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lovebugism · 2 years ago

Note

i am so sorry but reader talking about robin right before making out with eddie is like absolutely the best thing i’ve ever read i’m obsessed i genuinely can’t wait for anything else in that universe that you do

THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT | god help the girl

summary: in which you come to terms with the fact that you're hopelessly in love with eddie munson. pairing: virgin!eddie munson x reader word count: 13k warning: phone sex, more discussions of shitty boyfriends, j*son c*rver name drop, talks of unhealthy eating practices, smut 18+ mdni! a/n: this ask has been sitting in my inbox for ages now, but i wanted to save it until robin made an appearance in the series! thank you, anon, for being so sweet! and for the few of you who've been waiting on me to finally post <3 hope you enjoy! xoxo

( PREVIOUSLY ) | ( SERIES MASTERLIST ) | ( NEXT )

They only met once, but it changed their lives forever.

That’s what the movie cover reads at least, but the words have long blurred into a jumbled mess at your tunnel vision. John Bender stares you in the face, but all you see is Eddie — boyish and brazen and scowling because he thinks it makes him look intimidating, but nowhere near as cruel as he seems.

He’s certainly got the hair for it, much longer and curls far wilder than Judd Nelson’s measly set of brushed-back locks. He’s got the terribly animated personality down pat, too; the one that either makes you laugh uncontrollably or squirm in discomfort when it’s pointed your way. And the style’s a pretty fine match also, though you’d argue that no one sports a leather jacket quite like Eddie Munson does.

Wallowing in your boredom at the empty Family Video store on Main Street — where your best friends slave over mundane work with aching backs and a lingering sense of gratefulness that no customer has been in in well over an hour — you find yourself analyzing each character pictured on the front cover of The Breakfast Club.

Robin would surely be Allison, you conclude rather quickly, because their deadpanned glowers are eerily identical. They’ve also got this sort of atypical aura to them, too, like a dark storm cloud or the promise of a long night. But strangely it sparkles — strikes of lightning or a sky full of stars. It draws everyone’s attention to them; even when they’re desperately trying to hide in the very back of a room.

And Steve would be Andrew, not particularly because of his affections for this Allison-Reynolds-Robin-Buckley hybrid you’ve concocted, but because "popular guy with daddy issues" is a trope that fits him far too well. He’s way more likely to get detention for trying to look cool in front of his assholes friends than for anything actually malicious of heart. But that would’ve been years ago now. He’s not that kind of guy anymore.

He’s soft and sweet — a Brian Johnson sort of soft and sweet, if you will. If Brian wasn’t the brains, but the sweetest dumbass anyone’s ever met.

You realize then, that Jim Hopper would make a mean Richard Vernon. He’s impatient to a fault, almost too stern at times, but never enough to make you genuinely fearful of him. You’ve found that it’s virtually impossible for you to take him seriously when he’s so cartoonishly angry. It’s a match made in heaven, you find, though Jim might take offense to the comparison.

And if Eddie is Bender, then that’d make you the Claire Standish of the bunch.

She’s dreadfully stylish, a bit stuck-up at times, and perhaps a little bit more spoiled than the average person; but it’s not like she ever claimed to be perfect. And you wouldn’t either.

You’ll take more pride in your wardrobe filled with pretty pleated skirts and flouncy dresses than your somewhat glacial disposition. And you might not be drowning in daddy’s money, but you’re certainly spoiled in other ways — if only in the employee discount at Enzo’s that got you wine for cheap and your connections at Family Video that meant free movie nights whenever you wanted.

The bad boy and the princess was a tale as old as time itself. It’s a fairytale you wouldn’t mind living in if it ended how it did in the movies — with a kiss on the cheek and an exchanged diamond earring in the calloused palm of another. A soft pink smile and a celebratory fist in the air.

But you’ve met your fair share of John Bender’s and none of them had been particularly kind to you, let alone had fallen in love with you.

Maybe that’s because you were no Claire Standish. Never pretty enough, never mousy enough, never pure enough. You try and dissect why you’ve never been successfully loved, and all the signs point to you, you, you.

You hope Eddie’s different. You need Eddie to be different.

“Something’s wrong with me,” you blurt out of nowhere.

Well, it’s not totally out of the blue for you. You’d been stewing over that thought since you got there — since you left the woods with damp underwear and the scent of you on Eddie’s fingers.

But to Steve and Robin, who’d stayed relatively silent and locked eyes only once after they noticed how abnormally hushed you’d gone, it catches them quite off guard.

Steve lifts his heavy head from where he mans the counter. His tired eyes leave the computerized catalog for the first time in forty minutes, and he has to rub at them with the bottom of his palms to see you properly. Meanwhile, Robin crouches at your side, taking returned tapes from the bin sitting next to her and placing them back upon the shelf you lean against.

She blinks up at you, deep ocean eyes swimming with apprehension, like she can sense the spiral you’ve just about twisted yourself into.

“What do you mean?” she wonders, ever the supportive best friend, as she plucks Heather’s, Pretty in Pink, and Weird Science from the bin and sets them onto their assigned rows in the Teen Drama section.

“Eddie won’t fuck me.”

Neither of them is particularly stunned by the unabashed nature of your admission.

Not only have they both fucked you at one point or another, but they’re your best friends — no one’s ever going to know you quite the way they do. It leaves little left unsaid between the three of you, with secrets you’ve all sworn to take to your graves. Steve once stuck a finger in his ass to see if he liked it (he did) and Robin sometimes gets off on her childhood teddy bear (rather ironically named Mr. Snuggles).

So this? This was nothing. Especially in comparison to all the other shit you’ve confessed to them because god knows the whore of Hawkins has a plethora of stories to tell.

Steve is more shocked by the name that leaves your mouth than anything else. “Eddie Munson?” he repeats with furrowed brows, like he had to have heard you wrong.

You bring your chin to your right shoulder to look at him, then nod.

“Eddie… The Freak… Munson?”

You nod again, slower for him this time.

“You wanna fuck… Eddie Munson?” Steve reiterates once more, as though the idea was too appalling to be true. “Eddie Munson — The Freak?”

“Yes, Steve,” you huff in irritation.

His face contorts into a puppy-like confusion. A frown settles between his bushy brows and he cocks his head to the side, nose scrunching and his lip quirking slightly. He couldn’t look more disgusted if he tried.

“…Why?”

You groan and tilt your head back dramatically. “That’s not what’s important here, Steve. The better question is why won’t he fuck me?”

The boy’s lack of any actual assistance doesn’t surprise Robin in the slightest — his dumbfounded gaze and innate confusion are actually pretty on brand. It just puts all the burden on her, to help you wriggle out of the mess you’d tangled yourself into.

It’s not like she isn’t used to it, though, nor does she mind doing it for you. She walks you through your emotions like a professional, squashing out all the burning orange embers for you before they have the chance to burst into flames.

“Well, what do you mean he won’t fuck you? Like… did he actually say that or does he just wanna, you know, take things slow?”

The latter would’ve been way too easy. Eddie’s always been nice enough to you. It’d make sense for him to want to stay unhurried and gentle with you, but those words weren’t exactly in your vocabulary.

The first time you were alone with him, you were getting yourself off on his thigh after making him come in his jeans. The next time you saw him, after four days of him clinging to your consciousness, there wasn’t as much small talk so much as there were two of his fingers stuffed knuckle-deep inside of you.

You don’t know Eddie’s birthday, but you know how he likes to be touched — squeezed and not rubbed. You don’t know his middle name or how he likes his eggs in the morning or what his relationship with his mother is like, but he’s already made you come. Twice.

You are completely, utterly, and totally incapable of taking things slow. So it wasn’t that. It couldn’t be. So it had to be the other thing. The very scary, terrifying, boogeyman of a thing.

“I mean, I offered to give him a blowjob and he completely turned me down,” you lament in reply.

Robin and Steve wince. Like, physically wince. Their faces scrunch and their heads flinch from something invisible. Audible ooh’s fall from their mouths without them even realizing it, because you don’t get rejected. Ever. Especially not after offering to pleasure someone without much of anything in return.

They don’t mean to react the way they do. The visible shock that coats their features is involuntary more than it is anything, and it only adds to your fears.

“Exactly!” you exclaim.

“I hate to say it, but I think hell might be freezing over as we speak,” Steve half-jokes.

“Well, he was working, right?” Robin asks with raised brows. “Maybe he was just busy.”

“Sorry, Rob, but no guy’s too busy for a blowjob.”

“Real charming, Stevie.”

“Maybe he just has a small dick,” the boy concludes with a shrug.

“I felt his dick,” you shake your head almost immediately. The feeling of Eddie’s hard cock through his denim jeans, all rough and warm against your palm, hasn’t yet left you. “It’s not small.”

“Well, maybe he can’t get it up—”

“Yeah, that’s not a problem either.”

Eddie was rock hard when you left him, throbbing and aching and obviously needing some kind of relief. That’s partly why you’d been so ardent to return the favor, though the other half of it was purely selfish — you haven’t seen a more beautiful sight than Eddie Munson getting off. To deprive yourself of that masterpiece made you feel like you were starving.

You have a hard time imagining the raging hard-on just… dissipating after you’d left him. That means he probably jerked off in the back of his van and you missed it. And if he came, right after he promised everything was okay, that means he just didn’t want you to do it… right?

Steve seems to be caught in the same inner turmoil you’re currently stuck in; and for good reason. In all the years he’s known you, he can count on one hand how many times he’s had to turn you down. And every time, it was because he’d gotten back together with Nancy. It was never because of you. Not once. And sometimes he felt like it hurt him as much as it did you.

As far as Steve’s concerned, you’re so out of Eddie Munson’s league that you’re not even in his fucking orbit — so the freak show, turning you down, doesn’t make whole lot of sense to him.

“Huh…”

“It’s me. It’s definitely me,” you conclude with the shake of your head. A bitter, almost hysterical laugh spills from your lips. “He thinks I’m fucking ugly or disgusting or something. It’s totally fucking me—”

Robin completely abandons her basket of tapes then. She rises to stand in front of you, looking timid as she does so. Her raised brows form wrinkles on her freckled forehead and her blue eyes widen to reveal more of the whites of them. She looks like she’s approaching a wild animal. A bomb that’s about to explode.

“Okay… You’re starting to spiral, alright? So let’s just try and take a few deep breaths—”

You don’t listen to her.

Actually, you do quite the opposite, as you begin to blurt every fleeting thought that crosses your mind.

“I’ve made out with nearly everyone in this stupid town— I’m pretty sure I’ve fucked almost half— and you’d think Eddie would wanna take advantage of that, the way everyone makes him out to be some sort of freak, right? But he hasn’t and at this rate, he won’t, and I just don’t understand why,” you ramble without taking in a single breath. “Usually being a slut is a huge turn-on for guys, you know? But what if Eddie thinks it’s gross? I mean, it is gross— I’m gross—”

You only stop for air when Robin takes your shoulders in both hands. She looks less apprehensive and more stern, as she forces you to look at her.

“Look. I love you, but you need to get a hold of yourself, alright? I know you’re not used to being told no, and I know how much it sucks, but shit happens. I’m willing to bet all the money I’ve ever seen that whatever is going on with Eddie has nothing to do with you, okay? And if it’s making you this upset, maybe you should just talk to him.”

“But I don’t wanna seem like I’m too eager, that’s gross—”

“Then find someone else to fuck,” she offers with her signature Robin Buckley half-smile. “I’m sure it would take you less than five minutes to find a willing participant.”

“Yeah, right here,” Steve jokes from the counter with the pathetic wave of his hand and a dumb grin on his lips.

You don’t hear him over the voices in your head — half calling you crazy for letting a boy drive you this mad over nothing, and the other half bitterly affirming each of your deep-rooted insecurities.

Your face screws up, like the thought of being with anyone other than Eddie upsets you — it does upset you.

“I don’t want anyone else.”

“Then what do you want?” Robin yells in your face, shaking you by your shoulders.

“I want Eddie!” you shout back without thinking. The words seem to spill out of nowhere. It takes you of all people by surprise. No one in this rat trap town would ever expect the whore of Hawkins to want to settle down, least of all the harlot herself. It’s strange; it’s riveting; it’s really fucking scary. “…Fuck.”

The brunette smirks, proud of herself. “Well. There’s your answer.”

“I hate when you’re right,” you mumble to yourself, pouting as she crouches back down again.

“I know.”

It was a terrifying thought, to know that you were head over heels for someone else. You try to come to terms with what that means.

Sometimes you think you fall in love with a new person every day. A cute guy holds the door open for you, a pretty girl compliments your outfit — they never think about you again, but they’re on your mind for days. It was so easy to develop such meaningless infatuations, especially when you were bored.

But Eddie was different.

He was a nice guy. A nice guy that was sweet to you just for the sake of being sweet to you; not because he secretly wanted something in return. That made you fall for him at first, but then you just… kept on falling. Eddie Munson was an infinite void you couldn’t crawl your way out of even if you wanted to, even if you tried.

And that’s what frightened you the most.

Because if you really thought about it, you’ve only truly been in love a handful of times. And, sure, it didn’t work out — that was normal — but some of them fucking ruined you.

You’re still trying to figure out who you are without all of the people that have broken your heart. You’re still fighting like hell every day to recognize the person you see in the mirror, while Billy Hargrove fucks off with a new girl every other week like he didn’t totally destroy you.

But, even still, Eddie was completely different. No one’s ever made you feel the way he makes you feel. And it’s more than the stupid heavy petting — it’s more than anything. It’s never been like this before; not even with the blonde mulleted asshole who ripped your heart to shreds.

And you’re scared that if you get hurt again, you’ll never be able to come back from it.

“Steve, do you have another copy of Fast Times in the back?” you suddenly ask the boy, tossing him a look over your shoulder.

It’s your last ditch effort to rid yourself of the ponderous, gray doom and gloom surrounding you like some storm cloud. Your comfort movie solves all of your problems — or, at the very least, Phoebe Cates does — but it seems everyone else in town has developed a similar fondness for minute fifty-three of the film and got all the tapes off the shelf before you could get your hands on one.

“You know I keep on in stock for you,” he answers quietly.

He reaches below the counter to pull out a spare copy for you, and your heart swells with the rays of a thousand rising suns and the songs of every morning bird.

Steve told you some time ago that he could change. And back then, all it did was piss you off, because he didn’t want to change for the town slut — for the girl he put through the goddamn ringer. He wanted to change for Nancy. The princess bruised his brittle ego a little, and then he realized what an asshole he’d been to everyone, to you.

But as angry as it made you, you never believed him. “Once the King of Hawkins High, always the King of Hawkins High,” you remarked bitterly.

You wouldn’t say it to his face, for the sake of keeping his ego from inflating all over again, but you could tell he was really changing.

He was kinder, he was softer. He stopped caring about what everyone thought about him, about what not caring would do to his reputation, and started giving a fuck about the people worth giving a fuck about.

Apparently, you were one of them.

“…Really?”

He nods with a subtle shrug. Like it was no big deal. Like it wasn’t one of the sweetest things he’d ever done for you — keeping your favorite movie on hand so you’ll always have a spare, knowing that it’s the only thing that gets you out of a deep, dark funk sometimes.

“Stevie… You’re gonna make me blush,” you lilt with a grin as you saunter over to him, hands innocently laced behind your back. “You need to be careful, Harrington. I’m gonna start to think you actually like me.”

He scoffs. “I do like you.”

“Yeah, when it’s convenient.”

It’s obvious your joke hits him where it hurts. It serves as a bitter reminder of the asshole he used to be, the douchebag he’s trying like hell to grow out of. He looks up at you with a sheepish, honey-tinted gaze before ducking away again.

A year or more ago it would’ve made you feel good, to know that you hurt him just a fraction of the way he hurt you. But you know that that isn’t the same man standing in front of you now, that he’d rather die than make hurt your feelings, and it makes you feel like shit for saying it in the first place.

“Sorry,” you apologize with a scrunched nose. The palms of your hands dig into the edges of the counter as you lean against it. Your shrug. “It just kinda came out…”

The barcode scanner in his hand beeps as he passes the thing over the back of the tape — never charging you, just getting the movie out of the database.

“So, uh…” he starts before clearing his throat. He focuses his gaze on the computer and types on the bulky keyboard with the tip of his pointer finger. “You really like this Eddie guy, huh?”

“Maybe. I think so.”

“And he’s not, like… a total freak or anything?”

You can’t tell if he’s trying to look out for you or if he just wants intel on what it’s like trying (and failing) to bang the local weirdo. Either way, it makes a smile tug slow at your lips as you joke: “Not in the way everyone thinks.”

“Jesus,” he winces at the obscenity of your words.

“Sorry,” you apologize again, though the laugh that bubbles from your lips after cancels out any hint of actual sincerity. “You don’t need to give me the talk or anything, Steve. I can take care of myself.”

“…Can you?” he half-jokes.

It makes you falter. “Well… With you and Robin and Hopper constantly on my ass, then yeah.”

“Just don’t want you to get hurt,” Steve finally admits, soft and suddenly shy as he hands the VHS over to you.

“That’s rich coming from you��”

He jerks back the tape before you can take it from him, leaving your hand reaching for thin air. His cinnamon eyes glimmer with a foreign seriousness, not completely unkind, but lacking their usual blithe. “That’s why I’m saying it. I just… I want you to be okay.”

Steve is one of the rare ones, you conclude right then in there — in the liminal emptiness of Family Video, beneath fluorescent lights that cast sharp shadows upon his already chiseled features. He was a mythical creature of a man, one who breaks your heart and does everything in his power to mend it again.

He hasn’t forgotten about what he did to you, not like Billy did, and he won’t. Not ever. He saw what he did to you and he never moved on from it, just matured enough to make sure it never happened again. And he won’t let another unworthy douchebag hurt you like he did. Not if he can help it, at least.

And he did try to warn you about Hargrove, to be fair. You were just the dumbass that didn’t listen.

“Well, me and my Phoebe Cates wet dream are golden, Pony Boy,” you promise. He hands you the tape again and lets you snatch it from his grip this time. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, Stevie.”

Steve Harrington was right.

The fleeting thought flashes across your mind for half a second, and you quickly realize that those words have never been uttered in the same sentence before now. But he wasn’t wrong in what he’d said about you, just before you left — you were completely, totally, absolutely, and implicitly unable to take care of yourself.

You nearly passed out in the bathroom after taking the hottest shower of your life, feeling too woozy to slap on anything other than moisturizer because you failed to remember to actually eat something that day. It wasn’t totally your fault, though; if anything, it was because of Eddie and all the butterflies he’d given you that made food the very last thing on your mind.

You half-heartedly dry yourself off, keeping your hair in a towel, while you slip on a cotton set of underwear you’ve had for way longer than what's likely acceptable. Damp and half-naked, you prance into the kitchen to fix Bowie her bowl of dinner before you feed yourself.

You fork a can of wet food onto a flower-shaped plate and let her eat on the counter — because you’re an adult now, and you can do that sort of thing.

The calico purrs while she feasts, but your stomach thunders with negligence. You peek into your mostly bare refrigerator and make a mental note to go grocery shopping when you get paid next week.

With a lack of food and an even lesser will to cook something, you settle for the half-eaten chocolate bar you keep stashed in the very back of the fridge; kept only for the most special of occasions — when you’re reveling in your loneliness and trying to convince yourself that you can make it on your own.

It was practically the size of your forearm when you first bought the thing at some too expensive candy store in the city. Now it’s no bigger than your hand.

You eat the thing in bed, even though you know you’ll get crumbs everywhere and that it’ll make sleep agonizing for you — if you get any, that is. You’re bound to feel like a total zombie by the time the sun rises and the late-night sweet will likely make its appearance on your skin by then, in a red and raging blemish of a consequence.

You’ll feel empty and starved and surly, a snapping grouch instead of an actual person, until you get some actual food in your system.

And you’re more than aware of all of these things, but you don’t do a single damn thing about them.

You’re nothing but a sulking lump upon an unmade bed, lying in a pitch-black darkness that’s evaded only by the static-y television across your room, trying your best to pretend like you aren’t waiting for Eddie’s phone call. It’s hard to remember to forget him, though, when the movie you’re watching is practically a feature film of him and all the ways he makes you feel.

Spicoli and his terribly inebriated friends slur as they chorus “No shoes, no shirt, no diiiice” and you swear you can feel Eddie’s shoulder bump softly against yours as he laughs, hear every sound of his melodic chuckle in your ear that made you giggle right along with him. The low bass of Moving in Stereo plays in the otherwise empty silence of your bedroom, and every beat feels like the rhythm of your thrusts against his thigh.

Eddie Munson is all-consuming.

Even the thought of him feels physical.

Phoebe Cates all but undresses herself in front of you, but you’re stuck thinking about some guy who lives in a trailer park across town, deals drugs for a living, and can’t graduate high school. You’re a total fucking goner.

Your eyes flutter shut, and instead of the backs of your eyelids, you see Eddie’s trailer. Your lips start to tingle as they kiss his for the first time — hungry, yearning, needing. His thigh is pressed snugly into your cunt, denim jeans rough against your soft cotton panties, and you have to bite back a moan when he tenses every time you squeeze his hard, covered cock.

You can feel it, all of him, like he were here with you now.

You wish that he were.

His fingers would feel far better, leave far more sparks of electricity in your belly, than the ones as you sneak through the hem of your underwear.

You try and take things slow with yourself, to be as gentle as he had been with you earlier in the woods, but it feels strange to treat yourself with so much tenderness. To touch your pussy like it’s the first time it’s ever been touched. Like it’s a beautiful thing you need to be sweet to.

Maybe you find it so foreign to be careful with yourself because no one has ever been careful with you.

No one, except for Eddie.

Your touch doesn’t rival his. It doesn’t even come close.

No matter how tightly you squeeze your eyes shut or how hard you try to pretend that they’re his fingers inside of you, you can’t make yourself feel as good as he did.

Your fingers aren’t as rough as his guitar-string-scarred ones and they don’t caress your clit with the same methodical care. They don’t fill you quite the same either, nowhere near as satisfying as his much thicker ones.

And you’re no stranger to masturbation, not by any means. Sometimes it’s the only way you can guarantee an orgasm for yourself when you’ve got a partner who cares so little about your own pleasure. But Eddie was different. Eddie cared — so much so, that he’s gotten more orgasms out of you than you’ve gotten from him, which is something you’ve never said about anyone else you’ve been with.

It’s rare and unfamiliar, a bouquet of all things refreshing and terrifying and strange, tied together with a pretty little ribbon.

You know that you can make yourself come. It’ll just take way too long to actually be worthwhile and won’t be nearly as mind-blowing as you need it to be. You won’t be left with trembling thighs and nearly numb legs — just a pitiful excuse for an orgasm that you could get from any one of your exes with half as much work.

What you need is Eddie.

And you hate that. You hate how much you need him and you’re terrified of what that means.

As far as precedent goes, right when you start needing someone is usually when they start to leave. It’s like fucking clockwork most of the time — like everyone knows that you’re a ticking time bomb and eventually it gets too risky to stand too close to you.

You’ll just have to keep Eddie at arm's distance. So he won’t see the grenade that you are.

You pull your fingers out of your wanting cunt, still slick and throbbing with a need that you can’t give it, when the phone rings.

The high-pitched shrill in the quiet makes you tense like it’s the first time you’ve ever heard the damn thing. Your breath catches in your throat, first out of fright and then at the inclination of who waits for you on the other line.

Suddenly, you’re scrambling to collect yourself. As though there was any possibility that Eddie might be able to see you through the phone line.

You wipe your wet fingers haphazardly on the cotton of your underwear and sit up straighter from your ungracefully lazed position. Then you count to five — one mississippi… two mississippi… three — so Eddie won’t think you’re some kind of crazy person who doesn’t have anything better to do than wait for his call.

So he won’t know that’s exactly what you are.

You lift the ruby red rotary from its hook at your bedside table and stretch the corkscrew cord to press it to your ear. “…Hello?”

“Yeah, hi. I’d like to order a pizza. Half pepperoni, half hawaiian.”

You roll your eyes at his dumb joke, even though the familiarity of his voice makes you smile. It warms you like a home-cooked meal, like you were high-pitched and starving before and now you’re on the soothing comedown of finally being satiated.

“Yeah, sorry, we’re closed.”

“Then why’d you pick up the phone, huh?” he teases back. You swear you can hear the grin in his voice. You didn’t know a smile could be so audible. It makes you wonder if he can hear yours — if you’re doing a real shit job at pretending. You anxiously twirl the cord with the pointer finger of your free hand.

“Because I’ve been waiting for you to call me all night, dummy.”

Your answer is more honest than either of you were expecting.

Eddie’s sigh crackles through the shoddy reception. “Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that, sweetheart. I’ve been working all night. I only got home, like, five minutes ago.”

You can hear the heavy exhaustion in his voice. “Rough day?”

“Kinda,” he answers with a shrug. You can hear the grating squeak of his mattress as he plops down onto his bed. “I dealt to one of Jason’s goons today… They always give me a hard time.”

“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to answer.

Eddie’s been the brunt of every joke since seventh grade — people made fun of too big clothes, his too wild hair, his too loud music. But he took it all in stride, laughing with everyone else before volleying a harsher joke back in response. You almost started to think that he liked it. That, somewhere deep down, he was fond of all the attention he got from people who supposedly couldn’t stand him.

But it hurts to know that it hurts him.

“Don’t apologize. It’s not like you did anything,” he assures with a soft laugh. He makes the bold decision to be honest then, too. “You, uh… You made my day a whole lot better, actually.”

You don’t know if he’s talking about the brief fling in the woods or the phone call you’re sharing now or if you particularly care either way. Your heart flutters like it’s been kissed by the wings of a butterfly.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean… I don’t know— I couldn’t stop thinking about you, you know. And, knowing that I was gonna get to talk to you again kinda got me through the day, I guess… And, yes, I am fully aware of how lame that sounds, but—”

You don’t get to hear the rest of his excuse, of why what he just told you totally isn’t lame, because you’re covering the receiver with your palm and turning to squeal into your pillow. A far more pathetic sight, in your humble opinion.

There hasn’t been a more fulfilling feeling than this one, to know that he’s been feeling the same way you’ve been feeling about him this whole time. It’s better than all the orgasms he could give you combined, to be loved so wholly.

“…You okay?” you hear his muffled voice ask after you’ve gone suddenly AWOL.

You press the phone back to your ear and nod like he can see you. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. The phone… fell— you said you just got home?”

“Uh, yeah. I met with Hellfire for a bit at school. We’re almost at the end of the Cult of Vecna, so they’re kinda on my ass about it. The little shits are obsessed.”

“Well, they should be. It’s a really good campaign, Eds.”

“Thanks to you,” he mutters. You can almost picture the glimmer in his button eyes and the shaky half-smirk he always looks at you with when he gets all shy.

“That was all you, Eddie Spaghetti,” you retort. “I still have no idea how you did it.”

“Did what?” he wonders, chuckling a bit at the nickname.

“Make something so beautiful out of thin air.”

Lying in the depths of his bedroom, blanketed by the darkness and bathing in streams of moonlight, Eddie feels his breath catch in his throat.

For the first time in his life, he doesn’t have a joke to spew out on the spot. He’s speechless, just for a moment, a quick blink of a second, with nothing to say. Because, if he really thinks about it, that’s sort of what happened with you.

You were just his customer and he was just your dealer.

You were a loyal client and then a girl way out of his league that he developed a too big a crush on. Then you made him come in his underwear and washed the sticky stains out of the denim for him. Now you’re on the phone with him. You let him tell you all about his shitty day and apologize like you weren’t the only good thing about it — like you aren’t the only good thing, period.

It’s not the most cliche love story, nor is it the most beautiful, but it has his cynical little heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird.

Then, when all the mushy mess fades like fog, he finally thinks of something to say.

“It’s the witchcraft, sweetheart,” he shrugs to himself. “Didn’t you hear? I’m a devil-worshipping freak.”

“You know that’s not it, Eds,” you retort with the roll of your eyes.

You know that it’s hard, to be a metalhead from the wrong side of the tracks in the eighties — at the height of the Satanic Panic and all the delusional craze. That shit’s followed him since freshman year. Even still, it nips at his ankles like rabid dogs.

Maybe you were never naive or bored enough to believe all the rumors, but Eddie Munson was always more than that to you.

“No?”

“You can blame it on being a freak show all you want, but I know it’s because you’re one of the funniest, smartest, most creative guys I’ve ever met—”

“You must not know a ton of guys then, sweetheart,” he interjects playfully, like he couldn’t stand to hear you compliment him any longer. You’d give anything to see his blushing cheeks just now.

“…You’re kidding right?” you giggle in response.

“Sorry— that’s— I didn’t mean it like— It was— I was joking,” he stammers, frightened that he might’ve offended you in some way.

It only makes you laugh harder. Both of you know you lost count of all the guys you ‘know’ a long, long time ago. You do imagine it’s somewhere near ‘a ton’, though.

“I know, Eds,” you assure with a contented sigh. “I was just teasing.”

“Oh.”

“The slut and the freak… Who would’ve thought?” you wonder all dreamily, like it’s a fairytale as old as time itself. That’s what it feels like, sometimes.

Eddie isn’t sure what you mean — who would’ve thought you’d be friends? Two people caught in that in-between stage of platonic and romance that’s complete agony and total, total bliss? A couple of kids falling in love—

“It’s sort of kismet, huh?” he answers.

“I think so.”

“So, uh… What are you up to?” Eddie wonders then, equal parts curious and eager to keep the discussion going. He’s frightened any lapse in conversation is going to lead to saying goodbye.

He wants to stay on for hours, until both of you are fighting to stay awake, and then listen to the sound of your heavy breathing when you inevitably lose — like that isn’t the creepiest thing anyone’s ever wanted. He’ll fight Wayne about the bill if it comes to that, he doesn’t care, he just never wants to stop being this close to you.

“Do you want the real answer or the fake one?”

“Uh… Both?”

“Well, I’d say I was doing something super productive with my night, you know, catching up on all the boring adult shit, but then I’d be lying. And I don’t wanna lie to you, Eds,” you tell him with a teasing lilt playing at the edge of your voice.

Eddie swallows thickly, fearing he’d somehow been caught in his own lie — or rather, his half-truth. He moves on quickly, though not exactly full of grace. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”

“Honest answer is, that the only productive thing I’ve done tonight is shower, and now I’m in bed watching Fast Times and eating all the chocolate in my house, because I can’t cook for shit and I have nothing else better to do with my night,” you admit to him, picking at the thread of your comforter.

“Oh, don’t tell me I missed the ‘Moving in Stereo’ bit,” he agonizes.

“Just.”

“Well, correct me if I’m wrong, sweetheart, but it sounds like you’re having loads of fun tonight.”

“I’m having a lot more fun now,” you assure him.

“Glad I can be around to make you laugh,” he retorts like he’s not all too happy to do it.

“You’re a total comedian, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“If I’m the jester, you’re the queen, sweetheart,” he promises, a grin evident in his voice.

Your breath catches in your throat something fierce; you’re almost worried that he’s heard it. His words pierce your heart, a stroke of lightning or a blade of steel. He’s joking, but it’s so strangely profound, the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to you and it’s dripping in sarcasm.

It’s sort of Eddie’s love language, you’ve come to understand, to say something so sweet but coated in venom to make it sour again. It makes you feel special, loved, almost.

A fire builds behind your rib cage, sharp and distant and all-consuming.

“Are you alone, Eds?” you ask him suddenly.

The sudden curve ball in the conversation takes him by surprise. “Uh, yeah, Wayne’s at work right now… Why?”

“Because I want you to talk to me…”

“Oh?” is all he can say because isn’t that what he’s been doing this whole time?

“And I want you to say things that… maybe other people shouldn’t hear,” you explain slowly to him.

“…Oh.”

He’s heard about this only once before, the whole phone sex thing.

It was from Andy in the back of Ms. O’Donnell’s class a year or more ago, though Eddie never called him by that name. Andy, in all actuality, was Jason Carver’s right-hand man, and he meant that in every sense of the phrase. Eddie was more than convinced that the guy was so obsessed with the blonde haired, blue eyed douchebag that he was giving him handjobs on the regular.

But it seemed the dick brigade couldn’t function properly without their leader and Eddie had the misfortune of hearing all the mindless bullshit they were spewing behind him — basketball, parties, girls; in true white bread fashion.

His friends gathered around him like he was telling some sort of secret, though it was loud enough for anyone in a three foot radius to hear. Eddie, caught directly in the line of fire, heard all about Chrissy’s older sister, Wendy, who was two years older and off at college.

He’d gotten her number from some party he’d crashed. At least that’s how he told it, right before telling everyone that she swore like a sailor when she came and that she told him all the dirty things she wanted to do to him while she did.

“It was like her hand was on my dick, dude, I’m serious. That shit was crazy, bro,” he’d laughed after retelling the whole conversation in excruciating detail.

Eddie rolled his eyes to himself then, inwardly jealous that he’d never get to meet Wendy — or any other girl that would be willing to have phone sex with him, for that matter. His phone only ever rang for telemarketers or a rogue Dustin Henderson calling to annoy him.

But, here you are now, the most wanted girl in Hawkins, offering it to him on a silver platter. He wonders if you’ve done this before, surely you have — oh god, he thinks to himself, what if you’ve done this with Andy?

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you assure him after his unusually long silence. “I know you’re probably busy and tired and everything—”

“No! No, yeah, I— I want to. I totally want to.”

“Okay,” you nod. Petals of a flower begin to bloom in your chest as you lie back in bed, settling further into the mattress. The movie, already long forgotten, serves only as light and background noise. “So… What are you wearing, Eds?”

“I feel like I should be asking you that,” he laughs.

On the other side of Hawkins, in a trailer in the middle of nowhere, Eddie rises from where he’d originally flopped back onto his bed with the notion that it was going to be a semi-normal night. He props himself against his headboard. His fingers twitch at his thigh.

“Beat ya to it, Munson.”

“Well, I’ll have you know that it is very sexy, sweetheart. I’m wearing the same Hellfire shirt you saw me in, I don’t know, five hours ago — except now it’s got a rip in it because I totally ate ass on the way back to the van.”

He tells you this to make you laugh — it works — but he prays you don’t ask any questions. Because he got it while hurrying back to his van mere minutes after you’d left him, so hard he thought he was going to burst, with no more than seven minutes until his next client arrived.

Thankfully, he only needed three.

“I love that shirt,” you respond in place of saying what you really want to — ‘I love how that shirt looks on you’ — how it clings to his lean torso and reveals his midriff whenever he stretches his arms over his head.

“She’s a lit-tle worse for wear now, sweetheart,” he lilts.

“I’ll stitch it up for you.”

“And I’ve got on a pair of boxers that are so old they’re practically see through because I’m pretty sure they used to be Wayne’s back in… I don’t know… the eighteen-hundreds.”

Eddie was right. It was sexy, though, for the exact reason they weren’t supposed to be.

There was something so domestic about it all. You can picture him lying in his bed, in the most comfortable clothes he owns, in the one place he can feel at peace. Like a renaissance painting, something familiar and comforting and beautiful — fuck, you’d give anything to be next to him.

“…I think that means it’s your turn now, sweetheart,” he teases.

“Is it?” you mock in return.

“C’mon. Don’t leave me hangin’ over here.”

“It’s nothing, special,” you assure. Your eye flits down to peer at your own body — nothing special, indeed, you think to yourself. The lilac cotton set came from the grocery store downtown on the clearance rack you so often frequent. “I just have my underwear on. It’s very boring, I’m afraid.”

It’s not boring. Not to Eddie — the boy who prides himself on his insanely active imagination. He might not be able to pass english with his brain, but he can certainly create worlds with it, and it’s too easy for him to picture you. He imagines you, freshly showered, and smelling of the warm lavender-vanilla scent you always smell like, mostly bare and lazing upon a fluffy comforter.

He swallows thickly. “Oh, that’s— that’s really, uh— that’s really sexy.”

His thankful that you don’t seem to mind his poor excuse for dirty talk.

“It’s only because I was too lazy to get into actual pajamas.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Yeah?” you press, smiling to yourself and caging your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Yeah.”

“Can I tell you a secret, Eds?” you wonder, made brave enough by his own admission.

“‘Course you can.”

“Before you called…”

“…Uh-huh?” he eggs on, intrigued at the way you trailed off, sounding suddenly shy.

“I was…” The thought of telling him what you were doing mere seconds before he called makes you nervous. It wasn’t like you were ashamed of touching yourself or anything, nor is the art of dirty talking lost on you, but something about Eddie makes you timid.

“You were… what, sweetheart?” he wonders gently, with a too audible grin.

“I was touching myself.”

That’s all you tell him. The words linger and hang in the air of your separate bedrooms and you cling to the silence — almost mortified and anticipating his reply. Eddie, meanwhile, feels like his tongue has swelled in his mouth and all the air has been punched out of his lungs.

“Oh...” he tries to respond without the breath to accurately do so. “…Yeah?”

“You know what Phoebe Cates does to me,” you try to joke.

His laughter crackles through the receiver. “Yeah. I kinda have her to thank for the other night, don’t I?”

“Give yourself some credit, Eds. The hottest guy in Hawkins was sitting right next to me, what was I supposed to do?”

“No way you think I’m the hottest guy in town,” he scoffs. “Everyone knows you’ve got a thing for pretty boys.”

“Pretty boys?” you echo with a giggle.

“Uh-huh. The Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington type, you know?”

“Well, I think you’re a hundred times prettier than he is.”

“Really?” he scoffs cynically, obviously not believing you.

“He wasn’t the one I was thinking about with my hand shoved down my panties,” you admit, immediately quelling his self-doubt. “That’s gotta count for something, right?”

Eddie clears his throat and then stammers, “I— I guess so— yeah.”

“Are you hard, Eds?” you ask in a breathy whisper.

And he just nods to himself at first, too stupid to answer audibly. He can feel himself stiffening in his boxers, only halfway hard now, but getting firmer by the second. Soon, he’ll be aching.

“Yeah…”

“Can you touch yourself for me?”

Eddie would rather take a bullet to the chest than say no to you — at least, he figures that’d probably hurt less — so he slips his fidgeting fingers through the band of his boxers and takes his warm, stiffening cock in his hand. He squeezes himself just enough to make his stomach tighten.

“Want you to touch yourself, too,” he admits, neither asking or demanding it, just telling you.

“Yeah?” you tease.

“Well, I think it’s only fair, sweetheart.”

You can’t help but notice how breathy he’s gotten — how it shakes on the inhale and hitches on the out. He’s got his hand shoved down his underwear and you’re jealous of the fingers that get to wrap themselves around his cock. You wish they were yours. Both of you will have to settle, it seems.

“Whatever you want, Eds,” you answer playfully.

You obediently slide your hand back into the warmth of your panties. Your fingers slot between your lips and collect the slick that had gathered there since before you’d even answered the phone. You bring it up to your clit, circling the pads of your fingers there until you twitch, then dragging them down to press into your opening. They slip in with ease.

Both of you have turned into lovesick idiots, separated by so many miles, and missing the other most ardently. Lying in the depths of your bedrooms, basking in a velvet loneliness, building with a mutual pleasure with nothing but yearning hands and longing sighs.

Eddie’s eyes flutter shut at the sounds of your low moans and fragile whimpers that crackle through the static — beautiful still, but certainly no match to the ones you were breathing in his ear just hours ago.

His lashes dance across his cheeks as he tries to remember how you’d felt against his fingers, soft like velvet and delicate like silk, weeping and pulsating with need.

He drags his hand from his boxers and lets the band snap against his pelvis. He spits into his palm and wets his cock with it, sighing as he tugs at himself without much friction.

“Are you wet, sweetheart?” he asks, though the words threaten to get stuck in his throat.

“Yeah,” you whisper back like it’s some kind of secret.

You work yourself open with your middle finger and slip your pointer in next to it without much trouble. Your walls flutter around them while you fight to find the spot the makes you keen. You’re only able to tease it, fingers not quite long enough to caress it completely. Your thumb keeps working at your clit, though, to make up for the lost pleasure.

“I’ve been wet since I left you,” you admit through labored breaths. “Haven’t been able to… to stop thinking about you, Eds.”

“Glad I’m not the only one whipped over here, sweetheart,” he manages a laugh.

“No one’s ever made me come that hard before. Not just with their fingers,” you tell him mindlessly, dumb on pleasure, as you feel yourself climbing that peak.

“Really?”

“Never,” you promise, then whine. “Doesn’t even feel as good now… Can’t get as deep as you can—”

Eddie hangs on your every word as he works his palm up and down his stiff cock, squeezing at the base and swiping his thumb over the head with an expert hand. His face scrunches as his stomach starts to tighten, he’s close to coming — too close for his liking. He doesn’t want this to be over so quickly.

“You’ve ruined every other guy for me, Eddie Munson,” you confess, more than pleased to hear how it makes him whine. It sounds like it comes from the depths of his chest, the way it crackles low and needy through the receiver.

“Good,” he grumbles through his pants after he’s gathered himself all over again. “Don’t want anyone else to have you, sweetheart.”

This time you’re the one letting out the most pathetic of whines. It makes a smile flicker at the corners of his lips.

“You like that?”

It sounds so dirty, but you can tell by the sincerity of his tone that it’s genuine. So you answer with a longing truthfulness, a delicate “yes”entwined with a yearning moan.

“You just wanna belong to me, don’t ya?”

Now, this is dirty talk. The teasing lilt of his tone — it’s almost degrading — and makes you clench around your fingers. “Yes, please,” you whine, all but pleading for him now.

Eddie’s close, so dreadfully close, with a pleasure so tangible he could taste it. Your words make his cock twitch in his hold as the fire builds in his belly.

Through your whole-hearted promises and wanting moans, he can hear the sound of your slick through the receiver. The static reception doesn’t do it justice, but the wet click of your fingers working you open was unmistakable.

A moan grumbles in his throat as he digs the crown of his head back into his pillow. “Holy fuck— I can hear you, baby.”

“I’m so wet for you, Eds,” you tell him through fragile slurs, like it wasn’t inherently obvious.

You were wrong before, about wanting to hide from him. You couldn’t conceal your need for Eddie if you tried. The honey you drip, all sweet and just for him, wouldn’t let you keep it a secret.

“I know, baby, I know,” he nearly coos. “Are you— fuck, please tell me you’re close?”

“Yes,” you promise in a whine. Your thumb presses harder into your clit. It makes your thighs tense until they’re shaking.

“You rubbing your clit for me, sweetheart?” he asks like he knows. “I know that’s what you like.”

You whimper, working at the spongy spot within you as your hips buck off the bed. “Yeah.”

“Keep rubbing yourself like that for me, okay? Want you to keep going until you come for me.”

If he keeps talking to you like that, it’ll come a lot quicker than he’s prepared for.

It’s too soft to be much of a demand, but you listen obediently anyway, rubbing at yourself though your sensitivity keeps building. It grows like a morning tide, rising and flowing like white waves on an ocean, stirring something fierce in the depths of your stomach.

“Eddie,” you sigh out his name, broken through staggered pants.

You hear his stuttering breaths, too. “Y—Yeah?”

“I’m about to come,” you promise through a whine when the familiar crescendo sends a shock through your body.

“O… Okay,” he responds, pathetically, then whines, even more so.

“Want you to come with me… Please…”

“Fuck— okay. Shit, sweetheart, I’m almost there.”

“What are you thinking about?” you ask him.

“Your pussy,” he answers without thinking — he’s not doing a whole lot of that anymore. “Wish I’d gotten to taste you earlier. Wanna feel you… fuck… Wanna feel you come on my tongue.”

“Holy shit, Eds,” you moan at his words, at the vivid picture they paint in your head.

“And you get so… God, you get so fucking wet. Just want you to drench me, baby.”

It feels good, to be complimented for something boys used to make fun of you for, to realize for the first time that’s it’s sexy — that you’re sexy — and that Eddie is more than happy to drown in you. The feeling almost rivals the impending orgasm that’s bound to hit you like a tidal wave.

“I’m thinking about how I coulda took you on that bench… Just, fucking, get on my knees for you. Shove my head between your legs. Hold your— shit, baby— hold your thighs open, keep you exactly where I want you,” he rambles but then cuts himself off to moan at his own words. “Goddamn, sweetheart. Wanna taste you so fucking bad.”

The moan you let out is pitiful. It leaves your mouth in the most delicate cry.

No picture has ever been clearer than the one of Eddie between your thighs, your hands knotted in his hair to move him to exactly where you need him most and forcing him there. You can feel his fingers digging into your hips, his rings pressed against your burning skin, and the way your legs tremble on either side of his head.

“Yeah. Keep— Keep doing that. Keep moaning for me,” Eddie tells you. “I’m about to… holy fuck, I’m about to come.”

“Wanna feel your tongue in me so bad, Eds,” you whimper, egged on by the moan he lets out. “Want your cock even more.”

That’s what does him in, the assurance — the promise — that you want him just as bad as he wants you.

He tightens his fist around his cock, achingly hard and raging a crimson at the tip, trying to imitate the way you’d feel around him. It’s not all that close, not nearly as wet as the honey you’d be dripping for him, but his imagination does the rest of the work for him.

All at once, you’re on top of him, riding him for all he’s worth, your pussy threatening to swallow him whole. You’ve drenched him, just like he’d begged for, and that wet schlick noise still echoing from the receiver is the evidence of each of your assured thrusts over top of him.

You’re still pleading for him anyway — for more, for his tongue, for his cock — and he wants so desperately to give everything to you.

“Oh god, baby—” he sputters. He grips the phone in a white-knuckled, fist trembling. “Oh, fuck, I’m coming, baby.”

“Please, Eddie. Please come for me,” you plead over the low sounds of the forgotten film playing across the room and all the dirty wet sounds your pussy makes against your fingers. You sound like you need it, like you want his orgasm more than your own.

“Want you to come with me… Can you— Can you do that for me, sweetheart? Please?” It’s not dirty talk anymore. He’s actually fucking begging you and doesn’t feel the least bit ashamed to do so.

He wants to hear all the pretty noises you make when you come — that initial cry that stems from the depths of your soul, the high-pitched whimpers that come when the sensitivity builds, and the whines that leave you when it ebbs.

He wants to hear it over and over and over again, like a worn cassette, and play it until the tape spins out.

“Yes…” you promise through a set of stuttering breaths.

There’s no talking when either of you come. Eddie’s long forgotten to talk you through it, but you would barely hear him if he had. The phone slips out of your hand when your grip slackens and it falls to the pillow beside your head.

You chase your orgasm full throttle, working through the crescendo and the strikes of lightning, focusing only on his muffled moaning and the pretty sounds he makes as he comes.

The breath of your name whimpered through a tight throat is what does it for you. Your body has hardly any time to warn you before you’re gushing all over your fingers, twitching every time the pad of your thumb rubs over clit.

That cry, the one you always let out as you come — all wet and full of need — makes Eddie orgasm right alongside you.

He swipes his thumb over his head again, collecting the pearls of precum gathering there and sliding them down the base to squeeze himself there like he’d been doing this whole time. He clutches harder this time, imagines it's your cunt locking him in a vice-like grip, and whines in his throat when he comes.

Several loads of it spill onto his cotton boxers, most of it gathering along the side of his hand and dripping down his knuckles. His breath staggers as he works himself through his high, praising you through the phone like you’re the one who brought him to it.

“Fuck, baby… You’re so good… So fucking good.”

You’ve long settled from your own orgasm, still tingly and numb in some places, but not as gone as you had been just moments before. You still float on a cloud, getting lost as you stare through your window at the half-hidden stars sprinkling the night sky and feeling as though you could reach out and touch them.

You can feel the satin moonlight bathing you, and the jittery static of the neon of the television screen. You can feel everything and somehow nothing at all.

“I don’t know how you do it, Eds,” you confess, hardly thinking about the words spilling from your mouth when you lazily bring the phone to your ear again.

“Do what, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know… You always make me feel good. Even when you’re not here… Even when we’re not getting each other off.”

“I feel the same way,” he promises you, all mushy, even though he feels like a slob for wiping his hand off on his discarded jeans on his bed. “Just… wish you were here.”

“I wish I was there, too… Wish I could clean you up.”

Eddie’s eyes shut tight as his head tilts back to his pillow at the thought. “Fuck… You’re gonna make me hard again, sweetheart.”

You perk up suddenly as an idea sprouts like a flower in your head. A smile blooms on your lips, and you rise up onto your elbows, glowing with an unanticipated excitement. “How long would it take you to get ready?”

“…Get ready?” he echoes.

“Yeah,” is all you say.

“I mean, I— I don’t know. I figure if I put on some new underwear and a fresh pair of pants, I’ll be good as new... Why?”

“You wanna do something?”

“Yeah. Sure. Anything,” he answers clumsily in place of saying, ‘Anything to not have to be without you.’

“I wanna go to Skull Rock.”

“Skull Rock?” he repeats.

Legend has it, you and Steve made that place a local landmark. People have always said that Hopper caught the both of you one too many times up at Lover’s Lake and the Quarry, that you needed a more hidden place to fuck. So you’d stumbled around in the middle of the woods until you found a place the chief wouldn’t think to look for you.

You’d certainly found it. Then every other horny high schooler did too.

It’s the place you go to fuck, the most private place in all of Hawkins — hell, maybe even Indiana entirely for teenagers who can’t get the house to themselves. And as appealing as it sounds, to take you beneath a sky of twinkling stars, Eddie doesn’t want his first time with you to be on dirt or in the middle of the woods. That’s how all the horror movies start, don’t they?

So, needless to say, your answer takes him by surprise.

“Yeah! You can see all the stars really good from there. It’s too hard to see them so close to town.”

Eddie’s heart swells all at once at how sweet you are, like sugar poured directly onto his tongue. You’re not eager to be without him either, it seems, and that thought is as gratifying as it is thrilling.

You’re an adventure he’s about to go on, without a map or a way out, a journey he’s happy to go into blind as long as you’re holding his hand the entire way through it.

It breaks his heart to hang up the phone. He practically begs you to do it for him, and it makes you laugh — a kind giggle entwined with a tease ‘you’re such a baby.’ It rings in his ears long after the receiver clicks.

Most of all, he hates all the stoplights that separate your place from his. He hadn’t known where you lived before now, not until you uttered it over the phone. He makes a mental note to figure out a quicker way, somewhere through the winding back roads that his old van can speed through to make the distance less daunting.

He pulls into your apartment complex, a quaint two-story thing on the quieter side of town, where the woods are plentiful and the street lamps far fewer. He turns his radio down out of respect for all your neighbors that he’s sure he’ll never meet and spies you through the neon orange porch lights. You shut and lock your door in quick succession, then scurry across the way to meet him.

Eddie leans over to unlock the passenger side door for you, already beaming, and finds you’re smiling too when you climb in next to him. The grin you shoot his way outshines the night sky and makes a bright yellow sun of the girl sitting in his passenger seat.

“Hi,” you’d greeted him, all shy like you didn’t just make him come all over his hand thirty minutes ago.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he volleys back like he always does, with that big ol’ smirk and teasing lilt as he cock his head to the side — using his playfulness to cover up the bashful mess you so easily reduce him too.

Neither of you had gotten particularly dressed up to see each other. All he did was put on fresh under and pajama pants. You succumbed to a smilier laziness it seems, haphazardly brushing through your half-damp hair, throwing on a too big t-shirt, and calling it a day.

The cotton hangs low at your chest, stretched out and obviously well-loved. It falls well past your thigh, though you spend much of the drive anxiously tugging it down.

It makes him wonder what you’re wearing beneath it. If you’ve tugged on a pair of shorts or if you’re in the bra and (undoubtedly wet) underwear you’d told him you were wearing over the phone.

Eddie winds himself up all over again while you sift through the flimsy case of endless cassettes he keeps tucked in the glove compartment that never quite shuts all the way.

“How do you now have any ABBA tapes?” you wonder like it’s baffling, with an Iron Maiden tape in one hand and Cinderella in the other. Metallica plays lowly, nearly inaudibly, from the stereo.

Eddie laughs and darts his eyes from the darkened back roads to look at you, all smiley and bathed in moonlight, before turning back to the road again. “Uh, because I’m not a thirty-year-old woman. That’s the shit moms listen to.”

“Moms and hot girls,” you retort jokingly.

“Right, moms and hot girls listen to ABBA — of which, I am neither, sweetheart. Sorry to be the one to break it to you… Besides, it’s not like you walk around listening to, fucking, I don’t know— Van Halen or whatever.”

“Hey. I listen to Van Halen,” you shoot back.

He scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

“It’s got what it takes!” you sing suddenly, not quite catching the rhythm of the song, but smiling anyway as you reach for his forearm resting on the center console. “So tell me why can’t this be love!”

“Oh, my god— that’s literally their worst song,” Eddie chuckles through the widest grin you’ve ever seen from him.

It makes you smile big too, looking like an idiot who’s totally head over heels for the boy next to her. And of that, you’re happily guilty of.

“Not true,” you shake your head defiantly. “I love that song.”

“So that means it has to be good, right?” he retorts playfully, shooting you a teasing look, though his beam is more than sincere.

“Obviously,” you answer with a scoff that makes Eddie roll his eyes.

He knows he’s going to start to love it, though, if only because it’s the only Van Halen song you halfway know.

He’s going to hear that song on the radio and he’s going to want to turn it, but he’s going to remember this moment now — the one with you reaching for him while you sing the lyrics to a song he can’t stand, sitting pretty in his passenger seat, while the moonlight blanches your smile and the bare skin of your thighs.

Eddie Munson is going to love that goddamn song for the rest of his life.

He parks as close as he can to Skull Rock, knowing his van can’t work its way that far into the woods. The two of you are forced to walk the rest of the way, not exactly minding it, though Eddie’s incessantly worried you’re going to get cold.

He’s already forced his jacket upon you, which you took with little fight. It warmed you almost immediately — with his cozy heat and musky cologne.

You make mindless conversation the entire way there, about music and then about his band and then what animal you’d want to be in your band if that were the least bit possible. Eddie chooses a sheep without any hesitation, though you’re confident that a penguin would be far cooler.

You keep a careful distance between you, at first, like both of you are too scared to initiate the first move. That is, until you trip over a raised branch and nearly eat ass on the forest floor. Then Eddie’s holding your hand the entire way, keeping you close.

“If you wanted me to hold your hand, you coulda just said so, you know?” he jokes. “Didn’t have to go through all the dramatics, sweetheart.”

You try and yank your hand out of his grip in protest then, but he doesn’t let you. In fact, he pulls you closer and twirls you into a bear hug that you happily relax into.

He feels your sigh fan against his collarbone as you rest your head at the nape of his neck, his arms wrap around your shoulders as yours settle at his waist. He rocks you back in forth, in a moment that’s too almost sweet to make fun of.

Eddie finds a way, of course, “See?” he singsongs. “I’ll hug you like this all the time, if you want. You don’t have to almost kill yourself to get my attention, babe.”

“All I did was trip,” you laugh at his theatrics.

“Death by tree root… What a gnarly way to go.”

He holds your hand the entire way to Skull Rock.

He doesn’t let you go once, not until you’re ascending the large boulders to plant yourselves at the very peak of them. He’s grabbing you again once you settle, though, and the two of you just sit there, for several long moments, just gaping at the stars that dance with life above you. They sprinkle an infinite void with enough light that manages to touch you, trillions of miles away.

There’s a subtle beauty in that Eddie never would’ve appreciated before now.

“Shit, babe,” he breathes through a whimsical existential dread. “You were right. The stars are really fucking pretty out here.”

You love how much he loves this, to come to Skull Rock with you and count the stars. Any other guy would’ve had their tongue down your throat by now, stuffing your hand down their unbuttoned jeans.

But not Eddie.

He just holds your hand because he likes the feeling of his fingers entwined with yours, grasping tightly onto you while he gazes at an infinite universe — like you might float off right along with it.

His neck is stretched to gape at the night sky. You catch his adam’s apple bobbing every time he swallows. You want so desperately to kiss his milky white skin and sprinkle blotchy red bruises there.

His curly locks fall over his shoulders. He shakes his head to get his bangs out of his eyes while the chocolate buttons of them dart around the endless void.

He’s more beautiful than every star in the sky combined. You can’t be sure of how many that is, of course, but it’s a whole bunch if you had to guess. It makes sense, though, for the prettiest boy in the whole damn galaxy.

“Told ya,” you answer with a smile, leaning over to nudge his shoulder with yours. “You come out here often?”

You’re asking if he takes girls here and he knows it, but it’s not like you’re being inconspicuous about the whole thing. Eddie gauges it almost immediately, the subtle jealousy hinting at your tone — something no one else would’ve caught — and he squeezes your hand in reassurance.

He shakes his head. “No… Never.”

“Never?” you press with raised brows, like his answer shocks you.

“Ever. It’s not really my scene, I guess… But what about you, sweetheart? Never seen you around these parts before.”

You knock his shoulder again, harder this time. “Shut up. You already know the answer to that.”

“Yeah…” he nods to himself, eyes darting back and forth as he reminisces on something. “You and Harrington, you and Hargrove. Hell, I think I heard about you and Jason one time—”

“That was a long time ago,” you argue. “Before I even knew you, okay?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs in defense. “You totally have a thing for pretty boys, sweetheart.”

“I never said I didn’t, Eds. Just that you were pretty, too.”

“Whatever,” he scoffs and rolls his eyes like he isn’t glowing red beneath the moonlight.

“You’re better than all three of them, Eds,” you confess with a sudden softness that catches his attention almost immediately. He turns his attention from the sky to look at you properly again. His breath catches at you sad you look — all beautiful and coated in shades of blue.

“…Yeah?”

You nod and drag his hand into your lap to fidget with his fingers. You trace the skeleton heart on his middle finger, subverting all your attention there because it’s easier than having to look at him now. “Better than all of them combined— not even just them, you know? Out of everyone. No one’s ever been this nice to be before.”

“Me neither, sweetheart,” he confesses with a morose grin. “The freak of Hawkins High attracts a lot of assholes, believe it or not.”

“Is it bad?” you wonder cautiously, like you’re scared to hear the answer. In some ways, you are.

You hadn’t known him in high school, not really. For obvious reasons, you ran in very different circles. You never even had classes together. There was never any excuse to be close to each other before now, never a reason to become friends. So you didn’t.

You grew to know him as a freak, and he knew you as the town slut. Then somewhere down the line, he became your dealer and now… here you were.

But you’ve graduated now and he’s still army crawling towards a diploma. You couldn’t save him from the hell of Hawkins High even if you wanted to.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he shrugs. “Jason and the dick brigade just wanna make my life hell, that’s all.”

“I hope they aren’t,” you respond shyly.

Eddie scoffs then shoots you a smile. “Oh, of course not. Look at me. I’m at Skull Rock with the most wanted girl in Hawkins. I’m living the dream, sweetheart.”

“So you don’t care?” you wonder, peering at him through your lashes, as you twist the silver cross around his finger.

“Care about what?”

“That I’m a slut,” you laugh like it’s obvious.

Eddie doesn’t think it’s all that funny. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s not like it isn’t true, Eds,” you retort with a trembling smile. “I mean, that’s literally what people call me — most people don’t even care to call me by my real name anymore.”

“I don’t care,” Eddie shakes his head. “I don’t care about that. I don’t give a shit about what people say about you. If everyone cared about what everyone said about everyone, neither of us would be here right now… Because you’d think I was some devil-worshipping freak and I’d think you were too busy getting it on with Chief Hopper.”

You screw your face up immediately at the thought. The mere idea was repulsive. The asshole was practically your father these days. Jim Hopper was in that small bunch of available people you would never fuck, and happily so.

“I’d never stoop that low,” you joke.

“I like you, how you are, right now,” Eddie promises. “Don’t want you to change a damn thing.”

His brown eyes twinkle with a sincerity that rivals the stars above you. All of a sudden, you don’t care about a bunch of heavenly bodies light years away from you — you care about this man, the one sitting beside you now, holding your hand even though your palms have gone all sweaty.

It’s too good to be true — the way you looks at you, the way he talks to you, the way he treats you. You’re scared that it’s a dream, that you’ll wake up and find that none of this was ever real. Or worse, that he was, and that he just didn’t care about you the way you cared about him.

It’s almost irrational. Almost.

But it’s happened before.

And it’s left you a scarred and mangled mess.

You shake your head to yourself and scrunch your face as you turn to look him. “Have you ever done this before, Eddie?”

“Don’t what?” he wonders with furrowed brows.

“I don’t know…” you shrug. “Any of this? With anyone else?”

He’s grateful he doesn’t have to lie. Or tell some clumsy half-truth for the sake of saving his own skin. He realizes tonight is perhaps the most honest he’s ever been with you, baring his pale soul beneath a silver moonlight.

“Never,” he answers, unwavering, with a firm shake of his head.

“Really?”

“Really,” he nods, then swallows thickly at a gut-wrenching realization. “I’ve never felt his way about anyone else before.’

“Me neither,” you promise.

It’s a tad more meaningful coming from you than from a boy who’s never had someone to love and to love him back.

You’re experienced, you’ve found what you like and what you don’t like. You’ve been with guys who have given you the world and guys that have ended yours altogether. And out of all of them — all of the assholes in Hawkins you could’ve picked — you’ve chosen the freak.

You want him.

You want Eddie.

The revelation makes him grin. “Promise?”

“Cross my heart, Eddie Spaghetti.”

#published by bug #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #eddie munson imagine #virgin!eddie munson x reader #virgin!eddie munson

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ladylooch · 1 year ago

Text

Nico's Best Girl - [Nico Hischier]

A/N: It has been a hot minute since I wrote Nico Smut.. or at least it feels like it? But the people spoke, and they were desperate for Nico and some spanking 🤭 So let me introduce you to Nasty Nico and all the things he does to his beautiful wife on the occasions he comes out.

Word Count: 2.1k

Read more Lexi and Nico Here.

Nico Hischier is so far in my dog house, he can’t even see our house anymore.

This is a rare occurrence between the two of us, but I’m livid. Seething. Visualizing myself smothering him with a pillow.

Why?

Because he walked into our daughter’s room after his latest road trip and woke her up, then fell asleep next to me. So now, I’m the one up at 5 am in the living room, watching god awful toddler TV and sucking down my second cold brew of the day. Huge bags are under my eyes, purple and blue, for the three hours of sleep I managed to get.

It’s well into the late morning when Nico emerges from our bedroom. I’m still mad, but at least Lucie is taking a nap. My shoulders tighten when he leans down to kiss my head next to my dilapidated bun. He stays there for a moment, breathing in the smell of me after being gone for so long.

“Good morning.”

“Mmm is it?” I mutter back as I stand. I begin gathering some of Lucie’s toys, starting by putting one of the puzzles back into its home.

“I think so?” Nico wonders. “I am so tired. I might need a nap later.” He says through a huge yawn. I look up at him, scowling at the back of his head. “Where is LuLu?” He asks, scratching at the hairs on his chest.

“Sleeping.”

“Aww.. I wanted her to nap with me later.” A disgruntled pucker hits his lips. Nico goes to the fridge, pulling out orange juice and pouring himself a glass. I watch him, standing still and flabbergasted in the living room at his lack of attention. He turns back to make eye contact with me as he drinks. “Hm?” He asks between slurps, bushy eyebrows raising in question at me.

“If you ever do what you did last night again, I am going to blow an airhorn in your ear.” Nico pauses from drinking. He seems to take me in more, then grimaces.

“I’m sorry.”

“You think, Nico?” I question, shrugging my shoulders with attitude. He cringes and brings a defensive hand up.

“I’ll make it up to you.” I start grabbing the couch pillows Lucie threw on the floor, tossing them back into their places. I reach for the knitted throw blanket next, beginning to fold it back aggressively. “I missed her so much. I didn’t want to wait until morning to give her a hug.”

“Well, now I’m missing the five hours of sleep I need to function.” I toss the blanket back onto the ottoman, adjusting the ends so it drapes over the side the way I like.

Nico watches silently from the kitchen while I stalk around the living room, trying to repair the disaster of our living room. My displeasure is obvious. Whenever I glance at him, I can see Nico’s mind calculating which fix he needs to pull out to move us forward.

“Lex.” Nico’s quiet call reaches where I am tucking her Lightning McQueen ride-on toy by the side of the couch. I look up at him and startle. He decided the fix is sexual. “You need me to wake you up?” His voice is husky, gone is the rough coating of sleep, replaced by the burning desire. It’s a reminder of how long that road trip really was- almost two weeks without each other, filled with FaceTime calls that barely grazed over the itch.

“Not sure you can, cap.” I quip back. Nico’s chuckle is low, accepting of my challenge. He pushes off from the kitchen counter. I bite back the desperate whimper in my throat at the sight of his hard cock straining his black pants. My lips part as he stops by the couch. He gestures for me to get on it. My cheeks are pink, eyes wild, chest fluttering as I take slow, teasing steps.

“The longer you take to get over here, the more angry I’m getting… the harder your lesson will be.” My green eyes sparkle. A slight smirk pulls one side of Nico’s lips up, reminding me he is still there even as Nasty Nico is beginning to take over his body. Nasty Nico doesn’t like when I’m an ungrateful brat. Or when I whine at how hard he fucks me, or pulls my hair, or shoves his fingers into my mouth. He demands for me to be a good girl, his best girl, while I take him so well.

My folds are slick as I come to stand next to him. His hands reach for my big t-shirt- an old one of his he won’t wear anymore, from a playoff series that didn’t result in a cup. The old fabric teases my nipples when his fingers work it over my head. His thumbs come up, probing the puckered skin until I sigh. Nico kisses along my cheek until he gets to my ear. He tugs the lobe with his teeth, then continues with his lips down my throat.

He lowers himself to the couch. Then he grabs my fingers, tugging me to bend down so he can suck a nipple into his mouth. I grip the back of his head, working to straddle his lap. Nico’s hand wraps around my waist, releasing my nipple. He jerks me forward, pinning me down to his side with my ass in the air. The harsh vibration of skin hitting rips through our living room. I moan, savoring the feel of my ass cheek tingling beneath his hand. His palm rubs over the area, then he digs his fingers in to heartily grip the muscle.

“That what you want baby, hm? You frustrated with me?”

“Yeah, asshole.” I sigh.

SLAP!

“Oh.” I moan.

“Keep it up.” His tone is searing. He pins me down harder, gripping the waistband of my leggings. I turn my face out of the couch cushion, unable to see him, but the coolness of the room strokes against my wet, pulsing heat.

His finger prints bleed into my ass, then pull apart my cheeks to hear the crudeness of my wet folds splitting open from his force. Despite his profession, Nico’s hands are relatively soft, no callous or hard points, so the smoothness of his palms over my bare ass have me closing my eyes. It’s a hard distinction, between how good his skin feels on me and how hard his next slap is. I jolt, screwing my eyes tightly shut. Those same fingers get soft again, going to explore my folds. He gathers my wetness on his fingers, then slides his middle finger into my entrance. I’m more than ready and pulse my muscles around him.

“Mmm, greedy girl today.” He stuffs another finger inside, fucking me hard with them as I try to press my hips back into his hand. His thumb rolls over my clit.

“Cap.” I groan, “want your cock.” My hips buck back, finding enough momentum to thrust his fingers deeper into me. Nico steadies me for a moment, curling his fingers up, rolling them over the velvet spot inside of me. I quiver around his appendages.

“You can have my cock when you cum.”

Everything gets wetter at his dirty words. Nico's free hand finds my nipple, rolling it between three of his fingers as he fucks me with his hand. I moan, wiggling under his pin and bucking my hips again. Nico lets me this time, groaning as I take over. The distinct slurp of wetness from each rock into him has Nico cooing encouragement to me.

“You looks so sexy right now.” He praises me.

I moan loudly, then cum. Nico takes over, gently riding me through the orgasm. He pulls his fingers out, releasing me from my position and letting my knees straddle him upright again. I grab his wrist and before he can even demand, I wrap my mouth around his middle finger. The sweet, tanginess of myself explodes in my mouth. Nico’s pupils blow wider at the sight, mouth dropping ajar. I close my eyes and hum. His breathy moan dances across my face.

“I taste so good for you. Only you.” I confess after finishing his ring finger.

“Mine. Forever.” He grabs the back of my neck to pull me in for a hot, wet kiss. We moan into each others mouthes. Nico helps me work my pants the rest of the way off. Then he drops his sweatpants and underwear to the floor. I watch, intoxicated, as his thighs tighten while stepping out of them. Fuck, I want those thighs slamming into the back of mine.

“Hard, Nico.” I request as he strokes his cock in front of me. The tip of him is swollenly pink, oozing already. “So hard.” I moan as he puts that same head against my clit. He slaps it there. I bruise my bottom lip with my teeth. Another small whimper pushes out. Nico smirks, slapping my clit again. A bead of his pre-cum sticks there, creating a thin line of connection as he pull himself away.

“My pussy.” He reminds the room as he bottoms out inside of me. I groan at how tight the fit always is at first. He works his way all the way out, then does the same push forward. Nico moans this time. “So wet for me. Know how much you like it when I slap your ass.”

“Mmhm.” He brings his fingers up oo my mouth, the same ones that made me this wet, and he stuffs them back into my mouth. He watches them slide in and out, pressing down on my tongue as he presses his cock deeper inside of me.

“Look how good you are for me today. Even though you’re mad at me. Such a good girl, Lex. My perfect wife.” The last praise gets me and I moan loudly through the room. He pulls his fingers out of my mouth, bringing them instead to my clit as he leans farther forward. “Kiss me.” He demands. I curl up, pressing our tongues together, then allowing his to hurriedly enter my mouth.

“Right there.” I moan, shivering, feeling the tightness in my body coil to an unbearable point. My face scrunches up in pleasure and I put my forehead to his big shoulder as I scream out his name in ecstasy. Bright hot white explodes across my eyelids as Nico fucks me faster and harder. “Oh my god!” I yell, feeling myself tighten up again, instantly. Nico picks me up off the couch, fucking hard and fast. His balls slap against my ass as those powerful, hockey thighs take me to heaven again. This time, he comes too. He curses in his languages, almost dropping me as his powerful orgasm explodes inside of me. His fingers bruise me in his desperate grasp to keep me upright.

A freight train of blood rolls through my ears, trying to regulate me after two incredible, back to back orgasms. Nico lays me on the couch, staying on his knees between my spread legs as he curses again to the ceiling. After a few moments, I hear the faint call of a little girl.

“Daddy?” Lucie’s small voice comes from the monitor in her room.

Nico’s brown gaze come back to me. We are both panting, barely breathing. Lucie cries on the monitor again, then Nasty Nico disappears completely, and in his place is my sweet husband. He reaches from my hips, flipping me so my ass is in the air again. Nico leans down, kissing the red marks he’s left on my flushed skin. Once he is satisfied they have been fully covered with his appreciative mouth, he leans forward, connecting his chest with my back.

“I’ll get her.” He murmurs. “I love you.” He closes his eyes as he says it like a grateful prayer. “You need help getting to our room?”

“Mhm.” I respond. He chuckles, pulling my naked body up into his arms. He hands me my clothes before we move towards the hall. I lay my cheek on his shoulder.

“One minute, LuLu.” Nico sweetly calls to her when we walk past her room. “Gotta take care of my number one girl first.”

“I am not your number one girl.” It’s light hearted and I chuckle as I say it. Nico hates it and makes me look at him.

“What? Yes you are.” Nico is confused.

“It’s Lucie.” I shrug like it’s obvious.

“No, it is not.” Nico shakes his head insistently. “It’s you, baby. No matter how many girls we have in our life, you’ll always be first.”

I know better than to argue further with Captain Nico Hischier.

#what my world spins around au #nico hischer x oc #nico Hischier smut #hockey writing #my writing #NHL fan fiction #nhl smut

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 9 months ago

Text

I've been dreaming of the Benevolent Sovereign of the Oasis.

Sun and shadow. Two existences, locked in a perpetual cycle, unable to be without the other.

It hurts to part ways, but reunion is that much sweeter.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

His eyes flutter open, and the instant his awareness hits, so, too, does the lightning in his veins. He throws his covers off and scrambles out of bed. His phone is in his hand in seconds, the calendar app opened.

It's just as he anticipates.

“Today’s the day!!”

Kalim's exhilarated shout stirs the entire mansion. Various hired help glance up from their tasks—private chefs in the middle of their prep work, housekeepers tending to the laundry, gardeners watering the flowers—and tut or sigh.

"There goes the young master again," they’d murmur amongst themselves. "He's so excitable."

It's not an unusual occurrence, but this time is especially special. The notice had gone out months in advance, the most skilled laborers called in from all corners of the world for the event. He had counted down the days, cancelled all his meetings.

Just for this.

Kalim breaks into a sprint down the corridor, his sandaled feet pounding the polished floors. He skids around a corner and continues his frantic pace, almost knocking over a valet. The servant stumbles, but Kalim grabs his hands and pulls him up into a spin.

"It's today, it's today!!" he squeals, earning a blank stare from the valet.

"Yes, sir. The staff are all aware. The preparations are well underway, so you needn't be concerned."

"Gahahah, everyone's already hard at work this early in the morning!" Kalim’s boisterous laugh bounces off the high ceilings. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Oh no, please leave the work to us... Y-Young master? Young master, where are you going?!"

"I'm going to check up on some things, don't mind me!!" Kalim calls back. He has already taken off, leaving the valet stunned.

"... Well, he's certainly become more proactive."

Kalim sticks his head into the dining room. The table is large enough to host his entire family plus several guests, but today it is set only for two. The seats are intimately situated across from one another, their best plates, silverware, and cloth napkins set out to welcome the diners.

The centerpiece, an ice sculpture of a viper with its hood flared out, sparkles in the morning sunlight. It would be a puddle by now, had it not been enchanted to never melt.

Servants are busy setting up a banquet: crisp vegetables, steamed fish, crusted breads, seasoned meats. His stomach tosses uncomfortably when he passes the seven kinds of curry laid out in a row--but he reassures himself with the reminder that his guest is sure to love them.

The kitchen didn't skim on the beverage selection either. There are sparkling juices, rich soups, spiced coffee, and black tea, accompanied by a large pot of white sugar with which to sweeten it. For dessert, fresh fruits (no dates!), flaky layered pastries, ice-creams, and cakes dipped in sugar syrups, topped with crushed pistachios and candied orange peels.

"Care to sample, sir?" a servant asks Kalim. They offer a trey of appetizers, each with an odd stone-colored dollop.

He obliged, popping one into his mouth. "Mmm! What's this gray stuff? It's delicious!"

"The head chef's secret recipe, young master. He thought to bring it out of his recipe cards today in honor of the celebration."

"Wow, he's really going above and beyond for this!!" Kalim glances at his staff. Now the orchestra is filing in with their instruments, and a massive roast duck on a bed of fried garlic and scallions is being laid out on the table. Another team is stringing up lanterns, and a skilled animal tamer enters, hauling a crate of colorful parrots. "Everyone is. I really appreciate it.

"... Oh, hey!" He snaps his fingers, a spark in his eyes--as though he has just come up with a great idea. "I know! Since you've been putting your all into this, I think it's only fair you get to get off work early and have a chance to relax too!"

"Erm, sir--that's very generous of you, but we aren't even done setting things up yet. The decorations especially..."

"It's fine, I've got this!" Kalim turns to the rest of the workers calls out, waving his arms. "Hey, everyone! You're free to go! Grab some nice food from the kitchen on your way out. I can handle the rest!"

The staff look confused, but not one of them protests. Some shrug and immediately exit, others anxiously wait for their peers to go before they follow. Before long, the room is cleared.

"Alright, let's do this...!"

Kalim produces his magical pen and waves it in an arc. Golden sparkles rain down, animating nearby objects.

Plates, forks, spoons, and knives march to the long table themselves. Flowers settle into crystal vases. Banners and lanterns float up, pinning themselves in place.

There we go.

"Squawk, squawk, squawk!!"

Kalim follows the cacophony to the cage of parrots left behind by the animal tamer. They're scrambling around, looking longingly at the decorations that had been raised to the ceiling.

He brightens with understanding. "Oooh, I get it! You want to get out and stretch your wings too!"

Kalim hesitates, turning the choice over in his head. "'Hmm, well... Technically, you're not supposed to be released until he gets here."

A showy spectacle--that is how Kalim envisions it. A whirlwind of flashy feathers to welcome him back. But the longer he looks at the wide, wet eyes of the parrots, the more the sadness swells in his chest.

Poor little guys, bound to a cage.

"... Okay, I've decided! You can come out and stretch your wings, I'll just need you back on the ground before the big surprise. Then you can fly all you want when he gets here."

Kalim kneels, fiddling with the lock on the cage. The door easily slides open, and--

FLAP, FLAP, FLAP!!

The entire flock rushes out, sending Kalim flying back onto his bum. He braces against the powerful beating of wings, the talons and beaks nearly scraping his skin.

A voice cuts through the noise.

"Kalim!"

Someone tackles right into him, forcing him to the ground. The world violently tilts, and suddenly Kalim is staring at a ceiling swarming with golden lights and a vaguely shaped shadow looming over him.

"I thought you had matured a little since I departed, but it looks as though you still have your moments where you're hopeless without me. I didn't think the first thing I'd do when I got back was protect you, but here we are."

He blinks rapidly. His vision slowly corrects, lines drawing together and forming a crisper image.

That face.

He recognizes it.

His old friend, dressed in sandals, khakis, and a bright yellow T-shirt embroidered with pink tropical flowers. He wears a cap that resembles a cartoon character--a dog with floppy black ears. The man had entered with suitcases, which were dropped by the door the instant he jumped to Kalim's defense.

"Jamil...!"

Kalim yanks him into a hug. His face turns, tears welling in his eyes. "Y-You came!! And you came so early...!!"

"Of course I did. I promised you I'd return home after my travels," Jamil sighs, patting his emotional friend's back. "I was planning on surprising you first, but..."

He gives the dining room and its extravagant flourishes a glance. Parrots are roosting in the banners, popping the balloons, or stealing vegetables and fruit from the flatters.

"... It looks like you've beaten me at my own game," he says tactfully.

"Yeah!" Kalim sniffs, wiping at his tears. "I... I wanted to welcome you home with a huge celebration!!"

"... Idiot. I didn't come back for any of this. Not food, not music, not pets, not decorations. There's one thing that the Scalding Sands has that no other place in Twisted Wonderland does: my best friend."

"Awww, Jamil...!" Kalim's eyes wet again. He lets out a happy sob, reburying his face in Jamil's shoulder. "It's good to have you back!!"

He sighs deeply. Despite this, Jamil still manages a smile. "It's good to be back with you, Kalim."

#twst #twisted wonderland #Kalim Al-Asim #Jamil Viper #Scarabia #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst countdown #twisted wonderland countdown #I've been dreaming...#twst imagines #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #twst anni #twst anniversary #twisted wonderland anniversary #twisted wonderland anni

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socially-awkward-skeleton · 5 months ago

Text

Pairing: John Price x fem!oc (3rd person pov)

Word count: 4.4 K

Warnings/tags: smut, p in v sex, established relationship, pet names, suggestive dialogue, swearing, drinking, caught in the rain, stuck in a blackout, couple plays truth or dare, super long winded set up for porn, and a slightly rushed ending

NSFW taglist [opt in/out]: @imogenkol @illmetbymoonlight @roofgeese @efingart @inafieldofdaisies

@raresvtm @evvie-a @an-drawer @clicheantagonist @rc-dragons

@la-grosse-patate @direwombat @solstheimart @statichvm @cassietrn

@lady-eudaemonia @strafethesesinners @thedeadthree @voidika @mutantthedark

@strangefable @simplegenius042 @writeforfandoms @quantum-lover @heroofshield

Rain pelts down on the concrete streets of London, the scent of cool drops hitting hot pavement one of the rare scents that could only be attributed to summer in the middle of the city – not quite petrichor, but that bleach clean scent of ozone remained apparent as the storm builds to its height. Thunder booms, shrouding once sunny skies in clouds the colour of deep bruises, shades of purple and green, while lightning cracks in bright luminescent streaks worthy of ancient beliefs in Thor or Zeus’ wrath.

Amongst the masses splashing through the quickly pooling puddles, John rushes Rory inside their townhouse, his jacket held over their heads as a deterrent from the rain, though it does little good as the precipitation pours with the steady flow of a broken faucet on full blast, an absolute deluge coming down at once. They're soaked. Drowned rats with matted hair and sopping wet layers of clothing glued to their forms.

Once inside the four walls meant to shelter them, they are no safer from the clutches of the storm. Rory flicks at the switch by the front door – click-click, click-click – doing nothing at all. The interior of the townhouse left tenebrous, shadows creeping in from the darkened corners. “Bollocks,” she mutters under her breath, heading to the coat closet and grabbing the candles and battery-operated lamps in her power outage kit – even in an unplanned crisis the woman is never unprepared.

Water sloshes off of her as she moves about, dripping down the contours of her face from her drenched hair as John grumbles, peeling off waterlogged shoes and socks by the front door, his jacket in no better shape. “Worse spots we could be in, love. At least we’re at ‘ome, liquor cabinet stocked, gas is still on so we can cook the perishables.” “Yes. Yes, I know. Ever the pragmatist, John,” she snarks before heading to the kitchen for the lighter. “Comes with being a Captain.”

His reply is muffled as he moves down the hall, the sound of wet bare feet slapping on hardwood floors following after him, and she rolls her eyes. “Well make sure ‘the captain’ mops up after himself, yeah? Don’t need puddles on my floor,” she calls back. Rory begins lighting candles and placing them around the kitchen, filling the space with the warm amber glow of firelight flickering as a draught from the open window flows throughout. Entering moments later, John rubs a towel through his hair and tosses it at her after she places the last candle on the table in the corner nook.

“Cheers.” She runs the terry cloth through damp strands, rustling it back and forth, leaving her hair a wild, haphazard mess of waves. “So, what do we do to pass the time for the next however many hours?”

A smirk is the only reply she receives from the bulky man in her periphery. Piercing eyes, normally steely and hard while focused on war and staying alive, sparkle with playful intent. A life to them that Rory only finds in their moments alone. The man who, when they’re miles away from base, gets to fold up and pack away things like duty and honor the way he does his clean laundry neatly into drawers.

“Fuck off, you do not have the refractory period of a 15 year old boy, pillock.” Tossing the soggy towel back at him with a grin, it slaps against his barrel chest like a dead octopus. A hearty chuckle fills the room, blue eyes sparkling from behind crinkled lines in his face. “Mind out o’the gutter, my girl. Was just gonna say we could take a nap.” Bouncing on his heels, proud as a peacock with the way he grins at her.

She hums skeptically, “Is that so?” Her fingers curl around her hips as she stands before him, challenging him like always. “And Soap doesn’t have a bloody rolodex going of numbers he gets from the bar.” “That may be so,” John purrs, drawing closer, dropping off the soggy towel onto the top of the kitchen island. Strong arms wrap around her waist as he stands behind her, drawing her closer to him, grinding his hips against her backside. His mouth near her ear, the bristles of his beard tickle her cheek. “But I think we can both agree after going a round or two together, a rest is often necessary,” he breathes seductively, voice rough and low with desire. “Isn’t that right, love?” “So much for my mind being the one in the gutter.”

He tips his head to the side, angling it to better kiss the side of her neck, plush lips softly pressing to sensitive skin. “Could do something else instead with our time,” Rory offers.

“Like what?” He mumbles against her, lost in his own advances while nuzzling against her slick flesh. Collecting drops of rainwater that roll down the smooth column of her neck on his whiskers.

“Truth or dare? Share a bottle of whiskey while we do it?”

His laugh is a deep rumble in his chest, vibrating against her slender body and through her back as his hands knead at moist clothing cleaving to her frame. “You want to play a bloody kid’s party game?”

Rory shrugs, nonchalant. “Why not?” “Sure know how to drive a hard bargain, Sinclair,” he snickers.

“Oi, on your bike.” Her elbow moves to gently nudge him in the stomach, her nose wrinkling as she plays up her mock annoyance.

“Fine. Are we playin’ ‘7 minutes in Heaven’ while we’re at it then?” A lopsided smile pulling at his mouth as his brow cocks.

“That’s for afterwards.” With a frisky wink she grabs a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from the counter. “Now, come on.” Placing them on the floor, she sits with her back resting against a cabinet and pours them each a double. The amber liquid streaming in carefully controlled twists of her wrist, she’s a woman well-practiced in the art of a properly measured dram. John sighs and slowly lowers to the floor, careful with his knees and lower back as he settles, his long legs stretched out between his place against the oven door and the kitchen island in front of him. She slides one of the drinks across the tiles towards him and they clink their glasses together in a toast. “To the most ridiculous way two grown military officers could possibly spend their time together.” A bright, lilting giggle fills the space between them as dimples carve into her cheeks.

“Haven’t done this since before I was at Sandhurst,” he muses quietly, lifting the glass and bringing it to his lips, taking a hefty sip. “Without the drink, ‘course.”

“Oh, of course.”

Sitting in the dark of their kitchen, candles aglow, it was more intimate than it likely should have been considering their choice of entertainment for the foreseeable future while the power was out. Sipping at their drinks, enjoying the smooth, warm burn of the top shelf liquor Rory always had in her collection, they sat together as if it were any other Saturday evening. “Right, sweetheart. Truth or Dare?” John asks, breaking the silence first.

“Truth.”

“Really?” Placing the glass down on the floor beside him with a gentle crystal chime against the dark marble. “Right off the bat, not even going to go for a little danger? What happened to my brave Lieutenant, eh?” His crooked grin appears all the more sinister in the dampened light.

“Yeah, and if I hadn’t said ‘truth’ you would have given me shit about ‘not trusting you’. So piss off, you bloody prat.” He laughs once more, nodding. “Probably right, I just might’ve.” Blue eyes roam around the ebony wood cabinets of the kitchen as he thinks of a fitting question for Rory’s first choice of truth. “Our very first time together – would we have still ended up in the stall if I had the mutton chops?”

Rory, choking on the sip of whiskey she was currently drinking, coughs up the alcohol as she pats her hand against her chest, laughing. Her voice a throaty croak as she speaks, “Fucking hell, not pulling any punches, are we?” “Well?” He remains stoic, waiting for her answer, the brusque response of the Captain and not John. A barely visible curl pulls at the corner of his lips.

“Probably.” She angles her head to the side and examines him in detail, roaming over him, imagining the baby-faced Lieutenant she met all those years ago with her future husband’s choice of facial hair. “Not exactly a look most girls are used to seeing, however. Few men can pull off the style of someone who would blend in rather nicely in an old west saloon.” A smirk pulling at her full lips as she jokes with him.

“Probably?” John’s heavy brow furrows as his penetrating gaze lands on her, burning into her like a laser sight.

“Don’t know how the 23-year-old me would’ve felt about them.” Her one shoulder lifts in a shrug. She’s never been anything but honest with him, John having always appreciated her bluntness.

“Ah, so it takes a more mature and refined woman to respect ‘em, yeah? Not worthy of a bathroom stall, but a romp in a tent suits ‘em just fine?”

Laughing, her head tosses back, amplifying it. “Fine, you got me there.” Stretching out from her cross legged position, prodding his shin with her toes, she taunts him, continuing the schoolyard antics that started with the choice of game.

However, she’s met by the swift response of John leaning towards her and taking her hand in his. Her dainty one overwhelmed by his grip as he brings her knuckles to his lips, kissing them softly, the stubble of his beard brushing against her soft flesh. “Glad I waited to grow ‘em out then.”

“Wouldn’t have you any other way now.” Hazel eyes sparkle as she gazes at him, reflecting the candlelight in the amber flecks of her emerald depths.

“Suits me, my girl.”

A cozy moment of silence settles between them, smiling at one another, rapt in one another’s shared attention. Six years together. It wasn’t all bliss, but it certainly suited them, with enough memories to fill several albums. Love, the most earnest either of them had ever felt, and it was only for each other. “Truth or Dare?”

“Dare,” John answered, not hesitating for a moment as he released her hand.

“Find the most embarrassing item of clothing you have in the closet, and tell me why.”

“Cheatin’.” He points his finger at her, suddenly a stickler for the rules. “Tha’s a truth and a dare.”

“Maybe so, but fuck it, if we’re gonna play a teenager’s game we might as well have teenager’s rules.”

Steely eyes narrow, his mouth purses making his mustache twitch in response. “Is this just a chance f’you to make fun of that Christmas sweater mum got me last year?”

Shaking her head, she works to hold in a chuckle that tries it’s hardest to sneak past tight lips. “I didn’t say dorky, I said embarrassing. Something with a little more meaning behind it than a big reindeer head with a light up nose – as adorable as that was on you,” she teases.

Jaw clenching, his nose wrinkles as he grimaces. “Fuckin’ ‘ell.” Rising with a grumble, he uses his mobile flashlight to find his way through the darkened home. In the silence, free from the usual electrical hum of appliances, Rory relaxes against the cupboard and sips her drink. Quiet and her weren’t usually on good terms. Unlike John, her peace was found through noise, chaos. Silence simply let the ghosts that haunted her seep in, her usual means of coping keeping them at bay. But, for once, she seems to enjoy the relative calm. A certain sensory deprivation about the stillness and the dark, the peaceful hypnotic dance of candle flames flickering around her, keeping her from drifting too far into the shadows in her head.

Arriving back in the kitchen several minutes later, John unfurls an old Motorhead tee shirt, the once black material now worn out and grayed with age.

“Motorhead?” Her brow lifts. “How is that embarrassing? I already know your music taste, love.” A cheeky smirk pulls at her lips as she crosses her arms over her chest.

He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. “You wanted the story behind it, yeah?” His brow lifts to meet hers, staring at her from under the ridge, frustration apparent on his face. “So, let me tell it.”

“Go on then.” Holding out her hand in an invitation to him to sit and tell the tale. As he sits, her hands return to the space between her lap, cupping the glass that sits nestled between her thighs, body heat warming the last sips of liquor inside.

“Right. So, before we met – the first time, I mean – there was a bird. Had just gone and seen the band live in concert on my leave, been sweating and fighting my arse off in Iraq before that, meant to give this to her before I left again,” he says, gripping the shirt tight in his fist like he’s choking the life from it, the tendons in his arms standing out in stark relief. “Didn’t work out, for several reasons.” By the tone of his voice, she can already tell it was less than amicable. No wonder he had been looking for a quick hook up the same way she had all those years ago. “But I liked the shirt,” he shrugs, “Had it sitting at the back of the closet for years now.” Tossing the shirt away from him, it skids across the floor in a crumpled mess. Rory’s eyes follow it’s trajectory, attuned to the movement like it's a target in the sight of her scope. Her gut churns, annoyed with herself for making him dredge up the past. She glances back at him, chewing on her lip, her brows knitting together as that natural predilection to be a smartass to cover for the tension boils up inside her. But she can’t. Not like this.

“You’re a better person than I. Would have burned the damn thing, good riddance too. The bitch,” she snarls.

A smirk plays at the corner of John’s mouth at her reaction. Glancing up, he grunts, the little growl from the back of his throat a response to the possessive hint in Rory’s tone as he lifts his glass to take another drink.

Sparks flare in her eyes, an idea coming to mind, the little fireball John’s madly in love with coming out to play. She could never sit idly by when she had the chance to solve a problem. “Tell you what, you and me, we’re going to make a good memory with it.”

Wiping his mouth with the side of his hand after swigging back his last sip, his voice is hoarse with the burn. “What the ‘ell are you on about?”

“Well, we’ve made very good memories together quite often, haven’t we?” She purrs, implying the obvious as she snatches the shirt from its puddle of material it landed in on the floor. “There is no way I am letting some slag ruin this for you, my darling.” “What d’you suggest then, sweetheart?” he asks with a cocky lift of his brow. “Clothes are wet anyhow.”

Peeling off her damp shirt like a second skin, Rory then unhooks her bra. Tossing both articles of clothing to the side as she smiles at him, her intense doe-eyed stare seemingly bottomless in the shadowy kitchen. “Bloody good start, love.” His heated gaze roams over her exposed chest, a sight he’s seen a thousand times before, and still that predatory stare residing just below the surface comes creeping back up to the forefront. Skin the complexion of peaches and cream glows, illuminated by dancing flames licking at wicks, shadows and highlights forming over the scars that blemish her skin from combat. Standing, she unbuttons her trousers, letting the wide legged black pants fall to the ground and drape around her feet. John’s hand deftly sneaking in before they pool around her ankles to grab her glass on the floor, finishing off the last dregs of it himself. Slipping her panties down next, stepping out of the pile of wet clothes, she kicks them away and grabs the oversized band tee. The threadbare cotton hugging her lithe form as she stands over him, hands on her hips.

“Even better, you ask me.” His stare sparkles mischievously up at her from his spot on the floor, unmoved. Square jaw going slack as he swallows thickly, pushing the glasses away from him, his steadily stiffening erection growing more evident by the moment as it strains against the material of his gray sweatpants.

A quiet, breathy giggle leaves her as she lowers to sit in his lap, legs straddled on either side of his thick, muscular thighs. Her forehead resting against his as she gazes into his eyes and whispers, “When you see this shirt in future, I just want you to think of that time you shagged your wife-to-be thoroughly on the kitchen floor during a blackout.”

“Can do, my girl,” John rumbles as his hands lift to rest on the curve of her waist, gripping her tight.

Cocking her head to the side, angling it to better mark his mouth with her lips, she kisses him ardently. The rough pads of his fingers curl under her chin as he pulls her closer to him, their lips meet in a searing embrace.

With little coaxing, the waistband of his sweatbands rolls down his hips. His cock hard, ready to be made of use, thick and heavy. Eyes smoldering with desire, he watches her every move as she settles down on his length, her tight sex enveloping him in its velvet grip. Wet heat. Pure bliss. Groaning – a low, guttural sound – he buries his face in the crook of her neck. Hot breath fanning against her, the skin below becoming moist, his beard burning against sensitive flesh. She starts to move, and his hips rise to meet her, thrusting to drive deeper with each roll of her hips and lift of her toned thighs. Breaths are punched from her lungs as he buries himself inside her, muscles visibly flexing with each shift of her body. A dance, one they've perfected over the years, a rhythm that brings them both to that sweet edge.

As if on cue, John begins to lavish her in praise. Give and take. The ebb and flow of the ever shifting landscape of who leads and which one follows, a comfortable equality within their dichotomy that never fails to work for both parties, knowing exactly what works for each of them to reach that inevitable peak.

"Fuck, Rory," he growls, grabbing at her for leverage. "So fuckin’ perfect f’me.”

Large, rough paws grip at her waist possessively, pulling her close as if he needs the anchor. He bucks his hips, desperate to delve deeper, but her pace remains deliberate, maddening. A sense of control that causes a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth as he watches her ride him, the sight of her body undulating over his, a work of art.

Flesh meets at several points of contact, penetrated folds and warm hands sliding up the curves of her body send sparks through her nerves. Goosebumps rise, left behind along his ascent towards the firm peaks of her breasts, gentle swells hidden by the excess material of his oversized shirt. As deft fingers tease at her pebbled nipples below the shirt, pinching and pulling, Rory increases the pace in his lap, rocking with a meter that matches the pounding of her heart.

"Yes, just like that, my girl. Doin’ so good, sweetheart,” he groans, hoarse and panting.

Encased in her body, control slipping, needs demanding to be met, the rhythm builds, sounds of lovemaking growing louder.

"God, I love you," John mumbles as he nuzzles against her once more. The words, heavy with emotion, fall from his lips, a testament to the bond they share. In this moment, there is no war, no death, no fear - only the two of them, entwined in passion. Rory moans, breathless, her desire carrying her forward. Her arms wrap around his broad shoulders, and her fingers card through cropped hair at his nape. “Love you too, my darling,” she whispers against the shell of his ear. Her soft breaths against him fanning the flames between them.

It’s not a sentiment that is often shared aloud, one saved for moments of life or death or intense vulnerability. But, as he looks up at her, there is a depth of adoration in his eyes that cannot be denied, a devotion and desire that is as fierce as it is tender. This is a man who has killed for her and will likely do so again – when he says love, she knows he means it. Their mouths collide, tongues sliding against each other, lips wrapped in a tight seal that lets not a single breath escape. Sounds of pleasure pass between them as they share everything else in their lives. Home. In his arms she finds solace from bullets flying overhead or silent nights marred by guilt-ridden dreams; this sanctuary exists nowhere else on Earth but right here between them.

John carefully lowers her to the floor, his hand cradling the back of her head, protecting her like some fragile prize as she comes to rest against the tile floor, supine. His mouth refusing to leave hers – firm, adamant kisses claim her lips. A low groan coming from him as he kneels on the hard floor between her thighs. His touch trails up her body, tracing curves he’s felt a hundred times before and still never gets enough of.

She watches him the whole way down to the floor, her eyes locked on his in a heated exchange. He’s the one, she thinks, and her heart confirms it as it races, her chest rising and falling with short, heavy breaths. She’s never been more sure of anything in her life, of anyone – just him.

His strong hands slide up her arms, lifting them to bring them up over her head, held there as their hands clasp together. His scarred knuckle brushing against the gold, diamond-set band on her ring finger, a stark reminder of the life they have planned together, entangled forever. The needy head of his cock nudges against her entrance, pushing against her slick folds, as it begs for re-entry. Aching for him, the momentary emptiness felt deep within her. Whimpering together at the gentle pressure before her heat welcomes him in once more, inch by inch, he slides in until their hips meet, taking her slow and deep on the floor of their kitchen. Her back arches, lifting to unite with him. Mewling desperately, not caring if the neighbors hear. Every touch of his mouth and tongue along her jawline and down her throat towards her collarbone drives her wild as she sinks further into her choreographed submission, a practiced performance, knowing the steps forwards and backwards and never showing signs of needing another partner.

“John,” she breathes his name as his hips continue to move against hers, their chests pressed together with only a shirt that had once left a bad taste in his mouth between them, now slick with their combined sweat.

“Yeah, love?” He looks down at her, his brow furrowed with concentration, jaw flexing below his scruff as his adam’s apple bobs with each heavy breath and thick swallow.

Her body begins to show the tell-tale signs of her impending climax, her muscles tightening in her legs, toes curling, the flush that grows from her chest to her cheeks warming her from the inside out and melding with the heat of his body pinned to hers on the cold kitchen tiles. Her stomach muscles flutter, her cunt clenching down on the thick of him. “I’m so close,” she whines. “I know, darlin’,” he husks as the tip of his nose nudges at the side of her neck where her pulse thunders. His lips sucking on her salty flesh stained with sweat, rasping against her, “Come for me, Rory.”

She clings to his hands held to hers, nails digging into the tendons and scars on the back of them. Long, toned legs wrapping around his waist as her body begs to be even closer to him, linked as one. Her breath hitches just before she cries out and her vision blurs, her eyes rolling back as each pulse from her core floods her body, weaving its way up her spine.

Lost for a moment, unable to find her way in the dark, forgetting where she is, she succumbs to the ravages of John’s single-minded focus on her body. Letting their dance sweep her away as he continues to thrust, chasing his own release. Her body heavy, weighted with the pleasure of release, sinks into the sturdy floor below and she enjoys the jolts of sensation that build up inside her once again with his attention.

The slick of them moving together, the rise and fall of their bodies in unison, the tight contractions around him, drives the two ever nearer to the end of their waltz. His grip on her hands tightens in return, holding her in place as each pump of his cock becomes more erratic. More urgent.

“Fuck, Ror,” he grunts, “Nearly fuckin’ there.”

The wet noises of their coupling echo through the kitchen, meeting with the incessant patter of rain outside the window. A convergence in tempo with his last surging thrust as he can no longer hold back, cumming deep inside her.

He releases his hold on her, their palms both sweaty and red from the grip they had on each other. Pulling her into his arms, their sweat mingles as he cradles her close. "Tha's my girl," John murmurs, his fingers running through her hair as his hand snakes up the back of her neck. “Gonna need you to wear that shirt more often now, I s’pose.”

It’s a simple comfort, the afterglow of passion, basking in it while the storm continues to rage outside, but they were right where they were supposed to be. They belong to each other, plain and simple, and neither would have it any other way.

#cod fanfic #cod smut #john price #john price x oc #oc: rory sinclair #ship: you are the sword to my shield #skelly writes

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gilmoriends · 24 days ago

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The twenty beauties of Gilmoriends.

It's about time we give a spotlight to the lovely souls that make up the Gilmoriends. Each of these twenty beauties brings their own sparkle in unity. creating the atmosphere that feels like home. They’re not just pretty faces; they’re funny, easy to tease (in a friendly way, I swear), and... just genuinely funny, really. Let’s dive in and get to know the incredible members who make Gilmoriends what it is!

Let’s start with the three that bring Gilmoriends to life, which none other than Jacqueline, the free spirit who tells it like it is, she is the kind of girl who’ll tell you if your outfit isn’t working (if you need a dose of honesty, she’s your go-to gal!). She’s got a knack for mockery that somehow always manages to make you laugh, never offend you. Second, is Rosemarie, the wise-advice giver with a wicked sense of humor! You can count on her to drop some serious wisdom when you need it—right after she serves you a perfectly timed sarcastic jokes casually like bombshells. Lastly, we have Phoebe, the ultimate cinephile who always armed with film references, also one who competing neck-and-neck with Rosemarie’s sarcasm (it’s a common scene to catch these two picking a fight).

And… drumroll, everyone… here come the new faces that bring Gilmoriends together! Starting with Teyis, the one who keeps us all complaining about how dark her profile is, but honestly, it suits her the most! She’s basically the human equivalent of a cozy night Next up is Bibie, our resident sweetheart and the only westerner in the crew! She’s the one who’s always down for whatever, whether it’s a movie night or a Spotify session. If there’s an activity going on, you can bet she’s right in the middle of it. Then we have Clayie, our meme royalty! Her fingers quicker than a lightning when it comes to editing the funniest video and photo memes to roast the rest of us (don’t worry, she’s our punching bag too, so it’s all in good fun!) also, you’ll never run out of things to discuss with her. And here’s MJ—nope, not Mary Jane or even Zendaya—but her very own MJ! One of our cinephiles making her the perfect movie buddy (also the post-discussion, too). Odes is here to bring the cuteness overload! She’s the friendliest of the bunch, always radiating good vibes that make everyone feel welcome, but still could keep-up with the humor (what a talent!). Then we’ve got Sassy, who we bonded with over playful fights, also an MJ’s (Michael Jackson, not Gilmoriends’ MJ) enthusiast and will not stop talking about him (we secretly love hearing her yap on about it). Meet Qidney, one who sweet and caring but also has a surprising sense of humor that sneaks up on you with random jokes, dropping punchlines like bombshells. Then we have Ophel, the girl who seems like she could be friends with just about everyone, really. Give off the approachable vibe, making it easy to share some jokey moments with her. Aveline, the night owl, is usually awake when the rest of us are snoozing, but also an amazing listener and a wise advisor when you need one! Let’s not forget Tejef, one of the most talkative, ready to chat about anything (not even exaggerating). You could bring up the most uncommon topic, and she’ll be there, ears wide open, ready to engage in a lively discussion. And then there’s Nyxié, our ghost-reader! To summon her from her reading cave, just mention anything related with soccer, and voilà—she’ll appear to join the conversation! Say hi to Acacia, our fun-loving and easygoing spirit! She brings the good vibes and wherever she goes. Also, she looks like she’s got a top-secret list of the finest men on the planet, and she’s not afraid to let it show! And next is Theela! also a football enthusiast and the life of the party! We need to see more of her hilarious side; 'cause we know she’s got the kind of humor that could has us cackling. Asleey, the one bubble that pops and dips forever! But when she does surface, you can expect her to say the sweetest things that make it all worth the wait. Next is Zè, our morning sunshine who radiates friendly vibes that make you feel like you’ve known her forever— definitely someone you want in your corner! And well, Kaluna is the sweetest and calmest of us all. She gives off major little sister energy that just make you want to treat her extra sweetly! Finally, we’ve got Celie, the sweet girl next door. You might not see her around often, but when you do, you know she’s got that kind, gentle spirit that makes her the perfect addition to Gilmoriends!

#Gilmoriends #Gilmore Girls #FRIENDS

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delphi-dreamin · 6 months ago

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In the Hearts of Two

Secret kisses and not-so-secret kisses

Fandom: Palia

Relationship: Hodari x Delphi (OC)

Word Count: 4.5k

Rating: Suggestive, but not explicit.

Notes: A 5+1 in the year of our lord 2024? It's more likely than you think. Thank you, thank you, thank you to @yourboyhack for keeping me writing on this one! (And for reading my handwriting, lol!)

One

“Here ya go, ladies,” Ashura says. “A flagon of mead for Sifuu, a pint of ale for Delphi, and an ormuu milk lassi for Delaila. Enjoy.”

“Thanks, Ashura!” Delphi chirps, giving him a bright, glassy smile as he turns to go back to the counter. He gives her a gentle smile and pats her shoulder before he goes, his low chuckle almost drowned out by Delaila’s laughter.

She waits until Ashura reaches the check-in counter before leaning over the table and teasing, “Sifuu, when are ye goin’ to ask him out? Ye’ve been givin’ Ashura eyes for years now!”

Delphi nearly spits out her beer at Delaila’s words, but catches herself and coughs, “I’d like to know the answer, too, please!”

Sifuu’s normally lavender cheeks flush a dusty violet and her eyes go wide. It’s a reaction Delphi’s never seen before, though she does recall through her alcohol-induced haze the retired monster hunter mentioning more than once that she’d been thinking about asking the innkeeper out. She hadn’t realized how much feeling was actually behind her musings.

Before she has to reply, Sifuu’s gaze focuses behind Delphi and she breaks out in a wide smile.

“Well, would you look at what the palcat dragged in!” Her voice is booming as usual, and she nearly overturns her drink waving in the direction of the inn’s entrance. Delphi doesn’t have time to look back before Sifuu is calling, “Hey Hodari! Haven’t seen you out this late in years!”

Delphi feels her own face heating when she hears Sifuu call Hodari’s name. She downs the entirety of her pint, nearly choking when a hand lands softly on her shoulder.

“Hey, Sifuu,” Hodari chuckles, squeezing Delphi’s shoulder lightly. “I was actually out lookin’ for Delphi, here.”

Delaila and Sifuu exchange glances and Delphi’s face goes white hot.

“Went out to your plot, but you weren’t home,” he drawls, seemingly unaware of the gears turning in both of the older women’s minds. “Figured I’d check the local waterin’ hole. Got a minute?”

Delphi coughs, wishing for all the world that she had more beer in her glass. She finally turns to look at Hodari, clearing her throat before replying, “Yeah, I can, uh, step out for a minute.”

She pointedly doesn’t look back at Sifuu and Delaila as she follows him out into the cool night. She expects him to stop at the square, probably to ask for her advice or assistance with Najuma, but he surprises her. He leads her from the inn toward Jel’s shop, then around to the back of the building.

“Hodari, what—”

She's cut off by his gloved hands cupping her cheeks. Her heart races at the contact, the drunken haze clouding her mind dissipating immediately. Her awareness narrows down to the soft smile on his lips, the apologetic tilt to his brows, the gentle circles he trace with his thumbs, and the heat beginning to pool in her belly.

“Sorry to pull you away like this, darlin’,” he murmurs, brushing her bottom lip with one thumb. “I was hopin’ I’d find you at home.”

“It’s okay,” Delphi breathes, willing her traitorous eyes to remain open, despite the overwhelming urge to close them and melt into him. “Is something wrong?”

“Nah,” he chuckles, his blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight. “I’ve just been wantin’ to do this all day.”

He pulls her in closer as he dips his head down, his lips finding her in a tender kiss. It barely lasts a moment, but she feels it like a bolt of lightning. It could be the beer or the cool breeze that rustles her hair and clothes, but she can feel a tingling sensation spread to her fingers and toes. It lingers within her, even as he backs away and bids her good night.

Two

He’s exhausted, knees and back aching, by the time he surfaces from the mines. Cursing under his breath, he realizes he’s lost track of time again. Luna and Ignis are high in the sky, the stars twinkling to the tune of the crickets chirping, but Hodari barely notices any of it as he trudges home. Najuma needs dinner and he still needs to finish up some things in the workshop before he can even think about going to bed or taking a warm bath to soothe his aching joints.

He’s crossing the bridge to the house when he notices the smell of cooking meat and the almost musical sounds of laughter coming from the covered table in the yard. As he approaches, the tension melts from his shoulders and he finds himself smiling.

Najuma sits at the table, chatting animatedly about a new invention while a large pot bubbles on the stove. A familiar figure sits across from her, with pink curls and sparkling violet eyes, listening with rapt attention as Najuma regales her with tales of explosions and collapsed chaapa burrows.

“Well shoot, if I’d known I was comin’ home to dinner, I’d’ve been home sooner,” Hodari jokes, propping his pick against the table.

“Dad,” Najuma groans, rolling her eyes while he chuckles.

“I’m just playin’, Najuma,” he laughs. The warm smile on Delphi’s face as she rises to stir whatever she’s cooking sets his stomach fluttering.

He thought he’d never feel like this again after Leta died, the butterflies in his stomach, the warmth spreading from his chest whenever she gives him that smile.

“Since you asked,” Delphi teases, turning off the stove. “I made sernuk noodle stew. Najuma told me you were working late and I was out hunting, so...”

“It smells great,” Hodari says, realizing for the first time how hungry he actually is. He watches her ladle stew into bowls, filling them nearly to the brim before placing two down in front of him and Najuma.

“Shit,” she hisses, shaking her head. “I forgot utensils. I’ll be right back.”

He watches her jog to the house, curls bouncing and hips swaying.

“Ugh! Gross, Dad,” Najuma scoffs, scrunching her nose in disgust. “I’m right here!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hodari sighs, huffing out a laugh. He playfully ruffles her hair as he gets up from the table, narrowly dodging her flailing arms when her goggles fall over her face.

He makes his way inside, not quite sure what he’s planning to do, but following his feet as they lead him into the kitchen. Delphi is reaching for something in an upper cabinet, standing on her toes. Her top is riding up, giving him a perfect view of her lower back and midriff. The pinkish skin looks so soft and warm that he finds himself taking his gloves off as he walks over to her so that he can feel it.

He squeezes her waist gently as first, then fully wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her silky, lavender-scented curls. Feeling her warm and soft in his harms, he can’t help the contented hum that escapes his chest.

“How’d you do it, darlin’?” he murmurs in her ear, smiling at the shiver it sends down her spine and filing it away for later. “Najuma loves you, and I haven’t felt like this in years.”

“Like what?” she breathes, her voice almost trembling.

“Take your pick,” he chuckles. He turns her around, resting his hands somewhere between the small of her back and the swell of her ass. With her violet eyes with and sparkling up at him, he finds his words. “Warm? Happy? Completely gobsmacked that you’d pick me?”

Her smile is as bright as the sun as she drapes her arms over his shoulders, and he thinks that smile could bathe even the darkest parts of him in its light.

“Of course I picked you, silly,” Delphi replies. Hodari watches with awe as she tilts her head toward him and draws in close, her lashes fluttering as her gaze drops to his lips. “You’re you.”

His heart soars as she presses her lips to his. They’re just as soft as the rest of her, maybe even more so. And she’s so responsive, opening up for him when he runs his tongue along the seams of her lips, moaning and wrapping her legs around him when he grabs her by the hips and lifts her onto the counter. He’s halfway to lifting her shirt off when they hear a yell from outside.

“Are you two done yet?” Najuma calls. “The stew’s getting cold and I’m starving!”

They look at each other, Delphi’s eyes wide and her lips swollen even as she sucks her lower lip between her teeth. She grins, chuckling, “Guess we’d better get back out there and feed Najuma before she plants a smoke bomb under my bed.”

Hodari helps her down from the counter, handing her the glass she was reaching for a smiling.

“Go on, then,” he tells her. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

After all the blood in his body redistributes properly.

Three

The rain came out of nowhere, the sky clear one minute and dark gray the next. It’s so unexpected that even the sernuk she was hunting didn’t have time to retreat into the forest to take cover. Delphi quickly unstrings and stows her bow before running for the nearest cover she can find. It’s a long run, but she finally ducks into the mine, mud up to her knees and her clothes completely soaked. She leans over, hands on her thighs, in an attempt to catch her breath.

She finally manages, the burning in her chest subsiding and the stitch in her side easing. She finds a rock near the entrance to sit on and begins stripping off her soaked hunting gear. The heavy cotton and leather slap against the hard-packed dirt floor as she drops the gear into an unceremonious heap, already not looking forward to dragging it all back home after the rain clears.

She’s attempting to wring the rapidly cooling water from her hair when a familiar voice calls out to her, surprised delight creeping into the drawl she loves so much, “Well hey, darlin’!”

“Hey,” she laughs, looking up at Hodari with a tired smile. “I didn’t think you’d be here this late.”

He shrugs. “I’ve been fixin’ some of the supports. Almost had a cave-in last week ‘cause some idiot went too deep into one of the walls down below.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, scratching at the back of his neck. “I threw ‘em out. Told ‘em to come back when they learn how to swing a pick right.”

He sits down beside her, eyeing her piles of soaked gear. He nudges her playfully on the arm and teases, “You fall in a lake or somethin’?”

“Ha-ha,” she replies, unable to hide her grin as she rolls her eyes and nudges him back. “I don’t know if you noticed, doing your best impersonation of a mole down here, but it’s absolutely pouring out there above ground.”

“I’m just messin’ with ya, darlin’,” Hodari chuckles, patting her knee.

“Oh, you’re so warm,” Delphi sighs. She can feel herself beginning to shiver in the cool air of the mine.

He laughs heartily, but wraps an arm around her and pulls her into his side. Hodari gently rubs her bare arms in an attempt to warm her up, smiling as her shivers begin to subside.

“Feelin’ better?” he asks, and feels her nod into his shoulder. “Good. Anything else I can do, darlin’?”

His heart nearly stops when she looks up with wide eyes, cheeks pink, and breathes, “Kiss me.”

And who is he to say no?

Hodari’s smile turns soft as he lifts her chin carefully and lowers his lips to hers. She meets him almost shyly, her breath shuddering as she turns toward him. This lasts a few seconds, but finally he feels her shift. She takes in a deep breath, her lips remaining on his as she rises and climbs into his lap. His hands slide up her thighs, coming to rest on her ass as she groans into him. Her hands come to fist in his hair and he groans as well, encouraging her with a light squeeze. She responds enthusiastically, grinding down against him with a whimper.

This goes on for what feels like hours, her breath turning ragged while the movement of her hips only grows faster and harder. Her hands are snaking down his chest, coming dangerously close to where his shirt is tucked into his gray work pants when a deafening clap of thunder shakes the ground and they both jump.

Their eyes meet for a moment before they both break out into breathless laughter. Delphi pushes her hair behind her ears and sighs, gently extricating herself from Hodari’s hold.

“I should probably get home before the path floods,” she murmurs, bending down to pick up her sopping wet gear.

Hodari clears his throat, adjusting himself, and suggests, “You could come over for dinner? Let your clothes dry out, maybe wait out the storm?”

Delphi’s grin is bright as she nods and says, “Yeah, alright.”

Four

Hodari isn’t sure exactly what the purpose of this gathering at the mayor’s mansion is. The food is usually cold, he’s forced to make small talk with half the village, and there’s never a place he can go wo just sit with his own thoughts, so he usually hates them. But tonight as Badruu is talking his ear off about field crickets getting into his cabbage crop, he finds himself glad he came to this one.

Across the garden, Delphi is laughing at something Reth said, her eyes sparkling brighter than the forest green dress draped elegantly around her. It hugs her curves just right, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. She’s wiping a tear from her eye when she catches him staring at her. She smiles softly, giving him a little wave before she returns to her conversation with the chef.

He endures the rest of Badruu’s rambling before politely excusing himself. He turns to the pavilion where he’d seen Delphi, only to find her gone, Hassian and Tau now in her place. He looks around the garden in an attempt to locate her, but she’s disappeared completely. He meanders into the mansion, seeing Sifuu and Ashura chatting animatedly in the dining room, with Tish and Jel in the library, their heads bent together over a glossy magazine page.

Continuing further into the house, he sees several other villagers before he finally locates her in the front drawing room, chatting with Kenyatta and Najuma. He approaches quietly, placing a gentle hand on her elbow. The smile she gives him when she turns to see who’s trying to get her attention could light up the whole of the village.

“Hey!” she exclaims, turning to him fully. “Najuma was just telling us about a new invention! You should join us!”

“I was actually wonderin’ if I could borrow you for a minute,” he replies, nodding toward the door.

“Yeah, of course!” she responds brightly. She turns to the others and waves, saying, “I’ll see you guys later!”

Hodari gestures for her to lead the way, and before he turns to follow, he catches Najuma rolling her eyes.

They step out into the front courtyard, and Hodari watches her walk down the steps, unable to take his eyes off her hips as she does. She leads him out of the courtyard, just to the far side of the brick wall. Immediately, his hands are on her hips and he’s crowding her against the wall.

“I take it you like the dress?” she giggles, half-heartedly trying to push him away as he begins to press hot kisses into the soft skin just below her jaw.

“Darlin’, I think you’re gorgeous all the time,” he growls into her skin. “But tonight?” A rake of his teeth against her collarbone. “In that dress?” A squeeze to her hips. “You could outshine Embra herself.”

Her hands are in his hair, holding him close as his lips, teeth, and tongue caress and claim every inch of visible skin. He can feel her heart racing, hear her breath becoming more and more ragged. They’re changes he can feel mirrored in himself, nearly unable to think for the rushing of blood in his ears and the fire in his veins.

“Let me take you home,” he murmurs into the shell of her ear. “Maybe get you outta that dress?”

“Not tonight,” she breathes, and it almost comes out as a moan. She turns her head, pressing sweet kisses into his cheek and jaw. Chuckling at his disappointed groan, she adds, “The entire village is inside. Someone will notice if we both leave.”

Hodari drops his head onto her shoulder and sighs. He knows she’s right.

“I’ve already finished my virtues test,” she says, softly running her fingers through his hair. “And Sifuu’s agreed to be my Shepp. My Acceptance Ceremony will be soon, and then we can do this as much and as publicly as you want.”

She gently lifts his head and smiles at him before pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“I’m gonna head back in,” Delphi whispers. She pats his chest with another smile, then turns and heads back into the courtyard.

Five

“Shh!” Delphi giggles. “Someone will hear us!”

“Who’s gonna hear?” Hodari growls. “We’re in the middle of the woods!”

Their lunch lies abandoned at the corner of the blanket near their feet, a veritable feast for the insects that live in the underbrush. In the soft dappled lights from the canopy over head they lie, a tangled mess of limbs. Their tools and equipment are in a heap under a nearby tree, the light of the afternoon sun reflecting off the glimmering palium blades in rainbows that dance with the breeze rustling the leaves above.

It’s warm and cozy, and she breaks into another fit of giggles when he rubs his stubbly cheek against hers again.

“Auni camps out here all the time,” she gasps when his lips find her neck.

He huffs out at laugh, “Auni’s deliverin’ the mail. And he’s already been through the Bay.”

“And Hassian hunts out here!” she protests weakly, giggling and attempting to curl her legs up between them.

“Hassian went to the capital to sell pelts today. What is goin’ on, darlin’?” Hodari raises himself up onto his elbows, brows furrowed and lips turned down in a frown. “D’ya have somewhere else to be or somethin’?”

Delphi sighs, sitting up to face him. “It’s not that. It’s just...my Acceptance Ceremony is in three days. And you know I wanna do this right. I want to become a full member of Palian society so that there’s no doubt when we finally let everyone know.”

He takes her hand, staring down at it for a few moments before asking, “Doubt about what, darlin’?”

Delphi looks down at their hands, attempting to calm the swirling storm of her thoughts. The sour feeling in her stomach has been eating at her for days, ever since Eshe set the date for her ceremony. She wasn’t sure what it was at first. By all rights, she should be giddy with excitement. But there’s a lingering, insidious thought at the back of her mind. A tiny little shred of an intrusive idea that keeps telling her that maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t truly belong.

She takes a deep breath, exhaling fully before she begins, “I materialized out of thin air less than a year ago. I was told that I’m a member of a previously extinct race and that there’s no way of knowing exactly who I am or where I came from. My earliest memory is Jina’s shocked face while I sat on the ground at the base of the Phoenix Shrine.”

Hodari squeezes her hand lightly, nodding for her to continue. She smiles softly and nods back.

“I’ve worked until my fingers bled to build a life here. I’ve learned all the ins and outs of Majiri society and customs. I’ve made friends and a home, and I’ve found a wonderful, beautiful man with a lovely, brilliant daughter who I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

She raises their entwined hands to press a kiss to his knuckles.

“But at the end of the day, I’m still human. And you’re all Majiri. And as silly as it may sound, I’m still afraid that...someone, or everyone, is going to realize that I don’t belong here. And I just don’t want there to be any doubt that I truly want to be here and that I want to be a member of this community. For myself, just as much as for you and Najuma.”

Hodari looks at her with wide eyes and a slack jaw. He lets out a breath before pulling her into his arms. He holds her for a few moments before he seems to find his words.

“Darlin’, every time I go into the village, someone is singin’ your praises. They all love you.” He gives her a lopsided grin. “Almost as much as I do.”

She smiles softly, winding her arms around him.

“I love you,” she sighs, leaning in when he lifts her chin and lowers his lips to hers in a sweet, lingering kiss.

Plus One

“Oh, Delphi!” Tish gushes, her eyes alight. “It’s absolutely perfect! You look amazing!”

Delphi can feel heat rising in her cheeks as Tish showers her with compliments. She hadn’t even asked Jel to make the dress for her, it had been a surprise gift from him and Tish for her Acceptance Ceremony. But the soft, silky garment is the color of the sunset and drapes so beautifully that she couldn’t not accept it.

“It’s absolutely exquisite,” Jel agrees, turning her around to check the fit. “And I’m so glad we decided to go with the open back. Drawing that bow of yours has truly made you a sight to behold.”

“Thank you,” Delphi laughs. “Both of you. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for this.”

“You don’t have to repay us, silly!” Tish giggles. “It’s a gift! And besides, you’ve helped us both so much already, it’s the least we could do!”

“Consider it payment for everything you’ve done for us,” Jel adds.

“Now that we’ve covered all of that,” Tish says, clapping her hands. “Are you ready to go?”

She’d done well to tamp down the nerves until now. Tish’s and Jel’s attention had kept her distracted from the anxiety that’s been growing within her for days. Since her last conversation with Hodari, she’s been trying to remind herself that she’s made plenty of friends here and that the village is welcoming her with open arms, but reason means nothing in the face of irrational fear.

She takes a steadying breath and nods, letting Tish drag her out the front door with Jel following close behind.

It’s a short walk from Tish’s house to the mayor’s estate. The lights in the garden twinkle merrily as they enter, a cheer going up from the pavilion where Sifuu and Delaila are chatting. Delphi can’t help but laugh, waving at them. Everyone from the village is there, Kenyatta, Nai’o, and Najuma chatting in the corner, Tish and Jel leaving her with smiles and waves to go talk with Reth by the food table. She thinks she can hear Badruu laughing from somewhere inside the house, probably talking with Ashura if she had to guess. Jina, Hekla, and Einar are huddled in a corner, Jina taking notes as Einar and Hekla talk. Hassian and Tau are lurking in a corner, Tau’s tail wagging as he chases moths around the outskirts of the garden. She can hear Zeki attempting to sell Caleri something while Elouisa shakes her head. There’s only one familiar face she’s missing.

She pokes her head into the library, the dining room, and the front drawing room, but she doesn’t see him anywhere. She tries to tell herself that he’s just late or that he’s just in an area of the house she hasn’t checked, but when Eshe comes to find her in one of the wingback chairs in the drawing room she’s a shaking, nervous wreck.

“We're ready for you,” the magistrate tells her, frowning. “But you look like you’re about to faint.”

Delphi sighs, scratching at her arm nervously. “I’m sorry, Eshe. I’ve been freaking out about this all week. But I’m ready.”

“What were you looking for?” Eshe asks, raising a brow at her. “I saw you combing every room of the estate.”

She can feel her face warming at Eshe’s pointed glance and admits quietly, “Hodari said he was going to be here. I’ve seen everybody else, but I haven’t seen him…”

Eshe tuts, taking Delphi’s hand and helping her to stand. “The miner and his daughter arrived just before you did. They were setting up the fireworks for this evening.”

Delphi lets out a breath and nods, smoothing her dress. “Okay. I’m ready.”

Every eye is on her as Eshe leads her into the garden. Sifuu waits on the raised platform in the center of the garden, her smile wide and bright when she catches sight of Delphi approaching. The rest of the village lines the walkway, their smiles just as bright as Sifuu's. Just before Eshe stops her, she finally catches sight of the face she’d been looking for. He’s half-hidden behind Hekla and Jina, but his smile when he catches her eye is warm and reassuring.

Eshe's speech is short and to the point, and when she asks if Delphi will accept Kilima Village as her home, there are tears in Delphi's eyes as she says yes. The assembled villagers' cheers are drowned out by the loud booming of Najuma’s fireworks overhead, their jubilant faces illuminated by the colorful explosions.

Najuma sits near the base of the platform, giving Delphi a thumbs-up and a grin. Delphi’s confusion is cleared up as a pair of hands grabs her by the waist and spins her around. Hodari grins at her, his cheeks rosy and his eyes sparking. He dips his head toward hers and says loudly enough for her to hear over the fireworks, “I’m gonna kiss you now. In front of the whole town.”

“Please do,” Delphi laughs. She throws her arms around his neck, giggling as he catches her by the waist and spins her around.

The kiss is a mess, teeth crashing together and lips bruising as they both laugh, but the way her heart soars and her stomach flips at finally being able to kiss him openly makes it worth it. There’s whooping and applause from all around them, Sifuu’s loudest of all.

Listen, I didn't want to fall in love with this man. I was happy with my shy hunter and my flirty chef. And I DEFINITELY didn't want to imagine being a step-mom. But then I got to know him and his daughter and fucking hell. I'm absolutely feral over him. And I'm absolitely smitten with her. I've got some other things in the works for Hodari AND Najuma, so probably look for those sometime...

Taglist: @biteable-pink-pixie @sassykattery @sparkbeast20 @kyungjoon-do @attic-club-sandwich @consolationblog @flemmingbamse @syren201 @denpa-dere

(And if any of you just like...don't care about my Palia fics, please let me know and I'll add a note on my spreadsheet!)

#palia #palia fic #palia hodari #hodari x oc #x oc #mc!delphi #delphi writes

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blutopaz15 · 1 year ago

Text

focus

a banther punch ficlet 💖

The banther—or whatever had been a banther—busts through the Bookery door…and everything happens quickly.

In a flash, Rayla’s through all her arrows, and even with the way Callum’s magic sends them whizzing across the library, they’re no help. That…thing doesn’t seem to mind the arrows buried in its haunches or sticking out of its shoulders as it barrels towards the both of them, and speaking of barreling towards danger—

Callum must’ve been counting her shots, she realizes, because before she can shout out a plea or a plan, he’s sprinting full speed at the banther, staff in hand, fulminus on his lips, lightning sparkling across his clenched fist, and she’s not sure what exactly she’d been expecting, but Callum punching a banther in the face…hadn’t been it.

She’s not shocked, though, when Callum’s feet hit the ground and then immediately spring back up as he jumps and twirls and jerks around. He shakes out his hand, then clutches it into his chest, cursing the whole time…and Rayla knows what those moves mean.

That’s all in her periphery, though, for the moment, as she vaults over to the cursed, corrupted—now-crispy—creature, and puts it definitively out of its misery. Swiftly, her blade’s through its heart, its screeching has ceased, and she and Callum are both panting in the silence.

“Is it—?”

“Already was, I think,” Rayla answers, wrinkling her nose at the now-apparent stench of electrocuted banther as Stella scampers into her pouch, clinging to her leg. She leaves her messy blade in place for the moment and turns away just as Callum goes to pick up his dropped staff. He’s reached with his right, though, and she winces with him.

He hisses in a breath, then curses some more, cradling his wrist…and everything happens quickly.

In an instant, she’s at his side, guiding him by the shoulders to the clearest nearby table, and her hands are reaching for his.

“Let’s see,” she asks as Callum’s already laying his palm across hers…and it’s only then that she hesitates.

It’s just a second, though, that she’s frozen with his hand in hers: it’s selfish, she quickly tells herself, to stall in taking care of him with what he’s just done to protect her. It’d been stupid, it’d been reckless…and, yeah, it’d worked, but it’d hurt him. That twinges in her gut: she was supposed to keep him safe, and she hadn’t, and…

The least she can do is make sure that he’s okay.

…and that means ignoring the warmth of his hand, and how hot to the touch his fingers are, and how she’s missed his huge, heavy palm overwhelming hers…

Rayla swallows painfully around the lump in her throat.

She has to focus.

“It’s—ow,” he jolts, even just at her gently folding his fingers into a fist, but he leaves his grip closed like she’d intended, showing her he can hold it there on his own. “It’s my wrist.”

“Hand doesn’t hurt?” She runs her thumb across his gloved knuckles, looking for him to recoil if they’re bloody, sure already that they’ll bruise at least…but he shakes his head.

“Not as bad,” he answers, and Rayla slides her thumb against his palm, into the space his slackened fist leaves…and ignores how nice and inviting that warmth is—she has to focus—to help his hand to open instead.

It’s uncomfortable—she can tell from the grunt he hums and the way his hand tremors—but he does it without much more complaint than that, stretching his fingers open briefly on his own …and Rayla lets out the breath she’d been holding, pretty sure, at this point, that it’s nothing that won’t be better in a day or two.

“Never done that before,” he comments, letting his hand curl closed around hers again…and she looks up, frozen still again for another too-long second, thinking he’s actually holding it, but—

He opens his grip again, and it’s just him testing it out, she realizes with another twinge—in her heart this time.

“Really?” she teases, glad he’d been looking at their hands while she’d been gaping at him, hoping the moonlight is dim enough that he won’t see that she’s blushing. She pulls at his first finger, gently squeezing it, encouraging him to point, which, again, he does with a grimace, his finger twitching with the effort. “I’ve punched loads of banthers. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Mmm, nah,” Callum answers with a half-hearted chuckle, “one banther punch is enough for me, thanks—ugh.”

Rayla presses at his second finger so it joins his first, and he cringes more deeply at that, so she lightens her touch with the third, just matching her fingertips against his.

As dumb it was to punch a banther…

“Lightning definitely did the job, though,” she shrugs, pressing their palms flat together too, letting herself fluster—just a bit more—in hopes that he’ll beam about it too. “Nice going, mage,”

His fingers are still straight against hers, trembling…but then they slip to the side, gently curling into the slots between hers, and—

She looks up, and—

He’s looking too, beaming just as bright as she’d hoped, and—

She has to focus.

Rayla clears her throat and untangles their fingers, pressing her thumb along that last little finger she hasn’t checked yet. “This one too?”

Callum doesn’t even flinch as he straightens out the last of his fingers. “So…what’s the verdict?”

“Well,” she says, returning him his hand and immediately missing it, “we’ve got two good wrists between us still.”

“Yours still?” he asks with a frown, and she shakes her head.

That’d been his takeaway? That old, well-worth-it ache of hers? With his own stupid recklessness swelling his wrist as they speak?

“Only sometimes,” Rayla answers, with a shrug and Stella’s already rummaging through her nearby pack for the bandage she keeps on hand. “You’re in luck, actually, because that means I have—” Stella finishes her sentence for her, plopping the roll of fabric into her open hand. “I think it’s just sprained.”

“Well, that’s good, right?” Callum rubs his own wrist, flexing and stretching his fingers.

“You’ll be okay,” she nods, halfway smiling…and Callum knows what’s next, clearly. She doesn’t even have to reach for him, but…she does need his glove off. “Um, probably better under—”

“Right, uh—” he starts, voice cracking…and she can definitely see his blush. He tugs the glove off first, then ditches the wristbands and rolls up his sleeve, examining the swollen joint before she can. “You know, I can do it, if—”

She really doesn’t want to explain—that she owes him this much at least if he’s going to do dumb stuff like that for her, that she honestly would just really like to hold his hand—and luckily, the sideways, skeptical look she gives him is explanation enough.

“No, yeah, you’re right,” he laughs breathily. “That was…dumb.”

Callum hands over his bare palm then, smiling in full…

She has to focus…and she definitely does—

—but not on the bandage.

It’s necessary, of course, to take a look at the swelling first, she tells herself…so, that’s where she starts, her fingers ghosting over the underside of his barely puffed-up wrist, finding his warm skin has quickly cooled. And she ought to make sure his knuckles are okay too, obviously…so, she carefully flips his palm, angling his hand to see the red, split skin without touching, barely pushing aside the thought that lips might be gentle enough for the tiny wounds.

She starts wrapping his wrist, then, pressing the end of the bandage into his still-warm palm, carefully winding the fabric over the swelling…and her throat is just as tight, she thinks, touching him for so long, so lightly.

Everything happens quickly.

Too soon, she’s tucking the end of the bandage in, marveling at the smooth, softness of his skin, tracing the half-covered lines of the rune above his injured wrist…looking for excuses to linger a little longer.

It’s unnecessary…but she straightens the wrap over the edges of volantis.

“Probably no flying for—”

She looks up, and—

He’s looking too, lips hanging open, eyes hazy, mossy green, and—

She has to focus.

“—for a bit, and…no more punching banthers for me either.”

It’s time, she thinks, to let go, to look away…but she hesitates, and—

His left layers over her right, holding her fingers folded around his hurt knuckles, and he shrugs as he lifts their stacked hands...to his lips.

“No promises.”

#rayllum #rayllum ficlet #banther punch speculation bc WHY NOT #hurt/comforty take bc I know what I'm about <3 #rayla pov #hurt/comfort #injury care

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thewisecheerio · 4 months ago

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Elden Ring's Soundtrack

I'm in love with the Elden Ring soundtrack, DLC and base game alike. I think every track does a great job of evoking imagery and feelings of the boss or environment it was designed for.

The post will cover the following soundtracks with more to come in other posts: Divine Beast Dancing Lion The Twin Moon Knight The Lord of Frenzied Flame

Part 2 contains Shaman Village/Elden Ring, The Putrescent Knight, and Messmer, the Impaler: https://www.tumblr.com/thewisecheerio/757701649550704640/elden-rings-soundtrack-part-2

Divine Beast Dancing Lion

The Divine Beast Dancing Lion is first and foremost an incarnation of storms. In its later phase, it deftly swaps between lightning and ice, pummeling the battlefield with frostbite and thunder.

The woodwind you can hear just as the music begins remind me of flurries of snow, zipping about in winter winds. The music's grandeur reminds me of the overpowering force of a blizzard or a hurricane.

Much of the soundtrack is in 3- or 6-counts, but this piece is in rapidly-paced 3-count timing. This is the same structure and tempo used for the Viennese waltz, a dance of frenzied spirals and turns. With the spiral being a sacred shape to the Hornsent, I find the use of music that evokes such a shape highly appropriate. Not just this, but look at how the Divine Beast moves during its breath attacks and just try to tell me that it isn't waltzing (1:38 if the timestamp doesn't take you right to it):

youtube

The punctuated bass voices that come in during the Phase 2 music transition at 1:30 bring the booming depths of thunder and lightning.

The pause at 2:37 brings a clarity reminiscent of clouds parting, perhaps as the eye of the storm passes over, only to close back up and bring forth more wind and rain.

The ending of the song is sudden. This is a storm that comes and goes with equal violence—not a gentle summer rain, but ferocious outpouring of the heavens that leaves destruction in its wake.

The Twin Moon Knight

Delicate percussion open this track, evoking a fine mist of starry glintstone sparkling through the air.

Like the Divine Beast Dancing Lion soundtrack, this song is composed in a 3-count, creating a sense of circular movement. But here I think we are bearing witness to the grace and elegance with which Rellana moves instead of a rapid waltz. She dances across the battlefield in a pattern carefully woven from her twirling body and swords.

I like to think that the gentleness of the Phase 2 transition that begins at 2:01 is a moment of contemplation for this highly intelligent Carian royal. In this instant, she dances out of the way to assess her options as she prepares for Phase 2 of the battle.

At 2:13, we are met with a powerful drumroll that signals the ignition of her swords with flame and sorcery. The music becomes more energetic to match her increased aggression.

I like to think that we can hear the dropping of her twin moons in the music at 2:55 with the delicately pealing bells.

The ending of her soundtrack is long, signaled by rolling strings and percussion, finally fading into nothingness. At least for me, this is how the end of her fight felt: not a sudden finale, but a victory slowly earned by chipping away carefully between her long combos. The adrenaline of the fight slowly fades out, just as the soundtrack rolls into a final goodbye.

The Lord of Frenzied Flame

Midra's soundtrack opens with a choral line, evoking a sense of beauty and the celestial. But only 17 seconds into the song, the chorus skews off-key. Something eldritch has entered the chat. The next phrase is rife with discord and cacophony as horrors ooze forth from the shadows.

A horrifying string motif begins at 0:31, but never really finds resolution. The lack of payoff creates a sense of unimaginable horror, a constant building of adrenaline as you wait for an unseen but easily sensed terror to stop chasing and finally catch you. Instead of resolving, it is overtaken by an eerie cello 10 seconds later, reminding you to fear that which is right in front of you—the Lord of Frenzied Flame—as well.

The music begins to respond to its own horrors: at 1:18, shrill strings mimic high-pitched screams of terror. At 1:55, these high-pitched strings decay into a sharp descending phrase, evoking a sense of something cracking or falling apart. Frenzy runs this business; the sane need not apply.

After the Phase 2 transition at 2:55, a violent and cacophonous sound ushers in Midra's Big Flame Explosion. The disruptive Chase Scene violins are back, this time amplified by brass, echoing the fight as Midra closes in on the Tarnished with increased fervor.

A supremely intrusive, distorted violin enters at 3:35 reminding us that something isn't quite right about this onslaught—as if we could forget while being swatted across the battlefield by the Frenzied Flame's chosen. I wonder if this sad, solo violin is meant to represent the crying of Midra's and Nanaya's child as the Inquisitors invaded.

The end of the soundtrack returns to the opening choral line, but this time dominated by tenors. Compared to the onslaught of the rest of the soundtrack, they almost sound peaceful. They echo the quiet that death brings for the long-suffering Midra, who so endured at Nanaya's request. Now, he can rest.

Access the Soundtracks

You can listen to the entire DLC soundtrack here:

youtube

You can listen to the entire base game soundtrack here:

#elden ring #elden ring dlc #shadow of the erdtree #shadow of the erdtree spoilers #divine beast dancing lion #rellana twin moon knight #midra lord of frenzied flame #music #ost #Youtube #Spotify

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cainluvr69 · 6 months ago

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Let Me Tell You The Story Of A Rainbow - Chapter 20

Previous Chapter

Owen: Let's just turn this world to scraps already. Mythical beasts and humans and wizards and even picture books are all the same once you rip them to pieces.

Owen crossed one long leg over the other, sitting sidesaddle on his broom. He laid his hand on the lid of his trunk, ready to unleash the horrors within.

Snow: Owen.

White: Don't be so selfish.

Owen: Making scary faces at me isn't going to get you anywhere. Or do you two really think you can take me down?

Bradley: Damn, he's super pissed off because Oz and Mithra ain't here.

Owen: What was that, Bradley? Are you volunteering to be the first one I rip to shreds?

Bradley: Hey, I'm not mockin' you, okay? My patience is wearing pretty damn thin, too. How about we knock 'em through themselves together on the count of three?

Owen: Absolutely not.

Bradley: Haha, too bad.

White: Is this really the time to be joking around with one another? Did you forget what we said earlier?

Snow: Should anything happen to this world, we cannot guarantee that we'll be able to protect the Sage and the rest of the Sage's wizards.

Owen: Mithra has his dimensional door, doesn't he? And Oz is here, too. Mithra's probably spacing out somewhere, but Oz would notice and do something about it.

Snow: Are you sure? I think they're about equal in terms of airheadedness.

Owen: If the world's collapse starts to accelerate, one of them will do something about it. And if there's anyone you just can't bear to lose, can't you just scoop them up to safety yourself?

Snow: Goodness, what a self-centered little menace you are. Perhaps I should call Oz over and have him drop an extra-big lightning bolt on you if you think that lizard's lightning isn't up to snuff.

White: Now now, Snow dearest. That would result in the destruction of this world.

Bradley: Either way, it's just a matter of time 'til that happens anyways, yeah? Owen, does that big lump of scales have anythin' to say for itself?

Owen: Literally no idea. It's just been wailing in pain this whole time, so it's not like it's said anything I could actually understand…

But just then, a flurry of rainbow scales sparkled around Owen--Roxy was flying around him. Roxy settled on Owen's shoulder. It seemed to be pleading with him, the only one among our number who could understand what it was saying.

Owen: …

Suddenly, a violent screech shook the area. The lizard was crackling with electricity, its body swelling even larger.

Bradley: Yeah… I'm done with waitin' around.

Bradley readied his rifle as he spoke.

Snow & White: Bradley!

Bradley: No hard feelings!

I was expecting a bold, fearless grin, but instead, Bradley lowered his voice to a cautious whisper.

Bradley: <Adnopotensum>

And with a solemn bang, Bradley's gun spat fire. And as to where his bullet landed--there was something like a crack moments after he fired. Bradley's target was not the lizard, but the trunk of a tree that towered over it. The earth trembled with a roar as loud as a thunderclap, and then the tree began to topple, its shadow draping over the lizard like a delicate cloth. With the tree preventing it from moving, the lizard squealed fiercely.

Bradley: Haha! See, all I had to do was put my mind to it a little, and there ya go.

Snow: Goodness, you actually restrained your magic?

White: What a feat for a Northern wizard, for whom everything but attack magic is left to the side, unpracticed…

Bradley: Psht, who do you think I am? No one's got pinpoint control like I do.

Snow & White: Kyakya! Bradley dear, you're soooo cooool!

Owen: That working out that well looked like a coincidence to me.

Bradley: 'Scuse me? Don't get all pouty on me, now.

Owen landed next to the big lizard, which was pawing pitifully at the ground, unable to get out from under the fallen tree, and whispered to it coldly.

Owen: Your completely transparent attempts at hiding the piece of that girl's memory failed. Hurry up and open your mouth already. I'm not as soft as he is. If you don't get on with it, you can say goodbye to everything from the neck down.

Then Owen leaned closer to the lizard and whispered something even more quietly.

Owen: Continuing to hide it from us isn't going to do anything to protect the person you want to protect. Wanna know why? Because if you don't hand it over, I'm going to erase this world. All of it. So you know what the right thing to do is, right?

It must have understood, because it stopped struggling and timidly opened its mouth. Owen deftly snatched up the thing that was sitting on the tip of its tongue.

Owen: Here it is. A single purple pearl.

White: You did wonderfully too, Owen dear!

Snow: This beast certainly settled down in a hurry, though. Did something happen?

Owen: Not really. I just reminded it of where it sits on the food chain.

Bradley: Damn, what a pain this thing is. It really didn't need to start actin' up like that.

Mithra: Good grief. Using brute force isn't always the best way to do things.

Mithra was using the crystal ball I was holding to talk to them, like a magical telephone.

Mithra: Protecting something really isn't as simple as all that.

Bradley: I really don't wanna hear that from you, man.

Snow & White: You have no place to speak.

Owen: If you weren't on the other end of that crystal, I'd smash your head into paste.

The purple pearl in Owen's hand began to glow, and then flashed with blinding light.

✦✧☾✧✦

Little, little Luca was running through a moonlit forest, wheezing breathlessly. ----That morning, after she'd returned to the monastery, she'd been welcomed back with a beating from her teacher. Apparently, she'd neglected some of her chores. Luca could hardly breathe. Everyone in the monastery was suffocating her by treating her like this. Even when she was thrown into a storage room and locked away, the only ones who came to comfort her were the strange friends only she could see. And with their help, she was finally, finally escaping the monastery. She wasn't going to vanish for a few days, and then go back. No, she was never going to return, and she was never going to do those awful chores ever again. Her conviction was firm. But it wasn't to last. Her escape had taken her deep into a forest that few people ever traversed, but some humans happened upon her while she was talking to spirits. The looks on their faces immediately twisted into something malevolent, and they attacked her. Why? Because "a creepy wizard had placed an eerie, ominous curse over the whole forest."

Luca: …That's not me. I was just…

But her frightened voice would never reach their hearts. They had her cornered, pinned against a wall. But then… With a peal of thunder loud enough to split the sky, lightning struck, and the silhouette of a massive reptile appeared in the split second of light. The humans screamed and fled as fast as their legs could carry them.

Luca: Thank you… You saved me. …Huh? What do I think of you? You are kinda big, but…I'm not scared. I mean, you saved me. Those people who chased me down so they could do something bad to me were way, way scarier than you could ever be… …But, wanna know a secret? Even though I'm always all alone, I've made lots and lots of friends. So I think that no matter what happens, from now on…I won't be scared. As long as I have all of you with me…I'll be brave.

✦✧☾✧✦

As they followed their group's guiding light, Figaro, Lennox, and Mitile began to notice coins and gemstones scattered here and there on the ground.

Mitile: There are a lot of little things that have fallen among the grass around here. Let's see, this one's a medal, I think this is an old kind of currency…and this is a rare gem, isn't it?

Lennox: I wonder who…no, I wonder what in this book dropped all of this here.

Figaro: I think this is…probably the work of an herbula.

Mitile: An herbula?

Figaro: It's the name of a kind of magical plant. It's a rare one, only growing in locations with bountiful nature and clean water. You can basically think of them as leaf spirits. It's the kind of thing you'd find in a fairy tale. They'll pick up anything they think is valuable, but as you can see, they drop a lot of those things, too.

Mitile: They pick up a lot of stuff, so they drop a lot of stuff, too?

Figaro: Essentially, yes. They'll pick up something they've decided is valuable and then drop it when they're not paying attention…and then pick it up all over again.

Mitile: They must drop stuff because they're trying to carry too much all at once.

Lennox: When you have a lot of things important to you, it's easy to get stuck on what to keep, and instead end up trying to hold onto all of them. I can get a little selfish too, so I understand how they feel.

Mitile: You…? Selfish…?

Figaro: Oh, so you are aware of it.

Lennox: You know how it is. Oh… There's a small knot in this tree.

Mitile: Oh, there is! And it's absolutely surrounded with dropped and forgotten treasures.

Figaro: Looks like they had a frenetic day of cleaning out the house. I wonder if they cleared the whole knothole out?

Mitile: Why would they do that?

Figaro: This is just a guess, but…probably to put something even more precious in there instead. There's only so much one can handle, and when things start getting out of hand, welp! Time to throw something out.

Lennox: …The piece of Luca's memories is probably in that knothole.

Figaro: Yeah. That girl's memories are the most valuable treasures in this book's world. The spirits would want to treat them right.

Mitile: But, um, the entrance to the knothole is so thin, I don't see how we'd get anything out of it…

Figaro: Easy enough to fix with a bit of magic. <Possideo>

Figaro snapped his fingers, and the three of them began to glow softly.

Mitile: Woah…!

Their bodies suddenly shrank, getting smaller and smaller. Once they were small enough that I could carry all three of them in my hands, the light petered out and they stopped shrinking.

Figaro: This should be just about the right size. Well? Any problems?

Lennox: No, I'm fine. This really gives a fresh look to the landscape we'd been walking through before. Turning this small is rather pleasant.

Mitile: I'm good, too! I had to get on my knees just to look into this knothole, but now it's like a big tunnel…

Figaro: Haha, good to hear you're both okay. If Rutile had been here, he would've thrown himself into a tizzy over this.

Mitile: Yeah. I bet when we tell him, he'll get so jealous. Like, "That sounds like so much fun!"

The three of them entered the knothole, all of them still smiling happily.

And inside of it was a listless-looking spirit with droopy leaves on top of its head and in place of a tail.

Mitile: Wah…!

Figaro: …? Oh, that's…

But Mitile's yelp had alerted the spirit to their presence. It turned to run on unsteady, tottering legs.

Mitile: Ah, please wait…!

Lennox: We apologize for walking in without permission. You don't need to be scared of us.

Figaro: …Your vegetation's looking a little worse for wear. You probably shouldn't move around too much.

The be-leafed spirit was still restlessly puttering about, and tripped over itself in the process--but Lennox was there to catch it before it hit the ground.

Mitile: I have a lot of different kinds of medicine on hand, but will any of them work on it? Maybe I should look for medicinal herbs that grow in the area…ah, wait, right. We're inside of a book right now.

Figaro and Lennox glanced from Mitile, still fretting over the spirit's condition, to each other. They nodded to one another, and then turned their attention back to Mitile.

Figaro: No need to worry. This little guy's just a little tired, is all. I could take care of it, buuuut… Mitile, how about you cast healing magic on it instead?

Mitile: Huh, are you sure? I mean, compared to you, Dr. Figaro, I'm still…

Next Chapter

#.eventtl #3rd anni

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hopeamarsu · 1 year ago

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First Kill

Part of the Year of Themed Creation challenge by @yearofcreation2023

Dave York (can be seen as prequel to Dave York x ofc, but no official pairing)

Word count 706

Warnings Death, killing, suspense, therapy

Summary: The suits and ties he wears to work, while a good disguise, will never be him. And no therapy will ever fix and make him right, no matter how the government thinks it can.

“Tell me about your first kill.”

It’s definitely not a question one should ask so bluntly, not with a voice so even and unaffected by the horrors that lurk inside his brain. But Dave guesses she’s seen and heard it all, her work in this hellhole a testament to her iron stomach in matters of death and gore. Still…

“No,” he gruffs out, focusing on the mild annoyance of the inseam of his pants pressing into his inner thigh. It’s not terribly uncomfortable but it’s not pleasant either; like an insect you can hear but cannot locate. You can swat and swat, but the buzzing remains the same until either you move or you manage to kill the little cretin by accident. He places a hand on the inseam, pressing his thick fingers into the expensive fabric in a vain attempt to change the feeling. His fingers twitch a little, his only tell that both the inseam and her question irritate him.

On principle, Dave hates feeling like this, uncomfortable and irritated inside this room. It’s not just his skin that feels prickly over the inseam but her questioning and her curious eyes. He’s highly trained as an agent, a lethal machine that works best in the field and not behind a desk. The suits and ties he wears to work, while a good disguise, will never be him. And no therapy will ever fix and make him right, no matter how the government thinks it can.

He is a killer. And killing is what he does best.

He does not talk about his past or his feelings. No matter how pretty his therapist might be or how curious her eyes are.

“Mr. York, need I remind you of the reasons why we are here?” Her voice rings in his ear, but he ignores her. He doesn’t have to talk if he doesn’t want to, Dave reminds himself. She doesn’t need to know about the blood, about the stench of death that he still carries over from that first mission.

She doesn’t need to know about his lack of guilt after his first kill. The elation and the hunger for more he has kept feeding like a rapid beast ever since. She might be versed in dealing with killers, but Dave is not your common nightmare. He’s the worst of the worst, a nightmare worthy of a name on its own.

He’s death personified.

“Mr. York?” She presses down, a damn bloodhound of a woman. Dave hates and admires the therapist at the same time. Her insistence on digging up the memories, finding out his past triumphs and failures is both aggravating and feeding his own ego at the same. The things he could tell her would be unlike anything she’s ever heard before.

His ego snaps into play and Dave lets his upper lip curl slightly. If she really wants this, Dave can play the game better than her.

Slowly, almost languidly, he settles back on his seat, his hand leaving the offending inseam and wrapping thick, calloused fingers around his covered knee. His legs fall open in a dominant way, a master knowing his place on top of this world. He looks at her, finding her waiting patiently.

“You have clearance?” Another deflection, but usually effective. His brown eyes rise to meet her heart-shaped face challengingly. One of her eyebrows raises delicately, a challenge of her own to meet his. “What do you think, Mr. York?” Her eyes say what she doesn’t; Dave should know the answer already. They sparkle with the hint of lightning, of steel that cannot be bent on this. She has him where she wants him but so does he.

He lets his eyes rake up and down her body visibly, appreciating the curves on display before tapping his finger to his clean chin. A predator intent on playing with his prey before he swoops in for the deathly blow. His eyes fall close for a moment before he fixes his penetrating gaze on her and smirks a little, his smile cold and menacing. Dave knows just the words to ensure this line of questioning will not go any further. “My first kill was my commanding officer.”

Game, set, match.

#year of firsts #year of themed creation #year of creation 2023 #dave york #dave york fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #my writing #hopeamarsu #cw: death

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violettduchess · 2 years ago

Note

Leonardo request: he and mc break up (he breaks up with her so she will go back to her time and she does), and now it is her time and she runs into him after she has been back in her time for a while and he has lived through the years until he has finally caught up with her

if it is a happy reunion or painful because she is with someone, I leave up to you!

A/N: Here you go, lovely Bellerose. Thank you for your request!

Leonardo x female Reader

I had to pick a hair color for the reader in this, which I usually don't, so I apologize if that bothers anyone.

Word Count: 3157

You would think there is nothing that can rival the beauty of a moonlit lake, a sky littered with silvery stars, the soft whisper of grass as it's ruffled by a gentle wind. But the enchanting scene surrounding you is nothing compared to the glow of Leonardo’s golden eyes, the softness in his smile, the feel of his hands as they hold yours. His gaze lights a warmth inside you that spreads slowly like honey, sweet and delicious. He leans down and you rise to meet him, lips already parted in anticipation.

It is not what you imagined.

It is so much more.

He tastes vaguely smoky, evoking the comfort of a fire on a cold night. And sweet, but not excessively so. More like chocolate and hazelnuts, rich and earthy and absolutely decadent. As he wraps his arms around you and pulls you close to the shelter of his body, you find another word to describe what kissing him feels like: home.

Leonardo extends his hand, helping you up into the carriage. The door closes and soon you are rolling over the uneven cobblestone streets, away from the concert hall. He’s tucked you under the protection of his arm, unable to resist the urge to hold you close. Even at night, when you are curled up in his bed, he needs to touch you. Maybe it’s only his ankle over yours or his hand on your back, but you are his lifeline to finding joy in the endless, weary march of time and he wants every single moment possible to be filled with you.

Your sigh pulls him out of his reverie and he turns to look at you. Your sparkling diamond earrings swing gently with the swaying of the carriage as you look out the window and at the darkened city that rolls by outside of it.

“Cara mia? Is everything ok?”

It takes you a moment to tear your gaze away from the glass, shaking your head as if clearing away cobwebs.

“I’m fine. It’s just….” You trail off and he frowns slightly, nudging you with his lips to your temple.

“It’s just?”

He feels the way you sigh again, with your whole body, a wave passing from you to him. Whatever you’re feeling weighs on you heavily.

“The song Mozart played. ‘Sonata facile.’ My mother taught me to play that on the piano. And she knew it because her mother taught her. And I just always thought….” You lift your shoulder in a small shrug, glancing at the darkness through the window again. “I just thought I would teach it to my children someday.”

His heart feels like it's been dropped with sudden speed into a frozen lake, splintering as it crashes through the ice. Grateful you’re not facing him, he takes a moment to compose himself before speaking, his tone deceptively casual. “Children were a part of the plan then, yeah?”

Your earrings swing, glittering even as you speak in a quiet voice, hushed like dusk as it settles across the sky. “I was an only child with parents that were often away on business. That could be….lonely, sometimes. So I promised myself that I would have lots of children so there would always be noise in the house. And so they would always have someone to play with.”

It is impossible for him to miss the flash of sadness that crosses your features, subtle like lightning too distant to be bright but unmistakable nonetheless. Long fingers of cold wrap themselves around his heart. What you have dreamed of for yourself is something he cannot give you. Something he will never be able to give you.

Even as you sigh again, nestling closer to him, resting your sweet cheek against his shoulder, he can’t shake it.

And spends the rest of the carriage ride avoiding the sight of the darkness outside the window.

The dishrag hits the marble counter with a satisfying whack. Untying your apron, you bid Sebastian a good night as you make your way out of the kitchen, your steps hurried as you make your way towards Leonardo’s room. Worry had been gnawing at you ever since you returned home from the concert last night.

He had been unusually quiet, almost distracted in a way you were not familiar with from him. You asked him to unhook your gown and there was no provocative curve of his lips, no low sensuous murmuring. He had simply undone your gown and then proceeded to undress himself, the motions perfunctory, almost careless. It was only when you had joined him in bed after removing your jewelry and unpinning your hair, when you had slid your arms around him and pulled him to you, stretching yourself under him like a cat in its favorite patch of sunshine, that he returned to you, lowering his head to claim your lips, his hands coming to life as they slid their way over the curve of your hips, across the span of your ribcage before finally sliding up into the expanse of your soft auburn hair.

And even then, when he made love to you, it had felt….different. He was slow, exploring the entire expanse of your body, deliberately lingering, as if committing every part of it to memory. True, you had only been intimate a handful of times, but the times before this were electric, your body feeling like it might overload and burst like lightning, illuminating the whole mansion with the force of your radiance. But last night you were embers, glowing with the warmth of his slow, tender attention. And when it was over, you lay with your cheek against his heart, its steady rhythm lulling you to sleep.

He’s not in his room. Or the library. Or the dining room. Or the salon. You pause at the bottom of the staircase, wondering if you should go knocking on the doors of some of the other residents when Arthur approaches, a cup of coffee in one hand and a piece of dark fudge in the other.

“Hello luv. A bit late to be wandering ‘bout the place all alone. I’d offer you my company but….” His blue eyes are alight with mischief. “I’m afraid ol’ Leo might not be pleased with it.”

“Do you happen to know where he is? I’ve been looking everywhere for him.”

Arthur pauses, already a few steps up and gestures with the fudge to the top of the stairs. “Last I saw him he was visiting Comte.”

You thank him, pass him on the stairs and hurry towards the sitting room Comte uses on this floor. Your knocking gets no answer so you boldly enter. It’s empty. Disappointment shadows your heart and you are about to leave when you notice the door to the small balcony is open.

He’s there, alone, forearms resting on the smooth stone of the balcony railing, a lit cigarillo between his fingers. The balcony faces the mansion’s gardens and he’s staring intently out into the dark as if he might be able to find some answers there.

“Leo?”

He turns, startled and then breathes out when he sees it’s you. “Cara mia.”

Frowning, you make your way to his side. “Is everything ok?”

He is silent, wrestling with a decision he needs to make. You wait, letting him battle it out internally, watching the thin plume of smoke from his cigarillo as it rises, twisting and turning as if anxious and unsettled.

“The door to your time will be opening again in two days. Maybe…..you should use it.”

His words are so unexpected you wonder for a moment if you understood them.

“What……why would you say that?”

You can hear the tremor in your voice, the aftershock of his suggestion jolting you.

His jaw clenches, his gaze still searching the dark and silent gardens.

“Maybe you would be happier there. Could live the life you always dreamed for yourself. See your family again. Your hometown. There are a thousand reasons.”

You reach out, placing a firm hand on his arm. “And one very big, very stubborn one right here.” His breath shudders from his body as you pull, forcing him to turn towards you. “I made a commitment to you, Leonardo. We discussed this. I’m staying.”

He tosses his cigarillo over the railing, its small glow swallowed by the night. When he finally meets your gaze, the conflict in his beautiful eyes makes your heart ache. “Cara mia…..I cannot give you a family. I cannot promise you safety. I-”

Your hands reach up to cup his face, your grip determined. This is no time for gentleness. He needs to understand. You speak slowly, each word carefully weighed and measured.

“I want to stay with the wonderful, funny, intelligent, kind man that I have fallen in love with. For as long as I can. And there is nothing that can change my mind.”

He holds your gaze as you hold your breath, waiting. Finally he nods and you echo his gesture, nodding back in response. “Ok….” you whisper. “We’re ok.” You step into the circle of his arms, burying your face in the soft, rich fabric of his clothing.

He holds you close, but his eyes remain open, once again returning to the impenetrable darkness of the gardens.

The next day he’s gone again but you try to keep yourself busy and ignore the uneasy feeling that keeps scratching at your heart. The sun sinks to its rest and the moon rises, cold and pale among its nest of stars, and still there is no Leonardo. No other residents have seen him and worry flashes in Comte’s golden eyes when you ask if he knows where Leo has been all day.

Your thoughts are heavy, each one hammering a different worry in your mind as you make your way up the stairs and to his room. He’s bound to come back from wherever he is and then you’ll be waiting.

It’s far into early morning when Leonardo returns, pushing his way through his bedroom door and stumbling inside. You sit up in bed instantly, sleep having only caressed you and never quite fully taken over.

“Where have you been?” You can’t keep the frustration out of your voice or block the sound of your thrashing heart in your ears. “I’ve been worried!”

His movements are slow, radiating something unusual. Something that slowly begins twisting your stomach into an uncomfortable knot.

“A man can go out, yeah? Without a thousand questions.”

His voice is thick, perhaps with drink, perhaps with something else. Either way it sends a cold shudder through you as you slide out of bed.

“Leonardo…..what’s going on? This isn’t like you.”

He turns, his eyes liquid amber, unnaturally bright in the soft orange light of the lamp you left burning low.

“Then maybe you don’t know me as well as you think. Maybe I’m not the warm, intelligent, kind man you have fooled yourself into believing I am.”

Hearing your own words thrown back at you like daggers nearly sends you staggering back to the bed. A hand reflexively rises to cover your heart as if you had really been pierced by some wicked blade.

“That’s not possible. I know you. I know who you are and–”

He growls, closing the distance between you quicker than you can draw a breath. He does not lay a hand on you, instead pinning you in place with the force of his heated glare.

“I am a pureblood.” His voice is low, the words dragging over your heart like plow teeth across the earth. “I am eternal. You are a minute, yeah? A second in an endless succession of days and nights. A blink of an eye.” Your lips part but before you can even see if you are capable of sound, he continues. “I am dangerous.”

“You would never hurt me.” The words slip out, small and unsteady, but born of the conviction that still lives in your aching heart.

His eyes close a moment, freeing you from the pain of his excruciating glare. And then with a snap of his head, his fangs protract and he growls, the sound more primal than anything you’ve ever heard from him. A primordial fear skitters down your spine, sends goosebumps across your skin. He’s changed the framework from lovers, to something much more sinister: predator and prey.

“Get out.”

You don’t know if you sob or if you simply turn and run. The way back to your own room is a blur of shadows. It is only when you have closed your door, have turned the key in its lock, that your legs turn to water and you sink to the carpet, your breath coming in uneven, painful gasps.

He has never threatened you before. You never thought he would.

Now the only sound you hear is the cracking of your heart as it splinters into a thousand tiny pieces.

The next day, when the door to your world opens, you walk through it.

He is not there to say goodbye.

Epilogue: 21st century London

The vintage bookstore is a popular one. Some people are milling about the coffee bar, deciding how they want their caffeine intake today. A handful of children are sitting on large, oversized bean bags, excitedly flipping through colorful books. There is a low buzz of people’s talking, an undercurrent of appreciation for stories and writing and reading that he is happy to be around. He is somewhere between the New Releases and Staff Favourites bookshelves, thumbing his way through a copy of “Love in the Time of Cholera”, when the small bell above the bookstore chimes, announcing another patron exiting or entering. He still doesn’t know what exactly caused him to lift his gaze from the page. Perhaps the hand of Fate caught his chin and pulled.

He is not prepared for the sight of you. He has not seen you in over one hundred and thirty years. But now, as if by magic, there you are. For the first time in a century his heart leaps with emotion, hurriedly and haphazardly clearing away the cobwebs of loneliness that had settled there, delicate yet incessant. He steps behind the bookshelf, forcing his eyes closed. They want nothing more than to drink in the sight of you, an oasis in the desert of desolation he himself had created when he pushed you away that nightmarish evening.

The one where he had made the decision that he would not destroy your dreams by selfishly keeping you all for himself, robbing you of the chance to build the life you imagined for yourself.

So he did what he deemed necessary to make you leave.

You had stepped through the door that led back, your heart broken. And he had been the one swinging the hammer.

Time is a merciless teacher. Its harshest lessons were taught in the black heart of night, that gaping pit of time when no one could hear the rattling sound of his remorse, the anguished cries of regret. It was then, before the relief of morning’s pale light, that he understood what he had done. While he had, at the time, seen his intentions as noble, all he had truly accomplished was to destroy the chance at happiness you had been so freely and adamantly offering him.

He breathes out slowly.

He has been given a chance. A gift. He must not squander it.

His golden eyes open and he peers around the bookshelf. You look the way he remembers. A bit older, maybe, but it's the same face that has visited his dreams countless times, the one he has kissed every angle of and traced with devout fingertips.

The cold of a London winter has left your cheeks tinged pink, your hair dotted with tiny snowflakes that are slowly melting, glistening even in the book store’s artificial light. You look enchanting, like a fairy tale character from one of the children’s books on display.

A knot has formed in his throat and he swallows against it, trying to ignore the twisting of his stomach and the roaring of his heartbeat. Leonardo da Vinci, for the first time in centuries, is nervous.

He’s about to step forward, to say the name that hasn’t crossed his lips in ages except for anguished whispers in his sleep, when something brushes past him, lightly bumping into his leg, and then haphazardly carrying on, barreling forward towards its destination.

“Mummy!!”

You turn and your face is alight, as bright and warm as summer. Dropping down, you open your arms and catch the cannonball of a little girl, pulling her close to you.

A man with a sleeping baby strapped to his chest brushes past Leonardo, offering a polite “Pardon me” before he stops in front of you, his shoulders dropping in relief.

“I’m sorry, darling. She saw you and took off like a shot.” He sounds slightly exasperated as he approaches you and his wayward daughter who has now thrown her small arms around your neck.

She has your soft auburn hair and bright, intelligent eyes.

Leonardo’s heart is quietly crumbling in his chest.

You stand, lifting the little girl up along with you, much to her delight. “Did you find a book for the plane ride, Cara?”

This is what he wanted for you. So why does it hurt so much?

She nods, brushing her hair away from her face enthusiastically. “Yes!” She turns. “Show her, Daddy.” Your husband smiles, his warm golden-brown eyes softening at the sight of you two. One hand absently pats the soft baby carrier and its sleeping passenger while the other holds out the book. Your daughter reaches over, taking it.

Your husband looks a bit like him. Same brown hair, same golden eyes. Leo’s heart continues to break.

“Oh, a children’s guide to the most famous paintings in the world. What a good choice.” You slowly set her down and she reaches for your hand.

“It has all the best ones in it, Mummy. Including your very favorite, the Mona Lisa!”

There is now nothing but dust.

You smile, running a hand over her hair. “I can’t wait to look at it with you.”

As you wait in line to pay for the book, the small bell above the bookstore chimes, announcing another patron exiting or entering. You don’t know why you glance up toward the door. There’s nothing to see except the receding figure of a man in a long brown duster as he crosses the street, arm raised to hail a taxi.

Your gaze lingers, inexplicably drawn to him, until your daughter tugs on your hand.

“Mummy?”

Jolted back to the present, you shake your head to clear the strange, momentary fog, offering the woman at the register an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry. How much for the book?”

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