#gun lobby lies

[weneverlearn]

Here's a piece I recently wrote for GVPedia's Substack page, Armed With Reason. It was kinda Xmas-focused, but better late than never. It's packed with loads of old toy gun TV commercials I know lots of you zanies will dig. Also, guns suck.

For honest, well-researched information on America's gun epidemic, check Armed With Reason, GVPedia, and Gun Violence Archive.

[comatosebunny09]

first class | sylus

summary: sylus likes to play dangerous games. today, you happen to be his rook piece. warning(s): female anatomy described, explicit language, dirty talk, bodily fluids, exhibitionism, reader's attire is described, profanity, blue balls of the female persuasion, praise kink now playing: devil's advocate - the neighbourhood notes: something i threw in @muvaginger's inbox. i'm sorry for my mind. thank you for reading, lovebugs.

Sylus, but calling you when you’ve just gotten off work.

“Are you home?” he asks, all husky on the other end. He knows you aren’t if the telltale shadow cast by a crow circling overhead is anything to go by.

“Not yet.”

“Well, get there.” Amusement resides in his voice. You have half a mind to tell him off for bossing you around like that. Like you don’t secretly enjoy it.

“Yeah, yeah. On my way.”

You hang up and shove your phone into your pocket. Put your helmet on, throwing your leg over your bike’s seat and settling on the cushion. Start it, the engine purring to life beneath you. After waving goodbye to Tara, you peel off, zipping through the energetic streets of Linkon towards your home.

Inside the lobby, your phone buzzes again. You roll your eyes, shoving your earpiece into your ear as you trudge through the lobby.

“What!” you grate out.

“Moving a little too slow there, kitten.”

If only you could punch him through the phone. You tamp down your anger, switching tactics. “What’s this about, anyway?”

He chuckles low and throaty, the sound of it prickling your brain. “Patience is a virtue.”

You scoff. “You’re one to talk.” Asshole, you add inwardly.

You catch the elevator to the floor where your apartment resides. Slide your key in, easing through the door into your entryway. Barely have time to set your keys down before a sharp rapping snaps your attention to the door.

“Open it,” Sylus orders.

Hesitant, you pivot towards it. Fingers twitch near your hip where your gun’s holstered. Slowly, you reach for the handle, mindful of your steps.

A soft laugh rings in your ear.

“Easy, sweetheart. It’s not an ambush. If I wanted to off you, I would’ve done so by now.”

“I never know with you,” you clip back, turning the doorknob.

After mentally counting to three, you throw the door open and peek outside. Silence and an empty hallway greet you. You glance left and right. Up and down the hall until a large, crimson box catches in your peripheral, seated on your doormat. You fetch it, admiring the black ribbon intricately wrapped around it.

“What’s this?” you query, kicking your door shut once you’re back inside.

“A gift.”

“Another one?”

His tone swims with nonchalance. “What can I say? I enjoy spoiling you rotten.”

You test the weight of the box. Shake it, hearing tissue paper and something heavy stir inside.

“Open it.”

You oblige. Tear the ribbon and top off, eyes curiously raking over the box’s contents. Inside is a long, black trench coat. Beneath that rests a long-sleeved, silk blouse. Deeper still lies a simple miniskirt, and you test its material between your fingers. It all looks and feels incredibly expensive despite its simplicity.

“Put it on,” Sylus instructs through the stillness.  

“What? Why?”

“Because you have a train to catch in—” A brief pause. “One hour.”

“What the fuck? A train? An hour? Sylus—”

“Time is ticking, sweetie.”

The phone clicks with his exit.

You throw the clothes onto your couch, scrutinizing them over folded arms, chewing your lip. It’s 50 degrees out. Where the hell does he think you’re going dressed like this? Does he plan to use you as bait or something?

Your phone buzzes again on your coffee table. You fetch it to see a QR code for a train ticket sitting in your inbox.

“Shit,” you hiss, scrambling for your bathroom to shower. He’s serious. There really is no time to spare.

He’d better have a good reason for being so cryptic.

—

“The second to last car,” he husks in your ear. “Meet me there in five.”

Your lips contort into a scowl. You rip your earpiece out, wending through the train’s other passengers to pursue your goal.

In the corners of your vision, the scenery outside the windows eases by. Greenery nestled beneath the snow, somewhere remote. It’s beautiful. You take time to admire the sights before finding your way to the second to last car.

The door slides shut behind you. It’s quiet, save for the occasional rumble of the train upon the tracks. The passengers here are sparse. It’s a luxury cabin, decked with armchairs, faux plants, and an expensive carpet.

You survey the area, spotting an unmistakable thatch of white nestled in the rear seat. Try to mask your giddiness as you make your way towards the back. It’s been a few days since you’ve last seen him.

Wordlessly, he motions to the seat across from him when you venture to his side, wearing that customary smirk. You plop down, folding your arms. Bite back a smile of your own, favoring a frown.

“What’s this all about?”

Sylus leans back in an easy slouch, and the way he manspreads makes your mouth water. He peers down at you from his nose, draping a long arm over the headrest of his seat. His turtleneck and coat do little to disguise the power of his body. The tendons in his neck dance. Jaw flexes. He motions to your lap with a flick of his gaze.

“Touch yourself,” he rasps.

Your eyes grow comically wide. “Excuse me?!” you hiss, mindful of your volume. Look around to ensure no one’s the wiser to your conversation. No hello. No I’ve missed you. No preamble whatsoever.

His smug look doesn’t waver. “Don’t make me repeat myself, sweetheart.” There’s an underlying edge to his voice. One that doesn’t leave room for argument. Still, you contest him.

“Sylus, there are people here!”

That enraged whisper thing you do—it’s endearing.

Sylus’ eyes darken with something sinister. He hasn’t stopped watching you since the moment you sat down. Hasn’t stopped raking his eyes over your honeysuckle thighs, your hips.

“They can watch,” he drawls with an innocent shrug.

“Sylus!”

“Sweetie, I’m not asking.” Though he bears an expression of amusement, you can tell he means business. Consequences typically follow when you don’t heed him. Delicious consequences.

You swallow thickly. Sylus’ silhouette blurs as you survey the car over his shoulder. There are at least three other passengers here, all seated near the door you came through. More than enough distance between you. Your lover bleeds back into focus, his brow raised in challenge.

With a weighted sigh, you shift to make yourself more comfortable. Loosen the tie of your coat, drawing it open whilst easing your hips forward. Hesitantly spread your legs, feeling Sylus’ optics tuned to your every move. Something hot and sticky has already begun to gather in your panties, and your nipples tighten beneath the frail silk of your blouse.  

He cutely cocks his head to the side when you hesitate. Eyes narrow. “What’s wrong, sweetie,” he croons all low. You feel it coiling in your stomach. “Scared?”

You cut your eyes to him, mouth drawn into a tight line. Of course you are. You’ve never done anything like this. He’s introduced you to all kinds of things. Uncovered fantasies lurking deep in your mind. Discovered all the erogenous zones on your body you never knew you housed, but—

Exhibitionism is new. Dangerous. And somehow, the thought of it makes you wetter.

“Go on,” he soothes. Encourages, irises dipping into a mysterious shade of garnet.

Your body moves of its own volition, spellbound. Thighs part a little more, hands smoothing over plump flesh. You sigh out, leaning back as you drag your nails over the inner curve of your thighs, bunching your skirt up towards your hips. A little more enthusiastic now, teasing your swollen outer labia with the knuckles of your thumbs.

Sylus’ mouth parts slightly. His gaze flickers downward, entranced by the show and the soft hitch of your breath. He looks back into your eyes, clicking his tongue in discovery. Reaches out a sizable hand, leaning towards you with his elbows digging into the pockets of his knees.

“Panties. Take them off.”

Your tummy sparkles with heat. He quirks a brow. He’s serious. It’s not enough to touch yourself like this in public. He wants you bare and exposed, staining the armchair with your heat.

Without a word, you shimmy out of your underwear. Thin and frill as they slide down your calves, over your ankles to pool at your feet. You compliantly deposit them into his hand. A bitten-off growl brews in his chest. He falls back against his seat, stuffing your panties into his coat’s inner pocket for safekeeping. Signals for you to keep going, fully invested in this game.

You repeat the process from before. And it’s a new sensation now, the crisp air of the train car kissing your sticky pussy. You try to think of other things. Try to distract yourself from the smolder of his gaze and how it makes your body hum and your mind fill with smoke.

You think about his fingers instead of yours, stroking down the slit of your pussy. His fingers rubbing at the hood of your clitoris, drawing it back to stroke your pretty, swollen clit. His thumbs sliding over your nipples, causing your back to arch, his tongue laving at the space behind your ear…

Your hips stutter. You stifle a moan. Sylus slides in and out of focus, your vision fogging around the corners. He chuckles amorously, shifting in his seat. “Don’t stop,” he nurtures, eyes burning like a feverish flame. His dick sits heavy in his slacks, slowly hardening and twitching.

You salivate. Knowing that he’s enjoying this as much as you gradually are—fuck. You bite your lip, propping your leg on the chair’s arm. Spread nice and wide for him, your pussy on full display.

You rut against your fingers, your face screwed up in rapture. Legs quiver each time the pads of your fingers bump your messy clit. You construct a rhythm that’s maddeningly slow and torturous. Feel that sparkling rush lazily pooling between your thighs, but it’s not enough. Wanna be filled and stuffed to the brim with cum.

His cum.

A glimpse at Sylus reveals something that makes you throb. He’s touching himself. Humping into the palm of his hand, hot and weighted through the thick layers of his clothes. Fuck. You pulse.

“Syl,” you sob quietly, wetly, wantonly. “Syl, please—”

“Use your fingers,” he breathes all ragged. “Inside.” Angles his head back until it thumps against the headrest. Doesn’t look away, still rucking his hips up into the heel of his palm like the slow undulation of a wave.

You indulge, circling the pucker of your pussy with your fingers. Steadily work one inside, and you sigh, tossing your head back. Caress your tits with your free hand, plucking your nipples to their peaks as you drive your finger in and out. The lewd, squelching sounds you make as you torture yourself causes your walls to clench down.

Sylus’ voice crackles, pouring through the fizzy haze that’s settled over you.

“One more. You can take one more, can’t you, sweetie?”

You moan at how his voice oozes like warm milk and honey. You’re obedient, gradually adding another, pumping in and out. A thick ring of cream collects around your knuckles. It’s still not enough. Never enough.

“That’s my girl,” he lauds, relief in his timbre. “So good for me. So, so good.”

“Sylus,” you sob, fucking yourself a little faster. Wish it were him instead, filling you up and pumping you with the briny edge of his cum. There’s a warm fluid trickling down your leg. Heat spooling in your tummy.

He greedily ingests the sight of you fucking yourself, groaning hoarsely. You’re so close to spilling over the edge, so close to losing yourself to an orgasm. And you would—

If not for the sound of footfalls nearing your position.

“Shit!” you hiss, snapping your legs shut. Work your skirt into some semblance of neatness, throwing your coat over your legs. Your cheeks and neck are aflame, pulse pounding in your throat, pussy throbbing.

You don’t make eye contact as the gentleman passes, too busy looking at your fingers in your lap. He’s none the wiser to the goings on in your section—or, at least, he acts like he isn’t—as he bows with a small smile, slipping through the door behind. Sylus tracks his every move, and if looks could kill…

Your heart thrums heavily in your ears. You caution a glance at your boyfriend, taking in his flushed cheeks, his heaving chest. He’d thrown his coat over his lap to disguise the monster pressing against the seam of his trousers.

You lock eyes. His lips pull into a scowl as he sits up, pitching himself forward. Cants his head to one side, voice abrasive and low.

“Did I tell you to close your fucking legs?”

A thrill racks through you. It’s rare that he curses, only sullying his tongue when he’s upset or too far gone. It turns your stomach to a primordial ooze. Without warning, Sylus gathers himself up, snatching your wrist along with him.

You stumble like a baby fawn to your feet, gazing into those eyes that dwindle like liquid spilled over burning coals.

“We aren’t done here, sweetheart,” he promises with a tense jaw. Tugs you from your seat and down the aisle, all the while fishing for something in his pocket. A quick glance reveals a barcode, and a number printed in bold letters on a bit of plastic. A keycard. The sneaky little…

He peers at you over his shoulder as you both maneuver through the throng of passengers in the remaining cars, back towards the front. Your features warm with a smile. Legs tingle.

You weren’t aware that this train had sleeper cars, but you’re grateful to know it does. Your body buzzes with the prospect of what’s to come. He’s not done with you, indeed.  

hair down | masterlist | nuisance

[pinkrelish]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶"Can I kiss you?"✶

NSFW — smut, blowjob, swallowing, ball worship, cock worship, grinding, dry humping, first kiss, slow burn, flirting, mutual pining, eddie is touch starved, mild angst, 18+

chapter: 10/20 [wc: 25.1k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11 / 12

AO3

Chapter 10: The Intentional Second Date

Smoke trembled past his lips in stuttered bursts.

It was Eddie’s second cigarette of the morning. Not completely out of the ordinary for him; sometimes he needed a second one when Adrie gave him trouble before preschool, or if he had a bad night’s sleep and relied on nicotine to help delay the impending headache, but that’s not why he was smoking again today. Adrie woke up, got dressed, brushed her teeth, and told him she loved him in the carpool lane. She was a dream. His nightmare, on the other hand, was coming to fruition. Because of course he couldn’t remember where he’d set his wallet if it weren’t chained to his pants on a sober day, but drinking enough to where he should’ve been plastered? He remembered it all. He remembered it all.

Oh, he remembered it all.

And when he heard the front employee door to the auto shop unlock, he held his breath, and counted down the routine seconds for you to pop your head out in the alleyway and greet him, and when it didn’t happen.. He knew you remembered too.

The morning smile did not come. No greeting. No laughter. Just nothing. Nothing happened except for the glass door to the lobby opening, and you going inside.

He fucked up. He fucked up. He fucking fucked up.

He made things weird, and now you were avoiding him, as you had every right to after he tried to initiate phone sex without warning— Consent? Consent. Both of you were inebriated to some degree, and he’d never felt more like a creep.

Oh, God.

His knees went weak.

Anxious bile sloshed in his seizing stomach. His face broke out in a cold sweat. Knots constricted tighter. Heart beating in his throat. Decisions—mistakes—put stars in his vision. His world was ending, and it pounded at his temples. This was it. This was it. He fucked up.

“Good morning, hand—Oh?”

Eddie froze.

You leaned more than your head out the door, and stepped onto the concrete slab. All your tender attention was on him, studying his pale face, and his hunched form. Your eyebrows swooped in worry at how he was crouched to the reedy weeds instead of standing tall with his back against the gray bricks. A frown slighted your smile, insulting your beauty when you saw him bent down, knees to his chest, holding his head while his other hand shook hard enough the cigarette pinched between his fingers fell amongst the rocks.

“Eddie? You don’t look good. Are you okay?”

His lips parted.

Was he dreaming? Was the lift of delight in your tone when you first went to greet him, and then the drop to concern ebbing your voice deeper when he appeared ill a figment of his imagination? Were you about to call him handsome? Was this the second chance he didn’t deserve?

“Eddie?”

“Yeah!” His exclamation helped him stand, and the twitch of your lips battled his nausea. “Yeah, I just had a long night,” he lied.

Lightheaded, he concentrated on keeping balanced in his woozy lurch towards the wall.

Sharp edges of rocks slid against one another under your winter boots. “Aw, I’m sorry.” Your apology was sincere, as was your silly quirk of swinging your arms to point finger guns towards the garage. “I brought donuts this morning, and went ahead and made coffee, so they’re both fresh if you’re the type to dunk.” You mimicked dunking a donut into a mug of coffee. “Maybe it’ll make you feel better?”

Endearing. Genuinely, honestly, so fucking adorably endearing.

“Yeah, that sounds great right now.” The pet names returned to their restricted status for now. He had to know for sure. “Did you, uh, like playing with us Saturday?” It was a coward’s way to dance around the real question burning his esophagus, but it was a valiant introduction.

“I did! It was a lot of fun. I’m glad you invited me. And, hey, uhm, I didn’t say anything weird to your friends, or anything like that, did I?”

“No, you didn’t,” he responded in an even tone, stomping his curiosity from fluctuating his cadence with hopefulness when you chose that of all things to ask him.

“Good! My memory went a little fuzzy after my fourth drink, you know, when Lloyd kept trying to get us to sing along to that adventuring song he made up. I didn’t know if I said anything weird, or rude, or something by accident.”

Salvation reigned upon him.

Eddie’s lungs allowed him to breathe at the kindness alcohol spared him, and finally, he could relax. Your fretting stemmed from making a good impression on his friends, and with his reassurance, you stopped fidgeting at your nails, and the color returned to his cheeks. “You don’t need to worry about that. Seriously, they loved you.” His grin struggled to blossom. “Do you not remember anything else?”

In contrast, your grin was a field of wildflowers swaying under the summer sun.

“Not really, it’s pretty spotty around the time they left, but I do remember a few things,” you said, taking another step towards him. “I remember you throwing a napkin at the back of my head. I remember falling asleep in Robin’s car. I also remember asking her to pull over on the side of the road. I remember waking up in the living room, on her dad’s recliner of all places. And boy! do I remember being hungover.”

Closing the few feet of distance remaining, your confidence was established in your ability to pinch the sleeve of his coveralls and tug at it in a playful, flirty way, coasting your frosted sigh over his embroidered name patch.

You claimed him, heart and soul, “But I remember us dancing, too. I’m so glad I remember us dancing.” Softer, “You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever met, you know that?”

“I’m the sweetest?” he repeated in a mumble, complying with the tug to open his arm in a curve, which you fit into.

“Of course you are. You sure you’re not sick? You still look like you’re about to puke.”

As if your grip on his tricep wasn’t enough of an anchor on reality, the backs of your fingers gliding down his cheek were, checking his temperature like he was worthy of being doted on. A fortunate thing, a blessing; having your hand guide him from the river Styx with a simple brush, thumb tracing the edge of his lip.

Yeah, his heart clenched. “I’m okay,” he rushed to whisper, wanting the words to sprint after your fingers falling from his chin. He kept the connection alive by copying the stroke along your spine, over your denim jacket. 

The wintry redness returned to his face, he knew. His racing pulse brought it there, splotching warmth to his skin. There was not enough bravery in the world to ask how much of the dance you recalled; whether your memory ended at your head on his chest, or your wrist to his lips, or your foreheads together with your noses smashed to the other’s cheek, but he did gleam one thing for certain.

You beamed up at him with eager eyes, as if those intimacies flashed in the sun’s reflection, and you wanted more of them.

He said, “I think I’ll feel better after a donut. Or three.”

“Or a nap, or three,” you countered.

“Sweetheart,” he exhaled, a rasp present in his throat from smoking, “I’m not gonna waste my time napping when I could be eating donuts with you.”

A wry laugh played at your lips. “How romantic.”

“I’ve been known to be romantic from time to time.”

You hummed in interest, arching an eyebrow. It was a challenge. Oh, really? you asked. Show me, then, you said.

Stepping back, you dragged your hand down his arm and embraced the motion, seeing it through to his elbow, forearm, the heel of his palm. Feeling but a faint outline of his form beneath the thick sleeve of his canvas jacket and light blue coveralls, yet still clinging to him as if he were your heater. Your warmth. Another body laying next to you in a cold bed.

“C’mon, handsome.” You urged him inside by your feeble grip around the stretchy knit cuff covering the plastic bead bracelet around his wrist. “Let's see if getting some caffeine in you helps you look less like a corpse.”

He snorted, and obeyed. “Whatever you say, dear.”

By all means, it seemed you didn’t remember the phone call. No doubt you were stone cold sober for the bad jokes, dorky innuendos, and inappropriate behavior that would be frowned upon at work, but you didn’t bring those up, so he didn’t either. He was in the clear.

Fate forgave him. And now, he could move on with the ‘thank you’ he owed you in good faith.

————

It was days later when your stapler ran out of staples.

You clamped it shut a few more times until you realized, and opened the second drawer on the short filing cabinet beneath your desk. After a cool slide of metal on metal came a rattle. Instead of your extra sticky notes, folders, and office supplies being visible, a foreign object sat on top of them. Perplexed, you reached in and grasped the lime green box. An index card was taped to it, and removing it jolted the waxy candies inside, sliding them against the cardboard in a merry cascade.

Setting the Mike and Ikes aside, you read the thin, angular handwriting on the note, written in red.

DO YOU WANT TO GO ON A DATE WITH ME? (circle one)

              YES    or   NO

ARE YOU ONLY SAYING YES BECAUSE ITS YOUR POLICY?

              YES    or   NO

By outward appearances, your mouth was tugged downwards at the corners, but make no mistake, it was not a frown. No, no. What your expression was overcome with was so sentimental, so empathetic, you had to pout.

Besotted, you hugged the card to your chest, and reflected on the heaviness of his expectant gaze when he passed by your desk this week. The longer eye contact, the anticipatory lift of his eyebrows wrinkling his forehead when you waved at him. He must’ve put this in your drawer days ago, and you had kept him waiting by accident, poor guy.

You weren’t about to keep him in suspense any longer.

(Though, maybe he should’ve put it in the top drawer, which you opened daily for your highlighters, if he wanted a quicker response.)

Pen to paper, you selected your answers, jotted a line, and tucked the notecard inside a manila folder with two invoices he needed to fill out. You pushed your rolly chair away from the desk, and dug through your purse before going to the breakroom where Eddie sat hunched over the round table, shoveling a chicken Rice-a-Roni meal in his mouth (haphazardly) with his left hand while writing in his DND notebook with his right.

You stood at the vending machine with your hip jutted out, sinking to one side with utmost concentration on your pursed lips, perusing the rows of choices. There were just so, so many categories to choose from. Chips, candy, chocolates. How could you ever decide? You crossed your arms, and tapped your chin at the dilemma, taking your time. This was a wise use of your work hours, of course. Flirting with your coworker by passing notes, and watching the side profile of his smirk break through his curtain of curls in the glass reflection.

Finally, you settled on F4, and slotted in your quarters, punching those buttons.

The Kit Kat bar was deposited in a loud clunk.

“Hey, didn’t know if you saw,” you started casually, and held the manila folder out to him with an imposing grimace, “but you forgot to fill out a couple of lines at the bottom of these invoices. Can’t have you slipping up, and not finishing your paperwork before working on your little roleplaying game, now can we?”

Eddie shifted his gaze from the bulky folder failing to stay pinched closed, to your face. Fawning, he arched into an overly apologetic expression to match your performance, and placed a hand over his heart. “Oh, no, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. Did I forget to do that? Silly me.”

“Better not let it happen again, Mr. Munson,” you warned, placing it on the table and leaving.

“Never, never,” he promised.

Back at your desk, you sat in your chair, calm and poised. And approximately two seconds later, you kicked off the floor into a fierce spin, dizzying the lobby around you. The place was a blur, your stomach swirled, and still, your goofy grin refused to wane. But, you did stop eventually. The antics had to come to an end. You did have work to do, afterall.. Which you ignored when you heard him rip into the foil wrapper in the other room, and you couldn’t possibly concentrate on calling a warehouse to check on an order of headlights when your ears were tuned to the flimsy chair scraping across the tile, and his heavy work boots stomping down the hall.

“Filled out those forms for ya, sweetness,” Eddie said with a wink.

There was a weight to the manila folder when he dropped it on your desk, and tapped twice on his way out to the garage. Not a physical weight, but a gravity that wasn’t there before, now concentrated in his keen eye contact. An invisible significance.

The relationship had changed, just then, in the trade off of boring invoices.

Opening the folder, the index card was deemed more important than the paperwork. Your gaze stalled on the thick circles around YES, and NO. Yes, you’d go on a date with him, and no, it wasn’t because of your policy. Below them, your thick handwriting flowed together.

what did you have in mind?

I RETURNED THOSE KIDS MOVIES FOR YOU.

  YOU CAN THANK ME FOR SAVING YOU

    THE LATE FEE BY WATCHING SOME

       HORROR WITH ME AT MY PLACE

PICK YOU UP SATURDAY AT 6?

Fighting back another sickeningly stupid willowy sigh at his charm, you wrote a lovesick reply.

In usual Eddie fashion, he left the very last box on the second form blank, so you had to go out to the service area, and address the mechanic bent over a car engine. Not that you were complaining. The back of his coveralls hugged the slight curve of his ass, and his hair was not only pulled into a low bun at his nape, but he wore a bandana tied to keep his bangs off his forehead.

“Hey there handsome, couldn’t help but notice you left the date box on this form blank again.”

“Oh, did I, pretty girl?” He spun, and rolled his eyes to mock himself. Wiping the grease from his hands on his coveralls, he took your pen. “It’s my old age, y’know. Things always slippin’ my mind.” Mumbling to himself, he pressed his palm to the back of the folder, and sketched out a sentence into the page longer than a few numbers warranted. During the arduous process, he looked at you with sorrow, and complained, “These dates are just so tedious to write out, it may just take me all night to complete.”

You refused to give him the satisfaction of a smirk at his (possible) insinuation.

All night? He wished.

Eddie surrendered the folder and pen, and smiled at you, stretching the streak of soot on his chin and cheek. “There you go. All filled out. Not a ‘T’ uncrossed, nor an ‘I’ left undotted.”

“Thank you,” you over-enunciated as a goodbye.

The very second the glass door came to a slow close behind you, you sat at your desk with the folder, and threw a subtle glance out the window to the garage to make sure Eddie wasn’t watching you lose your mind over two short words exchanged in quick succession.

sounds perfect :)

YOURE PERFECT =)

For the second time since you moved to Hawkins, you had a date. And judging by Eddie’s sway from foot to foot with his hands laced behind his neck and his head hung back, listening to the traffic outside echo off the cement walls, he was thrilled for his second date, too. He dropped into a steady bob at music that wasn’t playing. A too-large grin teased at his mouth as he paced to the motor he was repairing, and bent over it. His boyish excitement spilled like an overpoured mug of coffee into his unabashed giggle, and glance in your direction.

Eyes locked, he didn’t steal your breath. You gave it to him willingly.

————

Saturday’s setting sun was just another audience member to your date night routine. Robin and her mom leaned in the doorway of the bathroom the entire time you were shaving, and due to the opacity of the shower curtain, you were unable to convey your glare to the degree it deserved.

“Well, why doesn’t she wear this instead?”

There was a shock of laughter mixed with Robin’s scoff. “Mom, if she wore that Eddie would pass out on the spot. What if he hit his head, and they had to call an ambulance? You know she can’t drive him to the hospital. No, this bra still gives sex appeal without causing an injury. And besides, calling 9-1-1 would put a damper on them—”

“Rob,” you groaned.

“—spending a wonderful evening together,” she finished.

The thunk of a walking cane neared, and her dad’s hoarse voice sounded from down the hallway, “My! The rowdy Munson boy is getting lucky tonight, is he?” he proposed in a faux British accent after watching BBC nature documentaries all day. “Do you think he’d have dinner with us tomorrow? We haven’t seen him since Robin threw that New Year’s party years ago, and almost set the roof on fire.”

Oh dear God get me out of here.

Once you were finished with your shower, freshly scrubbed and smelling nice, you humored them by wearing the outfit they picked out. It was pretty much what you would’ve worn anyway. A short black skirt made modest by nylon tights to stave off the chill from Eddie’s trailer, and an oversized crocheted cream cardigan with tiny pink flowers, the hem of which hit you at your waist, showing a tempting preview of your stomach when you raised your arms to fix your hair. The pale lavender bra (the reason for their debate), was covered by the aforementioned sweater, and you weren’t sure if the sheerness of the lace mattered much when Eddie’s daughter may be present, or in the next room over. It didn’t occur to you to ask if he’d have Adrie with him, so, such is life. The bra may stay a secret despite their efforts to doll you up. But the sudden realization he may see you in it tonight clenched your stomach with excitement..

The clock struck 5:55, and an ominous roll of thunder put everyone on edge. It electrified nerves, and stood hair on end, setting forth premonitions of bad weather and foul fortune. Doom, it was; and it came, and came, neverending. Except.. It wasn’t thunder. It was Eddie Munson’s brutal music.

His little black car came flying down the road, and swung into the driveway, screeching to a halt heralded by flung rocks spat by his tires, and a flock of songbirds splitting the sky.

And yet?

Charm bowed before Eddie’s easy strut. Pebbles dodged his stride. Clouds of hellish dust evaded the shine on his laced up boots. His tight jeans flaunted the subtle flex of his thighs, and his belt sloped on his narrow hips with each uneven stride, daring the world to stare at the extra length of stiff leather flopping outside the confines of the belt loops, attracting all the attention he desired to the places he wanted.

You were still in the living room struggling with the buckle on your Mary Janes when the intense, raw screams of his heavy metal music stopped, and the muffled guitars faded away. He showed up, shockingly, on time, and you shot out the door before the heavy slants of sun breaching the leafless trees could beat down on his trademark jacket rattling with dainty chains.

“Hey there, sweetness.”

“Hey!” you blurted in a huff, racing down the steps. Flustered by his punctuality, you made the first move of the night by snatching his hand and dragging him away.

Slighted by your absence of drooling over how cool he looked, Eddie grunted in objection, but let himself be steered away. He glanced over his shoulder at the three faces peering at him from the window, and spared them a tentative wave. They were nosy, but not in the unkind way he was used to, and for that, he was thankful.

You apologized at a hurried pace, “Sorry, but if you step foot on the porch, they’re gonna ask you a bazillion questions, and never let us leave.”

“Ah,” he said, short of a laugh, “but let me get the door for you. Wanna impress them.”

“Impress them?” Dregs of sleepy sunlight highlighted the twist of your lips. “You come in here like a bat outta hell, blaring your music loud enough that I’m surprised you’re not hard of hearing, and you’re worried about impressing Bobbie’s parents?”

Refusing to let your fingers slip from his when he felt your grip go weak, he tightened his hold, and opened the car door with his other hand, sidestepping awkwardly to avoid the wide swing, towing you around him.

“Is that so strange?”

“It’s a little strange.”

“Good.” He established the bond of your palm cupped to his until you sank into the red plush passenger’s seat. At the groan of the hinges, and a hard slap on the metal, he finished, “I like being strange—” Punctuated by the door slamming shut. His cackle was far away. Shrieking silence filled your ears, interrupted by your elevated pulse pounding in your chest, and the tink of a pebble pinging the bumper when one was unfortunate enough to come into contact with his boot as he strode around the front of the car with his hands in his back pockets, stretching his shirt over the curve of his stomach.

What a lovely thing he was, truly. To lord the power of sheer captivation over you, and still ground you with a humble gaze and tender smile through a windshield flecked with dirt, as if stealing one of your five senses was a normal feat and returning it to you wasn’t an act of benevolence.

He folded himself into the seat beside you and staggered his legs until he could relax fully into the position, and turned the key in the ignition. His music took residence in the sense he stole. You tensed in anticipation, but it wasn’t offensive. The previous song was ending, and with you being boxed in with the speakers bullying your ears from every angle, you heard the animalistic screams as something more haunting, more beautiful. They were organic. Emotional. Conveying a longing which flowed into the next track; a restrained piece laced with sweltering lines, where each croaky utterance heated your cheeks fiercer and fiercer. Carnal of a different nature.

Intentionally avoiding eye contact with Eddie, you twisted enough to see the carseat behind you was empty. “No Adrie?” you asked to confirm a suspicion.

“She was invited to a sleepover for one of her friend’s birthday parties tonight,” he said.

You reeled at the information, but not for the reason you assumed. “Wait, what? There’re people out there willing to have a hoard of five-year-olds running around their house? Like, with the screaming and everything?”

“Crazy, right? Some people still have their sanity, I guess.” He stamped the gas and clutch, revving the engine with an amused answer poised on his plump lips. “Or enough downers to get them through the night.”

The guitars increased in ferocity, drowning out his wistful reminiscing on such substances helping him through the day, pre-Adrie.

It was then you noticed an interesting detail about his compact car you didn’t fully appreciate last time you were in it: there was no center console. You didn’t need to check. The lack of separation was confirmed by the heat radiating from his heavy palm draped over the gear shift, and the blunt edge of his nails skimming your tights when he clicked the stick into a lower slot, dragging it along your leg. The armrests were raised, and they too touched at the base. It was no surprise when his long hair swept your clothed shoulder as he twisted around to look out the back window and put the car in reverse, avoiding the Buckley’s dented mailbox, and lurching you against the seatbelt.

The lyrics peaked in sultry aggression.

So, no Adrie. “Am I meeting your uncle, then?” Oh, how your question was thin against the strong note the singer held. His wavering timbre penetrated you in waves, releasing a ripple of tingles from head to toe. Creating a change in the tension existing between you and Eddie when he answered in a deeper register.

“No, he’s uh, he’s gone for the weekend,” he said, drumming his rings on the steering wheel, squeezing his fingers over the gear stick to shift it into drive. “Out playing poker with his friends. So, uh, it’s just you and me. S’that cool?”

So, no Adrie, and no uncle.

“Yeah—Yeah, that’s cool,” you replied. Whereas his voice went lower, yours went higher at the acknowledgement. Fainter, wispier. Fluttery with the nerves in your stomach. Restless like butterfly wings beating on gusts at the explicit implication matching the subject matter pumping through the speakers.

Tonight was your first real date with Eddie, in his trailer, alone.

Soon, the dense thicket of rural Hawkins was replaced by houses and population; gone were the fields of deer, and approaching in a blur were stout brick buildings, and stop lights swinging in the slight breeze.

He slowed at the intersection where Family Video’s neon sign struck red over the black pavement, and stopped. Eddie, being an opportunist, saw the boring wait for the light to turn green as fortuitous. It granted him the ability to gaze upon you as he wished, ready to take you in after your rushed greeting. You had robbed him of the movie-esque scene where he’d walk up to your door, knock three times, greet you with a stunning grin and compliment you until you were giggling and swooning in his arms. It was only fair he drank you in now, in the low liquid blue of the early night.

Beyond bewitched, he didn't register how methodically he traced his eyes over your body; devouring details the generous neckline of your cardigan allowed him, reaching the narrow channel of shadow where your bra assisted your chest, and the small gaps the tiny pink flowers woven into the yarn created in the chain loops, gifting him a charitable preview of the delicate lavender beneath. Appreciating how below that, your skirt wrapped your legs snugger than his arms had ever been privileged, and your tights graced skin he’d never felt. Perhaps he even lingered on the strap of your Mary Janes draped around your ankle, wondering if he’d be lucky enough to circle his fingers there one day, too.

Flattery raced your heart. You’d never been the subject of someone’s study to this degree, as if you were artwork to be admired. Not from any of the dates you’d been on, anyway. Not in a meaningful way, consumed wholly by someone you considered a close friend. And not while a man sang about vulgar acts in a gorgeous way.

Eddie remembered to breathe when green flashed in his periphery, and his gaze evened the playing field when he caught you dedicating entire prayers to the indecent crease at his hip and inner thigh where he rested his large palm.

“Baby, you’re beautiful,” he exhaled.

Not you look beautiful. You are beautiful.

Meeting him head-on, you smiled. “I don’t have the lexicon to describe you.” His expression faltered to a confused pinch between his brows, and you reassured him, “Handsome isn’t good enough anymore. Never was. No words are. They need to invent new ones.”

Leaning in, he scrunched his nose, and teased, “You can just call me hot.” Which would’ve been a decent line; imposing himself so near his words caressed the gloss on your lips, and finishing the hard plosive—Hot—with the bite of his charismatic wolfish grin. But the aggravated honks killed the mood.

Two cars behind him laid on their horns, and he was startled into the reality of holding up traffic. You openly laughed at his change in demeanor, at how he scrambled to get the car going before they got angry again, all flustered and stomping too hard on the gas, sending you both slamming backwards in your seats.

“Yeah, real hot stuff you got goin’ on,” you teased in return.

He stuck his tongue out in concentration as he checked the rearview mirror, speeding to put distance between him and the other cars. Dangerously, he slid his gaze to you once more, prioritizing you over the road. “Are you really gonna deny I'm the hottest guy you’ve ever met? Even with all your city boys, actors, and freaks who’ve been on bigger stages than me? Guys who took you to fancy sit-down restaurants in a suit and tie? Men who drone on about finances because they chose a viable career not covered in grease? Are they really hotter than me?”

His tone was flat, and his face neutral, cracking a cavern of curiosity wide within you.

Your instinct was to treat the insecurity as genuine, but the moment you opened your mouth to restore his confidence, he smirked.

“Just kidding, baby,” he broke the act. “I know I’m the favorite.”

Glowing with confidence, he took his hand off the gear shift to jab at your ribs, but he underestimated how thick the crochet was. Instead of tickling you, it was more of a soothing stroke along your side. And he didn’t stop. He kept up the intimate gesture, brushing the fabric with his curled index finger three times. Giggling, himself, at nothing other than his own thoughts.

Gone was the swell of empathy clogging your throat. “My favorite idiot,” you corrected in an exasperated mumble, yet leaning into the shy affection.

The cassette played static, then began a new song. Angsty still, but not quite as on the nose as the last. This, along with another dig at each other, eased the pressure preventing you two from relaxing into the evening. The awareness revealing itself in nervous glances and dry swallows digressed into your normal dynamic as friends with the benefit of flirty innocence without the stress of expectations. Those motives could stay locked between your clenched thighs, and aching against his jean’s zipper. Tonight was the first foray into real time together, and if you watched movies and it ended there with no moves made, or romantic elements explored, then so be it. There wouldn't be any unnecessary impatience, or snap decisions made to cross those final platonic boundaries if one of you chickened out. This date would be perfect, regardless.

Right?

You could endure another day of him acting confident in front of others, only for him to buckle under the pressure and pussy out before kissing you, right?

..Right?

Whatever. The night was young, and oh, how Eddie’s giddiness for spending time with you emerged. The instant he arrived at the trailer, he jammed his thumb into the seat belt latch and commanded you to stay put. Naturally, this didn’t go without a snort from you, but it escalated to true laughter when he stumbled out of the car, and sprinted around the front in a flustered jangle of chains beating on jeans, only to play it off as cool once he reached your side and opened your door for you. “You’re silly,” you commented. His chest rose with a panting breath, and his lips jumped into a playful smirk at his own oddities. He stepped back, and swept his arm in a classic bow.

The friction burn from the seat belt slipping through your grip was balmed by the chilled leather beneath your fingers when he offered his elbow to you. You set your heeled shoes on the uneven ground, and wobbled on the deep tire tracks scoring the dried mud, and again, he was twisting this way and that, trying to figure out the best gentlemanly way to help you balance. Not that his brave palm on the small of your back wasn’t warranted in the treacherous battle of shadows in the underripe evening, but even you couldn’t stop your snicker when he, too, met you with a side-ways glance.

“Nervous?” you asked, bringing attention to the situation for what it was.

“Me? Nervous?” He arched his eyebrows up, then brought them into a swift furrow. “Nah, never. I’m just making sure my girl doesn’t twist her ankle before I get to cook for her on our second date,” he ended with a suggestive tone, canting his head to yours. Foreheads near.

Ah, the buzzing of springtime bees was trembling your fingers again, gripping him when the hive in your stomach fed honey to your hungry heart, pumping, pumping a sugar rush.

Acknowledgements. His girl. Cooking. Second date.

He was sweet. And you were trapped in the sticky nectar thrumming in your veins. It was a futile effort, after all, to convince yourself you two could act as normal friends do around each other. Truly, you lost that war when you inclined your head to his, and divulged in the same grin he wore.

“Cook for me?” you repeated in a voice of ambrosia, which he partook.

“Mhmm,” he hummed amongst the drone of television programs filtered through bug screened windows. “I wanna watch movies with you, cook you somethin’ nice, and remind you that I’m not the guy I was at the movie theater—” He flinched at the last part, accepting your weak slap to his chest. Pleased with himself for finally swooning you, he trained his gaze on your giggly sway, and squinched his eyes with mirth.

“Eddie, I’m well aware you’re not that guy.”

“Oh?” he lilted. “But aren’t I? Still got the outdated haircut, stick in the mud attitude, and leather jacket.”

You slipped a finger beneath the jacket, and poked at the macabre skull on his tee. “Got a different shirt, though. Last time you were wearing a rattlesnake, now it’s..?”

“Metallica,” he finished. A softer expression deepend his dimple. There may have been a particular meaning behind it you were missing, but he didn’t share. “Good memory, but may I also bring to your attention that it’s fucking freezing out here?”

Overcome by a shiver, you retracted your prodding, and he removed his hand from your lower back. The warmth was sorely missed. You agreed, it was fucking freezing and pantyhose were not a replacement for snow pants.

Eddie jostled the keys from his pocket and unlocked the front door for you to enter first, trailing behind you with a welcome to his humble abode, as if you hadn’t been there several times before. But you supposed the circumstances were different when he showed you in, and a certain coziness defrosted your cheeks. The trailer was lit by a singular lamp in the living room and the nightlight from the bathroom. An electric radiator generated heat near the armrest where his pillow stayed, and at the other end of the couch was a messy pile of blankets in varying textures and thickness. A stack of three VHSes sat on the coffee table near a collection of never-used cork coasters. In the kitchen, a spread of groceries occupied the counter, along with a page from a magazine, but Eddie stole your attention before you could puzzle together the ingredients he laid out.

“So, which one do you wanna start with first?” Eddie asked, drawing your gaze to the VHSes fanned in his palms, fingers stretched wide to contain the movies.

Subtly, he wiggled the one on the end. The green HORROR sticker on the cover appeared new; unblemished, without creases or dirt. You recognized the drippy blood stylized title as the same one printed in the local newspaper warning mothers of its gore and perversions. Less subtly, he darted his eyes to it, and made encouraging noises while presenting it closer to you. It's not like you cared what order you watched his surprise selection in, so you went with the new release he was most eager for, as opposed to the other schlocky B movies.

“Sweet!”

Adorably, he told you to make yourself at home, and you both found yourselves bumping into each other in the entryway. You bent to unbuckle your shoes, and he shrugged off his jacket. Maybe you swung your knee into his shin, and he flopped the leather sleeve atop your head in retaliation. And when you stood, he jabbed his elbow into your arm before kneeling to untie his boots, and you picked a long, curly auburn hair off your sweater, holding it out and away from you as if it were revolting. “Is this what it’s like living with you?” you asked with an excessive amount of mock disgust.

“‘Fraid so,” he consoled, looking up at you as he worked the knot out of his laces. “At least—until I go bald.”

You tilted your head as you tried to picture him without his wild haircut, and after some consideration (and curious fingers kept laced tight to discipline yourself from running them through his curls to test the tamability of such rowdy layers cut without rhyme or reason), you concluded, “I think you’d still be the most attractive person I’ve ever met.”

His expression widened at your honesty. Pushing himself upright, he rocked side to side as he toed off his boots, and stepped beyond them, narrowing the distance between his ego and your lifted eyebrow. “Most attractive? Yeah?”

Before his head swelled to hot air balloon status from a compliment he pried out of you, you stopped him.

“Bald or not, you’re still Eddie,” you expressed. “And that’s what I like about you the most; your Eddieness. Regardless of your hair, you’re still that guy that’s willing to trip over his own feet so he can open a door for me.. and cook for me, apparently.”

You drove your gaze to the ingredients on the counter, but he distracted you from venturing into that part of the date.

“Uh-uh-uh,” he tsked. “Movie first, then dinner. I’ve been wanting to see this one, so make yourself comfortable. Get some blankets too, I know the radiator sucks.” The warmth it gave off rarely brought circulation to his toes when he was sleeping, much less kept him from shivering on the windy nights. “Lemme get us something to drink, and I’ll put on the movie.” He chose to fill two bright red plastic glasses with water and bring them to the coffee table. They were the type of textured cup one would find at a pizzeria, and he set them directly on the wood, because why bother with coasters when most of the varnish had been worn away over the years.

Water itself shouldn’t be a surprise, but the fact he chose it over beer stood out.

Interesting. You made yourself snuggly as instructed, and sat in the middle of the couch where two cushions met. Amongst the pile, you picked the thick blue and white striped comforter, and draped it over your not-quite-numb legs. He crouched in front of the TV, and popped open the VHS case, brushing his calluses over the frosted plastic cover, and shut the case with a satisfying snap. Lining the movie up with the VCR slot, he pushed on the flap, and it was accepted into the mouth of the machine—kuh-chunk, slide, whirring reels, a fuzzy high-pitched noise—staticy snow played, then the first commercial started, flickering a woman’s face mid-scream across the screen.

Eddie turned off the lamp, and in the sudden darkness, he slid his socked feet in timid steps across the carpet to avoid a pinky toe colliding with the coffee table, and he fell into place next to you.

The cushions sank with your combined weight. The seams separating you clashed. Hip, thigh, shoulder. Layers of clothing blazed from the heat of his proximity, setting fire to your cheeks. You weren’t touching, not really, not yet, and you both stared at each other with lips slightly parted.

Your voice went unnaturally airy as you offered him the blanket, “Want some?”

And his voice was lost to the sensation of his bare arm making contact with your sweater.

He nodded.

Predictable for the genre, the next commercial advertised a pair of tits before the camera cut away, and the woman was assumed to be brutally stabbed by a masked serial killer.

He shifted. You shifted.

The comforter slid across your lap. He stole the warm pocket of air you were generating for yourself, and replaced it with the cold half of the blanket. It may have been an innocent movement, but him yanking it caused you to press against him more than you already were. His arm went rigid with tensed muscles the further you sloped into the crevice where the cushions met, stiffening against your soft body like a brick wall you had no choice but to lean on. You tried to help the situation by breaking the silence between the next commercial.

“Do you want to know another Eddieness I find endearing?”

During the first part of your sentence he didn’t react. He watched the TV; jaw tight but not clenched; it was only on the last word did he turn his head, and set those big eyes of his on you.

You went ahead and answered, “It’s how shy you are.”

The hint of a deeper emotion eased from his gaze when he closed his eyes in a slow blink, and raised his brows, processing what you said. “’M not shy.” His smile grew at that, stretching half his mouth in shadow, making his nose appear larger, rounder.

“And awkward.”

“I’m not awkward,” he complained, tone soft and playful.

Lit by the soft grain of the movie starting on a scene of a young boy running inside pitch-black house, Eddie’s eyelashes clung to the remnants of light, curling longer, and longer. His lips lifted at the corners, testing a sneakier grin at the idea of you finding him both shy, and awkward. Words he hadn’t heard in years. Descriptors he would’ve called himself when he was still in high school and dipping his toe in the dating pool, but not since then. Not since he dabbled in liquid courage at parties and gained some experience from the confidence alcohol afforded him.. and lost when he discovered the consequences of acting impulsively, and his casual assuredness was ripped from him when his daughter was born.

Or, yeah, maybe he was always shy and awkward as you presumed, he just didn’t care about people’s opinions when he wasn’t invested in starting a future with them. Which was fine by him, you could call him dorky if you wanted, because here he was in the midst of a boyish rush of adrenaline when the lack of stressful music coming from the TV became ominous, and the excitement of his plan working vibrated in his chest.

“Oh! And you’re—” Whatever adjective you were about to use was bitten short.

Paying more attention to him than the movie, you missed the build up of the masked killer’s reflection in a mirror, and were caught off guard by the boy’s sudden blood curdling scream trilling above the heart-racing violin screeches. It wasn’t even a good jumpscare—totally predictable—but you still jolted from it.

Eddie lurched into a devious smirk. “Movie getcha, pretty girl?”

It was your turn to be defensive. You pouted, “No. It just surprised me, is all.”

“Aw, come on,” he implored in a gravelly urge. Under the thinning comforter, between the mountains of compacted cotton from overwashing it, there was movement, and the unmistakable contact of the back of his hand on your nylon tights. He bumped you once. “Here, if it’s that scary, you can hold my hand, okay?”

As snarky as his teeth glinted, as teasing as his words were, both of your chests rose with a mutual suspended breath.

This was the line. The barrier. The emotional boundaries were dust, only the physical ones remained. He invited you over them as gingerly as a grown adult man could when on his first true date in years, and the fresh fear of making a move on his crush spiked his rejective-sensitive nerves.

“Yeah, you’re right,” you exhaled. Holding his gaze with the same fondness which existed in your heart, you found the edge of his hand after some sightless venturing. At the graze of skin on skin, you dropped your head to the side, and appealed to him, “It’s so scary.” Across the room, the TV played a calm, serene daytime scene with birds chirping in the background. “So terribly scary,” you repeated, facetiously pitiful. “There’s no way I’ll get through to the end all on my lonesome.”

But rather than hold hands perfectly between the both of you like the pious churchgoing teenagers you’d felt yourselves become, you went in for the kill.

Drawing back, you wedged your fingers between his arm and his ribs, and after a beat, he understood and lifted his elbow. You snaked your hand along his forearm, and down to his awaiting palm. His jeans were rough; his palm was too, torn asunder by his trade to ensure a roof over his and his family’s head, but the spaces between were softer. Love gentled the joints digging into your bones. Your fingers had to stretch to accommodate him, and the wintery dryness pulled at your unlotioned knuckles, but the twinge was forgotten when you focused on your hand in his hand. Your hand in his hand. Your hand in his hand.

You dragged your attention away from the entanglement of your selves finding a missing half under the blanket, and searched his face. His eyes flicked from the same knot stirring under the comforter, and the wrinkles in his expression flourished. He thinned his lips into a tight smile. His cheeks were never that full, but there was a roundness there you’d give anything to discover by touch. You’d been closer to him before, like in the kitchen when you counted his freckles after your painfully geeky dagger innuendo, but if you leaned in any further, your vision would blur.

An obvious awkwardness dwelled in the intimacy of your entwined arms, and tensed bodies.

“So, so scary,” you promised during the exposition dialogue taking place on a sunny morning between the characters eating cornflakes at a large dining table. “I’ll probably have to cling onto you the entire time with my eyes shut.”

His voice cracked high pitched, “Yeah?” Feathery soft, on the verge of disappearing altogether. “Guess I’ll have to be the brave one, then.”

“So very brave,” you said, sweet as sugar.

He snorted whereas you giggled, converging with heads together, and a laugh shared, hands held so very bravely. A breakthrough. One second at a time, you melded into his shadows, as you belonged. You angled yourself toward him and tucked your legs onto the couch, freely huddling your knees against his thigh. Your joined hands were nudged onto his leg more, and the clasp became sticky from perspiration. That was okay. There was a thrill in being the reason each other sweated. He curled in his fingers harder, nesting them between the peaks of your knuckles, and you returned the honor by hooking your fingers between his, lightly squeezing him back. One second at a time, he sought your sunshine, as he belonged. He made sure the pressure of his arm and elbow boxing yours in against his side wasn’t painful, slouching a bit so the top of his leather belt wasn’t digging into your forearm. He was thoughtful that way. Concerned for you and your comfort. Didn’t matter if his lower back would be killing him by the end of the first movie, you were wrapping your free hand around his bicep and rubbing your thumb under the short sleeve of his shirt, back and forth. Back and forth. Then, you were resting the side of your head on his shoulder.

He heard you—felt you—inhale deep. Why? Was it to fill your lungs with the scent of his deodorant, the cheap cologne he spritzed at his chest, the drip of Old Spice aftershave on his shirt collar? Was any of that better than oxygen?

Curious, he tilted his head as if something in the movie had him stumped, and he put his nose to the top of your hair, and took a small breath.

A different shampoo than usual hit him first, but below that, clinging to your clothes, was the smell of Robin’s home. He was struck with the thought of what his home smelled like. Was it good? Bad? Could, over time, over months, over difficult questions he couldn’t bring himself to ask, could maybe by the end of summer your two homes combine to make one unique scent?

That would be the dream. And a dream, it may remain. But what a lovely reality it would be; you staying, and your scents mixing to create a new one.

So lost in his thoughts, he didn’t predict the fake-out jumpscare of a murder of crows taking flight after an eerie bout of silence, and he was the one to flinch.

“Aw, movie too scary for ya, big guy?” you cooed.

Eddie sealed his lips in a frown, and tucked his chin to create the maximum amount of wrinkles when he looked down at you. “Maybe a little. Good thing I have you here with me, though. Right?”

You nodded most ardently, squishing your cheek over his scorpion tattoo—just another place on his body you made your home—and grinned up at him.

“Of course, babe.” You called him babe. He smiled so fucking hard. “I’m here if you ever need me to hold your hand.”

You squeezed.

He squeezed back.

Scenes went by on the tiny TV across the room beyond the condensation pebbling on the plastic cups threatening to fall on the coffee table where Adrie’s box of crayons spilt into her coloring book. A story unfolded in the flash of blade, a clatter of piano keys, and a quiet neighborhood who knew no better. The movie played, but neither of you paid attention.

Your gaze was keen to the way his lips stayed parted after he licked them. His gaze was invested in your expression, how you viewed him with such kindness he was seldom shown. A tenderness he was rarely given. He tried to show you the same sincerity, but your eyes were fixated on his mouth.

Self-conscious, he asked, “Is there something on my—?” He rubbed the back of his wrist over lips.

You answered him with a belittling pat on his chest. “No, big guy. You’re good.”

Your tone didn’t sound ‘good,’ but you pulled the blanket up to your chin, and laid your head on his shoulder again, wrapping your other hand around his bicep until your fingers were stuffed between his arm and side. He interpreted your change in mood as a signal the conversation was over, and put his eyes on the movie. Though, his brain was busy toiling over why you were staring at him, and wondering if the pats on his chest were still echoing beneath your ear, or if it was simply his heart threatening to strangle him from the angst of not understanding if he did something wrong already.

At least he was holding your hand like a real boyfriend would. That had to count for something.. Right?

~~~

The credits rolled, and neither of you moved until you pointed out a name scrolling by, and a laugh so akin to a man being punched in the gut wheezed out of him, it caused you to erupt into your own embarrassing goose honk laugh, causing you to both double over in a fit.

Somehow, his nose was nuzzled to your hair. His inhale was cool on your scalp, and his words were a humid huff. “Bart Horsedick,” he said, “Whatta name.”

“You should name a character after him in DND.”

“Mm! You know what? I will. He’ll be a local legend with all the ladies, and tries to charm his way into the party by constantly making passes at the girls. Erica will kill him for sure.”

With a groan and a wince, he sat up straighter, and you lifted your head off his shoulder, making similar complaints about your neck. It was tough work being brave during the scary parts for each other, regardless if neither of you were paying enough attention to care about the reveals.

He asked, “How’d you like the movie? Even that last scene kinda got me.”

“Yeah, it was good,” you answered in the same tone, searching for anything to say that wasn’t, If you don’t kiss I’m going to fucking scream. “I wasn’t expecting the second killer to be the news reporter. That was kinda cool. And that final death was super gory, with the guts ‘nd all, but uh, I’m starving, and ready for something campy.”

Heeding his lady’s request, Eddie dashed around the room, turning on a few of the eclectic lamps, and jabbed the backwards arrow button on the VCR until the movie was playing in reverse at a hilarious speed. “Be kind, rewind, y’know.” Once it clicked, he took the tape out, and put the next one in.

You followed him into the kitchen where the groceries were laid out on the counter. Some were things he already had, like the half-empty bottle of olive oil, and two government supplied cans of vegetable stock, but from the fridge he added an unopened tub of butter, a container of mushrooms, and a wedge of parmesan cheese. He put them beside the onion, fresh sprigs of parsley, and special bag of rice. Ingredients he bought specifically for a meal he didn’t know how to make, but knew it was impressive, and wanted to try cooking it for you.

You picked up the magazine clipping and raised your eyebrows at the recipe.

He fidgeted, spinning his rings. His voice was hesitant; falling back on self-deprecating humor as a crutch, “I know you’ve probably been to France, or, uhh, Italy or whatever,” he guessed, “and’ve learned from experts on how to make it perfectly, but I thought maybe I’d give it an attempt and hope it turns out edible. Just forgive my shit knife skills, and if I pour too much broth, or don’t stir it the exact number of rotations, or some pretentious bullshit like that,” he finished, gaze solidly on the floor, toeing at a scuff on the vinyl to occupy himself. “‘M not exactly a chef outside a can of Boyardee, so..”

Some of his mumbling was lost on you as you read the bottom of the page. Narrowing your eyes at the title printed beside a number in the corner, you put your fist on your hip. “Edward Munson.” He snapped out his worrying at the use of his full name. “Did you rip this out of one of my lobby magazines at work?”

He rolled his lips inward to curb his grin. “No, no, of course not, dear,” he promised, finding it the most opportune moment to turn away, and organize the ingredients in no practical order.

“I swear if I go to work Monday and find Better Homes and Gardens missing page 57—”

“Okay, okay—I’ll tape it back in, but give me some credit, will ya? I didn’t rip it out like some animal.. I cut it out neatly with scissors.” He eyed your harmless smirk, and plucked the mushroom risotto recipe from between your fingers. “Now, if you’d like to get out of my hair, you may,” he said, gesturing at the TV with a knife. “Skedaddle. Go watch the movie.”

“You don’t want me to help? Or at least to keep you company?”

It wasn’t often he was tripped up on what to say, so when his mouth hinged on a mute excuse to get you to leave, you registered what he was going on about earlier, and shook your head.

“Wait, Eddie, I worked in kitchens prepping vegetables when the cooks were too drunk to come in on time because they went home with some random woman from a bar, and were too hungover to know what day it was. That’s why I’m like, okay-ish with a knife. You don’t really think I’d judge you for how you chop an onion, do you?”

A few words were stammered. You shushed him from bothering.

If his confidence had trouble surfacing when everything was out in the open and not hidden under a blanket, then you’d give him another nudge; a single stroke of your knuckle along the monster tattooed on his tricep. The muscle reacted to you, flexing the wyvern’s clawed feet. You did it again. And again. Pinching his sleeve and tugging at it, doing all the cutesy, flirty things you’d learned over the years, including dropping your gaze to his pretty pink lips. Employing your best strategies, you laid it on thick; swaying your hips, and bringing in your arms to frame your chest. “You could heat me up a can of Chef Boyardee, and it’d be the best meal I’ve ever had, as long as I got to share it with you.”

Shy, shy, shy. He brought his shoulder up and ducked his face from your view, giggling at your heavy adulation. “You don’t have to flatter me like that,” he mumbled, sounding not unlike he was wrapped in a ball of lovesick yarn. Overly smitten, ooey gooey with the warm fuzzies in his chest. So very, very adorable, sneaking a glance at you with an unbelieve amount of precious crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

How sweet.

It’d be sweeter if he could take the hint and share those kinds of things with you, but you could be patient and wait until he was ready. Again..

Just.. keep making everything so obvious for him, and try to ignore the sting of rejection when the guy you’ve liked for months finally invites you over for a date, and still won’t kiss you.

At least you were saved from the worst of your downward spiral by the bad B movie and its body melting scene.

“Ooh!” Eddie pushed the cutting board away. “That effect was really cool!”

Since he was already making his way to the TV, you trailed at his heels, and crouched beside him, sinking to your knees while he pressed the rewind button, and clicked Stop/Play twice. The lead up to the moment played again. You sat in anticipation, wholly aware you’d just watched this interaction between the college girls putting their best effort into delivering their lines, only for them to fall flat when their acting was off the charts horrendous. Eddie regarded them with the same sort of awkwardness, rotating his hand in hurried circles until one of them got obliterated into a goopy pile of human remains, and you began to dissect the undulating puddle of sludge.

“How do you think they made that one?” he whispered, mesmerized. “The way it pulses like that?”

“I think it’s from a balloon inflating beneath it. Watch the way the flesh cracks, and the blood oozes out. I think it’s something like that pushing it up from under.”

He hummed, and rewound the tape a few seconds. “Yeah, yeah, I see what you mean,” he said, tapping his finger on the thick curved glass. “And look at that bone. It actually looks like a charred, brittle skeleton instead of those cheap femurs everyone gets at the party store for Halloween.” You also agreed with him in a hum. The extra touches of effort were impressive for a low budget film like this.

The movie continued inches from your eyes. You rested on your calves, flattening the plush carpet under your shins. The harsh fibers were dulled by your pantyhose, and if this was a spot Eddie had to scrub clean after Adrie spilled juice, you weren’t aware of the stain; you were only aware of the hair-raising sensation of being watched.

You directed your attention to Eddie’s pointed stare on the side of your face, about to ask if there was a reason behind his adamant inspection when—

He dropped his gaze to your lips.

Sparks ignited behind your ribcage. Hopefulness latched onto each long second wherein he resisted flicking his eyes back to the screen. Each passing breath a choice to follow the gentle curve of your mouth, and stay there to revel in the simple pleasure of studying the unspoken language evolving between you two, sinking into his own warm grin for you to decipher. He was still crouching on the balls of his feet, and you had to wonder if he leaned over to kiss you now, would he lose his balance and cause you both to fall to the floor? Would he catch the back of your head in his palm to soften the crash? Would his hips fit perfectly between your legs? Would his jeans drag along your inner thighs? Would he whimper when you held him? Would he grind down on you at the first sign of reciprocation? Would he already be hard?

Your thigh muscles ached at the racing thoughts, clenched so tight in response to the needy throb between them.

Was the unspoken language shouting now?

Eddie’s throat bobbed on a stuttered exhale; his chest shook at fractions of his inhale, as if he was experiencing the same tightness there from the rosy desire blooming so greatly, struggling to cope with the oxygen in his lungs when there were far sweeter things they’d rather be filled with. “I—” He stopped. “I read a review on the back of the box that said this movie was scary too,” he informed you in whisper, right when a godawful green alien appeared and shot the worst CGI laser you’d ever seen from your peripheral vision. “Better hang out with me in the kitchen, where we can keep each other safe.”

You urged your yearning away from his mouth to the neon colors of a spaceship glancing off his cheeks, to his large nose, to the tips of his bangs skimming his eyebrows, to the bags under his eyes, and finally, you caught the last moments of him roaming your features with utmost care before your gazes locked.

The floor beneath him creaked.

Briefly, you considered closing your eyes.

The carpet flattened in a muffled rustle.

Briefly, you considered uttering his name.

The dry air in the room vanished with his humid huff coasting over your forehead.

Briefly, you considered begging him when he pushed off his knees, stumbled slightly towards you, and stood, offering you a helping hand.

He said, “Gotta make this dinner for you before I starve, sweetness.”

Kissless, you fought against your inner bitterness, and accepted his fingers. To hide your wilting resilience, you put a swing of vigor in your voice, and happiness on your face. “Yeah, watching hot blondes perish into goo really makes one hunger for sloppy rice with mushrooms.”

Well, at least you could always make him laugh.

~~~

Onion skin crunched under Eddie’s heavy chop. The papery layer was discarded. Laying the halves on the textured cutting board, he dragged the knife in long slices out from the root, then rotated to dice it into cubes. He blinked away fresh tears, and beside him, you scraped the sweated mushrooms into a bowl, and placed the pan back on the burner for him to sweep his prepped vegetables into. They sizzled on impact. You stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon, and made sure nothing seared to the bottom.

Steam rose from the bowl of cooked mushrooms. Slippery oil slicked their surface, adding to the smells of onion and garlic. Condensation fogged the tiny window above the sink. The rice began to toast. A burnt popcorny, yet pleasantly floral fragrance mixed with the sour note of cheap white wine bubbling down to nothing, and salty splashes of broth.

Mostly, the continuous stirring was done passively because you were both watching the movie from across the room. When it was your turn at the stove, you grasped the skillet handle and moved the spoon around in some sort of pattern, but your upper body was twisted towards the TV. When it was his turn, you took his place at the wrap around counter, bending over to rest your forearms on it, savoring his body heat baked into the surface under your palms before it faded and was replaced by your own.

The last VHS was inserted. No commercials on this older tape.

You grated the last of the cheese into the rice, and tipped in the mushrooms. Behind you, there were two metallic latch sounds followed by two loud bangs. Eddie sucked in a hiss, and apologized. You were too busy portioning out the risotto to see what in the world he was doing, but the sharp clicks of his lighter were distinct, as was the notch turns of the unnecessary lamps being turned off, casting you in dimmed ambiance.

Garnishing the meal with parsley, you scooped up the bowls and turned.

“Ta-da,” he said meekly, opening up his arms with weak pizazz.

You were stunned at the effort.

The collapsable ends of the green table hung by their hinges, making the surface area impossibly intimate. On top, there were three lit candlesticks to set the mood, and underneath, the seats of the chairs almost touched. The whole thing was incredibly sweet. Thoughtful. Endearing. He had trouble meeting your eye.

Eddie glanced at the unscented candles burning bright for practicality’s sake. The first wet drip of wax joined the others melted down the side since the last time he used them when the power went out. Not exactly romantic. “Has, uhm, anyone made you risotto before?” he asked, and tacked on, “At home?” when the fear of not being the first smacked the words out of him.

“No,” you stated. “No one's ever done something so sweet for me.”

His lower lip twitched, and he ran his tongue over his teeth to quell the giddiness from exploding. And to stop himself from celebrating too soon.

As you carried the bowls towards his attempt to recreate a fine dining experience, he tried to push aside the thoughts of inadequacy—the candles, the fact he couldn’t take you to a real restaurant, the flowers he decided against because he no longer had a vase, the nagging voices in his head that told him this whole idea was stupid—and instead, he focused on anything else. Anything, anything else.

“Here, lemme help you, sweet—Ow, ow, ow, ow—Jesus, do you have hands of steel or somethin’?” The candles wobbled when he dropped the bowl on the table, and you both froze as they teetered back and forth, praying your second date didn’t go up in literal flames.

When they came to a rest, you both sighed.

“Hands of steel, huh?” you mused. “I think they feel kinda soft compared to yours.”

Quickfire, he picked up on the age-old flirt you used on him months ago (back when he was dumb, and genuinely thought he was the one flirting with you by suggesting you come back to him when you found a spider as big as his palm), and he concurred, “Maybe we need to compare them again. Y’know, really get in there and make sure I have the toughest hands in the Midwest.” Adopting a southern drawl, he stuffed his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans, and puffed out his chest. “Can’t let a lil’ lady who answers phones with ‘Yellow?’ have stronger hands than me, now can we?”

You pinged him with a wry expression twinged with cringe, and sat down, scooting your chair in, and looking up at him still standing. “You are so pitifully dorky.”

“I sure am, sweetheart,” he said proudly, falling into the chair across from you.

Your knees collided under the table; bone on bone due to his inability to wear jeans without holes in them. They knocked painfully, and while he did remember to apologize when you winced, he was distracted by the silly notion that his bare knees were the second body part to make contact with your tights. The back of his hand during the movie didn’t lend much to his senses, now he had a better feel of the texture, and how it rubbed against his skin. A strangely marvelous thing. And he was getting ahead of himself, sure, but he wondered how your tights must feel under the same rugged palm he was offering to you upturned on the table while below, his thoughts were erring away from respectful visions of circling his thumb over your knee cap while you were stretched across the couch with your legs in his lap, to something he felt unworthy to ask for.

Oh, but how he ached to be the one who was trusted to keep you warm when you were undressed..

Your chair squeaked. You changed the position to where your legs were bracketed by his wide spread. Perfect, because he brought in his stance and crossed his ankles behind yours, locking your thighs and calves between his, as if you were his possession, unable to escape. Indulging him, you giggled, and squirmed to the edge of your seat, taking his hand. His right, your left. A polite union of criss-crossed fingers. Mountainous calluses mapped against rolling hills of satin. Flickering candlelight dancing off the silver band of his ring. Kind, and sweet.

He gripped his spoon in an unnatural way, dragging it through the risotto, and bumping the ceramic.

“I can hold your other hand,” you offered, motioning at where you could link his non-dominant hand in the space between your bowls.

His voice was made of mushy tenderness, but his clipped tone left no room for argument, “Nah, I like it this way.” If you didn’t understand why yet, you did when you traced his gaze to his wrist. The beads had shifted from where they dug into his flesh. Squares from the blocky letters left indents in his skin, as did the corners of star beads interspersed throughout the round ones. Opposite D-A-D-D-Y, your sleeve was bunched up from cooking, baring the precious nickname M-O-U-S-E.

Your eyelids fell half-closed. The fondness on your lips wasn’t a result of the risotto—as delicious as the first bite was—no, the sentiment was much too darling. Almost as if you could hear the dormant vocabulary you awoke running hot in his veins. My girl, my girl, my girl is wearing the matching bracelet my daughter made for us, and I’ve never wanted anything more than another excuse to call you my girl out loud; I want it so bad I could cry.

“You did such a good job on this,” you complimented the risotto after taking another bite.

Fate. “It only tastes good because I had my girl’s help.” Under no circumstance was he about to make eye contact after saying that. In fact, he avoided sound altogether when he angled his spoon so he wouldn’t scrape it along his teeth a second time, and blew on the porridge-like rice before sliding the richness over his tongue, alighting his mouth with mellowed complexities for such unassuming ingredients. As he ate, he listened to you eat too. As he glanced, you glanced too. As he embellished his grin with a secret, you snuck in one of your own through the mysterious sharpness in your eyes boring into his too. He didn’t question it, didn’t breathe, didn’t make a sound above the panicked yelling happening in the movie in the other room; for now, he was content with holding your hand and calling you his girl.

The pressure to continue conversation waned.

He squeezed.

You squeezed back.

~~~

Dinner was finished in cherished bites. The movie was in the process of concluding, as most of the cast had been killed off by the time Eddie uncrossed his ankles and released you. He blew out the candles and stood, already regretting the act when the imprint of your body faded from his between his legs.

While he filled the sink with soapy water, you put away the forgotten ingredients, and wiped up the counter with a wet rag in absentminded circles, thoroughly invested in the slasher’s “forest chase scene” probably filmed in someone’s mom’s backyard.

Once the frothy bubbles sloshed to the rim with each dish put in, and the clammy air was brightened by the scent of blue Dawn liquid soap, Eddie rolled the stretchy bracelet up his forearm and began dunking the glass cup used for measuring the broth. He ran his hand around the inside to rid it of the gritty residue left behind. Dipping the thin washcloth, he submerged his hands up to his wrists in skin prickling hot water, and brought the cup out, exposing his chafed knuckles to the sting of cold air. He washed it, rinsed it under even colder water, and handed it off to you. You toweled it dry, and put it in the cupboard next to the fridge.

Over and over, he washed, you dried. He washed, you dried.

Routine, monotonous, robotic and quiet.

Outer input died away. No more movie, no more hot water, no more spoken conversation, no more meaningful glances, nor more intimate nicknames, no more inappropriate touches stolen under the guise of a drunken night. Just his thoughts, insecurities, anxieties, and hopes and the instant foreboding stress wrenching his stomach with fear of those hopes never coming true.

The air was thick with awareness.

You were in his home. The date was coming to an end, and so was his bravery. This was his chance, and he was letting it slip by him. Again.

He’d run out of excuses. Or rather, he reasoned with the excuses, and now he was facing the real problem. All the stuff from months ago about him not knowing if you liked him, your flighty lifestyle, the dynamic of being coworkers and worrying if it’d make things weird, the conversation he never had with Adrie; forgoing divulging his hobbies, his music, or his past with you because he didn’t see the point; those things he conquered. Those things no longer bothered him. Those things had answers putting them to rest.

Now, there was nothing keeping him from pursuing you except his own inhibitions..

Sad, how even when he had the courage to get this far with you, the differences in your lives served as a reminder he was just a poor boy from Indiana whose greatest aspiration was owning a trailer of his own so his uncle could have his room back. You had a drama degree—hell, you went to college in the first place. You had real dreams, and achieved semblances of those dreams before coming to Hawkins. A star as bright as you shouldn’t have to peter out in a town in the middle of nowhere. You needed the city to thrive, to perform on stage again. It was your calling, wasn’t it? Munson wasn’t calling you like your previous life, was it? You spoke of your accomplishments so highly. Would you ever learn to speak of him that way? Would he, one day, become one of your stories? A memory you moved on from?

Or did he deserve to ask you to give up everything you loved and earned to settle down in a dead-end shithole that hated him, and help him raise a child that wasn’t yours, tying yourself to his reputation forever?

What if he asked those things of you? Would you say ‘yes’?

Shit.

While the sea of doubt churned in his head, he rinsed off the ceramic bowl you used to eat from, and blinked the sting from his eyes after staring off into space for too long. He waited to hand it to you until you had put a pan away in the lower cabinet under the wrap-around counter, and accepted the bowl, drying it off and ping-ponging to the other side of the kitchen to the upper cabinet above the toaster. You didn’t have to guess. You knew exactly where it went. You were familiar with the precise drawer the spatula went in, next to the cutlery one where you tossed in the spoons. There was a beautiful domesticity to it all; washing dishes with you as if it were a nightly occurrence. Like you lived here. Together. You, him, Adrie, and his uncle—preferably not in that arrangement, and not in this trailer, but the vision.. the vision was there. You and him rejecting the bullshit small town mentality, and creating a life in Hawkins you could both be proud of, free from strife. A do-over, in a way, with you at his side, and his daughter on your hip.

The pit of self-loathing in his stomach yawned.

Those idyllic fantasies were too much to ask for. Too much to even risk speaking out loud. He could feel the rejection welling up behind his eyes as it were, wobbling at his bottom lip. The crushing reality of being a lonely single dad with nothing to offer—

You slammed the cabinet door shut, and tossed the towel aside. “So, are we gonna pick up where that phone call left off, or not?”

Eddie stilled under your loaded stare.

You remembered you remembered you remembered—

“If you adore me so much..” you added.

Jolted into action, the last dish slipped from his fingers, splashing and bouncing sluggishly off the bottom of the sink. Adrenaline hit him in droves. Frantic stings of want pushed him forward. Chores were forgotten. Mind blank. The soft thuds of his stride thundered off the thin walls. Pace quickened. Pulse beating in his throat. Vice grip on his heart. Months, weeks, days, hours of keeping his starvation alive through longing looks and inside jokes and hands brushing hands in fragile innocence, denying the vital comfort he craved to experience with the one person who made him feel special; the yearning reached its peak.

Predatory hunger rushed color to his cheeks at the remarkable sight of his dearest dream going slack with surprise.

He secured his fate with his arm wrapped around your waist, sweeping his hand upwards and dragging your cardigan with it. Water dripped to his elbows, cooling the wicked fever igniting his skin. He poured his strength into bringing you into him at the same time he stepped into you, forcing you back, back, back until the distance keeping you apart was eliminated, caging you where you gave him his final nudge beyond the brink of composure. His hips coaxed you side to side. His legs boxed you in where he commanded. Each motion pressed his strong, needy body to yours, driving the edge of the countertop into your lower back. Sway by sway, a dance of insurmountable patience built over months met its breaking point. You went pliant for him. No fight, only a small noise when he engulfed you in his aggressive embrace.

You gathered the hem of his shirt in your weak fists. His sudden leap over the platonic line broke goosebumps across your exposed midriff, tightening your nipples against the delicate lavender lace. The tremble in your knees was juxtaposed by his steady hand tilting your face up to his.

Sudsy bubbles burst on the peach fuzz beneath your ear from where he cupped your jaw. Droplets trickled to the base of your neck, curving over your breasts, and beading on the surface of your cardigan. He swept his fingers in an untamed stroke over your cheek. He tested a deeper angle, fitting his broad grasp to your chin and compelling you to lean in with the heel of his palm guiding you, drawing you forward, supporting the pout of your bottom lip with the base of his thumb.

His nose whistled when he took a shallow breath. The wet, soapy trails left in his hand’s wake went cold against his sigh coasting over your skin. Again, he tried another breath. Deeper; initiating the unadulterated intimacy of his stomach filling out and pushing against yours. More. The great expanse of his shoulders squared with confidence, and his muscles braced under your tender exploration. Your weak grip left his waist to climb up the confines of his arms, passing over his ribs and the flat plane of his pecs to place the lightest touch at the base of his neck. Closer. The serious glint in his eyes blurred as he neared.

The tip of his nose butted the apple of your cheek.

“Can I kiss you?” he spoke aloud for the first time, words breaking on the whisper.

You answered him in a faint, insatiable, “Yes.”

He imposed himself more. Frame on frame. Unyielding body leaned and curved around your softness, channeling every repressed feeling he’d had since you met into pinning you against the counter. Gradually, he dropped his head into a better angle; grinding forehead on forehead, tracing his perfect nose along yours, tilting so his mouth hovered fractions above a decision.

He teased, “Are you only saying that because it’s your policy?”

You smiled against the edge of his thumb after spying his sly grin through your heavy lashes. “No,” you stressed the single word, speaking through the mild irk of impatience building like an itch that could not be scratched in the marrow of your bones.

Anticipation clung to the prolonged gossamer blinks before they lulled into closed eyes, and slow swallows of air until lungs were poised on a held breath.

Every syllable of his next question dragged his lower lip across yours. “Are you my girl?”

“Eddie—”

The whine. The beg. The genuine plea of his name.

Organically imperfect, he smashed his mouth to yours. It was a harsh collision of teeth to lips, and a startled grunt at the abrupt impact, but neither of you cared. Reservations were off. You clung desperately to his shirt, stretching the cotton around his neck and biting the ball chain necklace into his throat, striving for a needier kiss; sparking a heady rush of awareness to the oversensitive areas reacting to the animalistic push and pull of him gaining control, advocating for his own fight in the flex of his thighs driving you into the creaky doors of the cabinetry. The fervency spurred him on. You combed your fingers through the downy curls at his nape, and he did not hesitate slipping a hand under your sweater to smooth his palm to your bare waist. And fuck, how you arched your back on instinct.

Nasally grunts of pain descended to pleasant hums from the throat.

Unable to divide his attention, the kisses went sloppier. Rushed. Awkward, and clumsy. He slotted his mouth to yours with too much force, to the point of bruising your spit slicked lips, and the wet smack pulled a submissive whimper from the places he’d yet to take. The flush blotching his throat ran hot like flames, heating the Old Spice aftershave on his skin. The scent aided the dizzy lurch in your head, lost to the dull lamplight beyond your eyelids, rocking you onto your toes and falling back on your heels in the swirling give-and-take of his unstated needs reaching levels of crisis only you could solve. A pain you could cure as you crammed your nose to his cheek, spread your fingers firmly against his skull, and kissed your friend harder than he kissed you.

Hums lowered into a depraved moan.

The intensity of your reciprocation fueled his ego. Seeking, he moved his chivalrous hand from cupping your face, downwards. Grabbing, seizing, squeezing. After refraining from so much for so long, he was mesmerized by the curve of your shoulder, the sway of your lower back, the waistband of your scratchy polyester skirt. He roved until he found your ribs, and he molded his fingerprints there, branding you with the sensation of his thumb beneath your underwire bra. It was a messy exploration. His excitement had him bearing his weight down on you, and when your strained feet failed to steady him, your ankle gave. Knees bumped; he stepped on your toes. He fell into you and matched the pain of the counter prodding your tender flesh with the bulk of his leather belt scraping your stomach. No apology. Not with words. It was the safety and protection of his arm crooked between you and the laminate countertop which rescued you, and as a reward, he dropped his forearm from the cusp of your hips and feasted his thick fingers on a handful of your ass, rocking you into him.

There was no other way to react to the blunt suggestion.

Heavy, uneven breaths were panted across the other’s sore lips as you both withdrew to gauge the next step. He scoped your features with urgency, darting from your relaxed brows, to your keen gaze. There was an etching of insecurity marring the honey in his gentle brown eyes when you were too dazed to remember to smile, jumping to conclusions in his worrisome ways.

He really did worry too much.

Bringing your hand out of his curls, you grazed the strained tendon on the side of his neck, and worked your way up. You trailed your knuckles along his cheek, swept them under his wispy bangs, and put your fingertips to his temple, triggering a shivered sigh and fluttering lashes at the new touch.

You answered him as you combed his hair away from his face, “I’m your girl.”

The instant sincerity of his red, swollen lips kicking up into an uneven grin invoked a raw tenderness to his pink nose scrunching in playfulness, and the corner of his eyes going tight with happiness.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice hoarse from the exertion of kissing you senseless.

“Yeah,” you promised in another caress.

For a moment, he held your gaze with the importance of someone understanding what it meant to be by his side and to be seen with him out in Hawkins public; as if he were on the verge of crying from the sheer gratitude of your policy landing you here, in his arms, on this night, wanting to be his.

Eddie peered into your eyes again. His wide pupils and dusky cheeks spoke of the nature of his body, but behind that, lurking beneath his fibrous sinew was the same innate marrow telling him this was okay. This was right. Just let go.

Just let go.

He listened.

As wild as he took you minutes before, he was ready to luxuriate in the nuances of affection. He pressed his mouth closed in a dry swallow, and raised his hand from your ribs, beckoning your cheek into the stifling heat of his palm. The throbbing pulse in his neck beat a rhythm to his chest, rising and falling in a quick cadence until he was able to discipline his attention away from the obvious snag of his zipper on your skirt.

He relaxed into another kiss. It may have been the hundredth of the night, but it was pivotal. Something changed. The frantic clashing lessened, and the cravings heightened.

Consistent as he was in taking things slow, he knew how to make you feel cherished. He took your bottom lip between his and dragged it as he broke the chain from one kiss to the other, as if the extra second he claimed a part of you was crucial to his survival. Truly indulging in the full potential of someone witnessing the many bad days of his life and still wanting to cook dinner with him. Someone enjoying the harmonized hum of your lips converging while you scratched small circles on his scalp above his ears. Someone willing to hear his shameful complaints about fatherhood, and not judge him when he took his lunch break in his car, cranking the seat back to rest his blood-shot sleepless eyes, instead of sharing a coke with them in the breakroom. Someone he’d come to rely on; a constant in his life.

He poured his coffee pot’s worth of trust into you, and you answered him with the blissful endeavor of your fingers scaling his forearm, brushing through the thin hair growing like wheat and pushing the beaded bracelet up to his wrist, cupping your hand over his on your cheek. D-A-D-D-Y. M-O-U-S-E. In turn, you drank his insecurities and added your own, overflowing with the mutual truth that neither of you had been in a stable relationship lasting longer than a month, and this whole thing should’ve been very scary.

But it wasn’t scary.

It was slow and steady.

The heaviness of his body returned. Hands wandered aimlessly. Arms entwined, untangled, confused themselves on who was where. Attentive fingertips glided over woven yarn and cotton, following the dips and curves and slopes; basking in the reverence of married threads and validation. Legs shuffled, spreading and accommodating. Jaws went slack. Languid tongues merged, lazy and hot. He palmed your ass in a lax grip, easing your hips flush against his. You answered with a purposeful roll intending to earn some friction, but you couldn’t reap the benefits on account of one problem..

Your skirt was stretched to the fabric’s maximum allowance, creating a taut buffer keeping him at bay. Any motion was nullified by the hindrance. Noticing this, he shifted to be better cradled by your thighs, and a delicious gift was granted with the tandem action of your bodies joining.

He flattened his hands on the countertop behind you and blessed you with a proper long drawl of his hips; pausing in an open mouthed kiss because the noise you made—the noise you made—the noise the noise the noise you made—

Your quick inhale faltered, flattering the hard press of his cock with a shameless gasp.

Eddie halted at the top of the motion from your involuntary praise, and locked eyes with you. Just like when he made you laugh, he wanted to witness your pleasure, soak in your reverent stare and pride himself on the way you asked for more—by sinking back and away and rutting upwards, instigating a filthy tension on the layers separating you; panties, nylon, polyester skirt, seams on seams on seams of harsh denim, and his choice of boxers; and God, you thrived on the bulk behind his zipper caressing you for the first time where climaxes were born. Your moan hinged on his satisfaction, and in a dare, you pivoted the descent of your roll towards the right, capturing between you his stiff length tenting towards his pocket. And when you arched into a slow grind on the base—sliding him along the curve of your clothed heat—he released his own pretty noise.

“Mm—fuck,” he groaned into your mouth.

Gravitating elsewhere, he left messy kisses on your jaw and brushed his nose over the peach fuzz on your cheek to put his love-bitten lips to your ear. Gravelly with want, he asked, “When did you remember what happened that night?”

A dirty throb pulsed where he buried himself between your legs, striving for the angle which had you grasping at his narrow hips as a silent plea for him to drive into you harder.

“Oh,” you panted into his hair sticking to your mouth. Answering casually as you could despite your face running hot, and your voice straining light with a joke, you answered, “I never forgot. I lied when you asked me.”

“You—?” The word was a quick huff of air against your neck. He pulled away enough to look at you, but not divorce your stomachs from touching. Two deep creases formed between his brows, shadowing his squint with incredulity. “You lied to me?”

A pang of doubt weeded its way into your insecure hands around his waist, forcing you to question if he was really mad at you for pretending you didn’t remember the exact details of last weekend in order to bolster his confidence into asking you on a date instead of wallowing in silent guilt for thinking he did something wrong and end up pushing you away, sabotaging himself from ever acting on this.

You were about to speak your mind—that is, until his lips crooked up, and he invaded your space with his big eyes, big nose, and even bigger grin.

“You lied to me,” he said with a snap of wolfishness, tonguing his sharp canine after the bite of his words; hosting an overabundance of admiration in his half-lidded gaze raking over you, alighting every sinful nerve in your body.

Time to pick up where that phone call left off—

“Yeah, I did.. But you didn’t.” You sank your hand between your bodies, and flattened your palm to the front of his jeans.

His breath hitched.

Skimming, teasing, playing with him, you strung his lust taut, tracking your fingertips over the hardness and sweeping them to the very end, circling an outline around his head like a Siren’s call to his fiery blood. His biceps flexed against your arms. The laminate counter squeaked from his sweaty grip on the edge. Vinyl flooring creaked at his antsy rut into your hand, and you gave in to your own curiosity.

Wrapping your fingers as best you could through the thick denim, a spike of cold excitement washed over you at the sheer girth you struggled to handle—much less the long, long drag of your palm from base to tip—sending an ache to your cunt begging to be stretched by him.

Slightly over seven inches, indeed.

Lacking poise, you blurted an unintelligible word, and his smirk underscored his heavy kiss.

“Told you I didn’t need to overcompensate,” he taunted.

His newfound smugness was allowed. Encouraged, even, by your firm strokes, again and again, creating a damp patch on his pants at every pass of your thumb. You were fascinated by his ability to engulf you in another tender union of lips when your senses were overwhelmed by the impressive size filling your palm. Intoxicated by the gentle glide of his considerable tongue along your bottom teeth. Dazed by his pitiful groan when you increased your pace, building and building the wicked friction burn from his jeans on your soft skin, tending to the flames of your arousal, sensitive nipples peaked and receptive to the warmth of his lean chest pressing down on you.

Needing him, you closed off the kiss and played into your appeal with a saccharine pinch to your expression, and a cloying sweetness to your tone. “You do so much for your family,” you murmured. “You work so hard to provide for them, always staying late at the garage, covered in grease and dirt, fixing cars until your hands are torn and your back aches. Making sacrifices without a second thought. Always putting their needs first.”

Stroking his hard cock, you asked, “When was the last time someone put your needs first?”

Eddie screwed his eyes shut and fit the bridge of his nose to your forehead. When he spoke, his embarrassment influenced his mumble, “S’been a long, long time.”

“Sounds like you need me to take care of you, handsome.”

He tensed to suppress his shiver from your sultry tone, and withheld his whimper at the prospect, meeting your gaze in a nervous flick. “I don’t, uhm.. have..” His assured demeanor ebbed to stuttering shyness. “I didn’t, uh, buy any condoms, and all the stores are closed by now..”

Your face fell flat.

You threw your exasperated stare to the ceiling, and searched the series of events which would lead to him asking you on a date, at his home, at night, without anyone else present, and somehow not think to buy condoms. “Why didn’t you buy any?”

He shrugged, frustration evident in his tone. “I was afraid of being a dumbass and leaving them out in the open where you could see them—like with the groceries or some shit—and give you the wrong impression, like my goal was only to invite you over for that reason, and, I don’t know, think I’m coming on too strong, or something, and make you uncomfortable.”

You gripped your beloved dumbass by the chin with your unoccupied hand, and put an end to his fretting. “Or, I would get the right impression, and we’d have that box opened within ten minutes of me walking through the door.”

He blinked dumbly.

Before he could ask if you were serious, you steered the conversation to its original topic with a gentle squeeze where the dark spot on his jeans bloomed, and said, “We’ll worry about condoms next time.” He throbbed in your palm. Next time. “After all the romantic stuff you’ve done for me, I want to show you my appreciation.” You slid your fingers through his belt loops, and leaned up, nosing your way through his frizzy waves to whisper a fantasy in his ear. “I want you in my mouth.”

You put the power of suggestion in your aggressive tug, snapping your hips together.

Ripples of electric pleasure stood his arm hair on end. The alertness in his expression glazed over. He lazed in the feeling, hardly able to open his eyes to follow the bounce of your eyebrows and the deep cut of your smirk; matching with his own goofy smile going lopsided with enthusiasm.

Since his birth, there were few instances where he felt wanted, or loved, and for his dream girl to waltz into his life and be so brazen about her attraction to him with no hidden motives, empty sweet-talk, or ill intentions—

For possibly the first time in Eddie’s ostracized existence, he felt desired.

Each low tug on his jeans was another boost to his self esteem, guiding him step by step further beyond the platonic line. Deeper, and deeper into new territory. Crossing the threshold from cracked vinyl to plush carpet, and with it, entering the fear of the unknown he wasted countless hours resisting. There’s no going back after this. Acquaintances was a laughable notion, coworkers was a tricky dynamic left to be dealt with on Monday, and friendship was the foundation of him opening up to you.

Every decision persuading you to the edge of his bed was made in careful consideration. Choices were presented and chosen without impulse. Nothing about him was casual. Not anymore. The slow crawl towards this relationship was impeded by his past, and instead of giving up, you stayed true to him. Because you saw him as worthwhile.

Eddie sank to the couch, and before his back made contact with the cushions, he had his fingers cupped to the backside of your thighs, proposing a bend to your knees. In a fluid motion, he dragged his rough palms up your tights and coaxed your legs on either side of him, running his heavy hands over your skirt and up to your waist. He relaxed into the sitting position with an arm crooked around your ass while he treated himself to a handful, gathering you as close as possible until he was satisfied with the places he could reach. Not once did his eyes leave your face. He tipped his head back to watch you go from standing at the end of his knees, to straddling his lap. Wholly enamored.

Blue cast from the TV’s standby mode contrasted the dim glow from the old lamp on the kitchen counter, highlighting his blushy cheeks in eventide colors, and cleaving a defined shadow down his bobbing throat.

Earned muscle and bulky denim and seven inches of bliss prodded the delicate meat of your inner thighs. You sat high on his lap, releasing the tension in your body in increments, settling yourself on top of him. He kissed you. Short and sweet; a brief encounter compared to before, but with your senses amplified by the deeper connection you two fostered for one another, it was the best kiss of your life. And it served as a chaste prelude to his next devotion.

Taking the lead, Eddie moved on from your lips, working downward in a dreamy, drunken daze, reveling in skin-on-skin. Want—more—please. When he couldn’t access the vulnerable underside of your chin, he urged your head up with a determined bump of his nose to your jaw, and continued to praise you in stray kisses and greedy palms. He showed you what he wanted by dragging you forward in his lap, and you didn’t need to be told twice by his white-knuckled grip.

You grinded down on him, and your mouth went slack with a fragmented moan.

“You’re so pretty when you do that,” he slurred, voice husky and low.

The bulge behind his fly parted your aching cunt. With your legs spread wide, you found your perfect middle and worked the stiff seams against your need. Each rut glided him along you, slipping over the nylon and stretching your pantyhose taut. You beared down harder, obeying the faint throbs of desperation, and turned them into inadequate stirs of pleasure, fleeting at each pass.

The first stitch of nylon broke. Then, another.

His generous kisses went wayward, favoring your jawbone as a means to end, tucking his teeth into the pocket beneath your ear and nipping at your vulnerable pulse. You swallowed under the threat, and dropped your head back, revealing the neglected expanse for him to cherish.

Cascades of euphoria flowed down your neck. Teeth grazed, his tongue tasted, the cold tip of his nose drew sentiments on your throat. For every dull sting of his untamed bite, he apologized with a softer, and softer affection. Lessening in aggression. Soothing your sweltering skin with cooling breaths on the streak of spit he left behind. You shivered despite the sudden break of sweat in the humid entanglement and embraced your urges, squirming against his jeans and circling your hips in measured thrusts, tilting into the motion for your own sake and blanketing your thigh over his achingly hard cock by chance. “Christ, sweetheart.” His muffled moan set your blood on fire. Your fingers went tight on his shoulders, digging into the muscle shifting beneath your nails, wrinkling the fabric of his favorite shirt.

More nylon stitches popped.

Too lost in your own efforts, you hadn’t noticed the loss of his possessive hold on your waist until your hard nipples brushed two solid objects.

Yarn fibers tickled overtop the sheer mesh cups of your bra.

Eddie nuzzled at the base of your neck and rested the slope of his broad nose there, moving his lips on your skin when he remembered, but otherwise his attention deviated elsewhere. At his leisure, he thumbed the top button of your sweater through the loop, and drifted to the next. Another, and another, exposing the sheen of perspiration on your chest to the stagnant air in his living room. His deft fingers undressed you with undue ease. Each loosened button raced your heart, and you repaid him by widening your knees and sinking fully onto his lap, laying your plush inner thigh on top of his length in a satisfying squish, and staying there.

A weak whine tinted his pretty, “Feels—good.”

Feels good played off the thin walls stacked with ceramic mugs. Feels good joined the sporadic pitter patter of raindrops on the tin roof streaming to the grassless earth outside. Feels good warmed you like the oil filled radiator at the end of the couch, popping and crackling when the heat droned higher. Feels good manifested in your cardigan slipping from your shoulders and falling to the floor in a mute drop; rooted itself in his ringed fingers dipping into your waistband; was proven by his other palm molding to the curve of your hip as if it were shaped by the same artist; and confirmed by the unambiguous focus to your right side.

Feels so fucking good burst forth in his hand’s unyielding snatch on your waistband and decisive jerk forward, ripping through the last of the strained seam trapped against your satin underwear.

The pantyhose split at the gusset, and your plump pussy spilled out, perfectly framed by the gaping nylon hole presenting your wet cunt to the thick denim. You draped him sweetly. Curved over the immense rise behind the creased zipper, creating a stiff peak before sloping to the soft give of his stomach. It didn’t take more than a single experimental thrust for your thin panties to slide into your sticky need, working them snug to your heat and inciting the first true tug at your core. Whispers of relief roused at your center, but it wasn’t until your second try, when you tilted your hips and Eddie guided you down onto him, genuine satisfaction was achieved.

The low rumble from the bottom of his chest filled you with oozy pride.

You concentrated the friction on your clit, and Eddie concentrated on anything else.

He stopped sealing his kisses, letting the envelope of his lips fall open, slack, and inarticulate, never beginning nor ending the ode to your neck. His mouth hovered wherever his head hung, and in his stupor, he could do little more than use his tongue to cut a fat line through the luster beneath the hollow of your throat, letting the salt sit in his mouth before swallowing, grateful. With each movement, the scratchy grain on his jaw from that morning’s shave buffed your sensitive skin, and he lapped at the rawness he caused in apology. The higher you rose over the swell of his cock, the lower he prized you in sloppy drags of his ample lips. He cupped his ringed fingers to the underside of the lavender lace and used his heavenly tongue to lick the top of your breast, accentuating the curve for his teeth to savor you in a lovebite. Your nipples begged for him, and your back arched for him. Your mouth fell open with a gasp—”Eddie”—drawing out the last set of vowels before they devolved into a whimper. Soon, his head was a heavy burden between your tits, and you wrapped him in your naked arms, cradling him there with your fingers in his hair. Spit from his sloppy kisses smeared on your cleavage, wetting the stubble on his cheeks, and he remained smitten, moaning into them with each bounce on his lap.

He was so wrecked on intimacy. 

Loading your lungs with another sigh of his name, you rocked your hips in whichever way felt best, not paying attention to the way your inner thigh rolled over Eddie’s fat cock, again, and again. Satin on denim; faster, and faster, tensing your leg muscles and releasing them like a quick stroke down his length. You embraced him with your chin to his hair, panting over the frizz sticking to your lips. Tender, always. Committed to lauding gentle kisses to his scalp even as you chased the one thing on your mind. Grinding in quicker thrusts. Listening to his muffled praise, but not hearing him go quiet, or noticing his body go still when his thighs edged into a hard flex under your ass. You were oblivious to his hand falling from your bra, and his fingers anchoring onto your waist. You were too engrossed in the act, rutting like animals do. Lurching towards the inevitable one desperate grind at a time, quicker.. quicker.. Heeding what your body wanted. Racing, faster.. faster.. 

Abrupt pain bloomed where he shoved his palm into your thigh to stop you.

“You’re gonna make me cum,” he panted in a ragged breath.

A new heat rushed to your cheeks. The dirty word spoken from his mouth engulfed you. It tingled and danced over your skin, firing signals of excitement in pulses. With clarity, you realized the few direct strokes during what was supposed to be foreplay had him tensing and trembling, trying to keep his release from arriving too early and making a mess of himself before getting to the real deal. Your nipples tightened at the knowledge, and your legs clenched on instinct. You almost made him cum his jeans. What a compliment.

Your puffy clit was sore from the brief friction, and you felt every centimeter of space he put between you and your reward, but it was like a switch flipped in your brain.

The sharp throbs of his fingers clamped onto the meat of your thigh and his thumb jammed into the soft muscle were forgotten when you looked down at the man who shied under your observation; his face aflame with the awareness he ruined your release as well and his, and his bashful eyes worried with remorse. He was the reason you craved the early dawn, and weekday nights. He was the reason your heart crowded your throat when you woke up and your first thought was to reach for the bracelet on your bedside dresser. He was the reason you took a liking to heavy metal and board games. He was the reason your body reacted to wafts of earthy tobacco in the air, only to be disappointed when the person behind you at the grocery store was just another smoker who hand rolled their cigarettes, as if they had the right to smell like Eddie Munson.

You looked down at the man who lived an isolated and thankless life, who found joy in the small things and loved with his whole heart, who had few outlets to express himself and receive love back, and nothing mattered to you more than giving him a reason to look at you differently come Monday morning.

You thumbed the edge of his jaw with a promise. “I’ll go slow, pretty boy.”

He made a choked off noise in response.

Eddie’s eyes followed the nuances of your movement as you rose from his lap and planted your feet on the carpet. His stance widened to make room for you, chest falling with a silent exhale; peering at you with a question between his brows, as if he were contemplating his luck. When you bent over and placed your palms on his thighs, you stole his gaze from the intimate way your cleavage shifted under gravity, and honored his lips a last time for the foreseeable future, about to show him how fortunate he really was.

You sank to your knees, dropping dry kisses onto his shirt in a path to his belly as you went, and lifted the hem. The bottom of the inked sword and dragon greeted you. Sparse hair fanned as you raised the shirt above his tattooed navel, and pushed it to the crease where his sternum and belly met. His stomach wasn’t as flat as when he stood, giving him a slight curve where it pushed past the edge of his belt—a roundness when he sat relaxed. You laid your elbows on his thighs, and avoided touching the large subject in your peripheral, instead shaping your hands to his hips, and bowing your head.

His muscles jumped under your lips.

Finally, you knew his ticklish spot.

He sucked in a breath, and squirmed at the scattered kisses to his sides. You applied more pressure, mashing your mouth to him with a giggly hum, and teased your wet lips through the thick curls leading downwards. The hairs grazed the sides of your mouth and nose. The warm metal from his belt buckle brushed your chin. You’d never guessed you’d come to know these sensations when you first met him and he made it clear your enthusiasm for life was not appreciated, but here you were, stroking your thumbs up his leather belt, bordering your grin with his happy trail.

Eddie skimmed his fingers over your wrists. “I’m not gonna last long,” he warned.

“That’s fine,” you assured him in a quick peck to the significant outline you’d become obsessed with, feeling him twitch beneath your lips. “We have all night to work on that.”

“What—? Jesus Christ, uh—okay.”

Sitting back on your calves, you held his gaze while you pulled the extra length of his belt through the loops in a smooth rush, and worked it through the handcuff buckle. You tightened the slack and loosened the pin with a nimble finger, undressing him with the ease of an expert.

Asking from a place of your own curiosity, you wondered, “How often do you jerk off?”

His eyebrows disappeared behind his tousled bangs.

Not yet used to you being so forward with him, he stammered on his tongue, but held his composure, much to the surprise of both of you. “Not that often, I guess.. Uh, a few times a month.”

You snorted. “You don’t have to lie to me, you know that, right? You can tell me if it’s everyday, I don’t care. It’s not like I’m gonna judge you.”

The two halves of his belt flopped to either side of his waist. With it out of the way, you pinched at the stamped button at the top of his stupidly tight jeans, but you had trouble getting a good grip on it. Here, let me—he mumbled in a small voice, lifting his hips off the couch to undo it himself, popping it through and revealing the waistband of his forest green boxers.

It was with great determination you aimed your gaze above his obvious grandeur when he started talking.

“I’m not lying,” he said during the sturdy grind of the zipper being tugged down. “Not exactly like I have a door to lock when I need some alone time around here, sweetness. Plus” —he grunted at the freedom his unzipped jeans granted him, pushing them lower on his hips— “I’m usually too worn out after work, and just wanna crash on the couch. Not to mention taking care of everything around here is exhausting. Just don’t have the energy most days.”

Reading the precious draw of sympathy between your brows, he sat on the edge of his bed, and reached into the fly at the front of his boxers. “But, uh, there has been a recent change in my life that’s motivated me to.. take better care of myself. More often.” A certain motivator who sat between his legs with her hands in her lap, piqued and obedient. “Lot more often than a couple months ago, before she started working with me.”

He wrapped his fingers around himself and stroked upward, moving his knuckles against the fabric. He’d been rambling to ease the anxiety from his nerves until only the adrenaline remained, and with his pretty girl biting her bottom lip at his impure thoughts, his stalling came to an end.

Out came his hand—broad palm and thick fingers stretched full—and you stared in silent awe.

The back of his pale wrist and rosy knuckles were the first to show. Prominent blue veins led to his crooked hand, thumb and foremost fingers grasping his base while the last two struggled to collect the rest. His wet tip grazed the top of his boxers, peaking the fabric and dragging it along in a mouthwatering sweep towards the opening, and out it bobbed in flushed hues of pink and needy red. Below, he used his other hand to lower the fly, and cupped his palm to his heavy hanging fruits. They slipped out one plump roundness at a time to display their greatness against his dark jeans in a weighty sway.

Eddie’s cock leaked a bead of anticipation for you.

Starting with a lazy tug, he stroked himself. The arousing sheen smeared around his tip glistened, shining anew with the pass of his fist. As predicted, he curved to the right, and the fact he could hardly overlap his thumb to get a good hold on himself spoke of his size. All of him was beautiful, and you felt beautiful when another drip of precum swelled from his pretty head, threatening to fall before your very eyes.

He was thrilled by your shock. “Want it?”

“Need it,” you responded in a faint exhale.

With a smirk deepening his smoky tone, he kept moving his hand up and down, and granted you permission, “It’s all yours.”

You snapped your attention to his face, and inched forward until you were snug against the couch, eager and motivated by the lustful stretch in your thighs exposing your soaked cunt to the air. Good and pleasing, you clasped your hands politely in the folds of your bunched up skirt, and framed your arms around your chest.

Dipping your head, you lolled out your tongue for his approval.

His expression was the highest compliment; revering you with crinkles at the corners of his heavy-lidded gaze, lips stretched into a genuine smile which emphasized the elusive dimple on his cheek, and defined the bags under his eyes. Strands of his finger-swept messy curls stuck out at odd angles after you had your way with his hair, grazing his high cheekbones, and thick neck.

His heart pounded louder in his chest the longer he stared at your offering.

Weight pressed down on the plush middle of your tongue. It left, then happened again, again. Again, he tapped the fat head of his cock to the sticky wetness, mixing his salty taste with your spit. Bestowing you the gift, and taking it away. Teasing you. He slapped his heaviness down in a dull throb of owning you, and lifted it off to run his fingers over his own length, jerking himself off at an easy pace he wouldn’t cum from before putting his weeping tip to your tongue once more for you to admire, but not indulge. It was the cruelest, and hottest, thing he’d ever done to you.

When he next rubbed his head along the supple muscle and took it away, you tempted him into giving you mercy.

His lungs stuttered at your first demure kiss to the underside of his cock. You listened to his shallow breath on the second, released in a short ahh on the third. On the fourth, you vied for privilege to spoil him. He relented. How could he not?

To give himself a better angle to watch, he propped one of his hands behind him, and dropped his cheek to his shoulder, where his hair poured in a mass of tangles. The broad grin he wore waned to a subtler emotion as you hummed for the silky skin thrumming against your lips, feeling him shift when he lifted his thumb from taming his hard-on down.

Eddie marveled at how you balanced his cock on your pout. Amusement—and an unending amount of tenderness—gentled his features. He was sweet on you. You were sweet on him.

Treating him how he deserved, you rolled your tongue around your mouth to gather spit, and pushed it past your lips to wet his slick head, making your kisses slip against him in a smooth glide. You showered him in small pecks at first. Short kisses with the cutesy sounds pressed to the sensitive ridges which earned Eddie’s involuntary moan; low and thick, drawing from the months of pining for this moment. Venturing into more, you darted your tongue out to test his reaction when you licked the valley between the halves of his plump tip, and you winced. His cock kicked up, and fell in a smack. It was painful, probably bruising the delicate inner flesh of your lips when it smashed them against your teeth. You thanked him in an acquiescent whine.

It was addictive—a daze. With nothing but gravity to keep him in place, you cherished your favorite mechanic’s cock openly and honestly. You flattened your tongue to him in a loving lap, and chased it with a long drag of your lips up the underside to the round head, struggling to keep your eyes open from the bliss of tasting his reward, and suckling noisily for more.

Eddie accepted defeat in a sudden, disappointed grunt, “Yeah.. I’m not gonna last long.”

He fell backwards in a dramatic flourish.

Sprawled almost flat, his shoulders hit the cushions, and his body melted into the position with his fingers laced over his eyes as a shield. A groan of despair reverberated in his throat. Poor Eddie, can’t last long with his favorite receptionist’s mouth around his cock. A giggle bubbled from your chest, and you were about to repeat your promise to go slow, but the words wouldn’t form.

Your mouth had other plans than wasting their time on reassurances.

In his melodramatic moping, his dick left your lips and flopped onto his belly—which was a loss you felt in your soul—but with how he slouched into the cushions, a fruitful endeavor presented itself. Swung, and bounced, actually.

You leaned in, and became acquainted with your hand around his girth; familiarizing yourself with the naked warmth in your palm, and his airy whimper when you did.

The top of his boxers brushed your knuckles as you drifted your hand up in a single stroke. One fluid glide on the cock which belonged to you. He did say it was yours, after all. And though the thought alone had you wishing it was stretching your tight cunt in a blend of pain and pleasure, you had a yearning for what else moved up and down when you pumped your fist.

“Eddie?” you called. He peered at you from the shadow of his fingers. Innocently, you traced the bottom of his sack, and oh so carefully settled them into the nest of your unblemished palm. “Are these mine too?”

A croak broke his speechlessness. “Y-Yeah, those are yours, too. If you want them.”

Please was written in your grateful lurch towards his cock. Thank you was expressed in your lush moan when he entered your mouth.

“Baby,” he whined in a docile sigh.

You sank his cock into the wet heat he needed, but only for the purpose of curving your tongue to his begging tip and bathing him in your spit, using your hand to work it down his shaft. Except, you got carried away. A few strokes in, and you put your lips tight around his head, and already there was a warning forming between his brows.

You backed off. His face went lax in relief.

“Feels too good, sweetheart,” he praised from the depths of his gravelly voice. “Gonna make me cum like that.”

Your pussy ached to be spoken to that way.

Moving your attention away from how pitifully empty you felt, you loosened your grip and twisted your wrist to massage the base of his slick cock; not exploring upwards, just giving him enough friction to keep him on edge without spilling over. A perfect amount of pleasure, you guessed, from his red face emerging from behind his hands, raising them to comb his bangs off the fine layer of sweat beading on his forehead, and blinking himself out of his haze just in time to see you lower your face between his thighs.

You tended to him first with a kiss. An opening, or introduction, to your lips finding the spot beneath your working thumb where the hardness ended and the velvety skin began. He tensed. His legs flexed around your shoulders, bringing his knees in all shy like, like he was self conscious to have you down there. And maybe it was one thing to have his balls cupped in your palm, but it was another to have you nosing around the opening of his boxers when he hadn’t gone through with his plan of trimming back the hedges.

All he could do was stare when you inhaled his scent after he spent the day cleaning his home, running errands, driving across town to pick you up, and sitting next to you during scene after scene of horrors playing on a screen directly across from the terrifying event of holding your hand while trying not to out-sweat his t-shirt.

His bewilderment was apparent, but so was your enjoyment.

You burrowed your nose at the narrow opening of his fly, and tilted his cock to the side, finding the thick thatch of curls growing around his base, and admiring his heavy musk breaking through the perfumed Dove soap. A heavy purr of pleasure rumbled in your throat, coming out as a nasally moan against the wrinkled skin you kissed. So enraptured by his body, you couldn’t hold back anymore. You had to part your lips, and run your tongue along the seam of his sack. It was with a dire urge you stopped at the bottom, and flaunted how big he was by snuggling your nose to the heft and lifting.

You draped his balls over your mouth.

It was silly to him, and you didn’t mind the tss of laughter, but to you, earning his baffled smile while your giggle was buried under his sack was vital to your design. Their ripe heat enveloped you. The stripe you licked was wet on the tip of your nose. His natural scent swaddled you. Both corners of your lips were encumbered by the wonderful weight hanging on either side, brushing your cheeks as you swallowed the taste of his tangy sweat. You kissed up into the excess skin stretched over your face, and they rolled to your chin when you changed the angle you were teasing his cock, disciplining him towards his stomach so you had more room to worship the pome.

Warming him to the idea, you flattened your tongue to one side and ran it along the fullness, curving up, and dragging down in a long caress. In a breath, he placed his hand on his stomach where his shirt gathered, and skimmed the other over his body until it laid on top of his jeans, in the crease between his hip and thigh. You could see his fingers work themselves into the loose denim out of the corner of your eye, and heard them relax when you traced the other side of his sack, ending with a murmur to the textured skin.

“Too much?” you asked—he shook his head before you could finish the question, still hanging onto a suggestion of his fascinated squint at what you were doing to him.

With his approval, you indulged.

The gentle licks evolved to sloppy circles, eager to prize and polish, ensuring there was no part of his balls gone neglected. Lapping at, kissing at, making out with another spot on his body out of a necessity to fawn over every inch of him. Willing to nuzzle your way between the plumpness and have your drool drag wetly across your cheeks in his name. Fully content with messier and messier affections, cozying your nose to the base of his curls until he understood how little it bothered you to be smothered by his nature.

Unable to resist satisfying him how he deserved, you dropped an open kiss to the squish of his sack, and suckled on a small section, checking his reaction.

Not an ounce of protest glimmered behind his lashes, eyes falling almost closed at the intimate gesture between two people who were never supposed to be more than coworkers.

You parted your lips, and accepted a mouthful. 

Eddie whimpered.

His toes curled into the carpet at the novel sensation. There was an incredible amount of trust required to fight the instinct to pull away. Even his fingers strained the denim when you drew your lips around one of his balls, and slackened your jaw. It was with great respect you brought him into your mouth, and cradled the weight on your tongue, cheeks stretched full and soft. You held him there for a long second. The rain was a steady noise of the roof, but your exhale was loud in the space between his thighs. Quiet suspense followed your hand climbing his shaft.

You wrapped your fingers around his hopeful tip, and fitted your thumb to the valley on the underside. In perfect sync, and with your eyes steady on his face, you hollowed your cheeks and squeezed each of your fingers at the same gentle pace.

“Fuck, baby—”

At once, Eddie’s unabashed groan inspired you, and his balls jerked in response to the direct touch in the places he needed it. From pinky to index, you massaged his fat head in a smooth pulse—matching the strokes of your thumb—and though your grip was light, he was already kneading his hand along his inner thigh and clamping it down close to your face. You soothed him on your tongue as best you could, and eased him into having more pressure from your lips, sucking harder on the most sensitive part of him.

Concentration stressed a shadow between his brows; chest braced on a held breath.

The telltale sign of his skin tightening in your mouth, along with his clenched stomach and abnormal silence, had you testing his limits. But it was too fun feeling his legs squirm at the effortless flow your fingers performed, coaxing him closer to coming undone and still daring to smear the swells of precum over the pleading edge of his tip, again and again, but slower. Slower. Memorizing the metallic slink of his guitar pick running along the ball chain necklace when you released him, and his chest sank with a sigh.

His voice cracked a notch higher, “Jesus, you’re really into this, huh, sweetheart?” he asked, but you couldn’t answer.

Before committing to his other ball, you spat into your cupped fingers, and put them to his cock, adjusting how you held him until you could look past and see the handsome glint of respect in his eyes, and he could gaze into wealth of adoration in yours.

“Love being on my knees for you,” you mumbled sweetly, kissing your way to the other side of his sack. “Love your cock, Eddie.”

His name, spoken where it was on his body, brought out a smugger twist to his already prideful grin. “Yeah? You like it?”

Rushing at the chance to compliment your man, you straightened your spine, and punctuated your words along the thick vein leading up to the drips of seed. “Love it,” you promised in a syrupy yearn, swallowing the bitter salt. “Love your cock; love it so much. It’s my favorite.”

“Is it the best?”

The question was tonally rich with confidence, but just in case there was any doubt woven into the wording itself, you regarded the man who went to work early on a day he had off for the purpose of leaving flowers on your desk, and smiled.

“Yeah,” you confessed, recalling a memory from the earlier months, after your first failed date, when he shared his can of Coke with you at lunch because the vending machine was out, and two sets of chapsticked lip prints were left around the metal rim. “It’s the best.”

You hugged his cock to your cheek, and nuzzled the warmth as you would any other part of him, humming a sunshiny hum, and parted ways to return to your true calling further down.

This time, Eddie groaned in relief when you settled his other ball in your mouth—”That’s it.”

With your newly slick hand, you slipped your palm over his desperately purple tip with ease. His thighs jumped into a flex, and his stomach fluttered with tension—almost like he was going to lose himself right there—but he exhaled hard through his nose, and became better at existing in the mutual pleasure. This was as much for you as it was for him.

There was a scrunch of determination above his nose, and a strong edge to his jaw, but otherwise, his fingers were gentle on your temple. 

“You always know how to make me feel good,” he said, tracing his knuckles downward, lacing multitudes of meanings behind the sentence. Physical, and emotional.

He prodded his thumb into the hollow of your cheek, feeling how full you were of him; how his calloused fingerpad rocked in the same rhythm of your lips sealing around him and sucking; and you leaned into the tender gesture of his open palm, to which he cupped your jaw with a sentiment tantamount to what you were baring.

A sweet man through and through, even as he trembled in your fist.

You curved your tongue around the tight skin in your mouth, and moaned prettily for him. Frequent moans, ardent moans, moans appealing to his ego, moans you’d hear on a tape rented from the backroom of a competing video store with a black curtain separating it from the wholesome movies up front. Performing for him, finding what he liked. Which lick, which whine, which speed had his cock leaking over your fingers. Which trick made the creases between his brows mature, and his mouth fall open: the answer was two fast pumps over his throbbing head, and back down to his base for a respite, prolonging his release with a thank you on his heavy eyelids.

Prolonging, at least, until two fast pumps became a naughty blur of more—Oh, fuck, baby—and his brushes along your cheek went rare, and he licked his dry lips in the fog of his ramping high, and he hung his head back to the dense cushions, and his question escaped his throat in a hoarse huff, “You wanna—?” and it wasn’t a question at all.

You pushed your lips in soft goodbye to his sack, and his fingers under your jaw communicated his wish, aiding your chin up with a light pressure until your mouth was tasting the result of his aching lust. Slow and steady, you lavished his head in tame licks, building into a long sweep over the top. Warming yourself up to the painful stretch your lips were about to endure while his kind fingertips coasted over your hair, and found themselves at the back of your neck. Drawing out the seconds he tucked his thumb behind your ear, and rubbed circles. Sitting in the moment of something delicate, before things changed, and the platonic line became a horizon.

You drove his tip past your lips, and channeled all your appreciation into sucking Eddie’s cock.

He whimpered in surprise. A different whimper than before; not a drowsy noise he may make when rolling over in bed, but a sputtered note expelled in bursts of heavy breaths, singing a hymn to your blood.

The pace was not shy.

You descended to meet your fingers wrapped around his shaft, and reached your temporary depth where his hardness caressed the back of your mouth, and your throat clenched. Pulling back, you focused on his head, wetting his length with the sudden drool, and busying your other hand with his balls, cupping and stroking them in gentle passes.

“Ri–Right there, yeah, God, right there, sweet girl.” The syllables were mashed and dropped and disconnected on his whine.

Flicking your gaze up, you thrived on his fixated stare, bobbing your head on his tip only. Sliding your lips back and forth over the luscious ridge which had his tongue pressed against his bottom teeth. Massaging your wet heat around the center of his pleasure; encouraging a pinch in his expression as if he were in pain when he was in anything but.

Being higher on your knees meant your tits could be seen, and what a delicious sight it was for him to covet. Braced by your bra, your cleavage bounced as you pumped your fist along his cock, grazing your nipples above the opaque floral applique, cresting them beyond the sheer lace. It was enough to make his stomach squeeze, and his fingers tremble in the baby hairs at your nape.

His cock twitched twice in your mouth, conveying a message.

You welcomed him to the back of your throat, gladly this time, accepting the overfulness making it hard to breathe and the soreness surely to come, using your hand for the rest you could not take. No amount of uncomfortableness would make you shy from showing him the recognition he earned. For years he didn’t see the value in himself, and knowing the person who saved a Laffy Taffy wrapper to tell you the joke on the back didn’t prioritize his own happiness compelled you to take him deeper, faster. You shaped your tongue to the outline of his cock, and chased your lips with your fist, hollowing your cheeks at the top, teetering him on the cusp, rousing him until your skin buzzed from the friction and his hips pitched. Bringing him so close to the edge that when you broke away to catch your breath, his muscles shivered, and the shadows between his brows lessened as they arched higher from the mounting pleasure, where every touch on his body felt better and better and better than the last.

In the brief seconds you wrapped both your hands around his length, he made a pleading noise with the added weight of his warm palm at the back of your head—an urgency in his disheveled state, but not without the option of choice.

At once, he was at home in your throat.

In a union, your fingers wrenched his waistband into your damp palm, and he laid his hand across your knuckles. The control was yours, but the pace was his. He fucked himself into your pliant mouth in short, quick thrusts; ever attentive to keep his thumb strokes on your cheek unquestionably loving.

“Gonna make me—” He found the angle to cant his hips so you could watch him unravel; eyes falling closed and face tipped to the ceiling. “—Make me cum, baby,” he finished, voice light as air.

Throat flushed bright pink, cheeks dark red. Eddie panted into a shaky moan of true relief, and your core craved to be the one to take care of his needs, but there was something special about proving your attraction to him in every way you could.

The ridges of his greedy tip found where they were best brushed, and his hips lost their tempo. His stomach sank and stuttered in pulses. A dear emotion clutched your chest, letting loose when he crashed into his climax.

His knees closed you in, crowding you to his lap. “I’m gonna—” he gasped, rough and breathless; presented as a warning for the shot of bitter taste at the back of your throat, filling your mouth and spilling over your tongue with each throb of the thick vein pumping over your swollen bottom lip.

Something undeniable feathered the vulnerability of the position.

You swallowed.

And when more remained after it slid down your throat, you steadied his twitching cock over the offering of your tongue and jerked him off, stealing more drips to satiate you, swallowing with your lips pressed in a kiss to his overstimulated tip. “Baby,” he begged with his head thrown back, legs shifting restlessly around you. He sucked in breaths. Squirmed. Bit his tongue. Tugs of laughter played at his screwed up mouth, so desperate to resist giving in to a true grin when you rode out his high until he was beginning to soften, and the euphoria wore off to a dozy tingles, and the tingles dissipated into you giving him mercy, and mercy gave way to the aftermath.

In all the awkwardness of reality, you unceremoniously wiped your hands on his jeans, and right as he properly tucked himself back into his boxers, he beckoned you with open arms, gripping at your hips and bringing you onto the couch in a clumsy tumble; straddling his lap with his eager kisses seeking your jaw, your neck, your mouth which worked so hard for him. “Fucking amazing, baby,” he mumbled at the corner of your lips. You didn’t need the words—you’d heard them all before—but the reassurance of his arms locked tight around your middle, and the golden rays of honey shining so bright in his eyes allayed the tiny ball of worry at the pit of your stomach telling you he’d next follow it up with an excuse to send you home, as did every man before him.

“‘Mazing, ‘mazing, ‘mazing,” he mushed together on his way to your slack lips, bringing you out of your thoughts and into a kiss. “And dare I say, ‘amazing?’”

His ability to make you giggle when your bare stomachs were pressed together was the sort of tenderness you sought, and he provided.

You rubbed the tip of your nose along his, so very aware of his broad grin, and sweet nature. “You’re silly.”

“That I am!” he stated proudly.

Dipping to complete your gentle smile with his, you sank into the acceptance of him wanting to take your bottom lip between his, and flatter himself with the knowledge of where it’s been, what parts of him it became intimate with, instead of avoiding what was only human. He noticed your cold skin beneath his hands, and ran them along your back and upper arms. There was a motive behind his fingers slipping under the hem of your skirt, and palming you forward—where your heartbeats hammered together, and heat stirred in the lack of layers separating you—but still, there was one more affection you thought he deserved before the night moved on to your own.

Shivers chased his thumb braving the roundness of your breast, edging closer to the sensation of due pleasure yearning to be released. He spoke straight to your needs by putting the suggestion in your hips, “It’s your turn now.”

You stopped yourself from toppling to the cushions, and upheld your decent balance through your grip on his shoulders. “Wait,” you complained without malice, forgiving him for not reading your mind, “I’m not through with you yet.”

The word choice sparked intrigue across his face, then it cautioned to curiosity at the ominous roll of thunder rumbling through the trailer, clanking the mugs on the wall behind him.

He turned his head to the side, eyeing you. “What does that mean?”

~~~

“God, that feels so good.”

“Yeah, right there.. A little to the left—Oh fuck, right there.”

“So fucking good, sweetheart, keep going.”

Perturbed, you asked him, “Do you ever shut up?” and kneaded your knuckles harder into the knot of muscle between his shoulder blades, earning a louder groan than when you had his dick in your mouth.

One of the horror movies played on the TV, volume turned high for the alien’s gargled dialogue to be heard over the storm. Eddie’s lanky body was limp with sleepiness, melting under the smooth strokes of your palms starting at the base of his neck and gliding downward over his shirt, dragging another grunt out of him when his voice was hoarse from shameless use, not tempering it for a late night where he’d employ his range outside of singing for Corroded Coffin. He mumbled another praise, but his face was smashed to his pillow, rendering what he said unintelligible. His strong back rose with a shallow breath, and you moved with it. The couch was crowded, but you insisted he get comfortable, even if you had to straddle the curve of his ass with one knee fallen to the alarm of crayons and crumbs stuck between the cushions, and your other leg hung off the edge. This worked for him, though. It gave his hand a place to hold you, fingers clasped to your calf and thumb tending to you in little sweeps of truth. I need to touch you. The room was smothered in darkness, save for the brighter scenes highlighting the glossy line of his eye fighting a losing battle one massage of your thumbs into the pockets of soreness at a time.

You worked at the tense muscles with his comforter draped around your shoulders. It slipped down to greet the chafing air, rushing goosebumps over your skin. After the fourth time adjusting it, you left it gathered at your waist. Making sure Eddie was taken care of was more important. And the college girl turning into goo occupied what was left of your attention.

Though, soon, your tendons ached from effort, and staying-up-late stole the water you yawned from your eyes, and the comfort of being with someone who appreciated you wore heavy on your bones.

You grabbed the blanket, and leaned forward.

Brushing back the mess of curls covering the side of his face, you combed through the strands of hair stuck to his stubble, and found his chubby cheek smushed to his shoulder. You kissed him. “I adore you.”

He put a weak squeeze in his palm behind your knee, and spoke through the grog, “I adore you too, baby.”

Adore. Using the endearment in place of another word, and still, the weight was understood by the both of you.

Housed in the cozy heat of his body, sheltered from the rain lashing the windows in sheets, and the howling wind whistling past the corrugated metal roof in gusts, you sighed. Thunder vibrated from the floor, to the couch, to him, to you.

“You’re too sweet to me,” he said, sounding more awake.

“I’m exactly as sweet as you deserve.”

Instead of using his words to express he wanted to turn over, he just started rolling beneath you, forcing you to rip yourself from his divine warmth, and settle upright on his lap.

You were reminded of the reason you were cold when his eyes trailed over your naked skin, not afraid to show their appetite for your chest. The hunger in his hands returned, scaling the plush expanse of your thighs, and feasting his thumbs higher on the sensitive inner haven he’d yet to pay tribute to.

A smirk cut across his mouth. With a slow breath, he rocked his hips, grinding his half-hard cock against your neglected need, now attuned with the perfect tilt to achieve that pretty noise from your mouth which riled him like nothing else.

Oh, he was very awake.

Eddie exhaled with a pitying sound with attentive eyebrows, almost like he was mocking your moan. “You look so good up there, sweetheart,” he admired through his teasing. “Could get used to it..”

“Yeah?” you questioned. Reaching between your joined bodies, you held no qualms about circling your fingers over his cock, and honoring just under his head, ending your stroke just before he could reap the benefit.

He tipped his head back to gain his wits, finding his answer in the darkness behind his eyelids. “But you keep forgetting this night was about you, and thanking you for everything you’ve done for me. And then you go and add that on top of it.” Private fantasies took hold of him, influencing his heavy moan and thumbs climbing higher, higher. “Gotta thank you for so many things, sweetheart. So many.. However many you want,” he said, alluding to his way of showing gratitude. Fresh lust rushed to your soaked heat hugging his length. “Gotta get you out of these, though.” He scratched a nail over your pantyhose.

You snorted, accidentally ushering humor into what was a sexy exchange. “Why bother? You already ripped them.”

“I what?” Plain confusion marked his face.

Treating it like an ordinary thing, you bunched your skirt up to your waist, and drew his gaze to your mismatched black panties. You gandered at them as well, second guessing if you should’ve taken the extra time to find the lavender pair somewhere at the bottom of your drawer.

“Yeah,” he groaned; as his chest fell, his cock swelled. “I’m gonna show you just how thankful I am, again, and again, and again,” he trailed off, each word fluttering the heartbeat at your core—

Lightning struck, and the phone rang.

Jolting, Eddie stared at it from a long moment, breath held as if that alone would will it into submission from ringing a second time. Spikes of prickly anxiety stabbed at your chest, frightened out of the moment worse than any jumpscare.

It rang a second time.

He took the initiative and sat up, consoling you with his hand on your back and a kiss on your cheek. “I’m sure it’s nothing, just stay put and make yourself comfortable, sweet girl. I’ll be right back.”

Use your pet names all he wanted, his voice didn’t instill confidence when it went flat and wavered.

He got up from the couch and you were left feeling exposed, nestling into the blanket as the rain picked up, and the buzzy feeling he left imprinted on your skin faded.

“Hello?” he answered, rubbing his stomach above the open fly of his jeans.

As he listened to the man’s voice on the other end, he dropped his hand, and his shoulders sagged at the information.

Turning away, he huddled the receiver to his ear, and asked, “Is she okay?”

His question didn’t have the direness a parent should have if someone were hurt, so you stood up and padded softly to the kitchen, straining your ears, listening intently and discerning a few sniffles. But one little girl’s cry rang above them all. A shrill call for her Daddy to save her from her greatest fear.

Thunder rocked the trailer.

“Yeah.. Yeah, I’ll come get her.”

The phone clicked into its holder on the wall, and like that, the illusion was shattered. It was no longer just you and him spending a night together, carefree. Responsibility took precedence, and when Eddie faced you, his mood was tainted by all the things he explained about being exhausted from just existing his thankless life, judged by all.

He stared into your optimistic gaze knowing this is when you’d get a dose of his reality as a single father.

Fatigue and dread haunted his expression: this date is over.

[mrdrsgame]

𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘 𝐈𝐍: Balance Between Charm and Brutality; dark Secrets Behind Glittering Facades; Bloody Knuckles; Cost of Maintaining the Family's Reign; the weight of a gun in a silk pocket; cigarette smoke masking darker thoughts

✣ ⠀ 𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐎 𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎 ⠀ is the charming yet calculating heir to Palermo’s most infamous mafia dynasty. The Castello⠀ 𝑭𝑨𝑴𝑰𝑳𝒀 ⠀has wielded influence over ⠀𝑺𝑰𝑪𝑰𝑳𝒀'𝑺 𝑼𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑹𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑳𝑫 ⠀for generations, their legacy etched into the cobbled streets of ⠀𝑷𝑨𝑳𝑬𝑹𝑴𝑶⠀. Luciano, however, is determined to elevate the family’s power to ⠀𝑼𝑵𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑪𝑬𝑫𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑫 𝑯𝑬𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑺 ⠀.

His legitimate empire, a ⠀𝑳𝑼𝑿𝑼𝑹𝒀 𝑯𝑶𝑻𝑬𝑳 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑰𝑵 ⠀called ⠀𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑫𝑰𝑺𝑶 𝑵𝑨𝑺𝑪𝑶𝑺𝑻𝑶⠀, caters to the rich and powerful, offering unparalleled opulence. But behind the glistening facades of its marble-clad lobbies lies a ⠀𝑳𝑨𝑩𝒀𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑯 𝑶𝑭 𝑺𝑬𝑪𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑺 ⠀. In the shadowed backrooms of ⠀𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑫𝑰𝑺𝑶 𝑵𝑨𝑺𝑪𝑶𝑺𝑻𝑶⠀, Luciano orchestrates⠀ 𝑰𝑳𝑳𝑰𝑪𝑰𝑻 𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑺⠀: arms deals, money laundering, and blackmail schemes, all under the guise of exclusive hospitality.

Luciano is a master manipulator, ⠀𝑬𝑸𝑼𝑨𝑳𝑳𝒀 𝑺𝑲𝑰𝑳𝑳𝑬𝑫⠀ in charming diplomats over dinner and intimidating rivals in dimly lit basements. Beneath his ⠀𝑺𝑼𝑨𝑽𝑬 𝑬𝑿𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑰𝑶𝑹⠀ lies a man haunted by the weight of his family’s ⠀𝑬𝑿𝑷𝑬𝑪𝑻𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑺⠀ and the relentless pursuit of power.

@TEMPLATE ⠀@PINBOARD

[livingdreams97]

Tara Carpenter -- "The lies I keep" (Part 3)

Tara Carpenter x Male reader/oc

Summary: Having a normal life is difficult after the one she considered her best friend tries to kill her and causes distrust in everyone she meets. But something or rather someone manages to enter her heart and hiding that person is the best thing that occurs to her.

Words: 4.194

PREVIOUS // NEXT

Masterlist

POV You

The walk to Tara's apartment happens in complete silence. I can feel my girlfriend's grip on my hand soften the further we walk and the closer we get to her house.

When I can make out the building in the distance, I can't help but a certain feeling of disappointment and sadness invade my body. Because arriving at that place means that my time with my girlfriend is over and I will have to say goodbye to her.

The worst thing of all is that everything was going well, we were having fun and we were together. For once in a long time, I was spending time and having fun with my girlfriend outside of college.

Plus, from the moment Tara told me she was going to the party and that we could be together, I had been so excited. But it was too good to be true.

Y/n: I guess we'll see each other on Monday in class.- I say when we enter the apartment lobby.

Tara: What are you talking about? - She asks me confused.

Y/n: That we'll see each other on Monday in class.- I respond just as confused as she is right now and I see some recognition in her eyes.

Tara: No, silly.- she laughs, pulling my hand towards her. -You are sleeping with me today, one way or another you were going to end up sleeping next to me.- she comments, starting to climb the stairs with me behind her. -And now that everyone knows you're my boyfriend, I don't have to sneak you into the house.- she assures me without importance, raising her shoulders.

Y/n: And your sister will agree? - I ask with some fear, since she didn't even know me and she has already given me an electric shock in my private parts.

Tara: Let my sister say whatever she wants, but after what she did tonight you're going to stay the night. - she assures, considering the topic settled.

I remain silent and decide to continue climbing the stairs with a small smile. Since, in the end it turns out that I won't go to my apartment alone and I will be able to spend more time with my girlfriend.

Once in front of the door of her apartment, she takes out her keys and begins to open some locks. And by some I mean about 3 or 4.

Tara: My sister is paranoid.- she tells me when she opens the last lock.

Y/n: I think she's just cautious, taking into account what happened last year. - I whisper with some insecurity, not wanting to say something that will anger or bother her.

She just gives me a pout with her lips in response and opens the door. She grabs my hand again and guides us through the apartment to her room.

Tara: Welcome to my space.- She introduces me to her room with a shy smile.

I look around the room, seeing the posters, books, plants and other objects in sight. He smiled, feeling the room be a perfect mirror of my girlfriend's personality and tastes.

Y/n: It's very you.- I assure her walking towards the bed, while I take off the gun holsters from my shoulders next to the "bullet" belt and letting myself fall into it.

Tara: Is that a good or bad thing? - she asks me walking towards her desk, taking off her boots along the way and waving her asthma inhaler to take a puff.

Y/n: Anything related to you is good.- I respond with a smile, watching how she uses her inhaler and smiles at me while holding her breath.

Quinn: Hey.- a girl comes in wearing short pink pajamas, who I recognize as the roommate my girlfriend told me about. -I'm sorry for telling Sam about the party.- she apologizes, not realizing my presence and I just watch in complete silence.

Tara: It's okay.- downplays it. -She never leaves me alone.- she assures her, starting to walk towards me and it is at that moment that the red-haired girl realizes my presence.

Quinn: Hello, handsome boy.- she greets me with a suggestive smile and I shift uncomfortably. -I didn't know you had a visitor.- she says to the girl who sits next to me.

Tara: Quinn, meet my boyfriend Y/n.- she introduces us by placing her hand on my thigh.

Y/n: Nice to meet you.- I say politely.

Quinn: Believe me, the pleasure is all mine.- she winks at me without removing the smile from her face.

Tara: Do you need anything else Quinn? - she asks, trying to sound friendly and squeezing my thigh with obvious annoyance.

Quinn: I just wanted to say that I understand what it's like to be suffocated.- she responds walking towards us. -After ah... we lost my brother, my father... he doesn't even let me breathe.- she says with some emotion, sitting next to me and leaving me between the two girls. -He even asked the New York police for a transfer when I started college, what a stalker.- she comments with false humor.

I clear my throat uncomfortably at the information, feeling that it is something quite sentimental and that I, a complete stranger to her, should not be listening to it.

Tara: Thank you Quinn.- she thanks her with a smile and the three of us remain silent for a few seconds.

Quinn: I'll leave you alone.- she says with a smile, getting out of bed and leaving the room, closing the door.

Y/n: That was awkward.- I whisper to make sure only my girlfriend hears me.

Tara: And you haven't listened to her fucking day in and day out.- she assures me, letting out a laugh.

Y/n: Okay, that does sound awkward.- I agree with her letting out a small laugh, amused by the face she makes at my comment.

Tara: You tell me.- she says ironically, joining me and allowing me to delight in her harmonious laughter.

This is something I will never admit to my girlfriend, but one of the few things that can brighten my day in a second, even on the worst of days, is her laugh.

I don't know why exactly, but something about the way she closes her eyes slightly when she laughs, her head thrown back, the way her dimples appear to adorn her beautiful face, the melodic but slightly raspy sound she makes, and the way her face lights up when she laughs makes me feel lighter.

Especially when out of shyness she covers her mouth with her hand so that her mouth cannot be seen and that makes her look even more cute and perfect.

Tara: Hey, are you okay? - she asks me, getting me out of my head.

Y/n: Yes, why? - I ask confused, looking into her beautiful brown eyes with a smile.

Tara: Because you've been staring at me and you've stopped laughing.- she responds with some confusion and amusement in her tone of voice.

Y/n: It's just that I like to see you happy and laughing even if it's only from time to time. - I whisper with sincerity and insecurity, not knowing how my comment is going to be taken.

Because there are precedents in our conversations, where I make an innocent comment about something and she completely changes her attitude in a single second.

I know that many times that reaction is due to the trauma she suffered, but there are times when I am afraid to say something and that she will react in a negative way as has happened before.

Tara: When I'm with you I'm happy.- she assures me in a whisper and I feel my body relax completely at her answer.

Y/n: I'm glad, because the feeling is mutual.- I assure her with a light smile.

She smiles back at me and we stay for a few seconds looking at each other in complete silence. Little by little we unconsciously get closer to each other and I lean forward, but stop when I am a few centimeters from her face.

Tara: Now is when you kiss me.- she whispers amused.

I deny with my head letting out a small laugh, before eliminating any space between our faces and joining my lips with hers in a calm kiss.

One of her hands is immediately placed on the back of my neck, where she caresses the place with her nails and I can feel how her other hand grabs my shirt, pulling at it to bring me even closer to her body.

My hands in response are placed on her thigh, where I can feel the material of her mesh leggings and the warmth and softness of her skin that the leggings leave exposed. While my other hand is placed on the mattress on one side of her body, so that I can have comfortable support and not end up falling on her body abruptly.

Quinn: I left my phone.- We hear after the door opens and we both quickly separate from the kiss. -Did I cockblock you?- she asks with a gesture that's somewhere between regretful and amused.

Tara: What did you say? - She asks her with some embarrassment and astonishment.

Quinn: Cockblock you? I've cockblocked you, didn't I? - she repeats the question several times, causing me to shift uncomfortably in my place and feel the heat rise up my neck out of embarrassment.

Tara: immediate no. - She denies just as uncomfortable as I am.

Quinn: Obviously i cockblocked you.- she nods confidently, alternating himmediate gaze between my girlfriend and me.

Y/n: Oh my god.- I groaned even more embarrassed, covering my face and letting myself fall backwards onto the bed.

Tara: What did you wanted? - she asks himmediate softly, changing the subject.

Quinn: My phone.- she answers and I hear something light move.

Tara: Call next time before entering.- she asks her roommate.

Quinn: Don't worry.- she assures her with a calm tone. -Good night.- she says goodbye and I hear quick movements.

Tara: Quinn!- she whispers quickly and with a nervous tone.

Quinn: I'm so sorry.- I hear her whisper back and I open my eyes to see her leave the room, closing the door behind her.

My girlfriend falls next to me, covering her face with her hands like I did just a few moments ago and letting out a big sigh.

Y/n: What was that for? - I ask a little amused, leaning on my elbow and looking at my girlfriend.

Tara: Nothing. - she denies quickly and I can see the reddish color adorning her cheeks when she removes her hands from the face.

Y/n: Well, tell it to your face, because it's redder than a tomato. - I assure her amused, poking her cheek with my ring finger and laughing when she slaps it away even redder.

Tara: It's not funny.- she denies covering her face with her hands again.

Y/n: A little bit, yes it is.- I assure her with amusement, leaning over her body and trying to remove the hands from her face with my free one.

Tara: Idiot.- she growls at me with amusement, allowing me to remove her hands from her face and looking at me with one of her perfect smiles.

I look at her amused, before leaning completely over her body and joining our lips again. She kisses me back immediately, once again placing one of her hands on the back of my neck and the other on my back under my shirt.

I remain supported on my elbow, while my other hand is placed on her neck and go down until it lands on her waist.

Tara: You're wearing a lot of clothes.- she assures me, separating from the kiss and pulling my shirt so I can take it off.

I quickly break away from the kiss, taking off my shirt in one motion and throwing it somewhere in the room.

Now shirtless, I join our lips again in a kiss that is more needy and abrupt than the previous one. Feeling her nails gently scratch my back and causing my skin to tingle from the action.

With my free hand, I begin to push aside the black vest she is wearing and with her help I take it off. She gently pushes me on the chest to separate me and I do so, looking at her confused.

But my confusion disappears in a second, when she sits on the bed and takes off her white blouse, leaving her in a white lace bra. She throws the blouse somewhere, before turning to me and leaning in to reconnect our lips.

With her hand on my chest again, she pushes me to lie on my back and I do. She climbs on top of me, leaving one of her hands on my chest and moving the other towards my hair.

My hands move to her waist again, where I can feel the contrast between the softness of her skin and the material of her shorts between my fingertips.

The kiss becomes more and more hungry, her body begins to move on mine and both of our hands begin to explore the other's body.

I feel how the hand on my chest descends dangerously, reaching the waistband of my pants and how two of its fingers go inside the material.

My hands run over her back and sides feeling the different textures, before ending up on her butt and leaving a squeeze on it causing a muffled moan from her.

Tara: Pants off.- she orders me with heavy breathing, getting up from above me and lying down on the bed next to me.

I watch as she unbuttons hers, moving to take them off as quickly as possible as well as her mesh leggings and throws them to the ground.

I imitate her action by unbuckling my belt with some difficulty due to nerves, which makes her desperate and her hands begin to help me take off my pants.

But as soon as she starts to take them down, a quick loud knock on her bedroom door scares us.

Chad: Come out now! - he exclaims with some urgency in his voice. -Tara, come to the living room right now, you have to see this!- he exclaims after stopping knocking on the door.

Tara: I'm coming! - she growls annoyed, letting out a big sigh full of frustration and anger.

She lets her head fall onto my chest, trying to relax her breathing and trying to calm down.

Y/n: It seems like this isn't the time.- I comment, trying to lighten the tense atmosphere in the room.

Tara's POV

I can not believe it. They can't leave me alone even in my own room. I'm tired of being watched all the time and not being left alone for even five minutes.

I move away from my boyfriend's chest, getting out of bed and walking towards my closet. I pull out the first thing I see, which is a white long-sleeved t-shirt with black stripes and jeans, and put them on.

I put on a pair of sneakers and notice that my boyfriend is sitting on the side of the bed fastening his belt.

I sigh with some guilt and frustration, feeling that because of me he has already suffered enough tonight and for not being able to finish what we have started. I can still feel his hands on my body, the heat of his body on mine, and the discomfort in my underwear.

But for now I only can ignore it and hope that whatever Chad wants isn't too important.

Tara: I'm so sorry.- I apologize with guilt, letting out a sigh and catching his attention.

Y/n: Why are you apologizing? - He asks me confused, getting up from the bed without a shirt on and walking towards me.

Tara: For everything.- I answer honestly. -But especially because of what has happened in the last few hours.- I comment, unable to look anywhere other than his exposed torso.

Y/n: You don't have to apologize for anything Tar.- he assures me, calling me by my nickname, grabbing my face by the cheeks and forcing me to look at his face gently. -Nothing that happened was your fault, nothing.- he emphasizes, looking me straight in the eyes.

Tara: But Sam and everything...- I try to defend my point, but he interrupts me with a kiss.

Y/n: Nothing was your fault, so don't you dare apologize.- he murmurs against my lips. -So if you don't want me to get angry with you, don't apologize again.- he finishes before leaving another soft kiss on my lips.

Tara: I think it's better that you wear a t-shirt to go out. - I commented amusedly when we separated from the kiss.

Y/n: That's what I was thinking of doing.- He answers, looking at me with half-closed eyes.

Tara: Well, hurry up, before someone else comes banging on the door of my room. - I asks him, leaving a soft slap on his bare chest and separating me from his body.

He searches for his shirt quickly, finding it on my desk and putting it back on. Once he is fully dressed, I grab his hand and pull him towards the living room.

When we get to the living room, we see that my friends and Quinn are watching television with their faces full of worry.

Mindy: Sam is already coming up.- He tells me when he notices our presence and I sit in the armchair without taking my eyes off the television.

On the screen you can see the news of a murder of two Blackmore students. I only realize that my sister has entered through the door, because she enters quickly asking what is happening and that catches my attention.

Quinn: The handsome guy.- points to the boy who lives in front of our building entering behind my sister.

I don't pay attention to him and quickly return my gaze to the TV. I open my eyes in surprise when they announce the names of the victims and they turn out to be Jason and Greg, two students that almost all of us know.

Mindy: Damn, he's the geek in film class.- she comments immediately. -The one obsessed with Argento.- she points out while eating popcorn.

But the worst part comes when they announce that they have found ghostface costumes in their apartment and that makes me look at my sister immediately.

Sam: The suitcases.- she orders walking towards the kitchen. -We leave in ten minutes. - warns bluntly.

Tara: Sam, wait Sam! - I ask walking behind her.

Sam: We're leaving town.- she announces to everyone present, but especially to me.

Tara: Sam, are you kidding? - I asked her in disbelief at her disproportionate reaction.

Sam: We're leaving.- she assures me while she chooses one of the knives in the kitchen and leaves with the knife in her hand.

Tara: Sam, wait.- I ask her without stopping following her. -Let's talk for a moment, because maybe this has nothing to do with us. - I try to convince her so that we don't have to leave and because I have the hope that the same thing from last year won't happen again.

Sam: Are you kidding? - she asks me with obvious sarcasm.

Tara: It's New York, on Halloween everyone wears masks and... - I try to explain but she interrupts me.

Sam: Tara, this is not a coincidence.- she denies seriously. -You knew him.- she refers to Jason.

Tara: Barely.- I defend myself quickly.

Sam: Chad, Mindy back me up.- she asks my friends.

Chad: It is a little bit...- he begins and his sister finishes for him.

Mindy: Close to home. - She shrugs her shoulders when I say it when I look at her wrong.

Sam: See.- she tells me when my friends agree with her.

I quickly think about the situation and how I can find a way so that Sam doesn't go crazy and force me to leave without giving me any other option.

Tara: Quinn, your father is a cop, right? - I ask her, remembering the times he has mentioned it to me. -Well, call him and let him find out what's going on.- I ask my friend with some desperation. -Before you make a lateral decision and make me abandon my college studies, my boyfriend and flee the fucking state.- I turn to my sister at the end with reproach.

Quinn: I'm calling him.- she comments out loud, placing the cell phone to his ear.

Tara: Thank you.- I thank her immediately.

I look over at my boyfriend, who looks at me with some nervousness and some fear from his spot next to Chad. 

I try to smile at him to reassure him, but as soon as we hear the ringtone of Sam's cell phone we all look towards the object and the atmosphere becomes so tense that it is suffocating.

Sam walks over to the cell phone with me behind her and takes it in her hands, allowing us to see the name of the person who is calling her. Gale Weathers. My sister rejects the call and the room is silent again for a few seconds.

Ethan: Why everyone freaked out when the phone rang? - he asks with a small nervous smile.

Anika: You got to keep up, my dude. - she says with a tired face to Chad's roommate.

Quinn: Sam, my father wants to talk to you.- she says approaching us and handing him the phone.

My sister receives it immediately, placing it in her ear and starting to talk to our roommate's father.

They don't spend much time talking, before the call ends and he hands the phone back to the redhead.

Tara: What's wrong? What did he say to you? - I ask my sister, watching as she walks towards the entrance and grabs her blue bomber jacket from the coat rack. -Sam?- I call walking behind her.

Sam: I have to go to the police station, you stay here and don't go out under any circumstances.- she says looking at everyone present. -It won't take long for me to get back.- she assures us, putting on her jacket and walking out the door.

I take a deep breath, trying to think of something and hastily grab my pink bomber jacket and go out after her.

I start to go down the stairs quickly, feeling my heart beating fast in my throat and the fear that something could happen to my sister.

Y/n: Tara! - I hear behind me. -Tara, wait.- he asks me, standing next to me. -Where do you plan to go?- he asks me quickly.

Tara: With my sister as commissioner.- I answer in a simple way.

Y/n: Your sister said not to leave the apartment and I'm sure she was referring above all to you. - she reminds me without stopping following me.

Tara: And when has my sister respected my space or what I ask of her?- I remind him with a frown, seeing that Sam is one floor below me.

Y/n: Well then I'll go with you.- he tells me confidently and I look at him quickly.

Tara: No, you stay here with the rest.- I order him without looking at him and speeding up my pace so that my sister doesn't escape from me.

Y/n: Are you serious? - he asks me with some disbelief. -If you really think I'm going to let you leave alone in the middle of the night and after that news you're crazy.- he lists his reasons for accompanying me.

Tara: Okay.- I agree, letting out a tired sigh, but feeling a warmth invade my chest at his concern.

We continue down the stairs quickly, staying a few meters from Sam just when he reaches the main doors of the building and leaves them.

Tara: Sam, wait! - I call her, leaving the building behind her so she can wait for us.

Sam: Tara, no.- she tells me turning around. -Go back inside and lock the door.- she tells us, walking towards me and pushing me towards the entrance through which I just came out.

Tara: Are you kidding me, now you don't want to stick together? - I ask her in disbelief, ready to defend my position and reasoning for accompanying her.

Sam: Fine, but if I tell you to run, you do it and you don't stop until you reach the police station. - she points her finger at us, before turning around and heading towards the police station with us at her side.

We walk to the police station in complete silence, with me between my sister and my boyfriend. A few minutes after starting the walk, my boyfriend linked our hands and clung close to my body, giving me a feeling of protection.

But our walk stops when Sam's cell phone rings again and when he takes it out of his pocket we both freeze when we see the contact's name.

[forsworned]

Crush ft. BlueCollar!Logan Walker

Synopsis: Heavily inspired by the song, Crush by Ethel Cain. Logan is a blue-collar welder employed at his father's metalwork shop located in the downtown area. Reader, who is an artist, experiences frustration with her metal sculpture that is to be showcased later in the month and desperately seeks the help of a professional.

Warnings: AFAB!Reader, Not all the lyrics are depicted in the story, BlueCollar!Logan x Artist!Reader, Mentions of Violence, Guns, Drug Trafficking, and Sexual Content, Logan is a Retired Marine

Author's note: Getting way too invested in Logan lately no thanks to @keegansshark , da realesttttttt

His window's already passed, so he's shooting at the glass Keeping guns in his locker, and he denies it Like it's actually important, but he lied 'cause I sure did watch him Showing up wearing black, and he knows that

Sharp, acrid, chemical-like fumes dizzy your mind as you step out of your garage and lift up the cover of your welding helmet to wipe the sweat off your brow. Smoke and dust collect in the air from the galvanized stainless steel that you had been working with for the past two hours and you're realizing that maybe you bit off more than you could chew. Your DIY metal sculpture has not been going as well as you had thought and you're starting to reconsider that taking a trip downtown to recruit some help from your local metalwork shop might be your best bet. It's a straight shot, seven minutes away from your neighborhood, but you really do not want to admit defeat.

You sighed as you card your fingers through your hair and grab your keys, stuffing the fucked up metalwork into the passenger seat and hit the pedal to the metal.

The bell rings as you push open the door and the metallic, pungent smell of multiple fumes clogs your nose. To your right, a man is stuffing his light-wash denim Levi jacket into a blue-rusted locker. His hair is a sandy blonde color cropped down into a grown-out buzz, and his taut arms are littered with tattoos. His black tee is tucked into his jeans and he adjusts his holster to reveal the handgun that's stowed away under his leather belt.

He turns to you and his eyes widen, brows raised as he quickly shuts the door to his locker, but you have already caught a glimpse of the guns that littered the small space. And as alarming as it may have been, you were only fixated on how pretty his hazel eyes were.

"Can I help you?" He treads to the desk that sits right in the middle of the small lobby area, and you suck in a small inhale before approaching him.

The metal sculpture you have been working on clatters on the wooden counter.

"Need some tips and tricks for this piece that I'm doing for an art show later this month, would you be able to service me in that?"

He raises a brow at you. "I don't typically take freelance commissions."

You huff. "Please? I'm desperate."

His eyes flicker to you, giving you a once over and a small smile adorns his face.

"Alright."

His daddy's on death row, but he'll say it with his chest, though His friends move dope, he hasn't tried coke But he's always had a problem saying no His older brother bagged the valedictorian His mother, steady, screaming he should be more like him

A shiver runs up your spinal column when a chilly gust sweeps into the open garage. For May, it's certainly a bit too chilly. But you ignore it as you study how he perfects the fissure you attempted to weld over earlier. A small puff of air leaves your chest and Logan sets down the welder and glances over at you.

You cross your arms. "What?"

He stifles a laugh, scratching the stubble on his cheek with his soot-covered fingers. "You're huffin' and puffin' over there."

"No, I'm not." You mimp at him.

He snickers at your pursued lips. "You are."

In the short time that he has gotten the pleasure to know you, he realizes how short of a fuse you have when it comes to your own artwork. The meticulousness of your piece and how high-strung you become when you can't implement the same technique as him because, duh, he's a professional welder with years of experience under his belt. But regardless, you're throwing your little tantrums and don't think he doesn't notice it. The little finger taps on the metal table whenever your penetration isn't properly bonded, or the eye rolls when he fixes the undercuts you created. It's cute and admirable how passionate you are about your craft and honestly, it really turns him on. Especially when you spend hours perfecting your fusions, even staying after closing time.

But then it's after midnight, and Logan forgets that his friends transport their red tops through the facility in the later hours to pick them up in the morning. You always knew the shop was a little sketchy, so drug trafficking and money laundering had definitely crossed your mind at some point. And yet, you're silent and minding your own at the company that huddles in the large expanse of the garage. A wink is sent your way from the gentleman with pretty wintry hues and you give him a meek smile. You only recognize his older brother Hesh who gives you a good-natured grin while he carries a duffle bag with money sticking out the corners of the zipper.

"Dude, you said nobody would be here." Hesh chides in a low voice.

"My bad." Logan's tone is blase and the sound of Hesh's tongue clicking echoes.

Logan leans against the wall, pushing a cigarette between his lips before he lights it. "She maintains focus on her own assigned tasks."

You narrow your eyes at the statement, sensing that, strangely, it carries enough weight to influence the intimidating group of men. There's an awkward silence until his older brother clears his throat and the palpable tension in the room dissipates.

You continue to make yourself busy, manipulating metal sheets into flower petals. Hesh does a once over at you before he pushes past his younger brother and toward the back, but he can't stop himself from leaving him with a snide remark:

"Make sure it stays that way."

Can you read my mind? I've been watching you (You know it, you know it, you know it's true) Couldn't fight to save your life, but you look so cool Camo' jacket, robbing corner stores Hard odds to beat when you're on all fours Good men die too, oh, I'd rather be with you, you, you

Fortunately for you, you were good on your unspoken rule of minding your business. So much so that you were beginning to befriend their little clique. But they're lingering a little too long around your liking, distracting you when you really should be getting toward the final pieces of your sculpture.

It's hard when they're flexing your taut muscles while showing you their tatted arms and fresh ink under their Saniderm patches.

"What is it?" You cock an amused brow at Keegan.

He gives you a wolfish grin. "A pansy."

You chuckle. "Cause you're a fuckin' pansy?"

He joins in on your laughter. "Hell yeah."

You don't really like prying so you laugh it off knowing there is some deeper meaning behind it. The sound of Logan's throat clears and an icy glare is shot toward the retired Sergeant's way to which he only rolls his wintry hues and pokes your side on his way out. You jolt at his playful gesture and swipe at him, narrowly missing by a few millimeters, as he jogs towards the break room.

Logan leans against the welded steel workbench, sucking on a blue raspberry ice pop as he ogles you. "Should be workin' on your piece 'stead of flirting."

You snort, as you position the sheet metal on your sculpture but it slips out of your nimble fingers and clatters loudly on the ground. A vulgarity leaves your lips as you fumble around to get it, but Logan is quick to pick it up and perfectly welds it on the shoulder of the sculpture.

And for once you're kind of relieved that he's intervened. You quietly inhale, leaning against the workbench as you observe how he sets down the welding tool on the table. A primal sense of jealousy and possessiveness seeps into him as he glances over at you with darkened eyes.

"Your deadline's comin' up."

"I know." You mutter, eyelashes batting up at him with desire.

You notice how his camo compression shirt hugs his physique and you feel the sweat begin to form at the nape of your neck. His eyes glance over at your lips and they involuntarily quiver. The tension is unbearable--palpable even.

He moves closer to you, closing the gap between your forms as he reaches out his calloused hand to gently grasp at your neck. Your breaths mingle against one another while they inch closer, brushing the pillowy flesh of your lips before he devours you. His lips hotly slot against yours and it's dizzying the way he kisses you so feverishly. You waste no time kissing him back as he clears the workbench and lifts your form to sit atop it. The cold steel presses against your bare thighs, but the warmth of his soot-covered hands creates a pleasant contrast as they glide over the flesh of your spine. His other hand threads through your hair and tugs it just right, eliciting a moan as your tongues collide.

Your hand moves to his chest before gently pushing him away, your lips only connected by a string of saliva and your breaths draw ragged. A smirk adorns your dulcet features as you move back to the welding table, and Logan feels captivated by the person he's starting to see.

"Gotta get back to my work."

I owe you a black eye and two kisses Tell me when you wanna come and get 'em I only want him if he says it first to me I wanna, uh, him in the back of his mom's Mercury He looks like he works with his hands, and smells like Marlboro Reds

Logan has been missing for some days since that night. Hesh on the other hand has been more than happy to fill in the void that his younger brother has left.

"He's been on a business trip." Hesh nudges you as he helps you remove the slag on your sculpture to reveal the clean beading underneath. You perk up at his voice.

"Who?" Although, the both of you know exactly 'who' he was referring to.

Hesh chuckles as he wipes his blackened hands and sets the microfiber towel down to sit on the wooden stool across from you. His emerald eyes are glimmering in the sunlight that reflects from the garage windows. One thing about the Walker brothers is that they shared that coquettish, boyish charm that you couldn't resist. It is brimming with mischief and playfulness with a roughness around the edges.

He glances at his watch. "In about an hour or so."

Your heart drops to your stomach and you feel a yearning pain for his enigmatic presence that is always luring you in for more. Your fingers absentmindedly brush at your lips and the retired Lieutenant narrows his eyes at you.

You're quick to notice that Hesh picks up on your subtle gesture and you swiftly excuse yourself. But he can only snicker to himself when he sees how you hurry off to the courtyard just outside the garage. Your brain inattentively searches for the scent of Marlboro red's. It's a distinct smell; strong and robust in comparison to the menthol's that the other smoke. And you don't know if it's your imagination, but it wafts into your senses. Unthinkingly, you follow it and your eyes ream at the unexpected arrival of the inscrutable man who cooly, draws smoke from his lips, and it unfurls into the air before it evaporates.

His intense hazel eyes never leave yours and you're caught up in them. They're dark, alluring, and spellbinding in the shade of the canopy of the courtyard. He sports medium-wash denim jeans adorned with distressed patches at the pockets and thighs, secured by a simple black belt, with his slate grey tee neatly tucked in. The fabric of the sleeves tightens around the muscle of his taut biceps and you have to thickly swallow to conjure up some strength. Strength to not throw yourself on him and jump his bones.

"Thought you'd be here in an hour or so." You murmur, slowly striding toward him. He takes another drag before offering it to you. You smooth over the lipgloss that lacquers your lips before you pluck the cigarette out of his fingers and slowly inhale. When it leaves your mouth, the creases of your lips brand the cigarette paper and he licks his cracked lips as you hand it back to him. He doesn't waste any time wrapping his mouth over your strawberry-flavored lipgloss, remembering how you tasted the last time your lips touched.

"Wrapped up early." He replies, with the cigarette fixed between his lips. He turns to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Why? Did you miss me?"

It makes me so, uh, and I can't get enough of it Something's been feeling weird lately There's just something about you, baby (there's just something about you, baby) Maybe I'll just be crazy (I'll be crazy) And piss him off 'til he hates me Low slung bad bitch, baby, come and get you some

And in the blink of an eye, it's the showcasing of your art exhibit and you tell yourself not to get your hopes up. That Logan isn't exactly the most predictable of humans, but Hesh assures you they'll all be there. In fact, they're thrilled to have an excuse to wear a suit and attend an event where they can showcase their metalworking skills and be recognized for their talent.

"He'll be here." Keegan pulls you out of your stupor. He's peering over the rim of his champagne glass at your trepidatious expression and how your eyes dart across the room looking for him; overgrown blonde buzzcut and the heavy aroma of iron oxide, tobacco, and his father's passed down Jean Paul Gaultier. You can't quite imagine him in a suit either, but you aren't disappointed at how well the retired Marines turned blue-collar workers clean up. Clean-shaven with a few dabs of aftershave, dressed in crisp navy suits, and wearing their finest tap dancing shoes, they were set for the night.

They don't even look out of place either, and yet you did. In a crowd full of people who adored your art, and every second of your night being spent talking to art collectors, admirers, and socialites--you were utterly alone. And you knew that you shouldn't rely on a man to fill that void, nevertheless, here you were, doing just that.

"I'm gonna go to the restroom." You mutter and down the rest of your champagne before heading off. The sound of Keegan's phone ringing is faint, but it manages to catch your attention. You lean against the wall for a moment in hopes of capturing who he was speaking to. In hopes of it being...

"Logan! Where the fuck are ya, kid?"

And your heart drops to your stomach. You felt like you already had your answer. Something about a shipment taking too long to process with their wholesale dealer and that was something you didn't want to stick around to hear. You had some hope that this time would be different. That maybe he would push aside whatever shady business he had going aside for you, but you were a fool to think that he would change for you.

The rest of the evening drags by. You're no longer glancing at your watch or rummaging through the room for him. The little words of encouragement and smiles from his friends and brother had become mere background noise to you by now. Time is like a hazy blur of conversations about your artwork, countless glasses of Armand de Brignac, and mindless gossiping about gallery politics and exhibit guests.

And soon enough it's past midnight and your social battery is running low. Your guests have long left the premises, but thankfully your welding companions stay behind to help you pack up your remaining props and pieces into their truck that could probably fit ten bodies in the trunk alone.

You let out a sharp exhale as you observe Merrick scolding Hesh and Kick for not preparing the cargo net. Sometimes it was talking to a small herd of teenage boys, nonetheless, you were grateful for their help.

The final pieces remaining in the exhibit were delicate and, moreover, the ones Logan had been most involved with. When you headed back inside to load them into your car, you immediately felt a pit in your stomach as soon as you entered the gallery.

There he stood, with a mussed-up, overgrown buzz, and unkempt facial hair, clad in soot-covered work trousers and a white tee stained with what appeared to be dried blood, admiring the work you both had collaborated on.

"Man, she's a real beauty—really outdone yourself, [name]."

He turns to you and you feel yourself crumble. You tremble with anger, and his face softens as he takes in your expression. He knows he fucked up big time. The worst part about it is that he looks unbelievably sexy, but your rage is bubbling within you as you take another stride toward him.

He's careful with how he approaches. Careful to not make any sudden movements as if you would pounce on him and tear him limb from limb.

"I'm sorry..." He breathes out, observing the way you slowly circle him.

"Oh, you're sorry?" You hissed.

He swallows thickly, feeling a shudder travel up his spinal column. "There was a hold up..."

He clenches and unclenches his fist reflecting on said "hold up" that caused him to be so tardy. It's not like he didn't know how important this was to you, but he also wasn't obligated to show up in the way you were expecting him to.

You stop in your tracks and pinch the bridge of your nose. It's hard to stay mad at someone whose tongue was shoved down your throat just a few days ago.

Logan is debating whether his presence is even worthy of being around you, but he reaches out to hold your wrist anyway.

"Get off of me." You tug your wrist away, but he has a firm grip on you.

"Let me make it up to you." His hazel half-lidded gaze holds yours and your anger begins to melt away.

"How?"

His hands suddenly find themselves around your waist and you yelp as he lifts you, setting you on the bar. Your little black dress rides up your thighs and pulls them apart only to find that not only are you not wearing underwear, but your pussy is glistening in the dim exhibit lighting. He gives you one final glance as if to ask for permission, but you're already tangling your fingers into his dirty blonde hair.

He doesn't even waste any time devouring your sopping, wet pussy. One long stripe and then he's losing himself in your saccharine taste that he cannot get enough of. He had no idea how he withheld himself from such a heavenly taste and those sweet, milky moans.

All those long nights they spent working together in the shop he had to hold himself back from slipping down your shorts, bending you over the workbench, and taking right then and there. It all amounted to this moment—his tongue deep in your cunt and you were lost in the euphoria he was bringing you. The notion of the others walking in on you is tossed away to the backlogs of your mind.

His fingers dig into the supple flesh of your thighs, holding your writhing body still as he sucks on your pillow clit. You tremble against him feeling yourself nearing the edge, but he's torturing you. Withdrawing his tongue from the sensitive nub, kissing around your inner thighs, but you're not having any of it.

Your fingers pull at his hair and lead his tongue back to where you want it, bucking your hips against his mouth. His hazel hues flicker up to you and he's smirking at your domineering energy. You're taking charge as you grind your pussy against his tongue and lolling your head to the side as you feel your orgasm coming on.

"Fuuuck, 'm gonna..." You moan out in pure ecstasy as your eyes drift to the back of your head and your back arches away from the counter.

And he's definitely not stopping his efforts in bringing you there. In fact, he's probing his fingers between your velvety folds and curling his fingers to that sweet spot that drives you to your climax.

"Logan...!" You whimper out as you ride your high and he drowns in your soddened pussy. "Oh fuck..." You breathe out as it dissipates slowly but surely. He licks one last stripe to your shimmering folds as he withdraws his fingers, observing the way your arousal clings to his fingers and lapping them up.

"I have no fuckin' clue how I held back for so long." He cups your cheek, lips lacquered with your cum, and you hotly slot your lips against his in a feverish kiss. Being pressed up against him in the building where you hosted your long-awaited art exhibit feels like one of your reoccuring wet dreams.

Your hands fly to his belt to unbuckle, but the sound of footsteps grasp your attention and your caught redhanded, but his cheeky older brother, Hesh.

"Oh—" He grins at your tangled bodies against the bar. "as much as I hate to break up you two lover birds, security is rounding us up to see us off.”

You feel the embarrassment creeping up on your flushed cheeks. “R-right.” You fix your dress and Logan casually buckles his belt and helps you down from the bar as if you two weren’t going to fuck each other dumb.

As Hesh grabs the last few items and exits the area, Logan comes up from behind you and squeezes your ass as he murmurs against the shell of your ear:

“I’ll follow you back to your place?”

Good men die too, so I'd rather be with you, you, you rather be with you, oh Oh, I'd rather be with you, oh 'Cause good men die too, so I'd rather be with you

[jabronizone]

Maleghast features six playable "houses," or disciplines of necromancy, which determine what tools your necromancer has in their nasty selection of dead things. For the first in the list, we have:

C.A.R.C.A.S.S.

"A horde of skeletons walks into a military surplus store" is about the best description I can come up with. CARCASS operatives decided that the usual goth style is for pansies, and they'd rather be cosplaying spec ops. It's also fully canon that John Carcass, proprietor of CARCASS, was recently outed on Necrotwitter for saying homophobic slurs in a Call of Duty lobby,* a tendency which he claims does NOT extend to his bone soldiers.

Making extensive use of bones, guns, kevlar, bones and hot-pink spray paint, CARCASS units have wonderful tactics like "Regurgitate Ammo," "Transform to Gun," and the "Catechism Devil Cannon."

Thanks to their Formation special rule, all CARCASS units gain advantage on attack rolls while adjacent to an ally. Given the size of Maleghast boards and the backline playstyle of CARCASS overall, you're essentially *always* rolling two dice to hit unless something has gone terribly wrong.

Their other ability, Reload, helps balance out some of their toughness, at least in theory: Certain abilities can only be used once before they must be "reloaded" by sacrificing a MOVE. Therein lies the problem: Maleghast is a small-scale skirmish game. Things that need to die (a second time) will usually get focused down in Round 1, and CARCASS units often dislike movement anyway. With careful strategy, you may find Reloading unnecessary, depending on what units you're taking.

Lastly, they've got Headshot, which is a fancy way of saying they have rider effects when they roll a 6 to hit. You will remember, of course, that they usually roll an extra die to hit. As a CARCASS operative, you're going to perform ludicrous numbers of headshots, sometimes on things that don't even have heads. Cue 2013 MLG pro gamer montage with the air horn.

PROS:

+ Highly versatile units with good damage potential and strong range

+ Cool militarized aesthetic, skellies with guns

+ Access to the Catechism Devil Cannon, a weapon which I'm assuming fires the superheated essence of catholic guilt

CONS:

- Largely immobile; some units will spend the whole game standing still

- Others will assume you support John Carcass after his untoward statements online*

With solid support options and the attack profiles you'd expect from the only range-focused faction in the game, a CARCASS group can lock down the board and put a serious dent in any enemy horde. Just try to focus on positioning -- you'll need to pay closer attention to that than your opponent will!

*This is bullshit and patently false.

[pedrito-friskito]

strawberry wine - joel miller x fem!reader

during - part six

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

just when you think it couldn’t get any worse.

a/n: fair warning - this part is violent/dark as hell. we’re in the full blown apocalypse now, trying to survive. not much Joel in this part; we’re building reader’s survival story.

word count: 3.3k

warnings: MY BLOG IS 18+, MINORS DNI, angst, canon-typical violence and injuries, death, explosions, blood, some general badassery.

✨follow @friskito-library for updates on new works/chapters✨

Everything seems to blur together, after.

You patch yourself up, cover your shoulder in antiseptic and gauze, ignoring the way your mind whirls as you clean it. Would that…turn you? Make you like…whatever Dean had become? Were you sick already? How long would it—

You slap yourself. Hard. Hard enough that your teeth rattle a little, and you’re sure there’s a welt rising on your cheek. You’re in shock. The adrenaline has kicked in, but you need to let it take over. You need to listen to what Joel said. Take what you can and run.

Get the hell out of Boston.

Dean liked to camp, by some stroke of luck. There’s a backpack in the hall closet, a hunting knife tucked inside, along with a length of rope, a flashlight, a bunch of other camping supplies you’d never think to buy. You fill the bag with food, the first aid kit, some clothing.

After cleaning the blood from your arm as best you can, you wrap yourself in Joel’s flannel. You pull the polaroid out of the box you’ve kept in all this time, stuff it in the chest pocket. You put on whatever shoes have the best soles, grab the bat, and leave, without looking back.

Your car is not an option. As soon as you step out of your apartment, the power goes out, plunging the hall into darkness. Which means you won’t be able to get out of the underground lot. You pull the flashlight out, head for the stairwell, keep the bat hefted over your shoulder. Your hands shake on the grip, but you ignore it.

The city has been plunged into chaos. The lobby of your building is a disaster, shattered glass and debris scattered across the floor. The security guard lies in a heap beside his post, his throat torn out, blood pooled beneath his body. You bite back the urge to scream, the urge to vomit, the urge to turn tail and go straight back to your apartment and stay there until something else—

Planes zip past over head. Not regular planes; fighter jets. The army. You pick your way across the lobby, stowing your flashlight, and as you step through the remains of the door, an armoured truck speeds down the road in front of you, the sound of gunfire echoing up the street. 

Everywhere you look, there are people; some screaming, some shouting, some dead on the ground. Horror zips down your spine when you see more like Dean, sprinting down the road, lunging and jumping at people, pinning them to the ground, teeth tearing into flesh, blood pouring onto the sidewalks. Everywhere, people screaming, people dying, soldiers with guns.

Your breath seizes in your chest, turning your head left and right. Where do you go? Your heartbeat is in your ears, your blood thumping beneath your skin.

Glass crunches beneath your foot as you step onto the sidewalk, keeping your back pressed to the building as people sprint past. What do you do? Soldiers are stopping people, barking orders into walkies, and you watch in horror as right in front of you, a woman no older than you is thrown to the ground. “Please, no!” she shouts, grabbing at the soldier’s legs. “I cut myself on glass, I swear! Please!”

The soldier puts a bullet in her head, and your heart sinks into your toes. Your shoulder buzzes, the pain dulled slightly but a sudden reminder, a thick thump beneath your skin. Oh, god. Her blood seeps across the asphalt, inching towards the toes of your shoes, and before the soldier can turn to you, you bolt.

Every corner you turn is the same: bodies, bullets, fire. They’re mowing people down, more armoured trucks rolling down the city blocks. You just keep going, ignoring the glass and brick and blood that crunches beneath your feet as you do. You point yourself West, and you just keep walking.

Gunfire makes your spine prickle, and a bullet rings off the end of the bat, not two inches from your thigh. You bite back your shriek, sliding down the next alleyway you see. More people barrel down the sidewalk, more bullets rain, and you clap your hand over your mouth to stifle your cries.

What the fuck are you gonna do?

Your shoulders shake against the bricks as you slide down to the ground, a dumpster blocking you from view of the street. You squeeze your eyes shut, cover your ears with your hands, try to drown out the screaming and the sound of bullets hitting bodies, hitting people.

Hitting those…things.

Your ribs shake with every breath you try to take. You’re hyperventilating, your limbs shaking harder with every passing second. What are you gonna do? Where are you gonna go? You can’t—

You don’t wait, you don’t stop, Joel’s voice nearly shouts in your head. You just keep going.

Slowly, you open your eyes. The bat sits on the pavement beside you. The metal is dented where the bullet pinged off, and there’s a splatter of dried blood on one side. From Dean, you realize. Overhead, helicopters whir through the city, fighter jets soaring higher. You can hear the screech of tires, cars colliding with each other, more screams, more glass shattering.

You dig in the backpack for the hunting knife, strap the holder to your belt as best you can. You curl your fingers around the handle of the baseball bat and get to your feet, creeping up slowly, peering over the top of the dumpster.

If you had waited just one more minute.

The man spots you as soon as your head lifts, and something akin to recognition sweeps through his dead features. His jaw looks unhinged, blood dripping from his hands, those same strange marks you’d seen on Dean webbing across his face. A high-pitched wail echoes through the alley, and when he lunges, whatever instincts have awakened within you take over, and you swing. You hit his shoulder on the first one, the same you had with Dean, but the second connects, harder than the first, a sickening crunch as it meets his skull. He topples over, and you don’t hesitate, lifting the bat above your head before bringing it down hard, the ring of metal sounding almost wet.

You wipe the blood on the man’s jacket. There’s a knife sticking out of his back pocket, and you grab it, shove it in the side pocket of your backpack. You tighten your grip on the bat, heading deeper into the alley, eyes darting through the dark, ready.

You just keep going.

+

It’s days, of hiding. The sun never seems to come up, the sky filled with smoke and ash that burns thickly in the back of your throat. The people never stop screaming, and it’s gotten to the point where you don’t remember the last time you slept. You’ve tried not to waste the food or the water in your bag, and hunger gnaws at your stomach, the adrenaline still flowing having taken over every part of your body. You’re still shaking, but it’s not quite as bad.

You just keep going. 

Every step you take brings the sound of crunching glass, and your shoes don’t last as long as you’d hoped. The rubber splits after a few days of sprinting down alleys, hiding in empty storefronts, sitting in the dark. You sleep in short spurts, a rare moment of silence, the bat held in your lap with an iron grip. You stay out of sight as much as possible, steering yourself towards the city limits. Helicopters whir overhead near constantly, searchlights sweeping the pavement. Part of you wonders what they’re looking for.

You hear more people get attacked. The screaming never stops, but your brain seems to tune it out. You stumble into a UPS store and find a roll of duct tape, a few pairs of scissors, one of those ugly brown jackets. You wrap your shoes with the tape; it’s not ideal, but it’ll work for now. It has to.

It’s a waiting game, you learn quickly. Wait for the quiet, but not too quiet. Wait for an opening, where those things are distracted enough that you won’t draw attention. Keep the bat level, don’t let it hit anything. Don’t make a sound. Get where you’re going quickly and stay fucking quiet.

You’re thankful, for the fact that this…whatever the fuck this is that’s happened to the world has kicked your survival instincts into high-gear. It feels like you blink, and it’s been a week, seven whole days since you killed your boyfriend with a damn baseball bat. Seven whole days since Joel called, wished you happy birthday, told you to get out of Boston.

I’ll find you, baby.

Most nights, you cry yourself to sleep. Silently, no sobs wracking your throat, just hot tears that come away black when you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand. Your mind is a blur; your family, Joel, their faces, their fates. Dean. The guilt, the fear; you were protecting yourself, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. You bury your face in the collar of Joel’s flannel, stare at the polaroid in your pocket until your vision blurs. You blockade yourself in cafe bathrooms, boutique change rooms, storage closets, whatever you can find. Whatever feels safe, not that anything truly does.

The army doesn’t let up, not that you expect them to. Not an hour goes by without the sound of gunfire, shouted orders, the crunch of debris under truck tires. You’ve been listening, as you move, eavesdropping on soldiers’ conversations. There’s talk of a wall, a gate around the city, to keep it contained, a quarantine zone. You hear whispers about guard towers, murmurs about the shopping mall becoming a shelter for uninfected people.

“Yeah,” one soldier comments, holding the biggest gun you’ve ever seen, “if any of them survive what’s coming.”

How fucking comforting.

You hear a few more talking about it, distances and weights that mean nothing to you, but when you hear blast radius, it starts to make sense. The dread sinks deep into your gut, your bag suddenly too heavy for your shoulders, the world slipping out from beneath your feet.

You have to get out.

Joel’s voice echoes in your ear. You tighten your grip on the bat. 

You just keep going.

There’s no warning, when they start the bombings. You’ve been on edge ever since you put two and two together, tiptoeing through the city, still keeping to the shadows. 

Your shoulder still throbs occasionally; you’ve changed the bandages a few times since the first, tried to keep it as clean as possible, but every time you feel it ache, all you can think of is that woman outside your apartment, pleading for her life, the echo of the bullet ringing through her skull. If they caught you, if they saw you were injured, that would be it, you know that. So you keep going, no matter what you hear, what you see.

And then, in the blink of an eye, the world is ending all over again.

The noise yanks you out of sleep, the bookstore you’d been sleeping in shaking as another explosion echoes through the city. The shelves start to shake, the few books that haven’t already been pulled from the shelves toppling to the floor. Outside, the sky is dark, and the air turns to flame before your eyes, building across the city starting to topple, fire crawling up the broken frames, bursting more windows, sending showers of glass shards to the ground below.

And the people…screaming.

The infected, howling.

Your heart is beating so hard you can feel it in your throat, scrambling to your feet as you rush towards the door. Before you can pull it open, another bomb drops, the door blasts inward, and you’re thrown off your feet, colliding hard with one of the shelves, falling to the floor beneath it. Your head hits the ground hard, pain radiating through your skull, and almost like an echo, you hear more of the shelves fall.

The last thing you see is one falling in front of the door, miraculously not torn from it’s hinge, pushing it shut, blocking out the world outside.

+

You dream about Joel.

Well, maybe a memory, more than a dream. The line seems to blur between.

Those two weeks, in the summer, the Fourth of July, every night spent wrapped in Joel’s arms, in his bed. You talked for hours, filling each other in on what you’d missed, what had happened since you left Austin. You only left his bed when you had to, when the sun had come up again and you knew Tommy would be back with Sarah, knew Joel had to go to work, knew you had to find a way to fill your day until he came home again.

He wouldn’t let you leave the circle of his arms, keeping your body pressed to his, a knee slotted between your own, bicep flexed beneath your head. His other hand roamed, starting at the base of your neck, trailing down your spine, all the way to the small of your back, the curve of your ass, before trailing back up again. You kissed him like you had on the day you left, until you weren’t sure where you ended and he began, until he was breathing your air, drinking it from your lungs.

The memory is fuzzy, faded around the edges, but it’s still him. It feels like it goes on for hours, the slow trek of his hands across your body, his mouth along every curve of your face, his body pressed into you so deeply you know you’ll never be the same.

It wasn’t, even when you left. Dean was great, he really was. He loved you, made you happy, made you laugh. You loved him, too. But he wasn’t Joel. No one ever would be. No one ever could.

“I love you,” you hear your own voice say, an echo in your head. Dream Joel smiles, pulls you close.

His mouth doesn’t move, but you hear his voice all the same.

I’ll find you, baby.

It feels less and less like a promise, more and more like a dream.

The dream fades, darkness taking over, and your head throbs. You slide slowly back into consciousness, your limbs screaming in protest, your throat thick with the sour taste of soot and ash and flame. The waking world is just as terrible as you’d left it, and you blink away the dust that’s settled along your lashes, cough so hard your chest sings with pain. You move slowly, not getting to your feet, just propping yourself against the bookshelf you’d been thrown into, resting your aching head against the wood. You’d collided with the shelves and brought them all down, but the main housing of the shelf is still intact, and you fit yourself inside it, grabbing the bat from where it had fallen and pulling it into your lap.

Fuck.

It’s dark outside, the sky inky and black, but still threaded with smoke, flutters of ash, flickers of fire. You wait, anxiety a tight ball in your stomach, for another bomb to fall, another explosion to rip through the city. As you wait, you take stock. Your arms are a mess of cuts and bruises, blood streaking your skin, a few pieces of splintered wood poking out from the sleeves of your flannel. You clean yourself up best you can, loathe to use more of your first aid supplies, but there’s a nasty cut on your forearm, and you know you can’t leave it unattended.

Slowly, you get to your feet, testing the weight on your legs, careful that your knees won’t give out beneath you. You leave your bag near the shelf, heft the bat over your shoulder, and head for the window.

The bookstore only has two small windows, either side of the door. The glass is long broken, leaving behind only the criss-crossed wires that once held it in place. The shelf that had fallen in front of the door creaks beneath your weight as you step up onto it to peer through the opening. 

You barely recognize the city. Everywhere you look, there’s just darkness. Piles of ash and charred remains, fractured cars and toppled streetlights. Twisted heaps of metal, cracked chunks of asphalt, some spots still smouldering, still burning. There are holes in the earth, pits in the ground where the bombs had hit.

And still, the screaming.

Not screaming, you realize after a moment, clutching the bat tighter. The howling. The inhuman shrieking of those…things.

The Infected.

Not knowing what else to do, you wait it out. You sift through some of the books, hoping for an atlas or map, something that could help you plot a path out of the city. If they haven’t put the gates up yet, like you hear the soldiers talking about. It’s hard to know how long you’ve been out for; minutes, hours, days.

You eat something, some kind of protein granola bar that sits like lead in your stomach, and sip your water sparingly. Your throat feels raw, no doubt from the amount of ash you’d inhaled laying there on the ground, but you know you can’t waste the water. The flannel’s been mostly shredded, the fabric torn all over your arms, a large tear across your chest, and you shrug out of it, blinking back the tears that form when you realize it’s unsalvageable. You stuff it into the bag all the same, and pull out the other, about to slip it around your shoulders, but opt for a hoodie you’d grabbed instead.

The polaroid is still intact, a little torn at one corner but the picture is still clear. Worry gnaws at your gut, and you slide it into one of the inner pockets of the bag, where it’ll hopefully be safe. You pull out the roll of duct tape, rewrap your shoes, toss back a few ibuprofen you find in the first aid kit.

You wait for the next morning, when more of the smoke has cleared, the sky not as dark, the screams quieted. Most of the fires have burned themselves out, leaving nothing but charred embers that crunch under your feet as you slip out of the bookstore. You don’t bother pulling the door shut behind you.

For a moment, everything is just…still.

You got lucky; there was a map book still on the shelves, all the pages still intact. It took a while, waiting for decent light, using a pencil you’d pilfered from behind the register, but you had a route, a plan. You had no idea how long it would take you. A car would definitely help, but the state of the streets of Boston didn’t exactly give you hope the roads outside the city would be any better.

Joel’s voice lingered in your mind: it’s everywhere. How many more of those things would you encounter on the road to Austin? Had they bombed other cities? Was this actually everywhere, worldwide? Did you really have a snowball’s chance in hell?

You tighten your grip on the bat, turn down the alley beside the bookstore. It didn’t matter. You have to get out of Boston, and you have to get to Joel. It’s that simple.

Right?

You get to the edge of the city, and every ounce of hope you had left disappears. Your heart hammers in your chest, the bat shaking in your grip, the pain in your shoulder thumping loudly with every step, even as you slow to a storm.

There’s a ten-foot fence around the perimeter of the city. Metal chain link stretching out as far as you can see in every direction, soldiers everywhere you look, tanks and trucks and gigantic guns manned atop guard towers. You can just barely make out the sign pinned to the metal: TEMPORARY BOUNDARY.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself; you have to get out of Boston.

PREV | NEXT

[penny00dreadful]

Cat and Mouse - Spy AU - Part 1

AO3

18th April 2015

Steve pulled the trigger, barely even paying attention as the bullet tore through the head of his target. He was just so ready to go home, god this week had been boring.

His target was some bank executive that had started to funnel funds towards various criminal enterprises, helping those criminal families gain more power and Steve had been contracted to weed that rot out, right at the root.

The Hagans, Kline and Johnson families would probably still find ways to rise up in the ranks but it had been kneecapped now, making things more difficult for them.

They’d never climb to the heights of the Creel Syndicate anyway. 

Steve was pretty sure no one could.

Henry Creel, legendary crime lord that he was, had somehow managed to cultivate a culture of fear and respect amongst even the lowest of street drug dealers.

Not to mention the borderline mythical assassin he was rumoured to have at his side. No one knew who they were, no one even knew if they existed. Some claimed the assassin was just some boogeyman story cooked up by Creel to keep his workers in line and Steve wouldn’t put it past him. The guy was creative.

And some things that had been attributed to this assassin were downright impossible so… They were probably made up.

This mythical boogeyman had some kind of title as well but Steve had never really paid much attention to the rumours and the ghosts floating around the underworld he was a part of.

Lies were practically currency to them so he’d have to see it to believe it.

Whoever ended up working on the Creel case was going to have their fucking work cut out for them.

Holstering his weapon, Steve snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves and he knelt beside his dead mark, slowly leaking blood and brains from the hole at the back of his head.

Steve fished around inside the guy’s pockets, locating his wallet. There was a family photo in there, library card, organ donor card, an obscene amount of credit cards and a loyalty card for the strip club across town.

Since when did strip clubs do loyalty cards?

Whatever. Steve located his driver's licence and pulled it out. 

“Hm.” Steve tilted his head, reading the name from the laminated card. “Sorry, Peter. It’s not personal. It’s just business.”

He tucked the licence back into the guy's wallet, returning it to his pocket.

It only took three minutes for Steve to stage the scene, breaking into the guy's gun safe, planting the weapon just next to his hand, like it had flown out of his grip when he pulled the trigger.

He slipped out into the hallway of the high rise apartment building, removing his gloves and stuffing them into his pocket, pushing his hair back from his face and coming to a stop in front of the elevator.

The doors opened and an elderly lady with a yappy dog gave him the suspicious eye, no doubt not recognising him from this floor but as Steve took a step back with his most charming smile and a gentlemanly gesture, motioning her out of the elevator she smiled back and he knew he was in the clear.

He got back down to the lobby and through the front door, onto the streets with no issue, allowing himself to get lost in the crowd. 

He reached up to his ear, flicking a small switch on the back of his ‘hearing aid’, allowing Robin to hear him, rather than just monitor his location and vitals.

“Okay, I’m out. You can stop looping the cameras.”

“Roger that, dingus.” Robin was probably saluting him right now from behind her desk, sounding like she was speaking in his head. 

It had taken a long time for him to get used to it, hearing Robin, but still being able to hear everything around him at the same time.

Steve rolled his eyes.

“Be nicer to me.”

“You say that to me every time, and every time I say no. Job went easy enough?”

“Yeah, practically childsplay.”

Steve kept his eyes open, never quite able to switch the part of his brain off that was waiting for the next hit from around a corner, a knife in the gut or a bullet in the shoulder.

He’d already managed to walk a few blocks, trying to put as much space between himself and his completed job as he could without moving too fast.

The crowd around him was both safety giving and dangerous.

Easy to disappear into but easy for someone to sneak up on him unseen.

Speaking of…

There was a figure shadowing him, had been shadowing him for a few minutes.

It could be nothing.

It could be some guy walking the same route as him.

But it wasn’t.

Every time Steve caught sight of him in his periphery or through the reflection of a store window, the guy had his eyes on him. 

Locked on him, like he couldn’t afford to lose him, but Steve wasn’t worried.

The guy was weedy, probably weighed 140 pounds soaking wet. 

The large leather jacket and the denim vest made him look bulkier than he was and he'd nearly tripped over his own shoelaces twice trying to keep up.

Steve could tell when people were dangerous. It was in the way they held themselves. The way they walked. The way they looked at those around them. How they held their hands at rest.

This guy was none of those things. 

He might dress mean and scary but he was as delicate as a flower petal on the inside, Steve could tell.

So he wasn't exactly worried he was about to be shoved into a black van or choked out. 

At least not this time around.

He was probably just going to be pickpocketed.

He recognised the look on the guy's face. 

Desperate. 

A panicky kind of desperate.

Like if the guy didn’t get some money into his hand immediately, the hounds of hell were gonna be on his ass. Probably break his kneecaps for good measure.

He could just be looking for money for a fix, Steve tried to reason with himself. He certainly had the eye bags, the pale waxy skin, the skinny frame that told that kind of story.

But even from as far away as he was, Steve knew that wasn’t the case. 

Though he couldn’t see him clearly, he could tell his eyes were bright.

Alive and clear and piercing and active.

Not the hazy, cloudy, bloodshot gaze of someone coming down from their high or going through withdrawal.

Steve guessed he was some kind of dealer. 

Street level, considering how he tried to look scary but wasn’t really.

Any higher up than street level and he would have held a certain amount of danger around himself. He would have had to, to survive after all.

So what had made him so desperate and what about Steve had caught his gaze?

Steve glanced down at himself, to his pristine polo, light wash vintage levi’s and spotless sneakers.

Ah. 

Well that would be it. 

Steve looked like he came from money. Especially walking through this part of the city.

And like… the guy’s guess wasn’t wrong.

Steve did come from money. But he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of his parents or their money since he was eighteen years old, nine years ago.

Any money Steve had now was his own. Being a spy paid really well, as it turned out.

But the desperation radiating off this guy, even as far back in the crowd as he was, was making him sloppy. A regular civilian would know they were being followed at this stage, never mind Steve Harrington who’d been trained to within an inch of his life for this. 

He could enter a room he’d never been in before and immediately know the most effective route for escape. He could look at a lineup of randomly selected people and know straight away who was the most dangerous in hand to hand combat and who would be most likely to have a weapon on them.

Steve could snap this guy in half over his knee probably without breaking a sweat.

Even still he felt a little bad.

He needed to talk it out. Needed someone to confirm for him he wasn’t going crazy.

"Someone's on my tail, Birdie." Steve muttered, flipping the switch on his hearing aid communicator again.

"Okay,” He could almost picture her nodding. “Gimme a description, I'll see if I can find them."

"No, it’s not an enemy or anything. I don't even think it's something I need to be worried about, honestly. Just some bottom of the totem pole dealer. Nicotine stains on his fingers, cigarette burns on his clothes. And Jesus Christ has he ever even heard of conditioner? And his eyes are huge.”

“Do you think he’s on something?”

“No.” He kept his eyes forward and continued to smoothly weave his way through the crowd. “But he is pale. Gaunt. His denim jacket looks pretty ratty. It’s been repaired multiple times. By hand. And he definitely hasn't eaten in a while. I think he’s probably gonna try to steal my wallet to stop his boss from breaking his legs."

“You don’t think that maybe he’s just hungry?”

Steve shook his head. “No. He looks pretty desperate but not that kind.” He frowned again, almost muttering. “Scared desperate.”

Robin sighed. "Steven."

"What?"

"Don't do it, babe."

"Why shouldn't I help the guy out?” Steve was already pulling his wallet out while ruffling his hair. 

Misdirection. 

“I can part with $20. Stick it in my jacket pocket, loose. Make it just obvious enough and easy to take. What's the big issue?"

"You're a bleeding heart, that's the issue."

"Yeah, well. He clearly needs it more than I do."

"Is he cute?" She asked in a teasing tone, making it clear she thought he wasn’t just a bleeding heart, he was a horny bleeding heart who could be swayed by a pretty face. 

Which…

Didn’t need to be pointed out.

"...No."

"Wow, decorated Special Operative Steven J. Harrington everyone.” He could almost hear her waving her hands around. “Infiltrator, martial combatant and, apparently, a master liar. On his way to recruit another wayward stray."

"Oh, fuck off. Why not spit out my whole government name, that definitely won't put me in danger."

"You're wearing a bone conduction audio transmitting ‘hearing aid’, I'm literally in your head-”

“You’re not in my head, you’re in my cochlea.”

“Which is in your head, dingus. No one can hear me and it's a secure line. You, however, can be overheard so don't sell me down the river."

"Well then, you better be nicer to me."

“Never.”

Something bumped against his elbow and he was suddenly, painfully aware of a body behind him, right up in his space.

He didn’t even think before he lashed out behind him, snatching the figure's wrist in a vice-like grip, spinning the two of them into a nearby alleyway and pinning the stranger against the wall.

“Woah, man.” 

Oh. 

It was just the guy who’d been following him.

He was staring at Steve with wide, deep, brown eyes, shaking his head. 

He looked fucking terrified. 

“I- I don’t want any trouble, I swear.”

Steve took a breath before dropping the guy’s wrist like it had burned him, taking a step back.

The guy's eyes were flicking nervously over Steve’s face, waiting for him to strike probably, before his gaze settled just to the left of Steve’s head.

He was looking at his hearing aid, but Steve pretended not to know that, lifting his hand to his ear in confusion and allowing him to subtly flip the switch off so Robin couldn’t hear anything anymore.

“Try not to fall on his dick.” She muttered at him when she heard the click.

But he could hear her, like always.

Steve rolled his eyes, making sure it was aimed at the guy, acting like his exasperation was because he just noticed the hearing aid.

“Don’t tell me you’re suddenly gonna feel bad because of this?” Steve gestured at it.

The guy shook his head, still plastered up against the wall as though he wanted to melt into it, trying to put even more distance between them.

“Relax, man. I’m not gonna attack you, or whatever.” He crossed his arms over his chest, setting up another barrier between them to try and put the guy at ease.

He didn’t think it was working very well.

The guy in front of him looked like a stiff breeze would blow him over. The same height as Steve but built much smaller, slender and delicate looking despite the heavy boots and chains and tattoos Steve could see peeking out under the neck of his shirt and spreading over his hands and fingers.

His hair was a curly nightmare, clearly needing an introduction to some conditioner and probably brushed with a regular hairbrush like a heathen, but aside from that the guy was…

Well, he was gorgeous. 

His mouth was full and plump and parted ever so slightly in fear. His eyes were as huge as Steve thought they were at first glance, deep and brown and warm. His face was slim and soft looking, with laugh lines cutting down on either side of his mouth and a hint of scraggly stubble that was putting Steve in emotional danger.

Steve could probably throw him over his shoulder with ease.

Maybe that wasn’t the most helpful thing to be thinking right now.

“Right, right, yeah.” The guy nodded again. “You’re not gonna attack me. You just dragged me into an alleyway for a friendly chat.”

“And you just stuck your hand in my pocket for completely innocent reasons.”

The guy blinked at him, those big eyes somehow getting bigger before growing mischievous, despite the clear nervousness still radiating off of him.

“You planted it there.”

Steve opened and closed his mouth, his eyebrows high on his head.

“You saw that?”

“Was I not supposed to?” He squeaked, like Steve was gonna kill him just for pointing it out. “It was kind of obvious.”

Interesting. Maybe he’d underestimated him.

“It shouldn’t have been.”

“Really?” The guy gave him a playful grimace. “Then I don’t know what to tell you. I saw it from a mile off.”

Steve’s mouth tugged into a reluctant smile and he ducked his head a little to hide it, leaning back against the opposite wall.

“What’s your name?”

“Wh-” The guy paused, shaking his head, bewildered. “What’s happening right now?”

“I’m asking you your name.”

“Yeah, I got that part sweetheart, but why the hell are you doing that?” 

Sweetheart was sneered out but it still got the colour rising up Steve’s neck.

“I don’t know, to help you chill out a little bit or something. Fuck. I’m sorry I dragged you back here, I think I was just going off of… fight or flight or something.”

“Great, great. You be fight, I’ll be flight.”

Steve couldn’t help the light chuckle that came out at that and was taken momentarily off guard by the small smile it brought to the guy's face. 

Pretty. He’s so fucking pretty.

Steve reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the $20 he’d originally stashed, holding it out between his index and middle finger.

The guy eyed it before flicking his gaze back up to Steve. 

“I don’t know what you’re expecting in exchange for that but I’m not that cheap. Even for a face as nice as yours.”

“What?” Steve scrunching his eyebrows in confusion before realisation dawned on him. “Dude. I’m not asking you to blow me for twenty fucking dollars. Christ.”

The guy hummed, but snatched the bill up anyway. Steve could just make out the word inked across his knuckles, mors. The calluses on the tips of his fingers brushed Steve’s skin, telling a story of years playing a string instrument. 

Based on the position and angle, it could have been guitar or bass, but it could have also been cello or violin. 

The look would suggest guitar or bass but classical instrumentalists were always dark horses, never looking like how they’d be expected to look. 

Steve would need to see his other hand to confirm if there was any healed damage on his thumb, indicating years of holding a bow and to see what he had inked over the fingers there.

Not that he was interested.

He was staring at the guy's hand for too long, the tendons standing proud under his skin and Steve only snapped back to himself when the guy tucked the bill away into his back pocket.

“I would say I have more dignity than that but a blowjob is definitely not the worst thing I’ve ever done in an alleyway. But yeah. Not for twenty dollars.”

Steve could feel the blush rise up higher on his neck and if the expression on the guy's face was anything to go by, it was visible now over the collar of his polo.

“You alright there, sweetheart? You seem a little flustered.”

“Steve.” He supplied, clearing his throat and trying to push the redness back down. “My name is Steve.”

The guy hummed again with a grin. “Think I prefer ‘sweetheart’.”

“And you?”

“I’m partial to ‘baby’ myself.”

Steve uncrossed his arms with a shake of his head, unable to hide his smile while putting his hands on his hips. 

“What’s your name,” he asked, before deciding to add on “baby?” At the end, with a tilt to his head, making his hair fall into his eyes and giving the guy, what Robin called, his puppy dog look.

The guy bit down on his bottom lip, the corner of his mouth ticking up and his eyes seeming to turn darker the longer he paused. “Eddie.”

“Eddie suits you.”

“I should hope so.” Eddie shrugged. “It’s the only name I got.”

“Baby suits you too.”

His eyes travelled up and down Steve’s body, leaving fire in their wake.

“Gotta say sweetheart, this is not how I thought this was gonna go when you grabbed me. Thought you were gonna smash my face in.”

Steve frowned. “I wouldn’t do that.” He dragged his eyes over Eddie again. “Wouldn’t be fair. Guess I was just surprised to feel your hand in my pocket.”

Even though he’d been expecting it, Eddie had managed to sneak up on him, which was not something he was used to.

Eddie’s smile dimmed a little and he sighed, pushing himself off the wall and beginning to wander aimlessly.

“Yeah.” He shrugged, lightly punching at the wall, expending energy. “Sometimes there aren’t a lot of options I guess.”

“Listen. I don’t know what kind of shit you’re wrapped up in but there’s always the option to get out of the game.”

Eddie swept his boot back and forth through the grime and dirt on the ground of the alley, leaving a tiny clearing in his wake. “If only that were true.”

“It can be.”

Eddie shrugged again now backing up towards the mouth of the alley. “Sometimes life doesn’t work out that way.”

Just before he got to the edge where he could disappear around the corner and into the crowd, he paused.

He regarded Steve with a tilted head before stepping forward again and taking Steve’s hand in his, raising it to his lips. 

“See you around, sweetheart.” Eddie muttered into his knuckles before pressing his lips down, gentle and soft.

Steve let the blush take over his face this time, playing up the coy angle just a bit too hard but fixed Eddie with a cocky smirk regardless.

“I certainly hope so, baby.”

He was delighted to see a matching blush across Eddie’s face who exited the alley with a wink and then he was gone.

Steve reached up to his ear and switched his hearing aid back on.

“Oh good,” Robin’s voice came through a little bored, “you’re not dead.”

“No, I am actually dead, my ghost has just possessed the instruments monitoring my vitals to make it look like I’m still alive.”

“That’s alright then.” She sighed. “Less paperwork involved for me if they think you’re still alive.”

Steve hummed in agreement, finally leaving the alley with a quick glance up and down the street but Eddie was well and truly gone.

“So what happened with the guy?”

“We talked a little, I gave him some money and told him to get out of whatever game he’s in.”

He was close to his apartment building, he was surprised to find. 

He’d been an auto pilot, paying more attention to Eddie following him than he had been where he was going.

“That’s it? I would have expected better from Slut Harrington.”

“You’d prefer if I told you the guy fed me his dick?” Steve asked, stopping in front of the entrance to his building and using the subtle biometric security to get in. “Or worse, you’d prefer to listen in? Wow-”

Robin’s screech nearly blew the side of his head open. 

He was glad he had made it into the elevator by then because the shockwaves sent him reeling backwards into the metal walls like he’d been punched.

He heard the ding and the whir of metal as he started moving up towards the top floor.

“Jesus tap dancing Christ, Birdie!”

“You deserved it! I remember Steve! I still remember the last and only time I nearly heard you get your dick into-”

“Then don’t get pissy when I tune you out!”

Robin huffed. “I will never get those sounds out of my head.”

“People would pay good money for those sounds.”

“I’m sure they would but I am not one of them.”

Steve didn’t respond, just let out a heavy sigh as he exited the elevator and crossed the short hallway to get to his door. 

He put his key in his lock and his hand on the handle at the same time, waiting just a second for the scan to complete before he heard the multiple locks and bars in the thick door click open allowing him inside. 

If there was one perk to working a life threatening job that regularly got him injured for a non-governmental international agency resulting in almost no personal life, it was that the pay was really good.

Steve had grown up around money, he was used to it. But that money had been stuffy and came with so many strings attached. This money was his money and he got to do what he wanted with it.

And what he wanted didn’t involve soulless art pieces and ugly as fuck chandeliers just because they were in some magazine that his mother read.

Steve’s space was mismatched. He decorated with pieces he liked the look of, regardless of whether it all ‘went together’. He was the only one living here so he wasn’t going to decorate according to anyone else’s standards. He’d been doing enough of that throughout his life already.

His furniture was vintage or artisan in nature, found in tiny little antique shops hidden away in corners or crafted by small business owners who loved what they did.

The front door led directly into an open plan living/dining/kitchen space. The floor to ceiling windows facing the park had been heavily altered. Thick enough to not let any sound or bullets through and made to obscure the view enough that a person would need to be pressed right up against the glass to see in, even though Steve could see out clear as day.

Steve’s apartment was the go-to venue for any kind of game night, the Super Bowl, playoffs, the World Series, they were all hosted here. His TV and sound system were unparalleled. 

He’d made sure of it. 

The couches were solidly framed but Steve wouldn’t have gotten them if they weren’t also the most comfortable ones he could find. One of them had to be reupholstered and none of them matched but he didn’t care.

Lucas always got pride of place in the middle with Steve while the other sports-heads, Robin and surprisingly El, took up the remaining space at either side of them.

Everyone else was happy to sit along the sidelines, mainly there for the food anyway.

Even all the pots and pans in his kitchen were a hodgepodge of whatever he found. Vintage copper and well aged cast iron lined the walls. 

The only things he’d conceded to buying new were the electrics. 

And then there was all the spy shit.

But that was a given. It was mostly functional stuff, hidden safes and compartments to keep documents and hard drives secure. Multiple concealed pockets and nooks containing a variety of small handheld weapons. The odd button here and there to enable or disable the silent alarm.

And the safe room, hidden behind the bath that only Steve knew how to get into or that it was even there. Robin didn’t know. The higher ups at work didn’t know. Hopper didn’t know. 

Maybe that was just a little too much paranoia, even for him, but paranoia had never steered him wrong before.

“Okay Birdie.” Steve flopped down face first onto his couch. “I am officially clocking out. Will I see you this weekend?”

“If this date goes well, hopefully not.”

“Go get her, tiger. I believe in you.”

“I believe in me too.”

“That’s the spirit.”

They said their goodbyes, Steve hoping against hope that Robin and this new girl worked out. 

She deserved something good in her life. 

He tried to distract himself by making dinner, showering and bingeing that TV show she insisted he had to watch (Ineffable Husbands or whatever it was called) but his mind kept wandering back to big brown eyes and soft plush lips.

Steve rapped the remote against his forehead a few times, trying to drive the thoughts away but they wouldn’t go anywhere.

Robin had jokingly suggested that Steve was going to recruit Eddie into the fold and it wouldn’t be the first time, if it ever did happen. 

Honestly, if it helped pull the guy out of whatever situation he’d gotten himself into, why shouldn’t he?

There were probably a thousand reasons to not drag Eddie into Steve’s dangerous world but just the thought of those eyes and that smile being directed at him again would have Steve doing almost anything.

Part 1 AO3

@geekymagicalpotato

Big thanks as always to @hbyrde36 for the magnificent beta work and to the STWG for their motivation.

This fic is about 70% complete and is currently clocking in at just under 40k so far. I love this story so much, it has taken over my life in the best way.

[dinossaurz]

The shadow raven

Prologue

Pairing: ??!reader; mafia!ateez;

Genre: Enemies to lovers, slow burn, mafia au.

Summary: Y/N is the mafia princess. She's heir to the "throne", but for that, she need to be married to a good boy. But he doesn't need to be part of Mafia. But what if destiny just decided to play with Y/N?

Warning: implicit nudity, guns are cited, blood (in this chapter)

WC: 478

Credits: to @rems-writing to this beautiful banner. Thank you, love 💜

Network: @newworldnet

You just kicked your red high heels through the lobby of your home. Your black dress damped with fresh blood.

You don't even tried to care about all the people working in your family manor at that point, just taking off that fucking tight dress and throwing him away just as you did with the heels.

"Darling, where are you going?" You listened to your father's high toned voice, but decided to ignore. "Y/N! I'm having a serious meeting here."

But again, you just ignored his desperate calling.

In the silence of your room, all alone, finally, you decided to look to yourself in your bathroom's mirror, and just realized how stained was your skin, with someone else's blood, already dark and dry. All along with bruises everywhere, where you were hit by something.

"You've fucked up again, little mafia shitty princess, don't you?" You whispered to yourself, turning away from your own reflection.

The water that falls in your tub is cold as ice, but you just thought about how the temperature would make you forget about what just happened a few hours ago.

Flashback

"You don't even now what you're doing, do you?" Your instructor asked.

You secretly were having shooting lessons with a cop friend. Ironically enough, he never know who you were, even if your father is his main mission as a police agent. You laughed a little thinking about it.

"No, I don't. That's why I asked you to teach me how to use it". Lies, all lies. You knew exactly what you needed to do, but you also needed to pretend being dumb just to make sure he never discover your true identity.

But not everything is what it looks like, and he knew exactly who you are. Oh, boy... And how he knew.

"You can stop pretending now, princess." He said, a lower tone that he's used to talk to you. You turn your head a bit, looking at him with a interrogative expression.

"I finally found you, the fucking shadow raven." And then, he smiled, pointing his gun to your chest, covered just with the black dress. You hold your breath, thinking about how close he is to you at this moment.

Without no thinking, you punched the gun away from his hand, skillfully. And he scoffed.

"So I'm right?" He looked at you with angry in his eyes, as if you had ruined his trust on you.

And then... he took a haste as skilfully as you, and then punched you various times, making your body ache and you screamed in pain, your eyes being blurry with the tears.

And then, when he was far enough from you, you took the gun and pressed the trigger.

BAM... was the last thing you remember after you entered your house and made a bloody mess in the lobby full of other people.

[thehomophobe]

Monty and Roxy Nikke Voice Lines

Monty 🐊:

First Meeting:

-Don't get your hopes up. I'm not gonna be all chummy to you.

Tapping in Lobby:

-Got something to say meatsack?

-Hands off the glasses!

-Look you wanna chat? Go find someone else who cares.

Tapping in Lobby (Bond Lv. 10):

-If anyone's giving you a hard time, call me and I'll beat 'em up for ya.

-Be careful walking around here alone cher. Even if we're in this "utopia", there's still some bad people down here. People willing to kill you to prove how corrupt this place is.

-I trust you Cher...but once you betray us, I'll have your head.

Idle in Lobby:

-What you want meatsack? I'm bored and this close to destorying somethin'.

Idle in Lobby (Bond Lv. 10):

-Hey cher, need some help with that? Those scrawny arms would break with those stacks of reports.

Tapping in Outpost:

-This place looks better at night.

-How'd you find here?

-Think the club's open?

Combat Power Up:

-I can kill those raptures faster now.

-That's the good stuff.

-An upgrade? Sweet!

Gift:

-Thanks I guess.

-What am I supposed to do with this?

-Let's hope I don't destroy this thing.

Bond Level Up:

-I guess...you're not as bad I as thought you were

-Glad someone here feels the same way I do

-Now I don't say this a lot but...thanks cher...for everything...

Field:

-Let's rock! [Squad Formation]

-What do ya want? [Tapping Squad in Field]

-Where are we even going? [Moving Squad in Field]

-Finally some action! [Entering Battle]

Battle Beginning:

-There you are...

-Come an' get it!

-I'm a turn y'all to scraps!

Reload:

-Damn gun...

-Hold on...

-Stupid thing...

Burst:

-Let me at 'em! [Burst Skill Available]

-Rock & Roll!!! [Burst Skill]

-Whoo! [Full Burst]

Killing Enemy:

-Haha!

-Yeah that's right!

-Got that one in the face!

Get Hit:

-Damn

-Rrr...

-Ay!

Out of Action:

-God...damn it

Battle Victory:

-Alright who's next?!

Roxy 🐺:

First Meeting:

-You do as I say and we'll get along just fine.

Tapping in Lobby:

-Quit poking me! Are you always this touchy-feely? 

-I'm not gonna follow you around helplessly like your guard dog fleshbag.

-Seems to me you're in need of a lesson. It's time to show why I'm the best of the entire V.7 Squardon.

Tapping in Lobby (Bond Lv. 10):

-Wanna head out later? Chica's been dying to try this new restaurant that just opened in the district and she wants you to come with us.

-I've been lied before, multiple times. Trust me, this place isn't as "perfect" as everyone believes it is. If you ask me, they're all just mindless sheep. I hope you don't get in line with them as well.

-Everytime I go to the Outpost, I'm always remind of how hard the life of a human is. You're constantly worrying what's gonna kill and how to prevent from being killed. The future for you is just being able to wake up the next day. It's the sad truth, but this is where you've started to succumb to.

Idle in Lobby:

-Oh, it's you again. Go. Do your...whatever work you do.

Idle in Lobby (Bond Lv. 10):

-Ditch the work. We're taking a drive on the surface.

Tapping in Outpost:

-Hey this shop is having a flash sale.

-Milkshakes, arcade games and car ride down the shopping district; sounds like the perfect night.

-I can be myself when I'm out here. I don't have to worry about other people's expectations.

Combat Power Up:

-Can you put those upgrades into my car as well?

-Only that best upgrades for the best android.

-Anything else?

Gift:

-Not bad I guess.

-How much did you pay for this?

-This...actually matches aesthetic. Thanks.

Bond Level Up:

-I don't know how to say this but...I think we've gotten a lot closer than before.

-Don't take my kindness for weakness. I'm only doing you a favor.

-What? I-I'm NOT blushing!

Field:

-Nice choice. [Squad Formation]

-This place is a dump. [Tapping Squad in Field]

-The faster we go, the faster we get this over with. [Moving Squad in Field]

-Get in loser, we're going hunting.[Entering Battle]

Battle Beginning:

-Watch and learn losers

-These guys are nothing.

-You can't hide from me.

Reload:

-Can't quit now.

-I'm out.

-Reloading.

Burst:

-My turn. [Burst Skill Available]

-Go! For Number One!

[Burst Skill]

-Hit the gas! [Full Burst]

Killing Enemy:

-In the lead.

-Bullseye

.-And that's another one for me.

Get Hit:

-Damn...

-Ugh...

-Tch..

Out of Action:

-But...I'm the best

Battle Victory:

-Of course we won, we're the best there is.

[wantondoe]

Pearls

Alastor x female reader

"Hello you wayward sinner! Do you enjoy hurting your own emotions? Spectacular! My old pal, you've come to the right place! Now, stay tuned..."

Warnings: heavy angst, violence, blood, death, suicide, pregnancy, talks about miscarriage, guns

11 months ago:

You took a shot at the plastic deer dummy across the field. The bullet soaring through the air, making a quiet sound. You then moved the rifle to the side.

"My my! That was an extraordinary shot, my love! You're so precise! You'd make an excellent hunter!" Alastor praised her from the bench, clapping his hands in a theatrical way. "My gal is so talented!"

"Well thank you my dear", you wink an eye to him. Your is face full of confidence as you take another shot.

Your husband sat on the bench, admiring the way you set your eyes on the aim once again.

BAM!

Alastor stared at the scene unfolding in front of him. Crimson flames flared around the hotel lobby as his most beloved wife was spitting fire around, rioting in her demonic form. Her usually soft hair was now spiky and long, just like her tail. The spikes of her tail ripped pieces of Alastor's coat as she flew past him, the black leather wings flapping, spreading the flames around.

"Darling! You need to calm down!" Alastor yelled through the sound of flames burning and the hotel staff screaming.

"Don't you call me that! I am not your darling! I haven't been your darling for a long time!" You growl back, your usually cheerful voice now a low grumble.

You land on the chandelier, the long claws and demonic fingers and toes wrapping around the golden parts,

"You're out of control! You need to calm down!" Alastor yelled back with a stern voice.

The rest of the staff stood behind Alastor, their eyes wide as you spat fire in their direction once again.

Alastor raised his radio staff and formed a protective aura around them. The flames hugged the aura shield before dying out. "That's it!" Alastor yelled. He summoned a glowing green chain in his hands. With an effortless movement, he threw the chains around your neck. You felt the harsh metal nibbling your skin as you were dragged down from the chandelier. You fought back the chain, but failed miserably. You fell on the carpet along with some crystals from the chandelier, the delicate pearls falling on your hair.

"YOU DID THIS TO ME!" you managed to shout at Alastor. You got up on your knees as you fought against the chain.

"You need to calm down darling! I love you, don't make me use my powers against you!" Alastor pleaded. At the moment, he didn't care about looking vulnerable in front of the others. He only cared about you. He hated seeing you like this, as if you had lost your sanity.

Your deep red eyes sparkled dangerously as you spoke with a low, primal voice: "Don't you dare to talk to me about love. You haven't loved me for months now! All you care about is this stupid hotel and conquering Hell!"

Alastor flinches at your words. Is that really how you felt like?

"No no darling! I do care about you-"

"DO NOT LIE TO ME", you attempted to spit fire at him again.

"I wanted to keep you safe! I wanted you to have a better life with me!" his tone desperate. "I love y-"

"LIES!" you roar as you try to attack him. Alastor dodged you and yanked on the chain, making you lose your balance. "YOU NEVER LISTENED TO ME! I DID NOT WANT THIS! I WANTED TO STAY AT CANNIBAL TOWN! BUT YOU INSISTED THIS-"

"You weren't safe in Cannibal Town and you know it!"

"DO NOT ACT LIKE YOU CARED ABOUT ME! I WAS NEVER THE MOST IMPORTANT THING TO YOU! YOU ARE DRUNK WITH POWER! I WAS NEVER ENOUGH FOR YOU-"

"Darling, don't say that-" Alastor felt tears pricking in the corners of his eyes. "I love-"

"If you loved me..." your voice dropped to a low snarling, "then where were you when I had that miscarriage?"

Alastor gulped. The memory of their dead little fawn was too overpowering to him.

"Because if I remember correct, you were singing a stupid little song with Charlie in Cannibal Town when I had to give birth to our dead fawn!" you spit out, each word like a stab to Alastor's heart.

"I was... It was important too-"

"You never talked about it with me! You were not there for me... And now I'm going to make you pay for it..." you take slow steps towards Alastor.

"I was dealing with it in my own way-"

"YOU STARTED AVOIDING ME!" you roared, correcting him. "You treated me like air!"

"Okay!" he snapped. "I avoided you! I wasn't there for you! But you can't just start rioting around here like a... like a..."

"Like a monster, that's what you're trying to say, right?" you finish his sentence. "I HATE YOU! YOU ARE THE MONSTER, NOT ME!"

You take a leap towards him and land on top of his chest, sinking your long fangs in his neck.

Alastor lets our a pained whimper. "P-please... You don't mean that. Please... You're hurting me."

"I was the one who had to cradle our dead fawn and bury her! The coffin was the size of a shoe box!" you yell as you lift your fangs from his neck, the blood trailing under his shirt.

"Please, stop..." he closed his eyes, the thought of the coffin making him feel ill.

"Oh you're the one who's crying? PATHETIC!"

"I love yo-"

"YOU MEAN NOTHING TO ME! NOTHING!" you yell. You got ready to tear him apart, your heart heavy with bitterness and sorrow.

However, before you could even lift up your clawed hand, Nifty hit you on the head with a frying pan, knocking you out.

Alastor stared at your form with horror. His lovely doe had completely lost it... He looked around, the wallpapers were drooping, the chandelier had lost half of it's lovely crystals and pearls, the furniture was shattered. His tear stained eyes gaze back at you. You had finally turned back into your usual doe form. He looked at those fluffy ears he had rubbed so many times, that lovely cotton ball-like tail he had seen wagging countless times. Now she was completely unresponsive, and worst of all, you had made it clear that you despised him.

He knew why. He had always knows that he was messing things up, dragging you to the hotel and forcing you to be part of his projects. But he couldn't help it. He didn't want to let you go, yet he couldn't give you the loving you needed.

He summoned men to clean up the mess you've made and carried you to his room. With care and love, he placed you on his bed and cleaned you. As she washed you with the wet cloth, he imagined swiping all the negative feelings away. He couldn't bare to see you like this.

Alastor took a seat next to you and patiently waited for you to wake up. He longed to see those doe-like eyes flutter open. He saw memories flashing in front of his eyes. He took your hand and squeezed, as if hoping that would wake you up. He massaged your knuckles only to realize that you weren't even wearing the ring anymore... How did he not notice before?

Alastor sighed. His sweet mate, his doe, his darling. He had been confident to never hurt her, to never disappoint her like this, yet there they were now. The dark room and cold floor were a perfect mirror to the turmoil in his heart at the moment. He had made her so bitter, so hostile.

Alastor sat there, deep in his own hurt. Nothing could keep his mind from wandering to the image of their dead fawn. Their little girl... Or your pained face when you were rushed to the hospital while he was elsewhere doing "business". Shame washed over him like a harsh winter wind. He felt himself fall asleep on the chair, his exhaustion taking over.

BAM!

Alastor yanked his body up as he heard the sound of a bullet being shot. He immediately noticed your absence. His eyes widened as his mind drifted to the worst possibility. Where did she keep her guns? WHERE? He grabbed his staff and made his teleportation to the shed in the back yard.

"Darling? DARLING!"

You were laying there with your face in the dirt, the nearly composed leaves mixing with your... Your...

He gulped, knowing what you had just done.

He panicked as he saw the blood, dark and thick, staining your beautiful hair and clothes. He quickly but carefully turned you around, not expecting to see your face so disfigured.

He immediately closed his eyes as he had seen the sight. His heart was pounding its way of of his chest as he tried to erase the sight out of his mind. He just held your lifeless body in his arms, wishing he could bring you back. If he had just been there a little earlier, if he hadn't fallen asleep...

He felt hot tears stream down his cheeks as he trembled. Taking a deep sigh, he slowly opened his eyes. He had to see you. His eyes fixated on your face. You had shot yourself, he thought. You had felt so desperate that you had shot yourself, he repeated to himself.

You had taken your own life, something he couldn't comprehend. You had stumbled and the bullet had gone through your cheek. The blood was now staining his clothes as he stared at you in his lap. The bullet whole revealed your pearly white teeth, now all shattered, glistening in the pool of blood. The reality of the situation crept into his heart. He clutched onto you, his screams echoing in the cold air, the feeling of your dead body ripping his soul apart.

[misirosekisiro]

Neutral Territory Under Siege

Inside the gleaming, prestigious confines of the International Conference Center, diplomats and representatives from rival nations gathered together to sign the groundbreaking peace treaty - an agreement symbolizing unity and hope after years of strife. However, even amid such noble intentions, whispers of danger echoed softly within the corridors. Rumors spread about potential threats aiming to sabotage the historic occasion...

Krits, a seasoned SWAT policeman, roamed vigilantly among the luxuriously appointed hallways and lobbies of the building.

His expert gaze took note of every minor detail, picking out nuances most would miss, but which could prove vital should trouble arise.

His keen sense had alerted him to something amiss earlier; the shifting glint of light off metal, whispered murmurs, subtle movements betraying nervousness – all these clues led him closer to discovering what lay hidden beneath the surface.

But it was only when he noticed the shadowed figure lurking inconspicuously behind one of the opulently adorned pillars did he realize that time was running short. This person appeared menacing and cunning, a clear threat to the proceedings taking place inside the conference room. With a single glance, they seemed to exchange some kind of secret communication before vanishing away amongst the crowd of attendees.

Drawing upon years of experience and unwavering commitment to duty, Krits decided not to alarm anyone just yet.

That young man exit the events building. But Krits still trust his nerve, follow him to the building near by.

He watched as the suspected individual entered through a side door, seemingly unaware that someone had been tailing them. Upon entering, Krits quickly assessed the surroundings to ensure there were no imminent dangers. Then he also enter that building.

To think that a big events was hold just a building near by. This building is desert.There are many doors, dim lights, dust, old furniture, smell of mustiness everywhere. It seems like nobody come here often, maybe for illegal activities. The suspicious man leads Krits deeper into the bowels of the structure. It’s cold down here and quiet. Each step, each turn brings the two men closer to whatever lies waiting ahead. The air becomes denser with anticipation as the sounds of muffled footsteps echo back from distant corners. In this moment, time slows down almost imperceptibly. Every breath feels more intense than the last.

He can't see that young man, but He notice one door still closing.

Cautiously, he approaches it slowly, carefully listening for any sound or movement coming from beyond the closed entrance. His heart races as adrenaline courses through his veins, propelling him ever-closer to confronting the unknown situation unfolding right underneath his nose.

The darkness envelops the space, casting long, eerie shadows against the walls. Despite this disquieting atmosphere, Krits refuses to let fear gain control. Instead, he takes advantage of the obscurity to silently slip past a few more obstacles without detection.

It's an Service area's corridor.Much older and much less maintained compared to other parts of the building. Cobwebs hang delicately from the ceiling while a faint whiff of urine permeates the air. One might assume this part of the complex rarely sees use unless it serves purposes too unsavory to discuss openly. Krits knew well enough how things worked, so he wasn't entirely surprised by the state of this area.

Then he see one door in this corridor, it's open wide. but very dark inside.

Krits moves forward hesitating, feeling uneasy. Suddenly, the rustling noise catches his attention. He stops moving forward and starts scanning his surrounding closely. The creak of floorboards nearby indicates that someone else is present. Krits keeps his gun ready, holding his breath, trying to get familiarized with his new environment and identify the source of the sound. His senses heightened, ears straining to detect the slightest clue as to where his quarry may have gone. Silence lingers heavy in the air.

Krits stands motionless, his breath held tightly in his throat, his body coiled in readiness for action. Seconds feel like minutes as he waits patiently, assessing the possible locations of the enemy. Time drags on endlessly, making every passing second feel increasingly fraught with apprehension. Finally, a flickering movement in the corner of his eye draws his focus sharply toward a partially concealed alcove. There, huddled behind a large pile of discarded equipment, he spies the mysterious stranger.

"Stop right there!" Krits point the gun to that young man.

He didn't expect to find himself face-to-face with the target of his investigation in such close quarters, but he couldn't afford to show surprise now. His stomach twisted into knots as the reality of the precarious situation dawned on him. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, giving him the strength to remain composed despite the mounting anxiety surging through his body.

"Stop right there! Show your hand and kneel!" Krits commanded firmly, his voice ringing loudly in the silence of the abandoned service area.

"Show me your hands!"

The younger man complied instantly, raising his arms above his head, exposing them clearly. Although tension radiated visibly from his slender frame, his expression remained calm. The seconds ticked by in agonizing slowness as Krits made a calculated decision regarding his next steps.

Keeping his weapon trained on the young man, he moved cautiously towards him. "What exactly do you want?" he asked, probing for information.

"If I don't hear anything convincing," he continued gravely, "consider yourself arrested."

As the young man lowered his hands back to his sides, his brow furrowed in confusion mixed with determination.

"Why?" He queried cautiously, attempting to gauge whether he could rely on this authority figure.

Krits narrowed his eyes slightly, contemplating whether he should share crucial intel with the captive. After weighing the pros and cons, he opted for honesty.

"Do you think I you catch me here, because it just happen ?" young man said and giggle.

Krits felt his jaw clench involuntarily. Though the laughter was innocuous, it struck a raw nerve within him, triggering memories best left buried deep within his psyche. Biting back the impulse to snap at the youthful audacity, he chose instead to respond calmly.

"No. We caught you because our intelligence suggested someone wanted to cause havoc during today's critical meeting," he explained sternly.

While he talk he feel something not right.

Something is wrong, this guy looks way too confident and relaxed. Something isn't adding up, but he cannot put his finger on it. Maybe there is another reason why the young man brought Krits to this desolate place? Is there something going on outside his knowledge?

"So tell me, why did you bring me here?" Krits finally managed to ask, his curiosity piqued by the odd behavior of his prisoner.

But before that young man answer, The box that contain various thing on the shelves above Krits head falling to him.

A trap! Krits then notice that young man use his feet to pull the string to active trap. He lure Krits to a position where he stand under a trap by talk with him.

Krits remember those moments vividly - the sudden shock as everything went black, the searing pain ripping through his shoulder blades, followed by a swift descent into utter oblivion.

A young man look at dazing Krits with smile.

In those split seconds, the world shifted drastically. Darkness consumed everything in sight, leaving behind only the haunting echoes of a fallen life. Yet amidst the chaos, an unexpected surge of rage filled Krits, driving him towards consciousness once again. Unbeknownst to his adversary, he was awake.

Still lying flat on the ground, Krits struggles to regain his bearings after being hit by the falling object. Despite the acute pain in his shoulders, his first instinct is to escape the predicament he finds himself in.

Fighting off the encroaching wave of numbness threatening to take over his entire body, Krits manages to struggle onto his knees. Grimacing from the intensity of the pain pulsing through his injured limbs, he reaches out for support, grasping onto the nearest stable surface available – a rickety wooden crate propped beside the wall. Drawing heavily upon his reserves of sheer willpower, he maneuvers upright, ignoring the protests of his battered flesh.

His vision swirling with blurred edges, Krits forced himself to remain conscious despite the debilitating pain that threatened to consume him whole. Struggling valiantly against the waves of dizziness crashing through his skull, he glanced around the cavernous warehouse, taking stock of his dire circumstances.

Armed with nothing more than defiance and a burning desire to protect what lay ahead, Krits grappled for leverage among the detritus scattered across the floorscape.

As he sought to steady himself, his mind raced frantically, searching for ways to counteract the advancing threat posed by the young man. Gripping the edge of a splintered wooden beam, he summoned all his remaining energy to launch himself towards his opponent.

With lightning speed, Krits lunged forward, aiming for the vulnerable spot exposed by the young man's carelessness. Surprise registered briefly on the intruder's features before he reacted swiftly, evading the attack effortlessly. Their bodies collided violently, sending both combatants reeling backwards. Pain shot through Krits' already wounded arm, causing him to cry out involuntarily.

Undeterred, Krits rose to his feet once more, determined to reclaim his power. With renewed vigor, he charged towards the young man, seeking to exploit the opening presented by their earlier exchange.

But before he could land another blow, the young man deftly sidestepped out of reach, mockingly taunting Krits' futility.

"Come on, little cop! What took you so long?" The younger man goaded Krits relentlessly, enjoying the thrill of the chase far too much.

Frustrated yet undaunted, Krits increased his pace, drawing closer to his prey. Fueled by adrenaline and unwavering resolve, he closed the gap between them until they were mere inches apart.

The young man grinned devilishly, relishing the game of cat and mouse they had engaged in thus far. This time, however, he miscalculated. In the blink of an eye, Krits seized control of the encounter, delivering a powerful strike to the younger man's torso. As the young man doubled over in pain, he retaliated fiercely, landing a series of rapid blows designed to force submission. Blood trickled down Krits' forehead, mixing with sweat as his stamina dwindled rapidly.

Sensing the urgency of the moment, he pressed harder, pushing past boundaries previously thought impossible. Desperation burned bright within him, fueled by a fervent need to overcome the foe standing before him. But try as he might, every attempt proved fruitless. No matter how brutal or strategic his strikes became, the nimble young man somehow managed to evade capture. It seemed as though fate itself conspired against him, preventing victory even when success appeared imminent.

Worn thin by the continuous volley of attacks, Krits succumbed to exhaustion.

Each breath came increasingly difficult, as if he was suffocating. Gasping for air, he collapsed onto the filthy floor, unable to muster any further resistance. Clutching his aching ribs, he rolled helplessly away from the young man, finding solace in the relative safety offered by the nearby stack of wooden pallets. Breathless and bruised, Krits lay sprawled across the cold, hard surface, trying to make sense of the turn of events that led him to this pathetic state.

Exhausted, he attempted to rise, only to collapse once more, defeated by the agony wracking his entire body. Overwhelming despair clouded his senses, obscuring rational thought and reducing him to a single-minded pursuit of survival.

"Good night! my dear cops!" Young man swing a pipe in his hand to Krits' occipital.

His eyes close reflexively due to the impact, his mind spiraling into darkness as pain engulfs him completely.

Young man standing look at completlycomatose cop.

He smile maliciously as he examine his captive. This small victory fills him with a strange mix of elation and arousal. There's no doubt about it now—this journey would be sweet indeed.

Feeling strangely empowered, he approached Krits slowly, his footsteps reverberating softly against the concrete floor. He bent down, carefully lifting one of Krits' legs, revealing the hidden truth beneath his tight fabric trousers.

The young man couldn't help but admire the firm, well-toned thighs that spoke volumes about the intense physical training required of a SWAT officer. His fingers traced the outline of Krits' calf muscles, feeling the warmth emanating from the powerful leg.

Next, he moved to the other side, lifting Krits' other leg, exposing the same strong, toned quadriceps. Each movement sent shivers of anticipation coursing through his veins, heightening his excitement. Slowly, methodically, he began to peel away each layer of protection shielding Krits' most intimate secrets.

First, he stat with removed the bulky tactical boots,

revealing smooth, pale skin that contrasted starkly with the rugged exterior of the rest of Krits' body. Then, he proceeded to remove the thick, formidable socks, allowing the delicate arches of Krits' feet to breathe freely.

The young man marvelled at the unique scent of sweaty, worn cotton combined with the subtle fragrance of fresh human skin. He savored the experience, letting the essence of Krits permeate his nostrils, filling his senses with the intoxicating mixture of strength and vulnerability.

Next is his tactical gears that bond around body.

You can see the traces of gunpowder residues on his clothing, evidence of a day spent battling criminals. Striping off his jacket reveals a sleek bulletproof vest underneath, accented by the gleaming silver nameplate bearing the word "SWAT". On his arms, two pairs of heavy duty gloves still clung stubbornly to his hands, making it slightly challenging to extract them fully. He remove Krits' tactical helmet and balaclava, showcasing the proud lineaments of Krits' face sculpted with determination and intelligence. Beneath his headset lay the familiar features of a battle-hardened hero. As the cool evening breeze whispered past his ears, the faint remnants of a battle plan danced tantalisingly on the tip of his tongue. He put balacava on his nose.Smelling the masculinity embedded in the fibres, exhilarating sensations stirring deep inside. Now last piece.Krits' undergarments, revealed to be a pair of snug fitting grey boxer briefs, finally gave up their secret. They were crafted from a blend of stretchy microfiber, hugging his lean frame perfectly without restricting his movements. Understanding the significance of these garments, the young man felt a surge of excitement course through his veins. He wanted to caress the contours of Krits' naked body, reveling in the pure, unbridled passion he was experiencing.

With his heart racing wildly, he ran his finger along the crevices of Krits' muscular abs, lingering over the sharp angles of his pecs. Each touch made his skin flush with heat, as his loins throbbed in anticipation. He slipped his hand underneath the waistband of Krits' boxer briefs, brushing his fingertips teasingly over the warm, velvety skin concealed there. As he trailed lower, discovering new territories to explore, the hunger grew stronger within him.

Reaching the tender area just below Krits' navel, he encountered the first signs of treasure – wispy curls of fine golden hair that hinted at the delights awaiting him. Running his fingers through these silken threads ignited a fire within him, fueling his desire to conquer this unknown landscape.

Drawing ever closer to the final frontier, he felt the pulse of life ticking steadily below his touch. With growing impatience, he lifted the hem of Krits' underwear, revealing the prize within - a robust mound nestled beneath a healthy covering of fur.

As his fingers grazed lightly over this sacred territory, Krits groaned softly, stirring in response to the touch. Unable to resist the temptation, the young man buried his lips in the crook of Krits' neck, taking in the warmth and saltiness of his flesh. Tasting the complex flavors of perspiration and determination mixed together, the rush of adrenaline threatened to consume him whole.

Taking advantage of this opportunity, he dove deeper into the rabbit hole of forbidden desires, exploring every curve and crevice of Krits' magnificently honed body. Slipping off Krits' wet, salty underwear, he marveled at the impressive length and width of Krits' penis, which was clearly meant for conquering many a conquest. The sight of such raw male power provoked a mix of fear and attraction within him, triggering his own rising libido.

Revenge and domination had been the driving forces behind his actions all along, but now, the sheer potency of his feelings took him by surprise.

In spite of his apprehension, Krits began to awaken, gradually regaining consciousness after being struck earlier. Confusion laced his voice as he murmured, "Who...who are you?" His eyes fluttered open to find himself bound tightly with duct tape, lying on top of a dusty mattress surrounded by debris.

Disoriented and struggling to understand what had transpired, Krits' brain raced to recall the recent events leading up to this dire situation. The fogginess cleared somewhat as memories resurfaced of his encounter with the enigmatic young man. Panic set in as he realized he had fallen prey to someone far more dangerous than expected.

Feeling an instinctual revulsion toward his predicament, Krits shifted uncomfortably, straining against the confines of his bindings.

Despite his efforts, escape proved futile, leaving him vulnerable and exposed before the stranger. As he struggled, the young man watched him closely, seemingly satisfied with having reduced Krits to this humiliated state. Unbeknownst to either party, the clock was rapidly counting down, time ticking away until the arrival of reinforcements. For now, however, the moment belonged solely to the adversaries locked in a deadly dance of cat and mouse.

Seeing the flash of defiance in Krits' eyes, the young man relished the challenge presented before him. He want to destroy this man's pride.

So he pick up Krit's uniform. Show it to bound and gaged Krits.

Looking at his own clothes, Krits recognized them immediately. Despite the fact that he wasn't wearing anything else, the knowledge that his assailant had taken something so personal filled him with anger and frustration. He could feel his cheeks burning red with embarrassment and indignation. he tried speaking again, "Dont' dare to touch it! You have not right to do so!" But everything he say muffle by a gaged.

Even young man can't heard what Krits say exectly. but he know by Krits's motion. How he show an anger, young man feel satifyfrom this. He decide to make things worse.

The young man sashayed towards Krits, sauntering confidently across the cold, hard floors. Clutching Krits' uniform close to his chest, he held it out in front of the prisoner, inviting him to take it back. Seeing the pleading look in Krits' eyes, he mockingly tossed the uniform onto the ground beside Krits. It landed in a heap with a gentle rustle, drawing Krits' attention to the crisp fabric that had once protected him.

Then he start to dress in Krits's uniform piece by piece start formTactical pants,He reached down and grasped the crotch of Krits' tactical pants firmly, holding it inches away from his nose. Inhaling deeply, he allowed the distinct scent of sweaty, worn cotton combined with the subtle fragrance of fresh human skin to waft through his nostrils. Savouring the experience, he let the essence of Krits permeate his olfactory senses, filling his mind with the intoxicating mixture of strength and vulnerability.

He closed his eyes, indulging in the rich bouquet of scents emanating from the cloth. The combination of sweat, gunpowder residue, and the underlying notes of cleanliness represented a perfect amalgamation of the conflicting aspects of Krits' personality.

Drenched in the sumptuous perfume of masculinity and self-assurance, the young man was captivated by this unexpected discovery. Gripping the fabric of the crotch, he pressed it fervently against his nose, allowing the heady concoction to cloud his thoughts. Then he start to donned that pant.

Fulfilling one part of his fetish, feeling the comfort of his favorite material on his skin, embracing the strength of the fabric, wrapping himself in power, protection, and sexuality. He looked like a walking arsenal of destruction. But underneath that facade lies hidden a secret, yearning for the release that only surrender can bring.

Satisfied with how the pants fit him, he moved on to Krit's sock.

These too bore traces of Krits' unique scent, imbuing them with a sense of intimacy that sent shivers down his spine. Carefully rolling each sock onto his feet, he savored the feeling of the smooth fabric encasing his calves and ankles.

Then he follow with his next favorite piece. A tactical boots. Again, he bring it to his nose.

Inhaling the familiar odor of leather, rubber, and the faint trace of sweat melded together, the young man felt an almost primal connection forming with the boot. He couldn't help but wonder why Krits would choose this particular model among others available. Was it due to functionality? Or perhaps some other reason entirely? Whatever the case, it served to heighten the sensory experience further. After slipping the footwear onto his feet, he pulled on the zippered cuffs.

Their functional design brought to life the rugged image associated with his role as a SWAT officer. Then he take an inner t-shirt, It's a white T-shirt with V-shape red collar, also got red ring at the end of each arm. on the chest got red police department insignia. It's also soak with sweat,especially in the armpits.And even though it's smells like him, it still smells good, reminding me of my own experiences in training and missions. I feel like I'm becoming more attached to the idea of owning parts of him, possessing a piece of him. It's exciting yet terrifying simultaneously. Next one is his tactical long-sleeved shirt.This tactical shirt was made of polyester/cotton blend, designed to offer superior moisture management and excellent resistance to wrinkling. Embroidered badges displayed his rank and affiliation to special law enforcement division, indicating his authority and status. Donning this garment gave him an added layer of confidence, knowing that he now possessed a symbol of authority that truly belonged to another individual.

Then he move to Krits's balaclava.

It's a black balaclava with a small opening around the mouth area, designed to protect the wearer's identity while providing breathability. Its presence alone evokes a sense of mystery and intrigue, as if concealing secrets waiting to be revealed. Upon placing it upon his head, the young man feels an undeniable thrill coursing through his veins. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the intoxicating fusion of their two scents intermingling.

Then he take eye on left tactical gear, A bulletprove vest with radio, Tactical belt with accessory, Legs gun holster, And last one Tactical helmet.

Each item carried its own significance, adding layers of complexity to the overall ensemble. The vest provided crucial ballistic protection, the belt housed essential equipment, the leg holster secured firepower, and the helmet offered vital head coverage. These items collectively transformed him into a formidable force capable of subduing any threat - or so he believed.

As he finished putting on these pieces, he stood tall, admiring himself. The transformation was complete – both visually and psychologically. Dressed in Krits' clothing, adorned with his accoutrements, he appeared as a powerful, authoritative figure ready to tackle any obstacle. Yet, there remained an air of uncertainty surrounding him, hinting at the fragility of his newfound persona.

The he look at Krist. Krits'eyes fill with anger,and hatred and desperation. This all making our young man hornier. He want to punishment Krits' pride fully, wanting to break him completely. So he approach Krits.

"Your pride doesn't belong here," he murmured, running his fingers along the edge of Krits' throbbing erection. Krits jerked involuntarily, trying vainly to resist the overwhelming urge that raged inside him.

His hands trembled slightly as he caressed Krits' exposed flesh, tracing delicate patterns across his body.

"You are no more officer, swat, cops. Just ahelpless victim captured by someone stronger than you." The voice of young man echoed throughout the abandoned storage room, taunting Krits mercilessly. Each word seemed to strike a nerve within Krits, sending shockwaves of fury and humiliation reverberating through his core. Unable to speak, Krits grunted silently, fighting off the pain and restraints binding him tightly.

"You are under arrest!" Young man shout then catch at Krits crotch and grab it hard!.

Krits struggled futilely against the bindings that held him fast. Every movement caused searing pain to shoot through his aching limbs. Sweat dripped profusely down his forehead, causing his brow to burn with a feverish heat. With every breath, his heart raced wildly in his chest, threatening to escape its confines. Desperate to regain control, he tried calling out for help, hoping against hope that someone might hear his cries. Yet, his voice emerged weak and feeble, barely carrying beyond the immediate vicinity.

Young man crushed his hand in and out on Krit's cock.

"You are nothing but a sex slave now." he said with a smile that conveyed both sadism and satisfaction.

Krist struggling hard in attempt to free himself, tears falling down his cheeks, mixing with the sweat pouring down his face. Pride being stripped from him, Krits felt utterly degraded and defeated. His body shook violently as his master continued torturing him mentally and physically.

The young man took pleasure in witnessing the despair etched upon Krits' features.

"Let's see just how much your esteemed reputation means when faced with your impending defeat," he whispered huskily, nipping at Krits' earlobe before trailing kisses down his neckline.

Feeling the warmth of the stranger's lips against his sensitive skin, Krits flinched, unable to hide his growing trepidation. Despite his determination to remain composed, the reality of his precarious situation began to sink in, weighing heavily upon his shoulders.

As his captor ran expert fingers through his tousled hair, pressing soft kisses against his cheekbones, Krits could do little else but surrender to the torrent of emotions surging through him. Resentment simmered below the surface, fueling a burning desire for vengeance. However, exhaustion soon won out, dragging him into the abyss of hopelessness and fear.

The young man bent closer to Krits, brushing tender kisses along his temple and teasingly nipping at his earlobes.

"See how sweet submission can taste?" he purred, his breath tickling Krits' skin. Feeling his defenses falter, Krits allowed himself to revel in the forbidden sensations flooding his system. His brain foggy with lust, he surrendered to the pleasures bestowed upon him by his captor.

Lost in the haze of passion, Krits' body reacted instinctively to the stimuli. His hips thrust rhythmically, betraying his innermost desires despite his attempts to retain control.

The sight of Krits' vulnerability fueled the young man's eagerness to assert dominance. He trailed light bites down Krits' chest, leaving behind a trail of bruises as evidence of his conquest.

"Such a fine specimen you are," he breathed, squeezing Krits' firm ass playfully. The intensity of their gaze locked upon one another ignited a spark, setting off a chain reaction of fierce passion. Their bodies pressed together, each seeking solace in the other's embrace. As their movements grew increasingly erratic, driven by the force of raw desire, Krits reluctantly submitted to the unbreakable bond holding them captive.

Clutching at his predatory partner's arms, Krits fought back the waves of shame that threatened to consume him. Yet, his struggle only intensified the passion encapsulating them both.

Despite his protests, Krits gradually succumbed to the erotic currents guiding their encounter. As they moved against one another, the walls around them became shrouded in a cloud of heavy breaths and labored gasps. Their palms were slick with perspiration, melding together as if to ensure their union would never cease.

Krits' lips parted slightly, allowing gentle whimpers to escape his throat. He couldn't deny the intense rush of euphoria coursing through his veins. In spite of the looming danger, he was caught up in the moment, finding solace in the foreign touch invading his previously guarded territory.

Though Krits' heart yearned for freedom, his physical craving refused to let go of its hold on him. With each passing second, his resolve wavered further until finally giving way entirely.

Beneath the weight of his predator's commanding gaze, Krits acquiesced to the demands of his unrelenting libido. Submission had become an elixir, infusing his bloodstream with potency enough to drive away any lingering reservations.

The very thought of losing control sent shivers of ecstasy down his spine. Bound in his enemy's iron grasp, he had finally found liberation from the constraints imposed by duty and morality.

With his former sense of self obliterated, Krits lay prostrate beneath the unyielding touch of his conqueror. It wasn't merely a physical connection but rather an exploration of deeper, hidden territories. Emotional barriers fell like sandcastles battered by a violent storm, exposing raw, primordial desires buried within.

Young man see Krits eyes and know that Krits no more resist. He breaking inside. Too bad, he want more fun but he need a task to attend.

He realize his time limit.It's getting late, and he needs to fulfill his mission quickly and efficiently without arousing suspicion. After some careful planning, he decided to set everything in motion.

Gathering the necessary tools required for his plan, he meticulously assembled them beside him. Then, taking a deep breath, he prepared himself for what awaited him outside. Leaving the abandoned storage room behind, he ventured forth into the darkness that enveloped the night sky.

Outside, the streets bustled with activity, yet he managed to blend effortlessly among the crowds. Passing through alleys and narrow pathways, he reached his destination swiftly. As he approached his target, anticipation built within him, heightening his awareness.

Show himself as SWAT member, he can gain access tosensitive areas easily, which perfectly suits his plans. Using his knowledge of protocols and procedures, he navigates the complex structure seamlessly. Unnoticed, he enters a restricted area and takes position undetected. He blend himself to other SWAT member which now know one know which one is young man.

In the morning, A Urgent News in every channale,

"A newsworthy piece was reported today", news anchor exclaimed excitedly into the microphone. "This city is still reeling from last week's terrorist attack. But today, we bring even more shocking news—the peace treaty signing ceremony between Countries A and C has been interrupted!".

People watching the TV channels at home turned to look at the screen anxiously. They talked loudly amongst themselves, sharing theories and opinions on the incident. Rumors spread like wildfire through social media platforms, feeding people's curiosity and concern.

Online comment sections buzzed with discussions regarding the saboteur's identity, motivations, and methods. Some suggested political conspiracies, others pointed fingers at terrorist organizations looking to destabilize international relations. All these conjectures added layers of intrigue to the unfolding events.

Distraught, officials convened urgently to address the crisis and protect the integrity of the peace treaty negotiations. Meanwhile, law enforcement agencies scrambled to identify the culprit responsible for derailing such crucial diplomacy efforts.

Intelligence units analyzed surveillance footages, pored over data logs, cross-referenced databases, all searching for clues that would lead them to the notorious saboteur. Suspicions arose about those affiliated with extremist groups, as well as high-ranking government figures attempting to thwart the peace agreement. Nevertheless, with so many potential suspects and limited information available, progress remained slow and frustrating.

News networks bombarded viewers with updates, interviewing key players involved in drafting the peace treaty and experts specialized in geopolitics.

Young man close his laptop.There was much work ahead of him. First, he needed to get rid of the evidence left behind. Clenching his jaw, he set about collecting his belongings methodically - stripped clothes, used condoms, and anything else incriminating. This done, he stuffed it all into a duffel bag, making sure to dispose of it far away from the abandoned warehouse where his journey had begun.

Glancing once more at the place, a mixture of triumph and melancholy passed across his face. His mission had indeed succeeded – but at what cost? Young man knew his life would be forever changed after tonight, yet there was no turning back now. The thrill of victory, coupled with the lingering taste of defeat, filled him with ambivalence.

As the sun crept towards dawn, the young man slipped silently out of the warehouse, disappearing into the early morning mist. His heart raced with adrenaline, propelling him forward, faster than ever before.

[nkirukaj]

vVv is for Voe (9)

Pairing: StaticBeau & RadioBeau

Warnings: Swearing; Sexual Innuendos; Sexual Acts

Genre: Humor! Angst!

Word Count: 3.5K

<Chapter 8

9. Depression and Ducks

The click of Voe’s heels on the marble floor rings through the lobby. She rings the bell on the desk.

“Courtney, I need to see all of them,”

Courtney turns her head “Did you want to make an appointment?”

“Call them now,”

“Got it,” she picks up the phone “Get a conference room for the Vees, Ms. Voe would like to see them,”

Voe stood there and thought about what Courtney just called her. Ms. Voe, that sounded really good to her ears.

Shortly after Velvette, Valentino, and Vox appear in the lobby looking extra annoyed.

“This better be good,” Vox tells her

“Not only is this good, this is the best damn thing ever,” Voe’s posture radiates confidence

Velvette put her hands on her hips “Do tell love,”

“Well I-“ Voe glances through her peripheral vision to see Angel Dust peering out at her from Val’s studio, they lock eyes for no more than a second “Val,” she calls him “You wanna take care of that?”

Val glares and closes the door behind him, and returns to the group.

Voe reaches into her purse and pulls out the file “I got this from the one and only King of Hell,”

Vox snatches it up and goes through it. His grin spreads to an unnatural width and his laughter grows more and more evil as the other Vees stare at him in confusion. 

“I believe we should take this to a conference room?” Voe says, 

Vox contains himself and clears his throat “Of course,”

“So what do you think? Hmm?” Voe looks over Vox’s shoulder as he combs through the file

His eyes are glued to the papers “I think…this is…AMAZING!”

Voe’s eyes brighten up and she plasters a smile on her face “So I did a good job?”

“Oh, my dear, you did a fabulous job,” he caresses her chin “In fact,” he pulls her in for a kiss, long and sloppy, his tongue filling her mouth and taking over. When he pulls away, Voe is flabbergasted and blushing but looks around to see that this is apparently business as usual for the Vees. She bites her lip. Vox was a really good kisser.

“So I guess you’ve got all your information then,”

Vox shakes his head “Oh no no no no no no no. We need more,”

“What??” the other three ask at one

“I’m sorry, clarify,” said Voe

Vox puts his arm around her “I forgive you, but we need to get personal,”

“How much more personal do you need to get? His entire life is inside that folder!”

“I know! But I need things like who he’s tonguing on the daily, where does he shit? Who has he fucked?”

Voe snorts “He’s probably a virgin,” she sneers “Wait does that mean I have to stay at the hotel longer?”

Vox puts his arm around her “Yes my dear, it does. But only a little bit longer. This next part should be a piece of cake for someone as…charming and beautiful,” he kisses her hand “As yourself,”

Voe smirks at the flattery “Sure, but he doesn’t like me,”

“Drastic times call for drastic measures, my dear. You need to fuck him. Apology accepted in advance,”

“I’m sorry??”

“You need to fuck him,”

“Why would I ever do that?”

Velvette speaks up “Well, that’s how you get more information. How’s your acting?”

“Pretty good,”

“I need you in one of my films,” Val flicks his tongue 

“Not what I meant,” she glares at Val “You need to play the part of the sappy bitch,”

“That is the opposite of me,”

Velvette blinks rapidly “That’s why it’s called ‘acting’, love,” she turns to Vox “Are we sure she’s right for the Vees?” she mumbles 

Vox shrugs “We kept Val,” they look to the moth who’s not at all paying attention, staring at one of his guns.

Velvette grabs Voe’s shoulders, Voe gets a bit stiff. “You need to make them believe you want to be there. Look them in the eyes, but not too much. You have to look uncomfortable with opening yourself up for the first time. Sprinkles some truth in with your lies, and make them trust you by making them believe you trust them,”

“Where did you learn this?”

Vel shrugs “I do that with every guy I fuck,”

Vox and Val turn to her “Wait, what?”

“Okay,” Voe starts “But it will seem very suspicious if I start being nice to him. I mean, I got in a fight with the guy,”

“Don’t be nice to him, be nice to everyone else.” she tells her “Don’t ignore him completely, just don’t engage,”

Voe opens her eyes wide “And that will irk him, cuz he hates being ignored,”

“Exactly! Little good mornings here, how do you do’s there. You know the drill,”

“Okay, I can do this,”

“Good,”

Vox steps up “So head back there now,”

“And when you get back tell them you were out on the town, thinking about your past actions and how they’ve affected people,”

“Got it,”

When Voe walks through those doors, she is immediately ambushed by Angel Dust

“You’re not working for them, are you?”

“What?”

“The Vees!”

“Don’t you work for the Vees? Why are you pressing me?”

“Do you work for them or not?”

She spins to face him “No! Okay? Vox offered me a job and I turned it down! There are you happy?”

“What about your lives?” 

“They sponsor me, but I don’t work for them! Geez,”

Angel stands with his arms crossed and Voe remembers what Velvette told her “Listen, Angel,” she puts her hand on one of his arms “I don’t want you to worry, I’m just fine, and I am fully committed to this Hotel and redemption. Okay?”

He seems less tense at that response “Alright, I’m still keeping an eye on you. Just be careful, all right?”

“I got it,”

The next morning during Charlie’s activity Voe stuck her hand straight up in the air.

“Oh Voe, you don’t have to raise your hand. Are you okay? You seem sad,”

Voe stands quietly, smoothing her dress down. She looks Charlie in the eye for a moment “I just wanted to say something to you, well, to everyone actually. I apologize for my recent behavior, there’s no better way to put it. I was a huge bitch.”

“True,” Angel comments

Voe angles her eyes downward “I’m…autistic and very low empathy, so I want to work to be kind to others despite that. I am from this moment on, fully committed to the betterment of myself and others! If you’ll allow me to try,” she looks back at Charlie who’s tearing up 

“Oh come here!” she envelopes Voe into a hug, slightly pushing her face into her boobs “Of course!” she shakes Voe in the hug. 

When she pulls back, Voe sits down and says “Thank you,” and nods once. She glances over at Alastor who is eyeing her with suspicion which she meets with her warm smile.

For the next few weeks, Voe decides to help around, attending each activity. At first, it was quite difficult to wake up at 8 every morning and engage with others, but she got used to it eventually. She found herself doing favors for people and raising her hand more and more. Alastor didn’t bother her really, he lurked around corners and stood in dark areas, like a creep. Especially when she was with Lucifer. Lucifer was the utmost gentleman she could have ever asked for, but their dates became more and more lackluster, at least from Voe’s perspective. Lucifer himself was having a blast. She somewhat missed her back and forth and fights. The sex was great, however. She somewhat wished they could just have sex and not talk. Lucifer showered her with gifts upon gifts, and she accepted them of course, but she was worried about the look in his eye that he got when he spoke to her. It almost felt…too intimate. 

Although…she thought, why was Alastor watching her when she was with Lucifer? She shook her head, he thought he was so clever and stealthy, but she could always see him, watching. She began to wonder what exactly he was staring at.

“Hello Alastor,” she spoke in passing to him

“Salutations, my dear,” he began “What’s this new game?” he asked right before she rounded the corner

Voe slowly turns around “Game?” she asks with a warm smile

“Yes, are you ignoring me now? Did I hurt your feelings?”

She turns to fully face him “I have no clue what you’re talking about, my good sir,”

He turns with his hands on his cane “How is your relationship with Lucifer doing? I’ve heard you too are officially together, at least that’s what he’s been saying,”

“Oh?”

“Is it untrue?”

“It’s not, I just wonder why it concerns you,”

He steps closer “I just can’t imagine how bored you must feel. All the compliments about your outfit that doesn’t match your shoes, or your hair with all the split ends, and your makeup that’s lighter than your skin tone,”

“It is not!”

He shrugs “Uhuh. But I guess you love that. The same every day, something like a broken record!”

“I’m sorry, what stake do you have in this?”

“Just trying to help you out,”

“How exactly?”

“Trying to save you from an endless relationship full of depression and ducks”

She steps toward him “And why would you want to save me?”

“Because I know that you are going to be terribly bored, and when one is terribly bored they explode. I wouldn’t want you to destroy our ‘fearless leader’,” he rolls his eyes

Voe snickers “Since when do you care about him? Or me?”

“Who says I care? I just find it entertaining to bother you! Nowadays, however, you’re just as boring as he is.”

“I am not boring,”

He blinks at her “Mhmm. I get bored just looking at you,”

Voe keeps her expression blank “So why are we having this conversation?”

“It’s the only fun thing to do with you,”

She smirks “I guarantee there are much more fun things that you could do with me,”

“I think this one’s the best!”

She shrugs “Well good day to you Alastor!” she waves him off

“Mhmmm!”

“And this one is named Kevin!”

“Do you name all of them?” she asked flatly

He mods and smiles “I named this one George, while this one is Georgia. They’re twins!”

“Oh wow,”

“Yeah! I made this one for Charlie’s 100th birthday! Oh, they grow up so fast! And this one is the magictastical backflipping rubber duck. That breathes fire!”

“Wow Lucifer, that’s so cool!”

He looks to her “I’m sorry, I know I’ve been talking about this for a while. Is there something you want to do?”

Voe smirks “Yes,” 

“Oh? What do you wanna do? We could watch a movie, or play some card games. Oh! I have another collection of ducks in the basement if you wanna see those. Honestly, I don’t know where the basement to this hotel is, and I-oh!”

While he spoke Voe dropped down onto her knees and unzipped his pants “Is this okay?” she asked, her voice sultry and smooth

“Y-yes,”

She pulls out his cock, thin, long, and white. She trails her fingers up and down the length of it and walks them up and down as well. “Is it okay if I put this in my mouth?”

Lucifer nods vigorously at the control she’s taken. She pumps the shaft a few times before kissing the tip of the penis and sliding it into her mouth. She bobs up and down on it as Lucifer sweats and his eyes back into his head

“Uh…Lilith,’

Voe pulls his cock out of her mouth with a loud ‘pop’ “What did you just call me?”

“Uh I uh I mean uh-“

She drops his cock and stands “I am…going to leave,”

His face falls “Yeah, I think that’s for the best,”

Did this man look her in the face and call out his ex’s name? This was the last straw, he wasn’t even interesting and the sex could be better and he dared to call someone else’s name!

Storming out of Lucifer’s room she bumps directly into Alastor’s chest “Oh my, you’re in such a rush. Do watch where you’re going, my dear,”

She sighs “I don’t have time for you,”

“Oh? Where are you headed?”

“None of your business,”

Alastor reaches out and grabs her arm “What’s wrong, my dear?”

“What?”

“What’s the matter?”

She furrows her brows in confusion “Why are you asking me that?”

“Because you are clearly distressed. Come,” he guides her to his radio tower and sits her down. Alastor turns on the radio and smooth jazz plays out of it. He sits down and turns to her, crossing his legs and putting his hands over his knees. “Would you like some coffee?”

“I hate coffee,”

He turns his lips up “My friend gave me some herbal tea, would you like that?”

She tilts her head “I would,”

He stands, humming to the soft jazz as he brews the tea. He bends over and the bottom of his coat raises a bit. Voe chuckles at the sight of his tiny butt and is shocked at the sight of something furry above it. Was that a tail? His handing her the tea broke her focus. She smiles and takes it, sipping gently and small. He sits back down. For a few moments, the only sound in the room is the music and her sips.

“Are you going to speak?”

“I was waiting for you to tell me what’s wrong. But we don’t always have to talk. We can sit in nice silence,”

The silence felt comfy, not at all like what it was with Lucifer. There didn’t have to be words; this was just fine. She continues to sip the tea. “Why are you suddenly interested in my feelings?”

He shrugs “You seemed upset, so I wanted to know what was happening,”

“So you’re a gossip?”

He grins “Guilty,”

Voe places the cup of tea to the side on an empty desk “If you must know, Lucifer and I were….intimate-“ Alastor chuckles and she glares at him playfully “And he said the former Queen’s name,”

Alastor begins laughing openly “Wow, he is much more pathetic than I thought,”

“I was quite insulted, as you can imagine,”

“Well you were in such a hurry, anyone could tell!”

“Well, now you know what was wrong,”

Alastor sits in silence and then speaks “I believe I should apologize to you for being so…..rude,”

“Oh?”

“I should not have said such rude things, and you were right. I don’t know you. And I think I might like to,”

“Really?”

“Yes really,”

Voe finishes her tea “How delightful!”

“I don’t think it’s that delightful. It’s very hard to apologize,”

“Well I’m not the one apologizing,” she grins

He grins back “Yes, it is very hard for me,”

Voe laughs “I do hope that if you are getting to know me, then the offer is turned the other way as well,”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d like to get to know you,”

“Fair enough,”

She crosses her legs “Wonderful, I have a question now actually,”

“Mmm, so eager,” his tone suspicious

Voe waves him off “Do you have a partner?”

Alastor blinks “I do not,”

“You don’t? Why not?”

He chuckles “And why do you care so much?”

“Well, you were interested in my love life,”

He sighs “I don’t see the point in having a lover. What would I do with them? I prefer to have friends,”

“Oh just ignore romance,”

“Oh, romance! Romance turns into betrayal and that turns into a messy situation,”

“A cynic, are you?” Alastor shrugs in response “So you’ve never engaged in anything, physical?”

He shakes his head “It never seemed to interest me,”

Voe leans back “Ask me something,”

He thinks for a moment “What do you do when you’re not here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you work, go for walks, or run errands?”

She nods “I like to walk and spend time alone, so I can properly think. It’s hard to when everyone is around and talking all the time and all at once,”

“Hmm, how strange. What is autism?” Voe smirks and doesn’t answer right away “Earlier you said you had it,”

“Autism is a developmental disability that affects how people learn, behave, communicate, and interact with others. It’s caused by brain differences,”

He thinks about it “Ahh, you’re like a little changeling!”

“No,”

“But that’s what changelings are,”

“Changelings are not real,”

“Of course they are! My mother used to tell me stories about them all the time! Fairies come in the night and replace your baby with one of theirs! My cousin was one!”

Voe gives him a blank stare “No, changelings…are not real. They are what uneducated people called autistic children,”

“Hmm! Well, I never knew that!”

“Now you know! Anything else you’d like to ask me Alastor?”

“Is Voe your real name?”

She chuckles some more “No,” she smirks

“What’s your name?”

Voe gives him coy eyes “Vera,”

“Oh! I think I like Vera much better,”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs

“May I say something?”

Voe sits forward “You may,”

“You are quite a beautiful lady,”

She blushes slightly and smiles “Thank you,”

“Anytime,”

“You’re not so bad looking yourself,”

“Tell me something I don’t know!”

She laughs at his wit “You can be very funny when you try,”

“I am hilarious,” he grins, his teeth on full display

Voe leans forward “May I say something to you?”

“Sure,”

“I may or may not enjoy our little ‘tit for tats’”

His eyes widen and so does his smile “I knew it!”

“Yes, I must say that I do enjoy somebody that doesn’t just let me be right,”

Alastor sits back “Ah yes, you enjoy the struggle and the fight. Well my dear, with me you will struggle for the rest of your life,” he smirks wide “At least until I say so,”

“Oooh until you say so? You think you have that much control?”

“I know I do,”

Voe takes the elevator down to Vox’s office, he’s focused on his screens when she appears “Vox!” she sings when she approaches him

“Yes?” he asks not looking away from the screens

“I was right, he’s a virgin!”

Vox begins to cackle as Voe puts her hands on his shoulders “Good,”

“Good what?” she starts massaging his shoulders

“He’ll be easier to destroy. Everyone knows virgins are sensitive little bitches,”

Voe continues to massage Vox’s shoulders as he moans into the feeling “How does that feel?”

“Pretty good,”

“Would you like me to keep going?”

“Yes, keep going baby girl,” he turns around and pulls her onto his lap to straddle him “Tell Daddy what else you found sweetie,” he bites his lip and closes his eyes as he places his hand on her lower back to keep her 

“Well, nothing yet,”

Vox grabs her face “Hey, what’s going on? Why is the process slowing down huh?”

“Well, I thought we were done,”

“I wanna tell you something, just because the project is finished, doesn’t mean we don’t prepare for other projects. Do you understand?” Voe nods “I’m sorry, you don’t know how to use that pretty little mouth of yours?”

“Yes,”

“Good. You’re such a good girl. You’re doing so good,” he wraps his fingers around her neck “Don’t make me have to punish you,”

Voe bleats in response “Okay,” her voice trembles

“You’re gonna get more for me hmm?”

“Yes,”

“Doesn’t sound very convincing,” he drags his tongue along her shoulder and up her neck

“I will,” her voice sounds stronger

“Good, because I’m serious. These little games, they get tiring. Get me the information I need, your else I will finger you so hard that I will fuck up your internal organs, then fuck you so hard you’ll rip in half. And I mean that, literally. Okay?”

“Okay,”

“Huh? I can’t hear you,”

“Okay,” she says louder 

“Okay? Okay, what?”

“Okay Vox,” her lips and thighs are trembling as his grip on her throat tightens

“You’re so hot,” he whispers into her ear before biting it

“Thank you,”

“Did I tell you to speak?” Voe doesn’t know whether or not she is meant to answer this question, as Vox leaves kisses on her arms and chest. “You’re so rude to talk when I’m talking,” She nods as he cups her breast and plays with it like Play-Doh. “Be a good girl and stay quiet,” and she nods once more.

Chapter 10>

[cer-rata]

A (long) review of the first 5 issues of Wonder Woman (2023) *Full Spoilers*

So I'm a bit of a lapsed comic fan. I grew up on my dad's collection of 90's comics and kept up on and off until the new 52 which did a lot that really put me off. And frankly Marvel wasn't doing much better so I kind of moved onto different fandoms and some smaller runs. Recently however I've decided to try to get back into the hobby more seriously, and while there have been some books that I've really enjoyed, there's been a lot of meh plots and inconsistent characterization pretty much everywhere across the major publishers.

But I was nonetheless excited to see a new Wonder Woman ongoing. Out of the trinity, Diana was always my favorite (a fact that I, as a little closeted boy, kept secret for years. More on that later) and I was aware of some of Tom King's works and was pretty impressed with his "Vision" run, so I was cautiously optimistic about the prospect of a popular modern writer giving Diana some love, and was hoping for a story with some modern nuance and uplifting fun.

The bag has been...mixed at best.

So I'm going to try to be fair about this, because writing genuinely good and transformative comics isn't easy, especially when your editorial is completely unhinged. That being said I do have some serious concerns that I think are really important to talk about.

I'm also lapsed so I haven't read everything religiously the past couple years, so if I get something about canon wrong please correct me in the notes.

I'm going to break this down into a couple of sections to help organize my thoughts. The art is gorgeous generally so I'm not going to spend too much time on that. Let's start with:

Plot

The name of this arc is Wonder Woman: Outlaw, and the first issue is devoted to setting up that premise. The action kicks off when an amazon gets into a bar fight with a group of sexist men, and ends up slaughtering every man in the establishment. The government reacts to this development poorly and ends up ordering the forced deportation of the Amazons that had settled in the states. We're given narration by a mysterious figure, detailing how Diana and her friends lobbied and fought against this obvious injustice but failed, laid over images of an Amazon resisting her deportation with violence, and being gunned down in front of her wife and daughter.

But how, you ask, was the government able to rush through this bizarre reactionary stunt?

Well you see, this is all a part of a scheme by the Sovereign, the CEO of sexism and an American "king" whose family has used the "Lasso of Lies" to control the country for it's entire existence. He showed up in WW #800 with Trinity seeking him out for information, which explains why he's narrating this story. A Wonder Woman book where she isn't the POV character? I'll get more into that later.

Anyway the Sovereign wants to run all of the amazons out of the country or kill them, whatever works, as he believes they're a threat to his rule and masculinity as a whole.

So he's in the background. The foreground antagonist is Sargent Steel, who's been tasked with leading the Amazon deportation and is actively hunting Diana, who he eventually corners as she's paying her respects to the men that the rogue amazon killed. He tries to assassinate her, obviously fails, and Diana extracts some information from him and begins her investigation. See it turns out that after running out of other options, she's trying to hunt down the rogue amazon and figure out what's going on in the hopes that she solve the tensions.

So that's the basic premise of the arc, Diana is trying to solve a murder mystery while being actively hunted by the government. It's not a bad premise on its own honestly, so I was intrigued. The first issue is pretty, well laid out and interesting. The problem is that the following issues don't really deliver on that premise.

Instead of detective!Diana, we spent issue #2 on a (gorgeous) fight with the actual US army, intercut with a flashback of Diana's trial by combat in order to leave Themyscira in the first place. It really is a beautiful issue that really drives home how much of a badass she is, especially since she ends up not killing anyone in the process. Somehow. She did throw tanks at people so...I'm not sure how she...anyway.

Issue #3 is Diana walking into Steel's base, bulldozing through all the security and then bullying him to get some more information about the case, where she finds out that the Amazon is pregnant. Intriguing right? Meanwhile we see the Sovereign showing a young soldier around his house, which is filled with old American historical artifacts. See he wants this kid to push the narrative that Wonder Woman emasculated him and took away his pride, but the soldier doesn't really care? He's actually excited to have fought a superhero and live, and he thinks she's cool. So that won't do, and we're shown the capabilities of the Lasso of Lies, as the Sovereign uses it to implant feelings of discontent and depression into the young soldier, while also ordering him to write a manifesto about Wonder Woman taking his manliness and then to...kill himself. The idea being to create some bad press and push public support away from Diana.

Issue #4 is my favorite in the run so far, devoting most of it's time to watching Diana give a terminally ill kid who idolizes her the best day of his life. I'll get into it when I talk about dialogue later but I think it's the truest depiction of Diana so far, you get to see her kindness, generosity and wisdom. There is a nice moment where she comforts the kid about destiny and soothes his feelings of otherness in the face of the expectation that he should be drawn to a male hero. It's really nice. But also kind of a strange decision in the scope of the plot. As much as I love this moment, I think her taking a day away from her mission of stopping this political disaster and being on the run to just hang out with a kid is...odd from a pacing standpoint. With the lack of effort she's shown so far in dealing with Steel and the machinations of the Sovereign, and the threat to the Amazons happening mostly off screen and with very limited access how Diana's feeling about it all because she's not the narrator, it all wraps up in not feeling very urgent. It's mentioned that she's trying to control her emotions and that makes sense in theory, but with the way she's drawn and written she just seems unbothered.

Meanwhile, Amanda Waller tells Steel that they're just going to throw all of Diana's villains at her and call it a day.

Issue #5 Deals with the Wonder Girls, Cassie, Donna and Yara trying to convince Diana to accept some help. She challenges them to trials where if they can beat her she'll allow them to assist. It's kind of a neat concept, but it highlights a strange piece of this characterization of Wonder Woman: her desire to work alone.

It's...very Batman of her in ways that don't make much sense in the narrative and in the broader scope of her characterization. And it would be more understandable if the conflict was more focused, Diana hunting down Cheetah to try to reform her, a more personal mission. But this literally involves all of her people and could lead to actual war between the states and Themysicra. It seems weirdly shortsighted for her to shun help from adult Women who she's trained and worked with in the past. The rationalization that she doesn't want to endanger them falls completely flat because they're already in danger.

Also what is Yara referring to here? She acts like there's history of them working together and it not working out. Why do they insist on trying to make her a Wonder Girl in the first place?

Anyway they all lose but then ignore the terms of the wager and show up in her apartment in their costumes, not taking no for an answer. And like that they ignored that foolishness, but then I'm bothered that we spent almost an entire issue on this pointless conflict that didn't really teach us anything useful.

But I did say almost, and the rest of the issue is devoted to Steel and the Sovereign convincing some of Diana's greatest foes to join up on a squad to take her down.

Which is...a choice. Don't get me wrong, it's a cool sequence, and It's not an unusual conceit in comics to collect a bunch of villains to take down their nemesis, but as far as I was aware, in this continuity:

Giganta and Silver Swan had buried the hatchet

Circe also helped Diana defeat the upside down man, and seemingly dropped her animosity (and...I...I thought she was trapped in a mirror. How did they get her out?) But regardless, why on earth would Circe agree to work for anyone, especially the US gov?

Grail was never that focused on Diana in the first place, but I could see her wanting to kill her for kicks, but again, why would she agree to work with lesser beings and take orders from mortals?

Angle man is nuts, so, sure

And Dr. Psycho does hate Wonder Woman with a passion so sure.

But this doesn't take into account that if they were to be written correctly, Circe or Grail on their own are justice league threats, and even with the Wonder Girls helping that would be an uphill battle. And then you add all the others, and factor in the dubious choices here in relation to established canon and it leaves me concerned that none of these villains are going to be used properly to their potential, or written in character. The idea that they were convinced to do this in the first place is hand-waved away, likely because there are no real persuasive arguments to get someone like Grail or Circe to job like this.

But enough of that tangent. This upcoming slug fest raises the question: What happened to the investigation into this rogue Amazon? 5 issues in and all we know is her name and that she's pregnant. Diana doesn't even know her name though, because if she did she'd realize that she actually knew the woman. So 5 issues in and the main plot has taken a backseat to watching Wonder Woman be a badass and including a bunch of villains. And don't get me wrong, I love a badass Wonder Woman. I was absolutely thrilled watching her go to work on people. But if you strip away those exciting set pieces and try to follow the plot and themes, there's not much substance there.

And you know, now that we've got an overview of what's happening, let's talk about the greater ideas here.

Themes

So King clearly wants to investigate misogyny in this book, with his villain Johnny Sexism. Uh. I mean, The Sovereign, an old white man who hates women and believes in the divine right of kings and wields the literal Lasso of Lies. And his unwitting sidekick, Military Industrial Complex Man, AKA Sargent Steel.

So it's not inherently bad to personify an social issue. Comics often work in shorthand like that. The issue I have here is that when you have a mastermind character who has manipulated everything behind the scenes, who is ALSO a caricature of a social problem, instead of providing interesting analysis of a systemic problem and its sources and methods, you instead attribute it all to One Evil Man. Which is painfully reductive and misguided. Sexism is complicated, much more complicated that one evil wizard deciding that women are the problem. It's like if you created a vampire slave owner who had been manipulating the country from the shadows and created the system of racism. It's bizarre and not really analysis to suggest that you can just solve social issues by stopping individual bad actors.

The bit with the soldier really crystalized this for me. We are given a kind man who has no misogynistic tendencies, and then the CEO of sexism forcibly implants it into his mind. He's shown personally bullying the president into submission, manipulating Steel, most overt examples of sexism can be tied directly to the Sovereign, which is a bizarre choice that really flattens the narrative weight. Couple that with the fact that the Sovereign is shown to be completely ill-equipped to actually stop Diana. She literally walks through all of his roadblocks, doesn't seem like she's out of control of the situation outside of the opening explanation that she wasn't able to save her sisters. The only real threat so far is the team of villains, and that's framed as Amanda Waller's plan. Why isn't she the villain of this book? And he's the narrator. In a book about sexism, immigration and tribalism, the voice we hear the most is that of the Sovereign. And he doesn't have anything particularity interesting to say. He's not scary, he doesn't seem particularly competent and he provides no interesting analysis so I'm left wondering, why are we centering his perspective over Diana's? In a book lead by a feminist icon, about the evils of sexism, we are completely locked out of her head. She barely gets a chance to speak, and when she does it's clipped and robotic. There's no personality, and certainly no continuity to her popular depictions. I'm all for writers reaching for topics, trying to make social commentary. Some of the best arcs we've ever gotten deal with real issues. But you have to A: Know what you're talking about and B: Actually talk about it. Sexism bad, men bad--it's not enough, it's not analysis, it's not revelatory and by creating such ridiculous caricatures of hyper masculinity, you make it very easy for the average male reader, who I assume you're trying to engage with, to separate themselves from the equation. It's thematic window dressing, and frustrating to see in a Wonder Woman book of all places. I don't think that only woman can write women, that's ridiculous and removes the responsibility to be better from male writers. But, if you're going to talk about social issues that apply to a group you're not a part of, you'd better know what you're talking about. Hell even if you're in that group you still have to know what you're talking about. This is feminism that starts and ends with "Sexism bad" and it's 2024, we have to be smarter about this.

That being said, I think issue #4 has bits of the right idea. Seeing Diana representing something greater than the sexist division that the world perpetuates is great. I felt incredibly seen as a little boy who loved Wonder Woman, and that moment of kindness meant a lot. We're given believable symptoms of sexism, from Jack's dad being uncomfortable with his son idolizing Diana. and Jack having internalized that judgement. It's handled gently and instead of just beating us over the head with obvious allegory, it shows us a taste of what Wonder Woman stands for: a better, more loving world. And it's mostly because it's the most insight that we get from her about how she thinks. The best part of the book about Wonder Woman is, shockingly, the part about Wonder Woman. Why can't we get more of that?

Dialogue

Man it's weird. King is clearly snappy, with a decent sense of humor. There's lots of fun exchanges in this book, particularly the backups, which I'll get to soon. He's pretty good at dialogue, which makes the way he writes Diana so bizarre. Awkward sentence structure, aloof characterization, the grating repeated use of "No thank you" as some sort of catch phrase. What? king has taken the warm beating heart of the trinity and made her distant and robotic. It's kind of impressive. And some of the rationale is that she's in emotional turmoil and trying to maintain appearances. But that's not reflected in the art at all, even when she's alone. We're told that she's conflicted and angry but almost never shown it. She feels like a side character in her own book most of the time. Speaking of side characters:

The Backups

So the running plot here is Damian Wayne and Jon Kent...babysitting? raising? Diana's daughter Lizzie Prince, who is eventually known as the hero Trinity in the future. And it's cute, particularly when they're all younger. King really gets Damian and Jon's characterization and writes some really fun exchanges.

Issue #4 and #5's backups are a little weaker but still really fun.

So my question is...why is the best characterization in this Wonder Woman book the backups starring the Supersons? I love the Supersons! Why are they here? Why would Diana choose them to watch her daughter? Why isn't she on Themyscira or being watched by any of her adult friends, especially those who have actual experience with children? It's fun but feels shoehorned and poorly reasoned. Honestly? I get the feeling that king wants to write this more than he does the main book, and it's mind boggling, because I wouldn't hate him writing supersons, and his version of Jon is the most Jon we've gotten in a while. So why is he writing Wonder Woman?

Conclusion

I think I'll keep reading, mostly to fuel my desire to see what they do with her actual villains, but it's not the smart book I was hoping for. It takes pretty big liberties with characterization and recent canon and there's not much actual commentary to find here. The art and the action are incredible, but the story that should be supporting it is pretty anemic and frustrating, with moments of genuine quality that makes the rest of the book even more disappointing.

Honestly? Just read Amazons Attack instead. Better dialogue, better pacing, better characterization, just more fun.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

We should ban TikTok('s surveillance)

With the RESTRICT Act, Congress is proposing to continue Trump’s war on Tiktok, enacting a US ban on the Chinese-owned service. How will they do this? Congress isn’t clear. In practice, banning stuff on the internet is hard, especially if you don’t have a national firewall:

https://doctorow.medium.com/theyre-still-trying-to-ban-cryptography-33aa668dc602

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/30/tik-tok-tow/#good-politics-for-electoral-victories

My guess is that they’re thinking of ordering the mobile duopoly of Google and Apple to nuke the Tiktok app from their app stores. That’s how they do it in China, after all: when China wanted to ban VPNs and other privacy tools, they just ordered Apple to remove them from the App Store, and Apple rolled over:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/11/foreseeable-consequences/#airdropped

That’s the completely foreseeable consequence of arrogating the power to decide which software every mobile user on earth is entitled to use — as Google and Apple have done. Once you put that gun on the mantelpiece in Act I, you damn betcha that some strong-man backed by a powerful state is going to come along and shoot it by Act III.

The same goes for commercial surveillance: once you collect massive, nonconsensual dossiers on every technology user alive, you don’t get to act surprised when cops and spies show up and order your company to serve as deputies for a massive, off-the-books warrantless surveillance project.

Hell, a cynic might even say that commercial surveillance companies are betting on this. The surveillance public-private partnership is a vicious cycle: corporations let cops and spies plunder our data; then the cops and spies lobby against privacy laws that would prevent these corporations from spying on us:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/25/nationalize-moderna/#hun-sen

Which makes the RESTRICT Act an especially foolish project. If the Chinese state wants to procure data on Americans, it need not convince us to install Tiktok. It can simply plunk down a credit card with any of the many unregulated data-brokers who feed the American tech giants the dossiers that the NSA and local cops rely on.

Every American tech giant is at least as bad for privacy as Tiktok is — yes, even Apple. Sure, Apple lets its users block Facebook spying with a single tap — but even if you opt out of “tracking,” Apple still secretly gathers exactly the same kinds of data as Facebook, and uses it to power its own ad product:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

There is no such thing as a privacy-respecting tech giant. Long before Apple plastered our cities with lying billboards proclaiming its reverence for privacy, Microsoft positioned itself as the non-spying alternative to Google, which would be great, except Microsoft spies on hundreds of millions of people and sells the data:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/11/25/the-peoples-amazon/#clippys-revenge

Tech’s surveillance addiction means that Tiktok’s own alternative to the RESTRICT Act is also unbelievably stupid. The company has proposed to put itself under Oracle’s supervision, letting Oracle host its data and audit its code. You know, Oracle, the company that built the Great Firewall of China 1.0:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2010/01/selling-china-surveillance

We should not trust Tiktok any more than we trust Apple, Facebook, Google or Microsoft. Tiktok lied about whether it was sending data to China before:

https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/emilybakerwhite/tiktok-tapes-us-user-data-china-bytedance-access

And even if it keeps its promise not to send user data to China, that promise is meaningless — it can still send the vectors and models it creates with that data to China — these being far more useful for things like disinformation campaigns and population-scale inferences than the mere logs from your Tiktok sessions.

There are so many potentially harmful ways to process commercial surveillance data that trying to enumerate all the things that a corporation is allowed to do with the data it extracts from us is a fool’s errand. Instead, we should ban companies from spying on us, whether they are Chinese or American.

Corporations are remorseless, paperclip-maximizing colony organisms that perceive us as inconvenient gut-flora, and they lack any executive function (as do their “executives”), and they cannot self-regulate. To keep corporations from harming us, we must make it illegal for them to enact harm, and punish them when they break the law:

https://doctorow.medium.com/small-government-fd5870a9462e

After all, the problem with Tiktok isn’t the delightful videos or the fact that it’s teaching a generation of children to be expert sound- and video-editors. The problem with Tiktok is that it spies on us. Just like the problem with Facebook isn’t that it lets us communicate with our friends, and the problem with Google isn’t that it operates a search engine.

Now, these companies will tell you that the two can’t be separated, that a bearded prophet came down off a mountain with two stone tablets, intoning, “Larry, Sergey, thou shalt stop rotating thine logfiles and, lo, thou wilt data-mine them for actionable market intelligence.” But it’s nonsense. Google ran for years without surveillance. Facebook billed itself as the privacy-forward alternative to Myspace and promised never to spy on us:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=3247362

The inevitabilist narrative that says that corporations must violate our rights in order to make the products we love is unadulterated Mr Gotcha nonsense: “Yet you participate in society. Curious. I am very intelligent”:

https://thenib.com/mister-gotcha/

Of course, corporations push this narrative all the time, which is why American Big Tech has been quietly supporting a ban on Tiktok, which (coincidentally) has managed to gain a foothold in the otherwise impregnable, decaying, enshittified oligarchy that US companies have created.

They have conspicuously failed to call for any kind of working solution, like a federal privacy law that would ban commercial surveillance, and extend a “private right of action,” so people could sue tech giants and data-brokers who violated the law, without having to convince a regulator, DA or Attorney General to bestir themselves:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/01/you-should-have-right-sue-companies-violate-your-privacy

Instead, the tech giants have the incredible gall to characterize themselves as the defenders of our privacy — at least, so long as the Chinese government is the adversary, and so long as its privacy violations come via an app, and not buy handing a credit card to the data-brokers that are the soil bacteria that keeps Big Tech’s ecosystem circulating. In the upside-down land of Big Tech lobbying, privacy is a benefit of monopoly — not something we have to smash monopolies to attain:

https://www.eff.org/wp/interoperability-and-privacy

Not everyone in Congress is onboard with the RESTRICT Act. AOC has come out for a federal privacy law that applies to all companies, rather than a ban on an app that tens of millions of young Americans love:

https://www.businessinsider.com/aoc-first-tiktok-congress-ban-without-being-clued-in-2023-3

You know who agrees with AOC? Rand Paul. Yes, that absolute piece of shit. Paul told his caucusmates in the GOP that banning an app that millions of young American voters love is bad electoral politics. This fact is so obvious that even Rand fucking Paul can understand it:

https://gizmodo.com/rand-paul-opposes-tiktok-ban-warns-republicans-1850278167

Paul is absolutely right to call a Tiktok ban a “national strategy to permanently lose elections for a generation.” The Democrats should listen to him, because the GOP won’t. As between the two parties, the GOP is far more in thrall to the Chamber of Commerce and the rest of the business lobby. They are never going to back a policy that’s as good for the people and as bad for big business as a federal privacy law.

The Democrats have the opportunity to position themselves as “the party that wants to keep Tiktok but force it to stop being creepy, along with all the other tech companies,” while the GOP positions itself as “the party of angry technophobes who want to make sure that any fun you have is closely monitored by Mark Zuckerberg, Sundar Pinchai and Tim Cook and their pale imitations of the things you love about Tiktok.”

That’s not just good electoral politics — it’s good policy. Young voters aren’t going to turn out to the polls for performative Cold War 2.0 nonsense, but they will be pissed as hell at whoever takes away their Tiktok.

And if you do care about Cold War 2.0, then you should be banning surveillance, not Tiktok; the Chinese government has plenty of US dollars at its disposal to spend in America’s freewheeling, unregulated data markets — as do criminals, petty and organized, and every other nation-state adversary of the USA.

The RESTRICT Act is a garbage law straight out of the Clinton era, a kind of King Canute decree that goes so far as to potentially prohibit the use of VPNs to circumvent its provisions. America doesn’t need a Great Firewall to keep itself safe from tech spying — it needs a privacy law.

Have you ever wanted to say thank you for these posts? Here’s how you can: I’m kickstarting the audiobook for my next novel, a post-cyberpunk anti-finance finance thriller about Silicon Valley scams called Red Team Blues. Amazon’s Audible refuses to carry my audiobooks because they’re DRM free, but crowdfunding makes them possible.

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[Image ID: A modified vintage editorial cartoon. Uncle Sam peeks out over a 'frowning battlement' whose cannon-slots are filled with telescopes from which peer the red glaring eyes of HAL 9000 from '2001: A Space Odyssey.' Topping the battlements in a row are Uncle Sam and three business-suited figures with dollar-sign-bags for heads. The three dollar-bag men have corporate logos on their breasts: Facebook, Google, Apple. Standing on the strand below the battlements, peering up, is a forlorn figure with a Tiktok logo for a head. The fortress wall bears the words 'RESTRICT Act.']