#the loud music and drinks and close press of bodies... so visceral

[drewsbuzzcut]

A little unedited visceral in doses blurb!

warnings: alcohol consumption and mentions being drunk

“Having fun Mr. 500?” You ask Mat, lips close to his ear and body pressed to his.

“So much fun, baby,” he responds, words a little slurred but his hands firm on the small of your back.

The music is blaring in the club you’re at; vibrating through your veins and filling you up with a heavy dose of serotonin. Or maybe it’s the few shots you’ve had. You and your boyfriend are surrounded by tons of moving bodies, but in this moment you’re perfectly still. Your eyes get caught up in his and glimpses of the future flash through them.

“I love you,” you shout because everyone should know how you feel about your hockey player.

“I love you,” Mat shouts back, his large hands pulling you by your waist. His lips land on yours and happily get drunk off his taste.

He sways his body and yours falls in line, moving in perfect tandem. Instead of feeling the loud beats pump through you, you’re focused on your boyfriend and his hazy state. His hair is tousled from your previous make out and his body isn’t tense anymore. His thick shoulders bulge under the material of his button up, perfect for you to hold onto as you grind into him.

“I’m so proud of you,” you go back to whispering in his ear. Your breath is hot and sultry, but it spreads chills down his spine. He loves your praise.

“I couldn’t do it without. And before you say that you don’t matter, you are my everything. I couldn’t do it without you,” he declares, emotion clogging his throat and making his words come out thick.

He grips the back of your neck and tilts your head up. His lips captures yours once again, his tongue slipping through the seam of your mouth and eagerly massaging yours.

“I love you, Mr. 500. Cheers to another 500,” you grin, clinking your drink into his and continuing to dance the night away.

[timeofjuly]

Resolutions

Note: Reader's POV of the New Year's Eve when they met Red. So sorry for the wait to the anon who requested this! As a warning, reader is very much in an altered state of mind due to drug use in this one, so proceed with caution.

Tags: Drug use, implied sexual content, angst, self-hatred.

Read it on AO3 or read it below :)

It’s New Year's Eve and you feel fucking fantastic.

You look hot. You feel hot, both in terms of your confidence in your appearance and the temperature; it’s sweltering in Izzy’s apartment. Too many people crammed into a too small space. It feels like there’s hands everywhere. Your skin is alight with warmth and touch, so many people close to you. They grow on you like vines, like weeds, like ivy, weaving ‘round and ‘round until you’re all bound together, one pulsing, living organism.

The music is so loud that it’s an almost palpable presence in the air; you can viscerally feel it filling your ears, pressing against your skin, pouring down your mouth when you open it to sing. It clings to you like plastic wrap as you dance, shaping your movements.

Sweat runs down your back and between your breasts. But you’re the hottest fucking thing in this room, right, so it just gives you a mysterious, sexy sheen, like you’re a fucking nymph or some shit, stepping out from behind a waterfall, batting your eyelashes at the Olympian raging to fuck you. You’re ready to be drowned in ambrosia. To choke on nectar. Swallow swallow swallow.

Fuck, your mouth is dry. Your tongue feels like sandpaper. Is this how cats feel, with their arid, pointysharp little tongues? You hope not, the poor things. This sucks.

“I need a drink,” you shout against the music, jaw clicking around the words, “anyone else want one?”

Izzy, your host, nods enthusiastically. She springs up from where she’d been dancing low to the floor and grasps your sweaty hand in her own cooler, scaly one. “I’ll come with you! I need a piss.”

You let her drag you from the throng of bodies into the bathroom, where you scroll on your phone as she sits down to pee. Your vision’s pleasantly blurry, but you manage to successfully reply to a few messages and send a few of your own. You then examine yourself in the bathroom mirror, mostly pleased with the way your hair falls, the way your makeup makes your eyes look dark and sultry. You apply a fresh coat of lipstick and smack your lips together, making faces at your reflection. The skin on your cheekbones stretches tightly, almost too-taunt, casting a sharp shadow.

For a moment, you don’t feel as pretty as you had before, but then your thirst returns with a vengeance, and you forget all about it. You stick your head in the sink, mouth poised and open beneath the tap, and drink deeply from the cool, refreshing water. Probably should’ve waited to do your lipstick, but ah well.

“You look like a horse,” Izzy snorts at you, hip-checking you to the side so that she can wash her hands. “When you said you wanted a drink, I thought you meant booze, bunny, not water.”

“A girl can want two things,” you say. Have enough and it all tastes the same, anyway.

Bunny is what this particular social circle likes to call you. You don’t really get it, but nicknames aren’t ever chosen by the person, are they, and it’s hardly the worst name in the world. You like bunnies, anyway. They’re cute. Fluffy, funny little things. They’re either pets or pests or lab animals, too, and somedays you feel like a mangled amalgamation of all three, so you guess it’s fitting.

Izzy washes and dries her hands and then does a line of coke off of the countertop. She offers you a bump, but you decline – tonight, you’re pacing yourself.

This year, you want to watch the time tick over to midnight, and you want to remember it. You’d gotten too fucked-up last year too early and had been out like a light by ten, so being awake and cognizant for this one is your resolution, or some shit. You don’t really do resolutions, but this one seems achievable enough. Stay up and ring in the New Year. Yeah, you can do that, you beautiful, gorgeous, magical creature. The world is ready to be bent to your whims. Midnight’s a piece of cake.

You follow Izzy back out into the party and to the kitchen, riffling through her fridge for a decent mixer. You end up pouring orange juice into two glasses, along with a healthy serve of tequila. If you had any grenadine on hand, you’d have yourself a proper sunrise.

You sit on the kitchen countertop to drink it, bare legs swinging lazily in the air. Izzy sits next to you, her hip pressed against your own. Her hand rests atop your thigh, drawing little patterns with the tip of her claw. The sensation makes ticklish goosebumps erupt all over your legs.

Your head is buzzing like it’s full of bees and it’s making your vision go a little funny. You blink a few times, then scan the apartment in an attempt to refocus your eyes. The party is still a writhing, pulsating mass, moving with the thrum of the music. Everyone looks so beautiful. You wish that you could live in this moment forever.

You know everyone – at least, you think you do – so you’re surprised when your eyes fall on someone you’ve never met before. He’s a monster, a skeleton monster, dressed in an oversized, dark jacket with a furry hood. He’s reclined on Izzy’s shitty sofa, looking easy and relaxed. His legs are spread wide, which you normally find obnoxious, but he’s really making it work for him. As you watch, he brings a bottle of something to his skull, and scarlet magic flickers to life inside of his mouth as he drinks. You watch, eyes wide.

The red of his magic looks hot – red-hot, you think, holding back a snort at your creativity. You knew someone, once, who would’ve had a far better, more eloquent, poetic way of describing it, but you’re refusing to think of her tonight. Even that tiny little reminder sends cold skittering through you, so you wrench your focus back to the guy and his magic. You wonder if it’s as warm as it looks. It looks like it’d heat you up from the outside-in.

That sounds amazing right now.

“Who’s that?” you say, transfixed. There’s an eager breathiness in your voice.

“What?” Izzy says, tapping the side of her head.

“Who is that?” you shout in Izzy’s ear, loud enough to be heard over the music. You gesture towards the sofa with your chin.

“He’s a friend of one of the birds, I think,” she says dismissively, “can’t remember his name right now.”

“He’s hot as fuck. Please tell me he’s single. It’ll ruin my whole year and the next ones if he’s not.”

She cackles. Her laughter takes up her whole face, splitting it down the middle like an axe wound to the head. You have the urge to shove your finger into her open mouth, but she probably won’t find it funny. She’d probably bite you, actually, with her sharp little teeth, and the Tylenol and antibiotics you’d get as a result are hardly worth the hospital trip. Now, if she took off your whole finger, you’d get oxycodone or hydromorphone at the very least, but they probably wouldn’t mix well with the rest of the pharmacy’s worth of drugs in your bloodstream.

And you’d also miss midnight. You can’t have that.

“You’re so funny, bunny,” Izzy giggles at you. She throws her arm around you and tugs you to her side. “I love you soooo much.”

You hug her back, pressing your face into the cool hollow of her neck. You choke on your muffled laughter. The hug feels really nice. “Love you too.”

You do, in this moment. You’re full of enough love that you’re afraid it’s all going to spill out of you, tear through your skin and flood the entire apartment. You love love. So much. Feels so good.

Izzy pulls back from the hug, then brings her own glass to your lips. You drink greedily. She doesn’t pull it away until you’ve drained the whole thing.

“Pretty sure he’s single, so go ring in the New Year the right way,” she says, pulling you from the countertop and giving you a friendly smack on the ass to spur you on.

Not that you need a lot of encouragement. You fix your sexiest smile to your face and do your best impression of a lingerie model’s saunter down the runway as you stride towards him, snagging a pair of shot glasses as you go.

…

Opening your eyes is a fucking ordeal.

The ceiling of Izzy’s darkened guest bedroom greets your dry, crusty vision. The fan on the ceiling spins in slow, lazy rotations, sending cool wafts of air over your bare body.

Your muscles ache, in a good way, as you pull yourself up into a sitting position, your legs stretched out in front of you. You look down at your chest and find it decorated with several pretty red marks and the memory of receiving them sends remembered pleasure shivering through you. You knew that the guy would be a great fuck; maybe you’ve just got a sixth sense for shit like this.

Speaking of the guy, he’s still asleep. Ha, you must’ve worn him out, just like he did to you. He’s lying on his back, skull turned to the side, so his face is half buried into the pillow. The sheets are kicked messily around his feet.

You watch the way his ribcage expands and contracts with his breathing. So strange, breathing with no lungs. What purpose does it serve? Does he have to do it, the way you do?

You imagine, for a moment, your own lungs, wet and pulpy and probably black with tar and pockmarked with holes, imagine them filling and deflating with air. You hold your breath until your vision goes fuzzy just to feel the way they strain against the confines of your chest. The burn reminds you that there’s something inside of you. Something warm and real.

You look back at your bedpartner, at all of that empty space inside of him. You wonder if he feels the hole as part of himself, if he walks and talks and eats and fucks, all the while perceiving that absence. You wonder if he feels like you do sometimes, like a discarded orange rind, all of your insides scooped out until just the smooth outside remains.

Something prickles at your eyes. You feel dizzy. A little sick.

You exhale in a deep, desperate rush, suddenly remembering that you have to breath. You take a few ragged inhales, deep ones, to make up for the oxygen you’d been deprived of.

Your chest hurts. Your head hurts, too, a dull throb. Either you’ve just accidently almost asphyxiated yourself, or it’s time for a top-up. The ecstasy’s probably worn off by now; that’s probably why you’re feeling this way. Yeah, that’s it. The comedown always sucks.

You have no other reason to be sad, after all. You sit here, freshly fucked, muscles aching pleasantly. The party downstairs still beats on, a riotous chorus of early two thousands throwback music and laughter. You can feel the thrum of the base in your blood. The world is alive around you. Revel in that. Be happy for that. This is your life. You chose it. You made it this way. You have to live it, now.

Yep, definitely time for a top-up. Izzy owes you; you can scum a little extra off of her. You don’t remember why she owes you, exactly, but a favour’s a favour. S’not like you to look a gift horse in the mouth. Take the goodness as it comes and let go of the bad. Breath in again. Breath out. Keep reminding yourself to do it, so you don’t forget.

You fumble underneath the pillows and retrieve your phone. The cracked screen reads 12:36am. You have a dozen unread messages, drunken New Years well-wishes from names you can’t put a face to.

Your mom and dad used to always stay up late on New Years Eve, drinking port wine and watching Christmas movies until they’d fall asleep on the couch together. It was their tradition. As a kid, you begged them to let you stay up with them, but you always fell asleep before the clock struck midnight and you’d wake up on January first in your bedroom, your dad having carried you to bed.

Every year, your New Years resolution was to stay awake next time long enough to watch the clock tick over to midnight. There was something magical about it as a child, the idea of peeling away the old paint of the past year to reveal the shiny, fresh surface of the new.

You wonder if your parents are awake now, watching the end of the Polar Express and drinking out of those funny little port glasses.

Your bedpartner stirs, murmuring sleepily into his pillow. He’s drooling. It’s cute. You get the feeling, from the way that he’d fucked you, that he’s not the kinda guy who appreciate being called that, though.

Those type of guys are always the cutest.

If he’d woken up, you would’ve told him that, but he doesn’t. He just settles back into the pillow. You do throw the blanket over his naked pelvis, though, because you’re considerate like that. Nice girl. Sweet girl. Bunny. Everyone likes you. You’re so much fun. And you’re having fun. Buckets of it. Enough to drown in it.

You slide your bare feet onto the cold floor and begin the search for your shoes. Happy New Year to me.

[eyesfixedonthesun22]

Rock You Like a Hurricane by Scorpions 1980: The Party

Summary: Getting to know Billy Hargrove over the course of your senior year. Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Female Reader Warning(s): Controversial canon character, Cursing, Drinking, Marijuana use, NSFW 18+ Word Count: 1,622 Notes: See main masterlist

“What?!”

“I said, it’s pretty loud!” Your best friend yells to you from the driveway. The white split level ranch is practically shaking from the volume of the music coming from the house party. Karen. No Kaitlyn. Maybe Katie? Someone with a K-name’s parents had gone out of town to who knows where and decided to hold the get together you had just pulled up to.

In Hawkins, it didn’t matter if parties were or weren’t your thing. You went. The high school was small enough that everyone who heard about a party always seemed to show up simply to have something to break the routine of boredom in the small town.

You scan the rows of cars parked along the street and freeze in the doorway. Parked four cars down from your best friends was a blue camaro that you’ve come to have radar for. He was here. Your heart beat out short, palpitating rhythms that your brain was unable to categorize as excitement or panic.

You push through the packed living room of the party into the kitchen to fill a cup of whatever alcohol was available. Mixed punch looked the most tolerable. After gathering your drinks, the two of you make your way to the backyard where the music seems to be coming from. Layered below the pounding music comes chanting.

Twenty! Twenty-One! Twenty-two!

A small crowd is gathered around a keg in the back corner of the lawn; evidently the source of the chanting. Crap.

There he is. Billy Hargrove stands like a proud king next to the keg from which he just dismounted. You want to roll your eyes. On principle you despised games of machismo and assertion of who’s dick was bigger. You were ready to pry yourself away and then his eyes meet yours.

School had started a month ago. The sweltering summer heat had faded into confused days of mixed weather. Midday when the sun comes out beaming, you found yourself still breaking a sweat as you walked home from school past the Hawkins Pool.  The mornings and evenings, when the sun was gone, were cool and crisp like they are now. You suppress a shiver but you know all too well it has nothing to do with the coming autumn weather.

Despite the chill in the air, Billy stands across the circle with his shirt and jacket open nearly to his navel. His skin is still clinging to the vestiges of summer golden bronze. His necklaces reflect bits of light everywhere from the bonfire crackling nearby. Just like always, a hunger is ignited when you see him. He hasn’t said a word to you all this time. Just passing glances and knowing smirks. Then again, all that could be in your head.

There was no mistaking the eye contact tonight. He stands across the clearing from you, keg abandoned to the new challenger. He pays them no nevermind knowing his title safe, eyes locked on yours. He swipes the dipping beer foam with the back of his hand. It’s sinful and deliborate. You trace the path as the stray droplets carve a path down his neck, past the ridge of his collarbone, and out of sight under his shirt.

You turn on your heel, abandoning your friend to some other conversation she’s started up, and head back inside. There was something far too disarming about his stare. It made you want to scratch your skin off from the burning tingle it incited. It was pitiful, you thought. A stranger shouldn’t trigger this visceral of a reaction. There was no way he knew he’d been the subject of every single one of your daydreams while you touched yourself ever since that day towards the end of summer.  

It took you a frustrating amount of frantic searching to find the bathroom, only to discover the line was multiple bodies deep. Resigning to your failure you raced upstairs hoping to find a different story. No such luck. You test doors tentatively, hoping not to intrude on any couples in the midst of alcohol infused passion. The final door at the end of the hall is all that’s left. You jiggle the knob and open to the master bedroom. Perhaps Katie was hoping this room would remain a safe haven. Seaking a sliver of quiet, you slam the door shut and click the flimsy lock closed.

A cursory glance around the room and you spot your target. Bingo. The master bedroom has an en-suite bathroom. You search around in a couple of the drawers and find a washcloth to douse in cool water. Pressed against the back of your neck, it doesn’t do much to alleviate the warmth that’s overtaken your body. You sit on the toilet lid attempting to purge your mind of the neverending stream of filth. Why does he have to act like that, you think to yourself. Why do I like it? Is the response.

Your thoughts seem set on torturing you, wetness pooling between your legs. You curse yourself for your wild and vivid imagination. Closing your eyes it almost feels real when your fingers trace from your knee to your inner thigh. You can nearly convince yourself it’s Billy tracing invisible patterns on the sensitive flesh. You press your middle finger against the cotton of your panties right in the cleft between your lips. It’s saturated and warm. You trace the smooth channel over the cloth, building the wet spot. You have no doubt if you opened your eyes and peered down the scrap of fabric would be transparent.

You thought the little bit of pressure and touch would be enough until you get home. Instead, it had simply made things worse. Your dominant hand tugs the undergarment aside and your exposed skin feels the cool air for the first time. You lean back against the toilet’s water tank and place a foot on the edge of the bathtub beside it. With your legs spread wide your middle and index circle your clit before dipping inside.

Each thrust of your fingers is Billy’s heavy cock pressing into you while he fucks you up against the wall. You’d snuck into this bedroom upstairs because he just couldn’t wait to have you. He hadn’t even slammed the door before his fingers were up your skirt. The little lock on Katie’s parents bedroom nearly forgotten because he ached to be buried inside you.

“Been teasing me all night, sweetheart,” he mumbled against the crook of your neck before biting the sensitive flesh there. You imagined he’d want you to descend the stairs marked and branded as his own; clear evidence of how he’d claimed you.

Push and pull. Drags and stuttered thrusts.

He’d push deeper still while groping and palming your breasts. All it would take would be a couple swipes and circles around your clit for you to come undone around him. Clenching and panting-

Your eyes crash open. Gentle footsteps come from the  bedroom. You yank your panties back in place, the fabric sensitive on your still electric core. Staring in the mirror you rearrange your skirt. The blush and warmth across your chest and neck couldn’t be avoided.

“Who the fuck is in here? I just wanted to piss in peace.”

The last word dies in your throat. Standing with his back to you at the dresser is a tangle of curls you’d recognize anywhere.

“Didn’t know girls like you said words like piss?” He didn’t turn around but instead uses the mirror to smirk at you. If you’re blushing it wouldn’t matter much. Your post orgasmic glow was already out in full force. His words shock you a bit and distract you from his actions. He’s pensively going through the jewelry box on what you presume is Katie’s mom’s side of the dresser. “Kinda hot though.”

“Sorry?”

“The cussing. Coming out of a mouth that pretty. You wouldn’t expect it,” He takes out the single diamond stud in his ear and puts it in his back pocket. He holds up two different dangling earrings of different styles, shrugs, and then puts one in the now vacant hole. The black stone dangles from his lobe in a way he deems satisfactory. He finally turns to face you. “That’s why it’s so sinful. It’s unexpected from an innocent girl.”

“You don’t know me.” You wonder if he’d still find you so innocent knowing your fingers had just been burried inside your cunt thinking of him fucking you in this very bedroom.

“You’re in my fifth period.” He says nonchalantly. As if that gives him all seeing knowledge of you.

“You’re also in my first and second period. You wouldn’t know that because you never show up.” The wolfish smile makes another appearance.

“She’s got bite this one.” He says to no one in particular; striding slowly towards you. He looks you in the eyes only after lazily trailing them across your entire body. His gait and gaze are predatory, like an animal on the hunt.

“She does.” You assert as firmly as you can manage. Your voice hitches ever so slightly. If he notices, he doesn’t let on.

“You ready to head back to the party, baby?” He’s opened the door for you in a way that’s quite gentlemanly even if his eyes were anything but. He even licks his lips as if to really get under your skin. The music is louder now with the door ajar.

Here I am.

Rock you like a hurricane

Here I am.

Rock you like a hurricane

“Fuck you, Billy.” Your tone is light and there’s no weight behind the blow. He seems to know it too.

“Fuck you too, darling. Let’s go get fucked.”