#by the way. I spent like three or four hours on this. jesus. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

capslocked · 1 year ago

Text

KINKVEMBER DAY: 6

[prompt: blowjob]

male reader x hyeju

12k words

“I mean, don’t you think,” Hyeju says, wagging a finger at you, “that when you suffer through a bad date, the world ought to owe you something?”

"Like what?" you ask.

"Better taste in women - maybe more orgasms; I dunno, a blowjob?" She shrugs. "The general idea is just that someone gets to cum."

You nearly choke on the air in front of you. "Jesus, Hyeju, warn a guy."

“What? I’m trying to commiserate with you,” Hyeju laughs. “Wouldn’t that be funny? Being able to kiss someone who actually, you know, might love you back, and at the same time. Imagine not hooking-up just to forget a shitty day. Sounds wild, right?"

"Utterly deranged."

"So wild."

The first time you hook up with your roommate, it’s because of genetics - though not in the weird, uncontrollable way your body gets rigid and sensitive to any pretty girl who wears nothing but a towel moving between her bedroom and the bathroom, or how her eyes might flick fast from your chest up to yours - or given that the absolute shape of her is a blessing from one god or another (benevolent, clearly). That's not why Hyeju and you find yourselves only a few months later grinding on each other after the clock ticked past midnight, making out on New Year's Eve.

No, it has to do with the fact that Hyeju's nearly failing the nine AM section of molecular genetics because she's spent every lecture doodling stars and planets and planets shaped like asscheeks and planet-ass constellations while everyone else writes notes or doom scrolls twitter or whatever and she is somehow simultaneously the only student who never slept with her face on the lab desk or missed an assigned reading and the only one who absolutely needs a tutor.

It's just cosmic odds that you'd be that one: her roommate, who shouldn't be talking so loudly in the library about sex (in a sort of non-sexy, Mendelian kind of way) or be thinking the kind of things you've started thinking when Hyeju wears one of her more sleepshirt-esque long sleeves, her voice getting lower as you rattle off, "fruit flies and thale cress, definitely, it's just an error of fate or chromosome splitting..." before trailing off into a question.

"This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me," she finally tells you. You listen to her sigh into the binding of her textbook, facedown. "I'm really going to bomb this exam."

You tap her hand twice with your highlighter across the desk. "Then you're pretty damn lucky, if you think about it."

She turns to you, smiles a bit. "Okay, point. The worst thing will be having to retake this stupid fucking class."

"Why didn't you ask for help or go to office hours if you knew you were... failing?"

"Maybe because doing anything more than the bare minimum to get through a class I don't care about is my definition of, failing," she mumbles. "Why didn't anyone tell me a single lab is worth half my grade? Or that the TA is this fucking unreliable? How is this the one thing, really, beyond the basics, that can't be taught by wikipedia, a wikihow article and a youtube video?"

You scoot your seat closer to her. "You really need to relax."

"Fucking tell me about it."

You turn it over in your mind a few times, capping the top of your highlighter.

"Want me to get you off?"

And it’s not like you really mean it, when you say it, which is the strangest thing: you wouldn't actually suggest it, normally, wouldn't mention it in passing and then leave yourself open to the follow up and cross examination; yet there it is, after three, four hours of cramming notes on heterochronicity and the sloshing of gametes - you actually did propose it.

Hyeju jerks up, surprised.

"Are you serious?" She looks around, nearly snorting. "In the library?"

The face you’re giving her makes her scoff.

“You’re absolutely nuts.”

You have character flaws; the inability to admit wrongdoing chief among them. Hell, maybe it's from your mother - or maybe all your brains are just scrambled by the fact that Hyeju's sitting there with her pen against her pretty lips, hair glossier than usual as she scans your face and makes your entire body feel like a reactor core in meltdown.

Maybe you can blame what comes next on that.

"I'm always serious. I'm asking a serious question," you whisper, closing the textbook and resting your elbows on top. You look around quickly, like you're sneaking something in instead of this perfectly reasonable exchange, the perfectly platonic - except maybe not so much - way for friends to help each other.

"And I'm wondering what you're asking." Her cheeks are definitely pinker, you think, or the way it fills out her face, from the bottom up, is just that easy to imagine.

“I’m saying you haven’t gotten laid in months.” Here, you realize, these blocks of mental logic that definitely weren’t there when you blurted it out start to coalesce into something solid as you go on.

And you hadn't been wrong when you thought no one had given Hyeju a helping hand in a long, long time: you've heard through the walls or the floorboards at odd hours of the morning that she spends far too long fingering herself to a mind-numbing, tear-worthy frustration that leaves her knuckle-deep but never, ever sated or satisfied.

"No one's around, you'll feel better. You said it yourself."

Not a work of your imagination here - her ears are fucking burning.

"Wait a minute." She pushes her chair back, away from you and your gleaming offer. It clatters on its back legs, and a librarian waves her finger in warning. You wave back, sheepishly, until she stops and Hyeju stands and moves away from the table to talk, hands crossed over her front.

She turns and asks in a hushed-down-voice, "how did you know - did you hear something last night?"

"You couldn't keep it down even if you wanted to, honestly."

Hyeju turns further and throws a glare at the library doors, because obviously her noisiness and their collective noisemanship, or whatever the hell the word is, is clearly the root of the whole goddamn problem.

"Look - if not, no big deal - but I'm just saying you'll probably get over it and at least think less about sex. Or at least the wrong kind of sex."

You expect her to turn, sigh, and ask if you've lost your mind. Expect her to gather her jacket from the back of her chair, take her books and stomp out the room. Or even burst out laughing at the insanity, before slapping your arm lightly, in playful retaliation - anything other than the serious look she gives you in return, tilting her head, pressing her lips.

She turns up at the ceiling for a moment, contemplating something. And it's cute. It's so very, very cute, how her mouth pouts as she considers the possibility, right up until she says, "okay, fine."

The moderate twist of surprise taking hold in your brow must be visible.

"Oh, don't tell me that was all talk. Get me thinking about the right kind of sex or whatever."

You laugh, which has the librarian staring at both of you - until the librarian stops staring and probably sees Hyeju sliding back into her chair, the full, pent-up weight of her concentration pointed your way, knees inching apart - you, and Hyeju waiting, your knee bumping into her inner thigh, leaning closer as the textbook hits the floor.

"Don't laugh."

"Not laughing, seriously. Not laughing," you stammer. “I just think you’re just full of surprises.”

She spreads her knees further and sits taller, looking right at you.

"So then, surprise me," and then presses her cheek to the crook of your elbow.

You slide your chair right into the space next to hers, nuzzling up into the space under her ear. “Keep studying, Hyeju, you’ve got shit to do.” And then you slide your hand beneath the waist of her sweats, knead the swell of her thigh until you find the seam where her leg meets her body, press your palm down on the place just next to her center, your thumb in the middle. All this perfect pressure.

"Fuck," Hyeju says under a shudder. She's breathing heavier when your hot, open-mouthed kisses start landing at her neck, and she probably tries to read her textbook for about forty-five seconds longer. But there's the clench of her jaw right as your middle finger begins tracing circles beneath the fabric of her panties, and her gaze is blurring until she can't tell the difference between an allele or your fucking name.

"Shh-shh," you quiet her, finger tapping harder, playing with the slick wetness beneath all those layers of thick cotton and pressing two fingers there until her knees part like they’re not interested in resisting at all. Your lips press a kiss to the shell of her ear and she tenses all at once, hand shooting up to cover her mouth.

She simply leans back, closes her eyes, and lets you take care of her.

“Okay, you’re right,” she says, shaky and uneven, “that really did take some of the edge off. Did we ever review - poly- uh, pol-polymers here?"

The sweatshirt sleeve falling off your shoulder is a hindrance to any actual reading; her shifting against the chair isn't helping either, but you manage to push down the thoughts of stripping her down completely and giving her your tongue as yet another distraction.

"What did the syllabus say? I don't know if we need to read too far on 'polymers'," you say, having going through an entire afternoon without considering this once, but as you curl your fingers and take an honest crack at cramming the remaining chapters into her head, the knowledge that no one else is getting her this wet - except for whoever she's got in her mind's eye at three AM - is enough to get you feeling a little dizzy.

It’s probably supposed to be weird, given that you’ve never gotten any of your other friends off spontaneously in the library, or there's the fact that you can't really avoid each other afterwards, how she shows up in a silk negligee when you're pouring coffee before sunrise to prep for another day and you have the opportunity to notice - yes, she has amazing taste in underwear, yes, you might not have really appreciated her chest and figure enough before - yes, fuck it. She catches you noticing that first time, after coming downstairs with nothing but one of her cropped t-shirts and her board shorts, and she smirks when she realizes you're still thinking about it that afternoon, when her foot grazes yours while you're both washing dishes, and she dries the plate in her hand with a slow swipe.

And it is weird, actually, to describe what’s going on between you in words.

A few words, anyway, like a one-word label to describe what it was: friends or roommates-with-benefits, or - fuck buddies - god, it's even worse. Fuck buddies? Fuck friends? Something equally terrible and stupid that still makes sense, like something out of a shitty rom-com: it doesn't capture any of the rest of the myriad ways in which things can feel less or less friendly between two people.

So, friends was never, ever going to cut it. Roommates - although technically correct - is just this side of too clinical. And let's be clear: strangers don't wake up every morning together, walk to the same class, sit close together in the middle seats, secretly flick a strangers' skirt up in an empty lecture hall and get on their knees and work your mouth onto her pussy and watch the legs of the desks shake when her feet arch into the floor.

"The notes you've got are better than mine," is how Hyeju tries to put things, the next day and every time after that, standing in the doorframe, or at the foot of your bed and looking every bit the disheveled and hopeless mess you imagine she might spread out over the sheets of her own.

It gets complicated, which isn't really a surprise.

"You think your roommate is going to be home tonight?" is the question that comes up multiple times - from a revolving door of pretty names and faces. Hyeju has at least one opinion, if not more, on each of them.

"Tell Jinsoul I say hi," she says once, watching you get ready for a date, and you nearly bang your knee on the edge of the bathroom vanity.

It's one of the more harmless comments she's offered.

Another, backhanded: "if you’re just looking for a blowjob everyday between lunch and our physics lab, let Hyunjin or Heejin or whatever-her-name-is know she's easily my favorite," Hyeju says on your way out one morning, still under her covers.

Or,

Hyeju's texted a simple "uh, Chuu? really??" when you mention, once, how much fun you've been having - and what kind, as you make a round of self-conscious and rambling phone calls the next day that land you with only one prospect for the night - but your roommate's also no longer being your roommate by the end of it, bouncing against your thighs in the bathtub and moaning something about please more and fuck or fucking make me cum; the details escape you a bit.

That's what friends are for, probably.

Still, in the same, bare-bones explanation, friends also aren't for falling asleep on you - or letting you hold her - or fucking you awake in the middle of the night. Friends aren't for pushing down your jeans when the early-morning dew settles on the back patio, or jerking you off in the seat beside yours with a sweatshirt over your lap when a group project is due later and you all should probably work on that and instead get yourselves off and leave the mess of what you're doing half-finished. Friends aren't, probably, for offering to watch you rub your palm up and down your cock the night before next semester's exams when you can barely sit in a single chair and you can't think about molecular biology or neurochemical transcriptions when your whole body aches to do the transcribing. (If you can catch that drift.)

The lists of who are and are not good enough for you goes on and on - the latter longer than the former.

So, there's Choerry, who according to Hyeju is 'straight up, a total slut'. Yeojin, who gets mistaken for your little sister enough times that Hyeju refuses to - in good faith - let you keep sleeping with her. Both Heejin and Gowon are apparently too pretty for you. "Kim-lip?" she asks, in the middle of peeling garlic, "is that one name or two?" And laughs into a bottle of beer, loud, while you're telling her to quit being nosey and watch her fingers with the damn knife.

"You have a problem."

"Why, because I asked a few simple questions? I think anyone would be a little curious with the -" she pauses to wave her fingers - "I'd be remiss to not be interested in the very drama that unfolds literally across the hall."

She waggles her eyebrows.

You look up at the ceiling. God save you, you think. "Hyeju."

("Seriously," Hyeju chimes in one evening, arms around you, and a mouthful of the dinner you'd cooked.

"You need better taste in girls. Don't waste time on anyone too dumb, or who drinks the milk straight from the carton, or doesn't wash her socks with the same load of laundry. Oh, and - no one who chews loudly. No one who can't tell you're going to cum. The worst is someone who doesn't know what you like, trust me on that. And remember the last rule: don't do anything with someone who eats at a really slow pace, it's incredibly depressing."

You rest your chin on her shoulder from the spot behind her. "Duly noted, oh Master of all Knowledge."

She sighs into your arm, but in the next moment, her voice gets a lot softer, her hips fidgeting slightly against you. "I just mean you're the kind of person people would want to sleep with again," she says, before turning to say your name and kiss you again and again as your bodies curl inward.

"I wonder what that means, Hyeju," you say.

"Fuck," Hyeju groans as you slide further into her, pushing her back into the sofa - hands on her shoulders, legs bent on her either side, "don't tease me like this.")

The first snowfall of the year is mild, a tiny dusting, nothing that sticks on the pavement in the alley or on the sidewalks - or the lintels - or in Hyeju's hair, but by evening, when the snow picks up and everything goes quiet, Hyeju has changed into flannels and wool socks in anticipation, curled up like a cat at one edge of the window ledge as the world begins to go white. It's enough that you even pull on a thicker sweatshirt, open up a book, and join her.

She turns toward you, quiet.

You've reached a point in the semester where this, the silence, doesn't unsettle you anymore. It's the space you fill up with time in-between, where you can see the contours of her body against the orange lamplight of the space heater, or watch her kick off the top half of the duvet at night as you fight over space in her bed and wonder about the bare skin peeking out from her shorts.

"Feeling bored?" She slides her foot a little closer to yours, almost imperceptibly. "Am I keeping you entertained enough?"

Her lips pull up at the corner. You chuckle.

"Oh, no."

She scoffs and puts her hands on her knees, pushes herself closer to the window sill and bumps her elbow into your shoulder. The bare skin of her neck and shoulders and face is getting a little redder as she cranes it forward. "Okay, if not, do you need someone to entertain you, maybe."

Your mouth twists, fighting a smile.

Hyeju is so close to you, you could kiss her really, really easily and not care how she'd feel about that. It's not a habit, not as often as it used to be, but every once and a while - she starts this game. Every once in a while, Hyeju just starts smiling like that, and leans into you like she's daring you to play along, hard round of chicken until it's clear what the two of you are doing with each other; the minutes pass by, one, then two, and then - maybe she pushes first, her leg on yours, or a kiss to your jaw or a palm on your back as she walks behind you - and then you'd turn and kiss her full on the mouth and pull at her clothes like nothing's holding you back.

She cocks a smile, and says, "why don't you go and call what's her name."

"Because."

You glance out at the cold, gray light outside. If you had a better understanding of any of the workings inside you, you could reach forward and tell her everything that's stopped you.

You're supposed to meet the girl-of-the-month at a New Year's party. Hyeju looks disgusted within the first ten seconds of the whole story.

"Heejin dumped you once, like, two months ago? For no reason."

"It wasn't a break-up. We talked about what we did wrong and we're doing better," you say, lifting one finger.

She glares, then, tilts her lips into this unamused purse that you can't take seriously at all when she starts walking back and forth across your living room, hands moving emphatically to the sides as she speaks, like she's in the process of unveiling a brilliant argument and is using both palms to guide your eyes toward the unquestionable logic. "God, you're the worst. You're just her easy fuck and you'll still answer her late night calls, really."

She leaves the rest unsaid - that she's just not that into you.

"I don't tell you which boys or girls you can call up," you try, putting on a boot. "If you'd like, I can. Name off the list, and make sure that the right name leaves my mouth this time."

Hyeju doesn't blush when you glance up, which is the surprising thing. No - her cheeks have grown a little more sullen, and she stares down at her socks in contemplation. You're in the middle of fastening up the lace and getting to your feet, waiting, wondering if Hyeju's going to continue this conversation, when Hyeju takes one small step forward.

And her hand goes out to touch your chin, thumb at your lip, fingers holding it in place - like you'll turn if she lets it go - the sharp shock of the sensation like a short circuit, before her knee comes between yours, and your body tingles, at the root and stem. "Hey," she says, eyes meeting yours. The edge of her nail flicking gently as she drags the curve of her thumb downward.

"Hyeju, please - I need to get going."

When you start walking toward your car, she calls out from the window. Something about how you better have the time of your life, fun for the two of you - it’s only fair.

(You feel, somewhere, a certain strange loss.)

"What, are you going to stay up and wait until I come back? Or am I interrupting your session for the night."

You can barely make it out, the smallest look passing over her face. "Maybe," she says, and then: "god, it's fucking cold."

New year's parties have this sort of quality of being simultaneously the most thrilling, exciting prospect on earth and the absolute worst fucking event in the history of the planet - depending on the venue, how egregious the racket is for a gin and tonic, the guests - oh, and the company.

Jinsoul and Choerry are both in attendance; in separate corners and in equal states of undress and intoxication, which seems fine by every present party, who are for the most part busy ogling one or the other in the full spirit of the New Year - as you would too, if the stars are aligned and Heejin hasn't already gone upstairs with half the guestlist, her arm wound with someone else's, as per her recent habit; if you haven't been tossed aside for any of the usual, less forgettable prospects and for something bigger, better and certainly much more enjoyable.

Which, if there were any way to track these things down with math, you'd already be reaching for your pen and notebook, as Hyeju would describe this sensation in a phrase she picked up from some podcast. Inevitable means necessary, or something.

"Good party," says Heejin, throwing back another drink.

"Yep. You said that," and you finish yours in one long draw, hissing through your teeth.

Heejin is a goddamn delight, of course, in all the simplest of ways. When she looks up at you - mouth pink, hair framing her face - she is so clearly and completely aware of what she is, and exactly what the world has in store for her, what it has set aside.

"Do you want to know what happened at the other New Year’s party we went to last year?"

"I - yeah. Hit me. Tell me all about (another date you were on) Heejin, that’s exactly what I’d love, let’s hear it."

She throws her head back and laughs, before starting into an overlong recount of her latest, greatest conquest, you on the outside. This is the thing - this is how a pretty face, with just a hint of a flirt, will make you feel for a beautiful, attractive, vivacious - absolutely shameless, raving sex-crazed lunatic of sorts who, apparently, loves to run around town and make a bunch of your closest friends fall in love and heartbroke-er, with every passing notion of her beauty, her charm - just the tilt of her chin, and some poor fucker is lost, absolutely lost.

Even she knows it's a bad habit of hers.

But who doesn't have a weakness? You've got plenty of your own - plenty, Heejin can admit - everyone does, in a way, and so Heejin, the other sloppy drunks milling about the party, and Choerry and Jinsoul all agree - someone like her just happens to have the best kind of weakness - so, so many of them, in fact:

"Can you believe how easily a few words get Jinsoul riled up? Or how it only takes a couple drinks for Choerry to pull up the hem of her skirt, not knowing the effect that'll have?"

And as for the last, and arguably worst kind -

"Hyeju, huh? What a great start to the New Year," is her final word. Heejin reaches across and downs your drink. Her expression turns just shy of grave, a pensive look. "Not your smartest idea, the living-together situation. Who in their right mind would put themselves in such a mess?"

"Thanks for the great advice." You wave her off, irritated.

There's another laugh before Heejin leans her face onto the table.

"Though maybe she's onto something, now that I think of it. Who needs anyone for the New Year?" and it's almost convincing the way her mouth, lined up with the rim of the glass, smirks when she drinks. "Mm. All a matter of taste."

The snow is halfway up your calves when you realize you need to find a cab at 11:30 PM on New Year's Eve. (Which, categorically, is the worst time to need to find a cab on New Year’s Eve.)

Or just:

11:36 PM and the nearest bus stop is too far away.

11:41 and the temperature feels like its dropped by fifteen degrees, like you should start wondering what hypothermia symptoms look like and what signs to look out for in yourself, your future wife and your children. You try not to think about why, but you get your phone out and immediately call Hyeju, so you're not sure what you think you're denying.

"No party?" she asks. Her voice is distant and sleep-ridden, but Hyeju's quick to pick up, like always.

"It sucked, I'm trying to find a way home early. Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year." There's a long pause, filled in by the squeak of snow beneath your boots. "Get a kiss?"

"Uh, not yet. In the market, I guess."

Hyeju's low hum isn't reassuring, either. "Well, you're kind of missing your window. Bad time to start looking."

"Says you, and here you are - still up for someone to spend the night with. Look at you," you respond, all this snark in your voice that she clearly hears. There's a long sigh.

"Actually," and Hyeju, much to the confusion of you and possibly the whole world, doesn't respond, and for a few seconds, the line goes completely silent, leaving you hanging.

She breathes once and comes out of her sleep with a yawn.

"I actually," she begins. There's a lot less preamble this time - this tone - and when she speaks again it comes through not nearly as sleepy, "was sorta wondering. Are you on your way home?"

"If I don't freeze to death, yeah."

"Yeah - no, yeah," and that's it. That's the sum total of what makes any difference between where you were a moment ago, and where you are right now, head spinning, fingers buzzing. Hyeju waits and there's the wind on the line, snow settling on your hat and in the corners of your face.

"I - sorry. I probably woke you up. Are you expecting someone else," you say, very small. Your foot drags behind the other. The cars whizz by you faster, passing.

"Hm. You're the only one, I guess," and after that - just static and the muffled sounds of her footsteps on creaky floorboards - or the tick of her ceiling fan? You can't make heads or tails of the rest of the background noise. All those words she said.

You bite your tongue to stop whatever curse words start pouring out from the jumble and cross streets, or the pedestrian underpass; snow gets stuck in your lashes and burns, but your chest is like a molten furnace. You consider telling her right there on the line, everything you're feeling - so hot, it feels like fire, Hyeju, I'm not used to getting heated and desperate and impatient - that even if you're not here now - just imagining your face - the sound of your breathing, it feels like I'm on the cusp.

"Yeah. Sure - good - okay, Hyeju."

"I guess, see you soon?"

"In a bit."

(It takes 33 minutes, trudging through cold and wet. It's all very dramatic, you think, and there's no one there to even watch you suffer for it, or - though you try not to think about that particular line - really, no one at all.)

You hear the way your key grinds in the lock - it's been like this, jammed since summer, when you pushed the front door in late at night a little too hard and something came undone and made a sound like a small stone tumbling down the world's deepest well. The hinge squeaks, and there's ice on the stoop, on the doormat, on every nook and corner you can see, all the way up your neck.

And your face, too. You shake off your hat, undo the buttons on your jacket, and pull off your boots before hanging them and all the layers to dry.

You can make out the outline of her profile at the edge of the door frame, right in the kitchen - barefoot, hip pressed against the island, pajamas - the dim lights illuminating the shadow of her head, hair over her face -

- but you don't pause. The next layer. There's nothing left to say. You're too cold for excuses, too smart to use the same ones you'd been taught, like: this is a normal, acceptable circumstance; everything, anything, will be perfectly normal if the two of us act as though that's the case; pretend we're both acting within the norms of reason, within our senses and logical thinking and I won't make myself go out in the cold a second more - won't stand for more than five minutes with your eyes looking like they're waiting.

So you move instead toward the kitchen, where the heating is better and she's already pouring coffee. There's a heat radiating out of the oven, and it smells sweet in there, like cinnamon and warm butter, and you wish you weren't still shaking, blood barely thawed, but there it is - her face, watching you - eyes gleaming as you wrap your hands around a mug, steam rising up - a shiver running up your arms; her knees skirting yours when she takes one step back and there's the cabinet door shut, then open again, and then a palm on your back.

Hyeju presses a cup of the fresh coffee, now warm enough to drink, to your chest, and says, softly. "What the fuck happened out there?"

She starts reaching out to wipe the frost and slush from your face. You let her hand hold you still, eyes wide.

"Oh you know," and her palm stays, even though it's obviously - suddenly - gotten warmer, and wetter too, and the longer she stands there and lets her fingers warm the pale bones of your cheeks, her wrist, the base of your forehead and ears, the more expectant the look on her face grows. "The usual."

Her eyes go as narrow as they ever can. For just a moment. "You're gonna die a slow, pathetic death someday, just for the record."

"Don't forget how this starts," you try, and feel your neck go warm, throat and breath tight. And not even when her shoulders shift, her mouth going smug - just looking at you.

“I mean, don’t you think,” Hyeju says, wagging a finger at you, “that when you suffer through a bad date, the world ought to owe you something?”

"Like what?" you ask.

"Better taste in women - maybe more orgasms; I dunno, a blowjob?" She shrugs. "The general idea is just that someone gets to cum."

You nearly choke on the air in front of you. "Jesus, Hyeju, warn a guy."

“What? I’m trying to commiserate with you,” Hyeju laughs. “Wouldn’t that be funny? Being able to kiss someone you actually, you know, might love you back, and at the same time. Imagine not hooking-up just to forget a shitty day. Sounds wild, right?"

"Utterly deranged."

"So wild."

When Hyeju sighs and gives a long, nonchalant hum, leaning her body closer, pressing up until her waist hits the cabinet top and you're pressed together chest-to-chest, she looks at you and her hips settle, the heel of her foot reaching around your calf.

There's that tingle. Again and again. You're not even trying to not think about what it might mean.

But then, you start, silently and unconsciously, trying to answer the question: why don't you, maybe. Why don't you, actually - Hyeju kisses you, pulls on the loop of your jeans and lets your lips brush the corners of hers and pulls away, suddenly, mumbling and head-turning. And just as abruptly, your nose buries in the space between her neck and her shoulder, where it's all warm. And when she puts her palms on your hips and squeezes and twists her knuckles into the fabric there, it seems she wants your hands up her shirt and under the small of her back.

And her hands - they're fidgety tonight, fingers curled up to keep their nails and the chill away, moving lower - one on your ass, while the other comes forward and begins rubbing circles, a handful of times - enough so you're letting a deep, low breath escape into the space just above her collar, your knee working its way between hers.

"That," Hyeju breathes, lips at your ear, hand reaching down to trace the hard curve of your cock pressing in the spot right between you, and there's that small rush again, familiar now, like you've caught a rhythm and she wants to feel it in its fullness: "is how you can make it up to me. For making me stay up. Worrying about you, god knows why. Waiting."

You're still half-frozen in a way, slowly thawing. "Hyeju, I've been trudging through the consequences of my actions this entire night. What am I about to suffer through now?"

"It's no consequence, honestly."

You squint.

"Just an idea, but," she breathes again; your bodies getting closer, and looking up at you, she grins and reaches down to touch the very root of you, her fingers drumming. You make a sound, and at that she says, her voice coming out thick, low:

"Want me to get you off?"

She squeezes again for good measure, just to be clear. Just a slight curl of fingers that's enough to send a flash of heat and the transient thought: why, why, why is she always wearing those fucking shorts, even in the winter?

Your blood thrums through the pulse at the end of your cock. You shake.

"Alright," is the response you let out.

And at that, Hyeju takes your wrist and leads you upstairs.

"There's that look. Don't worry. We'll find a way," is all she says as your feet walk forward, up step-by-step and higher and further up to her room. "After all, isn't that what we've always done?"

"It's usually whatever will make me stop talking."

Hyeju puts her chin on your shoulder. Her eyes follow the lines and shapes in the patterns of wallpaper as you turn onto her side of the apartment, and even through the wall and behind the doorway, her arm still around you, she pulls at your chin until your faces turn and you both can share each other's heat.

"Who, you and your awful habit of talking out-loud in your head while you work through equations?" and she brings her lips to yours, close and warm.

"Hey. Fuck you," and your voice breaks into an odd, low laughter when she kisses you harder.

"Yeah, I know," she whispers as her hand dives past the band of your boxers, palm sliding easily until she's gripping you fully and letting her fingers rub. She holds you there, in her room, her arm looped through yours, another arm resting at your belly.

And she stops there. She stays like that: holding your gaze.

"Look, Hyeju," you say, unable to not, though this can hardly count for anything; this, what you're about to admit, is nothing new. You swallow. "The thing is - you shouldn't."

"Don't want me to touch you?" she says, finger to your lips.

"Well, that's different. Maybe. Is there - maybe it's not the best thing to ask you right now."

Hyeju considers for a brief moment and tuts under her breath. "Can you at least do me the decency of waiting until I'm done wringing you dry before you say shit like that."

And she moves then, toward the bed.

So:

No. Yes. Maybe. Who knows, you tell yourself. Maybe, but only because you'll do anything if it makes you feel less sick, like a creature standing over its own skeleton - an abandoned shell; a relic, something to be feared and disgusted, as you let her go between your thighs, kneel beside the bed.

"I mean - since when - have you felt," is just as far as you're allowed to go before Hyeju presses her nose into you and pulls you out of the thin, cold fabric - palm, thumb, all those slender fingers swiping over your head - and now there's just the smell of her room and the shock, the buzz that runs down your spine and settles somewhere, somewhere inside the small and desperate movement of your hips and the tension building just below.

And god, fuck, Hyeju’s lips.

These soft, wet, pouty fucking things that could suck you straight off if you were feeling any less stupid or inexperienced or sentimental - if she wasn't solely intent on teasing it out of you first; a slow drag of the tongue up the underside; the tip of it poking, tracing the rim, like she's figured you out, just where to lead you. She's ready to smoke you out - always - until you're not taking in a breath every ten seconds but starting to close your eyes to the overwhelming, needling pleasure, too sharp, the way she knows you like best.

"Now you're finally - mm - starting to sound hot," and that smirk comes back to the corner of her mouth, teasing the sensitive belly of your cock and tracing her tongue everywhere. "With the voice and -"

You're losing track, her thumb and fingers circling the whole length of you - just, one after the other - mouth a hair-breadth away, her breath hovering like a promise.

"- that face."

"Don't, fucking tease me-"

The sound of your cock going in is like nothing else.

Wet and filthy in all the right ways.

Just the suction in her throat has your eyes nearly roll back into your head - Hyeju's gaze calmly watching the terrible sort of helplessness that washes over you like this: her lips wrapped around, bobbing - her hair falling into the wet mess of her mouth and sticking there. Hyeju likes being a little sloppy, likes feeling that spark run up the length of her tongue when she slides. It's the wet and the heat that gives everything away.

"I don't have much of a choice -" her jaw and chin is smudged when she pulls back off of your cock, mouth glossy and glistening, "and honestly, wouldn't it be a better use of our time, or my talents if I actually do that thing?"

“Which is?”

She looks up for a bit and sighs, the flush blooming pink to the tip of her ears and into the rounds of her cheeks and all across her neck. "Since, as far as I can see, what you really like - is, oh I'm just spit-balling here," and she stops just to bite her tongue and look into your eyes, "it's letting the girls take care of you? Isn't that right?"

You want to tell her, no, not always, that it's not as though you enjoy giving control completely - that that would be completely and unarguably, the opposite of true -

That most of the time you love it when the person you're with is a little bossy, a little crazy for you. You know some guys really get off on a strong woman and maybe, maybe if a girl's pretty and dressed up, and - sure - a little wet, but that's hardly -

“You know I’m right,” she says, a flicker of mischief skittering across her features. “These walls are paper thin.”

You want to tell her, perhaps remind her, that she likes someone in charge just as much as you do - to be taken care of, told what to do - to have a hand curled up around her throat and the other at her tits while a guy fucks her the right way and takes the reigns when she needs. So who are you, when it comes to knowing her better? And who, really, are you fooling?

But before you can get any words in: Hyeju dips, lips parting where the head of your cock throbs, and then disappears; and the hot wet warmth, enveloping all around your shaft and back; the curve of her throat contracting.

You moan - a lot, and louder this time - into the whole feeling. The way her fingers work the distance from the base, twisting and twisting and twisting into the pout of her lips; or how the sound is like nothing - a whimpering, messy sound - almost a whine and definitely not a slurp as your cock sinks further and further, until it's all one big, heavy throb.

And it's like Hyeju can read your thoughts, the visual you have of her lips screwed tight around your shaft - cum leaking from the corners, and her eyes scrunched up tight, as she looks up to watch your face unravel - this perfect image of her taking you, all of you, swallowing each drop as your hips start rutting up into her and - and - and.

Or else she gets impatient, because then Hyeju gives one long pull off the tip of your cock - saliva mixed in the precum there, and that shiny string of fluid hanging, caught in the middle between your bodies - a disgusting and irresistible sight. Her jaw slack, lips swollen and full, and her mouth gone wide open, wanting.

"Fuck - that's good. Don't stop," you start to whimper, desperate, at the sight, the smell. Her hot breath coming quick over the red wanting wetness left behind - then touched by the cold air - fuck -

She slaps your cock to the corner of her lips as she speaks.

"Can you believe what's going on down here?"

"God, can you -"

"And to think most guys wanna jump straight in. That or fuck a load out between my tits."

"Hyeju, shit, come on -"

She kisses the soft tip, right where it’s most sensitive, rolls it along her lip. Then, back down the length of your shaft where she's generous with her mouth inch after inch - lapping, licking, laving - and Hyeju begins working her way down and downward, nestling in at the edge of the bed and between your thighs.

Your eyes blow up the first time she dips low enough to put your balls in her mouth.

“Mmhm,” she hums.

It’s killing you and she knows it; it’s killing you and she can feel the pre-cum leaking from your slit - the thumb she has moored there, keeping everything right where she wants it, running circles up the length with such little intention - she could bring you to the end just like this.

"Am I supposed to believe it?” she asks out from beneath the shadow of your cock, looking up at you with her eyes all wide and brilliant - pupils dark as sin. “That not a single one of those girls ever did you proper?"

You curse under your breath. Hyeju seems amused, at least, like she can't help but love doing that to you, which is almost worse and honestly the sexiest thing a girl can be. You groan - wanton, raw and desperate and feeling exactly what she wants you to feel when her nails drag along the dip of your hip bones.

"Did they not leave you fucked-up the right way?"

Her wrist flicks out these twists and turns, making your spine bend to her control. Like even when you're sure to be bundling her hair in your fingers and fucking the whole length of your cock down her throat, all of this is the worst kind of power-trip for her - not the other way around.

Her tongue runs through the tangle of your balls, slowly, lasciviously, as though the plan is to memorize and map every detail.

And the worst part is, how much it's making you desperate for the warmth of her mouth - where she'll run her tongue up and down and over and around and inside - before sucking you off nice and slow.

"Or maybe," she laughs; another flick to the top and then suddenly her hand goes faster and the fist pumping the rest of you tightens. "They left you so needy you're resorting to having the bestie suck you off so that you won't be desperate the next time you date. Oh my god-"

Hyeju breaks into this fit of laughter, and you're nearly cross-eyed at the feeling of your entire existence - not just your cock - so wholly held within her mercy, and her pity, and you're breathing so shallow now you'd think this is the real reason people have died and will die - this exact moment where you're choking and stuttering at the edges, so very close to cumming and going absolutely bonkers with how good Hyeju is with her hands, her tongue, her mouth - everything - how much she's wrecking you, and your jaw drops, wide open, her name dripping like molasses off your lower lip.

"Are you going to cum?" she asks, curiously. All as if she can't see you nodding, collapsing under pressure, and then and there: "should we make it official?"

Her nose tickles the seam of your balls. And your toes begin to curl and uncurl - all this anticipatory, coiling pleasure burning from her throat, shooting from the pit of your stomach; the tightening spiral, twinging and stretching every nerve - as her lips enclose around the end of your cock, softly.

And oh, just excruciatingly slowly.

You watch the irresistible shape of her mouth travel down until her throat feels so incredibly, beautifully, and unbelievably tight, and then, just like that - Hyeju starts fucking herself onto you; pushing forward and down the full, rigid length of you, hard and fast - each time hitting deeper inside her - all that sticky, messy, wet squelching.

"Unh-unh, yeah. Unh. Mm-!" you say, or moan, or some animal version of that, maybe, it’s incoherent.

But regardless:

It's messy and your hands scramble for purchase in the sheets of her bed when you feel that snap, the tightening of a trigger; when your balls roll up and it builds, and builds, and it comes faster - harder and -

"Hyeju," you pant, and it sounds so, so filthy. "I'm gonna cum, if you - gonna cum-"

Hyeju pulls you free from her lips, quite possibly at the most final of final moments, to rub the base up and down, just right, between her fingers. Your cock is resting right on her cheek when it all happens. When she squeezes her fingers around your balls just enough to hear you wheeze and make a sound no sane man should have the right to. And fuck, you're cumming all over her face - or just one side of it - which is already just -

Okay, fuck.

She makes a startled sound and her fist closes tightly around your shaft when you pump another fresh load of white up onto her eyebrow.

"I'm, ah-shit," your mouth moves faster than the blood in your veins - and now the shame - oh god, the humiliation, it's pulsing right behind you. "Hyeju," you apologize.

Only, Hyeju has no interest in any of it. She doesn't seem offended or disappointed in proportion to how you're ruining her pretty face: "no, just do it, cum wherever you fucking like."

Which isn't what you're expecting at all, because Hyeju makes no effort to close her lips, let alone avoid any of it; nor is she making a fuss about the sticky mess in her hair, her mouth, nor as another stream of cum throbs from your cock, all tangled up in the long dark eyelashes that sweep down across her cheek.

It’s fucking filthy: you're cumming all over her and she's just kneeling there, telling you, "good boy."

See, she pushes through it, languidly - all those filthy sounds, and those watery little tears gathering at the edge of her eye and all of that, mixing up together until you're rolling your head back with your orgasm, shuddering, feeling weak - drained dry -

Except,

Hyeju's pushing a finger to your chest, kneeling up tall from the side of the bed. She turns her body toward the center of the bed and wipes a bit of the cum on her knuckles into the sheets. Here you feel like you've done something terrible or at least regrettable, like that last round at the bar when you have a test the next morning; a dick move, all of the sort that requires apology.

"You gotta give me a minute, if you're thinking about hopping on."

"Hmm. Sounds like a lot to ask."

"Wait," you grab her arm. Hyeju grins and there's nothing stopping the shake of your knees now, that weakness between your thighs: "let me get you a drink."

"Or."

"Or?"

Her tongue peeks out, running along her upper lip. Her eyes drop again, hands dipping below, beneath the hem of her shorts and oh. She slips a hand past her bra. The whole outline of it. And you -

"Mm, I could show you what that actually means." She lowers her chest, her breasts, and a lot of skin to the mattress while keeping your cock firmly in her hands. "That look tells me you wanna stick around a bit. Stay up past New Year’s, you know?"

You're almost unable to parse her words, there is so much to look at: the jutting curve of her chest, cleavage pressing into the mattress as her body settles between your knees. A soft chuckle; a sigh: "you are seriously the best lay, no-one else can get hard the minute after they just fucking exploded all over me-"

"Fuck, watch it," you hiss, because there's oversensitivity - and then there's Hyeju's mouth on the line of your cock, polishing you clean.

And it’s not that she isn’t trying to prove a point. Or that she's not trying to tease - that's an inherent quality of her character: a naturally dominant position with a high appetite for your lust. That much, Hyeju gets from you, whether you've got your head down between her thighs or the other way, too, so that her neck is arched around and her ass pushed up high in the air, legs open, and if she had any idea you would spend the next twenty minutes or more just going down on her, licking into her creaming cunt while two fingers work over her aching clit, then really, Hyeju would only encourage it - maybe get on top, force you to gag - and so you don't know where it comes from - how and why you want nothing more than to drive your fingers inside her and work her until she's a wet, squelching mess, not when this was always Hyeju's role of being the aggressor; and yes, sure, even the aggressed.

Surely not because you came so hard, still somewhat shivering with the remnants of a rather abrupt, painful, sudden and all-consuming orgasm.

"We're not doing anything else," she says, lips pulled up into a smirk right at the crown of your cockhead. But before you can respond she pushes a hot open kiss, and goes lower. She presses the flat of her tongue to the seam, just below the head. Licks a line right up to the tip and finishes with a tender flick that sends you fisting the bedspread in your fingers and leaning back as your mind begins to disintegrate -

"I'm not going to ride you yet, or going to get my hips in your hands so you can fuck my pussy real hard until I cry and pass out. Nothing of that sort is gonna happen." She licks one long drag of her tongue. Then, the other way. "I want to make this very clear: this isn't some huge favor - and if you want it - want it so bad, you can stay there and I'm going to do everything for you. We will get there - together," and with her voice shaking as she brings the wet, glistening skin of your cock just inside her mouth, she looks up. "We'll get each other off, just like this," and it's the deep, dark, throated moan that makes your thighs and all the nerves in between stiffen and buck when she swallows you again.

Hyeju's hands tug, pull her whole body closer still as it slowly bends, curves - her ass raised, her stomach lying on the bed. Her mouth takes you another few inches, until the tip of her nose is barely visible, but when she pauses to lick the cum still left over - the cum that's starting to leak out again - to breathe through it, then squeeze her palm and bob her mouth down, take another inch, until the sides are stuffed and emptying out again, that's when she finally has something to say: "got anything left? I'm a little starved."

"I. Christ, yes-" you whine, which doesn't help your case at all: the image, the image of you lying flat - back with Hyeju's head tucked between your knees, her hand pulling out your cock.

Sloppy, slimy-wet.

She presses an innocent, not-at-all-innocent kiss right to your tip, puckering -

"You know what I did learn in that genetics class?" she muses, tongue flicking over her lips. Hyeju's about ready for a second helping - you're losing it. "When I first saw that DNA diagram - the double helix and all those little base pairs, and everything - it made me think of your cock. Your cock and me. Specifically our DNA. Did you know-"

She presses her palm over the head and rolls it - teases and strokes her palm - her knuckles - her fist - the whole nine. "When I hold your big fucking cock, mm, and just get it right - up in here, rubbing all along my walls - so deep, it gets me in my fucking ribs, makes me choke like I never been choked before, ah-mm," and it's this thought sliding toward the front of your mind, this perfect picture: Hyeju, getting fucked hard and open and stuffed full and stuffed good and stupid; you’ve got more than a few inches on her, can make her feel small and delicate; you know how to do her right.

But here you have Hyeju stroking the shaft - holding her hand tightly up near the head, rolling and twisting and sliding down and pushing her whole body right into the side of your legs: the soft, solid length, warm flesh and curves everywhere pressing into you.

You sit back, and just watch Hyeju with her eyes cool and composed, like half of her fucking face isn't streaked with your cum, mouth wrapped and looking fucking satisfied to be a total, gorgeous mess. She makes a dramatic display of kissing the tip again, just before telling you words you probably dreamt up at some point - either sleep deprived, or, during three AM jackoff, fantasizing. "Sometimes, just from riding your cock, I can't sit up straight."

"Fuck," and you feel your whole body run rigid, because apparently that's something you’ve been aching to hear.

You're covering her mouth again. White streaking onto her lips - where she's catching it in the well beneath her tongue and letting it spill out of the corner of her mouth. Into the crook of your thumb, which catches a drip here and there and rubs it down the length - down the curve - and pushes it back between Hyeju's pert little pout.

"Doesn't count, mister, just more pre-cum," she says, all with the audacity of a wink and smile; her words are a little garbled around the head of your cock between her teeth. And when you nod and realize just how painfully your jaw hurts, your throat becomes tight and raw, a knot pulling the underside from the center. Hyeju slides her lips lower, lower down, to the hilt and stays there, just like that - one hand holding down the flat of your belly to keep your hips still, her chin hanging - bobbing-as she feels every pulse, every twitching shift. You curl one hand around the side of her face, over the sharp edge of her jaw; rub a thumb into the delicate skin of her throat.

She shifts. You start to tell her what you like: how hot the rush comes when a girl puts her tongue against the slit at the very tip, and licks at the precum in nice, quick circles, soft and fluttering. And how her fingers shouldn't hesitate either, Hyeju's not even struggling to give it to you - god - just giving and -

She jerks her head up, swallowing down her next breath like it's one of her last. "I'm serious, if you're going to fuck a hole, start with my mouth - we can move onto everything else after."

"You're ridiculous -"

She meets her lips to your head, kissing once. Again. Kissing every inch, letting her mouth wrap around and then just - staying, just - staying like that and humming, with you, enjoying the fullness, the smell of you, the taste, the shape, just the weight and size and you.

There is spit fucking everywhere.

And if it's not clear what you're supposed to be doing - her fingers weave through yours, squeezing hard at the wrist and you can imagine: pulling her forward by her hair and holding her down while she chokes on your cock. "Fuck, Hyeju," you say, and your voice comes out way shakier than you'd like, "when, how did it get like this, huh? You always - always did, shit, always want your mouth filled."

"Never figured you to be someone who'd get turned on watching their friend sucking their cock like this."

"Doesn't everybody love the sight of their cock in a pretty girl's mouth?

"You were really convinced they weren't lining up behind you? Or anyone in the queue who can't keep their eyes off of this thing. Tell me, and try not to lie, try not to bullshit this one out: how many girls have you come home and fucked and creamed their brains out - then asked for the sloppiest, most -"

"Honestly."

"- Filthiest, nasty, ball-busting, gut-wrenching blowjob ever to make them think - to make them really start wondering what the hell it was you did - like it's gotta be something that leaves them so ruined, they can't ever not compare - can't ever not compare this moment, right here. Ever. When you give them the hardest fucking of their life, compared to any other guy - can't not, because no-one, literally no-one's cock can fuck like you do-"

"Fuck-"

"Any harder. Come on, seriously, tell me it isn't true. Come on."

Her voice - her fucking words, the tone she uses and how her words roll: honey-warm and soaking with sweet, thick degradation - she talks like sex, and that's exactly what gets you harder, like it’s something else; like it’s nothing, like it’s less, so much worse - you feel this guilty-dirty heat pool at your tailbone and push down the hard press of you throbbing all the way to her nose. And Hyeju smiles as much as she's capable around the fat, round stretch, humming around the warm taste of you, before opening wide and sinking her throat on it.

There's nothing like it.

You've got two fists in her hair; she's so tight and wet around every god-damn inch. Her cheeks flush - hot to the touch; her tongue laving in slow, long drags, slicking your shaft nice and warm until you're balls-deep and pushing her further: a small shift to the hips, a push here, a harder, faster pull, and Hyeju's feet behind her go curling like an angry cat, wanting the tug.

A long, satisfied breath slips from the hollows of her throat.

There are tears threatening, thickening her lashes, and though she doesn't choke - you're just afraid. Every sound that she pulls out, her eyes blinking up to you as if it's only natural to love getting used by her friend's cock, like the very premise of it - swallowing down the very shape of you, dragged over her tongue and brushing cum into the back of her throat - is something she can’t go without.

But this is nothing compared to the noises from where her lips are pressed tight around you, where you're hearing and even feeling:

That gluck, gluck - where her chest spasms just the slightest when her nose gets nuzzled right into your belly and you remember how much she likes to hear you talk dirty, how fucking wet it gets her. The heavy, deep breaths, gasps; the strangled moans when your hips just buck - the heat and the thrill, and this is better than every other time because there's just something in this moment -

"I'm not gonna come again, not like this. Not in your mouth. You can’t-"

But Hyeju refuses to hear a word; just pumps your shaft faster, feeling it's familiar hardness grow and throb and ache and retch, all her effort paying off: you're slick with precum and spit, hard and straining, the whole shaft begging for release - all because of her. And Hyeju won't stop, she pushes her cheek onto your thigh and then taps a hand there to pull your hips. The motion drives your cock further still inside her. Until it’s bathed in her spit, your cum, all this mess.

Until it's reaching, choking her, and the muffled sounds she's making are filthy and wet and so incredulously hot.

But god. Hyeju has something of a temper and a habit, too: with those big beautiful eyes and the perfect plump of her pouting lips, her tits swelling up around, when your grip slips on her shoulder, and her mouth goes tighter - how the pleasure begins to make you unbearably cruel and you push her away from you, only for a second -

She doesn't wait or seem to care; Hyeju follows the cock with her whole head and whimpers so hotly in her throat when it plops right back on her tongue. "That's more - more like - fuck, oh, there we go," her nose and fingers prodding.

You groan through a high, strangled whimper, a helpless shiver that turns into an uncontrollable roll of the hips - you can't believe it: she's already so thoroughly debauched and defaced; just fucking painted with it. Your cum dripping off her chin and rolling down her neck.

"Fuck - gonna make me - ah, Jesus -"

When Hyeju seems to have reached her fill, the feeling, you're cumming - pumping the length of your shaft. And the moment she feels you twitch and throb and that first hot spill lands in the bend of her mouth, it's as if she understands and holds herself tight - her legs going stock-still while your eyes blow up behind her, your cock spewing another and then another thick, milky load into her mouth, over her tongue: all along the topography of her throat - sticky cum landing in every ridge and valley -

Hyeju catches as much as she can. What little she can. You cum and pump and gush so much that when you're finally finished - done - every last drop spent and given - your cock throbs soft between her fingers; her chin is a complete and utter mess and her chest heaves with the sound of her catching her own breath. Hyeju groans softly and just swishes the load around in her mouth for a bit as if wanting to remember its feel and weight before lifting her eyes to look into yours. You can just barely see the color.

"Jesus, Hyeju-"

The entire bit of it, slick and shining-wet. With a small moan, a sound from the back of her throat: one swallow and the cum is gone, disappeared, vanished. She smiles like she didn't just ruin your entire goddamn life and, with her body limp and exhausted beside you - her gentle hand rubbing a flat stroke over your thigh before yours slips up to meet her chin.

"You," you curse and roll your eyes, catching the mess at the edge of her jaw, the very little left in the corners of her lips. You feed the cum over her bottom lip - her chin, her throat - watching your friend: Hyeju's throat, bobbing. "Really didn't have to," you start, but you realize just how useless a point it is to make.

She's smiling and biting and showing you what's left between the tips of her canines. "Do you always do this to the people who suck you off?"

"That's an awful habit. A pretty girl's lips aren't meant to get that messy," you reply.

"Oh." She frowns. "Well, I do a lot of things I shouldn't."

"God, seriously," and you think there's no greater hell, no sweeter pain than whatever's lingering in these little aftershocks - this fizzling and dying sort of pain, where the body is buzzed with all you're aching for. It's impossible to stop this train of thoughts, is the fucking feeling of her-

But just then, Hyeju rises to her knees, a new spark in her eyes, as she grabs ahold of your wrist and tugs you off the sheets, a few inches closer.

"And you," she purrs as she drags the palm of your hand across her neck and collarbone, collecting what remains and making the perfect image, "well - you are going to help clean me up, like you said before." She sits tall; the arch of her spine is pronounced - her back, so, very, slightly tapering, to where your hand slips right off the last of it: the wide flare of her hips. "Now isn't that the gentleman's thing to do?" she asks.

"Of course." You sigh, resigned and in desperate need of water. "Of course," you add and smirk a little and slip your hand lower, toward where her skin is getting hot, and her body, "let's get you clean."

"Mm." She's already grinning. "You know what wasn't in those textbooks?"

"Oh, I can only guess." You bite your cheek and start to lower yourself back. "Give it a try."

Hyeju drags you by the wrist toward the hall, the bathroom, ostensibly the shower -

"There's no way in hell you don't want to put a baby in me, like, right fucking now."

"Is that what we're doing?"

Hyeju makes a face like you're stupid - she might've grabbed a towel on the way out. She wipes her chin a little while walking - the corner of her mouth where, well - where it looks like a little dribble has somehow remained. "No. But you’re going to fuck me like it is."

(There's got so much on her mind.

The door of the shower rattling in its frame as she struggles standing up against it. Getting fucked so fast and full, the feeling of both your hands cupped beneath the weight of her breasts. It's not the fact of where you are and your situation, per say - more about the immediate, the imperative nature. About fucking you. She was already feeling herself like, leaking the moment the door shut, so all that waiting, all that patience, really - and it's what drove her insane when you were, well: like that, after she put her mouth around your cock, made a right and proper mess of herself, and sucked you off.

Though there's less on her mind, clearly, when she cums all over your cock.

She's crying with her tits up onto the glass, your palm holding her ribs. Your cum-slick cock working itself hard again as it slips, back and forth, as you're fucking her open, spread apart. It's your finger in her asshole. That's what's on her mind then. How the press of your knuckle lights her entire fucking spine on fire - how the other hand finds her clit in all this, too, when you're no longer supporting the both of you but rather Hyeju is folding on her bent knee and trusting, on shaking and shivering, raw nerves, that you're not going to collapse.

"Fucking. God, please-"

There's the harsh slap of flesh - skin on wet skin, your palms against the sides of her ass and the curve of the breast. But otherwise - it's you, sighing - soft and gentle, like you can't get over the feel of her. "Hyeju, oh-fucking, god, fucking," is what you're saying, and it doesn't end up really mattering which one of you came last because she can feel you twitching, squelching in and out with how badly you're wanting to explode inside, but also you can feel her cunt absolutely begging, this fucking fluttering and clamping down on every thrust and the moment you manage to grind this angle she loses her ability to speak properly because you're not just, like - fucking her-

Just, absolutely, completely pounding her pussy, stretching her insides, dragging and sliding along the walls; each rough rub and thrust makes her knees quiver until her body is trembling and falling. But mostly her voice, the sharp gasp that shakes into her, how her nails are scraping the walls of the shower stall and she's saying - telling, crying and asking and wondering and pleading - just utterly astounded:

"Amazing," she huffs, breathes coming out cloudy and true onto the pane of glass, "you - it’s, fucking amazing.")

“And I am… Ironman.”

Your eyes flicker awake, hazy, as Tony Stark snaps his fingers, killing himself alongside Thanos’ army in the process.

The TV's long been running on background noise, though not as ambient. Its characters now bickering between the rubble and ruins and being picked up for the end credits. In the dark of the screen, you see Hyeju had nodded off and slumped over the side of your body. A new year means new beginning means resolutions and diets and gym routines -

Maybe no sooner than the sun can come up, apparently.

You lean over to grab your phone from the table: 4:14 A.M.

There's a lot of things you want to say, even more you want to hear, but your mind has begun to settle a bit - a lazy and dreamy thing that fills you with this sort of, tired kind of - not sad, or empty - no, of course not. That's hardly fitting; not after tonight. You want to wrap this in an idealistic sort of sentiment - maybe hold Hyeju close and let the hour carry you and the comfort be enough to forgive whatever there is to miss: like the fact, it's still really dark, so dark even outside. The moon reflecting off the sheet of snow on the street. And not even a distant dog barking, or car driving by or someone playing loud music in the early hours of the new year.

As the film drifts off into another set of commercials, you slip into an easy sleep that feels effortless. Your head drops, landing on the cushion by the arm of the couch, where Hyeju's hand begins to slip mindlessly across your belly, tickling your waist and causing you to slightly squirm - things are cooling down, but still a little agitated.

"Don't tell me you're waking me up, cause I just -"

She kisses the pulse at your throat and answers, mumbling half-words into the spot below your ear. "A kiss for a new year."

And maybe the world doesn't owe you anything at all.

Maybe it just gave you more than enough.

#hyeju smut #loona smut #loona hyeju smut #loossemble smut #loossemble hyeju smut #olivia hye smut #loona olivia hye smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember

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strawberrysnoopy · 2 months ago

Text

ACT ONE: The Photoshoot, Part Four of Four.

warnings: tobacco, smoking, alcohol use, briefest mention of using alcohol as a coping mechanism, mentions of infidelity (as always), ada slander at times (sorry), texting for a while, leon's a bit of a perv, sex, pussy, balls, dick, yeah you get the gist.

(a/n): sike bitch you thought.

FINAL PART OF ACT ONE: THE PHOTOSHOOT.

Your husband was on the dining room floor, groaning in pain, with blood spattered across the kitchen tile from spitting the drips of blood that fell down his throat from his nose. Leon had fucked him up, hard and good. His nose was broken, he had a black eye, his lip was busted open like a button on a shirt, and he had some beginnings of a cauliflower ear. Jesus, Leon gets the damn job done. That must be why he's deployed all the time. "We should..." Leon pauses, wiping some blood from his own unbroken nose with a sniffle. "...take him to the emergency room. I fucked him up pretty good." You nod in agreement, placing your hands on your hips as if you're looking at some new problem that you found in your garden. Like some field mice have been getting into the blackberry bush again. Whatever. You've seen him in worse cases. I mean, there is that time where he tried to kick someone's ass for not playing pool the right way off of three obscenely large tall boy beers. You should've left him then, but now he's on your kitchen floor with his ass beat and his hot ass friend looking down on him. "We should. I think that'll be a good idea. Are you okay? Any impairments?" He shakes his head, loosely gesturing to the black eye that had begun forming, his eyelid peppered in tiny red spots and a smear of a maroon red near the tear duct. The kicker? He wore it so strongly too, like it hadn't bothered him at all, and let's be honest, it hadn't.

You near the front door of your house, pulling the noisy keys out of your pocket to unlock the door. Leon was behind you, hands awkwardly stuffed in the pockets of his denim jeans and tapping his feet. He looked out of place to be awkward. Black-eye clad with dried blood in the nooks and crannies of his skin. "Never realized how pretty your house was, sweetheart." There was a sudden flush in your cheeks at the nickname, not used to people calling you such names of endearment besides the photographers or shoot directors in a weak attempt to get you to pose correctly. You thank him quietly, unlocking the door and pushing through. You waltz over to the kitchen in a spent fashion, noticing little droplets of blood on your kitchen tile. You know you should be mad. A satisfied wife would be furious that someone had laid hands on her husband. You? You were giddy. Like someone had finally understood what a cunt your husband could be and did something besides laugh it off. You expected Leon to tell him to fuck off or make some snarky remark in defense of you, but telling you that he'd fuck you? God damn, it made your head spin. Yes, you've been replaying this thought in your head for the past few hours and the little flashes in your mind of Leon defiling your loyalty had your panties all twisted up. And he beat up your husband over some little thing like he had been waiting for his opportunity his entire life.

Capital H Hot.

You go through the rounds of patching him up, making silent conversation to ease that burning in the pit of your stomach. The conversation had been chock full of apologies from Leon, saying how he was sorry on saying he'd fuck you. "I'm sorry." He begins, and you raise your hand up to stop him from saying anything more.

Sorry? Why on god's green earth would Leon be sorry in saying he'd fuck you if your husband wasn't doing the job correctly? If anything, the statement had set your skin ablaze with salacity and your mind buzzing with impure thoughts of him fucking you against their marital beds. "Don't apologize." You spoke, eyes accidentally shown to be half-lidded, hiding it behind the "fact" you're looking down at the splat of blood on his cheek. "If that's what you truly mean, say it. It's not a crime to find someone attractive, the only thing wrong is if you act on it." His mouth is left open for a few beats before making the two parts of his jaw meet again. He couldn't tell if it was an admission that you had been feeling the same turmoil he'd been feeling. Those sleepless nights. Staring at the ceiling next to your spouse while they sleep, desiring what they cannot have in another bed. Your patience was pinching, the thirst through your thighs turning into a ticking time bomb, and to rephrase the previous points, your cunt was in unbearable need to get fucked. "Then I guess I want to fuck you." There was no dancing around it. No I'm attracted to you in a friendly "that's the way it is" type of way. Straight to the point. I want to take off my goddamn clothes and fuck you. I want to be intimate with you in the most perverse ways possible. You should slap him. You shouldn't have tended to his wounds. You shouldn't have let him into the comfort of your home.

But you did. Because you want the same thing as Leon. Sex. Not the cheap sex your spouses have been trying to give you for your entire relationship. Sex.

Your hand strays from his face, sucking in a breath when you wipe up the rest of the dried blood. He hopped off the counter, his finger subtly swiping against you hip to stave off that insatiable beast in him that wants to fuck you.

"Come to my room." You whisper, your chin barely brushing over your shoulder, clad in the bland cardigan you wore to keep yourself warm from the chilling night thus far. And you sound like you're inviting him for sex. And he doesn't want to fucking reject you.

"Is this okay?" You hold up an old college t-shirt to him, bringing the fabric closer to his still clothed chest. The shirt was one of your husband's from long ago. You had honestly thought about tossing out the shirt in a yard sale but never had the time or will to do so. "Should be." He pulls off his shirt in a languid motion, slipping the ratty tee over his head instead. Your eyes catch Leon's trail of hair, well groomed and cut down not too long ago judging based off of the short stubbly hairs on his abdomen. "Rude to stare, silly girl." You mumble out a quiet "sorry" to him while leaving the bedroom, presumably changing into your own pajamas. But before you can get two feet out the door, he's tugging on your wrist. "Stop." His voice is quiet, lustful with that slight demand. Your eyebrows knit together in confusion, wondering where he's suddenly getting the gall to tug on your wrist like this when he was just begging for forgiveness so much earlier. Your confusion unwrites itself on your face when he takes off your husband's shirt. He's shirtless again, the long scars and fading bruises and cuts from missions he's taken a few weeks prior visible on his skin. Your eyes don't fail you when they settle on the happy trail you were drooling over moments ago. "Why are you looking at me like that, hm?" He asks, moving closer by a smidge, you wouldn't have noticed if your senses weren't already heightened by the arousal you've been feeling since he first came over for dinner. Damn him, keeping you wound up like a clockwork toy and expecting you to prance over like some whore. "You're married. I'm married." He's getting closer, lips tracing towards your cheekbone and getting closer to your ear. "Honey, has anyone ever told you how wrong that is?" You swallow down so goddamn hard, your esophagus might as well have been torn to shreds. "Leon—" He interrupts you, pulling away from your cheek and letting his eyes flit over your body, tutting his tongue as if he's disappointed you're not naked already. "I'm not finished, sweetheart." "Do you know how torturous it is? Looking at you while you're married and you don't even have a fucking clue as to how bad I want to fuck you against every surface of the home you share with your husband? Even though I cannot have you? You're such a fucking tease, making me want you like some goddamn degenerated pervert." His lips tease the skin near your jaw, breathing in your essence like he was stealing it for himself. "And Ada. Oh, she's no fucking help. Treating me like I'm some whipped dog for her. Even when she's never there. She doesn't know I dream of you every time she's away."

You can't even speak. This was such a far cry from the Leon you knew. This was the same man who always had snarky comments and sarcastic one-liners that made you laugh, who respected you, who talked to you like you had known each other since birth. Then again, yearning is an insane drug and Leon's a loyal addict. "Say something before I go insane, sweetheart." He whispered, nudging your head to the side, allowing access to your pulse, rapidly beating under sweaty skin. You don't say anything. Your hands just weave themselves into his hair, tugging and pulling him closer when he's brough into a passionate kiss. Your hands are about to reach for his belt when his phone buzzes. The first time, it's ignored in the heat of the moment. Maybe just some old friend asking to meet up later this weekend. You're in the middle of pulling the belt off, his hands greedily grabbing at your tits and ass when the phone buzzes again. "Need you." He whispered, biting your cheek like some wild animal. The buzzing of texts eventually turn into a consistent vibration of a phone call. Pulling out his phone, Leon realizes it's something he can't just ignore for some pussy. "We need to stop." You murmur back to him, trying to wean yourself off of kissing him. Stop, stop, stop. Even though you don't want to and the only thing you'd enjoy is having him bust your head in against the headboard while telling you how much he loves your pussy.

But he pulls away, stopping the kneading on your ass and your tits, much to his displeasure. For a minute, you're left panting and with the ever lingering feeling of his strong calloused hands all over your skin. You stare down at the emboldened caller ID. Ada. You rewet your eyes by blinking, eyes going dry by staring wide-eyed at his phone. Is he gonna answer that? You hope not. You want him to finish what he started and especially after all of those admissions of lust to you as well, there's no going back. He sighed, picking up the phone while you walked out of your own bedroom. You feel sick. You're supposed to love your husband but your pussy is fucking throbbing at the way another man's hands explore your body. His best friend, no less. He's supposed to be the strong and outspoken man yet he's on a leash for his wife who treats him like shit. And for the first time, you finally mutter a fuck you to Leon you mean with your full chest.

taglist: @heylesamis, @sweetserial, @iloveyousomuch1989, @galatict3a, @m1sery-busin3ss, @ssulfurr, @nic-stars, @g0rep1ty,@nomorekerkanymoranymor,

#leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #leon smut #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x you #resident evil #leon s kennedy #leonscottkennedy #leon kennedy x oc #resident evil x reader #resident evil 4 #leon resident evil #leon kennedy fanfic #re4 leon #re4 remake #re4r!leon kennedy x reader

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godmadeaterribleerror · 23 days ago

Text

I Skip My Pride - No Love Lost Bonus Chapter

Series Masterlist

Read on A03!

Author's Note: What an amazing opportunity to use that gif. Takes place in Chapter 22. Title from Lay All Your Love On Me by ABBA.

Word Count: 1.3k

Summary/Warnings: You share some music with Ben over text. Usual warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, fluff

whjt is empty v

What?

annie and mm are talkinng avout empty v. wat is it. Ben frowned at his phone, watching the little bubbles appear and disappear, and added theyre foghting about something calld a reeahna

The bubbles disappeared for half a second, and then-

Ask MM how to spell that.

Ben ahead of him, where MM and Annie were locked in an argument about something that sounded fucking stupid.

“How the fuck do you spell that.”

MM twisted, frowning at him. “Spell what.”

“That weird fucking word you said. The reeahna.”

“Do you,” Annie paused, exchanging a weird fucking look with MM. “Do you mean Rihanna?”

“Sure. How the fuck do you spell it.”

Ben listened as Annie sounded every letter out—slowly, like he was fucking stupid—and entered them into the phone carefully.

rihanna.

The response was immediate. Jesus fucking Christ, Ben.

wat

She’s a singer. And you’re thinking of MTV.

whats mtv

MTV was launched in the 80s. You should know what MTV is.

Ben paused, then typed, cabel channel

Good work. I’m proud of you.

shutt up. why is that shit still aroond

People love music, celebrities, and drama, and MTV provides all three.

od they still do thw msuic show

VMAs?

sure

Yes, they do.

music goood

What????

is musac still good

I’d say it is, but it’s an incredibly subjective medium.

wat music do u liek tha most

Ben knew what music She liked. He’d spent hours listening to all her fucking songs, over and over while she was gone. But the variety had almost killed him with whiplash, and he didn’t have the goddamn time to comb through the infinite amount of songs she seemed to enjoy. If She’d just spell out the best ones, he’d memorize them because he loved Her, and not bother with shit that wasn’t necessary.

The little bubbles had started up again, appearing and disappearing for several seconds before-

Did you listen to the playlist?

dont knoww how

Do you want help?

He sighed, glancing up at Annie and MM to ensure they wouldn’t reach back and grab his fucking phone from his hand, and looked back down. yes

Yes… Please?

dont puush it

I’m not helping you if you don’t say please, Benjamin.

Ben scowled at the screen. pleas

Thank you. Open the app, go to playlists, and hit the one labeled Benjamin Music Education Initiative.

Ben rolled his eyes, but followed Her instructions, returning to the messages when he was done. now wat

Listen to the music, dummy.

i dont know theese songs

That’s the point. There was a brief pause—Ben was really starting to hate these stupid fucking bubbles—before, There’s four songs per decade you missed. Three that are important for you to know, and one that I like. I also added some more familiar stuff that I thought you’d like, so you don’t listen to Toxic and explode.

stuf i like

Hughie said you like Steely Dan, so I went off of that. Ben grinned at the screen, even as the next message came through. Old fucking man music, by the way. You’re not doing yourself any favors in the “I’m not a goddamn dinosaur, Sunshine” department.

He wasn’t a fucking dinosaur. Normally, Ben would’ve immediately typed that into the phone with a glare, but something in his chest was making him all fucking soft and fucking happy. He loved Her so fucking much, and it was making him a pussy, but Christ, he couldn’t bring himself to give a flying pig’s fuck. He could picture Her perfect face in a mock frown, almost hear Her voice dropped into that dogshit fucking impression of him as he read her words, and he did like Steely Dan. He had absolutely no memory of telling Hughie that, but Ben didn’t really fucking care if he’d mentioned it and forgotten, because now She knew. And She’d added a few of their songs to the stupid playlist, mixed in with a bunch of shit Ben didn’t recognize.

doo i have to listeen now

Do you not want to?

i dont want to stoop talking to u

There was a pause, and then, You can do both. They aren’t mutually exclusive.

why

Because two apps can run at once.

Ben blinked, and went back to the playlist, hitting the button labeled play and almost dropping his phone as the music blasted through the car.

“Shit!” MM turned around the glare at Ben as he smashed his thumb onto the screen, trying to stop the guitar splitting filling up the air. “Use fucking headphones, you asshole, not all of us want to listen to Nirvana right now!”

“Nobody gave me headphone, you dicksack-“

“Here,” Annie threw a pair of thin white wires at Ben’s face, shrugging. “Those are my backups, they were like fifteen dollars. You can keep them.”

Ben scowled at the alleged headphones. “This is fucking string.”

“Goddammit,” MM muttered, snatching Ben’s phone and the wires from his hand and chucking them back into his lap, now somehow connected together. “You’re welcome, motherfucker. Go back to sulking about your separation anxiety and use those if you want to listen to music.”

Ben didn’t know how to use them to listen to music. Headphones were big, and they went over your ears. These couldn’t go over fucking shit.

how do u use wiires as headpones

What?

annie gav me string and said to use is to musicc

Oh. Those are earbuds, you put them in your ears.

Ben glanced down at the wires. There were little pieces on the end that looked bigger, and could maybe fit in his ears.

They did. It felt really goddamn weird, but when he shook his head they didn’t fall out, and when he pressed play again it was like the music was being pushed into his brain.

i got it

Good work.

shut the fhck up

Rude. Do you like the music?

its ok. loud

I’ll take okay and loud. I did start with grunge, so it’ll get quieter.

its not baad. didnt fuckinng expect it tho

I have so many old man jokes.

Ben rolled his eyes. brat

Cunt. Wait until you get to the 2010s, you’re going to hate it.

He might. Ben didn’t understand half the pop culture shit in the modern world, but She did, and he trusted her. He wasn’t listening to his music for himself, it was all for her. To find out what fucking music she deemed worthy of showing him, what stuff she loved, so he could love Her better. Maybe manage to understand her insane, genius fucking brain a little more. And he hadn’t been lying, the music wasn’t bad. A lot of it was weird as shit, but none of it made him want to rip off his ears.

And it was making something inside of Ben all fucking soft and gooey, that She’d successfully figured out what music he liked. That she’d taken the time to do this, just for him. It was the Benjamin Music Education Initiative. This was for Ben, from Her. He fucking loved Her, and she cared about him enough to do this. He was going to memorize every single fucking song on this list, and maybe she’d do it again.

He’d love Her no matter what. Even when she made old man jokes and called him a cunt, Ben would keep loving Her until it killed him.

i thogt u hated romeo an juilet

I do. Why?

song

Well, this version has a happy ending, and it’s an excellent fucking song.

its fine

It’s amazing. Do not disrespect that song, Pretty Boy. It’s blasphemy.

i said its fuckig fine

I’m going to make you listen to the whole album. The entire discography.

He could live with that. If it kept Her at his side, Ben would easily put up with listening to this twangy guitar for a million goddamn years. If it made Her smile, all the fucking better. wahtever

Don’t test me. I’ll do it.

i no

Know.

fuckk off

No. You’re stuck with me.

Ben could live with that as well.

End Note: Do you guys think Ben would be a swiftie. I feel like he would but he'd be like, angry about it.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

If you want to be tagged, just ask!

Taglist

@manicjk @lordofthunderthr @artemys-ackles @brtodd

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mistiell · 2 years ago

Text

Let me Wrap my Teeth Around the World

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Summary: Saturday finally rolls around and Spencer takes you out to dinner. When he drops your off at your apartment, you ask him to stay

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: Fluff, spencer being love drunk and adorable af, protected piv (18+)

A/N: PART 3!!! This is the last part for this mini series. Fair warning, this has not been proofread so I’ll probably come back to correct some things. Hope you guys like it!

Part 2

After four whole days, Saturday finally rolls around, and to say Spencer is nervous would be an understatement. He spent approximately sixty-seven hours, forty-two minutes, and twenty seconds attempting to come up with somewhere to take you, and he thinks he finally has a rather sound proof plan.

As he stands outside of your apartment, he goes over his plan once more in his head just as you open the door.

“Spence! Hey!” You greet him with a contagious smile before taking his hand to lead him inside. You look him up and down once before grinning puckishly at him, “Someone looks handsome.”

His face flushes red as he stutters out, “Th-Thanks.”

“I just have to grab my purse.” You smile kindly before skipping off towards your bedroom.

“Okay.” He nods, taking a moment to admire your decor. The first thing he notices is the scent of pumpkin spice hanging in the air, presumably from the recently extinguished candle sitting on your coffee table. The space is cluttered in a cosy, lived-in sort of way, with a fair amount of pillows settled on the couch and at least three different throw blankets stacked hanging over the back of an armchair. It’s very you, he thinks.

“Sorry for taking so long. Took me a second to find it.” You titter, and it’s now that he notices your outfit. You’re wearing a little black dress – something between formal and casual – that hugs your waist before tapering out at your hips to flow and fall to mid thigh. The sleeves are long and flowy, and the neckline shows off a fair bit of your chest — a detail he lingers on a little too long before hastily forcing his attention elsewhere.

When you look down at the ground and start fidgeting, he realises he hasn’t said anything, “You– you look gorgeous.”

“Thank you.” You smile shyly before taking his hand and tugging him out the door, “Now, c’mon! I want to know what you’ve got planned for us this evening.”

He follows you into the elevator down to the underground before taking the lead, opening the passenger side door to his car for you before climbing in on the other side.

“So,” You start as he shifts the car into gear and pulls out of his parking spot, “Where are we headed?”

“I thought we could go to that Italian place you liked the last time we went out with the team?” He suggests as he pulls out onto the street.

“Sounds good to me.” You reply, pulling at your dress as it rides up a little too high for your liking.

Spencer certainly isn’t complaining though. He’s got a great view of your thighs from here. When he dares to take his eyes off the road to glance at you out of the corner of his eye, of course.

The drive to the restaurant isn’t a long one and there’s an easy flow of idle chatter as he finds a parking spot before leading you inside.

The place is on the smaller side, a family owned business that’s been there since before either of you were born. The owner recognizes the two of you and smiles kindly as she shows you to a table.

As you skim the menu, you’re rambling about a TV show you’re currently obsessing over but, as hard as he tries, only half of him is listening. The other half is fantasising about ripping that dress off your body and ravishing you the way you deserve.

He shakes his head. Jesus, where’d that come from? He’s got to get a hold of himself.

“I don’t know if you’d really be interested in it, but maybe—,” You stop talking and when he realises he’s been staring at your chest, he knows he’s been caught. He goes bright red when you smirk, “See something you like, pretty boy?”

Fucking hell, you’re going to be the death of him. He swallows hard and smiles nervously, “Yeah, I do.”

Your gaze slides down his neck and seems to land on the sliver of his collar bone that’s visible beneath the sweater vest he’s wearing, and you look like you’re just about ready to pounce on him. Under the table, you use your foot to nudge at his ankle before reaching for his hand and raising it to kiss his knuckles, maintaining eye contact as you do. For such a sweet gesture, it feels intimate with the way you’re gazing at him through your lashes, your lips warm against his skin in a way that makes him shift a little in his seat. When you pull away, you don’t let go of his hand, instead letting them settle between you as you scrunch your nose playfully and stage whisper, “Me too.”

He fucking giggles.

It’s that flustered, I-cannot-believe-this-person-thinks-I’m-attractive kind of giggle. When someone’s just hit on you and you just can’t help but laugh a little to calm your racing heart.

You grin at the sound and he clears his throat, cheeks a bright crimson, “Th–Thanks y– Thank you.”

He sighs with a simper, a little more than embarrassed as he hides his face in his free hand. You laugh and gently take his wrist to pull his hand away. When he dares to look back up at you, your eyes are filled with such fondness that it makes him want to scream.

“Don’t hide from me.” You coo, brushing your thumb over his wrist, “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

He doesn’t know what to say, so he thanks you again.

“‘Course.” You smile just as the waiter returns with your drinks.

You both order and chat while you wait. He starts rambling on about a classic film he went to see once, one that was in russian and was nearly four hours long. He gets halfway through explaining the plot when he realises this is usually where someone else would cut him off, so instead, he does it himself. You notice the abrupt silence and swallow a bite of your food before cocking your head to the side, “Why’d you stop?”

“Oh, well,” No one’s ever asked him that before. They normally ask him to stop. Not why he stopped, “I didn’t want to bore you.”

“You weren’t. I enjoy listening to you.” You say casually, waiting for him to continue.

It takes him a moment to register that you’re being genuine, but once he does, he beams as he continues his explanation. You listen with rapt attention. You even ask him questions! He finds himself smiling so much his cheeks start to hurt.

When he’s finished, he asks you about the show you’d been talking about earlier and you grin, speaking excitedly and animatedly about the plot and characters. You’re careful not to spoil anything, just in case he decides to watch it — which he decided he would the moment he saw how you lit up when he mentioned it.

By the time the two of you are finished with dinner, the sun has set and the time is nearing seven thirty. Nearly an hour and a half has passed and he hadn’t even noticed. He’s quick to offer to pay the bill when it comes, which starts a very small back and forth between the two of you when you also insist on paying. Eventually, you compromise and decide to split it.

He opens the door for you before walking out behind you. The air has chilled, and when a breeze blows by, you shiver.

He quickly shrugs off his coat and holds it out to you, “Here.”

“Oh, you don’t have to.” He shakes his head and smiles kindly at you.

“I want to.”

You smile back and utter a soft, “Thank you.

He holds it open and lets you slip your arms into it, watching the way you wrap it securely around yourself and practically burrow into it fondly. Before you start walking, he offers his arm to you, “Shall we?”

Giggling, you slip your arm through his, “We shall.”

You squeeze at his bicep affectionately as you walk and he places his free hand on the back of yours.

When you get to his car, he opens the door for you again before climbing in himself. On the drive to your apartment, he can’t help but glance at you out of the corner of his eye again.

“Just can’t stop staring, huh?” You smirk and he immediately brings his eyes back to the road.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He smiles and you laugh.

“Uh-huh. Sure you don’t.” Carefully, you take one of his hands off the wheel and hold it in your lap, playing with his fingers. He knows the distraction is dangerous, but he really doesn’t care at this point. You’ve got his hand in your lap, so close to your thighs that he can feel the heat radiating off of your skin, “I like when you stare, you know.” “Yeah?” Is all he can manage in response as you spread his fingers and place his open palm over your inner thigh.

“Yeah.” You whisper, and when he glances at you again, you’ve got a hunger in your eyes that makes him let out a shaky breath. He takes a chance, sliding his hand up the bottom of your dress to squeeze at the soft flesh that resides further up your thigh. You sigh, leaning your head back against the headrest as you idly drag your fingertips up and down the length of his forearm. He thinks he might pass out.

As he reaches your apartment building, he squeezes you before placing his hand back on the wheel to turn into the underground. He finds your visitor spot and parks the car, getting out to open the door for you. When you get to the elevator and finally reach the door to your apartment, you turn and tentatively take his hand.

“Would you, um,” You glance down at your shoes shyly, “Would you like to,” His heart races when you look up at him through your lashes, “come inside?”

His breath stutters in his chest and it takes him a moment to come back down to earth. Unfortunately, you take this as a rejection, pulling your hand away and smiling at him apologetically, “Sorry, you don’t have to, obviously. I just thought…Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I’ll–.”

He doesn’t let you go any further, stepping into your space and pressing his lips to yours. He’s not about to let another misunderstanding pull you away from him. When he pulls back, he cups your cheek and strokes a line with his thumb from the corner of your eye, to your temple, and back, “I’d love to.”

You smile, quickly opening the door to your apartment and pulling him through. Shrugging off his jacket, you hang it up on your coat rack as he slips off his shoes. You struggle to get your heels off, so he kneels to undo to clasp and slip them off for you.

“Such a gentleman.” You hum as he stands back up after placing your shoes under your coats, threading your fingers in the hairs closest to his ears. His hands gravitate to your waist as you press yourself against him, leaning up to peck his lips, his jaw, before opening your mouth to roll your tongue against the sensitive skin of his pulse point, drawing a deep, shuddering sigh from his lungs. Your teeth scrape against his jaw and he can hear your breath fanning hot against his neck. He swears under his breath and you chuckle, pulling away only to take his wrists and guide him down the hall towards your bedroom.

Before you have a chance to sit, he hooks his arm around you and pulls you back to him. He captures your lips again and slides his hand up your thighs and your dress to grasp at your waist, relishing in the way your skin feels under his hands. He only breaks the kiss to ask, “Can I take this off?”

“You can take off as much as you want, handsome.” You pant and he grins, slipping your dress off before taking a moment to unabashedly ogle you.

“You are…” There are so many things he could say. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Ethereal. None of them would do you justice, “Wow.”

You giggle, and he finds himself mesmerised by the way your shoulders shake and your stomach contracts with the motion, “I’ve never known you as a man of few words, Doctor Reid.”

“I guess you just have that effect on me.” He smiles as you move to fiddle with his belt, swiftly pulling his pants down his legs and letting him lean on you a little as he steps out of them. You make quick work of his sweater vest and button down after that, leaving him standing there in his boxers, nearly bare to you. He gets a little anxious when you don’t say anything at first, but when he takes the time to actually look at the way you’re staring at him, he realises you’re just as in awe of him as he is of you.

Taking you in his arms again, he walks you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed, letting you shimmy up the mattress until your head rests comfortably on your pillows. You open your arms to him, parting your thighs to let him slot himself snuggly in between. Gripping your hips, he spreads his knees and — with a strength that surprises both of you — tugs you towards him so that your heat is flush with his bulge. You gasp at the sudden manhandling, but don’t seem upset. In fact, if he had to describe it, you look like you want to eat him.

He bends at the waist, sliding his hands down the backs of your thighs and holding them against his sides as he leans down to kiss you again. One hand finds his back while the other finds his hair, tugging and earning a groan in response. He’d be content to sit there and kiss you for hours, but as you grind against him, sighing into his mouth, it’s clear you’re eager to have more of him.

Letting go of your thighs, he carefully wedges his fingers between you and the mattress to guide your back into a high enough arch that he can unclasp your bra. It takes him a couple tries, throughout which you kiss at his jaw in a lovely — but also rather unhelpful — way, but he gets it and slips it off, tossing it off to some unknown corner of the room. His hands stay safely on your sides for a moment as he glances up at you, waiting until you nod before he palms at your breast, leaning down to suck a few hickeys into the skin of your neck as he rolls your nipple between his fingers. You half sigh, half moan next to his ear and he rolls his hips into yours involuntarily, making you wrap your legs around his lower back to keep him where he is.

“‘M not goin’ anywhere, lovely.” He mumbles against your skin, rolling his hips again as you grind down to meet him.

He shifts his attention lower for a moment, marking up your chest a little before pulling away, sitting back on his heels to admire his work. Dragging his fingertips over the freshly made hickeys and down the valley of your breasts, he can feel your heart beating hard and fast against your ribs. A little lower and he splays his palm over the soft flesh of your stomach. He can feel your heart there, too. He lowers his head to mouth at your sternum, and the vibrations reverberate against his lips and tongue in a steady lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.

He kisses and sucks a trail down your stomach, stopping a moment to nip at the swell of your abdomen before kissing at your skin apologetically when you gasp and tug on his hair. Hooking his fingers under your panties, he slips them off before biting at the meat of your inner thighs, soothing the area with his tongue before repeating the process a little further up.

“Spence,” You pant, and he hums, looking up at you from his place between your thighs, “Please.”

“Please what?” He asks cheekily, chuckling when you huff at him in frustration.

“Touch me.” You sigh, and he feels a little lightheaded, “Please.”

He dips his tongue into the well of slick at your entrance before dragging his tongue up to swirl around your clit. You choke on his name, arching your back and tugging on his hair. He lays there, eating at you like a man starved, sucking and rolling his tongue against you in a way that has you bucking your hips so much that he has to hook an arm around your thighs to hold them down. Slowly, he slips two fingers into you, earning a hissed, “Fuck” that has him rutting into the mattress. He curls his fingers and you use his hair as leverage to pull him closer.

His name sounds like music on your lips, lyrics strung together by breathy swears and blending into a chorus of moans. He finds when he flicks his tongue and curls his fingers a certain way, he can get you to whine all breathy and high pitched. He finds your body is his instrument. Your voice, his muse.

He feels you clench around his fingers, thighs trembling and breath speeding up as you get closer, and closer, before tipping over the edge with a loud, “Oh, shit!”

He lets go of your hips and slows his pace a little to let you use him to ride out your high, only stopping when you go lax beneath him and tug him away by his hair. He takes a moment to wipe his lips with the back of his hand before you pull him up your body to kiss him slow and sweet. Your hand travels to fiddle with the hem of his boxers, and he takes your wrist, looking at you rather seriously.

“Are you sure?” He asks, searching your eyes for any sort of hesitation and finding none.

You nod and peck his lips once before locking eyes with him, “Positive.”

“Okay.” He kisses you once more before sliding his boxers down his legs. As he gets them off his ankles and makes it back onto his knees, you lean over to your side table and quickly pull out a condom, opening it and passing it to him. He’s quick to roll it on before diving back into you, guiding you to lay back against your pillows. He kisses you once, twice, before dropping his forehead to your shoulder as he aligns himself with you. He pushes in slowly, bracing himself on his elbow and he lets out a wrecked moan next to your ear. When he bottoms out, he gives you a moment to adjust, waiting until you’re ready.

You roll your hips with a whiny little, “Spence.” and he sees stars. He goes slow, tries to be gentle, grinding his hips into yours and splitting you open slowly. His head is filled with the scent of you, the sound of you, the feel of you. When he said he wanted to drown in you, he meant it. He isn’t a religious man by any means, but if it meant worshipping at your feet and allowing him the privilege of being yours, he’d abandon his principles and repent in an instant.

“Harder.” You beg, and he bends to your will, setting a near back breaking pace.

He keeps the grinding motion, but the force at which his hips hit yours have you digging your nails into his back and throwing your head back. His mouth finds the side of your larynx, tongue laving over the area before he latches his lips to your skin and sucks another bruise into it.

The room is filled with your sinful noises, moans and the sound of skin on skin as his hips snap against yours so hard that he worries for a moment that you might bruise.

That thought is gone as quick as it comes when you moan out, “Fuck, just like that.”

That familiar coil winds up in his abdomen and warmth spreads from his thighs to his toes. You flutter around him, and he knows that you’re getting close too. His fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles over the little bundle of nerves until your legs tremble and his name falls from your lips like a prayer, cunt spasming around him until he’s reaching his high too. He whimpers as he spills into the condom, body going rigid before he lets his upper body rest fully on you.

There’s a moment where he just sits there, sweaty torso flush with yours as he presses his ear against your chest to listen to your heart slow. You run your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp as you let him place a few sweet kisses to the curve of your breast.

“You wanna stay the night?” You ask softly and he nods.

He sits up to pull the condom off, tying it up and tossing it into the bin beside your bed before noticing the blissed out haze you’re in, “You want to have a shower?”

“Mm-mm.” You hum, holding your arms out to him.

“Okay.” He whispers as he flops onto the mattress beside you, pulling you into his chest and pressing his lips to your hairline. You sigh, nuzzling your nose against the divot where his collar bones meet. It isn’t long before your breaths even out and he isn’t far behind, the sound of your breathing coaxing him into a haze. The last thing he thinks about before he falls asleep is where he’s taking you on your next few dates.

———————————————————————

Taglist:

@fandomscombine @ivyflowers13 @nataratacat

#spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader

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radioactiveparker · 7 months ago

Text

The Breakfast Club - Eddie Munson X F!Cheerleader!Reader

Part Three - Hallway Vision

Chapter Summary - During an adventure through the maze of school hallways, we see the Criminal become the hero, and the King become the villain. (A retelling of The Breakfast Club, written and directed by John Hughes.)

Chapter Warnings - Characters are all 18+ / Strong Language / Illusions to Emotional Abuse/ Abusive Relationship / Vandalism / Strong Sexual References / Drug References / Angst

Word Count - 5k

(Series Masterlist) (Masterlist)

(Part One) (Part Two) (Part Three) (Part Four) (Part Five)

~~~~~

Saturday.

October 25th, 1986.

Hawkins High Library.

1:00pm

~~~~~

"Let's take off. Dick's gone cruising." Eddie poked his head back into the library.

"Is that a euphemism?"

"No, Buckley. It means Higgins has just left his office."

You looked at the others as if this was an easy yes; you wanted to leave this library. Steve and Nancy didn't look too fond of the idea. Robin was torn between not wanting to leave, and not wanting to be the only one left behind.

"How do you know where he went?" Nancy asked, as if his answer would determine hers.

"I don't. But he's gone. He wouldn't've come to check on us first if he wasn't going somewhere for a while. Jesus, I've never seen so much chicken shit in one place in my life."

She didn't find that answer very reassuring, but if Nancy was anything, it certainly wasn't chicken shit.

Robin looks at her, then back at Eddie. "I'll go out in the hall for a minute, but I don't wanna leave." As if that was proof enough that she wasn't chicken shit.

You really wanted to get out of that library. It had felt a lot bigger when you had first got there, but now, five hours later, it was starting to get suffocating. You didn't want to see another book for the rest of your life.

"Do you mean take off for good?" You asked hopefully.

Eddie shook his head. "For good? No, just down to my locker."

"Okay." You agreed simply, taking your place beside him.

He smiled at you. "Being bad feels pretty god, huh?"

You rolled your eyes at him and gave him a playful shove. The others looked like they were starting to consider it. Eddie's locker wasn't that far away. They would be gone for five minutes tops. If things went well, that was.

"What's the point of going to a locker?" Steve questioned.

"Why don't we just stand in the hall for a minute? That'd be fun, huh? If we get away with it." Robin attempted to persuade.

You and Eddie ignored them, taking the chance to slip out the door. The longer you all spent debating it, the less time you would have to get back.

Steve, Robin, and Nancy looked at each other.

"I'm not chicken." Nancy disclosed boldly, shifting on her feet and crossing her arms.

"I am." Robin gulped. At least she was honest.

"You two gonna stay?" Nancy flicked her eyes between the two of them.

"Not if you don't." Steve leaned against the door frame, like his answer showed her some sort of compassion, that he was thinking of her.

"What do I have to do with making up your mind?"

Steve gulped. Not the reaction he was hoping. He cleared his throat and accepted defeat. "I don't know. I guess if you're not scared, I shouldn't be... not that I am. I'm not scared. Not of Principal Higgins."

Nancy stared at him like she didn't believe him, then left before he could dig the hole any deeper for himself. Steve was crushed as he watched Nancy walk away. He felt like he had just blown a chance at impressing Nancy. His shoulders slumped, and Robin patted him on the back.

"Maybe you should think for yourself for once. It's healthy."

She hadn't said it in a bad way, but it had still injured his dignity. He brushed her hand off him and left without a word. Robin turned to the empty library. She debated sitting back down, but she had visions of Higgins storming through the doors and hounding her with questions. At least if she got caught in the halls, she'd have the others with her. She quickly followed after Steve.

Nancy and Steve caught up with you and Eddie, with Robin running behind, trying to catch up. You all hurried up the steps as quietly as possible. You made it to the teacher's lounge and paused, hearing noise coming from inside.

"For cryin' out loud!" Principal Higgins hit the vending machine. His soda can was stuck inside.

You and Eddie ran across the open doorway while he was distracted. You tried not to think about the way Eddie had grabbed your hand to pull you along. Higgins rattled the coin return and started banging on the buttons. Steve and Nancy went next, taking a big lunge across and landing on their feet silently. Higgins let out a defeated sigh and started rummaging his pockets for more change. Finally, Robin made it across, just in time before the Principal turned around after having no luck. Eddie turned to make sure that everyone had made it across. He hadn't realised that he was still holding your hand until you wiggled it out of his grip. Your face flushed, and you awkwardly wiped your hand on your skirt, suddenly feeling the perspiration on your palm. You took a step away from each other at the same time. Eddie cleared his throat, and the others eyed him, wondering why his demeanour had suddenly changed.

They all turned when they saw his eyes staring behind them, paralysed in panic. Principal Higgins had walked out of the teacher's lounge.

Everyone froze.

The Principal paused, looked down at his watch, turned the other way, and walked down the hall. Everyone released a breath when he was out of sight. Eddie led you down another hall until you reached his locker.

His locker was so ugly it hurt your eyes. The white paint on his locker was non-existent. It was a horrific amalgamation of stickers from bands you've never heard of, spray paint graffiti, and lettering scratched into the metal with handwriting so bad you couldn't even read it. When he opened it, the inside wasn't much better. The stickers and writing wrapped around the inside of the locker door. It was a stunning mess of clothes, bags, papers, books, cassette tapes, and auto parts. You'd hate to see what his bedroom looked like.

Not that you were thinking of being in his bedroom.

Eddie started fishing through his locker. Nancy was revolted by it.

"You're such a slob. Your maid take the week off or something?"

"This is on purpose, Princess. Don't worry." Nobody believed him. "It discourages nosey people from going in it. Like cops."

Eddie smiled when he located what he was looking for. He pulled out a greasy, stained shopping bag. Out of the shopping bag, he took a smaller brown paper bag, and out of that, an even smaller paper bag. Then, with great drama and a huge, proud smile, he reached his hand into the final bag.

"You ready for this action?"

He slowly took out a baggie bulging with marijuana. Your mouth hung open in shock. Nancy looked at it like it was infectious.

"No way, man. Put it back." Steve insisted, making a reach for it.

Eddie stuffed the baggie down the from of his pants with a smirk. Steve pulled a disgusted face; there was no way he was going to take it from him now.

"Let's go."

You all turned and quietly crept back down the hall. You were about to turn the corner when Eddie stopped you. Professor Higgins was standing outside of the teacher's lounge again, holding two cans of Coca Cola after finding some spare change in his office draw. He was only five yards away. You all scooted backwards to hide behind the corner. You bravely peeked a head around. Higgins turned and made his way down the hall. He was on his way back to the library. You told the others.

"We're screwed!" Robin cried

"You asshole!" Steve seethed. "I knew this was a lost idea!"

Nancy shook her head in disbelief. "We're finished. This is just great."

You had a bit more optimism than that. You turned to Eddie. He got himself out of shit all the time. What's one more? You had faith in him, and he had felt it in how you spoke your words. "What're we gonna do?"

Eddie thought hard. Higgins' leisurely footsteps echoed down the hall, each one diminishing your chances of getting back to the library undetected.

"We'll go around, cut through the lab, and double back. C'mon."

Eddie urged everyone to start running. You all swerved around corners and scrambled downstairs, sacrificing volume for speed. You narrowly escaped Higgins' sight when you turned and corner and seen he was walking head on towards you all. He was too busy sipping on his Cola to notice the group of students at the end of the hall. At least he had decided to take the scenic route back to the library. He was unintentionally buying you all some time. You all ran in the opposite direction again.

"Cut through the cafeteria." Eddie directed, starting to run down the hall to the right.

"The gym will be faster." Steve countered.

"What? No, you don't know what you're talking about."

"No, you don't know what you're talking about. I'm through listening to you. You'll just end up getting us into more trouble. We're going this way." Steve had managed to persuade the others into following him.

Eddie hardly spent time in school, and he certainly never used the gym. He couldn't remember if it was quicker or not. He didn't like not being in control. He felt like he was running off a cliff head first with a blindfold on. He watched as the others followed Steve down the hall to the left. It was just you and him left. You stared at him fearfully, listening to Principal Higgins' footsteps grow closer. You started backwards slowly, encouraging Eddie to follow. He did with a scoff of annoyance. The two of you quickly caught up with the others, falling behind while Steve led the way. After a couple of twists and turns and another almost run in with the Principal, you reached the gym doors. Steve pulled on the handles.

They were locked.

Sheer panic set in.

"Great idea, shitbag." Eddie spat at Steve.

"Fuck you." He tried the doors again to double check that they were locked.

They were. He kicked them bitterly.

"Fuck you, why didn't you listen to Eddie?" You defended.

You crashed back on some lockers and folded your arms in frustration.

"We're dead." Robin whimpered.

Eddie looked at you. You had probably given him more credit that what he was worth before when you had asked him for help, but now, as you stared back, he wanted to prove himself to you. You seeing the clogs working in his brain and the change in his eyes.

He didn't take his eyes off you. "No, just me." He said heroically.

"What do you mean?" Steve's voice finally drew his eyes away from you.

"I'm gonna take the rap." He pulls his baggie of marijuana out and shoves it down Steve's pants. "Keep your unit out of it."

The girls giggled. Steve was horrified that a group of girls were laughing about his genitals.

"I mean, what if the bag broke and the dope seeped into his thing and it got high?" Robin laughed.

"Can you imagine this airhead running around with his little weenie stoned?" You cracked up.

"Little?" Steve looked wounded. "It's not that funny."

The girls just cracked up more. Eddie smirked.

"I don't want this, Eddie!" Steve begged.

"C'mon King Steve, I'm gonna save your buns! It's your fault we're in this mess, the least you could do is hold on to that until Dick leaves."

The girls were still laughing. You meet Eddie's eye and he starts laughing too.

Steve turned back to the group of girls snickering behind him. "Excuse me, but I don't want to do this. Eddie's making me, so I'd appreciate it if you guys would stop with the jokes. Okay?"

Eddie turned and started running back down the hall. "Just get back to the library!"

There was a pause as the girls calmed down. No use in trying to be sneaky when you can't stop laughing.

"Eddie, wait." He paused, eyebrows raised in interest at your voice. "Be careful."

Eddie beamed and shot you a wink before sprinting down the hall.

"That stuff couldn't really happen, right?" Steve's voice quivered with concern for his unit.

With a roll of your eyes, you urged the group to start towards the library. You lead the way, taking Eddie's route through the cafeteria. As you ran through the halls, you could hear his loud singing, but he was too distant for you to understand any of the words. If you could hear him from all the way over here, Principal Higgins would most definitely already be on his way to catch him.

You managed to get them all back to the library safely. Everyone was huffing for breath, and Steve kept adjusting his pants. Everyone took their seats, except for Nancy, who was peering out of the doors to keep an eye out for Higgins or Eddie.

Nancy gasped. "Higgins' got him! He's gonna get reamed."

Steve recoiled at the name. "I do not want these drugs in my underwear anymore."

"Shhh!"

Nancy rushed from the door to her desk. No sooner was she seated than the door opened up, and Principal Higgins shoved Eddie in. He was red-faced from running around, and he had managed to tie his hair back into a low bun that you thought suited him. His red paid shirt was half hanging off, and he was carrying one shoe in his hand, but he still had a big shit-eating grin on his face. You wondered what on earth had happened. He made his way towards his seat next to you, hopping on one leg as he tried to walk and put his shoe back on at the same time.

Higgins crossed his arms impatiently. "Mr. Munson has taken it upon himself to visit the gymnasium. So, I'm sorry to inform you that you'll be losing his company for the remainder of the day."

Eddie chuckled to himself as he sat back in his seat next to you.

"Everything's a joke, huh, Munson? The false alarm you pulled on Friday? Are false fire alarms real funny? What if your home was on fire and the fire department was over here answering a false alarm?"

"I'm not that lucky, Sir."

Everyone suppressed the urge to laugh at Eddie's wisecrack.

"Fine, what if it was your dope on fire?"

"That's impossible, Sir. It's in Harrington's underwear."

Everyone cracks up again. Steve turned red, adjusting himself in his jeans not-so subtly.

The Principal turned his attention on everyone else. "You like this? You think Munson's funny? Do you think he's cute?"

He got no reaction from anyone. Eddie glared at Higgins as he made his little speech, trying to hide his embarrassment at the fact that the Principal had managed to one-up him.

"I bet Y/N thinks I'm cute." He mumbled under his breath. Eddie had spoken your actual name for the first time. It sounded like honey running off his lips. Your eyes widened, but you pretended not to hear.

Higgins continued. "Go visit Big Eddie Munson in five years and see how goddamn funny he is." He smiled and leaned in close to Eddie. "You look like you're gonna cry, Munson."

Eddie was struggling to keep himself from striking Principal Higgins across his smug fucking face. How dare he humiliate him in front of everyone. How dare he humiliate him in front of you.

"You're not tough, Munson. You're pathetic." He reached out and grabbed Eddie by the front. "Let's go."

Eddie smacked his hand away. "Get your fucking hands off me! I'd expect better manners from you, Dick."

Eddie shuffled around the table, planting a big kiss on your cheek as he left. You almost gasped in surprise. As he walked away, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. Why he was carrying sunglasses in October, you had no idea. You had learned it was probably better not to question him. He lay them on the desk in front of Steve.

"For better hallway vision." He sniped.

Principal Higgins walked out, holding the door open for Eddie as he shuffled languidly behind him. He turned his head and looked at the others.

He held up a peace sign in farewell. "It's been a slice, ladies."

The door closed behind them.

The room was silent once more.

You reached a hand to your cheek where Eddie had kissed you. The skin was tingling under your touch. You couldn't help but smile at the memory of his surprisingly soft lips. Billy flashed through your mind again. Your heart dropped into your gut. How could you have let Eddie have that effect on you when Billy was waiting for you at home? The thought had your body tingling again. But not the good kind.

Everyone awkwardly glanced at each other. You realised now that somehow Eddie had been the glue that was holding you all together. You had all bonded over your inadequacy to tolerate Eddie that, now he wasn't here, you had absolutely nothing in common. You were unable to prevent the disappointment swarming in your chest.

"Principal Higgins is a total meat head." You broke the silence and everyone turned to you.

They all had the same sort of sorrow in their eyes. The girls agreed with you, but Steve shook his head like he didn't have any regrets.

"The freak asked for it."

The insult upset you more than it probably would have upset Eddie. "Hey! It isn't fair that Eddie gets treated like that. We all left. He saved our asses."

"Oh, get a life, Y/N."

You thought Steve was starting to come around to you after your talk on the way to the teachers lounge. You guessed not. "He sacrificed himself so we could get back here. I didn't see you volunteering."

You had wounded Steve's dignity. "I didn't want to leave in the first place. He got us into it, it's only right that he take the shit for getting us out of it." He bit back.

"You weren't forced to go!"

"Munson is a troublemaker."

"Yeah? So what does that make you?"

"Meaning what?"

"Wimp."

CCRRAASSHH!!!

Everyone turned in the direction of one of the seclusion rooms. There is a gaping hole in the ceiling where the tiles had crashed through, and Eddie splayed, stunned, on his back on the table. After catching his breath, he sat up and shook the dry plaster out of his hair. He sauntered out into the main library like nothing had happened.

"Miss me?"

"How did you do that?" You bewildered.

"Smoke and mirrors." He winked, taking his rightful seat beside you.

"Goddammit!" Footsteps came hurtling towards the library doors.

"Shit!" Eddie ducked underneath the table.

His tall, lanky body hardly fit underneath. He shuffled upwards until his upper half was tucked between your legs. You cringed, trying so desperately to close your legs so Eddie didn't look straight up your skirt, but your legs were trapped on either side of his shoulders.

Principal Higgins stood at the door, red-faced and puffing. "What was that ruckus?"

"What ruckus?" You played dumb, jumping in before Steve could open his mouth and rat on Eddie.

Higgins eyed them all up. You all sat like little angles, up straight and arms folded innocently in front of you.

"Could you describe it, Sir?" Robin asked.

"Watch your tongue, Missy."

Eddie shifted in discomfort, adjusting himself so his back didn't ache as much. He eyed your white keds. Only a slight discolouration in the laces and few specs of mud from when you had crossed the school field, but otherwise clean. He moved back slightly so he didn't get any dirt on himself. He followed his eyes up your white socks, tracing the green trim at the top of your knee. He was glad to be under the table when he flushed at the sight of your bare skin. The soft flesh of your thighs enticing him to follow higher.

There was a sudden knock from under the table from Eddie accidentally banging his head. You jolted in surprise, hitting your hands on the table to disguise the sound. The others copied, tapping their own little beats.

"What was that noise?"

"What noise?"

Eddie hoped that the sight he saw would never leave his mind. It was enough to send anyone into a cardiac arrest. His mouth hung open as he ogled straight up your skirt. You hadn't worn your spandex briefs since you weren't actually doing any cheerleading, and instead had opted for a pair of baby blue cotton panties. Eddie's mouth was watering at the excruciatingly tender bulge. In his entire life, Eddie would not be able to duplicate the raw power of this moment. Eddie's eyes were locked in a stare, hand trembling and eager to touch.

"Really, Sir, there wasn't any noise, just ---"

You shot up straight with a gasp, hands reaching underneath the table and into Eddie's hair. You could feel it tickling the skin of your thigh as his head moved further between your legs. The others looked at you with alarm. You pulled gently on his hair to urge him to stop, but couldn't find yourself putting in any effort to resist him. Your hand stayed weaved into his curled as he continued to delve in deeper. Your legs had started trembling when you felt his lips graze your inner thighs before placing a soft kiss there. Your mouth hung open in shock before you came to your senses. You quickly covered your gasp with a cough.

The others joined in and you couldn't be more grateful. The four of you sat in a coughing fit with Higgins eyeing you all suspiciously.

"What that the noise? The noise I just made. Was that it?" You thought fast.

Eddie's nose prodded at your mound. You suppressed another gasp and slammed your thighs closed around his head to stop him from moving any further. Eddie snapped out of his trance at the sudden pain on either side of his head. He slapped your leg to tap out, and you relaxed your thighs. He moved away from you, rubbing his ringing ears. When you felt him leave, you gave him a deserved kick to the arm. He hissed in pain, but Higgins hadn't heard it.

The Principal scowled. "I didn't catch you this time, but you can bet I will." He pointed a finger at you. "You!"

You tensed.

"I will not be made a fool of."

And with those final words, he stormed from the library.

Everybody held their angelic expressions for a couple beats and then, assured that Higgins was out of earshot, Steve, Nancy, and Robin break into laughter. You shoved your seat back and kicked your legs at Eddie as he scrambled out from under the front of the table.

"You're such an asshole."

Eddie tried to keep as serious as he could, but struggled to contain his laughter at your anger. "What?" He asked innocently.

"You know what."

"It was dark under there, it was an accident."

The others seemed to take interest in your spat. They wondered what had Eddie laughing and felt inclined to join in.

"What?" Steve asked.

"None of your business." You slumped back into your chair and crossed your arms, angry and embarrassed.

Eddie saw your wet eyes and soft pouting lips. He started to feel bad. He hadn't meant to upset you.

"I couldn't help it, okay? I'm sorry."

You refused to look at him. He placed a gentle hand under your chin and guided your eyes to meet. His voice was much softer. "I'm sorry."

You hadn't said it out loud, but Eddie could see the forgiveness in your eyes. You relaxed under his touch, feeling the truth in his words. He smiled tenderly.

"What did you do?" Steve asked again, still hoping for a laugh.

Eddie had clearly embarrassed you somehow. Steve thought it was only fair to get a few jokes out on you after you and the other girls had made fun at him in the hallway.

"Shut up." Eddie snapped, and the moment was over.

He held out a hand to Steve who just looked at it in confusion. He reached like he was going to shake Eddie's hand but he slapped it away just before they clasped hands. Eddie looked at him like he was as thick as pig shit.

"You smoke all my reefer or something? The dope, waistoid. Give it to me."

Steve's eyes lit up at the disclosure, wondering how he had managed to forget. He reached into his pants and tossed the baggie to Eddie, murmuring a 'good riddance' to it under his breath. Eddie sat back next to you and opened the bag on the table. You stared at it in curiosity.

You had never smoked weed before. You had never smoked period. But Billy did. He always tried to force you to smoke it with him, but you refused. It wasn't that you hadn't wanted to do it, it was because Billy wanted you to. It was kind of like when your parents ask you to do something and it immediately puts you off wanting to do it. He'd call you a killjoy, or Miss Priss, which always got under your skin. But what made it worse was that Billy always got horny when he was high. He struggled to contain himself around you, even when you told him no. Luckily, he had never done anything, but you knew it was only a matter of time before he would.

You knew Eddie wouldn't be like that though. You had never seen him stoned, but there was something about him that told you smoking with Eddie would be okay. He wouldn't pressure you into trying it if you didn't want to, and if you did, that was okay too. Eddie sold weed to people all the time, heavy hitters and noobs alike. He had taught plenty of people how to smoke before. You could try it for yourself, without Billy's untoward provocation.

He patted his pockets then looks troubled. "Do you have any papers." He asked no one in particular.

Then with a shake of his head, he answered his own question. "Why would you dinks have papers?"

"You're not smoking in here." Nancy looked fearful.

"Yeah? Watch me."

"If you want to smoke, go back to where you were before. Before you fell through the fucking ceiling." Steve ordered on Nancy's behalf.

Eddie reached over and pretended to click a switch to turn Steve off.

"What can I use for papers?"

"A book?" You suggested.

"What about the smell?" Nancy quizzed.

Eddie regarded her off-handedly. "Take your shoes off, that'll mask the smell."

Nancy's mouth hung open in offence, She knew her feet didn't smell so the insult hadn't wounded her pride too much. But it was still embarrassing none the less. Especially in front of Steve.

Eddie ignored her and turned to you. "Book pages are too thick."

"How about dictionary pages? That paper's real thin."

Eddie looked at you impressed, eyebrows raised and a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth. The look of pride made your stomach flip. You took a great deal of pleasure at his silent praise. He walked over to the dictionary stand.

"You can't tear up a dictionary." Robin protested. "What if somebody needs a word and you smoked it?"

Eddie ignored her, opened a dictionary and ripped out a random page. He couldn't care less if he had caused someone a minor inconvenience. There was more than one dictionary in the world.

He pointed at Nancy. "Hey Princess, watch that door. This is a police matter if we get caught."

Nancy tensed. She didn't like that idea very much. She swallowed hard. Eddie walked to the back of the library where the comfy chairs were and plonked himself down on one of the bean bags, making himself right at home.

You got up to follow. Steve looked at you completely pissed off at you for encouraging Eddie's behaviour.

"Loosen up." You scoffed.

"I'm not getting my paper written." Nancy sighed to herself.

"You know," you continued, "he's not all that bad. I'm kind of getting used to him."

"You're just bored."

"Why are you acting like this towards me, Steve?" You'd had enough of the way he was talking to you. "I thought we were fine after I apologised."

It was like when you were alone together you were fine, but in front of the others he hated your guts. You thought he had some nerve calling Eddie out at lunch for trying to keep up with his image. He was being such a hypocrite right now.

He scoffed. "It was hardly an apology."

"It was hardly an apology because I had nothing to be sorry for. I told you already what Billy did wasn't my fault."

"I know!" His voice softened. "I know."

Nancy gave him a gentle look, as if urging him to apologise. He sighed in defeat, tracing a finger along the split in his lip. Suddenly it didn't hurt as much anymore. Like holding this grudge over you was a constant reminder of the pain Billy had given him. He knew apologising was the right thing to do. He opened his mouth, but his time was up.

You shook your head in disappointment. You didn't know what you were expecting from him. Perhaps Steve wasn't as nice as you once thought. It was crazy how things had turned out. In the beginning, you thought for sure that this experience would have given you a chance to make amends with Steve, maybe even become friends of some sort. Turned out that you grew apart from Steve and found yourself feeling closer to Eddie. A notion you had never entertained in all your years at Hawkins High.

You walked away before Steve could say another word to you.

~~~~~

<<<Previous // Next>>>

~~~~~

Taglist: @cruwushes @the-ch0sen-on3 @namelesshumanperson @ali-r3n @cadence73 @munsonssweets @ahoyyharrington @mewchiili @yourdailymemedelivery @httpsunflowers @b-irock @coolglittercornbae @sav12321 @cumslutforaemond @siriuslysmoking @learninglinesintherainn @peaches-roses-sins @lodeddiperrodrick @catherinnn @lilocapoca @minniedreamers @melaninjhs @chaosfrogsonfire @levylovegood @bowsforsienna @rcailleachcola

#eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson smut #eddie stranger things #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson series #mini series #cheerleader!reader #eddie munson x cheerleader!reader #stranger things #steve harrington #nancy wheeler #robin buckley #the breakfast club #the breakfast club mini series #the breakfast club fanfic #stranger things x the breakfast club #enemies to lovers

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sendpseuds · 2 months ago

Text

Wip Wednesday - Spirit Halloween

The Halloween decorations are going up and I don’t remember the last time I had something for wip Wednesday so you’re getting a long one

Enjoy 🖤

The clock on the wall sounds like a heartbeat.

The second hand pulls back and lurches forward, steady and measured and maddening.

One-two. One-two. One-two.

It's loud and irritating, but honestly, anything is better than listening to The Monster Mash for the millionth time tonight.

No one has set foot in this temporarily occupied warehouse in over an hour and Anakin is beyond ready to get the fuck out of here.

The closing checklist is almost complete— the changing rooms have been cleared of unwanted costumes, each cheap plastic garment put back in its package and out on display, the register has been counted, the floors have been swiffered, the door has been locked. All he has to do is shut down the animatronics, turn off the lights and—

"Jesus-fucking-Christ," Anakin barks when a knock at the door nearly startles him out of his skin, clutching his chest to feel the frantic onetwo onetwo onetwo of his own heart fast outpacing the clock's suddenly sluggish tempo.

It takes a moment to catch his breath, his pulse still thundering in his ears when he looks up to find a man wearing a dark suit and an apologetic expression.

Normally, Anakin would just ignore the guy — maybe shout, 'We're closed,' and point at his watchless wrist before rolling his eyes and returning to his end-of-night checklist — but when the man raises his hand to give an almost adorably embarrassed wave, Anakin finds himself unlocking the door before he can think twice.

"I'm terribly sorry," the stranger says before the door is even open, rushed and painfully polite, "I didn't mean to frighten you."

He sounds like he stepped out of some critically acclaimed period drama about dukes and duchesses, and while he's not wearing coattails or a top hat he definitely looks like he could be a lord or something.

"It's fine," Anakin chuckles, a strange nervous tickle in the back of his throat as he breathes in the cold night air, shifting his weight slightly and trying to remember why exactly he opened the door in the first place, "Look, man, I'm really sorry, but we're—"

"You're closed," the man says before he can finish, nodding his head in acknowledgment, standing up a straighter like he thinks he can match Anakin's height, "I realize that and I apologize, but I was hoping that you could—"

"Sorry, dude," Anakin interrupts, shaking his head and finding himself strangely reluctant when the man frowns, "Already shut down the registers, couldn't sell you anything even if I wanted to."

His eyes drop in disappointment, lips in a thin line, but when his brows raise, head tilted to one side, Anakin lets out a low sigh, realizing this man isn't ready to give up.

"Cash?"

And if that doesn't pique Anakin's interest.

"I have—" the man murmurs absently, pulling out a sleek leather wallet to leaf through the contents and Anakin can't help the way he perks up when he sees at least one, two, three bills with three digits in the corner, "Four— no, five hundred and one dollars."

Anakin needs to swallow a laugh because who the fuck carries around that much cash?

"Anything not spent on the costume is yours."

Then, he nearly chokes.

That's— that's—

Honestly, that's not even a month's rent, but to Anakin Skywalker, five hundred dollars is a lot of money.

It's a trip home to visit mom.

It's a nice birthday gift for Ahsoka.

It's breathing room.

It's one hell of a negotiation tactic.

"That desperate, huh?" Anakin manages to ask, his mind already running through exactly what he needs to do to not get caught.

"You have no idea," the stranger hums, leaning forward just enough that Anakin can see the way his smile wrinkles his eyes at the edges, "You're my only hope."

Anakin shivers.

"Five hundred dollars?" He confirms, swallowing back the wild feeling still racing down his spine.

"Five hundred and one," the man grins, and for the first time, Anakin realizes his eyes shine like silver.

"Alright," he breathes, something strange studdering his heart as he holds the door open, "Come on in."

#spirit halloween #no context #just vibes #and smut #there will be smut #also some spooky surprises #looking forward to this one

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sweetprfct · 6 months ago

Text

Written in the Stars

Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

Summary: You are a believer in fate but after getting your heart broken, you had stopped believing it. Until you met Joe. Suddenly, it got you questioning if fate is real or not.

Author's Note: Part 4! This one is inspired by the movie Holidate :)

Wordcount: 5.1K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five - part six - part seven - part eight - part nine - part ten - epilogue

The sound of your door opening, awakened you. Though, you continue to keep your eyes closed and try to put yourself back to sleep. You felt like shit. You weren’t sure if it was from the convenience store sushi that you ate last night, or it was because it was October 31st, and you were Joe’s Halloween date tonight. Either way, both of those thoughts were making your stomach turn. You spent your morning running around the house, cleaning and just making things organized to keep your mind busy. By noon, you had told yourself to take a short nap. It wasn’t really a short nap since you slept for four hours. Now, you didn’t even want to get up from your bed at all.

“Hey, it’s almost six.” Sara said, leaning against your doorframe. “We need to start getting ready.”

No answer.

“Are you awake?” Sara asked.

You let out a muffled groan from under your duvet before you went back to sleep. Sara walked over to your bed and stared at you for a moment.

“Hey, are you going to get up?”

No answer again.

Sara slid the covers away from you and saw that you were sleeping peacefully.

“Hey.” She said again, poking you on your cheek. “You really need to start getting ready.”

“No.” You mumbled, eyes still closed.

Sara grabbed you by the wrists and pulled you by your arms for you to get up, but you kept your weight down on your bed.

“Nooo!” You whined as Sara finally gave up.

She sighed and shook her head before walking out of your room. Pulling the covers over your head, you let yourself go back to sleep again. You were debating all night whether this was a good idea in the first place. What were you thinking of saying yes about this? You shouldn’t have said yes when you weren’t ready to go out there again. Plus, your stomach was just kicking you hard tonight. You were still trying to figure out what to do with that. You curled up under your covers and hugged your pillow, hoping Sara would just leave if you didn’t get up for the next ten minutes.

“Hey, we’re gonna be late.” Sara came into your room, waking you up again.

You groaned under the covers as she walked towards your bed, her hands on her hips as she looked down at you. She slid the covers away from your head, and you let out a scream as soon as you opened your eyes. She was wearing some kind of green face mask for her face.

Sara rolled her eyes and said, “It’s just a face mask before I put on my makeup.”

“What are you going for? A zombie flapper?” You made a face.

“You need to start getting ready.”

“No.” You groaned, flipping the covers over your head. “I feel like shit.”

“You’re just nervous.” Sara said, walking over to the foot of your bed and flipped the covers from your feet. Her cold hands grabbed you by the ankles and immediately pulled you down.

“SARA!” You screamed as Sara laughed. A big thud vibrated through the room as soon as you fell on your wooden floors. “Jesus Christ! When did you get so strong?”

“Seriously, we’re going to be late.”

You pouted and hugged your knees as you sat on the cold wooden floors. “What if I don’t go? I could just call up Joe and tell him I don’t feel good. He’ll understand.”

“No, you’re gonna go because you promised him that you were going to show up.” Sara stated sternly.

“What if this was a bad idea?”

“It’s a bad idea to be Joe’s date because you like him?” Sara raised her brow, trying to show you that what you were thinking wasn’t making any sense.

You sighed and nodded your head. Sara ripped her face mask off her face, throwing it in the bin before sitting next to you on the floor.

“You need to stop comparing Carter to every man that you meet. I know it’s hard to trust someone again but don’t blame Joe for Carter’s toxic actions. Joe is a different person.”

You took a deep breath and nodded your head. “Yeah, I know.”

“So, let’s go.” Sara got up and held out her hand to you. You gazed up to your best friend and stared at her hand for a moment.

Take a risk. You told yourself.

You grabbed her hand as she helped you get up. “Start getting ready.” She said, walking out of the door.

Your eyes fell to the steampunk costume that was hanging on your closet. You let Joe pick the costume and of course, he had to pick the most complicated one. How were you even going to tie up the corset that came with the costume? Shaking your head, you grabbed your things and headed to the bathroom to freshen up. After an hour, your hair was curled, your makeup was ready, but you were struggling with the one thing that you knew you were going to struggle with.

The fucking corset.

“Okay, suck it in for a moment.” Sara told you as she pulled the strings from the back of the corset.

The costume came with a corset that needed to be over the white long sleeve shirt you were wearing, and you had spent the last half hour trying to tie it from the back, but it wasn’t budging. Sara was lucky because Wes had picked out a 1920s theme for them, so she was just in her black and silver short flapper dress.

As you hold onto your dresser, you set your hand on your stomach, letting Sara pull the strings again to make it tighter.

“This is such a bad idea.” You grunted. “I really don’t feel good. What if I just don’t go?”

“You’re just nervous.” Sara said through her teeth as she used every strength that she had to pull the strings.

You feel your stomach turn as Sara pulled the strings again for the last time, making you stumble back a bit. Both of you were just breathless, struggling with the corset.

“No, I think it’s those mini chocolate bars I ate this morning or the stupid convenience store sushi I ate last night.”

“I don't know why you ate all those chocolate bars. Those are for the kids in the apartment building. I left those out the door for them.” Sara tied the strings tightly on your back.

“I found the extras in the cupboard.” You groaned, your hand sliding on top of your stomach again.

“Okay, it’s done.” Sara panted, trying to catch her breath.

You turned to look at yourself in the mirror and exhaled sharply, but you could barely even breathe through your costume.

“Why did Joe have to pick the hardest costume to put on?” You asked.

“Maybe he wants a challenge when he rips it off of you tonight.” Sara teased, laughing as she walked out of your room.

Your jaw dropped on the floor from her little joke.

“Yeah, well, I hope Wes doesn’t choke on that feather boa of yours.” You muttered under your breath.

You stared at yourself in the mirror one last time, putting on the top hat that came with the costume before walking out of your room.

Letting the cold Autumn air hit the both of you as soon as you exited the apartment building, you both made your way towards the subway station. The city was filled with different Halloween decorations and there were kids running around in costumes doing trick or treat. The party event was inside a big warehouse building. You honestly were not even sure how many people would be in it since it was a public city event.

As soon as you entered the building, the place was already filled with so many people. The whole place was dark and was filled with a lot of Halloween glow in the dark decorations along with some fake smoke filling the place. The bass of the music was vibrating through the room, and everyone was drinking, dancing or talking amongst each other.

“Hold this for a second, mate.” Wes handed Joe his toy gun as he went to go get them some drinks.

Wes was in his black striped gangster outfit with a fedora hat on his head and a fake tobacco on his mouth. Joe, on the other hand, was also matching with you. A top hat with goggles resting on it, a long brown jacket, black boots and a plastic toy gun and cane. Wes had told Joe that he definitely went all out with the costume, but Joe thought it was fine, and that Wes was just being dramatic.

“Here.” Wes came back with two bottles of beer. “Girls aren't here yet, are they?”

“Nope.” Joe took a sip of his drink, his eyes scanning the room nervously.

He had been nervous over the fact that maybe he had asked you too soon and what if you would run off just like Rue? What if he scared you away? He had been trying to push those thoughts away but now that he was standing in this crowded room not seeing your presence, his mind had come back to those thoughts again.

“They’ll be here soon.” Wes interrupted Joe’s thoughts, squeezing his shoulder. “Stop worrying. It’s all over your face.”

“I’m not worry—”

“Hey!” You and Sara interrupted Joe.

As soon as Joe turned to face you, his eyes widened when he saw you in your costume. It fitted you perfectly, and you looked so stunning in his eyes. He couldn’t even find the words to describe.

“Hello, darling.” Wes smiled, pulling Sara in his arms and giving her a kiss.

Joe was still just staring at you, and you stood there smiling nervously. The fact that Joe wasn’t saying one word to you was making you even more nervous. You looked around the place before Joe finally was able to say a word.

“You looked beautiful.” He said.

“Thank you. You look great too.” You smiled.

“Drink?”

“Yes, please.”

Joe gave you a smile, nodded his head and walked away. You set your hand on your stomach as you felt it turn again.

“Oh! Guess what!” Sara called your attention as Wes hugged her from behind, setting his chin on her shoulder. “I forgot to tell you earlier, I hired someone in the bookshop.”

“Really?” Your eyes widened in excitement. “That’s awesome! At least, you wouldn’t be so stressed anymore.”

“Yeah, he is a student at NYU. His name is Cole, and he came into the bookshop looking for some textbooks, and he told me that he was struggling with money, so I decided to offer him the job.” Sara explained. “He seems so responsible and nice, so I said, ‘why not?’”

“That’s so great! I’m so happy that you did that, Sara. You truly will be more relaxed now that you have two more extra hands. Plus, you get to leave the bookshop a little bit earlier.”

“I know.” Sara grinned, looking up to Wes.

Joe came back handing you a bottle of beer. You didn’t know why you were so nervous this afternoon being Joe’s date. Now that you were here standing next to him, you couldn’t help but think how it wasn’t as nerve wracking as you thought it would be.

“Thank you.” You grinned, taking a sip of your beer.

“Do you want to dance?” Joe asked the moment he saw Wes and Sara went out to the dancefloor.

You chuckled softly and leaned closer to him and whispered, “I honestly suck at dancing.”

Joe couldn’t help but smile and gazed down at you, holding out his hand. “Don’t worry, me too.”

You drank your beer and stared at Joe’s hand as you bit your lower lip. Did you really want to embarrass yourself in front of Joe tonight? Though, he said he didn’t know how to dance either, so maybe you two could just have fun along the way. You grinned and slid your hand in his as Joe dragged you to the dancefloor. However, you and Joe weren’t even able to start dancing because Sara had come running towards you.

“Hey! Hey!” Sara exclaimed.

“What? What’s wrong?” You studied her, making sure she was okay.

“Carter is here.” She whispered in your ear as your eyes widened.

Joe saw the worried look on your face as he turned his eyes to Wes.

“Carter.” Wes mouthed at Joe before Joe turned his attention back to you.

You felt your stomach turn again and this time, you really felt sick. Carter was here. You haven't seen him since the breakup, and you didn’t know how you would react or feel the moment you saw him. You wanted to just get out of there.

“Are you okay?” Joe asked, his hand immediately was on the small of your back.

You nodded your head, still frozen in the middle of the dancefloor as you heard Carter’s voice calling out Sara’s name.

Oh god, you were about to vomit.

This wasn’t what you wanted tonight. Just when you thought you were ready to take a risk and move on, Carter comes running back in your life.

“Hey, Sara!” Carter smiled and his eyes fell on you, greeting you too.

Of course, he was with a girl.

A younger one too. He told you he wasn’t ready to be in a relationship but now, he was parading this teenager looking girl around? His hands were basically all over her, and you couldn’t even look at him anymore. You felt Joe’s hand on your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“What are you doing here, Carter?” Sara stood in front of you with her arms crossed on her chest.

“It’s a public event, and I heard this party is great.” Carter replied. “This is Stella, my fiancé.”

“Hi! Nice to meet you!” Stella smiled, waving at all of you.

His what?!

Your eyes lingered down at the girl’s left hand. She was wearing a big engagement ring on her ring finger. Your eyes widened, giving them both a big fake smile.

“Wow!” Your voice squeaked. “That’s so great!” A hint of sarcasm slipped through your voice as Sara’s eyes widened and just stared at you, ready to take you away from there.

“Congrats!” You said, the fake smile still plastered on your face. “Congratulations!”

You walked away, feeling like you were about to just throw up all over the place. You two only broke up a year ago, and he was already engaged?

Engaged?!

Oh god, everything you ate today was about to come out of you.

You felt sick. You felt dizzy. You needed some air. Actually, you needed anything that could just make you breathe or feel something again. It wasn’t like you still had feelings for Carter. You were so over him but seeing that he was quick to get engaged with another girl, and he couldn’t even commit to you after six years?

What a fucking asshole.

You set your hand on your stomach, catching your breath as Sara followed behind you.

“God, I think I’m going to vomit.” You told her as you held on to one of the chairs and leaned forward.

“He’s not ready for a serious relationship? I told you that was bullshit!” Sara exclaimed in frustration.

“Sara, I really don’t feel good. I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Okay, hold on.” Sara quickly grabbed you a glass of water and handed you a pill that she grabbed from her purse and handed it to you. “Here, take this. It will help with your stomach.”

Taking the pill, you immediately threw it in your mouth and drank the whole glass of water. Still, you felt sick. Your stomach was hurting, and you felt dizzy. You wanted to just go home.

“Sara.” You murmured, nudging Sara on her arm as soon as your eyes fell where Joe and Wes were.

You knew that hair color everywhere you went. You have seen it once in your life, but you remembered it very well. As if your night wasn’t already terrible, both of your exes were now in the same party. You pressed your hand on your stomach as you felt it turn again.

“Oh.my.god.” Sara whispered, both of you shaking your heads.

“I’m literally going to fucking vomit.” You tried to swallow down everything that was slowly going up in your throat as you drank more water.

This night kept getting worse and worse.

“Joe.” Rue gently touched Joe’s forearm.

You weren’t anywhere near Joe’s line of sight and ever since you had walked away from Carter, he regretted not following you. Instead, he let Sara follow behind you, thinking maybe Sara would understand you better, but Joe knew exactly how you felt the moment he turned around and saw Rue standing in front of him.

Fuck.

“Rue, what are you doing here?” Joe asked.

“I was with my friends when I saw you.” Rue said.

She was drunk. Joe has seen her drunk before, and he knew that this was trouble. Though, he didn’t care one bit about Rue. He didn’t care about her trying to flirt with him because his mind was just on you. He needed to find you. He needed to make sure you were okay.

“Joe, I’m so sorry about everything.” Rue’s tears started welling up in her eyes, making Wes roll his eyes. “I want you back. Let’s get married.”

Wes let out a scoff, shaking his head as Joe gently slid his arm away from her.

“No.” Joe said sternly, his attention fully on her this time. “It’s too late.”

“But Joe–”

“Excuse me.” Joe said, walking around her as soon as his eyes had found you.

You were leaning against the wall as you pressed your hand on your stomach, shaking your head. Sara was rubbing your back softly and telling you that both of you could just go home. Though, you were stubborn. You weren’t going to let your best friend’s night get ruined because of you.

“Hey, are you alright?” Joe asked, his arm immediately around your waist to steady you.

“I’m fine. You could go back to Rue.” You said, pushing his arm away.

You weren’t jealous.

Well, you shouldn’t be jealous because you weren’t with Joe. You didn’t have the right to feel that way, but why did you feel that way anyway? You watched Joe furrowed his brows as he wrapped an arm around you again to steady you.

“There’s nothing going on–”

“So, this is why you didn’t want to get back together with me?!”

All four of you turned to see Rue storming towards the group with an angry look on her face. Her Halloween makeup was slowly melting from her sweat, and her Halloween wig was a mess. She was drunk and angry and here you were, just wanting to go home because you swore you couldn’t hold in your vomit anymore.

“She’s a nothing girl, Joe! No one knows her!” Rue added, her index finger pointing at you as she walked closer.

“Fuck off.” Sara stood in front of you before Rue could get any closer.

“Sara.” You murmured, covering your mouth with your hand.

“Rue, just leave, please! Don’t make a scene.” Joe warned her. “No matter what you’re going to do, I��m not getting back together with you, so just leave–!”

No.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore.

No.

Immediately, you slipped your hand away from your mouth and pushed Sara away from you as you vomited everything that you have been holding in. You didn’t even notice until you had gazed up that some of your vomit was all over Rue’s dress. Rue stood there frozen in shock as everyone in the room let out an “Oooo!” in unison, just staring at the both of you. You didn’t know what just happened. Everything happened so fast. You heard Wes laughing behind Sara as she nudged him with her elbow, making him stop and clear his throat.

“What the fuck?!” Rue yelled, tears running down her face.

Your eyes immediately gazed up at Joe. His jaw was literally on the floor as he held you in his arms. All of you watched Rue run off crying, while Joe reached for some napkin and gently wiped your face before handing you a glass of water.

How fucking embarrassing.

Wes, on the other hand, couldn’t stop laughing as Sara rubbed your back softly.

“Let’s go home.” Sara said.

“I got her.” Joe chimed in. “You both stay and enjoy the party. I’ll take her home.”

Steadying you, Joe helped you exit the building and hailed a cab. He gently helped you get inside as you told the cab driver your address. The rest of the ride was quiet. Everything you felt was just shame. You vomited on someone tonight, and you vomited in front of Joe. The one man that you thought would make a new better chapter in your life but now, you might have chased him off. Sure, he was still here next to you, but you couldn’t help but think how he probably only felt bad because you weren’t feeling well.

You felt nothing but embarrassment.

Joe sat quietly next to you, his eyes would glance at you from time to time, making sure you were okay. He didn’t think of anything else but you. He only wanted you to be okay. So, when he glanced at you again and saw tears were welling up in your eyes, he moved himself closer to you in the backseat of the cab.

“Hey, c’mere.” He whispered, his arm quickly wrapping around your shoulders and pulled you close to his side.

You didn’t say anything. You let your head fall on his shoulder and silent tears rolled down your cheeks as you sniffed quietly. Joe let his warm hand caressed your arm, letting you let out every emotion that you were feeling at the moment.

“Sorry.” You muttered, wiping your tears.

“Don’t be.” Joe smiled down at you as the cab stopped in front of your building.

Paying the cab driver and exiting out of the car, you felt your stomach turn again as you leaned forward and pressed a hand on your stomach.

“Joe, just leave me here.” You said.

“What? No. What’s wrong?” Joe’s brows knitted together as he helped you walk towards the front doors.

Your stomach growled this time, and you felt uncomfortable. Suddenly, you knew you were in so much trouble.

“Fuck!” You said, reaching for your back. “Take this corset off of me right now!” You exclaimed in panic.

“What’s happening?” Joe looked at you with wild eyes, trying to figure out what was happening all at once.

“Just help me! Take this corset off right now!” You tried to swallow down everything that was coming up.

The tightness of the corset truly wasn’t helping you at all as you leaned forward and held on to the brick wall. Joe was panicking as he tilted his head and tried to figure out the back of your corset, but it was all tied up and the strings were zig zagging in front of the zipper in the middle. You reached for your back, but you couldn’t figure out how to untie it.

“Joe! Take it off! Right now!”

“I’m trying! Hold on.” He pulled onto the strings, but it was knotted too tight. “Why did you tie this so tightly?”

“Sara did that! Just rip it off if you have to!” You heard your stomach growling again. “Ohmygod!”

The corset was too tight and squeezing your stomach too much. Everything was going to be a disaster if it’s not off of you in the next two seconds. Joe kept pulling on the strings, but it wasn’t budging. It was knotted many times by Sara.

“Fuck! Just let me do it!” You pushed Joe’s hands away as you reached for your back and ran inside the building.

You clicked on the elevator button, but it was too slow.

You were about to explode.

“Fuck me!” You exclaimed as you ran up the staircase, still trying to untie your corset from the back.

Joe ran and followed right behind you as he reached for you and tried to help you untie it. Both of you ran all the way to the 10th floor and immediately, you unlocked your apartment and ran inside the bathroom. All Joe heard was the slam of the bathroom door and you vomiting on the other side of it.

“I’m sorry.” He murmured, face all scrunched up.

The fucking convenience store sushi.

You were unwell. As you finished vomiting everything, you groaned as you fell back on the marbled floors, your back leaning against the tub. You folded your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them as you sobbed quietly in the bathroom.

Everything was a disaster.

For the next five minutes, all you heard were your whispered cries. You figured maybe Joe had finally left you. Left you all alone in your mess. You couldn’t blame him. He asked you to be his date for the first time, and it ended up being a disaster. To your surprise, after a few more minutes, you heard a knock on the door and the door slowly opened.

“Are you alright?” Joe murmured, his head peeking behind the door.

You didn’t say one word. Joe could see how distressed you were as you looked away and wiped your tears from your face. He knelt down next to you, finally finishing the job that you have asked him to do.

Untie the corset.

Slowly and gently sliding it off your body, Joe set the corset on the bathroom counter as you finally let out a breath of relief. He leaned against the tub next to you as you tried to avoid eye contact with him. His gentle arm wrapped around you as he let you lean back against him. You closed your eyes and stayed like that for a moment. Joe’s hand had found yours, holding it and gently caressing the back of your hand with his thumb.

“Here.” He whispered, handing you a glass of water.

“Thanks.” You muttered, drinking it.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” A soft kiss was planted on your hair as Joe helped you get up from the floor.

Sitting at the edge of the tub, Joe helped you wipe your makeup off and eventually left you alone in the bathroom, so you could shower. As Joe heard the shower started running, he looked around your apartment for a moment.

It was cozy and big.

Big glass windows in the living room that overlooked the glowing city, everything all organized and cleaned. Walking across the living room and into the small hallway next to the kitchen, he opened the door and saw a picture of Sara and her family on her bedside table, while the picture of you two was on the other side. Figured it was Sara’s room, he closed the door behind him.

How was he getting lost in this apartment?

Walking back across the living room, he found the other door that was next to the bathroom. He entered and saw the city lights illuminating your room through the glass windows. He switched the lights on and set up your bed, so you were going to be comfortable when you lay down. He couldn’t help but smile when he glanced down at your bedside table and saw a picture of you and Sara laughing together at some party. Walking out of your room, Joe found himself in the kitchen, boiling some water and making you some peppermint tea.

While he waited for the water to boil, he pursed his lips and leaned against the kitchen island. He proceeded to process everything that happened tonight. If this was a year ago and Rue had asked him to get married, he probably would have given in and said yes. Wes was right though. Rue used him for fame to help her own career. She never loved him, and he knew it took him a while to finally get over her, but he told her the truth tonight.

His feelings were gone for her.

His eyes fell to the bathroom door and thought about how he only cared for you now. His feelings were only for you.

Later that night, you found yourself sitting on your bed, back against the pillows and headboard, and fingers playing anxiously. Joe came in with a small smile and a cup of tea in his hand. He sat next to you at the edge of the bed and handed you the mug.

“It’s peppermint tea. It will help with your stomach.” He said.

“Thank you.” You sipped the tea slowly.

“You guys have a lot of tea.” Joe tried to lighten the mood.

You let out a soft chuckle and said, “That’s Sara’s. For a girl who owns a coffee shop, she only drinks tea.”

Joe chuckled, nodding his head as he watched you set the mug on your bedside table. You let out a sigh, and his hand had found yours.

“Are you feeling alright?” He asked.

You exhaled a sharp breath and said, “If you’re talking about my stomach, I think I vomited all that bad sushi out. Everything else, I’m not so sure.”

Joe caressed your hand softly and gave you a small smile.

“And I’m sorry I threw up on your ex.”

Joe let out a small laugh, “No, thank you for that actually.”

Both of you laughed together as the atmosphere in the room lightened a little bit more. You glanced down at your hands together as you gave Joe’s hand a small squeeze.

“It looks like she wants you back.”

“Well, that’s what she wants.” Joe replied.

You gazed up at him and asked, “And you? What do you want?”

You.

That was exactly what Joe wanted to tell you, but he stopped himself from saying it.

“I’m not getting back together with her. She used me and never loved me in the first place. Even if she was the last woman on Earth, I’m not getting back together with her.”

You didn’t say anything else. You tugged on Joe’s hand lightly as you moved over to the bed to give him some space. Kicking his boots off, Joe slid under the covers with you. You both laid on your bed just facing each other with a small smile on your faces.

“Can you stay?” You asked.

“As long as you want me to.”

***********

Taglist:

@palomahasenteredthechat @sunvick @eddies-acousticguitar @demonsanddemogorgons @joesquinns @mmunson86 @ghostinthebackofyourhead @corrodedcoffincumslut @figmentofquinn @tlclick73 @browneyes8288 @bylermaxmayfield @ali-r3n @ficsbypix @capricornrisingsstuff @missonlypost @ali-in-w0nderland @amberolivia666 @lalalala-melmosworld @niallersfreckles @nanas-lasagna @emma77645 @indulgence-be-thy-name @readergf @ladamari68 @1paire2vans @d4rk4ng3l86 @paleidiot @josephquinnsfreckles @readergf

#Joseph Quinn #Joe Quinn #Joseph Quinn x Reader #Joe Quinn x Reader #Joseph Quinn x You #Joe Quinn x You #Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader #Joe Quinn x Fem!Reader #Joseph Quinn Fics #Joe Quinn Fics #Joseph Quinn Fanfics #Joe Quinn Fanfics #Joseph Quinn rpf #Joe Quinn rpf #written in the stars #part four #sweetprfct

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blueshistorysims · 7 months ago

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July 1923, London, England

Jack Porter’s birthday party was very large and very loud. People crammed every part of their house, from the first floor to the third, and it was amusing to watch as Wilhelmina and her husband scrambled around their house, trying to speak to all the people they invited.

“Byron! You’re just standing there looking like a wallflower when I know you’re not,” Wilhelmina exclaimed, moseying her way over to him.

“I’m just observing the crowd. He nodded his head toward the tall red-haired man. “I’ve not seen that man at any of the parties you’ve hosted or any I’ve attended recently. Who is he?”

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to introduce you, he and Jack were flatmates back before he made it as a poet, and he was still in medical school. They’ve been friends longer than I’ve known Jack. Dr. MacGregor has been traveling the world since his wife died, and he’s only recently returned to London. You two would get along greatly—you’re both arguers.”

Byron froze. “I’m sorry, did you say his name was MacGregor? Montgomery MacGregor? From Perthshire, Scotland? The Scottish communist Montgomery MacGregor?”

“You know him?”

He gulped, nodding slowly. “He… he was… he’s my late sister’s husband.”

Wilhelmina looked equally shocked. “...Edeline was your sister?”

“Yes. You knew her?”

“We were friends, my god, I had no idea you were related. I’m so sorry.”

“You weren’t at their wedding or her funeral.”

She frowned. “Jack couldn’t get leave, and Joel had just returned home when they were married.” She bit her lip. “And Jack was still getting over the flu when she passed.”

“I… I think I am going to speak to him.”

Byron swallowed as he made his way over to the bar. It had been over four years since he last saw Montgomery, not since his father’s and sister’s funeral. He was clean-shaven, his hair was shorter, his glasses different, and if Wilhelmina hadn’t pointed him out, he doubted he would have recognized him.

“You look very different without a mustache.”

He turned around, and his eyes widened behind his frames. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ! Byr—no, it would be yer grace now, wouldn’t it?”

“Don’t fucking call me that. My god, it is you.”

He set his drink down. “Jesus. Ho-how are ya? How do ya know the Porters?”

“Divorced. Wilhelmina’s late brother and I were roommates in boarding school, and… we were sweethearts for a summer when I was younger.”

“...Ya look well. Better than the last time I saw ya.”

Byron looked at his feet. “You as well. Where have you been? It’s been four fucking years.”

Montgomery shrugged, pushing up his glasses. “Everywhere.”

They spent hours talking (and drinking). Byron told him everything he’d done in the last four years, excluding his sexual escapades with men while Montgomery described the last four years of his life. He had traveled all over the world as a way to grieve. He’d been from everywhere from Tibet to the northernmost point of Alaska, which impressed Byron greatly. He’d helped organize the British Communist Party but had only recently left it after a spat with the general secretary and a trip to Russia, and how he’d become disillusioned with the political ideology he once held to heart, and its lack of choice and democracy.

“Democratic socialist I suppose I am now, but I dinna ken.”

He’d only returned to Britain from his travels a month ago, and had moved into an old house that had been converted into three townhouses, smaller than his old one. It was difficult to be in Edinburgh, so he’d returned to London, working as both a private physician and part-time instructor at a teaching hospital.

“I have an old whiskey me mother gave me when I turned 30. Never opened. Fancy it? Me place is only a block away, straight down the road.” His accent had grown nearly twice as thick.

Byron looked around at the dwindling party. “Sure, I’d rather not be a straggler.”

It was well decorated, which immediately gave a clue that Elspeth had been the one to do his house. He watched as Montgomery disappeared into the kitchen, and he sat on the sofa, staring at the photographs of his late sister, who stared right back. It was uncomfortable, though he couldn’t place why.

It wasn’t until half the bottle was gone, and Byron and Montgomery were both properly drunk, when he glanced at the clock on the wall and saw it was past one in the morning.

“Oh fuck, it’s late.”

Montgomery blinked, slowly turning his toward the clock. “Aye, yer right.”

Slowly, Byron stood up, looking around for his overcoat. “Thank you for the whiskey. Do you think taxis operate this late?”

“Where are ya stayin’?”

“The Ritz.”

“Shite, that’s the other side of town. No taxi is available now.” He waved upstairs. “Take me bed, I dinna care. I can sleep on the sofa.”

“No, I can take the sofa, I don’t want to impose on your hospitality.”

“A duke on me fuckin’ sofa?”

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

The older man shook his head firmly. “I insist. Me bed feels like heaven.”

Byron shrugged, deciding he’d rather not argue with the Scotsman.

When Byron stepped inside the bedroom, a pang of sadness hit him. The way the room was decorated, shades of green and florals reminded him of Edeline, who adored green and decorated any space with it when she was able to. He wondered if Elspeth had done this for her brother on purpose.

He sat on the bed, feeling the mattress sink. He felt awkward, and things around him had begun to blur. Byron looked up to Montgomery had gotten closer, to the point where their feet were almost touching. There was a glossy look in his eyes as they made eye contact and all of a sudden, the room grew very quiet.

“Byron?” Montgomery whispered after minutes.

He licked his lips. “...You’re quite attractive, you know that?”

The Scot bent down and grabbed his face, and not much was said after their lips touched.

#i didnt tag this as mature but if you couldn't tell #tw sex #sorry i know this was long lmao but its one my fave posts #the walshes #the walsh legacy #sims 4 decades #sims 4 historical #ts4 #sims 4 decades challenge #ts4 1920s #1920s #ts4 decades challenge #sims 4 history challenge #ts4 historical #tw alcohol #byron walsh #montgomery macgregor #the sims 4

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rainbowwinedemon · 5 months ago

Note

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers (except me because obvs I have done it). Spread the self-love ❤

Arsgsggsg I LOVE THIS (maybe bc i'm a little narcissistic)

First one gotta be lovelorn and nobody knows for the HP fandom (jeverus ship actually) is a sequel for too divine for human minds exploring what happens three years after they find out they're soulmates (in this au, soulmates can read each other minds). It had my favorite paragraph I've ever written:

That was probably his favorite summer to the date. Them exploring the woods and Severus getting sidetracked picking ingredients to experiment, going into town and taking walks while holding hands, spending the night outside with Severus sleeping on his lap while he enjoyed the warm summer breeze, swimming in the river to cool down from the heat, and then making love by the shore.

I pictured this as a film reel when I wrote it, and I was soo happy with the end result. Good. I love it so much.

Second goes to i slipped, then i could break the habbit (Joukai). That fic took over my head. I sat down and wrote whole first section in like two hours, then spent a whole day sitting in front of my laptop just so I could finish it. I actually had to cut it short. The last two sections where supposed to be full fledged sex scenes, but it was getting too long, it probably would've gotten up to 10~11k if I kept writing. I loved how it ended, so I guess I made the wrote decision. Here's one of my favorite parts:

He pulls away, Kaiba had his bottom lip against his teeth, his eyes blink open when he realizes Jounouchi stopped kissing him. He smiles a little, rocking him a bit on his lap. “Hi,” he says. “Hello,” Kaiba replies.

I'm not good at kiss scenes, but this was just sooo soft. I loved it.

Third gotta be Leash. Also a joukai, and a work in progress. I started writing fanfiction back in February, after being blocked for like three years, and pretty much of the first things I wrote where really soft (tho also really smutty) Leash is letting me write things that would've made uncomfortable three months ago, and I can also explore new ways to write smut. That always comes handy.

Here's a sneak peak from the second chapter

“Fuck you, Kaiba,” he spits instead, the fingers of his right hand flexing like he wants to grab him again. “Despite what fucked up idea you have in your mind, I’m not a dog. I don’t have a leash for you to pull on.”

Jounouchi turns on his back, walking down the stairs and very pointedly not looking back when Kaiba says, “Isono, please, walk Jounouchi to the exit. I don’t need him to get lost.” Jounouchi just goes straight for the door, countering with, “Don’t worry, I can find my way out.”

Fourth: something to give each other, for the HP fandom, obviously Jeverus. I think I started writing this right after getting my muses back, me and Beth (my first fandom friend, she's writing one of my favorite fics for this ship) started doing interchanges for this pairings. And this idea, like all the other, took over me. I put work into it, looking for each character aesthetic and writing headcanons to base the world on.

Here's my favorite part:

Jesus, he even hated the way he talked, slow, dragging the words to make his voice sound deeper. As if James hadn’t heard him last week, screaming like an honest to God four-year-old when Lily accidentally chipped his nails too close to the flesh. “I’m sorry, did we ask for your opinion?” this time, James did turn on his side to look at him, Snape was wearing a dark grey baggy turtleneck, along with pair of old dress trousers. He hated him a little more for making that fit look runaway material.

Fifth is actually a tie between double take and Have the cake. Eat the cake.

Double take is my latest published fic. It's a Joukai, and started because if line that I obsessed over from a fic (New Tricks by pockyhucks). I also wanted to try writing smut in a different way, and I wanted to get into the skin of someone in the Ace spectrum and figure out how you can be interested in someone's body without being interested in having sex with them.

Favorite part from this one is:

“I like touching you,” he cuts in before Jounouchi can finish his question. That statement makes him blush, but what he says next makes his blood pump in his ears. “I like the why your dick feels in my hand, and I also like knowing that you like me touching you.” He pauses, puts on that infuriating little smirk of his and tips his head. Jounouchi is red down his neck. “Is that enough for you, or do you want me to keep going?” Jounouchi gapes, his mouth opening and closing without a single word coming out. In the end he resolves to keep it shut, clearing his throat and turning to look through the window again, because if he looks at Kaiba, he’s probably going to combust in his seat. “That’s okay,” he eventually settles, speaking again his palm. “That’s quite enough.”

Anddddd finally Have the cake. Eat the cake.

This one is my baby, the first fic I'm writing with some resemblance of plot. It's a slow burn, and isn't even posted yet. But I love it soo much, I can't even explain it. Here's one of my favorite parts so far:

The Kaibas are the last ones to get to the course, Gozaburo wearing a white cap and Kaiba with black shades. He’s only one who’s dressed in shorts instead of trousers, and it makes him look painfully young against all the old man there. He doesn’t look like he cares, though, walking with his hands in his pockets replying to what Gozaburo was saying, taking the club that was meant for his father from Jounouchi’s hands.

He doesn’t test it, just gives Jounouchi a look that says ‘if I fail, it’s on you’, then walks to the closest hole and gets ready to swing.

It’s impolite, they’re the hosts, they’re supposed to let someone else play first, but Gozaburo just smirks when Kaiba makes the swing and scores, giving three slow claps that are echoed by the rest of the execs joining him. Kaiba just walks back to him, giving him the club and moving his hand in a come-hither gesture.

“Move along, mutt,” he says. Jounouchi clenches his fingers around the stick. “I want to finish this quickly.”

Jounouchi follows him around for the rest of the game.

Sorry, this kinda turned into a rant. But I'm so happy to be writing again that I'll take any change to speak about my works

#asks #asks open #seto kaiba #puppyshipping #joukai #fanfiction #writing #severus snape #jeverus #princechaser #im a yapper and it shows #sorry for the long rant #but i really love my works #specifically after three years of zero writing

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autisticlancemcclain · 1 year ago

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wip tease twenty probably

There’s a stranger in the break room.

“Uh, this place is for employees only,” Keith says. Usually he wouldn’t give even one half of a shit if someone was breaking policy — his favourite hobby is ‘how many times can I turn a blind eye to customers being insane in front of Shiro before he gets his crazy eyes’ — but the break room is where he comes to skip work.

He’s on his fourth break and he’s only been here for three hours. He’s trying to hit five before noon. This random stranger is not ruining it for him, and customers have a tattling problem.

“Well aware, Mullet.”

Unfortunately, Keith is a little to focused on the stranger’s high, smooth voice and the movement of his long brown throat as he speaks to fully process the words he’s speaking. By the time it clicks that he’s just been insulted, the stranger has already put his dirty mug in the sink — the asshole didn’t even wash it! — and is heading out the door.

“Hey!” Keith’s nose wrinkles in offense. “I don’t have a —”

But the stranger is already out the door, winning one brown eye on his way out.

“Douchebag,” Keith mutters, glaring at him as he disappears down a hallway.

What kind of jackass insults someone’s appearance the first time they meet them? Besides, Keith doesn’t have a mullet. Sure, it might be a little lengthy, and he has his whole bangs situation, but Mullet? Bullshit! He doesn’t have a —

“What are we looking at?” comes a voice right next to his ear, making Keith yelp and jump.

“Jesus fuck, Hunk,” Keith snaps.

Hunk snickers.

Keith tries to fume at him, but it’s really hard to stay angry at someone who looks so loveable. Hunk once spent four straight minutes roasting Keith from the cut of his jeans (there is nothing wrong with bootcut jeans) to the cutesy way he speaks to the penguins when he thinks no one’s looking (NORMAL BEHAVIOUR), and Keith still shared his snacks with him. He didn’t even think about it. It was like he couldn’t say no.

“You looking at that cute janitor again?”

Keith flushes. “No.”

For once he’s actually not lying, which is excellent.

“Aw, man. I was hoping to give you shit.” He pats Keith on the shoulder and ducks into the break room without another glance.

“Careful,” Keith mutters, gathering his things and heading back to work for once. “This place is being infiltrated by douchebags.”

#this is for my mermay fic that i started on june 1st #vld #voltron #keith #keith kogane #lance #lance mcclain #klance #pre klance #keith & hunk #hunk #hunk garrett #mermay #wip tease #my writing #fic fragment #brown-eyed lance

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practically-an-x-man · 1 month ago

Note

Oooh maybe Peter (any version of him) + "Please don't leave" for a snippet?

Ooooh alright! I think I'm actually gonna go with Peter Two (Tobey Maguire's version) for this one, just to switch it up a bit. And of course, I'm tossing my OC Ophelia in there, because why not?

____

"Can I ask you something?" Ophelia muttered, calmly suturing the harsh lacerations in Peter's shoulder. He was writhing in his seat, making it hard to keep the stitches even, and the sight of his ragged, bleeding flesh might've made another person look away. Ophelia didn't care. She'd seen worse in her anatomy lab. As far as she was concerned, it wasn't any different than stitching up an orange peel or flipping through her textbook.

"Ah- ah, take it easy!" Peter hissed, and she finally drew back with the needle. He shot her a look, then dropped the act. "What is it?"

"Why am I doing this instead of MJ right now?"

She dove back in with the sutures as soon as he started to speak, hoping the question might distract him from the pain.

"She's- dammit!- she's got a show. Runs late." he hissed. Ophelia hummed in acknowledgement as she reached for a towel, dabbing away the blood as it began to flow again. Peter had managed to goad her back home for Thanksgiving break, lured by the promise of May's cooking (and a few mild guilt-trips, most in the vein of "you're a part of our family too" and "she'll be cooking for three anyway- so much food will go to waste if you don't come), yet Ophelia had never expected her four days crashing in the Parkers' guest bedroom would turn into four late nights stitching up her best friend's wounds.

"Hm. What role?"

"Ensemble. Sunday in the Park with George."

"Hm. Sondheim. Nice." Ophelia muttered, distractedly, "Think I could snag a ticket before I ship back off to school?"

"I can-" His words cut off with a hiss as she prodded a particularly sensitive spot, and Ophelia winced sympathetically. She was nearly done, at least. Peter offered her a loose nod. "I can try to sneak you in. She'll be happy to see you."

"You'd better. You owe me one for all this, you know." she pointed out, finally tying off the last of the sutures and standing up from her seat, "Thought I was coming home for Thanksgiving dinner, not to be your on-call nurse."

She packed up the first-aid kit, tossed the refuse in the trash can near the door, and began to make her way out of the bedroom. Peter shifted in the bed, groaning as the motion pulled his wounds - the gashes in his shoulder were one of many, and Ophelia had spent close to an hour tending them all.

"Wait, Ol's-" he started, "Please don't leave. I'm sorry, I'm not- I'm not trying to make you my nurse. I didn't mean to take advantage of you like that."

Ophelia paused in the doorway, leaning her head back and almost laughing.

"Jesus, Peter, I'm joking!" she huffed, "Or maybe not joking, but I'm... exaggerating. I'm not just gonna let my best friend bleed out in front of me. It's fine."

He visibly relaxed on the bed. She hadn't realized he was taking it so seriously. Harry had always known how to take her humor, blunt and dry as it may often be. It was easy to forget she hadn't known Peter nearly as long.

The thought sparked a dark flame of grief in her chest, but Ophelia snuffed it out as quickly as it came. She'd deal with that later. Eventually.

"But you still owe me a ticket to that show."

#tertiary tick tick boom reference if you squint i guess. can't help myself. the multiverse is fun #my friends!!!#answered asks #my writing #my ocs #ophelia octavius #ficlet #snippet #shrinkthisviolet

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w-ht-w · 1 year ago

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The Guardian: I survived the Barbie-Oppenheimer double-bill and I don’t recommend it

Instead of picking just one film, people started latching onto the idea of seeing Barbie and Oppenheimer together, on the same day, as part of a wildly incongruous double bill.

...But is it a good idea to smoosh two violently different films onto a single five-hour marathon? Both Barbie and Oppenheimer came out this week, and I spent an afternoon doing exactly that. The question is, will Barbenheimer save all of cinema as we know it?

In a word: no. In slightly more words: Jesus Christ no, absolutely not, what a terrible, terrible idea this is. Reader, do not attempt Barbenheimer. Or at least, if you do decide to do Barbenheimer, please don’t do it in the order I went to see it. If you take anything from this, it’s that you should really go and see Barbie first. Because otherwise, and I’m talking from very recent first-hand experience, the effect is a little like having your mother’s funeral invaded by a flashmob of parking circus clowns.

Because here’s what I just learned. Oppenheimer is a three-hour onslaught in which – and this has been reported in the press, but nevertheless might still qualify as a minor spoiler – the film’s director literally hired his own daughter to have the skin flayed off her face as a graphic demonstration of the immediate effects of a nuclear detonation. What I’m trying to say is that it is a lot.

It’s the sort of film that requires processing. After watching it, you’ll want to discuss it with the people you saw it with. Or you’ll want to read up on J Robert Oppenheimer in greater depth, to better understand the man’s motivations. Or – as I did – maybe you just felt taking three or four hours to blankly stare into the middle distance, silently rocking backwards and forwards in a state of numb despair at the destructive idiocy of mankind. In other words, it takes a minute.

But oh no, instead you’ll have just enough time to empty your bladder, turn around and subject yourself to the fluorescent full-beam positivity of Barbie. It’s such a tonal handbrake turn that you’ll end up with whiplash, even when Barbie reveals its slightly darker true intentions after about 20 minutes.

And by the way, don’t expect to encounter a lot of fellow Barbenheimers either. On the basis of my visit, people are still firmly intent on seeing either one or the other. Oppenheimer had an older, silently reverent crowd. Barbie, on the other hand, was populated by dozens of children whose parents didn’t get the memo that the film was a self-aware commentary on the nature of feminism

So here’s my advice. Go and see Barbie. Go and see Oppenheimer. But for the love of all that is holy, please do the sensible thing and see them on different days. Honestly, your nervous system will thank you. (1)

1. https://www.theguardian.com/film/2023/jul/22/barbie-oppenheimer-double-feature

#cinema #storytelling #Oppenheimer #Barbie

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omegaremix · 4 months ago

Text

July 21, 2022.

The biggest music haul ever had been made. So big that I needed two visits to the same store, Jesus, and fucking Mary to pull it off. High Fidelity’s stock has gotten so stuffed that there were piles and piles of disorganized vinyl records, discs, and cassettes all over the place. Under the bins, on top of the bins, on the floor, up high on the wall that you can’t reach. Mark the owner was so bad with overstock that he moved two blocks down to a bigger space and that wasn’t enough. His downstairs stock room he once boasted was off-limits and even a stack of vinyl records almost fell on me from above. It was a literal death hazard - but I survived. You’d think that two round-trips and $893.00 spent would be the penultimate event to cap off another intensive record-store victory tour. No.

There were two other stores I’d yet to visit. Plainview’s Vinyl Bay 777 and Amangansett’s Innersleeve Records. The one time I went to Vinyl Bay- was when I walked out empty-handed because they marked all of their stock three to four times more what other stores sold. There was no reason for me to pay more than I should for a vinyl record I could find elsewhere for a third or fourth of the price. Vinyl Bay was disqualified. That left Innersleeve Records a place of interest. I didn’t go in the previous round and had considered making the ninety-minute trip out to the East End to check it out - until I saw their latest social media post. Ouch! Their prices were even higher than that of Vinyl Bay’s and on new pressings. Vinyl-price cockfighting at its finest. I wanted no part of it. That moment I declared my island run of stores done. Nope. That’s it. I don’t want to hear it any more. La la la la la la fuck you.

Though, there was one store in New York City I was meaning to visit. That was Greenpoint’s Captured Tracks. My show Omega WUSB had just done a three-hour label tribute about the feel-good label and we always played their artists when we found them. They were around for years with no sign of stopping, so why not come take a ride and check it out? Let’s have another bonus round with another city jaunt, shall we?

Late July’s weather isn’t the most colorful but it’s certainly the brightest when it has cloud cover. I stood at the Central Islip platform and look up to see the lit white skies in 80*F weather. I board the train westward to Penn Station and…what a surprise? It’s thunder-storming and raining mercilessly. I didn’t see this coming, so I have no choice but to deal with it.

Deal with it I did. God didn’t give me lemons but instead gave me a 9/2 offsuit. I arrived at Penn Station and transferred to catch the ‘E’ line. It was insufferable. This was a sneak preview of the 7th Circle Of Hell. Everyone dealt with post-rain humidity in a limited underground space and were dying like dogs. I was drenched in sweat and felt like my clothes were falling off. The ‘E’ arrived and what a saving grace. I felt the cold chill of the air conditioner settling on me, erasing the half-an-hour of disgusting unease. The ‘E’ ended its travel and I transfer to the ‘G’ line to Greenpoint. In five minutes it was all over.

I walk up the stairs to Manhattan Ave. and I see nothing but hazy blue skies and sharp sunshine beaming on me, as if the rainstorm never even happened. I’m back at my element. I walk south on Manhattan Ave. to observe and breathe in what was Brooklyn to me. Two blonde women in Polish tongues walk past me as I process the storefronts, the graffiti, sticker vandalism, and cramped crooked sidewalks. I approach and turn the corner on Calyer Street only to learn that I walked past Captured Tracks?! I turn around and I finally found it. The way to The House of Mike Sniper was downstairs. It was a dream, was it? I never had to take a downwards path to any establishment. I hobbled below and here we are: a dense but neatly-packed music store with plenty of boxes of 45”, pricey first- and rare pressings, bins to fumble through, and several lower shelves of records not for sale designated for their Discogs store. It was going to be another intense day digging in the bins.

Three hours and $117.00 later, I finally declared my record-store victory tour of ‘22 finished for good. Nothing else fitting to cap it off with another perfect day in Greenpoint. I walk up Manhattan Avenue with my tote of vinyl records away from the clear sharp sun as its intensive rays bake into my skin. The skies bluer and the air much dryer. Then I notice something I didn’t expect to find: Sunshine Laundromat. Here’s another place I was dying to visit since my post-operation; one which my radio station friends decided to go without me. I’m here, so why not? I’m about to walk into a surreal dream - in reality.

I walk in and I couldn’t believe it. It’s the first time I walked into a laundromat since my stay in Lindenhurst. I walk down the narrow space past the rogue pinball tables and there was the secret door disguised as stackable units that led into the back room arcade. A speak-easy if I ever saw one. All that stood between me and that Murphy door was the nice lady who ran the place. She told me they would re-open the pinball speakeasy as soon as the city OKs their alcohol license. Sounds hopeful if you ask me. I thanked her for the good news and walked out knowing there will be another reason to come back to Brooklyn.

I head on to the ‘G’ to transfer and ride on the ‘E’ line back to Penn Station. It’s 7PM and the visible sun is coming down for the day; slowly sinking against the perfectly clean sky blue backdrop with no clouds in sight. I board the train back home and take a window seat moving backwards. The train motions and the blinding sun peeks through the window as I feel the frigid blanket of the air conditioner. There’s a sparse placement of riders in the same car as me. I can sit and relax knowing that my entire run of spending money all over New York City and Long Island has come to a satisfying end.

New Mexico Stargazers: “Santa Fe Cruiser”

Did You Die: “We Can Do Whatever”

True Dreams: “Reaching”

Vasco Rossi: “Siamo Soli”

Queensway: “Return To Dirt”

Pinch Points: “Am I Feeling OK?”

Public Service: “O Sabine”

Offset: Spectacles, The: “Snags”

Grimes: “Shinigami Eyes”

Schedule 1: “Show Your Children”

Mom: “Things Come Into Place”

Paper Dollhouse: “Swans”

Bad Kiss: “Gimme Action”

Strangers With Guns: “Somebody Needs A Hug’

Offset: Spectacles, The: “Color”

Offset: Spectacles, The: “Dead Air”

Deeper: “Only A Shadow”

Totally Unicorn: “All”

Paper Dollhouse: “Moon”

Spellling: “Queen Of Wands”

Krallice: “Crystaline Exhaustion”

Daniel Johnston: “In A Lifetime”

Sasami: “Say It”

INVSN: “Slow Disco”

Traps PS: “Voids”

Life In Vacuum: “9 To 5”

Jesus Fucking Christ: “Sadistic Madness”

Black Dresses: “Hertz”

Free Love: “May You Be The Mother”

Belk: “Question Of Stress”

Michael Berdan: “God Won’t Help Me (Cause Man Won’t)”

#omega #music #playlists #mixtapes #personal #NYC #New York City #BK #Brooklyn

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lord-valery-mimes · 2 years ago

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The Phantom of Manhattan - A Painful Recap

When I read a brief bulleted list showcasing all the craziest things in this book, I knew I had to read it. I was 42% of the way through it at the time I wrote this paragraph, and good grief, it's all more ridiculous and terrible than I could have ever imagined. So of course I decided that I should write a full recap of the whole horrible thing. Strap yourselves in tight folks. This is a bumpy one.

The book opens with Madame Giry narrating the story, even though she's supposedly drugged up and in horrible pain on her deathbed. Those French women are made of strong stuff. She confesses to rescuing Erik from the freak show where he was imprisoned (so that's where the 2004 Phantom film got that idea). She then brings him back to her flat that she shares with a seven year old Meg, and proceeds to nurse him back to health. Because yes, any working single mom with a young daughter at home would of course be totally down with bringing a strange, disfigured, mentally unstable teenage boy into their home. She proceeds to talk about how she eventually smuggled Erik into the opera, and how he was able to build himself a home and life in the cellars there. Because that makes sense. “Just stick him down there. It’ll be fine!”

His crimes at the opera are glossed over entirely. Joseph Buquet wasn't murdered, he committed suicide, don’tcha know? And Piangi? Oh that was just an unfortunate accident (simply an accident!), Erik only wanted to keep him quiet! His only crime was FALLING IN LOVE. Jesus Fucking Christ. Madame Giry dies, but not before paying someone to go to NY, find Erik, and give him a letter.

Chapter two and suddenly it's Erik himself who is telling his story. About how Madame Giry stuck him on a boat after the events of the musical, and how he spent four weeks crossing the Atlantic. Also how he managed to jump overboard in the middle of winter, and swim FOR AN HOUR without getting hypothermia and dying, just so he could bypass immigration. He finally drags himself ashore on Coney Island, where, conveniently enough, there is an entire gang of disfigured, down-on-their-luck types sitting around a fire, and they don't give a rat’s ass that some bedraggled guy with a messed up face just came out of the ocean like the most disappointing mermaid.

This group makes a living cleaning fish, but Erik is SO smart, and SO clever, that he quickly finds a way to amass a small fortune and make his way up in the world. He even gets a sidekick, a random teenaged boy named Darius who we find out was a sex worker, which in this story makes him the literal embodiment of evil. With Darius as the face and Erik as the brain, they scheme and thieve their way to fortune. Yay, America!

I almost forgot the best part. Because their scheming and thieving requires Erik to sometimes be out and about in the daylight, he has someone make him a latex clown mask (something that Google informs me wouldn't be invented for another twenty-odd years), and he hits the town dressed up as a literal clown. Just… close your eyes and picture the Phantom, full clown face, complete with red nose and oversized shoes, casually strutting around Coney Island. This is no angel of music!

Before you know it, Erik is building the tallest skyscraper in all of New York and designing himself a cushy penthouse suite at the top so he can take off his clown mask and relax in peace away from prying eyes. If he's this clever and good at making money, why didn't he do the same in Paris and live somewhere other than in the dank and dark basement of the Opera Populaire? I’m just sayin’…

Chapter three and we’re shifted to yet ANOTHER character. The poor bastard who’s been tasked with Madame Giry’s dying wish: to deliver her letter to Erik. This man is SO angry, and SO French, and SO unhappy to be in NY where there is no good food or wine, and I honestly wish the whole story had been about him instead. He can't find this Erik Mulheim, even though he was assured that it would be so EASY, given the weird name, and the fact that he was told to look for a guy with a messed up face. Frenchy is about ready to give up and go back to France when…

Chapter four! Yet ANOTHER narrator, this time a reporter for a newspaper, who is just trying to enjoy a hot fudge sundae, when he happens upon our angry Frenchman. The reporter makes the mistake of wishing him a badly pronounced “Bon-jewer Mon-sewer”, and instead of recoiling with disgust at this butchering of his native tongue as any good Frenchman would, the man starts lamenting in French to the unsuspecting reporter, who instead of politely excusing himself so he can eat his sundae in peace, rushes to find someone who can translate for this clearly overwhelmed guy. Somehow the reporter manages to find someone who not only speaks French, but who also has a guess as-to who this mysterious Erik Mulheim might be. Could it be the mysterious man who just built that big-ass skyscraper? The guy who no one ever sees but is a multi-millionaire and an extraordinary entrepreneur?

Now the reporter and Frenchy are buds, and they head to the skyscraper together, because the reporter is hoping he could be the first person to unmask this mysterious character! What a scoop! Unfortunately Darius intercepts them both, and insists on taking the letter to its owner. Frenchy is just happy he can finally leave, and get back home where his wife's ample buttocks are waiting for him to snuggle into. Yes, he literally says that.

Then stuff starts to get REALLY weird. The narrator shifts to Darius, who is literally high as fuck and having a conversation with a god. I’m not joking. Darius is worried because Erik has suddenly gone opera crazy, paying millions of dollars to have an opera house built, and staying up all night writing music. WHAT COULD HE BE UP TO? Darius is worried that this might affect his chances of inheriting Erik’s wealth someday. The god tells him to chill out, but is also like, “But kill him if you think you gotta.” Alright then. Nothing at all ominous about that.

This gimmick of every chapter being told by a different narrator is jarring, but I’m willing to deal with it, if we get to hear more from Gaylord Spriggs, who writes an enthusiastic column about gossip around New York opera. You see, when the Met refused to give Erik a private box, he went, “Oh yeah? Well I’ll make a whole new Opera house then! So there!” And not only is he building his own opera, he's paying insane amounts of money for the two greatest sopranos alive to come and sing there. SUCK IT MET! And one of them is none other than Christine de Chagny. Where have I heard that name before?

Then things get really boring as an old Irish priest tells his entire life story to Pierre: Christine and Raoul's son. Do we really need to know all this? Apparently when a fellow cast member of the opera suddenly keeled over of a heart attack during a performance, the Irish priest was summoned to deliver his last rights, and Christine was all, “Hey, wanna tutor my son?” I mean, I guess I can think of weirder ways to get a job.

Another chapter, and another newspaper report, by yet another reporter, this one discussing Christine's arrival with much pomp and detail. Christine reveals that it was the sheer BEAUTY of the brand new opera by an “unknown American composer” that convinced her to come all the way to New York. She also reveals that the opera is set during the American Civil War, something that I’m sure Erik, a French guy with no formal education, knows loads about. I can't wait to hear more about this.

The reporter sees the need to mention that he sees a strange masked figure standing on top of a warehouse, something that I’m sure a reporter covering the arrival of an opera star would totally do. A big to-do is also made about the fact that there is a *gasp* puddle of slush stopping Christine from getting in her carriage, when suddenly a reporter swoops down with a cape that he flings over the puddle, and crisis averted! I always thought the “throwing a coat over a puddle” thing was so stupid since cloth absorbs water, and the second she steps on it, the puddle will just seep right through and get on her shoes anyway. But whatever, I’m not the one writing this stupid story.

We're back to our first reporter, the one who attempted to get in the penthouse to meet the elusive Phantom millionaire. It looks like we'll be hearing a lot from him, so his name is Charlie Bloom. Charlie describes Christine as “big bagels in the opera world”, and I need to find a way to work that into everyday conversation now. Unsurprisingly, he is the reporter who covers the puddle with the cloak that was given to him by a “mysterious person” in the crowd. My god, who could that mysterious person have been? Apparently his puddle act was so GALLANT that of course Christine invites him for an interview.

We’re quickly introduced to Meg Giry who is now lame in one knee and weirdly also Christine’s maid. This is basically all we see or hear from her in this story. At least it's better treatment than she gets in Love Never Dies.

A bellboy comes up at the same time as Charlie with a gift for Pierre, Christine’s son, and it’s our old friend the barrel organ monkey music box. Pierre just starts tearing the thing open with his clever little hands, clearly to hammer home how STRANGE and DIFFERENT he is. When he turns the musical disk inside the monkey over, it starts playing Masquerade and Christine loses it. She demands to be taken to the store that made the music box. Because that… makes sense?

Back to Erik who’s heart is simply aflame after seeing Christine, even from far away. He drops this gem of a description on us, “the face and smile to break a block of granite clean in two.” Sir, what does that even mean? You are describing a sledgehammer. He reiterates that he gave the reporter his old opera cloak to cover the slush puddle, you know, just in case we weren’t able to connect the dots on our own. Clearly the author thinks that anybody who would bother to read this book must be a moron. Sadly, I think he was correct, because reading it is certainly one of my biggest life regrets now.

Erik tells us of the letter he received from Madame Giry, wherein she retells the story of how she apparently met Raoul as a young man, and saw him get his dick or balls (Madame Giry is a LADY so she doesn’t go into detail) shot off after saving a girl from a ruffian with a gun. Madame Giry lets the Phantom know this, because apparently since Raoul has zero dick or balls, that must mean that Christine’s child is the Phantom’s? So like… they had sex and he just never mentioned this in all his narration? Did they go in a hot tub together and an errant sperm just… Swam its way in? Like… what happened here? Erik never explicitly states that they did the nasty together, so we’re left kind of guessing. Is Pierre an immaculate conception?? You know that if they’d done the deed together, Erik would NOT have shut up about it, and would probably have written a full aria just about Christine’s vagina. I refuse to believe that they just had normal sex and then went their separate ways because it makes no sense. But then NOTHING has made sense in this book so far.

Meg’s turn to narrate now. Please Meg, help me make some sense of this madness. She retells the whole story of the music box monkey. WE JUST READ THIS TWO CHAPTERS AGO! Meg just repeats verbatim the end of the musical, how the Phantom abducts Christine and there is an implication that he either raped her, or she “couldn’t resist” him. Ewww. That’s all I will say about that. That, and men need to stop writing stories with gross consent issues.

Yet another narrator, someone named Taffy Jones. I DON’T CARE ABOUT THESE PEOPLE. He is the Official Funmaster of Steeplechase Park on Coney Island. Ok, maybe I care about him a little. He’s been instructed to open the park for Christine to let her see the toy shop and the Hall of Mirrors. Gee, I wonder what could be waiting for her in there? Of course it’s Erik who begs Christine to stay with him, but she refuses. She loves Raoul! Erik demands she give him his son right there and then. She’s all, “Gimme five years,” meanwhile Erik’s creepy sidekick is eavesdropping. Christine leaves and Erik is all, “Five years? Pfft. He’s mine and I will TAKE him.” No bueno, Erik.

It’s the Irish priest’s turn to narrate now, and he’s talking to god. Literally. Like we read what God responds to him as a dialogue. Who wrote this garbage? Oh right, Frederick Forsyth, esteemed British novelist. The priest confesses to lusting after Christine and God is all, “Of course, she is beautiful.” Ew! WTF, God? Apparently he was lusting after her while he was listening to her confession, so this is all kinds of fucked up. Then he tells God her confession and God just casually drops that there are lots of gods. Man, this book is wild and misogynistic.

This next chapter is by everyone’s fave, Gaylord Spriggs. He reviews the Phantom's new opera that he wrote for Christine, which is basically a cross between Gone With the Wind and… Well… The Phantom of the Opera. The lead tenor mysteriously starts croaking during intermission, and an “unknown” understudy takes his place for the second half of the opera. I suppose at least the poor croaking tenor was spared being strangled. RIP Piangi.

Another newspaper column, this time by Amy Fontaine. I really am so weary of this multi-narrator format. If this Frederick Forsyth guy hadn't already been a celebrated author, and the Phantom musical hadn't been such a big hit, this overblown fanfic would never have made it past any publisher with more than one brain cell.

Anyway, Amy Fontaine is reviewing the post-opera party for a social column, and the funniest bit is that Christine meets not just one, but TWO United States presidents as Teddy Roosevelt himself shows up along with his niece and future president FDR. Irving Berlin also shows up and it's like the author was trying to cram in as many historical time period big names as he could as Easter eggs, but instead of being subtle and clever like an Easter egg should be, these are neon signs that Frederick Forsyth is shoving in your face while he screams at you.

Chapter sixteen is a literal lecture. It's like the author just keeps making this book as torturous for the reader as he can. And it takes place in the future too, around the end of WWII. You know I started writing this review because I thought it might be funny, but now I am full of regrets and pain. But onward I soldier. If it stops anyone else from having to read this brain enema of a book, it will be worth it.

Anyhow, this lecture is being given by none other than Charlie Bloom, who after years of being a reporter, seeing wars and the Holocaust, has apparently seen NOTHING so tragic as the shit that's about to go down between Christine and Erik. He recaps almost the whole book again, including the part we just heard about in the last chapter where he tosses in yet another celebrity just for good measure, since two US presidents apparently weren't enough. He mentions that Buffalo Bill was there, and just for my own entertainment I’m going to imagine it was Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. I’ll bet Christine could sing a killer version of Goodbye Horses.

Anyhow, Charlie stole a note that Erik slipped to Christine at the party. In the note Erik begs her to let him say goodbye to his son one last time, and to meet him at Battery Park. With this inside info, Charlie’s able to warn Raoul and the priest nanny guy when Christine and Pierre suddenly are missing. Charlie also apparently wrote something on his cuff in Latin that he didn't understand back when he heard Darius shout something on Coney Island. Charlie is wearing that EXACT cuff again, and of course the priest knows Latin, and it apparently says something like “the son must die!” It's a convoluted mess of Deus ex machina that any third grader could have improved upon.

Charlie, Raoul, and the priest all rush to the park and Charlie is literally like, “I’ve gotta explain this all to you in SLOW MOTION”. They get there just in time to see Pierre run to his mother's arms just as Darius fires a pistol at him. Surprise, surprise, he winds up shooting Christine instead. Gee, I didn't see that coming.

Somehow Erik has managed to add crack-shot to all the life skills he’s acquired since his opera days, as he pulls out his own pistol, takes one shot and hits Darius square in the center of his forehead.

Christine is literally dying in her son's arms and she's all, “That's not really your dad, see that freak in the mask? THAT'S your dad. Sorry ��bout it!” Then she croaks. Not even exaggerating. The next line is literally, “Then she died.” Way to give your kid more PTSD, Christine.

Piling on the PTSD, Raoul decides to tell Pierre “Yep, I’m not your real dad, I’m gonna take your dead mom back to Paris. You are now a man, so come with me to bury your dead mom, or stay with your freaky-masked real dad.”

Charlie’s narration takes a weird detour mid-scene where he suddenly talks about going to interview the priest. Apparently the priest decided to move to the slums of the lower-east side after all of this nonsense happens? I mean it's not the weirdest thing that's happened so far in this book, so I’m not sure why this detail irritates me so much, but it does. But apparently he told Charlie that when all this shit was going down, as he prayed while Christine was dying, he heard the Phantom's soul screaming like an albatross. I take back all my negativity, I love this book now.

Pierre goes to Erik and removes his REAL father’s hat and mask. Charlie says that he's seen drowned corpses and bodies in every manner and state of decomposition, but never has he seen a face like THIS. Despite the face though, of COURSE Pierre decides to completely forget about the guy who's raised him as his son his entire life, and go live with this stranger with the fucked-up face, in a country thousands of miles away from the one home he’s ever known. Because what thirteen year old wouldn't do that?

Erik never wore his mask again. The end.

I thought nothing could top Love Never Dies for sheer inanity, but this certainly takes the cake and drops a whole chandelier on it. RIP Christine, and my entire brain.

#The Phantom of the Opera #The Phantom of Manhattan #book recaps #Love Never Dies

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