#so humiliating having to look up what to tag each time just to make sure this gets notes LOLLLLL

[manchesterau]

one direction in st. louis (2/2)

[luvsupa]

tags: chef!geto x married!reader, cheating (don’t do this guys), naoya is readers husband, food play(ish), geto has tattoos + purple eyes, smut (kinda), mdni,

w.c: 1.9k

+ finally this is out of my drafts 🙂‍↕️

“i’ve hired a new chef.” your husband, naoya, announces coldly from the other end of the long, polished dining table. the sharp clink of cutlery echoes through the grand dining room as you both eat the meal your private chefs had meticulously prepared—medium rare wagyu steak with truffle mashed potatoes and buttered asparagus, the kind of meal that screams luxury. but his voice grates on you, cutting through your attempt to enjoy the evening.

you grip your knife tightly, scraping it against your plate in irritation, barely tasting the food. naoya’s eyes finally flick up from his plate, narrowing as he notices your silence. his leg bounces under the table, the tension radiating off him as he grows impatient with you ignoring him. 

“i’m speaking to you, woman,” he snaps through gritted teeth, barely holding back his annoyance.

you drop your utensils with a clatter, meeting his icy gaze. “and i’m listening. another chef, huh? what is this, the eighth or ninth employee you’ve hired just to fuck behind my back?”

naoya leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. his tongue rolls against his cheek, a clear sign that you’ve struck a nerve. but instead of shame, he’s amused.

“whatever happens between me and my staff is none of your concern,” he says smoothly, his arrogance on full display. “and this time, i’ve hired a male chef. try not to spread your legs for him the way you do for everyone else.”

the words sting, but they’re nothing new. his chuckle follows as he tosses his dirty napkin onto his half-eaten plate and stands, casually loosening his tie from his work suit. “slut,” he mutters under his breath as he walks out of the dining room, leaving you with the hollow clink of his footsteps fading in the distance.

you stare down at your left hand weighed down by stacks and stacks of luxurious jewelry—gifts from naoya, from a time when he at least pretended to love you. the massive diamond on your ring finger feels heavy, a cruel reminder of the life you thought you’d have. a life where you were cherished, not ignored and humiliated.

but that was before the affairs. before he cheated on you with everyone from his secretaries to the maids. you’ve tried to leave him more than once, but his connections, his power—he’s made it clear he’ll destroy you if you ever walk away. 

and so you stay, trapped in this gilded cage.

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

the next morning, you wake up tangled in silk sheets, the rich fabric cool against your skin. you turn to the clock on the nightstand—9:40 a.m. naoya is already gone, no doubt having left hours earlier for work. good, you think. it’s better that way. waking up to his smug face would only ruin your morning.

slipping into your soft slippers, you wrap yourself in a sheer lilac robe, its light fabric brushing against your bare skin as you make your way to the bathroom. after freshening up, you take extra care with your skincare routine and hair, making sure you look more presentable than you did when you woke up.

the enticing aroma of freshly baked pastries and pancakes floats through the air as you descend the grand, floating staircase—something you’d begged naoya to have built when you first moved in.

you walk into the kitchen, expecting to see one of the female chefs who probably has a history with your husband. but instead, you freeze mid-greeting.

“good morning, rina—oh…” your words trail off as your eyes land on a tall, muscular man in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with an ease that seems almost hypnotic. his back is turned to you, but you can’t help but admire the way his broad shoulders stretch the black tank top—no, wife beater—that clings to his frame. you can see the muscles in his arms flex with each movement, glistening in the soft morning light streaming through the tall windows. his long, dark hair is tied up in a neat bun, and his discarded chef’s jacket hangs over the back of a chair.

he turns at the sound of your voice, a warm smile spreading across his lips, and you’re suddenly struck by how impossibly handsome he is. it’s not just his looks—it’s his presence. confident and utterly intoxicating. your mouth goes dry as you try not to ogle him, but it’s impossible. fuck, he looks good.

“ah, good morning, mrs. zenin. apologies for the late breakfast,” he says smoothly, his voice deep and velvety, and you have to lean more into the wall for support.

you quickly correct him by letting him no the preferred name rather than naoya’s evil surname. “a-and, there’s no need to be so formal…?,” you drag on for his chance to introduce himself.

“such a beautiful name,” he compliments, sending a shiver down your spine. you feel like a teenage girl speaking to her crush for the first time. “i’m geto suguru.”

suguru. you roll the name over in your mind,

“do… do you need any help, suguru?” you offer, your voice barely above a whisper. you step closer to him, drawn in by his presence. his cologne is subtle, but it clogs your mind, intoxicating you as you catch the scent of sandalwood and something dark and sensual.

he looks down at you, smirking at your shy demeanor. “you wanna help, pretty?” his eyebrow quirks as he motions you to join him, and you nod, as the petname made you all happy.

he motions you to move to his other side but as you follow- your gaze catches something else—tattoos. a full sleeve, intricate designs snaking up his toned arm. your mouth goes dry again as your eyes linger, tracing the ink and the way it contrasts against his skin.

he notices, of course, and chuckles. “got these during a… phase. not really proud of it,” he admits casually, his voice smooth as silk.

“i think they’re attractive,” you say softly, barely able to look him in the eye as you flirt back.

his smirk widens, and he turns back to the stove, pouring a decent amount of pancake batter onto the pan. the butter sizzles, filling the air with the rich, delicious scent of breakfast. “i think you’re attractive,” he murmurs, “shame you’re already married.”

his words hit you like a punch to the gut, a reminder of naoya, of the life you’re stuck in. your smile falters, and geto notices, his sharp eyes catching every little reaction.

“is that whipped cream?” you ask quickly, desperate to change the subject, trying to pull yourself together.

“just finished,” he replies, turning down the heat on the jam. his voice is low, smooth, teasing. “wanna taste?”

you nod, unable to resist the pull of his presence. geto steps closer, his gaze never leaving yours as he dips his finger into the whipped cream. slowly, he brings it to his mouth. his lips part, his tongue gliding over his finger as he sucks the cream off, savouring it with a soft, sensual hum. his eyes flutter shut, and the moment feels intimate—too intimate.

your lips part slightly, unable to look away from the sight of him. his finger glistens as he pulls it from his mouth, the motion slow, deliberate, teasing you without a single word. he dips back into the bowl, scooping up a thick, generous glob of cream, his eyes darkening with desire.

“say ahh, baby,” he whispers, his voice so low, it’s almost a growl, holding his finger near your lips.

your breath catches, your glossed lips parting eagerly as you wait for him to feed you, heat pooling between your thighs at the way he’s looking at you. but instead, his hand accidentally slips, the cold cream falling between your breasts, slowly trickling down your cleavage.

you gasp at the shock of it, the cold against your heated skin sending a shiver through you.

“oh… i’m sorry,” he murmurs, though the wicked smirk curling at his lips tells you he’s anything but. “mah i clean that up?” he politely asks as you mutter out a soft, yes, as he smirks.

before you can fully process anything, his large hands are on you, lifting you effortlessly onto the cool marble counter. your breath hitches as your robe falls open slightly, the flimsy material slipping down your shoulders, baring more of your chest. geto positions himself between your legs, his gaze locked on your cleavage, his tongue slowly wetting his lips.

you tremble above him, his body so close, the heat of him making you dizzy. he leans in, his breath warm against your skin as his fingers slowly push more of the fabric of your robe, exposing the thin top beneath. his eyes darken with hunger as he takes in the sight of you.

with agonizing slowness, he lowers his head, his long tongue sliding up the valley between your breasts, collecting the cream in long, deliberate licks. the sensation sends a shock of pleasure through you, and your head falls back, a soft moan escaping your lips. he moves up to your neck, sucking gently on the sensitive skin, leaving hot, wet kisses. fuck, you didn’t realize how touch deprived you were until now- especially being in his presence is making your cunt quiver.

his hands glide up your body, one gripping your waist while the other cups your breast. your eyes flutter at the intensity as your breathing quickens as he kneads your breast through the thin fabric of your top. you let out a broken moan as he sucks harder at your neck while simultaneously pinching and twisting your erect nipples between his experienced fingers as his tongue continues its sinful path along your throat. and oh, the sweet melodies of your moans escaping your mouth does something to geto. he feels his work pants get tighter and tighter the more you let out your moans. fuckk he thinks it’s beyond pathetic how something so minimal is making him this hard.

“m-more,” you plead breathlessly, your voice a desperate whisper.

geto chuckles against your neck, his lips brushing your ear. “does your husband even know how fucking needy you are?” he taunts, his voice thick with amusement. his fingers pinch your nipple harder, drawing a gasp from you. “how much you crave this? how desperate you are to be touched like this?”

you shake your head, unable to form words, your body arching into his touch, wanting everything he can give. but just when you think he’s about to give in to your pleas, he pulls back, his heat leaving you suddenly cold as he turns his attention back to the stove, his movements casual as if nothing had just happened.

your eyes fly open in disbelief, your body still trembling, aching for him. he flips the pancakes calmly, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as though you hadn’t just been begging him for more.

“i-i didn’t get a taste,” you whine softly, your voice thick with need, still perched on the counter, your legs open, desperate for him.

he glances back at you, a knowing grin spreading across his face as he finishes preparing you your breakfast as he turns around, hands you a beautifully plated dish of pancakes, the whipped cream and fresh jam. “i don’t want the food- i want you,” you whine as he places the food beside you.

“you can’t always get what you want, spoiled brat.” you huff in frustration, your body still burning for him, but before you can say a word, he leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

“maybe i’ll let you have more when you learn some manners, hmm?” 

[wholoveseggs]

would you ever do a story like Y/N is at a bar and some guy wont stop flirting with her and Elijah sees it and gets mad?

Insatiable

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

You are at the club with the Mikaelsons, and your husband Elijah gets a little jealous when someone else hits on you.

♡♡ Thank you for the request sweet @nerdygamer829! I love writing possessive Elijah, and I would love to party with the Mikaelsons ♡♡

♡♡ Working on another fic i'll be posting tomorrow! Its a sweet domestic Elijah one ~xoxo ♡♡

3.9k words - Warnings: smuttt, possesive!elijah, dom!elijah, lots of drinking, drunk mikaelsons, drunk reader, public sex, rough sex, fingering, grinding, slight humiliation, exhibitionism, biting, blood drinking && dancing...

@gorgeouslydangerous @starkleila @lydia1369sworld @notleylaaa @vampiresluv

@myanmy @xflowerbombxo @maryvibess @always-and-forever-daydreaming

@spnaquakindgdom @amournoir @meeom @damienmorton @wickedmuse

@cs-please @complicatedandconfusing-25 @youcanhavemybuckanyday @akala6670229 @yeaiamme2

@itsjulzandmydiamonds @spideysbabe @witch-of-letters @elijahstwink @rosecentury

@amanda08319 @starshipcookie @li-da-savage @veggie-eggrolls @spideybv28

@sunkissedebony97 @idk00sblog @savannaounana @sekaishell @b1tchy

@loving-and-dreaming @fancycassie-stayfancy @hcqwxrtss123 @iamawkwardandshy @ziayamikaelson

@absolutemarveltrash @darkened-writer

Partying with the Mikaelsons was always a dangerous game, but one you would play on the regular. They were a fun group who could be a little wild in their partying ways, and if you weren't careful you would end up getting swept away with the craziness of the night.

Rebekah had convinced you to come out with them to a popular nightclub that was filled with sweaty bodies and the smell of alcohol and cheap perfume. She had been a bit mopey for a couple of days, having gotten into a fight with Marcel, so she decided a night out was just what she needed. When Klaus and Kol joined you both in the club, the night quickly devolved from there.

"Come on darling, drink up!" Klaus urged, handing you another shot of vodka.

You shook your head and held up a hand to refuse the drink. "Nope, I think I've had enough."

Klaus scoffed and shoved the drink into your hand. "Come now, sweetheart. I'll make sure you're not hungover, just have fun for once."

"You always say that, and I'm always hungover." You sighed, but then you proceeded to down the shot.

You winced as the alcohol burned the back of your throat and then slammed the empty glass down onto the counter. Klaus chuckled and shook his head at your pained expression. He signaled to the bartender for two more shots and handed you another, raising his own glass in a toast.

"To our night of debauchery." Klaus smirked, tipping his glass towards you before taking his shot.

You chuckled and then did the same. This time you managed to keep from making a face at the strong taste of the liquor. Rebekah came over and wrapped her arm around your shoulder, looking rather drunk. She was a giggly, happy drunk, and always wanted to dance.

"I love you, you know that right?" Rebekah said, leaning heavily on you.

You smiled and patted her arm. "Yeah, I know, I love you too, Rebekah."

"No, but … like … I really love you. You're the best thing that happened to my brother," she explained, nodding her head as she spoke.

Klaus and Kol snickered and Rebekah looked at them in confusion. "What? It's true! She is sooooo good for him. They're perfect for each other."

You rolled your eyes and took Rebekah's drink from her, making her frown. "Hey, I was drinking that."

"No more for you," you replied, giving her a stern look and handing it to Kol without even looking his way. He dutifully drank it back in one gulp and handed the empty glass to Klaus who shook his head and gave it to a random person walking by.

"Come on, let's dance, yeah?" you suggested, taking Rebekah's arm off your shoulder and dragging her to the dancefloor.

The two of you danced for a few songs until Rebekah got bored and went off to find some poor sucker to bite. You weren't really a fan of dancing alone, so you went looking for Klaus and Kol, but they were nowhere to be found. Eventually, you gave up and decided to head over to the bar for another drink.

You pushed through the throng of people and managed to get to the front. Leaning against the bar, you waved the bartender over and ordered a whiskey. You were really starting to feel the effects of the alcohol, your head buzzing and your movements a little slower than normal. You felt a warm hand on your lower back, you were about to turn and see who it was when the familiar voice of your husband sounded next to your ear.

"On me," he said to the bartender and the man nodded.

You looked over at Elijah and smiled. "You're late,"

Elijah took the drink from the bartender and handed it to you, leaning in to kiss you. "Just fashionably so."

You rolled your eyes and took a sip of the whiskey, relishing the burn as it went down your throat. Elijah wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you close to him, his hand settling on your hip. You looked up at him and smiled. He was so handsome, especially with the way the lights in the club cast shadows across his face and the way he was so casually dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt.

"You look good," you told him, placing a hand on his chest and looking up at him.

He smirked, leaning down to kiss you. "So do you. I don't think I've ever seen you in this dress before."

"It's Rebekah's, and she was determined I wear it," you replied, smoothing down the fabric that hugged your curves.

His dark eyes seemed to smolder as they roamed over your body, his hand sliding lower on your hip. He signaled the bartender for a drink of his own, keeping his other arm firmly around your waist, holding you close to his side. He was always so protective, especially in public. It was almost as if he was afraid someone would steal you away if he wasn't paying attention.

You finished your drink and set the glass down on the bar, leaning against Elijah's side and placing your hand on his chest. You could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt, and you looked forward to the end of the night without the barrier of clothing between the two of you. Elijah had only arrived moments before, and already your body was reacting to his presence.

Klaus and Kol had returned and joined the two of you at the bar, the three of them discussing something that you weren't really interested in. Elijah's hand stayed on your hip the whole time, his thumb gently rubbing circles on your skin. You could feel the alcohol flowing through your veins, making your skin hot and your head fuzzy. You wanted to dance again, but this time with your husband.

"Come on," you tugged at Elijah's shirt, trying to pull him towards the dancefloor.

"I'll meet you out there, just a moment," he replied, turning back to the conversation with his brothers.

You huffed and gave him a look. "I'll just go dance with Rebekah, then."

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye and smirked. You knew he wasn't a fan of the way people danced in clubs, he preferred something more formal, but you didn't care. You wanted to dance, and if he wasn't going to join you, then you'd just have to find someone else.

You made your way out to the dance floor, weaving through the throng of sweaty bodies. The music was loud, the bass thumping, and the air was thick with heat and lust. It was the perfect atmosphere for letting loose and having fun.

You couldn't find Rebekah, but you didn't let that stop you from moving your hips to the music. The alcohol made everything feel better, the sensations more intense, the beat of the music throbbing in your veins.

You felt a pair of hands on your hips, and you turned your head to see who it was. The guy was tall, with tattoos all over, his eyes raking over your body appreciatively. He smiled and began moving with you, his hands sliding up your sides, pulling you closer to him.

"You're gorgeous," he said in your ear.

You giggled, the alcohol making you more receptive than usual to a stranger's advances. His hands were firm and sure, and the way he moved his body was almost hypnotic. You felt yourself relaxing in his arms, allowing him to guide you as you danced.

"What's your name, gorgeous?" he asked, his voice low and raspy.

"Ohh that's a good question," you giggled again, feeling a little tipsy from all the alcohol you had consumed. "My friends call me (Y/N), but you can call me whatever you want."

The guy grinned, his eyes flashing with a predatory gleam. "(Y/N), huh? That's a pretty name."

You smiled, your head swimming with the buzz of alcohol. You were enjoying the attention, Elijah was always so busy lately that you rarely got any one on one time. You hadn't had sex in over a month, and the thought of it made your body ache with need.

The guy's hands wandered, sliding over your hips and ass, and you let him. He was attractive, and you were feeling reckless.

"Let me buy you a drink," he offered, his breath hot on your neck.

"Sure," you agreed, following him to the bar.

He ordered two shots of vodka, and you eagerly took yours. He chuckled and took his own, his eyes never leaving your face. He suddenly leaned in to kiss you, but you quickly deflected, turning your head so that his lips landed on your cheek instead.

You giggled nervously, feeling a little guilty for leading him on. "Sorry, I'm married,"

He didn't seem put off, smiling and shrugging. "So? I'm not going to tell."

You laughed and shook your head, trying to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks. You were a little flustered, and the alcohol was making your thoughts cloudy.

The guy placed his hand on your lower back, leaning in to speak in your ear. "Just one more drink, that's all I'm asking for."

This had gone a bit too far, and you were starting to get uncomfortable. "No, I'm sorry. I have to go,"

"You don't have to be such a bitch about it," he snapped, his hand tightening on your waist.

You pulled away from him, and his grip tightened, causing you to wince. He had switched up on you so fast, his tone and demeanor changing, and you knew you had to get away from him.

"Let go of me," you demanded, trying to pull away.

He refused to let go, his other hand moving to your ass, squeezing it roughly. You were getting angry now, and you were about to slap him across the face when your husband's voice sounded behind you.

"I suggest you let go of my wife, or else I will rip out your spine and beat you with it." Elijah growled, his hand coming down hard on the guy's wrist, breaking his hold on you.

The guy cursed, rubbing his wrist and backing up, holding his hands up in surrender. "Whoa, man, chill out. We were just having some fun."

Elijah grabbed the guy by the front of his shirt and yanked him forward, his eyes dark and full of fury. "You will never lay a hand on her again, is that understood?"

The guy nodded frantically, his eyes wide with fear. Elijah released him, shoving him away roughly. You watched as the guy disappeared into the crowd, and then turned back to face your husband.

Elijah looked furious, his eyes hard and his jaw clenched tightly. He had clearly seen what happened, and he wasn't pleased. You were worried he was angry at you for being so reckless, and you braced yourself for a lecture.

Instead he took your hand and led you through the crowd, not quite sure where he was taking you. The club was big, with several floors, and a variety of rooms. He finally found a quiet area on the second floor, overlooking the dancefloor, and turned to face you.

He didn't say a word, he just grabbed you by your waist and pushed you against the wall. His lips were on yours in an instant, rough and demanding, a stark contrast to his usual gentle way with you. 

His hand slid down your leg and pulled it up to hook around his hip, pressing his hardening cock against you. He was really worked up, and you couldn't deny the way it made your body respond, a bolt of pleasure shooting straight to your core.

"You're mine," he growled, grabbing your other leg and lifting you up, wrapping them around his hips.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, stroking the back of his neck to comfort him. "He... I... Just took it too far."

He nodded, a soft, possessive growl rumbling in his chest. "I saw you dancing, watching you grind against another man nearly drove me crazy."

You chuckled, running your fingers through his hair. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his eyes dark with lust. He was breathing heavily, his body pressed against yours, his hands holding you tightly, keeping you in place.

"I'm sorry, 'Lijah," you mumbled, trying to hide your smile.

His eyes narrowed, slowly smiling back at you. "You're not sorry at all."

He was right, you weren't sorry, not when his body was so close to yours, his hands all over you. He only behaved this way when you pushed his buttons in just the right way, and tonight you were happy to see his rough possessive side come out to play.

You chewed on your bottom lip, trying to look innocent. "No, not even a little bit,"

He smirked, shaking his head, his lips brushing over yours. "I know how much you like it when I show you who you belong to," he spoke softly, his hands sliding up your thighs pushing your dress up to expose your panties.

You shuddered, your heart racing in anticipation. "Yes, and tonight I think I really need a reminder."

He pressed his thumb against your clothed cunt, rubbing it in a slow, agonizing circle, making your toes curl. "We'll see how much you need to be reminded once I'm done with you,"

There was a dark promise in his eyes, and you couldn't wait to see what he had in store for you. He tore off your panties in one quick motion, stuffing them into his back pocket. His hand returned between your legs, finding your clit and circling it with agonizing slowness.

"Tell me, did he make you wet?" He asked, leaning in to suck on the flesh of your neck, his tongue tracing patterns on your skin.

"N-no..." you breathed, your hips bucking against his hand, trying to get more friction.

He chuckled at your desperation, his fingers sliding lower, "so this wet little pussy is all for me?"

"Just you," you whined, trying to keep quiet despite the throbbing need growing between your thighs.

He smirked, sliding a finger into your soaking cunt. You moaned, letting your head fall back against the wall, your eyes fluttering closed. He continued to slowly finger fuck you, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in a slow, firm circle.

"Please..." you whispered, your hips grinding against his hand.

"Please, what?" He asked, his voice a low growl.

"More," you breathed, unable to form complete sentences.

His hand went to your throat, squeezing lightly, his thumb resting on your pulse point. Your heart was racing, and your breath was coming in short gasps, your body aching for release. He added a second finger, his movements becoming faster, more urgent, his eyes never leaving your face.

You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing with anticipation. Your hips moved in time with his fingers, your hands gripping his shoulders, holding yourself steady.

He suddenly pulled his hand away, your eyes snapping open at the loss of sensation. You were about to complain when he squeezed your throat again, harder this time. He leaned in and pressed his lips to yours in a heated, passionate kiss, his body flush with yours, using his hips to pin you against the wall.

He used his free hand to unzip his jeans, pulling his cock out, smirking as you felt it press against your stomach. He didn't take his hand from your throat, merely used his grip to hold you in place.

You realized how exposed you both were, anyone could come up here, or look up from the dancefloor below and see your lewd display.

"Elijah... Wait, not here..."

"Not here?" He asked, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Not here where anyone can see how desperate you are for me?"

Your face heated up at his words, and you looked away, trying to avoid his piercing gaze. He suddenly gripped your chin, forcing you to

"Eli...," you whispered, looking up at him from under your eyelashes, trying to convince him to stop, pressing your hands into his chest.

"That's what makes it so much fun," he smirked.

Your eyes went wide when you realized there was no changing his mind. He was determined to fuck you, right here in the club, where anyone could see and it was turning you on more than it should.

He could sense your unease mixed with your arousal, he kissed you, softer this time, but no less urgent.

"I won't let anything happen to you, my love," he whispered against your lips, his hands moving to grab your hips. "Now spread your legs."

You hesitated for a moment, your heart pounding, and then did as he asked. He lifted you up, his hands cupping your ass, pulling you closer to him. You felt the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and you moaned, your eyes closing as he eased into you.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his fangs scraping across your sensitive skin, his hips rocking slowly, pushing himself deeper inside of you. You could hear him breathing heavily, groaning softly as he filled you completely.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, your hands clutching at his shoulders, his skin hot beneath your fingertips. His pace increased, his thrusts becoming more forceful, each one sending waves of pleasure through your body.

He smiled, his eyes dancing with amusement. He was enjoying watching you struggle to stay silent, and the thrill of the possibility of being caught. And the way you clung to him, looking at him with desperation and lust. It was the most alive he had felt in a long time.

You could hear people coming down the hall, laughing and talking, and you froze.

"Elijah..." you breathed, panic in your eyes.

He placed his hand over your mouth, shushing you, his eyes focused on yours. He kept thrusting, his movements becoming rougher, his fingers digging into your ass.

"Do you want them to see how badly you need my cock? How you're practically begging me to fuck you harder?" He asked, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes full of mischief.

Your eyes widened, and you shook your head, your breath hitching in your throat. He continued his brutal pace, his body flush against yours, his hand still covering your mouth. You could feel his fangs scraping against your neck, his cock pounding into you, and you struggled to keep quiet.

The footsteps were closer, and you could hear their laughter echoing down the hall. If they saw the two of you like this, you'd be mortified.

Suddenly, he stopped, his hips stilling, his cock buried deep inside of you. You let out a soft, needy whine, desperate for more. He grinned, his hand leaving your mouth, moving to cup your cheek, his thumb running across your lips.

"Shhh," he whispered, his eyes flashing with amusement. "You don't want anyone to know what we're doing, do you?"

You shook your head, trying to catch your breath, your body trembling. The footsteps were fading now, the group moving on, and you let out a sigh of relief. He waited until the sound disappeared before he started fucking you again.

You gasped, your hands clinging to his shirt, your body aching with need. He held you tight, his hands gripping your ass, pulling you against him with each hard thrust. His lips were pressed against your neck, kissing and nipping at your skin. You felt his fangs scraping along your neck, then they sunk into your skin, piercing the flesh.

"Fuck, 'Lijah!" you gasped, your back arching, your toes curling as pain shot through your body.

The sting of his bite was sharp, but it was quickly replaced by a wave of intense pleasure. He growled against your skin, his hips moving faster, his cock driving into you deeper and harder, his movements frantic and wild.

He kept drinking from you, his body tense, his hands holding you tightly, his cock thrusting into you. He could feel his climax building, and he knew he wasn't going to last much longer. He pulled his fangs from your neck, his tongue licking at the puncture wounds, his hands grabbing at your hips, pulling you closer.

His lips were bloody, his eyes black with lust, his fangs still barred. It was the most beautiful sight, seeing him like this, and knowing that you were the one who had driven him to the edge.

You grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him in for a passionate kiss, his mouth warm and soft. He tasted like blood and sex, and you wanted nothing more than to be completely consumed by him.

You felt yourself tumbling over the edge, your body shuddering, a soft cry escaping your lips. He groaned against your mouth, pressing his hips against yours as he came, his body trembling.

He leaned his forehead against yours, both of you struggling to catch your breath, your heart racing. He chuckled, pulling back slightly, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Well, that was unexpected," he said, a smirk on his lips.

"Definitely," you agreed, unable to stop the smile that spread across your face.

He chuckled again, his eyes full of warmth. He slowly pulled out of you and set you down, keeping his hands on you, making sure you were steady. You fixed your dress, smoothing it down, a little embarrassed at what you had just done.

"I hope no one saw," you murmured, blushing.

He shook his head, his fingers gently lifting your chin so you were looking at him. "If they did, I wouldn't care. You're mine, and I want everyone to know it."

You giggled, leaning into his embrace. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

He tucked himself back into his jeans and made sure you looked presentable, although you couldn't exactly hide all the hickeys and marks he left on your neck. His hand intertwined with yours as he led you back downstairs, a satisfied grin on his face.

Back on the dancefloor he pulled you close, his hand settling on the small of your back. You danced together, swaying to the music, his body pressed against yours, his eyes sparkling with happiness.

Rebekah, Kol and Klaus all watched the two of you from the bar, amused smiles on their faces.

"Do you think she knows that this place is pretty much packed with vampires... And everyone heard them?" Kol asked, glancing at his siblings.

Rebekah snorted, shaking her head, taking a sip of her drink. "I don't think so,"

Klaus laughed, a wide grin on his face. "Elijah definitely knows,"

"Oh, I'm sure he does," Kol smirked, winking at his sister. "And he doesn't give a fuck."

They all chuckled, and Rebekah raised her glass, gesturing towards her brother and you.

"To Elijah and his loud, insatiable wife," she laughed.

The other two raised their glasses and they clinked together, all three of them laughing. They watched as Elijah leaned in and whispered something in your ear, causing you to blush, and your heart to race. Partying with the Mikaelsons was never without a bit of scandal and mischief, and tonight was no different.

[prettyboykatsuki]

cw for ; cheating like really bad cheating dskfsk, mind games, bisexual reader (its relevant!!!), emotional sadism, yandere in the most uncomfortable flavor, and sexuality fuckery.

readers gender is intentionally left neutral!!. @p00pdev1l tag for my beloved.

You can feel yourself starting to cry again.

You have a headache. The noise of the izakaya is flooding out into the streets. Even with alcohol and cigarettes and other distractions, you can't help but feel like you're about to throw up. The dry-heave works itself up to your throat, and you smoke a little to shove it back down.

You were careful this time.

When you hear footsteps walk themselves next to you, and see nice black dress shoes from your gaze is downcast - you already know it's Suguru.

You feel yourself getting sick again. Your voice is hoarse, scratchy with pain and tears. You're unimaginably angry at him, and you're sure if you were a little drunker, you'd take your pocket knife to his throat.

But the words don't come. You're so frustrated you just ended up crying again, hiccuping. Something falls onto your shoulders, a jacket that smells like cologne.

That wakes you up, makes you turn your head to one side. Your heartbeat is hard and loud, and your anger is the only thing in your body. Your seething, all hard lines and rage.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He shrugs. "It's cold. You'll get sick."

"Don't act like you give a single fuck about me, you psychopath."

His reaction to that is cold. Makes your blood run cold. "Call me whatever you want but don't say I don't care about you."

"Fuck off, Suguru," The feeling of his name is intimate in the same way knives are. Sharp against the roof of your mouth because of the smooth way the syllables slice. The familiarity of a cut. "Go inside and fuck off. Go be with..." Your words trail off.

"I'd rather be out here," He assures, then shrugs. He joins you in smoking, but you turn your gaze back to the pavement so you don't have to look. "She'll be fine without me."

There's a lot of things you don't understand about him. What you understand least though is this. How long has it gone on? How long did he plan on doing this?

The first time Getou stole the girl you loved from you, you're nearly too heartbroken to stay friends with him. It was your first real crush. A girl in the same year as you. You loved her. She smelled soft like roses and put her head in your lap. You managed to confess to her despite yourself at the end of your second-year.

She was your friend, still - even as she let you down gently. Told you that she had a boyfriend now. He was your friend, actually.

The first time it happened, you thought about cutting your ties with Getou. He didn't pretend to be apologetic to you, said she was cute and he liked her. He didn't say he was sorry.

Instead he said: "You shouldn't be with a girl who could get over you so easily." And leaves it at that.

You almost got physical with him, you remember. Gojo stopped you.

Over the years, the incident becomes pattern enough to recognize. The first is a mistake, the second a frustrating coincidence. The third time it happens you do get into an altercation. Each time Getou confronts you he says the same thing. That if a girl really loved you, she wouldn't been with him so easily. If a girl really loved you, she shouldn't have been so easy for him to persuade.

You think abut killing him. It's so frustrating, so humiliating, so painful it nearly puts you in therapy. The fourth time in happens, you try to cut him off but you can't. Your lives are so tied together you can't avoid seeing him and for whatever reason he can't leave you alone.

When there's no one you're interested in, he's your friend after all. That's the strangest part. The part that makes the least sense, that he acts like your fucking friend when he does that to you but he does it again and again and again. It hurt less when it was just puppy crushes. Eventually you grew numb to it. Gave up on love for a while.

When you meet Mikoto, you don't make the mistake of showing your interest. You especially don't show it around Getou. On the job, a sorcerer from a branch in the Nara prefecture who's recently moved. A nice woman with black hair and soft eyes, you seek her friendship first and don't let yourself indulge in anything more.

You don't dote on her more than friends. You don't show your feelings off. You don't tell anyone, not even Gojo whom you tell everything, or Shoko - who you tell when you don't want Getou finding out. You bury the feeling of love in yourself and hope they die there. You hope she ends up with anyone but you, or you in some miracle.

You fall in love with her because it's who you are. Getou shows up with her at your gathering the minute you begin to accept it.

If he doesn't hate you, it must be something much stronger. Disgust or pure disdain. Something stronger than hate must drive him to do this so perpetually.

It's not even something you can tell anyone. What do you tell girls before you go out with them? What do you say to people when they ask why you and him act so odd?

There's nothing to say. Nothing to explain. It's so fucked up that you wouldn't even know where to begin.

Your voice is trembling as you take another drag of your cigarette. "How did you know?"

He laughs a little. "You make it obvious."

"Why do you keep doing this to me...?" You ask, defeated. Broken, maybe. "....I really loved her."

Getou shrugs again. You can tell even if you don't see it. "She was the same as the rest of them. I'm doing you a favor."

"Do you even like her?"

He takes a drag of his cigarette and looks at you a little longer than you expct. "So-so."

"I hate you," You give up on everything else, letting your cigarette fall to the ground. Your voice is shot. "You're fucking horrible. Just leave me alone. Please, please just leave me alone."

There's a minute of silence there. He stamps his own cigarette out and sighs. "You should come in. You'll catch a cold." You don't reply. He sighs again. "I'll buy you a drink."

You break down in tears all over again.

When you're in highschool, you date Satoru for a week.

Suguru remembers this. It's one of the only things about his highschool experience that feel standout. A defining moment of his youth, where the two of you try it just because everyone says you should and neither of you really like it. You end up being friends again, laughing it off after it happens.

But he hated it.

There was a pit in his stomach the entire week. Even though you barely dated, and only really held hands as a joke - Suguru hated it. You kissed Satoru too, you confessed. He was a decent kisser, but you didn't feel much.

It was a joke of a relationship. Still.

He remembers too, the first time you had your first real crush. Up until then, you'd really never thought of anyone else. There was no one for Suguru to care about. But he remembers exactly when it happened, and where - how the four of you were slacking off in the storage room, passing around Shoko's cigarette. He remembers the way you got embarrassed telling them about her. How you could barely keep the smile off of your face.

The first time Suguru steals someone from you, it's during highschool. It wasn't because he had really wanted her. He hated her. Hated how she smiled at you and hated how innocently she spoke. But when he stepped closer to her, she blushed.

It was to get her to fall for him. And that wouldn't do, he didn't think. How could you like someone with so little resolve? When she couldn't be even a little loyal to you?

He asked her out on a whim that time. But he saw how angry it made you. How your eyes were wet with tears and how much you hated him in that moment.

How much you thought of him. Have you ever before then? Considered him so much? Suguru didn't think so.

It becomes an obsession, Suguru can admit. It didn't really matter who it was, though it'd been mostly girls. Anyone you showed interest in. Anyone who caught your eye. Suguru got their first and you always, always looked so miserable about it. Like a puppy who can't get on a couch, he thinks.

He prefers when you've already been with them. He prefers knowing that your skin has touched theirs. The parts of you that linger in their life become Suguru's so wholly. When he can smell your scent and taste your cigarette smoke. It'd be better if it was you, but there was something gratifying in this.

In the roundabout ways of finding you. Of seeing pictures of you in their phone, or of tasting you. It's like being with you, even though it's never enough. Always wants to make him break you more.

He likes when they cheat on you with him. He likes when it's just after. They get some cheap thrill out of it. Suguru can entertain it even if it disgusts him.

It's the only way your shirts end up in his closet. The only way he can smell your new shampoo so deeply because you share it. They think that he must hate you. He's sure you think that too.

But that's not it. He couldn't hate you. All the people he's ever fucked, he's tried to find evidence of your intimacy with them. Kiss marks he didn't leave on their skin, clothes they don't own, music they wouldn't normally listen to. You would. They're all yours.

He'd ask about you to them. Often. Listen to the parts of yourself that you'd been trying to keep secret from him.

He'd take it all by force and discard them all afterwards. That was all he wanted. You were all he wanted.

He liked seeing you angry with him. Liked seeing you cry and weep. Liked that you couldn't go anywhere or love anyone without thoughts of him following you and haunting you.

Satoru thinks he should just ask you out already. Suguru doesn't think he's broken you down enough. You need it to hurt a little more. You need to think of him a little more until you can't love anyone else.

Suguru wants to see you hurt a little more. Until you're so broken you're really begging. When he brings her with him today, you react even worse than he could have hoped for it. He shivers a little thinking about it.

He's getting closer to really breaking you, he thinks.

He looks at you now as he puts out his cigarette, broken from his thoughts.

"You should come in. You'll catch a cold." You don't reply. He sighs again. "I'll buy you a drink."

Suguru turns around to leave after he says it. Goes back inside. Before the door of the izakaya closes again, he can hear the way you sob so desperately.

He smiles at that. Just a little.

[aliidarling]

idk what i’m even doing with these spotify songs but alrighty

the less i know the better ♡

RICK GRIMES x fem!reader x DARYL DIXON

part 2

nsfw content — please scroll if uncomfortable

summary: you’re a savior taken hostage by rick and daryl and they decide to make u their little slut (i literally dream abt this)

tags: nsfw obvi, mean daryl and rick, age gap, threesome, fingering, degradation, praise, humiliation.. kinda dubcon, no actual p in v

nsfw content below !!

You had been fading in and out of consciousness for the last hour, your head aching from the blunt blow to your skull and your throat burning. You didn’t even know what happened or who did, all you remembered was being out on a patrol for Negan and suddenly getting smacked in the back of your head.

Ever since then, you’ve woken up maybe three times, each time a different place, but the same two people.

A curled haired man with a southern accent that always echoed in your ears, the ringing making you hiss. The other was a dark haired man who’s hair almost covered his face, with a low raspy voice you could barely hear because of the high pitched annoyance.

First time you woke up in the back of a car, hands tied behind you with some song playing on the radio. They were chatting casually, the southern man driving and glancing at the other one in the passenger seat. They both seemed laidback, as if they didn’t have a whole girl in their backseat tied up and gagged.

You managers to make a drowsy little noise from behind your gag before you passed out again, the southern man glancing at you in the rear view the last thing you remember seeing before everything went black.

You woke up again maybe another hour later, your body all sore. You were so confused. Who were these people and what did they want with you?

This time you were being carried, by the quiet one. He stared down at you as you stirred in his arms. He was carrying you bridal style in a town— what in the world? What were you doing in Alexandria? Negan was so gonna kill your ass for this.

The rumbling of your tummy broke the silence as he scoffed lowly, walking in the direction of houses.

“Yer’ hungry? Don’t worry, I’ll get ya sum’ food.” He snorts, before going silent again. You eventually passed out again. Damn, how hard did he hit you?

The final time you awoke was on a worn down mattress in a dark room, your eyes opening slowly. This time you didn’t feel the gag, your shoulders relaxing just slightly.

“H-Hello?” You choked out, looking around the room with a confused expression. Your feet were still tied together at the ankles, so you really couldn’t go anywhere if you wanted to, but the disappearance of the gag and rope around your wrists calmed you. Slightly.

You looked down in front of you and spotted a plate with some sandwich and an apple. Your eyes brightened. Surely they couldn’t be too bad if they fed you! Immediately, you dived down and began nibbling on the apple and gulping down bites of the sandwich. Turkey, you recognized. One of your favorites.

In the middle of your eating session the door creaked open, making you flinch and remember where exactly you were— the yummy sandwich had distracted you. You stiffened and sat up, tucking your knees into your chest and holding the half-eaten apple to your chest, ready to throw it if needed.

One of the men from earlier walked in, making you stiffen even more and try to lean back against the wall. You blinked up at him, scanning him closely. He was tall, older then you by a good decade, with short curly hair and dirty clothes covered in dirt and blood stains. Creepy.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” You said immediately, tightening your hold on your apple.

He only scoffed, his dark eyes gazing at you with an amused look.

“Gonna throw that apple at me if I do something you don’t like?” He shakes his head and walks up to you, making you flinch at his sudden close proximity. He kneels down to your height, scanning you with his eyes intensely.

“So what if I am?” You say back with attitude, making him snicker and shake his head in amusement. You felt so judged under his gaze. It was dark and intimidating.

“You’re with Negan, am I correct?” He asks.

You press your lips together as you give him a nod. He shamelessly eyes you, his pupils gazing down at you like you were nothing but prey.

“You’re cute for a savior, might keep you.” He says bluntly. Your body stiffens as you squirm in your restraints, your hand tightening your hold around the apple.

“I’m not some slut, you psycho!” You gasp, attempting to throw the apple at him. He growls and grabs the apple from you, his other hand going to your shoulder to push you down onto the floor. He quickly straddles you, holding you down as you attempted every little thing to overpower him.

Poor thing, he thought, trying so hard. You have no way out of this.

“Quit, fuckin, fighting—“ He growls, his hands slamming you back onto the floor as you managed to sit up slightly. Every harsh shove he gave you knocked the air out of you, he was stronger then you thought.

Realization slowly dawned on you that you really couldn’t fight this, and he was destined to win this fight no matter what you did.

Right as you were about to give up— the door slammed open, revealing the other man from earlier. The one with the black hair that covered some of his face, wearing a sleeveless vest with dark cargo pants. He was an archer, you noticed by the weapon on his back. You stiffened as he stood there momentarily in shock at the sight of you and the southern man all tangled up on the floor.

“The hell’s goin’ on?” He drawled, his accent a lazy southern with a raspy tone. His voice sent a shiver down your spine. The man on top of you rolled his eyes and crawled off you, but not before giving you one last shove into the ground and a look that you could tell meant ‘Don’t move’.

“Stupid chick was fighting back.” He grumbles, standing up and walking towards him. They both whisper aggressively in the corner, giving you dirty looks every other sentence. You laid awkwardly on the floor, too scared to move.

“I thought we agreed to break her first?”

“Yeah— but look at her!”

They both slowly turned to look at you before turning back towards each other, continuing their hushed whispers.

“She’s cute, yeah, I understand what you meant now. She’s prettier when she’s conscious, I guess.” The dark haired man grumbles, crossing his arms.

The mean one looks back at you and sighs, scratching his temple. He stares for a moment before walking towards you, making you flinch once again.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. Only if you misbehave, I will.” He says lowly, kneeling down to your height once again.

“I’m Rick, and that guy back there,” He points to the Archer walking towards the both of you, “Is Daryl. He’s a little quiet.”

Rick stares at you with a blank expression, trying to read yours.

You sat there silently for a moment, watching as Rick sat infront of you, kneeling over you, while Daryl walked behind you. You could feel Daryl’s breath on the back of your neck as he kneeled down behind you. If the two of them got any closer you’d be sandwiched, you realized with a small exhale.

You hesitantly told them your name, making Rick smirk. “Cute,” He hums, his finger coming up to gently tuck one of your loose strands behind your ear. His touch made you shiver. Fear? Attraction? You couldn’t tell.

“Fuck off.” You grumble shakily, squirming once again. Daryl behind you places his hands on your forearms, holding you in place with a small chuckle. You shiver, on the verge of trembling as the two large men trap you inbetween their bodies.

“We don’t wanna hurt ya, sweetie. You’re a cute little thing, it’d be a shame to see your cute face all bruised up.” Rick says with a mockingly sweet smile, leaning closer until one of his thighs brushed against yours, his body towering over you even when he was kneeling.

A soft kiss is planted onto your neck from behind, making you flinch in shock and turn to look at Daryl— only for Rick to grab your chin and force you to maintain eye contact.

Your lips quiver as you felt the man behind you pamper your neck in soft little kisses and rubs.

“S-Stop, ah, what are you guys doing?” You hissed lowly, trying not to give into the gentle touch of the large man behind you. You hated them both, but Daryl was probably higher on your list inbetween them two. He was more gentle and quiet, and was also the one currently kissing your neck.

Rick takes ahold of your ankles and straightens your legs infront of you so your back is leaning against Daryl’s chest, and your sitting on your butt on the floor.

“You think we can convince her to stay with us?” Rick smirks to Daryl, who hums an incoherent word into your neck. You shiver as Ricks large hands rub your thighs. He positions himself between your legs and gently parts them, on his knees and lowering his head until his breath brushed against the small midriff your top showed.

“What the hell are you—“

“Shush, and just enjoy.” Daryl interrupts you, shushing you as his hand wrap around you and start to tug your top up, bunching it over your bra. Your face goes red in embarrassment as you squirm, your hands attempting to weakly pull his fingers off your bra.

Rick gives one of your hands a little swat, clicking his tongue like you were a misbehaving child. It felt patronizing, being treated so small and childishly.

“I’ll kill you both..” You grumble, your hands slowly setting themselves on Daryl’s thighs which were seated on each side of you, your fingers rubbing in circles subconsciously.

“Mhm, sure you will. Can’t even pull away from our kisses and touches, how are you gonna get the courage to end us?” Daryl mocks, laughing softly into your ear. His hands start to slip under your bra, making you gasp quietly into the air.

Why weren’t you fighting back? These were two men you’ve barely seen before, their hands touching you everywhere. But it wasn’t your fault it felt so good, and the fact they were both very talented with their mouths and hands.

Oh well.

Rick hums and starts to tug at your pants, pulling them down until they were around your ankles, your boots not letting them slip off completely. He rolls his eyes and sighs.

“Annoying little brat,” He unzips your boots and pulls them off, before pulling your pants off fully. He smiles at the sight of you leaning back against Daryl with your shirt bunched up and your breasts being fondled, your legs spread infront of him.

“You wanna bet wether she’s wet or not?”

“Lil’ girls definitely soaked, and if I’m right yuh have to take over my patrol tomorrow.” Daryl hums.

Rick chuckles and scoops up your thighs and parts them some more, bending them at the knee to prop them up on each side of you.

He places his hand on top of your clothed cunt and starts rubbing, giggling as your panties quickly became soaked under the pressure of being pressed against your wet folds.

“Would you look at that,” He hums, his thumb rubbing over your clit gently, making you gasp. Your body squirms at the feeling, your hips shifting and your lips pressing together in hopes of muffling your noises.

“Looks like I have an extra shift tomorrow.” He pouts, rubbing more intensely now over your clit. Your breath hitched as you try to whimper out little protests, but all you could muster was moans and incoherent whines.

You didn’t have the energy to fight back. Their touch felt too good. Ricks hand on your pussy, Daryl massaging your breasts and pinching your nipples, you’re surprised you haven’t came in your panties yet.

“Rick.. Daryl..” You moan softly, leaning your head back against Daryl’s chest as his rough palms continue gliding over your breasts. A small hum leaves his mouth as he gently nuzzled his head into your neck, kissing and sucking gently. His fingers didn’t let up on his teasing, not stopping for even a second.

You barely had a chance to breathe with the double stimulation. Ricks hands were talented, rubbing eight figure onto your clit and succeeding in making you clench down on air.

“Please, please.” You let you a desperate little whine.

Rick snickers and shifts himself closer to you, more situated between your thighs, his face a couple of inches from yours now. His messy curls tickle your face as he leans down to apply more attention to your sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Think she deserves to get her pussy open’d up?” Rick hums as he starts to pull your panties to the side, letting cold air brush against your sensitive cunt. You let out a shaky exhale at the feeling, feeling so wet and desperate for anything inside you.

The sight of Ricks bulge in his pants had you yearning for more, especially with the second bulge pressing against your lower back.

“She’s been a good girl so far, yeh.”

The southern man nods and looks at you with a grin. “How many fingers can you take?��

You blink slowly, not even sure how to answer that. You slowly looked down at his fingers, eyes narrowing. His fingers were thick, making you clench down on air.

“U-Uh, two? Three?” You say hesitantly. The question itself was embarrassing, how were you supposed to answer that?!

He hums in response, bringing his fingers closer and starting to slowly slide them inside you. He didn’t stop until they were fully inside, two of his thick fingers making you feel out of breath already.

”Deep breaths, sweetheart.” Daryl coo’s, giving your nipple a little tug.

“That hurts.” You pout as he gives another pinch and tug, making the two men chuckle.

Your pouting was replaced by a soft moan as Ricks fingers started thrusting in and out, as well as doing a scissoring motion that had your lips forming an ‘O’ shape.

His fingers were thrusting deeply, not giving you as break as they kept moving in and out of your wet pussy, dirty squelching noises filling the air as well as the smell of sex.

“That’s feels really good, please— wanna cum.” You gasped out, curling back into Daryl’s chest, craving both their touches on your body.

“Should we let her?” Rick tilts his head, delivering an extra sharp thrust that had you clenching down and crying out his name in a tone that his both their cocks stirring.

“She’s been’ pretty good, hasn’t she?” Daryl coo’s. His hands start to fondle your breasts more aggressively, one of his hands sliding down to focus on your clit as Rick keeps fingering you open.

You let out a happy sigh as Rick speeds up, his hand tightening it’s hold on your thigh that was holding you open. Daryl’s rubbing on your clit had you seeing starts, eyes rolling back and lips falling apart.

“Oh, please, yes— right there—!” You let out a soft gasp as a third finger joins your pussy, the small stretch sending you over the edge. You tighten down, a loud whine leaving you as you go slump and cum all over his thick fingers, your hands going to shakily grasp onto Daryl behind you.

You would’ve collapsed onto the floor if Daryl wasn’t holding you from behind, his large hand still gently rubbing your clit to let you ride through your high and get as much as a release as possible.

More cum came out, but after a moment you were laying back against him, your shaky legs in Ricks lap now being massaged tenderly. Their touch on you was delicate, almost as if they were afraid to hurt you. But you knew better, they were just waiting for the moment you are vulnerable and needy to use your body.

“Mmmmmh.” Your noises were muffled and incoherent as they both started to help you up, Rick helping you slide your clothes back on while Daryl gently kissed you and patted your messy hair. They were both gentle with their touches even after fingering the shit out of you.

“How you feel, sweetheart?” Rick whispers, straightening up and pulling you in by the waist, stealing your from Daryl. Daryl roll his eyes and huffs, watching from a distance as Rick slides his hands all over your body.

“Like I just got kidnapped and then fingered by two men.” You grumble, hesitantly curling into his chest. They had grown on you in the last ten minutes. Who knew having two large men put their hands inside you and fondle your breasts would have you warming up to their presence.

“..Good, cuz that’s what just happened to ya’.” Daryl retorts from behind you, giving your butt an extra squeeze. You flinch.

“Hey—“

Rick interrupts you with a kiss, not wanting a moment away from his pretty sluts body. His hand go back to wandering and find their way back into your breasts.

“Give her a break, moron.” Daryl’s huffs, tugging you back towards him. They were both literally fighting over you.

Rick rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically, his hands on his hips as he leans forward.

“Whatever,” He mutters before tapping your chin, alerting you. He maintains strong eye contact as he gives you a stern look, scowling.

“You’re staying with us, you hear me? You try to escape and we’ll tie you down in some shitty basement, you’re lucky you’re getting princess treatment from us.”

You shrink at his words, not knowing what to say in return. They had pretty much forced you into submission and were now.. kidnapping you?

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” You sigh, curling away from his touch with a pout. He scoffs and pulls you back in, snickering at your defeated time as he ruffles your hair, as if you were a kid.

“Good girl.” With a simple kiss to your forehead, he’s gone and you’re left alone in the dark room with Daryl behind you.

“Let’s get you tucked in.” He hums, turning you around so he can also give you a sweet kiss. The princess and rough treatment they both gave you was confusing. One second they were degrading and being bullies, the next, sweet forehead kisses and snuggles.

“Okay.” You say lamely.

Looks like this was your new home for the time being, being a little toy for these two men. I mean— at least they were considerate.

lmk if u guys want part 2 where they break us in and like ACTUALLY fuck us :P

[magdalence]

word count: 3,141

pairing: sylus/mc

rating: explicit (18+)

tags: spanking, humiliation, vaginal fingering, squirting, vaginal sex, clothed sex, oral sex, come eating, brat taming, degradation, porn without plot, penis in vagina sex

Sylus' got you bent over his lap, skirt pulled up around your waist. He threatened to put you over his knee if you misbehaved, and you countered with: put me over your lap and consider whatever you do to me as repayment. It made him smile at the time.

Or: you walk right into one of Sylus' clever traps trying to pay off a debt.

(cross-posted to ao3)

You haven’t been playing according to his rules, because, well, he’s frustrating, he knows exactly how to edge himself in under your skin and get to you. And if you’re honest with yourself – something he delights in pulling out of you, much to your chagrin – he’s so damn good at it you have started enjoying walking into the traps he sets for you.

Not that you’d ever admit it to him.

“Kitten…” He sighs, dragging a finger up your exposed thigh, the touch sending goosebumps shivering across your skin. Even when you don’t want to, your body betrays you near him, like he knows how to call it in ways you have never known before. It’s… Exciting. A tangled and messy feeling you don’t know what to make of. Some days you want to drown in it, let it suffuse you, let it take you completely.

Tonight is veering there. And you really want to clear out some of the debt between the two of you.

He’s got you bent over his lap, skirt pulled up around your waist. He threatened to put you over his knee if you misbehaved, and you countered with, put me over your lap and consider whatever you do to me as repayment. It made him smile at the time.

“Are you chickening out?” you ask defiantly, turning to look over your shoulder at him. “If so, just pull my skirt down and –”

The palm of his hand lands on your ass, hard, and you jump a little, shocked at the sting of pain unfurling throughout your body, and hot on its heels comes another sensation, a hunger whispering more.

He chuckles at your reaction. “I’d never back down on a promise to you,” he says, dragging his nails over the sore spot on your ass, and you can’t catch the moan in the back of your throat fast enough as it spills out. “I did say if you failed my test again, I’d have to truly discipline you.”

“Hardly felt it,” you lie, feigning as much haughtiness as you can muster.

His hand is quick to react, hitting the bottom part of your ass harder. You inhale sharply through your nose, biting the inside of your cheek. There’s not letting him know just how much it stings, and the other part of knowing what this kind of pain does to you.

“Can you keep count for me, kitten?” He tenderly strokes the same spot he just hit, and you whine, blinking hard as you nod. “I can’t hear you. With your words, please.”

“Two,” you say, and the second word lingers on your tongue, the key to giving him what he wants, and you swallow it back down hard. All you have to do is call him master, and a whole new realm opens up between you. But not yet. All you have to do is say please, and... It'll get to his head so fast.

“Two, good. Seems you have enough thought in your head.” His palm hits your ass again, lighter this time, a touch that feels distractingly good. “Make sure not to lose count?”

“Or else?”

“Or else, I drop you on the floor and leave this room.”

You want to choke him. You want to beg and plead and you want to tie him down and make him stay with you here forever, right in the grey zone of tipping over, and you want him to hit you again so bad before he notices you’re dripping on his tailored pants.

“Three. Four. Five. Ah, ahhh, six, seven, ah! Eight!” Your whimpers echo in the room, intertwining with the sound of his dry palm on the warm skin of your ass, always finding a new angle to hit against so that each impact stings just enough to make tears threaten to spill. Not enough, but just enough to wrench something open inside you.

“What an impressive show you’re putting on,” he hums, his feather-light fingertips dancing across your skin. “Could it be that you are distracting me from something?”

“Such as?”

His finger stops, drifting down between your thighs, and the humiliating sound of wetness fills your ears, a hot blush blooming down your face.

“If you were trying to hide it,” he says, dragging his nail along the seam of your panties, “you did a poor job. It’s been glistening since before I even hit you.”

You let out a frustrated groan, digging your fingers into his leg.

“I know you’re aching to say it,” he laughs, his free hand pulling at your hair until you’re strung between his hands, taut and wanton, your back arched in a perfect curve. “Why don’t you try me? I have my moments of mercy, you know.”

“I wouldn’t know,” you hiss, your hips twitching. “Nothing I’ve seen from you has been close to merciful.”

“Is that what you think of me?” he drawls, clicking his tongue. “That won’t do.”

He moves his knuckle against your wet cunt, pressing the fabric in between the folds until you feel it glued to your skin and soaked through completely. The breath catches in your throat as he runs his fingers down your labia, as he circles the swell of your aching clit without touching it directly. It’s infuriating how close he is, how little of a touch you’d need to fall over the edge right now, and yet – he won’t. He’s a bastard and he knows it.

“See?” He strokes his wet fingertips against the seam of skin at the back of your thigh. “I could be so good to you if you let me. All you have to do–”

“Nine,” you say, breathing between gritted teeth. You won’t give him the satisfaction. Not yet. He has to earn it with every inch of his rotten self.

“If you’re sure,” he sighs, sounding more bored than excited as he raises his hand and it falls hard and sharp on the curve of your ass. “You make everything so hard for yourself.”

He’s not wrong, but it only solidifies your iron will. For a moment, at least. There is a little bit more force in his hand this time, a flick of the wrist at the end of the strike that stings so sweet and horrid in your flesh. The pain feels fresher, sharper, and you are ashamed at how badly you want it.

“Ten,” you say, barely able to contain the moan as his hand meets your skin. “So did that put a dent in my debt?”

“Barely.”

You huff. “Fine. Eleven.”

“Bold.” His hand connects with your skin and it’s like fireworks going off in your body. “But do you think you can keep this up?”

“Twelve.”

Another slap. “I will admit, it is delicious when it is you asking for the punishment yourself.” His grip tightens on your hair, and the strain on your neck makes it harder to swallow – and worse, harder to grit your teeth. Like everything he does, it has to be intentional. He knows you too well already.

“Thirteen,” you say, but your voice has a flutter to it.

“As you wish.”

Pain straddling pleasure straddling your certain unraveling creeping closer.

“Fourteen,” you whine. He’s won, he’s known that since the start, but you cling to the hope of dragging it out just a little more.

“Don’t wear yourself out, sweetheart,” he murmurs, shifting his legs. “I wouldn’t want you to be too sore.”

With the change in position, you can feel a tell-tale hardness pressing against your belly, and your resolution begins cracking at the edges. You whine, mouth watering at the thought of his cock in you, jaw quaking as you speak.

“Fifteen…”

It is hard to tell what is singing louder in your body as he spanks you, the pleasure or the pain, the fine line between them blurred completely. All you know is that you’re so wet all he has to do is slide one finger inside you and you’d crumble.

“Had enough?”

You nod, straining against his hand holding your hair.

“And what do we say?”

“Please,” you whimper, tears finally rolling down your cheeks. You blink, lashes heavy, and draw in a shaky breath. “Please, Sylus, touch me.”

“I knew you’d break eventually.” He laughs, soft and tender, but his voice is husky, betraying him just as much.

In one smooth move, he shoves the underwear aside and dips two fingers inside you, and you let out a scream as a surprise orgasm ripples out from the touch, so hard and fast that it pulls you under. You shake and thrash on his lap, squealing as he won’t let you get away from his fingers, pushing them in to the final knuckle and curving them down against your abdomen.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he says, letting go of your hair to cup your chin, sticking two fingers into your mouth. “Now be still and take your reward like a good girl.”

The fingers in your pussy thrust in and out, the curve of them just right to hit your g-spot, and you don’t last long, still weak from the first orgasm he barely had to work for.

“You’re so easy for me,” he whispers in your ear, tip of his tongue touching the curve of it. “You’re soaking wet, all for me. Isn’t this a better use of your time? Of you?”

Your head spins from the way he’s talking, and you can’t come up with anything to snap back at him, shamefully sucking hard on his fingers instead, something to keep the drool from spilling from your lips.

His expert fingers press down inside you and you barely muffle the cry as another orgasm rolls through you, your entire body shaking as you feel the tell-tale wetness dripping down the inside of your legs. You moan and whimper, grinding futilely against him, unable to exert any control of your body.

“Ssh,” he intones, and you hold a shaky breath, listening.

Nothing, except your heart beating so hard you feel deaf to the world, and then: a wet drip-drip-drip on the cold marble floor.

“Hear that? That’s all you.”

Shame unfurls inside you, sticky and warm, and you feel how his fingering has opened you up. You clench around his fingers, but instead of continuing to fingerfuck you as you desire, he pulls them out and leaves you gaping open and empty, pushing you off his lap.

You squirm on the floor, humiliated and flushed and above all, weak – your limbs are soft, and it takes so much effort to even get up on your elbows to glare at him.

“You could try being gentle.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He bends down, wrapping your hair around his fist, hard enough to draw a hiss from your parched lips. “Now be a good girl and clean up the mess you made.” He runs his thumb over your lower lip, and your gaze flutters down between his thighs. Despite the low lighting in the room and the black pants he wears, you can tell he’s hard.

“And what’s my incentive?”

“I believe you can see it for yourself, no? So get to work.” He drops you unceremoniously, your face falling flat into the puddle you’ve created on the floor from how hard he made you squirt.

His fine designer shoes clack against the marble as he circles around you, watching, waiting. You wait until he’s within your line of sight before you stick your tongue out and lean down, licking along the cold floor in one long stripe. It’s humiliating, and he loves the sight of it.

“How far you’re willing to fall for me,” he murmurs, studying you with a smug smirk.

Your tense breathing aches in your chest, and you dip your head down again, licking up as much as you can and raising your head back up to show your open mouth as you swallow, sticking your tongue out.

“Good enough?” you ask.

“For now, yes.”

His eyes shimmer a brighter shade of red and shadowy tendrils wrap around you, lifting you up from the floor – a sensation you haven’t quite gotten used to yet. You gasp and writhe as he beckons you along to the nearby couch, depositing you facedown on top of it.

Before you even have a chance to turn around, he pins you down with his body on top of yours, the heat and pressure making you moan.

“Stay still for me, darling,” he hums against your neck, scraping his teeth along the sensitive skin. One of his hands find your neck, cradling it with a surprising amount of tenderness, his thumb swiping over your lower lip – and the other brushes against your naked ass, the telltale sound of a zipper opening making you whine deep in your throat.

“You could have ended that charade quicker if you’d just had some manners.” His cock freed, the tip brushes against your soaking wet folds and you think you might lose your mind if he doesn’t shut up and push into you already. “Then again, I adore watching you like this, rendered a filthy mess just for me to use.”

There’s a snappy demand on your tongue, but it turns to dust as he presses himself inside you from behind, pinning you down with his full body as he slides in slowly. His cock stretches you open, and you claw at the leather before he catches your hands and hold them still.

“Relax,” he whispers, biting your earlobe. “That’s just the tip.”

He takes his time, pressing and pushing inside of you, the position of you prone on the couch with him sliding into you from behind undoing you little by little. The angle has his cock dragging deliciously against all the good spots inside of you, and each time you think he’s all in he finds a way to press a little bit more.

When he finally, finally is flush against you and bottomed out, you heave a loud sob and feel a shivering orgasm drip out of you.

“How cute you are when you’re all sensitive like this.” He turns your face to the side, leaning in to lick at the tears sliding down your cheek. At the same time, he begins to move, a slow motion that drags against your insides and leaves you gasping for air. It’s too much it’s too good it’s too perfect, he fits inside you so well, he fills you up to the brim, and you can’t breathe properly for how good it feels to have him thrusting deep and hard inside you.

“Such a mess you’ve made of yourself.” He slides his hand down over your half-buttoned shirt, finding your breast and pinching the nipple so hard you cry out. “Sensitive? I’ll remember that.”

How dearly you wish he hadn’t stolen your way with words right about now.

When you cum again, he laughs, his tongue licking at your mouth until you stop quivering enough to return his kiss. He holds it and fucks you, slow and patient, wrenching pleasure after pleasure from you even as your ass aches from how he’s pressing down on the red welts he’s inflicted. You cry, moan, gasp and scratch at his hands, whimpering – but never for mercy, only for more.

As you orgasm, having lost count long ago, his breathing grows hot and heavy against your neck, and he leans his forehead against your back. The pace of his thrusts grow erratic, his fingers digging into your hips as he groans and buries himself deep inside of you, a hot heat following as he bites down on your shoulder when he cums.

Your breath trembles as he remains inside of you, and you feel… Messy, filthy, ruined, and absolutely adored. You rest your tear-stained cheek on the dark leather, his heart hammering hard against your rib cage as he goes soft inside you and you begin to feel the humiliating drip of his cum trickling out of you.

“It seems I’ve made a mess,” Sylus says, stroking his hand against your cheek. “That simply won’t do.”

You cry as he slides out of you, wanting him to stay longer, for hours, to keep his cock inside of you, to fill you up because that’s the best way to keep you, to use you.

With a tender touch, he guides you so you’re sitting somewhat upright, slumped against the backrest. You are a mess, drenched in both his and your own cum, skirt bunched up around your waist with torn seams at the thigh slit, breasts hanging out of your shirt. He doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he stops briefly to admire you, something so gentle and loving in his gaze that it makes you melt.

He kneels down on the floor between your knees, spreading them apart and letting them rest on his shoulders as he leans close to your swollen cunt and licks a long stripe along the labia. You sigh, a shiver passing through your body.

“Has anyone ever told you how delicious you taste?”

Before you get a chance to reply, he takes the opportunity from you – something he seems to treasure doing, you’re realizing – and dips his tongue inside of you, licking and sucking. He cleans you out with his tongue, swallowing and humming each time he does. All the while, his intense gaze has you pinned down. There’s so much in it you can’t read, but there’s such a devotion to him that it makes you feel exposed. Naked, beyond everything. Laid bare for his consumption.

“Did that put a dent in the debt?” you ask, hoping to pull some focus back to yourself. It’s so hard when his tongue is inside of you, cleaning up all he’s done to you as if he is the one owing you something.

He leans back, swallowing loudly. “I’d say you got somewhere.” His eyes sparkle with mirth, touching his lips to the inside of your thigh before standing up, pulling your skirt down and adjusting your shirt to cover up your breasts. “Though you can come up with something better, can’t you kitten?”

You glare at him, opening your mouth to a snarl – and he catches your chin, smirking down at you before leaning in to kiss you deep and hard, the salt on his tongue sending an electric spark through you all the way down to your core.

He drives you insane, he gets under your skin – and by all that is unholy and horrid about him, you want him right there, pushing you senseless, right on the edge of everything. Being with him feels like you’re one breath away from falling into a dark abyss, and you want to see if he catches you… Or falls with you.

[andraxicated]

Wild and Wicked Whims

pairing: nanami x f! reader

tag: giving this man the gawk gawk he deserves before his trip | filming | mirror bj

a/n: just a silly little hc that was left behind in my drafts. i wrote this after downloading wickedwhims for sims 4!!

you've never been in a more humiliating position than where you are right now. kneeling on a carpeted floor beside a mirror with nanami's dark eyes looking down at you. all of it makes you feel incredibly submissive and lowly. even more with the choking fat of his cock gliding inside your mouth, bringing tears to your eyes as he has your hair in a nice grip in his palm.

he pushes you down gently and you close your eyes, savoring his taste and how lewd it feels to suck him off. you wait for nanami to pull you back but he keeps you there and pushes his hips a bit.

"mmmh!" your surprised cries went unheard as he gives light thrusts inside your mouth, your little tongue complying with his request and your pussy clenches each time he hits the back of your throat.

he busts inside your mouth and pulls you off with a groan. seeing glistening white on the corners of your mouth was not enough, and neither it was for you when you moan needily at his form. "please! kento!" you mewl and await for his response while sitting like a pet. you know better than to touch nanami without permission.

"what is it? hmm?" his cock stands enticingly at your face. "you want more of me? is that it?" you nod. nanami grips your chin and takes a good look at your face before he decides to give in. you were too pretty to resist.

he suddenly stands up straight and performs perfect posture, clasping his hands together on his back while maintaining eye contact with you.

"get your phone and suck" he orders in a deep voice as you scramble for your phone on the floor beneath the pile of clothes. you hold it dumbly, not knowing what to do with it as you move your head forward and kiss his tip, gradually engulfing the rest of his entirety.

your mouth glides wetly onto him, sucking him in slow and gentle motions but deep enough to make him scrunch his face through small groans. nanami struggles to keep himself standing tall, resisting the urge to fuck your face as you look up at him cutely, asking what to do with the phone through your doed eyes.

you're practically dripping down your thighs, itching for some sort of relief but what he says next didn't prepare you for the shock that shot straight to your pussy.

"film us with your phone as you suck me off. make sure its good footage for my trip next week"

and you comply as you always do, sucking him off like a slut as he observes how you take him in. the phone captures it all through the mirror, your hand tries not to get shaky for fear of punishment if it turns out bad but the bob of your head on his cock makes it difficult to stay still.

"fuck, keep going" he rasps as sweat drips down his body. nanami is just so dreamy and delicious from your viewpoint. his handsome face blocked by his big cock was all you need to hollow your cheeks and attempt to swallow, bringing out a loud moan from his mouth.

that's what you wanted to see, your man looking so disheveled from up above, feeling pleasured by your tongue, and struggling to maintain his composure, documented. nanami is probably gonna take this as defiance but you don't care. at that moment, all you want is to have another taste of him inside your mouth. your other hand start to fondle with his balls, making him bite his lip as his face starts to flush from the intense motions your doing to him.

"darling, don't pull away if you want me inside your mouth" he says, followed by a moan as he suddenly grips your head when you bottom out on him. you gag despite your tongue still moving, hoping to give him an extra push to cum hard. he gives you a little thrust, pushing to the limits of your throat as the phone almost slips out of your hand .but you couldn't let this footage pass, not when you capture how your body jerks cutely as semen flows inside your mouth.

nanami keeps himself warm inside your mouth, gradually removing himself as his cum lessens. you didn't need to be told to swallow cause that's what good girls do. you show him your mouth clean and nanami praises you for that, whispering "my good girl" affectionately as he pulls you up, kisses your cheek, and carries you for a clean up.

[gremlingottoosilly]

The Horror and the Wild [Emperor!Konig x fem!Reader]

It's time for the wedding - and the wedding night. Emperor is going to make sure you will bear his offsprings by the end of the night. Tags and TW: Dub-con, aphrodisiacs, power imbalance, breeding kink, size difference, loss of virginity, age difference(Konig in his forties, Reader in her twenties), medieval/fantasy AU, Konig is a pervert AND an evil dictator AO3

You weren’t saved from the humiliation of a public wedding. 

You weren’t saved the torture of picking the flowers as you were choosing the attire to your own funeral – and you weren’t saved your innocence by allowing yourself to ignore all the handmaidens and their horrible, disgusting picture books about penetration, pools of blood and hell that is saved between the legs of a man. 

“My condolences, dear princess. For your parents. And congratulations on your wedding. Our deepest hopes go to your coronation, Empress.” “From the king of South, we send our sheerest condolences. And congratulations on the wedding.” “May your parents rest in peace. And glory to the Emperor.” “Grief surely suits you, Dear Empress. As well as the crown.”

You think you might puke right in your royal garments, looking at all of the royal visitors. 

King Price of Southern Kingdom, with all of his knights – you do not know if you can find solace in the girl clinging to the hand of his masked knight, the stench of death filling you with calmness that you don’t know how to deal with. The girl is terrified, just like you – if you may, you’re probably the same age, that years of servitude grazing in the hands that are covered by the sheerest amounts of gloves. 

The lady – you don’t know her name, and you doubt that any woman in this hall is even allowed to have one other than her husband’s – is looking at you with understanding. You think you might actually die. 

— Lady Ryley? 

She smiles, and before you can go to her – hold her hands, ask her to disappear with you, maybe run away somewhere, you don’t even know where – the masked knight already drags her away, a firm hand on her shoulder. You’re alone, the weight of the royal robe is pinning you to the floor. 

You are dressed in black as the only form of rebellion – guests must assume you’re still mourning your parents, the grief in their eyes is mixed with congratulations on the Empire finally getting prospects of offspring – you hope you’d tore your womb from your body before König could lay his hands on you. Guests may assume that the wedding is a tab bit strange, maybe somewhat unusual for the emperor to marry someone of your status – tiny kingdom, no worthwhile resources, and almost zero prospects for trade. Maybe, you were the only treasure this kingdom ever had to sell so eagerly. 

König holds your hands because you know that you would try to run the second he is letting you go. You know he knows this, too. Guests may assume that he is being protective of his young wife – assassins aren’t unheard of in these places, after all, you were the empress now. The much smarter guests knew what kind of looks you gave him – perhaps, you had the best options at killing the notorious emperor right after he robbed you of the last remains of your dignity. 

You smile and wave like a damned pampered pigeon, pretty and useless, all dressed up in bows and black pearls, dark stones illuminating the depths of your despair – only the monster you had for a husband would even consider ordering a mourning dress this beautiful. You’re almost ashamed of wanting to paint it red – you almost feel bad while holding the butter knife and thinking about plunging it into your chest, ripping away all the delicate laces and ornaments that cut through your skin each time you breathe a bit too freely. 

— You look divine in this dress, meine Liebe. 

He smiles, you know he is – he didn’t forget about his damn hood even on his own wedding, but he holds you dearly, but he smiles with his eyes, an eerie sense of happiness that makes every guest shake in their seats. The Ruler of the Empire doesn’t smile. Not at his wife, who looks like she would rather kill herself, for sure – but he smiles as you say your wows, knowing full well you are not going to fulfill them, but he laughs when the priest stutters once you refused to say you do the first time – König has to squeeze your hands, reminding you of your place. Even your stubbornness has a limit, apparently. 

His lips are dry and chastity. 

König knows he can’t kiss you like he wants to – too many guests, too many pricks, thinking they have a look on his wife. If it weren’t for the admirers and desperate rulers of foreign lands, trying to force their songs and daughters to marry him out of a pathetic attempt at saving their countries, he wouldn’t even think about a public wedding. If it weren’t for the annoyance of constantly swatting the offers away, he would never allow the world to see you. Not how beautiful you look, not how pretty your eyes are, glistening with tears, not how much he just wanted to smother you with affection like there isn’t anyone around. 

Hells, if he knew so many people would accept the short notice for an invitation, he would invade their kingdoms while they were away at his wedding. 

König holds your face in his hands, the contrast between soft skin and his gloves is making you shiver – he pushes his hood up, even just for a little bit, and the only thing that is ever revealed to the audience is the scars on his chin and sudden dryness of his lips. He thought he overcame his childish anxiety when he was still a tiny bird stuck in his adolescence – but he looks at you, his pretty little princess, and his hands are shaking from the anticipation of a kiss. 

The guests will assume you’re crying because you love him so, so much. 

The Emperor knows better, kissing the tears from your lips like it was the sweetest treat around. 

*** You thought you were smart.

You really did. 

Such a slick motion, such an easy task – the girl coming with Knight Riley, the weak one, with trembling hands and face that spoke of innocence of lambs and with calloused hands of a fellow worker, took your hand as you were leaving. The veil of laughs and jokes about finally conceiving a worthy heir for the empire made you shiver from horror – and the girl swatted you to her side, a single sleight of hand putting…something in your palms. 

Some sort of plant – dried, smelling of something sweet and edible, flowers that would feel crispy on your tongue. She smiles softly, her hands are gentle on yours – she whispers in your ear before your respective monsters can catch you and throw you in their layers again. 

She said, it was mercy. 

She said, it would make -it- feel quick and easy. 

You hoped, it was a poison. 

It had to be, you wouldn’t accept anything else – the desire to die and fulfill the destiny of a loyal servant, the whispers of the god of dignified death – you may not see the sweetness of the afterlife with your Princess, but killing oneself to save their bodies from being violated is a worthy fate for any. You pushed the plant in your mouth as swiftly as possible, chewing on the dried grass and crispy flowers, hoping the effect would be immediate. 

You’re bathed and oiled like a pig for devour, short for the apple stuffed in your mouth – instead, you have forced a mouthful of wine, goblets after goblets. To ease the tension of the first night, the servants said, smiling understandably. You feel warm, you feel dizzy, you feel hellishly feverish, and it couldn’t be just from the alcohol – you close your eyes and hope that the plant took its way finally, releasing you from the shell of the mortal life. You’re dressed up in pretty garments, skimpy as something that the empress should never wear – you feel like a cheap whore when your skin is glossy with oils and decorated with flowers. 

Just before you started chewing on them too, your husband finally arrived. 

You hoped you’d be dead before ever seeing him naked again – but you’re forced to watch his muscles tense as the only thing saving his lack of dignity is the smallest ever piece of undergarments. It doesn’t help in hiding his arousal, the monstrosity between his legs. You knew you would have to die before he is ever putting anything in you – but you see the outline of his manhood, poking from the side of a simple cloth, and somehow, you feel hotter than before. 

You blame it on the wine, you blame it on the poison you took. The warmness is spreading in your tummy to your lower areas, forcing its way to moisture your garments, a wet spot, embarrassingly big for an Empress, is slowly spreading between your oiled, scented legs. You’re nothing but a feast for him, a pretty little snack – you knew how much he liked to eat, after all. What great talent he had in forcing your legs apart and showing his head between them, that sinful tongue of his speaking of prayers and soft little blasphemies in the sweetness of your maidenhood. 

— You’re burning, little princess. 

You hoped it’s the poison working. 

For a second, he placed his hand on your forehead and caressed it softly, accessing your temperature. For a second, the cold of his hands made you nuzzle into his palm like a cat that was fed nothing but the finest pieces of meat by the hand that was ready to skin it for its skin. For a second, you hoped that his embrace alone would be enough to kill you. 

If you die, which you must do, you wish it would be with his hands holding you softly. 

— A virgin fewer? I thought you’d know what we’re going to do by now, little prin…

— Don’t stop be from dying. 

You let go of those words before you could claim your silence. 

König’s hands are grasping you immediately, a finger lays in your mouth, making you gag – you open your lips from instinct, no matter how much you want to stop him from ever entering your mouth. He is weirdly smooth with you, the other hand going to grab your waist and press you on the bed – like you ever had a chance to stand against him and run away. Like he didn’t have a row of guards just outside the door. 

— Dying? Scheisse, dumme What did you do? 

He quickly grasped your tongue, the traces of the flower still lingered on your teeth, on the further corners of your mouth – you didn’t know if you had to spit it out or eat it whole, and you didn’t want to guess in the matters of death and loss of dignity. You gag on his fingers as he laughs – an unusual sound. First, the smiles and happiness in his voice, the rings and chains he put you in, and now laugh? Perhaps you died already, and this is your eternal damnation. 

— Let go of me! You have no…

— Were you still so scared, Liebling? 

— I wasn’t…what do you mean, Your Highness? 

The title is good, the title puts some distance between you and him. Only imaginary – he is still as close as possible, hands on your body, wiping the traces of the flowers on the silk sheets and holding you in his embrace again, as tight as he possibly can. You feel ill, you feel hot, every time he puts his hands on you, you can feel your core throbbing, the poison making you dizzy and dumb. 

You almost feel like begging him to touch you again – and again, and again. König, for one, can’t wait to watch. 

— I wonder where you got it. Such a clever Katzen, ja? Eating aphrodisiacs before her wedding night, like I would just mount you like an animal without preparing my wife? 

He laughs and laughs, hand in your hair, petting you gently like you truly were a cat. You’re dumbfounded, the fewer makes everything make less and less sense. You close your eyes, you open your eyes – you feel him on you. Looking, watching, observing, you want him to stop, and you want him to rip away those stupid garments and touch you, as he did in that dim hallway, to push his masterful, sinful tongue down your folds and treat you like a…

You whimper as you fell on the sheets, truly embracing the cat in-heat stance you were for the last few minutes. You roll on the sheets, smooth silk makes your core cool just a bit, the pressure only building with each time you try to hump the sheets, not caring anymore if you were behaving like an animal. 

Perhaps, the Knight’s maiden really wanted to make everything easier for you – just in her own way. 

— Wh…what have you done to me? 

He is bracing his hands between your legs, lingering touches on the wetness of your garments, making you both shiver in anticipation. He is forcing his tongue on you, the immediate pressure making you meow from the sensation. You hate it, you hate it, you have to hate it because if you don’t, then what the hell are you even doing. It’s too much and too little, it does nothing to relief the warmth between your legs, only making you wetter with each stroke of his wide, warm tongue. — I haven’t done anything, little princess. You just want me. 

— I would never want you. 

— I can stop. 

You snap your legs around his neck before he can withdraw his face. 

König is laughing, the sheer adorableness of your expression making him want you even more. You look perfect, so lost in desire for him – gods, he just wanted to devour you, to strip you of all you worth and make you his just as much as he is yours. But simply pleasing you with his tongue won’t ever be enough for this night – he had waited for so long, too long, disgustingly long, he had to have you in every way possible. If he won’t consummate the marriage today, he might as well just die. 

Other night, he will make you beg – plead for him to give you his cock, push the throbbing member in your trembling folds, snap the pleasure from your hands and force you to accept being his wife. The other night, he could wait and tease you for as long as possible. The other night…

He doesn’t have the patience for this night – he can’t even kiss you now, the mere feeling of your trembling lips would snap him beyond repair. It’s unfair to you, little princess, his desire is too much for someone like you to take – alas, he has to have you. Alas, he will have you, one way or the other, even if he’d have to push your pretty head into the pillows and force his manhood between your folds. 

But you plead for him, the desire in your eyes, mixed with fear and anticipation, is enough for him to laugh again, his hand squeezing your chest. You look divine, absolutely – you would look even better when properly bred, tits full of milk, and belly swollen with his little soldiers. Emperor never thought of getting an offspring, always knew his fate was to fall into obscurity with the country he created, but you have wide hips, a soft belly, and warm hands – all the requirements of a mother. But you have the submissiveness of a pet and the wit of a wife. 

But he can’t wait to push his seed into you – with a groan, before you could even lay your eyes on his cock, he is already forcing it in, ravaging all the resistance you once had. 

The plant made you warm, aroused, and wet enough to be dripping when he first pushed his cockhead between your glistening folds. You cry, the feeling of being intruded, ravaged, bot entirely painful, but now very pleasant either, is nothing you were expecting of the first night with your husband. You were expecting screaming, pools of blood, half of your organs falling out from the newly made hole between your legs. 

You just feel…intruded. The knot in your stomach is as tight as ever, even as König gives you a few minutes to adjust, the outline of his manhood throbbing in your tummy. You don’t even want to look at him, and he allows you to drift into a trance, the aphrodisiac you took doing all the job of preparation for him. 

He is feeling you, raw and sensitive, your maidenhood is dripping down your thighs and his cock as he wasn’t exactly gentle – he will be the next night, and the night after, and after, he will promise to take care of you, little princess, but this night is about taking what belongs to him – and he will never allow you to keep your dignity when you can simply be his dumb, adorable wife. 

— You’re so…heavens, princess, you’re strangling me. 

He laughs, struggling to push in and out, his hand finding its place on your folds, playing and tugging with your swollen little clit. The bud is wet, no matter the pain you’re experiencing – the drug won’t allow you to stop wanting it, wanting him, König knows it’s not genuine, he has to work to make you this aroused, but for now, it will work. He doesn’t want you to feel pain – and he will make sure you’re able to take him. 

— Too much, it’s…stop, wait, I am…

— You can take it, Schatzi. 

— I can’t! — You will. 

You whimper under him, you cry under him, he only continues to move, tearing your loyalty to your kingdom with each harsh thrust. You came to this room wanting to die, but now you feel your hands wrapping around his neck, your hips buckling to meet his, to bring the overcoming pleasure like König isn’t the one to tear you apart – you feel raw, you feel tainted, the pleasure in your folds is nothing what you ever had before. 

You’re betraying yourself with each moan and each whimper – you find yourself begging for him, the tears of yours is not just from pain anymore. He kisses you, rough lips on your mouth, making sure you’re as prepared for him as he is, you want for him to stop, but you plead with him to continue. 

— Stop already…I…

— I only came twice, little princess. And you – trice. Doesn’t feel fair, ja? — ‘s not, I can’t take it anymore…

— I will breed you, Schatzen. Until you’re swollen with my sons. — It w…won’t be royal children…

— Ach, my blood is enough to make a dog royal. — But…

— I will breed you, little princess. You can stop pretending you don’t want it.

You’re not even sure at what orgasm you are already – you feel like he came already, the wetness in your cunt should be evident of his already breeding you quite a few times, but the time is a blur when every time you cum, your vision blurs and your brain becomes foggier and foggier. 

König knows you will look perfect, all thoughtless and swollen with his children – not now, maybe, with a few elixirs to enhance your ability to bear children, but he can’t wait till you’re done. You might not like it at first, princesses do tend to be just a bit dumb when it comes to their duties, but there is something in your eyes that is telling him you’re going to bring him sons just like a good girl you are. Just like he expects you to do, your pretty tummy all swollen, and your body is barely handling the passion of his lovemaking. Gods, he knew you would be worth it. Even if, to his knowledge, you’re not a princess at all.

[melon-fodder]

Pairing: Takiishi x Endo x Reader; Hiragi x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Note: this is filthy, but it has been living in my head so now I’m putting it in your heads. It’s a wee bit dark.

Warnings: exhibitionism, dub-con bordering on non-con, public humiliation, toxic relationship, non-consensual voyeurism, fingering, coerced cunnilingus, forced orgasms, pussy slapping, fem-bodied reader, reader gets hit once, Takiishi and Endo are just mean and Hiragi is not happy about it, mentioned that reader and Ume grew up together

It’s a power play. Hiragi knows this because he knows them—Takiishi and Endo—but it doesn’t make him any less livid.

He sits next to Umemiya on the couch across from the other 2 men, arms crossed, one leg thrown over the other, and all he can do is scowl, trying to ignore the lewd noises that are filling the room.

It’s more of a warehouse. Abandoned then refurbished to fit the needs of Takiishi and the rest of his gang of god damn degenerates. It’s empty now, save for the 5 of you, which is both a blessing and a curse. At least it affords some semblance of privacy.

“Extend the truce, huh?” Endo asks, leaning back in his seat as he starts tracing fingers up and down your thigh. “Now why would we do that?”

Umemiya is staring directly at his smirking face, his own expression unreadable, shut down, and Hiragi knows why. Umemiya is just as affected by the scene before him, maybe even more so.

Because he’s known you for much longer than Hiragi has, shared toys and meals at the orphanage, looked out for you like he did for Kotoha, but unlike Kotoha, Ume couldn’t keep you tucked under his wing forever.

“Why wouldn’t we?” Umemiya challenges. “We both have better things to worry about than going against each other. It’s been a peaceful few weeks, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Peaceful,” Endo scoffs, “more like boring.”

A muffled moan escapes you, and Hiragi can’t help but glance at you. It’s a mistake.

Takiishi has you in his lap, his spread thighs keeping yours wide open as he plunges long fingers in and out of your wet pussy. You’re completely on display, naked chest rising and falling as if to show off your hardened nipples.

Hiragi licks his lips and immediately hates himself for it.

You don’t want to be doing this, there’s no way. It’s been years since Hiragi’s had a proper conversation with you, always hidden away within Takiishi’s shadow.

This never should have happened to you. You never should have fallen prey to him. Hiragi never should have let you.

You were a shining star to Bofurin, well-liked by everyone. You made sure the boys were taken care of, tended Umemiya’s garden whenever he wasn’t able to for some reason. You even provided a nice buffer between Ume and Hiragi, taking note of his particularly bad stomach days and making sure to tag along with the intention of redirecting Ume’s ridiculous fucking tangents while slipping Hiragi fruity antacids.

Then you were attacked, and for some reason fucking Endo was there and stepped in—saved the day then presented you to Takiishi like some kind of toy he’d won from a claw machine.

And he’s still presenting you, making Hiragi and Umemiya sit and watch as you cum for the who-knows-what-time. It's distracting, impossible to focus on the conversation at hand when your sweat-dampened body is right there, stretched out and leaking. There’s a fucking puddle between Takiishi’s feet, but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he’s barely paying attention to you aside from thrusting his fingers inside you.

Hiragi’s fists clench where no one can see, fighting a growl when Endo dips his own hand between your legs to rub your clit.

“She’s so swollen, Kiishi,” he teases, “just look at her.”

For the first time since pulling you into his lap, Takiishi actually regards you, eyes darting downward, and he swats Endo’s fingers out of the way to make room for his own, toying with your puffy clit only to slap it several times.

Hiragi twitches at the action, watching droplets of your arousal fly from your cunt while you squeal and writhe, and he berates himself for thinking that you look so pretty like this—ready to be devoured.

He could. Devour you, that is. At one point in time Hiragi wanted nothing more than to make you his, consume you in every way possible. But he didn’t out of respect for Ume.

Now he thinks maybe he should have. Maybe being with him could have prevented all of this. Maybe instead of walking alone that night you would have been walking with him, back to his place after a date.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Instead he has to watch these psychopaths use you. It’s not even for your pleasure; it’s to set Umemiya and Hiragi on edge, to piss them off enough to start another war.

Takiishi speaks into your ear, your head thrown back as you whimper pleas for him— “c-can’t take it… no—no more, p-please.”

“No more? But your pussy’s so wet. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you like being watched like this.”

Hiragi can barely hear, but he gets enough of it to have to bite his tongue. Umemiya takes advantage of his rivals’ attention being focused elsewhere and squeezes his eyes shut while popping his neck.

“You good?” Hiragi grunts.

Umemiya looks at him from the corner of his eyes, and Hiragi can feel the anger radiating from him. Definitely not good.

“Fuck, you’re makin’ such a mess,” Endo hums, slipping to the ground with the grace of the fucking snake he is so that he can shove his face between your legs.

Loud slurps echo through the warehouse, and the implication that you are that fucking sloppy has Hiragi’s cock twitching in his pants. God, he’s so fucked for this. This is sick.

You whine and wiggle in Takiishi’s lap, legs trembling as Endo eats you out. You’re only given a break when Takiishi shoves Endo’s head back and roughly shoves his own, wet fingers into the other’s mouth.

Endo sucks on them dutifully, even moans around them and reaches down to palm his cock. Hiragi doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to their sordid dynamic, even more twisted now that you’re part of it.

“How about this,” Takiishi starts, removing his fingers from Endo then wiping them down your face. You try to turn your head but the fucker hooks the same, messy fingers into your cheek before gagging you with them.

“I can see the two of you are… uncomfortable.” Takiishi’s mouth barely lifts into a smile, but his eyes remain lifeless as ever. “And I’m enjoying it. So I’ll extend the truce if you humor me for a little bit longer.”

“How? Keep watching you torture my little sister?” Umemiya questions, voice unnervingly even.

Takiishi’s smirk grows. “No. Take part in it.”

“No.”

“Aw, come on,” Endo drawls, “just a taste. You know you want to, Hiragi.”

Hiragi stiffens, eyes darting to you just in time to see yours flutter open and find him. He thinks he sees you nod.

“Don’t you want the truce to last?” Takiishi presses, eyebrows lifted like he’s shocked. “You won’t do this one little thing even if it keeps people safe?”

Umemiya grits his teeth, obviously torn, and Hiragi knows that he’s gonna have to make this decision. This twisted fucking decision.

“You’ll let her rest after?” Hiragi asks, still not moving a muscle.

“Ah!” Endo actually claps, grinning widely. “We have a taker!”

Takiishi shrugs, “sure. Why not?”

Hiragi takes a moment to rub his temples, stomach churning, then looks at Ume for permission. He gives a curt nod, and Hiragi sighs then holds a hand out to beckon you over.

“No, no. On your knees here,” Takiishi commands.

Hiragi’s spine goes rigid. Talk about a fucking power play. They’re putting him in a very vulnerable position.

“We’re not gonna attack you,” Endo chuckles as if reading his mind. “Truce, remember?”

His feet feel like lead as Hiragi makes his way over. He gazes down at you, tries to soften his expression before lowering himself to the ground.

He hates this. He isn’t submitting himself to you but to Takiishi.

Truce, truce, truce, he reminds himself, trying not to think about the fact that he’s finally about to taste you. Enjoying this is not an option. He has to keep his composure.

Hiragi simply stares at first—such a perfect pussy, slick dripping from you in strings, your abused hole leaking thick cream.

Fuck, he’s hard. He’s so fucking hard it hurts.

“Gorgeous, right?” Endo purrs, and when Hiragi doesn’t answer he asks in a much harsher tone, “right?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Gorgeous.”

Hiragi glances up at you one more time before leaning forward. He licks you as softly as possible, gathering the juice between your folds. It pulls a long moan from you, and Hiragi senses the way you tense in Takiishi’s lap.

You taste good. Better than good. Sweet and tangy, and as you coat his tongue, Hiragi savors it. He tries to remain soft against you, not moving too quickly or forcefully. He can’t imagine how sensitive you must be.

When he bumps his nose against your clit, so pitifully swollen, you let out a high-pitched, “ah!” and buck up against him.

Fucking Christ.

Hiragi places one of his hands on your thigh, kneading your tense muscles in a way he hopes is soothing, but the more you move against his mouth, the tighter his grip becomes.

He drags the flat of his tongue over your hole then dips into it, tasting your gummy walls and groaning quietly. His cock is throbbing, trapped in his pants, but he’d rather die than pull it out.

The slightest graze of his teeth against your clit has you crying out, and Takiishi holds you tighter against him.

“You enjoying this, hm? Our pretty slut getting off on your old friend’s tongue?”

Hiragi growls at the way he degrades you, but his mouth is too busy to argue. Instead, he sucks your clit into his mouth, reveling in the way you start to whine for him.

“You better not cum for him,” Takiishi hisses. Hiragi nearly stops. Isn’t that the whole point of this? Wring one more orgasm out of you?

“B-but—”

You’re quaking, sopping hole clenching over and over, and Hiragi feels a sick pride knowing he’s making you feel good.

“Listen to me,” Takiishi grips your face roughly, “you don’t cum unless I say you can.”

You choke back a sob that morphs into a wet moan when Hiragi licks into you again.

He should stop. Even if you like what he’s doing, Takiishi is still using it as a punishment, and the worst part is that he knows Hiragi is getting caught up in it. He isn’t sure he’d be able to tear himself away if he tried.

And he doesn’t want to try.

Both hands by his head, Hiragi spreads your chubby pussy open and drags his tongue over whatever he can reach. He makes a mess of his face, rubbing back and forth, catching your clit with his nose while slurping the squirt starting to seep out of you.

Takiishi can tell you not to cum all he wants, but Hiragi is gonna make sure you do no matter what.

“Fuck, fuck, Ragi!”

He hasn’t heard you call him that in ages, and it makes heat bloom in his chest, affection and longing, and fuck, he wants to take you away from here, to save you, but first he wants to feel you lose yourself. He wants to swallow your orgasm, fuck you through it, then wipe away your tears afterward.

“Don’t cum, don’t you dare cum,” Takiishi says over and over, noticing how your body starts to lock up, how your legs tighten around Hiragi’s back, toes curling as he swipes his tongue back and forth over your clit.

He’ll make you see stars, and then he’ll steal you away. That’s it. That’s exactly what he’ll do.

“Have to—I can’t—”

Hiragi is so thankful he looks up from between your legs at that moment because you smile when you cum for him, rocking your hips into his face, wanting more. He sticks his tongue out as far as he can, flattening it, letting you rub your messy cunt all over it.

“Oh, god, oh—m’sorry, m’sorry, couldn’t help it, ohhh~”

You slow down, or really Takiishi slows you down, and Endo sneers, pinched expression on his face.

“Alright, loverboy, that’s enough.”

Hiragi glares up at him, making a show of the way he kisses your clit, then leans back on his heels. He doesn’t even bother wiping his face.

You’re breathing heavily, legs still twitching with aftershocks, and when you look up at Hiragi, you show another exhausted, beautiful grin.

The meeting doesn’t last long after that. Takiishi and Endo both seem pissed—their own damn fault—but Hiragi isn’t particularly worried. He’s already formulating a plan to get you out, and he’s willing to bet Umemiya is doing the same.

Extending the truce is agreed on. They even shake hands on it.

As Hiragi and Umemiya make their way toward the exit, Hiragi looks over his shoulder. You’re wearing Takiishi’s ugly-ass fur coat, but that’s the only comfort you get from him.

Hiragi watches as that ginger fuck leans forward to get in your face, not shouting but louder than Hiragi has ever heard him— “what did I fucking say? You think you’re cute putting on that show for him? Moaning his name—disgusting fucking whore!”

Hiragi is flying through the air, fist pulled back, and his punch lands just after Takiishi backhands you hard enough to knock you over. Hiragi’s knuckles slam into his jaw with a satisfying crack, and he grins when Takiishi spits out a molar.

So much for that truce.

[carlsangel]

STUPID

carl grimes x reader

(you punch negan at the lineup.)

tags: angst, fluff

masterlist here!

Sometimes, you do things without thinking which was very prevalent during the lineup. Sitting there silently while watching Negan torment and murder your family was complete torture. Coming along on this trip wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. Carl didn’t even want you to go in the first place.

During the lineup, the two of you were separated which somehow made everything much worse. You were sat between Michonne and Abraham. That definitely wasn’t the most ideal position to be in. Directly next to Abraham. You didn’t look, you couldn’t. You knew Carl had probably watched it all to make sure he’d remember it.

You thought it couldn’t get any worse but Negan decided to torment Rosita about it. You knew they had some sort of issue before all of this, that they’d broken up. But it was still cruel and just as hard to watch. Negan thought he was funny. So you clocked him in the jaw which is fair, who wouldn’t?

You were tackled and pinned to the floor as expected, you had heard the others protest while they screamed at Negan’s men telling them you’re just a kid. They weren’t planning on having mercy on you, but Negan did. He scolded you and told you there’d be consequences to your actions. You sometimes wish it was you. Glenn was a huge loss to the group, you couldn’t help but feel like it was your fault.

After everything you thought you’d be given the liberty of going home with your family. But he took you as punishment. He’d told you on various occasions that you were brave. Brave makes a good soldier, so he would try and break you. Turn you into a savior, into Negan. You were under the control of Dwight who locked you in a room and basically starved you, feeding you dog food and made you suffer by repeating songs over and over. He made you spend time with the dead, and that was the next time you’d see Carl.

You saw him through a gate first, he killed some of Negan’s men and that already stressed you out to no end. You were worried about what he’d might do to Carl. You finally got to leave the dead to service Dwight and Negan once again. You held a tray of snacks for the man, it was quite humiliating to say the least. But you were able to see Carl. The look he gave you was heartbreaking. He was so worried to see you there in that state. “Why’s he here?” You ask Negan. He sort of laughed at your question. “Well the last time I checked, that was none of your business. Don’t make me take out the only eye he has.” He teases. So you stay silent, that was probably the first you’d spoken in a while.

Later that day you were able to see him two more times, once during the iron and right before he left back to Alexandria. You knew that if he didn’t have his bandage, Negan had definitely tormented him. Eventually you were back locked into your cell, but not for long because you were soon given the supplies you’d need to leave. So you do, effectively disguising yourself and escaping. You made to ur way back to Hilltop, thanks to Jesus.

There you were well taken care of, you were given a shower and real food. Somewhere to sleep. You had nightmares about the Sanctuary, about Negan and Dwight. It sounds stupid but you were worried, you’d thought about it and realized you were still an escaped hostage, they could look for you at any moment. But that didn’t stop you from wanting to see Carl. Your plan was to leave Hilltop early in the morning to head back to Alexandria. You wake up early and grab a couple things you’d need in a bag. You sneak off to a side wall and before you can start to try to escape, you hear Maggie calling you and Sasha.

You walk further into the settlement to see that the gates are opened and he’s there. Carl is there. You let your bag slide off your back and the both of you make your way to each other’s embrace, still sort of shocked. He hugs you so tightly, tighter than he ever has before. He shoves his face into your neck. “Thank god.” He mumbles against your skin. After a moment you pulled back to look at him. He looks at you a bit wearily as the last time he’d seen you it wasn’t in the best condition. He leans forward and plants a kiss to your forehead, his eyes shut as he feels a wave of gratefulness flood his body.

Soon you guys would be sitting down in Barrington house while you guys caught up. Although, he seemed to be doing most of the talking. You were very silent. “After the Sanctuary…he went back to Alexandria. People died. He took Eugene.” He explains solemnly. He looks at your face for any expression and there is none. “Cmon you gotta say something.” He examines your face and realizes how much pain you’re in.

“I just…I feel so stupid.” You mutter. He tilts his head to get a better look at you. “If i hadn’t done what I did…Glenn would be here. I wouldn’t have gone to the Sanctuary. It was bad Carl it was so bad.” Your voice trails off as tears fill your eyes, you can’t help but cover your face but all you can think of was the cell they’d keep you in, constantly being taunted and picked on.

He immediately went to comfort you, running his hand over your back to calm you down. He wasn’t sure what to say, he didn’t know how to help you. But all he knew was that you needed comfort. He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you tightly. It was almost like he was telling you that you were safe now.

Negan wouldn’t hurt you again, and he’d make sure of it. “Whatever happens next…you have to sit out.” He tells you, still holding on tightly. You pull back and look at him puzzled. “Sit out?” You sniffle, “This isn’t a game, Carl. This is war.” He breathes in deeply and considers your response, although he can’t agree. “That doesn’t matter to me…but you do.” You shake your head and stand up from the couch.

“That’s unfair. I can fight and I’m going to.” You retort. “No. You’re not. Not like this.” He demands. How doesn’t he understand? You can’t let whatever it was stop you, not now. “Is this for revenge?” He questions. You turn back to look at him with a small glare as he remained on the couch. “If that’s how you want to look at it, yes. But to me it’s justice. Not just for me… but for Abraham and Glenn.” Carl keeps quiet and looks at you intently.

“Even though what happened to Glenn was my fault.” You say sort of quietly, looking. down at your feet. Your words struck Carl hard. So he stood up and forced you to look at him, just to make sure you understood. “That’s not what happened- we were put in a shitty position. None of that should’ve happened anyway.”

You say nothing. It’s hard to feel any other way. Like it wasn’t your fault. Carl took you in his arms anyway, it was probably the most comforting hug you’d gotten since the start of it all. He pulled away from you to hold your face gently in his hands. “If fighting makes you feel better then you can fight. But you have to stay by my side. Can you promise me that…please?” His voice was gentle and reassuring, it really made you feel better.

You nod. “I promise.”

a/n: the rest of the match ups are gonna be done somewhat soon, i’m having quite bad mental health issues currently so they’re kinda getting hard for me to get through T-T

anyway mannnn 0-0 this was FUNNN it was just so depressing but i suppose that’s the point shrug THANKS FOR THE REQ ANON IT WAS BANGER also sorry for it coming out A MONTH LATER HDHDHDHD

tag list: @zomb-1-egutzz @lunarnightt @ilikestrawberriesandwomen @hiro--aoki @h00d-tr4sh @callsignwidow

[delicatebarness]

cry baby | chapter five

Summary: John's at it again, but can Bucky control his anger this time?

Warning: John Walker. (You didn't think he was gone, did you?). Bullying in the workplace. Crying.

Word Count: 1141

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A/N: I don't have any words. Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as it is mine. - B

Tags: @buckys0whore | @thezombieprostitute | @lanabuckybarnes | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @softieekayy | @noonespecial90 | @hello-therree | @randomawesomeperson102 | @whoreforbarnes | @thejutvtsupport | @somnorvos

Each tick of the clock echoed his taunts in your mind, he made it his mission to make every day of your working life unbearable.

Tuesday, he found new ways to undermine your every move, affecting your confidence—another meeting where he questioned every idea you had. “Do you even understand the client’s needs?” he would sneer, raising an eyebrow as you sat back down. Your colleagues would shift uncomfortably in their chairs, yet none spoke up to him. 

He would then proceed to pile extra work untoward you. “I need you to fill these out by the end of the day,” he said as he dumped a file containing more documents on your desk. “Surely, this is something you can do without backup,”

You fought back tears as the stress began to blur your vision. Your hands shook as you typed, making the day drag on longer than it should.

Wednesday, he started the day by calling you into his cubicle. Your skin began to itch with every step of the way. “I noticed more errors in your presentation,” he said, not bothering to look up from the computer screen. “It’s sloppy.” 

“But I, I triple-checked everything,” you protested, your voice trembling as you stuttered—the frustration beginning to bubble up.

“I-I-I…” he mocked, his gaze snapped to yours with a cold and unyielding glare. “Do it again.” 

The rest of the day was spent correcting mistakes that didn’t exist, the task gnawed at you.

Your exhaustion was visible by Thursday, dark circles framed your eyes, and your posture had begun to deflate into a slump. John relished in your deterioration. “What’s the matter, Baby?” his tone thick with fake concern as he leaned against your cubicle. A shiver sent down your back, your stomach felt nauseous at the sound of the nickname coming from his lips. “Work too much for you?” 

The peaceful workplace had become a battleground, your eyes welled up as you bit your lips to suppress the sense of overwhelm. Another day dragged, and with each keystroke, the air felt heavier. 

Friday was the worst. Another call to his cubicle, “You’ve been taken off the project,” he announced, “You’re not up to the task.” 

You felt humiliated as he stood, towering over you. “But I’ve worked so hard on it,” your voice was barely a whisper. Another day of your eyes burning with the sensation of tears welling. 

“Exactly,” a cruel smile played on his lips as he reached out, tilting your chin up with his finger. His gaze bored into yours. “And it’s still… not good enough.” 

The feeling of defeat settled in as you returned to your desk. For the past few weeks, you listened, took notes, planned, and braved public speaking for this project. Only for him to take it away from you at the last hurdle. 

You lingered as the office began to empty at the end of the day, unknowing how you could face the weekend knowing you failed. 

~

That evening, you sat on your couch watching re-runs of a 90s sitcom with a tub of chocolate ice cream. The tears you managed to keep contained for the majority of the week, finally spilled down your cheeks. 

Sensing something wasn’t right, Bucky called, your phone vibrating on your coffee table. You hesitated to answer, you knew he’d hear your cries from the tone of your voice. Yet, you felt a pang of guilt. 

You hadn’t seen your friends, not even your brother, all week. Too focused on trying to please John’s requests, you skipped the bar and now skipped Friday night at Nat and Wanda’s. Even your text to them had been affected, only replying with short answers or failing to respond in the group chat altogether.

Before you knew it, the call ended, and for a moment, the only noise was your TV. 

“Open the door, Sweetheart,” you heard Bucky call out as the sound of knocking filled the apartment. 

You stood, wrapping your dressing gown tighter around your body, wiping your cheeks with the sleeves. “Hey,” you murmured as you opened the door. 

Bucky stood straight as he took in your complexion. Your eyes were red and tired, your cheeks stained with the previous stream of tears. Your smile was barely visible. 

“Are you okay?” his voice filled with concern as he cupped your face in his hands, his gaze searching yours for answers. His concern melted for your defenses as you found yourself collapsing into his embrace. The tears spilled once again as he held you tightly for a moment.

Without letting go of your frame, he picked you up, closed your apartment door, and carried you over to your couch. The scent of leather, smoke, and the bar enveloped your senses as you buried your face into his chest. Your sobs began to subdue as you sat with him. 

“He’s making my life miserable,” you mumbled against his Henley shirt as you managed to find your words. You felt his muscles tense around you, his breathing became heavier. 

You recounted the week’s worth of torment, each little detail painting a clear picture of John’s taunts. All the extra work, the humiliation.

Bucky never said a word, he listened to every word you said. His silence was more comforting than you thought it would be. His presence, arms wrapped around you all night, and the odd stroke of your hair or rub on your back, relaxed you.

Before you knew it, you had fallen asleep. Once Bucky had realized the steady rhythm of your breathing, he lifted you gently from the couch. He cradled you in his arms as he carried you through your apartment, careful not to wake you as he made his way to your bedroom. The exhaustion of the past week had finally taken its toll and you remained in a deep sleep. 

The familiarity of your space guided him through your apartment. Nudging the door open with his foot, the light from the hall cast a gentle glow across your room.

Laying you down on the bed with tender care, he rested your head comfortably on the pillow. Stirring slightly, Bucky pulled the covers over you, tucking you in. He stood by your bedside, eyes tracing the lines of your face. His anger towards John was simmering as the seconds passed, yet, in this quiet moment, his focus was on you.

Leaning down, he wiped a stray tear from your cheek and brushed a soft kiss against your forehead. Silently promising to protect you.

Standing he began to leave your room, closing the door slowly to not make a sound. “Goodnight, Bucky,” a soft murmur escaped your lips, but you weren’t awake. 

He stopped, standing in your doorway for another moment. “Goodnight, Sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice barely audible as he closed the door behind him. 

---

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[candycandy00]

The Doll House - A Geto Suguru x Reader Fanfic Part 4 (Final)

You sell yourself to a brothel to feed your family and Geto Suguru is in charge of training you to be the perfect submissive sex doll.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Read Toji’s Part Here!

Read Nanami’s Part Here!

Read Sukuna’s Part Here!

Read Gojo’s Part Here!

Read Choso’s Part Here!

AU! Each trainer will get their own story! This is Geto’s. I’m not sure how many parts it will have. If you’d like to be tagged in future parts, let me know! You must be an adult to be tagged! Any feedback whatsoever is adored!

Smut. 18+. Dubcon. Submission. Extreme humiliation. Voyeurism. Light degradation. Masturbation. First time sex. Fem Reader. This Divider by @benkeibear!

When Suguru enters his room, he finds his doll huddled in a corner, shivering. She’s pulled his shirt on, but it dwarfs her, the sleeves covering her hands. He approaches slowly, and stops a few feet away before kneeling down to her level. 

“Can we talk?” he asks her, his voice soft and even. “Not as trainer and doll, just as people.”

She looks up at him. Her eyes are puffy and wet. Seeing the anguish on her face makes him feel like he’s been stabbed. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” she says. “You said I can trust you, that you’ll keep me safe. But when I felt unsafe, when I was scared, I turned to you! And you… you…”

“I hurt you, and I’m sorry,” he began. “You have no idea how sorry I am. I thought this would upset you, yes. But I didn’t realize how much it would hurt you. If I had, I swear I wouldn’t have put you through that.”

To emphasize his apology, Suguru bows down low to the floor, touching his forehead to the carpet. “Please forgive me for failing you as a trainer, as a person.”

He doesn’t look up to see her reaction, but after a few moments of silence, he hears her voice say, “I want to know why. Why did you do it? What did I do to deserve punishment like that?”

Finally lifting his face, he gazes at her wet but determined eyes. “The truth is, you scared me this afternoon,” he tells her. “I could tell you’re getting too attached to me. Remember what I told you? The cruelest fate for a doll is falling in love with her trainer. Because that trainer is going to hand her over to some other man and then move on to the next doll. I’ve seen it absolutely devastate dolls in the past, and I didn’t want that to happen to you, so I thought if I did something drastic, it would stamp out your feelings for me.”

She doesn’t say anything, just stares at him. It’s agony not knowing what she’s thinking, but he goes on. “That’s also why I haven’t had sex with you yet. I’m afraid it will only make the attachment worse.”

He doesn’t say so, but he’s even more afraid of the fact that he’s growing attached to her. He denied it to Satoru, but his longtime friend knows him better than anyone, and he’d hit the nail right on the head. 

His doll narrows her eyes at him in a look of disapproval that sends a shock of panic through him. No doll has ever looked at him this way. “You’re selfish,” she says. “You decided what you thought was best for me on your own. You didn’t even ask me how I felt or what I wanted! Yes, I’m attached to you. Yes, I’m in love with you! But maybe I’m prepared for whatever heartache I’ll feel when we separate. Maybe I still think it’s worth it!”

Suguru blinks in surprise. Is his doll actually stronger than he thought? Looking at her now, with steely resolve in her eyes, he thinks she’s more beautiful than she’s ever been. Not to mention the fact that she’s wearing his shirt. He’s seen her naked this whole time, but somehow knowing his shirt is  against her body is getting him riled up. 

God, he’s falling for her. 

He bows his head down again. “To make things right, I will submit to you for twenty-four hours. I’ll do anything you want, no matter what it is.”

******************

You stare at Suguru’s bowed, submissive form. Is he serious? Is he really going to do whatever you say? You decide to test him. 

“Tomorrow morning at breakfast, I want you to go to the dining hall naked! And jack off in front of everyone!”

His eyes become as round as saucers, a blush creeping over his face. Then he takes a deep breath and looks straight at you with a strained but determined expression. “Okay. If that’s what I have to do to make things right, I’ll do it.”

“Really?”

He nods. 

You can’t resist laughing. “I’m just kidding! I wouldn’t make you do that. I’m not that cruel.”

His face shifts from relieved to guilty. “I really will do anything you ask. Just tell me what you want.”

You think for a moment, then climb to your feet. “Take your clothes off, and don’t wear anything for the rest of the night.”

He stands up from his kneeling position on the floor and looks down at you. Again you see that fire in his eyes. He’s already shirtless, so he unbuckles his belt. Then he kicks off his shoes, opens his pants, and slides them down his legs, leaving only his boxers. 

You find yourself breathing a little faster as you watch him push his boxers down and step out of them. There’s something lurid about seeing him stark naked here, outside the bathroom. 

His body is divine. Perfectly toned, with smooth skin, eyes like darkened amber, hair a black river pouring down his back. His cock is growing hard before your eyes as he looks at you. Why? You’re actually covered up for the first time in two weeks. Regardless, you can’t stop staring at him. 

“Now sit on the edge of the bed,” you say, “and pleasure yourself.”

He seems surprised for a moment, then gives you a sensual grin and lowers himself onto the bed, sitting on the mattress, facing you. He opens his thighs slightly, now fully erect, and begins lightly stroking himself while looking at you. 

His hand moves slowly at first, sliding up and down his shaft, his thumb brushing over his tip. Then he starts to move a little faster, a little harder. After a few minutes, you can see a sheen on his skin as his hand smears precum from the tip over the rest of it. You want to wrap your lips around it, but you don’t. This is his punishment after all. Instead you stand just a few feet away, watching. His eyes never leave your face, and just to tease him, you lick your lips. 

You hear his breaths come harder, see his face flushed pink as his hand strokes faster. His hair is still loose, some of it in his eyes as he moves. You’ve never seen a hotter sight in your life. You rub your thighs together under his shirt, but it’s not enough. Not enough friction. While he stares at you with lusty eyes, you reach down and press the soft fabric of his shirt between your legs, against your bare, wet pussy, and rub. 

The fire in his eyes becomes an inferno. You hear his creamy voice gasp out, “Fuck, you’re so…” But he stops before he can finish. He’s breathing fast, jacking off faster and faster, and you know he’s close. You can’t resist any longer. You drop to your knees in front of him and open your mouth, extending your tongue. He looks surprised, but then he quickly presses his tip to your tongue and releases, cumming into your mouth in great spurts. 

When he’s empty, he falls back on the bed, panting, one arm draped over his face. After he regains his strength, you insist that he takes a shower while you watch. You’ve done this every night, but somehow it feels different when you’re covered up and he’s not. You also order him to dry his hair but leave it hanging loose. 

You finally get to shut the door while you shower, reveling in the comfort of the warm water and the privacy. You steal another one of his big comfy sweatshirts to wear for the night, but when you start to put the one you wore earlier in the hamper, he stops you. 

“I’ll wash this later,” he says, gently pulling it from your grasp. You watch him fold it and shove it into a drawer, thinking that’s sort of gross, but a little flattering. 

“I’m sleeping in the bed tonight,” you tell him, already crawling under his covers. 

“Of course,” he says, getting the blanket you’ve been using from his closet and preparing to sleep on the floor. 

“Wait. I want you to sleep in the bed too.”

He pauses, looking at you. “Are you sure?”

You nod, then look down a bit shyly. “And… I want you to cuddle me.”

*******************

When she said those words, Suguru made his decision. But it will be weeks before he tells her. 

He slips under the covers, then scoots as close as possible to her. She’s lying on her side, facing him, looking at him with wide, glassy eyes. He pulls her into his arms, the warmth of her delicate frame wrapped in his sweatshirt feeling incredible against his naked body. 

For a while, they just stay that way, the only movement coming from the rise and fall of their chests as they breathe each other in. She smells sweet, like the cherry shampoo he put in the shower for her. Finally she shifts, turning her face up to look at him. “You aren’t too cold, are you?”

He smiles down at her. “No, you’re keeping me warm.”

She snuggles even closer to him, and he’s overcome with a feeling of guilt. He can’t stop thinking about what he did, about her terrified face looking to him, hoping for him to stop that whole nightmare. Feeling the way he does for her right now, with her in his arms, he wishes he could go back in time and punch himself in the face. 

But it’s done, it happened, and he can’t change it. He can only work to make it up to her. Right now, he only wants to make her happy, to make her feel good, to be even closer to her. 

He tilts his face down, and does something he’s never done to a doll before: he kisses her lips. 

She blinks, surprised, before her eyes slide closed, her mouth opening to allow him to deepen the kiss. She tastes as sweet as she smells, and his hands glide over her body beneath the covers, sliding under the shirt. 

He rolls them both over, leaving her on her back with him on top of her, and kisses her again. When he stops to take a breath, he looks down at her and asks, “Do you still want me to fuck you?”

Her eyes seem to light up with excitement. “Yes!”

*****************

You thought you’d be scared. You’ve imagined your first time over and over, and it always left you feeling both excited and nervous. But right now? With Suguru sliding his sweatshirt up your body to reveal your breasts, his lips planting kisses down your neck and collar bone before taking one hardened nipple into his mouth, you only feel elation. 

Every touch is gentle, soft, warm, as his hands explore you in ways they never have before. His movements are intimate, affectionate. He lightly grinds his hard body against you, and you can feel him all over. His hair, still loose, flares out around him, falling over both of you like a curtain. Your hands can’t resist grabbing it, running your fingers through it as he pushes your legs apart. 

His fingers slip between your folds, stroking your clit until your pussy is glazed and ready. It doesn’t take much. You’ve been aroused all night, with him walking around the room completely naked. He scoots forward, positioning himself, then looks at your face. 

You raise your head from the pillows and kiss his lips, confirming that you’re ready. 

Suguru presses himself inside you, slowly, inch by inch, watching your face intently. There’s discomfort, but no pain, as you feel yourself stretch around him. He’s going slowly enough to give your body time to adjust, careful to avoid tearing the delicate skin. When the stretch becomes a bit much, you wince, and he pauses. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, so sweetly. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you tell him. 

“Can you take a little more?”

You nod your head. “I want all of you.”

He pushes further in, and finally he sighs in pleasure. “It’s all in,” he says. 

For a while, he doesn’t move. He’s letting you get used to his size. The discomfort you felt fades away, leaving only a pleasant sensation of warm fullness. He’s inside you. The man you’re in love with is inside you, and just thinking about that makes your whole body tingle. 

“I’m going to move now,” he says, and then he slowly pulls part of the way out before pushing back in. He watches your reaction carefully, and when you show no signs of pain, he begins thrusting slowly in and out of you. 

Your breath hitches as his cock goes in deeper than before, hitting a spot that makes your toes curl. He looks down at you with that fiery expression, eyes almost dazed, hair messy around his face. And he begins moving a little faster, going incredibly deep each time, continuously hitting that sweet spot until you’re moaning under him. Your arms fly up to wrap around his neck, pulling his beautiful face closer so you can kiss him again as his thrusts become stronger, faster. 

He’s using one arm to brace himself above you, the other is curled around beneath your head, holding you up, fingers in your hair, as his mouth devours yours. The way he’s looking at you, the way his breathing is matching your own, the way his thrusts are so deep and deliberate… he’s not having sex with you. He’s making love to you. 

As if you have no control over them, your legs automatically wrap around him, and then your whole body is clinging to him, pulling him impossibly close. 

“Feels so good… Suguru…” you moan out, barely noticing that you forgot to call him Master. You feel him twitch, feel his body becoming tense, and you know he’s on the edge, just like you. “Please… cum inside me…”

He’s breathing hard, staring at your face with such a lovely, lustful expression. Then he plunges deeper than ever into you, pressing against that heavenly spot, kissing you at the same moment. 

It pushes you over the edge, and you cum around him at the same time he releases his seed inside you, your mouths drinking in each other’s moans.  

When it was over, he helped you pull his shirt back down your body and the two of you fell asleep snuggled into each other’s arms. 

*********************

Several weeks later, you find yourself standing in the welcome room of the Doll House, wearing your own clothes, waiting to meet your new owner. Your suitcase is sitting on the floor beside you, and you’re a nervous wreck. 

Ordinarily, buyers are expected to come in for several in person visits before the transfer of ownership, so that the new owner isn’t a stranger to the doll. But your buyer preferred to remain anonymous and forgo the visits. 

You said your goodbyes to the other trainers and dolls this morning at breakfast, then to Suguru this afternoon. You were a little sad that he didn’t seem as bothered by your separation as you were, but you suppose that’s to be expected. After all, he’s said goodbye to countless dolls before you. 

You tried to stay calm and strong. You promised Suguru you could handle this, that you wouldn’t fall apart or make a scene, but it’s hard. You want to cry. You want to storm back into his room and beg him not to let you go. But you won’t do that. 

Ever since that first night you made love, the training changed. Suguru insisted you wear one of his oversized shirts every time you left his room. He let you sleep in the bed every night with him, cuddled up like lovers. You still had to call him “Master Suguru” and obey all his orders, often doing lewd things to him or in front of him, but you came to enjoy those orders. There was a softness to him, a warmth in his smile when he looked at you. Because of that, you’d hoped… Well, best not to dwell on it. 

As you stood there fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, you heard a familiar voice behind you. 

“Excuse me, miss? I’m in the market for a doll.”

You whirl around to find Suguru standing behind you, grinning. You look at him in confusion. “What?”

“All trainers are allowed to pick one doll they’ve trained to keep as their own, just once during their career,” he says. “So I’m your new owner, if you’ll have me.”

Tears are stinging your eyes already. “If? If I’ll have you?!” you ask, wiping your face. “What a silly thing to say, Master Suguru!”

With that, you dive into his arms, feeling safe and comfortable for the first time since you signed the contract. There was no longer a looming shadow of some unknown owner who would control you for ten years. There was only Suguru, the man you loved. 

The next ten years were looking very bright. 

Tag List:

@suguguro @kaedear @onyxsphynx @poopoobuttsy @butterskyy @collectionofdolls @akaotv @witchbybirth @bloofinntoona @wasurenagusaa @tclbts @tojirin @lucyrocks86 @badbyeyoongi @97britt @aydene

[kishibe-kisser]

Hello! May I ask for a situation where the reader invite student classmate Mahito to her home to do a Biology group project together but then they get distracted and things get smutty?

Oh I love this!!!

Okay, okay! I hope you enjoy it. I really liked writing this and because there wasn't all too much direction I kind of free handed it.

The class should see this (Mahito/nsfw)

tags: pervy student Mahito x fem! reader, dirty talk, oral (fem receiving), fingering (fem receiving), biting, cumming inside (wrap it up kids), hickies

Word count: 2044 words

There was an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach the whole time as you tried to take notes, your hand shaking slightly with each stroke of your pen. His gaze was unsettling, making you so incredibly nervous you couldn't even put down a coherent sentence without scribbling through it. "You seem nervous. What's on your mind?" His tone was condescending, a laugh being evident in his voice. It was even worse because he knew exactly why you were nervous.

Mahito thrived off the fact that he made you uncomfortable, even though you had never spoken before this project. His presence was simply like a black shadow in the corner of every room, watching everyone and everything but especially you. What made it even better was that you noticed. You noticed his dark gaze following everyone, following you. You even noticed the way his tongue peeked out over his lips as he watched you during classes. He made you uncomfortable in the worst ways, yet you couldn't ever bring yourself to look away and he loved it.

It tickled him pink to see your name next to his in the biology partner list. It tickled him to know you were screaming on the inside at having to be this close to him.

"Nothing's on my mind. I just want to do well on this project." You lied through your teeth, knowing that he knew. You just couldn't give him the satisfaction of saying it. Your words weren't an entire lie, Mahito knew you wanted good grades and that was the whole reason you even invited him to your house to work on the project. You let him into your private space and he was going to take advantage of it.

"What's on your mind Mahito?" You asked, finally looking up from your work and at his face. He was sat across from you at your coffee table, his blue and silver eyes trained on you as you put your pen down. His unique features made him impossible to hate, his crooked smirk, mismatched eyes and all around gorgeous face making him the most stunning thing you had ever seen. A part of you was angry at yourself for finding him attractive and liking the way he watched you at school.

"I don't think you want to know." He smiled and you felt goosebumps coat your skin. "You know what I think you might be right." You said and picked up your pen again. You listened to his laugh, watching from your peripheral vision as he placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. His face was mere inches from yours as you looked up at him. "Though since you're so persistant." He tipped your chin up to make sure you looked at him, his pale hand holding your chin so that you couldn't look away. "I was thinking about how nice you'd look spread out on this table. Your cute skirt all hiked up to show me those pretty pink panties I know you're wearing underneath."

Your heart pounded in your ears and you couldn't help but wonder how he knew the color of your underwear. Squeezing your thighs together, a whimper escaped your lips despite your best efforts to keep it in. "Hmmm, sounds like you don't mind the sound of that." He teased further, squeezing your cheeks to make your lips pucker. He was humiliating him and you were letting him, even worse you were enjoying it.

It took him no time to throw both of your school work off of the table, coaxing you to sit on top of it with your legs spread. Mahito's fingers toyed with the hem of your skirt and danced over the skin of your thighs with surprisingly gentle touches. His eyes looking up at you as he continued to grin. You kept your hands planted on the table for stability, not knowing what to expect with him. His gentle touches disappeared nearly instantly, hiking your skirt up roughly so that he could get a good look at the wet patch forming in your panties.

He leaned down suddenly, making you gasp as his fingers ghosted over your core. He wanted a closer look, he wanted to touch, feel and explore every inch of you and that was exactly what he was going to do.

"Never thought you'd let me do this, did you?" He asked, pulling your panties to the side causing goosebumps to coat your skin. "Your pussy is so pretty, so wet for me." He licked over his lips at the sight and you fought the urge to close your legs. His fingers dug into your thighs as he wrapped his arms around them, pulling you closer to the edge of the table before diving into your core.

You had never experienced anything like it, the way his tongue prodded at your entrance, the way he gripped your thighs and the way he inhaled you. It was different from your past sexual endeavors, Mahito was eating you out because he wanted to, for his pleasure. His nose grazed your clit as his tongue continued to fuck into you and your nails scratched at the wood of the coffee table. "Mahito-" You cried out, not being able to hold it back any more. You felt dirty and it felt so fucking good.

"Play with your tits while I tongue fuck your cunt. Come on pretty girl, you can do it." He commanded, fingers rubbing harsh circles over your clit as he watched you. You lifted your hands of the table and pulled your top off over your head, hesitating for a moment before unclasping your bra. He watched your every move like a starved man and to make sure you listened to his orders.

Your hands found your chest, massaging your breasts and shutting your eyes. Mahito hummed in approval before continuing his assault on your clit and swirling his tongue over the sensitive nub as his fingers dipped into your pussy. Even though your eyes were closed, you knew he was watching you and making sure you were still touching yourself as he made you shake. You were so close, so incredibly close, the walls of your cunt squeezing his fingers as he continued curling them.

"I'm gonna cum." You choked out, tears brimming your eyes as you finally opened them again to look down at him. His eyes nearly rolled back at your words, feeling so much pleasure in the way you cried out. His lips wrapped around your clit and sucked harshly as his fingers pumped a little faster, not slowing down at all as your legs tried clamping around his head. You didn't mean to let out a scream as you came but it couldn't be helped. You were certain your thighs would be bruised from the way he held them open, not slowing down the assault on your pussy until he felt your legs shaking and screams of his name turned into incoherent babble.

"I wonder what our class would think if they saw this. Their beloved friend cumming on the tongue of the class perv. I think they'd have some pretty interesting things to say." He remarked, looking at the way your chest heaved as he slowed down the pace of his fingers before pulling them out of you. "Lean down." He added on, watching you shakily move forward to get closer to him. "Open your mouth." He continued, enjoying the way you hardly hesitated at his commands anymore. He placed his fingers in your mouth, watching as your tongue cleaned your cum off of his fingers without command. "See, you're even starting to enjoy this." Mahito made sure his eyes were locked with yours, taking in your fucked out expression as you cleaned off his fingers. This was everything he had always imagined and more.

He pulled you off of the table, sitting you in his lap before laying you down on the ground and hovering over you. Mahito's hands moved back to your underwear and roughly pulled them down your legs before stuffing them in his pocket. "Making sure I don't forget my souvenir." He smiled, sitting back on his heels as his thighs spread your legs further. He pulled off his shirt and showcased his lean yet muscular body, watching as you reached forward to touch him. He let you, your fingers tracing over the lines of his abs before dipping down to the waist band of his pants.

Looking over you laid out for him, wanting him, made his cock ache. Feeling your fingers wanting to touch him, greedy for more even. He was now even more than eager to split you open on his cock.

He pulled his pants down quickly, wasting no more time before lifting your hips to meet his. You already knew from his attitude that he wasn't going to take it slow, blunt nails digging into your hips. His cock slipped into you, stretching you out and making you mewl as you tried to find something to hold onto. Sinking all the way into you, Mahito threw his head back and let out a laugh.

"God, you're sucking me in. Your pussy feels even better than i thought it would." You whined at his words, still adjusting to the stretch of him. He pulled you onto him, thrusting his hips at the same time. His cock hit that sweet spot in you harshly and making you cry out as he repeated the action. It felt so good it almost hurt, making it feel even better. The angle he had your hips raised at made it impossible for him to miss your sweet spot, hitting it repeatedly as you tried to hold onto something.

Mahito watched your tits bounce with each thrust, face contorting as you moaned, tears streaming down your face at how good it all felt. He hovered over you, placing a hand by your head to steady himself. Looking into your eyes, taking in your fucked out expression, he kissed you. Lips sloppily pressing into yours as he surpressed your noises, tongue snaking into your mouth to taste every inch of you. He could feel you tightening around his cock, walls squeezing him, milking him for everything he was worth and he pulled away from your lips. Not leaving them before biting your bottom lip first.

"I can feel you're close, pretty girl." He groaned into your skin, kissing his way down your neck. "God it feels so good." You cried, wrapping your arms around his neck to tug on his hair. He continued his way down your chest, leaving marks down your neck before sinking his teeth into your breast. You let out a scream as you came around his cock, the bite only triggering your orgasm.

You could feel yourself spasming around his cock, his pace speeding up as he chased his own high. Mahito continued biting over your chest, tongue swirling over nipples to overstimulate you more. You were a babbling mess as he kept going, marking you as his before halting all movements with a moan. You could feel him cumming inside of you, painting your walls with him as he caught his breath over you.

Mahito sat back up, looking at the piece of art he had created. His marks over your chest, hickies and bite marks on display. He pulled his cock out you, smiling at the whimper that came out of before looking at your wrecked cunt. His cum slowly dripping out of you.

You felt absolutely violated, trying to shield your body from him despite letting him wreck you no 2 minutes earlier. However Mahito was faster, holding your arms away from your body before holding onto your chin again to force you to look at him. "You know you can't hide from me." He said and you found your cheeks heating up. You couldn't move even if you wanted too, your body to sore to leave his touch and gaze.

"You better wear these on display tomorrow." Mahito continued, his finger dipping down to trace over the hickies and bite marks on your chest.

"I want our whole class to see our biology project on display."

[existslikepristin]

Holy shit, look what I actually finished

Tags: NSFW, TheLounge, Dreamcatcher/Minx, Loona/Artms, CLC/Kep1er, Gfriend/Viviz, I love the fact that I can technically do a / for each of those group tags, Jiu, Heejin, Yujin, futa!Eunha, Karina’s colossal cock makes a cameo, you make a cameo, BUNNIES, reluctant but totally consenting, humiliation, a variety of unhealthy habits regarding weight gain/loss, anal, p-in-v sex, rimming, cunnilingus, deepthroat, Yujin is one thirsty ass lesbian, premature ejaculation, cum sweat and tears, Jiu is just a little dumb, Heejin is just a little shy, Eunha is just little, a bit of unintentional exhibitionism, strapons, references, this whole story is a big pain in the dick

Springy

“Oh gosh, these ears are adorable on you!”

“Uh… Thanks, Jiu,” Heejin said with a deep blush and a tiny smile, folding her forearms over her stomach. Her biceps pushed her leotard partially open, revealing a lot more cleavage than she normally managed.

“Hey, don’t be so shy!” Yujin giggled and dragged a finger across Heejin’s chest. “You’re super hot.”

Jiu pushed Yujin’s hand away from Heejin, but smiled sweetly. “Don’t you be taking advantage of this girl now.”

Heejin’s blush intensified. “It’s okay… I, uh…”

Eunha wasn’t listening to any of the conversation. She was much too focused on the job at hand: Squeezing into her bunny leotard. It was already a tight fit when they first picked out the costumes, but in the following weeks, Eunha had gained some size in the thighs (and butt). Even if she was able to get the outfit all the way on, her ass would eat the thing in the back and make it look like a slightly oversized thong. Eunha’s tits had grown a bit too, so if she ever managed to get the thing on, she’d probably still be flashing her nips with every slightly bouncy step. And just to add potential injury to the insult, the severe tightness of the leotard was absolutely going to crush Eunha’s poor dick. That might help hide the bulge when they went out on stage, but dancing in such a condition would just make the whole event a literal pain. At least the bunny ear headband still fit!

Jiu, Heejin, and Yujin easily got into their bunny outfits just as quickly as the first time they tried them on. Theirs were exactly the same as Eunha’s. Copied and pasted black pump heels, black bow tie chokers, and skimpy, open-backed, black leotards which barely covered half of their asses and unreasonably low necklines. They came with little white fluffy tails on the back. 

The other three each made the same outfit look good in their own way, and each had a themed lipstick color. Heejin’s lipstick was baby blue, and her fully exposed arms and legs had a slightly oily sheen, emphasizing her muscular physique. Yujin was wearing pale green lipstick and was the thinnest of the bunch, but her perky tits and ass jiggled deliciously as she hopped around the room. Jiu’s legs, already the longest, looked a mile long now that they were exposed all the way up past her hips. She got the most normal lipstick: light pink.

Eunha wasn’t unhappy with her short frame, thick assets, and pastel yellow lipstick, but at that moment she regretted the last month of cheeseburgers, beer, and sedentary behavior. A diet was out of the question, obviously, as she would have been very hungry and wouldn’t stand for that, but she probably could have done with a bit of exercise.

“You okay over here?” Yujin asked.

Eunha flinched and looked up. As could always be expected from the thirstiest of lesbians, Yujin’s eyes were locked on her bare boobs.

“Yeah, I’m fine…” Eunha trailed off, “Okay, I’m not kidding anybody. I need some help getting this on.”

“Oh ho ho!” Yujin fake-laughed. “Does this mean I was right when I suggested we should get one of these outfits one size up?”

“You could have done with a size down! Just…” Eunha grumbled, “help me put it on.”

Yujin giggled for real, somewhere between cute and lecherous. “Sure, babe, I gotcha.” She twirled behind Eunha and dropped to her knees. “Let’s get these beautiful pillows cased, eh? A little help, Heejin?”

“Huh?” Heejin made her way over, and was followed by Jiu. Being the room’s center of attention was worse when Eunha also felt like the room’s center of gravity.

After a brief (and traumatizing) discussion on the logistics of the task ahead of them, the other two dressed bunny girls took their positions as Yujin directed, gripped a portion of Eunha’s leotard, and pulled up in tandem. They all succeeded in lifting Eunha off the floor, but the material did not budge any further. Eunha kicked back and forth rapidly until the others set her back down.

“Where exactly is it getting stuck?” Jiu asked with a puff. Eunha appreciated that Jiu used a more concerned tone, as opposed to Yujin’s mockery.

“It’s just stuck at the waist,” Yujin said, “All we gotta do is get that past her ass and we’re good. Let me just try a little lube…”

A disgusted shiver went all the way up and down Eunha’s back as she felt Yujin spit twice down the back of the leotard.

“Okay, three, two, one!” Yujin shouted, and heaved upward. Jiu and Heejin did the same.

The slip of material over Eunha’s ass was almost satisfying, but then came a sudden shock of pain; the result of fabric being stretched to its absolute limit by her expansive ass. As expected, it left no room whatsoever for her dick. Eunha could only squeak, go cross eyed, and collapse to the floor as the others released their grips.

“Oh… shit,” Heejin mumbled.

“Uh oh.” Jiu put a hand over her mouth.

“I think we need to get it off now,” Yujin said. Eunha felt herself surprisingly grateful for Yujin in that moment, considering she couldn’t catch a breath with which to say “Fuck! Take it off!”

Thankfully, the shape of Eunha’s curves made removing the thing much easier than putting it on, though it still took some effort. Jiu tossed the leotard to the side and Yujin gasped, suddenly transfixed. Eunha was left groaning on the floor, fully nude besides her askew bunny ears and bow tie. She rolled onto her back, went limp, and summarized her feelings: “O~ow~w…”

Jiu sighed heavily. “Well now what are we going to do? We can’t go out there without Eunha. She’s like, the bunniest bunny.”

Eunha barely registered the compliment.

“She could try losing some water weight,” Heejin said.

“Water weight?” Jiu asked with a raised eyebrow, “Like pissing it all out? That sounds fake.”

“Uh… No, I mean spitting in a cup… or working up a big sweat by exercising super hard.”

Jiu squinted. “That still sounds fake. And also unhealthy.”

“It works for me and Jinsoul if we need to shave an inch off.”

“An inch?!” Jiu shouted, “Wow, you fourth genners are intense. Do I need to talk to your manage—Okay, we’ll come back to that in a bit. Eunha? Yujin? Have you two ever done that?”

Eunha was still catching her breath and couldn’t answer, but was very opposed to the idea. She could barely do normal exercise, so working up enough of a sweat to lose physical size was definitely a pipe dream. There were a few long moments of silence.

“Yujin!” Jiu tapped Yujin’s shoulder, snapping her out of her trance. She’d been staring between Eunha’s legs.

“S-sorry. But look, Seunghee was right!” She pointed at Eunha’s dick. “It’s so cute!”

Just when Eunha thought her embarrassment had reached its peak, the summit stretched out by another mile. Her accidents in The Lounge would follow her forever, it seemed.

Heejin blushed again and looked away. Jiu, however, remained stoic and said, “Yeah, sure, but we need a plan, Yujin.”

More silence. Eunha eventually caught her breath and started to let the others know that the show should probably go on without her, “I—”

Yujin interrupted, “Actually, I think Heejin’s got it!”

“What?” Eunha croaked.

“What’s a little dehydration if we’re only performing four songs in a medley?” Yujin chimed, “Let’s just, you know, shrivel her up a bit, do the performance, and then come back and make her guzzle a gallon of water to plump back up! She’s real close to fitting in the thing already, so it won’t take much.”

Jiu cocked an eyebrow. “You really think something like that will work?”

“It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

Eunha raised a hand to try to object, but Heejin spoke first. “I mean, we could also… I mean, it would be easy to cut some slits in her leotard to expand it and use some black electric tape to cover up the—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Yujin interrupted again, “Let’s only worry about plan B if the sweaty plan fails. Okay! So! Check this out. As we all know, sex makes for a fantastic workout. If we all fuck Eunha, she’ll sweat like crazy. And this plan comes with three more benefits! One: Draining her balls will make them fit without getting skronched again. Two: If her pussy gushes, that’s more water weight gone. And three: She burns calories for real, healthy weight loss. All the while, she’s spitting into a cup like Heejin suggested for maximum effect. Oh, but where do we get a cup?”

Heejin looked around. “I didn’t bring one… We can just grab one from—”

“What a shame!” Yujin interrupted again again, “I guess she can spit in my mouth instead.”

Jiu glared. “Well now you’re just being too obvious, Yujin. Also I’m pretty sure her balls won’t actually get smaller.”

“Damn. Yeah, those balls are already super tiny… But the sex plan is a-go-go, right?”

Heejin shrugged. “Seems kinda legit.”

Jiu sighed again and planted her hands on her bare hips, hanging her head for a moment. “I have to admit, it sounds like the best option we have. And we are bunnies, after all, so getting things done by fucking kind of makes sense.”

“What…” Eunha choked, “Don’t I get a say in this? I think Heejin was right. Cutting a little around the waist was a good ide—”

“Ruining the outfits is our last resort!” Yujin shouted. She already peeled down the top of her leotard, freeing her small chest from its confines, and straddled Eunha’s head.

Jiu and Heejin gave each other a “why not” kind of look.

Eunha groaned one last time as Yujin pulled her outfit’s crotch to the side. Eunha got an eyeful of ass and a mouthful of pussy. She resigned herself to her apparently unstoppable fate and stuck out her tongue. It was unsettling how genuinely similar to strawberries Yujin tasted.

“Oooh!” Yujin cooed, “See? Good plan.” She leaned down to grope Eunha’s tits. “Don’t forget, Eunha. You need to participate for maximum benefit.”

However reluctant she may have been, Eunha’s body certainly participated. Her dick—which was still very sore—stood straight up in no time as Jiu softly caressed and kissed it. A moment later, Jiu clambered on top, slowly grinding herself in small circles to keep Eunha’s dick inside her.

“How’s it feel?” Yujin asked with a bit of a dreamy quality to her voice.

Nobody answered for a few seconds.

“Oh, me?” Jiu clarified. “It’s alright.”

“Just alright? She’s doing great with her tongue. Really getting me wet down there.”

“Yeah. It’s like, just alright. Hey wait, wet?”

Yujin squinted. “Duh. She’s licking my vag. Of course I’m getting wet.”

“Isn’t the goal for Eunha to dehydrate a little bit from this?” Heejin asked.

“I don’t think you can actually hydrate by drinking pussy juice, but oh well. You’re right. Oops. My bad.” Yujin shifted herself a bit forward, smashing her asshole against Eunha’s mouth instead.

“Aow! Ffey!” Eunha exclaimed and slapped Yujin’s thigh.

Yujin flinched a little, but cooed again. “Oooh, yes, this is just as good. Keep at it and you’ll drop a size in no time!”

“Hey, uh…” Heejin looked back and forth between Yujin and Jiu. “What should I do?”

Yujin hummed. “Weeell, let’s see. Seunghee told me that Eunha really likes anal.”

“Sheesh… another one?” Heejin murmured for some indiscernible reason, probably involving a church.

Eunha felt like she should protest, but it was a point she couldn’t effectively argue. She didn’t exactly want to argue, especially when Heejin’s finger pressed into her ass and curled up, pushing all of Eunha’s love buttons.

Reluctance aside, Eunha started giving in to the pleasure. She managed to lift her legs enough for Heejin’s finger to get almost all the way inside her. Jolts of energy zipped through her at each twirl of Jiu’s hips. Her hands instinctively spread Yujin’s ass further to be better devoured. Bunny eared stars swam in front of her eyes and she squealed.

Jiu suddenly stopped moving. “Oh. I think she just came.”

“Is that what that was?” Yujin asked, “We’ve only been at this for like fifteen seconds.”

Eunha’s core twitched and her toes curled. She’d be much more flustered if she weren’t losing her mind to one of the most intense orgasms she’d ever had.

“She hasn’t even… started to sweat though? Oh…” Heejin said, pointing between Jiu’s legs, “Yeah, that’s cum.”

Jiu swung a leg up and back, leaving behind a couple drops of Eunha’s jizz before her leotard snapped back into place and caught the rest.

“Welp…” Yujin popped her lips a few times. “Adorable little cock means adorable little cock problems, I guess.”

“If she doesn’t, you know, have the stamina to keep going long enough to start sweating, don’t you think we should try something else?”

“No!” Yujin smacked Eunha’s tits, yanking her out of her orgasmic bliss. “It’s far too soon to give up! Surely those teeny tiny little balls have more to give!”

Eunha tried to cradle her stinging boobs, but Yujin slapped her hands away.

Jiu dabbed at her crotch with a tissue near one of the makeup stations. “You know, Yujin,” she said, “As our token ‘real’ lesbian, I would have expected that you would suggest we keep going with Eunha’s pussy.”

“Jiu, you beautiful bunny, you’re a genius!” Yujin’s smile beamed.

“I’m really kinda not though.”

Keeping her head pinned, Yujin grabbed Eunha by the thighs and lifted, folding the poor girl nearly in half. “Let’s send this pussy to Kingdom Cum!”

Eunha whined, still partially muffled by Yujin’s ass, “Guyf, can’ we take a bweak?”

“Sorry,” Jiu said, “I don’t think we have time for a break. We need to be on stage in twenty minutes.”

“Also, a break would defeat the purpose!” Yujin chimed, “Hey Heejin, let’s try something. She’s not actually getting all that soft yet. Here, get between her legs.”

Pump heels clacked on the tile floor around Eunha as bodies (including her own, as she was involuntarily puppeted around) were rearranged. Yujin stayed in place, simply leaning to one side to make room for Heejin to be pulled down onto her hands and knees. Heejin briefly waved at Eunha now that they were sort of face to face, but then did her best to avoid eye contact, bunny ears wiggling as she tried to get into the position Yujin was directing her into.

Jiu pushed Eunha’s legs even further up to kneel behind them, putting her within tongue’s reach of all of Eunha’s most vulnerable bits. This left Yujin free to release Eunha’s thighs while still leaving them trapped in the air.

It was much like yoga, but without a choice. Eunha felt suffocated not only by Yujin’s butt, but also by the way she was being curled into a pretzel for the other bunny girls’ enjoyment (or maybe just Yujin’s). Her scrunched up torso—and the return of one of Yujin’s insistently groping, pushy hands—was really taking her breath away, physically speaking. Memories of being pinned to the closet floor by jeans-covered, thick thighs came rushing back, and her dick got rock hard again. Eunha was at least thankful that the others couldn’t read those thoughts.

“I’m ready whenever she’s hard again,” Heejin said with yet another blush.

“Of course she is, cutie!” Yujin shifted Heejin’s leotard to the side and guided Eunha’s dick into Heejin’s pussy. “If I had a dick, I don’t think I’d ever go soft looking at you, Heejie.”

If Eunha could have thrown her head back in pleasure, she would have. Heejin’s pussy was perhaps the tightest she had ever felt (not that she’d felt that many). “Mmmf!” she hummed up Yujin’s butt. A trickle of Yujin’s juices ran down her chin and neck.

“She’s starting to sweat too,” Jiu said before driving her tongue into Eunha’s asshole and pressing three fingers into Eunha’s pussy. She put in the most effort of anybody in the room, rocking Eunha’s lower body back and forth a bit, fucking her dick into Heejin.

“Good!” Yujin chirped, “She’s totally feeling it! Won’t be long before we’re swimming in her pussy ju—I mean her sweat!”

Everybody grimaced at Yujin’s weird, gay thirst, but she continued, “How about it? How’s that dick feel for you?”

After a moment, Heejin looked up and asked, “Uh… you mean me?”

“Yeah you, hot stuff!”

“I mean, I’m… ready whenever Eunha is.”

There was a long, very awkward pause.

Jiu coughed lightly. “She’s, um, already…”

There was a sudden panic in Heejin’s eyes. “Fuck! I thought you were fingering me!”

Another silence, then Heejin panicked harder. “Wait… no! I mean, fisting me! Eunha, I… I thought Jiu was fisting me! Because your cock is big…”

Eunha sighed heavily into Yujin’s ass crack. She could already sense Heejin’s words creeping into her subconscious to haunt her dreams for the rest of her life, constantly reminding her of her inadequate penis size and how it was basically one of her most defining features.

“S-sorry, Eunha… I really meant—”

Yujin patted Heejin’s head. “Hey, shush, cutie. Apologizing probably just makes it wors—I mean, she probably hears that from everyone all the tim—I mean, I’ve got a dildo you can borrow later if you need something of a reasonable siz—I mean, hey, let’s fuck that lovely cock, right? Here we go, that’s it. Beautiful.”

Hands on Heejin’s hips, Yujin pushed her back and forth (cautiously and over a very short distance).

Despite the developing medium-size traumatic stress disorder, Eunha couldn’t help but succumb to pleasure. It all just felt so good. The fingers, the tongues, the pussies and assholes. Everything squeezed her, groped her, penetrated her, humiliated h—no wait, not that one. It was so much sensation. Her toes curled of their own accord. So much… So much!

Jiu and Yujin teased their fingers over Eunha’s balls and clit respectively, clearly reminding the reader of the severe lack of anatomical realism going on up in this bitch, but that’s okay because it made Eunha—

“I think she just came again,” Jiu said, “Her balls and her holes just tensed up all at once. I think she even squirted a little bit. Pretty sure that’s not just pee?”

Eunha fought to hold back her tears. The sexual satisfaction, physical discomfort, and emotional shame were all mixing together in the most horrible way and she really didn’t want to like it as much as she was. Thanks to the angle she was being held in, her juices, both what squeezed out of her pussy and Heejin’s, dripped down her stomach and between her tits. Yujin immediately smeared it around like a gay pervert (because she’s a gay pervert).

“Oh fuck… please don’t let it be pee,” Heejin said in a tone denoting past personal experience in a church.

“It probably isn’t!” Yujin shouted, “ Keep going! If she’s squirting, it’s working!”

Eunha managed to push Yujin’s butt off her face with her feeble arms. “Oh my gosh… please… let me have—”

Before she could finish begging for a break, Yujin lifted Eunha’s head with her heels, shoving her much harder into the crevasse of her ass and blocking off her nose. Eunha weakly tried to pry Yujin’s legs away but failed, and groped around as one does when struggling and not knowing what to do with their hands. She knew she should have seen this coming, and hoped she’d get some air before she passed out. At least she had a surprisingly tasty ass to eat while her humiliation and exhaustion continued.

Yujin grabbed one of Eunha’s limply hanging legs and brought it down, where she popped a couple of toes into her mouth. Eunha didn’t have a foot fetish, but she did like it when Yerin sucked—and/or made SinB suck—her toes.

Heejin’s face was barely visible past Yujin’s ass. Eunha couldn’t help but think about how pretty she was, especially in the full bunny girl outfit. Eunha briefly wondered if she could get Heejin’s number, and then immediately pushed the thought out of her mind. The concept of facing Heejin (or Yujin or Jiu for that matter) any time in the future was mortifying.

Jiu was exceptionally good at everything she was doing. If anything was making Eunha sweat, besides the forced yoga, it was the skill Jiu was exhibiting. Eunha’s pussy and ass were absolutely on fire, and actually in a good way. Specifically in the approaching orgasm way.

“Oookay, she just came again,” Jiu groaned.

A general sense of deflation and disappointment in the room made it quite clear that Eunha was the only one enjoying these very quick orgasms. Yujin let go of her head and tits, Jiu sighed a heavy breath against her backside, and Heejin rolled away, letting Eunha's spasming cock hit Yujin with the last spurt of cum.

"What?" Yujin asked, scooping the jizz out of her belly button, "What's wrong with that? We can still keep fucking her."

Heejin was clearly trying to hold back a scowl. "I know. It's just… kinda weird, I guess."

Yujin backed off, finally letting Eunha get a full breath of fresh air until she shoved her cum-covered fingers into Eunha's mouth. "Heejin, I totally agree. It's weird and gross that she can't even hold it in for one whole minute, but the point is to make her work up a sweat so we can all perform together, and that's working! Right?!"

Eunha gave an exhausted groan and limply slapped at Yujin’s arm. It’s not like she hadn't eaten plenty of her own cum before, but there was something uniquely demeaning about it being casually forced into her mouth while her poor sexual performance was discussed above her.

"Maybe it's just worth trying Heejin's other idea?" Jiu let Eunha's bottom half down to the floor again. "Cut the outfit a bit?"

"Hang on! We've got plenty of time for this method, right?" Yujin pointed at the clock on the wall. They still had eighteen minutes left.

Eunha rolled over into the fetal position.

“Well, yeah. But I’m seriously not sure this is working, and I think we should be pretty concerned that Loona’s managers insist on making them do anything like this. Really, Heejin, do you need me to talk to them?”

“Woah woah woah, little miss white-knight-with-sexy-legs-in-a-bunny-costume,” Yujin butted in, “There’s plenty of time to punch Loona’s draconian managers in their stupid faces later, so hear me out. Eunha is clearly not doing so great on the penis side of things. I know it’s hard to tell because she’s already so small, but her little cock is getting soft as we speak. However! This is about physical exertion, not pleasure, even if that gorgeous mouth of hers is really fucking good at the pleasure thing… So let’s just do something that doesn’t require waiting for her refractory periods!”

Jiu scratched her head. “Her refractory periods have only been like ten seconds a piece.”

“And that’s ten! Seconds! Wasted!” Yujin clapped to punctuate her words, “every time she cums prematurely! That’s cutting into our productivity! But I have good news. I brought something with me that can help us out. Check my bag.”

Doing as Yujin asked, Jiu procured a clear-jeweled butt plug. She looked at the gem carefully. “Why the hell is there a picture of my face inside a butt plug?”

“Forget about that! I was talking about the other stuff in my bag!”

“Oh. Holy crap, this is enormous.” Jiu procured another item, much larger than the butt plug. It was a dildo, already attached to a strap on, and nearly the size of her forearm. “You want to fuck Eunha with this? It’s bigger than she is.”

Yujin beamed a proud smile across the room. “Hehe, yeah. It is big, huh? It’s molded off of Karina. Got it from Giselle. And yes. Eunha may be small but according to Jihyo that ass of hers can take a truly absurd portion of dick.”

Heejin grimaced for church-related reasons. “What is it with tiny girls being size queens…”

More flashbacks played across Eunha’s memory. She hoped she would get fresh baked cookies when everything was over again. Of course, she’d given up protesting. She could get up, get dressed (in normal clothes that still fit her), and walk away, but then the story wouldn’t happen and she really did want the sex to continue, whether or not she ended up such a leg-shaky, gaping, dripping, braindead mess that she wouldn’t actually be able to go out on stage. In fact, if that were the case, she could probably use that as an excuse to drop out of the performance.

Eunha didn’t listen to the rest of the conversation, considering she knew they were just going to end up wrecking her ass (and perhaps more than her ass) shortly. Instead, she indulged herself a little, stroking her cock with her middle and ring fingers. It may have been getting soft, but damn if it didn’t feel great after three consecutive creampies. She wondered what it would feel like if someone else were to cum while riding her. If she could keep herself from cumming for like thirty or forty more second—

Then, Eunha was rolled onto her stomach. She reflexively tried to say “wait,” but it turned into a long squeal as her ass was rudely and far too quickly filled with what must have been half the entire planet’s supply of silicone. Reports of the size of Karina’s dick were not exaggerated.

“Wooow!” Yujin sang, “Now that was easy! Check it out, Jiu! She took the whole thing in one go!”

Attempting to catch her breath turned out not to be an option for Eunha, and Yujin’s sudden, emphatic fucking made the situation so much worse. The bottom pounding made it feel like Eunha’s lungs were being pounded from the bottom. She didn’t have the time to question that poorly worded circular logic though, as her head was lifted and another dildo (of significantly smaller size) was pushed into her gasping mouth.

The second dildo was attached to a second strap on, which was in turn attached to Jiu’s hips. Eunha looked up into her eyes, giving her a pleading, sort of “why me?” kind of expression. Jiu shrugged and proceeded to fuck Eunha’s throat.

“Look at us,” Yujin marveled out loud, “Just you an me, Jiu, spitroasting a little shawty between us like a couple of professionals.”

Jiu squinted, “What?”

“You know what I’m saying? Just us, some hotties with killer bods, going all the way downtown to Paris to meet at the top like the Eiffel Tower.”

“I’m not going to kiss you right now, Yujin.”

All the while, Eunha being shoved back and forth between them, scrubbing the floor with her tits, catching breaths of air in the short moments she could get them around the tip of Jiu’s strap on. The struggle for mere survival did not diminish the pleasure though. Yujin’s creepcore comments diminished it a little, but Eunha could block those out. She surrendered herself to the rough treatment, merely moaning in ecstatic agony as everything inside her rearranged itself around the preposterously large fake cock pistoning in and out of her asshole, totally out of sync with the rhythm of Jiu’s facefucking.

“Aw, well, I guess that means we’ll kiss later, right?”

“Yeah,” Jiu sighed, “Maybe.”

Yujin paused her fucking briefly. “Woah, holy shit, really?”

“We can talk about it later, when we’re not busy.”

“Oh, y-yeah, tot-tally,” Yujin stumbled over her words and went back to slamming Eunha’s ass. She cleared her throat. “Hey Heejin, you gonna help us out? What are you doing over there?”

Eunha did her best to look to the side, Jiu’s dildo puffing out her cheek. She saw Heejin putting down a pair of scissors and walking behind Eunha once again.

“Huh? Nothing… What should I do? We’re out of dildos.”

Though Eunha was happy to hear she’d live to see another day, she was slightly disappointed to hear that.

“Well,” Yujin mused, “I think it’s not helping much for Eunha to just lie here on the floor. Here, get behind me and help me lift.”

“Always with the small girl lifting…” Heejin muttered more about her mysterious, sacrilegious past.

Moments later, Eunha found herself hanging in the air. Two pairs of hands held up her thighs, one pair of hands held up her shoulders, and the fake dicks in her ass and mouth kept her locked in place. The irony about how Eunha was the one who was supposed to be exercising in that moment was very much lost on her, as her mind was being consumed by ecstasy. She did register that for every thrust into her butt, though, there were two evenly spaced smacking sounds.

“Gosh, Heejin,” Yujin giggled, “I wish we did have another dildo. You could be totally wrecking my puss right now if you wanted. And damn, look at these arms. I’d ask if you work out, but I think it’s pretty obvious.”

Jiu hissed, “Yujin! We are locked in on this plan right now, and we only have fourteen minutes left! Save the flirting for later!”

Nobody paid attention to Eunha as she rammed head/asslong into yet another orgasm.

In fact, Eunha came several more times. She was not in the right state of mind to keep track of the actual number, but as the other three bunny girls got a major work out by maneuvering her around into several different air-suspended positions, Eunha sprayed an unreasonable quantity of cum onto the floor, Yujin, and herself.

Her body spasmed nearly constantly, melding orgasms and aftershocks into one seemingly endless climax, like a modern big budget movie. Her balls couldn’t keep up and her cock couldn’t stay up, eventually flopping limp with occasional small drops finding their way out. Her pussy drooled, creating a froth that clung to the dildo still splitting her in two. Her whole body, head to toe, was slick with sweat. Miraculously, however, her bunny ear headband stayed on the entire time, albeit slightly askew.

“Phew!” Yujin puffed, “Okay, should we try getting her in the costume now?”

Eunha glanced up at the clock through hazy eyes. Two minutes until they were expected to be on stage. The others released her onto a chair, emptying Eunha's mouth and ass, simultaneously giving her relief and causing great disappointment. She couldn't tell whether her ass was gaped wide open or if it managed to close back up. It was almost entirely numb.

While Heejin got the costume, Yujin grabbed Eunha’s balls, rolling them painfully between her fingers. “Well, they're not shriveled up per se, but she's totally not getting hard again any time soon.”

Eunha squirmed, coughed, and groaned. “Staaahp!” she whined weakly.

Jiu looked down suspiciously. “I'm starting to think this wasn't a good idea from the beginning,” she said with a rub of her chin.

“Why's that?” Yujin asked, helping Heejin lift Eunha's legs to slide the leotard on.

“Just look at her, Yujin. She's in no condition to dance—oh damn, she fits.”

Somehow, there was no difficulty whatsoever in putting Eunha's leotard on. It was absolutely still tight once it was all the way on (as expected, the bottom was stretched to the point of looking like floss between her ass cheeks, it all but flattened her dick and balls, and her tits still threatened to pop out of the top), but she was in it!

Heejin clasped the bow tie choker around Eunha's neck and dropped the pump heels under her feet. “Yeah, it fits… We should hurry out there.”

Eunha moaned as loudly as she could, obviously quite hoarse from the throat fucking, and did not stand up. She wanted to pass out, not perform.

Lifting her limp arm and letting it fall back down, Jiu hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah, nope. Definitely a bad idea. She can't even mov—”

“Come on, girl!” Yujin shouted, “You're an idol! You've performed in way worse conditions!” She smacked the tops of Eunha's thighs, hard.

The sting brought Eunha back, mostly, to her senses, sending her up straight in her seat. “Ooow!”

Jiu and Heejin both glared at Yujin, but she grabbed Eunha by the arms and yanked her off the chair. The two nearly collapsed back to the floor, but Eunha caught herself and managed to stay standing on very wobbly legs.

“How do I,” Eunha took a shaky breath, “How do I look?”

The others hmm'ed and haw'ed for a moment.

“You look very cute. Extra bunnyish,” said Jiu.

“You look so fucking sexy,” said Yujin.

“You look… like you lost a fight,” said Heejin.

Eunha turned to face one of the mirrors and gasped (which turned into a cough). Her makeup was ruined, yellow lipstick smeared across her left cheek and eyeshadow streaked down. There was nothing left of her stylist's effort on her hair. None of it was going to be able to get fixed in the minute and a half that remained.

She groaned, “Oh no… Do I have to go out there?”

***

Miraculously, the performance went quite well!

CLC’s “To the sky”, Gfriend’s “Smile”, Loona’s “Ding Ding Dong”, and Dreamcatcher’s “Over the Sky” flowed somehow seamlessly back and forth for five minutes, including a dance break that mostly consisted of the four bunny girls jumping around the stage and playing with the crowd.

Despite Eunha’s disheveled (to say the absolute least) appearance, the audience consisting entirely of fellow Kpop idols cheered and bounced along to the cheerful, vaguely spring equinox-themed medley.

“Come closer quickly! Ding ding ding! The bell is ringing!”

“Step on the pedal and run to the sky! Even when you run out of breath!”

“Though my heart can’t catch you right now, and it’s shaking!”

“Don’t spare me! Look at me! I can feel all your love!”

In the end, when Eunha, Yujin, Jiu, and Heejin hopped into an ending fairy formation, Eunha felt a rush of relief. She made it! She survived and didn’t even screw up the dance! Sweat poured off of her like a fountain, and her leotard started to feel a little loose, but she was glad to be done! Already, thoughts of her soft bed, softer blankets, and a week’s worth of naps filled her mind. 

“Give it up for the Spring Bunnies! What a show!” You shouted into the mic. How lovely of The Lounge to invite you to MC their seasonal events.

As Eunha huffed and puffed, both hands in the air flashing V’s, she gave one particularly heavy sigh. Suddenly, she felt a cool breeze across her stomach… and the subtle scrape of her leotard falling down her legs. The crowd went silent as she froze in place, smile turning very slowly into a cringe.

Jiu and Yujin looked down at the pieces of the leotard, no longer held together by strips of electrical tape, and then looked at Heejin.

Heejin put up her hands, looking guilty. “I… guess the tape got wet,” she whispered.

Somewhere in the middle of the audience, Yerin screamed at the top of her lungs, “WOO HOO! YEAH! THAT’S MY TINY DICK BUNNY GIRL! GO EUNHA!”

The crowd hesitantly started clapping again. Eunha tried not to think about it, just in case it might get her hard again before she could run backstage and hide forever.

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc! as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER EIGHT — SEWN UP

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summary: you'd need a hacksaw to cut the tension between you and eddie, but that's not your weapon of choice this time around. a newspaper pitch, a patchwork girl and a tasteless prank all work together to make things ever more awkward between you and the boy you keep senselessly calling your friend. content warnings: MINORS DNI, THIS IS NOT SAFE FOR YOUR PURITAN EYES - reader is an ex-bitch on a journey of self-discovery through being an even more specific kind of bitch, angst in the form of an elizabeth munson mention, miscommunication, lacy engaging non-platonically with someone other than eddie, mention of lacy's surname and dad's name, REEFER RICK CAMEO, billy hargrove slander as per, violence, a humiliating prank, smut in the form of public hand stuff (f!receiving), me feeling insane about this chapter word count: 14.3k

Dear Mom,

She hasn’t got warm hands. She hasn’t got the kind of smile that draws people to her. She hasn’t got a kind word for everyone, no matter where they come from. She hasn’t got a lot of patience. She hasn’t got a fixed sense of herself–well, she does kinda. But, not totally. Not yet. 

She’s not like you.

Other cheerleaders wore ponytails and they’d bounce. But when she wore a ponytail, it swung like a sword. She used to be cruel and exacting, but now she’s just exacting. She’s honest and observant to a degree that’s, like, almost psycho. She’s a cold front, but she laughs like a lightning strike. I feel like thunder, powerless to do anything but roll after her. Can’t help myself. 

She knows what she wants, she thinks. Other days she doesn’t. I keep trying to tell her that’s okay, in ways where I don’t actually have to use the words. My words wouldn’t be as good as her words. Her words burn clean through me like a lit tip of a cigarette. 

But she does have your book. 

Y’know, I always thought it was kind of creepy the way some guys would try and look for their mom in other girls. 

So this might be a good thing. Less Oedipus-y, more ea–… 

Shit. I was gonna say something I’m so sure you’d smack me around the head for. But you’re not here to do that. I might be in better shape with this girl if you were.

Anyway. I miss you. 

Eddie Munson stands in the midst of an incredibly awkward aftermath. 

See, for two people so purportedly self-assured, he in his freakshow roguishness and you in your prim-perfect knife-edge sharpness, you’re both entirely dogshit at acknowledging… well… anything. 

You both tried to snap back to normal so quickly, with Wheeler and her science experiment pregnancy scare smashing through the ice. But the water underneath that ice is still freezing cold– and you’re both pretending you’re not gasping for air, pretending like you don’t remember gasping for each other’s lips. 

This is totally cool. This is totally fine.

And then Eddie comes to see you at The Bookstore, which has become just as routine as nearly never brushing his hair, and sees you fixing your seller’s tag to your pick of the week. Your face in that arresting, self-conscious smile that he wants to melt off with the blowtorch of his mouth. 

It’s The Patchwork Girl of Oz by L. Frank Baum. 

Now, he noticed that you would habitually drop writers’ names into conversation like they were your lit professors– Didion said this, Bukowski said that, Bronte yadda, Burroughs yadda. Always some genius-adjacent, formative-thinking, socio-politico-boffo brainwad, more often than not with a substance abuse kick that you romanticized from a safe distance.

But then you unearth this book, a green clothback cover yellowing with age and roughness, red and yellow inlaid titling blasting out a name he ought to know. It makes his visual memory brrrrrrring! like a bright red tomato shaped kitchen timer.

The Patchwork Girl of Oz was with Elizabeth Munson wherever she went. Her records were her plane tickets, her escape to another world, but you couldn’t take your records with you to the hospital. Escaping to Oz was a decent substitute. She must have read it a bajillion times; she even took to calling Wayne Unc Nunkie after the elderly munchkin who only ever had one word for anybody. And whenever Eddie would drop an egg when they were baking or come running through the house with his knees all cut up, she’d coo, “Oh, my li’l Ojo the Unlucky!”

The book lingered everywhere– on the kitchen counter of the house on Pennsylvania,on the vinyl seat of the booth at the now-shuttered Benny’s when she could afford to take Eddie for a treat, on her bedside table. 

Up until the end. 

It knocks the wind out of Eddie when he sees it on the display shelf. He does a bad job of hiding that. 

“What, too shocked to make fun of me?” you say, perching yourself on the rickety stool behind the counter, and your voice betrays a little embarrassment. “That’s a first.”

“I–... huh?” He tears his eyes away from the book long enough to catch the specks of blush high on your cheeks.

“It’s not my usual flavor, I know, but I’m capable of whimsy too.”

“Why that one?” His limbs feel stony like Unc Nunkie’s, as much as he wants to languidly lean over the counter and bother you like he always does. 

You shrug, but you tilt the opposite shoulder. A reverse, a peek behind the looking glass. He notices that about you, which goddamn shoulder is your shrugging preference. 

“I think it was one of the first books I kept checking out of the library when I was little,” you say, glancing back at the display, “It’s about this poor little kid who has to find a way to reverse a spell on his uncle who’s been turned to stone, and the eponymous patchwork girl is–”

“I know the story.” It comes out a little blunter than Eddie was intending it to. So much so that it knocks you back a beat. 

“Oh,” you say shortly, eyes flaring down at the counter. “No need to cut me off mid-stream about it.” 

Eddie winces, knowing he’s coming across as weird and stilted but with no idea how to safely climb down. “No, just– I know the story, yeah. My mom…” That is not a safe dismount, dummy! “...she… liked it a lot.”

“Yeah?” your tone stays even, yanked back from him a little. He wants to be like, sorrysorrysorry. “She ever read it to you?”

“A bunch, actually.” 

“No shit.” The corners of your mouth tick up. “Wanna hear something super dorky?”

Just the mere invitation of your little smile loosens him up a bit. Eddie twists a ring around his finger, head kicking to his shoulder as his foot kicks to the counter. “Always,” he says, squinting. 

You straighten your spine up on your stool and clear your throat. Hand goes over your heart, like you’re about to recite the damn declaration. Your eyes shutter closed. 

“Here’s a job for a boy of brains– a drop of oil from a live man’s veins; a six-leaved clover; three nice hairs, from a Woozy’s tail, the book declares; are needed for a magic spell, and water from a pitch-dark well– the yellow wing from a butterfly to find must Ojo also try; and if he gets them without harm, Doc Pipt will make the magic charm; but if he doesn’t get ‘em, Unc…” your crack one eye open. “...will always stand a marble chunk.”

Eddie is silent for… for a while. For a good handful of heartbeats, for a beat so long that makes you knit your brow up, your eyes needling into him. Eddie’s looking at you with rose-colored soft focus. His elbows are eagerly pitched on the counter now, chin in his hands. The last person to recite those words to him was his mom, her voice raspy and tired but still willing to read to him. She hadn’t smelled like herself. It was sad.

And now, your voice, with all its snippy chainmail thrown off, gone all soft and lyrical and dedicated. 

He thinks about a littler you, one he could vaguely pick out of a lineup if he really, really tried, criss-cross applesauce and pouring over that book so often that that little spell jams itself into your brain. 

The mage before she donned the mink coat.

Eddie is looking at you and can’t force his heart out of his throat. 

Well, until he can.

“Ew,” he cringes.

“What?!” you exclaim, your eyes getting all incredulous and kind of mad. 

“And they call me a fuckin’ nerd, what the hell was that?” Eddie’s laughing, mocking, not with his whole heart. But it’s enough to make you scoff, irritated with him again. 

See, you thought you were being cute and he knows you thought you were being cute. He needs to put you back in a place where you’re marginally unlikeable enough to just be a friend. 

Restore the natural order. Don’t think about how he wants to recite that same verse back to you in front of an ordained Elvis in Vegas. Because he would, in a heartbeat. If he wasn’t committed to not being stupid. 

Christ, you’re pretty. Christ, he’s gonna do something stupid.

“You are… completely undateable, you know that?” he nods ferociously, eyes trailing you as you cross out from behind the counter and head for a box of books that need to be shelved. All uh-huhs and sure, Eddies. The bell on the front door jangles and a customer passes behind him. 

He yells after you, voice traveling down whatever winding path you’ve taken through the stacks. “You with your black and white movies and your twat rock and your Wizard of Oz… baby, what crowd are you even playing to?” 

“What crowd am I playing to? What crowd are you playing to?!” you seethe, shuffling the ten-tonne box of books down the aisle with your feet. “Fucking baggie-pushing, guitar-brutalizing, board-game-...maker-...upper!”

“Woah. Wit’s unmatched as usual, Lace.”

This fucking guy. This fucking guy. You try and do one darling little thing, you just recite a little piece of a book his dead mom used to read to him or whatever, and you get verbally bashed! God forbid, god forbid you let the fucking drawbridge down for half a second! This blows! 

You’re trying to be less of a bitch, in case you idiots didn’t notice!

It’s kind of inexplicable, how sensitive you’re feeling about this. Could be that since you kissed and since you pinkie-swore with Nancy Wheeler in the bombed-out boys bathroom, you kind of felt as if you were standing on a blade’s edge with Eddie. Not knowing where to put your hands, not knowing how much or how little to joke around. Not entirely happy with your moment of madness at the Ecker trailer. Not entirely happy that it hadn’t happened again. 

But you’re not about to apologize. Not to him. Don Rickles in a battle vest over there. Must he always just poke you like that?!

“You’re undateable!” You shove a bunch of books aside on the shelf. “Me, I’m cu–...”

Right through the shelf, a customer stares at you. Your voice dies in your throat because, unfortunately, he’s looking right at you in your flurry of annoyance toward Eddie. And unfortunately, this stranger, he’s a little… 

“What were you gonna say?” he asks, closing Gravity’s Rainbow. 

“Cute.”

Guy smiles, doesn’t break eye contact with you for a second. He’s wearing a sweater. He looks fresh out of somewhere stone walled with crawling ivy. “I’d attest to that.”

You forget about Eddie– just for a second. Gesturing to Gravity’s Rainbow, you say, “Gonna attempt to finish that?”

“What’s that mean?” His grin is infectious, or maybe you’re just starved for this kind of attention. 

“Nothing,” you say, with a little more tongue than you need to, “Just, I don’t know of anyone that’s ever finished that behemoth.” 

Well, you don’t know of a lot of people that read the way you do either. But, digression. He raps a knuckle against the cover of the book and for some reason, you feel it in your belly. 

“I always finish,” he tells you. 

“Do you now?”

That’s the longest you’ve been quiet in a hot minute, and that’s the kind of thing that gets under Eddie’s skin. Chain on his jeans jangling, he starts off into the creaking labyrinth of lined-up bookcases. 

“What, did you expire back here or something…” he mutters, a little whine in his tone– play with me, play with me, even though I’m being kind of a dick to you–

He sees you, a book lying lax in your arms, your body swaying to and fro and you’re–

“--talkin’ to yourself, Lacy? Great look. Real honeytrap, if you’re lookin’ to catch some imaginary di–”

“Eddie,” you grit at him, and he spots the whole other human male you’re talking to through the stacks. Well, not just talking to. Not with that body language. 

This dude tilts his chin to Eddie. “Hey, man. I remember you. Didn’t you used to sell dimebags in the woods outside school?”

Fire flares in Eddie’s gut. He vaguely recognizes this guy– class of ‘83 or ‘82, not remarkable enough to be hateable but now, he’s certainly collegiate looking enough to be… distracting to you. So, annoying to him. 

“Why, man? You lookin’ to buy? Or just cruise some high schooler tail?”

“Eddie!” you hiss again and he scoffs like, really?! You turn back to this… whoever the fuck. “C’mon, I’ll check you out.”

“You’ll check him out, huh?” Eddie sneers, bearing over you as you pass him in the aisle. Body heat breezing right by, face a mask of sheer disgust. Impulse talks; it totally wants to just grab you and throw you behind him and– well, he hasn’t thought that far ahead yet. But he’s creative. Who the fuck even is this guy? Where did he come from?

“That you?” this guy says, jerking his head toward the staff display, toward The Patchwork Girl of Oz. “Lacy?”

“To my friends and co-conspirators,” you say, ringing up that godawful Pynchon book. 

“Which one was that guy?” he asks, watching you jot out his receipt on the carbon copy pad because for whatever reason, Ivana’s cash register is from the fucking 1800s and she refuses to upgrade to anything with a thermal printer. “Friend? Co-conspirator? … boyfriend?”

You wrinkle your nose. And don’t exactly answer, but it’s enough confirmation for him. 

“Good. Say, why don’t you jot down your number on this thing?” He pushes the receipt back to you. “I can keep you updated on my Pynchon progress. You can… see if I’m good enough to co-conspire with.” 

You like this approach. In fact, you love this approach, because you hadn’t been earnestly picked up in… forever. And he has this certain je ne sais quoi about him, something that screams moved out of state for college. You stay grinning, biting your lip for a good breath or two after he leaves the store. 

Then Eddie appears in your peripheral, like some terrible harbinger of embarrassment. 

“Undateable, huh?” you say, fully aware that he was earwigging on that whole exchange because he’s a nosy bitch and he can’t help himself. Glutton for gossip. 

“You don’t have to throw yourself at the first person who walks in the store just to prove a point, baby,” Eddie tells you, this big face of condescension. You want to smack it off him so bad your palms are itching. 

You huff and backtrack to where that box of unshelved books sits. “Maybe I’m tired of waiting around.”

—

Ronnie Ecker and Robin Buckley are looking each other in the eye, wolf-whistling furtively when you elbow open the door of the gym. 

“You’re flat. I’m telling you you’re flat,” Ronnie’s insisting, an adorable three inches away from Robin’s face. 

“I can’t be flat! A mouth whistle cannot be flat!”

It’s marching band practice. You don’t know what the hell goes on in here and you know better than to ask. 

“Would you two get a room already?” you call, heels clicking across the glossed wood of the gym. These dorks have all got their feathered hats and bibs on, a kind of half-assed dress rehearsal for some pep rally they’re having on Friday. You missed the bulletin– kind of stopped paying attention, actually. Extracurricular distraction is a hell of a drug. 

“Excuse me, this is a closed–” that’s the voice of Miss Genovese, the band teacher, stomping down from the bleachers in these tragic little loafers with the pleather peeling off. She makes it about halfway toward you, then this exasperated look washes right over her. The teacher dashes for the double doors and you point after her with a freshly painted red index finger. New lease on looking good. 

“And that is?”

“Like, the third time in the last hour,” Ronnie shakes her head, taking her flamboyant little hat off. “Biggest running theory is morning sickness.”

What, is pregnancy like, catching or something? you’re about to muse.

“It’s almost contagious, right?” Robin says, tugging at her clip-on collar, “I mean, first your whole thing and now–” 

Ronnie doesn't even have a chance to gesture for her to ixnay! before she slams pause on herself, eyes wide and all shit, did I say that out loud?! Your eyes narrow in return. That’s suspicious.

“What whole thing? My whole what?”

Ever and eternally knowing when to call it, Ronnie holds a hand up before Robin can even start to scramble an apology and serve it to you. Panther versus a precious little puppy dog– the fight ain’t even fair. 

“Nothing. Scuttlebutt bullshit, the usual,” she rolls her eyes, throws a sympathetic glance to Robin who winces and retreats. Huh.

“What’s going on with you two?” you ask, crossing your legs over the bottom rung of the bleachers.

This actually makes Ronnie’s expression soften a little– her eyes race back in Robin’s direction and you swear you catch a blush. “Also nothing! Compound nothing. Why, does it look like…”

Lips purse into a little satisfied grin. Knew it. Toldja. Point to Lacy. “Looks like whatever you want it to look like.”

Ronnie reaches forward and waves her feathered hat in your face– stop being so observant! You cough in protest– ew, I don’t know where that thing has been! 

“Whatever! What brings you to geek church?” 

“That’s what they’re calling it now?”

“Stick around, we’ll start speaking in tongues.” 

“Satanic Panic bringing about a fun new turn for the pep rally! Put some God back into that wind instrument,” you croon. “No, I actually wanted your thoughts on something.”

Ronnie raises her eyebrows and you feel like you oughta mirror her. You’re not usually one to seek out a second opinion, but the more you’ve gotten to know Ronnie, the more you see that she’ll tell you how it is. Especially now that you’ve dispersed with the whole intimidating it-girl cloud and she’s stopped pretending to be shy.

“I know. I’m shocked too.”

“I’m honored,” she swings her shoulders in girlish delight, “Dish it up, Doevski.”

“Okay, so,” you clap, hiking forward on your creaking bleacher, “I’ve been seeing this guy–”

“--this is the bookstore guy?”

A blink and a beat. “How’d you know about that?”

A face that has Eddie told me with footnotes of and he was kind of jealous scrawled all over it stares back at you. “I ‘unno, maybe I overheard…”

“Doesn’t matter.” You slice a hand through the air, no time for this right now. “Facts are facts, I’ve been hanging out with this guy,” interesting change of phraseology, considering, “and he’s a college guy–”

“If they could see you now.” The royal court of Hawkins, obviously. Older guys are generally an accomplishment. But Ronnie’s half-jesting. 

“--I know, shut up. But, he mentioned something that would absolutely rock my college applications is a really, really great–”

“--feature in the Streak?” you’d gasped out in the back of his Ford Cortina (how very European!). College guy’s mouth was on your neck and his hand was inching into your shirt, playing at a faux placket of pearl buttons. Boys can never tell a real button from a fake one, apparently, even if they go to an East Coast school. I mean, shit! You’d gleaned enough information from him over a shake at the diner; relatively well-to-do family that lived near the Wheelers on Maple and kind of underwhelming taste in lit for an English major. 

But he maintained eye contact and listened to your witty little bon mots, even if he didn’t… laugh at them. One thing led to another and thus, the backseat college advisory-slash-makeout session. 

“Yeah, yeah, they love that shit…” he’d said, moving to your mouth in order to swallow any forthcoming words. But his words had piqued your interest more than his fingers had. 

“What about an underdog story?” you said, eyes kind of hazing over in the middle distance. 

“Sure, underdog, great…” college guy grabbed ahold of your leg and tugged you into him, “We can talk more about it later, okay?”

“Okay–”

“–okay?”

Ronnie grimaces. “I didn’t need that much detail.”

“Yes, you did.” You stare at her. “I’m a storyteller.”

Ronnie chews the proposal over a little, cheeks kind of bunched up in confusion. Behind her, band geeks badly hide their hickeys and exhibit too-gangly, too-obvious body language. No inspiration to be tapped from there.

“An underdog story… on the society pages? Like, who could you possibly–”

You smile that awful, conniving smile, because you came in here armed. “Ye of little faith.”

“Oh, no,” Ronnie says, and honestly, you’re a little taken aback by that reaction, “Hellfire?”

A shrug pulls your shoulders right up, rapidly on the defense. “Why not, right?” 

“Why not– Lacy, you almost guillotined Jeff that one time he asked you.”

True that you hadn’t had the inches of article to spare for Hellfire Club in not-too-ancient history, but, “That was then, this is now! World’s changing– and it’s topical!”

The whole Satanic panic thing really did tickle your funny bone; and you saw yourself having a little fun with that by turning the focus on Hellfire. Subverting Eddie’s cult-leader mythos to show that he is just a kid who might have a propensity for telling a good story, surrounded by other kids who want to get a word in. You’re not looking to turn the tide on his reputation or anything but maybe… y’know. You could do the admirable journalistic thing and scratch the surface a bit. Show what you’ve learned. 

It’s a challenge. You love a challenge.

“And it’s a good excuse to get in Eddie’s face,” Ronnie’s voice breaks through. 

There is a lonnng beat, one you hold like the last shoes in your size at a sample sale. Your mouth keeps going to make the words yeah, right or it’s not about him! or y’know, something to exonerate you from the notion.

“I know he isn’t…” Ronnie trails off, coming to sit next to you. “that he’s kind of being weird to you right now.” 

Go ahead and feign that ignoramus, girl. Shoulders quirking and all. 

“Oh. Is he?”

And then Ronnie says maybe the dumbest thing on the planet, regarding the abominable sitch between you and Eddie Munson. 

“You should just talk to him.”

“Ecker, there’s fruitless efforts and then there’s barren wasteland,” you scoff, “Guess which category proposing this to Eddie falls into.”

“That’s not what I–”

J’excuse, Ronnie, but you don’t care! Because this isn’t actually about anything other than getting all of those dice-throwing dorks, including Miss Ecker herself, into your damn paper. Okay?

“We have to ambush him! Element of surprise, that’s it,” you smile primly and hop off the bleachers. “I’m just going to show up at Hellfire, photographer in hand and– he won’t have a choice, will he?”

Ronnie’s expression is a mask of reproachfulness. You don’t let it shake you. You’re a cat playing with a now-endless ball of yarn, and you’re unshakeable. 

“He’s such a sucker for attention,” you say, tossing your hair, and it sounds a lot more like you’re convincing yourself than anyone else in this echoey gym, “He won’t be able to resist.”

—

Reefer Rick doesn’t call, unless it’s an emergency. All of his communication is inbound, or passed through a shoulder check and a goofy smile at Melvald’s, or a nod of the head across the pool table at The Hideout. He doesn’t frequent there so much, because Bev knows he’s a pool shark and ever since ‘Nam, his ears are a little too sensitive to all that metal racket, man! By all means, rock on, but by then I gotta go rock-a-bye myself to sleep, alright? Anyway, that’s how Eddie knows to ride over to his place, if it’s not through a call he’s placed himself. 

You need me, kid, you come and find me. 

So when Eddie gets a call that says, “We gotta pow-wow, ese,” his nerves are set on edge. Not that he wasn’t feeling bad enough, what with the fact that some douchebag in a Cortina had picked you up and dropped you off to school the last couple of days. What with the fact he had actively dogged the car down a little bit of the road from the trailer park with his van, resisting every temptation to just run it all the way off into a ditch. And what with the fact he didn’t know what to say to you about that without it coming out in an anti-missive of jealousy! jealousy! jealousy! so what he did say to you was… nothing. 

You two can’t maintain a consistent line of communication to save your lives, he realizes. There’s too much left unsaid, and the both of you are too stubborn or too scared to say any of it. Or even think it, in his case! The amount of times he’d had to slap himself sober, his brain going into overdrive thinking, if I had just told her… It’s a ‘friendship’, if you can even call it that, based on barbs and bad behavior and doing things because you know you shouldn’t. For the thrill. Right?

Like. Whatever. It’s not like he’d made tapes of a half dozen Black Sabbath albums because you mentioned you wanted to ‘study up’ on that ‘monster music’ he’s making. It’s not like you’d given him an annotated copy of Still Life with Woodpecker because he wanted to throw some ‘nonsensical curveball shit’ into a later Hellfire campaign. 

It’s not like Eddie missed you– he just… should have seen this coming, is all. He’s used to getting left in the dust while people move onto better things, or whatever. 

God, Munson, your voice taunts him from somewhere in his hippocampus, need some help nailing yourself to that crucifix?

Anyway, fuck, Rick called him. 

Rick had gotten out of lockup about a month ago– some truncated charge or another that Eddie didn’t bother asking too much about, mostly because… well, Rick hadn’t really been himself. Larger and brighter than the sun itself, the great and powerful lion of a man that oozed life ain’t shit if you ain’t havin’ fun energy, Rick had kind of dimmed. Lost a lot of weight while he was inside. Came back a little bit twitchy and fluent in Spanglish, for some reason.

Eddie was worried, because of all the adult figures in his life, Rick was meant to be the one with levity. He’d lost out on a fun uncle when Wayne stepped into his father-figure role. Al was nothing but a dangerous bit player. Rick, he could rely on. 

Thinking back to that infamous day when he had gotten loaded at Lipton Landing, before he picked up you and Ronnie, before he… well, you know the rest but, Eddie had sensed that Rick could use the company. He kind of tried to poke it out of him, whatever was wrong. Didn’t work. They had just watched The Godfather in a tense-ish silence and doofed a lot of joints. Sorta freaked him out.

Eddie’s crushing gravel on the descent to the infamously slanted Lipton Landing for his summons. There’s a hum that seems to traverse the window panes, a fond plucking work that could only belong to Link Wray. He puts the van in park and jogs up the steps to the front door, bracing himself for the pungent plume of skunk smoke that always greets him.

“Eduardo,” Rick’s voice curls around the greeting like smoke curls out of his mouth and he yanks Eddie over the threshold. Door slams, arm tightens around his shoulders. “You’re here.”

Rick’s always a handsy sorta guy–not like that!–but this grab makes him seize a little. 

“You rang,” Eddie says, voice lilting, “Everything okay?”

Rick clutches him by the shoulders and looks at him for a long, long time. Uncomfortably long. How has he managed to puff on that joint for this long without choking long. 

“No.”

And Rick begins a shuffle toward the kitchen. Eddie follows in an awkward half-step, headache threatening to bloom someplace in the back of his skull because he does not know how much more of this vagueness he can take! 

“Does it have anything to do with why you called me down here? Because, shit, I would love to get a straight answer out of someone for once!” A mirthless chuckle follows, trying to soften his desperation. 

A flick of the refrigerator door and Rick places two beers on his kitchen counter, hands bracing against the surface. “Then let’s sit crooked and talk straight. It’s about your…”

Hss. Eddie takes a notoriously mis-timed sip.

“...neighbor girl.”

Ffflp– Eddie wishes, just one day of his goddamned life, he could act cool at the mention of you. Even the suggestion of the mention of you. But no, he’s got PBR streaming from his nose like a moron and a look on his face that says uh-oh, spaghettio!

“That’s what I was afraid of,” says Rick, taking a knowingly smooth drink from his beer. 

With the heel of his hand, Eddie wipes away his spluttering mess and fumbles around for a crumb of nonchalance. 

“I don’t know–”

“Eddie,” Rick levels. God, Eddie hates it when adults are adults, and Rick hates having to act the adult even more. 

His shoulders drop. “What about her?”

“Well, when I was in the pen–local, I’ll have you know–I got approached by a very interesting man with a proposition I was powerless to refuse.”

With some trepidation, Eddie mumbles, “Oh, yeah?”

“Someone– well, let’s say me and this someone have a friend in common…”

“Rick–” Eddie’s attempting the leveling thing, but he’s not as good at it as Rick is. Or as you are, for that matter. And you’re who he’s attempting to imitate here, even if he won’t admit it.

“--a certain mutual business partner, if you will–”

“Rick.” Eddie tries to punch through the tension with the big man’s name. “It was Lacy’s dad. Right? You can just say it was her dad.” 

Rick’s brow sinks into a wrinkle. “...Lacy? The fuck kind of a dumb name is that?”

“It’s a nickname.” Why does Eddie feel defensive.

“The fuck kind of a dumb nickname is that?”

“They call you Reefer Rick.”

“That is a calculated business decision, a calling card if you w–”

“Rick. Can we close in on the point, here?” Ooh! Seems to actually work this time, much to Eddie’s relief. “I only got so many if you wills left in me.”

“Si, pronto,” Rick nods with apologetic understanding; he’s such an empath, this guy, “Long and short of it is, her pops offered me a little bit of cash and some assistance, iffin’ I promised to keep an eye on her.”

“Assistance…?” Eddie murmured out of the side of his mouth. It’s all in the way Rick says it! “Like…” Hand a loose fist. Jerky-jerk. 

“Eddie,” Rick chides, “Assistance gettin’ out. In prison, that is just called bein’ sociable. –anyway, I have this conflict of interest, with the whole surveillance thing.”

“And what is that?”

“You.” The way Rick drops it is obviously meant to cause some kinda ripple effect of realization, but Eddie’s still confused. 

“So you… didn’t take the money?”

“Huh?” Now Rick’s all confused. “Of course I took the fuckin’ money! What kind of a chump do I look like, man? What I’m getting at is, I knew that rattin’ on her also meant rattin’ on you.”

“Wh– why would it…” 

“I got eyes everywhere, man. Dig? I’ve seen what’s been happening.” 

Eddie’s heart leaps into his larynx. Eyes everywhere. And the truth was, you two had been stupid enough to be a lot of everywhere, thinking your respective trailers were the only hot zones. The Bookstore, the Hawk, Main Street Vinyl, Family Video, the diner, you name a Hawkins establishment and it has probably seen Eddie Munson and Lacy Doevski good-naturedly bickering in its aisles. 

He wonders if Rick even had eyes in the Ecker trailer. Ronnie could be a Lipton informant. That girl can hold a secret about as well as Wayne Munson can hold his liquor, which is gracefully. 

“Nothing’s been happening, we’re just–”

“Eddie.” Like a bulldozer, this guy. “I know Ivana pretty well. You ain’t hangin’ around that bookstore for the good of your health.”

“So what, you’re gonna–,” Eddie can feel himself starting to scramble, starting to sweat, backed into a corner like a hunted animal, “...tell her dad that we went to the movies a couple of times? That I go to her job, that I– that we’re–”

“What are you?” The way Rick puts it to him– rock, meet hard place. Should this really feel like such a tough question to answer?

“Friends.”

Rick draws up to his full height (tall, mountain man) and looks at him like he just shoved a cream pie into his face.

“It doesn’t matter, okay!” Eddie froths over, like a snapping dog, “We’re barely hanging out– anymore– so you can… you’re not gonna tell him anything, are you?”

Rick’s hands slowly, slowly rise, urging him to calm the yapping. No need to get into such a tizzy. Which Eddie wishes he could believe.

“‘course not, man,” he shakes his head, “Ray Doevski only needs to know what Ray Doevski absolutely needs to know.” Eddie can feel a little more weight behind that sentence than he’d like. “No reason you need to figure into this story.”

“That– that’s it? You’re not gonna tell him about u– about me?” 

“You’re in enough of a shitheap as it is, is how I see it.” A beat. Rick takes him in; really takes him in. Feels like an embrace, his stare. Concern uncrinkles the ever-present smile in Rick’s eyes. 

“Eddie, you care about this girl?”

Eddie’s mouth attempts to form around an answer, but he’s just blinking into nothing. Does he care about you? Does he care about you? He wants, needs to say no, to pfft you off, but every molecule is screaming otherwise. And Rick can sense it, operating on the extraterrestrial level that he does. 

“Then I’m real sorry.” 

“For what?” 

As if on cue, car wheels on gravel shuck Rick’s attention away from him. His eyeballs jitter in his head, heading for the door– Eddie close behind him. “Sorry for what, Rick–?!”

“Little bit for that, little bit for… this.”

Standing in the window of Rick’s living room, these two watch an offensively red muscle car skew into the driveway, making a mockery of Eddie’s beat up van. The driver’s door pops open and the first thing Eddie clocks is a blinding glint off some brand new aviator sunglasses. 

The second is that trademark Munson smile. 

—

“This is exciting!” Nancy Wheeler says, kind of flatly but with a conviction buried deep under her curled bangs. 

On the table sits two piles of playing cards, one steadily growing and one steadily decreasing. 

You two had taken to playing gin rummy when staring at paper layouts became a little too much. Technically, she actually had a say in layout and you were just nosy, but it’s a decent excuse to hang out. Though, both you and Nancy had this incredible tendency to hyperfocus on detail so hard that neither of you could pull the other out far enough to look at the big picture, so one day she tossed a deck of cards your way and said, “Deal!”

“I know,” you say, trying to focus on these melds of suits you’re making– that discard pile is looking poor, “Fresh turn for me, y’know? Less fluffy, more Didion.”

Nancy snorts softly, swapping out a card from her hand. “Who does that make Eddie? Charlie? Or Linda Kasabian?” 

A smile dances across your lips and you shrug, reaching for a cigarette before you go for another card. Usually, smoking in the newsroom was prohibited, as it was prohibited on most of Hawkins High grounds, but whenever that deck came out, you felt it was appropriate for at least one of you to be smoking. Gave a kind of Torchy Blane feel to the whole scenario which fit you and Wheeler pret-ty keenly, if you did say so yourself.

“That’s not what I was talking about, though,” Nancy says, poking Fred Benson’s empty mug toward you to use as an ashtray. 

Your eyes narrow; this could be a play to distract you from a winning hand. 

“It’s not?”

“No…” she puffs out another soft scoff, meeting your eyes over her fan of cards, “I mean the college guy.”

“Why is it exciting?” and you do want to know why Nancy thinks so. She’s a mile wiser beyond her years, even precocious enough to keep in step with you most of the time. You’d like her take. 

“Well, it’s what you wanted, right?” she tells you, watching you puff your cigarette and dig into the stock pile. “Somebody older, decidedly not a grabby high school boy– but someone with more experience, both with girls and with being outside of Hawkins. And the fact he goes to Vassar means–”

“He probably eats kitty like a maniac.”

Nancy lets out this full-bodied Merlot of a laugh, only a little color dashing over her cheeks. She’s gotten used to you being provocative on purpose because it gets a laugh out of her. So far grown out of the prude shoes you were sure she was still sporting. You’re proud of her. 

“Not exactly what I was getting at but– more sensitive to the female perspective, sure.” But then she registers what you forgot you’d even dropped. “Hold on, probably? You mean you haven’t–...”

You shrug. It’s a little withdrawn on your part. 

“Oh,” Nancy says, and seems to be leaning a degree or two towards unsurprised. That ruffles your feathers a little bit. Again, with the frigid thing. You couldn’t shake it. 

“No,” you emphasize, shucking your pitiful melds back again. “It's not as if we haven't–done things. I've copped a handful. Time is of the essence, and I take, y'know, a little more time to get there.”

“So no return on investment...?”

"Not... yet."

Nancy almost tosses her cards at you, the way she jabs them through the air. “You? You, the one who’s been preaching Betty Friedman to me, you haven't been getting–”

“Yes, me! Did you not hear me about time and the essence?”

“I know, it’s just– a little surprising.”

There have been exactly three instances of almost you tying your panties to the rearview mirror of college boy’s Ford Cortina, so to speak, and you’ve come out of each one with this desperate echo of oh well! Maybe next time! careening around your skull. Like you’re trying to convince yourself that by virtue of him not being in your grade, this has been a worthwhile way to spend your time. And listen, no misunderstandings here, it has! At least, part of it. It usually starts like this– the two of you grab some shitty diner coffee or some shitty diner food and then he takes you around in his car for a turn or two, admiring that famous Hawkins scenery (see: shuttered businesses and if you’re really lucky, that one mangy fox that feasts on the overflowing trash can near the Big Buy). You talk (you mostly talk) books and movies and say something that should be a hook of conversation but usually ends up with him screwing his face up in amusement and saying something along the lines of, “God, you’re so beyond this place.”

Which, duh. You’ve been saying this. This is the raft upon which your whole identity floats. 

The exchange dies in the air and he puts his hand on your leg and that is just… wonderful. He’s a solid B on the kissing GPA, and he’s cute and sort of funny, even if he doesn’t rally back jokes the way you’d… sort of gotten used to. Sometimes he makes a halfway-interesting observation about like, Philip Roth or somebody. But when it comes down to the minute of it, it still feels like going through the motions. Fumble bra strap, catch nail on his zipper, crank back passenger seat to climb in the back. Hey presto, you’ve distractedly jerked off a boy once again. 

You are not entirely sold on the fit of his hands on your body, even if he doesn’t look at you like he’s just solved a Rubik’s cube.

In fact, he kind of looks at you like you’re precious. Virginal precious. Innocent precious. Which you’re not totally sold on either. 

Nothing about him that makes you fantasize about what his mouth might feel like on you. What your fingers might feel like wound around his curls. His hair doesn’t even curl. There’s just nothing about him that calls for your full attention.

“Think there might be a reason for that?” Nancy, your annoyingly perceptive Nancy, presses. Goddamn intrepid girl reporter. She hasn’t stopped staring at you with that smug little look. You haven’t answered the question. “And it might be… living across the way from you?”

“Tch. What?” you snip. “I’m… having fun. What?”

“Nothing,” she smiles. “Just… gin.” 

She lays out her dazzling melds, complete with a measly goddamned three in deadwood cards and you toss your own bullshit hand to the side. A dumb amount of spades that add up to nothing scatter across the desk. An accusatory finger jams in her direction. 

“You are a fucking card shark.”

“Nope!” Nancy says, popping her ‘p’, “I just know a really great set when I see one.”

Reaching into Fred’s mug, you crush your cigarette with a little too much force. Now, how would Nancy have a read on that? you think, oblivious to your own obviousness. (Like a neon sign. Like a circus tent.) 

You hadn’t even reminded her of the catastrophic events of her thirteenth birthday which led to a whole lot of this awkwardness, which, now that you thought about it, actually implicated her in the crime of you kissing Eddie Munson ‘til you were breathless in Granny Ecker’s closet. 

If you hadn’t been born and had a birthday, I wouldn’t be in a spiral over some boy with a curl pattern like a fucking backwoods libertine. 

“You’re not clever,” you tell her, but she’s looking at you all cleverly, “Like. You’re clever, but I need you to know that you’re not clever.”

With flicking fingernails, Nancy picks up your discarded cards and folds them neatly back in the deck. 

“I’m just saying,” and the tone she takes is a little gentler now, “don’t… let yourself miss out on something just because, I don’t know, the thing you’re currently having fun with is what you think you want. What you feel you want and what you think you want are two very different–”

“This isn’t entirely about me, is it?” you realize, defenses peeling down a little bit. The Nancy and Steve of it all had been looming since your (admittedly triumphant!) visit to the war memorial that was the boy’s bathroom. Still no sign of that place getting fixed, by the by. And ever still, Nancy hadn’t told Steve about their little mission. Many a reason for that, you were led to believe. Not a lot she wanted to dissect, though.

Nancy’s face scrunches up and she stops packing the cards. 

“No. But let’s pretend like it is.” 

A groan escapes you as you sink back into your chair, a twinge of pain running along your shoulders.  

“Nance. This is all so much more complicated than you realize.”

“Try me.”

You toss a hand through your hair, slapping your palm down on the desk. 

“Fine. But if I tell you this–”

A hand rises out between the two of you– yours, pinkie extended. 

“Not a word,” you press. 

Nancy clamps her finger around yours in a way that enforces how super-serious she is about this. The reason your usual reserve doesn’t hold up under that x-ray stare of hers is because you can tell she actually gives a shit. She’s not looking for gossip. She cares. Which is still an entirely alien feeling to you. 

So the whole thing spills out. Steve’s party, the record store, getting locked up in Eddie’s trailer and getting locked up in feelings, Roane County Quarry’s incredible acoustics, the friendship that made you fold all the neatly arranged origami parts of yourself out toward him only to realize you had no idea how to fold them back. The kiss. The subsequent awkwardness of said kiss. The college guy. The relative radio silence. The fact that…

“...I don’t feel like myself when he’s not around,” you say, lighting a fourth cigarette off your third. “Isn’t that silly? I spent all this time painting this like, fabulous eggshell of myself then this wild-eyed, smart-mouthed, catastrophic ass smashes it clean open and now–”

“All the college boys couldn’t put you together again,” Nancy nods. “You’re a very beautiful Humpty Dumpty.” 

“... does Humpty Dumpty die in the end?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be teaching it to kids.”

“No. They should know. The fall comes for us all.”

There’s a suspended silence. You get this feeling like you’ve emptied your purse on the table and you still can’t find that thing you’re looking for, despite sifting through everything. 

“How does that even happen?” you question, biting at the skin on your little finger. Not Humpty Dumpty, the Eddie thing. It comes out idle, but you pray that Nancy, with her feelings scalpel and surgical precision, doesn't decide to answer it. 

Instead, she says, “You need a photographer for that piece.”

Thatta girl. Your dimmer switch turns up. “Fred hasn’t even okayed it yet.”

“I’ll deal with William Randolph Hearst, okay?” Nancy says derisively and tosses her eyes to heaven. She pushes her chair back. “Ask Jonathan Byers.”

“He hasn’t taken photos for us in a while,” you remark, eyes searching Nancy. She’s readying herself to leave, so totally dodging this line of questioning before you can even cast it. Clever. 

“No, he has not,” she sighs, winding her scarf around her neck, “But he’d be good for this. He knows how to capture action. And his kid brother plays DnD with mine, so this’d be, like… nice for them.” 

And this is just as much me making amends with Jonathan Byers as it is you, backwards as it may seem, you nearly hear her say. Or you’re making that up. 

Shame Nancy is so dead set on becoming the next Nellie Bly. Under the right circumstances, she’d make a hell of a normal person. 

Good thing you prefer freaks.

—

Jonathan Byers is a notoriously hard boy to get a hold of, it turns out. Nancy passed along his number (which, you actually already had but you didn’t bring that little detail up) and when you finally punched it in on the yellowing phone nailed to the wall of your trailer, it rang and rang and rang. 

Which, after the fourth time, was just rude. Do the Byers have a thing about not answering the phone, or something?

“Jonathan!” you holler across the parking lot, emerging from the passenger side of Nancy’s car this time. 

College guy was decidedly busy and despite the hanging tension, you’d toyed with the idea of asking Eddie for a ride. Alas, the boy in the Dio patched battle vest was nowhere to be seen. His van hadn’t been there since the weekend and he had been MIA from school the last couple of days, actually, which was itching at you. 

It also made you miss when you had a goddamn set of wheels at your disposal. 

Anyway, Jonathan looks at you with flaring eyes, kind of like you’ve just stuck a shotgun to his snout and there’s no hope of him making a getaway. “Um…”

Now, keep in mind that these are the first words you’ve spoken to him in a measurable high school forever, so his surprise is entirely justified. It’s just not within the beam of your patience right now. 

“Hi. Can we chat?” you say, falling in step with him as you head towards the front door. You don’t bother asking for permission, and forgiveness won’t be necessary. “I was hoping you could help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

Blink, blink. Jonathan’s grasping for words– seems to be a lot of that going around lately. 

You strike your hand through the air. “Let me put it to you like this– you are going to help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

“Why?” he asks, and it’s prickly. 

“Becauuuse,” you draw out, “I need a photographer. And god knows whenever Nicole attempted to work a lens, those snapshots were so out-of-focus they looked like an optical illusion.” 

“And, you’re not talking to Nicole right now,” Jonathan nails you, but not totally. In your mind,  you revisit flashes of Nicole recounting, in gloriously erroneous detail, those photos Jonathan had taken of Nancy. You had pretended to be scandalized and rolled your eyes, thinking what’s a little peep show among losers. 

“Even if I was,” you say, dogging Jonathan all the way to his locker, “I still wouldn’t ask her. This is important to me.” 

That avoidant Byers reserve stands strong, with Jonathan grabbing books in hurried succession. He is trying to get away from you, but that’s not happening without an emphatic yes! 

“I don’t even really–” 

“Take pictures anymore?” you pfft, pointing to his messenger bag, “Twenty bucks says your camera is in there and the film’s half shot.” 

“I don’t have twenty bucks.” 

“Me neither,” you shrug, “Spent it on that new Echo & the Bunnymen.”

Jonathan hesitates a bit, fingers strumming against his biology textbook. A thread of something long forgotten by the listening booths of Main Street Vinyl tugs between you both, but it’s not weighed down by the prospect of will we kiss about it. He kind of smiles. 

“What did you think? I haven’t gotten down to hear it yet.”

You thought it made you want a flowing dress and a place to prance. Like if the more whimsical end of Fleetwood Mac didn’t exhaust you. Those last four tracks snapped your heartstrings like suspenders, with comical aplomb. 

“Grandiose! That ‘Killing Moon’ song? It’s got Jonathan Byers written all over it,” you chirp, and mean it. “I’ll make you a copy if you put that camera to work for me.”

He shrugs, but you can see you’re wearing him down. “I’m not much for shooting pep rallies.”

“Liar. Wheeler says you’re top banana in the action shots department,” you counter, “But how about players? I think I want some portraits, too. Non-corny ones.”

“What team?” Jonathan screws up his nose. The distaste for jockery runs deep, and rightfully so. 

But you shake your head, face curving into an expression of near excitement. 

“No team. Better, and worse, depending on what side of the cafeteria you’re sitting,” your hands splay out, and for god’s sake, you feel like Munson himself, “Hellfire Club.”

Jonathan looks like his record’s skipped. Eyeballs sort of jiggle in his skull and he mouths, oh, like the association of you between Hellfire should mean something. Suspiciously like Nancy, and just suspicious period. Your eyebrows start to inch towards one another. 

“What’s that look? Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Um,” he dillies, then dallies, “Sure. Yeah. You know, my kid brother loves DnD.”

Ah, yes. The other Byers boy, the one who’d gone missing all that time ago. You remembered. Actually, you remembered not being able to figure out how you should feel about it– how you should act, other than falling in line with the majority of people who were giving Jonathan shit at the time. You regret that now, with a chill that runs right down to your toes. 

“Could be cool for him to see, no?” you try, corner of your mouth lifting, “A little niche in the midst the high school horrors. To look forward to, y’know.”

The look on Jonathan’s face is more than a little bit screaming, that’s rich, coming from you, you were the high school horror. But he shakes it off, because he’s nicer than you are, even though he doesn’t need to be. 

“Yeah… whatever you say, Lacy. When do you need me?”

You tell him Friday and he agrees, much to your satisfaction. You’re just about to punch him on the shoulder like teamwork, buddy! before he saves you such a wildly out-of-character display by dodging toward his homeroom. 

You sail toward your locker like the bastard that’s risen alongside the cream, only to be greeted by something… strange. Scratches, all around the maudlin gray paintwork of your combination lock. Like it’d been tampered with, or something. A blaze of paranoia burns at the base of your skull, and you instinctively try to recount where your journal is… in your bag. Phew. Fine. This could be… anything. 

Fingers reach forward to twist your lock, and with the slightest touch, the door is forced open by a push from the other side. A flash of bright red, then SPLAT. Yellow, SPLAT, blue, SPLAT, SPLAT, SPLAT! You shriek a real ear-piercing shriek as at least a dozen water balloons spill out of your locker, hitting the floor with an obscene smack. Water dashes everywhere, and you’re barely able to move out of the splash zone in time. 

“What the fuck!’

Within seconds, there’s a hubbub and a crowd’s gathering, trading sickening snickers with one another as you peer into the dark of your locker. You gingerly step through the puddle, suede boots irreparably spattered, and yank the door the whole way open. There, sat atop your schoolbooks and a stray water balloon that hadn’t made the fall, is a horribly familiar set of test tubes.

In one of them sits a squirt of blue liquid and that offensive strip of plastic. And scrawled across it in clumsy black marker? 

IT’S A FREAK!

Realization hits you like Carol did, making your head swim among all the murmurs of oh my god… and gross! and told you–trailer trash and unconcealed cackles. A voice sparks up like a sizzling ember in a swathe of darkness. 

“Where’s your baby daddy at, Lacy? Get tossed in the slammer with your old man?” 

The languid tones of none other than Billy All-Balls-No-Brains Hargrove drift by you, sailing right past the back of your head as you stare a hole through the innards of your locker. Then, your stupid hippocampus gears up– Robin, mentioning ‘your whole thing’ while Genovese baby-barfed her guts up, Ronnie urging her to shut the fuck up, even Jonathan Byers was privy to this hot little piece of gossip. 

This theory that you were up the spout with Munson Junior Junior. 

How many people had seen you, stupid little you, coming out of that drugstore hiking that Advance box over your head like the championship cup? Seen you hopping into Eddie’s van– and out of it, and back in again on what now seemed like countless occasions? 

Nobody could have suspected it was Nancy’s test, because nobody saw her. They saw you. That was the whole idea. You just didn’t consider the blowback.

“What’s going on out here?” the softly-coated concern of Ms Kelley rings out in the hallway, doing absolutely nothing to disperse the peanut gallery that’s set up around your locker. 

“Lacy?” her voice points to you. Even the goddamn guidance counselor uses your beloved nickname.  

You don’t react. You don’t even know what you’re doing until you come to a couple of paces down the hallway, feeling the thin, straining rubber in the palm of your hand. Your footsteps make heavy, wet, slapping noises against the linoleum as you follow the half-slouched shouldered swagger of Billy Hargrove down the hall. 

Down, and down, and down towards the boy’s locker room and he doesn’t even register it, and you don’t even register that Ms Kelley is still calling your name–your full name, now–until she’s two dozen paces behind you, losing you in the throng of students making their way to class and you shove past half-dressed seniors in the locker room who guffaw at you in a way that feels like a knife in your gut and you yell, voice shaking–

“Hey Billy!” 

And launch the water balloon, making square contact with his smug face. 

“Cute fucking prank!”

His reaction, predictably, is way too slowww moooootion for your fucking liking, so you don’t even give him a shot to fully wipe his face off and mumble, “What the fuuuuck is yourrrr probbbblemmm, ssssllluuuutttt…” 

You just go for him with the ferocity of a jumping jackal. Hands ball in his stupid sleeveless flannel (it’s winter in Indiana, you West Coast jackass!) and you shove him against the lockers with– well, with the strength only an ex-cheerleader brimming with suffocated rage would have.

Metal clatters and one empty unit even careens over like a big tin domino and you say, “Come up with that idea all by yourself, you fucking nimrod?”

Billy just smirks at you in half-speed, mullet sopping, as if this is a come-on. “I had a little help.” 

It occurs to you that right here, right now, you could sell Nancy Wheeler down the river. You could be the you you once were, and you could say, well, primo observation skills, that pregnancy test wasn’t even for me! 

But you don’t, because a pinky promise is a fucking pinky promise.

You let go of Billy’s shirt. Step off. “You’re pathetic,” you spit, but it feels more pathetic coming from you. All that molten blood in your veins makes you want to eviscerate him and whoever else was involved in orchestrating this stupid, stupid, stupid prank. But you come up lacking. Fuck!

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes and you start to rush out of the locker room– but you’ve given Billy a reason now, and he’s gonna follow you. 

“Shit, are you crying? Those hormones must have you really messed up, huh?” he faux-croons, the thunk-thunk of his poseur motorcycle boots following you to the back entrance, by the sports equipment. Your eyes are streaming freely now, lashes frantically blinking a path to vision. 

But Billy isn’t letting up. And like the Pied Piper of slimeballs, he’s drawing followers– not least of which include Tommy Hagan. 

“What about that college dropout you’re banging, Lacy?” his nasally tone slices through Billy’s tarry taunting. “He know you’re knocked up yet?”

“Jesus Christ, Doevski! I’m impressed,” Billy laughs, “Just how many loads are you taking?”

An abandoned baseball bat lies on the ground, having rolled out of the sports closet; instinct behind the wheel of your personal van, you stoop to pick it up and shove through the doors. You can nearly feel the breath of Hargrove and Hagan and all of these horrific, horrific boys with nothing better to do than to torture you hot on the back of your neck. 

“Not yours, that’s for fucking sure,” you manage, your voice thick. The bat, at least, feels solid in your hand. 

“It’s fun not being frigid, ain’t it, Lacy?” Billy goes on, and you squint against the sunlight as you round the building. “Tell me this, Munson teach you how to suck cock yet? ‘cause if not, I got a little time on my hands.”

Forging ahead, you cross the tarmac of the parking lot. The soft frost hasn’t even totally thawed out yet, sparkling atop the paintwork of Billy’s blue Camaro.   

“That a fact, Billy?” you say, tears drying in quick streaks in that brisk morning air, leaving rivets in your made-up face.

You use your momentum to launch one foot onto the hood of Billy’s car, then the other. You nearly slip against the icy exterior, but steady yourself fast. Bat dangling at your side. Stomp. Stomp. You stand on the roof, and turn to face this congregation of assholes. You do not let sense set in, despite it threatening to inch through the white hot flame of your rage.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Billy outright cackles and Hagan and company guffaw along with him. 

“Billy,” you sigh, a little breathless from the speed at which you’d booked it from the locker room to the parking lot, and the sheer vigor of your shock, awe and rancor, and everything else, “What the hell am I supposed to do with your limp dick in my mouth? Chew on the fuckin’ thing?”

Billy repeats himself, a touch darker now. “What the fuck are you doing.”

“I’m serious!” you say, a little shrill, a little stomp to punctuate that last word, “One thing you can say for Eddie Munson, is at least the motherfucker can get hard!” 

Motorcycle boots advance towards you, and you point the bat at him like a broadsword. 

“Do not. Come any closer. Or I’m gonna start doing some serious damage to this ugly piece of overcompensation.”

“She’s bluffing,” Hagan crows, and you turn your flaming glare on him. You wish you had a mirror– you wonder if crazy becomes you. Billy takes a pointed step forward and you raise the bat above your, head bracing for action– that’s enough movement for him. 

“Gimme that bat, you stupid fucking cunt–!” But Billy’s cut short by a body barrelling into the side of him, knocking him askew. A jangle of denim and leather. The bat slips a little in your grasp. 

“Get the fuck off of me Munson–” 

“No way to talk to a lady, Billy!” Eddie gasps, tossing Billy back and letting his limbs hang. “You kiss Karen Wheeler with that mouth?”

Billy rounds on him like a triggered animal, spittle flying.

“Some fucking lady!” he snarls, “Got downgraded to that trailer park and now her snooty ass is spreading it for half of Hawkins! Desperate! Stringin’ you along like the dumb piece of shortbus shit you a–”

Activated, you throw that bat to the fucking wayside and scramble off the fucking car– nobody talks to him like that! 

But you’re not fast enough, nobody’s fast enough, nobody can compete with how huge and booming and definite Eddie’s voice sounds when he says, smile glimmering, sun breaking through the bleak midwinter… 

“You know what I like about you, Hargrove?”  

THKUNCK. Bone to bone, fist meet fucking flesh–

“Nothin’.”

A scuffle goes up, and Eddie can’t even feel the hits of Hargrove’s hands connecting with his face, chest, ribs, wherever– all he can feel are your arms locking in vice around his waist, putting yourself in the eye of the storm in order to yank him back.

—

You got an elbow to the crown of the head, which isn’t too bad, even if you feel like a cartoonish lump should be rising there. But look at these other guys. 

Billy with a black eye that’s bulging up rapidly, Eddie with a split lip and more than a couple of scratches on his knuckles. In that fray, he hadn’t exactly considered the implications of punching a guy with all his goddamned rings on. The implications being that shit hurt like hell. There is this radiating pain in his hand, not letting him unfurl his fingers completely. 

There’s also this radiating feeling of dread cloaking his entire upper half as you sit three-to-the-wall outside Higgins’ office. You had, in Eddie’s estimation, incredibly bad timing. 

See, considering the events of his past week, he was slowly making peace with the fact that he should probably be avoiding you entirely, even if that meant he died a little inside. He should have been doing that from the jump– but you, unbuttoned and reckless now apparently, kept requiring interventions so you didn’t get killed, or worse. 

And Eddie couldn’t help himself when it came to you. Especially not when you were standing on top of Billy Hargrove’s sick Camaro, swinging a baseball bat and getting called some shit that no one should ever be calling you. 

You’re out of control. Totally unsheathed. End of your rope. Unlaced. 

And he’d do just about anything to keep you safe. 

Even fuck up his guitar-playing hand. Which is also his…

“I can’t believe you fucking suckerpunched me,” Hargrove mumbles from your left. “With those ugly fucking rings on.”

Eddie can’t help himself, the last shred of propriety knocked out round about the time a knee to the ribs had winded him. “Aw. Billy. Don’t be so hard on yourself–”

“Eddie…,” you start, tone warning in a way that makes him want to pinch you, kind of. He leans towards Hargrove, meaning he’s leaning over you. Hair brushing across your shoulder. You notice that it smells distinctively skunkier than usual. Camping out at Lipton Landing?

“--honestly! You’re no sucker!” he implores, eyes shining in jest, “You totally had that coming!”

You hear Billy seething from his end, Eddie snickering from his and launch a well-timed arm in front of both of them before they can snap at it again. 

“Cut it out, assholes! This is becoming increasingly more pigheaded.”

“And you’re the voice of perfect reason now, huh?” Eddie sneers, not giving you much breathing room. “Where’s the bat at, Babe Ruth?”

“In the parking lot, waiting to finish you off,” you grit back, nearly nose-to-nose with him, because you don’t know how to digest the guilt of his aching fingers. 

“What are you mad at me for?” Eddie hisses, a smirk threatening to break his scowl, because he doesn’t know how not to provoke you.

“Knocking her up, probably,” Billy mumbles from the side. 

“Shut up, Hargrove!” you both snap, eyes never leaving one another. 

Higgins’ door creaks open and a quietly livid Ms Kelley says, “Lacy.” She jerks her head, motioning for you to up and at ‘em. You do, but not without one last look at Eddie, cradling his hand. Round, bottomless irises meet yours for a moment, then dart away with an impact that thickens your throat. 

His poor hand, you find yourself thinking.

“He needs an ice pack…” you find yourself mumbling, Kelley shuffling you into Higgins’ office. The principal sits behind his beat-up desk, fingers steepled. You absently wonder if he’s been campaigning for a new, shinier, possibly more oaken desk because this doesn’t paint the picture of threatening figurehead that he so clearly wants you to tremble under. 

You accidentally kick the thing, crossing your legs as you sit. “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Higgins declares. Here we fucking go. 

“Permission to state my case?” you attempt. This hadn’t been your first time in the principal’s office; minor classroom infractions, a saccharine we’ll do everything to help that we can after your dad’s arraignment, but this time was certainly the worst. 

“Denied,” he shoots you down.

“Permission to submit a plea of temporary insanity, then,” you try, patting at the sore spot on the crown of your head. “You know this doesn’t bode with my track record. You think I climbed on top of Billy Hargrove’s car completely compos mentis? Please.”

A tense silence from Higgins’ and Kelley’s end.

“You saw what Hargrove did, didn’t you? That disgusting prank?” 

Again, nada.

“I’m a honor student, for Chrissake!” you exclaim, and Kelley plucks herself from the windowsill behind Higgins’ desk. 

“Were an honor student, Ms Doevski,” she corrects. “Your grades have been slipping since– the events of the last couple of months. You’ve dropped cheerleading, you’ve made really puzzling false claims about peer tutoring, you…”

“Yes! Yes, the events of the last couple of months, if by which you mean familial imprisonment, then yes, I’ve been a little distracted!” 

Higgins kicks back in his seat just as you hitch forward in yours, too angry to be pleading but too desperate to defy. His turn to mutter here we fucking go.

“I can turn this around,” redirected to Ms Kelley and her ever-sympathetic expression, “I can turn this around.”

“College applications deadlines are within touching distance, Lacy.” She of little faith. 

“I know that!” As if your hands aren’t itching every time college guy mentions Ithaca or… wherever the fuck it is he goes. As if that isn’t a crack in the assuredness that you were going to take flight out of this town in a spectacular fashion.

“Ladies– can we dispense with the hysteria and deal with the here and now?” Higgins insists and you and Kelley, despite your opposition, share a look.

World class, this guy. Top of his field, asshole-wise. 

“Two week suspension should do it,” he says, jotting something down. 

You open your mouth in protest and Kelley quells you– you’re in no position to start bargaining down. 

“Technically, she didn’t do anything,” and for good measure, but pressed, “Sir.”

“She climbed on top of that boy’s car with a baseball bat!” Higgins barks; now who’s hysteric?! “She had intent to do harm!”

“It was justified.” You can’t help yourself. 

Kelley stares him down, and that woman’s charm is something that should be studied in a fucking lab, because he relents right away. 

“Two weeks of Saturday detention, then. Christ. Am I going soft?”

You shake your head, all the knots in your body releasing just a little bit. You try to dig out what’s left of your once-famously refined charm, while simultaneously dashing towards the door before he can change his mind. 

“Au contraire. You’re a paragon of masculinity, sir. Regan could take a hint. Door open or closed?”

Higgins grimaces. “Send in Hargrove. Tell Munson he’s suspended. I don’t have time for both of those pricks today.” 

Eddie’s voice travels through the crack in the door. “I heard that, sir.” A beat. “I miss you, sir.”

You bite back a deeply reluctant laugh and jerk your head toward Billy. You’re up, champ.

Then, it’s the two of you. You and Eddie, Eddie and you. Alone, save for the ever watchful jam jar eyes of Janice the secretary. Eddie is still nestling one hand in the other like it’s a baby bird with a broken wing. Shit, you really hope it isn’t broken.   

“You’re suspended. They told me to tell you.” It’s a statement made to turkey-stuff the silence more than anything. 

The way Eddie lolls his head back makes you want to reach out and push it in the opposite direction. You don’t know why. 

“You’re a regular town crier, ain’t ya.” 

“Hear ye, hear ye.” 

A leaden pause. Your hearts might have thumped both in time just now.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks.

“No leaving school grounds,” Janice unhelpfully squawks. 

Eddie gets up, drawing himself to his full height. Your eyelids flutter. There’s a little purple around that cut on his lip, which you bet is starting to throb something awful. You feel dwarfed beside him, and he uses his good hand to turn you by the shoulder and shuffle you past the nosy secretary’s post. 

“I meant the sick bay, Janice,” Eddie pelts, giving each vowel sound a hard flick. “I’m wounded. And she’s apparently pregnant. Or didn’t you hear?”

—

The nurse’s office is tiny and cramped, smelling of bleach with a glaring fluorescent overhead. Eddie has a hard time figuring out why anyone would come here to feel better. Especially given that Nurse Lydia is barely ever present. 

Eddie carpes the opportunity to slam himself down on her rolling saddle chair, gliding into your path as you try and snoop around for first aid materials.  

“I don’t think you should be driving that thing,” you remark, “You could be concussed. You’re acting concussed.” 

“It’s keeping me awake!” 

Eddie watches you, digging through drawers and pulling out tongue depressors, your teeth making an indent into your bottom lip. Your eyes are doing that darty thing, quietly frantic in place of an apology. You don’t know how to say sorry you got wailed on by Hargrove for me. Instead, you’re acting like he’s bleeding out. 

“Lace, just wait for the professional.” 

The clip of your nickname makes you toss your stare over your shoulder, hardness framing your eyes like mascaraed lashes. Eddie stops rolling around at once.

“I am the goddamn professional, as far as you’re concerned.” Your little chin jerks towards the exam table that’s beat into the corner of the room. “Get on the bed.”

Whack-a-mole. Woodpecker. Other euphemisms for his cock developing a pulse. Eddie has to physically restrain his jaw from dropping. 

“Yes, Nurse Ratched.”

Scoffing out a little fuck you!, you go about scrambling together supplies and Eddie obediently launches himself onto the bed, the ancient thing creaking beneath him. When you finally approach him, you seem to be holding a lot of alcohol pads. 

The look before you admit to a shortcoming is one he wants framed. You always flick your eyes around like a guilty cartoon character, like Betty Boop on her way to gaining a doctorate in the pretentiousness of the English language, and pout. Lean your neck in, like you’re swearing him to secrecy. 

“I actually don’t know anything about first aid. Beyond the rudimentaries.”

Eddie chuckles. “You were a cheerleader. You were getting thrown in the air a whole bunch, if I recall. Feels like you should know how to like, resuscitate.”

“Rudimentaries, I said!” and you grab his injured hand a little roughly, alcohol pad torn out and ready, “Like, I obviously know alcohol disinfects a wound, ice for a bruise… I don’t know how to, like, reset a bone. Besides…” 

You inch closer to him now, wiping at his torn and tender knuckles a little too carefully. They’re just stupid cuts, Eddie thinks, his breath beginning to shallow. 

“...that Cat People remake was premiering at the Hawk the day we had first aid training. Like I was going to miss that.” 

He can feel heat radiating off your body, a core change for cold little you. Feel the fabric of your skirt brush the rip in his jeans. A little choked, he mumbles, “Cat People is a remake?”

“Based on the 1942 original,” you nod, flicking the tiny used pad in the nearby trash can. “I like it. But I like that David Bowie song more.”

“That song sucks.”

“You’re injured and wrong. What a shame.” Your fingers close around Eddie’s wrist and slowly, slowly press his forearm to his chest. “Keep that elevated.”

“It’s not broken,” and he’s staring at the quiet tremble in your bottom lip.

“Could be sprained,” head cast down again, tearing open another pad, and he can smell your hair, “Does it hurt?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away, because he’s waiting for you to look back up. Because he thinks he’s going to carpe something else. 

You fall for it, and your eyes sucker him in. He feels weak in the joints. You repeat yourself. “Does it hurt, Eddie?”

He just nods, boyishly. Nearly passes out when your fingertips tilt his face towards the light. Skin buzzing underneath them, you peering at his mouth like you know what you’re doing. The slit in his lip feels raw and strained. 

“This’ll hurt, too,” you murmur, and he feels your breath against his jaw. A sharp prick from the alcohol against his cut doesn’t make him wince– worse. As you swipe the cotton against his bottom lip, he whimpers. Unh.

Oxygen stops short in your throat, hearing that. That noise. It sends a wave of motion through your lower body. You’re leaning awfully close to him, closer than you need to be. In fact, his knees are settled either side of your hips. How did that happen. When did that happen. How did you allow this. 

How are you allowing your fingertip to trace against his lip, alcohol evaporating without a hope or a prayer. How are you allowing yourself to look at him through the fan of your lashes, his injured hand still obediently propped against his chest. His good hand pressing into your lower back.

You taste the vagueness of the disinfectant on his lips as he presses them into yours. 

Jerking back, you’re not far enough away from him to create a distance that matters. All you see are Eddie’s eyes, flickering open, apologetic in themselves. About to tell you he’s sorry.

No.

Hands fly, one woven in the curls at the base of his skull as you kiss up into him, tongue an impolite peak. This is not the closet; this is arguably far more dangerous, with the nurse’s door still open a courteous gap. This is the harsh light of day. This is Eddie’s hand moving your skirt further up the curve of your ass. 

He’s grabbing onto you as best a one-armed man can, and your hand travels in turn. A jagged, fevered path drawing up his thigh until, under your palm, is the hard outline of him. The pressure of your hand over the denim-bound curvature of his cock makes him groan sharply, the sound pressed against your cheek. 

Face angles back for a look at him. Because this is bad, mindless, reckless, stupid. And he’s always worth a look.

You spot a tiny speck of blood on the pink of his lip from where his cut had split. 

And your curious tongue flicks at it. 

Eddie’s eyes flare. You, unable to unglue your stare from his, suck his lightly bleeding lip between yours. Fragile. Crushable. 

He did this for you. 

No one’s ever cared, or known you enough, to do something like that for you.

Desire moves you like a shockwave and your hand leaves his crotch to help you clamber onto the exam table, clamber into Eddie’s lap. 

Downright idiotic. 

You cast a glance to the door, Eddie’s fraught breath puffing against your neck. 

Thought you were a smart girl.

You look right into his face, the poster boy for sheer distraction, pre-occupation, skin-searing annoyance, nervous charm, surprising wit, magnetism, oh my… and feel his fingers edging far past the hem of your skirt, past the binding top of the thigh-highs you’re wearing because it’s fucking laundry day and stopping at the gusset of your panties. 

He can feel how wet you are.

Lips a breath away from each other, one set bleeding, one set housing a gasp. Eddie nudges his forehead against yours, the both of you blind to consequence.

“Just friends, right?” His breath is jagged and unconvinced, and your hips kick toward his hand. 

You do not answer.

Unbruised fingers push the fabric covering your radiating heat aside and you have to tighten your grip around the back of his neck so as not to tumble over. Eddie is not deft, because this isn’t the moment to be deft. He plunges two fingers into the plush of your pussy and looks to you with pleading eyes. Eyes that say, is this good, eyes that say, don’t make a sound.

You nod in the affirmative to both and he drags his digits out slowly. Rhythm picks up and you’re clenching around Eddie’s hand in a matter of minutes, lower muscles seizing and het-up moans being gratefully swallowed by him. Pad of his thumb moves to create rough, clumsy friction against your clit that elicits a sharp, high, wanton ah! from you, grinding against him in an unquenchable search for more.

“Does he do this? Does anyone do this for you, Lacy?”

Eddie’s eyes keep searching you for approval and you’ve lost the ability to appease or deny him– all you know is the blind, nonsensical want that’s pouring out of you is being lapped up. Lapped up. His tongue, you want his tongue everywhere, but it’s working at your earlobe, your neck, sucking, whispering, “Just friends? Lacy?”

And when you cum, it’s fast and hard and suffocating, an achievement you’re close to angry at him for– because no one has ever been able to break you apart that fast. 

Or at all.

He can never know. He’d be so insufferable about it… some bare fragment of a thought passes through your brain, synapses busy firing elsewhere.

You’re rocking against him through the crest, pressing your forehead to his with such a force that you’re frightened it’ll splinter, you’re murmuring, “Eddie… Eddie, d–hmn, fuck…”

And you can tell by the way he’s attempting to press his body against you that he wishes he hadn’t bust that stupid fucking hand of his, so he could hold you properly– and you’re right. You’re right, you’re always fucking right, but you told him to keep it elevated and he’s going to do what you say.

He’s got no choice when it comes to you. 

He needs you safe. Needs you happy. No matter what.

Which is why he’s got to pull this bullshit move. 

Eddie is patient and watches you regain a little consciousness, faster than he’s sure you’d like. He extracts his hand and, sticky with you still, wipes it on the thigh of his jeans. Heart thundering in his ears, he tugs you into one more breathless kiss and wonders if you can still taste the rust sharpness of his cut in between your lips. He’s strangled himself against cumming up till this point, and this doesn’t help matters. An imperceptible spot of pre-fun lies in his lap but the thing is, the really fucked thing is–

Eddie gently shoves you away, mind silently babbling for the right thing to say. I’m sorry is something you’d see right through, get off is too harsh, oopsie is too fucking whimsical–

But you, ever-perceptive you, you realize your place. Knock yourself back into reality so fiercely that he’s afraid it’ll bruise you, lovely, awe-inspiring you that just softened into his hands like that. You clumsily clamber off the exam table in a hot flash of rejection, which– no, god, no, he doesn’t mean that…

“I–”

“No, I know,” you grit, prickly all over. Thumbing at the edge of your blurred lipstick. “I know. I certainly know.”

Eddie dares to look at you and you dare to look back at him. His lips looking worse off from you, but at the very least kissed. At the very least kissed, but you could cry with the empty feeling inside you. A cavern of a girl. You nod curtly, like this is the conclusion of a particularly charged run-in of acquaintances, not like you wanted him to swallow you whole moments ago. 

Slipping out of the nurse’s office, you run right into the myth that is Nurse Lydia. 

She looks tan. 

“He’s,” you struggle, “He’s waiting for you.”

—

Cheating out sick from school and taking a shift at The Bookstore following the latest in a series of apparently neverending aftershocks was probably not the smartest call– but hell, you’re fresh out of smart calls.

Ivana smells a rat, and she doesn’t take to rats lightly, so she gives you your space. 

The morning ticks on at a pace that feels supernatural; like you’re witnessing outside of your body, like you can’t orient yourself in the right direction. You attempt to arrange and rearrange poets from alcoholic to puritan. You sell someone a copy of The Fountainhead without giving them their free blistering evisceration of Ayn Rand. 

You’re at a loss. A shameful, dangling loss that almost makes you feel pious. Like you should go to confession. 

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned… I let my one-time best friend, current-cloudy object of my affection get beat up for me then bring me to climax in the nurses’ office. 

You retread the same sentence in your over-thumbed copy of Save Me the Waltz like a table corner you keep stubbing your toe on. 

We couldn’t go on indefinitely being swept off our feet.

You said it, Alabama. Something’s got to land.

And, because someone down there wants you dead, land it does. 

The bell of the store’s door clashes upon opening, and all of the energy draws toward one magnetic point. A shock of silver hair, standing on end catches the lamplight, glowing almost eerily. 

You feel a zzzzip of static. The air feels charged.

He doesn’t face you right away. Kind of slinks into the place, edging along the shelves. 

“Say, Lacy. Ballpark me somethin’,” his Southern drawl is barely contained within the Midwestern flatlands of his accent, bursting through the baseline like a corpse that hasn’t been buried deep enough. “How long… do you think…” His fingers tap along the worn spines of the display, creeping closer to the counter, “...it would take… to read all these books?”

The lilt of his voice is so familiar that you recognize it instantly. Even the way your name falls out of his mouth. Like a funhouse mirror, a distortion of a voice you’d come to…

Well. Let’s not get into that. Let’s get into this.

A roguish smile with a couple decades of road wear on it and a tacky Hawkins High class ring on his finger. You could’ve sworn Eddie told you he dropped out. 

“How many years in the big house with nothin’ better to do?” He finally stops and pivots on his heel. The way he looks you over makes you nauseous and lightheaded, like he took a long, long sip out of you. Jammed a straw in your jugular and sucked. 

Lot of blood play happening ‘round these parts.

“Hello, Al.”

“Hello, sweetheart. You filled out.”

author's notes: christ alive. i mean WELCOME BACK! i really missed you guys. happy new year, thank you for keeping me on the level with writing this chapter, it was so much FUCKING harder than i anticipated! was it too much warped angst? are the feelings complicated? does the pope shit in the woods?!!!!! you betcha. anyway, be seated for today's lesson - "less oedipus-y, more ea--..." there is an ending to that joke that i felt was too crass for the moment but if you can guess it you win a prize - the patchwork girl of oz is the seventh book in the wizard of oz series by l. frank baum! obviously. it's actually a laugh riot, you should check it out. scraps, the eponymous patchwork girl, is a full tilt lunatic who's kind of a bit of me. but theoretically, the patchwork girl made out of a thousand different scraps of everything else... bit of lacy innit - the mage in the mink coat is self referential lmao we've gotten to THAT point in the story - gravity's rainbow is a book that guys i dated used to recommend to me constantly which is like infinite jest for people who are ran through - i'm really fucking with college guy at this point, making him drive a ford cortina. because i think it is ugly - the plot of the annotated book that lacy gives eddie, still life with woodpecker by tom robbins, is... interesting eye emoji eye emoji. tom robbins also wrote even cowgirls get the blues which was adapted into a feature film starring, say it with me, robin's mom - the link wray song that soundtracked the lipton landing visit in question - "charlie? or linda kasabian?" go ahead and read the white album by joan didion for me wouldja buddyroo, just like lacy and nancy already have - fun fact, i played a two person game of gin rummy with myself to get into the mindset for this chapter. i suck at it - torchy blane is another one of my pre-code wonders-- glenda farrell plays an intrepid newspaperwoman, and this character actually went on to inspire lois lane from superman - and I KNOW some of you are going to be mad at lacy for fucking college guy, but... shit happens when you're a booksmart lovedumb eighteen year old that can't face up to her feelings! i don't wanna hear it! - fred benson i love you baby! i'm almost sorry i called you william randolph hearst, newspaper magnate and all around lunatic and the inspo behind the diss track citizen kane, but i'm not! - nancy wheeler has a photo of nellie bly in her locker where a photo of her beau should be - so echo & the bunnymen's 1984 album ocean rain is obviously most famous for the killing moon (jonathan byers you ARE my donnie darko) but may i point your attention to motherfucking seven seas - OH YOU KNOW I (EDDIE) HAD TO DO IT TO 'EM. this was shameless but i've had this in my heart for over ten years babe - for the purposes of this timeline, you know eddie is keeping higgins in pills. which is why he hasn't been kicked out of hawkins high so fast his lunchbox would combust - nurse ratched, obviously from one flew over the cuckoo's nest and that ill-fated ryan murphy series....tf was that...but also from this fucking sick tune! - save me the waltz is by zelda fitzgerald! my loves, thanks for hanging in for this chapter. i know it was a wait, but i hope you enjoyed! i also know it was a little more angsty pants than my usual fare-- but look baby. we need grist for the mill, okay? as always, reblogs, comments and likes are FIERCELY appreciated! love u all so much. my little hellcats. to die by your side etc

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Best Intentions - Chapter One

Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x femme Warnings: Angst. Smut. Mentions of shell shock and trauma. Word count: ~4.3k

Summary: An overview of how Tom and her came to be friends, and the set up for the story now that he's returned to Longsight. Series masterlist.

Author's note: I don't have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

The imposing red brick building of Plymouth Grove Primary School is gigantic and intimidating to her as she enters through the gates to the playground, the thought of being left here for the entire day makes her clutch at her mum’s hand with tight desperation.

Her first day of school is one she’ll never forget, forever imprinted in her mind, owing to a big pair of blue eyes filled with mischief, and a grin with a pair of front teeth that remind her of a rabbit’s.

It’s morning break as she surveys the playground nervously, trying to decide if she feels brave enough to join in on a nearby game of hopscotch. It’s then that she feels a warm puff of air ruffle the back of her hair, and she spins around to see a sandy haired boy running back towards a group of laughing lads.

“I did it! I gobbed in her hair!” He shouts.

Humiliation warms her skin as tears prickle her eyes, and she hurries inside to the girls’ toilets to unsuccessfully try to locate where the offending spittle has landed, all the while sniffling back sobs.

It’s when dinnertime comes and she sits unhappily sipping her milk that she sees him again. He sidles up to her, alone this time, a sheepish look on his face.

“I didn’t really,” he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, “Gob in your hair, I mean. I was dared to, so I pretended,”

“Oh,” is all she’s able to manage, not sure of what else to say.

“I’m Tom. Mates, yeah?” He says with his bunny toothed grin, and she can’t help but smile back.

He sits himself next to her, opening his own milk and they spend the remainder of the hour getting to know each other.

She’s surprised to learn that it’s his first day too, she had assumed from his confidence that he would be a couple of years above her. He lives with his dad, Douglas, who works as a bus conductor, his mum - Josie, and his sister, Lois, who is a couple of years above them.

He learns all about how she lives with her mum, and it’s just the two of them as her dad had passed away when she was a baby. Her mum runs the shop off of Stamford Road with her uncle, who lives in the flat above it.

Tom’s eyes light up at the mention of this. “The one with the jars of sherbet straws?”

“Yeah,” she smiles, “And treacle toffees!”

By half past three that afternoon, as the children file back out of the school gates, her and Tom are firm friends.

Her mum and Josie stand waiting to collect them, and they discover that they live only a few streets apart, so the four of them and Lois walk home together, chattering excitedly about her and Tom’s first day of school.

From that day forward, the thought of being at school for the entire day fills her with excitement. Tom makes it a less scary place to be, and is quick to defend her if ever anyone tries to give her trouble.

Their friendship remains solid as the years pass, as does Tom’s compulsion for finding trouble. He adores showing off and being the centre of attention, but it’s always her he runs to when it’s time to face the consequences. She is a privy to a side of him that nobody else is, she has seen his fear, his sadness and his doubt.

They sit on the wall adjacent to her mum’s shop, a paper bag rustling between them as they help themselves to sherbet straws. Tom and Lois had walked home with her and her mum. Josie hadn’t been there to pick them up, she hadn’t been for a few days now.

“Should probably go home soon,” she slurs around a mouthful of sweets, “Need to do my homework.”

Tom nods slowly, moving his own sweet around in his mouth. “D’you…d’you think you could help me with mine?”

“Why?” She chides, “‘Cause you spent all lesson mucking about?”

“Come on,” he pleads, “Me mam’s not well, last thing she needs is me getting into trouble because I can’t do sums.”

She clicks her tongue and sighs. “Fine,” she says, jumping down from the wall.

“Smashing,” he grins, following after her.

She smiles over her shoulder at him. “What are mates for?”

Josie’s illness worsens and she passes away around the time that they start secondary school.

Tom’s behaviour becomes more uncontrollabe, exacerbated by his mum’s death, but with her and Lois at the all girls school, and him at the all boys, there is little that can be done to stop him.

Things come to a head one day when Douglas opens the door to an angry neighbour, who berates him for Tom having stolen the milk from their doorstep, running away laughing, before dropping and smashing it when they’d chased after him.

He’d come to her after Douglas had given him a stern telling off, head bowed and looking sorry for himself.

“He hates me,” Tom had said sullenly.

“He doesn’t hate you, Tom, you just need to behave yourself. Why’d you do it?”

“Was dared to,” he says with a shrug.

“Like when you spat in my hair?”

He presses his lips together, lowering his eyes. “I dunno why I do it. It’s just hard since mam’s gone, dad doesn’t understand me like she did.”

It’s then that she notices the tears that rim his eyes, and she pulls him into a hug.

When had he gotten so tall? He feels massive compared to how he used to.

“Thanks,” he whispers, “I’m glad we’re mates.”

The next few years follow a similar pattern; Tom gets into trouble and immediately runs to her each time, basking in the safety of her presence and comforting words.

As they grow older, Tom’s misbevaiour evolves into petty crimes which soon attract the attention of the police.

She also begins to notice the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to him each time she pulls him into a hug, a troubling new habit he’s developed, no doubt to impress the older boys. 

He now seems impossibly tall, and with every inch he grows it feels like he pulls a little bit further away from her. It makes her heart ache.

She grows used to seeing him walking home in the mornings looking bedraggled, a cigarette perched between his lips, after having spent the night in the back of a pub to avoid the police, who would no doubt have been knocking at the door of the Bennett household the previous evening.

When news of war having broken out in Europe reaches them and lads Tom’s age begin signing up to the draft, Tom decides he’s having none of it.

“Signing up as a conchie!” He tells her, as they sit on the wall together, waving the green booklet for emphasis.

“Your dad was a conscientious objector,” she says, narrowing her eyes in disbelief, “Your beliefs are suddenly the same as his are they?”

Tom tuts, flicking his lighter absentmindedly. “Just don’t wanna sign my life away for a load of bollocks that’s got naff all to do with me,”

His mind soon changes once the police come knocking again. He enlists in the Navy, action he considers less direct than fighting on the front lines.

The night before he’s due to ship out, he has a rowdy celebration in the local pub, jeering and clinking glasses with those who’ve not yet joined the draft. She watches on with a heavy feeling in her chest, she knows behind all his claims of how many Germans he’s going to kill and how he’ll have a bird in every port that he’s terrified of what’s to come.

That much is proven as he walks her home later that night, unsteady on his feet and reeking of beer. He sways in front of her once they reach her front door, big blue eyes misty and filled with emotion.

“You okay, sailor?” She asks with a soft smile.

“Can I– can I stay the night?” He asks, suddenly seeming like the little boy he was back when they were in primary school and he’d apologised for pretending to spit in her hair. “I don’t wanna be alone.”

She’s never shared a bed with Tom before. They’ve always been just friends. Her throat runs dry at the thought, but in that moment he seems so vulnerable, she can’t deny him anything.

They creep up the rickety wooden stairs to her bedroom, careful not to wake her mum, and squeeze into the single bed that occupies the space. He clings tightly to her, long limbs wrapped around her, like a drowning man grasping onto a lifesaver.

“I’m so scared,” he whispers into the darkness.

“You’ll come back,” she reassures him, “You have to, who else would be my mate?”

She feels him smile against her shoulder. “Yeah, who else would put up with you?”

They giggle, before shushing each other as she elbows him in the ribs, and they fall asleep curled around each other.

Tom’s gone when wakes up.

They write letters back and forth to each other, but each one feels distant and lifeless. He’s writing with the mask he shows to the rest of the world, giving an emotionless recount of each of his days. She supposes he might be afraid or whose hands his words may end up in, and he doesn’t want to embarrass himself, so she clings to every letter, vapid as they are, grateful to still have a connection to him.

She visits the Bennett household once a week, to share the letters they’ve been exchanging - to her disappointment, the ones she receives are much the same as the ones he sends home to Douglas and Lois.

Over time, her mum and uncle join her on her visits. Her mum brings cakes and her uncle gets into the habit of playing cards with Douglas. She is glad for the closeness between their two families, it makes Tom’s absence seem less daunting.

It’s at the Bennetts’ house where she learns the news of the attack on the HMS Exeter, the Naval ship that Tom is stationed aboard. Her blood runs icy cold at the news, though the Exeter was victorious it is not without deaths and casualties.

The weeks spent waiting for news are agonising, and it’s Tom she’s thinking of as she leans against the shop counter, eyes fixed on the large front window, but too lost in her thoughts to see through it.

“Quarter of sherbet straws when you’re not away with the fairies,”

The familiar voice startles her out of her reverie and she looks up wide eyed at Tom’s smiling face.

God, he’s grown into those bunny teeth. Has his smile always been so handsome?

“Tom!” She squeals, rushing from behind the counter and throwing her arms around his neck. “Do your dad and Lois know you’re back?”

He hugs her warmly before pulling back. “Yeah, popped home first to say hello. Left me new bird there, actually, thought you’d wanna meet her?”

She hates the way her heart sinks at this, but nods regardless, flipping the closed sign on the shop door and locking it behind her.

Tom tells her all about the Battle of the River Plate as they walk back to his house. He grows solemn when he’s finished, glancing sideways at her.

“I saw people die,” he says quietly, “I thought I was gonna die. Can’t believe there’s so much of my life I’ve pissed up the wall.”

It’s then that she notices how much more mature he seems, wise beyond his years. He’s seen things that no man his young age should have seen. She reaches for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, a gesture which he returns.

“So, this is Vera,” he gestures towards the kitchen table as they head inside.

She laughs, relief washing over her, when she sees the little canary sitting in her cage.

For a few days it feels like everything is back to normal, until Tom gets a new posting and has to leave again.

“I’ll come back,” he tells her, taking her hands in his, “who else would be your mate?”

She can’t help but smile. “No one else would put up with me,”

He’s away longer this time, his letters are fewer and the worry gnaws at her with more intensity than ever before.

For the second time in her life she cries over Tom Bennett when she hears that he’s been declared as missing in action on the beaches of Dunkirk, a suspected capture by opposing forces.

Lois falls pregnant, and for a time the advancing stages of her pregnancy and eventual birth are a welcome distraction, a reminder that there is life amongst all the death that surrounds them.

Her grief is amplified when bombs fall over Manchester, a bottomless pit opening in her gut when she finds out that there was a direct hit on the Bennett house. Her uncle and Douglas had been inside playing cards at the time, neither had survived.

Her mum moves Lois and her baby into the flat above the shop, with her uncle gone the space is no longer occupied and it makes sense for them to have it, considering they no longer have a roof over their heads.

It’s comforting to have them so close, a little piece of Tom to hold onto until he comes back, if he comes back. She hates herself for thinking it.

When Tom next steps through the shop door, there’s no trace of his grin from last time. He looks skinny, haunted, he’s aged. There’s an anger within his blue eyes that replaces the mischief that used to sparkle there.

He doesn’t need to ask for her to know what he’s after. There will be no hugs of greeting this time.

“She’s upstairs,” she says softly, her stomach tied into knots.

He simply nods and walks towards the back to go up.

It doesn’t take long for her to be able to hear the muffled sounds of arguing and not five minutes later he storms back downstairs and out into the street. She follows after him, grabbing the quarter of sherbet straws she’d bagged up for him.

He’s sat smoking on their usual spot on the wall, and she hops up beside him, placing the paper bag between them. He doesn’t touch them. She wonders when the last time he ate anything at all was, he looks so thin.

The silence between them feels painful, she doesn’t know what to say, but she can tell from the way his hands shake and the urgency with which he drags on his cigarette that if she doesn’t say something then he certainly won’t.

“You can’t be angry with Lois, y’know,” she says gently, “it’s not her fault,”

“Then whose is it?!” He snaps angrily, eyes narrowing as he looks at her.

He’s never spoken to her like that before and she shrinks away from it. “It’s not my fault either,” she whispers sadly.

His face softens, a look of shame replacing his anger as he averts his gaze, his lips twitching. “Sorry about your uncle,”

“Sorry about your dad,”

His return is brief, only a couple of days this time. Enough time for him to visit Douglas’ grave, but not enough for them to talk, not properly anyway. He reveals that he was taken to an American hospital in Paris, after being shot in Dunkirk. A woman named Henriette had helped him to escape France and he’d made his way home via Spain. It’s all so matter of fact the way that he recounts it, but she only has to look into his eyes to see the turmoil he’s feeling. It crushes her.

He looks fearful and uncertain when they say goodbye, the urge to cling to him and beg him not to go is overwhelming.

“You’ll still be here when I get back, won’t you?” He asks.

“Course I will, I always am,” she replies with a sad smile.

He cups her cheek, his large palm engulfing her face and leans down to press his lips to hers. She startles at first, they have never kissed before, but she quickly reciprocates, moving her mouth against Tom’s. His lips are so soft and there is a tenderness behind the gesture that brings tears to her eyes.

She’s breathless when they part, his forehead resting against hers, his hand still cupping her cheek.

“Mates, yeah?” He whispers.

The word makes her heart twinge. “Yeah, mates.”

Her fingers trace lightly across her mouth as she watches him walk away, kit bag slung over his shoulder.

Tom sends no letters at all the third time he leaves, so eventually she stops writing to him. She figures it can’t be nice for him to hear about how life is carrying on without him, how his niece has started to walk and talk, a new house built in place of his old one with a new family living inside it.

She can’t bear how the world continues, while she feels stuck in place, waiting for his return. It isn’t fair that there are people getting to laugh and love and live their lives, while he’s sacrificing his so that they may have the privilege.

With the exception of the morning paper sort, her mum has taken a step back from the shop, needing more rest than usual, and without her uncle around to help out, she’s taking on more hours in order to keep things ticking over. The sweet jars sit empty, rationing is difficult to get used to. She’ll never be able to come to terms with sending people away without the food they want and need, simply because the shop either doesn’t have enough stock, or they have already used their allotted portion for the week.

Her mind drifts back to how skeletal Tom had looked when she’d seen him last. She hopes he’s managing to eat.

It’s the beginning of September, the dying embers of summer glow dark orange on the horizon, as the evening battles the day for dominance in the increasingly earlier darkening of the sky.

Lois is on an evening shift, so her mum is round at the flat looking after the little one. She has the house to herself, and has lost count of the amount of times she’s read and re-read the same passage in her book, unable to take the words in.

She frowns when she hears the door knock, unsure of whether she should answer it or not, she’s not expecting anyone. Her hesitation provides enough time for a second knock, more urgent this time, so she relents, going to the front door and opening it.

It feels as though time freezes when she sees Tom standing there, gaunt and tired looking.

He doesn’t give her time to react, dropping his kit bag to the floor as he closes the door behind him and presses a bruising kiss to her lips. His hands pull at her clothes as he backs her towards the living room sofa, and she lets him.

She just needs to feel that he’s real, that he’s really back, so she loses herself in the moment, allowing him to climb on top of her, her own hands moving to strip him as he does the same to her.

Her fingertips stroke down his back and she’s shocked to find she can feel every vertebrae in his spine, and all the ribs that protrude through the skin. She’s never touched him in such an intimate manner before, but she knows he’s never been so emaciated. He feels hollow, yet there is strength to how he manhandles her.

Pulling her thighs apart, he settles between them, pushing her open with the thickness of his cock. She gasps, arching against him, clutching tightly to his shoulders as he pistons his hips in quick succession against hers. This is no gentle lovemaking, it is filled with raw animalistic need, a desire to feel something, anything.

His breaths are ragged against her neck and he finds release quickly, spilling inside of her with a grunt before collapsing and pulling her tight to his chest.

They lay quietly on the sofa together, nothing but the sounds of their heavy breathing filling the space. She has a thousand questions she longs to ask him, yet none of them seem appropriate. Despite the fact that Tom has just brutally had his way with her, she’s still in shock that he’s returned.

“I’m sorry I never wrote,” he says eventually, “was tired of never having any good news to tell you,”

“You’re back now,” she says quietly, fingers tracing over the bullet wound scar in his shoulder, “that’s all that matters,”

“Still mates then?” He asks.

Her heart lurches at the word. Is that all they are after what’s just happened?

“Yeah, still mates,”

He drifts to sleep in her arms and she holds him, until his thrashing pushes her from the sofa. She lands with a heavy thud on the living room carpet, watching in horror as Tom’s sweaty body writhes and cries out in terror in his sleep.

She kneels beside the sofa, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder to still him and coax him awake. He startles, wide eyed, before clutching at her, burying his face in her neck and sobbing until he drifts into unconsciousness again.

As Tom settles back into life in Longsight, he goes right back to wearing a mask for everyone.

“Are you a hero?” Children shout as he walks down the street.

“Always have been, always will be,” he says with a lopsided grin.

Yet each day ends with him muffling his cries into her neck after she’s soothed his night terrors, she knows better than the act he puts on for everyone else’s benefit. She suspects that Tom may be suffering from shell shock, but doesn’t dare to bring it up. Knowing his father had the same, it is likely a sore subject for him.

His return sees a new development in their friendship, them sleeping together the night he came back isn’t a one off occurrence, yet each time he still continues to refer to her as a mate. It’s confusing for her, but not an issue she wishes to push, knowing that Tom is struggling with enough already. He’ll figure it out when he’s ready, she just needs to be there for him.

Tom gets a flat nearby, and finds a job at the local garage. Having served in the Navy has imparted mechanical skills to him, and he can easily work his way around an engine.

She sits perched on the workbench of the garage, admiring the view. Tom’s sandy coloured hair is pushed back from his forehead, his navy overalls tied around his waist, leaving him in just the white vest he wears underneath. His first customer of the day has yet to arrive, so he’s clean for now. She bites her lip at the thought of how dirty he’ll be by the end of the day.

It has become routine for her to spend a few mornings a week watching him work - her mum has never gotten out of the habit of insisting she wants to open the shop and sort the morning papers before heading home, so she is left to her own devices most days until the early afternoon. Tom doesn’t seem to mind having her hang around the garage.

When a car pulls in, a portly gentleman stepping out, Tom walks to greet him.

“It keeps overheating, I can’t understand why,” he explains to Tom.

“I’ll take a look for ya, mate. Come back in an hour, yeah?”

The man looks over at her with slight concern. “Will she…uh…be assisting you?”

Tom grins. “Nah, she’s just a mate, won’t let her near your motor, don’t worry.”

Just a mate.

She thinks back to how he’d knelt behind her not long after they’d woken up, just a couple of hours ago, pulling her hips back to meet each of his thrusts.

Just a mate.

Mates don’t do that.

Tom’s voice breaks her out of her thoughts. “Stupid old sod, just needs to put coolant in the engine. Gonna tell him I replaced the fan belt and charge him extra.”

She giggles, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

He gives an easy shrug. “He’s loaded, he can afford it.”

She sighs, looking at her watch. “I’d better push off, mum’ll be expecting me at the shop. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Probably not,” Tom says. “Booked solid tomorrow, but come round to mine after?”

She nods, waving and walking away. She’s used to Tom letting her know when the garage will be busy, so makes a point to stay away so he’s not distracted.

It’s not until the end of the day, when she fishes around in her pocket for the keys to lock up the shop that she realises she has Tom’s lighter. She’s too tired to pop round and drop it off at his, so decides she’ll swing by the garage in the morning to give it back.

Her fingers wrap around it in her pocket, preparing to take it out to hand back as she approaches the garage the next morning.

She stops in her tracks when she sees a sleek black motor car parked in the vehicle bay, a tall, sophisticated, beautiful woman standing beside it. Her perfectly manicured nails stroke down Tom’s bare arm as her ruby red lips pull back into a smile.

Her heart lurches in her chest as she watches him reach out to tuck a strand of the woman’s long, dark hair behind her ear.

Her throat tightens, nausea bubbles in her stomach as she turns and walks away, the lighter long forgotten. It feels as though the bottom of her world has been ripped away. She angrily swipes at the wetness that rims her eyes.

Just mates.

Fine, if that’s what Tom wanted then that’s all they’d ever be.