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#slurps him up like pasta
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Charles doll coming to your nearest supermarket on the 5th of March 2023
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natti-ice · 9 days
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Reader catching eddie jerking off and moaning her name
Pairing: Eddie Munson x gn!reader
Warnings: 18+ mdni,masturbation, blowjob, cum eating
Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated<3
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You walk in the front door of you and Eddie's trailer after work and shut the door quietly, you toss your keys into the small bowl by the door and let out a sigh. You were so glad to finally be home after a long day and were looking forward to some much needed relaxation, you took off your shoes before placing them on the shoe rack. You tried to walk as quietly as possible as to not wake Eddie, he worked night shifts so he was normally asleep when you got home.
Unbeknownst to you, Eddie was in fact not sleeping. When you walked into the kitchen and started rummaging through the cabinets to find something to make for dinner, you heard something. At first you assumed it was some animal outside making noise and brushed it off, you continued to search through different boxes of pasta and ready-to-make meals when the sound got clearer.
Your ears perked up when you heard your name, you knew that voice very well, the desperation laced in every syllable, you've heard it so many times it's burned into your brain. You stopped immediately what you were doing and started to walk towards the back bedroom, the floor creaked slightly under your weight making you stop and curse yourself for not being as stealthy as you'd hoped you would be. You held your breath for a moment hoping that Eddie hadn't caught on to your presence, when you heard another soft moan you knew you were good to keep going.
As you approached your bedroom you noticed the door was cracked open, that's why you could hear everything so clearly, the closer you got to the door, the more turned on you became. You were always a sucker for hearing your name escape Eddie's lips, no matter the situation, even when he was mad at you it still drove you crazy when he said your name. Once you made it to the doorway you saw him, propped up against his pillow with the blanket scrunched up at the bottom of the bed. Eddie's eyes closed as his hand works his cock with ease, you could hear the squelching of the lube that coats his shaft.
You covered your mouth as you hold back a giggle, he looked so good laid out on the bed like that, all vulnerable and desperate for release. You debated on turning away and letting him be but something about your man fantasying about you while jerking off really turned you on.
"Need a hand, handsome?" Your voice called out breaking the thick tension in the air, Eddie's eyes immediately shot open and his hand stopped mid stroke but he didn't try to hide what he was doing.
"Oh hey babe," he chuckles softly "I didn't hear you come in." he looks you up and down, admiring every line of your shape "I wouldn't mind a little help" you could see the smirk growing on his face, his eyes lighting up at the prospect of you pleasuring him.
You smile and walk into the room, you get onto the bed and position your face above his crotch. "Well, allow me" you say seductively before dipping your head down to his cock, you look up at him as you swirl your tongue around his tip, the saltiness of his precum coating your tastebuds. Eddie's body shuddered slightly as you took his sensitive member in your mouth, you slowly moved your mouth up and down his length, you could taste his favorite cherry flavored lube that he loved to use on you.
His hands gripped the bed sheet beneath him as you increased your speed. "Oh fuck, just like that baby" he praised your work, you could hear his breathing becoming more rapid as you sucked him off, soft groans and slurping sounds bounced off the walls of your bedroom. You knew he was close, the tip of his cock pulsating in your mouth was an indication of his approaching orgasm, you kept the same rhythm and before you knew it his cum shot into the back of your throat.
“Mmm fuck” he groans loudly as he drops his load in your mouth. His chest rises up and down rapidly as he takes his cock out of your mouth and pulls you up to his chest, you quickly swallow his seed and rest your head on his chest. You can hear his heart pounding as he comes off his high, “thank you, sweetheart” he whispers, his voice was scratchy from the intense pleasure you just gave him. He plants a soft kiss on your forehead and wraps his arms around you, holding you close as an appreciation for your service.
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Tags: @tracymbcm @ali-r3n @thebiggestnaturaldisaster @canmargesimpson @nailbatanddungeon @queermaxwooo @zestychili @skrzydlak @supersmexyandhot @themadhattersqueen @arthurcerverogf @asimpforthe80s @yeaiamme2 @thepurplelovewitch @luv4peterba1lard @boa-hemian @thiccthighbby @jethro-mcgee-tony @keirasreplies @limerence-17 @mandies24 @tlclick73 @songbirdofthenight @evie-119 @spacedoutdaydreamer @emilyj444
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moonstruckme · 1 month
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Can I request Spencer x anxious, overthinker reader ? Maybe, overwhelmed or stressed, like almost burnout, but not quite. Because this semester at uni had just been way too much in every way. Thank you 💕 🌸
Thanks for requeting love, hope you're able to get a break soon!
cw: academic stress, reader has symptoms of anxiety
Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words
When Spencer gets home in the middle of the night, you don’t hear him over the sound of sizzling and your own racing thoughts. 
“Hi,” he announces himself as he comes in, meeting your little jolt with a bemused look. “I’m surprised you’re still awake.” 
“Hey, how was your flight?” You whirl from the stove for the half a second it takes to brush a kiss against his cheek before turning back to keep pushing things around the pan. The momentary distraction is worth it for the emergence of Spencer’s smile, soft and fatigued. “Sorry, I was hoping to have this done before you got home.” 
“Don’t be sorry,” he says automatically. “The flight was good. I’m happy to be back.” He sets his bag down and rounds the kitchen island to lean against the counter beside the stove, peering at your face. “I hope you’re not making dinner just for me.” 
“I’m going to have some too,” you reassure him. “I’m starving.” 
Spencer’s expression shifts. You get the sense you’ve confirmed something for him. “It’s pretty late. Why haven’t you eaten yet?” 
You wish you could say that you’d wanted to wait and eat with your boyfriend, but there’s never any point in lying to Spencer. 
“I just haven’t gotten around to it until now,” you say. “I have a lot of work to do.” 
“I know,” he replies. You know he does. You’d started venting about your workload before he left for the case, and he’d been kind about letting you continue to do so during your nightly calls when he was away. “Still, it’s a lot to be up until…” He glances at the microwave clock, unsure of what time it actually is. You can’t say you know, either. “Nearly three-thirty. How long have you been working for?” 
You push the vegetables around in the pan, olive oil spitting and burning the skin of your hand. You feel Spencer’s stare narrow on you. “Since I got home, so seven-ish.” 
He frowns. “You’re not feeling tired, are you?” 
You’re not, though you don’t ask how he can tell. You look tired, you know. Every time you look in the mirror lately, you think of the word unkempt. Messy hair, dull skin, purplish crescent moons stamped under both eyes. But you don’t feel like you could sleep if you tried. There’s an urgency in your blood that gets you up early every morning and propels you to work through the day, like there’s an engine inside of you that’s decided it doesn’t need gas to run. You’re always moving, humming, thinking, certain without reason that if you stop it’ll all fall apart. 
You shake your head, and Spencer frowns towards the pan. “What do you have left to do with this?” 
You’re surprised to find, upon looking down, that the vegetables look ready. “Um,” you switch the heat off, “I’m just waiting for the timer to finish on the pasta, and then I’m going to mix them together. It shouldn’t be long.” 
“Okay.” He takes the spoon from you, moving you out of the way with a careful hand on your shoulder. “I can handle that. You should go sit down.” 
“Spence,” you laugh, “I can do it.” 
He doesn’t argue with you, necessarily, just utters a quiet, “It’s okay,” and nudges you in the direction of the couch. 
You don’t have it in you to protest much, not when he’s just gotten home, so you do, curling up with your feet underneath you and pulling a blanket from over the side of the armrest. You think Spencer is going to want to talk, but he doesn’t, just stirring the pasta and pulling dishes out of the cabinet. Maybe he’s exhausted, too. It is late, and he’s been working on his case the same way you’ve been chipping away at your schoolwork, for days and days with little reprieve. 
You thank him when he passes you a bowl, slurping up the noodles the way your mom would chide you if she were here for and comforted by the fact that Spencer’s doing the same. You’re convinced the pasta somehow tastes better than if you’d finished it yourself, your boyfriend’s poor culinary skills supplemented by the love he puts into taking care of you. 
“You know,” he says after a minute, “there’s evidence to suggest that consistent sleep loss can lead to loss of brain cells.” 
You suck a noodle into your mouth. “I sleep,” you tell him. “I’m just having a late night.” 
Spencer gives you a sorry sort of smile. Like he almost wants to apologize for how smart he is, how it keeps you from getting away with anything. “I’ve only been gone for four days,” he says, “but you were texting me after I went to sleep and before I got up every morning.”  
“Only psychopaths look at timestamps,” you joke, looking down into your pasta bowl. 
He shrugs, quiet. 
“What else can I do?” you ask, and you really are asking. “I have deadlines, Spence. Due dates. I can’t just say fuck it and go to sleep at nine every night like I don’t still have work left to do.” 
“Which part is overwhelming you?” he asks curiously. 
You huff. Not at him. “All of it? It’s like every one of my professors thinks they’re my only class. There’s a bunch of essays and projects all due this week, and no break from the regular stuff to give me time to get it done.” You blink into your pasta bowl, ashamed at the emotion bullying its way into your voice. Blame it on fatigue, you guess. “Every day when I get home from class, I have this impossible list of things to do, and it’s like, if I don’t finish, what’s going to happen? My grades will tank, and I won’t be able to get any of the good internships, and then I won’t get a job, and—”
“It’s okay.” Spencer’s voice is quiet, and you might keep going if not for the hand he sets on your wrist. His thumb strokes once over the delicate skin just below your palm. “It’s okay, just try to breathe for a second. Calm down.” 
You do, only because it’s him. When other people tell you to calm down, it’s a demand, a criticism of your display of feeling. When Spencer does it, it's an assurance. That you can relax, because he’s going to make it all right. 
“I failed three classes when I was in college,” he tells you. 
You imagine your eyes bulging all the way out of your head on cartoon springs, lolling towards the ground. “What?” 
He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “I didn’t like them. I never showed up to class, and eventually I just failed. I didn’t really care.” His mouth slants sheepishly. “I probably should have, but I still don’t, actually. You can get a job either way.” 
Your laugh is dry. “Spence, I think it’s a little different for genius prodigies.” 
“Not really,” he says, thumb still pressing into your wrist, and you finally realize he’s been taking your pulse. It’s strangely touching, the way he cares for you so quietly. “Even if you did fail these classes because of the assignments this week, the odds are actually pretty good that you could get a job. And you won’t fail, because you’ll still finish and the work will be great. I know you.” His long fingers stretch up your forearm, a caress. “I know you get really nervous about these things, but you’ll do better work if you sleep more. You’ll be more efficient.” 
“I can’t,” you admit quietly. 
A tiny, sympathetic crease appears between Spencer’s brows. “You can,” he promises. “I’ll make you some nighttime tea and we’ll make sure all the curtains are closed. We should turn off your alarms, too.” 
You bite your lip. “I have class in the morning.” 
“You can miss one. You have to miss a lot for it to really affect your grade, trust me.” He gives the base of your hand a little squeeze. “I’d know.” 
Your laugh is half breath, but Spencer smiles anyway. “Okay.” You’re giving in way too easily, but a morning spent in bed with your boyfriend sounds heavenly. “Thanks.” 
“You’re welcome,” he says sincerely, releasing your hand to pick up his fork. “We’ll go to bed once we finish this, okay? And I’ll pick up breakfast tacos for breakfast tomorrow. Protein is good for brain function.”
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asterias-record-shop · 10 months
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♫ 𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡… TASM!Peter Parker with the bingo prompt ‘himbo’?
alright, so the thing is I feel like peter is really book smart but he is so oblivious otherwise, like if someone flirts with him it goes completely over his head. so reader has been his best friend for years and recently has been trying to drop hints that she likes him, and eventually she gets fed up of him being so oblivious that she just kisses him and he gets all whiney and then they do the devils tango (i am so sorry i’m really awkward when requesting 😭) but could there also be a size and praise kink, as well as an oral fixation? (if you don’t feel comfy pls delete this!!)
i hope u have a good day/night 💕
—𓆩[my beautiful idiot]𓆪—
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𓆩[main masterlist]𓆪 𓆩[request/ask me something!]𓆪 𓆩[updated bingo card!]𓆪 𓆩[bingo masterlist]𓆪 𓆩[join the bingo taglist!]𓆪
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nvm anon honey i couldn't sleep without posting this, i hope you enjoy it!!!
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𓆩♡𓆪 CHARACTER - TASM! Peter Parker x Best Friend! Fem! Reader
𓆩♡𓆪 TYPE - fluff, smut
𓆩♡𓆪 WORD COUNT - 4.7K
𓆩♡𓆪 SUMMARY - You and Peter have been best friends for what seemed like eternity, and has been in love with you for what seemed like forever, but he’s not going to give up — no matter how much it seems like you don’t like him back. The kid you babysit though that is way too old to be babysat disagrees though, and tries to show him how much you were in love with him too.
𓆩♡𓆪 STORY WARNINGS - crossover time|| heavily inspired by this interview/edit with Will Poulter (love him so much) || cursing & foul language || mentions of violence || Peter gets hurt || whiny Peter is best Peter || smut warnings include oral, fingering, multiple orgasms, riding, praise, size kink, breeding kink, oral fixation, possessiveness, marking kink, biting, hickies, possibly more?
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Miles was a helpless bystander between the two of you. It never worked out, not whenever Peter was too stupidly in love with you he never saw the hints that you dropped.
“Peter, I’m telling you, she’s in love with you!” Miles wanted to strangle the other Spider-Man, very very violently.
“I don’t… I don’t think she is,” Peter mumbles, a pout on his lips as he swirled pasta around his fork, one that you often made because it was his favorite. Was that not hint enough? You knew his favorite fucking pasta! “I don’t think I’m her type.”
“Who’s type?” You walked into the living room, plate in hand full of the cream based pasta you made on the side.
“Yours! Your type!” Miles grins. “Your type.”
“My type?” You hummed, thinking as you tap your chin. “My type… would be smart. Handsome, funny. Nerdy,” you look over at Peter who was still pouting. “Loves pasta.”
Miles slurps up some of the noodles, nodding. “I wonder who that could be!”
“Yeah, I wonder,” Peter mumbles, face falling as he scooped pasta into his mouth. “I wonder.”
“Really? In this room?!” Miles yells, moving his hands to gesture around the apartment. “I wonder?!”
Peter looked around, eyes narrowing. “You like Miles?”
How the fuck could he be so stupid?
“That’s it! I’m done!” Miles stood, looking at you. “He’s hopeless! Completely and utterly hopeless!”
You sigh, standing up too. “I could’ve told you that.”
You go around the couch, taking Peter’s finished plate of food as his face scrunches. “Who’s hopeless?”
“Oh baby,” you leaned down, pressing a kiss to his stubbled cheek. He didn’t think much of it, you did kiss him on the cheek often. “You are. You’re such a himbo.”
“A what? What’s a himbo?”
“It’s like… a beautiful idiot,” you press another kiss to his cheek, pulling back his chestnut hair from his face. “You’re my beautiful idiot.”
He pours as you walk away, Miles shouting out a goodbye as you finish your food and start cleaning up the dishes.
He didn’t want to be your ‘beautiful idiot’ — he wanted to be yours, overall and absolutely, he wanted to tick every box you ever wanted, he wanted to be yours. If he could, he’d want you to mark him as yours for forever and eternity, he just wanted you. He wanted a mark on him that said you owned him, just like you owned his heart for what seemed like forever.
“Peter? Don’t you have to go on patrol?” You yell out, snapping Peter out of his thoughts.
“Yeah! Yeah, I’m going!” He goes into your room because he basically lived with you at this point, grabbing his suit and getting dressed with the door open.
“Peter?” You’re standing at the doorway, arms crossed as he stumbled into his suit, trying his best not to fall on his face. “Miles’ parents invited us over for dinner. I told them yes, you promise not to be late?”
“Yeah, I promise,” he grunted breathlessly as he quickly finished putting on his suit, looking around. “Where’s my mask?”
“Peter,” you say again, more stern this time as you walk over, bending down to pick up something from the ground. He froze when you stood in front of him, fixing his suit before handing him the mask. “Promise me you won’t be late.”
He smiled down at you, wide and his honey brown eyes shining. “I promise. Do I dress nice or casual?”
“Nicer than casual,” you say with a sigh, your hands rubbing against his chest to flatten out the suit, thinking about the fact he wore nothing underneath it. “I’m going to go over there early to help Rio cook, but I need you there by seven. Did you hear that? By seven. Dinner starts at seven-thirty, but I need you there by seven.”
He smiled, leaning down teasingly. “Yes ma’am. Whatever you say, I’ll be there by seven.”
You sigh, a smile on your face as you pat his chest. “Be safe, and take care of Miles if he tags along, okay?”
“I will.”
You both stay there for a few seconds, his eyes staring at your lips as you worriedly push your hands through his hair. You did it often, so much so that it became something you didn’t have to think about doing, or it was something you did when you were nervous.
What you both did were couple things, why weren’t you together? It was because Peter was too much of a beautiful idiot to know otherwise.
“Promise me you’ll be safe, and protect Miles if he goes. Don’t eat on your patrol, Rio is making the best food ever. And you have to be there by seven.”
“I promise,” he pushed your hair back behind your ear, leaning down to press a firm kiss to your forehead. “I’ll see you at seven.”
“By seven!” You yell as he jumps out the window, sighing with a smile. “I swear, if you weren’t hot I would’ve stopped trying by now.”
It was seven-ten. Seven-fucking-ten. You helped Rio make arroz con gandules while she took care of the main course - chicken con sofrito - and she had also tasked you in making a grilled salsa. You were smashing it inside of the molcajete, the grinding and the scratching making Miles and his father wince.
“Y/N, honey do you want me to uhm… take over… that?” Jefferson asks as he comes closer to you.
“Nope,” you say as Rio dipped her fingers into the salsa and coughing. “Oh no, is it bad?”
“N-No,” she cleared her throat, coughing. “Just spicy, very spicy. Are you mad, honey?”
“You have no fucking clue,” you basically growled as Miles and Jefferson slowly stepped back.
“You have any clue where this kid is?” Jefferson whispers to Miles, looking over. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to eat that salsa.”
“I-I’ll find him,” Miles says, nodding. “Just… distract them.”
First, he checked your apartment. He looked around, searching for anything that would show Peter was home, and when he found nothing — it was to the streets he went. He changed quickly, already swinging out the window to find the beautiful idiot. It didn’t take him long, quickly going to their favorite spot and finding him lounging, snoring extremely loudly.
“Peter! Peter, what the hell are you doing?!” Miles slapped Peter through the mask, gasping when he saw the gashes and lacerations all over his body. “Holy shit, Peter!”
He snapped up, gasping as he looked around. “What time is it?”
“Like seven-thirty already dude!” He quickly looks around. “What happened?!”
“I was helping a bank robbery, got dammit, Y/N is going to kill me!” He tries to stand, groaning loudly as he holds his side.
“Stop moving! Stop! Y/N taught me how to stitch people up, just lay down!” Miles ordered the older Spider-Man, forcing him to lay back as he grabbed the medical supplies.
“There’s no point, they’ll heal soon enough, I need to get home. Y/N is going to kill me!” He quickly stood, the gashes already getting smaller and less deep. “Let’s go!”
Miles groans. “Am I the babysitter or you?!”
He swung after him, Peter quickly swinging into your room and looking through the dresser that held his clothes. “Oh, come on! Y/N moved my clothes around.”
“Y/N does your laundry?” Miles asks, groaning. “Do you not how in love with you she is?!”
“We switch on laundry duty! It was her weekend so I cooked,” he grabbed a button down, groaning. “Thank fuck she washed my favorite.”
He grabs some new underwear from the drawer, smiles face palming as he rushes to the restroom to get changed. “You're going to bleed through that!”
“No I’m not!” He yelled back, walking out in his new clothes. “I covered the stuff with gauzes.”
“Okay, go upstairs, I’m going to swing up to my room and change, alright?”
He nodded. “Right.”
They both went to Miles’ apartment in different ways, Peter knocking on the door and when it swung open, he smiled at you. You gasped when you saw his gashed face, quickly reaching up. “What happened?!”
“Bank robbery, I passed out on top of a building. So sorry I’m late.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, his hands settling on your waist. “Dinner going well?”
“I-I made a salsa, are you okay?” Your hands quickly cup his face, twisting and turning as you sigh. “Rio’s going to freak! God fuck, Peter!”
He laughed. “You have no reason to worry, honey. I’ll just say I… ran into a tree.”
“A tree?!”
“Look at that! Peter’s here!” Miles yelled, running forward. “Let’s eat!”
When everyone sat down at the dinner table, it was obvious something was a little off. “I uhm… how is work, Y/N?”
You clear your throat, nodding at Rio’s question. “It’s going really well! I’m really happy there.”
“Peter, you moved in with Y/N already?” Jefferson asked, scooping food into his mouth. “It’s about time.”
“What do you mean?” Peter paused his actions of stuffing his face, tilting his head like a confused puppy.
“Well… you both are dating, right?” Rio asked, looking over at Miles. “Mijo always told us you were…”
“No, we’re not,” you say, a sad smile on your face. “But Peter does basically live with me! He does my laundry, cooks, you know, normal stuff.”
“Normal… couple stuff,” Rio filled in. “You pay rent too?”
“I-I tried, but Y/N didn’t let me,” Peter says softly, shrugging. “She said that she didn’t need my help with it.”
It goes quiet for a minute before Miles laughs awkwardly. “Hey, guys! I passed my biology test!”
You smiled when Miles saved you both from the awkward moment, cheering as everyone continued to talk about how they knew Miles was going to pass. Peter wasn’t that into the conversation, he was extremely preoccupied.
You both did do a lot of couple stuff.
For fucks sake, you both even slept with each other. Why weren’t you both dating, why?
When dinner was done and a few drinks were put in after Rio forced Miles to go to bed, you both went back up to your shared apartment. You giggled as you opened the door, smiling back at him. “Do you want to watch a movie or go straight to sleep, what do you want to do?”
“Can I talk to you, Y/N?” He slowly takes your hand, pulling you toward your room.
You giggled, shrugging. “Well, straight to sleep it is then.”
He sat on the bed, parting his legs and pulling you between them making you giggle. “Everything okay?” You whisper, pushing his hair back as you leaned down to press your forehead to his. “I know something’s not. What’s up?”
“Why did you say we’re not dating?” He pouts up at you, a giggle falling from your lips. “Hey, it’s not funny! We… we do things that couples do, why aren’t we a couple? I know… I know you might not-”
“For fucks sake Peter, shut up.”
He gasped as you pulled his face up, your lips pressing to his as your nails softly press into his skin, soft but firm all at once. He groaned loudly, his hands pulling you closer before you pulled away, a whine falling from his lips. “What’re you doing?”
His words were almost slurred together even though the alcohol he drank had little to no effect on him. It makes you laugh as he leaned up, pressing more kisses to your lips before he pulled your body solidly against his own, fixing your position so that you sat on his lap and your hands were around his neck. “What baby, you don’t want me to stop kissing you?”
He hummed, shaking his head. “No, you can’t… ‘s unfair.”
You started to laugh even harder as he basically whined, trying to pull you down for more kisses. You hummed as he started to lay back, hands pushing through his hair. “I need you… I need you, Y/N.”
You rose a brow, rolling your hips into his. “Need? Need’s a big word, baby,” you respond, smiling down at him as he groaned into your neck. He shifts you both so that you were laying on your back, leaning down to keep kissing your lips.
He was addicted, now that he had one taste, he never wanted to stop. His tongue pushed into your mouth, desperately swirling his own around yours as you groaned into his mouth, the minute he pulled away was when you swallowed the mixed saliva gathered at the back of your throat. You hummed as he leaned down, his lips pressing to your for a quick kiss, going over and over again with small breaks in between.
“Peter,” you giggled, his mere hum the only proof he was listening. “Are you just going to kiss me or are you going to get a little adventurous?”
He pauses, tilting his head. “Adventurous?”
You laughed. “Fuck, my beautiful idiot,” you pulled him down for another kiss, your teeth grazing his deliciously making him groan before you pulled away. “You can put that mouth to better use somewhere else.”
He paused, his mind taking a minute to process. “Oh. Oh, yeah!”
You couldn’t help but laugh as he quickly pressed one last kiss to your lips before letting his lips slowly, slowly trail down your body while slipping off your clothes, his nimble fingers leaving a trail of fire on your now bare body. He paused as he stared down at you, his eyes dark and pupils blown as he inhaled.
“So fucking beautiful.”
His words make you groan, hands pushing your thighs apart as his head slowly pushes between them, his mouth already hot on your cunt. Your eyes rolled back, his tongue already exploring your wetness and his fingers pushing into your slit, smearing all of it up and down before settling it on your clit.
He wasted no time, groaning as your hands thread through his hair, holding onto his brown curls like the were handles and your thighs settling on his shoulders. He paused though, pulling away making you whine softly, head tilted again. “This is okay, right? I should’ve asked.”
Fuck, why was he so fucking adorable? “Yes honey, this is okay. More than okay.”
He smiled widely, biting his lip. “Good, because your cunt tastes even better than your mouth.”
You gasped as he pushed his face between your legs again, his lips latching on your clit as he pushed a finger inside of you. Your back arches, eyes widening before they roll back into your head, his finger pushing and pumping trying to find the right rhythm, teasing you. He gasps as you tug on his hair, pushing your hips up into his mouth as he groans against your clit, the vibrations making you shiver.
“F-Fuck, Peter.”
He hummed, enjoying the feeling of your cunt clamping down on his finger, curling it inside of you to feel your body writhe underneath his touch. His eyes roll back as a shiver runs down his back, groaning into your clit that he never let his mouth off of for too long, only shifting his head to get into a new angle. You tasted so fucking good, your swollen clit evidence of his torment, but there was something else. Something he couldn’t describe, he could feel you, all of you.
He could feel every clench of your walls, every shiver that ran up your back. He could hear every stutter of your breath, the skip of your heartbeat, every soft whimper you tried to hide as that one finger continues to find every pleasure spot that not even you knew existed. He could taste you with every lick, every suck of his mouth, his teeth even grazing your sensitive skin if he got too focused.
He finally pulls away from your clit, a thick string of saliva attaching your swollen bud of muscles to his lips, your hips bucking as he stares at your greedy cunt trying to suck his fingers back in every time he pulls out. He groans loudly as the shiver running down his back gets stronger, and the twisting of your stomach turns tight, your thighs shaking as your hips rut into his fingers until his mouth joins the actions of sucking on your entrance as another finger attempts to push into your pussy.
You gasped as your hips bucked without warning, your spongy walls enveloping both of his digits, and your mind blurring from how hard the orgasm hits you. Peter doesn’t even stop though, groans falling from his lips as he pulls out his fingers making you whine, your attempts to ride your hips into them failing. His tongue pushes into you though, a gasp leaving your lips as you automatically tighten your thighs around his head, not that he was complaining.
He could be like this for hours, his tongue pushing into you as his thumb rubbed circles into your overly-sensitive and swollen clit, hard but focused and his fingers pushed back into you. His tongue never stopped moving though, flicking and lapping, his mouth sucking and popping sensually against your pussy, groans that sent vibrations from your pussy straight to the growing knot in your stomach making you whine.
You had just cum, but it wasn’t like he had probably even cared about what it would do to your body, how sensitive it would make your body to every movement he made. His mouth sucked on the opening of your cunt, opening his mouth wide to push his tongue into you as your hips buck into his mouth. Your fingers tug on his hair, whimpering as he rolled your clit between his thumb and pointer with his other hand, his tongue thrusting into you as far as he could, an ache forming in his jaw as he tried to get his mouth anywhere and everywhere on your body.
He could feel the sparking along his spine again, your stomach clenching all over again as his fingers rubbed against that sensitive spot inside of you. His fingers twist, curling inside of you as he tries to push another finger into you, the stretch making you scream out as a shiver runs down his spine, a shaky groan leaving his lips as he swallows everything leaking out of your cunt.
He wanted more. He wanted to taste everything coming from your cunt, everything you had, just everything. He didn’t want to stop, his third digit pushing into you and the squelching filled his ears, his breathing heavy and panting into your cunt. His thumb continues its torment on your clit, rubbing and the shocks running through your body as your thighs shake and fingers shakily scratch against his scalp.
Your body was coated in sweat, stomach tight as his fingers edged you onto the climax of another orgasm, they always came quick after the first. Your body was sensitive all from him, your nipples hard and pebbled from the cold air of your room, bottom lip bitten raw from trying to hold back your moans before he squeezed at your clit - the only thing he needed to do to get you to start moaning out for him.
He loved the sounds you made, getting drunk off of your moans and whines combined with the taste of your arousal and your cunt making his dick hard and his senses overflow. He pushed his three fingers into you as deep as he could, all the way to his knuckles to watch your cunt convulse and feel those same sparks on his spine.
“Peter! Peter wait, Peter- fuck!”
Your third orgasm brought you to tears, vision going black as you squeezed your thighs together, hands gripping his chestnut curls as you tried to steady your breathing. He hummed into your cunt, softly patting your clit making you yelp in surprise, parting your legs to watch as he slowly pulled away. “Are you alright?”
You stared at him, almost dumbfounded. “Y-You… you just ate me out and made me cum three times and you’re asking if I’m alright?”
His brows furrowed as he leaned up, wiping his mouth before licking the back of his hand where all your juices went and kissing under your eyes. He was careful not to get too close to your actual eyes, just in case, only kissing where tears fell. “You’re crying. I don’t like it when you cry.”
You giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck after he slowly pulled off his shirt and tugged his pants down to his ankles before kicking them off. “I’m crying out of pleasure. You make me feel so good, Peter.”
He smiled widely down at you, leaning lower to press another kiss to your lips. “Well, I want to make you feel better. Especially with how good you’re making me feel, princess, you make me feel so good. Make me so happy.”
“W-Wait!” Your voice was loud, surprising him as he stared up at you in confusion.
“What’s wrong?”
“I-I… I want to ride you. Please?”
He pauses, but nods with a smile. “Alright. But you can’t be gentle. Don’t be gentle. I want it all.”
You nodded, laughing loudly as he twisted you both over, helping you steady yourself over his aching cock. It was long, thick and veiny, tip red and leaking precum in desperation as he whined, bucking his hips. You giggled, slowly wrapping your hand around his before he nodded and watched as you slowly sunk down.
You gasped, nodding as he slowly pushed into you, his head tilting back and his mouth falling open. Your eyes rolled back into your head, vision blurring as his girth stretched you out even more, every time you thought he bottomed out the more he kept pushing. You whined loudly, hands pushing against his chest as he groaned loudly, eyes wide as he tried to catch his breath.
His body was sheening with sweat, a smile blooming on his face as you dug your nails into his chest, scratching against his skin as you tried to compose himself. This is what he wanted when he wanted you to claim him, he wanted your nails to scratch on his body, your mouth to leave hickies and bite marks, he wanted to be yours.
He watched as you slowly started to bounce on his cock, his eyes staring at your bouncing tits before letting them wander down your body, staring at the bulge on your lower stomach. He hissed loudly as you got harder, fixing your position as your clit rubbed against his pelvis, eyes rolling back.
Your cunt felt just as good wrapped around his cock as it did wrapped around his tongue and fingers, every movement had it squelching and convulsing around his shaft, loud groans falling from his lips as his large hands settled on your hips, thumbs settling on that giant bulge on your stomach.
He watched your mouth fall open as you screamed out, fixing both of your positions to buck his hips up into you and watch your boys fall forward. He kept your body against his, flipping you both over to wrap his arm around your body and press his face into your neck, groaning loudly into your skin as your nails dragged against his back.
He thrusted as hard as he could, desperate to find his climax as your body bounced with this thrusts, loud moans leaving your lips with each thrust and his name falling from your lips over and over. “Yes baby, you’re doing so good. Your cunt is so fucking good baby, I love the way you feel around my dick,” he groans, gasping as your mouth pressed to his skin. “Fuck, fuck yes princess, I want to be covered in you. Want your hickies and your kisses, your scratches and your bites, I don’t care, I want to be covered in you.”
You obviously didn’t expect him to be so into marking, but of course, you weren’t going to say no. You sucked bright purple marks on his skin, digging your teeth into his shoulder to muffle your screams as the bed slammed into the wall, the squelching of your cunt and the slaps of skin against skin echoing against the wall was enough chorus of your sex.
You could feel his dick driving into the deepest parts of you, stretching your cunt so that if you looked down you could see the bulge that just seemed to be getting bigger and bigger. Your eyes rolled back as his fingers rubbed against your clit, whispers of praise falling from his tongue as those same sparks ran up his spine, his stupid little mind finally connecting the dots. “Are you about to cum? Are you about to cum baby?”
You nodded your head into his marked up neck, your tongue slowly licking against the bite mark on his neck as you whined into his neck. “Fuck, fuck Peter! Fuck, I can’t, I can’t!”
“Yes you can baby, you can,” he whispers, pulling away to hold your chin. “Look at me fucking you baby, don’t you want me to keep fucking you? I’ll make you feel better than you make me feel, I’ll fuck you so good. I’ll pump all my cum inside of you and you’ll be such a perfect girl for me and take all of it, right?”
Your eyes rolled back, mouth lulling open as you nodded mindlessly. “Yes! Yes, I will, I’ll take all of it!”
“Fuck, fuck Y/N, you don’t know how much I’ve wanted to cum inside of you, fill you up and watch all of my cum make your stomach bulge,” his voice gets huskier, almost like a growl as his thrusts get rougher, messier. “Fucking hell!”
You screamed this time, watching as he completely pulled out of you just to slam back in, your mind blurring as he continued to pull out and slam back in. You could feel your thighs shaking, that knot in your stomach threatening to break. “Peter, Peter! I’m going to cum, I need to cum!”
“No!” He whined, shaking his head as he started to get faster, his hips rough as his hands held your sides, eyes rolling back. “I’m gonna cum, cum with me. Please honey, I want to feel you, I need it.”
A final scream falls from your lips as he bottoms out, eyes rolling back and body shaking as your fourth orgasm absolutely blurred your mind, endless babbles leaving your lips as he panted above you. He stared down at your stomach, the bulge that shouldn’t have been able to get bigger successfully larger. “Fuck honey, look at what I did to your pretty tummy.”
You did, your mind still slightly hazy, but your mouth fell open when you saw the bulge and a whine fell from your lips. “Y-You’re still hard.”
He smiled. “It’s from the spider bite.”
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© asterias-record-shop
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powderblueblood · 2 months
Text
HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers
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CHAPTER NINE — EDDIE the OBVIOUS and the LADY SPHINX
PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT
summary: a tense dinner at rick lipton's place reveals some part of al munson's reason for returning to hawkins. your saturday morning detention is tense, and you and eddie both get more than you bargained for when you crash hellfire club to profile them for the school newspaper. content warnings: MINORS DNI AS ALWAYS warnings for smut, cunnilingus, dick-fondling, p in v, reference to drug usage, slight perv!eddie, silly teenagers having silly teenage fights that actually aren't so silly (kinda antagonistic ronance version!), reference to childhood physical abuse, al munson jumpscare, lacy's dad jumpscare, both lacy's real first name and surname is used in this chapter. no description of body type. just descriptions of a good time eye emoji eye emoji word count: 16.4k
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Dear Lord, 
Grant me the serenity to accept the shit I cannot change, the courage to change the shit I can, and the wisdom to seize a damn fine opportunity when I see one. 
Amen. 
When Al Munson cooks a spaghetti dinner, you know he means business. 
Once a line cook with aspirations higher than diner fumes, always a line cook with aspirations higher than diner fumes.
He learned to cook on the grill, but perfected it in the joint. During one of his stints, a homecoming tour of the state of Kentucky, he fell in with this web of wiseguys who made him stagiaire in their makeshift kitchen, slicing ghostly slivers of garlic with a razorblade. 
Al’s insisted on the method ever since. Even now, hunkered over in Rick Lipton’s kitchen, preparing a meal for which Eddie’s already lost his appetite. 
Eddie had already given up on the whole there are a bunch of knives right there suggestion, knowing his father loves few things like he loves performing his whole Kiss the Cook bit. He plays it to the hilt, an exercise in tart, rich, floral smarm that beats out the complex flavoring of his tomato gravy by a country fucking mile. Down to that bullshit Serenity Prayer. 
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“Courage to change the shit you can? Man, you can barely change your underwear!” Rick heartily chuckles, heaping pasta onto his plate. The way the noodles slide against each other, thick and glistening like worms full of nefarious promise, makes Eddie want to ralph. 
He hadn’t had much of an appetite for anything since he’d visited the nurse’s office. 
He felt weird. Strung out. Guilty. And angry. Guilty like, what got into me, why’d I do that and angry like, why’d I leave you just standing there like that, and why’d you let me.
“C’mon, kid, you look famished,” Al pulls that anger-inducing Cheshire Cat face, placing a solely ornamental leaf of basil on top of the dish Rick passes. This fucking asshole. These fucking assholes. In cahoots together. “Wayne’s Hungry Man dinners ain’t hittin’ the way they used to, huh?”
Al’s smile doesn’t slice through the tension of the room nearly as clean as he wants it to. Eddie feels Wayne stiffen at his right elbow, sees Rick divert his eyes from across the table.
“Well, Dad,” Eddie says, forcibly stabbing and winding his fork through the spaghetti, “You know what coulda solved that?”
“What’s that, huh?”
“You staying out of lockup for longer than the duration of an MC5 song.”
Al doesn’t falter. Eddie bets he could open-palm slap him and that shiteater of a grin wouldn’t slide from his face. 
“I’m here now, ain’t I?” his father clicks his tongue, digging right into his own dish, “You really gotta learn to live in the moment, kid.” 
Eddie’s spaghetti-filled mouth starts to form around the indignant words, I’m not a kid! but Al beats him to the punch. Quite literally. 
“Though, judgin’ by those scuffs on your knuckles, looks like you did somethin’ without thinkin’ it the whole way through first. Huh?” Al slurps his pasta noisily, and Eddie feels Wayne tense even more, if that’s possible. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
The sense memory of silver flashes colliding with Billy Hargrove’s face in the parking lot, the sense memory of you and your vicelike grip trying to pull him off before he killed him. The sense memory of bile blowing through his veins, stumbling upon those lowlifes talk to you like that. Rage blackout. Yadda yadda.
According to rumor, Hargrove was lucky that Eddie didn’t cave his entire cheek in. He still couldn’t totally see out of his right eye, the swelling was that gathered and insistent. 
Eddie lets the question droop in the air, before eventually mumbling, “S’nothing. Just– shit at school.”
Wayne had been the first one to ask him, obviously, catching sight of his bandaged hand when he came upon Eddie staring a hole into–you guessed it–yet another Murder, She Wrote rerun, following your encounter on the examination table. 
Eddie had given it the brush off so Wayne had given it the brush off. He was no stranger to his nephew bearing busted knuckles, even if it did make the old man’s blood chill every time he saw it. Those interactions always reeked of you poor kid, like Eddie was the perpetual victim. Got under Eddie’s skin a little.
But Al asks him like he knows something. And Rick won’t look at Eddie. 
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with your lovely new neighbor, would it?” Other shoe, meet short, hard drop. 
Eddie’s grip tightens around his fork, and in the back of his mind, he summons the spirit of the sharpest tongue he knows.
“Who?” He’s this close to prank calling people using his Lacy impression, that’s how good it’s gotten. 
Al cradles his cheek against his palm. His eyes, the eyes that might as well have been scooped out and shoved into Eddie’s skull, they’re such iris perfect replicas, search his son for cracks in his composure. Al stabs, stabs, stabs aimlessly into his dinner. 
“You’re a lot of things, Eddie Munson,” he says, “but you ain’t dumb.”
“Truly do not know what you’re yakkin’ about. Can I eat?” 
“Come on, Eddie boy! You out there getting into scuffles over that little gold-plated piece’ah something?”
“Can I eat?”
“A little forbidden flame, maybe, two’ah you?”
“Can I eat?”
“Can’t say I blame ya. If I were… twenty years younger.... Or maybe she likes ‘em a little more mature. Think I got a shot?” Al’s teeth are starting to grit, spittle starting to fly. Frenzied in the way he’s trying to eek a reaction out of his kid. “Huh? Eddie?”
Al’s lecherous suggestion of you toed the line of too much for the Munson men, it seems. Eddie and Wayne’s voices overlap. 
“Maybe we leave that girl out of this, Al–” “–can I eat, or what?”
SLAM! Al’s fist comes into direct contact with the hardwood of Rick’s dining room table, plates and cutlery and glasses clattering nervously. Rick jumps a little, groaning under his breath. Wayne drags a hand over his eyes. 
“You can answer the goddamn question! Shit!” 
Eddie, for his part, should probably feel a little scared, his dad raring up on him like that. Instead, he just lets his wound-up fork sag in a pile of spaghetti and leans back in his seat. The thing with Al Munson is this– his bark has always been way bigger than his bite. Especially when he’s as coked up as he is right now. 
Ever since he’d roared into Rick’s driveway in that eyesore of a muscle car (alright, it was a little cool– but in, like, a lame Dukes of Hazzard kinda way), Al had been operating in sharp angles and backed-up nostrils. 
Shit, Eddie would be shocked if there wasn’t residue on that razor blade he used to slice the garlic. That stupid, reckless, peacocking-as-a-father motherfucker. 
He folds his arms, waiting for Al’s tone to pitch on down, for the tremor in his hand to act up, for him to say–
“Sorry. Sorry,” pressed through a line of grit teeth, “I just… Hmm.” It’s like Al is actively trying to plaster the mask of his charming grin back on his face but it keeps slipping out of his fingers. “She’s a real dime. Smart as hell too, huh? Shame about–”
“Al, what’re you gettin’ at with all this?” Wayne asks, and thank god he does. Eddie doesn’t know how much more dancing around the subject he can take, but he won’t be the one to bend first. “What did you bring us up here for? And don’t–” the eldest of all Munson holds a hand up, “--say you just wanted to get together. I don’t buy it. Eddie sure doesn’t buy it. And if Lipton here buys it, he’s a fool.”
Al shrinks, a snot-nosed kid under the magnifying glass his big brother holds to him. “Wayne–”
“You bring us up here to make us part of that goddamn stupid high school feud with that girl’s father? You really spin out that far?”
It’s not often that Wayne speaks up, but when he does, boy. Can that man dress a situation down. 
Al falters. Wayne has that ability to knock him out at the knees, and Eddie makes a mental note to ask him how he does that. 
“Listen. Alright. It’s not– alright,” Al clenches his hands in fists, a flex in and a flex out. A gesture Eddie notices, because he does it too. As if he’s trying to grasp the last threads of trust from them. “With that girl’s old man permanently benched so to speak, there’s an opportunity for another batter to step up. Okay? Jail sentences get doled out like Halloween candy–who knows that better than me, right?--but life goes on. There is… an opportunity here. Work still needs to get done. Work that I could’ve– that I can do.”
Eddie knows that his dad doesn’t realize he’s saying a lot of nothing, because Al’s always saying a lot of nothing. Vague promises with no real end to them. What catches him this time around is the glint in his eye, hidden behind the drug-induced one, and the glint of a gaudy ring on his finger. A green gem stamped in the middle, like a cat’s harvested eyeball. Huh. 
“... let me make good on this, boys. For once. Let me take care of y’all.” Al huffs a faux-humble breath, glancing toward Rick for some kind of illustrative reassurance. “Y’know, seeing how it screwed up that little girl, seeing her big, upstanding daddy go to jail and all, I really–,” a swallow, for dramatic measure. Gunning for Best Actor here. “--felt it. Made me think, Eddie, of all the times when you were just a squirt… Made me wanna do right by you, is all.” 
“How much of that doin’ right have you got up your nose, Dad?” Eddie sneers, putting two and two together. Of course this is what he’s back for; not to sell, couldn’t possibly be that simple in the convoluted world of Al Munson, but to supply. To get a suit fitted, pretend to be the big man. “Try before you buy isn’t exactly the most cost-effective policy.” 
“Jesus, why, why have you got to make this so hard on me, kid?” Al is just about wringing his hands right now, scaling the apex of his desperation. “You have an in! You have the in!” 
The in, of course, being Eddie’s connection to you, and by proxy, your dad. Al’s like a bloodhound that way, sniffing out the few good things that Eddie has going for him from miles off and tearing them right from his hands and acting like he’s doing Eddie a favor by making him his man on the inside.
“This whole town could be ours if you would just–”
That does it. Eddie leaps from the table, chair clattering to Rick’s warped wooden floor.
“I don’t want this whole town, are you fucking crazy?!” he yells, spittle flying, “And–and I certainly don’t want it if it’s anything to do with you!”
What the hell would make Al think that Eddie would hitch his wagon (which, granted, ain’t in too great a shape–he’s barely passing any classes, thanks to a pickup in business he guesses he can thank his dad for) to the living sunk cost fallacy that his father is? What the hell does Al Munson want with that kind of fantasy, one where he’s king bastard of the Hawkins cockwalk when he can’t even stick within county limits for more than a couple of weeks?
Well, Eddie actually has a pretty good idea, one that occurs to him like a lightning strike as Al struggles to keep his temper level. Let Eddie look like the tantrum-throwing brat.
Yeah. Exactly. 
He’d wind Eddie into whatever scheme he was cooking up and ditch it, half-baked, leaving Eddie in a kitchen with all the smoke alarms going off. Elbow deep in an unsalvageable mess, because Al could never follow through on anything. 
He’d have Eddie exploit your relationship for a couple of instances of, “That’s my boy.” Because Al still thought that trick worked; making him believe he’s loved, valuable, wringing every last drop of loyalty out of him because a boy needs his father… and a father needs his boy, y’know!
Fuck that. 
“We should split.” It’s Wayne who says it, batting away the apologetic glance both the Munson men get from Rick– like he’s Al’s keeper or something, managing his moods. Like he isn’t raking in a cash cow from Al’s great Ray Doevski replacement theory. 
“No, c’mon–” Al half-heartedly protests, like he could still save the evening but can’t really be bothered. 
Wayne follows Eddie’s furious stalk out the door, tearing a cigarette from a soft pack as he hauls into the passenger side of the van. 
Eddie, a tightening ball of rage, whacks the steering wheel with one good thump. He’d been stupid enough to entertain Al these past couple of days– out of confusion more than anything else. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it were.
“The in,” Eddie mockingly mumbles as the van roars to life and he peels out against scattering gravel. 
Wayne has his cigarette pinched between his thumb and index and lets that settle for a beat or two. 
“You wanna talk about it?”
Fists flexing around the wheel, Eddie knows very well he’s been caught red-handed. There’s no way Wayne had gone this long without suspecting anything, even after he’d specifically warned him. More of a suggestion, actually; Wayne knows that Eddie will do whatever he wants, regardless. 
Unfortunately, he’s like his father that way. 
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Eddie says, a shoulder shrug, a mirthless lilt in his tone. “She…”
Again, Wayne stays silent. Waiting for Eddie to tell on himself, like he always does. 
“She doesn’t deserve to be in the middle of this,” Eddie arrives at, voice a little choked. “Whatever Dad’s planning on doing–”
“Neither do you,” Wayne reminds him. This is where Wayne and his stoicism pulls Eddie up short. Neither do you, and the only way you avoid the blowback is if you two avoid each other. But at that same time, Wayne always knows where Eddie’s heart is at. Knows that his heart is too big not to follow. 
Even if Wayne hasn’t seen you two together, laughing ‘til you’re stupid like the kids that you are, can’t he see…
“Why can’t this be easy?” Eddie asks, his voice small. Echoes of a littler him, one that Wayne would pick up in the truck after school. Head hanging, backpack trailing, kicking pebbles and cursing the world. 
Instead, through a sage swirl of smoke, Wayne’s hard stare seems to peel back some. He’s always known where Eddie’s heart is at. Eddie’s starting to think he wishes he knew less. 
Jesus Christ, are you ever sick of learning your lesson. Of reflecting on what you’ve done. 
It’s exhausting, and more to the point, pointless, and even more than that, boring. 
Truth is, you’re beginning to second-guess your adoration of brilliant thinkers. Those motherfuckers knew too much, and in the past week, you’ve found yourself yearning for the days where you got by on knowing nothing but the good stuff! The juicy gossip, where the best parties were at, what lipstick could not stand up to what nail polish! When intellectualism was a bedtime story you’d read to yourself under the fucking covers and you didn’t have to decode the labyrinth of your own stupid feelings! 
Sure, you felt like a husk most of the time, but you’d take that over this graceless stumbling shit!
You should be allowed to smash the windows out of Billy Hargrove’s car and no one should be able to say boo about it! God!
Instead, however, you’ve been caught up in an as-yet-unprecedented display of seething and sulking. People are still whispering about you, natch, glancing at your belly like you would’ve if that heinous spawnous prank was played on anyone else. At the very least, they still have the good sense to flinch when you match their stare.
Billy Hargrove’s two week suspension means you don’t have to worry about seeing his ugly face, but it also comes with the two week guarantee of not seeing Eddie. 
And the probable delay of your Hellfire article. Which is paramount. Obviously.
Speaking of Eddie, there’s too much speaking of Eddie to do. 
You keep replaying the sneak attack from Al Munson in your head, him sliding his aviators down his nose to get a look at you. 
“What are you doing here?” 
“Payin’ my respects. Your father, shit. Shame what happened to him. He was– well. I was gonna say he was a ‘good man’, but that sounds kinda funny, don’t it?”
It wasn’t about Eddie, except it was about Eddie, because every stupid thing is about Eddie.
Especially the fact that you’re sitting in your college-going beau’s chariot, about to slink into Saturday detention. If it weren’t for him…
“Lacy?” a voice calls from the driver’s seat. “You alright?”
You snap to, rearranging your face into something definitive and sharp and pleasing to the eye. Because you’re fine! You’d said as much when he snuck you into the basement of his parent’s house–why wasn’t he back in school yet–and said as much when he squirmed against you, asking you if you were okay in that weighted way that really meant can I put it in yet. 
You’d gotten on all fours because it allowed you to roll your eyes when he was all, oh, woah! sliding it in from the back. 
You’d reached around and teased your clit to attempt a climax. Trying to imitate that clumsy rhythm from the nurse’s office. It didn’t quite stick–paled in comparison, like a Simon and Garfunkel tribute act made up of people that didn’t secretly want to fuck each other. 
And then he gave you a ride this morning. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to bore yourself out of misbehavior– but you’d told him that you had newspaper business to attend to. 
“I’m fine,” you brightly declare for the fourth and final time, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. It was a weird gesture, but the shine had buffed off. He’s cute and all, but you two had gone to see Paris, Texas at the Hawk and he didn’t get it.
He didn’t get how much you clowned on him for not getting it afterwards either. You hadn’t been able to get it out of your head, the way he shrugged away from you at the diner as you ribbed him for his plodding misunderstanding of Harry Dean Stanton.
Coldly, you thought of the trade-off that you and Eddie had agreed on. Repo Man for Paris, Texas once it came out. You had to pretend you liked Repo Man a lot less than you actually did to swing that one, because Eddie wasn’t keen to lock in to some movie about a dude crying in the desert or whatever unless you angled in the fact that you owe me for making me sit through all that machismo. 
“You love machismo. You wanted to nail that sweaty little punker, I saw you squeezin’ your knees together.”
“For Emilio Estevez? Please. I had my eye on the old guy. ‘Ordinary fuckin’ people, I hate ‘em’--that kind of shit really does it for me, Munson, you know that.”
“That why you’ve been entertaining the pleasure of my company for so long?”
“Down, dog.”
Anyway. Fuck. 
“Listen, Lacy, I gotta tell you s–”
“Can’t right now! I’m already late and Fred is gonna have my head,” you chime, all saccharine, climbing out of the car. “Call me!” You pray that he doesn’t. 
Slam. What an extraordinary waste of time. 
As instructed, you make your way to the gym, which you think is a little weird. Detention usually denotes writing pointless, go-nowhere laments on how sorry you are for being such a bad kid, right? Think on your sins, yadda yadda yadda. 
Typically enough, no one’s here on time. Everyone’s late. You’re perched on the bleachers like an asshole, sitting alone like an asshole. That’s the goddamn ticket, isn’t it? You’re alone in all of this. You always have been. 
Like, for example. The Al Munson walk-on role into the surrealist tragi-comedy that is your fucking life. You can’t tell that to anybody. Not Eddie, naturally, not your mom, not Nancy because then you’d have to explain the continued and complicated Eddie of it all, not Ronnie because just because. And the ickiness of it hangs off your every move, and you can’t shake it, and no one can share it. 
You’re beginning to wonder if that’s true of all the parts of you. The ickiness. It’s all a little heavy, isn’t it? 
As if on cue, hearing ickiness called by name on the wind, Mr Kaminsky pushes open the gym’s double doors. 
“Oh, what the fuck.”
“Had to see it for myself.” Your loathed History teacher says, full of glee.
“Sir, if this is some kind of elaborate courting ritual, I have to say, you’re not my type.”
“Careful up there, Doevski. There’s more detentions where this came from.”
“Freak accident. I can’t be caged.”
“Well, let me enjoy the exception to the rule!” Kaminsky claps, and you jerk at the echo. 
You sigh so hard you almost unlatch something. “What elaborate torture have you got planned for me today? Want me to run laps or something? Because these shoes aren’t built for that.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Lacy,” the teacher digs, “We’re still waiting on your comrades.”
“I’m late, I’m late, I know I’m late!” a familiar voice comes skidding right up behind Kaminsky, baseball hat askew, mud stains on the knees of her overalls. “Some goddamn lunatic tried to run me and my bike off the road–”
“Ronnie?”
“Hey, Lacy!” she calls brightly and breathlessly, slamming herself down on the bleachers beside you.
“Ron, what’re you–”
An unmistakable heel-click rounds its way into the gym, and in walks Nancy Wheeler with her face all pinched like a porcelain doll. She receives your big ol’ center-piece-missing jigsaw puzzle of a look with a knowingly arched eyebrow.
“You’re late, Wheeler,” Kaminsky tries, but Nancy’s already consulting her wristwatch. 
“Detention starts at nine sharp, right?” she says, impenetrable as always. “It’s 8:58.”
“Then can I have my admission of lateness struck from the record, actually?” Ronnie asks and Kaminsky shoots her a withering one, consulting his clipboard. 
“Alright, we got one more. Give it the goddamn two minutes, but then I’m bumping her to suspension. You wanna count it, Wheeler?” he scoffs. Wow, so he’s like a round the clock douchebag. To everybody. 
At what you only can assume is 8:59, the mismatched gangle of Robin Buckley comes slinking over the waxed floor, looking half-awake and pissed off–more pissed off, you might argue, now that she registers her company. She perches on the furthest end of the bleachers, pointedly away from the loose gaggle of you, Ronnie and Nancy. 
You shoot Ronnie a look like, what’s the sitch there? Thought you two were getting all bosomy. 
Ronnie just shrugs. 
“Alright!” Kaminsky claps the clipboard again, “So, this is a fun group. Bunch of smart girls who got caught doing idiot stuff. We’re gonna make you pay for that today. Sound good?”
The whole bad bunch of you just stare at him, slit-eyed. 
Your collective punishment, as it turns out, comes in the form of scraping old, disgusting, errant gum and other mystery sticky bullshit from the bottom of the bleachers. 
“Stupid is as stupid does,” Kaminsky sagely says, handing you each a tiny chisel from the art room, “And I understand that some of you are violent offenders,” that’s a pointed look at you and Ronnie, by the way, “but please. Don’t use this opportunity to take another girl’s eye out. Your community college acceptance is riding on it.” 
Motherfucker. Everyone knows Ronnie Ecker is in the running for valedictorian.
He leaves the four of you to your own devices, promising to check up on you all in a solid forty-five. 
“How many times you think he can beat off in forty-five minutes?” Ronnie immediately asks as the teacher disappears through the door. 
“Depends. Is he doing it in the shameful privacy of his three-door rust bucket or the clandestine confines of the AV room?” you question. 
Nancy makes a gagging sound but adds, “And is he using his imagination or Ms Kelley’s yearbook picture?” 
Nasty Wheeler! That girl has truly endeared herself to you.
Robin, however, doesn’t weigh in at all. She just sort of glares and angles herself onto the nearest bleacher rung to start scraping the age-old mastication from the wood. Tension in the air.
“Buckley’s got the right idea,” you say, twirling the chisel in your fingers, “Sooner we get started, sooner we get the grossness over with…”
Ronnie sticks close by you, which is nice. You always like having her in proximity. Nancy, who’s nothing but work ethic in everything she does, starts furiously working on a corner a little ways away from you both– and Robin. 
It doesn’t take long, maybe fifteen minutes of silent, resigned scraping, for you to get bored. And disgusted. 
“At what point do we get to do the whole prison thing of what are you in for?” you say, sitting up and letting the blood rush back to your head. 
“Well, yours goes without saying,” Ronnie chuckles, “going all batter on Hargrove’s car like that. Did you actually bust a window?”
“Just swung it around,” you say, driving your heel into the bench, “I may have inherited the felony misdemeanor gene, but I didn’t inherit getting caught. What about you?”
Ronnie flicks another gum wad off with her chisel, “Actually, you might wanna ask Wheeler about that.”
Your brow furrows. “Nance?” your voice rings down to the lower rungs, “Ronnie here says you were implicated in her detention-getting.”
“Yeah, um. Well, I heard about everything when you went–”
“--totally awesome psycho–”
“--in the parking lot and… I just. I wanted to clean up all that shit. From your locker. And then Nicole came by, smacking her stupid gum, and it kind of got ugly.”
Nicole. The irony of it, Nicole, gnashing out shittalk about you and Eddie in order to impress whatever unfortunate member of the wrestling squad she’d dug her press-ons into this week. Nicole, who’d already invaded Eddie’s territory, much to her apparent shame. 
What a majorette of a bitch.
You would’ve given anything to be ringside for this, her versus Nancy.
“You toed up to Nicole Summers?” a little pause, your voice goes smaller, “For me?”
Nancy sits up, her perm clouding around her. She points her chisel Ecker-ward.
“Ronnie was the one who smacked all her books out of her hand.”
Ronnie pffts. “Like she hasn’t done that to me a million times. Eye for an eye.” 
“Nicole wouldn’t even go near her on account of that one time she bit that one kid for catcalling her.”
“Oh, stop,” Ronnie’s gathering a blush, batting her hand all coquettish. 
“Wait, that was real?” you say, eyes darting between them, “I thought that was just some freak rumor we came up with.”
Rabid Ecker was one of the less clever nicknames your group of crown ghouls had come up with, so it obviously didn’t stick too long. 
“We?” Nancy scoffs, not mean.
“The royal ‘we’,” Robin Buckley drawls from her prostrate position on the bleachers. That sounds mean, the bite in her voice. 
Your hackles can’t help but rise at that cold snap in her tone. Does she have a fucking problem, or something? 
“And why are you here, Robin?” you call, hands knitting in your lap.
“I was with these bozos,” she says, a note-faithful mockery of your pointed voice, “For some godforsaken reason… and now I really wish I wasn’t.”
“Why’s that?” you press.
Nancy’s whole upper half tenses. “Robin–”
Robin’s chisel clatters on the bench, a toss made out of frustration. She looks to the three of you with pursed lips before letting loose. 
“Steve found out,” Robin says, “About the pregnancy test thing. In like, the worst way he could possibly find out, which is so goddamn unfair, unfair in the first place because of Nancy not telling him–like, I get it, your choice or whatever but you guys have been together for, like, a really significant period of time and you know how he feels about you–”
You and Ronnie can’t even get a breath in before Nancy rises from her seat, fingernails digging into tiny little fists at her side. She’s all spit and fury, she’s on Robin.
“Oh yeah, the worst way he could find out, Robin, the worst way which is that you blabbed to him!” Nancy yells, ricocheting around the gym, “‘Oh, I couldn’t help it, he asked me what was wrong and it all just came out–’ Give me a break! I mean, are you really that co-dependent that no one can tell you anything in confidence without you running to tell Steve?”
Robin’s face seizes in a snarl. “Are you really that stupid that you forgot to use protection with your long term boyfriend?”
“What is your problem?” Nancy’s voice whistles through her teeth, sheer exasperation, “How is this any of your business?”
“Should we stop this?” Ronnie whispers, with no intention of moving.
You shake your head in tiny, tiny increments, gossip monger past getting the best of you. “I kinda wanna see where this goes.”
“He is my friend, Nancy! And you broke his heart, dumping him right after– after–!”
Both your and Ronnie’s mouths drop into an ‘o’. You’re kind of disappointed–a big Wheeler-Harrington bust up and you weren’t first on the call list?! 
“Jesus, Robin!” Nancy spits, perm flying, stomping towards Robin, “Get a personality! Sublimating yourself onto Steve Harrington isn’t doing you any favors!”
“Why, Nancy? I thought you loved him.” What confusing wording.
“I–”
Okay, these two girls are walking right into shit you can’t take back territory. You and Ronnie rush the bleachers, breaking the negative space between them both. 
“Ladies! Break it up!” 
“You heard Kaminsky! We’re all holding chisels, this could get ugly fast!” 
You look to Nancy and her eyes are glistening. Reddening with the heat of anger and frustration. Robin’s jaw has hardened into a tough clinch, arms bound around her chest. Ronnie, she just lingers awkwardly, not quite knowing where to look. Your hand goes out to Nancy’s elbow, and she jerks away from you at first. 
“Let’s go. Come on.”
“We’re supposed to be chiseling,” Nancy seethes. Your eyes roll, no patience for this go-nowhere brat routine, and you lead her to the other end of the bleachers anyway. Saying something like, we’ll take one end, Ronnie and Robin take the other, we’ll get this shit cleared in no time.
Nancy starts working furiously, but that’s kind of not what you had in mind here.
“You broke up with Steve?” you ask, point blank. Like she’d ask you. 
She keeps chiseling for a few heavy, angry seconds. “I wasn’t gonna tell him, you know. I wasn’t gonna tell him, and we were gonna be fine. He could have lived without knowing. And then–fucking Buckley– and he had all these questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like why didn’t I tell him. And why was I so put out by the idea. Like, why didn’t I want to have his hypothetical baby at age seventeen… stupid shit like that.”
“He’s sensitive.”
“He’s a moron.”
“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” as if you didn’t have irrefutable proof in her favor. But that was the old Steve Harrington, wasn’t it? He’s meant to be some soft-hearted do-gooder dream boy now, right? 
“No, Lacy, he’s a moron,” Nancy hisses, spit flying again; you’ve never seen her like this. Blue eyes bold and frightening with conviction. “Why should I have to tell Steve about something like that if it’s just a big nothing? If I was never even actually pregnant or whatever? Why can’t I just have that to forget about myself? Why do I owe him part of every single goddamn decision I make about my life?” 
This is a bigger conversation, isn’t it? What you’d once regarded as poor Nancy and her perfect boyfriend, boo-fucking-hoo is now poor Nancy and her perfect boyfriend, stifled by his redemption.
“At least if he was still an asshole, I wouldn’t feel bad about breaking up with him. After all this.”
“Now it’s just like you’ve kicked a puppy.”
“Exactly.”
“What total bullshit.”
Nancy shoots the tiniest smile up at you, a stiff little nod bobbing her neck forward.
There’s a long beat as your focus reframes around Nancy. All the two of you wanted were lives of your own. Existences not indebted to anybody, good or bad. Shit.
“I’m the sublimator, by the way. I know that,” Nancy whispers, great big eyeballs glittering at you, “It’s easy to… fold into someone like Steve when, y’know… you’re not exactly likeable on your own. I just. I wanted to hurt her. She doesn’t deserve it. But I wanted to.” 
Her chisel gestures towards Robin, working alongside Ronnie in relative silence that Ronnie awkwardly tries to puncture.
You understand that. Wanting to hurt people after you feel like they’ve breached your trust. Even accidentally. And doing it. And the ugliness of the shame after, you’re familiar with that too.
You reach forward and brush a little lint off her collar. “Thanks for getting in trouble for me, by the way. With that stupid prank and everything.”
“What are you talking about?” she scoffs softly, “You covered for me. And you didn’t have to.”
“Hey,” you hold out your pinkie finger. It’s the least you can do. “Promise is a promise, right?”
The members of Hellfire Club gather in an awkward row, standing under the odd, warm glow of the drama room lights like a police lineup of suspects least likely to score a date to homecoming. Sorry, Ronnie. 
“What do you think,” you say, swiveling your focus to Jonathan, who’s standing there twice as awkwardly with his camera slung around his neck, “Should we take ‘em outside, make ‘em do Abbey Road?”
In the middle of it all sits the man who can’t help but be of the hour, what with the throne and the glowering and the gravitational pull. Eddie, slumped into that wild set piece left over from god knows what drama club production of, like, Henry VI or Pirates of Penzance or whatever, is so beyond unhappy with what’s unfolding in front of him. 
Good. 
Ronnie clearly hadn’t even fluffed him into the idea. Which she offered to do, when you’d hitched a ride home on the back of her bike after the tension of Saturday detention dissipated. You’d firmly nixed the idea, the sneak attack being the whole point of this thing. 
You’d also learned that a two week suspension was no way no how going to keep Eddie from sneaking in and running this Hellfire session, which meant your article wouldn’t be delayed after all.
So, nah. Good ol’ Ronnie, she just let you stalk in there with your notebook and your pen and your glasses and your Pentax-wielding Jonathan Byers, ready to entirely fuck up Eddie’s day, which gave him no opportunity to protest or call for embargo. Because if he did, it’d raise eyebrows of suspicion and everyone would be like, I thought you two were weird trailer park friends? Is something going on? Something emotionally incoherent and ambiguously erotic? Should we tell everyone? Should we call the Mayor?
“Capital idea,” Eddie says, not exactly to you, but to those in general attendance like he’s playing to the cheap seats, “Maybe I can mow them down in my van and save them from this torture.”
Your smile tightens and Eddie matches your expression, both your mouths straining against your skulls. Wisecracks will not save him. He should know that by now. 
“Let’s get a couple of the maestro while I excavate the disciples’ brains,” come the instructions and a swift pat to Jonathan’s shoulder. He flashes you a bewildered kind of look.
“Wh– how do you… want him?” 
Incredible phrasing. You glance at Eddie, but not really at him–not enough that he can register and sucker your gaze in. Bathed under the dramatic glow like he was born to sprawl all cock-kneed on a throne like that.
“Exsanguinated and hung on a meat hook, preferably,” you say to Jonathan, “But, I trust you. Do whatever.”
As you gather the rest of the Hellfire denizens at the end of the table to interview them talking head style, Jonathan Byers slinks towards Eddie. 
Eddie shifts uncomfortably, less equipped to keep up that fuck you stormcloud persona when he’s at the other end of a focusing lens. Plus, Byers always kind of gave him the creeps. Not to be a dick, but. Here we are. 
Byers, to Eddie’s complete and utter horror, clears his throat and attempts to scrounge up some semblance of conversation. But, of course, it’s Jonathan Byers so it’s not fucking small talk. Any other day of the week, Eddie could get behind the notion of eschewing such how about this weather we’ve been having type social norms but Byers decides to jump in with–
“So you guys are…” he trails, leading the witness. Snap goes his little aperture. That’s unfair. Means he caught Eddie’s immediate facial reaction which, hands up, he has never been good at hiding. 
“Neighbors,” Eddie supplies in a rush, twisting on his throne again. “She can… hear me yelling about DnD from my trailer. S’why she’s here. To shut me up, I guess.”
Byers adjusts his stance, capturing Eddie from a lower angle– a little more badass looking, he hopes. Frame the fucking curls, for god’s sake.
“Gotcha journalism,” Byers quips. Byers quips. 
Eddie’s mouth relaxes and he huffs out a little, “Exactly.”
Byers shifts yet again, clearly covering all wondrous angles with his dinky little thirty-five millimetre whatever the fuck. 
It’s not that this whole sneak attack article for the Streak thing is getting under Eddie’s skin– Eddie didn’t even have a chance to acknowledge it getting under his skin. You just breezed in here and started sticking bamboo spikes under his fingernails, like the little warmongtrix you are. 
And now you’re sitting at the end of the game table, ruby red end of your fountain pen pointing at Gareth, noting down everything he says without even the slightest hint of condescension. These dorks are looking at you in awe and fear, save for Ronnie who just looks smug, and you’re listening to them. Really listening to them. Your face fixed with that hard little glare that tells him you’re recording the minutiae of their answers. 
Eddie digs the pad of his thumb into his lip. Why would you want to do this? Why aren’t you avoiding him at all human cost? What is your angle here?
“She’s cool, y’know.” Click, goes Byer’s camera again. “Lacy.”
Eddie’s voice comes out distant, his focus tugging away from you super, super slowly. 
“I heard you blew it with her.” 
Byers, caught off guard, lowers his lens. “She told you about that?”
Eddie shrugs, like it’s nothing. It’d be easier to pretend like the idea of you and Byers hanging out was nothing if Byers and Eddie weren’t both classified outsiders. 
“Well, uh,” Byers fiddles with something on his camera, shrugging in turn, “It was weird, talking to Lacy back then. You know. She was kind of–”
“She’s different now.” Eddie answers too fast, springing to a defense that didn’t call for him. He sits up a little bit straighter, spine iron-rodding, and tries to recover.  “I mean. She’s retired the whole icy Swatch rat bit. She’s not, like– pretending to be something.”
Jonathan gets this look on his face. One last click of the camera. 
“I wouldn’t know. I blew it, remember?” But you didn’t, man.
Little does he know. 
“Are we done?” Eddie says, launching himself from his chair and slapping palms on the table. His DM screen shakes. Byers steps back with a flared little danger zone! look tossed your way. “We’ve already lost–”
“--fifteen minutes of glorious game time?” you drawl, crossing a final ‘t’ in your notes. “Of course. My apologies. Tight schedule?” 
Your eyebrow arches as you flash your eyes up at him. His jaw flares. You– you’re good. You’re vicious and you’re good.
“Theee tightest,” Eddie grits through the falsest of grins and jerks his head, waves flying and the rest of his little Hellfire sheepies following in motion to take their seats. 
Ronnie takes her time, mumbling under her breath, “You sure this is a good idea?”
And she was right, with what she’d said before. You are using this as an excuse to get in his face–bolstered only by the fact that he had now gotten in your pants, and you weren’t letting him slink off that easy. Especially with the workplace cameo appearance from Al Munson that you had just been forced to live through. 
You’d been looking over your shoulder ever since, expecting to see him leering at you over those sickening aviator sunglasses. 
“Oh, I’m positive,” you assure her, turning to Jonathan. “I need, like, one or two shots of them playing then you can take off.” 
“Waiwaiwaiwaiwaiwaiwait,” Eddie interrupts, an arm raising over his head to signal halt, “Okay, so first, you storm the castle with your little camera boy without my approval, now you think you’re going to stay for the game?” His ire is genuine. “It’s Hellfire Club, Lacy. Members only. We don’t need bleacher bunnies.”
“Oh, come on, Munson!” you lilt, situating yourself on an abandoned desk, away from the game table. “The people want to know how the Satanic sausage is made.”
“The people being?” 
“Your critics and fans. What is this all for, if not to piss off Hawkins’ Presbyterian and garner a whole new legion of Hellfire acolytes, huh?”
“We don’t need any help from the press on that front.”
“Really?” You drag out your single-word answer, using the seconds to count the minimal amount of players in the room. Not even Ronnie could boast 100% attendance, with her marching band obligations clashing with Hellfire sessions. Eddie glares at you. Yeah, yeah. 
“A–actually, Eddie… I think it’d be… pretty cool,” Gareth says, waver slowly fading out of his voice. “I mean, if we’re in the school paper, my Mom’ll be less suspicious that we’re like–”
“--doing k-bombs in the drama room…” you mutter, loud enough that only Jonathan can hear. 
“--and stuff.”
Eddie exhales so hard his nostrils flare, his shoulders tense, he’s about to shit. 
“And who else would like to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Gareth the Treacherous here?” he snarls, looking pointedly around the table, “Jeff? Dougie? Cyrus? Ecker?”
The dorks erupt in yapping agreement, totally swinging for Gareth’s angle. 
“Shut up!” Eddie barks, throwing himself back onto his throne. Ringed fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But this, in the business, is what they call a mutiny. Don’t come cryin’ to me when you’re all gettin’ swirlies with half of the Weekly Streak stuffed in your goddamn mouths.”
That’s creative. He really could have had a fruitful career as a bully if he wasn’t so gooey in the middle. 
“Munson, I promise you can ride circles around me on a motorbike on live TV if this all goes to shit.” 
You make a fluttering hand motion that reads proceed, which he, naturally, hates. He stares at you, like white light white heat searing through stares at you. And then his eyes shut. He takes a deep breath.
What follows is… exactly what you should have expected, actually.
Eddie Munson transports the present-and-correct party of adventurers back into the eye of their campaign. Their mission? Infiltrate a cult of royal knights that have been bewitched by a high priest who is forcing them to sacrifice the kingdom’s innocents in order to fuel his dastardly arcane magic. The plot is… involved. You’d done a light touch of research on how exactly the dragons and the dungeons all worked, so to speak, but it didn’t really seep into the membrane. It’s something you could only really engage with if you saw it in action– you’d have to rely on Eddie and company to fill in the blanks that the extensive lore left. Like, how exactly did these mythical dice come into play? How does a character sheet set you up for success, or failure? What the fuck is a skill check and why does it read so complicated? 
And fill in they… kind of did. 
Aside from the technical aspects, you find yourself suckered into the story. Quite literally, gripping your seat as Ronnie’s character–a highly capable bard, from what you understand–attempts to escape the hateful royal sect and find her way back to her party. They’d taken her hostage, and she’s managed to escape her chains but they’re ruthless, on her like dogs. Eddie illustrates every sweaty, panicky movement as they close in on her, and your fine, painted fingernails are dug into every word.
Eddie weaves these stories like gossamer– both in the sense of delicate intricacy and destructive nature of that big red monster thing from Looney Tunes. Each plot twist is created to elicit a sense of true foreboding, embellishing how effective his storytelling is. It forces each and every person at the table to face fear head on, dig deep and use what they were given in order to prevail, even if they’re shaking in their boots while doing it– shit, this is good, you should be writing this down.
Blindly, you sketch the word gossamer into your journal, not tearing your eyes away from the table. You barely notice the flash going off to your immediate right– Jonathan Byers’ lens pointed right at you. 
“Uh–” you start, Jonathan reaching to grab his jacket from behind you as the game goes on. 
“I’m headin’ out– gotta pick Will up from…” he trails off, but you fill in the blank. Nancy had mentioned that Mike was hosting his friends for a DnD session tonight too, and the party naturally included the most junior Byers. You nod, checking the time– Jesus, where had the last three hours gone?
“Tell Nancy I said hey, if you see her,” you say, “and thank you.”
Jonathan shrinks into himself, bashful. “Don’t worry about it.” A beat. “I still want that Echo & the Bunnymen, though.”
Your face peels into a grin that says don’t worry, I”m good for it! and you wave him off. The Hellfire party don’t even notice his leaving, except for Eddie who, being judge, jury and executioner, notices everything. 
“...and on that sweltering note, germies and Eckermen, we must bid each other good eventide. Until next time.” 
An operatic groan of disapproval goes up from the players, and you realize this must be a regular thing. Eddie always leaving them wanting more. Tease. 
“I know, I know, if you had it your way, you’d be locked in here, pissing in buckets and the show would go on all night,” Eddie jeers, rising from his seat to start collecting his stuff, “but I wouldn’t inflict that on the janitorial staff. ‘kay? Scat. Outta my sight.”
With great indignation that swiftly turns into backslaps of appreciation, the Hellfire Club moves out of the drama room one by one. You stay put, and Eddie avoids your eyes completely.
Folding shit back into that madly overstuffed DM folder, he throws a strained-casual, “Need a ride?” to Ronnie, the last straggler. 
She shakes her head, smile barely contained. “Uh-uh! Two wheeled my way here and I’ll two wheel my way back– you, uh, have fun though.”
“Bye, Ronnie,” you call after her, voice properly piercing through the air for the first time in hours. Eddie reacts like he’d completely forgotten you were there. Which, impossible. It’s also impossible for him to keep up the whole punk-ass overlord act when it’s just the two of you. As it is now.
Alone, together. Again. 
There’s a charge between you, as if that even needs pointing out. Like the electric fences surrounding McCorkle’s farm. 
You and the wagonful of your one-time buddies, Carol and Tommy and Tina et al, used to drive out there more than a little under the influence. Your favorite trespassing activity was reaching out for the electric fence, hooking your fingers around it to feel the darting shock permeating your skin. 
“What the fuck are you doing? Can’t that, like, fry your brain?” Carol’d ask you, slugging back the last of her beer as Tommy and Steve Harrington attempted to tip a cow in the background somewhere. 
“Try it, Care,” you’d giggled, half drunk and half coursing with adrenaline, half alive and half dead, “It feels weird. It feels good!” 
You’d woken up the next morning in your plush bedroom in Loch Nora, two little blisters on your fingers, smarting from all that pleasure seeking. Did you regret it? Or did it just make you want to do it again?
Eddie still doesn’t look at you as he speaks from the opposite end of the table. 
“Get everything you need?”  
“No,” you answer, short. “Missing my key interview.”
Now he looks. Now he has the nerve to. And irises lock on irises, Eddie frozen in place. He knows he’s not getting out of this. 
What’s more, you don’t think he really wants to.
“Pretty controversial subject matter,” he says, tone a whole shade softer than the commanding voice of God he’d used through the duration of the session. A little higher. Nervous. “What with the panic, and all.”
“Me and controversy are bedfellows,” your shoulder darts up, “I’m the big spoon.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nod; your tone is as marble-solid as ever, eyes trained and undarting, “Like when I implied the Tigers were straddling a generation-defining line of bold faced failure. I got in a lot of trouble for that.”
The corners of Eddie’s mouth twitch a little. “Define ‘a lot of trouble’ by your standards.”
“They made me print a retraction!” You’re genuinely incensed by the memory, hitching forward in your seat, “I mean, how insane? ‘Bad for school spirit,’ they said. Like I’m some kind of pep exorcist.”
Eddie tongue folds in between his teeth and he turns his head a split second too late. You can see him biting back a snicker, or something, and point to Lacy and yadda yadda yadda—but you smile, and the tension feels like it’s waning. Thank god, because it is suffocating you. You take your in and up you get, moving to the seat closest to his right-hand side.
“Can we get started?” The fountain pen is uncapped, the notebook cracked, your legs crossing. Eddie sinks back into the throne, his face warming up under the yellow stage lights.
“Okay. Hit me with your best shot.” Fire away.
You’re quick with it. “Why this?”
“Really? That’s your first question?” Eddie looks bemused.
“It’s the least rudimentary of all the Ws,” you explain nice and plainly, plucking up fingers to illustrate your points, “People know who you are–against their will, mostly. People can glean what the game is–or will, once I put a fine point on the… everything that just happened there. What people don’t get is why. Why indulge yourself in this?”
His fingers knit together in his lap, nearly shy.
“Because it’s fun.”
“Nope, too vague.”
“Vague?”
You physically knock the notion with a waving hand, leaning closer over the table, errant miniatures and spare pencils still scattered there.
“Basketball is fun. Chess club is fun. Throwing rocks into a rusted can of SpaghettiOs is fun if you can make a case for it. Too vague. Didn’t come here for the everyman answer.”
“What did you come here for?” That’s loaded. The way he’s daring himself to look at you is loaded. How soft his voice turns is loaded.
“The Munson answer.” It hangs in the air like someone dropped off the gallows. “Dig for me.”
A long, metastasizing beat. Resistance is futile, as it is and ever will be with you. Eddie hitches his arms across his chest, hiding a smile in the heel of his palm. Flattery works with him. Even if you'd never call this flattery. 
“Escape,” he eventually tells you.
“Go on,” you press.
“There is this… insatiability when it comes to fantasy. To stories like this, the kind with big, thriving worldscapes. Reading ‘em, even writing ‘em– it’s good, but it isn’t enough sometimes. Sometimes you want to wrap yourself up in the reality of elsewhere. Travel to a world where things are different.”
“But not idyllic.”
Eddie’s eyebrows pull together. 
“No. If these campaigns were just… the bad guys are defeated by a mighty sword that you and you alone always happen to have on you, that’s not a campaign. That’s a circle jerk.”
“The idea is to be challenged. To fight for something.”
“Right. To adventure. Beat the odds.”
“And you can’t do that alone.”
“Well, you can. I think that’s called, like, writing a book.” 
“Ohh-kay, Eddie…”
“No, no, no, I mean,” Eddie shakes his head, planting his elbows on the table top, “Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the thrill of the unknown? Of not knowing what the other characters are gonna do, or what sick twist the dastardly, brilliant DM is gonna pull out next?”
He’s on one now, so you don’t stop him. Eddie’s eye takes on that mercurial shine, the same one he had while he was cruise directing the campaign. You wonder when he got like this—got bit by the God complex bug. Here, he could dare people to defy him when he’d been the defiant one his whole life. 
You think about a littler him, yearning for escape. 
“It also doesn’t work if everyone wants to be a hero. Too many heroes spoil the stew, okay, so you need to find other, y’know, likeminded weirdos who fall into different alignments. Those alignments only work when they’re played off other characters. Your merry band of outlaws or pirates or underdogs or whoever. You work together, or you betray each other, or you come back together because of some mighty sworn oath and you see your mission through. It’s not about winning or losing, y’know? Whatever happens out there,” he gestures to beyond the barricade of the drama room doors, “doesn’t matter. Whether life’s beating the shit out of them or not, my little acolytes, as you call ‘em, sit at this table and they’re part of something bigger. Something thrilling. Magical. Alchemic. They’re part of–”
“--a team.” You think about a littler him, yearning for people to escape with.
Eddie flaps his ever-animated hands. “Not my phrasing. But.”
“That thread runs through it all,” you say, drawing a line down the center of your notes with the inactive end of your pen, “Teamwork. Belonging. Victory– an escape from the mundane to victory, especially when you can’t find it elsewhere.”
Eddie’s chin rests on the back of his hand as he squints at you. “Sounding a little sportsmanlike there, Lacy.”
“And?”
“Thought you weren’t pulling for the everyman answer.”
“A hook’s a hook’s a hook,” you quirk your eyebrows, “–and, when you put it that way—” 
“When you put it that way.”
“—what really makes you any different from, say, the Tigers?”
“Besides the cult of personality surrounding all jocks–”
“As if you don’t court your own little cult of personality—“
“—we actually win our campaigns.”
You start to retort, then stop. Letting that sink in.
“Oh. Oh, that’s good,” you say, sketching it down. 
“I foresee letters to the editor in your future,” Eddie says, and he’s smug about it. Anything to aggregate the status quo, no matter what the blowback might be. 
No one in their right mind here behaves like him. He just… does whatever he wants.
You find yourself wanting to touch the fence. 
And maybe it’s that you stare at him a beat or so too long, but Eddie shifts his gaze down to the wood grain, flexing his hand. Scabs still marring his knuckles and all. 
“It wasn’t broken or anything, then?” you ask, gesturing to his hand. 
Eddie looks back up with a drag. You can feel what’s coming.
“Oh no, it was shattered,” he tells you, eyes-wide earnest and lying through his teeth, “My bones just heal super fast. My mom, she ate a shit ton of canned spinach when I was in ute.”
“Right, the calcium—”
“Nah. Rare botulism side effect,” he shrugs like, whaddaya gonna do!
Dumbass. 
“Rare Botulism Side Effect is a good album title.”
“I’ll tell the guys.”
Silence falls again, and if you reach around, there’s something close to normalcy in there. Among the spikes and confusion. 
“Um,” Eddie’s face contorts into a tiny cringe, “I found out what the… what the prank was, by the way. I obviously wasn’t here to witness the whole masterpiece theater of it all but– but Ronnie told me.”
A tight and ugly feeling constricts your chest. You look away, nodding through a grimace. You’d opened your locker with the practiced caution of someone diffusing a bomb since that whole incident, which sucks as someone who derives real joy from slamming metal doors. 
“Pretty creative bit, huh?” is all you offer. 
“Almost too creative for Hargrove,” Eddie counters, uprighting a fallen miniature with one finger. 
“Are you trying to say I was being hysteric, jumping on his car?” It sounds like you’re offended, but. 
“No,” Eddie meets you right where you’re at with this sparkle framing his stare, “I’m saying it was probably a collaborative effort. You could go seek even more batshit revenge, if you wanted to.”
“And would you be there to stop me before I cut Carol Perkins’ breaks?” 
You can see Eddie biting his tongue between his teeth oh-so-lightly… Saliva catching in the low light. It’s warm in here. Stuffy. 
“Prob–” 
“I miss you.” 
You cut him off in such a harsh, unforgiving way that Eddie feels his words rammed back down his throat. He blinks a couple of times, tempted to shake his head to make sure he heard you right. But there you are, your sight line running clean through him. You couldn’t be talking to anybody else. 
“You do?” His voice is so small that his lips barely move. His lips, teased by his tongue, wetting them. 
“Don’t act brand new. Everything’s harder without you. You have to know that.” 
He gets snagged on the angles in your voice. By without you, he can only imagine you mean since he started giving you the cold shoulder and you started hitching rides in that college dork’s Ford Cortina. And by everything, he can only imagine…
“Lace…”
This is hard. This is horrible. This is uncomfortable and risky and as exposed as you have ever been, but it’s necessary.
“I can’t stand the tension of not being around you,” you say, breath feeling harsher as it speeds past your molars, “And I can’t stand the tension when I’m with you either, with you and wanting to–... so what do I do, Eddie?”
You focus on him, adjusting as if you were looking through the viewfinder of Jonathan’s Pentax. Eddie’s face, bewildered and angelic, with his parted mouth and his honorific glow of the stage lights haloing the frizz in his hair. He looks like something you want to commit to memory, as if to say see?! How could you deny this? 
You rise from your seat, ever the investigator, and bear over him with hands on the table. Cards on the table, too. A genuine question smarts in your mouth, too sour candy you have to spit out. 
“What do I do, Eddie?”
Eddie inhales with a sharp touch as you stand up, inspecting, demanding. He goes to tell you I don’t know… in the meekest of tones but the arch in your eyebrows says don’t you goddamn dare. You terrify him, and you make him dig. 
“Forget it. Forget about all of it,” he breathes, almost tasting your perfume, “We can reset. Blank slate. Pretend like we don’t know each other. Pretend like none of this ever happened. It’d be better. Safer. Easy. Right? We could totally do that. We’ve fooled everybody so far. Even ourselves, into thinking this was… we could...” 
“Fuck you,” you say in a soft rush. 
Eddie only realizes that you’re both smiling when you kiss him. It’s clumsy at first, teeth knocking and everything, your hands winding around his collar and your frigid fingertips finding his neck. The shock of your skin on his, the matchstick crack of your mouth on his propels Eddie onto his motherfucking feet. He leans over you, knocking you into the table as your tongue works its way deep into his mouth. 
You give him an, “Mm,” and if feels like an ascent to heaven.
Sparkles in the static makes the stuffiness evaporate, makes the room come alive. Your legs part to invite him closer to you, your hands faster and more insistent than his are. You pull at the hem of his Hellfire shirt and yank your head back, a string of saliva married between your mouths. 
Fingers are more bold than they were in the nurse’s office, weaving the leather out of Eddie’s belt buckle. A deep ridge etches between Eddie’s eyebrows and his hands are propped in a mid-air surrender. Your eyes, your everything fucking eyes, are weighted with want. And challenge. Because you always do have to get one up on him. 
“Reset this.” You tug at his zipper. “Tell me to stop.” 
“Lacy…” Eddie whispers, watching you pull at the waistband of his boxers with his mouth agape. He’d dreamt about this. Thought about this. His cock about jumps into your hand like you’re Snow White and it’s a goddamned hummingbird. Pen marks on your fingers. “Jesus, y–...”
Eddie’s arms angle up behind his head, like a strung-up marionette, fabric of his shirt ghosting against his nipples in the stretch. This only makes him angle his hips further into you, eyelids flickering and his blood breaking the speed limit on its descent. Fuck, and then you fucking touch him– fingertips along the length of him, featherlight and goading. 
Eddie’s groan is broken, half-caught in his nose. You’re looking at him like he’s a bad puppy, like you’re teaching him a lesson in scolding masking adoration. You’re beautiful and he wants to tell you so, but it all comes out in a whimper. Your hand closes around his cock, thumb brushing rii-iii-iight along the ridge of his head.
“Tell me to stop,” you echo yourself, and you’re fascinated that it comes out sounding like you know what you’re doing. You don’t. You’ve never been thrust into a net of feeling like this, never had anyone look at you the way Eddie is now– like he’d throw himself on a bed of open flames for you, so long as you kept touching him. It’s drunkard-making. It’s a full headrush. The gradual glisten of his reddening head looks delicious to you. 
“Tell me to s–”
Grip tightens around him and Eddie moans from right in his sternum, his arms dropping to cradle around your head. He can’t believe he’s doing this, he can’t believe he’s fucking doing this but–
“Stop,” he gasps, fingers winding in your hair. His entire spinal cord is begging him to buck into your hand, your mouth, your anything, but he steels himself. “Stopstopstop, Lacy. Fuck– fuck.” 
Your eyes widen, cheek in his palm. “Really?” Said in the most painful, the most misread did I do something? lilted tone. Your hand doesn’t exactly go slack right away. 
“Yeah. Yes,” Eddie murmurs, eyes screwing closed and opening again, the most manual effort ever put behind a blink. “I c–I didn’t do this right, the first time. This is stupid. This is so stupid.”
And so your hands go, and you feel the anchor of your heart slowly dropping… But Eddie drops his face right down to yours. 
“You deserve… so much more than giving me a handy on school property,” he tells you, and feels almost coherent about it. “Hot as it is. Right out of my… nastiest dreams as it is.” 
Oh. Oh. The corners of your mouth pick up as Eddie presses his forehead to yours, just about evening out his breathing. 
“Had a premonition about this, didja?” The pressure of his face on yours, his breath on yours, his skin on yours. It’s nice.
“Came to me in a vision,” he grins, crooked. Slides his thumbs along your cheeks and kisses you, slowly and noisily. “I’m a prognosticator.” Tongue half in, half out your mouth. Your heartbeat sinks between your legs. In a good way. “Been known to prognosticate.” 
“Five dollar vocab word,” you mumble into his mouth, can’t help but push your body against him like a cat begging for attention. Eddie’s lips latch to the space right below your ear, a place where his mouth makes you feel like cymbals are clashing in your stomach.
“Come home with me,” he says, the note of pleading in his voice making your legs go numb. His nose and his lips dragging against the side of your neck, begging you to focus on the details and not the bigger picture. “Please.” A swallow. A beat. A ragged whisper. “... I missed you. Too. Y’know?”
“I do…” you sigh into his curls, readjusting his boxers, “actually need a ride… so.”
The van ride back to Forest Hills is tight with a tension that makes you both laugh, your mouth still buzzing from the kiss Eddie’d laid on you right before he’d helped you into the passenger seat. Even after he’d insisted you not touch him from the drama room to the parking lot, insisted because, “This thing,” he’d gestured to his crotch, his hard-on painfully zipped into submission, “this thing is gonna get me hauled over by the cops!”
“Don’t laugh!” you scold, mouth straining around the gleaming smile you’re suppressing, body all giddy. Voice ringing clear and high even over the cranked radio. Sabbath, naturally, Vol. 4. Wheels of Confusion sounds like treacle to you, mixed in with his laugh.
“I’m no-oo-oht!” Eddie says, syllables punctuated with chuckles, “I just– I am expressly escorting you back to my place! To, like, have sex with me!” His hands beat against the wheel, teeth sunk into that pretty bottom lip, giddy-upping so hard he actually does swerve the van a little.
“Woah!” you yelp, “Eddie, the road! You should’ve let me drive, you’re feral!” 
Eddie moon eyes at you, reaching over to pinch your chin. “Lace, please don’t get all sore about this, but I will never trust you behind the wheel of this van. She’s a delicate piece of machinery and you would drive her like it’s the demolition derby.”
Narrowed eyes and all, you kind of have to concede. You’ve never been the best behind the wheel, a road rageaholic, and if you were to add feeling as frisky as you do now on top of that sundae… you press Eddie’s DM binder into your lap a little harder. Down, girl. He doesn’t help, thumb stroking your chin and everything. 
“This is suh-rreal.”
“Stop zooming out so hard or I’m not gonna have sex with you!” You’re kidding. You’re so completely kidding. If he doesn’t touch you someplace lower than your neck soon, you’re going to disintegrate. 
But Eddie pauses. “Like, you don’t. Have to.” Panicky, freezy. Hastily pulling on his good guy hat. “You don’t– by the way. It’s whatever you want. Call timeout at any time. I know I’ve been kinda–”
“Eddie.” 
“...you still want to though, right?”
The giggling dies down as you edge closer and closer to your respective trailers, darkness washed over them like a swathe of dark blue paint. The lights in both trailers are out. Nobody home. Wayne, something about the weekend, something about overtime. Your mom… who knew. She’d been moving around in shadows more so than usual lately.
Everything out there is dimmed, except you two. Eddie doesn’t waste a second once the motor shuts off and the radio is silenced; he slams the driver door shut but the teensiest knot of hesitation tightens in your stomach before he reaches the passenger door. 
And then he reaches the passenger door, gathering you out of it and pushing you up against the side of the van. Snapping you out of it instantaneously using the bare force of his mouth against yours. 
“Eddie…” mumbled, your lips barely unstuck.
“Sorry. Shit, sorry. I just really like kissing you.” 
Something pops in your chest; he’s… Jesus, he’s so sweet. Coal-eyed and excitable and lovely, kissing you with nothing left to spare.
“Hey. Redirect,” you shiver, his fingertips pressing into your waist. “Come to my place.”
Eddie casts a wide glance back toward your double-wide. The forbidden castle. “Your… y–are you sure?”
“Sure that my bedsheets are cleaner than yours, yes.”  
He murmurs, “Bedsheets,” with a darkened gaze and a grunt. Bedsheets. You wanted him in your bedsheets. “Get your key. Get your key. Get your key before me and my dick have a shared brain hemorrhage.” 
That new lock doesn’t stick at all, thank god. 
Eddie, ordinarily, would nosily register all of his surroundings– he had an extremely barebones idea of your place, cast mostly in darkness like this, from that first night he’d driven you back from the fallout at Harrington’s. But he’s too busy nosily exploring your throat with his tongue, recording and archiving every breathy sound you make as you tug him toward your bedroom. 
Cardboard boxes still trip you up a couple times. Did you ever unpack, or what?
You break from his heady kiss, vision doubling, taking in a lungful of air as you push Eddie through the door. Spine flattens against it as it shuts, the noise drawing a little bit of sobriety into the room. You reach to hit the floor lamp on and your bedroom is illuminated in a soft, orange glow, a scarf thrown over the bulb to diffuse light. A half-effort to make you forget where you were sometimes. It works; the edges of everything softens, which is such a contrast to the definitive presence that he is.
Eddie’s chest is heaving. He attempts to get his bearings but he can barely get his eyes off of you, squirming ever-so-slightly, ever-so-sexily against the door. Like you’d captured him.
Lips swollen, watching you watch him from the door, he turns a little shy and turns to look at the ephemera around him instead. 
He’s standing in your bedroom.
You’re far more cluttered than he expected you to be. 
He expected pressed sheets and a pristine dressing table, like a prison cell designed by a set dresser from Dynasty. 
Well, that’s wrong, actually. He expected that of the Lacy people thought you were.
On the walls are a couple of tear-outs from the Rolling Stones he’d helped you liberate from your porch in Loch Nora, a mission you’d bought him breakfast for but didn’t have to. But mostly, every surface in the room is covered in piles. Piles of books, records, tapes, pens, jewelry, nail polish. And the clothes. They hung from everywhere, bursting out of your tiny closet space like bodies trying to escape. 
It’s confused in here; feels like someone who has unearthed parts of herself that she hasn’t been able to organize yet. Eddie wants to comb through it like a collector at a rarities market, he thinks, running a finger along the spine of a porcelain cat that sits on your dresser. 
“Place is filthy, cheerleader.”
“You’d know about mess, freak.”
The only really neat, clear space is, fortunate for tonight’s entertainment purposes, the bed. 
As he’s sliding his jacket (jackets, plural) off, Eddie’s eye travels to the window. 
“Did you fix your blinds?” he asks, pivoting back and forth on his heel. 
“My blinds?” you parrot. The blinds that had been broken when you moved in. The ones that sure were shuttered now. You’d made a point to fix them with whatever was left out of your first paycheck from the Bookstore. “How’d you know about my blinds?”
He could’ve lied, if he caught himself quicker. If he didn’t straighten up his back like someone had snapped him to attention. “Uuh.” 
It dawns on you like a flashlight in the eyeballs. “Were you… watching me, Munson?”
Not spying, mind. Not peeping. Watching. Eddie sinks down to sit on the edge of your bed, because whether or not he’s ever going to get to be here again kind of hangs in the balance right now. 
“That. Dep…ends. What do you,” Please don’t kick him out. Please don’t kick him out. Look at the line of your fucking body as you round on him, staring him down like you want him for dinner. Christ, he hopes you want him for dinner.
Eddie swallows roughly, tone bumpy, face a dime store Halloween mask of nonchalance. Paper thin. “What do you think about that?”
Fact is, he’d subsisted on a couple of very guilty glimpses of you. Catching sight of the lines of your bare back and taught shoulders would keep him in jerk-off material for a week, just thinking about kneading out your knots and undoing your bra clasp with his teeth. 
Eddie felt positively Victorian about it. Maybe you’d flash an ankle at him next and he’d be institutionalized for hysterics. 
You look at him with the same pinpoint as you did earlier. Like you’re studying him. And then you edge closer, closer, nudging his knees apart. Echoes of the nurse’s office. 
But this isn’t the goddamn nurse’s office. You’re not straining to adapt to the element of surprise. You know that the breath Eddie takes, shuddering and wondrous as you tilt his chin up to look at you, is a sound you want on repeat for as long as you can bear to hear sounds. 
“They’ve blinded men for that, y’know? Before.”
Eddie can’t answer. Just let out a huh! as your fingers trace his jaw, thumb brushes his lip. His hands squeeze the curve of your ass, fingers beg into your thighs as he watches you, dumbstruck. His tongue unconsciously presses to the tip of your thumb and he hears your breath hitch.
A sustained shock travels up your neck.
“I mean, was it worth it?”
“Was it w… Lacy.” Eddie’s hands have breached the hem of your skirt and with a groan, his face burrows into the silken fabric of your shirt, like he’s trying to nudge it off with his nose or his mouth. Fingers are working mindlessly to loosen some article of clothing from your body and it makes you feel buzzy and trancelike. “Don’t ask stupid questions. I might have fuckin’ carpal tunnel because of you.”
Jesus. He makes you feel so…
Desired. Needed. You’ve never felt that way before, and you don’t quite know how to navigate it. So your buttons start coming undone with the work of one hand, the other shoving Eddie by the shoulder to lean back on your bed. 
Eddie, here, among all your things. Disparate in your shabby little dollhouse, looking at you like you just swallowed the sun. 
Your shirt comes off, and Eddie, in a game of match point, tugs his off too. Pause comes over the both of you. You’d seen him shirtless before; shower-bare in his trailer when the first security breach happened, a crack in the containment whatever you were pretending your relationship to each other was–affable enemies, irritated acquaintances. He’d looked at you like an animal cornered, tendons tense under his tattooed skin and you’d wanted to drag a finger or two down the center of his chest. 
You didn’t, though. You’d sniped, asked where the cigarettes were. 
This is all one big case of making up for lost time.
You’ve been looking at him so long, bra strap slipping off your shoulder, that Eddie leans forward. As if to come get you. 
Remember me? I’m real. You can touch me. Touch me, please.
His warm arms pull you to him, pull you onto the bed, pull you against his lips. It’s gentler there; not as furtive. It says, hi, I’m here. Your arms, tugging him closer as he eases you beneath him say, good, I’ve been waiting. Eddie brushes his nose against yours, you laid down with your hair fanned out on the plush comforter. 
Both your pulses must have stuttered at the same time.
His smile is serene but you can feel his forearms trembling. “I feel like I’m gonna have a heart attack.”
“Don’t,” you tell him, very quietly while his hand nervously tries to find the zipper on your skirt, “I just got you back.”
Your hips lift to help him and you’re wiggling the thing off and you’re wiggling your tights off and he’s thrashing his jeans off only to land back between your parted legs with bouncing recoil from the mattress. Laughter biting in one another’s mouths. The nerves are teeming off him in waves and it makes you want to kiss him all over. 
The feeling housed in your body is different; not jittery, but struck somehow. This doesn’t feel like the way it usually feels, the way it does when you disappear into spare rooms at parties or the shadow of Skull Rock or hitch your leg up against the center console of someone’s shitty car. It doesn’t feel rote, like you’re doing it to stack up experience points– that is a Dungeons and Dragons term you found particularly interesting. How many bad tongue kisses had you accepted just to feel like you’re progressing, instead of waiting for someone who wants to taste you like Eddie does? 
Your bodies caged together, you feel the eager, hard, tragically clothed line of him rub against your center. Eddie manages to free your bra clasp on the first try, which you almost goadingly applaud him for–but he cuts you short with a bewitched stare, his lovely, hot mouth laving over your nipple as he slips the fabric away. It tears the first real moan from you, your back arching into his kneading fingers as his tongue curves over your tightening bud. 
Eddie can’t believe what he’s hearing. He can barely see straight, but he’s trying to commit every second of this to a glorious Technicolor memory, sound and image capturing working overtime. The sound that comes from your beautiful, balmy mouth sounds fresh out the packet–like you’d never made it for anyone before. The look of suppressed surprise on your face confirms as much and Eddie feels like he might explode. 
He, too, has no idea what he’s doing but he can’t help his hips from jerking into you as he plays on. Playing with your nipples, remembering that making them glisten with his spit will make you whimper, and so will kissing the center of your sternum. He’s watching wide-eyed and fascinated as your brow furrows and your legs tighten around him. He’s a wonderful student, when he wants to be.
Eddie is throbbing, and there’s too much cotton and lace between you. 
There’s also this other thing, and it comes out of him like word upchuck as you try to tease his boxers down around his hips using only your feet. 
“I oughta tell you,” Eddie whispers, voice all raspy, all boyish with his hair tickling your collarbone, “I’m, uh. I’m not good at this.”
“At what?” He’s got one hand roaming over your chest, the other making indents in the meat of your thigh. It feels like he’s holding your breath right in his hands.
A new shade of pink rises high in Eddie’s already straining cheeks. He really doesn’t want to have to use his words to spell it out. “Thiii-iiss.”
Oh. A rivulet of cold realization runs through you. Nicole. Cass. Girls daring themselves to get near to him. Experience points. The great freak experiment project. 
“This isn’t that.” Your hands hold his chin, perhaps a little roughly, to make sure he’s listening. And Eddie is, breath baited. You press your forehead to his like he pressed his forehead to yours. “It’s not.”
He’s really about to ask you, what is it, then? but that feels like something you can work out later. Eddie lets you tug at his lips and you let him tug at your panties, arching up so you can wiggle them down your legs. His eyes cast to the downy hair at your mound, and it’d usually occur to you to apologize for your unshaven legs, as if it mattered. 
But the way he regards you doesn’t call for that; it calls for you to open up for him. Spread.
A rough pad of a finger runs along your slit, feeling the generous drip that’s gathered, and Eddie moans as your breath hitches into an animalistic, “hahh!”-- he’s edging down your body to bury his face there. He wants to feel you, smell you, taste you. You tense at the sudden contact of his palms pressing your thighs open, his nose against your clit and he feels it. A jolt of worry passes through him. Did you not want that? “Sorry–”
“Don’t– no, Eddie, don’t stop,” you strain, laugh a little, “You just… surprised me. Keep– keep surprising me. Please.” 
Shockwaves break through you as he gingerly offers his tongue. And more, and more, until he’s lapping at you with a vigor and no real direction. You dig against him, made speechless by the building ache in your core.
In your fantasies, you hadn’t anticipated him being so giving–so eager to please and explore. Like all things, this moment projected itself in your head with the hard edges of some imagined cockiness, Eddie telling you to spread your legs and you, nymphlike and fluid and still somehow holding all the indiscriminate ‘power’, doing so. 
But this? This is soft and messy and spitty and real. Eddie is drooling and babbling into your pussy with the uncalculated effect of someone who has improvised his whole life and it’s tearing you at the seams. A satisfying little rip, every keen movement he makes.
You know when you’re close to climax, that familiar feeling of your cunt suckling at nothing, but it doesn’t feel as jagged as the first time he brought you there. Urgently, you tug at his hair, claw at his shoulders, begging for his attention. 
“Eddie,” you gasp and his hands flex around your thighs at the sound of his name in your mouth. It’s yours, he wants to tell you, rutting heedlessly into the mattress from his position between your legs, keep it! Please! “Eddie, Eddie– come here, come to me.” 
Your velveteen voice summons him, his face glistening from the exploration of you. Embarrassment threatens to ping at you, but it flames into want, seeing how wet and obscene he looks. That’s all from you? 
Eddie does as he’s told, heart pounding– and the sensation of fabric dragging against the raw tip of his cock nearly makes him pass out. 
“Fuck! Fuck, you–” he stammers as your hand pulls his heavy length free, balls tightening under your firm touch, “N-not fuck you, obvi-ously, but–hunh–okay, kinda fuck you…”
Eddie’s lips fold against yours as he attempts, with shuddering arms, to brace himself over you. He whines at your dexterity, swiping his head against your entrance. The wetness from him, the wetness from you– the sheer impact of sensation slices clean through him. It’s not a tactic, you’re not teasing; you’re angling to get him inside you. You need to get him inside you, your entire body is begging for it. 
“Baby, please, please, I’m not gonna last–”
“Who said you had to?” you ask, voice a drop of dark syrup. Just for him. “Who said you had to?”
The earnestness in your eyes gives Eddie pause– for all of a pulsating second. 
“I want you… inside. Don’t you want to feel me?” you ask with real conviction, thumb swiping over his moistened head in a way that makes his vision go galactic. 
Eddie yanks your hand away, kissing roughly it, nailing it beside your head as he tries to ease into you. 
“Want? It’s all I want–fuck, it’s all I fucking think about, Lacy–huhh–”
His first attempt results in a gasp of pain– the sting, the stretch, it’s a little much a little fast. The sharpness has you wincing and has Eddie searching your face with an arrested kind of guilt.
“Y–shit, baby, are you–”
“I’m okay,” you recover, hand steadying on his flushed cheek. “Just–slower. Ease it in. You’re– you’re pretty remarkable, Eddie.” 
“Remarkable?” he mumbles against your cheek, focused and slowly lining his head against your entrance. “Really?”
“Prodigiou—ss, uhh–fuck!” Whispered swears come streaming from you as he sinks right into the velvety constraints of your cunt. 
Your eyes roll right back, mouth tipping open and the grip of you arresting around him makes him cry out into your chest. 
Eddie’s cock is long and heavy and thick, constricted to the point where you can nearly feel every ridge of him. It hurts, the stretch of him aches, but it’s delicious–pinned and sweetly painful.
“Prodigious–is a five dollar–fuckin’--vocab word–” he strains, lifting his hips ever so slightly– you’re clutched onto him so tight that you move with him. Eddie open-mouth groans against your neck. “Lacy, Jesus, you’re so tight–you feel so good–how the fuck do you feel so good? Who invented you?!” 
There’s a tinge of a giggle in your moaning, which doesn’t let up. Eddie’s voice rings out like a church bell, making one slow stroke inside you, then another. Then another, then another, picking up speed, groans chorusing into the hollow of your neck around the lewd sound of his flesh slapping against yours. The sound alone brings you close to cumming. “Oh, pleasepleaseplease, fuck, Lace, I’m g– fuck, I’m–”
The way Eddie’s hands are carving permanent marks into your hips, the way his movements are halting, you get the idea that… “You holding out on me?” you ask him, short of breath around your panting but demanding still, “Don’t you dare–don’t you dare.” 
“Lacy, uhh– please, ’mgonnafucking–”
“Cum for me? Are you?”
Your fingers tug at his curls so you can look at him as his face tenses. Eddie’s hair is flattened across his head, face glimmering with exertion. You drag your lips against his forehead, the salty flavor of sweat breaking across your tastebuds.
“For you, for you, shit, only for you–only for you, only fucking ever–fuck–”
His dark eyes have been blown out since he pulled you to the mattress, eyelids flickering over his irises as he pistons into you with speed that hurts but you love it. 
You barely hear yourself beginning a prayer of dirty little succors, but there it is, easing him through his orgasm as he shudders a load between your legs. “You feel like nothing on this fucking earth, you know that, you’re so good for me...” The tension breaks with one final rasping cry, his expression dissolving into a softness as he exhales a lungful, neck stretching to lean into your touch. 
A couple of half-cracked dry sobs escape him. 
Looking up at you, cradled against your shoulder, Eddie’s cursing himself for every second he’s wasted not doing this with you. 
And you, looking down, are stroking his damp curls from his forehead and cursing yourself. You’re going to burn the world down for this boy.
“Lacy. You–”
And then, y’know, the fucking front door of the trailer clicks. 
Little too much deja vu for your liking these days! 
Immediately, you seize upwards, jolting a confused Eddie with you– which breaks your heart, in a way, seeing him darty-eyed and shocked out of his bliss so fast. 
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.” These are not like your prior ‘fucks’, he can register through the haze of his post-nut state. These are bad fucks. So he responds in turn, “Fuck?”
“My mom!” You hiss, naked and scrambling. Panic crests on you like a wave, a wave that should have been an orgasm mind fucking you, and your fingernails tear at the comforter beneath you. 
“Under, under, gogogo!”
Because if there’s one thing your mother, in all her former-center-of-attention glory, loves to do? It’s enter a room uninvited. 
Case in fucking point–
“Lacy?” A perfunctory knuckle rap from the other side of the door, just as you manage to hide Eddie by shoving him behind you and tenting the comforter around you both. You’re praying to anything with a little more gusto than God that it works. And then, enter your mother and her cloud of Shalimar. 
Soon as she opens the door, you can tell something is terribly off. 
She’s smiling, face as serene as the Virgin Mary. Usually she’s got a sharpened dagger of a glare, just for you. Two of you haven’t been spending much quality time lately, see. 
“Lacy! What–” your mom’s brow knits, but it’s a look of amusement. Which freaks you out. She’s looking at your just-fucked-by-Eddie-Munson hair, isn’t she? The mascara that’s surely streaking down your face? Does she know? Can she sense he’s in this very room? “--what are you doing?”
“Napping. Crying. What does it look like?” you snap, hiking the comforter up a little further and begging that she doesn’t notice Eddie’s incriminating clothes strewn across the floor. 
Eddie, for his part, is not breathing. He’s crouched behind your bare ass, a position he’s in no rush to get out of, arms caged around your thighs like a petrified child. This is almost funny–or would be, if he wasn’t scared shitless of everything your mom would definitely do to him if she discovered him buck ass naked in your bed.
Dreamily, Eddie reminds himself that he’s buck ass naked, in your bed. He smiles into one of your cheeks and considers how biteable it is.  
“Well. Wrap it up,” your mom says, tone still light, and you twinge at the irony. At least you’re on the pill. “I have a surprise.”
Slam. Door shuts. Your lamp wobbles with the force of it and Eddie emerges from behind you, like a freshly-fucked groundhog. 
“She sounds happy,” he mumbles, arms sliding up around your waist. 
You want to kiss the mirth out his mouth but you have to shove him back behind you first– cue your mom, doubling back through the door. Jesus!
“What was that?”  
“Nothing!” you say, shortly and breathily because Eddie nips at your fucking ass cheek back there. “Just–you sound happy, mom!”
She shakes her head at you, a smile curving her tulip colored lips, like a mom from a detergent commercial. Y’know, were it not for the whole Italian widow getup she’s alway sporting. 
“Get on with it already.”
You count to a full five before you even let out a breath, snapping your attention back to reality and the fact that Eddie Munson is very naked in your very bed. 
“You gotta get out of here,” you tell him, and you want to kill yourself about it. 
The both of you balance on your knees. Eddie tugs you into him with shining, begging eyes. Standing almost at full attention again, already.
“Jesus, that thing’s impressive.”
Eddie’s fingers wind around the hair at the nape of your neck. Despite the brief jolt of fear from your little interruption just now, he’s all romance–totally suckered, rose-colored glasses, the whole bit. Thoughts not exactly creating a straight line just yet, but he doesn’t care. He’s had his hands all over you for the better part of an evening now, and he doesn’t want to let up just yet. It might kill him. It might kill him. 
There’s no unringing this bell between the two of you, and he knows that. 
And you knew it first, because you know everything first. 
“You sure?” he hums into your sweet lips, “You absolutely positive? Because I could be real, real quiet…”
Eddie’s also thrilled by the fact that he seems to know instinctively what to do to turn you on. 
“What if I don’t want you to be real, real quiet?”
You kiss him back, sighing and sliding a single finger down the length of his cock. 
“Lace…” he whimpers to you, his commandant fantasy of being dominant in the bedroom officially, officially escorted out back and shot. He wants to please you too badly. Be the jester in your court that makes you cackle and makes you cum.
“Lacy!” a shrill yell comes from the hall. Your eyes snap open, Eddie’s dancing with amusement and yours heaving with alarm. 
“Fuck, okay, go! Window!”
Another scramble, you tossing jeans and socks and the rest of Eddie’s uniform at him while you clean yourself off, try to pull a robe around yourself. A stray thought occurs to you as you watch him trip over himself, ripping the hole in his jeans a little further–you hate what he wears, but you love it on him. And off him. And…
You yank up those blinds and unlatch the window with a faint smile. Nothing about you two makes any conceivable sense–
Eddie starts out the window, shirt barely pulled down his torso and his shoes in his hands, then turns to hook you to him by the elbow. Smiling with the full blush of his mouth, he kisses you. Firm and knowing and whole. 
–except that. That makes sense.
The pad of his finger clears a lock of rumpled hair from your forehead. 
“To be continued?” Eddie searches your face, with those crazy dark brimming universes of eyes. 
Your heart is leaping in your ribcage. You nod sharply, gleaming back at him. 
“I’m comin’ back for you, Lacy Doevksi,” he tells you with all the brazen confidence he can muster. “And I am gonna go down on you until I drown. On pain of death, I swear it.”
“Go!” you command, and regret it as soon as he drops out of your bedroom window. Eddie starts a cant toward his trailer across the way. 
“Faster!” you hiss, just as an excuse to watch him. 
He pivots mid-jog, hair swinging wildly, his hand grabbing at his crotch. 
“You try runnin’ with a hard on! Witch!” 
It’s far, far, far too quiet once he’s escaped through the front door of his trailer.
It's not fair, you think. You should be basking in some kind of afterglow, sharing a stupid cliché cigarette, you feel like you should be... celebrating this.
You shouldn't have to keep running away from each other.
The warmth the two of you had created, through mere physical friction or just how much you… you like each other, rapidly dissipated into a chill as you advance through your bedroom door, to deal with the other thing.
Surprise, you thought, What kind of goddamn surprise could mother o'mine have for me? Did she boost a bank? Did she win the Indiana Sweepstakes? I don’t want to know about any g–
“Lorelei.”
The universe has a way of shoving you back in place when you get ahead of yourself.
You don’t just stop in your tracks, you’re repelled a half-step backwards. The centrifugal force urging you away, telling you there’s an immediate threat in the heart of your home. 
No one uses that name anymore. Not even him. Not since you were fourteen.
“Daddy.”
Your father sits at the shabby dinette that you and your mother don’t even share meals at, sits there in the suit he was sentenced in. A rich navy pinstripe, chosen because gray would have been too flashy and black would admit defeat. “Of course!” your mother had said, marveling at his ingenuity. But the pantomime of his defense was wearing real thin on you; whispering at school had started growing louder and louder and you were finding more and more chips in the porcelain of your father’s worldly facade. 
“Why not compromise. Wear charcoal,” you’d said, leaning against the kitchen counter in Loch Nora, drinking orange juice from your parents’ wedding crystal as the movers taped up your boxes, “You can plead guilty and still look smug about it.”
Your father had smacked the flute from your hand and it shattered in forty thousand pieces on the ground. You didn’t move, didn’t breathe, because you knew if you did, you’d be next. 
Navy it was. And navy it is. He sits at that dinette like he’s expecting white jacket service. You swear even more gray has started glimmering through his hair. Flashy. 
“Should I ask how you’re here?” you say, stiff and scared. Your mother, standing at your father’s shoulder, tuts and sighs. Can’t you just enjoy this? she silently bemoans.
“Good behavior,” Ray smiles, “Can’t say the same for you. Can I, Lorelei?”
“Principal Higgins called,” your mom chimes in, “Or rather, that odious little secretary called. You think you could get a Saturday detention and they just wouldn’t tell us?”
“That’s why he’s here?” You laugh a little, inwardly. “With all due respect, Daddy, that’s a terrible reason to break out of prison.”
To your surprise, your father chuckles too. Makes your blood run cold, obviously. 
“Y’know, I really didn’t anticipate this for my homecoming, I gotta tell you,” he says, shifting in his seat and plucking a cigarillo from his jacket pocket. “I mean, honestly. I thought, a nice bottle of Beaujolais–”
“We’re fresh out,” you gesture to your cringing mother.
“--a dinner at, Christ, Enzo’s, since that’s where our budget is at now,” his lighter flicks and ignites the end, “But no. I have to sit here and cross-examine my daughter about… fraternizing with the lowest of criminal elements.”
The lack of self awareness here is off the fucking charts. It makes your blood pressure spike.
“Take a seat, Lacy,” your father so gallantly gestures to the vinyl backed kitchen chair in front of him, “and tell me all about Eddie Munson.”
Chair drags aggressively against the linoleum. You sit, and swear that the next time you’re caught off guard by anyone’s father, it’d better be God himself. 
This bit is getting old.
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author's notes: so i'm not fucking around when i say i need to hear everyone's thoughts on what just happened immediately. i really do think that happenings-wise, this was my favourite chapter to write thus far. felt cathartic, from the al munson to the hellfire article of it all. anyway. onto the good stuff - like i feel like everyone who reads this series will have clocked this but of course i lifted the garlic slicing right out of goodfellas. i just think it's a perfect al munson attribute to have - al munson kicking out the jams instead of picking up his kid i know that's right - our dukes of hazzard ref is a tribute to my own personal al munson fancast - not that paris, texas but this paris, texas. (and you know when lacy eventually gets eddie to watch it he CRIES. they both cry) - i should probably put the repo man trailer in here as well - speaking of another fancast! the manager of forest hills trailer park is, of course, to me, in my heart, carl rodd. - the best song off of abbey road by the beatles, fight with the wall - SHOULD WE CALL THE MAYOR - lacy promising eddie that he can ride circles around her on a motor bike is a reference to hunter s thompson being ambushed on canadian television by one of the hells angels he wrote about in his book. dude rolls onto set on his hog. it's crazy. - eddie is kinda gossamer coded - cow tipping? at mccorkle's? anybody? our love is god - god wheels of confusion is kinda horny sounding huh i think that this might be the shortest references recap so far in the series?? one of them anyway. probably because i wrote 4k words of FILTH. anyway, thank you all so much for continuing to read this fucking thing. we're almost at the end of this part of the story which is wild to me. now let me get on your ass and remind you that REBLOGGING FICS IS ESSENTIAL TO YOUR FIC WRITERS HEALTH. SO ARE COMMENTS AND SO ARE ASKS so send those pls :) love you hellcats. be well, cats
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berrycherisher · 1 month
Text
˗ˏˋ 𝓑𝓮𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓻 𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓾𝓮𝓼 ˎˊ˗
𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 ˚ʚ 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 ɞ˚
•°`` ``°•
➵ rough price, oral fixation, oral sex, pnv, age gap too!
/ᐠ - ˕ -マ reader is 18 or older, a college student.
John is her dad's best friend. Dbf, so please don't read if that makes you uncomfortable. Age gap as well!!!!
Hide this post if you don't like it.
READ THE WARNINGS!!!!
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You weren't exactly known to be well behaved according to your father's friends. John had heard about how you were a brat, how you had so much attitude and other shit. He really didn't care though. Not that he should, wasn't his place to. Until he was made to basically babysit you.
You were old enough to take care of yourself, and you thought your father knew that when your dad and mom went out on vacation. You were asked to take care of the house, and he, for some reason, contacted one of his buddies to watch over you. John knew you for your rep between his friend circle. He didn't gossip or anything. He was an old man, he really had no enemies, but he did find himself questioning where his respect for women was when he saw you.
To be fair, you had shown up in quite the outfit. Little baby top with a tiny bow and a jean skirt that was just oh so short. You hadn't been expecting him, so when you walked up to your parents' house, you didn't expect the door to be opened for you. "Hey, sweetheart." He smiled, his rough voice making you even more confused. You didn't know John. Not at all, so why was he in your parents' house? "Who are you?" You said, completely ignoring his sweet greeting. You met him with a confused look, and he returned the same one.
Your father must not have told you. That old fucker. Curse him for putting him in this situation with the hottest girl ever. He felt like he was back in high school. "I'm your father's friend, john. He asked me to help watch over the house with ya'." He said with that same baritone voice. "Oh.. alright." You said flatly. You didn't like you dad's friends at all. You knew they talked about you, you knew most of them probably had been jerking it to your Instagram photos. You hoped John wasn't like that, but you doubted it.
Soon you got situated in the house after making a few trips to your car to retrieve stuff. John had offered to help multiple times, but each time you refused. John was starting to understand the whole attitude thing with you. Where you could have just been wanting to be nice and do things yourself, later on he was making dinner as he should. But one thing threw him off. He had made two servings of the food for you to have some, but you refused to eat it. And you instead made Ramen noodles instead of perfect pasta?
To say John was a little angry was an understatement. He sat across from you as you ate your 30 fucking cent Ramen instead of his perfectly good pasta? His pasta was delicious. You were just a defiant little brat.
You pulled out your phone, not wanting to start conversation as you slurped on the noodles, going on social media and what not.
"No phones. Put it away." Johns voices broke the silence painfully. You looked up before looking back at your phone. "Why? You're not my dad. We aren't even talking." Your voice had a defiant little edge to it. John knew exactly what you were doing, and he wasn't having it. "No. Put it away. I don't have to be your father to tell you what to do. Put the damn phone away." John's voice had more authority now. It had more of a 'test me' type of tone. But, you didn't want to listen. Why should you? You laughed softly, glancing up from your phone. "Make me."
John would infact make you. He stood up, the chair screeching against the wood flooring as he snatched your phone, putting it on the other side of the table in order for you not to get it. He glared down at you, pulling the Ramen bowl away as well. "You fucking listen to me, princess. You won't get away with this with me. If I have to make you suck my fuckin' cock I'll make you. Whatever it takes to shut that little mouth of yours and obey." He growled out. Staring daggers into you. The atmosphere changed. You weren't scared. Infact you thought it was kinda funny he wanted you to submit to him. To let him boss you around?? No way.
"Really?" You smirked, chuckling, clearly finding it funny. "Oh yeah. I'll show you, baby." A threatening tone clung to his voice as he pulled out your chair with ease, slight fear setting in. John was a large man. A large, fit, strong man. You weren't exactly strong. At all. You could hardly pick up that stuff from earlier. You couldn't defend yourself.
Suddenly, a hand grasped the back of your hair, pulling it painfully.. and dragging you out of your chair. You hit the floor on your knees, whimpering audibly as you were forced to look up at him. You hadn't payed any attention before.. but he was packing quite the large package too. With a big bulge in your face and a large man dominating you, you felt yourself begin to like it. "You'll see, sweetheart." He growled, undoing his belt with his free hand.. keeping you under him. "Maybe next time someone will listen.. yeah?" He said, tugging down his boxers as his belt clung against the flooring, his erect cock bouncing and grazing your face as you felt your mouth drool.
His cock was so thick and veiny.. long too. It almost sagged from its weight it looked like. He guided his cock over your lips, slapping it against them as a command for you to open your mouth. You did so obediently.. melting into his rough touch. He immediately pushed his cock in your hot wet pocket and stuffed it full while you hummed... unable to speak.
"Such a pretty little brat huh? Love this cock don't you, princess?" He smiled shoving your head farther on him as you gagged profusely.. your nose hitting his pubes as you looked up at him with those big eyes. You began to suck his cock, earning a groan and a moan from him as his tip abused the back of your throat.
He didn't stop. He didn't plan on stopping either. He kept fucking your throat for a solid 20 minutes and most before he finally stopped, pulling out and stroking himself quickly, groaning as he looked at your little grin, your mouth opening.. your tongue peeking out. He came right then, his cum spurting out onto your face and tongue, the bitter taste making you wince. Once he finished on your face, his fingers wiped it from your skin and onto your tongue. He forced you to taste his gross cum, making you suck on his fingers til all of it was gone.. until there was nothing to taste anymore.
He finally allowed you to get up. Before bending you over on the table. "I'm not done just yet, baby." He said, his hand immediately tugging down your skirt and panties, hands kneading your perfect ass. He groaned, already feeling himself hard again. You had to admit, he made you drip. Your pussy was soaked in your sweet nectar.. prepped for his big cock. Ready.
His hand came down quickly, swatting your ass with a little yelp from you as your ass stung. "Fuck. Please... please." You moaned, looking over your shoulder as he pumped his cock, the tip guiding to your folds. "Please what?" He said, eyes full of lust as he watched your pretty lips move. "Please fuck me.." you whined, and he quickly got on your request. His cock plunged inside you, stretching you significantly and painfully as you moaned, hands making fists as you tried to take it the best you could. "Oh my god...!" You cried. You squeezed him so tightly. Your little pussy practically dragged him right back in when he went in and out. It was addicting. How tight you were.. how perfect your pussy was. He couldn't get enough. Never..
Before he knew it he was ripping you apart. Respect had left a long time ago. He was too focused on coming he didn't even realize he was still inside you when he hit your spot repeatedly.. milking him of the cum he had to give. You moaned out, your legs shaking a bit from how hard he'd fucked you.. but oh how you loved it. You'd disobey any chance you got if this is the 'punishment.' For being such a...
"Fuckin' brat.." he groaned, pulling his cock out as his cum dripped out of you.. leaving you stuffed.
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Thanks for reading! Sorry if it's short I'm horrible at writing long stuff. This is my first fic. Please be kind if you don't mind!!!ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Pls be nice. I understand if this isn't your thing, I understand if you don't like it, I understand if this disgusts you. Instead of being mean and hateful block me.
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izvmimi · 4 months
Text
cw: slight angst. engagement mention. implied backstory - reader has a cursed technique, reader went to jujutsu high.
When Yuuta enters the french-style bistro café and you wave at him excitedly with both hands, the first thing his eyes are drawn to is the catching of light on the facets of your new engagement ring.
You notice this, too, and the thought of it makes you almost sheepish. Yuuta looks somewhat exhausted as always, dark circles a natural feature of his visage much like Kento’s harsh cheekbones or Megumi’s frown, but he smiles when he sees you, approaching quickly and taking a seat across from you.
You lean in, grinning. “I was worried you were going to ghost me!”
Yuuta offers you a soft smile. “I’ve never ghosted you, I’m just busy. I figure you know what that’s like once in a while?” 
You frown, deciding that you’re not exactly a fan of the jab, although it’s something to expect in your catching up. You’re usually the one who starts the teasing, and it’s been in that arrangement since your days together at Jujutsu High, but over time as your relationship developed, Yuuta became far more adept at teasing you back, and you realized quickly that you’re not as great at accepting what you dished out.
“I can still be busy without fighting curses 24/7,” you whine. “You know I was never meant for this shit.”
Yuuta doesn’t reply, instead turning his attention to the waitress who now that you’re no longer effectively being stood up, comes by to provide glasses of water. Yuuta orders a coffee and a sandwich, and you splurge with a pasta dish. 
“In the meantime, I guess I’ll just take all your missions,” he says flatly. You jut your lip out at him again.
“You’d think you’d actually be nice to me considering you haven’t seen me in person in six months, Yuuta-kun.”
Yuuta pauses, then tilts his head. He’s not exactly sure why he’s giving you such a hard time, but he won’t pretend any longer he doesn’t know why you called him out specifically. His eyes flash to the ring again. Your lips are still sealed but he can see the excitement practically on the tip of your tongue. Maki’s already told him over a week ago.
“Congratulations on your engagement, ___.”
You beam and thank him, and Yuuta remembers how quickly and easily you express your emotions, how fast you cry, how loud you laugh, and how bright the light in your eyes grows when you think of Yuuji. 
“I didn’t expect it, actually,” you add. Yuuta laughs as warmth sets in your cheeks and you wrinkle your nose.
“Considering you threatened to kill me if I killed him back then, I’d hope that this would be the outcome.”
You blink, and the scene returns to your mind. Yuuta squashing the ladybug curse you’ve sent to spy on him; you in angry tears pleading for your new friend’s life, for the absolution of a kind boy who liked you just a little too earnestly from the very first glance. You’d told him that night that the higher ups would use Yuuta to execute not just Yuuji, but the three of you  - you, Yuuta, Yuuji - the children whose executions were staved off by the same man, in one fell swoop. You’d told him he’d die too, even if you never developed the strength to become his executioner in turn.
“I still wish you had told me the truth,” you murmur. You’d said more than was right that night, thinking endlessly of whether or not your technique could really seal Rika if it came down to it, thinking of what it would be like to miss one of your best friends, but bygones are bygones.
“Probably should have.” Yuuta replies. His sandwich arrives and he thanks the waitress politely. You sprinkle black pepper heavily on your pasta before turning it on your fork. He bites into his sandwich and you watch him, slurping up your own noodles. Yuuta is quiet by nature, but this silence is heavily pregnant and makes you uncomfortable. The distance between you has grown, whether you like it or not.
You swallow your noodles and finally break the silence.
“Do you think I’m making a mistake, Yuuta-kun?” you ask, finally. Your voice is small now as if someone were to overhear you, enough that he just barely catches as he looks into his coffee mug, his reflection just barely visible on the surface of the drink. He looks up at you and forces his dark blue eyes to soften.
“Of course not.”
You breathe through your nose as your eyes meet his. “Is that all you think?”
Yuuta chews and swallows and holds your gaze.
“He loves you,” he replies, simply. You try to find a lie, a flicker of something repressed in his features, but find nothing. You’re not sure what exactly you’re looking for, but your heart stirs.
“I know,” you reply. 
There’s another pause. Then your shoulders sink.  You sigh and it’s light but Yuuta can tell when you’re trying not to cry.
“I don’t think my heart is a good enough match,”  you finally admit. Yuuta knows exactly what you mean by this - he understands your penchant for negativity more than Yuuji does, he knows what it’s like to feel darkness, something Yuuji constantly fights against. Yuuta’s hand moves slowly and pats yours on the table. It’s gentle and kind, but not intimate. He’s lost that right by now, and probably for good reason. 
“You’re the best thing that will ever happen to him, ___,” Yuuta reassures you. 
After all, you’re one of the best people he’s ever known.
A tear makes it past your lash line and you laugh, embarrassed as you pull your hand back to wipe it away. Yuuta thinks about how your hand feels to hold for just a few moments longer. He hasn’t held your hand ever, he thinks, but he knows Yuuji has. Many times over.
“I can’t believe I dragged you out to complain about my engagement,” you shake your head and slurp up more pasta. “I’m not talking any more for the next ten minutes, so you better tell me everything about Fukuoka.”
“Kill count first or sightseeing?” Yuuta jokes, and it makes you laugh. He smiles too, and fiddles with the ring on his own finger. Rika’s ring, a binding vow.
He hopes Yuuji’s curse of love will be strong enough to protect you forever.
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starrystevie · 1 year
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hi can I request the valentine prompt for steddie with: I could marry you right now
thank you :)
"i could marry you right now."
steve freezes, his fork halfway to his mouth, and looks at eddie over the candlelight. he has his eyes closed while he comically over-chews to show how much he loves the pasta with his curls bouncing around every time he turns his head for dramatic flair. eddie grins and opens his eyes, flashing a wink over to his boyfriend before taking another bite.
he knows his own eyes must be as big as the dinner plates on the table with eddie's words bouncing around in his now empty head. the ring box that's felt heavy in his pocket through the whole evening feels even heavier now.
"i take it it's good?" is all steve can come up with, muttering out the question before shoving his own forkful of fettucine into his mouth. it is good, he knows it is, he's been working on perfecting the recipe for weeks now. this whole valentine's day has been in the works for the last 4 months, starting with the dinner plans and ending with finally paying off the silver band that's currently burning a hole through his slacks.
"good? steve, i would have your babies if i could and tell them as soon as they're old enough that they are only here because of this pasta."
eddie slurps up a noodle and steve chokes on his own. something burns bright and fierce in his chest, like his last bite held a star that found a home in his heart.
he can see it, is what it is. he can see them with a couple of kids running around their too-small house, eddie chasing after them, curls of all different colors flying in the wind. he can see eddie shushing a tiny little thing in his arms while steve helps another with math homework at their kitchen table, something bubbling over on the stove. he can see all of them piling into their bed one stormy night, someone tucked under his arm and another curled up on his chest with eddie telling tall tales to scared faces in an attempt to distract them from the thunder booming outside. he can see it, and it's all he could ever possibly want.
"i love you," steve blurts out, suddenly a bit more teary than he expects. eddie looks up, his teasing face smoothing into something softer, something lovely.
"i love you too, baby."
steve's fork drops onto the plate with a loud crash as he fumbles to stand up on his hopefully still functioning legs. eddie startles and flinches but steve's there just like he always will be, a hand on his shoulder to sooth him back down. he bends down and places the smallest of kisses to eddie's lips, thumb stroking over the bit of skin at his collarbone that he can reach.
"i hope it's not just the pasta or the wine talking," he starts as he lowers himself to one knee, his free hand tugging out the velvety box from his pocket. it's now eddie who's eyes grow big and beautiful and god, steve could stay on his knees like this and look at him everyday for the rest of his life if eddie would just keep looking at him like that-
"steve," eddie breathes out, watery smile and all.
"you said you could marry me, so i hope the offer still stands."
the band is small, shiny silver with a few miniscule diamonds for eddie and alexandrites for steve inlayed in the vine going though the center of it. the candle light gleams off the gems sending broken specks of shimmering light to dance over eddie's flushed cheeks. the ring shakes in his hand as he pulls it out, holding it up for the love of this and every life to see.
the small but there nod eddie gives steve is the only answer he needs as he grabs eddie's hand, slipping the band onto the only finger it could ever fit, sealing it with a kiss that starts the rest of their lives.
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intrepidbeans · 3 days
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Pencils Down was such a fun episode of Game Changer, I just HAD to try some of the drawing challenges out! For each prompt, I set up whatever background I was drawing on, and then set a timer for 3 minutes and drew like the wind. I’m adding blank versions of each “canvas” at the end, so anyone who wants to can participate as well!
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LP Artistry (design and title a vinyl album cover for Sam): I was so happy to find this picture of Sam. I immediately knew I was going to make him a cheeky baby, basically the same exact energy he has as a gameshow host
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Tramp Stamps (think early 2000s and permanent regrets): When I think 2000s I think of tamagotchi, Nickelodeon, and classic commercials like the Quiznos rat-filled fever dream. Plus I can never pass up a good double entendre
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The Next Big Thing (pitch your best get-rich-quick idea): Hello, sharks. Aren’t you tired of reservedly nibbling your pasta for fear of staining your shirt? Well no more! Slurp safely and to your heart’s content with the Spa-guard-i ™️! The super easy, dinner plate-sized fork attachment that slides easily over any fork and shields your clothes from errant sauce splatters. Twirl your spaghetti without fear, with the Spa-guard-i™️!
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New Pokémon (design, name, and describe one power of a new Pokémon): Introducing Snide, a nosey little guy who’s not overly popular in social settings. Watch out for his physic attack, Passive-Aggression!
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Last-Minute Monster (the Dimension 20 needs a finale-worthy Big Bad and fast): For this one I used a fantasy villain name generator and got Duke Church. Following Brennan’s criteria of terrifying, emotionally resonant, and mechanically interesting, I concocted a monster who will appear toxically masculine, but in fact be uncomfortably submissive & masochistic. Duke Church is incredibly tone-deaf (terrifying), indicative of the dangers of enforcing a gender-binary (emotionally resonant), and he can’t be defeated with damage as that only makes him stronger/hornier (mechanically interesting)
This was so incredibly fun to do, I hope they do more Game Changer episodes like this in the future. Here are the blanks so you can play along yourself! 😊
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bby-deerling · 2 months
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How would a romantic Cooking-Date-Dinner with Killer look like 😍🍝 He maskes Pasta of course, maybe some Cuddling after the dessert.. 👀💕
happy birthday to mr. [redacted] "massacre soldier killer" [redacted] (i dream about your purple lipstick smeared on my [redacted])
dinner date (killer x reader)
masterlist || commissions (info)
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killer's two favorite things are cooking and spending quality time with you, and the opportunity to roll them both into one is too sweet to pass up! though he prefers basic spaghetti, he'll opt for something a bit more elaborate but not too time intensive—maybe a white wine sauce with garlic and shallots—and fresh, homemade bread. if you're up for it, the two of you can even make the pasta from scratch together!
for dessert he makes your favorite; he doesn't have the biggest sweet tooth, but he's down for the challenge to make whatever your heart desires just to see the appreciative grin that erupts on your face. it's a sweet moment that melts his heart—until kid bursts in and interrupts, and you both have to chase him out of the kitchen.
afterwards, he sneaks you away to his cabin and holds you close, softly stroking your hair as you enjoy each other's presence. times like these, in bed behind closed doors, are typically the only times you see his face without the mask—which he has to clean thoroughly after slurping pasta through the holes—and you treasure and soak in every second of seeing him uncovered. it's become a ritual of sorts that you smother his face in kisses when he removes it; he feigns mild annoyance, but truthfully, he wouldn't have it any other way.
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b4mpyre-k1zz3s · 3 months
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Lady and The Tramp-ing Pasta w the Jackass Guys HCs!
Johnny Knoxville X Gn!Reader, Bam Margera X Gn!Reader, Steve-O X Gn!Reader, Chris Pontius X Gn!Reader
Warnings: None!
An: One of my friends suggested that it would be funny to see the guys’ reactions to of Y/N asked them to do the spaghetti kiss from Lady and The Tramp, so of course I had to explore this idea! I’ve never written head cannons b4 so plz request more! I would love more practice :)
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It all started when your boyfriend decided to take you to a nice restaurant for Valentine’s Day- this cute little Italian place you had your eye on for a while.
So when your food arrived first, you got an idea,
“You know what’d be, like- really cute?”
Bam
He just stares at you incredulously as you tell him your idea
Before snatching your plate and sticking his fork in it! Oh that little shit.
Still, you can’t help but smile as you drag it back in front of you, “Oh, fuck you. That’s my spaghetti!”
Bam swallows a mouthful of noodles before parroting back your words, “Fuck you, that’s my spaghetti.”
The two of you go back and forth for a while- you’d take the plate back, he would take the plate after you
Even though it was pretty childish, both of you slowly fall into giggles
This all culminates when you grab a piece of garlic bread from the wire basket in the middle of the table and throw it at him, which Bam quickly nabs off of the table and bites a chunk off, ignoring the stares you got from the other patrons
Maybe you would have better luck going out to somewhere a little less refined, but you didn’t care
Wether it was a fancy restaurant or an all night diner, you and Bam couldn’t ever behave around eachother
Chris
Chris is the kind of guy who’d usually bring up this sort of goofy, romantic stuff first, but there’s no way in hell he’s saying no when you ask!
So before you can open your mouth, he’s already got half a strand of spaghetti hanging from his lips
Of course, he still is himself, so expect things to turn at least a little weird halfway through
Especially when he starts exaggeratedly moaning, “Mmm…spaghetti.”
You start laughing so hard you have to bite off the noodle and pull away so you won’t accidentally spit your dinner out
There’s nothing Chris loves more than making you smile so of course this just fuels him as that half grin spreads across his face
“You sure you don’t want some meatballs with your pasta? Maybe some sausage?”
And he hits you with that eyebrow raise
The whole dinner just devolves into the two of you laughing your asses off
Steve-O
Despite what one would assume, Steve could be quite the romantic!
That is, when he wanted to be
So of course he’s down for it when you suggest it, but there’s something going on behind those eyes you can’t really read
All seems to be going well at first
That is, until you feel the noodle slip right out of your lips
Confused, your eyes shoot open, and there is your boyfriend, slurping down the same noodle that was just in your mouth!
With a fucking smile
“Ugh! You are nasty!” You chuckle, playfully shoving him
Steve leans over, giving you a kiss on the cheek, “S’just the way you like me, baby.”
Wiping off the marinara sauce from your face, you smiled because he was totally right
Johnny
Oh, Johnny is the type of boyfriend to just eat this shit up!
He’s old movie levels of romantic, probably because that’s where he steals all of his flirty moves from
But he is all cool, twirling a bit of the pasta on his fork, “Sure, why not?”
Of all of the guys, he’d probably be the man to ask for this if you genuinely want a sweet moment
It starts really cute as you slowly get closer and closer to eachother
Until you get to that very last bit of pasta separating you and you’re so close you could feel his eyelashes on your cheeks
That’s when Johnny reaches out, grabbing the back of your head and pulling you into a kiss!
He’d linger a little after you pull away, smiling a little against your lips
Until the now embarased waiter that was waiting at the end of your table clears his throat, food in hand
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basu-shokikita · 1 month
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Dethentines 2024 Day 7
Will you be my Valentine?
Picture me arriving to the finish line wheezing and dying, 'cause that's me right now. I don't know why I thought that finishing the entries on the very same day of posting was a good idea but that's what ended up happening. Never again, hopefully.
Either way, here's my last entry for Dethentines, aka the one that matters the most because it's for Valentine's Day so I made an extra effort and you get a whooping +2k words for today. It's Skwistok, obviously, but the rest of Dethklok get a pretty decent amount of participation because I wanted to go out with a bang. Or try to.
Also, I'm linking to this song for no reason.
Thank you so much for organizing Dethentines this year! I had lots of fun and I'm happy to have managed to participate in all days ✨ See you around~
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“And then we does the things like-” Skwisgaar made a high pitched noise. “Like-” He made an explosion sound. “You gets?”
“Right, like-” Nathan made a deep growling noise. “And then-” A boing-like noise followed. “And then some more…”
“Ja!” Skwisgaar nodded enthusiastically. It was really easy to talk about music with Nathan, it’s like they read each other’s minds somehow. “We has to…”
Suddenly, Toki walked into the living room. He stopped right when he saw the two of them. Skwisgaar raised a hand to wave at him, a reluctant smile on his face. However, Toki only frowned in response and left.
“Uh-oh.” Nathan watched Toki’s silhouette slowly get smaller. “What did you do?”
“Eugh…” Skwisgaar let his arm drop on the couch. “He ams mads abouts Vals and Tines days.”
“Valentine’s Day?” Nathan repeated in confusion.
“Ja, he askeds if I wanteds to spends wif hims. Goes ons a dates togethors…dats stuff…”
Nathan waited a moment and, when Skwisgaar didn’t continue, he asked. “And what did you say?”
Skwisgaar winced a little. “I says it was fuckings stupids and jackoffs things whats we donts needs.”
“Woah!” Nathan sat back in shock. “Woah, Skwisgaar!”
“Whats? We ams alreadies togethers sorts of, okeys?” Skwisgaar shrugged. “And Valentines ams dildos” He mumbled. “ I don’ts gets it.”
“Yeah, but Toki likes that shit, remember? He’s, uh…” Nathan struggled to find a word that wouldn’t be offensive. “...Different.”
“Pfft.” Skwisgaar snorted. “Differents ams rights.”
“Besides…” Nathan’s eyes wandered to the living room. “I don’t think it’s that weird to want to do all romantic shit when you’re in love. Love might not be cool at all, but it is pretty brutal.”
Skwisgaar pouted, unable to refute Nathan on that. Discovering his feelings for Toki had been a pretty brutal experience. “I guess you ams rights.”
“You gotta apologize to him, dude.”
“Eugh.” Skwisgaar looked up to the ceiling, unable to find reasons against. 
They were having lunch and Toki was too busy finishing up his mountain of spaghetti to notice Skwisgaar had been staring at him for the past 5 minutes. It was late and there was nobody else in the kitchen but them. Well, besides the Klokateers.
Skwisgaar decided to make an attempt. “Toki?” He called him hesitantly.
Toki kept eating as if nothing had happened, slurping loudly and spreading cheese on the pasta like his life depended on it. Frankly, Skwisgaar wasn’t sure Toki had heard him or not.
“Toki?” He called him a second time.
Still nothing, Toki was gulping from his glass of water. “Mores, please!” He said, after slamming the glass on the table.
“Sire!” One Klokateer immediately appeared with a pitcher of water and filled Toki’s glass to the brim.
“Thank yous.” Toki said before he resumed eating.
“Tok-” Skwisgaar decided to cut the bullshit and sat on the seat next to Toki. There was a subtle acknowledgement, as Toki glanced to his side before returning his attention to his food. “Toki, listens.”  Skwisgaar said, gently placing his hand on Toki’s arm. 
Toki kept eating, completely unbothered.
Truth to be told, Skwisgaar wasn’t used to being this ignored, especially not by Toki, so he felt the discouragement in his gut. He cleared his throat. “Ams sorries about de other deis, okeis? I didn’ts…realize how imporkstants it ams was to yous, soes…”
“Dat was goods.” Toki said and Skwisgaar raised his eyes with expectation, but Toki was staring at his now empty dish and rubbing his belly.
He sighed. “Tokis, please, we can does what you wants. I won’ts complains, justs-”
Abruptly, Toki stood up and walked away without looking back. Skwisgaar buried his face in his hands in frustration.
He really fucked things up this time.
“Ye gotta mehk it up to him, dood.” Pickles suddenly spoke behind him and Skwisgaar almost did a somersault from shock.
“Eugh! Pickle!” He glanced at him, horrified. “Whens dids you get heres?”
Pickles grimaced like he was offended. “Dood, I’ve been here de whole time.”
“Huh…” Skwisgaar could not remember for the life of him seeing him here but , oh well. “Waits, what does you means makes it ups to him?” He squinted. “Whats does you knows?”
Pickles snorted, gesturing dismissively with one hand. “Nethan already told me ‘bout it. You broke Toki’s heart, didn’t ye?”
“Wells…” Skwisgaar winced. “I wouldn’ts…puts it like dats…”
“An apology just wahn’t do.” Pickles leaned into Skwisgaar’s ear. “Ye gotta surprise him yourself.” 
“What?” Skwisgaar turned to him in horror. “You means…?”
Smirking, Pickles nodded slowly at him. 
Skwisgaar looked at the door with preemptive regret. He was one second away from leaving and forgetting the whole thing. This was his dignity on the line now, nothing to joke about.
Toki’s face flashed in his mind and Skwisgaar closed his eyes in defeat. His breath hitched and his heart raced as he knocked on the door thrice.
It only took a few seconds for it to open, and behind it, a confused Murderface appeared. “Schkwisgaar? What do you want?”
“Is never thots I woulds says dis, Moidaface.” Skwisgaar was already short of breath. “But I needs yous helps.”
Murderface crossed his arms with a scowl. “Thisch better not be a prank.”
“I don’t has time for pranks.” Skwisgaar said as he made his way into Murderface’s room.
“Hey!”
Uncaring, he slammed the door behind him and Murderface gave him a stunned stare. “I needs yous helps now.”
Murderface looked him up and down, like he wasn’t sure what to make of Skwisgaar’s words. “Thisch ischn’t a gay thing, right?”
“Whats?” Skwisgaar was appalled. “N-well, it ams kinds of gays, actuallies.” He sighed. “You ams goods friends with Tokes, rights?”
“I guesch.” Murderface shrugged noncommittally which honestly irritated Skwisgaar but he decided to let it go.
“Does he, eugh…Does he talkeds about Valskentines with yous?”
“Oh,” Murderface rolled his eyes and turned around. “All the fucking time! Me and Schkwisgaar are going to do thisch! Me and Schkwisgaar are going do that! It’sch my firscht Valentinesch ever, Murderface! I’m scho exschited!” He made a disgusted noise. “Made me schick, really.”
The guilt piled up on the pit of Skwisgaar’s stomach. “Does you…remembers any specificks?”
“Uhh, he schaid it would be the firscht date ever for you guysch so he wanted to do everything…” He rested his back against his deck. “Firscht, have breakfascht in bed. Then, go to the petting szchoo to pet the catch. After that, walk in the park while holding handsch and eating…” He shuddered. “Hot dogsch. Then, planetarium vischit to look at the starchs. Then, go to the theater to watch a movie…and then dinner at a fanschy restaurant. He did schpare me the detailsch for the night after that, thank Chrischt.”
“Eugh…” Skwisgaar was impressed. “You shores remembers de hole thingks.”
“Well, he wouldn’t schut up about it!” Murderface defensively and opened the first drawer of his desk. “Look, he even made drawingsch of it!” At once, Murderface spread a bunch of drawings over the top of the desk.
One of the drawings had them petting cats, in another they were walking in the park with the hot dogs, looking at the stars, at a fancy restaurant…there were even some drawings of things Murderface hadn’t described, probably things Toki couldn’t fit into their schedule.
“Why does you has dese?” He asked.
Murderface blinked a couple of times before looking away. “We like drawing together, okay? And he alwaysch leavesch hisch drawingsch here. Idiot.”
“Rights.” Skwisgaar stood up. “I thinks I gots all I needs now, so I’m goingks-”
“Wait, what do I get in exchange?”
“Eugh…Toki’s unconskditionals loves?”
Murderface buffed. “Big deal.” Skwisgaar was walking to the other when he spoke again. “I know it’sch not any of my buschiness but…” Skwisgaar turned to look at him. “He kind of, really likesch you, scho…yeah.”
Unbelievable, even Murderface was lecturing him now. Skwisgaar couldn’t imagine sinking lower. “Rights. Thanks, Moidaface.”
“Whatever.”
Skwisgaar closed the door, a new determination finding its way inside him. 
“Whats ams dis?” Toki asked, upon finding a letter next to his plate during breakfast. It was a bronze envelope with a blood red seal. 
“Hm?” Pickles was stuffing oatmeal down his throat. “No idea, dood.”
Toki was skeptical, looking at Nathan and Murderface eat in silence. “Where ams Skwisgaar?”
Nathan, currently attacking a beef steak, replied. “Uhh, probably sleeping? Who knows. It’s Skwisgaar.”
Still not quite convinced, Toki ripped open the envelope and found a letter inside except there was nothing written in it. Just a red guitar vaguely shaped like a heart. “Alrights, who ams doings this? It amsnt funnies.” He asked with irritation. He wasn’t in the mood to get pranked on Valentine’s Day.
“It’sch probably schomething to do with playing the guitar.” Murderface blurted and the other two glared at him. “Or schomething.” He added to save face.
Toki squinted at his friends. “You guys amsnt collsudings togeders, ams you?”
“No.” All three of them said at the same time, which only made it more suspicious.
“We’re just eatin’ our breakfast here.” Pickles said.
“Yeah, why would we care about anything that ischn’t our breakfascht?”
“It’s not like today is a special day or anything.”
Toki got up from the table, unamused. He wasn’t going to bother with this, he would just get to the root of the problem and cut it off. Simple as that. 
“Skwisgaar.” He knocked on his door. “Ams not in de moods for dis okays? Soes just-” The door opened with a creak, revealing an empty bedroom. Toki looked inside, intrigued and found lit red candles melting on the floor. Upon closer inspection, he realized they were skull shaped. 
On the bed, there was a guitar made of red rose petals and a pile of Deaddy Bears in different brutal outfits laid in place of the pillows. The TV was showing ‘Love and Guts 4’ Toki’s favorite horror movie and, under it, there was a box of sugar-free chocolates with a note on them. 
Meets me wheres we first kiss
Toki’s eyes widened upon reading. Did he mean….?
He couldn’t help it, he was supposed to be mad but he couldn’t help running towards the location, excitement drumming inside his chest. What was he expecting? What was going to happen? What had Skwisgaar planned?
When he reached the double-door, he found it only marginally open so he grabbed the knob to reveal the inside. 
Skwisgaar was sitting on a stool inside Murderface’s closet, guitar in his hand. He seemed to have been caught off guard because he made a surprised noise when he saw Toki.
Toki tried to catch his breath. “Skwisga-”
Abruptly, Skwisgaar started playing the guitar. First the E, then the G sharp minor, then the C sharp minor, then the A. Then he played the whole sequence again. 
“Does you wanna be mines girls-boyfriends…” He sang unsurely. “We’lls walks to the cemeteries and alls kiss you agains…And makes ours dead friends blushks…We ams getting marrieds right dere on de seens…” He inhaled shakily. “Does you wants to be mines best friends? Yous can drives me crazies alls over agains…And alls bores you death oooh, doesn’ts matters when we ams in love. Rights?” He smiled at a speechless Toki.
Then the guitar got heavier, but Skwisgaar’s eyes were still on Toki. “Does you wanna be mines boyfriends?” He continued. "Does you wanna be mine boyfriends? Does you wanna be mines- Does you wanna be mines?” He stood up and kept playing, now closing the distance between them as he finished up the song. When it ended, he had essentially backed Toki against the wall.
Skwisgaar’s expression softened, the confidence from playing was fading into reluctance. “Ams sorries about everythings, Toki. I didn’ts realize how impskortants dis was to yous. Lets me makes it up to yous. Is calleds reservations fors a restaurants and bookeds de movies and plansetariums, ands the pettings zoo has spots fors us and-” Impulsively, Toki locked their lips together and Skwisgaar lost the trail of his thoughts.
“It ams okay, Skwisgaar.” He said when he pulled away. “I just thoughts you didnts…” He shook his head, smiling. “Doesn’ts matters.” Giggling, he laced their fingers together. “Soes, boysfriend?”
Skwisgaar felt his face heat up from embarrassment. “Dats- Dats what de songs-” He stopped babbling and his face turned solemn instead. “Eugh, ja.” With a heavy swallow, he asked. “Does you wants to be mines boysfriends, Toki?”
Toki’s smile was like a thousand beams directed at once at Skwisgaar. “Ja, I wants to bes your boyfriend, Skwisgaar.”
Smiling back, Skwisgaar brought Toki closer to him. “Cans I kiss mines boyfriends now?”
“You cans.” Toki said, the happiness leaking from his face.
As they wrapped around each other, Skwisgaar felt only slightly bad for the mess they were about to do in Murderface’s closet.
But only slightly.
“Well, it sure sounds like they’re havin’ fun.” Pickles commented, ear to the closet door. 
“Now who’sch gonna clean after them!” Murderface complained. “My closchet isch gonna be dischguschting!”
“Murderface, you don’t even clean your own room.” Nathan countered, already looking tired. 
“Yeah, well, neither do you!”
“Yeah, ‘cause we’re fucking rich. Just call a Klokateer to get it done.”
“I guesch!”
The closet door banged so loudly that all three of them jolted.
“Okei!” Pickles clasped his hands together. “Who wants t' get wasted to feel less miserable on Valentine’s Day!”
“Me!” Nathan and Murderface replied in unison. 
“Let’s leave the lovebirds, then.” Pickles made an example as he walked away from the closet and the two soon followed him.
“Fuck Valentine’sch Day!” Murderface said.
“Yeah, it’s capitalism brutality, and not the kind that benefits us.” Nathan agreed.
“It’s stoopid as hell, like whoa! I’m in love! Big deal!” Pickles threw his hands into the air.
“Yeah.”
“Totally.”
They smiled at each other. Seriously, fuck Valentine’s Day. 
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pasta-in-the-pudding · 8 months
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haiii!! :3
im gonna leave this to be as ambiguous as possible (you're welcome to decide what type of writing it is and what characters are involved in it! just whoever you think fits the best/would be funniest), but any of the pastas or marble hornets characters getting all the stuff required to make "battery acid spaghetti"? like with the monster energy and all sorts of candies and stuff? im curious to hear your ideas about this!!
also do NOT feel obligated to answer this if you have other stuff going on!!! take care of yourself!!! :33
– 💿 (i dont think anyone has claimed this yet!!)
Oooh, a chance to give my own headcanons...how rare...
Also, you are correct! No one has claimed that name yet, so you're good!
Thank you so much for requesting!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jeff, Toby, BEN
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Ah yes, these silly gooses
BEN was probably the first person to come up with the idea
Toby, wanting to do whatever everyone else was doing, obviously joined in
And for Jeff, he's just in it for the free drinks and snacks
And so, toby goes to their local grocery store and buys anything he thinks would suit the concoctions (as well as, of course, the airheads ropes)
When he gets back, the three of them clamor into BEN's room, excitedly talking about their ~fabulous~ idea
BEN turns on music and a t.v show (yes, both) and begins to help set everything up
Just to make it extra authetic, they even forced jeff to go downstairs to get some bowls to put this ungodly mixture in
And so, the potion making begins
BEN goes first, because he is rhe "expert" on this whole situation
A white monster, some sour patch kids, war heads, sour skittles, and of course, the airheads ropes
The other boys follow suite, mixing the elixers up, before abruptly stopping
Jeff looks at the two in front of him, "so uhh, what utensil do we use for this?"
Toby stares at their creations "i don't think god intended for there to be a utensil for something of this caliber..."
BEN shrugs "welp. Bone apple tit!" He says, taking the bowl in his hands and slurping up the candies and monster like a bowl of milk
The other two boys wait for a reaction out of BEN cautiously, not wanting to take any chances on their own
BEN puts the bowl down with a disgruntled look on his face "well, it's uh..."
The other two lean in
"It's not the worst thing I've ever had??"
That seems to be enough to satisfy jeff, as he is the next to grab his bowl and gulp down a big mouthful
He almost immediately sets the bowl down and wipes his watery eyes "jesus fucking christ! That shit is sour!"
BEN snorts and laughs at jeff as toby clicks his tongue "duh, we just put a bunch of sour candies in there, numbnuts!"
While Jeff chokes to death and BEN laughs, toby eyes his bowl for a moment longer before hesitantly picking it up and slurping the tiniest little sip
"Oh man, that's pretty good!" He exclaims
The night ends up with Jeff giving toby the rest of his bowl (which didn't end up finished because as it turns out, energy drinks make Toby sleepy instead of energized)
Jeff ends up destroying the toilet for the next hour or so, the mixture of sugars messed his stomach up pretty good
And BEN ended up laughing at Jeff some more as he finished off his bowl
The entire experience left them all with the same conclusion, "never again."
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redflagshipwriter · 1 month
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Reassembly 5
Masterpost
(What the frick is the bat guy about???)
They did serious damage to Lexy’s credit card in the form of a cast iron pan, a pot, basic cooking utensils and a four-person set of dishware before they even made it to the grocery store.
Peter tried not to go nuts there. He really did. But Kon had that empty kitchen! And to be honest, shopping was major wish fulfillment. Even though he knew he wouldn’t be eating all of the food he got way into it. They stocked up on easy freezer food like pizza rolls and fries. They got pasta mixes and jarred sauces and they got snacks and sweets. He even got Kon baking basics. It might take Kon a while to get into his fresh bread era, but it was going to happen. Peter was calling it now. Kon was just that kind of guy.
The last thing he got was meat. Meat and cheese and fresh vegetables. Peter ended up putting back half of what he initially put in the cart because, honestly, Kon didn’t have a massive super appetite and he didn’t know how to cook yet. Vegetables were just going to go bad, so he only got what he planned to use that night. He also stocked Kon up on breakfast supplies- bread and jam, eggs, sausage, coffee and tea and juice.
‘I wish I was staying with Kon to eat this. I’m going to be hungry again tomorrow.’
Peter pushed down that greedy little thought where it belonged. He was going to be eating lunch and dinner with Kon tonight, since they were cooking together. That was already really generous on Kon’s part. He couldn’t ask for more.
The boys ended up making spaghetti. Peter wasn’t the best cook in the world, but he could cut onion and garlic to cook meat in, shred in carrots and zucchini, and add a jar of red sauce to make something nutritionally dense that tasted really good. Kon hovered over his shoulder watching this process and making faux sports commentary. 
“Go away!” Peter shoved Kon with his shoulder, laughing. “Go start the garlic bread.”
“...Garlic bread?” Kon asked hopefully. He seemed way younger than he was sometimes. “You can make that at home?”
“You can, if you get to cutting garlic really small.” Peter tossed him a bulb without looking.
They ate dinner while watching some drama that Kon picked out on a streaming service. “Holy shit,” Kon said quietly after his first bite. He put down the plate and took a photo.
Peter snorted. Kon must have sent it to someone because his phone went off constantly after that.
He wasn’t even done eating their late lunch when he first wondered where he was going to sleep tonight. Peter stared down into his pasta like it might have some answers. When should he leave? What would he say if Kon asked for his phone number? He didn’t have one. He couldn’t give Kon the number to the phone he had on him– he was pretty sure that he really should get rid of it in case someone was tracking him. 
He should ask first. If he directed the conversation it would be easier to be normal than if he was just answering questions. So Peter swallowed hard, made himself smile, and said, “This was fun. Wanna hang out again?”
Kon noisily slurped down some sauce and wiggled in place while he chewed and swallowed. “Yeah, we should!” he agreed. “You uh, free later this week?”
He was jobless and homeless with no other acquaintances. 
“I have some time,” Peter said casually. “I’m kinda busy tomorrow, but the day after? Should I come over in the afternoon?”
“Yeah!” Kon bounced up off his seat for a moment. “We can finish the projects. Or work on them, at least.” He screwed his face up with a thought. “Can I get your handle or number, in case my work pops up?”
Peter’s smile turned fixed. “Actually, not now,” he said as casually as he could manage. “I dropped my phone in water. I just have my Dad’s old phone right now for emergencies.” He didn’t need to add that lie, but what if he needed to pull out the flip phone later? He didn’t want Kon to think that he just hadn’t wanted to give his number.
Kon laughed. “That sucks, man,” he empathized. 
Oh thank Thor, he bought it. 
The fabric was dry by then, so Peter helped Kon cut it out and sew it into place. Kon modeled his new look in the living room and then took approximately two hundred selfies while Peter worked on his project. Kon eventually flopped down on the sofa upside down and started sketching out design ideas. Peter glanced over and saw what looked like a boob window cut into some kind of top.
…Kon would look great in it. Peter didn’t comment. He smiled a little more when he went back to cutting out pieces for his own jacket.
“Smile!”
Peter looked over on reflex and cheesed. A shutter went off. “Can I send that to my friends?” Kon asked, so casually that Peter knew it mattered a lot. “Cassie says no way did I meet someone without her.”
“Go ahead.” Peter gave a thumbs up for reasons even he did not understand. Good thing he wasn’t a weird little guy! 
Kon looked relieved. There was less tension when he went back to looking at his phone. “Thanks, man. You want to think about dinner soon? You’ve been working for a couple of hours.”
Peter had to blink a few times to process that. Oh yeah, he was pretty stiff. He stretched experimentally. “You’re right,” he said, mildly surprised. “Huh. What did you have in mind?”
Kon shrugged. “Pizza?”
Peter hummed. “We can pull that off,” he decided. “We have… two more jars of marinara, one will do. Cheese, the bell peppers- yeah, that’ll work.” He stood in a smooth movement. “Could you get the flour down from where we put it- yeah, thanks.” Kon hovered back down and handed him the bag.
“I meant that we should order it,” Kon said, but he didn’t protest. “You can make pizza? At home?” He was delighted by this new information.
“You can make basically anything at home,” Peter said, because it apparently needed to be said. “Can you look up a pizza dough recipe?” He got out the salt and tried to remember where he’d put yeast.
Pizza did not go quite as smoothly as the pasta had. Kon brutalized the dough by over mixing it and the gluten developed bonds strong enough to rival the Hulk. But it was still edible! Kon was openly delighted with what he had made. Peter stole sideways glances at him, wondering if he should reassure that it was a great first try.
‘..I’m not sure he knows that it’s really tough,’ Peter decided. He said nothing. They watched one episode of Kon’s selected drama before Peter decided it was time to go.
Kon seemed surprised when Peter said that. He blinked at him a few times. “It felt like I was at the tow- a sleepover,” he said self consciously. He forced a laugh. “Yeah. You wanna leave your stuff here?”
Peter looked around Kon’s surgically clean living room and wondered if Lexy’s cleaning staff would throw away his stuff. “Yeah, sure,” he said, because it wasn’t like he had a place to store a project. “I appreciate that.”
He left not much later, making his excuses and backing out into the night with dread that he didn’t want to face curling in his gut. The feeling intensified as he got down to the lobby of Kon’s apartment building.
It was dark out, even with the streetlights on. The air was cold against his face. Peter huddled into his jacket, hand wound tightly around the strap of the bag with everything he owned in it.
At least he knew the time. It was a little past 10 pm.
He needed a shower and to sleep. The gym should be empty now. He could break back in, shower, and then go sleep on the library couch again. Even if the librarian came in early again, he could get a few hours of sleep.
He woke up again to the sound of keys in the door downstairs. This time he woke up feeling much better rested. Peter wandered blearily until he found a clocktower and realized it was nearly 9 am. Nice. He was working on his sleep debt, then. He surely hadn’t spent more than an hour between traveling to the gym, showering, and getting to the couch last night. That was maybe 9.5, 10 hours of sleep?
He left to a new hotel for a breakfast buffet. This one was particularly sad. He had two pieces of peanut butter toast and a glass of milk before he heard the front door staff quietly phone someone else asking if they had any teenagers staying at the moment. He left pretty quickly after that and walked for a while, heart pounding. The police didn’t descend on him with sirens and lights, so he was probably okay.
‘I can’t go back there.’
Later that day, Peter grimaced and took a moment to indulge in burying his face in his hands. He was overwhelmed and he still felt shitty and dirty and gross despite his shower. Maybe it was getting spotted as a homeless teen eating from the buffet? Yeah. Probably that.
He was in the library again, sitting in front of one of the older computers and hoping he'd get a reply from a potential client who had asked for some information. 
Maybe it was a little weird to spend all day in the library. He was on notice for librarians acting like they wanted him to clear out, just in case.
But, assuming no one had any problems with it, why not spend most of his daylight hours there? He could study computer science, use the computers to do his work, and be somewhere temperature controlled for free. They also had pitchers of coffee and tea for free that he took advantage of. 
He was hungry, though. He was always hungry. Maybe it had been a mistake to go to Kon’s house. It almost felt worse to be hungry again after eating everything he wanted two meals in a row. Peter suppressed despair. He was doing his best! He was taking care of himself.
"Is everything alright?" 
Peter shot up and gave a sheepish grin to the librarian. He hadn't noticed her approaching, but he'd been lost in his head. "It's fine," he said. 
The older woman gave him a sympathetic smile. "Well, let me know if there's anything I can help with. It's what I'm here for." 
Oh. Before she could turn away he blurted out, "College!" 
Her face lit up. "Are you applying?" 
"I need to." Peter wrung his hands together. "But I don't know where to start. I want to go somewhere with a strong sciences program but I think I need to go there on scholarship." 
She sat down beside him, an easy smile on her face like this was a topic that she enjoyed. “Do you care about where it is?”
Peter shook his head. “It would be best if I could stay in NYC since I know here, but I’m willing to go anywhere that meets those conditions.”
She nodded slowly. “There’s a few places I can think of.” She hesitated. “Do you expect to be eligible for testing related scholarships?”
“Yeah,” said Peter, who was so good at tests but would probably falsify the results that he needed if he didn’t manage to take tests in time. “I test well. Very well.”
“That’s great! And you said sciences? Technological sciences?” she didn’t glance at his current computer science book, but she didn’t have to. 
“Yes,” he said, not entirely sure what he should be focusing on. Engineering, to build some kind of portal? Astrophysics like Dr. Foster, to find an Einstein-Rosen bridge? He’d have to get his foot in the door to figure out what was going on in the fields here. Shit, he should have looked into that already. 
“And you would be looking to live by yourself, on campus? Or off? With family?”
“By myself,” Peter said, and wow that was depressing. “And whichever way is cheapest.” He cringed as he said it. That felt pathetic too. He wanted to say he wanted to live on campus since he’d be more likely to meet people that way. But honestly, he had no resources, at all. He couldn’t afford to be picky. 
The librarian’s smile was a bit fixed now. “I… I almost hate to suggest it, but have you considered Gotham?” She continued before Peter had to decide whether or not he should admit he didn’t know that university. “It’s a dangerous city to live in, but it’s very affordable, and there’s extensive funding for the sciences and student support services.”
“...Because it’s a dangerous city and doesn’t get many people?” Peter confirmed.
She was doing her best to keep a poker face. “That’s right. They have a brain drain situation at the moment, so the sciences are really well funded. I think you could probably go there with full support, though that might be contingent on taking an internship or job in Gotham after graduation.”
Huh. He considered it. He’d never heard of Gotham, so it had to be a city that didn’t exist back home. But so what? How bad could it be? It was like, Chicago or something? He could handle that. He was Spiderman. He was an Avenger, sort of. So he directed a real smile at the librarian. “If I could get a full scholarship there, I would go in a heartbeat,” Peter said. “Thanks for the suggestion! I’ll look into the university there.”
The librarian patted the side of his chair as she stood up. “Wonderful! Let me know if you change your mind or have any questions!”
He ended up having a lot of questions, actually, once he started looking into Gotham, but he didn’t think, “What the frick is the vampire bat guy about?” was what she’d had in mind.
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ilovedilfs4ever · 1 year
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It’s A Little Salty. (Based on salt challenge)
Pairing : Husband!Toto Wolff X reader
WC: no.
Warnings : none! Just fluff. (Really bad ending I can never do endings I’m sorry)
Note : Susie does not exist in this fiction. (I’m sorry I love her too (slightly more than toto 🤭)) Also once again, do not plagarize or copy my work in any way! Thank you.
@kii-003 I summon thy to help me with any corrections or improvements (tysm 🫶)
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“Toto, could you help me try out some of this pasta sauce that I've made? It's the recipe from your nonnie’s recipe book, she told me about it the other day,” You asked across the kitchen also whispering under your breath “I should probably have some fun pranking you while I’m cooking too.” Laughing quietly.
The kitchen led to the living room, where the man you loved for years had been sitting, laptop on his lap and legs sprawled on the couch. Along with the little furry cat that had found its way into both of your lives, purring every time she had her ears scratched by the busy Austrian.
“Coming, Schatzi,” he replied. “One second, just let me finish this email.” as he typed quick and swiftly with those thick and lengthy fingers which also happen to have a gold band on it while yours had a nicely sized diamond on it. Finding this as the perfect time to quickly add the salt to the spoonful of pasta sauce before blowing on it to ensure it won't burn his mouth. Upon hearing footsteps thumping into the lively abode, you gave a quick peck to his cheek before he slithered his hands around your waist and rested his head on top of yours.
“The sauce remember?” you chuckled. Nodding his head, the smell of the pasta sauce hit his nose when you opened the pot of bubbling nostalgia. “Smells the exact same as how my nonna would have made it.” Grinning proudly at his response, you gave the spoonful of sauce a nudge at his lips before he slurped it up, not knowing what's going to happen next.
Trying his best to not choke over the sodium-loaded sauce and keep a poker face, he barely choked out “Schatz, I think it’s a little salty, maybe add a little more water?” Not being able to handle it anymore, you burst into laughter as his face contorts into a sour expression. After regaining his posture, he asked “What’s so funny?” He asked as he grabs a glass of water to sip on after the unpleasant ordeal that he had to face. “Nothing, maybe just a small salt prank?” You replied while bursting into laughter, feigning offense, he pretended to faint, which failed miserably as it just looked like he slipped on ice.
“I feel hurt by your actions, but I think you can apologize by giving me a kiss.” Smirking like a fool. “Alright, only because I love you, you big baby.” You replied while walking over to him and wrapping your hands around his neck before kissing him, which resulted in him kissing back passionately. Pulling back after awhile in order to get some air, he replied to what you said earlier “But I’m your big baby.” Sticking out your tongue and rolling your eyes, you said “that’s so cheesy ew, old man.” lightly hitting his chest where your hands had been placed on.
Faking a sad face, he gave a quick smack to your ass before scurrying back to the couch where he resumed his work, the sudden action making you yelp. Walking back to the stove, you turned off the heat and let the pot of pasta sauce and pasta cool while you walked into the living room and made yourself comfortable,cuddling with your furry baby and the love of your life. “This may be the perfect little family” you thought, who knows maybe there was another member on the way? ;)
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izvmimi · 9 months
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cw: minors dni. smut. fem!reader.
in retrospect, "i don't fuck men who've been around the block," was a pretty bold phrase to say upfront on a reluctant first date. judging satoru for his popularity without saying those specific words could have been aplenty, but you'd had the audacity to open your mouth and let vitriol fall out.
now your mouth is still open but no longer moving in shapes to reject the beautiful man in front of you, but rather stretched wide to accommodate as much length and girth as possible, lips gliding up and down along a spit-slickened shaft.
all you'd agreed to was dinner, in hopes of hitting two birds with one stone - getting a free meal and also having the satisfaction of getting his hopes up but not letting him bed you.
but here you are now on your knees, just hours after dinner, slurping him down like pasta of your own free will.
"fuck, you're so good at this."
his fingers twist in your hair, tugging gently to guide you up and down, but you bob your head obediently anyway, hands gripped tight around his muscled thighs. he's standing, and he groans as you take him as far down your throat as you possibly can. you like to think you can make him louder, bend his proud will to yours, but for now you're content to taste every bit of him, the salty-sweet desire leaking from his cock.
gojo's body tenses, abs contracting as he holds in his release as best he can as he doesn't dare cum down your throat on the first date. in fact, he pulls back, breathing in, letting the cum hit your chin and drip down the front of your dress. he's terrified for a moment of your reaction, but you offer him a satisfied smile, and he grins back devilishly.
without bothering with an additional exchange of words, he pulls you into his arms, and clothes come off seamlessly, shed like a worthless second skin, and you are laid on your back, pressed into your mattress that has yet to ever bear his weight or form. gojo smiles down at you, smirking but the smugness is lost in that first thrust in wipes the smile off his face, drawing his mouth open with shock and awe as he feels the warm pressure you surround him in, as he really gets a look of what you look like under him.
his for the taking. if not forever, at least for now.
he has never felt pleasure like this, and you'll show him he's in for more than he bargained for.
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