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thatkattdraws ¡ 5 days
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👏🏾Education 👏🏾is 👏🏾a 👏🏾right,👏🏾 not👏🏾 a👏🏾 service 👏🏾
Pass along and use the shit out of them
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thatkattdraws ¡ 6 days
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$50,000 immediately dropped into my bank account wouldn't improve EVERYTHING but boy it sure would be a grand, sexy little start to a good, happy life path, don't you think
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thatkattdraws ¡ 9 days
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Here’s a video so you can hear the water and the thrushes. I took it for you because you couldn’t be there. <3
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thatkattdraws ¡ 10 days
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Emma Stone as Bella Baxter POOR THINGS (2024)
You say all are cruel. And I disagree, disavow, and say no not.
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thatkattdraws ¡ 20 days
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thatkattdraws ¡ 26 days
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Reblog if you honestly have NEVER sent anon hate.
It pains me that only 14,000 people can honestly reblog this
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thatkattdraws ¡ 2 months
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I felt pretty twice this week🥹🩷💜🩵
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thatkattdraws ¡ 3 months
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You have to earn her submission. Any schmuckstick born with a cock can figure out how to sexually dominate her.
What she truly craves is the nonsexual dominance. Make her wait in the car until you go around and open her door for her. When entering a building, open the door and allow her to walk in first and place your hand on the small of her back when you do.
Lead her. Run her a hot bubble bath, go in the living room, pick her up, take her to her bath, and wash her body, dry her off, and brush her hair. Pay attention to how much she drinks and if it hasn’t been enough, give her some water and command her to keep hydrated. Yes, command not demand. Learn the difference if you truly want her to submit.
Protect her. Pay attention to which shoulder she puts her purse on and make sure it’s the shoulder nearest you making it more difficult for her to be mugged. Walk on the street side of the sidewalk and make her adjust to you switching sides as you walk around the city.
Hold her hand. Let her feel your strength. Use it to guide her and keep her safe.
Pay attention to her schedule. If tomorrow is a busy day for her, command her bedtime so she will get extra rest.
The more nonsexual dominance you give her, the more depraved things she will do when sexually submitting.
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thatkattdraws ¡ 4 months
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He switched to 4K
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thatkattdraws ¡ 7 months
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Kitty has hiccups
(via)
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thatkattdraws ¡ 7 months
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Katy Lipscomb on Instagram
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thatkattdraws ¡ 8 months
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What a copy cat
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thatkattdraws ¡ 9 months
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obsessed
I know we agree that Eddie would be obsessed with his girl. But I also think, even more than that - he would want his girl to be obsessed with him.
Like, after the initial 'wah I dunno what I'm doing' part of becoming a boyfriend for the first time, of course, because I do think Eddie would be both awkwardly though endearingly inexperienced, and also kinda scared of his feelings finally being reciprocated because now there's actual risk involved. But once he's past that, I think as much as he is just all about you - wanting to be around you, hold you, kiss you, fuck you, sleep with you, just exist beside you - he is even more excited at the prospect that you're all about him.
He wants to catch you looking at him and see it written all over your face, your expression all gooey and gross and totally fucking gone. It wouldn't make sense to him, because, yeah, you do that when he's screaming his lungs out on stage at The Hideout, fingers nearly cramping with his hard he's playing and, before the performance is even half-done, he knows they fuckin' killed it. That makes sense to him But you also look at him like that even when he's doing asinine shit, like picking off his nail polish and balancing the flakes in a pile on his hairy knee, or perching hunchbacked on a chair, muttering to himself as he drafts the next dungeon crawl for Hellfire. You see him at his best and his worst and his weirdest, and you seem to only wanna be closer to him. It's the same he feels about you, but at least with you it makes sense, 'cause you're you. It beats the shit outta Eddie why you're obsessed with him, but he's seen it enough to accept it now.
He starts feeling all warm inside his chest whenever he remembers just how obsessed you are with him. And so then he starts to do whatever it takes to encourage you in that.
Some guys think their girl's too needy? Hell fuckin' nah. Not Ed. You keep pulling him back in for snuggles and kisses and pouty "I'll miss you baby"s when he's been trying to leave the last twenty minutes, and he's just burying his grin in your hair, lapping up every word like a greedy bastard. He doesn't give a shit that he's gonna be late and get an earful from Gareth when you're filling up his chest with ooey gooey warmth like this. Space? Never heard of her. It could be hot as the devil's asscrack in July and he'd let you paste yourself to him. Damn the sweaty skin, the baby hairs tickling his chin, the elbow in his rib. Climb inside his favorite hoodie with him; stretch it all the way out. Make him a permanent one-handed driver by stealing his palm so you can play with his rings and just touch his skin, as if it alleviates some kind of ache in you.
And you best believe that man is determined to delight you. It doesn't matter how much or little experience he's had with other people before; Eddie wants to know how to make you fall apart. He studies your body - spends days between your legs with his mouth and his fingers and his cock, learning exactly what to touch and with what pressure and rhythm. Learning when to ease up and when to press on. Learning what your sounds and your faces and your motions mean. Learning all of you until he can have you coming on his cock in less than five minutes, and on his tongue in less than three, if you happen to be pressed for time. And if you're not pressed for time... Well. Eddie makes sure that each time he gets to really savor you, your obsession with him just grows that much deeper. Once you're coherent and no longer cock-drunk, at least.
Eddie isn't just determined to delight you in the bedroom, either. He'd keep it going all the time, his efforts to ensure you're totally gone on him - buy you cheap things like fake tattoos and ring pops from the 25-cent machines, steal you flowers cut from the yards he passes when he's selling in Loch Nora, leave you little love-heart doodles in your locker and loiter around the corner, waiting for you to find them, just so he can grab you up from behind and gasp against your neck, "Are those from a secret admirer?! Are you cheating on me?!" And as you squeal and giggle and deny it profusely, that warmth returns.
Because Eddie doesn't ever need to wonder about you. For the first time in his life, someone has finally looked at him and said, "Yeah, that freak right there. I'm obsessed with him." And there's no way in hell he's gonna take that for granted.
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thatkattdraws ¡ 9 months
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#eddie gifs that make me bark like a dog
+ bonus:
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thatkattdraws ¡ 9 months
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⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚ sanrio coloring pages ˚୨୧⋆。˚ ⋆
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thatkattdraws ¡ 9 months
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Cute pink + yellow memo pads/cards!!! (๑′ᴗ‵๑)
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thatkattdraws ¡ 9 months
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FINALLY🥹🫠🥲
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twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)
HOUR NINETEEN
in which everything changes.
→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn
→ warnings: strong language, smut (p in v), almost shower sex, talk of male masturbation, oral (f receiving), upside down does not exist, minors dni
→ wc: 7.7k+
→ a/n: big shout out to @myosotisa for beta-reading this chapter so that for once, it's not unedited, and it's not just between me and god.
masterlist.
spotify playlist.
◁ previous part, next part▷
19:00 ─────────────ㅇ── 24:00
DINGUS: so either these two are getting along REALLY well or they truly still hate each other’s guts
NANCE: Why do you say that?
DINGUS: when i called to make sure they weren’t dead, it sounded like they were arguing over the line. 
BIRDIE: woah woah woah, hold on. dingus. are you telling me you just SPIED on the lovebirds? or did this ‘fight’ happen during your conversation?
DINGUS: it wasn’t spying! eddie answered and rushed off the line, but it sounded like he forgot to hang up. i was just… curious.
NANCE: No, you were SPYING on them. 
ARGYLE 😎: what did they say, dude? 
BIRDIE: yeah let’s drop the morality bullshit – what’d you hear, my lovely oblivious spy? 
DINGUS: @BIRDIE NOT A SPY. 
DINGUS: but it just sounded like eddie asking her if she was, and i quote, “fucking kidding him”. He sounded weird when he was talking to me, too.
BIRDIE: the most romantic words to ever be spoken. truly. 
NANCE: Was that all you heard?
DINGUS: yeah, i hung up after that. why?
ARGYLE 😎: should’ve stayed on the line.
BIRDIE: what he said.
JOHNNY BOY: Do you people have no morals? 
HOUR NINETEEN – 10:00 AM
It becomes glaringly obvious to you that your comment had been a little too spot on after several minutes of waiting for Eddie to return. 
You hadn’t expected him to really leave you high and dry after that, to just go and take care of himself rather than include you in that process. Honestly, you thought the two of you were finally past hiding behind closed doors. But clearly, you had been wrong. Very, very wrong. And now, the consequences of your own actions were mocking you; there was an insistent, uncomfortable, unignorable burn in the pit of your stomach, and every shift of your thighs that had your underwear grazing your clit had you desperate, nearly mewling and arching your back. The longer you laid on that couch and realized what Eddie was currently doing, the more hot and bothered you grew. 
Fuck him. You’re about ten seconds away from taking care of your own problem right here, right now, on this god forsaken couch. 
Your ears perk involuntarily for any and all noises that may come from the hallway, but five minutes of silence tells you that Eddie had learned his lesson. He wasn’t going to be loud again. 
Fuck him. 
At least if he was falling apart by his own hand, he should have the decency to let you hear such, obviously. If he was going to finish what the two of you started alone with just him and his hand and the polished porcelain of his bathroom, you would have at least appreciated something to get you going, to urge your imagination to roam free through a conglomeration of both fantasies and memories. But, no – the man was so silent, you were beginning to fear he might be dead. 
Maybe he was dead. Death by blue balls. Good. Fuck him.
Your thighs squeeze together once more of their own free will, and you throw your head back violently to groan at the persistent throbbing. You couldn’t even be angry at him, not in a genuine sense, because you had insisted on talking rather than continuing whatever Deftones had started. What a dumb, idiotic, catastrophic decision. What a painful hill to die on. What a shit move on your part. 
It doesn’t take long before you make the choice to stop laying there, wallowing in your misery. If you weren’t going to take care of your problem, and if you were regretting your choices so desperately, you were an adult. He was down the hall, he was here for now, and there was nothing stopping you from just marching up to the door. This wasn’t anything like the beginning hours – the man had seen you bare before him far too many times for you to be shy. He had just been dry humping you like some teenager on his couch. 
No, you didn’t need to have shame right now. At least, not for these last five hours. 
You get up quick enough to make yourself dizzy, swinging your legs and making the soles of your feet connect with the living room floor with resounding slaps. A bit aggressive, and it might startle whoever had the displeasure of living below Eddie, but you don’t care. You have a one track mind, and you force your body into action before you can chicken out. 
You have him. At some wild capacity, the man behind the bathroom door is yours. Whether it be temporary, whether it had started before this night or would last beyond this experience, it was still a matter of fact. You have him – God, you have him so tightly that you don’t even doubt you’re the one on his mind right now as he does what you’re sure he’s doing behind this door – and it was time to accept that he has you. 
He has had you for a while, you realize a few steps away from the bathroom. The moment he had you laughing at his side in some smokey bar all those moons ago, he had first caught you in his web. You hate that it took this long, that it took this moment that should be laced with embarrassment, to let it all settle into acceptance. Like rubble of a destroyed building, the dust is clearing and all you can see is him. Him, with his stupid fucking dimples. Him, with his wide shoulders. Him, with all his twisted words and confusing actions. He’s had you in his grasp – it’s the only way anyone would have been able to get under your skin like he has this past year. 
“Eddie?” you call out as you rap your knuckles on that wooden door, a few too many times for good measure. Your ears strain now that you’re closer, thinking you might catch subtle sounds out of him. Heavy breaths, slick skin, mute whimpers. Anything.
You get nothing for a solid ten seconds.
And then, you hear him clearing his throat, obnoxiously so, before answering, “Y-Yeah?” 
Unsure. He’s stuttering, and the footing of his words is unstable. You were fucking right. 
“Are you…” you start, pinching your eyes shut, shooing away that internal wave of heat as your mind runs wild and imagines him behind the door. The way he’d be naked, the way his fist would curl around the base of his cock, the way his tip has never failed to be the exact same shade of pink as his lips- “Are you still alive in there?” 
Because I’m certainly not out here. 
“Oh, me?” he chuckles nervously, “Yeah, I-I’m good. Sorry, just got distracted!” 
By what? you nearly call in response, your dick in your hands? 
You don’t say it outloud. You have some restraint. 
“That’s fine…” you trail off, unsure of what exactly you should say all while biting your tongue. 
Your mind is still reeling for a possible ending for that thought when Eddie calls out, “I’m gonna take a shower, ‘s all. You cool with that?” 
No. No, I’m not fucking cool with that. 
“Oh!” you squeak out instead, “Yeah, yeah. That’s… that’s fine. Sorry, I’ll just…”
You trail off again as you begin to take a few steps back from the door, making your way back to the living room painstakingly slowly. You’ve hardly moved an inch when you hear the shower turn on inside the bathroom, stuttering a few times as the water begins its flow, static rising from the way it splatters into the tub. 
And then it turns off. Mere seconds later, as quickly as the flow of water had begun, the creaking in the pipes cease. You take another step back until your back bumps into the wall of the hallway, across and veered away from the bathroom door – the throbbing between your thighs still irritating and your confusion even more palpable. 
Wasn’t he going to take a shower? Did he just turn it on to get you to walk away? Were you hallucinating just how quickly the seconds were passin-
The bathroom door is suddenly thrown open with Eddie in the middle of calling out your name, those pajama pants hanging dangerously low on his hips. The moment his eyes land on your, his beckoning for you dies in his throat before he has to clear it. “Oh. Uh, hey.” 
Why were you both being so fucking awkward? 
“Hi,” you breathe out, pressing further into the wall. You felt like a child being caught doing wrong, as if he hadn’t been aware of your proximity to the door just moments before. 
Maybe he was going to find it creepy that you had lingered for so long, and were still so close. You don’t know – you can’t think clearly as you look at the bare skin of his chest and try to decipher whether the moisture gathered there is sweat or condensation from the steam of the shower. 
“Sorry, I just-” he cuts himself off this time before a hand reaches up to his hair, now down and unfurled around his shoulders. His palm presses back his bangs and you can see the moment that all the tension of awkwardness finally snaps, “Oh, fuck this. Do you want to shower with me?” 
Once it snaps for him, you feel your own clinging to it release. It slips from between your fingers slowly, and you come to the realization that there’s no heat emitting from the bathroom behind him – that moisture wasn’t from steam, he didn’t even have the water on long enough for it to get that hot. You should have realized that immediately, but your mind was working slowly through the fog. 
“You don’t have to,” you hadn’t answered him fast enough, and you’re watching him backpedal right before your eyes. 
A quick shake of your head and the smile that splits your lips stops all of his backwards movements, makes his head tilt to the side and a smirk graces his features when you finally reply, “I thought you’d never ask.” 
He shifts to the side of the doorway naturally, leaving just enough room for you to brush past him and let your shoulder knock slightly against his chest once you push off the wall eagerly. 
There’s still a puddle of water at the base of the tub, circling the drain as Eddie closes the door behind your entrance. It’s a bit redundant considering you’re the only two here, but you don’t say a word. You just let your eyes trace over the droplets of water racing down his shower curtain, properly focus in on his toothbrush on the sink and the tube of toothpaste beside it curled up over half the length. 
It hits you all at once, how this game of tension is so ridiculous. “We’re so stupid.”
Eddie is shocked by your snort, “Excuse me?” 
“We’re stupid,” you repeat yourself, “Why are we acting like middle schoolers who just held hands? You’ve seen me naked, for fucks sake. We’ve-” you cut off and turn to him abruptly, waving your hands wildly in the space between you two, “We’ve already crossed this line a million times, Eddie. And we just… it’s like, we keep putting one foot on the other side of it, dip our toes into it, and then take it back when it’s all said and done.” 
A boring dance. The two of you were taking part in the most boring dance of tension the world had ever seen, and only the four walls of Eddie’s apartment had the pleasure of being audience to it. 
You expect his laughter to come out in a bark, but it’s subtle instead, face relaxing in realization at what you mean, “Jesus. I- I mean, you’re right. But does that make us stupid? I think it’s kinda cute, personally.”
“Cute?” you lurch forward ever so slightly, grinning with your teeth. Eddie’s eyes squint up a bit from how widely he grins in return at your amusement, “What about this is cute?” 
“The way you keep getting so nervous around me,” Eddie shrugs, killing off the distance between you as he moves in front of you. You straighten up quickly, and he’s fast to tuck the loose strands of your hair behind your ear, “The way I keep getting so nervous around you.” 
“That’s not cute, that’s just… stupid.” 
“Same thing.”
“It definitely isn’t.” 
You’re close enough to kiss him. And you realize easily that this may be your favorite place in the world, toe-to-toe with him and nearly brushing noses, feeling each breath like a huff of wind on the highs of your cheekbones. 
“Agree to disagree,” he whispers before his lips duck down to yours. The hand that had tucked away your strands of hair had never left your face, you realize, palm now cupping your cheek as he tugs you closer to him. 
Warmth spreads across your chest, brings spring to all the vines you’ve been catering to for a year now. Being able to step back and call this for what it was, ridiculous, makes it all a bit easier to bear. 
It’s just his lips against yours, the shower not even running yet, the gasps that emit from both of you serving as a white noise instead. 
“Is this,” he breaks away from you, only pulling back his lips and leaving his forehead resting against yours with his hand still curled on your cheek, “still stupid?” 
“Even more so,” you nod and he moves his head with yours, almost making you laugh more, “So, so stupid.”
More kisses are exchanged, wandering hands trying to find new curves on the other’s body, before Eddie goes through the motions of turning his shower back on. You notice that from the looks of it, he does turn it on as hot as it can get. It occurs to you that these are small details you’d like to know – how hot he prefers his showers, whether he prefers to take them in the morning or at night, what scent of body wash he swears by – and that you only had so much time to learn the answer to not even half of your curiosities. 
Time. Time was not on your side. 
“You know,” you drawl as Eddie finally kicks off his pants, you soon following his lead as if this was nothing. Because it wasn’t. The two of you had been naked before each other. You weren’t two middle schoolers who had just shared a first kiss or held hands – you were two adults who had had sex, who had admitted to being attracted to each other if nothing more, “You never did say what you’re actually doing with the money.” 
“Again with that conversation?” Eddie asks, pausing with his thumbs hooked in the band of his boxers. 
“Again,” you affirm, tossing your shirt into the same corner that his pants had been discarded, “Can you blame me for being curious? Aren’t you curious what I’m doing with my money?” 
He thinks for a second as you strip off your underwear, leaving you completely naked first. “I mean, I sort of am.”
“College,” you supply easily. You don’t even wait for him to properly ask. He purses his lips and you catch the way his eyes sweep over your nude body quickly before he yanks off his last article of clothing, “College, and then all my debt. Then maybe I can start saving like a real adult. Move to some fancy city once I graduate. Make a…” you pause and make a conscious effort to not let your eyes wander as his had, “Make a real life for myself, I guess.”
“You sound so excited.” 
He’s being sarcastic, you know it, but it begs the question – were you excited about the prospective? All you had ever known was school. Your entire personality has been built thus far on being a student.
So what comes next? Settling into some boring nine to five job that hardly satisfies the dreams that were born of your major? Getting underpaid, getting bored with monotony but telling yourself you were satisfied? 
And that doesn’t even scratch the surface of the bigger questions of the future. You haven’t even spared a thought to kids, to getting married, to life past the next two years. 
“I mean… I am,” you shrug and step into the shower first, Eddie following close behind you and listening intently, “It’ll be nice to finally have the damn piece of paper to say ‘hey! I did it!’” 
“But?” he presses, scooting the two of you around in the small space so that he was standing directly beneath the spray of water. His curls flatten against his head immediately. 
“No buts,” you insist. As if you’re trying to convince yourself more of it than him. 
“So that’s all? You just want to get out of here?” he isn’t looking at you as he reaches for a bottle of shampoo, blinking water out of his eyes. 
This conversation is going surprisingly well. 
“Not here specifically,” you clarify. Your chest aches at the thought of just leaving behind all the friends you’d made, the life you had started in this city. The thought of already beginning to preemptively tear it down was enough to dampen your mood worse than the steam of the shower was doing to your hair, “I don’t know. Who cares about the future? What are you doing with your money?” 
He’s about to squirt some of the shampoo into the palm of his hand when you suddenly snatch it from him, holding up a finger and twirling it in a demanding manner. He’s shocked, but he turns for you regardless, even bending his knees as he gets the message. 
He doesn’t question the fact that you’re about to wash his hair. No protests towards something so domestic between previously sworn enemies. 
“I wasn’t lying earlier,” he starts just as you have lathered up your palms and set aside the shampoo on the shower ledge, fingertips digging right into his scalp. Even with the slight bend in his posture, your arms have to stretch to reach the crown of his head, “A new bike or guitar would be nice but– Oh,” a particular scratch of your nails has him faltering in his words, throwing his head back a bit more and humming. The throb, the ache, the burn returns. “Oh, that’s nice.” 
“Keep talking, pretty boy,” you murmur as he hums even louder. 
“Well, I… It’s not a lot of money, y’know? I mean, it is. But it also isn’t. Am I making any sense? Fuck, that feels good,” he stumbles across his point as your fingers continue small circles, and you already know without looking that his eyes have fluttered shut. 
The pit of your stomach can only rally, twisting and tumbling at his satisfaction. Something so domestic and something you had started with sweet intentions was quickly derailing, but you couldn’t be bothered to care. 
You have him. But you don’t have him. The same type of conundrum he faces with the amount of money promised to the both of you if you were to survive these hours. 
“You’re making sense,” you promise with a shy grin you know he can’t see, “Like, I know the money won’t pay off all my debts or college tuition, but it’s a good start. Anyways, as you were saying?” 
Both of you struggle to focus as he continues on, melting even further into your touch, “I dunno. Maybe if I have anything leftover, I’ll send it to my uncle.” 
His voice is strained as he’s occupied with the feeling of your hands against his scalp, and you know it’s a throwaway sentence, but the small detail of his life you’ve been awarded doesn’t go unnoticed.
Uncle? Why uncle? 
“You in debt to your uncle over a bad night of gambling or somethin’?” you try to joke as you finally release your fingertips from his scalp. Your palms come down on his shoulders as you spin him slowly, encouraging him to keep his head tipped back as he lets the water wash away the suds produced. 
Surprisingly, his shampoo doesn’t smell like boy. It’s akin to green apples, maybe something smoother beneath it all like coconut. Something sweet and something innocent. 
Maybe that’s what has him being so open to you as he explains, “I’ll always be in debt to him, but not for gambling. He raised me. My folks… weren’t the best. I owe everything to that man.” 
There are no good words to respond with. You suddenly feel selfish for pushing him to admit it, and for making that joke to begin with. 
But he only cracks open his eyes as the suds are mostly gone, looking at you through squinty eyes as he grins, “Guess I’m the boner killer now, huh?” 
You snort again (fuck, had he always been this funny?) and shake your head, finally glimpsing below his hips. 
Ironic of him to say that he was a boner killer when there he was, harder than ever for you, tip pink and glistening in a taunt towards you. 
You were both going to Hell. You were standing in his shower, talking about his uncle, both far too horny for the topic of conversation. 
“Modern day Bonnie and Clyde, but make it horny,” you manage to get out, still staring at him and resisting the urge to reach out and start something you didn’t know how to finish, “Does talking about money always get you this hard?” 
“Bonnie and Clyde were robbers, not killers,” he corrects you, “And why, yes. How did you know? Do you plan to use this lethal information against me again later?” 
A cavern in your chest screams out, when is later? Later within the next four hours, or later within the next year? Will you ever even give me a chance to use this against you again? 
You laugh along with his joke instead. 
“Absolutely. Also, who the fuck knows that much about Bonnie and Clyde?” 
You make him turn around again, and repeat a similar process with the conditioner. The entire time, you try to not think about the awareness that the same burn in your own gut is alight in him. 
He shrugs a little, bends a little more to encourage your fingertips back to his scalp. It doesn’t work — you’re focusing the conditioner on the drier ends of his curls. “I do.”
“Well, that’s just weird.” 
You work in silence as you finish threading the conditioner through and detangling his hair with just your fingers. You don’t immediately have him rinse it out, and he takes the opportunity to reward you with the same care, the same domesticity. And just as he hadn’t questioned you, you don’t protest when he manhandles you to spin and face your back to him. You let him indulge you in the same massaging motions that you had just pampered him with, let suds of that sweetness surround you as your eyes shut delicately and you lean your head back into his deliberate touches.
Same care, same domesticity, same sensuality. You never thought washing someone’s hair could be something so intimate until his knuckles are between your locks and your back is brushing up against his chest due to limited space.
“It’s not about the money,” he randomly announces to you once the shampoo has been rinsed out and the conditioner takes its place. “I mean, I figured you knew that, but… still thought I’d say.” 
“Figured as much.”
“I also wasn’t pissing,” he continues to overshare, “I know you figured as much there too.” 
Biting your bottom lip to hold back a grin, you keep the rest of your face relaxed as you nonchalantly ask, “No? What distracted you, then?” 
You can feel every deep breath he takes. The expansion of his chest only presses the two of you closer. Soon, you should both rinse out the conditioner. You should stop wasting water. The two of you should get out of this damn confining space and sleep, do something useful, make the most of the final four hours. 
Instead, you’re letting yourself get lost in billows of steam, and teasing him. And maybe that’s something useful for you. 
“You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?” 
You can hear his grin. God, you can hear his grin and those stupid dimples making an appearance without needing to see his face.
“Say what?” you ploy faux innocence. His fingers are still in your hair. He has no reason to continue to comb them through, but they remain there, grazing your scalp and brushing the back of your neck.
His chin meets your shoulder suddenly, his breath on your ear. “What did you call this earlier, sweetheart? I believe you called it… stupid.” 
Right. Stupid. 
Stupid was the ache that resided inside you for him. Stupid was the way your thighs shook from how hard they pressed together from each soft caress of his breath on the shell of your ear. Stupid was the urge to reach your arm around your back and grab onto him, any part of him, and try to pull him as closely as humanly possible — and then some. 
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 
You’re a bad liar. And he loves it.
“Right,” he draws out the single syllable, hands leaving your hair, drifting at sea as they find comfort on your biceps, touch feather light, “You have no idea what I was doing in here. You weren’t staying by the door to see if you could hear me, trying to get a free show.” 
So you had been right in calling the two of you stupid. Neither of you had been very conspicuous. 
“A free show to what?” you keep up the act of innocence and swallow down the delighted hun when his hands move down your arms. You’re fully flush to his chest now, almost to the point of leaning your weight back against him.
“To me touching myself to you,” bold, crass words leave his lips, “To me fucking my fist to the thought of you. Squeezing my fist around my cock, trying to make it feel like that sweet pussy.” 
Your knees nearly buckle. You try to play it cool, “Oh? Is that what you were doing?”
His playful chuckle is the final straw, and his hands now on your waist are the only thing keeping you upright.
“I was.”
“And were you successful?”
How you kept your tone so steady, so even, was lost on you. 
“I wasn’t.”
One hand stays planted on your waist firmly, as if he knows he’s the only thing keeping you from collapsing in this heat between the two of you. The other dares to round to the front of your stomach, fingers splayed and fingertips almost tickling you as he lets them run down the center of your navel. He’s taking his time. Slowly, painfully, his hand travels. Down, down, down. Until his fingertips are grazing right over that fire he built inside you, mere inches from where you need him to touch you most. He has you right where he wants you, and he knows it.
And so he stops. Inches, maybe less, from where your cunt is throbbing for him. 
“Didn’t you say you were good with your fingers?” you’re trying to keep up a cool facade, but it’s becoming useless at this point. Your voice comes out a whine, and your hips subtly buck against empty air to try to encourage his touch lower.
“I did,” he hums directly into your ear. The hand on your waist becomes an arm fully wrapped around your front, and the press of your back to his chest becomes far more intentional. All of it to hold you in place as he moves his hand right over where you want him. He avoids your body’s pleas, and jumps straight to teasing his fingertips over the tops of your thighs. “Wouldn’t you agree?” 
It’s almost funny to remember how flustered he was when he’d first made the comment, how quick he had been to defend it against being something dirtier, only to now be using it against you in anything but an innocent context.
“Please,” the beg falls from your lip as you give up on the game.
It’s a combination of all his gentle touches, the feeling of his curls between your knuckles, the steam that is smothering the two of you without notice, the way you can still feel every damn breath of his. Both through his mouth now softly kissing at the lobe of your ear, and his chest that only presses more tightly to you. That tightening arm around your waist, and the subtle change of position of his knee.
You aren’t expecting it, and your feet slide apart quickly, nearly dropping onto his sweetly placed leg between yours. 
“Please what, sweetheart?” 
You can’t even recall the feeling of hatred you used to get at the nickname. Now, in its place, is something buzzing, something buttery, something contradictory. You’re dizzy with satisfaction from the way he murmurs it directly into your ear. 
“Please touch me,” you gasp when his knee brushes upwards, not quite reaching where you need him. You swear there’s a pulse now, a throbbing cry that would do just about anything to feel those hands on you, “Please, please.” 
You’re losing focus as your thoughts start to fuzz at the edges, suddenly only able to manage the words please and his name.
And it isn’t lost on him. “Look at you. I haven’t even touched you yet, and you’re already going so dumb for me, aren’t you?” 
Your stomach churns, everything in you tightens, and your pride isn’t above dropping yourself down properly onto his knee and grinding. You would if you could — his fucking arm won’t let you.
When you glance down, you realize just how tight his grip is. You can trace each vein along his forearm, catch the white of his knuckles as they curl against you.
He’s holding onto you for dear life, and yet his death grip doesn’t so much as hurt. You only feel safe, you only feel wanted. 
“Please just touch me, Eddie,” you whimper out, not caring about how desperate you sound anymore. You have no shame, no pride, no careful calculations left for the man behind you. 
His hands stop their dance across the apex of your thighs. One moment, you can barely feel his fingertips running over their softness, and the next, it vanishes completely. 
You open your mouth to protest, but all that comes out is a gasp as his fingers are suddenly on your cunt, spreading you apart at a leisurely pace. You move to grab onto his forearm for leverage but he suddenly tsks and stops all of his movements. 
“You can either have me touch you, or you touch me. But you can’t have both, sweetheart. Not right now.” 
Through the haze, you’re unable to use your words to answer, instead cracking your eyes back open and trying to crane your neck to see Eddie properly. But he’s only chuckling into your ear again, arm around your waist tightening. 
“C’mon, baby. Use your words. Which would you rather have?” he taunts, tilting his chin down and letting his nose nuzzle against the peak of your shoulder, lips barely brushing the skin. 
You would have expected to not even catch the subtle feeling of plushness on you right now between your ever-growing frustration and the water still raining down on both of you. But you do; your body is growing acutely aware of every single point of contact between the two of you as the minutes go on. Every inch of your skin is tuned into his touch and where it flows, where it leaves you, where it presses deeper. 
You open your mouth to respond to him, but you can’t. You can’t explain it: there isn’t a tightness in your throat, a pain grasp on your chest, a fear that is swallowing the words whole. It’s the opposite. All of your taut strings have gone slack, waves of surrendering to him having overcome all of your deepest anxieties. In this moment, amongst the white noise of a shitty apartment shower, all that there exists is him. The time limit slips away, the bet is a thing of the past, and the road taken to bring you both here is completely forgotten. 
His touch is able to remain light when he decides to turn you in his arm, the grip once around your waist now pressing into your lower back as you face him. You’re completely malleable for him to do as he wishes. 
Facing him, you watch all of the amusement and cockiness melt away from his features. His smirk goes soft and his face falls in awe, mouth parted as he takes in that look in your eyes. He knows. He knows that in this moment, you are completely defenseless and utterly his. 
You watch all the air leave his lungs, and feel the consequential breath that releases hit the bridge of your nose due to the proximity. “You really are cock drunk for me right now, aren’t you? I haven’t even given it to you yet and you’re just… gone.” 
If you weren’t completely under his spell at this moment, you would have burned with embarrassment down to the bone. 
You just nod. 
With this revelation, his grip on you completely transforms. It’s not just a matter of keeping you upright, but a matter of keeping you tethered to him. As if he’s afraid that the moment he lets go, he loses you. 
If you could find the words, you’d assure him that he wouldn’t. You weren’t something so fleeting, so passing. 
Without words, all you can do is show him. So you press up onto your tip-toes and kiss him. Hard, then soft. Fervently, then patiently. Achingly, and then assuredly. Every flash of contradiction between the two of you and all that has accumulated goes into the kiss as you let him find his breath again, solely by stealing yours. 
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against your lips, before his nose rubs against the tip of yours as it begins a journey. Across your cheek, down your jaw, into the crook of your neck. You feel spouts of warm water trickle over his collarbones and against your own. 
This time, you do have the words for him. Or rather, the word for him.
“You.”
There’s no other way to put it. You just want him. 
He pulls back and stares directly into your eyes, his own brown ones swarming with varied emotions. You’re finally able to start deciphering some of them – lust, want, surprise – but not quite all of them yet. 
Before you realize what’s happening, he’s sinking to his knees. Somehow, he’s twisted you so that your back meets the cool tile of the wall, careful in watching the way it supports you during the entirety of his descent. 
He doesn’t say a word, his eyes doing all the talking necessary through wet lashes as he guides you to balance a foot on the edge of the tub and hook your knee onto his shoulder. Just as you realize what he’s doing, his mouth is on your hot cunt. 
For all the talk and thoughts about just how good his fingers were, you seemed to have forgotten just how good his mouth was. 
His tongue works away at your clit, tracing patterns before alternating to suck it sharply between his lips. He seems to have forgotten about his earlier threat, or maybe he’s just feeling merciful, as your hands instinctively reach down and wind into the roots of his wet hair. Curls matt in your grasp instantly. A harsh tug, and he’s moving his attention elsewhere, nose now nudging your clit as he circles around your entrance, pulling whines from deep within you at the teasing. 
“Eddie,” you throw your head back hard enough that you’re sure that there will be an ache to feel once all is said and done, “Fuck. Right there.”
“I see someone’s found their words,” his voice is muffled and you can feel his smirk rather than see it. 
It’s a damn pretty sight. Him, on his knees, wet curls plastering down his shoulders and back as his face is buried between your thighs. 
You can trace over each indent of muscle across his skin through half-lidded eyes, memorize the way it looks dazzling with the moisture, watch as water pools where his fingers dig into your thighs to keep you balanced. 
When his tongue finally slips inside of you, slow and stretching as the tip of his nose digs deeper into your clit, you swear you’re seeing stars. You were going to snarkily reply, but you don’t have the capacity to reply with anything other than chants of his name. Mixtures of praying to him and praying to God fall from your lips alongside curses. All muddled, all strings of whimpers and moans as he continues to bring you closer to your edge. When he finally resorts to bringing his hand back into the mix, sinking two fingers into your cunt with little warning as he returns to lazy work on your clit, you gasp out – your body lurches forward as your curl into him and your back leaves the now sticky, warm wall. 
The arm that was wrapped around your lifted leg to help you balance is quick to throw over your hips, keeping half your body still pressed to the wall. “Careful, princess.” 
Each word reverberates through you, both physically and somewhere deep in your mind, sending you even further reeling as your fingers grab onto him deeper and try to press him impossibly close. 
Princess. Somewhere along crossing all these lines, you have ventured into new territory. A territory where the nicknames get under your skin in a brand new way, slipping into your subconscious for the better rather than arising any irritation. 
Baby, princess, sweetheart. 
You’ll take whatever you can get from him. 
“Wouldn’t want you slipping and falling,” he murmurs as he pulls back, face now slick with you rather than the steam or water, “Can’t have you ruining that pretty face, getting blood all over my bathroom, now can we?” 
He’s right. God, you fucking hate when he’s right. As much as every part of your body is screaming for him to take you right here against the shower wall, you know it’s not a good idea. And you’ve really, really succumbed to enough bad ideas in these last nineteen hours. 
“Bed,” you manage to gasp out, quick to detangle your fingers from his hair and try to grab onto his shoulders without purchase due to the water still tumbling down, “Bed, now.” 
He gets the message. Rises to his feet and lets your leg fall back down, shaking as he turns to cut the shower abruptly. Without asking, he’s the one to exit into the fierce cold of the apartment first, grabbing at the flesh of your hips and guiding you out along with him. He doesn’t even bother with towels – once he has you out of that potential death trap of a tub, his lips are on yours, nipping and passionate as you breathe him in. He’s the one that maneuvers the two of you out of the bathroom, you don’t even notice when he reaches behind himself to open the door, impressively never tripping as he walks backwards and keeps your lips on his. 
It occurs to you that this is how you two work best. No overshadow of being honest with each other, no clouds of feelings getting in the way. And yet, somehow, it’s the most vulnerable you’ve managed to feel with him yet. 
You don’t want it to only be this easy when both your clothes are off. You want it to be this easy in the early mornings that you wake him up for work, you want it this easy over late night take-out and horror movie marathons. You want more cigarettes at sunset with him, soft confessionals over a rising sun. 
You can’t keep pretending that nothing has changed. You simply can’t. The fierce promise of his protection, the way his eyes stay trained on you even in the busiest of rooms. Nothing could ever erase the blooms left from him hooking his pinky with yours at the parking garage. 
All of the night is flashing through your mind, and even in the trance he has you under, you’re seeing with perfect clarity. 
It’s why just as the backs of your knees connect with his mattress, before he can throw you down and continue what was started in the shower, you’re pushing your palms against his wet chest and forcing him to look into your eyes. 
“If we do this,” you shakily begin, watching his chest rise and fall in sync with yours. Once you say these words, you can’t take them back. You’re vividly aware of it before you continue to force your voice to come out the most steadily it has the entire night, “It changes everything.” 
He blinks, eyes owlish. Once, twice. More of that emotion you finally can single out but never identify swirls like storm clouds in his vision. You wait for him to run, for him to take it all back. You wait for it all to be over – for him to deliver the final blow and leave you to collect the rubble and blood money so you can pretend this night never happened. 
“Okay.” 
Those aren’t the words of a fatal blow. You think they might send you reeling even worse, though. 
“Okay?” you clarify. If your tongue wasn’t so heavy, you’d say more. Remind him of what exactly it means to change everything. 
It seems he already knows as he parrots back, “Okay.” 
Lips meet again, and this time, they’re charged with everything. With a promise of change and a promise that maybe there isn’t a ridiculous time limit here. There is no doomsday clock between the two of you. When the clock strikes 3 PM, neither of you will vanish into thin air. 
You let him throw you back onto the bed. Your bare back meets the surprisingly soft sheets, and they erupt in the scent of Eddie. Cigarettes, a hint of weed, whatever cologne he seems to douse himself in. You can even pinpoint his shampoo amongst the fragrance now. 
It’s no longer the smell of boy that you once ran from. His hand is behind your back, but not trapped. It’s there willingly and it is caressing every inch of you that he can find, tracing out any dimples in your back he can discover as he lets your legs curl up onto his hips, kisses dappling your neck, jaw, and lips alike. 
Your vines stretch high and proud, and drink in his waves with every passing of his breath on your skin that raises goosebumps. 
You want to live here forever. In the feel of him pausing right before his cock presses into you, in the way his face scrunches up and his mouth falls agape, the haze now spreading from your mind and across both of you. Nameless chants and pleads for what was already both in the palm of your hands before you even knew what to do with it. The roll of his hips and the way his wet skin sticks to your own. Your heels digging into him, bringing him in closer, closer, closer.
Every time, it has felt this way. Something beneath the surface that has you surrendering over yourself. He has hurt you, time and time again, and you’ve let your knives be just as sharp – but the wounds scab over now when it’s just the two of you like this. 
You’re best like this for a reason. Because for once, neither of you are overthinking it. You are vulnerable and you are bare, not just physically but emotionally. Honesty isn’t a request; it is a given. You don’t just have him, you know him. Across oceans and across gardens, across midnight skies and across soft morning light. 
You have him. You know him. 
It’s enough. 
Smokey bars. His protection. Slamming doors and the clicking of locks released. The night air surrounding you and the warmth of his back as you cling to him on a motorcycle that seems to be going faster than light in your memories. That parking garage, and that hook of his pinky – a way to get closer, but also a whisper of a promise. 
He’s bled for you. He’s bled from you. 
This changes everything. 
When his hips movements become sloppy, when the knot in your stomach tightens one last time, when your nails dig into his back and leave their mark, you know it to be true. 
Everything, everything, changes. 
Eddie never really hated you, never really could, and you realize now that the feeling is mutual. 
—
You hadn’t considered exactly what the aftermath would be when Eddie first dragged you out of the shower, but you surely never could have imagined the scene now playing out. 
Him, on his back, content and humming a song you’re too tired to ask him about. His fingers are trailing mindlessly up and down your spine as you splay out across his chest. You both probably need another shower, but neither of you are willing to leave his bed for it. 
It’s not you who remembers the photo. No, you’re tired, one foot already in the door of sleep as you curl yourself tighter into his side. 
He doesn’t use your phone this time. You didn’t even realize his outdated flip phone had a camera on it. You’re not even sure if you dreamt the soft click that sounds like a camera as you nuzzle deeper into his chest.
“Everything,” he whispers, just as the edges of your consciousness begin to blacken, “Yeah, this changes everything.”
Your last thought is a curious one; will he send the photo he just took? 
Would he dare to admit to everyone how everything has changed?
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