#Shy Guys on Stilts

[silentsenior09]

*Cracks knuckles*

Let's get started. Today, we tackle Shy Guys on Stilts and Touch Fuzzy, Get Dizzy. Yeah buddy!

#Let's Play Yoshi's Island #Let's Play #LP #Yoshi's Island #YI #Super Mario World 2: Yoshi's Island #Yoshi #Shy Guys on Stilts #Shy Guys #red coins #rainbow egg #red egg #yellow egg #item balloon #What is in a name? #Shakespeare had it right #Stardew Valley #Animal Crossing New Horizons #Fuzzies #Piranha #tap-tap #marching milde #Earl #very very simple #tulip #spit an enemy inside the tulip #WOW twice #World of World Craft times 2 #laughing awkwardly #because I'm a dork

[starswallowingsea]

I just woke up from a nap but didn't Kanata used to take naps on Kaoru when they were in school in the Marine Bio club and they both individually needed to decompress from life? I'm just imaging a Kaoru who can't sleep or doesn't want to sleep gently playing with Kanata's hair, loosely braiding it or wrapping it around his finger while Kanata is softly snoring and leaning into Kaoru's touch.

Or one of the rare times that Kaoru is the one sleeping, Kanata just being there to watch over him and make sure he isn't disturbed because Kanata can tell Kaoru hasn't been sleeping well and wants to give him the time he needs to rest.

Or both of them napping together, either on top of each other or just in the room, separate but basking in the comfort of a familiar and calming presence as the whirring of the fish tanks lulls them to sleep

#shay speaks #enstars #kaoru hakaze #kanata shinkai #kaokana #kaokana nap pile in the marine bio room. kaoru actually lays his head on kanata's chest or stomach #and lets himself be intimate with another guy just this once (its the third time this month) #they are each other's comfort person. to me. #this could be romantic or platonic tbh #i think. in high school its platonic kaoru still has a lot of internalized homophobia to work through #but after they graduate and kaoru is a little more honest with his feelings #i think thats when he'd want to slowly test the waters of dating another guy for real #they hold pinkies :) more casual touching of the hands and arms #that kind of stuff #still takes like 6 months for kaoru to kiss kanata though dksbsjsjwjwbw #he's really shy and kanata is like dont worry kaoru i have never kissed anyone #this does not make it easier but its still a cute moment on the beach at sunset for both of them #even if its a little stilted and awkward

[albatris]

I mean I *have* to include a copy of stel's reddit post right. which is maybe 20% "ooh check out this spooky glitch in the matrix" and 80% absolutely dunking on how awkward and weird nat is as a person

#''this guy was like SO weird. just all skulking and paranoid. just SUPER unsettling. he spoke like he's the kind of person who #practices how Normal People Talk in the mirror. I wonder if he's an alien or like an undercover fbi agent or from some other #shady secret organisation. he was like SO stilted and trying WAY too hard to be normal he was SO strange I think he's hiding something #and he knows way more than he's letting on.... what shady thing have i stumbled into....?'' #and nat just reading it just :(((((( with more intensity every paragraph #stel he knows NOTHING stop being mean he's just shy!!!!!!! leave him alone!!!

[swimspeedupabilitychunk]

when your mutual is going to sleep and you just woke up

#ramblings #the want to stay up… it’s the evil #do not stay up investigating big guy the stilted #< he’s a large shy guy on stilts

[luveline]

Derek and shy!reader maybe? Meeting the team for the first time and none of them are expecting Derek's partner to be standing half-hidden behind him, shyly waving at them instead of saying anything

thank you for ur request! fem!reader

"So what's the deal?" Emily asks Penelope, licking the stem of her paper umbrella dry before dropping it onto a napkin. "He's suddenly going steady?" 

"Can you call five months sudden?" Rossi asks. 

Hotch nudges him. 

"What?" Rossi asks. "Can you? Five months is a long time." 

"And that's why you had to send Christmas cards to three different divorce lawyers this year," Emily says. 

Emily has a penchant for saying the occasional brazen comment, but JJ confiscates her friend's margarita anyways, before the booze loosens her lips and she says something worse. It's a small jet. 

"It's not like Morgan," Spencer agrees, standing at Rossi's other side, looking less out of place than usual. 

"It's totally like him," Penelope says.

Hotch's smile is hard to read, which is a spectacle considering current company. "I agree." 

"Here he is now," Penelope says excitedly, clapping her hands in front of her chest. 

Derek strides into the bar and past its patrons without a care in the world. He looks happy, content, and the team doesn't need to see you to know you're with him. He smiles at his phone at work exactly as he smiles now, with his arm stretched backwards to tether you along. 

You come into view as the crowd thins. You're not what anyone's expecting, certainly not plain but nor are you dressed up. Emily, in her tipsiness, declares that you look adorable, and receives a reproachful look from Hotch in reward. 

"Hey Derek!" JJ calls as soon as he's near enough. 

"Hey, guys. Mama, you remember what we talked about?" Derek asks Penelope. 

She nods sagely. "Restraint. I'm restraining myself. Oh my god you're so cute, I'm Penelope! I'm so happy to meet you." 

"Hi," you say. 

No less than five pairs of eyes fall to your hand as you twist your fingers into Derek's sleeve. He doesn't bat an eye, taking a half step in front of you, a picture of casualness as he introduces you to each of them in turn. 

"It's nice to meet you," Hotch says, seemingly speaking for the whole group. 

You raise your hand and give a stilted wave. Your eyes look sad and stressed at once, but you don't sound either, softly saying, "You too." 

Derek wraps a muscled arm behind your neck, grinning while he meets Penelope's eyes. "What are we drinking tonight?"

Your eyebrows pinch up at the starts. You smile at them all despite your obvious nervousness, and it's enough for each of them to reach the same conclusion simultaneously. You're shy, but you're good. A broad sweep yet easy to make. It's obvious how much you care for Derek if you'd been willing to meet them like this when you clearly don't feel comfortable.

Luckily for you, Penelope is excellent as making people feel welcome. "We're drinking Y/N's choice. What do you like? Sugar shots? Mojitos?" 

Your lips part, unprepared for a direct question so soon. 

Derek turns his head to yours, giving you what Emily deems the most ridiculous puppy dog eyed smile anyone has ever given, and what Rossi knows is a ring waiting to happen. He should know. 

"Let's go figure it out. Another round, from me?" he offers. 

He's quick to steer you away, but not too quick to miss Rossi's, "Something strong if you want us old timers to stay!" 

They wait for you to be safely out of earshot before they condense, bad gossips and worse actors off the job. "Who would've thought?" Emily asks. 

"She's not what I was expecting," JJ says. 

"Are we that intimidating?" Rossi asks, raising his eyebrows. The answer being yes, of course, though none of them are aware of just how scary they can be. You'd felt like you were standing in front of a pack of wolves. 

"She seemed nice," Spencer says. Trust him to say something sweet. Trust the rest of Derek's friends to agree, the group nodding and humming at various pitches.

"She seemed silent," Emily jokes. 

Penelope crosses her fingers and closes her eyes, earrings swinging against the blond tresses of her curled hair as she drops her head. "God, my muffin deserves nice. Please let this work out, she looks so sweet. I just wanna pinch her cheeks." 

"It's gonna work out," Hotch says surely. 

If Derek could hear him, he'd agree on the spot, but he's too busy praising you halfway across the room for such a stellar introduction. 

#derek morgan #derek morgan x reader #derek morgan x you #derek morgan x y/n #derek morgan x fem!reader #derek morgan imagine #derek morgan fluff #derek morgan fanfic #derek morgan oneshot #derek morgan scenario #derek morgan drabble #derek morgan fic #derek morgan fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

Strange Creature's Love

In honor of Ithaqua's release month (beta march 2 and release the 11th but that joseph's birthday lol). Small fic cause it really last minute but here's wonderwall lol

Rated Explicit | Warning: Ithaqua just that weird little guy

The first time you met Ithaqua, it was not during a match but a strange celebration. There are a few events in the manor that give hints to the passing of time here, and those are the ‘"Anniversary” events is one of them, but there is no number to them just like the New Year and Lunar New Year events. He was there watching, not one to approach others, much less socialize.

You only approached because he looked well small, not really that intimidating given he had no stilts or weapon in his hand.

You attempted conversion, figuring as someone new maybe he just was shy.

His words were rather… Odd, unsettling with a threat but a weird hint of something else.

You replayed those words over and over again in your mind, the strange phrasing.

“What exactly... are you looking forward to meeting? Ahh, I see, I see… I feel the same way.” Standing up and then invading your space, you are suddenly aware he still towers above you. You go still as his head tilts to the side like a curious owl, “The moment I met you... how about I make it so you can never say you want to meet anyone else again?” Your eyes drift to the two fingers lifting your chin up so your face is in him completely. “After all... I remember you very well.”

That freaked you out as you ran away when your fight or flight instincts kicked in hard.

The laugh he let out clearly mocking and one that haunted you as he suddenly became a frequent hunter in your matches.

The hyper fixation towards you is clear when he either took you out of the match quickly or saved you for last. A game of hunter and prey, he would stalk you before striking. Waiting if you give up or fight back.

A few times you surrender to avoid him when you only remain, but you always fight, giving your all to either find the dungeon or make it to the exit gate.

Strange looking back as he lays next to you holding your naked body against his body, his cloak covering both as the picnic blanket under you provides extra comfort. His breath is warm on your neck, steady, your hand stroking his messy blonde hair. This relationship sparked by a match where he only wanted you, anyone who got between that was hit yet not chased after.

He led you to the basement where he asked you simply to be his. No sweet words, no gift of romance, he was straightforward about what he wanted.

You agreed unsure, you thought it was a joke. Ithaqua was not joking, especially about his feelings.

Ithaqua hums when you seek out him to share warmth, he growls though when you moan as his cock is still buried inside of your filled hole.

“Careful.”

“Trying but it's cold.” Though spring is coming early this year, it is still cold. Ithaqua wanting to take you in the forest is losing its appeal. “Let’s go back to your room.” Mumbling when he holds you against his chest.

“My room?”

“Yeah, I want to be around you and all that is you, Ithaqua.” He has been to your room a number of times, rubbing his scent on your blankets and you before leaving like a creature. You have come to appreciate it when you have lonely nights.

“Hmm.” Hips his moving slowly, “Yes, after my cum drips down from your hole.”

“Ithaqua, oh!” Holding onto him as he suddenly keeps up the pace, your nails scratching deep into his already scratched-up back, “Ah, please, Ithaqua.”

“Begging yet I have no intention of denying you.”

He rarely does unless he wants to prolong the activity but normally he wants to give equally as he takes.

“Mine.” On top of you holding up and bending your legs to watch the cock disappear and reappear within you, “Yes.” Possessive, it scares you though not as bad as before.

“Ithaqua, God, so deep.”

He chuckles at your words, he likes it when you tell him how good you feel. A pride in being the one to have you crying out to the heavens the name of the Night Watch, to be giving of your love to freely, and to be thoroughly marked by him. It has a few times crossed his mind how he often fucks you enough as he is trying to breed you.

A thought that though he has no want for children, it amuses him how often you are equally eager for him and his cock.

“Ithaqua! So close.”

“Keep your eyes on me. I want to watch you fall.”

And you do, a cry of his name with your eyes barely able to lock on his and that taunt cord in the pit of your stomach snapping. You are disoriented and on cloud nine, whining as he keeps going. When the Night Watch is about to cum, he puts your legs over his shoulders as he goes essentially feral. Rutting into you like a beast in heat, snarling and saying at times worryingly possessive words— He has gotten better, but his passion runs deep in these moments.

You barely recover before cumming again with each other, his lips consuming yours to silence himself, your hands trying to grasp his face before he pulls away to soothe your aching legs. He keeps you connected to him until his cock softens and in his mind the idea of his seed taking, silly and foolish but it amuses him nonetheless.

#idv #reader insert #identity v x reader #idv x reader #identity v #identity v x you #idv x you #ithaqua x you #identity v ithaqua #ithaqua x reader #idv ithaqua #night watch x reader #night watch idv #night watch x you

[muxshwriting]

like real people do

Spencer Reid x reader

summary: an undercover mission reveals some deep secrets between the two of you || warnings: general FBI talk (it's the murder-stabbing show, be real) || words: 827|| masterlist

"Reid and Y/L/N, you’re going undercover together to find our unsub. We know he’ll be at this club so keep an eye out for someone that matches the profile."

You and Spencer catch each others eyes and you smile softly. He smiles back. Maybe this won't be so bad...

You're look back in the mirror, looking at the dress you're wearing, your makeup and your hair. You mess with it a bit, curling pieces around your fingers, pulling others back and pinning them in place. The dress is shorter than you'd like and has a sheer section up the side. It makes you feel sexy, sure but it also is far more revealing than your usual work attire. Spencer is going to see you in this, the guy you've likes since two months into the job.

Calling it a day, you grab your purse and walk out of your bathroom. Emily is sitting on your bed, playing with her nails and waiting for you. She looks up as you walk in, wolf whistling.

"You look good Y/N."

"Really?" You ask. "It isn't too much or too little? What if-"

"Spencer will love it." Emile jested. "Don't worry."

A knock at the door stops your worrying as you walk to answer it. Spencer is standing on the other side. Except he's not dressed in his silly sweaters and his ties. He's in a ruffled white shirt and a jacket. He looks hot and you find yourself blushing before you can stop thinking about him.

He smiles and your heart swoons all over again. He looks you up and down, a small pink blush dusting his own cheeks. Without saying a word, you reach up and unbutton another button on his shirt so it doesn't look so neat.

"Now you're perfect."

"I- uh-" Spencer stuttered as he tried to speak. "You- You look great!"

"Thanks. You too."

He clears his throat. "Shall we go?" He offers you an arm and a shy smile. You take his arm gladly and let him lead you out the door.

The club is crowded but you find a table in the corner and plant you and Spencer behind it. His arm is lazily thrown around the back of you, pushing his shirt and jacket open even more. You tear your eyes away, looking for your unsub. The two of you sit in silence, sipping drinks and observing everyone as some danced and swayed to the music.

You lock eyes with a man standing stilted at the bar, his knuckles are white around his glass and he matched the profile perfectly. You break eye contact, moving your head to whisper in Spencer's ear. "By the bar, eleven o'clock."

You watch as Spencer's eyes scan the bar until he sees the same man you did. He's not looking directly at you anymore but he's still glancing in the general direction, keeping you in his peripheral. Spencer texts Garcia, who's watching through cameras and she gets to work.

The unsub's eyes are back on you again, this time glancing down at Spencer's phone and narrowing his eyes.

"Kiss me." You whisper softly.

"What?"

"Like real people do," you beg. "Just kiss me."

He takes no less than a second to crash his lips into yours. They fit together perfectly, melting the worry in your brain. He tastes sweet, like the jelly beans you know he's hiding in his jacket for you when you get hungry. It's heaven for a moment before he pulls away and you're brought back to reality.

But his hand stays on your thigh and he presses his forehead to yours as he catches his breath. You quickly glance over his shoulder at the unsub. He's not looking anymore but he has gotten up and stood closer.

"I love you." You whisper.

Spencer's eyes snap to yours as his eyebrows knit together. He moves away from you, adjusting his jacket and letting out a shaky breath.

Inside, you're terrified that you've ruined everything so you calmly gather your things and stand up. Spencer watches you leave, throwing down cash and rushing after you, following you into the night.

A week later, Spencer finally manages to corner you by the coffee machine.

"Hey, can we talk?"

You slowly nod, dreading every word.

"When you said 'I love you' was that for the mission or-?"

Your eyes widen. "For the mission! Yeah. Definitely for the mission."

Spencer speaks slowly. "If it wasn't or the mission, hypothetically, I would ask you to say it again so I could reply the way I should have."

Hope flares in your chest as you look at him. "I love you."

He doesn't say anything, only surging forward once again to kiss your lips. Fireworks that you buried explode in a flurry of light as your heart beats even faster in your chest.

"I love you." He quietly says. "I've waited years to tell you, always afraid of your answer."

likes and reblogs are always appreciated! feel free to check out my other works x

taglist: @aoi-targaryen

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #muxsh #muxshwriting #like real people do

[drmaddict]

Dear Diary

Summary: Jason got his hands on (y/n)s diary. Of course, nothing good can come of this... or maybe it can?

Word count: 850

Warnings: angst, but lots of fluff after

Authors note (Warning: looong Authors note):

When I was about 13 or 14, my then best friend tricked me.

She had sent me a link through a chat. It was one of those online fortune-telling sites. Ask a question about your future and I'll give you an answer.

Complete bullshit, of course, but I always found them funny. What do you do when you're 14? You ask if you have a chance with your crush, or possibly that cute guy who's always in guitar class.

What I didn't know was that on the other side, my friend was sitting with one of her friends, laughing her ass off.

They went on and on about it. I always valued my privacy. I was very shy and insecure.

When they made fun of it in front of me, my confidence and trust was broken. It has never really gotten back together since.

The whole thing still weighs on me in my mid-twenties. I never talked about it until now.

Unfortunately, my story didn't have a happy ending, but what are fanfictions for?

I was sitting in the cafeteria, listlessly looking at my food.

The guys were euphorically talking about the next DnD campaign when all of a sudden Jason Carver appeared at our table.

The grin on his face did not mean anything good.

"King and Queen of Freakland."

"Get out of here ball boy." growled Eddie.

"Why so hostile? I've got some good news after all. At least you finally got a chance to get laid. The way I see it, nothing more than languishing has happened yet."

Jason pulled out a small, green book from behind his back. My book. My journal. My chest tightened so violently I should have imploded. I felt sick to my stomach. Stiff as a board, I sat there. I should have knocked it out of his hand, but I was just a useless statue.

He flipped open the book and began reading aloud so loudly that the entire cafeteria could hear.

He strolled through the rows and read out my thoughts. Thoughts I never told anyone.

"He always listens to me. Even when I'm interrupted, which is really all the time, he asks again and listens to me. For someone who likes to talk so much, he's a really good listener."

He flipped a few more pages. I wanted to dissolve.

"I wonder what his lips feel like."

Turning pages.

"His eyes are beautiful. Like chocolate or coffee. He's never been this close to me before."

He put on a stilted sugary-sweet voice.

"And for all of you wondering who it is that turned dear (y/n)'s head - You shouldn't have a crush on Eddie Munson, but of course I'm an idiot who does."

The crowd laughed and silent tears ran down my eyes. Since Jason was still the center of attention, I quickly and silently slipped outside.

I heard Jason groan painfully, but I just kept running.

Now, if I was quick, I could just sign out at the secretary's office and say I was sick. It wouldn't even be a lie. I'd be gone before anybody saw me again.

"(Y/n). (Y/N)!" shouted Eddie from behind me. I heard his shoes hit the linoleum in quick strides. "Now wait."

A hand grabbed mach my shoulder and turned me around. I tried to wriggle away, but alas, Eddie was stronger than he looked.

"Here." He held my journal out to me.

I grabbed it without looking him in the face. I quickly wiped away the tears, but I wasn't fooling anyone.

I felt small and stupid and humiliated. "Thank you.", I whispered in a broken voice.

"Don't cry over this idiot."

I shook my head and tried to turn back around, but he didn't move away from me.

"I hate it when you're miserable."

"It's okay."

"No it's not okay!" He turned my head with his big hands that I practically had to look at him. "I don't want the girl I have a crush on to feel bad. I don't want her to cry."

I looked at him out of wide eyes. What?

"You always listen to me too and you're always nice to everyone and you have beautiful eyes and you smell insanely good. Do you even know that?"

His warm eyes looked at me as gently as I've ever seen him.

"Don't listen to that idiot! He has no right to do something like that, even though he might think he does." He grew quieter and sadness was in his eyes. "I'm sorry he's going off on you like this because of me."

I shook my head. "Eddie... No... Jason goes after everyone when he can, doesn't he?"

I looked down at my feet again. "Are you serious?"

"With every word."

"It doesn't feel real."

He laughed. "Come on we're going to math. Then the harsh reality will have us back.... Besides, I need motivation to go, and it's really always you." He smiled at me. "You look cute when you think... And a little hot how quickly you solve this tangled mess of numbers." He grinned. I blushed.

"You don't have the homework, do you?"

"Well, I was thinking I could possibly copy it off you.... I'd offer you dinner for it too.... Friday at 8?"

"Are you trading math homework for a date right now?", I laughed, still tearful.

"To be honest, the date's free.... You could also kick me in the balls and it would still be standing." He grinned at me, but uncertainty was in his eyes.

"Friday at 8.", I said and pressed my assignments into his hand.

He gave me a tight squeeze. "If I hadn't just broken Jason's jaw, I'd almost have to thank him."

"You broke Jason's jaw?", I asked in shock.

"Edward Munson to the principal's office immediately!", an angry voice rang over the loudspeakers.

He sighed and handed me back my notepad.

"I'll see you around. Don't forget about me while I'm in prison.", he grinned.

Quick as a flash, he pressed a kiss to my cheek. A glow of red settled over his skin.

"See you?"

"See you."

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x yn #eddie munson x y/n #fluff #fluffy

[manicpixiedreamcurl]

The More You Give ❧ (Part V)

Pairing | Eddie x reader

Warnings | 18+ minors and blank blogs don’t interact, bullying, friendship comes and goes, discussions of anxiety, discussions of virginity, discussions of sex shaming, frottage (PUSSYJOB), everyone’s very vulnerable.

Word count | ~11,800

A/N | Oooh, mama. It’s been a while. I hope most of the people who like this fic are still around.

Taglist

Previous Chapter

❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦

You like calling Eddie, the sound of his voice over the phone. The way he answers it differently each time:

“This is Eddie Munson, lead guitarist of Corroded Coffin; available for christenings, bar mitzvahs and weddings.”

“Munson residence. The old guy’s out so if you’re looking to buy a collection of novelty mugs now’s the time.”

“You’ve reached the church of Satan; Abaddon the Destroyer speaking. For your free introductory handbook on summoning circles just dial six-six-six.”

And then there’s the happy rise in his tone when he hears it’s you on the other side, the surprised laugh at the sound of your soft hi, Eddie even when he’d asked you to call. The crackle of his breath through the receiver, the way conversations with him are easy however they happen. With anyone else, phone calls feel stilted and awkward, but Eddie talks as if you’re sitting right in front of him. 

It makes you warm all over to think about. Eddie wants to see you and kiss you and touch you, but he’s also happy to sit on his couch miles away and speak to you, listen in return to everything you can bring yourself to say.

You have taken to dragging a chair from the kitchen and sitting by the hallway table to talk to him like this whenever you don’t see him in the evening. You spend an hour or two at a time smiling at your mom’s address book, twirling the coiled cord of the phone around your finger while Eddie talks about this day, asks about yours, explains why he’s really into this new Swedish black metal band he’s discovered, checks what you’re reading, shares an idea he has for Hellfire, plans your next date.

Today is no exception. Your dad has walked past muttering about the phone bill twice. Your mom, as usual, has stationed herself in the kitchen within earshot, but what exactly she gets out of hearing the low buzz of Eddie’s voice and your laughter, you don’t know.

"And you're sure you don't wanna come, sweet girl?" 

"Yeah, I-" You hesitate, playing with a rose petal from the bowl of potpourri that sits by the phone. "I think I should stay here. Just in case." 

In truth, you don't have much hope that May will call, but imagining that she does and you aren’t here to receive it fills you with worry. The last thing you want is to make things any worse between you after you messed up so badly. 

It’s not unusual for you to feel this type of regret. When overthinking something delays your actions until it’s too late. You worried so much about how to tell May about Eddie that you left it too long. You should have told her the day you kissed him, should have phoned when you got back from your first date. Instead, you spent your time imagining the conversation, and let your best friend find out something important through somebody else. 

You hurt her. She is wounded enough that she really has given up defending you. When Caroline remarks on your silence now, May doesn't attempt to fill the emptiness your lumping throat leaves. 

"She's just shy," May used to say, waving her hand. Her embarrassment over your stumbled words and fidgeting hands was clear, then, but you knew she felt for you, even if she didn't understand why she had to. Now she just looks at you expectedly like everyone else, pulls awkward, embarrassed faces when you stumble and fidget through a non-answer.

You had taken to spending more of your lunches helping Heather with her new responsibilities as class president, sitting quietly at debate club and nodding along to her speeches, taking the role of a small country at her model UN meetings. But you are starting to feel her frustration with you, too. 

“You don’t have to come to every meeting if you don’t enjoy it.” She said to you after the last UN encounter you’d sat through without uttering a word.

“It’s just, I don’t really know much about Anguilla. But I like hearing you speak.”

Heather smiled with her lips closed. “That’s not what it’s for, though. I think maybe you’d prefer having lunch with May and the cheerleading girls again.”

You felt your cheeks burning, pulled the sleeves of your cardigan down over your hands and fiddled with the woollen edges. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Sometimes you think about sitting at Eddie’s table instead. To have another hour of him every day. The picture is nice on its own. Talking to him, to Jeff, even the freshmen Eddie has adopted since the beginning of the year. But then the image zooms out; you at the Hellfire table, May with the cheerleaders, Heather at her clubs, and your chest aches. You don’t know when it happened, when you had to start holding on this tight, digging your nails into them. You only know you’ll leave claw marks on your friendship before you let it go easy.

And while you can never get enough Eddie, you aren’t normally deprived of him outside of the school walls. With anyone else, you might have worried about suffocating him, being clingy. But Eddie makes it clear at every turn how much he wants to be around you. His grin in the mornings when you climb into his van. The way he leans into your space, hair tickling your cheeks, and asks all soft and earnest if you want to go home with him. Some days, he invites you into the trailer to touch and taste you. Others, to sit on his couch or his bed and talk. Or to just spend hours just breathing the same air as him, listening to him scribble in his D&D notebook or strum at his guitar while you read or do your homework. 

But you won't see him tonight. Eddie is going to see Fright Night with most of the boys in his club, and it's all he's talked about the past week. He'd asked you to come, all wide brown eyes and dimples, and your stomach had twisted. 

"Normally May and I do something around this time each month." You hadn't been able to look him in the eye when you said it, fiddling with his hands instead. You'd rubbed the softness of your thumb over the callused pads of his fingers, knowing he had that look he'd been getting whenever you found yourself bringing your friend up. A little sad, guilt he shouldn't be feeling. Irritation, at you or at her you're not brave enough to ask. 

"You sure?" He asks over the phone now. "It'd be pretty easy for me to pick you up. I'm giving Wheeler a ride. He's just down the street from your place." 

You feel a wave of fondness for him, for the lie he’s just told. He isn’t aware that you know exactly where Mike Wheeler lives. You’ve babysat Holly since you were sixteen, and the route to her home takes half an hour in your dad's car. 

"I'm sure," you say, trying to sound firm. "But I hope you like the movie."

"If it's good, maybe we can see it together another time." 

"You wouldn't mind going twice?" 

"I'd watch the same movie twenty times in a row if you promised to come to the last one." He laughs, sounding enough like he means it that your smile hurts your cheeks. 

"That might be a touch excessive," you murmur. "Twice sounds like enough."

"How about tomorrow? We could get dinner first, make a real date out of it." 

Your face heats up like the first time Eddie asked you out. You touch your toe to your ankle, winding the cord of the phone tight around your finger. You whisper. "Okay."

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." You press your knees together. "That sounds nice."

"Unless the movie's shit, then we'll have to call the whole thing off." You laugh down the phone, imagining the tease in Eddie’s smile. "I'll have a review for you by tomorrow, sweet thing."

"Okay, Eddie."

"And I'm not leaving for another ten minutes. If you change your mind, just call, okay?"

"Okay, Eddie," you repeat. "Have a nice time."

"See you soon, beautiful." 

Your toes curl. "See you soon." 

When he's gone and the phone is back in its holder, you have to sit tense and still for a second to avoid making some kind of happy squeal, settling for curling your fingers into your skirt and tapping your heels wildly against the floor. 

You still feel a little dizzy with the thought of him when you pull the chair back into the kitchen, enough that you jump when your mom speaks. "That Eddie on the phone?" 

You fix her with a look, because she knows exactly who you were talking to, and she gives you a mock innocent smile that shifts into a real one. 

“You were laughing a lot.”

Her hands drip soapy water from the kitchen sink, finishing up the dishes that would have been done ten minutes ago if she hadn't dragged it out for an excuse to stay where she could hear you. You chew the inside of your lip while you take the next freshly cleaned plate from her. Grabbing a dry dish cloth to drag across the ceramic, you shrug one shoulder. 

“He’s funny.”

“And you like that about him?”

“Mom.”

“Just a question!” She says, holding her hands up, before grabbing the dish towel from you to wipe her wet hands. “You talk more, when it’s him on the phone. Did you know that?”

“You listen to all my conversations?”

“I’m your mother,” she laughs, bumping your hip with hers. “And I’ve never heard you so chatty.” You give her another look and she reconsiders. "Chatty for you. There's been times I've rounded that corner surprised you were even on the phone, you're so quiet. I mean, with that last boy-” She hums a disapproving tone, reaches out to fix the collar of your cardigan. "I swear you'd sit there and not say anything at all."

“It's easier to talk to Eddie,” you admit, thinking about how pleased he looks when you ramble about what you're reading, the last kid you babysat, even the new eyeshadow palette you’d saved up for and felt a touch immature being so excited about. All his encouraging nods, all the questions and affirmations afterwards. "He's…" 

He’s a million good things. Too many to name, too many to put in order. You glance at her to the side, raising one shoulder. 

"I like him," she declares. "I think he's good for you." 

Your face is hot and uncomfortable, but it still feels nice to agree. "I think so, too." 

When the dishes are away and your mom is settled on the couch with your dad watching Quincy reruns, you walk slowly upstairs, hoping that the phone will ring again before your door closes. 

You make a bet with yourself in your head. If it rings before I get to my room, it’ll be May. It’ll be May and she’ll want to be friends again and everything will be alright. You reach the top, spy the door the end of the hall. Any time after, it’ll be somebody else; a sales call, a chatty relative. 

All you hear as you pad across the landing is your parents laughing at the TV. 

With your door closed, your heart sore, you glance at your desk on the other side of the room, the cork pin board behind it decorated with memories. There is your first concert ticket, next to a postcard from the first time you left this country by plane. An askew origami frog that a boy you used to babysit made for you. A pom-pom that detached from the winter hat you wore from October to March three years running in middle school. 

There is Heather. One photo as she is now, smiling at you over a yellow smoothie. Another couple from your first years together, at the edge of womanhood. Her in braces and her mother's lipstick, the aquamarine taffeta dress she wore to your first high school prom. 

And there is May. She is everywhere, over and over again, in all the stages of her life since you met. She is in pigtails, her small hand in yours, her gap toothed grin next to your close lipped smile. She is in this room, with sparkling eyelids, the earliest and most keen model for your interest. She is at the Spring fair of 1979, holding cotton candy you'd shared soon after the photo was taken. She is at that first concert, decked out in Wham! merchandise. Swim meets and cheer competitions. A line of photo booth strips. You are there with her; both giggling, eyes crossed and tongues rolled. 

May has been a constant in your life, but now your life has shifted. Maybe you have to accept that she doesn’t want to shift with it. 

The phone rings downstairs. 

You hear your dad huff, the sound of your mom rising from the couch and heading through the hall. You hold your breath, listen to the buzz of her landline specific voice, all breezy politeness. Then she calls your name.

You practically throw yourself down the stairs, slipping at the last couple in your socks. You have to hold yourself back from grabbing the phone from her. Taking just a second to glance over your shoulder to check that she's actually walking away, you whisper into the phone. “Hello?”

"Where are you? I rented Footloose." Tears prick in your eyes at the sound of May’s voice. You look up to the ceiling, silent for too long. “You still there?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Where are you?” She repeats. “Second Friday of the month. It’s movie night.”

“I didn’t-” You swallow, blinking tears away as they rise and trying not to sniffle. “I thought maybe you didn’t want to see me.”

"Of course I want to see you,” she answers. “You're my best friend."

You feel your bottom lip shaking, can’t fight the sniffles this time. You drag the sleeve of your cardigan across your eyes, voice cracking when you speak next. "You really mean it, May?"

"I’m inviting you round, aren’t I?” She says, sharp tone softened by a sigh crackling in your ear through the receiver. “Of course I mean it.” You hum a high sound, a stifled sob of relief, eyes squeezed shut. “Now, come watch Kevin Bacon shake his ass with me." 

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You are warm under the silken soft quilt pulled from May’s bed. Your stomach is heavy with buttered popcorn and gummy worms. Your skin is soft from the homemade face masks you made in her kitchen, singing along to Cyndi Lauper and listening to May read the recipe aloud from the newest YM magazine dropped on her doorstep just this morning.

Stirring oatmeal and yoghurt together like a potion, you felt a pang of nostalgia. For a second, you were seven years old, standing with May over a muddy puddle, your makeshift cauldron brimming with gathered leaves, stones, and red berries. You’d mix it up with long, gnarled twigs and cackle together like the witches. The mucky water wasn’t just mud, then. It was poison, it was love potion. It was magic, made together. 

Today, at eighteen, you glanced up at May’s concentrated face while she attempted to separate egg whites from yolks, and let yourself be soothed by the thought that maybe some things are still as they were. 

Footloose was abandoned after Kevin Bacon finished throwing himself rhythmically around an empty warehouse, May’s interest in it vanishing swiftly after that. You found yourself on the couch talking while the film played on in the background until the popcorn was finished and the oats could be washed from your face. 

Then May led you up to her room, almost as familiar to you as your own. 

The cream lambskin rug, still matted and stained in one corner from that time you’d spilt nail polish over it. Terrified you might not be allowed to come over anymore, May told her mom it was her, and she was grounded for a week. 

You bought her those fairy lights, the ones that hang above her bed. Last year, you wrapped them in pink tissue paper, felt the satisfying swell of a present well chosen when she’d hugged you tight with the box still in her hand. 

May has her own cork board. Amongst plastic medals and concert tickets, there is you at that fair, you and Heather at prom, the second strip from the photo booth. 

“And it’s like, when was it decided that we had to pick our whole future at eighteen, anyway?” May asks, eyebrows twitching like she wants to furrow them. She fights through it, keeping them high on her forehead to let you smooth powder over her lids. “Here I am, barely out of the cradle!” You snort, and her mouth tilts a touch. “Feels like I started walking last week, and now it’s all, what do you mean you don’t have a clue what you want to do with your life? It just feels crazy to me.”

“It is.” You shift forward on the soft shag carpet, your knees bumping hers under the throw keeping your legs warm. 

“Right? I mean, you know that your brain doesn’t even really mature until you’re, like, twenty-five? So I am close enough to a child that I really shouldn’t have this responsibility.”

Humming in agreement, you rub your thumb at the corner of her eye, smudging the edge of the lilac eyeshadow there. 

“At least I have an idea where I’m going. Indiana State, here I come. You’re still applying for NYU, right?”

“Mm. Maybe,”

“Oh, come on, you have to apply at least!” She insists, eyelids twitching. “It’s the place to be, for your poetry, right?”

You hum. “I might still do Chemistry.”

“Chemis- absolutely not!” Her eyes fly open, and you make a noise of protest.

“I’m not done!”

“You are not doing Chemistry.” May says, a comic picture with one eye bordered by soft pastel tones, the other bare of colour, while she looks at you sternly. “You don’t enjoy it!”

“But I could get a job at the end,” you reason. 

May snorts, eyes closing gently, chin peaking out to let you get back into it as though she’s already won the argument. “Job schmob,” she says. “When you’re in New York, you can find a rich man to worry about that.” You frown, and like she senses it, the eye you’re not working on opens again. “Or find a rich man for me. He has to be really rolling in it though, so he can look after us both.”

You hear Eddie’s voice in your ear like he’s in the room with you. Just wait, I’ll look after you. 

“Think you can do that?” May asks. “Keep an eye out for me, when you’re making all your arty, interesting friends in New York?”

You swallow, tuning back into the conversation. “I don’t think really want me to find you a man.”

“Mmph. The way my love life is going, I’ll need whatever help I can get.” She moves a little then, a slight tilt of her head that would be imperceptible to anyone but you, who's seen every degree of emotion on May’s face. You know she’s going to drop something serious before she even opens her mouth. “I saw Liam last week.”

You fight through the temptation to stop blending the eyeshadow on her lids, keeping your tone as even as possible. “Oh?”

“When I was in Indianapolis with the girls?” Those trips with the cheerleaders you avoid desperately. The thought of being stuck in a car with Caroline on the way there and back can make you break out in a cold sweat. “He was at one of the bars. He apologised, said he wanted to maybe go out again.”

“Mm.”

“Oh, don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything-”

“That was your judgy mmmh,” she says, batting your hand away from her face to look at you straight. “Last time I heard it was when I showed you that top I bought last month.”

Despite yourself, you crack at the memory of the flouncy pink thing she’d shown you with an awkward, self-aware smile. You’d been working out how to gently tell her to burn it when she’d figured out the tone of your hum and thrown it off in front of you with a whispered, “what was I thinking?” 

Now, your tilted lips turn down at May’s solemn expression, her eyes shiny. 

You shuffle closer, tucking the blanket around the both of you gently, cocooning your legs in together. “He hurt you, last time. Used you.” 

She chews her lip. “That’s what boys do.”

“May-”

“I know you think what happened with Andy was bad, but you’ll learn, that’s just how they are. They need a little more forgiveness than girls, and some of them are worth it.”

You feel the beginning of the argument she might not be quite past. “Andy didn’t really like me, May. He only wanted-”

“The same thing they all want. The only thing they all want.”

Your heart aches for her. “That’s not true.”

“You think it’s not true right now, but when you hold out on Munson the way you did with Andy, you’ll see that it is.”

You fiddle with your fingers then, wondering if you should tell her. The guilt of not sharing that you’d started seeing Eddie prickles along the back of your neck. Your knee starts to bounce, and May blinks at you, just as attune to the meaning of your expressions. “Well, with Eddie-”

“Please, please, tell me you haven’t fucked Eddie Munson.”

“No. I mean, not yet but,” you begin, fiddling with your skirt. “Like, we’ve done, y’know, other stuff.” You glance at her shocked face, worry rising. “Don’t tell anyone. Please.”

“Why would I tell anyone something that would literally ruin what’s little is left of your reputation? You wouldn’t let Andy do anything but you’ve been seeing the freak for a few weeks and you’re, what, sitting in his dirty van giving him hand jobs?”

“Oh my god, May!”

“What? What am I supposed to think?”

You shake your head, tense your hands in your clothes. “It’s not like that with Eddie.” Your mind is awash with shiny brown eyes, soft pink cheeks, Eddie’s voice tickling your neck. “I don’t worry about anything, with him. It’s fun.”

“It’s fun.”

“It’s like, I thought sex was something a boy would do to me, something I’d have to let him do. With Andy, it was like if he took me on dates, it was what he would get in return,” you say, fiddling with the blanket. “But with Eddie it’s like,” you hum, hating how awkward this all sounds, so unused to talking about sex yourself, so used to hearing it from other, experienced, confident people. “We go on dates together, and talk together. And then with the, y’know, sexual stuff, we’re doing it…together.”

“But not really doing it, right?”

“No. But my point is,” you continue, grabbing her hand, clasping it in both of yours. “I know I don’t really know anything about boys, and I know you’re not Eddie’s biggest fan. But even though it’s not been long, I think he’s proof that, maybe, sometimes, boys aren’t what either of us thought. And if you really like Liam, then maybe he deserves your forgiveness. But I really, really don’t think he does if he hasn’t made you think twice about what all boys want. And maybe if you found somebody like Eddie-” She makes a face, but you ignore it. “I mean, somebody who doesn’t ask you to forgive them all the time. I think that would be better.”

“Well, I can tell you right now, I don’t want an Eddie.” You press your lips together, listen to her sigh. “But you’re also…probably, maybe right about Liam.”

“He doesn’t deserve you, May. I mean, to apologise when you happened to be at the same bar! If he was really sorry, he should have come to see you with flowers and everything. He probably just saw you, all pretty, and realised what a dunce he’d been.”

She smiles a little at the vitriol in your voice, usually so soft and quiet. “I missed you.”

You almost flinch. “I’ve been here.”

“You stopped sitting with me at lunch.” 

“I…” You close your mouth, shrug instead. 

“I know it’s partly my fault. I was angry, so I stopped defending you. But then, I mean, you just gave up.” 

“I just- Some of the cheer girls are so intimidating, I never know what to say to them.”

“But you don’t try.” Your heart is sore, the guilt of knowing you’ve made life a little more difficult for her. “Listen, if you want to date Eddie Munson, I can be okay with that. I am okay with that.” She nods, seemingly trying to convince herself. “But will you just try, a little more, with the cheer girls? You don’t have to defend your relationship all the time, but maybe just try talking to them about something else? You could come on our next trip!” 

Your toes curl at the thought. “I don’t know.” 

“Please? We can’t let a boy come between us.” You wonder what she’d say if she knew how hard Eddie seems to try not to come between you. “I like Heather, even though she abandoned us. And I like the cheer girls. But I love you. You’re my best friend.”

“I love you, May. It won’t change.”

“So you’ll try?”

You chew the inside of your lip, give her a little nod that has her breaking out into a smile. “Okay. Okay, great.”

You try not to think about exactly what you’ve just compromised on while you finish her make up. May sits, silent and smiling while you sweep dark eyeliner across her lids, brush mascara over her long lashes.

“There, all done.” You love this bit. May turns to the floor length mirror beside you and grins at her reflection, her pretty eyes bordered by soft pastels from your new palette. It sends a warmth through you that you’d never admit to. Knowing you’re good at this, that even the cheer girls who think you’re weird admire the way you’ll do their make up at competitions. “It’s cool, right?”

“I love it,” she breathes, shifting closer to the mirror enough that the warm throw pulls from the tops of your legs, leaving your thighs chilly. “Just one last question. You’re not gonna play that Satanist game, right?”

Your brain short circuits, having thought you’d just agreed that you wouldn’t have to explain yourself. “Um, It’s really not what you think.” 

The scene plays out in your mind. Eddie, his lips on yours, your hands tangled in his hair, letting you tilt your hips to rub yourself over his thigh, suddenly pulled away from you with a gasp. He’d thrown himself from the bed dramatically, holding his open jeans up by the waistband. You’d watched him, breathless and warm, while he scrambled for a pen before writing in his D&D notebook and looking up at you in excitement. “I just thought of a really cool way to lure them into this whole cave thing I’ve been planning. Shit. They’re so fucked.” Before you could consider being offended that that’s what he’d been thinking about while kissing you, your legs were over his shoulders, his lips were smiling at your thigh. 

You can’t help your fond laugh. “Eddie’s such a dork about it. Last week-” You pause at her expression, realising that May probably doesn’t want to hear that story. You clear your throat. “They just pretend to be fantasy characters.” Witches over a cauldron, Princesses sharing a Kingdom. “Like we used to do, sorta.”

“Yeah, when we were kids.”

You have to swallow the lump that brings up to your throat. To hear her dismissal of the time you’ve been daydreaming about since you walked through her front door. “It’s not Satanist.”

“But you’re still not going to play it, right?”

“No,” you say, feeling cold. “I don’t think I’d be very good at it, anyway.”

She watches you for a second, but says nothing before grabbing the eyeshadow palette from the floor beside you. “Let me try, then. Get you all glammed up for making s’mores later.”

You smile with closed lips, let your eyes fall shut. You have to ignore the pang in your heart, the reminder that some things are entirely different from when you were seven. 

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“You know, I kinda thought there’d be more trembling.” Eddie’s breath tickles your ear as he whispers, again when he blows cool air on your neck just to see you wriggle a little while you look up at him, wide eyed. His pale face is illuminated only by the screen at the front of the room, but you can still see the mischief in his eyes, in the barely there turn of his smile. “I was told that taking a pretty girl to a scary movie would have you grabbing my thigh in pure terror. That you’d need me to comfort you with my masculinity.” 

You just about fight off the laugh, still glad that you are sequestered together in the back row when a soft amused noise escapes your throat. On screen, the newly transformed and aptly named Evil Ed laughs maniacally. The special effects and practical make up are impressive, but the whole thing has enough of a teen movie vibe that you’ve been about as scared as you were watching Kevin Bacon stuck on a tractor yesterday. 

“You and your masculinity should have picked a scarier movie.” You feel the flutter of nerves that accompanies teasing Eddie back, still always a little worried that it will come out wrong. The answer of Eddie stifling his laughter, eyes crinkling at the sides, has the butterflies scattering. 

“Noted,” Eddie whispers, cheeks dimpled. It strikes you how close he is now, his breath spreading over your cheeks. He leans down more, his nose at your temple, his lips pressing soft to the skin beside your eye. You shut both, breath shaking as Eddie’s mouth leaves a handful of kisses down your cheek to the corner of your mouth. There, he feels you twitch, and his eyes open to find you tense in your seat, fingers curled in your sleeves. 

You are fighting the urge to turn and check the rest of the row, the whole room, to make sure nobody is watching. The image of an attendant appearing with a flashlight taunts you, the thought of being escorted out of the theatre in shame. You open your mouth, trying to work out what to say, but Eddie just smiles at you. His hand finds yours, fingers tangling together in a gentle squeeze. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, licking his lips quickly. “M’sorry, baby.” 

You watch him lean back in his seat, face set in contentment to be sitting with you and feeling your palm against his. You’d been worried for a second there, that he might be angry with you, or that you might have to explain your worries until he understood. But it’s Eddie. 

You stare at his profile, the soft curls the brush his face, his pouty lips, and find you really, really want to kiss him, here and now. Eddie’s your boyfriend, you remind yourself with a shiver of happiness. Teenage girls have been kissing their boyfriends in the backs of movie theatres since the projector was invented, so why, why, shouldn’t you kiss yours?

You rub at the sleeve of your cardigan with your free hand, letting yourself have the comfort of looking around you quickly to make sure there really isn’t anyone else in this row, or even the one in front. With your eyes closed tight, you remind yourself that the boy who ripped your tickets looked about fifteen, not quite dedicated enough to this job to search the rows looking for kissing teenagers with an invasive flashlight. 

Pressing your knees together, you cuddle into Eddie’s side, smell his two-in-one shampoo and his aftershave and his skin. You press a kiss to his cheek, feel a little scratch of early stubble against your lips. His head turns, eyes scanning over your face. “We don’t have to, sweet thing.”

“I know.” You nod, tilting your chin up in petition. “Please?”

Eddie watches you for a second, giving you time to back out before he leans down to press his lips to yours. It’s a chaste thing; so quick that he has your mouth following him when he pulls away to make sure you’re still happy to kiss him here. Eddie breathes a soft laugh that has your stomach twisting, then his hand is covering your cheek. You feel his breath, your eyes close, and he’s kissing you. 

Eddie’s mouth is warm, but it tastes like blue raspberry slushy; sweet and sharp. At the first lick of his tongue against your lips, you feel a soft noise wanting to escape your throat, but it’s beaten back swiftly by the remaining fear that has your heart racing even as Eddie’s thumb smooths a gentle caress over your cheek. Underneath that is a new giddiness. The feeling that you’ve pushed past something, overcome a fear, however small. And to be doing this, making out with your boyfriend at the back of a movie theatre, like other girls have done.

Your arms find his shoulders, hands clasped together behind him, and Eddie smiles to your lips, just barely pulls away. His thumb stretches to rub your swollen bottom lip. “My brave girl.”

You shiver when he kisses you again, your toes curling in your sneakers. You think you could live on Eddie’s praise. Every pretty girl, smart girl, good girl he gives feels like it’s designed to leave you wanting to crawl onto his thighs, or else sit between them. Eddie’s mouth, intent on yours, wet enough that it feels like the start of something he definitely won’t finish in the back row of screen three, has you remembering how free he can be with his praise when your mouth is on him.

You weren’t expecting to like it so much, but thinking about the weight and taste of him in your mouth makes you squirm as much as the thought of his own tongue where you are most sensitive. You’ve enjoyed it every time since the first moment you spent looking up at him from between his thighs. Watching Eddie fight to keep his eyes on you, mess his own hair up when he forces himself not to take yours in his fist and push you down. His voice, desperate and breathy, coaxing you to try and take him just a little deeper, sweet thing. The quick hot flash of degradation when he taps his cock against your cheek or your tongue before pressing inside.

There is even something pleasant about the lasting ache in your jaw afterwards. The feeling that you’re willing and wanting to do something that hurts to make Eddie feel good is a sick satisfaction you're not yet used to.  

Cinema speakers fill the room with a swelling, dramatic soundtrack. A girl screams, a monster cries out in pain, no doubt making everyone else in the room jump in terror and shake with anticipation for how the whole thing will end. You can hear it, but only just, so firmly in the world of Eddie-Eddie-Eddie. 

Eddie has the beats of the movie memorised already, pulling away from you with a soft gasp just as the opening notes of the music over the end credits begin, a little line of spit connecting your lips until Eddie makes one last move to lick it away. 

The lights come up seconds later, the first groups of people standing to leave. They walk past you and Eddie, both breathless and dishevelled, without a second glance. Under the new lighting, Eddie’s cheeks are now clearly pink. It warms you from the inside out to know that you did that.

You feel the need to be close to Eddie as you leave, grasping onto his hand with both of yours when your jackets are on and he’s guiding you from the theatre. “How’d you like the movie?” He asks in the parking lot, dimples deep in his cheeks.

You hide your face in his arm, feeling that strange new embarrassment crawling up your spine. You mumble into the leather of his sleeve. “I hope nobody asks me how it ends.”

“Yeah, hadn’t thought about that.” Eddie opens the door to his van, holding your hand to help you up until you’re settled in the front seat. He leans in through the door with wide eyes. “Hey, maybe we could see it again next weekend?” 

You chew the inside of your lip. “Would I really see the end if we did?” 

His head falls forward, hair following in a wave. When his head tilts back up, one of his eyes is closed. “You figured me out that easy, huh?”

You smile at each other, Eddie looking over your face as you look over his. His big eyes, dark eyelashes, light freckles, sweet nose, plush pink lips. You’ve never seen another boy you could so comfortably describe as pretty.

You think he might walk round to his side, but instead you feel Eddie’s palm, warm at your knee. “So, uh, the thing is,” he rubs a circle with his thumb at the bottom of your thigh. “It’s Wayne’s day off, and most likely if we go to my place he’ll be in the living room watching MacGyver.”

“Oh.”

You feel guilty for being disappointed. Wayne is always polite, never breathes a word of complaint at the fact you seem to be in his home most days. The only inkling of irritation you get is never at you or Eddie. Instead, there is something in the way he drags himself from the trailer every evening, ready to stay up all night at the factory. When you’d asked where he slept, realising that the only bedroom in the trailer was the one decked out with posters and amps, Eddie had shown you the fold out bed in the living room with a close lipped smile. 

He is, more than anyone, due a day off. But you were gearing yourself up for being in Eddie’s bed tonight, trying to prepare the least awkward way of asking him. 

“And I’m happy to just hang out with you, sweet thing, you know that.” His hand squeezes, even the metal of his rings warm from his skin. “So we can go back to mine and watch MacGyver with the old man, or I could try to teach you some guitar again?” 

That’s tempting, certainly. You doubt sitting between Eddie’s legs with his arms around you, guiding your hands over his acoustic guitar was the most effective teaching method, but you certainly preferred it to any alternative. 

“But if you wanted,” Eddie continues. “Only if you wanted, I could maybe drive us to the quarry or something?” Eddie blinks, tucks some of his hair behind his ear with his free hand. “It’s, uh, quiet.”

Your heart beats a little faster, you can hear the sudden rush of it in your ears. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He asks, in that sweet way of his, wanting to make sure you’re not just acquiescing to everything he suggests. 

“Sounds good, I mean.”

“Okay,” he nods. “Belt on, sweet thing.” He gives your knee one last squeeze while you pull the belt over your front, then pushes away from the frame of the door. He taps a quick rhythm under the window when it’s closed, grins at you through the glass. You watch him jog round to the other side, hair flying out behind him, and wonder if every single thing he does will make you want him more. 

You sit in companionable silence while Eddie drives, feeling that soft comfort you only get with a few people, knowing that he’s not waiting for you to speak. You look out the window, watch the shops and gas stations disperse into houses which in turn give way to trees. All of them appear more as streaks of colour than clear pictures with the way Eddie drives, like he’s being judged on time. 

“Hey, can I play you something?” 

You turn from the window, taking a second to fully register the question before you hum a positive noise. Eddie’s right hand reaches out to turn on the stereo, the sudden attack to your ears of wailing guitar making you jump until he turns it down all the way with a sheepish smile, a murmured, “sorry.”

You watch Eddie’s hand, pale and lithe, as he skips through tracks. The metal chain that adorns his wrist is twisted a little at the leather clasp, and you reach to straighten it out with your thumb and first finger. When he’s found the right track, he turns it back up a touch, wiggles his fingers until you grab his hand. An urgent rhythm fills the van, the tell-tale guitars of all Eddie’s music, and he sighs, leaning back into his seat with a grin. 

“Hear the rime of the ancient mariner, see his eye as he stops one of three, mesmerises one of the wedding guests. Stay here and listen to the nightmares of the sea.”

Something clicks.

“Oh, that’s a Coleridge poem!” You lean forward to turn it up further with your free hand, trying to concentrate on the words. It tells the whole story from the lyrical poem you’ve had a copy of since you took an interest in the romantics when you were fifteen; a mariner who kills an albatross and is blamed for the resulting misfortune by everyone on his ship. 

“I knew you’d know it. My smart girl.” Eddie is the picture of pride, eyes crinkled at the sides. “I was reading a Steve Harris interview - he, uh, writes most of Iron Maiden’s songs? And he mentioned the reference and I just thought, you know, you might think it was cool.”

“I do.” You picture Eddie, soft and comfy in his bed, flicking through a magazine. You imagine him reading about his favourite thing, and a spark lighting in his head relating to you. Something that made him excited to share it with you. “Thank you, Eddie.”

He shrugs, like it doesn’t mean anything, but his cheeks are blooming with pink. You can’t say anything else, for fear of blurting out every thought running through your head. 

You listen in silence, trying to decide how you want to ask him. Every way to say it feels awkward and wrong. Fuck me, take me, have sex with me. You picture asking Eddie to make love and feel a mix of yearning and nausea. By the time you reach the quarry, you have been playing with the ring on Eddie’s right hand, feeling the smooth stone, twisting it round his finger, for a good five minutes.

Eddie steals his hand from you while he parks by the trees opposite the quarry, pulling the keys from the ignition and throwing them on the dashboard before reaching out to let you take hold of his hand again. The easy quiet is gone. You can feel him waiting for you to speak. Your mind screams at you to remain silent, hating the thought that you might risk humiliation with Eddie. 

“Will you look at me, baby?” Eddie pulls your hands from between you. You follow it with your gaze, watch him press a kiss to your knuckles before you meet his eyes. "I really didn't mean to, you know, imply anything by bringing you here."

You shake your head emphatically. “I know. You’d never.”

Eddie breathes a little sigh from his nose, looking relieved. You think he has to be the sweetest boy ever born, and then you can’t help yourself. Eddie makes a soft happy noise when you bring your face to his, lets you kiss his soft bottom lip. He licks softly at yours, so you open your mouth to let him in, holding back a whine and reaching up to play with the collar of his denim vest; the material rough and familiar in your fingers. 

Eddie pulls from you, licks his lips, and breathes, "I can't get enough of that." 

"Mm?"

"The way you grab at me when you get a little shy."

Your eyes widen, processing the reminder that your silly little habits are not as inconspicuous as you might wish to believe. Of course Eddie has noticed the way you fiddle with his hands, his rings, his hair, his clothes, the second you feel an uptick in the pace of your heart. But then, Eddie just said he likes it. 

"S'not annoying?" 

“Not for me! They call me Eddie the stress toy, you know. People used to come for miles around to give me a squeeze."

You laugh at his attempt at an earnest face. "Used to?" 

"Yeah, well, you got exclusive rights, these days." Eddie says, tilting his head with a touch of endearing shyness. “What kinda idiot would I have to be, not to like my girl touching me all over?”

You want him, want him, want him.

You press your heated face to his shoulder, still playing with the frayed denim of his collar while you mumble into the vest. “Eddie?” You feel the vibration of his answering hum against your cheek. “I want-” You shake your head, as if you could bury yourself into his clothes. “Can we-” You turn your face, looking at the seat behind, all the space there. 

Eddie strokes at your waist. “You wanna, uh, get in the back?”

At your quick nod, Eddie clasps your cheek with his warm hand. He tilts your head, kisses you soundly. “Stay right there.” 

Eddie jumps from the van, legs swinging, and jogs round to your side to open the door for you. “Princess,” he says, offering you his hand with a flourish. You giggle, jumping down towards him and letting him lead you round to the back of his van like a gentleman. Still keeping up the routine, he opens the back door and gestures with a bow before helping you up. 

The back is a scene of amps and wires, a bass drum with CORRODED COFFIN scrawled over the skin. Luckily there is space enough for the two of you, so you settle yourself in the middle, surrounded by enough little pieces of Eddie that the back of this van feels a little like home. When you look up, Eddie’s still outside, staring in at you.  

You press your knees together, turn them to the side. “Eddie?”

“Yeah-” his voice breaks. He tries to hide it with a cough, clearing his throat and giving his chest a couple taps with the side of his fist. “Yeah,” he repeats, deeper now, as he climbs up after you. When the doors are closed, Eddie shuffles towards you, half squatting. “So, you’re happy with the carriage, Princess?” You nod, throat tight when Eddie kneels down in front of you. “That’s good.” Something in his face changes, a spark of excitement in his dark eyes. “You wanna lay back for me?” 

The space between your legs pulses. “Mm.”

“Here,” he says, pulling off his jacket and rolling it up into a makeshift pillow. You lean back and he leans in to place it below your head, face above yours while you settle into the soft leather. His hair tickles your cheeks until he tucks it back, staring down at you. Your heart, your body, screams at you, ask him, ask him, ask him. Eddie kisses your neck quickly, shakes his head like he’s emptying out a thought. “Fuck, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had this dream.”

Again, ask him, ask him, ask him.

“Eddie,” you start, mind caught between the worry of how this will go and giving in to the gentle fuzziness of Eddie’s hands rubbing gently at your waist. You swallow, look to his eyes, then his forehead. “Will you-” The words catch, leaving you with a warm face and eyes squeezed closed in embarrassment. 

Eddie hums, gifts your cheeks his lips. His nose brushes the side of your face, and he murmurs. “Anything you want, pretty. Let me hear it, mm? ”

It’s Eddie, you tell yourself. From the first time you spoke to him, he’s never judged you for anything. He won’t judge you now. It’s Eddie, you repeat in your head. My Eddie. 

“I’ve never, um-” Your toes curl at the clear nerves in your voice, the beating of your heart that you swear he must be able to hear. “Nobody’s ever- Mmh.” 

“It’s just me,” Eddie says, thumb at your cheek. “It’s only me, sweet girl. Wanna know what you’re thinking.”

“I think,” you sigh, let some of the nerves out with it. “I think you’re beautiful, Eddie.” He blinks, surprised, but gives you a sweet smile when you touch gently at his pink cheek, feel the beginning of bristle under your finger. “And I want you. I mean, I want you to be first.” And second, and third, and every time after.

You stare at each other, breath heavy in your chest. Eddie’s eyes shine until he blinks it away. “Come- come here,” Even though he says it, he’s the one to lean down to you, giving you a chaste kiss that turns desperate when you reach up to play with his curls. 

Your head swims, relief and anticipation swirling together. A quiet moan escapes you when Eddie’s mouth moves to your jaw, down your neck. “Do you, um, have, like, protection?”

Eddie freezes. His face comes into view, brows furrowed. “Wait. You want me to fuck you right now?”

Oh. You hear the rush of blood in your ears, a ringing noise. You pull your hands from his hair, fingers curling, hands tucked to your chest. You suddenly wish he wasn’t on top of you, wish you could hide your face from him. Your head starts working overtime, supplying all the things he’s no doubt thinking about you now. You think of Erin, writing on the bathroom wall. Slut. Desperate. Whore.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft. Eddie presses his pointer finger to your temple, gives it a playful rub. “Are you doing that thing you said you do? Lying there convincing yourself you’ve fucked something up?”

A little part of you resents that he nailed it down so quickly, but you nod, blinking away the first bubbling tears, staring at the collar of his Metallica shirt rather than his face. “I just thought you’d want to.”

Eddie makes a soft noise at the back of his throat. “C’mere.” He pushes himself up from the floor of the van, grabs your hand to pull you with him. You end up curled at his side, knees just resting on the side of his thigh, his arm tucked around your shoulder as he leans you both against the back of the seats. You pull your sleeves over your hands, fidgety even as Eddie is rubbing at your shoulder softly. 

“Course I want to,” he says, leaning into you. “I wanted you on that picnic table. I want you all the time.”

That soothes you a little, enough that your right hand peeks out from your sleeve to play with the hem of his shirt. But your sensitive heart still throbs, tentative and sore. “So, why…?”

“I- Shit. Give me a minute.” Eddie hugs you tight for a second, then shuffles across the floor of the van, practically launching himself out of the back doors with a practised ease that makes you smile despite yourself. You can’t see him from here, but you hear him outside, the passenger door opening and closing behind you. When he returns, he’s got that metal lunch box he carries around with him. A different kind of confusion blooms when he sits next to you and opens it, rummaging through the little plastic bags of illicit substances. He pulls out a wad of rolled bills, a little chunkier than when you’d bought weed from him in the woods that first day.

“Wanna know what this is for?” Eddie asks, looking unusually serious when you glance at him. He opens his mouth then closes it again, eyes fixing on where he is thumbing at the band holding the bills together. “I thought you might ask me, eventually. Hoped you would, at least.” He breathes a laugh, pings the elastic. “So I’ve been saving up, you know?”

“Saving up?”

Eddie nods, turns his wide gaze to you with a tilted head. “Wanted to take you somewhere nice. Buy you dinner, something other than a burger or a pizza slice. Get a room at a hotel, with a big comfy bed. Thought I could show you-” He twitches, eyes flickering away from your face and back again. He swallows, shrugs. “S’like I said. I wanna deserve you.”

Your tense shoulders slump. Your chest aches. “Eddie,” you whisper, shaking your head. Trying again to blink away tears, you grab the roll of dollars from him, throw it back into that dumb obvious lunchbox. You climb up into his lap and wrap your arms around his shoulders. Your wet eyes meet his. “You don’t have to prove anything. You deserve-” Me, whatever you want, everything. Your fingers twitch. You close your eyes tight, ashamed you can’t look at him when you say it. “I think, all the time, about how much I wish I knew you earlier. It’s like, before, I just spent the whole time missing you.” You find it in you to look at him then, gaze at his pretty face; pink, lightly freckled, shiny under his eyes. “I want you, Eddie. I want to be with you wherever you are.”

You stare at each other, listening to the steady rhythm of your breaths until they move in sequence, chests expanding and contracting together. You get that same feeling you got when Eddie held your hand after touching you for the first time, how he listened when you told him about how you blow out of proportion in your head, the way he was angry for you when you recounted how Andy treated you. When Eddie told you that he couldn’t understand you liking him, that people have held him at arm's length for being too much, that he refuses to give up on school, believes wholeheartedly in his dreams. One moment at a time, you are peeling back layers, exposing soft tissue. You are offering each other all your hidden parts, whispering, please look after this with every squeezed hand and kissed cheek. 

Eddie sniffs, wipes his eyes. Seeing his shaky smile, hearing his wet laugh, is better than any soft bed in any hotel.

“That’s good, cause, uh, I really hadn’t saved that much.” You giggle together through lumped throats. “At the rate I was going, you were gonna be waiting till you were forty-five.” You shake your head at him fondly, reaching up to play with the feathers of hair that brush the side of his face. Eddie pulls you in closer, ducks his chin. “But I still can’t take your virginity in the back of my van, sweet thing,” he says. “It just wouldn’t be right. You should be in a bed, at least. And if you’re happy for it to be mine? I’ll just make sure my sheets are washed.”

You rub the soft ends of his hair between your fingers. “That sounds nice.”

“Yeah?” His hand comes to your cheek, helping you look at him. He must be able to feel the warmth of your face in his hand, but you lean into his palm anyway. When Eddie kisses you, it’s a gentle thing, a promise. 

When his tongue peeks out to lick into your mouth, it’s a request you’re happy to fulfil. Eddie groans at the taste of you, the sound of it registering across your whole body. Your hips roll subtly, and you feel the quirk of his lips. 

Eddie sighs into your mouth. “My pretty girl wants me to fuck her in my bed, mm?” 

The increasingly familiar zing of pleasurable shame zips up your spine. The air around you shifts, crackling like the split second of awareness before an electric shock. “Yeah, Eddie.” 

“But you need to be touched right now. So desperate,” he murmurs, the word that had mocked you minutes ago, now a warm tease. “So desperate you wanted to take my cock for the first time right here. In my van, parked by the side of the road.”

You shake your head, because you’re not really at the side of the road. Eddie was right when he said it’s quiet; nobody comes here. You’re about as likely to be found by the quarry as you are in his room. Eddie’s eyes light up with dark amusement, his hand drifting to the back of your neck. The pressure of his fingers there makes your hips twitch, your body recognising the signs, the promise of what’s to come when Eddie’s palm starts holding your head up. 

“No?” He asks, tilting his head, a teasing pout finding his pink lips. “You sayin’ I didn’t hear your right?”

Your toes curl. “No.”

The lines that run from the sides of Eddie’s nose to the corners of his lips deepen. “No, I did hear you right?”

“Eddie,”

“Ahh, yeah,” he breathes, wrapping an arm around your waist to help you lie back. He reaches out for his jacket, still rolled up on the floor, and places it back under your head. “That’s the good stuff.” You open your legs for him, let him settle his body on top of you, feeling the hardening length of him through denim and cotton at the apex of your thighs. Eddie licks his lips, tucks his hair back with a breathy laugh. “Shit. You got me thinking about it, now.”

Eddie sinks his face to your neck, the warm sting of his tongue making the mess between your legs increasingly hard to ignore. His big hand pulls at the hem of your skirt, lifting it up to your tummy. He glances down your body, eyes closing tight at the pale blue cotton cupping your mound, dark and sticky where it’s soaked up your wetness. “Wanna feel your little pussy on my cock so fucking bad. I can’t tell you how-” He cuts off a groan at the first run of his fingers over the wet material. “Christ. How many times I’ve thought about it.” 

You blink at him slowly, mind drifting into the calm of knowing Eddie’s going to make sure you both feel good. Your hips tilt naturally, helping him rub the curve of his finger over your clit through soaked cotton, then wiggling to help him more when his fingers hook into the elastic to pull them down your legs. Once they’re past your sneakers, he holds them in his hand for a second, rubbing his thumb along their centre. When you tilt your hips, pussy barely catching the rough denim over his crotch, his nostrils flare. “Don’t distract me, I’m holding precious cargo.”

He seems to settle on where to put them, draping the cotton over the top of one of the amps rather than letting them touch the floor. You giggle at his careful consideration, and Eddie’s dimples press into flushed cheeks. 

“You thought about it?” Eddie asks, watching your face when his thumb sweeps over your clit, noting the sensitivity before he starts up with tight circles that have you keening. “Thought about me inside you?”

He has to feel the new wetness between your legs that comes with your desperate nod. In truth, you’ve thought about it almost endlessly. You know it can hurt, have heard enough stories of virginity loss from the girls at the cheer table to know that it probably will. But when you imagine being close to Eddie that way, the only thing you can conjure up is the feeling of his fingers inside, how much further you’d have to stretch to take Eddie’s cock, the one that makes your jaw ache. Maybe the prospect should give you pause, but thinking about how Eddie would guide you through it sends excited shivers down your spine.

“Yes, Eddie.”

“You wanna feel my cock now?” He breathes, watching confusion flicker over your blissed face. “Know you like riding your pillow, sweet thing,” he says, your face hot at the memory of telling him how you masturbate. “But I think you might like rubbing up on me a little better.” 

Your clit twitches. You clench inside. Eddie either feels or sees the reaction of your body because he’s humming in excitement the next second, leaning down to kiss you, press his tongue to yours until you’re groaning into his mouth. He looks a little manic when he pulls away, hands scrambling with his belt when he throws himself to the side, lying on his back, ready for you to climb up on him. 

Without thinking, your hands catch his, stopping him from pulling at the loop. You squeeze his palms. “Let me?”

In answer, he moves his hands from his jeans, letting them rest flat across his stomach. You bite your lip, fighting the urge to sit on his thigh and grind against the denim just to get some instant relief. You reach out to the side of his head, grab his jacket and slide it to the back of his head. Eddie tilts his head up, lets you position it just so. You check, “comfy?” and he nods. 

Satisfied, you return to Eddie’s belt. The action of pulling at the leather is excitingly familiar to you now. The button of his jeans comes next, then his zip humming as you pull it down. His boxers are a soft check, the waistband positioned just under the first tufts of dark hair that lead to where Eddie is filling out the material. You think about his hands teasing your clit through your panties, mimicking him by brushing a knuckle over the mound peeking out from his zipper. It’s enough to make Eddie’s eyes squeeze shut, his fingers twitch. 

You hook your fingers into the elastic, start pulling them down. Eddie sighs in relief when his cock meets the air, hard enough to rise from his underwear the second he’s free. You imagine the stretch of him again, and clench down on emptiness. Eddie’s cock is a pretty pink all over. The furled skin at the top is a little shiny, and you know if you grasped his cock and pulled that skin back, his head would be wet with excitement. 

The thought strikes to just lean down and take him in your mouth, surprised to find that that’s already something of a comfort zone for you. But your clit throbs like it’s protesting, so you shuffle on your knees, feeling the sticky spread of your cunt when you open your legs to bracket his hips. You reach down, let yourself stroke Eddie’s cock just to hear the soft noise it draws out from his throat. You rub your thumb over that sensitive spot below his head, press his cock down until his length rests over the hair above it and the bottom of his soft tummy. 

With your free hand, you drift your hand between your legs, letting your fingers drift over your clit. You make a V with your fingers at the top, splitting your cunt open for him and feel a bone deep certainty that Eddie is the only person who could watch you doing this without real shame casting its shadow. 

“C’mon,” Eddie says, getting impatient. “Sit on it, use my cock how you want, just let me feel you.” 

Nodding, body instinctively wanting to follow his direction, you settle yourself on his cock. Eddie groans at the warm slick that surrounds him, hands immediately moving to your hips to help guide you. Your entrance flexes at the base of him, and he tries to pull you straight down like he could find more space between your lips for his girth. “Jesus Chri-”

Eddie’s words cut off with a choke when you glide yourself forward, hearing your wetness spread along his dick. You whine at the feeling, Eddie’s cock stimulating not just your twitchy button but your soft, clenching hole. Shifting back, your legs twitch when his head, exposed as the surrounding skin is pulled back by the clasp of your lips, catches just right against your clit. A few more blissful drags, and you are whining, hands flat against Eddie’s chest, fingers pulling at the softness of his shirt. 

You wiggle your hips, close to hysteria at how good it feels to have Eddie this close. Eddie grins up at you, the pride on his face making you all the more desperate. He looks overwhelmingly pretty like this, hair fanned out across his jacket, lips wet and swollen from his constant licking and your own kisses. His neck, as blushed as his face and his cock, is exposed and tense. His dark eyelashes that flutter every time his head drags over your clit and emerges from between your lips. His eyes, dark in the centre where his pupils have swallowed up mahogany, flicker back and forth between your face and where his cock vanishes and appears again, enveloped and released by the wet split of your pussy.

“You feel me now, mm?” He says, sounding hurried like he’s trying to get it out before his voice is swallowed up by groans. “Haven’t even taken three of my fingers, but you thought you could just lie back and take my cock?” You bounce a little when his head flicks your clit this time, torturing the swollen button with him a little longer. “Couldn’t’ve done it right, not how my desperate girl needs it. Just wanna make you feel good, you know?” 

“Feels good,” you murmur, wiggling your hips to feel his cock flex and shift over all the tender skin where you are most sensitive. “You always feel so good, Eddie.”

“Yeah? That’s it, that’s it.” Eddie’s fingers dig into your hips, no doubt leaving you with marks that will be satisfyingly tender by morning. “Fuck. Fuck, baby, I love you-r pretty voice.” He swallows, eyes now fixed on your pleasured face. “Love when you talk to me.” 

“Eddie, m’gonna-” You start to shake, and his hands grab at your hips, helping you keep moving along him even as the stimulation edges towards painful. 

“That’s it, cum on me. Let me feel it.”

Your body spasms, letting yourself move only with Eddie’s pushing and pulling as the throb of your clit spreads through your body, sends tingles up your spine. You feel your clit numb for a second, know enough now about your own body what that means for the intensity of your orgasm. You sit on that precipice, gasping in air. 

Pleasure bursts, has you shaking and moaning and, unbeknownst to you, repeating, “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie,” while the boy beneath you chases his own high, wanting to finish before you’re too oversensitive to keep your perfect warm pussy on him. 

Bending his knees, he grinds up into you, helping you slide along him. When he pulls your hips just so, and the tip of him barely catches the soft entrance of your cunt, Eddie finally cries out beneath you. The almost violent twitch of his cock between your legs makes you squirm, picturing that happening inside you. Eddie’s cum, thick and white, lands across his stomach in droplets, the last rope clinging to the tip of his cock in a way that, shamefully, makes your mouth water.

Sensitive, twitching, you rise from his body. Your shaking thighs fail you almost immediately, and you fall back on your butt between his open legs, a hand coming to cover your stimulated pussy like it needs protection. Eddie sits up, wipes his own hand across his stomach and draws his cum into his mouth with an ease that might surprise you if you hadn’t seen Eddie casually taste his own cum just about every time he’s orgasmed in front of you. 

This is what you meant, when you told May that being with Eddie is fun. Sex has always been something with disclaimers attached. Something to be enjoyed, but not too much. Something to get lost in, but not enough that you cross the line into acting slutty. It seemed to you like a tightrope nobody had shown you how to walk. 

And then there’s Eddie, who just watched you cum so hard on top of him that you immediately fell on your ass, and he’s grinning at you like he’s never been so proud of anyone in his life. “Now tell me that wasn’t way better than your pillow.” He reaches out for you, and you let him pull you into his arms, rest your head against his chest. You watch, warm in your face, while he tucks his softening cock, still covered in you, back into his boxers. “You feel okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod, tracing the blue lines of lightning on his shirt with your finger. Your thighs twitch again, and you laugh together, soft and breathless. You settle into that post high afterglow, letting yourself be comforted by how surrounded by Eddie you are. His arm around you, his chest under your head. You can hear the way his heartbeat shifts from an intense rhythm to a steady beat under your ear. There’s another sudden uptick just before he speaks.

“I was missing you, too.”

You shift, look up at him from his chest, find him staring at the ceiling. 

“Sometimes my life has felt like being dealt one bad hand after another.” His gaze shifts then, eyes finding yours. “Now, I think, maybe I was saving up for something really good without realising.” 

Eddie Munson; town freak, rumoured Satanist, bad news for sweet girls like you, on the floor of his van, arms wrapped tight around you, says; “You’re a lifetime of good luck, sweetheart.”

And then you know. 

Next Part

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fic #tmyg

[fatboyfiction]

Opposites Attract

Chapter 1: Chemistry

They had met online, having connected by sheer luck while browsing through their local selection of fat men. Pritchard liked the looks of Marshall immediately, all 220 lbs of him. His corn-coloured hair and blue eyes combined with his beefy arms and broad shoulders made him the all-American wet dream, and Pritchard was smitten with the beefcake. Likewise, Marshall was taken with Pritchard’s sleek, toned physique and darkly handsome good looks. To the wide-eyed farm boy, this was exactly the kind of cultivated, worldly guy he’d come to the city looking to find. 

They agreed to meet at a buffet near the university, where Marshall was in his last year of studies. Neither had high hopes for the other, despite the string of promising messages they’d exchanged over the past few weeks. Marshall had talked earnestly about how badly he wanted, no, needed to let go and turn himself into an enormous fat guy, and Pritchard had enthusiastically played along, telling Marshall how much hotter he’d be after another 50 lbs, 100 lbs, 200 lbs. They’d both gotten off to these messages, jerking off late at night to the thought of this other man who seemed so into their shared fantasy. But after the orgasm always came a cold wave of clarity. Each would be brought back to Earth by the recollection that he was still just talking to a guy, some idiot who would flake on him soon enough, just like all the others had. 

But as the weeks unfurled, neither had abruptly abandoned the other, as they were both expecting. Night after night, they kept talking and sharing, Marshall explaining how badly he’d always felt he was meant to live as a fat man, and Pritchard validating these desires and offering up secret fantasies of his own. Emboldened by their tentative success, Marshall got up the nerve one night to ask as nonchalantly as he could if Pritchard might like to meet up sometime. He’d expected to be turned down, gently or otherwise. After all, what could a polished professional like Pritchard want to do with an uncouth country boy like him? To his surprise and excitement, though, Pritchard promptly replied that yes, he would like to grab dinner. And so the date was set. 

Even after all this, both men showed up at the appointed time with hesitations. Pritchard was expecting Marshall to be a timid wreck, too ashamed of his long-harboured fatboy aspirations to get comfortable and be himself. And Marshall was worried that Pritchard would be embarrassed to be in public with someone like him, as had happened on so many dates before. But by some small miracle, none of this happened. Pritchard arrived to find Marshall already at the restaurant and after a somewhat shy and stilted introduction, both boys realized that improbably, they really liked the other. 

They sat chatting for a little while, going through the standard roster of get-to-know-you questions. Then it came time for them to get their food, and the first stumbling block of the night appeared. As they were moving along the buffet line, Marshall was sheepishly taking only a small helping of his chosen dishes, hardly more than the average buffet-goer would treat himself to. Pritchard was disappointed when we saw this, thinking “Well, here we go again. Another supposed gainer who talks a big game and can’t back it up.” 

As they got back to their table, Marshall started picking idly at the food on his plate, a far cry from the display of gluttony he’d promised Pritchard he was capable of. It’s not that he wasn’t hungry. In fact, he was starving, having skipped breakfast that morning in preparation for the big day. But privately, Marshall was worried about making Pritchard look bad. The older man had shown up dressed like an off-duty Ivy Leaguer, his hair impeccably coiffed and his brilliant white teeth glistening. Marshall didn’t want to embarrass this man who exuded poise and elegance, no matter what depraved things they’d said to each other in the middle of the night. 

Pritchard observed this lassitude on Marshall’s part and his frustration got the better of him. Always having had a sharp tongue, Pritchard shot casually across the table, “Well you’re certainly never going to burst any buttons that way. Surely you can do better than that.”

Marshall looked up, surprised. From his shiny shoes to his shiny watch, Pritchard did not by any measure seem the type of guy to say something like that where others could hear. And yet there he sat, smirking at Marshall in a way that clearly implied a challenge. 

Having obeyed the biological destiny of his deep chest and thick thighs, Marshall had of course played years of sports growing up. It was that same athlete’s logic that took over now, and compelled Marshall to want to impress Pritchard, to be the best and to show this man what he could do. “Oh you want to see better, do you? Fine, coming right up.” And without wasting another minute, Marshall dug face-first into his plate of food. Having taken such a meagre portion, it didn’t take long for him to finish it, and so with a triumphant look at Pritchard, Marshall stood up and marched back to the buffet to get more. 

This second plate took him longer to finish than the first but he still got it down in good time, polishing off the much larger portions of chicken wings and fried rice, pasta and ribs. As he kept eating, he became less and less concerned with his table manners. They’d broken the ice now, and this man had already listened to him talk at length about how he wanted to be a greedy, fat pig. He figured he may as well show Pritchard what he was dealing with, so he shovelled the food in his mouth faster and in bigger, heaping mounds. He was getting full, but he ate on, looking Pritchard in the eyes the whole time as the fine-featured dandy grinned back at him, eyes narrowed in an increasingly dangerous leer.

As Marshall finished off his second plate, he slumped back in his seat, groaning and rubbing the sides of his aching stomach. He had eaten much more than he normally would, and while he felt bloated and uncomfortable, he also felt a great deal of pride. He gave Pritchard back a smirk of his own, knowing that he’d given the man the performance he’d come for. 

Pritchard had kept quiet during Marshall’s feeding frenzy, but now he spoke up. “Very impressive, big guy. Maybe you are serious about turning yourself into a fatass after all. However,” he said with a malicious gleam in his eye, “I still think I could do with a little more convincing. Wait here, I’ll be back.” And with that, he got up from the table and sauntered off to the buffet. 

When he’d been selecting his own plate, Pritchard had been as choosy and fussy as you would expect from such a preening peacock. But now that he was in charge of Marshall’s plate, he took an entirely different tack. Moving around the dessert table, he slopped on large helpings of everything on offer. He quickly started to run out of room, but kept piling on the cheap buffet cake and pastries anyway, not caring if they overlapped or blended together. Marshall had shown himself to be much more game than most of the shy things he met up with, and he intended to stuff the boy with as many calories as he possibly could. 

When Pritchard got back to the table with the obscenely overloaded plate, Marshall looked at him with wide eyes filled with equal parts fear and lust. He was already so full, he didn’t know how much more he could take. 

“Well fatboy, I hope you saved some room for dessert. You’ve got your work cut out for you.” Pritchard said this without any attempt to lower his voice or be discreet. Several of the other patrons at the buffet had already been side-eyeing Pritchard when he carried the comically overfull plate back to the table, but now some of them were downright staring at the bizarre duo, wondering no doubt why the beefy blond boy was putting up with such insults. 

The beefy blond boy himself, though, was not put out in the slightest by this turn of events. He loved how brazen Pritchard was being with him, and wanted to show him he was game. Without missing a beat, Marshall bravely took up his fork and began to tackle this third heaping plateful of food. It was slow going, but the blond bruiser valiantly soldiered on, shoving forkful after forkful into his mouth, swallowing as quickly as he could so that his stomach wouldn’t cotton on to how far beyond stuffed he was. 

Despite his best efforts, Marshall tapped out halfway through the plate. He wincingly sat back in his seat, cradling his abused belly. Sure, he was no stranger to eating well. He’d been sneaking late-night pizza and between-class burgers for years, accounting for the 40 lbs he’d packed on since the end of his high school football career. But he’d never eaten this much this quickly. “I think that’s it, man,” he said breathlessly to Pritchard. “I don’t think I can handle any more.” 

Smooth as silk, Pritchard stood up and crossed to sit down beside Marshall. “Oh really?” he purred in Marshall’s ear. “See, I think you can handle just a little bit more. You told me just last night how excited you were to be meeting someone who wanted to see you blow up into a proper fat guy. Well now it’s time you prove to me how badly you really want that. Open up, fatass.” And as soon as Marshall obediently opened his mouth, Pritchard picked up a grotesquely overfull spoon of cherry pie and stuffed it inside.

Marshall was reclined in his seat as Pritchard hand fed him bite after bite. He realized that the other diners in the restaurant were uncomfortable with this bizarrely intimate scene between the two men, but he was beyond caring. In fact, the more he thought about them looking at him being stuffed like a prize hog, the more aroused he got. As Pritchard took care of feeding him, he started gently stroking his belly, easing the mound of food already housed inside and making room for the next bite, and the next, and the next. By the time the plate of desserts was emptied, he was rock hard in his jeans and was taking Pritchard’s exploratory hand on his thigh as a promise of a further reward to come. 

“Well done, fatboy,” Pritchard teasingly said as he stroked the sliver of soft belly flesh on display at the hem of Marshall’s tee shirt. “You’ve made me very, very proud today. Why don’t we head back to my place so I can show you exactly how proud.” And with that, the elegantly dressed man pulled the bloated and crumb-riddled college boy to his feet and escorted him to the restaurant door, leaving the other diners and waitresses to gaze after them in confusion and mild disgust at the shameless gluttony they had just witnessed. 

#gainer fiction #gainer stories #weight gain #male wg

[smallmariofindings]

Unused animations for a Shy Guy found in the files of Super Paper Mario, viewed in a model editor. Note that this Shy Guy was supposed to appear on stilts, which are a separate object and are not included in his animations.

Main Blog | Twitter | Patreon | Source: youtube.com user “fawfulthegreat64″

[katrin-katharsis]

OMG! What the fu--???

Oh, calm down. These are just my original TADC characters :D

1 picture:

René: "Hello! Have you come to visit me and ask questions? I will be happy to answer everything and show you a couple of illusions~"

Rene is a sweet and shy guy who is an illusionist. He spawned in TADC without eyes, but this absolutely does not prevent him from living. His body contains many red threads that are hypersensitive. When he touches objects with his hand, he can read recent digital memory from them. The same ability to "read" works for digital characters too.

2 picture:

AAAAAA THIS IS A PENTACLE

His height is 2.5 meters. His legs are like acrobatic stilts. Doesn't take anyone or anything seriously in TADC because he thinks the place is a strange dream. Perhaps experiencing constant derealization. Poorly understands other people's emotions, his own emotions and the boundaries of his body. Pint often trips, and also perceives all characters shorter than 1.9 meters as toys. He will gladly take you in his arms and caress you, but will soon throw you away like a boring toy, ew...

3 and 4 picture:

This is a Diptych. Just a Diptych.

Diptych: “Ahaha, did someone really decide to visit me?? Thank you:) But let’s meet tomorrow? Not here. I value my personal time. And please don't ask unnecessary questions."

Oh... This is my most intentionally evil OC. He appeared in TADC already somewhat abstracted. He hates himself and others terribly, but has no idea why. A terrible hypocrite. Using hypocrisy, he tries to fit into the digital circus society, but in reality he wants to harm everyone. Avoid him, please :"D

All this information is duplicated from my VK and communities from there.

#tadc oc #artists on tumblr #digital art #tadc #the amazing digital circus #the amazing digital circus oc #digital painting #digital illustration #artwork #oc #original character #oc art

[howlinchickhowl]

Couple of days late because I keep falling asleep while writing, but here is my little contribution for day 9 of @gallavichthings a.u.gust fiesta.

Got me stuck on your face and your body nine - college

There’s an alarm clock blaring, it’s been blaring for what feels like hours, and it’s not his. He doesn’t even have an alarm clock. This day and age who even owns a real fucking clock anymore? Doesn’t everyone just use their phone?

The noise stops, and Mickey cracks an eye open. Through his minimal aperture he can see a a light green colored towel, a pair of legs dusted with light ginger hair. Ian.

“Sorry about the alarm, I woke up early and jumped in the shower, forgot it was even set.”

He sounds so awake already, alive with energy at whatever ghastly hour of the morning someone like Ian chooses to rise in the morning. It’s as much as Mickey can do to roll over onto his back, and even that feels like too much of an effort. He slings one arm over his face to block out the obnoxious sunlight streaming through Ian’s cheap dorm-room curtains, and sucks in a deep yawn of a breath.

“It’s all good man,” He says, on the tail end of the yawn, “didn’t mean to fall asleep. Shoulda woken me.”

“I didn’t mind you staying.” The weight on the bed shifts like Ian has just sat down, and when Mickey drags his arm from his eyes to look he’s right there, chest bare, soft hairs on his pecs glistening with large droplets of water because the guy apparently doesn’t know how towels work and clambers every day from the shower dripping like an umbrella after a rainstorm.

He watches a single rivulet wind its way down towards a nipple, take a detour around a particularly thick hair and drop into the valley that marks the centre of Ian’s well defined chest.

He drags his gaze away and meets Ian’s eyes, warm and open, and it sinks in to Mickey what Ian had said. That he didn’t mind Mickey staying over. It’s crazy to Mickey how easily shit like that just rolls off Ian’s tongue, like he just says exactly what he’s thinking or feeling, in the moment when he’s thinking or feeling it. Mickey wonders what that must be like. To be just completely at ease all the damn time. It couldn’t be him.

“Well, didn’t mean to, so.”

Case in point. The words that roll off Mickey’s tongue are always awkward and stilted, and only ever half of what he really wants to be saying, and almost always succeeds in making whomever he is talking to smaller and less happy and less bright than they were before he spoke.

Something in Ian shuts down, his openness, that light inside him that Mickey is so obsessed with, can’t get enough of, dims, just a little, and just like every time he opens his mouth, Mickey regrets his words.

“What you got your alarm set for anyway?” He asks, dropping his hand onto Ian’s bent knee where he’s sat sideways on the bed. “You don’t got class today.”

One thing that’s great about Ian is that Mickey kind of thinks he gets it. Mickey’s words can hurt him but if he can get a hand on him, quickly, he recovers. Like he understands what it means when Mickey uses his touch to try and soothe the lashes his tongue doles out.

Like now, green eyes glance down at where Mickey’s hand is resting on a towel clad knee, and a little smile forms on his lips

“You know my schedule Mickey?”

Smug bastard. And he does, is the problem. They’ve been fucking basically since class began in September, since Mickey had wandered into a frat house kitchen at a party Mandy had dragged him to and shared a shot with the giant red-head hiding from the party by ‘manning the bar’. He was the least likely frat dude you could imagine, sweet and kind of shy, not interested in keg stands or embarrassing pledges. They’d ended up back in Ian’s room that night and Mickey’s been freefalling ever since. He’s into him so deep it’s embarrassing.

Yeah, he knows his fucking schedule. Knows when his classes are and his preferred times to go to the gym, knows he treats himself to lunch outside the cafeteria once a week, on Wednesdays, on a rotating schedule of alternative campus eateries. Knows he calls his big sister on Fridays, facetimes his big brother most mornings on his way to class. Knows what day and time he goes to his book club that’s not a book club, but that he won’t actually tell Mickey what it is. He knows, and he feels like a fucking pussy for knowing, and he knows that if he replies right now he’ll say something even more hurtful than he already has because his stupid fucking brain thinks it will make it less embarrassing to be obsessed with Ian if there’s no way Ian could ever possibly know.

“Got a frat thing early, philanthropy requirement, that’s why the alarm.”

There’s a blush spreading across Ian’s cheeks, the same that always does whenever he talks about fraternity stuff, he’s the only frat guy Mickey ever met who doesn’t like to let on he’s in a frat. Mickey’d asked him once, why he’d joined if he found it so embarrassing to be a Greek. He’d said that when he’d come to college he’d been lonely, had missed the noise and the company of being at home with all his siblings, the frat had seemed like a way to have that again, on campus.

“Gotta go be a good boy, huh?” Ian quirks a suggestive eyebrow at that and the shadow of a shiver rushes up Mickey’s spine. It is way too easy to get him going where Ian’s concerned. “Guess I’ll let you get to it then, I’m gonna head out.”

He rolls himself to the other side of the bed and pushes himself up to standing, starting to find where his clothes had ended up. He finds them in a neat pile on the chair by the window, shirt and pants and boxers folded, fucking boy scout.

“You don’t have to go.” Ian tells him while he’s pulling up his pants, rooting in his underwear drawer for some clean boxers and dropping his towel to pull them on.

“I got a paper due.”

“Well, are you busy later? I’m supposed to go to this open mic thing at Java John’s…”

Mickey winces at the thought of an ‘open mic thing’ and Ian trails off, finishes buttoning his shirt, smart clothes for philanthropy hours. Mickey tries not to let his gaze linger too long, but the fact is, Ian looks good all dressed up.

“But I could skip it? If you wanted to…” He trails off again, shrugging at Mickey like he doesn’t really know what he’s suggesting.

He’s suggesting spending time together, really, that’s what he’s always suggesting. All the time he’s inviting Mickey along to some event or telling him about some party, just trying to spend time with him, and every time he does Mickey blows him off, turns it into some innuendo, or manufactures the scenario so that instead of hanging out like normal people, like Ian so clearly wants to do, they end up just fucking.

It’s not like Mickey doesn’t want to hang out with Ian, properly. Without fucking. He does. He would. But the thing is, they’re good at fucking. They’ve got great chemistry and he knows he can make Ian feel good, that he can hold his interest for that, that he won’t disappoint the guy.

But without that, if they’re just spending time together and talking and not distracted by the overwhelming pleasure of an impending orgasm, Ian might figure out that in the long run, Mickey’s not smart or interesting or worth spending time with at all. And he can’t have that.

He finishes shoving his feet inside his boots and looks up, finding Ian still looking over at him, hopefully. And he wants to say yes. He wants to say sure, and sounds fun. Wants to meet Ian at the stupid fucking Java John’s and listen to some emo loser singing acoustic covers of eighties pop hits and drink an overpriced cup of coffee and just, sit next to the guy, smile at him, make him laugh. Feel the warmth of his body radiate against Mickey’s own. He wants it so badly he can hardly breathe from the wanting.

And what if he did it? What if he said yes? What if, actually, Ian didn’t find him boring or stupid or only good for fucking? What if, actually, they had a great fucking time and great sex? Looking into Ian’s imploring eyes, for the first time he believes it might be possible.

He takes a deep breath, takes a massive fucking leap, and says.

“They got beer at the Java John’s?”

The smile on Ian’s face makes his heart almost beat out of his chest, and he hopes, hopes he’s made the right choice.

#fic #my fic #my writing #howl does a.u.gust #gallavich fic

[pileontheyears]

hi jeanie!! i was wondering if u had any thoughts on what the quarry counselors' favorite nintendo franchises might me?

-cas @chrashley :)

Hi Cas! 🥰 Ooh I love this question! I tried to stick with games I’m familiar with but there's a couple I've never played myself. That being said I'd be interested to hear what other's think in case I missed anything 👀

Abi - Animal Crossing, she enjoys more cozy games and it would bring out her artistic side, creating her own clothes and decorating her house/town/island. She doesn’t do anything extravagant but she plays a fair amount, she enjoys bug catching and visiting her favorite neighbors with gifts.

Dylan - The Legend of Zelda, nice mix of puzzles, action, and music depending on the game. He gets really into the new mechanics in BOTW and TOTK, going from creating really intricate mechanics to designing dick shaped machines. Perhaps projecting but I’d say he’d have a soft spot for Twilight Princess (you can hold and talk to cats!)

Kaitlyn - Splatoon, the shooter of the Nintendo franchises. She meticulously goes through all the weapons in order to pick the best one depending on specials and sub weapons (she strikes me as a sniper). She also loves the idols and music and designing her squid with all the fresh fashion choices. She definitely makes it to ruler rank whenever she participates in Splatfests (and claims bullshit if her team loses). 

Ryan - Pokemon, perhaps inspired by Justice being in Detective Pikachu, but as an aspiring animator he’d be interested in all the different Pokemon designs. When Ryan builds his team he gets really attached to them. He’d never attempt a nuzlocke, he’s sticking with his whole team til the end. He of course loves the ghost types, but I think he’d also have something like Loudred or Golbat, something audio/sound related. He definitely plays a lot with Sarah.

Emma - Metroid, Emma is resourceful, working well under pressure and able to adapt to situations quickly, so when she takes the controller for Metroid she effortlessly switches from platforming to shooting, completely tearing the alien enemies to shreds. She loves Samus and probably got into the series for the leading lady. One of her favorite elements is the morph ball, but the arm canon might have it beat.

Jacob - WarioWare, while a more competitive game may seem like Jacob’s first choice I think if he had to choose a favorite he’d prefer the quick micro games that WarioWare has to offer. It’s fun, fast, no time to think just DO. He also really enjoys the zany humor and eccentric characters. It’s also a plus to play with others and can somehow still turn competitive, especially when playing with Nick. 

Nick - Pikmin, Nick likes to go with the flow so he'd like something less fast paced but still something with some strategy. I think he'd find assigning Pikmin with their different abilities to various tasks satisfying. Since he also loves nature he'd enjoy the exploration element, as well. And really he just thinks the Pikmin are cute.

Laura - Animal Crossing, since she’s interested in veterinary science she’d probably enjoy the animal characters, Max most likely introduces her to the game for that reason. However, unlike Abi she plays it more seriously. She has to complete every task, pop every balloon, and fill the entire museum with every collectible. She has to stop playing when it cuts time into her personal productivity. She has a 5 star island.

Max - Yoshi, Max is definitely not a competitive player, he plays games that are more chill. He enjoys the straightforward mechanics of swallow enemies, throw eggs/yarn, with nothing too punishable or frustrating like with other tenser games. The vibrant, colorful world definitely doesn’t hurt with all the cute smiling flowers, shy guys on stilts, and most importantly: Poochy.

All the counselors love Mario Party and Mario Kart, some less so than others as the game progresses and they continue to lose (Jacob).

#the quarry #abigail blyg #dylan lenivy #kaitlyn ka #ryan erzahler #emma mountebank #jacob custos #nick furcillo #laura kearney #max brinly #almost gave nick star fox or donkey kong #emma was gonna be princess peach showtime but metroid kept calling to me #abi also gives me kirby vibes

[chlorine-and-daisies]

guys the only thing i need to see from season 3 is aziraphale ranting about how much he loves crowley

freely and openly with the kind of animated expression that he wears when he gets excited about a Plan, the shy smile from when he asked crowley to dance, the stars in his eyes like when he realized that crowley turned the goats into birds and saved his books

because what we do have (you go too fast for me, crowley...maybe we could dine at the ritz) is so achingly pretty? and he's been running a bookstore for 200 years, the only things he loves more than pretty words are sushi helping people and crowley? and part of what makes crowley's dialogue at the ending so charming is that it's so stilted, words aren't his thing but he knows that they are aziraphale's so he tries anyway?

we have all these cues that *aziraphale* should be the more verbal and openly affectionate one of them, and yet we've barely heard a peep out of him so far.

because fucking heaven has made him think that they are the only ones who can be good

that the fact that aziraphale thinks that crowley is good means that either crowley is meant to be an angel or aziraphale is meant to fall

and either possibility terrifies him, so his own love terrifies him and he keeps it all bottled up

i just KNOW that he has hundreds of poems in his head that he's shut down before even trying to put them on paper, too afraid to even admit that they're love poems

and if season 3 gives aziraphale any peace, gives us even a fraction of his open love, i think it will do him (and every fan like myself who has ever been closeted, ever written poetry while closeted) some justice

#good omens #aziraphale

[bisaster-energy]

I have to know what nut allergy means 🤲🏻

god i had forgotten about this one til u tagged me💀i got the idea cos of some tiktok someone made about putting ghost pepper in their food to catch whichever coworker was stealing their food and ppl in the notes were freaking out cos "wHAt iF sOMeOnE iS ALlErGiC" me and my friend luke were like "god how funny would it be if you just went in someone's fridge drank all their milk and shit yourself cos ur lactose intolerant and then blame them for trying to poison u that logic is so crazy...what if it was a destiel au"

it's really just a silly hospital au i never got around to finishing it's cringy and basic but it's funny to me so i kept it

so cas is a doctor ofc i have to reward dean somehow.

he's neurosurgeon because i did watch grey's anatomy and dr. sexy being a parody of derek shepherd who's played by patrick dempsey who also played a guy named cass who was in a polyamory with jensen ackle's character and marilyn monroe. i had to put it in

i couldnt decide if i wanted dean to be a doctor too or a nurse but i know i wanted him in peds

basically it's one sided enemies to lovers with dean having beef with cas for no reason (he's hot and this frustrates dean to no end). meanwhile cas has a crush bigger than texas on that man

maybe a competitive aspect too like derek and burke had but less animosity. i try to lean into the soap opera aspect of it as if they're in a medical drama more than a REAL HOSPITAL because it's easier than doing extensive research <3

so maybe dean is a bit more of an asshole to cas than strictly necessary and no one else gets why. cas essentially gives up on trying to have a normal conversation w/dean and thinks he really hates him so he settles to only talk to him in a professional capacity so he wont encroach on his space more than he has to

dean takes this personally. i love misunderstandings

etc etc it comes to a head when maybe something happens that really sets dean off about cas (i haven't figured what yet) and so to get back at him he nabs a cookie from his lunch (cas already established that anyone can indulge in them but dean missed the memo ig)

anyways ruh roh! his dumbass is allergic to one of the ingredients cos it came into contact with walnuts or smth idk

dean's embarrassed as hell and cas finds him all swollen and fucked up and i haven't gotten past this part but yeah i just wanted cas to stab dean with an epi-pen really

overall very mid and silly and dumb but here's an excerpt anyway:

The neurosurgeon is, in Dean's humble (but also right) opinion, the only one worthy of the term Asshole around here, with a capital A.

Well, not the only one. But still.

And it's not like Dean didn't try to get to know him! New doctor shows up, windswept hair tousled to perfection, lab coat flaring behind him like some sort of superhero, gaze focused and intense, and eyes so so blue-

Ahem. Of course Dean is going to be intrigued he's a human being! It's not like Castiel was interested anyway. Barely said three words to Dean before rushing off somewhere else, probably to bless some other coworker with his angelic ass sculpted by god. Dean tried a few times after that and still ended up with nothing more than stilted small talk. Dude made talking to a brick wall seem like a cake walk. There was always something going on that had to cut their conversations short, and Dean thought Cas was just a shy guy at first, nothing wrong with that. But he's seen Dr. Novak easily chat with other staff for longer than two (painfully awkward) minutes. Especially Masters. God that snake just loves to hang off Novak, like that's her job instead of being a damn nurse. Even Balthazar, their own personal sleazeball of an anesthesiologist, allegedly manages to drag the uptight doctor out from time to time.

Not that Dean has been stalking them or anything. He just heard it through the grapevine like every other godforsaken rumor at this high school of a hospital. And if the grapevine happened to just be Balthazar himself bragging about their nights out in the breakroom, well that's Dean's business.

"I still say you need to give him a chance, Dean," his mammoth of a brother insisted, brushing his mane out of his face. Seriously, dude, just get a haircut. "I don't get what your problem with him is. Castiel is great! A little awkward maybe, but it really adds to his charm." Dean rolls his eyes.

"Sammy, you do realize you sound like you're trying to get me to adopt a dog that's about to be sent to the pound? It didn't work when you were eight and it won't work now. And, for your information, I've given Cas plenty of chances to talk to me. He's the one with the issue. You should be selling him all this kumbaya bullshit. And don't you have some lawsuits to prevent?"

It's Sam's turn to roll his eyes. "Whatever, Dean. If you gave up on talking to him then why the hell do you call him by a nickname?" With another flip of his mop, his brother left Dean spluttering for a reasonable answer. Which there is, of course. But Sam's long gone by the time he manages a weak "Castiel is a mouthful, okay?" "I'll say," came an annoyingly sultry voice from behind. Without turning Dean lets out a sigh. "Can I help you, Masters?" He asks flatly, already resigning himself to an unpleasant encounter. "Oh, don't be like that, Dean," God, he can practically hear the obnoxious pout he knows she's wearing right now. "I thought we could bond over what a mouthful Clarence is!" That has him spinning around.

meg is cas' bestie she can't understand why he's hung up on dean but she supports his terrible terrible taste. and if she can manage to convince dean they're fucking in the meantime well. god forbid women do anything

the reason sam seems so invested is cos the hospital has a betting pool over if these 2 get together and when. bros tryna make bank

#asks!! #wip #supernatural #destiel #it's soooooo dumb but sometimes a fic is junk food #dean deserves to have his doctor kink well and truly fulfilled #also the patrick dempsey lore actually kills me like every time i think about i cannot believe how it's all connected... #jensen ackles poly relationship with marilyn monroe and guy named cass in blonde. years pass #dempsey moves to grey's anatomy while ackles goes on to spn both airing in 2005. #dean is secretly into a show clearly parodying grey's anatomy. dr. sexy is definitely based off of dempsey's mcdreamy and is dean's fav #s4 of spn castiel is introduced. dean calls him cas. #14x12 has cas dressed as a doctor. 15x15 has cas talking to a pastor that played dr. sexy who tells him being gay is cool. what the fuck.