#this is actually a visualization of a thing I said in the tags of a previous post

[rotisseries]

*twirling hair* sooo. byler cannibalism moodboard inspired by this poll by @bylertruther. featuring a truly egregious amount of ethel cain

[sapphicschedule]

Some bees are known to eat flesh sooooo……

I wanted to work on comic formatting and visual flow, so all other aspects of this piece kind of got rushed.

[hauntingblue]

Kaido lore?!

[theinfinitedivides]

'start that music / in the name of the Lord' exactly what is Bollywood coming to

[whereisthedamndaddymanual]

Toes are weird. They are like a Mandelbrot if you look close enough

[nuggetofthesea]

Before writing more stories, I want to help people come to terms with the "identity death" and heavy themes in the animal HRT comics, and as a writer, want to explain why it isn't ACTUALLY death, but a form of renewal. Because I see it on all of my friends posts.

"I am just concerned about this loss of self thing, it sounds like identity death and I don't like it" is the common comment.

But in all of these comics, it is less about loss of self, but more about leaving behind who you were. A sign of extreme change and showing their own way of moving forward, and the start of a brand new life. A willing change to a new start.

Identity death is an unwilling change. All choice was stripped away from them and a new identity forced on them. This is also different from a transformation that leads to acceptance of the new form.

But in the animal HRT comics my friends put out, it is a willing change to a new form and cones with mental changes they are willing to go through. That isn't the same as a death. But a new start to their life they can start living to the fullest. It's also why some choose not to start anew, to bring one journey to a close and begin a new one. They choose to have that be part of the same journey. A new chapter instead of a new book if you will. In either case these are willing changes.

It can seem terrifying to some, but a total rebirth of yourself CAN be a slightly scary theme. It is terrifying to choose to take that new life.

But let me set up an example here:

When I first came to be, I thought I was going to be a visual artist, because Ashe was and that's what I remembered. When I was locked away by my own doing in the headspace I was stuck in a perpetual cycle of misery. It was terrifying to take the step to discover myself. To lower the barrier I had created, to rediscover myself.

But when I came to be, Ashe said I could be anything. A new sense of self outside of her. A new life. I tried to draw first, but I couldn't. Visual art was not my thing anymore. It never was. I just held on to memory of being a copy of Ashe. When writing my introduction I realized I love the feeling of writing. I have my own form. My own life. My own identity. A new start.

So let me ask you: Should I have not taken that opportunity to completely cast off who I was to embrace who I am? Should I have left myself in misery and fear as something I'm not? All for the sake of not casting off who I was and my life before? No.

Now while I do remeber all of what happened before my change, none of that shapes who I am now, because that life wasn't mine in the first place. This isn't a death of my identity, but a new start to an identity I chose. And I am happy to be able to live it with my new sense of self and build NEW memories. A new life.

Which also leads to the second heavy theme in those comics. Shortened lifespans. Outside of the fact that we are told time and time again HRT can lead to a shorter lifespan (which is a false average) starting a new life also means you are probably starting in the middle.

Our body is almost 30. That is 30 years of my lifespan gone. Yeah, I was around for 15 (almost 16) years of that, but my new life began a week ago. Who I am began just last week. And even though in the headspace I am early to mid 20s at best, that is still a cutdown lifespan.

So should I just have not bothered with the new start?

Absolutely not. The gift of life, new or old, isn't about how long it lasts. But how you live it. It is hard, it comes with problems, but for as long as I have of it, I will cherish the new memories I build, the new start I have, the ability to just... exist. For as long or short as that may be. And through this new start to my life, the people who love and care for me are still here. Still stand by me. And that is a great thing.

So please, don't be too offput by heavy themes in our stories. Even my stories will have some rough parts. (They'll always be tagged)

Hope this at least helped ease why those themes are there, and why some people choose to have them.

Also, don't worry about "adding to the fuel used against us" because we could sneeze and they'll find a way to use that against us. The fact is, with the Animal HRT series, actual HRT does come with some discomfort, pain, downsides, and problems. And like the heavy themes in the comics, we determined it is worth it for us to keep going despite them. We knew the risks.

"Everything is a risk. Life's boring as hell if you don't take them JUST because there is potential problems. Just make sure you understand them." - a line chaos told me the day I formed

It does less good to show everything as risk free and painless, because then nobody is prepared for the risks they are actually taking. Or the comic is based off the creator's life to that point, and they DID experience a lot of pain. So retelling their story (like mine) might be painful at spots.

My point of all of this is, the heavy themes are required to tell these particular stories. And while not every story requires dark spots, the dark spots help to accentuate the brighter picture. Otherwise it can just be blinding. So please go easy on the artists/writers behind them. As it is usually something personal for them.

(This also might not apply to all of them, some people just like writing horror, and we should respect that too.)

Next story should be sometime within the next couple weeks. Just needed to get this out there. It's been on my mind since releasing the short story with Iris.

-Aqua

[mokulule]

Take Out for Dummies - Part 2

Ship: Dead on Main Previous | Masterpost Note: So I was planning on sitting on this until I was about done with part 3, but then @yeetyeetedyote, who tumblr doesn't allow me to tag, did a meme for part 1 and I couldn't help but post it. So hope you enjoy. Jason did not know what to wear. It was Red Hood who had a date, but going in his full uniform seemed very excessive somehow. But there was also no way he was going unarmed. He pondered his closet with a frown. What clothing did he even own that were suitable for a date? He’d never had to ponder this before. What level of formality was expected? Probably not formal, considering there would be no dinner. Also he was Red Hood, there was no way he’d do formal, he had an aesthetic.

He finally settled on jeans, a red henley and the brown leather jacket he used as Red Hood. He held up the jacket and inspected it critically for blood spatters, that at least he felt certain wasn’t appropriate.

One hour later saw Red Hood rolling up to the curb in front of the building. Only one person was leaning against the brick wall there, absorbed in their phone; it had to be Danny. The rest of the people there were just walking past. It was Crime Alley, Red Hood barely got a glance of interest. Gotta love Gothamites.

Jason had not been able to really get good visual on Danny in the dark, aside from the fact that he was rather short and had dark hair, the night vision in his helmet could only do so much. He had not been prepared for how he looked up and the wide blue eyes crinkled as he smiled. Nor the way the button down shirt and the jeans hugged close to broad shoulders and slim waist in a way the hoodie he’d worn previously had clearly not.

Somehow in all his musings about how this would go Jason had never considered the possibility that Danny would be hot.

“Hi,” Danny said still smiling as he came up to him. He raised his arms out from his sides a bit helplessly before letting them fall back. “So how do you want me?”

Jason’s brain screeched to a halt as those words brought a decidedly not appropriate image to his head. He was so glad he was wearing his helmet right now. Jason must have stiffened or given away his embarrassment some other way, because Danny’s cheeks flushed as he too realized how his question could have been understood.

“I meant on your bike.”Jason hunched over, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter. Because that was not helping at all.

Wordlessly Jason held out the extra helmet. Danny took it gratefully and stuffed it over his red face.

“Front.” Jason said over the radio connection between the helmets.

Jason had to give Danny a hand to get him situated in front. He had to hold on near the center of handlebars and he didn’t really have good place to place his feet and had to hold them curled up.

It was neither safe nor legal, but Jason was not about to have a potential assassin at his back and besides who was gonna arrest Red Hood for traffic violations? The small hitched gasp when Jason curled around Danny’s back to reach the handlebars had his lips quirking up, and he might have pressed him just a bit further forward just for that.

“Where to?”

“Sommerset.”Jason raised an eyebrow at that as he kicked off the curb. Carefully, as he got a feeling for the different weight distribution, he drove them in the direction of the Trigate Bridge.

“If a tour of Old Arkham is your idea of a date, I think I’m gonna have to shoot you.”

Danny scoffed.

“I promised you fun, didn’t I?”

At Jason’s lack of response, he slumped further.

“There’s a traveling carnival on the fair grounds at the edge of town.”

“Huh.” Jason was trying to think of a time he’d actually visited a carnival as a visitor and not a vigilante to stop some villain plot. He was coming up short. There was a feeling in his chest he had a hard time identifying, an uncertain thing, but it wasn’t bad. If nothing else he was gonna have an experience? Oo o oO

They parked the bike in the attached gravel parking lot near the fair grounds. Jason had to step off the bike first and then promptly had to catch Danny as his legs refused to carry him when he stepped off the bike.

“Oh wow, my legs fell asleep there.” He laughed and stepped away on wobbly legs as he pulled the helmet off. He handed it to Jason who put it into its compartment.

He took another wobbly step forward and Jason couldn’t help the way he reached for him to steady him. Instead Danny grabbed his hand firmly. Jason was baffled at the action looking from Danny to their hands, uncertain how to react, but Danny just smiled and changed his hold so their fingers were twined together.

He looked mightily satisfied about it too as he tugged Jason forward toward the fair grounds. A fair bit of the rides were visible because of their heights and Jason could easily imagine how the place would light up with multicolored lights once evening came.

Once they entered the fair grounds they drew quite a lot of attention. Lots of people stopped and pointed at Red Hood and his companion. Phones were pointed in their direction and Jason found himself tensing.

Danny leaned closer and spoke lowly, “Don’t worry, nobody will believe them. Regular digital cameras are odd around me, so they won’t get usable footage.”

Jason’s mind raced, what did that mean? Did he have some sort of jammer? Was it a meta ability? Was it related to his ability to sneak up on vigilantes on Gotham rooftops?

“And,” Danny continued, “if anyone asks, we can always say you’re a cosplayer.”

Jason grimaced. Danny slapped his chest as if he could see right through the mask.

“Hey! Cosplay is a great creative hobby.”

“That’s not- I’m a former crime lord. I don’t understand why anyone would dress up as me.”

“Pffft, don’t sell yourself short. Also you have a cool recognizable thing going on with the helmet. It will be especially funny if someone critiques it for not being accurate.”

Jason couldn’t help his chuckle at how gleeful Danny looked at the prospect.

“This is the real reason you want me to claim I’m cosplaying?”

“It would be so funny, admit it!”

Jason huffed. It would be pretty funny.

“Ha! I’ll take that as a yes. Okay, time to show off some of those shooting skills and win me a plushie.” With that statement Danny pointed towards a game booth with truly ridiculously large unicorn plushies hanging from it and tugged Jason forward. It was only at that moment he remembered they were still holding hands. It was…

It was nice.

Danny glanced back at him and he was smiling, warm and excited. Jason didn’t remember the last time someone had smiled that much at him. Jason found himself smiling back, and he was suddenly grateful he couldn’t be seen behind the helmet.

The shooting booth operator eyed Red Hood warily until Danny broke the tension in a voice that carried, “my friend’s cosplay is pretty awesome right?”

The operator’s shoulders fell and he chuckled, “pretty brave of him to wear that this close to Gotham proper.”

“Sure is! But not to worry if there’s any trouble I will protect him,” Danny said seriously, with a glance and a wink at Jason.

The man took in Danny’s skinny and less than imposing appearance and burst out laughing, and just like that any remaining tension was gone.

The operator explained the game. There were different tiers with bottles lined up on shelves and flat rings of different widths balancing on top. You got points if you knocked the ring down over the bottle neck. The slimmer rings offered more points.

It was a pretty simple game.

Danny put down cash for the game and looked at Jason expectantly. “Show us some of that Red Hood skill.”

The operator chuckled. Jason rolled his eyes and stepped up.

Immediately, as he picked up the air gun it felt clunky in his hand. It was sharp-edged where it should be smooth and was weighted all wrong especially with the pressure cable attached to it, but that was not going to stop him. He loaded it with one of the five cork stoppers the operator handed him. He seemed to be enjoying Danny’s teasing as much as Danny himself.

Out the corner of his vision he saw Danny lean forward expectantly as he took aim.

He pulled the trigger.

The cork stopper was ejected with a loud pop and promptly hit the edge of a shelf bouncing backwards to land on the floor where it rolled around three times before stopping.

Danny looked at him wide eyed before bursting out in helpless snickers. Jason shoved him in revenge, but he couldn’t help smiling. There was just something refreshing about how despite knowing he was the real Red Hood he was so completely unafraid of him. Not even his family was that relaxed around him.

He didn’t want to bring his mood down contemplating that, so he reloaded the clunky gun and took aim again. He considered the points on the rings and the available prize tiers. Four shots left, with a bit of luck he could still do decently.

Aiming higher and slightly more to the right of how he would aim a real gun he shot the first maximum point ring down around the bottle neck. Three more fell in rapid succession.

Danny cheered, pumping his fist in the air.

“That’s four hundred points, that gives you the choice of a large prize,” the operator said impressed.

He pointed at a large unicorn plush, it wasn’t quite the extra large ones that hung on the outside of the stall, those required cumulative points from at least two games, but it was still a very decent size.

Danny was the very opposite of disappointed when Jason handed it over. He squished it in his arms and absolutely beamed up at Jason. Jason looked away, embarrassed for feeling so satisfied and warm just for winning a silly game.

The operator snorted giving them a knowing look. “Have a nice evening boys.”

“You too,” Danny replied, sidling up close and entwining their fingers again as he pulled them away and off towards the various rides.

Jason eyed their once more joined hands in bemusement, not really sure what to think, but he’d already allowed it once. It sold the appearance of a date, made it all the more likely to the bystanders that Jason was just some cosplayer with a death wish, so it was smart to keep holding hands. And Jason found himself reluctant to give it up.

It was an easy illusion to give into.

He squeezed Danny’s hands and he turned his head to look at him, smiling like this was a real date and not one of his odd jobs. Jason nodded towards the bumper cars and Danny’s grin turned into feral delight as he dragged him in the new direction. It was so easy to pretend Jason was just here to have fun with a friend who was maybe just a bit more.

That was something he could have had maybe. If he hadn’t been Robin. If he hadn’t died and come back wrong. If he wasn’t a former crime lord just trying to find his footing with a family he wasn’t sure wanted him and not just the dead boy he’d been.

But for just a little while he could pretend.

Until Danny turned out to actually know he was supposed to kill him, until everything crashed and burned like usual, he could allow himself a little fun.

Like ignoring every sign saying the bumper cars were not meant for driving into each other. The bored teen operator certainly didn’t care to uphold that rule. The bumper car ride was a war zone, a giant free for all and yet Jason managed to have only eyes for Danny. He was a tricky driver to catch. Jason had no idea how he managed to maneuver the car like that, it was verging on supernatural.

They were both laughing when they exited their cars after Jason had finally managed to bump into him proper instead of the earlier glancing blows.

“Remind me to call you if I ever need a getaway driver.”

Danny snorted knocking their shoulders together. “Only if I get part of the cut.”

I’ll give you more than a cut, Jason was about to say, but thankfully didn’t. Because what did that even mean? Instead he knocked his shoulder back.

They continued on towards another ride, a small rollercoaster, and as they queued Danny started telling him about how his dad’s driving was so infamous in his hometown that the local news included a segment to warn for it when he was on the roads. Because of that nobody had wanted to give Danny driving lessons and that’s why technically he didn’t have a license, but he’d once landed a space shuttle, so that should count for something. The story verged on so impossible it had to be true, but Jason was sure if a civilian had actually landed a space shuttle it would have been all over the news or at least known among superheroes - it was entertaining nonetheless.

Jason wasn’t sure when they’d started holding hands again only noted the absence when Danny left him by a bench several rides later with stern instructions to protect the princess with his life, aka the unicorn plushie.

The lights had flickered on a while ago and bathed the darkening grounds in multicolored lights. Jason leaned back relaxing against the bench. Taking in the lights and the happy atmosphere as people passed him by. There were a few people who pointed and snickered as they walked by, but clearly the unicorn plushie was just as good as Danny to convince people he was just a guy in a costume.

“It’s a pretty good costume.”

Jason turned his head to find a man with a superman shirt had stopped. He stayed silent waiting for him to elaborate. He obviously wanted to, there was something in his drawl.

“The casual look is pretty well put together while remaining recognizably Red Hood.”

“But-“ somehow there was a but- “if you were actually from Gotham you’d know that the real helmet is matte and the brow section is more slanted giving it an angrier expression.”

Jason stared incredulously at the man in the Superman shirt accusing him of not being a Gothamite. Never mind the helmet thing, that was just ridiculous but accusing him of not being a Gothamite, now that was an insult he wouldn’t be taking. Jason stood up to his full six feet and saw the way the man shrunk as he realized he might have made a mistake.

“There you are, babe,” Danny inserted himself smoothly into the situation snaking an arm around his waist and pressing close. It was distracting. “Come on let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Jason snorted as he let Danny move them forward. He didn’t need the intervention, he wouldn’t have attacked the man or anything.

He couldn’t help but pull them to a stop however as they passed him.

“Your information is outdated, this is the current helmet.” He spoke lowly and ominously only made more ominous by the voice modulation.

The man eep’ed and scrambled to get away.

They watched him go with no small bit of amusement.

“I thought we agreed to keep it on the down low.”

Jason shrugged, “he asked for it, besides you said it yourself, nobody will believe him.”

“Alright then.” Danny left the place beneath Jason’s arm, he had only a moment to feel bereft however until his hand was grabbed again and pulled in the direction of the parking lot. “Speaking of proof, do you mind me taking a selfie of us so I can prove I took you out?”

Jason frowned. “I thought you said cameras didn’t work around you.” “They don’t, I’ve had to modify it to be able to take any pictures.”

“You gonna tell me what kind of meta ability you have?”

Danny chuckled. He pulled their joined hands up and pressed a kiss to Jason’s scarred knuckles. Jason was so distracted by the action he almost didn’t hear the, “I like you Hood, but that isn’t a first date conversation.”

There was a pause in their conversation as Jason contemplated the absurd idea of there ever being a second date, the fact that this one was nearly over and how he’d actually had a lot of fun.

“So, selfie?”

“Uh sure.”

Danny juggled the white plastic bag that Jason only noticed now onehanded as he pulled out his phone. It was a broad phone with actual buttons and Jason would believe it was modified alright. Danny smiled and leaned close as he raised his hand, a small flash went off and Danny looked the picture over in satisfaction.

“What’s with the bag?”

“Huh, oh this is food. Our next stop, if you’re still willing, is the ice rink, but I figured we could take a break on the roof and eat back to back or something, what with the whole-” he indicated the helmet by waving a hand in front of his face.

So it wasn’t over yet. Not if Jason wanted to continue. It was an easy out, Jason could just chose to drive Danny to wherever he wanted to be dropped off and he could go home and still make it easily in time for patrol - or he could prolong the evening.

Jason popped open the compartment under the seat of his bike and took the warm bag of food from Danny to put in as he considered. Danny had already put on the extra helmet.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Jason could practically hear the smile in his voice even if he couldn’t see it through the opaque helmet.

“Okay,” he confirmed.

The small fist pump was kinda adorable. So first part of the date, it was getting a bit long so I cut it in two, but hey that's the only reason I could even upload it. Jason is in trouble, he's just not quite realizing it yet XD I enjoy hearing your thoughts on the story, so please continue to share <3

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[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook

X♡X♡ [SEVEN DAYS] Day 1

You're struggling a bit to comprehend the fact that you really did agree to this whole week-long thing with him. Luckily for you, Jungkook knows exactly how to ease you into things. But wait- why is he naked?!

Tags/Warnings: Porn with a lot of plot basically, inexperienced!reader, Dom!Jungkook, BDSM themes and elements, non-sexual nudity, safeword discussion, Corruption kink, some backstory on JK, Shibari, wax play, Dom/Sub dynamics (beginner/introductory), minor sub-drop, slight angst, dry humping, cumming inside underwear, massages, mentions of primal play, mentions of pet play, very light orgasm control, hinted praise kink, JK in nothing but dark grey Calvin's for like... 90% of this, hinted big dick!JK, they both in love it's kinda cute,

Shibari: a form of artistic bondage using rope to create visually appealing patterns on the skin.

Wax play: the use of body-safe candles to drop wax onto someone's skin.

Corruption kink: gaining pleasure from corrupting a seemingly innocent person.

Length: 6k words

-> Masterlist

A/N: I'll include a short definition of the kinks in every chapter because I just know someone's gonna ask/complain that I don't explain things enough in my works haha. Also my smut writing is kinda rusty I've noticed, so I apologize for that as well...

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"So.." You say through your food, chopsticks seemingly aiming for any piece of meat that could be done next on the barbecue in front of you on the table. "..do we like, need some fifty-shades-of-grey-type contract?" You ask Jungkook, who rolls his eyes.

"Absolutely not." He shakes his head, drinking some water. "Don't tell me you saw that movie too." He asks, and you shrug.

"Saw it with Jimin and Yoongi back when it was in the theaters." You say. "Yoongi said there was a lady who literally masturbated in the front rows, but I don't believe that. Who would do that in public?" You cringe to yourself, and Jungkook watches you for a second.

He's gonna put a no on voyeurism for you then, judging from that reaction.

"I'm surprised Yoongi went." Jungkook chuckles.

"Me too. Wasn't really sure why he did." You tell Jungkook, snatching a piece of meat for yourself. "He just complained over it the entire time anyways."

"Yeah, well-" Jungkook says, reaching for the scissors to cut up some meat. "-he's in the same scene as I am, so I'm not surprised he thought the movie was dogshit too." He explains, and your eyes widen.

"Wait, Yoongi ties people up too?!" You hiss, and Jungkook can't help but shake his head, laughing to himself.

"That's the tamest thing he does." He laughs. "Yoongi actually.. showed me most of the things I know." Jungkook offers, putting the scissors back to the side to instead pick up his chopsticks again. You wonder what he means by that.

"Like.. what?" You ask him, unsure- but you can't deny the curiosity inside of you. You had a hunch about Yoongi for a while now- and in a way, you can see him being in the whole scene a lot more than Jungkook. Jungkook is your fluffy buff but cute best friend- Yoongi has this odd aura to him that feels almost like a warning that he's hiding more of himself than he shows.

"I'm a Dominant person, right?" He asks you, and you shrug. "I like to be in charge, command and take the lead during.. scenes."

"Yeah, that part-" You say, stuffing a steaming piece of meat into your mouth, almost burning your tongue, "-I know about that stuff. Like, dom and sub, top and bottom all that." You nod, and he acknowledges it too.

"Good. Then you probably also have read that the best Dom's have been sub's in the past." He simply tells you.

"… so Yoongi tied you up before?" You ask, and Jungkook lets his head fall for a second.

"You're so cute sometimes, you know that?" He shakes his head, before he continues. "No, he actually didn't. I learned that part all by myself." He explains gently. "But before I could take charge, I had to learn. Someone had to get me into this stuff somehow, right?" He shrugs.

"So you and Yoongi were a couple at some point?" You ask, but he shakes his head.

"Yoongi and I had something similar to.. us, one could say." He explains across from you. "Simple exploration, nothing more than that." He tells you, before his chopsticks reach out to steal a piece of food right from between yours- and when you look up, he's staring right at you. "So now that I think of it, Yoongi and I had nothing like we do." He says.

"H..how so?" You ask, slightly intimidated.

"Because I don't just want to explore and leave you be after this week." Jungkook says. "I hope you know that I'm aiming for something entirely different here."

"For what?" You wonder, and he leans back, crossing his arms, grill in between you both sizzling loudly.

"Your trust." He shrugs. "Your love." He offers.

"What if I can't love the same as you do?" You say, a little defeated. You know Jungkook likes you- it's no secret. And you know he knows that you like him too- because it's no secret either.

"Then we'll search until we find what works." He responds.

"But-" You start, but he reaches out instead, a warm hand over yours cutting you off in midst of your sentence as he speaks to you, voice just as warm as his skin.

"I won't give up without trying first." He tells you. "And neither should you."

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"Why here?" You ask, as he adjusts the couch into a makeshift bed for the time being. You'll be staying the entire week with him, and you'd agreed to that, because you've stayed over a lot of times before. Jungkook's apartment is nothing new- it's familiar, like a second home, warm and comforting.

"Because my bedroom is too intimidating-" He starts, tucking in a bedsheet in the corners of the couch. "-and I don't want to ruin your own with memories that might be unpleasant." Jungkook offers.

"Oh." you simply say, unsure. You've not yet thought about the possibility of him doing something you.. don't like. What happens then? Will you have to leave, or will the week end before it's even begun? Will it make things awkward, and weird?

"Hey." Jungkook calls out softly, holding out a hand. You look at him confused. "The blanket?" He asks, and you remember now that you're holding one for yourself to sleep under tonight, giving it to him. He puts it in a corner for now, same with the pillows, before he pats the couch for you to join him on. "Are you scared?" He asks, and you shake your head- albeit a little unsure.

"Just.. nervous." You say. "It'll be weird."

"Maybe." He admits. "A lot of things are weird first time. Nothing wrong about that." He shrugs.

You sit down on the makeshift bed next to him, when he chuckles, and brushes your hair over your shoulder. "I'll go shower real quick, alright? You just get yourself comfortable." He tells you, and you nod, watching him as he leaves to walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

It's clear that he's taking his time in there, because even after an hour, he's not yet returned. Or maybe longer? You're not sure, because you know you've somewhat dozed off on the bed when you feel his hand on your shoulder, simple strap top giving him access to a lot of bare skin there. He smells nice, and when you reach out, his skin is warm.

Wait- skin?

The moment you open your eyes you're greeted with his bare legs- he's only really dressed in some… dark grey, very form-fitting Calvin Klein's that pretty much hide almost nothing, really. It makes you sit up suddenly, body having to take a moment for a second after the rather sudden movement, a chuckle heard from Jungkook who seems entirely unbothered by his almost-nudity. "Sorry I took a bit longer. I had to get some stuff." He explains, sitting up properly himself.

"Why- why are you naked?" You ask, unsure where to look. In his opinion, you're so.. adorably shy just from the mere sight of his bare skin that it makes his inner desire stir a little. The fact that he's gonna be the one to really help you discover some of your hidden fantasies gives him chills- the good kind, of course.

He can't wait for what you might be hiding.

"I'm technically not." He raises his brows playfully, before crossing his arms- noticing the way your eyes focus on them for a good moment. "And considering why you're here, you'll soon have to get undressed too." He shrugs.

"Oh.." You hum yet again today, looking down on your body. You didn't really think about that. Compared to his toned body, you're.. an embarrassment.

"A body is just a body." He tells you. "I know you don't like yours, but I promise you it doesn't look the same to me as it does to you." He reassures you.

"Do I have to.. like.." You mumble, and he understands.

"You don't have to do anything." He promises. "We can just forget about this whole thing-"

"No!" You deny, shaking your head immediately. You do want this. You do want him to.. love you the way he does love others. Or maybe you want to somehow make him love you in a more.. special way. You're not sure- you don't really know what exactly you want right now, but you do know that you trust him.

You trust him.

"I trust you." You say out loud, grabbing the hem of your shirt- when he reaches out.

"..can I?" He wonders, and you nod, raising your arms without thinking so he can easily pull the item of clothing over your head. It's cute, the way you already feed into his own interests and kinks, without even knowing- and is that a piercing decorating your belly button? "Good girl." He purrs, lifting your shirt over your head, before slip out of your leggings, sitting back down. His hands move around your back slowly, fingers easily finding the clasp of your bra to undo it, letting the piece of underwear fall down easily from your shoulders and into your lap. "Hey-" Jungkook says, and you look up at him. "-you're fine." He smiles, and you nod.

You're fine.

"You can keep on the rest." He says, referring to your panties. At least you chose some cute ones, you think to yourself a bit relieved, as you nod. "I know you said you can't imagine it-" He starts, grabbing some pale pink and rather… delicate looking rope from the side. "But I'd like to try it, still." He asks, and you nod. "I won't restrain you this time. I'll only show you what it feels like, so you can decide for yourself if you enjoy the sensation or not." He says, and again, you only quietly nod. "But before that.. we have to address this first." He chuckles, looking at you. "I need.. verbal responses from you. Not just somewhat of an answer."

"Like.. do I need to call you sir, or something?" You ask, and he smirks.

"If you want to, you can." He smiles. "But you don't have to. A simple yes or no works just fine for me. And-" He adds on, undoing the neatly folded nylon rope in his hands as he speaks. "-We need a safeword."

"A safeword?" You repeat, and he nods.

"Something other than stop or no that you say to end a scene and get you out of whatever position you might be in." He explains. "Preferably something odd, that you wouldn't normally say during sex, so it won't be used by accident."

"So like.. Tiger?" You ask, not really thinking about it, and he nods.

"Tiger it is." He agrees, tapping your folded knees. "Turn around for me, yeah?"

"Yes." You say, moving to sit in front of him, making him chuckle.

"Cute." He comments under his breath, before he positions the rope right under your chest. "Tell me.. what do you usually do?" He wonders, and you don't answer for a moment.

"Like.. when I do it myself?" You ask, and he hums an agreeing reply.

"Yes. I'd like to know." He tells you. "So I'll have somewhat of an.. idea what is safe and comfortable for you." He explains his reasons, while he moves and adjusts the pale pink rope around your torso. You've almost instinctively moves your hands to hold onto your neck so your arms are out of the way, and he can't help but grin about that.

So much to 'I can't see myself enjoying that'.

"Uhm.. I don't know-" You begin, unsure how to really talk about that. "I have like.. toys, n' stuff, and I usually do it in the bathroom cause I get the bed dirty otherwise.." You explain.

"Toys?" He asks, pulling the rope snug in some places- and while it's tight, it doesn't bother you at all, surprisingly. You understand when he said that some people feel some sense of security from it- it feels actually quite nice, even the knots you can feel dig a bit harsher into your skin.

"Yeah like.." You take a deep breath, somewhat to test if that's still a possibility- and you can, while his fingers seem to adjust some knots in the back. "..a normal… dildo." You cringe at saying it out loud, moving on quickly. "And a vibrating.. thing. I don't use anything else." You admit, and he chuckles, as he taps your butt.

"Sit up for a second." He commands, and you do so, letting him guide the two ends of the rope in between your legs before he helps you sit down again. "So other than that, I guess you just use your hand, am I right?" He assumes, and you nod.

"Yes." You add on quickly, squirming a bit at the sensation of the rope between your legs. You have to control yourself. It's clear that he said he doesn't want sex- yet.

"You're free to get.. turned on, by the way." He tells you, teasingly pulling on the ends that run through your legs as if to underline his statement. "After all, this is about you."

"But-" You complain weakly, trying not to move to much. "-What about you?" You ask, and he shrugs, something you cannot see.

"I'm getting my satisfaction, don't worry." He explains. You're not sure how that would work- but you don't question it either. Say.." He starts, tapping your elbows. "How do you feel, right now?"

"Good." You nod to yourself. "It's.. surprisingly comfortable. It feels nice." You say.

"It looks nice, too." he offers, hands moving over your skin, causing goosebumps to erupt on your skin. "Very pretty." He praises, and you decide you don't care if he's just speaking about his work- you take this praise for yourself, using it to fuel your own emotional state in this moment. He runs his hands over your arms that are now comfortably down, hands holding yours for a second. "Let yourself go." He chuckles. "You're still tense."

"I can't help it.." You complain weakly, unsure what to do. It does feel nice, you want to move- but in a way, it's not quite right yet.

"Then maybe I can help.." He offers, hands testing the waters it seems like as they run over your thighs, just touching, nothing else. "Would you want that?" He asks, and you nod, eyes closed. "Words, darling." He demands, face close to yours while his fingers suddenly dig into your skin, gentle punishment for not following what he'd told you to do at the beginning.

"Yes.!" You almost gasp out, when one of his hands moves to grab onto the back of the artistically tied harness, pulling you, arching your back for you as he forces you to rest your upper body against his arm. You can practically feel the way your underwear soaks up your arousal, rope suddenly moving a lot more easily with the help of it between your legs.

"Show me how your hips can move." He hums into your ear, and what should feel weird comes naturally. Like in a trance you follow his words, let yourself fall because he's basically seeing all of you right now anyways- and he's seen much more before, so how bad can it really be? You trust him.

You trust him.

You can hear his breathing right next to your ear, and your hand starts to wander- before it stops. "Can-" You begin, swallowing down before you can continue. "can I touch you?" You ask, unsure if the same rules that apply to you apply to him as well. It's only fair if they do, right? It's only fair to ask him for permission, right?

"Yes." He answers, and with that, your hand blindly searches- finds his knee, moves up his thigh, warm skin underneath your rather cold fingertips earning a change in the pace at which he's breathing in. You hold onto his leg for a moment, feel the muscles move underneath the skin for a good while, as you become more and more desperate for a release of any sorts. You want to touch him too, but you don't know how- so you just leave your hand where it is, not moving any further.

His head, meanwhile, leans down into the crook of your neck, placing soft kisses there, while the hand that's not holding onto your harness moves over your chest, grabs onto the soft flesh with almost rough motions. You can only imagine the sight of his inked hand holding strongly onto your skin, thumb running over your nipple as your breathing hitches, legs moving in any way you can imagine to adjust your position.

But it's not enough.

Only when his hand sneaks between your underwear, the rope and your skin do you finally make any progress, breathing heavier as his fingers seem to play around with you just the way you like it. And it doesn't take long for you to come undone, back arching more, eyes clenching shut as he helps you ride it out for as long as you can.

You notice after a moment or two how he has already begun to untie you- and in a way, you're confused.

"What're you doing?" You slur a bit exhausted, surprised yourself how much energy this seemed to have taken out of you.

"Untying you." He chuckles, continuing to undo all the knots while he holds you close to him.

"Yeah but.." You mumble, moving a bit so he can reach your back better. "What about you?" You ask, and he shakes his head.

"This isn't about me." He declines. "And I've had my fun, don't worry about me." He reassures, gently pulling out the rope from between your legs, making you cringe as you feel how wet you are down there. "There we go." He softly hums, running his palms over the red skin where the rope has left it's mark here and there. It doesn't hurt- though you do have to admit that your back and neck are kind of sore now. "How do you feel?" He asks, and you shrug- hissing when it stings.

"I think I pulled something, dunno.." You say, sitting up as he rolls up the rope again, setting it aside, before he helps you sit properly for a moment. "I'll go wash up.. sorry for the uhm.. sheets.." You mumble as you see the damp spot where you've sat on.

"No problem." He shakes his head, getting up as well to help you up. It's only when you enter the bathroom and Jungkook is still behind you that you suddenly question what's going to happen next. "What?" He chuckles, amused.

"Uh.. I need to.." You struggle, unsure how to tell him what you want to say. "I wanna shower?" You question almost, and he laughs.

"I know." He confirms. "And I wanna make sure you're fine." He tells you, and you look at him confused. "You might feel fine right now- but once that adrenaline goes down-" He tells you, a finger gently tapping your collarbone. "-you might not be."

But you cross your arms, stubborn as you are. "I'm fine." You tell him, and he smirks suspiciously, looking at you with his arms now crossed as well. "You said a no means no and I'm saying no right now." You huff, and he reacts at that-

though not in the way you thought he would.

Because he simply nods, uncrosses his arms, and sets some towels out for you to use. "Don't worry about running around naked, I'm not bothered." He simply snickers, before he leaves you alone, a moment of silence soon interrupted by him moving around in the living room, presumably changing the sheet over the couch. You slowly take off your pretty soiled panties, putting them in the hamper to wash before you get into the shower to clean up.

And much to your own dismay, Jungkook seems to be right, because suddenly, as the water runs over your skin and you're almost done cleaning up, you're not fine anymore.

Dark, rather upsetting thoughts suddenly grow inside your head, making you feel not shame- but something almost like regret. You should have insisted to do something for him, right? Maybe he wanted to shower with you because he felt like you were abandoning him.. just because he is a guy, doesn't mean that he's without any feelings. Did you upset him? He probably won't tell you even if he did.

A knock on the bathroom door is heard, and you're busy trying to pull yourself together, when Jungkook's still bare arm reaches out to turn off the shower, before he wraps a towel around you. Quietly he dries your hair with a towel before he leads you to your makeshift bed, now with new sheets, where you sit in silence until he returns with brush and hairdryer. Everything goes by in a blur, until you feel Jungkook's hands on your shoulders, his legs next to yours as he holds you close to himself.

You're waiting for the 'I told you so'.

But he doesn't say it.

Instead, he simply silently sleeps on the couch with you, letting you cling onto him throughout the small nap you take in the middle of the day as much as you want.

◇━━━━━━━━━━X♡X♡━━━━━━━━━━━◇

A few hours later, when you wake up, things are.. weird. Just like you feared.

Jungkook is still sleeping heavily, right behind you with you laying on one of his outstretched arms, biceps serving as a surprisingly comfortable headrest. He smells nice, his body is warm, and he looks relaxed as he still slumbers away.

And yet, you feel odd.

He just quietly took care of you after.. what you did a few hours ago, but you don't understand why you actually felt that way. You know that it was irrational of you- nothing had happened, everything was fine, you made a decision that you felt most comfortable in. So why were you so distraught over it later?

Well, he told you that you might end up like that. You just didn't listen.

He slowly stirs behind you, waking up as he watches you already sitting on the couch, wide awake. He's careful but not overly cautious as he slowly gets up as well, simply observing for a minute or two before he decides to speak up.

"How are you feeling?" He asks, and you shrug. You're not sure. You don't know it yourself.

"I don't know." You answer because of that, because you can't give him anything than that.

"Hm, I can imagine." He hums simply, running a hand through his chaotic bedhair. "I knew you'd drop, but I also knew.. you had to experience it yourself." He shrugs, watching you with still sleepy eyes.

"Drop?" You wonder, and he nods leaning back on his hands.

"Think of it as.." he thinks for a good example, "when people go to concerts. And they end up crying afterwards. It's the same principle, at its core." He says, and only now, as you turn to face him, do you realize you're only wearing panties- just like he's only wearing his boxers, making you snatch up the blanket to cover yourself. You earn nothing but a chuckle from him. "What we did together gave you a rush. And without any aftercare, people crash down from it." He explains softly.

"So that's why.. you wanted to shower with me?" You ask. "Aftercare?" You wonder, and he nods.

"Its important. For everyone involved, not just the.. one receiving it." He offers.

"Were you.. upset?" You ask, and he shrugs his shoulders.

"A little." He honestly replies, and you're thankful for that. It only adds to your reasons to trust him.

"I'm sorry." You say, pulling the blanket a bit closer. "I didn't know."

"Now you do." He simply chuckles, a hand on your back as he gets up, and walks into the bathroom, getting some things you assume before he emerges again. He's still almost naked as he walks back to you, smiling in a friendly manner as he sets down a towel, and tells you to lay down on your stomach on it. You do as told- determined not to push him away this time.

He notices that change in your behavior almost immediately- and he can't help but feel excited about it.

You're swaying your legs a little as you watch him light a candle close by, setting it on a table for now before he leans back and watches you it seems like. You realize it's one of those he'd received in that package earlier today- and you're curious. "What're you doing with that?" You ask, chin on your arms.

"I'll.. let some of the wax drop onto your skin." He says, chuckles when you tense up. "Dont worry. They're body safe, very low melting point. I'm only using things I believe you can handle." He offers, when you feel something drop onto your back- right between your shoulder blades.

True. It's hot- but not unpleasantly so. Maybe like the warmth of a cup of tea maybe.

"After all…" he hums, one more drop under the last falling down. "…You're not only getting to know me.." he continues, voice almost.. sensual as he speaks, another two drops falling in quick sucession of one another onto your skin, straight on your spine. "…but I'm getting to know you, too." He tells you with amusement, free hand softly running over your back. "Your body is talking to me a lot more openly than you do, darling.." he purrs teasingly, and only now do you notice how dark it is in his apartment. How long did you two sleep? It must be almost nighttime by now- led lights and flame from the candle illuminating the room enough to see comfortably, while he runs his fingers over your skin, another set of drops falling down the length of your spine.

It's almost agonizing how slow this all is. Frustrating, even. But you try and stay composed, maybe that'll earn you praise?

It's only when he sets the candle aside, and starts to dig the heels of his palms into your muscles that you sigh out in pleasure, feeling how your sore neck and back relax. Of course he'd know everything about massages. Sometimes, you're convinced he knows everything.

It feels childish to think like that, but sometimes, you've caught yourself looking at Jungkook as if he's the answer to all your problems. As if he can just pick you up and whisk you off your feet, hold you close and fight all monsters like a knight in shining armor ripped straight out of cheesy romance novels. He makes you feel like that, at least. And maybe it's time to let him prove if he can be prince charming.

"There we go." He praises suddenly, hands still moving as he sits behind you, legs pulled over his thighs while he continues to push out the knots in your neck and shoulders. "Let yourself go." He mumbles to you, as if he's hypnotizing you. If he does, it's working, weirdly enough. "I'll take over from here, hm?" He asks, no, states, and you simply sigh, closing your eyes.

"Yes." Is your answer, and you can't see the way his lips twitch.

His arms push your legs closer to him, manhandles you gently to have your core right over what you assume must be his own length, barely contained in his underwear. You wonder what he looks like. You've been told you can't take much- how will he make it work? He feels strong, big- maybe too much to handle. But you want to learn, maybe there's a way. You want to take him, even if it hurts. You've never felt like that before- it had never been something.. attractive to you. But you want him to make you take it. You trust that he will, now that you think about it.

You don't even question if he will. You know he will- the anticipation lays in how.

Are you already realizing it? What you could have with him? Probably- maybe. Or maybe it's just the way his bulge feels pressed against your core that's making you dizzy in the head. Yeah. That could be it, too. The way it's hot and hard, giving you nothing but a teaser of what he's got hidden away from you. How cruel he is. You want to see him.

"So needy.." he hums, chuckles, as his hands move with the help of the oil from the candle, fingers sliding easily down your back, to find their way around your waist to hold you. "Poor thing.." he mumbles towards you, grabs a bit more harshly at your flesh as if to test, and you want to whine-

But you swallow it down, making Jungkook tilt his head a bit with a smirk.

Not quite there yet, he thinks to himself. But I've got six more days to go to make you mine.

"Tell me what you're thinking." He asks- demands, because there's no question about this sentence you notice. It makes your spine tingle, a sudden urge to please and voice out your thoughts boiling up in your throat, as you let out a breath first and foremost, and he can't help but be affected by it, length in his underwear twitching impatiently at the sight of you so lost in pleasure. Oh the things he'd love to do to you make him greedy almost, mind coming up with scenario after scenario he'd love to see you in.

How long could he edge you until you'd cry and beg for him to let you have your release? Or how often could he make you cum until your body would give up?

How far would you go to please him?

Would you let him hunt you down like nothing but prey, just to feast on you, sex all bite and scratch and nothing but primal urges needing to be satiated? Or maybe you'd rather play his pretty little pet, loyal at his feet, patiently awaiting his command?

There's so many ways he can think of to corrupt you.

And he wants to try them all.

"You-" you answer his earlier question, hiding your face in your arms as you move your hips, grinding over his crotch on the hunt for your release. He'll be easy on you today, won't tell you no, will let you have it if you so desire. "I'm.. thinking-" you stutter a bit muffled into your arms, "-of you..!" you press out, and he can't help his smile from forming as he leans back his body, pulls you a little more roughly over his groin, unable to hide his growl as you become more and more shameless, moving erratically to gain any form of friction from him.

"Good." he sighs out as an answer to you, hands grabbing at your bottom, the urge to hit the soft flesh at least once agonizing- but he controls himself, holds back, just as to not overwhelm you too much at once. Instead, he presses you down, helps the movements of your lower body, earns a whimper as payment for it, and he can't help but be affected by it as well. "The only thing you're allowed to think of is me, understood?" he tests out, and much to his delight, you nod.

"yes-!" it feels like you almost want to say something else- and he wonders what your choice would've been, but he doesn't pry. He's got enough time to find out about it soon, after all- and he can be surprisingly patient, especially when it comes to things he's passionate about.

And god, is he passionate about you.

Suddenly, he wants to know. Wants to test you, despite his earlier choice of wanting to take is soft and slow- as his hands reach out, arms hooking underneath your thighs, suddenly lifting you up, leaving you with nothing before he turns you around onto your back, hands on your hips pressing down, preventing any movement. "Please-!" you beg, and he watches in interest how you struggle against him.

"Please, what?" he asks, acting nonchalant. "What do you want?" he wonders as if he doesn't know, and you look at him like you're searching for something, or maybe you're just collecting courage. For what, he doesn't know- yet.

"Please- let me.. cum.." you try, but it's not quite right for him. You also don't seem uncomfortable with the situation- you seem more like you're holding back, like you're unsure, hesitant.

"Hm, that won't do."he shakes his head, leaning further away, though his hold on you still keeps you still. "Try again." he tells you, and you close your eyes, like you're bracing yourself.

"Please let me cum!" You repeat, though this time with a lot more confidence, and he grins at that, one of his hands taking the front of your panties into it, before he pulls it up, fabric slipping between your lower lips, already drenched in your arousal.

"Go ahead then." he tells you. "Give me a good show, yeah?" he almost sings, and you immediately move, frantically so, hips rolling in desperation as he watches, muscles in your thighs stuttering especially when he helps you assist, pushing you towards your orgasm a lot faster than you anticipated.

It leaves you gasping for air, hips stuttering as you try and catch your breath, core clenching around nothing for a good while. The moment you open your eyes you're greeted with the sight of someone more akin to a demon, a predator, Eden's sin recreated as a human person- the sweat on his skin making him look as if he's glowing, eyes sharp and pupils blown wide, one hand carefully running over your thigh while he other is on his-

oh.

Oh..

There's a clear and surprisingly big stain on his dark grey Calvin Klein's, and you turn red as you realize what that must be. It gives you an odd boost of confidence, knowing that the sigh of you had done that to him- had helped him get to this point, even if just a little. It still counts, you still take it- as he smiles, and leans down to gently kiss your cheek.

"Good girl." he praises quietly, and this time you don't mask your whimper of pleasure, this one of different nature as you bathe in the praise clearly directed at you, you, and only you.

You feel drunk.

But this time, you happily let him move you around, pick you up and carry you into the bathroom, where he helps you step out of your underwear, your state leaving no room to feel shy about your nudity in front of him it seems like. He's used to it- it's nothing new to witness, but considering it's you in this state, he's even more gentle than he would usually be in a situation like this. how can he be with anyone else after you?

He doesn't know. And for now, he won't think of that.

All he knows is that underneath the shower, and later on on the couch where you'll sleep for the entirety of the week, he's got you.

And he'll do his best to keep you at his side forever.

[thesturniolos]

guilty pleasures

m. sturniolo x reader

summary: well, yall asked for it 💁🏼‍♀️ it’s part 2 bitches !!

warnings: smut, swearing, sub!matt (why does this even need a warning?), degradation.

tags: @sturnioloshacker @strniohoeee @sturniolopepsi @strawberrysturniolo @lilasturns @lovingmattysposts @m4ttsturniolo @mbbsgf @meg-sturniolo @mattsneezing @malsturns @urfavstromboli @recklesssturniolo @heartsforchrisandmatt @hoesformatt @iheartchrissturniolo @cutesouls @chrisenthusiast @creamoncreamoncream2 @chrisdevora @nickenthusiast @noellesturniolo @mattsturniolosgf @sturniolossmut @struniolos @sturniolosstar @klarasmith @kirby0strombolli @kenzieiskoolaid @kenzieluvssturniolo @justangelheree @matthewsturniolo @mattscokewhore @mattnchrisworld @delusionalsturniologirl @apclyptc @91sturniolo @bernardenjoyer @byechristopher @bluesturniolo333 @bernardsleftbootycheek @biimpanicking @mattsbratt @iammattswife @m4tthewsgf @silly-sturniolos @ducksturniolo @plasticferal

“need help?”

i’m frozen. i’m literally frozen. i don’t care about the ache in my pants anymore, i need her to repeat whatever the fuck she just said.

“w-what?” my cheeks are pink, i know that and even though i’m basically towering over her, i feel flustered and small. a girl has never had this effect on me, never made me feel this way or made me cum this way. how does she just say that and casually smirk like that?

“i’m kidding, matt. god, don’t get so worked up.” she laughs and turns before walking away to the kitchen. i’m sad, i’m sad about her not meaning those words. i’m close to tears about her not helping me with my boner, how pathetic.

i scurry to the bedroom but not to relieve the pain which has been lingering by the pool but the new found pain in my chest of rejection. to think that she actually would’ve wanted to have done that, so randomly too. like one minute she was laughing by the pool with me and then she was gonna be on her knees on my bedroom floor.

pathetic, stupid little tears are begging to fall from my eyes, a reminder that she won’t like me like that and those drunk words really weren’t sober thoughts like everyone claims they are.

she’s everywhere in this house. she’s in the photo frames on my walls, in the background of my phone, in the hallways, her voice echoing the house. she is everywhere and she always has been ever since we were small. which is why i cannot let my feelings get to me because after all she is still a friend, a very good one.

luckily the hard-on i’ve been struggling with has subsided, i wonder why. i was worked up over her after all, it doesn’t really feel the same after that’s happened. but that doesn’t mean i’m holding grudges, i don’t hate her for that, i don’t feel any different. i still long for everything she has. her hugs, her warmth, her kisses, her perfect curly hair, her curves, her gorgeous fucking smile.

im also not saying i didn’t want her to help me, i needed her to help me. help me come undone all over her, needed to see her perfect naked body laid on my sheets, needed to know i was making her feel good. but i also wanted everything else, all the sweet things we could do together.

a knock at my door runs through the room, can i have privacy in this house?

i don’t get long to answer before the door is opened and i see her. god, what are you doing to me? she smiles, poking her head through a small gap, holding up a plate of something.

“i brought you some food?” she frowns looking at me, walking into the room more and shutting the door behind her. oh, great.

“thanks, you didn’t have to.” i say, looking away from her. my acting isn’t great and my sad expression is still very visual.

“no worries, i - um are you okay, matt?” she places the plate on my desk and walks closer to me, standing just in front of me. still in that fucking swimsuit.

“me? oh yeah, im fine. why?” im quiet but im desperately trying to raise my voice to try and convince her properly. why is nobody on my side? like what?

“it’s just i know that i kinda- i kinda messed up out there. like, it was wrong of me to say that, we’re best friends you know? i didn’t mean to make you uncomfy.”

uncomfy? she thought she made me uncomfy? i wasn’t uncomfy, i was desperate.

“oh no, i didn’t even care to be honest. you’re good.” i laugh and look down at my hands. with her staring at me like that i literally cannot focus.

“well you just seemed a little flustered, you know?” she moves her hand up to my face and brushes away a hair that’s fallen. she noticed. i look up to see her doe eyes filled with what looked like concern? or was it something else? whatever it was, whatever she’s doing, is making my throat dry. we’re so close and i’m suddenly aware of my breathing and her breathing and the way she swallows and when her chest falls and-

“a little like you do now.” she smirks and she’s closer, if that’s even fucking possible. her breath is fresh on my lips and she goes to whisper, “it’s cute you know, matt.”

and with that she pushes her lips onto mine and it’s like heaven in a kiss. it’s indescribable, it’s everything i could possibly have imagined, it’s the healing of the small crack in my heart. her lips are warm and welcoming, her teeth slightly tugging at my lips as she pulls back slightly, her eyes opening to meet mine.

she goes to speak but i don’t want her to, i just want to feel her on me again, i needed it. i grab her face and smash her lips against mine again and this time it’s desperation. it’s years of waiting and secret looks in hallways, it’s every candle i’ve blown out on my birthday praying for this, it’s everytime i cried in her arms and she’s cried in mine.

our tongues dance and im pushing her onto the bed, i need her. for all of the times i’ve thought of doing this and refrained and now she’s actually here and underneath me, it’s too surreal.

we lose rhythm and it becomes sloppy, saliva covering both of our mouths, dripping down our chins as i slowly trail down her neck. she whines slightly and i could’ve sworn i came right there, right then. the voice of angel.

i groan against her neck in response, focusing on that sweet spot, hoping to create some kind of mark as evidence that this fucking happened because it just does not feel real. i need something to show in the morning, that it wasn’t a dream.

“matt, i need you.” and that was all i needed to pull the straps of her bikini down and to be fucking blessed with the most beautiful pair of tits i’ve ever seen. it was better than i imagined, her nipples as hard as ever, ones i was eager to take into my mouth and so i did.

i worked on both of them, switching every now and then, making sure they got equal love, squeezing the opposing tit too. the little moans that left her mouth when i sucked and pulled on them made my dick twitch in my pants and was enough to make me pull away from her boobs and drag her panties down.

she sits up, unbuckling my belt and throwing it to the floor all while remaining eye contact with me as i look down at her, ready to pound her into the bed. i needed to see her squirm under my touch, fill her up.

“my turn.”

okay so i’m literally evil and i’m making a PART 3 !! because i wanted to get this out today but i’m tired andddd i wanna make really fckin good smut bur hope y’all like the switch up!!

[cupcakeslushie]

I sincerely see little issue on you coping like that, as long as its not, you know, graphic

Would i be uncomfortable? Very. Im still not quite over my own experience

But I'd be lying if i said i hadnt thought of putting some characters i relate to in such things and having they deal with it and feel like i did (as much as they can in the circumstances)

Yeah as long as this stuff isnt fetishized im on full support of it

Okay I feel like I’m stuck in a loop where the target is still being just slightly missed. I appreciate your intentions with this ask, and I can see where you were going. But “as long as it’s not graphic” and “as long as it’s not fetishized” are still putting qualifiers on art.

Art has no bounds. As long as triggers are tagged properly, and put behind a “read more” for the visually graphic images, any art can be created. When we start requiring stipulations for artists to meet before making art, we start the process of sanitizing it. If you read the warnings and still click on the post, then your discomfort is on you. If you aren’t mature enough to know your own limits in what you can handle, the artist shouldn’t have to issue a statement decrying their art, and listing all their traumas for some kind of purity tribunal to then decide it’s okay, and only when it’s being used as a coping mechanism.

It’s kinda funny, after all this, I likely wasn’t even going to actually DRAW anything sexually graphic, and at most, simply hint at it. But it doesn’t matter. If I wanted to, I should be able to, as long as it’s given all the warnings required. If I don’t like certain triggers, I avoid them. I’m not delusional enough to think that in all the whole, wide expanse of the internet, people will pander to my specific icks, likes and dislikes. I curate my own internet experience.

I can only hope, as I go about my day, that I am given the same courtesy of being warned ahead of time in the summary and tags, that I’m giving. But if another artist does want to draw that, I’m not going to request to see their trauma resume, just so I can approve of what they made. If I clicked, after reading the warnings and knowing damn well I would be triggered, I’m not going to be mad at the artist. That’s on me.

[blaacknoir]

Hi, you recently reblogged a post about how Nanowrimo is not disallowing or disavowing AI because doing so is classist and ablist and in your tags suggested that you consider this "yikes."

Honestly, it kind of hurt my feelings as a person with a disability who occasionally uses AI as a disability aid. Let me explain.

I use AI frequently for word recall. I have ADHD- a lot of people do. Many people with ADHD, including myself, struggle with word recall. It can be extremely bad, but how bad it is day to day is variable, and not all people with ADHD struggle with this to the same degree. When my word recall is really bad, NLP's (Natural Language Processors) are practically tailor-made to find that exact word I need. As an example, I used AI to remind me just now about the term "Natural Language Processor," which, along with the term "machine learning," is frankly just a better description than AI for these tools. But I will continue using the term AI for convenience.

The fact that people do not imagine this sort of use in conjunction with AI IS a form of ablism. They immediately assume all use is infringing. If they actually talked to people with disabilities (who do use AI), they would discover these other uses, and perhaps the conversation could be elevated to a more constructive state instead of trying to make everyone who uses a tool feel "yikes" for using it. Many of us are extremely conscientious and well informed of the issues involved.

Consider that if someone has said something is ablist (or classist or any other -ist,) they just might have a point and that you should try to discover what that point is before assuming that it's fake. Don't take everything at face value, but don't dismiss it out of hand either. Listen to people who have differing opinions and try to get the nuances of the conversation.

When people think about AI being used in conjunction with writing and visual art, they only consider the egregious uses - which makes sense, as that is how AI is advertised; as a magic technology that solves ALL problems. But those egregious uses are not the only use of these tools. AI does not have to be a magic wand that replaces the creative process of an artist. I have given one example of such a use above, but I could list many more.

If your "yikes" is in regard to the ecological impact - I hope that the overzealous implementation of AI into everything takes the ecological facts into account and that is ammealorated, but please do not throw people with disabilities under the bus while trying to make buses less polluting.

//The only use of AI in this post was to help me remember the word Natural Language Processor - I know my tone is pretty formal and sometimes comes across as AI, but it's not.

Jeezly fucking crow, dude. It was a single-word comment. I hope you sent this to literally everyone else who commented in a similar manner.

I use AI frequently for word recall. I have ADHD- a lot of people do. Many people with ADHD, including myself, struggle with word recall. It can be extremely bad, but how bad it is day to day is variable, and not all people with ADHD struggle with this to the same degree. When my word recall is really bad, NLP's (Natural Language Processors) are practically tailor-made to find that exact word I need. As an example, I used AI to remind me just now about the term "Natural Language Processor," which, along with the term "machine learning," is frankly just a better description than AI for these tools. But I will continue using the term AI for convenience.

I also have ADHD. I also struggle with word recall. You know what I do? I google things. I use dictionary and thesaurus websites. I use OneLook, which suggests associated words, similar words, and similar concepts.

Not everyone who uses AI is stealing from artists, no, but it's well known that AI does scan people's art--almost always without their consent--to generate pieces. It's also been seen around places like AO3, scraping fics from unlocked accounts.

Personally, I dislike the implication that disabled (or poor--that's what "classist" means here) people are incapable of writing without an AI generating something for them. I've written 100k+ words on AO3, and all of them are mine. I've talked to friends, I've written parallel fics, I've rewritten my own stories, but those words are mine. I wrote them. A disabled person. To imply that I need AI to do that pisses me off.

And believe it or not, my primary dislike of AI isn't ableist or classsist or whatever. (I'm not even against all forms of AI! I understand that in some fields, analyitical AI is quite helpful--I've read that it's great at finding breast cancer, for example.) My primary beef with AI, especially generative AI like ChatGPT is the fact that:

It will just lie to you. It will just make up things. There are people who have used it in court cases (it didn't work), and there are people using it to write books--everything from cookbooks to mushroom identification guides. (Guess what amateurs need expert help with when they're starting out? You know, so they don't die?) It's also happened with animal care guides. AI doesn't need to be used in a generative context at all.

There is also a massive environmental impact that I rarely, if ever, see talked about.

[sasaranurude]

Okay. I've been playing Tokyo Debunker today, since the release happened to catch me on a day when all I'd planned to do was write fanfiction. I just finished reading the game story prologue (it was longer than expected!), so here's a review type post. If you're reading this post not having seen a single thing about this game: it's a story-based joseimuke gacha mobile game that just released globally today. It's about a girl who suddenly finds herself attending a magic school and mingling with elite, superhuman students known as ghouls. If you look in the tumblr tag for the game you'll see what appears to be a completely different game from 2019 or so: they retooled it completely midway through development, changing just about everything about it due to "escalating competition within the gaming industry."

I'll talk about how this looks like a blatant twst clone at the end.

Starting with the positive: The story is charming. I enjoyed it thoroughly the entire time and am excited to read more. The mix between visual novel segments and motion comics was really nice--it broke things up and added a lot of oomph to the action or atmospheric scenes that visual novels generally lack. I like the art in the comic parts a lot. the live2d in the visual novel parts is... passable. Tone-wise, I think the story was a little bit all over the place and would like to see more of the horror that it opened on, but I didn't mind the comedic direction it went in either. The translation is completely seamless. The characters so far all have unique voices and are just super fun and cute. Of the ones who've had larger roles in the story so far, there's not a single one I dislike. It's all fully voiced in Japanese and the acting is solid. (I don't recognize any voices, and can't seem to find any seiyuu credits, so it seems they're not big names, but they deliver nonetheless.) Kaito in particular I found I was laughing at his lines a ton, both the voicing and the writing.

He's looking for a girlfriend btw. Spreading the word.

The problem is like. The gameplay is the worst dark-pattern microtransaction-riddled bullshit I've ever seen. Hundred passive timers going at all times. Fifty different item-currencies. Trying to get you to spend absurd amounts of real world money at every turn. There's like five different indicators that take you to various real-money shop items that I don't know how to dismiss the indicator, I guess you just have to spend money, wtaf. Bajillion different interlocking systems mean you have zero sense of relative value of all the different item-currencies. I did over the course of the day get enough diamonds for one ten-pull, which I haven't used yet. Buying enough diamonds for a ten-pull costs a bit under $60 (presumably USD, but there's a chance the interface is automatically making that CAD for me--not gonna spend the money to check lmfao), with an SSR rate of 1%. BULLSHIIIIIT.

There's like a goddamn thousand-word essay explaining the dozen different types of character upgrades and equippables and equippables for the equippables!! Bad! Bad game design! That's just overcomplicating bullshit to trick people into thinking they're doing something other than clicking button to make number go up! That is not gameplay!

In terms of the actual gameplay, there is none. The battle system is full auto. There might be teambuilding, but from what I've seen so far, most of that consists of hoping you pull good cards from gacha and then clicking button to make number go up. There's occasional rhythm segments but there's no original music, it's just remixes of public domain classical music lmao. I'd describe the rhythm gameplay as "at least more engaging than twisted wonderland's," which is not a high bar

At least there's a cat in the rhythm bit.

And like, ok, I gotta remark on how derivative it is. Like I mentioned in my post earlier, this game is unabashedly aping twisted wonderland's setting and aesthetic. (That said, most of the stuff it steals from twst is magic school stuff that twst also basically stole from Harry Potter, so...?) However, it isn't exactly like twst: in this one, the characters say fuck a lot and bleed all over the place and do violence. Basically, the tone is a fair bit more adult than twst's kid-friendly vibe. (Not, like, adult adult, and I probably wouldn't even call it dark--it's still rated Teen lol. Just more adult than twst.)

Rather than just being students at magic school, the ghouls also go out into the mundane world to go on missions where they fight and investigate monsters and cryptids. Honestly, the magic school setting feels pretty tacked-on. The things that are enjoyable about this would've been just as enjoyable in about any other setting--you can tell this whole aspect was a late trend-chasing addition, lmao. So, yeah, it's blatantly copying twst to try to steal some players, but... Eh, I found myself not caring that much. Someone more (or less) into twst than me may find it grating.

Character-wise, eh, sure, yeah, they're a bit derivative in that aspect too, but it's a joseimuke game, the characters are always derivative. Thus far the writing & execution has been solid enough that I didn't care if they were tropey. If I were to compare it to something else, I'd say the relationship between the protagonist and the ghouls feels more like that of the sage and wizards in mahoyaku than anything from twst. There's some mystery in exactly what "ghouls" are and their place in this world that has me intrigued and wanting to know more about this setting and how each of the characters feels about it. I have a bad habit of getting my hopes up for stories that put big ideas on the table and then being disappointed when they don't follow through in a way that lives up to my expectations, though.

So, my final verdict: I kind of just hope someone uploads all the story segments right onto youtube so nobody has to deal with the dogshit predatory game to get the genuinely decent story lol. Give it a play just for the story if you have faith in your ability to resist dark patterns. Avoid at all costs if you know you're vulnerable to gacha, microtransactions, or timesinks.

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc! as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER EIGHT — SEWN UP

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: you'd need a hacksaw to cut the tension between you and eddie, but that's not your weapon of choice this time around. a newspaper pitch, a patchwork girl and a tasteless prank all work together to make things ever more awkward between you and the boy you keep senselessly calling your friend. content warnings: MINORS DNI, THIS IS NOT SAFE FOR YOUR PURITAN EYES - reader is an ex-bitch on a journey of self-discovery through being an even more specific kind of bitch, angst in the form of an elizabeth munson mention, miscommunication, lacy engaging non-platonically with someone other than eddie, mention of lacy's surname and dad's name, REEFER RICK CAMEO, billy hargrove slander as per, violence, a humiliating prank, smut in the form of public hand stuff (f!receiving), me feeling insane about this chapter word count: 14.3k

Dear Mom,

She hasn’t got warm hands. She hasn’t got the kind of smile that draws people to her. She hasn’t got a kind word for everyone, no matter where they come from. She hasn’t got a lot of patience. She hasn’t got a fixed sense of herself–well, she does kinda. But, not totally. Not yet. 

She’s not like you.

Other cheerleaders wore ponytails and they’d bounce. But when she wore a ponytail, it swung like a sword. She used to be cruel and exacting, but now she’s just exacting. She’s honest and observant to a degree that’s, like, almost psycho. She’s a cold front, but she laughs like a lightning strike. I feel like thunder, powerless to do anything but roll after her. Can’t help myself. 

She knows what she wants, she thinks. Other days she doesn’t. I keep trying to tell her that’s okay, in ways where I don’t actually have to use the words. My words wouldn’t be as good as her words. Her words burn clean through me like a lit tip of a cigarette. 

But she does have your book. 

Y’know, I always thought it was kind of creepy the way some guys would try and look for their mom in other girls. 

So this might be a good thing. Less Oedipus-y, more ea–… 

Shit. I was gonna say something I’m so sure you’d smack me around the head for. But you’re not here to do that. I might be in better shape with this girl if you were.

Anyway. I miss you. 

Eddie Munson stands in the midst of an incredibly awkward aftermath. 

See, for two people so purportedly self-assured, he in his freakshow roguishness and you in your prim-perfect knife-edge sharpness, you’re both entirely dogshit at acknowledging… well… anything. 

You both tried to snap back to normal so quickly, with Wheeler and her science experiment pregnancy scare smashing through the ice. But the water underneath that ice is still freezing cold– and you’re both pretending you’re not gasping for air, pretending like you don’t remember gasping for each other’s lips. 

This is totally cool. This is totally fine.

And then Eddie comes to see you at The Bookstore, which has become just as routine as nearly never brushing his hair, and sees you fixing your seller’s tag to your pick of the week. Your face in that arresting, self-conscious smile that he wants to melt off with the blowtorch of his mouth. 

It’s The Patchwork Girl of Oz by L. Frank Baum. 

Now, he noticed that you would habitually drop writers’ names into conversation like they were your lit professors– Didion said this, Bukowski said that, Bronte yadda, Burroughs yadda. Always some genius-adjacent, formative-thinking, socio-politico-boffo brainwad, more often than not with a substance abuse kick that you romanticized from a safe distance.

But then you unearth this book, a green clothback cover yellowing with age and roughness, red and yellow inlaid titling blasting out a name he ought to know. It makes his visual memory brrrrrrring! like a bright red tomato shaped kitchen timer.

The Patchwork Girl of Oz was with Elizabeth Munson wherever she went. Her records were her plane tickets, her escape to another world, but you couldn’t take your records with you to the hospital. Escaping to Oz was a decent substitute. She must have read it a bajillion times; she even took to calling Wayne Unc Nunkie after the elderly munchkin who only ever had one word for anybody. And whenever Eddie would drop an egg when they were baking or come running through the house with his knees all cut up, she’d coo, “Oh, my li’l Ojo the Unlucky!”

The book lingered everywhere– on the kitchen counter of the house on Pennsylvania,on the vinyl seat of the booth at the now-shuttered Benny’s when she could afford to take Eddie for a treat, on her bedside table. 

Up until the end. 

It knocks the wind out of Eddie when he sees it on the display shelf. He does a bad job of hiding that. 

“What, too shocked to make fun of me?” you say, perching yourself on the rickety stool behind the counter, and your voice betrays a little embarrassment. “That’s a first.”

“I–... huh?” He tears his eyes away from the book long enough to catch the specks of blush high on your cheeks.

“It’s not my usual flavor, I know, but I’m capable of whimsy too.”

“Why that one?” His limbs feel stony like Unc Nunkie’s, as much as he wants to languidly lean over the counter and bother you like he always does. 

You shrug, but you tilt the opposite shoulder. A reverse, a peek behind the looking glass. He notices that about you, which goddamn shoulder is your shrugging preference. 

“I think it was one of the first books I kept checking out of the library when I was little,” you say, glancing back at the display, “It’s about this poor little kid who has to find a way to reverse a spell on his uncle who’s been turned to stone, and the eponymous patchwork girl is–”

“I know the story.” It comes out a little blunter than Eddie was intending it to. So much so that it knocks you back a beat. 

“Oh,” you say shortly, eyes flaring down at the counter. “No need to cut me off mid-stream about it.” 

Eddie winces, knowing he’s coming across as weird and stilted but with no idea how to safely climb down. “No, just– I know the story, yeah. My mom…” That is not a safe dismount, dummy! “...she… liked it a lot.”

“Yeah?” your tone stays even, yanked back from him a little. He wants to be like, sorrysorrysorry. “She ever read it to you?”

“A bunch, actually.” 

“No shit.” The corners of your mouth tick up. “Wanna hear something super dorky?”

Just the mere invitation of your little smile loosens him up a bit. Eddie twists a ring around his finger, head kicking to his shoulder as his foot kicks to the counter. “Always,” he says, squinting. 

You straighten your spine up on your stool and clear your throat. Hand goes over your heart, like you’re about to recite the damn declaration. Your eyes shutter closed. 

“Here’s a job for a boy of brains– a drop of oil from a live man’s veins; a six-leaved clover; three nice hairs, from a Woozy’s tail, the book declares; are needed for a magic spell, and water from a pitch-dark well– the yellow wing from a butterfly to find must Ojo also try; and if he gets them without harm, Doc Pipt will make the magic charm; but if he doesn’t get ‘em, Unc…” your crack one eye open. “...will always stand a marble chunk.”

Eddie is silent for… for a while. For a good handful of heartbeats, for a beat so long that makes you knit your brow up, your eyes needling into him. Eddie’s looking at you with rose-colored soft focus. His elbows are eagerly pitched on the counter now, chin in his hands. The last person to recite those words to him was his mom, her voice raspy and tired but still willing to read to him. She hadn’t smelled like herself. It was sad.

And now, your voice, with all its snippy chainmail thrown off, gone all soft and lyrical and dedicated. 

He thinks about a littler you, one he could vaguely pick out of a lineup if he really, really tried, criss-cross applesauce and pouring over that book so often that that little spell jams itself into your brain. 

The mage before she donned the mink coat.

Eddie is looking at you and can’t force his heart out of his throat. 

Well, until he can.

“Ew,” he cringes.

“What?!” you exclaim, your eyes getting all incredulous and kind of mad. 

“And they call me a fuckin’ nerd, what the hell was that?” Eddie’s laughing, mocking, not with his whole heart. But it’s enough to make you scoff, irritated with him again. 

See, you thought you were being cute and he knows you thought you were being cute. He needs to put you back in a place where you’re marginally unlikeable enough to just be a friend. 

Restore the natural order. Don’t think about how he wants to recite that same verse back to you in front of an ordained Elvis in Vegas. Because he would, in a heartbeat. If he wasn’t committed to not being stupid. 

Christ, you’re pretty. Christ, he’s gonna do something stupid.

“You are… completely undateable, you know that?” he nods ferociously, eyes trailing you as you cross out from behind the counter and head for a box of books that need to be shelved. All uh-huhs and sure, Eddies. The bell on the front door jangles and a customer passes behind him. 

He yells after you, voice traveling down whatever winding path you’ve taken through the stacks. “You with your black and white movies and your twat rock and your Wizard of Oz… baby, what crowd are you even playing to?” 

“What crowd am I playing to? What crowd are you playing to?!” you seethe, shuffling the ten-tonne box of books down the aisle with your feet. “Fucking baggie-pushing, guitar-brutalizing, board-game-...maker-...upper!”

“Woah. Wit’s unmatched as usual, Lace.”

This fucking guy. This fucking guy. You try and do one darling little thing, you just recite a little piece of a book his dead mom used to read to him or whatever, and you get verbally bashed! God forbid, god forbid you let the fucking drawbridge down for half a second! This blows! 

You’re trying to be less of a bitch, in case you idiots didn’t notice!

It’s kind of inexplicable, how sensitive you’re feeling about this. Could be that since you kissed and since you pinkie-swore with Nancy Wheeler in the bombed-out boys bathroom, you kind of felt as if you were standing on a blade’s edge with Eddie. Not knowing where to put your hands, not knowing how much or how little to joke around. Not entirely happy with your moment of madness at the Ecker trailer. Not entirely happy that it hadn’t happened again. 

But you’re not about to apologize. Not to him. Don Rickles in a battle vest over there. Must he always just poke you like that?!

“You’re undateable!” You shove a bunch of books aside on the shelf. “Me, I’m cu–...”

Right through the shelf, a customer stares at you. Your voice dies in your throat because, unfortunately, he’s looking right at you in your flurry of annoyance toward Eddie. And unfortunately, this stranger, he’s a little… 

“What were you gonna say?” he asks, closing Gravity’s Rainbow. 

“Cute.”

Guy smiles, doesn’t break eye contact with you for a second. He’s wearing a sweater. He looks fresh out of somewhere stone walled with crawling ivy. “I’d attest to that.”

You forget about Eddie– just for a second. Gesturing to Gravity’s Rainbow, you say, “Gonna attempt to finish that?”

“What’s that mean?” His grin is infectious, or maybe you’re just starved for this kind of attention. 

“Nothing,” you say, with a little more tongue than you need to, “Just, I don’t know of anyone that’s ever finished that behemoth.” 

Well, you don’t know of a lot of people that read the way you do either. But, digression. He raps a knuckle against the cover of the book and for some reason, you feel it in your belly. 

“I always finish,” he tells you. 

“Do you now?”

That’s the longest you’ve been quiet in a hot minute, and that’s the kind of thing that gets under Eddie’s skin. Chain on his jeans jangling, he starts off into the creaking labyrinth of lined-up bookcases. 

“What, did you expire back here or something…” he mutters, a little whine in his tone– play with me, play with me, even though I’m being kind of a dick to you–

He sees you, a book lying lax in your arms, your body swaying to and fro and you’re–

“--talkin’ to yourself, Lacy? Great look. Real honeytrap, if you’re lookin’ to catch some imaginary di–”

“Eddie,” you grit at him, and he spots the whole other human male you’re talking to through the stacks. Well, not just talking to. Not with that body language. 

This dude tilts his chin to Eddie. “Hey, man. I remember you. Didn’t you used to sell dimebags in the woods outside school?”

Fire flares in Eddie’s gut. He vaguely recognizes this guy– class of ‘83 or ‘82, not remarkable enough to be hateable but now, he’s certainly collegiate looking enough to be… distracting to you. So, annoying to him. 

“Why, man? You lookin’ to buy? Or just cruise some high schooler tail?”

“Eddie!” you hiss again and he scoffs like, really?! You turn back to this… whoever the fuck. “C’mon, I’ll check you out.”

“You’ll check him out, huh?” Eddie sneers, bearing over you as you pass him in the aisle. Body heat breezing right by, face a mask of sheer disgust. Impulse talks; it totally wants to just grab you and throw you behind him and– well, he hasn’t thought that far ahead yet. But he’s creative. Who the fuck even is this guy? Where did he come from?

“That you?” this guy says, jerking his head toward the staff display, toward The Patchwork Girl of Oz. “Lacy?”

“To my friends and co-conspirators,” you say, ringing up that godawful Pynchon book. 

“Which one was that guy?” he asks, watching you jot out his receipt on the carbon copy pad because for whatever reason, Ivana’s cash register is from the fucking 1800s and she refuses to upgrade to anything with a thermal printer. “Friend? Co-conspirator? … boyfriend?”

You wrinkle your nose. And don’t exactly answer, but it’s enough confirmation for him. 

“Good. Say, why don’t you jot down your number on this thing?” He pushes the receipt back to you. “I can keep you updated on my Pynchon progress. You can… see if I’m good enough to co-conspire with.” 

You like this approach. In fact, you love this approach, because you hadn’t been earnestly picked up in… forever. And he has this certain je ne sais quoi about him, something that screams moved out of state for college. You stay grinning, biting your lip for a good breath or two after he leaves the store. 

Then Eddie appears in your peripheral, like some terrible harbinger of embarrassment. 

“Undateable, huh?” you say, fully aware that he was earwigging on that whole exchange because he’s a nosy bitch and he can’t help himself. Glutton for gossip. 

“You don’t have to throw yourself at the first person who walks in the store just to prove a point, baby,” Eddie tells you, this big face of condescension. You want to smack it off him so bad your palms are itching. 

You huff and backtrack to where that box of unshelved books sits. “Maybe I’m tired of waiting around.”

—

Ronnie Ecker and Robin Buckley are looking each other in the eye, wolf-whistling furtively when you elbow open the door of the gym. 

“You’re flat. I’m telling you you’re flat,” Ronnie’s insisting, an adorable three inches away from Robin’s face. 

“I can’t be flat! A mouth whistle cannot be flat!”

It’s marching band practice. You don’t know what the hell goes on in here and you know better than to ask. 

“Would you two get a room already?” you call, heels clicking across the glossed wood of the gym. These dorks have all got their feathered hats and bibs on, a kind of half-assed dress rehearsal for some pep rally they’re having on Friday. You missed the bulletin– kind of stopped paying attention, actually. Extracurricular distraction is a hell of a drug. 

“Excuse me, this is a closed–” that’s the voice of Miss Genovese, the band teacher, stomping down from the bleachers in these tragic little loafers with the pleather peeling off. She makes it about halfway toward you, then this exasperated look washes right over her. The teacher dashes for the double doors and you point after her with a freshly painted red index finger. New lease on looking good. 

“And that is?”

“Like, the third time in the last hour,” Ronnie shakes her head, taking her flamboyant little hat off. “Biggest running theory is morning sickness.”

What, is pregnancy like, catching or something? you’re about to muse.

“It’s almost contagious, right?” Robin says, tugging at her clip-on collar, “I mean, first your whole thing and now–” 

Ronnie doesn't even have a chance to gesture for her to ixnay! before she slams pause on herself, eyes wide and all shit, did I say that out loud?! Your eyes narrow in return. That’s suspicious.

“What whole thing? My whole what?”

Ever and eternally knowing when to call it, Ronnie holds a hand up before Robin can even start to scramble an apology and serve it to you. Panther versus a precious little puppy dog– the fight ain’t even fair. 

“Nothing. Scuttlebutt bullshit, the usual,” she rolls her eyes, throws a sympathetic glance to Robin who winces and retreats. Huh.

“What’s going on with you two?” you ask, crossing your legs over the bottom rung of the bleachers.

This actually makes Ronnie’s expression soften a little– her eyes race back in Robin’s direction and you swear you catch a blush. “Also nothing! Compound nothing. Why, does it look like…”

Lips purse into a little satisfied grin. Knew it. Toldja. Point to Lacy. “Looks like whatever you want it to look like.”

Ronnie reaches forward and waves her feathered hat in your face– stop being so observant! You cough in protest– ew, I don’t know where that thing has been! 

“Whatever! What brings you to geek church?” 

“That’s what they’re calling it now?”

“Stick around, we’ll start speaking in tongues.” 

“Satanic Panic bringing about a fun new turn for the pep rally! Put some God back into that wind instrument,” you croon. “No, I actually wanted your thoughts on something.”

Ronnie raises her eyebrows and you feel like you oughta mirror her. You’re not usually one to seek out a second opinion, but the more you’ve gotten to know Ronnie, the more you see that she’ll tell you how it is. Especially now that you’ve dispersed with the whole intimidating it-girl cloud and she’s stopped pretending to be shy.

“I know. I’m shocked too.”

“I’m honored,” she swings her shoulders in girlish delight, “Dish it up, Doevski.”

“Okay, so,” you clap, hiking forward on your creaking bleacher, “I’ve been seeing this guy–”

“--this is the bookstore guy?”

A blink and a beat. “How’d you know about that?”

A face that has Eddie told me with footnotes of and he was kind of jealous scrawled all over it stares back at you. “I ‘unno, maybe I overheard…”

“Doesn’t matter.” You slice a hand through the air, no time for this right now. “Facts are facts, I’ve been hanging out with this guy,” interesting change of phraseology, considering, “and he’s a college guy–”

“If they could see you now.” The royal court of Hawkins, obviously. Older guys are generally an accomplishment. But Ronnie’s half-jesting. 

“--I know, shut up. But, he mentioned something that would absolutely rock my college applications is a really, really great–”

“--feature in the Streak?” you’d gasped out in the back of his Ford Cortina (how very European!). College guy’s mouth was on your neck and his hand was inching into your shirt, playing at a faux placket of pearl buttons. Boys can never tell a real button from a fake one, apparently, even if they go to an East Coast school. I mean, shit! You’d gleaned enough information from him over a shake at the diner; relatively well-to-do family that lived near the Wheelers on Maple and kind of underwhelming taste in lit for an English major. 

But he maintained eye contact and listened to your witty little bon mots, even if he didn’t… laugh at them. One thing led to another and thus, the backseat college advisory-slash-makeout session. 

“Yeah, yeah, they love that shit…” he’d said, moving to your mouth in order to swallow any forthcoming words. But his words had piqued your interest more than his fingers had. 

“What about an underdog story?” you said, eyes kind of hazing over in the middle distance. 

“Sure, underdog, great…” college guy grabbed ahold of your leg and tugged you into him, “We can talk more about it later, okay?”

“Okay–”

“–okay?”

Ronnie grimaces. “I didn’t need that much detail.”

“Yes, you did.” You stare at her. “I’m a storyteller.”

Ronnie chews the proposal over a little, cheeks kind of bunched up in confusion. Behind her, band geeks badly hide their hickeys and exhibit too-gangly, too-obvious body language. No inspiration to be tapped from there.

“An underdog story… on the society pages? Like, who could you possibly–”

You smile that awful, conniving smile, because you came in here armed. “Ye of little faith.”

“Oh, no,” Ronnie says, and honestly, you’re a little taken aback by that reaction, “Hellfire?”

A shrug pulls your shoulders right up, rapidly on the defense. “Why not, right?” 

“Why not– Lacy, you almost guillotined Jeff that one time he asked you.”

True that you hadn’t had the inches of article to spare for Hellfire Club in not-too-ancient history, but, “That was then, this is now! World’s changing– and it’s topical!”

The whole Satanic panic thing really did tickle your funny bone; and you saw yourself having a little fun with that by turning the focus on Hellfire. Subverting Eddie’s cult-leader mythos to show that he is just a kid who might have a propensity for telling a good story, surrounded by other kids who want to get a word in. You’re not looking to turn the tide on his reputation or anything but maybe… y’know. You could do the admirable journalistic thing and scratch the surface a bit. Show what you’ve learned. 

It’s a challenge. You love a challenge.

“And it’s a good excuse to get in Eddie’s face,” Ronnie’s voice breaks through. 

There is a lonnng beat, one you hold like the last shoes in your size at a sample sale. Your mouth keeps going to make the words yeah, right or it’s not about him! or y’know, something to exonerate you from the notion.

“I know he isn’t…” Ronnie trails off, coming to sit next to you. “that he’s kind of being weird to you right now.” 

Go ahead and feign that ignoramus, girl. Shoulders quirking and all. 

“Oh. Is he?”

And then Ronnie says maybe the dumbest thing on the planet, regarding the abominable sitch between you and Eddie Munson. 

“You should just talk to him.”

“Ecker, there’s fruitless efforts and then there’s barren wasteland,” you scoff, “Guess which category proposing this to Eddie falls into.”

“That’s not what I–”

J’excuse, Ronnie, but you don’t care! Because this isn’t actually about anything other than getting all of those dice-throwing dorks, including Miss Ecker herself, into your damn paper. Okay?

“We have to ambush him! Element of surprise, that’s it,” you smile primly and hop off the bleachers. “I’m just going to show up at Hellfire, photographer in hand and– he won’t have a choice, will he?”

Ronnie’s expression is a mask of reproachfulness. You don’t let it shake you. You’re a cat playing with a now-endless ball of yarn, and you’re unshakeable. 

“He’s such a sucker for attention,” you say, tossing your hair, and it sounds a lot more like you’re convincing yourself than anyone else in this echoey gym, “He won’t be able to resist.”

—

Reefer Rick doesn’t call, unless it’s an emergency. All of his communication is inbound, or passed through a shoulder check and a goofy smile at Melvald’s, or a nod of the head across the pool table at The Hideout. He doesn’t frequent there so much, because Bev knows he’s a pool shark and ever since ‘Nam, his ears are a little too sensitive to all that metal racket, man! By all means, rock on, but by then I gotta go rock-a-bye myself to sleep, alright? Anyway, that’s how Eddie knows to ride over to his place, if it’s not through a call he’s placed himself. 

You need me, kid, you come and find me. 

So when Eddie gets a call that says, “We gotta pow-wow, ese,” his nerves are set on edge. Not that he wasn’t feeling bad enough, what with the fact that some douchebag in a Cortina had picked you up and dropped you off to school the last couple of days. What with the fact he had actively dogged the car down a little bit of the road from the trailer park with his van, resisting every temptation to just run it all the way off into a ditch. And what with the fact he didn’t know what to say to you about that without it coming out in an anti-missive of jealousy! jealousy! jealousy! so what he did say to you was… nothing. 

You two can’t maintain a consistent line of communication to save your lives, he realizes. There’s too much left unsaid, and the both of you are too stubborn or too scared to say any of it. Or even think it, in his case! The amount of times he’d had to slap himself sober, his brain going into overdrive thinking, if I had just told her… It’s a ‘friendship’, if you can even call it that, based on barbs and bad behavior and doing things because you know you shouldn’t. For the thrill. Right?

Like. Whatever. It’s not like he’d made tapes of a half dozen Black Sabbath albums because you mentioned you wanted to ‘study up’ on that ‘monster music’ he’s making. It’s not like you’d given him an annotated copy of Still Life with Woodpecker because he wanted to throw some ‘nonsensical curveball shit’ into a later Hellfire campaign. 

It’s not like Eddie missed you– he just… should have seen this coming, is all. He’s used to getting left in the dust while people move onto better things, or whatever. 

God, Munson, your voice taunts him from somewhere in his hippocampus, need some help nailing yourself to that crucifix?

Anyway, fuck, Rick called him. 

Rick had gotten out of lockup about a month ago– some truncated charge or another that Eddie didn’t bother asking too much about, mostly because… well, Rick hadn’t really been himself. Larger and brighter than the sun itself, the great and powerful lion of a man that oozed life ain’t shit if you ain’t havin’ fun energy, Rick had kind of dimmed. Lost a lot of weight while he was inside. Came back a little bit twitchy and fluent in Spanglish, for some reason.

Eddie was worried, because of all the adult figures in his life, Rick was meant to be the one with levity. He’d lost out on a fun uncle when Wayne stepped into his father-figure role. Al was nothing but a dangerous bit player. Rick, he could rely on. 

Thinking back to that infamous day when he had gotten loaded at Lipton Landing, before he picked up you and Ronnie, before he… well, you know the rest but, Eddie had sensed that Rick could use the company. He kind of tried to poke it out of him, whatever was wrong. Didn’t work. They had just watched The Godfather in a tense-ish silence and doofed a lot of joints. Sorta freaked him out.

Eddie’s crushing gravel on the descent to the infamously slanted Lipton Landing for his summons. There’s a hum that seems to traverse the window panes, a fond plucking work that could only belong to Link Wray. He puts the van in park and jogs up the steps to the front door, bracing himself for the pungent plume of skunk smoke that always greets him.

“Eduardo,” Rick’s voice curls around the greeting like smoke curls out of his mouth and he yanks Eddie over the threshold. Door slams, arm tightens around his shoulders. “You’re here.”

Rick’s always a handsy sorta guy–not like that!–but this grab makes him seize a little. 

“You rang,” Eddie says, voice lilting, “Everything okay?”

Rick clutches him by the shoulders and looks at him for a long, long time. Uncomfortably long. How has he managed to puff on that joint for this long without choking long. 

“No.”

And Rick begins a shuffle toward the kitchen. Eddie follows in an awkward half-step, headache threatening to bloom someplace in the back of his skull because he does not know how much more of this vagueness he can take! 

“Does it have anything to do with why you called me down here? Because, shit, I would love to get a straight answer out of someone for once!” A mirthless chuckle follows, trying to soften his desperation. 

A flick of the refrigerator door and Rick places two beers on his kitchen counter, hands bracing against the surface. “Then let’s sit crooked and talk straight. It’s about your…”

Hss. Eddie takes a notoriously mis-timed sip.

“...neighbor girl.”

Ffflp– Eddie wishes, just one day of his goddamned life, he could act cool at the mention of you. Even the suggestion of the mention of you. But no, he’s got PBR streaming from his nose like a moron and a look on his face that says uh-oh, spaghettio!

“That’s what I was afraid of,” says Rick, taking a knowingly smooth drink from his beer. 

With the heel of his hand, Eddie wipes away his spluttering mess and fumbles around for a crumb of nonchalance. 

“I don’t know–”

“Eddie,” Rick levels. God, Eddie hates it when adults are adults, and Rick hates having to act the adult even more. 

His shoulders drop. “What about her?”

“Well, when I was in the pen–local, I’ll have you know–I got approached by a very interesting man with a proposition I was powerless to refuse.”

With some trepidation, Eddie mumbles, “Oh, yeah?”

“Someone– well, let’s say me and this someone have a friend in common…”

“Rick–” Eddie’s attempting the leveling thing, but he’s not as good at it as Rick is. Or as you are, for that matter. And you’re who he’s attempting to imitate here, even if he won’t admit it.

“--a certain mutual business partner, if you will–”

“Rick.” Eddie tries to punch through the tension with the big man’s name. “It was Lacy’s dad. Right? You can just say it was her dad.” 

Rick’s brow sinks into a wrinkle. “...Lacy? The fuck kind of a dumb name is that?”

“It’s a nickname.” Why does Eddie feel defensive.

“The fuck kind of a dumb nickname is that?”

“They call you Reefer Rick.”

“That is a calculated business decision, a calling card if you w–”

“Rick. Can we close in on the point, here?” Ooh! Seems to actually work this time, much to Eddie’s relief. “I only got so many if you wills left in me.”

“Si, pronto,” Rick nods with apologetic understanding; he’s such an empath, this guy, “Long and short of it is, her pops offered me a little bit of cash and some assistance, iffin’ I promised to keep an eye on her.”

“Assistance…?” Eddie murmured out of the side of his mouth. It’s all in the way Rick says it! “Like…” Hand a loose fist. Jerky-jerk. 

“Eddie,” Rick chides, “Assistance gettin’ out. In prison, that is just called bein’ sociable. –anyway, I have this conflict of interest, with the whole surveillance thing.”

“And what is that?”

“You.” The way Rick drops it is obviously meant to cause some kinda ripple effect of realization, but Eddie’s still confused. 

“So you… didn’t take the money?”

“Huh?” Now Rick’s all confused. “Of course I took the fuckin’ money! What kind of a chump do I look like, man? What I’m getting at is, I knew that rattin’ on her also meant rattin’ on you.”

“Wh– why would it…” 

“I got eyes everywhere, man. Dig? I’ve seen what’s been happening.” 

Eddie’s heart leaps into his larynx. Eyes everywhere. And the truth was, you two had been stupid enough to be a lot of everywhere, thinking your respective trailers were the only hot zones. The Bookstore, the Hawk, Main Street Vinyl, Family Video, the diner, you name a Hawkins establishment and it has probably seen Eddie Munson and Lacy Doevski good-naturedly bickering in its aisles. 

He wonders if Rick even had eyes in the Ecker trailer. Ronnie could be a Lipton informant. That girl can hold a secret about as well as Wayne Munson can hold his liquor, which is gracefully. 

“Nothing’s been happening, we’re just–”

“Eddie.” Like a bulldozer, this guy. “I know Ivana pretty well. You ain’t hangin’ around that bookstore for the good of your health.”

“So what, you’re gonna–,” Eddie can feel himself starting to scramble, starting to sweat, backed into a corner like a hunted animal, “...tell her dad that we went to the movies a couple of times? That I go to her job, that I– that we’re–”

“What are you?” The way Rick puts it to him– rock, meet hard place. Should this really feel like such a tough question to answer?

“Friends.”

Rick draws up to his full height (tall, mountain man) and looks at him like he just shoved a cream pie into his face.

“It doesn’t matter, okay!” Eddie froths over, like a snapping dog, “We’re barely hanging out– anymore– so you can… you’re not gonna tell him anything, are you?”

Rick’s hands slowly, slowly rise, urging him to calm the yapping. No need to get into such a tizzy. Which Eddie wishes he could believe.

“‘course not, man,” he shakes his head, “Ray Doevski only needs to know what Ray Doevski absolutely needs to know.” Eddie can feel a little more weight behind that sentence than he’d like. “No reason you need to figure into this story.”

“That– that’s it? You’re not gonna tell him about u– about me?” 

“You’re in enough of a shitheap as it is, is how I see it.” A beat. Rick takes him in; really takes him in. Feels like an embrace, his stare. Concern uncrinkles the ever-present smile in Rick’s eyes. 

“Eddie, you care about this girl?”

Eddie’s mouth attempts to form around an answer, but he’s just blinking into nothing. Does he care about you? Does he care about you? He wants, needs to say no, to pfft you off, but every molecule is screaming otherwise. And Rick can sense it, operating on the extraterrestrial level that he does. 

“Then I’m real sorry.” 

“For what?” 

As if on cue, car wheels on gravel shuck Rick’s attention away from him. His eyeballs jitter in his head, heading for the door– Eddie close behind him. “Sorry for what, Rick–?!”

“Little bit for that, little bit for… this.”

Standing in the window of Rick’s living room, these two watch an offensively red muscle car skew into the driveway, making a mockery of Eddie’s beat up van. The driver’s door pops open and the first thing Eddie clocks is a blinding glint off some brand new aviator sunglasses. 

The second is that trademark Munson smile. 

—

“This is exciting!” Nancy Wheeler says, kind of flatly but with a conviction buried deep under her curled bangs. 

On the table sits two piles of playing cards, one steadily growing and one steadily decreasing. 

You two had taken to playing gin rummy when staring at paper layouts became a little too much. Technically, she actually had a say in layout and you were just nosy, but it’s a decent excuse to hang out. Though, both you and Nancy had this incredible tendency to hyperfocus on detail so hard that neither of you could pull the other out far enough to look at the big picture, so one day she tossed a deck of cards your way and said, “Deal!”

“I know,” you say, trying to focus on these melds of suits you’re making– that discard pile is looking poor, “Fresh turn for me, y’know? Less fluffy, more Didion.”

Nancy snorts softly, swapping out a card from her hand. “Who does that make Eddie? Charlie? Or Linda Kasabian?” 

A smile dances across your lips and you shrug, reaching for a cigarette before you go for another card. Usually, smoking in the newsroom was prohibited, as it was prohibited on most of Hawkins High grounds, but whenever that deck came out, you felt it was appropriate for at least one of you to be smoking. Gave a kind of Torchy Blane feel to the whole scenario which fit you and Wheeler pret-ty keenly, if you did say so yourself.

“That’s not what I was talking about, though,” Nancy says, poking Fred Benson’s empty mug toward you to use as an ashtray. 

Your eyes narrow; this could be a play to distract you from a winning hand. 

“It’s not?”

“No…” she puffs out another soft scoff, meeting your eyes over her fan of cards, “I mean the college guy.”

“Why is it exciting?” and you do want to know why Nancy thinks so. She’s a mile wiser beyond her years, even precocious enough to keep in step with you most of the time. You’d like her take. 

“Well, it’s what you wanted, right?” she tells you, watching you puff your cigarette and dig into the stock pile. “Somebody older, decidedly not a grabby high school boy– but someone with more experience, both with girls and with being outside of Hawkins. And the fact he goes to Vassar means–”

“He probably eats kitty like a maniac.”

Nancy lets out this full-bodied Merlot of a laugh, only a little color dashing over her cheeks. She’s gotten used to you being provocative on purpose because it gets a laugh out of her. So far grown out of the prude shoes you were sure she was still sporting. You’re proud of her. 

“Not exactly what I was getting at but– more sensitive to the female perspective, sure.” But then she registers what you forgot you’d even dropped. “Hold on, probably? You mean you haven’t–...”

You shrug. It’s a little withdrawn on your part. 

“Oh,” Nancy says, and seems to be leaning a degree or two towards unsurprised. That ruffles your feathers a little bit. Again, with the frigid thing. You couldn’t shake it. 

���No,” you emphasize, shucking your pitiful melds back again. “It's not as if we haven't–done things. I've copped a handful. Time is of the essence, and I take, y'know, a little more time to get there.”

“So no return on investment...?”

"Not... yet."

Nancy almost tosses her cards at you, the way she jabs them through the air. “You? You, the one who’s been preaching Betty Friedman to me, you haven't been getting–”

“Yes, me! Did you not hear me about time and the essence?”

“I know, it’s just– a little surprising.”

There have been exactly three instances of almost you tying your panties to the rearview mirror of college boy’s Ford Cortina, so to speak, and you’ve come out of each one with this desperate echo of oh well! Maybe next time! careening around your skull. Like you’re trying to convince yourself that by virtue of him not being in your grade, this has been a worthwhile way to spend your time. And listen, no misunderstandings here, it has! At least, part of it. It usually starts like this– the two of you grab some shitty diner coffee or some shitty diner food and then he takes you around in his car for a turn or two, admiring that famous Hawkins scenery (see: shuttered businesses and if you’re really lucky, that one mangy fox that feasts on the overflowing trash can near the Big Buy). You talk (you mostly talk) books and movies and say something that should be a hook of conversation but usually ends up with him screwing his face up in amusement and saying something along the lines of, “God, you’re so beyond this place.”

Which, duh. You’ve been saying this. This is the raft upon which your whole identity floats. 

The exchange dies in the air and he puts his hand on your leg and that is just… wonderful. He’s a solid B on the kissing GPA, and he’s cute and sort of funny, even if he doesn’t rally back jokes the way you’d… sort of gotten used to. Sometimes he makes a halfway-interesting observation about like, Philip Roth or somebody. But when it comes down to the minute of it, it still feels like going through the motions. Fumble bra strap, catch nail on his zipper, crank back passenger seat to climb in the back. Hey presto, you’ve distractedly jerked off a boy once again. 

You are not entirely sold on the fit of his hands on your body, even if he doesn’t look at you like he’s just solved a Rubik’s cube.

In fact, he kind of looks at you like you’re precious. Virginal precious. Innocent precious. Which you’re not totally sold on either. 

Nothing about him that makes you fantasize about what his mouth might feel like on you. What your fingers might feel like wound around his curls. His hair doesn’t even curl. There’s just nothing about him that calls for your full attention.

“Think there might be a reason for that?” Nancy, your annoyingly perceptive Nancy, presses. Goddamn intrepid girl reporter. She hasn’t stopped staring at you with that smug little look. You haven’t answered the question. “And it might be… living across the way from you?”

“Tch. What?” you snip. “I’m… having fun. What?”

“Nothing,” she smiles. “Just… gin.” 

She lays out her dazzling melds, complete with a measly goddamned three in deadwood cards and you toss your own bullshit hand to the side. A dumb amount of spades that add up to nothing scatter across the desk. An accusatory finger jams in her direction. 

“You are a fucking card shark.”

“Nope!” Nancy says, popping her ‘p’, “I just know a really great set when I see one.”

Reaching into Fred’s mug, you crush your cigarette with a little too much force. Now, how would Nancy have a read on that? you think, oblivious to your own obviousness. (Like a neon sign. Like a circus tent.) 

You hadn’t even reminded her of the catastrophic events of her thirteenth birthday which led to a whole lot of this awkwardness, which, now that you thought about it, actually implicated her in the crime of you kissing Eddie Munson ‘til you were breathless in Granny Ecker’s closet. 

If you hadn’t been born and had a birthday, I wouldn’t be in a spiral over some boy with a curl pattern like a fucking backwoods libertine. 

“You’re not clever,” you tell her, but she’s looking at you all cleverly, “Like. You’re clever, but I need you to know that you’re not clever.”

With flicking fingernails, Nancy picks up your discarded cards and folds them neatly back in the deck. 

“I’m just saying,” and the tone she takes is a little gentler now, “don’t… let yourself miss out on something just because, I don’t know, the thing you’re currently having fun with is what you think you want. What you feel you want and what you think you want are two very different–”

“This isn’t entirely about me, is it?” you realize, defenses peeling down a little bit. The Nancy and Steve of it all had been looming since your (admittedly triumphant!) visit to the war memorial that was the boy’s bathroom. Still no sign of that place getting fixed, by the by. And ever still, Nancy hadn’t told Steve about their little mission. Many a reason for that, you were led to believe. Not a lot she wanted to dissect, though.

Nancy’s face scrunches up and she stops packing the cards. 

“No. But let’s pretend like it is.” 

A groan escapes you as you sink back into your chair, a twinge of pain running along your shoulders.  

“Nance. This is all so much more complicated than you realize.”

“Try me.”

You toss a hand through your hair, slapping your palm down on the desk. 

“Fine. But if I tell you this–”

A hand rises out between the two of you– yours, pinkie extended. 

“Not a word,” you press. 

Nancy clamps her finger around yours in a way that enforces how super-serious she is about this. The reason your usual reserve doesn’t hold up under that x-ray stare of hers is because you can tell she actually gives a shit. She’s not looking for gossip. She cares. Which is still an entirely alien feeling to you. 

So the whole thing spills out. Steve’s party, the record store, getting locked up in Eddie’s trailer and getting locked up in feelings, Roane County Quarry’s incredible acoustics, the friendship that made you fold all the neatly arranged origami parts of yourself out toward him only to realize you had no idea how to fold them back. The kiss. The subsequent awkwardness of said kiss. The college guy. The relative radio silence. The fact that…

“...I don’t feel like myself when he’s not around,” you say, lighting a fourth cigarette off your third. “Isn’t that silly? I spent all this time painting this like, fabulous eggshell of myself then this wild-eyed, smart-mouthed, catastrophic ass smashes it clean open and now–”

“All the college boys couldn’t put you together again,” Nancy nods. “You’re a very beautiful Humpty Dumpty.” 

“... does Humpty Dumpty die in the end?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be teaching it to kids.”

“No. They should know. The fall comes for us all.”

There’s a suspended silence. You get this feeling like you’ve emptied your purse on the table and you still can’t find that thing you’re looking for, despite sifting through everything. 

“How does that even happen?” you question, biting at the skin on your little finger. Not Humpty Dumpty, the Eddie thing. It comes out idle, but you pray that Nancy, with her feelings scalpel and surgical precision, doesn't decide to answer it. 

Instead, she says, “You need a photographer for that piece.”

Thatta girl. Your dimmer switch turns up. “Fred hasn’t even okayed it yet.”

“I’ll deal with William Randolph Hearst, okay?” Nancy says derisively and tosses her eyes to heaven. She pushes her chair back. “Ask Jonathan Byers.”

“He hasn’t taken photos for us in a while,” you remark, eyes searching Nancy. She’s readying herself to leave, so totally dodging this line of questioning before you can even cast it. Clever. 

“No, he has not,” she sighs, winding her scarf around her neck, “But he’d be good for this. He knows how to capture action. And his kid brother plays DnD with mine, so this’d be, like… nice for them.” 

And this is just as much me making amends with Jonathan Byers as it is you, backwards as it may seem, you nearly hear her say. Or you’re making that up. 

Shame Nancy is so dead set on becoming the next Nellie Bly. Under the right circumstances, she’d make a hell of a normal person. 

Good thing you prefer freaks.

—

Jonathan Byers is a notoriously hard boy to get a hold of, it turns out. Nancy passed along his number (which, you actually already had but you didn’t bring that little detail up) and when you finally punched it in on the yellowing phone nailed to the wall of your trailer, it rang and rang and rang. 

Which, after the fourth time, was just rude. Do the Byers have a thing about not answering the phone, or something?

“Jonathan!” you holler across the parking lot, emerging from the passenger side of Nancy’s car this time. 

College guy was decidedly busy and despite the hanging tension, you’d toyed with the idea of asking Eddie for a ride. Alas, the boy in the Dio patched battle vest was nowhere to be seen. His van hadn’t been there since the weekend and he had been MIA from school the last couple of days, actually, which was itching at you. 

It also made you miss when you had a goddamn set of wheels at your disposal. 

Anyway, Jonathan looks at you with flaring eyes, kind of like you’ve just stuck a shotgun to his snout and there’s no hope of him making a getaway. “Um…”

Now, keep in mind that these are the first words you’ve spoken to him in a measurable high school forever, so his surprise is entirely justified. It’s just not within the beam of your patience right now. 

“Hi. Can we chat?” you say, falling in step with him as you head towards the front door. You don’t bother asking for permission, and forgiveness won’t be necessary. “I was hoping you could help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

Blink, blink. Jonathan’s grasping for words– seems to be a lot of that going around lately. 

You strike your hand through the air. “Let me put it to you like this– you are going to help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

“Why?” he asks, and it’s prickly. 

“Becauuuse,” you draw out, “I need a photographer. And god knows whenever Nicole attempted to work a lens, those snapshots were so out-of-focus they looked like an optical illusion.” 

“And, you’re not talking to Nicole right now,” Jonathan nails you, but not totally. In your mind,  you revisit flashes of Nicole recounting, in gloriously erroneous detail, those photos Jonathan had taken of Nancy. You had pretended to be scandalized and rolled your eyes, thinking what’s a little peep show among losers. 

“Even if I was,” you say, dogging Jonathan all the way to his locker, “I still wouldn’t ask her. This is important to me.” 

That avoidant Byers reserve stands strong, with Jonathan grabbing books in hurried succession. He is trying to get away from you, but that’s not happening without an emphatic yes! 

“I don’t even really–” 

“Take pictures anymore?” you pfft, pointing to his messenger bag, “Twenty bucks says your camera is in there and the film’s half shot.” 

“I don’t have twenty bucks.” 

“Me neither,” you shrug, “Spent it on that new Echo & the Bunnymen.”

Jonathan hesitates a bit, fingers strumming against his biology textbook. A thread of something long forgotten by the listening booths of Main Street Vinyl tugs between you both, but it’s not weighed down by the prospect of will we kiss about it. He kind of smiles. 

“What did you think? I haven’t gotten down to hear it yet.”

You thought it made you want a flowing dress and a place to prance. Like if the more whimsical end of Fleetwood Mac didn’t exhaust you. Those last four tracks snapped your heartstrings like suspenders, with comical aplomb. 

“Grandiose! That ‘Killing Moon’ song? It’s got Jonathan Byers written all over it,” you chirp, and mean it. “I’ll make you a copy if you put that camera to work for me.”

He shrugs, but you can see you’re wearing him down. “I’m not much for shooting pep rallies.”

“Liar. Wheeler says you’re top banana in the action shots department,” you counter, “But how about players? I think I want some portraits, too. Non-corny ones.”

“What team?” Jonathan screws up his nose. The distaste for jockery runs deep, and rightfully so. 

But you shake your head, face curving into an expression of near excitement. 

“No team. Better, and worse, depending on what side of the cafeteria you’re sitting,” your hands splay out, and for god’s sake, you feel like Munson himself, “Hellfire Club.”

Jonathan looks like his record’s skipped. Eyeballs sort of jiggle in his skull and he mouths, oh, like the association of you between Hellfire should mean something. Suspiciously like Nancy, and just suspicious period. Your eyebrows start to inch towards one another. 

“What’s that look? Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Um,” he dillies, then dallies, “Sure. Yeah. You know, my kid brother loves DnD.”

Ah, yes. The other Byers boy, the one who’d gone missing all that time ago. You remembered. Actually, you remembered not being able to figure out how you should feel about it– how you should act, other than falling in line with the majority of people who were giving Jonathan shit at the time. You regret that now, with a chill that runs right down to your toes. 

“Could be cool for him to see, no?” you try, corner of your mouth lifting, “A little niche in the midst the high school horrors. To look forward to, y’know.”

The look on Jonathan’s face is more than a little bit screaming, that’s rich, coming from you, you were the high school horror. But he shakes it off, because he’s nicer than you are, even though he doesn’t need to be. 

“Yeah… whatever you say, Lacy. When do you need me?”

You tell him Friday and he agrees, much to your satisfaction. You’re just about to punch him on the shoulder like teamwork, buddy! before he saves you such a wildly out-of-character display by dodging toward his homeroom. 

You sail toward your locker like the bastard that’s risen alongside the cream, only to be greeted by something… strange. Scratches, all around the maudlin gray paintwork of your combination lock. Like it’d been tampered with, or something. A blaze of paranoia burns at the base of your skull, and you instinctively try to recount where your journal is… in your bag. Phew. Fine. This could be… anything. 

Fingers reach forward to twist your lock, and with the slightest touch, the door is forced open by a push from the other side. A flash of bright red, then SPLAT. Yellow, SPLAT, blue, SPLAT, SPLAT, SPLAT! You shriek a real ear-piercing shriek as at least a dozen water balloons spill out of your locker, hitting the floor with an obscene smack. Water dashes everywhere, and you’re barely able to move out of the splash zone in time. 

“What the fuck!’

Within seconds, there’s a hubbub and a crowd’s gathering, trading sickening snickers with one another as you peer into the dark of your locker. You gingerly step through the puddle, suede boots irreparably spattered, and yank the door the whole way open. There, sat atop your schoolbooks and a stray water balloon that hadn’t made the fall, is a horribly familiar set of test tubes.

In one of them sits a squirt of blue liquid and that offensive strip of plastic. And scrawled across it in clumsy black marker? 

IT’S A FREAK!

Realization hits you like Carol did, making your head swim among all the murmurs of oh my god… and gross! and told you–trailer trash and unconcealed cackles. A voice sparks up like a sizzling ember in a swathe of darkness. 

“Where’s your baby daddy at, Lacy? Get tossed in the slammer with your old man?” 

The languid tones of none other than Billy All-Balls-No-Brains Hargrove drift by you, sailing right past the back of your head as you stare a hole through the innards of your locker. Then, your stupid hippocampus gears up– Robin, mentioning ‘your whole thing’ while Genovese baby-barfed her guts up, Ronnie urging her to shut the fuck up, even Jonathan Byers was privy to this hot little piece of gossip. 

This theory that you were up the spout with Munson Junior Junior. 

How many people had seen you, stupid little you, coming out of that drugstore hiking that Advance box over your head like the championship cup? Seen you hopping into Eddie’s van– and out of it, and back in again on what now seemed like countless occasions? 

Nobody could have suspected it was Nancy’s test, because nobody saw her. They saw you. That was the whole idea. You just didn’t consider the blowback.

“What’s going on out here?” the softly-coated concern of Ms Kelley rings out in the hallway, doing absolutely nothing to disperse the peanut gallery that’s set up around your locker. 

“Lacy?” her voice points to you. Even the goddamn guidance counselor uses your beloved nickname.  

You don’t react. You don’t even know what you’re doing until you come to a couple of paces down the hallway, feeling the thin, straining rubber in the palm of your hand. Your footsteps make heavy, wet, slapping noises against the linoleum as you follow the half-slouched shouldered swagger of Billy Hargrove down the hall. 

Down, and down, and down towards the boy’s locker room and he doesn’t even register it, and you don’t even register that Ms Kelley is still calling your name–your full name, now–until she’s two dozen paces behind you, losing you in the throng of students making their way to class and you shove past half-dressed seniors in the locker room who guffaw at you in a way that feels like a knife in your gut and you yell, voice shaking–

“Hey Billy!” 

And launch the water balloon, making square contact with his smug face. 

“Cute fucking prank!”

His reaction, predictably, is way too slowww moooootion for your fucking liking, so you don’t even give him a shot to fully wipe his face off and mumble, “What the fuuuuck is yourrrr probbbblemmm, ssssllluuuutttt…” 

You just go for him with the ferocity of a jumping jackal. Hands ball in his stupid sleeveless flannel (it’s winter in Indiana, you West Coast jackass!) and you shove him against the lockers with– well, with the strength only an ex-cheerleader brimming with suffocated rage would have.

Metal clatters and one empty unit even careens over like a big tin domino and you say, “Come up with that idea all by yourself, you fucking nimrod?”

Billy just smirks at you in half-speed, mullet sopping, as if this is a come-on. “I had a little help.” 

It occurs to you that right here, right now, you could sell Nancy Wheeler down the river. You could be the you you once were, and you could say, well, primo observation skills, that pregnancy test wasn’t even for me! 

But you don’t, because a pinky promise is a fucking pinky promise.

You let go of Billy’s shirt. Step off. “You’re pathetic,” you spit, but it feels more pathetic coming from you. All that molten blood in your veins makes you want to eviscerate him and whoever else was involved in orchestrating this stupid, stupid, stupid prank. But you come up lacking. Fuck!

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes and you start to rush out of the locker room– but you’ve given Billy a reason now, and he’s gonna follow you. 

“Shit, are you crying? Those hormones must have you really messed up, huh?” he faux-croons, the thunk-thunk of his poseur motorcycle boots following you to the back entrance, by the sports equipment. Your eyes are streaming freely now, lashes frantically blinking a path to vision. 

But Billy isn’t letting up. And like the Pied Piper of slimeballs, he’s drawing followers– not least of which include Tommy Hagan. 

“What about that college dropout you’re banging, Lacy?” his nasally tone slices through Billy’s tarry taunting. “He know you’re knocked up yet?”

“Jesus Christ, Doevski! I’m impressed,” Billy laughs, “Just how many loads are you taking?”

An abandoned baseball bat lies on the ground, having rolled out of the sports closet; instinct behind the wheel of your personal van, you stoop to pick it up and shove through the doors. You can nearly feel the breath of Hargrove and Hagan and all of these horrific, horrific boys with nothing better to do than to torture you hot on the back of your neck. 

“Not yours, that’s for fucking sure,” you manage, your voice thick. The bat, at least, feels solid in your hand. 

“It’s fun not being frigid, ain’t it, Lacy?” Billy goes on, and you squint against the sunlight as you round the building. “Tell me this, Munson teach you how to suck cock yet? ‘cause if not, I got a little time on my hands.”

Forging ahead, you cross the tarmac of the parking lot. The soft frost hasn’t even totally thawed out yet, sparkling atop the paintwork of Billy’s blue Camaro.   

“That a fact, Billy?” you say, tears drying in quick streaks in that brisk morning air, leaving rivets in your made-up face.

You use your momentum to launch one foot onto the hood of Billy’s car, then the other. You nearly slip against the icy exterior, but steady yourself fast. Bat dangling at your side. Stomp. Stomp. You stand on the roof, and turn to face this congregation of assholes. You do not let sense set in, despite it threatening to inch through the white hot flame of your rage.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Billy outright cackles and Hagan and company guffaw along with him. 

“Billy,” you sigh, a little breathless from the speed at which you’d booked it from the locker room to the parking lot, and the sheer vigor of your shock, awe and rancor, and everything else, “What the hell am I supposed to do with your limp dick in my mouth? Chew on the fuckin’ thing?”

Billy repeats himself, a touch darker now. “What the fuck are you doing.”

“I’m serious!” you say, a little shrill, a little stomp to punctuate that last word, “One thing you can say for Eddie Munson, is at least the motherfucker can get hard!” 

Motorcycle boots advance towards you, and you point the bat at him like a broadsword. 

“Do not. Come any closer. Or I’m gonna start doing some serious damage to this ugly piece of overcompensation.”

“She’s bluffing,” Hagan crows, and you turn your flaming glare on him. You wish you had a mirror– you wonder if crazy becomes you. Billy takes a pointed step forward and you raise the bat above your, head bracing for action– that’s enough movement for him. 

“Gimme that bat, you stupid fucking cunt–!” But Billy’s cut short by a body barrelling into the side of him, knocking him askew. A jangle of denim and leather. The bat slips a little in your grasp. 

“Get the fuck off of me Munson–” 

“No way to talk to a lady, Billy!” Eddie gasps, tossing Billy back and letting his limbs hang. “You kiss Karen Wheeler with that mouth?”

Billy rounds on him like a triggered animal, spittle flying.

“Some fucking lady!” he snarls, “Got downgraded to that trailer park and now her snooty ass is spreading it for half of Hawkins! Desperate! Stringin’ you along like the dumb piece of shortbus shit you a–”

Activated, you throw that bat to the fucking wayside and scramble off the fucking car– nobody talks to him like that! 

But you’re not fast enough, nobody’s fast enough, nobody can compete with how huge and booming and definite Eddie’s voice sounds when he says, smile glimmering, sun breaking through the bleak midwinter… 

“You know what I like about you, Hargrove?”  

THKUNCK. Bone to bone, fist meet fucking flesh–

“Nothin’.”

A scuffle goes up, and Eddie can’t even feel the hits of Hargrove’s hands connecting with his face, chest, ribs, wherever– all he can feel are your arms locking in vice around his waist, putting yourself in the eye of the storm in order to yank him back.

—

You got an elbow to the crown of the head, which isn’t too bad, even if you feel like a cartoonish lump should be rising there. But look at these other guys. 

Billy with a black eye that’s bulging up rapidly, Eddie with a split lip and more than a couple of scratches on his knuckles. In that fray, he hadn’t exactly considered the implications of punching a guy with all his goddamned rings on. The implications being that shit hurt like hell. There is this radiating pain in his hand, not letting him unfurl his fingers completely. 

There’s also this radiating feeling of dread cloaking his entire upper half as you sit three-to-the-wall outside Higgins’ office. You had, in Eddie’s estimation, incredibly bad timing. 

See, considering the events of his past week, he was slowly making peace with the fact that he should probably be avoiding you entirely, even if that meant he died a little inside. He should have been doing that from the jump– but you, unbuttoned and reckless now apparently, kept requiring interventions so you didn’t get killed, or worse. 

And Eddie couldn’t help himself when it came to you. Especially not when you were standing on top of Billy Hargrove’s sick Camaro, swinging a baseball bat and getting called some shit that no one should ever be calling you. 

You’re out of control. Totally unsheathed. End of your rope. Unlaced. 

And he’d do just about anything to keep you safe. 

Even fuck up his guitar-playing hand. Which is also his…

“I can’t believe you fucking suckerpunched me,” Hargrove mumbles from your left. “With those ugly fucking rings on.”

Eddie can’t help himself, the last shred of propriety knocked out round about the time a knee to the ribs had winded him. “Aw. Billy. Don’t be so hard on yourself–”

“Eddie…,” you start, tone warning in a way that makes him want to pinch you, kind of. He leans towards Hargrove, meaning he’s leaning over you. Hair brushing across your shoulder. You notice that it smells distinctively skunkier than usual. Camping out at Lipton Landing?

“--honestly! You’re no sucker!” he implores, eyes shining in jest, “You totally had that coming!”

You hear Billy seething from his end, Eddie snickering from his and launch a well-timed arm in front of both of them before they can snap at it again. 

“Cut it out, assholes! This is becoming increasingly more pigheaded.”

“And you’re the voice of perfect reason now, huh?” Eddie sneers, not giving you much breathing room. “Where’s the bat at, Babe Ruth?”

“In the parking lot, waiting to finish you off,” you grit back, nearly nose-to-nose with him, because you don’t know how to digest the guilt of his aching fingers. 

“What are you mad at me for?” Eddie hisses, a smirk threatening to break his scowl, because he doesn’t know how not to provoke you.

“Knocking her up, probably,” Billy mumbles from the side. 

“Shut up, Hargrove!” you both snap, eyes never leaving one another. 

Higgins’ door creaks open and a quietly livid Ms Kelley says, “Lacy.” She jerks her head, motioning for you to up and at ‘em. You do, but not without one last look at Eddie, cradling his hand. Round, bottomless irises meet yours for a moment, then dart away with an impact that thickens your throat. 

His poor hand, you find yourself thinking.

“He needs an ice pack…” you find yourself mumbling, Kelley shuffling you into Higgins’ office. The principal sits behind his beat-up desk, fingers steepled. You absently wonder if he’s been campaigning for a new, shinier, possibly more oaken desk because this doesn’t paint the picture of threatening figurehead that he so clearly wants you to tremble under. 

You accidentally kick the thing, crossing your legs as you sit. “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Higgins declares. Here we fucking go. 

“Permission to state my case?” you attempt. This hadn’t been your first time in the principal’s office; minor classroom infractions, a saccharine we’ll do everything to help that we can after your dad’s arraignment, but this time was certainly the worst. 

“Denied,” he shoots you down.

“Permission to submit a plea of temporary insanity, then,” you try, patting at the sore spot on the crown of your head. “You know this doesn’t bode with my track record. You think I climbed on top of Billy Hargrove’s car completely compos mentis? Please.”

A tense silence from Higgins’ and Kelley’s end.

“You saw what Hargrove did, didn’t you? That disgusting prank?” 

Again, nada.

“I’m a honor student, for Chrissake!” you exclaim, and Kelley plucks herself from the windowsill behind Higgins’ desk. 

“Were an honor student, Ms Doevski,” she corrects. “Your grades have been slipping since– the events of the last couple of months. You’ve dropped cheerleading, you’ve made really puzzling false claims about peer tutoring, you…”

“Yes! Yes, the events of the last couple of months, if by which you mean familial imprisonment, then yes, I’ve been a little distracted!” 

Higgins kicks back in his seat just as you hitch forward in yours, too angry to be pleading but too desperate to defy. His turn to mutter here we fucking go.

“I can turn this around,” redirected to Ms Kelley and her ever-sympathetic expression, “I can turn this around.”

“College applications deadlines are within touching distance, Lacy.” She of little faith. 

“I know that!” As if your hands aren’t itching every time college guy mentions Ithaca or… wherever the fuck it is he goes. As if that isn’t a crack in the assuredness that you were going to take flight out of this town in a spectacular fashion.

“Ladies– can we dispense with the hysteria and deal with the here and now?” Higgins insists and you and Kelley, despite your opposition, share a look.

World class, this guy. Top of his field, asshole-wise. 

“Two week suspension should do it,” he says, jotting something down. 

You open your mouth in protest and Kelley quells you– you’re in no position to start bargaining down. 

“Technically, she didn’t do anything,” and for good measure, but pressed, “Sir.”

“She climbed on top of that boy’s car with a baseball bat!” Higgins barks; now who’s hysteric?! “She had intent to do harm!”

“It was justified.” You can’t help yourself. 

Kelley stares him down, and that woman’s charm is something that should be studied in a fucking lab, because he relents right away. 

“Two weeks of Saturday detention, then. Christ. Am I going soft?”

You shake your head, all the knots in your body releasing just a little bit. You try to dig out what’s left of your once-famously refined charm, while simultaneously dashing towards the door before he can change his mind. 

“Au contraire. You’re a paragon of masculinity, sir. Regan could take a hint. Door open or closed?”

Higgins grimaces. “Send in Hargrove. Tell Munson he’s suspended. I don’t have time for both of those pricks today.” 

Eddie’s voice travels through the crack in the door. “I heard that, sir.” A beat. “I miss you, sir.”

You bite back a deeply reluctant laugh and jerk your head toward Billy. You’re up, champ.

Then, it’s the two of you. You and Eddie, Eddie and you. Alone, save for the ever watchful jam jar eyes of Janice the secretary. Eddie is still nestling one hand in the other like it’s a baby bird with a broken wing. Shit, you really hope it isn’t broken.   

“You’re suspended. They told me to tell you.” It’s a statement made to turkey-stuff the silence more than anything. 

The way Eddie lolls his head back makes you want to reach out and push it in the opposite direction. You don’t know why. 

“You’re a regular town crier, ain’t ya.” 

“Hear ye, hear ye.” 

A leaden pause. Your hearts might have thumped both in time just now.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks.

“No leaving school grounds,” Janice unhelpfully squawks. 

Eddie gets up, drawing himself to his full height. Your eyelids flutter. There’s a little purple around that cut on his lip, which you bet is starting to throb something awful. You feel dwarfed beside him, and he uses his good hand to turn you by the shoulder and shuffle you past the nosy secretary’s post. 

“I meant the sick bay, Janice,” Eddie pelts, giving each vowel sound a hard flick. “I’m wounded. And she’s apparently pregnant. Or didn’t you hear?”

—

The nurse’s office is tiny and cramped, smelling of bleach with a glaring fluorescent overhead. Eddie has a hard time figuring out why anyone would come here to feel better. Especially given that Nurse Lydia is barely ever present. 

Eddie carpes the opportunity to slam himself down on her rolling saddle chair, gliding into your path as you try and snoop around for first aid materials.  

“I don’t think you should be driving that thing,” you remark, “You could be concussed. You’re acting concussed.” 

“It’s keeping me awake!” 

Eddie watches you, digging through drawers and pulling out tongue depressors, your teeth making an indent into your bottom lip. Your eyes are doing that darty thing, quietly frantic in place of an apology. You don’t know how to say sorry you got wailed on by Hargrove for me. Instead, you’re acting like he’s bleeding out. 

“Lace, just wait for the professional.” 

The clip of your nickname makes you toss your stare over your shoulder, hardness framing your eyes like mascaraed lashes. Eddie stops rolling around at once.

“I am the goddamn professional, as far as you’re concerned.” Your little chin jerks towards the exam table that’s beat into the corner of the room. “Get on the bed.”

Whack-a-mole. Woodpecker. Other euphemisms for his cock developing a pulse. Eddie has to physically restrain his jaw from dropping. 

“Yes, Nurse Ratched.”

Scoffing out a little fuck you!, you go about scrambling together supplies and Eddie obediently launches himself onto the bed, the ancient thing creaking beneath him. When you finally approach him, you seem to be holding a lot of alcohol pads. 

The look before you admit to a shortcoming is one he wants framed. You always flick your eyes around like a guilty cartoon character, like Betty Boop on her way to gaining a doctorate in the pretentiousness of the English language, and pout. Lean your neck in, like you’re swearing him to secrecy. 

“I actually don’t know anything about first aid. Beyond the rudimentaries.”

Eddie chuckles. “You were a cheerleader. You were getting thrown in the air a whole bunch, if I recall. Feels like you should know how to like, resuscitate.”

“Rudimentaries, I said!” and you grab his injured hand a little roughly, alcohol pad torn out and ready, “Like, I obviously know alcohol disinfects a wound, ice for a bruise… I don’t know how to, like, reset a bone. Besides…” 

You inch closer to him now, wiping at his torn and tender knuckles a little too carefully. They’re just stupid cuts, Eddie thinks, his breath beginning to shallow. 

“...that Cat People remake was premiering at the Hawk the day we had first aid training. Like I was going to miss that.” 

He can feel heat radiating off your body, a core change for cold little you. Feel the fabric of your skirt brush the rip in his jeans. A little choked, he mumbles, “Cat People is a remake?”

“Based on the 1942 original,” you nod, flicking the tiny used pad in the nearby trash can. “I like it. But I like that David Bowie song more.”

“That song sucks.”

“You’re injured and wrong. What a shame.” Your fingers close around Eddie’s wrist and slowly, slowly press his forearm to his chest. “Keep that elevated.”

“It’s not broken,” and he’s staring at the quiet tremble in your bottom lip.

“Could be sprained,” head cast down again, tearing open another pad, and he can smell your hair, “Does it hurt?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away, because he’s waiting for you to look back up. Because he thinks he’s going to carpe something else. 

You fall for it, and your eyes sucker him in. He feels weak in the joints. You repeat yourself. “Does it hurt, Eddie?”

He just nods, boyishly. Nearly passes out when your fingertips tilt his face towards the light. Skin buzzing underneath them, you peering at his mouth like you know what you’re doing. The slit in his lip feels raw and strained. 

“This’ll hurt, too,” you murmur, and he feels your breath against his jaw. A sharp prick from the alcohol against his cut doesn’t make him wince– worse. As you swipe the cotton against his bottom lip, he whimpers. Unh.

Oxygen stops short in your throat, hearing that. That noise. It sends a wave of motion through your lower body. You’re leaning awfully close to him, closer than you need to be. In fact, his knees are settled either side of your hips. How did that happen. When did that happen. How did you allow this. 

How are you allowing your fingertip to trace against his lip, alcohol evaporating without a hope or a prayer. How are you allowing yourself to look at him through the fan of your lashes, his injured hand still obediently propped against his chest. His good hand pressing into your lower back.

You taste the vagueness of the disinfectant on his lips as he presses them into yours. 

Jerking back, you’re not far enough away from him to create a distance that matters. All you see are Eddie’s eyes, flickering open, apologetic in themselves. About to tell you he’s sorry.

No.

Hands fly, one woven in the curls at the base of his skull as you kiss up into him, tongue an impolite peak. This is not the closet; this is arguably far more dangerous, with the nurse’s door still open a courteous gap. This is the harsh light of day. This is Eddie’s hand moving your skirt further up the curve of your ass. 

He’s grabbing onto you as best a one-armed man can, and your hand travels in turn. A jagged, fevered path drawing up his thigh until, under your palm, is the hard outline of him. The pressure of your hand over the denim-bound curvature of his cock makes him groan sharply, the sound pressed against your cheek. 

Face angles back for a look at him. Because this is bad, mindless, reckless, stupid. And he’s always worth a look.

You spot a tiny speck of blood on the pink of his lip from where his cut had split. 

And your curious tongue flicks at it. 

Eddie’s eyes flare. You, unable to unglue your stare from his, suck his lightly bleeding lip between yours. Fragile. Crushable. 

He did this for you. 

No one’s ever cared, or known you enough, to do something like that for you.

Desire moves you like a shockwave and your hand leaves his crotch to help you clamber onto the exam table, clamber into Eddie’s lap. 

Downright idiotic. 

You cast a glance to the door, Eddie’s fraught breath puffing against your neck. 

Thought you were a smart girl.

You look right into his face, the poster boy for sheer distraction, pre-occupation, skin-searing annoyance, nervous charm, surprising wit, magnetism, oh my… and feel his fingers edging far past the hem of your skirt, past the binding top of the thigh-highs you’re wearing because it’s fucking laundry day and stopping at the gusset of your panties. 

He can feel how wet you are.

Lips a breath away from each other, one set bleeding, one set housing a gasp. Eddie nudges his forehead against yours, the both of you blind to consequence.

“Just friends, right?” His breath is jagged and unconvinced, and your hips kick toward his hand. 

You do not answer.

Unbruised fingers push the fabric covering your radiating heat aside and you have to tighten your grip around the back of his neck so as not to tumble over. Eddie is not deft, because this isn’t the moment to be deft. He plunges two fingers into the plush of your pussy and looks to you with pleading eyes. Eyes that say, is this good, eyes that say, don’t make a sound.

You nod in the affirmative to both and he drags his digits out slowly. Rhythm picks up and you’re clenching around Eddie’s hand in a matter of minutes, lower muscles seizing and het-up moans being gratefully swallowed by him. Pad of his thumb moves to create rough, clumsy friction against your clit that elicits a sharp, high, wanton ah! from you, grinding against him in an unquenchable search for more.

“Does he do this? Does anyone do this for you, Lacy?”

Eddie’s eyes keep searching you for approval and you’ve lost the ability to appease or deny him– all you know is the blind, nonsensical want that’s pouring out of you is being lapped up. Lapped up. His tongue, you want his tongue everywhere, but it’s working at your earlobe, your neck, sucking, whispering, “Just friends? Lacy?”

And when you cum, it’s fast and hard and suffocating, an achievement you’re close to angry at him for– because no one has ever been able to break you apart that fast. 

Or at all.

He can never know. He’d be so insufferable about it… some bare fragment of a thought passes through your brain, synapses busy firing elsewhere.

You’re rocking against him through the crest, pressing your forehead to his with such a force that you’re frightened it’ll splinter, you’re murmuring, “Eddie… Eddie, d–hmn, fuck…”

And you can tell by the way he’s attempting to press his body against you that he wishes he hadn’t bust that stupid fucking hand of his, so he could hold you properly– and you’re right. You’re right, you’re always fucking right, but you told him to keep it elevated and he’s going to do what you say.

He’s got no choice when it comes to you. 

He needs you safe. Needs you happy. No matter what.

Which is why he’s got to pull this bullshit move. 

Eddie is patient and watches you regain a little consciousness, faster than he’s sure you’d like. He extracts his hand and, sticky with you still, wipes it on the thigh of his jeans. Heart thundering in his ears, he tugs you into one more breathless kiss and wonders if you can still taste the rust sharpness of his cut in between your lips. He’s strangled himself against cumming up till this point, and this doesn’t help matters. An imperceptible spot of pre-fun lies in his lap but the thing is, the really fucked thing is–

Eddie gently shoves you away, mind silently babbling for the right thing to say. I’m sorry is something you’d see right through, get off is too harsh, oopsie is too fucking whimsical–

But you, ever-perceptive you, you realize your place. Knock yourself back into reality so fiercely that he’s afraid it’ll bruise you, lovely, awe-inspiring you that just softened into his hands like that. You clumsily clamber off the exam table in a hot flash of rejection, which– no, god, no, he doesn’t mean that…

“I–”

“No, I know,” you grit, prickly all over. Thumbing at the edge of your blurred lipstick. “I know. I certainly know.”

Eddie dares to look at you and you dare to look back at him. His lips looking worse off from you, but at the very least kissed. At the very least kissed, but you could cry with the empty feeling inside you. A cavern of a girl. You nod curtly, like this is the conclusion of a particularly charged run-in of acquaintances, not like you wanted him to swallow you whole moments ago. 

Slipping out of the nurse’s office, you run right into the myth that is Nurse Lydia. 

She looks tan. 

“He’s,” you struggle, “He’s waiting for you.”

—

Cheating out sick from school and taking a shift at The Bookstore following the latest in a series of apparently neverending aftershocks was probably not the smartest call– but hell, you’re fresh out of smart calls.

Ivana smells a rat, and she doesn’t take to rats lightly, so she gives you your space. 

The morning ticks on at a pace that feels supernatural; like you’re witnessing outside of your body, like you can’t orient yourself in the right direction. You attempt to arrange and rearrange poets from alcoholic to puritan. You sell someone a copy of The Fountainhead without giving them their free blistering evisceration of Ayn Rand. 

You’re at a loss. A shameful, dangling loss that almost makes you feel pious. Like you should go to confession. 

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned… I let my one-time best friend, current-cloudy object of my affection get beat up for me then bring me to climax in the nurses’ office. 

You retread the same sentence in your over-thumbed copy of Save Me the Waltz like a table corner you keep stubbing your toe on. 

We couldn’t go on indefinitely being swept off our feet.

You said it, Alabama. Something’s got to land.

And, because someone down there wants you dead, land it does. 

The bell of the store’s door clashes upon opening, and all of the energy draws toward one magnetic point. A shock of silver hair, standing on end catches the lamplight, glowing almost eerily. 

You feel a zzzzip of static. The air feels charged.

He doesn’t face you right away. Kind of slinks into the place, edging along the shelves. 

“Say, Lacy. Ballpark me somethin’,” his Southern drawl is barely contained within the Midwestern flatlands of his accent, bursting through the baseline like a corpse that hasn’t been buried deep enough. “How long… do you think…” His fingers tap along the worn spines of the display, creeping closer to the counter, “...it would take… to read all these books?”

The lilt of his voice is so familiar that you recognize it instantly. Even the way your name falls out of his mouth. Like a funhouse mirror, a distortion of a voice you’d come to…

Well. Let’s not get into that. Let’s get into this.

A roguish smile with a couple decades of road wear on it and a tacky Hawkins High class ring on his finger. You could’ve sworn Eddie told you he dropped out. 

“How many years in the big house with nothin’ better to do?” He finally stops and pivots on his heel. The way he looks you over makes you nauseous and lightheaded, like he took a long, long sip out of you. Jammed a straw in your jugular and sucked. 

Lot of blood play happening ‘round these parts.

“Hello, Al.”

“Hello, sweetheart. You filled out.”

author's notes: christ alive. i mean WELCOME BACK! i really missed you guys. happy new year, thank you for keeping me on the level with writing this chapter, it was so much FUCKING harder than i anticipated! was it too much warped angst? are the feelings complicated? does the pope shit in the woods?!!!!! you betcha. anyway, be seated for today's lesson - "less oedipus-y, more ea--..." there is an ending to that joke that i felt was too crass for the moment but if you can guess it you win a prize - the patchwork girl of oz is the seventh book in the wizard of oz series by l. frank baum! obviously. it's actually a laugh riot, you should check it out. scraps, the eponymous patchwork girl, is a full tilt lunatic who's kind of a bit of me. but theoretically, the patchwork girl made out of a thousand different scraps of everything else... bit of lacy innit - the mage in the mink coat is self referential lmao we've gotten to THAT point in the story - gravity's rainbow is a book that guys i dated used to recommend to me constantly which is like infinite jest for people who are ran through - i'm really fucking with college guy at this point, making him drive a ford cortina. because i think it is ugly - the plot of the annotated book that lacy gives eddie, still life with woodpecker by tom robbins, is... interesting eye emoji eye emoji. tom robbins also wrote even cowgirls get the blues which was adapted into a feature film starring, say it with me, robin's mom - the link wray song that soundtracked the lipton landing visit in question - "charlie? or linda kasabian?" go ahead and read the white album by joan didion for me wouldja buddyroo, just like lacy and nancy already have - fun fact, i played a two person game of gin rummy with myself to get into the mindset for this chapter. i suck at it - torchy blane is another one of my pre-code wonders-- glenda farrell plays an intrepid newspaperwoman, and this character actually went on to inspire lois lane from superman - and I KNOW some of you are going to be mad at lacy for fucking college guy, but... shit happens when you're a booksmart lovedumb eighteen year old that can't face up to her feelings! i don't wanna hear it! - fred benson i love you baby! i'm almost sorry i called you william randolph hearst, newspaper magnate and all around lunatic and the inspo behind the diss track citizen kane, but i'm not! - nancy wheeler has a photo of nellie bly in her locker where a photo of her beau should be - so echo & the bunnymen's 1984 album ocean rain is obviously most famous for the killing moon (jonathan byers you ARE my donnie darko) but may i point your attention to motherfucking seven seas - OH YOU KNOW I (EDDIE) HAD TO DO IT TO 'EM. this was shameless but i've had this in my heart for over ten years babe - for the purposes of this timeline, you know eddie is keeping higgins in pills. which is why he hasn't been kicked out of hawkins high so fast his lunchbox would combust - nurse ratched, obviously from one flew over the cuckoo's nest and that ill-fated ryan murphy series....tf was that...but also from this fucking sick tune! - save me the waltz is by zelda fitzgerald! my loves, thanks for hanging in for this chapter. i know it was a wait, but i hope you enjoyed! i also know it was a little more angsty pants than my usual fare-- but look baby. we need grist for the mill, okay? as always, reblogs, comments and likes are FIERCELY appreciated! love u all so much. my little hellcats. to die by your side etc

[mochilatae]

Cherry (Jungkook x Reader)

Word Count: 6.86k

Pairing: Jungkook x Y/n (Reader)

Rating: 18+/Mature/Explicit

Warnings: Semi-public/public play, hand jobs, orgasms (his), kissing sucking, biting/nibbling, sexy/dirty talk, flirting, early relationship jitters, gentle teasing/scolding, coaxing/seduction, lightly pushy Jungkook, alcohol consumption.

Genre: PwP, Friends to Lovers/Roommates to Lovers

AUs: Roommate BTS/Roommate Jungkook

Summary: You've had a rough day and you decide to stop at a bar on the way home to unwind. Your roommate meets you there and a bad day turns better from there when he gives you an unexpected first.

Author’s Note: It's been a long time since I wrote about Jungkook, let alone Roommate Jungkook. I missed him so I decided to drum up a little action.

Please ignore any typos and just enjoy.

Thank you for reading. If you liked it and feel like leaving a comment, I'd love to hear! Reblogging is always appreciated but not required.

Tag List: @askkrisachan @kiestrokes

You settled into the booth, sinking into the plush cushion. There was no disputing: it was much nicer to be inside, away from the light rain falling steadily outside. The day hadn’t started that way, but city weather was misleading like that.

10 hours ago your optimism was much higher, especially seeing the golden beauty of the morning sun from the bathroom window. Everything about the day seemed MUCH more promising earlier. From there it proved a slow plod towards disappointment as the cloud cover increased hour by hour.

You should learn to be more practical, the reminder coming as you stared into the depths of your drink, elbows braced on the table. As you chased a cherry bobbing on the surface of the drink with the tip of the straw tucked between your lips your mood dipped.

In spite of the day, you DID have something to look forward to–something that came with the opening of the bar door. Footsteps crossed the threshold and shook off droplets of rain. Hair shook next, followed by shoulders as the voices around you lulled into a brief silence.

There were probably enough people looking at whomever came through the door, but you didn’t. That was the last thing you felt like doing. Your head stayed down just enough, focusing on the reddish hued depths of the glass contents. 

The bell over the door chimed faintly when it shut behind the newcomer. Finally you looked up, taking in the figure there. 

And his eyes found you right away. The smile came with a flash of teeth. Damp bangs splayed over a blemish free forehead until a backwards flick cleared it all. It was such a quick action but still looked effortless.

Graceful as hell. Familiar, too. Deep down you knew–you expected this. There was something to be said about pretending you didn't, though...

As the man closed the distance, coming your way with a purposeful stride, you straightened in the booth seat with shoulders pressed into the seat back in unconscious preparation.  

“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this..” You finally said, even IF your belly was riddled with butterflies. Every one aflutter from the laser focused stare of your roommate. 

That word couldn’t contain what he was to you. What he’d become. It was the tip of the iceberg. He’s more than just a body paying the other half of the rent. Very much not like you pictured for yourself even a year ago.

Certainly not when you’d signed that signature line at the end of the too-many paged contract. 

Instead of feeling anxiety knitted with dreadful tension seeing Jungkook, you felt warm. Relaxed. Weak and wobbly deep inside. A welcome change you still hadn’t quite gotten used to. 

“I can’t believe how good you look.” Jungkook’s grin widened as he stood at the table. His shape did a great job of blocking your view of everything, and all he did was be himself–broad and handsome. If not a little…cocky still. 

You’d forgotten how much better Jungkook looked wet. It probably surpassed his visuals dry and donning a fitted pair of jeans. Or like now, in tailored slacks—the newest edition to his wardrobe thanks to a new job in a local office downtown. 

Jungkook hadn’t trended towards dressing business casual (or beyond) before, but that’s what a well paying job could do to a stubborn mind. The other side effect was more personal in nature:  you, struggling even more to keep eyes off him.

He didn’t complain so much anymore. Apparently messing with your focus and monopolizing your attention proved a fair trade for the agony this new forced fashion for 40 hours of his week. 

Jungkook stared down at you, his grin uneven. You couldn’t suss out why he stood there so long. Back to the excitement of telling yourself you'd never be the type to 'pretend' stuff--like stranger meetups.

And yet...

Eventually the silence piled on, bringing your gaze up until you met those beautiful, dark eyes. Black as night at the center, in this modest lighting, but with a sparkle just visible. Jungkook widened his shoulders and shot you a wink. 

“Of all the bars in all the city–” He grinned. 

You pulled the glass closer, taking another mouthful and almost gagging from the overwhelming alcohol taste dominating everything. The ‘Nightly Special’ section of the menu had been hard to really read, not that you’d sat down with patience or focus. You saw the word cherry. A flavor you liked and it would do but now came the debt: the slow crawl of realization that this was why you’d scaled back drinking to a rare-if-ever type of thing. 

Wearing a scowl, you smacked your lips. Jungkook titled his head, brow arched.

“...What’s the poison?”  

“A bellini.” You coughed into the back of your hand. “Don’t start. I needed it.” 

Not a moment later you motioned to your right side, shifting enough, assuming Jungkook would have plenty of space. He didn’t bother shedding the long overcoat as he took the offer and settled in. Then slid even closer until your sides touched. You surmised that was exactly what he’d wanted based on his unabashed hum of pleasure. 

“Seriously.” Jungkook started anew, voice lower and huskier. Hot breath tickled along your jaw as he nosed below that nearer ear. It was a most sensitive spot and one of his favorites since he found out what it did to you. 

Points for his earnestness, even buried underneath a blatant desire. Jungkook didn’t hide his feelings. Especially now that you both agreed to pursue a serious relationship. 

Gulping, you kept eyes trained on the Exit sign over the door and the red X, now faintly blinking.

“..Y/n.. No bullshit. You DO look good.” He murmured more softly. Silky heat grazed your lobe. His feigned pleading of this case had to be strictly for enjoyment. Anyone here would believe him from the jump. There wasn’t a shred of denial in you either. Your changed dynamic meant no more denial.  

A moment later goosebumps rose and ran down your neck in a straight shot, heading for that nipple.  

“Good.” You mimicked. Could you sound weaker? Your voice shivered like tree limbs battered by hurricane force wind. Jungkook had to have caught it. This was the kind of thing he lived to achieve.

If it wasn’t facing the entire place, you would be more than happy to free the whine stuck tight in your throat.

The next swallow of liquor went down easier, sending more fumes through your nostrils and right to your brain. This kind of thing happening was a risk, but you also knew it would help you relax. 

Jungkook aligned against your side like a second skin helped just as much, if not more. 

His touch always felt ‘right’. No one could replicate the way this man meshed with you. It wasn’t like you’d wanted anyone else to try, having become monogamous with Jungkook within the last few months. 

No longer just roommates, you’d officially traded status up to lovers. Boyfriend and girlfriend. This relationship thing was nice actually owning the label. You hadn’t appreciated how much effort had gone into suppressing the acceptance or enjoyment.

“Yeah?” You stole a quick glimpse sideways to find Jungkook A LOT closer, and even cuter with his wrinkled nose. He nodded. 

“100 percent.” His lids fell, stare unabashedly dreamy. 

As you gave in and leaned into his side, Jungkook slid his nearer arm along the back of the booth,then draped it over your shoulders. When he pulled you close, you took a deep breath and had the bonus of another pleasing hint of his clean, fresh scent. Rain kissed, above all else.

“This whole...pretend to be strangers meeting at the bar... It's new to me. Want something to drink?” You asked, the bell over the door ringing when it opened, then closed again. You would be ashamed to admit you had no idea how much time slipped by tucked under Jungkook’s muscular arm. 

It was like he’d moved a muscle either, more than happy to keep you close. For his effort, Jungkook was also acting a little too comfortable and touchy for strangers--unless he was just willing to be that bold if you hadn't known each other. He wasn't a very good actor...

“I’m good.” He replied.

A dimly lit pair of bodies passed, heading for the dance floor at the far end of the room. There, on the modest stage, a live band was finishing their setup. You weren’t a big fan of live music, but you knew who was..

..And he was sitting right next to you. 

“Is it open mic night?” Jungkook watched the bodies pass, then spoke, words riddled with interest. If it involved a chance to sing or show off in public, he was down. VERY not how you were, but not a deal breaker. 

You admired how it seemed Jungkook lacked a single particle of self consciousness in his whole body. He seemed to love putting on a show, especially if you were watching. Now that you understood better, it was a treat to see him showboating. Especially with purer motivations: less jealousy and revenge, more desire and pride driving him to draw your eyes.   

It was hard to believe you ever found it unappealing. Those moments seemed like a lifetime ago. And almost…embarrassing if you tracked through them again. Now was much more comfortable and pleasing, so you tried to keep yourself here. 

Jungkook loved attention and you loved when he sang. You’d call that a win-win normally, but tonight you weren’t quite in that place. There was a distant tension in your limbs and chest. The type you just wanted gone sooner rather than later.

“Looks like it. Not sure how I missed that. It’s going to get noisy soon. We should go..” You replied. 

It was only getting later. With Jungkook to walk you home, skirting the rain outside for the few blocks between here and the apartment didn’t seem so daunting. After all, wasn’t that one of the reasons you’d texted him to meet you here?  

Jungkook sighed. “Too bad. Haven’t gotten to sing for you in a while.” Disappointment bent Jungkook’s lips into an adorable pout. You didn’t need to look. 

A huff punctuated his disappointment. You couldn’t begrudge him the joy of performing. He was born for it. For now he tempered things with a brief smile. 

“Stop..” In spite of his tame reaction you gently prodded his side with one elbow, earning his grunt. 

He squeezed your shoulders more firmly. “YOU stop. You know I’m ticklish there.” 

“Are you?” You feigned surprise then squirmed when a few fingers wormed towards your armpit with an easy shift of his wrapped arm. You barely twisted out of reach. 

“Alright..” You whined. He was just too determined and you weren’t that good tonight. Jungkook, ever relentless and you ever underestimating–a winning combination. 

Seconds later he tugged you towards one end of the booth, inching his way out. On the move, he glanced towards the dancefloor. The figures you’d seen walk by were melting together as the first strains of a suave beat started, the guitar joining with a few plucked notes that became a full bodied song. One you hadn’t heard before, but it had your hips shifting faintly. 

“Wanna?” Jungkook threw a grin back, along with his head, eyeing you. He was a good dancer. Comfortable in his body AND knew how to control every muscle. To move every bit of himself for maximum effect. The stakes were high: falling into that trap meant you’d overstay and burn through your remaining energy. 

“A man of few words.” You teased. “Wanna….what?” 

“Dance.” Jungkook’s eyes rolled as he answered wearily.   

“My feet hurt.” The first of many excuses, by rote. 

Except tonight the idea of swaying with this tight body pressed close, in the balmy dark wasn’t such an off putting suggestion. You already noted that pleasant fullness between the hips that said the ache wasn’t from a long day on your feet, or racing back and forth across the office.

It was more the gnawing hunger for Jungkook. Freeing all your true feelings by agreeing to be together officially made your visceral reactions more potent. And more frequent without the usual hurdles or walls to surpass. Every single twinge of need could flow freely. 

A hint of warmth was already blooming in your folds. Jungkook’s eyes left yours and openly perused south, like he could see the thermal differences across your body. Like you were telling on yourself in ways you couldn’t begin to perceive.  

“I’m sure they do, but dance with me.” This time his smile was warmer. One palm rested in the small of your back, waiting for the word, to give that subtle pressure. To move you –and things– forward, to his desired destination: that shadowed dancefloor. 

“Jungkook–”

“Just one song. I won’t sing, either.” THAT was a big give on his part. You snorted and Jungkook’s stare narrowed. “That’s a big deal. The kind that doesn’t come along very often, Y/n. Let's spin around for a song. One song.” 

To pull the shimmering, doe eyed look from his arsenal was unfair. Rotten as hell and sneaky. Instead of maliciousness and deceit, you saw a flash of playfulness in those tawny depths, and further down, a roiling tension building. 

Exactly like it was inside you. You grunted and twisted against his hold. 

Once Jungkook was out of the booth and upright, he extended a hand again, palm up and waiting. Any reminding will or concern sank into the abyss seeing him towering over you like this. And wearing such a purposefully handsome grin. You knew he reserved that for particularly challenging situations requiring careful negotiation. 

“I won’t even take off my coat.”

That added another level of enticement. No coat off meant he’d be a bit too warm and unlikely to want to work up a good sweat here. It was a pretty good guarantee he’d stick to his word and you’d be out the door after. 

Your hand slid into his and Jungkook pulled you to your feet. He didn’t check as he backed towards the dancefloor and the music. Jungkook didn’t need to. Luck and grace were on his side. 

He was a smooth bastard who never seemed to check where he might be headed–like he always knew. Almost like he was that magical and ‘good’. Every move, clandestine and serendipitous. Born blessed and knowing exactly the hand he was dealt with his latent charm.

“No dirty dancing.” You warned, cheeks rushing with warmth. You fell against his front as he chuckled but it faded into the music overlapping as you stopped at the edge of the dance floor. One arm slid around the small of your back, pulling your hips snug against his own. The thick material of his overcoat was just roughened enough it tickled your suddenly overly sensitive flesh, but you didn’t mind.

You never minded with Jungkook.  

He managed a dimpled grin as he replied “I promise.”

--------------------------------------------------------

You couldn't keep your eyes off Jungkook as you both waited at the curb. He looked so good, blissfully unaware with his stare focused on the toes of his dress shoes. Like everything else exposed to the rain, they carried a shine in the street light. 

It could be worse, you conceded silently. At least the heaviest rain had passed, leaving a fairly light mist.

The world looked almost plastic, the way the water left a glossy layer over everything that wasn’t moving. Even the streets were slick, black coated in reflected wetness that drew every hint of light and turned it into a pearlescence. 

It was beautiful, but a chill was building. Enough to rue leaving your coat at work and falling into the illusion of the bar’s warmth. You were paying for it now. 

Jungkook glanced over at you, tucking his phone into his coat pocket. When he scoffed, it left his lips in a curling puff of hot air. 

“What?” 

“What are you looking at?” 

Jungkook looked down again. You did too, noticing the shiny circle of light reflected on the tips of both dress shoes. 

“These aren’t too bad looking. …Hurt like hell after 8 plus hours walking around in these things, but they LOOKED good today.” 

“Yeah.” You agreed. “Hopefully the rain won’t ruin them.” 

“Not like I’m going through puddles.” He sounded disappointed, again. There was such a pureness about it that you couldn’t help a grin. When you snorted, he snorted. 

When you stepped closer, Jungkook looked over. His arm moved and he opened that side of the coat, like a big fabric wing. Offering warmth and pure darkness. But most of all–the promise of comfort. Escape from that increasing chill as the build of moisture on your naked skin only heightened awareness.

You ducked into the available space offered with a mumbled ‘Thanks’. His arm came down and he kept you there. Inside his coat it was Jungkook scented heaven: comfortable temperature with pure Jungkook scent bathing the entire space. 

Neither of you spoke as you stood, mutually staring out to the street and vague shapes of cars, end to end, on the opposite side of the road. It was impressive that the only empty space was right in front of the bar doors, in the pickup and drop off zone.

Finally you broke the silence.

“How long did you say the Lyft would take?” 

Jungkook took that as an excuse to do what he’d just done a second ago: take his phone out and check it. The app was still open on his screen. You couldn’t tell much from his quick peek before he pocketed the phone again. 

“15 minutes.” 

“Why so long..” You sighed. “It’s not getting warmer.” 

“You want my coat? I’m good without it. The dancing warmed me up.” Whether or not he was being nice and lying to alleviate any concern you might have for his comfort in favor of your own, you couldn’t be sure.

It was a quick debate in your mind, then you replied “No..I couldn’t.” 

“You just said you were cold–” Jungkook began, confused. 

“Not exactly. I just said it wasn’t getting any warmer.” 

“Right. Big difference.” Jungkook’s chest rumbled. A car drove by, the tires splashing through a few errant puddles in the road. Water hissed as it jetted away from the rubber rolling through, then the sound faded as the car disappeared into the distance. 

“It just feels like that’s a little longer than normal.” You continued. 

“It’s approaching peak hours, Y/n.” 

You’d forgotten. This time of the week and night it WAS busier for Uber and Lyfts around town. Cabs fared no better, at least at this end of the city. Upon this revelation, you slumped against Jungkook again. 

You dare not risk going back into that bar to keep warm. The band was really getting into it and you saw how much Jungkook was enjoying dancing with you. He wasn’t going to be able to control himself if he heard and saw the crowd that had started to filter in when you both slipped away from the dancefloor.

Onto the next concern. “What do we do until they get here, then?” 

You only figured out why you weren’t getting an answer when you looked at Jungkook to find his stare on you. Surprisingly heavy and telling–he was…hungry looking. Your brows rose. 

“Koo..” You began, adding a poke with one finger into the center of his chest, where it was indecently firm. He didn’t move an inch, except to turn into your prodding, head tilting down. Eyes fixing on your more intently. 

“Hmm?” His other arm swung away from his body and he wrapped the other half of his coat around you, enfolding you in the two wide ‘wings’ of his coat’s inner lining. It was even warmer. The sensation was like a warm bath, except for the thrum of a heartbeat in that muscled chest pressing your own. 

“What are you doing? You didn’t answer me.” 

“I know.” He was silent again and you waited. Finally he continued. “I have an idea of what we could do. Plenty of time..” 

Your brows didn’t lower just yet. You stared into Jungkook’s heated gaze, curious and mostly emotionally blank. At this point it was only pure curiosity driving you. 

Jungkook’s stare shifted to the side and you followed it. He seemed to be looking towards the darkness between the building and an adjacent one next to it with only a narrow alley between the two brick structures. 

“The..alley?” You ventured, earning a nod from him. You laughed this time, hearing how it rang out into the night, unbothered if anyone was around to hear it. You hadn’t seen or heard anyone for quite a while, until the car that drove by minutes before. “You're…kidding, right?” 

Jungkook was back to staring in your eyes. Unsmiling, his lips still plump and inviting, especially parting a little to reply. 

“Yes. It’s private.” 

“It’s outside, in public.”

“It’s dark. No one will see.” 

“What—I..”

You took another look at the darkness between the two tall shapes, then blinked and tried to pull back. Jungkook’s arms stayed wrapped. His hands clasped each other, level with the middle of your back. He brought you close again. 

“Plenty of time. And it’s dark. Come on. We’ll be quick.” Jungkook’s voice was low. Almost conspiratorial, each syllable rolling off his lips with wisps of steam. To think he was almost burning up, from the inside out, for you?

That was going to end you. Both of you might not make it to the apartment if this kept up.  

“Quick?” You whined. While confusion gripped your mind, your body was a different story. It knew the pressure of his fingertips feeling along your skin. Cradling your hips, then bringing you along as he backed away from the curb. You staggered to keep up with each retreating step. 

He stopped at the entrance of the alley mouth. Once again Jungkook moved like he was ever sure, never sparing a single glance back to check. Like he’d done heading for the dancefloor. 

It seemed far-fetched, but you wondered if Jungkook had done some kind of recon, in all the times you both walked by here, while you talked and he listened. Or appeared to. He hadn’t spoken and that meant he had more than enough time to notice things like this alley. It did something to you deep inside to imagine him thinking about this for that long, waiting for this moment, then finally executing it. 

The thin blouse fabric did nothing to combat the chill when Jungkook turned you, then walked your back right into the brick wall. He followed, chest pressing and touched his forehead to yours. 

His palms pressed the wall as he let the coat hang, keeping a cocoon of warmth around your body. Underneath the ache, you were grateful, if not a little surprised. Jungkook’s belly rolled into you and your thighs slacked wider, feeling menacingly weak. 

“Kiss me, Y/n.” Even though he asked you, he made the move, joining with your lips to create the perfect seal. His tongue slipped past your lips, writhing a little as your hips did the same. 

He returned your moan with his own, sending heat over your cheeks with his exhale. Jungkook’s head cocked the other way and he kissed you again, hips grinding a little harder. That firmness over your mound wasn’t apartment keys. 

On every level you knew that shape–most especially at your center, the apex of both thighs, where the most heat and the most pulsation was building. You needed what it promised and swore you’d die when Jungkook spiraled himself slower and harder. Although your eyes rolled, you managed to keep them open, barely watching the other building’s exterior wall across the way. 

You were trapped but loving it with sensation washing over you. All nerves craved Jungkook. Soaked up his touch. His scent. His sounds. But you found yourself listening for footsteps or tires slicing through the waterlogged potholes out in the street.

The fear of being caught was a good deterrent normally, but tonight the danger clamped you so tight there wasn’t room for sensibility or much thought. 

When this kiss broke, your head went back, touching the wall. The scored brick surface scraped along your scalp but you were almost numb to it as he worked down your neck, to the top blouse button.

A single twist of his fingers popped it open and he kissed exposed skin.

Two more buttons came free and kisses spilled down further. He wasn’t neat about it, leaving wet shapes on the skin he found, inch by inch.

Jungkook returned to the front of your neck and you could feel the way he smiled as he spoke to the long line running from the base to just below your chin. Uncharacteristically quiet.

For someone who didn’t care about public stuff as a standard, it was delightfully curious how he was suddenly so interested in vocal discretion. But you knew: this was part of his game—the mental trickery that he employed now and then.

Another thing he’d discovered that you enjoyed far more than you probably should.  

Wiggling, your palms braced his chest. Jungkook continued to work on your neck, adding a nibble, tugging skin and kissing after it slipped free. Delight stabbed right into your pussy each time. You loved that Jungkook knew exactly what he was doing. 

“Koo..” A shudder rattled your entire body. 

Jungkook’s head stayed low as he kissed the shape of a breast through the top. Although it wasn’t skin contact, your nipple responded the same, tightening at the suggestion and memory of wet suction. Just a little ghosted pressure sent tight heat through your folds. 

“Hmm?” His kisses came back up the other side of your neck and stopped under your jaw. Damp strands of his hair stuck against your skin, the lingering scent of his shampoo rising to your senses. 

“What is it, baby? Don’t like it?” When he wanted to, Jungkook could tease even better with words than fingers or lips.

“You know I do..” You grunted. “You’re…serious about this?” 

Jungkook nodded. Several of his fingers curled against the dark brick bracing your back. Unlike you, his face showed no sign that he minded the cold or discomfort of brick.

Red bits crumbled under his dragging nails, tumbling down the wall when one hand clenched to a decent sized fist.

“Touch me, Y/n. Just for a little bit. Let’s have some fun… Keep warm.” His nose slipped by your cheek again as he hummed

You whined, but your hand moved on its own, slipping down from his chest. Fingers brushed the button at his waist. When they tugged, Jungkook’s hips chased, rutting into you. The button popped open easily enough. You shoved that hand down into the hot darkness, palm shamelessly full of Jungkook’s girthy, hard cock. 

Jungkook’s head lolled backwards and the fingers on his other hand trembled, then splayed flatter. It was like he was trying to hold onto the wall AND sanity for dear life. That thrilled you enough to loosen a mewl.

“Like this?” You gasped, burying your face against his neck. The tight lines of muscle shifted as he nodded but otherwise stayed as still as he could. Occasionally his pelvis ticked into your touch.

Another growl exploded after a moment, when the base of your palm brushed against the underside of his tip. 

“Y/n..” He hissed. Hot breath wafted across your scalp as Jungkook tucked nose and lips onto the dampened chaos there.

“Fuck..feels so good.. Please.” The building earnesty at the end of his statement made you weak. 

You groped. It wasn’t long, standing there against the wall, that the tide turned inside you. Chill melted away and a roaring heat took over, passing over every inch of your skin.

Your fingers circled the thick center of that cock that belonged to you–as far as you were concerned. 

And Jungkook seemed to share that sentiment, kissing your part with a low moan. More hip rolls pushed him firmer into the cradle of your palm. The you from hours ago would never believe your future self if you’d try to warn that you’d be here. Doing this. In the alley outside a favorite local spot. 

Soon it was slippery as the precum seeping from Jungkook’s tip slid along your wrist with each stroke. He pushed particularly hard every few pumps. Everything was frictionless and gooey, and you didn’t want to stop, but your mouth watered at the desire to pull your palm out and give a long lick to taste. 

You found your own belly tight and your thighs shook as you finally gave in and moaned in response. Jungkook’s profile turned and he moved down, letting his mouth rest at the shell of your ear. 

Still, his hips undulated against you. Every nudge had your pussy aching more and more.

“God I want you..” 

Your blood boiled. Whatever was building inside was about to spill over. Either from your lips or your pussy–it was a neck and neck race. Words were bottle necked behind your clamped lips and slick the same when you hitched a knee and brought that calf around the back of Jungkook’s thigh. 

His chest rumbled with a laugh. It creaked at the end, with another low growl. He drew your earlobe between his lips and nibbled, then sucked. Your eyes went heavy. You clamped around nothing, dying at how empty you felt, even if your hand was overflowing with pulsing, silky flesh.

Even the sound of laughter somewhere beyond the mouth of the alley didn’t register much now. It was just you, panting into the balmy blackness of Jungkook’s coat lining. Sucking in his scent, mouthfuls at a time, and whining every time he fucked your tightening grip. 

The way his cock slid through your grasp, you knew it’d sound so wet if you were back at the apartment, with him splayed on the bed, tongues twisting along each other and moans rising in the dimly lit space. 

You could almost recall the faint creak of the bed–no doubt it’d happen with every body roll. Jungkook’s fantastic ass leaving the bed as he fucked up into your hand. Or maybe your mouth, head kicked back and arms splayed wide, fisting pillows or sheets, bare chested, nipples glossy from your lips. 

Your own tingling between his fingers as he tugged. Groaned. Begged for a breast over his mouth so he could eat you alive. 

But the reality brought you back as a car sped by, tires hissing as they rolled through puddles just across the way. You didn’t look up, unphased. 

“Y/n..” Jungkook gasped, then drew in a breath, holding it. His chest puffed against yours. Your head came up. 

“Hmm?” You could barely open your eyes, mound burning with an unholy ache. You swore the tip of your finger was on that large vein running straight up the underside of his cock. And it was full of blood, keeping that organ primed for whatever else it might need to fuck.

“I’m close, baby..” He grinned, the shine from the nearby street lights flashing across his teeth. 

You nodded, then raised your chin. “Kiss me..” Your turn to demand. Wasn’t Jungkook always telling you he liked it when you were a little greedy and demanding? He wasn’t shy in telling you how he felt you could do that kind of thing a little more. 

The plump, sweet lines of Jungkook’s mouth connected to yours as he dropped his head down again, aligning his face perfectly to yours. As you kissed again, even deeper than before, your hand sped up, squeezing him tighter. Almost strangling his shaft. He whimpered and gave a few hard pumps. Suddenly he was shaking. 

He broke the kiss quickly. The energy was right there at the crest, filling him to the brim–even the ends of his bangs shivering. 

You loved that his eyes were screwed shut so tight. Whatever height he was at, the fall was going to be glorious. You recognized it from all those times he’d been inside you, ready to blow. 

Jungkook’s tongue lashed across his lips, then they fell open wider. His throat flexed as it forced out another whine–higher pitched. Desperate. 

“Don’t stop..” You hadn’t planned to, laying the side of your face against his chest. Inside the galloping thud of his heart was so big. So alive. Like a wild stallion racing across the plain.

One thing about him: that wild, untamed way about this man was something you hoped he held onto forever. Even if you’d domesticated him just enough to keep him by your side. 

Jungkook’s hips jerked a handful of times. Your name slipped from his lips in a confused sigh, then warmth wetness spurted along your forearm and ran down. Along your palm and fingers. Down along his shaft.

By the time it was over, there was no denying: there’d be an amazing, undeniable wet spot at the front of his pants. 

And so be it–he’d done it enough times to YOU. Basically he was owed this, if you looked at it the right way. 

Jungkook’s tight body relaxed against you, pinning your hand between his groin and yours. For a moment it didn’t really matter. 

When a few droplets splashed onto the top of your head, bringing a stark coldness, your eyes fluttered open. You shrugged a little against Jungkook and finally his head came back up. He was staring into your eyes, but you could see he was long gone for the moment.

“You’re a bad girl..” A lopsided, fucked out grin painted his face. 

Your brows lowered and you scoffed. If you’d been stronger you’d have pushed him back a little and swatted that chest. Wake him from his dopey state for that little dig. Instead you snorted, head tilting carefully to the side. It was enough effort to ignore the roughness of the brick wall rumpling your hair.

You arched a brow.

“You like bad girls. At least that’s what I heard..” 

Jungkook tucked a kiss just under the apple of your cheek, then he leaned away enough to push his hand down and lay it over yours. Fingers laced with each coated digit as if he didn’t care at all. That was hot in a whole different way–enough to remind you how unsatiated you still felt. 

He brought your hand back out and barely glanced before letting it fall, then he backed up a few steps, into a slice of headlight sweeping across the alley mouth as another car passed by. He also didn’t seem to care about that.

With a flippant toss of his bangs, Jungkook grinned again. 

That couldn’t just be the rain shining all over his face and neck. There wasn’t anyone in the world who looked so good roughed up by a quickie–nevermind the nagging specifics of what KIND of quickie it could be. 

Jungkook tugged the zipper back up in a quick motion, then redid the button. 

You leaned upright, stepping away from the wall too. Just by the way your hair fell, you knew it was a good mess, but kept yourself from feeling and ‘fixing’. Instead you watch Jungkook. And he looked you in the eyes now, tugging his coat back evenly over both shoulders and smoothing the lapels.

“Our ride should be here..” To be so casual–if it wasn’t for the cheshire smile you’d have kicked his shin. Or grabbed a half brick laying nearby and lobbed it hard for the space between his perfect brows.

But there wasn’t shame from having done this with him. Instead, when Jungkook pulled you close, it was another rush of arousal. Unquenched desire. Gnawing pain that centered right between your thighs. 

Jungkook’s open palm slid across your mound and a pleased thrum bubbled up. 

“You’re so warm, Y/n. I like how daring you are. Is that my influence or have you just been sitting on this and saving it for when we agreed to get serious?” 

“Koo–” You began, groping for his wrist. You held so hard he stopped completely for a moment. Even though he glowered down here in the alley, you knew it wasn’t anger or annoyance. It was the same arousal you felt. No doubt in your mind. 

“Y/n.” He parroted your scolding tone, wearing the hottest smirk you’d ever seen from him. And that was saying A LOT. He’d managed MANY hot smirks in the time you’d known him.

Your grip pulsed and your eyes softened.  “What about me?” You tugged faintly, lower lip jutting a little. 

“Mmmnn… I’ll take care of you when we get home. I promise. That you did this…Y/n I can’t tell you what it does to me.” 

“I can. It’s all over my wrist and hand.” You chuckled, nodding down at your tacky palm, then tucking it along your side.

Jungkook snickered. 

“Doesn’t mean I’m done. A couple minutes until the Lyft gets here. Won’t be a long drive home. That’s enough time to get my second wind.” 

“You know we COULD walk and save the money. Someone told me it’s peak hours.” 

“Right, but then we’d lose the time off our feet. Time that I have plans on occupying.” 

“In the Lyft?”

His scandalousness knew no bounds. But you also knew he had limits.

Jungkook shrugged, behind a cheeky smirk. “Not what we did here.”

“Thank god..” You sighed, eyes rolling. “I was starting to worry..” 

After looking you over, then himself, Jungkook turned. Using your grip on him, he pulled you along to the alley mouth and paused to lean out. He glanced left then right, and you did the same from over one shoulder. It felt like the safest place–just in case.

It was insane to worry that you’d come out to an audience and applause. Or even giggling questions and a cop with a ticket book, ready to give you a public indecency ticket. All the same, relief had you a little light headed.

Common sense and anxiety were back as expected, along with the creeping cold. Now the sweat on your skin was working against you–with the help of the still dropping evening temperature.

“Maybe a little heavy petting…” Jungkook finished his thought. Your bug eyed star met his back as he stepped out completely. You followed, keeping up decently.

You hadn’t actually had sex but it was impressive how he made your legs feel like rubber. That didn’t bode well for what your condition would be back at the apartment, in a few hours. Or tomorrow morning. 

“Jungkook.. You can’t do that kind of thing in a Lyft.” 

“Why not?” He eyed you over one shoulder as you stopped at the curb, not quite where you’d both waited before. This time his skin was faintly steaming and it was downright magical. Along with his rakish smile, Jungkook made the moment feel like a fever sex dream that was about to get VERY good. 

“I can’t believe—” You started to wind up until Jungkook brought your hand to his mouth and his lips pressed one knuckle. 

“I wasn’t being serious, Y/n. I know better. But you’re in trouble when we get through that door.” 

“Am I?” 

“Mmmmnnn.” He kissed your middle knuckle firmer, then popped off and circled it with his tongue. You gulped and cursed softly. His stare hadn’t wavered the whole time he’d done those actions, with the very same intensity as if he was on top of you, pushing you towards an explosive high while you rapidly lost control of every limb. 

You let your swoon turn into a list right into his side. Jungkook’s arm wrapped around your middle. He finally turned his focus towards the far end of the street, from where you’d expect the Lyft to be arriving. In the distance a car turned onto the road and headlights slowly made their way closer. A chime emanated from Jungkook’s coat pocket, but he didn’t move. Instead he smiled. 

“There..We’re in business now. Start the clock, Y/n.” He said, as you stepped in front of him when the car coasted to a stop right in front of where you stood. Jungkook leaned around you and opened the door for you to climb in. 

He followed quickly after and settled in, shutting the door. No sooner had he done that, then his palm found your thigh and rested on top. He was watching the driver and offered a muted smile, then a nod. The guy traded a few words, then turned back. 

Jungkook’s eyes were fixed ahead, watching the driver. His palm climbed your thigh just a little. Something told you it wouldn’t be stopping there. You grabbed his wrist again, but not to stop him. Just like he’d done, you held on for the ride. 

No matter where you went with him, the call of the bedroom would eventually come. Funny how it always sounded like Jungkook. 

He spoke quietly, lips curling with a smile. Even so there was no way you didn’t hear it. You FELT it, with every syllable clawing at your center. Between sweat and remnant rain drops, you’d never be dry.

“Let’s go.”  

[twig-tea]

screencap stolen from linked post by @burnsuncomet ; I was going to reply to your post but then I just kept writing and I didn't want to fully derail so I made this separate post instead!

I've skimmed the tag now and I'm going to need more people to be as obsessed with this mostly-unsmoked-cigarette-in-the-cake shot as I am. Mork quit smoking because the smell bothered Day, and we've since seen how much emphasis Day puts on scent so we know it really did matter to him. And when Mork was in an emotionally vulnerable moment after playing matchmaker for the man he's in love with to get together with someone else, he asks for a cigarette in a moment of weakness. But this shot shows us that he mostly resisted, and went for a walk instead, and it was the thought of Day's happiness (the birthday party and his relationship with August, as represented by this birthday cake slice) that helped him suppress his craving even as it drove him to emotional distress in the first place. Even while Day was worrying about him regressing, Mork was thinking about Day and doing what he thought was best for Day's happiness. Day didn't actually need to find Mork to help him stop smoking.

Plus just like, it's a cigarette put out in a cake slice. Rendering both unconsumable. Nobody will want to eat that cake now, and that cigarette cannot be relit. I can't stop thinking about it. It's fantastic. It's such a tiny and non-disruptive tantrum while simultaneously being an act of care. The ash tray is right there, but Mork said no, I'm ruining both of these things at once, because I can't have anything I want and I don't want anyone else to have them either and I'm mad that they will but I won't stand in their way so I'm taking it out on this symbol instead [because it's the merging of two symbols: what August did for Day (throwing the surprise party; performative) and what Mork did for day (quitting smoking; truly meeting Day's needs/wants)].

And as a visual bonus, it kind of looks like a candle, except it's a cigarette AND the wrong way round! Like the world's saddest and most disturbed birthday celebration.

And of course because Day is blind, he wouldn't be able to see it, and so he wouldn't know that Mork had signalled that he didn't actually smoke much of the cigarette.

OB.SESSED.

[hxltic]

i had no idea this was sent in so this could be super late but hi ofc!! Also tysm i love you <33 also i’m sorry i didn’t know how rough you wanted it👩🏾‍🦯👩🏾‍🦯

𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐒. 𝑺𝑼𝑵𝑨 𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑨𝑹Ō

part one | part two

Genre: smut

Warning: heavy degradation, handjob, blowjob, facefuck, public bathroom sex, spit kink, brother’s best friend

He’s one of your brother’s dumb friends (the actual dumbest—in your opinion), and no matter how much you locked yourself in your room to be excluded from whatever activities prolonged out there, the inevitable feeling of hunger is sadly inescapable.

Following a creak from your door, right before another from the stairs, you cascaded down into the living room. Openly, the kitchen stood nice and bright, accompanied by snacks aligned on the island that held several filled lanyards with attached keys.

Arriving down the stairs in your red pajama set was the same thing as yelling and notifying everyone you were there. Heads turned. You didn’t take the time to count, frankly because it felt like crawling into the lion’s den and now needing an escape. You should’ve known there were people coming by the way everything was taken out of the pantry and neatly placed anyway. Your hair was frazzled from rolling around trying to get comfortable; your reddened face was visual proof of the relentless makeup you scrubbed off; the several necklaces you wore and forgot to remove were now entangled in each other—it would be just your luck for a bunch of boys to be over. Not ones you were trying to impress, persay, but the last ones that needed to see you in your tired hobo fit.

“Whatever you’re about to say—don’t. don’t be a dickhead,” you call out. You were getting this snack and going back upstairs, negating anything that could be said to you from here and then with your course voice.

“You think so horribly of me, what’d I do?”

Suna’s sly tone carried across the room to bring you to a stop. It was obvious was him; when was it ever not him? The only other people were Kita and the twins, but they were preoccupied.

“Exist, essentially,” you rebut, and after selecting a bag of skittles and a cosmic brownie, you reach over and grab the keys farthest to the left before your leave; staring him dead in the low, mustard, dumb eyes.

The keys were his. You recall because a few years back, you plucked off a single tag or attachment every time he came over. It took a bit for him to notice how weightless it had become and demand for all of them back, so you made him beg after assigning him as your personal chef for the day.

Which you weren’t a horrible person, so you kept them tucked away in a box on your dresser.

He examined the action to be reminded of this, but let you go nonetheless. He’d be damned if he let you see his smugness falter.

“Your hair looks great,” he taunted, with his long arms spread across the couch lazily. Your brother giggled from afar. To the back of your head, slim eyes scanned you in a judgmental manner—the same one you usually glanced at him with. The steps you took became bouncy and joyous.

Then you remembered how your hair actually looked, so you trudged up the stairs and grumbled, “jump off a cliff.”

You hadn’t completely decided what you’d do with the keys, but you’d most likely hold them hostage in your room somewhere. The plan was just to be a minor inconvenience.

And this was effective for the moment being—rattling Suna with the flashbacks—but sleep weighed your eyelids and, obviously, the door was locked.

. .

3:48 A.M.

A continuous knock drives you out of your slumber. Grumbling, your sleeping feet swing over the side of the bed and you rip the comforter from your body. The pitter-patter of steps notify the dark-haired man of his disturbances, guiding one side of his lip to lift and his toned arms to cross as he patiently awaits you.

Your tongue swipes at your dehydrated lips and your fingers correct your messy braided hair before opening the door. Suna languidly leans on the parallel hallway wall, sending you a look that it is too damn early in the morning to acknowledge. With the little strength in your freshly awaken arm, you throw the door closed to turn your back and close your eyes for the journey back to bed.

Suna’s sneaker sat where the door should’ve connected to the wall. He already knew the best of your unkind tendencies. The corner of the door swept into his large hand following its ricochet and he pulled you by the forearm, twisting your body to him. Your face slammed into his chest due to your lack of stabilization. You got a whiff of his faint cologne.

He didn’t even apologize. Fuckface.

“Jesus. No need to be so rough,” you croaked.

“It can get a lot worse than that,” a genuine smiley grin spread onto his features as he tilted his head and inspected down the hall for anyone that could hear him. Of course you hadn’t caught this in your state, not even processing the implied indecencies. “Maybe you shouldn’t close the door on me.”

He pressed the pad of his finger to your forehead and presses you back off him.

“Why are you here? Like for real.” Nothing was funny and you need to go to sleep. You have work in the morning. If you were awake enough, you would’ve taken the forehead poke as disrespect.

He treads the hand not on the door through his dark hair (which somehow returned to the exact same position it held before) and shrugged, “I can’t get home.”

“So?”

“You have my keys.”

Oh shit. You did bring this upon yourself though.

You sigh and rub the side of your face drowsily, “I’ll get them in the morning. I literally don’t even remember where I put them to be honest.”

As bad as he wants to be irritated, he can’t. The silhouette of your figure in front of him was something else. This was the day that he learned you don’t wear bottoms to sleep, but wear them just to keep some dignity whenever you show your face downstairs. In other words, you only put them on to eventually come back into your natural habitat and kick them off.

Your half naked body stood swaying in the doorway, reflecting into Suna’s yellowish eyes. Had he forgotten to respond? His gaze flickers before focusing strictly on yours. “Let me come look.”

“No, I’ll get them in the morning.”

“I’m coming in.”

Not very carefully, he shuffles past you, then your bed, unaffected by your futile efforts to groan and push him away. He had a sleeper build, unfortunately. As he rummaged through your drawers, he comments, “This would be a lot easier on the both of us if you just told me where they were.”

“Never. Get out! I just cleaned up!” You whisper yell into the morning. It seemed to be a sight you could only watch with the weight difference, but you had to try. Your fingertips connect around his small waist so you could push backwards off your heels. Whatever you could muster has done nothing but prove your weakness to him; he continued side-stepping drawer to drawer and smirking at your actions. That stupid expression only made your blood boil. You retreat.

Inevitably, he found your underwear drawer. Nobody wishes for that on themselves, although the way he held aside one of your thongs on a single finger as if it were a hanger, just to re-fold it before neatly placing it back where it once was; even the darkness couldn’t hide your tightening chest and darting eyes trailing everywhere but him.

The crickets were wide awake, and now so were you.

Your spread fingers modify into fists, you plant your feet. You come back full force to grab him. His head dips back in pure laughter while he attempts to be mindful of the time of night, even when his fair hands creep to yours and slowly pry you away from how you were linked around his stomach. Finger after finger.

The carpet floor, however, was not on your side, and your heels suddenly slide under you, between his feet. It also didn’t help that with Suna’s build there wasn’t much to grab onto: his torso is smooth, slim, but hard. Anytime you reached for grip, you just felt the curve of his muscles under the dark blue cotton t-shirt.

The last finger came undone, and you hadn’t realized why he’d swiftly attached himself to your wrists until you immediately saw yourself tumbling backwards, landing with a hard thump loud enough to wake up everybody in the house. The tightness of his grip confuzzled you.

It was one of protection and instinct rather than anything else. He didn’t seem concerned (as foretold by the small hints of laughter emitting from somewhere upwards), so you wondered why he still held your wrists with his arms backwards and you flat on your ass. He gathers himself, lets go, and turns to face you.

Trying to soothe the pounding muscles, you roll on your right and rub the area cautiously. It was most likely redder than your cheeks.

“You know, to be holding me so tight, you didn’t really lessen the fall,” you scowl.

“No, but you also didn’t crack your head open,” he retorts. You just glance at him and that villainous expression once more, one that was plastered on his tilting head in fake pity. You grunt and roll your eyes.

After declining help from your literal downfall, you push off your right hand to get up. Your nose meets a structure. Wood.

It was the wooden footing of your bed, so close that had your head tilted back any further with the force of the fall—it would be a concussion, no doubt.

You pause and return your focus to him. He smirks down at you.

. .

The next dull morning, you groan obnoxiously as you walk in so the shirtless man currently in your kitchen would take the hint and leave. His keys landed with a mix of a thump and a clink on the soft couch from your toss. He curls the island corner holding a bowl of cereal, sweats hanging loose on his hips; however, he just leans and eats, watching your moves silently.

Your uniform was definitely one to strike a customer: leather shorts and short sleeve top perfect for showing off cleavage. You slipped a jacket on and headed out the door. Before you left, it was necessary to shout “When I get back, you better be gone!”

He just rolled his eyes. You weren’t there to watch it, but you knew.

. .

“Of course, I’ll get that right out for you,” you shoot the fakest smile to the middle-aged man leaning probably too close just to be giving an order. Your sneakers spin on the hardwood floors of the food bar and your hand slips the ticket order into the side pocket of your waitress pouch. Audiences of whatever sport on the tvs and bellowing men ring through your ears until you get called by a coworker of yours. The day had been long, and quite frankly, you were just tired and couldn’t give a damn what she had to say.

“Hey, can you take over that table for me?” Dammit.

She curves her soft hands over one of yours she harshly tugged from your side. With pleading eyes so heavy it looked as if she would cry, she continues, “But I also would like you to give this to one of them. The one with the dark hair.”

She retrieves a small, crumpled paper from her unbuckled pouch lying folded on the waitress stand. You peek at it as she forces it into your hand. You glance at her again.

“A lot of people have dark hair, which is it?”

Her head shakes frantically in reassurance, “You’ll just know. Table 17, corner booth. Just please slip it in the check or something like that.”

An unintentional sigh hinting at your annoyance hangs in the air, but it isn’t like you can stop her from leaving, whether you were just about to clock out or not. Apology is displayed on her face nonetheless, so you grant a soft smile and make your way there after her continuous stream of thank you’s.

You wish you hadn’t.

You walk up to the booth occupied by faces that couldn’t get any more familiar, one being the someone you couldn’t stand, the other that was even more intolerable, and Aran. You liked Aran. He was cool.

Suna has nothing but innocent deceit on his face. After looking around for any employees, or rather managers, you drop next to him on the left side.

“What are you doing here!?” You mainly scolded him, but you looked around at the other two as well. Once again, not really Aran; he was never informed of your workplace and it was most likely your brother’s idea.

“We just came to eat. Yknow, like regular customers.” Your head snapped to your own blood, feeding into the torment of what you were experiencing right now. Was this what bullying felt like?

“Now you can eat with us though, it’s the end of your shift anyway.” Suna adds. That wasn’t the case due to circumstances. As long as you have this uniform on and as long as they were a table in the restaurant with no waitress, you weren’t off duty.

“That’s not how that works.”

“Sit here for a bit. Customer’s request.” The ravenette mouths. You doubt that would work either because interaction with customers were limited. Honestly, with how you were dressed, you loved the rule. Suna’s back lifts when his arms reach out around you, creating as much space as possible to remove his jacket. The man lays it out over your lap, covering the pouch and any signification you were on duty with the exception of the shirt, but you leave and walk in with it on so it didn’t matter.

All things aside, you give in, everything goes well. Catching up with Aran was a joy. Ascertaining that Suna took a shower in your home, just to put on another pair of sweats your brother leant him and the same t-shirt he’d just washed overnight, he did not listen to you and did not leave. You wonder if he ran through your room again just for fun.

You ignored the other two most of the time. Having to see your brother every day; there was no reason to converse with him, but the other took this personally. Extremely personal.

He kept doing things to get your attention. When the person taking your shift came as waiter, he ordered for you just as the words began to spill from your mouth. Only having four people in a wall booth, he had more than enough room to manspread—so he left you nothing but a sliver of space. You tried to scoot him over manually, but of course, it didn’t work. You place both hands on his thigh in an attempt once more.

Having not learned your lesson previously, you’re going to try again. Your fingernails dig into his skin so it would hurt (but he didn’t flinch); you push with all your might and he continued casual conversation. Shoving again, you watch as his eyes flicker in shock, frantically glance to you, and revert as if nothing happened, even though a stern hand held the top of your left still. He fake laughs it off to the rest of the table. So fake, you hadn’t realized it was.

A large, pale hand squeezes yours in its spot, prohibiting movement. Was he ticklish? You force your hand back and forth against his thigh, your hands being unable to lift but having no choice but to move with his flesh, and he squeezes even harder. This hand was closest to his torso, located on the inside of the very top thigh area. So high it was basically his hip.

You hadn’t realized your nails curled right into his groin. Unaware of what was actually happening, you continued for the sole reason it was bothering him in some type of way, resulting in warning looks being shot to you with his tired eyes. Ones you ignored. It hurt because of the coffin shape, Suna had to admit, but it didn’t deflect the blood rushing there.

Finally, his leg closed, but he took a tight hold of your guilty hand and pulled you roughly. He mumbles sternly with his mouth to your ear, “Sit still, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

You just laughed in his face and put both hands to your chin, elbows stationed on the rectangular table. You’d do it again when he wasn’t looking.

He’d caught you less than halfway there the second time, but third is the charm. His guard was let down.

The air was thin and light with loose conversation. Aran’s sister was fine and your brother was thinking of applying for another scholarship. When everything seemed to have died down, french tips clanked against the counter impatiently and your left hand dove under the table once more.

In your peripheral the male visibly stuttered, hips lifting for adjustment and eyes darting to you nervously. This time they hadn’t left and it took everything in you not to acknowledge the mustard gaze. To make it worse, the squeeze of your hand allowed an audible grunt to fall from his lips. His eyes fell as well so your friends noticed, questioned it, but the false voice you’ve fabricated over years of customer service was just too believable.

You squeeze again, the muscle unknowingly growing under your hand. He became fidgety and his breath slightly irregular. Turning your head to glance at him, he locates your eyes immediately—the eyes usually low and apathetic—were yelling to stop. A mischievous giggle worsens the situation, causing his eyes to slim down angrily. He’d prove to you why.

He takes a hold of your wrist and stretches your fingers using his own, sliding them between. He adjusts in his seat again before flattening your hand around his print, using his other hand to cover his mouth casually as he leaned forward on the table. His digits wrap around yours, causing you to wrap around him.

He gave you a preview. With no underwear to hide any inch of it under the fabric, you (he) basically caressed from the base all the way to the tip, the outline becoming more prominent and his body shifting under your touch. You look at him in disbelief at: what he did, what you unconsciously did, or in all his, what—a solid 8 inches at least? If you had to guess?

The idea was to scare you off, but it did quite the opposite. Whenever your hand was released, much to his surprise, it just returned with the same motion tenfold. Luckily, nobody else could hear the sudden deep groan over the laughing people, and the way his back landed with a puff on the soft booth seat only looked somewhat out of the norm. His face was flooding cherry red no matter how bad he didn’t want it to. Both his hands came up to run over his eyes, forehead, and cheeks. Now he braces himself on the seat, gazing down at the sight of your pretty fingers and nails dragging up and down the entirety of him through his pants. The friction was indescribable.

He held watch as you dipped past them.

You knew you’d do anything to get under his skin, but not like this. Of course people found Suna attractive, light athletic build with killer thighs and small eyes, only to be complimented by his dark brown locks and good style (when he cared). So when Nali passed the note to you to give to someone, you could assume it was her number. It’s somewhere lost on the table now. Primarily because if something did happen, coming downstairs to more than two people you can’t stand would send you over the edge and he doesn’t need anyone boosting his ego more than it already is.

But now as you’re stroking him slowly, only the movement of cloth from your hand’s action could describe what was going on. Apart from the man’s darkening gaze too. He was beaming fire into your neck, just as you were chatting away.

“Are you okay?” Your brother is worried for his friend who was flashing a sickly face hinted with anger. The plump of your lip met white teeth, a reddened spot building up as you tried your best to prevent any unwanted facial expression or laughter. Aran became intrigued as well.

Sunarin comes forward to statue both elbows on the table, but without saying a word. Consequently, the question hung low in the air, creating palpable tension at the silence and his direct, unmoving eyes. You ignore it.

Instead, you ring two fingers and ride over the heightened band right where the tip begins. You tighten your hand. Your fingers close around it and meet at the peak, collecting pre-cum and the last of Suna’s patience. The job is done and your hand retreats.

“Yeah.” Breathlessly but barely noticeable, he continues, “Your sister’s just a pain in the ass.”

You dramatically gasp and keep the façade going, just to eventually let him out as per his request for the bathroom. The two boys laugh over their food as Aran receives almost every bad deed you’ve done to his former teammate, just giving him an idea on how you two operate, though you announce your leave to completely end shift and take the pouch off. Once you reach the back and remove any resemblance of your relationship to the restaurant, you reach the one person bathroom. It was a fairly good size.

“Hello? Sunarin?”

©️hxltic