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macfrog · 7 months

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call me

idea came to me in a dream. enjoy also! i made a notifs blog! taglist life is NOT for me, babies. feel free to head on over, follow and turn notifs on to be updated anytime i post! 👉 @macfroglets 👈 you’re gonna wanna do it before this sunday…😉🤠

inspired by @bageldaddy who is the author of the dreamiest series on this site, my biggest crush, and also told me not to tag her but i respect my elders so.

pairing: joel miller x call girl!reader

summary: you moonlight as a call girl, receiving mediocre call after mediocre call. one night, one joel miller dials in, and grants you the most exciting ten minutes of your career

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) this fic is pro-sex work. reader is a phone sex operator, mentions of anal and oral, dirty talk, couple mentions of daddy, praise kink, mutual masturbation, alcohol consumption, cursing

word count: 3k

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“What now, baby?” you whisper, laughing to yourself. You’re palming at your breast, your fingers pulling in around your nipple. Your core begins to throb. “You’re gonna touch yourself.” “That what you want?” “’s what I want, angel. Do it for me.”

It started out as a joke, if you’re being honest.

A wine-drunk night with Liv, sat at opposite ends of the couch, legs intertwined somewhere in the middle of the cushions. Her blouse was stained pink – your fault, apparently, for making her laugh too hard. Her glass tilted a fraction too far and before you knew it, you owed her a new shirt.

“Say it again, say it how he said it,” she snorted, patting her chest down with the damp towel you’d handed her.

“…quite frankly, disappointed with your performance,” your head tilted back and forth, mocking the nasally voice of your fifty-one-year-old, receding-hairline-equipped boss. Ex-boss. Asshole.

“Oh, fuck,” she heaved, still catching her breath. “That’s so fucking funny.”

You sighed in agreement.

“So…what are you actually gonna do now?”

You shrugged. “Sell my body.”

“Dare you.”

“I would.”

“I know you would. And you’d be good at it, too. ‘s why I’m telling you to do it.”

You kicked her ankle. “I got bills to pay, dude.”

“What about one of those call girls?”

And, well. That was that.

You’d googled it after seeing her off to her own apartment, watching her wobbly form stagger across the hall and stab her key a few times into the wood before it landed in the lock. The door closed with an accidental slam which echoed up the stone stairwell, and you crept back to your own place.

Palms either side of your laptop on the counter, face lit in a blue glow, dripdripdrip of your busted tap echoing around your dark kitchen. They asked for an email address – you used the one you’d made up before you realized email addresses were permanent – and a phone number. Said someone would call you to discuss it. You shrugged, hit Sign up and went to bed.

Within hours, you’d spoken to some sharp-accented woman who asked quick, snappy questions and uhuhed her way through your answers. Her name was Erica. She told you she’d look after you, told you to call her with any questions or concerns you had.

All she wanted from you were the basics: you liked sex, you masturbated, you knew how to dirty talk. You sorta knew your way around things like anal, and could manage a convincing pitch for things of a more…exploratory nature.

And then she asked when you wanted to start. You told her that night.

Your first caller – like, ever – was some guy with a midwestern accent who asked you to narrate fucking him. Like, spanking him with a paddle, calling him a bad, bad boy. You threw your nerves to the wind and went along with it, and honestly, had a pretty rad time. He was cool.

But one was enough for your first night. You logged out and went to bed. You told Liv the next morning, and she punched your arm a little too hard and yelled, That’s my fuckin’ girl! Was it hot? Did you…y’know?

No. You never get that lucky. Some calls you can lie idly on your couch and let your limp hand surf beneath the hem of your underwear, push lazy circles against your clit as the dude moans in your ear or gasps when you whine.

Sometimes their mics can pick up the faint sound of them jacking off, and your brain slips you an image that makes your stomach flutter. Sometimes you’ll hang up and take yourself the whole nine yards with your laptop sitting on your mattress, porn on the screen, and your vibrator between your open legs.

It’s pretty intense work. Sometimes.

But all in all: no. You never…y’know.

One week in, you were cooking dinner whilst telling Trevor – thirty-nine, Buffalo, New York – how you’d take his huge, throbbing dick in your throat and let him fuck it. He asked to hear how turned on you were, just talking about it. You lowered your phone down to the pot of macaroni and gave it a stir.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned down the line, “you’re so fuckin’ wet right now, huh?”

Huh.

Tonight, you had pizza rolls. Less sexy.

You just got off another call. Thirty minutes of describing how good you’d take him up your ass. You’re bored, turned off by this point, and tired. It’s almost 3AM.

You pace around your apartment, flicking switches off and tossing cushions back into place. Spilling small sips of wine from your glass onto your tongue as you’re plunged into darkness, one click at a time.

You don’t get much while the sun’s up. Most days, nothing at all. That works for you, though. You can run errands, grab groceries, do sweet-fucking-nothing whilst waiting for the influx of calls that will inevitably come your way by nightfall. When the streetlights come on, the rush hour traffic dies out front, the shuffling of tired feet up the concrete staircase outside your front door slows down – you just log in, and your cell will eventually start to ring.

Your cell, which now lies wedged between the couch cushions. You notice the sound of it vibrating as you’re pulling your curtains closed. Half-way shut, you desert them and wander over. Intrigued.

No Caller ID. The usual. You swipe right. The robotic voice tells you there’s a request on your account for a ten-minute call. Tells you to dial 1 to accept, or hang up.

Ten minutes? At three in the morning?

Usually, at this time of night, they’re longer. They’re drunk, or their partner finally fell asleep, or they just want your attention for a bit. See them through the uncomfortably quiet night.

But ten fucking minutes?

Ten minutes would make you somewhere around thirty-five dollars. They had the option as the timer ran out to extend the call, if they wanted. Most of them did. And that worked fine for you.

You’re unemployed. Who knows what money you’ll have in a week’s time? An extra thirty bucks – probably more – right before bed? A little nightcap?

You dial in and answer the call.

He doesn’t say anything when it connects. You hear the ruffling of clothes.

Your voice naturally dips a couple octaves, coats in something smooth and husky. Glistening, gleaming, sex-driven. “Hello?”

He clears his throat. His voice is deep, rich. More vibration than speech. He speaks with a Southern drawl, like bare skin running over silken sheets. It’s smooth, and sensual, and sexy. “Evenin’.”

You knock the last light switch off with your hip and doddle through to your bedroom. Mornin’, actually. “Hi. What’re you after, baby?”

He takes a beat to reply. More ruffling. He chuckles a little before he says it. “Baby? That what you wanna call me?”

Your glass scrapes softly across your nightstand. You bounce down on your mattress, springs moaning as you roll onto your stomach. Knees bent, your ankles link in the air. “What do you want me to call you?”

“Guess we can figure that one out together.”

“Alright. I like a challenge. You wanna start with your name?”

Another pause. He sucks in a deep breath. “Joel.”

“Joel,” you repeat, thumb picking at your nailbeds. “That’s a sexy name.”

He doesn’t respond. Just gives a non-committal grunt, and a smile pulls across your lips.

“What are you into, Joel?”

He sniffs. “Thought we could figure that out, too.”

Something in the way he says it, the curve in the words, maybe, tells you he knows damn well what he’s into. What he means is: you can figure that out by yourself.

Like you said: you like a fucking challenge.

“You like nicknames? Daddy? That kinda thing?”

A low growl passes his lips. “Not this early on, I don’t.”

You know from the hitch in his voice that he likes it. That little catch at the bottom of his throat, the way the words stumble on their way up. Know you’ve plucked a string deep inside.

“Well, you know you only got ten minutes, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“’kay,” you sing, flipping your hair over your shoulder. You exhale, drawing shapes on the pattern of your bedsheets. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinkin’ about, then? What’s on your mind, cowboy?”

Cowboy. It’s the accent. He sounds Texan, or something. His words float through the receiver all wound, coiled up and tight.

Joel doesn’t seem to care. He answers your question truthfully.

“Thinkin’ about what you’re doin’ right now.”

You smirk. Sometimes you like the attention, too. You turn your head, check the clock by your bed. Two minutes have passed.

“I’m…lying in bed, in the dark. Had a couple wines, feelin’ pretty good. But this is all about you, so.”

He chuckles softly. “’m lyin’ in bed, too. In the dark.”

“You feelin’ lonely?”

He takes another deep breath. You figure he does this before he gives most answers. He sounds the contemplative type. Always double, triple checking his sentences before he lets them go.

“Just need somethin’ to take the edge off.”

“Okay,” you breathe, “let me. What do you need?”

There’s a long break between the end of your question and the sound he makes before he answers. You pull the phone from your ear and glance at the screen to make sure it’s still connected. Time says another two minutes have passed.

Joel grumbles. It echoes around your ear like thunder in the distance. “You touchin’ yourself?” he eventually asks.

“Uhuh,” you reply, nails picking at a loose thread on your comforter.

“Yeah? How’s it feel?”

“Good,” you mewl, tugging at the seam. Your teeth grit as you yank at it. “So – fucking – good.”

There’s another growl from the other end. It vibrates through your speaker, purrs in your ear.

“You ain’t fuckin’ touchin’ yourself.”

Your hand stops. Your eyes stick on the thread. “I am.”

“You are?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me how.”

You roll your eyes, turning onto your back. Your fingers play with the buttons of your shirt. Fuckin’ – tell me how. “I’m…” you sigh, “…I’m laying in bed, on my back. My hands are –”

“What you wearin’?”

“Isn’t that the sorta stuff you oughta ask when I first pick up?”

He speaks calmer. Clearer. You can hear the smile on his lips. “’m askin’ you now. What you wearin’, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. So he’s that type. Whatever. He’s kind of pissing you off.

“A shirt. And socks. And panties. No bra.”

“’n where you touchin’ yourself?”

You huff. “Between my –”

“Watch the attitude.”

You almost fucking laugh. Your breath escapes your chest in a silent burst. “Between my legs,” you tell him, flat and annoyed.

“Mhm. Above or beneath the panties?”

“Beneath, daddy.”

A tiny groan passes his lips. He doesn’t mean for it to, and a second, angry grumble follows, like he’s pissed at himself for letting it slip.

You take a lock of hair and twirl it around your finger, pulling tight until the tip whitens. “You touching yourself?” you ask, voice sickly sweet.

Joel ignores you. “Take it off. The shirt,” he clarifies, when you don’t answer.

You shuffle around a little, making sure he can hear the movement. You unbutton the shirt until it’s lying loose over your breasts, then tug it down over one shoulder.

“Alright,” you tell him with a heavy breath, laying back on the mattress, “it’s off.”

“Yeah?�� he asks, and your eyes flutter closed.

“Mhm.”

Joel chuckles under his breath. “Know when you’re lyin’, angel. Take – it – off. Don’t be a brat about it.”

This is half the game for him, you realize. This is his thing. He gives commands, you disobey them, and he kicks you into line. Tells you to behave.

You figure you like it almost as much, going by the heat pooling between your legs.

Your shoulders lift and you tug the shirt over them, tossing it to the floor. You lie back, bare against the sheets, and your hand instantly cups over your breast.

“Better,” Joel breathes.

“What now, baby?” you whisper, laughing to yourself. You’re palming at your breast, your fingers pulling in around your nipple. Your core begins to throb.

“You’re gonna touch yourself.”

“That what you want?”

“’s what I want, angel. Do it for me.”

You don’t take much more convincing. Your hand slips down your front, cups over your mound. You gasp when your fingertips brush against your clit.

Joel hears. “Yeah,” he hums, “’s a good girl. Take those panties off ‘n rub that pretty little clit for me.”

Your fingertips give one last kiss to the fabric of your panties. Your mouth tips open a fraction. You suck in a quiet breath, and push your hips up off the bed. The lace slips down your thighs in one motion.

Joel’s grunting steadily now, small noises slipping past his lips and into your ear. You spread your legs and push against your bud again, massaging the sensitive skin.

“Fuck, Joel,” you whine, and he groans in response.

“I know, I know,” he’s saying, and you hear the metal tinkle of his belt buckle. The fraying sound of denim being shifted. One slow, relief-filled groan.

His hands are on his cock.

You’d put more effort into caring that he’s been fully clothed this entire time, if you could think straight. You’re applying more pressure to your clit, rubbing faster, harder, then letting your fingers drift downward, move between your gleaming folds.

“Wish I was there with you so bad,” Joel purrs, and your eyes flutter open.

“Yeah?” you choke.

“Yeah.”

“What would you – do to me?”

He shudders. “Would fuck you real good, sweetheart.”

“Fuck,” you breathe, fingers circling faster.

There’s a gentle tugging; a rhythmic breathing. The odd break in his voice when his hand tightens, or you make a sweet little sound, or he catches himself giving too much away.

“Fuckin’ – be all over you. Nice ‘n hard. You want that?”

“Mhm,” you mewl, panting. “Want it so bad.”

“Yeah, you do,” Joel says. You can hear the sticky sound of his precum, leaking from his tip and running between his fingers, being pumped down his shaft by his fist. “Feels good, angel, don’t it? When you do what you’re told?”

“Y-eah,” you whisper.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and you picture a tight fist choking a thick cock. Picture that same fist unwinding, curving around your mound, fingers pushing deep inside you.

“Joel,” you whimper, and your fingers move down again, dipping nearer your tight, wet hole.

He grunts in response. “Don’t – not yet,” he tells you.

You whine.

“You got somethin’ else to use?” he asks, then interrupts before you can answer. “Yeah, you do. Go get it, sweetheart. Tell me what you got.”

“V-vibrator,” you mumble, hoisting yourself up and lunging across the bed to your nightstand. You haul the drawer open and sift between balled-up socks until you’re clutching the long, thick shape, fingers tight around the dips and curves.

“Let me hear it, angel.”

You click the button and the toy whirrs to life, vibrating strongly in your hand.

Joel hisses. “Alright, sweetheart, lie back. Gonna put it on that pretty little pussy, alright? Gonna make yourself cum for me.”

“Uhuh,” you murmur, one hand lowering the vibrator between your legs, the other holding the phone to your ear in a vice grip.

You push the round tip down to your clit and your head falls back with a loud moan. Joel sends one straight back at the sound of yours. It fades into a whimper, a desperate cry as you massage yourself with your toy.

Your legs clench as you dip it lower, letting the head nudge against your entrance, sending flutters of pleasure across your dripping cunt.

“Don’t fuck yourself,” Joel instructs, and your hand quickly pulls back. “Save it.”

This mystery man, who you’ve known for – if your clock is right – eight minutes, now; whose name is the most information you’ve gotten out of him; and whose face you couldn’t pick in a lineup…has such a hold on you, that your body instinctively reacts to his every word. An automatic reaction to do exactly as he says, when, five minutes ago, you couldn’t wait to get him off the phone.

You fucking listen to him. Save it for what? your head asks, and you ignore it. You don’t push the toy any closer to your center.

It drives hard against your clit, fast vibrations rippling down on the hot, swollen skin. It sends floods of warmth between your legs, drawing your arousal slick and wet from between your folds.

Your chest is damp, gleaming with sweat. Your breath cuts short in your throat, guttural noises replacing it as they reverberate through your mouth, across your tongue and into your dark bedroom.

Your walls start to clamp around nothing. You angle the vibrator so that it sends deep pulses across your pussy, shutting your eyes to picture Joel’s thick cock burying deep inside you as you climax with a loud, broken cry.

“Yeah, good girl. That’s it. Sound so pretty, angel. ‘s a good girl.”

You’re whimpering his name as you come down, holding the toy to your clit and letting your high wash over you. Your chest jumps, breaths heavy and staggered, gasping for air and then letting it rush out of your lungs in desperate pants.

“You know how good you are at that?” he asks, when your breath steadies again.

You giggle softly. “’s why I do it, baby.”

“Worth every fuckin’ penny.”

You sit in the post-orgasm haze for a few seconds, waiting for the room to stop spinning and your body to feel like yours again. You pull the phone from your sweat-stuck cheek and glance at the time. You have less than thirty seconds left. Joel seems to do the same, for his voice returns to your ear in a gentle, low whisper.

“Alright. Speak soon, angel. Be good.”

The call cuts.

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taglist: @slvbl @regalwhovianbrowncoat774 @casa-boiardi @msjarvis @acornacreacure @totallynotastanacc @alejaa-a @aphterthoughtt @pedroluver @earthtogrogu @sexygaypalpatine @cool-iguana @serenaxpedro @lizzyervs @bitchwitch1981 @brittmb115 @stormseyer @scarletthefierce @patti7dc @pattwtf @atticrissfinch @pascalpvnk @lizzyervs @jediknightjana @jessie8605 @iknowisoundcrazy @caitispunk @vickie5446 @mrsquill @uncassettodiricordi @gracieispunk @hellishjoel

(psst! after this weekend my taglist is no more! follow @macfroglets + turn on notifs if you wanna be in the know when i post!)

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #joel miller x callgirl!reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal joel miller

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upsidedownwithsteve · 2 years

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Promptober: Day Twenty Two

Eddie Munson x fem!reader 975 words.

You knew it was raining before you opened your eyes, before you even really woke up. The downpour outside created a dull roar on the trailer’s tin roof, not much light coming in from the cracks in the curtains despite it being almost eight in the morning.

You shifted, sheets slipping, the cold from outside nipping at your exposed skin and you grumbled. You sought out the warmth you knew was nearby, rolling lazily into the body next to yours. Bare skin, hot to touch, a mess of tangled curls on the pillow.

You shuffled until you could wedge yourself under an arm, the black ink outlines seeming even darker in the low light and the boy grunted as he stretched, barely coming to as he moved for you.

Eddie flipped onto his back, held his arm out for you and you both smiled as you pushed yourself onto his chest, cheek to his heart, your cold hand seeking warmth at the crook of his neck. He hissed, cringed at your touch before he grabbed at your fingers, bringing them to his mouth to huff over, all warm air and sleepy affection.

“Time’s it?” He asked, eyes still closed as he settled himself back into the pillows, pulling the sheets around you both as he tucked you closer into his arms.

“Still early,” you mumbled, “but I don’t think the market will be on today. Don’t need to get up anytime soon.”

The wash of rain was still a constant, a soothing white noise above Eddie’s bed and the rest of the trailer was quiet, Wayne long gone to work and there was a soft hum from the refrigerator, a louder, harder dripdripdrip from the leaking pipe outside the bathroom window.

Eddie hummed, curling into you as he pushed his nose to your cheek, pressed a sleepy kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Sounds pretty wet.”

You snorted, eyes fluttering with the pull of sleep once more now that the boy had surrounded you in warmth and the smell of leftover cologne, a little smoky, a little spicy. Your hand traced the legs of the tattoo on his chest, spider legs creeping across the skin in a way that you’d grown to love.

“It does,” you agreed. “Wanted to visit Gloria’s stall though, she said she had some new books coming in.” You pouted, a little disappointed in the change of tour Saturday plans. “Guess I’ll have to wait.”

“Y’know I’d drive you over to Burket if you wanted to visit the bookstore, right?” Eddie murmured, his hand pushing its way up the inside of your shirt. His shirt. “I don’t mind, sweetheart.”

You smiled, both at the offer and the feeling of his wide palm smoothing across your back. Guitar string scars caught at you a little rough, grazed across your spine and made you shiver.

“I know,” you told him, because you did. Eddie would do anything for you. “But I can wait until next weekend, thank you, though.”

You punctuated your appreciation with a kiss, nose nudged at his chin so he knew to duck his head down for you, lips slanting over his softly. The kiss matched the rain outside, slow, soft, constant like the thrum of a heartbeat.

“We could just stay here all day instead,” you suggested, a whisper and a grin against Eddie's mouth. You felt him smile back, lashed tickling your own as he finally opened his eyes. “If you want.”

“Do I wanna stay in bed with you all day?” Eddie drawled, “What kind of question is that?”

You squeaked, laughing out in a sharp burst as the boy suddenly grabbed at your waist and rolled you both, manhandling you until you were on top of him. You sat up, hands pressed to his chest and your legs on either side of his hips and Eddie looked up at you as if you were the sun appearing on the world's gloomiest day.

“‘Course I do,” he tutted, hands grabbing at the soft of your thighs, thumbs pushed to the crease of your leg. “Could stay here all week with you.”

“You’d get all achy,” you commented mildly, but Eddie was beckoning you down to him, fingers catching your chin, squishing your cheeks together into a soft poutfor him to kiss.

“Would be worth it,” he sighed, almost dreamlike, dramatic as usual. It made you grin. “Lovin’ on you all day? Rain on the roof? Your clothes on my floor?”

You snorted, letting the boy run his hands up your sides, big hands cupping at you, a thumb grazing over an already peaked nipple as he grinned, wolfishly. His curls were splayed around him on the pillow, eyes still hazy from sleep, his cheeks flushed from the way you were sitting on him.

You softened at the sight, wriggling against him just to make him gasp for you, a pretty little noise that made your toes curl and you were surprised you heard it over the din of the rain outside.

“Yeah?” You asked, voice honey, sticky with sweetness for him. “I like the sound of that.”

Eddie hummed, content, a hand in your hair, coaxing you to him, mouthing at the line of your jaw as you sighed.

“Could just kiss you ‘til the rain stops,” he murmured, lips warm on your cheek, a thumb ghosting over the curve of your breast.

“Don’t think it’s gonna let up,” you replied and god, you didn’t sound all that disappointed by it.

Eddie moved to peel your shirt off, letting it drop somewhere off the side of the bed. He gazed at your bed mussed hair, your mouth that was rosy and swollen from his kiss, the way your eyes shone like his.

“Oh no,” he deadpanned, mouth curling into a smile, an almost smirk. “How awful.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fic #upsidedownwithsteve's promptober

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sommerregenjuniluft · 4 months

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first lines in 2024!!

share the first thing you have written in the new year once you get there<3 (however long it takes & however brief!)

have some depraved haikyuu au jeggy from me because i literally got home after being out with the friends and this vomited out of me ^^ happy new year ig? jfskf LOVE U ALL

It’s just a slight twist of his wrists at first, he’s not even really squeezing but the fabric is so sopping it starts dripping immediately. Regulus is watching spellbound as the drops fall and start landing in a messy pattern over James’ lower face. On his tongue. His lips are so full, glistening wet now, and they shine in the hue of the measly daylight that’s still filtering through the kitchen window behind Regulus. He lets out a shaky breath as he watches as James’ eyes start crossing a bit. And then he squares his shoulders, metaphorically, and adjusts his grip. The older boy makes a needy little noise that turns downright broken once Regulus twists the shirt in such a way that it makes a little stream trickle out and splatter into the cavern of James’ open mouth. Sounding like a damn stalactite, the dripdripdrip of the tiny waterfall reverberating off the satiny smooth insides of James’ cheeks, the domed roof of his mouth. It’s a lot. Both, for Regulus to process and also water coming out of the shirt.

no pressure tagging @veryinnovative, @stagpdf, @messerflower, @static-radio-ao3, @kaaaaaaarf, @plecotusauritus, @pupmotif, @rottin6, @xjustakay, @strezzlecki, @divinerapturee, @regscupid, @showinalittlelife, @greenvlvetcouch, @maliceofminds, @lemndrps

#SMOOCHING ALL UR FOREHEADS LEFT AND RIGHT #lune writes #haikyuu au #jegulus #jegulus fic #sports au #starchaser #sunseeker #james potter x regulus black #james x regulus #regulus x james #jegulus fanfiction #james potter #regulus black

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banjjakz · 3 months

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route warnings: (dubious-ish?) non-con; forced fellatio; manipulation; power imbalances; misogyny. please proceed with caution this one is kinda rough

➡ Turn back.

Shame cows your ambition, curtailing your hand’s daring arc towards the doorknob. Your arm retreats back into your body, burned by a phantom pain.

How could you be so audacious? It should be enough to simply admire Yuuta from afar… Just imagining how scared and confused he might be to see a fan in his personal quarters is enough of a gruesome mental image to shock you out of your starry-eyed stupor.

Shaking your head in disbelief, you hurry to put some distance between yourself and your tantalizing desire. Now that you are once more aligned with your cognitive reasoning and critical thinking, the darkness of the backstage corridor is kinda…spooky. Despite the deafening roar of the frenzied crowd just a few moments prior, the venue is now almost entirely empty. The only soundtrack accompanying your foolish venture is the ominous dripdripdrip-ing of the faulty, leaky water pipes hidden behind the sodden ceiling and peeling drywall.

Suddenly, this feels very much so like a place in which you do not belong. Turning on your heel, you make a mad dash to evacuate the premises from the way you originally came – only to run straight into something tough, solid, and warm.

Evidently, it is not a wall – otherwise, your nose would’ve probably been shattered on impact, considering how hard you bowled straight into the surface. But what else could be this immovable, this well-fortified and impassible? The only things that come to mind are brick and bone, which—

Oh.

Tremulously, you caution a glance upward, shivering in your grimy concert shoes at the thought of having to confront the absolute beast of a security guard who’d been eyeing you all night…

Instead, when your eyes finally grace the features of your obstacle, it is not at all the formidable security guard of your nightmares. In fact, the reality is much worse.

Looking down at you is Geto Suguru, ShinShow’s lead singer, in all of his six-footed, long, luscious haired, tattooed, gauged lobed, pierced-faced glory.

When you fail to produce any words, he smirks at you, seemingly relishing in the uncomfortable silence. With dawning horror, you realize that he intends to wait you out. His imposing stature is so broad and the dim hallway is so cramped that you would not be able to pass unless he let you. And, judging by his sardonically amused impassivity, he has no intention of doing anything of that sort.

Your gulp is audible in the dead quiet. Frozen, you linger in paralysis, an animal of prey caught in still waters.

“Well, you look lost,” says Geto Suguru, deceptively calm.

His face is the pinnacle of classic beauty: an unblemished, sanguine ivory mask. The deceptively easygoing set to his superhuman features sets the lids of his eyes low, cutting across the horizon of his irises in one neat, lethal swoop.

Any ShinShow fan with half of a functioning brain knows not to be fooled by this theatrical performance. It is this same, seemingly lackadaisical Geto Suguru who unleashes live performances inspiring pure, unadulterated horror and dread amongst an eager, addicted audience. His antics as the band’s front man have included, but are certainly not limited to: lovingly instructing his fans to refer to him as “Geto-sama”; regurgitating fake (?) blood on stage; displaying a seriously terrifying proficiency in martial arts as a form of choreography; and, of course, passionately and enthusiastically belting out self-composed lyrics lamenting the state of the world, the salvation to be found in existential dread, and the anarchist desire to destroy life as it currently manifests.

So, you know. Light work.

Point being: this is a man who you do not want to fuck around with. Even as a dedicated superfan, there are some risks best left unchallenged. You don’t even want to think about what he would say (or do…?) if he found out that you’d been sneaking around and preparing to break and enter into one of his bandmate’s dressing room…

“I am,” you lie, bowing your head in an attempt to shield your quivering bottom lip and your wet, shifty eyes. For some reason, you feel like he’ll see right through you if you let him. “Could you please direct me to the exit? I am very sorry to trouble you.”

Geto’s hearty laugh startles you into looking up at him. “Sure you don’t want a polaroid pic before you go?”

There are sparkles and glitter and sunshine and rainbows melting out of your head, leaking out of your ear canals, dripping down your neck and shoulders and onto the dirty concrete like liquified brain matter. “If—if you insist.”

This is how you find yourself posing against a disgusting brick wall with the one and only Geto Suguru. You would squee, if the thought of fangirling in front of Geto Suguru didn’t make you want to violently extinguish your own existence.

The only thing worse than fangirling embarrassingly hard in front of Geto would be the insinuation that he is your oshi and you are one of his “followers,” as he has lovingly (?) dubbed his personal fanbase. To bear the brunt of his condescending, considerably sadistic attitude which he wields against fans like a whip of love…

It would be indecent(ly erotic)! It would be humiliating(ly pleasurable)! You would not survive (with your dignity intact)!

Out of the kindness of his cold, dead heart, he takes multiple shots with you. The first picture sees the both of you shoulder-to-shoulder, smiling serenely at the camera – a standard shot for oshi and fan. The second picture is his signature M.O. for fanservice photos: your faces are deadpanned in joint, mildly disgusted unison, staring down the viewer with thinly veiled contempt. It’s a popular, ironic style for niche idols like ShinShow to poke fun at both themselves as well as the concept of idol fanservice in general. Secretly, you derive a different meaning entirely from the farcical display of scorn. It is as though you gaze at the viewer as a voyeur. Why are you here? Why are you looking at him? Why are you looking at us? Go away. You aren’t worthy.

The white-hot flash of a successfully snapped shot sears across your vision like the wink of a shooting star, immeasurably awesome, woefully transient. As you mourn this interaction’s inevitable end, Geto surprises you by asking if you’d like some digital photos as well.

Charmed, you find yourself unable to do anything but agree, albeit not too enthusiastically. Appearances are important, here.

After quickly unlocking the device, he smoothly slips your smartphone from your shaky, clammy grasp, raising it up to a fashionably high selfie angle. Inside the four-by-four digital reflection, you are confronted with a reality you have never dared hope to imagine:

Geto Suguru, long black hair loose and in disarray from a recent stage performance, makeup running down the chiseled planes of his face in pigmented rivulets, black-painted nails splayed in a facetious peace sign right underneath your chin.

Crap, his hand is really warm! You can’t help but to lean into the plush crevice of skin between his pointer and thumb…is it weird, that you’re kind of obsessed with how soft it is? For a seasoned musician with quite the gnarly disposition, his hands – much like the rest of him – are deceptively soft.

Is it really alright, to be this close to him? As he snaps the third and final photo, you lose yourself in the intoxicating sensation of skin-to-skin contact. Delusional from the proximity, your consciousness has been untethered from your body, entirely outside of the reach of normal human sensibilities. You are only slammed back into your own mind when a sudden, swift constriction of pressure on your lower jaw demands your attention.

Shocked, you try to turn your head to look up at your idol. Subsequently, you are horrified to realize that it is his hand who restricts your movement.

In the mirrored image displayed by your phone camera, your trembling pupils track the slow spread of Geto’s lips which peel back from his teeth like unfurling layers of some fruit repulsively past the point of ripeness. Suddenly, his beautiful, white face of traditional peerless beauty now appears to you as an eerie mask concealing an unimaginably horrific reality.

“Did you know that I can smell your fear?” says Geto conversationally, still facing the camera, still smiling.

His mirrored image belies a reflection perhaps even more terrifying than an overtly antagonistic expression of anger or wrath. Instead of obvious malice, Geto’s undisturbed sanguineness installs within you a new and revolutionary kind of desperate terror.

“E-excuse me?” You ask, voice a tremulous, pitiful thing. “I don’t think I understand, Geto-san—”

Fast as lightning, and just as electrifyingly immobilizing, Geto’s large hand reaches upwards to smother your “You’ll use that mouth to properly address me Geto-sama, or you won’t use it at all. What is a follower’s role but to obey?”

A chill runs down the length of you, infiltrating your nervous system, hijacking your senses, arresting your higher functioning. Geto’s words sink in with fatal clarity: you are not escaping this. This is your fate.

Oddly, this realization excites you.

As though the line about smelling your fear wasn’t merely a maniacal bluff, Geto’s neatly-trimmed brows raise almost at the same time as you come to this conclusion. As a heady sort of anticipation fills your gut, his mask cracks for the first time, toeing the line between disgust and another, unnamable sentiment – one that lends a new kind of scintillating, sadistic twinkle in those small, dark eyes.

“Don’t tell me--” His fingers dig even more deeply into the supple flesh of your burning cheeks. “—that you like this.” Before you can curb it, a damning whimper flies forth from your dry throat, betraying your weakened knees, the weeping arousal between your quaking thighs.

More than being scared, you are egregiously humiliated. Not even a momentary reprive through fluttering your eyes shut is granted to you, for Geto violently shakes your skull in his palm until you are jolted back to staring into the selfie camera.

The frightened, excited tears that spill from the corners of your eyes only serve to further validate his salacious suspicions. “You do. How interesting.”

His gaze strays from your own in the phone camera, wandering to fixate on a point a few centimeters above your head. Is he plotting his next move? Does he know something that you don’t? Is he wholly sane?

Of course he isn’t! You scream at yourself, internally. Any guy who holds a girl hostage backstage is absolutely off his rocker!!

And yet – shamefully – you’re kind of into it.

Will you die tonight? Maybe.

Will you go out with a bang? Hopefully.

“Ghkfdbmmsnnmm,” you plea from behind his fingers. Graciously, he peels back his fingers, one-by -one, partially releasing your voice from his clutches even as he still hostages your face with cautious interest.

This time, when you speak, your voice sounds like a gunshot in the empty stillness of the desolate corridor. In this atmosphere, it feels as though there is not another soul alive besides you and your captor.

“Geto-sama. Please have mercy…”

He must be able to tell it’s an act. You don’t even sound convincing to yourself. The last thing you crave is his mercy.

“My, my. Such a turn this has taken,” he muses, fingers idly tapping away at your back molars. “What shall I do with you?”

Eat me alive, supplies your brain. “Whatever Geto-sama wills, it is my duty to fulfill.”

When you lock eyes in the camera, meeting each other’s gazes through the digital mirage for the last time, Geto shuts off the phone with one quick, decisive movement. You watch the system warning flash across the screen before everything goes dark and quiet. No more camera. No more phone. No more location services. The device drops to the ground with a heart-dropping clatter. You don’t have time to wonder if it survives the fall.

Geto turns to you for the first time in what feels like eons. Without the layer of pixelated filters softening the blow, being subject to his direct line of sight paralyzes you to the core.

“Get on your knees.”

Instantly, you obey. Refusal does not even cross your mind. The grimy floor rushes to greet your knees with a firm thud! The impact reverberates throughout your entire body, setting every single nerve alight with stimulation.

He draws over to you lackadaisically, like a tiger stalking its sure kill. Playing into it, you shuffle backwards, scraping your sensitive knees and shins against the unforgiving platform until your heels hit the wall behind you.

“Your fear is waning. You aren’t scared,” says Geto, undoing his fly. “You should be.”

Without further ado, he pulls out his dick and shoves it inside the wanton cavern of your willing, wanting mouth.

It happens so fast that your eyes can’t quite keep up with his movements, unable to visually register just how large his appendage is until it’s being stuffed down your throat. Bile rises to greet the tip of his dick and he is, apparently, into that. Makes it all the wetter.

For your part, you are struggling to maintain your initial excitement. In your lust-addled, starstruck stupor, you imagined that you and your idol shared a similar appreciation for the taboo mirage of consensually non-consensual liaisons. What you had failed to realize was that you were the only imaginary in this particular fantasy scenario. What used to exist merely as the stuff of wet-dream musings has now crystallized into a concrete reality; a reality wherein there are no safe-words, no underlying currents of care or affection, and no opting out.

You realize the extent of your disadvantaged position when Geto takes a break from brutalizing your esophagus to release you from his clutches and decides that he would rather rub his dick all over your face, instead.

Not only this, but he smacks you with it.

This isn’t even the stuff of brutal pornos. You’re no stranger to the horrors of exploitative snuff film, and even those seem to pale in comparison to the way he holds the back of your skull with one hand as he beats your cheekbones, your nose, your eyelids, your mouth, your chin, your jaw, even your fucking ears with his cock. From the crest of your hairline to the peaks of your clavicles, you are sodden with wet, sticky precum, battered with blooming bruises.

It all happens so fast that you barely have time to blink – definitely no time to indulge in the privilege of breathing. Geto’s movements become frenzied, harried, washing over you dark and fast like the rolling thunder of an impending typhoon.

Caught in the midst of severely troubled waters, ears roaring with adrenaline, blood, and terror, rooted to the spot by forces beyond your body’s will, your mind sparks to life with one last-ditch attempt at a moment of clarity:

What will you do?

> Call for help.

> Take it.

#geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x y/n #geto suguru reader insert #jjk reader insert #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #geto suguru smut #jjk smut #jjk reader insert smut #final girl jjk #final girl banjjakz #my writing #mine

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dkdrip99 · 2 years

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#drip #offwhite #swagger #dripdripdrip #niketechfleece #justdriplikeus #dripgirls #drippy #drippin #essentials #jordan #dripgang #driplife #driplifestyle #driptips #beigeoutfit #beige #tracksuit #nike

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money-and-dandellions · 3 months

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Descriptive language of torture wounds and murder

So um ha-ha-ha a silly headcanon of mine how Apollo absolutely lost his shit and made everyone remember that [ha-ha-ha] the gods can kill and you will not like it.

Which is also a continuation of this post's tags.

My initial idea was that Apollo got cursed/turned mortal again but with all the damage he had done previously to his body; So.

He gets turned mortal/cursed and chained into imperial bronze shackles, where with every use of his powers/domains, they get hotter basically burning his skin to the bones.

The point is, when the powers are used repeatedly, the chains work non-stop, burning off the wrists.

[Meaning: the more Apollo would use his powers, the more chance of his not having hands in the nearest future, but two chopped pieces of flesh smelling with salt and blood.]

So, he got in some sort of shitty situation and went to CHB to seek advice on how, you know, not die in the first 2 days.

[He quickly figured out how the shackles work and somehow got used to the phantom pain in his wrists, because someone tried to shoot an arrow and play a ukulele.]

[Yeah.]

Um, so, here comes the massive annihilation part.

While the again-ex-god was chilling in the camp with his beloved children (does Chiron count or— well, Apollo did raise him in the myths so...), Meg, his great Oracle and the rest, the camp gets attacked by, IDK, monsters. Let it be monsters until the drama is going to be figured out.

So, (once again, tw) one of the previously stated gets hurt. By hurt, means, knocked unconscious, wounded and viewed definitely dead by Apollo.

The [ex] god loses his mind.

His head is filled with buzz, the only sound he can hear, his vision is too lucid while having a thin layer of red in it, his limbs burn but he doesn't feel it. The sun, reflecting the sudden burst of divine unforgiving rage (kill right now no mercy only screams kill kill kill kill) starts to shine brighter, hotter.

He jumps onto the creatures, ripping off their limbs one after the other, snapping their - so fragile for a god - meaty necks, breaking their spines with a clutch, filling the air with disgusting sounds of death.

No one stops him.

The soil is soaked in blood, his feet too. The shackles are steaming, the bronze tired fluorescent red.

He screams of pain and fate much more cruel than deaths, his voice incinerating his victims.

Every drop, every single milliliter, of the monsters blood boils, cooking them alive.

He chokes the rest of them with his bow, the dark liquid dripping (drip drip dripdripdrip drip) from his hands onto the ground. It is the only sound that is heard.

He seizures, falling on the ground, wretching, the shackles still smoking.

His hands fall beside him. Detached. The imperial bronze did its job.

#one of his hands (left) got successfully reattached #toa #apollo #pjo #b&d apollo

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passivenovember · 11 months

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roots away : a very earnest ficlet :)

Through the wall Steve swears he can hear Paris burning. Entire city blocks crumbling, one by one, until it’s all he sees. All he can hear.

Through the wall a bed squeaks slow and heavy, weight drags across blankets and covers until the bed stops squeaking altogether. There’s silence. Labored breathing slit by the knife-like precision of someone trying not to draw too much attention to himself. There’s a heart monitor, droning on and on into eternity until it falls flat, the dull like dripdripdrip of an I.V. bag eclipsing what remains.

There’s a gasp, swearing moaningwhimperingscreamingcrying and when the hospital falls silent, again, Steve decides that’s the worst part.

Tears.

Billy cries every night. Begs for someone to help him until his voice goes like the pop of the last firework in the sky and then he cries himself to sleep because he thinks no one can hear.

Steve wonders if it could be called anything else. Sobbing, maybe, but Billy’s not strong enough for that. Can’t get enough air to his lungs when he should.

Sometimes, he talks about a woman with blonde hair and brown eyes. Sometimes, when the hallways are dark and Steve’s laying flat on his back, counting the breaks in the popcorn ceiling because he can’t fall asleep when the world’s catching fire, Billy calls out for her.

Mom, if he’s sleeping.

Mama, if the pain’s bad enough. Mama, please. I can’t do it anymore, mama make it go away--

Calls for her until the night guard yells at him to shut the fuck up.

Steve imagines Billy sinking under the covers like a ship lost. Goes quiet until Steve’s sure Billy’s suffocating himself to sleep.

That’s it.

Not crying. Suffocating.

It’s the worst thing Steve’s ever heard.

–

There’s a feeling caught on the chicken wire in the back of his mind. It tugs the fence post from the ground every time Steve passes Billy’s door, flashes hot like the summer sun illuminating wisps of something covered with concussions and green goo.

Steve hears crying all the way down.

It sends him tumbling, flailing, and landing on a patch of dead brown grass in someone’s front yard. Blond curls, matted with blood. The first time hands ever touched him in a way that said I’m sorry for trying to rip you apart. A breath, shaky enough to overturn the Earth. To write it for the future.

Steve is peering out a rain-slashed window the first time he remembers her name.

Martha.

Someone had told him, once. Tangled in plaid sheets, skin warm from hours lying there on a Sunday afternoon. Voice rough like sandstone saying Martha used to brew tea in the sun.

Steve doesn’t know who told him that, who stuck it like a piece of paper between the folds of himself, but it’s there.

Martha.

And sometimes, when Billy’s crying so hard that the doctors have to make him go to sleep, his voice is rough. Not like sandstones, but like adekite.

Gravel.

–

On the thirty-sixth day, Steve promises the doctor he’s well enough to go home. Taps his noggin, says, “See? No cracks,” and nearly draws blood when pain shoots like a laser down his spine and he has to bite his tongue to stop from screaming. But whatever’s on his face is a smoke signal, giving Steve away.

Starcourt changed a lot. Everything. There are interdimensional rifts in Steve’s head, and interdimensional space monsters living inside the golden boy next door–

“We can’t afford to take any chances,” Owens says. Smiles, bland and flat. Sterile. There’s a woman in the corner taking notes. “Two more weeks,” he says to her.

She nods.

Steve’s fingers go numb, on impact. His body shuts down to deal with the brunt of two more weeks, which lands like a punch to his stomach.

Is it even the thirty-sixth day? Has the world outside these gray metal walls flooded over?

Steve’s beyond arguing. Beyond fighting. Beyond anything, other than turning over the prickly, new, dangerous thought that, when Billy starts howling at his own slice of bleak hospital tubing, on cue, and Owens sends a swat team of men to sedate him, Steve thinks they’re never getting out of here.

Billy.

Himself.

–

When the vertigo steadies Steve wanders the halls.

When the sun’s still up, amber and short-spark enough to prove it’s almost time to set their clocks back, the nurses tell him to rest alongside the same bland, flat smile that the Doc carts at him when Steve’s extra feisty during his physicals.

“Back to bed, Mr. Harrington,” They say. Silky soft. It’s programmed into them. Breathe. Smile.

They know his name.

Steve never told them his name, and he wonders what they did to get a hold of that information. The tattered memory of his plastic work badge makes the most sense. Steve, dweeby in his sailor hat, mug floating like a genie over blocky, navy blue text that announced, Steve Harrington: Scoops Ahoy Assistant Manager, suite 142. He’d had it in his pocket that day. The day the world caught fire.

Thought it was burned up, maybe. Melted into the lining of his shorts, but it’s eclipsed suddenly by the image of home. His mother’s prized forest green door kicked open, his parents, lifeless and bloody at the dinner table. Brains splattered like rotten blueberry syrup on the back wall.

Steve wants to scream.

Wonders if it’d get a rise out of them. The nurses. Wonders if throwing his chart out the window and smearing flavorless mashed potatoes onto the wall and pissing outside of the bedpan he’s never used because Steve’s never rested so much in his entire life, counting the time he dislocated his shoulder freshman year, would make them stop.

Smiling.

–

As a rule, he’s never liked clear water. Maybe that gets him all turned around. To see the bottom of a river is like scooping all the mystery and keeping it contained. To know what’s coming is to remove the wonder.

The first time he told someone that, they wrinkled their nose. When his heartbeat funny, heavy to the left in pain, they told him it’s because he’s fuckin’ weird. Cute.

Even now, that feels like a snow globe moment. The first time Steve ever felt alive and loved to the very root of him.

Fuckin’ weird, fuckin’ cute.

Everything else about it is lost.

–

All Steve does is write his name and sit and read Charlotte's Web. Doctor’s orders.

All Steve can stomach is to count the breaks in the popcorn ceiling. In this awful, sound-bath hospital, all Steve can hear is Billy wishing for death. In the morning Steve tries to remember how to tie his shoes, and then he showers with saltwater hot enough to burn his skin red. All Steve does is listen to Billy cry. All Steve can manage is to beg Owen’s to let him go. Not let on how much it’s killing him.

This.

His head.

Everything.

It takes all of Steve’s willpower to re-read Charlotte's Web because he can’t remember the ending and on the fortieth day, through the wall, Billy says something new. Gasps like he’s coming up from the polar North and asks, clear as a bell, “Where am I?”

When no one speaks, he says, “Where’s Max,” like he’s expecting the void to grow teeth and lips to answer.

In the last month, Billy’s wished for death more times than Steve can keep track of. He’s tried to, anyway. Figures it would be nice to have some quantifiable evidence to shove at Owens’ bland, tired smile. This is what you’re doing to him, you’re scooping out everything that makes him Billy and you’re liquifying it.

Steve always gets caught up in the fault. The holes in his thesis say he never knew Billy in the first place.

Because the Billy Hargrove Steve thought he knew would never say that name. Never like that, like. He’s worried about her. Trying to rip the tubes out of his arm to paw through the shadows because he might be able to find her, that way.

Steve tries to read Charlotte's Web and imagines the Doctor hearing him out. We have families, Steve imagines himself saying to the Doc, posted in front of a tri-fold science fair presentation. Dimensional hole + evil cloud monster = bad. Underlined twice in bold.

It’s a pipe dream. A last resort.

–

Fuckin’ weird and fuckin’ cute go hand in hand with Max.

They melt like ice cream. They run in and around each other until they sprout new vowels, until they turn into mind your own fuckin’ business.

It comes out of nowhere, the lost color of memory. Steve tries to make sense of them. Fuckin weird and cute and mind your own fuckin’ business.

They don’t fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

–

On the forty-first day, Billy steps out of the fog and asks the Heavens for a sister and that’s when it clicks.

Pink lips and perfect teeth and pretty blue eyes. You’re cute but you need to mind your own fucking business, Harrington. She’s my sister.

Maybe that’s the worst thing Steve has ever heard.

–

Steve remembers three months too late that Billy is someone he can’t live without.

–

Really, it’s only five big steps between rooms 002 and 004. The doors are even numbered on this side of the hallway. Steve takes each step as if it were a mile. 500 miles. An impossible distance between his room and the steel gray door that’s doing fuck all to hide Billy’s panic.

It’s the fog, again. The mist. It’s Stephen King’s Misery but Stephen King himself couldn’t stop doing coke long enough to write this shit down, to make sense of the noises Billy’s gritting out, and the night guard sits at a desk by the little metal door that leads to Hawkins and the world, beyond that.

He’s playing cards. Listening to the radio. Smoking something that smells like a black and mild cigar and he turns the volume up when Billy starts talking to himself. Max. Max! That starts to bleed into Mother Martha, and it’s disgusting.

Steve waves a hand in front of his face, worried about what could happen to Billy if the Guard’s French smoke gets in Billy’s room, and asks, “Can I go in there?” to stop from saying what he really means. Fuck yourself. You hear him calling for his sister, and you’re blowing Frenchies through your nose. Fuck yourself so hard it travels back through time and your mom decides not to have kids--

The guard looks at Steve from the lip of his playing cards, eyes hollow and bored. Steve points at the door where, ten feet on the other side, Billy’s already crying.

“Knock yourself out,” the guard says. Like, your intentions aren’t pure, kid. Fuck yourself, too.

The room smells like sea salt and vapor rub. Sweat, underneath it all. Dirty sheets. It’s familiar, like everything and nothing.

Under the flickering strip light above his hospital bed, Billy’s veins are gray varicose spidering out into tender red and purple flesh. Steve’s never seen anything like it.

Billy was struck by lightning.

Steve’s skin breaks out into a humid, thick kind of sweat like maybe he’s been dipped in tar. It’s a million degrees here. Hot to keep the monsters at bay. Billy stops wailing the second the door opens and the air conditioner billows like the wind from an ice cream freezer.

He spots Steve, standing in boxers and an open hospital gown. Showing off his pin-pricks and bruised ribs.

Billy looks like shit. He says, “Pretty boy,” like it’s the first time they’ve ever seen each other. He’s got a bandage wrapped tightly around his waist. It doubles, sprouts extra arms to cover what's starting to bloom pink across his chest, and Steve decides it’s good that his bandages are clean. Surprising.

It’s the bare minimum.

It makes him angry so he says, “When are you getting out of here?” Only, it comes off as when are you going to just die, already? And that’s not what he means. At all. It’s not, I know who you are. We’ve talked about your mother, I know the shape of all your sweetest sounds. It’s not, we’ve gotta get you out of here, Billy. It’s never, You’ve had such a hard life. We’ve gotta get you free.

Billy, he’s not crying anymore. Not overcome. Big, lazy crocodile tears still slide down his cheeks but he’s got enough pride to say, “Dunno. Can’t walk,” as if it’s a challenge. He’s harnessed enough anger to be blunt, “Get the fuck out of here, Harrington.” He says, like doesn’t believe Harrington’s really the fuck in here to begin with.

It hurts.

Steve wants to ask what happened to Pretty Boy. Wonders if he could still be that, with a cracked skull and tender ribs and Steve, he’s spent enough time on the other side of that wall. He’s not going anywhere. “Not until you stop that,” He decides.

Not until you get better.

“Stop what?”

“That,” Steve mutters, waving a circle through the air with one finger. Only he can’t quite remember what he came in here for. What he had to say. “All that stuff you were--”

Billy winces. His eyes squint shut, heart monitor rising in tempo. He looks sick, all of a sudden. Pea-green and sick--

“Leave,” Billy says. Low and dangerous, and.

He may be down and out, covered in bandages and bleeding from the very center of him, but Steve has learned not to be told twice.

Billy’s veins darken, spilled ink across the surface of his skin, and Steve goes.

Just like the forty-first day, he vanishes.

–

Steve blinks himself awake, sweat slicking the covers to his skin.

It’s morning. Almost morning. So late there’s no light in the hallway, the sound of distant rain and rain-wet shoes on hospital tile. Something pulled him out of sleep, out of water, and now he’s got this sick feeling like maybe hours ago he was sent into surgery and someone scooped out his insides and he’s hollow.

He realizes a minute too late that Billy’s standing at the foot of his bed with this. Soft, blank, horrible look on his face, and the only thing Steve can say is, “You shouldn’t be walking.”

Because.

He shouldn’t. He can’t.

Steve sits up, rubs his eyes. Realizes he’s naked under the covers but can’t bring himself to care. Says, “Do you want me to call the nurse?” Knowing that no one will come to help.

But.

Steve doesn’t know if Billy needs help.

The way Billy’s looking at him stirs something deep in his stomach, kicking up dust in hollowed-out spaces. It reminds Steve of a time, forever ago, when the most complicated thing in his world was deciding if Nancy Wheeler was worth the A-game he was throwing to get her attention. It calls back to a chilly, bright day in October. A blue car. The sound of California rolling like thunder across the sky and striking a smooth blacktop. The first time Steve ever saw hair spun gold.

Billy’s staring at him like Steve’s the last glass of water in the desert.

His eyes burn. Swoop low and then land back on Steve’s face. “You’re real,” Billy says, tongue too big for his mouth, and even in the dark Steve can tell that his lashes are clumped together.

He’s been crying. His arm is bleeding. Beads of red gather and slide down his wrist, catching like pearls on the tips of his fingers.

He pulled the tube from his arm to get here.

Steve frowns, “You’re cut open.”

Billy sways on his feet. Says, “You came into my room yesterday. Or. Someone did, and. I thought it wasn’t real. I thought you weren’t. Real. I thought I was dead, I’m dying, and I thought–”

“You’re not dying,” Steve slips out of bed, careless of his naked body. “You’re bleeding,” He says, “That’s different than dying,” and he reaches out to touch but Billy flinches away.

He’s green, again.

He looks sick. Exhausted.

He’s watching Steve’s chest rise and fall. He’s counting the bruises on Steve’s ribs. He’s having a staring competition with the slick, pink head of Steve’s cock and he says, “You’re hurt,” like he wants to crawl inside of Steve’s body and wear him for a winter coat.

Steve breaks out in goosebumps. He can feel the heat rising from Billy’s skin like steam from a pool and wonders if Billy’s got the sun stashed inside of him, turning everything gold. “I’m okay,” He says, reaching again, and this time Billy breaks down.

“Can’t,” He says. Whimpers.

Steve hates this. Steve wants this to stop. “I want you,” He says, not knowing what he means, what Billy hears in his words. So he snaps his fingers and holds out his hand and says, “I want you to lay down, Billy,” Like he’s coaxing a scared kitten out from under the porch. “You’ve got to.”

“Don’t touch me,” Billy says.

That hurts. “Okay.”

“I don’t want to–”

“--I just want to take you back to your room–”

“--Make it worse,” Billy cries. He’s got snot running from his nose. His eyes are wild. He steps into Steve’s space and says, “I can’t touch you,” Even though it sounds like he wants to, “If you’re real I could hurt you, I don’t want to hurt you–”

“What kinda pills do they have you on?” Steve asks. He ducks, trying to get baby blue on him, pinning him down.

He tries not to get lost in the wandering maze of what Billy may or may not remember. If he’s thought about Steve at all. If things are just bright spots, like they are for Steve.

“I hurt you once,” Billy shakes his head like he’s labored over the past. He takes it out and turns it over in his hands every day, wondering if it’s heavy enough to crush him. Billy worries the skin of his lip until it slips open. Bleeds. “What happened to you?” He wonders. “Did I–”

“No.”

“Then what?” Billy asks softly.

And something about it. Those words. Steve can’t bring himself to relay the story now, or every week with the doctor, or to himself in the dead of night, because.

It’s funny.

In retrospect and compared to the other things that were happening stories above, to everyone else, and to Billy, what happened to Steve is comical. Steve rubs his toes together to stay warm and imagines Billy’s face when he says it. Pictures that little frustrated dent between his eyebrows smoothing itself, his eyes sparkling, his lips spreading like legs and giving way to perfect, bright white teeth.

Steve can’t remember hearing him laugh but he must have, once.

Steve’s heard him sneer. And cackle. And snip little bursts of air from his lungs in the cafeteria at school, but. Never laugh. Suddenly, that seems like the most important thing in the world. It’s Steve’s purpose. It’s what he was put on the planet to do.

“I was tortured,” Steve says. Almost wiggles his fingers, like, ta-da, but.

Billy doesn’t laugh.

Or smirk.

He goes pale, ghostly white, instead. His fingers clench into fists at his sides and blood rushes quickly down one arm, thumping in time with his rising heartbeat. He says, “What,” in this thin, terrible, worried little voice, and.

Steve swallows. His stomach swoops. He forgot to mention the funny part.

“By Russians,” Steve adds dryly. The blood from Billy’s veins starts dripping faster. Steve reaches to touch again, embarrassed when Billy pulls away. “Billy,” Steve tries, exhausted, “We gotta call a nurse, you can’t–”

“Russians were in Hawkins?”

“Your arm’s all fucked up–”

“Russians–”

“Yeah,” Steve says in a rush, “And I was pricked with thick green fluid that had me and Robin acting like Cheech and Chong but the docs think they put something inside me besides goo-goo gas. That’s why I’m here.” It’s a neon sign when Billy doesn’t move away. A big jade ball pointing onward. “Lay down, okay?”

Billy sways a little on his feet, eyes snagging on whatever’s coloring Steve’s face. “Steve,” He starts gently. “I keep thinking. I thought about you. Before, and--”

“I know.”

“I didn’t hurt you?” Billy wonders.

His eyes are the center of a flame. He burns. Smolders. No one has ever looked at Steve like this before, so Steve clears his throat.

“Come lay down,” Steve insists, not knowing why he’s got the itch to offer his bed. How, suddenly, his bones ache with exhaustion that can only be soothed with the weight of someone on the mattress next to him.

Billy does.

They fold around each other like tired houses made of sand, and they sleep.

Dreaming of escape.

#harringrove #hey #i don't know what this is!#and maybe they were together before starcourt #i just think it would HURT if neither of them remembered it

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