneak attack being the whole point of this thing.

You’d also learned that a two week suspension was no way no how going to keep Eddie from sneaking in and running this Hellfire session, which meant your article wouldn’t be delayed after all.

So, nah. Good ol’ Ronnie, she just let you stalk in there with your notebook and your pen and your glasses and your Pentax-wielding Jonathan Byers, ready to entirely fuck up Eddie’s day, which gave him no opportunity to protest or call for embargo. Because if he did, it’d raise eyebrows of suspicion and everyone would be like, I thought you two were weird trailer park friends? Is something going on? Something emotionally incoherent and ambiguously erotic? Should we tell everyone? Should we call the Mayor?

“Capital idea,” Eddie says, not exactly to you, but to those in general attendance like he’s playing to the cheap seats, “Maybe I can mow them down in my van and save them from this torture.”

Your smile tightens and Eddie matches your expression, both your mouths straining against your skulls. Wisecracks will not save him. He should know that by now.

“Let’s get a couple of the maestro while I excavate the disciples’ brains,” come the instructions and a swift pat to Jonathan’s shoulder. He flashes you a bewildered kind of look.

“Wh– how do you… want him?”

Incredible phrasing. You glance at Eddie, but not really at him–not enough that he can register and sucker your gaze in. Bathed under the dramatic glow like he was born to sprawl all cock-kneed on a throne like that.

“Exsanguinated and hung on a meat hook, preferably,” you say to Jonathan, “But, I trust you. Do whatever.”

As you gather the rest of the Hellfire denizens at the end of the table to interview them talking head style, Jonathan Byers slinks towards Eddie.

Eddie shifts uncomfortably, less equipped to keep up that fuck you stormcloud persona when he’s at the other end of a focusing lens. Plus, Byers always kind of gave him the creeps. Not to be a dick, but. Here we are.

Byers, to Eddie’s complete and utter horror, clears his throat and attempts to scrounge up some semblance of conversation. But, of course, it’s Jonathan Byers so it’s not fucking small talk. Any other day of the week, Eddie could get behind the notion of eschewing such how about this weather we’ve been having type social norms but Byers decides to jump in with–

“So you guys are…” he trails, leading the witness. Snap goes his little aperture. That’s unfair. Means he caught Eddie’s immediate facial reaction which, hands up, he has never been good at hiding.

“Neighbors,” Eddie supplies in a rush, twisting on his throne again. “She can… hear me yelling about DnD from my trailer. S’why she’s here. To shut me up, I guess.”

Byers adjusts his stance, capturing Eddie from a lower angle– a little more badass looking, he hopes. Frame the fucking curls, for god’s sake.

“Gotcha journalism,” Byers quips. Byers quips.

Eddie’s mouth relaxes and he huffs out a little, “Exactly.”

Byers shifts yet again, clearly covering all wondrous angles with his dinky little thirty-five millimetre whatever the fuck.

It’s not that this whole sneak attack article for the Streak thing is getting under Eddie’s skin– Eddie didn’t even have a chance to acknowledge it getting under his skin. You just breezed in here and started sticking bamboo spikes under his fingernails, like the little warmongtrix you are.

And now you’re sitting at the end of the game table, ruby red end of your fountain pen pointing at Gareth, noting down everything he says without even the slightest hint of condescension. These dorks are looking at you in awe and fear, save for Ronnie who just looks smug, and you’re listening to them. Really listening to them. Your face fixed with that hard little glare that tells him you’re recording the minutiae of their answers.

Eddie digs the pad of his thumb into his lip. Why would you want to do this? Why aren’t you avoiding him at all human cost? What is your angle here?

“She’s cool, y’know.” Click, goes Byer’s camera again. “Lacy.”

Eddie’s voice comes out distant, his focus tugging away from you super, super slowly.

“I heard you blew it with her.”

Byers, caught off guard, lowers his lens. “She told you about that?”

Eddie shrugs, like it’s nothing. It’d be easier to pretend like the idea of you and Byers hanging out was nothing if Byers and Eddie weren’t both classified outsiders.

“Well, uh,” Byers fiddles with something on his camera, shrugging in turn, “It was weird, talking to Lacy back then. You know. She was kind of–”

“She’s different now.” Eddie answers too fast, springing to a defense that didn’t call for him. He sits up a little bit straighter, spine iron-rodding, and tries to recover. “I mean. She’s retired the whole icy Swatch rat bit. She’s not, like– pretending to be something.”

Jonathan gets this look on his face. One last click of the camera.

“I wouldn’t know. I blew it, remember?” But you didn’t, man.

Little does he know.

“Are we done?” Eddie says, launching himself from his chair and slapping palms on the table. His DM screen shakes. Byers steps back with a flared little danger zone! look tossed your way. “We’ve already lost–”

“--fifteen minutes of glorious game time?” you drawl, crossing a final ‘t’ in your notes. “Of course. My apologies. Tight schedule?”

Your eyebrow arches as you flash your eyes up at him. His jaw flares. You– you’re good. You’re vicious and you’re good.

“Theee tightest,” Eddie grits through the falsest of grins and jerks his head, waves flying and the rest of his little Hellfire sheepies following in motion to take their seats.

Ronnie takes her time, mumbling under her breath, “You sure this is a good idea?”

And she was right, with what she’d said before. You are using this as an excuse to get in his face–bolstered only by the fact that he had now gotten in your pants, and you weren’t letting him slink off that easy. Especially with the workplace cameo appearance from Al Munson that you had just been forced to live through.

You’d been looking over your shoulder ever since, expecting to see him leering at you over those sickening aviator sunglasses.

“Oh, I’m positive,” you assure her, turning to Jonathan. “I need, like, one or two shots of them playing then you can take off.”

“Waiwaiwaiwaiwaiwaiwait,” Eddie interrupts, an arm raising over his head to signal halt, “Okay, so first, you storm the castle with your little camera boy without my approval, now you think you’re going to stay for the game?” His ire is genuine. “It’s Hellfire Club, Lacy. Members only. We don’t need bleacher bunnies.”

“Oh, come on, Munson!” you lilt, situating yourself on an abandoned desk, away from the game table. “The people want to know how the Satanic sausage is made.”

“The people being?”

“Your critics and fans. What is this all for, if not to piss off Hawkins’ Presbyterian and garner a whole new legion of Hellfire acolytes, huh?”

“We don’t need any help from the press on that front.”

“Really?” You drag out your single-word answer, using the seconds to count the minimal amount of players in the room. Not even Ronnie could boast 100% attendance, with her marching band obligations clashing with Hellfire sessions. Eddie glares at you. Yeah, yeah.

“A–actually, Eddie… I think it’d be… pretty cool,” Gareth says, waver slowly fading out of his voice. “I mean, if we’re in the school paper, my Mom’ll be less suspicious that we’re like–”

“--doing k-bombs in the drama room…” you mutter, loud enough that only Jonathan can hear.

“--and stuff.”

Eddie exhales so hard his nostrils flare, his shoulders tense, he’s about to shit.

“And who else would like to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Gareth the Treacherous here?” he snarls, looking pointedly around the table, “Jeff? Dougie? Cyrus? Ecker?”

The dorks erupt in yapping agreement, totally swinging for Gareth’s angle.

“Shut up!” Eddie barks, throwing himself back onto his throne. Ringed fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But this, in the business, is what they call a mutiny. Don’t come cryin’ to me when you’re all gettin’ swirlies with half of the Weekly Streak stuffed in your goddamn mouths.”

That’s creative. He really could have had a fruitful career as a bully if he wasn’t so gooey in the middle.

“Munson, I promise you can ride circles around me on a motorbike on live TV if this all goes to shit.”

You make a fluttering hand motion that reads proceed, which he, naturally, hates. He stares at you, like white light white heat searing through stares at you. And then his eyes shut. He takes a deep breath.

What follows is… exactly what you should have expected, actually.

Eddie Munson transports the present-and-correct party of adventurers back into the eye of their campaign. Their mission? Infiltrate a cult of royal knights that have been bewitched by a high priest who is forcing them to sacrifice the kingdom’s innocents in order to fuel his dastardly arcane magic. The plot is… involved. You’d done a light touch of research on how exactly the dragons and the dungeons all worked, so to speak, but it didn’t really seep into the membrane. It’s something you could only really engage with if you saw it in action– you’d have to rely on Eddie and company to fill in the blanks that the extensive lore left. Like, how exactly did these mythical dice come into play? How does a character sheet set you up for success, or failure? What the fuck is a skill check and why does it read so complicated?

And fill in they… kind of did.

Aside from the technical aspects, you find yourself suckered into the story. Quite literally, gripping your seat as Ronnie’s character–a highly capable bard, from what you understand–attempts to escape the hateful royal sect and find her way back to her party. They’d taken her hostage, and she’s managed to escape her chains but they’re ruthless, on her like dogs. Eddie illustrates every sweaty, panicky movement as they close in on her, and your fine, painted fingernails are dug into every word.

Eddie weaves these stories like gossamer– both in the sense of delicate intricacy and destructive nature of that big red monster thing from Looney Tunes. Each plot twist is created to elicit a sense of true foreboding, embellishing how effective his storytelling is. It forces each and every person at the table to face fear head on, dig deep and use what they were given in order to prevail, even if they’re shaking in their boots while doing it– shit, this is good, you should be writing this down.

Blindly, you sketch the word gossamer into your journal, not tearing your eyes away from the table. You barely notice the flash going off to your immediate right– Jonathan Byers’ lens pointed right at you.

“Uh–” you start, Jonathan reaching to grab his jacket from behind you as the game goes on.

“I’m headin’ out– gotta pick Will up from…” he trails off, but you fill in the blank. Nancy had mentioned that Mike was hosting his friends for a DnD session tonight too, and the party naturally included the most junior Byers. You nod, checking the time– Jesus, where had the last three hours gone?

“Tell Nancy I said hey, if you see her,” you say, “and thank you.”

Jonathan shrinks into himself, bashful. “Don’t worry about it.” A beat. “I still want that Echo & the Bunnymen, though.”

Your face peels into a grin that says don’t worry, I”m good for it! and you wave him off. The Hellfire party don’t even notice his leaving, except for Eddie who, being judge, jury and executioner, notices everything.

“...and on that sweltering note, germies and Eckermen, we must bid each other good eventide. Until next time.”

An operatic groan of disapproval goes up from the players, and you realize this must be a regular thing. Eddie always leaving them wanting more. Tease.

“I know, I know, if you had it your way, you’d be locked in here, pissing in buckets and the show would go on all night,” Eddie jeers, rising from his seat to start collecting his stuff, “but I wouldn’t inflict that on the janitorial staff. ‘kay? Scat. Outta my sight.”

With great indignation that swiftly turns into backslaps of appreciation, the Hellfire Club moves out of the drama room one by one. You stay put, and Eddie avoids your eyes completely.

Folding shit back into that madly overstuffed DM folder, he throws a strained-casual, “Need a ride?” to Ronnie, the last straggler.

She shakes her head, smile barely contained. “Uh-uh! Two wheeled my way here and I’ll two wheel my way back– you, uh, have fun though.”

“Bye, Ronnie,” you call after her, voice properly piercing through the air for the first time in hours. Eddie reacts like he’d completely forgotten you were there. Which, impossible. It’s also impossible for him to keep up the whole punk-ass overlord act when it’s just the two of you. As it is now.

Alone, together. Again.

There’s a charge between you, as if that even needs pointing out. Like the electric fences surrounding McCorkle’s farm.

You and the wagonful of your one-time buddies, Carol and Tommy and Tina et al, used to drive out there more than a little under the influence. Your favorite trespassing activity was reaching out for the electric fence, hooking your fingers around it to feel the darting shock permeating your skin.

“What the fuck are you doing? Can’t that, like, fry your brain?” Carol’d ask you, slugging back the last of her beer as Tommy and Steve Harrington attempted to tip a cow in the background somewhere.

“Try it, Care,” you’d giggled, half drunk and half coursing with adrenaline, half alive and half dead, “It feels weird. It feels good!”

You’d woken up the next morning in your plush bedroom in Loch Nora, two little blisters on your fingers, smarting from all that pleasure seeking. Did you regret it? Or did it just make you want to do it again?

Eddie still doesn’t look at you as he speaks from the opposite end of the table.

“Get everything you need?”

“No,” you answer, short. “Missing my key interview.”

Now he looks. Now he has the nerve to. And irises lock on irises, Eddie frozen in place. He knows he’s not getting out of this.

What’s more, you don’t think he really wants to.

“Pretty controversial subject matter,” he says, tone a whole shade softer than the commanding voice of God he’d used through the duration of the session. A little higher. Nervous. “What with the panic, and all.”

“Me and controversy are bedfellows,” your shoulder darts up, “I’m the big spoon.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod; your tone is as marble-solid as ever, eyes trained and undarting, “Like when I implied the Tigers were straddling a generation-defining line of bold faced failure. I got in a lot of trouble for that.”

The corners of Eddie’s mouth twitch a little. “Define ‘a lot of trouble’ by your standards.”

“They made me print a retraction!” You’re genuinely incensed by the memory, hitching forward in your seat, “I mean, how insane? ‘Bad for school spirit,’ they said. Like I’m some kind of pep exorcist.”

Eddie tongue folds in between his teeth and he turns his head a split second too late. You can see him biting back a snicker, or something, and point to Lacy and yadda yadda yadda—but you smile, and the tension feels like it’s waning. Thank god, because it is suffocating you. You take your in and up you get, moving to the seat closest to his right-hand side.

“Can we get started?” The fountain pen is uncapped, the notebook cracked, your legs crossing. Eddie sinks back into the throne, his face warming up under the yellow stage lights.

“Okay. Hit me with your best shot.” Fire away.

You’re quick with it. “Why this?”

“Really? That’s your first question?” Eddie looks bemused.

“It’s the least rudimentary of all the Ws,” you explain nice and plainly, plucking up fingers to illustrate your points, “People know who you are–against their will, mostly. People can glean what the game is–or will, once I put a fine point on the… everything that just happened there. What people don’t get is why. Why indulge yourself in this?”

His fingers knit together in his lap, nearly shy.

“Because it’s fun.”

“Nope, too vague.”

“Vague?”

You physically knock the notion with a waving hand, leaning closer over the table, errant miniatures and spare pencils still scattered there.

“Basketball is fun. Chess club is fun. Throwing rocks into a rusted can of SpaghettiOs is fun if you can make a case for it. Too vague. Didn’t come here for the everyman answer.”

“What did you come here for?” That’s loaded. The way he’s daring himself to look at you is loaded. How soft his voice turns is loaded.

“The Munson answer.” It hangs in the air like someone dropped off the gallows. “Dig for me.”

A long, metastasizing beat. Resistance is futile, as it is and ever will be with you. Eddie hitches his arms across his chest, hiding a smile in the heel of his palm. Flattery works with him. Even if you'd never call this flattery.

“Escape,” he eventually tells you.

“Go on,” you press.

“There is this… insatiability when it comes to fantasy. To stories like this, the kind with big, thriving worldscapes. Reading ‘em, even writing ‘em– it’s good, but it isn’t enough sometimes. Sometimes you want to wrap yourself up in the reality of elsewhere. Travel to a world where things are different.”

“But not idyllic.”

Eddie’s eyebrows pull together.

“No. If these campaigns were just… the bad guys are defeated by a mighty sword that you and you alone always happen to have on you, that’s not a campaign. That’s a circle jerk.”

“The idea is to be challenged. To fight for something.”

“Right. To adventure. Beat the odds.”

“And you can’t do that alone.”

“Well, you can. I think that’s called, like, writing a book.”

“Ohh-kay, Eddie…”

“No, no, no, I mean,” Eddie shakes his head, planting his elbows on the table top, “Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the thrill of the unknown? Of not knowing what the other characters are gonna do, or what sick twist the dastardly, brilliant DM is gonna pull out next?”

He’s on one now, so you don’t stop him. Eddie’s eye takes on that mercurial shine, the same one he had while he was cruise directing the campaign. You wonder when he got like this—got bit by the God complex bug. Here, he could dare people to defy him when he’d been the defiant one his whole life.

You think about a littler him, yearning for escape.

“It also doesn’t work if everyone wants to be a hero. Too many heroes spoil the stew, okay, so you need to find other, y’know, likeminded weirdos who fall into different alignments. Those alignments only work when they’re played off other characters. Your merry band of outlaws or pirates or underdogs or whoever. You work together, or you betray each other, or you come back together because of some mighty sworn oath and you see your mission through. It’s not about winning or losing, y’know? Whatever happens out there,” he gestures to beyond the barricade of the drama room doors, “doesn’t matter. Whether life’s beating the shit out of them or not, my little acolytes, as you call ‘em, sit at this table and they’re part of something bigger. Something thrilling. Magical. Alchemic. They’re part of–”

“--a team.” You think about a littler him, yearning for people to escape with.

Eddie flaps his ever-animated hands. “Not my phrasing. But.”

“That thread runs through it all,” you say, drawing a line down the center of your notes with the inactive end of your pen, “Teamwork. Belonging. Victory– an escape from the mundane to victory, especially when you can’t find it elsewhere.”

Eddie’s chin rests on the back of his hand as he squints at you. “Sounding a little sportsmanlike there, Lacy.”

“And?”

“Thought you weren’t pulling for the everyman answer.”

“A hook’s a hook’s a hook,” you quirk your eyebrows, “–and, when you put it that way—”

“When you put it that way.”

“—what really makes you any different from, say, the Tigers?”

“Besides the cult of personality surrounding all jocks–”

“As if you don’t court your own little cult of personality—“

“—we actually win our campaigns.”

You start to retort, then stop. Letting that sink in.

“Oh. Oh, that’s good,” you say, sketching it down.

“I foresee letters to the editor in your future,” Eddie says, and he’s smug about it. Anything to aggregate the status quo, no matter what the blowback might be.

No one in their right mind here behaves like him. He just… does whatever he wants.

You find yourself wanting to touch the fence.

And maybe it’s that you stare at him a beat or so too long, but Eddie shifts his gaze down to the wood grain, flexing his hand. Scabs still marring his knuckles and all.

“It wasn’t broken or anything, then?” you ask, gesturing to his hand.

Eddie looks back up with a drag. You can feel what’s coming.

“Oh no, it was shattered,” he tells you, eyes-wide earnest and lying through his teeth, “My bones just heal super fast. My mom, she ate a shit ton of canned spinach when I was in ute.”

“Right, the calcium—”

“Nah. Rare botulism side effect,” he shrugs like, whaddaya gonna do!

Dumbass.

“Rare Botulism Side Effect is a good album title.”

“I’ll tell the guys.”

Silence falls again, and if you reach around, there’s something close to normalcy in there. Among the spikes and confusion.

“Um,” Eddie’s face contorts into a tiny cringe, “I found out what the… what the prank was, by the way. I obviously wasn’t here to witness the whole masterpiece theater of it all but– but Ronnie told me.”

A tight and ugly feeling constricts your chest. You look away, nodding through a grimace. You’d opened your locker with the practiced caution of someone diffusing a bomb since that whole incident, which sucks as someone who derives real joy from slamming metal doors.

“Pretty creative bit, huh?” is all you offer.

“Almost too creative for Hargrove,” Eddie counters, uprighting a fallen miniature with one finger.

“Are you trying to say I was being hysteric, jumping on his car?” It sounds like you’re offended, but.

“No,” Eddie meets you right where you’re at with this sparkle framing his stare, “I’m saying it was probably a collaborative effort. You could go seek even more batshit revenge, if you wanted to.”

“And would you be there to stop me before I cut Carol Perkins’ breaks?”

You can see Eddie biting his tongue between his teeth oh-so-lightly… Saliva catching in the low light. It’s warm in here. Stuffy.

“Prob–”

“I miss you.”

You cut him off in such a harsh, unforgiving way that Eddie feels his words rammed back down his throat. He blinks a couple of times, tempted to shake his head to make sure he heard you right. But there you are, your sight line running clean through him. You couldn’t be talking to anybody else.

“You do?” His voice is so small that his lips barely move. His lips, teased by his tongue, wetting them.

“Don’t act brand new. Everything’s harder without you. You have to know that.”

He gets snagged on the angles in your voice. By without you, he can only imagine you mean since he started giving you the cold shoulder and you started hitching rides in that college dork’s Ford Cortina. And by everything, he can only imagine…

“Lace…”

This is hard. This is horrible. This is uncomfortable and risky and as exposed as you have ever been, but it’s necessary.

“I can’t stand the tension of not being around you,” you say, breath feeling harsher as it speeds past your molars, “And I can’t stand the tension when I’m with you either, with you and wanting to–... so what do I do, Eddie?”

You focus on him, adjusting as if you were looking through the viewfinder of Jonathan’s Pentax. Eddie’s face, bewildered and angelic, with his parted mouth and his honorific glow of the stage lights haloing the frizz in his hair. He looks like something you want to commit to memory, as if to say see?! How could you deny this?

You rise from your seat, ever the investigator, and bear over him with hands on the table. Cards on the table, too. A genuine question smarts in your mouth, too sour candy you have to spit out.

“What do I do, Eddie?”

Eddie inhales with a sharp touch as you stand up, inspecting, demanding. He goes to tell you I don’t know… in the meekest of tones but the arch in your eyebrows says don’t you goddamn dare. You terrify him, and you make him dig.

“Forget it. Forget about all of it,” he breathes, almost tasting your perfume, “We can reset. Blank slate. Pretend like we don’t know each other. Pretend like none of this ever happened. It’d be better. Safer. Easy. Right? We could totally do that. We’ve fooled everybody so far. Even ourselves, into thinking this was… we could...”

“Fuck you,” you say in a soft rush.

Eddie only realizes that you’re both smiling when you kiss him. It’s clumsy at first, teeth knocking and everything, your hands winding around his collar and your frigid fingertips finding his neck. The shock of your skin on his, the matchstick crack of your mouth on his propels Eddie onto his motherfucking feet. He leans over you, knocking you into the table as your tongue works its way deep into his mouth.

You give him an, “Mm,” and if feels like an ascent to heaven.

Sparkles in the static makes the stuffiness evaporate, makes the room come alive. Your legs part to invite him closer to you, your hands faster and more insistent than his are. You pull at the hem of his Hellfire shirt and yank your head back, a string of saliva married between your mouths.

Fingers are more bold than they were in the nurse’s office, weaving the leather out of Eddie’s belt buckle. A deep ridge etches between Eddie’s eyebrows and his hands are propped in a mid-air surrender. Your eyes, your everything fucking eyes, are weighted with want. And challenge. Because you always do have to get one up on him.

“Reset this.” You tug at his zipper. “Tell me to stop.”

“Lacy…” Eddie whispers, watching you pull at the waistband of his boxers with his mouth agape. He’d dreamt about this. Thought about this. His cock about jumps into your hand like you’re Snow White and it’s a goddamned hummingbird. Pen marks on your fingers. “Jesus, y–...”

Eddie’s arms angle up behind his head, like a strung-up marionette, fabric of his shirt ghosting against his nipples in the stretch. This only makes him angle his hips further into you, eyelids flickering and his blood breaking the speed limit on its descent. Fuck, and then you fucking touch him– fingertips along the length of him, featherlight and goading.

Eddie’s groan is broken, half-caught in his nose. You’re looking at him like he’s a bad puppy, like you’re teaching him a lesson in scolding masking adoration. You’re beautiful and he wants to tell you so, but it all comes out in a whimper. Your hand closes around his cock, thumb brushing rii-iii-iight along the ridge of his head.

“Tell me to stop,” you echo yourself, and you’re fascinated that it comes out sounding like you know what you’re doing. You don’t. You’ve never been thrust into a net of feeling like this, never had anyone look at you the way Eddie is now– like he’d throw himself on a bed of open flames for you, so long as you kept touching him. It’s drunkard-making. It’s a full headrush. The gradual glisten of his reddening head looks delicious to you.

“Tell me to s–”

Grip tightens around him and Eddie moans from right in his sternum, his arms dropping to cradle around your head. He can’t believe he’s doing this, he can’t believe he’s fucking doing this but–

“Stop,” he gasps, fingers winding in your hair. His entire spinal cord is begging him to buck into your hand, your mouth, your anything, but he steels himself. “Stopstopstop, Lacy. Fuck– fuck.”

Your eyes widen, cheek in his palm. “Really?” Said in the most painful, the most misread did I do something? lilted tone. Your hand doesn’t exactly go slack right away.

“Yeah. Yes,” Eddie murmurs, eyes screwing closed and opening again, the most manual effort ever put behind a blink. “I c–I didn’t do this right, the first time. This is stupid. This is so stupid.”

And so your hands go, and you feel the anchor of your heart slowly dropping… But Eddie drops his face right down to yours.

“You deserve… so much more than giving me a handy on school property,” he tells you, and feels almost coherent about it. “Hot as it is. Right out of my… nastiest dreams as it is.”

Oh. Oh. The corners of your mouth pick up as Eddie presses his forehead to yours, just about evening out his breathing.

“Had a premonition about this, didja?” The pressure of his face on yours, his breath on yours, his skin on yours. It’s nice.

“Came to me in a vision,” he grins, crooked. Slides his thumbs along your cheeks and kisses you, slowly and noisily. “I’m a prognosticator.” Tongue half in, half out your mouth. Your heartbeat sinks between your legs. In a good way. “Been known to prognosticate.”

“Five dollar vocab word,” you mumble into his mouth, can’t help but push your body against him like a cat begging for attention. Eddie’s lips latch to the space right below your ear, a place where his mouth makes you feel like cymbals are clashing in your stomach.

“Come home with me,” he says, the note of pleading in his voice making your legs go numb. His nose and his lips dragging against the side of your neck, begging you to focus on the details and not the bigger picture. “Please.” A swallow. A beat. A ragged whisper. “... I missed you. Too. Y’know?”

“I do…” you sigh into his curls, readjusting his boxers, “actually need a ride… so.”

—

The van ride back to Forest Hills is tight with a tension that makes you both laugh, your mouth still buzzing from the kiss Eddie’d laid on you right before he’d helped you into the passenger seat. Even after he’d insisted you not touch him from the drama room to the parking lot, insisted because, “This thing,” he’d gestured to his crotch, his hard-on painfully zipped into submission, “this thing is gonna get me hauled over by the cops!”

“Don’t laugh!” you scold, mouth straining around the gleaming smile you’re suppressing, body all giddy. Voice ringing clear and high even over the cranked radio. Sabbath, naturally, Vol. 4. Wheels of Confusion sounds like treacle to you, mixed in with his laugh.

“I’m no-oo-oht!” Eddie says, syllables punctuated with chuckles, “I just– I am expressly escorting you back to my place! To, like, have sex with me!” His hands beat against the wheel, teeth sunk into that pretty bottom lip, giddy-upping so hard he actually does swerve the van a little.

“Woah!” you yelp, “Eddie, the road! You should’ve let me drive, you’re feral!”

Eddie moon eyes at you, reaching over to pinch your chin. “Lace, please don’t get all sore about this, but I will never trust you behind the wheel of this van. She’s a delicate piece of machinery and you would drive her like it’s the demolition derby.”

Narrowed eyes and all, you kind of have to concede. You’ve never been the best behind the wheel, a road rageaholic, and if you were to add feeling as frisky as you do now on top of that sundae… you press Eddie’s DM binder into your lap a little harder. Down, girl. He doesn’t help, thumb stroking your chin and everything.

“This is suh-rreal.”

“Stop zooming out so hard or I’m not gonna have sex with you!” You’re kidding. You’re so completely kidding. If he doesn’t touch you someplace lower than your neck soon, you’re going to disintegrate.

But Eddie pauses. “Like, you don’t. Have to.” Panicky, freezy. Hastily pulling on his good guy hat. “You don’t– by the way. It’s whatever you want. Call timeout at any time. I know I’ve been kinda–”

“Eddie.”

“...you still want to though, right?”

The giggling dies down as you edge closer and closer to your respective trailers, darkness washed over them like a swathe of dark blue paint. The lights in both trailers are out. Nobody home. Wayne, something about the weekend, something about overtime. Your mom… who knew. She’d been moving around in shadows more so than usual lately.

Everything out there is dimmed, except you two. Eddie doesn’t waste a second once the motor shuts off and the radio is silenced; he slams the driver door shut but the teensiest knot of hesitation tightens in your stomach before he reaches the passenger door.

And then he reaches the passenger door, gathering you out of it and pushing you up against the side of the van. Snapping you out of it instantaneously using the bare force of his mouth against yours.

“Eddie…” mumbled, your lips barely unstuck.

“Sorry. Shit, sorry. I just really like kissing you.”

Something pops in your chest; he’s… Jesus, he’s so sweet. Coal-eyed and excitable and lovely, kissing you with nothing left to spare.

“Hey. Redirect,” you shiver, his fingertips pressing into your waist. “Come to my place.”

Eddie casts a wide glance back toward your double-wide. The forbidden castle. “Your… y–are you sure?”

“Sure that my bedsheets are cleaner than yours, yes.”

He murmurs, “Bedsheets,” with a darkened gaze and a grunt. Bedsheets. You wanted him in your bedsheets. “Get your key. Get your key. Get your key before me and my dick have a shared brain hemorrhage.”

That new lock doesn’t stick at all, thank god.

Eddie, ordinarily, would nosily register all of his surroundings– he had an extremely barebones idea of your place, cast mostly in darkness like this, from that first night he’d driven you back from the fallout at Harrington’s. But he’s too busy nosily exploring your throat with his tongue, recording and archiving every breathy sound you make as you tug him toward your bedroom.

Cardboard boxes still trip you up a couple times. Did you ever unpack, or what?

You break from his heady kiss, vision doubling, taking in a lungful of air as you push Eddie through the door. Spine flattens against it as it shuts, the noise drawing a little bit of sobriety into the room. You reach to hit the floor lamp on and your bedroom is illuminated in a soft, orange glow, a scarf thrown over the bulb to diffuse light. A half-effort to make you forget where you were sometimes. It works; the edges of everything softens, which is such a contrast to the definitive presence that he is.

Eddie’s chest is heaving. He attempts to get his bearings but he can barely get his eyes off of you, squirming ever-so-slightly, ever-so-sexily against the door. Like you’d captured him.

Lips swollen, watching you watch him from the door, he turns a little shy and turns to look at the ephemera around him instead.

He’s standing in your bedroom.

You’re far more cluttered than he expected you to be.

He expected pressed sheets and a pristine dressing table, like a prison cell designed by a set dresser from Dynasty.

Well, that’s wrong, actually. He expected that of the Lacy people thought you were.

On the walls are a couple of tear-outs from the Rolling Stones he’d helped you liberate from your porch in Loch Nora, a mission you’d bought him breakfast for but didn’t have to. But mostly, every surface in the room is covered in piles. Piles of books, records, tapes, pens, jewelry, nail polish. And the clothes. They hung from everywhere, bursting out of your tiny closet space like bodies trying to escape.

It’s confused in here; feels like someone who has unearthed parts of herself that she hasn’t been able to organize yet. Eddie wants to comb through it like a collector at a rarities market, he thinks, running a finger along the spine of a porcelain cat that sits on your dresser.

“Place is filthy, cheerleader.”

“You’d know about mess, freak.”

The only really neat, clear space is, fortunate for tonight’s entertainment purposes, the bed.

As he’s sliding his jacket (jackets, plural) off, Eddie’s eye travels to the window.

“Did you fix your blinds?” he asks, pivoting back and forth on his heel.

“My blinds?” you parrot. The blinds that had been broken when you moved in. The ones that sure were shuttered now. You’d made a point to fix them with whatever was left out of your first paycheck from the Bookstore. “How’d you know about my blinds?”

He could’ve lied, if he caught himself quicker. If he didn’t straighten up his back like someone had snapped him to attention. “Uuh.”

It dawns on you like a flashlight in the eyeballs. “Were you… watching me, Munson?”

Not spying, mind. Not peeping. Watching. Eddie sinks down to sit on the edge of your bed, because whether or not he’s ever going to get to be here again kind of hangs in the balance right now.

“That. Dep…ends. What do you,” Please don’t kick him out. Please don’t kick him out. Look at the line of your fucking body as you round on him, staring him down like you want him for dinner. Christ, he hopes you want him for dinner.

Eddie swallows roughly, tone bumpy, face a dime store Halloween mask of nonchalance. Paper thin. “What do you think about that?”

Fact is, he’d subsisted on a couple of very guilty glimpses of you. Catching sight of the lines of your bare back and taught shoulders would keep him in jerk-off material for a week, just thinking about kneading out your knots and undoing your bra clasp with his teeth.

Eddie felt positively Victorian about it. Maybe you’d flash an ankle at him next and he’d be institutionalized for hysterics.

You look at him with the same pinpoint as you did earlier. Like you’re studying him. And then you edge closer, closer, nudging his knees apart. Echoes of the nurse’s office.

But this isn’t the goddamn nurse’s office. You’re not straining to adapt to the element of surprise. You know that the breath Eddie takes, shuddering and wondrous as you tilt his chin up to look at you, is a sound you want on repeat for as long as you can bear to hear sounds.

“They’ve blinded men for that, y’know? Before.”

Eddie can’t answer. Just let out a huh! as your fingers trace his jaw, thumb brushes his lip. His hands squeeze the curve of your ass, fingers beg into your thighs as he watches you, dumbstruck. His tongue unconsciously presses to the tip of your thumb and he hears your breath hitch.

A sustained shock travels up your neck.

“I mean, was it worth it?”

“Was it w… Lacy.” Eddie’s hands have breached the hem of your skirt and with a groan, his face burrows into the silken fabric of your shirt, like he’s trying to nudge it off with his nose or his mouth. Fingers are working mindlessly to loosen some article of clothing from your body and it makes you feel buzzy and trancelike. “Don’t ask stupid questions. I might have fuckin’ carpal tunnel because of you.”

Jesus. He makes you feel so…

Desired. Needed. You’ve never felt that way before, and you don’t quite know how to navigate it. So your buttons start coming undone with the work of one hand, the other shoving Eddie by the shoulder to lean back on your bed.

Eddie, here, among all your things. Disparate in your shabby little dollhouse, looking at you like you just swallowed the sun.

Your shirt comes off, and Eddie, in a game of match point, tugs his off too. Pause comes over the both of you. You’d seen him shirtless before; shower-bare in his trailer when the first security breach happened, a crack in the containment whatever you were pretending your relationship to each other was–affable enemies, irritated acquaintances. He’d looked at you like an animal cornered, tendons tense under his tattooed skin and you’d wanted to drag a finger or two down the center of his chest.

You didn’t, though. You’d sniped, asked where the cigarettes were.

This is all one big case of making up for lost time.

You’ve been looking at him so long, bra strap slipping off your shoulder, that Eddie leans forward. As if to come get you.

Remember me? I’m real. You can touch me. Touch me, please.

His warm arms pull you to him, pull you onto the bed, pull you against his lips. It’s gentler there; not as furtive. It says, hi, I’m here. Your arms, tugging him closer as he eases you beneath him say, good, I’ve been waiting. Eddie brushes his nose against yours, you laid down with your hair fanned out on the plush comforter.

Both your pulses must have stuttered at the same time.

His smile is serene but you can feel his forearms trembling. “I feel like I’m gonna have a heart attack.”

“Don’t,” you tell him, very quietly while his hand nervously tries to find the zipper on your skirt, “I just got you back.”

Your hips lift to help him and you’re wiggling the thing off and you’re wiggling your tights off and he’s thrashing his jeans off only to land back between your parted legs with bouncing recoil from the mattress. Laughter biting in one another’s mouths. The nerves are teeming off him in waves and it makes you want to kiss him all over.

The feeling housed in your body is different; not jittery, but struck somehow. This doesn’t feel like the way it usually feels, the way it does when you disappear into spare rooms at parties or the shadow of Skull Rock or hitch your leg up against the center console of someone’s shitty car. It doesn’t feel rote, like you’re doing it to stack up experience points– that is a Dungeons and Dragons term you found particularly interesting. How many bad tongue kisses had you accepted just to feel like you’re progressing, instead of waiting for someone who wants to taste you like Eddie does?

Your bodies caged together, you feel the eager, hard, tragically clothed line of him rub against your center. Eddie manages to free your bra clasp on the first try, which you almost goadingly applaud him for–but he cuts you short with a bewitched stare, his lovely, hot mouth laving over your nipple as he slips the fabric away. It tears the first real moan from you, your back arching into his kneading fingers as his tongue curves over your tightening bud.

Eddie can’t believe what he’s hearing. He can barely see straight, but he’s trying to commit every second of this to a glorious Technicolor memory, sound and image capturing working overtime. The sound that comes from your beautiful, balmy mouth sounds fresh out the packet–like you’d never made it for anyone before. The look of suppressed surprise on your face confirms as much and Eddie feels like he might explode.

He, too, has no idea what he’s doing but he can’t help his hips from jerking into you as he plays on. Playing with your nipples, remembering that making them glisten with his spit will make you whimper, and so will kissing the center of your sternum. He’s watching wide-eyed and fascinated as your brow furrows and your legs tighten around him. He’s a wonderful student, when he wants to be.

Eddie is throbbing, and there’s too much cotton and lace between you.

There’s also this other thing, and it comes out of him like word upchuck as you try to tease his boxers down around his hips using only your feet.

“I oughta tell you,” Eddie whispers, voice all raspy, all boyish with his hair tickling your collarbone, “I’m, uh. I’m not good at this.”

“At what?” He’s got one hand roaming over your chest, the other making indents in the meat of your thigh. It feels like he’s holding your breath right in his hands.

A new shade of pink rises high in Eddie’s already straining cheeks. He really doesn’t want to have to use his words to spell it out. “Thiii-iiss.”

Oh. A rivulet of cold realization runs through you. Nicole. Cass. Girls daring themselves to get near to him. Experience points. The great freak experiment project.

“This isn’t that.” Your hands hold his chin, perhaps a little roughly, to make sure he’s listening. And Eddie is, breath baited. You press your forehead to his like he pressed his forehead to yours. “It’s not.”

He’s really about to ask you, what is it, then? but that feels like something you can work out later. Eddie lets you tug at his lips and you let him tug at your panties, arching up so you can wiggle them down your legs. His eyes cast to the downy hair at your mound, and it’d usually occur to you to apologize for your unshaven legs, as if it mattered.

But the way he regards you doesn’t call for that; it calls for you to open up for him. Spread.

A rough pad of a finger runs along your slit, feeling the generous drip that’s gathered, and Eddie moans as your breath hitches into an animalistic, “hahh!”-- he’s edging down your body to bury his face there. He wants to feel you, smell you, taste you. You tense at the sudden contact of his palms pressing your thighs open, his nose against your clit and he feels it. A jolt of worry passes through him. Did you not want that? “Sorry–”

“Don’t– no, Eddie, don’t stop,” you strain, laugh a little, “You just… surprised me. Keep– keep surprising me. Please.”

Shockwaves break through you as he gingerly offers his tongue. And more, and more, until he’s lapping at you with a vigor and no real direction. You dig against him, made speechless by the building ache in your core.

In your fantasies, you hadn’t anticipated him being so giving–so eager to please and explore. Like all things, this moment projected itself in your head with the hard edges of some imagined cockiness, Eddie telling you to spread your legs and you, nymphlike and fluid and still somehow holding all the indiscriminate ‘power’, doing so.

But this? This is soft and messy and spitty and real. Eddie is drooling and babbling into your pussy with the uncalculated effect of someone who has improvised his whole life and it’s tearing you at the seams. A satisfying little rip, every keen movement he makes.

You know when you’re close to climax, that familiar feeling of your cunt suckling at nothing, but it doesn’t feel as jagged as the first time he brought you there. Urgently, you tug at his hair, claw at his shoulders, begging for his attention.

“Eddie,” you gasp and his hands flex around your thighs at the sound of his name in your mouth. It’s yours, he wants to tell you, rutting heedlessly into the mattress from his position between your legs, keep it! Please! “Eddie, Eddie– come here, come to me.”

Your velveteen voice summons him, his face glistening from the exploration of you. Embarrassment threatens to ping at you, but it flames into want, seeing how wet and obscene he looks. That’s all from you?

Eddie does as he’s told, heart pounding– and the sensation of fabric dragging against the raw tip of his cock nearly makes him pass out.

“Fuck! Fuck, you–” he stammers as your hand pulls his heavy length free, balls tightening under your firm touch, “N-not fuck you, obvi-ously, but–hunh–okay, kinda fuck you…”

Eddie’s lips fold against yours as he attempts, with shuddering arms, to brace himself over you. He whines at your dexterity, swiping his head against your entrance. The wetness from him, the wetness from you– the sheer impact of sensation slices clean through him. It’s not a tactic, you’re not teasing; you’re angling to get him inside you. You need to get him inside you, your entire body is begging for it.

“Baby, please, please, I’m not gonna last–”

“Who said you had to?” you ask, voice a drop of dark syrup. Just for him. “Who said you had to?”

The earnestness in your eyes gives Eddie pause– for all of a pulsating second.

“I want you… inside. Don’t you want to feel me?” you ask with real conviction, thumb swiping over his moistened head in a way that makes his vision go galactic.

Eddie yanks your hand away, kissing roughly it, nailing it beside your head as he tries to ease into you.

“Want? It’s all I want–fuck, it’s all I fucking think about, Lacy–huhh–”

His first attempt results in a gasp of pain– the sting, the stretch, it’s a little much a little fast. The sharpness has you wincing and has Eddie searching your face with an arrested kind of guilt.

“Y–shit, baby, are you–”

“I’m okay,” you recover, hand steadying on his flushed cheek. “Just–slower. Ease it in. You’re– you’re pretty remarkable, Eddie.”

“Remarkable?” he mumbles against your cheek, focused and slowly lining his head against your entrance. “Really?”

“Prodigiou—ss, uhh–fuck!” Whispered swears come streaming from you as he sinks right into the velvety constraints of your cunt.

Your eyes roll right back, mouth tipping open and the grip of you arresting around him makes him cry out into your chest.

Eddie’s cock is long and heavy and thick, constricted to the point where you can nearly feel every ridge of him. It hurts, the stretch of him aches, but it’s delicious–pinned and sweetly painful.

“Prodigious–is a five dollar–fuckin’--vocab word–” he strains, lifting his hips ever so slightly– you’re clutched onto him so tight that you move with him. Eddie open-mouth groans against your neck. “Lacy, Jesus, you’re so tight–you feel so good–how the fuck do you feel so good? Who invented you?!”

There’s a tinge of a giggle in your moaning, which doesn’t let up. Eddie’s voice rings out like a church bell, making one slow stroke inside you, then another. Then another, then another, picking up speed, groans chorusing into the hollow of your neck around the lewd sound of his flesh slapping against yours. The sound alone brings you close to cumming. “Oh, pleasepleaseplease, fuck, Lace, I’m g– fuck, I’m–”

The way Eddie’s hands are carving permanent marks into your hips, the way his movements are halting, you get the idea that… “You holding out on me?” you ask him, short of breath around your panting but demanding still, “Don’t you dare–don’t you dare.”

“Lacy, uhh– please, ’mgonnafucking–”

“Cum for me? Are you?”

Your fingers tug at his curls so you can look at him as his face tenses. Eddie’s hair is flattened across his head, face glimmering with exertion. You drag your lips against his forehead, the salty flavor of sweat breaking across your tastebuds.

“For you, for you, shit, only for you–only for you, only fucking ever–fuck–”

His dark eyes have been blown out since he pulled you to the mattress, eyelids flickering over his irises as he pistons into you with speed that hurts but you love it.

You barely hear yourself beginning a prayer of dirty little succors, but there it is, easing him through his orgasm as he shudders a load between your legs. “You feel like nothing on this fucking earth, you know that, you’re so good for me...” The tension breaks with one final rasping cry, his expression dissolving into a softness as he exhales a lungful, neck stretching to lean into your touch.

A couple of half-cracked dry sobs escape him.

Looking up at you, cradled against your shoulder, Eddie’s cursing himself for every second he’s wasted not doing this with you.

And you, looking down, are stroking his damp curls from his forehead and cursing yourself. You’re going to burn the world down for this boy.

“Lacy. You–”

And then, y’know, the fucking front door of the trailer clicks.

Little too much deja vu for your liking these days!

Immediately, you seize upwards, jolting a confused Eddie with you– which breaks your heart, in a way, seeing him darty-eyed and shocked out of his bliss so fast.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.” These are not like your prior ‘fucks’, he can register through the haze of his post-nut state. These are bad fucks. So he responds in turn, “Fuck?”

“My mom!” You hiss, naked and scrambling. Panic crests on you like a wave, a wave that should have been an orgasm mind fucking you, and your fingernails tear at the comforter beneath you.

“Under, under, gogogo!”

Because if there’s one thing your mother, in all her former-center-of-attention glory, loves to do? It’s enter a room uninvited.

Case in fucking point–

“Lacy?” A perfunctory knuckle rap from the other side of the door, just as you manage to hide Eddie by shoving him behind you and tenting the comforter around you both. You’re praying to anything with a little more gusto than God that it works. And then, enter your mother and her cloud of Shalimar.

Soon as she opens the door, you can tell something is terribly off.

She’s smiling, face as serene as the Virgin Mary. Usually she’s got a sharpened dagger of a glare, just for you. Two of you haven’t been spending much quality time lately, see.

“Lacy! What–” your mom’s brow knits, but it’s a look of amusement. Which freaks you out. She’s looking at your just-fucked-by-Eddie-Munson hair, isn’t she? The mascara that’s surely streaking down your face? Does she know? Can she sense he’s in this very room? “--what are you doing?”

“Napping. Crying. What does it look like?” you snap, hiking the comforter up a little further and begging that she doesn’t notice Eddie’s incriminating clothes strewn across the floor.

Eddie, for his part, is not breathing. He’s crouched behind your bare ass, a position he’s in no rush to get out of, arms caged around your thighs like a petrified child. This is almost funny–or would be, if he wasn’t scared shitless of everything your mom would definitely do to him if she discovered him buck ass naked in your bed.

Dreamily, Eddie reminds himself that he’s buck ass naked, in your bed. He smiles into one of your cheeks and considers how biteable it is.

“Well. Wrap it up,” your mom says, tone still light, and you twinge at the irony. At least you’re on the pill. “I have a surprise.”

Slam. Door shuts. Your lamp wobbles with the force of it and Eddie emerges from behind you, like a freshly-fucked groundhog.

“She sounds happy,” he mumbles, arms sliding up around your waist.

You want to kiss the mirth out his mouth but you have to shove him back behind you first– cue your mom, doubling back through the door. Jesus!

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” you say, shortly and breathily because Eddie nips at your fucking ass cheek back there. “Just–you sound happy, mom!”

She shakes her head at you, a smile curving her tulip colored lips, like a mom from a detergent commercial. Y’know, were it not for the whole Italian widow getup she’s alway sporting.

“Get on with it already.”

You count to a full five before you even let out a breath, snapping your attention back to reality and the fact that Eddie Munson is very naked in your very bed.

“You gotta get out of here,” you tell him, and you want to kill yourself about it.

The both of you balance on your knees. Eddie tugs you into him with shining, begging eyes. Standing almost at full attention again, already.

“Jesus, that thing’s impressive.”

Eddie’s fingers wind around the hair at the nape of your neck. Despite the brief jolt of fear from your little interruption just now, he’s all romance–totally suckered, rose-colored glasses, the whole bit. Thoughts not exactly creating a straight line just yet, but he doesn’t care. He’s had his hands all over you for the better part of an evening now, and he doesn’t want to let up just yet. It might kill him. It might kill him.

There’s no unringing this bell between the two of you, and he knows that.

And you knew it first, because you know everything first.

“You sure?” he hums into your sweet lips, “You absolutely positive? Because I could be real, real quiet…”

Eddie’s also thrilled by the fact that he seems to know instinctively what to do to turn you on.

“What if I don’t want you to be real, real quiet?”

You kiss him back, sighing and sliding a single finger down the length of his cock.

“Lace…” he whimpers to you, his commandant fantasy of being dominant in the bedroom officially, officially escorted out back and shot. He wants to please you too badly. Be the jester in your court that makes you cackle and makes you cum.

“Lacy!” a shrill yell comes from the hall. Your eyes snap open, Eddie’s dancing with amusement and yours heaving with alarm.

“Fuck, okay, go! Window!”

Another scramble, you tossing jeans and socks and the rest of Eddie’s uniform at him while you clean yourself off, try to pull a robe around yourself. A stray thought occurs to you as you watch him trip over himself, ripping the hole in his jeans a little further–you hate what he wears, but you love it on him. And off him. And…

You yank up those blinds and unlatch the window with a faint smile. Nothing about you two makes any conceivable sense–

Eddie starts out the window, shirt barely pulled down his torso and his shoes in his hands, then turns to hook you to him by the elbow. Smiling with the full blush of his mouth, he kisses you. Firm and knowing and whole.

–except that. That makes sense.

The pad of his finger clears a lock of rumpled hair from your forehead.

“To be continued?” Eddie searches your face, with those crazy dark brimming universes of eyes.

Your heart is leaping in your ribcage. You nod sharply, gleaming back at him.

“I’m comin’ back for you, Lacy Doevksi,” he tells you with all the brazen confidence he can muster. “And I am gonna go down on you until I drown. On pain of death, I swear it.”

“Go!” you command, and regret it as soon as he drops out of your bedroom window. Eddie starts a cant toward his trailer across the way.

“Faster!” you hiss, just as an excuse to watch him.

He pivots mid-jog, hair swinging wildly, his hand grabbing at his crotch.

“You try runnin’ with a hard on! Witch!”

It’s far, far, far too quiet once he’s escaped through the front door of his trailer.

It's not fair, you think. You should be basking in some kind of afterglow, sharing a stupid cliché cigarette, you feel like you should be... celebrating this.

You shouldn't have to keep running away from each other.

The warmth the two of you had created, through mere physical friction or just how much you… you like each other, rapidly dissipated into a chill as you advance through your bedroom door, to deal with the other thing.

Surprise, you thought, What kind of goddamn surprise could mother o'mine have for me? Did she boost a bank? Did she win the Indiana Sweepstakes? I don’t want to know about any g–

“Lorelei.”

The universe has a way of shoving you back in place when you get ahead of yourself.

You don’t just stop in your tracks, you’re repelled a half-step backwards. The centrifugal force urging you away, telling you there’s an immediate threat in the heart of your home.

No one uses that name anymore. Not even him. Not since you were fourteen.

“Daddy.”

Your father sits at the shabby dinette that you and your mother don’t even share meals at, sits there in the suit he was sentenced in. A rich navy pinstripe, chosen because gray would have been too flashy and black would admit defeat. “Of course!” your mother had said, marveling at his ingenuity. But the pantomime of his defense was wearing real thin on you; whispering at school had started growing louder and louder and you were finding more and more chips in the porcelain of your father’s worldly facade.

“Why not compromise. Wear charcoal,” you’d said, leaning against the kitchen counter in Loch Nora, drinking orange juice from your parents’ wedding crystal as the movers taped up your boxes, “You can plead guilty and still look smug about it.”

Your father had smacked the flute from your hand and it shattered in forty thousand pieces on the ground. You didn’t move, didn’t breathe, because you knew if you did, you’d be next.

Navy it was. And navy it is. He sits at that dinette like he’s expecting white jacket service. You swear even more gray has started glimmering through his hair. Flashy.

“Should I ask how you’re here?” you say, stiff and scared. Your mother, standing at your father’s shoulder, tuts and sighs. Can’t you just enjoy this? she silently bemoans.

“Good behavior,” Ray smiles, “Can’t say the same for you. Can I, Lorelei?”

“Principal Higgins called,” your mom chimes in, “Or rather, that odious little secretary called. You think you could get a Saturday detention and they just wouldn’t tell us?”

“That’s why he’s here?” You laugh a little, inwardly. “With all due respect, Daddy, that’s a terrible reason to break out of prison.”

To your surprise, your father chuckles too. Makes your blood run cold, obviously.

“Y’know, I really didn’t anticipate this for my homecoming, I gotta tell you,” he says, shifting in his seat and plucking a cigarillo from his jacket pocket. “I mean, honestly. I thought, a nice bottle of Beaujolais–”

“We’re fresh out,” you gesture to your cringing mother.

“--a dinner at, Christ, Enzo’s, since that’s where our budget is at now,” his lighter flicks and ignites the end, “But no. I have to sit here and cross-examine my daughter about… fraternizing with the lowest of criminal elements.”

The lack of self awareness here is off the fucking charts. It makes your blood pressure spike.

“Take a seat, Lacy,” your father so gallantly gestures to the vinyl backed kitchen chair in front of him, “and tell me all about Eddie Munson.”

Chair drags aggressively against the linoleum. You sit, and swear that the next time you’re caught off guard by anyone’s father, it’d better be God himself.

This bit is getting old.

author's notes: so i'm not fucking around when i say i need to hear everyone's thoughts on what just happened immediately. i really do think that happenings-wise, this was my favourite chapter to write thus far. felt cathartic, from the al munson to the hellfire article of it all. anyway. onto the good stuff - like i feel like everyone who reads this series will have clocked this but of course i lifted the garlic slicing right out of goodfellas. i just think it's a perfect al munson attribute to have - al munson kicking out the jams instead of picking up his kid i know that's right - our dukes of hazzard ref is a tribute to my own personal al munson fancast - not that paris, texas but this paris, texas. (and you know when lacy eventually gets eddie to watch it he CRIES. they both cry) - i should probably put the repo man trailer in here as well - speaking of another fancast! the manager of forest hills trailer park is, of course, to me, in my heart, carl rodd. - the best song off of abbey road by the beatles, fight with the wall - SHOULD WE CALL THE MAYOR - lacy promising eddie that he can ride circles around her on a motor bike is a reference to hunter s thompson being ambushed on canadian television by one of the hells angels he wrote about in his book. dude rolls onto set on his hog. it's crazy. - eddie is kinda gossamer coded - cow tipping? at mccorkle's? anybody? our love is god - god wheels of confusion is kinda horny sounding huh i think that this might be the shortest references recap so far in the series?? one of them anyway. probably because i wrote 4k words of FILTH. anyway, thank you all so much for continuing to read this fucking thing. we're almost at the end of this part of the story which is wild to me. now let me get on your ass and remind you that REBLOGGING FICS IS ESSENTIAL TO YOUR FIC WRITERS HEALTH. SO ARE COMMENTS AND SO ARE ASKS so send those pls :) love you hellcats. be well, cats

#published by powder #hellfire & ice #in progress #e. munson by powder #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x oc #stranger things fic #eddie munson fic

194 notes · View notes

justmeinadaze · 10 months

Text

Ghost In The Machine (Eddie X You)

A/N: I wrote this a few days ago because I need it more than anything rn.

Title is based off of SZA's song "Ghost In The Machine".

"I give a fuck, I just wanna fuck, eat, sleep, love, happy Can you make me happy? Can you keep me happy?

Can you distract me from all the disaster? Can you touch on me and not call me after? Can you hate on me and mask it with laughter? Can you lead me to the ark? What's the password?

I need humanity You're like humanity"

They do text near the end. Eddie's texts will be in red.

Warnings: Daddy Dom Eddie X Stripper Sub (slight bratty) Fem Reader, SMUT, dirty talk, dry humping, phone smut, slight degrading if you squint, choking), Eddie is kinda mean at first, traumas are alluded to but not expanded on (Child abuse; bad past relationships), light FLUFF with my usual dash of the ANGST.

Word Count: 4060

Being asked to perform at parties like this wasn’t new for you and the other girls. Having the manager of a famous band reach out to your company for some “entertainment” wasn’t odd either. What was odd was that you were told Corroded Coffin had four band members and right now you were looking at three. They seemed content with the girls they had grinding and kissing on their lap so you decided to take a look around the mansion style home you guys had been called to.

It was extremely beautiful with a bunch of rooms displaying different things. Your fingers grazed the wall at the bottom of the bands framed platinum and gold albums. Turning into what you assumed was a game room, you found a billiards table and a PlayStation with a mini bar in the corner. Around the area, shelfs prominently showed off the band’s awards and accolades with MANY pictures of them in different places.

As you walked further down the hall, you passed an open-door smelling smoke and hearing light strumming of a guitar. Pausing, you took a couple of steps back to peer into the room, finding that missing fourth member.

He had headphones on over his long, wavy hair as a half-finished cigarette dangled from his lips. His eyes were closed as his fingers ran across the instruments strings as it leaned against his bare chest. His jeaned leg and barefoot tapped to a beat as he listened to his music.

“Jesus Christ!”, he exclaimed as his eyes shot open feeling a change in the atmosphere. “What the fuck are you doing over here?! You girls are supposed to stay in the goddamn living room.”

“Hey there’s no reason to be rude! Your friends were preoccupied with the other ladies so I thought I’d look around.”

“Uh huh. To steal shit?”

“No! To look. I got bored, ok?!”

“Hm. A hooker who’s bored. That’s something I haven’t heard before.” His tone is dripping with mocking as he rises to his feet.

“That’s no reason for you to be a fucking asshole!”

“You watch your mouth when you talk to me, little girl. I can make sure you and your ‘company’ never get another job again.”

“Oh, Mr. Tough Rockstar is oh no scary. Fuck you. I’ve handled way worse clients than the number 5 band on the billboard charts.”

The man’s held tilted to the side as he finally drank you in. You were visually different than what he expected when his friends had suggested reaching out to an agency to have some women come over to celebrate with since they were nominated for another Grammy. Eddie didn’t care about that kind of thing; he just wanted to play music. When he heard the car pull up, he immediately disappeared to his room to practice and write some new songs. Not that he wasn’t interested in “entertaining a woman”. This metalhead liked a challenge and he enjoyed even more a strong woman that wouldn’t just cater to his every whim. He didn’t want a woman who would get down on her knees no questions asked. Eddie wanted one who would tell him to fuck off but then after a few consensual activities would be dripping and begging for his cock.

Women were offered to him and his friends constantly. He wanted something he had to earn so that way when she finally submitted, it was all the more sweet.

“What’s your name?”, he asked in a much softer tone.

“Y/N. You?”

“Are you asking to be polite or do you genuinely not know who the guitarist of the band who is number five on the billboard charts?”

“Do you always make things this complicated?”

“Yes.” When he grins at you, you can’t help but smile back.

“Some of the other ladies find catering to a man’s ego really gets them going. I find it’s better to ask them questions, Mr. Munson, especially since most of our clients think we don’t care about them.”

“Do you? Care I mean.”

“Sometimes.”, you shrug.

“You’re honest. I like that.”

“I don’t really see the point in lying if I’m probably never going to see you again.”

“Do you WANT to see me again?”

This time it was your turn to tilt your head. He said that with a lot of the sass he had been giving you since he saw you but something else was behind his eyes when he spoke, something lonely. Your palm reached out confidently, landing on the bulge in his jeans. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice his size. The part of him that was against your hand wasn’t even all of him and you gulped as you tried to regain your confident composure.

“Do you want me to help you feel better now, Mr. Munson?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”, the guitarist mused as he stepped forward, placing his own palm against the wall behind you and trapping you against it. “I hate when my questions go unanswered.”

“You-you must be used to disappointment then.”

His nose grazed yours, grinning a big tooth filled smile before his eyes flicked down to your hand on his cock.

“You must be to, Y/N.” Slowly, his fingers trace down your arm and take hold of your wrist as he holds it still. “Be honest. Have you ever felt a dick as big as mine?”

You licked your lips as his hips began grinding against your palm, trying to push down the moan that wanted to escape.

“Ooo someone’s confident.”, you jest. Something in his look changes as the hand on the wall behind you slides down to your throat. In most situations with your other clients this would be a time to panic but he wasn’t gripping you violently. When his fingers firmly pressed into your skin, your brain felt fuzzy as your pussy clenched around nothing.

“I’d say I’ve earned the right to be confident. Now, Y/N, this your one warning. Answer the questions I ask you. Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-yes Mr. Munson. I understand. N-no. I’ve never felt a dick like yours.”

He smirked as he pressed your palm harder against him. “Good girl.” Your let out a sigh when he released his hold on your neck to push some of your hair behind your ear. “You really are beautiful, Y/N. Fuck and your hand feels so good. I can only imagine how the rest of you feels.”

“You don’t have to imagine. You can have me if you want me.”

Eddie’s smirk grows as he bites his bottom lip. “Honestly, sweetheart, I’ve never wanted anything more but…that’s not how I play. I don’t want you to fuck me because you’re paid to.” He leans in till his lips are right by your ear. “I want you to fuck me because you want to…need me to.” You hear his breathing stutter as he moves his hips faster, his grip on your wrist tightening. “Beg me to.”

“Oh fuck…”, you whimpered at his words. His movements become choppy and grunts before you feel dampness on his jeans.

He leans back placing his forehead on yours as he licks his lips and softly smiles. “See, what would usually happen now is I’d make you cum to. I bet that pussy is just aching to be touched but see…you’re getting to paid to make us feel good…not the other way around.”

You’re honestly too stunned to say anything or fight back with your typical brand of sass. Right now, all you can think of his him and how bad you need something from him; anything.

“Can…can I kiss you?”

When he nods, you waste no time connecting your lips to his. You immediately taste the nicotine but that undertone of him has you dizzy. All too quickly, it’s over as he pulls away. He doesn’t just move his head but his whole body as he backs towards his bed, yanking off his now stained jeans and boxers.

“How long are you ladies here for?”, he asks nonchalantly as he sits on the bed and picks up his guitar again.

“Huh? Oh, um, 2 AM I think.”

He glances at his phone before handing it to you. “Time’s almost up. Put your number in there for me.”

Eddie said it like a command and your instinct was to say something snarky but as you looked down at him strumming his instrument without looking at you, you realized there was more to this man than meets the eye. Most men who begged for your number always watched you intently to make sure you actually did it, you assumed. Of course, you gave them a fake number or the number to the agency you worked for but with this man here his head remained lowered. It was almost like he was afraid you wouldn’t…like he really hoped you would and would be hurt if he watched you decline, giving the phone back.

There was something about Eddie that you wanted to know more about. He wasn’t like everyone else you had been around. For some reason, you felt like you could trust him.

After inputting your real number, you placed his device back on his nightstand and sat beside him. “We still have 45 minutes. Can I ask what you’re working on?”

His eyes shoot over to you as he cautiously scans your soft smiling face. “We’re working on this new album and Jeff has this song he wrote but I can’t find the right sound. I was just messing around and recording them to see if it sparked something.”

“May I hear what you have so far?”

“Um, yeah, sure.”

He reached over, grabbing an extra set of headphones and placed them over you head. You grinned as different guitar riffs and melodies began to play.

“This is all you?” Eddie nods. “Wow. Mr. Munson, you are definitely talented.”

When he pauses the recording and you slide the headphones around your neck. “You can call me Eddie if you’d like.”

“Okay, Eddie.” After putting the headphones over your ears again, he pressed play and you both leaned back in his bed.

He couldn’t help but be a little shocked that you didn’t try to touch him again. Anywhere he or his band went, people tried to touch his body whether it was meet and greets, walking through the street, or even on stage when overzealous fans would jump on and run at them. Any girl that was lucky enough to be in his bed would insist on touching him until she left as if she knew this would be the last time she saw him. That’s another reason he struggled to maintain any kind of relationship. Besides the crazy rockstar life, he never was keen on being constantly touched.

He got enough of that with his career and when he was growing up when his dad would knock him around. With his last relationship, they fought constantly because there were times he would come home from a long day and just wanted a moment to decompress alone. He knew she meant well but even after nicely asking her to give him a moment she would still try and wrap her arms around him or try and kiss parts of his body.

What he didn’t know yet was that you understood that feeling all too well. Being in your line of work, men seemed to believe you didn’t even have a line they shouldn’t cross, always touching some part of your body until their time was up. When you were just a stripper at the company you worked for, men were the same but at least you had a bouncer to quickly pulled them back. When times got hard and you told your boss you were willing to sign up for the “side hustle”, it was just you and the girls.

No one had ever gotten too physical like that but after your client came you just wanted them to roll over and crash or just leave you there till the timer was up. Personally, you chose to stay away from relationships knowing most men wouldn’t like your line of business. Men constantly offered to “save you” but you knew it was all talk. They didn’t really care about you.

When you moved to the city, you promised you were only going to look out for yourself. You took care of you and had for a long time. The last time you relinquished control like that, you got burned and ran all the way to a new state.

A small hand tapped your knee and you jumped before realizing it was one of the other girls letting you know time was up.

“Ok, I’ll be right there.” You turn to Eddie and hand him his headphones. “I really like what you have so far. That last one was beautiful.”

“Thank you. Here, um, let me grab my sweatpants and I can walk you out.”

“Oh, Eddie, no. You don’t have to do that. It’s super late and in your gated front yard I don’t think anyone is going to jump us.”, you giggle.

“Ok…I’m going to put on pants anyway though because I want to hug you if that’s alright.” Without waiting for an answer, he finds a pair on the floor and pulls them up just below his hips.

“Do arms not work without sweats?”

“They do but I don’t want to be disrespectful by rubbing my dick on you and making you uncomfortable.”

“Didn’t I just…”

“You made that move, sweetheart. You put your hand on me.”, he grins as he places his body in front of yours. “May I hug you?”

When you nod, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you to his chest as your own limbs cling to his upper torso. This was a new feeling for you. It had been so long since you felt safe in someone’s arms. His hand petted your hair as he kissed the top of your head.

“I’ll talk to you later to make sure you’re alright.”

***

You sighed as you entered your front door, putting away your things, and throwing yourself on your bed as you closed your eyes. A sudden ding on your phone made your eyebrows scrunch as you blindly searched for it on your bed. Swiping it open, you noticed it was from an unknown number but as you read the message, a smile slowly formed on your face.

“Hey, sweetheart. Just checking in to make sure you got home alright.”

“Are you stalking me, Mr. Munson? Lol. I literally just walked in the door.”

Tossing your phone back on the bed, you figure it will most likely take him awhile to respond but as you go to your closet to change you hear that familiar ding.

“Yup. You caught me. I followed you home.”

“Shit. I just realized that’s probably not a joke I should be making in your line of work.”

“I was just thinking about you and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Lol Eddie! If I thought you were like that I wouldn’t have given you my number : ) “

“I’m alright though. Thank you for checking up on me.”

“Of course. I’ll leave you alone now so you can sleep.”

“I actually wasn’t going to go to sleep just yet.”

You paused for a moment debating on if you should tell him what you were going to do before bed. You were hoping if you did maybe he would talk to you like he did in his bedroom. Hearing him murmur his words and what he said got you wetter than anything else. You could still feel your slick sticking to your legs after you changed your clothes. Hell, it couldn’t hurt, right?

“I just got back from spending some time with this long haired rockstar with a huge cock who got me all hot and bothered so I was going to relieve some of this pressure here.”

You watched the dots on his end appear and disappear. The longer it took him the more nervous you got. Had you crossed a line?

“Don’t talk like that. Be upfront and honest. Talk to me like a big girl. What were you going to do before bed, Y/N?”

You could almost feel his stern eyes through the screen as you rubbed your thighs together.

“I was going to touch myself and think of you.”

His name suddenly popped up on your phone and you didn’t hesitate to answer the call.

“Hey Eddie.”

“Are you still wearing what you had on here?”

“No. I’m naked now.”

“Liar.”

“Eddie, I’m not—”

“Call me back when you’re ready to be a good girl.”

Your jaw dropped as he hung up and you huffed as you called him backed. “How dare you—”

“I don’t play games like that, little girl, and I hate liars. I figured since I got you all riled up and you are no longer on the clock maybe I could help you out. I also thought it would be fucking sexy to hear what you sound like when you cum. But if you want to cop an attitude with me, I can treat you how bratty little girls deserve to be treated. Now…what are you wearing?”

“I’m wearing an oversized t-shirt with my panties from earlier.”

He could hear your pout through the phone and it was making him hard all over again.

“Good. Good girl. Why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place?”

“I don’t know. I just… I always have to be SEXY; you know? God forbid I show any humanity.”

“Not with me, princess. I imagine you look just as sexy now as you did looking up at me with those big, beautiful eyes against my bedroom wall."

“Thank you, Mr. Munson.”

“Of course. Now tell me, baby. You said you were going to touch yourself and think of me. What about me?”

“I was thinking about the way your lips tasted when you kissed me…so good.”

“The cigarette taste didn’t bother you?”, he chuckled making you smile as one of your hands roamed up your shirt to touch your breast.

“No. Not at all.”, you giggle back, biting your bottom lip.

“That’s good. I’ve had some complaints.” You can hear him smile and your fingers run along your nipple as your exhale heavily. “What are you doing over there, honey?”

“I’m playing with my tits.”

“Mmm. You did have some perfect tits. Well, from what I saw under that tight ass tank top.”

That makes you genuinely laugh and his smile grows at the sound. “What else were you going to think about?”

Your hand slides under the waistband of your panties as your finger slides through your dripping folds.

“I was going to think about your thick cock against my palm and the way you rubbed against it.”

“Yeah? You’re going to imagine me doing that right now between those gorgeous legs? Grinding my dick against your pretty little pussy.”

“F-fuck, Eddie.” Your eyes rolled back as two of your fingers breached your entrance. “Please…keep talking to me…like that.”

“You like the way I talk to you? Was that something else you were going to think about? Picturing me whispering in your ear like I did when you were here?”

You didn’t know but he was leading you somewhere. There was one thing he wanted, needed to hear you say on your own. As soon as he heard it, he was yours and he would do anything to make you his.

“Yes, I liked hearing you say the things you said.”

Eddie could hear you touching yourself and your little moans were driving him crazy as he quickly pulled down his pants.

“Princess, is it ok if I touch myself to?”

“Yeah, baby. Of course. A-are you—mmm—still a bit sensitive?” The sound of him spitting in his hand had you clench tightly as you whimpered.

“Ah, no, baby girl. But with those sexy fucking whimpers and groans I’m not going to last long.”, he chuckled. “How many fingers are you using?” You barely heard him as you thumb began messaging your clit. “I asked you something, sweetheart. What did I say when you were here?”

“If-if—mmm—you ask…me…something I-I answer.”

“Good girl. Tell me how many fingers you’re using.”

“Fuck…two. Two, Daddy.”

Eddie practically growled with pleasure at the word that he had been praying would fall from your lips.

“Jesus, yes. Good fucking girl. I want you to use three. You…you have to prepare that pretty pussy for… Daddy’s big cock.”

As soon as you did as he asked, the English language completely escaped your mind.

“I…your…oh my…” He grunted in your ear reminding you of when he was pressed against you sending you toppling over the edge as you came hard. The sound was almost too much for him as he pictured your cunt spasming around him as you moaned his name just as you had. For the second time that night you made him cum as his spend shot out and hit his stomach.

“Are you ok?”, you mumbled, drunk off your orgasm.

“Yeah, sweetheart. I’m alright. Are you?”

“I’ve never called anyone Daddy before.” You had no idea why you were being so honest with him. That wasn’t necessarily something he needed to know but for some reason you thought maybe the knowledge of that would make him feel special. You wanted him to feel good.

“What made you say it now?”

You scoot your body further into your bed as you curl up into your sheets.

“I feel safe with you. I know that sounds so weird. We barely even know each other but I do…”

You listened to the soothing sound of his breath into the phone as he absorbed what you were saying.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier. I can be a bit of an asshole sometimes.”

“I can handle the asshole.” You smile when you hear him softly laugh.

“On Friday, we’re going to be spending some time at the recording studio. Do you want come by and listen to us play?”

“I would love to but I have to work Friday night.”

“How about you come by in the afternoon and then go to work? Are you…um…”

“No, side business Friday. I’ll just be dancing.”

“Ok, cool. Maybe when we’re done, I can meet up with you after.”

“Eddie…I like you a lot but are you sure you want to do this? I strip and I have sex for money. I’m not proud of it but I’m not ashamed of it either. I’m doing what I have to do right now.”

He was silent for a moment as he thought about what you were saying.

“Y/N, I’m not perfect. I’ve been arrested, gotten into fights with paparazzi, and like I said I can be a bit of an asshole. I like you a lot to but I understand that this is all new. You and I lead interesting lives. I’m not…going to harp on you and I’m not going to, I don’t know, offer to fucking save you or whatever other douchebags say.” You laugh making him smile. “But I would like to take care of you…physically, mentally, emotionally…financially.”

“I don’t know how to give up control like that.”

The way you say that makes him want to scoop you up in his arms and cradle you into his chest.

“Do you work tomorrow?”

“No, not tomorrow.”

“Can I come over so we can talk? We’re doing this stupid photoshoot thing but I can come over after and bring some food. Of course, only if you’re comfortable. That’s all that really matters to me, baby girl. I want you to be comfortable.”

You don’t know why but you believed him when he said it. What was it about this man that had you breaking all your normal rules? Not just rules with the business but in your life. You had been on your own for so long that you didn’t need nor want to become involved with someone. However, it would be nice to have someone take care of you for once…

“Okay, Daddy”

411 notes · View notes

caligvlasaqvarivm · 20 days

Note

was in the process of starting writing an eridan centric no sburb au and the more i write the more i’m like goddamnit pale erikar is happening without me even trying you’ve 100% gotten me invested

YEAH. Even if you just go purely by canon, their personalities just wind up meshing so well.

Like how Karkat gives Eridan special treatment and is extra nice to him because he knows how rough it is to be in Eridan's thinkpan.

Or how Eridan is willing to immediately shelve his own problems whenever he hears that Karkat isn't doing well emotionally and basically demands to give him emotional support.

Or how Karkat lies to Vriska that nobody listens to him talk about quadrant stuff when we've seen them talk to each other and we know they gossip about that shit all the time.

Or how Eridan is basically the only person who's ever succeeded in getting Karkat to calm the fuck down, by virtue of his incredible obtuseness, like, he doesn't even need to try.

Or how Karkat makes a bunch of death threats to Eridan and Eridan takes it as "ironic repartee," meaning that Karkat's usual problem with mixed signals is not a problem to Eridan, because Eridan is honestly just happy for the attention.

Or how they're so in sync with each other that Karkat telling Past!Eridan that their pact is over led to Eridan assuming they have a pact, and Past!Karkat hears about it and just rolls with it, because apparently it makes sense that they have a pact or something with a caveat that they be nice to each other. Of course.

Or how they talk so often that Feferi outright laments how it leaves Eridan with nothing left to talk to her about.

Or how, even before he knows that Karkat is a mutant, Karkat is still one of his best friends, and their relationship doesn't change after Eridan finds out - in fact, unlike Vriska or Equius or Gamzee, who make comments about his blood color (Gamzee calls him a punchline blooded motherfucker), Eridan never even bothers to mention it. (Because he doesn't actually give a shit about the hemocaste, it's basically all performative).

Or how Eridan knows Karkat well enough to know that Gamzee's advice to just be chill and w/e doesn't work for Karkat.

Or how Karkat's response to Gamzee going murderous is "oh god oh fuck oh man oh fuck" and his message to Past!Gamzee is "get out of here, this barely even concerns you," but his response to Eridan going murderous is a very personal "fuck you, BACKSTABBER, HOW COULD YOU???"

Or how Karkat has a double-v typo once and there's a point where Eridan drops his double-letters and yells at Feferi in capslock 👉👈

And that's all JUST CANON. That's all stuff we've SEEN them do. If you start making some extrapolations, there's so much more.

Karkat's dream has always been to become a threshecutioner - a member of the Empress's strongest troops - seeking to find some sort of acceptance within the society that outcasted him if he could prove his worth that way. However, Karkat's the weakest fighter on the team, and given that Eridan's pissed off angels scared everybody else off his planet, it's likely he's one of the best fighters, if not THE best. Combined with his noble status, Eridan was on the fast track to, if not becoming a threshecutioner, then otherwise achieving some great rank or prestige within the Condesce's army. (Even Dualscar, laughable as he was, was still Mindfang's superior).

Karkat would think Eridan is badass.

Meanwhile, Eridan's problems nearly all stem from the pressure he feels to live up to the expectations on his shoulders, as a highblood, as the orphaner, as the person keeping his friends alive, and as a sea dweller. His is a world of constant anxiety and anguish, not helped by his innate troll/highblood volatility and his own knowledge of how dangerous he is. And Karkat is their self-described "fearless leader," who will happily tell everyone what to do.

Eridan would be relieved that the pressure is off his shoulders.

Karkat's had to live in fear for his life for nearly all of it; when Eridan got added to the group chat, Karkat was probably fucking terrified, especially when Feferi got added right after. Like, oh, fuck, it's a sea dweller (noted as being so hostile that even GAMZEE is nervous about being by the water for too long), oh fuck, he knows the heir apparent, oh fuck, he's an insane murderer.

And then... the sea dweller respects his authority. The sea dweller takes him completely seriously, once he gets past all the slurs and talk of genocide, which the sea dweller obviously doesn't actually mean (Eridan's contradictions are REALLY obvious, which is part of why nobody else takes him seriously). The sea dweller doesn't give a shit WHAT his blood color is.

Like, I think Karkat finds a weird sense of safety in having a violet-blood friend that he can make death threats to. Their last memo together implies that such "ironic repartee" is completely normal for the two of them, and I personally like the idea that Karkat at one point took issue with one of the insane shitty things that Eridan likes to say, went off on a classic Karkat Rant, and then went "oh wait. shit. fuck. im so dead," only for Eridan to completely laugh it off and treat it like casual joking around.

And Eridan just craves attention, positive or negative. He desperately wants people to take him seriously and care about him. Kanaya, Vriska, and Feferi don't, because frankly, they don't really get why he's got so many problems - they're all privileged and they like it! - and Terezi is like "yikes. wow. glad that's not my problem," while Gamzee just tells him to chill out (he can't, that's his entire issue) and Equius avoids (void joke ha ha) him. He doesn't really talk to the lowbloods, but given he doesn't express any casteist anti-lowblood sentiment specifically until he's mad at Sollux (and has totally caste-neutral opinions on Sollux before that), it's not even because he doesn't like lowbloods; one has to assume he's got a different reason for avoiding them - like his canonical guilt over all the murders, or an extrapolation of his general anxieties in that he doesn't like talking to people who are going to be dead before he's even 1/100 of a way through his own life, or that the lowbloods tend to avoid him because... yknow, -gestures to all of Eridan-.

But he always had plausible deniability when it came to Karkat, because Karkat was always anonblood; even if he assumes Karkat's an "assblood," he had no way to know for sure 'til he found out Karkat was an off-spec. And Karkat DOES take him seriously, or at least more seriously than anybody else, by a longshot. He's even willing to outright tell Eridan that it's not Eridan's fault Nepeta doesn't reciprocate his feelings. WHO ELSE WOULD DO SUCH A THING???

And on that topic is pity. They both extend to each other a pity that they don't really afford anyone else, and Karkat - with his uncanny romantic acumen - outright says that pity is the driving force for all non-pitch relationships. Because he's the only person who even acknowledges that Eridan's probelms are PROBLEMS, it's clear he feels pity for Eridan's utterly fried thinkpan. Meanwhile, Eridan seems to recognize how sensitive Karkat really is, IMMEDIATELY putting everything else on pause to try to provide Karkat emotional support whenever it's brought up that Karkat is sad.

Eridan never extends this kind of consideration toward anyone else, too busy grandstanding and putting on the Big Bad Sea Dweller act; Karkat never even extends this much sympathy to Gamzee, never once bothering to understand his religion, or comment on his shitty lusus or crisis of faith. Even when he tries to cheer Terezi up, it's not really with outright sympathy - he tries to build up how awesome he thinks she is, or take on the blame for the situation. But with Eridan, he just goes, yeah, okay, shut up. I know it's tough being you.

I think it's also pretty notable that although Eridan comments about how HYPOTHETICALLY Future!Karkat can't reject him because he's not Eridan's Current!Karkat, he has never actually hit on Karkat in any quadrant, as far as we've seen. And I'm even willing to believe that he never has - when he met Karkat, his pale and pitch quadrants were filled, and he was always pining after Feferi in flushed; it probably never even crossed his mind to see Karkat as a viable dating partner, and I think he likes their unofficial moirallegiance friendship exactly the aay it is - when he thinks Karkat is hitting on him pitchwise, his reaction isn't "yes let's date," it's a surprised "whoa, coming on kinda strong, there."

And just. Just. The way that Karkat took Eridan's murder spree so fucking personally, especially compared to Gamzee in the same memo. You BACKSTABBER. I HATE you (not enough to not talk to you for an extended period of time but still). How COULD you. I thought you loved her...

Like. Man. I think it would require a third party to point it out in order to get them together - Karkat seems to be kind of embarrassed by how often he talks to Eridan (because it's, y'know, ERIDAN), and has convinced himself that Eridan is SUCH a pathetic dumbass that OF COURSE it would never work out between them (keep telling yourself that, buddy, you're the one who started thinking about that in a conversation where Eridan literally was not hitting on you), and Eridan is, uh, a dumbass.

But even that's kind of tricky, because Karkat's mixed signals make their friendship read as weirdly pitch-coded (I don't think you're normally supposed to threaten death upon your moirail and call them slurs), and also, nobody really wants to imagine Eridan being in a happy, loving relationship. You run into this problem sometimes even in real life.

But he's kind of basically in one?????

Literally, society if Eridan and Karkat made it official -

#eridan ampora #homestuck #karkat vantas #erikar

125 notes · View notes

chadillacboseman · 2 months

Text

The Shepherd's Daughter - II

Pairing: Phillip Graves x F!Reader (Shepherd's daughter)

Warnings: Reader is a CIA agent. Mentions of terrorism, both foreign and domestic, blood, injury, guns, etc. Graves is a whiny, jealous little bitch boy, but when he gets his way OOOOOO. SPOILERS FOR MW2.

Summary: As punishment for the botched infiltration of a domestic terror cell, your father, General Shepherd, pairs you with Shadow Company to retrieve American war assets that have fallen into the wrong hands.

Word Count: 2k maybe?

Part ONE HERE

"Are you any closer to finding them?" Your father's voice was tense, on the verge of anger. You sensed that perhaps he had been into the whiskey he kept in his desk drawer ("for emergencies" as he so often joked).

There was no progress update to be given. Every lead you had chased with Shadow Company had been a dead end. You considered, for a moment, lying to him- spinning a tale and trying to make the situation less dire.

It would do you no good. He had an uncanny way of knowing when you were lying, even if all he had to go on was your voice.

"No, sir. We are not," the line was silent at that response and you instinctively tensed, awaiting the inevitable shouting that would come.

But it didn't.

Instead, his voice was even as he asked, "And how is Shadow Company performing?"

The question perplexed you. Did he think of you as his own personal spy? Had Graves been correct in his assumption that your father wanted someone to keep an eye on their operations?

"Well?" Impatient. Nothing the man hated more than waiting.

You took a quick glance around the room to make sure no Shadows had wandered in before answering, "They're...fine, sir. We just don't have many leads to go on."

"Fine?" His anger had finally bubbled to the surface, "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Are they doing their fucking job or not?"

You held the phone at arm's length until he had finished his tirade before bringing it back to your ear for a rebuttal, "They're well-equipped, efficient. My...reputation makes it difficult to earn their trust, but they are tireless in their efforts."

A grunt of approval on the other end of the line. The deity had been appeased.

"I expect a report at the same time tomorrow."

The line went dead.

Graves watched you from across the room, his blue eyes unwavering as he drummed his fingers impatiently on the body of his rifle. You were staring out the cracked window, your hair moving ever so slightly with the push of the salt-soaked breeze.

You were pretty, something that Graves had began to notice the more time he spent with you. Something that ate at him- frustrated him beyond reason.

He still didn't trust you fully. Hated the way you took phone calls from the general behind closed doors. Graves knew you were reporting back to Shepherd about them- on good days, funding poured in from their benefactor, and on bad ones they barely scraped by with their lives.

"The general giving you grief today?" Graves called across the room.

You shrugged and made a face that distorted your features in the dim lighting of the safehouse. He chuckled and bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting to see if you'd relinquish any further details.

You didn't.

Graves chewed the inside of his cheek and decided to press his luck-

"You been tellin' him how we're doin'? That what the phone calls are for?"

You shot him another look, this time laced with your obvious annoyance at the question; he smiled in return, that disarming smile full of too-white teeth that could almost be mistaken for a shark's maw.

"Just askin', princess. No need for the venom."

He drawled out the cutesy nickname that made your face heat; the other Shadows had dropped it after you'd proved yourself to their standards, but Graves still used it, much to your chagrin.

"I tell him what he asks for," you spat the words a little more harshly than you intended, and you almost felt a pang of guilt when Graves raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"And what does he ask for?" he cocked his head, blue eyes shining under the exposed bulb in the ceiling, "how his lapdog is performing?"

"Your words, not mine, Graves."

"Mhm," he took a step forward and the aging wooden floor creaked under the sole of his boots, "Do ya tell him how my boys are run ragged chasin' his fuck up? How we're stayin' in shitholes like this-" he jerked his head around the room at the cracked walls and exposed wiring, "while he sits in his office?"

"Where are you going with this, Graves?" you sighed through your nose and folded your arms across your chest, "What do you want from me? I've been with you for weeks- if you don't trust me, then-"

Graves cut you off and took another step toward you, his hands still clutching his rifle to the point of whitened knuckles, "I wanna know what the high and mighty Shepherd junior is feeding her daddy dearest when no one is listening."

Something in you snapped.

You shoved him, hard, and he stumbled backward, his eyes wide before he caught himself. An expression flashed across his face that made your stomach drop as he tossed his rifle to the floor.

"Try that again," Graves snarled, his face now twisted in an almost eager grin.

You could try to defuse the situation- tell him this was pointless bickering.

But that something inside you fought back against the urge, burning white hot like a branding iron.

"C'mon, princess. Try it again."

That was the final straw.

You leapt forward and tried to level a knee into his gut, but anger made you sloppy. Graves elbowed you in the middle of your back, nearly snatching the air from your lungs.

"Sloppy work, Shep," he sneered and you brought your head up quickly, making connection with his chin with a crack that radiated through your own skull.

Graves stumbled backward and spit, a splatter of crimson hitting the filthy wooden floor before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Before he could recover, you lunged at him again, grabbing him around the middle and shoving him to the floor.

Graves let out a muffled yelp of surprise as you pinned him, the sharp point of your knee keeping him flat on his back. You unsheathed your knife and pressed the razor edge to his throat, savoring the way his pulse raced under his sweat-soaked skin.

"Give me a reason, Graves," you hissed through gritted teeth, "I'll tell him you started it. Make sure there's only one story."

"You gonna cut my throat? Do it then," he was still grinning and a small trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth, "C'mon!"

He shouted the last word and you jumped, nearly granting his wish.

"Not worth the paperwork," you sheathed your knife, satisfied with the small cut you'd left in your wake. You made to rise from him, but he clapped a hand onto your thigh, holding you there.

A strange expression passed over his features for just a moment, then disappeared along with the pressure of his hand on your leg. You rose to your feet and offered him a hand, which he took before orienting himself.

"You gonna tell the general about this little spat?" Graves cocked an eyebrow and brought his hand to his throat, swiping the still trickling blood from the wound.

"Maybe."

The fight was absent from the next call with your father. It didn't seem worth the effort to explain that you'd briefly thought of killing the commander over a childlike argument.

There was good news to pass on anyway- Shadow Company had landed in Las Almas and the Mexican Special Forces seemed far more competent than the US Military back home.

Colonel Alejandro Vargas, in particular, was impressive among them. He and his second in command had already had a run-in with Hassan and the taskforce they were working alongside had been chasing down leads left and right before Shadow Company arrived.

The 141 and the Special Forces treated you with more respect than the Shadows had- they even seemed to seek your input, which was more than you could say for Graves and his men.

It was easier to spend time at the Las Almas base- it was warm, and for once, you weren't sleeping on a bare floor next to a dozen snoring soldiers.

Graves seemed annoyed with your enjoyment of their hospitality, but never mentioned it directly.

"It's good to have you around here, hermosa," Alejandro was bent low over a map of Las Almas, studying it with intensity, "Sometimes these men forget the little details."

You smiled and he returned it, a genuine grin that accented his handsome features.

From across the room, Graves glared at him, his lip curled in a barely-concealed snarl of disdain. Why it upset him so much, he had no idea- that alone frustrated him more than Alejandro's blatant flirting.

He wanted more than anything to wipe that smile off of the colonel's face, preferably with his knuckles.

"Graves?" you cocked your head and the sound of your voice cut through the swirling white noise in his head, snapping him out of his rage-fueled trance.

"What?"

You furrowed your brows and gestured to the map, "Alejandro's plan?"

Alejandro. So quick to call him by his first name.

"Small teams are probably better for this," the colonel repeated the plan slowly, as if Graves was a child who had been caught daydreaming, "Shepherd and I could-"

"No," Graves cut him off and you raised a brow, "She comes with me, she doesn't work for you, Vargas."

Alejandro seemed to have made a connection in that moment and a smirk ghosted over his lips at the realization, "Far as I know, she doesn't work for you either, sombra."

You glanced between them, sensing some unspoken tension that seemed to have formed behind your back.

"I should go with Shadow Company," you murmured quietly. For a moment, Graves looked triumphant, until you continued, "The general wants regular reports on their performance."

Alejandro chuckled and shot the commander a look of victory, "Wouldn't want to disappoint your bankroll."

You spent the next miserable night in a decrepit safe house, staring up at the ceiling as Graves breathed softly next to you. He hadn't said a word since the spat with Alejandro, and he'd tossed you your duffel with such force it had nearly knocked you off your feet.

Your back ached from the hard floor, and the early sounds of a thunderstorm were brewing outside the thin walls. You sat up in the darkness and rubbed your temples, contemplating the series of life fuckups you'd had to make to get to this point.

A loud crescendo of thunder shook the house and you jumped, barely stifling a yelp of fear at the sudden sound.

"Scared of storms, princess?" Graves mumbled from his position on the floor.

"Will you give it a rest, Graves?" you snapped and he chuckled.

There was a long moment of silence before he spoke again.

"How come you don't call me Phillip?" he pushed himself up to a seated position, his eyes barley visible shining in the dark.

"Because you're the commander," you said with a shrug.

"You call the Colonel by his name. Seems a little too familiar."

"Are you jealous?" you asked incredulously and he huffed out a noncommittal response you couldn't catch, "What is going on with you? Three weeks ago, you'd have been happy to have me out of your hair! Hell, before we landed in Las Almas, we nearly killed one another-"

"Yeah? Maybe I just don't want you shacking up with a foreign military leader when we're supposed to be focused!"

You sputtered indignantly, feeling your face grow warm at the accusation, "Shacking up? Really?"

"Yeah, really."

You took a blind swat at his face in the dark and he grabbed your wrist yanking you toward him until your chest was flush with his. In the pitch blackness, his eyes shone like a predator as he stared down at you.

His face was so close to yours now that you could feel his breath as it fanned over you; he was nearly panting, and you could feel the thrum of his heart under his fatigues.

You tried to pull away, but Graves tightened his grip with a growl, "I sat back while you spied on my men, slowed us down, and reported back to your piece of shit father. Then we land in Las Almas and you may as well have sat on that fucking prick's lap while he planned-"

Your free hand connected with his face with a crisp -SMACK- that rang out in the silent room. If it had hurt him, he didn't show it. Instead, he grinned and took hold of your free hand with his own before moving, swiftly, and knocking you onto your back with your arms pinned above your head.

You tried to wriggle free, but he shoved a knee between your legs for leverage and you felt a sudden pang of heat at the contact.

"Didn't your daddy ever teach you any manners?" He hissed through gritted teeth.

"Fuck you, Phillip," you spat his name and he laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound that fell flat in the darkness.

"Ask me nicely."

"Get the fuck off of me!"

"Wrong answer, princess," he thrust his knee up into you and you let out a strained gasp that made him laugh again, "See, you're givin' me mixed signals here." He brought his mouth down to your ear and you felt a jolt of electricity run down your spine.

"You want me to stop? I'll stop, but I don't think that's what you really want."

You didn't answer, your attention now too focused on his mouth as it neared your neck, hot breath sending your hair on end. When his tongue finally hit your skin, you had to stifle the sound that threatened to tumble past your lips. Before you could stop yourself, you bucked your hips, desperate for friction against his knee.

"That's more like it," he purred; his teeth came down, suddenly, on your pulse point and you gasped, back arching off the cold floor and sending your chest against his. Tomorrow, there'd be a mark there, glaring and obvious for everyone to see.

"Can I let your hands go?" Graves panted, his mouth still close to your ear, "you gonna go smackin' me again?"

"No," you tried to focus through the haze of lust that had taken root in your mind.

"Promise?" He asked, his voice smug.

Before you could answer, he released your wrists and one of his hands snaked under the hem of your shirt, rough fingertips gliding across your sensitive skin. His hand found your bra, deftly moving it up to expose your breasts to his fingers. He wasted no time taking one of your nipples between them, rolling gently until you let out a pathetic whimper.

"Wondered how good you'd sound," Graves' mouth found yours and he nearly crashed into you, kissing you like the desperate man he'd been since landing in Las Almas, "He's never gonna fuckin' hear this."

Alejandro. He had been jealous.

"C'mon, let me hear that pretty sound again, baby," he murmured; his knee ground into you once more and you moaned his name, his first name, and it sent his head into a daze.

You heard him fumble with his belt for a moment, then he tapped your buckle expectantly, prompting you to wriggle your way out of your pants. You tossed them aside in the darkness and shivered against the cold night air as it hit your bare skin.

"This ain't the way I wanted it to happen," Graves whispered as he ran a gentle hand up your inner thigh.

How long had he been thinking about it?

Swiftly, he grabbed your thighs and pulled your legs around his waist, lining himself up with you. Slowly, agonizingly, he pushed himself inside you, hands grasping desperately at your hips to pull you flush with him.

Graves dropped his forehead to yours, panting quietly as he let you adjust to him. His first thrust was gentle, slow and easy, as if he was testing the water.

"You gonna tell your daddy about this?" Graves set a bruising pace, thrusting into you with less restraint than before.

You didn't answer, unable to speak as his cock hit every sensitive spot deep inside you over and over again. You wanted to hate him, wanted to tell him what an absolute bastard he was-

But the words wouldn't come.

Instead, you clutched at his shoulders, moaning and whining like an animal in heat as he fucked you on the filthy floor of the safehouse.

This was a bad idea, surely. Sleeping with the commander could only come back to haunt you.

Graves thrust, hard, and the thought was pushed from your mind entirely as he edged you closer to release. It was clear he wasn't far behind as he panted and let his movement grow sloppy and erratic.

"Gonna cum inside you, baby, that okay?" Graves' voice shook as he spoke.

"Yes-" you gasped out the words as he gave you one final push that had the tension inside you snapping like a taut cord.

He was close behind you, thrusting sloppily until he was spilling inside you with a weak grunt. He stayed like that for a moment, panting, as sweat dripped from his face and pattered down onto you.

Already, you could feel the gentle throb of the bruise that was forming on your neck where he had bitten you earlier.

To your left, a radio crackled to life and Graves scrambled to grab it, listening intently to the chatter from the Shadows on the other end.

"Shit-" he tossed the radio to the floor and searched for his pants.

"What is it?" You asked weakly, still lying on the floor where he'd left you.

"141 has movement, pretty sure it's Hassan," Graves threw your pants to you and you wiggled your way into them. It had to be at least 3am and you were exhausted.

You searched blindly for something to cover your neck, but to no avail. You weren't thrilled at the thought of Alejandro seeing it, but decided you didn't care.

Graves led the way and you followed him out the front door, rifles drawn.

#phillip graves x reader #phillip graves #COD mW2

117 notes · View notes

bubbles-for-all-of-us · 5 months

Text

I put a spell on you

request: I’m here to feed your Xaden delusions, but lead singer/guitarist Xaden performing at some underground club, and they’re covering “You put a spell on me” (the Austin Giorgio version), and he locked eyes with you and is singing to you and only you during that moment

a/n: I honestly will be sending this person to jail time because this behavior is unacceptable. Enjoy... I guess...*shakes head*

warnings: want to take a lucky guess? Sexual themes. I don't write smut on demand but look what you did... Rap it before you tap it kids. Kind of modern day plot line.... eh...

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You were touching up your make-up in a tiny back room. Black silk dress on. High heels. Dark red lip. The hair all curly and loose. The rest of your band was an hour late, so you had to spend most of the night singing up on the stage to music playing from your phone. Were you pissed that this happened on a Friday, the day the pay was always the best? Yes. But you also did not control the weather, and a snowstorm is a snowstorm. "They want you back in five", a voice calls from behind your door. "Coming", you shouted back, double-checking your appearance and grabbing your water bottle.

You were in the middle of a third song when your eyes landed on a guy. And dear Lord, not just any guy. You had covered up the quiver in your voice, but your eyes stayed glued to him. The slightly unbuttoned shirt, the rolled-up sleeves, and the tattoos running all across his arms. If you weren't standing up, you would be clenching your thighs together right about now. You tried to pull your gaze off him, but no matter what, your eyes returned to him every time. His piercing gaze on you.

You were taking a tiny water break when you heard someone tapping the side of the stage you were standing on. Your head whipped to the side. A gasp escaped your lips. The same guy was standing there, a guitar in his hands. "Xaden", he called out, getting up on the stage. "Y/N", you frowned slightly. The drunken man had a big love for coming up on stage to bark into the microphone, hence why no one besides the bad was allowed up there. "I also play, just at a different bar. I play the guitar and sing," he was talking, but you just stood there dumb-struck. The guy... Xaden was also bloody tall, his muscly flame towering over you. "If you don't want...", he started. "No, I mean yes, I mean no", you muttered, making him chuckle slightly. "I need someone to play with; the phone shit is killing me tonight", you shook your head, trying to get your composure back.

"You did well, though. Your voice is very pretty", Xaden said casually as he plugged in his guitar. "Well, we'll see if you live up to the expectations", you muttered back. A smile painted Xaden's lips. He played a couple of chords, turning to you so you would be able to tell him if the tone was comfortable for your voice. You played with that for a couple of minutes before you gave him a thumbs-up. But when you turned back towards the crowd, a realization hit you: you didn't ask Xaden what exactly you were going to sing. You turned your back to him right as the first notes of the song echoed. This motherfucker...

"You put a spell on me", his velvety voice fills your ears, "I'm losing my mind". His eyes were all over you as he sang. Your grip on the microphone tightened as you watched him. "You better stop these things; it's a matter of time". But two can play this game. You threw your head back, letting your hair fall back from your shoulders, exposing the glistening skin of your bare skin, as you let your body sway with the sound of Xaden's guitar. "Before I hunt you down", he continues, "Grab your chin and kiss your lips", his tone seems huskier, and as you pull your gaze back to him, you find his stare still glued to you. Pupils big. "You bring me back; I lay you down and grab your hips". A smirk plays on your lips as you join him on the next line, "And we lose all control", you've never thought your voice would mix with a stranger so well. It's almost hypnotic. So fucking sultry. Xaden's voice hitches slightly, and you yank the control away from him. "And before you know", you point your finger straight at him as you continue, "I've put a spell on you", your hips dip slightly as you let your body get swallowed by the music, "Now you are mine". You've never been more thankful for the bright light that shined right at you as you let your silky voice take over the room. "I've got a hold on you, at least for the night". Your hands move up and down the microphone stand, and you can swear Xaden lets out a light growl. "You know I can't help myself when you ask tenderly". You turn your attention back to him. The grip the guy has on his guitar is close to a breaking point. You can't help wondering if you were to pick up the guitar would yoy find him... but you don't let the thought linger, allowing yourself a moment to bite your lips before you sing the next cues directly, looking at the guy set not more than a meter away from you. "If I'd dimmed the light as your hand brushes me and the floor swallowed my clothes", you said, brushing your hand over the silk fabric, lifting it just a bit to reveal more of your thigh, "And my silhouette puts on a show because I put a spell on you", you muse. Xaden beats you to the next line, "I'm losing my mind; you better stop these games; it's a matter of time". And in the way he sings these lines, you start to feel as if they are more of a promise after all.

It almost feels like a fever dream for the rest of the song. You let the music fully take over as you two shared the stage. The moment the last chords ring, you can't help but let out a shaky breath. The crowd erupts in cheers, and you smile back, bowing slightly. From the corner of your eye, you see Xaden doing the same. You don't turn to him as you move to get off the stage. Your heels click against the floor as you briskly walk toward the back of the bar. And you know. Call it an instinct. He's following you.

You barely make it down the corner when you find two hands on opposite sides of you, caging your body, your face against the wall. But you can't help the giggle that escapes you as you feel him pressing against you, the suspicion you had mid-performance very obviously pressing right against you. "Desperate much?", you purr, turning your head back towards him, your shoulder blades flexing, making the man behind you growl, "You and the little show you put on". You manage to turn around to face him. You two are inches away from each other. "You picked the song, sweetheart", your fingers move to play with the button of his shirt, brushing against his chest.

"I don't lose control", Xaden growls, making you giggle slightly, "I think you're about to". His palm quickly reaches to hold onto your face as he tilts your head up so your eyes are back on him, "These red fucking lips and the words that are leaving them." You bit the corner of your lip, letting your fingers brush down his chest until you're met with his belt, and you do one thing any respectable girl would do: you pull him closer.

You've never been one for careless hookups. You left that to your band. You were a hopeless romantic at heart all along, but this man, with his dark eyes, looked down at you. He's making you question things about yourself. And question them hard. "You're playing a game, sweetheart", Xaden leaned closer, and the warmth of his breath tickled your cheek. "Am I? I didn't notice", you said, holding onto this rush of confidence.

Xaden lets out a breathy chuckle as his hands fall to grab onto your hips before you feel him slowly bunching up the fabric of your dress upwards. Some sense of rationality comes flooding into your brain. What if someone walked by? But Xaden quickly wraps his hand around your throat once again, yanking your attention back to him. "If I touched you now, would you be wet?", a gasp escapes your lips at the bluntness of his words. Yet you are painfully aware of the answer.

"Look yourself", your voice is barely a whisper. Xaden's lips curve upward. "You're giving me your consent to touch you, baby?", he leans in once again. You tilt your head up in hopes of finally meeting his lips, but the grip he has on you stops you. "I asked you a question", he growls. You nod your head eagerly, but Xaden shakes his head, "Words. I need words". Fuck, this guy is trying to be a gentleman in a moment like this where he more than has you under his control.

"Yes, please", you whimper at the feeling of Xaden's fingers brushing against your inner thigh. "Please, what?", he hums, his lips finally brushing against your shoulder. "Please, touch me", a shiver runs down your body as Xaden bites the strap of your dress, dragging it off your shoulder. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. His fingers brush over your belly tenderly, his hand fully beneath your dress now. They dip to your hip; he's no doubt searching for the fabric of your underwear, but you know all he would be met with is bare skin.

As if reading your mind, Xaden lets out yet another growl, "Don't tell me that you have no underwear on". His head falls on your shoulders as if he's taking a moment to compose himself, but two can play this game. You reach for the hand that is resting on your bare skin before guiding it between your thighs, muttering a quick "Upsie." And that is the final undoing that man in front of you needed.

Xaden's lips finally crash into yours. Hungry and desperate. You try to meet him halfway, but the dominance is all his as he explores your mouth. You can't help but let out a moan as his fingers started to lazily rub circles over your clit. "You've been dripping all night long like this?", he rasped out, pulling away ever so slightly. "Only when you came to join me", you gasped, feeling one of his fingers slip within your heat like it was nothing. Your back arches against the wall, your hips grinding to meet his touch. "You fucking, minx", Xaden says, losing another shaky breath, "Where's your room?". Your brain is hazy from him, but you manage to point your finger to the door at the very end of the hallway. Xaden wastes no time as he picks you up. You whimper at the loss of his touch but don't protest much, knowing that you wouldn't be able to explore each other in the middle of a hallway anyway.

Xaden kicks the door shut behind him as he enters the small room. The table meets his frustration first as his hand cleans the vanity off, sending bottles and brushes tumbling down. "Hey", you yelp, looking down at the mess, but all that fades away the moment Xaden's lips are on your chest. Nipping at your skin, no doubt leaving bruises for you to look at tomorrow. Your hands reach for his messy, dark curls as you tug gently, pressing his face further into your skin. He doesn't ask for permission the second time around. He just yanks at the delicate straps, making the fabric slide off your chest.

"No fucking bra too", he hisses, his fingers reaching to twirl your hard nipples between his fingers, sending heat pooling into your core, "You're the devil itself". The noise that escapes your lips as he wraps his mouth over your breast, squeezing the flesh, is far from holy. "Fuck, Xaden", you breathe, arching even more into his chest. "So responsive, I like it", he chuckles against your skin, making you huff, "Fuck you, asshole". He lets himself fully laugh this time as he wraps his hand over your neck once more, "You will, sweetheart; you sure as hell will".

And there's something so primal in his voice. Heat rushes all over your body. You spread your legs even more for him without him having to ask; your body is shamefully desperate. Xaden lets his hands move all over your body. Exploring every curve. Every dip. Sending shivers down your spine. Your lips are back on his, and god, you could spend a lifetime kissing this man. You pull at this shirt, breaking a couple of buttons in the process. That's enough for him to get the message, and his shirt is soon thrown somewhere on the floor.

"Condom?", Xaden asks, fumbling with his belt. You shake your head. "Birth control", you muse. "I'm clean", you add quickly. Xaden growls once more. "How do you expect me not to bust?", he asks, eyes locked on you as he strokes himself through his boxers a couple of times. "It seems like your problem", you breathe, quickly licking your lips as he steps back closer to you.

You let your hand brush over his toned muscles this time; you brush his hands away from his body, and they find shelter on your thighs almost immediately. You reach for the waistband of his underwear but stop yourself. Suddenly wanting to have his permission. Your eyes dart up, only to be met with a nod. That's all it takes for you to yank the material off, and all the holy hell, you could tell that he was above average from the boner that's been rubbing against you all this time, but this long and hard length with pre-cum glistening at the very tip.

"You have something to say?", Xaden teases, biting at your shoulder once more. While you gape at him like a fish out of the water. "I... that... ah...", your muttering is cut off by Xaden, who brushes his fingers over your clit, circling it a couple of times before he dips a finger inside you, moving it at a painfully slow speed. "I heard that before", he mumbles against your lips, "It will fit too, don't you worry", he dips yet another finger into your vagina, and you can feel your arousal dripping onto the table beneath you as that same funny feeling curls up at the pit of your stomach.

You reach for his length, stroking it a couple of times. Xaden pulls his fingers out of yours, moving that hand to join yours. Your juices are now coating his dick, and you can't help but whimper at the sight of it. Xaden rubs his tip at your entrance a couple of times. Both of your eyes are now locked on the way both of your bodies are desperate for a release. "Go gently with me; you're bigger than I've ever had", you can't help but let the sudden wave of worry wash over you. Xaden's eyes dart up to yours, his hand moving to rub your thigh. "I'll look after you", he mutters as he slowly slides between your walls. You both share a breathless cry. Curses fill the space. You know that he's not in all the way, and the burn is like nothing you've felt before, but so is the pleasure that makes your toes curl.

Xaden withdraws almost all the way before moving back into your slick pussy, this time way deeper and way quicker. You let out a cry, your hands darting to grab onto his forearms. "Too much", you whimpered, "It's too much", but Xaden only bucks his hips forward, fingers reaching between the two of you so he could rub your clit in lazy circles. "You will take it", he says. Your eyes fall to the back of your head as he bottoms out with another thrust, growling into your ear. You shakily wrap your legs around his torso, bringing him even closer to you.

Your eyes mist for a second, and you feel Xaden leaving kisses all over your face before his head dips, and his mouth is once again wrapped around your nipple as he twirls it between his lips. "Fuck, please", you cry out right as Xaden picks up his speed, his hips moving in a harsh rhythm over and over. Hitting parts of your body that have never been touched before. Another cry slips past your lips, and your nails dig into his back. "You're so fucking pretty", Xaden murmurs, "So fucking tight".

Another moan escapes you, but this time Xaden is right there to swallow your cries with a kiss. A desperate. Messy one. The room is filled with your wetness. Whimper's bounced off the walls; never had you before been so thankful for the loud music coming from the bar. Drowning out your shared groans. Your tits are bouncing from the fair share of speed Xaden is thrusting into you. You feel on fire. All you can think of is him. "Come on, cry out my name for me, baby", he says, his hands moving to hold onto your hips so he could angle his movements even more. "Xaden", you muse, feeling the tingling sensation rippling through you. "Louder", he growls, his hand coming to choke you once more. You fluster your eyes, meeting his gaze. "Harder, Xaden,", you moan at the top of your lungs. Xaden's nostrils flare, and his hand slides to rub your clit once more, way harder now, as his movement picks up. His eyes grow dark as he growls. You hold onto him as your body nearly slides off the rocking table. "I'm going", you cry out, your head falling back. "Come, baby, take what's yours", he grunts, hitting the golden spot deep within you. Sending you into pleasure like no other, as you both fall over the edge at the same time. You feel him jerking a couple of times, and his cum spurting deep within you. Coating your walls. Sending you into yet another blissful blindness as you clench around him. Xaden's breathing is labored as he once again rests against your shoulder. Your hands lazily move up and down his back, drawing circles as you too try to make your heartbeat less frantic.

"That was...", he mutters, pulling up. You chuckle slightly, "Out of this world", you finish his sentence right before his lips are back on yours. It's a lot slower. Less needy. More sensual. You whimper slightly as you feel Xaden's length twitch one more time, still deep inside you. "Is it bad that I don't want to pull out?", Xaden asks, pushing a strand of your hair away from your face. But he does. Slowly. So slowly that you can't help but cry at the sensation. The loss of him is way too evident. Making you feel so empty. He curses at the sight of his cum slowly dripping out of you, coating your tights and the table. He reached for his shirt, crumpled on the floor before he carefully wiped away the mess you two made. You bite your lip as you watch him. So careful. So gentle.

"Your lipstick is smudged", he states, pulling his underwear back on while you're still there, all sprawled out for him. High on whatever the fuck had just happened. "I wonder why", you mutter, trying to pull yourself off the table only to be met with wobbly legs that betray you the moment your heels hit the floor. But Xaden is there in a heartbeat. His arm wrapped around your waist as he steadies you. The asshole has the nerve to laugh at your disheveled state, and you hit his chest.

"You're okay?", he asks regardless. "Soar, and my brain lost concentration with the internet, I think", you muttered, making the male chuckle once more. He carefully pulled the straps of your dress back over your shoulders, hiding some of the red skin on your chest that was already bruising. "Good thing that I'm driving you back home then", he mutters, kissing the side of your head softly before pushing a finger under your chin and bringing your face up so he could kiss your lips a couple of times. You let out a surprised yelp as Xaden dips, lifting you off the floor and into his arms. Hands resting on your bum as you wrap your arms and legs around him, "Come on, baby, the night is still young".

#xaden riorson #xaden riorson x reader #xaden riorson x you #xaden riorson imagine #xaden riorson smut #haden fourt wing imagine #xaden fourth wing x reader #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing imagine #iron flame x reader

224 notes · View notes

selarina · 5 months

Text

Behind Closed Masks

→ Satoru Gojo x Fem!Reader

Summary: Amidst a looming threat to Yuuji’s life, you're all holed up at Shoko's house for safety. It's the practical choice for him, to be surrounded by Jujutsu Society's strongest. Alternatives are in the works, but for now, as you’re all holed up in Shoko's place, events begin to unfurl with Gojo Satoru in the centre of it all.

Content Warnings: friends with benefits, fluff, angst, unrequited feelings, canon divergence because getou is here and mentally well, mention of smoking, mention of violence, mention of harassment, exhibitionism-ish, oral sex (f!receiving) MINORS DNI

Word Count: 3.8k words

Author's Note: Ngl I kinda hate this but enjoy :) Might be kinda ooc

Read on AO3

Satoru Gojo, the receiver of one too many love letters, the rejector of one too many confessions was obviously coined to be every girl’s boy, and inadvertently, as the lady's man.

But truth be laid bare, Satoru never truly had the time, not for women or men. He only truly had time for his intimate circle of friends who luckily had managed to penetrate through all of the layers of façade.

But it's off season, he’s on a low stakes mission and there’s not many curses to kill and he's bored. He’s been bored for a while now and since Yujji had been buzzing at his ear like a mosquito, he decides that maybe he should undertake the mantle he had been anointed with for years.

So, he downloads tinder, albeit his reluctance. Because surely, there were more dignified avenues into hookup culture? But who was he to argue with Suguru, a man who actually lives up to the reputation expectation — hailed as everyone's resident fuckboy.

It's not surprising by any means at all, but there's swell of pride that blooms in him with each illuminating "It's a Match!" notification on his screen. He's not expecting to do much from here, at least — not today. He only downloaded this app to appease Yujji after all.

However, at your entrance into the living room, with your barrage of bags upon bags, he finds himself hastily pocketing his phone — a bit too swiftly than he should have.

He notices Suguru's discerning eyes staring at him, at his move, but Satoru, ever the consummate performer, simply offers him a genial smile and redirects his gaze back at you — this very angry version of you.

You're staring at the lot of them — dead in their faces, almost like you're planning to squint your way through to a create a hole in their faces.

"What's with the frown? It doesn't suit you, pretty." He rose from his seat, a beat behind the swift advances of Suguru and Yujji, both of whom had promptly positioned themselves at your side.

Yuuji relieved you of your bags as he took half the weight off, while Suguru merely extended his help in the form of a box of raspberry juice.

"What's with the frown?!" Yuuji asks.

You stop, taking a long sip of the juice, before you start talking again, "I told you guys to come with me. You didn't want to. The least you could do was pick me up when you agreed to. But no! I was out there, in the middle of no where, trying to get a fucking Uber. And then the Uber driver started hitting on me. And he was so creepy about it too. This is why I hate ubering by the w—"

"Is he still outside?" Satoru's voice cuts through, abruptly altering into a tone of sobriety.

"I don't know. But I want to punch something, maybe we should practice today, Suguru."

You looked up to see him, wanting to see if he agreed with you. But Suguru had disappeared. You turned around, searching the room with your eyes, but there was no sign of him. He wasn't there anymore. The room remained still with only four of you giving it company.

Then, a distant sound, the rumble of an argument spewing its way from outside, reached your ears inside the living room. The four of you are quick to move, swivelling your way through to the point of discord.

Yet, upon arrival, you only catch the diminishing silhouette of the Uber vehicle taking its departure from Shoko's compound. And then, your eyes catch Suguru, arms akimbo, as he looked down at the concrete, uttering an expletive.

"Aww, now I feel better already," you quipped, making your way to hug an annoyed-looking Suguru.

He melted, as one naturally does at the touch of another. Albeit, it may be through reluctance, but his hands don't show it as they come up to gently pull you closer into his chest. He knows you need this more than he does.

"Sorry for not picking you up," he murmurs.

Drawing back slightly, you said, "Well, you going up to fight him makes up for it, I guess."

"Wow," Shoko interjected with an incredulous laugh. "You want us to resort to violence?"

"Well, obviously not. But you would if I asked you, right?" you contended with a smile, fixing your gaze on Suguru.

"Absolutely not," Shoko voice comes out swift and emphatic, a declaration that's seconded by Suguru's shrug of indifference.

Satoru, however, interposed with a grin, speaks up, "I would fight anyone for you."

You look at him, your eyes assessing him from hair to shoes. "Really?" you said, your tone clearly coloured by amusement.

At that, Satoru's eyes squint in annoyance, "I would, and in case you've forgotten, I am the strongest one here?"

"I mean, sure when we were teenagers. That's different, you're kinda wimpy looking now."

You don't actually believe that, you'd be a fool to believe that. Truth be told, he's likely the first person you would instinctively turn towards if you found yourself in any trouble. You're just teasing because you find his attempts at acting annoyed and angry all too endearing, and it's nice — the way he's fighting to fight for you.

Satoru feigns a dramatic sigh, hand pressed against his heart. "Wow," he remarks. "Here I was, prepared to face dragons in your honour, and all I get is this indignation."

"Alright, both of you drama queens can continue you the play for us," Shoko's hands come up to push the two of you inside the house. "As we make dinner," she continues. "I'm fucking starving."

—

Dinner unfolded in its familiar routine. Suguru's standing behind the counter, his hands moving with a practiced grace as his swished through the vegetables. You make your way from sitting on one counter to the other, munching on cut vegetables and cheese alike.

Satoru flitted between scenes, briefly checking on the TV and Yuuji in the living room and then joining you and Suguru in the kitchen. Shoko, on the other hand, was for a smoke as she often is — you wonder if that's just her way of taking the time she needs away from the group.

And as the night deepens, you all sit down to eat together beneath the glow of Shoko's yellow lights — you savour each bit as you try to extend the night, not wanting it to end yet. But eventually, the plates were clear, and all of you share the task of washing and cleaning up into the night.

When it came time to rest, sleeping arrangements fell into its usual place. Satoru found his place on the couch, while Suguru occupied the other one. Yuuji chose the floor, favouring it over the couch or the bed. And Shoko's retired to the comforts of her own familiar bed. She deserved as much for tolerating the lot of you, she said.

You, on the other hand, spoiled as you often are, you sleep in the guest room, all alone.

But on a night like this you know you're not going to be alone, not when all the warning signs were laid out — the incessant touches on your waist as he moved, the soft smile, the stares — it was all a bit too apparent than usual.

So, when you hear the door creak open gently you're not surprised, and when Satoru patters in with softly laid footsteps you're not surprised. "Hey," his voice whispered its way to you.

In response to his whispered greeting, you softly murmur, "Hey."

Satoru settled onto the bed beside you, making himself comfortable as he placed his phone on the table beside the bed.

A knowing smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you reach out to him, draping your arms gently around his neck. With a deliberate and unhurried motion, you shift your position, sitting up and moving to straddle him, your legs finding their place on either side of his hips.

"Are you okay?" He asks, his thumb coming up to graze the edge of your lip. His tone was neutral, but his eyes they peer into your eyes, so intently, it almost makes you feel bare.

Your fingers play at the short hair that remains at the nape of his neck, a feather-light touch eliciting a faint shiver from him, but he maintains his gaze at you.

"I'm okay?" you respond, a hint of confusion in your voice.

"The Uber guy—"

Recognition dawns upon you, and you chuckle softly "Ah, that. Yeah," you pause, considering your response after. "That's normal. I mean, it's not but yeah, I'm okay don't worry. Used to this really."

His gaze softens, "I can find him right now, teach him a lesson if you want," his thumb continuing its absentminded caress along your lip.

You give him a small, appreciative smile, your fingers continuing their gentle dance on his nape. "No need for all that, stupid," you reply, "It's really fine. I didn't think twice about it." You let out a chuckle. "Well, maybe twice but not more than that."

"How long are you staying for?" Satoru's question shifts the mood.

"I'm leaving in two weeks, around the same time as now," you finally share.

His gaze flickers, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. "You?" you inquire, but you don't truly want to know, you'd rather you just all stay here for a month, or two.

He hesitates for a moment, his fingers tracing patterns on your waist. "Not sure yet," he admits. "Could be around a month. Haven't finalised the details."

"That's good to hear," you murmur softly. "I mean, you've been up to a lot lately. Must be nice to be back home."

"Yeah, I miss food," he frowns.

A few beats pass, as you sit there in silence.

"Wish you could stay longer," he says, his voice coming out a bit too vulnerable than you're usually used to because it's jarring, it's starting to sound like a confession you know you'll never get.

"Yeah?" you ask, swallowing. "Why?"

He stares and you stare back, there's a moment, for a silly little moment during the fragile second suspended between you two, you think he's going to say something real. But then, with a shift, his hands reposition their grip around your legs that are wrapped around his hips, and he pulls, guiding you to fall back onto the softness of your pillow.

Your heart pounds, the abrupt change of position leaving you two separated before on top of you, as he moves his face to your neck.

"To do this,” he speaks, and his words are ticklish against the side of your neck. His knee quickly moves to lodge itself between your legs, hovering but not fully pushing.

"Satoru—"

He continues to map his way down to your neck as his hand slid along your thigh. Your legs come to wrap around his waist, as it usually does and his hips pressing firmly into yours to pin you into the bed.

Your fingers come up to his hair, tugging on his roots as he continued his ministrations around around your neck, as he continued leaving a hickey. “Aw! I’ve missed you too—” Your breathy confession ends up in a gasp, as he bites particularly too hard.

"Sorry," he says but he doesn't really look sorry.

You know he's not sorry because he moves almost immediately to yank his shirt from over his head.

"Maybe we shouldn't," you voice as he lays his palms on your knees, smirking in satisfaction at the way you were already spreading your legs for him to settle in between, even as your words professed otherwise.

"Why not?" He asks, as he bends down to tug on your shorts as you help me by shimming your way out.

"Well, Yuuji and Suguru are literally a door away and well, we're at Iwa's place—"

Pushing the hem of your t-shirt up to your stomach, he brought his head between your legs. “Is it because you like him, you—“

“What?” He pauses, and you couldn’t help but sound a little annoyed, because this is odd. In all your times together, he never brought this up. In all your many years of friendship, he never brought this up. "What?" your tone softening as you repeat.

A palpable beat of silence lingers between you two.

Satoru lets out a sigh, the tension in his voice giving way to weariness. "I don't know, I was just wondering."

"About what, exactly?" you inquire.

"I don't know," he responds, a touch of frustration tinging his tone. "Do you like him? Suguru?"

"Like Suguru...?" you spoke, baffled. "Of course, I don't. You'd be the first to know if I did."

"Why's that?" His question hangs in the air.

A soft, incredulous chuckle escapes your lips. "Well, you're kind of my best friend, aren't you?"

He doesn't speak up, merely nodding before you push his head down between you thighs. He complies, his mouth moving to suck bruises on the inner part of your thigh as he hooks his fingers around the side of your underwear.

He pushes your underwear down your legs and you help him by kicking it off. His hands then movie to push down your thighs to the bed, leaving you bare in a way that leaves you abashed.

He runs his tongue across his lower lip, Satoru didn’t start slow and he was nowhere near as gentle as he usually is, but you figure the aspect of your friends right outside your door might have spurred him on to go quicker.

He didn't leave a little kiss as he usually did, nor were there any tentative licks, he just straight up latched his mouth against your cunt, spreading your legs apart until you were as exposed as you could be so his tongue could reach deep inside you.

“Fuck—” Your hand immediately went back to his head, curling your fingers around his soft locks. You aren't sure if you were pushing him closer, or pushing him away.

You moaned softly, still concious of your precarious state in a friend's house as a guest. You bucked against him as his tongue flicked over you.

“Oh, God—” His slick muscle pressed flat against your folds, drawing designs across your sensitive skin. He went up and down, up and down, again and again, and again — he only momentarily stopped to pay attention to your clit, sucking until your thighs began to slowly tremble.

“Satoru, Satoru, fuck wait—” Your breathing hitches.

Satoru had always been good with his hands but that was nothing compared to what his mouth and tongue could do. He was so good at this that you could barely form any other reactions and you were getting progressively scared as you started to get louder and less in control of yourself.

His gaze, hooded and fixed on your face, holds a glimmer of need as he spoke, "What's wrong?"

"They'll hear us," you murmur softly, a hint of caution in your voice.

"It's fine," he responded, with a smile, as he dove back in.

"What— No, it's not okay," you protested.

But he didn't relent, he continued on and on and on until your legs began to tremble. He savoured your taste and you felt the vibration of his muffled voice reverberates directly against your skin. “You’re gonna come for me, baby?"

And at the sound of that, you do.

"Fuck— You're so annoying sometimes," you exclaim, sitting up from where you had been lounging against your pillow, your breath slightly uneven.

Seated now, you deliver a playful slap to his shoulder. "Ow— Is that any way to treat the man who just gave you an orgasm?" he quipped as he rubbed his shoulders to soothe your assault.

Your initial impulse is to give him a mock scowl, maybe even playfully shove him down to show him what you would do to a man who just made you come. But then, his phone buzzes.

Your eyes instinctively dart to the side, and just as swiftly, Satoru moves to turn off the glowing screen. However, his speed isn't enough to prevent you from catching a glimpse of the display, not enough to discern the specifics, but enough to stir, well... something.

"You're on Tinder?" The question slips from your lips before you can catch it.

"Uh—" Satoru's expression shifts, a mix of embarrassment and guilt colouring his features. "Yeah, Yuuji kinda forced me to do it."

"Forced you into it?" Your curiosity deepens, your voice coming out incredulous.

"Yeah," he says, plainly.

"How does someone force you into downloading and signing up for a whole app?"

He wants to explain, but really he's not sure what he can or should say, so he merely asks what lingers in his mind. "What's the big deal?"

"Nothing," you concede. It's true, it's nothing. Plus, you've been part of the club after all. You know how this goes.

You repeat the mantra in your mind—it's all just nothing. Meaningless and not real. But despite your efforts to convince yourself, a twinge of unease stirs within you. Sensing the potential weight of those unspoken thoughts, you quickly shift your focus, grabbing your underwear as a way to distract yourself from the festering emotions that boil right below the surface.

"What? Wow — No head?" he muses.

"I'm just too tired today," you reply, the weariness in your voice matching the fatigue that weighs you down - as though your words have spoken your exhaustion into fruition.

As the night stretches on, you lie in the dimness of the guest room, ensnared in a ceaseless loop of replaying the day's events. It's as though you're stuck with a malfunctioning record that refuses to stop. So, you shift and you shift in your bed, and you're suddenly overcome by an uncomfortable heat.

Truth be told, your heart ached not just from the events of this day, but from years and years of unspoken words.

Your closeness to Satoru, a social man who's cautious about who he allows into his life, can be traced back to a confession you made.

Dumb and in love, back when you were 17, you mustered the courage to reveal your feelings for him. Naturally, he turned you down. You were expecting it, of course and were hoping that wish away the feeling you had for him. There's a strange solace in embracing the stages of heartbreak - your friends telling you stories about how a "Fuck him, I'm sad" phase quickly turns into a "Fuck him, I'm hot" phase.

But alas, fate had other plans. A friendship sprouted instead.

You presented yourself as having moved beyond your emotions, and at times, it felt real. But then he would do small and ostensibly insignificant acts, as one does for a friend – brushing a speck of grass from your hair, surprising you with your favourite beverage, reminding you to carry an umbrella – and they just made fall deeper into the well.

That wretched well.

After a while, of jostling in bed, you couldn't stand the heat and the suffocating weight of all these thoughts. Quietly, you slipped out of the bed, carefully making your way out of the room. The living room was dimly lit, but you could still see where Satoru lay sprawled awkwardly, half on the couch, half on the floor. While Yujji and Suguru slumbered soundly, the former clutching a throw pillow.

The soft glow of a lamp casting your shadow across the room as you opened the balcony door and settled onto the swing outside.

A floorboard's creak drew your attention, your gaze turning to the living room. And that's when saw Shoko standing there, her figure outlined by the soft light. He seemed surprised to find you awake, her expression a mix of concern and contemplation.

"Couldn't sleep either?" she asked, as she made her way next to you, shutting the balcony door. Her voice carrying a hint of weariness. Perhaps, he was asleep.

You shook your head, not trusting your voice to respond. There was a heaviness in your chest that you couldn't put into words.

She settled beside you in silence, letting moments pass before he spoke. A sigh escaped her, "I'm sorry for not picking you up earlier. It might not seem like a big deal, but I should have showed."

You looked at her, her profile illuminated by the soft light from the moon. "It's really not a big deal." Your hand found its way to her arm, a gesture of reassurance.

You think about how kind Shoko really is as a person. It's not often you find someone like her. I mean, sure Satoru is nice to you but he can often be petty, arrogant and hurtful, even if he may not want to be these things, Shoko, on the other hand, was deliberate with her words, at least around you. It makes you feel loved in a way you have always needed.

Your mind drifted to a specific memory – the last prom. You were clad in a soft shade of purple, and you felt hopeful. Despite going with Shoko, the presence of Satoru, now a friend, lent a certain optimism. Yet, she had snapped at you, in hushed tone though as she did not want his date hearing him, she wanted you to give him and his date space.

It wasn't his fault really, you were lingering in their space after all but you made your way through, seeming as normal as you could, taking some punch in a cup, finding your seat almost working in auto-pilot mode, and after awhile you felt her come sit beside you. Shoko.

She sat beside you in silence for a bit and then she spoke, standing up and offering her hand up for you to take.

"May I have this dance?" she asked.

"I'm tired, Shoko," you responded, dejectedly.

"Come on," she implored, meeting your eyes. "Let me have the honor of sharing your very last prom dance."

With a sigh, you accepted her hand, rising from your seat. Turning away from the amorous couple, you focused on Shoko as she led you into a waltz.

In that moment, you thought you couldn't have asked for a better date.

Soon, you noticed Shoko gradually dozing off beside you. It didn't take long, and with a gentle nudge, you roused her from her slumber.

"You should get some rest," you suggested, your voice a soothing caress.

"Alright," she agreed, a plain weariness in her tone. Rising, she paused before leaving. You think maybe today's the day she would finally ask you about it.

"You know," she began. "You can always talk to me, right?"

A nod was your response.

She leaned in to press a kiss on your forehead. With that, she turned and made her way to her room.

A sense of lightness enveloped you, the fatigue gradually returning to your bones. Retracing your steps to the guest room, you knew sleep would find you.

182 notes · View notes