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blueywrites · 1 year

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turtle dove and the crow, part one

A 1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader

story tags: 18+ (minors dni). smut; true love; unexpected pregnancy; angst, angst, angst; parental issues; corporal punishment; scheming, plotting, and betrayal; hurt/comfort; period-typical stigma regarding unwed pregnancy; angst with a happy ending.

chapter tags: 18+. oral (f!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, breeding kink.

PART ONE: THE HOLE IN THE LEAVES (15.1k)

And the sweat will roll down our backs

And we’ll follow animal tracks

To a tree in the woods

And a hole in the leaves we’ll see

The bright baby eyes of a chickadee

Animal Tracks — Mountain Man

“Mama!”

Your call flattens in the August heat, weighed down by thick, humid air and the drone of the cicadas chirping outside the open window over the sink. You cup your hands around your mouth to make sure she hears you; you don’t want her to accuse you of galavanting if she finds you gone. “I’m gonna take Guinnie out now!”

You drop your hands and wait for an answering call, scrambling to pick the broom up where you’d leaned it against the wallpaper as you hear the brisk shuffle-thump of her footsteps approaching the kitchen. She appears in the archway, hands on hips and eyebrow cocked.

“Y’finished sweepin’ yet?” she asks you, turning a discerning eye to the floorboards to search for any errant specs you may have missed.

“Yes, Mama,” you reply obediently, knowing better than to even think of sassing her. You know if you sass her, there’s no way you won’t end up confined to your room for the remainder of the day, less supper and having foiled your own plans before they’ve even begun. “I was just looking to take Guinevere out to the field with a blanket and my book now I’m finished with my chores for today.”

Her discerning eye flicks from the spotless floor to you, and you resist fidgeting with your dress's cotton skirt under her sharp gaze, which lingers for a moment before she humphs. “Fine, then,” she says, and you’re about to beam before she continues as if returning to a subject you’d been discussing before. “And I mean it, missy. Y'arent to go off with Wayne's boy anymore, y'hear?" She shakes her head in preemptive consternation. "Off in the woods gettin’ up to God-knows-what. It ain't appropriate at your grown age.” The irrythmic tapping of her foot and the exaggerated hunch of her back as she leans toward you would be almost comical if it wasn’t for the injustice of the accusation.

You purse your lips but swallow your indignation when one of her brows goes skyward— a clear warning. “No, Mama,” you concede. “I’m just goin’ to read by myself, I swear it.” You widen your eyes hopefully. “Would it be all right if I fill a canteen with sweet tea to take with me? Please?”

Your mother straightens slowly, face twisted as if considering, and you nearly sag in relief as her hands leave her hips and she folds her arms beneath her ample bosom instead— a clear indicator that she’s easing now. “That’d be fine,” she says, and the snap is gone from her voice. You lean the broom carefully against the island counter and spin to quickly collect your tea from the icebox and the canteen from where it hangs near the screen door.

As you sling the canteen over your shoulder along with your knapsack, you hear her mutter, “Speaking of, that boy desperately needs a haircut.” She squints at you. “Think y’could convince him to trim that mop? Wayne’s been tryin’ for years, and he only seems to listen to you.”

“Oh, no, Mama,” you say sweetly, hands clasped behind your back as you face her, edging in tiny steps back towards the door— that screen that stands between you and freedom. “I couldn’t possibly.” Blindly, your hand finds the handle, and she's still eyeing you as you turn it and slip out.

Unimpressed, she humphs, but the screen door is already snapping closed behind you.

“Be back before sundown!” she shouts, but you’re already bounding down the back porch steps.

“I will!” you call, but the cicadas have already drowned you out as you skip toward the paddock. “Thank you for the tea, mama!”

Your mother is a woman of few mistakes, but she’d made one today. She told you you’re not allowed to see Eddie, and you’d sworn to obey her, and that was that. But her mistake lay in not asking you to show her your hands.

Because she made you swear not to see him, but she hadn’t see your fingers crossed behind your back.

You haven’t spoken to Eddie yet today, but you know exactly where he’ll be.

He’d called to you this morning; you heard it through your cracked window, where the white embroidered curtain swayed as the cackle of a crow cut through the early morning heat yet to fully settle in. You knew what the sound was right away: the call you’d come up with together five summers ago that meant to check the stump. You glanced toward the open door across the hall, the room beyond its threshold empty and still. It’s a miracle you haven’t been caught yet, that none of the adults have cottoned on that the caw of the crow sounds an awful lot like a certain brash mischief-maker’s voice. You crouched down to the open window in your nightgown and coo’d your own answering call, the call of the turtle dove. Your musical voice is loud in your ears, but it needs to be in order to reach the red house across the way, separated by a sea of shorn grass and the thick wooden fence between.

Over these five years, none of the adults have cottoned on that the turtle dove always answers the crow, either, and for that you’re grateful.

There was a pause of silence following your melodic coo. Your hair rustled in the slightest breeze whispering through the cracked window, puffing like a cool sigh against your skin as you turn your ear toward the opening and wait. You waited, and waited, oh, so patiently…

And then you heard it: a quick and faint whoop-whoop of boyish delight that, like always, made you shake your head and snort.

Later that morning, you’d put the kitchen scraps out for the goats and edged alongside that thick wooden fence towards the gnarled stump that rests between your family’s farm and the Munsons’. It’s almost dead-center, nearly bisected by that wooden demarcation, but you claim a sliver more and never cease to remind Eddie of that fact. ‘It’s my stump,’ you declare, triumph in the corners of your smirking lips. ‘I’m just allowin’ you to use it out of the grace of my heart, Eddie Munson.’

This morning, you’d reached deep inside the hole, the one that’s rotted straight through to the other side. The one which, if you’d crouched to peek, would offer you an unobstructed view to the grass field of Eddie’s yard, identical to the one you occupy, differing only in its status as his homestead and not yours.

But you didn’t peer through that opening. Instead, you reached your arm in blindly up to the elbow, feeling around for the note you knew would be wedged inside. When your fingers brushed smooth paper, you pinched it and pulled it quickly back, casting a furtive glance around the yard to ensure you were still safe from watchful eyes. With nimble fingers you unfolded and read the note quickly before tearing it to shreds, cupping it in your palms and letting it free to be scattered in the wind.

The note had been memorized almost as soon as you’d read it. Its instruction was simple; you and Eddie have developed a sense of brevity in your message-leaving, writing only as much as necessary to communicate what is needed. Today, it had read, ‘three after noon, hop’s, creek.'

At three o’clock on the dot, you ride Guinnie out to the treeline and hang left, picking your way to the edge of Mr. Hopper’s property which just kisses the corner of the Munson’s farm opposite your family’s land. Eddie is already waiting for you there, nestled in the ferns, hand shading squinted eyes as he sits astride his horse Merlin. You guide Guineveire to meet him in a trot, but she ignores you when you pull the reigns to slow her, too eager to approach her friend. You sigh in exasperation but can’t help but smile when the two horses nicker softly and nudge their faces alongside one anothers’ cheeks.

They make a strange pair, these two. One gargantuan blue roan, his haunches coiled thick with muscle, downy gray and speckled with deep spots of dark to match his mane, tail, and socks; and one pale blonde palomino, stomping daintily as her cream ears flick when the other knocks her with his neck a bit too hard in his enthusiasm. Merlin and Guineveire— a mismatched pair, just like the ones who named them. Yet it little matters when Guinnie sways forward, leaning fondly against her larger companion and, incidentally, drawing you closer to the boy astride him.

Eddie lightly kicks you in greeting once Guinnie makes a slow circle and comes to stand alongside Merlin rather than let her face be flicked by his tail, which twitches away the flies that came to investigate while he and Eddie waited for you. Eddie’s feet are bare and dirty, his trouser hems rolled sloppily above the ankle, and you grimace at him as you swipe dirt off the top of your foot where he’d left smudges on your bare skin. He interrupts before you can work yourself up about it, asking, “J’your ma make you sweep the whole house?”

“No, just the kitchen. I must be doin’ somethin’ right this week because she barely even fought me when I told her I was takin’ Guinnie out. And—” You lift the canteen near your thigh, shaking it so the liquid sloshes inside. “I brought us sweet tea.”

Eddie stares at the canteen with exaggerated rapturous relief, his reply a dramatic sigh. “Good, ‘cause I’m so parched I could drink a lake.”

So quick it’s almost automatic, you unthread the strap and pass the canteen over, watching as he unscrews the cap and throws his head back to gulp it in huge, desperate swallows. And he must be thirsty, because as you watch his adam’s apple bob while he guzzles the still-cold tea, you can see full beads of sweat dripping down the pale cords of his neck to disappear beneath the collar of his white work shirt. The top two buttons have been popped open for some hasty relief, the bottom hem still half-tucked into his trousers but rumpled now from heat and disregard, scrunched around his suspenders. You wonder how long he’d been waiting for you; sitting still like this for just a short while has already made the heat almost unbearable, and the sight of Eddie’s thick curtain of heavy, dark curls is enough to make even you feel hotter.

Eddie’s mouth pops from the canteen with a ragged gasp, lips blushed pink and shiny before they’re concealed behind a hasty swipe of his forearm as he wipes off his mouth and passes you back the canteen. You take a small swig yourself, careful not to let any spill on your dress as the sweet liquid fills your mouth and cools you fractionally, not enough to truly combat the thick, hot soup of the air. Capping the canteen, you ask, “Did you bring our book?”

The answer is written in the sudden sheepishness of your best friend’s expression, and yours flattens as he confirms it. “Nah,” he says, more rueful than dismissive. “I forgot.”

His brows pinch when he sees how clearly crestfallen you are to hear it; he angles quickly to appease your disappointment, adding, “But I did nip some of the cookies Ms. Willard left for Wayne.” You barely have time to brighten before he’s scrunching his nose, saying, “I think she’s actually sweet on ‘im,” like the thought makes him want to scrape the words from his tongue.

You swat at him, and Merlin chuffs disgruntledly when Eddie leans back to avoid you. “Stop that!” you chastise him. “I think it’s darling.”

Eddie is unrepentant, brown eyes lit with the hazy gold of afternoon sun that glints in them mischievously as he doubles down rather than relenting. “It’s disgusting. I might chuck if I have to think about them all wrinkled and bumpin’ uglies.” Before you can retort, he tilts his face at you, coaxing in a sing-song, “The cookies are lemon and lavender— your favorite.”

Your lips fall open in delighted surprise as you anticipate the crumble of tart lemon and sweet, earthy lavender on your tongue. Such a treat truly is your favorite, and mama never bakes so indulgently except for special occasions. Eddie beams at you, his mouth split in a fond, lopsided smile at the sight of your happiness, and his smile washes away any lingering reproach you feel at the insinuation that Ms. Willard would carry on in such an inappropriate way with Wayne. She may be aged and unmarried, but she’s still a lady.

It takes a moment to realize that, in your enthusiasm, you’ve begun wiggling your hips, the hem of your dress pulled tight over the saddle as more bare leg inches out when you swing your feet in little kicks of glee. You realize it when you watch Eddie’s eyes dart down to your exposed calf for a split-second and then back up to your face, his broad grin softening to something stickier, something forbidden and decadent like the cookies he’d stolen for you to share.

It’s not the first time Eddie’s looked at you like that this summer. His gaze has been lingering a little too long for some time now, his fingers a little too eager to graze and tease, his breath skating a little too close along your cheek when you’re alone. And when you’re not, he’s a little too eager to position himself beside you when you’re seated at the table with others, to shout and cackle and make himself big so you’ll look at him across the room at a party, to act the fool in front of crowds of townsfolk if only to hear you giggle, however slight it might be.

Not to say that his manner is entirely new. He’s always been a handful since the day he moved in next door ten years ago— wild and frenetic, brash and mischievous, quick-witted and imaginative, restless and wanting and oh, so hungry for something, only heaven knows what. It took no time at all for you, at eight years old, to befriend the odd boy on the farm beside yours. There was something about Edward Munson that appealed to you. He was too much for many, but he was never too much for you— to handle, to temper, to thrive beside. And because you were the only one who Eddie felt truly understood him, he’d quickly become covetous of your attention, and you of his. You wanted to know him, and he wanted to know you. And over years of playing pretend, celebrating birthdays and running errands in town, exploring the landscape beyond your farmsteads and rescuing one another from boredom, sadness, and the ire of your adults— giving just as much as you receive— you feel you know Eddie Munson as deeply as one friend can know another.

But the attention Eddie has paid you lately is not the same as it’s been in years past. You feel that difference in the pit of your belly when his eyes catch yours across the room, in the tingling of your skin as his fingertips graze it incidentally, in the flutter behind your ribcage when the sun shifts and the softness of his nose or the slant of his jaw or the ruddiness of his knuckles looks suddenly more captivating than it had the moment before. But it’s not the sun that’s made it so; it’s not Eddie’s features that have suddenly changed. It’s a feeling inside you, growing restless and wanting and oh, so hungry for something that both thrills and scares you in equal measure.

So when Eddie’s eyes hold yours a beat too long, you quickly look away, lifting one side of Guineveire’s reigns so she’ll turn from where she’d been comfortably lazing her head against Merlin’s. Your horse rouses, alert now as she feels the shift in your energy, the way your thighs tighten against her sides in preparation for what you have planned. “Come on,” you say, tossing Eddie a smirk over your shoulder as Guinnie snuffs in anticipation, hooves shifting against grass and fern. “I’ll race you to the crik.”

Any protest about unfairness from Eddie is drowned out by your joyous whoop as you snap the reins and Guinnie takes off like a bat out of hell. Merlin may be stronger than Guineveire, and Eddie more wild than you, but no one rivals you in conviction once your mind is set.

You’ve set your mind to beating Eddie, and so you do. You beat him by almost a full minute, heart pounding and hair mussed as you emerge from the thicket to the welcome sight of the creek. Down by the bank on the right, a towering weeping willow steals all of the attention; its branches dip full and low over lazily flowing water, the edges of those leafy tendrils grazing its surface like a languid caress. You’ve been here many times before, sometimes with Eddie and sometimes without, and the sight of the ferns tapering to short clover in the clearing between forest and water and then to cattails at the bank’s edge is as familiar to you as the back of your hand.

You’re suddenly glad to have beaten Eddie to the creek for a reason other than bragging rights: dismounting Guinnie exposes enough knee and thigh beneath your dress to thoroughly scandalize your mama, even with a copse of trees and two farm-fields between you. You don’t much care how unladylike it is to travel astride in a dress as opposed to sidesaddle— you’d rather hike up your skirt than try to navigate through the woods sitting so insecurely, but it does force you into a rather compromising position for a moment as you climb down. Thankfully, no one is around to see it, other than the chickadees trilling in the branches of the willow, the turtles sunning themselves on flat river rocks, and the bullfrog croaking inside a dead log at the water’s edge. You lead Guinnie over to the trunk of a nearby cedar, and you’re still tying her off when Eddie bursts from the trees, huffing and swiping errant leaves from his hair as Merlin wanders over toward you and Guinnie independent of his rider’s direction.

“Took you long enough,” you sass, pursing your lips against a smug smile when Eddie grunts sourly.

Eddie swings himself down to the ground, his pale forearm flexing as he catches Merlin’s bridle to keep him from tossing his head impatiently. “Yeah, I know, I know, you beast,” he mutters, and though he glowers, there’s a touch of fondness in it, apparent as he smooths his hand so carefully along Merlin’s powerful neck. “You’ll be all snug next to your girlfriend in a jif. Just wanna get this saddle off’ya first.”

As if falling into a practiced routine, you and Eddie prepare your lounging space for the afternoon. He tends the horses while you clear rocks and twigs to lay down the woven blanket in your knapsack. Wordlessly, you take Guinnie and Merlin’s saddles from him, laying them across the mossy boulder at the edge of the clearing; wordlessly, he passes you the canteen and the paper bag of cookies, and you carry them over to the blanket, laying them in the clover nearby. You’re watching how the light plays through the leafy canopy above you, casting shadows that dance on the weave of your blanket when Eddie lopes up from behind, brushing past you in a rustle of cloth and a blaze of body heat before flopping down unceremoniously onto his back in the middle of the blanket.

Your voice comes indignant and quick at the sight of his filthy toes. “Ed, your—”

With a jolt, he snatches his feet up where they’d been threatening your blanket, shimmying himself down until he can bend his knees and plant those filthy toes in the soft clover instead. He tucks his hands under his head, closing his eyes and nestling in with a contented sigh as you lay out much more carefully beside him. As soon as you’re prone on your tummy, skirt fanned across your calves and elbow grazing the side of his buttoned shirt when you prop your chin on your fists, you’re eyeing him expectantly. Your gaze roams his peaceful face, unconcerned about the tick in his brow as you demand, “Tell me a story.”

Eddie cracks his eyes just barely to slant you a glance, and their umber is nearly concealed by his long, dark lashes as he drawls, “Can’t a man who’s spent the whole day breakin' his back take a moment to rest, you pesky woman?”

You’re entirely unphased by his snark. “Firstly,” you challenge him, “you spent a good part of the day futzin’ around on your guitar, and don’t you try to argue the point ‘cause I heard you playin’ over the fence. And secondly, you’re the one who forgot to bring Don Quixote. I wanna hear a story about knights and dragons and princesses, and it’s your responsibility to deliver,” you finish haughtily.

Eddie sighs heavily, pretending to hem and haw just to get a rise out of you. It doesn’t take long for his frown to melt into a grin when you play along, kicking your feet in the air and raising your voice to be heard over his griping. “And now you gotta put in a giant and a windmill just ‘cause you’re vexing me!”

“Fine, fine, Christ Almighty,” he relents, and you drop the charade immediately, walking your elbows over to angle toward him for optimal listening, your eyes trained on his pale face.

Almost effortlessly, Eddie begins to weave you a tale about knights and dragons and princesses as his eyes go far away, watching the puffy-clouded sky, and your eyes go gooey and soft, watching him. His gaze flicks to yours when the giant and windmill each are introduced, his plush lips curling when you smile at him, inordinately delighted that he’s humoring you even though he always does. The buzzing hum of August’s voice sings along as he regales you, the sounds of the forest a welcome melody to accompany the theatrical accents he gives to each character.

The longer he goes, the more animated Eddie gets, and it’s almost— almost— enough to forget just how hot it is today. While the creek offers some indirect relief, cooling whatever slight breeze occasionally wavers through the fronds, the humidity and sun are formidable beasts, palpable and oppressive as they crowd in against you and Eddie both. Eventually, Eddie’s gesturing and facial expressions grow visibly weaker as his bangs begin to stick to his glistening skin and sweat pools in the hollow of his throat. The dampness pops along your skin, too; the nape of your neck begins to itch, and when you swipe at your upper lip, the heel of your hand comes away wet.

It’s clear when Eddie’s voice cracks that it’s time to take a break. Your dress's fabric clings uncomfortably to your skin when you twist to grab the canteen, passing it to Eddie first, who takes two conscientious sips before promptly handing it back so you can loosen your sticky tongue and soothe your own throat. You snatch up the cookies next, your stomach growling as you see the evidence of their decadence— the bottom of the paper bag has grown dark as it soaked up their butter, making your mouth water with anticipation. You reach eagerly inside to pull out two cookies, passing them into Eddie’s waiting palm before taking one of your own.

You nibble as you sit up, crossing your legs underneath your skirt, your knee pressing into Eddie’s hip as tart lemon and earthy lavender burst within your mouth, the cookies more dense and sweet than you’d even remembered. You don’t stifle your moan of satisfaction as your head tips back and sags in bliss, lips puckering so you can keep chewing though they want to smile.

“That good, huh?” Eddie’s voice is hoarse, warm and teasing, but you don’t bother to reply, entirely taken in by your favorite flavors. Instead, you just nod and impulsively stuff the entire cookie in your mouth.

The rasp of Eddie’s barking laughter has you huffing amusedly through your nose in turn as you dig in the bag, swallowing a little prematurely but resolved in savoring this next one. You eat the second cookie much more slowly, gazing out at the creek as it undulates in little swirls of blue and green and white, unrelenting in seeking its way around whatever may jut into its path— a branch stuck between rocks, a tangle of leaves caught in strands of rivergrass near the shore. It’s a comfort to see it flow so steadily, endlessly churning and ever-changing, but nevertheless a reliable constant you can return to time and again.

The second treat tastes just as good as the first, and you lick the crumbs from your fingertips as you glance down at Eddie once you’ve finished. He has eaten his cookies lying down, one hand propped beneath the splay of his dark wild curls and the other resting on the flat of his tummy. In between them, marring the white of his half-unbuttoned shirt and stuck against the skin exposed by that gaping triangle, is a conspicuous heap of golden-brown crumbs. The mess is entirely unsurprising, considering how sloppy Eddie often is, but the result is no less distasteful for it.

You scrunch your nose and lean over him, planting one palm in the space his bent elbow makes beside his ear and briskly swiping the other along cotton and damp skin. Your chuckles color your admonishment as you exclaim, “Sit up if you can’t help but make a mess of yourself! You’re such a pig, I swear—!”

Eddie surges up, capturing your wrist in a grip light enough to break if you were to want to. “Take it back,” he says warningly, and when he tilts his head this time, the glimmer of mischief in his eye tells you it’s not to coax you. A thrill alights in your chest at the promise of the game, the way his long fingers circle your wrist so easily.

A giggle squeaks out of you before you declare loudly, “Never!”

Your gleeful shriek echoes off the willow and the cedars, the creek and the clover as Eddie grapples with you playfully. You try to fist one of his suspenders with your other hand, but the attempt puts you at his mercy; he uses that advantage to bully you down flat to the blanket, though even in this semblance of roughhousing Eddie’s attempts are light and easy, nowhere near the latent power coiled in his biceps from years of chopping wood in winter, tilling earth in spring, and hacking hay in fall. Husky chuckles rain on your skin as you squirm and wiggle in his grip, not really trying in earnest to escape until his hand leaves your shoulder and dips instead to your waist, fingers digging with devilish precision into the most ticklish parts of you.

Your glee turns to desperate gasping and involuntary, wheezing giggles as Eddie tickles you mercilessly while you try harder to buck away from his touch. Your attempts are entirely ineffectual, and the sensation of his deft fingers writhing against your ribs and the soft of your waist coupled with the stifling heat of his body where he has you half-pinned beneath him to keep you from escaping, has your face utterly burning with discomfited hysterics.

He doesn’t let up until you call for mercy, though at the first stuttered “St-stop—” that falls from your lips, his fingers immediately cease their cursed torture. Boneless, exhausted, your head tips back against the blanket as you heave for air, the fuzz in your head from lack of breath slowly dissipating as Eddie’s palm drags firmly and briskly up and down your waist, rubbing away the residual ticklish sensation almost contritely.

Once you’ve gotten your bearings and recovered your senses, you realize that while Eddie has stopped tickling you, he hasn’t moved from his position half on top of you. His belly presses into yours with each breath, firm and solid just like the rest of him, and you can smell the evidence of the August day clinging to his dark curls where they’re pinned against your nose: the sour tang of sweat, the earthy snap of tobacco smoke, the natural musk of his body, and, beneath it all, the scent of wild rain, of summer wind and petrichor, subtle but heady like an approaching storm. That feeling within you stirs, awakening at the press of his solid weight across your ribs and breasts, but the heat of him, while in some ways welcome, makes the heavy August humidity edge beyond extremely uncomfortable to utterly unbearable.

You express your discontent with an exaggerated shimmy of your shoulders; Eddie stirs, grunting as you make his resting place unpleasant to continue resting on. “It’s too dang hot for wrestling,” you gripe, “get offa me, you big oaf.”

Eddie’s head pops immediately from your shoulder, his nose nearly brushing yours as he pins you with a wide and eager stare. The gleam in his umber eyes should alarm you, but all you feel is that stirring inside again until his breath ghosts over your lips when he declares proudly, “Then let’s go swimming.”

His face shines like it’s the best idea he’s ever had, but exasperation floods to stifle that warm stirring within you. Eddie pouts when he sees your face contort skeptically, pink lips poking petulantly at your immediate resistance. “Eddie,” his name is mostly a sympathetic sigh, “I can’t. My mama would roast me alive, you know that.”

Your best friend’s eyes narrow at your tone, and you suck your lips into your mouth almost apologetically, knowing Eddie really doesn’t like it when you treat him like he’s simple. The remorse fades when he quirks a brow, glancing down at the slick skin of your throat and collarbone exposed above your neckline before teasing, “You’re already roastin’ alive. You’re sweatin’ like a whore in church.”

Your indignance is instant and fierce. “Edward Munson! Well, I never—!” You shove him bodily off of you, and he lets you, rasping with easy laughter as he leans on a palm to the side of you, looking down at your burning face with a smirk.

Eddie is smirking, but you know he doesn’t mean to call you a whore, that he only really says things like that because he likes to goad these reactions out of you. And you’d keep playing his game— keep being angry at him— if it weren’t for the way the light was filtering through the leaves, playing on his frizzy curls and lighting them beautifully amber at the edges. If it weren’t for the way his collar had fallen further open when you’d been roughhousing, exposing more of his pale chest as it bunches around his suspenders, making him look more like the cover of some two-cent romance novel than the sloppy farmboy he’s always been. If it weren’t for the way he's looking down at you— you lying prone on your back with him beside you, towering over you from your vantage point, with that sharp jaw and the plush curl of his lopsided smirk and the veins popping on the forearm he’s braced on, his skin flushed pink beneath the rolled sleeves of his white shirt.

Your anger dissolves at the sight of these things, and if it had remained, perhaps this next conversation would have gone differently.

You lean up slightly, your eyes sliding from your best friend’s face to the scenery behind him. The slow journey of the creek’s water over rocks and sticks, the soothing sound of its trickle and flow, the sight of those willow leaves dragging against its smooth surface…

It looks so mouthwateringly refreshing.

With the lack of your anger comes mournful regret. “I can’t go home soaking wet,” you lament, and your tone makes your internal conflict clear.

Your eyes slide reluctantly from the creek back to Eddie, and you see a peculiar look cross his face. “I mean,” he says, hesitating for the briefest moment, “we could just take our clothes off.”

You blink at him, thrown entirely for a loop at the outlandishness of that suggestion, rendered mute as you try— and fail— to process it. In your muteness, Eddie keeps talking, as if he’s working it out to himself while he speaks. “Yeah. Ya know, that could actually work. Could swim for awhile, cool down, get out, dry off with the blanket.” He grins. “Bet we’d even air dry in no time in this heat.”

The proposition is absurd. It’s entirely inappropriate, and just… just lying there, staring up at Eddie’s face as he leans over you, makes your skin feel suddenly too tight for your body. You sit up abruptly, folding your knees and wrapping your arms around them. When Eddie clocks the look on your face, he huffs, his voice going a little sharp in defensiveness. “What? What's wrong with that? We've been friends for ages; I’d say we’re way past the point of gettin' embarrassed.” He snaps and points at you, shaking his finger as he gets on a roll. “‘Member when you came to me all upset because you bled through your dress and had to turn your apron around to keep your ma’ from seeing? I even helped you get the blood out. Didn’t I?” He doesn’t give you a chance to confirm or deny before continuing smugly, as if he’s got you beat, “And I showed you that nasty wart on my toe when you asked me to, even though I really didn’t wanna. See? Like I said, no reason to be embarrassed.”

You’d stopped listening at the mention of his wart, craning your neck to try and see his foot where it’s tucked against the clover over the edge of the blanket. “How is that now? Is it still there?” you ask earnestly. Eddie just snuffs a wry breath through his nose; his curls sway as he shakes his head.

“Uh-uh. Already showed y’once, I’m not doin’ it again. Plus, you’re provin’ my point.” He smiles at you crookedly, digging his toes further into the clover to hide them before eyeing you smugly. And you can’t fault his logic when you’d walked right into it like that.

“Yeah, I guess,” you reluctantly agree, to which he adds,

“Plus, s'not like I haven't seen you nekkid before.”

You can’t help but scoff at that. “Yeah, when we were, what, eleven? It's different now.”

The smugness on Eddie’s face melts; his eyes fill with that stickiness from before, like when he looks at you a little too long. His voice a quiet murmur, Eddie asks you, “What makes it different now?”

The question could be answered easily enough. Because we're grown. Because you're a man now, and I'm a woman, and it wouldn't be proper. But after this summer's changes, and with that feeling awakening in the pit of your belly— wanting, yearning, hungry— you can tell that it's more loaded than that. Suddenly, the air feels heavier than it was just a moment before, thicker with something other than summertime humidity as you stare into Eddie’s umber eyes. Nervousness dances along your limbs, but it’s not that terrified kind of fear— it’s closer to anticipation.

Rather than answering the question directly, you avoid it, lifting your chin to reply as nonchalantly as you can, though you feel anything but. “Fine.”

Eddie’s eyes bug out. “R-Really?”

His immediate shock makes you rush hot with embarrassment, feeling caught out and self-conscious. Your voice bursts from you in defensive indignance as you drop your knees, crossing your arms tight beneath your breasts. “You cannot be serious. You're the one who proposed it, Ed!”

He scrambles to keep you from getting upset, brow pinched and eyes wide in a different way. “No, no, I…” He flounders for a moment, looking at a loss. “I just didn’t… I didn’t think—”

With a sharp shake of his dark curls, face scrunched as if to clear the cobwebs from his head, Eddie cuts himself off. He blinks at you silently for a moment, finally saying, somewhat more hoarsely, “We can do it. I wanna do it.”

You watch Eddie’s adam’s apple bob as his eyes scan quickly down your cotton dress, lingering in your lap, though the swaths of fabric conceal even the innocent outline of your legs. A pulse of heat tingles low as his gaze sweeps over you, and you resist the urge to jam your hands down to cover yourself, feeling exposed though there’s nothing to see. Fiercely, you warn him, “Just keep your back turned ‘til I get in the water, or I'll whoop you."

Eddie snorts loudly, countering, “You really think you could whoop me?"

“Yes,” you snap back sassily, your faux-confidence deflating slightly as you add, “...if you let me.”

You smile at the warm chuckle he rewards you with, but when Eddie starts peeling his suspenders down, your heart seizes in your chest. The anticipation feels a little more like fear now that you’re confronted with the reality of what you and Eddie are about to do. You pop to your feet, rocking on your heels and fidgeting with your fingers, and Eddie’s brows jump when he looks up and registers your nervousness. Your voice wavers slightly as you ask half a question, letting it trail off into implication. “Are you gonna, um…?”

“Yeah, no, yeah,” he says quickly, scrambling up and wiping his palms on his trousers. Haltingly, cheeks pink, he rushes, “I’ll just… I’ll go behind the willow. Meet you in there.”

“Yep,” you say, the word bitten off a little too short in your awkwardness. “‘Kay.”

“‘Kay,” Eddie echoes, shooting you a sheepish smile before hurrying off in that direction. Only once he’s ducked behind the willow trunk does the hammering of your heart begin to calm, that nervousness settling back to anticipation, though it’s a little queasier than it was before now that there’s nothing technically stopping you from preparing to swim.

You kick off your shoes first— the simplest to remove— and, with a deep breath, you begin to undress.

With trembling fingers, you undo the buttons on your dress and peel the sticky fabric from your arms and decolletage. Your silky chemise comes next, and you aren’t sure whether to be grateful or rueful that in the summer, you’re wearing so few layers. It’s an odd sensation to feel the sun on every part of you— the small of your back, the valley between your breasts— as you fold your chemise and neatly tuck it between the bodice and skirt of your dress to maintain modesty before laying them both on the blanket.

And that’s it, then. The chickadees titter in the branches, the turtles sun themselves on flat river rocks, the bullfrog croaks in the dead log at the water’s edge, Merlin and Guinnie nicker gently at the edge of the clover clearing— and in the middle of it all, you stand there, buck-naked as the day you were born.

It feels distinctly uncomfortable at first, being naked anywhere but in your bedroom or bathroom back at home. You half-suspect your mama to come barreling out of the trees, ruddy-faced and angry as the devil to drag you back to the farm by your ear and lash you, both with words and with papa’s belt. But as the seconds tick by, and you begin to settle into the feeling, the weak breeze that wavers the fronds whispers along your sticky skin, tickling you pleasantly. You look towards the creek— the whole purpose for your nakedness— and you begin to covet the sight of the flowing water, to imagine how it will slither against your ankles and knees, cradling your body in cool refreshment. Discomfort eases; eagerness at the thought of that relief takes its place.

It doesn’t take long for your eyes to stray to the thick trunk of the willow overhanging the creek. You imagine Eddie behind it and begin to ponder all sorts of questions. What does he look like underneath his clothes? Is he lean? You’ve seen the muscles on his arms and back earlier this spring when he’d take off his shirt to work in the field as the weather got warmer; you couldn’t see much, though, as you had nary a birds-eye view from your distant bedroom window, and no way could you have chanced trying to peep over the fence. You find yourself wondering now, Are his thighs as muscular as his arms seem to be? Are his calves? Do the freckles across the bridge of his nose echo on other parts of his body this late in the summer, maybe on his shoulders?

It’s been a long time since you’ve seen him bare— seven years, give or take— and you know you can’t reliably compare what you’d seen then with what he looks like now; Eddie’s more man than boy lately. The nature of your wondering changes. What does a bare man look like, anyway? You’ve never seen one. Naturally, a question follows: Has Eddie seen a bare woman before?

That wondering flusters you, and you can only begin to think about why before heat is rushing to your cheeks and you need to abandon the thought. Unconsciously, you go to smooth your skirt, but your hands hit the flesh of your thighs instead, unencumbered by clothes. You glance down and your breasts are there, sloping gently from your chest, your nipples soft in the warm humidity. It makes you wonder how Eddie’s chest has changed, whether he has hair there now. It can’t be thick if he does, or you probably would’ve seen it from the window. Does he have hair any other places? You suppose he probably does, since you’d grown hair under your arms and between your legs when you reached your maturity, too. You only barely conceive a thought about what lies between Eddie’s legs, and that flusters you so thoroughly that when you press your palms to your cheeks, your skin feels hotter than you imagine the surface of the sun must be.

You wonder then if Eddie is thinking about you and how your body has changed in the same way that you’re thinking about him. It makes you self-conscious to picture him imagining you beneath your clothes, drawing his own conclusions about your shape, and then glimpsing the truth of what your clothes conceal. No one has seen your naked body except for mama and your older sister, who couldn’t give two hoots what you look like, and the thought of someone looking at you and being disappointed in what they see is a crushing thought. Not that you think Eddie will see your body, really, but you can’t help but—

A sudden whoop, wild and boyish, startles you out of your thoughts, and with a blur of pale flesh and dark curls, Eddie takes a running leap into the creek.

The dramatic smack of Eddie’s body against the water has you bolting for the willow tree, your hands colliding with rough bark as you peek around it, beratements hissing through your teeth. “What a reckless, stupid idiot you are, Eddie Munson!” The words are cutting, but the crinkle of your brow and the squeezing of your chest bely the true meaning behind them. Your breath catches as beats pass without any sign of him, anxiety rising until his head bursts from the surface of the water, fixing you with a waterlogged but manic smile as you peer at him from the other side of the trunk, body shielded from his view.

The only way you could possibly convey the depth of your vexation and relief is by childishly stomping your foot, and you do just that. “Gosh darn it!” you shout, face all screwed up, “You’re so—! Ugh!” You stomp again. “You coulda hit your head on a rock and drowned!”

Eddie ignores your shouting, dark curls plastered to his cheeks that round with the force of his joy. “Git over here!” he calls, “It feels like heaven in here!” He laughs raucously, disturbing the water as he swishes his arms through it in boyish delight.

Seeing his joy and yearning for that refreshment for yourself, you put aside the tightness of your worry for him. “Turn around!” you call, and obligingly, Eddie straightens and does, showing you the plane of his pale back and the wet tendrils of his drenched curls covering his shoulder blades. “And no peeking!” you tack on, snorting as you hear him slap both palms over his eyes, though the gesture warms your heart nonetheless.

You edge down to the bank, keeping one hand on the willow’s trunk as you test your footing. The bottom of the creek bed is a little slippery with stones but mostly soft with peat and algae, and the water feels so rapturously cool on your ankles that you sigh audibly in relief once both feet are in. You wade further toward the center of the creek until the water reaches the tops of your breasts, at which point you finally toss a glance in Eddie’s direction again.

Even with a few feet of distance separating you, knowing Eddie is naked underneath the water has your nerves churning up again; you duck down so that the cool water covers your clavicle, making sure your breasts can't be seen before you finally call out to him again, much more quietly now with your proximity.

“Okay,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip, “you can stop covering your eyes. My virtue is protected,” you joke, though it comes out a little more tremulously than you had hoped.

Slowly, Eddie’s jutting elbows straighten as he drops his hands from his face, and your eyes dart over everything you can see— the chapped ruddiness of his elbows, the veins in his arms, the bend of the skin at his waist as he begins to turn around. And then you’re just looking at his face as it emerges— the curve of his ear, the darkness of his hair, normally a frizzy stormcloud around his head but now flattened silkily against his jaw; the hollow shadow between his jaw and throat, the softness of his nose, the beads of water clinging to his dark brow.

And then, all at once, Eddie is facing you. His umber eyes never stray from your face, not glancing for a peek of exposed skin, though you’ve ensured barely any can be seen, just the tiniest sliver of the tops of your shoulders, plus your neck and face. Not much he hasn’t seen before. Nevertheless, he doesn’t try— doesn’t attempt to look below the water to see what your bare body looks like. He’s a gentleman, perfectly adhering to your instruction not to peek, but you can’t decide if you’re more relieved or disappointed by his compliance.

For a long moment, there’s just the sound of the creek flowing between you as you look back at Eddie. He's taller than you, and he isn’t hunched; he’s standing tall, seemingly unconcerned about you seeing what flesh is exposed above the water. Your eyes glide over the water running off the ends of his curls and down his pale chest, making little ripples when they slide into the creek where they belong. You remain composed until you notice the dusk of his nipples beaded with water, hard and puckered in the water’s chill. Your eyes widen slightly as the sight awakens that hunger again, and you blurt the first thing that comes to mind in an effort to keep him from noticing your reaction.

“Oh, my word, this is so refreshing!” you say, perhaps overly enthusiastic, your smile a bit too broad as it aches in your cheeks. “Probably the best idea you've ever had, in fact. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

Eddie’s brow twitches in confused amusement at your exaggerated cheer, but he blessedly decides not to comment apart from saying, “Think that’s the first time you’ve ever willingly apologized to me.”

“Mmm…” you pretend to deliberate, wobbling your head back and forth. “Yeah, maybe,”you reply, chuckling to lighten the mood.

But your laughter weakens, going a little uneasy as Eddie wades closer, head tilting like a curious hound. “You didn't get your hair wet,” he observes, and you glance up like you’d be able to see it atop your head.

“I don't wanna get my hair wet, Eddie,” you say, an edge of warning in your voice already. Because you know Eddie Munson, and you know that, though the observation had sounded entirely innocent, those umber eyes are already gleaming with mischief.

“Awww,” he goads, and the word goes husky with laughter as he sees the alarm on your face, the way you tense warily as he edges closer. “Come on, turtle dove. You gotta go under.”

“No, Eddie.” You attempt to be firm, glaring at him in an attempt at intimidation. “It'll mess it all up and it’ll never dry in time—”

“Here,” he says lightly, disregarding your protests as his smile goes wolfish, “I’ll help you—”

Quick as a copperhead strike, Eddie makes to grab for your arms. But you’d been prepared for this— you dodge backward, squealing and splashing him directly in the face.

Eddie halts and sputters, running his hands roughly over his eyes and dragging them down the expanse of his face. And you know— you know— with how Eddie’s wolfish smile goes manic and wild when it’s revealed again that now, you've really done it.

Desperation drives you as you begin to scramble backward, wetting the ends of your hair in your haste to get away. He pursues you almost languidly, with a sense of confident assurance that has you crumbling and grasping for your final defense, which is to declare shrilly, “Edward Munson, don't you dare. I swear on all things holy—”

When Eddie lunges for you, you know with a sense of certainty that you won’t be able to escape the cage of his hot hands as he traps you, holding you firmly around the upper arms. In fact, you don’t even try very hard at first— you just let him grab you, freezing in his grip as if in hope that your compliance will convince him to take mercy on you. But then, with a bright grin of triumph, Eddie begins whipping his head side to side, shaking his curls to coat you with water like a dog.

You brace your palms on his chest and push then, crying out in dismay as you feel the droplets rain down on your hair and face. “Eddie!" you protest, but as you squint at him, you begin laughing— laughing at how silly he looks doing that, laughing at the fact that he could’ve easily shoved you under the water but has chosen to do this instead. You're laughing, and then Eddie starts laughing, your voices overwhelming the sound of the cicadas as they bounce off river rocks and cedars, filling the August air with your shared joy.

Eddie is still holding you, still shaking his head, though more slowly now, as you suppose he’s likely getting dizzy. And this becomes one of your games— you press your palms harder against his chest and his fingers tighten around your upper arms, pulling as you push, keeping a careful equilibrium in maintaining distance.

You maintain distance until, with the river water and sweat combined, your slippery hands slide on his chest.

One moment, you’re pushing and he’s pulling, equally and carefully matched in strength to continue your game. The next instant, before you can think or react, you’ve lost purchase. Eddie has no time to think or react, either; not expecting that sudden lack of resistance, he tugs you bodily against him.

Suddenly, his hot skin is everywhere, slick and firm and soft all at once. A ragged gasp rips from your throat as you’re overwhelmed by sensation: your hard nipples rasping against the dusting of hair on his chest, your nose now smushed against the hollow of his throat, the entire length of your body buzzing with the utter foreignness of feeling someone else's bare skin touching your bare skin. And there's something else, something inexplicably hotter than the rest of Eddie’s body, somehow hard and silky soft all at once where it presses between you against your belly. You’re uncomprehending for only a fraction of a second before it becomes very obvious what it must be.

Oh.

You spring apart from him at the same time that he releases you, no more than a second after the impact, though it had somehow felt much longer than that in the moment. Your face floods with searing heat as you stare at him, barely registering the look of wide-eyed, visceral horror on Eddie’s face as your heart pounds in your ears. His mouth is moving, but you don’t hear it— you’re consumed by the feelings flooding your body, reeling from shock and mortification but also from dizzying, fluttering euphoria. Because that feeling inside you— the one that hungers for something more with the boy standing across from you, who's still blathering something you can’t hear— has now had a taste of what it yearns for. Liquid heat pools low in your belly, pulsing much more intensely than the typical tingle you feel when thinking about Eddie in this way, rushing up to buzz through your body until your pupils dilate and you burst with heady need.

Eddie’s dismayed rambling eventually becomes discernable above the pounding of your heart. You register distantly what he’s saying— “I'm so sorry, oh fuck, please, i-it was an accident, I didn’t mean to—” but all that matters is that he's babbling, hysterical, face contorted and fingers fisted in his curls in a way that must be painful. And how can you talk to him like this? How can you even begin to think when he’s yammering on in such a way?

So you stomp forward, grab the back of Eddie’s neck and yank his face into your outstretched palm, which clamps over his lips. “Eddie Munson,” you huff, ignoring the way his lips feel against your palm as he keeps trying to speak, though you suspect it’s more in befuddlement now than remorse as his eyes are wide as kitchen saucers. “Would you just shut it for one dang second?”

All at once, Eddie’s stifled speech ceases, and his lips grow still against your palm. You sigh, relieved to have finally put a stop to that noise, but the look on Eddie’s face pierces you, holding you fast.

He looks terrified.

Eddie looks more scared than you’ve ever seen him, his brow scrunched up tight, his eyes so dismayed that they appear glassy with unshed tears. It pierces you deeply to see him looking at you this way, tugging behind your ribs until your chest aches like the deepest bruise. Your brows marry in the middle, crinkling up as your eyes go big and soft and sad for him. “Eddie,” you whisper, cracked with compassion at the sight of his distress, though fear and longing have knit you up just as tightly inside. And though you let go of the nape of his neck, you don't pull your palm away from his face. Instead, slowly, tentatively, you shift your hand to Eddie’s cheek, dragging against his warm skin in a slow, crawling path as he stands stock-still, watching you like a deer in headlights. You pause for a long moment, just holding Eddie’s cheek, before your trembling thumb lowers, petting featherlight along his cheekbone.

It’s not something that can be explained away by one best friend attempting to comfort another after a mortifying accident. Your thumb traces Eddie’s cheekbone once, twice, and then again, prodding against the boundary of your friendship in a way that cannot be ignored. Stroking Eddie Munson’s cheekbone is the scariest thing you’ve ever done because on the other side of this choice can be effusive bliss or rending sorrow, and nothing in-between.

Your breath is shallow as you wait for Eddie to react— to say or do something, anything, to indicate what he’s thinking. Because he doesn’t look scared anymore, but you can’t place the look on his face, either. You’ve never seen it before. And then slowly, as if he’s half afraid to move and shatter the illusion, Eddie’s hand emerges from the surface of the creek, droplets running down the length of his forearm and falling in little ripples back into the water as he reaches up and brushes his fingertips so gently, so lightly, against your collarbone. It’s a graze of skin you can barely feel, but you tremble nonetheless.

“Eddie,” you whisper again, but compassion doesn’t crack your voice this time.

Wanting does.

Eddie swallows thickly, voice hoarse and choked with the weight of what he is about to ask. “C-can I kiss you? Please?”

There is no hesitation, only sweet, euphoric relief when you nod, and then your best friend is kissing you.

Fluttering, dizzying desire bursts in your belly when Eddie slots his mouth against your mouth; all you can feel is warm wetness as his breath flows down to mingle with yours in your lungs. It isn’t tentative, or questioning, or timid when Eddie kisses you, grabbing up your face and moaning past your teeth as if he’s never wanted anything more in his life. Your fingers scrabble for purchase along his muscular shoulders, clutching slippery skin as you whimper and move your lips frantically against his. The heat of his skin and lips contrasts with the cool slick of the water enveloping your bodies from the chest down, and the sensation makes you break out in goosebumps that he soothes with restless stroking of his broad palms over your arms and back. You’ve wanted to touch him like this— be touched by him like this— so desperately that your bones cried out for it, and they sing in praise as Eddie hikes you up against him, kissing you insistently, crushing you so tightly to his body that it’s almost uncomfortable. But it’s exactly what you need— your breasts pressed up against his chest, your belly heaving into his as you gasp and kiss and lick into his mouth, brain fuzzy, body following only instinct. Eddie’s palms find the small of your back, clutching you close as he angles his muscular thigh between your legs. You whine, body electrified with the feeling of his hands pressing your hips forward until that place between your legs rubs against him, sparking delicious friction that seems to be the physical culmination of that hunger inside you, never before explored.

When you undulate your hips experimentally, mimicking the movement Eddie has coaxed you to follow, his palms leave the small of your back to pull you closer, wrapping you up in his firm embrace. With how tightly you’re pressed against him, you can feel that the hardness trapped between you is even hotter and stiffer now against your hip, and it makes that hunger flare in the pit of your belly, desiring more, more, more. You’re panting, overtaken as Eddie licks across your bottom lip, and you whimper; with shaky fingers, you reach down beneath the water, seeking blindly between your bodies until your fingertips brush against the very tip of that hardness.

You stiffen in surprise as it jumps against your belly; abruptly, Eddie pulls his mouth from yours but doesn’t retreat completely. He continues to hold you, chest heaving, staring into your eyes for a dazed moment before his lips crack and his voice leaks out hoarsely. “Have you ever lain with a man?”

Your cheeks heat at the brazenness of the question, but considering the position you’re in— pressed up against him, having just been rubbing yourself along his thigh and feeling his hardness dig into your hip— you suppose talking about this is far less brazen than you’ve already been today. Mutely, you shake your head. “Have you,” you ask, “with a woman?”

After a moment, Eddie nods. Your stomach falls; you feel yourself grow sour with jealousy, and Eddie misinterprets the sudden pinch of your brow. “We don't have to,” he says quickly. “We don't have to do anything you don't wanna. Hear me?”

He cups the side of your neck, gently, so gently, wetting the hair at your nape as his calloused fingertips brush there. His tender touch eases your sourness, and you think instead about his assertion, about the implication of what you could do with him— what you could allow him to do to you. And you know how it works. You've seen geldings mount mares before, however ineffectually; you know the wheres and the hows and the whens of it all, though your knowledge is all theoretical and in no part practical.

But when you think about Eddie’s hot stiff flesh still pressing against your hip, about that hardness sinking between your legs, you can’t deny you’re curious. And with him… you feel safe. You feel cherished. And part of you can acknowledge how you've been yearning to know him in this intimate way for a long time.

Since the beginning of summer.

Since before that.

Maybe since always.

“I want to,” you tell him, and at last, all the hesitation melts from Eddie Munson’s face. He smiles, and the stretch of his lips is sticky, forbidden, and decadent; the softness of his umber eyes is filled with simmering heat. Your best friend has been looking at you like this all summer, and you finally know what it means.

Eddie goes first, guiding you to the edge of the creek. As he does, little by little, the water recedes from your bodies, revealing more and more of his pale skin as he climbs out before you, planting his feet and holding out his hand to help you up after him. You set your smaller hand in his, and his grip is unwavering as you use what he offers you to climb out onto soft clover.

On the bank of the creek beside the weeping willow, you see all of Eddie for the first time. He is tall, lean, and still a little gangly in the length of his arms and legs like he’d been as a child, but far more solid now, with firm muscle from toiling on his family’s farm. His shoulders are broad, his neck strong, his waist narrow but padded with a healthy layer of soft fat that fills him out more than you remember. The hair on his legs and arms is sparse, same as it is on his chest, but it thickens near his belly button in a trail leading downward before spreading low on his pelvis.

He’s at the very tail end of that transition from boyhood to manhood. And there's one part of him that's very much man— it's staring you right in the eye between his legs. Ruddy, curved, nestled in that dark thatch of untrimmed curls. You pulse with desire as you see it, heat tingling low as you shift on your feet; nevertheless, your eyes jump sheepishly from there to his face as if you’ve done something wrong.

But Eddie merely looks back at you calmly, allowing you to look at him. And when his eyes drag over your exposed skin in turn— over your breasts and soft stomach, your hips and pillowy thighs, over the curls between your legs, and even over the gentle curve of your calves where they meet your bony ankles— he looks so in awe over you that you resist the urge to cover yourself from his gaze, not wanting to take it from him.

You aren’t concerned about dirty feet or cookie crumbs when you lay with Eddie on the blanket again, the heat of his body radiating against yours as he stretches out beside you. When he cups your jaw to meet your lips with his, you relax into his touch with an ease that feels like passing through the threshold of your back door and feeling the weight of the world leave your shoulders.

Eddie’s tender touch feels like coming home.

As Eddie kisses you unhurriedly like he’s savoring every brush of tongues and smack of lips, your fingers wrap around his wrist where he still supports your head, thumb stroking against the firm veins on its tender underside. And he was right— it takes very little time for your bodies to dry in the heat, though the water in his hair lingers. Damp and cold, it brushes against your cheeks; you try to ignore the tickle, but after some time you huff sharply through your nose, pulling your lips from his with a wet pop. “Your mane’s a menace, Ed,” you say dryly, huffing again when he grabs the ends of his curls and tickles them across your neck. You scrunch your head to your shoulder, giggling through your protest. “Stop that! Be nice!”

Eddie grins, sticky and thick again. “I am being nice,” he murmurs, dropping his hair and cupping the back of your neck to pull you closer as he descends on your lips more intently now. He rolls you over onto your back, and his hair becomes nothing more than a vague nuisance as Eddie’s kisses trail from your lips to your jaw, nipping and sucking on their path downward to draw out little breathy moans and sighs from you. He kisses from your throat to your clavicle, from the valley of your breasts to the edge of your ribs, his cold curls dragging against your nipples as he travels lower on your body. You watch him with curiosity as his lips trail over your belly button and down to your hips before he finally settles between your legs, which part only enough to make the barest amount of room for him. He glances up at you, thumb ghosting over your curls. "Can I taste you here?” he asks, eyes dark like liquid smoke, pupils nearly swallowing the iris. He stifles a groan in his throat as he looks back down, rasping, “Bet you taste so sweet."

The suggestion feels distinctly naughty, and you rush with mortification at the idea, but above that is the hunger and the heat tinged with unmistakable excitement. “Okay,” you say, voice small, and Eddie rests his chin lightly against your pubic bone, folding his arms across your hips, very clearly ready to wait and follow your direction.

Gently, he tells you, “If you don't like how it feels or want me to stop, just say the word, okay? I mean it.”

“Yeah,” you reply, lips curling in a smile as your chest flutters. “Okay, I will.”

“Okay.” Eddie nods, his chin dragging against your skin as he unfolds his arms and looks down again. More hoarsely, he says, “You’re gonna have to spread your legs.”

Slowly, you do, heart thumping as your thighs peel apart and you expose yourself to his gaze. You want to squirm in discomfort with how intently he’s looking at you, but the heat on Eddie’s face, the unadulterated excitement and want that shines in his eyes as his plush lips fall open, is undeniably thrilling. You suck in a tiny gasp when his breath ghosts hot against that intimate place, a whimper escaping at the anticipation of his mouth on you. And then there’s the faintest brush of his wet tongue, snaking just slightly between your lips; you hiccup and moan, thighs twitching against his shoulders.

“S’it ok?” Eddie’s voice puffs against your heated flesh, cooling the place he’d just licked, and you exhale shakily, pushing out your confirmation.

“Y-yes,” you say, and after a brief pause, Eddie licks you again, and again, moving his tongue more boldly with each pass. He tips his chin down, lengthening the strokes of his tongue, dragging low to high for the first time; he groans deep in his throat, and you jolt as it buzzes against your lips. “Knew it,” he mutters to himself, voice tight with desire, and you moan as he wiggles his face in closer to you, his nose parting your folds.

It feels so good, his mouth on your special place; it begins to satisfy the hunger inside you in a way you’ve never felt before, not even when you’d dragged yourself against his thigh. You relax into the feeling as he laps at you, wet tongue broad and flat as it drags against your pussy, sparking pleasure with each pass. And the sight of his curly head between your thighs makes you bloom warm over your whole body, your belly buzzing for more, more, more.

“Eddie,” you moan, unable to fully articulate your desire but attempting to in the way his name falls so hot and sweet from your tongue. “I want you, Eddie, please…”

He lifts his face from between your legs to press feverish kisses up your slit to the top of your mound. You tense when he digs his nose into your curls and inhales there, breathing deeply against your hair and skin. A whimper eeks from your lips as you squirm inside with self-consciousness, legs tensed to remain still. You worry suddenly about how you must smell, how the August heat and the creek may have made you unpleasant in some way. But when Eddie’s chest rises and falls with a heavy, contented sigh, and he wraps his arms beneath the backs of your thighs, your self-consciousness fades; when he nuzzles against your curls, dragging his cheek along your mound so affectionately, you positively melt.

“Are you sure?” Eddie murmurs, lifting his head to peek up at you. You push onto an elbow, and he kisses the pudge of your tummy as it folds when you sit up. Smiling softly, you tuck his curls behind his ear, touch lingering against the side of his face.

“Yes,” you say, so light and delicate but oh, so sincere, “Eddie, I really want it. I want you to…” you trail off, biting your lip. His eyes darken.

“You want me to fuck you,” Eddie says, voice hoarsened but also sticky and thick and sinfully sweet like honey. You rush with feeling all over again— shock at his language, mortification at the crudeness of it, but also thrilling anticipation that tingles low in your belly, mixing with the heat and tightening to an aching need. You nod, gasping, “Yes. Yes, I want you to do that.”

Eddie’s moan rumbles low in his throat, and you feel it against your inner thighs where they’re pressed against his chest. He drops one last hasty kiss to your belly before unwrapping his arms from around you. You lay back against the blanket as he climbs up your body, spreading your legs so he can settle between them. Your brow pinches when he mounts you, his pelvis pressing flush with the juncture of your hips and his hardness wedged between you. He stares down at you, and the curtain of his thick curls seems to conceal the two of you from the rest of the world; the cicadas and the creek fall away as you meet his eyes.

His face is flushed, his lips swollen and wet, but his eyes are wide with concern when he shifts his weight to one hand to stroke back your hair with the other. "It might hurt at first," he says, voice soft, and you nod.

"I know," you reply, and he traces the side of your face with his thumb before lowering from his hands to brace his weight on his forearms. You take a shaky breath as his belly brushes yours with his new proximity, your vision filled only with Eddie’s pretty face.

"But,” he continues, “I'll take care of you, okay?" He shimmies his hands under your shoulders, tucking you closer to him, and as your bodies press lightly together, you can feel him trembling. "I'll take such good care of you,” he rasps, “Always will."

Your breath hitches in your chest, lungs burning as you well up with some emotion. Not hunger, not desire, but something more poignant. Something soft, like the down of a feather.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” you say, and your hand trails up his back, tracing the warmth of his skin almost reverently as you lift your chin to kiss him softly.

“Okay,” Eddie breathes, voice wavering as he sways his hips, untucking one hand from beneath your shoulder to reach down between you. You spread your legs wider as you feel that stiffness shift, poking against you as he maneuvers it down to line up with your entrance.

Eddie kisses your lips so tenderly, and he pushes in slowly, so slowly, but nothing he could do could prevent the pain you feel when the head of his cock pops inside your entrance. He freezes as you gasp sharply at the intrusion, your lips clamping tight in a belated effort not to alarm him, though the crease in your brow tells the whole story. Eddie looks pained to see you in pain; he rains kisses down on your face, and you tangle your fingers in his damp hair to ground you as he waits until you’ve relaxed to begin moving again. As soon as he does, though, the sharp sting returns; it continues as a burning and insistent pain while Eddie stretches you open in a way you’ve never felt before.

He starts and stops as many times as you need until his hips are flush with yours and he’s seated fully inside. He’s panting, one hand fisted in the blanket as he tries to stay so perfectly still, wincing and murmuring against your hair, "Aw, hell… I'm sorry, y/n. I'm so sorry it hurts… Don't wanna hurt you—"

You whimper, tucking your face against his neck, and he strokes soothingly up and down your waist with his other hand until your body has adjusted and the burn has faded to a barely a pinch. You kitten lick the salt from his throat, and you enjoy the way he shivers. “I'm ready, now, Ed.”

He lifts his head to examine your expression. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you reply, and after a moment where his eyes dart back and forth between yours as if to check for any hesitation. He rocks his hips slightly, not pulling out, just testing to see how you respond to him moving. When you sigh with relief, he sighs with relief; when he rocks again, and you bite your lower lip, he swipes along his with a tiny dart of his pink tongue; and when you buck your hips up lightly against him, Eddie groans deep in his throat, a guttural sound of deep want that makes your chest rush hot and your nipples prickle up tight.

Eddie fucks you languidly in the heavy August heat, the chorus of cicadas blending with the soft moans and panting breaths you hush against one another’s faces. Your bodies slowly grow slick with sweat again as you move together, lips exploring lips, hands exploring skin, the steady, even rocking of his hips predictable and soothing. The slide of Eddie’s warm skin against yours, the rasp of his hair, the slick of his hot mouth against your lips, and the pressure of his hard cock inside you all build until you begin to tingle low in your belly again. As you sigh and whimper against his mouth, licking against his teeth, Eddie pushes in suddenly deep, pressing his pelvis tightly to yours and rotating his hips. Your breath catches as the head of his cock brushes against a spot that makes that tingling tighten. "Yeah?” he husks, his lips brushing yours, “That feel good?"

“Mm-hmm,” you hum, “please, don't stop.” Eddie keeps circling his hips slowly, pressing tight and groaning in satisfaction as you wrap your arms around his back, seeking to be closer. When you rotate your hips in time with his, his pubic hair rubs sparks against that sensitive spot above your opening. You whine open-mouthed, eyes heavy and glazed as you stare into his, rubbing your nose against the damp skin of his cheek.

He nudges into your touch, murmuring, “You want more?”

“Yes,” you pant. “More.” But when he stops circling his hips, falling still, you're quick to pout, protesting with a frown, “That's the opposite of more—”

His hips jolt back and forward suddenly and sharply, and your back arches as he punches a moan out of you, cutting off your protest. He smirks knowingly as you cling to him, fingernails scrabbling for purchase on his sweaty back. He begins fucking you at this faster pace, a little rougher than before, and it is the more you wanted. It's more, more, more.

“Oh, fuck,” Eddie grunts, “you feel so good inside. So tight and warm.” You whimper at his words, blooming with heat as he adds, “Wanted to do this for so long.”

You manage a question even under the onslaught of his pounding, desperate as you are to know the answer. “H-How long?”

Eddie’s hips falter slightly, continuing more slowly as his adam’s apple bobs. He hesitates for a moment before answering, “Since the Fourth of July party at the Byers’ when you wore that new dress.”

You scrape your teeth against your lower lip, looking up at him with big eyes, and his head falls to your shoulder as he chuckles wryly, his hips stilling entirely. “Aw, hell. Y’look at me like that, and I can’t…” Eddie huffs, and you shiver as it puffs hot and damp against your neck. Without lifting his head, more quietly, he says, “Wanted to be with you like this ‘lot longer than that, if I’m bein’ honest.”

You burst with flutters at the revelation— low in your belly, high in your chest, tingling in your fingertips, tightening in your scalp. The feeling is hot and hungry, soft like feathers. You gasp a shaky breath to reply in a whisper that wavers with the depth of your emotion. “Me too.”

Eddie’s moan is broken and vulnerable as he presses a hot, urgent kiss to your throat, trailing desperately up to your mouth. He cups your face, fingers pressing in against your cheeks as his hips begin to slap with fleshy smacks against your spread thighs, his cock moving hard and hot and insistent deep inside you. And more than ever before, that feeling— the hunger, the coil in your belly, the heat between your legs— is building to something new, something intense, something that looms over you as it begins to tighten and tingle between your hips.

It scares you.

Your hands flutter and tap at Eddie’s shoulders as you whimper his name differently from before. "Eddie. Eddie—"

The urgency in your voice gives him pause, and his hips fall instantly still as he cups your face, tilting your chin up as his eyes dart over you restlessly. “What’s wrong, turtle dove?”

Your heart leaps at the nickname, and he must see the way your eyes soften because his fingertips draw gentle and featherlight along your brow, a touch of comfort and reassurance. "I don't know what's happening. I feel... strange."

His alarm is instant. “Does it hurt?” He asks, tinged with urgent distress. "Am I hurting you?"

"No, no," you soothe your palm along his jaw, and he lists into the heel of your hand when you cup his cheek. His concern makes you rush warm with pleasure in a different way. "It feels… I think it feels good," you clarify, feeling strangely ashamed like you shouldn't be talking about this. "But it's just… odd, I guess."

Eddie’s face softens to match yours. "It's okay, it's supposed to feel that way.”

Uncertainly, voice small, you ask, “You promise?”

Eddie pulls from your hand cradling his cheek to mash his nose to the side of yours, and the huff of his chuckle brushes sweetly over your lips. It's not exasperated or amused. It's nothing but fond. Almost, you’d say, if you didn't know better... almost loving. "I promise. Never led you astray yet, have I?"

“Well—” you start to hedge, but when he pokes your cheek aggressively with his nose, you give up the game and giggle. “No, you never have,” you say, and it’s not teasing, not wry. It's nothing but fond. Almost, you'd say, if you didn't know better... almost loving.

Something shifts then as Eddie begins to move inside you again. There’s a certain inevitability to it as his hips pound into yours, his cock pumping hard inside you as you rock your hips to meet him. “Wanna make you feel so good, turtle dove,” he tells you, and you drink in the sound of his voice. You feel dazed, drunk, almost, entirely caught up in the feeling of Eddie all around you, inside you, tangled not just with and in your body but also with your soul.

“It does feel good,” you tell him, voice soft and thick with feminine desire. “Feels so good, Eddie.”

Your encouragement spurs him on; his hips pump harder, his breath harshening with the effort. The inevitability grows more imminent as you feel the evidence of his exertion— the slick of his sweaty chest against your breasts and his tummy sticking to yours, the way the unrelenting rhythm of his hips begins to falter just slightly. “I’m getting close.” You look up at him, and his eyes are wide and hazy, his bangs clinging wetly to his forehead— it’s pink, with one vein throbbing over his left brow. You’re thinking idly of licking along that vein when Eddie interrupts you with a husky question. “You wanna take my seed?"

Caught up in him entirely, you can envision only one answer. You moan at the idea, nodding frantically. "Yes, please, please, Eddie—"

He groans gutturally at your enthusiasm. "Shit, yes. Gonna fill you and fuck it up into you all deep—"

You whine at the filthiness of it, the forbiddenness of it, but mostly with a deep yearning for him to possess you entirely, for him to spill inside and for you to know that, even when he pulls out of your body, some of him will linger for longer.

Eddie’s forehead dips to yours, pressing against it lightly, and you pant into his mouth. You keep your eyes open and wide, wanting to see everything— every fleck of gold and brown in his eyes, every pore, every freckle, every strand of hair in his brows, every line at the corner of his eyes. Every tiny detail of his beloved face. You watch that face start to twitch and contort, and you thrill deep in your chest. “Ed, are you about to—?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m… oh, fuck—” he whines into your mouth and you gather him closer, tangling your hands in his curls as he huffs and his hips press tight against your thighs. You swallow his stuttered groan like it’s the only sustenance you need as Eddie reaches the pinnacle of his pleasure.

There’s a burst of reciprocal pleasure low in your belly when you feel him pulse and spill inside you, and as the rocking of his hips slows, your burning need and pleasure fade to a pleasant buzzing warmth. You’ve not reached that pinnacle yourself, but you are content nonetheless as Eddie falls still, panting and spent in your arms. You are sweaty, hot, and sticky in a way that would, in any other context, have you grumbling and seeking relief. But here, with Eddie’s heavy weight on top of you, his arms curling around your body to hold you close to him, and his cock softening inside you, you couldn’t muster a grumble if you tried.

Eddie rolls you onto your sides but doesn’t relinquish his grip on you, and you hold one another other until his seed starts to leak between your thighs. You stir then, and he looks down at you as you glance towards your tangled legs, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “I should wash up,” you say quietly, and reluctantly, Eddie loosens his arms so you can rise and pad over to the edge of the water.

You’re about to crouch to cup water in your palms when a broad hand finds the small of your back, the light touch almost reverent. “Let me,” Eddie says quietly behind you; you turn, looking up into his face as he offers to cleanse you of his seed. That poignant welling of emotion, soft like the down of feathers, fills you toe to tip as he gets on his knees before you, cupping water in his palms and gently washing your sticky folds until your skin has been thoroughly cleansed.

Eddie Munson washes you off between your legs in the creek, and it feels almost more intimate than having relations with him.

When he straightens up, you make to walk back toward the blanket, but when he lingers near the water’s edge without following, you pause and look at him curiously. Eddie pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, fidgeting as his eyes flick between yours before the words burst out of him.

“Y’know you're my girl now, right? If you wanna be,” he adds quickly, and the blush of his cheeks, the sudden sheepish nervousness in his expression tugs at your heart.

But it’s such a silly question— if you wanna be.

Of course, you wanna be his girl. You’ve coveted Eddie Munson’s attention since he was that eight-year-old boy, odd and awkward, gangly and wild, your new neighbor next door. You’ve yearned to know him and be known by him as deeply as a best friend can, and now you’ve begun to know him in a way that, somehow, feels even more right than that.

You’ve wanted to be Eddie Munson’s girl for what feels like your whole life, now, or close to it.

“Yes,” you say, sticky and sweet and so utterly enamored with the boy standing beneath the willow at the edge of the creek. “I’ll be your girl, Eddie Munson.”

Eddie beams so bright and beautiful that your breath shudders in your chest, a poignant squeezing of your ribcage that only intensifies as he says with reverence, almost like he can’t believe it, “You belong to me, and I belong to you.”

You kiss him again, wrapping him up in your arms as he sways you happily back and forth. You wish it would last forever, but with a lurch in your belly, you realize the light casting Eddie’s curls in a deep amber glow is more than golden now— it's edging on orange. Hastily, you pull against his grip, and he releases you as you groan with dismay, “Aw, hell, Ed. We gotta race the sunset!” You bounce on the balls of your feet, shaking your hands by your sides as anxiety tangles in the pit of your stomach. “Mama’ll skin me alive if I’m not back before sundown!”

Eddie’s eyes dart to the sky, widening with equal alarm. “We’ll make it,” he says breathlessly, “I got the horses, just get your clothes on!” He lurches around the willow while you rush to the blanket to pull on your rumpled chemise and button your dress, smoothing your hair and slipping on your shoes just as he’s miraculously finished saddling both horses, already dressed. You’re impressed until you hurry closer and realize Eddie’s suspenders are twisted thrice each and his shirt is buttoned one-off from the top.

You sigh and tug him closer by the trousers, and he stumbles as you briskly unwind his suspenders and rebutton his shirt.

“Much obliged,” Eddie pants breathlessly, his lips curled in a delighted smile as you tend to him. His beam widens when you duck your head, going shy under the intensity of his gaze; Eddie cups your cheeks and kisses you wild and hard, leaving you dazed for a moment as he hoists himself deftly onto Merlin’s saddle. “Betcha I’ll beat you back,” he says, towering above you atop his giant horse— your best friend, roguish and mischievous, clever and brash, beautiful in the deepening light.

A wicked grin blooms on your lips as you look up at him, grasping hold of Guinnie’s mane and cantle to pull yourself up smoothly beside him. “Betcha you won’t,” you counter, and with a squeeze of your thighs, you rise to the challenge.

You ride Guinnie hard and fast through the forest, racing Eddie until you both burst together from the treeline onto the field at the edge of Mr. Hopper’s property. In the distance, you can see the tall fence that separates your farmstead from his, the red house that he calls home sticking from the earth beside the blue shingles of your own, in permanent company with one another. You expect Eddie to call the game over now, but he tosses a smirk over his shoulder at you, his curls whipping as Merlin rears and gallops on, spurred by a whoop of boyish delight.

Your legs will be sore tomorrow, and between your legs will be sore too. But as the sun sets on this August day and you ride through the fields, chasing the young man you cherish, and the bugs erupt in puffs like clouds from the tall grass, you’ve never felt so known, nor so damn alive.

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starwarsalltypesoflove · 4 months

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SW - ALL TYPES OF LOVE WEEK

INFO

Star Wars: All Types of Love week is a fandom event of fancreations, lasting a week, that celebrates love in its many forms! Since we celebrate romantic love and familial love often, we thought it might be time to give an opportunity for other kinds of love to shine!

Inspired by the Ancient Greek Philosophers and their seven kinds of love, we aim to showcase those different, less celebrated loves. Rooting for the little guys!

HOW TO PARTICIPATE

No sign-up, nothing. Just create!!!

Post during the appropriate week and you’re good!

We welcome any kind of creation, as long as it is truly yours. Even old posts being reblogged is fine! Old creations deserve as much love as new ones.

Fanfics, fanarts, moodboards, fanvids, fancomics, banners, playlists… An epic fic or a 100 word drabble, an amazing painting or a stick figures funny scene- we love it all!!

WHEN TO POST

Wednesday 7th of February, 00h00 PST, to Wednesday 14th of February, 23h59 PST.

HOW TO POST

Post under the tag SWATOLW during the week the event is running. Add the tag of the type of love you are representing.

Be sure to @ us so we can appreciate what you’ve made and put it in the round-up!

WHAT TO POST

Star Wars characters, places, animals, games… Be it from the movies, the novels, the comics, the shows like The Clone Wars, The Mandalorian, Andor or even your own OC, the important parts are:

It must be from the Star Wars fandom

It must be about Love and that love must be not romantic or familial

To get a better idea of what we mean by that, you can read more about the seven types of love here. In short, we want to give a chance to shine to:

Love of Friends #philia

Love of Strangers #agape

Love of Partners #pragma

Love of Players #ludus

Love of Self #philautia

You can post about any of these, at any time of the week. There isn’t a day assigned to each type. The point is to create without pressure and celebrate all the types of love we don’t often focus on! The more of these you depict, the more we will love you for it!

QUESTIONS

“I love my two clones who are bffs, but they are clones. Does their love count as familial?”

Well, the truth rather depends on your point of view how you present it.

Pairs like Fives and Echo, and Rex and Cody, are usually understood in canon and fandom to be family. They can be friends too, but we’d prefer to focus on other pairs for this event. Post another time. We’re sure people will love it.

Alpha-17 and Cody have a cross-generational friendship? As long as the way their relationship is described/shown isn’t the dynamic of big brother & younger brother, or father figure & son figure, it’s good!

Want to show off Waxer & Boil being two peas in a pod? We would love that! As long as it isn’t a ship or they, the characters, don’t feel like the other is kin in the way we understand it.

“I want to show my two Mandalorians who are Partners In Bounty Hunting, but they are from the same clan. Does this work?”

No. I’m sorry, but it does not. We consider clan to be the SW equivalent of immediate family, a close circle, so it’s not the right event for this. But it does work if they are just from the same house or faction!

“Can I do two Jedi who are teammates and lovers?”

You can show any characters (two, three, four…) having a relationship that is sexual and based on love. As long as that love is not romantic.

If what moves your Jedi is the sense of purpose found in duty, the common love for the Light and the wider galaxy, the playfulness and affection shared between bed partners, these feelings can be as big as the moon, and it is still fine!

That is the whole point!

Feelings can be enormous and serious and important and still not be romantic or familial.

But if it’s shown or implied that the relationship is romantic/familial or turning so at some point, that is not what our event is focused on.

We know people are a bit tired from the holidays and that Valentine’s Day is a period often rich with events, which is why we put these conditions so it can be as low-pressure as possible. The point is to rejoice in all the breadth and the richness of the human sentient experience of love. In the love of Star Wars. And in the love of this community.

Be civil and show goodwill to participants and spectators. Be kind. YKINMKATO. Go crazy! Be creative! Have fun!

Love!

@swfandomevents

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theartistknownaslymond · 2 years

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Meant to be writing but the government is falling apart and it's so fucking funny so here, have the link to the draft playlist for the Band AU celebrates Thatcher's downfall:

#band au: post canon #playlists: period appropriate #Spotify

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romana-after-dark · 2 months

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Rooms on Fire: I Will Run To You

Dark!Santiago Garcia x Fem!Reader Dark!Francisco Morales x Fem!Reader Dark!William Miller x Fem!Reader Dark!Benjamin Miller x Fem!Reader

Also: FishBen, and an assortment of other M/M relationships (no Millercest). Everyone is Bisexual

Series Masterlist: Main Masterlist : MainTaglist

Spotify playlist

Summery: Madonna learns more about her role and the dynamics of the household.

Warnings and Content:

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

DUB CON MOSTLY but there WILL BE NON CON. Major character deaths, forced breeding, physical abuse, brainwashing, manipulation, violence, gore, alcoholism/addiction, BIG OLE BLASPHEMY WARNING like this cult appropriates a lot of religious themes and they call reader their Madonna, Santi is called the Pope, like all that stuff. However, this is a cult so I mean. It happens. None of it are my thoughts on religion or meant to make fun of religion or demonize religious people. Disgusting views on virginity. Attempted rape outside the boys. T*m warning. Age gap. Creepy terrible men. Non-reader rape, dub con, violence.

Extra warnings for chapter: Mentions of medical malpractice, death in childbirth, mentions of male sexual assault via power dynamics, lots of complex feelings.

A/n: next chapter things ramp up.

3.1k words

A/N I gotta apologize y'all. this was meant to include so much more but I guess this chapter is getting split bc I just put so much Jonah lore. I hope y'all are formal about liking him. We finally get some backstory on the uprising, Tom, and Madonna's dad, who BTW, had a name change. JACK IS NOW MARCUS more info after the story!

Support writers! Reblog and leave comments!

One so young, so changed Should not be left alone Two in love should confess And not be left alone And I will run to you Down whatever road you choose Yes, I will follow you down I will run to you ~I Will Run to You, Stevie Nicks and Tom Petty

“You paint a lot of fire”

Jonah’s voice startled you, making you turn around but you relax when you see it’s just him. Reyansh was watching you outside your studio, and Jonah coming meant you must be summoned somewhere.

You were painting a picture of a burning house, something you saw in a dream last night. Ben and Will treated you normally, fucking you but also spending time together. You supposed Francisco’s behavior was normal too, considering that he continued to treat you like you only existed to fuck when he had to fullfill his duty. He never touched you alone. In the week since you got your period Santi was ignoring you. He’d call you to his room, fuck you with your face pressed into the mattress, and then toss you out. Last night he shoved you into the hall with your dress still bundled up in your arms.

“I paint what I dream.” You mumble, tired and not totally there. You were terrified to sleep, and after a second visit from the succubus it was getting worse, forcing yourself to stay up later and later. Lack of sleep was making it difficult to be alert, and little noises make you jump.

Jonah approached where you stood, keeping a respectful distance. He’d been distant as well since the night you saw him, and you still were unsure what you did wrong and why Iris was so upset with you.

“You dream of houses burning?” His voice was gentle but curious.

You take a deep breath, too tired to fight off any questioning. It’s best not to lie, anyway. “Ever since I was a child, I dreamed of fire. I dreamed I was dancing in front of it. I dreamed I caused it, and it was out of my control and now I must dance in the smoke and watch as the flames consumed things that I loved.” A pause, tears beginning to burn behind your eyes. “Sometimes, he stood inside them.”

“He?”

“My father.”

Jonah drew in a sharp breath and you worried he thought you were sympathetic to his traitorous cause. You weren’t, you had remembered how betrayed you’d felt that he’d thrown everything away to follow Deacon Davis, the judas who had killed the Divine Mother. As per tradition, when someone is sentenced to death, they burn at the stake and the unmarried women are expected to dance. The closer you are to the individual, the closer you are to the fire. You had been Marcus’s only family, him and your mom having adopted you as an infant. He died in front of you as you danced, embers blowing in the wind and singeing your white dress and sensitive skin. You were only 12, but you knew right from wrong, and your father was wrong. Sometimes you woke up still smelling his burning corpse. You had danced longer than anyone, keeping all the energy your child body could give you until you passed out.

You turn to Jonah with tears in your eyes, “I hold no mercy in my heart for him, please know that. I am loyal to the Divine Mother, I am loyal to my husbands above all else! I don’t know why I didn’t get pregnant but know I’d die for them happily should it came to that!” Crying now, you desperately plead to him but it’s not Jonah you are speaking to, truely. You know Pope is questioning you right now, and you cannot bear the thought that he doubts you.

“Honey” Jonah’s voice is strained, pain anguishing him. “How much do you know about the uprising…”

Your face is wet with tears, almost shaking in fear and frustration. You didn’t know how you’d messed this up so badly so soon. You just wanted to be held, you don’t remember the last time you’d been held without sexual desire… it was probably your father, may he be damned.

“Deacon Davis… he was an advisor to the Divine Mother, a friend to my husbands… he and Deliliah conspired against the Divine Mother and her family. Dad- um, Marcus, was a part of the traitors and he allowed Deacon Davis into Divine Mother’s quarters where he murdered her. Deliliah was Will’s betrothed before. She had seduced him for information and, and betrayed her husband! I would never do that, Jonah!” You realize now why he was questioning you, he thought a traitorous blood ran in your veins. Had Pope sent him? Had Francisco seen the evil in your heart, the evil that was inviting a demon?? Or had Jonah simply seen you for what you were. “I would rather die than betray them! You have to believe me!” You sob, closing your eyes as you are no longer able to look into his in shame. Strong arms wrap around you, practically holding your body up.

Jonah held you tightly and you cried into his shirt, so tired, so sleepy… You just wanted to feel peace again. Jonah allowed you your release, wetting his shirt with your tears until your breathing slowed. It occurred to you that you were hugging and being held by a man who was not your husband, so you take a step back looking down.

“I- I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me, I haven't slept well-”

“It’s okay, honey.” His voice gently reassures you. “It’s okay to cry sometimes.”

You shake your head. “No… no I’m happy, I should be happy here, happy with my husbands, I am!” You’d shown weakness, surely Jonah would tell Pope that you were unhappy, that this was proof of your doubt, of unworthiness… Instead, Jonah pulled a sleeve down on his hand, stepping up to you once more. He ran the sleeve carefully under your eyes wiping the tears.

“There is nothing wrong with feeling what you feel. Your husbands are blessed with a kind, beautiful, artistic wife and they should be so lucky you sit at their table, nonetheless someone who cooks them dinners and paint them pictures. It is they who are unworthy, not you.”

You gasp at the blasphemy. “Jonah! No, no they are-”

“Gods, I know.” He wipes snot from your running nose. “But you… you’re like a daughter to me, and a father is allowed to place his children above Gods. Marcus may not… he may not have made the right choices, but he wanted nothing but good for you, just like I do. So please, for me, show him and yourself a little grace.”

With a little sniffle, you nod. “Thank you, Jonah.”

He gave you a smile, the bright one you like that made his eyes squint. “Good girl. Now, I got a surprise for you that I think will brighten your day.”

Jonah watched as you practically skipped down the hallway. When he told you Frankie wanted to take you out for a picnic, you perked up so fast it was like you hadn’t even been sobbing in his arms a moment ago. He wished he could be honest with you, he wished he could tell you the truth about Tom, Delilah, and most importantly, Marcus… but you were so brainwashed, there was no way for him to break through to you. He couldn’t simple tell you everything you’d know and believed whole heartedly, your religion, your life, the very thing that you chose above your father was a lie… not yet anyway. Maybe one day you’d doubt, you’d question, and the first people you’d go to would be Iris or him, maybe even Reyansh. Rey played the part well of a good soldier boy, he wasn’t as overt as Iris was but he knew you trusted him.

Despite being late already with the crying, you insisted on stoping in your room to grab a ribbon for your heart. Jonah’s heart hurt watching you put so much effort into this.

Will treated you well. Despite Jonah and Will’s… past, he couldn’t deny Will was a good husband. He took care of you.

Ben was a little shithead and was absolutely going behind your back with women still he just couldn’t figure out who. Ben had to be more sneaky now. This didn’t stop him from very loud late night fucks with Frankie that it seemed only you and Santi weren’t aware of. Still, he gave you affection and spent time outside of sex with you.

Santiago, he expected nothing less. Santiago’s moods were unpredictable, they had been ever since he was a child. Jonah had known Santiago and Beatriz since he was young, when all this was fairly new and traction was growing more and more. Jonah didn’t exactly believe, but his wife Jess did. Maybe he did for a while, it was hard to not with the things he saw… Beatriz had taken an interest in him and thus, despite being married, he spent a lot of time at the mansion with her. Jonah felt like a hooker, like his body was a commodity and up for grabs from anyone, and the worst part was how okay Jessica was with it. She fucking encouraged it. “Its an honor!” It wasn’t such an honor when she died giving birth to Iris and was denied medical treatment. Doctor said it wouldn’t have helped. Jonah knew Beatriz had something to do with it. He was luck Irish lived. She was his only reason for living sometimes.

It was Frank he was surprised about. Jonah had known all four men for most of the 3 decades of their life, and next to Santi, he knew Frank the longest. Frankie was raised with Santiago, practically as brother. Beatriz couldn’t adopt him, because something something divine blood, but that didn’t matter when Santi pissed her off enough. Jonah had witnessed the lashings and beatings he had taken, but what seemed to hurt the teen the most was when Beatriz would hang his godhood over his head, saying that it should be Frankie who was the savior, not him. After Jess’s death, Jonah was moved into the mansion and promoted to captain of the guard. It was just an excuse for Beatriz to demand sex even more.

Frankie was a good kid, but he always followed Santi like a lost puppy. Santi became obsessed with Frankie, forcing Frankie to become more and more withdrawn. Still, the nice young man was in there somewhere, and Jonah would bring it out. After the girl came to his room crying about Frankie not loving her, Jonah spoke to him and said he needed to do better by her hence the picnic.

Rey was out at the stables by the time Jonah got there, preparing the three horses. He was there a lot, knowing a lot about horses. If he has any choice, Jonah was certain he’d have been a vet. Another life, he supposed. Jonah and Rey would accompany them since they were going out a ways.

“Hello, Francisco.” She spoke softly, but enthusiastic. For all he and Santi hurt her, she loved him.

Frank gave a small smile. “Hi, Madonna. I thought maybe we could take a picnic. Get away from… everything else.” He brushed the mane of the horse.

Everyone else, Jonah thought.

“That sounds wonderful!” You walk over to him. “What’s his name?”

“This is Cielo. And those two,” He points to the other horses being settled. “Are Estrella and Flora.”

“Will we be riding Cielo?” You ask, but Frank turns away.

“I’ll be riding alone.”

You look dejected again, so Jonah steps up, frustrated with Frankie. “C’mon, you can ride with me.” Jonah puts a put in a stirrup, launching a leg over the saddle and onto Flora, his favorite horse.

“Actually” Frankie interjects. “I think she should ride with Rey.”

Of course. 10 years later and everyone was still suspicious of him. Frankie climbed onto Cielo, and Jonah rode up to him, whispering. “Compliment her ribbon. She picked green just for you.”

Reyansh pulled you up and onto the saddle, allowing you to ride the side saddle to protect your modesty in the dress. If you knew you’d be riding a horse, you’d have worn pants. It wasn’t the most comfortable, and you feared falling, but Reynash’s arm was strong around you. He was careful to keep his hands at appropriate places, which you were thankful for.

“How is your painting going?” He asks, as since Jonah leads the group and Francisco is in the middle still not keen on talking to you. Still, this was a step forward.

“It’s good, thank you. It’s nice and peaceful. I miss-” You stop yourself. What you missed was when Santi used to sit and watch you paint, drinking his wine and intent eyes on you. It had been a comfortable silence. “I do miss having company sometimes…” You missed your husband, you missed his laugh, his smile, his praise.

“Hey, I’d love to sit in on a session!” You could tell by the tone of his voice he was smiling. “I’d love to see a real artist at work!”

You laugh just a bit, “I’m not an artist, but if you’d like to watch, I'd like that.”

“Deal.”

You sat against a tree, legs bent modestly in your skirt and eating the sandwich Iris packed. She also packed apple juice, which you loved.

Francisco was silent. He’d thanked you for your help setting up the blanket and spoken as he served his food, but now he simply sat there. He looked sad, but even then he was handsome. Francosco sported a mustache, which had remained consistent the whole time you’d known him. Santiago was growing out his hair and beard, which was making your heart ache even more that you couldn’t kiss and touch him like you wanted to. Still, the silence wasn’t awkward. You had begun to wonder if he was just… quiet.

“Thank you for taking me out.” You say, speaking quietly. Jonah and Reynash were circling the parameter and you felt… watched. “I hadn’t realized how much time I spent inside until now.” Had you even left the house at all since your wedding? When was the last time you felt sunshine before today?

To your delight, while still looking down, he smiled. “I’m glad. Don’t like seeing you cooped up in that house all day.”

Your heart warmed at his concern for you. Feeling emboldened, you scooch close to him.

“It’s not cooped up with the men I love.”

This makes his eyes flick up to you. He narrows them suspiciously, but not angry “You… love… me?”

Your heart nearly shatters at the question, and you can’t help but find him so endearing. “But of course I do!!!” Careful, you place a hand on his face and feel the patchy bit of stubble. “You’re my beloved husband!”

“But… you had to marry me.”

You shake your head. “No, Francisco I chose you, I chose all of you and I love all of you. Is that why you’ve been distant? Is that why you’ve been so cold to me?”

“I-” He stutters over his words. “I don’t think this is good for you… I don’t think I’m good for you…”

If there were ever words you hadn’t expected from him, it wasn’t that. Francisco was a God, he was holy, good and righteous, how could he not be good for you. It didn’t matter. Clearly he was hurting, and as his wife, it was your duty to make him happy again. “Francisco Morales, you are my husband, you are the foster child of the Divine Mother, and the love of my life. I chose you before, I choose you now, and I will choose you in heaven, Divine Mother willing.” You bring your face closer to his. “I adore you, in all your God and human.” Feeling brave, you bring your mouth to him and tenderly take his pouty lower lip into your mouth, making him whimper. You liked that sound.

“You choose me?” He whispers, slowly kissing back. “Out in the open, no secrets?” His voice is slightly higher now, almost whining as he begins to chase your mouth.

“Always” The desperation growing, you give him everything you have. You don’t care that it’s an open field surrounded by trees, you don’t care that Reyansh and Jonah could ride up at any point, and you don’t care who might see you. You were divine and if you wanted to make love to the god of nature in his own fucking land you will. You had Francisco Morales, demi-God, whimpering for your touch. You had HIM, finally had him and you weren’t going to waste it for one second. He wanted thing sout in the open, you would show him you weren’t ashamed to be seen getting filled by his seed. Before you, your husbands were not celibant, that much was known. The sex parties were stuff of rumors and you couldn’t decipher the truth from fact. However, it was clear that public sex was not off the table. Shame is a punishment for the sins of Adam and Eve, and for men born without original sin, there was no shame in sex. “I choose you, always.”

Frankie entangles his fingers into your hair, feeling the green tie in your locks. His other hand slides up to cup your breast.

“I love this ribbon, it suits you.”

“Whatcha think’n, old man.” Rey asks as he rides up to Jonah. Both are perched up on top of a hill overlooking the field you lay on and he watches you kiss Frankie.

“I’m thinking,” Jonah turns to Rey, nodding his head back home. “That I got it here, and since the others are out, you should run back and try and sneak some time with Iris.”

Rey smiled at that, but hesitated. “You sure? Morales didn’t seem like he wanted her with either of you.”

Jonah rolled his eyes, but it was good natured nonetheless. He liked Reynash, loved him even. He was a good kid. Iris was put in the position she was in, not any older than the girl was now, because of his shortcomings, his weaknesses. She was punished to punish him. She deserved all the good she could get, and Reyansh Saha was about the only bit off good left in this world, beside Iris and now Marcus’s kid he was looking after. He reminded Jonah of Delilah in a lot of ways. Always smiling. Always kind.

“Look at ‘em.” Jonah referenced the pair kissing below. “She’s going home on his lap.”

Rey laughed brightly, turning his horse. “Oh yeah, you’re quite the matchmaker!” And he road off, long dark hair wild behind him. Handsome devil.

The words matchmaker hung in the air. Was Jonah giving her false hope he wondered? Or was he giving her the time she had left and filling it with better memories. He wasn’t sure. Maybe he was delaying the inevitable. It was always going to end one way for her. There was no way to live up to what Santiago wanted.

Because what Santiago wanted was Frankie with a womb.

SO MUCH JONAH HAPPENING!!!!!!!!

And poor madonna bc Jonah christ smelling your dad burn is a lot

So Marcus's face claim is David Habour, this came out of some chats with. @umnitsa in my romanaverse discord server. He is now your adopted father to keep things inclusive, but this is important as he has background info and ties in a lot. Think hopper in stranger things. Also May is already shipping him and Jonah so that ship name is Jonus lmfaooooo

If you are an active participant in one or more of my universes and have a discord (this means commenting or comment Reblogging, im looking for people who want to theorize and chit chat) dm me for a link! This is primarily focused on giving you extra content and sneak peaks but a lot of cool people are there too and you can share your work!

Please consider joining me in in donating to humanitarian aid in Rafah through Doctors Without Borders

LOVE YOU ALL!

How to keep up with the story!

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If I forgot someone or you'd like to be added/removed LMK!

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gimmethatagustd · 2 months

Text

venor (6) | kth + jjk

The barista at the university’s café keeps telling Jungkook not to come back, but Jungkook is too busy daydreaming about kissing the beauty marks on his face to be paying attention to his warnings.

○ Pairing: Tiger!Taehyung x Bunny!Jungkook

○ Rating: Explicit/18+

○ Genre: Hybrids, predator/prey, college au, strangers to lovers, slow burn, fluff, light angst, eventual smut

○ Word Count: 3,727

○ Warnings: It's what the gworlies call self-lubrication aka slick, how delish

○ Notes: This one is dedicated to @remmykinsff cuz they realized i forgot to delete an old draft from my queue so i ended up posting the wrong fucking thing 😭 Also, I tried so hard not to write too much about the Amarna Period during the 18th Dynasty of Ancient Egypt 💀 It was hard to control myself tbh

○ Post Date: March 11, 2024

○ Masterlist | AO3 Cross-Post

○ What was Jai listening to? The series playlist

Series Masterlist

“Are you sure you don’t want a jacket?”

Taehyung’s question ends with his lips downturned. He leans against his car while he holds the door open for Jungkook and watches with narrow eyes as Jungkook scoots out of the passenger seat.

“I’m okay! We didn’t park that far from the entrance.” Jungkook’s attempt to look confident by crossing his arms against his chest makes him look even colder.

It’s relatively chilly outside, and despite Taehyung’s pestering, Jungkook hasn’t bothered to dress appropriately for the weather. He doesn’t miss the way Taehyung’s gaze drags over his body, taking inventory of his cropped sweater that stops just before the waistband of his tight, ripped jeans. When Jungkook turns around, he swears he sees Taehyung’s eyes drop to his fluffy white tail poking out of the little hole in his jeans. It almost excites him enough to wiggle, but he holds it in. He can’t possibly embarrass himself before their not -date has even begun.

It’s not really a date if they’re only going to the museum together for a school assignment, Yoongi had pointed out. Suyun said otherwise, but Jungkook isn’t sure if he should get his hopes up.

“Museums are always cold,” Taehyung finally points out before closing the car door behind Jungkook. “I have an extra one in the back.”

“I swear, I’m okay,” Jungkook rushes to shut Taehyung up. He grabs Taehyung’s wrist and tugs. “Let’s go!”

Surprisingly, Taehyung lets Jungkook drag him through the parking lot without fussing. By the time they slip through the museum’s front doors, Jungkook’s hand migrates down to Taehyung’s, their palms pressing together and fingers intertwining.

There aren’t many people lingering in the museum’s lobby, but the few around are mostly prey hybrids. One of them, a mouse hybrid, turns around so sharply to stare at Jungkook and Taehyung that it startles Jungkook into nearly tripping. She doesn’t speak when they walk past her toward the check-in desk, but her nose wiggles and pulls up into a deep scrunch.

In the still air of the museum and without the outside breeze to muddle smells, even hybrids with weak senses can pick up Taehyung’s scent mingling with Jungkook’s. They bring with them the smell of a warm spring rainstorm, earthy and floral, life-bearing.

Taehyung doesn’t seem to notice the mouse hybrid’s reaction to them — or he pretends not to, choosing to keep his attention on the task at hand. He had been focused like this on the drive from Jungkook’s dorm to the museum, so quiet that Jungkook had assumed he might be angry with him over them scenting each other. It wasn’t until a Girls’ Generation song came on the radio that Jungkook sang along to that Taehyung’s hard edge melted.

It was overwhelming to be in such a small space with Taehyung, surrounded by his petrichor scent and distracted by the flick of his tail, which rested on the center console. Jungkook had to stop himself from staring while Taehyung drove, just like he has to stop himself now.

On the outside, Jungkook is calm as he waits in line to buy their tickets for the Egyptian art exhibit. Internally, he’s freaking out over just how big Taehyung’s hand is. He even lets himself sneak a peek and tries not to burn with shy embarrassment when his heart flutters at how his hand is engulfed by Taehyung’s.

“Bun,” Taehyung calls out, bumping his shoulder against Jungkook’s. The ticket line is moving, and Jungkook isn’t.

He needs to pull himself together.

But first, he needs to pull himself apart from Taehyung.

Letting go of Taehyung’s hand, Jungkook reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. However, he’s too slow, and all he can do is watch as Taehyung slides his credit card to the employee behind the desk in exchange for two rectangular strips of paper.

“You’ll take the elevators to the left up to the third floor. The exhibit will be on your immediate right,” the employee explains, but Jungkook isn’t listening.

“Why did you do that?” Jungkook hisses as Taehyung heads toward the elevators, not even bothering to glance at Jungkook.

“Do what?”

“Pay for both of us!”

“Because I wanted to?” Taehyung shoots his arm out to stop the elevator doors from closing and ushers Jungkook inside.

There isn’t a reasonable rebuttal, so Jungkook glares at him while the elevator beeps as they pass the second floor. They stand on opposite sides, leaning against each wall's handrail. Luckily, the elevator doesn’t stop for anyone else to get on.

“So pouty,” Taehyung smirks but keeps his eyes on the changing number above the elevator’s doors. “Don’t prey like to be taken care of?”

“No.”

Jungkook’s answer comes too quickly, and his tone is too petulant. It makes Taehyung laugh, finally bringing his bright gaze to rest on Jungkook’s face.

“Not even little domesticated bunnies like you?” Taehyung teases.

“You’re domesticated, too!”

“Are tigers domesticated?” Taehyung’s boxy grin widens.

At a loss for words, Jungkook follows Taehyung out of the elevator.

As the museum employee said, the entrance to the exhibit Jungkook and Taehyung are looking for is directly to the right of the elevator lobby. Another employee in uniform stands at a small podium in front of the large glass doors to check guests’ tickets. He’s young, likely a college student working a part-time job, with black and orange striped ears poking out of straight black hair.

“Good afternoon,” the tiger hybrid greets lowly. He pauses to look over Taehyung before gazing over Jungkook’s form.

It’s intimidating, standing between two large predators. Jungkook never feels weak, but he feels meek, knowing he is the weakest one here. As usual, this doesn’t deter him. He stands with his head held high and his eyes locked on the employee.

“Have you visited before?” the employee asks Taehyung, who shakes his head. The employee explains the setup of the exhibit and then hands Taehyung a pamphlet about the artwork and a museum map in case they need it.

It shouldn’t bother Jungkook that the employee never speaks to him, but he feels irritation prickle his skin as he walks away. His mood must sour his scent or muddle his expression because Taehyung bumps shoulders with him again once they’re inside the exhibit.

“What’s up, bun? Already tired of being here?” Taehyung folds the pamphlet and map to stick them in the back pocket of his jeans. It’s obvious that he’s been to this museum before; he has only listened to the employees explain everything to be polite.

“That guy didn’t even talk to me. He only talked to you.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Jungkook pouts at Taehyung’s dismissive response. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention to what Jungkook says; instead, he is scrolling on his phone.

“Taehyung.”

“What, did you want him to talk to you?” Looking over, Taehyung gives Jungkook a boxy grin. “Did you think he was cute?”

“No!” Jungkook whispers harshly, peeking around to see if they’ve disturbed anyone with their talking.

Unconcerned about their surroundings, Taehyung advances on Jungkook, forcing him to shuffle further into the exhibit.

“Do you have a thing for tigers, Jungkook?”

Jungkook’s floppy ears hug tight to the side of his face, hiding him from Taehyung’s sparkling amber eyes. Mortified, he turns on his heel and walks past the large signage welcoming guests to learn more about Amarna art, the art style of the Amarna Period during the Eighteenth Dynasty of Ancient Egypt.

The exhibit comprises open rooms connected by long, wide hallways. Each room is organized by art medium, with the first devoted to sarcophagi. Taehyung follows Jungkook into the first room, laughing under his breath about Jungkook being “skittish.”

Jungkook pretends not to hear him.

“Starting off with the mummies is an interesting choice,” Taehyung mutters as he strolls through the massive glass display cases. Some of the sarcophagi are empty, and most are closed, but a few mummies are on display near the back of the room.

“Why do you say that?” Jungkook asks, his natural curiosity and infatuation with Taehyung winning over his desire to be pouty.

“Mummies are all people care about. Shouldn’t they make us work for it by putting them at the end?”

Jungkook shrugs.

“I’m sure people don’t only come for the mummies. If they’re paying money, they might as well see the whole exhibit.”

Taehyung gives Jungkook a look that tells him he’s being naive, but Jungkook doesn’t care. He wants to believe people aren’t so simple-minded, even if Taehyung is the one going to school to study this stuff.

Despite appreciating art and considering himself an artist, if only to an extent, Jungkook has spent little time in art museums. His parents never celebrated the value of the arts. It seems silly to think about since he’s an adult now and can visit museums whenever he wants. Perhaps having the chance to appreciate art at his own pace is part of why it feels nice to meander through the different rooms with Taehyung.

Jungkook is also self-aware enough to know that he’s enjoying himself because half of his energy goes into watching Taehyung examine the art. Every once in a while, they’ll run into other museum guests discussing the displays in hushed voices, and they even come across a small group tour, but for most of the visit, they’re on their own.

The solitude allows Jungkook to see Taehyung in what appears to be his element. Taehyung occasionally hums to himself as he squints at the pieces, though Jungkook most enjoys it when he frowns. When it seems like he really likes a piece of artwork, his tail skirts the floor, flicking up to curl around his calf like he’s giving himself a little hug. It makes Jungkook wonder what Taehyung is thinking about — if his thoughts are purely about the Art History assignment they’re working on or if there’s more to his analysis.

Jungkook quickly concludes that Taehyung is simply a giant nerd when he peeks over his shoulder to find Taehyung skimming an article on his phone about the statue he’s standing in front of.

“What made you want to study art?”

Taehyung slips his phone into his pocket and frowns at Jungkook’s question – his face stuck in art examination mode.

“I’m good at it. Making it, critiquing it, researching it,” Taehyung begins, his hands finding the pockets of his jean jacket. “But mostly because it’s rather magical, right? How is it possible for art to trigger our emotions? How can a painting or song make people cry? Or for sculptures to make us nostalgic for a world we didn’t come from?” Taehyung gestures to the wooden toy horse amongst other treasures found in a child’s tomb.

From what Jungkook has learned about Taehyung over the semester, he is more of an observer than a participant in conversations. Still, when Taehyung has something to say, he never fails to leave Jungkook speechless — for better or worse.

They’re silent for the rest of their time in the exhibit, only stopping to exchange quiet words when they need to take pictures or write notes about certain art pieces. They take their time admiring the busts and sunken reliefs of the ancient pharaoh Akhenaten and his wife, Nefertiti.

Jungkook gets easily caught up in the transformative magic of art history, losing track of time and place as he examines canopic jars in glass cases on raised pedestals and takes too long reading the information placards next to every item.

Just over an hour passes before Jungkook and Taehyung reach the end of the exhibit. Jungkook feels like hardly any time has passed at all.

“Wait,” Taehyung pinches the sleeve of Jungkook’s sweater as he’s about to push through the exit doors to return to the main hallway. “We have to take a picture as evidence.”

“Professor Jung is so silly for that. Who is going to lie about going to the art museum?” Jungkook says with a laugh.

Taehyung gives him another skeptical look. “You are too trusting.”

Jungkook lets Taehyung pull him into his side to take a selfie in front of the exhibit signage. Taehyung’s arm is a heavy weight around Jungkook’s waist. He tries not to be obvious when he breathes in deeply to cherish their brief closeness as Taehyung takes the photo before stepping away.

Not once does Jungkook question spending alone time with a predator or letting one get so close to him. Maybe he is too trusting.

“Do you want to leave now?” Jungkook asks once they’re out in the hallway.

He pulls at the sleeves of his sweater, giving himself sweater paws and avoiding Taehyung to look down the hall where the elevators are instead. He doesn’t want to leave because leaving means Taehyung will take him home, and Jungkook wants to spend more time with him. He’s just afraid to say that out loud.

“Want to go back to my place?” Taehyung asks like it’s the easiest question in the world.

Feeling hot in the face, Jungkook hides behind his ears when he mumbles a shakey, “Sure.”

“Cool, cool,” Taehyung nods, tail flicking as he leads Jungkook through the winding hallways to get back to the elevator lobby. “We can get food and work on our project.”

It takes everything in Jungkook not to launch himself into a hyperactive fit of wiggles, even with such a strong urge to jump at Taehyung, to throw his arms around his neck and latch on for dear life. It’s just too much excitement all bottled up in the young bunny’s body. He tries to focus on getting back to the elevators and keeping his heart beating at a normal rate, so much so that he doesn’t realize he’s leading the way rather than Taehyung.

Jungkook has definitely taken them down the wrong hallway because they end up in the Renaissance era rather than the elevator lobby. He’s so hyped up on excitable energy verging on panic that he forgets to ask Taehyung to check the museum map.

“Bun, look at this portrait.”

Noticing that Taehyung is no longer behind him, Jungkook backtracks down the long, wide hallway. Whichever painting has caught Taehyung’s eye must be unique; he seems picky about art.

“Wait,” Taehyung grabs Jungkook’s arm and pulls him to the side, positioning him for the perfect viewing experience. “Okay, now look.”

Following Taehyung’s gaze, Jungkook turns to look at the portrait — only to realize that the art hanging on the wall isn’t a painting, but a mirror. The sixteenth-century walnut frame is impressive, rectangular, and adorned with beautiful carvings and gold details painted around its curled edges. In the middle is an oval glass, clear as a teardrop.

“Beautiful, isn’t he?” Taehyung whispers, his eyes meeting Jungkook’s through the mirror from where he stands to the side. “Who knew such gorgeous bunnies existed in Renaissance Italy.”

Jungkook watches with shining eyes as his cheeks turn pink in the mirror. Taehyung’s praise floods his body with warmth even as Jungkook trembles when Taehyung takes a step closer.

“Stop teasing me,” Jungkook whispers, afraid his voice might echo through the empty hall.

“I’m serious,” Taehyung purrs against the curve of his ear. He curls his arms around Jungkook’s waist, pulling him close in a back hug and making Jungkook’s breath quicken.

“You’re just saying that.”

Taehyung maintains firm eye contact with Jungkook through the mirror as his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. He’s warm and solid against Jungkook’s body, securely holding him into place when he trembles.

“Are you nervous?”

Breathless, Jungkook nods.

“Because little bunnies should stay away from big, scary tigers like me?” Taehyung teases in a syrupy voice that’s darker than it is sweet.

Is that why Jungkook can’t calm himself down? He doesn’t know; he can’t think straight. He watches a slow smile build on Taehyung’s face, one that ends up sharp and, well, predatory.

“I…”

“Hmm?”

Taehyung presses his palm against Jungkook’s lower stomach and rests his chin on Jungkook’s shoulder.

“I don’t know.”

Jungkook licks his lips like Taehyung had, leaving them slightly parted as he tries to slow his breathing. He feels Taehyung’s quiet chuckle rumble through his chest and against his back. It brings Jungkook’s attention to the rest of his body, and he nearly goes weak in the knees when he realizes his ass rests against Taehyung’s crotch.

“Can I kiss you, bun?” Taehyung whispers in Jungkook’s ear.

Jungkook can hardly formulate a response, every coherent thought fizzling from his brain like water evaporating off a summer sidewalk. It’s embarrassing how badly he wants to feel Taehyung’s lips on his. Rarely has he let himself consider the possibility that it may happen, always too shy – perhaps even insecure – to let such a genuine thought grow inside him.

But now Taehyung’s breath fans across Jungkook’s neck, and he wishes he’d let himself fantasize more about the predator who’s always on his mind. Maybe then he could have been confident and sexy rather than the goopy mess he’s turning into as Taehyung cups his chin to tilt his face up and to the side.

“Am I embarrassing myself right now by reading this whole day wrong?”

“Y-yes,” Jungkook stammers, cheeks flushing pink. “I mean, no, yes, you can kiss me. Please.”

Taehyung’s sharp mouth turns boxy, and a bit of his predatory allure falls back to reveal the boyish charm Jungkook only rarely gets a glimpse of.

“Good,” Taehyung hums as he slides his hand along to grip the back of Jungkook’s neck.

Jungkook’s breath gets caught in his throat when Taehyung squeezes his neck to hold him in place. His grip isn’t tight, but his hand is large, and his hold is firm. The odd sense of security it brings Jungkook makes him feel gooey inside.

Despite his aggressive hold on Jungkook, Taehyung kisses him gently. It starts with a soft but sure press of Taehyung’s lips against Jungkook’s, close-mouthed and almost a test run, as if Taehyung thinks Jungkook might pull back if he dives in too deeply.

When Jungkook doesn’t, Taehyung kisses him harder, running his tongue over the seam of Jungkook’s lips until they part with a small gasp. Emboldened, he sucks Jungkook’s bottom lip into his mouth, swiping his tongue and dragging his teeth over it before he lets it go with a wet sound far too loud for a museum’s hallway.

“I love that you smell like me,” Taehyung murmurs against Jungkook’s lips before capturing them again and slipping his hot tongue inside Jungkook’s mouth.

Jungkook twists in Taehyung’s embrace so their fronts fully press together. Throwing one arm over Taehyung’s shoulder and using his free hand to grip the front of Taehyung’s shirt, Jungkook pulls him close so Taehyung can hold up his weight. There’s no way Jungkook can stand properly when Taehyung is sucking on his tongue and biting his bottom lip, coaxing out shameless whimpers from the bunny hybrid.

“You taste so good,” Taehyung murmurs against Jungkook’s lips when they finally pull back just enough to breathe. He slides his hands down Jungkook’s back to grab his ass, squeezing and kneading it in his large palms.

“Oh,” Jungkook gasps and tightens his arm around Taehyung’s neck. Heat floods his body as his floral scent sweetens and spikes so strongly that Taehyung audibly inhales.

It’s Jungkook’s slick. He can feel it drip between his cheeks and soak his briefs. It’s embarrassing how his body pulses with desire, stronger than he has ever felt in his entire life.

“Fuck, Jungkook,” Taehyung growls as he surges forward to steal another kiss. The deep, gravelly sound makes Jungkook leak more slick.

Taehyung squeezes Jungkook’s ass again, this time pulling him closer when he does and forcing their hips to grind together.

“Taehyung,” Jungkook tries to speak through his uncontrollable whimpers. They’re making out in the middle of a museum, and now, Jungkook is so wet that he’s sure he has soaked through his pants. “Taehyung, there are cameras.”

“I know.” Taehyung grins into the kiss, causing his teeth to press against Jungkook’s lips.

It isn’t until Taehyung’s fingers brush Jungkook’s fluffy tail that Jungkook finally jerks away.

“Tae,” Jungkook rasps, panting and flooded with embarrassment that leaves his body shaking. “I’m, I, um...”

Flustered, Jungkook trails off. He tries to look away, but Taehyung squeezes his chin, thumb pressing his cheek to force him to look at Taehyung.

“Hey, bun,” Taehyung speaks softly, “I’m sorry. I got carried away.”

“My pants,” is all Jungkook manages to say, his brain a fuzzy mess, the only coherent thought being Taehyung Taehyung Taehyung.

“Shit, take my jacket.” Taehyung quickly removes his jean jacket and wraps it around Jungkook’s waist, tying it by the sleeves at the front so the rest of the jacket covers Jungkook’s butt where his slick has leaked through his pants.

“Can anyone tell?” Jungkook whispers while checking over his shoulder to see if other museum guests are nearby.

“You’re okay.” Taehyung chews his bottom lip, cheeks tinged pink and eyes heavy. “I can take you home.”

“No!”

Taehyung raises his eyebrows, and Jungkook feels his face burn even hotter.

“You don’t want me to take you home?”

Jungkook plays with the sleeves of Taehyung’s jacket, and a different kind of warmth floods his body when he considers how well Taehyung is trying to take care of him. He knows he should go home, but he doesn’t want to leave Taehyung – especially not with his lips tingling from his kiss and his head spinning from how Taehyung had sounded, practically moaning his name.

“I thought we were going to work on our projects together…”

Jungkook doesn’t mean to put on the charm; his sparkly doe eyes naturally react to how giddy and alive Taehyung makes him feel.

With a grin that makes Jungkook’s stomach flutter, Taehyung grabs the jacket sleeves tied around Jungkook’s waist and tugs, forcing Jungkook to stumble toward him. It’s impossible to deny how much Jungkook enjoys Taehyung taking control and how Taehyung looms over him when they’re standing flush against each other – especially when Jungkook starts leaking even more slick.

“Let’s go.” Taehyung’s sharp canines glint in the fluorescent lighting, and Jungkook finds it difficult to swallow.

What has Jungkook gotten himself into?

Series Masterlist

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#taekook #taehyung x jungkook #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #taehyung fanfic #bts smut #bts fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #taehyung smut #taehyung fluff #jai writes #gimmethatagustd #venor

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ambrossart · 7 months

Text

THE SHRIEKING QUEEN'S CATACOMBS

— Session 1: Friday, May 23, 1980

summary: on the first day of scott sloman's infamous summer D&D campaign, you're excited to showcase your original character and sorely disappointed by eddie's lack of creativity. you promised chrissy you would be nice to eddie this summer, but...

seriously, that's the best you could come up with, munson?

pairing: eddie munson x dwm!reader word count: 8,450 warnings: middle school; young!eddie; insecure!eddie; secret crushes; the unnamed freak is named grant in this series; inaccurate d&d gameplay; seriously, I'm taking a lot of creative liberties here; eddie has a tiny crush on chrissy

series masterpost | series playlist | fanfiction masterlist

“Okay, should we go over the rules one more time?”

“No… I think I got ‘em down pretty well.”

“Let’s go over them one more time.”

Chrissy Cunningham paced the floor of her bedroom with an authoritative stride, her arms folded neatly behind her back, chin held proudly in the air. Standing at only five-foot-one, she looked like an adorable little drill sergeant… until she looked over at you, sitting on her bed with your chest puffed out and hand raised in mock salute; then her composure shattered and she reverted back to her goofy, giggling, eleven-year-old self.

“Don’t make me laugh,” she said.

“What? I’m showing you respect.”

Chrissy raised her eyebrows in friendly disapproval. “Stop,” she said. “We need to be serious.” So she donned an expression of stern command and resumed her stride. “Okay, repeat after me: I will not be mean to Eddie.”

“I will not be mean to Eddie.”

“I will not mock him.”

“I will not tease him.”

“I will not call him names.”

“I will laugh only when it’s appropriate, and in a good-hearted manner.”

“Wait, how are we defining appropriate?”

“Just repeat it, please.”

You sighed in surrender and echoed your best friend’s words dutifully: “I will laugh only when it’s appropriate, and in a good-hearted manner… even though I don’t really know what that means.”

Chrissy shot you a strict glare and continued: “I will not let my anxiety make me forget rules one through five.”

“I will not let my anxiety make me forget rules one through five.”

Chrissy stopped in front of you, put her hands on your knees, and smiled warmly. “I’m gonna have fun this summer.”

“I’m gonna have fun this summer.”

“I’m gonna show Eddie what a smart, creative, and wonderful person I am.”

“Well…” You looked away, embarrassed.

“Come on, say it.” Chrissy started shaking your knees gently. “C’mom, c’mon, you gotta say it.”

Her words made you squirm a little. Timidly, you looked at her and said in a bashful voice, “I’m gonna show Eddie what a smart, creative, and wonderful person I am.”

“Because you are.”

“… Because I am.”

Her smile grew. “Good!” She drummed her hands on your knees and stepped away from you. While rifling through her desk drawers, she said, “So what game are you playing exactly? Is it like a board game or something?”

“Uh, no… it’s like this fantasy roleplaying game. I don’t really know how to describe it.”

“But you know how to play it, right?”

“Yeah, for the most part.”

“For the most part?” Now Chrissy sounded worried. “I thought you had been practicing. Isn’t that what you spent the last two weeks doing?”

“Well, yeah… but it’s a surprisingly complicated game.”

“You weren’t paying attention, were you?”

“No, I totally was, I promise.” You had put in the time and the effort. Every day after school, you rushed home, hopped on your bike, and peddled down the street to the Wheeler house. You sat in that stuffy, smelly basement for two hours while a group of third-grade boys explained all the rules and then bickered over said rules. “There was just a lot of information being thrown at me in a short period of time. And I guess not everyone plays the game the same way, either, so even if I learned how they play the game, I still might not know how they will play the game, so… I’m just gonna wing it and hope my creativity saves me. Dustin said I made a pretty cool character for my first try, so…”

“Who?”

“Dustin Henderson. Third-grader. Doesn’t matter. The point is…”

Mrs. Cunningham poked her head into the room and said brightly, “Chrissy, dear, don’t forget we have to leave in twenty minutes.” Then she saw you and her whole demeanor frosted over. “Oh… I didn’t realize you had company.”

You had been Chrissy’s best friend for five years and Mrs. Cunningham still referred to you as “company.” It was like she didn’t even see you as a person. You were just this disgusting blob that took up space in her daughter’s life.

“I just stopped by for a minute,” you told her. “I’ll be leaving soon.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she said. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

(But were you, really?)

Mrs. Cunningham lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, smiling at you and restlessly wringing her hands. Before leaving, she tipped her head toward her daughter and said, “Chrissy, stop slouching, dear.”

Chrissy heaved a frustrated sigh. Then she padded across the room and closed her bedroom door. When she turned around, you both said in perfect unison, “Chrissy, stop slouching, dear,” and broke up into giggles. She was still laughing as she hopped onto the bed and sat down cross-legged beside you.

You turned around to face her. “So where are you going in twenty minutes?”

“Just the salon,” she answered uncaringly.

“Oh, please tell me you’re not getting a perm like your mother. I’ll hold you down and shave your head if you do.”

“If she makes me get a perm, I’ll shave my own head. It’s just a trim. She makes me get one every three weeks; otherwise, I’ll get split ends.”

“Oh, split ends… the scourge of society.”

“Shut up,” Chrissy said, giving you a playful swat. “Be nice or I won’t give you your present.”

You perked up. “A present, you say?”

“Mhm.” Chrissy flashed an excited smile, then reached behind her back and pulled out a colorful woven bracelet. “I made this for you.”

You raised your eyebrow curiously. “Another friendship bracelet?”

“No, this one’s not a friendship bracelet.” Leaning forward, she carefully tied the bracelet onto your left wrist. Its vibrant color perfectly complemented the other bracelet she had made for you. “This one’s for good luck.”

You admired the bracelet for a moment, thanked her for making it, then felt your stomach bubble and churn. “Okay, now I’m getting anxious.”

“Don’t be anxious,” Chrissy said. “You’re gonna be fine.”

But you still weren’t convinced.

“What time is it?” you asked.

Chrissy looked over her shoulder and glanced at the alarm clock on her nightstand. “Nine thirty-five.”

“Oh crap,” you said, and got up. “I better get going.”

You grabbed your backpack off the floor, slung it over your right shoulder, and exited her bedroom. Chrissy followed you downstairs and opened the front door for you.

Before heading out, you turned back with sudden panic and said, “Should we go over the rules one more time?”

Chrissy shook her head. “No, you know the rules. Just be your normal charming, delightful self and you’ll be fine, okay? I promise.”

She sent you off with a gentle shove, and you went uneasily: down the porch steps, down the cobblestone walkway, and found your bike sitting beside the garage. You put up the kickstand and swung your leg over the seat, but just as you were about to push off, a dreadful thought came to your mind. You replanted your foot and looked up at Chrissy with a worried frown.

“Hey, what if it doesn’t work?” you asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Like… what if I do all this and Eddie still hates me?” You shrugged, demoralized. “What then?”

Now Chrissy was frowning, too. “Well, at least you’ll know you gave it your best shot.”

Four blocks away, Scott Sloman was dressed in his Sunday best and restlessly pacing his basement, which was now pristine thanks to his diligent efforts the day before.

On that morning, Scottie had woken up early, consumed a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, and French toast (all prepared by his lovely mother, of course; Mrs. Sloman was an excellent cook), pulled on his rubber gloves, went downstairs, and got to work. It took him hours, but it was worth it. Every crumb, every cobweb, every splatter, every stain had been expertly tracked down and eliminated with the toughest chemicals money could buy. Now every surface sparkled radiantly, and the air carried a whimsical, woodsy scent that transported you to the crisp forests of New England—not that Scottie had ever been to New England, but he imagined that’s what its forests smelled like.

He grabbed the can of EVERGREEN Air Freshener and gave it a vigorous shake.

“Do not spray that again,” Jeff told him. “You’re gonna give us all cancer.”

“I’ll stop spraying when you guys stop smelling.”

He pressed down hard on the nozzle and sprayed a thick cloud of EVERGREEN mist into the air. It showered over the table like a light drizzle of rain, getting on everyone’s hair, everyone’s clothes, and speckling the open page of Eddie Munson’s notebook.

Eddie, who had been tuning everyone out and listening to music on his Walkman, now looked up with bewildered annoyance. “Dude, come on…” He fanned the remaining mist away with his hand and immediately went back to his notes.

Observing him, Grant said to Jeff, “Damn, Eddie’s really in the zone today.”

It wasn’t exactly unusual for him to be this withdrawn. Eddie Munson took his D&D very seriously—perhaps a bit too seriously, although no one would ever dare tell him that. Before every session, while everyone else joked around and snacked on donuts and muffins (also prepared by Mrs. Sloman), Eddie sat quietly in his chair, the same chair he occupied for every session, and gradually slipped further… and further away. The Walkman, a gift from his uncle for his fourteenth birthday, only accelerated his emotional departure.

But he would return eventually. He always did.

“You think he’s anxious about her coming?” Grant asked.

Jeff frowned guiltily. “Probably.”

Beside Grant, Gareth was sharpening his pencil with a small metal pocket sharpener. From the look on his face, you would have thought he was honing a warblade.

“He’s preparing his mind for battle,” Gareth said, his blue eyes burning with a ferocious and frightening intensity. “The enemy draws near. She will soon be at our gates.” He withdrew his pencil and blew fiercely on the pointed tip. “We must be ready to meet her.”

Jeff and Grant rolled their eyes. It was way too early in the morning for this.

“She’s not the enemy,” Jeff said.

“Well, you’re a traitor,” Gareth replied. “Yeah, Eddie told me you’re the one who invited her, you Judas.”

“What? Oh c’mon, man, don’t start that now.”

“How’d she do it?” Gareth asked. “Did she blackmail you? Bribe you? I didn’t realize your loyalty could be so easily bought, Jeff.”

“Dude, what are you talking about?”

Grant, ever the rational one, said, “Ignore him. Gareth’s just mad she beat him in the spelling bee last year.”

And that’s when Gareth fired back with unseemly anger: “She did not beat me in the spelling bee! That whole competition was rigged right from the start. Every round, she got the easiest words while I got stuck with all the hard ones. It was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. I’m telling you, the whole thing was a sham!”

Jeff and Grant exchanged an amused glance. “My mistake,” Grant said while Jeff snickered. “Clearly you’ve moved on from this.”

Gareth waved him off. “Oh shut up, Grant. Look, this is about way more than a spelling bee, okay? That girl is a heartless, horrible devil-woman. I will not break bread with her. I will not fight alongside her on the battlefield. I won’t, I won’t, and neither will Eddie.” Gareth clapped Eddie on the shoulder and said, “Right, Eddie?”

The older boy flinched, looked up, and pulled the left speaker box away from his ear. “What?”

“We’re standing together, right? Against our common enemy?”

Eddie’s eyebrows knitted together. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

And now Scott Sloman had heard enough. “Are you guys even listening to me? Come on, this is a huge moment for us… for me, especially. I need you all to be on your best behavior today. No burping. No farting. Sit up straight and keep your elbows off the table, gentlemen. Today, we have a young lady gracing our party.”

Gareth sneered. “She’s no lady. She’s a hellbeast.”

Scottie slammed his fist on the table. “See, this is the kinda shit I’m talking about! You psychos are gonna scare her off before she even—” He saw that Eddie had already put his headphones back on, an act of subtle but profound defiance. Scottie’s jaw dropped. “Eddie… Eddie… Hey, Eddie, I’m talking here.”

“Leave him alone,” Jeff said. “He’s getting into character.”

Scottie scoffed at that. “Oh please… Eddie uses the same character for every campaign. If he doesn’t know his character by now, he never will.”

He snatched the Walkman off the table and yanked it away, viciously ripping the headphone jack from the plug.

Eddie’s head jerked up in startled surprise. “Dude, what the fuck—”

“I’m doing this for your own good, Eddie. It’s about time you learn how to socialize with the fairer sex.”

Eddie glared at him, exasperated. “I know how to talk to girls.”

“Really?” Scottie shot him a dubious look. “Okay, Eddie… how many words have you said to that cheerleader you think’s so cute?”

“Zero,” Grant answered for him. “He’s said zero words to her.”

Eddie just sighed miserably. “Can I have my Walkman back, please?”

“No, Eddie, you can’t,” and Scottie set the cassette player on the shelf behind him. “See, this is exactly my point, you guys. We have a huge opportunity here. A girl is coming to play D&D with us. And not just any girl. One of the popular girls! Do you guys understand what this means? If we play our cards right, maybe she’ll start bringing her friends. Her popular friends. Her pretty friends.”

“Is that what you think’s gonna happen?” Jeff asked. “You think a bunch of cheerleaders are gonna wanna play D&D with you?”

Scottie shrugged and said in a waning voice, “Well, you never know…”

Eddie put his head in his hands. “I knew this was gonna happen. I knew this was gonna happen. She’s not even here yet and she’s already ruining the game.”

“Hey, where is she, anyway?” Grant said. “It’s already after ten. Are we sure she’s even gonna show?”

“She probably won’t,” said Gareth. He leaned back in his chair, satisfied and smug. “Yeah, I bet she chickened out like the coward she is. Screw her, I say we start without her.”

“We’re not starting without her,” Jeff said. “Look, she’ll be here, okay?”

“Spoken like a true traitor.”

“Dude, stop calling me a—”

Suddenly, the doorbell chimed. The sound echoed over their heads like a distant warhorn on a cold, fog-covered battlefield. Gareth reached for his newly sharpened pencil and held it like a knife.

“She’s here.”

You stood on the front porch with your backpack hooked on your shoulder and your arms crossed tightly in front of you, shivering uncontrollably in the sunny, seventy-nine-degree weather.

Almost a minute had passed and nobody was answering the door. This made your stomach flutter nervously. You looked around and wondered if perhaps you were at the wrong house, (and wouldn’t that be lucky? Oh well, looks like I better give up and go home…) but you weren’t. The number displayed beside the door matched the address Scottie had given you. This was Scott Sloman’s house. You were at the right place. And now you had no excuse to leave.

You stepped forward and—oh, how your hand trembled!—rang the doorbell again. The sound made your heart jump in panic. It started bucking wildly in your chest, desperate to break out of your ribcage and escape. Excuse or no excuse, you wanted to get the hell outta there!

“Calm down,” you kept telling yourself. “Calm down. Calm down. You’re gonna be fine, you’re gonna be fine, you’re gonna be…”

(But what if it doesn’t work?)

“… fine,” you whispered, except now you only half believed it, and that half wasn’t strong enough to keep your feet on the porch.

You shuffled back a step, then another, looked over your shoulder, and stared longingly down the street.

From here, the road seemed so endless, so… tempting. You could see yourself on that road, on your bike, peddling fast and far away. Back to your house. Back to your bedroom. Lying on your bed, opening your favorite book, and escaping into a safe, snug little world. You could spend hours hiding in there. It would be perfect. Then, eventually, you would have to face Chrissy. She would be a little frustrated and disappointed with you, but she would probably forgive you in a day or two. Chrissy was compassionate like that.

Yeah, Chrissy would forgive you. She would forgive you, and hug you, and tell you that everything would be okay.

Okay…

Okay, I’ll just go home then. It’s probably for the best, anyway.

You fled down the stairs and ran to your bike. It was sitting on the front lawn with everyone else’s, Jeff’s standing upright on its kickstand, the others lying on their sides in the grass, their painted steel frames glimmering in the sunlight… all but one, anyway; one was too dull to properly catch the light. You had recognized Eddie’s bike as soon as you arrived at the house. His stood out because the frame was oddly bent and most of the paint had been scratched off. It was an old bike, purchased secondhand from secondhand at a yard sale two years ago. To you, it might as well have been brand new.

“He’s here,” you whispered, and felt your face get delightfully warm.

Eddie was here, he was here, finally within reach. All you had to do was walk through that door.

Excitement swept through you, girlish and unaffected, and now you were smiling ridiculously to yourself, all your fears forgotten… for now, anyway. You pressed your palms to your overheated cheeks and thought, This is my chance. This is my only chance.

Nervous as you were, terrified as you were, you had to see this through.

Determination burned inside you. You stepped away from your bike and—

“Hey, you made it!” Scott Sloman was standing on his front porch with his hand raised high in a friendly wave. He frowned when he saw that you were beside your bike. “Where are you going?”

You looked at your bike, then back at Scottie. “Oh, well… I was just, uh…” You forced a laugh and feigned embarrassment. “I'm so stupid, I thought I was at the wrong house for a second.”

“Oh…” Scottie’s face brightened instantly. He laughed along with you. “Nope, you found us just fine. C’mon inside, everyone’s waiting for you.”

Everyone? you thought for a second, hopeful, but then you realized that probably wasn’t true. Eddie wasn’t waiting for you. He wasn’t eager to see you. He didn’t want you there at all. But that was okay.

You took a deep breath and started walking toward the house, Chrissy’s good luck bracelet dangling from your wrist.

All right, I’ve got a huge uphill battle ahead of me. Now I’m probably gonna fail miserably, but… at least I’ll know I gave it my best shot.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said to Scottie. He was leading you through the house to the basement, where everyone else was waiting… where Eddie was waiting. You could hardly believe this was happening.

“Don’t worry about it,” Scottie replied sheepishly. He was feeling a little awkward after his earlier faux pas at the front door. When you walked in, Scottie greeted you with this dramatic, over-the-top gentleman’s bow. Unable to hide your discomfort, you grimaced and drew away from him. Scottie’s face turned beet red. He said, That was really weird, wasn’t it? And you replied, Yeah, it was. Please don’t ever do that again. Now Scottie felt a little self-conscious around you. He could barely look you in the eye without blushing.

“Of course,” he went on, “if it happens again, I’ll have no choice but to imprison you.”

That caught you off guard. You almost tripped over your own foot. “Wait, what?”

Scottie’s eyes widened. His face flushed a deep pink. “Oh, your character, not you. Sorry, that sounded a lot creepier than I intended. Yeah, usually when someone’s late I punish them by having their character ambushed early in the game and thrown into some sorta prison. Then they have to find a way to escape on their own. It sounds really cruel, but it’s actually a lotta fun. Like last year, Gareth was late and I threw his character into the fighting pits and he had to fight for his freedom. He didn’t make it out, though.” Scottie laughed to himself, remembering. “Yeah, Gareth dies a lot in the game. You’ll see. His deaths are pretty legendary… Oh, hey, that reminds me, have you made a character yet? It’s no big deal if you haven’t. We can help you make one today.”

“Thanks,” you said, “but I already made one.”

“Oh, sweet, awesome. Wait, you didn’t make a magic-user, did you?”

You shook your head. All those spells seemed too complicated to you.

“Okay, good. I only ask ‘cause we try to keep the party as balanced as possible; otherwise, the story really suffers. Plus Eddie’s kind of our resident spellcaster, and he really hates it when people use the same class as him. He’s pretty weird about it, actually. But then again, Eddie’s pretty weird about everything. I don’t think I need to tell you that, though.”

You smirked, understanding. “Yeah, sounds like Eddie’s a big baby.”

(Shit, was that mean?)

Scottie looked at you in surprise. His face broke into a huge grin. “I am so glad you’re here,” he said, chuckling. Then he walked through the kitchen and opened the basement door for you. “Ladies first,” he said, and you moved past him and slowly began your descent.

For as long as you lived, you would never forget that walk downstairs. You could recall every detail perfectly. The way the wooden railing felt under your fingers—smooth yet rough in certain places. The way the steps creaked as you put your weight on them. The hushed voices that emerged from below: Gareth’s, Jeff’s, Grant’s… Eddie’s. The scent of pine, pungent and overwhelming. It smacked you in the face as soon as you took your first step, and it only got stronger the further you went. It was such a strange smell. Initially, it made you think of those little tree air fresheners that everyone hung in their cars. Now it only made you think of that basement, that weirdly clean basement, and the first time you saw Eddie sitting at the table.

His dark brown eyes found you instantly, but they didn’t look at you—they didn’t see you—not really. Like always, his eyes just sort of hovered on you for a second and then darted away. Eddie was always running away from you. It was hard not to feel a little disheartened after that.

So this is how it begins, huh? Wonderful.

You found your seat next to Jeff and sat down. He turned to you with a smile.

“Cutting it pretty close there, huh?” He was laughing, but you could hear the concern in his voice. “For a second, I seriously thought you were gonna bail.”

“Honestly, I almost did,” you confessed quietly, keeping your head low and your hand cupped over your mouth. “I’m kinda freaking out here, Jeff.”

Being seated directly across from Eddie certainly didn’t help. How were you supposed to keep your composure with him so close? The second he made eye contact with you—if he ever made eye contact with you—you were gonna blow like a geyser, like Old Faithful, and there was no telling what kind of scorching hot insults were gonna come spewing out of your mouth. You could already feel them bubbling inside you, dangerous and unpredictable. You were a powder keg of emotions right now. One good spark and, boom, you were gonna explode. Oh, this is gonna be bad.

Jeff nudged your arm gently with his elbow. It disarmed you a little. “Relax,” he said. “You’ve got this, okay? Just, you know…”

“Be nice,” you said. “Yeah, I know.”

Jeff’s eyes softened. “I was gonna say be yourself,” he said.

But what if “yourself” wasn’t all that great?

Taking his words to heart, you leaned over and smiled at Grant, ignoring the image of Eddie that haunted the outermost edge of your vision. He wasn’t looking at you, anyway.

“Hey, Grant.”

“Hello,” Grant replied neutrally.

“I heard you got a perfect score on your English final. Very impressive, sir.”

Grant shrugged modestly. Perfect scores didn’t excite him as much as they used to. “How’d you do?” he asked. “You usually test pretty well, don’t you?”

“Eh, well enough,” you said, still very aware of Eddie’s presence. You were dying to have him look at you. Actually, you would have died if he looked at you. “I got all the multiple-choice questions right, but by the time I got to the final essay, I just really wanted to go home, you know? It was my last test of the day. My grade was pretty much set. I wasn’t in the mood to write this long, boring essay, so… yeah, I kinda half-assed it. Oh well. Still got an A.”

“God, you are so full of yourself,” Gareth said. His voice was acidic and dripping with disdain.

Unbothered, you faced him with a smile. “What’s up, Gareth? Long time no see. How are you doing?”

“Stupendous,” he blurted out with a fierceness that was borderline comical. Boy, if you weren’t trying so hard to be on your best behavior right now, you would have had some colorful words for him… words he probably couldn’t spell.

Smirking, you said, “So did your mommy pack you a juice box?”

Gareth scoffed. “Did your mommy pack you a…?” He closed his mouth, grabbed his sharpened pencil, and started violently hammering the tip into his notebook: WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

Your eyes widened with surprised glee. Then you turned to Eddie and all your confidence splintered like Gareth’s poor pencil.

Just say something to him.

Say something.

Anything!

Hey, Eddie, how’d your finals go? Are you excited for high school next year? I’m not. It’s gonna be the worst day of my life. I dunno how I’m gonna survive two years without you. In fact, I’ll probably cry every day. Please look at me. I’d give anything to have you look at me. You’re the weirdest, most fascinating person I’ve ever met in my life. I’m obsessed with you. I think I might even be in love with you.

Shit.

All of a sudden, your face felt unbearably hot. You hid it before anyone else could see and started digging through your backpack, pulling out all of your supplies and stacking them on the table in front of you: a leftover notebook from school, a purple folder containing your character sheet, a few pencils, an eraser, a slightly worn, dog-eared copy of The Players Handbook, and a small drawstring bag of dice. You grabbed that last and tossed it on top of your pile. When you sat up again, you found five pairs of eyes staring at you… including Eddie’s, which were suspicious but also curious. You didn’t know whether to be delighted or offended.

You went with offended.

“What?” you snapped, causing everyone to immediately look away. It was an instinctive reaction on your part. You didn’t like people staring at you.

A voice spoke from your left. “The lady comes prepared,” Scottie said, smiling at you from behind his screen.

“Huh?”

“Eddie said you weren’t gonna be prepared.”

Eddie jumped as if struck from the side. “What? I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did,” Scottie told him. “You said exactly that. You said she wasn’t gonna be prepared and we were gonna have to let her borrow our stuff. Isn’t that what he said, Grant?”

“Yes, it is. That’s exactly what he said.”

Eddie looked around, dumbstruck. Then he slumped back into his chair like a sullen child. “Hey, where’d you get all that stuff, anyway?” he asked, mumbling the words into the table.

It took a second for you to realize Eddie was speaking to you. As soon as it clicked, your whole body froze with panic. “Umm, I borrowed it…?”

“From who?”

“From whom,” Grant corrected, and Eddie just rolled his eyes.

You crossed your arms protectively over your chest. You should have been happy that Eddie was talking to you. No, you should have been thrilled that Eddie was talking to you. Yeah, you should have been doing cartwheels and somersaults and sobbing with pure joy, but for some reason you weren’t—you couldn’t—because there was something in his tone that really rubbed you the wrong way. Already, you feel your claws coming out and digging into your bicep.

“Are you seriously interrogating me right now?”

Eddie’s eyes widened. “What?” he said, almost swallowing the word. “I’m not interrogating you, I’m just… I’m just curious who loaned you all that stuff, that’s all.”

“What difference does it make to you?”

“It doesn’t make any difference. I’m just asking you a question.”

“Well, you’re coming off pretty aggressive right now.”

“She’s right,” Scottie said. “You are acting a little aggressive, Eddie.”

That, of course, was when Gareth decided to tag in. “What?” he cried. “He’s not being aggressive. She’s the one being aggressive!”

Grant said, “Honestly, you’re all being a little aggressive right now.”

“Hey, Eddie’s the only one yelling here.”

“I’m not yelling. I’m defending myself!”

“You sure?” you said. “‘Cause it kinda sounds like you’re yelling.”

To your right, Jeff was rubbing his forehead in frustration. “Stop it,” he muttered under his breath.

“Wait, why are you telling me to stop? He’s the one acting like an asshole!”

Eddie’s face turned bright red. He threw up his hands and shouted, “How am I being an asshole? I’m asking a perfectly valid question and you’re biting my head off for no reason. Seriously, am I the only one hearing this? Oh my god, I feel like I’m going crazy right now!” His mouth opened and closed wordlessly. “I… I just… I… I… I give up. I give up.” He fell back into his seat, closed his eyes, and took a deep, deep breath, nostrils flaring as he released all of his tension. “Can we just start the game, please?”

“Yes,” Scottie took over. “Yeah, let’s get started.”

Your heart was pounding as you settled back into your chair. What the hell just happened? you thought, mortified. You felt like you had woken up to the aftermath of a violent massacre and discovered blood all over your hands.

Across from you, Eddie was sitting with his forehead propped on his fist, still steaming from your brief but catastrophic interaction. Next to him, Gareth was glaring at you while he savagely sharpened his other pencil.

“You proud of yourself?” Jeff asked.

“Nope,” you said. “No, I’m not.”

Scottie stood up and clapped his hands together. “Okay,” he said excitedly, “now that we’ve all had a chance to collect ourselves, I’d like to officially welcome everyone to The Shrieking Queen’s Catacombs, my third annual summer campaign. Welcome, everyone.”

Grant started rubbing his chin skeptically. “The Shrieking Queen’s Catacombs… so that’s the name you went with, huh?”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s not your best.”

“Goddammit,” Scottie said under his breath, but he shook it off and carried on. “All right, whatever. We have a new player with us today! Welcome, Y/N, we’re all very excited to have you here.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gareth muttered, and Scottie shot him a venomous glare that said, I will destroy you!

Then he turned back to you with a smile. “Since you’re still new to the game, I don’t want you to feel nervous or anything, okay? There’s no pressure here, seriously. We’re all a bunch of idiots, especially Gareth. So feel free to stop and ask questions whenever you need to. Take your time. Make mistakes. Make twenty mistakes. We don’t care. All that matters is that you have fun. All right?”

Gareth leaned over and whispered to Grant, “Dude, why is he being so nice?”

“Cheerleaders,” Grant replied. “Because of cheerleaders.”

Gareth groaned and sat back. “Man, this summer’s gonna suck.”

Scottie went on talking: “All right, before we officially begin, how about we go around the room and introduce our characters a little bit? Normally we would incorporate this into the beginning of the story, but I don’t wanna overwhelm you on your first day, so let’s just keep it casual and have a fun little meet and greet.”

“What?” Eddie said. “Why are we doing a meet and greet? Just start the damn game.”

“Eddie, I’m trying to ease her into it. I want her to feel comfortable.”

Honestly, none of this was making you feel very comfortable, but after what happened earlier, you decided it was better to keep your mouth shut.

“Well, what about the rest of us?” Eddie said. “I don’t feel comfortable with this.”

“Well, Eddie, you never feel comfortable. You’re uncomfortable in your own damn skin. Now shut up and stop undermining me!” Exhausted, Scottie turned away from him and said, “Jeff, how ‘bout you start? You’re the least problematic person here.”

“What am I doing?” Jeff asked.

“Just introduce your character.”

“Yeah, but you guys already know my character. What am I supposed to say?”

“Just say anything! My god, you guys make everything so damn difficult.”

Jeff’s hands flew up defensively. “Okay, okay, jeez… I feel like I’m giving a book report. Umm, what should I say? I’m playing as Jaheem Evenstar. He’s a level six cleric, born into the church of Selûne—that’s the goddess of the moon, for the uneducated.” Jeff playfully elbowed you in the side as he said this. “He wears purple robes, silver-plated armor, and has a circle of seven silver stars tattooed on his forehead. The nature of his birth is surrounded by scandal, secrecy, and shame. His mother died on the birthing bed and her dying wish was that her son be raised in the temple. Being one of few males in a female-dominated religion, Jaheem spent most of his life feeling ostracized and is determined to prove his worth. At night, you’ll often him sitting under the moon and the stars. He hasn’t spent much time outside of the temple, so he’s a little naive in the ways of the world. Cities pose a special challenge for him because he’s easily tempted by vices.”

“Oh…” you said, grinning. “Looks like Jaheem needs to stay away from the brothels.”

Everybody (except Eddie) laughed. Jeff’s ears flushed with embarrassment. “That’s not what I meant,” he said.

“Oh, I think it is,” you replied, giggling. “Your character is a man born into a religion full of beautiful women? I see what you’re doing, Jeff.”

By now, everyone except Eddie (Why wasn’t he laughing?) was in stitches. Jeff had both hands over his face as he wheezed. “Okay, I’m creating a new character now.” He pretended to crumple up his character sheet and throw it over his shoulder.

Then Grant took his turn. “All right, I’m playing as General Gudrun Havenbrooke, former commander of The Last Legion. He’s a fighter, obviously, also level six. He’s an expert in two-weapon fighting and possesses a vast knowledge of swordsmanship and battle tactics. During his service in the military, he led countless victorious battles but remains haunted by his one crushing defeat. This is reflected in his wardrobe, as he still wears the same dented armor from that ill-fated battle, and his cloak is stained with the blood of his lost comrades. He keeps fighting because it’s the only way to appease his ghosts, and he drinks heavily after every battle because it’s the only way he can sleep.”

A shiver ran down your spine. “Damn,” you said, awestruck, “you guys are hardcore.”

That's when Eddie decided to interject like a referee on a basketball court. “Hey, you can’t do that,” he said. “You can’t make fun of other players’ characters.”

Stunned (and a little irritated), you said, “I’m not making fun. I’m impressed,” but Eddie didn’t seem to believe you. His eyes remained guarded and untrusting.

Was there no winning with this guy?

Next, Scottie turned to Gareth. “All right, buddy, you’re up.”

“Me?” Gareth blushed deeply, an uncharacteristically boyish gesture. “Umm, okay! My character is Brumnur Wildrock. He’s a dwarf and a master bladesmith. In fact, many of you are using his blades right now. As a bladesmith, he has a fondness for all weapons, but axes and hammers are his preferred tools. He fights to test the strength of his weapons, and he has yet to meet a worthy opponent. Brumnur is headstrong, battle-hungry, and easily provoked to violence.”

“So basically you made yourself,” you said, snickering.

Eddie shot you an annoyed look.

What? you thought, secretly loving all the attention he was giving you. Come on, that was perfectly harmless…

Behind his screen, Scottie raised his eyebrows tauntingly. “So what level are you, Gareth?”

“Level one,” Gareth answered, a little ashamed.

“Why are you only level one, man?”

Gareth sighed. “Because I had to make a new character.”

“And why did you have to make a new character?” Scottie put his fist over his mouth in an attempt to control his laughter. Jeff and Grant weren’t so successful.

“Because I died,” Gareth said, seeming oddly proud of this morbid feat. Then he started to laugh himself.

“How’d you die?” you asked, enthralled.

Gareth sliced his hand across his neck.

“Oh my god, you got decapitated?”

“Yeah,” Gareth said, positively beaming with self-satisfaction. “It was so awesome. My body moved on its own for another turn and killed two more monsters.”

(“He didn’t, really,” Scottie would later tell you. “We just said he did to make him feel better.”)

You sat back and smiled, amazed by everyone’s creativity. “Wow, what a motley crew. We have a bloodthirsty dwarf, a disgraced war general, and a lecherous priest. Yeah, this campaign’s gonna be fun.”

Eddie lashed out angrily: “Oh, would you stop already?”

“What?” you said, startled. You were glad for his attention, sure, but all this needless aggression was really starting to grate on you. Could he not recognize your effort? Was that too much to ask? I’m trying to be nice here, Munson, but you're making it really fricken difficult!

And now he was doubling down. “You’re being facetious,” he said.

“Facetious,” Gareth began suddenly, completely unprompted. “F-E-C-E-T-I-U-S, facetious.”

“Not even close,” said Grant, and Gareth smashed down his fist in defeat.

Ignoring them, you glared directly at Eddie. “I’m not being facetious. I’m just having a little fun. You know what fun is, right? That’s what normal people do when they’re playing a game. They laugh. They joke around. They have fun. Maybe you should take that giant stick out of your ass and you'll have fun too, you self-righteous prick.”

(Now that was mean. Yeah, you definitely took a few steps back with that comment)

(right off a cliff)

God dammit, you thought, feeling utterly defeated. If you weren’t surrounded by so many people, you would have been crying right now. You didn’t know what you were doing wrong. You didn’t know why Eddie was attacking you so viciously every time you opened your mouth.

Shit, maybe he just hated you.

(Could you blame him?)

Scottie’s voice cut through the silence: “All right, Eddie, you’re up, man.”

By now, Eddie had completely withdrawn into himself. He sat hunched over in his chair with his palm pressed against his mouth, looking more and more like he wanted to leave. “I don’t wanna go,” he said.

Scottie breathed an aggravated sigh. “C’mon, dude, everyone has to go.”

“Well, I don’t want to,” Eddie said, and you knew it was all your fault.

Guilt turned in your stomach. Timidly, you raised your hand. “I’ll go,” you said.

Anxious as you were, you figured it was the least you could do.

You pulled out your character sheet. “Umm… okay, I’m playing as Elaria Quint. That’s not her real name, it’s just her most recent identity. Nobody knows Elaria’s real name. Honestly, I don’t even think she knows anymore.” You laughed a little as you said this. That wasn’t something you had originally written on your sheet, but it seemed to fit in a strange way. Clearing your throat, you continued: “Um, Elaria’s a thief and a con artist. She moves from city to city, from scheme to scheme, never really settling anywhere. Having spent her entire childhood in poverty, Elaria dreams of living a life of luxury, and she came really close once. Unfortunately, she was betrayed by her old partner and mentor, and he took every penny she ever stole, so now she knows better than to trust anyone. To be clear, Elaria’s in this solely for the money. She doesn’t care about anything else. She’ll use you until she doesn’t need you anymore, and if the moment should ever come, she’ll have no problem betraying each and every one of you. You’re all disposable to her.”

“So basically you made yourself,” Eddie muttered spitefully.

He thought you hadn’t heard him, but you did.

Okay, you thought, wounded, I guess I deserved that.

Beside you, Scottie was eagerly rubbing his hands together. “Holy shit, I love it! This campaign’s gonna be pure chaos, and I can’t wait to get started.” He made a motion toward Eddie. “Hurry up, Munson, introduce your character so we can start.”

“I don’t want to,” Eddie said again, and that was Scottie’s last straw.

He squeezed his hands into tight fists and yelled, “Oh my god, would you just go already! You know, the more you put this off the more time you waste, and you’re the one who was dying to get to the game, so… god, just fucking go.”

Scottie’s outburst made everyone flinch and go quiet. Eddie looked like he wanted to disappear.

“Fine,” he said bitterly. He opened his binder, flipped to his character sheet, and started reading directly from the page, his voice flat and listless. He might as well have been reading from a textbook. “Uhh… my character is a level fourteen spellcaster named Castinus. He was born into a disgraced noble house that has since fallen into ruin. His father was once a well-respected wizard, but his quest for knowledge and power drove him to madness. One day, he mercilessly slaughtered everyone in the castle as well as the neighboring village. Only Castinus survived the attack. As he lay dying, he made a pact with a powerful demon. As a result, he was granted great power but lost his humanity.” Eddie shrugged and pushed his binder away.

You looked around the room, beside yourself with disappointment. “Wait, that’s it? That’s all you could come up with, Munson?”

Your comment was punctuated with a moment of surprised silence, as if an ancient taboo had just been broken. Everybody’s jaws dropped. Eddie’s eyes widened in baffled hurt.

Oh my god, stop talking, you thought. Stop talking right now.

And yet you kept going. Like an idiot, you kept going.

“So let me get this straight, Munson: your character is a spellcaster named Castinus. Castinus, the spellcaster.” You cringed out of sheer frustration. “God, you didn’t reach very far for that one, did you?”

Gareth dropped his pencil.

“Oh shit,” said Grant.

Meanwhile, Jeff was giving you a pleading look. “What are you doing?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” you said, sickened and ashamed of yourself.

You put your head in your hands and tried to squeeze some sense into yourself, but it just wasn’t working.

“I’m sorry, this isn’t coming out right. I swear, I’m not trying to be mean or anything; I’m just so… so confused. I refuse to believe this is your character, Eddie. I’m sorry, but I refuse to accept it. Come on, a spellcaster named Castinus? A son getting vengeance on his evil dad? It’s just so unrealized and uninspired. I mean, my god, no wonder you sound so bored when you’re talking about him! Do you even like your character, Eddie? Because it doesn’t sound like you do. In fact, you know what it sounds like to me? It sounds like you started creating a really cool character, but then you hit a wall, gave up, and decided it was good enough. Except it’s not good enough, Eddie. For anyone else, it would be good enough. For me, it would be good enough. But you… I just know you can do so much better than that!”

Finally, you fell silent, panting. Eddie’s eyes narrowed into a hateful glare.

“You know I can do better than that? You don't even know me!"

You winced at those words. They pierced right through your heart.

Well, I’m trying to, you wanted to say, but maybe it wasn’t worth it.

This wasn’t why you came here. You didn’t want to make Eddie hate his favorite game.

Now he was ripping out his character sheet, crumpling it into a ball, and whipping it at the floor. “This is exactly why I didn’t want you here,” he said, and that’s when you realized this was all a huge mistake.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Quietly, you gathered your things, dumped them into your backpack, and went upstairs.

Scottie sighed heavily. “That wasn’t very gentlemanlike, Eddie.”

“I know,” Eddie mumbled back, staring at your empty chair.

How did you know he was struggling with his character?

You only made it as far as the front porch.

Now you were sitting on top of the stairs, weighed down by guilt, drowning in grief, and fiddling with the rainbow bracelet Chrissy had made for you—the one she had probably spent days working on. What a lovely waste of time that was.

Sorry, Chris, you thought ruefully, looks like all the luck in the world can’t save me from myself.

A sad, surrendering sigh escaped your lips. You tried to take the bracelet off, but the strings were tied way too tight. It was as if Chrissy herself was struggling against you. You could practically see her beside you, wrestling against you, glaring at you with those bright blue eyes and urging in that sweet, sweet voice: You said you wouldn’t give up, remember? You pinky promised! Oh, curse Chrissy Cunningham and her annoying, unyielding optimism. Couldn’t she see the game was already over?

Desperate now, you put the bracelet between your teeth and started gnawing at the strands. You were prepared to chew off your own hand if you had to.

Still, the bracelet wouldn’t budge. It was incredibly stubborn, just like its maker.

You promised, Chrissy said.

I lied! you yelled back. I can’t do this, okay? I tried and I failed and

That’s when you heard

“Uhhh…”

a voice beside you. You turned toward it and saw Eddie standing in the open doorway with a look of bemused horror. You couldn’t imagine what he must have been thinking right now, seeing you sitting with your left arm locked in a tight vise grip, savagely chewing at the inside of your wrist like a coyote trying to escape a hunter’s snare. Why, he probably thought you were an absolute lunatic.

(Was that better or worse than the Antichrist?)

Shame engulfed you. You spat the bracelet out of your mouth and lowered your wrist to your side.

“You left your dice,” Eddie said, still a little wary of you.

“Oh,” you said quietly. You hadn’t realized you’d forgotten it.

Cautiously, Eddie stepped toward you and dropped the bag into your open palm.

“Thanks,” you said, and put it away.

You figured Eddie would head back inside after that, but he didn’t. Instead, he lingered pensively on the porch for a minute, his body hunched forward slightly, hands stuffed in the front pockets of his jeans.

“Hey, I’m really sorry,” he began in a low voice, “for the way I’ve been acting today. I haven’t been very fair to you.”

Eddie’s apology caught you entirely by surprise. You sat there speechless for a second, blinking at him.

“I’m sorry for calling your character uninspired,” you said. “That was really mean, and I only kinda meant it… I mean, Castinus is a terrible name, I stand by that completely, but the rest of the character isn’t that bad.”

“Right…” Eddie raised his eyebrow dubiously, unsure of what to make of your apology.

(if you could even call that an apology)

He sighed and shook his head. “Look, how ‘bout we just start over, okay? Clean slate.”

He leaned forward and extended his hand toward you. Blushing, you drew away from it, your hand instinctively rising to cover your face.

He wants me to shake his hand? you thought, terrified and astonished. Eddie Munson, the boy who hated you, the boy who was always running away from you, was now standing in front of you and offering you his hand. The sight alone sent your mind into a frenzy. You could feel your heart hammering against your ribcage. What was going to happen when you…?

“Okay,” you said, and slipped your hand into his. As soon you did, your heart skipped a beat… but then it slowed unexpectedly, falling into this strong, steady rhythm that made you feel strangely, beautifully, at peace.

Could he feel this too, you wondered?

No, probably not.

But when you lifted your eyes, you thought you saw a glimmer of something in Eddie’s stare. Maybe it was the same calm quiet you had experienced. Maybe it was just the sun catching briefly in his eyes. Whatever it was, it was gone before you could really see it. Then his hand disappeared and returned to the pocket of his jeans.

“C’mon,” Eddie said. He went to the front door and held it open for you. “Let’s head back inside and start the game.”

Nodding, you grabbed your bag and went with him, but before walking through the door, you stopped and said, “Dustin Henderson.”

“Huh?”

“You wanted to know who loaned me all that stuff, right? It was Dustin Henderson. He loaned it to me.” You went inside.

“Oh,” Eddie said as he followed you in. “I have no idea who that is.”

SERIES MASTERPOST

FANFICTION MASTERLIST

#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x fem!reader #jeff stranger things #gareth stranger things #hellfire club #chrissy cunningham #stranger things #stranger things 4 #fanfic #eddie munson x dwm!reader #dancing with myself #dwm #dwm short #dwm middle school fic #ambrossart

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