#what the fuck happened to my frontal lobe!?

[star-named-riddle]

Why am I like this?

Guess who got their hands on a prompt that's a dozen words long and is now 23 thousand words deep into it? Yep, it me.

I decided I wasn't going to collect another wip, so the first 15K is part one.

Part two is already 8K and nowhere near being done

Yes, this is about @womenofthehouseofblack and their amazing fest

Guess who has yet another fic quickly approaching the 5k mark also for that fest? Oh yes, it me. Too.

Blame the Black Sisters for it!

But please show up to AO3 in a few days because my insecure ass is going to need validation.

[i-mode]

the zoloft experience

[astuteobservations]

it's kind of like what sky ferreira said, I'm NOT the one.

[joeypottrs]

don’t post hate on main, post it in your discord group 

[29121996]

.

[solarpunksoftie]

,,

[lightseoul]

REVENGE (KEEP US TOGETHER) (1.9k)

a/n. this bkg lives rent-free in my mind. i had scenes and interactions that i wanted to insert in this scenario, but i think i blacked out 300 words in and bakugou and y/n just took the reins from there. anyway, i hope y'all enjoy this one!

c.w. pro-hero!katsuki, aged up (~26), mentions of injuries, mentions of canon-typical violence

the first thing that registers in your mind the moment your eyes flutter (creak) open is that the ceiling looks unfamiliar.

the second thing is that everything hurts like a motherfucking bitch.

but apparently being in a wholly foreign place is enough to trigger the metaphorical alarms in your head, at least enough for you to still muster the strength and presence of mind to scan the area—first, the space on your right—despite the way your body’s practically screaming at you.

what immediately catches your attention is your right arm. it’s nowhere in sight, but you can still vaguely recognize it being attached to the rest of your torso. it takes you a second to realize it’s elevated and wrapped in a thick, white cast, and the moment you do, another wave of pain courses through you, and you find yourself gritting your teeth in its wake.

a few feet behind your heavily bandaged arm seem to be two doors, one of which you think is the entrance to this dimly lit room, the other probably leading to a comfort room.

and, if all of these aren’t indicators enough, the faint beeping sound echoing across the small area gives you the definitive answer that yes, this is a hospital and yes, you are on a fucking hospital bed.

how the fuck did you end up here?

stifling a groan, you attempt to turn your head to the left to examine the other half of the room.

and that’s when you see it.

you freeze—not because the minuscule movement is causing a nauseating throbbing in your frontal lobe—but because you see it.

the all-too-familiar, unruly ash-blonde spikes that can belong to only one person.

from where you lay flat on top of the increasingly uncomfortable bed, you can barely see his forehead, but there’s no denying it.

even more so when the person speaks up.

“you’re awake.”

upon hearing his gruff voice, your stomach instantly drops in dread, so much so that it physically hurts, and you’re starting to think that maybe you’re bleeding internally, too, and that in the midst of whatever happened to you, you hurt your organs as well.

when he says your name in question a few beats later, you make no move to respond, but deep down you know you can’t just close your eyes and pretend you’re asleep again to avoid regarding him entirely.

he literally saw you moving just now.

and so you try to sit up, at least for a whole millisecond, because a pulse of pain shoots through the entirety of your body, and you can’t help the wrangled moan that tumbles out of your lips at the scalding sensation. you barely see him through your half-lidded eyes, but the man jumps up on his feet, finally coming into full view.

bakugou, who’s decked out in full hero gear is looking uncharacteristically worried when he asks: “are you okay?”

you clench your eyes closed, fighting the urge to squirm in discomfort. you merely shake your head, as subtly as you can lest you bust a fucking nerve on your neck, before: “elevate my backrest. i can’t sit up.”

“shit, right.”

it takes him a beat to figure out the controls at the side of your bunk, but when he finally does, you find yourself slowly inclining up until to about 45 degrees.

up 45 degrees and now face-to-face with him.

once the contraption clicks into place, bakugou sits back down on what looks like a stool beside you, an inexplicable expression etched on his features.

and before you can even think better against them, the words are already out of your mouth.

“what are you doing here?”

that must not have been what he was expecting or wanting to hear, because his face immediately contorts into a look of borderline offense.

“the fuck do you mean ‘what am i doing here’?” he scoffs, folding his muscled arms across his expansive chest. “you almost got abducted, dumbass. you’re lucky you made it out alive.”

abducted?

the last thing you remember before you most likely blacked out and were sent to the hospital was that you were just exiting the grocery store that you frequent on Fridays after work when an oddly familiar-looking man appeared before you. he didn’t seem too harmless right up until he emitted his quirk that sent you tumbling across the asphalt and…

that’s just about where your memory cuts off.

“what happened?” you manage to choke out, suddenly feeling scared.

“as i said,” he starts, voice low and strangely hesitant, “you almost got abducted. you passed out after you hit the neighboring building arm first, but a pro-hero patrolling the area managed to get you before the villain could take you with him.”

you gawk at the man. “what the hell would a villain want to do with me?”

at that, bakugou’s face hardens.

“…’s because they want to get back at me.”

a million things beg to be spoken out of your mouth in an instant, but what you end up saying is: “why are you here, then? shouldn’t you be with the police or in the agency if this guy’s got a vendetta against you?”

“seriously?” he retorts, incredulous, before shaking his head in what you think is frustration. his eyes shift to the rest of your body, “you’re fucking injured and yet you’re asking all these stupid questions.”

you feel yourself flame in indignation, but you bite your tongue. if you allow yourself to speak, you may end up saying something you’ll regret later.

“…but if you must know,” he pipes up all of a sudden, catching you off guard, “they said i was your emergency contact.”

his voice is quiet when he asks: “you didn’t change it?”

you gulp despite yourself. thankfully, his eyes remain trained on yours and do not drift down to your throat.

“i forgot to,” you lie out of your ass.

you are not about to tell him it’s because you haven’t had the heart to remove him as your favorite contact, let alone delete his number.

“well…” he starts, diverting his gaze onto the pillow beside you, “…that and the fact that this villain has been after me ever since he got out of prison. fucking bastard can’t accept i apprehended him so fast back then. guess it hurt his fucking ego and wanted revenge.”

you stare at the pro-hero, debating as to whether or not to say the next thing, ultimately deciding for it.

“…and he was planning to do that by hurting me.”

bakugou’s eyes drift towards you again at your statement, a serious glint in them, although he doesn’t say anything in response.

a long pause.

“why didn’t you just tell them we aren’t together anymore?” you finally ask. “you could’ve just referred them to my family or best friends or something.”

“and have them be on my ass about us breaking up?” he quips almost instantaneously. “you were rushed to the er—i didn’t have time for that shit. and in case you’ve forgotten from that time they found out about us—”

“of course i haven’t,” you cut him off, eyes trained downcast on your fiddling fingers. “it wasn’t like i wanted the media to find out we were together in the first place. my point is that it would save you a lot of trouble if we just suck it up and announce it. that way, you won’t have to play pretend and be forced to be my guardian, and i don’t get targeted by vengeful villains anymore.”

when you finally look up at the man, the frown that found its place on bakugou’s mouth at the start of your spiel has apparently now deepened into a scowl.

“what?” you ask before you can rein yourself in.

“i’m sorry you got hurt,” he states sternly. “ i should’ve kept a closer eye on you despite everything, and i’m taking full responsibility for what happened. but—”

“—katsuki,” you try to interject.

“—but don’t think i’m in front of you right now just because i feel guilty or that i just didn’t want to deal with the fucking press,” he huffs. “i—”

you wait for a moment for him to continue, but he doesn’t. his mouth only opens as if he’s going to say something before it closes again, then opens, and closes.

despite yourself, your heart physically aches at the sight of him struggling to verbalize his feelings. you hesitate for a second, before finally deciding to say it.

“…i know what you mean.”

at that, bakugou whips to look at you, an almost imperceptible, stunned expression on his sullen features. “you do?”

you nod. “…i still care for you, too, you know? even if i try to talk myself out of it, i still find myself going through the news all the time to make sure you’re alright.”

and you really, really do.

because, at the end of the day, you didn’t break up because you fell out of love or anything remotely close to that.

it was an amicable agreement to part ways because you had absolutely little to no time for each other—what with bakugou’s demanding schedule as a rising pro-hero—and almost every little time he had free was always in conflict with your own career.

you both tried to make it work, you really did—adjusting and compromising and adapting in every way you could—but when it all boiled down to it you were always left disappointed, frustrated, and frustratingly yearning for each other.

and so before the love you’ve carefully cultivated together could morph into ugly resentment—with you hating each other—you both decided to just call it quits.

you chance a glance at the man, whose gaze has visibly softened at your admission.

and you wish you really couldn’t, or you wish you’d forget how to recognize it, but you can’t deny the look of what you’ve long identified as longing that’s written all over his face.

but before you can say anything about it, a soft array of knocks resonates from the door, catching both of your attention.

not a few seconds after, a nurse squeezes herself through the entrance, holding a clipboard close to her chest.

“sorry to interrupt your conversation,” she starts, painfully timid, “but i just wanted to inform you that the premiere suite is now ready, and we can now move the patient there.”

you whip (as much as you can, at least) to look at bakugou, who only shoots you a look telling you to just roll with it. you purse your lips in a thin line, itching to protest, but manage to not say anything as the nurse continues.

“…i’ll also have to talk to mr. bakugou later on as he is your registered guardian. i’ll just drop by again later in the suite so i can take your vitals as well. that’s basically it for now, thank you!”

and just as fast as she appeared, the nurse was gone.

when you’re sure she’s out of earshot, you turn to the man. “this is too much, katsuki.”

he merely shakes his head but again, doesn’t say anything.

you stare at him for a few more beats before finally sighing in what you feel is resignation.

this is going to be a long night.

tagging. @bunnysaursushii @yawnzzzzzzzz @cholios @kashee-h @iluv-ace @lotuslovers @elarakive @sugurusmoon @k0z3me

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 my asks are always open as well. have a lovely day, y'all!

[silkscream]

possession

venom!peter x silk!reader

ੈ✩ synopsis: peter parker is not himself when he falls into your universe. it must be a curse that he finds himself tethered to you. the darkness inside him has never wanted anything more.

ੈ✩ genres: strangers to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst, slow burn

ੈ✩ cw: smut (18+ only minors dni), unprotected sex, slightly dubcon, biting, masturbation, violence, gore, self-harm, angst, codependent relationships, slightly ooc peter

ੈ✩ wc: 10k+

ੈ✩ a/n: this is post-nwh. i’ve been working on this for months and i finally feel comfortable posting it even though i still have a love/hate relationship with this story. hopefully i’ll muster up enough energy to make a part two because i certainly have more in store for them. (i miss peter so bad)

ੈ✩ playlist | ੈ✩ masterlist

Peter wakes up with a sharp, throbbing pain in the back of his skull. Maybe if he was lucky, he had completely knocked the wind out of his frontal lobe. Maybe he’d woken in the middle of a coma-induced dream state. As he blinks his eyes open, through the haze of the world around him, his environment pulls itself together. What he sees isn’t familiar.

This isn’t his room.

Maybe this isn’t his body, either. He hopes it isn’t, but he feels the sting of a side wound like an electric shock when he stretches his upper body slightly. 

He scans the walls in search of clues. He knows he’s not in danger – at least, he doesn’t think so – considering that he’s in a girl’s room and not a cavernous dungeon. His vision is dreamlike, blurry, still. When he squints at his surroundings, he can see posters on the walls and books stacked in every corner. He shivers when he realizes he’s looking around the room without his mask. Where the fuck is it?

When Peter looks down at his body, he notices how it stings and frowns at the few rips of lycra on his suit that showcase bloody wounds underneath. The bruise on his cheekbone throbs along with the tension headache that plagues his temples. He can taste copper in his mouth from his split lip. 

“You’re awake.”

The voice startles him. Everything is still sensitive, his joints and wounds and the act of occupying his body. The sound of someone else’s voice in the room triggers enough adrenaline in him to shoot out a web in the direction of the bodily presence that enters.

You frown, cringing at his attack, but you don’t look as startled as he would expect. He widens his eyes when he sees that you’ve dodged his webs completely. Sitting up, he winces from the sharp pain on his side.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Reflex.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

He doesn’t know what to do other than stare. Quite frankly, he didn’t expect to have to entertain a stranger tonight, nor did he think that his identity would be compromised in the presence of one. He’d barely remembered what had happened before he’d gotten knocked out. All he could recall was pain and the taste of blood in his mouth. Glancing at the slenderness of your fingers, he realizes that he doesn’t even remember your hands pulling him toward safety.

“You took my mask.”

“Wanted to make sure your face wasn’t broken. I didn’t take any pictures or call the cops if that’s what you think.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he asks cautiously.

“I'm not particularly fond of them. Unless you want me to test how much ransom a loose Spider-man is worth.”

He blinks at the name, considering how ironic it is that you are the first person to see him in his most vulnerable state since his world changed for the worse. You, this unassuming stranger, who happened to have enough kindness to lug his body into your home. 

He’s on edge. Of course, he is; he feels as if he’s been kidnapped, but the acuteness of his senses feels differently than they do when his body knows a threat is in front of him. Instead, it feels like the kaleidoscope of neurons inside him collects together in clear recognition. Like he knows you in his soul alone.

“How did you– how did you even get me up here? I was in an alley, and then–”

“And then I carried you back to my apartment.”

He narrows his eyes.

“Don’t see how that’s possible,” he mutters. 

You surprise him by shooting a web from your fingertips to grab a water bottle from your desk and having it recoil into your hand without much effort.

Oh. 

He asks you your name, and you tell him. When you ask him the same, he shifts uncomfortably and doesn’t answer you. You don’t take it personally.

Christ, he needs to leave now. But he’s transfixed by your big eyes and your curious stare, and he begins to wonder about you in the same way, as if you are the wounded butterfly he’d picked up on the street instead of the other way around. 

You’re fucking weird, Peter’s decided, because, after this, you don’t ask him any more questions. Not anything that deviates from your concern about his wounded state. 

You’re rather casual, which surprises him. You make him a cup of tea, lend him some of your oversized clothes (they fit him perfectly), and force him to stay on your bed so you can attempt to tend to his wounds. (He doesn’t let you.)

Naturally, he watches you wash your dishes and he plays the interrogation game, and you let him. You tell him that you’re in Brooklyn. You negate the idea of him swinging back to his house despite how much he insists. When he asks why, you’re hesitant. 

“You’re probably safer here,” you sigh, almost impatiently.

He doesn’t argue when he feels the ache in his bones again.

“How is it that you’re like me?”

“I was also bitten by a radioactive spider.”

“Shit. There was another one?”

You don’t answer. God, your nonchalance freaks him the fuck out.

Why aren’t you fazed? What the fuck is wrong with you?

Maybe Peter will fake you out and flee, and he’ll forget all about you. He’ll never come near you again. But then there’s the warmth of your voice, and he stubbornly refuses to give in.

“I’m too fucking tired for all this interrogation, okay?” you exasperate. “You can take the bed. Or the couch. I don’t care. Just pick one.”

Why the hell are you letting a stranger crash at your place?

He doesn’t register it coming out of his mouth. You scoff.

“I’ve been through worse. And you’re barely a threat.” 

Peter should feel offended, he thinks, but mostly he’s fascinated by you. He doesn’t blame you for your crabbiness once he sees the clock on your wall read 2:45 am. There’s a nebulous pause between the two of you now, so you make the first move by turning away from him and rummaging through your drawers. You throw an oversized t-shirt and sweats toward him that he catches immediately.

Without a word, you leave the room, which leaves him confused. He thinks that maybe you’re coming back eventually, washing up in the bathroom, but after twenty minutes of examining the knick-knacks and pictures on your wall, your absence is louder than ever. He frowns when he steps out and sees your sleeping figure on the living room couch. Shit. You were serious about him taking the bed.

He peers at you again, eyes adjusting to the room's pitch-black darkness until the window's blue moonlight allows him to see your face. You look peaceful, at bliss, almost. 

Peter should just fucking leave. He contemplates this for over an hour as he lays in your bed, frowning at the ceiling because he’s not letting himself succumb to your weirdly kind offer of staying in your bed as a complete stranger. 

Yeah, there had to be something wrong with you. You’d probably taken him in to use for human meat to sell on the black market or something. The whole girl-next-door thing was definitely a facade. It was.

Fuck you and your pretty eyes and pretty hair and how he could smell it everywhere in the room regardless of whether or not you were in it. Fuck you and your soft sheets and obnoxious amount of pillows. 

Of course, once Peter is done ruminating, the sleep he has in your bed is the best he’s had in fucking weeks. 

__

Your bed smells just like you. Like your sheets are fresh out of the laundry with a hint of something citrusy. Peter can barely open his eyes, but the sunlight from your window annoyingly beams onto his bruised face. The warmth licks his face. 

He can hear the barely-there pattering of your light footsteps in the hallway. The hissing of a kettle. He emerges from your bedroom cautiously like a wild animal released from captivity. Your back is turned to him as you hum something nonspecific, some song he thinks he might’ve liked when he was in high school, but he doesn’t remember the name of it.

“Good morning, Peter,” you murmur, looking up and turning around when you notice his presence.

He furrows his brows. There’s a gleam in Peter’s eye that you can tell is untrusting. Like he’s expecting you to attack him.

“I never told you my name.”

Your gaze softens with sympathy. For some reason, you utter a soft apology.

“You already knew about me, but I didn’t know about you,” he accuses, arms crossed. “Why?”

You sigh. “Have you heard of the multiverse, Peter?”

No. No fucking way.

In a panic, he makes his way toward the front door of your apartment, but you beat him to it with two hands on his chest to block him.

“Peter! Peter, stop–”

“What the fuck is going on? Where am I?” 

He doesn’t realize that he feels short of breath, chest heaving as he clutches you by the shoulders. He also doesn’t realize the extent of his super-strength, though you don’t complain or flinch from the contact.

“I’ll explain if you just calm down,” you reply, your voice still calm. Even in crisis, you’re still so fucking soft, so placid, and Peter isn’t sure if the fact is comforting or terrifying.

Something catches in his throat when you place your warm palms on his cheeks, an embrace too loving and nurturing for a stranger like him to deserve. The entire gesture rewires his brain instantly. Despite his ragged breathing, he stills and nods slowly. 

“You’re on a different version of Earth. Okay? In this version, I’m the one who got bitten by a radioactive spider. I’m Silk.”

“I’m not supposed to be here.”

It comes out more like a question than a statement. You shake your head. 

“No. I don’t know how you got here, but I promise you’ll be able to make it back. There’s a lot of us–”

“I know about the multiverse. I’ve– I’ve met other versions. Of myself.”

“You have?” you raise an eyebrow. 

He hesitates. His brown eyes search yours, scanning your face until his gaze falls through you to fixate on your collarbone instead of your eyes. He blinks with a glassy scrutiny that bleeds with anxiety.

“I fucked things up on my Earth, and now no one knows who I am. No one knows who Peter Parker is, I mean. But why do you know who I am? How did you find me?”

“You know there are other Peters. I’ve met other Peters. After the multiverse nearly collapsed, the Spider Society was created. As a preventative measure, so that shit doesn’t happen again. All of us have the same story, and fucking it up fucks everyone else up, to put it simply. That can be something we can unpack for later. And I– I felt your presence. And I wanted to keep you safe, so I took you in..”

“There was something out there last night when I fell through. I don’t even remember how I got here. It was like waking up inside of a dream.”

The bewildered look in Peter’s eyes has you nearly as panicked as he is because you recognize it all too well. You’d seen it in the mirror yourself when you had first got bitten by that damn spider, however, at that time, you were fifteen and alone. 

“What thing?”

“Something… dark. Amorphous. I don’t know.”

You frown. Your hands are still on him. His face feels like it’s on fire.

The thing inside his body screams at a frequency he can’t understand. It’s so loud that he can’t even hear himself think. 

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.

Shut the fuck up.

Peter jumps and takes a step back. When you try to move in tandem with him, he doesn’t let you. The voice in his head has a rasp unfamiliar to him, and it wants to overtake him. Fuck, is he hallucinating? Is he being fucking possessed?

Get out. Get out. Get the fuck out.

I don’t have anywhere else to go, Peter. 

GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BODY.

Look at her. Fucking delicious. We have to devour her. Now. NOW. NOW.

He won’t remember it later, but he runs through your bedroom door to the window, fumbling on the hinges until he nearly falls off your fire escape. When you relay this to him later, he’s bewildered, shaking. Too afraid to touch you. Too afraid to be in your apartment at all. Unsure of his memory, considering his lack of ability to recall any of this.

And yet, the warmth of your touch drinks him in, and he thinks that if he’s going to be trapped in a different universe than his own, he’s comfortable being in yours, under your roof. After he blacks out, your face is the only thing he can remember when he dreams.

__

The nightmares wake him up this time. He remembers the horrors of the night before you had found his mangled body in the alleyway. He remembers the pain, the glitch in the atmosphere that had seemed to have his body bursting through the seams, and the black entity that consumed his skin and stuck to it like glue. He remembers what it felt like to be transformed. He just doesn’t remember by what.

When Peter’s lids flutter open, he sees that his environment is sterile and sanitized. You make eye contact with him, and his honey-brown eyes darken, almost spiteful. The longer you look at his face, the more you notice he looks like a child.

He attempts to get up from the bed, but he’s restrained to it. He groans quietly, sucking his teeth.

“You’ll be out soon.”

He doesn’t say anything, though the grimace on his face says a thousand words. Instead, he scoffs.

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.

The voice in his head is faint and raspy, though, unlike the other times, it’s barely there – much more muted than before. It comes as a passing thought, so nonchalant and quiet that Peter almost convinces himself that it’s something he hears echoed from the hallway nearby. 

Your expression doesn’t falter. You merely watch him with curious eyes. It makes his skin hot. 

“What happened?” he finally asks.

“You don’t remember?”

Peter doesn’t shake his head, nor does he look confused. He stays neutral as if he’s testing you. His jaw clenches.

“You fucking scared me, you know,” you mutter. There’s an exhaustion to your voice. How long has he fucking been here?

“Tell me.”

“It’s like you weren’t in your body,” you breathe. “Your eyes were all dark and you were trying to run away from me. You passed out after trying to jump off the fire escape. I thought you were trying to kill yourself, Peter.”

He notices that the edge in your voice is languishing, full of a distinct type of worry that he hasn’t felt from anyone else in ages. No one’s known him in over a year. But here you are, from a different universe, sitting across from him in this room with a face that almost looks like it’s about to be ruined with tears.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know.”

“Why am I here?”

“I don’t know what happened. The tests they ran on you – it’s nothing we’ve seen before. Or yet.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“We use a device to send our Spider-people home based on your DNA. Or the spider you were bitten by since that’s what tethers you to your Earth. We thought you might go home and transport back to your universe, but you didn’t. The system fucking went berserk after scanning you.”

Peter’s first instinct is to say I’m sorry, but he knows that would be stupid, and the parasitic thing in his body shuts him down. He clamps his eyes shut to find darkness under all the harsh fluorescent lighting, but the hint of something sinister shakes his body in a way he can’t explain. He briefly remembers the moments before he allegedly tried to jump off the fire escape of your bedroom. Your soft eyes. Your hands on his face.

Your hand touches his now, and it makes his whole body jerk. 

(Your warmth reminds him of someone else’s, and for that, the thing in him wants to fucking kill you.)

__

Miguel doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with Peter, either. He has other shit on his plate, like chasing misfits through the multiverse. 

Peter gets tired of the tests. It’s not like they’re doing anything because every so often, the thing inside him is lecherous and makes him feel disgusting for reasons beyond him. You are the only thing that keeps him calm. It’s like a manifestation of some curse cast upon him, a plague of a punishment.

In between the tests, he stays at yours. You don’t talk to him much because of your hours at the office, and when you’re home, you mostly eat dinner in silence. Sometimes Peter cooks and has dinner warm for you before you get home because he’s impatient and knows how to make a few basic meals from living alone in that dingy apartment.

It’s mundane. Comforting. In some stupid, twisted way, Peter wants to keep it. Keep you. Even if he won’t admit it. 

He doesn’t have to be Spider-Man on your Earth, and no one knows his identity. He almost feels like a housewife from how he dotes on you in small ways without you asking, this domesticity he’s adapted just because he can. His injuries have healed, and he works on yours instead. 

You reject his help because you’re used to it. Still, he hovers by the bathroom door when you bind your wounds.

He watches you with bated breaths, bottom lip sucked in his teeth. You have no qualms about the pair of eyes on you – at least, you don’t show it. 

“That shit’s gonna get infected.”

You roll your eyes without looking at him. Your nimble fingers work on patching up the cut under your breast instead.

“I know what I’m doing,” you huff.

“You didn’t even put Neosporin on it.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t have Neosporin in this universe?” he asks, an incredulous expression on his face.

You shrug. 

“Again, I know what I’m doing.”

“Maybe I should be out there with you on patrol.”

Your head whips around then, studying Peter’s face. He stares back at you with a seriousness that doesn’t break. You narrow your eyes.

“We’re working on getting you home, Peter. I’m not dragging you into my shit.”

“You dragged me into your shit the moment you took me in.”

You grimace, saying nothing. Your lack of response annoys him, but more than anything, it chips away at his ego. 

Maybe you regret rescuing him. The thought brings dread to his chest, guilt riding up in the caverns of the space he holds for you, which has grown bigger and bigger as the weeks go on. He thinks that if the two of you had met in different circumstances, normal ones, perhaps the two of you would be friends. 

He’d been alone for far too long. The scrubbing of his identity already turned him into a shell. The old Peter would’ve been much more proactive about this situation. He certainly would’ve been less fucking moody. But he knows there’s no one to accuse him of not being his usual self because nobody knows him anymore, except you.

__

Peter is so fucking bored of staying in your apartment. He needs something to keep him going, whether it’s crime or college. Cooped up in your home, he feels like nothing at all.

Sometimes, that feeling subsides when you’re home with him all domestic. He agrees to your movie nights despite protesting your incessant preference for horror. He likes how you curl your lip in a smirk when you tease him for being so damn jumpy.

While your relationship is mildly symbiotic, the thought of you permeates him more and more, usually at night. He has dreams of you that he’d be ashamed to relay when he’s awake. The thing inside him lurches, wants with so much zeal that he has to take measures to calm it down.

One night, when you return from patrol, your Silk suit ripped at your bicep, hip, and the space that’s supposed to cover your ribcage. He lets you patch yourself up like you always do without words other than an annoyed gruff. 

Peter can’t get the sight of your bloody wound out of his head, the exposed skin under your breast. Even the tightness of your suit allures him more than it should, which is fucking ridiculous. It’s nearing five weeks since he dropped into your universe. He should be used to you by now. 

“You good?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh-huh.”

You know that’s not true. Peter looks like he’s seen a ghost. You don’t pry. You stopped doing that weeks ago.

The second he leaves your room, he runs the shower on cold. 

You want it.

“Shut up,” he growls under his breath.

Peter has never wished for a lobotomy, and certainly not as much as he is now.

You want her. Take her.

Shivering does nothing for him. He turns the water up to hot, nearly scalding, just as he’s convinced himself to like it. The thing inside him is consuming him, getting closer and closer to his point of breaking, and he knows it. Every moment he can’t be around you for more than a minute, he knows it. 

The only thing that satiates the feeling is to take action himself. To truly quiet that dark, venomous desire, he has to touch himself for release, and he’s ashamed that you’re the thought at the apex of it every single time. Each time he reaches his peak, he can almost make out the figure expanding over his own, a viscous black substance that seems to breathe over his veins. Once he comes to bed with you, it’s gone.

__

The stupid urges make him feel animalistic. It’s never been like this. 

Images of you with your suit ripped at the seams and flashes of your bare skin reel in his brain constantly. It’s embarrassing. He’s not fucking sixteen.

You bother less with pleasantries now that it’s been nearly two months since he fell into your universe. After the initial shock of his situation, of course, he’d had a billion questions, to which you attempted to answer to the best of your ability. Proactive as ever, he’d opted to go to the Spider Society himself on several occasions without you, attempting to understand what could be keeping him tethered to your universe, and to no avail. 

After those trials and tribulations, he’d become withdrawn. 

“Wanna watch a movie?” you try one night. He shrugs. It’s an answer to most of your questions now. It’s starting to get fucking annoying.

“You mentioned you like Star Wars, right?”

“Sure,” Peter mumbles.

“I’ve never seen the prequels.”

It’s the only thing that brings light to his eyes in maybe a week, you notice. The only other times you see that lightness is when you catch Peter in secret moments cozying up to your cat, Ferris.

(Weird name for a cat, he’d remarked. You tell him you’d watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off the day you found him in the alleyway.)

Now Peter is settled on your couch with a soft black t-shirt clinging loosely to his frame. Maybe he doesn’t mean to be on the complete opposite side of the sofa, but the distance feels more apparent to you than it should. Ferris purrs in Peter’s lap. Traitor.

You pretend you aren’t fixated by the slight freckles that decorate his nose. Or his collarbone. Or the way that he smells just like you because he hasn’t bothered to ask you to buy him soap for himself.

You get bits and pieces of Peter’s personality over time. You learn that his favorite Thai dish is larb, just like you. He’s incredibly smart, which isn’t unlike you, but you certainly give less shits about the scientific aspect of the multiverse than he does. He has a guilty pleasure for sugary cereal. He loves the Velvet Underground. He has a freckle under his abs on the left side of his body. He’s annoyingly persistent in helping you patch yourself up.

When you hear the sound of your name in his voice, you wince.

“You zoning out already?”

“Huh?”

He gives you a look and you can’t help but giggle.

“You didn’t even hear anything I just said.”

“I was having flashbacks,” you shrug, blinking back at Natalie Portman on the television screen instead of Peter’s eyes. “To my Padme Halloween costume.”

“That’s stolen valor!”

“I was twelve, dipshit. It was on sale at Specter Halloween and there was nothing left.”

“Spirit Halloween?”

You furrow your brows.

“Oh my god. Nevermind.”

For some reason, this reaction makes you pull the fleece blanket from his body. You mumble a rushed apology to your cat, who scrambles off of Peter’s lap in an instant. Peter is quick to pull the blanket back immediately until the two of you end up in a tug of war. You see a flash of grinning teeth. 

“Peter!” you squeal when he yanks the blanket so hard that you nearly fall off the couch.

“Why do you have so much energy– dude!” You’re almost in his lap but he’s faster than you. You are so close to using your webs on him.

A flush of heat spreads over your cheeks when he has you pinned to the couch, arms above your head with the blanket now forgotten on the floor. His knees are on each side of you, so squirming does nothing for your cause.

“Relax,” he gruffs. 

You can’t tell if his eyes shift in darkness or if it’s just a trick of the television light. The warmth emanating from his cheeks matches yours. The way his legs are spread above yours is vulnerable, and so is the way you’re looking at him, and – fuck, can you stop looking at him like that?

You feel the grip on your wrists loosen as he shuffles to his feet, nearly tripping over the discarded blanket.

“We need more popcorn,” he mumbles.

Fixing the mess of your hair, you peer at him through the dimness. 

“That was the last bag.”

“I can get some more then.” 

He pulls on the hoodie that’s draped over the armchair – your oversized hoodie, in fact – and it’s clearly too tight on him.

“What? It’s late. Are you – are you hungry or something? I can make you food.”

“With what?” he snaps. “We haven’t been able to go grocery shopping yet this week.”

“Well, it’s too fucking late for that now.”

Silence permeates the space between the two of you. The seconds that pass feel so long. There is no void in Peter’s head, only the sound of a disgusting, gnawing desire. Grotesque wanting. He wishes you would just leave so he can scrub himself raw in the shower like he usually does.

She smells so good.

“I’ll get some stuff from the bodega. I need– I need air, anyway,” Peter stammers. “Should swing around and stuff. I’m holed up in here every goddamn day.”

The comment stings. It’s not your fault that he’s stuck here like a stray cat. He knows that, so he feels guilty when his words come out with more bite than he intends. He can’t stand to see the way your bottom lip trembles slightly as you look away from him, mumbling something of a useless apology even when you both know you have nothing to apologize for.

You flinch when the door slams behind him.

__

You don’t see Peter the next morning even though your keys hang right next to the doorway. The window by your bed is left slightly ajar, so you assume that it’s meant for him. 

It’s fine. He had already expressed his cabin fever to you, so it makes sense that he’d be out exploring the city. (This is what you tell yourself throughout the day, even though you can’t stop feeling an ache in your gut.)

Your day is mundane, but they always are, you suppose. Maybe they haven’t felt as such since you had company every day. Peter’s absence is so much more apparent than it should be. You haven’t been without him in a bit. Even at your stupid day job, he occupies your mind, and the mere knowledge of his absence sears a hole in your heart. It feels pathetic. Maybe he’s home. Maybe he’d come back after you’d left for work. 

When you get home in the evening, he’s nowhere to be found. You pretend that it’s nothing to you. You still make dinner for two.

__

Once you’re settled for bed, Peter is on the other side of town at a random bar. It’s a miracle he gets in without an official ID and all, not to mention his boyish face. A raven-haired girl who skips the line takes a liking to him, plus she seems to know the bouncer. She’s attached to Peter like a moth for the rest of the night. 

She’s daring and touchy, with a sense of humor that’s too over-familiar to appear charming. Peter doesn’t have to do much except nod and smirk to seduce her, downing shot after shot just so he can feel a buzz instead of irritation whenever the girl has her hands on him. On the dance floor, the shape of her body slightly resembles yours, maybe. She reeks of over-saturated vanilla, like the inside of a Victoria’s Secret. 

When he fucks her in her lavish penthouse, he can only think of you. He thinks her apartment is boring, lacks character, and looks soulless. It’s nothing like yours. It doesn’t even begin to contain the same warmth. Peter feels similarly about the girl, but he’d had enough shots in the bar to ignore that emptiness. For now, he feels full with his cock inside her, hearing her whiny pleas and soft moans as her face gets buried into the mattress. He only cums when he thinks of your face.

It’s not enough.

Shut the fuck up, Peter screams in his head. Shut up.

Though, we’re hungry, aren’t we? 

No.

Peter groans, digging his teeth into the girl’s neck as his fingertips press into the curve of her waist. He shuts his eyes, breathing rapidly as his body relaxes on top of hers. None of her sweet nothings registers in his brain. He holds off the violence in his head until she’s fast asleep, to his relief, because then he can return to you.

___

You’re wide awake when Peter fumbles with your bedroom window at three in the morning. He nearly trips next to your bed, but he braces himself, landing his hands on the softness of your rug. 

You hear him sigh. Maybe you’ve become too attuned to him. Every movement he makes is a small earthquake to you, so present and real as he unravels even when he’s just taking a few steps toward you. Maybe you’re imagining his breath behind your neck. Maybe you’re dreaming and you wish for it.

He assumes you’re asleep when he crawls into bed with you. This is only the second time. The first time, he’d had a nightmare on the couch and you had offered your warmth. At the moment, he’s inexplicably warm as he wraps his arms around your waist.

“Where were you?” you whisper. 

“Out.”

“You smell like a high school girl’s locker room.”

He snorts, tightening the grip he has over your middle. You feel his breath tickling the nape of your neck.

“Okay.”

“You gonna answer me?”

“Why does it matter? ‘m a big boy.”

“It matters when I’m responsible for you and I don’t know where you are.”

“I was always going to come back.”

You don’t say anything to that. You think this is too intimate, but you can’t help but admit to yourself that it’s what you need. The touch of someone else. The feeling of warmth enveloping your body.

You haven’t felt him this close to you before, at least when you’re this hypervigilant. Stretching your back slightly, you decide to turn to face him. Your body curls naturally into Peter’s without a second thought.

You notice the way he bites the inside of his bottom lip subtly. It’s dumb, how rapidly his heart beats now that you’re looking right at him. You pretend you don’t feel it from being so close to him, but it makes your heart elate.

Peter closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see your face. It’s not like the action helps him calm his heart down, because fuck, you’re so warm and soft and pliant in his arms. He’s gotten good at quieting the voice in his head lately but he’s still afraid of it consuming him. 

“Goodnight, Peter,” you murmur. 

He pretends he’s asleep. It takes everything in him to keep up the facade until he knows for sure you’ve passed out inches away from him.

___

When Peter wakes before you, something primal pushes his senses into overdrive. You smell so fucking sweet. It’s like the universe wants him to eat you.

She’s right there on a platter for you. Just for you.

He’s good at restraining it. Sucking in his teeth, his eyes scan the curves of your waist to the soft edges of your lips. 

Despite his restraint, he can’t be in the room with you right now. Certainly not in the same bed basking in your warmth. For fuck’s sake, what were you thinking, allowing him into your bed in the first place?

He already knows the answer – kindness is what fuels you—your altruism. When the mind gets the best of him, Peter curses at your character when he’s alone. Sometimes he’s on a random rooftop bombarded by thoughts of you. Sometimes he’s in your shower.

If anything, you were perfect, so perfect that Peter couldn’t stand it. So warm and pretty and pleasant that even the way he touches his cock doesn’t dirty the image he has of you in his head. You’re too pure, even when you use your nasty tongue against him, even when you fight him. 

The slightest showcase of your bare skin doesn’t help the cause. Peter retreats to the couch again even though you tell him that you don’t mind the space he takes up in your bed. He can’t tell you he’s doing it for your safety. 

Even so, he’s so attuned to you that he hears your midnightmare whines in the night as if you were right next to him. And when he guards your bed like a dog while you’re asleep, he tries not to focus on the shape of your collarbone. Of course not. He convinced himself that he was lonely, fucking pathetic. He tells himself that the mere sight of your exposed neck and the pout of your lips does nothing to him at all. 

__

Peter comes with you to headquarters. The other spiders are sympathetic to him, often over-friendly. He sticks to you like a lost puppy.

“Did Miguel figure out anything yet?”

“Huh?”

“About getting me home.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise, though your expression neutralizes once you look away. It was stupid to hold any value towards Peter. This is what you tell yourself, at least, so you must remind yourself that his questions aren’t out of left field. 

You refused to face the reality that you’d grown attached to him, that his presence had felt normal to you after he’d stayed with you for more than two months. 

“Still working on it,” you reply, giving him a sheepish smile. 

You feel guilty despite telling the truth. No tests could decipher why Peter was immune to being sent off back to his universe. No updates to the technology had worked, either. 

(You don’t really know what he’s still doing here, especially considering how quiet it is at headquarters today. You’re only really there to assist Margo in perfecting the gizmo that helps Miguel verse-jump.)

“I got you lunch, though. And feel free to leave whenever you want, I might stay late.” 

You drop a paper bag in front of him. The contents reveal a Cuban sandwich, bread smooshed flat with extra pickles. His favorite. You’d remembered his long rant about missing Delmar’s.

The gesture is sweet. You’re sweet, even though you’re a hard shell to break. 

The voice in his head is louder than usual today. Once you’re in a separate room, he feels immediately desperate for your presence, and he can’t tell if this is one of his usual emotions. The moment he fell into your world, besides feeling possessed, the emotions he experiences within his body are unlike him. Stronger, desperate, on the brink of detonation. 

“I’m sorry you’re stuck here,” you stammer after clearing your throat. 

“I’m lucky,” Peter shrugs. His eyes don’t waver from yours. “That you’re the one taking care of me, I mean. You’re kind for letting me stay.”

For keeping me. Do you want to keep me as much as I want to keep you?

The smile you give him is saccharine as you flush. He wonders if it’s fake, secretly full of vitriol. Perhaps he’ll find out when the both of you are home. 

He decides to give you space for the rest of the afternoon. After boring himself with floating in and out of random stores in Manhattan, he returns to your apartment in the evening, jiggling your bedroom window open even though you had given him a spare key. 

None of the lights are on except a glow emitting from behind the bathroom door, left open slightly. 

Your eyes shoot open when you hear the creak of the door. In the dimness of your bathroom, the only thing that helps you see Peter’s face is the dozens of tealight candles you have around the bathtub.

He gulps, mumbling an apology as he looks away. 

“You’re home earlier than I thought you’d be,” he murmurs.

“I was having massive brain fog all day so I came home early,” you tell him. He nods in understanding without saying anything. He doesn’t know why he’s lingering.

“You clearly haven’t figured out the concept of a front door.”

He blinks at the wet sheen of your collarbone, how the candles flicker an orange light across your face, and then he looks away again. 

“Sorry. Force of habit.”

“Well, you should try it. You have a key,” you snort. 

Peter’s heartbeat races. God, you smell so fucking good. Like citrus and sandalwood and sunlight. There’s no way he’s going to be able to sleep next to you tonight.

TAKE HER RIGHT NOW. FUCKING DO IT.

“Uh, I’ll leave you be,” he rasps, accidentally slamming the bathroom door closed. 

He knows you’ll be annoyed about it later, but he unlatches your bedroom window again to get outside and feel the fresh air. He doesn’t know what to do with his energy, with the gnawing in his body, so he tries to get his breathing even on the roof of your building. 

“Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off,” Peter mumbles in succession, straining his body. 

On the concrete of the rooftop, he lies down and stares at the evening sky, trying to think of literally anything else, but he can’t. He knows that your existence isn’t a curse, that whatever it is that’s plaguing him is deep within his body, but he doesn’t know how to exorcize it. 

In a frenzy, he rips his suit from his body because the thing inside him is begging for stimulation. Thoughts of you flood his brain. Every angle of you, every memory, every scent. You would be surprised to know how much he’s memorized about you considering how rarely he likes to make eye contact.

And God, your eyes. How would you feel if you were watching him right now? Would you be disgusted? Would you be as disgusted as Peter is with himself?

It takes a minute or two of palming his dick before he finishes just from thinking about you. He groans lowly, animalistic, and there still isn’t any relief despite the mess he’s made on his suit. 

YOU’D FEEL BETTER IF IT WAS HER.

Fuck you.

Why is he so goddamn flustered? He’s literally slept next to you. And it isn’t like he saw anything when you were in the bathtub. Just your bare face, your wet shoulders–

Fuck, he’s hard again. Peter doesn’t think he’s been this hard in his entire life. 

It doesn’t take long for him to cum again even with all the overstimulation. You’re probably wondering where he is, too. He hopes to God you aren’t in your room so he can sneak back in quietly and get changed, maybe throw in a load of laundry so he doesn’t give himself away.

This is so stupid. So, so stupid.

Luck is on Peter’s side when he crawls back into your apartment. He hears you humming from the kitchen and the smell of onions and garlic wafts under his nose. He strips quietly and changes into new clothes.

“Pete?”

Sighing, he follows the sound of your voice. The smile you give him is nearly blinding.

“Where were you?”

“Uhh, checking the mail.”

“For half an hour?” you raise a brow.

He shrugs. An excuse makes its way into his mind.

“And I went out to look for cat food. We ran out. I couldn’t find the, uh, brand Ferris likes, though. Sorry.”

“Wow,” you give him a hint of a smirk. The cat in question jumps onto your shoulder as you bend down to get a pot from one of the lower cupboards. “You hear that, Ferris? Seems like Petey cares if you live or die.”

You coo at the small tabby, who meows in response. Peter rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance.

“And you still haven’t figured out how to use the front door. Do you need a live tutorial from me or what?” 

Peter bites the inside of his cheek as he sits down at the island, watching as you pour crushed tomatoes into the pot. The sight makes him awfully nostalgic. You’re the first person who’s cooked for him in years. 

“Let me be,” he huffs, the hint of a chuckle in his voice. “And you’re gonna get cat hair in the pasta sauce.”

“No. Ferris is so well-groomed.”

“Not when he sheds all over my clothes.”

“You should be thankful he likes to roll around in your dirty laundry pile. That means he likes you, you know.”

Silence stews in the room, save for the sounds of boiling water. Peter takes the liberty to unlock your phone and put one of your playlists on the speaker. 

He clears his throat. “You need any help?”

“Nah, it’s just pasta,” you shrug. “It’s the last we have, though. Wanna go on a grocery run tomorrow?”

“Of course. The fridge is pitiful.”

“I don’t need your attitude when I feed you every day, Parker.”

You smile in jest at him and of course, he avoids eye contact like he usually does. Over the weeks, you’ve been accustomed to him acting like another stray kitten, but sometimes, you wonder if there’s something about your presence or personality that makes him keep you at arm’s length. Not that you should care what a stray thinks about you.

Peter wishes he could act normal around you instead of constantly being on edge. Again, it’s not your fault. If there was a way he could make it up to you, to let you know how much he’s grateful for you, he would. Every time he thinks about it, his body takes over and shame is all that’s left. 

The bowl of pasta you put in front of him smells heavenly and looks like a page in the cooking section of the New York Times. 

“Help yourself to seconds, big boy.”

His eyes flash to your face, but you’re busying yourself with putting wet cat food onto a small plate for Ferris. 

You both end up eating on the island together. You don’t take a seat next to him, choosing to stand up across from him. Instead of conversing, the music continues to play quietly from the speaker, and you scroll mindlessly through the emails on your phone.

“I can feel you staring at me, you know.”

“I wasn’t,” Peter replies, defensive.

“You were,” you snort. “Which is funny because usually you refuse to make eye contact with me.”

“That’s not true.” (He’s lying through his teeth.)

“It’s okay. I’m not offended.” (Okay, maybe now you’re the one lying through your teeth.)

Peter scoffs, looking away, of course. 

“Thanks for dinner,” he mumbles.

He looks down, collecting his bowl and utensils. He decides to busy himself with the dishes, taking yours wordlessly without looking at your face. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you say softly. He shrugs. 

When you say his name, you’re right next to him and he feels like he might choke on nothing. Sure, he senses your presence in proximity to his own, but there’s nothing to stop you from getting close to him. 

“You’re always on edge around me.”

He doesn’t reply, even though he knows the sound of running water from the kitchen sink isn’t enough to drown out the tension between you two.

“Peter,” you try. Ugh, now you feel whiny.

“Hm?” He feigns ignorance as he glances at you, turning off the faucet.

“I– I just want you to be comfortable around me.”

“I am,” he lies. 

You don’t know what to say to break through the invisible wall he’s put between you two. He doesn’t know how to tell you that the distance is to keep you safe.

Your shoulders sag in defeat as you turn away from him and it conjures a new ache in his chest. Peter is often too caught up in his agony to notice how it might affect you. He can notice the frustration that radiates off of you – he’s not stupid. But the clear disappointment in your body language is so much more apparent than it ever was before.

“I think I might go to bed early,” you tell him, your voice just above a whisper. “Thanks for cleaning up.”

“Of course.” 

The door to your bedroom shuts quietly. 

Despite his constant uneasiness around you, Peter feels petulant now that you’ve left his side. Especially with the guilt of making you feel alienated in your own home. The trouble of explaining any of this to you feels like a burden more than anything, and you were already dealing with the burden of him staying in your apartment like he was haunting the place. 

Ferris slinks between Peter’s legs, purring. He climbs up his legs the same way he does to you and Peter welcomes him into his arms.

“You shouldn’t be nice to me, either,” Peter whispers, stroking the cat’s fur slowly. 

After Peter finishes cleaning up the kitchen, he settles on the couch for mindless television while Ferris settles on his lap. It doesn’t take him long to feel his eyes heavy-lidded, and although it should be easy to fall asleep on the couch, his body itches for your touch. Trying to sleep on your couch makes his limbs feel like they need to stretch every other second. So he surrenders and falls into your bed like he usually does. Like how you expect him to.

__

He dreams of you. He often does. 

Usually, he never remembers once he wakes up, which is probably the safest option. At the moment, the dreams are too visceral to be considered dreams to his subconscious. 

At the moment, he thinks the silkiness of your skin has to be real under his fingertips. It has to be. It would only make sense because your scent is so fucking strong, so alluring. It permeates the entire room, along with the subtle smell of sex and desperation.

Peter can see your pink mouth parting. The way your back arches. The way his name sounds when it comes from your throat, babbling its way out of your mouth, so sweetly. So fucking innocently.

It’s all rudely interrupted by the darkness that he’s attempted to keep away for so long. A black cloud that envelops the both of you, until the cloud is tangible, until it feels like a substance that could drown you. 

Where his senses only uttered your name and acknowledged your sweetness is now replaced by an insatiable hunger. One that is partially his, partially from an entity that could break you in half without a second thought. 

Now, the entity clouds him. Consumes his entire body until he’s nothing but a vast monster with sharp teeth with you underneath him. 

The look on your face is full of horror. Your naked body shudders. Peter wants nothing more than to comfort you, but he knows he can’t, not when something black and viscous has obscured his entire body. 

He is not in his body when his teeth graze the skin of your shoulder, biting hard enough for blood to trickle out of your skin. Your scream is the only thing that he can hear, maybe other than his own, once he sees your mouth spit out blood.

And then, darkness.

___

“No, nonononono, no, fuck, please–”

It all happens so fast. He doesn’t know what he does to you that makes you drop dead so quickly, and for fuck’s sake, his arms are still not his arms. 

“Peter!”

A shake in his universe breaks him apart. When he opens his eyes, he sees yours, wide and shocked and bright despite the darkness of the night.

You’re in your bed and so is he. And you’re holding him, unscathed. There is no black gore adorning his arms. 

“Peter, it’s okay,” you shush him softly. 

One hand strokes his hair while the other is splayed with fingers stretched across his warm cheek. You’re more than concerned by how shaken he looks. Like he’s in shock. You’ve never seen him like this.

“You’re okay,” he says. It’s a whisper. It sounds like a prayer.

“I am,” you nod. “I’m fine. I want to make sure that you’re fine, too, okay?”

His lashes flutter when you stroke his cheek. His breathing is heavy like a newly discovered beast, but you know that you don’t have to tame him from the way he keens to your touch. 

“I–I thought–”

“Shh, you don’t have to talk about it. It wasn’t real, okay? You just had a nightmare,” you coo. 

You can feel the way he swallows sharply and the way he struggles to breathe through his nose. He winces when he realizes that you’re wiping away a tear from his cheek.

“I was– I was terrible–” he stammers, gasping for breath. “And you–”

“Peter, it’s okay. It was just a dream. It’s okay.”

“You aren’t safe with me.”

His eyes are wild. He’s so earnest when he speaks that maybe, just maybe he could be telling the truth. 

You ignore it even though the way he says it breaks your heart.

“I am safe with you. And you’re safe with me, right here,” you try. The sound of his voice has tears brimming the corners of your eyes, too, but you don’t notice. You just want to get through to him. You swallow your anxiety. “We’re safe together, I promise. I would never let anything bad happen to you.”

He scans your face frantically until his eyes zero in on your lips. His senses are flooded with you, like he’s an animal ready to pounce on his prey, but he tries to hold back. His breathing turns shallow and he can’t help but stare at your bottom lip quivering, feeling the warmth of your palms against his cheeks. 

TAKE HER. TAKE HER. TAKE HER.

He’s not sure what the motive is for him pressing his lips to yours, whether it’s the demon inside him or the desire festering in his body. Peter knows that they’re one and the same. 

To his surprise, you surrender your mouth to him immediately. His tongue slots into between your lips without effort as his hands clasp your body with his innate strength, ranging from your hips to the undersides of your breasts.

You didn’t expect him to kiss you, but now that he has, you don’t think that you want him to ever stop.

Your hands graduate from his cheeks to the back of his head, pulling at his brown tresses as his hands roam your body with more fervor than anyone else has given you. 

You’ve been intimate with other people before, but they were always so careful, so timid with you. Maybe sometimes they were rough, but your mind was too checked out to notice. But now, the mere touch of someone else’s fingertips on your hard nipples has you squirming in your bed, making your breath hitch. Already, you feel the warmth in your core.

Peter discards your shirt (nearly rips it off) with ease as you whimper, enabling him, neither of you saying a word at all. You grab at Peter’s shirt to tug off, which he does, but when you pull at the waistband of his sweatpants, he takes your hand and slams it above your head with fingers interlocked.

Look how fun this is, Peter. Don’t you want to ruin her? Fuck her pretty little face?

Peter groans at the thought of you gagged with his cum, but he can barely fathom even taking out his cock yet. Well, he can, and although he’s thought about you like that, he doesn’t want to move too quickly. In contrast, his body seems to be moving faster than his brain.

He never thought you would want it as much as he does.

You whine when you feel Peter’s fingers creep under the waistband of your shorts and underneath your panties, immediately feeling your wetness. It pools into the fabric as he rubs your slit incessantly, making you mewl eagerly as Peter’s teeth suck on the skin of your jaw.

“F-fuck–,” you whimper, limp in his arms, preening to the feeling of his tongue on your clavicle. 

You’re so fucking wet, he could devour you in one bite if he wanted to. He could make it painless for you, but that wouldn’t be fair, would it? You wouldn’t feel any of it, none of the agonizing pleasure that should build up between your thighs from his touch alone, and he wants to see it all over your face so fucking badly. 

Do not tease us. We have an appetite to fulfill, don’t we?

I’m fucking getting there, hold on.

Sure, the monster in him wants to devour you, kill you, swallow you whole in a snap. But Peter wants to enjoy it. Wants to enjoy you. So he attempts to quiet the deep voice inside of him.

He still has your wrists bound in one large hand while his other grips your thighs hard, discarding your bottoms in the process. When he opens his eyes, he sees you splayed naked for him with a wanton expression on your face, nearly drooling. 

He also sees that somehow, he’d taken off his sweatpants and boxers, hard cock swelled up and aching as it grazes your folds slowly. 

Peter thinks he’d like to finger you, go down on you, and see how his touch makes electricity spark within your abdomen while your face contorts. He wants to see all your features twist into a sweet expression of pure pleasure, but he’s too fucking impatient. Maybe that’s the thing inside him speaking, so hungry and urgent that he can’t tell if he’s suppressing a being or his desires at this point.

He doesn’t know what currently guides his instincts. They’re all blinded, flooded by thoughts of you. As if there’s nothing else on Earth he could want, ever. 

That could be true. It probably is. But that’s something he can unpack later.

For now, he can only be influenced by the sound of your voice begging his name. He swallows down the sound of it with his tongue in your mouth, drinking in your whimpers as he bites on your bottom lip.

“Please,” you beg, lifting your hips to meet his length desperately as you squirm underneath him. “Need it— need—”

“Need me, huh?” Peter rasps. He touches his forehead to yours, hands still clutching at your wrists above your head.

“Yes.”

“So fucking clingy,” he mumbles against your mouth. You arch your back at the mere feeling of his cock prodding against your wet folds and it drives him fucking insane.

For once, the voice inside his head is only yours. He feels grateful for it.

“Were you planning this the whole time, huh? Wanted me in your bed from the beginning, didn’t you? Admit it.” He’s all teeth when he taunts you. He wonders if you’d let him spit in your mouth if you weren’t so busy pouting.

“Y-yes.”

“So fucking cute,” he sneers. “Pathetic, too.”

You don’t recognize the wrath in his voice — it’s unlike him. Even when he’s been pissed off with you. But you don’t have it in you to question it, because the darkness in it sounds like silk and crushed velvet, and the feeling of his hot breath against your neck makes you want him even more.

In the darkness, Peter’s eyes look otherworldly. Dark and bottomless, the devil incarnate.

You moan his name once more and whiplash meets the senses.

With a shaking exhale, you take the stretch of him, all of him, wincing the slightest bit as he bottoms out. It stings until he slides out just to thrust himself back in again, the resolve blatant on your face as your mouth falls in surrender.

Usually, you’d be embarrassed. It takes a bit for you to let someone in like this so intimately, and even when you’ve done it with other men, you were at least a little intoxicated.

Right now, you’re merely blissed from drowsiness, borderline euphoric from Peter’s proximity. You wouldn’t be able to admit it out loud — you knew the sweet sounds falling from your mouth were enough. Even when Peter had first settled into your bed tonight while you were asleep, you subconsciously curled into him like a moth to a flame.

Peter cups your breast in his hand harshly to latch his mouth onto your nipple, sucking and biting just to hear you whine. He’s rougher than any lover you’ve had before, so you aren’t exactly sure if he’s being sadistic with the amount of teeth he’s using. The feeling of his canines against your flesh is like nothing you’ve felt before. You’d never thought it would be a feeling you would get so fucking addicted to.

He fucks into you harder now, pulling up your legs so that his large, calloused palms are bruising the skin of your thighs. One leg ends up hitched over his shoulder so that he can thrust into you from a deeper angle, one that makes your eyes roll back into your head.

“So fucking good for me– so fucking good–”

Your hips shake when Peter inevitably reaches your sweet spot while his hand that isn’t propping you up is focused on stimulating your clit. You’re fucking brainless, listening to his filthy praises.

“Peter! Aah– oh my god–”

He’s obsessed with the way you’re rendered speechless, how you’re lifting your hips just to meet his, how you’re so obedient when you whimper his name. He’s obsessed with you. He thinks this might be another dream.

Sloppily, he nibbles at your earlobe and laves his tongue from your jaw down to your throat as he fucks into you with ease. His pleasure is a rubber band about to fucking snap. Your hushed breaths and whines nearly tip him over the edge, especially when he can feel you sucking in him so tightly.

“Cum for me, fucking cum for me,” Peter growls. “I know you can do it, baby. Can feel you’re close.”

He’s more intense with his thrusts now that he’s trying to coax your release, and truthfully, he can feel himself following you right after. 

“I’m– I’m gonna–” 

Your voice falls into a staccato of moans that dissipate into Peter’s wet mouth. Your nails dig into his back as he nearly melts into your body. 

His frantic thrusts begin to slow, his hips sloppy against yours as he groans against your neck. His mind is in such a frenzy that he thinks he might just devour you. It starts with his fingers wrapped around your throat. He revels in the sound of your voice choking on your moans.

Peter nearly smothers you with his hand over your mouth, while he bites incessantly at your neck and shoulder. The sweetness of your voice, desperate and wanton for him, is quickly replaced by something darker in his mind. A voice dormant inside him that awakens with the threat of contamination. He’s in his nightmare again, but with the aid of your body to remind him of bliss. Of power.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, fuckfuckfuck–” 

His body is so fucking heavy on top of yours, suffocating you with his desire. His teeth bite down hard enough on the juncture of your neck to draw blood, and he ignores your cry. The frenzy of war and lust and intoxication in his head is too fucking much. It’s his own personal eclipse.

His warmth spills into you. He feels his cum in between your bodies, overflowing out of your soaked cunt and onto the bedsheets. 

It takes a moment for Peter to notice that you’re crying. He knows it should hurt him. He knows he can’t stand the sight of tears flowing down your delicate cheeks because of him. But he doesn’t feel anything at all. 

In a way, both of you are changed. 

You had leaped off of a precipice the moment you let him into your bed.

Peter furrows his brows at your tear-streaked face, body stilling with shallow breaths. He cups your face in his warm hands and kisses you sweetly like a lover would and not a monster. 

For some hellish reason, you kiss him back. 

[soaps-mohawk]

I just saw someone talk about Simon Riley being a rapist and the only way they tried to confirm it is by saying that he is a war criminal and all soldiers are misogynistic and sexist and they also talked about how he dreamt of hurting women in the comics when that's quite literally a normal reaction by being raped by both men and women (what I mean is that abused people sometimes dream of becoming someone they're not and don't want to be) but they conveniently forgot to mention how that "dream" was a nightmare. (Just wanted to rant about this and see your opinion)

The sigh I let out when I saw this ask this morning.

I'm so sick and tired of seeing this discourse. Not just in this fandom but in every fandom. Maybe it's just because I'm old and my frontal lobe is fully developed, or maybe it's because I was in fandom back in the days where there were no tags. You were lucky if you got a warning at the beginning of a fic. Most fics you walked in blind and if you didn't like something? You hit the back button and found something else.

This sudden mainstreaming of fandom has ruined these spaces. People come in, refuse to "learn the rules" that most of us learned by just existing in these spaces and watching others interact. There were no written rules back then. We learned by observing and occasionally being guided on fandom etiquette by those more experienced than us. Now it's just like people come in expecting fandom to be like every other space on the internet and then get defensive and angry when they realize it's not. Fandom is cringy. It's nerdy. It's happy and sunshine and it's dark and ugly like every media out there. Us creators and those of us more experienced in fandom have been screaming how to exist in fandom spaces from the rooftops but no one is listening and then everyone wonders why creators are leaving these spaces. Why fandoms keep getting abandoned.

All of that aside, this discourse about FICTIONAL characters pisses me off. Simon Riley is a FICTIONAL character. He has no morality, there is no right or wrong because he's FICTIONAL. You can make him do whatever you want to do because he's NOT REAL. You can give him wings and have him fly and guess what?? Cool, that can happen because he's NOT REAL. You want to make him a rapist? Cool, you can do that because he's FICTIONAL. You can make him whatever you want to make him because he's a character. He's not a living, breathing human being. There are no consequences of his actions because he's FICTIONAL!!!

Don't even get me started on this sudden discourse about dark fics and dead dove that's appeared recently. Dark media has existed for literal centuries. The Epic of Gilgamesh from 1800 BCE. The Odyssey. Mostellaria by Plautus. The Castle of Otranto published in the 1700s. Frankenstein. Dracula. The works of Edgar Allan Poe. Lolita. Hell, look at the Bible. The Bible, especially the old testament, is fucked up. Even in the watered down, bastardized King James version, the things the old testament "God" supposedly did, when you sit and actually think about them outside the lens of religious brainrot, are super fucked up.

People have been creating dark media for a long time. Horror has existed for a long time because it plays to our worst fears. It gives us a safe way to express those fears and to experience them without having to experience them first hand. You wouldn't bitch at a horror movie director for including things like rape and gore and murder in their movies?? So why is writing different? You think every horror movie director agrees with the things they portray on screen? You think every horror movie director would go out and murder someone just because they made a movie about it? No, because we're allowed to portray things in all forms of media, we're allowed to write things without morally agreeing with them. Guess what, most people that write rape or assault or violence, aren't going out and doing those things in real life. They don't support those things in real life. In fact, people that write dark fanfics are some of the loudest protesters against those things.

If you want to make Simon Riley a real person, guess what? He's not going to be even morally grey. Most people in the military are not good people. They're not. The people that are good people in the military, or were in the military, are the ones saying that the loudest. People that got tricked into joining, people that got promised things, people that did it because they had no other choice and then realized what it was really like after getting in? Those are the people to listen to. Not Call of Duty, not the people trying to convince you to join because they're glorified sales people and have a quota to fill. Look up videos of what happened in Iraq and Afghanistan at the hands of American and British soldiers. You would not like Simon Riley if he were a real person.

But he's not real. He's FICTIONAL. Even as a fictional character, he's not a good person. So many Call of Duty fans put on the blinders and ignore the fact that these men are out here committing awful acts of violence and killing people because they're "the good guys." People love to forget that Price literally kidnapped a woman and a child and had them held at gunpoint to get information out of someone. Not only that, he was okay with it. If he were a real person that did that, you would not be questioning if he were a good person or not. You can tell the people that have never played the games or watched playthroughs, who only know these characters through the lenses of fanfics and artwork and headcanons.

Call of Duty is military propaganda. They paint these men as heroes, make it easy to put the blinders up and ignore the things that are happening, the things they're doing so that they can convince young men that they want to do that and they should join the military so they can go out and do that too. That's Call of Duty's audience. That's who they're creating these games for. These young, impressionable boys who get excited by the violence and the action who will go on to fill quota numbers for recruiters. Call of Duty was not made for us, the people writing fanfiction and creating art for it. This side of the Call of Duty fandom will be the first to tell you all of this.

This side of the fandom creates fanworks which would turn Activision's eyes red. We babygirlify their military propaganda because it actively goes against what Activision is trying to do. It goes against what Call of Duty is at its core. Sure, some people water it down a lot, and others keep it more realistic to what these men would be like in real life, because it's FICTION. You can portray these characters however you want because that's what fiction is for.

And guess what, anon? Rape kinks exist. Consensual non-consent exists. It's well known. And guess what? Victims of sexual assault and rape can develop those kinks as a coping mechanism. Here's a study from the NIH website, and if that's too complex for you, here's a VICE news article that uses that study. People can write rape and rape kinks and CNC and noncon and not support it in real life. People can write those things to bring awareness to the fact that they happen to people in real life, or because people in real life have those kinks. People write those things to help victims, to support them. It's cathartic. Dark media most often is created for catharsis. It gives people an outlet, and it allows people to experience those things in a safe, controlled environment for whatever reason.

And that's the thing, anon. People don't have to give anyone a reason for why the consume that kind of media. Creators don't owe anyone an explanation as to why they create it. It's none of your business, and if you're not comfortable with it, then don't consume it. You can turn off the TV if a horror movie is too much for you. People walk out of theaters all the time because a movie is not what they were expecting, be it because it was bad or because it was too graphic or violent or disgusting. You start reading a book and you don't like it for whatever reason? You put the book down and pick up another. Why do people have such a problem with not reading fanfics they don't like? Why do people have such a hard time just blocking creators that make things they don't want to see. Most dark fic and dead dove creators put ample warnings on their blog and their posts. That's why those tags exist. You don't like it and you don't want to see it? Then block and move on and let others enjoy what they want to enjoy.

You pearl clutchers are ruining fandom and soon there won't be anything for you to enjoy. If you can't handle fandom, then don't be in it. There is no algorithm here. You're going to see things you don't want to see and it's very easy to just block and filter tags. There was a time on Tumblr where you couldn't filter tags. I remember those days. You had to download the X-kit extension to block things, and that only worked on desktop. The fact Tumblr gave us the option to filter tags on the site and on the app was a big deal when it was rolled out. I remember so many people that didn't want to use the app when it first came out because you couldn't block potentially triggering tags.

It's not a creator's problem if you were triggered by their media. Life doesn't come with trigger warnings and it's a blessing that it's become so normalized to include warnings at the beginnings of fics. There's websites that exist for other forms of media that will give trigger warnings. If you can look up trigger warnings for a movie and decide not to watch it, you can look at the trigger warnings for fics and decide not to interact with it. You're not out here emailing the directors and producers of movies that include triggers you don't like, telling them they're awful people for including those things in their movie and they shouldn't. Yet you have no problem coming into the comments and inboxes creators who do this FOR FREE because we wrote one dark fic. Because we wrote something that's triggering to you.

And yes, some abuse victims go on to be abusers, some people continue that cycle because they don't have the help and support to break it. It's a sad thing that happens, but it happens. It happens in the fictional world and it happens in real life. People can make that happen to fictional characters for whatever reasons they want.

I've written dark fics. I've written several. I consume "disturbing" media for fun. I've read books and watched movies that would send these pearl clutchers to the hospital. Hell, I've probably written things (some published, some that will never see the light of day) that would turn these pearl clutchers inside out. Guess what? That's okay because it's FICTION. It's cathartic. I don't have to give my reasons why because it's no one's business except those I decide to tell because I trust them and I know they'll support me. I don't support those things in real life. Just because I write for Call of Duty doesn't mean I support the things the game portrays. If you consume Call of Duty media be it the games or fanfiction, does that mean you support what the game supports? What the creators of the games support? What militaries around the world support?

Think about that next time.

I’ve made my stance very clear here before, but I’ll do it again. In real life, I am anti military, anti war, anti gun violence, anti genocide, anti fascism, anti terf, anti homophobia, anti conservative, anti rape, anti domestic violence, anti colonialism and pro choice.

Just because I may create or consume media with those things in it, does not mean I support them. It's high time some of these pearl clutchers learn that.

The next time you want to come into a creator's inbox or comments and spew hatred towards them because of the things they write, why don't you do something useful with your time instead.

This will be my only discussion on this topic. I will not be answering any more asks like this. I will delete and block anyone who tries to come "well actually"-ing into my inbox. If you don't agree with this stance, then get off my blog and block me.

[whatudowhennooneseesyou]

OK I'm probably alone in this and I'm sure everyone will think I'm more of a bitch than they already think I am for this but. Am I alone in finding Chris's horniness lately a little excessive? The only reason he's not coming across as a weirdo on a dating app is the fact that he's attractive and well liked. But if a random guy from work or school or whatever kept posting the stuff he posts and showing his body and talking about sex all the damn time, we wouldn't find it sexy or cute. Like I was watching some videos from his performance and I just didn't find it sexy or arousing, just honestly a little sad. It comes off as desperate to me, because it happens so often.

Babe, not going to lie in that you may be one of the few Stays who have this opinion but I'm going to include it anyway and tag some of my other babygirls in it.

What videos were you watching because I need context for this thought because I honestly hadn't thought about this topic until I saw your ask.

I can't tell if it is excessive or if we are seeing Chris for who he is w/o the filtered down version, maybe he is just naturally this fuckboyish and he's finally revealing it.

Because his frontal lobe has developed so all his decisions are strategic so it's not even a maturity issue but I've been a Stay since 2020/21 so I'm used to these antics with him and his constant flirtatious nature.

I also agree with @torialefay in that I think he's fucking bitchless right now and he might be using the stage as a way to subconsciously live out his fantasies and get all those endorphins that you would normally get from a relationship.

And that's not even a jealousy thing because I don't get jealous over idols and their love lives.

I feel chris is honestly just a rlly lonely guy who's looking for those intense romantic and emotional connections and he can't get it so he's created a borderline unhealthy/leaning on toxic parasocial connection with Stays.

And this manifests in this 'simulated' relationship where we both feel desired, prioritised, supported and 'seen'.

So excessive? I don't think so- he's been like this for a long time.

Desperate and horny? Yeah probably, but I can't judge because I am also desperate and horny for this man all the time.

Tagging my other babygirl moots @gnabnahcsworld @lyramundana @berryberrytan @youre-alittle-taste-of-hell @chansfavoritetoy

[lovexjoe]

PENPALS Part 5

Mike wakes up along with Dorn and Kelly. Everyone completely confused on why Marcus was this fired up at 8 in the morning. He tosses the Polaroids on Mike’s lap and he picks up the naughty one first. How convenient.

“Goddamn she got a body-“ Mike brings it close

“Look at the rest of the photos Mike!”

“Wh-Oh! OHH SHIT! Lord forgive me for saying that about my niece.” Mike puts his hands up in the air for a mock apology cause he ain’t mean that shit at all.

“Your SON! Is fucking my DAUGHTER MIKE. OH MY GOD! And they SLEPT IN THE SAME ROOM LAST NIGHT. They was fucking Mike they was doing the nasty” Marcus was pacing the room while Dorn and Kelly just stood there wide eyed trying to process everything.

“Marcus she’s a grown adult now-“

“That’s not the point Mike! She was in school when they met….how the fuck you think he got those pictures?”

Mike couldn’t even save you on that one cause what were you doing being penpals with a prisoner? You were truly in deep shit. Marcus headed straight to the guest room and busted the door open to see you two snuggled up.

“WAKE THE FUCK UP!”

Your eyes shot open and so did Armando’s. You both looked at each other than at your dad. Oh goody. Wonderful way to wake up after getting the best sex of your life last night.

“Hiii dad,” you gave an innocent smile

“Oh no you got some explaining to do now before I kill this motherfucker get dressed and be in the living room in FIVE MINUTES.” Your dad, Dorn and Kelly headed to the living room while Mike stood back for a little bit.

“Happy for y’all but you missy you in some shit alright. Good luck. AND Y’ALL BETTER BE ASHAMED OF YA SELVES.” He acts as if he’s scolding you guys on the way back to the living room.

“Why did you have to get the chill parent” you groaned as Armando laughs.

“You really are in some shit but I’m here for you.” He kisses your hand.

You both got ready and headed to the living room for the inevitable.

Your dad motioned you to sit on the couch while everyone stood around you. Armando sat next to you and held your hand and Marcus looked like he was gonna throw up.

“Now how the fuck did this motherfucker get these” he waved the Polaroids around.

Aw fuck. I thought he just found out we fucked not that we met prior.

“I-“

“You wasn’t busy study bones and shit?! I don’t get it do you just like trouble?! I thought your frontal lobe developed already!”

“CAN YOU LET ME TALK?!”

The room went silent.

“It happened. I was bored and I just did it okay? I’m sorry but I love him. I understand I could have met someone completely different and dangerous but I met Armando. I regret nothing. Plus you ain’t say shit when Mike kissed me before I left for college”

“HE WHAT?!” Marcus and Armando was ready to fight.

Uh oh …..

Taglist: @yeahnohoneybye @cardi-bre91 @onlysarang @romanreignsluver1 @minwn

@armandosbabymama @dyttomori @bbyplutosblog @vergilnelosparda @believeinthefireflies95

@ebsmind @hopetookourvibe @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @poppetbaby02 @bitchyglittersuit @marley1773

@jacobscipioswoman @sunrisesfromthewest

@midnightheat @ky44

[eddiernunson]

Really Drives Me Mad | EX-bfs dad!Eddie Munson x Reader | 18+

Previous Part | Master List | Next Part

Word Count: 10k

Warnings; degradation/praise, deep throating, eating out, edging

Author's note: Hope you don't mind but I made the reader both a swifitie and team Edward this chapter. I do appreciate all the love I've gotten for this fic. Here's part 3!

-

The general reaction you’ve received over the last two weeks was Are you out of your mind? 

While Bethany heard you out on how it happened and why it felt like a sigh of relief being with Eddie, your mom lost her damn mind. As you spoke to her, you did your best to have a civil conversation until it just ended up being her lecturing you over the speaker while you finished up cleaning the dishes.

When she realizes you haven’t responded in a while and asks if you're still there, you pick up the phone from the window ledge and unmute yourself. “Mom, seems like you’re not interested in what I have to say about this, only about how it looks. Until you’re ready to listen, I’ll let you go.” Your finger hits the red hang up button, noting the time to the call being 45 minutes. You told her the situation about five minutes in and ever since, she had spent her time venting about Eddie and how irresponsible you were, as if she hadn't listened to anything you had to say about it. 

“Are you sure you really thought this through?” Skyler, your roommate asks you as she brings her bowl over to you. 

You huff, grabbing it from her and soaking it in the hot soapy water. “Thought what through?”

“You and him. Long term.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at her. “Who said anything about this being long term? What if it’s just for now?” 

“Is it just for now? Because you went into it with Dylan claiming all you wanted was someone to commit to you.” She pauses, and you look her in the eyes as if to say get on with it. “When you had someone fully committed, someone willing to stay in it for the long haul, you left him.” 

“I didn’t get scared of his commitment, Sky!” You exclaimed, a little thrown off by it. 

“Really? Because you were so eager to introduce him to literally anyone?” Skyler throws at you, and she had a point. Your hesitation in meeting Eddie had everything to do with the fact that Dylan was more committed to your relationship than you were.

You were literally every guy you had hooked up with before Dylan, getting angry that he would act like a boyfriend except for the life long stuff. 

Fuck. What a hypocrite you were. 

“Fine, his commitment scared me a bit.” You admit, washing one last dish before draining the sink. “But it’s not why I left him.”

“For his dad.”

You sigh, eyebrows raised at her tone. “Yes, for his dad.” 

“Have you considered that when you’re his age, he’ll be in his 60s?”

“So?” You ask her, moving to the couch in the living room. 

“That’s not a relationship built to last.”

“Why can’t that be up to us to decide?” You ask her, wrapping the throw blanket around you and tucking yourself into the couch. “Look, I get your concern. I truly do. From the outside, me and Dylan were doing everything right. Having adventures, going Instagram official. Then we were meeting the families, getting comfortable.” You pause, rubbing your hair out of your face. “If I was 19/20, I would completely understand. I mean, I wouldn’t, but if that were the scenario, your concern would make sense. But I’m not. I’m 25. My frontal lobe is fully developed. I know that if I get together with Eddie then he’ll always be 20 years older than me. He’ll always have a different perspective on life than I do.” 

“You’ll always be tied to Dylan.” She points out. 

“We dated for six weeks.” You counter, a pinch appearing between your brows. “While we haven’t discussed our long term goals, I don’t see this being casual. It’s different with him. Nothing feels off about being with him. I’ve never felt safer.”

She pauses, assessing your face and the way you relax as you start talking about Eddie. “Fuck. You’ve never seemed this relaxed when talking about Dylan. Not once.”

“I wasn’t.” 

-

The comfort of Eddie’s chest breathing in and out underneath you as you lie right on top of him on the living room couch was soothing as you watched Twilight together. It took some convincing, but he let you press play on it and smirked over your shoulder at the blue filter.

No one had ever told him that the soundtrack was so good, though. 

It was maybe a half hour into the movie, and Eddie couldn’t figure out why every guy in her school just had to have her. The smile on your face as you settled into a comfort movie was worth the watch, though. 

You had texted him a few days prior, Eddie having given you his number before dropping you off at your apartment to face the real world. He was due back at his shop, having to settle management bullshit and deal with an unhappy customer or two to settle their complaints over the new apprentice. Ownership was nice, when they knew how to do their job. 

When can I see you next? 

When the six words lit up his screen, Eddie wanted to tell you to drive on over to his shop. He wanted to get in his truck and drive over to wherever the hell you are so he could text back Right Now. He knew your words were calculated, something not to seem too desperate to see him next, but truth be told, even if you were desperate it wouldn’t have made any difference; he was already hooked on you. He texted back to tell you the following Saturday, a day he knew he had no plans for the following day, so you could spend the night. 

He felt fucking crazy for thinking it, but now that he'd had you in his bed, it felt too big without you. 

Now here you lay with him, he sat in the corner of his couch while you snuggle up to him, and he could stay like this for hours, the sweet shampoo in his nose and the sound of your breaths comforting. He feels you slowly relax into him, all your body losing its tension. Occasionally, your arm would tighten around his torso or you would dig into him deeper. He appreciates the feeling, rubbing his fingers delicately along your skin.

The front door opens, and he feels you tense up as Dylan makes his way in. “Oh, great.” He mutters, and turns around to head straight up the stairs. 

Your body jerks to watch him, and your eyes catch Eddie’s for a moment. “I’ll be right back.” 

Eddie nods, seeing the fixed line your mouth made. He leans in to kiss you, an act of care more than anything else. You lean into it, your eyes closing automatically, breath hitching. “I’ll be here.”

-

The length up the stairs seemed to grow as you reached the top, this act something you have been dreading for days. Having told Bethany and Skyler about Eddie, they both felt bad for Dylan. In fact, your shitty attempt at an apology was met with a smack on the head with a nearby scrap paper by Sky. You knew Dylan deserved better. Fuck, did you know that. 

Here you stand in front of his door, sounds of a tv show on in the background while he presumably plays on his computer. Dylan was more the type to create joy out of finding a new favourite hiking trail or to take an archery class, but Eddie has said he’s been cooped up in his room. He goes to work, comes home and says barely two words before retreating upstairs. 

Not like you blamed him for it. 

Before you could hesitate any longer, you finally knock on his door. The sounds of his keys stop, and you barely hear the footsteps towards the door over your own heartbeat. The door opens to Dylan, and the disappointment when he sees you is evident, his face hardening. “What?”

“Can I come in?”

He seems to think on this, and you hope the outfit you have chosen, jeans with an oversized sweatshirt and your hair in a messy bun helps with the psychology of it, but when it came down to it, it was his decision. “…Sure.” You light up in surprise, having expected to do the apologizing in his door frame. You follow him in, and it’s an awkward moment of silence before he goes to sit in his desk chair. “Have a seat, I guess.” 

Your butt hits the edge of the bed, barely scraping the box spring. “Would it be cheesy if I recommended you listened to Speak Now, track 3?”

His eyebrows furrow, and it’s so like you to recommend a fucking Taylor song for the scenario. He has to laugh. “Taylor’s Version?”

“Of course.”

“Which is…?”

“Back To December.”

He tilts his head, this situation incredibly peculiar. “Remind me how that goes?”

A smile reaches your face, and you look at your lap sheepishly. 

“She apologizes…and clearly admits she was in the wrong after a person treats her very well and didn’t deserve it.” You pause, looking up at him.

“A little bit.” He admits, but the first wall is down. The look in his eye when he sees you doesn’t scream rage. 

“I can’t express how sorry I am for hurting you the way I did.” You start, watching for his reaction. “First, for stringing you along… But, you were the best looking guy at that mixer, and at that moment in time I truly did want to know you. None of that was fake.” He nods, considering this. “Then it started to feel, I don’t know, comfortable. I had people telling me how lucky I was to have you, daily, and with the men out there, god they were so right.” You gulp, and he can’t seem to look you in the eye. “I felt like there must’ve been something wrong with me not to be head over heels for you, cause there wasn’t anything wrong with you.”

“When did you know you wanted to break up with me?” 

“I can’t say for sure.” You tell him, and it was probably about two weeks ago, but that felt cruel. “But the moment we got back into your car I should’ve ended things.”

“You knew about him that fast, huh?” He asks you, his eyes appearing glossy. “You know, if you would’ve been honest I would have been absolutely choked, confused even, but I would have given you his number.”

You nod, because of fucking course Dylan would’ve been nice enough. “See, you’re so kind because that never occurred to me. I thought you would’ve dropped me off at home.”

“Probably.” Dylan admits, thinking about the possibilities if you’d broken up with him earlier. “Maybe not.”

“I’m so sorry for cheating on you, though. Of course, knowing your mom’s history shouldn’t have made a difference but—”

“Yeah. Kind of fucked me up.” Dylan leans back in his chair, and a smile reaches his face as he looks back to you. 

“I know that if me and Eddie keep dating that I could never, ever even remotely be a parental figure, and frankly I’m not looking to be your mom, but I hope one day you can trust me again.”

“See, how do I know you won’t do the same thing to him?”

It hurt, but it was fair. “You made me feel safe. But your dad—” he cringes, “Eddie, he makes me feel free.” 

Dylan turns around in his chair, considering this. “I believe that.”

“Wait, you do?”

“Yeah. When I walked in today sure, I was annoyed. Seeing my ex girlfriend in a new happy relationship with the person she cheated on me with is kind of annoying. But you were never that comfortable with me. That look of…contentment. I’ve never seen it before.” He sighs, doing another turn in his chair. 

“Have you and your dad spoken about it?”

“No. I’m pretty fucking mad at him. I’ll forgive him, one day. If you’re sticking around, I'll have to, because I’m not staying with my mom and her new perfect family. But we dated for six weeks. I was only starting to think I was falling in love with you. Thank god I never got there. Even then.”

“Don’t put all the blame on him.” You jump to his defense, and wow, did this sound bad. “I made the first move.”

“Good to know.” He pauses. “That’s all I want to know, for the record. No more details… I've heard enough.”

“I am sorry, though Dylan. In another universe, we date and I let you down properly and you meet your dad’s girlfriend a few weeks later who turns out to be your ex.” You laugh, just picturing it. 

“Sounds like a rom com.” 

“Honestly it’s an intriguing concept.” You get up from his bed, the conversation having met its end. 

“I can’t forgive you, yet. But that was the fucking apology I deserved the first time.”

You cringe at it, this memory is something you can already see haunting you at 3am.

“Can we pretend like that one never happened?”

“No. It’s great material to have in a back pocket. Who apologizes to their ex with brand new hickeys on their neck?"

“Okay, point taken!” You yell at him as you walk out the door. 

“Bye.” He calls out, and the door shuts behind you. 

-

You meet Eddie back at the couch, the movie paused while he scrolls through his phone. “What are you scrolling on?” You tease him, sitting easily back where you were before.

“Oh the uh, Facebook videos.” He says off-handedly, and you roll your eyes. “What?”

“Who uses Facebook nowadays?” You joke, knowing full you still updated yours occasionally.

He chuckles, nipping at your shoulder. You grab the remote by his leg, pressing play. “How did it go?”

“Better.” You sigh, watching Bella awkwardly ask him to hang out at the beach. “Much, much better. Doesn’t scream pure hatred in his face every time he looks at me anymore.”

“Makes one of us.” Eddie jokes, and you grab his hand to place a kiss, comforting him. 

The movie continues, and Eddie has never fully paid attention to the movie before, having come out in his late 20s. It was ridiculous, to say the least. The plot thickens as Bella discovers his true nature and Eddie can't help but notice a particular smile creep on your face as Edward mutters something about a lion falling in love with a lamb. Creepy. 

“Do-do you have a crush on Edward?” He asks, his voice particularly bewildered. 

Your eyes bug out, and you bite back the smile breaking out on your face with much failure.

“What? No.”

“Oh, you totally do.” Eddie chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Shut up.”

Another five minutes pass and your stomach rumbles, prompting Eddie to get up and walk to the kitchen to make you something. “Want something with chicken, rice, spice, what do you want, baby?” He calls out, and you now stare openly at the tv as the baseball scene is showing, and you’ve always considered Edward just to be a bit extra hot in this scene. 

His question takes a moment to register. “Butter chicken?” You ask him. 

He peeks his head out to the music on the screen, and immediately sees the look on your face. A big smile is plastered on your face, chin resting on your fingertips as you sit cross legged. Fucking. Teenage Vampires. He rolls his eyes, rejecting the jealousy. He isn't going to be jealous over this. Nope.

He finishes the food, putting a bowl out for you, Dylan, and himself out. “Dylan! Food if you want it!” He calls out, and he brings two of the bowls for you and him, the smell of his cooking more than welcome. “Here baby.” He kisses your forehead, sitting next to you as you take a big inhale. 

“Holy shit, thank you, Ed.” You tell him, and Eddie is perplexed at your ability to forget to eat a single thing until the hunger pains kick in. He supposes his food habits at 25 weren’t the greatest, either. Now that he thinks about it, he pretty much lived off energy drinks, coffee, and the occasional hot food Wayne would force down his throat.

You inhale the food, the empty bowl on the coffee table within minutes. “Want more?” You’re hypnotized by the screen, having barely heard him. Why did he want to fight a seventeen-year-old vampire? “Baby?”

“Hmm?”

“Want more?”

“Oh sure! Thank you.” The shine in your eyes brightens up as you look up at him, and it settles his jealousy. For the most part. 

Eddie scoops himself and you another bowl, seeing Dylan hasn’t grabbed his yet. “Dylan! Food’s getting cold! Come eat!” 

Dylan comes out, actually looking like he was in a better mood than he was before.

“Oh, shit, Twilight?” He comments, shaking his head. “She’s a hard Team Edward girl. Hard.” 

“I’ve noticed. Here.” Eddie would’ve usually taken the win from his son joking with him but the jealousy that sat eating his gut was so fucking annoying. Why the fuck was he so annoyed at this stupid vampire?

“Oh it's not so fun now, is it?” Dylan calls out, running back up the stairs. 

This makes Eddie smile, like things might go back to normal. The screaming match with him after you had left made him believe he truly severed his relationship with him, but this gave him an inch of hope. 

Eddie gives you the second serving and you tear through it again, leaving the bowl in front of you empty. As Eddie finishes his own, he starts to lean into you, placing delicate kisses on the little exposed skin you provided for him today. He moves you so you’re lying on top of him.

The movie is about to end, Bella waking up in a hospital with frankly, an off-putting delivery of the lines she was given. His hands make their way up past the hem of your sweater, reaching to touch some skin as he continues. A pinch makes its way in between your eyebrows down at him. “What’s this about?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to touch you.” You don't believe him, but you also don't mind the touches, as they were certainly doing their job as far as foreplay goes, so you lean back into him. Just when Eddie thought the end was near there’s a whole-ass prom scene and he nearly groans in frustration. Your legs intertwine with his, and he gets a sneaky idea, peering over your shoulder to move his leg over the teensiest bit. 

He moves his leg as if he was lifting one leg to rest on its foot. He moves it a bit faster than necessary, aiming for where your ass sat lower than normal on his body. 

As his knee jerks into your cunt, you gasp, a heat having already gathered from the movie alone, his teasing doing nothing to help. 

“Shit, sorry baby. Was just trying to move my leg.” One look at his face tells you it was a bold-faced lie and you give him an exasperated look. “What?” A series of shots that didn’t make the movie at the end show and Eddie rolls his eyes. “Prick.” He mutters under his breath to an image of Edward on the screen. 

“What was that?” You ask him, unsure you even heard him right. “Eddie, were you jealous?” You ask incredulously, the very idea of it is just bizarre. 

“What? No!” Eddie dismisses it far too quickly, but the satisfaction as he turns the tv off is too much to deny. 

“Eddie! He’s a fictional character. You do realize you share the same name, right?” Eddie rolls his eyes, slightly ticked off he let himself get caught being jealous. You crawl up to his face, the knee against your cunt having left a throb of more want. “Besides, there’s nothing to be jealous of.” You lean in to kiss him, still lying on top of him. As you tilt your head to deepen it, Eddie feels weak as your tongue meets his own and the way you’re gasping into his open mouth is filthy. “Nothing.” You emphasize, biting on his bottom lip. 

Eddie bites back a moan, his eyes rolling back as your teeth linger. You frame his face, kissing along the path of his stubble, his gorgeous jaw line, his freckled neck, the dip of his collarbone. 

You pause, taking a quick pause to suck on the collarbone lightly, biting into it to make one little claim of your own. You sit back on it, admiring the way it's already started to bruise. You continue, your hand absentmindedly moving his shirt up his torso so you could kiss your way down. You lick across a nipple, and his chest stunts in response. Down his torso you go until you meet the treasure of all treasure trails. You pause, inhaling at the scent, and the musk intoxicates you so much that you can’t help yourself, licking at it. Fuck. 

Finally, you get to his jean waistband, and you tug twice, making sure it's okay. Eddie moves to unbutton it for you, and you swat him away. “I wanna do it.” You tell him, picking up where he left off. You tug the jeans off, your fingers hooked meticulously so his boxers come off with them. 

His cock springs free and you look up to his face. By now Eddie has lost all clear thought, and he’s sure it started the moment you started working on his collarbone. Somehow it just got better and better as you went further down, every touch of your tongue against his skin sending fucking waves through him. But the look of…elation that you give him as you free his cock, like you couldn’t believe you get to be so lucky to suck on it, had him in pure ecstasy. 

You leaned in to take a long swipe on it, a slow lick from the base to the tip, and his cock is nearly down your throat before he could even register it. Relentlessly, you bob your head, fist gripping what you can't fit. You hear him swear loudly, and you let go with a popping sound. His hand finds its way to your face, framing it. You peer up at him, and his half opened eyes and a disbelieving smile gives you an unmatched sense of pride. 

“Holy shit.” He mutters, his thumb crossing your bottom lip slowly. 

You smile, lifting his hand from your face and into your hair, curling your fist over his so he would grip it tightly. You go back to work, mouth watering as you continue to bob up and down. Eddie slowly starts pushing on your head, forcing you to take a little bit more of him at a time. Your gag reflex fights it, and he can feel it. 

“Relax your throat baby.” He whispers. “Just relax it.” You think about it, letting the tense muscles of your jaw and attempting to swallow the spit to soften. He can feel a shift, his cock still in the heat of your mouth. “Oh, good girl.” 

He thrusts his hips up, and his cock finds itself down your throat, a feat you’ve never been able to accomplish before. The base of his cock meets your nose, and he stops, watching you adjust as tears come to your eyes from the stinging. “Holy shit, good fucking girl.” He mumbles, sweeping his hand through your hair. “So good.”

He pulls on your scalp so you move up and back down a few times, and you find it impossibly easy to submit yourself to him, allowing him to fuck your throat.

Eddie guides you off his cock, you look up at him for his appraisal and he frames your face to wonder how he was so lucky as he looks at your cocked-out eyes. “Oh, what a good little slut.” He mutters, pulling you up to his face. 

You crawl up eagerly, and he kisses you gently, not chaste, but not quite as dirty as before. He breaks away, still connecting your foreheads. “Let’s go upstairs, yeah?”

You nod readily; lust filled eyes staring back into his. You wait patiently for him to put his jeans back over on his cock and make your way back up the stairs to his room. 

As soon as his door is shut Eddie rids himself of his clothes, and you end up watching from his bed eagerly, enjoying the show. He dives onto the bed, and a squeal of giggles involuntarily leaves your throat at the wild eyes captivating his face. He dives down to kiss you, his tongue delicious against your own and he sucks on it, luring a whimper right out of you. One of his hands rubs against your thigh, and this pair of pants wasn’t something he could feel you up through. Eddie’s thumb messaged extra rough, and the touch alone manages more whimpers. 

“Touch me.” You choke out, breathing heavily, breathing him. “Please.”

Eddie grins, both his hands working down to unbutton the tight jeans you wore. A hand slips in and starts to tease along the slick of your folds and your breath hitches as Eddie focuses on making you feel good. He rubs them in small circles, the touch light but enough to give you release. You can tell he isn't necessarily driving you towards an orgasm and it drives a laugh of impatience out of you against his lips. 

“Baby” You whine, “Fuck.” You couldn’t even put words to it, because somehow you knew he’d find a way to twist it. 

Eddie leans into your neck, the heat of his cruel laughter closing your eyes. “Oh, you wanted me to touch you and get off? Well why didn’t you say so?” 

The pressure increases, a defined difference in his touch as he rubs against your clit, and the sounds he draws from you was worth the tease. He hikes your oversized sweater up, revealing skin and your bra, and as his fingers move absentmindedly he kisses your stomach with light tongue, the wet warmth sending shivers up your body as the feeling in your tummy starts to pool. 

He sits up suddenly, and you whimper from the loss. He chuckles at this, pride in how pathetic he can make you feel. “Aww, poor baby.” He mocks you, and your eyebrows furrow in slight embarrassment. “It’s okay, I know you just wanna cum…gonna get you to cum all over my face.” His hands tug on your jeans, and he barely needs any help from you to yank them off, unceremoniously throwing them onto the floor. “Oh, fuck, finally.” He mutters as he sees your pussy, prettier than he remembered when he jacked himself off in the shower this morning. 

He leans in, sucking on your clit and the heat expands from it into your legs and the feeling in your stomach doubles. From no release to every bit, you could already feel the knot threatening to snap. “Holy shit, fuck.” You mutter, your thighs clamping against him. 

He feels the intensity in your body shift, continuing to suck on your clit rhythmically. Your breathing increases, and Eddie slowly sucks harder, and harder, and as your heels dig in his upper back, he stops. 

An audible whine leaves you, the edge just right there. “Fuck, Ed.” You whimper, somehow knowing it was on purpose. 

He chuckles, watching your beautiful cunt react as well. “I know, baby, I know.” 

“I was so close.” 

“Imagine how good it’ll feel when you do cum, yeah?” He teases, still watching your face. Your leg muscles spasm and the kisses he trails down your thigh are no help. 

You whine again, toes curling and the extra fabric of your sweater self consciously curls up around your fists. “Ed.”

“I know.” He says one last time, and goes in for the kill. 

There was really no delay this time, the edge was only a step away and he pushed you over, his fingers fucking into you and tongue working over time on your clit, a heat into an explosion as your legs shake and pussy spasms. Eddie pays close attention to it, admiring the glisten of your slick coating you, dripping to your ass and on his sheets and it's a piece of art. 

Eddie kisses one last time against your clit, crawling back up to you to assess. “Sweetheart?”

You smile lazily at him, the orgasm having left a smile on your face and a glow amongst your features. “Hmm?”

“Wanna fuck still?” He asks, his hand petting your face softly. 

Your eyes fucking light up, nodding enthusiastically. He chuckles, moving the sweater slowly up and over your head. He moves around your torso, single handedly unhooking your bra, revealing those gorgeous tits. 

He looks like heaven above you, a shadow of stubble, brown eyes darkened as he takes you in, and the lust in his eyes sends a pool of wetness between your legs. Your legs open, and he sits himself between them, kissing the nearest skin he can as he puts his cock into you. 

Your legs close on the feeling, mouth falling open in a silent moan. God, what a sight. 

You sleepily look up at him as he puts his chest on yours, just drinking in the moment of him in you. He does the same, your hands framing his face.

He kisses you, slow and sweet. “So, so, good, Ed.” You manage out between them, sighing up at him. 

He moves back a bit, thrusting into you lightly and you whimper into his mouth. He separates himself to get a good look as he continually fucks into you, and your mouth is open in unspoken words. Too fucking good. 

“I know baby, I know.” He tells you. He kisses your neck, down your throat and down to a tit bouncing lightly from the impact of his cock fucking into you. He latches his tongue onto the nipple, your pussy tightening around him in response. He grazes his teeth lightly, mewls leaving your throat at the sheer pleasure mixed with pain and he lets go. 

He leans up from you, taking one of your legs and placing it against his shoulder up towards the ceiling and you can feel him deeper, his thrusts starting to hit harder. Your moans are interrupted by each thrust. “Ed. So. Good. Fuck.”

His hand gently caresses your leg on his shoulder, focusing on the warmth of your pussy engulfing him. “Oh, tight pussy. So fuckable.” 

“Yours.” You whine out. 

“Oh, that’s right. My pussy.”

“All yours.” You choke out. 

“Oh that’s fuckin right. You’re mine. All mine. My good fuckable slut.”

The words hit the right spot, making your eyes roll back. “Fuck, Ed. Cum in me.”

“Yeah, wanna be filled with me?"

“Mmhmm…” 

“Oh fuck.” Eddie reaches his high faster than he was expecting, his hips jerking into you and the feeling of his cock pulsating while it spurts inside you is everything. 

Eddie pants, lightly pushing your leg off his chest. He leans forward to give you a kiss, his body covered in sweat, the slick smell being something you need to memorize. “Holy shit, sweetheart."

You giggle, your legs holding him there. “Stay a while?”

“Love to cockwarm, huh, baby?” 

“Only with you,” You mutter, a yawn leaving you. And if it was anything like the first time, you’ll be asleep within minutes. “So full.” 

He chuckles, turning on the tv next to his bed. He tugs the blanket out from under you and pulls it over the two of you. You snuggle into his arms as he wraps them around you. “You know, we can cuddle without—” Eddie starts.

“No, no. That’s crazy talk.” You interrupt him, and he feels a smile up against his chest.

As you fall asleep, you hear one last thing from him, something you don’t think you were supposed to hear. “Beat that, you sparkly fucker.”

Somehow, the power of making Eddie jealous over a fictional vampire didn’t go straight to your head, but goddamn it felt good to be this wanted. 

-

The tickle of the sheet against your abdomen comes to mind as you wake up on your side, calf in between Eddie’s legs and your face buried in his chest. His snoring is gentle but deep, his arm lazily wrapped around you. You figure he eventually got himself out of you, the subtle loss something you probably whined at. 

You feel a smile creep its way onto your face, the satisfaction of waking up how you did fills your lungs with air. You peer your head back to get a look at his face, relaxed and unguarded, even from sex. Your eyes take in every detail of his handsome face, the slight hook of his nose, the stray hairs by his left eyebrow, the freckles scattered… God, he is beautiful. 

You lean in to kiss his jawline, nuzzling your nose into the scratch of his stubble. The arm around your torso flexes, a snore interrupted. A huff of laughter escapes you, the simplicity of it just so mesmerizing. He shifts slightly, arm tightening around you as he adjusts himself. You cuddle yourself closer into his chest, inhaling the scent that was unmistakably him. No cologne, deodorant or aftershave disguising it. The smell alone makes you shudder in happiness. 

You lay breathing him in for another thirty minutes before he finally stirs awake.

When he finally does, eyes squinting around as he blinks awake, arms flexing away as he yawns and stretches, you lay there patiently as he gets his bearings.

“Fuck.” His arms go limp, and he buries himself into your hair, breathing in the scent. “How long—” he yawns, cutting himself off. “How long have you been awake?”

Your shoulders shrug, and he huffs out a breath of laughter. He feels your stomach grumble against his. “Long enough, huh.” He kisses into your hair, giving you one last good squeeze. “Alright, let’s go get some food.”

You protest getting out of bed with him but the second growl your stomach makes, this one even more audible, has Eddie give a look to say it wasn’t debatable. Food first.

Down the stairs, you sit in a pair of shorts with the same over sized sweater at the kitchen island, chewing happily on the food Eddie prepared for you, a fucking snack tray. He put it in front of you, and you look up at him with an eyebrow raised peculiarly. “I fucking love snacks.” He says, grabbing a slice of cheese off your tray.

Dylan jogs into the kitchen, stealing a cracker off your plate as he dashes around the counter. “Going out with friends, be back later.” He looks dressed up for a bar, an outfit you knew he would wear to impress. It's a weird thought that you know him like this. 

“Don’t be stupid, don’t drink and drive.” Eddie tells him, leaning forward on the island. 

“Got it!” 

“Was that good or bad, I couldn’t tell.” You ask him when the front door closes. 

“I wouldn’t go towards either. He’s being civil for the sake of you but he’s much more pissed when you’re not here. Trust me.” Eddie answers you, eyes wide at the end of the sentence.

A pang of guilt hits you square in the chest. He sees your expression falter, giving you a soft look. “Don’t feel guilty. I deserve it. He damn well has a right to act this way when I betrayed him.”

Fuck, that was a level of emotional maturity you weren’t used to seeing in men. Threw you for a loop. 

“So, sweetheart. I got a question for you.” You perk up, leaning towards him at the opposite end of the island counter. “Will you allow me to take you out on a proper date?”

The sentence drives your heart wild, your stomach turning itself inside out. You nod your head rapidly, gulping. “When?”

“Well it’s four o’clock now…if I drive you home so you can get ready we could probably make our 7 o’clock reservation.”

-

Now you find yourself in your bathroom, your makeup scattered across the counter as you dance to an upbeat playlist, your quick glance to the clock indicating you still have an hour before he comes to pick you up at 6:45. 

You're driving yourself mad with the want to outdo yourself, you want a visual reaction from this man. He was kind enough to let you know it was more upscale, but that was all the detail he was willing to provide to you. You knew your initial reaction to wear something to rile him up wasn’t any good, and the warning he had given you had driven you to believe he knew you well enough to know you would if he hadn’t.

You hear the front door of the apartment close, Skyler getting home from day working at a cellphone carrier store. She hated the dumb customers but loved the commission she made when she sold plans. She places her things down, making her way straight to the bathroom to where the blaring music could be heard. “Going out somewhere?” She asks, slightly yelling to be heard over the music. 

You reach to the Bluetooth speaker, turning down the volume a few notches. “Hot date with Eddie!” You tell her excitedly, leaning in to finish the last of the eyeliner. 

“Oh, I didn’t know you had one planned!”

“Neither did I! He told me about the reservation just like an hour ago after he dropped me off.”

“Just like that?” She asks, leaning in. 

You pause the movement of your brush on your face, using some setting powder for a final touch. “Just like that.” 

Her eyebrows raised to her forehead quickly. “Okay, damn. That’s…that’s romantic.”

A smile lands on your face, and you close it to prevent the wider smile making its way to prevent teasing. “Mmmhmm.” 

Face setting spray finishes your face before you run to your room to do the most daunting thing about getting ready…picking out your outfit. 

It has to be something your ex hasn't taken off you either. There goes that hot blue little dress, and this green strappy number, and that really cute skirt…damn this might be harder than you thought. You used a lot of secret weapons from your arsenal with Dylan. 

“I’m out of clothes!” You yell to your roommate, frustrated out of your mind. 

“You still haven’t used that pretty dress you bought last month…the one still with a tag on it?” She calls out, referring to a dress you found that fit you perfectly but didn’t have anything to wear it for.

“That one is for special occasions!”

“Bitch, your boyfriend made spontaneous dinner date plans for your first date. It’s a special occasion, wear the damn dress!”

As it cascades down your body as you place it over your head, it couldn’t have been more perfect. 

-

Sitting in your living room while waiting to be picked up should not be this jittery, butterflies doing a little dancey-dance in your stomach as Skyler absentmindedly binge-watches Buffy. You sent Eddie your address at his request about ten minutes ago, and now it's just a waiting game. 

Three knocks at the door find you standing in a second, tripping over your own feet to get to the door. You open it to him, standing there with a single red rose. He's dressed in a gorgeous leather outdoor jacket, one only a man as fine as he is could pull off as well as he does and still make it look classy. He wears a pair of slacks with a dark red button down tucked loosely into it, the first three buttons undone. 

Something tells you he’ll be moving his sleeves up his arms later. Fuck. He has never looked hotter. 

“Hi, gorgeous. Ready?”

You nodded frantically, picking the open jacket up from the coatrack you had placed conveniently by the door. You turn back to face to your roommate to tell her not to wait up and face her, her mouth wide open. “I see it now.” She whispers, her jaw dropping again. 

Your eyebrows raise to her in response but a glare reaches as your face as you turn around, something in you stupidly angry about this. Good. Look from afar. 

-

The drive down is filled to the brim with unbridled anticipation, neither one saying much as you watch the pretty lights pass by on the way to the unspecified restaurant. 

He places his hand on your thigh, thumb caressing it gently. Your dress is just long enough for his pinky to touch your leg but the rest lay on the soft material. “You look gorgeous, by the way.” He compliments you, and you suddenly realize he’s barely watching the road. 

“Hmm.” You answer, nodding at the road. “My heart stopped when I opened the door, you are unfairly handsome.”

“Unfairly?” Eddie asks, voice incredulous at your word choice. 

“Mmhmm.” 

He chuckles, suddenly making a left turn into a group of scattered restaurants and your breath hitches, wondering, no. 

Holy fuck, it is. 

He pulls up and you’re peering up at what is known as the most expensive restaurant in town, the kind of place you only went with when your parents were celebrating an anniversary or something and were paying.

The kind of place that had good ass food, but you need to be able to pay minimum, 100 per person. The wine is automatically served, and the only music is a light piano melody. “Wanted to take you out for a treat. Somewhere I know damn well men your age can’t afford.”

That sentence alone drenches the lacy panties you wore. 

He walks to your side after getting out, opening the door for you. The act isn’t much, something a man or two has done before him, but from him, it was like a goddamn touch of Midas. 

The low light and piano music engulfs you, the conversation low as you see everyone is dressed in their best. You find yourself intimidated but Eddie walks in like he belongs. 

Cause he does. 

He asks for a reservation under his last name, and the waitress finds it right away. You can’t help but notice the way her eyes light up and damn, you usually don’t describe yourself as the jealous type but when it comes to him it's hard not to be. 

As you get to your booth, Eddie takes off his jacket, revealing his sleeves up to his elbows, and it’s literally mouth watering. He does it so swiftly, and before you can even sit, he holds his hand out for your jacket as well. You take it off to hand it over, which he hangs ever so gently over his jacket on the hook. 

Your hostess asks for drinks, Eddie asks for the drink menu and some water, you ask for water as well, hoping to find a suitable cocktail when the menu comes along. 

The low lighting is flattering on him sitting across from you, and all his attention is on you, even as his eyes roam the menu. The conversation flows effortlessly, and you finally ask Eddie for his story, something even through the lust you’ve had a desire to know. 

He describes growing up in Hawkins, Indiana, a rebel without a cause with a touch for the dramatics and running a role play DnD group. He describes his struggles as he failed grade twelve twice due to a large population chalking it up to laziness when in reality no one listened to his inability to sit down long enough to learn anything. He tells you about this group of friends he made in his final and successful attempt at grade 12, the ones that eventually kicked his ass into gear and none of them he would’ve been here without, and though they were all older like him, you hoped one day you’d be lucky enough to meet them face-to-face. 

His attempt at college, realizing it wasn’t for him and dropping out a semester in when a local mechanic he knew offered an apprenticeship spot at his garage.

2 years into it, he finds out he enjoys it and he made enough money to move out. At 22 he meets a woman who comes into his shop with a check engine light on, and that was how he met Dylan's mom. You fought so hard not to roll your eyes as he described building a life with her and finding out she was pregnant, but it was hard not to be jealous. 

Apparently she was the perfect mom from the outside, her connection to her son was unbeatable. Eddie soon found out she was having an affair with one of her co-workers, the same one she had told him time and time again that, no, of course he didn’t have a crush on her, that’s silly. 

(They were fucking the whole time.)

If anything, it was the reason he had let Dylan find out so quickly. An affair would’ve made it ten times worse. 

He finishes off, describing how difficult it was to raise him after she ran off with the co-worker, eventually finding something that worked for them. All in all, he was proud of the person he had raised Dylan to become, hopeful for their relationship. 

You hung onto every word he told you through that meal like he had hung the moon and the stars. As he finishes, wiping his hands on his napkin as he ate, your eyes fixated on his forearms flexing, he apologizes, claiming he felt bad for talking the whole time.

“Oh, I could listen to you for hours.” It falls out of your mouth before you could stop it.

“Well I’m sick of myself. Tell me about you.” He comments, so you did. 

You tell him about being raised in the small town in rural America, being a teenager in the 2010s a slight difference than in the late 90s. Your stupid first boyfriend who dumped you as soon as he slept with you, your mom who meant well but often valued the opinions of others over her daughters needs and wants, your stoner of a best friend who had an opinion that you valued most of all, and how you met your current roommate through a facebook ad but it turned out you really clicked. 

Your story had no beginning and no end, just going off your life based on what you felt like you had wanted to tell him. 

“Dylan is a good boyfriend, by the way.” Eddie laughed at the absurdity of your sentence, all plates in front of you containing any food long gone while you had your third cocktail and Eddie drank some whiskey. Were you a bit tipsy? Yes. That sentence couldn’t have left your mouth without it. “After the lack of commitment on a stupid amount of dudes, his willingness to go all in, as we said that’s what we had both wanted, was exceedingly refreshing.” You took another gulp of it, the sugary drink hitting nicely. “He was stable, kind, thoughtful, but something was missing. In him I felt safety.” You pause, looking at him. “In you, I feel freedom.” 

The conversation moved away from Dylan, thank God. As he asks for one more before the bill you can't help yourself. “Where do you see this going?” You gulp, scratching your nose, and paying close attention to your glass. “If you say anything other than long term, I might be sick.”

To Eddie, your level of honesty was refreshing. “Baby, anything but long-term has never been an option to me.”

Eddie gives his credit card to the waitress, a moon eyed girl who he had barely paid attention to. Either because he was being courteous with his attention or he just didn’t bother when you were right in front of him, it didn’t matter, but the thing itself gave you immense satisfaction. (It was the latter, for the record. Eddie had barely noticed her.)

As he helped you back into your jacket, slipping on his own, a feeling of intense satisfaction, pure bliss invaded your entire system. There was no first date that would ever be as good as this one. The set up, picking you up, the nice ass restaurant, the easy conversation, and lastly, the knowledge that when you got to his, he would be all over you, and you him. 

Nothing was ever gonna be this good. 

Good. You didn’t want anyone or anything but him. 

-

Your head found his shoulder on the way back to his place, hands intertwined on your lap on the silent ride home, soft rock playing on his radio. As his truck reaches his driveway, you notice it's empty. Eddie picked up on this as your head perks up upon the observation. 

“Asked if he could crash at a friend’s place tonight.” Eddie explains, having placed the truck in park, sitting back in his seat. “We got the place to ourselves.” 

You grinned giddily, and you weren’t sure if it was the three and a half drinks or the troublesome feeling of your lacy panties being thoroughly soaked, but you were out his truck door before he could even register it. He climbs out, quickly shuffling behind you and he makes a giggle pour out of you as he scares you as you wait patiently at the door for him to unlock it. 

He kisses your neck as he reaches in with one hand to unlock the door, and you open it and turn to him, yanking on the collar of his leather jacket. “Need you.” You mutter in between kisses, only in the entrance of the house but if you took another step without kissing him, you were gonna lose your mind. “Want. You.” 

Your need is outrageously attractive, Eddie leaning into every kiss you've given him with the same amount of fervor, his hands holding your waist and fisting at the deliciously beautiful dress you had worn. You just had this dress? Waiting around? And you hadn’t blessed anyone with the perfect sight that was you dressed in it until now? What a goddamn sin.

It’ll be a shame when it hits the floor but this dress is only second to how goddamn good you looked naked as far as Eddie's concerned. Speaking of which…

Eddie continually kisses you, pulling you in against him, your breath hitches pulling your coat off and letting it fall to the floor. He backs you up to the stairs, and your foot hits the first step up, and as you’re starting to climb backwards Eddie pushes his body on yours, forcing you to sit. He takes it a step further by leaning in to kiss your neck, and your back falls onto the steps as well, just like he was hoping. Your legs open, welcoming his hips into yours. 

Eddie only starts with soft kisses, just to smell your perfume and to feel your skin beneath his lips. “This dress, baby, this dress.” He pauses, a look of lust deep within his brown eyes. “Oh, fuck, this dress.” He couldn’t seem to tell you anything else, but you were thankful the gut feeling that told you to buy it was right. You tug on his collar, pulling it down his back to take it off.

Eddie assists you, letting the jacket fall clumsily down the three steps.

“My dress? This shirt!” You gasp, gripping onto it softly. “You look so good. The buttons undone on the top were..” You sigh as he kisses his way down to your shoulder. “…a nice touch.”

His hand pushes up your dress, hands roughly smoothing up your thigh, and one gets to the lacey panties. As his hand brushes the panties to take them off he gives you a manic smile. He takes them off, slowly, head against your shoulder as he does so. As the pair is taken off your foot, he inhales sharply at the sight of them, holding them in front of your body where he can see them. You see his hands touch where you soaked it all night, playing with the slick that has already gathered. “You’re not getting these back.”

He tosses them back playfully, going back to attack your neck. Eventually he leaves kisses all down your torso, and he kisses down your clothed thigh before making a big show of lifting the dress hem up, kissing along your thigh again. Only this time, your thigh wasn’t covered, and it was towards your now uncovered and absolutely throbbing cunt. As he moves closer, you start to whine, as with each kiss he adds more wetness, more tongue. Finally his mouth is right next to your core, and with his head in your skirt, he reaches for each leg to put them on his shoulders. 

He goes straight in, tongue attacking your clit, your still covered feet dig into his back and a choked out moan leaves your throat. Eddie’s lips leave your pussy, his shining eyes in your sight as he popped his head from underneath your dress. “Be loud, show me how much you love my tongue all over your pussy. C’mon. Wanna hear you. If I catch you holding back again you’ll be sorry.” He leans in without another thought, and his tongue takes no time to continue. 

“Oh, fuck!” You felt slightly embarrassed by it, but you were more worried about what he meant at the end there, by you’ll be sorry. If he edged you just for the hell of it, what was he gonna do as a punishment? “Your tongue, feels so fucking good, Ed.”

“Tastes—” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Tastes like heaven. Love your sweet, perfect, beautiful pussy.” The acoustics of talking through your dress didn’t make sense, but you could hear him loud and clear. “Look how wet this pussy is already for me, just dripping, oh fuck.”

“Fuck, you look, fuck, so good Ed. So fucking hot.” 

“You were wet from my appearance alone?” Eddie asks, peering up at you from behind your dress.

“Since the first time I met you.” You gasp out, leaning onto your elbows on the step but finding your head heavy on your neck to look up at him.

“Jesus christ.” You smiled down at him, hand reaching forward for him. He interlocks his with yours and keeps it there as he dives back in your dress. Something feels different…the heat concentrates on your clit as he feverishly attacks it. 

“Holy shit--!” You cry out, jerking your upper body forward. “Ed, holy fuck keep doing that.” His other hand joins him, hooking into you and immediately connecting with your g-spot. As you get closer, he can feel your hand tighten on his own as your moans lose all inhibition and you whine, all high pitched, the sound echoing beautifully in the empty house. “Ed, fuck—” Your orgasm snuck up on you, the heat expanding through your thighs and legs until the edge hits you in a silent scream, and you gush all over his face and your dress and the stairs. 

Thank god Eddie had hardwood. 

He comes out from your dress, and you look at him in disbelief. “What—” you start, still unraveling. “I don’t even—” 

“C’mon.” He mutters, kissing your forehead. You follow him up to his room, knees already weak but moving anyway. 

Your bodies collide with one another, lips mashing in hot, dirty kisses. “Need to fuck you now.” Eddie breathes, his hands working at the zipper on your back. The dress drops to reveal what he already knew, and that it was you weren't wearing a bra. “Perfect fucking tits, fuck.”

He tugs at his belt and untucks his pants, making him look like a horny teenager. Maybe not horny, just a few drinks in. But when he had what he called the hottest girlfriend, he felt like anyone could hardly blame him. His pants fly off and he undoes the last few buttons on his shirt before he yanks it off by the back. 

When he’s finally undressed, he pauses as he gets a good look at you, the both of you ridiculously exposed. “Fuck. Am I so goddamn lucky I get to spend my night with you?”

“Just kiss me.” You tell him, reaching out for him and he lurches forward, wrapping his hands in your hair and taking your lips in a wet kiss. He leads you to his bed, taking step by step as you fall backwards onto it, and none of it is awkward, just perfect. He crawls on top as your leg makes its way around his hips, and he can’t even bother to tease you because if he doesn’t get his cock inside you he is gonna lose it. 

You didn’t expect it so soon, usually getting a tease but the shock pulls out a loud moan from you, Eddie moaning at the same time as he pushes himself into you. He puts his forehead against yours, eyes closed. Yours are too, taking in the feeling of his cock inside you. No matter how many times, it's like you forgot how fucking good it felt, every time. 

“God. I didn’t know a pussy could feel this…fuck.” He mutters as his words make you tighten around him. “Fucking intoxicating.” He leans in to nip lightly against your neck, whispering into your skin. “Can’t fucking get enough of it. And when I—” he lips his hips out of yours, fucking into you slowly, “—fuck you, there’s nothing fucking better.” 

His hips continue, his head remaining in your neck, his body against yours as he just feels you against him. Your hands roam the muscles of his back, nails digging in as his hips gradually fuck you harder. “You always take my cock so goddamn well, baby. Such a good whore for me.” 

You whimper; all coherent thought gone as the feeling of him is pure perfection. 

“Fucking love your cock in me Ed! Fuck, just like- just like that.” 

“Oh, I know you love my cock. You moan like a whore for it. Let me hear you baby.” 

The whines you didn’t realize you were holding back came out of your mouth and he grabbed your hair harshly, and you let out a higher one. “Don’t hold back, remember?”

You nod your head, a restricted move because of his hold on you. Eddie lets go, his hand framing your face delicately. He leans in to kiss you, fierce and protective. “God, you’re so much more…more than I had ever wanted…ever hoped for…” his voice is softer now, whispering into your neck. 

“Ed. You’re so good…to me. So lucky.” 

He places a hand on your clit, rubbing gently at it. “Fuck, baby I’m gonna cum. Cum with me?”

“What am I gonna say, no? To that?” you gasp out. He chuckles softly, the laughter hot against your neck. 

“Close.” You tell him and he picks up the pace, holding back a bit for you. “Eddie I—” and a full moan leaves your lips and as you tighten around him, his hips rutting into you. 

Eddie moans loudly as he cums, a sound you wouldn’t blame angels for if they had used at the gates of heaven. 

His weight is heavy on you, having collapsed. He kisses whatever skin he can reach, your shoulder, collarbone, jawline, corner of your mouth before wrapping your lips in a kiss you can only describe as breathtakingly romantic. 

Fuck were you falling, falling hard. And as Eddie lay on top of you for a solid ten minutes, caressing your skin and kissing you softly, still inside you while basking in the afterglow, he is thinking the exact same thing.

Also that he needs to clean the stairs before Dylan gets home. 

-

Thank you so much for reading! I love to read comments and replies and tags and as always reblogging is the best way to support fic writers on tumblr

Taglist: @pinkcowracing @yourthebrokengirl @skrzydlak @thirddeadlysin @sammararaven @bebe07011 @prettylovley @josephquinncore @forget-you-morelike-fuck-you

Those who requested for this fic: @yunnie-f1 @hollster88 @corrodedcoffincumslut @daisyridleyyyy @daniellabrandt @lail1010 @alicentswife @names-were-taken

[tobbesdiscordkitten]

Guns N’ Roses Fic: You Don’t Know How This Works

Summary: One morning Howard telephones Axl to interview him and to secretly get under his skin by flirting with his girlfriend, Roxanne. Little does Howard know that Axl has other mischievous plans up his sleeve.

Characters: Axl Rose, OC: Roxanne, and Howard Stern.

Pairing(s): Axl Rose/original female character, Axl Rose/female reader, Axl Rose/Roxanne, Howard Stern/Roxanne.

Rating: Explicit, 21+

Word Count: 2,357

Warnings: Howard is a creep, humiliation, drug use, mentions of bondage, vaginal fingering, forced climax, and oral sex.

A/N: This fic is inspired by Howard Stern’s 1990 interview between Axl Rose and Sebastian Bach. Parts of the interview have been altered to fit this story’s plot. In the fic, Roxanne is semi based off of Erin Everly. Link to video => here

Everything inside the condo was quiet. Morning light seeped into the bedroom, casting a golden glow on both the wrinkled white bedsheets and Axl Rose's sleeping form, while his head was buried underneath a layer of pillows. It was peaceful. Until suddenly, on the nightstand, the telephone began to ring. The obnoxious sound reverberated off the walls. Axl stayed in bed, somewhat blocking out the noise with his pillows.

He had stayed up all night partying with his friends, drinking vast amounts of hard liquor, injecting himself with heroine, and French kissing his beloved sweetheart, Roxanne aka Roxi. His body felt wrecked and his mind harbored a horrible migraine. The ringing only made his problems worse.

Axl groaned awake, picking up the receiver, a hint of grogginess in his tone. "Hello?" Axl's eyes caught a glimpse of the clock - 9:15 a.m. Who the fuck was calling this early?

"Hey, Axl, it's me - Howard Stern. How the hell are you? What have you been up to?"

Axl's peripheral vision was somewhat blurred and his mind was not registering the bombardment of questions Howard threw at him. He sat up in bed, rubbing a hand over his face, hoping his mind would clear up. Unfortunately, for the migraine, it still knocked on his frontal lobe like Heaven's Door. "Wh-what?"

"Come on, man. Don't dodge the question. Tell me about your life. What's been happening? Are you still banging chicks? Writing any new songs? You still partying like a wild animal?" Howard always pried each of his guests on air and wanted to know everything about their life. It didn't matter if it was his business or not, Howard made it his business.

"Yeah, man. Sure."

The answer was vague and Howard knew it. He needed to try a new tactic, go slow, take each question at a time, and then he'd get the answers he was searching for, including some dirt as a bonus. In the end, the turtle won, not the hare. "You sound tired. Did I wake you up?"

"No," Axl lied. "Just laying in bed, reading some magazines."

"Yeah? Any hot chicks on those covers?"

"Not a chance.” He cleared his throat. “They're Rolling Stone articles."

"Oh, business replaced pleasure this morning?"

"If they didn't shred me in the papers it'd be the opposite."

"What kind of shredding?"

"How I don't live an honest life. That kind of bullshit." It was true. The media did try to distort his public image by twisting the facts and cranking out lies about his personal life and incidents that have occurred on tour.

"I hear ya, man. Critics can fuck you right in the ass. It's their job. They wanna fuck every celebrity they can find, including me. I'd rather they sucked my dick. Like in your song, Out Ta Get Me."

Axl snorted. "It's one thing we have in common." His eyes wandered to the other side of the bed, noticing the empty space. Where was his baby girl? Was she in the kitchen brewing some coffee? Making breakfast? Outside of the bedroom, he didn't hear the clinking of dishes to confirm his suspicions, or the aroma of coffee grains. “Roxanne?" Axl called, unaware that Howard was still on the other line.

"Oh, is she there?" Excitement crept into Howard's voice.

Axl grunted. "Yeah, man, she's here..."

"What's she doing right now?"

He shrugged. Why was Howard interested in his girl? It seemed strange…odd. "Hell if I knew. She disappeared on me."

"Uh oh. That doesn't sound so promising," Howard mused. "Is she fucking one of your boys?"

Axl eyed the door. "Nah, man. She's loyal." Or at least he hoped she was. She wouldn't wander out of the condo to fuck one of his band members. If that was the case, he'd tie her down on the bed and remind her who she belonged to. It wasn't the first time that happened and it wouldn't be the last.

"Doesn't sound loyal," Howard commented. "Tell me something: does she have big tits?"

The question took him off guard but Axl tried to remain unfazed. Instead, he chuckled, picturing her voluminous globes and perked nipples. "Why? You jealous?"

"No, no. All I'm saying is," Howard corrected himself, "you're lucky for finding chicks with great racks. It's a rare find these days."

"A lot of 'em are fake, but she's a natural."

Howard paused, listening intently. He heard many rumors about Axl over the years, particularly about his temper. Howard was purposely trying to get a rise out of him and see if he would blow up over the line in front of Howard's daily listeners. He just needed to push each button a little more...

Axl continued, "You can squeeze 'em and all sorts of sounds come outta her like a chew toy."

"You suck her tits too?"

"Lick, bite, suck," he elaborated. "Look, it doesn't matter. She creams for me. End of story."

Around the corner, Axl heard the front door unlatch, creek open, and close. Roxanne must've arrived home.

“Axl?"

"In here, baby."

Roxi walked into the doorway of their bedroom, holding two coffees and dangling a plastic bag, with a bagel logo on it, around her forearm.

Axl sighed with relief. She didn't wake up early to cheat on him. She went out of her way to buy them both breakfast from their favorite bakery across the street.

Roxi held up his beverage, whispering, “Black coffee with extra milk for my King."

Howard interrupted the precious moment with his chattering demands. "Lemme speak to her." If Axl denied his wishes, he wouldn't hear the endless complaints from Howard for the rest of the interview, and Axl was already running low on patience this morning. "Babe, come here. Howard wants to talk to you." Axl motioned for her to step closer.

Roxanne walked in, handing him his coffee, and setting the bag on the nightstand. She grabbed the phone, pressing it against her ear while her index finger snaked around the cord, twirling it. It was a nervous habit. She never spoke to a famous person before, let alone Howard Stern. "Hello?"

"Is this Roxi?" Howard questioned, wanting confirmation.

"Yes."

Her voice was music to his ears. She sounded sweet like licorice, seemed childish like a doll, and innocent like Bambi. He could tell her very essence encapsulated an aura that could only be found within his childhood but was buried underneath life's hellish experiences, stripping away such purity. "You sound very beautiful," Howard complimented.

Roxi blushed, twirling her finger around the cord until her blood circulation came to a halt. "Thank you."

"What are you wearing?"

She looked down at her attire. "I'm wearing a dress."

"What kind of dress? Is it short?"

"No, its long. A long black dress. Nothing fancy."

"I see. I bet it's accentuating your curves, am I right?"

Roxi blushed again, harder this time, and held the phone against her ear tighter, hoping to block out Howard's voice in case Axl overheard him. She knew how jealous and overprotective Axl got, especially towards playful banter. "Thanks. Uhm...it's stylish, yeah."

Howard sensed her uneasiness. It was time to go straight for the kill. "Right. So, tell me, have you and Axl been making love every night?"

Roxanne turned to look at Axl. "Why are you asking me these questions…?" She asked, laughing nervously. Axl caught on and knew Howard was acting unprofessional. He took the phone away from her, sitting her down on his lap. "Howard," Axl said, wrapping an arm around Roxi's waist to keep her glued to his side.

"What, man? I'm just curious. I need to know the details. Is she a good lay?"

"Best lay you'll never have." Axl squeezed Roxi's hip. "She's mine. Nobody can have her."

"Nobody can have her yet she has everybody." Howard shot back.

Axl tried to keep himself composed. "Nah, man. You don't know how this works." He took Roxi's coffee out of her hand and placed it on the nightstand. He cradled the phone with his shoulder, using one of his hands to hold Roxi in place while his other hand sneaked underneath her dress, diving into her panties. She jolted at the sensation, wide-eyed, cupping her mouth shut with both hands.

Why was he displaying his dominance now?! She wondered.

"How what works?"

"This." Axl slid a finger into Roxanne's pussy, making her gasp. He could feel her velvet walls clench around his digit.

"How does it work?" Howard persisted.

"Only I know how it works." Axl slid in another finger, hooking them inside her. Roxi moaned into her palms and arched her back. "I intend to keep it that way." She didn't notice but Axl's eyes turned a shade darker as his dominant, protective side took over.

"Aww, I can't be part of your little club?" Howard found this whole interaction amusing and was oblivious to what was actually occurring.

"Nope. Just me." Axl withdrew both fingers, sliding them along her slit until he found her clit, stroking it. Roxi whined, leaning herself further onto his chest.

"I see. Only the cool kids get to join, huh?"

Axl nodded, stroking her clit a little harder.

Howard shook his head in mock disappointment. "That's alright. I'm not missing much."

Roxi came. Axl swiped his fingers along her cunt, coating them in her warm, fresh juices. “Not a damn thing." He confirmed, sucking away her slick. She was the most delicious thing he ever tasted. She was far superior than any meal Howard would never graze upon in his lifetime.

Roxanne's body went limp against Axl as she tried to catch her breath from the quick yet intense orgasm. She could feel his hardened erection poke into her ass at the seam of his pants. Now it was his turn to get a release.

Lying back on the bed, Axl repositioned Roxi to straddle his waist. She inched her body downwards and undid the leather belt-buckle on his jeans. Next, she used her teeth to unzip the fly of his jeans, tasting a hint of copper on her tongue. Her fingers dug in to free his throbbing manhood that was already leaking precum. In the room, a cool breeze wafted over his cock, helping it grow a few inches.

"So, Axl, tell me, will there be any covers on this album?"

Axl wanted to forget Howard was on the phone. He wanted to forget this interview was even happening and, instead, focus on the pure, erotic bliss Roxanne was gonna provide him. Axl wished he could smash the phone and never hear Howard's annoying voice again. But he couldn't. He needed the recognition. He needed the world - his fans - to hear about his upcoming album. And most of all...he needed a damn good blowjob.

Roxanne suctioned her lips around the base of his cock, diving head down to engulf his shaft in her throat. Axl cursed under his breath and used his free hand to guide Roxi's head, setting the pace.

"It's uhm...it's coming. We recorded Live And Let Die a few months ago."

"Oh yeah? The James Bond hit? I can foresee you guys executing that."

"Yeah, it's been really great." Axl looked down and saw Roxi's head bob up and down, causing her cheeks to hollow out, sharpening the contrast on her cheekbones. It was a lovely sight to behold. He bit back a few moans, cursing under his breath again. He didn't want Howard to know or suspect an inkling about this situation.

Reaching his hand out, Axl caressed Roxi's dark locks and petted her head, a notion that indicated she was being a good girl for making him feel grounded and satisfied.

"I heard a rumor Steven left the band-"

"He didn't leave. He got fired." Before Howard could ask why, Axl responded, “couldn't leave his drugs, couldn't leave her..." He closed his eyes, savoring the moment. Roxanne was more addicting than heroine. Every time he got a piece of her, or she got a piece of him, he craved her insatiably. He could spend all day drinking her sweet nectar until the pipe ran dry. But he would want to come back for more, as if his thirst never got quenched during the first round.

"Mrs. Brownstone," Howard joked.

Axl laughed. "Yeah, yeah. We should've named it that." He could feel his climax approaching like a freightrain. He bucked his hips upwards, causing Roxi to gag a little. She recovered and only sucked him off faster.

"I'm guessing the rest of the album is gonna be a big surprise then?"

Axl grunted and felt his hot seed spurt out of his length into Roxi's milking hole. "Uh huh. Top secret. Classified."

Roxanne pulled her lips away with a popping sound, not loud enough for Howard to notice.

Howard understood and decided it was time to wrap the interview. He knew Axl wouldn't tell him anymore details and it'd be a waste of time to try and coax it out of him. The two men had enough fun for one day. Maybe next time he’ll try again. “Alright, man. Hey, listen, it was great talking to you and I hope we can do this again sometime."

Axl rolled his eyes, trying his best to fake a genuine impression through gritted teeth. "Yeah, man. Sounds great."

"Tell Roxi I hope to see her again soon."

"She won't be here the next time you call."

Howard paused. Did this manic rockstar catch a glimpse of the future just now? “Really? How can you be so sure?" He queried.

"Because...I just know." After announcing his final words, Axl hung up the phone, and turned his attention towards his lover. "Thank you, baby. You did good."

Roxanne sat on her haunches, staring at her King. "Why won't I be able to talk to Howard again?" She asked curiously. She didn't mind not speaking to him, the interview was awkward enough for her. She hated how Howard put her on the spot in front of millions of listeners. But she also wanted to know the reasoning behind it. If her was willing to tell her.

Axl hummed, using his thumb to swipe a droplet of cum from her lower lip. "Because…that's not how it works."

Taglist:

Side-note: if anybody else wants to be added on my taglist for certain eras/characters, let me know!

[opal-kitty333]

So, I like Horror Sans, and being a nerd, I've been thinking about him a lot during my recovery with brain damage. A lot of people treat his wounds like brain damage, giving him memory problems, chronic headaches/migraines, speaking difficulties, fugue states, just issues collecting his thoughts. All understandable and reasonable symptoms, but there's something about just what truly horrific, completely life altering, brain damage to such an extent can do to a person that hasn't been explored very much. Yes, he doesn’t technically have a brain, but considering someone with head trauma like him would be in a comatose like start for weeks to a month, we can choke up him taking that hit like he did and being able to walk and talk to that. Plus, we can take inspiration from real injury and science and have wiggle room for it to not be 100% accurate. Anyway-

This is Phineas Gage.

It is one of the earliest extreme cases of brain damage where the patient survived while psychology as a scientific practice was getting on it's feet. If you've taken a psychology class, you've heard of him. He was a railroad worker foreman who had a rod blown through his skull in an accident, destroy most of his frontal lobe.

If you don’t know what the frontal lobe is it's where your ability to reason and make decisions, the ability to control your muscles voluntarily, and your ability to process knew information and recall old information. It's well known for being the part of your brain that inputs logic, the part gives you the ability to remember what happened last time you picked a fight with someone, so instead you choose to walk away despite how much your want to punch them for being a prick.

As I stated before, this man was a foreman, well known for keeping a level head, being responsible, and hard working. After the injury, that completely changed. Everyone agreed he was barely recognizable as himself. He was impulsive, prone to extreme mood swings, impatient, making massive plans only to almost immediately abandon them, and generally seemed to have no control over his desires or ability to distinguish between a want or a need.

Now, let's look at Horror.

I'd say it's safe to say his frontal lobe but also part of his parietal lobe would be utterly fucked. Your parietal lobe controls your ability to process sensory information (mostly touch) and to understand not only where you and your body is, but to process the world around you. You see a massive enough tent, some clowns running around, the right music, and your parietal lobe is what does the work to label that as a circus.

To have these two structures damaged, or the closest equivalent in a monster, would radically alter Sans' personality, his ability to move, his understanding of the context around him, and connect with others.

He'd become rather self centered on his own desires and beliefs, struggling to even have the patients let alone the want to give other people the time of day. His actions would be impulsive, made on his emotions in the present moment and with little concerns other than the immediate consequences. He'd be prone to loud outbursts, not just rage, but any other emotions like sadness or glee with little ability to realize how he's acting may be overblown or inappropriate. Not only could his ability to put his thoughts into words be a struggle, but his ability to say those words could be affected as well. He'd be very present focused, with pass relations or responsibility mattering little as he keeps marching to the beat of his own drum.

That is, if he could march. He'd not only struggle to know where his limbs are or what he's touching, but his sense of balance would be awful. He'd likely have a constant wobble, having to go slowly and potentially hold onto or lean on things if he wanted to move quickly. God forbid how much he'd bump into furniture or trip and struggle actually grab onto something to catch himself. It's entirely possible he'd have difficulty reading and writing or confusing his left and right regularly. He'd need more time to process a situation and could very easily misidentify what's actually going on could likely lead to him acting even more unpredictable as the world around him is so much more dangerous and he's struggling to fully understand what everyone is doing and trying to keep two steps ahead of everyone around him.

But here's the thing. The brain is also incredibly adaptable in ways your wouldn't believe. Phineas Gage slowly recovered over time. He died twelve years after the incident from epilepsy but over time he slowly regaining his social skills and general functionality. He picked up a job as a stage coach four years after the indecent even. He was never quite the same person he was before, but he wasn't doomed to be what he first was after the indecent.

Imagine what this kind of thing could mean for Sans. Not only would the betrayal cut deep enough and the world falling apart put him through trauma that would shred the soul, but people he trust literally damaged his ability to think logically and control his impulses. Of course he's going to lash out, focus on doing anything he can to survive with little respect for what anyone else thinks. Even forcing his brother to do things and refusing to listen to him unless given no other option. All while he thinks the biggest problems after the indecent is how much his head hurts, how his memory is shot, that it's harder or even down right painful to think, and how he's struggling to cling to his independence while never having the patience or resources to give himself the ability to heal. He doesn't even realize how much he's changed. If you point it out Sans would likely get defensive and aggressive, or brush it off as everyone underground being awful people out to eat each other alive.

But then he gets out to the surface. He gets stable food, a safe place to live. His brother is recovering and as the years pass his mind can finally start pulling itself together and healing, finally. Sans begins to regain his ability to think critically on his own actions and others, his emotional outburst and vindictive behavior start to wind down and fade. He's able to think and start sifting through all the shit he remembers.

The guilt of what he did, the people he hurt for no reason other than pettiness. The stupid decisions he made that hurt himself and/or Papyrus in the long run. All the hindsight he has now. Imagine how much he would bury those memories and thoughts. Justifying everything he could and insisting he had reasons, or that it's just how it was and that everyone was as awful and cruel he was. Or just accepting that what Undyne had done to him and the famine after had ruined him, broken and rotted all the good he had and left him vile and malicious. That he'll never have a chance to truly be who he was before.

[carmyberzattosjournal]

Entry 11: Fistful of Tacks

Bearblr Promptober Day 11: Corn Maze

Summary: Carmen's girlfriend (who he refers to as Darling) joins the kitchen crew on a trip to a corn maze and pumpkin patch that Nat organized, and Carmen is struggle bussing. (Feat. Sydney, Marcus, mentions of Tina, Richie, Eva, Nat, Pete, Nat's daughter)

Warnings: Anxiety, self-worth issues, mentions of disordered eating, mentions of nausea, mentions of panic attacks, swearing, fem reader who is a trauma surgeon (nothing gross described), she/her pronouns, mentions of The Devil (Chef David)

Notes: All journal entries will be titled as such and tagged with #cb journal.

Thank you for reading. Thank you to @carmenberzattosgf for putting together this prompt list.

11 Oct 2024

Why the fuck do people like corn mazes?

No, thank you, I don’t feel like getting lost in fucking corn with a bunch of random people for hours; I could be doing so much more with my time. It’s corn. It invades everything in the Midwest already, for what purpose would you want to intentionally seek out more of that invasion? Getting some freshly-harvested corn for grilled corn, corn chowder, creamy corn sauce with gnocchi, I’m pretty sure Marcus could make a killer sweet cornbread crumble-type thing—sure, I’ll haul my ass to the nearest fucking cornfield—

“Is that a no on the corn maze then…?”

“It’s a fuck no on the corn maze, Syd.”

—But no, I’m not doing a damned corn maze.

Syd recoiled. “Oh. Alright, okay, Jesus. Sorry for bothering you.”

Darling hugged my arm tighter and pouted. “Aw, but I did them with my grandma all the time when I was little. They were so fun.”

I covered my eyes and dug my thumb and fingers into my temples to stave off the dull ache forming in my frontal lobe. “I don’t feel like getting lost in corn.”

Syd. “You just follow the left wall, though.”

Marcus joined us at our table. “You do what now?”

“That’s how you solve mazes, you follow the left wall.”

“Huh.” His voice drew closer to my ear. “You okay, Chef?”

I nodded. Still had my palm over my face. It wasn’t the loudest it could’ve been—again, we beat a lot of families with kids, who tended to show up after 2 pm, according to the people who ran the pumpkin patch and corn maze, and Chicago decided that particular Sunday would be the respite day of hell-with-some-respite season, so it wasn’t murderously hot or humid out. Richie and Tiff were off co-parenting Eva in the pumpkin patch, so that meant I didn’t have to listen to his bullshit—though, admittedly, he was much less bullshit since his stint at Ever, even if we hit that snag after Friends and Family where I thought about launching knives at him every time he happened to be within striking distance.

Boy, am I glad I’m too much of a coward to actually act like the animal I sound like sometimes.

Nat organized something of a family and friends’ get-together to celebrate half a year of being open as a restaurant—and maybe to force us all to take a bit of a break now that we weren’t looking at a bad week potentially shuttering us. I brought it up to Darling not expecting her to jump at the prospect of meeting the whole group—should’ve known, she’s a social butterfly, and, if I was being honest, it was the primary reason I asked. So, she could help buffer in a social setting. These were people I worked with, would take a bullet for, but outside the restaurant, I had barely any social footing. And I wanted to. Have social footing, that is. Darling liked being around people, and while she never complained about me wanting our time together to be our time together, something nagged at me to at least be able to tolerate socializing.

We met up and poked around the market they had nearby for some small decorations we could put in the restaurant that fit the season. Little things that locals made by hand—a macrame wall-hanging, little ceramic pumpkins with paper florals arranged in them, some planters. The planters were Syd’s idea. Bring a bit of greenery to the four-tops. Tina was fawning over Sug and Pete’s baby while they took pictures of her first fall. Or. Something. I don’t know, I had too much on my mind and my head was killing me before we even made it to the pumpkin patch and corn maze. Darling suggested we stop for a bite to eat, sit at the covered tables to get out of the sun for a bit.

She’s smart like that.

We weren’t doing the best with our margins. I forwent being paid to make sure Syd made enough to keep her apartment, and even she was making sacrifices in her pay to make sure front-of-house didn’t get shafted. About 2 weeks ago, my apartment's stove goes, then two of the radiators do, and the landlord—an aside here: fuck landlords. I hope hell exists so landlords can burn in them with me.—anyway, the landlord is being a shit about it, so I’ve been crashing at Darling’s place. But then her range and oven also go to the shitter, like, 3 days later?

Like I said: fuck landlords.

Which means I’m on week two of having to rely on overnight oats and fucking granola bars, family, and takeout or unviable food from service that’s still at least calories, and because we’re getting this shit dialed, that usually means scraps. If any. And you’d think a motherfucker like me who got his shit kicked in when working in New York would be able to tolerate eating literally anything, but that’s the thing—I already did this shit, and it’s already fucked me up. I can’t even get it down anymore without my arms and legs exploding in goosebumps. Without seeing, hearing, feeling, smelling Empire and The Devil all over again. Half the time, I just go hungry and ignore the pangs in my stomach until I get caught up enough in work that I forget about eating, and then whoops, 14 hours have gone by and I haven’t eaten a thing and bile surges at the base of my throat and my eyes water, I can’t breathe. And I get to Darling’s place with what used to be a local favorite, and four bites in, I’m so sure I’m going to throw up because it just tastes like stomach acid and my guts are twisting into knots from anxiety anyway.

Something slid across the table in front of me, and two breaths later, the scent of grilled meat, pepper, vinegar, onions, and mustard filled my nose. My jaw stung as my mouth watered. Darling untangled an arm from around mine and rubbed across my shoulder blades.

“How about we try to eat something, hm?” she cooed.

I picked the pickles off the Chicago dog before inhaling a third of it in one bite. Goosebumps exploded under my jacket.

“Wow, how’d you do that?” Syd asked.

“How’d I do what?”

“Get him to do, uh, anything?”

“Fuck off, Syd,” I said through a mouthful of food.

She snorted into her apple cider.

“Sweetheart,” Darling warned, punctuating it by raking her fingers through my hair to get it off my forehead.

“She did not just call you ‘sweetheart.’” Syd again. I could hear her smiling.

My face flooded with warmth.

God fucking dammit.

Thankfully, Marcus spoke up. “Come on, let ‘em have it or we’re gonna torment you when you find yourself someone nice.”

“Like hell you are!”

“Oh, I’ll remember! Karma, baby!”

Syd let out a huff of a laugh. I wish I would’ve seen her face to get a better sense of how she felt about the idea of letting someone into her life. It’s strange, really, how similar yet different we were, like two clippings taken from the same tree, planted in different pots, placed in different homes. There’s this deep, unidentifiable thread of connection that I feel with her—and she feels with me, I’m sure of it because how else could she call my bullshit for what it was while still preserving the feeling of safety that eluded me everywhere else but a locked room or, sparingly, though getting more frequent, in Darling’s arms? Sort of like a family member you haven’t seen in an eternity but you know would have your back in an instant if you got into trouble. If I’d found out we were twins separated at birth, I wouldn’t question it for a second. And I doubt I’d want to protect her any differently.

She’s got that fire in her eyes that I used to see in my own when I stared into my reflection back in Copenhagen. Feels like an entire lifetime ago (Darling told me that trauma can make time feel like it’s not real, and I’m only finding more and more reason to never doubt the woman) but, back then, I did want something out of cooking that went beyond flipping Mikey the bird. It wasn’t that I wanted the best chef title or even a bullshit star, I wanted to prove something to myself. I wanted to throw a fistful of tacks back at that persistent, shitty voice in my head that kept telling me that I’d never do much, never make a thing of myself. I never did well in school, I didn’t get into college, I didn’t have any friends, I wasn't funny, I couldn’t help my mom, I couldn’t stop Sugar from going mad, I couldn’t keep up with Mikey, I couldn’t ask Claire out, I never made it past districts in wrestling—I was good for fuck all, and that stupid fucking phonograph reminding me of all the shit I couldn’t or didn’t do wouldn’t shut. The fuck. Up.

Syd’s got that fire in her eyes. Syd’s got that passion that I wanted, that I found for a brief stint before The Devil sunk his claws into me. And yeah, I could do fuck all to protect Mikey from his own demons or Sugar from mom’s, but I will glass this planet before I let it stamp out her flames. And doing it like I did? By cutting out people and burying myself neck-deep in the craft of food? Would I stand by and let her do that to herself, too?

Darling erupting into a giggle fit brought me back to the pumpkin patch.

“It looks like it’s got a big ol’ pot belly—look at it!” Syd pointed at a pumpkin with a large lump in it and did an exaggerated walk with her arms up and her cheeks puffed out. Eva giggled at her antics. Darling and I were a bit away from the others as they discussed... something about the pumpkins, I couldn’t even begin to figure out what. I glanced around, tried to get a sense of where and when I was.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Darling murmured, circling around in front of me and taking my face in her hands. “There you are. Where’d you go?”

Her hands were cool, familiar, grounding. I didn’t feel like I was boiling in my skin, which had to be a good sign, right?

“How-how long, uh...?”

She shrugged as Cousin, Eva, Tiff, Syd, and Marcus laughed again. “15 minutes, maybe.”

“Why-why didn’t you snap me out of it?”

“Well, you did eat your food. I figured it probably was a good idea not to interrupt that. And you weren’t warm. Or shaky. Or upset.” She finger-combed my hair back again. “I figured it wouldn’t be the worst thing to let you process for a bit... We gotta do something about your hair, baby.”

“Yeah, I need to get it cut.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think you need to—unless it’s bothering you. But you should put something in it.” Some strands got caught on her fingers, and I flinched at the sting. “Ope, sorry. It’s starting to get crispy on the ends.”

I eyeballed the sign pointing to the entrance of the corn maze while she picked through more knots in my hair.

She kissed my cheek. “What’cha thinking, handsome?”

“How long do you think the corn maze would take us?”

“Um. Hm.” She wrapped her arms around my waist and tucked her head under my chin. I forgot about the friends and family present and hugged her back. Kissed the top of her head. “Maybe an hour. Why?”

“I’d like to try it.” It came out like a question.

My phone dinged.

She pulled back and beamed at me. “Yeah? You sure?”

Her excitement wrenched a smile from me, too. How could I not? She was adorable.

“Yeah. Just need some quiet time.”

She took off for the maze, and I followed. Glanced at my phone to make sure it wasn’t something important.

2 messages from Sugar.

A photo of the two of us hugging, followed by a message saying, “You two are so cute. I'm proud of you, Bear.”

I stopped, glanced back at her. She was holding her daughter, giant smile on her face, in the middle of pocketing her phone. She tipped her head in the direction of the maze and mouthed “Go.”

I saved the photo to my favorites album and headed to the corn maze.

[cravingpepsimax]

Headcannons for teen stancest? I see it as more fluff then smut but I’m curious on what others think

teen stancest is something i find interesting, but not in the way most people do.

i think teen stancest is a lot of unknowing pining. i think stancest is like that in general, but especially as teens. they’re already terrible at dealing with emotions as senior citizens — imagine having to deal with gay incestuous feelings during the 60s-70s without having a fully developed frontal lobe. yikes!

i don’t think either of them would realize how they feel for the other at this age, but if either of them did, it’d be stan who realizes, not ford. ford has poor emotional self-awareness as a grown man — have you ever met a teenager with good emotional self-awareness? plus, teen ford has zero play. teen ford would absolutely take any weird feelings about stan entirely at face-value because the thought of him feeling that way about a man, much less his BROTHER, is unthinkable. yeah, sure, he might get butterflies in his stomach around stan, but that’s just because he wants to impress his cool brother. sure, ford might feel weirdly upset whenever stan talks about his newest girlfriend (god forbid ford sees them), but that’s just because he wants to make sure she treats his brother right! any actually romantic thoughts ford has are immediately surpressed and justified as his overactive brain throwing weird thoughts at him.

stan, on the other hand? i don’t think he’d realize either, but if either of them do at this point, it’d be stan. stan is very familiar with what attraction feels like. on the one-off chance he doesn’t immediately shut down any gay incest thoughts with a “nope not supposed to do that ❌❌❌❌”, i could actually see him realizing, and then promptly freaking the fuck out because oh my god how do you even address this. being attracted to a man is bad enough, but your BROTHER? i could see stan responding by going the complete opposite direction and trying his damndest to get ford a girlfriend so that stan couldn’t even imagine he has a chance. stan would probably get even more into the dating scene to distract himself, too. he doesn’t want to spend less time with ford by any means, but he has to get rid of these thoughts. not even for society at large, for ford’s sake — he’d believe ford wouldn’t reciprocate, and even if he did, ford gets bullied enough for being a six-fingered nerd, dating his own brother would make that even worse if anyone ever found out! stan is protective over his family, especially ford, and he wouldn’t want to risk anything.

if stan did confess, ford probably would freak out. be taken aback at best. again, this is ford we’re talking about. as a teenager. i don’t think he’d start hating stan or whatever, but i do think he’d reject stan and just pretend nothing ever happened (while also wondering if he should’ve said yes because he does love stan, but also would panic thinking he can’t, there’s no way he ever could. ford thinks he’s logical, but when he feels strong feelings, he justifies acting on them as if they were logical. ford’s really scared of ruining his relationship with stan, scared of being treated as even more of a pariah, but he justifies acting on these fears by lying to himself — he’s not paralyzed by fear, it’s just the Rational Thing To Do).

and then the science fair incident happens and oh god does the pining get worse especially if stan confesses. goddamn

so. yeah. unfortunately the exact opposite of fluff then smut lmao, this is very much an angsty pining mess for me. this is one of those instances where their complete lack of emotional self-awareness is a positive because i cannot for the life of me imagining either of them dealing with it well at this age