#with the holes in his sneakers

[timdrakesbussy]

sam/penny to me is so willoughby tucker/ethel cain coded

[downtherabbitholewithlucy]

[dubacheryking]

"i knew it was love/when i rode home crying/thinking of you fucking other girls" ok idk man. tell me it's not fucking daverose.

[catgrandpa]

Gotham has always been weird, so when the groundskeeper at the cemetery noticed the Wayne kid’s plot was disturbed, he just chalked it up to more of the same ol’. Alright, so ‘disturbed’ may be a tad too light of a word, but what’s an empty grave in the grand scheme of Gotham? God knows in a city like this one, they could use all the burial room they could get. He figured he’d just jot it down on the website and hope nobody noticed for a while.

Too bad he didn’t account for the 13 year old boy in Bristol who periodically checks the cemetery’s website when he’s feeling particularly lonely.

Plot Removed.

Tim Drake stared at the two words under the heading for Jason Todd’s plot number. Removed? What do they mean ‘removed’? They can’t just remove a plot? That’s a person down there! That’s Robin down there! You can’t Remove Robin!

Calm down. Deep breaths. Assess the situation.

Robin has been dead for 5 months and 14 days. There is no reason for a grave to be removed that early, especially one of a member of such an affluential family. Chances are likely it’s a simple clerical issue. He can call first thing in the morning and make them aware of the mistake. He can have it all fixed in 5 hours.

Just a phone call.

In 5 hours.

…

Tim hates talking on the phone almost as much as he hates waiting.

Well it won’t be the first time he’s snuck out to head to Gotham proper at 1am. It can’t even really be considered sneaking out if there’s no one home to catch you.

Buses stop running at 2, so he layers a couple sweaters under his coat and grabs his best running sneakers so he can comfortably make the trek back.

Just a quick trip to settle his nerves. Maybe get a few shots in if he spots Batman, but really he just wants to see with his own two eyes that things are okay and Jason can rest.

It’s 1:37 by the time he gets to the headstone reading ‘Here Lies Jason Todd’ and the gaping, muddy pit in front of it.

This- This doesn’t make any sense. This is not removal. This is destruction. Desecration. Somebody did this. Somebody-

Assess the situation.

A hole in the ground, approximately 1.5 feet in diameter.

Mud and grass flung outward but with little force.

Large chunks of earth turned over and shoved away.

No signs of tool marks or clean lines of entry into the dirt.

Dragging claw marks.

Staggering, shuffled pairs of foot prints in the mud.

A trail of dirt.

Something… Something large clawed its way out of the ground here. Something large and bipedal and- and humanoid.

Tim refuses to jump to any conclusions he can see all the facts laid in front of him. He’s going to cautiously follow the trail and simply hope to any god listening that he isn’t the world’s first line of defense against the zombie apocalypse.

He’s been walking for 23 minutes and there’s good news and undecided news. Good news: he’s closing in on the target and the trail isn’t taking him out of the way so his trip home won’t be prolonged. Undecided news: The potential Zombie Robin is heading directly for Wayne Manor.

As zombie apocalypse news, this is very bad. From Tim’s collected observational evidence, his not-so-professional opinion is that Batman, faced with a horror movie level zombie of his dead son, would not respond well, and would likely not fight back.

In Batman and Robin news? Tim’s unsure. If Jason is simply back? What could that mean for them? Batman can have his Robin. He wouldn’t have to continue nearly killing others and himself every night in his grief. Jason could-

No. Stop. Do not jump to conclusions.

Hope only brings heartbreak.

What would Batman do? Get close and see if the target is a threat.

Target is male. Mid-teens. Dark hair. Pale skin. Leaning against surfaces as he walks. Appears injured and disoriented.

Minimal risk assessed. Approaching and attempting contact.

Target identity confirmed: Jason Todd.

“J-Jason?” It comes out as a croaked whisper. Jason shows no sign of acknowledgment.

Tim clears his throat, steps right in front of his path, and tries again.

“Jason. Jason, stop I want to help you.” Still nothing.

“Please, Jason. I can help, I promise I can help!”

Why isn’t this working?! Why can’t he just do something right for once?! He wants this to work, he wants to help Bruce, he wants to fix Batman, he wants to not be alone, he wants-

“Robin!”

Robin jerks to a stop.

Tim reached out his hand.

“Robin. Robin please, I’m sorry you’re going through this, it’s really scary, I’m really scared. But I just want to help you. Help you find Batman. Help you get home.”

Jason just stares at him. Of course he does. Of course it’s not going to work. Why did he even bother hoping he could help?

Hope only brings heartbreak.

His sight blurs as his eyes fill with tears and he starts to lower his outstretched hand.

His arm is slowed as a cold hand weakly grasps his own.

“Don’t… scared… Bat… help… Dad… help.”

A relieved sob tears out from Tim’s chest and he gathers himself together. He yanks his extra sweater off and gently pulls it over Jason’s cold shoulders. Jason lets Tim drag his arm over his shoulders to try and carry some of his weight.

“Okay, Robin. Yeah. Your dad will help us.”

Batman will solve everything once Tim gets Robin home.

[bediup]

Pretty boy natural blood-stained blond With the holes in his sneakers And his eyes all over me

inspired by @mothercain

[shotmrmiller]

(secret lovers but simon will not be kept a secret.)

you hadn't liked him from the get go. amongst the regulars that frequent the place you work at serving drinks, had been him; a burly, massive figure that commanded attention even though his clothes were nondescript and blended into the shadows created by the sickly, flickering lights overhead. his broad shoulders were squared, imposing, the fabric of his faded jeans stretched taut over his knees, tapering down to his scuffed sneakers.

him appearing a menace isn't what made him stand out. it doesn't even make him special, to be honest. one too many rowdy oafs call this hole in the wall a haven, seeking solace at the bottom of a thick glass.

it's the very air around him. it's heavy, muted, as if absorbing sound and movement. that one time you had the displeasure of personally handing him an beer, it'd felt suffocating, pressed down on you, made it hard to breathe. the stillness had been almost palpable, the usual hum of the bar nought but a distant buzz, even the clank of the chilled glass on the table had seemed muffled.

you'd felt the drink slosh over the rim in your haste to get away, retreat, escape. he hadn't even glanced your way and you'd been overwhelmed.

fucking hell.

and that's not the worst of it. the way he looks at people is unsettling. his beady eyes glint with a manic, rabid hunger, fixated on any bare legs that come into his field of view, as if he sees nothing but prey. that turns the discomfort that pricks at your skin into disgust.

revolting bull of a man is a pervert to boot.

(sometimes he comes in with others, 3 much more approachable, charismatic men that pop that personal bubble of oppressive silence he brings with him with their boisterous laughter and lively chatter. they're good folk except for when they want to act like your eyes are on your chest.)

so it's a true shame you spent weeks snarking about how foul he is when he's one of the best lays you've ever had in your life. (and continues to be.)

it's all discreet, of course. you can't be caught having a thing with the man you'd cursed up, down and sideways because he wouldn't stop staring at the tits you let him come on that same week.

you wouldn't even know how to explain how all of this started. that'd he'd been a surprised you and strong armed a belligerent drunk off the property for you a while back? that he'd happened to be around when your car got a flat, pulled out a jack from the bed of his truck and told you to sit your 'pretty arse' inside while he changed it? or that after the nth night of him being the very last patron, you realized he'd only leave after you were done with restocking and ready to close up shop?

you kept it all of it on the down low. pretended you couldn't feel his eyes on you, boring holes into the side of your head while at work then garble out his name through the fingers you're drooling over after work.

and it stayed that way for a while. he never stayed longer than you let him (not like that meant anything, he barely let you out the bed to pick up the door dash before he sat you on the countertop and lapped at your sore cunt until you came.)

he rarely used his phone so there was no worry about sudden texts while you had friends around.

it seemed a fine thing at the time. but then he started sitting at the bar top instead of his usual corner haunt, occasionally calling you over with a curl of his fingers (the ones he had you lick clean last night.) he stopped being a total lech, keeping his eyes glued onto you and you only, being so blatant about it that your co-workers offered to walk you to your car later.

embarrassing. you'd meant to give him a talk about laying off the intensity of his stare but it slipped your mind when he slipped into you from behind while fisting your hair.

when your boss is the one that gives you the stranger danger talk, even though you have said strangers love bites mottling the junction of your shoulder, you decide that enough is enough. so after your shift, you ask to speak with him.

only to have him snort in your face.

"don't think so."

before you get to say anything else, he's sitting you on the hood of his truck, legs hooked over his shoulders, eye level with your bare pussy because he'd stuffed your knickers into his pocket before work.

the first glide of his tongue between your folds is deliberately slow, tip catching the bundle of nerves at the top. your palm stings from digging your nails into it.

the second sends a shiver licking up your spine, his hands dimpling the soft of your thighs to keep you from squirming.

"look at me."

your body reacts instinctively at the low, grating tone of his voice and you're peering down at him before your mind can even catch up.

he nips at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "best get used to 'avin' me 'round." this was no conversation.

the tips of his fingers grazing over your wet heat, gently prodding the entrance. when he sinks them in, scissoring, thrusting, you realize he's not going to let you come.

this isn't a reward. this is about to be your punishment.

slick glistens on his knuckles under the streetlight as he undoes the zipper of his jeans, the sound of the metal teeth deafening in your prickling ears.

simon puts his hand close to your mouth like he's done in the bedroom, and you spit on it, like you've done in the bedroom.

the searing (but oh so good) burn is both familiar and not when you take him to the root, a shuddering breath escaping your quivering lips at the sensation of him filling you until the seams feel like they're becoming undone.

he lowers his head to nose your sweat-slick temple, large hands flat by your sides. his breaths warm your throat as he speaks.

"i won't be your dirty little secret, pet."

a hand creeps up to the nape of your neck, claiming a fistful of hair. simon pulls a sibilant hiss from you when he tugs hard enough to ache.

ouch.

"can't shove me in a closet and pocket the key." he rolls his hips once, twice before widening his stance.

oh.

oh no.

"now be good and let me take what's mine."

there'd been no arguing with him before he fucked you in earnest, and certainly not after when he takes you home, spend dripping onto his seat on the way there, where he makes you ride him on the driveway, only letting you go inside once he felt he got his message across.

(message understood.)

the next morning you wake to sore thighs, a throbbing pussy, a dry mouth and a text from your boss.

i've got cameras outside the place, by the way. go home next time.

at least you didn't get fired 🥴

[lovebugism]

What if reader's friends convince her to go on a date with another guy, and this guy is an absolute jerk? I think reader would call Eddie and ask her to come pick her up - why is every guy an asshole? Except Eddie of course 🖤

ty for requesting :D — grumpy!eddie rescues you from a bad date then offers to take you on a better one (friends to lovers, hurt/comfort ish | 1k)

bug's summer fic fest (⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

The sunset matches the color of your Slurpee. A fiery red and orange hue, like the mango and strawberry concoction in your cup. You sip from the plastic straw and pretend to taste the sky in your mouth — pretending not to notice the pounding bass of Eddie’s van as he peals into the parking lot. 

You sit on the curb and keep your eyes trained on the cracked pavement under your feet. All cool. Like you hadn’t called him for help at all.

“You could’ve been more specific about where you were, you know?” Eddie shouts, punctuating his question with the slam of the car door. His worn sneakers scuff the concrete with each of his rushed strides. You’d almost think he was actually worried about you.

“I told you I was at the payphone by the Seven-Eleven,” you shrug, tilting your chin to look up at the boy when he stands ahead of you.

“There’s four of those,” he argues, with his lanky figure looming over you. He pushes his leather jacket off his sides (which he wears in spite of the summer heat) to put his hands on his hips. “Seriously. I counted ‘em all in the half hour it took me to find you.”

You squint up at him, hardly apologetic after the shit day you’ve had. “Well, sorry for not being more clear,” you spit in a cynical monotone.

“Apology accepted,” Eddie shrugs. He huffs and sits on the curb next to you while you slurp audibly at the slushie in your fist. He leans over to knock your shoulders with his. “What happened?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Figured… Can I have some, at least?”

He’s only partly surprised when you hand over the drink without protest. He takes it in his ringed fist, looks inside to observe its content, then sips at the red straw (trying to ignore the nagging thought that your lips have been where his are now). The strawberry-mango mixture melts quickly on his tongue, foreign and sweet. “’S nice.”

You scoff like you’re owed the compliment. “Right? I let Josh try some earlier, and he said it tasted like shit. I was like, you know what, this is my final fucking straw.”

Eddie’s face screws. He wipes dramatically at his mouth with the back of his hand, hopelessly trying to erase the other asshole’s DNA. “Are you serious?” he mumbles, all annoyed ‘cause you hadn’t thought to warn him beforehand. You don’t seem to understand his meaning, though, as you shrug lazily in response.

“Well, him trying to feel me up in his car was my actual final straw. But then he hated my all-time favorite Slurpee, and I didn’t even want to look at him anymore. I just told him to leave me here.”

The only thing Eddie hates more than putting his mouth where Josh’s has been — other than the thought of Josh taking you on a date at all — is the idea of Josh not treating you right. His chest burns with a withheld rage.

“Are you talking about fucking Josh O.?” he scoffs and passes the styrofoam cup back to you. “Like, the moron from Mr. Mundy’s, Josh O.? That’s who Steve set you up with?”

“Unfortunately,” you grumble and take another sip, more casual about the subtle spit-swapping than the boy beside you had been.

“He was basically setting you up for failure, then. You know that, right?”

“I just wanted a free meal,” you confess quietly.

Eddie squints. His eyes flit from your profile, to your fidgeting hand punching holes in the ice with your straw, and back to your profile again. “Well, did you get one?”

“Yep. We split one burger at the diner.”

A laugh sputters from his pink mouth.

Your head whips to glare at him. “It’s not funny.”

Eddie props his elbow on his knee to hide his smile behind his ringed hand. “I mean… It kinda is, though. ‘Cause even I could buy two meals for us, and I’m basically the brokest fucker in this town.”

“Are you offering?”

His brows pinch. “Offering what?”

“To buy me a burger,” you say in a mousy voice, pretending to be innocent as you peer at him beneath your lashes, all doe-eyed.

“What?” Eddie scoffs through the sparkling in his chest. As a self-proclaimed metalhead, there was absolutely nothing metal about confessing to stupid crushes. “No.”

“Well, it sounds a lot like you’re offering,” you tease before wrapping your lips around the straw of your drink.

“Well, this sounds a lot like talking for someone who doesn’t wanna talk about it,” he mocks.

Your eyes narrow in annoyance. You part from your Slurpee and mumble through the ice on your tongue. “I wasted my quarters on you,” you deadpan.

Eddie rolls his eyes. He rises from the curb with a huff, wincing at the distant ache in his long legs. “C’mon, weirdo. Let’s go,” he urges, towering over you again.

You shake your head, gaze averted, suddenly shy. “I’m okay here.”

“Let’s go.”

“I’m serious, Eds. I don’t feel like going home right now—”

“I’m not taking you home,” he scoffs like it’s obvious. Your eyes flit back to his, suddenly hopeful again, and he tries not to cower. “I’m taking you to the diner. So I can get you a real meal.”

You seem particularly moved by the uncharacteristic act of kindness. “Really?”

“Yes, really— I don’t want you to starve to death,” he grouses, feigning annoyance ‘cause it’s easier than facing his real feelings in the face. “Now, let’s go before I change my mind.”

He walks off ahead of you on long legs, leaving you behind to catch up. But, because he isn’t a total asshole, he opens the squeaking passenger side door for you.

“Can I get a milkshake, too?” you wonder with a scrunched nose, helping yourself onto the cracked pleather seat.

“Don’t push it,” Eddie squints. He goes to shut the door, then catches the pretty pout pinching your features. “Fine,” he groans before slamming it shut.

[hawkinsbnbg]

Soulmates au where Steve's soulmate is a man of culture.

ao3

Steve got Good boy inscribed on his butt, just on the right cheek.

It would be funny if it was a tattoo Steve had gotten one time when he was too drunk and on a dare.

Except it wasn't a tattoo. At all.

Even though it kind of looked like one.

It was the first words his soulmate would say to him.

When Steve first got it, his friends had given him odd looks in the locker room.

Tommy would use many excuses to touch and even Billy wouldn't shut up about it.

As for Carol, she just cackled her head off when he showed it to her.

Still, whenever Steve was alone, he would look at the words in the mirror and feel kinda giddy about the whole thing.

Who would call someone they had just met "good boy"? What if they were far older than him?

And what would his words be for them? "Yes sir"? "Hello sir"?

Soon, he found his answer when he learned about the BDSM world, which Robin had jokingly mentioned one time.

And Steve sort of fell down the rabbit hole since then.

He met many men and women who would call him "good boy", and occasionally "good girl".

But none of them felt right.

Until he heard about Kas.

Who was known to be an experienced dom and knew how to treat his subs right.

Most of the subs in Steve's circle put the man on a pedestal. They practically worshipped the ground he walked on.

And Steve had become curious enough to seek him out.

A quick text over the phone and Steve already had a date with Kas at a hotel on Friday night.

Once the day arrived, he dolled himself up a little, knowing many doms liked how rosy cheeks and pouty lips he was.

He even wore lipgloss and mascara just for good luck.

His outfit was simple enough to take off, but cute nonetheless.

A yellow and pink graffitied black sweater that was a little baggy on him, a tiny pearl choker, silver bracelets, a pair of jeans shorts, and baby pink sneakers.

He looked like a twink, all things considered.

It wasn't his first time dressing like this and it wouldn't be the last time, either.

Steve just..

Well, he just wanted to make sure if he stumbled on his soulmate who happened to be a dom, he wouldn't disappoint them too badly.

It had been years since his word first appeared. So he had the right to be a little bit desperate.

Steve didn't know why, but by the time he got to the hotel, he was a puddle of nerves.

He figured that maybe it was the "Kas' effect" that many people had told him about.

When the door opened to let Kas into the room, Steve just knew this man was going to rock his world.

Kas was attractive and tall. Easily having a couple of inches on him.

With long curly hair, big brown eyes, and plump lips, the man looked surprisingly intimidating.

He wore a burgundy shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, showing his tattoos and chunky silver rings.

His pants and heavy boots were made of leather, which Steve suddenly wanted to rub himself on.

He seemed to be a lanky type, but Steve knew better than to assume anything.

As Kas languidly made his way to the bed, Steve unconsciously slid down to the floor and got on his knees, waiting for his order.

Yeah, he was a good boy like that.

There was a reason why many doms had asked to keep him despite knowing he only let his soulmate own him.

Kas wasn't any different.

The man smiled at him, dimpled and warm, making Steve woozy a bit at being praised even wordlessly.

Once Kas sat down, he spread his thighs slightly and patted a hand on his lap.

Understanding the silent command immediately, Steve climbed up on it without being told twice.

He blushed and giggled a bit when strong arms wrapped around his waist securely.

"Good boy," said Kas huskily, smelling of cigarettes and something spicy. "What do you want for your reward, sweetheart?"

Steve felt his breath hitched at that. He knew the chance wasn't high but–

"Can I kiss you, sir?" He asked coyly, playing his role to perfection.

This time, it was Kas who took a sharp intake.

Surprise, disbelief, uncertainty, hope, and finally, joy settled on the man's handsome features.

Kas smiled at him again, more genuine and hopeful.

"Baby boy, do you know that I have those words written on my left ribs my entire life?"

"Show me," Steve demanded, unable to keep up the act when he was so close to finding his soulmate.

Without protest, Kas unbuttoned his shirt and there it was, scribbled on the man's pale skin was Can I kiss you, sir? in his handwriting.

Smiling fondly, Steve traced his fingers on those words.

They sounded so sweet. And yet concerning if being put into the wrong context.

What a pair they made.

"Can you show me yours, sweetheart?" Kas asked tentatively, looking unsure despite having been so confident just a few minutes ago.

"Yeah, sure, of course," Steve scrambled up from the man's lap and blushed as he turned around to unzip and pull down his shorts.

Hearing Kas curse quietly behind him was, perhaps, the most flattering moment in his life.

He could see what kind of an image he made with his baggy sweater bunching up around his waist, white thong, and Good boy being inked on his tanned buttcheek.

Some would call it hot, sexy, or erotic.

But Steve knew how obscene he looked with those words on him.

Especially when he was face down and ass up, waiting to be fucked into oblivion.

Not that he had let anyone fuck him, yet. But he wouldn't mind if Kas did it tonight.

Steve shuddered slightly as calloused fingers brushed on his cool skin, and let out a moan when hot lips placed a tender kiss on his cheek.

Then without pausing, strong hands grabbed his hips before sharp teeth sank into his flesh, eliciting a yelp from him.

It wasn't painful. It just made Steve want to ask for more. So he turned around to do exactly that.

"Kas–"

"Call me Eddie," the man tugged him back into his lap.

"Eddie," he breathed out as he straddled the man's thighs.

"Yes, my sunshine?" Eddie smiled adoringly at him.

"Can I kiss you now?" Steve braced his hands on the broad shoulders with a raised eyebrow.

Tightening the arms around his waist, Eddie pecked him on his chin, sweet and loving.

"How about I let you kiss me for the rest of our lives, my pretty angel?"

"And I'll be yours for as long as we live?" Steve murmured against those plump lips.

"Yeah, gonna treat you right, my good boy," Eddie chuckled before drawing him into a fervent kiss.

Steve was so going to thank that Chrissy girl who had sold him her mascara and lipgloss later.

[eclipseslayer]

PRETTY PINK PANTIES

• TOJI FUSHIGURO X F!READER SMUT ONESHOT

• SUMMARY: Toji catches a glimpse of your panties one morning and then gets drunk to take his mind off of it. However, his drunk mind seems to have other plans when he finds himself suddenly in your bedroom.

• CW: DARK CONTENT! Icky!dad!Toji, panty-sniffing, masturbation, incest.

• WC: 1kish

Another night, another drink.

Toji groans as he downs his fourth beer, feeling the weight of the liquid sit in his stomach, making for a rather unpleasant feeling. He scratches his stomach while he feels his head go into a woozy state from all of the alcohol he's consumed.

He grunts.

He wouldn't have to feel this shitty if he didn't drink to get over what he saw earlier today.

The memory keeps playing back in his mind like a broken record, and it makes Toji want to smack his skull against the wall, because he knows he shouldn't think about it, but, fuck, for some reason, he can't help it.

You were leaving early this morning to go to class. Toji was making himself some coffee, when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he sees you bend over to tie a loose lace on your sneaker, revealing your tight, pink panties beneath your skirt.

Toji quickly whipped his head away the second he laid his eyes on your underwear, not wanting to stare at them a second longer because he knew it was wrong.

But... fuck. Despite it all, he couldn't get those pretty pink panties that hugged your ass so well out of his head.

You're his kid. He can't be thinking like this.

Sure, he's always been kinda a deadbeat due to your mom missing in his life, but he couldn't do this to you.

He gets up from the couch, and, drunkenly, nearly stumbles over the coffee table.

No, he can't. He won't.

His head, clouded with the alcohol, makes the decision for him despite his nagging thoughts, as his mind takes control of his feet and moves them towards your room.

She's my fucking kid... can't do this—

Toji stumbles over his feet again but he catches himself on your doorframe.

Fuck.

He huffs; a heavy breath escapes him while he holds himself on the doorframe, and his eyes scan your room, looking for something that'll remove this weird attraction towards you—anything, especially something that'll gross him out or see you in a new bad light—

Ah, shit.

His eyes widen suddenly when he sees them: pretty pink panties, sitting on the floor of your room, discarded without a thought to the mind.

Toji's heart races in his chest, his throat constricting as if all the air has vanished. He can only manage a shaky exhale, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of fear that seeps into his mind.

What the hell am I doing? Toji wonders to himself, and yet, his feet take him forward again.

Slowly, one foot in front of the other, his feet drag him along, and Toji wants to grasp onto something, anything, maybe hold onto the doorframe to keep himself from sinking into this deep, dark hole, but, the alcohol clouds his restraint, making him lose himself to his deepest, darkest desires as he reaches down and picks up the pretty pink panties.

He swallows thickly as he stares down at the panties in his hands. His heart picks up its' pace again, and he lets out another shaky breath once he feels his cock hardening just from the sheer sight of the panties alone.

He looks around, looking for you, but then suddenly remembers you're still on campus, probably doing a late-night class.

His cock strains against his pants again, as if it's telling Toji to just do it—do what he needs to do and get it over with, so, hesitantly, he listens to his urge. He slowly lifts the panties to his nose and he inhales softly at first, but, once he gets a small whiff, he becomes quickly addicted and so he inhales. He inhales strongly as the fabric of the panties stick to his nostrils, filling his head with the scent of you.

And, God, do you smell good. Your panties smell warm, and ripe, like you had been sweating in them all day. There's even little bleach stains on the lining of the panties where your discharge had been.

Fuck.

If he could get his hands on you right now, he'd be the happiest man alive, burying his face between your thighs to smell and lick your pussy to death, until you'd be cumming all over his tongue, but he can't so his hand begins to grope his own hard dick through the fabric or his pants.

He groans, leaning his head back as he lets out a shaky sigh against the fabric of your panties. He keeps them on his face while his hands move down to slip off his sweatpants where he tugs on the grey hemline, slipping them down until the fall into a pool around his ankles.

He huffs when his eyes dart down to look at his dick poking through his underwear. He should be ashamed that he's this hard after smelling his daughter's underwear, but, he's too far in now to give a fuck.

He tugs his underwear down and lets it fall down around his legs and he sighs when he finally frees his cock from their constricting confines.

He pushes the panties to the side on his face so he can spit into his hand with ease, before bringing his hand back down to his aching cock where he begins to slowly pump himself.

He groans, lowly, as he revels in the smell of your panties. His cock throbs in his hand while he continues to smell deeply, imagining that this was your pussy right here in front of his face.

God, how he wishes it were so. He wishes his tongue was pressed deep into your pussy, tasting the sweat that had leaked from your body during the day. He wishes his lips were wrapped around your clit, sucking on it fervently while you would whine and moan about his good his tongue is. He wishes his fingers were curling inside you, over and over again so he could hear your wet, squelching cunt as it would gush around him.

He'd call you his "good girl" and would kiss your thighs, thanking you for letting him explore your body—which is something he's been wanting to do for what seems like a while now, as he finally admits it to himself.

He just can't help but get hard around you. He doesn't know why, but he does. He knows it's shameful, which is why he turned around so quickly this morning from catching a glimpse from your pretty pink panties.

Nevertheless, he grunts as he continues to pump his cock in his fist.

The pace is slow and lazy at first, as he wants to savor the smell of your pussy on his nose, but then, it grows more desperate, more needy as he imagines different scenarios with you.

Maybe he'll actually be inside of you one day, if he can convince you—as now, he's convinced himself that he wants this—or maybe he'll fuck that pretty mouth of yours and hold onto your hair while doing it.

"Ugh... haa... haa..." Toji moans as his breath starts to get heavy.

His grip tightens around his cock, focusing on the head of it which sends a jolt down his spine. He squeezes it, and lets out another groan, making his body shudder.

He inhales your panties again, and his pumping turns faster. He groans.

It's a constant cycle of sniffing, inhaling, and then pumping at a quicker pace, until Toji feels his balls tighten.

He brings his other hand down and squeezes his balls gently and then—

He cums.

He groans, loudly, and finishes right there in the middle of your room, shooting cum into his fist and some of it leaks onto the floor.

Breathing heavily, he hangs his head while his chest rises up and down, letting the panties fall back onto the floor, where they were.

He huffs, and a low chuckle erupts from him upon looking at the scene on the floor and his hand, as post-nut clarity finally hits him.

"Ah, fuck. What the hell have I done?"

[sturnsdarling]

teenage dirtbags, introduction

Skater!Matt needs help with his essay, and Overachiever!reader is the smartest girl on campus

vibe check: enemies(?) to lovers au, childhood acquaintances, no warnings this is just a blurb to set up the vibes.

1k words

A/N: This is just the intro to what I plan on being at least a five part series. I don't ship blair and dan but lowkey this is them (i've fallen down an edit rabbit hole and now i kinda ship them lol)

part one, part two , part three

love and cigs, merc

You and Matt had never really liked each other, you were completely different people, and despite going through every grade together, and somehow ending up at the same college, you definitely wouldn't classify yourself as friends, or even acquaintances. Honestly, you couldn't stand him, with his boyish charm, eye watering smile and breezy attitude, he was insufferable.

Matt was interesting, to say the least. You never saw him without his head phones in and feet planted firmly on his skateboard. His wardrobe seemed to consist solely of dirty band tees, cargos that didn't fit him and beat up sneakers. He was the furthest thing from a scholar, his idea of an extra curricular activity being how many screws he could loosen in the Deans office before the man had a brain haemorrhage over his chair or desk falling apart every other day. Every grade he got was just above average, 'consistently uninspiring', as he called it, and despite the fact that he was actually quite smart, he never wanted to be anything other than exactly that, average.

You on the other hand, we're almost the exact opposite. Your grades were the highest in the entire college, the best they'd seen in years, actually. You ran multiple clubs, were the president of not one, but two societies; philosophy and classic literature; and tutored everyone from under to postgrads. You were clean cut and classic, pleated skirts with knee high socks and a collared shirt, tucked under a vintage sweater was your personal uniform; you looked as smart as you were. You were every schools dream, painfully smart and ridiculously driven, everyones favourite over achiever. From the bows in your hair, to the Plato or Dostoyevski tucked in your arms, all the way down to your vintage platform loafers, you were extraordinary.

The day it all started,

Your books were tucked neatly in size order against your chest, hair tucked behind your ears and knee socks tight against the bottom of your thighs as you headed to your second lecture of the day. The halls of the literature building were as busy as you'd expect it to be on a Wednesday, filled with people all going about their days and trying to sound as smart as possible in front of their new pretentious friends.

The sound of skateboard wheels against the brown linoleum echoed behind you, followed by the huffs and puffs of said pretentious people.

Matt rode through the halls, swerving through the students with ease as he tried to catch up with you, eyes trained on the way your hips moved in your pleated skirt. He called your name, and the sound of his voice made your eyes roll to the back of your head, so you kept walking.

Matt picked up his speed, pushing off with his leg to reach you. he called your name again, this time as he pulled up next to you, kicking his board up and holding it in his hand, jogging slightly to walk shoulder to shoulder with you.

"you walk way too fast" Matt said, only slightly breathless.

"people tend to do that when they have somewhere to be" you said, attitude thick in your voice as you kept your eyes trained on your destination.

Matt was looking at you, grinning at your consistency in hating him.

"where ya headed?" He said, stepping in front of you with a light jog, walking backwards and finally gaining your eye contact.

You huffed, a faux smile forming on your face in response to his cheesy grin.

"what do you want, Matt" you said, continuing your pace and slightly impressed at Matts ability to walk backwards without bumping into anyone.

"how do you know I want something?" Matt shrugged, squinting his eyes at you in bashful accusation.

"because we haven't had a conversation in... three years? and you look like you want something" You stopped walking, tilting your head to the side, "so what is it?" you looked him up and down quickly.

Matt pressed his tongue to his teeth with a smile, stopping in front of you, "I need your head"

Your face screwed up instantly, "I beg your pardon?" you scoffed.

Matt chuckled, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck with his palm, "not like that, I mean, I need your brain"

You cocked your eyes to the side, waiting for him to say words that actually made sense, "I'm gonna need a bit more clarity than that, Matt"

"I need your help with an essay" Matt said, biting his plump lip slightly with pleading eyes.

"no" you shook your head with a scoff, stepping out from his figure blocking your path and continuing your stride down the hall.

"come on, y/l/n, please?" He jogged after you, "I'm desperate", gently pressing his shoulder against yours.

"why would I ever help you?" you scoffed, looking straight ahead and ignoring the sentiment of him still calling you by your last name after all these years.

"cause I'm desperate" Matt was looking at your profile, repeating his earlier claim, "and we're friends"

you scoffed again, "we are not friends, Matt" you said, rolling your eyes.

Matt searched his brain for an example of your friendship but came up blank, "okay, fine, we're not friends" he grinned, "but we've known each other forever and.... it's nice to help people" it was the only thing he could think of.

You ignored him, shaking your head with an uncontrollable smile attempting to form on your face at his persistence. Matt continued to walk with you, begging, pleading and saying your last name over and over again like an irritating child, telling you that you're the smartest person he knows, and that he'll fail without your help.

"whats the essay on" you rolled your eyes, giving in and looking to him.

"existentialism" Matt said, his ears perking up at your interest.

You huffed, stopping once more. People continued to rush past you and Matt as you stood face to face in the centre of the hall.

"if I help you, you'll leave me alone?" You questioned.

"absolutely" Matt nodded

you rolled your tongue over your teeth, deadpanning at Matt.

"fine" you said, bluntly.

"yes!" Matt cheesed, "you are an angel sent from heaven, thank you"

"come to my dorm tonight, seven o'clock and we'll get started" blatantly ignoring his compliment.

"I'll be there" Matt said, placing his board on the floor.

"it's the franklin building, room three, if you cant find it then i'l-" The sound of Matts wheels rolling away cut you off.

"i'll just follow the smell of vanilla and academic overachievement, I'll find you" Matt said from over his shoulder, skating away from you down the hall.

You rolled your eyes as you watched him weave in and out of students, dropping out of sight as he rode his board down the flight of stairs to the exit.

taglist: @sturniozalt@mattslolita@shaquilles-0atmeal@blahbel668@sleepysturniolo@le4hsblog @sarosfilms @joemamaaa42069 @2muchofaslvt @seluky10 @cherib3lla @jetaimevous @witchofthehour

[urhoneycombwitch]

I know what they call you.

You’re a little lost in your head. Eddie wants to find you. shy!reader

foreword: The healing properties of good head <333 Anyways I labeled this R “shy” but she’s more… introverted? Reserved? this one goes out to the weird and off-putting girlies who have a lot to say but are kinda quiet instead. Timeline may be a bit wibbly but designed it to be early 4th-season era, with R (early 20s) having played an undetermined part in the various Upside Down battles from seasons previous. Loosely based on this anon every1 say thank you anon!

cw: alcohol/weed used as a social crutch, R is hassled by a guy at a party (but her boys back her up), brief vomit mention, implied bad home life for R, light SH by way of tight grip, PTSD, R has breasts+V, praise kink, oral (R receiving), one (1) spank, multiple orgasms (R), soft dom!eddie, overstim, coming in pants (E)

wc: 11k

It’s spring break, 1986, and you’re cursing the name of your so-called “best friend” Robin Buckley.

You didn’t even want to go to this stupid kegger in the first place, arguing with her the whole ride over from Steve’s backseat.

“Don’t you think it’s totally lame that you’re basically being chaperoned by two gap-year losers?” you’d said, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the console, seatbelt pulling taut across your Rolling Stones tee. “You’re a big girl, Robin, you don’t need Steve and me to babysit you anymore.”

Robin began protesting but Steve interrupted, tapping at your forearms without looking away from the road- “Sit back, wouldja, that’s not safe. And for the record, it’d only be lame if we were, like, thirty and still going to high school kickbacks. Gap-year drinking parties are a rite of passage.”

You’d sat back against your seat with a huff, arms crossed, unconvinced until Robin turned those big pleading eyes your way over the back of her seat. “You wanna talk about lame? Lame is me getting anywhere within a 60-foot radius of Vickie. I am totally hopeless around that absolute beauty.”

She’d twisted in her seat and reached for your hand, and you gave it to her grudgingly (the two of you ignoring another of Steve’s gripe about vehicular safety) as she said, “You’re like, the best wingwoman I’ve ever met. Please come to the party and help me avoid the natural disaster that is me running my mouth.”

Robin wasn’t just being generous- you were a killer third wheel. Especially when alcohol was involved: the walls that you naturally upheld around your introverted demeanor by day turned liquid as whiskey by night, often scoring you major cool points with your friends for things you barely remembered doing the day after. 

So you’d relented, and in turn resolved to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible (in the name of Robin’s aid, of course), but turns out your best friend didn’t even need your help in the first place; within 5 minutes of setting foot in the crammed house party Robin won a spot right next to Vickie on the living room couch, starry-eyed gaze saved only for the redhead that bore no room for your intervention.

Three shots ago, the situation would have struck you as funny, but it’s been a lonely time (what with Steve abandoning you, too, in favor of chatting up some college blonde); drifting from packed room to packed room, sneakers sticking to the floorboards, winding through throngs of sweaty dancing students just to keep on top of your alcohol consumption.

Kind of like hunting in the wild, you muse, leaned against a wall with red solo cup in hand. Flirt with Amy Thacker and her low-cut blouse to access the watering hole (Mystery Punch, green both in color and flavor); let Lenny Baker put his paws on your waist to gain entry to the standing liquor cabinet. The stuff of nature docs.

If this dimly-lit Hawkins party is the savanna, then you are the antelope- grazing on snacks, never staying in one spot for too long, minding your own business and staying way the hell away from the lion’s den (the group of jocks in Hawkins Tigers polos).

Unfortunately, you push off the wall in search of a refill at the same time Lenny Baker decides to sidle up to you, nearly knocking the cup from your grasp when he bends his thick head to shout in your ear above the music. 

“Great party, right?” His arms are crossed above his tank of a chest, blocking you from a smooth exit via the kitchen archway.

“If you’re into drunk teens, I guess,” you say back, pointedly, licking a stripe up your wrist from where the punch had sloshed onto your bare arm. 

When you look back up Lenny’s still standing there, watching you with a hungry edge that’s starting to make your well-honed antelope-sense tingle. As you not-so-subtly cast your glance around for Steve, Lenny leans in again, close enough to give you a sour whiff of his breath. “I’m legal, if that’s what’s got your panties in a twist. And what’s wrong with having some fun?”

“I’m not into having fun with douchebags who ‘roid away their remaining brain cells to bully my friends,” you retort, flatly. You doubt this guy knows you’re connected to the Hellfire group (de facto sitter, second only to Steve), but the insult seems to land anyways. 

Lenny scoffs, going for a low blow to offset the sting of his bruised ego- “If you’re trying to play the part of slut, you were doing a way better job earlier.”

What the meathead hasn’t picked up on yet is your absolute lack of care about him- or anyone else at this stupid fucking party, for that matter. Besides Robin and Steve, obviously, but they’re equally indisposed at the moment. You’re feeling bold enough that you could play dirty: throw the dregs of your drink in his face, make a real scene- but the shots from earlier are hitting you sideways and you’re not entirely confident in your ability to multitask. 

So instead, with a wink, you tell him, “At least this slut knows when to quit,” and turn on your heel, abandoning the kitchen escape route for a closer door that leads to the back porch.

You suck in lungfuls of cool night air, trying to clear the fuzz of booze from your vision. When you don’t hear any angry footsteps following in your wake, you sink against the wooden bannister and tip back the last of your drink in one swallow. Maybe Steve doubled back to the car…?

With your empty cup left neatly on the railing, you set off down the couple of steps that separate you from the grass, except the toe of your shoe catches on a hidden groove in the wood, and nothing is within reach to grab onto as you trip and begin to fall.

The stumble should have ended with you facedown in the dirt, but something- someone- solid breaks your downward path, catching the upper half of your body in a sturdy hold even as your legs twist around themselves.

“Whoa, whoa, hey, I gotcha. You okay?”

The voice is instantly familiar, one that you’ve heard ringing out from underneath the drama room door on countless occasions as you’ve waited on your various child wards to wrap up their D&D sessions.

Eddie Munson is holding you in his leather-clad arms, larger than life with that big cloud of hair and doe-eyed gaze matching yours. He helps you stand, properly, dropping his hands once you’re stabilized and taking the warmth of his palms with him. 

“You okay?” he asks again, tilting his head, looking at you with fresh concern from under that mop of bangs. “Looks like you had a lot to drink.”

“Thanks, Dad,” you drawl, bravado flooding back in. “Am I really gonna get a fucking lecture on drinking from my local drug dealer?”

Instead of rising to the bait or bristling at your tone, Eddie grins- delighted, wolfish- before letting out a low whistle. “Who coulda guessed: resident Shy Girl has a mouth on her.”

You twist said mouth into your own smile, one that you hope is coy and charming and not dorkily lopsided (because you stopped being able to feel your face after that last drink), and coo, “You thinkin’ about my mouth, Munson?”

He laughs- a full, vibrant sound that lights up the night. There’s a flutter in your ribcage, knocking up a frenzy at the noise, like it wants to get out and at him, but you tamp it down and play it cool.

“You’ve only seen me in the cold, unforgiving light of day,” you continue, as Eddie rifles through his pockets, surfacing with a pack of cigs, eye contact yet to be broken. “My nighttime alter ego is a real riot, all liquored up.”

“Well, I happen to think you’re a riot in the sober light of day, too.” Eddie shrugs a shoulder as he flips the lid of the cigarette box.

You’re unsure if he’s messing with you- he’s gotta be, right? The only meaningful interaction you two have had in the past handful of years has been through the courtesy of the children in your respective care- a few surface-level conversations during carpool pickup, some flirting on his end that you’ve always been too skittish to return. 

Well, until now, you guess. Maybe this is a good thing, him seeing you like this- it’ll either scare him away, or you’ll finally make good on the quiet crush you’ve been harboring.

You’re about to speak again when the porch door opens with a bang; you and Eddie swivel at the same time to see Lenny clomping noisily towards the steps, voice booming out over the thrum of bass back inside- “This freak bothering you?”

You look between the metalhead and the jock, eyes wide and mocking as you call back, “No, but you’re starting to!”

“Jesus, talk about poking the bear,” you hear Eddie mutter behind you, but your focus is taken up by the fact that Lenny is tromping down the steps and reaching out to grab your upper arm, his cold and clammy palm taking up a sizeable amount of space.

You can feel that rage, simmering and easily accessed, start to crawl over your skin. You stand your ground in the face of someone much larger than you, sneakers planted firmly, chin tilted in defiance- I’ve killed monsters in alternate dimensions, asswipe. You might’ve scared me back in high school but now I dare you to fuck with me. 

Before Eddie can jump to your defense, you’re already going in for the bite, voice dripping with derisiveness. “So glad your right hand found its way off your dick for a change, Len. How about you do me one better and take it far, far away from here?”

Lenny’s face is almost purple with anger as his grip tightens, and you feel Eddie moving in at your back- to do what exactly, hard to say, ‘cuz Lenny’s got about 60 pounds on the lanky DM- but just as fast as the tension has ramped up, it gets diffused with the arrival of one Steve Harrington from around the corner of the house.

He cuts a smooth path through the grass to your other side, Robin’s sweater slung over one arm, twirling his car keys in neat loops around his finger, boasting a casual demeanor that doesn’t match up with the steely look he’s giving Lenny. “You heard the girl, Baker. Time to am-scray.”

Whether it’s the rumors of Steve’s nail bat or the manic look in your eyes or the fact that he’s outnumbered, Lenny’s got plenty of reason now to drop your arm. 

Which he does, spitting one last “bitch” at you before hulking off into the night.

The anger in you recedes like a wave. You breathe out a dry laugh, then turn back to the boys, clasping your hands over your heart with faux-dopeyness. “My heroes. How will I ever repay you?”

“Shutting up, for a change, would be a great start,” Steve grouses over the sound of Eddie’s cackles.

“Holy shit. Can’t believe your girl’s feistiness almost landed me in the hospital.” Eddie shakes his head, plucking a cigarette out and sticking it between his plush lips.

“She’s not my girl,” Steve says, even as you wind your arms around his chest from behind, tucking your chin over his shoulder. “She is, unfortunately, my problem.”

“I love when you two talk about me like I’m not here.” You simper at Eddie from your draped position.

He’s watching you with a fondness that feels overly familiar, through the haze of smoke streaming from his nostrils as you pat the chest beneath your hands- “Don’t worry about ol’ Stevie boy. He’s turned into quite the good guard dog after the whole Russian mall takeover last year.”

“Aaaaand that’s enough talking from you,” Steve says firmly, twisting out of your arms and putting his own around your waist. “Say goodbye to your new buddy, we’ve got a Robin to collect.”

As Steve steers you towards the direction of his car you wave at Eddie, a motion that he returns, his rings glinting in the porch light.

“Christ, you really are somethin’ else with some drinks in you,'' Steve fusses, helping you into the backseat, hand shooting up to block the door frame before your head can collide with the metal. “Did you seriously have to bring up the Russians?”

“He probably thought it was a joke, Steve,” you say, exasperated and fighting the twisted middle seatbelt with uncoordinated hands. “You know… those things that you tell people when you wanna get in their pants?”

The crack was aimed at Steve’s recent string of strike-outs in the dating department, but he throws it back at you. “You’re trying to get in Eddie Munson’s pants?”

“No,” you sputter, indignant and feeling suddenly too hot. 

Steve knocks your still-struggling hands from the belt, clicking you in himself, before pointing an accusatory finger in your face. “Stay here while I get Robin, and no throwing up in the Beemer.”

He shuts the door, Robin’s sweatshirt hanging from one shoulder while he stalks back into the house. 

You let your head fall back against the seat and close your eyes, bright cherry embers of cigarettes between lush-lipped curves dancing behind the dark of your lids. 

___

You manage to avoid throwing up in the BMW, saving the worst of it for the downstairs toilet of the Harrington house after Steve drags you and Robin indoors. Once your body is purged of the spirits, you collapse into your usual side of the guest bed, sweaty and exhausted, murmuring an apology to Robin who squeaks at the rocking movement of the mattress. In a few minutes, you’re lulled to sleep by the gentle snores of your best friend.

The morning sun is a very rude awakening, Robin apparently having forgotten to close the blinds before leaving with Steve for their shifts at Family Video. There’s a full glass of water on the bedside table and a few loose Tylenol tablets, the word “DRINK” sprawled on a sticky note in Steve’s handwriting.

You wince, down the meds along with half the water, and start the search for your sneakers.

When you’d signed up to protect a bunch of teens at the end of the world awhile back, it had seemed like a one-time gig. But now, here you were a few years later, loading yourself into your curb-parked junker to willingly cart around the same kids.

While wearing yesterday’s clothes. Even with the sprays of cologne that you’d stolen from Steve’s dresser, you’re pretty sure you’ll be fooling no one.

Evidenced by your first stop in east Hawkins for Dustin Henderson, who clambers into the front seat with a scathing appraisal. “Rough night?”

“You could say that,” you reply, shifting the gear to drive and grimacing at the subsequent squeal of metal that pierces into your left temple. “Learn from my mistakes as a washed-up twenty-something and cool it on the teen drinking, all right?”

“Washed up though you may be,” Dustin intones sagely, digging through his backpack and producing two brown-paper bundles, “you are now one Claudia Henderson Breakfast Sandwich Deluxe richer.”

You take the proffered sandwich gratefully, steering with one hand to peel back the oil-stained paper from the still-warm bread. “God. Is your mom looking to adopt?”

“She’s kind of got the perfect child already, but I’ll keep my ear to the ground for ya,” Dustin says around a mouthful of cheese and egg.

The solid breakfast helps your stomach ease back into a place of normality, but with your next stop adding two more kids to the mix, the rowdy bickering that follows puts that Tylenol to work.

“You’re an idiot,” Max is saying to Lucas over the sound of his indignation in the back seat. “You seriously think Indiana Jones would win against Supergirl? She can shapeshift, and she has heat vision.”

“All I’m saying is, it’s really hard to see a whip coming.” Lucas is stretching the limits of his seatbelt in his earnestness to get his girlfriend on his side.

It doesn’t work- Max rolls her eyes and taps at your shoulder. “Help me out here. His logic is totally shit, right?”

Making a turn onto the main road, you nod your assent without looking back. “I think you should listen to your very smart girlfriend, Lucas.”

Max makes a triumphant “hah”, and Dustin adds fuel to the argument’s fire when he drags in some other comic book character that you’ve never heard of. 

You hazard a glance in your rear-view mirror at Max, who’s too busy dishing out an enthusiastic rebuttal to notice. Her auburn braids swing with the movement of the car, and you wonder if they were done by her mother before work or if Max had to rely on her own hair expertise again. 

You’ve got a real soft spot for Max, always have. While you both have plenty of cause to bond over shitty home lives, it’s also Max’s brash and defiant attitude that drew you to her. She’s got the bravery you can only hope for, something that you are sure to tell her frequently, even though the compliment is hard for her to take.

You score a parking spot that’s right in front of the arcade, calling after the kids already scrambling out of your car that you want to leave at noon, sharp. They all give some form of distracted acknowledgement before disappearing into the building, so you figure the earliest you'll be getting out of here is noon-thirty. 

Not like you have much to do today, anyways, besides bother Steve and Robin at work- since the arcade is conveniently located right next to Family Video, it’s a perfect excuse to wait out the kids’ spring break activities in the company of your nearest and dearest.

You’re cutting a swift track up the sidewalk when you nearly collide with Eddie Munson, for the second time in less than 24 hours.

“Hey!” He beams at you, a wide, easy thing that fits on his face so well, like it was made to be there, boyish dimples digging in. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” you agree, trying to smile back but probably landing somewhere in the grimace region as memories of last night float to the forefront of your mind. Small talk. You can do it. Say something. “Um. Were you getting a movie?”

“Nah.” Eddie shakes his head, hooks a thumb at the Family Video doors behind himself. “Keith’s one of my regulars. That guy might actually smoke more weed than me.”

You hum mildly to show you’re still paying attention but really you’re looking at Eddie’s hair, dark curls that shift with each of his movements. His hair isn’t black, like you’ve been led to believe this whole time- with the morning light shining through, highlighting the halo frizz around the edges, it’s actually a deep, chocolatey brown.

Similar to his eyes. Which are trained on you. Because you haven’t talked in a weird amount of time and are now just openly ogling his hair. 

Before you can open your mouth to apologize Eddie asks, “You wanna smoke?”

You nod, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically, and then stretch on your tiptoes to peer around Eddie’s frame at the Family Video sign. “Yeah, but we gotta be fast unless you want the Wonder Twins joining us.”

His grin slips into a smirk, and he winks before taking your hand in his. “A quickie, then.”

That fluttering thing in your ribs is back. The metal of Eddie’s rings are cool against your palm as he leads you around the side of the building, dropping your hand once you both are leaned up against the red brick.

Trying not to outright stare again, you watch from the fringes of your vision as Eddie lights up and breathes a cloud of smoke into the air. His nails are painted black- they weren’t last night. An image of him- hunched over a kitchen table, tongue sticking out of those pillowy lips in concentration, a nail polish brush held in his long fingers- flits across your mind.

Eddie holds the cigarette out, filter-side towards you, and you shake your head lightly. “No thanks. I don’t actually smoke, I just wanted to talk to you.”

Eddie glows. Before he gets the wrong idea you start explaining, arms crossing tight over your chest in unconscious defense- “I wanted to talk about last night. And say I’m sorry. I’m not usually so…”

“Badass? Charming? Hot?” Eddie fills in when you trail off, taking in another deep drag of smoke. 

Christ. You feel heat rushing from head to toe as you ward off his flattery, nails nipping into your upper arms. “I was gonna say… talkative? I guess? I’m normally not one to pick fights, but Lenny was being a dick and I don’t like the way he treats the kids, or you, for that matter, and I was drunk and mouthy but that’s not an excuse to drag you into it and I’m sorry-”

“Hey, hey.” Eddie’s tone is soothing, low, cutting smoothly into your feverish confession. He reaches out and strokes the back of his knuckle across your hand, tiny half-moons from your nails leaving their impression as you soften your grasp on yourself.

He doesn’t seem to mind that you can’t look anywhere but at your sneakers planted in the gravel as he says, “You have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart. I’m a big boy, I can handle myself when it comes to dickwads like Lenny Baker. And I would say that rescuing fair maidens is part of my job description, but…”

Eddie stubs the half-smoked cigarette out against the brick, flicks it to the ground, and waits until you look up at him again before saying “You don’t seem like you’re in need of any saving.”

That flutter, again, as you hold his eye contact for as long as you can stand it. 

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “There she is.”

Mortified, you resist the urge to scream into your hands as you push off from the brick, instead squeezing them into fists at your sides. “Oh-kay. Well. I better head inside or Robin will send out the search party for me.”

Eddie lets you walk past him, but just before you turn the corner he says, “I’m across from the Mayfields in Forest Hills if you ever want some company. Or some good weed.”

Footfalls from his thick-heeled boots recede into the distance, and you take a minute to calm your breathing before pushing your way through the doors of Family Video.

Steve’s stocking a shelf of New Releases at the front of the store, vest-clad torso faced away as the bell above the door signals your entrance. On autopilot he monologues, “Welcome to Family Video, let us know how we can be of service.”

“Aw, I miss the days when you were forced to say Ahoy, mateys!” You tease, Steve turning to give you an irritated frown as you prop your hip against the register counter.

Robin clacks away on the computer, hitting the Enter key a little harder than necessary as she says, “You’re about one mall fire and a bajillion NDA’s too late to ever hear that shit again.”

Keith must be lurking around in the back office, ‘cuz the three of you only refer to last year’s cataclysmic series of events as a “mall fire” when you’re talking in code. 

Or if you’re trying to be funny. But based on the dark circles under Robin’s eyes and the harried way Steve’s shoving a hand through his hair as he drifts towards the counter, you surmise that the three of you are very much on the same page this morning with regards to humor and hijinks.

“I didn’t know it was possible to be this hungover,” Robin groans, sinking her hand into a torn-open Skittles bag and popping a handful into her mouth. “Sugar is supposed to help, right?”

You snort, fiddling with a stack of paper brochures as Steve leans against the counter. 

“Had any more run-ins with the town riffraff?” He asks, feigning casual, honey-colored eyes roaming around the shop.

“I’m visiting you, aren’t I?” You shoot back, unreasonably defensive. 

“Another point for the pretty lady, and Harrington strikes a zero,” Robin totals in her best sports broadcasting voice. “What the hell are you talking about, Steve?”

“Drinky McGee over here was spilling her guts last night to none other than Edward Munson,” Steve replies, looking satisfied when Robin’s eyes bug dramatically.

“Eddie?” Robin hops off the stool, sliding her hands from the other side of the counter to stop your own from ripping the brochures to shreds. “And what, pray tell, were you spilling about with Eddie Muson?”

“Nothing.” You pull your hands from Robin’s, rolling your eyes as if the stakes are low, when in fact the stakes are as tall as the Empire State Building. You can practically hear the wind whistling from this height. “I wasn’t… we barely talked. He was backing me up when some jock started messing with me. That’s all.”

Robin whirls on Steve with animosity- “You left her alone long enough for some meathead to get involved? Jesus, Steve, the hell is wrong with you?”

“Like you shacking up with Vickie after two Tears for Fears tracks is any more responsible!” Steve snaps.

Having spent enough time with both your friends to know their propensity towards petty arguments, you slap a hand against the counter to derail. “Hey! Both of you knock it off. It’s fine, I’m fine, we survived yet another night out on the town unscathed. Let’s just… drop it.”

Steve looks properly chastised, but Robin gets a glint in her eye that confirms she’s not thrown off the scent so easily. 

“You know what they call him, right?” she asks you, lowering her raspy voice even further.

“Eddie The Freak Munson,” Steve supplies, but shrinks noticeably when Robin gives him a withering look. “...not that, then?”

“Of course you, Steve The Hair Harrington, would only know him by that name.” Robin shakes her head, disapproving, before turning back to you with a wicked grin. “Word on the street holds Eddie The Munch Munson in very high regard.”

Steve scoffs at this, but you blink, uncomprehending.  “Munch, like… he eats a lot of food?”

You feel very suddenly and violently ganged up on when Steve and Robin give you mirrored quizzical looks.

“No, babe,” Robin says, slowly. “Munch as in he eats pussy.”

“Jesus christ.” Heat courses through you as you scan the empty store, even as Steve chuckles and says, “You really are a prude.”

A skittle sails airborne into the side of his temple and he flinches, Robin coming to your aid. “That’s no way to talk to a lady, Steven.”

“I’m so not a prude.” You’re quick to jump to your own defense. “I just… didn’t know what that meant.”

You’d had a boyfriend for 6 months your sophomore year of high school, Ben- nice enough guy, but you’d mostly dated as an excuse to get all your firsts out of the way. Some laid-back hookups have occurred since then- it’s not like you’ve been chaste all these years, for fuck’s sake.

But you certainly wouldn’t give any of those boys a prize-winning nickname for their ability to eat you out. 

“It’s all baseless gossip, right?” Steve grabs a nearby wheeled cart and pushes it to the New Releases, resuming his shelf stocking. “I mean, what the hell else are small-townies good for other than trading lies like baseball cards.”

“I dunno,” Robin says, thoughtfully, sucking at her front teeth. “If the token lesbian is hearing about it, then he’s gotta be some sort of sex god.”

Steve’s making a snarky comeback, but you can’t hear him over the whistling in your ears.

You stare blankly out at the parking lot, one hand absently crunching at a brochure, trying really hard to think of anything but those plush lips and all the places you want them. 

____

Ever since the events of last year ripped a hole in your found family’s world, you make it a weekly habit to visit Max.

You’re always armed with some excuse- made too much pasta, please take it off my hands and put this tupperware in your fridge; I was on my way to the thrift store and thought I’d stop by, wanna come with and help me pick out some new jeans?- so that it’s harder for Max to deny your company. Slowly, over the last handful of months, by way of secondhand book offerings and slices of leftover pizza, Max has let her guard down enough to let you in. 

Even on days like today, when her demeanor suggests active disdain (calling you “mom” with a caustic bite when you ask after her last meal, rolling her eyes when she finds you doing the leftover sink dishes), you don’t take it personal. Her coldness towards little acts of kindness is due to the shitty way other people have failed her. And plus, you’ve put in enough effort to be able to see the warm side of Max Mayfield.

Like now, for instance- she’s giving you a bone-crushing hug on your way out, freshly-braided hair pressed tight to your sternum as you hug her back and sway in the doorway. The hug is quick and fierce, over in seconds as she slips back into practiced indifference

“Stay out of trouble this week and I’ll buy you a pony,” you joke as she pulls away, and the smile that she cracks makes it all worth it. 

“Make it a racehorse and you’ve got yourself a deal,” she says, giving you a small wave before closing her front door.

You walk down the dirt path to your parked car, keys in hand. Tonight’s schedule is that of a responsible, sensible young adult- the classified ads on your desk at home need trawling through, and a laundry pile the size of Hoosier Hill waits expectantly on your floor.

But there’s this crawling under your skin, a feeling that tends to flare up every so often, a craving for some sort of release gnawing at the edges. Usually the cure is sad music and masturbation, or some of Steve’s parents’ wine and a cheesy romcom. 

Or weed. That tends to work, too.

You’re shoving your keys into the pocket of your denim jacket and walking across the way to Eddie’s trailer before you lose your nerve, scuffing your sneakers against his porch while you knock.

He looks surprised to see you, dark brows raised, leaning into the palm he’s got on the doorframe- “Oh shit. Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply, tracking one foot up the back of your calf, feeling timid under his gaze. “Do you… can I buy some weed?”

When he nods, you duck under his arm and drop to one knee on the carpeted floor to untie your laces.

“Shit, sweetheart, don’t go to all that trouble.” He lets the door close, enveloping you both in the moody lighting of his trailer. There’s a radio playing the local rock station dimly from one of the bedrooms, and as you toe off your shoes you notice a gleaming black guitar leaned upright against the couch.

“Do you play?” You drift over on sock feet to gently brush across the strings, a faint and discordant noise rising and fading underneath your fingertips.

“Yeah.” Eddie’s voice comes from just over your shoulder as he watches your gentle fingers on his prized possession. “I’m in a band, actually. You should come see us play sometime.”

“That’s cool,” you say earnestly. “I remember when you got in trouble for that talent show performance- your band was totally swindled out of first place, if you ask me.”

When he doesn’t respond right away, you hazard a look at him over your shoulder and find him staring at you again, something you’re still not used to, giggling out a little “What?” as his eyes stay on your face.

“You’re pretty, that’s all.” The Dio logo on the front of his tee ripples when he shrugs a shoulder. As if he knew it would embarrass you, he leaves no room for your disagreement, turning away into the kitchen, stretching tall for the metal lunchbox on the top of his fridge.

His shirt lifts with the stretch, a flash of stomach lined with a trail of dark hair that makes you swallow back the gathering saliva in your mouth. 

“So, weed,” he’s saying as he pops the lid on the box, shaking out a small bag of fuzzy-looking green clumps. “I can set you up with a couple of days’ worth, if you want.”

“That sounds good,” you reply, mustering courage to drift to Eddie’s side, pretending to assess the baggie he’s holding, committing to memory the way his long fingers deftly pluck apart bud from stem. “That way I can come back and buy more.”

His fingers pause, halfway to the metal grinder nestled in the lunchbox as he says, “You know, you don’t need to use weed as an excuse to come see me. I think we’ve already established I like lookin’ at ya, so you’d be doing me a favor if you came by more. Just to hang out.”

This offer sits between you as he grinds the weed down, then tips a stripe of it neatly across some rolling paper. His dexterous fingers pinch and tuck until a joint takes shape, a small strip of the paper poking out.

He holds it to your lips, brown eyes shimmering with warmth as he waits. 

A Stevie Nicks song starts up on the radio, muffled by the trailer walls but crooning through all the same. This close to Eddie for the first time, you can smell him- balmy and spicy, like bergamot and Irish Spring. 

You lean into the joint, licking across the paper in one unbroken motion. Your tongue catches on Eddie’s thumb when you pull away, and there’s a salt-warm taste that settles in your mouth.

“Good girl,” he says, in that low-toned voice, and you have to fight to keep your thighs from pressing together in your jeans.

“Wanna smoke here?” Eddie smooths the spit-damp end of the joint down, giving the end a twist. “Good way to test out the merchandise. First one’s free.”

You shake your head as he extends the joint- “I’m definitely paying you, Eddie. And no, I can’t smoke here.” With you being the unspoken addition to that sentence. 

“Aw, shucks, sweetheart,” he drawls, devilish grin creeping back in, “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” you admit, before you can stop yourself.

His brows shoot up again, then waggle, obscenely. “Afraid I’m gonna be too tempting to resist once you’re in the clutches of the Green Dragon?”

Something like that, you think, wryly, but that fluttering is back and you really want to shut it up, so against your sensible, better judgment, you take the joint from Eddie’s hand.

“Got a light?”

You haven’t smoked in over a month, and with your tolerance so low two hits is all it takes to get you sprawled out on the living room floor, arms akimbo like you’re making a carpet snow angel.

Eddie’s a bit more restless in his high, plucking melodious and listless tunes from the couch with his guitar, one foot propped on the coffee table near your head.

Feeling loose-limbed and confident, you stare unabashed up at Eddie. He’d put his hair into a low bun, earlier, and there are a few dark tendrils swinging free around his neck with the rocking movements of his body to the music. 

He hits a snag, string buzzing out a dissonant noise. “Can’t focus with you lookin’ at me.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, except you’re not at all. “Now you know how I feel all the time.”

He sticks his tongue out at you, your girlish tittering in answer; you pat the carpet beside your hip. “Come lay with me.”

His body responds easily to your request; Eddie props the guitar back up against the couch and stretches out next to you with a sigh, a wave of that smokey sweet smell coming with him.

Under your weed-filtered view, the popcorn ceiling above you is moving, whorling and undulating in the muted light. You’re feeling gutsy and sure of yourself as you ask aloud, “Do you really think I’m pretty?”

Your head turns so you can meet Eddie’s eyes, which are dancing across your face- cheek to lips to nose back up to eyes- and he doesn’t make a joke, this time, his words coming with weighty seriousness.

“Yeah, I do. I think you’re beautiful. Always have.”

“Always?” Your echo is a soft and seeking thing.

“Yeah, always,” he confirms, simply, as if it’s a fact of life. “Woulda made a move sooner, but you always seemed so…”

“Unapproachable? Aloof? Bitchy?” You fill the gap in his speech with adjectives that have been used to characterize you in the past- usually by boys in the heat of an argument over inconsequential things that have been lost to time, only the labels sticking around. 

Eddie gives you a reproachful look. “No. I was gonna say, you seemed like you were always in your own world.”

This throws you for a loop. Neck on a swivel, you look back up at the ceiling as Eddie continues.

“I wanted to get to know you more, but I’ll be the first to admit I was intimidated by you. I mean, you’re way out of my league-” Eddie ignores the sardonic snort you give to this- “-and I just assumed asking you out would've ended with an epic crash and burn.”

The ceiling stops swaying, and you swivel back to hold Eddie’s eyes again, the weed making honesty easy. “I always kinda thought you were beautiful, too.”

Awash with the bravery that only comes from being in an altered state, you keep the momentum that’s aided by Eddie’s soft smile and push up on your elbows. 

“I know what they call you.”

Eddie blinks up at you, then slowly, slowly, pushes himself up onto his elbows too. “Yeah?”

It’s a taunt, a dare, an I bet you won’t.

Shows how much he knows. When you’re drunk or stoned, he’d be hard pressed to find a bet you can’t win.

You say it, unwavering. “Eddie The Munch Munson.”

His lips fall open, leaning in towards you as if drawn by a magnet, and you think he’s gonna kiss you until he falls back against the carpet, scrubbing his hands down his face. “Shit. Fuck. We can’t do this.”

“Why not?” You’re a little taken aback, ‘cuz while it’s not an outright rejection, Eddie’s upping the drama, hands pressed into the sockets of his eyes, groaning as he tips into your side.

With his forehead pressed into the curve of your shoulder, he says softly, “I think we’re both a little too stoned to be thinking clearly. And I really, really want you to think clearly when it comes to this.”

“Comes to what?” You’re egging him on now, trailing your fingers up his bicep, coy and angelic. 

He rolls away from you, making a pained noise with his face smushed into the carpet before pushing himself off the ground. “You know what, princess. New topic, for the love of god. You hungry?”

You are, actually, and when he extends his hand to help you up, you take it.

Eddie whips up a box of mac and cheese while you sit on a counter nearby, conversation engaging and fluid as he cooks.

Between interjections of ‘scuse me, angel, gotta get into this cabinet and can you take over stirring for a sec? you answer all his questions. You tell him your favorite bands, the states you’d visited on a road trip when you were six, even giving him the whole “my mom’s a nice enough person but we don’t get along” spiel that you don’t usually get to until a third date.

If that’s even what this is. He’s scooping steaming noodles into two bowls, passing you one, leaning up against the counter closest to the one you’re sat on. Your knee rubs against his ribcage as you eat.

In between chews, he lets you ask about himself- his favorite bands, the states he’s never been but wants to travel to someday, the highlights of his golden years with his mom that he misses every day.

There’s a quiet lull, after your bowls are scraped clean and set aside. He helps you off the counter and tells you to pick out a movie; you load The Black Cauldron into the VCR and settle into the couch cushion.

Eddie puts an arm around you, lets you play with his hands for the bulk of the film, running your nails methodically across his palms. 

By the last act of the movie, you can feel your high beginning to fade, taking your courage with it; when the credits roll, you’re ready to call it quits and sleep off the hangover in your own bed.

“You sure you’re okay to drive?” Eddie asks, following after you as you tug your sneakers back on in the hall.

“Yeah, Eddie, I’ll be good. Thanks for the weed,” you say, pulling your jacket tight around your frame. “And for the- for everything.”

The smile appears again; the one that cuts deep dimples into his cheeks as he watches you step onto his porch.

When he says your name, you turn, keys in hand- “Yeah?”

Leaning into the doorframe like he had earlier, he cants his head, streetlight a warm glow across his cheeks. “You wanna know where I got my nickname, you come back in a few days. Sleep on it tonight.” And then he closes the door.

___

So, technically, he told you to come back in a few days, and showing up less than 24 hours later has to hint at being some sort of desperate. 

Which, fuck it, you kinda are, at this point. Frankly it’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long what with the whole being plagued with visions of Eddie Munson’s hands and lips and hair and that stupid fucking nickname every waking and dreaming hour you’ve spent apart. 

While you can appreciate the honorable nature of Eddie asking you to make a clear-headed decision, you’re wishing for a hundred things to take the edge off as you change out of the PJ’s you’ve been moping in all day.

Black tights stretch over your calves as you think of the whiskey you mom keeps hidden in the downstairs cabinet; denim miniskirt smoothed over your hips as you long for a deep hit of weed; hands shakily plucking your black tanktop into place as the urge to be anything but sober gets swallowed down. 

You make the ten minute drive to Forest Hills in silence (relative to the weird engine noises your hunk of metal car decides to make), wracking your brain for silver-tongued excuses but instead drawing blank after blank.

By the time you’re rolling to a stop in front of Eddie’s trailer, you still have no idea what you’re gonna say to him- only that something needs to be said. Max is at the Sinclair’s for the night, one less person to worry about witnessing you slamming your car door shut and walking right up to Eddie on his front steps.

He’s wearing a pair of overalls, grease-stained, shirtless underneath- the tail end of a larger ink piece peeking out against his ribs. There’s a lone bike tire on the ground, held steady by the spokes his boot rests on as he wrenches the middle hub, biceps rippling and flexing with each movement. 

Certainly a sight that would have stopped you in your tracks, on any other day. But you’re determined to have it out with the returning wingbeat behind your navel, planting your Converse in the gravel just before the first step that Eddie’s sat on.

He doesn’t seem surprised to see you this time, instead giving you a lazy smile on a half-tilt, wiping the tire oil from his hands onto the front of his overalls.

“What brings a fair maiden such as yourself to this ugly neck of the woods?” Eddie leans the tire up against the steps and rises to greet you.

You’re gonna lose what little nerve you have left if he touches you so you act quick, speaking as you cross your arms- “I need to tell you a few things.”

That stops him up short, just a few feet away as he inclines his head, hair loose around his bare shoulders. “I’m nothin’ but ears.”

A wet, rattling breath catches in your chest. You give a cursory scan around to confirm that the rest of the trailer park citizens are indoors, soft lights from rows of windows luminous against the darkening twilight sky.

“I have a… a thing,” you start, unsure of where to begin, really wishing you’d come up with a polished script on the ride over instead of being forced to flounder through for the right dialogue. “It started last year. With the mall fire?” 

When Eddie nods his understanding, you continue, in short starts and bursts, like you’re fighting with the words before they come out.

“Something… happened. To Robin, and Steve, and to- to me. It was really bad, for awhile, and then it got better, but I’m still…” your hands squeeze tight into the flesh of your upper arms, nails stinging. “I’m fucked up from it. And the only way I can talk about it is if I’m fucked up, too. S’why I can only hold a conversation when I’m drunk or flirt while I’m high, like there’s this bad thing inside of me that I can’t look at when I’m sober-”

There’s a frantic edge that’s slipped in to your voice and Eddie steps towards you, as if to soothe, but you’re not ready to give in yet so you take a step back, choking out the last few words- “I just- I wish I could tell you everything, but I can’t, not yet, and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

From somewhere in the forest behind, a bright chorus of crickets swells as you fix your focus on the ground, as Eddie’s boots crunch forward on the gravel, toe-to-toe with your sneakers.

He moves carefully, as if worried that you’ll spook- lightly brushing his fingers across yours, drawing your awareness to the fact that your nails are dangerously close to drawing blood, a sigh as you release.

“Thank you for telling me.” Unlike your own voice, his is low and sure as his thumbs brush against the red half-moons in your arms. “You’re really brave, you know that?”

He doesn’t leave room for you to dispute this, instead tracing the underside of your jaw with his knuckle, forcing you to hold his gaze, those deep brown eyes soft with empathy as he says, “I don’t have any expectations of you, ‘kay? I’ll be all ears when you need me to be, but you don’t have to spill all your secrets every time you come around. You wanna just watch shitty cartoons and keep my couch warm, that’s fine by me. Nothin’ else needs to happen.”

And it’s his acknowledgement of your admission, his softhearted way of letting you know that nothing needs to happen, that makes you brave.

Brave enough to tilt your chin into the lift of his finger as you say, “I didn’t just come here to apologize.”

You watch his Adam’s apple bob against the taut vein in his neck as he swallows, hard. 

“Yeah?”

When you nod, Eddie blows out a breath and turns on his heel, motioning you to follow him up the stairs. 

Your eagerness is obvious as you scramble up the steps after him, heart starting to thrum in tandem with the flutters as he shuts his front door behind the both of you.

“Take your shoes off,” is all he says, in a low, strained voice, before turning into the kitchen.

Obedient, you drop to one knee and jerk apart your sneaker laces with trembling hands. 

Now on nyloned feet, you step onto the linoleum tile of Eddie’s kitchen. He’s faced away from you at the sink, taut lines of his shoulders rising and falling as he washes his hands.

“You’re sober?” He asks, still at the sink, drying his hands on a patterned teatowel. 

When you realize he can’t see your nod, you speak- “Yes. Yeah. As a judge.”

A soft exhale through his nose, amused, as he finally turns to face you. Eddie’s eyes do that hypnotizing dance- skipping from your chin to your eyes to your lips back up again- and you let him, feeling exposed to the point of nakedness with the intensity of his focus.

“I want to hear you say it.”

The sentence winds through the air, joins the wings in your stomach, sits low in your belly as you shift your weight from side to side, a gentle rock to ease your flayed-alive nerves. 

You say it. “I want your mouth.”

Eddie takes a step closer, nearly toe-to-toe with you again. Over the familiar layer of bergamot and fresh hand soap he smells like the outdoors, and faintly of mechanic oil, hearty and wild.

“Where?” It’s a single word, but with so much weight- suggestive, a taunt, an offer.

You breathe him in, eyes fluttering closed, ‘cuz brave as you’ve been it’s still hard to say some things while looking at him. “Want your mouth… on me.”

He crowds into your space, one hand gliding smoothly to set against your waist, the other fitted against your neck, tapping a thumb to your lips.

You part them, passive and wanting, but he doesn’t press his finger to the pad of your tongue like you’d hoped. Instead, he lets his thumb stroke to the corner of your mouth to make room for his own. 

“Where?” he asks again, this time into your mouth. You can feel the tip of his nose graze yours, pinpricks of his hair tickling your cheeks. 

“Please,” is all you manage this time, awash with heat when you feel his smile form. 

“S’okay, sweetheart. I’ll work you up to it.” It’s a touch condescending, skirting that fine line between tease and mean, the same tone of voice that has your thighs pressing together.

And then, he gives you what you asked for. His plush lips- the ones that you’ve been fantasizing about for what feels like eons- are pressing against yours.

It’s a kiss that starts chaste, tender, but soon devolves into a heady, fevered thing when you push your tongue past the seam of his lips. He melts into you, using the hand he has on your face to keep you steady as he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, grazing his teeth into the plush of it before going back to twining his tongue with yours. 

There’s an audible wet click as he pulls away, both of your chests heaving in the quiet that follows; Eddie rests his forehead against yours briefly to catch his breath, and then he’s tugging you down the hall and into his room.

It’s pleasantly messy and lived-in, posters and photographs taking up most of the walls, guitar cables snaking and criss-crossing atop his dresser. You take a seat on the bed, hands tightening into the flannel duvet while Eddie begins to undo the buttons of his overall straps.

Wholly fascinated, you watch as he pushes the thick material from his body and kicks it to the side, leaving him in just his guitar pick necklace and a simple pair of black boxers. Now on full display, you drink in the sight of the most skin you’ve ever seen of his- tattoos at his chest and arms dark against the rest of him, pale and gleaming softly in the yellow light of the bedside lamp. 

You’re trying to figure out if the larger piece on his ribs is a dragon or some other mythological creature when he moves in to sit next to you, his kisses erasing all thoughts.

Eddie’s making these throaty little noises as you kiss; his hands track lines from your hips to your sides to your shoulders, your chest unconsciously pressing into his touch. 

When his thumb catches on the outline of your beaded nipple through your shirt, he hisses lightly, drawing back to look at you again- “Is this okay?”

You nod, but he doesn’t seem satisfied with that, tsking as he swipes with his thumb again, watching closely as you react silently to the touch.

“Hard to tell when you’re enjoying yourself if you’re quiet as a churchmouse,” Eddie says, in a tone that’s reminiscent of training a pet. “You gonna let me hear you?”

Your teeth catch on your lower lip as he thumbs across your nipple again, shockwaves coursing into goosebumps as you choke out, “I’m not s-so good at that. Not without- fuck- weed..”

Eddie huffs a laugh, a little derisive but you figure he’s probably got the right, seeing as how you’re this worked up and he’s barely touched you.

“You’re plenty good at this sober, sweetheart. Want me to prove it?”

His hand falls from your breast, extricates one of yours from the covers, and slides it up the meat of his thigh- then to the front of his boxers.

The first noise you make for him is a small gasp, one that matches his own as you cup your palm over the thick jut of his hard cock.

“Told you,” he says, sounding strung-out, his hand still closed around your wrist, “You’re doin’ just fine at working me up.”

You wrap your fingers around the bulge as best you can with the fabric of his boxers separating skin from skin, gaining confidence to explore as his grip on your wrist loosens. The black ink at his ribs expands and shrinks with the bellows of his breath, jolting and stuttering with each stroke of your hand.

Just as he’s drawing in a breath to speak, tightening his hold around your wrist in warning, you still your movements. Delicately, slowly, you slide out of his grasp and take his wrist in your hand, placing his palm on your own thigh.

The whole “reciprocating pleasure with sound” is still a hard one to give in to; maybe you can compensate for your hesitancy by showing instead of telling. You guide his hand up, into your skirt, parting your thighs until his fingers find the wetness soaking through both your panties and tights. 

“Fucking… jesus.” Eddie moves with the fluid surety that you lack, middle finger running up the seam of your clothed pussy, your hips jerking reflexively when he catches against your clit. “This all for me, princess?”

In answer, you lean to bury your face into the crook of Eddie’s neck. He lets you, taking the opportunity to hook your leg over his thigh, spreading you out as much as your fitted denim skirt will allow.

You pant into the column of his throat as he strokes you through the light layers, the fabrics grinding friction into your clit caught under his fingertip. He rests his chin on the crown of your head, cooing praises that have your stomach muscles tensing.

“That’s it, good girl, such a good girl for me.”

Your clit is throbbing now as he rubs you in small, quick circles, and you’re so close to falling over the edge that you have to pull his hand away.

Eddie picks up on your unspoken plea; he tugs the skirt down your hips then tosses it blindly over his shoulder, reaching for the edge of your tights. He slips them down your thighs, your calves, peeling them off you with reverence. When all that’s left is your best pair of satin panties, he maneuvers you up against the headboard and stretches himself flat on his stomach, nose pressing into your core.

That heat has come back, flashing through you with a vengeance as Eddie mouths at your pussy through the satin, sloppily but with purpose enough to have your cunt clenching around nothing.

You stay up on your elbows, watching that mane of dark hair bracketed by your thighs, but when Eddie pulls your underwear down and off your ankle your weight falls back against the mattress.

The flat of his tongue licks a wide stripe from your weeping hole up to spread the wetness around your clit. When he sucks the bundle of nerves into his mouth, your head presses back into the covers, hands grappling above you for something to anchor your grasp.

When Eddie flicks the point of his tongue against that bright spot of nerves your hands find a pillow to grip, and when he moans into your pussy the vibrations have you instinctively pulling the pillow against your face, teeth biting into the fluff, masking the whine that would have been loud in the otherwise quiet room.

You think you might be able to get away with this setup (what with Eddie seemingly focused on making you explode into a million little pieces) but there’s a sharp smack before the outer skin of your thigh is burning, white-hot from the kiss of his rings.

Eddie’s mouth leaves you only for the time it takes for him to rip the pillow from your grasp and scold, “Uh uh, none of that, c’mon,” and then he’s back at your clit, suckling with renewed vengeance.

There are little stars bursting at the edges of your vision, your hands shooting down to grip at Eddie’s hair when he pistons the point of his tongue against you again. Your hips are subtly bucking into his mouth, shaking thighs involuntarily closing around his ears. Normally you’d be concerned about Eddie’s air intake but going off the moans he’s burying in your pussy, you’d hazard a guess that he’s really into it.

As if in confirmation, he pulls off your clit with a wet pop, laving his tongue up the junction where thigh meets pelvis, voice sounding wrecked- “Doin’ so good, sweetheart. Fuck, you got me so hard. Gonna blow a load in my boxers like a teenager, y’taste so good. Gonna let me hear you? Hm? Wanna hear you.”

You’re dizzy with want as you prop yourself on your elbows again, mouth falling open as Eddie sinks two of his fingers up to the ringed knuckle inside your velvet walls.

His other hand comes to rest on the soft curve of your stomach, pinning you in place, before he looks up at you, black pupils nearly eclipsing the chocolate brown. 

“What do you want?” he asks again, patiently, as if he doesn’t have two fingers nestled inside your cunt.

Your efforts to grind into him are stopped with his firm hold on your middle, and he tuts at you again- but instead of a reprimand, he seems to soften a bit.

“C’mon, angel,” Eddie says, with such tenderness that makes tears prick at the corner of your eyes. He presses his lips to the inside of your thigh before encouraging, “Lemme hear you say it, and I’ll make it so good for you. Promise.”

“Want you to make me come. Please.” Your voice is unsteady, but it’s audible enough.

Eddie rewards you by sinking his fingers further, to the hilt, heel of his palm catching against your clit. When you let out a warbling moan, he nods- “That’s it,”- before setting a steady rhythm for fucking his fingers up into you. 

“Fuck, Eddie- fu-uck…” you’re trying, really trying to stay in the moment and not get caught up in the noises you’re making- for him. 

When Eddie reattaches his mouth to your throbbing clit and angles his fingers to hit into that soft, spongy spot with each thrust, you feel waves of pleasure start to wash through you. There’s just time for a choked “Shit, Eddie, you’re gonna make me cum,” before you’re spasming around his fingers.

Somehow, you manage to stay on your elbows, bracing your body through the convulsive shocks, white-hot stars joining the wingbeat rhythm as Eddie takes you apart with his mouth and fingers.

He moans, long and low, fucking you through it and then some- your orgasm has been completely wrung out when you push at his forehead, whimpering at the overstimulation. 

“No, baby, one more, please. Gimme one more,” Eddie lifts his head to plead with you, sweaty bangs glued to his forehead- and then he’s back between your legs.

It’s this moment that makes you retrospective. Sex with boys, in the past, has always been a quick means to an end: a few minutes of foreplay, tamping down your own pleasure for the sake of blowing off some steam. 

But now, pleasure was being given to you in spades by Eddie Munson, and you wanted to give it back to him.

You come on his tongue and fingers, again, stomach tightening beneath his warm palm, and this time you really loose the sounds caught in your chest: a strangled mix of your bliss-soaked whines with his name, Eddie Eddie Eddie. 

You feel the bed frame jolt below you both as Eddie’s hips thrust into the mattress in a frenzied tempo.

“Fuck me.” He pulls away, finally, panting into the side of your knee. He rests his head against your leg, lips tinged pink and shining wet, gazing at you with lust-blown eyes. “You are so fucking hot. Holy shit.”

Bashful as your peak wears off, you pull him forward so you don’t have to look at him when you whisper, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, princess,” he says, slumping against your chest and into your arms. “That’s going straight to my long-term spank bank. Number one. For sure.”

You slap playfully at his shoulder, and he rises on his elbows to kiss you- once on the lips, twice on the cheek- warm palms on the outside of your shoulders. 

“Are you… d’you need any help?” you ask, reaching to tuck his hair behind his ears, feeling the crush of insecurity leech in. “I dunno if you even- I mean, did you…”

From all the physical activity, your breasts are half-spilled out of your bra, and Eddie bends to kiss at the tops of them, affectionately, shaking his head as he goes. “There is no world in which I would’ve lasted, just now. Very noble of you to assume, though.”

He grins at your giggle, then says- “I dunno about you, but I need some new underwear. Wanna borrow a pair of my boxers? Bet you’d look cute.”

________

Later, when you’re both cleaned up, dressed, and full from a pizza delivery, Eddie invites you outside for a smoke.

You sit with him on the porch couch, legs slung over his, a big flannel blanket shared over both your laps while he smokes with the hand that isn’t on your thigh. 

There’s a crunching of wheels on gravel, and Max Mayfield’s bike lamp cuts through the dark.

“Hey, Heavy Metal,” she calls out, undoing her bike helmet and leaning her bike into its kickstand. “Are you done fixing up Lucas’s tires or do I have to keep hauling my ass all the way across town to see him?”

“I’ll have it done tomorrow, Red,” Eddie calls back, giving her a salute.

Halfway to her door, she remarks, “You two are gross, by the way,” 

You cross your arms in the sweatshirt Eddie loaned you, slipping into irksome older sister mode easily. “So how’d it go with your boyfriend, tonight, Maxine?”

She flips you both off, but you catch the smile on her face before the front door bangs shut behind her.

Eddie chuckles, smoothing his palm up your thigh, then takes another drag. “You gotta come night smoke with me more often, angel. The streetlights suit you.”

“Gonna get me hooked on nicotine, too?” Your sock foot pokes him in the ribs and he tuts, snapping it up in his free hand and digging his thumb into the arch of your sole.

“Fuck no, your teeth are too pretty to ruin. Want you to come keep me company while I destroy my lungs.”

Another cloud of smoke lifts dreamily around Eddie’s face. His thumb is working wonders on the tense muscle of your foot as you tip your head to rest on the back of the couch. With the nearby streetlamp, his profile is cast in a warm glow; you do a dance of your own, eyes taking in the strong slope of his nose, tracking down to his lips, back up to the wild curls at his temple.

Eddie feels you staring, turns to fix you with a quit it look that you can’t help but laugh at- “What, so you’re the only one who’s allowed to stare?”

“That’s right,” he confirms, leaning forward to set his cig in an ashtray, bullying his way into your space, rings cold under your chin when he tilts your face towards his- “Gotta pay the piper for that obvious violation, sweetheart. Sorry. I don’t make the rules.”

This time, when the flutter within you kicks up, you have a place for it to go- melting softly into Eddie’s lips. 

___________________

I wrote the last third of this while blasted please don’t judge too harshly lmao

[lnfours]

all mine | l.n

summary: friends with benefits situations are all fun and games until someone starts catching feelings.

warnings: language, sexual themes, fluff, kinda fwb!au, college student!reader, idk this kinda sucks

masterlist | listen

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

the two of you had been up for an hour or so, way before the sun had started to rise and shine in through the windows of his bedroom. the same sun that lit up the boy in front of you so perfectly that he almost looked angelic. the way his eyes shone in the lighting, the mix of blue and green suddenly entrancing you as he hovered over you.

your hands came up to run through his messy curls. you smiled softly at the fact that the soft tangles were your doing, beings your hands were just buried in his hair a few moments prior. then, your mind wandered and thought how you could live the rest of your life contently if it meant you would be waking up next to him every morning.

he moved his head to the crook of your neck, placing kisses along the skin as you tilted your head to give him more access to the area. yeah, you could get used to this every morning.

you knew he’d never think the same way, especially when you were the one who made it very clear that it was a no strings attached situation. he’d never feel the same way because even you weren’t supposed to feel this way.

however, as he moved to rest his chin on your chest so he could look up at you, it was all you could think about. and he could tell the gears in your head were turning when your smiled softly faded, eyes still locked on his.

he cocked his head to the side, an eyebrow slightly raised as he looked over your facial features, “you okay?”

you blinked, nodding and smiling softly, shaking your head in efforts to get the thoughts to dissipate, “hmm? yeah, sorry, just kind of zoned out for a second.”

he knew you better than that, shifting as he moved to lay next to you, head resting on his palm, “i know that look, you’ve got something on your mind. sure you don’t want to talk?”

it wasn’t fair. he was so kind, gentle, caring, all of it. and you couldn’t even call him yours.

you nodded, “yeah. thanks, though.”

he hummed, reaching over and grabbing his phone from the nightstand. you held a mental debate with yourself on if you should stay and bask in the warmth and comfort of not only the boy next to you, but the way too comfortable bed you were laying in.

“wanna make breakfast, or go get something or whatever?”

mind made up: go before you slowly start entering the hole you were slowly but surely digging for yourself.

you threw the comfort off your body, wincing slightly at the cold air around you. god, this is so hard. it shouldn’t be this hard.

“‘m gonna go, actually,” you said, grabbing your clothes from last night off the floor, shoving some things back in the overnight bag you happily packed after classes yesterday, “‘ve got some homework.”

he tried to mask his frown, knowing he shouldn’t be upset about the fact that you didn’t want to stay. you probably shouldn’t anyway, but he really wanted you to.

there was nothing lando loved more in the world than you and your company. was it worth breaking the agreement? worth losing a friend and someone he could talk to? maybe, maybe not. he knew what he wanted, and it was you. however, he couldn’t quite put a finger on what you wanted.

he had even wondered if he was the one you’d think about at night when you couldn’t sleep, staring up at the ceiling. because you were the one he’d always manage to think about. it was always you.

you were slipping on your shoes when he came back to reality, “i’ll drive you home.”

you nodded, watching as he got up from the bed and grabbed the hoodie that sat on the floor. the same one he wore last night, the one you were desperately pulling him closer by after a few episodes of the show the two of you had started last week.

he tugged on a pair of sneakers, grabbing his phone and wallet before leading you through his house. you trailed behind him, really not wanting to go back to the house you shared with your roommates, but you had to. if you stayed here any longer, every single line you both had made clear a few months prior would be crossed. a friendship would be jeopardized.

simply, the thought of ruining everything wasn’t worth it. was it?

he grabbed the keys to the mclaren sitting in his driveway, “do you have everything?”

you patted the pocket on your hoodie, feeling your phone and taking a glimpse inside your bag, “looks like it.”

he nodded as the two of you walked out of the house. he opened the door for you, just like always did, closing it behind you. he climbed in on the drivers side, starting the engine.

“you sure you’re not hungry or anything? don’t want a coffee or a tea?”

you looked over at the boy next to you, smiling softly and shaking your head, “‘m okay, thanks though.”

he nodded, pulling out of the driveway and handing you his phone to play music. you started playing the playlist you had made on his spotify account, a mixture of both of your favorite songs.

however, the music you were playing wasn’t even being paid attention to as you both were in deep thought the whole drive. both thinking about the other and how you both desperately wished things could be different. how you were both feeling the same way towards each other, just the other was too scared to admit it first.

he pulled up in front of the house, a soft sigh leaving your lips. partially out of relief because you were home and you could work on the work you’d been stressing about all week, but partially out of disappointment.

“want me to walk you up?”

you grabbed your bag, shaking your head, “no, ‘s okay,” you smiled softly, “thanks for, erm…”

you trailed off when your eyes met his. he laughed, noticing the slight blush rising to your cheeks, “don’t have to thank me.”

you nodded, “right, sorry.”

“don’t have to apologize either,” he smiled, “i’ll uhm… see you later?”

you nodded, desperately wanting to lean over and kiss his cheek, like you normally would’ve. but you knew if you did, you would eventually start kissing his lips and you’d never stop.

“yeah, i’ll see you later.”

you opened the door, climbing out and shutting the door before walking up to the house. he watched you make your way up to the door, fishing for your keys in the mess of the bag. you put the key in and turned around, sending him a small wave.

he waved back, pulling away once you walked inside the house and shut the door. you let out a breath, leaning against the wood for support and running a hand over your face. after giving yourself a second, you made your way into the living room.

“oh my god,“ the brunette, sarah, said with a teasing smile, “you’re able to walk after a night at lando’s? what a miracle.”

you flipped her off, causing the blonde, ashley, to snort from her place on the couch. you hung your bag on the barstool, sitting down and grabbing the bowl of cereal from sarah.

“oh, yeah, sure,” she mumbled, throwing her hands up in the air, “i wasn’t eating that.”

you gave her a look, shoving a spoonful of cereal in your mouth.

“you’re awfully quiet,” ashley said, entering the kitchen now as she stood at the coffee maker, “you alright?”

you were silent for a minute, both your roommates looking at you with concerned looks before you spoke up, “i don’t know.”

they both had the same expression, eyebrows raised, “what do you mean?”

you dropped your head onto your arm as you groaned. the two girls looked at each other confused before ashley questioned you, “y/n? what’s going on?”

“i like him.” you said sitting up.

sarah rolled her eyes, pulling the bowl of cereal back towards her, “well, yeah, tell us something we don’t know.”

“no, i mean,” you huffed, “i like like him.”

“okay,” ashley said into her coffee cup, “and what about that?”

“i can’t!”

“what do you mean you ‘can’t like him’?” sarah said, mouthful of cereal.

“i can’t like him because if i like him, it’ll be breaking the rules. and he’ll never like me back because of ‘em,” you said, “i wish i never came up with them in the first place.”

sarah snorted, “hold on,“ placing the spoon in the now empty bowl, “you think he doesn’t like you back?”

“i don’t just think, i know.”

ashley looked over at sarah and the two girls snickered. you gave them confusing looks.

“what? what’s so funny?”

“y/n, i love you,” ashley said, “but you’re an idiot.”

“it’s a good thing you’re really pretty because you’re completely oblivious.” sarah agreed. you sent them both confusing looks.

“what’re you talking about?”

“y/n, come on!” ashley laughed, “open your eyes! this man doesn’t like you, he’s in love with you.”

you gave them blank stares before you shook your head, “no, there’s absolutely no way-“

“think about it,” sarah said, “would he show up and bring you flowers every time you two go out? would he stop by and bring you a coffee, or a tea, or something to eat, which he’s literally memorized the orders for by the way, every time you’re studying? he knows you well enough to know that if you’re focused hard enough, you forget to eat and that you can’t study without some form of caffeine.”

“plus, the way he looks at you,” ashley added, “his face literally lights up every time you enter the room.“

you felt your heart go to your throat, but you somehow managed a croaked out response, “you think?”

“please,” ashley said, “we know. plus, ‘ve asked him.”

you and sarah looked at the blonde, a simultaneous, “you what?” slipping from your mouths.

ashley shrugged, raising her hands in mock defense, “i just wanted to know!”

“what did he say?”

“when did you ask?”

she put her coffee mug down, “it was the other night, he was watching you two laugh and dance at that stupid, lame ass party we went to. he was literally watching you the way they do in movies when they love someone,” she said, “so i asked him, ‘do you like her?’ and he nodded and kind of blushed a little bit before he was like, ‘maybe a bit more than that’.”

“oh my god,” sarah said, looking over at you. you sat there in shock for a minute before looking at your friends.

“what do i do? what do i say?” you asked the two girls looking at you.

“just talk to him, tell him how you feel,” ashley said, “it’s not like anything could go wrong, you already know how he feels.”

she had a point.

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

it was evening now, the sun setting through your curtains as you sat at your desk. you hummed along to the music playing through your headphones, scribbling down the rest of the notes you needed for this week.

you tilted your neck to the side, trying to fight through the aching pain in your muscles as you had sat at your desk all day. the music got quieter for a second before a soft ping rang through your headphones.

lando

how’s schoolwork going?

you smiled softly, clicking on the notification before typing back a response.

pretty good, actually. kind of wish i had taken a break to go out to get dinner with the girls.

you went back to your textbook before the woosh came through this time, another text popping up in the messages between the two of you.

have you not eaten today?

you looked at the clock, 8:30pm. well, shit…

guess i was too wrapped up to realize 😅

the bubble appeared on his side of the conversation, another sound playing through after he sent his message.

fancy some dinner company, then?

you smiled again, and if your feet weren’t tucked under your legs, you were sure you’d be probably be kicking them. god, he had you whipped.

as long as you bring something good.

he was quick to respond this time.

be there soon.

and he was a man to his word, showing up to your house almost forty minutes later. he had texted you that he was pulling up so you could open the door for him. once you opened the door, you smiled at the boy who stood with a bag of food in his hand.

“hey,” he smiled back at you. you stepped aside to let him in.

“hey,” you said, the two of you making your way to the kitchen as he set the bag down on the island, “whatcha get?”

you tried peeking in the bag but he pulled it away from you before you could look. you looked up at him as he sent you a teasing smile.

“close your eyes.”

“lando-“

“just close your eyes,” he chuckled back. you huffed, a soft smile on your face nonetheless as you closed your eyes. he pulled the takeout container, placing it in front of you before he fished out his.

“okay, open.”

you glanced down at the counter and your smile got wider. your favorite dish from your favorite restaurant sitting in front of you. your eyes met his as he smiled at you.

“you went all the way across town?”

“yeah,” he shrugged, popping open the lid to his dinner, “that’s what took me so long. sorry about that, by the way.”

you shook your head, “it’s okay,” you said, opening your own container, “i just… thank you.”

you smiled up at him and he swore he’d do the drive a hundred times if it meant you got to look at him like that.

“don’t have to thank me.” he said for the second time that day.

the two of you ate and made some comfortable conversation. most of them being jokes and the other giggling at them. he followed you up the stairs to your room after, the door closing behind him.

you sat down at your desk as he plopped onto your bed, “how much do you have left?”

you hummed, skimming through your notes and checking the check list on your computer, “another page or so,” you glanced over at him, softly wincing from the pain in your neck, which didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“your neck sore?”

you nodded, digging your fingers in the muscle to try to relieve the pain, “yeah, guess that means i’ve been sitting here too long.”

he got up from his spot before coming up behind you, his hands brushing yours to the side as he dug his finger tips into the aching muscles. you let out a soft sigh, letting him rub away the soreness, “god, that feels good.”

he smiled softly, “‘s it helping?”

you nodded, “yeah, actually.”

he continued for a couple seconds before you turned around to look at him in your chair. you searched his eyes as you tried to read them, but you got too distracted by the color of them to fully assess. he smiled softly down at you, raising an eyebrow slightly.

“what?” he asked, a chuckle following after.

“do you think about that night?” your mouth was moving before your brain could filter it, “the night we made that agreement?”

he shrugged, sitting back down on the bed now, “i mean, kind of, but not all the time.”

“do you regret it?”

he furrowed his eyebrows at you, “why would i regret it?”

you looked down at your hands, “because i do,” his heart dropped, but you immediately snapped your head up, “not like that! not like that at all. god, that’s not the way it was supposed to sound coming out of my mouth.”

you took a deep breath, his facial features becoming unreadable, “then how did you mean it?”

“i mean, i regret giving us these stupid rules,” you said, “like the one where it’s supposed to be ‘no feelings involved’, that sort of thing.”

he sent you a questioning look, his heart skipping a beat with hope, hope that you’d feel the same way, “why?”

“because i may have broken that rule.”

he searched your eyes, immediately his heart jumping up to his throat.

“so did i,” he said.

you smiled at each other from your seats before he was pulling you towards him, mumbling a soft, ‘c’mere,”

you straddled his thighs, wrapping your arms around his neck as one of his grabbed your waist while the other cupped your cheek. he leaned forward and kissed you softly, your hands finding the curls on the back of his neck.

he was the one to deepen the kiss, his tongue licking at your bottom lip before sucking and nibbling on it softly, knowing exactly how to make you weak. and it was working as you found yourself softly moaning into his mouth. he moved his hand from your hip to your ass, grabbing at it playfully causing you to giggle.

you broke the kiss, “i already knew how you felt, i just wanted to hear you say it.”

he sent you a look, silently asking how you would’ve known before his eyes widened. you laughed softly as he rolled his eyes.

“fucking ashley,” he mumbled against your lips.

no one could wipe the smile off his face even if they tried. you kissed him passionately, pushing back on his chest as he laid back onto the mattress and brought you with him. you hovered over him as you bent down, kissing him again. his hands found their place on your hips yet again, you absentmindedly moving against his hips gently.

he hummed contently against your lips, fingers moving under the hoodie you were wearing, a different one than the one you had on earlier, “is this mine?”

he brushed a piece of hair behind your ear as you bit back a smile, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip, “maybe..”

he laughed, shaking his head as he pulled at the bottom hem, helping you out of it, “you look better in it anyway.”

[sugarcoated44]

Love the way you did your smau!! I would like to request one where reader is having baby fever??

lemme think about that... UH YES

JJK Men reacting to you having baby fever SMAU Pt.1

\\ All characters are aged up and 18+ | Minors DNI //

Warnings: I mean... directly talking about getting pregnant and what comes with it. (Also mention of firearms in Toji's)

I'm not responsible for your consumption of content.

Characters: Ryomen Sukuna, Yuji Itadori, Choso, Megumi Fushiguro, Toji Fushiguro, and Satoru Gojo.

SMAU + Little blurbs because I couldn't resist elaborating on these....

Gusnta be a 2 parter < 3

Masterlist | Part 2 (Coming Soon)

Post is below the linnneeeee

Ryomen Sukuna

You spring up from your bed, where you had been watching numerous baby videos on your phone. You had just heard a resounding cracking noise coming from the front door of your apartment and you flew up to it to look through the peep hole.

Unsurprisingly a pink head of hair that your recognized very quickly was seen on the other side of your door.

"Woman, you open this before I break it down you know I will."

It wasn't going to take any more than that, you quickly unlocked the door and swung it open steping aside for Sukuna to come in.

"Ryo-" you started off but he silenced you, his palm flying up to cover the lower half of your face.

"Did you mean it?" he asked, his piercing gaze cutting right into you.

It had been partially a joke but really, deep down, you had already decided for yourself that this was a man you wanted to have children with. Even though he could be a bit cruel sometimes, he was fiercly protective of you and you couldn't imagine him being any less for any children that were a product of him.

You slowly nodded your head, your mouth still covered by his palm.

He grinned wildly at you, "Good.", and with that one word he was picking you up, throwing you over his shoulder causing you to squeal.

You were in for it now.

Yuji Itadori

You chuckle at your cell, placing it down on the counter of your bathroom as you continue to brush your teeth. You adored texting your boyfriend with these cute little text gimicks, the way he responded was always so positive and adorable, it only made you fall deeper in love with him.

Finishing up in the bathroom you flicked the light off, walking up to the front door to ensure that you had locked it. Checking it swiftly, you turn away intent on heading back to your room to settle in for the night when you heard a rustling at you door that causes you to freeze.

You spin around in time to see the lock turn to the open position before the door swings open, revealing one Yuji Itadori on the other side of it, holding the spare key you had given him a couple months into dating.

"Yuji!?" you exclaim, happy to see him but a bit confused about his sudden appearance.

He smiles at you and shuts the door behind him, clicking the lock closed before kicking off his sneakers.

"Hi baby." he says happily, stepping forward to pull you into a tight bear hug.

You chuckle at him and pat his back, "Honey, its so late why are you here?" you ask him.

He sticks out his bottom lip at you pouting slightly, "I'm here to make a baby, duh." he says, giving you a toothy grin causing a violent blush to spread across your face.

"Yuji we aren''t ready for that yet!" you say, smacking him on the chest playfully.

He grins down at you still, unfaltering. "Yeah but we could certainly get some practice in!"

Choso

You run out of the bedroom to the top of the stairs where you see a half doubled over Choso trying to pull himself up on the railing.

"Choso!" you say, running down the steps quicklly to go help your boyfriend off the floor.

You pull him up and he immediatley wraps you in a tight hug, burying his face into your neck.

You hug him tightly in return, rubbing his back slowly.

"Honey are you okay?" you ask, pulling back slightly to get a look at his face. He hadn't been lying, his eyes were red and watery eyeliner smudged around them.

"You want to have a baby with me?" he asked, his voice wobbling as his arms wrapped around your waist keeping you pulled close to him.

Your head snapped back as you let out a laugh, worry for your lover easing out of your body.

You pulled his face down to yours, pecking his lips softly before resting your forehead against his to look into his still damp eyes.

"Of course I do baby." you said softly, bringing a hand up to wipe away the tears under his eyes.

"I want to do that too." he said, happy tears flowing down his face once again.

Megumi Fushiguro

You were sitting next to Megumi on the couch, one of his arms thrown over your shoulders as some made for tv movie played on Yuji's apartment TV.

The two of you had joined him and Nobara for a movie night and the two of them had picked some random movie that you and your boyfriend had never heard of.

You had remained unintrested for the majority of the film until a cute scene had started to play between the two main characters and their child causing your heard to melt.

You had mostly picked up your cell to text Megumi as a joke, since it seemed pretty clear from his bored stare that he was equally as unentertained by the film as you were.

You had not been expecting it to throw him off so harshly.

He stood up abruptly mumbling something about the two of you needing to leave before dragging you out the door while Yuji and Nobara protested in the background.

The door slammed behind the two of your and your boyfriend dragged you into the elevator with him slamming you up against the inside wall before the doors even closed.

"Megumi I-" you started, words getting caught in your throat as Megumi's lips found purchase on your neck causing a startled moan to stumble out of you.

"You think you can just say things like that and expect me not to drag you away?"

Toji Fushiguro

Half an hour later you were still grumbling while pulling open various drawers in your bedroom, you knew Toji had to be keeping bullets somewhere.. you had really been shocked when the gun hadn't just been loaded though you appreciated him not leaving a loaded firearm in the bed the two of you shared.

You hear a deep chuckle coming from behind you, turning you see Toji's large frame filling up the doorway.

"Good!" you say, turning back around to keep rifling through the drawer you had just opened, "You're here to help me find them!"

"Brat." he said, clearly trying to get your attention though you half ignored him.

"Y/n." he said again, his tone a little more snappy this time causing you to turn to look at him.

He was holding up something square shapped, though it had three massive holes in it.

He threw the item on the dresser in front of you and you looked at it, recognizing it as your birth control.. with bullet holes blown into it.

You looked back at Toji, taking a step towards him.

"Remember when I said you were crazy?" he asked, smile streching his scar across his face, "I like that, how about we start putting work into knocking you up?"

Satoru Gojo

You rush to the door of the house you had just moved into with Satoru a few month ago, finally breaking down on his constant requests to let him take care of you.

Sliding open the door you found him standing there with a crazed smile on his face, a large bouquet of flowers covering most of his arms and chest.

"Toru!" you exclaim, taking a could of steps towards him giggling at the giant arrangment of flowers, "Where did you get these?"

"Some market in Tokyo, don't worry I paid." he said, allowing you another moment to look at them before he tossed them onto the picnic table that was set up outside the house.

He rushed forward, picking you up to spin you around causing another laugh to fly out of you.

"We'rent you working?" you ask him when he finally sets you down, leaving his hands on your waist his forehead pressed against yours.

"Blegh, those losers in that meeting were boring me anyways." he said, sticking his tongue out.

If you remembered those "losers" were the Jujutsu Elders, but he didn't let you dwell on that long as he had moved to swooping his arms under your legs sweeping you off your feet princess style.

"Ah! Toru what???" you squealed, throwing your arms around his neck to try and hold yourself up.

"Did you not read my text?" he asked, smiling down at you, "I'm here to make a goregous blue eyed baby with you!"

Part one of this lovely request! I shall be putting out part 2 soonnnnn I've had a busy week so posts have been slow but IM STILL ALIVE BITCHES!!!!

REQs are still open as of now annndddd thats it love ya bye

< 3 < 3 < 3 < 3 < 3 < 3 < 3 < 3 < 3 < 3 < 3 < 3 < 3 < 3 < 3 < 3 < 3 < 3 < 3

[thefunkfactory]

Americans in Paris

The trip had finally made it out of the group chat, the 4 friends had finally reached Paris. It was their first day and the boys had just spent the day gallivanting around the city and were in need of a hearty meal. Going to a little hole in the wall restaurant they were the only ones seated and yet did not receive a single menu. It was so odd to the 4 American college students. They were eventually all given a glass of red wine and a plate of an odd smelling cheese, trying to procure an actual menu. One of the boys tried to flag down a waiter who simply ignored them. Trying and failing once more all but one gave in and just decided to eat the aromatic cheese, at least it was food. At first the taste of the cheese was sour and offensive to their pallets but after only a few seconds of chewing it tasted much sweeter and much more edible. Eventually the boys finished the large plate and asked for another. Upon finishing the second plate of cheese and their wine the boys paid and headed back to their hotel.

Getting up and into their room the boys all rested and one of them called divs on the bathroom. One of the boys, Randy, complained that his feet hurt real bad, the other boys just assumed it was from the day of walking they just did. Attempting to pull his shoe off on his own, the complaining boy told his friends “I can’t get my shoe off! It feels like the shoes shrunk!” Drew got down on the floor as the Randy sat on the end of a bed, pulling and tugging he couldn’t get Randy’s shoe off either. One of the other boy’s came to help Drew and Randy and eventually with the help of the three boys they pried Randy’s shoe off of his feet.

Randy watched as Drew and the other boy Nate recoiled and covered their noses. “GODDAMN!” Nate yelped “EWWW YOUR FEET SMELL SO RIPE!” Drew cried, “Cmon guys they don't smell-,” Randy was cut off as he lifted his own foot closer to him, he raised it to rest on his knee and brought his head down as well, “that…ba…bad…”. Drew was

still backing away but Nate watched, with his mouth and nose covered, as his friend grew concerningly silent. “Randy? You good bro?” Nate questioned, Randy stayed silent and only blinked as a devilish grin came across his face. He lifted his socked foot and pushed right into his friend’s face, Drew struggled and tried to pull his foot away but he succumbed to Randy’s ripe feet only after a few breaths.

Drew watched in horror as Nate’s already shoeless feet began to grow. He watched helplessly and Randy rubbed his stench deep into Nate’s nose, the black socked foot moving back and forth. Gaining his composure Drew was about to run up to the two and pull Nate away when he hastily took a step and a sharp pain shot threw his feet. Falling to the ground just feet from Nate, Drew pried his shoes off in the nick of time, as soon as Drew’s scentless shoes were ripped off Drew watched as his feet painfully inflated. At the same time, Nate was suffering the same fate as Drew and Randy, but unlike Drew he wasn't able to remove his sneaker. Feeling the same sharp pain as Drew just did, Nate’s shoes began to rip at the seams as his transformation had already begun.

In the bathroom the last of the four friends, Lance was washing his face when he heard a knocking on the door. “OCCUPIED!” he loudly informed the knocker, yet again one of his friends knocked on the door, “STOP KNOCKING!” Lance shouted across the large hotel bathroom at the door. It stopped for a second just to begin again this time with more force. Sliding open the wooden bathroom door he was met with his friend Drew who had a dopey grin plastered across his face and his eyes drooped almost closed, pinching his nose Lance proclaimed “EW WHATS THAT SMELL?!” as the stench of the 3 other boys rotten and buttery foot funk began to waft into the bathroom. Turning and walking towards the beds in the other room, the shoeless Drew made Lance look towards the bed to see Randy shoving his nauseating shoe into Nate’s face. As he was shocked at what was happening in front of his eyes, Drew got on the floor in front of Randy and picked up his foot and stuck his nose right into the middle of Randy’s damp socked sole.

Panicking and wondering what has come over his friends, he realized that it must have something to do with the weird cheese his friends all ate. He didn’t have any so while his friends were having their minds melted by their own and their friends putrid masculine smelling feet, Lance was simply getting ready for bed in the bathroom. Trying to help his friends, he ran over to Nate and Drew and tried to pull them away, no luck. The two foot sniffers were pulling away from Lance harder than he could pull them away from Randy. He then tried to push Randy away from Drew and Nate, yet again no luck. Randy sat on the edge of the bed like a mountain, unmoving and sturdy. His final attempt to free his friends had him attempting to push just Nate away. As he pushed and pushed he made no progress whatsoever when suddenly, and without warning, Nate’s body went limp. Collapsing to the ground the two boys laid there, Lance tried to collect himself while Nate juat laid there motionless. Lance was about to lift his head when he looked up and saw a hulking foot coming down towards his face.

Catching a facefull of Randy’s awful scented foot Lance began to immediately lose himself, even though he didn’t eat any of the cheese that the other three had, the smell of Randy’s infectious funk was potent enough to spark Lance’s change. Just like Drew, Nate and Randy, Lance’s shoe began to stretch larger and larger and inside of it his foot began to grow bigger and bigger and smellier and smellier Not before long his foot burst out of his shoe and let off a mild funk. Feeling like he was constantly forgetting, Lance tried to push off Randy’s sweaty foot but kept spacing on why he was trying to remove something that smelled soooo good. While he was struggling to escape and struggling to think, Nate and Drew had moved towards Lance and grabbed his arms, they held them down to the soft carpeted floor and watched as their friend’s body seized as he gave one last major try to escape but he quickly gave in after being restrained. His body stopped struggling and Lance felt as a thick fog sat in his mind, he felt like he was dulling into a stupid foot sniffing moron. His growing feet’s aroma had changed from a normal mild funk to a strong repellent odor. Lance grinned underneath Randy’s foot and by the time Randy removed his foot, Lance was gone, all of them were gone, their personalities and knowledge, their interests and hobbies all now replaced with the heavy, thick fog wafting from their musky, masculine feet and dulling their minds so intensely that the boys lives would never be the same.

[reginamillls]

just something I wrote after seeing the pics of THAT gladiator costume

have some bucktommy + halloween/domestic thing

***

When Tommy comes in he notes a pair of white sneakers at his door and hears the TV on, playing a documnetary about deep ocean creatures. And he feels lighter despite just coming off of a 48.

Coming home to someone waiting for him, gives him energy it seems.

The only thing Tommy can see from his entrance looking into his living room is a pair of socked feet hanging off one end of his love seat with an apple flying up into the air and back down and Tommy walks into the kitchen to get dinner started.

"I'm thinking maybe we could do something classic," Is what Tommy gets as a greeting. "Maybe movie monsters that go together. A vampire and a werewolf."

"Hello Tommy, it's nice to see you Tommy, how was your shift?" Tommy playfully mocks from the kitchen, leaning against the counter. That gets a huff of laughter and soon Evan is sitting up, revealing messy curls and a sheepish smile.

"Hey babe," Evan says as he turns to face Tommy then, and taking a bite of his apple. "How was work?"

"It was fine," Tommy answers and he steps into the living room and bends down, kissing Evan sweetly in greeting. He tastes a little bit like the apple he was eating and Tommy can't help but smile against his lips. He'd been nervous giving Evan a key to his house, but those nerves were chased away by the reality of getting to come home to see Evan relaxed on his couch, wearing a worn sweatshirt with a hole at the collar and looking like he belongs in Tommy's space. "So there's costumes?"

"Work is throwing a thing," Evan says. "And I thought, maybe we could dress up?" He asks then adds. "I saw you had off on your calendar."

"I wouldn't be opposed," Tommy says. "I don't know about a werewolf and a vampire though. It gives me Twilight."

Evan gives him a blank look and Tommy huffs. "One of these days we are going to get you to watch those movies. I'll get Howie to join me."

"Maybe we could be a cowboy and a gladiator," Evan suggests, ignoring the Twilight comment. "I still have my hat from my ranch days-"

"So I'm the gladiator then?" Tommy cocks an eyebrow, amused. "How come you've seen Night at the Musuem and not Twilight?"

"It's a movie about a museum coming alive at night," Evan counters. "That's awesome."

"Fair," Tommy agrees and he rests his hands on Evan's shoulders and begins to massage them. " So a couples' costume? I'm guessing ketchup and mustard wouldn't work?"

"If you want to be boring." Evan huffs and then lets out an appreciative moan when Tommy digs his thumb into one of the knots in Evan's muscles.

"How about something we both know?" Tommy suggests. "Star Wars?"

"You can - oh that's the spot," Evan says shifting on the couch again. "You can be Han and I can be Luke."

"Why do you get the lightsaber?" Tommy asks, teasing.

"Because you're the pilot," Evan says. "And the vest would look great on your chest." He adds, tilting his head up and reaching an arm to pat Tommy on said chest. "Plus you have several white henleys."

Tommy huffs out a laugh at that and moves his hands up to Evan's neck, causing the other man to drop his hand and lean into Tommy's massage, his eyes shuttering close.

"Are you going as blue lightsaber Luke or green?" Tommy asks and Evan hums under his hand, thinking about it.

"Green," He says. "Luke looked good in that black outfit."

"He did," Tommy agrees, remembering a younger version of himself who had been very into Luke Skywalker and the hopeful way he looked at life.

He's always had a type.

"I was more into Han myself," Evan says and he opens up his eyes and takes one of Tommy's hands and kisses his knuckles. "I guess I have a thing for pilots."

And what can Tommy do but not lean over the couch and kiss Evan properly?

Their costumes can wait till later.

So can dinner.

[starryhutcherson]

━━ A NEW FAMILIAR

author's note: crawled out of my hole for this one guys. sorry for being so ghost mode im working on putting out more stuff, apologies if this isn't of the highest quality as i'm running on sugar free redbull and three hours of sleep ! love my life hahahahaAHHHH

'୧ ‧₊ pairing: best friend!mike schmidt x reader warnings: 18+ sexual content! oral sex (f!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, dirty talk, swearing word count: 4600+ ⋆ ✩‧₊

Mike’s expression always glooms when you bring up the next date you’ve arranged. He knows how this story plays out; he knows the truth behind the men you’ve matched with on whatever sketchy website you’ve wasted your time on. They’ve molded themselves into the embodiment of perfection, through falsified photos and fabrications buried in their bios. His patience crumbles like fireplace ash as you skip around his living room and drone on about whatever dickhead you’ve set your poor, precious heart on.

He knows, always, the the outcome is running makeup and salty cheeks, sobbing on the floor of his living room in a creasing satin dress and his welcoming arms, a bitter exclamation of “you were right Mike” leaving your lips in the knowing silence and him gritting his jaw and pretending that it doesn’t bother him the the only habits you ever find yourself falling back into are the bad ones. 

It’s no different today. 

Mark or Matt or Mitch – you really were killing him, because it should be Mike. It should be him. Him that you’re getting ready for, him that you’re daydreaming about. And it’s an odd feeling, like a movie where your favorite character dies and then movie finishes and you have to accept that they aren’t coming back, no matter how long you sit glued to the reclinable chair, popcorn crunched beneath your sneakers and the credit-scene reflected in your shrinking pupils. 

Mike’s not the type to be happier with the hope – he’d let the truth swallow him up, sink into his creaking bones, he’d live with the loss. But he still has hope for you. He has hope that your eyes will open and you’ll seep into his brain and his breath and his bed. He hopes you’ll start seeing him instead of just looking. Maybe it's wishful thinking. Ignorant optimism.

It feels like it. 

It feels like it, right now, when he’s leaning against the doorframe of his bathroom and watching you get ready, your animated chatter reverberating around the small space between coats of mascara. He offered to give you a ride before you’d even asked, and he’ll tolerate the sting of watching you get out of the car looking all pretty for someone who isn’t him, just to make sure you get there safely. It’s the type of sacrifice he’ll make for you. 

“I can’t even feel my face, I’ve been smiling so hard all day!” You squeal, powdering your cheeks with more purposeless product – he thinks it’s all pointless. You’re radiant, even in the harsh lighting of his bathroom. 

He offers a low grunt. What is he supposed to say? He’s not happy. And he’s not gonna pretend he is. 

You either don’t notice or choose to ignore, continuing to doll yourself up to whatever standards you have for yourself. “I mean, he says he’s been skiing since he was 6. He’s practically an olympian.” 

Mike scoffs. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “Can you hurry up?”

“Alright, grumpy. Calm down. I gotta do my lips and then I’m ready. Plus, nobody told you that you gotta stand here.” 

A fleeting flush of fuchsia permeates his cheeks, but he looks down at his worn shoes to hide it. It’s true. He didn’t have to stand here. But if an angel was populating your bathroom you’d want to take a peek, would you not? That’s how he thinks you look. Angelic. Glowing from your soul, a content smile knitted on your lips. You might as well have a halo and wings – that heaven-sent aura is reinforced when you douse yourself in lingering washes of that sweet perfume that’s branded itself to you. He’d recognise that floral aroma anywhere, the way a shark detects a drop of blood amongst saline scattered seas. 

“Okay, I’m ready. How do I look?”

Cruelest question of them all. “You look… fine. Good.”

A knot forms in your brow. “All this effort for that terrible answer?” Playful, but with a truthful undertone. Why do you value his opinion so much? He doesn’t want to assume anything. 

“Well I’m not the person you’re dressing up for.” I wish I was. He doesn’t say the other words, but he thinks them so hard he’s half convinced if you were listening in the right spot, or looking into his eyes for long enough that you’d hear it anyway. 

“Okay, okay, whatever. Let’s just get going, don’t wanna keep Mack waiting.” 

Two letters. That’s all it would take. That’s all he’d have to swap to make it him.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

✩‧₊˚

Even if you aren’t aware, even if he did offer, he drives begrudgingly. He focuses as much as he can, on the road ahead and not your glistening figure beside him in the passenger seat, the very definition of temptation. 

The mall parking lot is barren, a few gleaming cars scattered amongst the otherwise desolate area. He pulls into a space, sets the car in park, rakes in a greedy sigh of air. 

“If anything happens, call me.” 

You sneer teasingly. “Don’t be so pessimistic. It’s gonna be great, he could be my future husband, y’know.”

Yep. Mack, the 35 year old you've met online, who’s only notable talent seems to be skiing and his greatest life achievement to date is shooting a deer, whose head is mounted to the wall in his bedroom, typically visible in the background of his many instagram posts which involved his shirtless figure straining to flex his overly pronounced bulk. A match made in heaven. He wants to scream. 

And how can you even tell him to not be pessimistic? How can you look him in the eyes and act like this moment hasn’t happened time after time, the point of no return before an evening spent crying in his arms as he reassures you that your failed dates are never your fault, even though by now it seems like you must be seeking out the same genre of shitty man if you’re this good at getting your heart broken. He’s sick of picking up the fragile little pieces of his bathroom floor, cutting himself on the shards of a heart that’ll never be his. You deserve more than these half-baked, single night romances. He could show you that. 

“Yeah, sure,” he grits. “Future husband. Just call me, seriously.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you.” 

And with that, you’re off, disappearing into the gaping mouth of the mall’s entrance, and he watches with an alkaline feeling growing in his stomach. Your hair is caught up in the wind like clothing on a washline and he thinks his hope is all drained out. 

✩‧₊˚

Mike spends a good two hours back at his house. His movements feel vacuous, staring ahead at the screen, barely processing the raging garbage that masquerades as reality TV. The rain has picked up outside, licking at the window panes with a growing intensity. 

He’s not happy about the jean skirt and tiny little tank top you’d clad yourself in prior to leaving, you’re probably frigid by now in the cold. You did however reassure him that Mack was gonna drive you home, or even worse, take you back to his place, so his stupid fucking elk head trophie could watch with it’s empty eyes while the pair of you fuck on the bed that his mom still has to make for him because he never can quite manage those fitted sheets, can he? Fucking manchild. 

Shit. Mike’s feeling so so bitter. Maybe it’s because he’s finally realized that this is the dreaded pattern he’s going to have to endure with you until death. Or until he braves up and actually tells you that he’s been in love with you since the fifth day of second grade, when you mouthily confronted Jerry Murdoch and told him to give Mike his crayons back.  

With a weak sigh, he turns the TV off with a click of the remote still encaptured in the loose hold of his fist, and decides to see if he can melt into any form of sleep – but the knock on his door prevents him from doing so. 

He arises lethargically, not having much on his mind but the denial of his slumber as he shuffles over and turns the handle, but then, it’s you. 

Fluttery lashes melted to black smudges beneath your eyes, a mixture of rainwater and tears, completely drenched and dripping all over his doormat, your body is trembling and you’re wracked with tiny little cries and he’s feeling so many emotions he believes he might implode. 

He pulls you inside and into his arms, stroking your back in gentle, soothing motions, and it kills him that this has become routine. He’s angry. He’s sick of this. 

“What happened this time?” He grunts softly. 

“He didn’t even show up. He couldn’t even send a message as to why, Mike,” you sniffle into his warm chest, drunk off the even echo of his heartbeat. 

A moment’s silence rots like aged fruit. He draws a breath in, then out, then in again. 

“Why didn’t you call me?”

You crane your face upwards to meet him, instantly bathed in a nervous shiver when you see how serious he looks. 

“My phone was dead.” Is all you can manage to mumble. 

“What?” He’s pissed. “Why didn’t you charge it? You could have charged it there, they have outlets at the mall. Or you could’ve used someone else’s, so you didn’t have to walk home in the rain, because you’re drenched.” 

“I don’t–”

“Y’know how dangerous it is to walk around alone in this shitty neighborhood? Half the street lights don’t even work, and I don’t even know any of my neighbors, or what kinda people walk around here at night.” He grumbles. “I shouldn’t have to tell you all this, I’m sick of explaining all this to you.”

You roll your eyes irritably, releasing yourself from his arms and crossing your own across your dripping wet torso. “How was I supposed to know he was gonna stand me up? You’re telling me I should just expect it?”

He blinks like a deer in headlights, silence settles into his flesh.

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

You scoff. “It’s what you implied.” 

“It’s not what I—” He grumbles weakly under his breath, cutting himself off, deciding reasoning with you is somewhat of a useless attempt. “Why can’t you just listen to me?”

“What, charge my phone next time? Bring a raincoat? Yeah, great help, seriously, don’t know where I’d be without you,” your sarcasm hits like gunshot wounds to the teeth. 

“Or maybe you should try to meet actual people, instead of fake ones from some stupid website.” 

After a cold shiver bites up your spine, your expression deepens with defense. What is his fucking problem? “At least I try to get out of the house! At least I don’t spend every hour of every day moping around and feeling sorry for myself!” 

The pair of you fight, sure, every good relationship, friend or romance or family or whatever should, but nothing like this. This is stone-set, it’s been coming for a while, the wild gesticulations and the pacing and the raised voices. It shakes the bones of the weakened house. 

“Don’t,” Mike says with a furious edge, fists tightening and untightening like he’s about to take a swing at the wall, like this is going to end with bleeding knuckles nipped with shards of worn plaster. “Don’t throw that in my face, I do everything I can, for you and Abby. It’s not like I have a choice.”

“So what, you’re so fucking miserable in your own life that you have to try and control mine?”

“Control? You’re like my child! You don’t even know how to take care of yourself half the time, so yes, I try to help you not to make such shitty decisions!” 

You scowl. “You’re not obligated to do anything for me, y’know Mike. Why do you keep me around if I’m that much of a chore for you!”

He snaps, the tension in his fists bleeding up into his throat, his mouth, the words clot behind his gums and suddenly they tumble out in a fury-fueled shout. “Because you’ve got no one else!” 

You deflate, wilting like a flame without oxygen, and Mike deems the silence to be more cruel than anything else you’ve said to him tonight. He’s feeling everything and nothing all at once, the quiet crumbles around him like a burning building and he fears he’ll become rubble beneath the debris. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just… god, just–” His eyes flick to you, and then retreat back down to the faded living room carpet. He can’t swallow his guilt this time. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

“It’s fine,” you say coldly, knuckling away an angry tear. The salt water is the trick of nostalgia, you’ve cried like this so many times. Your breakage of those promises to yourself. It’ll be different. And it never is. 

“No. It’s not – I’m a dick, I just… I hate watching other people ruin your life. You deserve better.”

Better. What is better? Some twisted fantasy that some people are indulged with and others are left longing for. That you’re left longing for. You know he’s tired of the same bullshit that you force yourself through, convincing yourself of change, painting yourself up to be fit for presentation, and hoping that whoever you’ve leeched onto likes what they see, so you don’t have to feel so alone anymore. You’re oblivious, painfully so. Because Mike could plaster together the cracks in your splintering psyche, if you’d just let him in. 

“Whatever, Mike. It’s true anyway.”

There’s a hole in his heart in the shape of your name. He begs you. Fill it. A part of him shatters at the defeat in your words — he’s crumbled you to the bone, to the marrow. He’ll build you back up. You deserve it. 

“No it isn't. No it isn’t. You have me. You’ll always have me.” 

A silence pervades; the look in his eyes is one of pleading, that you’ll stop and see what he’s offering you, that you’ll stop chasing your own tail, that you’ll stop the cycle. 

“Mike…”

“And Abby.”

You indulge him. 

“You have me. And you have Abby. And I know that’s… not much, but she loves you. So much. And I’m sorry, ‘cause I know I don’t say it enough, I don’t…. I don’t say how much you mean to me, but I just—”

“Mike.” 

He wallows in the waters of your rain kissed eyes, the way your pupils pulse and the words are falling before he can swallow them back down. 

“I love you.”

He gives you that stare. That stare that’s the color of black coffee, the look that you can feel, unearthing the graveyard of wilting feelings you’ve tried to bury, the heart that beats for him him him, lodged between the ivory bars of your ribcage. He maps you out with his eyes, he looks at you the way the sun hungers for daybreak. 

He’s waiting. He’d wait forever. 

“And… and seeing you with these… shitty people who don’t even care about you, it just…” He sighs exasperatedly, dragging a sweaty palm down his face. 

His sentences can’t seem to finish themselves. This is harder than it looks in the movies. Harder than when he’s practiced in the mirror, when Abby’s walked in and giggled at him and told him to just fess up. 

“You love me? Like…”

He looks up at you like a kicked puppy. “Yeah. I do.”

You’re beyond bewildered. He loves you. He loves you. 

“What– but… you—”

“You don’t have to… say anything. I just, I can’t… I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t do it.”

You reach for his hand. It’s a little clammy, a little trembly, but it’s a perfect fit. Just like you. 

“I love you too, Mike.”

What?

“You… do?”

He’s skeptical, but he’s also swooning. A stone man is slowly cracking. 

“I just didn’t… didn’t think I could have you. I mean, you’re so… you’re everything, y’know? You’re a good brother, and you work so hard, and you’re… I’m just… I don’t think I deserve you,” you whisper, confessing. With a newfound stroke of confidence, he approaches, one hand snaking around to the small of your back, another on your cheek. He’s gentle. In his eyes, you’re porcelain. Precious. Fragile. At least, at this moment. But you love him too and that’s all he needs. It’s all he’s ever needed. 

“You deserve everything.” He says it so quietly it’s barely audible. And then, nothing is audible because he’s carefully pulling your lips to his, linking you in every way, his hands tangle into your damp hair and he’s kissing you. 

His lips chase yours in messy, uncalculated movements. He’s starting small. It’s been a while. And he’s gonna take his time with you. He’s gonna show you what you deserve. Soft sounds squeak past his lips as they flutter against yours, and you’re closer and closer and closer still, impossibly so. 

Within moments he’s whisking you off to his bedroom, his hand tangled with yours, an interlace tight enough to cause ropeburn. His skin chafes with yours, and then he’s kissing you again atop his navy comforter. 

He’s gentle, respectful, but you understand what he’s trying to tell you, what he’s been trying to tell you. He speaks through silken drags of his tongue, through the hand that holds your cheek steady— he feels as though he’s gripping the very cusp of a constellation. You taste like stardust. You glow like the waning moon. 

He breathes heavily in the expanse of his throat, his pants have become tight and wet and filthy; he’s been subconsciously grinding down into your lap. You’re a little shaky and your pupils have darkened with lust and he is going to show you what you mean to him. What you’ve been missing. 

His hand falls lower, into the slope of torso that dips into your hips. His eyes travel back and forth, searching, hunting for the desire that he feels mirrored back at him. Do you want this, the way he does? Do you? His hardened stare doesn’t speak loud enough. He elaborates.

“Can I… uh… do you wanna…?”

Do you want to? You need to. 

“Shit, okay,” he croaks out, jaw tense and tight as he traces you beneath calloused fingers. You didn’t realize you said that out loud. 

He’s endearingly awkward – you know from languid late-night conversations that he hasn’t done this a lot. Maybe even at all. But he’s sweet, so sweet, like lapping up sugar and feeling it dissolve on your tongue, feeling him dissolve on your tongue, giving you comfort and cavities. 

“Can I take this off?” He asks nervously, fiddling with the hem of your camisole. A short nod, and he’s sliding it over your sweat-pricked figure, admiring your contours in the whisper of evening moonlight that bleeds through holes in his moth-eaten curtains. You’re perfect, and he knew you would be. 

He caresses your skin gently, drunk on the mellow feeling of your bare stomach beneath his fingertips. Your bra is black, a little lace peering along the straps, your breasts spilling into the fabric. He reaches around your back, fumbling at the clasp. When the garment drops, his hands are replacing it before you can even blink. 

“Beautiful,” he manages to get out, thumbing over your nipples. 

“Mngh, Mike—”

“Sh. Just let me… just let me. Let me make you feel good. Please?” He grunts out under his breathless voice, and how could you deny such a request?

The moment you agree, he’s grabbing you by the thighs and tugging you towards him slightly, so your back is nearly flat against his mattress and he’s settling himself in the gap that you create for him. 

Your skirt comes off first. Your panties are undeniably soused, his fingers trace the big wet spot that’s dripping all for him, teasing you through torturously thin cotton. 

“Mike,” you mewl gently, fingers settling in his nest of chocolate curls that are damp with sweat. A firm tweak and he’s groaning, his voice melting away into nothing like hot tar. 

“You’re so wet,” he mumbles to himself, like he’s never seen anything like it. Probably not in a while. His finger hooks beneath the waistband, pulls it out gently, and lets it go. It slaps against your hip bone and another fresh sound seeps from your lips.  

“Mike, shit, please just do something—”

“Okay,” he whispers, more to himself than you, carefully sliding your panties from your waist, down past your ankles, and he’s tossing them to join the pile of clothes that has begun to collect on his bedroom floor. 

You’re here, before him. The girl he waited for. Your soft flesh is glistening, clenching painfully around nothing, and he’s salivating at the sight of you. He pries your legs out further with his warm hands, leaving them to linger on your bare flesh for a few drawn out moments, before he claims what’s rightfully his. 

He presses a trialing kiss to your clit, and your back curves delicately, fingers tightening their grasp in his hair. He moans into you at this action, and you, in turn, moan as well. Confidence creates itself in him with each little whimper that he gets you to release, and he’s answering back, hearing your cries, your calls of his name with his own unabashed exclamations of pleasure. This is just as good for him, as it is for you. 

“Mike,” you whine gently, and he’s mumbling weak praise right into your cunt. 

“Fuck, you’re so pretty. Wanted this for so long.”

It’s barely audible between his languid sucks; he’s lapping at your drooling entrance, fingers subtly creeping closer, up and along your thighs and settling right above your throbbing clit. He presses his thumb against it, tracing sinful circles against your bud— once, twice, and then you’re far too close to the edge. 

“Oh, Mike I’m gonna come,” you choke out between gasps. 

“Do it. Please.”

He’s begging you. 

And you oblige. With a trembling sob, your thighs tense around his head, keeping him locked in place, capturing him and making sure he finishes the job, and oh does he plan to. When you soar, he’s still holding you in place, soothing the electric sparks pulsating throughout your body. 

He savors your sounds, and when they stop coming, he presses a lingering peck on your inner thigh, stubble scraping at the sensitive dermis. He then raises his face to your level, the light coruscating off the filthy souvenir etched all over his face, your glittering arousal that he wears so proudly. 

He steals a proper kiss from you, rubbing your side as a gentle comfort. He’s completely hard now, tenting his sweats, leaking against the fabric. You gingerly reach out, tracing what you assume to be the head of his cock, and he sags, boneless, against your touch. 

“Fuck, baby I—”

“Baby?” You chuckle softly, still hazed from the candy-coated afterglow of your orgasm. The first of many, he hopes. 

“Mngh— g… got a problem?” He grumbles softly, almost quivering as you begin to palm him with purpose.

“It’s out of character,” you tell him gently. 

“Shit, can I be inside you?” He asks you, voice ripped raw. 

And once again, Mike Schmidt leaves you breathless. 

“Yeah. I need it. I need you.”

He groans, slipping off his pants and boxers without so much as another word from your swollen lips. He’s hard, angrily so, his cock pulses violently and a little whimper escapes through the crack in his bitten lips when it slaps against his stomach. 

He’s stroking himself slowly, base to tip and then back again, collecting the pearls of precum that dribble from his slit. He’s never been so ready for something. For you. It’s all for you. 

He’s holding you, thumbing your hip bones and gently nudging himself into your hole, cooing at every cry that crawls from the crevices of your throat. When he bottoms out, finally, it’s safe to say that he gets a little dumb. “Oh, shit, I’m not— not gonna last long, you’re so tight, shit…” He’s rambling a little. It’s cute. 

A few wandering kisses land on you the way dandelion spores decorate a skyline – your cheek and your chin and your jaw, as he waits for you to let him move. You’re squeezing him for all he’s got and he’s three seconds away from spilling before he’s even so much as thrusted. You do this to him. 

All those days, staring into your eyes and wondering if you’d ever see him the way you do, all those nights, stroking your hair and softening your saddened sobs after failed date after failed date. They’re all worth it. 

You’re clamping down on him, warm and wet and wavering, and you’re exhaling softly through your nose and telling him to move, begging him to move, to make you feel good, and it’s what he does. 

He pumps into you with passion, magnetized to your every movement. He’s satisfying a decade worth of insatiable craving, he’s chasing your hips with his. You end where he begins. 

The headboard creaks and slams against thin plastered walls, one hand grips onto it with alabaster knuckles and the other one holds your hips for better leverage. He doesn’t need to say it, but each knocked kiss of his pelvis to yours is a silent I love you I love you I love you. 

“Oh my god Mike,” you sob, and he slides himself deeper, hitting everywhere he wants to reach. Everywhere to make you quiver beneath him.

“You d—don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he moans lowly. “How many times I’ve imagined you like— like this.”

He’s blabbering, every stray thought that passes through his head is already blossoming on his tongue and out into the air before he can even think twice. Admittedly, you’re too blissed out in your own mind to really respond, but it’s arousing all the same. 

“You’re so… so beautiful,” he’s flushed and he’s faltering, and you know he’s close before he even announces it. 

“Shit, baby, I can’t— can’t last much longer,” he stammers, his bruising pace beginning to shake. 

“Do it in me, Mike, please, please,” shit, are you trying to kill him? Your word is the only law he knows, and he’s wrapping his arms around your torso and diving his head in the elegant slope of your collarbone, biting down into the skin and spasming somewhere deep in your welcoming walls. 

He tries to keep himself quiet, but it’s really a futile effort. His hips jut sporadically as he empties himself inside you, and the sudden flood of subtle heat is all it takes for you to topple over as well. 

Bliss teeters back into reality after a seemingly ceaseless moment. He peels his head from its previous position to admire you, to stroke a stray lock of hair from your forehead and nervously greet it with a kiss.

He doesn’t let go of you. Not now, not ever, he thinks to himself. His arms snake around you tighter, and somehow it’s even more intimate after the fact. His bare chest collides with your back, his nose rests comfortably against the crown of your head. The pair of you follow each other into a dreamless sleep, safe in the sanctuary of a warm bed and an even warmer embrace. 

He’s found his new familiar. 

masterlist

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