#but you gotta set the stage sometimes

[rpclefairy]

𝐁𝐆𝟑 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

a selection of lines from the various companions' banter quotes (not cut scene dialogues!) from baldur's gate 3. these are generally spoiler free and non context specific so they can apply to different settings and dynamics! feel free to change names and the like to customize the prompts.

“Death can't have me. Not yet…”

“Calm yourself. There is plenty of me to go around.”

“Realmspace is vast. Countless worlds to be mapped, kingdoms to be conquered.”

“I have missed this. The adventure. The danger. The kicking of butts!

“Let me guess - you need something.”

“Such attention.. I never realised I was so popular.”

“Let's cook with fire, baby.”

“Do you intend to vocalise every thought?. Or just the most obvious ones?”

“Wherever we go, ye gods let there be something green.”

“Careful, or I will take your toy away from you.”

“Watch your elders and learn.”

“Perhaps try attacking the enemy?”

“So much we don't know, lingering in the furthest reaches of existence.”

“All the world's my stage and you're just a player in it.”

“The shadows are my friend.”

“Yes, yes, have your fun. It isn't you they're trying to kill.”

“Feet planted firmly on Faerûn, please.”

“Admirable stamina, yet terrible priorities.”

“Well you certainly have the 'omnipresent' part down, don't you?”

“I am ready, whatever may come.”

“My faith protects me.”

“Need a throat slitting?”

“Death greets us all - but not today.”

“You need my expertise?”

“Can you feel death's cold grip?”

“So many stars, so many mysteries yet to be discovered.”

“Death comes quietly.”

“And I thought we were going to be friends.”

“Locked tight, but there must be some way to open it.”

“No, you can't die. Get up, damn you!

“You had my attention, now you have my fury.”

“From silence to suffering.”

“So many worlds out there. You'd need a thousand lifetimes to see them all - more.”

“I hope this is important. For your sake.”

“Let them gaze deep into their own abyss, and wonder just what it is they are trying to achieve.”

“I ought to just burn this whole thing down.”

“We have slightly more pressing matters to attend to.”

“You have still have time to surrender.”

“Every kicked buttock, another step on the path.”

“Weave save me. I can't take much more…

“You are right to fear me.”

“Let me look around. Might be something that'll help me crack this thing.”

“Incredible, to think how many worlds exist beyond this tiny speck within a speck I call home.”

“I really wish I could cast a Hold spell on you.”

“I can fawn over my face later.”

“Ready for another round?”

“Keep your blade close.”

“I can't unlock it from here, but there must be a switch or a button somewhere…”

“No, that's not moving. There must be a way to open it somewhere.”

“Battle favours the fearless.”

“Sleep with one eye open, evil. Maybe both.”

“Gotta be something around here to unlock this thing.”

“Why do beautiful people taste better?. It hardly seems fair on the ugly - they have such wonderful personalities.”

“Oh, calm down. I'm happy to see you too.”

“Just go for the Magic Missile and fire away. Never fails.”

“Still standing, no matter what you heard.”

“Enough waiting. I crave blood.”

“Hang on - I won't allow this. You aren't dead, go it?”

“GODS, it's HOT in here!”

“No rest for the wicked, I see.”

“Better to hide than fight, sometimes.”

“Would that I could hide from you, too.”

“Are you feeling lonely, perhaps?”

“There is no right or wrong, only truth.”

“Battle is afoot - you can poke me once we are safe.”

“What good all this ethereal eladrin blood if I can still get pimples?”

“I should've been a drow. They have such stylish armour.”

“I am armed! Armoured! And entirely sick of your foolishness.”

“Let's have some fun.”

“War is an old woman's game.”

“No rest, be you wicked or wise.”

“I'm getting too old for this nonsense.”

“I would poke you back, but I fear that's what you want.”

“You have my attention - now do something with it.”

“You are insistent, are you not?”

“Do what must be done.”

“Your suffering will be spectacular.”

“Lest I sit down for a rest and not rise again.”

“Better to look evil in the eye. Even if it be very small.”

“I'm not built to crouch.”

“I think I could go another round.”

“Always the same old song.”

“Is perfection too much to ask?”

“Eyes on victory, tummy on dinner.”

“So many places to be.. and I chose Baldur's Gate.”

“I'm not opening that. Not from here, at any rate.”

“What is the point, if not victory?”

“Won't last much longer like this.”

“Let's hope the locals are friendly.”

“Let us show them how it's done.”

“Weapons high. Standards higher.”

“Must everyone be so exhausting?”

“What I would not give for a chunk of fresh honeycomb…”

“Which way to the nearest library?”

“Now this is my happy place.”

“Who shall I silence?”

“Stop, or die.”

“Wear your scars proudly.”

#indie rp #rp meme #rp ask meme #sentence starter #rp prompts #bg3 prompts #rp sentence starters

[eternal-kosmo-ghoul]

Gimme your most stupid ghoul headcanons possible, like Sodo is scared of idk dust particles or something funny.

“silly ghoul headcanons”

Synopsis: It’s in the title you silly goose. Just the ghouls with their silly little shenanigans

Pairing: Nameless ghouls (platonic or romantic) x GN!reader (they/them)

Theme: fluff ✿ , crack ✦

A/N: Heres my first fanfic to my Ghost blog! I gotta thank my bestie for making this request despite the silliness in it. I hope you guys enjoy it because I certainly had fun writing it. I might make a separate version for the ghoulettes cause I love my girlies <33

I also decided to add Aether in this one cuz I love him, remember to respect both him and Phantom as ppl because we don’t support that negativity and hate 🫡

TW: Swiss and Sodo joke about sex but it’s because they’re Swiss and Sodo

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Sodo, oh dear Sodo. He can be such a silly ghoul sometimes

He likes to act like he’s all tough and that he’s hot shit, but some of his habits you can’t help but laugh at

For starters, Sodo is the type of ghoul to be scared of really dumb stuff. Take hamsters for example

Sodo has this really inexplainable fear of hamsters. One day you picked up a cute little hamster from the pet store, and he hissed and erupted in flames the moment you brought it near him

“Sodo its just a hamster—“

“GET THAT THING’S FILTHY PAWS AWAY FROM ME.”

Aether once pranked him by putting a bunch of hamsters in his closet and he let out the most unmanly scream ever, it was funny

Oh and we all know Sodo has a habit of slapping people’s asses

It’s basically his trademark at this point

But there was this one particular time where he tried to slap your ass, but he somehow missed and accidentally slapped Copia’s ass instead

Needless to say, he spent a good while trying to explain to the unamused Papa that he didn’t mean to slap him, but the other pair of cheeks that was in front of him in that moment

He once played Five Nights At Freddy’s and he had nightmares about Freddy for a whole week

No joke, he once thought that Swiss was Freddy because he was so disoriented from a previous nightmare and he socked the poor guy in the nose

You forced him to apologize to Swiss after that

I imagine he’s also the type of ghoul to write stupid little messages and graffiti with a sharpie on his fellow ghouls faces

He once made you help him literally knock out Aether just so he could write “number one cocksucker” in big bold letters on his forehead

Needless to say, you two got chased around by the angry ghoul who was holding a fly swatter for a whole ten minutes

Also we all know damn well this man has a dirty mind

Like have you seen him on stage? Of course he does

He has a habit of slipping in sexual jokes and in innuendos every now and then, because he snickers when seeing people’s reactions

Though there was this one time where he made a comment about your ass and he got slapped across the face

Idk Sodo has a weird obsession with your ass

He has toned down on the jokes, but that doesn’t stop him from slipping up every now and then. And it’s quite obvious he won’t stop with those jokes anytime soon

Rain is such a sweetie and we all know that

But sometimes he can be a little bit of a menace, even to you and his fellow bandmates

To start things off, we all know Rain is a clumsy little guy

Like he’s a walking talking disaster with trails of chaos in his wake. He can hold a glass for someone and drop it like not even ten seconds later

Well there was this one time where you were giving him strumming techniques for the next upcoming ritual

Sodo tapped him on the shoulder from behind to ask him for something. When Rain turned around he accidentally slapped Sodo in the face with the neck of his bass guitar

Sodo then stumbled back in pain and literally destroyed Mountain’s drum set. You were just standing there processing what just happened, and Copia just looked… disappointed.

Rain also collects a lot of plushies

He has a literal pile of squishmallows in the corner of his room. Sometimes he likes to bury himself in that little nook of his room.

He made a little pillow fort in that area for him to snuggle in. Sometimes he’ll invite you to come and watch movies with him in there

However he once impulsively bought so many plushies so they were all flooding his room. You opened the door to his room and they all came flooding out, with a very euphoric Rain on top of them

“…. Rain what are you doing?”

“Feeling great. Thank you, Y/N.”

You helped him organize all of those little plushies in his room afterwards, even giving some of them to Phantom (who was new at the time) as a little “welcome home” gift

As a water ghoul, Rain naturally enjoys water

However he has this really cute habit of splashing around in pools/tubs like he’s a bird in a birdbath, but he gets embarrassed about this fact because the ghouls tease him for it

You once caught him playing around in the a storm in such a manner, it was so cute seeing him so happy and enjoying himself

The minute he spotted you, he immediately got all embarrassed and shy, but you reassured him it was all good and that it was fine to be excited about water

Needless to say, he’s a lot more comfortable showing off that side to you now

Oh Mountain. Sweet sweet darling Mountain

Like Rain, Mountain is a sweetie. However he tends to have his silly moments.

I’d like to imagine that Mountain often bumps his head on doorframes or walks

The fucker is really tall, I mean it’s hard to not hit something along the way.

So he has a habit of sticking his hand over his forehead to avoid bumping into anything, the poor guy

I’d also like to imagine that Mountain had that light skin stare

Like he doesn’t even mean to look creepy. He just… has a habit of zoning out, so therefore he looks like he’s staring into your soul

Though this does make him really good at staring contests. One time Swiss challenged him, and they lasted for ten minutes

Swiss needed eye drops after that

Also he deadass looks like a sleep paralysis demon when he stands

One night you couldn’t sleep so you went to the kitchen to get something to eat. Mountain happened to hear the noise your footsteps were making, so he went to check up on you

He was just standing in the doorframe… staring at you, making sure you were okay while you grabbed something from the fridge

Needless to say, when you turned around, you dropped Swiss’s leftover cheesecake you were gonna eat upon seeing the tall earth ghoul in the doorframe

Also your scream was loud as FUCK

“MOUNTAIN WHAT IN HELL— YOU ALMOST GAVE ME A HEART ATTACK! Why didn’t you say anything!?”

“… I don’t know. At least you’re okay.”

He apologized to you afterwards and promised to not accidentally spook you. Because for a moment you swore you saw the hat man

Mountain also rarely gets mad, the dude is as passive as a sheep

But the moment he gets angry… hide your children

The dude is scary as hell. Like, he’s even got Papa on his knees begging for mercy

There was one particular day during practices where Sodo and Aether were arguing a little too much. It’s normal for them to banter, but this particular day was getting out of hand

Everyone was already getting upset with them, even with Papa telling the two ghouls you knock it off, but of course they wouldn’t

Well, they didn’t until a drum from Mountain’s drum set came hurling towards both ghouls. Making the fire ghoul and quintessence ghoul yelp and duck instinctively

No one had noticed the fuming earth ghoul sitting in the corner up until that point. Everyone was speechless. Your jaw was on the floor even

Needless to say, Mountain apologized yet again, but now everyone knew not to fuck with Mountain after that

Swiss is an… interesting specimen.

For starters he was accidentally summoned,

He was summoned at the same time as Aether. And they bonked heads upon getting summoned

It was rather funny seeing Papa being so confused as to why the ritual spell summoned two ghouls, and seeing said two ghouls yell at each other for bonking heads

But it all worked out because after Swiss showed off that he can literally do fucking anything, Papa just let him stay

And Swiss was the perfect flare of spice to add to Ghost, and he’s a sweet ghoul to be around

But that doesn’t stop him from being a literal menace to society

Swiss has a really strange habit of breaking into people’s rooms and just jumping on their beds to wake them up

All while he’s obnoxiously telling them to get up, much to the other’s annoyance

You once threw him across the room for waking you up, and Swiss was just laughing so hard on the floor when he saw your reaction

Since he’s quite literally known as the Swiss Army Ghoul, he’s good at almost everything.

Including cooking. He likes to cook a lot of meals for the people living in the ministry

Bro even has a stereotypical pink “kiss the cook” apron, he got it as a birthday gift from you

But the “cook” part is crossed out with a red sharpie and instead Swiss replaced with “dick”

Why? Because it’s fucking Swiss.

He also made it a point to bake everyone’s birthday cakes, but he’ll slip in something stupid to be funny

One time Cirrus was cutting her birthday cake and she got a whole ass doll head in there, which left her very confused

Swiss isn’t allowed to make people’s birthday cakes anymore because of that

Also sometimes Swiss will get high out of nowhere

No one knows what the fuck he’s doing because this ghoul is all over the place, but when he’s high he says the most out of pocket stuff

There was this one time he messaged the ghoul group chat while taking an edible saying “this edible is weak as shit.”

But then right after that message, he attached a picture of you and sent it with the caption “I’ve always wanted to fuck them.”

You could hear Sodo’s laughter from his room after that.

And when Swiss got sobered up, you asked him about the message, but bro literally refuses to acknowledge he sent it

“Swiss did you send that message from earlier—“

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“The hat man.”

“THE WHAT MAN?!”

“Oh so this suddenly isn’t a safe space?”

Ah Aether. We all love Aether. I mean who doesn’t?

We all know how much of a little psycho Aether can be, but he’s a lovable psycho that just exerts a lot of fun energy

That doesn’t stop him from being a little fucker however

He likes to pull a lot of pranks with Swiss, Sodo unfortunately being his main target

So there was this one time he asked you to help him prank the poor fire ghoul, and you said yes because you felt like messing with Sodo

(And also partly because you were kinda pissed with him due to the fact that he ate your leftovers)

So the prank was to put a bunch of sticky notes in Sodo’s room that all read “big cock energy” (because of course it did)

However during the process of putting the sticky notes in the room, Sodo walked in on two idiotic fools, those fools being you and Aether of course

And it’s safe to say that for a solid twenty minutes, the two of you were running around the ministry with an angry flaming fire ghoul hot on your trail, giggling like little children

(Sodo spared you, but Aether wasn’t so lucky)

“SODO PLEASE SPARE ME— WHY SPARE Y/N?!?!!”

“Because I hate them less than you, NOW C’MERE—“

Aether once fell asleep with a rotten ass banana peel

Like no joke— you once walked in his room to ask for something and his whole room STANK of rancid and rotten banana

And Aether was just sitting there, confused as to why you looked like you were about to throw up on his bedroom floor

Rain had to fucking disinfect the room (with a gas mask because it smelled that bad)

Oh and you Rain breaks things? Aether is so much worse

He once tried to clean up Swiss’s mic stand for an upcoming tour and the damn thing just- fell apart

Swiss was more bewildered than upset, because how in hell does that happen?

You literally do not let him touch your equipment because he’s gonna somehow find a way to break it all

When Aether departed from Ghost you were very sad

But then he messaged the group chat with this message “I’ll miss all of you fuckers. Be nice to the new ghoul, love all of you <33 (except for you Sodo, fuck you)”

Sodo then bursted out of his room tackling Aether, but it was more so out of love rather than being an ass

Needless to say, you all still keep in touch with Aether

Phantom!!! We all love Phantom here

Since he was newer and the one of the more recently summoned ghouls, he had a hard time fitting in

But you and the other ghouls thankfully made him feel welcome, even if it took a little more time for some other ghouls to get used to him

And because of that, it didn’t take long for Phantom to start joking in the ghoul chaos

He is literally a walking meme

Phantom is the type of guy to quote old vines and also keep up with any meme trends

Part of being the youngest ghoul I guess

He often confuses Papa with his little antics (because he’s an old man), and you’re just silently laughing at Papa’s reactions to Phantom

Also Phantom has a habit of holding things weirdly

You thought it was just his guitar? Bestie no, the dude is holding things the wrong way all the time but still somehow makes it work

Like— he holds onto a pen like it’s about to grow a pair of legs and run out of his hand, but he still somehow has the most beautiful cursive handwriting there is

“…. Phantom— what are you doing? You’re holding that pen like it’s a—“

“Hush, Y/N. I’m writing everything I want for Christmas this year.”

Phantom can also be a bit of a nerd sometimes

Like— you know those kids in school that are so dorky and have that awkward teenager energy? But you can’t be annoyed at them because they’re so cute? Yeah, that’s Phantom

Man’s will ramble about the most nerdy thing so passionately that you can’t help but listen, it’s cute seeing him get all excited over… legos or something

Oh and if someone dares to insult his passion he will spread legos all over their room

(Poor Swiss was a victim of that unfortunately)

Oh yeah he almost once accidentally vacuumed Copia’s pet rat

The dude was just trying to clean up his room, and one of the little fuckers scurried in his room, and the rat’s tail got stuck in the vacuum

Phantom’s high pitched scream upon realization was enough to have you bolting in the room to check in on the poor ghoul

And you were met with the sight of Phantom desperately trying to pull out a screaming rat from the vacuum while the ghoul was on the verge of tears because he didn’t want to get scolded

You ended up helping him because no one wants to see Phantom sad

And it’s safe to say Copia now has one pet rat with no tail.

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#aether ghoul #ghost bc #ghost fanfiction #mountain ghoul #nameless ghoul x reader #nameless ghouls #phantom ghoul #rain ghoul #sodo ghoul #swiss ghoul #sodo x reader #rain x reader #mountain x reader #nameless ghoul headcanons #headcanons #fluff #crack fic #fluff fic #swiss x reader #aether x reader #phantom x reader #dewdrop ghoul #dewdrop x reader #ghost bc fanfic

[fear-is-truth]

𝑳𝑬𝑻 𝑴𝑬 𝑩𝑬 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑫𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑺 𝑮𝑰𝑹𝑳 ⴰ༢ ୧

── being kai anderson’s manipulative girlfriend hc

tags: fem! reader. nsfw + sfw. kai is a warning himself, you aren’t any better though (manipulative behavior.) talks of murder, sex

taglist || masterlist

☪︎ ִ ࣪my friend said that this hc sounds like how she’d imagine my relationship with Kai. kind of a low blow but also the best compliment ever so.. no complaints

your ability to see through his lies and manipulation frustrates him to no end, as Kai was accustomed to everyone doing whatever he told them to

you won’t follow every single order Kai gave you, unless you think it’s feasible. most of the time, you operate on your own terms

your independent activities would annoy Kai, as he prefers to maintain control over all activities in F.I.T

however, once he recognizes how your actions benefit the cult's agenda, his fury would give way to reluctant admiration

as his girlfriend and second in command, you hold a delicate position in the cult - dangerously close to the centre of power and yet somehow the safest, as your connection to him gives you some degree of protection

any cult member who annoys you? good as dead. you’d find a way to frame them or make Kai get suspicious of them

he hates it when you boss the other cult members around, but also secretly thinks it’s kinda hot

Winter would have mixed feelings about you. she thinks you’re cool but she’s also lowkey afraid of you because you remind her of her brother sometimes

you’re the only one who can keep Kai in line (sort of)

but you’re also capable of making him worse. and vice versa (couple goals)

he puts a tracker in your phone, which you found out and dismantled it

pinky power is completely pointless

it’ll be personal contest— who’s the better liar? you two have the best poker faces

you were the first one to drink the “poisoned” kool aid. risky move but worth it

you carry a bottle of Adderall for Kai at all times. he even trusts you enough to let you administer the pill directly into his mouth

ways to manipulate him

kill for him. that’s an instant hard-on

feed that ego. you praise his leadership skills, intelligence and charisma, deepening his belief in his own superiority

mother him. wash his hair when you shower together. assist him with shaving. lay out his clothes for him. make him manwiches

behind the guise of nurturing gestures, every act of practical care serves as a small manipulation, reinforcing his dependency on you while gradually asserting your influence over him

you’ll have him wrapped around your little finger

councilman at day, clown at night

you’d play a crucial role in his election campaigns, acting as the perfect arm candy to bolster his public image

in public settings, you display affection in subtle yet very calculated ways:

holding hands, staring into each others eyes, sharing deep kisses— strategically timed for the cameras to capture

and the media would eat it all up

it’ll enhance Kai's image as a loving and passionate partner

you were the one who came up with the staged assassination stunt

Meadow was getting too close to Kai, and it irked you. so you planted that idea into Kai’s head, and he put it into action

Meadow got laid and then died, Kai got elected councilman, and you have your man all to yourself.. win-win-win situation!

wear a sexy clown outfit that comes with a corset and shows cleavage

it will distract Kai and piss him off because he has to maintain his dignity as a leader while trying to hide his raging boner

violence also turns him on; Kai likes his girls crazy. be the harley quinn to his joker

incorporate deadpan humour. during these fucked up situations, gotta lighten up the mood with disturbing and witty remarks

nsfw headcanons

Kai would ask you to seduce more followers into joining the cult

and the hypocrite would get so jealous, even though it was his idea

sex will be bomb though. he’d put in extra effort to prove that he’s superior

you give each other hickeys, lots

needless to say, you’d be the sub. that’s basically the no.1 rule in your relationship

better to squeeze a few tears during sex. it’ll fuel his ego, big time

if you’re giving him head, gag on purpose

he tells you that once he becomes president of the U.S, you’d be First Lady and he’ll fuck you in every single room in the White House (132 in total)

needless to say that you’re going to be the perfect mother of his messiah baby

a/n: i’m actually a sweetheart, don’t listen to my friend. oh and buzz-cut kai can rail me

TAGLIST @acidbrainstorm @evanpetersmybf @alittlesil @kaiandersonsdevotedwife @ellaaaaa44 @newwavesylviaplath @warrenlipkaswife @slvt4jamesmarch @kaismanwich @maddaline @evpeters87 @lacucarachapisser @howtobesasha @nickrhodeslittledarling @bluerthanvelvet444 @r8ttenapples @nahoyasboyfriend @kai-slut @lak3cityqui3tpills @coentinim @doll3tt33 @taintandviolent @babygorewhore @stveharringtn @violet1737 @sukirosiac @slutforgarlogan @90sbr1descake

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

#american horror story #ahs #kai anderson #evan peters #ahs cult #kai anderson x reader #kai anderson x y/n #kai anderson headcanons #kai anderson smut #james patrick march #tate langdon #kit walker #tate langdon x y/n #kyle spencer #kit walker x y/n #tate langdon x reader #jimmy darling #ahs fandom #kit walker x reader #jpm x reader #ahs kai #ahs season 7

[pedgito]

alone, in my mind ✧ ˚ · . eddie munson x afab!reader.

summary: so what if eddie munson had a really pretty face, it was just too good not to admire. so what if you liked to draw him in your free time, he definitely didn't mind. yet somehow, tutoring him still felt like the most scandalous thing you've ever done.

cw: 18+ content (minors, shoo!) afab!reader, virgin!reader, graphic smut (including p in v, oral, fingering, and all that jazz), orgasms, this is v dirty i'm sorry.

word count: almost 14k! don't judge me pls, i've been sitting on this for a few weeks.

prompt requests are always open!

alternate ao3 link

There was something therapeutic about sitting alone during lunch, watching chaos take place in front of you; from kids running around the cafeteria, traveling from table to table, conversing among themselves, yelling to each other from across the room, even standing up on tables like a stage and yelling out to the entire high school class. Eddie Munson was an enigma. You couldn’t figure him out. Other than him dealing you weed under the table and the occasional class you had with him, you hadn’t spoken more than ten words to him at one time.

So, he might find it slightly weird that you’ve drawn him in your sketchbook more than a few times. You couldn’t help it, that hair was just too glorious not to draw. But to be fair, you’ve drawn up a lot of the other students without speaking to them. A lot of it was pure observation—a student focused on a book they were reading, a group of the cheerleaders circled up and giggling among themselves, Jason Carver pictured in his actual form, the true evil of Hawkins. Sometimes you liked to draw devil horns on him for fun. No harm, no foul, you didn’t actually mean anything by it—you just hated how much he bolstered himself up at school, despite still paying you to write for his English homework. But hey, you gotta hustle where you can. He left you alone for the most part, anyways. 

Once the bell rang and the last few stragglers were leaving the lunch room, you finally gathered your own things. Shoving the last minute homework into your bag and clutching the sketchbook to your chest, you leisurely walked your way to the exit. The sound of your pencil clanging to the floor beneath you had you pausing in your tracks. 

Part of you just wanted to leave it, you had enough in your bag that it wouldn’t really matter anyways. 

“Hey, this yours?” The voice asked.

You turned slowly, scanning the floor, stopping on the dirtied-up white sneakers that squeaked against the floor as they turned toward you. Of course it has to be Eddie.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry.” You said softly, reaching forward to grab the pencil from him. The silence was apparent now, only the two of you left in the cafeteria. 

“No problem.” He laughs slightly, “Oh hey, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” He leans in, lowering his voice—not that it really mattered since it was only you two, “I got a couple new strains in, if you want to meet up at the usual spot.” 

Against your own rational thinking, your mouth spoke before your brain could process. “Sure.” You hadn’t even smoked the last bit of weed he’d sold to you yet. 

He smiled, leaving wordlessly.

Sometimes it felt like life was happening around you and you weren’t even present, your body just did and said what it wanted.

“Oh, you fucking idiot.” You spoke to yourself.

⋆·˚ ༘ *

Four o’clock. The woods just west of Hawkins High. Picnic table. That’s how you’d set up your meetings from the start. And of course, you were always right on time. Eddie however, he’d get here eventually. At least you hoped. Your shift at the Family Video started in a half hour and not that Keith would even take the chance to fire you, you just hated the idea of being late.

“Come on, Munson.” You grumble to yourself, checking the watch around your wrist. You sigh, sitting your bag on the table to grab your sketchbook, scribbling down a rough version of the wide expanse of trees in front of you. 

“I’m late, I know.” A voice startles you from behind. The scream that leaves your mouth is involuntary, but you quickly cover it in an attempt to compose yourself.

“Jesus Christ, Eddie.” You tell him, pulling your hand from your mouth. “You can’t sneak up on people like that!”

“You okay?” He asks, chuckling lightheartedly. The question was genuine, though. The way his eyes connected with yours assured you of so.

“Sure, one tiny heart attack later.” You reply sarcastically. 

“Hey, I was loud as fuck walking up.” Eddie says like he's trying to prove it to himself, pointing behind himself briefly. “You completely forget other things exist when you shove your head into that thing.”

You glance down at your book before promptly snapping it shut. “Shut up.” You say, no real bite behind it. 

He threw his hands up in defeat. “Hey, just a harmless observation.” Not that you were bothered by him observing, but the fact that he had—it was surprising. He only ever talked about two things, Hellfire Club and D&D, which went hand in hand. But so much so, that he was almost hyper fixated on it. 

“Anyways,” you say, shifting the subject. “I’ve got work in thirty—well, about twenty now,”

“Yadda, yadda, yeah—make it quick, I know.” He grins, placing his small chest of goodies on the table. You roll your eyes in annoyance, even if you weren’t really that annoyed in the first place. He slaps two baggies on the table, presenting them like prized possessions.

“Colombian Gold, Northern Lights.” He says, pointing them out individually. “Pick your poison.”

You tilted your head, deciding on which sounded better. Eddie interjects thoughtfully, “Personally, I’m a fan of that sweet, sweet Colombian Gold.”

You laugh quietly, nodding in agreement. “Fine then.”

“Twenty for the ounce.” He says, shoving the leftovers back into the metal chest. 

You swing your bag around to dig for the pocket change, shoving your hand inside to grab for your wallet. But, there’s nothing there. Not the familiar chain or zipper that sticks out, nothing.

“Shit, shit.” You say suddenly, beginning to panic. You close your eyes shut, trying to retrace your steps. But it dawns on you, your wallet is probably sitting on your bedside shelf where you left it the night prior, coming back from your late night run to the store after leaving work. “I think I left my wallet at home.”

Eddie ponders for a moment, then shrugs. “Get me when you can, I know you’re good for it.”

You hated the idea of not paying him the money you owed, “I swear I’ll pay today. I can meet up with you after I get out of work or—“

Eddie snorts, walking forward and grabbing a pen that had fallen out of my bag during my wild search. He opens my palm, holding it firmly. He pulls off the cap of the pen, holding it between his teeth as he scribbles something on my hand.

You inspect it closely. It was an address. Eddie caps the pen and hands it back to you. “Can you stop there after work?”

You were apprehensive for a moment, but figured there couldn’t be much harm in it. “Yeah, I can try. I don’t get out until nine, though.”

“Works for me.” He tells you, shoving his hand in his back pocket to adjust the black handkerchief that was shoved in haphazardly. You snorted softly, shoving your things back into your bag as quickly as you could. 

“Okay, well—I’ll see you then, I guess—“ You swung back around, coming directly in contact with Eddie’s chest, who hadn’t moved from his spot. Why hadn’t he moved? More importantly, why was he reaching down?

Fuck. You looked down to notice some of the papers from your sketchbook had sprawled out on the ground. You scrambled to gather the drawings back into the pocket of the book, hoping you could avoid another awkward encounter with Eddie today.

But, as luck would have it—“Damn, these are good.” Eddie says suddenly, holding up one drawing in particular, an offhand drawing off Steve while you had some downtime at work.

“Make sure you do my hair justice.” He’d told you. You laughed and smacked him in the back of the head softly. 

“Is that Harrington?” He asks.

“…yeah.” You answer, trying not to die of embarrassment. 

He glances at you, noticing your discomfort. “Shit, I’m sorry. Here.” Eddie hands the paper over, realizing he may have overstepped. 

“Thanks.” You answer, taking the paper from his hand.

“Oh, hey-“ He interrupts, reaching down to grab another page that had fallen under the picnic table seat. “You forgot,” He pauses, looking at it closely, “one.” His voice is soft, thoughtful.

You curse inwardly, trying not to physically facepalm yourself.

“Is that me?” He asks, the smallest smile forming in his face. “Well, at least—-the back of me?” 

You stutter for words, your brain suddenly lacking the English language entirely. 

“Does my hair really look like that from the back?” He asks playfully, head tilted in curiosity. 

“Ms. McNally’s class gets really boring.” You tell him, snatching the paper back. “Like, really boring.”

But no, his head definitely looked like that from the back, despite the unruly curls in his hair, there wasn’t a piece out of place.

“Glad to know the back of my head gives you some entertainment then.” It’s a lame attempt to lighten the mood, but it works. Your thankful his immediate reaction isn’t to find it odd or make fun of you, he almost seemed amused.

“Here.” He finally hands the page over. “No more peeking, I swear.”

You place the page back into your sketchbook carefully. Looking up, Eddie’s still standing there, though looking around aimlessly.

“Eddie, what are you still doing here?” You ask.

“Got another deal going on soon.” He tells you. “Top secret.” And if the wink didn’t make you blush, it was the grin that spread over his features, you shook your head and laughed it off. 

“See you at nine, Munson.” You tell him, backpack slung over your right shoulder.

“Can’t wait.” He says playfully.

⋆·˚ ༘ *

Your bike squealed to a stop outside of Family Video, nearly burning rubber. Clocking in with thirty seconds to spare, you breath a sigh of relief. 

“What’s got you riled up?” Steve asks, organizing the Horror section of movies from a few feet away.

“Nothing.” You grumble, setting your bag down and throwing the god awful work vest over your sweater. 

“You just missed Keith, by the way.” He adds, shooting you a knowing but amused look.

“Thank god.” Keith had a small obsession with you, not that you were creeped out about it. He was just so hopelessly in love with you, which blinded his ability to see that you had no interest in returning the sentiment. “That’s the last thing I need.”

“It’s the undeniable charm you’ve got.” Steve jokes, shrugging casually. “The ladies and gents love it—right, Robin?”

Like a jack in the box, Robin pops up from where she’s squatted behind the counter.

“Stop teasing her.” Robin warms, throwing a VHS case at Steve’s head. It promptly smacks him in the forehead. 

“Ow, what the hell?” Steve shouts, fingers touching his forehead for any sign of injury. Not that there would be any, Robin had barely hit him in the process and Steve was kind of dramatizing things. You’d still consider it one of his more positive traits, even if it did serve as more entertainment to you and Robin than anything.

“No, he’s right.” You play along. “It’s a blessing and a curse.”

There’s a beat of silence and then you finally speak up.

“What do you guys make of Eddie Munson?” You asked, grabbing the stack of returned rentals to be checked through.

“The dude who’s been held back twice? Doesn’t he have that weird after school group thing he does?” Steve asks, looking between you and Robin.

“Yes.” You nod. “It’s a D&D club, Steve. Not a cult.”

Steve shrugs nonchalantly. “He always seemed off to me.”

“Yeah and you were prancing around with Tommy and Carol most of junior year.” You reminded him. “Don’t you remember when Tommy hit me on my bike with his car during Spring Break? During that giant party he had at his house?”

Steve immediately looked regretful at judging Eddie.

“Thank god you found Robin.” You tell him, trying to make Steve feel less guilty about it all. Tommy had always been jealous of Steve, but Carol and her constant snarky remarks always egged Tommy on. 

“Yeah!” Steve cheers, reaching over to high five Robin. She scoffs in annoyance, leave Steve’s unanswered high five hanging in the air.

“We both love chicks and boobies, it works out great.” Steve adds, returning hand to his side.

“He’s still learning.” Robin says quietly, leaning over toward you. “Why are you asking about Eddie anyways? Doesn’t he deal weed to the students?”

You shot Robin a knowing look.

“Oh. Oh.” She catches on. “Well, did something happen between you two?”

“No. Nothing, really. I just have to meet up with him after work and was wondering if I should be worried.” Robin didn’t seem to question as to why you would need to meet up with, which made you grateful.

“He doesn’t seem like that type of guy. Not to me, at least.” Robin assures, lowering her voice as the entrance bell jingled, signaling a customer. “But, you could always take your pocket knife with you.”

Your mouth dropped open at the suggestion, but to be fair, Robin just wanted to make sure you felt safe.

“Yeah—murder first, ask questions later.” You retort playfully.

“You’ve been watching too many scary movies with Steve.” Robin tells you.

“Hey, don’t knock ‘em til you try ‘em!” Steve says, greeting the customer as they walk by. 

⋆·˚ ༘ *

You locked up for the night as soon as you could, making the short trek to your bike behind the back of the Family Video store. You pulled the small piece of paper you had scribbled on earlier, the address Eddie had left earlier started to smudge about an hour into your shift and you didn’t want to take any chances that it could last. And luckily, your mother had dropped your wallet off in the process of making her way to work that night, which was a lifesaver. The idea of biking home and then to Eddie’s made your legs hurt at the very possibility.

It was a ten minute bike ride away from the store, leading you down a long road that led to a dimly lit trailer park. The uneasiness set in immediately.

As if on cue, one of the poorly lit lamps sprinkled throughout the residence flickered a couple times before going out completely.

“Great. This is how I die.” You say to yourself, double checking the number on the paper so it matched with the trailer you were riding up to. 

Everything seemed normal, the lights were on inside. Aside from the totally barren mobile home and Eddie’s truck parked in the driveway, nothing felt too grim about the whole situation. Normally, you’d be in a rush to get home and relax, but you knew your parents didn’t care one way or another, as long as you came home in one piece.

You sighed, stepping off and leaning your bike against the deck. If it wasn’t for the muffled music playing inside the trailer, you would assume whoever was there had left but forgot to turn their lights off. You reach forward to knock tentatively on the flimsy screen door.

There’s a rustling from the back of the home, the sudden silence of music being turned off, then a twisting of the doorknob as the door creaked open.

“Well, well, well.” Eddie says, grinning at you through the screen door. “I didn’t think you’d ever show.”

“It’s only five after nine, Eddie.” You tell him, reaching around into your bag to make things quick.

“It was just a—nevermind,” He mumbles quietly to himself, “Whatcha got for me, princess?”

You curled your head to the side subtly, but didn’t think anything of the harmless and playful endearment. Save it, bookmark it, stow it away for later. You slide him the twenty, he eyes it for a moment. “You know,” he begins, arm resting against the trim of the door, “I’d take that drawing of me over the twenty if you’re willing to fork it over.”

“Are you serious?” You ask, hand frozen in place from where Eddie was hanging onto the bill.

“Deadly.” He tells you, tongue smoothing over the teeth that showed through his grin.

You debated, not sure why he was so interested in the first place.

“Why don’t you want the money?” You ask.

“You’ve bought enough from me, I think that warrants a little discount.” He shrugs, like it wasn’t a big deal at all.

“You’re so weird, Munson.” You reply, pulling out the sketchbook and handing the drawing over.

“Got anymore?” He asks jokingly, albeit a little curious.

“I’ll let that remain a mystery, thank you.” You tell him, snapping the book closed. He holds the drawing up to the light, watching him scan over it admiringly. 

“It’s really good, you know. You probably draw a lot of kids at school, don’t you?” He asks and you’re not sure where his sudden interest in conversation with you is coming from. Both of you didn’t interact outside of deals—this reality almost didn’t feel tangible. 

“Sometimes.” You answer skeptically, “Not all the time, though.”

“We’ll, I’m honored.” He says, noting one of the small details in the background. “Did you make Ms. McNally resembles a hobbit on purpose?”

You snorted at that. It was something, in hindsight, that you’d completely forgotten about. “She was really pissing me off that day.”

“Nice.” He laughs to himself, finally setting the drawing down on a table out of view. “Anyways, don’t worry about the twenty. You’re covered.”

“You really don’t have to do that, Eddie. I can pay.” You felt guilty at the thought, but Eddie seemed pretty serious about the whole ordeal. 

“Nope. We’re good.” He tells you, flashing you his trademark smile. He still hadn’t changed his school earlier, brandishing his Hellfire Club tee proudly. 

“Okay,” You draw out, dragging the last letter a bit. “Well, I’ll see you at school tomorrow then.” 

“Aye, aye.” He replied in mock salute, coming to stand at attention.

You couldn’t help but laugh aloud at the act, it was undeniably goofy, but adorable in its own right. He shut the door slowly, waving you a sweet goodbye as he finally disappeared. 

And despite all efforts, there was one giant fucking elephant in the room that you couldn’t ignore–because not only was Eddie devastatingly beautiful, he was charming as hell, which was something you had overlooked for far too long. 

⋆·˚ ༘ *

“Stupid. Fucking. Lockers.” You grumble to yourself, slamming the locker shut with every word. It was as if the world was setting you up for the shittiest day possible. It started with you sleeping through your alarm, burning the toast you’d made for breakfast, and somehow managing to spill orange juice all over your jeans in the small span of an hour–so not only were you on your second pair of jeans, you were ready to slam your head against the locker in defeat, ready to be put out of this complete, utter misery that had been your Friday morning.

“Woah, woah.” The voice carried down the hall, you peeked behind you. 

Eddie Munson was heading right for you. You turned and sighed, slamming the locker again for good measure.

“Lucky for you, I’ve got just the touch.” Eddie assures you, wiggling his fingers in your face. 

You tried to ignore every flipping feeling in your stomach at the sight of it.

It took him a second, but he swiftly lifted the locker door in a quick motion and slammed it close, that time for good. He’s smiling down at you–again, with that annoying, shit-eating grin.

“No. Don’t even start.” You tell him, finger pointing accusingly. “My morning has been horrible. I don’t need jokes, right now.”

“I was just going to ask if you wanted to walk to English together?” He replied, looking slightly defeated. “If that’s okay?”

“Oh.” You frowned. It still didn’t feel right to be conversing in front of your peers, like it was almost illegal. “I mean, I don’t see why not. But, Eddie–”

“Yep?” He asks, turning on his heels. You both had English together, which most of the time, was spent staring directly at the back of his head because you couldn’t be bothered to listen to Ms. McNally’s grating voice for more than a few minutes at a time.

“Why are you talking to me?” You ask, genuine and honest. There had never been any reason not to before, but why now?

“You seemed a little scary–well, not scary, scary–but like, she could definitely break my fingers if I said the wrong thing to her–that type of scary.” He explains in one breath, fiddling with the rings on his right hand.

Fair enough, considering the pocket knife you did carry in your bag for instances like that. There were too many assholes and you had plenty of ways to deal with them.

“Ah.” You replied, as if it all made sense. “Well, the jury's still out.”

“I’ll try and remember that.” He tells you, laughing slightly. “I also just wasn’t sure you liked talking to anyone from school–I mean I get that, but I just wanted to make sure you knew that you don’t have to sit alone at lunch like you do–”

“I don’t mind it–” You interject.

“I know. I’m just saying. Our table wouldn’t mind. The guys usually don’t know how to talk to girls, so most of them don’t say anything anyways.” He assures you.

The friendliness caught you off-guard. It seemed genuine, but you were also waiting for the catch. 

⋆·˚ ༘ *

The teacher slaps the graded test onto your desk, brandishing a bright red A. You quickly shove it under your textbook, glancing up as you hear the rustling of Eddie swiveling around to face you from his seat.

“All good?” You ask, mostly in an attempt to be friendly. But, you can’t help but notice the giant circled F on his paper. You’d heard lots of stories about Eddie and his inability to pass, being held back, and every lousy nickname that came along with that. People liked to pick on Eddie because he was different, he didn’t fit in with anyone at Hawkins, and while you might be able to get away with slipping under the radar–Eddie couldn’t. 

“I could tutor you, you know.” You suggest, instantly regretting the words the moment they leave your mouth. 

“Seriously?” He asks, looking caught off guard. “I appreciate it but–”

“Seriously.” You say, “English is my best subject and as long as you put in the same effort I am, I could at least get you up to a C.” In for a penny, in for a pound…I guess.

“That’s–yeah, that’s cool. I’m kinda busy with Hellfire most days though–” He starts, rolling the paper up in his hands. It was a small detail, but you noticed how often he used his hands when he liked to fidget, whether it be his rings or a poor piece of paper being strangled to death. 

“Weekends are good.” You assure him. “I work a lot during that week so I wouldn’t have time anyways.” 

Eddie nods slowly. He seemed apprehensive, like he didn’t really deserve the help you were offering. His jaw was clenched, eyes downcast.

“Eddie, I don’t mind.” You told him, offering a small smile to ease whatever worry he was feeling. “It's just–we’ll have to study at your place though, not mine.”

You didn’t even want to begin to explain the ordeal to your parents, as understanding as they may be–any site of a boy and your parents would be seething at the idea.

“My uncle is gone most of the time, so I guess that works out.” He shrugs.

The sound of the teacher clearing her throat from a few rows over interrupts you both. You roll your eyes inconspicuously, turning in your chair.

Eddie taps your leg softly, having already turned around in his chair. You look underneath the desk to find a small piece of paper between his thumb and middle finger. Prying it from his fingers.

You unfold it quietly, fingers smoothing over the creases in the paper. 'Tmrw at 4?' It read it dark blue ink. His handwriting wasn’t as messy as you expected, you quickly scribbles a ‘Yep :)’ adding the smiley face for fun. Maybe this was a good thing, you could make it a good thing. Helping someone bump their grade and maybe make a friend in the process—what’s the worst thing that could happen?

You slid the paper over his shoulder, ignoring the way his fingertips brushed against yours. You didn’t see him unfold the paper, but the way his shoulder shook with silent laughter was a good sign. He pocketed the paper for safekeeping. 

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, but what you couldn’t see was the same smile that Eddie shared with you.

⋆·˚ ༘ *

The cafeteria was already packed by the time you had arrived, the hustle and bustle of kids grabbing their food and chit chatting like it was musical chairs was enough to drive you insane. You quickly ducked your head, attempting to make your way to your usual spot in the corner of the lunch room.

The hand that grabs your wrist stops you in your tracks. There’s a moment where you’re ready to swing back in retaliation. 

“Hey, want to sit with us?” He asks. He was really starting to throw you off. 

The idea of going from speaking in short, clipped—and sometimes one word answers, to full fledged conversations was not something you were used to. The only two people you talked to that much, outside of your parents, was Robin and Steve. And maybe Steve was a cop out, you two practically grew up together, toppling over each other as babies. 

“Uh, I don’t know—“ You begin, but the bellowing, boisterous voice of Dustin Henderson overpowers your own. 

“Steve graduated already, you gotta make new friends eventually.” 

That little fucking twerp. Him and Steve together in one place was a nightmare.

“I will murder you, Henderson. Don’t try me.” You threatened.

“You wouldn’t.” He counters.

“Try me.” You quirk your eyebrow. “Remember what Steve told you about summer of ‘84?” 

Your voice was lowered, but it didn’t seem like anyone was paying any attention, aside from the people sitting at Eddie’s table. It was like they had front row tickets to the most talked about movie in town. Dustin’s eyes widened in fear.

“He also told me about that time you two—“ You quickly shoved your hand over his mouth, stopping him from saying what was possibly the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done. He muffled the rest of whatever he was saying into your hand.

“Don’t you dare.” You say seriously, fingers pinching the tip of his ear. His hands fly up, signaling his white flag of defeat.

“You’re so mean sometimes.” He whines, rubbing his tender ear. 

“You’ll live, Henderson.” You assure him, bumping him aside with your hip to take a seat.

Eddie had been watching with intrigued amusement the entire time, not sure how well you and Dustin actually knew each other until now. And apparently, it was entirely too much. 

“Not gonna eat?” Eddie asks, noticing your lack of a lunch tray.

“I hate big crowds. I usually just wait until everyone sits down.” You say softly, setting your bag on your knees to rest your arms on. 

“Here.” Eddie says, sliding his uneaten apple and bag of carrots over like it was a game of poker and he was dividing up his chips. “For now, at least.”

“I’m fine, honestly.” You laugh lightheartedly, but take the fresh fruit and vegetable anyway.

⋆·˚ ༘ *

Your halfway through lunch when you lock eyes with Jason, who’s practically burning eyes into your skull. He motions toward the door leading to the back of the school, hoping you’d get the signal. 

It made him look ridiculous more than anything. You’d already planned to meet up with after lunch earlier on in the week, but Jason never seemed like he was focused on anything other than basketball or Chrissy—which fair, Chrissy was a great girl. 

You leave without much of a word, other than a smile and a pat on Dustin’s shoulder, hoping he’d get the message. He knew just as much as Steve did about your arrangement with Jason, considering Dustin and Steve were practically conjoined twins, at this point. He clears his throat, distracting Eddie with something about their meeting tonight so you could sneak away without worry.

When you’re finally outside, Jason is pacing, not nervously, but definitely impatiently. “You got it?” He asks.

You pause, “…Yeah.” You answer him, pulling the midterm paper out of your bag and handing it over, he quickly snatches it away and slides you over the money he promised.

“Jesus, Jason. This isn’t a drug deal. Chill out.” You finally find the courage to say. 

“If anyone finds out about this, I could lose my chance at any type of scholarship, you know?” He tells you, and you don’t even want to begin to hear his sob story. His parents could buy his way into any school he wanted, though you appreciated his poor attempt to manage it himself.

“Hmm, well maybe—just maybe, you shouldn’t be asking people to write your papers for you then.” You snark back, zipping your backpack closed aggressively for good measure. “Figure this shit out yourself, Jason. I’ve got work, my own school stuff, and plenty of other shit to worry about. I don’t need you hounding me for a paper that you could finish on your own in a night if you actually took the time.”

“But basketball is my priority.” He tells you, you join in to mock him at the same time. 

“Fuck off, Jason.” Enough was enough. Jason was nothing but a problem, even after all the pain and embarrassment he’d put you through a couple years prior. “Ask your perfect, pretty little girlfriend to do the work for you.”

And for once, he finally looked defeated. But, he was smart in not responding. He shoved his way past you, making his way back inside. You don’t remember how the arrangement between you two started initially, or why you fell pity to him after the stunt he pulled a couple years ago—you figured you were more desperate for the money at the time, sacrificing and swallowing your pride in the process. But now? Fuck that.

You could just ditch the rest of the day, which didn’t sound entirely too awful, but it was rash and you didn’t like to act on impulse, which you’d been doing entirely too much of lately.

“Pull it together.” You remind yourself before forcing yourself through the rest of what was already a horrible day.

⋆·˚ ༘ *

Steve tagged along to lock up with you tonight, considering you two had plans to hang out tonight and he had picked you up from school that evening as a favor. 

“What’s got you so tense?” He asks, swinging his keys around his pointer finger.

“Everything.” You sigh through clenched teeth, outwardly groaning as you take a seat in Steve’s car. “God, my feet are killing me.” You quickly toe your shoes off on the floorboard of his car and curl your legs up criss cross.

“Care to elaborate?” He pushes, backing out of the parking lot to pull out on the main road. “Everything is just like a blanket statement, you know. You know I’m never gonna repeat anything you tell me to anyone, ever.”

“Except Dustin.” You remind him.

“Okay, that was fair game. You told him some embarrassing stuff about me. I couldn’t just stand there and watch.” He laughs, you try to hold back your own laughter but it bubbles out soon after.

“It’s just—the shit with Jason, trying to keep up with school, my parents hounding me all the time, and then I promised Eddie I would help him with English—which, you know how my motor mouth works, once I get an idea it just comes out, it’s impossible to stop it.” And god was that a fucking breath of relief to finally let out.

“You’re still doing Jason’s schoolwork?” He asks, slightly disappointed in you. It was understandable, he hated him just as much as you. 

“Only the important stuff. Essays, the higher graded stuff, you know. It’s easy money.” You tell him, but it sounds like a lousy excuse.

“Let’s not forget he embarrassed you in front of the entire basketball team and cheerleaders last year.” 

“Which was partly your responsibility, Steve.” You remind him. But, it was so far in the past that you couldn’t be mad at him. Holding a grudge against Steve was like hating your own brother and you couldn’t do it. Your gut was pointing to every possible sign to say no to Jason, but Steve gave you the push you’d needed that night.

“I thought it was genuine. I’m sorry.” Steve tells you, you could see the way he paused, swallowed, thinking back on the memory.

“Anyways. I’m just stressed. Not that I can’t handle it, but Eddie’s been acting unnaturally friendly with me and it’s kind of giving me weird vibes.” You admit, like trusting Eddie was just too good to be true. Not weird in the way that made you want to run in the opposite direction, but the way that made your stomach clench in anticipation—and occasionally your thighs. Eddie had always been attractive, but only from a distance.

“Just keep your guard up, that’s always the best option.” He says honestly. “Not that you don’t already have the personality of a brick wall.”

You promptly hit Steve in the shoulder, watching him yell and reach for the spot where you’d landed the blow. “Ouch!”

“I'm not that boring you pompous ass!” You replied in playful disbelief. Steve slowly pulled into the driveway of his home, gradually letting the car come to a stop.

“Have you ever heard yourself talk?” He asks, voice teasing. 

“And I sound like I have the voice of a thousand fucking angels, Harrington.” You assure him, shoving him to the side as you both raced to the front door. 

“You mean a thousand fucking gremlins.”

You gasped outwardly, caught entirely off guard by his response. “Steve!”

⋆·˚ ༘ *

You wake up Saturday morning with everything Steve had told you fresh in your mind.

No getting too close. Don’t talk about anything personal. Take the arrangement for what it was. Studying, that was it. You rarely got nervous around boys, but Eddie, you just couldn’t put your finger on it.

Which was exactly why your heart was pounding out of your chest as you knocked on his front door. You silently prayed he’d answer the door quickly, the sweltering sun doing nothing to help your pale skin. You pulled your shorts down where they had ridden up on the bike ride here, the unnecessary sweater covering your plain tee proving to be nothing but a giant heat trap.

“Princess.” There it was again, the soft tone in his voice and the teasing smile that painted his face. “Welcome to the Munson residence, once again.”

“I’m dying out here.” You deadpan, hiking your bag up higher over your shoulder.

“Oh yeah,” Eddie fumbles with the door knob, swinging the door open. “Come in.”

You quickly step inside, watching as he closes the door behind you. It wasn’t much cooler, but it was definitely a welcomed change from the heat outside.

“You know, the sweater might be your problem.” He says as he makes his way beside you, leading you toward the back room. “Not that I’m judging, I’m just sure you’d suffer from heatstroke if I left you out there another five minutes.”

“And then I’d come back and haunt the shit out of you.” It was a lame attempt at a joke, but the response from Eddie has you snapping back into defense mode.

“Promise?” Your cheeks burn a dark shade of crimson, which you lamely attempt to hide by turning to dig into your bag and fish out some of your English notes and one of the books the class was currently focusing on.

“I figure we should probably go over the paper from the other day, so I could explain what you got wrong and why, if you don’t mind?” You change the subject entirely, taking a seat on his bed. It smelt like fresh linen, it was made neatly, you weren’t sure what you were expecting but it wasn’t that. Even you didn’t take as much time to make your bed that often, at least not as neatly as this. To each their own though—maybe Eddie was a bit of a neat freak, not that you minded. 

“Sure.” He agrees, taking a seat on his bed beside you, although a comfortable distance away. You could appreciate him respecting boundaries, even if you could still smell the cologne he was wearing, not that it was distracting…at all.

His interest is genuine as you explain through the test, even if much of it isn’t sticking with him, he’s still asking questions and staying engaged more than you anticipated. Even you were ready for a break after an hour of endless talk of metaphors in literature and the re-explaining of Macbeth in detail.

“My fucking brain hurts.” Eddie sighs, laying down, hands crossed over his stomach. You try not to stare at the small patch of hair at the end of his stomach, leading down just past the tip of his belt. Or the way his surprisingly toned stomach stretches against the shirt he’s wearing—which was just a plain, black shirt, surprisingly enough. You couldn’t remember the last time you’ve seen him without any type of Hellfire or metal band shirt on his body. Not that you noticed. Not at all.

Your brain finally stutters back awake at the feeling of his finger poking your thigh. “Huh?” You asks.

“I said, if you’re hot you can take off the sweater—that really can’t be comfortable.”

He was right, it wasn’t. But part of it was because it was like a safety blanket. Also, it was just one of your favorites. You let your brain run on autopilot, slipping it over your head. You tried not to think much of it, thankful your shirt was baggy enough that it didn’t reveal to much of you. Even if your shorts were scandalous in their own right. You had to pick and chose your battles. 

You toss the sweater onto his nightstand, noting the paper that falls to the floor as a result. Your drawing, he’s moved into his room, at least. Which was both comforting and odd. You couldn’t understand the interest he’d had in it in the first place, but you weren’t really in a place to question it. 

“I’ve been meaning to tape it up somewhere.” He mentions, noticing the way you stared at the lonely piece of a paper. “Not that my wall isn’t already covered in stuff.”

It was the first time you’d actually found the chance to take it all in. Posters, an amp—Eddie definitely came across as a guitar guy, so there wasn’t much surprise there, nightstands littered with random crap—your eyes immediately snapped toward the cuffs on the wall and quickly glanced over. There was no way you were touching on that topic, no fucking way. 

“I’d be honored.” You joke, tapping your pencil against your notebook.

“Do you take it with you everywhere?” He asks curiously. “That sketchbook, I mean. I’ve never seen you without it until now.” He laughs innocently, adjusting himself to lean up and back onto his outstretched arms.

“It’s…in my bag.” You say quietly, almost embarrassed at the fact that he read through you so well. 

“Can I see some other stuff?” 

If there was a way to make you go into cardiac arrest with one sentence, Eddie Munson had found it. 

“It’s cool if you don’t want to. I just think it’s cool. At least, from what I’ve seen.” He says openly, gesturing toward the drawing you had given him.

“They’re really not that good, a lot of them are just rough sketches and—I mean, you might find this weird but—“ Don’t mention that fact that you totally draw him a lot—like he won’t notice it the second he opens the book. You had a valid excuse, you just didn’t want to come across as a total creep.

“Just show me.” He smiles, nudging your leg again.

You reach for the book buried in your bag and hand it over. There wasn’t any shame behind the stuff in there, but the way everyone perceives art is so different that the idea of any type of comment or criticism was your worst nightmare.

He flips through slowly, landing on the particular one of Jason you drew from a few days prior. “Now that one’s spot fucking on.” He chuckles to himself, the tiny little devil horns was a nice detail, he seemed to enjoy it just as much as you did in the process of drawing it out.

He flips through the next few pages, nodding silently. The anticipation driving a hole through your chest, you couldn’t even comprehend why you were doing this right now. Every single thing that Steve told you flew right out of the window. 

He flips another page and you interrupt quickly, “Before you say anything. You have a great hair for drawing, I don’t mean for it to come off as weird but it’s honestly helped me improve a lot.”

“No, no.” He shrugs, “I dig it. I guess I’m kinda your muse, in a way.”

That’s definitely not where you expected that to go. Actually, it was completely left field. So many miles away from where you planned.

“Not exactly.” You assure him. “I just—your hair is really distracting in class. And your side profile is really nice—“ You can feel yourself starting to ramble, the giant Cheshire grin on Eddie’s face only making things worse. “I’m just going to shut up before I embarrass myself more.”

Eddie closes the book and hands it over gingerly, “I really don’t mind. I’m serious.” He means it, you know that. “It’s fucking ridiculous how detailed you are.”

“I-“ You laugh softly, “nevermind. Thank you. Just…thanks, Eddie.”

You were so pleased in the fact that if there was anyone to see your work, someone you considered more of a stranger than a friend, like Robin or Steve, that it was Eddie. 

“Anyways, we should probably, you know, get back to work.” You interject after a while of awkward silence, not sure how to move on from the topic. 

“Cool with me.” He nods.

The next couple hours pass quickly, finally packing up your stuff after the long tangent Eddie went off on about D&D and the inner workings of it, which was a lot more interesting than you expected.

“Oh hey, you ever get to try out the weed I gave you the other day? It’s pretty damn sweet, right?” He says handing you the pencil you’d lended him.

“Actually, I haven’t.” You admitted. “I’ve been so busy with work that I completely forgot.”

He holds the joint between his fingers like he’d been keeping it stowed away for safekeeping, waiting for the right moment.

“My parents are going to ground me for life if I come home high.” Okay, it was a bit of an over exaggeration, but still buried in truth, nonetheless. “Let alone even smelling like weed.”

“Do you not realize who you’re talking to?” Eddie asks, he tried to seem offended, but it definitely came off as more of a joke. “Come on, miss perfect. We can just smoke it outside.”

You scoff in annoyance, knowing you were far from any type of perfect. “I have to be home in an hour, Eddie. If you get me in trouble with my parents, I swear to god.”

“I know—you’ll murder me and bury me in your backyard.” He jokes, knowing it’s all mostly playful. “Then I’ll come back to haunt your ass.”

You chuckle, your own words coming back to bite you. “Promise?” You ask, in an attempt to one up him.

You weren’t really expecting a response, but he gave you one anyway. “Someone’s gotta keep you out of trouble.” Eddie teases, bumping his shoulder against yours. 

You smiled to yourself, adoring the way that Eddie charmed himself out of any situation with ease. He lit up the joint on the short walk to the wooded area away from his home, safe from any random bystanders that may decide to wander by. 

“First hit?” He asks, handing it over to you, 

“Such a gentleman.” You reply, hand over your heart. You took a long hit, inhaling until your lungs couldn’t take it and the slight burn lingered in the back of your throat, breathing out slowly through your nose. 

For the first time, the silence is comforting. You pass the joint back and forth wordlessly until there’s practically nothing left.

“The stars are so pretty here.”

“Yeah.” Eddie answered after a while, staring directly at you.

You tried to ignore it, the heat of his gaze burning into the side of your face.

“The deeper you get into the city, the less you can really see.” 

He hummed to himself, “Totally.” 

He hadn’t heard a word you said, too focused on the way you were mindless focused on the sky, mesmerized by something so simple.

“God, I don’t think I’ve ever been this high.” You sigh to yourself, feeling like you were having an out of body experience. Your body didn’t feel like you own, even these clothes felt foreign, the way you ran your fingertips over them. “You’re a really bad influence, Eddie.”

You finally lock eyes with him after a few minutes. He was in a complete daze, high out of his mind–you weren’t even sure if he was still on the same planet as you, which obviously, but there was no way he was leaving this picnic table without some assistance. You take a quick glance at your watch, feeling yourself jump back into reality almost immediately.

“Shit, I’m so dead.” You panic, clumsily placing your feet on the ground–any faster and you probably would’ve twisted your ankle. “I have to go, right now.” 

“I can give you a ride, if you need it.” Eddie suggests, but it’s far, far–literally a galaxy away, from the safer option of biking home high.

“I need to ride off the smell anyway, I’ll manage.” You tell him, rather than declining his offer outright. You hesitate for a moment before lending your hand out, gripping his in an effort to pull him up.

“No smoke sessions tomorrow, Eddie. I’m serious.” You point an accusing finger at him, watching as he follows it, then looks up at you with his stupid, dopey smile. “I’m fucking serious.”

Super duper serious. Strictly business from this point forward. 

“Fine.” He agrees in defeat, finding his own footing. “But, I’ll definitely feel like an ass if you don’t let me drive you home.”

There was no way Eddie could even put a coherent thought together right now.

“I’ll be fine. I swear.” You tell him, smiling sweetly. He didn’t seem like the type to push back thankfully and dropped the argument there. “See you tomorrow, Munson.”

You leave in a rush, blinded by the idea of having to explain any of this to your parents, and only once you’re home, after a very bumpy, sobering ride–you realize the one very important thing you left behind–your school bag. 

⋆·˚ ༘ *

It shouldn’t be something you were worried about, Eddie had already looked through the one possession you were most insecure about–but still, the idea of being thrown so far off your game that you would leave your bag behind was enough to have you showing up at Eddie’s trailer bright and early, the morning dew still stuck to the grass and the birds chirping away at nothing.

You should have figured Eddie wouldn’t be fully dressed when he answered the door, but you weren’t really sure what you were expecting exactly. Still, the door creaking open and revealing a half naked Eddie, boxer-briefs leaving little to imagine–your eyes immediately snap back from where they’d lingered, because nothing about Eddie seemed little, not in the way he was towering over you, right now. Was he really that tall? Huh.

“What can I do for you on this fine–” He begins, voice still fighting through sleep, a yawn escaping him.

“I left my bag last night.” You blurt out. “I just need it back.”

It all seemed ridiculous, in hindsight—showing up like this.

“Uh, yeah–” He looks around, trying to gain his bearings. “It’s on my bed–I think.”

He nods in the direction of said bedroom, swinging the door open to welcome you inside. You side-stepped wide enough to avoid his shirtless chest, trying to ignore the fact that it felt like you were literally going to burst into flames at the slightest touch. Whatever high you had last night was gone, but you couldn’t ignore the fact that you still found Eddie attractive, sober or not.

You move around silently, flipping his blankets around to dig for your bag. He’s standing in the hallway now, just outside the doorway that leads to his room. His arms crossed over his chest tightly, still desperately attempting to rub the sleep out of his eyes. Eddie Munson was nowhere near a morning person, but that made perfect sense in hindsight. 

“Gotcha!” You celebrate quietly, throwing the strap of your bag over your shoulder. 

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask—” His voice startles you, “how do you know Henderson?”

It was a weird way to start a conversation, but Eddie wasn’t one to dwell on semantics on proper conversation starting.

“Him and Steve are a package deal.” You explain, like it was the cure all. 

“Oh.” You can see the gears turning in his head. “Yeah, that makes a lot of sense.”

“I’ve known Steve since I was in diapers.” You admit, finally catching his gaze. “We’ve been friends for a really long time.”

“So that stuff at lunch the other day–” You had managed to push that so far out of your mind that you were surprised Eddie had even remembered. He was a curious person, you couldn’t really blame him, but the thought of explaining any of it to him was the last thing on your mind.

“Long story.” You laugh it off, feeling eager to escape now. “Anyways, I’ll be over at four. Is that still good for you?” You ask.

He nods silently, angling his body to let you through–because god, why was this hallway so fucking tiny? You clear your throat and quickly move past him, practically jogging toward the door. The faster you escape, the better. 

“Later, Princess.” He adds–and you bite down on nothing but air, teeth clenched. He was trying to be coy and you knew it. 

“Bye, Eddie.” You reply, lamely attempting to force the nervousness out of your voice. You’ve never forced your legs to pedal so fast in your life, feeling like jello by the time you arrived home.

⋆·˚ ༘ *

“Why the fuck do they talk like that?” Eddie asks, looking up at you from where he was stretched out on his bed, legs kicked up lazily behind. The soft sound of a random rock song you don’t know the name of playing on the radio to fill in as ambient noise.

“It’s archaic and prose.” You answer simply. “It makes a lot more sense the more you read it.”

“Well, I needeth a break, M’lady.” He jokes, forced accent and all.

“That actually wasn’t bad.” You admit, closing the book that you’d place between you both. 

At some point, you’d ended up in a similar position, sprawled out beside Eddie, head resting in the palm of your hand.

“Not to boost your ego or anything, but you’re a pretty good tutor.” Eddie says, twirling the pencil between his fingers slowly.

“Whatever.” You shrug off lightheartedly.

And you can feel the impending question before it even leaves his mouth–blame it on your amazing intuition, but Eddie was also incredibly predictable sometimes. 

“You want to know what Dustin and I were talking about during lunch, don’t you?” You ask, eyeing him carefully. 

He shrugs, “I’m just a little curious, I guess.”

Fair enough. It might feel good to get off your chest anyways–not to mention half the school already knew about the instance.

“Jason asked me to meet up with him during that back to school bonfire they were having, right before Junior year–you remember? Anyways, I talked to Steve about it. He kinda pushed me toward it initially, he was the only reason I even went–I used to have a huge crush on Jason–horrible, now that I think about it. To make a long story short, he made this whole elaborate show about how he liked him and I ended up half naked in front of him, standing on the dock at his parent’s lake house, but the entire basketball and cheer team watched the entire thing happen. I didn’t realize until I heard them laughing from the bushes. There’s a picture, somewhere, I’m sure–I just try to block it out of my memory.” You explain slowly, enough time had passed that you could think about it without bursting into tears from embarrassment, but it was still terrifying to say out loud. “Steve felt really bad about all of it. I know he didn’t know any of that was going to happen, but I just took a lot of my frustration out on him.”

Eddie was eerily quiet, like he was attempting to soak all the information in. You tried not to gauge his reaction too much, knowing that pity was a normal reaction from most people.

“And then,” You say on a deep breath, “Steve and I got really drunk and made out and it was fucking weird. We joke about it now, but it was just…a lot of mistakes in one night, so I try to forget about it.”

“Good to know that Jason’s still a total dick.” He adds, not like that wasn’t already obvious. “I can’t believe you made out with Harrington.”

You want to gag at the long, distanced memory. “It wasn’t my best moment.” You agree. 

“So, yeah–Dustin knows a couple secrets about me. And now you do–but if you tell anyone–Eddie–”

“I won’t.” You can see the seriousness on his face, coming from his voice. 

“Swear?” You ask

“Pinky swear.” He answers, holding up his ringed pinky finger. You hesitate for a second before wrapping your own pinky finger around his.

He doesn’t let go. But to be fair, neither do you. He’s looking at you, not ogling, but admiring–although, it definitely could’ve been interpreted as him checking you out. You avert your attention to the intricate design of the ring on his finger, making some attempt to break the heavy, thick blanket of tension that had fallen over the both of you. It wasn’t like you’d never laid in bed with a boy before–you could lay and talk with Steve for hours, but Steve didn’t look at you the way Eddie did, not ever. 

You clear your throat softly, twisting the ring with the few fingers that weren’t interlocked with his, both of your hands now resting against the soft duvet. “Is that a pig?” You ask lightheartedly. The answer never comes.

Instead, “Can I kiss you?” Eddie asks, almost too timid to be his own voice.

Your mouth hangs open for a half second, before you force yourself to pull it together. And you’re pretty sure your heart was making a desperate attempt at beating its way out of your chest. You nod slowly, leaning forward before you can even think about stopping yourself.

His lips were soft, gentle–but firm in the way they pressed against yours. You only had a couple other experiences to compare this too, but it was obvious that Eddie had confidence in his own abilities. You pulled back after a few seconds, wetting your lips nervously. Eddie followed the way the tip of your tongue dragged over them, the heat from the breathy exhale he let out fanning over your face.

“You never answered my question.” You say softly, eyes flicking up to look at him. His gaze still locked on your lips, you repeat yourself once more, this time calling him out directly. “Eddie, you never answered my question.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s a pig.” He says, eyes finally locking with yours. “It’s a stupid fucking pig.” His voice is strained, breathy–and you’re just as sure as he is in the fact that you can’t believe this is even happening.

And even if you may end up regretting the decision later, you decide to put him out of his misery. Letting go of his hand completely, hand settling and finding a place to call home against the back of his neck, you pull him forward. He grunts slightly, almost inaudible as you press your lips against his own, more delicate than he had. In the way that he was entirely too sure of himself, you had restraint, hesitance. You let a long, breathy sigh and try to ignore the way your body shivers with nervousness and anticipation. 

Eddie takes the opportunity to find his way past your lips, teasingly dragging his tongue against your own. Your brain could literally short circuit at the thought of his mouth being anywhere else on your body, even now you could feel yourself screaming internally and if you weren’t so goddamn turned on, you probably would just scream out loud.

His hand found your waist at some point, playing with the frayed fabric attached to the bottom of your shirt, kissing you fervently, playfully–and like the tease he’s proven to be, he bites down on your bottom lip gently, for good measure. 

“Eddie,” You breath out, pulling back. You can’t even bring yourself to look at him, only following the way his hand is massaging the dip in your waist, “studying, remember?”

“Shit.” He curses to himself, allowing himself to drop back into reality. “Yeah, sorry.”

“It’s fine.” You assure him, knowing that studying was the last thing you were hoping to focus on now. 

“I didn’t mean to overstep, I’m sorry if–” Eddie starts, and you can’t help but feel like a sucker for the way his voice stutters over the apology. And studying be-fucking-damned, you had plenty of other time to help him out. You had to allow yourself to self-indulge, at least once, and regret it later. 

“Fuck it.” You sigh, shoving your belongings out of the way and pulling him toward you again.

He immediately takes the advantage of being above you, slotting his own legs between yours, still remaining enough distance that you both wouldn’t simultaneously combust from the idea of grinding against each other, though you weren't sure how long that would actually last.

He delves into your mouth like you’re the last meal he’s ever going to have and Jesus Christ–-no one’s ever kissed you this way. You sigh openly, letting Eddie deepen the kiss further. You try to find every reason to pull away, but you’re drawing the biggest fucking blank, gasping softly when Eddie’s hands dip behind your lower back, grasping onto your ass and bring you closer. And there’s no way to ignore the feeling of Eddie’s groin pressed against you, dick straining against the material of his jeans. His openly sighs into your mouth, switching from sweet, closed mouth kisses to dirty, deep open mouthed kisses that leave you both begging for more. His hand slips between you both, palm coming to rest against your clothed mound. He stops for a moment, like he wants to ask permission.

“Eddie,” You say softly, almost startled by how spent you sound, “I don’t know if we should–”

You wanted to keep going–god did you want to, but there was a lot of shit you needed to figure out first. And luckily, this didn’t feel like a one off experience, the way Eddie looked up at you with his wide eyed gaze, lips still obscenely wet and puffy.

“I’ve never–you know,” You struggle to find the words, “I’m a virgin. You should probably know that.”

You had enough common sense to know that Eddie wasn’t, judging by the pack of condoms he never bothered to put in his nightstand drawer, it seemed likely enough that he’s probably fucked a girl or two before, not that you cared. You just weren’t sure if this was the right time to be delving into uncharted territory. 

“Fuck, I-” He replies, slightly breathless, “We totally don’t have to. I didn’t really expect–I just wanted to kiss you at first but Jesus–you’re fucking amazing.”

You laugh openly, falling back against the mattress. The look on Eddie’s face was priceless, something you wanted to take a picture of and remember forever. But, the way his fingers accidentally drag against you from where they were now resting against your inner thigh are enough to shake you back into reality.

“Sorry.” He says sheepishly, dragging his fingers back.

You stop him on a whim. The whim being the fact that you’re just incredibly to horny to leave with the state you were in. Fucked out, without even being fucked properly.

“We can…if you want.” You suggest tentatively. “Just for a little.”

Teenage hormones were a hell of hard thing to overcome and you were desperately losing that battle.

“If you don’t want to it’s fine–I get that you’ve never–” Eddie starts, but you emphasize by dragging his finger up your thigh and right about the waistband of your shorts–similar to the one from the day before, short and just as scandalous. 

“It’s not like I’ve never touched myself before, Eddie.” You assure him, feeling the way his fingers played with the fabric teasingly. “I’m a virgin, not a puritan.”

“God, you’re so fucking hot.” He sighs, forehead resting against your shoulder. You jump at the first touch of his fingers against your bare cunt, and part of you wants to feel embarrassed about the wetness that had collected there, but you were way too horny to give a shit. “And so wet.” It comes out as a moan. A fucking moan.

It should be criminal how attractive Eddie sounds right now, fingers exploring a part of you that only you’ve ever known. He drags a single digit from bottom to top, collecting the wetness. The tightness of your shorts left little room for him to move his hand around and the contact was almost earth-shattering. He hesitates, taking a moment to circle around your clit. You sigh quietly, which he takes as a good sign, testing the motion out again, and again, until you’re practically keening from the pressure building there. The way his finger slips into you is jarring, how easily he moves past your folds, starting a slow, steady motion of guiding his fingers in and out of you, occasionally stopping to drag his fingers against the most sensitive part of your body, the only place you wanted him to be.

“Oh,” You moan softly, “fuck, please.”

Eddie could come at the sound of you, the way your voice squeaks in desperation. He chuckles softly, using his thumb to circle your clit, teasing and slow. You could get yourself there just fine, but the foreign feeling of a hand that wasn’t yours, knowing your body almost as well as you did, it was enough to have you squeezing down on his fingers in pleasure. 

“More?” He asks softly, looking from his face had been resting against the middle of your chest, watching as his fingers disappeared into your shorts. 

“Please.” You beg, almost desperate. His second finger joins the first, adding a nice stretch that you’ve never really felt like this. His fingers were so much bigger than your own, so much more filling. You gasp loudly at the sudden change in pace, closing your eyes in a bid to hide your own embarrassment at the sound of your own voice. When you finally pry your eyes open, Eddie is staring at you. You weren’t sure how long he had been, but his gaze is dark, hot–you want to disappear. 

“I want to hear you.” He assures you, emphasizing his words by working his finger against your clit quickly, causing you to mewl in response, back arching off the bed. “You sound so pretty, princess.”

And if there was any other way to die, this is exactly how you wanted to go out. 

The pressure builds and builds, Eddie finding every way to pull sounds out of you, some you didn’t even know you were capable of. You can feel the way he’s absently, but still gently, grinding against your leg, where he’d maneuvered himself after a while, in hopes of relieving some of the pressure off of his own issue. You could tell he was holding back, which made you feel slightly guilty. 

The thought is immediately interrupted by your orgasm washing over you out of the blue, fast, nearly knocking you out from the feeling that spreads throughout your entire body. Eddie works you through the end, even when your body is oversensitive and tingling. 

“Jesus Christ.” You sigh, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Nah, just me.” He says cheekily, grinning.

You reach for the clasp on his belt on instinct, but he stops you with a hand on your wrist. “It’s fine.” He laughs softly, “Besides, the second you touch my dick, I’m done for.”

It’s absurd, but it makes you giggle to yourself. 

“I’ll take care of it later.” He admits, adjusting the front of his jeans to provide relief. The thought of him in bed, dick in hand, had you squeezing your thighs together shamelessly. 

“O-Okay.” You reply, pushing yourself up as he moved off of you. “Well, thanks—I guess?”

You both fall into a fit of laughter immediately, not finding any reason to ignore how ridiculous you felt. Not to mention that way your heart twisted at the way Eddie’s grin reached from ear to ear. It wasn’t a new thing exactly, Eddie smiled a lot, but you knew this one was reserved for both of you, and that had your stomach doing back flips.

“My pleasure.” He replies, putting on a fancy, pretentious accent. “Princess.”

“Why princess?” You ask curiously, wondering where the name fits in for you.

“I don’t know,” Eddie shrugs, sitting back on his heels, “You've always been little miss ‘pretty and perfect’ to me—smart, and you don’t really put up with anyone’s shit—I almost didn’t believe it when you asked me to sell weed to you that first time.”

“Thought I was gonna rat you out, huh?” You ask teasingly.

“Maybe just a little.” He admits, holding his thumb and pointer finger an inch from each other. You toss a pillow at his head, he takes the hit like a champ, throwing it softly back at you. 

⋆·˚ ༘ *

You two spend the next couple weeks studying off and on, not really bothering to avoid hanging out at school. Dustin actually enjoyed it; since he practically worshiped Eddie and you were another friend he had to talk to, not that Mike Wheeler wasn’t sufficient enough, his mind was just flooded with girls and Dustin was so far from the precipice of females.

Even if you spent half of your study sessions making out, you still managed to get enough work done that Eddie was making a little improvement—not to mention the look on Ms. McNally’s face when she called him out in class and he answered her question correct—you would’ve thought hell had finally froze over. Study sessions went from a weekend basis, to Eddie showing up to your shift at Family Video to ask about a question on the homework on any given day, not trying to hide the fact that he wanted another reason to talk to you outside of school.

“If you manage to help him graduate, it will be a miracle.” Steve says one day, leaning in as Eddie left the store. 

You show up at his door that night, ready for another one of your tedious study sessions. But he’s answering the door before you have a chance to think. 

“My uncle’s home.” He tells, looking back over his shoulder. You’d gotten lucky with the past couple of weeks, timing your visits almost perfectly, so that they aligned with his uncle’s work schedule. But, you weren’t sure what to do now.

“Well, we can just study—it’s fine.” You tell him quietly, “or I can come over tomorrow?”

“No.” He all but blurts out, “Sorry—we, we can just take my van. I know a spot where we can go.”

You’re hesitant at first, but you agree—it’s Eddie, you knew it would be fine. 

His van is incredibly spacey, to your surprise. It made a lot of sense, though. You could tell he’d had more than a few smoke sessions based on how it practically reeked of weed and his cologne. When you’re stopped at the spot—a wide expanse of trees covering a large area and a giant skull shaped rock in the middle, he swings the back doors open, giving you a better view of his setup. 

“Skull rock, Eddie? Seriously?” You deadpan, climbing out of the passenger seat and to the back of his van.

“What?” He asks innocently, hands flying out to his side in question. “It’s a great spot.”

You could point out every surface that Steve had made out with a girl on that rock, from memory—despite wanting to know, Steve just hated keeping his sexcapades to himself sometimes. Either way, you couldn’t complain. It was quiet, secluded, you didn’t have to worry about anyone finding Eddie toking up in the back if he so decided, even if you didn’t plan to partake. And part of you knew, not much study was going to take place anyways.

“Can I draw you?” You ask randomly, Eddie peering at you from where he’s perched on the edge of his van. “Sorry, that was really forward—I just—“

“Sure.” He agrees, moving deeper inside the van, the night sky nearly swallowing the van whole. If it weren’t for the overhead lights, you wouldn’t be able to see more than a couple inches in front of your face, luckily they lit the interior up well enough.

“How do you want me, Picasso?” He asks, flaring his jacket out.

“Just sit—and, what are you doing?” You laugh, watching as he knelt down, chin on his fist, a goofy attempt at a heroic pose.

“Too much?” He asks, but he doesn’t need the answer. He can tell by the amused look on your face, so he shifts onto his backside, legs spread out slightly, one lifted up so his foot was planted in the floor.

“Act like we’re in your room, talking—just be comfortable.” You remind him, letting the pencil feel out the paper.

And you don’t think you’ve ever heard Eddie stay so quiet, for so long. But he’s watching you, just as much you had been watching him, fiddling with his rings occasionally. 

“Something on your mind?” You ask curiously, about halfway through the sketch, “I can see the gears turning in your head.”

“Just thinking.” He says quietly, eyes still locked on yours. “I don’t want to distract you, though.”

Though, that was really the plan all along—so you took the bait. 

“No, tell me.” You demand, setting the pencil and book down.

He chuckles to himself, “I’m just thinking about how I wanna kiss you right now.”

You smile knowingly, a little shy now by how intently he’s looking at you. “Then why don’t you?”

And like a dam breaking, he’s on you instantly, hands gripping under your thighs to lay you down on the blanket that was covering the expanse of the back of his van. 

“Wait, the doors.” You tell him through quick kisses. “Close the doors.”

And you’re right. The last thing you need is someone walking up on two high school students getting hot and heavy in the back of a van. The doors slam shut and he’s finding his way back to you, eyeing your mouth greedily. Eddie had gotten more and more comfortable with maneuvering you around how he wanted, knowing just how to have you begging for more and more.

His mouth leaves yours, kissing the underside of your chin, your neck, the small part of your chest that was exposed to him. He wanted to worship you in every way and form possible. He’s got his dick pressed against your core, still jailed by the confines of his jeans, the coldness of the chain he had attached to his pants, the one bearing factor that was keeping you grounded. Otherwise, you probably would have left the planet already.

“Wanna taste you so bad.” He groans against your neck, free hand coming up to rest against your cheek, stroking the delicate skin. “Please?”

“Yeah,” You rush out, licking your suddenly too dry lips, “only if you let me taste you too.” You slip your hands in the waistband of your sweatpants, pushing them and your underwear down in one go. You definitely want to feel ashamed, but you can’t help yourself. He freaking out at the thought of your mouth around him, you could say the same for yourself.

You expect him to delve right in, devour you immediately, but he stills himself. He mumbled something into the inside of your thigh, you try not to think about it too much, opening your legs a little wider. He’s nipping and biting at the most sensitive parts of your skin, watching you squirm in anticipation. 

And when the flat of his tongue finally makes contact with your core, you moan unabashedly, reveling in the feeling. His nose nudges at your clit, and the sounds—god, the sounds. You blushed a particular shade of red, ashamed at how well your body was responding to his touch.

“So pretty and perfect.” He says against your cunt, “Just like I suspected.” 

You laugh at the absurdity of it all, moaning when he sneaks a finger up to join with the work his mouth couldn’t cover. He was working you up, he wanted you to come, but the fact that he already had you 1-0 was a crime and that just wouldn’t suffice. 

He grabbed your hands, which had been laying useless at your side, and guided them to the beautiful mane of hair attached to him. You wrapped your fingers around the hair at tugged, ever so softly. The look on his face as he pulled back was something you’d never soon forget, mouth covered in your clear slick, his tongue reaching out to lick his bottom lip.

“Wanna suck your dick, Eddie.” You begged. “Please.”

The look of pleading you gave him had him melting in your hands. He wordlessly lifted himself to his knees, wasting no time to undo the buckle of his belt. You helped him along the way, unzipping and pulling at the waistband of his jeans. When you finally found the chance to switch positions, he was already pulling the top of his underwear underneath his ass, but you couldn’t be bothered to wait any longer. You moved on instinct, grabbing his dick in your hand and tugging on the shaft gently, testing his body out. 

Even though you didn’t have much to compare it to, Eddie Munson still had the prettiest dick you’ve ever seen. 

“Shit, say that again.” He groans, watching you lean forward to kiss at the tip. You hadn’t realized you even said that aloud until he was staring down at you, completely wrecked by the idea of you finding his dick pretty. 

“It’s so pretty and perfect.” You tease, licking the underside of his dick in one, long stripe.

He curses audibly, head banging against the metal of the van.

You take him carefully, slowly. Maybe you’re doing everything wrong, but the moan that escapes him proves otherwise. His hand curls around the back of your head gently, guiding and setting a pace. He’s showing you what he likes, so you give it to him. You’re careful not to scrape against his shaft with your teeth, using your tongue to trace slow circles around the tip before swallowing him down in one go, it was a lot more than you could initially handle, it makes your eyes water and you pull back for a moment to catch your breath.

“Sorry, too much.” You apologize halfheartedly and Eddie gives you an incredulous look, both mesmerized and completely caught off guard.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He breaths out, eyes searching yours for a moment. “I don’t want to sound forward but I really wanna fuck you.” 

If it was anyone else, they’d probably be dead. But, the way Eddie sounds almost desperate is the entire reason you’re nodding your head in earnest. 

“Yeah. Yeah, we can do that.” You agree, despite how terrified the thought made you feel.

“We can stop if it’s too much for you.” Eddie tells you, sincerity ringing through. “I’m serious.”

You nod, “I’m good, I swear.”

⋆·˚ ༘ *

Eddie has you wedged in between the makeshift pillow he made and himself, laid out comfortably on your side, naked from head to toe, and you try not to linger on the way he’s staring at your breasts, or the hand that’s running between your legs, dipping into your folds again. You adjust yourself slightly, legs widening at the touch. He’s gentle and you want to cry at the thought that someone would want to take so much care with you. He fingers you open slowly, swallowing your moans throat deep, lingering kisses that you never want to end. You can hear the wrapper crinkle between you, watching as pulls away to rip it open with his teeth.

Mesmerized as he rolls the condom down his shaft, you clench at the idea of him being inside. You didn’t want to think anymore, letting your body run on autopilot. 

“We can go slow. Just tell me what feels good.” He reminds you, hiking your leg up against his hip, positioning himself at your entrance. You nod silently, bracing yourself. Your hand wraps around his wrist where he’s caressing your head, letting the slow, stretching feeling of him pushing inside take over your body. It stings, but barely—you nod again, looking up to let him know that this was okay, that you were okay.

He gradually picks the pace up, once he’s finally seated inside you and you’re accustomed to the feeling of him. It wasn’t until then that you realized just how noisy Eddie could be—moaning every obscenity under the sun into mouth as you swallowed up everyone with a kiss, gasping for air when he grazed your clit with his thumb from where it had been resting against your hip bone.

You can feel the way he’s holding back, not sure how much you could take. He’s gripping you tight, and you attempt to break him from whatever daze he’s locked himself into.

“Eddie, it’s fine.” You say breathlessly, “I can take it.”

And like that, he releases you, maneuvering you onto your back to adjust himself over you, pulling himself out to adjust before he’s careful thrusting back in, hand tucked under the soft skin at the back of your knee, bearing the weight you couldn’t bother to hold up. 

He leans forward and mouths at your breasts, taking the time to graze his teeth against the tip of the the soft bud of your nipple, causing a gasp to bubble out of your chest. “Do that again.” You beg.

He laughs quietly, showing the other breast the same care, then switching back to the other. Fuck, it was so good. You’d almost been too distracted to realize the pace he’d picked up, more consistent as the sound your bodies coming together filled up the silence. That and the moans you couldn’t bother to keep quiet, mixing in with his own. 

“Feel so good, princess.” He groans, mouth tucked away into your neck, mouthing at the skin there. “Squeezing my dick just right.”

Eddie has a filthy mouth, obviously. You were definitely bookmarking that for later. 

“Wanna come, Eddie. Please.” You gasp, trying desperately to push back to meet the more desperate pace Eddie had set. 

“Here,” He’s grabbing your hand, guiding it between the both of you, “wanna see you touch yourself, see if you can make yourself come as good as I can.”

Part of you doesn’t know how to respond, so you don’t, but you mindlessly obey the request at hand, circling your clit with your own two fingers, gasping at how sensitive you were. Fingers were one thing, but Eddie’s dick—that was something else entirely. You’re trying desperately to keep up, but Eddie can tell you’re overwhelmed, overworked, so he slips his hand against yours, helping you through the motion. 

“You’re almost there, I can tell.” He murmurs against your ear, the hotness of his breath sending tingles down your entire body. “I got you.”

He moved your fingers with his, hips shaking sloppily, thrusting himself through his own climax, watching as your mouth dropped open in a wordless shout, orgasm hitting you in a flash of white, leaving you panting for breath when you came back to earth. 

Eddie gives you a few minutes to settle, brushing your wild hair behind your ears and out of your face—he pulls out slowly, removing and tying the condom, discarding it in the front of the van inside of the tiny trash can nestled underneath the passenger side dash. He seems worried.

“It was good.” You assure him, hoping he wasn’t stressing over the idea of ruining anything for you. “I don’t really have anything to compare it to but if it’s anything like that, it was pretty damn good.”

He chuckles gently, his chest shaking at the motion. You finally have a clear view of some of the tattoos you never really noticed until now. Eddie had slipped his underwear back on in the process, helping you search through the flurry of mixed clothes to find your own. 

“I guess I just wasn’t sure how we’d handle things after.” He says quietly, taking a seat next to. You see him reach for the pre-rolled blunt sitting in the ashtray and you grab his wrist, pulling it toward you.

“Well, do you want me to leave?” It wasn’t meant to sound harsh, Eddie didn’t seem to take it that way either.

“No.” He replies sheepishly, hands resting in his lap. 

“Then stop worrying. Stop acting like you just scandalized me.” You laugh, poking his stomach. “I think we’re way past that.”

“God, because the sounds you make should be illegal and I don’t like being a one and done type of guy—“ Eddie would have gone on a tangent had you let him, but the gentle reminder you offered was enough to shut him up. 

“Well, next time—“

“Next time?” He quirks up, eyebrows raised.

“Next time,” You repeat, feeling a little silly, “we’ll find out just how long the both of us can get. But, first—you gotta pass English.”

The exasperated sigh that Eddie let out was enough to have you curling forward in laughter.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, princess.” He smiles, reaching forward to kiss you, chaste and sweet. 

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x afab reader #i sat on this for too long and i'm starting to hate it GOODBYE #my writing #1kfic

[paradubolical]

it's that time again

here's how to make alcohol at home

recipe under the cut. it's long. I warned you.

FOREWARD:

I do not endorse regular substance abuse or at-home distillation without proper training. Don’t hit your kids. Don’t blow up your house. It’s okay to eat shit and die, like, once every three months, not every two weeks, not every weekend. If you’re doing that, there’s not much I can do to help or give in way of advice. But this recipe is not for you. And you should reconsider some stuff if you haven’t already.

That being said.

The following is my personal method for brewing beer, mead, wine, etc. I have utilized this method many times and it has worked wonderfully. I have achieved up to 15% proof. This means that the substance you create should be perfectly drinkable and safe if you follow the instructions and use your head. HOWEVER. You should be prepared to read this whole document before making anything. There are warnings and safety precautions you need to take, and I don’t want anyone to get botulism of some shit because of a shoddy recipe that doesn’t explain absolutely everything.

I also do not encourage the practice of distillation at home. This is not because it is illegal. For those unaware, distillation is the semi-complicated process of heating alcohol to produce hard liquors. While it may sound fun to make Smirnoff from home, there is a reason we do not. Alcohol is extremely flammable. You will set yourself or your valuables on fire.

Ingredients:

1 Packet ActiveDry Yeast

1 Cup Sugar or 1 Cup Sugar Equivalent*

⅔ Gallon Water

Supplies:

1 Gallon Container

1 Suitable Cork or Lid**

3-4 Ballons, Latex Gloves, or even condoms will do honestly***

IMPORTANT:

You must have a space prepared ahead of time to store the JFCB while it brews. Remember. It will stink like hell. Anyone who smells it will know it’s alcohol. Use your noggin okay

NOTES:

*

In simple terms, alcohol is created when yeast eats sugar. You can use pretty much anything sugary. Don’t use chocolate unless you want to die.

I like to use those strawberry-flavored grandma hard candies. The stuff they make is super fucking strong and tastes like god himself descended from the heavens to kick your ass. It makes what I like to call the JFCB. It’s high-proof enough to burn your throat. So, you know, try to moderate.

**

You need something to seal the container with once you’re done. Pick wisely.

***

It’s gotta be something that can form a seal around the lip of the container, but also expand like a balloon. These are some of the things I’ve found work best.

INSTRUCTIONS:

Creating the Base

Take your 1-Gallon Container and fill it with half the packet of ActiveDry yeast. You don’t need all of it. Trust me on this one.

Pour in your 1 Cup Sugar or Equivalent.

Pour in the ⅔ Gallon of Water.

Either whisk or mix vigorously. When it starts foaming, you’re done.

Stage 1

Put the Balloon/Latex/Condom over the lip of the container. Make sure it’s secure and extremely tight, but there’s plenty of room for air to fill.

Find your designated Place to Put It. This should be somewhere nobody’s gonna smell it, and also somewhere nobody’s gonna go for the next three odd months.

Set your shit down.

Wait 2-3 weeks.

Stage 2

After 2-3 weeks, the alcohol should stop emitting gas. At this point, it’s safe to cork. Don’t do it beforehand or the container will explode.

I like to put some hot glue or wax over the lip just to make sure it’s sealed extra well. I sometimes put tinfoil too. It doesn’t actually help anything, just looks fancy.

Find somewhere nice to store it. Make sure it’s right side up. Odds are you sealed it pretty poorly if it’s your first time, and you’re gonna be in deep shit if it starts to smell.

If it does, that means you corked it too early. Move it back to your Place to Put It for like a month. Recork it after that time’s up. It might be difficult, but you’re smart. You can do it. It should be good to go after that.

And there you have it. A nice bottle of…. Something?

Enjoy. Or just leave it to sit.

FAQ:

Q: I’m worried about getting botulism from this shit. Is it really safe?

A: Usually, people don’t get botulism. My rule of thumb is that if it smells like shit you should really just throw it away. If you’re really worried, I’d also recommend throwing it away. The paranoia’s not worth it.

Q: I’m a minor. Should I try this at home?

A: Probably not. I’m a minor too, so fuck’s to say what my opinion’s worth.

Q: I want to try vodka/scotch/whiskey. What should I do?

A: You should just not. Or buy it at the store. I don’t know man i’m not the all-seeing eye

Q: I’ve heard you need an airlock for this. Do you need an airlock for this?

A: Absolutely fucking not. They are feeding you airlock propaganda. You don’t need an airlock.

#eddsworld fanart #eddsworld #eddswolrd #tom ew #tom eddsworld #shitpost #alcohol #beer #red wine #wine #mead #recipe #recipes #cooking #breaking bad #how to #these fucking tags man #mega shitpost #life #life quotes #motivation #motivating quotes #fanart #crime

[sinimake]

Now, it's Johnny specific headcanons! Read Kenshi's here

Took a gap year to earn his college funds, but when he got accepted into a film school, his family wanted him to sign up for the army. So one morning, he just went out, took an interstate bus, and started living on his own.

He worked many menial works here and there, barely surviving, so he started to enter underground cage fights in the night for quick bucks. The first time he got in the ring and the announcer asked for his name, he chose Johnny Cage on a whim.

His college years were wild. Almost always drunk every night bc he's landed a job as a bartender in a local bar. Alcohol is conveniently within arms reach and is an effective painkiller to the punches he took in the ring fights. That's when his addiction started.

He got his Johnny tattoo when he was shit faced and sad. He desperately wanted to shed Johnathan Carlton name off himself, so he marched into a tattoo parlor to have a permanent reminder on his chest. People think he's narcissistic to have his name tattooed so big on his body, Johnny never corrects the meaning of it bc it is better to be seen as an asshole than weak.

One really good perk of his bartender job was talking to the patrons and hearing their life stories. It really helped Johnny's acting career in the long run, where he understands his roles deeply and delivers the portrayals from heart.

He got a golden raspberry award for his The Flesh Pits movie. Threw the tropy out of the window once in anger but now he displays it along with his other achievement awards as a reminder.

He's an ambassador of many luxury brands.

He's very timely organized person where he plans his days down to every hour. Hates when there's a sudden change in his timetable.

When Johnny and Kenshi have a movie night, not only does he narrate what's happening in the scene, but he nerds out on what exact techniques of shots and lighting are used.

A big car enthusiast. Gives his cars the names that are in Mambo No. 5 by Lou Bega. (A little bit of Monica in my life—)

Snores in his sleep, specially when he's really exhausted.

His music taste is mainly girly pop, but sometimes he belts out on old school rock songs.

Loves improv acting. Sometimes, he drops in at random improv club nights to participate in one or two sets. It is always fun to see the crowd going "is that Johnny Cage? THE Johnny Cage?" whenever he goes on the stage.

A serial double texter. Will send you random ass pictures with no context or whatever. It is especially funny bc Kenshi can't see the pics, and the voice-over feature of his phone gives him the most obscure descriptions that have the man facepalming every time.

Is a big coffee guy but always gotta have them with milk and sugar bc he can't handle bitter taste of americano.

Has love and hate relationship with paparazzi cameramen. When he's out with the earthrealm defenders, his friends sometimes get the feeling of being followed. They say the concern to Johnny, thinking some outworld danger is hunting them or something just for the actor go "no worries that's just my regular paparazzi, Jeff. HI JEFF!! HOW YOU BEEN DOING TODAY?" "I'm fine! How about you, Johnny?", "WOULD YOU LIKE SOME COFFEE? IS HOT OUTSIDE!" "yeah."

^then sometimes it's like this: "CAN YOU GIVE ME A BREATHER FOR A SEC?! YOUR CAMERA CLICKING IS SO LOUD!" "MY RENT IS DUE!" "NOT MY PROBLEM!"

He's an ambivert. Quiet night ins are as much appreciated as parties. He needs winding down moments but will go batshit insane if he doesn't get at least one human interaction a day.

#johnny cage #mk1 #mk1 2023 #mortal kombat 2023 #johnny cage headcanons #johnshi #johnshi headcanon

[dragcnbreak]

EEE THE CG MIKE DRABBLE WAS SO CUTE ^_^ thinkin’ abt mike taking little!reader and abby 2 freddy’s & they play with the animatronics and color 4 them !!

WAHHHH tysm for reading, am so glad you enjoyed :D this is such a cute idea, let me see what I can do <3 <3 <3

◞♡࿐ (takes place between abby meeting her friends for the first time and vanessa being there)

“Hi baby,” you were regressed and sitting in front of the tv with Abby, papers and crayons splayed out in front of you both. Mike had instantly smiled at the sight of you two, delighted with how well you had gotten along with his little sister. He bent down and pressed kisses to both of your foreheads.

“I’ve gotta get to work, okay?” Mike said softly, peering down at what you guys are drawing. You and Abby instantly look up with the same pleading eyes. “Can we come with?” You ask before Abby can. He hesitates, thinking it over.

Yeah, he didn’t want to leave you watching over Abby when you yourself needed to be watched when you were regressed. He also didn’t want his sister around the scary animatronics though he supposed you would probably revert back to your older self if anything happen. You had also been there before and the animatronics happened to like you, even if you were physically older. It was like they knew about the age regression too.

With a sigh, Mike slightly nodded. “Yes,” you both cheered before he could continue, “but you two have to promise to be good, okay?” You and Abby both gave as serious smiles as you could. “Alright, let me help you pack your stuff, baby.”

... ♡⃕

The car ride there was eventful as you and Abby planned what to do with your friends. Sometimes, Mike would look back in the rear view mirror and catch your eye and he would grin.

In a flash, the car was parked outside the pizzeria. You and Abby hauled your backpacks filled with crayons, markers, paper, and a stuffed animal or two inside. You both kept ahead of Mike, calling out for your friends and running up to the stages to say hi. Abby greeted Freddy, Bonnie, and Chica while you smiled up at Foxy.

Mike stayed behind, watching you both carefully interact with the animatronics. Them being possessed by ghost children still mystified him and he wasn’t sure he completely trusted them. But right now, he could settle for you and Abby being happy.

He had even gotten roped into playing hide and seek. First and foremost, he set ground rules that you and Abby couldn’t touch everything you see. Then, no hiding in storage closets or anywhere behind the scenes. Finally, you both were supposed to come out if he couldn’t find you in time. You both agreed and ran off while Mike counted loudly.

The animatronics stared at him, noting that he was going along with you and Abby playing and specifically, how he treated you. They watched as he found you first, lifting you up with a fond smile on his face as you giggled. And then they looked on as he did the same to Abby.

When hide and seek was over, the three of you sat at a table while the animatronics hovered around you all. There, you and Abby got your backpacks and spread out your coloring materials. You both made each of your friends a drawing, making sure to also include Mike in all of them. He watched you both color, pointing out specific things you did and keeping the same, soft smile on his face the entire time.

Soon enough, you fell onto Mike’s shoulder, sleepiness overtaking you. You yawned and snuggled into him further, blushing as he kissed your head. “Goodnight, baby.” He said quietly. He watched on as Abby soon fell asleep too.

Mike suddenly remembered the throw blankets he had packed into your backpack. He gently moved towards it, not wanting to disturb your rest. He got the two of them out and covered Abby first, then you. “Goodnight, Abbs.” He repeated the phrase to his sister and then, hesitantly, to the four machines. “And, uh, goodnight guys.”

The four animatronics loomed over him until they blinked owlishly with their glowing eyes. Then Freddy patted Abby on the shoulder while Foxy did the same to you (with his non-hook hand of course). They then stalked over to their stages, taking their default positions before the curtains suddenly closed on them.

Mike stared, weirded out by their behavior but also somehow relieved. He supposed it was their way of saying they were okay with him and how he treated the people he loved. So, with a sigh, Mike leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. He then put his head on his arms and eventually fell asleep as well, the sounds and sights of Nebraska not in his purview for the first time in a while.

◞♡࿐

i hope it’s to your liking <3 tysm for reading darling

#mine #text #asks #abbyschmidts #my fanfics #age regression #agere #sfw age regression #sfw agere #mike schmidt #michael schmidt #mike schmidt x you #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt x male!reader #mike schmidt x gn!reader #mike schmidt x fem!reader #five nights at freddy’s movie #five nights at freddy's #fnaf #fnaf movie #Abby Schmidt

[thestoryofusstan]

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

part ii

pairing: harry styles x fem!reader

warnings: none really.. not edited.

summary: in which y/n's friends book her an amazing gig, but they don't mention anything about her favorite singer being in attendance.

request: nope!

your friends were more than aware of your obsession with harry styles. it’s not like it was a secret.

so, it only made sense that when you started to sing in bars and cafes — anywhere, really — that you’d always incorporate something of his into it. whether it be a love on tour crewneck, a song of his, a one direction song, or a song about him — you loved to cover style, because.. who didn’t want to strut on a stage to a song everyone knows?

however, you weren’t aware of what they were planning when they somehow booked you in a very prestigious bar.

the dress-code for this bar was strict. your usual get-up of jeans and a crewneck — or jeans and anything, really — was vetoed before you could even ask. so, you searched through the depths and trenches of your closet until you found a black, skin-tight cocktail dress that ended right at your mid-thigh.

“seriously, babe. you know sign of the times inside and out. you’re just psyching yourself out,” one of your friends, melanie, told you.

“i know, but.. still.”

“you doubt yourself too much.”

���so you tell me everyday. now shoo! i’ve gotta be onstage in five.”

you weren’t exactly sure how you got onstage. you’re pretty sure you blacked out.

as you nervously scanned the crowd, you spoke into the mic, “hi.. my name is y/n. uh.. i’ll be singing some songs tonight. i figured since it’s christmas eve, i could sing through a few.. christmas classics or whatever. so.. yeah!”

a few people in the audience laughed at your awkwardness.

you sang through last christmas first, which really boosted your confidence. the audience was very interactive, singing, dancing, and clapping along.

you sang a few other christmas classics. santa baby, let it snow, things like that.

and then.. it was time for the section you very much dreaded. your songs.

“so.. these next few songs are songs that i wrote. they’re.. like.. my babies. so.. please be nice to them,” you laughed.

you nodded to the band. a silent signal that they could start the music.

“when you first told me about her, you said she was thirty. and i just can’t help but think.. you knew it was dirty. and maybe you were just a little sad, but there’s no excuse to lie to me like that. but when you first told me about her, you said she was thirty,” you took a deep breath before belting the chorus, “but she’s only twenty-eight. i’m not even half her age. she probably just had her first high school reunion. you’re probably the first guy she’s ever moved in with. you think that i wanna hate. but you set me up this way. so for my health i’ll be blocking your number, ‘cause you couldn’t wait till i got a bit older.”

the crowd cheered, giving you more confidence as you walked around the stage.

“and sometimes i kinda feel like i wanna forgive. but it never crossed your mind that maybe i’m still a kid. and i’m so used to being the adult. even when you say it’s not your fault. but i’m kinda getting sick and tired of crying. so please stop lying, and lying, and lying. she’s only twenty-eight. i’m not even half her age. she probably just had her first high school reunion. you’re probably the first guy she’s ever moved in with. you think that i wanna hate. but you set me up this way. so for my health i’ll be blocking your number, ‘cause you couldn’t wait till i got a bit older. to tell me she was twenty-eight.”

as the drums and electric guitar got more intense, the lights flashed different colors.

“to tell me she was twenty-eight… what the fuck is twenty-eight? you said she’s mature, so that makes it okay. and you said she likes sports, so that makes it okay. and she’s actually pretty, so that makes it okay. but there’s nothing you can say that makes twenty-eight okay.. to me.”

the crowd cheered as you lowered the mic. a smile overtook your face as you laughed.

you walked back over to the mic stand, putting the mic in the slot as a slow, piano-ballad type song started. the lights switched to a soft white.

“they’re always charismatic. and they’ll turn up the charm. their words do something magic, saying no is really hard. they’re over-generous, you’ll never pay the bills. they’ll fall in love in seconds. die for you, or probably kill. ooh. and after six months, you’ll feel really stupid. ooh. i promise that it’s not your fault you fell for it,” you shook your head, keeping your eyes closed as you sang, “‘cause.. one little fight breaks into war. feels like you’re dying on the bathroom floor. you’ll make an excuse. you’ll say that it’s you. and the mirror’s telling you it’s true. won’t leave, can’t stay. how much are you gonna take? ‘cause you’ll always take the blame. it feels like shit, but that’s just how it is. when you love a narcissist. so if you’re feeling crazy.. i wouldn’t be surprised. the only thing they’re good at’s knowing how to gaslight. then make you feel like the most beautiful in the world. while they’re sleeping with another girl. ooh. and after six months, you’ll feel really stupid. ooh. i promise that it’s not your fault you fell for it, ‘cause.. one little fight breaks into war. feels like you’re dying on the bathroom floor. you’ll make an excuse. you’ll say that it’s you. and the mirror’s telling you it’s true. won’t leave, can’t stay. how much are you gonna take? ‘cause you’ll always take the blame. it feels like shit, but that’s just how it is. ‘cause i felt like shit. so i know how it is. when you love a narcissist.”

the crowd cheered as it went straight into another song.

“when you’d yell, i would stay quiet. you never noticed i was quiet. i was taught that speaking up was talking back. always first to say, ‘i’m sorry’, ‘cause i wanted you to like me. and i thought that’s what it took to make it last. it’s a lose, lose. that i don’t choose. but you don’t always choose the ones you love. i shouldn’t have to be the bigger person. how come i have to break to keep us working? it’s always up to me, even though it shouldn’t be. i’ll take the blame the way you want me to. ‘cause that’s what i do for you. i was half of this dynamic. i was stable, you were manic. without you or with you comes with a cost. i got used to the excuses and emotional abuses. we kept moving the lines we never crossed. it’s a lose, lose that i don’t choose. but you don’t always choose the ones you love. shouldn’t have to be the bigger person. how come i have to break to keep us working? it’s always up to me, even though it shouldn’t be. i’ll take the blame the way you want me to. ‘cause that’s what i do for you. i always think it’s over, but it never really is. but i can’t get the closure when you’re like this. can we switch? maybe this time you’ll be the bigger person. ‘cause i’m getting tired of carrying all your burden. it should be up to you, but you won’t admit the truth, oh-oh. shouldn’t have to be the bigger person. how come i have to break to keep us working? it’s always up to me, even though it shouldn’t be. i’ll take the blame the way you want me to. ‘cause that’s what i do for you.”

the crowd cheered again.

“thank you! we have.. four more songs tonight. this next one is would’ve, could’ve, should’ve.”

a crew member came and slipped an electric guitar around your neck. you quietly thanked them as you cleared your throat and the music started.

“if you would’ve blinked, then i would’ve looked away at the first glance. if you tasted poison, you could’ve spit me out at the first chance. if i was some paint, did it splatter on a promising grown man? and if i was a child, did it matter? if you got to wash your hands? oh-oh, oh. all i used to do was pray. would’ve, could’ve, should’ve. if you’d never looked my way, i would’ve stayed on my knees. and i damn sure never would’ve danced with the devil at nineteen. and the god honest truth is that the pain was heaven. and now that i’m grown, i’m scared of ghosts. memories feel like weapons. and now that i know, i wish you’d left me wondering. if you never touched me, i would’ve gone along with the righteous. if i never blushed, then they could’ve never whispered about this. and if you never saved me from boredom, i could’ve gone on as i was. but, lord, you made me feel important… and then you tried to erase us. oh-oh, oh. you’re a crisis of my faith. would’ve, could’ve, should’ve. if i’d only played it safe, i would’ve stayed on my knees. and i damn sure never would’ve danced with the devil at nineteen. and the god honest truth is that the pain was heaven. and now that i’m grown, i’m scared of ghosts. memories feel like weapons. and now that i know, i wish you’d left me wondering. god rest my soul, i miss who i used to be. the tomb won’t close, stained glass windows in my mind. i regret you all the time. i can’t let this go, i fight with you in my sleep. the wound won’t close, i keep on waiting for a sign. i regret you all the time…. if clarity’s in death, then why won’t this die? years of tearing down our banners, you and i. living for the thrill of hitting you where it hurts. give me back my girlhood, it was mine first,” as you held the note, the crowd screamed.

“and i damn sure never would’ve danced with the devil. at nineteen. and the god honest truth is that the pain was heaven. and now that i’m grown, i’m scared of ghosts. memories feel like weapons. and now that i know, i wish you’d left me wondering. god rest my soul, i miss who i used to be. the tomb won’t close, stained glass windows in my mind. i regret you all the time. i can’t let this go, i fight with you in my sleep. the wound won’t close, i keep on waiting for a sign. i regret you all the time. oh, god rest my soul, i miss who i used to be. the tomb won’t close, stained glass windows in my mind. i regret you all the time. i can’t let this go, i fight with you in my sleep. the wound won’t close, i keep on waiting for a sign. i regret you all the time.”

with the final strum of your electric guitar, the crowd stood up to applaud. the crew member switched out the electric guitar for an acoustic one.

“this next one is called ceilings.”

a little bit more applause.

“.. ceilings. plaster. can’t you just make it move faster? lovely to be sitting here with you. you’re kinda cute, but it’s raining. harder. my shoes are now full of water. lovely to be rained on with you. it’s kinda cute but it’s.. so short. then you’re drivin’ me home. and i don’t wanna leave, but i have to go. you kiss me in your car. and it feels like the start of a movie i’ve seen before. before… bedsheets, no clothes. touch me like nobody else does. lovely to just lay here with you. you’re kinda cute and i would say all of this. but i don’t wanna ruin the moment. lovely to sit between comfort and chaos.. but it’s over. then you’re driving me home. and it kinda comes out as i get up to go. you kiss me in your car, and it feels like the start of a movie i’ve seen before.. but it’s not real. and you don’t exist. and i can’t recall the last time i was kissed. it hits me in the car. and it feels like the end of a movie i’ve seen before. before.”

you laughed as you saw melanie and your friends stand up in the back of the bar, dancing on stools.

“i can see my friends dancing.. so badly because they love the next song,” you laugh.

“once the flight had flown. with the wilt of the rose. i slept all alone. you still wouldn’t go. let’s fast forward to three hundred takeout coffees later. i see your profile and your smile on unsuspecting waiters. you dream of my mouth before it called you a lying traitor. you search in every maiden’s bed for something greater, baby. was it over when she laid down on your couch? was it over when he unbuttoned my blouse? ‘come here,’ i whispered in your ear in your dream as you passed out, baby. was it over then? and is it over now? when you lost control. red blood, white snow. blue dress on a boat. your new girl is my clone,” you smiled, knowing was part comes next. “and did you think i didn’t see you, there were flashing lights. at least i had the decency to keep my nights out sight. only rumors ‘bout my hips and thighs, and my whispered sighs. oh, lord. i think about jumping. off of very tall somethings. just to see you coming runnin’, runnin’. and say the one thing i’ve been wanting, but no. let’s. fast forward to three hundred awkward blind dates later. if she's got blue eyes, i will surmise that you'll probably date her. you dream of my mouth before it called you a lying traitor. you search in every model's bed for something greater, baby, was it over when she laid down on your couch? was it over when he unbuttoned my blouse? ‘come here,’ I whispered in your ear in your dream as you passed out, baby. was it over then? and is it over now? oh. oh. think i didn’t see you? there were flashing lights. at least i had the decency to keep my nights out sight. only rumors ‘bout my hips and thighs, and my whispered sighs. oh, lord. i think about jumping. off of very tall somethings. just to see you coming runnin’, runnin’. and say the one thing i’ve been wanting, but no. let’s fast forward to three hundred takeout coffees later. oh. i was hoping you’d be there. and say the one thing i’be been wanting… but no.”

another round of applause as you passed off the guitar.

“so.. this song is not my song. i am.. very nervous for this, but.. this is sign of the times.”

you closed your eyes tightly as the music started, “just stop your crying, it’s a sign of the times. welcome to the final show. hope you're wearing your best clothes. you can't bribe the door on your way to the sky. you look pretty good down here. but you ain't really good.. we never learn, we been here before. why are we always stuck and running from the bullets? the bullets? we never learn, we been here before. why are we always stuck and running from the bullets? the bullets? … just stop your crying it’s a sign of the times. we gotta get away from here. we gotta get away from here. just stop your crying, it’ll be alright. they told me that the end is near. we gotta get away from here. just stop your crying, have the time of your life. breaking through the atmosphere, and things are pretty good from here. remember everything will be alright. we can meet again somewhere. somewhere far away from here.. we never learn, we been here before. why are we always stuck and running from the bullets? the bullets? we never learn, we been here before. why are we always stuck and running from the bullets? the bullets? just stop your crying. it’s a sign of the times. we gotta get away from here. we gotta get away from here. stop your crying, baby, it'll be alright. they told me that the end is near we gotta get away from here. we never learn, we been here before. why are we always stuck and running from the bullets? the bullets?” you finally opened your eyes, trying to find melanie, but instead, you find the last person you expected to be here.

the man whose song you’re literally singing.

harry was slightly weary when an over-excited girl with light pink hair came up to him and asked him — begged him, really — to come to her best friends show. he wasn’t sure what convinced him. or what possessed him to bring his mother and gemma along with him.

but he had to say, he didn’t.. regret it.

you were pretty — extremely pretty. and you were a crazy good singer. he was pretty sure you were singing his song better than him.

you swallowed your nerves as you sang the chorus and bridge, keeping eye contact even though you felt like shitting your pants. “we never learn, we been here before. why are we always stuck and running from the bullets? the bullets? we don't talk enough. we should open up. before it's all too much. will we ever learn? we've been here before. it's just what we know. stop your crying, baby. it's a sign of the times. we gotta get away. we got to get away..” you finally looked away, closing your eyes. “we got to get away. we got to get away. we got to get away. we got to, we got to, away. we got to, we got to, away. we got to, we got to, away.”

you let out a shaking exhale as the song ended, backing up from the mic. you bowed and blew kisses to the audience before practically sprinting offstage.

to: mel x

WHAT THE FUCK MELANIE WHY THE FUCK DID INJUST MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH HARRY STYLES WHILE SINGING SIGN OF THE TIMES IM GONNA KILL

MY

SELF.

from: mel xx

NOOO I INVITED HIM ITS FINE

to: mel xx

you

what.

from: mel xx

I SAW HIM A WEEK AFTER WE BOOKED YOU THE GIG AND MIGHT HAVE BEGGED HIM TO COME BECAUSE I KNOW YOU WANT TO MEET HIM AND WHAT BETTER WAY THAN THIS

to: mel xx

oh i dunno

ANY OTHER WAY?

from: mel xx

BABE IT IS FINE

HE BROUGHT HIS MUM AND GEMMA TOO

to: mel xx

WHAG

from: mel xx

HE SAID HE LOVED IT AND U WERE OHENOMENAL

NOW GET OUT HERE AND MEET HIM

after taking ten minutes to breath, you walked over to the bar, finding melanie pretty easily.

“i love you so much for playing is it over now!”

“i played it just for you and your psycho obsession with it,” you laughed as she yanked you into a hug.

you two pulled away, and you turned around when you felt a presence behind you.

your eyes widened when you were face to face with harry fucking styles.

“hey.. y/n, right?”

you blinked a few times… that couldn’t be real. this was most definitely a prank.

“.. are you alright?”

“yes! sorry, i’m.. yeah, i’m good. hi, yeah. i’m.. y/n.”

he smiled at you, “i’m harry. but.. you seem to already know that, since y’sang my song and all.”

“i.. yeah, i do know who you are,” you laugh awkwardly.

“well, i’m glad to know who you are as well.”

you had to bit your lip to keep from smiling like a psycho.

“oh, and uh.. happy christmas,” he smiled.

you furrowed your brows, grabbing your phone.

12:01, 25 december 2018

happy christmas, indeed.

a/n: edging 😛 LMAO this might get another part, it lowk just depends on how well it does!!

#harry #harry au #harry styles au #harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles fic #ficmas 2023 #harry styles ficmas #harry styles one shot #harry styles oneshot #hs #harry styles imagine #harry fic #harry imagine #harry oneshot #christmas #singer!reader #fan!reader #harry x reader

[ykiwrite]

the tempest

desc: library date and the struggles of keeping you a secret

warnings: fluff, bit angst, suggestive

words: ~1k

"Hear my soul speak; The very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service,"

Jenna recited as she walked on the same left-to-right line envisioned in her head for half an hour now.

Hands floating around her like she's on the real stage, acting in front of thousands of eyes. Truly, it was only yours.

The ordeal was to visit a library, borrow a book her director reportedly told her and head home. Well, that was a lie.

You found yourself stranded in a small, local library for longer than intended. Only two of you and the librarian lady, unaware of the third wheeling role she holds. Every now and then the bell rang signaling another visitor. Considering how long you've been here, it started to be a less frequent occurrence.

Sitting in the very corner far from entrance, made you lose track of time. The sun is probably setting by now and air was getting colder.

"The more you do this the more i think he did not ask you to read Shakespeare and practice the lines. You made it up."

"Wherefore would i ever?" she asked giving you shocked glare, hand covering her mouth.

"You can drop Shakespeare act, love." You told her through a laugh that passed onto her.

Closing the book, she sat down opposite of you. Her legs routinely tangling up with yours for the sake of the much needed contact. Placing hands on the table that's occupied with couple of books, your bags and headphones, Jenna said;

"It's a pretty good date idea, you gotta give me credit for it."

"Aha, so it was a date?" You sat straight up, confidently claiming the victory of your suspicions.

"Why else would i quote Shakespeare other than to set the mood?"

Sliding back down the wall behind you, with raised brow you repeated herself "To set the mood?"

Feeling as if you pressed the wrong button by looking at her shoulders drop. The liveliness she had a minute ago was getting replaced by a thing less merrier.

"We both know for the past, what? Few weeks we barely left the apartment together. Let alone do anything else except binge watch and take up entire couch."

The tone that she set sounded shattering enough. Her expression only added more damage. Entirely distracted by the rings on her fingers, which she kept twirling around. The feeling of guilt settling in was harsh so you spoke,

"You know i don't mind. I never did. You have a movie to work on, it's not like you can ditch it." Letting your hand grab hers in hopes of stopping the nervous fidgeting.

Fixated on both of your hands now collided, Jenna was not yet ready to look up.

"I know that but it still feels like it's not good enough. I wish there wasn't camera in my face the second i step outside."

A short pause she offered made you alert of how quiet the library is. It's what Jenna wanted all along. A place that provided the same thing your home did. No prying eyes, no shouting, less fans and more of you which lacked.

With everything that came attached to her line of work, places and times like this were becoming something to get used to it. Whether you like it or not. And if she's in question, there's not a thing you couldn't bare.

"I wish it could simply be you and me sometimes. Just like before all of this."

The way she looked, on the thread to break and like an open book only you can read, you did not let time slip away.

With a quick motion of your feet making way over, her arms opened ahead of time welcoming you. Apology that got lost in your sweater didn't go unheard. "Don't be sorry" you reassured quietly.

Tracing patterns in short hair of hers, you laid a kiss on top of it. After making sure you're not going anywhere, you felt the grip around you loosen.

"God, you're the best." Wiping the tears remained accompanied by a few sniffs. "Seriously, i know i might talk a bit to much about Gwendoline but-"

"Jenna," pulling her arms away that hid her face, "you don't have to make excuses." Both faces looking at eachother, eyes pursuing every outline visible under this budget library light hanging from above.

Making a swipe with your thumb just below her eye, you whispered "I love you. Don't think i don't just because we're busy. At the end of the day, you're coming home to me, right?"

As if there was no energy left to form an answer, Jenna shyly nodded "Yeah. I am."

Flooded by the tension created, wondering if it goes both ways left Jenna with only one way of discovering.

"I love you too."

With a pull of your collar, she moved you forward to close the already small distance between. Lips landing on hers and she swore no movie scene compares to this.

No thoughts except the need to prove you how incredibly cherished, loved and addicting you are. Pulling away for a split second, not nearly enough to catch a breath she kissed you once again. Evidently with more passion and lust.

Recognizing the latter, you leaned in deeper. Allowing yourself to become completely absorbed in her act. An act which had two possible outcomes.

Bodies swaying back and forward, Jenna was the first to break the kiss, only to capture the side of your neck. Lost in pleasure, your head thrown back made the book from the shelf behind fall. The noise meant nothing to Jenna but you hopelessly attempted to form a sentence.

"Jenna, maybe here is not the best idea-" as you interrupted yourself with a moan caused by her doings.

Her fingers messing around with the waistband of your pants made you completely spiral. If you let her go now any further, you might not get another chance to stop her at all.

"Jenna, we're in library. Someone might come and see us."

Her only response was a hum, meaning she didn't even acknowledge what you just said.

With the sound of the first button being loose, you used force to move her head so she looks at you. Not before connecting your lips once more, this time more gently. Knowing it will barely bring her back to earth. It was worth a shot, though.

Sigh. "Fine, but i'm calling an Uber so we get home faster." She stated breathless, in annoyed spirit.

You smiled, observing her rapid packing up of the contents on the table. So eager to leave, you thought.

"Whatever you say."

notes: here i go again, i cant with her, she ruined my life completely (sarcastically or not)

#jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega imagine #jenna ortega #jenna ortega imagines

[muiitoloko]

Kingsman Chronicles

Summary: Amidst Christmas festivities, a mischievous Eggsy attempts to play matchmaker between Harry and the reader, strategically placing mistletoe to encourage a romantic moment.

Pairing: Harry Hart (Kingsman)× fem!Reader

Warning: none.

In the festive glow of Christmas lights, Harry's house buzzed with warmth and laughter as Merlin, Eggsy, and You gathered to celebrate the holiday. The scent of pine and cinnamon filled the air, and a crackling fireplace added to the cozy atmosphere.

Merlin, clad in a Christmas sweater adorned with geeky references, raised his glass. "To a successful year and a well-deserved break," he toasted, a twinkle in his eye.

Eggsy, sporting a festive jumper that may or may not have had a bit too much eggnog spilled on it, chimed in. "Cheers to that, mate. And to Harry, for surviving another year of saving the world."

Amidst the festive atmosphere, Harry and You found themselves entangled in the unspoken dance of mutual affection. Both hesitant to confess their feelings, a palpable tension lingered between them, amplified by the Christmas spirit that enveloped the room.

Eggsy, with his own version of holiday cheer and a mischievous glint in his eye, decided to take matters into his own hands. Fueled by the idea of bringing you and Harry closer, he hatched a plan involving strategically placed mistletoe.

First, Eggsy attempted to discreetly place mistletoe over the doorway, hoping that Harry and You would walk beneath it. However, Merlin noticed the attempt and shook his head, muttering about subtlety.

As the festive atmosphere continued, Eggsy's determination to play cupid remained unyielding. Unbeknownst to Harry and You, he discreetly placed another mistletoe near the Christmas tree, hoping to create an opportune moment.

Merlin, observing Eggsy's antics, sighed but decided to play along. "You know, subtlety is an art form," he commented, his tone dry.

Eggsy winked, mischief dancing in his eyes. "Well, Merlin, sometimes you gotta be a bit bold with matters of the heart."

Meanwhile, Harry and You found yourselves drawn closer, the holiday cheer creating a magnetic pull. The unspoken tension lingered, a dance of emotions beneath the surface.

As the clock struck midnight, signaling the arrival of Christmas Day, the twinkling lights cast a magical glow over the room. Eggsy, seizing the moment, decided to make a grand gesture.

"Everyone, gather 'round! It's time for the annual Christmas karaoke!" Eggsy declared, orchestrating a diversion to lead Harry and You to the strategically placed mistletoe.

As the group joined in the festivities, you found yourself standing beside Harry, the mistletoe hanging above like a subtle invitation. A knowing smile passed between you, acknowledging the unspoken connection.

Eggsy, ever the enthusiastic matchmaker, winked at Merlin, who simply shook his head in bemusement. The stage was set for a moment that could potentially bridge the gap between Harry's duty as a Kingsman and the vulnerability of his heart.

Eggsy pointed to the mistletoe with a mischievous grin. "Come on, you two! Tradition's tradition, innit?" he urged, fully embracing the role of the festive instigator.

Harry, feeling the weight of the situation, attempted to gracefully sidestep the expected kiss, insisting that it didn't mean anything. However, Eggsy, fueled by the spirit of Christmas and a dash of mischief, wouldn't hear of it. "Nah, Harry, you can't go breakin' tradition. We're all expectin' it!"

Merlin, usually the voice of reason, surprisingly sided with Eggsy, adding, "Indeed. Tradition must be maintained."

Harry, shooting an exasperated look at Merlin, contemplated how to navigate the awkward scenario. He sensed your discomfort, silently pleading with his eyes for some sort of intervention.

As the group playfully urged Harry to fulfill the Christmas tradition, you surprised everyone, especially Harry, by grabbing his face and pressing a quick, almost chaste kiss to his lips. It was a gesture that held a hint of enchantment, leaving Harry momentarily captivated.

You pulled away, a sheepish smile playing on your lips. Harry, however, found himself pursuing your lips for a moment longer, the unexpected connection stirring a mix of emotions within him.

He, still under the lingering spell of the unexpected kiss, found himself leaning in for another, only to be interrupted by Eggsy's exuberant antics. As Eggsy pulled Harry away, calling him a stud and advising him to save the celebration for a more private moment, you blushed and playfully hit Eggsy on the arm.

"Eggsy, you're ruining the moment!" you exclaimed, laughter bubbling in your voice.

Harry, still caught in the whirlwind of emotions, shot Eggsy a mock stern look. "You have a knack for impeccable timing, Eggsy."

Eggsy, undeterred, grinned. "Just lookin' out for you, mate. But seriously, save the romance for when Merlin and I make our exit. We don't need to witness all that lovey-dovey stuff."

Merlin, observing the playful exchange, raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure if I should be concerned or entertained."

Harry, regaining his composure, chuckled. "Let's indulge Eggsy's theatrics for a bit, and then we can have our private celebration."

As Eggsy continued to tease, Harry stole a glance at you, a spark of affection in his eyes. The interruption couldn't dampen the connection that had sparked beneath the mistletoe. The promise of a more intimate celebration lingered in the air, creating a warmth that transcended the festive chaos.

#harry hart #kingsman secret service #harry hart x reader #kingsman #kingsman fanfiction #eggsy unwin #merlin #christmas #harry x eggsy #colin firth x reader #colin firth

[1800titz]

HI FRIENDS. 18K here!! This time we explore breaks, because sometimes they are necessary! Also, we see Jealousrry, and we see Isla being Isla. Hope you enjoy!! (Feedback always appreciated!) (✿◠‿◠)

PREVIOUS PARTS HERE - WATTPAD ALTERNATIVE HERE

Open houses, to Harry, are a stage, and the gift of his gab leaves him basking in the luster of the spotlight with no stage fright. 

First time home buyers, young couples waltzing through hallways with gazes bouncing over walls with demure decorum, families with young kids who run amuck, darting from one end of the house to the other as he guides their parents through empty rooms, his dialogue friendly and bright — he finds comfort in any audience. Divorced milfs whose heels click over tile, mimicking wood varnish, trailing behind as his silver tongue sells, and sells, and sells — some of those really find his dialogue of “sleek, floor to ceiling windows,” and the “flowing floor plan,” and “custom built additions,” charming enough for hungry fingers to creep against biceps by the end of the tour. 

Harry, never in his life, has had so many nerves over a tour. Maybe just his very first open house, where he’d taken the reins for the first time alone. 

It makes sense, theoretically, that he’d be nervous to become enclosed in a space with Isla Cleery — his masked, blissfully unaware submissive, in a setting where so much was prone to go awry. It makes sense that he’d be nervous to let something slip, that he’d be nervous he’d find himself fucking into her, pressing her face against a full length bathroom mirror mid-tour, like the climax (pun unintended) to a dirty storyline in a professionally produced porno. Young, Hot Slut Isla Cleery Bounces on Raunchy Realtor Cock, or maybe Adorable Brunette Gets Pussy Pounding for a Discount. Something like that. That last one is especially depraved, but — gotta add some form of sordid cliche to create a flashy title. Click bait, if you will.

It makes sense to be nervous when his nerves are all he can think about, sitting behind the wheel of his Range Rover, parked on the curb as he waits for her own vehicle to turn the corner and pull up to the property. It’s all sort of a vicious cycle. 

She’d called him two days prior. He’d been laying in bed, in the midst of his Candy Crush bedtime ritual — culling ice tiles and smashing colorful blocks with point-inducing combos of stripes and wrappers. He’d stared at his phone as the LED display sparked alive with a banner over the top of the screen — an incoming call from an unsaved phone number. A pinch had worked between his brows, and he’d tapped over the banner with the pad of his thumb, clearing his throat and pressing the phone to his ear as he answered. A business call was a business call. 

“Hello?” his voice was low with incoming sleep, his vocal cords supplying a rasp on account of the silence he’d priorly stalled in. 

The pace of the organ behind his rib cage had picked up considerably when Isla Cleery’s soft voice had come in response, her cadence tinny through the speaker, undeniably delectable. 

“Hey!” his ears had swallowed her chime, “Harry,” the man had shifted a bit over his linen sheets, “This is Isla Cleery.” 

Isla Cleery. Bright, and chipper, and …randomly dialing his number at a strange hour in the night.

“Isla! Hi,” he’d responded, clearing his throat to curtail tacking on a quip of how can I assist you at this ungodly hour?

The uneasy wavelength of her inflection had spurred a crease to work over his brow bone — rushed, and breathy, and almost frantic in its phrasing. 

“Hi,” a pause, a half-hearted apology, “Listen, I’m so sorry to be calling you so late but — ah,” a stifled, little sound that had caused his nostrils to flare and had sent an inopportune rush of excitement slithering through to the trench of his tummy and frothing, “So, you sent me this other property, and I wanted to — I wanted to see that one. The one on, Mul-Mulner, was it?”

“Mulnich,” he’d gnawed into his lip, sitting up a smidge, braced on his forearm as his curiosity piqued. 

“Yes, the, uh, the Mulnich property. I wanted to see that one. So,” another pause that had his face contorting in bemusement — (was she running on a fucking treadmill?), “Can we set that up?”

The man had pulled the receiver back and toggled his counterpart to leak through the speaker setting, rolling onto his side as he’d swiped through his virtual calendar. 

“Sure. Yeah. Let me just check,” Harry had supplied, pausing and pursing his lips as he’d just listened — background noise, like a TV, a rustle, a sigh, a laugh track, an inhale, “Does Wednesday at two work for you?” 

“Can’t — can’t. Wednesday, at two. Anything — can you do anything later? In the evening, maybe?”

Harry had paused. He’d paused, and just listened, his ears working on overdrive to attempt to decipher whatever was spurring her strange behavior, the note of apprehension of her cadence, the — was he going insane? — desperation to her dialogue. There’d been nothing but the familiarity of a common laugh track and shuffling. His pupils had perused as he’d ripped his attention off of the odd display and swiped to give her a proper appointment. 

“Yeah,” the man responded after a moment of lull, clearing his throat, “I can do …five? If that works for you.” 

“Yes! Yeah,” He’d picked up on Isla Cleery doing the same on the other end of the line, her speech giddy and garbled, “Five. Wednesday. Yes. So, I can — I can come?” 

His jaw had set at the choice of words — there was just no way, but the frenzy in her inflection so vividly resembled the way she’d begged him back in the White Room, days prior. There was no way, he’d told himself. She didn’t have the gall. She didn’t have the audacity. She was working him into a ludicrous frenzy — or rather, he was working himself into one with the lewd train of thought derailing his composure. 

There was no way Isla Cleery was calling him and touching herself. 

“To see the property?” the voice on the other end had tacked on, coaxing him from the zoned out thrill of a wild imagination. 

“Yeah, yes. Of course,” he’d said. 

There was just no fucking way. 

More shuffling. A garbled sound. Something that’d incited his teeth to dig into his bottom lip, to sit up as he was met with silence beyond the sounds of a TV. 

“Isla?” 

More shuffling. There was just—

No. Fucking. Way. 

He’d felt his own stomach clenching up then, muscles rippling as blood pumped and the familiarity of deluded arousal, at the prospect, suffusing through his veins like quick-acting alcohol. 

“Isla?” Harry had prodded again, louder. 

“Yes, sorry, I’m so sorry. God, I just saw the time — I’m sorry, it was so unprofessional of me to call so late. I hope I didn’t—“ his face twisted up at the breathless onslaught of her breakless cadence, like her speech was expelled all in one, rushed breath, “Thank you for taking my call. Wednesday at Five. Have a good night.” 

His mouth had parted to inquire, because what the fuck — but from there, a click. The green logo of an active phone call had vanished. She’d hung up, evidently in a rush. Harry had stared up at his ceiling for a solid twenty minutes, ruminating on the odd encounter. 

There was, simply, as previously emphasized, no fucking way. 

So yeah, now, with his bare fingertips drumming over the leather of his steering wheel, he’s a smidge nervous to see her. His innards are twisting into knots by the time he catches sight of her white Corolla slipping in against the curb behind him. Harry climbs out of the car. 

“Hi,” Isla Cleery talks first. 

There’s no dainty bell sleeves trapped in car doors today — a pencil skirt hugs her hips, and a long sleeve with a funnel neckline adorns her torso. Harry notes the way she nonchalantly tugs to further lower a sleeve on the arm where he knows the bangle is manacled. 

“You’ve renounced …your renouncement of heels,” is the first thing he says. He wants to smack himself square between the brows with the heel of his palm — what an inane start. 

“Oh,” Isla shoots a glance to her choice of footwear — smart (Harry thinks, spiffy), dark pumps, “Yeah,” she bends a knee back and lifts an ankle a smidge, “Sort of had to. Felt a little weird wearing a pencil skirt with flats.” 

“And,” the young woman casts a small simper his way, “No evil grates, as of yet. Fingers crossed,” she lifts her arm, the left, where the bracelet isn’t, and bares friendly teeth. 

Evil grates …what the fuck? Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking, her inner voice coaxes frantically. 

Isla is dying inside. For good reason — it makes sense. Being enclosed in a space, casually, with her dominant un-dominant-clad, has this weird butterfly-eruption effect. They bounce against her insides aimlessly, like little crack-infused insects. She’s nervous to let something slip — anything, and it’s too easy considering she’s been cuffed by a bracelet that sort of gives it all away within a split-second flash of gold and secrets. 

She’s unsure of what succubus-like tendencies of the day had possessed her to abandon her panties — that had been a dirty, last-minute decision of thrill, and it had seemed filthily exciting and sort of dangerous in the best way. The idea of ambling through a house tour with Harry, and knowing that she was entirely bare beneath her skirt. But now, faced by him, obnoxiously aware of her nude thighs grazing together under the fabric and … only …more debauched nudeness higher, well. 

Isla just feels like a pervert.

It bears resemblance to the sensation she had encountered two days prior, once she’d hung up the phone (and the sex-haze had worn off). That was another thing she was nervous about. There’s no way the man had just glossed over the encounter as entirely unsuspicious. It was weird, she was weird for that, Isla thought, she was weird on the phone with a stuttery, breathy inflection that was obnoxious in give-away, and he definitely knew something was off, if not the entire background behind the lust-driven call.  

She clears her throat in an attempt to ward off the flurry of nervous apprehension coiling in her stomach (that she’s sure will find its way among her vocal cords), “But. Yeah.” 

Harry grins. He’s just so — Isla ogles, kind of dreamily — handsome. And she knows him on an intimate level, (a very intimate level), but these glimpses of his face, in person… she doesn’t get the pleasure of espying those often. His hair, coiled and placed in soft ringlets, his dimples burrowing as teeth showcase and his mouth lights alive with a smile. Last time he’d been clean-shaven and smooth, but today there’s a soft dusting of facial hair over his jaw. She wants to kiss him, she wants to feel it brush against her own face, wants to feel it graze over her inner thighs as he sucks kisses into her skin like affectionate bruises as proof of his presence, and—

“Please,” the man folds his palms together, like a prayer, and pillowy pink curves with his statement, “No …impromptu rope swing climbing—“

Isla’s mouth jolts.

“In heels,” Harry tacks on, raising his eyebrows and gesturing subtly with his palms. 

“Ooh,” she rocks forward a bit, a pinch in her own brows, “Can’t make any promises. The rope swing calls.” 

“Oh it does?” 

“Siren song,” Isla nods. 

Harry’s mouth quirks. And then he clears his throat. 

“Well. I’m pleased you’re interested in viewing another property with me, but I can’t lie and say I’m not a bit disappointed that Sweeger Avenue didn’t particularly catch your eye. I’ll have to buy it if you don’t,” the curly-headed brunette jests. 

“It did!” Isla assuages, motioning with her palm and following as he turns slowly — a gesture that indicates he’d like her to follow in the direction of the house, “It’s a beautiful house, I’m just keeping my options open.” 

Harry hums. The young woman’s heels sink softly into the lawn, bright, neatly trimmed tufts crinkling with each step.

“Watch your step, there, darling,” the realtor warns softly as they venture over a pattern of concrete stone that leads up to the porch. 

“Oh — thank you.” 

She adds, once they’re stood under the awning of the porch, “And, well, you gave such a good tour, I figured another property in my price range was worth a look, right?” 

“Right,” he sends a soft grin over his shoulder at her (that shrouds the nerves he feels teeming below the surface), “Sure. Of course.” 

Isla watches him unveil a little key from his pocket and stuff it into the notch in the knob, twisting. “I will say,” the man starts, gaze cast to his handiwork, “while this one isn’t as… maybe ritzy as the last — y’know, all the bells and whistles of the reno’s — there’s still a lot of potential with this one. Character.” 

The door creaks and clicks on its hinges as it swings open. Isla follows him in, greeted by the sight of what she imagines, once upon a time, had been pasted with warm hues of color and overbearing wallpaper patterns. The entryway, as the first showing had been, is no showstopper with elegant twin staircases. The wood beneath her feet is scuffed, and faint stains litter the walls near the baseboards — but it’s far from time forgotten and termite embraced, as she’d assumed would tail the realtor lingo of potential. 

“Three bed, two-and-a-half bath — little more space with 2,052 square feet. Little more out of pocket, too, if you wanted to amp it up to that sort of à la mode Sweeger had,” the realtor’s shoes click over the wood in a sound that just oozes power, power, power, and Isla tails him, vision walloping the walls to curb the hunger that grows within her at something as innocuous as the sound of his dress shoes on wooden floors, “but if not, there’s loads of character to enjoy and build upon.”

The young woman sneaks a glance — they’re no serpentine patched loafers, but they’re smooth and glossy and jet. Simple. 

She wonders what pair will greet her on Friday night. 

“This one’s a bit newer than the last — but a lot of this stuff is original. Really a step back in time. Very open concept — vaulted floor to ceiling floor plan,” her vision flits over the living area, his velvety cadence like a pre-rehearsed soundtrack to fit a virtual tour posted on the web.

Isla gazes over the expanse of the innards — replicas of the imagery she’d scrolled through online. Only now, the lines are larger, the shapes are prettier, the space is more vibrant. Personal. It’s lived in — furnishings remain of the sellers, but there are no personalized touches of family photos (a key factor, she’d learned, to bolster prospective buyer imaginations, to spur their mental imagery into forming their own space). A half wall breaks a living area off from the entry. Set upon a platform (where tile sweeps from lounge to kitchen; a drab shade of beige others would perhaps not find nearly as endearing as Isla does — it’s a nostalgia thing, she’s sure) — between the wooded entryway that flows into an empty expanse of doors — are armchairs and a sectional in neutral tones. Beyond this, a formal dining area, and on the end is a little kitchen, broken apart from a hallway with another wall. 

“We’ve got these sleek lines that come with open space like this,” Harry gestures towards the sculpt of plaster and drywall shaping lips over windows in the lounge, “but we’ve also got little touches, like a time capsule,” he twists, motioning towards the staircase — an interesting piece unforeseen, “like the spiral staircase. White wrought-iron with wood paneling — you’re not gonna find these being built very often, anymore.”

Upon the grin the realtor casts her way, Isla ambles towards it, and she runs her touch over the railing. 

“Really pretty. You’re right. I don’t see many of these anymore.” 

Her sight is torn between the man — his charismatic demeanor, his good looks — and the space as he continues, lucratively well-versed, “I’m sure you note there’s no overbearing pops of color, or wallpaper that’s wasting away, since I told you it wasn’t all that renovated. Carpet’s been ripped up,” he slides the toe of his shoe over the wooden floorboards, a dark, warm chocolate, and then his hand comes to rap softly over the short wall dividing the kitchen from an expanse of hallway with doors as jade reaffixes onto her, “and the walls were repainted by previous buyers. All original wood and tiling, though.”

As Isla steps onto the platform, she regards chips in laminate. Yes. Original. 

“Between you and me,” her head twists — a friendly simper plays over the realtor’s cushiony (intimately familiar) lips, “I think that was a good choice. Versatile. But the rest, like these gorgeous light fixtures — all original,” he nudges towards the dining area behind her, and Isla pivots to face the table, “‘83, I believe.”

A bundle of two lanterns, elongated like cylinders with tapered ends. They hang over the table, a darling focus point. 

Isla peers back over just as the man’s tongue peeks out to slick his mouth, “But my favorite’s in the kitchen.”

Eagerly, she makes her way forward, where the kitchen lays, open for her exploration. It’s no showstopper. She gets it now — his sugared warning of original pieces. And it’s not like the kitchen is this heinous sight, but it’s timeworn. An outdated shade of mustard hugs the countertops, and the cabinetry is stale and dinged. Scratches and blemishes stain almost plastic-y looking white. The appliances look to be about forty years old — which adds up, according to the timeline. But there’s an island. It’s beautiful, and broad, and even if Isla has no interest in piling it with culinary disasters, it’s still pleasant ken. She finds that on the opposite side of that wall is a pantry. 

“I don’t know what to do with a kitchen like this,” her pink (gloriously fuckable, Harry thinks) mouth jolts as a smile slithers over, “It’s so. Large.” 

“You don’t cook?” 

Her irises roll up to the ceiling with her soft smile, “I microwave. TV dinners, mostly. I can put frozen waffles in a toaster, too. Maybe scramble an egg, but there’s no guarantee there won’t be shell in the mix.” 

It’s sort of funny, Harry thinks — the way polar opposites attract. Like magnets, he supposes. Really, very horribly horny magnets. He can’t remember the last time he had a frozen waffle. 

“But I guess I’ll have to learn, with an island like this,” Isla sighs and gestures. 

Well, if you’re ever in need of a taste tester… Harry bridles his flirty quip. Instead, he shows her what lies behind the doors of the hallway, the rooms downstairs. A half bath, a bedroom scantily furnished — an office, for her, perhaps. 

“You said you were a paralegal last time, right?” he cocks his head back at her over his shoulder as he leads the way, and Isla tries not to feel the warmth the remembrance of the minute detail ignites. 

Of course he remembered. It was his job. She bites her tongue to curb the instinctive, “Yes, Sir.” 

“I am, yeah.” 

“Lot’s of research and a work-from-home, after-hours situation, you said, last time? I think the study on this property will be very suited to your needs.” 

A laundry room, the entrance to the garage, a slow amble back towards the staircase. Ah, the staircase. The young woman feels a burnishing blush suffuse over her cheekbones when the male gestures with an open palm — an invitation for her to go on ahead of him. But there’s that little …no panties …thing. Her legs shift. Her skirt brushes against the back of her knees. There’s no probable likelihood of a flash, she’s sure. Still, that ruddiness glows over her skin as she takes the cautious, first step. She feels ludicrously lewd. 

“Wouldn’t want you to get your heel caught,” the realtor states, strawberry mouth twitching. 

No, that would certainly cause far more than a glimpse of a flash. 

“Truly a gentleman,” Isla quips, and by the time she’s wound halfway up, Harry only a couple of steps behind, she tacks on, “God. It really is sort of a scary set of stairs.” 

“Climbing a rickety rope swing is scary,” Harry scoffs from behind, his cadence lighthearted. 

A hallway with a landing that allows for a gaze upon the first story. A wall of doors. A bathroom with an unsightly, pink tub. A cozy original with old-world-charm, according to the realtor; definitely creative wording, Isla thinks. 

“Master bedroom,” the man slips the final door open, and Isla’s irises bounce from window to window — they suffuse the room with what she imagines would be bright, refreshing daylight. Now, it comes in the form of a warm, yellow glow with the time of day. 

“Very roomy,” she comments. It is. The square footage of the space, she’s sure, has to be roomier than the master bedroom of the first showing, but perhaps the emphasis on the broadness of the space has to do with the sheer fact that the first showing had been bare, and this room holds furniture — even still, the space is bigger. Despite the queen sized bed, throned by the waxy, wooden headboard, the nightstands that mirror either side of the mattress, and the matching wooden dresser, the space is open. 

“S’no reno’d Sweeger Ave,” the realtor supplies, wandering a handful of steps behind her as she makes her way into the room, “But it’s roomy, like you said. Bright. Beautiful windows — lots of light. Can you imagine yourself here?” 

It’s a queen sized bed. Isla is not wearing panties, and she’s reminded of this particular fact as she stares at it and imagines Eros bending her over the edge of the mattress. She thinks of Harry’s chest pressing up behind her as his broad, ring-clad digits slide over her waist, settle on her stomach. She thinks of his mouth pasting to the crook of her neck, sponging kisses over the expanse of her skin as his soft breaths caress her nerve endings. She thinks of him walking her forward, his crotch glued to her hips. She thinks of fingers grappling for wrists and a firm grip as he manhandles the joints behind her back with ease. She thinks of him flipping her skirt up and discovering that she’s bare beneath it, thinks of a palm fondling, of croons in her ear on what a filthy, naughty girl she is, of his fingers slipping lower and his teeth grazing over her neck and—

“Great room, innit?” 

Her eyes flash to him at a dangerous speed, his words from the prior week hurtling through her mind as he tells her, tone entirely innocuous, “But I think there’s something missing.” 

An ottoman, the young woman thinks, her expression kept impressively neutral, all things considered. An ottoman.

“Accent wall there, long curtains with a sheer layering, different furniture set — contemporary, I’d go with, a rug,” the male taps his foot over a stark area of the floorboards, just ahead of the footboard of the bed, “Nice shag rug. Right here.” 

Shag rug. 

Shag rug — textile characterized by longer, heavier pile, so as to have the appearance of being shaggy. Isla imagines a white rug in tufts, warding her brain from mental images of the man physically shagging her on said rug. Yes. These are all very …compelling suggestions.

“Mhm,” Isla hums curtly. 

“And, y’know, all this light lets the room whisper sweet nothings about the beauties of the approaching day, but I think, the view,” he takes slow steps over chocolate wood to tug blinds open, “beckons sleepless nights.” 

Sleepless nights — Isla is going to wring her own neck. Despite the arousal that seeps through her at the dirty-fucking-twist of insinuation, she makes her way to his side for a peer. Beyond the horizon of plains and landscaping lies skyscrapers — the city a blip of scenery with the sky as its backdrop. 

“Oh.” 

“Mm. Really pretty at night, I’d think.”

“It’s a …good thing I have a strong constitution for sleepless nights,” Isla swallows, “I’m sure the view will keep me entertained.” 

Harry steals a soft glance, down at her side profile. He’s bridled his flirtish nature, he’s restrained his quips. He’s bent over backwards for sanctity. But—

“If you ever find yourself in need of a midnight conversation partner, you know who to call.” 

The young woman peers up at him through her lashes. It’s a blatant implication of her untimely phone call two days prior. He’s teasing. He has to be simply teasing. But the way his mouth twitches, the way his eyes fix on her — there’s something… something beyond innocent jest. 

“Offering your services as a nocturnal conversationalist?” she tries to keep the nervous note from her cadence as she takes a step away — he had to be flirting. “I’m a lucky girl.” 

“Real estate agent by day, midnight talk-show host by night. I’m a man of many talents,” the curly-headed brunette shrugs, digging ring-adorned fingers halfway into pockets of slacks. A soft smile plays over his soft mouth. It’s all sort of lascivious. Isla wants to clamber back onto a stranger's bed in a master bedroom that doesn’t belong to her, and she wants to ogle his reflection glint at her from the waxy headboard as his hips pump forward. As his cock pummels into her. A warmth pulses between her thighs, beneath her pencil skirt. 

The reminder of her arousal, left in a dried stain post her drive home, confronts her as she strips in the confines of her apartment, alone, nearly two hours later. 

Harry is not a green-eyed monster. 

Which is an irony, because in the realm of indulge, there’s more than a handful of people who would confidently deem him with that pretty title. 

Perhaps, better phrasing (that wouldn’t allow for the claim to be twisted by unruly, prior play partners), would be that Harry is not innately a jealous man. He’s a sure man, a man who knows his ambitions and aims — bluntly so. He’s a man that doesn’t like to share during scenes, but he’s upfront and honest about it. There’s no games, no teetering tugs and yanks on strings of emotions. He’s not a man that is known to ooze green at the sight of his partner fraternizing with someone else, and he’s definitely not the type of man to care about those things in any context outside of Indulge. 

A person is a person — their own person. That’s not his thing to fuck with. Harry is not a green-eyed monster that bleeds envy with begrudging glances. 

The sight of Isla Cleery, though, shrouded by her commonplace lace, leant up against the bar, in the midst of lively chatter with some shirtless dom adorned by an eye-cover with plastic-y tufts of horns — that culls an odd reaction from him. It’s strange — she’s early. He always shows before her to reserve the room of the night, and she arrives and waits in an obedient kneel until he opts to join her. But she’s early — she’s at the bar, and he’s just booked the room (The White Room, tonight). Harry nearly misses the sight of the interaction altogether. 

But he doesn’t — she catches his eye, clad in a set of dark, silky underthings and sheer stockings. He watches her toe back against the stem of one of the barstools. She’s got her cherry concoction in hand, a plethora of syrupy fruit upon a bed of ice and artificial sweeteners, and she’s laughing at something her counterpart says. In response, the man’s grin is vibrant over the visible expanse of his lower face. Harry doesn’t know who he is at first. But then he squints, and his vision roves. Faunus. He vaguely knows of the dominant, but the most prominent thought that floats to the forefront of his mind involves the jest Isla had made prior to the drafting of their contract. The one where she’d mentioned the alternation of rocking her shit, and the name Faunus had been introduced in the prospective party.  

And it’s not like Harry bleeds jade at the sight, but he kind of does. Because, the thing is, next week is their last scene, contractual obligations concerned — and. Well, it makes him feel ill. The thought of his submissive — of Isla Cleery, slipping to her knees for Faunus as their own contract comes to a close, the thought of Faunus manhandling her in the same way Harry does every Friday night, it all makes his jaw set from across the lounge. Because those are their Fridays. Something stirs in him when Faunus places his hand onto her arm — because, what the fuck? 

Slowly but surely, he makes his way over, slipping into the interaction from behind his submissive. He brushes a gloved palm against the small of her back, and upon the touch, Peitho stiffens and twists. And then she relaxes. Smiles all pretty at him, too. 

“You’re early,” the hand slides to the vale of her waist and squeezes softly as he presses close and speaks low. It’s obnoxious, Harry’s aware — opting not to initially acknowledge the other member of the conversation, but Faunus watches the two with a silent eye, anyhow, so. 

“I was late last week, so. Wanted to be early this time. Didn’t know you were here, Sir,” the submissive supplies, rocking forward onto her toes, and then lets the outside of her arm glue to his torso as he pastes to her side. 

Harry hums. And then he casts his gaze onto Faunus as the man speaks. “Eros, right?” the male’s mouth curls softly as he nudges towards Harry. 

“In the flesh,” Harry grins politely. Politely. Because he’s polite.

His counterpart, glistening with a sheen of sweat under the purple-ish tinges of the lights, takes a swig from his glass — water, Harry assumes it to be, but you never can really tell in the hue of the lounge, “You’re a little infamous around here.” 

Infamous. Sounds about right. 

“Am I?” 

“Mm. I’ve heard only good things from this one, though,” the horn-masked man gestures with his glass towards Isla. In turn, she shifts a little further against her dominant. 

“Yeah?” Harry’s chin dips toward the submissive, then, and he tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “All good things, baby?” 

Isla nods and hums, melting with the side of her cheek against his chest. 

“But between you and me,” Faunus leans forward a smidge, elbow braced over the marbled bar countertop, “This one’s a bit of a handful.”

Harry grins politely. Yeah, the reminder that this man has manhandled his submissive in the same manner he has makes him go a bit neon green. What the fuck. And Isla — she just squirms against him. Harry’s well aware that the nonchalant small talk of her, with no acknowledgement, like she’s not stood in the midst of the conversation, riles her in a filthy way. And Faunus seems to know this tidbit of information, too — his irises, glinty under the lights overhead, slink from Harry to Isla and back again. It’s a subtle motion, but it shows Harry enough. The dominant’s mouth quirks, gaze subtly steely in the narrow of his lashes. 

“Mm. Well, between you and me,” the hand that’d previously settled on her waist slips up to her hair, cards through past the nape of her neck, digits entangling in the roots, “she knows her place with me,” Harry shoots her a look, and tugs firmly by slowly tightening his fist. It’s a subtle motion — but the pinpricks of pain that burst over her scalp, as a result, have her pulse quickening. 

And Harry knows. He knows and his lips nearly crook up, but he curbs his smirk. And Faunus can ogle all he wants — but he can’t touch. Can’t draw the same reaction from her. That thought has satisfaction blooming in his chest. 

“Don’t you, darling?” 

When the young woman returns in concurrence, her inflection is breathy and soft. “Yes, Sir.” 

He’s jealous, Isla thinks. She’s not sure why. But he’s jealous, and he tugs on her hair like a showcase of his dominion, like she’s simply a plaything for him and him only to lewdly siphon soft reactions from. It’s so blatant, the way he does it all in front of Faunus. He’s claiming his territory. It’s subtle, it’s obnoxious, it borders on impolite, but it lights a fire within her like no other. 

“The White Room,” Harry croons against her ear, low in decibel, “S’open. If you were up to play.” Jade slinks back up to dull blue, to the opposite dominant watching the display — a blank slate of curious interest. His gloved fingers untether gently and he speaks a bit louder, face turned back towards Faunus, “Wouldn’t want to tear you away and impose, though.” 

The White Room. With Eros. Yes. Isla wants to go to the White Room with her Eros. 

“Oh — no,” Isla assuages quickly, pivoting her head from Faunus to Eros and back, “Great — it’s been great, catching up, with you,” she motions with her palm towards the horn-masked dom. 

Faunus pauses, as if musing, and eventually the corners of his mouth curl up softly. 

“Likewise,” he tells her, gesturing with his glass, before his vision skids from Isla to Harry and back. His tongue peeks out to glide over his bare lips. Harry doesn’t miss the way his eyes wander roguely over the submissive’s silhouette — a tad flirtily, if he’s not mistaken, before he tacks on what sounds uncomfortably ominous to him. “I’ll see you around, Peitho.” 

Harry’s jaw sets and he watches the other man all the way as he ambles off and disappears into the midst of the crowded lounge to mingle. It’s childish, he’s aware, to feel as though his turf is being invaded upon, like a personally deemed sector of a sandbox, and Isla his prized, shiny …bucket …or something (what do children play with in sandboxes? Harry can’t recall, at the moment). And he’s aware that Isla is not his possession, per se, but she sort of is. For the window of six weeks, she is his and his only, and the way he seems to recall it, they’re only on number five. His head snaps to her as the submissive clears her throat. She’s peering up at him, her mouth twitchy in giveaway. 

He’s jealous, Isla thinks, and obviously so, the envy in him visible like figurines through the glass of a snowglobe. 

“Had a nice time catching up with your friend?” Harry settles on. His inflection is smooth like molasses and low like a foreboding omen — a siren song. Isla contemplates getting him jealous more often.  

“Yeah,” the young woman blinks, “Faunus is always great.” 

Her lips twitch on the latter, and the word choice is made with such outright and overt intent to goad him — but she’s so harmless about it, too, afterwards nestling against him sweetly post the double entendre. Always great. Always a great fuck. Harry gives into her game shamelessly. He fingers at the strap on her brassiere as his mouth quirks wryly. 

“This is a pretty little piece. Wear it for Faunus?”

“No,” Isla’s cadence doesn’t offer nearly as much resolve, and she jolts minutely as he lets it snap back into place. “Wore it for you.” 

“For me?” the dominant raises his eyebrows, playing coy, and smooths the pad of his finger over an embellishment of lace over the edge of a cup as he tacks on, a little derisively, “How sweet.” 

Then, Eros juts with his chin towards her unfinished rocks glass of sugar and syrup and fruit with the barest bones of their original nutrients, “Are you gonna throw that up if I play rough tonight?”

The brazen insinuation causes Isla to swallow, her chest growing a little tighter and the valley between her thighs growing a little warmer. 

“Wouldn’t be a pretty sight. S’the White Room, after all,” his irises glimmer mischievously. 

“No,” Isla protests, her gaze jumping from the glass to the shiny latex disguising his stupid, perfect face. A beat. The sound of the glass grazing over the wood coaxes his eyes to her hand as she slides it away. Yes. 

“No, no. Feel free to finish it. I’ll wait.”

Despite this, her eyes jump between the half-empty glass and his face. His lack of tout — the empty, unspoken allurement of possibility — only lure her further. Take your time, I’ll patiently wait to do cruel and unusual things to you (that would’ve probably been deemed beyond illegal in the middle ages). It’s — yes. That is, no. No. Isla does not want to wait, her imagination running rampantly on the prospects of a mean Eros spurred by a jealous streak suddenly prevalent. 

That she’s wrenched from him. 

“No, I’m good,” Isla tells him, her cherries discarded. 

Harry blinks at her, and then responds, his mouth curling softly, “Really, love. S’no rush. Got all night to,” her fingers jump to her palm, as he stretches it and settles it against the countertop, pleather-coated digits splaying, “play.” 

Play. Her interest itches horribly to know what his agenda for the night entails. 

“No — no, I’m good. I’m good,” the submissive clears her throat, sliding the cup away just a smidge more with the flex of her fingers. Harry’s mouth quirks. 

“You’re awfully eager.” 

Good. He’s pleased to coax the reaction — he’s pleased that Faunus, evidently, doesn’t even have the ability to harvest her attention in the same manner. Good, good, good. 

“Well. White Room’s waiting for you, then. I’ll meet you in there,” Harry blinks at her, and then his eyes flash to his fingers as those come out to smooth over the bangle manacling her wrist, “Lemme just tie up some loose ends.”  

Isla looks at him then, for a second, speaking volumes through her expression despite the majority of it being clandestine by swirls of dark fabric. Loose ends. He can tell she’s bemused that he doesn’t personally walk her, hand-in-hand. 

“Okay,” the young woman settles on. 

“Okay?”

“Okay, …Sir.” 

He watches her walk off down a secluded hallway at the edge of the lounge, and then he blows out a breath and turns to the mocktail bartender on shift. Bliss — pretty corset, pretty, bedazzled mask, and a pretty mean dominatrix on the weekends when she’s not tending to the bar, he’s heard. 

“S’cuse me, could you just—“ he gestures with the glass once the bartender’s in earshot, and she lifts her face from the sink at his cadence, “switch this off her tab onto mine.”

He doesn’t have to specify — he knows Bliss well enough. They’ll engage in the occasional small talk. Mundane shit, usually; the weather, the housing market, reputable toy artisans. Or, they had. These days he spends much of his Indulge time playing rather than strung up at the bar. Anyways, it’s the least he could do for Peitho, considering… well. The agenda for the night. The least. His mouth nearly crooks at the thought. 

“Oh, it’s not on her tab, babes. Guy that was with her already tabbed it out.” 

Oh — Oh. Okay. O-kay. His head swivels back to the throng of Indulge, where Faunus has vanished into the midst of the mingling masses. So now Faunus was buying her mocktails. Sick.

“How …nice,” Harry turns back, a tick in his jaw. 

By the time the door clicks open from behind her, Isla’s knees are already shifting into their welcomed ache. It’s all sort of a routine she’s become beyond well accustomed to. The young woman listens to his dress shoes pad over the floor, and then she feels his hand brush through her hair from the back. 

“Come sit.” 

He says it in a way that doesn’t imply that he’s presently vexed — it’s easygoing enough, but his tone nearly carries the impending weight of the incoming scene. The submissive feels his palm withdraw, and then watches the backs of his dress shoes move, for a moment, as he winds past her towards the chair. And then she clambers up and follows. The mischievous jest Isla had basked in, priorly, starts its usual gear-shift into apprehension. Because being in a room, alone, with Eros, post whatever brazenly mouthy infringements Isla has managed, doesn’t leave her with …nearly as much pluck. Though, unfortunately for Eros and his ego, (or perhaps fortunately — she’s convinced he quite enjoys manually taming her into submission far more than he lets on), she’s still far from that state of mindless subservience he always manages to draw her into by the end of a session. The dominant sinks into the cushion and blows out a breath as if to discard the heft of a long workday, and his thighs splay a smidge as his eyes convey, expectantly through the slit of his mask, that he’d like her to sit. Isla slips into his lap, against the sturdy muscle of one of his parted thighs, and his leg shifts beneath her as his arm winds around her waist to cradle her close. 

“I didn’t fuck you last week, and you’re already looking elsewhere, darling?” are the first words out of his mouth. 

The statement is said as a jest — but it’s only half of that. His strawberry mouth is twitchy, and the pads of his digits are gentle on her thigh, and his tone is calm, and friendly, and traitorously sweet. 

But Isla knows better. 

Her mother had always said, behind every joke there’s some truth, sort of like a more wholesome version of drunk words are sober thoughts — far more kid friendly, but. The young woman couldn’t relate more to the wise piece of advice than she was, now, in this moment. Because her Eros is green, and obviously so. It radiates from his pores, the envy, no doubt a response to seeing Faunus’s palm pasted to her arm (she’s sure her innocuous, little comment played some part, as well), and the tidbits of his vulnerability make something oddly twist in her. Something like — feelings, beyond the playroom. It pleases her, in a red-flag-on-her-part sort of way, knowing that he cares. But more than that, the sentiment leaves her brimming with arousal. A jealous man was never a kind man, and a mean Eros, tucked away with her in a reserved playroom at Indulge, always left her simmering in welcomed anticipation. 

“Of course not,” she assuages, tracing the folds of fabric in his collar and fixing them up with a smoothing touch, her pupils fixed to her fingers as she tacks on, “I’d never look elsewhere when I’m contractually obligated to uphold monogamy.” 

It’s a tease that’s blatantly meant to rile him — the corners of her mouth buckle like an afterthought, and beneath her touch, the dominant’s chest heaves with a sigh. 

“Contractual obligation. S’that all my time is to you, then?” 

His tone is lighthearted, but the words have that undercurrent of brooding, like her words have wounded him, and Isla thumbs over a button and pops it through a loop — just for a bit of skin. 

“All my cock is to you?” the man shifts below her, his tone still playful, “A contractual obligation?” 

“No,” she protests, her fingers twitchy before his chin dips to ogle her handiwork, and a palm clasps over her wrist to bring the fingertips to his mouth and nip. 

“Hm?” he prods, teeth grazing over skin playfully, “Gonna go back to alternating having your shit rocked when my time is up?” 

Okay. Little less playful. His cadence is still light and good-natured but. Oddly heavy question. That little, unspoken slice of reality peeks through the facade of joking, traces streaking like dawn through cracks of blinds, if only for a moment. 

Isla swallows. Her pupils paste to his cushiony mouth, to the tips of her digits pressed lightly between his teeth. She settles for something safe, her breath held in her chest. Actually, maybe a little unsafe, given the trajectory of his emotions. 

“If you want me to, Sir.” 

Placate, placate, placate. The words are all that any dominant could want — submission in its ultimation. Whatever he wants of her. Despite this, the statement has something like …disappointment twisting in his chest. He doesn’t want that. He wants to elongate their contract, he wants to keep railing Isla over, and over, and over, he wants to spend the rest of timeless time with her as his in the realm of Indulge, and only his. And he doesn’t want it to be up to him. Tell me no, Harry wants to say. Tell me you want me and only me. Show me you care, the way I do. 

Instead, his mouth purses. 

If there’s any inkling of protest to her words, the dominant doesn’t showcase it. She’s curious to hear his response, but he doesn’t give one. Instead, he intertwines their fingers and shoots her a glance. The topic of conversation pivots. 

“Were you a good girl for me this week, sweetheart?” 

Oh, goodness gracious. She’d nearly forgotten all about Monday night’s debacle, so honed and amused by the envy the dominant was radiating. The mischievous streak in her really starts to fade, then. 

Was she a good girl for him this week? Vague recollections of a very satisfying vibrator pressed between clammy thighs in messy sheets at late hours flit through her mind. 

And her Eros on the other end of the line.

There’s a sudden heaviness to her tongue. It’d be easy to fib and pretend she hadn’t slipped up with hungry fingers between hungrily splayed thighs, just as he’d requested — commanded — her not to do. It’s not like he’d know.

Was she a good girl for him? No. Isla certainly wasn’t. 

She admits, after a moment of deliberative lull, “No, Sir.” 

Sir, she’s tacked on, politely — without coaxing, Harry notes. It’s the first thing he notes, in fact, besides her candid confession of misconduct. After that, it’s the way her body language has morphed from joking to tensed, to the way her fingers rub together in her lap, to the way her chest rolls lightly with her slow, bated breaths. 

“No?” he prods softly, pondering on her admission, “You weren’t a good girl?” 

Behind his ribcage, his heart kicks it up a notch from priorly peaceful equilibrium into a wild, racketing hammer. Because if she tells him what he thinks she’s going to tell him, if she confirms his suspicions and proves that he hadn’t spent Monday night driving himself mad, with hands raking restively through his tendrils in lieu of getting a good night’s rest post her late night call, then—

“I …touched myself, Sir.” 

And there it is. 

Isla bites into her cheek when faced with his hum of acknowledgement — of course the sound is coated with condescension, as if he’d expected her to fail. 

“And you came, I assume?” jade glimmers between lengthy lashes and shadows of an unnecessary disguise as he tacks on, “I mean, I’d hope disappointing me was worth it, at least.” 

It — what? Isla toes at the back of her opposite ankle, a crease working between her eyebrows. 

“I didn’t — I don’t know,” she blows out a breath, “how to answer this question.” 

“You don’t know if you came?” his own eyebrows rise in teasing, inflection jestingly incredulous. It’s a good sign, for now, the young woman thinks. She’d expected green to turn steely, but he seems keen on poking at her — which she’ll take rather than to be confronted by his demeanor of disdain. 

“No— I,” she sighs, craning her neck back and crossing her arms as the dominant’s pillowy mouth twitches, “I did,” upon the glint of warning to his expression, even mostly bridled by rubber, the submissive curbs the exasperation that’s leaked into her tone, backtracking softly, “I mean, I don’t — I wasn’t trying to disappoint you.” 

“Mm.” 

“And — well, anyways. I think you should be the opposite of disappointed, considering I came clean,” the twist she takes on the circumstances, to Harry, are a little appalling. 

He just sort of hums, entertained, and states, “S’that where the bar is, now?” and upon her vexed look, commences a slow clap, “Applause for the bare minimum.” 

“Amnesty,” she cocks her head, sitting up a bit, unperturbed by his derisive sarcasm, “is a thing, by the way, if you weren’t aware.” 

At that, he literally feels the dimples poke into place beside the curl of his smile. “You’re quite funny.” 

“I know,” Isla tells him after a moment, her shoulders sagging as she tips her chin to her hands and picks at her nails, her voice low, “I’m hilarious.” 

Harry brushes a pleather-clad palm over her thigh before he bats at her hands. He clears his throat. “How many times?” 

Her face tips up, like she’s confused by the question, and the man clarifies, “How many times did you touch yourself?” 

Rather than persisting with the jittery habit of nail picking, she mollifies by tracing down his chest, over his dress shirt, sort of hoping to smooth out the incoming tension of the scene in the same way her touch smooths the fabric, “Just once.” 

“Tell me,” she watches his tongue peek over before his swipes over his lips, and her vision only flits away for a mere moment when she feels his colossal palm squeezing at her hip, “how you did it.” 

She blinks up at him, like the request baffles her.

“S’not that difficult of a task. Well,” Harry pauses, and his eyes roll to the side with the patronizing dig, “The first one wasn’t either, but.” 

“I—“ the young woman’s jaw sets as she lifts her chin at the jab and she declares with resolve (plucky, Harry thinks, considering the circumstances), “with my vibrator.” 

Vibrator. Interesting. He hadn’t heard it on the other end of the phone — sneaky girl. The chatter from the television, obnoxiously loud, floats to the forefront of his mind, then.

“Okay,” he nudges with his chin, “Getting somewhere…”

“Third setting,” Isla states, deadpan in decibel, “and I came.” 

And then his palm locks, softly, over the back of her neck, and he physically guides her to lean forward against him. The dominant’s strawberry lips brush over Isla’s ear as he speaks, low and tantalizing, and then that same mouth pastes to an expanse of skin just below. 

“Details, little miss. And less attitude. Paint me a picture.” 

Oh — her pulse stutters. 

“Were you,” his mouth alternates between questioning and pressing open-mouthed kisses that incite chills to bloom over her flesh, “watching something? Thinking of something? Hm?” 

The young woman’s unsure of the cause behind the sudden, sensual twist in their discussion, but she tries to bare her neck a bit, quite literally the furthest from complaining. 

“I — the TV was on. But I was thinking about you,” she admits, and the dominant slides the opposite hand around the curvature of her hip, fondling over the side of her thigh. 

“What about?” 

“Your—“ the man’s mouth curls up lewdly against her skin in response to the stutter he coaxes as his hand ventures to her backside, squeezing — the way her throat bobs with a swallow, “your hands, touching me. Your mouth — on my, on my—“

“Your…?” Harry wheedles tauntingly, his hand tracing its way back onto her front and teasing at the hem of her underwear.

Isla’s confession comes breathy, and her legs splay apart a smidge when he dips his forefinger past the barrier just a tad, brushing over the smooth, sensitive crease between her pelvis and her thigh, “My pussy.” 

“Mm. S’that all?” 

“No,” her lashes flutter behind the lace, “I thought about — about your cock. Thought about you fucking my mouth, and,” her speech dies off as his fingers wriggle further beneath her panties and brush against her clit.

“And?” 

“and I thought about you,” Isla swallows, screwing her eyes shut, “…holding my nose, as you did it. So I couldn’t breathe.”

The pads of his fingers stutter in their caress. Shit. His nostrils flare at the filthy admission, and the way desire teems through his veins and arousal coils through his tummy at the thought is pure, hedonistic darkness. When Harry asks her, “What else?” his voice is considerably huskier against the crook of her neck. 

“I thought about you slapping me — my face,” her chest rolls as his fingers dip and gather sopping slick — she knows she’s ludicrously wet, reliving the fantasies that’d become tucked away in the dells of her mind, in combination with his soft touch, will sort of do that. It all has her feeling as if a fucking furnace glows angrily between her thighs. “I thought about—“ her jaw sets as she tips her head back, and he nips at her earlobe, “you spanking me for touching myself. How sore I would be over the next few days, having to sit at work.” 

“Spanking you with what?” Harry’s cadence comes muffled and heady against her skin. 

“Just — just your hand,” Isla’s heart races in her chest as he draws circles, like it beats in laps that trace the track of the motion. 

The dominant presses open-mouthed kisses to her skin, crooning, “Just my hand? Y’dont think you deserve the paddle or the strap for disobeying me?”

Isla doesn’t think much of anything when his tongue pokes out and glides over straining muscle.  

“Whatever,” she swallows, his fingers fisting desperately at the sturdy muscle of his thigh, “Whatever you want, Sir.” 

“S’not whatever I want, though,” he hums, “It’s about what you deserve. So what,” his fingers press a little harder, his cadence grows a little hungrier, “do you think you deserve?”

“I — I deserve whatever you decide I deserve, Sir.” 

“Mm. Well. I think,” Isla gasps and jolts, her breath morphing into a soft whimper when he pinches her clit between his digits, “You don’t deserve to entertain any of those little fantasies. Not after you couldn’t follow one simple rule.” 

She sags as his fingers withdraw and the elastic snaps back into place. 

“Don’t deserve to have your mouth fucked,” Harry sighs, shaking his head as if disappointed by the statement, himself (good, he’d be missing out, Isla thinks petulantly), “Don’t deserve to have my hands, or my mouth. I suppose spanking wouldn’t even serve as a punishment for you, would it?”

“Because,” he motions with a hand, “we’ve done loads of that, and you’re still what, darling?” 

Isla gnaws on her bottom lip, chin tilted to her hands. 

“I’m talking to you,” she’s caught off guard and has to bridle a gasp when he grips onto her jaw with a gloved palm and roughly guides her face in the direction of his own. The sudden emergence of his stern streak leaves her doused in want, “You’re still what?”

It’s appalling, honestly, the way a mercurial flip of a switch in his character could affect her so deeply, but there’s nothing Isla finds more arousing than when her Eros gets like …this. 

“…Disobedient,” Isla tells him softly, after a moment, not entirely sure of the answer he’s looking for. 

“A disobedient, little whore—“

Isla swallows dryly, his words — his irritated tone, sinking straight to her core. 

“—that just doesn’t seem to learn.” 

“I’m sorry,” the submissive starts after a moment, but her cautious apology is hindered by his scoff, a shake of his head that leaves light bouncing off the glossy hood, a sound of sardonic amusement. Her pupils, through the lace, bound to meet his narrowed gaze. 

“No, you’re not.”

Isla swallows. He’s right. She’s not exactly this virtuous angel who’s lurched into a pit of misdeed because of a careless accident. And she’s not exactly regretful of it, either. 

The way the dominant squeezes over her hip then, the fondle of his hand gentle in contrast to the foreboding words he tacks on — the way his irises sweep over her like he’s nonchalantly deliberating her fate, has an eager thrill of the looming danger wracking down the knobs of her spine. “But you will be.” 

Loads of people are adrenaline junkies — the bungee jumpers, the skydivers, the bull riders, the mountain bikers, the people who like to watch scary movies in theaters with 3D glasses, melted back against their seats as the volume of the music dims and a pregnant pause of impending doom stalls. The ones who stand in lines, veins teeming with anticipation as they edge closer and closer, zig-zagging through dividers in slow, stalling steps, all to become seated in a rollercoaster with a 90 degree drop. That excitement on the drop billows through their arteries like a chaser. It’s all sort of the same thing. Isla just has …unorthodox penchants. Methods. She happens to enjoy having the shit beat out of her, maybe, or being terrorized by something rooted in fear. Because when you mix adrenaline and sex, it’s just. Unfathomable. Truly a top-tier recommendation, if Isla were ever coaxed to recommend it. But it’s all the same thing. All a similar outcome. 

Isla’s absolutely aching for that enslaving rush, and then Eros nearly gives her whiplash as he just …looks at her and says, “Maybe we shouldn’t play at all tonight.”

She can’t manage to muzzle the bloom of bemused disappointment that seeps into her tone, “I — what?” 

“I mean,” Harry retracts his palm, and Isla’s suddenly left oddly cold, perched on his lap as his arms cross laxly over his chest, “you’re a disobedient, little whore. We’re on the same page about that, aren’t we, pet? Doesn’t matter if I punish you for it. And you certainly don’t deserve to be rewarded. Could just call it a night, hang out in the lounge—” his eyes convey volumes as he peers at her through lashes with insinuation, “Could mingle a bit. Sit around with your great, little friend.” 

Faunus. Back to Faunus.

“I—“ Harry watches her pillowy mouth part, and settle into a line as words fail her, and then part again, “Please.” 

“Please?” his eyebrows jolt, mouth pursing as a huff of wry amusement is expelled from his nostrils, and he’s about to say more, but then she interjects—

“Please, Sir. Please, I need—“

“Shut—“ Isla freezes when his hand comes back to her face, this time with the pads of his digits squeezing into her cheeks harshly, “—the fuck up.” And all Isla can really manage, from there, is a wordless mouthing against his digit, like a fish out of water. Harry watches her lips move a bit over a silent please, sort of amused by the persistive spectacle (but he definitely doesn’t let it show). 

“Stand up,” he tells her, after a moment, unlatching his grip and shifting his thigh beneath her, “Stand up, and strip.” 

As the young woman stands, he nudges himself off the armchair as well, making a beeline straight for the wall of toys, but not before aiming his forefinger her way and adding, (a bit cheekily, if Isla’s not mistaken, though that note is drowned out by the sternness that brims his tone), “Leave the stockings on.” 

The pads of her thumbs hesitate, just past the hem of her left, sheer stocking. Slowly, she straightens back out and fixes the digits into her bra straps, shimmying those off of her shoulders first, then winding her arms behind her back to unsnap the hooks with a deft enough motion (her hands are sort of trembling). Her fingertips dip into her underwear — soaked, of course, post the ministrations of the man who mills about the room all the while, gleaning objects. Isla watches him gather and deliver the objects to the mattress before going back for more — almost like an animal stockpiling in preparation for a lengthy winter. She works the pair of underwear down her thighs, stepping out of them, and throwing them alongside her brassiere on the armchair. 

The young woman feels, for the first time in a long time, a bit awkward, just standing on the linoleum, bare of all but her stockings, as she waits for further instruction from a dominant who doesn’t look as if he cares to bask in her nudity for even a split second. Because Harry always has this way of making her feel worshiped — even when he feigns that his attention is entirely torn away. Because in those split seconds where his pupils train back onto her, that facade breaks, and she sees the hunger seeping through. Her pulse stays impressively even when she watches him set a long, metallic spreader bar with cuffs — like shackles — onto the comforter beside a large wand. Finally, the rubber-hooded male shoots her a blank gaze — it lasts, as expected, a minute timespan before he fixes his attention back onto the objects. He doesn’t look even a smidge interested in her denuded state — it’s an offhand glance to make a point. 

“Are you just going to stand there all night?” 

“If you’d like me to, Sir,” Isla tells him — he couldn’t possibly get upset at an open offer of subservience (despite the underlying aim of innocuously-feigned backchat), and that fact seems to register with him. 

Harry gives her a good look then, one considerably longer than the previous had been, one where she can practically witness the gears turning behind his skull. The submissive supposes she’s gotten what she’d wanted, after all. Then, his mouth twitches like he’s actively attempting to bridle it from morphing to a grimace. 

“Come here,” the dominant instructs eventually, tone firm. 

Shrouding her timidness, Isla follows his directions and makes her way to the bed until she’s stood in front of him with her chin held high. The way his hand gently grasps her wrist then, as the opposite digs into a pocket of his slacks, has her heart fluttering. His face is downcast to the bracelet as the pin-like key winds, until there’s a click and it isn’t — instead it fixes onto her own. The dominant leans in, his voice soft. 

“On the bed. All fours.” 

Isla turns just as he pockets the bangle, and crawls onto the mattress, just as instructed. She feels chilly metal graze against her calves, a brush of smooth leather. 

“Spread,” Harry demands, and starts fastening one of the plush, padded cuffs to her ankle once she’s knee’d her thighs apart. Then, the following joint. “Put your arms back, through here,” he pats at the empty space between her (involuntarily) splayed limbs. 

So Isla does that, too, rocking forward onto her shoulders and pressing her cheek against the sheets, her face cast at the wall where the door stands as her fingers twitch. He fastens cuffs onto those, too, and by the time all’s done and well, Isla’s absolutely immobile. Testingly, she tries to wrench her wrist back, the attempt subtle. She can’t move. At all. And behind her, the dominant’s pillowy mouth crooks at the sight. Apprehension rises in her, like a flood of water surging through a cylindrical building, swelling in the space between a spiral staircase that clings to the curved walls. 

The beginnings of that beautiful adrenaline. 

“Anything uncomfortable?” 

“No, Sir,” Isla tells him. 

“I mean — you’re going to be plenty uncomfortable,” she rocks back a tad as the dominant smooths his hand down the back of her thigh, “but I’d prefer you didn’t end up with a cramp, or a weird soreness because your neck’s in a funny position.”

The touch withdraws. Isla swallows. 

“No. Everything’s good.” 

She jolts when her ears pick up on a sound that destroys the lull — like tape, bondage tape, she’s sure, and the dominant sounds as if he has a piece between his teeth when he responds, “Wonderful.” 

Then comes the sounds of tape tearing. Her muscles tense as she feels something press against her thigh, against her core, and then his hand starts to wind what she knows is the tape around her flesh. A click. The wand comes alive, rumbling. Isla can’t begin to stifle her soft hum. 

“Good spot?” the dominant prods, out of sight. 

The young woman fixes her gaze onto the bland wall through shapes and swirls of lace, her lashes fluttering, “Mm — yeah. Really good spot.”

“O-kay.”

And then after that — a stalling silence. Nothing reverberates over the walls, nothing falls on eardrums besides her soft breaths and the fixed buzz of the wand, pressed between her clammy thighs. Pleasure builds within her like water surging behind a dam, just sort of steadily rising until the structure starts to show signs of wear, rifts in its integrity. Then — well, then, there’s imminent destruction. 

The mattress creaks. He’s shifted.

“Sir?” Isla prods, her voice small. 

“No talking,” the dominant tells her after a moment, his cadence steely, “Don’t wanna hear you.” 

Her bottom lip becomes siphoned past her teeth. That’s — fuck. Okay. She regulates her breathing, and stares at the wall as the toy continues rumbling against her. He hadn’t exactly, explicitly mentioned that she was to hold off her climax, so. All sort of fair game, Isla thinks. Despite this, she does try to moderate the pace in the surge of bliss — maybe it could be, like, a trickle instead of a swelling flood, if she really focuses—

Another click. The buzzing increases in intensity. Her digits flex and clench, and her wrists shift in their respective cuffs. Still, she stays very quiet. That is, until the familiar, foreboding wave of pleasure tides, frothing at her tummy and sinking. Isla tenses in the restraints, and holds off pleading until she absolutely has to. It’s sort of a gray area, because she’s definitely not supposed to wait until that happens, but apparently she’s also not supposed to talk, so. 

“Sir! Can I cum? Please, please, can I—“ 

“Cum,” he tells her simply, not even batting an eye at her improper wording — may, he’s told her so many times, may I? 

Isla does, and it’s extraordinary. His dialogue nearly misses the mark entirely before the wave crashes, the countdown spent to milliseconds. Her toes curl, and her eyes screw shut, and her thighs tense, and her wrists tug reflexively, pinioned, as she groans and attempts to coil up. The dominant doesn’t make any moves that propose the idea of him touching her or using her for his own pleasure, in any manner, nor does he make an effort to remove the vibrator or her restraints. It buzzes at her core, even as the tide of pleasure ebbs. It ebbs, and all she’s left with is the hammering of her heart, and the toy still rumbling at her core. The young woman feels her pulse racketing in her eardrums. Isla shifts in her cuffs a smidge — as much as she can — though, there’s not much leeway for that. 

“Thank you, Sir,” she tells him, after a moment, her tongue swiping out after, over her strawberry mouth. She supposes she’s supposed to thank him, right? Isla’s still unsure of what exactly is going on. He’s going to overstimulate her — that much she’s discerned. It’s not rocket science. Spreader bar plus vibrator plus bondage tape? That shit was crystal clear from a mile away. She figures the dominant is aiming to venture to three, …maybe four. Maybe until she’s crying. Who knows. 

The dominant doesn’t respond. She hears him exhale, though. The bed creaks again. 

The thing with toying at senses with overstimulation was that the first bit …wasn’t all that rough. The first bit feels good — even on the advance towards the second crest, past that incipient budding of discomfort post an orgasm, the pleasure builds up pretty well. In fact, it sort of feeds off that discomfort. For Isla, at least. Because once you get past that first hurtle of too much, too much, that smidge of aching becomes a mere shadow in the cliff of rapture that blooms from stone — growing, growing, growing. 

Until, eventually, it gives. 

“Oh, oh, please, can I— Sir—“ 

“Cum.”

She expands and shrivels all in one, everywhere and nowhere with a surfeit of dopamine spurting through her nervous system. The fire kindles. Ah. The beginning stages of displeasure-pleasure. She’s felt it before, a plethora. That kind where her nerve endings settle into a dull, numbing ache. Involuntarily, her limbs jerk in the restraints, tugging to get away. Her jaw clenches. 

The thing with toying at senses with overstimulation was that the first bit wasn’t all that rough, but the bit after starts to suck. All good things must come to an end, and all that, but—

Despite that, the unwavering pleasure builds. It builds because of the stimulation, first and foremost, but then it builds because he hasn’t touched her, because he’s just sat back ogling, because she knows she’s dripping down the toy and that the bulbous head glints with her arousal. It builds because it’s a punishment, because Eros doesn’t want to hear her, because she’s disappointed him, and now she’s meant to appease him by enduring suffering. It builds because she wants nothing more than to endure suffering to please him—

“Sir!” Isla wriggles in the restraints, helplessly, the mantra of please-please-please morphed to nothing but a slurred string of words. 

“Cum.” 

The submissive nearly rolls and topples to her side under the earth-shattering abuse of the third — frankly, the only reason she doesn’t sink into a ridiculous sort of spreader-bar-mangled fetal position, is because Harry touches her, for the first time, steadying her with a firm palm against her bare hip. The pleasure with the third is much shorter-lived than the wide windows of the first two. It wanes nearly instantaneously, shrinking back as fiery ache overtakes it in the race. Isla grits her teeth, writhing forlornly as pain settles, coating her and seeping to interweave through the marrow of her bones. Three, maybe four, she tells herself, a mellow appeasement for inner peace — though, her brain has slowly begun its melt into a commonplace mush. Telling anyone anything, or even processing thoughts besides the signals fired off by her nervous system, is beyond strenuous. She doesn’t notice a sheen of tears has glazed over until she blinks and what’s normally sharp, clear lines of fabric turns to blurs. Despite the (reasonable, Isla believes) assessment of the dominant’s agenda (Isla’s fixated upon to ground herself amidst the curdling fear that tails the unknown, in all circumstances), she can’t help but start to plead, a bit, all things considered. 

“Sir, please, please, please—“

“Cum,” the man tells her, from behind, offhand and simple, probably admiring his gloves, or something. The statement comes as if he’s nothing but a robot programmed to grant her permission, and that word is the only term coded into his feasible vocabulary. 

If Isla had it in her to balk, she certainly would. She doesn’t. Partly because she doesn’t have it in her, and mostly because the tingling pain from the toy has her expression helplessly forming into a frown, almost as if on its own accord. The submissive just pouts, her bottom lip quivering in forlorn appall. Because Sir doesn’t care if she’s begging, because he doesn’t care that she’s already had three, because the realization dawns on her, then, that that would’ve been four, and he still hadn’t made any inclination to cease the torture. 

“No — no, Sir,” Isla starts, her waterline welling with tears behind her disguise — it’s wet, and irritates her skin horribly. 

The bed creaks. Behind her, the man tuts. And then the toy becomes toggled to a higher setting, buzzing incessantly against her clit with an intensity that wrenches a sharp keen from her. 

“What did I tell you? I don’t want to hear you. Not unless you’re asking permission, or you’re safing. One or the other. Nothing in between. Disobedient, little whores don’t deserve to beg.” 

It’s — he’s. Pitifully, Isla sobs against the comforter. 

Five. Harry’s on the track to wrench five from her — which, all things considered, is a reasonable goal to shoot for, he thinks. He knows she certainly has four in her to give, because she’s already given him four, weeks ago, in the Dungeon. And if she can’t make it to five within a reasonable time frame, he’ll cut it short post her enduring the aftershocks of the fourth for a bit. He settles back onto his arm, braced against the mattress as he splays behind her, at the foot of the bed, cheek pasted to his gloved palm as he drinks in the sight of her cunt leaking helplessly over the head of the wand. Great view. One for the books. 

Despite all of this, the sobs wracking her body have him sitting up a smidge to peer around at her face, which. Not much to decipher past swollen-post-teething lips and trembling flesh, without a good view of her eyes, but. The goal is definitely not to make her safe — that last bit was just sort of open encouragement. Like, an, always feel free sort of thing. They’re only on three. He frowns. 

“Hey. Baby,” Harry sits up to lean beside her, closer to her face, where she expels helpless sobs from a quivering, slobbery mouth. 

The thing with Isla crying was that it was cool. Deemed cool by both parties — sought after, in fact. But checking in, Harry thinks, is also (even more) cool, especially when she’s crying in a manner that implies that she’s slipping, and that it’s all teeming into the territory of too much, despite the fact that it can sort of break apart the characters they play up in a scene. Because roles are easy to slip back into, but reforming a bond of security post the unnecessary trauma of a boundary being unintentionally crossed is, frankly, much more difficult to casually slip back into. Safety is cool. Big thumbs up. 

This stuff is so much easier with eyes, Harry thinks — they speak volumes. They get blown like nightfall, crossing and shading past the lines of pupils and seeping into colors of irises, they become shifty and evident in apprehension, they kind of give it all away. He flips the toy off, but it stays nestled to her core, and he strokes hair off the band of lace shrouding her from him. 

“Sweetheart, are you alright?” a crease works between his brows as he rakes his digits through Isla’s hair from her sweaty hairline. Because you sound like I’m murdering you, goes unsaid. 

The thing is, he knows Isla’s limits, basically. General ballpark, that is. Really knowing and understanding takes months, and months — maybe years of experimentation. But even then, there’s those scenes where you have to check in and break character, and that’s okay. He just hadn’t prepared that it’d be after three. 

Isla sniffles beneath his touch. 

“Do you want to stop, darling? Red?” he smooths the pads of his digits over her cheek. And beneath his palm, weakly, the submissive shakes her head, an indication that, no, she doesn’t want to do that. 

The muscles in her neck strain with a swallow as Harry tucks loose fragments of hair away, his chin dipped to observe her response, and then the young woman tells him, softly, “No. Please.” 

“We don’t have to keep doing this, pet,” Harry promises, his cadence taking on a note that’s the most gentle it's been since she’d been sat over his lap, “I can take these off, and we can keep playing, but we don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to.” 

Isla sighs softly. The pain had begun intermingling with pleasure just before he’d shut the toy off, tinges of bliss blooming post abuse on her physical senses — that’s not why she was crying. Really, there’s a plethora of reasons, some not entirely decipherable. Partly because of the intensity, partly because of the adrenaline and their subsequent endorphins, and partly because she was definitely fucking slipping. She could feel it loom over her when her mind got all mushy, when it all became slower, and more difficult, like trudging through a swamp of molasses. When her tongue got heavier and her body felt fuzzier. 

“Wanna make you happy,” Isla tells him. Her eyes are screwed shut behind the lace, mostly to hinder the onslaught of tears, so she can't see him, but she does hear him sigh. 

“You do make me happy. Always make me happy. Always happy I get to play with you. Silly.” 

Her mouth twitches, then, and curls up a bit. She huffs through her nostrils. Harry cocks his head, smoothing a thumb down the bare fragment of her face on one cheek. 

“You make me happy, too,” Isla confesses, her voice small. 

Harry tries to keep his mouth from curving into a sad sort of smile in return. Instead, he slips his thumb up to brush over the bottom-most hem of her mask. 

“Let me get you out of these,” he only pivots his head towards the bar before she’s humming, evidently dissatisfied by the proposal. 

“No,” Isla whines, “Don’t wanna stop playing.” 

“We’re not going to stop playing,” the dominant curbs the instinctive eye roll that nearly overtakes the jade, “Just a little break. Don’t you want some water? Doesn’t water sound so good?” 

He smirks when she gnaws on her bottom lip and gives him a slow, little nod against the sheets. The man smooths his hand, fondly, down the side of her neck, kneeing around her to slip his fingers to the tape. He unravels that, first, trying to keep the process short, like a bandaid, and he sets the toy down beside her on the bed. Next to go are the cuffs. 

“Just a little break,” he promises, “Gonna get some water,” he unbuckles the first cuff — her left wrist, “stretch a bit,” the second — her right, “stretch your neck. Can’t imagine it’s not cramping a bit,” Isla rolls her wrists, her arms still splayed beneath her in the space between the bed and her arched back — the third to go is her left ankle, “and we’ll get you back to shambles in no time,” the last, her right ankle, and he smacks her backside lightly, because it’s there and it’d be a cardinal sin to miss the opportunity, honestly. “How’s that sound?” 

The dominant strokes a palm softly up her calf after he sets the spreader bar aside. Isla stretches back against him, like a little cat. Yes. All of these things sound great. 

“Stretch out a bit. I’m gonna grab some,” Isla picks up on him saying, before his touch retracts and she hears his shoes clicking over the tile. 

Isla shuffles her arms forward, lifting up a bit only to flop back down and morph into Child’s Pose. Sort of. As best as she can. The water machine grinds in the background. By the time Harry has made his way back to the foot of the bed, Isla’s rolled onto her side. He gestures out with the plastic, little cup, and Isla flips onto her back and sits up to grasp it between her palms. They’ve ceased their shaking, for now. Harry takes a seat beside her, his legs kicked out ahead as opposed to her coiled hover, calves pressed against the bed. Her Eros has all the answers, Isla thinks. Her throat bobs frantically as she chugs, and in her peripherals she watches him take a slow sip. Once she’s reached the bottom, her hands flop against her sweaty lap, the empty cup wrapped by her right hand. 

She turns her face to him, a little smile over her mouth. The dominant peers at her, lips wrapped over the rim of his respective cup through the unzipped mouth slit, and he lifts a hand to swipe a stray rivulet of water from the corner of her mouth with a thumb. Her tongue swipes out as his touch retracts, almost as if to chase the pad of his digit. The man makes a soft sound of amusement over the lip of the cup. Slowly, Isla cranes her neck back, and then forward, and then side to side, and Harry takes another sip. 

“You take care of me so well,” Isla admits, planting her forehead against his arm. She’s jostled then, and nearly complains, but then she realizes that he’s only done it to grant her a space to nestle, a nook for her so he can hold her. She still feels a little …warm and fuzzy, but her head has cleared considerably since he’d unshackled her. Isla scoots in, and the dominant winds his arm around her shoulders, squeezing softly. 

“You always know what I need, even when I don’t.” 

“S’because I’ve got you figured out,” Harry nudges in her direction with his beverage, three thirds of the way down. His hand, cradling the cup, lays laxly against his thigh, then. 

“Do you?” Isla’s gaze narrows behind the mask as a little grin plays over her mouth. She lifts her chin up to display it. And she’s so close, he could kiss her. 

The male’s tongue peeks out to glide over his pillowy mouth. Isla Cleery. Cherries, and Hydrangeas, and pencil skirts and strange tendencies to do dangerous things on a whim. 

No. He absolutely does not. 

“Basically. You’re an easy read, love.” 

Her pupils rove over the rubber hood. Over his eyes, glinting through the shadows cast by parted zippers, slipping to the muted berry of his mouth. She’s never yearned, so badly, to surpass a personal limit and kiss someone she was …just playing with. Desperately. She tears her gaze away. 

“Can we keep playing?” the young woman inquires, instead. 

The dominant rolls his eyes, a soft smile cresting his cushiony mouth, “Do you want to keep playing?” 

“Yes. Sir. Please. Right where we left off.” 

“Right where we left off?” his eyebrows raise a smidge, “Are you sure? We can move on to phase two.” 

“Phase two?” 

“Well. Since phase one was punishment for your little slip up earlier in the week,” Isla’s gaze skids away sheepishly, “figure s’only fair phase two is penance for that little comment you made out in the lounge.” 

The young woman’s gaze snaps back to the dominant, and she wracks her brain for a dull moment where her mind sort of lags, the edges still a little fuzzy. And then it dawns on her. Fuck. Right. There was that. 

“Okay,” Isla tells him, after a moment — not a deliberative one, per se. Just. Mental preparation. “That sounds good.” 

“That sounds good?” Harry’s hand slinks out to stroke over her bare thigh, and then his gaze skims to his thumb as he strokes it over the hem of her stocking, “You’re sure?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Isla tells him, sitting up a bit with her rejuvenated courage, “and I want to start where we left off.” 

Harry hums, pausing his thumb over her stocking. He digs it under, just a bit, tugs up, and lets it snap back into place. And then he pats her thigh, takes her cup from her, and tells her, “Alright. Back into position then. M’gonna refill these so we have them ready, for later.” 

As the dominant stands to refill their respective beverages of sustenance, Isla scoots back on the mattress, flips, and clambers into position, already prepped with her arms stuck flat out in the space between her parted calves by the time he returns and sets the cups onto the, (oddly domestic and ludicrously practical), nightstand, beside the bed. She hears him blow out a breath, and the bed shifts as he knees his way onto it from behind. 

“All good to keep going?” Harry prods, the thin pole of the spreader bar grasped in one hand, “Promise?” 

“I promise,” the young woman returns, half-nodding and half kind of just taking the opportunity to snuggle her face into the comforter. The area soused by her tears is a little further to the right, now, and despite the fact that her mask is still wet, the blanket beneath her face, now, is dry, so it all feels like a spruced up, fresh start. 

He slots the cuffs back on, one by one, working backwards from the order in which they’d been discarded minutes prior. And when she’s all splayed and riveted for him, a particular sort of sensitivity settles in her as the wand, still slick from her, presses to her cunt as he sets all the props back into place for the scene (pun intended). It’s not necessarily that grating numbness she’d become accustomed to, or a cloying past aftershocks. Just the sensation of knowing, physically, that she’s already given three. A tremble nearly slinks down the knobs of her spine at the thought. The tape unsticks from the roll as the dominant works it back over her thigh. 

Isla blinks, her lashes brushing over the innermost of the lace, squeezed to her face in its tightening against the sheets. She chimes, for good measure, “And. I’m all good. You don’t have to …be nice.” 

His handiwork pauses. And his cadence, rasped like sandpaper, slow like seeping molasses, sweet like syrup, nearly causes her to drown in it all. He sounds …hungry, for the first time in the night since they’d explored her fantasies in the verdant armchair, when he tells her, “I don’t intend to be.” 

That’s — shit. Okay. Then, Eros smooths his palm down the back of her thigh and ponders, aloud, “Can you give me five, d’you think?” 

Five. That’s a …milestone. 

Isla blinks. Warmth coils in her at the suggestion, instantly, hunger unsatiated as if she hadn’t just endured the three course meal of three orgasms, back to back. Her throat feels dry, like her mouth’s been stuffed by cotton. 

“I can — I can try,” she swallows, “Sir.” 

“There’s a good girl,” the man hums, pleased by her answer, and he sits back a bit, rewarding her with a loud smack that siphons a gasp and a jerk in the restraints from her. A ruddy splotch teems over the surface of her skin — tinges shaped by his open palm. He gives her another, just over where the first had landed, and Isla releases a girlish grunt in response, rocking forward. A third, then, and with the opposite hand, he toggles the toy on. Harry watches every muscle in her body tense, at that.  

The newfound pleasure, post the break, feels almost as if spawning from square one. Not entirely — there’s still that nagging reminder deep within her nervous system that she’s already spent so much for him (recovering from three takes, maybe, just a little longer than a span of minutes). But rather than numbing tingles enmeshed with knife-like, slicing pain, pleasure blooms quickly, radiating from between her thighs and coaxing the pit of her tummy to coil with something familiar and warm. And rather than sitting back like an audience member to enjoy the show, this time, the dominant seems interested in taking part — an active part, in fact. He smooths his palms over the globes of her ass, and every blow, falling in increments (when she seems to least expect it), sends jarring shocks through her nervous system that throw her entire comprehension of sensation for a loop. It doesn’t hurt — not at all, really. Instead, each hit enmeshes with the overpowering bliss from the rumbling against her core, and the only tinges of pain come from the eventual soreness that blooms. But it makes her wetter, hotter, more sensitive, and, eventually—

“Sir!” Isla’s eyes squeeze shut as the beginnings of the flame lick at her, “Can I—“

And then one of his palms squeezes into one of her hips and the opposite smacks her again — and, fuck. Isla can’t bridle her strangled sound when he tells her, “Cum.” The wave washes over her like water crashing over jagged rock. 

The discomfort that flourishes as the weak bout of ecstasy recedes is not …horrific, per se, but it certainly reminds her that this isn’t her first, and, just as it’d been strung up prior to the break, her body becomes launched into a frenzied state of escape. Five. Why did she agree to try for five? Isla whimpers, her thighs trembling in desperation. And, as if to allay her worries (or perhaps to spur them further), Harry just delivers another strike. And then again, and again, and again, and again. 

“Sir,” the submissive whines, a plea (for more? for less?), tears gathering over her waterline like rain in a gutter. 

“Say it with me now, go on, darling, I will not,” the volume of his cadence climbs up the stairwell as he smacks her and digs the pads of pleather-clad digits into her skin. Her brows pinch when his mean affections don’t abate, when she aches everywhere to please him, and she sobs. 

“I will— will not,” Isla hiccups, sniffles, sobs, pleads for more of his aggressive attention. More, more, more, please.

“Cum without permission,” Eros waits for her to parrot the dialogue before he toggles the setting on the vibrator pressed within her to a higher setting and her sentence cuts off into a high, loud moan. Perhaps of pleasure, perhaps of pain, and probably a solid concoction of both. 

He talks over her nonetheless, “I will not cum without permission,” he says it until she’s up to par and mimics, in unison, “I will not cum without permission.” 

“What—“ Isla keens as the dominant smacks her again, and her arms strain in the restraints, shackled to the slim pole between her ankles, “—will you not do?”

“I will not cum without permission!” the young woman responds, her cadence breaking into a sob as the toy buzzes incessantly, nuzzled to her overstimulated clit. 

“You will not,” Eros agrees and assures her, tone unwavering despite her sobs, “and I will make sure you remember this lesson very, very well.”

By the time she really starts approaching the fifth crest, Harry’s faltered on the follow through of the blows, just sort of admiring the marks, in lieu, like a rabid animal. He’s nearly foaming at the mouth. The dominant traces the pad of his forefinger over a curve, entranced, and nearly misses her shrill plea entirely. 

“I’m—“

“Cum,” he demands, pupils roving over her hips, over her sticky thighs, between her legs where she clenches emptily, helplessly, drinking in her cry like an audible variation of nectar. 

The burst of pleasure is as short-lived as Isla can imagine, like the most anti-climatic climax of all time. It tears through her, severing her seams, and dwindles almost immediately for a dull ache to settle in its place. Except, this one isn't dull at all. It’s sharp, and it sends her nerve endings into pure angst. She freezes up, her muscles quivering, tensed like the string of a bow just waiting to snap, and she can’t even make out discernable request for him to turn the wand off. All that slips from her is a string of incoherent, muffled sounds, and then the rumbling ceases. Isla pants, her heartbeat so frantic she can feel it in the tip of her tongue. It pulses through her neck, through her appendages, tingling in their cuffs. It slinks through her stomach, through her fingers, it rattles her ribcage as the organ pumps rapidly. 

She doesn’t realize the cuffs are gone until she feels herself being manhandled, onto her side, and then onto her back. The dominant slips off the bed, standing at the foot, and wraps his arms around the backs of her thighs as he yanks her toward him. And Isla just splays like a ragdoll. She watches him watch her, her legs flopping and her soles planting against the mattress, knees bent. The submissive tells him, then, cadence soft and dry as if she hasn’t drunk in days, “Please.” 

Her chest rises and falls, almost in tune with the slow clink of his belt buckle as he opens it, nimbly, with one gloved palm as the opposite strokes over her knee. His eyes glint like green embers — hungry with want like fire kindling in a forest. Contained in a campfire, for now, just yearning to swallow the branches and brush in flame. Her own pupils shift to his belt buckle. He draws the belt out. 

“Please.” 

Finally, some give in his otherwise hardened features — his mouth quirks as he tips his chin towards his trousers, utilizing both hands to pop the button and tug down the zipper. 

“Please? What, you wanna bounce on my cock, a bit? Gave you five orgasms, and you’re still desperate for it, like a slut.” 

Her inhale is tremble-y as she watches him cull a condom, tucked away in its wrapper — red, this time, unlike his usual. His mouth purses as he flips it, rotating between his fingertips. 

“Funny,” Harry shoots a glance her way, “This one’s cherry.” 

Want a taste, she nearly expects him to jest, memorable remnants of their first one-on-one scene floating to the forefront of her mind. He doesn’t. He goes quiet, and looks awfully concentrated. Isla exhales at the sight of him untucking his cock from its confines, at the view of him tearing the wrapper open with his teeth, and the image of him rolling the condom down his shaft. He takes his hands away, and his cock bobs. The young woman’s chest rolls as he lines himself up with her core, and she jerks when he swipes the head from where she gushes and leaks to where she’s swollen and sensitive. Jade flickers up to face her. 

“Gonna be a good girl and follow the rules from now on?” he croons, his voice a bit strained given that he’s been aching for fuck her for the entirety of the session. 

The submissive nods, weakly. More than anything, it’s a mindless jerk of her chin. She tenses when he nudges into her. And the stretch is — it’s euphoric. She feels like pure euphoria to him, her spongy walls squeezing over his tip as if they’re two puzzle pieces destined to slot together. A perfect fit. A tight one. His teeth clench, and he hisses and he slides further, unable to curb his groan halfway to the hilt. 

“Fuck.”

Isla spasms over him, over the perfect drag, over the perfect stretch. He buries in, sheathing his cock in its entirety until she hugs every last inch, and his fingers fondle over her thigh as he lifts her legs to plant her calves against his shoulders. 

“Please,” Isla says again, her hips shifting like she’s eager for him to move. 

His mouth twitches. He huffs, reining the instinct to hammer into her as his stomach swirls with want and his mind swims with defiling filth. “Look at you. Desperate to cum. Desperate for attention — for anyone’s attention,” he tacks on pointedly, a dig made as her little rendezvous back at the bar, and Isla’s irises nearly roll back into her head as he withdraws, just a smidge, and pumps forward harshly. Harry grunts. “Just a desperate, little thing. Aren’t you?” 

All Isla can manage, as his hips work into a steady pace, is a wordless part of her lips. 

“Answer me,” the dominant demands, tone hard. 

“No,” the submissive manages out, eventually, and his hips stutter. She whines, bracing her calves against his shoulders to grind wantonly. Case and point. 

A wryly amused crease works over his brow bone, behind latex, and his pace becomes stifled to nothing, “No?” 

Isla whines, frantically, rolling her hips and squeezing over his length, until he scoffs, throws her legs off of him unceremoniously, and leans down in the newfound space to press her cheeks between his digits harshly. 

“No? What the fuck are you doing right now? Grinding on me, like a desperate whore.” 

Her breaths are shallow, and she expels, again, a denial. His takes his hand away, just a smidge, and then pats, once, over the fleshy part of her cheek with his open palm splaying — it’s borderline harsh enough to be considered a slap. Isla groans, and the dominant feels the aftermath manifest as a frantic spasm over his cock. 

“No?” he repeats, voice low and soft. 

“No,” Isla tells him, for the third time. So, he lifts his hand back and does it again, this time a little firmer. Her hips cant as she muzzles a soft sound with her lips, glued together. 

“Don’t want anyone’s attention,” the young woman tells him from below, then, her inflection borderline frenzied, “just want yours.” 

Slowly, the plush strawberry of his mouth quirks and curls up. His ego swells, and the man pulls his hips back, just a smidge, and pummels forward — a reward, for her, and she’s aware. “S’that right?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Isla cranes her neck back against the comforter when he pushes off of her, picks her legs back up, and melts back into a sure, satisfying tempo, his hips pumping relentlessly. It’s the best. He’s the best. 

The dominant takes her ankles in one palm — how the fuck does he do that, Isla thinks, his hand is so large, and strong, and—

“Fuck, baby, f’you could just see the way we fit together — s’like a fucking match made in heaven,” he throws his head back with a groan post taking in the view of her cunt swallowing him up, coated in cherry-flavored, red latex. His shoulders roll as a shudder wracks down the knobs of his spine, and he separates her ankles off with his hands, setting them into a spread, against the bed, gently. He pushes her knees back until the front of her thighs nearly brush over the sheets, and braces himself with his palms on either side of her head as he works into a hammer. 

“He fuck you like—“ Harry grunts as his hips swivel, and Isla watches, entranced, the plush of his lips part on shallow breaths, his grin wicked and twitchy in response to her little sounds, “this? Give you what you want? What you need?” 

She doesn’t have to inquire to know that he’s talking about Faunus — still on about Faunus. 

“No,” Isla tells him, soft and breathy, And he rewards her, again, by pumping forward, harder, faster, deeper, and groaning, soft huffs suffusing his speech. 

“No? Doesn’t stretch this snug little cunt out the way you need? Who does?” 

“You — just you,” she keens as the entire mattress rocks beneath her. 

“Just me?” his tongue sticks to the tips of his front teeth as he pummels forward and punches a little gasp out of her, “Who does this sweet, little cunt belong to?” 

“You — Sir!” 

“That’s right. S’my cunt. Mine to fuck, mine to tease, mine to kiss,” his gaze flickers down between them, where they connect, and the sight alone nearly has his balls draining. His hand ventures, and fingertips rub over the bundle of nerve endings in a way that has her tensing and crying out. 

“My clit. Isn’t it?” He switches to a thumb, swiping over it, and his jaw falls open as he watches her pulse over his shaft while her head thrashes above, her teeth clenched and grinding in a pained frenzy. She’s quite pretty, overstimulated, too. 

“And that means,” the left corner of his mouth buckles up, his speech glazed with condescension, “I can do whatever I want to it, right?” 

As soon as his touch abates, Isla can no longer restrain herself. She digs the pads of her fingers onto his placket, into the empty spaces between the buttons of his shirt and the slits where they’re looped, clenching a fist as she raises herself and tugs him down. And before the dominant has the opportunity to scold her for treating his dress shirt with such an unshackled lack of care, she meshes their mouths together. Harry’s arms nearly buckle. 

It’s filthy — but not at first. At first, he doesn’t return it, appalled by the gesture. Because it’s a limit, according to her, it’s her limit, because it’s too personal, and she’s just broken it herself. Because she just couldn’t hold back anymore, and in the fervor with which she kisses him, that shit is pretty evident. But then, he does return it. His lips move, and he moans against her strawberry mouth, and then her lips part, and from there it’s just …lewd. They’re sort of in the middle of active intercourse, Isla thinks, so a kiss shouldn’t make her feel so dirty — but it does. It’s not a dainty first kiss of first loves and soft touches and curious experimentation. It’s thrilling, and dirty, and his tongue slips into her mouth after she brushes her own against his bottom lip, and one of her hands tangles into his dress shirt while the opposite presses against his shoulder as if aiming to work out a fucking knot with the pressure. She whimpers against him, wetly, and in turn he groans and nips at her bottom lip with his teeth, his cock pulsing inside of her. And then it’s all teeth, and tongues, and want, want, want, as his hips hammer against her. It’s wanton moans, and whimpers, and rugged groans. It’s everything she’s been yearning for, and more. 

“Open your mouth, open your mouth,” Harry urges, pulling off a bit and slinking a hand over her cheek, “Tongue out.” 

She complies, and then a rivulet of spit dribbles from his mouth against her twitching tongue, and that’s just—

“Fuck,” Harry groans, his hips rolling against her, “You’re fucking filthy. Swallow it.” 

So she does, her throat bobs below his palm, which slinks to cradle over her windpipe — not squeezing, just …there. She moans, soft and melty and desperate as his hips roll into her. And then Harry exhales, takes his hand off of her throat, and plants his palms on either side of her head to raise himself, hovering over her. He sighs like the experience is too pornographic to even comment upon. It sort of is. 

“Dirty fucking girl,” the dominant settles on, eventually. And then he plows her like fucking farmland. 

Her palms roam, frantically, over the fabric covering his back, the craving to leave marks of her own with short nails swelling through her mind, as he pumps forward, until it’s the only thought fathomable. It’s that — and the sick urge to spit into his own strawberry mouth, to have him leant back against the sheets, bare beneath her as she works and bounces over his cock. 

Christ. 

She’s warm, and wet, and heaven, and Harry imagines that his own personal Nirvana, then, would involve nothing but her cunt squeezing over his cock for the rest of eternity, her skin sticky with sweat beneath him, and her muscles quivering as he imbibes and basks. She is, in the moment, everything he wants and everything he’s ever wanted. Everything he ever will want, maybe. Because sex with Isla was — well. It was something else. Something rapturous, something sick and twisted, something he imagines he could never grow tired of. Ever. 

His muscles do, though. Eventually. He feels the ache start in his hamstrings, in his shoulders, in his neck from its crane to gaze down upon her, because he just can’t tear his irises away — it’d be a cardinal sin to miss the view of a lifetime, afterall, Harry thinks. And along with the ache of his muscles comes the familiar chip in his resolve — cracks surfacing as he begins to become rended apart. He feels that in his stomach, first and foremost, in the trench of his tummy as his muscles tense — then, on the underside of his balls, a pleasured warmth that radiates as he pulses, and finally it seeps through his shaft. She squeezes over him, like she knows, and he almost loses it, then and there. He drives into her frantically, groaning animalistically as his body chases release almost on its own accord. 

“Shit — always milk my cock so good, baby. Gonna— FUCK—“

Isla moans, soft beneath him, when she feels the warmth of his release, confined by the stupid cherry-flavored condom. When she feels his cock pulsing in her, when she feels his tempo slow, when he gives her a few last, weak strokes. When his head dips and he blows out a long breath, grunting as he pulls back and slips out, when she feels nothing but emptiness. 

“Sir,” she starts, soft, soft, soft, and the rough exterior, the paramountcy-hungered, hard shell of his demeanor splinters and falls apart. 

“So sweet for me,” Harry says, voice coated in candy, tucking strands back from her sweaty hairline, “Aren’t you? Always so eager to be good for me.” 

Isla whimpers. Harry coos, shushing her with soft croons for a moment, until he pulls back and starts untucking himself from the condom and clearing up a bit. 

“Always make me happy, always such a good girl. Take everything I give you and more, so well,” the man tells her, his pupils bouncing from his cock to her face as he cautiously rolls the condom off, “Hold on just a minute, baby, and we’ll have a cuddle, alright?” 

He stows the condom away in its wrapper after he’s tucked himself away, and he contemplates making the short walk to the trashcan by the electric water thing against the wall. Ultimately, the dominant decides against it when she whines, needy for him and in need. Instead, he sets it off to the side, on the nightstand, as he turns back to her, lips twitching up into a little grin. 

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he starts, kneeing his way back onto the bed to sit beside her and hover, his hand stroking over her cheek, the side of her head, over her ear, down the side of her neck, “Gave me five today. Made me so proud.” 

Isla just nods against his gloved palm, her sigh dreamy. Did she? Five, really? What an exciting and, frankly, impressive number. It’s all sort of a bliss of euphoria. She feels it, the headspace, the kind where she’s buzzing and floaty and her mind drifts and bobs about the walls aimlessly. The kind where all she can fathom is that she wants to be close to him. And it really hits her when Eros coaxes, “Can you sit up for me, pet?” 

Absolutely not. 

She shakes her head at him, wordlessly, and his mouth quirks with an endeared scoff, and the young woman nearly whines until he slips onto his side beside her to cradle her close. For a minute, he just lays near her, his chest to her side as he pets and caresses over her waist, and eventually he rolls to his own back and beckons, “Come here, baby,” holding her close as she shifts her head onto the space just over his butterfly. 

Harry stares at the ceiling. All is well. 

All is well, and it happens nearly out of the blue, brought about from a murky horizon, unforeseen. Because in their nights together, Isla cries — she always cries, and sometimes, when Harry cradles her close, he coddles her out of soft sobs that wrack her body post an intense scene. But those are traces. Remnants. They’re aftermath. The unanticipated is a fresh wave. 

And Isla feels it coming on. She feels it settling in her chest, first, bursts and blooms of sadness, like the kind where you feel nostalgic, missing something. Then, her eyes. They already feel puffy and swollen, but they start to burn in the back. Her throat feels tight. And that sadness creeps deeper and settles. 

Because she sort of feels she’s living through the nostalgia, then and there, in the moment. Like she’ll never relive it again. 

Isla lays her head over his heartbeat and starts to cry. 

TDIAG MASTERLIST HERE

#dom harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles wattpad #harry styles writing #harry styles dirty fanfiction #harry styles x oc #dom!harry #dom!harry x sub!reader #tdiag

[mrghostrat]

i wanted to say thank you for normalizing (for me) tracing refs and models for things, i'm from the deviantart era of "using references is cheating" which set me back YEARS lmao so to see you unabashedly using references so directly makes me feel so much better for when i do! i need to better realize that you still have to be a good artist to make a traced photo look good, and there's SO much you add to a drawing that isn't from the reference, so it's not like i'm lying or secretly a bad artist just cuz i use the csp 1.0 models for poses sometimes....... so thanks for sharing your process!!

of course!!! and 100% agree! that's what i have to remind myself whenever the imposter syndrome sets in: there's so much you gotta add to a thing beyond the traced pose, and the reason i can do it how i do is because i'm at a very comfortable stage of my artistic development. but man i've gotten so much better at freehanding so many poses and limbs and fabric details since i started tracing more frequently, it really does help your muscle memory and help build the skill!!

and. it's just, fun. when you want to turn your brain off, like that richard ii sketch i posted. sometimes i wanna draw just for the fun of it, for the tactile experience of putting down lines and making pretty shapes appear. tracing is a godsend for that. just be transparent about your process ✨

i have all kinds of opinions abt when and where tracing is helpful as u develop as an artist, but at the end of the day everyone's art journey is their own, and they should be allowed to use whatever tools are available to them. remember that artists and animators have been tracing as part of their professional workflow since the photograph has been invented.

#ask a rat #addon: i also used to be insufferable abt this #like NO ! TRACING!! IT'S!!!! ILLEGAL!!!!!!!! #but jfc man who cares #who #cares

[roo-bastmoon]

Last time I'm gonna get into this...

Within the past 24 hours, there have been FIVE attacks on Weibo with paid hashtags against Jeon Jungkook.

JK has been accused of cheating on a blonde girlfriend, leaving a string of broken hearts, getting a girl pregnant, inappropriate behavior at what looks like a club or karaoke bar, and sexually harassing female staff. These accusations are being systematically criticized and debunked when errors are pointed out.

Clearly, there is a smear campaign coinciding with the release of 3D.

Now look, I cannot promise you that all the "evidence" is manufactured. But it's definitely being weaponized. So I'd ask you to just keep an open mind, use your critical thinking skills, and be patient, because this isn't the first time rumors like this have exploded and it won't be the last. Sometimes it takes a while for the truth to come to light.

You'll never catch me in these streets acting like a cult member. I'm not going to sit here and draw up schematics and comparison photos in some desperate attempt to convince the timeline of anything. Nor am I going to say someone rented a similar apartment, staged it with mood lamps and a doberman, and then had an actor wear a mask to set up JK (more likely, it's a random couple that got filmed without their knowledge). I won't delve into conspiracy theories about companies or competitors or comebacks or cosplayers or any of that.

If later it turns out that Jungkook has a partner other than Jimin, I really hope all the members of this community join me in quietly accepting that and calmly wishing him and Jimin well. The vast majority of people here do not ship them because they are pretty dolls to play with, but celebrate them because they are wonderful human beings with a unique, decade-long relationship that makes us light up inside.

Their bond and their characters speak for themselves. And until they tell us otherwise (or, sadly, until REALLY CONCRETE evidence is leaked--which will be hard to prove in a post-fact world full of AI and deep fakes), we can theorize all day long about their behavior and what it means for their personal lives, but only the Tannies ever truly know what the Tannies are going through.

And as frustrated as we are with not knowing, they have a right to keep it that way.

So please get out of my ask box and instead refocus your energy (she said lovingly). The ajumas are most definitely planning a last minute crazy-cakes push on idolplus and the gap in votes is nowhere near safe for Jimin. It's all hands on deck!! We have less than two days to get the only remaining BTS member his end-of-year award before he serves his country, so please make accounts and VOTE.

Also please stream and buy the new releases to the best of your ability, of course.

And finally, if you have the energy, take a moment to lift someone else up today. Even if it's just a kind word in their inbox. Be a good human and do something gentle and nurturing for yourself while you're at it.

Chins up, my puppykitties. We gotta pull ourselves together.

We are ARMY, and we have battles to win.

Plus, tomorrow begins Jimtober. You guys remember Jimin? Here, let JK help you out with that.

Okay, byyyyyyeeee.

P.S. I love you guys.

#jikook #jungkook #jimin

[mypimpademia]

— Rock Angel

Bakugo x Rock Angel! Sasha-coded! Fem! Black! Reader

Synopsis: What it’s like to date Bakugo as a Bratz Rock Angel

TW: Swearing

Note: Click/Tap here for the full collab!

⇶ He’s your biggest fan, honestly

⇶ He’s a huge fan of the whole band, of course

⇶ But he’s your biggest fan

⇶ Katsuki loves to come to your shows, always backstage with you, helping you prep, amping you up, and of course, acting like your personal security

⇶ Doesn’t even let people get the chance to get near you whenever you’re walking into the venue, pushing people away from you and shouting for people to “get the hell out of the way!”

⇶ Absolutely no Twevils will be crashing your show on his watch! And if they get it, it’s by buying a ticket and supporting y’all!

⇶ Your actual security thinks it’s a bit much, but you’d be a liar if you said you didn’t like seeing your man go so hard for you!

⇶ When you’re in your dressing room, he’s always there with you

⇶ Helps you into your outfit if you need help, pick out accessories, pick makeup, etc

⇶ Never even lets you go out with a hair on your head that’s out of place

⇶ He’ll fix the ends of your braids/twists, make sure your wig is in place, fix your Afro shape, be sure that your retwist still looks fresh, ensure that your slick back is slick, and that your edges are laid. You will not be looking a mess as long as this man is around!

⇶ And obviously he’s gotta hype his girl up for the show!

“You’re gonna do fuckin’ awesome out there.”

“Obviously! I’ve been waiting all month to preform this song, and I produced it, so you know it’s gonna be rockin’!” You cheered.

Katsuki loved seeing you get excited before shows, your energy and enthusiasm was always on ten, but you clearly got a different type of rush from preforming.

“Obviously. Who’s the biggest fuckin’ rockstar in the world?” Katsuki grinned.

“Me!” You exclaimed, posing to punctuate your word.

“That’s my baby.”

⇶ When you get stressed out before a really big show and need some alone time, he still doesn’t leave you alone

⇶ It’s not to stress you out more, it’s just because he knows it’s not good for you to sit in your own anxieties just before a set

⇶ Getting mad at him is no use either, he just thinks you’re cute

“Katsuki, get out of my changing room, I am not playin’ with you!”

“And if I don’t?” He challenged, smirking at you.

Kissing your teeth, you picked up a magazine and chucked it in his direction. He dodged it with ease, and simply laughed in response.

“You’re cute when you’re mad, Bunny,” Katsuki teased.

“Boy, you better find you somethin’ safe to do–”

⇶ Usually sends Cloe or Yasmin in if he really can’t get through to you (which is a rare occurrence)

⇶ Once you get on stage, he sits on the sidelines just enjoying the music and looking at you the whole time

⇶ Between sets, he always tells all of you that you did good, and checks on you to make sure you’re not too tired and drinking water

⇶ He trusts Cloe, Jade, Yasmin, and Roxxi to do the same for you, of course, since they’re your closest friends, but he likes to do it himself most of the time

⇶ Always gives you a good luck kiss before you go back on

⇶ Katsuki is always helping you with producing, so much so that he’s sometimes listed as a producer on the bands songs

⇶ And if he’s not listed as a producer, you’ll likely find him credited as the drummer

⇶ Learns a little bass guitar to help even more

⇶ Lovesss that he’s always one of the first- if not the first- people out side of the band to hear your songs

⇶ Always provides a little bit of feedback, but other than that he thinks everything you do is perfect, and you can’t help but agree

⇶ Katsuki loves how confident and determined you are about yourself and everything you do. Seeing you be optimistic and outspoken all the time always makes him want to do better for himself

⇶ Even though you’re a bit more energetic and adventurous, you match his energy in terms of knowing who you are and ambition, and you complement each other well

⇶ You’re too good to him sometimes, honestly. Always giving him pick me ups whenever he’s upset or stressed, letting him vent. And you’re very protective of him when the tabloids or the Twevils get a bit passive aggressive towards him

⇶ You and Katsuki are THEE couple. Period.

⇶ You’re always seen out on cute dates or just wherever being cute

⇶ People always point out the lovesick looks you two give each other when you’re in one another’s presence

⇶ Fashion icons.

⇶ There’s not a single picture out there where either of you look bad

⇶ ESPECIALLY not one where you’re together

⇶ If you’re not matching, you’re color coordinated at least and wearing the same textures and fabrics

⇶ Katsuki is more than happy to fund your shopping addiction. He knows you’ll wear whatever it is that you’re eyeing in the store, and he knows you’ll wear it well

⇶ Though, it does baffle him a bit how someone can even spend so much money on clothes all the time

⇶ And don’t even get him started on when you go shopping with Cloe or Jade. You’ve all got shopping addictions, but they’re certified shopaholics, and you’ll buy more clothes than you’ll ever need after just a few hours at the mall with them

“Oh my gosh! Angel, Kool Kat, look at this Juicy Couture bag!”

“Gorg!” They gasped in unison.

“It’s so you Bunny Boo! Like, it was literally made for you, you have to get it!” Cloe urged.

Katsuki took the bag from you, digging around for a price tag before finding it in an inner pocket.

“Fuckin’ hell…” He cursed.

“You don’t have to pay for it if you don’t want to, Katsu. I can-” Just as you went to reach for your card, he stopped you mid sentence and grabbed your hand.

“Nah, I’ve got it.”

⇶ Naturally, you return the favor by smothering him with your irreplaceable love, kissing all over his face, leaving stains of brown lip liner and gloss while calling him your handsome man

⇶ Wears every mark like a badge of honor, and implores you to leave them right before you go out somewhere just so everyone knows he’s yours

⇶ Katsuki just loves his little Rock Angel 🫶🏾

—

Taglist: @megurulvr @miirene @planetlunaa @pnkweb @szaplsdropthealbum @dreampurpledreams @goldenglow149 @gender-queery @roaringlion @chocolateochaco @tatiquichi @kxtsxkii

—

Thank you for reading, comments and reblogs are appreciated! Follow for more!

#mparockangelz #mha #bnha #mha hcs #bnha hcs #mha headcanons #bnha headcanons #mha x reader #bnha x reader #mha x black reader #mha x black!reader #bnha x black!reader #bnha x black reader #bakugo x black reader #bakugo x black!reader #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo headcanons #bakugo hcs #katsuki bakugo fluff #bakugo fluff #mha fluff #bnha fluff #mha x black female reader

[dantesunbreaker]

hey! i love your writing so much :) it’s so week thought out and really true to each character without being stereotypical, i love it. this may be an odd request, but i was wondering if you could head canons for the Papa’s based on Slut! by Taylor Swift? You don’t gotta listen to the song, i just really love the “if they call me a slut, you know it might be worth it for once” theme n like being slutshamed but really is just two people in love. either party can be the “slut” :)

"Slut!" Headcanons

I’m not sure if I responded with how you were expecting anon, but I hope you enjoy them! Also I wrote most of these after working from 6am to 2pm, and then going back to work 11:45pm to 9am the same night with only maybe two hours of sleep in between. So I apologize for any mistakes!

Primo

Of all the Emeritus brothers, Primo would have the least reaction to having a partner with behavior that is perceived as slutty

In all his years, Primo has seen and experienced it all. Why waste time by holding back what the body and mind wants to express?

Encourages you to wear however revealing of outfit as you desire, because Primo would never think to feel jealous of someone else seeing your beauty

Always enjoys your affection, feeling humbled and flattered that you are so openly forward about your attraction and love for him

Doesn’t care for the term slutshaming, because in his eyes there should be no shame in any of that sort of behavior

Primo also does not believe there is no shame when it comes to you, because he knows that the cause is from the love that you feel for each other

Secondo

Of all the Papas, Secondo seems the most well equipped and or has the most experience being with a partner that society would view as being slutty

Being a party animal, he meets a lot of people that would be similarly viewed, and he has been with more than a few

More than happy to let you dress and act however you wish, as long as it is always him you are going home with at the end of the night

If you ever ask if an outfit is too revealing, Secondo will tell you so, but will insist you wear it. Let them see, if only to make them jealous of what they cannot have

Also won’t admit it, but Secondo loves the attention you give him. It keeps him feeling young whenever he is with you

Sometimes if Secondo gets too drunk, he is the one that will act like a slut, especially if you are in a nightclub

There are never any doubts about your love and affection for each other

Terzo

It should go without needing to be said, Terzo is the slut in this scenario

The way that Terzo interacts with Omega on the stage is just a glimpse of how he interacts with you

Is not afraid to throw himself all over you in public, even in situations where he probably should not. Why should he ever hold back his feelings for you?

When you are out in public, Terzo will often make a show of throwing himself at you whenever the opportunity strikes. He loves it when all eyes are on you both

Happily wears the title of slut as if it were a badge of honor, always reminding you that it is all just for you. He is all yours

To everyone in the Ministry, you are both a set of happy love drunk fools

Sometimes however, Omega does have to reign Terzo in a bit to keep him from taking things a bit too far in public. They don’t need Sister Imperator on their case again

Copia

This poor man is so easily flustered, you will have him permanently trying to hide his bright red cheeks beneath his Papal paints

Getting him to admit that he loves seeing you in tight revealing outfits sometimes takes a bit of work, but it is so worth it to see the way he drools over you

Zero issues with other people seeing you in such outfits either, because he would never disrespect you in such a way or treat you as if you were his property. Plus, despite his awkward shyness, Copia is very secure in knowing that at the end of the day it is only him that gets to see you out of such outfits

It is such a foreign concept for Copia for someone to so openly show their attraction and affection for him that sometimes he will get a bit overwhelmed at times. So there may be times you have to dial it back a bit as to not break the old man

But to the same end, Copia is just as eager to similarly display and share his love for you so openly

Actually it is thanks to you that Copia feels the confidence to wear such skin tight lace up trousers, or even how he acts when up on stage

#ghost the band #the band ghost #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #papa emeritus x reader #papa emeritus 4 #ghost fanfiction #asks #papa emeritus iii x reader #papa emeritus ii x reader #papa emeritus i x reader #pap emeritus iv x reader #terzo x reader #secondo x reader #copia x reader #primo x reader #headcanons #ghost headcanons #papa emeritus iii #papa emeritus ii #papa emeritus i #terzo #secondo #primo #requests

[connorsnothereeither]

So like, a while ago I did a little update on the Brink fics, and I figured it was worth giving a kinda sad update on my other Fable fics as well.

At this stage, there are no plans to continue or finish Your Skin Beneath My Teeth (the second book in the Blood series).

I know this is probably disappointing, because I know a lot of people really loved the Vampire AU. But from a personal writing level, I’m just sort of unhappy with the direction of the books, and I don’t have the time to commit to rewriting them. I’m not invested enough in my own story, and while that’s a shame, I don’t know if there’s much I can do without just giving myself time to stew on it.

There’s also a logistical side to things as well. Fable is coming to an end in less than a month. I feel like it’ll probably take me months to finish the Brink series still first, which are the fics I’m personally more passionate about. And at a certain point, I don’t want Fable to be the only thing that consumes my writing for the next year+. Not to mention the time I want to dedicate to other SMPs and creative projects I’m involved in, like Cantripped, Bound SMP, and Terramortis, with even more stuff in the works.

On top of all that like… I’m just a guy, ya know. I’m a full time student, work part-time most days of the week, commute between 2 major cities regularly, and I have other things that just deserve my time more.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been in fandoms for years, I know it’s shitty when fics you enjoy never get an ending. But I hope that like, people get where I’m coming from with discontinuing it, I guess.

Besides, there is, technically, an ending for Blood. I’ve had the ending written since the end of the first book (it’s just getting there that’s the problem) and so if people would like, as some sort of closure for the story, I would be happy to release that here on Tumblr or on my Kofi or something. Maybe I’ll make a follow up post with a poll.

I might as well mention that there is likewise no plan to “finish” the Band AU, but since that was always a collection of one-shots, there was never really a plan or end for any of it. It was always kinda disjointed without an end in sight lol.

I’m not saying that I’m NEVER going to go back to these fics. Just that it’s unlikely. But who knows, maybe someday I’ll crawl out of the dirt to finish them-

If you did only follow my Fable fics for the Blood books though, I’m sure some elements of my other fan works might appeal to you, if you want to give them a go! The horror/contemplations of humanity are the key theme of Brink, and the mystery/thriller, high stakes political conflict mixed with interpersonal melodrama is the focus of Cascading Skies, my new Bound fic. And of course those and so many more things are just key elements to like all of my storytelling my canon characters lol. But if none of that ticks your boxes, it was great to have y’all along for the bloody vampire ride :D

Anyway this was me getting sappy about setting aside a project I worked really hard on lol. Sometimes you gotta do that and sometimes that’s okay, and that’s an attitude I struggle with but am getting better at. I know don’t owe y’all any kind of explanation for this, I could have just stopped and let it die, but I wanted to give one. More for me personally really; I needed to say something about it publicly to like… fully cement in my mind what I decided on a long time ago. Anyway, catch y’all later when I’m not incredibly tired, and hopefully with a more silly goofy post ✌️

#fable smp #fablesmp #fanfic