#anyways bye to whoever’s reading this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pullhisteeth · 2 years ago

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classified | eddie munson x reader

summary at your wits end, you put an ad in the classifieds for a special kind of tutor. Eddie finds it and takes you up on the offer. (nsfw) [13k]

contains smut (18+ minors dni!) – p in v sex, oral (f receiving), lots of praise, virgin!reader, fem!reader, hurt/comfort. eddie's a sweetheart, fluff, first time turned something more (?).

author's notes this one's a long one! the idea made me laugh and then it took on a life of its own. I want to say this is meant to be somewhat lighthearted and is not a suggestion that anyone should be having sex if they haven't already – your body's yours, baby, do whatever you want! no one should ever make you feel rushed into anything!!! anyway Eddie is an angel and I want one. bye!

Eddie's not sure why he's reading the newspaper. Boredom, perhaps; he's been waiting for Wayne to get home from his shift for over an hour. He's thought about calling the plant, but the walk from the couch to the phone seems to be the perfect amount of time to convince himself that he's probably on his way home already.

It's the Hawkins Post. It gets delivered by a snot-nose boy on a bike every week, thrown far too hard at their tin front door. Wayne reads it some weeks, others it gets used to wrap his lunch. Apparently this one he'd read it, flicked through the pages half-heartedly before leaving it open on a centrefold about the local elections. Trust Wayne to get bored of small-town politics, Eddie thinks.

So he picks up where Wayne left off, slowly pulling the pages apart, skimming stories about the endemic of teen pregnancy, or columns about the rejuvenation plans for downtown Hawkins.

Finally, he reaches the only bit of the newspaper that Eddie has ever found interesting: the classifieds (and, on the back of the classifieds, the call-girl ads).

He skims them, eyes brushing past ads for cleaners, dog walkers, nannies. Finds the ones hidden at the bottom – the letters written in code, ads for attractive female friends and women seeking younger men. He's never actually interested in them, but they provide a glimpse into the underbelly of Hawkins, a small town that is, for all intents and purposes, entirely normal. But nowhere is ever truly normal, and Eddie likes to seize the opportunity to pry into the scandalous goings-on of his boring hometown.

He's reading one about swingers when the one beside it catches his eye. It's plain – whoever paid for it kept their costs to a minimum. All it says is:

WOMAN, 23, SEEKING FIRST TIME.

He stares at the bold ink, the statement in all caps that, despite being maybe the lowest cost ad in the whole paper – it's in a box about three inches tall in the very corner of the page – jumps out at him anyway. Underneath the title, it reads: young woman looking for judgement-free first time. Min. age 22, max. age 28. Must have experience. At the very bottom, in almost imperceptible print, is a phone number.

Eddie hadn't realised how close his face was to the page until he hears the familiar sound of Wayne's car pull up outside. He throws the paper down onto his lap and sighs before scrambling around to at least try to look casual, and not like all the blood has rushed to his face. In the few seconds he has between the sound of Wayne's car door closing and him coming up the stairs, Eddie tears the page out, folding it quickly and shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans as he stands.

The door opens just as he gets to his feet, and Wayne comes trudging in with his steel lunch pail and heavy boots.

"Hey, Wayne," Eddie says, breathless, trying his best to sound level. Wayne eyes him as he closes the door, before turning to dump his stuff on the table.

"C'mon, kid, you promised me a burger."

The piece of newspaper stays in Eddie's pocket for three more days.

Wayne had been late getting home – something came up, but Eddie wasn't listening too hard, brain on that stupid ad instead – so their weekly trip to Benny's had run until the early hours of Friday morning.

And then Friday was work and Hellfire, which Eddie still leads despite having graduated two years ago, and this time the kids kept him going for hours. By the time he got home he hadn't even thought about the page before crashing into bed.

And then Saturday is family day, as Nancy puts it. Eddie had woken up late, rolled out of bed into the freshest clothes he could find, and into his van to act as bus driver for the morning. His little gaggle of unruly teenagers crammed into the back of it one by one, laughing and teasing and shouting. Steve's home became louder and still, Eddie relished in that feeling of peace he gets once a week with all these misfits he calls friends.

By Sunday morning, the newspaper had been long forgotten in the pocket of his jeans that he'd left in a pile on his bedroom floor. He's laid on his back on his bed, head dangling off the edge, puffing mindlessly on a spliff he'd rolled for himself two days ago that had also been forgotten. The room's a little fuzzy round the edges, just the way he likes it, the sunlight creeping warm paws up his arms. It smells funny in here, he thinks, so he turns over, pushes himself off the bed, and reaches up to open his window. On his way back to his bed, he trips on something, landing with a huff as his ribs hit the corner of the mattress.

"Fuck," he hisses, reaching down to pull the culprit off the floor. It's just an old pair of jeans, so he throws them into the corner, out of the way, and resumes his position, splayed out across the bed.

From this angle, with his head hanging upside down, he spots something by the pile of denim he'd just discarded.

His brain's ticking over slowly under the haze of being stoned, but after a second he realises what it is, and clambers all too quickly off the bed and across the room.

Maybe it's that haze, coating his brain with thick fog; maybe it's the fact that, in the year since he graduated, he's had to settle for quick fucks behind the Hideout after a gig; or maybe, just maybe, it's dangerous curiosity.

Whatever it is, something motivates him to move through his room, down the narrow corridor into the kitchen. There's something hijacking his limbs, and it reaches up to the phone on the wall. With eyes on the page in his hand he spins the dial, listening to the tone as it rings, rings, rings.

The longer he stands there, the more convinced he becomes in his intoxicated miasma that this is some kind of prank; he's going to be met with a stupid kid on the other end, laughing at him for bothering to call at all.

When he finally decides that this is just that, a practical joke, the line clicks. There's a low buzz on the other end, so low he thinks maybe the line just went dead, but then a voice.

"Hello?"

He's taken aback by the sound of it, but not so much that he doesn't notice the sleep coating it. Despite his stupor, he can't help but apologise.

"Shit, sorry, did I wake you?"

"Who is this?" You're sharper now, coming to, and he kicks himself for fucking this up already.

"Oh, shit, uh, sorry. I called about… I got this number, uh, in the paper."

"Fuck," he hears you whisper. He's not sure if he was supposed to hear it. He feels bad.

"Sorry, I'll go, this was-"

"Look, I put that age range in the ad for a reason. I'm sick of gettin' calls from middle aged men, I-"

"I'm twenty-three."

You're silent on the other end for a moment, but he can hear your breath hitch.

"Well, shit," you finally say. "Y'don't sound it."

He laughs an awkward, stilted laugh, unsure what to say.

"Sorry, I've had so many guys – men, old men – callin' me up, tryin' to flirt with me down the phone, I just… The ad was a mistake, clearly."

He likes the way you talk. You've got a pretty voice.

"Uh, thanks," you say.

Shit.

"Fuck, sorry, did I say that out loud?" Moron.

You laugh, the sound fizzing down the telephone line, and it eases some of his insecurity.

"I'm sorry," he says, starting fresh. "I'll leave you be, have a good-"

"Wait," you bite, and he can hear you shuffling around. "Wait just a sec, I- fuck, where the fuck is it? I… Sorry, can you just wait for a second?"

"Sure, sure," he murmurs, trailing off when he realises you've set the phone down. He listens to the faint sounds of you rummaging around and swearing under your breath. He must look like an idiot, stood in his kitchen, smiling at his phone, waiting for a stranger he found in the paper.

He hears you coming back, footsteps getting louder, before you pick the phone back up.

"Y'still there?"

"Yeah," he laughs. You speak to him like he's an old friend and it keeps catching him off guard.

"Okay," you say. "Here's the thing. I put that stupid ad in the paper because I was sad, and my life has been a misery since then, because literally every guy who's called me has been, like, at least forty, which some people are into I guess but I'm not, and- Sorry."

You're rambling, stumbling over your words even though he can tell you're trying to be professional or something. He stays quiet and hopes you'll keep going.

After a beat, you say, "I guess, 'cause you called, you'd be up for it?"

"Uh, well," he stammers. "That's kinda why I called. Care to explain what it is you want, exactly?"

He's not sure where the sudden confidence has come from; maybe the weed's wearing off.

"Okay, yeah," you breathe. "So, uh, my plan, I guess, was that I'd… You'd take, uh, my virginity."

You almost whisper the last part, like it's some kind of slur, and Eddie can't help but laugh on the other end.

You start to sound exasperated, frustrated, so he tries to claw you back.

"Sorry, sorry, it's just so… frank."

"Well, bein' all coy about it hasn't really worked out for me so far."

Can't argue with that logic.

"Okay," he says, trying to ignore the excitement bubbling inside him. You're a stranger, he's a stranger, and this whole thing is kind of weird. Shit, he thinks. Am I a perv?

"How do you want to do this?"

"Well," you start, sounding like you've got this part planned out. "First I need to know you're not gonna murder me or something, so I'll give you an address near my house but not at my house, and we can meet there whenever… and, uh, what year were you born?"

"What?"

"Just… So I feel a bit more sure you're actually twenty-three."

"Hah, okay. 1965."

"Okay, sweet. You got a pen?"

"Shit, yeah, one sec."

His eyes dart around the room. With the phone between his ear and his shoulder, he moves as far as the cord will let him, to a drawer by the front door. At the back there's an old pencil and some scraps of junk mail.

"Got it!" he declares, too enthusiastic but it makes you giggle so he laughs too.

"Okay," you start, and you tell him an address he vaguely recognises, closer to the nicer side of town, halfway between here and where Steve's house is.

"It's a park, kind of. It's pretty public anyways, so if you were, y'know, planning to kill me or whatever, don't bother."

"I'll take that off the to-do list," he tells you through a smirk.

"Very funny," you say, your sentence half-formed like you can't find the words to finish it. "Wait, what's your name?"

"Eddie. Munson."

"Okay, Eddie Munson," you say before telling him yours and deciding that you'll meet him later that day. You tell him it's easier that way, that you can't bear to have to wait all week, sitting on the nerves that might make you change your mind.

That's exactly what Eddie does all afternoon. You'd decided on six that evening, when it's still light but late enough that you both have time to back out, and so he sits, stoned out of his mind on both weed and the phone call, feeling something he's rarely felt before.

It's like cola in his gut, bubbling and frothing every time he tries to move. Is this what people feel when they say they have butterflies? Because it doesn't really feel like that; it feels instead like the madness inside him is floating upwards, fizzing around his heart, prodding and poking at it at uneven rhythms. His mind is reeling, too; he hadn't really thought this through at all. What if, even after that call, you're still planning on playing some kind of trick on him? What if this is an elaborate scheme to publicly humiliate him? Maybe you get a kick out of that kind of thing.

There's another thing, creeping around at the back of his mind, lurking. It's that horrid hopefulness, the what if that feels so far from likely that if he lends too much time to thinking about it, he feels stupid.

What if you're great?

He shakes himself out, standing up off his bed. He'd been lying there for the past two hours, sobering up, dwelling on every detail of the call, lingering in particular on your voice and your laugh and the way you say sweet so often.

He doesn't know who you are. He didn't recognise your name when you told him, even though you're his age. He didn't recognise your voice either, but he likes it, and he wasn't lying when he (accidentally) told you it's pretty.

He looks at the clock beside his bed. The red numbers flicker as they change to 16:52.

One hour.

He's early.

It's ten to six, and he's early.

The sun's low but not gone yet, and the park you sent him to is actually kind of nice. He's in his van, waiting until it's a socially acceptable time to get out and wait for you. What is the socially acceptable time to get out and wait for the girl you've got an agreement like this with?

Before he can decide, he sees someone. They're in jeans and a jacket, red Chucks and hair lifting up in the breeze.

Without thinking about it too hard, he opens the door and hops out, slamming it a little too hard. The person looks over, catches his mop of hair over the top of the van, and stops walking.

"Eddie?"

He hears you call his name over the sound of his boots crunching on the ground as he rounds the front of the van. He looks over to find you, the person he saw walking over, looking at him with your hand at your brow, blocking the sun.

You're pretty – really pretty. He still doesn't recognise you, but he has decided that's surely for the best.

You don't recognise him, either, but he's hot. He's not what you expected; truthfully, you really had expected someone older, lying about their age to get in your pants, someone you'd have to turn down in this very public space, going back to your apartment alone and unsatisfied. This is not what you had in mind at all, but you're not mad about it.

As he comes towards you, you watch the way he walks, chest-first like he's exactly where he should be. His hair's long and a bit wild but it matches his style – ringer tee, messy black jeans, obnoxious denim jacket. He's got his hands in his pockets but when he lifts one out to wave at you awkwardly, you see the rings and know you're a goner.

You wave back, laughing lightly as he nears you. He's taller than you so you really have to squint to see him against the setting sun.

"Hey," he says softly. His voice is even nicer in person; he does sound older than he is, and he has an air of maturity about him, like he's too sure in himself to be 23, but there's also a boyishness somewhere underneath that endears you.

"Hi," you reply. "You're Eddie, right?"

He looks around himself, head whipping back and forth.

"No, doll," he says, looking at you with a blank face. "I'm Keith."

"Oh," you say, trying to hide the flush in your cheeks and the way your face drops, but then he laughs and reaches out to hold your shoulder.

"Sorry, that was a bad joke." He squeezes. "Yeah, I'm Eddie."

You choose to ignore the overly familiar touch and the way it sends your knees all funny, and instead you laugh, a little awkwardly, and hold out a hand.

"Nice to meet ya," you say, firm.

He looks down at your hand as he drops his own from your shoulder. His eyes move between it and your face, but he shakes it anyway.

"Well?" he asks, and you watch as he smirks, staring you down, his hand still in yours.

"What?"

"Do I look like a serial killer? Scared I'm gonna murder you?"

With those final words he pulls on your hand, bringing you closer to himself. His confidence is only making that funny feeling in your knees worse, but what you don't know is that he's bluffing; before you stands a terrified boy struck dumb by a pretty girl.

"Hm," you hum, dialling up the dramatics to ponder his appearance. You take the chance to scan your eyes up and down his body, taking in the scuffs on his shoes and the pretty silver chain around his neck. From here you can smell weed and cigarette smoke, pretty aftershave and something deeper. "I don't think so."

"Damn," he quips, finally releasing your hand to run his own through his wild mass of hair. "I was really tryin' to look scary."

"You didn't do a very good job," you tell him, laughing softly, and he looks at you with a smile.

"Oh well," he says. "Maybe next time."

Ignoring the way that makes you feel, you take his hand again. It's your turn to pull him, dragging him behind you. The move startles him and he drags his feet for a moment before catching up, refusing to let go of your hand when you try. He swings them between your bodies theatrically as you walk him across the park, through a line of tall oak trees and onto the street on the other side.

"So," he says, drawing out the word. "We goin' to your parents' or somethin'?"

"No," you reply, shaking your head slightly with your eyes on the ground. You drop his hand and stuff yours back in your pocket. "I have an apartment, up by Main Street. This's just a shortcut."

"Oh."

You don't say much more after that. The walk is short; you were right, this is a shortcut to Main Street, one even he didn’t know about. It takes you past Steve's house, and Eddie prays he doesn't happen to be looking out the window at this precise moment.

You live above the pharmacy. You scramble with the lock for a moment, so he stands behind you, bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking around; it's quiet, the usual lull of a Sunday evening, the sun lower than before. He looks at the back of your hair and the way the light catches in it, hears the low curses under your breath as you struggle with the door. And then it's open, and you're inside in the dark, and he has to bring himself back down to Earth.

Your apartment is small. Behind the door there's a narrow staircase, and at the top another door. It brings him into your living space, which is cramped but clearly well-loved. You offer him a drink and step into the kitchen when he says yes.

He lets his eyes pass over the room. The ceiling is low, reminiscent of his own home, though the walls are more solid than the trailer. They're painted a muted, pale blue, a colour he's sure you didn't choose because you've covered as much of them as you can in things: paintings, framed photographs, postcards. The furniture is more to your taste, he assumes. It's all soft, rich greens and pinks.

You bring him a beer as he sits on the couch, sinks into the cushions, toes off his boots.

"Thanks," he says as you pass him the bottle and take a swig of your own. You take your own shoes off and leave them by the door, hanging your jacket on a hook there too.

"So," you begin, padding back over to him and sitting on the opposite end of the couch. "I don't know how this works."

"Well," he says, turning to you with one arm up on the back cushions, "I can talk you through it, but I need t'know where you're at."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, how far have you gone before? How far do you want to go today?"

"Uh-" You shuffle, squirming into the couch, clearly looking for the right words. "I've never… This is as far as I've ever got."

He breathes a gasp though he's trying to hide it, trying to stick to the agreement of judgement-free. "You've never been kissed?"

You just shake your head and the way your face creases, brows turned down, makes him ache.

"Okay."

"And I want to go all the way," you say quickly, all in one breath, finding your words. "Not too far, no extra shit, like, kinky shit, but the standard."

"O-kay," he says again, smiling this time. "So you know it's not as easy as… As in and out, right?"

"Yes," you spit. He flinches. "Sorry, it's just… It's hard not to feel a bit, like, insecure about all of this. Makes me a bit defensive, I guess."

"It's okay," he soothes, and his tone really does make you feel better. "No judgement here. I'm not new to sex, but I'm just as new to this whole… situation as you are."

"Okay," you sigh.

"Why don't we just chat for a bit? I'm not in a rush if you're not."

"Yeah," you agree. Eddie is easy, you're finding; no dancing around the point, but you feel you're being handled gently. Exactly what you want.

"So did you grow up here?"

Okay, so maybe the 'chatting' suggestion was a bit of a façade for the fact that Eddie has found himself��fascinated by you, even in the short time he's known you. Sure, it's only been ten minutes if you're not counting the phone call, but there's something about you that piques his interest. And, if he's honest, he's not sure why he wouldn't recognise someone his own age in Hawkins.

"No, no," you say, leaning over to put your beer on the table. You wipe your mouth quickly with the back of your hand. "I'm from Illinois."

"Why are you here then?" He takes your que and puts his own beer down too, deciding that being intoxicated probably isn't the best idea.

"I dunno," you say, sighing again. Your shoulders go lax as you let yourself sink backwards and look up at the ceiling. "I wanted to go somewhere new, but not somewhere big. And the middle school here was hiring a tech assistant, so I applied."

"And you got the job?"

"Uh-huh. I start in September, figured I'd just move here early, try to find my feet."

"How's that going?"

"Alright, mister questions." You laugh as you say this and sit up, looking at him again with a smile. "It's going okay so far. People are friendlier here, but I haven't exactly found my people yet."

He hums, nodding, and you say, "My turn."

He looks up at you. "Do your worst."

"Did you grow up here?"

"Kind of. Somewhere near here, til I was eleven."

"Why'd you move here?"

"Hah." He goes all rigid and awkward at your question, shrugging his jacket off with his eyes on the ground. You take note of the ink you can see crawling up to his neck under the collar of his shirt. There's something else there, too; something pale and stretched, like a scar.

"It's complicated." That's the answer he settles on, keeping his cards close to his chest. "But I moved in with my uncle when I was in middle school. Been here since then."

"Is that why you're still here? Your uncle?"

"Kind of, but that's also complicated."

"Wow, okay, is everything complicated with you?"

"It doesn't have to be," he says. It throws you for a loop, the way his voice has dropped, fried and kind of… sexy?

You find him looking at you, and suddenly he feels really close. You feel this urge to climb out of yourself, away from this situation that isn't for you; it's never for you. No one has ever wanted to get this close.

"You okay?" he asks, his friendly tone back.

You're grateful he seems to be able to read you so quickly.

"Yeah, sorry."

"It's okay. If you want to, y'know, stop this at any point, just let me know, okay?"

"We haven't even-"

"Will you?" he presses.

"Yes," you promise him. He looks back at you like he's waiting, yearning for something and you don't quite know what.

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

"Mm-hmm."

"Why are you so far away right now?"

He's gone soft, leaning forward toward you, his arm still up on the back of the couch. Your eyes flicker to his fingers and the rings on them, the way they're sparkling slightly in the dipping sun coming through the window.

It fills your mouth with glue. The combination of his proximity and the question leaves you breathless.

"I just…" he continues. "You're hiding from me over there."

He's got a sticky smirk on his face, like he knows the answer and knows you don't want to tell him. He shuffles forward ever so slightly, letting you breach into his space if you want to.

You do, you really, really do – he's a kind stranger, doing a kind thing for you, even if it is a bit odd. You want nothing more than to relinquish yourself to him, and yet you can't.

There's a momentary staring contest between the two of you. The couch feels miles long and yet he's closing in. You feel suffocated.

"I'm gonna come to you," he says after a minute. "Is that okay?"

All you can do is nod at him. It's like your body's on fire, affronted at the idea of being touched by him and yet harbouring some primal urge, deep under the surface, to let him do it anyway.

He pushes his jacket onto the floor with his elbow as he moves himself down the couch toward you. Your eyes follow his arms and the way they stretch, and then the way one of them lifts. He plants his hand firmly on your knee and it burns through the denim of your jeans. You can't tear your eyes from it, staring blankly at his fingers, the way the tendons flex when he squeezes.

"We don't have to do anythin' you don't wanna do, okay?" he tells you. He's watching you, how you're watching his hand, how your hair still lights up in the sun. You're sweet, and pretty, and most of all he longs to know more.

"I'm gonna talk you through it," he continues, "kinda like a teacher, if that's what you want."

When you don't reply, he calls your name softly, and says, "Is that what you want?"

You look up at him and nod again.

"I need to hear it, sweets."

You tell him yes, that is what I want, trying desperately to keep your voice as level as possible, not letting on that it kills you every time he uses a petname like that.

His fingers dance up your thigh and back down to your knee, a repeating pattern that sends you dizzier the closer he gets to you.

"Eddie?"

His hand stills and he looks at you.

"Yeah?"

When he responds, you feel his breath on your face. He's close enough, now; you can really look at him, at the crow's feet by his eyes, the freckles across his cheek, the bend in the bridge of his nose that looks like maybe he broke it once. His eyes are really pretty, browned sugar and syrup, flitting around as he tries to read you.

"I've never been this close to anyone before."

He's watching your eyes as they move over his face, admiring the slight sense of awe in them.

"That's okay."

There's a sudden absence on your leg where his hand leaves it and it aches, like the bone is realigning. You swallow a whine and close your eyes when his hand finds your cheek.

"I'm gonna kiss you now," he whispers. "That okay?"

You nod again and he lets the pads of his fingers smooth backwards into your hair where they take root, his thumb beside your eye. You feel him pull you in and his breath on your nose and then the strange sensation of his lips.

It's new but not unwelcome. He's soft with it, light as anything and quicker even, gone before you really know it's happened. Some kind of sudden urge takes over, though, because you don't like how quick it was, so you chase him. You plant your lips back on his, firmer than he had, your nose nudging his as you get the angle right. This one's longer and it startles him; you have to pull back when he starts laughing.

"Alright, alright, slow down," he says as you sit back, deflated. "You liked that, huh?"

You nod, giddy, desperate to feel it again.

"Can I show you somethin'?" His hand is on your neck now, burning its fires once more, and you can barely concentrate on him.

"Yeah," you breathe, a sigh of relief as he comes closer again. But as you close your eyes, expecting his mouth on yours, you can't help the whine that escapes when he misses, landing beside it. You feel him chuckle, a puff of air out of his nose, before he dots more kisses along your jaw. It feels nice, gentle and slow, like he's scared to break you if he goes too fast or comes on too strong.

The whine, lingering in your throat, moulds into something like a sigh – or even a moan – when he makes it onto the column of your throat. You swear you feel his teeth graze the skin there, lips following them over your pulse. His kisses turn hotter, heavier, and you can't help the way you keen into him. Without thinking about it, you paw at his shoulders and let your back arch as you breathe thick pants into the air of your living room.

When he pulls back again, you whine his name, gripping tighter where you've pulled his shirt into your fists. He laughs at you, head tipped back, as he smooths his hands up and down your arms; the gentle touch makes you relax and your hands unfurl.

"Good, huh?" His words are viscous, thick with want, but he daren't go too fast.

"Mm-hmm," you agree, nodding, breathing quick. Now that he's stopped, you have time to consider that, actually, you might be a bit overwhelmed; without thinking about it you sit back, returning to your comfortable distance by the arm of the couch, watching as his face falls.

"Sure you're okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, yeah, I just-"

"Yeah, take a second."

"Mm-hmm, just need a minute."

You watch him stiffen, awkward in the wake of the moment, and take the chance to admire him a bit more until you sense his eyes are back on you, and suddenly you feel very small.

"You alright?"

You nod, looking back at him, finding his face all soft and concerned, turned down so it makes you twinge.

"You're being so nice to me," you say. It comes out more as a breath, a string of words tied together with insecurity, all in the same exhale. You're not even sure you said it at all, but his face twists into something like shock.

"What do you mean?"

You sigh. "I dunno, I… You're just being very… kind. Are you always like this?"

He seems taken aback by the question. His hands are in his lap where his left fingers toy with the rings on his right. He looks away from you to stare instead at the beer on the table and the drop of condensation running a race down the neck of the bottle.

"You've really never done this before, huh?" he asks you, and now it's your turn to be taken aback.

"I'm not lying, if that's what you're getting at," you say with perhaps a bit too much venom.

"No," he responds, stern. "I'm just… Finding it hard to believe. I'm sure it's true," he says quickly when you open your mouth to fire something quick at him again, "like, I know you're not lying, but it's so surprising."

"How so?"

He sighs this time. He twists in his seat to face you, bringing one leg up under himself, the other dangling off the edge of your couch. "I'm gonna be honest with you right now, if that's okay."

"Okay."

"'Cause I feel like that's the best way to do this whole… thing, right? Nothin' in it for you, really, if we're not honest, or whatever…"

For the first time since you met him in the park, he's showing his nerves. It gets him all wound up, stumbling through sentences like the words are quicker than he can keep up with. It's endearing, really; nicer in some ways than confidence.

"When I saw that ad it obviously caught my eye, I mean, I called, but I just didn't know what to expect, obviously, and you're… Well, you're… normal? So far, anyway." He huffs the last three words out in a laugh, but you don't return it.

"What does that mean?"

"I just think I expected someone who puts an ad like that in the paper to be weirder, or something."

Your gut twists. Red flares of anger lick up your insides, popping and wheezing in your throat.

"What the fuck, dude?"

You stand, backing away, feeling that familiar creeping isolation; distance, walls up, get away. His face has dropped to something wider, fear in his big stupid brown eyes and mouth agape.

"I didn't-"

"I'm not weird for being a virgin. And just because you think I'm 'normal' doesn't mean this-" you gesture between the two of you with both hands, "-should be surprising."

"No, shit, sorry," he pants, desperation oozing, "fuck."

"I think you should go," you finally say. Your arms are across your middle, hands gripping your forearms. You don't dare look at him, even when he says nothing.

You flinch when you feel him come nearer. He steps over the threadbare rug on your floor and over to the corner where you've parked yourself.

He calls your name and you despise the way you soften at the sound of it.

"I'm gonna touch you, 's'that okay?"

You scoff, turning away from him.

"Stop fucking patronising me, Eddie."

"I'm not patronising you. You wanted me to talk you through it."

"Yeah, that. Not this."

"This is part of that."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"Well this isn't getting me very turned on," you spit, turning back to look at him, your arms still crossed over your chest and the rising fire of anger flares when you find that cocky smirk on his face.

"Will you come sit down with me? Please?"

His hands are hovering awkwardly between the two of you, forbidden to come any closer but refusing to give up completely. You offer him an olive branch, dropping your own arms and taking his hand in yours.

He walks you back to the couch and sits beside you, turning your hand over in his on his lap. You both watch it, the way his thumb grazes your palm, tracing the lines up and over.

"Sex isn't just sex, you know," he says frankly. "Even when it's like this."

"I know," you whisper, eyes transfixed.

"It's about all the emotional shit too, and I'm gettin' the feeling there's a lot of that to get through."

"Mm-hmm." It irks you, the way he seems to know you without really knowing you. "You sound very wise."

He laughs at that, and you find yourself grateful for the reprieve, for the way the tension seems to lift just a little.

"I'm just being honest," he admits through a laugh. And then he turns to look at you, dipping his head to meet your gaze because you won't look up. His gaze on you is oppressive, unfamiliar, but you don't dislike it.

"You're really pretty, you know."

You just look at him.

"Hm?" he tries, dipping even lower to catch your eye properly. "It's true."

"A boy's never called me pretty before," you admit, words too quick for you to call them back. This is dire, this hole you're digging; after all this time, being honest is still so difficult, though it seems to come so easily to him.

"That's a crime" he says. And then he does that thing, the one you've read about in books, daydreamed about, thought about late into the night. He brings his hand to your face and holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger, a light pressure but enough to move you to look up at him, sat upright, with your mouth dropped open in shock.

It's just as electric as you'd imagined; more so, even. Two points of contact. Who'd have thought it?

"I'm sorry I said something stupid," he tells you. "It was dumb."

You giggle as his fingers shift across your skin. Soon enough he's holding you in his hand again and you feel yourself leaning into it, again.

"Thank you for apologising," you say. "I think I can forgive it for now."

"Good," he says. And then, more coy, the act dropped for a moment, "Can I kiss you again?"

"Yes, but…"

Just like before, the words stall in your throat.

"You can tell me what you want, you know. It's why I'm here." Christ, his voice is like honey when he's this close to your face.

You pull a long breath in through your nose and close your eyes.

"I have this… fantasy," you begin, and you hear (and feel) him chuckle.

"Go on."

"I guess it's not really a fantasy, just something I've always wanted to try…"

"That's the definition of a fantasy."

"Hey," you scold, opening your eyes and swatting him on the arm softly. "You wanna hear it or not?"

"Sorry, sorry," he says, laughing again. "Continue."

"Can I sit on your lap?"

"Is that it?" he asks, laugh lingering, threatening to fire up the heat in your cheeks.

"Yes," you say pointedly. "I wanna try it."

"Go for it, baby."

He doesn't miss the way you gasp at the nickname; in fact, he smiles, grins almost. He moves his hands down, leaving your face for now so he can hold your waist as you move onto your knees and lift one over him.

It's funny, you think, how hard all of this feels; really, this is a very normal thing for two 23-year-olds to be doing, and yet something within you makes it feel mechanical, intentional. Perhaps you just need practise.

"Okay," he says as you settle, your hips halfway down his thighs. "You gonna get any closer, or am I gonna have to lean over an' break my back?"

"Am I okay to get closer?" you ask, not taking much notice of how your fingers are dancing around his chest, toying lightly with the chain around his neck. Maybe it does come naturally after all.

"'Course you are, here-"

His big hands pull you in by the waist so that you're seated on him, hips to hips. Your faces are closer now, too, so you can admire those lovely crows feet again and the bend of his nose.

"Gonna kiss me, Munson?"

"O-kay," he says, smirking again. "I like the attitude."

"Oh, for fu-"

He shuts you up with a kiss, takes your breath away like they all say in the magazines; this kiss brings the fire up to the hilt, pulls on the smoke and the kindling and sets everything ablaze. His lips move against yours like molten gold, hot and rich and bright, quick but tender all the same. You feel the heat of his stuttering breaths on your cheek and lean inwards, arching your back slightly, until you feel him moan.

It's a sensation you could get used to, for sure. It's fizzy vibrations on your lips, makes them tingle, all electric. And then, before you can really know it's happening, you feel his tongue on yours.

You're not even sure when you opened your mouth for him. But it's there, the new feeling. It feels wetter, less familiar, but it pulls an involuntary moan out of you and you arch your back even more without thinking.

You get into it, into the rhythm, and let your mind wander to the friction between your hips and the pressure of his fingers under your ribs. They're skirting the hem of your top, his ring finger dipping beneath it onto the skin of your waist. And then you think about it too much, take notice of it too acutely, and you're pulling back and panting, looking down at where his hands are.

"All good?" he asks in a voice that's new to you; it's lazy, his words fuzzy, like he's just woken up. You look up at him and his eyes are hooded, lids low, and he's wearing a dopey half-smile.

"Yeah, just… Feeling lots of things," you say; it's all you can think of to explain this.

"That's kinda the point," he reminds you, and then he's doing that thing he showed you earlier, kissing slowly across your jaw and down onto your neck. It feels just as nice the second time; nicer, even, because you're letting him do it and you're letting yourself enjoy it.

His fingers venture upwards, more of them sliding under your top, until he pulls back and says the fateful words you knew would come soon: "Can I take this off?"

His lips are still on your throat, so he doesn't see the way you wince. When you don't reply he comes back up to look at you. You turn away.

"Hey," he coos, one hand leaving its treacherous territory to hold your head again. "What's up?"

You huff. "No one's ever seen me… naked before."

He smiles, which vexes you. "I'm here 'cause I wanna, baby."

The fucking nicknames.

"I know, I just… Can you just-"

You hold his hand in yours and move it away from your skin, hold it in both of yours to keep it away from you. He breathes an apology but you continue.

"This whole thing, me never doing this before or whatever, I think it's probably got a lot to do with me not really liking this-" you look down at yourself as you speak, "-very much."

You see him take this in, how it melts his features and widens his eyes.

"Okay," he finally says. "We can take this slow, yeah? You wearing a bra?"

"Yes, Eddie, I'm wearing a bra."

"So let's start there. Top off first, and you can see how you feel."

"Okay."

You let go of his hand and he takes your shirt in both. You close your eyes as you feel him lift the fabric, bunch it around your breasts, your que to lift your arms. You do it for him and he pulls up, tugs it messily over your head and throws it somewhere across the room.

"Shit," he hisses.

"What?" you say in a panic, worried something somewhere has gone horribly wrong.

"Look at you," he croons. "So pretty."

The insecurity evaporates, coming off you like a heavy mist, as he dips his head to kiss your collar bones and across the swell of flesh beneath. He takes his time, sometimes pulling the skin between his teeth but never for long enough to leave a mark. At some point he nudges you back and reaches over his head to pull his own shirt off; before he commits, he looks at you. You nod.

This is the most flesh-on-flesh you've ever felt before. It's nice; you're both warm, and he hasn't once mentioned the eighteen thousand different flaws you know are on your upper body.

His is covered in ink – pretty, often in swirling patterns and on his arm there are bats. But between them, there's confirmation of your earlier suspicions: he's got scars everywhere.

You trace them with gentle fingers.

"Don't ask," he says, laughing awkwardly.

"Okay."

You lean back in to kiss him. You’re a lot less confident than he is at initiating, but soon enough you get the hang of it, and he lets you. He doesn't take the reins; instead, he gives himself to you, lets you find your feet by yourself.

You attempt to copy him, kissing his jaw and then his neck, and you enjoy the way he sighs and relaxes under your lips.

As you move further down, teeth grazing his collarbone, he says, "you wanna move? Couch isn't exactly ideal."

You finish your work with a peck to the bump of his shoulder and say, "Sure."

There's some awkward shuffling, and standing in your bra and jeans is somehow more vulnerable than sitting on him, but nevertheless you take his hand and lead him through the door to your bedroom.

He doesn't have as much time to take this room in as the last one, because he wants you on the bed more than he cares to admit. When you flick on the bedside lamp, finally acknowledging how dark it's become now the sun's started going down, all he really notices is how warm the room is.

"Here," he says, manoeuvring you as he pleases. "Lay back, yeah?"

You do as he says, sitting facing him and pushing yourself back so you can lay down with your knees up.

And then it happens: one of the many cataclysmic revelations of the evening.

"Good girl."

Again, you gasp, looking up at the ceiling.

"Good?" he asks.

"Really good," you tell him. You haven't really noticed that your hands have laid themselves across your chest, but he can't stop staring.

"That's it, see? Love when you tell me what you like."

One of his hands joins one of yours where it's fidgeting with your bra, and the other smooths down one of your legs, urging you to straighten them. You do, and again he says those fateful words: "Good girl. Gonna take these off, yeah?"

"Wait," you snap, sitting up and letting his hand fall so you can lean back with your weight on yours. "Can we do it together?"

"'Course."

"And can I… Can I undo yours?"

"Shit, sure you can."

You sit up and he takes your hands in his bigger ones, moulding them so you're tracing your fingers down the plain of his chest and stomach. You follow the dips and creases, the taught skin of his scars, and finally reach his belt.

He's mumbling nonsense at you, too caught up in everything to keep up the teacher façade, pinching your fingers between his so you can pull the leather through the buckle and get to his zipper.

When you unzip and brush something hard, he drops his hands and tips his head back in a sigh. It's an unfamiliar feeling under your tentative hands but it's not unknown.

"Wow," you breathe, not really meaning to say it out loud.

"Shit, gotta get these off-" He pulls back from your wanting grasp to shuffle out of his jeans, leaving his boxers in place for now. One step at a time.

"Your turn," he declares, smiling, jeans and socks gone. He reaches over to you again to return the favour, undoing buttons and the zip and his wide hand on your hip urges you to lift off the bed so he can pull the denim down your legs.

There's no turning back now; you can never again wonder what will happen the first time someone sees you (nearly) naked.

You've thought about this before, turned an infinity of possibilities over in your mind, but this was never one of them. Not one of them included a pretty boy, standing before you, just as exposed as you are, pawing at flesh and telling you you're beautiful.

His lips ghost over you, beginning at your shoulder and creeping lower. When he reaches the middle of your chest he looks up at you, the angle a little awkward. You nod.

"What're you doing?" you ask him, moving backwards again as he crowds you.

"I'm gonna take this off," he says, tugging lightly at the band of your bra, bringing himself level with you so he's breathing the words into your ear. "And then I'm gonna eat you out."

He may as well be a fire-breathing dragon. His words claw at your scalp like flames and fill your lungs with heat, pulling a sigh from within. You lean back, lying flat on the sheets, and let him have his way with you.

But he doesn't move, first admiring the way you respond and then waiting, lingering above you, too far away.

"What?" you hiccup, looking at him, confused.

"Need you to tell me this is what you want," he tells you.

"This is what I want," you repeat back to him. And then, taking the plunge, you add, "I want you to eat me out, Eddie."

You relish in his response, the way you can almost see him shiver, bare shoulders twitching and chest deflating with a shuddery exhale.

"Christ, yes, okay."

His fingers inch around your back so you arch it, letting him toy with the clasp of your bra. He gets it undone quicker than you expected, and you can't bring yourself to focus on where it goes once it's off because he's got his mouth back on your skin and now he's biting marks in places that would make your past self blush.

You feel his teeth on the swell of your boobs, first the left and then the right, and the rough pads of his fingers over your nipples.

"Shit," you hiss, and then, "no, shit, don't stop," when he halts for a second.

"Feel good?" he asks, muffled with his teeth grazing the stretch of skin across your ribs.

"Yes, yeah."

Gripping the sheets, you arch again, keening into him, chasing the buzz of his lips and the goosebumps they leave.

His fingers leave them, too, especially when they dance over your sides, that bit that makes you feel hollow if you drift over it the right way.

"Can I take these off?" he asks, lifting his head to look up at you from where he's sunk to his knees. You're staring at the ceiling, too preoccupied to meet his eye, and the sight makes him huff a laugh.

"Yes," you respond too quickly.

As you feel his fingers curl around the elastic, he says, "Okay, you're gonna have to give me a hand, alright? Tell me if it feels okay or if you want me to move. Or if you want me to stop, obviously."

"Yes, yeah, fuck, please Eddie-"

"Alright, alright," he laughs, pulling the material down over your knees and feet. At this rate, your bedroom floor must look like an explosion at the laundromat; dirty laundry everywhere, clothes all over the floor.

You're not sure why you're thinking about the logistics of tidying right now, though it doesn't last long, because the cool air on your core is a shock that jolts every limb.

Although he's wedged between them, you seem to have an instinctual reaction to the sensation of being exposed, your legs trying to close around him. His firm hands pull them apart, his fingers grasping the fat of your thighs, and then his lips.

They're on the softness between your legs first of all, nipping and pulling the skin between his teeth as he moves upwards. And then you feel them, the strange, wet contact. There's a feeling, something you think must be his tongue, licking upwards, before it makes contact with your clit.

The pressure is a thunderbolt to the centre, a shock that sends you arching off the bed with a gasp. Your grasp on the sheets tightens for a moment until you feel the roughness of his hair instead; without thinking, you've moved both hands to claw and pet at the crown of his head, earning a muffled moan when you tug ever so lightly.

He calls your name, pulling back, his words heard through cotton wool ears. "You're sure you haven't done this before?"

"Fuck, yes, Eddie I'm sure," you pant in response, desperate for the sensation of his mouth on you again. He obliges your unspoken craving, licking upwards again before settling comfortably at your clit. His firm hands dig deeper into the flesh of your thighs until one of them doesn’t, and before you can think too hard about it, you feel it just beneath his mouth.

The new feeling of his rough fingers on your cunt sends your eyes rolling back; you can't help but squirm and it's driving him wild, the way you're listening to him, the way you can't help but move, the way you're tugging at him without realising.

The gnawing tightness in your core nosedives when he slips, warm breaths replacing his mouth and fingers. You whine like a petulant child, making a noise you didn't know you could.

"I'm gonna use my fingers," he tells you, the distance between him and your cunt not enough to save you from the maddening huffs of breath as he talks. "Have you ever had anything inside before?"

It's funny, how nervous he sounds despite the fact he's knelt the way he is between your knees. His mouth was just all over you, and yet he's still a boy, turned stuttering by sex talk.

"No," you pant, "no, never."

"Okay, it might hurt, alright? You just gotta tell me to stop and I will."

"Okay," you agree.

He settles back into position, his weight rested on his elbows and his face and hand inching closer. You feel it, the stiffness of a finger, but the feeling is unusual and a little uncomfortable.

"You gotta relax," he tells you. "You overthinkin' it?"

"No," you bite defensively.

"It's okay."

You huff and lie back, dropping your shoulders.

"Do you ever…"

Another sigh.

"Do you ever touch yourself?"

There's a momentary flush of embarrassment, a conditioned response to being asked about this kind of thing, but you're here, in this position, naked, so you may as well be honest.

"Yes."

"Okay, what do you think about? When you do?"

"I, uh…"

"It's okay," he says quickly, "don't tell me. Just- just think about it now, right? Somethin' that turns you on."

Something that turns you on? What's turning you on right now is the handsome guy between your legs. His pretty inked skin, the stretch across his shoulders and the ripples in his back. His wide, firm hands, those obnoxious rings, the way he keeps telling you you're a good girl.

It swims in your mind, the vision of him cooing sweet praises, the fizzling memory of those words in his voice.

"That's it, you got it," you hear him tut, as though he can see inside your mind, read your thoughts. It pulls apart the tension in your core and across your shoulders, and then it's back, that feeling, the warmth and the fire, and you sink deeper into the pool of euphoria.

With one finger already half-way inside, he adds a second, his eyes trained on your face in case it's too much. But it's not; of course it's not. He knows he's good, but he doesn't think he's made a girl this happy in his whole life.

You feel it soon enough: there's a fizzing current that licks up from your cunt and into your gut where it lights your nervous system on fire. It runs laps around your body, pinpricks in your fingertips and behind your ears. You grasp at the sheets again, pulling, pulling, pulling, reaching for whatever you can to keep your body from floating away, because it really feels like that's about to happen; either that or you're going to implode, pulling the room and everything else with you like a black hole, hungry for more.

You barely notice the pants, your whiny moans and the repeated prayers of Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, before you're coming apart. He's still going, riding you through it, basking in the sound of his name as it crawls from your mouth. So far he's kept his composure, ignored the searing pain under his boxers, but he doesn't think he'll hold out much longer.

"That's it," he coos, slowing down, rubbing soothing circles into your hip. You're panting, your breath hot and skin even hotter, and you can barely hear him when he speaks. The words carry, though, somehow; his praises of you did so good, and you're driving me wild, and, worst of all with the way it slaps you silly when it comes, I need to be inside you.

You sit up at that, holding yourself up on wobbling elbows to look at him. He's still knelt between your knees, hands resting on them, looking back at you with eyes turned dark and glistening skin. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and it takes you a minute to understand that he's waiting for your answer.

"Right," you breathe. "Yeah, okay." You scramble to sit up and twist yourself so you're lying the right way but he laughs and it makes you go cold.

"Chill out, take a minute, yeah?"

His hand hasn't left you; it's on your ankle now, rubbing those same circles over the bone.

All you can say is, "That was insane."

He laughs again, a softer noise this time, and says, "It was, huh?"

"Yeah." You flop back, head in the pillows and eyes on the ceiling above you, your own fingers tracing up and down your stomach.

He watches you from the floor. You're all flushed, glowing something rosy and sprinkled with dewy sweat. And then he watches your fingers, their absentminded journey up from your belly to the dip between your boobs, and back down. You repeat it over and over, and though it's an innocent, repetitive stroke, it's not helping the pressure between his legs.

"I'm gonna take these off," he tells you, giving your ankle a comforting squeeze and tugging his waistband with his free hand. "That okay?"

It dawns on you, as you look at him, that not only are you lying naked in front of a stranger, but that you are about to see that stranger's dick. A stranger who responded to your stupid ad in the paper, who's agreed to this for some stupid reason, and who is stupid handsome and stupid nice.

"Uh, yeah, okay."

He says your name again and it sounds so pretty when he does, and then he says, "We can stop if you want, you know. You don't have to do anythin' you don't want to."

"No, I want to," you say. "I just… This is a lot."

"Yeah," he says with a smile, that one that drips with charm and tugs at your gut. "But you're all good. Done so well so far."

Your body keens at the praise, your back lifting off the bed and it's then that you notice the feeling of want biting ugly marks into the pit of your stomach. You look at him, and he looks back at you, and all you can feel is a gnawing emptiness, a need to be full.

"Let's do this," you declare, sitting back up on your elbows and watching him with needy eyes. He sees it, the darkness that has settled in your irises, the itchy fidgeting of your hands on your sheets.

"Yes, ma'am."

Slowly, he stands and tugs his underwear down his legs and onto the floor. It all feels very real, now that he's stood before you like this.

He laughs at your wide eyes, trained on the straining erection he just let loose. You've never seen a dick in person before, and to be truthful you're not sure you've ever really seen one in a photograph or a video – the adult section at the rental store isn't exactly somewhere you often find yourself – so you have nothing to compare this to, but objectively it looks quite big.

"Will it fit?" you say before you can stop yourself. It comes out a squeak and makes him laugh yet again.

"Yes," he tells you, "it'll fit. But thanks for the ego boost."

He's on his knees on the bed beside you now, moving towards you until he can use his hands to move your legs apart. He settles himself between them and sits back on his heels, leaving one hand on your left leg and using the other to take one of yours. He intertwines your fingers, squeezes, and pulls you to sit up.

"Here," he says, bringing your hand to sit flat on his ribs. He's controlling his voice as best he can, hoping it doesn't sound as desperate as he feels right now. He can't help but stare at you, at how you're looking at him.

"I'm gonna show you how to touch me, okay?"

"Yeah," you breathe. His hand moves yours down until it reaches patchy hair and then he curls your hand around his dick, his own hand still holding yours.

It's a new feeling, sure, but you're mostly enjoying the short hisses of breath he's letting out. When you move upwards without his help he almost moans, and you decide you'd like to do whatever it takes to make him do it again, and louder.

"Shit, okay, wait. Here-" He brings your hand away and lays it flat, palm up. "Spit."

You look up at him and find his wide brown eyes looking down at you, waiting.

So you spit into your palm, and he brings it back to himself, and moving is easier now.

"Fuck, okay… Yeah, just like that, that's it, shit-"

He drops his hand from yours and leaves you to find your own way, so you copy his pattern of up and down, slowly, twisting your hand as you go.

"Here, move your thumb over the- Fuck-"

You do as he says, perhaps too eager to please, and watch in awe as the muscles in his abdomen tense and he leans forward, resting his weight on one hand planted right beside your hip.

"Okay, okay, that's enough," he says, taking your wrist and pulling you away, ignoring the way you whine.

When he says, "We can worry about me another time," you try to ignore the brief fluttering it elicits deep within your chest somewhere. Dwelling on things said in the heat of this moment isn't fair, you decide; he surely doesn't mean it.

With warm, now familiar hands, he helps you lay back down.

"You got condoms?"

"Oh." You don't, and the truth you're about to tell him is mortifying. "No. They all expired a few months ago."

"That's fine," is all he says, and the fluttery feeling returns when he doesn't ask any follow up questions. No judgement, as promised. "Just wait here."

His hand leaves you at the last possible moment. As he moves off the bed it runs smooth down your leg and over your foot, like he's scared that if he lets go you'll disappear. You watch him hop awkwardly across the room and into your living room, the sight a refreshing injection of humour, helping you relax into the mattress again. He comes back with his jacket in one hand, which he drops on the floor after rummaging in the inside pocket and pulling out a red foil square.

He pulls it open with fingers that you realise are shaking slightly, and you wonder if he's really nervous, and if so, if he's as nervous as you are.

It takes a few seconds but soon enough he's rolled it on, breath stuttering and dry, and then he climbs back to you and his hands return to your body almost as quickly as they left.

He's hovering over you now, his long hair tickling the sides of your face and the tops of your shoulders, all the places the sun hits on hot days. You're too caught up in watching his every move, too keen to really realise what you're saying before you ask: "Will you kiss me again?"

He smiles and dips down wordlessly, letting his lips slip against yours. It brings back the fluttering and the fizzy feeling, the craving for him. As your tongues move as one, you feel his hand by your thigh, and when he pulls back he says, "You ready?"

You nod, and then, remembering what he said earlier, cement it in words: "I'm ready."

"Alright, I'm gonna go slow, okay? It's gonna stretch more than earlier, but you just keep me clued in, yeah?"

"Yeah."

There's a new sensation at your core, of wetness and something rigid. He's moving against your folds, finding no purchase in the remnants of earlier on, but then he nudges your clit and you jolt upwards and that's when he finds what he was searching for.

He nudges in quickly at first, enough to make you whine a pained sound. He matches it with a low grumble, a vibration right by your ear.

"You okay?" he's quick to ask, head rising to look at you.

"Yeah, yeah, just- slow, please."

"I've got you."

He doesn't move for a beat, eyes trained on the scrunch of your nose. He kisses it and feels you relax, so he keeps kissing, quick flashes over your forehead, your temple, your cheek. Each one brings new relief and as your back hits the bed again, he eases himself in a little more.

The stretch is definitely different; more. There's a burn, but it doesn't completely hide the wave of pleasure you get in the fullness.

"Gonna go a bit more," he tells you, and he does just that, going half an inch further, still watching for any sign of discomfort.

When you bring your knees up by his hips, he knows you're past the worst of it. He chants praise, telling you that you're doing so well, taking me so well as he keeps going, all the way until he's seated inside you, up to the hilt. You breathe in a gasp, filling your lungs, realising you'd been holding your breath for too long. And as you open your eyes, you find him staring down at you with concern and something else.

"You good?" he whispers with his face so close you feel the words as they settle on your cheek.

"Yeah."

"Good girl."

He punctuates this with a kiss, and then another, over the hill of your jaw and onto your throat. Your hands claw up his back, pulling him in until you're sure that if he were any closer, you'd fuse into one.

"Okay," he finally says, lips against the peak of your shoulder. "I'm gonna move. I'll go slow at first."

"Okay."

The feeling of him pulling out is new and nice, but it's nothing compared to the opposite. The combination of the two, the repetitive motion he picks up, is something you want to chase forever.

As he moves, he quickens, trying his best to keep his eyes open and attentive; it's difficult, though, when you feel this good.

"Christ, you're so fuckin' tight, shit-"

"Eddie, this feels amazing, uh-"

Your stomach twists into a coil again, quicker this time, and tightens as he picks up the pace. Above you he's all guttural moans and pretty groans, his lips grazing your cheek each time he moves, and soon his thrusts become too much. You're panting his name and he's panting yours, and along with the sound of skin on skin, that's all you can hear until he speaks gravel-churned words into your ear.

"Shit, 'm so close, fuck- Gotta get you there, baby, huh? C'mon, need you to come for me."

His words are joined by sloppy fingers between your bodies. They fumble in the dark, prodding your belly before finding slippery purchase on your clit. Sparks light up your body and all you can do in response is let it arch into him with a yelp of his name.

"You close?" he asks.

"Yes, yeah, shit, yes," you splutter back. It's like a chase, and you're catching up, quickly, quickly, quickly.

All of a sudden there's a white-hot flash that burns every inch of your insides. You tense, your body yawning open for him, wide and wanting; he doesn't relent, thrusts harder than ever, chases you in return as he feels you tighten around him. You release, the coil snapping, and he brings the pace down to see you through to the end.

There's cotton wool in your ears again but you make out his praises: "That's it, that's it, atta girl… C'mon, I've got you, you did so well."

When your breathing turns regular and your eyes ease open, you feel a warm knuckle on your cheek. He's still going slow, rutting in and out of you with ease now, and when you finally look at him he asks, "Gonna keep goin', that okay?"

You nod, throat closed for the time being so you make it as certain a nod as you can muster. His thrusts become quicker again, and the more he speeds up the sloppier he becomes. You feel sensitive, too warm but also too desperate to see, hear, feel him come undone inside you. It's not long until your wish is granted; soon his groans turn to whimpers and whines, and he calls your name as he shudders to a violent halt. It's intoxicating, experiencing this from underneath him; if this is what everyone's been talking about all these years, you understand why.

The room sways and whistles as he rests his weight on you. His breath, right beside your ear, is like a hot, damp rag, pulling at your sticky skin and the thrum of rushing blood. You hear him groan and then the uncomfortable feeling of him pulling out. The bed bounces gently as he huffs and flops down beside you, and, god, you wish so badly that you could keep those flutters under control because his clammy hand finds yours between your bodies and it's nice to feel the affection he's so devoted to giving you.

Sighing, he says, "Shit."

You laugh, scrunching your face.

"Yeah," you agree, "shit."

He squeezes your hand.

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah. Really liked it."

"Okay for your first time?"

"Yeah." You turn onto your side to face him, looking up at his face. There are a few curls stuck to his pretty pink face, and you admire the bob of his throat as he swallows and the squeeze of his hand in yours.

"You're really pretty," you tell him. You're not sure if this is the post-O haze the magazines talk about, or if it's some kind of clarity, or if it's just that you have this boy in the palm of your hand and you suddenly can't bear the thought of letting him go. Instead you want to plant anchors, heavy lines that will keep him right where he is.

He turns his head to look at you and you see him flush even more.

"So are you," he whispers, with another squeeze and a kiss to your forehead.

There are a few minutes of quiet after that. The light outside is gone for good, so he's glowing a low golden in the light of your bedside lamp. He kisses you again with a fondness that surely shouldn't come with this exchange, which you had rationalised as just that: a transaction, a mutual agreement to get something done.

You see him open his mouth, as if to speak, but close it again, so you reach a tentative hand up and brush some hair from his eyes and trace your knuckle down his temple, urging him.

"My friends," he begins, hesitant, "they're having a party, next weekend. Steve, he only lives round the corner, we passed his house on the way here... You wouldn't wanna come, would you?"

"With you?" you whisper into the fizzy darkness.

"Yeah." He smiles, eyes fluttering shut under your sweeping fingers. "With me."

"Is it a date?"

"It can be, if you want. Or we can just, y'know, go as friends, or whatever."

"No one's ever asked me on a date before."

He smiles, and it's soft and curled with an affectionate pity; one that says I'm sorry, that's not fair, it's nothing to do with you.

"Well, wanna come?"

"I'd love to."

He pulls your hand up and brings it to his mouth, where he kisses your knuckles. Goosebumps raise across your thighs and arms, and you realise you're cold.

He seems to sense your discomfort because you feel him shift beside you. He pulls you up with him and helps you climb off the bed on wobbly legs.

"I should pee," you tell him, heeding the warnings of girlfriends past.

"You should," he says, a little deflated.

You don't move, though. To move would be to acknowledge the end – the end of the transaction, of the favour. It's not something you want.

"I, uh," you begin, stumbling, "Don't- Do you want-"

"I can go now, if you want-"

"No, no, it's okay, I mean, you can go if you want, that's fine, I just-"

Your eyes are darting all over the carpet, skimming discarded clothes, so you don't notice him reach up until he's touching your face, holding it in his palm.

"I'll stay, if you want me to."

"Yes, please."

He smiles at you, sticky with fondness and you can't help but smile back.

"I'm gonna shower," you tell him, leaning further into his grasp.

"I'll be here."

"Munson! You made it!"

In the middle of the busy room, there's a tall guy, broad and burly, like all the jocks you went to high school with. He's startlingly pretty, with golden hair and honeyed skin, a wide, bright smile plastered across his face.

He steps on unsure feet over to Eddie, who is stood partially in front of you; you're cowering behind him, willing the courage to lift you and push you into the arms of strangers. For now, holding his hand will do just fine.

"Hey, Harrington," Eddie greets, meeting him in one of those boyish embraces. You look around, taking in the faces; it's not the level of the high-school parties you used to go to, and definitely not the circus of the frat ones you've sometimes found yourself at, but it's busy enough. Where the guy – Harrington – came from, in the living room, there's a circle of people who are all smiling in your direction.

"Who's this?" The guy is looking at you over Eddie's shoulder.

Eddie tells Steve your name, and then turns to you. "This is Steve."

"Hi," you say to him, smiling, trying your best to hide the cruel nerves.

"Nice t'meet you!" he beams back. It's infectious; your smile turns firm and genuine in return. "Here, come meet the gang."

"C'mon," Eddie whispers to you with a kiss to the crown of your head. He pulls you through the entryway, into the large living room, following Steve. He drops your hand to give and return hugs, saying hello to each person. You stand and watch, unsure of what to do, until one of the girls – the first one Eddie greeted – appears by your side.

"Hey," she says, perhaps a little too close.

"Hi."

"I'm Robin." She sticks her hand out and you shake it clumsily.

Eddie's back, with his hand in yours again, on your other side. He calls her Rob and tells her your name, and then does the same for each person – Nancy, Jonathan, Will, Mike, Max, Lucas, Dustin, El – too many for you to remember tonight, but you have a feeling you'll see them again.

"Hi, guys," you return with a wave.

Everything settles after that. You take a seat next to Eddie on the couch, legs up and over his own, making conversation with Robin who you like a lot. Nancy comes over and introduces herself again and you find you like her, too.

And then Steve appears, having disappeared twenty minutes before. He's a little drunker, and he hands you and Eddie a can each. You take it gratefully and open it, taking a swig.

"So," he begins, sitting on the opposite side of the circle to yourself and Eddie. "You from Hawkins?"

"No," you tell him, and repeat the story you told Eddie.

"Sweet! So how'd you meet?"

You turn your head to look at Eddie and find him having done the same thing. His eyes are wide, just as wide as you're sure yours are.

"Uh," you begin, drawing out the sound to buy yourself time.

"I did her a favour," he says, to your surprise, turning back to look at Steve with a sickly smile. "Just somethin' she'd put in the paper."

"That's so cute," Nancy says from behind you, her words chased by Robin adding a sarcastic, "Adorable."

The conversation moves on after that, and you turn around to Eddie again. He's looking back at you, his face pink and a smile tugging at his mouth. Before you can stop yourselves you're laughing, bursting into happy noises, bent double giggling.

He gives you another kiss, on the cheek this time, and quickly you settle back into conversations. The night is long and for the first time in a long time, it isn't lonely.

Hello! This is SO long - it really did take on a life of its own. I considered splitting it but couldn't find somewhere to do it, so I hope you enjoy this absolute beast nonetheless. I love you!

#ha ha I am sorry!#god it's long #I hope you love it <3 #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #Eddie munson x reader #Eddie munson angst #stranger things #stranger things 4 #st4 #eddie fic #eddie x fem!reader #eddie #eddie stranger things

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noteveryoneis · 2 years ago

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Avatrice Pirates Au

Okay so if you know me on twitter (which you probably don't cause I have like 15 followers and I keep my shit hidden) you know that about two months ago I fell deep into my stupid idea of an avatrice pirates au and that I drew a stupid little drawing that got a little bit of attention, but it stopped here. I wrote only the first 4k words and stopped there because the fixation passed.

Anyways. These pieces by this amazingly talented artist reminded me of that and although I won't probably ever write it again, I'm starting to consider using tumblr to just post snippets of fics instead of writing them whole cause I never manage to finish them.

Anyways.

Here's the avatrice pirates au I never wrote (and you'll probably understand why some things are better left untold):

1700s, on a Caribbean island I did a lot of research about but forgot the name of:

Beatrice is an aristocrats’ daughter that is about to be married to the rich governor, which is pretty cool for her parents cause there's no way she could do better. Beatrice is not happy about it but she complies like a good daughter (a vial sits in the drawer of her bedside table, hidden under her Bible, her escape, her salvation).

On the night of her engagement party, Beatrice is called for outside discreetly by her future husband's valet, and brought to the gardens, far away from the party (she's not complaining, she wants out). There, her fiancé explains that he knows she would never love him, asks for her friendship. Beatrice knows she would never be able to give it to him but lies anyway and says he has it all. After that, the dude tries to kiss her and then BOOM! He's knocked unconscious by two figures that hide in the dark (one with two shotguns hidden under her long coat, the other with a glowing red jewel around her neck and pointy teeth).

Beatrice tries to warn that they're being attacked but then, get this: these bitches gag her, blindfold her and kidnap her! Shit's about to get real around here.

Those two 'Mary' and 'Lilith' bring her to their ship which is on the other side of the cliff, hidden from view, and then some idiot stops in front of her, congratulating the two of them for their work and asking that they take off Beatrice's gag and restraints and blindfold.

Beatrice opens her eyes to Ava the Pirate Captain grinning at her, and has the brilliant idea of spitting in her face and insulting her, which just makes Ava laugh. As Beatrice is being brought to a cabin by Camila, she steals her sword and decides to kill Ava herself cause she's pissed.

Ensues a pretty epic sword battle or something, but Beatrice is wearing a 40 pound gown and she trips on her skirt and loses and is absolutely fuming. "Get me out of that horrendous dress and give me a properly balanced sword and maybe we’ll call it a fair fight," she says, but Ava laughs and asks why they would fight a fair fight, they're pirates, they don't do this 'honour shit'.

Anyways, Beatrice is left in the captain's cabin as the whole crew sails away, and fucks up a window to try and jump off (in this story Beatrice has absolutely 0 regards for her safety and is filled with rage and hate for pirates so she's pretty unhinged). Too bad Ava catches her before she can do that, calling her insane. Beatrice kicks her out of her own quarters and barricades herself inside, vowing to stay until the end of their trip.

Yeah, cause the whole point of this is to ask for a ransom in exchange for Beatrice, so unfortunately they have to keep her alive the whole time, which Ava doesn't seem very pleased about, but she wants the money so she complies.

Anyways, the details are a little fuzzy but during the following weeks Beatrice sparks a friendship with Camila who provides her with lighter clothes and tries unsuccessfully to make her wear pants (again, details fuzzy but they have an interesting conversation about femininity and masculinity and shit).

Camila is the one to explain the whole crew to her. Camila herself ran away from her abusive husband and will give her life for Ava, as she was the one to provide her with an escape. Mary's mother killed her father and told her to run and since then Mary has vowed to never set foot on land again, she's the only one allowed to call Ava out on her bullshit. Lilith is a witch. Like a total fucking witch. Her story with Ava is pretty confusing, I only remember that she granted Ava some kind of second life when she found her dying (of what, I'll have to think about it) against a place on her ship. There is a dude named Michael somewhere, Beatrice hasn't met him yet. Hans is the cook. He's chill.

As for Ava, Camila says Beatrice will have to find out her story on her own like a big girl.

Then, one night, as Beatrice is just bored out of her mind, the door of her cabin is forced open and Ava runs inside. Beatrice at first grabs the nearest shoe to throw it at her, but Ava doesn't give a fuck. She has a child in her arms, Camila and Lilith are running after her as she makes her way to the fireplace (I don't know if there can be fireplaces on ships, but let's be real this isn't the most unrealistic thing about this whole au).

Beatrice is Scandalised ("YOU HAVE A CHILD ON BOARD YOU MONSTER?!"), but she doesn't have time to think about that. The child is sick, he's shaking and crying and burning with fever and Ava is frantic, trying to find a way to heal him. She's yelling at Lilith to take her life and give it to the child, when the boy starts choking. Beatrice's 'I know everything''s ass immediately springs into action and drops all of her hate for Ava to save the boy (Diego, his name is Diego). How she does that, I haven't done enough research to answer that question, but let's say she uses everything she knows from her books and manages to make him breathe once again.

Ava then wraps him into her coat, scoops him up in her arms and goes back outside, and Beatrice follows after her because "Are you insane what are you doing", only to find Ava on the main deck, holding him against her chest and whispering to him.

("Do you smell that, boy? This is the smell of the sea. The sea is here, the sea is us and we are Her. Can you feel it? This is the scent of our freedom.")

Diego falls asleep against Ava's chest, and Beatrice tries to berate her for bringing a child in such dangerous conditions, but Ava stops her right there. "Do you think I haven't tried? Do you think I like it, to know that he could be killed at any moment? I have tried to leave him on land many times before, he always finds his way back to me. He is a child of the sea, and so am I." Beatrice understands, doesn't push, instead helps her hold Diego so that he can breathe freely until the sun rises.

But after that episode, Ava finally decides to leave him on land for good, with the right people. So, she calls for Michael, and ensues a cryptic conversation that Beatrice doesn’t really understands but from what she can tell, Ava is asking if they can leave Diego with Michael’s mother, and he sighs, saying he doesn’t want to see his mother but that he’ll do it for the boy.

Beatrice accompanies them to Jillian’s house (because Ava doesn’t think her crew can stop her from escaping without her supervision), where she learns that not only Ava can read (the latter is pretty offended by her assumption) but she also knows about Jillian’s works in physics. It turns out Jillian didn’t want Michael to leave, after his father was taken during a storm, and he ran away years ago. She agrees to keep Diego with her after a long conversation ("Protect my boy," Ava says, "and I’ll protect yours."). Diego doesn’t want Ava to go, but she convinces him, telling him that they’ll write to each other but that he has to learn how to read for that, she promises to visit him at least once every year.

Ava cries when they leave, tells Beatrice to swallow back her comments, but Beatrice doesn’t have any.

After that, Beatrice sort of opens up to the crew and to Ava, because she realises that there isn’t shit else to do (that’s what she tells herself, but deep down she also wonders what she would have been if she had been born pirate).

Mary’s wife comes back in the middle of nowhere, somehow finding a way to track down their boat. Beatrice is shook because WAIT YOU CAN MARRY A WOMAN?? (and Ava's like "Yeah, who do you think married them?") And because they both look pretty normal and in love and she doesn’t find it that disgusting. Shannon has brought a woman that is being chased by the Inquisition for her scientific knowledge and called a witch, Yasmine, who just rolls with the chaos.

Beatrice and Ava bond over their knowledge of physics and play chess and one night during a storm Ava injures her hands and Beatrice has to hold the rudder (?) for her, following her directions until they are out of the storm (cause ain’t no way she’s dying on a pirate ship).

She also rectifies their map because “they’re completely wrong, you idiots”, pretends that she just doesn’t want to get lost with them, and uses all of her knowledge to draw the land accurately (and Ava provides her with the finest inks and pens and parchments because "I just want a good map, lady").

There was also that episode where they meet sirens (mermaids? Man, idk) and one of them, Melanie, is Shannon’s half sister and so in sisters’ fashion she immediately jumps into the water to try and fight her and THAT’S when Ava convinces Beatrice to try on pants because she can’t swim with that many petticoats.

The sirens show them sea caves and the glowing seaweeds and sea shells and Beatrice goes nuts as she watches the constellations drawn on the inside of the walls of the cave (and maybe Ava looks at her a little too fondly from across the cavern and Melanie teases her about it).

There was also another episode where they’re on land for errands (don’t ask) and a horse escapes its enclosure and Beatrice manages to catch it by running after it and then mounting it (and it feels so freeing, to be able to breath and to feel the air on her face and in her hair) and then she returns if and Ava is shook because "why didn’t you run away??" and Beatrice uncovers Ava’s biggest fear: horses.

It turns out that Ava lived her whole life in an orphanage after her mother’s death, with another little boy named Diego, mistreated and abused, until she fell in love with a boy who promised to marry her and give them both the life they deserved. And Ava, like an idiot, believed him, did everything for him. Until she found out that JC was engaged, that he had never intended to marry her, and so she went maybe a little bit cray-cray and not only stole from his place but also stopped the wedding and told his bride everything before making her escape. To her surprise, Beatrice doesn’t berate her, doesn’t tell she shouldn’t have done that, instead she smiles like she’s picturing the scene herself and they both laugh.

Then there was an episode where they go out to drink and drag Beatrice with them cause it’s funny to watch her be so scandalised about everything. And they end up in a bar where some woman named Lucia sits down next to her and starts talking with a flirtatious smile that Beatrice doesn’t notice (and Ava looks weirdly at them but doesn’t intervene because it’s not her business). When Lucia assumes that she’s with the captain, Beatrice gets so embarrassed she loses her shit a little and starts stuttering and Lucia laughs and tells her it’s alright, that she can help her teach her some things if she’d like. Beatrice takes a pass (and lots of repressed memories come back to her and we as readers discover that Beatrice isn’t just not attracted to her fiancé, she’s also a woman kisser and is admitting to herself that she’s also a woman lover and a man hater).

At some point the crew crosses paths with a small Navy ship and board it and win the pointless little fight and immediately starts stealing their merchandise. Beatrice wanders around the ship (“Don’t mind the woman,” Ava warns the crew that she has rounded up on the main deck. “She’s just looking around.”) The moment she has her back turned, Beatrice tries to give a letter for her parents to a terrified sailor, but Ava catches her.

To say that she’s disappointed is an understatement, they get into a big verbal fight as Beatrice is brought back to her cabin. Beatrice insults them all, tells Ava that they’re nothing but a little band of thieves and killers, that there is no way in Hell that they would ever be friends, no matter who they’d have been born to be. Then Ava tells that she’s no better, marrying a crook and an idiot and Beatrice might agree with her but she’s very very angry right now and so she tells her something like ‘he’ll always be better than you’.

And Ava goes “Who do you think told us where to find you?”

To which: “What?”

“Who do you think told us where to find you? How come you were outside when everyone was inside having the party? How come there was so much noise and nobody could hear you scream? Who had the idea, Beatrice? Do you think you were chosen at random? Do you think you were picked because you’re rich or because someone asked us to?”

And everything starts adding up and Beatrice realises how much she’s fucked, and screams at Ava until the woman leaves, closing the door behind her.

And Beatrice is devastated, because she’s going to be brought back to her parents, to marry the man that has ordered her kidnapping and will enjoy his own share of the money and it makes her sick

No later than the next day, Ava receives news (letter or messenger?) that Beatrice’s family is ready for her return, as well as the money that they asked for. “Congrats, milady,” she says darkly. “You’re going home.”

And Beatrice feels nothing.

She feels nothing as she takes back her heavy dress, she feels nothing as she slowly and painfully puts it on, she feels nothing as she detangles her hair and tries to braid it back like her maid did on the day of the engagement party.

She feels nothing, until she looks in the mirror and finds the woman she used to be looking back at her. And she thinks about the cold bed in the colder house of her husband, about her parents looking away from her, about the vial of poison hidden in her bedside table and she panics.

Ava finds her clawing at her dress, breathing erratically and trying desperately to take it off. “Get me out get me getmeoutGETMEOUT!” and she has to take out her knife and cut the laces of her corset for Beatrice to breathe, and then she holds her as she cries and cries and says things about poison and how she doesn’t want to die and how she hates that man and she begs Ava to not give her back and Ava cups her face, looks at her in the eyes and promises that they will never have her.

It takes a bit of convincing for the crew to agree to let Beatrice stay, but Ava gets there.

(There was also this unnecessary but funny episode where they’re in a bit of a jam because Beatrice’s fiancé promised the money once Beatrice was returned to him, and so they wonder how they’re going to get the money — and Beatrice gets scared that they’re going to give her back after all but Ava runs her thumb over her knuckles and tells her they’d never do that. It ends with Lilith dressing up as the bride — she’s pretty pissed about that but they have no other choice — with a veil covering her face and Beatrice giving them a detailed map of her parents’ place so that they know exactly what to do. Ava shows up grinning with fake Beatrice “Look I brought you your bride, ready for the wedding!” and gets her share of the money as Beatrice hides in the back, disguised as a man. Lilith ends up running away from Beatrice’s family after dramatically revealing herself and Beatrice is the one to guide her to the ship — “HOW DO YOU RUN IN THIS THING?” Lilith asks. “YOU DON’T.” — and then they run away and Beatrice finds out that those idiots also stole a lot of her parents’ jewels and she thinks it’s funny as shit.)

There’s probably going to be another part to this but let me have a little break first I’ll be back with my bullshit later.

Pirate au👄💅

#warrior nun #avatrice #avatrice pirates au #beatrice trying to prove that she's nothing like her parents and ava letting her because that's exactly what she wants #“pirate” “you too”#“i'm not a princess” “okay princess”#i am forever terribly sorry to whoever reads this #don't tell me about the historicall innacuracy #i know they're here #i have accepted them as my own #anyways bye

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aphiewrites · 1 month ago

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Pairing: season 1!Viktor x gender neutral!reader

Warnings: literally just fluff, being asked out lmao, first time writing, no mentions of y/n, not proofread,

Word count: idk

a/n: y’all i used to write fanfics, but i haven’t in sOOOOOO long. I literally apologize, on my knees, begging, if like this is bad. i wanted to pick up writing again bc arcane has just inspired me especially viktor if u know what i mean. ahaha. pls dont criticize me so harshly i will cry and stop writing but advise is appreciated. also grammar might be bad, its like a weakness for me cus english is my second language. anyways bye love u whoever reads this.

The clacking of your shoes echoes through the academy halls. The lights in the hallway barely emit a soft light in these dark hours. A guard stands at the end of the hallway, quietly dozing off and then catching himself awake when his head nods. He finally notices you with a box in your hands, a box filled with trinkets such as gears, screws, and jagged handmade parts of machinery. He nods at you, passing him with a quick smile as you make a left to looming doors of the laboratory.

You quietly open the door, using your elbow to turn the long door handle. You push the door open with your foot and smoothly slide in. You nudge the door close with your foot aback and adjust your hold with the wooden box as to not drop anything. The laboratory is glowing a blue hue from the hexcore being mended on. There in the middle of the lab, you notice Viktor. Slouched and focused on the magical machinery, his arms twisting and turning to control the robotic arms that interacts with the hexcore. His hair is ruffled from the goggles that is on his face and from the frustration that he runs through his hair with his hands.

You slowly make your way over to his position, cautious of the laboratory environment as to not cause an incident. “Viktor, I brought your order of supplies,” you speak softly.

Viktor jolts from his focus and immediately lets go of the controls. He pulls back the goggles and turns to you, “ah! You can set that down anywhere. I hope you didn’t find much trouble getting those,” he speaks kindly, his accent smooth and alluring.

You set the box down on the table in the middle of the laboratory and you pause for a moment. You can’t help but smile at him, his face has marks from the goggles resting too long on his face, and his hair is just a giant jumbled mess. You walk over to him, reaching out to the top of his head to readjust the goggles and to fix the folded parts of hair.

Viktor gives you a flustered look but doesn’t say much of it and lets you adjust his look.

“I managed to haggle the price for most of the parts,” you gleefully share to him.

“That is good,” he says, continuing to watch you closely as you clean up a few more pieces.

You retreat back and put your hands behind, “I did have trouble finding one part, I had to check three different shops before I found one that had it available.”

“I could’ve done it myself, but thank you for going through that trouble for me,” he says with a gentle smile.

You chuckle, “I’m happy to help around, Viktor. It keeps me busy instead of waiting around in an office to stamp papers.” Viktor and you share a light laugh. “Oh, before I forget…” You dip your hands into the pocket of your coat and place down the change you obtained from haggling beside him on the desk. “I would’ve dropped it off earlier, but I got caught up on the stamping and I’d figured you’d still be here,” you ramble.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

There’s a pause in the conversation. You didn’t notice how loud the hexcore hums until this silence. The silence is edging the line of awkward and comfortable silence until you cut in quick.

“So… Are you planning on clocking out soon?” Your eyes shift to the side as you question.

“There is still much work to do.” His head lowers, eyes looking down on his hands that are nervously soothing each finger.

“I don’t want to sound like Jayce right now, but I think you should take a break and come back to this in the morning.”

He sighs, “I am well aware,” he runs his hand through the back of his head, his other arm leaning on his knee, and his leg is now bouncing.

“Come on, you will have more space in that brain of yours to think once you’ve rested,” you outreach a hand.

“Fatigue is not the issue, it is you taking up more space in my head.”

You freeze in your place, dumbfounded. You aren’t sure if you heard that right, but you aren’t sure if he means it in the way you think. Does he despise your presence? Does he want you to leave so he can work more? Or does he find some sort of affection towards you?

He finally looks up at you to analyze your reaction, arms resting at his knees.

He must’ve realized your confusion on your face but he speaks up again, “Will you have dinner with me?”

You, never in a million years, would expect Viktor to make such a bold move on you. Your face is burning and heart is beating like a large drum inside of you.

“Um… Isn’t it a little late for dinner, Vik?” You awkwardly state. “Besides… I should probably sleep soon… and you too…”

Yours and Viktor’s face turn to shock from what you just said. You immediately curse yourself in the inside, it sounded more like a way to kindly reject him, but you swear to yourself it was out of concern for the man to rest as well instead of ruining his sleep schedule more.

Viktor straightens himself in the chair, trying to compose himself, “ah, yes. I’m sorry to bother you with nonsense—“

“No! no, no! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that to come off as a rejection.”

He raises an eyebrow, “Is it not?”

“No! I would love to have dinner with you! I was just saying you should rest, you’ve been working all day.” Did it get even more hot in this room? You think. Your face is burning even more than before and it feels like a sweat is about to drop from your forehead.

Viktor picks up his cane from the side of the desk and stands up.

Oh god. He’s coming over.

He stands right in front of you, looming. Bodies close, not touching, but you swear you can feel the warmth radiate off of him. The scent of his cologne fills your nose due to the close proximity. You can see the overconfidence that has kicked into him and you wish you could melt right at this second. He just stares at you for a while without saying anything. A smile creeping up on his face and it almost scares you because what else is going to come out from that mouth that’s going to send you into a frenzy?

“Well, perhaps I will rest tonight to keep your brain from worrying, and maybe a date tomorrow?” He slyly asks.

You blink a few times before gaining the composure to respond, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay cooped up in this lab tomorrow?” You snarkily remark.

“Jayce will do the work.” He grins.

“A date it is then,” you smile back.

“I’m glad,” he brushes off a piece of dust from your cheek then backs up. “I will head out now then, goodnight.” He says as he slowly walks towards the door.

“Wait a minute, have you eaten at all tonight?” You turn to him.

He stops halfway to the door, awkwardly as if he was caught stealing something, “No, but I was going to head to a little shop to pickup a meal,” he gives an innocent honest, almost goofy, smile.

You roll your eyes playfully, “Let’s go together then,” you catch up to him and follow him through the door.

———

“So, if we’re eating dinner right now, does that mean there will be no date tomorrow?” Viktor asks, half a sandwich in hand.

“Dinner, we rest, then date, okay?” You smirk.

He grins, “Okay, good.”

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor lol #viktor x you #viktor x y/n #league of legends #arcane #jayce talis #viktor league of legends #viktor nation #viktor machine herald

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mind-empty-just-fictional-people · 11 months ago

Text

Poems

main masterlist | supernatural masterlist

summary: dean searches your room when you’re missing, and the love letters he finds break his heart

pairing: dean winchester x female reader

rating: R for language

word count: 1.9k (1.5k excluding poems)

warnings: reader goes/is missing, language,

author’s note: please don’t make fun of my “poetry”, i know it’s not good that’s why i don't write poems lol

“Hey Dean, I’m working a case near Wichita so I’ll probably be back home by the end of the week. See you soon, bye.”

“That’s the last I heard from her,” Dean told his brother after playing him the message you left. “It’s been over a week, I’m gettin’ worried here!”

“Do you know what kinda case she was working?” Sam asked, Dean shook his head. “Okay, well I’m sure she’s fine, Dean. Let’s call the hospitals around where she is and ask if she’s there.”

“You do that, I’m gonna head to Wichita,” Dean replied.

“I think we should call the hospitals first, Dean. She said she was near Wichita, she could be anywhere from here to there!”

Dean sighed but agreed with Sam’s plan.

The boys had no luck with any of the hospitals so they decided to head over to Wichita and look for you. They searched for a few days before heading back to the bunker, hoping you might be there waiting for them. You weren’t, of course, and that only made their worry grow.

You’d been missing for nearly two weeks!

Dean thought there might be some kind of clue in your room and decided that searching it was next on his to-do list. Though he knew he was grasping at straws, he did it anyway.

Opening the door to your room, he smiled at the poster near your bed. It was the one he’d gotten you for Christmas last year. It was a kind of gag gift—it was his favorite band. (His real gift had been much more thoughtful.)

He began his search at your desk, digging through the mess of papers splayed out on the wood surface. His brows furrowed when he found one paper in particular. It looked like… a love poem?

The way your hair looks in the morning

The way your laugh adds life to moments boring

The way your breath hits my neck when you’re standing just behind me

Reaching over to grab something off the table

A lore book, of all things to be

And the way your eyes light up when you look into mine

I swear I almost see a hint of love

Behind those piercing starlights

Your lips on mine is what I need

Did you hear me?

I said kiss me, you fool!

We’ve not got much time

In this line of life

And I need you at my side.

Dean didn’t know if the poem would be considered “good” in the public eye, but he knew it made his heart clench. You were in love? But… with whom?

To him, the words were beautiful, and the thought that you wrote them about someone else broke his fucking heart. He knew there were no clues to your whereabouts in the next poem, but of course, he read it anyway.

I think of you when I drive and spot a classic car

I think of you when I eat a cheeseburger

And I’ll turn it upside down when I’m missing you

I think of you when I hear a Zepplin song

And I turn the music up when I’m not with you

I think of you when I see anyone wear flannel

Or a leather jacket that’s clearly a size or two too big

And I love to think of you

It just makes sense to me

I love to picture you beside me

At night when I can’t sleep

Or when I get scared of what I’m facing

I think of what you would do

Day or night

Night, day, or noon

I always think of you

Whoever this mystery person was, they were fucking lucky. Dean had never felt so jealous in his entire life. He always thought you two had a “will they won’t they” side to your relationship but at that moment he realized it was completely one-sided. The fun, flirty side to all your late-night conversations had just been friendly. Two friends playfully talking as if they both wanted to be more.

Of course Dean wanted to be more. Of course he knew he wanted to be with you. But now? Now he knew he’d either missed his chance or he simply never had one.

You were in love with someone that wasn’t him. And the love you’d been writing about wasn’t the kind someone gets over. It’s the kind that sticks—for life. The kind that people write songs about, the kind that people fight wars over, and the kind that makes people go crazy in the best way.

He knew he’d found that love when he first fell for you, but it turned out you had found that love in someone else.

“Anything?” Sam asked, walking into your room.

“Uhm,” Dean cleared his throat, hoping his eyes didn’t look as cloudy as they felt. “No, nothing important. Just some love letters or something.”

Sam furrowed his brows and picked up one of the poems off the desk, one that Dean had not read yet. As the taller Winchester read what you wrote his eyes grew wide, practically popping out of his head as his mouth fell open.

“Oh my fucking god!” Sam exclaimed. “Y/n’s in love with you?” He looked at his older brother in shock.

“Me? No, these poems are about whoever she’s been seeing recently, they aren’t about me. We’re just friends.”

“You haven’t read this one yet, have you?” Sam asked with a small smile before handing it over.

You asked me today; “what’s your favorite color?”

And I just shrugged; “I don’t know, blue?”

Cause how could I have said the truth?

The color I love most in the world

The color that brings me nothing but joy

In this sad, awful little life

Is the green and hazel of your eyes

The emerald diamonds that shine

When you look into the sun

The soft hazel that looks over at me

When we’re reading in the library

How can I tell you all of this

When the question is so simple and plain

How do I go into such specific detail

About the color I’m in love with

Without freaking you out

Or scaring you away

Or making you laugh at me

Because I know your favorite color

And I know it’s not the color of my eyes

“You…You think this is really about me?” Dean asked his little brother, hoping Sam was right.

“Dean in all my life I have never seen anyone but you eat a burger bun-side-down,” Sam chuckled a little having read one of the poems Dean had read earlier.

“Oh my god.” Dean furrowed his brows, looking back down at the paper in his hands. “We’ve gotta find her, Sammy, I gotta tell her!”

“Tell her that you went through her stuff while she was gone? Don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“No! Tell her I’m in love with her! Tell her that the color of her eyes is my favorite fucking color too! And every time her favorite band comes on the radio I turn it up, and every time I see a woman wearing her type of clothes I think about her. Tell her that all I do every waking moment of every day is wish I was with her, wish I was holding her in my arms so I could never let go.”

“I think you just told her.” Sam smiled, nodding to where you now stood at your door. Dean turned around quickly. Tears of joy stung your eyes as you looked at him and smiled.

“You love me?” you asked.

“More than anything,” Dean admitted as he hurried to you. He wrapped you in a tight hug, kissing your temple quickly before he tucked your head under his chin. “I’m so glad you’re okay!”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call, it’s a long story,” you mumbled. “When vampires ban together with twisted humans, they’re a lot harder to kill.”

“We were really worried about you,” Dean admitted. “Like…fucking terrified.”

“Is that why you decided to dig through my personal shit?” you asked. You were one hundred percent kidding, but Dean was still nervous.

“Yeah…sorry,” Sam cringe-clenched his teeth, “it was my fault.”

You and Dean pulled back from the hug, but you took his hand in yours as you narrowed your gaze at the younger hunter.

“I know your tell, Sammy,” you said. “But it’s sweet that you’re trying to cover for Dean.”

“Yep, all Dean’s fault,” Sam admitted before heading for the door, giving his brother a pat on the shoulder on his way out. “Good luck.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to invade your privacy, I swear,” Dean told you quickly. “I was looking for something that might tell me where the hell you were.”

“How many did you read?” you asked.

“Three,” Dean sighed, still thinking you were pissed at him.

“So…you know, then? That I’m hopelessly in love with you? And you think I’d be mad at you for looking through my stuff?”

“I mean, I know you value your privacy.”

“Dean,” you started, putting a hand on his cheek and turning his face to look down at you, “would you please just fuckin’ kiss me already?”

He seemed almost surprised by your question but he quickly smiled as he bent down and kissed you. His one hand stayed clasped in yours while his other went to your waist and then trailed to your lower back. The hand you had on his cheek went to the upper back of his neck so you could tangle your fingers in his hair. The smiles on both of your faces only grew before you both pulled away.

“Wow, I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Dean mumbled before he let out a short, breathy laugh.

“Me too,” you replied.

You’d been back home for a few days now and you had explained the whole missing situation to the brothers. You told them how the simple vampire hunt turned sour quickly when you realized the small-town’s sheriff was in on it and helped the vamps with making humans just disappear. They’d made you as a hunter instantly and held you hostage for a few days before you killed your way out.

Dean never left your side so when he saw a new poem on your desk his brows furrowed. Curiosity got the better of him as he sat down to read it.

My god aren't I lucky

Now that you're holding me at night

And that first time we kissed in the doorway

I could’ve sworn I was kissing pure sunshine

When your lips hit mine it was better

Then I could’ve ever imagined

And the love poems I've written became

Manifested words of affirmation

The butterflies in my stomach fluttered

And the blood rushed to my head

Think I could stay like this forever

Won't overthink it, I’ll just go and kiss you instead

“Well, well, well.” You came up behind him, and put your hands on his shoulders before you trailed them down and clasped them together over his chest, leaning your chin on his shoulder and kissing his cheek. “Look who’s digging through my shit again.” You smiled against his skin. He turned his head and placed a deep kiss on your lips.

“I’m not even sorry this time, because I think this might be the best thing I’ve ever read.”

“I love you,” you said and kissed him again.

“I love you so fuckin’ much,” he mumbled back.

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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 7 months ago

Text

Jessica didn't threaten Gwen - y'all are just mean.

I don't know how to tell y'all this but Jessica did not threaten Gwen. Ever.

She said 'If Miguel finds out I let you come-'

As in 'if Miguel finds out (on his own) that I let you come (here) (it won't look good for either of us)'

And then GWEN reacts as if Jessica threatened to rat her out, even if Jess never did that.

Her saying 'finds out' instead of 'if I tell him' implies that Jess never planned on ratting to Miguel. She was afraid he'd find out some other way - which he did.

Like, yes - Jessica is exasperated here. But not because Gwen saw Miles, she's pissed because The Spot has now escaped.

But she never threatened to rat Gwen out, she never tipped of Miguel about anything. Miguel only found out once the hole opened in Mumbattan.

Even at the end of ATSV, Jessica doesn't rat Gwen out - when she sees Gwen using Hobies portals.

Jessica is the only one that sees Gwen leaving on the rooftop. And because Hobie's portals look different, she knows it's someone close to him. But Hobie doesn't know where Miles lives - Gwen does.

So in this shot, she knows whoever is up there is 1) close to Hobie and 2) knows where Miles lives. That can only be two people - Peter, or Gwen. And Hobie is way closer to Gwen.

Jessica has all the info to know that Gwen is now universe jumping with technology she got from Hobie. That's HUGE information, considering Miguel has no idea that other people can universe jump without his assistance.

Jess still doesn't rat Gwen out.

Jessica isn't perfect considering she was beating the absolute dogshit outta Miles for no reason - but I think people REALLY mischaracterize her relationship with Gwen.

Jessica never threatened Gwen. She never told Miguel anything.

Jessica was the one who let Gwen come to 1610 - hence the 'If Miguel finds out I let you come-'

And when things went south, she still gave Gwen a chance to try and clean up her own mess, by sending her to Mumbattan.

I see a lot of Jess slander and idk man - I just don't get the hate for her.

Jessica did FAR more trying to help out Gwen than Peter did for Gwen or Miles. While Peter physically restrains Miles (ITSV) and gets him caught (ATSV) -

Jessica talks Miguel into accepting Gwen, gives her the mission to 1610, and gives her multiple chances to clean up her mess. All while keeping the info from Miguel until the last possible second.

Was she wrong for kicking Miles in the chest. Yeah. That's unarguable. 😐

Is she a shit mentor? I don't think so!

--------------------000---------------------

I've been meaning to write a longer post about this but it's 2am and I just needed to yell this!!!

I feel like a year out, it's really easy to misremember what exactly was said despite remembering the overall gist of it - but I think small things like these matter in dialogue.

We're meant to react like Gwen - the kneejerk reaction of 'Don't tell Miguel!'.

But Gwen saying that was a reflection of her own fears, NOT a response to a threat given by Jess. Jess never intended on getting Gwen sent home.

Put some respeckt on Jess' name alright 😤😤 She ain't perfect but some of the beef y'all got with her is unfounded frfr

Anyway if you read this far ily here's Hobie

BYE.

#in conclusion.. fuck Peter B.#spiderman #atsv #spider man #marvel #across the spiderverse #jessica drew #jess drew #gwen stacy #spider woman #spiderwoman

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cheriden · 4 months ago

Text

˙ . ˚ ₊ 「 not friends 」 ꜝꜝ

“I would never bring a date here. They’d look at you and think bad things.” The panic over a hypothetical situation is evident on your face, and Beomgyu smirks. “Like we’re dating?” Your eyes widen in what seems to be horror, a dramatic gasp leaving you. “No! That we’re friends!” Beomgyu stares at you blankly, and Soobin shifts uncomfortably on the stool. “Uh, I actually thought you guys were dating.”

── synopsis 。beomgyu's a bit bothered by your relationship development with soobin

pairing 。roommate!beomgyu × reader, brief soobin x reader

.ᐟ genre 。fluff

.ᐟ tags 。miscommunication, love confession, arguing, roommates (apartment-mates?), beomgyu is kind of annoying, mc is kind of a bitch, soobin is just there.

.ᐟ status & word count 。oneshot | 2.37k | masterlist

.ᐟ warnings/notes 。as always i did not proofread. reader has no assigned sex/gender

You’re hungry. Pressing your ear against the door, you try to feel for the sound of your roommate and whoever he brought over, mentally shushing the growls erupting from your stomach. You hear heavy laughter—a laughter you know at heart to be his best friend’s, and though you’d never admit it to anyone, your small happy crush. You glance at the mirror and take yourself in—you’re a mess. You shouldn’t even contemplate seeing him like this, scurrying over to your desk to clean yourself up. Maybe it’s a bit excessive, a bit too try-hard just to get something out of the fridge and a quick hey from him. For one, you weren’t even sure he’d stop to look at you. Two, you were almost certain you would just eat in your room anyway. But what’s done is done, taking a deep breath before walking into the living room.

“Hey Soobin.” You greet meekly, and your roommate scoffs at your demeanor, watching you shuffle quietly into the cramped kitchen counter. He pauses whatever he’s doing and turns to you, smiling brightly as he greets you back. “Hey. Didn’t know you’d be home today. Beomgyu told me you’d be out.” You glare at the mentioned boy slightly, before returning to Soobin with a smile. “Oh no, today’s reading day. I’ve just been holed up in my room finishing homework.” The older gets up the couch and walks over to you, sitting on the chair opposite to yours. “Beomgyu should’ve told me! I wouldn’t have come over if I knew you were studying.” You were about to tell him he’s welcome any time, but decided against it—too clingy. “Oh, you’re no bother. I was about done for today anyway.” A straight up lie. Your mind barely registers the choice of letting the other stay or going back to your modules. Beomgyu knows this, and has been hearing you bitch about it for days. He saunters into the seat beside his friend, narrowing his eyes at you. “All this goblin does is lock itself in its room and read. This is good exposure.” Faking a punch at him, you signal for him to back off with your eyes. If he receives it, he doesn’t follow. “I’ve never actually seen you have people over, no friends?” The taller laughs awkwardly, “Beomgyu—” You raise a hand at him. “No, Soobin, it’s fine. I just don’t want my friends meeting somebody like you.” Beomgyu laughs sarcastically, leaning over the counter. “I’m a gift. Just admit you don’t have a social life,” He pauses, whispering into the other’s ear, “or a love life.”

You separate the two, “I don’t—I mean, I would never bring a date here. They’d look at you and think bad things.” The panic over a hypothetical situation is evident on your face, and Beomgyu smirks. “Like we’re dating?” Your eyes widen in what seems to be horror, a dramatic gasp leaving you. “No! That we’re friends!” Beomgyu stares at you blankly, and Soobin shifts uncomfortably on the stool. “Uh, I actually thought you guys were dating.”

Beomgyu sighs, passing the other his bag. “Okay, I think you should get going right? Say bye to my cave-dwelling roommate, we’re heading out.” The taller is dragged through the front door, waving at you. He barely gets to say bye when the door slams shut, leaving you alone in the apartment.

Maybe you were too harsh. You’ve had great times with Beomgyu, and have always taken care of each other when it’s needed. You make each other meals and tolerate each other enough to be around one another, and are really good together when you aren’t fighting. It’s just that over the past few months, Beomgyu hasn’t been respecting your body clock, eating and making noise at the most ungodly hours of the night. Normally you wouldn’t mind, but this term has been hell enough—you don’t need the extra distraction. He also has the problem of bringing home whoever he pleases without consulting you. It was a bit jarring the first time it happened, stepping out of the shower nearly naked to a bunch of his friends in the living room. Thankfully, none of them saw you, but it still made you feel like a good chunk of your life had been reduced. He just does whatever he does whenever he pleases.

Which brings you to the small party he throws after his department finishes up their finals. He asked you around this time, of course he did if he was gonna make such a ruckus. He had the courtesy of pulling you out of your room and introducing you to what you believe is half of his class, a smile and a half-assed greeting on your end at every turn.

Around the two hour mark, you find yourself bored propped against the fridge, unable to relate to any of the happenings around you. Soobin taps your shoulder and you move, watching him pull out two beers. “You look tired.” Is all he says, handing one of them your way. “Very nice of you to offer me a drink in my own house.” You joke, clinking your can against his. “I’m a gentleman.” He smiles, taking a sip. “Looks like your roommate’s been showing you off to his friends.” The corners of your mouth lift a little as you shrug. “I’m just that great of a person.” “You’re the only one who hangs out with him outside his program.” He exaggerates. You laugh. “I guess, though we’re roommates.” He nods, “I guess.” There’s a lull in the conversation, as the both of you lean back to watch the rowdy group go mad at something, you’re not entirely sure anymore. “This party is lame.” Soobin grins slightly at your words, gazing at the rim of his drink. “Yeah?” Replying, you look up to him. “Beomgyu invited all the loud people, it kind of just makes my head hurt.” You take a sip out of the can. “And this beer is like, stale.” You look out into the living room, focusing on nothing in particular. “I have something stronger in my room, if you want to check it out.” The realization of how suggestive your wording is catches you both. You shake your head frantically at him. “I was referring to alcohol.”

Beomgyu’s head hurts. He’s not usually one to blackout like this, especially not at his own party, and looks around the apartment for any sign of life. He catches one of his friends in the kitchen throwing solo cups away, stopping once he sees the brunette settle on the counter. “I sent everyone home an hour ago.” Beomgyu nods at his words, throat too dry to say anything. “But I think Soobin’s still here somewhere. I have to get going, try not to get shitfaced at your own party next time, you’re the host man.” He pats the other’s back, gathering his things and leaving.

When he sobers up a bit, he jolts in a sudden panic. He realizes he left the place unsupervised for at least an hour with loud drunkards, a half-truth, considering Taehyun covered him for the most part. The first thing he does is check the place for faults or breakages as he cleans. The second thing he does is pray that you don’t beat the shit out of him for this. He tiptoes outside of your room, hearing hushed whispers through the slightly ajar door. Peeking, he sees you and Soobin giggling, cross-legged on your bed as he whispers something in your ear. He doesn’t know what’s so funny that you start laughing back and kissing him. Beomgyu’s mouth is agape, watching you move to straddle the lap of his best friend. He’s not sure what he’s feeling, but one thing's clear: He feels like he shouldn’t be watching. He retreats to his room in a daze, unsure of why he’s been acting so affected by it. He stays up the whole night, and Soobin doesn’t come out of your room.

A splitting headache surges through your head, making your way you wince as you place your head on the cool table, gazing up at Beomgyu. “What’cha making?” He doesn’t turn to face you, hands and attention on the stove. “Hangover soup, dummy.” He snickers as he hands you a bowl and a glass. You pout, welcoming his teasing and food anyway. “Soobin left a while ago.” You stiffen up, nodding. “Oh, okay.” He hums, “Okay? That’s all you say after he spent the night with you?”

“That, uh—it’s none of your business?” It comes out more of a question than a statement, one that Beomgyu answers for you. “It is my business. I don’t want whatever you and him have going on make problems for me.” Your gaze narrows, “For you? How does it concern you?” He rolls his eyes, “I’m like your only mutual friend! You guys are gonna fight and make it my issue.” The lines aren’t really connecting, but you aren’t sure if it’s a him thing or the fact that your vision is pulsing. “Well,” You relent, “We’re not going to be a thing anyway.” He stops stirring the pot. “Really?” You give him an inquiring look, “Yeah? Why would you think so?” He sits next to you, leaning in. “So, didn’t you do it?” You’re taken aback, eyes blinking. “What?” Raising his hands in the air, the brunette turns defensive. “I don’t know! You were all over him and—” Your gasp cuts him short. “You were snooping on me?” He shakes his head. “I just came to apologize about the party! I didn’t know you would suck each other’s faces off.”

The last sentence was meant to lighten the mood, to swerve the conversation into a casual, non-interrigation. You try your best to reciprocate. “You don’t have to apologize. That party was lame.” Beomgyu relaxes, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, so lame that you finally got with Soobin. My party had that power.” He picks at the hem of his apron. “So you’re not mad about the party?”

“Oh no, I’m pissed. Just be thankful that I don’t want my headache to get worse.” You assert, “And I’m not “getting with” anybody.”

He perks up, curious.“Why not?” Playing with the spoon, you shrug. “Just—didn’t feel right. I don’t know” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Was he a bad kisser?” You shove him away. “No, he’s—fine, I guess.” Beomgyu nods in disbelief. “You’re just saying that to save his ego.” You huff, annoyed. “Like you’re so good at it.”

It barely registers to you, his hands cupping your face as he tilts his head sideways. The plump of his lips as they slowly move against you, the taste of your shared mouthwash as his spit coats your mouth. When he pulls away, he takes in your glossy eyes and uneven breathing, and suddenly his mind goes blank. “Now who’s a good kisser?” Is what he should be saying. Instead he opts for, “Um, I—forgot I had a thing.”

You’re livid, and he can sense it. He notes it in the way you storm back your room when he’s in a common area, he sees it when you glare at him from a distance, feels it when you make loud clangs as you throw the dishes haphazardly in the sink. He walks on eggshells when you’re home, though you’re here less and less as the month passes. Beomgyu has never been the confrontational type, though he supposes it wouldn’t hurt to end that streak. Not when he feels like the world is caving in on him as you continue with your cold treatment.

Today, you’re in the living room. He stops in front of you, his question simple enough: “Are you okay?” It’s open-ended, it’s unassuming. It earns him a scowl from you, contradicting your words as you respond, “Yeah, great.” He pushes forward. “Did I—did I do something?” You sigh heavily, shutting your laptop rather harshly. “How about when you kissed me and left with no explanation?” You start. “Or how about when you threw a party and left Taehyun to babysit your friends? Maybe it’s when you fucked with my sleep schedule and leave your shit all over the floor all the time? It could also be the noise you make without consulting me?” “This isn’t a game to me, Beomgyu. You don’t respect me or my space enough to actually give a shit.” A heavy silence hangs for a moment, and you can see the brunette’s adam’s apple bob before replying. “I am so sorry for being a shitty roommate.” You make no change in facial expression, and Beomgyu moves to kneel in front of you. “No, really. I’m so sorry I was so apathetic to you, I swear I wasn’t doing it on purpose. I—I’m just a shitty listener.” You bite the inners of your cheek, “And the kiss?” He drops his head and stares at the carpet. “That’s…” He trails off, inhaling deeply. “That’s because I think I like you.”

You swallow down, stuttering before you continue. “Oh—I um… I forgive you.” He looks up and shakes his head in disagreeance. “It’s fine, I—” “No,” you interrupt, “I should have said something. I should have told you how frustrated I was instead of throwing a tantrum.” He nods, and you bury your face in your arms.

“You good?” He asks, poking his head from underneath to see you. He pauses when he catches sight of your face, placing his palms on your knees. He’s not sure if he should say anything, not sure if he can even say this: “Are you blushing?” You mumble incoherently, but Beomgyu is able to connect the whispered phrases. You liked the kiss. He shifts, a bit uncomfortable, a bit giddy. “So, you’d say it’s better than Soobin’s?” He giggles when you shove him, causing him to fall back onto the carpet. “Don’t say that, it just—felt right that time.” He tries to hide his blush under his cocky demeanor, but his expression falls flat, unable to hide his meek smile. “Right enough for you to kiss me again?” You scoff, but get off the sofa to level with himon the ground. “Maybe.”

thank you for reading! feedback, reblogs, and tags for support towards the algorithm appreciated♡

are we finishing the asks?! only the ones with no smut bc im lazy

─── 〔 𝒎.𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 〕

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