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waitimcomingtoo · 8 months

Text

Rumor Has It

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Synopsis: chaos ensues when Peter suspects you may be pregnant

Masterlist

“Do we have any salt and vinegar chips?” You asked as you rummaged through the kitchen pantry.

“No, because those are disgusting.” Rhodey replied without looking up from his newspaper.

“Actually, they’re delicious.” You insisted. “Clearly someone agrees because they’re all gone. I need something bitter. Do we have any pickles?”

“I think we have some left over from Cap’s birthday blowout. I’ll help you look.” Peter got up from his seat at the kitchen table and went over to help you look.

“I’ll look too. I need some cheese balls.” Sam patted his stomach and went over to the pantry. What he found inside was a nearly empty bag of cheese balls waiting for him. Sam slowly held up the bag to everyone sitting at the kitchen table so that they could see it.

“Who ate all the balls?” He said calmly.

“It wasn’t me.” You answered.

“Not me. I don’t eat that crap.” Bucky scoffed.

“What do you call that then?” Tony asked and pointed to the pop tart in Buckys hand.

“Well it’s strawberry flavored, isn’t it? That’s a fruit.” Bucky replied.

“You’re a fruit.” Tony mumbled.

“Come on. Fess up.” Sam urged. “Who finished all the balls?”

“Not me.” Peter answered while everyone else stayed silent.

“Well it was fookin’ one of yus.” Sam snapped and threw the bag to the ground.

“Don’t look at me.” Tony held up his hands in defense. “I haven’t eaten cheeseballs since the 80s. That was also the last time I tried crack. Unrelated.”

“Someone needs to tell me who ate all the balls or there’s about to be an Avengers level threat in this kitchen.” Sam warned.

“I did it. I ate all the balls.” Carol confessed and stood up from the table.

“And just put back an empty bag? Don’t you think the rest of us would’ve liked some balls?” Sam asked as he slowly walked towards her.

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “Or maybe I didn’t care.”

“Maybe you should care. I was looking forward all week to those nice, crunchy balls.”

“We don’t always get what we want.” Carol replied and narrowed her eyes.

“Why did we all decide to drop “cheese” and just say balls?” Peter raised his hand to ask.

“If you finished the balls, you should have replaced them with more balls.” Sam told her.

“I’ve been busy.” Carol shrugged him off.

“Doing what?” Sam scoffed. “Eating all the snacks and not replacing them?”

“Why’d you ask if you already knew?” Carol asked sarcastically, making Sam grow madder.

“I’ll kill you.”

“I’ll kill you harder.” Carol warned back.

“Guys. No fighting in the kitchen.” Tony quipped. “It makes the fruit go bad faster.”

“He’s right. The bad vibes make the banana go brown instantly.” You insisted. Carol looked down at the empty bag of cheese balls and sighed.

“I’m sorry I ate all the balls.” She said sincerely. “I’m on my period right now and I honestly don’t even remember doing it.”

“Fine. You get off the hook this time. But only because I don’t understand how periods work.” Sam said with the same sincerity.

“I can go get some more balls now at the store.” Carol offered. “I need ibuprofen anyway. My cramps are killing me.”

“Hey, sparkles, can you get me some cough stuff while you’re there? My throat is acting up.” Tony said and rubbed his sore throat.

“Why are you always sick?” Sam asked him.

“Your immune system gets weaker as you get older. This cold could very well be his last.” Peter pointed out.

“Thanks.” Tony replied sarcastically through a cough. Carol left for the store and you looked down at the cheese ball bag in confusion.

“What’s today?” You asked Peter.

“The 25th.” He replied. “Don’t ask me what day of the week though. I’ve never known.”

“Hm.” You frowned and put your hand on your stomach.

“What’s wrong?”

“My period was supposed to come on the 10th. I wonder why it’s so late.” You shrugged.

“Weird.” Peter shrugged as well and didn’t think anything of it.

“I guess these will have to do. As entertaining as this was, I’ll be in my room.” You said as you grabbed a bag of tortilla chips, kissed Peters cheek, and left the kitchen. Sam turned to Peter with an amused look on his face, making Peter frown in confusion.

“Uh oh.” Sam chuckled.

“What oh?” Peter asked.

“Nothing. Just don’t ask me to babysit.”

“Babysit who?”

“Your kid.” Sam said simply.

“What kid?”

“The one your girlfriend is pregnant with.” Sam said like it was obvious.

“What?” Peter laughed. “She’s not pregnant.”

“Did we just see the same thing? Her periods late and had weird food cravings? She’s definitely pregnant.” Sam insisted.

“He’s right. Only a pregnant person would willingly eat salt and vinegar chips.” Rhodey said from the table.

“You guys don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no way she’s pregnant.” Peter laughed it off but felt his stomach start to turn with anxiety.

“Oh. My bad. I didn’t realize there was no way.” Sam snorted and looked Peter up and down. It took Peter a minute to realize what Sam was implying and he quickly shut that down.

“Now hold on a minute. Best believe I’m in my baby’s room every night leaving her adequately satisfied. I’m saying there’s no way she could be pregnant because we use protection. And because I have lighting quick reflexes.”

Tony threw a a buttered bagel at Peter from the kitchen table and it stuck to his chest. Peter looked down at the bagel before looking at Tony in shock.

“Why would you do that?” Peter asked.

“The question you should be asking is didn’t your tingle tell you I was gonna do that? Maybe your reflexes aren’t as quick as you thought.” Tony shrugged and went back to his breakfast. Peter peeled the bagel off and tossed it in the trash before looking at Sam.

“Do you really think she’s pregnant?” He whispered.

“I don’t know. Do you?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know. Do you?” Peter asked back.

“Why don’t you just ask her?” Sam suggested.

“Yeah. That’s a really good idea. Let me ask my girlfriend if she’s pregnant. That definitely won’t effect her self esteem in any way or make her mad at me at all.”

“You’re right.” Sam agreed. “You have to sleuth.”

“Or I could just wait until she feels ready to share the news.” Peter pointed out.

“No.” Sam shook his head. “You gotta go sleuth.”

And so, Peter left the kitchen to sleuth. He went to your room and pushed your door open to find you.

“Hey, honey bee.” Peter greeted you as he walked into your room. You were standing in front of your floor length mirror with your shirt pulled up a little.

“Do you think I’ve gained weight?” You asked as you examined your reflection.

“Uh….” Peter looked behind him for help getting out of this question. He ended up turning in a full circle twice and got dizzy.

“Peter?” You asked and rolled your shirt down.

“Ummmmm.” He stalled and pretended to take sudden interest in the things on your dresser. He knew girls had a record of asking things and wanting certain answers and he was almost positive that this was one of those questions. Your question had also watered the seed that Sam had just planted in Peters head about you possibly being pregnant. Peter knew he needed to avoid answering this question before you got suspicious that he might know something.

“Did you say something?” He asked you.

“I asked you a question.” You laughed at his obvious attempt at avoiding the question.

“You did? I must’ve miss that.” He played dumb.

“Just be honest with me. Do you think I’ve gained weight?” You repeated.

“I don’t understand the question, sorry.”

“It’s a simple yes or no question.”

“I’m confused. Are you asking me?” Peter forced a confused laugh and pointed to himself.

“Yes, you. You’re the only one in here. Do you think I’ve gained weight? Be honest.” You asked and looked back at your mirror again to see your side profile.

“In what regard?”

“Oh my God.” You laughed. “Just answer the question. I’m not gonna be mad. It’s not the end of the world to gain weight. I just want to know if you’ve noticed it.”

“I’ve never noticed anything. Ever.” Peter replied.

“Right. Thank you.” You chuckled and walked over to him to wrap your arms around his neck. He kissed you hello and momentarily forgot about what Sam had suggested.

“Why do you ask?” He asked you.

“I don’t know. I was just getting dressed and I realized I used to put this belt on this hole but today I put it on the hole after that.” You shrugged and showed him your belt.

“Maybe it shrunk.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I grew.” You shrugged.

“You look beautiful either way.” Peter said sincerely. “Whether you got bigger or not. You’re still the only girl I want to holla at.”

“I think so too. Thanks.” You smiled warmly at him and rested your head on his shoulder to hug him. Peter wrapped you in his arms and sighed happily and you gently rocked back and forth.

“You’re welcome.” He answered. For a second, he wasn’t panicking about the possibility of a baby. Instead, he felt excited to start a family with the person he loved most.

Later in the afternoon, you and Peter strolled into the kitchen to get some snacks. Tony and Sam were making lunch while Carol restocked the snack cabinet.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Here’s your cough syrup.” Carol said and gave the cough medicine to Tony.

“Thanks. My throat is killing me.” Tony sighed and cracked open the bottle.

“Here. We have measuring cups in the-“ You started to say as Tony took a long swig of the syrup.

“Or chug it. Okay.” You nodded while Peter stifled a laugh.

“Ugh. They can’t figure out how to make this taste any better?” Tony grimaced and wiped his mouth.

“I’ll make you some tea to wash it down.” You offered and filled the kettle with water.

“Thanks, kid.” Tony smiled. “I love when my annual man flu lines up with when you’re home from school. You’re so good at taking care of people.”

“Thanks for saying that. I don’t know what it is but I really like taking care of people when they’re sick. It makes me feel like a mom.” You said as you poured the hot water over a tea bag. Peter started choking on the water he was drinking while Sam gulped.

“You’re gonna be such a good mom.” Carol told you. “You’re so giving.”

“Aw, thank you. I hope so.” You smiled and patted your stomach twice. Peter and Sam exchanged a look with equal panic on their faces. Sam grabbed Peters arms and pulled him aside.

“Did she just pat her stomach?” Sam whispered.

“No way. This can’t be happening. You can’t be right. You’re never right!” Peter whispered back as he started to panic.

“Maybe this time, I was!” Sam whispered harshly.

“She can’t be pregnant. There’s no way. She would’ve told me.”

“She is telling you.” Sam insisted. “She’s dropping hints like crazy.”

“Oh my God. Why’d you have to put this idea in my head? I’m freaking out, man.”

“So am I. You think I want a spider baby crawling up the walls and shit like it’s the exorcist?”

“Technically the exorcist is the guy who gets rid of the demon. He doesn’t crawl up the walls. The possessed person does that. Well, I guess depending on the demon.”

“Jesus Christ. This kid is about to be so god damn annoying.” Sam sighed.

“You know what? No. She’s not pregnant.” Peter decided and walked away.

“Are you sure about that?” Sam called after him as he went back into the kitchen. When Peter got there, you were mixing honey into Tony’s tea while helping him with something on his phone. Peter watched you patiently teaching Tony and smiled to himself. He once again felt that maybe it would be okay if Sam was right. If you were pregnant, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. It was unexpected and jarring, but not impossible for Peter to handle as long as he had you.

The pregnancy rumor that existed between only Peter and Sam died down for the next few days. It wasn’t until a rainy Sunday that Peter thought about it again. You were watching a movie in the living room with some of the team when Natasha came in.

“Carol and I were gonna go train. You wanna join?” Natasha asked you.

“I would but my lower back is killing me. I think I slept weird.” You said and cracked your neck. Peter felt his face heat up when you said this, and Sam caught it too.

“Did you hear that? Her back hurts. Because of the baby!” Sam whispered to Peter.

“That’s not why. Didn’t you hear her? She said she slept weird.” Peter whispered back.

“Duh, she slept weird because of the baby!” Sam whispered again. Peter waved him off but couldn’t help but wonder if he was right.

“I could crack it for you.” Natasha offered.

“Could you? Thank.” You got off the couch and went over to Natasha. She wrapped her strong arms around you and was about to squeeze when Peter jumped off the couch.

“Not so fast.” He said and pulled you away from Natasha.

“What’s the matter?” You wondered. Peter was dumbstruck for a second when he realized he couldn’t say he didn’t want Natasha to crack your back incase her giant muscles squished the little baby in your tummy.

“I just don’t think it’s safe to be cracking her back if you don’t know what you’re doing. You could hurt someone.” Peter tried to explain but didn’t sound convincing.

“I’m not gonna hurt her. I’ve cracked her back plenty of times.” Natasha insisted and pulled you back towards her.

“Okay. Just be careful. Baby on board.” He mumbled the last part quickly.

“What was that?” You asked him.

“Nothing. What did you say?” Peter asked you to throw you off.

“I didn’t say anything. Weirdo.” You laughed at his odd behavior and let Natasha crack your back. Peter held his breath until you were safely out of her arms.

“Oh thank God.” He sighed. “We survived that. Cool.”

“Did you not think we would?” You laughed in confusion.

“I don’t know how to answer that question.” Peter answered honestly.

“You are being so odd lately. More than usual, you know that?” You chuckled as you pulled him back towards the couch.

“That’s just my boyish charm.” Peter laughed weakly and settled back onto the couch. He pulled you into his side and told himself that your back could be hurting for any number of reasons and didn’t necessarily mean you were pregnant. You watched the movie for a little bit until Peter felt you shift and wince a little.

“Are you okay?” He asked you.

“Yeah. My boobs are just sore.” You said and adjusted your bra uncomfortably.

“Why? Did you sprain them?”

“Um, no.” You chuckled. “I don’t even think you can sprain them. I must be PMSing.”

“Oh, thank God.” Peter said too enthusiastically. “Your period came?”

“No. Why do you seem so excited about it?” You furrowed your eyebrows and looked at him. Peter gulped and avoided eye contact with you.

“Excited? I’m not excited. Your men’s trail cycle doesn’t evoke any emotions within me. But if you don’t mind me asking, how are you PMSing without the P?”

“I’m pretty sure the P stands for “pre”. But you still get the symptoms sometimes even if you’re not on your period.”

“Interesting, interesting. Follow up question, are you usually this off kilter?”

“You mean irregular?” You laughed. “No. I haven’t been late in years.”

“Hm. Weird.” Peter forced a laugh and tried to focus on the movie while his mind raced.

“You’re telling me. My boobs hurt like a bitch.” You whined and pulled the blanket up to your chin.

“Ahem, I could help with that, m’lady.” Peter smirked and held up both his hands. You looked at him for a long time with a disgusted expression before turning back to the movie.

“I want pretzels.” You said.

“Coming right up.” Peter jumped off the couch and ran to the kitchen. Sam saw him leave and got up to go after him.

“How’s it going?” He asked Peter once they were alone in the kitchen.

“I don’t know.” Peter sighed. “She hasn’t told me anything yet.”

“Is she showing any other signs?”

“She said she thinks she gained weight but I can’t really tell. I don’t think about that stuff. I just see her and I’m like “oh my god it’s a girl”. Have you noticed anything else?”

“I mean, I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I saw her rip the wrong banana from the bunch and broke down crying.” Sam admitted.

“Oh no. Is craving bananas a symptom of pregnancy?”

“No, idiot. Mood swings are. For your future child’s sake, I really hope she isn’t actually pregnant. No one deserves this dumb of a father.”

“I know.” Peter whined. “What do I do? I’m freaking out.”

“I’m sure she’ll tell you soon. And if she doesn’t, you’ll find out anyway. It’s kinda hard to hide a pregnancy after a few months. Just relax, man.”

“Okay. You’re right.” Peter agreed. “I’m not gonna freak out until I know there’s something to worry about. Now excuse me while I pee out this apple juice.”

Peter walked away from Sam and went into the bathroom. After peeing, he blew his nose and went to throw it out when he saw something strange in the trash. He frowned and pulled it out before feeling all the color drain from his face.

“Oh no.” He said gravely. In his hand was a pregnancy test with two red lines.

“Positive? What? Are you sure?” Peter whispered harshly and shook the test. The lines stayed the same and Peter felt his stomach drop. All those moments of thinking everything would be okay seemed so far away now. Now that it was real and not just an idea, Peter felt overwhelmed. You were really pregnant and he really didn’t know what to do. He felt his heart start to race and he fell against the door with the test in his hand. You heard Peter thud against the door and went to go investigate.

“Peter? Are you okay in there?” You asked as you knocked against the door.

“Go away! I’m pooping!” Peter screamed as he ran the test under hot water to try to change the answer.

“Why is that always your response?” You sighed and walked away. Peter waited until you were gone before sneaking out of the bathroom. He went to go find Sam and yanked him into another room.

“Dude. It’s true. She’s pregnant.” Peter said and handed Sam the test.

“Oh shit. Are you sure?” Sam asked and shook the test.

“I already tried that. It’s true. She’s pregnant.” Peters mouth went dry as he said it out loud. It felt even more real now and he didn’t know how to handle it.

“Dude. This is serious. Aren’t you guys in like middle school?”

“We’re both in college. But still. I’m not ready to be a dad. I can’t even take care of myself. Look at this rash.” Peter whined and lifted his shirt to show Sam the red ring around his armpit.

“Oh my God. What the hell is that?” Sam grimaced and raised his hands to protect himself from Peters rash.

“A rash. Like I said.” Peter said flatly. “I think I’m allergic to my deodorant.”

“So use a different one.”

“But I like how this one smells. It’s called Flannel, see?” Peter said and got closer to Sam with his arm raised.

“Get your armpitt out of my face before I make it where you can’t have anymore kids.” Sam warned and Peter put his shirt down.

“What am I supposed to do?” He whined. “Mr. Stark is gonna kill me. And then May is gonna kill me. And then Y/n’s parents. I’m gonna die three times. Three times!”

“Yeah. No, I agree. You’re definitely fucked.” Sam agreed.

“What? That’s not helping!”

“I’m sorry dude, but how am I supposed to help you in this situation?”

“I don’t know. Tell me it’s all gonna be okay?”

“Is it? You’re not out of college yet and neither is she. Neither of you have jobs that can support a child. And it’s not like you live together either. Where would the baby even stay? Your crappy apartment? Or here at this tower full of nuclear weapons and glass windows that aren’t baby proof?”

“I didn’t even think of those things.” Peter realized and started to panic all over again.

“Clearly you don’t think at all. How did this even happen?”

“From sex.�� Peter whispered and covered his mouth.

“I know that.” Sam rolled his eyes. “But don’t you guys use protection?”

“Of course. Always. Wrap it before you tap it. On god.”

“Well is she on the pill?”

“What pill?”

“You know. The pill.”

“Tylenol?” Peter asked.

“Oh my God. This poor baby.” Sam groaned and rubbed his eyes.

“What am I gonna do Sam? I’m not ready to be a father. I only had one until I was 9. What if the kid turns ten? I don’t have any examples of being a father past age 9. What am I gonna do?” Peter whined and shook Sam by the shoulders.

“She could get an abortion?” Sam suggested.

“Maybe but that’s not up to me. If she wants to keep this baby, we’re keeping the baby.”

“Maybe it won’t be so bad. Have you ever babysat?”

“Just Ned’s tomagotchi. And it died. Like, immediately.”

“Well lucky for you, Y/n is gonna make a great mom. You’ve seen how caring she is. She takes care of all of us when we get sick. And she gets weirdly excited to do it too. If you so much as sneeze around her she runs to get you a thermometer and a blanket. And she knows all the passwords for streaming services.”

“You’re right. She’s got this. I can learn from her.” Peter said and started to calm down.

“Are you gonna tell her you know?”

“No. She deserves to tell me in her own way on her own time.” Peter decided.

“I think that’s smart. In the meantime, you should probably hit the books. There seems to be a lot you don’t know.”

“You’re right.” Peter realized. “I need to know what to expect when I’m expecting.”

“Can I be honest?” Sam asked.

“Sure.”

“I kinda thought that between the two of you, you’d be the one to carry the baby. Not her.” Sam told him.

“No, I get that.” Peter nodded in agreement.

That night, Peter opened his laptop and started to research everything he could on pregnancy.

“I’m gonna the father the shit out of this kid.” He whispered to himself before diving into his research. By the time the sun came up, his eyes were red and glazed over. His hands were cramping from all the typing and his back was stiff beyond repair. He had spent the night reading every article he could find and took extensive notes. He shut his laptop when he heard birds outside and padded out of his room. When he walked into the kitchen, he saw you about to take a bite of a bagel with lox.

“No!” Peter screamed and shot a web at your bagel. He yanked it away from you and threw it at the cabinet, where it stuck. Everyone turned to look at Peter and he felt his face heat up.

“What the hell was that?” You laughed in surprise.

“You can’t be eating that in your condition.” Peter blurted.

“What condition is that?” You asked and Peter realized he had said too much.

“Um, dating a boy who thinks fish is gross?” He smiled weakly.

“It’s just lox. Try it. I think you’ll like it.” You said and started to make another bagel. He realized that if he ate the rest of the lox, you couldn’t eat any. He had read in his research that uncooked fish was not safe for pregnant women to eat but it seemed like you didn’t know that yet. Keeping it away from you without telling you what he knew was his best bet.

“Okay. Yeah.” Peter reluctantly agreed and sat next to you at the table. You handed him your bagel with the fish on top and he gagged a little. Peter the opened his mouth and shoved the entire bagel inside. He chewed it slowly and gagged every so often.

“You ate the whole thing.” You said in disbelief over what you had just witnessed.

“Uh huh.” Peter said with a full mouth.

“Did you like it?” You laughed and wiped some cream cheese off his mouth.

“Yeah. Yummy.” Peter said weakly. He turned his head a little and gagged loud enough for you to hear.

“Peter, if you don’t like it, don’t eat it.”

“I love it.” He lied and kept chewing. He slowly swallowed the massive bite and made a face as it went down.

“Do you want to throw up?” You asked him.

“Yes please.” He nodded. You brought Peter to the bathroom and held his messy hair back as he threw up into the toilet. Once it was all out, he rested against the wall. He caught sight of the garbage can, the very one ye had found your pregnancy test in.

“Soon, this will be me helping you throw up.” He said.

“What?”

“What?” Peter said quickly when he realized what he had said.

“Are you feeling okay?” You laughed and checked his forehead.

“Are you?” He genuinely asked, wanting to know if you were experiencing morning sickness yet.

“Yeah. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” Peter lied. You found his behavior strange but decided not to question it further. You knew Peter well enough to know that this was just how he behaved sometimes. You brought him back to the kitchen and made him some tea for his tummy as Peter watch d carefully from his seat. He felt himself relax for the first time since finding the test. Now that he had some some research and remembered how good you were at taking care of people, he felt more confident in your combined skills as parents.

That feeling was confidence was shaken later that day when Peter went into your room to find you. He pushed open your bathroom door and found you sectioning your hair into parts with the faucet running. Beside the sink was your hair straightener. Peter gasped dramatically and yanked the plug out of the wall before shutting off the water.

“Are you crazy? What the are you doing?” He asked as he took the straighter out of your hands.

“Doing my hair? Is that okay?” You laughed in confusion and reached for the straitened.

“You can’t be using this when the waters running. What if you drop it into the sink and get electrocuted?” Peter said as he held the straightener up.

“I’m not sure it works like that. I think it the sink would have to be full of water.”

“Oh. Well I don’t know how hair straighteners work, okay? I’m not God.”

“Peter, you’re being ridiculous. More than usual. Let me straighten my hair. I have to go out tonight.” You whined and took the straitener from him.

“Go out where?”

“It’s Kate’s birthday. We’re gonna go to karaoke and then go to a bar.” You explained as your ran a section of hair through your straightener.

“A bar?!” Peter nearly screamed.

“Yes, oh my God.” You laughed at his outburst. “What’s with you today?”

“What’s with me? What’s with you? You know you’re not supposed to drink when you’re…” Peter trailed off and you looked at him in confusion.

“When I’m what?”

“When you’re on medication.” He said quickly. “Obviously that’s what I was going to say. I saw you take Tylenol before. You’re not supposed to mix alcohol and medicine.”

“That was just for my back pain. I think I’ll be okay.”

“Please don’t go out tonight.” Peter whined and wrapped his arms around you. You stopped doing your hair and turned around in his arms to face him.

“Why not?” You wondered.

“Because…” Peter trailed off as he desperately tried to think of something. He only knew one thing that would be sure to get you to stay.

“Because I’m not feeling so good.” He lied and faked a cough.

“Oh no. You’re sick?” You gasped and felt his forehead.

“Yeah. So sick. Tony must’ve given me whatever he has. I feel horrible.” Peter whined and clutched his stomach.

“But Tony’s throat was bothering him. Does your stomach too?” You asked when you saw what Peter was doing. Peter realized he was faking the wrong illness and nodded.

“Oh yeah. My throat and my stomach hurts. And I think I’m getting a fever too. And my toe fell off.” He laid it on thick to get you to stay.

“Aw. Poor baby.” You pouted and pulled him into your arms.

“Baby?” Peter whispered in fear.

“I’ll take care of you, okay? I’ll tell Kate I can’t make it.” You smiled sweetly as you cupped his face. Peter felt bad for lying to you but he couldn’t let you go out drinking if you were pregnant.

“Thanks, honey bee. You’re the best.” He smiled back. You took his hand and brought him to his room to tuck him into bed. Peter felt guilty all over again when you went to go make him some soup. He was feeling perfectly fine so your efforts were for nothing. You came back and fed him the soup, making him feel even worse about lying.

“I feel like Peeta in the cave.” Peter joked as you held the spook to his lips.

“Ugh, dirty Peeta in the cave is so hot. I would’ve won the games with the things I’d do to that man on camera. I’ll tell you that.”

“Wait, what?” Peter sat up and looked at you.

“How about some tea?” You smiled sweetly as you changed the subject.

“Can we circle back to what you just said about-“

“I’ll go make some.” You cut him off as you left his room. You came back soon with a hot mug of tea for Peter. He was already sweating under the blankets you tucked him into and the hot soup, so tea was the last thing he wanted. But he felt that that’s what he deserved for lying to you.

“Oh, no. You’re so sweaty. You must be getting a fever.” You frowned once Peter had finished his tea.

“Oh no. Must be.” Peter laughed weakly and discreetly fanned his face.

“I know what will make you feel better.” You said and climbed into Peters lap. You started to kiss his neck and he went into high alert mode.

“What are you doing?” He asked and gently moved you back.

“Kissing you?”

“With a suggestive undertone.” He replied, sounding accusatory.

“Is that a problem?” You laughed and bent down to kiss his neck again. He pulled you off and looked at you in disbelief.

“You want to have sex? The very thing that caused this?”

“Huh? Caused what?” You asked.

“The pregnancy.” He said like it was obvious. Peter slapped his hand over his mouth as you tilted your head in confusion.

“Wait, what? What pregnancy?”

“Your pregnancy.”

“My pregnancy?” You asked as you sat back on your knees. Peter sat up as well and pushed the blankets off himself.

“I’m sorry. But I know.” Peter admitted with a sigh.

“Know what?” You laughed in confusion.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore, honey bee. I already know about the pregnancy.” Peter said as he took your hands.

“Wait, I’m confused. Who’s pregnant?” You asked him.

“You are.” He said simply.

“I’m pregnant?” You asked and pointed to yourself.

“Yes. You’re pregnant.”

“Me?” You asked and looked behind you for who else he might be talking to.

“Yes, you.” He urged and shook your hands.

“Hold on. Who told you I was pregnant?” You laughed at how serious he was.

“You did.” Peter said like it was obvious.

“Me?” You questioned and pointed to yourself again.

“You’re the only one in the room right now.”

“Peter, I never said I was pregnant. I think I would remember saying something like that.”

“That’s because you didn’t say it with words. You’ve just been dropping hints like crazy. The sore back, the eating of salt and vinegar chips-“

“Those are-“

“No they’re not.” He cut you off before you could defend them.

You stared at Peter as you tried to gage if he was being serious or not. He stared back at you as he tried to figure out if you were upset or relieved that he knew.

“Also I found this positive pregnancy test in the trash.” He said as he pulled the test out of his pocket. You took the test from him and looked at it for a long time. Peters heart raced as he waited for your reaction. Finally, you flipped the test over and showed him what it said on the back.

“This is a strep throat test.” You said calmly.

“What?!” Peter shrieked and took the test back. Sure enough, the back said “rapid strep throat test” in raised letters.

“Tony has strep throat. You knew this.”

“This looks exactly like a pregnancy test.” Peter defended as he showed you the test again.

“Peter, this looks nothing like a pregnancy test. Do you know what a pregnancy test looks like?”

“Apparently not.” Peter scoffed. You stared at him for a minute before cracking up laughing.

“You really thought I was pregnant? That’s why you didn’t let me eat fish or straighten my hair? And tried to stop Natasha from cracking my back? Which I still don’t see the correlation, by the way.”

“I didn’t want you or the baby to be in harms way. What if the straighter shocked you and the baby came out like the Flash? What if it just ran right out of your womb? Or what if Natasha squeezed you so hard and the baby popped out like a rocket?”

“You know shocking little about pregnancy.”

“I know. But as nervous as I was, I was also kinda excited.” Peter admitted. “I know you’re the person I’m gonna be with forever. It would be nice to have a little one that was a combination of the both of us.”

“And one day, we will have one.” You assured him. “And hopefully, they’ll inherit my intelligence over yours.”

“I hope so too.” Peter chuckled. You leaned down to kiss him and he felt himself fully relax for the first time in days.

“I hope you know that if we do have a kid one day, you’re carrying it. I’m not getting fat.” You told him once you pulled away.

“I don’t know if that’s medically possibly yet. Not for cis men, anyway.“

“We’ll find a way.” You shrugged. “We can ask Bruce. You can be like a seahorse! Or Cosmo from the Fairly Oddparents.”

“I’d do it for you, honey.”

“I know you would. That’s why I know you’re my forver person too.” You smiled and leaned in to kiss him again. Peter pulled you into his lap and slipped his hand behind your head to deepen the kiss.

“So, now that we know you’re not pregnant…” Peter trailed off and played with the buttons on your shirt. You caught on to what he was suggesting and laughed as you pushed his face away.

“Not a chance.”

Tag List 🏷️

@thebookwormlife @imanativeofswlondondahling

@tom-hollands-wifey

@whatareyouhidingpeter @takenbyheartstrings

@imyourliquor-youremypoison @andreasworlsboring101

@peterparkoure

@justcallmehitgirl @jackiehollanderr

@emmamarshmellow @unbelievableholland

@sovereignparker @every-marveler-ever @undiadeestos @eridanuswave

@solarxmoonchild @canyouevencauseicant

@quaksonhehe @lovelessdagger

@thesuitelifeofafangirl @nooneinvitedfascistbarbie

@maybemona

@alexxcorona113 @lethal-wisdom

@pandaxnienke

@officialsimppage @peterbenjiparker @itsemohours

@freakofmusic25 @tomholland85

@olixerwxxd @leilanixx

@whereismytelephone @so-very-asleep @white-wolf1940

@spideyspeaches @hihiweezing

@dhtomholland @insomniac-nerd-posts-things @prancerrparkerr @loudthoughts-softspoken

@hallecarey1 @adayasgeorgia @blackwidowisthebest @imawhoreforu

@nellabellaa @pinklxmonade-blog @boogywoogywoogy @ciarahollands

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xzaddyzanakinx · 3 months

Text

Not That Kind of Guy

Part Four: Stalker!Anakin Skywalker × femme reader series

Warnings: stalking, weirdo behavior, psychotic/delusional behavior, possessive/protective, sexism/misogyny, one-sided relationship, sexual content, pervy behavior, male masturbation, panty kink, sex daydreams [eventual warning for smut; be sure to pay attention to future warnings in the series]

Info: Anakin is doing his very best, he just loves you and wants you to be comfy around him. Just let him worm his way into your heart babe [diary entries from Ani] extremely not proofread. I’m illiterate so apologies in advance MDNI 18+

Diary Entry: July 8th

Mr. Nelson’s funeral was today, it really was a beautiful ceremony as I look back on it. Even more so when my inner self smears the background enough to bring you to the front of the mental image.

You’d spoken to the man a handful of times, but I didn’t expect you to come. When I saw you accept the invite to the event on Facebook I thought surely it was a mistake. That was until you messaged Luke and asked him to accompany you, funerals make you nervous, but feeling obligated to do something and avoiding it makes you more nervous.

So your moral support was happy to attend and fight off dear old Alan’s corpse should he rise from the casket and set his sights on you.

And I though I had irrational fears, geez babydoll, how old were you when you watched Night of The Living Dead for the first time? If I had to guess it was too young. It’s alright though I get it, you know what movie traumatized me? The Mummy. Heebied my fucking Jeebies so bad I avoided the beach on family vacations.

You’re telling me there’s not a sarcophagus under all that sand? There’s at least one under there and you can’t convince me otherwise.

Solid ground for me only, please and thank you.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

I had a thought that I initially considered to be a sweet reminder of my dear friend Alan. His obituary was in the newspaper and I happened to swipe one from the guest book table at the viewing as well. Have you ever scrapbooked before? I bet you’ve at least tried it.

Well I thought it would be nice to make him a page in my journal. A little celebration of life for the man who gave me an opportunity to grow and nurture my love for you.

Then I realized mid-glue stick on the newspaper clipping that the idea was something that a clinically insane person would do.

I’m not that guy. That guy’s not me.

But the glue was already on there and it felt wrong to toss Alan’s wrinkly old face into the trash so I pasted him into my journal anyway.

Crazy people don’t know that they’re crazy. I’m well aware that little idea was less than tasteful, just felt like I should mention that.

Date:

July 28th

Anakin Skywalker hadn’t been this happy since… ever. The previous record being his discovery of you, was now toppled into second place and overshadowed by ‘Move In Day’.

He could hardly contain himself. It was a dopamine high that he would ride out until he’d drained every last drop.

The movers lugged in box after box, furniture and books, until finally they dropped off the last load and thanked Anakin for the business. He eagerly shook their hand and shoved them out. He had preparations to make.

He set up his Tv, screen mirroring the live feed of the apartment building entrance to the big screen so that he could easily keep an eye out for you while he unpacked his kitchen.

He’d planned your ‘meet-cute’ meticulously, looking to your bookshelf and streaming services to gather intel on your ideal scenario. You were an odd bird, but he liked that about you. It’s part of your charm, it’s part of the challenge. You’re not as predictable in your tastes and interests as others can be.

Anakin formulated the interaction step by step, frame by frame in the storyboard of his imagination until he had the perfect scene. His box office hit that he’d replay over and over again until the next time he stood face to face with you.

It took quite some time and a load of practice. Discarded dialogue, awkward movements that made him feel stiff and less than human when he practiced them in the mirror. Endless options of clothes, shoes, and hair.

Should he get a new piercing? He wanted to. So he did, he knew you’d like it.

It’d match the one he already had on the opposite nostril. It made him feel more complete to add something so permanent to his body, he wished he could do something similar with you. He wanted you to be permanent, so maybe it’s his subconscious’s way of telling him that this was going in the right direction.

He was on the right path. His journey of life alone was coming to a close and a new trail would reveal itself. No more rocky, unsteady tread. No more sharp turns and blind spots, no more impossible inclines.

Scraped knees and bloodied hands would be distant memories. Maybe even distant enough that he could toss them into The Pit.

He would have no need for anger or sorrow anymore.

How could he feel anything but the warm embrace of love as he strolled down the flowered path ahead with you?

Who knew that you could position one box in 83 different ways and hate every single one of them? Anakin was so thankful there weren’t any actual surveillance cameras in the apartment building. It’d be really difficult to explain why he was in the hallway for an hour with his hands on his hips, scooting a box of books a centimeter or two at a time. Turning it sideways and then making sure the book on top was perfectly positioned and would effectively fall to the ground to catch your attention.

He checked his watch nonstop, stared at his Tv screen, willing you to just hurry the fuck up before he vomited from anxiety. He’d waited months for this. If he fucked it up now he’d… well he’d probably keel over on the spot.

Which would promptly traumatize you and not even his ghost would be able to peacefully haunt you. It’s hard to peacefully haunt someone if they watched you die, or at least Anakin assumed it would be difficult. He wasn’t willing to test that theory though.

So, he puffed up his chest and walked back into his apartment and rehearsed the upcoming conversation a few more times. He needed, desperately needed to ensure his facial expressions conveyed what he wanted.

Soft, trustworthy, dependable, safe, caring.

He practiced softening his eyes, knowing sometimes he stared alittle too hard. He worked on his facial fidget; chewing on the inside of his cheek was a quick tell of his nervousness. He didn’t want to be perceived as nervous, he wanted to be confident and sure of himself so that you would be confident in your soon to blossom affection for him.

His eyebrows, that’s a hard one, but he’d meticulously watched bar goers trying to flirt. The successful ones he learned, sometimes use their eyebrows in place of questions or words. A difficult concept, but one he studied until he mastered it.

Now, the other facial expressions and mannerisms… he gathered that information from your watch lists on your streaming services. For the visible examples at least, but your books were just as helpful in describing how he should approach you, speak to you, and simply exist near you.

He hadn’t realized these things were this important until now. Standing and posture was surprisingly very, very important to women. As well as hand movements and subtle glances and minuscule changes of expression.

You were worth the time and effort it took to learn all of it. He’d read and research and practice until he couldn’t stand to look at himself in the mirror any longer. He was determined to make sure you were happy with the results.

He was startled by a loud ping, someone had entered to building and holy shit it was you.

Anakin shook out his hands frantically, remembering the breathing techniques he’d learned as a child, he grounded himself quickly.

It’s okay.

‘She’s gonna love you. She’ll warm up to you quickly, you know everything you need to know about her to make her comfortable and loved.’

‘There’s no way she won’t fall head over heels.’

He smoothed out his band-tee and ran his hands through his hair quickly and headed to his door that was propped open slightly. A few boxes sat in the hall, including the most important one, the one instrumental to his plan.

The apartment hallway was ridiculously tiny, which worked in his favor in this situation.

He heard you come up the stairs, counted your steps until he knew you were almost at the door, 17 and a half steps. Then he swung open the door and bent down to grab one of the boxes.

As expected, he startled you and you dropped your keys. You always wore your backpack on one shoulder, one strap. So when you quickly went to scoop up your keys, your bag swung out of place and toppled a few books from one of the boxes.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Anakin could gloat to himself about his magnificent setup later, right now he needed to woo you with his sweet words.

“Oh, sweetheart I’m sorry.” He said softly, coming over to offer you a hand up.

“It’s okay, my bad.” You laughed, taking his hand.

He managed to keep calm and collected despite his insides boiling him alive at the willing skin contact.

“No, not at all. It’s my fault for startling you like that.” He chuckled, squeezing your upper arm and using his hand already in yours to give you a small handshake. Smooth.

“I’m Anakin.” He said with a bashful smile, dropping your hand and reveling in the lingering warmth your palm left on his.

You introduced yourself in return, gesturing to his apartment door.

“So I take it that you’re my new neighbor huh?” You said, making small talk as you crouched down to pick up the books you’d knocked over.

“No I’m just a one man moving crew.” He grinned.

“Very funny.” You laughed, standing up as you looked through the titles. “Hmm, you’ve got good taste.”

“You think so?” He asked, remembering to make his eyebrows swoop up toward the middle of his forehead to give a quizzical look.

“Oh yeah, this is one of my favorites.” You said, showing him the cover of The Silmarillion by Tolkien.

“Not many people actually read that one, I’m impressed.” He smiled.

“Impressed? Yeah well I’m jealous.” You laughed.

“What?” He chuckled, holding his hands out to take the other books from you.

“This is a really nice edition, it’s similar to mine. I recently lost it.” You sighed. “I think I must’ve left it the park or maybe it fell out of my bag or something.”

“Ah, that sucks… well, I mean I’ve read that one a few times now. It’s been well loved.” He said tipping the books in his arms toward the one you were holding. “Why don’t you keep it?”

He shrugged, acting nonchalant as though this didn’t mean the entire world to him and if you said no he’d sob about it later.

“You’re serious?” You asked in surprise, he was offering you a 50$ special edition book and you’d barely known him for a minute.

“Yeah, ‘course sweetheart.” He said with a cute, crooked smile. “Think of it as a… reverse house warming gift.” He chuckled.

“Thank you, I- this means a lot to me.” You said, grinning widely. “That’s real sweet of you Anakin. I owe you one.”

“No worries.” He chuckled, “I’m sure we’ll find a way to make it even sweetheart.” His gaze flickered quickly from your eyes to your lips, and he turned to go back into his apartment after giving you an almost-missed wink.

You stepped inside your home, and went straight to the bookshelf to put your new-to-you book where it belonged. After the fact you stood there and buffered, just staring at it.

‘There’s no way, this guy has to be too good to be true.’

But he seemed… so genuine. He didn’t ogle you, he didn’t make you feel weird or like he just felt obligated to speak to you.

He seemed to actually, really be a good guy.

Rare. Few and far of those exist in this day and age. It’s uncommon to meet someone who would do something, even as simple as giving you a used book, without expecting anything in return.

But he didn’t seem to expect anything. He didn’t seem to even expect a thank you, it was like he’d already decided he would give it to you before he even offered.

What are the odds that a hot, tattooed and pierced man moves in next door and gifts you an expensive book that just so happens to be an even better replacement for the one that you just lost? That couldn’t happen twice even if you tried to make it happen again.

What kind of second dimension did you step into? The land of dreamy men?

Diary Entry: July 28th

It’s late. But I have to write to you, it can’t wait til tomorrow.

Everything went more perfectly than I could’ve imagined. Thank you so much for being you sweet girl. It made my job of curating the scenery so much easier, you clumsy little thing. I am sorry for having to spook you though, but it worked didn’t it?

Research pays off. Always.

And of course there’s the issue of your book, I hated to see your frustration and your mad scowl when you realized it was missing from your backpack. I really did.

But I’d do it every goddamn day if I knew I’d get the same reaction out of you from giving you that new copy.

Oh god you’re… you’re beautiful. You’re so beautiful. You look angelic when you sleep but you look like competition for Aphrodite when you smile at me.

You smiled, grinned. You smiled all the way up to the corners of your bright and beautiful eyes. For me.

You even laughed for me.

It was so sweet I could taste it. The honey of your voice, I could fucking bathe in it. Just the sound of you speaking, knowing you were speaking to me. Really speaking to me.

In the flesh.

It’s intoxicating. It’s emboldening, it’s dangerous. I’ve never been more worked up in my life. I’m torn all to pieces from at two minute and 6 second conversation.

I think I’ll have to fucking recover from this like a damn hangover.

But what has me so drunk you might ask? Was it your laugh at my stupid jokes? Was it your perfect smile, your radiant glow, your soulful eyes? The softness of your skin or you willingness to let me touch you?

No baby. It’s how you said my name.

I wish I could’ve stayed longer, I wish I could’ve spoken to you more. But it’s so hard to concentrate when my dick is leaking precum down my leg at a rate that should probably be concerning.

The minute you closed that door I shoved those boxes into my apartment and locked the door. Took my elated ass straight to the couch and watched you in your living room, admiring your gift from me while I fucked my fist with a pair of your dirty panties in my mouth.

I couldn’t have your honeyed lips soothing my angry red cock just yet, but I sure as hell could imagine licking your gorgeous little cunt while I tasted you.

I tugged my balls and pumped my cock for over half an hour until I was a fucking mess for you in my new living room’s floor. The cool hardwood letting the heat from my flushed skin seep away from me as I came back down to earth.

I made myself dizzy. Didn’t give myself a break, didn’t slow down, just stroked my cock like the desperate little manwhore that I am for you. The only thing missing was you being there to watch me fall apart.

I think you’d like that wouldn’t you? Watching a man like me get on his knees and beg for you?

Diary Entry: July 29th

I’ve replayed that moment in my head for hours on end. The beginning always stays the same, but the ending… that’s been subject to many changes. It started off simple, we’d chat alittle longer, I’d ask you how your day was; you’d tell me it was ‘fine, thank you’.

Or you’d ask me why I decided to move in, why I chose this side of town, this side of town, this apartment building, across from you. That one always ended questionably and I’d rather not explore that one on paper.

My favorites however were the ones where you’d laugh at a stupid pick-up line and somehow we’d end up in your bed. The bed I’ve sat and watched you sleep in. Those were the best additions.

Now, I’ve been fortunate enough that you’ve been loyal, faithful and devoted to only me since the very beginning. So I don’t really have a clue what you’d actually be like in bed.

But god it’s so fun to imagine it.

You’ve got such pretty, soft skin. You let me mar it up with my teeth and soothe it with my tongue. You let me grip the pillowy flesh of your thighs to spread you open for me. You let me pinch and roll and pull your nipples until they were raw and begging for a break. You let me caress the sensitive slick covered folds between those beautiful pussy lips, plunge my fingers in as far as they’d go.

I took you from behind, watching your perky little ass bounce off my cock while I plowed into you. Your face smushed against the couch cushions and your body folded over the arm rest for me to fuck you like the good little girl that you are.

Against the wall with your arms around my neck while I’ve got my hands holding you spread open and in place by the crook of your knees. You promised you stay real still so that I could drill up into you like you deserved.

God damn. Do you know how good you look like that? Back arched against the wall, tits jiggling in my face with every thrust. Your legs pushed up and back to the sides of your torso, to pin you in place?

It was like a pretty pink flower had bloomed and spread its buttery smooth petals just for me.

Don’t even get me started on how good you suck cock. Have you ever been told you could be mistaken for a warm, wet Hoover? No? Didn’t think so cause that would be rude as hell, but I bet someone’s thought it before.

(Me. It’s me, I thought that.)

Fuck those soft lips. Fuck that smooth snake of a tongue. Fuck that tight, hot throat that just loves to take a beating from my dick.

Can’t wait to prove my imagination right.

Speaking of, my dick has been beat. Like actually. If one didn’t know any better they’d assume it’s on life support, but I’m a freak of nature. Cumming upwards of 16 times in the span of 40ish hours would probably put a weaker man in a hospital bed. Or maybe a psych ward.

But I am not a weak man even if my dick feels raw. I’d still fuck you if you asked.

I’d be curious to know if I’d be able to stave off cumming longer from all the abuse or if I’d be so fucking sensitive that I wouldn’t make it in half an inch.

Probably the latter.

Diary Entry: August 2nd

Being so close to you is killing me. Truly it is.

You’ve sunken your claws so deeply into my very soul and you don’t even realize it. It’s torture. To you, I’m just the new guy, nice dude who gave you a book. But to me? You’re my entire world.

I’ve been told I have the personality of a guard dog. Soft and squishy on the inside, dangerous and fierce on the outside. Which I suppose could be true, but really I think it’s for a different reason. For a human, a dog is one small but very impactful blip in your life. But for the dog? You are it’s life.

Am I comparing myself to a dog right now? Yes I am.

I’ll beg for you to throw me the scraps of your affections until you finally toss me a bone.

Bark.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

I’ve been trying my best to give you space. To plan accordingly and in advance. I have our next two interactions simmering on the back burner.

I know that if I go too hard, too fast, you’ll be overwhelmed. That’s the last thing I want. I never want to be the thing that causes you stress, I want to siphon it from you. So, in one week I will set out to help you with a few of your errands and plant a few seeds.

But until then, we have late night snacks and couch chats with Boogie.

I’ve also been doing- you guessed it- more research to do with helpful vitamins and medicines. You’ve responded so well to your SleepyTime tea and since I’ve started making sure your birth control packet is plainly visible in the countertop basket directly beneath that cabinet, you’ve been taking it so well.

I’m so proud of you sweetheart, that’s my girl, look at you taking care of yourself. You’ve done so well in fact, that it’s in my personal opinion that you have earned a very special reward.

Anakin sat on his couch, the live feed of your living room screen mirrored to his Tv. He was watching you cook dinner, he knew you’d be making a stir fry. He’d seen it in your planner, so he’d taken the liberty of ordering himself the same, it’d be here any minute. As would your good friend Sam.

Anakin had originally burned red hot with jealousy at the thought of you inviting a man over to your apartment, that he hadn’t vetted via social media and a quick drop-in. But he was relieved to discover that Sam was just a girl from your book club.

This wasn’t one of his well thought out plans, this was decided upon this morning after you’d returned from book club. So, he was anxious to see if his hunches served him well. Sam seemed like a punctual gal, at least from what he’d seen on social media and the text messages between the two of you from weeks/months before.

Anakin had the wonderful idea to log into your cell service providers website to pull your deleted messages from their data bank. You really should have better passwords.

The thing he was most worried about was his door dasher arriving on time. It was rare that one was too far off on arrival time, but it would be his shit luck and lack of planning that could ruin this little glimpse of you.

The minutes ticked by and he was alerted to the new motion sensors he’d placed near the LED pathway lights on the paved entrance to the apartment building. He quickly switched over to the hallway feed at the front door, seeing that it was his door dasher.

Damn you Trevor. How dare you get there before Sam.

Not to worry, he’d call for the door code and Anakin wouldn’t answer the first time. It wasn’t much but it would buy him a few seconds.

Though it seemed to be that luck was on his side as it often was when it came to you. Sam was so kind, kind enough to let the delivery guy into the building. Which is technically a security concern but Trevor didn’t seem like the type of guy who’d be able to remember a 6 digit door code.

He was too busy staring at your friends ass to pay attention to the numbers she entered anyway.

The footsteps approached your door and his, Anakin waited until he heard Sam knock on your door before he opened his. Trevor stood patiently as Anakin slowly counted out his tip in cash and thankfully you were quick to let your friend inside. After the exchange was complete Anakin gave you a smile and wave.

He could’ve had a heart attack at the response you gave him.

A flirty little finger waggle and smile.

He had to remind himself to breathe and keep his expression a happy-neutral. He’d hate for you to see his blushing cheeks this early on.

“Have a good night girls.” He said as he closed his door and to his surprise you actually answered.

“You too!”

If he weren’t confident that you were a sweet and loving soul, he’d think you were trying to kill him with the siren song of your voice.

Stir fry had never tasted so fucking good.

Diary Entry: July 8th

Grocery day baby, here I come.

I love that you’re so predictable. I love that you’re so fucking cute and always try to strong arm your groceries in one trip. I love that it takes at least two good whacks to the trunk of your shitty old Nissan to properly close it.

It’s cute to watch you struggle with it, the annoyed huffs and angry scowl.

I thought you’d combust on the spot once when your paper grocery bag of flour and sugar ripped open and sent a plume of flour up on your black jeans. The parking lot was very empty and I was very glad because I’d hate for someone to have seen the cursing contest you had with yourself as you picked up your spilled items. Very unladylike you know. But it’s you so I don’t mind, I just like to hear you talk.

It’s almost time. I’ve been sitting in my car for about 10 minutes. Gotta account for the traffic on highway 76. Do you really have to shop all the way out there just because of the Whole Foods? C’mon baby they have the same shit at Kroger.

I’ve been watching your little blue dot on my phone and you’re rounding the corner so I’ll write you later doll.

I love you.

You pulled into the parking lot and sat in your car for a moment. Giving yourself the much need quiet to decompress from your work day and the grocery trip. After you’d checked your messages and scrolled for a moment you decided it was time to head inside before your frozen foods got… not so frozen.

You popped the trunk and fumbled with the faulty latch, your fingers feeling blindly under the metal lip until it finally detached and you were able to open the trunk.

You took a deep breath and scolded yourself for buying the extra few things that could’ve waited till next time. Second trips are for wimps and you weren’t one. So you loaded up your left arm bag by bag until you heard a humored puff of air and the beep of a car locking behind you.

“Need a hand sweetheart?” Anakin grinned, shoving his keys into his front pocket.

He waltzed over and took a few bags off your hands without waiting for a response. It took you aback, not because he hadn’t waited for permission, but because of the way he exuded an odd charm that made you falter.

“Anakin, really it’s alright I can get it.” You said, eyebrows furrowed together in confusion by his kind gesture.

“Mmm no, this seems like a two man mission sweet girl.” He smiled, gathering up a few the last few bags from the trunk and shutting it with one solid push.

“You really don’t have to-“

“I know I don’t have to.” He said tilting his head toward the apartment building to encourage you to walk with him. “I want to.”

“Thank you, that’s… thanks.” You smiled, a light blush creeping across your cheeks.

“Atta girl.” He chuckled, tapping in the door code and holding it open for you despite holding many more bags than you.

Something about the low tone of voice or maybe just the way he looked at you with his icey blue eyes… just sent a chill down your spine. A quick one that was gone in an instant, replaced by a warm glow in the center of your chest.

“Guess chivalry’s not dead.” You joked.

“I’m no knight.” He laughed, “but you’re sure as hell a princess.”

‘Oh that was smooth.’ You thought, trying to ignore the heat at the bottom of your stomach.

What is happening? How on earth can one man be so… everything? Kind, caring, chivalrous and gorgeous to boot.

You felt a wave of embarrassment at the squeaky giggle you let out. He had you tore up from one little comment.

True to the gentleman he seemed to be, he chose not to push it and tease you about your beet red cheeks. He just waited patiently for you as you unlocked your door.

“Do you want me to bring these in for you?” He asked, watching your movements closely.

“Oh that would be great.” You said in relief, leading him into your kitchen.

“Cute little place.” He said, looking around the kitchenette and over to the living room.

He sat down your bags on the counter and started unloading them neatly into rows.

“Oh, you-“

“Mmm mmm.” He shook his head with a smirk, “Just let me help, it’s no big deal.”

You let out a puff of air in an amused sort of amazement and pulled out your little step stool to open up the cabinets. Anakin snickered from behind you as you stepped up and started putting things away.

You shot him a glare over your shoulder and almost said something snarky until you realized he was folding your paper grocery bags in the same way that you always do.

“Huh.” You laughed. “I thought I was the only one who did that.”

“Did what?” He asked, his head cocked to the side.

“Fold the bags.” You said, turning back around to continue placing your things where they belonged.

“Oh,” he chuckled, “I dunno it’s just a habit I guess. Fits better in that stupid slot on the recycling bin this way.”

“Yeah I never really understood why they made them that way? I guess so people don’t just shove other trash in there.” You mused.

“Mmhm probably.” He agreed, stacking them neatly and gathering it in his hands. “Do you want me to take these out back for you?”

“I can do-“ You stopped yourself when Anakin raised his eyebrow and cocked his head to the side with a crooked smirk.

You sighed and gave him a downturned smile. “Yes, I would love for you to take them out back for me.”

“Good girl.” He nodded, clicking his tongue and heading for the door. “See ya princess.”

After he shut the door you let yourself breathe alittle easier, blowing out the air in a short puff through your nose. Maybe even letting a little smile cross your lips before you finished up your task.

You’d be thinking about that low rumble of his voice later. Good girl? Shit.

PART FIVE

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powderblueblood · 4 months

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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

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anifever · 2 days

Text

Dating Darry Curtis HC’s ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Darrel “Darry” Curtis x Fem!Reader

୨୧ : What I think dating ‘Superman’ would include

A/N : I’ve been busy but school’s out now so hopefully I can work on requests 💔. Also ily Jake Gyllenhaal but they should’ve never remade Roadhouse..

˖⁺‧₊˚ 🕊️ ˚₊‧⁺˖

୨ I hate to say it (not really), but you’re like a married couple

୨ The gang calls you mom and dad as a joke

୨ You guys are so sitting on a porch with wind chimes and birds chirping in the bg and the warmth of the sun hitting your skin coded

୨ You’re so disgustingly in love and it makes everyone sick

୨ I feel like bcs of how he’s portrayed and the responsibilities/stress he takes on from the entire gang, it makes him seem way older than he is

୨ That’s also probably due to Patrick Swayze being 31 instead of 20 while filming and also being 15 years older than C Thomas Howell irl instead of the 6 year age gap their characters actually had…

୨ Anyways, you help him actually act more his age

୨ You convince him to go out more, etc

୨ Everyone’s happy to see him let loose once in a while

୨ Like you guys mess around when you bake/cook together by throwing flour at each other and giggling omg I’m vomiting

୨ You guys are sometimes (very rarely) even spotted at Buck’s together and Dallas has to do a double take

୨ You also bribe the boys to give you guys or just him in general some alone time LMAO

୨ You absolutely slow dance in the kitchen. Idc.

୨ He’s the type to call you “a real treat” when you dress up or do something nice for him

୨ Going shopping together and him walking around with his lil’ glasses reading the grocery list while you push the cart

୨ Sitting in his lap while he reads the newspaper ohahahwbrbrbnrne

୨ You guys definitely met early on; slow burn

୨ You were SO ‘So High School’ by Taylor Swift when you were a little bit younger

୨ Been in the works of writing a ff abt that..

୨ FINALLY officially asked you out senior year for prom and you’ve been together since, even though you guys were in love way before that

୨ You definitely have to get in between his and Pony’s fights a lot

୨ Soda comes to you for advice, no matter what it is- he thinks it’s refreshing to have someone new to talk to rather than constant arguing, yada yada

୨ Dallas either flirts with you to piss Darry off or he has a relationship with you like he did with Mrs. Curtis. No in between.

୨ The type of man to give you foot massages

୨ On the contrary, you also massage his shoulders

୨ Johnny probably had a tiny crush on you when you first met him years back, but it went away when you guys started dating

୨ Went away to an extent at least..

୨ Him standing between your legs while you’re sat on the sink shaving his face for him GODODODODID

୨ He says “honey, I’m home” unironically

୨ He’s able to pick you up pretty easily no matter your weight

୨ He does it a lot and it’s mainly to show off LMAO

୨ You guys play checkers together and genuinely enjoy it which doesn’t help your mom/dad allegations

୨ EXTREMELY good at calming you down whether it’s a panic attack, etc

୨ He might lose his temper a lot on his brothers, but he never does it with you

୨ If he ever does accidentally snap at you, he apologizes to no end

୨ He’s touching you whenever he can; a hand on your waist, around your shoulder, keeping you on his lap, a finger in your belt loop, etc

୨ Speaking of belt loops, you pulling him in by the loops or his belt buckle to kiss him⁉️⁉️⁉️ I’m losing it

୨ Whenever any sort of errand needs to be run, he either forces Pony/Soda to do it, or makes you come with him alone

୨ He buys you flowers whenever he has the extra money ☹️

୨ Has his moms wedding ring kept someplace safe to give to you one day

୨ On another note, she loved you so much before she passed

୨ She was also constantly teasing him about you two when you guys were younger

୨ If he’s exhausted from work and flops onto the couch with you, don’t expect to be getting up anytime soon

୨ Back to the ‘him going out more’ point- you guys go to rodeos together whenever he knows Pony is being watched by someone else

୨ Calming lil’ picnics together by a lake

୨ He unfortunately will have to cancel plans a good amount because of work-related stuff, but you completely understand

୨ He’s pretty stubborn about letting you help with money, but he gives in sometimes

୨ You leave him cute notes in the lunch that he takes to work <\\3

୨ He for sure keeps a hand on your thigh or knee while driving

୨ There’s no doubt in my mind you’d grow old together

୨ He’s thankful for you in so many ways and is glad you’re able to help his life feel normal again and like an actual 20 year-old

#darry curtis x reader #darrel curtis #darry curtis #darrel curtis x reader #darry curtis x you #darrel curtis x you #the outsiders #the outsiders fanfiction #the outsiders imagine #the outsiders x reader #the outsiders x you #the outsiders darry #darry curtis imagine #darrel curtis imagine #outsiders x reader #outsiders #curtis gang #patrick swayze #curtis gang x reader

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placeinthemiddleofnowhere · 2 years

Text

Princess

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female!Reader

Warnings: Angst, Smut (18+), spanking, fingering, PinV, choking, brat taming, slight bit of name calling (slightly dubious to have sex with someone after rescuing them from a kidnapping but we'll ignore that)

Summary: Reader is the daughter of a prolific genral who's been kidnapped while she was trying to party it up with her friends. Ghost and Soap are recruited to rescue her, and soon find out that reader's attitude might be more of a challenge than the gang they're trying to rescue her from.

(No use of y/n)

A/N: I can't get Ghost out of my head and tbh I kinda feel like he'd be so good at dealing with your bratty nonsense if he had to.

- 👑-

You were sure you were going to die.

Not because your family didn’t have the money, not because there weren’t enough resources to save you, or even because of your own natural pessimistic tendencies. No. You were sure you were going to die because your father had made it abundantly clear long ago that you didn’t matter to him.

You weren’t a man. You couldn't carry his title on and you’d grown up learning that that was mostly all he cared for. His legacy. It was one of the few things that cold man spoke of fondly, always lighting up at the mention of your brothers but never you. And as a result you’d grown up living for even the smallest chance at spiting him for it. You partied and drank and slept around with boys that made even your friends curl their lips at you sometimes.

So, you were pretty sure that once your kidnappers realised that, that could only mean one thing. One of those big guns they were carrying was going to end up pointed right in your face then…bang.

It was enough to leave you disoriented, you weren't taking in much. Not that there was much to take note of. Your eyes were shoddily covered over with a scrap of harsh, scratchy cloth and you could only see little slivers of things here and there. Your hands were duct taped to the arms of an office chair and your mouth was similarly covered so as to prevent anymore screams and curses.

You watched sets of boots as they echoed around the frigid room, and saw gun barrels and machetes, men roving across a scuffed up concrete floor. You didn’t catch anything that made you want to see more. Especially when you heard the taunts they slung at you in their thick accents.

“Don’t worry precious, I’m sure a spoiled little rich girl like you will get a good ransom, you’ll be home soon.”

“Bet you’re used to guys with big guns like this, daddy’s men must love you.”

“She’s a cute little thing, we should have some fun with her before we send her back.”

“I’ve heard she likes to have lots of fun, bet we’d slip right into her, fucking american girls.”

If the blindfold came off then that would only mean one thing. They were going to make good on the salacious threats they were now casually slinging your way. The fantasies they were now trading back and forth as they returned to speaking their own language. That was a small mercy at least. Not having to hear about how the last few moments of your life would go.

You could feel your body shaking like an addict in withdrawal and your poor heart was leaping around in your chest like a caught frog. It didn’t help that you were riling yourself up either, imagining what the newspapers would say. Flashing up in your mind like something out of an old batman episode with a blaring brass section accompanying them.

Daughter of a notable general killed in shock kidnapping

Holiday in Cancun turned nightmare as General’s daughter taken in the night

You couldn't even be sure if you were still in Mexico. For all you knew you were in all those other countries that you’d been too busy crafting a reputation to learn about in school. What were they again? Guatemala, Cuba? You were sure those were somewhere close by. Funny the things the mind distracts itself with when you’re stuck tightly in a chair surrounded by leering wolves.

If only you hadn’t been drawn in by that tattooed man with the big arms. If only you’d been a good girl and enjoyed your holiday and stuck close to your friends instead of going out on the hunt for attention from bad men covered in tattoos and cologne that smelt like bad decisions. You could practically hear your father’s growly voice echoing through your mind.

Stupid little girl.

He’d been saying that for as long as you had memories of him. He’d be satisfied now, you lamented. You’d proved him right in the end, he’d always said your lifestyle would catch up with you and you’d be wishing that you’d just behaved for once sooner or later.

At the very least, you figured, you wouldn’t have to hear him say I told you so.

- 👑-

You weren't sure how much time had passed. It could’ve been a few minutes, or it could’ve been hours, but as your breathing grew more ragged behind the tape you knew you were experiencing the last few precious moments you had left.

The men were sounding more and more pissed off as they rattled off curses to each other, filling the room with sharp hisses. They weren’t getting the results they wanted. They’d even removed the tape at some point and had you screaming out for a video, but apparently that wasn’t getting them anywhere either. They got tired with your cries and slapped an even thicker strip back in place.

You were starting to cry, feeling the stiff cloth go damp against your skin and irritating it further. It was so thick and itchy over your eyes, you wanted nothing more than to pull it off. You needed to see, needed to breathe. You were panicking. You needed out, you needed air, you needed to feel safe again.

What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?

You were chanting it in your mind, it rang through your head like a death toll. It seemed like those would be your last thoughts. You’d die panicking and snotty and covered in dried salty tears that mixed into a sludge with your thick mascara.

What the fuck? What the fuck? What the-

Thiew.

Crack.

Thud.

Every muscle in your body froze as you heard an alien sound zip through the room. Then suddenly everything erupted.

The men’s shouts turned into screams and barked orders and suddenly you were being wheeled around in your chair in the dark like a shopping cart. You were whizzed past men that were running and crouching into your limited vision, aiming their guns and returning fire as more bullets wailed into the room. And finally you found yourself slamming into a corner somewhere, banging your knees against a rough drywall.

You screamed behind your gag and listened out as more men hit the ground and the guns grew into a cacophony of bangs. Death’s orchestra played for a solid few minutes, ringing in your ears and distorting the sound of your thrumming heartbeat as it crawled up through your throat and into your head.

You were sure you were going to die.

The battle raged on for a few moments more until suddenly the men’s shouts silenced and the bullets grew sparse. All you could hear was the echoes of gunfire and shrill ringing from your unprotected ears.

What was that?

You swore you could hear voices coming toward you.

“It’s alright, lass.”

You jumped as you felt someone touch your shoulder and cursed behind the tape in your mouth as the unidentified man tried to soothe you. It wasn’t until he pulled your blindfold down and you were greeted with his bruised face and ruffled mohawk that you calmed down, focusing your gaze on his icy pale eyes. He wasn’t one of the men who took you.

“I’m gonna take this tape off, ye good wi’ that?”

You frowned at the man, unsure if he was speaking english. You weren’t used to that accent, what was that accent? Scottish? Irish?

You only had a few seconds to look up at him blankly before he gave up on getting a response and ripped the tape from your mouth, drawing out a scream with it.

“You motherfucker!” you shrieked, feeling a layer of skin peel from your face.

“Easy! It’s ok! What's the sayin’ agian? Best to rip it off like a band-aid, yeah?” he chuckled.

“Not when it’s fucking duct tape over my face, you- you stupid- oh, oh no, my god, oh my god look out!”

You screamed as you caught a giant man emerging through the shadows and through the doorway into the dingy room you’d been wheeled into. A skull mask obscured his face and a massive gun was braced in his hands, he looked as if he could take on an entire army by himself. He was fuck off sized and ready to kill.

Your rescuer whipped around and raised his gun at your shout, body bracing and ready to defend you. Though, as he faced the hulking behemoth behind him he relaxed and lowered his gun again, cursing you through gritted teeth. Though, he turned back around to you with a smirk.

“He might be a scary lookin’ bastard, but that ones on our side,” he explained, slinging his gun behind him and getting to work on the tape on your wrists. “Sit tight and I’ll get you out of this in a sec, ok?”

“Is she hurt?” the masked man asked, flicking his dark gaze over your slumped body.

“Nah, doesn’t look like it,” the first man replied.

“She is scarred for life actually,” you huffed out, clutching your one freed arm to your chest. “What the fuck happened? Who the fuck are you two?”

“Settle down, princess. For now we need to get you out of here and back to your father, quickly and quietly, yeah?”

His accent was different from the other man’s, though to you it was just as difficult to make out through that thick gravely timbre. That one was definitely english, you thought, it sounded like ones from TV shows you’d watched when you were younger. It made you wonder what the hell the two brits were doing rescuing you when your dad was an American general.

Did he find them on Craigslist or something?

Typical of him to find a couple of brutish thugs to come fetch you rather than calling on one of the teams that he worked with, you thought sourly.

Though, as both your arms were free and you stepped onto wobbly feet you grew to appreciate his choice in rescuers more as they both towered above you. Even if they weren’t American they clearly knew their way around a fight.

“We’re gonna need you to follow us and do exactly as we say, ok? There’s still a few men lurkin’ about and if you want to get back to your family in one piece, we’ll need to avoid them,” the first man said, putting his hand on your tensed shoulder.

“You haven’t even gotten them all?” you hissed, escaping from his hold and backing against the cracking wall behind you.

The room was unfinished, crumbling from bullet holes and exposure to bad weather from the open windows. It looked like something straight out of a movie set, Soderbergh eat your heart out.

“We’ve gotten most of them,” the Scottish/Irish man shrugged, reaching around to secure his gun in his arms once again. “Some probably ran off durin’ the fight, but we can’t assume they aren’t hiding somewhere waitin’ for us.”

“Just be a good girl and do as you’re told, ok princess?” the other man growled, turning away from you and walking back out of the room.

Your mouth dropped open and just as you were about to fire off another retort, it died in your mouth when you heard a shot ring out from the hallway.

“All good, LT?” the first man called out, ushering you behind him.

“Solid, Soap,” the other man replied.

Soap?

That’s just great, you thought, you were stuck with a man named soap and his big ape of a friend wearing a spirit halloween special across his face. You could practically feel your chances of survival drop through the ground and into hell. You could feel the hot flames licking at your feet already, biting at your toes. Or perhaps that was the fact you’d been stuck in heels for an inappropriate length of time. Who knew?

“Alright, lets get movin’. Remember to stay close and stay quiet. We don’t know where these guys are hiding,” Soap reminded you. “Stick to my back and we won't let anythin’ happen to you, alright?”

You were out of sass for the time being. You could only nod your reply as you followed his orders, too afraid of him leaving you behind as he started advancing out of the room.

You might have felt annoyed at the fact they were treating you like a stupid little girl, but you were too wrapped up in the adrenaline of the situation to object anymore. You’d heard the gunfire, could still hear the echoes of it pelting through your ears. You knew you couldn't afford not to listen to the two incredibly patronising soldiers before you.

“Try to keep your eyes up, lass,” Soap whispered, gazing back at you briefly before heading through the doorway.

“Why do I have t- oh fuck!”

You could’ve thrown up as your eyes connected with the bloody corpses that littered the hallway like flies on a roll of catcher paper. There were so many of them. You could feel the bile fighting its way up your gullet as you stopped against the wall and closed your hazy eyes. Bodies. Actual dead bodies.

You’d never seen one before. Yet here you were surrounded by them, queen bee of a dead hive. It was too much. Staying up felt like fighting gravity and you were reduced to a pile on the floor in no time, huddled on a relatively blood free patch and stuck still against the rough chalky grey wall to your side.

“Ghost, we’ve got a problem,” Soap muttered, staring down at you with a worried look.

There were a few seconds of blessed silence where you closed your eyes and everything was ok for a second. You weren’t in a shithole crack den building in god knows where and instead you were back at the hotel, getting ready to go to bed with your girlfriends. Yes. You were going to put on pyjamas and take some painkillers and peace the fuck out till noon the day after.

“Fuckin hell.”

The growl brought you out of your daydream and soon you were looking up at the cold crocodilian eyes of the now named Ghost. Had he expected you to do better in the hallway of a thousand corpses?

“Alright, princess, up you get.”

You whimpered and expected him to offer you his hand to get you to your feet again, but you were taken by surprise when he leaned over you and enveloped you in his huge arms. You weren’t sure what the hell he was doing at first, but all became clear as you were hoisted over his shoulder and sprawling down his back like a chef’s tea towel.

“What the hell, dude! Put me down,” you growled out, thumping your fists against his thick layer of tactical gear.

“Quiet down, sweetheart. It’s not like you’re much use in those heels anyway,” he growled out, tugging on one of your silvery strappy shoes for emphasis.

“You can’t just pick me up like a sack of fucking potatoes!” you protested, continuing to feebly fail to fight your way out of his grasp.

“Apparently I fuckin’ can,” he chuckled, rumbling in that horrible patronising voice of his. “Now…Settle. Down.”

And with that he started moving again, taking you past the tour of bodies that you’d folded at moments before, stepping through them like you might do through a botanical garden. The men were poked full of bullet holes and some even had knives jutting out of their skulls, but it didn’t seem to phase your rescuers. They were in their element. You were decidedly not.

You felt like you were going to be sick and wondered briefly what the terrifying man would say if you were to throw up on him. Would he drop you as revenge? You quivered in his arms as he moved through the halls, following his partner faithfully in the shadows, only seeing by the light of the moon in some sections of the house.

Not soon enough, after being thoroughly traumatised for two lifetimes, you emerged out of the house you were in. Only hearing two more men be taken out before you were free to breathe fresh air again. You cleared out the disgusting smell of coppery blood and gulped in huge breathfuls of clear night air.

Air. Moonlight. Stars. You were in a barren front garden in the middle of nowhere. You could see out for miles toward that inky black sky on the horizon.

It wasn’t like something out of a nightmare anymore, this was real. And it was a new kind of scary. It was night and it was cold and your shivering renewed again as the giant placed you back down on your feet and let you stand on your own.

Why was it so fucking cold?

“You see anyone else?” Ghost asked his partner, sticking faithfully by your side.

“Negative. Think we’re good to move out, LT,” Soap said, giving his surroundings one last careful scan.

“Thank fuckin’ god. Might even get back to the safehouse before mornin’ at this rate.”

Safehouse?

What?

“Um, what do you mean safehouse?” you prodded, feeling the cold start sinking into your clattering teeth.

“It’s a house that’s safe,” ghost ‘helpfully’ provided.

“I fucking know that,” you said through gritted teeth, “what I mean is, why the fuck are we going to a safehouse? I need to go home. I need to get to an airport or something or like- like you should be calling me a helicopter or something! Why would we go to some safehouse and stay here any longer?”

“Your dad ordered us to take you there once we had you secured,” Soap said, staring over at you with a calculating gaze. “Now are you going to come get in the car yourself or does Ghost need to pick you up again?”

Fuck you.

You didn’t give either of them the satisfaction of answering.

- 👑-

“He’s doing this to punish me isn’t he? It’s fucking typical you know! Only he would pull this shit, only my dad would find out I got kidnapped and send in two fucking random Englishmen and not even want to get me home-“

“Whoa! Watch it!” Soap shouted, interrupting you mid rant. “You can call me a lot of things, but don’t fuckin’ call me English, sweetheart.”

“English, Scottish, Irish- whatever the fuck you are! Point is he should be here! He shouldn’t be letting me stew in some random safe house with you two…two- two strangers,” you whined, throwing your arms up in the air. “For all he knows you could both be serial rapists!”

“We’re two strangers that just saved your life, princess,” Ghost grumbled from the front seat. “And if your dad is punishing you, then I think I’m beginning to see why.”

Your mouth dropped like a lead weight and you stared daggers into the mirror, catching Ghost’s cold eyes in the reflection. He was still wearing the mask.

You were driving on country road that stretched almost limitlessly into the horizon but for some reason he was still in disguise. Not that you cared to see his face! No, if anything, you hoped you’d be out of their company much sooner rather than later for him to reveal himself. Though, that wasn’t going to happen it seemed, so you resolved to make that everyone’s problem. Share the burden of being abandoned to Mexico.

“In case you haven’t realised; I’m not exactly accustomed to dead bodies and I’ve just come from the midnight showing of night of the living fucking dead here! I should be getting wheeled into a therapists office right now, not getting bundled up into another strange house, spending the night with Micheal Myers and groundskeeper fucking Willie,” you growled out, penetrating your gaze into Ghosts very soul, hoping he’d feel a shred of pity for you.

However, you weren’t doing a very good job of that. Instead of knocking sense into the big brute you only made him narrow his eyes at you. And to add even further insult, Soap choked back a laugh. Though, he composed himself quickly after casting a glance at the leuitenant and focused his eyes back on the road.

“You’ve got a funny way of sayin’ thank you, princess.”

And that was the last thing he said to you before ignoring you completely. No matter how much you moaned and groused and demanded to be taken back home, neither of the men would answer your cries. Typical men!

They left you to marinade in your own self pity - in a dish that was endlessly deep. Afterall, how could your father not appreciate how stressful your ordeal was? Sure, you both had your differences, but you’d have thought that even he would put his malice for you aside on account of an actual real life kidnapping!

After a few more miles of barren road you found yourselves coming to a small village, and started to slowly roll toward a modest concrete house on the outskirts.

It was two floors high and painted a sandy cream colour, with a small sheltered space to park the car and protect it from the elements. It seemed as if it might just fit you and Soap through its tiny door, the ceilings didn’t look that high. And it was the thought of Ghost being stuck in its old wooden frame that made you finally crack a small smile for the first time since you’d been taken.

“Any complaints about the exterior before we step in, sweetheart, or would you like to save your scathing words for when you’re inside?” Soap teased as he opened the car door for you.

“Very funny,” you huffed, smile disappearing you made sure to knock into the door as you stepped out. “Maybe you can go make fun of some terrorist victims next.”

Soap raised his brows, but didn’t bother to dignify you with a reply. He closed the door behind you instead and walked up to house and unlocked it for you, ushering you inside. Not that there was much to walk into.

There was some basic furniture, a ratty old couch, a table and chairs, a kitchen that hardly seemed stocked and an old orange cloth rug that looked like it had seen better days. The place smelt like old newspapers for some reason, and all in all, it didn’t inspire much hope in you for the rest of the house. And just as you caught yourself thinking that, you knew you’d already proved Soap right. You had many, many, many complaints.

“Well, I drove. So I bagsy first shower,” Soap announced, trailing off toward the creaky wooden stairs at the end of the hall. “Try not to cause world war three while I’m gone.”

You balked as you felt Ghost brush past you, successfully getting through the door. Who had Soap directed that last order at? Jeuss. You were the kidnapping victim and somehow you didn’t qualify for washing up first? What was this?

Chivalry was truly dead. Though, it wasn’t like they’d rode up in white horses when they’d come to get you, no they emerged through a cloud of bullets and snatched you out of the house like a drug bust they could trade in for on the sly.

“And what am I supposed to do now, hm?” You said, turning to the man now shedding his gear like a second skin onto the couch.

He didn’t give you a response though, instead he just finished off pulling the various packs and armaments off of himself until he was left standing in his uniform and mask. He looked a few pounds lighter, but he was still massive compared to you. The equipment didn’t bulk him out quite as much as you’d suspected.

“Is there a phone I can use?” You finally asked, exasperated with the silence.

“No.”

He grunted as he took a seat on the couch and rolled up his sleeves, exposing his thick tattooed forearms. You couldn’t help but feel that that was some kind of threat. Though, your suspicions were eased as he shuffled around and crossed his arms around his head, lying down and closing his eyes.

“So, what? We’re just waiting to see when my dad magically shows up?” You needled.

“You asked If there was a phone that you could use,” he reminded, glancing over at you with slitted eyes. “Why don’t you go get some rest princess, there’s rooms upstairs that you can whine in in peace.”

What!

You clenched your fists at your sides and growled out in frustration. How was it that you were stuck with one of the most insensitive men in the world right after you got kidnapped? In fact it felt like you were being held hostage all over again.

Well you weren’t going to sit there and take it this time!

Before you could think about how bad an idea it was, you marched straight over to the sofa and started digging through Ghosts things. You crouched and moved aside all the smaller pouches and sharp pointy things trying to find anything that might resemble a phone. Though you didn’t get much of an opportunity to look, you were swiftly dragged up to your feet by the masked man and knocked away from his stash.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He barked, not sparing a single decibel from piercing your already abused ears.

“I need to use a phone! I need to call someone!” You screamed back. “I need to tell people I’m alright. My friends must be worried sick and you’re treating me worse than a prisoner! E-Even prisoners get their phone calls!”

You tried desperately to fight against his hold, and screeched and hit against him like a banshee. However the man was solid, his hands were digging into your skin like a bear trap. And even as you tried to scratch at him, it didn’t deter him any. He just held you against him, making you smell the sweat off of him, the bullets, the smoke, you breathed him in as he pinned your hands flush to your body and screamed out as it became too much.

“In case you’ve forgotten, princess, we’re hiding out in a safe house right now because you’ve just been bloody kidnapped! You can’t call anyone because we need to keep the line clear and wait for word from back home. This isn’t fucking vacation, sweetheart, this is a fucking mission,” Ghost roared.

You froze at his words. Your body felt like it had been hit by lightning and all of a sudden you could feel the storm in you shifting. All of the adrenaline was draining from you and just like that, you went from fighting like a rabid dog to blubbering like a baby. You broke down in his arms and felt the tears flowing freely back down your cheeks and fell back against him defeated.

“Oh Jesus,” Ghost muttered to himself.

Of course you hadn’t forgotten you’d been kidnapped. You were just dealing with it all in the only way you could. it just so happened, that when you fell back on instinct to get you through hard times it would result in you being, well as your dad put it, a massive pain in the ass. You were sure that Ghost would say the same.

You didn’t even try to compose yourself, you were too upset to think.

So, as Ghost came to that conclusion too, he decided to take matters into his own hands and picked you up again. Though, instead of putting you over his shoulder this time, he held you tightly against his chest and carried you off into one of the side rooms further into the house.

The floor protested with every step the big man took and even over your shaky sobs, you could hear the wood below groaning like a zombie. He checked in the first door, and then the second on the wall to the right, coming to a stop when he found what he was looking for. Through blurry eyes you could see that you were in a small bathroom. A messily tiled room that contained an old wooden cabinet, a sink and a toilet.

Ghost sat you down on the closed toilet seat and pulled some tissue from the roll, pressing it into your limp hands. You looked down at it like it was alien for a second, not sure what to do until you met Ghosts unwavering gaze. You needed to dry your eyes and get control of yourself.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, princess,” he sighed, turning and reaching into the cabinet.

You gulped down a fat sob that had been threatening to come and sniffled softly instead. As much as you begrudged him, you knew Ghost’s logic was sound. You needed to get a hold of yourself and stop crying in front of him. He was hardly the sympathetic audience for it.

In fact it almost made you laugh when he turned back again and his skull mask caught the light. The hard plastic only served to remind you that he wasn’t going to sit and rub your back and make you feel better about it all. It was like he said, this was a mission for him, and his only concern was getting you out of Mexico alive.

“There you go, deep breaths,” he said in a hushed voice, putting his hand on your shoulder for a second.

The warm contact was comforting for a fleeting moment, his hand was gentle yet firm on you before he took it away. He’d fetched a cloth from the cabinet and stepped over to the sink, running it under the water and stepping back to your side. You’d expected him to hand it to you just like he had done with the toilet paper, but instead he took you by surprise and crouched at your level, stepping down from his massive height.

He smoothed the cloth over your cheeks and down your tear tracks, softly clearing up your sensitive skin. When he’d brought the cloth away and refolded it, you’d half expected it to be a muddied black from your makeup but there were only traces of grey. You’d cried most of your makeup off already. Then, after a few more goes at letting him clear up your face you almost jumped out of your skin when a piercing ring sounded out from the living room.

“Stay here,” the soldier softly ordered, handing you the stained cloth.

Ghost ducked out of the room, and you lamely held the cloth in your hand, listening out to what he was doing. He silenced the ring, presumably answering the phone he’d secreted away, and for a second all there was was fuzzy silence and the low ringing that hadn’t left your ears.

“Mhmm,” Ghost grunted, his rumble cutting clear through your tinnitus. “Yeah we’re clear I reckon. Didn’t pass anyone on the way in…no one awake, no curtains twitching…your daughter is-…mhmm…yeah…ok. Well just so you know, your daughter is…fine by the way.”

The gruff man said the last part quietly, and it was that that clued you into the fact your dad probably hung up before he could catch it. He didn’t care how you were, only cared that you hadn’t been killed by a foreign gang. That probably wouldn’t have done his image any favours, you thought to yourself. What man wasn’t able to protect his family? A high ranking general at that. All that mattered was that you were safe and he didn’t have a PR crisis on his hands. How you were doing was none of his concern.

You gulped thickly when Ghost reentered the room and did your best to put on a brave face. He didn’t say anything. He flicked his eyes over your grave expression and took the cloth back from your hands, wetting it under the tap again and handing it back to you.

“Those must be killing you,” he murmured, gesturing to your feet.

You startled when he spoke again, not used to having a conversation with someone who’s lips were hidden behind a skull facade. It was quite unnerving when his rasp broke through the cloth.

Eventually though you nodded, looking down at your feet and finally acknowledging all the blisters that had formed where the straps had dug into you. The shoes had been new, you’d been excited to wear them when you put them on earlier. Now, they were just another regret among many.

“Let’s get them off, hm?”

You nodded again, caught by surprise by the tender way that he was dealing with you out of nowhere. Perhaps out of pity after speaking to the General. You had no way of knowing if he was sympathetic to that type of thing. He was a soldier afterall. They dealt with much worse than emotional neglect and were often oblivious to the cold way your dad treated you. At least in your previous experience of them...

Ghost got to his knees and softly took one of your feet in his hands, turning it slowly this way and that a couple times, until he caught sight of the tiny buckle. He dealt with it like he was diffusing a bomb.

He carefully took the end of the strap in one hand and lifted the buckle with the other, gently letting the catch come loose. Then he slid the shoe from your foot and repeated the process with your other. You had to do a double take. Was this really the same man that had all but snapped at you like a vicious dog earlier?

“Thanks,” you whispered, still uselessly holding the cloth in your hands. “Did the General say when we could leave?”

Ghost frowned as you addressed your dad by his title, but quickly fixed his eyes into that familiar cold stare. He thought to himself for a moment before he answered you. He was probably scared you’d kick off again, you realised.

“He said he wouldn’t get here till evenin’ at least. Said he’d be bringing a chopper though.”

“Ok.”

You didn’t have anything else to say. You’d run out of words, and steam and any kind of fight and all the things that had kept you going before.

You were going to be stuck with the two strangers until almost the next day. There was nothing you could do about it, no one you could complain to, no one that cared. You might as well just accept it.

- 👑-

You’d ended up taking Ghost’s advice afterall. You’d finished cleaning up in the bathroom yourself and painfully trudged upstairs with your swollen feet, searching out the first bedroom you could find along the gloom of the lonely hallway. The lightbulb flickered and danced as you’d made your selection, chasing you into the room as it mimicked the gunfire you’d seen flashes of not hours ago.

It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep, not like you thought it would.

You’d been convinced you’d be left sitting like a character in a movie. Painfully watching the walls in the cold silence and mourning the life you could have had if only you came from a loving home. However, as much as you loved dramatics, you weren’t fit to live up to the hurting girl stereotype.

You realised that when you woke up again and the sun was shining through your room like a big bright fuck you. You thought you were getting a moment's peace? Think again. You were going to be awake for the rest of your internment at the safehouse.

You sighed and scanned the room with your eyes, taking note of the peeling paint and sparse bits of furniture, confirming what you already knew. This room was just as shitty as all the rest. It wasn’t like there was any reason to maintain safehouses beyond being structurally sound and stocked with essentials, but it would’ve been nice to provide some comfort. At the very least they could’ve made it smell better, less musty, less like a place people came to rot.

“You’re awake.”

You yelped when you heard the voice break through the calm and looked over to the door, spotting the looming spectre that stood in your entryway. Ghost. Had he been watching over you the whole time you slept? You didn’t know whether to feel creeped out or grateful for the fact he was so concerned about your safety.

“I am,” you finally said.

“Good. I thought I’d bring you something to eat.”

Perhaps he hadn’t been watching over you after all. Maybe it had been Ghost’s footsteps that had woken you up. It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination, he sounded worse than a herd of cows when he creaked across the floors.

You sat up when he walked into the room and caught a glance at the bowl in his hands. Something to eat was a good description of what he’d brought you. It looked like he’d heated some spaghettios. Not exactly the most appetising thing that you could think of, but given you hadn’t eaten since the morning before, you realised that beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Not that you were often, if ever, a beggar. It was easier for your family to give you unlimited access to money and shut you up than it was for them to spend any time in your presence arguing that you should work for it.

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking the bowl off of Ghost after staring at it for a few seconds.

There was a spoon already shoved into the bowl, and when you picked it up, you found yourself wincing at the burning metal. Ouch. Ghost couldn’t have warned you they were hot? You glared up at him, but he was already retreating back out of the room, seemingly content that you had everything you needed.

But you didn’t feel like you had everything you needed at all.

You felt pathetic admitting it, but you didn’t want to be alone. Your ears were still ringing even hours after the firefight had ended and there was nothing to do in that bland room all alone. And now to top it all off it felt much too hot and sweaty. You felt like you might go mad. You softened your features again and called out to Ghost, praying against all odds that he’d indulge you.

“C-can you stay?”

Ghost paused and turned his head, his skeletal mask caught the golden glow of the sun. It didn't look right. He looked out of place in the sunlight. Though, you knew better than to voice that thought, he wasn’t going to stay if you insulted him again.

“If you really want me to,” he finally replied, tilting his head at you.

You nodded and watched as he looked around and found no alternative but to sit on the end of the double bed, and sighed as he plonked himself down. The bed rippled with his weight, and you almost let the bowl spill out of your hands, but thankfully caught it before it could drop.

That wouldn’t have been good, you thought. You’d already set yourself on eating it all when it had cooled. You couldn’t go without food any longer or your stomach would be gurgling like an alien. How embarassing.

“Did you manage to get some rest too?” you asked awkwardly, testing the spoon in your hands again.

“Some,” he answered, casting his eyes over you. “Soap traded places pretty quick.”

“What an asshole,” you snorted, lifting a spoonful of pasta to your lips and blowing on it.

“That arshole saved your life, princess,” Ghost reminded you, voice regaining its husky edge. “Show some respect.”

“I didn’t-I mean…I just figured you could’ve probably used the rest, I was just joking…Sorry,” you muttered, resigning yourself to eating instead of talking.

Ghost watched intently as you ate every last spoonful, but you ignored him, finding yourself greedily taking on more and more as you recognised your own hunger. You forgot about Ghost’s scolding for the moment as you felt your hunger pangs rattling from deep within you. Though, you felt a little better after finishing the bowl. You were going to eat so much when you got back home, you thought to yourself.

You set the bowl down on the floor and looked back at your rescuer, staring awkwardly at him for a few moments. The silence was making your skin crawl. Why wasn’t he saying anything?

“Do you ever take off that mask?” you blurted, feeling your cheeks heat up as you said it.

Ghosts eyes took on a glint as you’d said it and if you weren’t mistaken it felt like he was…smiling? You bit your lip and looked away from him, focusing instead on a particularly chipped patch of paint on the wall to his left side.

“Why? Do you want me to take it off?” he asked, amusement lacing his tone.

“I just- I don’t get why you still have it on. The bad guys don’t know we’re here, right?”

“Maybe I’m just shy,” he teased, leaning back on the bed, his forearms rippling as they supported his weight.

You snorted at his answer, folding your arms across yourself. Suddenly you were all too aware of the fact that he was staring at you bare faced, messy haired and still in yesterday’s tiny dress. There was no way that he was shy, and it seemed unlikely that he was ugly under there. He walked and talked like a confident man, like a man that had never questioned himself. How exciting.

“Has Soap ever seen your face?” you asked, picking at the loose threads on the blanket you laid under.

“Why the sudden fascination?” he grumbled. “I thought I was a big scary serial rapist or somethin’?”

You winced as he threw your words from earlier back to you, it felt like you’d been burned with acid. You realised how stupid you sounded now. He’d held onto that.

“I didn’t say that you were one, I said that you could be one,” you corrected, sighing at your own stupidity. “I didn’t know who you both were, in fact I still don’t. I guess- I guess I just got freaked out, is all. Do other people not react a little crazy when you go on rescue missions?”

“Other people tend to be more gracious, at the very least,” he snorted.

You winced again.

You really were a princess sometimes. As much as the nickname had been annoying you all night, the soldier wasn’t wrong to call you it. They’d been good enough to put themselves in harms way and carry you through a sea of threats only for you to turn around and return fire, calling them names.

You put your head in your hands and groaned. You always slung your arrows at the wrong people. Always got prickly with people that tried to help. And they’d helped you more than anyone ever had.

“Thank you for saving me. I know it's a little late, but all the same…thanks for getting me out of there alive,” you murmured, catching a glance at his widened eyes. “And for- um, dealing with me earlier. That was nice of you cleaning me up like that.”

Ghost took a second to recover from you actually thanking him, his eyes staying open and shocked before returning to their usual shadowy state. They looked almost black even even in the sunlight. Though, you supposed it didn’t help they were hidden behind cloth and plastic.

“You’re welcome, darlin’” he rumbled.

Your heart skipped a beat.

“Darling?” you grinned, preening at the warmth in his tone. “Am I growing on you?”

“Like black mould,” he groused, “Can’t get rid of your questions, can I?”

“You did not just compare me to mould,” you growled, forgetting yourself - and who you were facing up against - and shooting toward him with a pillow in hand.

Ghost, cast his eyes from you to the pillow and turned, catching you before you could do anything stupid with it and held you against the wide expanse of his chest again. You were held solidly against him, packed in tight and before you could do anything else, you were disarmed and your pillow was plucked right out of your hands and thrown back to the head of the bed.

“What’d you think you were gonna do with that then, ay?” he growled, his mouth dangerously close to grazing your ear.

His breath was warm on your neck and it raised a trail of goosebumps across your flesh. You shivered in his arms, feeling his words send a shock through your body, and felt yourself go limp in his bulging arms. Why was he suddenly so much more enticing when he had you pinned down like this?

“Ay?” he asked again, releasing a low chuckle. “You think you can attack me, princess? Think you can do a bit of damage with those little arms?”

“I think I could do a lot of damage if you let me,” you breathed, scraping your lip under your teeth.

The lieutenant paused and held you very still for a moment, his arms stiffening over your body like he’d moulded to you. Oh no. Had he not liked that, you wondered. Had you just embarrassed yourself again?

“Are you flirting with me?” he asked, voice not losing his amusement.

Oh good. So he wasn’t disgusted with you.

“Maybe…depends on if you liked it or not.”

“And if I liked it?”

“Then, yes, I was.”

You both sat in silence for a second, you stayed trapped in his arms, holding stock still while he mulled over what you’d said. What now? You didn’t have to wonder very long, he released you and turned your body so that you faced him again, balancing precariously on your hands and knees, capturing your face in his hands so that you were forced to look at him.

“You should be careful who you flirt with, princess. It’s like you said earlier, I’m a stranger in a mask, you have no idea who I am…No idea what I’m capable of,” he trailed, letting your own mind take over the implication he was getting at.

Not that you got the point that he was trying to make. If anything the whole thing was suddenly hotter to you. A rough fuck with the giant soldier that just rescued you from a gang of kidnappers and could pin you down like you were nothing? Hadn’t he sensed your issues from a mile off? Maybe he had, maybe that was why he said what he said.

“Maybe I wanna find out,” you whispered.

You shot forward and kissed where you supposed his lips must be and, luckily, guessed correctly. You could feel him tense up in surprise before yanking you off of him and pinning you under him, holding your body down against the bed with his sculpted body, his legs caging yours in and his hands holding your wrists like manacles.

“Give me one reason you want to, other than spiting your father,” he purred, eyes glowing with amusement and curiosity.

So he did know your game.

“You have a sexy voice,” you tried, fluttering your lashes in a way that you hoped would work on him.

“Fuckin’ americans,” he grunted, laughing lowly to himself. “I want somethin’ better than that.”

“Didn’t think you’d be the type to go fishing for compliments,” you snarked.

With that little comment , you were rolled over quicker than you could comprehend and before you could turn to see what he was doing he slapped you on the ass. It was solid, no nonsense. Enough to sting even though he’d done it through the fabric of your little dress. He wouldn't have to do much to expose you and make it hurt more. He’d just have to flip up the fabric.

“Answer my question,” he growled, still holding one of your hands captive.

“Because I want you to teach me a lesson…because you’re the first person in a long time that’s had me minding my manners,” you sighed, using your free hand to give your body leverage enough to rut against the soldier's bulging crotch.

“Fuck me,” Ghost grunted, voice losing its sharpness as you rutted against him.

“That worked?” you grinned, half shocked that it clearly convinced him.

“You could have any cunt from England, princess, and plenty of em’ would sound like me. You think that they could make you beg like I can?” he questioned.

You were tempted to give him a sassy reply, but already knowing you too well, he hit you with a couple more spanks, this time on your bare ass and finally slipped your skirt up so that he could admire the flesh he was abusing. You gasped as he ran his hands over your cheeks and whimpered when he ran a finger over your slit. You practically feel his eyes glowing like laser sights as he connected with your glistening flesh and paused so that he could dip his finger into you and confirm his suspicions.

“Please,” you whined, praying that he’d start moving it, praying for friction.

“Looks like I’ve got my answer,” he chuckled, removing his soaked finger and slapping your ass noncommittally. “Please what, hm?”

“Please,” you cried out, feeling awfully empty as he’d withdrawn. “Please, I want your fingers. Want you to finger me please.”

“Aw, so cute when you’re all needy, princess. Alright. If you ask me nicely, I’ll give you what you want.”

“I did ask nicely!” you whimpered, feeling your body burning with desire for him.

It felt like he was all you could think of now. The kidnappers and the whole resentment thing you had going for your family was a distant memory and all that remained was Ghost. All that remained was burning lust and a need to have him inside of you, possessing you wholly and taking you for his own.

“You’re such a little brat, princess. I just told you that you could have what you wanted and you just had to go spoil it for yourself,” Ghost said, his voice forging into a chilling point. “Looks like you need to be taught better manners.”

You groaned at his words, but you didn’t get much of a chance to work out what they meant. Instead, his hand rained down hard on your already stinging flesh and he spanked you like it was his next mission. You cried out as the smacks began to burn more and more and wriggled in his grasp, fruitlessly struggling against him and fighting his expert hands to no avail.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” you chanted, giving him what you thought he wanted.

“Sorry, what?” he asked, accentuating each word with a slap.

They were softer than the ones he’d been giving before at least. Like caresses against your screaming skin, fiery with his rough treatment.

“Sorry…for not asking nicely,” you said quietly, hoping to god he’d just give you what you wanted.

“Sorry, sir,” he grunted, running his hands over your hot skin.

“Sorry, sir,” you repeated quickly, sighing as his gentle touch soothed your prickling burns.

“That’s better.”

You hummed as his nails scratched down your cheeks and settled into the bed, feeling like the stiff blankets were transformed into egyptian cotton as your head grew fuzzy. His hands really were quite skilled, especially since he was so easily able to have you howling one second and then had you curling up like a cat the next.

“You wanna do this for the rest of the day or you wanna try asking for what you wanted again?” Ghost asked, his voice softening as he watched you relax.

“Mmm, would rather have your fingers inside me please, sir,” you moaned, smiling contentedly to yourself.

“That’s better…good girl.”

Your masked soldier grabbed your hips in his hands, making you feel tiny as he yanked you up like you were nothing. Yanked you into a half kneeling position as you kept your head pasted onto the bed, not having the strength to bring it up. Then finally, just as you were about to start begging again, spat on his hand and pierced his finger back inside you.

You groaned at the intrusion and whined as he slowly pumped it in and out, getting you all worked up and turning you into a moaning mess. You were burning for more, your belly tightening as he worked his digit in and out and circled your clit with his other hand like it was an art. You whined and writhed and clutched at the sheets, crying out as he added another finger and increased his pace. You could feel the rumble that caught in his throat reverberate through your chest. ‘

“So pretty. Your cunt’s so wet and you’re clenching on me so hard. What would happen if I shoved my cock in there? Would you cum right away, princess?” he purred.

You whined out at that and felt your need light up anew, could feel it vibrate around your skull and through your gums. Yes. Stick your cock in me. That’s all you wanted, you wanted the big man on top of you, pinning you down and boxing you in like an animal, fucking into you like you were his own personal fleshlight. Fuck.

“Ohmygod, please fuck me, Ghost!” you cried out, “Please, oh my god please, sir! Please fuck me.”

Ghost chuckled and slowed his pace, bringing his fingers to a near stop. It was like hell, the tingles dampening throughout your body, your high being torn from you. You growled out and tried to claw your way up, tried to face him and see the stupid glint that would no doubt be in his eyes, but before you could he shoved you back down and tapped your ass again.

“We don’t have condoms here, princess. It’s not exactly standard protocol,” he teased. “Doesn’t seem like such a good idea.”

“I don’t care! I’m on birth control and I get checked out by the doctor every month,” you whined, fighting against any argument he could make against giving you his cock.

“Well…I suppose that changes things,” he grunted.

Thank fucking god! You were sure you were going to d-

“Fuck!”

Your strangled cry pierced the room as he replaced his fingers and thrusted into you, shattering you inch by inch with his massive cock. It seemed endless, it was torturous in all the right ways, the burn that licked through your body like a forest fire. He was huge, not that you doubted that of course.

“That what you wanted, hm? That feel good, princess?” Ghost said, coming to a stop as he filled you completely. “Tell me, how does that feel? I wanna know if anyone else has been able to make you as fuckin’ speechless as this.”

You whined out, scratching at the bed underneath you like a trapped animal and breathed in thickly, wondering if your lungs would ever recover from the events of the last few hours. Wondering how to answer Ghost. How did it feel? Did anyone else compare to him? What stupid fucking questions.

Nothing compared.

“It feels so fucking good, feels like you’re gonna split me in half,” you gasped, rocking yourself against him. “Need you to move, need to feel you ruin me!”

“Oh yeah? You need me to move? What a slutty girl telling me such filthy things,” he growled, reaching around and grabbing your neck, not quite enough to choke but enough to let you know he was in control. “Tell me, slutty girl, who’s in charge?”

“You, sir!”

“Who gets to wreck this pussy?” he asked, slowly begining to fuck you, rocking himself slowly in and out of you at an agonising pace.

“You, sir!”

“Are you my little whore?” He asked again, building up speed a little, catching you in all the right places and turning your head to mush.

“Yes sir,” you cried out, feeling yourself coming closer and closer to the edge.

“Good fuckin’ girl, princess.”

You screamed as he upped his pace out of no where and fucked you like it was his job. Your eyes lost focus and your teeth gnashed together and suddenly it was a fight to stay upright as he pounded in and out of you and held your neck tightly in his firm grasp. It wasn’t like anyone you’d been with before, this was a new level of fucking you’d never experienced.

“Fuck!” you cried out again. “Gonna- gonna cum.”

“Yeah? Good, cum for me. Clench on my cock, little slut.”

You moaned out and gripped the sheets underneath you tighter, feeling your whole body shaking as his cock forced you off balnce. Just a few more thrusts and-

It felt like bliss, it felt like a high from a drug you’d just taken for the first time. You came with a muffled scream as Ghost clamped his hand over your mouth and gasped wordlessly as he continued to fuck you. In and out, in and out, it was about all your mind could process as your body zipped and sparked like it had been hit by a thunderstorm.

He kept going like that, absolutely relentless, skewering you and turning you to mush below him, making you feel like dirt at his knees. You were nothing, you weren't any kind of princess, you were just his toy. And you fucking loved it. You loved that he could make you feel like that, but still make you feel so fucking precious as he continued to caress your skin and growl affirmations every now and then.

So fucking pretty.

Mine, princess, you’re mine.

Feel so fucking good, you’re so fucking good.

You cried out as he put his hand around your throat again and put on some pressure, making you struggle a little to pull in air, but not by much. It felt exquisite. The tremors of your last orgasm were still bolting through you and now another one was building. You felt so good, felt so impossibly warm as you struggled beneath him. Fuck, you never wanted this to end. But you knew you could hardly take much more.

“You gonna cum for me again? Gonna give me another one before I finish? C’mon, I know you have another one in you, princess.”

You whined and felt your thighs shaking like they were going to collapse and suddenly his fingers closed tighter round the sides of your throat. You gasped loudly a couple times, trying to pant out that you were close, but the sound couldn’t quite form in your mouth. Then, in no time at all it was hitting you again, that high, that euphoria. Another orgasm.

“Fuck!” Ghost growled out.

You clenching around him had sent him over the edge and all too soon, you were both collapsing into the sheets like falling scaffolding. You clattered down against him and he pulled you close. He bucked his hips a couple times as he finished inside you, grunting a little with the increased sensitivity he felt as you shifted against him. It was divine.

You were both wrecked.

Neither of you said a word as you laid there, both keeping your eyes closed and your mouths open as you panted into the arid empty air. There was nothing to say. You just had to soak in the moment and retreat into each other's bodies, accepting the burning, unbearable heat you were both giving off and enveloping each other in it.

Fuck.

“Is that a better way of saying thank you, sir?” you finally moaned, grinning to yourself as you proved yourself right.

That was one way to teach you some respect alright.

#ghost x reader #ghost #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #john soap mactavish #cod mw2 #cod fanfiction

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zolawffy · 1 year

Text

Calling them out their name!

Ft. Zoro, Law, Crocodile, Doffy, Sanji, luffy.

Zoro

Zoro was literally minding his business and training. He was clearly trying to focus. But you decided to go bother him, the usual.

“Zozo!!” You call out to him. He sighed in annoyance because he heard you coming. However, he couldn’t stay mad because he hasn’t seen your pretty face all day. He took a long glance at the beauty before him before continuing his training.

“Hey.” He said positioning all 3 of his swords. You knew he was serious because he had his bandanna on.

“I’m bored we should go out today before its too late..” you say eyeing him. He still didn’t even look your way. So you got a little upset. He just ignored you.

“Zo.” You said firmly.

“What is it Dammit, I’m a little busy here woman.” He said lifting the dumbbells off of his swords. You decided to do something very crazy to get his attention.

“Why you gotta be a bitch all the time?” You said resting your head against your hand. Oh girl you thought he didn’t hear that? You heard the dumbbells drop and his swords did too.

That mf was caught ALLLLLL THE WAYYYY off guard. You seen a vein or two pop through his forehead. He was mumbling and cursing under his breath, he was mad as hell. He took his weights and trained elsewhere.

poor zo.. 💔 dont worry you guys made up.

Law

Law was just sitting down on the couch. Earlier, he’d act like it was such a task to swap places with the pile of clothes, making it easier to get the clothes into the correct room.

You were mad at him because you had to do it all by yourself. However, you weren’t that mad when you developed one of your silly plans in your head.

You never called Law out his name before. But the way he’s looking at you while acting lazy, had you on boiling point.

“You’re a bitch sometimes, law.” You said before his eyes shot open. He was appalled too. He rarely ever heard that word come out of your mouth anyway.

“M’ sorry mama.. you don’t have to call me names. I’ll make it up to you.” He said motioning to the cushion beside him.

Law was too sweet and too chill to actually react badly. He doesn’t like that you called him a bitch but he understands why you did it. Though it wasn’t right. He still love you thoughh.

Crocodile

Ma’am i think you’ve lost your mind.. 🧠 here ya go.

Crocodile was sitting in his office working away, the usual. And it was toooo quiet. He looked at his watch snd calculated that you should be walking in any minute now.

That’s when you came into his office.

“There you are, Sweet girl..” he said signing his papers.

“Hi croc. You said you’d take me shopping today.” You smiled as you leaned onto his desk. Your favorite store had new clothes come in and you heard its selling fast. So croc promised to take you there.

“Did i now?” He said signing away. You started to pout and doubt he was even listening to you. Which he wasn’t. You sighed aloud.

“Yes and the clothes are gonna sell out before we get there.” You said pouting.

“Cheer up sweetheart. My work ran a bit overtime today. I still have a lot to d—“

“You Dick head! You’re a liar too.”

He laughed then removed his cigar and blew his smoke. “Is that what i am, sweet girl? Sweet girls don’t use that language.” He said firmly.

You were mad. So so mad. So you decided to keep going.

“Ughh you stupid fucker—!” You yelled at him. But he just stared at you. He didn’t laugh this time.. i think you done it.

“That mouth is gonna get you in trouble, girl.” He stood up.

Lets just sayyy you wont call him out of his name again and he madd sure of it.. you gonna need a wheelchair maam, take one and go. 🦽🦽🦽

Doflamingo

Listen here ma’am, NOT A GOOD IDEA!!!

You were talking to your friend, (one of doffy’s servants) and you both were talking about Doffy.

Doffy was sitting at the stool at the kitchen island reading a newspaper about himself. So he wasn’t paying attention to you guys.

“He can be a bit ruthless sometimes, i dont know hoe you do it..” she said looking at you with sympathy.

“I mean yeah you’re right he is a bitch sometimes.” You shrugged. You heard a grunt and you turned towards him.

“Oh really.”

“Yes really and you know that.”

“Have you forgotten respect already, darling?” He said getting to eye level with you.

Yeaaah that night you definitely got a little punishment. And yes he did use his strings.. i got a lil lazy for this one but i might add moree.

Sanji

Sanji is too precious to do anything to hurt you. However if you called him out his name, he would feel like he did something horrible.

So he would make you a variety of foods, lights some candles, give you a bath, massage you, PAINT YOUR TOES, AND GIVE YOU SOME WINEEEEE. and maybe even some fun time after. Just to make up for his guilt.

Luffy

Luffy— of course he did something. He’s always doing some.

He ate ALL YOUR DAMN FOOD THAT YOU WERE SAVING!! what more do you have to do.. you wrote your name on the box and he still doesn’t listen.

He ate all the food and you called him s bitch. He just laughed and said the food was good. Poor luf luf doesn’t care or doesn’t know what it means.

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wh0re43van · 7 months

Text

I’ve always cared (Jimmy Darling X Reader)

Summary: Elsa took you in, seeing herself in you, when you and Jimmy were just 6 years old. Everyone at the camp loves you, Ethel has taken you under her wing, but Jimmy is much less than thrilled with your presence.

Warnings: smut, mentions of alcohol

Word count: 2.7k

A/n: I’ve gotten a couple requests, it may take a bit longer than expected because Im in college and I’m swamped at the moment, but I am working on them! This is just a Jimmy imagine I had been working on for a while. I tried to make this one a bit shorter! Thank you for reading, enjoy!

I glance at the wooden clock hanging on the lilac wallpaper covering my small trailer. 3:00pm, I better go meet Thomas, my new beau, at the entrance of the carnival. Hopefully Jimmy minds his business this time. It seems like every time I bring a date back here, he scares them off.

I look in my mirror, straightening out my purple and white dress before walking out the creaky metal door. As I step out onto my porch, I glance over at Jimmy’s trailer which happens to be about 50 feet from mine. He looks away and takes a sip out of his whiskey glass, resuming his reading of today’s newspaper. Theres always been tension between us. Well, more like a blatant dislike towards me. Jimmy always managed to get me in trouble with Elsa when we were little, now he constantly chases off boys I bring home. Whenever I would ask him why he hates me so much, he would just walk away, so I gave up.

I walk through the giant clown mouth and up to Thomas’ automobile as he steps out.

“Hey suga’. ” Thomas flashes a bright smile and pulls out a comb to slick back his dark hair.

“I’ve missed you Thomas,” I beam as I lean up to peck his cheek. I grab his hand to lead him back to my trailer.

As we approach my door, I see Jimmy glower over his newspaper. Not at me, but at Thomas. They make eye contact, and neither one wants to look away first. Seeming to be in some weird battle of unspoken dominance.

“Why so crabby, lobster boy?” Thomas teases. I roll my eyes. To my surprise, Jimmy says nothing. Just sips his whiskey, still refusing to break eye contact.

“Thomas quit it,” I huff then all but shove him into my trailer.

“I don’t know what that guy-“ I halt his words with a soft kiss, putting my hands on his chest.

“Don’t pay attention to him,” I smile and pull his black shirt from behind his buckle and over his head. “Just pay attention to me.” I bite my lip and a devilish smile creeps onto his face. I push him onto my bed and turn on the radio before straddling his waist, dipping down to kiss his neck. Thomas reaches up to close my blinds above my bed.

•

Jimmys POV

•

I see some shuffling out of the corner of my eye. I glance up at Y/n’s window to see that bastard shirtless with her on top of him. He notices my looking and gives me a sly wink before closing the blinds. I feel my face contort into a scowl and my blood pressure raise. I gulp down the last of my whiskey before I slam the paper down, shaking the table and knocking the glass over, but I’m too pissed to care. I march over to where my mother is starting supper.

“Why is she allowed to do that?” I huff, pointing at Y/Ns trailer.

“Why can who do what, son?” my mom asks while chopping some celery.

“Y/n,” I take my hat off to scratch my head. God, she makes my skin crawl from anger. “Why is she allowed to bring random guys here all the time?”

“Oh Jimmy,” Ma shakes her head. “She’s young and beautiful, let her have her fun.” She grabs the celery and turns to take it to a big pot. I follow her with angry footsteps.

“Yeah, well my trailer is 50 feet from hers Ma. I’d prefer to not have to hear her ‘fun’ every weekend.” I argued. Ma turns to look at me.

“Maybe if you brought some ‘fun’ back here for yourself you wouldn’t be in such a tizzy,” she raises her eyebrow. I narrow my eyes at her, grunting in annoyance before storming into the main tent. My mother had managed to make me even more angry, possibly because she might be right.

“Elsa!” I shout throwing the striped curtains out of my way. Elsa turns around in the fold up chair, removing a cigarette from her mouth.

“Yes, boy? What is it?” She asks flatly.

“Tell me why y/n is allowed to bring normies snooping around here for free all the time,” I question, stomping up to stand in front of her.

“Its not for free boy. They often come back with their families or friends for the real show. When she picks the wealthy ones, they even buy refreshments. So, are you asking why I’m allowing free publicity?” she pauses to take a drag off her cigarette. “I hope not because that’s a stupid question.” she exhales the smoke in my face. Once again, I march away, even more heated with whiskey sloshing in my veins. “dummer junge.” I hear the crone mutter in German as I beeline towards y/n trailer. A storm opens up, pouring down rain as if matching my emotion.

•

Y/N’s POV

•

Thomas leaves wet kisses on my neck as ‘put your head in my shoulder’ plays from my old stereo. I set down my glass of wine to help him unbutton the blouse of my dress. His eyes shimmer with lust as I reach behind my back to unclasp my off-white brazier. Out of no where, my door swings open.

I snap my head to my doorway as a very angry, slightly drunk Jimmy crashes through. I freeze as Thomas jumps off me, his face flushing in fear. He just stands above us for a second, Jimmy stares at me, I stare at him, and Thomas stares at Jimmy.

“Get bent lunkhead!” Jimmy snarls at Thomas. I’ve never seen this look in his eyes before. The boy next to me grabs his shirt and bolts out of my trailer into the rain. I call for him and stand to run after Thomas, but Jimmy grabs my wrist firmly. He stares into my eyes, glancing at my chest. My cheeks reddened in embarrassment. I was a bit too tipsy and stunned to realize my whole chest is exposed.

“Let me go Jimmy!” I pull my arm away, turning around to pull the top of my dress back around my shoulders and clumsily fastening the buttons. “Jimmy get out!” I holler, too wine drunk and embarrassed to deal with his shit. I turn to face him. He just stares at me with glossy eyes and his brows furrowed in a way that almost scares me.

“Fine. I’ll just leave then,” I huff brushing past him, storming out into the thunderstorm. Jimmy follows close behind me.

“You think you’re so fucking perfect!” He shouts. I turn around.

“What are you on about Jimmy?” I shout back in confusion, my voice being crowded out by the heavy rain falling around me. The man stumbles towards me, his white shirt sticking to him as the rain soaks in.

“Everyone thinks you’re some perfect little princess!” he yells with whiskey on his breath. “You have them all wrapped around your pretty little finger, even my own Ma adores you! But not me Y/N,” he screams while toddling closer to my face.

“Get your drunk ass out of my face!” I shove him back, but he doesn’t even move. “What are you even talking about?”

“You’re perfectly normal Y/N!” he slurs slightly, seeming to not even notice that I pushed him. “You don’t need to be here! Go out into town! Get married and have a normal life with a decent guy and quit fucking sleeping with guys who obviously want nothing more than your body! You just keep getting hurt!” He screams, grabbing my shoulders and basically shakes me.

“Don’t touch me!” I slap his hands and step back. “Since when do you care about me or what I do?” I scream right back, spitting some rain out of my mouth that’s running down my face. Surely, he can smell the wine on my breath just as I can smell the whiskey on his

“Since fucking ever Y/N! I’ve always cared,” he shouts the first line, softening at the second. What? Our screams stop, the sound of the rain floods my ears. I just now feel how wet my skin is, how soaked my dress has become.

“Well you sure have a poor way of showing it,” I say still bitter, but much more quiet.

“Truth is, I’m jealous of you Y/N. ” he admits almost in a whisper, still inches from my face. “you’re just so perfect. Your face, your body… your hands. You could be in the pictures! You’re just so…” he trails off maybe searching for words. All the rage flees from his eyes and it’s quickly replaced by admiration and guilt. Before I know what’s happening, Jimmy’s lips are on mine. I’m shocked, but oddly enough, I’m not upset. The boy pulls away and puts his hand on my wet cheek as the storm continues to come down in sheets around us. “You’re so perfect it makes me angry, and I’m sorry for how I’ve treated-“

I don’t need to hear anything else. Maybe it’s the alcohol in my system, but I cant help to pull him back into another kiss. He returns the motion. Kissing me with a passion that’s been building for 15 years. He doesn’t need to speak; I can feel his guilt in the kiss and see it in his eyes. Maybe it’s foolish, but I don’t care. All I care about now is Jimmy’s lips on mine. Our kiss turns from slow and passionate to hard and desperate. Jimmy slips his hands under my ass, and I jump to straddle him.

“Lets go inside Jimmy. Let me get these wet clothes off you,” I pant in his ear. He almost runs, busting the door to my trailer open for the second time today, but this time with me in his arms. He sets me down on my feet not breaking the kiss. Wet clothes go flying around the small space in a whirlwind. Within a minute Jimmy and I are stripped down to the bone. Jimmy carries me over to my bed, laying me gently on my back.

“Jimmy,” I look up at him as water drips from his soaking wet curls onto my bare chest. “Do we really want to do this? I mean we both have some alcohol in our system,” I feel like I’m in a dream, everything has happened so fast.

“Y/N, I know it may not seem like it, but this what I’ve wanted for years. I thought I never had a shot with you, and I feared the rejection. That paired with my jealousy of your ability to lead a normal life...I acted like an idiot. And I’m truly sorry.” Jimmy admits his cheeks redden a bit. I can’t help but smile. I know this should be a sweet moment, but I’m desperate to feel the one man whose always resented me inside of me. I reach up to caress his face.

“I’ll forgive you Jimmy,” My hands snake around the back of his neck to pull his ear down to my mouth. “But only if you fuck me first.” I bite the side of his neck hard, making his breath hitch in his throat. In an instant his already bruised lips are back on mine in a wet kiss. Our tongues fight for dominance, of course he wins. His conjoined fingers reach down to spread my legs. finding his way to my entrance. He dips his hand in, moaning against my mouth at how excited he’s made me. He uses the slick to massage my clit, sending pleasure shoot through my whole body.

“You make me feel so good Jimmy,” I whimper as he leans up to look at my face. He seems to enjoy watching how much pleasure he’s bringing me. He keeps his eyes locked on mine and a big grin on his face as he dips part of his hand in my entrance, the other part still rubbing my clit. The feeling is heavenly, making me arch my back. I moan his name in praise, but he does this for women every weekend. I’m not just one of his whore customers. “I don’t want your hand jimmy,” I reach down grabbing his hand to move it away. He looks confused, almost hurt. “I said I want you to fuck me. I’m not just a bored house wife,” I bring his hand up to my mouth kiss his fingers, tasting myself in them. I want him to know that I’m not insulting his hands, I just want more than them. I sit up reaching between his legs to give his perfect cock a few pumps. His eyes squeeze shut and he tenses at the contact. “I want all of you Jimmy,” I whisper. “Lay down.” I command as I stand from my bed allowing him to lay in my place. He watches me with wide eyes, audibly gulping as I crawl on top of him. Settling between his legs, taking his dick into my mouth. He gasps, his hand quickly finding my hair, pulling it out of my face so he can watch me gag on him.

“Fuck Y/N” his words come out in a husky groan. “Shouldn’t I be pleasing you?” he asks before whispering some more profanity’s. I take his dick out of my mouth with a pop.

“Oh Jimmy don’t worry im I just getting you ready for me,” I grin, sliding his length between my fingers. “As much of a cock block you’ve been the past couple years, you have a lot to make up for,” I remind him as I line him up with my entrance, steadying myself with one hand on his sweaty chest.

“I am more than happy to pay up for that,” he smiles as I tease my self with his tip. “Especially since my efforts were successful. I almost feel sorry for those guys though,” as soon as he’s finished that last word I sit down slowly until he’s entirely inside me, the feeling of him filling me up making my toes curl. Jimmy lets out a breathy moan. “because if a man ever denied me this pleasure, I’ d stomp his fucking brains in. Y/N Y/L/N, you are truly a site to behold.” He grins with a look of lust and admiration in his eyes, reaching up to cup my breasts in his beautiful hands. I begin to grind slowly, my hips moving against his.

“And Jimmy Darling, you surely know how to make girl feel special even when your cock’s buried seven inches inside her,” we laugh as I begin to bounce up in down. The laughter quickly turns to moans and the sound of skin slapping against skin. Jimmy slides his large hands down to my ass to help me bounce on him, thrusting his hips up as he slams my ass down, repeatedly pounding into me impossibly deep, making me scream out his name so loud I’m sure everyone in the city could hear. A knot begins to form in my stomach and my hand finds its way to my clit rubbing in circles to help my orgasm build. Jimmy seems to be in a trance. His eyes following my body up and down like he’s being hypnotized.

“Just like this Jimmy please! I’m so close,” I scream out. My voice going horse.

“That’s it doll. Cum for me. I need it baby.” he grunts out. Jimmys encouragement pushes me past the tipping point. I come undone around him. Feeling such intense pleasure like I’ve never felt before. I clench and feel myself release, accidently squirting on his stomach, something I’ve only ever done once before. That was enough to make jimmy cum. I was only able to feel embarrassed for a second before jimmy threw me off him, barely able to get me off in time, shooting his thick strands of cum all over my leg as he clumsily attempts the stroke himself. I grab his dick, helping him ride out his orgasm. Jimmy stares into my eyes, his mouth agape, brown curls sticking to his forehead, and-

“Jimmy, are you drooling?” I ask unable to contain my smile. He quickly reaches up to wipe his mouth with his arm.

“I can’t help it doll,” he pants out, his dick still twitching. “you’re just so mesmerizing. I never imagined that I’d see you like this.” He admits. I giggle crawling up to lay my head next to his.

“Well, I’m glad you liked it, because you owe me a lot more, don’t forget.” I remind him. He reaches over and grabs the pack of cigarettes that Thomas left behind, popping one in his mouth. I grab the matches, lighting the white paper for him.

“For this? Doll you come get me, night or day,” he promises, exhaling smoke. I giggle and nuzzle into his chest. This was by far the best apology I’ve ever received.

#evan peters #jimmy darling x reader #evan peters x reader #evan peters smut #jimmy darling smut #jimmy darling imagines #kit walker x reader #kit walker imagine #kit walker smut #kai anderson smut #kai anderson #ahs asylum #ahs murder house #ahs hotel #ahs cult

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corinthianism · 4 months

Text

everything has changed | dean winchester (1)

pairing: dean winchester/f!reader additional tags: reverse isekai, fluff, crack, meet cute, slight angst

summary: once again, dean lands in the reality where he’s just a fictional character played by jensen ackles. it’s annoying the hell out of him and he just wants to go back home, until he doesn’t.

masterlist | next chapter | ao3

CHAPTER ONE: A SIMPLE NAME

Today was supposed to be a normal day. It was your day off and you were on your way to check out a new shop that had opened downtown. They sold a bunch of fandom merchandise, which wasn’t special or anything, but you were hoping they had a nice keychain that you could clip onto your bag. The paint on your old green lightsaber keychain had flaked off, leaving behind an ugly gray rod of steel instead of Luke Skywalker’s iconic weapon.

The shop wasn’t far; in fact, you could’ve walked it, so you did. It was nice out today, and it was one of the rare opportunities you had to actually get out and get some sun, what with work eating up all of your hours. You’d barely made it a few blocks when you noticed a man lying face-down on the ground, his cheek smushed directly against the hot concrete.

You panicked, not sure if you should rush in and help or run away. Very far away. While you were busy in your own head, the guy in question rolled to his side, revealing a very familiar face.

No fucking way.

“Jensen Ackles?”

Jensen groaned, pushing himself up from the ground, “What’d you say, lady?”

You swallowed and repeated what you said, “You’re Jensen Ackles, right? The actor?”

The man in front of you was no doubt Jensen Ackles, from the green eyes to the freckles that were dusted all over his nose and cheeks. It’d been years since the media last heard about him; him and Jared Padalecki basically shut down Supernatural when they quit out of the blue, after Misha Collins was murdered. Their representatives all said the same thing: that they were just having a hard time mourning their friend and that they needed to take some time away from the limelight.

But neither of them came back or at least, no one had heard from them since. Until now, that is. And for some reason, Jensen was all dressed up as Dean.

“No, I’m… Goddamn,” he winced as he tried to stand up, clutching his side with one hand. When you approached him to help him get up, you saw the crimson liquid that oozed from underneath his clothes and all over his hand. “I’m… I’m fine, lady, don’t worry about it.”

“Jesus Christ!” you staggered back at the sight of blood, the starstruck feeling suddenly replaced by shock. “You are not fine, dude, you need to go to a hospital!”

“No, I don’t,” his voice was gruff, more so than when you heard him in person the last time there was a Supernatural convention. That was years ago, back when you were still in braces and listening to Panic! at the Disco. Now, he sported a somewhat-noticeable Midwestern accent and asked you question after question that you weren’t really processing, all while keeping a mostly straight face despite his heavily bleeding wound. He spoke again, “What year is it?”

The question was odd enough to finally snap you out of staring at the bloodied patch on his jacket and out of your inevitable freak-out, “What?”

“I said,” he planted his feet firmly on the ground. “What year is it?”

“It’s… 2024?” you raised a brow, but your primary concern was getting him somewhere safe so he could be patched up. “Sir, I think you need to get some help.”

He fully ignored you, opting to instead frantically look around and march away to God-knows-where. You weren’t sure what to do except follow him, worried that the wound on his side was much worse than it looked. Judging from how much blood there was, it had to be deep. Probably a stab wound.

You really didn’t wanna think about it.

Following Jensen led you to a newspaper and tabloid stand, with him haphazardly flicking through today’s newspaper to find whatever it was he needed to find. You debated on whether or not you were gonna call 911 because of the wound, but he seemed entirely unaffected, or if he was, he did a good job of not showing it.

You both just stood there for a few minutes, and you couldn’t help but notice how he became more aggravated the more he read through the papers.

“Um, sir?” you cleared your throat, trying desperately to calm the panic rising in your chest.

He didn’t listen.

“Mr. Ackles… can—” you took a deep breath, “—can you please calm down and tell me what’s going on? Sir?”

He only frowned even more, clenching his jaw as he tried to absorb the words on the pages, instead of listening to you. Christ, this man was stubborn. Not at all what you thought he’d be. Then again, celebrities weren’t your friends.

You were getting frustrated, too. Then, an idea struck. You weren’t sure if it was going to work, it was stupid as hell, but you had to try.

“Dean?” you said the name softly.

He finally looked at you, though in all honesty, it was more like a side-eye. But it was something, so you kept going.

“Dean,” the name felt weird on your tongue as you repeated it. You were calling an actor by his character’s name. Who does that? “Can you please tell me what’s going on? I only want to help.”

“Sweetheart,” he gave you this big charming smile which you could only assume was a bit mocking.

“Dean…” you returned the favor, saying his name as sweetly as you could but the pettiness in your tone vanished as soon as you saw him wince again in pain. It would’ve been easier to let him go and to just go home, but you couldn’t leave him alone like this. He didn’t seem to have a car or even a working phone. “You’re clearly hurt. Please, just let me help.”

He let out a sigh of defeat, accepting that yes, maybe he needed some help, “If you want to help… where’s the nearest burger joint? And do you have a first aid kit?”

So there you were, sharing a burger with Jensen Ackles, except he only answered to the name Dean. You led him to a small diner, which was becoming increasingly rare in the area. The sign outside spelled out SMITH’S BREAKFAST DINER in a retro font, though the lights didn’t work anymore. The place had been operating since the late 80s, and never really got around to keeping up with the trends. Regardless, you kept coming back. They had good food, good music, and Suzanne always called you “darlin’” in a sweet Southern accent every time you came in for a quick bite.

You chewed your burger slowly, your mind wandering to the crazy possibility that you were actually sitting in front of Dean Winchester, not Jensen Ackles. If that was the case, you hoped the diner would bring him some comfort. From what you saw in the show, him and Sam always frequented places like these. The thought that he might actually be the character and not the actor was still so insane, to the point where you couldn’t even really enjoy your food like you normally would.

He was also munching on his burger, shamelessly groaning in delight. His eyes were even closed… which was definitely a good thing because you’d been staring at him the whole time. It took him less than two minutes to chow the whole thing down.

You knew some people who’d met Jensen at conventions, back when those were still a thing. They always said he was nice and considerate, and all that. Or that he smelled nice. Sitting here in front of him, there was only one thing that was stuck in your head.

This man, whoever he was, Jensen or Dean… he was incredibly attractive. But that wasn’t the point.

The point was, he looked like he needed help and honestly? You didn’t really know why you wanted to help. Perhaps you just had nothing better to do. Maybe it was something deeper than that. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to have “saved a celebrity” on your resumé.

“Dean” took a big gulp of the Coca-Cola in front of him, letting out a refreshed sigh. Then, without warning, he pulled out whatever was lodged in his side. The suddenness of his movement, combined with his pained groan, startled you. A few of the other patrons of the diner cast confused looks your way, which you tried to play off with a nervous smile.

A sharp clunk caught your attention and when you looked back at the table, there was a bloody shard of glass right next to your iced tea.

“What the fuck?!” you whisper-yelled, quickly covering up the glass with some napkins before someone else could see it. You turned your attention back to “Dean”, who was taking a few breaths to calm himself down as he began discretely disinfecting his wound. You wanted to be mad, you really wanted to, but your fourteen year old self would scream at you if you did not help this man. And the way he flinched every now and then as the hydrogen peroxide pricked at his wound certainly earned him some pity points.

“So… uh, do I really call you Dean?” you started lamely instead of reprimanding him for his callousness, still trying to wrap your head around the possibility that this might really be Dean Winchester. “Like the guy from Supernatural?”

He groaned at the mention of Supernatural, briefly stopping his movements to cast an unimpressed look at you, “Yes, you call me Dean, ‘cause it’s my name, lady.”

You steeled yourself as he went back to treating his wound, “Yeah, well, you don’t have to be a dick about it.”

Dean stopped again, his brows relaxing into a more neutral yet somber expression, as if you’d just hit him with a sobering truth, “...Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”

The two of you simmered in an awkward silence for a few moments.

“I just want to help,” you spoke first, trying your best to convey your sincerity to him, “but if you are who I think you are then I understand why you might be hesitant to clue me in on what’s going on.”

“And who do you think I am, exactly?” he spared you an intrigued glance, unflinching as the needle pierced his skin.

You popped a fry in your month, chewing slowly as you eyed him up and down, “Well, I doubt Jensen Ackles would get himself injured like that and walk around in broad daylight where the paparazzi could see him and say all sorts of things. Dean Winchester, on the other hand…”

He shifted in his seat to fully face you, a smirk playing across his lips.

“So what? You’re just gonna believe that I'm Dean Winchester?” he raised a brow, squinting his eyes at you accusingly as if to test you. You had to give it to him, it made you waver in your belief, but you stayed firm.

“Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” you offered with a small smile, feeling that the quote described your thought process pretty well. It made you feel smart in the moment, even if you knew full well that it was your teenage self’s delusions resurfacing.

He nodded in understanding and laughed, “Ha! Nice Velma quote.”

You were the one to raise a brow this time, “It’s a Sherlock quote.”

“Oh,” his smile faltered. He cleared his throat, avoiding your gaze out of embarrassment, “...Yeah. Yeah, I knew that. Totally.”

You held in your laughter, biting your lip as you watched the faintest blush spread across his freckled cheeks. The moment sizzled out after a while, leaving you two in a semi-comfortable silence. You noticed how guarded he was, sneaking a glance at you every now and then as he patched up his wound. You understood why; he didn’t wanna be vulnerable in a room where it was only the two of you, so as weird as it was to have a man bleeding out in a breakfast diner, it was still much safer.

It wasn’t like he was the only one with doubts. For all you know, Jensen Ackles had just gone crazy after Misha Collins died. Same thing might’ve happened to Jared Padalecki. You still wondered what on Earth happened to them, but there was something about the man in front of you that made you feel safe. Your first instinct was to trust him, and that had never happened before. It scared you.

Whatever it was, you just had to give this a shot. Maybe it was the feeling that this whole thing was a lot bigger than you could’ve ever imagined.

“What will you do after this?” you asked him, eyeing the needle in his hand.

The question seemed to upset him, even if he was trying his best to hide it. Something shifted in his gaze, his resolve seemingly faltering for a split second. It only intrigued you even more, getting caught up in his every little move like he was a movie you’ve never seen before.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” he offered you a tight-lipped smile, finishing off the stitch with a secured knot, “I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

That answer didn’t make you feel any better. Then, something clicked into place.

When Misha Collins was murdered a few years ago, a “script” for Supernatural was leaked by someone on Tumblr. It spread like wildfire then and you remembered the amount of hate comments the poster got. People assumed it was a weird fanfic to explain how Misha died since the case was never solved and for the longest time, people just stuck with that. A chill ran down your spine as you tried to recall what was in that leaked script.

Sam and Dean were sent to the “real” world by Balthazar using a spell. They were being chased by some angel whose name you couldn’t remember. Misha was killed while the brothers ran away from the angel. You racked your brain to figure out the last piece of the puzzle.

“Wait…” you started, doubt blocking you from saying the rest of the sentence. It was crazy, fucking insane, but if your Supernatural knowledge was as solid as you thought it was, then there was only one explanation for his sudden but subtle change in demeanor. “Please don’t tell me you’re stuck here.”

The frown on his face told you everything you needed to know. He was stuck here until someone from his home universe managed to bring him back.

“Oh my fucking god.”

He chuckled, “Right on the money there, sweetheart.”

“I shouldn’t be believing you just like that. Why am I believing you? You’re not real. I’m going crazy,” you said out loud, half of it going towards yourself and the other half going towards him. “Monsters aren’t real. Hunters aren’t a thing—”

He frowned, “Hey, I know we got off to a bad start but you can’t just be saying that I’m not real.”

“Prove it to me, then,” you hardened your gaze. “Prove to me that you’re Dean Winchester.”

“What?”

“You heard what I said.”

“Dean” sighed, shifting in his seat so that he was sitting a bit more upright and was fully facing you. Then, he tugged down on the collar of his shirt, revealing a very real anti-possession tattoo on his chest. It was blurred around the edges a little bit, having faded with time. A small gasp left your lips as you took it all in.

“That’s…” you looked back up at “Dean” and for the first time, you noticed how much older he was compared to the last time you saw him. Or the last time you saw Jensen Ackles. His wrinkles were deeper, his eyes more tired. There were a few tiny scars littered across his face, nearly invisible if you weren’t watching them so closely. His mousy brown hair had a few grey strands that poked out, as well as some grey peppered around his clean five ‘o clock shadow.

He chuckled once he saw your shocked expression, tapping on the tattoo, “Yeah. Got this bad boy in 2007. Probably saved my ass more times than I can count.”

“What do I even say to that?” you stared at him dumbly.

He realized that you were right. As weird as it was for him to be in a world without monsters and magic, it was probably weirder for you to find out that the world from a TV show was real. He smacked his lips and avoided your gaze, “Um. Yeah. Weird, I know.”

“Weirder than weird, dude,” you sighed, wiping your face with your hands. “I mean, I wanna help, but how the hell am I supposed to help you? You fight like… demons and vampires and stuff. I work from home! On my laptop!”

He looked back at you, smiling awkwardly as you had a mini-existential crisis, “I just, um… Do you have some cash? I got like, twenty bucks in my wallet right now. I just need to get to a motel and you’re never gonna have to see me again.”

Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best way to console a woman in the middle of an existential crisis, but to be fair, the sooner he was gone, the sooner you could get back to your life.

He put back all of the stuff he used from your first aid kit back into its bag, pushing it towards you as he wiped his hands clean with a tissue. He called for Suzanne with a smile, his charm dialed up to a hundred, “Hey, sweetheart, can you pack this up for me? Thanks.”

“Oh, sure thing, sugar,” she beamed at him, before leaning towards you to not-so-quietly whisper, “You done good, hon. Your date right here is such a looker!”

Dean only chuckled lightheartedly at her comment. Suzanne sashayed away with a satisfied giggle, and you had to fight the urge to explode right then and there. You couldn’t believe what was happening to you right now.

You mustered up the courage to speak again, “He shot you a curious look, “What?”

“I…” you deflated. “You can stay at my place. I’m sure I have some clothes there that can fit you.”

“Sweetheart, I appreciate the offer but it’s not safe. Something could’ve come back with me, for all I know,” he leaned back against the faux leather. “I don’t wanna lead it right to you.”

“You’ll keep me safe,” you affirmed, moreso to yourself than to him. “And I’ll sleep better at night knowing you’re comfortable and fed and not in a motel in the middle of nowhere. You don’t have your brother with you.”

He nearly forgot that you knew a lot about him because of Supernatural, scoffing a bit at your words, “What am I? A child?”

“No, you’re a hunter and I’m not,” you reminded him. “I can’t fight against anything that decides to break into my home, but you can. It’s not just about you, I already shot myself in the foot by staying with you this long. Granted, I thought you were some actor who’d gone crazy but—”

“I get it, I get it,” he took a deep breath in, cutting you off. He processed your words, feeling a sense of protectiveness wash over him. It was still risky, yeah, but he couldn’t think of a counterargument. You were right, you were a civilian and if there was something that came after you, it was unlikely you’d survive. “Okay then. You got a deal then, lady.”

You couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief, “Well then, I guess we’re roommates, Winchester.”

“Yeah, I guess we are.”

author's note: and that concludes the first chapter of everything has changed! unlike last kiss, i won't be publishing all the chapters all in one go (since i'm still writing them), so please feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments! of course, reblogs are much always appreciated. see y'all for chapter two <3 p.s. should i start a taglist? let me know as well!

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #fem reader #supernatural #reader insert #supernatural fanfic #spn #spn fanfic #jensen ackles

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willyoubemycherryy · 2 months

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𝐈 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲@luvlydeja 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐢𝐭🤭...

𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝐺𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑐 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 2020 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑒 “𝐷𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑒“ 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑢𝑚 𝑇𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑏𝑣𝑖, 𝑠𝑜 𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑜𝑦 ♡︎ (っ˘з(˘⌣˘ )

❧𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬➬ this is absolutely nasty like I’m shocked at myself lmao, oof um let’s see, detailed kissing, hair pulling, flirting, google translate Italian, shorty gets positively pounded, flirting, teasing, unprotected s3x, manhandling, this is what happens in the hands of the h0rny and untrained😭🫵, lots of orgasms and consensual fun throughout ^^ 18+ MINORS GET OFF OF MY LAWN

“𝑾𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝑰 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒚 𝒔𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒐𝒍...“

࣪𖤐๋࣭ ໒꒱✧. • 𐙚˙⋆.˚. .

Since he’d be staying in Italy for a while, or at least until he got all the interview material he needed, his first act of business would be to learn the language.

True, he could get a translator but it would be more authentic for him to learn since he’d be the one speaking and asking the questions.

Naturally, Gregory decided that a native speaker would be able teach him best.

Enter you.

He had walked into the convenience store you part timed at and instantly forgot what he was there for when he saw you. The prettiest thing in a sundress he’s ever seen, soft skin glowing with a slight sheen from the heat, your alluring features making his heart race faster the longer he looked at you.

You were talking to a customer in Italian, smiling and nodding in agreement before sharing a laugh with them. Gregory swore he’s never heard the sound warm spun silk but now he can say he officially has.

The words from your beautiful mouth flowed so effortlessly that he knew you would be perfect for him.

The old man who you were talking to was a regular, stopping by every Wednesday to entertain you with stories about his “sweetie baby wife” and how the world won’t stop at losing just their minds, they’re lucky he’s not in charge before buying some cigars and leaving with a lazy wave and wink.

Giggling, you wave back, shouting out after him.

“Vacci piano, ragazzo duro~!”

Smiling to yourself, you look from the door to the newspaper shelf only to lock eyes with a tall foreigner.

The first thing you notice besides his height was that he was insanely good looking. Rugged wasn’t quite the right way to describe his features because while they were sharp, he was just too pretty for that. Biting your lip, you noticed he was broad too; barrel wide chest and thick arms, you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone as classically handsome as him.

You’re so busy ogling him that when he’s suddenly standing in front of you, you startle but regain your wit quickly. Deciding to talk first, but in English.

“What’ll it be boss man?” Flicking your eyebrow up with a playful smile as you lean forward behind the register.

Gregory’s blood rushes south at the way your accented voice addresses him with a flirty look in your big almond eyes. Inhaling sharply he can’t help but smirk back at you.

“I’m looking for a translator since I don’t know much of the language here”, he says.

Goddamn his voice was deep.

Nodding your head to play off how flustered he had you, you get an idea.

Hot guy who needed help learning a language that you just so happen to speak AND moan?

You’re in.

While you’re thinking, Gregory looks you over with all kinds of filth running through his head.

You’d look so good whining naked on top of him.

He could live between your thighs.

What would you sound like when he’s stretching you out and fucking you dumb?

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by the clearing of your throat.

“Well most translators overcharge but since I’m so sweet and if you want, I wouldn’t mind helping you out…?” Realizing you don’t know his name, he rushes to give it to you.

“Gregory.”

“Right. Maybe I could help you out, Gregory…what do you think?” Letting your tone go from intrigued to lilting as you tilt your head to the side, looking at him through your lashes.

You were an absolute dream to him.

Stepping closer to you, he leans down to your face; propped up on his elbows near your own on the register and looks down at you with lidded blue eyes before smiling roguishly.

“I would absolutely love that.”

And just like that the learning process began.

You had taught him things like conversation and structure, how and what to call everyone, transitions and connectors, extensive words, places, and even the slang. Learning from you was hard but the difficulty had less to do with the language and more about how badly he needed to make you cum.

There was always this underlying tension between you two since the moment you met; subtle at first but the steady pent up attraction had it leaking into a more than intense desire.

Constant touches, flirtatious looks, innuendos so obvious that they bordered on invitations then came the teasing.

Whispering in his hear the correct way to say something when he didn’t quite get it right, biting your plump lips when you’d smile at him, but the worst, was the way you’d say his name. Rolling the ‘r’ so sexily that more often than not, it had blood rushing straight to his cock.

Moments like now.

“See? Sei un talento naturale, Gregory. Very good”, you say. Praising him sweetly. You were flirting, have been for a while now and you made sure he knew.

But with the way he reacts to you? The undivided attention, the way he’d strip you with his eyes alone, licking his lips and nodding when he focused hard on what you would say, the lingering hugs and wandering hands, not to mention how close his face sometimes got to yours…

It was only a matter of time.

“No~. Questo è tutto tu, bebé.” The low timbre of his voice makes you break out in goosebumps as heat licks up your spine.

“Yeah? It’s all me?”

“Mhmm.”

“How do I know though?”

“Come vuoi che ti insegni?” (How do you want me to teach you?)

Oof. That’ll make your pussy throb-

“THAT, dipende dal tuo stile..” With that it’s now or never as the air becomes thick with tension.

“That’s fine. Mines is ‘hands on’.

And in one smooth motion, Gregory yanks you into his lap, slotting his mouth over yours in a deep kiss.

He fits his hands around your hips as he completely devours you, one hand moving to slide into your hair, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss, the suction of his lips and yours soon give to him nipping your bottom lip before sucking on it to soothe the sting.

It’s so hot it makes you ache as heat soaks into your body and you moan desperately into his mouth. Gregory grips your hair tighter as he pulls it back to look at how pretty you look wanting and seals his mouth over yours again, swallowing your moans in the process.

Your cunt throbs as you hear him groan when he begins to sloppily lick into your mouth, his big tongue pressing against yours, rubbing his cool taste all over your pallet while you twitch and whimper in his strong grasp.

Sloppy wet kissing sounds along with your whimpers fill the room. The sounds would have made you embarrassed but you want him too bad and the way your tongues lazily swirled around each other’s, making more heat pool in your belly then drip down soaking your panties, made you forget about it.

Gregory groans into your mouth again before kissing you even hungrier to the point where you feel him in your throat as your eyes water in pleasure. You were starting need air but you don’t want it, not more than you want him.

He eventually pulls away and you gasp once your airway is free. The sudden influx of oxygen makes you dizzy as your clit throbs and you whine at him, begging with your teary glazed eyes for more.

Your whole body felt hot. The sensations were almost too good as you grind down on his fat length, moaning at the friction against your swollen clit while you unbuttoned Gregory’s shirt; becoming more desperate when you saw his happy-trail.

He pulls you back to his lips in another obscene kiss while you take his cock out, too desperate to take his pants off completely.

You freeze when you feel how big he is, eyes glazing over as you look down with a weak “oh.”

Gregory swears under his breath at your reaction, making a mental note to make you scream before kissing your ear.

“Sì? Babygirl likes seeing such a fat cock hmm?” He coos, making you gasp at his vulgarity.

“O-okay, if you don’t fuck me right now-“, was all you managed to get out before he lifted you to switch positions, you on your back before thrusting into your sopping cunt.

Your mouth drops open in a sharp moan at the stretch, the pressure almost killing you as you gasp and jerk underneath him. Determined not to cum so fast and make it last, but Gregory isn’t doing much better.

You looked so delicious under him, your back arched in pleasure as you cried out for him as he battered your sweet spots, warm and snug pussy drooling around his cock.

“Hnn - nnnnngghhhh!” The vulgar, borderline animalistic sound eventually forces its way through your gritted teeth when he finishes sliding home some moments later, your eyes rolling straight into the back of your head while your stuffed cunt sensitively flutters around the intrusion. He feels massive inside you. Not particularly long, but sufficiently wide enough to make it seem like he had you stretched right to the breaking point. It was simply too much, and your head lolls back in doped out bliss.

Fervently, your arms circle around his neck as he hunches over you so he can brace his hands on either side of your head, groaning as he moves his hips back before slamming them back in, setting a punishing pace as he fucks you.

You’re already toeing the line of a soul shattering orgasm just from having his cock bullied into you a second time, you toss your head back to peer up at him as if in a daze.

The whorish sounds coming from your throat drive Gregory crazy as he feels himself slip with how mind-tinglingly good you feel.

In a matter of moments he seems to be knocking that tender spot inside of you with near expert precision and you can’t quite catch your breath between helplessly bleating out in wordless ecstasy.

“Fuck, you’re so tight on me mami…wet little pussy..! Gonna cum all in you, stuff you full”.

You seize so suddenly it catches you off guard, so rattled at hearing that come out of his mouth that you clamp down on him, hard. You black out while your cunt is sent into a heated pulsing frenzy, wildly squeezing down on his cock so violently that it brings tears to your eyes. Tossing your head back again, you scream for him as you shake weakly through your mind numbing orgasm that you almost miss the moment your cunt erupts, spraying his front in arousal.

You screw your eyes shut with a keening shriek when a second spurt shoots out of you to further soak him but even then he doesn’t let up on the steady push and pull of his heavy girth along your palpitating cunt. Groaning into your mouth as he cums into your soaking heat, hissing through the waves of overstimulation. With no other option, you lie there and take it, your head a mess of static white noise that doesn’t clear up even when you finally start to come down from the high some moments later.

Boneless underneath him, you’re distantly aware of your shared release running down the sides of his cock in warm rivulets where he’s still wedged inside of you but you’re too drunk on satisfaction to care, kissing back weakly as he slips out.

No matter how hard you fight it, sleep overtakes you but one thing is for sure….

You can’t wait to teach him more♡︎. . .

#callum turner #callum turner x reader #callum turner smut #divine 2020 #divine movie #Gregory x reader #callum turner fanfiction #masters of the air #mota #smut #fluff #x reader #d!ck is a mission and I’m on it🫡#permission to cook?#permission was granted🫡

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lavender-clown · 6 months

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MORE COWBOY AU STUFF BECAUSE I’M OBSESSED!!! The au I’ve made with some friends is called Fool’s Gold! I may or may not write some fics for it 👀

Here’s an infodump on it if anyone is interested!!

Raph is tired sheriff who sighs at every newspaper & new wanted poster showing off his blue and purple brothers as well as Donnie’s partner in crime but a he can’t help but be a little proud because he knows their doing good, just in their own special & questionable way.

Mikey is a nomad that travels around & sells self-woven clothes and blankets as well as hand carved & painted trinkets or whatever else he’s made. He treats weary travelers to home cooked meals & tales & legends of four brothers! He’s also the only brother not *constantly* making trouble for Raph.

Leo is a lone hero. Going town to town & over throwing whatever greedy mayor/banker/outlaw has that town in its clutches. He’s able to masterfully manipulate whoever he’s dealing with & using his many resources to gather important information. He ties them up to a post for the sheriff’s convenience when he comes by the town to pick them up.

Donnie & Cass are bounty hunters/mercenaries. They used to chase each other for their bounties & because Cass was a part of the Foot before the brothers took them down & Donnie just so happens to often be the closest to her trail once she popped up again. After awhile of constantly failing to catch each other they started thinking of each other as *their* targets & everyone knew better than to try and catch the other. A fun little song & dance/game of cat & mouse if you will. Eventually they ended up having to run from the same person together & realized that they honestly make a good team & have stuck together ever since!

Shelldon is adopted by Donnie before he & Cass teamed up. He was told by the Purple Dragons to get close to Donnie so they could catch him in exchange for enough money to set him for life, money they had no intention on giving him. He did get close to Donnie but in the end didn’t want to betray him but the Dragons had accounted for that & set off an explosion in a mining tunnel to get rid of them both. Donnie ended up being able to get Shelldon a little clear of the crumbling tunnel before he was trapped under the rumble. Shelldon doesn’t want to leave him but eventually does & immediately goes to try to find help, coming across Leo who had found Donnie’s spooked horse & was trying to find out what trouble Donnie had gotten himself into since his horse never leaves unless something really bad happened. Donnie ends up losing a leg cuz is it truly an F!Donnie if he doesn’t?

Casey is adopted after Donnie & Cass team up. They were in town for some groceries when Raph told them about this kid in some not so great circumstances & said it’d be a shame if someone were to beat up his guardians & kidn@p him while he was busy with all this paperwork. Donnie & Cass were gone before he finished. They weren’t gonna pass up an opportunity where they had permission to do a crime after all!

The main difference between Leo & Donnie’s work is that Donnie always cashes in the bad guys for money & can be hired for jobs as well as uses semi lethal methods while Leo mainly does it for fun & justice (& to mess with Raph) & takes like a free drink as payment before moving on. Leo will leave notes on the bad guys for Raph for when he comes to pick them up.

“The Bread Winners” is the name of Donnie, Casey, Shelldon, & Junior’s gang because Casey’s brownie scouts & my Donnie baker hc. It also shows that they’re in it for the money & fits with how the go undercover as a family often. Plus it sounds innocent enough to disguise how insane they really are.

That is it for now!! Hope some of y’all like it!!

Here’s the drawing without the text in the middle

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hopelesslys-world · 11 months

Text

50 SHADES OF FUCKED UP | CH. 3

TRIGGER WARNINGS!: TOXIC RELATIONSHIP, reader is kind of a bimbo, heavily detailed smut, basically porn, loss of virginity, harsh language, anger issues, stalking, obsession, jealousy, controlling behaviour, DOM-SUB themes, BDSM Expand considered to be portrayed with incorrect/poor etiquette, emotional abuse, physical abuse, sexual abuse/assault, statutory rape.

Tell me if I missed anything...( As you can see most of the warnings will appear in future chapters. )

I apologize for any grammar mistakes...

Y/L/N: Your Last Name

Y/M/N: Your Middle Name

Y/N/N: Your Nickname

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*𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝙋𝙊𝙑*

┅┅

𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀 𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐂𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐂.

“But what was he doing at Clayton’s?” Her curiosity oozes through the phone. I’m in the depths of the stock room, trying to keep my voice casual.

“He was in the area.”

“I think that is one huge coincidence, Y/N/N. You don’t think he was there to see you?” she speculates. My heart lurches at the prospect, but it’s a short-lived joy. The dull, disappointing reality is that he was here on business.

“He was visiting the farming division of WSU. He’s funding some research,” I mutter.

“Oh yes. He’s given the department a $2.5 million grant.”

Wow.

“How do you know this?”

“Y/N/N, I’m a journalist, and I’ve written a profile on the guy. It’s my job to know this.”

“Okay, Carla Bernstein, keep your hair on. So do you want these photos?”

“Of course I do. The question is, who’s going to do them and where.”

“We could ask him where. He says he’s staying in the area.”

“You can contact him?”

“I have his cell phone number.”

Bella gasps. “The richest, most elusive, most enigmatic bachelor in Washington State, just gave you his cell phone number.”

“Er… yes.”

“Y/N! He likes you. No doubt about it.” Her tone is emphatic.

“Bella, he’s just trying to be nice.” But even as I say the words, I know they’re not true – Christian Grey doesn’t do nice. He does polite, maybe. And a small quiet voice whispers, perhaps Bella is right. My scalp prickles at the idea that maybe, just maybe, he might like me. After all, he did say he was glad Bella didn’t do the interview.

I hug myself with quiet glee, rocking from side to side, entertaining the possibility that he might like me for one brief moment. Bella brings me back to the now.

“I don’t know who we’ll get to do the shoot. Levi, our regular photographer, can’t. He’s home in Idaho Falls for the weekend. He’ll be pissed that he blew an opportunity to photo one of America’s leading entrepreneurs.”

“Hmm… What about José?”

“Great idea! You ask him – he’ll do anything for you. Then call Grey and find out where he wants us.” Bella is irritatingly cavalier about José.

“I think you should call him.”

“Who, José?” Bella scoffs.

“No, Grey.”

“Y/N/N, you’re the one with the relationship.”

“Relationship?” I squeak at her, my voice rising several octaves. “I barely know the guy, give me a break Bella.” I roll my eyes.

“At least you’ve met him,” she says bitterly. “And it looks like he wants to know you better. Y/N/N, just call him,” she snaps and hangs up. She is so bossy sometimes. I frown at my cell, sticking my tongue out at it.

I’m just leaving a message for José when Paul enters the stock room looking for sandpaper.

“We’re kind of busy out there, Y/N,” he says without acrimony.

“Yeah, um, sorry,” I mutter, turning to leave.

“So, how come you know Christian Grey?” Paul’s voice is unconvincingly nonchalant.

“I had to interview him for our student newspaper. Bella wasn’t well.” I shrug, trying to sound casual and doing no better than him.

“Christian Grey in Clayton’s. Go figure,” Paul snorts, amazed. He shakes his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, want to grab a drink or something this evening?”

Whenever he’s home he asks me on a date, and I always say no. It’s a ritual. I’ve never considered it a good idea to date the boss’s brother, and besides, Paul is cute in a wholesome all-American boy-next-door kind of way, but he’s no literary hero, not by any stretch of the imagination.

Is Grey? My subconscious asks me. I shut her down.

“Don’t you have a family dinner or something for your brother?”

“That’s tomorrow.”

“Maybe some other time, Paul. I need to study tonight. I have my finals next week.”

“Y/N, one of these days, you’ll say yes,” he smiles as I escape out to the store floor.

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“But I do places, Y/N/N, not people,” José groans.

“José, please?” I beg. Clutching my cell, I pace the living area of our apartment, staring out of the window at the fading evening light.

“Give me that phone.” Bella grabs the handset from me, tossing her silken red-blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Listen here, José Rodriquez, if you want our newspaper to cover the opening of your show, you’ll do this shoot for us tomorrow, capiche?” Bella can be awesomely tough.

“Good. Y/N/N will call back with the location and the call time. We’ll see you tomorrow.” She snaps my cell phone shut.

“Sorted. All we need to do now is decide where and when. Call him.” She holds the phone out to me. My stomach twists.

“Call Grey, now!”

I scowl at her and reach into my back pocket for his business card. I take a deep, steadying breath, and with shaking fingers, I dial the number.

He answers on the second ring. His tone is clipped, calm and cold. “Grey.”

“Err… Mr. Grey? It’s Y/N Y/L/N.” I don’t recognize my own voice, I’m so nervous. There’s a brief pause. Inside I’m quaking.

“Miss Y/L/N. How nice to hear from you.” His voice has changed. He’s surprised, I think, and he sounds so… warm – seductive even. My breath hitches, and I flush.

I’m suddenly conscious that Isabella Clark is staring at me, her mouth open, and I dart into the kitchen to avoid her unwanted scrutiny.

“Err – we’d like to go ahead with the photo-shoot for the article.”

Breathe, Y/N, breathe.

My lungs drag in a hasty breath. “Tomorrow, if that’s okay. Where would be convenient for you, sir?”

I can almost hear his sphinx-like smile through the phone. “I’m staying at the Heathman in Portland. Shall we say, nine thirty tomorrow morning?”

“Okay, we’ll see you there.” I am all gushing and breathy – like a child, not a grown woman who can vote and drink legally in the State of Washington.

“I look forward to it, Miss Y/L/N.” I visualize the wicked gleam in his gray eyes. How can he make seven little words hold so much tantalizing promise?

I hang up. Bella is in the kitchen, and she’s staring at me with a look of complete and utter consternation on her face.

“Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N. You like him! I’ve never seen or heard you so, so… affected by anyone before. You’re actually blushing.”

“Bella.” I whined. “You know I blush all the time. It’s an occupational hazard with me. Don’t be so ridiculous,” I snap. She blinks at me with surprise – I very rarely throw my toys out of the pram – and I briefly relent. “I just find him… intimidating, that’s all.”

“Heathman, that figures,” mutters Bella. “I’ll give the manager a call and negotiate a space for the shoot.”

“I’ll make supper. Then I need to study.” I cannot hide my irritation with her as I open one of cupboards to make spaghetti and meatballs.

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I am restless that night, tossing and turning. Dreaming of smoky gray eyes, coveralls, long legs, long fingers, and dark, dark unexplored places. I wake twice in the night, my heart pounding.

Oh, I’m going to look just great tomorrow with so little sleep, I scold myself. I punch my pillow and try to settle.

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The Heathman is nestled in the downtown heart of Portland. Its impressive brown stone edifice was completed just in time for the crash of the late 1920s.

José, Travis, and I are traveling in my Beetle, and Bella is in her CLK, since we can’t all fit in my car. Travis is José’s friend and gopher, here to help out with the lighting. Bella has managed to acquire the use of a room at the Heathman free of charge for the morning in exchange for a credit in the article.

When she explains at reception that we’re here to photograph Christian Grey CEO, we are instantly upgraded to a suite. Just a regular-sized suite, however, as apparently Mr. Grey is already occupying the largest one in the building. An over-keen marketing executive shows us up to the suite – he’s terribly young and very nervous for some reason.

I suspect it’s Bella’s beauty and commanding manner that disarms him, because he’s putty in her hands. The rooms are elegant, understated, and opulently furnished.

It’s nine. We have half an hour to set up. Bella is in full flow.

“José, I think we’ll shoot against that wall, do you agree?” She doesn’t wait for his reply. “Travis, clear the chairs. Y/N/N, could you ask housekeeping to bring up some refreshments? And let Grey know where we are.”

Yes, Mistress. She is so domineering. I roll my eyes, but do as I’m told.

Half an hour later, Christian Grey walks into our suite. He’s wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, and grey flannel pants that hang from his hips. His unruly hair is still damp from a shower.

My mouth goes dry looking at him… he’s so freaking hot. Grey is followed into the suite by a man in his mid-thirties, all buzz-cut and stubble in a sharp dark suit and tie who stands silently in the corner. His hazel eyes watch us impassively.

“Miss Y/L/N, we meet again.” Grey extends his hand, and I shake it, biting my lip out of habit.

Oh my… he really is, quite… wow.

As I touch his hand, I’m aware of that delicious current running right through me, lighting me up, making me blush, and I’m sure my erratic breathing must be audible.

“Mr. Grey, this is Isabella Clark,” I waved my hand toward Bella who comes forward, looking him squarely in the eye.

“The tenacious Miss Clark. How do you do?” He gives her a small smile, looking genuinely amused. “I trust you’re feeling better? Y/N said you were unwell last week.”

“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Grey.” She shakes his hand firmly without batting an eyelid.

I remind myself that Bella has been to the best private schools in Washington. Her family has money, and she’s grown up confident and sure of her place in the world. She doesn’t take any crap. I am in awe of her.

“Thank you for taking the time to do this.” She gives him a polite, professional smile.

“It’s a pleasure,” he answers, turning his gray gaze on me, and I flush, again. Damn it.

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*𝘾𝙃𝙍𝙄𝙎𝙏𝙄𝘼𝙉'𝙎 𝙋𝙊𝙑*

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Is it just me who makes her blush? The thought pleases me.

“This is José Rodriguez, our photographer,” Y/N says, and her face lights up as she introduces him.

Shit. Is this the boyfriend?

Rodriguez blooms under Y/N’s sweet smile.

Are they fucking?

“Mr. Grey.” Rodriguez gives me a dark look as we shake hands. It’s a warning. He’s telling me to back off. He likes her. He likes her a lot.

Well, game on, kid.

“Mr. Rodriguez, where would you like me?” My tone is a challenge, and he hears it, but Isabella intervenes and waves me toward a chair.

Ah. She likes to be in charge. The thought amuses me as I sit.

Another young man who appears to be working with Rodriguez switches on the lights, and momentarily I’m blinded.

Hell!

As the glare recedes I search out the lovely Miss Y/L/N. She’s standing at the back of the room, observing the proceedings. Does she always shy away like this? Maybe that’s why she and Clark are friends; she’s content to be in the background and let Isabella take center stage.

Hmm…a natural submissive.

The photographer appears professional enough and absorbed in the job he’s been assigned to do. I regard Miss Y/L/N as she watches both of us. Our eyes meet; hers are honest and innocent, and for a moment I reconsider my plan. But then she bites her lip and my breath catches in my throat.

Back down, Y/N. I will her to stop staring, and as if she can hear me, she’s the first to look away.

Good girl.

Isabella asks me to stand as Rodriguez continues to take snaps. Then we’re done and this is my chance.

“Thank you again, Mr. Grey.” Isabella surges forward and shakes my hand, followed by the photographer, who regards me with ill-concealed disapproval. His antagonism makes me smile.

Oh, man…you have no idea.

“I look forward to reading the article, Miss Clark” I say, giving her a brief polite nod. It’s Y/N I want to talk to. “Will you walk with me, Miss Y/L/N?” I ask, when I reach her by the door.

“Sure,” she says with surprise.

Seize the day, Grey.

I mutter some platitude to those still in the room and usher her out the door, wanting to put some distance between her and Rodriguez. In the corridor she stands fiddling with her hair, then her fingers, as Taylor follows me out.

“I’ll call you, Taylor,” I say, and when he’s almost out of earshot I ask Y/N to join me for coffee, my breath held for her response.

Her long lashes flicker over her eyes. “I have to drive everyone home,” she says with dismay.

“Taylor,” I call after him, making her jump. I must make her nervous and I don’t know if this is good or bad. And she can’t stop fidgeting. Thinking about all the ways I could make her stop is distracting.

“Are they based at the university?” She nods and I ask Taylor to take her friends home.

“There. Now can you join me for coffee?”

“Um—Mr. Grey, er—this really…” She stops.

Shit. It’s a “no.” I’m going to lose this deal. She looks directly at me, eyes bright. “Look, Taylor doesn’t have to drive them home. I’ll swap vehicles with Bella, if you give me a moment.”

My relief is tangible and I grin. I have a date!

Opening the door, I let her back into the room as Taylor conceals his puzzled look.

“Can you grab my jacket, Taylor?”

“Certainly, sir.”

He turns on his heel, his lips twitching as he heads up the corridor. I watch him with narrowed eyes as he disappears into the elevator while I lean against the wall and wait for Miss Y/L/N.

What the hell am I going to say to her?

“How would you like to be my submissive?”

No. Steady, Grey. Let’s take this one stage at a time. Taylor is back within a couple of minutes, holding my jacket.

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

He gives it to me and leaves me standing like an idiot in the corridor.

How long is Y/N going to be? I check my watch. She must be negotiating the car swap with Bella. Or she’s talking to Rodriguez, explaining that she’s just going for coffee to placate me and keep me sweet for the article. My thoughts darken. Maybe she’s kissing him good-bye.

Fuck.

She emerges a moment later, and I’m pleased. She doesn’t look like she’s just been kissed.

“Okay,” she says with resolve. “Let’s do coffee.” But her reddening cheeks somewhat undermine her effort to look confident.

“After you, Miss Y/L/N.” I conceal my delight as she falls into step ahead of me. As I catch up with her my curiosity is piqued about her relationship with Isabella, specifically their compatibility. I ask her how long they’ve known each other.

“Since our freshman year. She’s a good friend.” Her voice is full of warmth. Y/N is clearly devoted. She came all the way to Seattle to interview me when Isabella was ill, and I find myself hoping that Miss Clark treats her with the same loyalty and respect.

At the elevators I press the call button and almost immediately the doors open. A couple in a passionate embrace spring apart, embarrassed to be caught. Ignoring them, we step into the elevator, but I catch Y/N’s impish smile.

As we travel to the first floor the atmosphere is thick with unfulfilled desire. And I don’t know if it’s emanating from the couple behind us or from me.

Yes. I want her. Will she want what I have to offer?

I’m relieved when the doors open again and I take her hand, which is cool and not clammy as expected. Perhaps I don’t affect her as much as I’d like. The thought is disheartening.

In our wake we hear embarrassed giggling from the couple.

“What is it about elevators?” I mutter. And I have to admit there’s something wholesome and naïve about their giggling that’s totally charming. Miss Y/L/N seems that innocent, just like them, and as we walk onto the street I question my motives again.

She’s too young. She’s too inexperienced, but, fucking hell, I like the feel of her hand in mine. In the coffee shop I direct her to find a table and ask what she wants to drink.

She stutters through her order: English Breakfast tea—hot water, bag on the side. That’s a new one to me.

“No coffee?”

“I’m not keen on coffee.”

“Okay, bag-out tea. Sugar?”

“No thanks,” she says, staring down at her fingers.

“Anything to eat?”

“No thank you.” She shakes her head and tosses her hair over her shoulder, highlighting glints of auburn.

I have to wait in line while the two matronly women behind the counter exchange inane pleasantries with all their customers. It’s frustrating and keeping me from my objective: Anastasia.

“Hey, handsome, what can I get you?” the older woman asks with a twinkle in her eye.

It’s just a pretty face, sweetheart.

“I’ll have a coffee with steamed milk. English Breakfast tea. Teabag on the side. And a blueberry muffin.”

Y/N might change her mind and eat.

“You visiting Portland?”

“Yes.”

“The weekend?”

“Yes.”

“The weather sure has picked up today.”

“Yes.”

“I hope you get out to enjoy some sunshine.”

Please stop talking to me and hurry the fuck up. “Yes,” I hiss through my teeth and glance over at Y/N, who quickly looks away.

She’s watching me. Is she checking me out? A bubble of hope swells in my chest.

“There you go.” The woman winks and places the drinks on my tray. “Pay at the register, honey, and you have a nice day.”

I manage a cordial response. “Thank you.”

At the table Y/N is staring at her fingers, reflecting on heaven knows what.

Me?

“Penny for your thoughts?” I ask.

She jumps and turns red as I set out her tea and my coffee. She sits mute and mortified. Why?

Does she really not want to be here?

“Your thoughts?” I ask again, and she fidgets with the teabag.

“This is my favorite tea,” she says, and I revise my mental note that it’s Twinings English Breakfast tea she likes. I watch her dunk the teabag in the teapot. It’s an elaborate and messy spectacle. She fishes it out almost immediately and places the used teabag on her saucer.

My mouth is twitching with my amusement. She likes her tea weak.

Enough of this preamble; it’s time for some due diligence in this deal. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Her brows knit together, forming a small v above her nose.

“Who?”

This is a good response.

“The photographer. José Rodriguez.”

She laughs. At me.

At me!

And I don’t know if it’s from relief or if she thinks I’m funny. It’s annoying. I can’t get her measure. Does she like me or not? She tells me he’s just a friend.

Oh, sweetheart, he wants to be more than a friend.

“Why did you think he was my boyfriend?” she asks.

“The way you smiled at him, and he at you.” You have no idea, do you? The boy is smitten.

“He’s more like family,” she says.

Okay, so the lust is one-sided, and for a moment I wonder if she realizes how lovely she is. She eyes the blueberry muffin as I peel back the paper. “Do you want some?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No thanks.” Her voice is hesitant and she stares once more at her hands. Why is she so jittery? Maybe because of me?

“And the boy I met yesterday, at the store. He’s not your boyfriend?”

“No. Paul’s just a friend. I told you yesterday.” She frowns again as if she’s confused, and crosses her arms in defense. She doesn’t like being asked about these boys. I remember how uncomfortable she seemed when the kid at the store put his arm around her, staking his claim. “Why do you ask?” she adds.

“You seem nervous around men.”

Her eyes widen. They really are beautiful, the color is truly majestic. I should take her there.

“I find you intimidating,” she says, and looks down, fidgeting once more with her fingers. On the one hand she’s so submissive, but on the other she’s…challenging.

“You should find me intimidating.”

Yeah. She should. There aren’t many people brave enough to tell me that I intimidate them. She’s honest, and I tell her so—but when she averts her eyes, I don’t know what she’s thinking. It’s frustrating.

Does she like me? Or is she tolerating this meeting to keep Clark’s interview on track?

Which is it?

“You’re a mystery, Miss Y/L/N.”

“There’s nothing mysterious about me.”

“I think you’re very self-contained.” Like any good submissive. “Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were blushing about.” There. That will goad her into a response. Popping a small piece of the blueberry muffin into my mouth, I await her reply.

“Do you always make such personal observations?”

That’s not that personal, is it? “I hadn’t realized I was. Have I offended you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“But you’re very high-handed.”

“I’m used to getting my own way, Y/N In all things.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she mutters, and then wants to know why I haven’t asked her to call me by my first name.

What?

And I remember her leaving my office in the elevator—and how my name sounded coming out of her mouth. Has she seen through me? Is she deliberately antagonizing me? I tell her that no one calls me Christian, except my family…

I don’t even know if it’s my real name.

Don’t go there, Grey.

I change the subject. I want to know about her.

“Are you an only child?”Her eyelashes flutter several times before she answers that she is.

“Tell me about your parents.”

She rolls her eyes and I have to fight the compulsion to scold her.

“My mom lives in Georgia with her new husband, Bob. My stepdad lives in Montesano.”

Of course I know all this from Welch’s background check, but it’s important to hear it from her. Her lips soften with a fond smile when she mentions her stepdad.

“Your father?” I ask.

“My father died when I was a baby.”

For a moment I’m catapulted into my nightmares, looking at a prostrate body on a grimy floor. “I’m sorry,” I mutter.

“I don’t remember him,” she says, dragging me back to the now. Her expression is clear and bright, and I know that Raymond Y/L/N has been a good father to this girl. Her mother’s relationship with her, on the other hand—that remains to be seen.

“And your mother remarried?”

Her laugh is bitter. “You could say that.” But she doesn’t elaborate. She’s one of the few women I’ve met who can sit in silence. Which is great, but not what I want at the moment. “You’re not giving much away, are you?”

“Neither are you,” she parries.

Oh, Miss Y/L/N. Game on.

And it’s with great pleasure and a smirk that I remind her that she’s interviewed me already. “I can recollect some quite probing questions.”

Yes. You asked me if I was gay.

My statement has the desired effect and she’s embarrassed. She starts babbling about herself and a few details hit home. Her mother is an incurable romantic. I suppose someone on her fourth marriage is embracing hope over experience. Is she like her mother? I can’t bring myself to ask her. If she says she is—then I have no hope. And I don’t want this interview to end. I’m enjoying myself too much.

I ask about her stepfather and she confirms my hunch. It’s obvious she loves him. Her face is luminous when she talks about him: his job (he’s a carpenter), his hobbies (he likes European soccer and fishing). She preferred to live with him when her mom married the third time. Interesting.

She straightens her shoulders. “Tell me about your parents,” she demands, in an attempt to divert the conversation from her family. I don’t like talking about mine, so I give her the bare details. “My dad’s a lawyer, my mom is a pediatrician. They live in Seattle.”

“What do your siblings do?”

She wants to go there? I give her the short answer that Elliot works in construction and Mia is at cooking school in Paris.

She listens, rapt. “I hear Paris is lovely,” she says with a dreamy expression.

“It’s beautiful. Have you been there?”

“I’ve never left mainland USA.” The cadence in her voice falls, tinged with regret. I could take her there.

“Would you like to go?”

First Cabo, now Paris? Get a grip, Grey.

“To Paris? Of course. But it’s England that I’d really like to visit.” Her face brightens with excitement. Miss Y/L/N wants to travel. But why England? I ask her.

“It’s the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Brontë sisters, Thomas Hardy. I’d like to see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books.” It’s obvious this is her first love.

Books.

She said as much in Clayton’s yesterday. That means I’m competing with Darcy, Rochester, and Angel Clare: impossible romantic heroes. Here’s the proof I needed. She’s an incurable romantic, like her mother—and this isn’t going to work. To add insult to injury, she looks at her watch. She’s done. I’ve blown this deal.

“I’d better go. I have to study,” she says.

I offer to walk her back to her friend’s car, which means I’ll have the walk back to the hotel to make my case.

But should I?

“Thank you for the tea, Mr. Grey,” she says.

“You’re welcome, Y/N. It’s my pleasure.” As I say the words I realize that the last twenty minutes have been…enjoyable. Giving her my most dazzling smile, guaranteed to disarm, I offer her my hand. “Come,” I say. She takes my hand, and as we walk back to The Heathman I can’t shake how agreeable her hand feels in mine.

Maybe this could work.

“Do you always wear skirts?” I ask.

“Mostly,” she says, and it's another great information about her added to the list; she almost always wears skirts…I like my women in skirts. I like them accessible.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks out of the blue, and it’s the third strike. I’m out of this fledgling deal. She wants romance, and I can’t offer her that.

“No, Y/N. I don’t do the girlfriend thing.”

Stricken with a frown, she turns abruptly and stumbles into the road.

“Shit, Ana!” I shout, tugging her toward me to stop her from falling in the path of an idiot cyclist who’s flying the wrong way up the street. All of a sudden she’s in my arms clutching my biceps, staring up at me. Her eyes are startled; they’re beautiful, more beautiful this close. Her pupils dilate and I know I could fall into her gaze and never return. She takes a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” My voice sounds alien and distant, and I realize she’s touching me and I don’t care. My fingers caress her cheek. Her skin is soft and smooth, and as I brush my thumb against her lower lip, my breath catches in my throat. Her body is pressed against mine, and the feel of her breasts and her heat through my shirt is arousing.

She has a fresh, wholesome fragrance that reminds me of my grandfather’s apple orchard. Closing my eyes, I inhale, committing her scent to memory. When I open them she’s still staring at me, entreating me, begging me, her eyes on my mouth.Shit. She wants me to kiss her.

And I want to. Just once. Her lips are parted, ready, waiting. Her mouth felt welcoming beneath my thumb.

No. No. No. Don’t do this, Grey.

She’s not the girl for you. She wants hearts and flowers, and you don’t do that shit.

I close my eyes to blot her out and fight the temptation, and when I open them again, my decision is made. “Y/N,” I whisper, “you should steer clear of me. I’m not the man for you.”

The little v forms between her brows, and I think she’s stopped breathing.

I step back and she releases her hold on me, yet weirdly, I don’t feel any relief. I slide my hands to her shoulders to ensure she can stand. Her expression clouds with humiliation. She’s mortified by my rebuff.

Hell. I didn’t mean to hurt you.

“I’ve got this,” she says, disappointment ringing in her clipped tone. She’s formal and distant, but she doesn’t move out of my hold. “Thank you,” she adds.

“For what?”

“For saving me.”

And I want to tell her that I’m saving her from me…that it’s a noble gesture, but that’s not what she wants to hear. “That idiot was riding the wrong way. I’m glad I was here. I shudder to think what could have happened to you.” Now it’s me that’s babbling, and I still can’t let her go.

I offer to sit with her in the hotel, knowing it’s a ploy to prolong my time with her, and only then do I release her.

She shakes her head, her back ramrod stiff, and wraps her arms around herself in a protective gesture. A moment later she bolts across the street and I have to hurry to keep up with her.

When we reach the hotel, she turns and faces me once more, composed. “Thanks for the tea and

doing the photo shoot.” She regards me dispassionately and regret flares in my gut.

“Y/N…I…” I can’t think what to say, except that I’m sorry.

“What, Christian?” she snaps.

Whoa. She’s mad at me, pouring all the contempt she can into each syllable of my name. It’s novel. And she’s leaving. And I don’t want her to go. “Good luck with your exams.”

Her eyes flash with hurt and indignation. “Thanks,” she mutters, disdain in her tone. “Good-bye, Mr. Grey.” She turns away and strides up the street toward the underground garage. I watch her go, hoping that she’ll give me a second look, but she doesn’t. She disappears into the building, leaving in her wake a trace of regret, the memory of her beautiful blue eyes, and the scent of an apple orchard in the fall.

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[ series masterlist ]

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#christian grey x yn #christian grey smut #christian grey x reader #christian grey x you #christian grey #smut #50 shades of gray #christian grey fanfic #jamie dornan #christian grey series

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moonlightsolo · 2 years

Text

your nerd.

summary: your little brother, dustin henderson, forces you to sub in for a game of d&d. you can’t help but take a liking to the president of hellfire club- but it seems, that your best friend, steve harrington, feels the opposite.

wc: 9.5k

pairing: eddie munson x henderson!reader

warnings: major szn 4 spoilers, mild language, so much angst, jealous!steve, heavy smooching, suggestiveness, mentions of death & if you squint hard enough there’s a sprinkle of steve x reader.

note: yeah, 9k. its mental illness luv. (also when you see ~ it's a time skip) gif is @gayshipsandanxiety :)

“come on! you have to!” your little brother dustin is begging on his knees inside the classroom of your journalism club. his hands are folded in a praying position as he stares up at you with puppy dog eyes.

“i already told you no, dustin. now leave me alone! i’m busy.” you continue working on your project in journalism class, scribbling notes on the margin of your paper.

“you don’t get it, you have to do this for me. you have no choice or else your brother is going to get his ass kicked!” he hops up from his position, hand slapping over the papers that are scattered on your desk.

your head snaps towards him, “who’s going to kick your ass?” your voice is stone cold, pure coldness written on your features.

there’s no way in hell you’d let anyone put a finger on your brother.

“eddie!” he exasperates, throwing his hands up in the air like you should have known the answer to your own question.

“eddie?” you scoff, “eddie who?”

“eddie goddamn munson.”

your glance over at your friend nancy sitting beside you, “munson? the freak?” she almost chuckles as she continues to move articles around for the hawkins newspaper.

all you can do is groan, knowing you’re not going to be able to get out of this one.

“fine, but only this one time.” you hold up your pointer finger in his face to emphasize it, “only this once...” you sigh in defeat as you clean up all your papers, organizing everything back into your backpack.

you can’t wait to graduate this year so you don’t have to deal with this shit anymore.

“thank you, jesus!” dustin shouts to the ceiling, making the other students in the class shush him.

once your backpack is slung on one shoulder, your brother snatches your wrist and tugs you out of the classroom. your feet fail to keep up with him, stumbling through the corridors from his fast pace. “slow down, dude!” you scold him.

“no i can’t. we’re so late!” he curses under his breath as he drags you to the empty part of the school. mike wheeler is waiting outside of a classroom door, rocking back and forth on his heels nervously and looking at his watch.

when he spots you both, his lanky arms fly up into the air dramatically. god, he looks so nervous. who’s this eddie guy they’re so scared of?

“what took you guys so long?! never mind- who cares. let’s just get in there before we’re in deeper shit.” mike goes to grab the handle of the door, but you pause his movements.

“i swear if this shit is lame, i’m walking out.” you threaten and squint your eyes, pointing at them both. dustin just rolls his eyes at you.

they’re both silent as they swing the door open, the sound of rock music filling your ears.

“finally! do do do dooo!!” someone plays a fake trumpet with their mouth, “they hath arriiiiiiived!” the music is reduced to a lower volume. you recognize the song as ‘detroit rock city’ by kiss.

you look around at the cluttered area with wide eyes. it looks like the theater kids storage closet. numerous amounts of props and multi-colored lights scatter the ceiling and stand tall from the floor. it’s almost too overstimulating for your brain.

you stare at the long table down the center of the room with scattered dungeons and dragons game pieces on the surface. a hellfire club emblem hanging behind it on the wall and a throne at the end of the table. this is nerds heaven right here.

there’s a few punk-esque club members are standing to the side talking, their eyes immediately drawn to you as you walk in.

a wild haired man appears from behind an object, his dark doe like eyes take in the people standing in front of him.

“isthis that eddie guy you’re so worried about?” you almost snort out a laugh. you’re slightly bent down to be able to whisper to dustin who elbows your side in response.

the president of the club doesn’t entirely react until he sits in the carved chair, folding his ring adorned hands in front of him with a dramatic sigh.

“absolutely not.” he stares you down with an amused look, as if you being here is a joke.

“you asked for a sub, we delivered.” dustin gestures to you with a close lipped smile.

“this is hellfire club, not cheerleading practice.” eddie snickers evilly at his little joke.

“i’m not a cheerleader, you dip shit.” frustration bubbles inside your chest from this extremely mistaken man. you attempt to control your temper by taking a deep breath through your nose.

dustin and mike tense up from your insult, both of them taking in a sharp breath. “my, my… miss priss speaks!” he exclaims to his minions who are now standing behind him, his eyes widening in excitement. one of them chuckles.

eddie flies up from his seat, hands hitting the table with a bang. he slithers out from behind the table and arrogantly saunters towards you. with an evident smug look on his face. you can feel the heat traveling up your neck to settle on your cheeks as he grows closer.

“and what’s your name, spirit fingers?” he stops in front of you, staring you down.

the way the dim lights highlight his face and how close he is to you makes you choke up.

wait, he’s actually really cute.

“y/n… y/n henderson.” you clear your throat as you stand up straight, staring right back at him with the same fervor.

he cackles, “so this is your infamous sister, huh?” he glances over at dustin who swallows nervously.

“wow. you’re sooo smart.” your tilt your head with a little puff of laughter. a few of his pals laugh at your comment, which makes eddie’s head dart towards them. their laughter quickly stops.

eddie quickly reciprocates the attitude, “what’s your class and level? level one, dwarf?” he emphasizes the last word with a sneer.

the sound of giggling from behind him makes your blood boil. you’re glad dustin and mike know to keep their mouths shut or else you’d make their life a living hell.

“actually, my name is lady phae. and i’m a chaotic good, half-elf rogue, level sixteen.” eddie’s face drops as you begin to name of your rankings, his buddies share worried glances.

“and i will sneak behind any monster you throw my way and stab them in the back with my poison-soaked kukri- and i’ll laugh as i watch them die a slow, agonizing death.” you continue to stare him down in the eyes, your heart slamming against your ribs from the adrenaline coursing through you.

“so, are we going to do this or are we going to keep chit-chatting? or should i just leave..?” you go to turn towards the door, turning your attention towards the exit.

eddie’s hand reaches out to grip your wrist, urging you to stop; the coldness of his rings burn into your skin. his frizzy head cocks to the side, looking at you with an emotionless face. his dark eyes glance between both of your eyes and your lips. the sight makes the collar of your shirt feel too tight around your neck.

a cocky grin slowly pulls up on the corner of his plush mouth. one that you wish to… no stop. don’t think like that!

he continues to hold eye contact with you. making it seem like you two are the only ones in the room right now.

“welcome to hellfire.” his speaks to you lowly from his close proximity. his hand outstretches for you to shake which you gladly take with a proud smile. the spark appears once again when his skin touches yours. his eyes shoot down to your hands before pulling away just as quick.

the team gathers around the table as eddie takes a seat in his throne behind a big book. he dramatically tells the story of lord vecna, revealing he’s alive. everyone around the table panics, except for you. truly, you have no idea what’s going on in their storyline.

mike slams his hands on the table, and dustin rubs his hands over his face stressfully. every single one of their eyes are full of horror like they’ve seen a ghost.

“but vecna lives!” eddie slams the character down on a tiny handmade throne.

you can’t help but let your eyes roam up his now naked arms arms, admiring his tattoos. he takes a long glimpse at you, it seems as if he sensed your eyes on him.

he can’t help but smile slightly, hiding behind the book so nobody notices his flushed face.

the game continues on and your team decides to fight to the death. the intense game continues, your team members make some good hits and mostly some really unfortunate ones.

your squad is picked off one by one, now being left with only two players. you’re all forced to make a decision. to attempt to defeat vecna- only 15 hit points left and 12 hit points between yours and dustin’s character.

with one truly badass line, dustin decides the fate for his team, “let’s kill the son of a bitch.”

eddie tosses the d20 to dustin, who rolls it on the table. your breathing stops as you peek over his shoulder, watching with wide eyes as it stops. it’s an eleven. “that’s… a… miss!” eddie madly shakes his head with a cheshire cat grin on his face.

“no!” you wail, gripping your little brothers shoulder as you drop your head down to look at your feet.

now, it’s all up to you. eddie retrieves the dice to toss it to you, “good luck, princess.”

the nickname sends a shiver down your spine, giving him a nervous look. you shake the die in your hand, taking a deep shaky breath before releasing it onto the table.

everyone intensely stares, watching it roll and twirl on all of it’s sides. it seems as if everyone stopped breathing in this moment, like the earth spinning on it’s axis has halted.

the dice rolls to a stop, “it’s a twenty! a crit hit!” you holler as your team members leap into a giant group hug with you in the center. everyone around you high fives, fist bumps, chest bumps, and hugs.

you bend down slightly, hands on your knees since you can finally breathe normally. you stare at the notorious d20 sitting dormant on the table.

in your peripheral vision, you notice eddie looking at you with some sort of proud smile on his face. you can’t help but reciprocate the same look towards him.

once the club room is cleaned from all the mountain dew cans, and game pieces slightly put away; it’s finally time to leave. you’re thankful that most of the basketball game traffic has died down.

your arm is slung over dustin’s shoulder as you walk down the hallway towards the exit, “that was a great game, d.” you breathe out triumphantly.

“you should come play with us more. i can get eddie to make you one of these awesome t-shirts?!” dustin pulls on the end of his hellfire club shirt. he looks up at you with anticipation in his eyes, hoping you’ll agree.

“yeah, i’d love that.” you bring your brother in for a side hug, squeezing his shoulder.

an arm suddenly swings behind your neck, now resting on your shoulders. “that was such a great game, huh?” eddie leans forward to look at dustin with a grin.

the heavy feeling of eddie’s leather jacket against the back of your neck makes you nervous. he smells like worn out cologne with a slight hint of weed.

“i was just telling her that she needs to come back to play again. you should make her a shirt, ed.” dustin’s eyebrows raise with excitement from the possibility of his older sister joining his club.

“she did play good today. i guess it seems like she deserves it.” he smirks, and you can’t help but try to ignore the heat in your cheeks. all three of you make your way to the parking lot together, his arm still slung over your shoulder. his scent is captivating, hypnotizing you.

when you spot your ride, you raise your hand to wave with a smile. steve harrington, your second best friend from your brother. dustin waves as well, and eddie joins to playfully wave with a derpy smile. through the windshield, you notice steve’s face screw up in confusion. now realizing who’s arm is around you.

“hey man, i’ll see you next week.” dustin does a little secret handshake with him before walking over to the parked bmw and hopping in the back.

eddie slides his arm off of you slowly, letting his hand linger on your shoulder for a moment before dropping to his side. he takes a dramatic step to stand in front you. a sigh falls from his lips with a disappointed look.

“you, unfortunately, exceeded my expectations today, henderson.” you go to respond but he continues, “you’re welcome back… any time.” he clears his throat, “just so you know.” he quickly adds as he scuffs the bottom of one of his boots against the concrete anxiously.

his words make your heart soar, a giddy smile appearing on your lips. you reach behind you to pull a pen out of the side pocket of your bag. the movement makes his eyes lift from his feet.

“hand, please.” you hold out your free hand with a one-sided grin.

“you better not shank me with that.” he eyes you as he hesitatingly lays his hand in your palm. the size difference almost makes you laugh.

you continue by rolling his sleeve up slightly past his watch, scribbling down your ten digit phone number. “for whenever my hellfire shirt is ready or if you have any other questions.” you play it cool before folding the leather back down.

“yeah.. for the uh- hellfire shirt, sure…” he mutters breathily, his voice slightly wavering.

“then i’ll see you around, munson.” you beam before turning on your heel to head towards steve and your brother. you hop into the passenger seat, backpack swung between your legs. some pop song is playing quietly in the background.

“what was that all about?” steve questions, his eyes looking over your face for any sort of reaction.

“oh, it was nothing. i’m joining the club dustin’s in, so i gave eddie my number. he’s technically the president of it.”

“he is the president.” dustin comments from behind you.

you click your seatbelt in before finally making eye contact with harrington. he’s just staring at you, as if he’s trying to read your mind.

“what?” you laugh nervously, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“oh, it’s nothing.” he mocks you before turning the music back up and reversing out of the parking lot.

“it’s grief-stricken day today in hawkins. a student has been found brutally murdered right here in this mobile home park…”

it’s the next day, you’re sitting on the couch with dustin and your mom. the horrific breaking news story interrupting the new episode of perfect strangers. it sickens you to think someone could be capable of taking another persons life.

suddenly, the door bell rings. dustin shoots up to get it, quickly inviting the person inside. it’s max mayfield. you instantly perk up when dustin motions for you to follow them into his bedroom.

“chrissy cunningham?” you hear dustin ask in disbelief, “you’re sure it was chrissy?” you shut the door behind you as you listen to the conversation silently. your eyes are wide as you look between the two teenagers, leaning back against the door.

“yes, she was in her cheerleader outfit. the same thing she was in when i saw her with eddie.”

“wait, wait, wait. eddie?” your face scrunches up in confusion. there’s no way that boy could hurt anyone.

they ignore you, “did you tell this to the cops?” dustin questions again.

“excuse me! earth to dustin and max! you’re saying eddie did this?”

they both turn their heads to look at you.

“i guarantee you eddie is suspect number one right now.” max nods.

“that’s crazy. eddie didn’t do this. no way.” dustin argues.

“well, we can’t rule it out.” max counteracts.

“yes, we can.” dustin says quite surely, shaking his head in disbelief as he paces.

“he’s right. eddie wouldn’t hurt a fly. he’s a very kind person, he’s not like what everyone thinks. he’s not a freak, and definitely not a murderer.” you mumble as your mind races through every possible scenario.

“you don’t know him like i do, max. when we got to high school, lucas made all his sports friends. mike and me? i mean, no one was nice to us. no one except eddie.”

dustin’s confession brings tears to your eyes. you wish you could go back in time and make sure that he was never bullied.

then max compares eddie to ted bundy which sends dustin into another spiral.

“guys! guys! just… shut up! we don’t have time for this. there’s only one person that actually knows what the hell happened and that’s eddie. we need to find him. so let’s go.” you whip dustin’s bedroom door open to march out towards the front, grabbing your keys from the hook; the two kiddos in tow.

of course, not without your mothers worried protests, “we’ll be extra careful, i promise!thanks mom! we love you bye!” dustin yells and slams the front door shut. all three of you scurry to your car and you hop in the drivers seat.

“have you told anyone else about this?” you ask, turning the key in the ignition for the engine to ignite.

“no, i can’t find lucas or nancy, and mike’s in-.”

“california.” dustin finishes her sentence.

“shit.” you breathe out with a shake of your head. there’s only one person you know who would be able to help.

“we need to go see steve.” you reverse your car out of the driveway with a screech from your tires. speedily making a bee-line towards family video.

with a ding of the overheard bell, the three of you scramble into the store- dustin and max leading the way.

the news is playing on the tv and you can’t help but stop in your tracks, heart beating fast against your chest. there’s no way eddie did this. you have to clear his name- whatever it takes.

dustin continues talking to steve, sternly asking him how many phones he has. the sound of people shouting makes your head whip towards the commotion.

dustin shoves his backpack over the counter, completely disregarding the things in front of it. he hops over, his feet kicking tapes to the ground.

steve and robin are shouting at him as he sits down on the chair in front of the computer.

“what the hell is wrong with this damn, kid?” you mutter under you breath. shuffling around to the other side to find an easier way to get in. instead of parkour-ing over the counter, like he just did.

“i’m setting up base of operations here.” dustin continues to type in a frenzy, eyes looking over the keyboard.

you start to help clean up his mess, picking up all the loose papers scattered everywhere. steve and your annoying little brother continue to banter.

“hey, thanks.” robin puffs out an annoyed breath, bending down to help you organize everything. “he’s on a roll today.“ you stand up, hands resting on your hips as you watch dustin.

he’s scribbling down eddie’s friends phone numbers on a handheld white board. “it’s our busiest day. it’s a saturday!” robin groans into the air, putting everything back into place.

you stack papers on the counter, hitting the bottom so they’d fall evenly. someone slides in behind you, hand resting on your lower back. the smell of fresh shampoo and mint.

“want me to strangle him or you want to?” steve grumbles as he organizes some things back into place next to you.

“we can take turns?” you chirp, turning around to look at what dustin is doing.

“can you fill them in while i do this?” dustin scoffs as if you’re doing nothing, “fill us in on what?” robin snaps, obviously at her wits end.

together, you and max explain what’s going on. how she saw chrissy with eddie together last night at his trailer, and how chrissy is the student who got murdered. max explains that her lights started flickering, like how it did when the mind flayer was around. robin and steve look skeptical, but you reassure them that eddie would never do that.

the look steve gives you is unavoidable, glaring at you with a look you can’t quite decipher.

robin opts to help call some of the numbers dustin found to ask around about eddie. while steve continues with his sale tactics on the floor, selling movies to customers. you’re sitting on the counter, kicking your legs back and forth as you watch them do their sleuthing.

you’re more of a beat up monsters kind of girl instead of a detective. max hangs up her phone, “hey guys, i might have a lead.”

“seriously?” you perk up, hopping off the counter to get closer.

“apparently, eddie gets his drugs from some guy named reefer rick? and sometimes eddie crashes there.”

“that’s sounds promising. where does this reefer rick guy live?” robin moves forward slightly, eyes squinting like a true crime investigator.

“see, that’s the thing. no one knows. he’s more of a… legend.”

your eyes continuously look between them.

“what about a last name?” dustin joins.

“bet the cops know a last name.” steve mumbles as he organizes the film case in the front.

“the cops?” you ask, taking a few steps towards him where he’s now leaning on the counter.

“the cops… really, steve? that’s your suggestion?” dustin mocks steve with annoyance written across his features.

“i mean at this point, i think they should be filled in on what we know, what’s going on.” he tries to recover but just digs himself deeper into a hole.

“you think eddie’s guilty, don’t you?” you question.

“woah! i believe in innocent until proven guilty, all that constitutional shit.” his words make you turn your head to glance at max, who looks just as confused as you are.

“i just, you know… i don’t think we can rule it out.” he rubs his hands together nervously, eyeing everyone standing in front of him.

“that’s exactly what they’re trying to do, steve.” you scoff and furrow your eyebrows at him.

dustin and robin go to town against steve. ridiculing him for trying to find a girlfriend and sell movies to babes instead of finding eddie.

suddenly amidst their arguing, robin sits down at the computer. “maybe we don’t need a last name.” she pulls up family video’s database, typing in the name rick.

it pulls up twelve rick’s, “that’s a lot of rick’s.” you comment, peeking over robins shoulder as steve slides in beside you.

robin begins to click on each of them, narrowing it down by the kind of movies each rick has rented. you all vote to pass on the ones that don’t fit the drug dealer persona.

until you reach, rick lipton. with multiple cheech and chong movies in his history, and he also lives on 2121 holland road- which is in the middle of no where.

“total stoner.” you laugh along with them, “but that address is out by lover’s lake. perfect place to hide.” you point out, raising your eyebrows as if you cracked the case.

“let’s go. i’ll drive.” you snatch your keys from the counter. steve swaps his work vest for his jacket before running behind you. everyone follows in a line as robin officially switches the open sign to closed and locks the door.

you hop in the drivers seat, steve slides in the passenger seat next to you, and robin squishes herself in the back seat with the children.

the engine of your car revs to life, before you quickly pull out of the parking lot and towards lovers lake. you can’t help but admire the sunset, but going out to the lake at night sounds absolutely terrifying.

by the time you arrive, night has fallen over hawkins. you slowly get out of your car, eyes carefully taking in your surroundings. the forest around the house creaks with the wind and branches snap.

“come on. i got you.” steve motions for you to follow him, reaching his hand out to hold yours. once your fingers wrap around his, steve’s thumb rubs gentle circles into your skin. it’s actually not that weird for you guys to hold hands. especially if one of you is scared.

robin, max, and dustin are already at the house with flashlights calling out for reefer rick and ringing the door bell.

you steal steve’s flashlight from his hand, looking inside one of the windows for any sign of life. “come on, eddie. we’re trying to help you.” you breathe out under your breath.

behind your back, you can’t see how steve’s head turns toward you when you say that. he slowly eases his hand out of yours when you go to tag along with max.

“hey guys?” you beckon for the rest of them to follow when you see the boathouse light is on. all the flashlights point towards it as skeptical glances are shared amongst the group.

“let’s go check it out… i guess.” you breathe out wearily before max takes the lead to go investigate.

everyone is silent as she walks through the door first, her flashlight moving around the entire muggy shed.

“wow, this isn’t creepy at all.” you scoff sarcastically, sticking by steve’s side. his hand is on your lower back, leading you forward.

“what a dump.” steve grabs your flashlight to angle it up at the ceiling. the sound of the dark rustling water freaks you out even more.

out of curiosity, you pull away from your safety net called steve to walk with your brother. “are you scared?” you whisper in his ear, making the boy jump.

“no. not at all actually.” he brushes off what just happened, slightly clearing his throat.

steve grabs an oar from the wall, reaching over the hole in floor to jab the tarp covered boat. the sound makes you jump, “what are you doing?!” dustin whisper yells at him.

steve continues to violently stab the oar into the boat, “he might be in here.”

“then take the tarp off!” dustin exclaims, throwing his hand up to gesture to the boat.

“seriously, just take it off? what are you trying to do? hurt him?” you almost laugh at the scene unfolding in front of you.

“if you’re both so brave, why don’t you just take the tarp off?” steve makes a very valid point, making you shut up.

you shrug in agreement and continue walking with dustin, looking around at every crevice for any sort of clue. the floorboard creaks under your feet, making it even more eerie if that was even possible.

“hey, look over here.” max nods at a pile of wrappers and half empty drinks sitting on top of a table, “someone was here.”

“maybe he heard us. got spooked and ran?” robin suggests. “don’t worry! steve will get him with his oar!” dustin proclaims to the group with pure sarcasm, as steve continues to hit the tarp.

“i know you’re being funny, henderson, but considering everyone in this room has nearly died about a hundred times,” another harsh jab at the boat before stopping to argue with your brother, “personally, i don’t find it funny in the slight—!”

something tall emerges from inside the boat, tossing the tarp over their head as it lunges at steve.

“what the shit! fuck! oh my god!” your voice cracks as you screech, hands covering your eyes as you stumble back into the wooden table.

“wait! wait! wait! wait! wait!” steve begs as he’s slammed roughly against the metal wall of the shack, a broken bottle being pressed against his jugular.

“whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! eddie! eddie stop!” dustin calls out to him, urging him to calm down.

you stay glued to the table as you watch the hectic scene unfold through your fingers, pure panic running through your veins.

oh my god, steve. please don’t get hurt.

“eddie! eddie!” dustin shouts powerfully at him to get his attention. eddie’s eyes dart from steve’s throat to the trio and then to you.

when you finally make eye contact, you realize just how scared he truly is. the wild look in his eyes makes your heart fall, you need to find out what really happened.

“it’s me! it’s dustin!” he breathes out heavily, “this is steve!” he reaches his hand out to make a movement towards his hostage.

“he’s not gonna hurt you. right, steve?” dustin asks him.

“right. yeah.” steve huffs out, craning his neck as far away as possible from the sharp end of weapon.

“steve, why don’t you drop the oar?” dustin makes a suggestion. steve’s hand releases the wooden stick, moving slightly to do so.

eddie quickly tightens his grip to make sure he doesn’t move, earning a stresses grunt from steve when he’s slammed back into the wall.

“he’s cool, he’s cool!” dustin reassures him once again.

“what’re you doing here?” eddie mutters out, his voice hushed and face screwed up with worry. you can see his body shaking with fear from all the way across the room.

“we’re looking for you.” dustin points both his hands at eddie.

“we’re here to help.” robin adds to try and help the situation.

“eddie, these are my friends… you know robin from band,” he gestures to robin who plays an invisible trumpet in her hands, “this is my friend max. the one who never wants to play d&d.” dustin moves over to the red headed girl who raises her hand to slightly wave.

“and my sister. you know my sister!”

“eddie.” you speak softly, carefully slipping past dustin, max and robin.

“eddie… it’s going to be okay. we’re on your side.” you confirm, stopping just about an arms length away.

“we are on your side! i swear on our mother.” dustin exclaims and you nod fervently in agreement. everyone else in your gang also swears. “yeah.. yeah. dustin’s mom.” steve chokes out.

eddie’s hand that’s holding the bottle is shaking terribly as he internally battles whether or not to let steve go. his face softens slightly, keeping stern eyes on harrington as he backs away from him.

“ah- jesus…” steve hisses out, stumbling away from him and towards you.

“oh my god, steve… are you okay?” you breathe out, his trembling body envelops yours for comfort. all he can do is nod. your arms wrap around his broad back, holding onto him. your eyes peek over his shoulder staring directly at eddie.

munson’s expression slightly changes for a split second as he watches you embrace steve. before turning to look in the black water, taking a deep shaky breath. he presses his back against the wall, sliding down as he stares off into the nothingness of lovers lake.

steve’s arms unravel from around your waist to sit down on top of an upside down bucket. he breathes heavily, your hand comfortingly rests on top of steve’s head for a moment before pulling away.

your feet drag you towards dustin, who’s trying to gently coax the truth out of him. you bend down to come face to face with eddie, your hand reaches out to rest on his knee for comfort.

he instinctively jumps from your touch, making you pull away with a soft apology. “it’s okay.” he whispers, his fearful eyes look over your features before turning away.

“we just want to know what happened… can you tell us?” your voice is delicate, as if you spoke too loudly it would shatter anything around you.

eddie let’s out a pitiful sniffle, “you won’t believe me.” his voice quivers as he attempts to swallow back his emotions.

“try us.” max urges him.

it takes him a moment to start talking. he explains everything from the beginning. how he met chrissy in the woods near the school. right before the club meeting for a drug deal, then chrissy wanted something stronger so he brought her back to his place after the game.

“her body… just like, lifted up into the air and uh…” he shudders before continuing, “and she just like hung there.. in the air.” he takes a deep shaky breath before continuing.

eddie’s eyes are glassy as he holds back tears, “and her bones.. uh, she..” his face screws up in pain as he relives the moment in his head.

“her bones started to snap.”

your eyes blow wide, an uncomfortable shiver fluttering down your spine. he goes into detail about how her eyes were sucked out from the inside.

“i…i didn’t know what to do… so i… i ran away.” he spaces out again, staring at the splintering wood floor. everyone in your group is silent as they attempt to think about the information just given to them, “you all think i’m crazy, right?”

“no, we don’t think you’re crazy.” dustin shakes his head.

“don’t bullshit me, man!” his voice raises, “i know how this sounds.” his eyes dart around the room for some sort of solace.

“we’re not bullshitting you.” max affirms.

“we believe you.” you nod with a sad, yet reassuring smile.

dustin takes a deep breath, glancing at you for approval and you nod. he starts by mentioning the ‘curse’ of hawkins, “like ghosts?” eddie asks.

“worse than ghosts.” you mutter as flashbacks of the past few years replays in your mind. demogorgon, the demo-dogs, the mind flayer, and now this even scarier, grotesque monster is murdering students in cold blood.

“who’s vecna?” you hear steve question from behind you making you snap back to reality.

your eyes rapidly blink as you come to. attempting to regulate your breathing but still keeping your troubles to yourself. but it seems as if someone has already noticed.

ed is staring at you with concern laced through his features. a slight crinkle between his eyebrows as he watches you.

steve begins to pace, the floor creaking under his pristine sneakers. “okay so vecna… is this spell caster, wizard guy, right? he can… hurt people without even standing beside them?”

“he could be phasing through dimensions? like from the upside down to our world?” dustin suggests, which actually makes a lot of sense.

as they continue their theories within the group, you scoot closer to eddie who keeps a watchful eye on you. “i’m really sorry this is happening. i promise, we will try to do as much as we can to clear your name.”

a small chuckle falls from his lips, “i can’t believe this is happening. like what the hell are they talking about? dimensions and ‘the upside down’?” he makes quotation marks with his fingers in air, shaking his head in disbelief.

“there’s so much to explain, eddie. too much.” you gulp and look down at your lap, “i’ll tell you, but… just not tonight. you need to let your brain rest before i load more crazy shit into it.”

suddenly, his arms are flung around you. wrapping snugly around your neck as eddie pulls you into his chest. you gladly accept it by letting your arms snake around his torso underneath his leather jacket.

his skin is blissfully warm against your fingertips- the heat seeping through his hellfire club shirt. your eyes flutter shut as you sit there in a comfortable embrace with eddie. his breathing shudders in your ear.

you definitely expected him to smell bad from being stuck in a humid lake house all day, but he’s smells quite nice. a bit sweaty, but in a good way.

the silence from the others feels suffocating, making you pull away to look back at them. all four of them are staring at you two, making eddie’s arms drop down to rest on his knees. he clears his throat awkwardly, totally avoiding eye contact with them at all costs.

“what i was saying… is that we should probably get going since it’s late. your mom is probably scared shitless from not knowing where you’re both at.” steve mumbles, a bit too passive aggressive for your liking.

you turn towards eddie, who catches your eyes for a moment. it’s almost as if he’s silently pleading you not to leave him alone tonight.

you stand up with a loud sigh, pulling your keys out of your back pocket. “you guys go ahead.” you toss them to steve, the metal jingles as they fly through the air. his hands instinctively catch them before they could hit his face.

“what?!” steve steps forward, “are you kidding?”

“no, steve. i’m not kidding. he just went through some really terrible shit and i don’t want to leave him alone.” you grimace from his tone.

steve goes to argue with you, his entire face wrinkled with worry, but dustin stops him with a hand on his chest, “come on. the lady has spoken. you can’t change her mind.”

“no, screw that!” he moves past dustin, “i’m not leaving you here with this vecna creep on the loose. i don’t want to find you tomorrow morning with your eyes plucked out or some shit.” he lowers his voice during the last sentence so eddie couldn’t hear.

“nothing is going to happen, steve. now leave.. please just go home, get some rest and tomorrow morning come back with a change of clothes for me and some food.” you pat his upper arm with a smile.

he stares at you in shock, unable to find anything to say in that brain of his.

“come on! let’s go.” dustin grumbles impatiently, yanking on steve’s arm to get him to move, but he stays cemented for a moment.

“last chance…” he breathes out, extending his hand for you to take. you sigh with a shake of your head, pursing your lips in annoyance.

“dustin! cover for me, alright?” you lean to the side to look at your brother. he nods with a thumbs up.

steve can’t help but roll his eyes in defeat. as he’s dragged out of the boathouse by your little brother, leaving you behind with eddie munson. everyone else waves to you both as they slip outside of the door.

once the door clicks shut, you turn around to finally look at eddie. he’s standing up now, leaning on the table adorned with all of his wrappers.

“you know, you didn’t have to do that.” he mumbles as he looks down at his boots, refusing to make eye contact with you.

“well, you didn’t protest when i said i was going to.” you shrug nonchalantly, walking up to rest against the table next to him.

“your boyfriend seemed really upset.” he snickers, picking at his nails.

“my boyfriend?” you snort, “who? steve?”

he shrugs in response with a shitty little grin.

“no, no… he’s not my boyfriend whatsoever. first of all, he’s the ex of one of my best friends. second, he’s not my type and he is also a grade-a asshole sometimes-.”

“sometimes? he hit me with that oar so many times, i can feel still it in my ribs.” he jokes around with a little laugh.

“yeah, he was hitting it really hard. sorry ‘bout that.” you almost laugh, but you look down at your shoes.

“he’s not your type though?” eddie hums inquisitively as if he’s urging you to reveal a secret.

“not my type. super nice, a total sweetheart, but he’s like a big brother to me.”

“ouch. a brother?” he cackles, slightly moving in closer to you, “so what is your type then?”

“mmm…” you tap your chin in thought, “not so clean cut. definitely funny. i really would enjoy someone who is as crazy as me.” you laugh with a nervous shrug, “i dunno…”

eddie smiles at your response, eyeing how you shyly react to his question.

“so who’s getting the couch tonight? me or you?” he playfully asks, pushing himself up from the table as he walks around to look for anything to make a makeshift bed.

he pulls the tarp off of the boat, laying it down on the wooden floor, “for the splinters.”

eddie rummages through the dinghy for anything else, but all that’s in there is empty beer bottles and fishing equipment.

“so, it seems like we’re sleeping on the lap of luxury tonight, princess.” he plops down on the floor.

there’s that damn nickname again.

“mm.. sounds perfect to me.” you follow him down on the blue tarp, laying back with your arms behind your head. your shirt slightly lifts up from you stretching, exposing your midriff. his eyes can’t help but trail over your body, before quickly looking away.

he lays down next to you, letting out a small sigh as he stares at the dark ceiling. you turn onto your side with a yawn, now facing him.

from this angle, the moonlight is streaming in through the window and casting a perfect shadow over his profile.

“you’re pretty, you know that?”

his head turns toward you with his eyebrows raised, “i’m pretty?” he almost laughs, which makes an embarrassed flush settle across your features.

“sorry, that was weird…” you mumble, completely averting his eyes.

eddie doesn’t know what to say. he’s speechless. he just got called pretty by the most beautiful girl in hawkins. before he could respond, you’re talking again.

“goodnight, eddie.” you turn around so your back was facing him.

his breath shudders when he releases it, blinking dumbly from what just happened. “goodnight.” he whispers, before attempting to close his eyes and sleep.

after a few hours of being half asleep, the plastic rustles beside him, making his eyes shoot open from the sound. he sucks in a sharp breath when he sees somebody laying next to him, then he realizes it’s just you.

“hey, you okay?” you look back at him, before turning your body to face him.

“yeah. yeah, i’m fine.” he huffs out, his chest heaving.

it seems as if his heart stops when your hand moves to rest on his arm, “i’m sorry for scaring you, i just can’t get comfortable.”

“oh- i could only imagine why.” he chuckles dryly which makes you laugh.

he sits up to pull his vest and leather jacket off. you watch with wide eyes as he strips down to his hellfire shirt- almost hoping he’s going shirtless, but you’re left slightly disappointed.

“here.” he rolls his leather jacket into a ball, “kinda like a pillow. not sure if it’ll help but-.”

you grab the wad of leather with a thankful smile, “i appreciate it.” although, you’d rather use him as a pillow.

“yeah, no problem.” he smiles before laying on his denim vest, “you’re the one who decided to stay here with me, so it’s the least i can do.”

you turn on your side towards him, leather jacket under your head comfortably. “eddie?”

“yeah?” he answers almost immediately, his eyes gazing right into yours. “can… i just- like…” you struggle to get the words out.

“anything you want.” he answers before you could finish.

your face lights up as you experimentally scoot towards him, moving his arm away from his side so you could fit snugly against him. you hook your head under his chin and wrap an arm around his waist. one of your legs angle up to slide between his which makes his breathing pick up.

“you can touch me, ed.” you mumble sleepily, giving him permission to put his arm around you. his arm comfortably finds a position in the nook where your hip meets your waist.

“comfy?” you ask, looking up at him with a comforting look.

“very much.” he squeezes your side to pull you in even closer, if that was humanly possible.

“hey. my number is still on your arm.” you point out, poking the smudged spot with your pointer finger.

eddie’s breath hitches from the soft touch, “i was actually planning on calling you that night… i just never got around to it.” he confesses.

oh god, you have to kiss him. it’s now or never.

“hey… can i… uh- kiss you?” he mumbles nervously before you got the chance, you can hear his heart thumping against your ear.

“please.” you beg, sitting up slightly to hover your lips above his. he crashes forward, closing the space between you both. his hand slides against your jaw and combs through your hair.

at first, the kiss is uncoordinated, a bit too much teeth and excitement. you pull back to breathe, before going in with a more soft approach. eddie presses his mouth into yours, moving his lips against yours expertly. he props himself up on the elbow of the arm attached to your waist.

“oh my god.” you breathe out in pure shock from how good of a kisser he is, “you’re amazing.” you gasp as one of your hands card through his soft hair.

the compliment makes him chuckle deeply against your lips, making your stomach do flip flops. his mouth opens wide to deepen the kiss, his tongue pressing against yours. he continues to lean forward until your back is flush with the tarp and he’s hovering over you.

eddie pulls away for a moment, your hand gently grips the root of his hair in protest. earning a soft groan from him, “just.. wanted to make sure you’re okay… before i keep going.” he breathes out faintly into the night air.

“no, it’s perfect. please, don’t stop.”

with a cocky laugh, he pounces forward to continue kissing you, his hands carefully roam amongst your sides. one of his knees slots itself between your legs to open them so he can fit between.

your legs impulsively wrap around his hips, pulling him flush against you. he grunts into the kiss from the contact, “eddie…” you breathe out, making him pull back to look at you.

but you push his head down to smoosh your lips back together, “don’t stop…” you say between kissing him, “you… can… touch… me.”

“touch you?”

you hum in response, wrapping your hand around his wrist to move it from your side and up to your chest. he finally catches on as he blindly tugs at your shirt to pull it up slightly. his cool hand slips under your top, traveling up your torso. his hand rests right under your bra, against your ribs. i

“god, eddie…” you mewl out desperately, fingernails pressing into the muscles of his back.

“i’ve been wanting to do this since i met you.” he mumbles against your lips. now making you pull back from it to look at him.

the sight above you is for sore eyes. his wild hair is framing his face, lips swollen and raw from kissing you hungrily. he timidly smiles at you from overhead, leaning down to peck your lips once more. his hand under your top slides down to your waist, savoring the feeling of your skin on his.

your hand cups his jaw, rubbing soft circles into his skin, just admiring his beauty. “what’s on your mind, sweetheart?” he swoops down to graze his lips down your neck.

“mm, i just can’t believe i’m here right now. making out with the eddie munson- in a drug dealers shed on lovers lake.”

he chuckles against you, his fingers playing with your waistband of your jeans. “i can’t believe that you’re here. y/n henderson is underneath me right now. the princess of hawkins high, vice president of the journalism club. bleh.” he jokingly sticks his tongue out in disgust. he pulls back to sit up on his knees, leaning back on his heels.

eddie’s hands rest on your hips, rubbing your hipbones with his thumbs as he marvels at your body. “i’m going to be honest… i really thought you were just like every other girl. spoiled and a total bitch.” he ignores how you roll your eyes, “i always noticed you in the cafeteria or in the hallways and you refused to even look at me.” he lowly laughs, shaking his head. your lips pout in response, feeling guilt tug at your heart.

“the people you hang around with, they don’t like me. they call me a freak, and a nerd- that i’m a low life.”

“oh eddie…” you shake your head, sitting up to grab his face to force him to look at you, “you’re not what they say you are. you’re not a freak and most definitely not a low life. maybe a little bit of a nerd-,” his face scrunches up as he laughs at your comment, “but hey… so am i!” you roll your eyes playfully.

“my nerd, yeah?” he leans forward, his lips ghosting against yours with his infamous grin on his lips. the sound of being his makes butterflies flutter in your belly.

“yeah, your nerd.” you look up into his eyes, your own satiated with pure desire for him. the space between your mouths seals as he deeply kisses you, resuming what was happening earlier.

his hands gently push you back down, your back flush against the cool surface of the tarp. continuing to kiss you, tongue flattening against yours. his breath hitches when the crescent of your nails dig into his back. his hands move to the hem of your shirt, bunching it up on your waist to pull it off.

“you gotta be kidding me…” someone’s voice sounds from the other side of the boathouse. eddie’s vaults away from you, stumbling to his feet to face the intruder.

your eyes fly open, chest constricting with fear as you sit up from your position. instantly catching eyes with who’s standing at the door.

“steve?!” you shout, quickly pulling yourself up on your feet to march up to him. betrayal is written across his features as you try to push him outside. he’s staring at you with an almost disgusted look.

“you seriously wanted to stay here just so you could hook up with him. you realize that he’s on the run from the cops, right?”

“steve, get the fuck out.” you talk through your teeth as you push on his chest gently to try and get him to move. he doesn’t budge.

eddie is standing in the corner with wide eyes, watching everything unfold in front of him.

steve’s hand wraps around your wrist, his strength obviously overpowering you to pull you outside, “i just want to talk to you, please.” he begs softly.

you struggle for a second, grunting as you attempt to free yourself. “i don’t want to fucking talk! i can’t believe you right now!” you shriek, emotion evident in your voice.

“can’t believe me? i never realized you could be capable of doing something this low. do you realize how fucking worried i was about you? i had to come back to make sure you were okay, but i find you sucking faces with him! i’m just trying to keep you safe!” steve motions towards eddie standing at the doorframe as he shouts at you.

ed takes a step outside to follow you both, “she doesn’t want to talk to you. let go of her, man.” his voice is stern, staring at steve like he did when he had him against the wall.

“stay out of this.“ steve points sternly at eddie, “we’re leaving, y/n. come on.”

“i don’t need you to keep me safe, steve! i’m not your fucking girlfriend!” you yank your hand away from his loosened grip, fury burning in your eyes.

steve’s face drops from your words, his tough persona faltering as he takes a step back. “wow… really? you’re gonna go there?” he chuckles, standing there with his hands on his hips, “fine. don’t fucking count on me to be there for you anymore, y/n. i’m done.” he turns on his heel to head back towards your car he drove here.

your heart drops at his last words, panic running through your veins. no, you can’t lose your best friend.

“y/n?” eddie calls out for you, wildly looking between you and steve. his notices how your bottom lip is quivering, tears evidently flowing down your cheeks. “c‘mere…” he comes up to you, wrapping his arms around your frame.

your hands are on your face, trying to hide your emotions as you sob into his chest. eddie cradles the back of your head to comfort you, “it’s okay.“ he mumbles as he leads you back inside.

eddie helps you lay back down on the floor with him, your tears soaking through his shirt as he holds you until you fall sleep.

the next morning, you wake up with every muscle aching in your body. the bright light from outside sears your eyes as if you’re a vampire. you hiss as you roll over, absentmindedly holding his leather jacket to your chest.

“morning, sweetheart.” his gravelly voice mumbles, farther away from you than you expected.

your eyes shoot open to see him sitting at the edge where the boat is hanging. his legs dangling over the water.

“how long have you been awake?” your sleep ridden voice mutters, squinting at him.

“uh… about an hour or so.” he shrugs, giving you a little one-sided smile.

“what time is it?” you yawn, pulling yourself up so you’re sitting on your butt. you rub at your eyes tiredly, “like eight-thirty.” he replies after looking at his watch.

“jesus.” you breathe out and your stomach grumbles angrily. the sound of car doors shutting makes your head perk up, anxiety instantly settling in your chest.

eddie scrambles to his feet to look out the windows to make sure it wasn’t the cops. his chest heaves as he pants, dropping his head when he sees no one.

the metal door to the shack slams open, making you and eddie jump. “jesus christ!” he shouts, fists going up in defensive mode.

all four of them come strolling in, “delivery service!” dustin exclaims with a toothy grin. you can’t help but look at steve, your eyes desperately calling out for him to look at you.

dustin strolls in with the three of them following, steve keeps his head down as he leans against one of the wooden poles. he’s so close to you, but refuses to look up from his feet.

“i brought some cereal, juice boxes, and yoo-hoo! and some clothes for you.” robin takes that as a cue to throw a plastic bag at your face. which you thankfully catch before it could slam into your nose.

“cereal?” eddie perks up, walking straight to dustin who’s unloading the groceries. he grabs a box of honeycomb, ripping the top of the box open and then the bag inside. he savagely sticks his hand inside to shovel it into his mouth.

he offers the box to you and you dig your hand into the food. slowly eating piece by piece out of your palm.

“some reason, harrington’s got a stick up his ass this morning, so don’t even try talking to him.” dustin points out.

steve just rolls his eyes and grumbles something under his breath, making the tension in the room even worse. “example number one.” dustin sighs.

“dustin… just stop.” you lecture, making everyone’s eyes turn to you. even steve’s. “if he’s in a bad mood, then so be it. you always have an attitude and we never comment on it.”

robin stifles a giggle into her hand, and max shrugs in agreement. your brother stares at you with confusion screwed up on his face, “okay then?” you’re not one to let up on making fun of steve, but right now is just not the time.

eddie is standing above your seating position, continuously lowering the box for you to take some more cereal to eat. he taps the top of your head each time before giving it to you.

“did you guys sleep okay?” robin changes the subject with a slightly nervous smile.

you look up at eddie who looks down at you with a smile, “yeah, i think we slept okay.” he answers with his mouth full. robin nods awkwardly as the tension continues to build.

you break the silence, “steve, can i talk to you? outside?” harrington straightens up, clearing his throat as he glances around at everyone who’s staring.

he nods and gestures to the door with his head for you to follow him. eddie grabs your upper arm, swallowing his food before talking. “if you need anything…”

“i know.” you give him a curt nod and a grateful smile before following steve outside. he continues walking for a moment until you’re far enough away from the flimsy walls of the boathouse.

“steve.” “y/n.” you both say each other’s names at the same time. “you first.” he motions for you to continue with flushed cheeks.

“steve…” you take a deep breath, “i’m sorry about last night- truly i am. i didn’t want you to walk in on… that. it wasn’t my intention whatsoever and what i said to you, just wasn’t right at all. i don’t want to lose you, steve. you’re my best friend.” your voice chokes up from the lump growing in your throat.

steve sighs, biting his lip as he watches you get upset. all he wants to do is pull you into his arms and tell you everything is alright.

“i’m sorry too. i should have never have crossed that line.” he shakes his head, “i should’ve trusted you. and i should have never put my hands on you and tried to force you to do something you didn’t want to. i.. i just want to keep you safe. i want to protect you from anything that could possibly put you in harms way… you’re the best thing that’s happened to me throughout all this monster bullshit.” his voice is shaky and he sniffles.

“aaaand, i’ve also had a really big crush on you for a while, and i’m pretty sure everyone knew it.” he chuckles in disbelief, “but i don’t want to ruin what we have. it’s somethin’ special. i don’t want to lose you either.”

you’re fully crying by now, sniffling and wiping your tears and snot on your sleeve. “i’m sorry i’m dumb. i never even noticed you had a crush on me.” you wetly laugh through your crying.

“i’m way too deep in the friendzone. that’s why.” he jokes around, stuffing his hands in his front pockets. “so are we cool?” he asks softly, almost afraid of your answer.

“yes, harrington. we’re cool.” you grin happily, sniffling loudly again.

“come here.” he opens his arms, which you gladly step forward to hug him. relief floods through your body, “i really thought i lost my monster killing sidekick.”

“never.” he shakes his head before pulling away. “let’s go back inside, yeah?”

you nod in agreement, leading the way back to the door. you both slip through the door, making the conversation going on inside halt to silence.

“everything good now?” dustin asks instantaneously.

“just dandy.” you slap steve on the back with a grin before walking over to eddie. he instinctively pulls you into his side, your arms loop around his waist. his jaw crunches down on cereal, the sound reverberating through his body.

“woah, did we miss something?” robin asks with a shocked look on her face.

eddie swallows, slyly looking down at you with a presumptuous grin. “yeah… definitely something.” he leans down to peck your nose, making your face scrunch up. his hand squeezes your hip amusingly.

“wow, we leave you guys alone for one goddamn night.” dustin looks like he’s about to vomit from the sight, his mouth in a frown as he stares blankly.

“i wouldn’t take it back for the world.” you whisper up to him, wishing you could kiss him right now. he chuckles, taking a piece of cereal from his palm, holding it up to your lips to feed you.

you know deep down in your heart, that you'd do anything to keep eddie safe. even if it comes down to putting yourself in harms way.

tags: @cheyenne-dunn-universe @they-adore-shay @eddie-munsons-girlfriend @sapphireplums @daffodil0darling

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foxymoxynoona · 9 months

Text

Over the Falls Ch. 3: Churn

Sexy Banner & bar by @borabae-gx

Summary: Jungkook sees a lot of things as a pool tech. It’s… fine. It pays the bills between mornings on the water and evenings rocking out with his garage-band. His favorite thing to see on the job has been Grace Birch –older but a hottie, wealthy but nice, and unfortunately very married. At least until Grace learns what her husband has been up to behind her back. Now that she’s free, Jungkook finds himself wondering: what does it take for a guy like him to catch the eye of a woman like that?

Genre: Poolboy Jungkook x Rich Divorcee OC

Tags: Age gap (older woman), socioeconomic gap, Surferboy JK, drummer/guitarist/vocalist JK, Wealthy divorcee OC, househusband

CW: Mature/Explicit, Infidelity (not between JKxOC), language, alcohol, recreational drugs, lots of explicit sex, ageist/racist/classist remarks down the road, outdoor sex, beach sex

Chapter Two | Masterlist | Chapter Three

“GRACE!”

She hated the way her name sounded as a shout. The gr got swallowed, the a dragged out, the c punched too hard. Tim had always said her name in a way that sounded like an insult, she just hadn’t realized it until now. He rarely called her by it, only if he was angry or disappointing her, pleading for her to accept an insincere apology.

Grace pulled her phone out and opened the voice recording app, as instructed. When her divorce attorney had given her these tips, she hadn’t thought she would need them. She’d been more focused on her regret that she wouldn’t get to see Tim’s face when he got served the papers. He’d be so shocked. He didn’t know she knew. He would never expect her to go through with this even if she did find out –and that had, in fact, been the deciding thing for her. Her husband would make excuses and expect to be forgiven.

Well, she refused. She refused to be that woman. She refused to spend another minute of her time working on a marriage to this man. She’d worried about her decision up until the first meeting with her divorce attorney and then relief had flooded her system so sharp and fast that it nearly carried her away. She couldn’t fucking wait to be divorced from this asshole, who was too stupid and to even delete the evidence from their in-home camera system

They’re always stupid, the divorce attorney –a woman named Lidiya Hel, very good at what she did– told her. Their egos can’t imagine that they’ll get caught. Their egos can’t imagine they won’t be forgiven because they’ve always been forgiven for everything. It’s not like this is the first thing he’s done wrong in the marriage, is it?

No. It was not.

As soon as the backdoor slid open, Grace sprang to her feet, hit record, and announced, “I am recording this conversation so I’d suggest not saying anything you don’t want on record.”

“Grace.” He spat her name and stormed towards her, the yellow legal envelope curled in his hand like a newspaper to hit her on the nose with. “The fuck is this? Divorce papers?”

“Yes. Did you read them?”

“I didn’t need to! I saw the first line and knew something was wrong. I was at work! I was just leaving a meeting with the CEO and this fucktard comes up and asks who I am. I thought it was a shithead new hire! Instead he gives me this shit. At work!”

Grace was glad to hear the play by play and corrected him, “I don’t control when the server finds you.”

“Don’t give me that shit. What is this? What do you mean, divorce? First I’m hearing that you’ve got any issues in this marriage and you didn’t even have the balls to talk to me first? Sweetheart, whatever it is–”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” she interrupted. “That’s what you’ve been calling all of the women you fuck in our home. I’m not sure what you call the ones you don’t bring here.” She didn’t actually know if there were more than the three over the last two years, but she assumed so. Probably on all those business trips.

Tim froze. The fucking idiot. The papers said she was filing on grounds of adultery. He really hadn’t read them. Grace couldn’t imagine the self importance you needed to just walk into a situation like this blindly and assume it would go well for you.

“You can’t be surprised I figured it out,” she scoffed. “Do you realize how much footage I have from the home security system you chose?”

“You’re bluffing and it’s not a good look for you,” he countered. “You don’t have the login for the account. It’s in–”

“I’m your wife. It was no problem at all to get it.”

Tim froze, like she’d paused a video, for an insanely long moment.

“Now… now look here. I…” he restarted.

Actually, this was even better than seeing him when he got served. The emotions moved so rapidly across his flace she couldn’t name them, but she did know they indicated a usually brilliantly-quick mind trying to pick its angle. He was quick on his feet, that was why he did so well at his job. What would he choose: play the victim? Blame her? Beg for forgiveness? Rage about the invasion of his privacy?

He glanced at the phone in her hand and laughed, “What do you think you’re doing, sweetheart. I can toss that in the pool and there goes your precious recording.”

“Ruining my property, I think that’s technically assault.”

“Just because your head-up-his-ass father is a lawyer doesn’t make you one. I’m sure he’s– no. No, I didn’t mean that. You’re just catching me by surprise right now. I’m not going to break your phone. What, did you think I was going to do something violent?”

“Maybe.”

“Grace…”

“Turns out I don’t know you at all.”

“Oh come on,” he sighed, and looked away. He was still deliberating. He was trying to buy time, trying to calculate which method would get him what he wanted. And she knew he was having a hard time because he couldn’t predict her anymore. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gave another deep sigh. “Grace. I’m sorry.”

She really hadn’t thought he’d pick that one.

“I made a mistake. You’re right.” He nodded, gaze roaming the pool area, her book, her drink beside the lounge chair. “I got carried away… I’m under so much pressure with work, you know that. A few late nights, and… and you working so much…”

“So it’s my fault you fucked multiple women?”

“I’m a sex addict.”

“You’re a liar,” she corrected, “And a selfish prick.”

“Oh, what now, who’s the one calling names on your little recording?” he demanded, as if this was some incredible victory for him. “Here I want to have a conversation about how we can fix this marriage and you’re–”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Fix what?”

“I know you’re hurting right now and in shock… I… I didn’t mean for you to find out,” he said, hands out like he expected her to slip hers into them. “I knew I messed up. I’d already called it off and I was going to come clean and–”

“Yeah fucking right.”

“You fucking bitch, you can’t even listen to me saying I– Sorry,” he interrupted himself again, holding his hands up for a pause and looking away. Grace just stared at him and tried to understand how she had ever loved this toad. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I’m just frustrated. Sweetheart, I understand you’re hurt and mad. Hey, I’d be pissed too if you were fucking around, but if the situation was reversed and I was looking at it from how you’ve been, I’d hear me out because I love you and—”

“From how I’ve been? How have I been, Tim?” she demanded. “Supportive? Lonely? Dedicated to our marriage and the things that make you happy?”

“Me? The things that make me happy? What’s so hard that you’re doing to make me happy? You don’t sacrifice a damn thing for me, you just peck at my all the time and all the ways I’m not as successful as your dear old dad. Let me tell you what you’re not doing to make me happy is you aren’t… you aren’t supporting me when things are hard at work. You aren’t listening to me now as I’m apologizing and trying to fix this.”

“There’s nothing to fix! You’re a terrible husband but I thought you were at least loyal! I thought you were just a workaholic because I’m an idiot!” She stepped away from him, biting back her own rage so it wouldn’t make her cry. She didn’t want to rage cry. She wanted to stay calm and in control because she had made her decision and there was nothing he could say to change it.

“Sure, now you’re saying I’m a terrible husband, but I’ve made you happy! We’ve been happy together all these years and I’m not the one giving up on our future. Get rid of these fucking papers,” he said and threw them into the pool. “We’re not talking divorce. We’ll go to counseling. I’ll go with you.”

“I’m not going to counseling with you.”

“Oh, but I’m the bad guy? I’m the one who wants to work on our marriage here–”

“We don’t have a marriage, Tim. It broke as soon as you started fucking around and I can’t begin to understand why you suddenly want to fight for it now.”

“Because I made a mistake and I don’t want to let that ruin the best thing in my life–”

“No. No you did not make a mistake. How many mistakes did you make, Tim? How many women? For how many years? I have proof of at least three and I’m sure more will be uncovered–”

“What, your dad hired a fucking P.I. or something?” His face hardened and it reminded her of the “jokes” he’d made before, about whether her family did that kind of thing, if they’d have him investigated or watched, if they’d ever trust him. He said they were crazy, delusional, then reached his hand out for some of their money. They had done that before the wedding, without her knowledge of blessing. Because her family well knew that money made other people crazy and delusional and willing to do anything to get it from you. There had been nothing to find back then. Or he hadn’t been as lazy about hiding it.

Tim paced, tucking his hands into his armpits as this new thread caught him, and he pressed, ‘What does your dad think about this, huh? Your family all up in arms ready to crucify me when I bet your dad’s done the same thing. It happens, Grace. Men make mistakes when they work with the kind of stakes men like me and your dad do–”

“Stop comparing yourself to my father,” she scoffed. “You are nothing like him.”

“So far as you know, huh, Grace? You’re so fucking naive…”

“Yeah, about you!”

“Daddy’s Girl, worship the ground he walks on. I should have known he’d tell you to leave me. Is that what he said?”

Grace knew it would drive him crazy as she answered, “His reaction isn’t any of your business.” Tim wanted so badly to be liked by her father, despite his claims of not caring. How devastating for her that he would probably be more upset to lose her father’s respect than to lose hers.

“You want me to apologize to him? I’ll do it.”

“It’s over, Tim. I am not interested in reconciliation and it has nothing to do with my–”

“Like hell you’re not! I’ll fight for this marriage–”

“Why?!” she cried. “You don’t want to be with me!”

“Of course I do! I married you, Grace! I love you!”

“You don’t.”

“Don’t you tell me what I do or don’t–”

“You cheated on me! You don’t cheat on people you love!”

“It was a mistake. I regret it! You get that on your recording? You got your little trophy? Turns out when a man is nagged by his wife it gets to him.”

“It’s not my fault!” Grace insisted. She felt like he was spinning around, trying to make her dizzy and confused.

“You want me to grovel? Is that it?”

“If I’m so awful as a wife, why do you even care that I want a divorce?” she countered. “Don’t you want to be free so you can be with those nineteen-year-olds.”

“I would never be with someone under twenty-five,” he grimaced. “And no, Grace, I want to be with my wife.” It was insane, the way he made it sound like she was the one hurting and depriving him here. She had thought her rage and pain had built enough of a bulwark around her heart for this conversation, but watching him lash out like this just drove the point in deeper. Maybe there was a small part of her that had hoped Tim would offer a valid excuse, or that his apology would feel sincere and enough and she could forgive him, love him again, save her marriage.

But all he had to say was that this was her fault and he’d made a mistake. He didn’t seem loving or apologetic as he grappled with a barely-controlled rage that had her checking that the chair wasn’t right behind her in case she needed to run. Tim wouldn’t hurt her physically… right? But two weeks ago, she wouldn’t have expected he could cheat on her either… well. Maybe that wasn’t totally true. Maybe she wasn’t actually surprised by all this. Was that better or worse than being blind-sided? It didn’t matter, she’d never be close enough with someone again to compare.

Her face must have shown some emotion that Tim seized upon, because he reached his hand out and insisted, “Come on, sweetheart. Stop this bullshit. We’ve been together too long. I know I fucked up and I’ll make it up to you. No need to call quits on us yet.”

“Is it because of the prenup?”

The question rolled out without a thought and she immediately regretted it.

What little restraint Tim had held through all of this snapped. Ah, the prenup. The one her dad had insisted on, that she almost hadn’t done in an effort to prove that she loved and trusted Tim. That he was worthy of trust.

“This isn’t about the fucking prenup!” he shouted in a way that made it very clear it was. At least in part. Grace was very familiar with that prenup, having just gone over it in detail with her divorce attorney. Their marital earnings would be split 50/50, but exclude any interest earned on the money either had before marriage, defined as a set dollar amount. Grace’s amount had been much larger than Tim’s. Tim would be safe from paying alimony despite the fact he made more now, unless a judge overruled their prenup on that point. But, probably the most stressful piece to Tim right now, was that he would owe her father the amount he had borrowed to start his consulting business, after his own parents wouldn’t loan him the money because the first one had folded. Grace had been so confident he’d succeed, she hadn’t even felt embarrassed by her father’s insistence on tying the loan to her prenup. She’d figured it was just a way to spare Tim’s ego at accepting the loan, since obviously he would always be a loving, devoted husband, and so it would forever remain just “family money” and not require payback. That consulting business too had gone under, the money was gone.

Until now. Now Tim owed her father $5 million dollars, on top of splitting his assets with Grace in half. She was not actually sure he even had the money, though she suspected he had multiple bank accounts in addition to their shared one. She had a second one, no harm in that, but at this point she doubted him on everything so who knew what he was hiding? So she had squashed her early instinct to be merciful and nodded when the attorney suggested he’s probably been using you for a long time; let’s take him to the cleaners.

“How fucking dare you bring up the prenup? The prenup doesn’t matter! We aren’t getting divorced! You know better than that! There’s no way your family supports you leaving me, we made a commitment to each other–”

“That you failed when you cheated on me.”

“And now you’re failing it worse by quitting! Don’t even talk about it anymore, I won’t go through with the divorce! We’ll take some time off work and go on a nice vacation together and do marriage counseling and then we’re going to put this whole thing behind us–”

“Until you cheat again?”

“Stop talking about that! You think I wanted to do that? But you’re such a bitch all the time and it wears a man down to have someone like you always nagging about what’s going on at work and whether I closed the deal and why can’t I be like your dad! Go fuck your dad then if you think he’s so fucking great!”

“Stop. Just stop talking,” she pleaded under the weight of his words. Probably the whole street could hear them right now, she realized. She was done with this conversation. She wanted it to end. Any sense of victory or enjoyment was now gone.

“No, you wanted to talk about our marriage! Let’s talk! You think you’re some poor suffering wife here? You’re barely a wife! You run around playing at being a real estate agent so you can spend money on that shit you call art and be some queen bee in the Society or whatever the fuck your family gets randy about–”

“Stop it, Tim!”

“Oh you don’t like us talking about you, huh?”

She grabbed her things, phone still clutched in her hand and tried to step around him to get to the house.

He grabbed her arm and she screamed, “LET GO OF ME!”

“Hey everything ok back there?” a male voice called, and for a brief moment Grace thought it was the pool guy again. Wouldn’t that be perfect? And yet a strange rush of relief came with the idea; Grace felt a desperation to hide behind any man who could make Tim go right now. So feminist of her, huh? She hated herself for the impulse and yet…

“Fuck off!” Tim shouted at the interloper.

“Ma’am?” the voice called again and now she could see the mailman by the back gate. “You need me to call someone?”

“I told you to fuck off,” Tim said, stepping around her to march towards the man now. Grace wanted to wilt under the mortification of a witness at the same time she felt a deep gratitude that someone had heard and actually stepped in. Who did that? The mailman! Even if her neighbors did hear anything right now, they were probably sipping mimosas by the window to hear what other dirty laundry came out.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she called to the mailman. “My ex-husband was just leaving.”

“Like fuck I am,” Tim said, whirling on her again. “This is my house. I’m not going anywhere. You do some thinking, Grace, and get your head together quick to save this marriage, because you need me more than I need you. You think anyone else is going to deal with your rich bitch attitude?”

“Who says I want someone else? I’m not shopping around, but I deserve not to be treated like this–”

“Yeah it’s all about what you deserve. You have no fucking clue what the world is like because first daddy protected you and now I’ve done the same thing and look where it fucking got me. Wasting our money on a goddamn divorce lawyer. We aren’t getting divorced!”

The mailman was still there and had pulled out his phone. Grace saw it and tried to gesture not to. Tim didn’t notice. He’d said his piece and stomped into the house, fuming. There was no way to slam the sliding door but he tried and his scream of rage almost cut through Grace’s fear to make her laugh.

But she didn’t laugh. She sank to the lounge chair, her legs shaking, her head throbbing. The air felt static in the wake of his fury.

“You ok?” the mailman called to her. “I can still call.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m so sorry you saw that. We’re… getting divorced and he’s not taking it well.” The first person she had told she was getting divorced: the fucking mailman.

“Good for you,” he said, but it sounded sincere. “I hope you leave that bastard high and dry. You sure you’re going to be ok? You have somewhere else to go?”

“I’ll be fine, but thank you.”

He seemed reluctant to go. She couldn’t believe he’d stepped in so much; she’d never traded a word with this man in her life though she did leave him a gift at the holidays. Merry Christmas, to our postal worker, because she didn’t know his name. Did she really seem like such a damsel? His hesitation twisted her emotions and she began to feel genuine anger. Couldn’t he see that this was embarrassing? She’d said he could go! He should go!

He was gone before the angry words rolled off her tongue, for which she was grateful. But then she was alone and that felt bad too. The yard felt eerily quiet and she wondered what Tim was doing inside. It scared her. She still believed he wouldn’t physically hurt her, but was that only because she wanted to believe that? He might be in there finding some other way to vent his rage: destroying her paintings or smashing TVs or who knew what.

She ended the video. It was long. She couldn’t bear to watch it but immediately sent it to her attorney, then called.

“Grace. I haven’t watched the video you just sent. Is there something wrong?” Lidiya asked.

“Tim isn’t handling news of the divorce well,” she admitted, her breath shaking as she blinked back tears. She felt like he was still standing there yelling at her. “I don’t think I can stay in the house with him. I mean, I can… but I don’t want to… but will I lose my stake in the house then? Abandonment?”

“No, not at all. He has made you feel unsafe. As long as you keep paying your part of the bills, it’s fine.”

“Hold on a second.” Grace looked up at the rumble of the garage door. A car door slammed and then Tim’s car peeled out of the garage.

“He left. I can breathe now.”

“Good. Catch your breath and go pack your things. Stay with a friend, family, hotel, it doesn’t matter. The disclosure is hard if the other person doesn’t see it coming. I won’t lie and say this will be the only hard part, but you will get through this and I’ll be right there with you.”

Grace wanted Lidiya to tell her she was doing the right thing, that this divorce was the right step. She knew it was. But it was one thing to know it and another to have Tim standing there yelling, twisting her around, making it sound like she was the cause for failure. And she hated this. She didn’t want to leave the house! She couldn’t pack up all her stuff so quickly so she’d have to leave things behind and hope he didn’t destroy them in his rage. She didn’t want to stay somewhere else. She didn’t want to admit to her friends and family any of this was happening, and staying somewhere else was a concrete step towards admitting this was happening. She loved this house! She hadn’t loved married life to Tim but she could pretend she had, to mourn the things she had thought were good. She wanted to keep lying by the beautiful pool, but Tim had ruined her day just like he had ruined everything else.

September

“So then she grabs my ass,” Jungkook explained, “and laughs. Like, right in my face with her nastyass cigarette breath.”

Yoojin reached around him to pull the cabinet open and search for a sippy cup lid, nearly clocking Jungkook in the head from where he sat on the counter.

“That’s so gross. Did she try to pretend it was an accident?”

“No. She asked me what kind of body oil I use. I was just sweaty! It’s fucking ninety-eight degrees out there today!”

Yoojin crinkled her nose and said, “That’s disgusting.”

“I know!”

“No, I mean you being that sweaty. Have you thought of getting a doctor to look into that?”

“Shut up, asshole,” he laughed, trying to kick the back of her knee as she sauntered away.

“Hey, not in front of my son!”

But Max not only wasn’t in the room, it would be highly unlike him to repeat anything he heard, despite their best efforts. His first birthday had just passed, but he still had only a few words he reliably used, much to Yoojin’s panic. She’d recently implemented a rule that everyone had to only speak English to him, in case speaking two languages at home was slowing him down. Eomma insisted he was clearly smart and just didn’t have anything to say yet, but it was a sore subject, likely to send Yoojin into a shrieking fit, like she had when Jungkook asked if the pediatrician had said anything about it. He still didn’t know if she’d even asked about it. He didn’t think fear or shame were a good reason not to ask the pediatrician though, even if it was them doing something wrong.

“Yeah, how would he feel to hear his mom is victim-blaming, huh?”

“I’m not victim blaming. If you’re so pissed about it… I don’t know. Tell your boss you won’t work at their house anymore or something. I thought you dealt with this all the time?”

“Not all the time. It was worse when I was a cabana boy, and those fuckers didn’t give a shit what we dealt with from guests. The guest is always right.” He shuddered. The tips had been phenomenal but ultimately not worth it. He still started on the defense around older women drinking by a pool or beach, at least that kind of older woman. You could always tell. Just like he’d known Mrs. Abigail Pender was trouble since he’d started working for them. He hadn’t thought she’d actually grab him like that, but he’d never felt comfortable around her. Just tried to be polite when she’d so brazenly flirt with him. Apparently all it took was three margaritas (she’d been bragging) and the encouragement of her friends (they’d been drunk too, watching from the patio.)

Jungkook still felt shaky about the whole thing, even though that was embarrassing too. It wasn’t like he thought Mrs. Pender was going to harm him or anything. But who knew what a pissy white woman was capable of? She’d looked shocked when he’d pried her hand off and said, “Please do not touch me, Mrs. Pender. I’m just here to clean your pool.” Like she’d actually thought he came by to flirt or something?! Now he debated whether to tell Bob about the incident or wait to see if she’d call to file some bullshit complaint. That had happened multiple times, and though Bob had been understanding about the call from Limpdick Birch a couple weeks ago, if this was the second woman complaining about Jungkook, at what point would Bob think Jungkook was doing something to cause it all? He wasn’t! He was just cleaning the fucking pools!

Well, except for the Birchs, where he had involved himself and was no longer cleaning the pool. He’d asked someone else to cover the last month of their cleanings for the summer and worried that was just going to make him look bad in light of any complaints from Mrs. Pender.

“Yeah, but I mean as a pool guy. Maybe you need to wear more clothes or something? Don’t look at me like that, I realize how it sounds but this is how it goes for women all the time. We should be allowed to wear whatever we want and not get assaulted. It doesn't mean we can.”

“It’s hot and I work outside,” Jungkook defended. “At least if a guy grabs you, you can deck him and everyone will agree it’s deserved. If I deck an old lady, I’m getting sued and going to jail.”

“Ooof, it’ll only be worse in prison.”

“Yoojin, that doesn’t help!”

“I’m sorry,” she sighed, screwing on the lid of the sippy cup and sloshing apple juice onto the counter. The sink was piled with dishes even though she and Max had been the only ones home for lunch. “What else do you want me to say? Cougars are gross. Get a different job.”

But Jungkook didn’t want another job. He sighed noisily as she left the kitchen. Yoojin wasn’t usually his first choice to complain to, because she tended to be unsympathetic at best, and usually just found a way to insist her story was worse. Yeah, Jungkook didn’t envy her raising her son alone –but she wasn’t really “alone.” She lived with his parents. Jungkook babysat a lot for free.

“If jobs are so easy to change, why don’t you have one?” he demanded, chasing after her.

“Get off my ass, I’m on round two of an interview!” She slapped at his arm. “Don’t make me sound incompetent in front of Max!”

Max had been reaching for Yoojin but Jungkook scooped him up, hotly defending, “I didn’t make you sound any way. Besides, if I quit my job, I probably can’t babysit for free anymore like this. You want to pay me?”

“You aren’t babysitting,” she immediately complained. “You’re uncling.”

“I’m letting you mooch off my time,” he insisted. But then, afraid she would actually take it as a complaint, he spun Max around and added, “It’s his fault, he’s too stinking cute. It’s hard being the favorite person but ah… a burden I must bear.” Max giggled and squished Jungkook’s cheeks and babbled. “Hey, do you think he just said ‘uncle’?”

“No, I don’t think he just said uncle. I wish! He won’t even say ‘mama’! What the fuck, right? Hey, next time one of the old crones hits on you, why don’t you just play dumb and point out they’re old enough to be your mom?” Yoojin asked. Her eyes sparkled like this sudden idea was the clear and obvious answer to all his problems.

“But they’re into that, that’s the problem,” Jungkook snorted.

“God I wish people thought I was old enough to be someone’s mom. I’m so sick of people asking if Max is my baby brother. Like what the fuck?”

“Language, Yoon. Or ‘fuck’ might be his next word,” Jungkook scolded her just to get a rise out of her. She opened her mouth, probably to let another string of curses out, butEomma and Appa swung the door open, back from grocery shopping. “Not a word about my work thing,” he said quickly to Yoojin. The last thing he needed was Eomma and Appa worrying about his job security or health and happiness. One time they’d found out about a woman harassing him as a cabana boy and they had actually gone to the resort to talk to his boss about employee protection and the next thing he knew, Jungkook was looking for a new job. The resort swore it had nothing to do with that, but Jungkook knew. Even though he couldn’t hate his parents for it, they had just been trying to help when there had been so little they could do for his brother. Not that they’d ever admitted that was a part of it, but honestly, marching into a resort to complain?! We didn’t come here for our children to be treated like this! He didn’t want them to think he needed that kind of help. He could take care of himself.

Besides, it wasn’t like Jungkook didn’t ever flirt to get good tips or reviews. He didn’t do that now, at least not with any women who would take it too far, but back then… eh, he’d hooked up a couple times with guests too, which was technically what he was fired for…

<“Eomma, Appa, I said I’d go shopping with you,>” Jungkook scolded in Korean, carrying Max over.

“Stop talking in Korean around him!” Yoojin cried. She was ignored.

Eomma assured him, <”We don’t need you to go grocery shopping with us. We had the time together.”>

<”You work tonight.”>

”Bye Eomma, Bye Appa, I’m going to my second interview. See? Speak English like that,” Yoojin said, trying to slide past them after she kissed Max on the head.

Appa’s face screwed up as he asked, “An interview dressed like that? What is this company again?”

“It’s a catering company, I told you. I have to look nice.” Now Junkook looked at her outfit and also thought it looked a little off for a job interview with a catering company. Her short black dress was pretty tight, and her heels were nothing like you’d wear to show you knew how to cater food and she had a small purse. Small purses meant date.

“Are you going on a date?!” Jungkook hissed, clamping a hand over one of Max’s ears as if to protect him. Max was far more interested in Jungkook’s shell necklace than in whatever his mom’s secret plans might be. “Am I babysitting for you to go on a date?!”

“No! It’s not a date! It’s an interview, I swear! I just dressed nice!”

Jungkook didn’t want to dig in too hard in case it was true and he made her cry –she could turn it on like a faucet in front of their parents and then he’d look like an ass. But Appa raised his eyebrow, also not convinced, and shuffled past with two bags of food.

Eomma nodded at her, <”Ok, good luck if it’s a job interview.”>

“You’re all bullies,” Yoojin huffed. It was impossible to tell if she was really upset by their doubt. Jungkook thought her lack of shouting might actually mean she really was going on a date and didn’t want to back herself into a corner confirming it. Jungkook bit his tongue, for now, but only because their parents were there, and Max was grunting like he was trying to poop. Jungkook would change the diaper, but he drew the line at holding the kid while he did the deed. He’d save the brotherly lecture for later. The last thing Yoojin needed to be doing while she was unemployed with a one year old was going on dates! Not to mention every guy she went after was just like her ex, and she threw a fit if you pointed that out to her. If she was going to date, at least Jungkook wasn’t going to babysit for free for it.

He wound up trading Eomma, so she got stuck with the diaper while Jungkook carried in the groceries and did his best to help put them away with some guidance from Appa. He’d wanted to help with the shopping so Eomma wouldn’t wear herself out before her shift at the nursing home; she was working nights this week.

<“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”> Jungkook asked Appa, before realizing it was Thursday so Appa had Go night at the community center in K-town. His days were off. He blamed it on not cleaning the Birch’s pool yesterday. He wondered if Mrs. Birch had noticed someone else came by, or if she’d even cared. Probably she was relieved. For all he knew, she’d called to ask for a replacement anyway and Bob just hadn’t mentioned it yet.

<”You and Max can come with me tonight,”> Appa suggested.

<”It’s tempting but uh…”> Jungkook scrambled trying to think of an excuse, before settling on, <”Yoojin told me not to take him there. You know, she just wants him hearing English. Maybe she mentioned that.”>

<”That’s not the problem! He’ll talk when he’s ready, in English or Korean!”>

Jungkook shrugged. At least the excuse worked. He didn’t feel like sitting around listening to Appa and a bunch of old men play games and talk about sports and weather. He had thought about taking Max to the beach to get him used to it early, but diaper bags were almost as much of a hassle as getting sunscreen on a baby, and after his morning, he didn’t feel up for it. Plus it was hot out. Maybe they’d go for a walk later or maybe they’d just play inside.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and it felt like he’d stuck a staple in an outlet. He left Eomma and Appa debating what to eat for dinner since both of them would leave early and carried Max with him back to what had become Max’s room once he moved out. He knew it would be Bob’s name on the screen before he even got his phone out of his pocket.

“Yeah, Bob? What’s up, man?”

“Hey, JK. I just got off the phone with–”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Jungkook blurted out. “I didn’t flirt with her or anything, she was just drunk and gossiping with her friends and then grabbed my ass.”

“Uh… who’s this now?”

“Shit. Uh… who did you get off the phone with?” Jungkook asked. He looked to Max for a shared grimace but Max saw toys now and squirmed to be let down so he could play. Jungkook collapsed onto the rug beside him and began nervously stacking blocks.

“I was just calling about the Breslins, they said they want to keep the pools at their properties open through the winter and it looks like it fits into your schedule now that you dropped the Birch house but what’s this about?”

“Ah, just… an incident with…”

“JK, man, I told you, you gotta tell me if there’s an incident. What house?”

“Pender. She got drunk and grabbed my ass. I told her not to touch me and that I was just there to clean the pool. She said some other things but went back into her house and I finished up and left, that’s it.”

“Pender, Pender…. Oh that’s why that name is familiar. You’re the second poolboy then. I don’t give third chances, I’ll let her know we’re dropping her account.”

“Wait, what?!”

“Good, that frees you up for the other Breslin properties. I’ll email you the new schedule.”

“No, wait, Bob, you can’t just drop a client, can you? Aren’t they going to… I don’t know, sue or review bomb or something?”

Bob’s chuckle over the line reminded Jungkook how much he actually did like this job, as he said, “Sometimes. And then what am I going to do, say she’s got to stop assaulting my pool techs. And then she wants to take me to court to prove it didn’t happen, and everyone’s talking about it now? Nah, she’ll bitch to some friends about what a shitty company we are. These people are petty but they’re lazy, and if it’s a repeat offender, they probably don’t want anyone opening the closet door. A couple people start coming forward, suddenly you’ve got a dozen people saying she’s assaulted them.”

“Bob…. thanks. I thought…”

“I’d fire you? I know I may not look like it now, but I was quite a looker back in the day. You think I never caught any eyes or wandering hands? I don’t have much, but my company and dignity are two things that can’t be bought. Well. Company might be bought if it was a really good offer…” He gave that jolly laugh of his again. “See you Monday, mandatory meeting.” And hung up, just like that, no problem.

Jungkook wanted to weep. He’d had enough overbearing, shitty bosses to know Bob was a real one. Not only was he not fired, he had a new schedule now. No Mrs. Pender. No Mr. Birch. No… Mrs. Birch. Which was for the best. It was. It was for the best that he wouldn’t see her again as she debated whether to stay with her shithead husband or go through probably a messy divorce… Yep. For the best. Not his business. He was just the poolboy, remember?

As relief surged through him, Jungkook took hold of Max, rolled onto his back and propped his nephew on his feet to airplane him. Max shrieked with delight; this had been one of his favorite games since he was little.

“Wait, you didn’t just eat, right? No spitting up on me, ok? Hurray, airplane Max!” Jungkook cheered, doing leg lifts with him because if he couldn’t make it to the gym or beach, might as well get some fitness in before their jaunt around the neighborhood. Jungkook was so relieved, he had the energy for adventure.

“Hey, maybe let’s head to the beach after all. You want to? You want to see your uncles and some crabs? You want to be a surfer baby? Yeah, let’s do it.”

January

Grace let out a sigh of relief when she stepped out of the terminal at LAX and felt warmth finally seep back into her bones. Seeing her family for Christmas had been nice, but she was glad to be away from Missouri’s brutal snow and windchill.

Just about the whole extended family had gathered, which was rare these days. Sure, she would have preferred spending the holiday with only her immediate family in Chicago, but maybe it had been better this way. It had meant more options for distraction every time someone tried to bring up her divorce, and fewer opportunities for one on one time that might lead to inescapable questions. Of course everyone had wanted to talk about it. It wasn’t a thing anyone in their family had done before. Ever. Her extended family’s horrific responses a constant reminder of that fact, everything ranging from aren’t you embarrassed for people to know your marriage failed? To well what was going on at home? Men cheat when something is wrong at home and that’s the wife’s domain to keep happy. She found herself wishing her family would just go back to making subtle digs about her weight and diet like they usually did. Not that they missed an opportunity to warn her to cut back on the stress eating and take up some activity, no need to let herself go.

Her immediate family… well, they seemed to be following her lead in just not talking about it at all. That was for the best. Even if some small part of her was desperate to talk to anyone except her attorney about it because fucking hell it was miserable!

She checked her email as she waited for a cab, fully expecting an email from Lidiya with some new bullshit Tim was trying to pull. Mediation was not going well, despite the ironclad prenup. Tim wanted to fight her on everything, and dragged his feet about the information he was required to share, and kept trying to find bullshit “leads” to chase down like he was a real detective. She couldn’t fathom what his play was: this was only going to end in divorce, and he was going to exhaust his finances long before she did hers. Lidiya had suggested he was hoping to burn through their cash without understanding that the court could require him to pay her legal fees alongside his even if he didn’t have the cash at the moment.

But now that the blinders were off, Grace had a new theory. She thought Tim might just not truly understand how money worked. Just like he hadn’t seemed to understand how their prenup worked, or how a marriage vow worked, or a home security system account, and certainly not how she worked. He’d made clear at every turn that he expected her to change her mind and realize she was making a mistake. Maybe that was truly the reason he was making this so miserable, to “give her time” to realize she was wrong.

No emails had come from Lidiya during her flight. No contact from Tim, either, which she carefully documented. Every text, every phone call, every “drop by” her rental condo to “give her stuff” after he’d somehow found out her new place. It wasn’t illegal to go near her, since she really had no grounds for a restraining order, but it was definitely annoying and stupid, clearly just an excuse to see what she was doing, or maybe as an intimidation tactic.. Grace suspected he was hoping she was having men over so he could try to counter that she had been unfaithful as well.

Part of her wished she had. As she watched the city pass outside the window, buildings spreading further apart and climbing into the multistories of wealthier neighborhoods of Santa Monica, Grace found herself again fantasizing about the petty things she’d rather be doing than fighting Tim in court. How delicious would it have been to be the one who cheated on him? To get her world rocked by someone else and then have Tim discover it and hurt as deeply as she did. Some hot young successful man Tim could never hope to compete with. A guy even came to mind, that art collector, Namjoon Kim. Intelligent, sophisticated, successful, a total hottie, and Tim hated him. He’d be perfect. How beautiful to get some sort of justice.

But there was no real justice to be got and she was not actually going to pursue something with the mild-mannered guy, especially not as vengeance against her ex. Hopefully she’d get the house, that might be a small justice. She loved that house. In fact, her mother had pulled her aside and offered to help buy the house out from Tim if she needed the money for it. It was the only reference to the whole thing her mom had made, and kindly meant, though Grace wasn’t sure that she wanted to co-own her own home with her mother. But it might be the only way…

As tempted as she was to drive by the house now, she worried Tim would be there. Possibly with someone. She didn’t want to let on that she really wanted the house or he’d obviously make it impossible. She tried to make it sound like she intended to stay permanently in the furnished condo she was renting. It was nice! But it felt nothing like a home.

Maybe she should get a pet? The thought struck her as she walked through the door. She could. Her family growing up always had dogs but she’d wanted a cat for as long as she could remember. Tim liked to say he was allergic but really he just didn’t like animals –which in hindsight ought to have been a warning sign. Not for the first time, Grace considered all the warning signs she had ignored. The rosy glasses of love really were more like blinders.

Grace set about unpacking her bags. Unpacking was obviously the worst part of travel and she usually procrastinated it but there was nothing else to take her time right now. She didn’t have a single active real estate client at the moment, no houses to stage or sell, and she enforced a strict “no paperwork” policy during her holidays. There weren’t any tv shows or movies she felt like watching, and she’d just sat on the plane for hours anyway, so not in the mood for reading either. Her fitness classes had already passed for the day and she hadn’t signed up for a general gym membership, though it had been on her to-do list because this condo complex didn’t have its own –one of several compromises she had made just to find somewhere fast.

God, do I really not have any hobbies? Grace collapsed across her bed and stared at the ceiling. That felt like a failure to her. She came from a family of always-doing-somethings. Hunting, riding, jet-setting, painting, hosting, visiting, gambling, taking up whatever club sport or craft struck a fancy and then abandoning it when it no longer served. Grace had ribbons from a half dozen sports lined up like a museum in the bedroom her parents still kept for her at their house but she didn’t fence anymore, no pool, no horse. It had been nice to ride again in Missouri.

She pursed her lips and considered tennis. She’d loved tennis. Hadn’t played it in a while, because she and Tim used to do that together and then he got too busy working –and fucking, probably. A game of tennis actually sounded good right now, without Tim.

But it would require inviting someone, and Grace didn’t even bother to pick up her phone to consider it. She had always thought of herself as adequately social, she had plenty of “friends,” but going through this divorce had made her question everything she’d hinged on that word. After overhearing the gossip about herself at the third party she had attended without her husband, she had decided to take a break from the social scene —which would inevitably lead to more gossip. It felt like letting the rumor mill win, but what was she supposed to do, clink a spoon against a champagne glass and confirm that yes, she was divorcing, because her husband had fucked around and she wasn’t wiling to overlook it? All these adequately-married couples she’d thought were her friends for years only asked after her to try and get the dirt on why her marriage failed. They expected her to be ashamed for the wrong reasons. She didn’t want to admit she hadn’t been enough, hadn’t been right for her husband; they wanted her to realize how stupid she was to let a stable-earner, social-charmer like Tim go. What was she going to do now, be alone? Boys will be boys. Just forgive him!

A few people had reached out in ways that felt sincere. Megan blew her phone up every couple of weeks when she went for brunch with “the girls.” Eva from the club had invited her to check out the new gallery opening she patronized, which seemed thoughtful and not geared towards gossip or lecture. Stephanie, who Grace had known since they were girls and had moved to LA only a couple years before, just sent condolences and suggested a girl spa-weekend/ski trip “without the boys.” Kindly meant, even if it revealed the rumor mill had reached her; Stephanie was a different social circle than the Santa Monica club, but Grace hadn’t told her about the divorce.

Grace had brushed everyone off. As she and Tim warred over who would “keep” which “friend” group, Grace found herself doubting who she could trust. Abigail Pender, after hosting one of the parties Grace attended, apparently reported Grace’s presence to Tim, and afterwards she’d received a scathing voicemail from him saying he had known the Penders longer so she shouldn’t go to their parties anymore. Even though he hadn’t gone! And maybe he’d known them longer, having met Mark Pender on a golf green, but she was the one who’d put forth the effort to build and maintain the friendship –mainly because he thought Mark could be a useful friend for him, business-wise. She’d done that with all of them! Tim had always been happy to carry a case of beer to a cookout, or fire up their own grill, but she was the one who planned the events, bought the meat and beer, made sure everyone was having a good time, followed up for the lunches and fishing trips and whatever else got mentioned to make sure these things actually happened.

All that effort and Grace felt like she’d lost it all. Now she finally began to understand the warning her mother had given when Grace had finally called home to say she was divorcing: “Divorce is like burning the house down and you’re still in it, Grace. Really think about this.”

Would she have done anything differently? She couldn’t say. But she did know it was really fucking lonely now, not knowing who were actually her friends. She missed her house. And she felt pathetic, lying there on her bed, not sure what to do with her time. Tim didn’t own her hobbies, so why couldn’t she think of any? She’d been putting so much energy into her marriage and the social network Tim required to feel secure and connected and successful.

Damn, did that make her as bad as everyone else? But the social networks were just like that. Sometimes you genuinely like the people you invited to dinner and other times it was because there was some business or family connection, or potential, or some unspoken duty to be friends because your distant cousin had married the niece of their best friend.

Now Grace had failed the social contract by leaving her two-timing (well, at least four-timing) husband and she didn’t want to hear about it anymore. She didn’t trust anyone. She didn’t want to risk getting asked about it more, as if it was a news headline that affected them all but not personally or emotionally. She was very personally and emotionally affected! Didn’t anyone want to talk to her about something else? Was poor divorced woman all they saw when they looked at her now? She had been someone before her marriage, and during her marriage, and she would be someone again soon!

Once she figured out what she actually liked without Tim’s opinion weighing on her shoulder.

Once she discovered which foods she actually liked instead of the ones they’d ordered just because he did.

Once she figured out how to reclaim her social life from that thieving new-money bastard.

Once she could find a place to live that didn’t look so cold and generic and neutral. She knew neutral colors were all the rage now. This was what new money thought elegance looked like, she’d heard that plenty of times from her mother.

Ugh, what did Grace like? What did she want to do?

Grace wanted….

Grace liked….

Grace didn’t want to be in bed right now, so she showered and changed clothes to get the smell of travel off. And she walked to get a coffee from down the street just to be among Californians again.

Then, on an impulse she decided to give into, Grace drove to the animal shelter. It was almost shockingly easy to fill out the paperwork. She didn’t know whether her rental allowed pets but didn’t care, she put her address as the house she was determined to move back into once mediation granted it to her. She googled a vet reference on the way, assuming they wouldn’t check –they didn’t– and listed her sister as her personal reference, assuming they wouldn’t call –they didn’t.

“Shouldn’t they make it harder to adopt?” she mused on the way home, carrier wedged into the front seat beside her, back seat packed with a splurge worthy of her sister’s shopping habits.

Foam said nothing, just peered through the mesh with the big eyes that took up an odd amount of his face, one ear flicking. The nub of his other ear swiveled when she turned the car.

“Almost home,” she said. Suddenly Foam let out a high-pitched yeowl and turned a somersault in his carrier, then curled up in the back. “Sh sh sh, almost home.”

The narration wasn’t important; deaf little Foam couldn’t hear her anyway, but that hadn’t stopped her from talking to him at the adoption center and it wouldn’t stop her now as she hauled the carrier and bags into the condo. She would order a cat tree for him, and a better scratching post, and whatever else struck her fancy, but at least for now he had bedding and food and toys and treats to mark this completely new chapter of his life. From kill shelter to rescue agency and now to life with Grace, she hoped this was going to be a better future for both of them.

As soon as he was out of the carrier, he climbed her like a tree; she flinched at the pinpricks of his claws until he’d reached her shoulder, trying to nestle himself onto her chest like he had at the center. That’s when she’d been a goner. He couldn’t hear her but he could feel the vibrations of her speech and had purred and nuzzled beneath her chin and really Grace had almost broken down in the room as she stroked his gray and white fur. The rescue thought he might be a Singapura-American shorthair mix but Grace couldn’t care less what he was. No one wanted this beat up scrawny deaf kitty, and Tim hadn’t wanted her.

“Fuck Tim, you’re all I need,” she beamed, arms around Foam as she swayed.

Apparently he didn’t even need a period to warm up to her, which would have been understandable. She would never know what his life had been like in the five years before he’d got to her, but that didn’t matter either. Suddenly the future looked so much better; already Grace was thrilled to hear the padding of little feet as Foam explored his new home. He shadowed her as she did a pass to make sure there wasn’t anything obviously dangerous for a cat and put on some music and grabbed her laptop to read more about cat ownership. She wondered if Foam would be the kind of cat who’d be happy hiking on a leash or in a backpack…

She’d always wanted a cat and now she had a perfect one. Maybe building the life she wanted, only for herself, wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

March

A lot of people kept their pools open year-round, but there were still enough to closed them for the winter that March always saw a surge in business. Jungkook had spent the winter working mostly on commercial properties, which was stable and all, but he was glad to see his schedule shift back towards more private residences. Not that he liked dealing with snotty rich people, but there were plenty of middle class families too who didn’t treat him like garbage. And hey, maybe his ego could use a little stoking from the non-handsy variety of women, just the ones who admired and flirted a little, because winter had not been kind to him in the dating sphere. Teona had come back into his life for a whole month before deciding he still hadn’t grown up enough. He’d had a string of dates that he shelled out good money for only to find himself ghosted or even blocked afterwards. When he’d drunkenly demanded of Jimin “is it me? Am I a creep?” his friends had taken the shit out of him a little too well. He was still bothered not to know whether they were just teasing or really did think he was a fuckboy.

The tide was out on dating and Jungkook saw spring as a chance to refocus on work and surfing and the band and let the universe steer his dating life for a while. Probably straight into a wall, but if he was going to end up there anyway, he might as well blame it on the universe.

“You’re hot but you don’t have any substance,” he murmured, repeating the words his latest date via an app had provided when he asked if there was any particular reason she didn’t want a second date. He’d liked her. He had thought the question would reflect well on him, and anticipated her answer being something like oh the sparks just weren’t there or you’re great but I realized I just don’t have time for a relationship right now. Maybe even I realized I was going to fall too hard and fast for you, it scared me. Nope. Hot but no substance.

What did that even mean? Jungkook had so much substance! He had hobbies and interests! He cared about his family! He was good with babies! He played the guitar and drums and sang and worked out and he could cook. He had a stable job and only played a reasonable amount of video games and he knew how to listen. Wasn’t that enough?! What else did women want??

He was still grumbling to himself as he parked at the Cool Pool Inc. building to confirm his schedule and grab a company truck for the day. Bob had sent them out the night before, but Jungkook had a few questions. Namely, about the typo on his schedule regarding the Birches.

“Huh? The Birches?” Bob finally said, looking up from his computer on the third repeat. “Oh, you’ve still got the house but it’s not the Birches anymore. Didn’t you look at the addresses?”

“Yeah but it says the Hessers. Did you mix up the address?”

“No. They bought the place, Birches don’t live there anymore and wherever they moved, I dunno, they aren’t using us anymore.”

Jungkook’s brow lowered in thought. That couldn’t be right. Granted, maybe there weren’t Birches anymore if Mrs. Birch-or-whatever-her-name-was-now had gotten her head on straight and left that twichy-dicked corn chip. He looked at his list of names again but didn’t see her name listed anywhere.

“Maybe they changed their name,” Jungkook suggested. “Or I mean, she did. Did we get any new customers from another address with the first name… Cornelia?” It was just a name, but he felt wrong to say it, like he wasn’t supposed to know, even though it had always been written on his schedule. Hers had been the primary name on the account: Cornelia Birch, even though she had introduced herself to him as “Grace” that first time he’d cleaned for them. It had made sense to him, in a way, that she wouldn’t give her real name to be used casually by a contractor. And ‘Mrs. Birch’ had felt like the proper way to call her anyway –in the beginning because that’s just a thing he did, to charm the rich white ladies with his manners, but later because calling her by her name would have felt intimate or wrong. They weren’t on the same level. She was older and rich and he would just have felt weird about it, ok? Calling her by her first name or a nickname, like they were casual friends. Besides, was she really called Cornelia? That was such an old lady name… He kind of liked that about her though. She had a weird name, and people always thought his name was weird too.

Bob’s eyebrows lifted. He smacked his lips and glanced at the computer as if going to check but then answered without checking,

“Nope, no new Cornelia anything. Why, you looking for her?”

“No,” Jungkook quickly assured him. “Just… you know, she’s the one who was so serious about their pool, just wanted to know if she closed the account or just moved to a new house–”

“And changed her name?”

Jungkook shrugged, “I dunno, divorces happen…”

“Or you want to know if Timothy Birch’s calls complaining about you cost us an account?” Bob countered, like he could see it all before him.

“It wasn’t my fault he complained about me, he was just like that. I hope for her sake, she did leave his ass, he was an asshole.”

Bob chuckled at this show of passion and shook his head, lecturing, “Marriages are a complicated thing, son. Maybe you’ll get it someday. But no, no Timothys, Cornelias, or Graces, Birch or otherwise.” He was already feeling nervous that Bob would think he’d been involved as much as he had been though and didn’t want to dig in more.

“Ok,” Jungkook shrugged. “I got my schedule then. See ya, boss.”

“Keep it fresh, JK,” Bob said, one of the phrases the younger employees had taught him. He was a good one, that Bob. Jungkook waved over his shoulder as he grabbed the keys to his truck to head out.

And yet, he couldn’t shake the suspicion from his mind. So… did that mean Mrs. Birch and Slim-Jim Dick had divorced? Or just moved somewhere else? He decided to hit up the new owners of that residence first, but still half expected it to be one of the Birches up until he knocked on the front door to introduce himself.

“Great,” the man, Adam Hesser, greeted him with a firm handshake. “We were told by the previous owners your company had been managing the pool so I take it you know what to do? We’re going to keep it open year-round so just keep it nice, our kids will use it a lot. Let me know if you need anything.”

Jungkook nodded, “Yeah yeah, for sure, man. Hey, so you spoke to the previous owners? Which one? Did they say where they were moving?”

“No, I didn’t really, they just had a list of previous contractors.”

“Ah, ok. I’m glad they recommended us. I’ll keep it looking good, head on back on there now. Nice to meet you, Mr. Hesser.”

Gone. That made Jungkook think they’d divorced although he couldn’t be sure. Maybe the Birches were the kind of people who’d decide they had to do everything and anything to save their marriage and they’d moved to Spain or something. Even if they’d divorced, Mrs. Birch might have moved somewhere else. Maybe she wasn’t even in the area anymore, or maybe she didn’t have a pool, which he’d feel sad for her about since she seemed to like it.

Or maybe she did and had just decided to use a different pool cleaning service.

“Wouldn’t that be fucked up?” Jungkook demanded, leaning in close to make sure his buddies heard him over the noisy bar. Taehyung, Jimin, Hoseok, and Soyoon circled the high-top. Taro was here somewhere too, probably networking. Yoongi had already bailed, claiming he had work early but probably just to get away from the place. He only really hung out at bars if there was music he wanted to catch, and even then bounced the second the bands were done.

“Uh… yeah,” Jimin nodded, but he had a look like he didn’t understand why.

“Because I was great at what I did,” Jungkook insisted. “I kept the pool looking great so if she –if they have a new pool and decided to use someone else instead, it would be personal, right? Because I was the best professionally.”

“Didn’t you have a fight with her in her backyard about whether she ought to divorce her husband?” Soyoon asked. Jungkook glared. Hard. He had told her that in drunken confidence and of course she had then casually mentioned it to everyone else without a second thought.

“Yeah, kinda weird,” Taehyung grimaced. “Almost as weird as giving her a video of her husband fucking another woman that you filmed through their window…”

“Hey!”

Jimin came to his defense, insisting, “It’s because he was emotionally compromised.” Wait, that wasn’t the defense Jungkook had hoped for.

“The fuck does that even mean?” Jungkook scowled.

“Aw, it’s because you always had a crush on her, right?” Hoseok asked, his gaze sliding to Jimin as if to confirm this, or make sure it was ok to say. It wasn’t!

“Not in a real way,” Jungkook defended. “Just in like a… a Stacy’s Mom kind of way.”

“That song is fucked up,” Soyoon huffed. “If you reversed the genders, that would be a felony.”

“Sex with a minor is still a felony but they didn’t have sex,” Taehyung countered. “He was just creeping.”

Jimin made a face and admitted, “Really, you think it was just the guy being horny for her? I mean she came out in a towel while he was mowing the lawn, right? No one is surprised by a lawnmower. She knew he was out there.”

“Do you ever see people do things like that when you’re working?” Hoseok asked Jungkook with open curiosity. “Like in just a towel or–”

“Or fucking someone else in the kitchen?” Jimin laughed and threw his arm around Hoseok’s shoulder. “Yeah, he sees it all!”

Jungkook made a face and admitted, “Yeah, I see the towel thing happen.”

“Yeah and is it ever an accident?” Soyoon demanded.

Mrs. Birch didn’t mean to see me when she came up from the home gym in her sports bra. He kept that memory to himself, since these fuckers couldn’t hold anything sacred.

“Eh, sometimes,” he decided. “Sometimes it’s on purpose, but other times it’s just because they just don’t give a shit about you. Like, you’re not even a real human so what do they care if you see them in their towel? But other times yeah it’s on purpose.”

“What’s that show… Desperate Housewives? Wasn’t someone fucking a poolboy in that? It probably gave all the old ladies ideas.”

“Is that show even still on? That’s really old. My mom watched that.”

They looked at Jungkook, who had to explain, “Uh… I don’t… know? I don’t watch that shit.”

“Oh, you know what show I just saw that was great…” Taehyung said, changing the subject further away from what Jungkook had wanted to do: complain about his lack of closure on the Birches.

He grabbed another beer and pretended to follow along, but mostly he was just thinking about how he regretted bailing on those final two weeks of cleaning at the Birches. If he’d gone, maybe he would know what was going on with them, or where they’d gone. It wasn’t like he expected anyone to leave him a note, but it felt wrong for them to just disappear. It felt… bad. He felt bad. He was the one who had sent the tape and while he was sure it had been the right thing to do, he would like to know that was true from Mrs. Birch-called-something-else telling him how grateful she was. Cornelia. Fucking Cornelia. Maybe that was another reason he always called her Mrs. Birch, he just couldn’t bring himself to call her Cornelia. Or Grace, a nickname, which felt even more intimate?! Cornelia wasn’t a name you could say as you fucked a woman slowly against the side of the pool, and Grace was so short… Gracie might make for a good–

Fuck! Abort! Too much beer! Fuck, he was horny, that was all. It wasn’t about her, he’d just crossed the streams of two different thoughts. Never cross streams.

Besides, now he’d never call her anything. She hadn’t had the opportunity to tell him she was grateful or even just reassure her by her happiness that he’d done the right thing. Which he had. Even if she had not seemed grateful when they’d fought about it.

Damnit, couldn’t a guy get closure about anything? Sure he’d had a fantasy crush about her but he was a good guy, he also just wanted to know that she was happy and doing well. Maybe he could google her…

He pulled out his phone and wandered off, mumbling about getting another beer so no one would see his phone screen as he typed in Cornelia Birch.

A shocking number of results came back. He leaned against the bar and scrolled in disbelief, but the links were all to dense text webpages and he had drunk enough that the letters looked blurry and he didn’t feel like reading a lot right now. Besides, he couldn’t tell if the Cornelia Birch who sat on art boards and was a part of some trust or whatever was her or if it was a common rich white lady name. There were no pictures. Except for a table sold by Wayfair, the “Cornelia,” part of the Birch Lane furniture line. That was kinda funny. White ladies and high end furniture lines, that made sense. He started to type in Grace Birch to see if that got different results, just in case she actually did use that as more than a name to give poor peasants so they wouldn’t sully her proper dignified name when–

“Excuse me, are you ordering or…?” He looked up at the hand on his arm, and the owner of the hand: a pretty blond, tanned and green-eyed.

“Oh, yeah sorry, am I in your way?” He scooted to the side and she pressed in. The bartenders had ignored him but came right over for her. She surprised him by motioning for him to tell his order to.

“Can’t believe they make you wait here,” she said to him.

“You waited ten seconds…”

“No, I mean you. If you can’t get a drink then I don’t get it.”

Jungkook was tipsy and confused. But he nodded and didn’t point out he’d been on his phone and also that he wasn’t sure he’d wanted another beer anyway. But one was brought, and on a whim, he told the bartender to put hers on his tab too.

“You don’t have a tab open,” the bartender pointed out. Which was annoying because they knew him here and that he was good for it. It embarrassed him in front of the girl. He slid his card over and pretended to be smooth about it.

“Thanks for the drink,” she beamed at him. “I’m Mary.”

“Another old lady name…”

“What?”

“Nothing, so, you new around here? Don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“You know everyone who comes here?” she teased.

“Just about. Except the tourists. You wouldn’t happen to be one of those, would you?”

“No. I live here, I just never come to this part of town.”

He nudged her closer, away from someone trying to get by, as he pressed, “Then what made you come tonight?”

“My girl friend had a date and wanted a backup, you know? But apparently that went well because she already left.”

“Wait… so your girl space friend, right? Not your girlfriend?”

“What?”

Jungkook decided she must not have a girlfriend, he was just confusing them both.

“So… are you leaving then?”

“No. Why, you want me to go?” she laughed.

“Nah. Just checking.” He chugged half his beer to find some liquid courage. He couldn’t believe his luck. A random girl hitting on him in the bar? Great. Perfect thing to distract him from the fact he’d never know what happened to Mrs. Birch. Besides, so what? It didn’t matter. She was just some lady he cleaned pools for.

“So what do you do?” Mary asked him.

“I’m a pool technician,” he answered. “And I also teach surf and work as a lifeguard sometimes.”

“Ah, that explains the muscles. I can tell you’re fit.”

“I drum too. It’s a pretty good workout, no one ever realizes that.”

“Yeah, full body. I don’t play but I mean, I’ve seen people drum.”

He grinned. Yeah, she was into him.

“What about you?”

“Oh, I’m a senior at USC.”

Jungkook swallowed hard and drank more beer to give himself time to count. Senior… so she was twenty? Twenty one? Twenty two at most probably. He was twenty-six, that wasn’t… too bad…

“What’s that look?” she laughed.

“You’re young.”

“What?! How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“What? I thought you were like, my age,” she laughed. “I’m twenty one.”

He tsked and shook his head, trying not to smile and ruin the joke as he teased, “A baby.”

“Hey, you’re the one with the baby face.” Ah, he kinda hated it when girls said that, even if he knew it was true.

“Because I’m Asian?”

“What?!” she gasped. “Oh my god! I would never say that! I didn’t mean it like that!”

“I’m kidding. I know.”

“Oh my god, I am not like that. I don’t care who or what someone is, if they’re hot, they’re hot.” She was clearly really offended by his joke, or maybe too drunk to be calm about anything.

He nudged her and prompted, “So you think I’m hot?”

Within an hour he knew she did. She’d said it enough times, her nails digging into his chest and abs as she bounced on his dick, the springs of his mattress screaming beneath them. He grabbed her hips and pulled her down, eyes slitted so he could just make out the circles of her nipples and the pink folds of her pussy around his girth. She was thin and perky and had an absurd bikini tan despite admitting she never went to the beach. Total California girl in the purchased, store-bought way.

Which was fine by him. She could be from California or New York or Florida or Timbuktu for all he cared right now. Her energy was great; his drunk brain felt like a tornado of pleasure touched down where her body stroked his.

“We’re going to break your bed,” she giggled.

“Nah, I would have broken it by now.”

“Oh my god, you’re a dick,” she giggled, and slapped him on the face. He didn’t love that but it wasn’t hard enough to hurt. It wasn’t like a dealbreaker or anything. He definitely wasn’t going to pull out for that. It just seemed wrong for this younger girl to do something like that in sex. If someone was going to slap him… ah, Mrs. Birch could slap him. He thought about it with a grin, sinking into the alcohol-logged fantasy he was drunk enough not to stop this time. He let his hands flop out and spread his legs and surrendered. Mrs. Birch could do whatever she wanted to him. She had that fit body but with way more curves than Mary. Small tits were fine but Mrs. Birch’s were bigger, they’d bounce. She had some jiggle to her thighs. If he grabbed her by the ass, he’d get at least a handful. Mary’s assbones were pulverizing his thighs. But Mrs. Birch in that white swimsuit, maybe a size smaller so her body started busting out of it…

Jungkook grabbed Mary’s hips and nutted pretty quickly after that, wordless at the rush of pleasure as a mental image of Mrs. Birch with swollen nipples straining against a white wet suit filled his head in the moments before it all went blank. He rolled Mary onto her back and got in a final stroke and gasped for breath back into his lungs. When she pushed against his chest to get him to sit up, he sat there just gasping while her eyes and hand roamed his stomach, her other hand rubbing herself furiously. He watched with the kind of fascination he always had for a woman cumming: it was a beautiful thing no matter who the woman was. This fake-beach babe looked hot as hell spasming around his spent dick and he made sure to tell her so as he gripped the condom and eased himself out of her.

“You think so?” she taunted. “Because your eyes were closed a lot.”

“Nah, just hard to keep ‘em open when it felt so good,” he assured her. “Trust me, I was looking.” She’d rolled onto her side and he smacked her ass.

“Ouch, too hard,” she complained with a giggle. And reached behind him for the blunt she’d pulled out earlier but abandoned when he’d pulled her shirt off.

He padded to the bathroom to rinse off and toss the condom, then accepted the blunt when she handed it to him, one arm crooked behind his head in absolute relaxation. Balls empty, brain empty, best night.

She was just nice to him, that’s why he wanted to know whatever happened to Mrs. Birch. Not enough he’d actually look through those google search results or anything. He was just curious. He just wanted closure because she’d been nice to him before and he didn’t feel great that the last time he’d ever see her, they’d had a fight. Hopefully by now she had realized he was right.

“Hey,” he said after blowing smoke towards the ceiling. “If you were married and your husband cheated on you, you’d fucking divorce him, right?”

“Geez, proposing to me already?” she giggled and took the blunt back.

“No, I’m just saying, that’s what you do, right?”

Mary nodded emphatically, “Yeah, this is the 21st century, no woman should stay with a cheating piece of shit.”

“That’s what I’m saying. You get it.”

“Oh my god… you aren’t married or anything, right?”

Jungkook laughed loud and gestured, crying, “You saw my house! I live with a bunch of dudes!”

“Oh. Right. I wasn’t really thinking about anything like that.”

“Just thinking about my dick?” he grinned.

“Yeah, and how bad I wanted it,” she agreed, rolling against his arm. “And it did not disappoint.”

“See? That’s what I’m saying,” he said again. “You get it.”

“Yeah, I got it good.” Just as Jungkook started to gloat, she asked, “Hey, you got anything harder than this?”

“Than… what?”

“Than pot.”

“No. Take it from your elders, don’t do anything harder than pot,” he snorted. Just like that, warm cozy fantasy of success with Mary started to crumble. Ugh. What was he even doing with a college-age girl he picked up in a bar? One clearly surfing for dick and apparently coke too?

No. No regrets. Not while his dick was still twitching with satisfaction.

“You’re not my dad,” she snickered, before whispering into his ear, “Unless you want me to call you ‘daddy.’”

“You call me daddy, I’m going to spank you a lot harder than that,” he warned. Honestly, he wasn’t really into the name but he also didn’t want to chase her off with a denial. Not when he felt this good. Whatever, he could play along. He could stomach being daddy for another round…

She handed him the blunt and watched him; he felt her gaze even with his eyes closed in the low light.

“Are you thinking about someone else?” she asked. “Who were you talking about? Someone cheated on who? Your sister or something?”

He nearly choked as he sat up and insisted, “Yeah I am not thinking about my sisters while I’m fucking.” That made her laugh harder. She choked too, coughing hard as she took the blunt back to set in the bowl on his nightstand.

“Then who?”

“Nobody. I just knew you’d understand.”

“Yeah, I’m great like that. Hey, can you spot me money for a lyft back home?”

“Just spend the night, I don’t mind.”

“.... no thanks. You’ve got like a lot of laundry in here…”

“Yeah, tomorrow is laundry day,” he lied, but her criticism made him run a little colder.

“Yeah it was just an observation. I have class early though I gotta go.”

He sighed and pushed himself out of bed to see what cash he had. Only a twenty, which she gladly took before ordering a car that would go on her card anyway. Damn college girls. He got her a glass of water and made sure she got in the car ok before returning to his room. There wasn’t that much laundry in his room. Maybe he’d been in a hurry changing between surfing and work and going out but so what? He hadn’t expected to bring someone back tonight. If she was so particular they could have gone to her place. She probably had laundry everywhere too.

Dizzy now between the pot and alcohol, Jungkook realized with regret there was no way he’d drag himself out of bed in time to catch the morning surf. He had lifeguard duty and family stuff this weekend too, and band practice Sunday, so tomorrow morning was his only chance. And now Mrs. Birch was gone and he had missed the last two cleanings at her place because he’d been too sulky about her being mad at him. He’d fucked, that was great, his balls were drained, but at what cost? Was it really worth it? Was something wrong with Jungkook to wonder if maybe other things in life were even better than sex–

Wait, Mary had early classes on a Saturday!?

Chapter Two | Masterlist | Chapter Three

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