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georgiapeach30513 · 5 months ago

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How I'm Looking at You, Part 3

Summary: it's becoming too much, and you're learning so much.

Pairings: Ari Levinson X Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content, first orgasm, jealousy, fingering, dry humping, mild imagines of breeding kink, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 7.8K

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

Taking a deep breath, you lift another spoonful of the coffee soup to your lips before letting the spoon fall back in the glass with a clash. Eyes going wide as you read through the words quickly, and turn the page. The English are a different breed of people, but you have found yourself more and more immersed in their literature. Getting to a better stopping point, you dip a piece of the bread in the soup, and look towards Ari.

He’s staring directly at you. Those crystal blue eyes of his rakes over your face curiously as if he’s studying you. As if you are the most interesting thing in the world. An abandoned newspaper beside his breakfast, but how could you be more interesting than whatever was in that?

Clearing your throat, you turn your gaze back to the book, and read nothing. You can still feel his warm and curious eyes as you try to breathe. Just breathe. Going to the swimming hole has lit something in you. Something deep within your body, and it is purely physical. You want him. You want him like the characters in your books, and that just brings on even more questions.

Questions that have you fearing their answers. Was Ari even aware of the books he had given you to read? Was that his plan all along? Because there is something stirring, and you don’t know how to deal with it. Between him and what you’re reading it’s becoming too much. It fizzles lower than your belly, and you have a feeling that Ari is the only one that can fix it.

Ari shifts in his chair, and you look over towards him. If he wants your attention, he can have a bit of it. You’re almost too embarrassed and scared to give him your full attention. “I want to apologize for the other day?”

“Apologize?” You ask a bit confused. What exactly is he apologizing for? And why was the fact that he was apologizing and admitting he did something wrong — desirable? Men around here were right, and you were just to accept it.

“For the swimming hole,” you nod once, your vision turning to an odd scratch in his table. Your father would have already had that buffed out. “I think things got a bit heated, and if I crossed the line, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t. Not really,” you gulp as you try and find the words. These books have been giving you so many new words that you aren’t sure if you can or should put them into a sentence. But there is one thing that seems to be common amongst the women, “It’s just so fast. And it’s overwhelming and I don’t know how to deal with what I’m feeling,” that didn’t sound too bad.

“What exactly are you feeling?” He adjusts his seat. Putting his forearms onto the table, while he leans forward. Giving you more attention than anyone else ever has, “If you’re comfortable,” you shake your head quickly, and he smiles. He has a pretty smile. A smile that you can feel radiate all the way to your toes, and that makes no sense at all.

“We should go swimming again,” you look at him, a smile creeping up on your face. “If-if you want to, that is. I can get you a bathing suit, and you can feel free to ask me anything. I could be like an open book, if you will.”

“Anything?” He whispers out, yes, and you let those words sink a moment before nodding, and picking your book back up. You read a paragraph about fifteen times without even absorbing what the words mean. But you have to quit looking at him. You have to keep him off your mind, while you try not to explode.

Anything. Anything that you can come up with, he’s willing to answer. You need to gather your thoughts, and think about what you would like to ask him. What if you irritated him to the point that he didn’t want to answer questions anymore? You had to make these questions count for something.

Ari is a strange character. He’s intense in ways that your community isn’t. Here the men just had a stern hand. They walked around being able to do what they wanted to because they were men. They just had to stick to the Amish ways, or at least not get caught. Judging by the church service over the weekend, people are having the same thoughts about you.

You could hear the whispers, and the backwards glances. Gossiping is a sin. Ari is your friend though. He doesn’t talk about you, he talks with you. A worldly man, and he gave you his undivided attention, and even his touches.

And why shouldn’t you be friends with Ari? It’s not like you’re doing something you shouldn’t be. You’re enjoying time with him, and learning from him. That’s more like a teacher. Except — Ari doesn’t look anything like the teachers you grew up with. He’s tall, large, and thick, and he makes your body ache in weird ways. You’re sure he’s not feeling the same way as you, so it’s best to keep these feelings suppressed.

But these stupid books are not helping. There’s something within them that just makes sense. They’re answering and describing a lot of things you’ve been feeling, but how does one know if your teacher is feeling the same way? How do you know if Ari is just as much of a knotted up mess as you are?

“So,” Ari starts, whatever his train of thought was, depleting. He’s not usually one to be shy, that’s typically you.

“What?” Laying your book down, you smile up at him. “Ari, what is it?”

“If I ask, you have to promise to not get mad,” now what is he up to that would make you get mad?

“I thought we were friends?”

“Yes!” His shout makes you flinch, and you giggle at your silly reaction. “I’m sorry, but yes, we’re friends. And I’m only trying to help you out. I took a guess at…your size of bra.”

“Oh,” your eyes fall back to the table. You had read about bras. There’s no way that the scratch on the table are as exciting as you’re making it. But looking at Ari is almost painful, “You know everything I wear, I’ve made myself, right?”

Ari inhales deeply, his own eyes looking at the odd mark on the table now. He actually didn’t know that, and now he fears he’s overstepped his boundaries. You like to think the scratch resembles an upside down J, but more rounded instead of a straight like. “Do you know what a bra is?”

“Essentially, yes. But,” your cheeks flare up with embarrassment, but you refuse to let this be another moment of trying to run away from him. It’s all you feel you’re doing, running away. You stand your ground of being present with him. “I don’t wear one.”

“Do you want to? Or have I gone too far??”

The women in the books all wear bras, and you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want to experience some of the moments in the books. Unable to answer, you just nod your head. “Do you know how to put one on?”

“I think I can figure it out. Were you about to offer to help me?” This is very much the flirting that the books talk about. His crooked little grin goes wider across his face, and his cheeks flame up. Turning rosy while you can’t stop smiling. It feels good not to be the only one that has this rumbling in your stomach.

“I may have,” his nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. “I got you some panties, and they had a matching set with the bras, and…I don’t know, I figured you might like them? They’d be pretty on you,” He’s thoughtful, if not a shameless flirt. But still it feels nice to be seen, and thought of. “I’ve heard that it can make a woman feel sexy even if nobody sees it.”

Ugh, that gross feeling settles in your craw. Anger is not becoming of an Amish woman, but this doesn't feel like anger. It feels disgusting, and it hurts. You can nearly feel it blooming outwardly in your body, and you only want him to see you in your underwear. Nobody else. You want him to stop talking about other women, even if he’s had them. You want to be the only woman on his mind.

“Maybe they can show you what it looks like then?” His brow cocks up, and you push your chair back with a loud squeak. “I think it’s time for you to get to work.”

“Are you — jealous?” His words halt you in your tracks as you purse your lips. “Darling, there is no other woman in my life but you.”

“But there was, and I don’t much like hearing about them,” of course he couldn’t understand the feeling. You are pure, while he has had others.

“They were in the past, and…”

“And did they show you their panties as well?” He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. Contemplating the best way to proceed. “I see. I’m assuming they also have mated with you.”

“You are jealous,” his words are flat, and if they were mocking you, you might not feel as angry as you do right now. “There’s nothing to be jealous about.”

“How can I be something I don’t even understand what it means? Ari, you should really go outside, and start your chores for today, while I start mine,” what you really want is for him to leave you alone while you’re left with the debilitating thoughts that won’t stop pounding through your mind.

He sighs, pushing his chair back as he goes to stand. Staring at you while you look at anything that isn’t him. The burning sting that you feel oozes into you, and makes you feel weak and filthy. You hate it, and you hate when he does that to you.

“You’re right, Darling. I’m sorry,” what he’s apologizing for, you aren’t sure, but it doesn’t fully quell the sludge bubbling in your stomach. “I figured the bedroom upstairs could be yours,” that came from nowhere. You study him as he fights for the words to say next.

“Maybe you should look in the drawers. You’re doing a great job here, and I can’t thank you enough. Take some time off today,” you start to object. Blubbering through words, but his calloused finger presses up against your pouty lips, and you’re stunned into submission.

You look up at him through your lashes, feeling smaller than you actually are. He’s massive. His size always seems to make you feel like a child. “There’s less to do here because it’s just me. As your employer, I am telling you to take it easy today. Do I make myself clear?” Your throat is dry, almost on the verge of hurting as you nod your head. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so what are you supposed to do? Continue to argue and lose? No. You’ll just accept his warning.

“Everything in that room is yours,” he says with finality as he stalks to the door, and out for the day.

You’re left reeling. Playing over every word said this morning while you try and figure out all that is happening. Big strong Ari makes you very weak in the knees, and wet. That’s what the books say, and that is what you feel. The books have a perfect way of explaining the things that are going on in your hidden areas.

These feelings you can’t explain, but the books do. But what they suggest to take care of those feelings seems forbidden. Gathering up your current book, you lift your skirts a bit as you walk up the stairs. Counting each one on the way up. Fifteen. Fifteen steps until you reach the top landing.

Journeying down the hallway, you stop and take a peek in the first room. Ari’s. He actually made the bed today, but didn’t close his drawers all the way. He told you not to work today, but you can’t let those drawers stay open, so you take a few steps to it, and close them. Looking out the window you see him squinting up at the house before he smiles, and looks back at Jacob and the other two boys.

He saw you in his room. You had no business being in here, and you wonder if he’s going to punish you for not listening to him. It didn’t matter. What’s done is done, and you’ll accept whatever punishment he deems fit. You’ll just go to your room, as Ari called it.

It’s prettier than his. Showing oddly feminine furniture that are a bit too decorative to be Amish, but you like them. Love them actually. Love the way the intricate golden vines sprawl out over the sturdy wood, but it’s inside that has got you curious. You walk over to the window, and see Ari smiling at you again. Tipping his hat before you close the curtains.

Is he watching you? Waiting to see what you think of this bedroom? Or even what’s in the closet and drawers? Which makes you wonder, what exactly is in there. Opening the door to the closet, you take a step back as your eyes flick over the frocks. So many colors. And fabrics. Tags on them let you know that they weren’t made by someone, but you adore them all the same.

Pulling out on dress, you flatten it over your body, and turn to look at a floor length mirror, that definitely isn’t Amish. Vanity is a sin. But peering into the looking glass you get the appeal. You run your fingers over the lavender material as you swish around. Trying to get a feel of what it would look like on your body before you lay it on the bed.

You should try it on. But first where are the bras, those sets, that Ari spoke about. You go to the dresser, and open up a drawer. Smiling when you see the multitude of colors and materials in there. They were beautiful. It’s one thing that truly bothered you about your community, they want to praise God because of the beauty he created, while you are left to mope around in drab tones.

Don’t bring attention to oneself. But this would be under your clothes and only you and Ari would know. These are things you would be proud to show him, and even tell him how pretty they make you feel. You choose a pretty pale pink set. The bottoms have a bit less material than what you have been wearing. But the top looks so fresh and light that you need it on your skin. And then you can try on the dress.

Maybe even show Ari, and ask what he thinks. You stare at yourself in the mirror as you put the pieces on. Spinning and turning to admire the way they fit on your body. How they hug your curves, and lift your breasts. Your fingers tickle over the cups, and your body jerks back at the sensation. That…that was a lot for very little effort. It’s only partially of how Ari makes you feel. He has you wound so tight that it’s sometimes difficult to breathe.

He makes you feel like your skin is on fire. That your blood is so hot and boiling that it physically turns your body into a furnace. Every time. The serious tone, and the way he looks at you with those pouting eyes. The intensity you feel between the two of you swells, and you need something. The books make that something seem easy, but the way you feel, and what you have been taught is anything but simple. It’s a sin. A loathsome and filthy sin. But why does his smile and touch make you feel good?

It’s something that could get you shunned out of your community. Something that nobody even talked about. It’s to be had, but kept secret. You’ve read enough in the books to know it’s not just breeding, although that seems to be a colorful time. But a pleasure that takes you out of your body and puts you into an out of body experience. You just had to ask Ari a few things about parts, and what they actually mean, and do. Maybe you’d ask him to go back to the swimming hole. You could have a picnic dinner planned, and you are not going to run away. You’re going to force yourself to stay, and learn.

“Fuck,” you hear an angry growl coming from the front door, and make your way down the stairs. His arms flail around on the porch as he removes his shirt. Legs dancing around and stomping on the shirt before he comes inside.

Welts form on his body as he starts swatting his thick chest, and you rush to him, “Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” his words stop immediately when he sees you. Sorrowful for saying that word in front of you, but the pain overtakes him as he groans, swatting at his chest again.

“Your hurt,” that much is obvious as you look over his skin. “Let me wash my hands. Yellow jackets?”

“Yeah,” his voice is strained as he follows you into the kitchen. “What do I need to do?” You give him a point to the chair, and he follows your lead. Mixing up a little concoction, you grab a towel, and kneel between his legs.

Your soft and delicate hands move over his ample chest. Stopping on each welt to make sure you remove every stinger. You can’t look up at him, but feel his eyes never leave yours, “What happened?”

“I was actually plowing, and ran right into a nest. There’s none on my back. They got in the front of my shirt, Darling,” he wants to plead to you not to get off your knees. To stay there while he has the most intrusive impure thoughts about you. You gulp, reaching up to the table, and grab your little bowl.

“It may sting a bit,” whispering as you press a hand on his broad chest. His heart is beating just as fast as yours, an he leans back, so you can lift up off your haunches. Forgetting what it is you’re supposed to be doing as you watch the rise and fall of his body. He’s beautiful, and it’s suffocating to think about how close you are. How you can still feel the heat of the sun on his skin.

“What is that?” He asks with a smile, and you remember what it is you’re supposed to be doing. Gathering up a little bit of the paste, you smooth it over the first sting, and he hisses. Everything in your body buzzes as you rub it into another sting. “Darling? You okay?”

No, you’re not, but you nod because it’s the safest thing as you spread out the salve right beside his nipple. Your eyes roll up to meet him, and you freeze. The way he is staring at you seems just right. Your body is on fire, but it doesn’t feel sinful. “I-i-i-it’s meat tenderizer,” you sound like the girls who have a boy courting them, and you can’t make the silliness stop.

“What?” The rumble of his chuckle vibrates straight to your core, and you clench your thighs together trying to make it stop. How does a laugh send sensations there? Everything Ari does makes the central area of your body fill with need. Feel the need for him to do something. Anything.

“It works, doesn’t it?” There’s heat coursing through you to Ari. Spreading between the two of you, and you can’t make things move. Your hands fall to his thighs, and you whimper at the feeling of the cords of muscle that make up the majority of him. He’s big everywhere. You just know it. The books said as much, but you don’t dare ask a question about those areas.

His mouth turns up into a soft grin as he leans forward. Inching closer and closer to you, and you’re immobilized, but not by fear. Whatever is happening you pray that it happens faster. The way that your body bends into his, curving at your back, and you look up at him.

Ari licks his lips, and lifts a hand under your chin. Holding you in place, and placing you how he wants you. His lashes splay over his cheeks as he takes a quick glance to your lips before closing his eyes, and you copy his movements. Primed and ready for his lips to brush softly against yours, and he intakes a long breath before you pucker out your own, and he gently and tenderly presses against your plump lips.

His tongue tickles on the pillows of your mouth, and they part on their own accord. Your taste buds are assaulted with the tangy taste of tea. Trying to taste more, your tongue darts out, tasting his tongue, and those thick arms wrap around your body, lifting you higher up. Swallowing every shallow breath, and every whimper that escapes you.

The two of you melt into one another. Nothing has ever felt like this, and that fuzzy feeling spreads in your belly. No lower. “Ari,” you say his name breathlessly as he gulp for air. Your lungs pain with the wide spread of oxygen, and you still hunger for Ari. He pulls you up into his lap. Refusing to remove his mouth from you, and his hands explore the curves that your dress always hides.

Kissing from your lips, down to your jaw as your body starts to rock into him. Movements you’ve never made before, and you want more. He takes his mouth to your neck, giving the sensitive column a little nibble, and you yip. Mewling out his name, and he smiles on your skin, “You like that?”

You don’t have time to ask him to make the buildup inside of you stop because the front door slings open, and booming steps walk towards the kitchen, “Ari, you…” you stand up quickly from his lap, and smooth down your skirts, shamefully looking away from Jacob. Your whole body spinning around while Ari sits in the chair nonchalantly with his legs spread wide. Both arms rest on his legs, while his hands hang over his crotch. Hiding the effect you had on him.

“Are you okay?” Jacob looks between the two of you, and you walk over to the empty sink. Staring into the porcelain like your vision can manifest dirty dishes. Don’t look at him. Don’t speak to him. He is Amish, and you’re now alone with two men. “I came to check on you. Jedidiah said you came in here cursing up a storm. We don’t like to hear such things, but for the women, especially.”

“Jacob, I’m fine. Um…meat tenderizer, does the trick every time,” Jacob looks between the two of you as Ari stands from the chair. Towering over Jacob, “Don’t barge into my house. Okay?”

“Was she…?”

“She was tending to my stings, and now I feel brand new. I’ll meet you back outside,” Jacob’s dark green eyes look over to your back, and you keep staring at the overly clean sink. Why did you have to be so sufficient? “I’ll be out shortly, Jacob.”

The boy gives a nod to Ari, and reluctantly walks away. Trying to think of any kind of scenario that could explain the quick movement that he witnessed. But Ari can only think of you. Slowly he walks over to your side, and his hand rests under chin, and he turns you to look at him, while his thumb grazes over your kiss-swollen lips.

His thoughts are only on your embarrassment and questions you have to be having right now. “Darling, what happened isn’t wrong.”

“I know, it doesn't feel wrong, it feels forbidden, and private,” he wishes there was a way to make you not feel so much guilt, but you are hardwired that way. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you, but he doesn’t know the words to say to reassure you of that. He wants you to know that what he feels for you is beyond just the physical part. That he has a need to take care of you.

The only reason he’s even entertaining this place still is because of you. He can’t say all that. Can’t say that he wants to pick you up, and set you on the counter while he lifts up your skirts, and worships you between your thighs. Fuck everyone’s small minded thoughts in this community because you deserved to be respected, loved, and cherished. And above all feel pleasure without shame.

“Ari, I can’t stop feeling funny around you.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know?” How does one explain that you what you want with him is what is going on in the books? You didn’t even know what was going on in the books. You know there are wifely duties to her husband, but you didn’t know if that’s how a wife surrendered to her husband. The women in the books receive pleasure and compliments beyond your wildest imaginations. The women here bore children. There seems to be a difference there.

“Try to explain it?”

“It feels fuzzy, and I want something that I don’t even know what it is. And I want,” you bite your lip, and Ari wants to drop to his knees. He knows that would be too much right now. But you need the edge to be taken off of you.

“Did — did you enjoy the kiss?”

“Maybe too much.”

“Why do you say that?”

You stare up at him, eyes darting all around his ridiculously handsome face, and try to think of the words that won’t embarrass you. No one has ever talked to you about kissing, or even how it would make you feel. All you know is from the books. The men in those books seem to understand, and like it.

“It’s just that arousal has pooled in my core,” his eyes go wide, and he looks towards your belly. He’s speechless. His hand grips onto the counter, knuckles whitening, and his hip juts out. You hear him audibly counting, although it’s barely spoken. “You should go back outside.”

“I should take you swimming, and have some privacy with you,” he wants to take his time with you. Lavish you with so much attention that you can’t even think straight. The way he wants to spoil you with pleasures beyond your wildest imagination.

“It’s not an actual pool,” he blows out a slow bit of air, while you try to understand what he’s thinking. It isn’t about where he takes you, it’s just about being alone and uninterrupted.

“I know exactly what is happening to your body,” of course he does because he’s made other women feel like this. You want to scream, and tell him to leave you alone.

“Because there are other women who understood these feelings, and they were more appealing to you. You don’t have to tell me about them every chance you get. Please, Ari, go finish your chores, and I will see you at dinner,” you need to end the conversation, and you begin to spin around, but he grabs ahold of your wrist, “Ari?”

“I’m not walking out that door with you feeling jealous,” you aren’t jealous. You are angry. “There might have been other women, because I wasn’t shunned into thinking that it was a sin, but no woman has ever appealed to me the way you have. No other woman has made me feel as hard as you do,” that phrase. It meant something important. That’s what the books stated. “We’re continuing this conversation at the swimming hole tonight. Don’t worry about dinner. You’re eating English pizza.”

He drops your wrist, and marches out the front door. Picking up his shirt, he shakes it out, making sure the hideous creatures that marred his skin were no longer there. He should have got another one. What did he even mean? Harder — that could only describe one thing. But you’d have to ask Ari exactly what it all meant.

You wring your hands together as you pace around his living room. You had already watched the hired hands leave, and Ari picked up his phone, and dialed a number and was gone. He told you the conversation would continue, and you want it to, but you’re nervous. Nervous about him, or what he thinks. Nervous about you and whatever your body is doing. But you like it. Really like it.

And that kiss, you are swooning so hard. He put his tongue in your mouth just like the books said. And of all the books you read, you couldn’t have been prepared for the actual alarms that went off in your body. How perfect it felt, and just how sparks flew through every limb and ligament, and you felt as if you could fly.

The books didn’t fully prepare or warn you of that. How it felt like there’s fish in your stomach swimming around. Or how you ached, and throbbed in ways you couldn’t explain, so he had to do it. He had to come clean and tell you everything, but how do you start that conversation? You know what you have to do, but you aren’t sure if you have the guts to actually do it.

Could you go through with it? Ari isn’t the average man, and you know he’s not going to fall for your — is this what games are? One book mentioned the games women played. Are you playing games with him? No. You’ve made it clear, you told him what you were feeling, and he wants to continue the conversation. And there are — things that happen in the books. Where the men put their hands, and other things, and they have opened up so many possibilities, and you want to explore them all. You think. So many questions that you need answered.

You jump back a step, and put your hands behind your back as Ari walks in through the door with a box of pizza, his bright eyes looking you up and down before motioning to the kitchen, “Do you want to eat here, or do you want to have a picnic?”

“Picnic. I think you need to cool down, and get the dirt off you,” he nods, and grabs a few sodas from the fridge, and a blanket. He starts to walk out the back door, and you skip off after him. There is a tension in the air that can physically seep through your bones, and you want it smoothed away. You know that he’s not angry with you, he’s just lacking the words to say to you.

Stopping at the swimming hole, you grab the blanket from him, and lay it out on the ground, and he places the drinks and pizza down. He tugs at his shirt, until it’s thrown onto the blanket, and you watch his muscles ripple, and he’s kicking off his boots, and yanking his pants down. Standing in front of you like the giant he is. “Are you going to join me?”

“Nobody comes out here?” He shakes his head no, starting to walk backwards to the river, and you gulp. Reaching towards your buttons, before dropping your hands. Your eyes scan over the location before you tell yourself this is what they do in the books, and you like Ari, and want to feel the way those women did.

Your fingers tremble as they undo each button one at a time, and you let your dress fall to the ground. Ari’s boxer briefs tighten instantly as he stares at your backside. The cute bikini cut of your panties having a bit of your asscheeks hanging out. The soft pink color sitting on your skin like it was painted on there.

And then you turn around with your arms covering your top. You are wearing one of the matching sets he got you. “I can’t see anything you don’t want me to see,” timidly you peel your arms away, and walk towards the river. He stands up, walking closer, and you yip. He’s bigger, like he was before. He holds up his hand and you take it, so he can assist you in the water, and get a bit more coverage than before.

“You look beautiful,” he can’t help the way his eyes move all over every bit of exposed skin.

“Vanity is a sin,” keeping you covered was the sin.

“And I’m no angel,” you knew that to be true. He was both holy and unholy. A twinge of guilt pangs in your chest, as you glance between the two of you.

“How do they fit?”

“Hmm?” He shakes his head, meeting your eyes again. He has to focus if he wants this conversation to go anywhere. But the way your nipples are pressing against that thin material has him ready to blow a loud immediately. The fabric already see through with the moisture, and it’s pointless now. You should just remove it.

“My panties. Did they fit well?”

“Yeah,” he answers dopely, and you glance away with your cheeks setting on fire. The heat spreads throughout your body, as you stare at him through the crystal clear water. He’s even bigger. And your body longs to feel him against you again.

“Remember when you told me if ever I have any questions, you’d answer?” He gives you a nod. Letting his mouth sink below water, he swims and floats all around you like a shark with his meal for the night. Circling you like his prey, while you try to find a less blatant way to ask a question.

Him surrounding you just lights everything on fire. Like your blood is lava, and even the cold river isn’t stopping it. Things are happening to you that you didn’t understand, and even if you’re overwhelmed, you don’t hate it. You want to understand it, and want to know how to quell it.

“I guess first things first,” you inhale deeply, looking at him, and unable to take your eyes away. It’s like he needs you as much as you need him, and that doesn’t even make sense. “What’s a cock?”

So much happens in such a short time. Ari inhales before his mouth can get out of the water. Choking and sputtering on the water that he sucked into his lungs, and you’re able to maneuver yourself in front of him, and you grab his face, trying to get him to calm before you sink under water. Forgetting that you can’t swim because Ari is in trouble.

He lifts you up, bringing you straight onto his body, and his eyes capture yours. You feel both of your heartbeats in the most bizarre places as he clings to you. Those thick hands splay a bit too low on your back, to the point it isn’t really just your back. He’s so big. “What did you say?”

“A cock. What is it? It’s not like a rooster, obviously.”

“I think it’s better for me to show you,” you asked the question, and he couldn’t help his slimy little comment to come out. He’d show you his cock whenever you want him to. He wants to make an offer if you see it, you have to taste it.

“What does that mean?” Holding you with one arm, he pulls your hand, placing it on his swollen underwear. You whimper as you look into his eyes, and his hand flattens on yours, guiding you to massage his bulge. “And that’s — what goes in me?” How is that ever going to fit anywhere on you?

“What?”

“And that’s where the cum is from. Mmm,” your eyes look through the water, watching your hands as it palms his cock. “Can I see it? Is this how fucking works? Your cock goes into my cunt, and you shoot your cum into my belly. Would you want to see the cum leak out of me? I have so many questions, and you’re not answering, you’re just moaning. What do you taste like?”

“You’re killing me,” no you weren’t. In the books, this is what the men wanted the women to do. They wanted to fuck them deep and hard, and fuck their mouth. This is what men want. “Where are you getting all these words from?”

“The books. So, if you’re not in your underwear, how big is your cock. And what’s my cunt…oh my,” your eyes roll into the back of your head as his hand cups your covered mound, and you bite at your lip. Both of you rubbing each other, and it still doesn’t feel like it’s enough. Like something is missing. “What is fucking then?”

“You probably shouldn’t say that around your community. That’s a very bad word, and you’re such a naughty girl. But if you really want to know what fucking is, we got to start by stretching. Can I touch you under the panties?” He’s never prayed before this moment, but he prays you say yes. All this conversation has done is create a need to feel you from the inside.

“What?”

“It’s easier for me to show the true function of your cunt, if I can go inside of you,” you moan. Your body curves more into him, bringing your core right to his cock. Your body needs to be fucked, but you deserve to have someone make passionate love with you.

“Like finger fucking? Fingering, right? You’ll scissor your fingers inside of me, so you can stretch me out? Yes, can you show me?” His pinky moves aside your panties, and when his bare hands touch you, the moan you let out doesn’t even sound human.

“Shh, you’ve got so much repressed sexual energy, you’re about to blow before I even touch you. This right here, is your pussy, or as you like to call it your cunt,” you didn’t quite understand. His fingers roam over your split, but they were nothing compared to what you held in your hand. His fingers feel baby like. His cock that you try to wrap your hands around feel otherworldly.

“But this,” his fingers push past through your body, and you feel him in your throat. Pressing your forehead against his, and you can no longer hold his cock as you let his fingers roam around inside of you. It didn’t make any sense, and even though you know it will be frowned upon, this pleasure is too good to give up. “This beautiful hole, is your pussy. But…”

Ari’s mouth falls open as you succumb to the pleasure. Your mouth agape, and brows furrowed as you just feel him. “If I can make you come, are you going to give your pussy to me?”

“What’s coming?” he adds a second finger, and you raise your body off him a bit. The stretch is much more intense, and the fullness is mind-blowing. This is what going dumb means. There’s no thoughts, just the way that Ari is making you feel, but also how he feels inside of you. Like he belongs there. A thumb presses down on your entrance, and the sounds that flow out of your mouth make Ari moan.

“I can’t explain coming, you’ll just know. This is your clit,” his thumb circles around the little bean, and your body jumps around. You didn’t believe in magic, but if you did, it belonged in Ari’s fingertips. Your body starts rolling into him, lifting your drenched tits out of the water.

The fabric of your bra is too thin, and your nipples protrude out. If you think you’re overwhelmed, he’s a dead man. His eyes don't know what to look at. He wishes he could see his fingers dragging in and out of your heavenly pussy. Desires nothing more than to see your tits free and bouncing around as he fucks his fingers into you. But it isn’t until he feels your walls flutter, around that he just stops and enjoys what he sees.

Eyes closing tightly as he drives in harder. Faster. Curling his fingers, he hits a tender spot that takes all thoughts away. Tight circles on your clit. Everything working in harmony. Until the dam breaks, and you are gasping and panting for air. Unable to open your eyes, he lets your cunt relax around him before he pulls out his fingers, placing them directly into his mouth where he can suck off your diluted juices.

“That’s coming,” he’s so proud at how well you took him. How beautiful and perfect you looked as you came undone, and he wants to see it again. And again.

“So different from cum. Will you show me your cum?” You are trying to murder him. There’s no other way around this. You are saying all the innocent and filthy things that come to your mind, and he wants you to partake in everything. Whatever books you’re reading, he’ll buy you five thousand more, just so you continue to stay curious for him.

“I’ll paint you with my cum if that’s what you need. But, you just had your first orgasm. I think it’s time for us to eat. Maybe you can show me your pussy outside of the water,” you take some staggered breaths before you open your eyes, looking at him confused.

“But it’s your pussy now,” fuck, he says in his head, and your staring at him seriously. “But how does a cock feel going inside?”

“Not a cock,” you don’t understand. That’s what the books say. “My cock. But not today. I bet that was your first kiss today wasn’t it?” You nod your head. It’s not something that’s done. Things like that are for marriage. And you’d assume whatever his fingers were doing earlier is as well.

“And there’s other lips I can kiss that’ll make you feel even better,” Ari gives your sweet little cunt a few taps with his palm, and the way you look at him so sweetly and whisper please has things on overdrive. He maneuvers you to his front. Coaxing your legs to wrap around his waist as he grinds you on him. “Just like this. You feel how hard you made me?”

“Yeah,” you struggle to get out. “You’re so — big.”

“And you’ll learn to take every inch of me. I’ll have you stretched out so wide around my cock, and you’re going to beg for me to go harder. You’re such a sweet girl, but you want to be my filthy little slut, huh?” In the past you’ve heard those words in such negative terms. But when Ari calls you his, it has you melting into him. Arching your back, you see his eyes go to your breasts.

“You’ll suck on my pebbled peaks, too?”

“Darling, I’ll suck on every part of your body,” whimpering out his name he moves you over him harder. Grunting, growling, and deep breathing. He watches you. You’re about to get off again, and it’s a shame he can’t see your body glistening with his cum that’s about to blow all over your virgin pussy.

“Darling, I’m a sucker for you. You ready?” You nod your head excitedly as he crashes his lips into yours. He devours your moans, gifting you with his own. Creating waves in an otherwise steady river with your movements, until you feel the most beautiful warmth spurt against your skin. “That’s what you fucking do to me. I’ve never came like that before.”

He pants as he looks over your face. Your eyes are wide as they watch him. “It may be a sin, Darling, but you’re worth it,” and you think he’s worth it, too. There’s no way these Amish men could ever be so vulgar with you. It’s depraved, and you sink even further into his hell with him. Your purity be damned because you know it belongs to him.

“I think the books my sister suggested for me to get are complete and utter trash. But you keep reading, and figure out what you like. Write it down. Maybe one day I’ll not only fuck you, but fuck my cum inside of your cunt so deep, that…” he stops, what the fuck was he saying? He’s never desired for children. But the thought of you filled to the brim with his cum, and watching it drip out of you has him reeling. The thought of fucking you everyday before you go home thrills him. Have you walking around with a used pussy, and nobody knows that he took your virtue. They didn’t deserve you.

He has visions of you taking him every way possible. Sobbing out his name while he has his seed dripping out of you. But it isn’t enough. That is just for him. The lips of your pussy swollen from how hard he fucks you will be just for him. But your belly swollen and full of him, nobody could deny. He would have you and nobody else could. He’d have to save you and take you away from this disgusting place. And this is just crazy.

“But, refrain from talking about fucking, and my cock and that beautiful little pussy. Let’s keep it to just us. If you do, I’ll make sure you get to come on my cock.”

“Do I get to taste it?”

“Fuck,” he sighs. You want to try it all, and are eager, and scared, and timid, and it makes it that much more satisfying. Your little bit of jealousy ignited something inside of him. You wanted him just as much as he wanted you, and the thought of him fucking some other woman made you angry. No, it pissed you off. Made you all bratty and snippy. He wanted to push you to your knees, and shove his cock past those pouty lips to remind you the only person that is making his dick wet is you.

“Darling, the first time I come inside of you, I’ll gather the leaking cum with my cock, and let you suck it off. Two holes will be filled with me,” it sounds so — you can’t even think of words. You just know that the books and Ari are your undoing. But once that door is opened, can it fully be closed?

You had Ari inside of you, and you craved more. Addiction is a sin, but Ari was worth sinning for.

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @peaches1958 @seitmai

@smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989

@pandaxnienke @rogersbarber @buckybarnesisdaddy @theinheriteddutchess @patzammit

@theolivia-graham @steviebbboi @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @kandis-mom

#how i'm looking at you #ari levinson #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson x fem!reader #ari levinson x female reader #ari levinson x y/n #ari levinson x you #ari levinson fic #ari levinson fics #ari levinson fanfic #ari levinson fanfiction #ari levinson smut #amish romance #red sea diving resort #chris evans #chris evans character

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word-wytch · 1 year ago

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Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 14

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 14/? 18k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ An invitation to The Hideout answers some long burning questions.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

Chapter CW: kissing, heavy petting, jealousy, protective!eddie, drinking, smoking, fluff

Tuesday, December 10th 1985

Winter crept in like a lamb. It nipped at your ankles when you got out of bed, beckoned you to hibernate in the warm cocoon of soft sheets and heavy blankets. The room was a lightless cave, the sky still as dense as midnight. Feet shuffling blindly at the floor to find your slippers, you clicked on the small lamp atop your nightstand to offer some light to your habitat.

Standard routine — making shadows on the wall as you brushed your teeth, emerging out the door to the dark hallway, squinting under the harsh light of your kitchen. Two eggs over easy. Two pieces of toast. One phone that hung to the right of your small kitchen table like an omen as you dipped the crust into the yolks. Looming. Waiting. You swallowed a feeling with your next sip of coffee; flutters that danced down your throat and settled in the pit of your stomach.

By the time you returned to your bedroom, the sky touched your sheer curtains with the palest blue. Your clothing was already laid out neatly on your dresser, poised like soldiers in a row — thick ribbed stockings; plaid wool skirt; stiff white blouse; cream knit sweater.

As you suited up, stripping yourself of warm pajamas to brace the chill of your formal attire, your eyes drifted to an object on your desk. Powder blue and collecting a fair amount of dust; an IBM Selectric II typewriter. It was more or less a decoration now, pushed against the wall to make room for piles of papers in need of grading. Still, you liked the way it looked; cheery against the drab apartment wall, like something a real writer would have.

It was a trusty old thing, still chugging along despite countless college essays hammered into the grey keys. It had been your only company in the wee hours of many mornings such as this one, only then there had not been sleep to separate you from the night before. Sturdy and dependable, it captured your imagination too, letter by black inked letter.

Fastening the buttons of your blouse in a methodical rhythm, you could almost trick yourself into believing it was any other morning, except today there was something else you needed to do before you left, and the clock on your nightstand let you know in glowing red that your window to do so was closing.

Cold linoleum creaked under your stocking feet as you padded into the kitchen, stomach twisting into knots as you approached the phone. If you were going to do this, it had to be now.

Running your finger down the laminated tabs of the well-loved address book on your counter, you flipped to the section labeled “J”. After scanning a dozen hand-written names, you found the one you were looking for. It was a mess of chalky white-out and hasty scribbles. Last name replaced, same with the phone number and address. You weren’t sure why you didn’t just write it all fresh under “P”, perhaps it was something about not wanting to erase the history entirely.

You took a deep breath and snatched the phone off the receiver. Pressing the cold plastic to your ear, you glanced down at the numbers in blue pen and whispered them quietly to yourself as you slowly, hesitantly, clicked them one by one into the cream button pad on the wall.

You stared across the kitchen in sober contemplation of your life choices as the phone rang. Again. And again. And again, until a familiar, groggy voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Hey! Janet!” you greeted brightly, sounding far too awake for 7:06 AM. In your nervous haste, you almost forgot to tell her who was calling.

“Oh… hey there,” came a hesitant voice on the other line, a sharp squeal cut through the static followed by a hush.

“Hey, um, I know it’s like, super early and totally last minute but I wanted to catch you before I left for work. Listen, I’ve had a hell of a week already and I was wondering—and I totally get it if you can’t, but—well I was wondering if you’d be up for going out tonight. Like say around eight-ish?” You bit your lip and grimaced, twisting the gummy cord around your finger.

The pause was filled with the rattling of tiny fists against plastic. “Oh! Well let’s see,” she said in a voice that was suddenly very awake. “The kids will be asleep by then, or at least they should be,” she chuckled, “and Bob doesn’t go to bed till after eleven anyway, so I’m sure he’ll be fine if I escape for a few hours. I mean I’ll check with him but I really don’t see why not.”

It was equally as promising as it was a relief; the excitement that crept through her voice.

“Great! Yeah, I figured you could probably use a night out.”

“Oh gosh, you don’t even know the half of it,” Janet laughed. “So where were you thinking? You wanna just go to Pal-Joeys again?”

Pacing toward the counter, you braced to offer your suggestion. “Actually, I was thinking we could go to The Hideout, I hear there’s a band playing tonight.”

“The Hideout?” she asked through an incredulous smile.

“I know,” you breathed nervously, “it’s not really our um, regular haunt, but that’s kinda why I want to go, you know? Shake things up a bit. Everything’s just been feeling so… routine lately, you know?”

Janet’s sigh was deep and heavy. “Oh trust me, I know.” A bright coo crackled through the telephone line.

“Like, I kind of want to just…” you coiled your finger deeper into the phone cord, glancing at the glaring red clock above the stove, “I dunno…pretend to be somebody else for a change.”

“You know,” she started, a quiet mischief creeping into her voice, “I could really stand to be somebody else for a night too.”

You paused in your pacing as a smile cracked across your face. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Gosh, do you know your birthday was the last time I went out? Seriously! And before that I don’t even remember. Sometimes I look around and it’s like, man I used to be fun. You remember when I was fun, right?”

You chuckled, drifting back to memories of truths and dares, of creeping down her dark basement steps with freshly painted toes. “You still are fun, Janet.”

“Well maybe you can help remind me because sometimes I look in the mirror and I swear I don’t even recognize myself. Really! I swear I see my mother more and more and that’s what’s really terrifying.”

“You mean you don’t see Bloody Mary anymore?”

Janet’s cackle would have woken the whole house had it not been wide awake and eating Cheerios already. “No that’s just at my parents’ house, remember?”

You snorted, leaning back against the counter. “I think we screamed so loud we woke the neighbors. I swear that bathroom is haunted.”

“That’s what I’ve always said! You feel like you’re being watched, right? My parents still don’t believe me. Oh well, not my problem anymore.”

You laughed, the knot in your belly releasing slightly before you glanced at the clock again, 7:13. “Crap, I’ve gotta get going. So I’ll see you at eight tonight? At The Hideout?”

“Yeah, should be fine. I’ll call you if anything changes. Ah!” she squealed, “I can’t wait.”

“Glad you’re excited,” you chuckled, gripping the smooth plastic. “Ok, see you later.”

“Bye now!”

You hung the phone back on the receiver and stood in the blaring silence of your kitchen, frozen by the impact of your choices. It was real now. In a matter of about thirteen hours you would be getting in your car, driving down a dark road, and parking it at a seedy bar where you would see Eddie for the first time in public. Your feet felt glued to the floor, but as the clock blinked to 7:15, you willed them to move.

Before taking the dark road that led to a seedy bar, you would first need to get in your car and take another road — to work.

You cursed the cold. Cursed it as you hurried across the parking lot to find your car covered in fractals of frost. Cursed it vehemently as you worked the glass with your feeble plastic scraper, shaving holes just big enough to see out of your dashboard and rear window as the clock on your wrist ticked on minute by precious minute. You cursed it audibly when you turned the key and the engine whirred, and whined, and refused to turn over. It must have heard you, because after the fifth time of stomping on the brake and snapping your wrist forward, the engine roared to life.

You rode in on a wave; a daze like the fog that escaped your lungs in shallow breaths. The sun rose above the frozen farmlands, casting its golden-pink light across the empty fields. Out here the roads stretched on for miles. Flat and straight, with little variance in elevation. There was nowhere to look but straight ahead. No curves to surprise you, just you and the rumble of the salt-dusted road, bumping along in silence as an anxious fog rolled across the landscape of your mind.

A sea of students swept you through the front doors of Hawkins High and into the bustling office. Amidst the flurry of ringing phones and voices settling into the cadence of their roles, you grabbed your punch card and stamped the date and time in line with the rest. Pushing the metal handle of the heavy glass door, you exited the humming reprieve of the office and into the din of the main hall. Your boots made hollow clicks against the glossy tile, wind at your face as you marched forward, dodging roughhousing students and hall monitors rushing toward them.

Goodness was a mantle. A strap that dug into your shoulder; heavy with books, and papers, and responsibility. You wedged your thumb beneath it, shrugging it up onto the padded wool collar of your coat as you strode on, vision locked ahead as chaos swirled around you.

Your mug left a ring on the big desk; a remnant from where you’d sloshed it coming down the hall. You’d tried to be careful; slow and deliberate in your pacing when you left the teachers lounge with it, but when a blur of wild curls drew your gaze, your footing faltered. At least you missed your shoes.

Coat hung on its solitary hook and grade book stationed at the center of the desk, you took your place in front of it. Clutching your clipboard, you glanced across the rows of desks, down at the rows of names, beside the rows of boxes that your green pen would fill with neat little P’s and A’s like it did every day. Bell after bell, swipe after swipe of your eraser at the board, the fresh sticks of chalk dwindled to nubs. Question after question, the patience in your voice grew thin.

Between the bells at the top of fourth period, you stood poised like a sentinel outside the door to your classroom. Arms folded across your knit sweater, you sighed, shifting your weight back and forth between your tired feet, offering gentle smiles as your students filed through the threshold of the door. You smelled him before you saw him; the waft of leather and cigarettes with notes of shampoo more prominent than usual.

Against the flow of traffic, Eddie Munson brought his salt-licked combat boots to a halt in front of you. Thumb hooked under the heavy strap of his backpack, he offered you a smile so broad it crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your knees want to give.

You tightened your arms around your sweater, over the hard plastic of your faculty lanyard, and breathed a shy, girlish greeting. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he mimicked, shifting his weight with a less than subtle restlessness as his dark eyes drank you in. They darted back and forth between yours, plush lips parted and primed with words. You felt them brimming impatiently behind his eyes, saw them in the pink flash of his tongue as it darted out to wet his lips.

Out here in the bustling hallway, with eyes that watched and voices that echoed off the polished tile, Eddie edged a bold foot closer, dove in, and ghosted the shell of your ear with his burning question.

“Will I see you tonight?”

The words were a low, hot rumble — rippling from your ear down your spine, pooling deep in your belly. His heat thawed your shoulder as he hovered there, lingering for each aching second it took you to eke out your response.

“Yeah,” you whispered into his curls.

Pulling back with a blinding grin, he tipped his head and ducked into the door of your classroom.

The slam of a locker made you jump. Arms crossed to shield your pounding heart, you stood there in the middle of it all, swimming in a sea of passing bodies, struggling to keep your head above the waves. It surged with images of a lighted stage, of bottles, and tables, and a dark corner for both of you to hide in. The bell echoed loudly down the hall, shrill enough to wake you from the dream you were surely having. Donning your mask, you took a deep breath and dove in, shutting the door behind you.

______

Eddie swung open the heavy back doors to his van, piercing the darkness with the dull yellow overhead light. Gravel crunched under his boots as he leaned in to grab the first amp from the stack, like a pile of black Christmas presents awaiting unwrapping. The night air bit at his fingers, stars twinkling in the patches where the clouds gave way above the tree line. Tightening his grip around the thick gummy handle, he hoisted it and followed the pale path the moon offered out of the side parking lot toward the patio behind The Hideout.

It wasn’t much; a stout fence in dire need of a paint job that caged in a few meager picnic tables. They still had umbrellas in the middle, wrapped tightly like mummies for the winter. He knew the back door would be open, it always was. Turning the weathered knob with his free hand, he welcomed the heat that wafted toward him. He could almost say he welcomed the piss smell coming from the bathrooms as his heavy boots thumped down the dark linoleum hallway, but that would be a stretch. Accustomed was a better word. Familiar was a better word.

Stale beer and cigarettes soon drowned it out as he entered the dimly lit bar, stopping to plunk the heavy amp down to his left on the stage, which was little more than a raised platform painted black. The thud drew the attention of the five usual suspects at the bar, and Eddie wondered which one of them was responsible for playing “Free Bird” on the jukebox.

Bill raised his hand, tipping his baseball cap back in a friendly nod as his fingers splayed. “‘Ey, Eddie!”

He returned the gesture of a single raised hand and flashed a smile before turning down the hall again. Eddie took a deep breath at the door to calm his pounding heart before pressing it open. He couldn’t believe he had been crazy enough to suggest something like this. That soon enough, you would be perched atop one of those rickety stools at a tall, sticky table, watching his every move, listening to his every note. The chill of the night air was a welcome thing, sobering and distracting from the heat that was creeping up the collar of his thick, leather coat. As the gravel crunched under his boots again, headlights blinded his vision.

He could hear the bass pounding from the outside of the small sedan as it rolled up beside his van, followed promptly by another. After a moment of squinting, the headlights shut off with the rumble of the engine, leaving him in the darkness once again. Seatbelts clicked and laughter emerged from the open doors as his friends tumbled out into the parking lot.

“What the fuck took you guys so long? We left at the same time,” Eddie groused.

Dave lumbered over and sighed, a smirk playing on his broad features in the moonlight. “Jeff had to take a shit and he parked me in.”

Jeff rolled his eyes, swinging the door shut with a huff as Gareth laughed into the night air.

Eddie sighed, glancing toward the tall stack of amps and drum heads sitting backlit in the rear of his van. “Ok, well we’ve got like forty minutes to get our shit together so start hauling.”

Dave groaned, cracking his back with a twist of his hefty torso. “Ugh, can you at least let me hit this doob before you put me to work?”

On any other night, Eddie would have welcomed the suggestion, but his nerves were traveling to his hands now and he itched to move them. “Dude, it takes us like an hour to set up, we don’t have time right now. We can smoke after we get this shit on stage.”

Jeff quirked his brows suspiciously, “Dude, since when do you care that we’re on time for anything?”

“Yeah seriously, we’re late like every week,” Gareth added.

Eddie balked, searching for the answer in the treeline, one that excluded you. “It just—if we’re ever gonna play anywhere else besides here we’re gonna have to start getting our shit together.”

There was a lukewarm pause as the band considered his answer. By the looks on their faces, Eddie wasn’t entirely sure if they bought it, but it was the best he could come up with and the statement was true. Dave broke the silence with an exasperated sigh. “Come on. I’ve been jonesing since we got to Gareth’s. His mom is so anal we can’t even smoke outside.”

“That’s ‘cause you reek when you come back in,” Gareth defended.

“At least I don’t reek of ass like you,” Dave chortled.

Jeff didn’t miss a beat. “That’s debatable.”

Gareth’s cackle wafted into the frigid air as he pointed a pale finger at Dave.

“You wanna find out the hard way?” Dave’s eyes glimmered wildly as he hooked an arm around Gareth’s shoulders, locking him into a power noogie position.

Gravel shuffled under their stumbling feet. “Let go of me you asshole,” Gareth gritted through a strangled laugh. Jeff only egged them on, howling uproariously like he had tickets to the show.

Eddie dragged his hands down his face with a deep, seething breath as Dave ground his thick knuckles into Gareth’s mop of hair, kicking up rocks and pivoting as Gareth attempted to pry away. This was his circus, his monkeys, and he would have to step up and be the ring leader if they were going to take the stage at all tonight. “CUT IT OUT!” he hollered.

Dave paused, arm still locked around Gareth’s neck. “Come on, we’re just having a little fun. You remember fun, right?”

Gareth groaned weakly, looking up at Eddie with pathetic eyes. “Who’s we?” he choked.

Eddie’s expression didn’t budge from its scowl. With a roll of his eyes and a resigned huff, Dave released his arm and Gareth stumbled backward, gasping. “Fine, captain killjoy.”

A heavy plume of fog left his nostrils as Eddie stormed toward the back of his van, weaving his arm through a thick ring of cables to rest on his shoulder before hoisting another amp from the stack. Gravel shuffled behind him as the others followed suit.

You were risking a lot to come here. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint you.

______

The silence gnawed at you, filled you with an itching discomfort as you thumbed your dresser knobs. Staring into your open shirt drawer, you faced off with your biggest decision yet — what to wear tonight.

The chasm of options laid before you in neat, folded rows. An excavation site of cardigans, and turtle necks, and things you hadn’t unearthed in years. You ran your fingers through the layers of folded cotton, peeling them back with deep consideration.

Nagging thoughts crept in like whispers over the softly ticking clock, pinball plunger pulled and ready to fire. With a determined huff, you stepped back from your dresser and padded down the hallway, out into the living room.

Your skirt pooled around your stocking feet as you crouched down in front of the long wooden cabinet that housed your records. Fingers dancing over the worn cardboard spines, you flipped them softly forward as you perused one by one, walking steadily until one of them fell open to a scene; a painting of a man hunched over with sticks tied to his back that hung on a wall of peeling paper. You paused, pulling it out to scan the track list. This would do.

Placing the the record softly on the felt pad, you lowered the needle to the ridges, and with the press of a button, a crackle roused the room.

Hey hey momma said the way you move

Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove

A smile, like a crocus peeking up from the snow, bloomed across your face. You cranked the volume, wrapping yourself in a sound that would carry to your bedroom.

Your fingers found the tiny metal tab behind your waist, and with a downward tug of the zipper, your wool skirt became a puddle on the floor. Peeling back the layers, your tight sweater joined it in a heap, your thick stockings lay deflated on the pile, the buttons of your stiff blouse worked free until it was a crumpled afterthought. The chill that kissed your skin was a welcome thing. Goosebumps raised like the current flowing through you as your near-naked silhouette danced across the wall to approach the open drawer once more.

Emboldened with a curious delight, you began to dig. Past the crust of crisp blouses, beneath the squishy mid-layer of cardigans, down into the sub-layer of camisoles and tees, deeper and deeper until finally your fingers made purchase with a soft treasure.

It fell open as you unearthed it, the solid black gone grey from washing, the white letters and arched angel cracked and faded: Led Zeppelin — United States of America 1977.

It happened on a Sunday in April, which began as most Sundays did, with you hunched over your powder blue typewriter in a race between the clock and the keys. You had it down to a science. At the speed you were typing, a rough draft could be finished by dinner, and the final could be churned out by cutting into a few hours of your sleep. A worthy sacrifice, as your final grade was on the finish line. This, like countless others, was how you planned to spend your day — until your roommate found you.

You remembered the way she leaned against the wooden frame of your bunk bed, amused, watching the paper you hammered with black-inked letters grow longer and longer. Finally she spilled it; as of an hour ago, she was down one boyfriend and up one ticket, and now it had your name on it. When she dangled it between you and the tidy rows of text, your hands froze over the keys.

You eyed the invitation — temptation printed on a neat, orange strip. Free admission, at a price.

The show was sold out. It had been for a long time.

Your class was at 9:00 AM tomorrow. A late paper took twenty percent off your grade.

You loved the band dearly, had a bigger crush on Robert Plant than you’d openly admit to anyone. Fights had broken out over tickets nation wide. You had no idea when they would play the states again.

The clock ticked on beside you, the long hand grazed past three. Maybe you could churn out the rest in the next few hours. Maybe the rough draft would be enough. But the realist in you knew neither would happen if you seized the ticket. Your grade would never recover, your streak of straight As you’d kept since grade school would come to an end. Your GPA would dip for the semester.

On April 17th, 1977, you left your paper sitting unfinished in the typewriter to see Led Zeppelin play Market Square Arena. You didn’t know it then, but it was the last time they ever would.

On April 18th at 9:00 AM, you showed up to class with empty hands and a brand new shirt.

You had altered your souvenir; taken scissors to the collar so that it draped off your shoulder. Time and your washing machine had made Swiss cheese of the bottom hem, so you cropped it. You admired the handiwork as it draped off you now, the way the black strap of your bra peeked out from the slope of your shoulder like a coy secret.

Pulling open the lower drawer—opened far less frequently than you would like—your knuckles grazed the bottom of the smooth wood interior as you peeled back the layers of folded denim. A crease of black jumped out from the sea of blue, and you examined it. It had a nice worn-in fade for only having lived in your dresser a few years, a flatteringly high waist, and most importantly, tapered legs that could easily be tucked into the tall, black boots sitting in the back of your closet. Your bare legs welcomed the barrier against the chill, and you caught a glance at your rear as you hiked them snugly upward. They hugged you in all the right places, as the music electrified the air, you transformed.

A vision of you — sprawled across a blanket on the quad with your face in a book. Making shadows on your dorm room wall while transmuting fantasies to black-inked pages. Strolling down a lamp-lit street, face to the stars, fueling your wild imagination. Here, in your reflection, the ghost of you looked back.

You painted her darker than normal, swapping the usual chapstick for a deep, dusty red exhumed from the bottom of your makeup bag. Eyes smoked and cheeks dusted, you drew out the beauty from angles of your face with every stroke.

Coat donned and purse in hand, you paused at the front door, glancing over your shoulder, down the hallway, toward your coffee table piled with papers. There was another ghost of you here — tucked into her slippers and cozy robe with the voices from the television as her only company, flicking her green grading pen down rows of questions.

On December 10th, 1985, you left the papers sitting on your coffee table to see Corroded Coffin play The Hideout. With a decided twist of the handle, you pushed out into the cold night air.

Light pooled in sparse puddles as your boots echoed off the rough pavement. Stillness whispered on the wind as crisp remnants of fall scuttled across the asphalt. The apartments behind you were a tapestry of glowing squares, pictures of the rest of Hawkins tucking into their slippers and washing their dishes, grabbing their blankets and turning on their televisions.

You grabbed your keys and unlocked your car, and when it roared to life with a swift flick of your wrist, a strange exhilaration coursed through you.

It rose like the moon over the barren fields, thrumming in your chest, spreading to your limbs, alight with something wild and teeming as you drove past rows of lighted windows—vignettes of tired routine—and stopped at the same red sign you did this morning. Your fingers twitched over the turn signal leaver — an impulse to flick up, to turn right, to settle into the familiar rhythm of your muscle memory. This time you pressed down, pressed your foot to the gas, and cranked the wheel left.

Cruising boldly down the straight and narrow road, fields and farmland faded in your rearview mirror and soon there were trees on the horizon; dense and dark. Gripping the wheel as the silhouette closed in, the corners of your mouth drew upward, pulled by a wild, awakened force. Headlights illuminated pale, naked limbs. Eyes beamed back at you from the shadows. You cranked the volume on your stereo, and as you braced for your first bend, something deep within you—dormant and restless—howled.

______

The water was so cold it burned. Eddie cursed the old plumbing, instantly regretting having the decency to wash his hands in the first place. Soap just barely rinsed, he twisted the lime-scaled handles and shut it off. With a trembling hand, he grabbed one of the last paper towels. Gareth’s kick drum echoed down the narrow hallway, thundering just like his chest. He glanced at his watch again. 7:56.

Eddie took a ragged breath, chucking the crumpled paper at the overflowing trash bin in the corner. It bounced dejectedly off the wall and onto the dirty tile. With a deadpan glare, he left it where it lay. Hands barely dry, he felt for the flask in his pocket. Screwing the tiny cap and flicking it open, he tipped it back. Eddie welcomed the burn. It chased down his throat and settled in his stomach with a warmth that radiated, instantly numbing his nerves.

Meeting his own eyes in the tiny, smudged mirror, he gave himself a final glance over. His curls were holding; fresh and clean from this morning, fluffed by the icy wind in the trips from van to stage.

Here, in the dingy confines of The Hideout, words like freak and loser lost their stick. Words he could shake like a dog at the door. He’d fashioned them like armor in the daytime; a shield in hallways and in lunch lines. What was stickier were feelings. The feelings that came with chewed pens and answers left blank. The feeling of lectures slipping like a sieve through his brain. The feeling of stares and stifled laughter, of staring numbly at the board, of filling the silence with bullshit instead of an answer.

Microphone feedback squeaked outside. The dull, heavy walk of a bassline. Laughter. Cymbals. That kick drum again. Eddie took another swig, searing the flutters in his stomach.

He wanted to be good for you. Seen under stage lights instead of fluorescents.

Good like an answer he knew.

You saw the sign first, peeking from behind the trees — simple, effective, and yellowed with time. The Hideout: a hole in the woods. Tucked around the bend you now braced against, it sat like a neon beacon. The chipped, grey exterior faded into the shadows, leaving only the holy glow of Budweiser and Miller Lite signs to guide you to the promised land.

Pulling into a spot along the narrow parking strip, you faced off with your destination. Looming and real. Frozen as reality stared back at you in the glare of your blinding headlights, you gripped the steering wheel and looked around. There were a few other cars beside you, but none of them Janet’s. Around the left of the building there appeared to be more parking, and the stout silhouette of a two-tone van you did know the owner of. Pinballs hammered in your chest.

When you arrange a time to meet someone, you are always punctual. Perhaps a life organized by bells on timers trained you to be this way, but the thought of entering alone filled you with dread, and part of you wondered whether you should wait out here for her. Your hands were starting to shake, and not from the cold.

The list of crazy things you had done in your life was a laughably short one, but this made the top by a long shot. As you turned the radio down and sat in the wake of your rumbling engine, the questions grew louder. Serious questions about where you thought this night would go, about where you wanted it to go and if you would truly go there.

Suddenly your headlights felt too bright, like a beacon drawing eyes from the woods, or even more terrifying, eyes from the building. You promptly flicked them off and waited, staring dead ahead at the chipped grey siding. It was fine. You were fine. At least you could no longer see your breath. You could hide here as long as you wanted.

“Alright man, it’s doob o’clock,” Dave said with a satisfied stretch as he took in the stage setup.

Eddie ripped another frantically scribbled setlist out of his spiral notebook and shoved it at him. “No it’s eight fifteen and we still need to do soundcheck,” Eddie scathed, glancing at the door. “You can start by plugging your mic in, Jesus Christ.”

Dave huffed annoyedly through his nose, squatting down to find the cord with exaggerated difficulty. “Yes sir,” he mocked. Eddie shot back a testing glare. “Dude, what’s up with you tonight? You’ve been on one since Gareth’s.”

“Yeah, you ok man?” asked Jeff.

The knots tightened in his stomach as the attention of all three of them closed in around him. “Just—let’s just get our shit together…please,” he deflected.

Glancing around frantically, you wondered, for the hundredth time, where the hell Janet was. You couldn’t be that surprised that a woman with two small children was late, but your exhaust was making a smokescreen of the parking strip, and you wondered if anyone inside had noticed, if anyone could hear the low rumble of your engine and questioned why this strange woman was idling. With an irritated sigh, you turned the key, leaving you in deafening silence and leeching cold. You could hear your breathing now, your pounding heart, the squeaking of leather as you shifted in your seat. What one of the kids got sick? What if she called after you left?

What if she isn’t coming?

Eddie’s eyes lingered at the door as he clicked the pedals with his feet, plucking a soft, testing melody into the mic. His watch glared under the stage lights, confidence fleeting with every minute that ticked by. Gareth snapped his foot petal with a deep thud. Dave walked out a bassline before squealing feedback made the whole bar flinch.

The strum of a chord made you jump. Booming and electric, you heard it through the walls. They were starting. They were starting and you weren’t there. Gripping the steering wheel, you tossed your head back in an anguished sigh. You sure as hell weren’t going to stand him up. As you glanced around the parking lot one last desperate time, the bitter conclusion rose like bile — you may have to do this alone. Seatbelt clicking under your gloved thumb, you steeled yourself for the cold, for the eyes of strangers in a strange new place. With a decided pull of the handle, the door opened to the frigid night air, and you emerged from the heat into the unknown.

You met your reflection in the glass of the entrance as your hand gripped the weathered knob. Pinballs fired off at lightning speed — a jackpot multi-ball bonanza. Checking your hair one last time with eyes locked on your own, you turned the handle with a determined sigh.

A bell dinged above your head, and winter’s chill gusted in on your heels.

The whole room turned at once — at you. You, from the front of the classroom. You, from behind the big desk. You, in the doorway of The Hideout. Across a dark sea of scattered tables, poised on an altar of sound and light, Eddie Munson smiled at you — brighter than all of it.

The door fell shut behind you. Hot under the gaze of what seemed like the entire bar, it suddenly felt like you were the one on stage. Standing there like a deer in headlights in your long wool coat and clean black boots, you surely must have looked as out of place as you felt. Shoulders rolling back to counter your thrumming nerves, your boots left the rug and found the tacky linoleum as you approached the bar that lined the left wall.

Eddie busied his shaking hands with tapping another test melody into his mic, pausing when he heard a voice over his right shoulder.

“Is that…?” Jeff pointed toward the back of your head.

Gareth’s eyes lit up in recognition. Dave peered over with a shit-eating grin. “Did you invite her?” he mouthed.

Eddie’s face betrayed him, burning like it did under the fluorescents. Burning to greet you at the bar, for the liberty to patronize it, to offer you something more than his aching gaze.

“No,” Eddie lied, “but I may have told her we play here on Tuesdays.” He struck the strings with the weight of his frustration, drowning out any further questions with the opening chords to the first song on the setlist. The others took their cue with chuckles and shaking heads. Heart pounding like the kick drum behind him, Eddie’s fingers found the frets, tugging a muscle memory from deep within as his eyes stayed fixed on you.

There was an older man in a sweatshirt behind the bar. The owner, you figured, by the way he was standing — arms crossed, stance wide, unafraid to take up space. By the way he was looking at you, like he wondered what would drive a new face to his establishment on a random Tuesday night in December. From the glances the others passed between them, the feeling seemed unanimous.

“How can I help you?” he half shouted against the chugging chords, leaning against the bar with a curious smile.

You braced with your brightest grin, placing your gloved hands down flat on the waxy bar. “Hi! Yes—um,” you scanned the selection under the neon lights, the liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes reflected in the dirty mirror behind them. The bar back was tightly cluttered with old stickers and hand-written notes taped behind the cash register, with half-empty bottles of bitters and bobble heads nodding to the palpable vibration. Having no interest in standing there awkwardly while he fixed you a cocktail, you selected a bottle of Coors.

He nodded and ducked to open the steel, magnet-plastered fridge beneath the cash register.

Your gaze, like a magnet, drew back to the stage. It was all you could do just to watch him — the way his curls fell gently at his cheek, the way they bounced with every strum. There was a tension lingering just under the curve of his lashes. The music was fast and loud, purely instrumental. You recognized nothing about it but the genre. Head dipped in concentration as his left hand tapped a frantic melody into the frets, he raised his eyes bravely to meet yours.

He wasn’t the only man staring. It was hard to ignore; the man in the baseball cap to your right as you stared right through his line of sight. You pinched off your gloves and shoved them in your pockets to occupy your hands.

A bottle cap plinked against the bar top. “Two bucks,” the owner stated, slinging a towel over his shoulder.

You fished through your purse, feeling those eyes on you as you opened your wallet, as you slid the bills right under his gaze across the waxy counter. You snatched the cold bottle and raised it to your lips. Turning over your shoulder, your eyes clung to Eddie on stage, to his tendons as they flexed to pick a rhythm at the strings. His was gaze a soft and yearning thing, a contrast to the sharp and punchy chords that left his fingers.

“You know these guys?” the man in the cap asked finally, pointing to the stage. Your eyes shot toward him in surprise, lips still pursed at the bottle. He had that working man sort of look. Average features, subtle crows feet, a whisper of sandy stubble across his strong jaw. His grey-blue eyes were gentle, but brimming with a heated curiosity.

You used the much needed swig to buy yourself a second. Did you? The cold, bready fizz sparkled down your throat. You supposed you didn’t have to specify how you were acquainted. “Yeah,” you answered simply, plugging your mouth with the bottle like a dam.

A bell rattled behind you. Grateful for any disruption, you whipped around quickly to break the connection. Janet lit up as soon as she saw you, a mixture of relief and apology playing out on her face as she strode across the room. Tight blonde curls emerged from her lowering leopard print hood. “Oh my god I’m so sorry,” she lamented, arms opening to embrace you.

Relief washed through you like a warm buzz. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it!” you said as your nose took a dive in her soft, perfumed curls.

“Sarah would not stop crying, it took forever for me to finally get her to sleep. I swear babies have a sixth sense, they always know when you have fun plans,” she said through a laugh. Her lashes were long and thick with mascara, eyeshadow a solid sky blue so vibrant that it popped even in the dim neon glow.

Janet ordered a margarita. There was nothing new to speak of, really, over the electric roar of the band, but you tried to listen. Intently, you tried to listen to the new words her son was saying, to offer some lukewarm update about how work was going, but your eyes had their own agenda.

The rolled cuffs of Eddie’s tight, acid-washed jeans bunched against the pull tabs of his boots as he tapped the rhythm with his heel. There was no jacket for him to strain against, no flannel to constrict him, no sleeves on his T-shirt in December. It was more than you’d seen of him yet. Ink flexed with each generous swell of his bicep, and with every attack, he would flash you his ribs through the hand-hacked holes.

“Mmm,” Janet mumbled, sipping off the top of the very full, salt-rimmed rocks glass. “Come on, let’s get cozy,” she said with a wink and gestured toward the tables. The air was thick with smoke wafting from the bikers at the bar. Eddie tapped out another lick and peered through a few stray curls as you followed her across the room to a high top, back and center.

You wanted to be closer. Close enough to see the umber of his eyes, the ridges of his knuckles as they plucked the strings. There were a few shorter tables down in front, back about five feet from the stage. But as the beams of light bounced off the glossy wood and over the seats in blinding white, you were grateful for the shadows ten feet would afford you.

Janet stripped off her coat to reveal a tight black dress with long sleeves and sequined, padded shoulders. It hugged just above the knees of her sheer hose, punctuated with sharp ankle boots.

“Look at you all dressed up! You look stunning.” You meant it, she really did.

Janet’s smile was a shy deflection, but hiding just beneath it, a glimmer of belief. “Thanks, this thing’s been sitting in my closet for like a year now. Can you believe it? I just felt like, you know, if I’m going out I’m gonna dress up goddamn it,” she laughed, punctuating with a slap against the table. “We coulda gone to Benny’s, I still woulda worn it.”

You laughed, for the first time since you’d talked to her that morning. Unbuttoning your coat, you let it drape over the metal back of the stool behind you.

“You’re not looking too shabby yourself,” Janet said with a wink before taking a sip.

“Honestly I’ll take any excuse I can get to dress down,” you said with a sheepish huff, propping your elbows on the sticky table before bringing the bottle to your lips.

A nervous crackle wound its way through Eddie’s stomach at the vision of you. You, perched on a stool in a dive bar. You, in jeans and a t-shirt. You, arching forward just enough to grace him with a sliver of your back. It was real — you, here. He soured a note, and those words he shook off came creeping back in as he fumbled through the next lick. But you didn’t seem to notice. You propped your cheek against your knuckles and let the warmth of your eyes usher his doubts away.

When the song came to a ringing conclusion, Janet’s cheer was uninhibited, clapping her hands above her head. It drew eyes from the couple seated at one of the lower tables, from the bikers at the bar, from the band. Your applause was more demure, but you couldn’t mask the brilliance of your smile.

“Thank you, thank you,” Eddie said into the microphone. “Looks like we really have a crowd tonight. Seven drunks.”

The room erupted with hollers and cheers.

The bassist muttered something to the other guitarist and the two shared a laugh, casting their eyes towards you. Suddenly your face grew very hot. Of course they recognized you, Jeff was in your second period class. You anticipated this, and yet it was the realness of it all that shook you — the hard stool beneath you, the stares you could feel as your finger idly traced the cold condensation on the glass. Pinballs fired off at rapid speed. You drowned them with a tip of the bottle.

Eddie shifted, clicking the pedals with his foot. “Ok, so this next one is uh, definitely not an original.” He breathed a laugh into the microphone, glancing up at you — at your shoulders, hunched in shy defense, at your worried brow and downcast gaze. He wished he could reach across the room, lift your chin with his words and draw you from your shell. “Anyway, you’ll uh, probably recognize this one,” he said, to you.

Eddie nodded to the band, counting off silently before they struck a chord together — a low, droning thing, gritty and slow as the bass walked steadily over the foundation. Eddie swayed back and forth, rocking in time with the beat like a march, resting his heavy-lidded gaze on you. Across the divide of scattered seats, you — at the small table, saw him — on the big stage. His nimble fingers struck the chords with an ardent conviction, and the ice in you began to thaw.

Suddenly the beat changed pace. Gareth smacked his drum sticks together to count off, and the first two chords sparked instant recognition. A smile rose up in you — a wild and thrumming thing, radiant and rising until it cracked through.

You knew what was coming. Two chords, quiet taps for a count of sixteen, and then those two chords again, like a one-two punch, booming and building with anticipation. Again, and again, as the energy rose in the room. You caught the wicked glint in his eyes as his hands—those hands that fidgeted and fumbled with dog-eared pages and chewed up pens—wielded power. A surge of electricity swirled through your stomach, crackled because you knew what was next.

Eddie took a deep breath, and opened his mouth.

Generals gathered in their masses

Colors. Warm and bright, tingling like a shockwave from your chest down to your seat.

Just like witches at black masses

In your secret daydreams, you often wondered what his voice sounded like in song.

Evil minds that plot destruction

Tried to guess from his deep hums and brilliant laughter.

Sorcerers of death’s construction

Now, it suspended in the air like a battle cry, reaching out across the chasm of tables and chairs.

In the fields the bodies burning

Surging like a wildfire.

As the war machine keeps turning

Swirling through the darkness like a strange magic.

Death and hatred to mankind

Reaching out like it wanted to touch you.

Poisoning their brainwashed minds

And so you let it.

Oh lord, yeah!

The music rocked and swelled. Like a balm reverberating through the air, it softened the hunch of your shoulders. Like an antidote, it dissolved the knot in your stomach. Like an arrow, it pierced the shell of you.

Janet took a generous sip of her margarita and bobbed her head to the rhythm. You caught her gaze from across the table and shared a laugh, a mutual knowing through squinted eyes and shaking heads that this was, in fact, a Tuesday night in December, and the two of you were here.

As the cold drink warmed your limbs, you became acquainted with the hard curve of the stool beneath you, with the of rings left behind on the glossy table, with the crowded ashtray. Acquainted with the smoke that wafted through the air and the darkness that enveloped you like a blanket. The music settled over the room, and as you settled into that heavy buzz, you started to get the feeling you might actually enjoy yourself tonight.

Janet needed no convincing. Her first margarita went down easy, leaving nothing but the ice and her hot pink lipstick on the rim before they finished their fourth song. When she returned from the bar with one in each hand, she placed the extra in front of you. Her treat, convinced they were better than Pal Joey’s, insisting that you try it even with a few sips still lingering in your bottle.

It surprised you — the balance of lime, and liquor, and something else you couldn’t quite place. It surprised you how it easy it melted the tension in your stomach, how it encouraged you to lean in a little more, to let your shoulders drop.

Eddie noticed it, peeking out from under the coyly dipping collar of your shirt; bare and soft as you leaned against the table — your shoulder. He missed a note. Cursing silently, he glanced down at his fingers and tapped into that deep, subconscious part of his brain again where they knew just where to go. But when he closed his eyes to find it, the image remained painted to his lids — a ripened fruit, tempting but too far to taste. Across it, a stripe of black hazard tape, a trail he itched to follow.

There was a hunger in you, stirring more with every song, with every decadent flash of his pale ribs. He was good. Stadium good. Those nimble fingers tapped the frets, making them sing in a way that made you wish you were wire and wood, looking at you in a way that made you think he wished the same. He stroked the neck of his instrument with a reverent touch, attacked the strings with a holy power, like a wingless angel with a spotlight halo. You whispered a silent prayer, venerating him from your faraway pew in the only way you could — with your eyes.

The animal stirred in its icy den, roused by the warmth of his voice as it stretched across the bar. It stirred in that place you rarely acknowledged, rarely indulged as you considered what other talents his hands might have. You considered the shades of those sighs and swallows he took before painting the air, considered what they might sound like if he showed you. It settled and throbbed in that low, blooming place, and you smothered the feeling with a cross of your legs.

Busying yourself with what remained of your beer, you shifted your shoulders to face him directly, leaning your free arm against the metal back of the stool with an ease that Eddie considered looked almost as good on you as the shirt did. Your lips lingered on the rim of the bottle before parting with a soft pop. He swallowed.

There was a gap between you; a sea of scattered tables and wide open ears and eyes amongst them. What could he possibly say from his position? From a microphone on stage? A thousand words ached on the tip of his tongue and he swallowed them with a sloppy chug of water as the applause bought him a moment to consider.

The white lettering across your chest jumped out at him from the shadows like a bright idea. Eddie swiped droplets from his mouth and turned to his bandmates, bringing them into a huddle as the noise drowned out what he was saying. Whatever it was, after some deliberation, they seemed in agreement about it.

You hadn’t seen Janet like this since the summer between your junior and senior year of college. She was always a happy drunk; talkative and bubbly, spilling over with laughter and the sort of wild enthusiasm that a child at a carnival might have.

“I wanna dance,” she said longingly, glancing toward the stage as she slumped in her seat.

“Maybe we can go to a club next time,” you joked as you downed the remainder of your sweating drink.

The band assumed their positions again. Eddie tapped the pedals with his feet and rolled his shoulders back with a deep, collecting breath. His eyes found yours across the room, brimming with such a longing you wondered anyone else could sense it too. After the longest second, he snapped his head over his shoulder with a steely conviction and nodded off a count before making his attack — the opening riff to Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love”.

Your hands shot to your face.

Suddenly Janet perked up, inspired by the catchy rhythm and her own suggestion. “We should dance! Will you dance with me?”

You balked, shrinking down. “There’s like… six people here! I don’t think it’s really that kind of—”

“Oh come on, please? What’s there to lose, huh?”

Oh, only my last remaining shred of dignity in front of my students. But you couldn’t say that. “Janet,” you hissed. “We are not—I can’t—”

Her three margaritas had a different opinion. They reached across the table and grabbed your hand. “Come on, live a little! That’s what we came here to do, right?”

You buried your face in your other. The truth was you wanted to. You wanted a closeup of that smart smirk, of the sweat beading down his temple as he strummed the punchy chords he hand-picked just for you. You wanted the fantasy, the memory, the experience. It was convincing — her pouting pink lips and pleading eyes, almost as convincing as the tequila coursing through your veins. The truth was you left your better judgement at home on the coffee table. To her giddy satisfaction, you surrendered. Dragging you from your seat, she led you to the front of the stage.

Eddie’s smile could have blinded you, even through the shy web of your fingers. Cheers erupted from the bar, from the whole band, as Janet shimmied her sequined shoulders to the beat.

Eddie opened his mouth again, this time with an ardor you could feel in your bones.

You need cooling, baby I’m not fooling

He crouched down to level with your eyes. I’m gonna send ya back to schooling

You lowered your hand to mask the girlish grin that cracked across your face.

Way down inside, honey you need it

They were breathtaking up close — his eyes. Sparkling with an energy you’d never seen before. Rich umber alight with something you couldn’t quite place, too mesmerized by the promise his tongue wove through the air.

I’m gonna give you my love

I’m gonna give you my love… oh!

He straightened with a backward toss of his head, and you found the word you were looking for in the droplets that flung from his curls. Power.

Wanna whole lotta love?

Janet—having an absolute field day over the spectacle—offered you her hand like she wanted to tango. Freeing your face with a brave sigh, you accepted with a slap of your palm in hers. She tugged with a childish delight, and you took your cue — spinning into her waiting arm and shooting back out with a flourish dredged up from some long forgotten place. The room became a blur of sound and light, of cheers from the bar and the stage. You stilled to find your footing, landing on his eyes.

You’ve been learning, and baby I’ve been yearning

He dipped down again. All them good times baby, baby, I’ve been lear-er-nin’, he punctuated with a shake of his head. He could see the whole vision of you, bright and clear under the stage lights. A wildness lingering just behind your eyes, a fragment unseen until now. It pounded at the cage of your chest, rose up in the shallow breaths you caught before Janet snatched you away again. He swore—silently on a deep inhale—that he would do everything in his power to coax it out of you.

Way, way down inside, oh honey you need it

I’m gonna give you my love

You couldn’t remember the last time you really danced. The last time you felt a rhythm with your body and followed its blind inspiration. No rhyme or reason, no plans or choreography. It felt awkward at first, like trying on skin fresh from the wash. Feeling your feet shuffle against the tacky linoleum, finding the rhythm of yourself with a room full of strangers as witness.

Somewhere between the beams of light and the wink of Eddie’s rings beneath them, you found it. Like a memory rising up, sweeping through you like a current. Visions of a stadium, roaring as a lion struts the stage with his golden mane, as he commands a sea of thousands with his voice. There was an animal in you too, wild and careless.

It grew wilder when the music dropped to nothing but percussion. When the room fell away to nothing but the heat from Eddie’s eyes, sparkling with play. It made your hips want to sway a little more, your legs want to dip a little deeper to match his wildness with your own. Imbued with a sudden, potent energy, he struck his wicked instrument as the rhythm and melody unraveled.

Janet took it in stride, leading you in a rocking shimmy as you swayed to the change in tempo. Light danced on her sequined shoulders as she tipped her head back in a blissful cackle. You followed her lead, eyes fixed on her with a surging power in the knowing of whose eyes were fixed on you.

The air was a cool kiss against the sliver of skin where your shirt left off, daring you to show a little more. With a twist of your arms toward the spotlights, you blessed him with the dip of your back — the alluring shadow of your spine that trailed into the high waist of your jeans. He panged with the urge to follow it, fell to his knees and wailed through his fingertips.

You broke from Janet’s pull to face him, eye-to-eye level, watching reverently as the sweat glistened in his clavicles, as his pelvis jutted into his weapon to eke out his solo. Howling for you with each stroke of its neck, each bend in its strings as you matched his rhythm with your hips. A secret world, just you and him, the rest fading out into nothing. He swore, like a spell in each note that he wove through the air, that somehow he would make it last.

From his knees, Eddie grabbed the mic off the stand, and with a wordless nod earned by years of friendship, Jeff took over the melody. To the delight of the crowd, he stripped himself of the weight of his instrument, setting it carefully off to the side.

You’ve been cooling, baby, I’ve been drooling, he crooned as he crawled forward.

All the good times, baby, I’ve been misusing

You played with him there. With your shoulders, with your eyes locked no more than a foot from his. Desperate to touch him, you worshiped every bead of sweat that fell from his temple, every wet curl that strayed from the nape of his neck and hugged the strong angle of his jaw. What left his lips next dripped with such fervent intention you that you couldn’t keep your hand from your face.

Way, way down inside

I’m gonna give you my love

I’m gonna give you every inch of my love

I’m gonna give you my love

He was pure energy; raw and manic. Free in the way that wild things are. He snatched your breath away, dragged it to his den and had his way with it as he queried the chorus to you. There was wildness all around; in glinting sequins and megawatt smiles. In the flashes of limbs under the lights. In the rhythm you carried with your whole body now, moving in a way that was both so foreign and natural all at once.

You wondered how it looked from the outside; you and him. From the bar it might have looked like drunk spontaneity. From the stage it might have looked like a stint of support for the arts. You wondered, with a twinge of fear, if the others could feel the longing too or if you had masked it well enough as a performance.

The music dropped out to make way for the final lyrics.

Way down inside, he belted into the silence, punctuating with a deep inhale. Woman, he shouted, locking eyes with you for a pregnant second as the world came to a halt, you need… he drew a deep breath in the space the two chords allowed him before wailing the final word at the ceiling — loooooooove!

You felt it with every cell of your body in one suspended moment. Felt—for the first time since you could vividly remember—truly and completely alive. With a crash of cymbals and an electric instrumental boom, the rhythm—and the world—reconstituted around you, swirling with a vibrant energy that swept you away.

His dark eyes opened with a wicked glint, and his next breath left his chest as a command.

Shake for me, girl. I wanna be your backdoor man!

You obeyed with a shimmy of your shoulders and the room went wild.

______

Janet left you with a tight, perfumed hug. A gentle reassurance that yes, she was fine to drive home. She left you in the vacuum of slamming guitar cases and distant voices as the jukebox picked up where the band left off. Left you to sober up to how idle and awkward you felt sitting at the table you once shared with her, picking at the peeling label on the wet, empty bottle.

When you heard footsteps approaching, a part of you was grateful for the prospect of someone—anyone—to talk to, though it wasn’t who you hoped. Instead, it was the man in the cap from the bar.

“Hey, love the shirt,” he remarked, glance lingering a little too long over the text across your chest.

“Thanks,” you said shyly, gaze drifting back to the bottle.

He stepped closer, setting his can on the table. “I take it you went to that concert?”

“I did, it was really last minute actually.” You told him the story. You told him with your words and gestures, twisting in the tall stool to face him, but it was Eddie that drew your eyes. Crouched down with one knee bent beneath him and the other straining against denim slits, he collected his pedals into a tiny, vintage suitcase. There were words coming out of your mouth, but faced with the rigid angles of his thighs, you were helpless but to stumble over some of them.

It was then that you noticed he had already been staring, though not at you, at Bill — with a simmer behind his eyes.

“Man, I woulda killed to go to that show. I was working a double when tickets went on sale and a buddy of mine said he was gonna camp overnight for us. Well, he ended up getting into a fight with his girlfriend and flaked out. ‘Course they were sold out and closed by the time I left work.”

You expressed your genuine sympathy.

“Boy I was pissed at him then, but even more pissed after Bonham died. Like damn, that was my last shot, man!”

“I’m sorry you had to miss it. It was quite the show.” You told him what you could remember. The setlist, the stage, what they wore.

Eddie watched closely, carefully darting between you amidst the gathering of cables and closing of metal latches. He watched your hands come to life like he loved so much, like you always did when you were explaining something with fond enthusiasm. Helplessly, he watched the way Bill leaned closer, the way his hand and forearm made themselves at home on your table. The simmer hissed and bubbled behind his eyes.

“Anyways, it’s good to see such a lovely new face around here. One with great taste, I might add. Made my night.”

The simmer kicked up to a full, licking flame.

“Oh, well thanks. I don’t get out much,” you said with an awkward chuckle.

Bill stepped closer, as if his next point was something he had to lean in for. “By the way, and I hope this isn’t too forward, but… you’re a great dancer.”

Eddie watched your hand dive behind your neck, your face contort into a feeble smile, your shoulders hunch, your eyes glance down. He could hear the distress in your beautiful laugh and he boiled so hot he could have seared a hole into the back of Bill’s head.

He extended his hand. “I’m Bill, by the way.”

Eddie wrapped the cable in hasty circles around his forearm. Heat rose behind behind his tight lips and exited in short fumes.

“Hey man, have you seen the drum key anywhere?” Gareth called from behind him.

It barely registered. The world was a fragment now. A red-hot, narrowing tunnel reduced to a singularity — Bill’s hand.

Bill’s hand; hovering like a salacious invitation, too close to the soft swell of your belly. That open, rugged palm — weathered, experienced, and free. Free to reach into his wallet, to reach across the bar, to hand you a drink, to wander all sorts of places where Eddie could not.

You, ever polite and always accommodating, reached back.

He touched you.

Eddie’s vision narrowed red. Helplessly, he watched Bill’s fingers snake around the back of your hand and squeeze, linger at your palm as they released. A coil wound through his body. It rose up like bile — up through his spine, into his shoulders that rolled forward and back with a deep, seething breath. Up, up, into that primitive space at the base of his skull where words and civil manners had no place.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Eddie dropped the cable.

The world blurred in the wake of his target and in five swift steps he was at your side. “Hey, Bill. Uh—” his senses ebbed back to him with a curious look from the man he’d shared countless drinks with. A man he would call his friend had he not breeched a sacred distance, a contract he knew nothing of. His vision was clouded, the coil tight and hot.

“She’s um,” he continued quietly, a murmur he had to lean in for. An urge seized his hand. The urge to claim, to slip across the divot of your back and pull you close where you belonged, to but the noise from the stage and the eyes that followed forced his hand deep into his pocket. He swallowed his frustration, hoping the simmer in his eyes would be enough to convey what he meant. “She’s with me, man.”

A throb from that low, blooming place, rose up in a full body yes. In the arch of your back, in the dip of your eyes as you caught the desperate heat from his.

Bill blinked in honest surprise. “Wait, you mean,” he pointed between the two of you, eyes darting back and forth with a confusion that only deepened the insecurity of everyone involved, “you’re—”

“Yes,” Eddie hotly interrupted. The coil in him released slightly, a low rumble replaced by a surge that settled in his cheeks at the trembling, nervous laughter in your voice.

Flutters roared through you all at once, spinning the room well beyond the scope of the liquor that lingered in your veins, heightening your senses to the warmth radiating from the aching nearness of his body to yours.

“Well, hey man, we were just talking—”

“Yeah—well,” he glanced at you, an apology playing out in the widening of his eyes as the coil cooled to sobering embarrassment. He wished he could bury himself, open a trapdoor and take you with him. A parade of stomping feet and slamming cases trudged on behind him from the stage. He prayed the din was enough to mask the conversation.

“It’s ok!” you nervously exclaimed to both of them. “Really. Besides, I—I need to sober up anyway before I go home, so… it’s really ok,” you soothed to Eddie specifically.

Eddie’s pulse thrummed in his hears, his body a livewire of stress and embarrassment. “Ok. Well, I just, um… thought I’d let you know,” he concluded to Bill, desperate to string together some semblance of dignity. He dipped his head toward you until his voice hummed lowly in your hear. “It’ll just be a few more minutes. I gotta get the rest of this shit cleaned up, and then we can, um—” his eyes darted back and forth between yours in wordless exasperation.

“Yeah,” your body whispered, overriding any protest of your noble mind. To what you were agreeing to was unimportant. Whatever he wanted.

Eddie nodded and pivoted toward the stage in a swift exit.

In the wake of his absence was an awkward pause, a space Bill was quick to fill with words. “Well, um, it was nice to meet you,” he said with an awkward dip of his head.

“Yeah, you as well,” you said, a feeble anchor to the spinning room. Bill’s gaze hesitated with a flash of disappointment before returning to the bar. It was all you could do to just stand there a moment, heart pounding in stunned realization as the space whirled with the clammer of footsteps, the thud of equipment, the clinking of glasses. Suddenly the weight of your aloneness in the middle of it all was crushing. You retreated to the down the short hallway and ducked into the bathroom.

She’s with me.

In the muffled quiet of the dimly lit reprieve, the words echoed louder than ever. You were almost afraid to check your reflection, to look yourself in the eyes and face the person who ached to hear them repeated, but you did, and she surprised you. Something about the way your lipstick feathered clean in the center from the kiss of the bottle, the way your mascara settled at your lower lashes in the delicate lines beneath. It was oddly flattering, like the shadow of a good time.

You liked who you saw, and perhaps that scared you most.

Jeff’s laughter echoed down the hallway and the pinball trigger snapped again. What the fuck am I doing?

You would ask yourself this question as you pressed the tip of your boot to the dirty toilet handle, as the cold water woke your skin, as it dripped onto the salt-stained tile, as you dropped the soggy remains of the last two paper towels into the overflowing trashcan.

When the clammer of footsteps and slamming of the back door faded to nothing more than distant murmurs from the bar, you slowly cracked the door and peered into the empty hallway. Your boots clicked tentatively against the tacky linoleum, emerging from the shadows as you drew a steady breath. The stage was dark, the men perched on stools had their backs to you, all roaming eyes cast down over drinks — all except one.

Eddie stood in the middle of it all; hands on hips, damp curls clinging to his neck, chest still heaving from movement and stress. He locked eyes with you, and you could feel relief in his sigh from the apron of the hallway.

Your smile was a shy, timid thing, blooming to a helpless grin as the softness of his features heightened into focus with each progressive step. As the distance between you closed to less than a foot.

“Hey,” he breathed like a soft apology.

“Hey,” you answered, like you always did. A nervous crackle of anticipation wound through your gut.

“I um,” Eddie wrung a hand behind his neck, flashing a dark tuft of hair that made the animal in you stir. “I need to cool down,” he admitted with a raw, candid urgency. He patted his pockets. “I’m gonna step out for a cigarette… if you… wanna…” he nodded toward the back hall.

Yes. Anything, the animal growled. You simply nodded and went to grab your coat.

Eddie snatched the heap of leather from the railing by the stage and draped it over his arm. He ushered you forward with a sweep of his palm through the air, catching your eyes with a softness that threatened the strength of your knees. A giggle escaped you — honest, uncontrollable, automatic. Clutching your arm with a coyness that surprised even yourself, you shuffled in front of him, the towering presence of his closeness like a tingle at your back, a safety in the thud of heavy boots behind you.

The night air was a cold refreshment, a sobering reprieve from the hot, smoke-dense air of The Hideout. Your lungs helped themselves, filling to the brim, releasing just a little of the tension that was mounting before you arrived. It left you in a thick fog, drifting out into the empty patio, catching the glow from the singular bulb posted by the door. Eddie pulled it shut with a soft thud and shrugged on his coat in a rattle of zippers and chains.

Silence. A howl of the wind through naked limbs. A sigh that left both of you at once.

Eddie dipped his head in subtle reverence as he crossed in front of you, placing his hands on the short, wooden fence to your right. He paused a second, drawing a deep breath before spinning around to face you, hands splayed in an open plead. “I am so fucking sorry.”

Your mouth hung open. “A-about what?”

He ran a hand through his hair with a ragged sigh. “About Bill, about how I acted, a-about…” he swallowed, “what I said…”

An O trembled on your lips but never made it out. “It’s fine, really—”

“It’s…it’s not. It’s just that,” he huffed, “Bill was hitting on you a-and you just looked so uncomfortable and…” it drove him fucking crazy. It lit his blood on fire. It made him want to grab a man who’d bought him countless drinks by the collar and ram him into the wall.

You stepped closer, close enough to see the whites of his eyes in the darkness, the shadow of his pinching brow. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t stir something in you. Hearing those words. Hearing the ones he said now in profuse apology. “Eddie,” you soothed.

He closed his eyes; a split-second relish of his name on your lips. “It—” he sighed. “It wasn’t cool, to say that…” he shook his head before meeting your eyes in soft earnestness, “in public.”

The breath froze in your lungs. Out here the world fell away to the rustle of trees, to a darkness that cloaked you like a blanket. You were alone. Truly alone. A question tugged at your heart, twinged on the tip of your tongue but felt still too bold to leave it. What would he say, then, in private?

It played out like a tape behind his eyes — the curl of Bill’s fingers around your hand. It was such a simple gesture, benign outside of context. Yet there was something deeper, something that wound like a serpent through his gut. It struck, and stung, that in one fell swoop, Bill had touched as much of you as he had. That Bill could do as much in public as he could only manage beneath a shadow.

“Anyway, now that… that’s out of the way,” Eddie shook his head as he fumbled with the zipper of his pocket, curls feathering his delicate cheekbone, gaze cast down in weakly hidden shame. He procured a box of cigarettes, thumb flipping it open with an ease earned by years of habit. Popping one into his mouth, he paused before snapping it shut. “Y-you want one?” he mumbled. It seemed rude not to ask, but the question felt dumber by the second as it hung in the air. You were good. Good like 6 AM coffee, like the early morning sun. Good like the buttons on a crisp, white blouse. Yet here he stood, hand extended, offering what little he could — an experience.

Goodness was a mantle. A weight that kept your shoulders back, your lips pressed tight, your head cast down, your feet in slippers, your curtains drawn. Eddie Munson stood beside you, rugged and regal like a dark knight, arm outstretched in humble offering. With hesitance, you eyed the invitation.

Out here you could be anything — a vagabond, a runaway, a princess escaped from her castle. A woman who spends Tuesday nights at dive bars and smokes cigarettes with men in leather jackets. Anything you wanted.

You wanted to taste it. You wanted the flame, and the smoke, and the raw, ragged air that wound through your lungs and left like a beacon that soared toward the sky.

You wanted to be bad for him, and so you accepted.

The cigarette almost dropped from Eddie’s mouth in shock. He fumbled another from the box before tucking it into his back pocket. With a flourish, bending in its presentation as if it were a single rose, he offered it to you.

Never in a million years could you have imagined it. You, in a position like this. Him, in a position like that. Least of all that it would be so wildly romantic.

You accepted with the tips of your fingers, your index and middle, brushing ridges of his knuckles with feather-light indulgence. They closed around the offering, pausing for an aching second before drawing away with it.

Eddie closed his eyes, so quickly he could have masked it as a blink, but you caught it. The sigh, the swallow, the batting open with a burning hunger as he relished in the barest fulfillment of what he’d been craving since he saw you this morning — to touch you.

The cold nipped at your knuckles as you took in the foreign sensation between them, admiring it like a sinful adornment under the moonlight.

With a flick of his thumb, the parentheses of his mouth lit up in a warm glow. He took a few quick puffs, smoke billowing from his nose and the corners of his lips before taking a long drag. Satisfaction exited his lungs in a deep sigh, a billow that rose toward the twinkling sky. He turned his attention back to you. “Here,” he offered gently, beckoning you closer with a gentle come hither motion, readying his lighter.

You held your hand out gingerly, willing the trembling of your fingers to cease with little success.

Eddie closed in, bringing a finger to his lips as a gentle suggestion. “Put it in your mouth,” he said, unable to suppress the boyish grin that surfaced from the words.

You did as he told you, held it in your smirk, searched for your next instruction in the depth of his eyes but found only delight. Delight in the whole sight of you; the way it dimpled the swell of your lips, in the attention of those dutiful shoulders, like you wanted to be good at misbehaving. Delight in the fact he was teaching you something.

Eddie leaned closer. “Like this,” he instructed softly, framing his own with his long, ruddy digits before taking a quick drag. Obediently, you mirrored him, like a natural smoker would, like they did in the movies and inside the bar.

The flame ignited between you, flickering in the wild wind. Eddie cupped it with his other hand, forming a shield with the curve of his knuckles — gentle and protective. The fire caught the tip of the slender roll, but his palm was far more captivating. Inches from your face, you could study it closer than ever, plush and glowing — the broad heart line, the soft meat of its heel.

A deep inhale had smoke ghosting over your tongue. Eddie pulled away to reveal the ember and you took your cue. The drag you took, long and determined, left you coughing.

Eddie couldn’t suppress his chuckle, couldn’t mask the crinkle of his eyes as you—from behind the big desk and before the big board—were swallowed in a clumsy cloud of smoke.

“Are you laughing at me?” you asked through a giggle of your own.

Like oxygen to a flame, his laughter only brightened. “I’m sorry, you’re just… so…”

“So…what?” You gave him a look, trying to suck your dignity back through the end of the cigarette.

A million words ached on the tip of his tongue. The wind ripped across the small, frozen field, shyly disappearing in the treeline. Out here there were no bells, no footsteps, no concrete walls to listen. Eddie watched those fingers of yours pull away from your lips, blow a billow toward the open sky, and one in a million came tumbling out.

“Beautiful.”

A puff retreated back through your lips, froze in your lungs. The truth hung like smoke in the cold night air, rolled around in your chest, warmed your body from head to toe. Eddie plugged his mouth with another draw to prevent more from slipping out.

There was space for the truth out here. Space like a vacuum, vast and quiet. A shyly muttered “Thank you,” was all you could manage to fill it with.

Eddie raked his fingers through the damp curls at the nape of his neck, cheeks pinking visibly, even in the dim glow of the single light on the other side of the patio. He leaned against the fence and met your eyes again, nervous breath rolling over his plush lips.

His movement, like a magnet, drew your feet across the pavement. Deeper into the shadows with the gentle pull of his eyes. The tobacco settled in your body with a comfortable heaviness as you drank him in, and you suddenly grasped the appeal.

Out here he seemed even taller, shoulders stacked over slender hips as he leaned into the fence, an ease that washed over him with each generous draw, like the stress was rolling off into the shadows. Out here he took on a different posture, different than the one under fluorescent lights. Different than the one in the small chair next to you, the one with hunched shoulders and downcast eyes.

You tapped the ash of the cigarette off with your finger, like a natural smoker would. He smirked at the gesture, and you caught the twinge of pride in it this time.

Out here he could be anything. He could be clever and daring; a roguish enchanter. A man who casts spells with his fingers and charms with his words. Anything he wanted.

He wanted to make your eyes light up.

Eddie took another drag, hollowing his cheeks before sending out smoke in deliberate puffs with his tongue. It left his mouth in rings, hovering in the gap between you before drifting across the patio.

He got what he wanted. A gasp left your lips, eyes twinkling brighter than the stars. “What?! I didn’t know people could actually do that!” You exclaimed, delighted like a child on Christmas.

Eddie blew the rest off to the side and returned a blinding smile. It was more satisfying than the cigarette — the fact that he could do it, make your face light up. The fact that he had the power.

“How do you do that?” you asked, ever inquisitive.

His instructions were simple; take a big drag, hollow your cheeks, make the shape with your mouth, and push the smoke out with your tongue. Simple enough, from the sound of it.

Your first attempt failed, miserably. Uproariously.

“The shape is critical,” he reminded through a chuckle, “it’s gotta be like, a perfect O, not an oval.” His eyes lingered over your lips as you tried his suggestion, struggling to will his mind away from the gutter.

Your smile made it hard to maintain. “Wait—wait, hold on I think I got it.” You tried again with great focus, sending out puffs with your tongue that looked nothing like rings. It was worth it though. Worth making a fool of yourself for the amusement that colored his face, for the bright laughter it earned you. “Ok, fine. Maybe not.”

It looked good on him, just like it did on stage. This knowing that drew his shoulders back, made him lean with a powerful ease. The knowing that he was really good at something, that he could show you.

“It’s a bit advanced,” he said with a wink before taking another deep drag. He puffed a ring and cast it forward with a push of his hand, like a spell through the air. It broke on your nose and you relished in the soft sensation of his life-force ghosting over your face.

It was all you could do just to look at him — rugged and regal in the way that only he could be. It was dangerous and thrilling; how alone you were right now. His aura pulled you closer, eyes tugging at those burning questions, serious questions at war with your lingering buzz. You broke the silence with the truth; soft and sincere. “You’re insanely talented, I hope you know that.”

The curve of his lashes dipped shyly with a little puff through his nose. They raised with a sparkle that cut through the darkness. “Thanks, it uh… comes a lot easier to me than chemistry.” He tapped off his ash on the pavement.

You tucked your free hand into your pocket with a bashful shuffle of your feet. “Well, good thing rockstars don’t need to know chemistry then.”

Eddie scoffed and gave his eyes a quick roll, unsuccessful at hiding the brilliance of his smile. Heat crept up his neck, and he soothed it with a wring of his hand.

There was a gap between you; a space you were too scared to breach. The two of you filled it with shy chatter as your cigarettes dwindled to nubs. It was easy, to talk to him. About music, about anything. Easy because you gave each other turns to take it; the space. It almost made it easy to forget who you were to each other before you came out here, who you would go back to being tomorrow.

The cold was wicked and relentless; biting at your knuckles as you tapped the last ash. Even the tobacco’s heavy warmth sinking to your feet couldn’t stave it off. It was a Tuesday night in December, and the wind made sure to remind you.

Eddie followed your eyes toward the door. “It’s ok,” he reassured. “Nobody comes out here. We’re safe.”

His words sparked a tingle in your chest, a pulse of heat; low and thrumming. Neither could halt the shiver that seized your limbs.

“You ok?” he asked gently, stepping close enough to almost feel the heat from him.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You blew on your hands, rubbing them together feebly to fight the cold. You were stubborn to surrender, determined not to end your stolen moment by succumbing.

It was all he could do just to look at you. You, shaking like a leaf in the wind. You, with longing eyes and trembling lips. You, with your soft skin and softer soul. His fingers burned, wrestled with the silence, and the distance, and the howl of the wind through the trees. They warred with the ticking clock, with the chill against his precious moment, with the threat of it winning. Suddenly his fingers—bolder than they’ve ever been in his life—twitched to animation. They toyed with the cold metal zipper at his neck, and in one decided tug, he opened up for you. “Here,” he offered.

You froze, more than the cold could ever manage, as you eyed the invitation — the warm leather cave, the exposure of his heaving chest. Your lips parted but words would not come. You wanted it — the heat, the tight embrace, to be wrapped in his aura, to feel his laughter with your palms.

Your noble mind as it cast its disapproval like a shadow toward your heart, but your hands and feet were deaf to it. Boots shuffling boldly against the rough pavement, they filled the gap between his. You accepted with the tips of your fingers, delicate and tentative, like his skin was a hot iron and yours at risk to burn. You watched them disappear into the darkness, felt the soft cotton warmth as it enveloped you. With trembling slowness, you traced the divots of his ribcage, settled into them like grooves, felt him gasp into your palms when the ice that you’d become found the velvet, heated skin under his arms.

“Sorry—”

“Hah—hmm—no-no it’s ok,” he grimaced, pinning your hands beneath his arms to stop your recoil, as if the pain of the freeze hurt less than the pain of its absence. “I—ah—I asked for this.” His chuckle was a warm vibration, a flutter as the cage which housed his heart contracted.

A shiver racked your body as you thawed. Whether it was nerves, or fear, or the chill that had settled deep in your bones long before you stepped foot outside, you were helpless to control it.

“Come ‘ere,” he breathed with equal care and need.

You submitted, tracing his contours as he pulled you closer — head against his solid shoulder, into the soft pillow of his hair, into the source of his scent: leather and tobacco and the sweet, salty musk of his skin. You closed your eyes and basked in it, nose buried in his curls, drawing in deeply to steady your rattling chest.

Broad palms splayed across the fabric of your coat, pulling you deep into the comfort of his heat, tracing your waist to settle in a place they burned to be — your lower back. “It’s ok, you’re ok,” he murmured into your hair, bracing you tightly as your whole body shook.

You could have died here, buried yourself in his arms and made him your tomb. They would find you in the morning; frozen like a sculpture. Left out for all of Hawkins to see, to point and say terrible things. It wouldn’t matter. You would have died happy.

His heart was pounding with disbelief. You, here, in his arms. You could feel it through your coat, hammering against your chest, into your palms at his back. Eddie felt your breathing slow, your body soften and relax. He crooked his forearm firmly to your back, to the place where it belonged, fingers curling like a cage around your waist. Out here he could be anything — strong and stable, a haven for your tired bones to rest. Anything, for you.

In the dark leather cave there was a landscape for your hands to study. The satin liner grazed your knuckles as your hands explored the angles of his shoulder blades with tentative slowness — down along the muscles of his back, the dip of his spine, the birdcage of his ribs; expanding and contracting, deep and steady.

He was real, here, in your arms. Two swelling lungs. One beating heart. Two hands that clutched the wool barrier between you. One solid shield of a chest. One humming column at your cheek. Eddie Munson; wildfire. Close enough to thaw you. Close enough to burn you to the ground.

Your hands settled at the slim taper of his waist. Pliant and yielding under soft cotton, swelling with each ocean breath. His cage around you tightened, and you breathed him in, felt him swallow, felt his hips slot against the groove of yours with sensed belonging.

The animal in you keened with curiosity, emboldened by the dark. Your hands wouldn’t dare beyond the roadblock of his belt, but they would move in slow strokes up and down his back. A gentle comfort, a mask for your indulgence.

A quiet moan rose up in him, one he couldn’t swallow. The best he could do was cloak it in a sigh. It hummed against your ear; your cheek so close to the crook of his neck you could almost taste it. You breathed him in again, lips pressed to his soft curls against tough leather as the smoke, and musk, and crisp night air filled your lungs.

His hands were less patient; dipping toward the slope of your hips, pawing at thick wool, thumbs drawing aching circles there. It earned an arch from your back, a grasp from your hands at the soft cotton barrier.

There was an animal in him too, preening at the cant of your hips, at the rub of your neck against his. With a dip of his chin he could sink his teeth in, but his noble mind willed it away, settled for the scent of you instead — soft like powder, warm and inviting. The heels of your palms drifted toward his belly, and the animal threatened to rear below his belt.

“Ah,” it leapt out his throat.

Hands freezing before reaching the healthy swell, you drew back from his shoulder, checking in. Your lids hung with visible weight, pupils blown by more than just the lack of light, dizzy from his touch. He could do that with his hands, he thought; a split-second revel before concern sobered your features.

His disappointment was palpable, like he’d burst some great bubble. “Mm—no, it’s fine, please—” please don’t stop. His arms around you tightened, eyes pleading with words he wasn’t bold enough to utter, even in the darkness.

A shadow of guilt fell across your face. Guilt for your greedy hands, for your lost control, for your bad behavior. It was a pitiful sight; worse than the one he saw yesterday. Worse because it was here. Worse because he was closer than he’d ever been before.

There was a gap between you; space for the cold to seep between your hearts. Space for the fear that he’d broken the spell. That you didn’t see him anymore, but your student instead.

You thumbed his soft cotton shirt, buried in the shelter of his coat. Eddie Munson — frenetic and compelling. Beautiful in the way that wild things are. Breathing life into your numb hands with each ragged swell. You studied him closely; his soft cupid’s bow, his pink, plush pout, the angles of his worried jaw, the pining in his eyes.

Want. A wild, elusive thing. A summer wind. An admission at a cost. Want didn’t budge. Want looked you dead in the eyes and tightened its grip.

Eddie knew what he wanted, burning like a question on his tongue. He knew he had to be the one to ask. He was terrified — of the question, of the asking, of the fact that he may never get another chance. Your hands grappled with it, clung like they feared he would vanish. He felt the ache in them, the want, the fear, the frustration. It opened up a narrow passage, and he entered with the boldest thing he had ever done.

He asked you with his forehead first. A gentle nod forward; the softest collision. A tickle of curls. A rock back and forth of his strong, sturdy brow. A smile even you couldn’t hide. Your hands released, settled at the dip of his back in quiet permission.

He asked you with the bridge of his nose. A delicate slope. A tender nuzzle. Rigid bone under soft flesh. Cold, round tip. Roaming the map of yours with heated intention as he swayed like a dance in the moonlight. You closed your eyes, surrendered to the fantasy. Felt the heat of his cheek, the pang of his palm at your back as he pulled you closer.

He asked you with a tilt of his chin, and brought time to a halt.

There was a gap between you. A fractional distance bridged by the ghost of his breath. Within it; every party that you never went to, every basement you were never led away from, every page you never shared, every experience you never had. Goodness was a mantle, heavy from a lifetime on your shoulders.

What did freedom taste like? The question brushed across your lips like a warm invitation. You were desperate for the answer. Wanted it more than anything, ever, in your whole entire life. Wanted it for you, for only you. For once.

Eddie asked the question. You closed the gap.

A sigh left both of you at once. One you could taste this time, humming against the plush cradle of his lips. Freedom could have melted you. It threatened the strength of your knees, but his arms were stronger. Locked against each other in the shadows you borrowed, your lips began to explore, to express every secret wish the two of you had dreamt apart.

Freedom tasted tentative at first. A slow drag of his lips, a languid slip that rippled to the dormant parts of you. Catching like tinder as they grazed over yours, hot with an ache you could taste. It was sinfully exquisite; tasting the curve of his smile, the hyper-real rasp of his stubble as those lips—the ones that shot you smirks from down the hall and spilled over with song—found a rhythm with yours. Broad palms clutched the wool at your waist like you’d slip through a crack if he didn’t hold on.

Freedom was slick. It tasted like cigarettes, like a thousand unsaid words ushered past the border of your mouth. You could taste every one on his tongue, soothed them with the slickness of yours. Every aching word, dripping in each soft caress. Diving like a dance, echoed in the soft, wet smacks when you parted. You devoured them like you were starving. Every sigh, every hum, every color that left his lungs slipped eagerly down your throat.

The wool at your back was a nuisance. Eddie pawed at it, desperate to feel the shape of you through the fabric, to store it in the vault of his mind, to play with it later in private. He halted his hands at your hips, willed them decent, rationed with the small working part of his brain that your lips would have to be enough. He relished in the way you accepted him. The way you spread for him, parting eagerly for his tongue. The way your lips closed around him, rocking as he prodded like you’d done it before. Like you wanted to elsewhere.

The spell was broken. The line, miles away. There was a hunger in you, sudden and surprising, roused by the very first taste. Eddie palmed your hips with an urgency that stirred you. Like a bear in the spring, thawed by the heat of his touch, you devoured him. Devoured him with the wholeness of your splayed hands, tracing up his pounding ribs, dragging across the expanse of his broad chest. It heaved under your touch; solid muscle under soft cotton. You devoured his moan; a hot, strangled thing that escaped his plush lips. Like a match to the strip your tongue, you ignited.

His hands lost their patience. Breaking from your waist, they dove behind your ears to cradle your face. Your face. Your jaw, your delicate cheeks he caressed with the rough pads of his thumbs, as if the swell of them—the rigid bones under soft skin, the absolute realness of you in his arms—could wake him from the dream he was surely having. He was tasting you, tasting the want on your tongue. More satisfying than a four course meal, more satisfying than anything he’d ever tasted in his life. You wanted him. More than that, you savored him; the taste of his hot, eager tongue as it slipped against yours.

Freedom was delicious. Bold and complex, acrid and rich. Full bodied. A smooth, sweet finish. You could have drowned in it. Drowned in the angles of his hands, in his tender strokes, in the sopping heat of his mouth. Drowned in his eager sighs, in his scent. Drowned completely if he hadn’t held your head above the surging waves.

Eddie was good like a midnight snack. Good like a wide open road. He was good at this. Good at knowing how to ask and answer. Good at at finding the rhythm of you.

You broke for air, stilling against the bridge of his nose, afraid to look him in the eyes just yet, to break away from the safety his shadow provided. Safe from the world, safe from consequences, safe from the thoughts that battered at the door of your mind. Safety was fragile and fleeting. You knew it, he knew it. Your breath mingled in hot bursts as you steadied your spinning world for a quiet moment together. You felt him smile—heard it—big and bright as it cracked across his face. The air stung your cheeks when he took his hands away. Leaning back against the fence, he tugged you closer, further into the safety of the shadows, enveloping you in the crook of his heat.

It was good like this — the angles of you and the angles of him, fitting like they always belonged. It felt safe to explore them, to paint his pounding chest, down the soft swell of his belly, stopping at his hips. With a thick bob of his Adam’s apple, he closed the gap again. It was chaste this time, peppering your lips with space to breathe between each kiss. They were slow and savory, steady and sure. They lingered long enough for you to get another taste, to capture that plush Cupid’s bow and let it melt across yours, to flick your tongue over his soft bottom lip and taste him there too.

You could taste his need when he greeted your tongue with his own. It was safe to show it here. Safe to let the animal inside him bare its teeth. Safe to let the animal in you do the same. It growled when he nipped at you, hooked its claws through his belt loops and tugged. It was a quick, testing thing, and your sound let him know that he passed. He lapped it up hungrily, soothed it before inflicting another.

It ached in a frightening way, in that deep, low place. Throbbed awake with each delicious bite. It scared you how quickly the path was veering south, but the pooling warmth encouraged his travels, let him go wherever he wanted. When his lips strayed far enough to track your jaw, a shrinking voice shrieked danger, but the rest of you simply submitted.

Claws braced denim and leather, offering yourself with a tip of your head. Reverently, he accepted, setting his pace with a dizzying slowness. He worshiped you with every latch, every press, every lingering smack, darting his tongue out to taste the forbidden angles of your jaw. It was greedy but good. To him, to you. Letting go this much. Letting him go this far. The trail cooled in the night air, and he settled at the precipice of your neck.

His breath alone was enough to melt you; heavy with the weight of his new position. Heavy with desire, with the weight of thousand fantasies he never thought would come to pass. He drank in the cocktail of your scent; concentrated, warm, deliciously real. In the throws of your own heaving chest, sobered just barely by the pregnant pause, you awoke to your position: open, vulnerable, completely at his mercy.

He tasted your swallow, felt your breath hitch when his warm, wet tongue found your pulse. Lathing there a moment, lingering and slow, he savored you. Savored the ridges of your neck, the way your head lolled to the side, like a feast laid out for him. He stored the image in his mind, packaged it carefully for when he would surely be starving again. His lips soothed where his tongue left off, over and over until your strangled sound stirred a fiending hunger. He bared his teeth, and you shattered.

Freedom was falling apart in his arms. Crumbling into pieces and letting him grapple you whole. Letting him capture you in his maw and lap up your ruin. Letting him, letting him. His teeth dragged dull and slow, tingling every waking cell, turning you to putty completely. He dragged a moan out of you. A full one, loud and clear. He tucked it away, buried it deep alongside your squirms and your touch.

The door opened.

Cold air shocked your lungs. Head snapping over your shoulder, you broke his latch and Eddie hissed a curse at the separation. With daggers, you both assessed the intruder.

The silhouette of his cap gave him away. He might have even kept on walking but the gasps and the shuffling feet made him turn. “Oh shit,” Bill flinched back in surprise. “Sorry man I thought you left.”

Eddie’s arm tightened instinctively, pulling you as close as he wanted to earlier. Reflexively, you pushed away. It was a strange tug of war — his pride and your fear. “Yeah—no we’re still here,” he snapped.

You swallowed your pounding heart, sobering completely under Bill’s gaze. Suddenly your claws retracted, your hands felt wrong where they rested, shame bit at your neck along the cooling trail he left behind.

Even in the backlit glow of the singular light, you saw it painted clearly on his features — the judgement, the disbelief, the questions rising up but not daring to come out. “Well um, sorry to interrupt. Have a good night,” Bill said with an awkward raise of his hand before making quickly for the parking lot.

Footsteps faded over gravel and left a silence in their wake, thicker than the stillness from before.

Eddie breathed a sharp sigh through his nostrils, brows lowered as he seethed toward the parking lot. The cold was setting in again. Your nose, and ears, and fingers stung with it. The rest of you stung worse; chest numbing, caving like a can under the weight of what you’d just done.

When the flick of distant headlights made you brave enough to face him, frustration painted his features. He pawed at your coat, desperate to salvage what he could of his precious moment. “Anyway, where were we?” he muttered, eyeing your neck with a tilt of his head like he was about to dive in again.

Your hand at his chest stopped him, and the look in his eyes was wounding. “Eddie,” you warned softly. A slow, heavy sigh left his nose, one you could feel with your palm. “I need to go.”

Crestfallen after a desperate, hesitant second, his arms went slack. Your hand dropped, leaving a fierce chill behind. One more, his lips begged, but struggled to release. Please.

It hurt, to crumble like this after all you had built. With the roar of Bill’s engine, the fantasy shattered around you. The carriage became a pumpkin, your gown turned into rags. Shrill bells rang out in the distance, coming surely as the sun would rise. Pinballs thundered as that sweet oval face—the one from the back of the room and the chair next to yours—pouted with lips still swollen from where you had broken your contract.

“I’m sorry,” you mouthed.

Gathering himself with a deep breath, he straightened to a dignified height, conviction filling the cracks in his composure. “I’m not.”

It was terrifying — the prospect, the consequences. What it meant for you, for him, for the world you’d have to face tomorrow.

Most terrifying of all was how good it felt to hear him say.

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A/N: Thank you all for your patience on this one. It took me nearly all summer to finish but I'm really proud of how it turned out. Please let me know what you think! I've missed hearing from and connecting with all of you. Next one won't take nearly as long, I promise. 💕

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @mantorokk-writes @loveshotzz @storiesbyrhi @cursedyuta @trashmouth-richie @carolmunson @keeponquinning @munson-blurbs @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @idkidknemore @alizztor @godcreatoreli @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @big-ope-vibes @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @barbiedragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi @sllooney @lunaladybug734 @callingmrsbarnes @ajkamins

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MASTERLIST ⎮ AO3 ⎮ KO-FI

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson older reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x teacher!reader #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #don't stand so close to me

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flowerandblood · 10 months ago

Text

The Doubt & The Delight

[ modern Frollo • Aemond x Esmeralda • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, oral sex, smut, angst, description of physical and mental disabilities, remorse, depression, hysteria attacks, swearing, trauma, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt ]

[ description: After a car accident, his brother has to deal with the consequences of what happened, and he, as his protector, does not know how to help him. His sister comes up with the idea of hiring someone as his carer who will be able to cheer him up and occupy his mind. It turns out, however, that the girl he hired charmed not only his younger brother. Obsession, self-destructive behavior, verbal and physical aggression, sexual tension, dark, malicious Aemond. ]

Author's note: This story is a request, but I decided to freely use what I liked in the book and Disney film to create a new, disturbing story taking place in modern times. It is intended to be uncomfortable and will contain scenes that are at least morally questionable, in my version "Esmeralda" is not Romanian. This story will also include motifs from Jane Eyre, which was a separate request. My story will also touch on the problems of people with disabilities, so if these are sensitive topics for you, I advise against reading further. You have been warned.

Part 1 − The Knight & The Judge Part 2 − The Sin & The Penance Epilogue

Main Characters Moodboard Aemond NSFW Alphabet

This is the last part of this story. Thank you all for such a nice reception of this entire mini-series, it was supposed to be a oneshot, but as usual it turned out to be something more! This is probably one of my favorite works here and I can't wait to hear your opinions.

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous chapters: Masterlist

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That night, after what had happened between them, he sobbed silently for the first time since the day of the accident in which his parents died. He didn't know what else he could do − he felt helpless and couldn't sleep, despair completely possessing his heart and mind.

Don't ever touch me again.

We are even.

He clenched his eyelids, letting the tears run down the sides of his face onto the pillow lying under his head.

Some part of him wanted to go to her door, to fall to his knees and beg her to open it for him, to let him hold her close, to fall asleep in her embrace.

He needed her so much, but he knew he had no right to demand anything from her.

She was doing more than she had to anyway.

He shuddered as he heard the sound of the door opening; stupefied by the sedatives and painkillers for a moment he had no idea where he was or who he was − he raised himself up on his elbow and hissed, feeling his head ache incredibly.

He opened his eyelids and immediately closed them, blinded by the light from the windows − he gave up with a sigh laying back on the couch, trying to calm himself down.

"Daeron?" He called out loudly, trying to remember what had happened, whether he had drunk too much alcohol the evening before or overdosed on sleeping pills.

He heard someone's footsteps and froze when he saw her frightened face; she came towards him with her eyes wide open as if looking at a ghost, stopping at a safe distance.

"− I'm just helping him change, we'll come soon − God, how pale you are, should I call the doctor again? −" She muttered clearly genuinely horrified by his condition, but he shook his head quickly.

"− did you call the police yesterday? −" He asked lowly, thinking with horror that no one at the prosecutor's office could find out that he was still struggling with his trauma and had almost caused a car crash.

She shook her head quickly, playing with the fingers of her hand in a nervous gesture.

"− n-no − the man we almost collided with wanted to do it at first, but when we got out of the car and said you'd fainted he called an ambulance and let it go − he apparently decided you'd just had some sort of attack and didn't want to add to our problems −" She replied once looking him in the eye, once looking away − he could see that she clearly wasn't coping with the situation or what had happened between them.

He sighed in relief, running his hand over his face, thinking about the fact that securing Daeron's fate was now his priority and he needed to pull himself together.

"− I'm going to go help Daeron and we'll make something for breakfast soon −" She said quickly and turned away, moving down the corridor towards his little brother's room, disappearing behind the door.

The two of them had tried not to look at each other all morning, heartbroken and horrified by what had happened between them − they both felt that their lives had slipped out of their control and he resented himself for dragging her into it all.

The doctors advised him to stay at home for a few days and rest, so he called Alys to ask her to bring him his documentation.

"− sick leave? − something happened? −" She asked concerned, and he sighed heavily, tightening his fingers on the base of his nose, not having the strength for this discussion.

"− I've been overworking lately, I need to slow down − can I count on you? −" He asked matter-of-factly, hearing her snort of amusement on the other side.

"− sure − I'll be there in half an hour −" She replied calmly and hung up; he sighed heavily, running his hand over his face and put the phone down on the table top.

He glanced over his shoulder, hearing the sizzle of the pan and shuddered meeting her gaze − she lowered her eyes immediately as if caught in the act, concentrating on not burning the pancakes, Daeron wheeled around her in his wheelchair placing clean plates and cutlery beside her.

They ate breakfast together, both of them really only talking to Daeron, passing cups and juice to each other out of politeness only. He felt a pleasant shudder when his fingers touched hers, looking her straight in the eyes − her lower lip twitched a little, only a quiet, sad thank you came out of her mouth.

As they ate Daeron said he would do his own homework and then change her to look after him, as if he was now the one to take on the role of his caretaker.

As he left his Esmeralda stood up, picking up the dirty dishes from the countertop − he took his plate from her hand, swallowing hard.

"− no need, I'll do it − I'm better now, I don't want to force you to stay here any longer than necessary − thank you very much −" He said in a low voice, getting up from his seat and stepping around her, opening the dishwasher with a light movement, tossing in the cutlery and other dirty dishes she'd held earlier.

He felt her looking at him, his heart pounding like crazy, for some reason he wanted to cry again.

"− I'm sorry − for what happened yesterday −" She muttered in a whisper and he raised his shocked gaze to her, frozen still.

She stood in front of him covering her mouth with her hand, trying to silence the loud, ragged breath that shook her body along with the sob that wanted to break from her throat, tears began to fall from the corners of her eyes one after another.

God, she was remorseful.

"− no − no, stop − you didn't do anything wrong, I wanted it −" He said quickly, but she shook her head.

"− I couldn't sleep − I felt awful −" She uttered with difficulty, choking on her own tears, and despite her telling him never to touch her again he put his arm around her waist and pulled her to him in one sure movement − her body did not put up any resistance to him, her fingers tightened on his sweatshirt in a helpless gesture.

"− I-I'm sorry − I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you −" She mumbled out and burst into quiet sobs.

He thought with despair that he had broken this poor girl, brought her to a state where she felt like an abuser.

He embraced her tightly, snuggling his face into the hollow of her neck, stroking her back reassuringly − her wonderful scent and the warmth of her body had a soothing effect on him, he thought he wanted to remember this moment for a lifetime.

"− I'm the one who hurt you − I took something away from you and you tried to get it back − you asked me if I wanted it and I made it clear that I did − easy − breathe deeply − it's all right −" He whispered in a trembling voice, running his large hand through her back and hair. She snuggled into him so tightly that he felt tears under his eyelids himself − he pressed his lips together not wanting to let them flow out but it was no use.

"− thank you for everything − I'm feeling better now, I'll be fine by the time Helaena arrives − go home and get some rest − I'll think of something and explain to Daeron why you can't work for us anymore − I'll send you your pay by transfer so you never have to see me again − hm? −" He asked softly and she only nodded, her whole chest trembling in convulsion as she drew in a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

He wanted to tell her that he loved her.

He wanted to tell her that she was the most wonderful person he had ever met.

He wanted to tell her that if she ever needed help, she could always count on him.

He wanted to do that, but he only flinched when he heard the doorbell ring, reminding himself of Alys − they moved away looking at each other in pain, the sight of her wiping her cheeks red from tears broke his heart.

He realised that he was a monster.

As soon as he opened the gate for her, Alys walked into his house with thick folders of documents in her hands, looking elegant as usual in her jacket, long trousers and high heels. She smiled at the sight of his Esmeralda, and she pressed her lips together realising with horror that she stood dressed only in his hoodie.

"Good morning. We don't know each other yet." Alys said to her and held out her hand to her − she, not knowing what to do, herself embarrassed by the situation and how it looked shook her hand, squeezing it firmly.

"Good morning." She muttered and just threw to him that she was going to go see how Daeron was doing with his homework − Alys led her away with her eyes looking at her with a calm, curious expression on her face.

"Who is this beautiful little flower? In addition wearing your hoodie I think." She asked amused, a note of mock accusation in her voice, as if she had solved the equation. "Is it because of her that you can't concentrate lately?"

He threw her one warning, sharp look, which did not deter her, however − he sighed heavily and shook his head.

"She's Daeron's caretaker and she had to stay here to help me take care of him after I fainted yesterday. They were at a carnival ball together and she had nothing to change into." He replied coolly, wanting to end the subject quickly, frustrated.

"Is that why you both cried?" She asked lowly raising an eyebrow, the piercing look in her bright green eyes told him clearly that she felt the tension that hung in the air between them. He swallowed loudly, looking away, not wanting to look at her smile full of satisfaction.

"Thank you for bothering to come all the way out here. I'll be gone for a week, we're in touch." He replied dryly − she threw over his shoulder that if he needed her for anything he could count on her and smiled at his Esmeralda heading for the exit, saying it was a pleasure to meet her.

As the door closed behind her there was an awkward silence between them. He saw that she was wearing his hoodie and shorts that were too loose on his brother but on her they fit perfectly despite the manly cut, in her hand she held the bag with her costume.

She was leaving.

He will never see her again.

"Are you sure you can manage?" She asked uncertainly, not looking at him. She seemed pale to him, he thought that for some reason Alys' visit had saddened her, but he didn't even dare assume it might have had anything to do with him.

At most, she might have thought he was a bigger bastard and pervert than she suspected.

"Yes, we'll be fine. Thanks again." He muttered, trying not to look at her, but to poor effect, thinking only of how wonderful it was to hold her in his arms, how tightly she snuggled into him seeking refuge and comfort.

He realised that he craved such closeness from her as much as the touch of her naked body.

He wasn't just about sex.

She, however, merely nodded, raising her sad, tired, embittered gaze at him once more, and after a moment she turned and disappeared behind the door.

The hours leading up to Helaena's arrival he spent with Daeron, playing together FIFA'23 and other games that his brother thought would distract him from all the unpleasant events of the past weeks.

"Don't worry, everything will be fine. You just need to rest. It's good that you and Esmeralda have reconciled." He said clicking beside him on his pad, trying to win a race against him on the big space track. He swallowed hard, thinking with pain and shame that they hadn't reconciled at all, that they weren't even.

What she did was a desperate attempt by her to regain what he had taken from her, the feeling that she had power over her own body.

It didn't bring her any relief though − it seemed to him that it made her feel even worse.

She wasn't like him − she'd probably never behaved like this before, and she was horrified to find that she didn't recognise herself.

He had destroyed her, taken away her innocence, devoured her.

He pressed his lips together, trying to stop the burning tears that forced their way under his eyelids from flowing and grunted loudly, trying to focus on the game.

As he prepared the room where his sister was to sleep, and where his Esmeralda had previously spent the night, he noticed a purple cloth lying on the floor. He reached out and picked it up, realising after a moment that it was a scarf she had worn on her head in the form of a headband.

He pressed it to his face and closed his eyes, with a squeeze in his throat thinking that the material was permeated with her scent.

He kept it.

Helaena had arrived straight from the airport in a taxi for which she had paid crores − as soon as she stepped inside she dropped her suitcase, ran up to him and threw herself into his arms. He burst out sobbing, feeling her familiar, tender closeness.

He wasn't sure when was the last time someone had hugged him, stroked him, told him everything was going to be alright, that now he was the one being taken care of.

Taking the opportunity that Daeron was playing in his room on his laptop, they sat side by side on the living room couch to discuss what had happened.

"I think I've stopped coping. I'm slowly losing my self-control." He muttered, burying his face in his hands, feeling that he needed to at least partially throw off what was going on inside his head − he felt his sister stroking his back comfortingly.

"Me and Aegon left you alone with all of this, sinking into our own grief. We all focused on Daeron because we decided you were older and better able to handle it all." She said with pain and some kind of regret, as if she only now realised that he wasn't a fully formed adult then either.

He let the air out of his lungs, feeling like a small, clumsy child again, embarrassed that he wasn't coping, that he had chaos in his head, that he was stuck and unable to get out of the mess he had sunk all the way into.

"I thought it would be good for you to have a change. For you and Daeron to fly with me for a few weeks, get some rest, during which time we can work together to find you some sort of therapist, someone to help you get over all this." She said warmly, and he shook his head quickly, terrified of her suggestion, of having to reinvent himself somewhere, of not being in his home, of not having his things and activities.

"No, I can't do that. I need a rest, but here, at home. I do think, however, that it will do Daeron good to spend time with you, to get away from it all. Maybe when I have a bit of time to myself I can somehow…sort it all out." He muttered, feeling her worried gaze on him.

"You shouldn't be left alone."

"I haven't been alone with my thoughts for five years. I need this." He said regretfully, realising that he had devoted all his strength to his younger brother, leaving himself with nothing.

He felt empty.

"And he needs a change of environment. He sees me gloomy and tired every day. You will help me the most if you take care of him for a week or two so that I can get myself in order."

"You have to promise me that you will go to therapy. You're taking on too much on your shoulders." She said cautiously, and he nodded to her, wanting everyone to finally give him a break.

Daeron was at the same time happy about the sudden unplanned holiday, but on the other hand very worried that he was going to be left alone at home.

"But who will take care of you? Esmeralda?" He asked hesitantly, and he replied that he would manage on his own, that they would talk on the phone every day, that he just needed a bit of rest to think things over.

As they packed to leave he was with them in body, but not in thoughts which drifted far away to her, to what had happened between them.

Despite the fact that they had sex with each other twice, it was the memory of that morning in his kitchen when he held her in his embrace that he remembered most, the innocence and tenderness of that gesture, the warmth of her body, the smell of her hair, the fact that for a moment she had allowed him to get close to her.

He knew he would never see her again.

Waving them off, already seated in the taxi, watching them drive away he wondered what the point of living such a terrible person like him was.

He cleaned the whole house, sorted the papers in his office, put up the laundry and emptied the dishwasher, doing everything unhurriedly with complete silence all around him, only the sound of the wind outside the windows and the quiet pounding of raindrops against the windowsills.

He finally sat down on the sofa, staring dully ahead, before lowering his gaze to the small container of sleeping pills he'd been taking for days to get at least a few hours of sleep.

He wondered how many he'd have to swallow to not wake up.

He didn't know why his hand reached for his phone − his fingers tapped out a question on Google and, to his surprise, many different topics on forums about how to commit suicide painlessly popped up.

He read statements from some young, desperate, frightened people who couldn't cope with life and responses from others, some encouraging them to commit the act and explaining how to do it, others asking them not to do it, that they would be happy to talk to them, to support them through this difficult time.

He thought of Daeron, of how if he had done it, his little brother would have completely broken down, that it would only add to the pain of his whole family, and that Helaena would never forgive herself for leaving him alone.

That it would have been selfish of him.

On the other hand, his mind reminded him of his aggressive, merciless interrogations, the way he approached witnesses, the way he approached Alys, what he did to his Esmeralda when she recognised at once his malicious, dark nature.

How was someone like him supposed to continue to take care of Daeron? How was he supposed to pretend that he was a good man who could advise him on anything, be his authority?

He thought that his little brother should have stayed with Helaena − she was the calmest of them all, surely she would have handled his parenting much better, given him what he needed.

He reached for a small container of pills and stared at it, turning it between his fingers with a loud rattle, wondering dispassionately what he should do with himself.

He hummed as if he remembered something and slipped his hand into the pocket of his trousers, pulling out a thin, purple folded cloth − he looked at it, feeling the need to call her.

He didn't know why he would do that when he was sure she didn't want to see him and couldn't even look at Daeron, to whom he would have to explain why she would no longer be taking care of him upon his return.

He guessed that she would only pick up out of politeness, and he would again flood her with his problems, his suicidal thoughts, forcing her to worry about him, to feel sorry for him even though he didn't deserve her sympathy.

He didn't even know when he unscrewed the container, when he tilted his head and poured its entire contents into his mouth, taking a deep sip of water after this, letting his judgment of himself run deep into his stomach.

He seemed to regain his sanity only after a moment, staring at the empty vessel wondering what he had actually done.

Oh fuck.

God, what had he done?

No, no, no, no.

He went into a complete panic, his heart started pounding like crazy − he didn't know how much time he had before he lost consciousness, so in a gesture of helplessness he dialled her number quickly, wondering if she would answer from him this time.

He thought he was pathetic, but he was scared, there was no one else to turn to − his body was shaking all over from stress and terror, his breathing quick and raspy, tears of fear in his eyes.

Biip.

"− hello? −"

He heard her uncertain voice on the other side and drew in the air loudly, shocked, swallowing hard, taking a deep breath, running his hand over his face.

"− fuck − I − I − I did something very, very stupid − I took a whole packet of sleeping pills − I don't know what came over me − oh fuck, what have I done −" He muttered in a squeaky, high-pitched voice, like a helpless child who had broken a vase and realised what his parent would do to him when they found out.

"− what? − oh God − are you home? − I'm calling the ambulance −"

"− n-no − no, fuck, they'll kick me out of the national prosecutor's office − please −"

"− go quickly to the bathroom and try to induce vomiting − give me the code to your gate, I'll be right there −"

He seemed to act in an amok, as he rose from the couch everything around him swirled − she told him to take his phone to the restroom, so he did.

He fell to his knees in front of the toilet, shoving two fingers down his throat − after several attempts he finally threw up, whooping with his tears, coughing loudly, his whole body shaking in convulsions, his heart pounding like mad in his chest.

How could he do this, how could he be so selfish?

"− I'm sorry −" He mumbled, sliding slowly to the ground, feeling his mind begin to envelope in a blissful peace and quiet, her voice coming from the speaker of his phone seemed to him only a distant whisper.

He thought he would take a nap for a while, rest and when he woke up everything would be fine.

It seemed to him that minutes, hours or years might have passed when he felt someone move his body − he shuddered as someone's fingers forced their way between his lips, his numb body powerless to resist.

"− come on, please − get it out of you − God, what have you done − please, please, come on −" He heard her crying beside him, the tips of her fingers pressing against the back of his tongue, until finally his stomach convulsed with a powerful spasm, and his body threw it all out with his throaty cough of exertion.

He heard her sobs, smelled her scent, her closeness, how her hands washed his face with water, how she stroked his head as she hugged him to her breasts, mumbling in despair that he was a fool, something warm and soft enveloped them.

He fell asleep, recognising that this was what heaven must have been like.

When he woke up he felt everything around him spinning − he muttered in displeasure, another cramp squeezing his stomach.

He pulled himself up, in the dark looking for the toilet, at the last moment leaning over it and vomited again, panting loudly, everything around him blurred, it seemed to him that it was morning.

He heard movement beside him − someone's hand touched his back and stroked him with a gentle, affectionate gesture as convulsion again shook his body, which was trying with all its might to rid itself of what he had swallowed the day before.

Nothing more than a mumble left his mouth, his head drooped involuntarily − he felt someone pull him back to keep him from sliding down onto the tiles. He lay down, something soft enveloped him again.

"− it's okay − sleep −" He heard her whisper and thought that the pills he had taken were causing him to hallucinate, that he was probably dreaming it all, and since he was and she wasn't really there he could embrace her, his arm grabbed her waist, his face snuggled between her breasts again with his loud purr of contentment and exhaustion.

He felt her hands embrace him, stroking his head and back − he thought, feeling the hard floor beneath him, that they were lying in the bathroom and she must have brought the duvet and pillows from his bedroom, sleeping in that room with him.

He fell asleep and woke up hearing someone walking around his house, once in a while someone touched his head − he heard her voice asking him some questions that he was unable to focus on − she was only answered by his frustrated sounds indicating that he just wanted to sleep on.

Finally when he opened his eyes he managed to see anything − the bathroom door was open, the light in the room was off. He had a perfect view of the corridor and part of the living room lit up in the sun − he heard someone's footsteps, his heart jumped into his throat when he saw her silhouette in the doorway.

"− hey − hey, how are you feeling? −" She muttered walking up to him and kneeling beside him, her loose hair in a slight disarray, she was wearing shorts and a plain white Tshirt. He looked away from her breasts when he noticed she wasn't wearing a bra, swallowing hard.

He didn't reply, feeling an overwhelming sense of shame, remembering what he had done, how disgusting and selfish he had acted, that he had forced her to help him again despite having caused her such harm.

"− I − I would like to talk to some therapist −" He choked out with tears in his eyes, not looking at her but somewhere in front of him, his breathing shallow and uneven − it seemed to him as if his lungs had completely clenched.

"− alright − alright, I'll look for someone nearby − okay? −" She asked tentatively and he just nodded, unable to look her in the eye. He heard her get up quickly, and a moment later she was back, sitting down next to him with her phone in her hand, typing something quickly on her screen, apparently scrolling through the accounts of doctors who had offices in the same town.

"− there's a Dr Smith, he's got a free appointment in two days at one o'clock in the afternoon, or a Dr Morgan, but he… −"

"− anyone − as soon as possible −" He said dispassionately, looking blankly ahead, heard her swallow hard and click something quickly, heard his phone vibrate beside him on the floor.

"− I've booked you an appointment and sent you details via message −" She mumbled, and he nodded.

"− thank you − you can −"

"− I spoke to your sister on the phone while you were asleep and told her everything − we agreed that Daeron will stay with her and I'll watch over you until your first appointment −" She said coldly with some kind of regret from which he felt a squeeze in his throat. He pressed his lips together, feeling his body tremble and closed his eyes, wanting to just disappear.

He shuddered, looking at her in disbelief as she slipped her purple scarf out of the pocket of her tracksuit shorts, the same one he'd found on the floor and kept. She tied her hair with it, combing it into a ponytail, staring straight into his eyes.

"I found this on your couch. Did you think of me before you did it?" She asked, with soft, sure flicks of her fingers arranging her curls as she saw fit. He swallowed hard at her question, feeling a burning sense of embarrassment.

"− yes −" He sighed. She let out a quiet breath at his words, placing her hands on her thighs.

"− are you able to get up? −"

With her help he managed to rise with difficulty − he brushed his teeth feeling the still disgusting taste of vomit and acid on his tongue and then lay down on the sofa, grabbing his head. He watched her silhouetted in the kitchen as she opened the cupboards one by one until she found his first aid kit.

He saw her throw away all the packets of sleeping pills he had.

"− hey −" He threw to her wrinkling his eyebrows, knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep a wink without them.

"− you'd better not speak −" She said warningly, without giving him a single glance, so he gave in, sighing heavily and closing his eyes, figuring there was no point in arguing.

To his surprise she moved around the rooms as if this was her home, sat down next to him at the other end of the sofa with an apple in her hand and turned on the TV as if nothing had happened. He looked at her, wondering if she was really going to sit here for days, but then decided it didn't matter.

When he finally got the phone call from Helaena he listened to almost half an hour of a litany from her about how irresponsible and selfish he was, only to hear a moment later that she loved him very much and that he needed to start taking care of himself − he assured her several times that he already had an appointment with a therapist, and Esmeralda wouldn't leave his side.

"− is that what you call me? −" She asked quietly after he had hung up, looking at the TV screen on which the news had just been airing. He looked at her surprised, realising that it wasn't actually her real name after all.

"− yes −" He replied lowly, playing with his phone between his fingers.

They didn't talk much to each other apart from the usual basic politeness. After a couple of hours he felt well enough to get up − he was still dizzy and still had no appetite, but he drank plenty of water and thought with relief that the danger had passed.

Evening finally fell and, tired after all that had happened, he simply headed upstairs to his bedroom, wanting to give her some solitude and privacy.

Changing into his pyjamas, which consisted of a simple t-shirt and black tracksuit bottoms, he shuddered and looked in disbelief at the door to his room when it opened, her figure stepping inside as if nothing had happened, climbing on his bed, lying under his duvet, turning her back to him.

What?

He pressed his lips together, wondering if he should say something or not, but in the end he couldn't resist.

"What are you doing?"

"I want to sleep. I'm tired. Could you turn out the light?" She asked quietly.

He grunted and, as she requested, walked over to the switch, flicking it, complete darkness fell all around them.

The thought that she was going to sleep in the same bed with him, even if only to keep an eye on him, made him instantly hard.

He lay down at a safer distance behind her, looking at her back and neck, knowing that she could feel his breath, but not daring to touch her.

He wondered if she was punishing him this way, showing him that she was at his fingertips, but after what he had done there was nothing else he could do but watch.

It would have been enough for him if he could have just jerked off looking at her, concentrating on her scent and the fact that she was next to him, but he felt he had no right to bring himself relief after all of this.

He didn't deserve it.

That's why he was just dying in agony, writhing − without his pills despite his fatigue he could not fall asleep, on top of that he was too aroused, her closeness was driving him crazy.

"− will you stop squirming? − I can't sleep −" She muttered at last, raising herself up on her elbow, looking at him with furrowed brows.

He felt his lips part involuntarily in desire at the sight of her face, at the thought that she didn't have a bra under her shirt, that there were her lovely breasts under that material that he could caress all night.

"− sorry −" He just choked out, trying to calm his breathing, his cock pulsed painfully swollen under the material of his sweatpants.

He made big eyes and flinched, embarrassed as she pushed back the duvet that covered them both, her gaze going to his trousers and what was going on inside them.

A tense silence fell between them − he could feel his whole body quivering with desire, grief and shame.

He wondered if she would mock his state and his desperation.

"− we can do it if you want − like civilised people − I'd like to experience some sleep tonight −" She said softly and he looked at her in disbelief, the bulge in his sweatpants twitched hard at her words.

"− are you sure? − I wouldn't −"

"− make me feel good −" She said quietly.

He drew in the air loudly as she said this, grabbing the material of her t-shirt and lifting it, pulling it over her head, revealing her lovely breasts to him.

She sighed loudly when his face immediately pressed against her nipple, alternately sucking and licking it with the tip of his tongue, his fingers digging into the soft skin of her back. She moaned quietly, surprised when he pulled her to him, her palms sliding into his hair, holding him close.

They lay on their sides, embracing each other in a tight grasp. He wriggled in disbelief and delight, willing and eager to show her how much he regretted it, how much he desired her, how much he loved her − his hand grasped tentatively her other breast, kneading it with his fingers.

"− so soft −" He gasped, listening to her quiet sighs of pleasure. He felt her throw her leg against his waist, which he grasped confidently, clenching his fingers on her thigh and pulled her closer, letting her feel how much he wanted her, his manhood throbbed impatiently beneath his trousers, hitting her stomach.

"− how −" He asked between flicks of his tongue licking and sucking her hard, puffy nipple like a little child, stroking the soft skin of her hips. He slipped his hand under the material of her shorts, tracing his fingertips over her plump buttocks, wanting to be sure that this time he would do everything the way she needed it, give her pleasure and reassurance, at the pace and the way she wanted it.

She stroked his hair at his question and placed a short, warm kiss on his forehead − he murmured lowly as he felt her begin to rub against him, encouraging him to do the same, his lips letting go of her nipple with a loud plop to look at her.

"− you on top − but touch me down there first −" She whispered embarrassedly, turning onto her back, pulling his arm behind her, looking at him with a gaze hot with desire and affection.

He leaned in, letting his swollen lips brush hers, which responded immediately to his caress, her fingers cupping his neck, deepening the kiss.

"− mmm −" She hummed, squirming beneath him. He ran his hand down her body, in a tentative, unhurried motion slipping his hand under the material of her shorts, wanting to give her time to react, but she sensing this spread her thighs wider, easing his access, his fingers finally running over her swollen, hot, wet womanhood.

"− God, little one − I want to use my mouth here −" He gasped appreciatively, thinking only of the fact that he had been dreaming of this for weeks. He smiled involuntarily when he saw her nod quickly, her sweet, full lips parted in an accelerated breath.

"− okay −" She whispered quietly, letting him slide the material of her shorts and underwear off her − he marvelled at the sight of her naked body, thinking with some kind of emotion that he felt like crying.

"− so beautiful −" He whispered, placing a gentle kiss on her stomach, on her womb, on her hip, on her thigh, knee and calf. He looked at her and noticed that she was watching him intently, her breasts rising and falling in uneven breaths, her hands on either side of her head.

"− come here −" He murmured softly, in a gentle motion pushing her hips closer to him, spreading them in front of him − he heard her gasp loudly as he leaned over her bared flesh. He let his hot breath envelop her skin before his nose ran over her hot, soft womanhood, his lips lazily clinging to her folds, placing a lingering, sticky kiss on them.

He tightened his hands on her thighs when he felt her throw her head back with a sweet, surprised moan, her fingers traveling to his short hair, stroking it in impatient motion, pressing his face close to her body.

"− please −" She mumbled, and he huffed with amusement, trailing his lips up to her puffy clit, sliding then down to her leaking, swollen slit, teasing her barely, not giving her what she needed.

"− no − we're going to do this very, very slowly − with due respect to you −" He hummed contentedly, feeling some kind of pride that he could do it this way, could give it to her and be what she needed.

She whimpered softly, writhing before him, her breathing quickened and shuddered, her body trembling in his hands, thirsting for fulfilment.

"− don't be cruel −" She mumbled resentfully, as if she thought he was teasing and taunting her. He sighed quietly, placing a warm, hot kiss on her sticky skin − a surprised, loud moan escaped her lips as the tip of his tongue suddenly forced its way inside her, deeper and deeper with each stroke, imposing an intense, fast pace on her.

"− o-oh fuck, yes, lick me −" She mewled, clenching her fingers in his hair, bucking her hips against his face, trying to find a more intense source of rubbing. He smirked under his breath as he discovered after a moment between her fleshy muscles the spot he was looking for, her whines increasingly pathetic and helpless, her walls beginning to throb around his tongue.

He heard her whimper his name, her whole body tensed as if she was trying to break away from him, but he didn't stop, letting her come on his face.

He purred contentedly as he felt how much of her moisture flowed out of her tight entrance, determined to make sure he licked every drop and not let anything go to waste despite her cries.

He surprised her when he didn't pull away, but repeated all the steps from the beginning, slowing his pace again, merely teasing her with his lips, her body twitching at his every move, overstimulated and delicate.

"− n-no more − I want you inside me −" She mumbled softly, and he looked up at her, licking his lips with his tongue, feeling her words in his trousers.

Even though he planned to spend the whole night between her thighs, he couldn't refuse such a request.

"− it's okay − there you go −" He hummed, rising to his knees, slipping his sweatpants down just enough to release his swollen, hard erection leaking from his precum. He placed one hand next to her head, the other guiding the fat, pink head of his cock between her widely spread thighs.

"− such a good girl − hm? − my sweet little baby, am I right? −" He cooed and she nodded quickly, looking at him with big eyes hazed with desire − it seemed to him that she didn't recognise him, that she didn't believe he was the same man she had met then.

He didn't believe it himself, but it felt wonderful.

They both sighed loudly when, with one slow thrust, he opened her wide on his swollen length, leaning over her, pressing his forehead to hers, her trembling hand rising to stroke his cheek, her lips pressed to his in a warm, innocent kiss.

He murmured contentedly, forcing her to fit all of him inside her with an impatient thrust of his hips − he heard her quiet cry of discomfort and surprise and swallowed loudly feeling his manhood pulsing intensely inside her, so hungry for her closeness.

She closed his waist between her legs, crossing them over his back, and he lay on top of her, pulling his t-shirt off quickly, resting his weight on his elbows to keep from crushing her, feeling her little, puffy nipples on his naked chest.

She sighed sweetly, looking up at him dreamily, trailing her fingers down his face and neck as he slipped out of her only to sink into her again a moment later with a loud click of her moisture − she was all wet and warm inside after her intense orgasm, her muscles squeezing him wonderfully from all sides.

"− that's it − just like that - it's okay −" He whispered tenderly, letting himself sink into the taste of her sticky, plump lips again, her hands trailing down his sweaty, muscled back as he involuntarily sped up his pace, pressing his nose to her cheek, slamming into her with more and more sure, brutal thrusts of his hips, groaning low along with her.

"− oh, fuck, baby −" He gasped, listening to her moans of pleasure, her insides wonderfully warm and tight, quivering all over in sensation, soaking him wet. He began to root aggressively into her weeping cunt panting hard, all around them only the loud sound of their moist, naked bodies slapping quickly against each other.

"− please − please − please −" She mumbled out looking up at him with her mouth wide open, digging her fingers into the hot skin of his back − he could feel her walls clench around him tighter, sucking him inside. He shuddered hard at her words, focusing now only on rooting again and again into her warm, fleshy interior.

"− I don't know if I'm going to let you sleep tonight − I think I'd rather do this with you instead −" He breathed out into her mouth, pushing his tongue deep into her throat − he felt her body shake as she convulsed, her hands clenched painfully hard on his body as she came a second time with sweet mewl of effort, panting loudly as if she couldn't catch her breath, her muscles began to throb greedily around his cock, sucking him inside.

He tilted his head back and sighed in relief, a few sloppy, rough thrusts prolonging the inevitable − his warm cum spilled deep inside her, a hot wave of pleasure surging through his lungs.

He crushed her with his body, feeling their bodies quivering and twitching all over, both of them panting hard as if they had run a marathon, their hands running blindly over each other's naked skin as if they wanted to calm and soothe each other.

"− I love you −" He muttered, lying with his eyes closed, his nose snuggled into her hot, soft cheek. "− you know that, don't you? −"

"− yes −" She answered him quietly, and he sighed heavily, snuggling into her like a small child.

That much was enough for him.

He didn't expect anything from her.

He just wanted her to know it.

He spent that night as if in a frenzy, holding her close, embracing her from behind tightly with his arms, their legs entwined together in disarray. He fell asleep with his face pressed against her hair, completely overwhelmed by her wonderful scent, the warmth of her naked body, one of her hands placed on his making sure he didn't let go of her soft breasts.

They hadn't said much to each other after they awoke − when he turned her face towards him and he just sank into her swollen lips in a sticky, hot kiss. She purred sleepily at this caress, her fingertips running over his jaw.

She let him take her a second time then, from behind this time − she was so wet from their shared moisture that he slid into her without much difficulty, stretching her wonderfully tight walls with a sigh of delight.

He rooted into her with lazy, slow thrusts of his hips, making sure that each time the fat head of his cock rubbed her sweet spot, one of his hands playing with her puffy, little nipple, the other sunk deep between her thighs, teasing her swollen clit.

"− do you want me to stop? −" He whispered in her ear, and she shook her head, digging her fingers into his arm with which he embraced her at the waist.

"− n-no − it feels good −" She muttered in embarrassment − he kissed her hot cheek with a sticky click of his saliva seeing her lips parted in accelerated breath, her dreamy, warm gaze.

"− so I'm afraid I'm going to fill you a second time, sweet girl −" He hummed, running the tip of his nose over her pretty face. She moaned quietly at his words, feeling him suddenly speed up, slamming into her with more confident, brutal pushes − she tilted her head back, his lips immediately pressed against her neck.

"− d-don't − don't leave marks −" She mumbled out, quickly clenching her hand in his hair − she whimpered softly as she felt his fingertips dig harder into her fleshy folds.

"− I won't, baby − shhh −" He hushed her, running his lust-swollen lips over her soft skin, feeling her weeping walls squeeze him greedily at his words, forcing him to thrust into her more aggressively, his fingers sinking into her plushy thigh, holding her in place, panting along with her.

"− ah, G-God − She babbled, responding helplessly to his movements with rocking, both of them groaning in pleasure and relief as her muscles began to clench against him in a sudden orgasm, his thighs all sticky with her wetness.

"− yes, that's it − oh baby −" He muttered, letting go, with the last of his strength thrusting into her for a moment more before his seed filled her to the brim.

He hid the tip of his nose in her hair with his eyes closed, panting loudly with pleasure, holding firmly her body trembling in fulfilment in the tight embrace of his arms.

"− can I stay inside you? −" He whispered into her ear and she only nodded, falling into slumber again a moment later.

For the first time in many years he didn't have to get up at dawn, he didn't have to focus on work, on Daeron, on anyone or anything more than himself and her.

He couldn't believe it was really happening.

He lay thinking only of the fact that he was deep inside her, that he could feel her and smell her − he placed one of his hands over her heart wanting to feel how it beat, how her chest rose and fell in calm breaths.

The days before his appointment with the psychiatrist he had spent between her thighs.

She walked around his house wearing nothing but his T-shirt and it was enough for him standing behind her to lift its fabric a little to see her lovely, plump buttocks.

"− stop − we need to eat something −" She muttered as he knelt on the kitchen tiles while she was trying to prepare dinner for them, so that he could kiss her hot, soft skin with a murmur of satisfaction. His hand slipped lower, between her thighs, his fingertips collecting her moisture mingled with his semen, a reminder of what he had been doing to her all day.

"− I adore you −" He gasped, sliding his lips lower, placing warm, sticky kisses on her thighs and calves, he heard her quiet sigh.

"− does your friend know that you have a second lover? −" She asked quietly, and he froze, quickly lifting his gaze to her, understanding immediately that she was talking about Alys.

He didn't want to make a mistake and lie, but he also didn't know how to present it so she would know that it was a done deal for him.

"− I stopped seeing her after what happened between us −" He said softly getting up from his knees, looking down at her, putting an unruly lock of her dark hair behind her ear. "− I didn't see the point in it, because all I was thinking about was you −"

He confessed with a kind of pain and weariness, and she lifted her gaze to him, her bright eyes looked at him piercingly, warm and gentle. He leaned in placing a long, drawn-out kiss on her forehead.

She snuggled into his chest as if seeking refuge, and he embraced her kissing the top of her head devotedly, running his large hands down her back in a reassuring, tender gesture.

"− I can't promise you anything −" She said at last, and he swallowed hard, knowing what she meant.

"− I know − I don't expect it −" He whispered, cuddling his face into her fragrant hair, closing his eyes, her closeness and her scent calming him in some strange, incomprehensible way.

"− I will always wait for you −"

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires

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iamasimperyk · 9 months ago

Note

Can professor rafe be a series of fics I love it ! It’s gotta be my favorite image him being jealous and he doesn’t give you the time a day since they fucked and he sees guys approaching y/n even getting turned on by her since she’s a flirt when she talks but doesn’t notice and rafe gets jealous and tells y/n to stay but she’s like mmm no thanks because now rafe gonna be the one having to go after her if he wants her

Thank you so much for your request💕 I already thought about making this into a series or at least write more one shots for this trope. So, if you have more ideas tell me all of them🤭I hope you like what I have made out of your request!

Regrets

Warnings: Cursing, Mentions of sex, Mention of sexual acts, Angst, Fluff, Not proof-read, English is not my first language

Pairing: Professor!Rafe x Fem!Reader

How could you have been so stupid? Of course, Rafe ignored you since your last encounter, just like last time. Even if your crush on Rafe was big, you didn't want to be his fuck toy just for him to use whenever he wanted.

You started to ignore Rafe the same way he ignored you. During lectures, you focused and ran out of the classroom as quickly as possible when it was over.

You started to attend more parties and got to know some people—mostly boys. They desperately tried to get your attention, but you were too nice and pure to even notice. For you, they were nothing but nice and chill.

"Come on, give it back to me." You giggled, jumping up and down to snatch your book out of Lucas' hand.

You met Lucas and his friends at a party, and ever since then, you have been a part of their friend group.

"Mmm, Y/n/n, I think you are too short." He snickered and held your book up a little bit higher than before."

"Not true. Not everyone can be a giant like you." You tried to jump higher, your skirt rising up more, almost exposing your panties.

Lucas handed you the book and sat down before he pulled you onto his lap.

"Ey, she already sat on your lap this morning," Nick, another one of the group, spoke up.

"It's my turn. I couldn't even bring Y/n/n to one of her lectures today." A third one answered.

Before anyone else could say something you decided to speak up, "Boys, it's okay, there is enough for everyone."

You couldn't help but giggle. Everything was nothing but a big joke to you, and in your opinion, the boys were just acting silly.

-------

Rafe felt pure anger when he saw how close you got to those boys. He couldn't believe you were too dumb to notice how whipped all of them were for you. They wanted to get in your pants, and you didn't even notice, always wearing those short little skirts and giggling like a bimbo.

But why would he care? He had a wife and a child. Whatever the two of you had was meaningless. Right?

At least, that was what he tried to tell himself, but the truth was, he was jealous. He never had been more jealous in his entire life. He had to have you.

"Ms. Y/l/n, please see me in my office in 5 minutes." He said in a strict tone as he walked past the group of friends.

------

"What does Cameron want?" Liam, another boy, asked curious.

You just shrugged and stood up, taking your bag, "I have no idea. I will see you guys later."

You waved them goodbye before you made your way over to Rafe's office.

After you knocked, Rafe was quick to open the door and locked it after you entered.

"What do you want?" You asked a little annoyed.

"Who are your new friends?" Rafe rolled his eyes, sitting down in his leather chair.

You let out a little sigh, "I don't think that's any of your concern."

"Oh, but it is. You see, I thought things through. I want you, Y/n." Rafe admitted, looking straight into her eyes.

You let out a little laugh, "I wanted you too, but you fucked me, and then you ignored me, and then you did other sexual things with me, and then you ignored me again."

"I am sorry. What do you want me to say?" He raised his voice a little.

"You have a family. I suggest you live your life, and I will live mine," You mumbled, "I will see you tomorrow, Mr. Cameron."

You left the room, and a little tear ran down your cheek, which you wiped away quickly.

For the first time, you were the one to leave Rafe, and to be honest, it felt good.

------

Rafe was shocked. His whole life, Rafe had always got what he wanted. This was the first time someone rejected him. He had to make a decision— you or his family. But deep down, Rafe already knew who he was going to pick.

That was how Rafe found himself in front of your dorm at 3. a.m.

You opened the door, letting out a yawn, "It's 3 o'clock what is so-" You immediately stopped talking when you saw who stood in front of you.

"Hi," He scratched the back of his head, "I am really sorry, Y/n. Please let me explain everything."

You wanted nothing more than to be angry but had always been a person to forgive easily.

"I hope your explanation is good enough to prevent me from sleeping." You mumble and let him in, glad your roommate slept at her boyfriend's.

"Oh, and I brought you some chocolate." He smiled a little, holding out the bag.

"I hate chocolate," You told him, sitting down on your bed, "Did you make sure no one saw you?"

He nodded, setting the back down with a sigh, "As I said, I am sorry how I treated you."

"Yeah, you already told me that a few times." You crossed your arms in front of your chest.

"My marriage has not been easy the past years. When I saw you for the first time, I immediately knew I had to have you. But it was wrong in so many ways, the age gap, the fact that I have a wife and a child." He started, sitting down on the bed as well.

"After I fucked you, it didn't know what to do anymore. I cheated on my wife, but I didn't regret it. I tried to ignore you, don't ask me why, maybe I was scared or just stupid, I don't know. Then you teased me during lecture, and I lost control over myself once again."

"That doesn't explain why you are here." You interrupted, fiddling with your fingers.

"I know, princess. After I saw you with those boys, I knew you wouldn't wait forever. I had to make a decision between you and a marriage I wasn't happy in. Y/n, I feel young with you, free, happy. It's risky and won't be easy but I want you." He cupped your cheeks.

You stared at him with wide eyes, "Oh my god. I destroyed your marriage."

Rafe quickly shook his head, "No, love. You just helped me do something I should have done a long time ago."

"But your child-" He interrupted you, "She would like you."

You had no words. Rafe wanted to be with you, for real this time.

"How do I know you won't ignore me once again tomorrow?" You asked, looking into his blue eyes.

"I guess you have to trust me one last time." He mumbled before he leaned in to kiss you.

"One last time, Rafe." You answered and closed the gap between the two of you.

After you pulled away, you smiled at him, "It's Saturday, can you stay with me?"

He nodded, "Of course, princess."

"And, Rafe?"

"Yes?"

"Could you pass me the chocolate?"

Rafe let out a chuckle. Of course.

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe x you #rafe x reader #rafe x y/n #rafe cameron #angst #fluff #fanfic #obx #outer banks #outer banks x you #outer banks x reader #outer banks x y/n #outerbanks rafe #professor!rafe cameron #professor rafe cameron #request🩵

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adrianicsea · 10 months ago

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the time that glenn howerton was in a gay period-piece play about crossdressing

so awhile back i was poking around glenn howerton's wikipedia looking for movies and such that i might have missed, and i noticed it had a small theatrical section listed. this was never something i'd given much thought in the past, but on this particular occasion i was so hard-up for new Glontent that i decided to see what i could find about the three plays listed there, because i'd never seen anyone else have much luck with that and i love a good internet scavenger hunt. walk with me.

compleat female stage beauty caught my eye right away-- the title of the play itself is interesting, and i happened to know already that the most famous real-life duke of buckingham was the lover of king james. so of course i went delving...

and what should i find but the entire playscript for compleat female stage beauty, For Free, on archive dot org? anyone on earth can rent it and read it for an hour at a time, or for 14 days if you want to really take your time with it. i have to assume that this is NOT common knowledge among sunny fans (or anyone else), as the archive upload only has 99 views at the time of making this post.

to give a VERY succinct summary of what the play is about-- in the 1660s, during the english restoration, women were allowed to act professionally onstage for the first time in english history. this caused problems for the male actors who had previously made their careers playing female characters, such as edward kynaston, around whom the play centers. outside of his acting career, kynaston is a gay man, and he's in a romantic entanglement with george villiars, the duke of buckingham (NOT the same duke of buckingham who was fucking king james-- that was this villiars' dad. we love gay fathers and their gay sons!) kynaston struggles to find his place in a changing social landscape where it seems as though his talents are no longer needed or wanted.

before getting into the script proper, the book has some information about notable early productions of the play. this is great because it pins down a lot of details about glenn's involvement in the show that wikipedia left unanswered, but there's also an unexpected sunny crossover here-- in an even EARLIER production, the lead role was played by david hornsby!

(i also learned over the course of my deep dive on this that glenn's costar, lead actor brandon demery, was a fellow member of glenn's graduating juilliard group!)

things don't end well for kynaston and villiars, but still, the onstage relationship between the two is both electrifying and heartbreaking as it changes over the course of the show.

now, this WOULD be where i would include cast pictures or footage or any kind of photos of glenn in this show... but if any such material exists, it's not publicly available. i went so far as to email the publicity and outreach coordinator for the theater that hosted glenn's production of this show to ask if they had any archived materials, but she told me that they didn't.

but this production took place in october of 2000, meaning it was pre-that 80s show, meaning we can all sit and think about how a glenn that looked like This was acting in a gay period piece about crossdressing and gender roles and the mystery of human sexuality. dudes rock.

a bit of a disappointing note to end on, i know, but i really wanted to talk about this play and share it with people!! it's a super interesting and overlooked part of glenn's early career, but also i think the script is fascinating and very well-written in its own right. i definitely encourage yall to check it out on the internet archive if you're interested-- again, it's literally free!

#glenn howerton #iasip #it's always sunny in philadelphia #compleat female stage beauty #this is a longer and more coherent version of a post i made two months ago that got no traction--#--because i accidentally opted out of having my blog's original posts show in any tags. lol. and even lmao #it's crazy what's just like. there and relatively easy to find on the internet if you take the time to look

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baiwu-jinji · 8 months ago

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i apologize in advance if this ask sounds kinda weird, but i'm kinda curious to hear your thoughts on how the narrative treats qi rong, mostly because i think interacting only with the eng version/fandom might take some context from his character. i've seen people complaining that some fans woobify him too much, others complaining that some people treat him as a pure hate-sink when he's more than that. while i do think he's a multi-layered character, i do sometimes get the feeling that mxtx did not go easy on him, with the revised version being even crazier than before (some even say he was given a bit of onesided incestuous subtext with xl, but i wonder if that interpretation isn't just the result of weirdly translated lines in eng). i think this might be because he strikes me as a meta personification of sorts for toxic fans who place their identity and self-worth on just one person they completely idolize, and when that person is shown to be imperfect they immediately turn against them, and we know mxtx has had experience with those kinds of people.

i do think he's largely meant to be seen as unsympathetic overall, though i think there's strong nuances with his character as well. since his childhood he always lacked something and never really had a well formed identity, his prince name being symbolic of his life. he projected himself onto xl in life, and he kept on absorving the worst traits of the people around his life without really understanding them in order to feel powerful and important, from the xianle nobles to the signature traits of the other calamities. he also strikes me as very... "little brother"-coded, in the sense that he keeps looking for any sort of recognition and seems unable to mature. even when he hates xl i think he still somewhat craves his attention, and qr only developed a bit when he was forced to let go of this role by accidentally becoming a father instead. i think it's also interesting that he started out a lot like his father, but ended up sharing the fate of his mother.

i do wonder how the cn fandom views him and if he's nearly as divisive as he is here. i'd also be pretty interested in seeing some meta about him from cn fans. again, it feels like some context is missing by not speaking the language the book was originally written in...

Hi! I think the narrative basically takes the same stance as Xie Lian in its attitude towards Qi Rong, which is the sort of "I can't love you but I don't want to hate you, the best I could give you is indifference". I agree that Qi Rong isn't meant to be lovable, but MXTX isn't dismissive of him as a character either - she devoted almost an entire chapter to Qi Rong's death, let him speak his mind, and gave him some form of closure.

Qi Rong having onesided incestuous subtext with XL (!!) in the revised version is...very interesting haha, I haven't read the revised version so I can't know (someone please tell me where to get the revised version ><). Although I want to speculate that even if there is some incestuous vibes, it's not truly sexual - it's probably libido directed the wrong way when you're lusting over someone else's identity, but not over that person per se. Qi Rong lusts over XL's identity in the sense that he wants to be XL - or rather he wants to be perfect, worshipped, all-powerful etc. (bit of digression, there's an underrated psychological thriller called Cracks starring Eva Green, if you watch it you'll know what I mean)

I don't have the impression that he's truly divisive in the Chinese fandom, but then I don't engage with the Chinese fandom that much so I could totally be wrong. And I don't think any context is missing for English readers either (except maybe the humour of QR's obscene language might be lost in translation?) because human nature is the same everywhere, and Qi Rong's distorted psyche is more a matter of human nature than cultural context.

As for Chinese fandom's view of QR, there's this great meta I translated and posted a few days ago, and I found some other opinion pieces about Qi Rong on Zhihu (Chinese equivalent of Reddit), as you'll see they're quite diverse.

A lot of Chinese readers say that what stands out most about Qi Rong is his comedic role in the story because his cursing and name-calling are really funny; a lot of people also mention being really touched by his self-sacrifice to save Guzi. I found this one post that has a similar view to yours, which is QR represents MXTX's toxic fans:

"I always felt it's the author admonishing her fans in an implicit way not to be as crazy as Qi Rong [...] My guess is that the author can't ask her fans outright not to act in this way because that would hurt people who support her but are immature, however she can't turn a blind eye to these people going around provoking more resentment, so she creates QR to remind her fans not to be like QR, or they'd appear as unlikable as QR to the public. But the author still feels symathy for thse fans, so she didn't depict their representation in the novel as totally incorrigible - QR retains some humanity and is a little adorable when he starts to care about people."

I also saw opinions about the narrative (or rather Xie Lian) not going easy on Qi Rong, like this one:

"Xie Lian is clearly a very good person but why is he so heartless to QR? He eventually treated QR as a joke and a burden, but QR was once a true follower of his. At first I thought XL was perfect and cares about everyone, but he never really cared for his cousin. When I read that XL felt neither joy nor sorrow when QR died saving Guzi, my heart chilled. If XL could forgive the masses who betrayed and reviled him, why can't he forgive his cousin who once followed him whole-heartedly?"

There're also people saying that Qi Rong's potential divisiveness is what makes him a great villain, like this post:

"What MXTX's well-received villains have in common is a tragic childhood and not being loved growing up, and they only have a soft spot for one person. Although these villains did horrible deeds and are unrepentant, they all reserve some kindness in their heart for the only person who's good to them. This contrast is striking and touching, yet most likely to cause controversy. Therefore, MXTX knows very clearly how to create a memorable villain, and I admire that."

Someone else says when they read about Qi Rong they "don't know whether to laugh or cry" (XL's signature emotion hehe). They add that "this is where MXTX is successful in writing a villain - you both hate and pity him; he's infuriating, but you don't really want to see him die either."

Another view is that since Qi Rong has no filter, he sometimes serves as the truth-telling voice. For example, when XL wanted to keep Lang Qianqiu in the dark about the truth of the Gilded Banquet Massacre, Qi Rong blurted out the truth.

There's also a question posted on Zhihu that asks why people like Qi Rong, and there're some interesting answers. There's one post that says "I find him attractive because he's depicted as alluringly ghostly in a lot of fan art like vampires in Twilight" haha

Another post says they like Qi Rong "because he's guilelessly wicked, while XL and Hua Cheng are hypocrites" emmmmm

Another one says they like Qi Rong because "being Xie Lian is exhausting, he's so wronged but he just endures it all, while Qi Rong just launches verbal assults whenever someone rubs him the wrong way, it's so cathartic. The most difficult thing in the world is to be a good person, because as soon as you do one thing wrong, everyone criticises you; but if you're a bad person, even if you did just one good thing, everyone praises you for it and shows you pity".

#qi rong #xie lian #tgcf

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alexdelray1 · 4 months ago

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Giyuu Tomioka x Fem! Reader.

Murder Mystery AU!

Also Modern Times AU

Giyuu Tomioka is your rival since middle school. You two always argued who got better grades. Not only you two went to the same highschool, college but also now university! What will happen if you two will end up on the same party?

Warning: NSFW! Strong language! Death! Suicide The fanfic was inspired by the movie "Bodies Bodies Bodies." English isn't my first language.

-Reader, are you ready for fun!?- Mitsuri asked me as she walked into our room. She's already in her pink-green dress. Of course as always showing off big part of her chest. It's not like I don't like it but she's going to give Iguro a heart attack. Again...

-Yeah, but there are like millions of parties. Why do we have to go to one that is in forest?- I asked her. I was (if you want you can wear something else but I will now write canon) wearing a little red top, blue jeans, and red sneakers. I was showing off my midriff.

-Becouse Tengen is inviting us.- Mitsuri said. That says a lot. Tengen's parties are always the ones that you never forget, no matter how drunk you are. He's a big party freak, from making out with his three girlfriends in front of everyone to dancing break dance on the ceiling while being high and drunk.

-I'm scared what he wants to do in the middle of the fucking forest. It's scary enought that we know he has orgies with his girlfriends everyday which is I don't know if healthy for his prostate. What if he wants to I don't know... I DON'T FUCKING KNOW! He's unpredictable!- I shouted.

-Don't worry Reader about Tengen's prostate, it's his problem. I'll make sure nothing too sexual that could give some of us HIV won't happen.- Shinobu said as she walked into the room. She's wearing a violet shirt and black skirt.

-Thanks, Shinobu. You're saving my vagina.- I said and stood up from my bed.

-As always.- Shinobu added.

-Let's go and not get STD!- Mitsuri shouted exited.

TIME SKIP.

-Tengen, you motherfucker. Where do you get money from? Your dick?- I asked Tengen as I got out of the car. This isn't a fucking house. It's a villa or penthouse, I don't know. Kanao looked quite scared so I took her hand in a gentle grip.

-Good shot but not that close. My family is old money. My great great something gradpa was in a clan but got out of it and made quite a fortune himself by being some warrior.- Tengen said as we walked into the house.

-Is Iguro already here?- Mitsuri asked looking around.

-Is Sanemi already here?- Kanae asked also looking around. She came with us becouse Shinobu is her sister.

What simps. I'm never going to be like them. I looked outside into the garden and yard. Uhhh Giyuu in swimsuit, nice view. It's not like I like him or smth but oh my God. These abs, this six pack. NO READER YOU ARE NOT HORNY FOR A MAN THAT LITERALLY IN SOME WAY MAY STALK YOU! IT'S NOT COLLEEN HOOVER BOOK!

-Iguro is in the pool with Sanemi, Giyuu, Kyojuro, Genya, Tanjirou, Zenitsu, Inosuke, Hiroshi, Atsushi and Nana . We'll start partying in the house when it'll get dark or start raining.- Tengen said and opened door to the pool with garden. Our friedns were there.

-Hey!- Rengoku said while swimming. It looked as if he was training as always.

-Hey Kanae! And... others...- Sanemi said while sunbathing.

-Hey Mitsuri.- Iguro said while sitting in the in the shade of a tree.

-Hey everyone!- Tanjirou said while trying to swim as fast as Rengoku.

-Hey!- Genya said with a smile while sitting next to Sanemi (my baby Genya...).

-Hey, girls. Why aren't you in swimsuits?- Zenitsu asked with a blush while sitting on a inflatable duck.

-Does any of you want to compete with me in who can do the biggest jump!?- Inosuke asked and jumped into the water.

-Hey...- Giyuu said while just standing beside the pool.

-It's nice to see you guys!- Mitsuri shouted as we walked into the garden. I tried not to look at Giyuu.

-What about our two biggest nerds drink a little?- Tengen said and pushed me into Giyuu. I quickly moved away from him annoyed. Tengen gave everyone just not Tanjirou, Zenitsu, Inosuke and Kanao cups of alcohol.

-Nice to see you Giyuu...- I said reluctantly.

-Also nice to see you Reader...- He said also reluctantly and we both drank.

-Jesus Christ. It's...- I didn't end the sentence.

-Strong. Tengen plans now to have us all drunk. Making drama and funny situations I guess.- Giyuu said and put his cup on the table.

-I think that it's better for us two to stay sober if something happens. You never know with Uzui.- I commented and also put my cup on the table.

-Yeah, pool and alcohol isn't a good match.- he agreed with me.

-What about you girls go and change into swimsuits so we can get the party started? The bathrooms are on the left.- Tengen said and pointed at the deep of the house.

-Kanao can you stay with the boys while we go change, okay?- I asked her and she nodded her head. Kanao didn't like swimming around so many people so she didn't bring the swimsuit.

-Okay! Shinobu! You have our swimsuits, right?- Mitsuri asked her.

-Of course I do. What would you guys do without me?- Shinobu said while holding the bag with swimsuits.

I gave Giyuu one last glance and left him with Kanao.

TIME SKIP

-Reader! Why are you dry? Go swimming with us!- Misturi said and got out of the pool. As always she's showing a lot of her chest. It's not like I don't like it. I'm now sitting on the sunbed.

-Sorry but I can't swim today.- I said. I had on myself shorts and top of the swimsuit.

-But!- Mitsuri tried to reason with me.

-Mitsuri, I love you but I really can't.- I said. Mitsuri got closer to me and whipered to my ear.

-Why didn't you bring tampons?- Mitsuri asked me.

-My vagina doesn't like tampons.- I whispered.

-Mitsuri! I chellenge you for a swimming contest!- Kyojuro shouted with energy and happiness.

-YEAH!- Mitsuri quickly jumped into the water leaving me alone but not really.

I looked at Tanjirou who was now sitting on a chair tired. Hope she won't look like that after this.

-So you can't swim?- Giyuu asked me. He was laying o the sunbed next to me.

-Giyuu, don't make a small talk. That's american. And yeah I can't swim today.- I answered not really nicely.

-You don't really show up to parties often. What made you come here?- Giyuu asked me and put on his sunglasses.

-First off. You're my stalker or something? Second off. You look funny now.- I said and laughed.

-We just know each other for a long time and I can see it when you're not in the group.- He said like if it was some big problem.

-I have sometimes just more important thing, you know? And I came today becouse I want to relax a bit.- I said and gave him a look.

-Guys, it's starting to rain!- Zenitsu shouted.

-No it's not! You're just wet!- Inosuke shouted and splashed him with water. Few rain drops fell on me. I got up with Giyuu.

-Zenitsu is right it's starting to rain.- I said. Everyone started taking their stuff as the rain began to fall more heavily.

I took my bag and started heading inside. I slipped on the grass and fell.

-Fuck.- I cursed and sat up. Giyuu took my arm and helped me get up but then he didn't let go of it and ran with me to the inside.

-As we see our love birds as always together.- Tengen commented. Everyone were already inside and we were the last ones to get in. Giyuu let go of my arm and looked away.

-Okay, okay. Don't shit yourself.- I said and put my bag on the couch. Everyone started to have their own conversations mostly about how no one knew about storm coming.

-Reader, how is it that you say that you don't like Giyuu and don't want to be around him but on parties you always sit near him or talk to him the most?- Shinobu asked me.

-Coincidences.- I said and put on a shirt. I looked out of the window. It was already dark outside.

-I don't really belive it. Do you possibly have a crush on him?- Shinobu asked me and I got nervous.

-Me and him? Yeah maybe in other universe.- I chuckled and gave her a shirt to warm up.

-In other universe you proprably said the same thing.- Shinobu said with a little smile and put on the shirt.

-Yeah yeah. Stop looking for some drama's. You're not going to find any.- I said and crossed my arms.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!

A scream and loud banging came from the window outside. It was Atsushi. His stomach was bleeding. Hew as banging on the window in agony and horror. After a second he fell on the grass.

-OH MY GOD!- Mitsuri shouted terrified. Iguro quickly hugged her and covered her eyes. Sanemi did this as well to Kanae.

Others screamed. I quickly opened the door to outside and ran up to Atsushi.

He wasn't moving, proprably also breathing. I checked his pulse.

-He's dead!- I shouted so everyone could hear through the rain.

I heard screams and cries. Giyuu, Kyojuro, Tengen and Genya walked up to me and the dead body. I looked at the Atsushi more closely. His shirt was put on front on the back and back on the front for some reason.

-Turn him around!- I said and started trying to turn him around. Men without asking did it with me.

He was stabbed on the back, few buttons of his shirt were taken out.

-What psycho would do such a thing?- Genya asked himself while looking at this.

-I don't know. Sanemi! CALL POLICE!!!- I screamed to him.

Sanemi took out his phone and dialed the number.

-NO FUCKING SIGNAL!!!- Sanemi screamed back.

-OF FUCKING COURSE!!!- I cursed and looked down at Atsushi.

-We need to get back into the house. Whoever did this is proprably still outside.- Giyuu said and got up.

-Giyuu is right, let's go.- Kyojuro said with serious expression on his face.

-But... Okay...- I sighned while looking at the dead body and stood up.

We walked into the house and locked the door.

-Okay, everyone. Atsushi is dead. We're all sad becouse it's death but we can't forget about our safety. Lock every window and every door that leeds to outside. The killer is proprably outside. Now! Quick!- I shouted.

Everyone started closing the windows and doors in the house except for Zenitsu. He was just sitting on the couch looking at a wall.

-Hey, are you okay?- I asked him and sat next to him. Zenitsu was still looking at the wall.

-Reader-chan. How is that possible? He died in front of us... I saw him alive just twenty minutes ago.- he said quietly.

-Don't worry, Zenitsu. Now he doesn't feel any pain.- I hugged him and took a deeep breath to also calm down.

-But who will be next? Me?- he asked and started crying. He held onto me tightly.

-I will make sure that no one will be next. Not today.- I said. I moved slightly away and touched his shoulder.

-Thank you, Reader-chan.- Zenitsu tried to smile but it didn't really wokred.

-So everything is closed we need to think what we need to do next.- Kyojuro said as everyone walked into the living room.

-Surely we all need to stay in one room for no one to get attacked.- Shinobu hummed and sat on the other couch like the others.

-Yeah, what if one of us is the killer?- Inosuke asked and everyone started looking around.

-Don't say something like that Inosuke! We all we're inside when Atsushi got stabbed. The killer must be someone who wasn't invited to the party or we just don't even know.- Tanjirou said bravely.

-Wait, why Atsushi didn't go inside with us?- Genya asked everyone.

-I don't know...- Kanae said.

-Me too...- Tengen exclaimed.

-Okay, no one knows why he didn't go with us be we all know that it's not safe here. Why won't we just drive to the police station?- Sanemi asked with as always rushed and rough tone.

-Exactly. Get the keys. We left them at the entrence.- Hiroshi said and pointed at the door of the hallway.

Everyone walked into the hallway. Sanemi, Kanae and Giyuu took keys to their cars. We got out of the house after getting out things and walked into the little parking that was part of the property.

-Are you fucking kidding me!?- Sanemi shouted. A big tree fell ealier on the three cars. Lightning proprably struck it. The rain and night sky made everything so gloomy.

-Ehhh, let's head back inside.- Tengen said, the rest agreed and we went back to the house.

-Fuck, I have nothing to change into.- I said while looking at my soaked clothes. Everyone got into the living room.

-Have this.- Giyuu said and gave me a blue towel.

-Thanks.- I sighned and put the towel on myself.

-If you need anything just tell me.- Giyuu said and touched my shoulder.

-Thanks???- I looked at him confused.

-It's kinda suspisious.- Sanemi said.

-What is?- Tengen asked him.

-Giyuu, Atsushi and hour ago died and you're already making a move on a girl he had a crush on?- Sanemi walked up to Giyuu.

-I'm not making a move. Just helping her.- Giyuu said not intimidated by Sanemi.

-Atsushi had a crush on me?- I asked Sanemi shocked.

-Oh hell yeah he did. He told everyone including Giyuu how he wants to confess to you at the party and bum. He gets killed. Giyuu and you were close in some way since middle school so I wouldn't be shocked if he got jealous and snapped.- Sanemi explained while looking directly on Giyuu. Everyone looked at him.

-Giyuu couldn't kill Atsushi becouse he was with me inside at the time of the murder.- I said and walked up to both of them.

-Yeah.- Tengen said.

-As always you're making sure your 'innocent stalker' gets away with things.- Sanemi argued.

-He isn't a stalker and I'm saying truth. Stop trying to blame Giyuu when you know he's not a killer.- I argued back.

-Yeah, but how is it that we never talk about how he has pictures of you in his closet?- Sanemi said it louder so everyone could hear. All eyes were on us.

-Everyone has few pictures of their friends somewhere.- I crossed my arms.

-Yeah yeah, but only you are on them. No one fucking else. He hides something or you two hide something!- Sanemi shouted.

I looked at Giyuu and he just nodded his head.

-We've been secretly dating since college.- Giyuu already said it. Everyone freezed.

-What?! But Reader is so mean to you!- Mitsuri shouted shocked.

-We did that so you guys wouldn't realise that we're dating.- Giyuu answered.

-Is that true, Reader? Giyuu isn't black mailing you or something?- Shinobu asked me.

-It's true. And that's why we didn't tell you. Most of you look for dramas in relationships. We only told Kyojuro, Tanjirou, Kanao and Kanae becouse they don't talk bad about couples behind their back nor tell anyone about this.- I explained.

-I'm sorry...- Mitsuri said and looked down.

-You have nothing to be sorry about. It's just your nature to talk about things that you think about.- I said and hugged her as she hugged me back.

-Damn, so Giyuu is not a virgin.- Tengen commented.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!

A scream and few thuds came from the other side of the house.

-What was that?- Kanae asked shocked.

-Let's go and see.- Sanemi said and ran.

Everyone started heading towards the sound. I took an umbrella in case to fight off someone.

When we got there we saw Nana at the end of the stairs laying on the floor in blood.

-Not again...- I said and walked up to her with the others. She was laying on her back lifeless. I checked her pulse.

-She's dead.- I sighned and covered my eyes with my hand. Giyuu made me stand up by gently holding my shoulders. He then hugged me.

-I think that someone may have pushed her. If she fell herself then she would lay on her stomach.- Shinobu said.

-This had gone too far.- Iguro said.

The lights went off. It was pitch black for few seconds.

-Why did the lights went off?- Mitsuri asked.

-Proprably becouse of the storm. Giyuu and Reader, go look for flashilights in the basement. You two are the only ones who had some classess like karate or smth. The rest of us will go to the living room. Okay?- Tengen asked us.

-Eh, okay.- I said with a sighn.

We went the other way to the basement.

-I feel weird now that everyone knows that we're dating.- Giyuu said while holding my hand.

-Yeah, me too. You really have hidden pictures of me in your closet?- I asked him and he blushed.

-I may or may not have them.-Giyuu answered.

-I didn't really knew Nana nor Atsushi but I seeing them lying like that is just... Fucking traumatising.- I changed the subject.

-I know. It's very fucked up. I hope you will forget about this.- he said and his grip on my hand became a bit tighter. I opened the door to the basement and we started going down the stairs in silence.

When we reached the end of the stairs I quickly lit a match to see something.

-Look...- Giyuu whispered and pointed at some box. We walked up to it. There were flashlights in it, Giyuu took one and turned it on. I blew out the match.

-This basement is weirdly small, but there are doors to some other room. Are we going in?- he asked me. I took a flashlight for myself and turned it on.

-Yeah.. You live once.- I said. We walked up to the door. He stopped me from opening it and opened it himself.

-Jesus Christ.- he said with a sighn as he got into the room.

-What? Oh my god.- I said as I saw it.

There were a lot of monitors on the wall that showed views from cameras.

-How Tengen could forget about having cameras?- I asked Giyuu and sat on a chair in front of the monitors.

-He had few shots before you came.- Giyuu answered while standing behind me.

-Look, there is a camera where Atsushi died.- I said. I started changing time on the monitor.

-Already we can see who killed him unless it's someone with a mask.- Giyuu said.

The scene showed Atsushi who is was putting on the shirt backwards. He took the knife and started taking off the buttons of his shirt with the knife He fell becouse of a lightning which had previously fallen a tree on our cars.

-He literally stabbed himself!- I shouted and threw the towel I had on myself on the floor.

-Look what happend at the stairs.- Giyuu put a hand on my shoulder calming me down. I did what he told me.

Nana was walking down the stairs with her cup of alcohol then suddenly she accidently dropped it and tripped over it.

-Are you kidding me?- I said and hit my forehead with my hand.

-So there is no killer.- Giyuu sighned.

-Yeah and I'm happy about it but, we were so fucking scared for nothing!- I said and crossed my arms.

-I know.- he murmured. I stood up and he hugged me.

-So do we go to them and tell them that there is no killer in the house?- I asekd him.

-Yeah, we actually do that now or Zenitsu will have a heart attack.-

TIME SKIP.

-So really she tripped on the stairs and he stabbed himself? We need to see that.- Tengen said.

-Then go, we are tired as hell and going to bed.- I leaned on the Giyuu as we started walking towards one of the guests bedroom.

-Together?- Mitsuri asked with a smile.

-As you can see.- I said.

NSFW STARTS HERE

We walked into the bedroom. As soon as I saw the bed I threw myself on it and layed on my stomach. Giyuu started taking off my pants.

-What are you doing you pervert?- I asked him and chuckled.

-Helping you in getting ready to sleep.- He answered when he took them all of and threw them at some chair he squished my butt gently.

-More in getting ready to fuck.- I commented and opened my legs wider. He took off my top and then my bra.

-Two in one.- he said. For a while he didn't do anything to me but then I heard him threwing his clothes somewhere.

-Are you going to just sit behind me or do some... fuck.- I moaned as I felt his hand touching my clit through my panties. His fingers started to press on my button and at the entrence. I started streching out my butt out of sensation. Giyuu lay down on me.

-I love you...- He murmured while kissing my chin.

-I love you too but fuck...- I said and started grinding my butt against his boxers.

-I see you're already wet and horny as hell, me too. What about we take these off?- He asked me while making circles on my clit throught my panties.

Hope you liked it :)

#x reader #fem reader #demon slayer giyuu #giyuu smut #kimetsu giyuu #giyuu tomioka #kny giyuu #giyuu x reader #demon slayer #kny #tomioka

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moonxmagix · 2 years ago

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Daddy's Girl NSFW

Pairing: Frank Iero x Fem Reader

CW: Age gap, teacher frank, student reader, light smut, daddy issues, soft frank, underage drinking, mentions of the word daddy, def sexual tension

Summary: Frank is your teacher and you two hit it off. Y/N has heavy daddy issues and Frank takes you in. He treats you like what your childhood self deserved, safety and love.

A/N: This is VERY long. I wrote 11 pages on Google Docs so I'm very sorry LMAO. It might be a bit wordy and not super smutty if thats okay. I wanted to write something softer in nature. Also apologize if there are any grammar mistakes. :)

Reblogs appreciated!

~^~^~^~^

As I sat there in an uncomfortable school chair, surrounded by the ghosts of my past, I stared out the window that was covered in rain. The day was gloomy, constant thundering and on and off downpour. I tapped my foot up and down while playing with my bunny keychain as my anxiety washes over me. School always made me anxious and hate myself, constantly feeling at battle with myself and others.

It was my senior year and I just turned 18, so all I had to do was wait to get out of here. Kinda like prison if you think about it. Our school had uniforms and if anything that was the best part about this place, not to mention it looked like some old money school for rich kids. Which was funny because a lot of the kids here come from nothing, like me.

My drug addicted mother raised me semi alone, meaning that she constantly had men in and out of her life. My real father left when I was only a few months old so I never had that strong, protective father figure in my life. I craved someone to love me, hold me tight, whatever fathers do with their daughters. My moms boyfriends that were long term, aka 6 months, would try their best to be there for me but as soon as I got comfortable with them they were gone.

I tried to stay out of relationships out of fear that the same cycle would happen to me.

“Y/N? Are you listening?” Mr. Iero said, pulling me out of my daze. My head quickly turned to him, almost embarrassed, “Yes sir, sorry.” He turned back to board, continuing the lesson. Mr. Iero was my english/music teacher, he taught both. The first day I walked into his class I had a massive crush on, like journaling and daydreaming about him crush. I never made advances to him because what would he think?

I can’t get him in trouble and I can’t jeopardize my education for some man. I once again zoned out heavily, staring out the window. I watched as a father checked out his daughter early for school it seems, hugging each other under the umbrella as they smiled together. I sighed, rolling my eyes at the sight. Almost disgusting to me but that's just the jealousy getting to me.

“Y/N? Please pay attention, we have an important test coming up and you can’t miss this,” he sighed, putting a hand on his hip. Everyone turned to stare at me as I got smaller in my seat. When I looked back at everyone else to me they had dark eyes, something evil brewing but also something dead. I know realistically that a lot of the people here never paid attention but were much better at hiding it I think.

“Please see me at the end of school,” he said and a few people let “Ooo” escape their mouths. Thanks Mr. Iero for embarrassing me. I wanted to hate him for that but another part of my brain desired to have that alone time with him. Even a hug from him would suffice my animalistic hunger for him. Just, “I’m proud of you,” would motivate me for the rest of the year.

Class was dismissed and I quickly got out of there but he caught my wrist before I could, “Promise me you’ll be here after school. You can’t ditch like the last time.” I nodded and promised him that I would be back. The last time that happened I left out of pure anxiety, I threw up in the hallway on my way to his class. But safe to say this time I could get myself through it.

I went to my locker to change out books and my best friend Livvy came up to me, “Wanna hang out after school? I wanna get coffee,” she said excitedly. “Maybe, Mr. Iero wants to see me after my last class,” I said, I didn’t want to disappoint her. “Omg again? Did you space out again (nickname)?” she said, lightly punching my arm.

“Yeah, I just hope it’s quick. If so, I’ll make sure to call you when I’m done,” I said with a smile. We said our goodbyes as I went to all of my other classes. I watched the clock as it quickly rang, I took a few deep breaths as I prepared myself to see Mr. Iero. I know it couldn’t be that bad but my anxiety tried to convince me otherwise.

I looked through the glass of the door and saw no one inside so I thought maybe this could be my excuse as to why I didn’t show. “Right on time!” a voice behind me said. It startled me so I turned to see that it was Mr. Iero. I softly smiled as he unlocked the door to let us in. I didn’t see it but I heard him lock the door behind me.

I stood in front of his desk leaning against a student's desk. He stood in front of me also leaning against his desk. I kept my eyes to the ground for the most part, “Are you okay? You’ve been very quiet and dazed in almost every class,” he said in a soft voice. My tense shoulders relaxed, still not sure how to respond, “You can tell me, Y/N.” He took a couple steps closer.

“Look at me,” he said in a more demanding tone. I looked at him and he smirked, I wanted to fall to my knees right then and there. He rolled up his sleeves to reveal his tattoos, “I..I’ve just been going through a lot at home,” I said to put it simply. “Sit, let’s talk about it,” he said sitting in the students chair next to me. I sat down hesitantly, I don’t know if he actually cared about me or what. I guess we’ll find out.

I told him about my mom and everything that I’ve been struggling with. I didn’t outright tell him about my struggles with men and not having a father figure of sorts. But he’s smart, so he could probably piece things together based on how I answered some of his questions. At the end of my story I let a few tears escape from my eyes, he reached his hand up and gently wiped them.

He placed his other hand on my knee, rubbing his thumb on it. “You have nothing to worry about with me hun,” he said sweetly, maintaining tense eye contact. He was such a good listener and never interrupted me. “Your secrets are safe with me, I’m so glad you’re finally opening up to me. Since the beginning of the year I’ve had my eye on you, there’s something special about you, Y/N,” he said, whispering the last sentence.

He grabbed my hand and held it tightly in his. I felt my face heat up like a thousand suns and my heart rate picked up. I couldn’t help but let a smile form on my face, “That’s my girl. No need to be sad when you’re around me. Hey, I’ll even move your desk closer up to mine, yeah?” I nodded, feeling like such a typical schoolgirl.

He looked at the clock, “I should probably let you go now. Here,’ he said, handing me a little piece of paper. I pocketed it in my bag and before I left he gave me a big, warm hug. The smell of cigarettes and cologne hit my nostrils, it was a smell so intoxicating that it would stay with me throughout the rest of the day. I left and ran out of there to my house, it downpoured on me though. It made me feel like I was in a movie of sorts, I let the rain fall and drench my uniform and hair.

I ran inside and went straight to my room to text Livvy, it was Friday so I told her to come spend the night with me. I really didn’t want to tell anyone about what happened but she was the only person I could trust with this information, she understood. She literally has a sugar daddy, she has no room to judge me!

Livvy came over and got settled right in with snacks and cute pajamas. “Tell me everything!” she said excitedly. I giggled, “He asked me if anything was wrong, I avoided but he pried so I spilled everything. And now he’s moving my desk up to his, he touched my leg and hugged me!” We were both laughing and blushing over this.

“Oh! I think he gave me his number,” I told her, remembering the paper he gave me that I still haven’t opened yet. “Bitch show me!” she said excitedly. I got the paper from my bag and counted down from 3, I opened it and it had his number inside. “Text him now!” she said getting my phone from my nightstand.

I input his number into my phone, “What do I say though?” I bit my nails. “Something flirty for sure,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. I started to type: hii its Y/N, miss our time together already xo

“Bitch that's good!! He’s bound to fall in love with you now,” she joked.

Hours went by without checking my phone and it was around 8pm. I checked my phone during our movie and he asked to call me, I sat up straight with my eyes wide. “He wants to call,” I said suddenly. “Oh shit! I’ll turn the tv down and I’ll stay quiet,” she shushed herself.

I gave the phone a ring and he picked it up almost instantly, I put it on speaker phone.

Frank: Doing okay?

Me: yeah, thanks for letting me vent. Made me feel a lot better

Frank: I’m glad, honey.

Livvy looked at me with shock, “Honey?!” she mouthed covering it with her hand.

Frank: Um, I wanted to ask if you wanna hang out tomorrow? You don't have-

Me: Yes. I’d love to!

Frank: What time are you free then?

Me: Umm maybe around 12?

Frank: Sounds like a date then

We both hung up and we’re screaming with joy, I never thought this day would come. Hanging out with a teacher outside of school? Is that legal? I couldn’t back out now, my fate was decided. “What am I gonna wear?” I said, asking Livvy for help. She’s always been the cooler one in terms of fashion, so I can trust her to dress me.

~^~^~^~^

It was 10 am and I had just the right amount of time to get ready. I checked my phone and he said he’d be picking me up at my place. Livvy left already and I sat down in front of my floor length mirror and put on light makeup. I got dressed in a black skirt, sheer black leggings, doc martens, and a white and black striped sweater.

The clock finally turned 12 and I looked out my window to not see a car yet. I sighed with relief because in reality I definitely didn't feel ready. I checked my phone and Mr. Iero said he would be there in 5. I went ahead and stood out front to wait for him.

His car pulled up and he got out to greet me, “Wow, you look great!” he said with a smile. He had on sunglasses and chewed his gum kinda obnoxiously but hot. He gave me a big hug and opened the door for me, his car was super clean surprisingly. “Where are we going?” I ask timidly.

“Downtown, get some coffee and donuts,” he smiled, placing his hand on my thigh. “How’d you know where my house was?” I asked. “Teachers have access to those kinds of things,” I just nodded in response staring out the window. It was pretty cloudy and I was kinda hoping it’d rain.

We got to the coffee place downtown, “This is my special spot, for a special girl,” he smirked. I felt my stomach overfill with butterflies and a sparked joy I didn’t know I could feel around somebody. He got out the umbrella and interlocked arms with me, I looked at him with such content but confusion. I felt like I didn’t deserve any of this, none of the kindness, none of the listening, nothing.

He told me to sit down at a booth while he ordered us stuff. I texted Livvy while sitting there:

Me: Liv i think im in love no joke

Liv: i would be too

Me: were getting coffee rn ill update soon

He came back and sat a delicious smelling coffee in front of me, “Thank you Mr. Iero,” I said. “Call me Frank, no need for that outside of school,” he said, he grabbed my hand that was on top of the table. I looked at him, blushing hard, what if someone saw us?

We talked about the things we both liked and hated, we actually had a lot in common. “You like Elvis?!” he said, shocked. “Yeah and?! It’s a comfort thing,” I defended. “Explain,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Sometimes when my mom was out I’d spend the night with my grandfather and in the morning while cooking breakfast he’d play Elvis,” I said, reminiscing when I actually had a somewhat stable relationship with a man.

I think Frank noticed my mood diminish into something solemn. “Let's grab those donuts, I have somewhere else I wanna show you,” he said, grabbing my hand. He showed me off proudly, it felt like he was telling everyone around him to look at me but not in the way I’m used to. He put his mouth close to my ear, “We’ll have to share a donut, they’re almost out of everything,” he said, placing a kiss on my cheek.

We walked under the umbrella together as we started to share the donut, “Don’t lift a finger princess,” he said while holding the donut up to my mouth. He basically gave me the whole thing while he only had a couple bites. “Why do you treat me like this?” I asked him, curious as to why he is so fond of treating me like…a girlfriend?

“I think you deserve it, Y/N. I’ll explain more later,” he said with such sincerity, gripping my hand tighter. Was this going to be a whole day affair? My mom hasn’t been home for a few days so I didn’t feel the need to tell her where I was, it wasn’t like she was answering my messages anyway!

“What’s wrong hun?” he said, taking down the umbrella as the rain had stopped and the sun came out. “My mom hasn't answered my messages, it's been days,” I said, a little disappointed. “I’ll look after you, don't worry about it,” he said as we showed up to a record store. I gasped as I could never afford to buy my own records, it felt like a dream.

We went inside and looked around, I looked around for a ‘The Cure’ album. As I kept looking I felt a body press up behind me and place their arms around my waist and a head on my shoulder. He placed soft kisses on my neck causing me to giggle, I felt him do the same in my neck. “Find what you need?” he asked. “Yeah, did you?” his hands were empty. “Yeah,” he smiled playfully like he was up to something but not sure what.

“Bullshit. You need to get something or else I’ll feel bad that you spent all your money on me,” I said feeling slight guilt about him buying things for me. “I have you, that’s all I need,” he said, pulling me to the register and pulls out his card faster than I can reach for my purse zipper.

He handed me the bag of my records and we left. We didn’t do anything much except go thrifting and it was already 7 PM. “I have one place left to go,” he smiled, pulling out of the spot. “I feel like we’ve been everywhere already,” I said, whining. “Be a good girl and don’t whine for me, okay?” that immediately put me in my place and I complied. I could see a smirk on his face, he knew what he did to me.

I heard a song on the radio that I liked and immediately turned it up, it was You Get Me So High by The Neighbourhood. “You like them?” he asked. “Love them! I’ve seen them in concert twice already,” I said proudly. Livvy knew I couldn’t afford it but she ever so kindly bought them for me.

After a short drive we made it to our destination, a bar. It was quite crowded, I wasn't even old enough to drink yet. I looked at him worried, “I’m not 21..” I said. “I can get you in darling, don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. I trusted him but I tightened my lips anxiously. He was able to get me in because he was close friends with the guy at the front.

We got in and the music was at a comfortably loud volume. He dragged me to the bar and ordered me a drink but I couldn’t tell you what it was. Tasted great though!

I downed a couple drinks and I basically became a melting mess in Frank's hands. I held onto him for dear life like someone was trying to pull me away from him. I dragged him outside for a cigarette break, I pulled them out of bag and I forgot my lighter, “I forgot my fuckin lighter.” He laughed at my tone and lit my cigarette for me.

We stood inches apart, he held my waist with his tattooed hand. I took a huff of my cig and blew it in his face, “Naughty girl,” he chuckled. He pulled me in to kiss him and our lips collided. The taste of cigarettes and alcohol mixed perfectly with each other. I wrapped my arms around his neck, not wanting to release.

I shared my cigarette with him and he whispered in my ear, “How about you come over to my place for the night?” My heart was beating out of its chest, “Are you sure that's okay? I would need to get my stuff at home,” I said. “We can stop by your place first baby, I do have a few room-mates if that’s okay,” he said looking away embarrassed. “More the merrier!” I joked.

We drove back to my place and I led him up to my room, he sat on my bed and I packed up a couple things. I turned around putting my hands on my hips, “All packed,” I smiled. He patted his hand insinuating for me to sit on his lap, so I did. I wrapped my arms around his neck, “My pretty girl,” he whispered while pushing my hair out of my face.

“I really don’t understand why you like me, Frank,” I said, that feeling of undeservingness washing over me. “Look at you Y/N!. What is there not to like about you? We have so much in common and I can’t get over how beautiful you are,” I need all the reassurance I can get. What if he leaves me? Would another man treat me like Frank does?

“Do you promise not to leave?” I asked tearfully. “What? Of course I do, Y/N. How could I do that to you sweetheart?” he said, hugging me tightly. “We should get going,” he said softly. I nodded and he grabbed my bags for me as we walked back to the car.

We got to Frank's place and it was dimly lit, it smelled of cigarettes and expensive musky candles. I saw band equipment set up, “What’s all this?” I asked. “Oh, me and my friends do gigs on the side,” he chuckled as we walked to the kitchen. A timid man turned around to greet us, he gave Frank a hug and gave me a handshake. Firmly.

“Nice to meet you,” I said shyly. “Franks said a lot about you, nice to meet you,” he smiled kindly and I furrowed my brows a little confused. He talks about me? What did he say? More questions to be answered.

Frank hurried me to his room, it was spacious and had a few of his guitars displayed on the walls. He disappeared for a second and brought back a shirt and pajama pants of his, “Put these on,” I took them. I went into the bathroom bringing my toiletries along with me. I changed into his oversized clothes and washed my face.

I brought out my phone and snapped a pic of me in the mirror sending it to Livvy. She replied almost instantly: not you going home with him !! be safe !! she replied.

I went back out and put my other clothes back in my bag, “You have such a nice room,” I complimented. “Biggest one in the house,” he brags. I hadn’t noticed before but he turned the radio on and it was on a classic rock station. The room was filled with cigarette smoke and incense. Lamps created the perfect sensual ambience.

I laid my head on his soft pillows and Frank hovered over me, caressing my face with his hand. Something came over me, my eyes filled with tears and escaped the corner of my eyes. “What’s wrong princess?” he said, worried. I shook my head, sobbing. Never was I good enough to ever receive a love like this before. Here I had it.

“Tell daddy what’s wrong princess,” that broke me. I couldn’t tell if I was imagining all of this or if it was some sick joke. I straddled his lap, crying into his shoulder. His hand rubbed up and down my back sensually. “I’ve never felt such an overwhelming amount of love and adoration from a man before,” I stated plainly.

He asked me to talk about it so I did. I told him about the men this time, while I did we drank. It got to the point where I only started seeing flashes of my surroundings. One minute I was taking off my clothes, then I was sitting on top of Frank, then throwing my head back and moaning.

I remember seeing Frank go down on me and him forcing my legs open as I was ready to release on his face. Flashes of Frank saying things like, “You're daddy’s good girl…I’ll never hurt you…you’re safe with me…shh you’re okay sweetheart.” His voice vibrated through my skin.

Soon enough I passed out, naked and covered up by the warm sheets. I woke up groggy and still a little drunk around 3 am and had my clothes put back on. I groaned and didn’t see Frank in bed with me but playing guitar across the room. “Frank?” I said, rubbing my eyes. He immediately rushed to my side to comfort me, “Are you okay princess?” he said.

I nodded, “Could you get me some water?” I asked because my voice was hoarse. He brought back water to me and I downed it as fast as I could. He got into bed with me and I cuddled up at his side, holding on for life.

I grabbed Frank's face pressing our lips together, I longed for his kiss and his desire. He pulled away and cupped my face, “If you were my little girl, I’d do whatever I could do for you,” he said softly. “I am,” I stated so desperately wanting him to take me in, live with him, devote my life to him. “I’d even run away and hide with you if I could. You’re daddy’s girl,” he said pulling me into his chest.

To be safe and sound in his heart forever.

#frank iero #frank #iero #frank iero mcr #mcr frank #my chemical frank #frank iero imagine #frank iero fanfiction #frank iero fanfic #frank iero smut #frank iero x you #frank iero x reader #mcr fanfiction #daddy issues #teacher crush #my chemical romance #my chem fanfic

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29625 · 6 months ago

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A short story—or a poetic scribble—based on my headcannon about Slider which I’m going to include in my ongoing fic at some point!

Featuring: Slider being from a troubled family. Slimav being fluffy. Maverick being slightly clueless but trying his best.

Slider was the third generation Eastern German-Russian immigrant. His nana and his mother emigrated to the US in the 30s.

Slider learned cooking from his nana, and some of his signature dishes were related to his maternal origin. Veal Orloff, Jaeger schnitzel with short pasta, hearty soup with Regensburger wurst. Slider spoke English and German, with a bit of verbal understanding of Russian (something that made he and Ice close.), which meant not only did he cook oh so well, he did that without botching the pronunciation.

His estranged mother was very unstable and had two children with two different fathers before she cut all contact with her family. Slider was ten when he started being the caregiver of his half-brother, Daniel “Danny” Kerner on behalf of their mother. Slider was twelve when his nana became their legal guardian—and moved to New York from his hometown in Orange County.

His mother was never heard again since. Slider moved on, but he still checked missing and unidentified persons reports from California State from time to time.

Danny and Slider had always been close. Danny liked dogs, dancing, and Star Wars. He proceeded to become a ER nurse, working in a hospital in New York City. Slider couldn’t be more proud of his little guy. Or not-so-little-anymore guy. Smart, handsome, practical, and kind. He attended his graduation from UC Barkley in 1991 and cried his eyes out to the point Danny just had to call Maverick (or Pete, in layman’s words—who was his big brother’s “friend”. Yeah, Ronnie, I get it. A friend to call for an emotional support and also some words of congratulations at your brother’s graduation.) to calm him down.

Slider never disclosed his sexuality to his nana when she was alive. Only told Danny when he had a second boyfriend after Annapolis. Didn’t want to burden her. Didn’t want to lose her. Maybe she suspected things. Maybe she told Slider on a random day in summer of 1984, that she would always love him no matter what. But they didn’t talk about it. His nana passed away in 2000 after battling a lung disease for almost a decade. Peaceful, but it caved a big empty space in his heart.

Maverick never nudged him to come out, either. He was just happy to be with Slider. He would, though, pay visit to her grave. He told her how much he loved his Ronnie. He told her how much he was thankful that he and Ron ever met.

Slider did not know who his father was, and neither did Danny, who seemed to have some sort of middle eastern admixture. Slider knew they both inherited their physiques from their nana’s side—the Kerner blood just happened to be so tall—but other than that remained a mystery.

Maverick once told him that his hair made him look like a sculpture, like a Greek soldier carved from marble. Slider opened his eyes for a moment before chuckling.

“I like how that sounds.”

Maverick later learned Slider believed his father might have been of Greek descent. When he was a child, he read a book about Greek history and saw a picture of a curly haired men, their hair styled like his own. He looked just like his mother, or so his nana had told him. But he’d got a curly hair that nobody else in his family had. He’d got a curly hair that his nana had to learn to take care of. He believed it was the only thing that connected him with his father, no matter how ridiculous it might sound like a true childhood dream it was.

Slider would dream of his unnamed father teaching him how to drive. He would dream of his unnamed father teaching him how to shave. But more than anything, he would dream of his father teaching him how to style his hair in the morning. A secret he’d kept. An embarrassing, petty, melodramatic one—which Maverick disagreed with. He, too, knew how it felt to be deprived of his parents’ presence, and how much it meant for him to just exist as Pete Mitchell sometimes—an unyielding prove that his parents once lived.

Every time Maverick ran his fingers in his curly strands, Slider just nuzzled him as if to ask for more. He kissed Slider on the lips as the defined coil-shaped curls came loose in his hands like a ribbon on the Christmas morning.

#slimav #ron slider kerner #top gun 1986 #top gun fanfiction #slider x maverick #pete maverick mitchell #I love Slider #please let me have some Slider screen time next time TG franchise #WIP #29625’s top gun fics

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thecurioustale · 2 months ago

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It Is October 7 Again

I am going to talk about genocide today, and anti-Semitism, and a few other things. This is a long post.

Over the past year you have perhaps noticed the drastic uptick of Jewish people, both online and in person, who are reporting anti-Semitism. And you may have noticed that they are also talking much more often, more openly, and more passionately about Jewish cultures, traditions, and identity.

You should heed this: This is the telltale of a group of people who are being socially isolated, repressed, and wronged. Even casual, non-religious Jews like myself, for whom Jewishness is far from the center of their identity, are experiencing this. To the extent that the vilification of Jews is a reliable canary in the coal mine whenever a society is headed down an especially bad path, the past year has been an alarming one for Western nations, both inside and outside the English-speaking world. You know how we've been worried sick about all the book bans the fascists are doing? Yeah, well, this Jew-hate stuff on the left is cut from the same cloth.

Anti-Semitism is only one small plank of the fascist resurgence on the mainstream right, but it is one of three principal ideological planks (together with racial revolution and the elimination of capitalism) on the authoritarian left, and in the past year it has become the hottest of the three despite being the smallest. And this is where most of the consternation comes from among Jews, because most Jews (including myself) are also leftists. Our backstabbers this time are the people with whom, and for whom, we have done so much work in the pursuit of justice.

And it hurts. Despite our small numbers, Jews have always been integral to the struggle for queer rights, for sexual equality, for racial justice, for environmental stewardship, for fair wages, for safe workplaces, for affordable healthcare. And the hurt is palpable: "We were there with you. We were there for you. And now when it is our turn to call upon our friends, you cast us into the sea." And it's not like we can just stop being leftists. We have to coexist now in this awkward alliance of antipathy.

Let me tell you something, as a queer person myself (agender) and more importantly as a lifelong leftist: If you're siding with Hamas in this—an Islamic terrorist organization whose view on gay and trans people is that they should be put to death and whose view on women is that they should be docile servants to their male guardians—if you're siding with that over the existential self-defense of the free democratic nation of Israel, you need to get your head examined, because you're a special kind of fool...and also probably a bad person too, in dire need of some self-improvement.

If nothing else, even if you do side against Israel in the war against Hamas, you should be doing more to speak out against the deluge of anti-Semitism that is infecting leftist discourse and spaces, because it is discrediting the entire leftist coalition. Failure to speak out against hate speech makes you not only a fool and a bad person, but also a fake leftist. It means everything you've ever said about opposing racism and prejudice was meaningless, superficial blather, likely meant more so to make yourself feel self-righteous and socially accepted among your peers than to actually contribute to the causes of justice.

When an animal, or a person, or a whole society, is attacked by a predator—when one is already in the predator's grip and it is too late to flee—the first instinct is usually to resist. And at first there is the strength to resist, before the wounds accrue. So, in societies, this is the stage when people raise their voices in resistance. This is where we are at now. This is the time of story-telling among Jews, of reminders to one another that the gaslighting by our fake friends is false, that all of these narratives about Jews being the scourge of the Earth and Israel a land of Nazis are lies, no matter how ubiquitous these narratives may seem.

The language and imagery coming out of Jewish communities and people for the past year has been language largely of self-affirmation: "We are here. We are real. We are valid. What is being done to us is wrong. What is being said about us is false." This has been the growing refrain of Jews around the world for the past year, and you should heed it, because it concerns you. It concerns you because we share this society together and are in it together.

In the West we enjoy broad free speech rights and relative physical and economic safety to use those rights. And I am hopeful that the current spate of anti-Semitism is at a high-water mark, and that things won't get significantly worse from here. But even if this bears out, and things don't get much worse than they are right now, even this current level of bigotry is still deeply wrong and unacceptable.

And so there is that other refrain that Jews are also saying: "It hurts to be betrayed by our own allies, for whom and with whom we have done so much." I know I just said it, but it bears repeating: Few groups of people in the world have been more passionately committed to the causes of liberalism, liberation, civil rights, and progressivism than Jews, particularly secular Jews and Reform Jews (i.e. the least strict denomination of Judaism). This is because Jews are deeply cosmopolitan and civil-minded, believing in community action and coming together. And even more so it is because Jews are the ultimate refugees, with deep knowledge of the barrel end of guns and tyranny. Jews bear deep generational traumas and cultural conditioning, informing the near-universal Jewish commitment to the importance of upholding and expanding universal education, public health, civil rights, and personal liberty and dignity.

Bad-faith actors psychopathically call this uptick in affirmative language coming from Jews an attempt to distract from "the genocide in Palestine," as though it were merely a tactic in some insidious Jewish effort to portray Jews as the victims of their own violence. A disgusting lie, is what that is. But it does niggle at the mind, doesn't it? "Why are Jewish people pretending that the war isn't happening? Why are they ignoring the destruction in Gaza? Why are they only talking about themselves and their dumb traditions and music and crap?"

Well, we're not ignoring what's happening in Gaza, of course. We talk about it often. No one I've come across is happy that the Palestinian people are suffering. Rather, this kind of spin is just one of the many tactics of propagandists and radicals to distort the truth of their own anti-Semitic wrongdoings through any means, and, moreover, it is a time-tested tactic of racial supremacists and other cultural bigots worldwide to portray a persecuted minority's efforts at sanity and self-defense, i.e. through the sharing of their stories and customs, in a negative, selfish, and menacing light.

I want it to be known that Israel is not the systemic aggressor in the Middle East, and never was. Israel is a small country, alone in the region, surrounded and vastly outnumbered by mostly hostile, at best indifferent nations, and vilified by the wider world because of generations of successful anti-Jewish propaganda by anti-Semitic actors. Israel is fighting to preserve its very existence. It does get money and some amount of weaponry from America, and lip service from Europeans who are embarrassed by their past, but when terrorists are streaming over the border and rockets are flying, America feels very far away indeed, and Israel has always known that if it fails in its own self-defense there will be no one coming to help. None. Israel would be destroyed.

And many if not all of you who are opposed to Israel's ruthless prosecution of this war would be singing a very different tune if the name "Israel" were removed from the picture and you were inserted in its place: if, across the railroad tracks in your own town, there was a neighborhood full of people who would take any chance to murder you—literally murder you—with no far-flung federal government to swoop in and protect you. You're on your damned own.

That's Israel.

One year ago today was the October 7 massacre in Israel, when Hamas fighters did exactly that: They breached the Israeli border out of Gaza and murdered over a thousand people, and took hundreds more hostage—including people of numerous nationalities around the world—many of whom have since been murdered by their captors.

In addition to murder and abduction, Hamas fighters on that day committed sexual assault, physical assault, bodily mutilation, arson, robbery, and many other felonies. Going by the videos and voice messages they so boastfully recorded and posted for the world to see, they did so mostly in a frenzy of wild bloodlust. Madness, in other words. True madness, perpetrated by the insane, who had been radicalized into it through a culture that glorifies holy war, mass murder, and martyrdom, and which dehumanizes Jews as thoroughly as any society ever did, including That One.

On that day Hamas committed the single-biggest music concert slaughter on record anywhere in the world. They practically annihilated several small Jewish villages on the border. (And, to be clear, these were not newly-established settler homesteads within Palestinian territory, not that that would have justified it, but these were longstanding Jewish communities clearly on the Israeli side of the border.) The murder committed by Hamas fighters was indiscriminate—not the fake sort of "indiscriminate" charged of the Israeli Defense Forces, but truly indiscriminate, targeting people purely on the basis of opportunity. It didn't matter to these terrorists if their victims were passive and compliant, physically disabled, or children. Death to them all.

It was an act of terrorism. It was a crime against humanity. And it was, to put it mildly, an act of war. And you might find that inconvenient, but too bad for you. The most comparable milestone in American living memory would be the September 11 attacks. Israel formally declared war immediately—something that nations, including Israel in the face of past invasions, have done increasingly less frequently done since the Second World War, as the language of "war" has fallen out of fashion amid an arrogant belief by Westerners that we have somehow grown beyond it. A formal declaration of war is what Israel made, and it was proper that Israel make this declaration, and Israel was warranted in so doing.

As soon as the events of October 7 became publicly known, there were celebrations among Islamic terrorists, their sympathizers, and anti-Semites of all stripes worldwide—including Western progressives who have a whole punch of pride flags and hearts and kittens and puppies in their bios. The celebrations were immediate. They always are. When you belong to that bunch, there's never a wrong time to celebrate the murder of Jews, civilian or not, no matter how few or how many. And bear in mind: At this point there had been no Israeli counterstroke yet; none of the arguments which would find their voices in the ensuing months, about the supposed heavy-handedness of Israeli's response, applied yet. People celebrated this slaughter on principle, on the notion that Israelis—Jews, really—should be killed wherever possible, and the State of Israel destroyed. They celebrated on the notion that Jews are white colonizers (a lie that would be laughable if it weren't so deeply vile) and that only Muslims may inhabit this part of the world and govern its peoples.

And, so, like I said, I figured today would be a good day to talk about genocide.

Let's get into it.

That word, genocide, more than any other, is how anti-Semites, lamentably parroted by those who uncritically believe the emotionally-charged accusations of anti-Semites, distill the Israel–Hamas War. They reach for this word, which occupies the very top shelf of human atrocity, wantonly and shamelessly, in order to claim the mantle of righteousness for themselves, and to rationalize their own genocidal policy goal of exterminating Jewish life and self-determination in the Middle East.

It is unfortunate that we live in a time where people of bad faith and limited intellect instinctively reach for the most powerful, emotionally evocative language possible, bypassing any hope of nuance or accuracy in any arena of discourse where they are participants. It is unfortunate for two reasons: It misrepresents and thereby obscures the truth of things, and it saps this severest of language of its essential power when it is actually needed.

Most people in the West have never experienced war and don't understand just how horrible it is even under the best of circumstances. So, because of this, genocide is a very hard accusation to defend against amid the backdrop of war. Nobody wants to be a "genocide denier," and if you try and bring nuance into the conversation by arguing that all of these blown-up buildings and dead bodies are not "genocide," then you look either cynically pragmatic and ludicrously detached from the horrors of war, or you look like an apologist for genocide.

And anti-Semites know that, and therefore use the word all the more fervently and frequently. It is in virtually every piece of media they publish: a constant reminder, whose familiarity and repetition makes it become truer and truer over time in the minds of the people exposed to it. That is how propaganda works, after all.

But the thing is, "genocide" isn't just an arbitrary word. We have that word as a way of describing actions which serve to erase an entire people. Blown up buildings, dead bodies, displaced communities...as horrible as these things are, they are not, by themselves, going to erase an entire people. They are not, by themselves, genocide.

The reason the distinction is so important is because genocide is almost indefensible while war is frequently highly defensible. War, though it is terrible, is a legitimate recourse in many situations. Among them, when your people are physically attacked—your community, your nation, your ethnic group, your entire identity—war is sometimes the only means of self-defense.

You know how the fascists like to accuse their enemies of doing the things that they themselves are guilty of? It's the same thing with the people who raise the charge of genocide against Israel: Their policies toward Israel and Jews are not so subtly—and sometimes outright openly—genocidal in nature. They believe Israel should be erased from existence, its Jews either killed or again scattered across the world in a new Diaspora. (A word originally invented to describe an atrocity committed to Jews, just like the words ghetto, pogrom, and others.) And let me tell you something: A person who can condone genocide in their own heart, and who knows of the power of the word genocide to horrify the public, will have no reservations about using that word to sully their would-be victims.

There are so many comfortable Westerners with dark hearts who loll about on their phones and keyboards and talk about how they would just love for Israel to roll over and die.

But Israel isn't going to do that. Sorry, not sorry. So long as the Israelis have a say in their own fate, they are going to protect themselves. A murderous terrorist organization like Hamas must be stopped. It must be dismantled completely if possible, or at least so badly degraded that it cannot again commit large-scale atrocities. As an Israeli military commander said shortly after October 7: "What [else] are we supposed to do? Send them roses?"

When your enemies are determined to use physical force to hurt you, and have utterly no qualms at all about using any means they can no matter how unethical or inhumane, and cannot be stopped through dialogue, war is a defensible option.

My thesis today is a simple one: 1) Israel is in the right and Hamas is in the wrong, unambiguously; 2) the war was forced on Israel and Israel is justified in fighting it; 3) most of the people who are claiming that Israel is the aggressor are at best misinformed and bafflingly naïve, and at worst are sick individuals with deep-seated anti-Semitic views that those around them perhaps weren't aware of; and 4) global anti-Semitism is sharply on the rise and needs to be acknowledged and reconciled with respect to people's opinions on the Israel–Hamas War.

But before I continue to address these points, I also want to lay out three markers in the ground, for you to contextualize the rest of this essay by:

Firstly: Conditions in Gaza are indeed very bad in many places, with many civilian deaths and injuries, and massive displacement of people from their homes. I make no denial of that whatsoever, nor do I uncritically condone it. But neither do I primarily blame Israel for it. I primarily blame Hamas, for stationing its fighters among civilians for the express purpose of causing as many civilian casualties among their own people as possible.

Secondly: Go count the number of Jews in Middle Eastern and North African countries other than Israel, and compare those numbers to what they were a century ago, and then come back and speak to me of genocide.

Thirdly: The people who are most emphatically promulgating this anti-Israel, anti-Jewish rhetoric on social media, regardless of what color their skin is or what gender they are or how many pride flags and cute doggos are in their bio, are bad people. They are bad people and you should be deeply wary of trusting anything they say or relying upon them in this chaotic leftist coalition of ours. At the very least, you need to be on your guard around them. Someone who spreads anti-Semitism and tries to make you feel bad for not agreeing with them is giving you a capital-letter Clue about their true nature as a person. I am someone who naturally overestimates people's good faith and underestimates their willingness to lie and cheat. And maybe you're more pragmatic than that. But if not, then beware.

So. With all that said:

The mission charter of Hamas is to destroy Israel, and Hamas is the government of Gaza. There can be no avoiding military action in Gaza to dismantle Hamas. The only questions are what kind of force, how much, how long, and to what end.

I'll leave the answers to those questions for another time, or to others better-suited than me. Originally I went off for many paragraphs on a tangent about this, but my purpose with this essay isn't really to armchair quarterback Israel's military strategy, and I'm hardly an expert on that stuff anyway.

I will say, however, that one thing Israelis and Jews worldwide have been talking about with increasing concern for many months now is that the war isn't going well. After many years of relative quiet and the opportunity to build up its forces and human resources, Hamas is better-organized and equipped than I think any of us thought, while Israeli's military strategy has been almost bafflingly incompetent: The IDF goes into Hamas hotbeds, eliminates as many of the individual fighters and commanders as the intelligence and reconnaissance provides for, and then pulls out and moves on.

It sounds good on paper, like firefighting: Go put out one hot spot in force and then move on to the next one. But the way Israel has been carrying out this process isn't working: All the fires that get "put out" come back aflame again after the army leaves. Hamas has learned from its own experiences, and from the teachings of other terrorists and Islamist fighters who have been involved in actions throughout the Middle East, how to deal with this strategy in a most resilient way.

This is frustrating and disturbing, because all the reasons for the war are still valid and urgent, but Hamas, though it has been militarily weakened and many of its fighters killed, is still very much intact and functional. As long as the war can realistically be won, then I would be willing to support it for as long as it takes. But if it cannot realistically be won, then either the strategy must be changed or alternative solutions must be sought out. The trouble is, I don't see any acceptable alternative military strategies or viable non-military solutions. I originally went into many paragraphs on this topic as well, but, again, it felt like it was derailing my purpose with this essay. Suffice it to say that Israel is in a difficult position.

The reason why Israel is in such a difficult position is because Palestinian society is fundamentally broken, and is unable and unwilling to act as a good-faith partner in peace.

Few peoples in the world have had a sadder history in recent times than the Palestinians. They were doomed to failure from the beginning: The Arab political borders in the region are nonsensical, the result of two empires (the Ottomans and the British) having their way with the region and ultimately drawing nearly-arbitrary national borders that do not reflect the true cultural mosaic of the Arab world. Palestinian society was created by chopping off bits of several of these arbitrarily-delineated surrounding Arab countries, and ever since then the Palestinians have been in thrall to these richer, stabler, and more powerful neighbors, not just their closest neighbors but other countries farther afield across the Middle East and North Africa. The cultural identity of the Palestinians is therefore largely defined by their history since the founding of Israel, i.e. in terms of the conflict with Israel. The Palestinians' whole story, and their ongoing fate, is to be the thorn in Israel's side that keeps Israel involved in continual armed conflict against a small Muslim population, enshrining Israel as a common enemy for the Arab world (and the Persian world i.e. Iran and its proxies) to unify against and thereby distract from the corruption, incompetence, and extremism of their own authoritarian governments...all at the expense of the welfare and future hopes of the Palestinians themselves.

Before the founding of Israel, the people who would become the Palestinians originally had the chance to have half the land of what is now Israel and Palestine. And not just any half, but the better half: the more agriculturally productive half. The Jewish Zionists who would go on to found Israel were on board with it. But the Palestinians were compelled by their masters to say no, because the Arabs thought they could defeat Israel militarily and thus get 100 percent of the land. That's why several Arab nations invaded Israel immediately after it declared independence in 1948. And the Arabs lost decisively, despite having far superior numbers, better weapons, and more equipment, because the Jews faced utter annihilation if they lost whereas the Arabs were only in it for marginal territorial gains. Hell, in those days Israel didn't even have the US support pipeline to help it out; it did get some help from the outside, but for all intents and purposes the new Israeli state was completely on its own, significantly more so than today.

Israel won even so, and the Palestinians lost their best chance at a fruitful land to call their own.

What followed were decades of Islamic radicalization throughout the region and the continued exploitation and manipulation of the Palestinian people by nearby authoritarian governments, by the Soviet Union, and of course by the ever-growing Islamic terrorist organizations as regional Islam sank into a dark age of ultraconservative radicalism and violence. The Palestinians were convenient puppets. And their neighbors, who paid them so much lip service, did nothing to actually help them. They accepted very few refugees and did almost nothing to build the Palestinian economy. They wanted the Palestinians to remain weak, volatile, and oppressed.

Israel, for its part, has tried so many times over the decades to make peace with its most intricated neighbor. Under left-wing and right-wing governments alike, Israel has sued for peace. It is in Israel's overwhelming economic and security interests to have peace with the Palestinians, and Jews in general are a peace-loving people. We have our hawks, too, but on the whole Jewish culture is oriented around peace because Judaism has aligned with peace for centuries, and because Jews throughout history have always been a persecuted minority, and you can't be bellicose when you're at the mercy of a cruel majority.

Over the decades Israel has tried every approach there is to try: They have tried offering land concessions. They have tried economic investment and aid packages, almost to the point of outright bribery. They have tried physical force. They have tried cooperation, occupation, de-occupation, and mediated international negotiation...all to no avail.

Nothing works, because the Palestinians are never given the chance to say yes: The Islamic extremists and self-interested foreign governments ensure that Palestine always says no, always maintains a front of armed opposition to Israel. The Palestinian demands for peace are always compelled to include provisions that would essentially destroy Israel, and thus are unacceptable by the Israelis and never truly serious. (A claim often preemptively made against the Israelis as a way of deflecting from this, though perhaps it is also fair to say that Israel's present government might not be willing to make enough compromises to reach an agreement.) Consequently, Palestinian terrorism against Israel has been a fact of life for most of Israel's history. Israelis suffer for it, but Palestinians suffer even more.

This is why the Israeli occupations of Palestinian territory happened in the first place. Palestinian terrorists were murdering Israeli civilians, Israeli children, in indiscriminate attacks of opportunity. Long before most of us were born! The Israeli public demanded action, and, slowly, the modern shape of the conflict took form, with Israel, in all its superior military might, brutally suppressing the never-ending fountain of Palestinian terrorism, further solidifying Palestine's fate as a broken society and a failed state.

Palestine has never had good governance. The various Palestinian governments, mainly the PLO and Hamas, have always been ludicrously corrupt and self-serving, vacuuming up international aid for their own consumption or to sell off for cash, living high on the proverbial hog while their people suffered—the near-inevitable story of undemocratic societies run by religious extremists. It's a bitter truth to face, but the Palestinian governments have never cared about the Palestinian people. Nor have other Islamic societies in the region, who pay so much lip service to Palestinian liberation but are actually the chief perpetrators of Palestinian suffering.

Hamas apologists in the West, mostly on the left, like to claim that Palestine is justified in any and all violence against Israelis, because they frame this violence as a righteous resistance to Israeli oppression. They frame Israel as the source of all Palestinian suffering. It isn't. Israel is the instrument of that suffering, the weapon that bludgeons, but the hand that orchestrates the blow is neither Palestine nor Israel, but the larger geopolitical forces in the region. It was true then, and it's true today. Countries like Saudi Arabia, Iran, Syria, and others bear most of the blame, together with the Islamic terrorist groups who force violence even beyond what the authoritarian governments want.

I don't categorically reject armed resistance against oppression. I don't unconditionally sanction it either, but my point is that if the Palestinians had a real argument on their hands for why they should be giving Israel so much grief, I might be more sympathetic to their cause. But they don't. There is no such argument. The Palestinians, by reason of being controlled by terrorists and authoritarian governments, continually provoke Israel. This is not a chicken-and-egg problem. The Palestinians are always either taking the first shot explicitly, or are preempted by Israeli countermeasures shortly before being able to take the first shot. They have to take the first shot, because Israel isn't going to. Israel wants it calm and quiet. Whenever Hamas and all the other Islamic terror groups operating in Gaza and the West Bank calm down, the whole Israeli–Palestinian Conflict calms down, because Israel isn't the aggressor. The Palestinians are.

And I think many Westerners lose sight of that, or aren't able to conceptualize it in the first place, because Israel is the more populous, richer, and more technologically and militarily sophisticated of the two nations, and in Western conceptual framing we don't often imagine the smaller party being the aggressor. But this is one of the cases where it is.

And, remember, it's not Palestine acting by itself: Today when you see Palestinian terror groups (including Hamas and others) lashing out, what you are really seeing is the long arm of Iran, of Syria (more so before the war), and of other belligerent nations, as well as the long arm of large-scale Islamist terrorist networks like Islamic State, and, more so in recent times, the supposedly long arm of Russia. So Palestine itself may be the smaller party compared alone with Israel, but in the broader geopolitical scheme of things Palestine has huge forces behind it. Israel does enjoy a strong amount of US support, but not that much, and the Israeli population is still very small compared to the total population of all the belligerents who actively plot against it. They may look like the big dog compared to the Palestinians, but they are very much the underdogs regionally.

And Westerners clearly don't understand this, or most of this anti-Israel rhetoric would simply not land.

What is happening in Gaza right now? Carnage. Destruction. Not genocide, but bad enough that it raises fundamental questions about urban warfare and the ethical defensibility of guerilla tactics, and also about how nations should respond to this kind of terrorism given that terrorists are going to do what they do regardless of the ethics.

With regard to the first point, urban warfare with modern artillery is just about as bad as warfare gets. And Gaza is so compact and so densely populated, and so heavily urbanized, that basically the whole theater is urban; and Hamas deliberately stations its fighters among the civilians for the exact purpose of causing as much destruction and as many civilian casualties as possible; that basically any Israeli artillery or air support is going to leave giant piles of rubble in its wake. The alternative would be sending in ground forces only, but Gaza is Hamas' home turf and this would lead to horrendous Israeli casualties. That's not how you fight a way. Israel has to use heavy weapons. They try to be smart about it, but collateral damage is unavoidable, and in this war in particular, owing to the brutal nature of the October 7 attacks, Israel has adopted a military stance that leans more toward effectiveness and less toward minimizing collateral damage compared to previous Israeli operations in the Palestinian Territories. It's not genocide. It's fierce urban warfare against a sophisticated terrorist enemy using guerilla tactics with no regard for human life, including that of its own fighters and its own civilian people. I thought Hamas would have been beaten by now. I think many people did. But it hasn't, and so the war continues.

With regard to the second point, I think people who oppose Israel's actions in Gaza need to step back and ask themselves what they would do differently? There are thousands of armed terrorists literally just a few miles away, who will use any means they can to kill as many of your civilians as possible. This ensures that the fighting will be as destructive and as harmful to civilians as possible. So what do you do? Do you let that daunt you? Do you not fight back? No, really: What do you do?

Because every non-violent solution you can name, Israel has already tried, and they've tried it sincerely. Other than rolling over and dying.

The Palestinians are committed to fighting. At any cost. They support this Hamas government. They embrace the Islamic extremism that has ruined so much of that part of the world. They hate Israel with a passion. And in so doing they have brought this disaster on themselves, and there are moments when it is incredibly tempting to say they deserve it. When I think of them, I think of MAGA Republicans here in the United States: people gripped by religious extremism and racial supremacism, who are always full of bluster and spoiling for violence, and whose policy goals—which they want to forcibly impose on the rest of us—are a mixture of abhorrent and absurd. The Palestinian people as a whole share many of these lamentable qualities. But at the end of the day I cannot bring myself to say that any civilian population deserves the horrors of war, no matter how ugly or extreme their culture is. I think what the Palestinian people really deserve is a long rest—the kind that only a cessation of war operations can bring. They need this war to end. And they are the ones who are in the best position to end it. If they rejected Hamas and demanded ceasefire talks, a cessation of fighting would come very quickly. And my fear is that, as they always have, the Palestinians will make the wrong choice. Indeed, they have made the wrong choice up till now.

This is where Western anti-Semitism becomes particularly deleterious in its power. One thing that the Islamic world has always been excellent at is Western PR for the Palestinians. For my entire lifetime, anti-Israeli, pro-Palestinian propaganda and PR has been leaps and bounds better than the Israeli efforts at controlling the messaging. Just look at how easily a new generation of young leftists in the West has been beguiled and deceived. I see ordinary accounts on Tumblr and elsewhere, ordinary people living ordinary lives, interspersing their posts about fanart, or what they're cooking for dinner, or whatever, with reblogs of literal Islamic propaganda, complete with anti-Semitic hate speech, genocidal calls for the destruction of Israel, the works! It's incongruous and disorienting, and serves as a reminder that ignorant, uninformed people are easily fooled. When you check out the sources of this reblogged content, and see what accounts they follow, it's only a couple more layers deep till you get to paid agitators and literal terrorists. It's not subtle at all. But it works anyway, because people don't scrutinize what they see.

And by winning over the hearts and minds of gullible young leftists with their suave propaganda, the forces that doom Palestinian society to a state of perpetual suffering also give the Palestinians false hope, hope that the world will come to their cause, reject Israel, and embrace the Palestinian people. It's insidious, because it's halfway a false hope—no one on the world stage actually cares about the Palestinians, despite all the lip service; they just hate Israel and want to prop up its enemies—and because it's halfway a real hope: It actually is possible to imagine a world where the anti-Israeli propaganda campaign succeeds, and Israel becomes an international pariah that is able to be picked off by its enemies. And the Palestinians are holding out for that outcome. But because it's so unlikely to actually come to pass, it very much functions like a false hope.

This is a very old truism, but I think it still applies: I think the Palestinian people need to decide, as a people, that they want peace for themselves more than they want death for their enemies. And, until they make that decision, I think the Palestinians are going to continue to suffer. And I hate that for them, but more so I hate it for Israel. The Israelis do not deserve what the Palestinians are doing to them. It's one thing to see the Palestinians doom themselves to suffering, but another to see them doom an innocent society. And although Israeli cities are not being pummeled like Gazan ones are, and thus the physical dangers and privations are much lower, Israelis still sustain serious trauma and anxiety from the constant threats of violence and attacks. And Israelis have not had a proper chance to rest either, nor grieve October 7, because the war came on immediately and the anti-Semitism followed suit instantly. Jews have been on the defensive ever since. I have heard a great deal to this effect over the past year from Israelis and by secondhand reports from visitors to Israel.

Meanwhile:

Even though Israel's war operations in Gaza are not genocide, I think there is an argument to be made that Israel's actions may not be commensurate with a positive security outcome either. I wouldn't personally agree with that argument, at least not currently, but with the war getting bogged down and Hamas regenerating it's always a good time to step back and remember that the Palestinian people are actively suffering while Hamas is only being eroded extremely slowly. Is it worth it? And what should Israel do if it isn't?

We must never let ourselves be locked into war. This war is justified on principle, and I would support it for as long as it takes if it were winnable. But if it turns out not to be winnable, then the earlier we can identify that, the better. Right now I don't think we're there. But, like I mentioned earlier, I can see that moment possibly coming. And winter is on its way. I think Israel needs to change its strategy to something more effective, and soon, or else look for alternatives to continuing its current, highly-disruptive operations. And it doesn't help that Israel's government is far-right, and therefore less trustworthy than a typical democratic government would be. So all the more reason for the feasibility of winning to become a principal and urgent question to answer.

Jews have lived in the land that is now Israel for thousands of years. Usually as a minority to the various societies of the day, but, like I've said elsewhere, since when did being a minority ever make a population illegitimate? They are natives. They have every right to be there. To call them white colonizers is an abuse of the language of anti-colonization, and a mockery of anti-racism. Many Jews are not even white-skinned to begin with, but even those who are were never "white" enough to be spared the white supremacist policies of the various majority-white societies where Jews have lived. And the reason so many Jews ended up living in Europe at all is because they were driven out of the Middle East long, long ago.

Any effort to portray the Israelis as white colonialist aggressors is laughable in the very worst way. It is a joke. It is a joke that anti-Semites would think that anybody with half a brain and half a heart would ever buy such flimsy and blatantly false logic. It is a joke that these so-called progressives immediately reach for words like "genocide" and "colonization" because they lack any ethical basis for their preconceived opinions or any intellectual appetite for the contortions of rationalizing those incoherent opinions.

The Palestinians have no shortage of sympathizers and supporters. That's perfectly clear judging by all the scam fundraisers I receive in my inbox nearly every day. I could almost laugh at these odious leftist anti-Semites being scammed out of their money, but, honestly, I think the people who actually donate are probably less likely to be in the "bad people" camp and more likely to be in the "deeply misinformed" camp. Putting your money where your mouth is is very meaningful, and I was recently reminded in a visceral way of the desperation and pain that often accompanies a person's decision to donate to somebody who is in dire need. And so to them I would merely say: Please make sure your donations are going to real fundraises to actually help real Palestinians. If you do nothing else, please at least do that.

Jews, meanwhile, have some support too. It's a "silent majority" kind of thing, though probably not an actual majority. But I often see surprisingly high levels of likes and reshares of Jewish content that speaks out against anti-Semitism, and even content that lays out the justifications for Israel's legitimacy and right to self-defense. And that heartens me.

On every other day, we think about Palestinian suffering. But today is the one-year anniversary of the worst terrorist attack in Israeli history, and one of the worst terrorist attacks in the history of the entire modern world. And every day since then has been rife with Jew-hate, including from allies and even friends. Today is a day to think about Jewish suffering, and elevate Jewish voices.

And if you find someone who can't do that, who has to play the partisan game to the bitterest end, it's fair to say there's something wrong with them.

#October 7 #Israel #Palestine #Anti-Semitism #Jews #jumblr #Effortpost

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